“Help yourself,” Sinn'ous deliberately pushes a tone of nonchalance. Finishing his task of cleaning, and setting the pan aside to air dry.
Not long after, the boy has his arms filled by writing supplies and is disappearing from Sinn'ous’s cell. Leaving an empty space where he had occupied.
Sitting on the bunk, Sinn'ous fists a hand in the loose sheet, bringing the fabric to his face. It’s still warm from where it’d been pressed against Jasper. He inhales deeply of the scent that is all Jasper. There is a hint of prison soap, but the smell of generic soap they’re given never stays long, so it’s easy to set into the background.
This is how he remains, right past the scream of alarms informing the entire prison someone had been sent to Hell.
28
ROGERS
It comes in the way it always does. The news of another death. The alarms sound as they always do. Loud and obnoxious, and swimming in the dread of what’s to come. Blood spilled at the will of another.
Lockdown. Equal parts relief and dismay. Relief at all the inmates being locked in their respective cells, and himself out of their reach. Dismay at the reason behind why there is a need for the lockdown.
His radio called him to K-Wing, where he stands in a huddle of dark navy-blue uniforms and stern faces. Ready as they all are to be assigned designated search areas. Some will be placed on roll count, others on room search until all prisoners are accounted for.
“Who?” Rogers whispers to Thomson as soon as he squeezes his way to the other officer’s side.
“Leo Anderson.” The flat response is infused in a seething anger.
Roger’s neck is hit so hard with whiplash he’s surprised it didn’t fly off and hit the floor.
An officer.
He just helped cover up themurderof anofficer.
What have I done. . .
The need to puke is so strong he has to strangle himself to cut off his gag reflex or the food he recently ateis going to come up to slap someone in the face. He’s sure if his body tries hard enough he can successfully succeed in projectile vomiting on over half a dozen bodies in his personal space.
Every officer on day duty is here. And the warden is in the thick of it. Rogers can’t see him, he can only hear him barking orders. Uniformed officers splitting away as everyone is given their tasks.
His name is called to the orders ofA-Wing roll count. He’s gone before he hears anyone else assigned to the same Wing. His feet carrying him in a jog down white corridors in the maze back to A-Wing. Others’ footfalls hustling behind him, more officers spreading out to do their jobs.
Secure the prisoners.
There has been one other officer’s death since he started working here. And the case went cold. No witnesses came forward, no evidence to go on. The police assigned the case placed it aside. They stopped investigating. Rumours of Sinn'ous’s involvement had spread through the prison as wildfire does, burning fast and hot, and forgotten once burnt out and no longer visible. Yet nothing came out of it, not even he knows if it’s true, if the Satanic worshiper did it. He never asked, because, well, he didn’t really want to know. Seeing as he never covered anything up over the killing he would lean more towards one of the gangs taking out an officer who saw something he shouldn’t have.
This though. This one he played a part in. He helped in the cover up. This one he knows Sinn'ous did. And now he’s an accessory to murder. To the murder ofan officer who just got caught up in the wrong-place-wrong-time like Rogers had a year ago. Only this time it hadn’t ended in scars, and time spent healing in bed. This time it ended in yet another black bag.
“I got this side.” Rogers calls, not stopping to see if anyone acknowledges him. Hitting the stairs two at a time. The second story platform may as well be underwater, his feet are dragging as if he’s wading in knee high rapids that are trying to prevent him from reaching the cell on the end.
He fights through it, forcinghis body to move, to walk the steps to the very end. To turn to the satanic cell. He sends a quick hand gesture into the air to signal for the door to be opened, then stuffs his hands into his pockets so the way they’re drumming against his thighs is somewhat concealed.
He can see the way the barred door opens at the command of whoever is in the monitoring room, can visually see himself stepping into the cell. Yet he feels none of it. White hot noise is drowning his ears and covering all exterior sounds.
Until it all crashes back in a wave of nauseating sensations on the last step to Sinn'ous’s bunk. Cold danger runs up his spine, he promptly ignores it and the way the satanic walls seem to have a mind of their own and close in on him.
Sinn'ous is lying on his back, head propped up on his folded arm, feet crossed at the ankles, his body cushioned by the stack of mattresses. Looking all the world like a king on a throne. Even if in reality he is an inmate in prison.
“A fucking officer.” Roger whisper-hisses, he can’t even think of an adequate string of words to voice how much he is fuming right now.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Right. Yeah, sure.Of course not.” He can hear the hysterics in his own voice. “I just deleted—” He cuts himself off, no need for anyone to overhear a confession. Even if it hadn’t been intentional, he’s still an accessory in an officer’s murder.
Sinn'ous’s cold flat eyes drift to him and his skin crawls when the dark irises run over his features, calculations circulating behind them like he’s trying to figure out how much to say, if anything.
