He wakes up, and everything hurts. At first it’s almost peaceful – he can focus on the pain and nothing else. Eyes clenched tight and he can pretend he’s just taken a few too many hits, and that’s why he feels sore and weak.
It’s not until he hears approaching footsteps that his eyes open and he’s on his feet in a flash, snatching up his clothes and backing away against the far wall of his cell. His clothes smell awful, the material damp and tacky in places, but he’s never been more appreciative.
Covered up, he feels a bit more like himself – less exposed, less vulnerable. He steadies himself, ready to look whoever’s coming in the eye and dare them to say anything.
The guard is unfamiliar, and walks past Connor without a second glance. Connor convinces himself he’s not relieved.
“These are the prisoners they’re moving?” asks the guard, sounding as though he didn’t care much either way. There’s an indistinct murmur, and then several sets of feet make their way back towards Connor’s cell.
He hesitates for a second, and then approaches his bars so he can get a better look. The two prisoners have clearly seen better days – as if Connor himself has not – and one of them gives him a sour look as they catch his gaze. Connor glares back, as much to prove that he could than for any other reason.
He is not going to cower, and certainly not to men such as these. Instead, he sits down on his cot – wincing slightly, the cot is only slightly than the ground – and picks idly at a scab on his arm. He knows he shouldn’t – in conditions as filthy as these it’s bound to get infected and the wound is embarrassingly minor. On the other hand, he has no illusions about how this is going to end. There’s probably little harm in anything he could do now.
FILL [3/?]
It’s not until he hears approaching footsteps that his eyes open and he’s on his feet in a flash, snatching up his clothes and backing away against the far wall of his cell. His clothes smell awful, the material damp and tacky in places, but he’s never been more appreciative.
Covered up, he feels a bit more like himself – less exposed, less vulnerable. He steadies himself, ready to look whoever’s coming in the eye and dare them to say anything.
The guard is unfamiliar, and walks past Connor without a second glance. Connor convinces himself he’s not relieved.
“These are the prisoners they’re moving?” asks the guard, sounding as though he didn’t care much either way. There’s an indistinct murmur, and then several sets of feet make their way back towards Connor’s cell.
He hesitates for a second, and then approaches his bars so he can get a better look. The two prisoners have clearly seen better days – as if Connor himself has not – and one of them gives him a sour look as they catch his gaze. Connor glares back, as much to prove that he could than for any other reason.
He is not going to cower, and certainly not to men such as these. Instead, he sits down on his cot – wincing slightly, the cot is only slightly than the ground – and picks idly at a scab on his arm. He knows he shouldn’t – in conditions as filthy as these it’s bound to get infected and the wound is embarrassingly minor. On the other hand, he has no illusions about how this is going to end. There’s probably little harm in anything he could do now.
And then he overhears his new neighbours talking.