our choices seal our fate Who: Rodeo Hawkins, Warden Reason, and Corrections Officers Where: A cell in solitary, La Quinta Correctional Facility What: While Austin reels from the snowstorm, the Warden finally confronts the Dog King face-to-face. When: December 7-8th, 2018
but oh, my heart was flawed, i knew my weakness. so hold my hand, consign me not to darkness.
He has to get out. He has to get out of here. Bust out, break through, tear it all down and run, run, run. He has to get out, he has to get out.
But there's no way out.
It hurts to breathe deep. His side is black, but his hands are worse. It took him an hour to untie the drawstring on his scrubs so he could take a goddamn piss, his fingers so stiff and his hands so busted, swollen, broken. He spent his first couple hours in here shouting, but now his voice is just as gone as his strength and he doesn't want to get up off the floor, maybe can't get up.
"Hey."
He wants his baby girl. He wants his paisley blanket back home, his big blond-furred mutt, a baby laughing in his arms. Food cooking in the kitchen. A fire burning outside. A sharp-eyed dime crawling into bed beside him, wrapping her arms around him and holding him safe and tight.
"Hey, asshole."
He rolls over onto his side, crosses his arm over his chest, remembers what it felt like to be held. Remembers the feeling of her breath on the back of his neck, remembers their clasped hands pressed over his heart.
"Hey. Get up. It's time to cuff up, Hawkins."
Someone's shouting through the narrow hatch on the door, where he's supposed to put his hands to be cuffed before the door can be opened. He cracks an eye open to stare at it, but a moment later closes it again and retreats back into the fantasy of home, his bed, his dime.
"Godammit, Hawkins, get up."
"Fuck you," is the only response Rodeo gives, grumbled into the cement below his cheek.
"We're coming in, Hawkins. Get up and cuff up or you ain't gonna like how we do it when we get in there."
"'Cause you're gonna be so damn sweet to me if I cooperate," Rodeo says, rolling over onto his back so he's ready for whatever's coming. "I'll pass."
He hears the lock work open on his door. He grits his teeth, clenching his jaw as he waits. Boots thunder against the ground, and on instinct he starts to rise up, only to receive a swift kick to the chest. He's pinned back down to the cement, his head cracking against the cold ground as the Vaders descend like a hungry horde. "Shit, shit--" he barks, hoarse and pained, grappling against the boots that pin him down, the fists that seem to be hitting him from every direction, the arms wrestling him onto his stomach to latch cuffs to his wrists. He's too broken, too tired, too starved to fight, but he can't cooperate neither and he struggles even when the cuffs are on.
"That's enough, James."
The voice that sounds somewhere overhead freezes him, stills him against the ground in a way that none of the kicks or punches could. He's face-down on the cement, but he drags in a breath and then slowly turns his head, looking over his shoulder. His hair falls across his eyes, but through the blond he can see the man standing there in the doorway. Slate suit, blue tie, silver hair. It seems impossible, seems like maybe the hit to his head must have been harder than he thought, because brain damage would be preferable to the truth. But he ain't gonna be that lucky.
"Let him up," Pernell Reason says, calm and cool. The COs all step back, releasing him, but all Rodeo can do is roll onto his back. He struggles to sit up with his hands fastened behind him and his side busted beyond belief, but eventually he drags himself to sit upright on the ground. He stares up at Reason with wild, gnashing, livid hatred in his eyes, and the burning loathing he meets in the Warden's gaze matches his own completely.
And so he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's completely and truly fucked beyond belief.
This is where it ends, he realizes. This is where it all ends-- the same place it should have ended three years ago, in Pernell Reason's prison. Maybe letting him out, giving him his freedom, his best friend, his crew, his family, a real home to call his own, his beautiful brilliant baby girl and her son, his perfect-ten knockout dime, maybe it was all part of some divine punishment. He'd been too ready to die in Huntsville, he'd lost his only reason for living and he was just tempting the end he knew was coming anyway. That ain't how a man like him deserves to go out. His end should be anguish, full of regrets, unexpected and excruciating for all it rips away from him. He has everything now, everything he ever wanted, everything to live for, everything to lose. That's how he should die. That's how it all ends.
Reason doesn't banter or gloat. It ain't in him. Rodeo knows exactly what this man's about, 'cause he spent the worst years of his whole rotten life as a thorn in his side. They both know why he's here and they both know what he wants, and Reason isn't about to give him the Bond villain run-down on it. No exposition necessary. Instead he crouches down and sets one of the mess hall trays down on the floor, but there's no food there on the tray to quiet the howling of Rodeo's stomach. Just a pair of thick blue latex gloves-- which Reason pulls on-- a syringe, a spoon, and a little vial full of glaring green crystals.
"Now James," Reason says, eyes on his work as he unscrews the cap on the vial. "There's been a lot of folks comin' in here with the notion they could reason with you. Tryin' to talk ya into givin' it all up. But see, I know that won't ever work with you. 'Cause in the end, you're always lookin' out for your own best interests. They don't realize that with you, they gotta tip the scales a little. 'Cause until they got what you want, you ain't gonna give 'em shit." Reason lifts the spoon and taps the vial, shaking some of the crystals out onto the silver. "You understand me, James?"
Rodeo is beyond words. His rage is so profound, so complete that he can't even speak. Instead he can only grit his teeth, letting out a furious snarl as he lunges towards the Warden, cuffs and all. But he can't even get close-- before he can clear even a foot of distance, the COs are grabbing him by his arms, shoving him down by his shoulders, one even knotting a fist in his hair so he can't turn away from the scene in front of him. Reason has paused in his preparations, and he's looking at Rodeo sternly, not a drop of amusement to be found on his face.
"James, I'm very serious about this. Now you got one chance to start talkin', and if you still got nothin' to say by the time this is done warmin' up, it's goin' in and we'll see how loose that tongue gets after a taste o' your own poison." With that, Reason looks back down and draws a Zippo from his breast pocket, flicking the wheel to spark the flame, holding it under the spoon to heat the wash.
"Fuck you," Rodeo hisses, struggling against the hands that hold him. "Don't you put that shit near me. I'm never gonna fuckin' tell you anything. Just kill me. You motherfucker, just kill me." The crystals melt to liquid on the spoon, syrupy and lime bite green. Reason picks up the syringe. "I'm not talkin'. Kill me, ya fuckin' walkin' Zimbardo study sadistic motherfuckin' piece of shit. I swear to god, if you give me that shit--" Rodeo's heart is hammering in his chest, fear and adrenaline spiking as he watches Reason draw the bright liquid into the syringe. He taps out a bubble, then stands and takes two steps closer, crouching back down in front of Rodeo.
Rodeo has never begged for mercy in his life, his whole goddamn life, but there's a pleading note to his voice, a hysterical edge that climbs as Reason wraps a hand around his arm, just above the crook of his elbow. The COs help him wrench his arm back, nearly to the point of dislocating from his shoulder, preventing him from pulling away. By the time the needle touches his skin, he screams-- shouts out a raw, hopeless, wordless yell while the needle bites into his vein and Reason depresses the plunger, pushing the poison into him.
It's warm.
Warmer than his blood and he can feel it running through him like a hot flood, decimating everything in its wake. One moment he's panicking, screaming, thrashing against the hold of ten men, and the next he's sinking into the hands gripping him, muscles unraveling, his slack body melting into the floor. His head rolls to the side and the hands ease their grip on him, letting him fall to the cement. He doesn't want it, doesn't want it, but his blood is humming and his head is full of green glowing light and he moans despite himself, rolling over to push his face into the ground. He tries to fight against the pins and needles numbing his mind, tries to hold on tooth and nail to what matters, what's true. He thinks of Adelaide, pictures her in flashes as a baby gripping his shirt with both little fists, as a child sitting on his knee around a poker table with his friends or singing from the seat beside him in the Power Wagon, as a grown woman cradling her own baby in her arms. He tries, and tries, but it's all slipping away so fast. And the last thing he thinks before he goes under-- god, he hopes she does a better job raising that baby than he did raising her.
Then again, it'd be hard to fuck anything up as bad as he has.
And then he's gone.
He's been singin'.
His voice is echoing in the cell. Everything is slow and cold and hollow now that he's back in Huntsville. He knew it all had to be a dream. He knew he never really left. He knows he ain't goin' anywhere, 'cause there's no way out.
"They're takin' me down to Huntsville, I'm bringin' in a load of time..." Rodeo sings, his voice hoarse but clear, carrying, deep and resonating as ever. He knows somebody's listening-- somebody there in the room, a shadow hanging over him, black against the stark wall. "They got me chained in leg irons, I guess they got a good excuse. They know I'm gonna run the first chance I get, 'cause they never gonna cut me loose."
His blood is somewhere between humming and screaming. He's not sure how long it's been-- hours, maybe-- but the bright, blinding, complete euphoria is dimming in him. He can feel it draining out just like it came, his blood running cooler as it slowly burns the poison out of him. He's not there yet-- not yet-- but he can feel it coming, and his body is already warning him, more, more. More, before it's gone.
"I really don't care if they shoot me down, I'll never be free again."
Huntsville.
Where he'll die damned and alone.
If he could get up off the floor, he'd find some paper. Write to Adelaide. Tell her how sorry he is, how much better she deserved, how rotten he's been. She should have had a better brother. But him-- he could never have been any better. He'll never be better than this, shivering and singing on the floor of a cement cell, bleeding from lord knows where, waiting for them to find the time to finally kill him.
"They're takin' me down to Huntsville, but I'm not gonna stay..."
He closes his eyes.
When he opens them, his body is self-destructing.
It feels like shards of glass running through his veins, ripping him up from the inside out. The pain is excruciating, his body revolting against itself, his every muscle cramping and twisting, his heart slamming, his lungs howling. He writhes against the ground, shocked by the intensity of it, stabbing through him like he's being cut for the butcher block. He screams, thrashes, twists like a pinned insect or a rat in a trap. It hurts, in the most profound and complete sense, more physical pain than he's ever known and it only seems to get worse by the second. To the point where he feels like he'd do anything, anything to make it stop. He's sobbing, screaming, hands straining to claw at the cuffs that still bind his arms behind his back. The pain of his strained and stiff arms is nothing compared to the torment of wanting, needing, craving more. More, more, more.
"James."
The voice is calm, too calm compared to the frenzy inside of him. He wants to pound his fists against whoever could be so even when the world is clearly on fire all around him, burning him up, leaving him ashes. He opens his eyes, choking on the thick spit foaming his mouth as he rolls over enough to look up at who is speaking to him.
"James, is this what you want?"
Green. Bright bright green, like the Glo Worm he gave Adelaide for her second Christmas. He remembers how she used to hold it in her little arms, squeezing tight while he read her Shel Silverstein poems until she fell asleep. That green is what he wants-- what he needs. Warm in his veins, warm enough to melt the ice that slices through his blood, dragging and scratching with each stuttering pump of his heart. He groans and shifts against the floor, rolling onto his back to stare up at the syringe.
"You want it, James? Tell me where I can find it. Tell me where it all is, and you can have it-- as much as you want. As much as you need. You just tell me where you're keepin' it all. C'mon, James."
Where he keeps it all? A bunker. A bunker they built out in the Greenbelt, trip wires and traps all around it. A lock only his officers have keys to. He'd have to take them... take them and get more... He needs more...
"Where is it? Where is the Praxacaterol, James?"
He's choking a little on the tightness in his throat as he stares up at the syringe. His mind feels split, fragmented, part of it crying out for the prick of that needle while the other is still stuck in the memory of Adelaide holding her Glo Worm, curled up next to him while he traced a soothing finger back and forth across her cheek and read to her.
Oh, I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor. A boa constrictor, a boa constrictor. I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor, and I don't like it-- one bit.
He grits his teeth. He surges up, crashing his head as hard as he can against Pernell Reason's, slamming their skulls together with enough force to send the other man to the ground. His hands are bound but his adrenaline is wild and fierce, and once the Warden is on the ground with him he kicks the needle out of his hand, kicks him in the side, slams the heel of his slip-on sneaker into the Warden's nose. It all happens so fast, faster than the COs can grab him, but they do descend before he can deliver another kick to the shouting Warden. They drag him down, their boots kicking, their fists pounding. The screaming yearning burn in his veins numbs him to the kicks and blows, and he curls in, giving it a moment-- one, two, three, and he's out. A boot crashes into his face and the room goes black.
He has no idea how long it's been when he comes to.
The pain is still sharp, but his thoughts are clearer now. His heartbeats still feel irregular in his chest, like a tremor that burns and throbs, while his blood and skin still feel too cold. His hands have been unbound and his room is empty, just him alone on the floor. He rolls over and tries to sit up, but his arms are awfully weak and his head is still spinning. He looks down at the crook of his elbow, where the injection site is inflamed, seeping pus with a spiderweb of red lines around it. He lifts a shaky hand to press his fingers down on it, watching the pus and blood flood up and pour out. The spot is tender, sore as a bruise, and he gives up on it after a moment. He reaches out, grabbing the corner of the cement bed, using it to haul is aching body up off the ground.
They locked him up. Beat him. Drugged him against his will. They did all this, and they've got nothing. Nothing. As cloudy as his high was, he knows he didn't tell them anything they wanted to know. He hasn't given in, hasn't budged even once. The feeling of control that gives him, the strength and power, it fuels the rage inside of him. He feels driven, wrathful, focused and destructive. Fuck this place. Fuck the Warden thinking he could play him, pull his strings, pump him full of poison and make him a willing slave. Now that motherfucker's got nothing but a broken nose to show for it. Rodeo goes up to the door to his cell, leaning against it to look through the scratched window into the hall. It's empty, dark, probably sometime in the middle of the night. He watches, waits, makes sure the hall is quiet before he turns back to his cell. A thread pulled from his bedroll, a note scratched with his nail into a shard of chipped paint from the wall, and he starts looking for his brothers in the cells around his own. He knows they must be out there. Knows they'll learn fast how to fish when he finds them.
And he knows they'll be just as pissed off and ready for war as he is.