Holding Pens - John and OPEN
This stock was full of new faces, new criers, screamers, rebellious yellers as if their voice was new, unique, and would overturn the entire system with one impressive squeak. Fact was though, the pens were full of the old vets of these rounds as well, and these either laughed, said nothing, did anything they could to make this simply their life and be as comfortable in it as possible. Some were getting older, likely would die in these pens, and were getting sicker.
Then there was John. He was more inclined to be one of the ones who 'said nothing'. Fact was, though, he did much of nothing at all. Socializing was not his strong suit in these cages; since entering long enough ago that he no longer cared to count the days, he'd done his best to keep himself isolated from the rest of the stock. There was no sense in befriending their lot, they were either leaving, dying, or just too lost to be anything useful.
It wasn't all strategy though, people knew John was just quiet. The other slaves often understood that it was because he was remembering someone. Every once in awhile, there was a Mistress that walked by that reminded him of that someone and his interest was piqued, but then would be quelled when he was certain they were nothing like her. His strong silence was more often than not the reason he didn't get picked up.
Today he sat at the back of the pen, hands on either leg, and his head just tipped down as he watched the ground beneath. The smells didn't bother him by now, the shouts and screams and yells and general noisy disdain were drowned out in his own thoughts. The only times he ever seemed interested was when a fight broke out and one of the newer, weaker slaves seemed in danger. He would step in. It'd become an unspoken rule that you just left those ones alone when he was around.