Scars Bleed Gold

Plan A Always Fails

Weasel didn't expect me back. Hardly anyone did when they saw me in line the very next day, but the surprise wore off nearly the moment they were given what passed for food again. Even with my stomach rumbling, having gone a day longer than any of them without eating, I wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of forcing the garbage down my throat.

The next few days just turned back into business as usual. Wake up, count cracks, eat, back to the concrete cube, sleep. It was monotony. The kind of monotony that could drive you insane. The kind of monotony that makes you miss the old mind-numbing routine. Wake up in your own home, eat whatever you like, spend time with your friend, then sleep. You never know how good something is until it's gone. I sure didn't.

"You get used to it." Weasel whispered to me one day in the line. "Same thing all day every day, you start to get those dead eyes."

"That easy to tell?"

"Clear as day." He replied. The line thinned as people began receiving their food. Weasel rubbed a hand on his belly, sarcastically remarking his excitement for the food. Albeit quietly, as heavily armed men with short tempers stood near.

Weasel seemed to have abandoned his 'strategy,' remembering what I had told him. The two of us stood near a huddle of men squatting as they chattered in a foreign language.

"What language you reckon that is? Sounds aggressive." Weasel questioned.

"Uh... German's an aggressive language."

"Yeah, yeah, but wouldn't Russian make more sense? Practically every meathead with a gun in here keeps Smirnoff on their belt. Wouldn't the same go for their prisoners?"

I shrugged. Nothing seemed to abide by logic here. For all I knew, we could be on the moon. "There're a few guys. Doctor Arms McGee has to be American."

"Arms... McGee?"

"C'mon, he's a weirdo with freaky prosthetics sticking out of his back."

Weasel nodded approvingly, a smirk itching at the corner of his lips.

"Fella looks right out'a some comic book. How 'bout the head'a security? Colonel Quaritch, or whatever. Got a mean scar down the side of his head? He gets real pissy when all his lackeys don't speak the same language as him. 'Get me someone who speaks English!'" He suddenly put on a harsh, commanding tone in an apparent crude impression of the unknown man.

"I'm glad I haven't seen him then. Sounds like one big freakin' ray of sunshine."

Weasel laughed dryly. "Wish I could see the sun."

My smile faded a bit at that. I missed the sun, too. Everything down here is just the same cold fluorescent.

"Just gotta finish my time without getting my eyeballs turned to jujubes. Easy enough, ain't it? They got aaaall these other guys to choose from for guinea pigs." He waved his hand broadly at the small crowd in the room. A few glared at that, however Weasel only returned with a smile and a friendly wave.

"Yeah, lucky you, I guess. You got something to look forward to."

"Oh come on, don't give me that! You still got that little plan a' yours shaking around in your noggin! Can't tell me you forgot about it just because a lady was a little transparent!"

"You said you didn't want to help!"

"I got a way outta here. You don't, unless your chances are the one in a million, and whatever thing you think up actually works. Look." Weasel rolled his sleeve up slightly, showing off the porcelain shard. "Moment's notice, just say the word and show the way."