It was official: you were at rock bottom. Your brain processed the reality of the situation only on the third day of your life in prison, but everything that came before you remembered only as a formless sequence of flashes and loud noises.
So, when you finally realized where and who you were now, your emotional response was pretty simple. You cried. You weren't proud of it, but that was what you did. Just broke down and let everything out because you had nothing else to do and because no one else would cry for you anyway. You were alone, hopeless and abandoned.
In many ways, coming to terms with that made you feel much better, and by the time you calmed down, you made a decision: to never, ever experience such a soul-crushing thing again. You wanted to get out of this damned place and become someone for a change.
Thus, you hit the books as hard as possible. You weren't much of a bookworm before – too many distractions to concentrate on something in particular – but that changed quickly. In your mind, you thanked the person that came up with the idea of making prison libraries too many times to count.
As for the other inmates, they quickly lost any interest in you if only because they thought you were here because of something as mundane as tax evasion or such. If any of the gangs around the block figured out you were a super-crook (not the most imaginative term, but it was pretty catchy), it'd have been another story altogether. Super-crooked were always in a high demand, powers or no powers.
You even made a friend, a nice old man with salt-and-pepper hair named Joseph. Joseph was an avid reader, and his recommendations were much appreciated. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and barely reached your shoulder. It was a little strange to see someone who looked your typical kindly grandpa in prison, but the appearances were deceiving.
Joseph murdered his wife and her lover twenty years ago, and for that reason they put him behind bars. There, all he did was peacefully reading books until some other inmate named Joe Turnbull started picking on poor old Joseph.
Joe Turnbull died the following summer. Joseph stabbed him in the neck with a sharpened toothbrush and watched him bleed to death. All because the man didn't let Joseph read his books in peace and quiet. Apparently, Joseph knew his wife was seeing someone else for years before he did what he did, too. He was fine with that, even, until she started bringing the guy home.
"They were so loud," Joseph once said sadly. "All the screaming and thumping. I asked them to tone it down, but they didn't listen."
You nodded. Then, you looked at the ceiling and prayed that this conversation would end quickly.
"I didn't want to do that, but they practically forced my hand. You understand, right, my friend?"
Joseph wasn't the most popular guy in prison, and that was it. But he did recommend you a few good books, so you figured he wasn't that bad a friend to have. As long as the two of you were forced to live and sleep in the same area together, that is.
A year passed without anything of notice passed, but you still had fourteen more to go. Then, one random day you were called by the wardens. That nearly made your heart jump out of your chest until they informed you that you had a visitor which, in its own way, felt surreal.
You didn't keep in touch with your family, and even if it sounded depressing, you had no friends either. There was no living soul that could think of, yet someone decided to pay you a visit.
So, when you entered the room for meetings, the person that waited you on the other side of the glass was a slightly overweight, bearded man with a shaved head. He wore a plain dress shirt and black slacks, but your attention was captivated by his wristwatch. The thing probably costed more than you'd earned in your life, and it looked its price.
The man looked deadly tired, but once his eyes fell on you, something sparkled within them. He recognized you which meant he knew you from somewhere. That put you in a disadvantage. You had no idea who this stranger was.
But then, you had a chance to look closer and it clicked. That bit about your brother being an Ivy League dick? All true. Richie was always better than you in any way possible, and your parents never forgot to remind you that. That said, last time you saw him, he still had a face full of acne and dental braces.
His expression was perfectly neutral. Lips sealed in tiny line, and no light in his eyes whatsoever. The kind of face you'd give a client. You had no idea what to say to him, but you still felt like you needed to start this conversation. Just to make yourself feel in control for once.
This choice will affect the entire conversation:
[] (Friendly) Hey, little brother. How's life treating you? Better than me, I hope.
[] (Neutral) Richard. I appreciate the gesture, but why exactly are you here?
[] (Hostile) If you are here to rub your perfect life in my face, please make it short.
