I am a young man of almost 21 winters.
I am a prisoner in a holding complex for those being tried for serious crimes.
In a few days, I'm about to plead guilty to murder, among other crimes.
I will most likely be sentenced to execution. If not execution, I will never see sunlight save through bars again.
I am annoyed. I miss my books.
This prison has a rather large library, filled with a variety of badly worn books. Reading is a good escape. I keep challenging myself to learn something new, read a new playwright's selection of plays.
Reading keeps my brain active. Reading keeps me thinking about other things. Reading keeps me from asking questions to certain prisoners, prisoners I know who have the right connections.
Reading keeps me sober.
Reading, and memory of two dark, impossibly hurt eyes staring up at me.
I am walking down the cell block corridor. I can feel the eyes of the other prisoners on me, their gazes looking out at me from their cells.
Some eyes show fear, others hate. All of their eyes follow me.
There is an ancient joke about prison, though, like all good jokes, it has a kernel of truth to it. The joke is that the first thing one should do when getting to prison, is stab the biggest man you can find.
Something about establishing dominance and fear. There is wisdom to it. You must show yourself to be feared, for you cant count on respect. True respect for another man can only be found in decent men.
There are no decent men here. I do not exempt myself from that observation.
Unfortunately, while not a decent man, I am also generally the biggest indecent man in the room. So I become the butt of many other indecent men who take a joke too far.
I have two shank wounds healing on my left arm, a cut over my right eye, and my knuckles on both hands are bruised and swollen. My ribs hurt a bit when I breath. I console myself that Ive done well to have so few injuries.
Of course, not all of my wounds are from people simply hoping to prove themselves the alpha male of this cursed den.
Fenix had more friends than I knew.
I walk down the prison corridor, the corridor brightly lit but sterile and oppressive because of it. I see the faint outline of an ancient blood stain on the floor.
The guards told me I had someone to meet. I was surprised, I had already spoken to my Speaker two days ago. I know that tomorrow I plead guilty to the Tribunal, and then I'm sentenced. I know it will be a stiff sentence. I don't care that much.
I'm tired of fighting. I just want it over.
One of the guards is waiting by one of the criminal debrief chambers. I'm nervous. I found out the hard way that Fenix's money had bought many friends among the constables who patrolled the Rens refugee camps.
It's not impossible to think he had friends among the guards here too.
I walk off the line of cells, then down another long, brightly lite hallway. My footsteps echo off the walls, the cadence thrown off by the restraints around my ankles.
A guard is waiting by a door. His face is impassive as he stares up at me. I'm restrained at my wrists and feet. I worry that he might find a reason to attack me then and there.
He stares up at me for a long moment, then unlocks my wrists, followed by my ankles, then finally unlocks and opens the door. He motions his head toward the room, and I follow the silent command, ducking my head under the door frame then stepping inside.
I walk around the room slowly. Its the same deathly white as the hall. There is a table and two collapsible chairs inside.
I move into the room, then cautiously lower myself into the plastic seat. Most seats are not designed to support my weight. The seat creaks, but stands firm.
I wait at the table, trying to be patient, half-expecting it to be some kind of bullshit interrogation technique. I try to clear my mind, and think back on the book I had been reading. Something about Caldari economic theories.
I keep my hands in front of me on the table. I will them to not shake. And they don't.
If it wasn't for the image of two dark eyes staring up at me every time I closed my eyes, I would be proud.
Finally, the door opens, and a Brutor man walks in. He is wearing a uniform of some sort, though its not that of a constable or prison guard. I do my best to study him without appearing to do so.
A set of ribbons rests over his left breast. His uniform speaks of the military, though I can't place the branch. His face has a large scar on the right side. While no where near as big as me, he is an impressive man, large, athletic and moves with an controlled smoothness that set alarms off in my head.
This man is dangerous.
He sits across from me, opening a large file of official looking papers in front of him. My eyes spot my upside-down name on one of the forms. I recognize the papers as my case file. He begins to thumb through it in front of me.
In many cases, I am the largest man people have ever seen. My body has been genetically tailored to perform feats of strength in high-gravity worlds. I've got scars on my knuckles. I'm wearing a prisoner's jumpsuit. I'm about to confess to murdering a man with my bare hands.
There are many reasons for a man to be nervous sitting across from me. I'm used to being stared at, gawked at, moved away from.
This man gives me the same consideration one would a poorly-constructed floral decoration.
On an instinctual level, the wolf in me knows that when it comes to ranking in the pack, he is older than me, stronger than me, tougher, smarter and more knowledgeable. I find myself deferring to him in a way I don't like.
I sit silently, refusing to speak first.
I am fairly certain it comes off as sulking. He doesn't seem to notice one way or another.
I watch as he thumbs through my file silently. Normally this is exactly the kind of bullshit interrogation technique I would laugh at, done by cops who have seen too many holovids.
Its supposed to make one feel vulnerable and exposed.
He seems genuinely interested in my file, thumbing through the various documents with deliberation but without pretense.
It ends up making me feel vulnerable and exposed.
"So...Adrean Kurelius huh?" He snorts. "Yeah, you can tell the Amarr must have named you." He painstakly moves from one document to the next.
"Says here that you straggled a rival drug dealer..." His voice is low and calm, without the manufactured tenor of a cop beginning an interview. He is still looking down at the documents. "And...burned down his warehouse....that was a nice touch." A bit of wry amusement finds his way into his voice.
"Seemed the thing to do" I mutter.
"Seems three firefighters suffered severe smoke inhalation from fighting that fire....you're being charged with that too..."
I feel my face frown and my eyes look down.
"There is something here in your initial interview about you saying you did it because he raped a small girl....but that didn't make the official report...."
I shrug.
When I was first picked up, I tried to tell the constables what had happened, why I did it. But that was before I realised why they tried so hard to arrest me. And why they beat me when they finally had me arrested.
This wasn't just another refugee camp murder to them. They wanted me because I had shut down one of their revenue streams. The real story behind the murder meant little to them.
Fenix had more friends than I knew.
"Whatever happened to the girl?"
My hands start shaking a bit. "I don't know."
All I knew was that Nerise, Crey'sha, and Cavlen were gone by the time I finally convinced my Speaker of the Defense to find them. God only knows where they ended up. I had hoped to get back to them, to find a safe place for them, to give them the money I had taken from Fenix's home.
But I had no idea how determined the constables would be in trying to find Fenix's murderer.
I had hoped to protect them. Now they were gone. Most likely to an even worse place than before. Crey'sha's addiction would eat her away, and the children would be alone, to be preyed upon by the two legged predators of the camps.
I had failed all of them. Miserably. I was so tired of failing.
"Says here you were born in the Empire, and the Defiants said you helped one of their infiltrators in freeing your mining colony..."
I hear my heartbeat in my ears, my mouth goes dry, sweat coats my palms. I don't wish to speak of this. Part of me wants me to beg him to stop.
Instead all I say is "Something like that...."
"And you've had clean drug tests since you've been locked up here....You had a fairly regular habit when you first arrived, which means you must have quit cold...."
I nod again, my jaw clenched. I don't want to talk about any of this. Just let me go back to my cell.
"Despite what your record says, these test scores say you're not an idiot. And you're a Vri'Tosh, so you can physically do whatever you want." He pushes the file away from him. I feel small and nervous with him looking at me.
"Since you never asked who I was, I'll tell you. I am Trustee-Gunnery Sergeant On'tarik, from the 543rd Penal Battalion."
"Now let me tell you who you are. You're a young man who, at the very least, will be spending the next twenty-five years of his life in a place just like this. Given that you're Vri'Tosh, that's a death sentence, even if they decide to forgo the execution."
I silently stare at him.
"I'm here to tell you you have another option. You sign up with the Penal Legion. We take custody of you. You join the Republic Military. You serve for fifteen years. And at the end, you might have the chance to breath some fresh air."
"You...you want me to be a Valklear?" The words spill out of me.
He nods. "If you get through the Farm, then yes, you're a Valklear."
I'm genuinely stunned. Then I regain my compsure enough to say, "Fifteen years might as well be a life sentence too. Like you said, Im Vri'tosh."
He shrugged it off. "True, but at least in the Army you get leave, off-duty days, the chance to maybe pick a nice duty station. Better than this place for the rest of your life."
I watch as he pushes a legal document and a pen across the table to me. It has the Republic Army logo on it, and some other logo I've never seen before. The logo of the Penal Legion, the Valklear.
I look up at him. "From what I've heard, Valklear die a lot, and thats just in training. I can die just as well as a prisoner as I can a soldier."
He nods at me "True enough, but do you want to know the difference in dying as a soldier as opposed to dying as an incarcerated criminal?"
He waits a moment. I stare at him silently.
He finally leans forward. "If you die as a soldier, there is a decent chance someone might actually cry at your funeral."
His eyes burrow into mine.
I stare down at the document for a few long moments. I read the title. "Enlistment into the Valklear Legion." There is a place for my signature at the bottom. All I can hear is my own breathing.
I finally reach for the pen.
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