He runs up their rear, hand placed on his taser in case anyone gets any bright ideas. No chances will be taken. He’ll breathe when he’s standing next to Thomson. Alone as he is in the moderately lit corridor is clawing fingers over every inch of his skin.
“Wait in the kitchen, inmates.” Rogers adds brass to his voice to starve off any wavers that try to weave their way through.Showing weakness in here, in front of the inmates, will get you killed.
He should know. He nearly was.
They push through the doors at the corridor’s junction right when Thomson’s group rounds the next corner of the adjoining corridor and makes their way down. Rogers holds the door open and waits for Thomson to arrive.
A flicker of orange to Rogers side catches his eye. Jasper is sneaking his way down the corridor to the showers, either ignoring Rogers or having not seen him entirely. Considering the kid hasn’t caused trouble since showing up he’ll guess on the latter.
He should really yell down to him, bring him back before he slips into the showers. Protocol would demand it. Then again, it’s not like anyone cares what happens within these walls.
Jasper is gone in a blink, and Rogers has no desire to go fetch him.
“You just going to ignore that.” Thomson asks by his side, tilting his head to indicate down the now empty corridor towards where Jasper vanished. His group of inmates sliding past the open door and into the cafeteria.
“Yep.”
Thomson raises a brow, his arm extended to support the door Rogers had abandoned at some point. All the inmates are gone from sight, having slid through the next set of doors to the kitchen. Nothing but empty tables and vacant chairs in the dark room, lit by lights leaching out under the kitchen’s doors behind the serving station.
“It’s Jasper Marcelo.” Rogers states in lieu of an explanation. It’s too early to be going into details on how not okay he is standing back while Sinn'ous circles the newest inmate.
The other officer gives him a look that screams‘and,’which he ignores, walking past him into the cafeteria.
“Wait.” Thomson’s mind clicks on, a light bulb switched. “Isn’t that the onehehas his eye on?” He jogs to get inRogers’s face.
No need to ask whoheis. They both know who Thomson is referring to. There is only onehein this context.
“Yep.” He sidesteps and pushes the next door in, sharper than necessary to crack anyone in the face who may be trying to hide behind it. All it hits is the stale air of too many bodies pressed into the space too often and no adequate air filtration. Or windows to crack to air things out. A hot box he has the ‘privilege’of standing in for the next few hours.
Oh, the joys of his job.
The kitchen is lit by the power of the sun, the fluorescent globes having a one-way contract to the sun’s innermost core. You could obtain a sunburn from the things.
Each bench is partnered by an impatient inmate waiting for things to be unlocked. And another three grey-clad men are over by the locked cabinet waiting on the knives.
He hates kitchen duty with a passion. Willingly giving inmates knives. He wishes he could refuse, but then where would they be? In the throes of a riot because breakfast isn’t readyon time.
He and Thomson work in unison to go through the motions of granting authorisation. Machines are turned on. Knives are signed out, inmate numbers written in messy hand on the available booklet. The smells of spices and thestart of boiling water adding to the stench of grown men in need of showers.
Would it be weird to make them all go shower before they continue?
“Boss, where’s Jasper?” Levis’s voice pops his bubble, forcing him out of his mind. His frustration peeks to a point where he almost snaps,‘why do you want to know,’in a to-defensive tone.
Thomson beats him to it. “That question is above my paygrade, inmate.”
Levis glowers at Thomson for a beat, then chooses to hold his tongue and move on. Taking out his frustration on one of the unlucky men under his charge by verbal lashings.
“You say that about every question.”
“Yeah,” Thomson snorts a laugh. “You would think they’d stop asking me shit.”
Rogers joins Thomson, mimicking his lean back against the bare wall. His eyes on the inmates and their hands, watching, waiting. Ever-present in the moment while men cut, and cook, and all of the above. The majority of his concerns are aimed at the knives, counting them every few seconds like a religious summons. Try as he might he can’t ignore the cold sweat blooming over the nape of his neck, and beading down his shirt while he fights his instincts to tase any inmate drifting too close. Even when none of them are taking any extra note of his presence. He may as well be a chair for all the consideration they’re showing him. This though still doesn’t calm his racing pulse. Or his mind’s need to flash images of a blood-soaked laundry room.
I hate kitchen duty.
“I’m going to go make sure he hasn’t hung himself in there.” He needs a second to breathe. He’ll take the soul boring job of solitary confinement watch over the heated hustle of the kitchen. But SC usually always gets given to Joel Williams, who is old enough to tell you about his days fighting dinosaurs on his drive to work.
“If he has, I am blaming you.” Thomson flashes him a look that says he really will throw Rogers under the bus and back over him several times.
