| | - Vibrancy - | |

6:12 p.m. Thursday, Apr 6, [irrelevant year but let's say 2017].

Clank. Click. Shuffle. Push. Click. Thud.

Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary, Alcatraz Island, San Francisco, California. [what an address!]. A cramped space that probably functions as an office for a Correctional Major.

Nothing on the walls. There's a filing cabinet in the corner, although it probably hasn't been used in ever. Positioned in the back of the small office is a desk. On the right side of the desk is a Glock 17M, a gift from the Warden to his favorite guard. On the left side is a tray with mush on it, probably some mashed potatoes, green beans (that actually look pretty delicious), and grilled chicken that is already half eaten. And on the rest of the desk is a pencil holder with a couple black pens and nothing else.

Fliiick.

The hanging light above head flickers for a moment, causing the man behind the desk to look up from his book. His feet are on the desk, heavy boots pointed into the air as he slouches back in his chair. The book he reads looks to be Spanish. It's titled 'The Family of Pascual Duarte'.

There's a knock at the door and in comes the Warden and his assistant.

"New inmate for ya," the Warden, an old and way-too-cheerful man, informs, tossing a file onto the Major's desk.

The Major sits up and puts his feet down, blinking between the file and the Warden. But he knows better than to question the man, so he places his book on the desk and bookmarks it with a nearby pen. Then, he picks up the file and opens it to the mugshot of someone way too innocent to be here. Well, obviously the court didn't so.

"He's a little younger than you, actually. Officer Acklin just tossed him into his cell. A-Block for now," the Warden says. "Got a cute face, doesn't he?"

The Major shrugs, glancing through the rest of the file. Arrested for Larceny? Okay. Stole 'Sea on Malt' a modern art painting by Tasse, recently valued at 13,200 USD. Damn. Known accomplices: none. Past offences: none. A clean slate, a prison virgin, a little puppy waiting to be broken down and taught the system.

"Thought you'd want to say hello, show him the ropes, get him dinner," the Warden suggests, snickering before leaving with his assistant.

'Is that all he thinks I'm good for? Intimidation? Does he think I enjoy seeing people lose that glimmer in their eyes? Well... okay, he's not entirely wrong about that part,' The Major thinks, setting the file aside.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply like someone at the end of a night shift. His gaze shifts to the left side of his desk, eyeing the food that has certainly gotten cold by now. The chicken was disgusting. And he could probably make a marble sculpture out of those mashed potatoes. And the green beans... well those are vegetables and he's not a masochist.

So his gaze shifts to the right side of his desk then, eyeing the gun. And the room feels more silent than it ever is.

'What am I good for anyways?' He adds to his train of thought, weighing it down with such a heavy idea that the rails are squeaking with sparks.

'Dad,' he scoffs, 'the useless dumbass hasn't even called since I got fucking shot. And mom... god she'd just say that I wasn't strong enough and it was my own fault, wouldn't she?'

Tap. Tap. His fingers communicate on the desk.

Click... Clack... Click.. Clack.. Click. Clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. The train is not stopping at this station.

'No, no. Stop going there you fucking idiot. Can't do that. At least... not...' he goes back to thinking, his eyes drifting to the center of his desk then, eyeing the still-open file and the mugshot contained within. "...yet."

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The Major stands up, taking his non-regulation glock and attaching it to his holster. Then, he grabs the tray of food he failed to eat (not for the first time that week) and heads for Cell Block A.

The cells are all empty. The 'good' inmates are all eating dinner right now. Everyone is, in fact, but he never liked eating in the Commissary. He approaches a cell with a closed door, nothing in it. Then another and finds it empty as well. And on the third try, he got it just right.

The prisoner is crumpled on the floor, probably already broken from Acklin's tight grip and stinging words. 'That new recruit's gotta chill a little bit.' He opens the food slot, or, as he liked to call them, the doggy door. Fucking pests he's put in The Hole always crawl for their nourishment. There, he tosses in the food tray, the remaining chicken and green beans falling off of it to the cold concrete below. 'Potatoes fucking stayed glued to the damn thing, who the fuck is on cooking duty lately?'

"I'm Major Omura. You'll address me as sir or officer. Stay quiet and you might get out of this place alive, little art enthusiast," he teases. Huh. That's not like him. He doesn't tease people, prisoners above all. "Here's your slop. Get used to it."

He had every confidence that this one was just like the rest. Like a crab gone too far from the tide pool. They'll put up a fight, but they'll soon realize that pincers won't do them much good when the chef has a pair of tongs and a cooking pot. And then every confidence scurries away at the thing on this crab's face. A bright, beaming, smile - comparable to the Warden's. 'The fuck?'