[OPEN!] - On Patrol

[Emily]

"G U Y"
ISIAH NEWARK

The fresh, morning air of the island lingered over the ocean as the new sun delicately touched all that it could. The soft fog gently resting on top of the ocean. A gentle breeze running through the trees as if the land was whispering in your ears. The soft waves gently pushed themselves onto the white sand of the beach, and then quickly retreating back- leaving the sand damp. This morning, the beach was unusually still. Usually, the waves would thrash around, and any unsuspecting fool would be swept off their feet by the harsh winds and thrown into the ocean. Many people had died from the waves picking their bodies up and tossing them around before spitting them up on the rocks of the beach.

Guy stood in the rocks that lined the water line. His deep, brown eyes staring out into the orange sunrise. The white foam slicking up over the toes of his thick, black, leather boots. He wore what he wore almost every day, his government issued clothing. He wore his camouflage pants tucked into worn boots, a white undershirt that was slightly stained, and a button up shirt that matched his pants. His camo, hardhat rested behind him with his rifle. He pondered about everything. He pondered about the world around him. He pondered his life. He thought about everything in times like these. There was no rush for him, so he took the advantage. This job was perfect for him.

Then raising his arms into the air, he combed through his dark brown hair with his fingers. Pulling his long hair back, he gathered it all into a pony tail and tied it back with a hair band in his pocket. He closed his eyes and took a breath in, then slowly let it out. He put his hard helmet in and took a step back into blood stained sand. A cadaver of a young, male, Asian laid at his feet and several others were not too far away. Upon further inspection, one might notice that they were completely stripped of their clothing and each had mutilations from experiments up and down their bodies, as well as a gunshot to the head from a government issued rifle.

Guy tapped his boot on the sire of the man's head, thud. Blood dripping from his boot. He picked up his rifle and looked over the beach once more. The incinerator was broken down and the bodies needed to be exposed of. It was Guy's job to dispose of the bodies. So he grabbed the arm of the Asian, and then the arm of a Caucasian women and dragged them out to the ocean. There was nothing toxic in their systems that could harm anything, so he did not see a reason why not to do what he was going to.

He dragged them to the edge of the ocean, and then proceeded to walk them in. A blood trail of evidence showed the whole scene. Guy did this two more times for six corpses in all. most likely, the bodies would show up on another side of the island or be eaten by the fish. Whatever happened to them it gave Guy no worries.

His body soaked to the bone, he picked up his rifle and headed back to the soldier housing. He needed a new change of clothes and some time to warm back up. Although the island was somewhat tropical, the ocean was still chilled from it being winter.

OOC:// Come in how you please! Make it interesting and use feeling! And, also, sorry for babbling on in this post. It is 4:20am and I had muse for this post for two days! I kind of had it bottled up for too long, and, well, here it is!

[Mosley Barnes]

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For spring break of his freshman year, he and his supposed friends had gone to Cancun. Considering that it was the only week of wild abandon that he’d ever enjoyed, Mosley looked back on the experience with a certain fondness: it was the only time to date that he’d been able to drink legally, the booze and entertainment had been cheap, and he had never slept less or laughed more in his life. Somewhere in between the hazy parade of nightclubs, bars, and evening beach rendezvous, one fragment of a memory jumped out with unusual clarity: he’d been on the outdoor patio of some high-class bar, one hand around his pina colada, the other arm wrapped around the shoulders of some obliging senorita whose name had long since slipped his mind, watching the vibrant sunset throw out spider-web tendrils of colors to conflagrate the approaching night. Life had been good and had been promising to only get better.

This was not Cancun.

He was sprawled out on one of the many boulders that dotted the rocky shore, watching the pale sunrise with a mixture of sleepy contentment and dissatisfaction. He’d been there for nearly an hour, but the rocky outcropping protected him from the iciest of the winds, and the charmless grey uniform of a prisoner blended in well with the boulder. The layer of fog spread out across the ocean like a thin blanket blended the dark green-grey of the ocean with the dove grey sky until it seemed that they were undivided, and only the pale dawn starting to chase away the residual shadows separated them again. He was cold and sore from having his belly on a wet, miserable rock for the better part of an hour, but these were mild aches compared to the sensation of being outside again. Mosley had endeared himself to a few of the more easygoing soldiers; compared to his violent neighbors, he was mild-mannered and pleasant, and after hours of silence on the job more than a few of them enjoyed a conversation with a creature not stark raving mad. It had taken more than a little cajoling and the meager bribery that he could manage in his current position, but occasionally one of the soldiers could be persuaded to let him out of his cramped cell for a few hours of feigned freedom. They knew he was harmless. The worst he’d do was bring a few sea shells or twigs back. If he was so careless as to draw the attention of a less merciful guard and get himself shot, that what his own fault.

Not that he intended to do that. For now he would enjoy the receding dawn sky that still patchily clung to the firmament, and later he would walk along the winter beach and pretend, for a fractured hour or two, that he was a free men instead of a prisoner checking the corners of his eyes for men that might snipe him in a second. Before morning rounds he would sneak back to the door he’d been let out of, the merciful soldier would let him in and escort him back to his sky-less cell like a whipped dog.

His lip curled in disgust at the thought and, with a grunt of effort, he rolled onto his back so that he could stare into the sky instead of out onto the oddly still ocean, stiff muscles protesting mildly. There was nothing in the world like the sky, untethered and limitless, especially when you spent most of your time confined to what amounted to a damp ten-by-ten box. If he could pocket a patch of the sky and smuggle it back into his cell… he laughed softly at the thought. “’Like freedom is their sojourn there,’” he quoted softly from some half-remembered poem, “’Under the skies in the midnight air.’” Having his own piece of the sky was a pretty thought, but he wasn’t as delusional as some of his comrades. He couldn’t create a fantasy from a whim. He was a forlorn man clinging to a rock, watching the sun rise, and currently wallowing in self-pity, but he wasn’t a madman.

Mosley inhaled deeply, savoring the taste of air unsullied by the stench of human misery. He could have made a run for it now, retreated to the woods, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t be able to find a way off the island, he wouldn’t have access to food or purified water, and no doubt the soldiers would come after him to either put him down quick and clean, like a rabid dog, or drag him back to the complex for one final, lethal humiliation. “‘Do not be angry, Aleko,’” he murmured to himself, the verse rolling to his tongue as if it were his own thought. His hand brushed against the thin fabric of his uniform and tracing the lines that various incisions had left. “‘Forget, forget your dreams…’” He’d be out of here eventually; at least, he had to think that. He simply refused to die on some godforsaken speck of land in the middle of the ocean at the hands of some sadist with a scalpel.

Today, however, was not a day to enact grandiose escapes.

Mosley sighed and started to sit up, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose as they started to slide, and automatically scanned the beach as a precaution against unwelcome eyes. The beach seemed unoccupied – a light breeze that tousled his russet hair and gently rippled across the surface of the water, a few crabs and seagulls competing over slivers of meat clinging to the fragile bones of dead fish, and… some brute of a man, a soldier, probably, doing his morbid work a hundred yards down the coast.

Mosely averted his eyes quickly before he could catch a glimpse of whatever macabre task the brutish man was completing, but bile was already rising to the back of his throat as his mind conjured up a thousand possibilities. Sickening. He closed his eyes in an attempt to push away his imagination and lay back down on the protected boulder, not opening them again until he had only the clear expanse of sky and the occasional seagull silhouette to occupy his mind. “Barbaric,” he murmured under his breath, content in the belief that, from his current vantage point, he was invisible to the bearlike man he shared the beach with. “Barbarians, all of them…”

ooc: Poem is The Gypsies by Pushkin. [/size]

[Emily]

"G U Y"
ISIAH NEWARK

Guy walked up the walls of rocks that lined the beach, his shadow leaving a light, long cast. Salted water dripped down onto the sharp rocks under foot. His boots filled with the warm water, gushing about. Part of his clothes had since cooled and started to cling to his skin and chill his body.

The man gently sat down on a rock and started to unlace one of his water logged boots. The leather started to show the constant wear. Around the toes of the boots, the color was fading and rubbing away to reveal the dirty, steel plate. He pulled out his foot and dumped out the water. Then he proceeded to do the same with the other after putting his boot back on. Waiting a few seconds before getting back up, he looked around. A general curiosity that Guy just had. He knew he was alone, but there was just that feeling that he was being watched by something. It is that feeling when you are alone, outside, and your mind starts to make you think that you are not as alone as you like to think.

Maybe there was a wild boar or dog? No, they were not on the island any more. Maybe it was a big coon boar that was pumped with testosterone and ready to fight? Maybe. The possibilities are endless in some people's minds, but Guy thought about it more with sense than imagination. He grabbed his gun again as he thought about it once more. He was not one for sudden surprises, even if he knew it was his mind playing tricks on him; much like mirages in the desert, your's and my, also like Guy's, will tell us lies.

Looking around, he seen a rock that was not correct. He looked closer at it, narrowing his eyes. He stroked his gun slightly, ready to holster it up and wound or kill whatever it was. He rolled onto his feet and then cupped a hand over his eyes, gripping his gun in the other hand, to shield the faint sun from his eyes and see if he could get a better view on the suspect.

He took note of the appearance and decided on it being a person after a bit of thought. With that, he lowered his defense and started to move over to it. "Hey," he called out, "What are you doing out here?" His voice somewhat playful in his own way. He was glad to share the company of the night before going and getting dried off and cleaned up. The patients were to be locked up and the soldiers on shifts. The Doctors were either at the testing facility. It only made sense that it was a soldier that was sent out to tell the man something. So that was what Guy decided on.

As he got a little closer, he made out certain details on the character. They looked of just a few inches above average height and a slender body. He searched through his memory to locate a face and name to the body of the soldier's silhouette, but none could be identified.

Isiah "Guy" Newark was a brute of a man that was easy on the eyes. He continued to come closer to the man, his dark brown eyes trying to find the face of the other. When he started to near the other, he noticed the whites, not camouflage such as his. Immediately, he clenched his gun again and started to go near. "What are you doing out here?" His voice more rough sounding now, almost threatening. He started to move more swiftly over the rocks, closing in on the man.

Guy suddenly raised his gun up, the polished barrel gleaming in the lightly light morning, and aimed for figure. His voice thundering out in one last attempt to catch the person's attention over the ocean. Although the day was calm, the soft flow of the ocean rocking back and forth and the whispering wind nearly drowning out all of his last attempts.

A gently flare of sunlight as the clouds shifted around revealed the true identity of the man. The lankthy figure was wearing a standard patient uniform and wire rimmed glasses covered his eyes. His hair seemed to be cut down short and that was all that Guy could tell in the disappearing sunlight. From the clues revealed thus far, Guy could only make up his mind that the prisoner was an escapee.

Guy was not a fond man of prisoners. They were the trash of the time and were sent to the island to be disposed. To him, they were better off dead if they were not on the island. Murderers and more, they all resided here at Nethering's and each had an extra dash of something screwing their minds up and turning them into beasts. They truly are cases and that is how Guy seen them. There was not other way to see them than that to this one minded man.

He was closer than ever to the man, but still far enough away. Guy was many strides away from the target. He had the barrel looking straight at the man and his eyes locked dead center on the other.

The gruff, wet man started to accelerate in his pace. foot past foot, he started to close in on the other. Then, in the blink of an eye, the man was on the ground, gun sounded. His leg slipped over the side of a damp rock rolled his ankle. The feeling sent a short shot of pain up his spine and then small goose bumps spread like wildfire over his body. He laid on the ground, before grabbing for his gun once more. He was lame from his fall, but was still eager to put up a fight. Wether or not he was able to, was indefinite.

OOC:// I am SO sorry for the long time it has taken me to actually reply, LOL! ... Other than that, CONGRATS for the Post of the month! Your post was very deserving! It was a hard decision, but I just had to choose your's. After reading it, all I could think about, was that it reminded me of "The Shawshank Redemption" and Mosley just reminded me of Andy. That takes REAL talent and I can not wait to read more of your posts!

Then, sorry for the bad grammar, mis spellings, or anything of the sort! And, ESPECIALLY sorry for the boringness. Lol!

[Mosley Barnes]

The few seabirds overhead wheeled in and out of his field of vision, the echoes of light overhead reducing them to dusky silhouettes, and only the raucous cries that wormed out of their throats made it clear that they were substantial instead of wisps of dawn that had torn free and taken flight. He watched them through hooded eyes, quickened heart returning to its normal languid throb as the anxiety leached out of his body. There was nothing for him to be concerned about. The man would stalk back to his stilted barracks when whatever nightmare-task he’d been given was completed, and soon Mosley would be able to enjoy the early reaches of the morning in peaceable solitude. He’d wait a few more minutes, maybe fifteen at the most, to make sure that the intruder had cleared off the beach; erring on the side of caution hurt only when it led to crippling hesitance, but when the opponent was likely armed to the teeth and trigger-happy to boot… a careless mistake could be crippling, in the most literal sense of the word. He closed his eyes for a moment, swiping at the sweat starting to bead on his forehead with the back of a hand and pushing his glasses back into their proper position. The startled flock of thoughts settled uneasily back to roost again.

He’d never been into the forested interior of the island, but he didn’t intend to make today one for exploration; on occasion he’d been able to eavesdrop on soldiers exchanging stories while patrolling the halls, and normally the tales focused on whatever threats had once occupied the island. (There were plenty of ghost stories to be had, of course; Mosley had been able to piece together a bit of the institution’s torrid history through eavesdropping. If even a fraction of the fabled atrocities had occurred, then the halls should have been crawling with malignant specters, but though he’d had plenty of time to languish with no more company than his thoughts, he’d never seen so much as a smear of ectoplasm.) The most mundane stories involved wild boars with tusks as long as a man’s arm and nests of venomous snakes, and he wasn’t equipped for those hazards today. It would be better to stick to the rocky coast, where your greatest risks were a beached jellyfish or your own clumsy feet betraying you —

“Hey, what are you doing out here?”

Suddenly his heart was wedged in his throat, struggling to beat in its narrower confines. The words had been caught and torn at by the wind, barely audible over the combined efforts of air and sea, but they’d been solid enough to assure him that they hadn’t been imagined. Mosley swallowed nervously and didn’t dare to tear his eyes away from the sky, as still on the boulder as a camouflaged lizard but unfortunately not as innocuous. The man’s voice was deep and gruff, but there was a lightness in it that suggested he was talking to a fellow soldier instead of a stray prisoner. He could only hope that the man’s attention had been caught by another glorified prison guard farther up the beach and that both had their attention focused away from him. Mosley hadn’t seen or heard a second damnable soldier approaching from their barracks, but that was the only explanation, wasn’t it? At least, it was the only explanation that wouldn’t end with him shot and bleeding out on a beach littered with dead fish and scavengers.

Your luck, sir, he thought grimly to himself, has never been something to rely on. Fortune might’ve favored him in his younger years, but in the frontier of adulthood it had deserted him like a traitorous guide and hadn’t been back since. Eight undeserved years in prison had taught him that much.
The seabirds continued to careen overhead, apathetic to the plight of the land-bound prisoner below. Mosley tore his eyes away from their slender shapes and glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see only the back of the burly soldier and, in the distance, the shape of a second, but even before he looked he knew better than to think he was safe.

“What are you doing out here?”

The voice was rougher, any playfulness that might have been in it before now closely guarded, and it was impossible to miss the man prowling deliberately across the burnt sand, a man with a coarse, curly beard like a bear’s pelt straggling down his chest and a hand on the sleek government-issued gun and looking at him with the eyes of a lion on the hunt. He cursed under his breath and started to scramble down the rock’s worn face, fingers scrabbling against it for purchase like five-legged crabs; his mind couldn’t formulate a plan much more coherent than get out of his line of fire. At his shoes struck the hard-packed sand, he made the lethal mistake of hesitation, legs tangling in indecision as his bright green eyes tried to find a sanctuary. There was an outcropping of rocks farther down, but even if he ducked behind those it wouldn’t put him in much better shape – it was only a few more paces from the soldier, and what did steps matter when the other had a gun?

A gun that was now pointed at him.

It was in the soldier’s grip, the lethal barrel angled directly at him, its steel husk glinting coldly in the early morning light. Mosley’s eyes widened and he started to bolt, the instinctual and futile dash of a rabbit from the reaching talons of a falcon overhead. Seconds later he heard a crack of gunfire. He threw himself to the sand, grunting as the air was knocked from his lungs but wasting no time in ducking behind the boulder he’d slid off of seconds before. He grabbed his glasses from where they’d fallen and stayed in his crouched position, automatically wiping the lenses off on the corner of his shirt as he gasped for breath. He scanned the beach, heart sinking; his poor vision reduced the pristine waterline to amorphous shapes, shades of blue-grey and pale-grey and dark-grey all bleeding into each other like a ruined watercolor painting, but he didn’t need his glasses to see that there wasn’t much in the way of cover. Sure, he could attempt to scurry from rock cluster to rock cluster, but where would that get him? “Jesus H.” he breathed, replacing his thoroughly-smudged glasses back onto his face. ’Love it when I’m the one getting screwed over.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and regulated his breathing again, trying to jar his frazzled mind back into the land of rational thinking. After the gun had gone off, Mosley hadn’t heard any further steps or words; it made sense to believe that the soldier hadn’t come any closer. To what end? It wasn’t feasible to think that he could scuttle from rock to rock, escape detection, and somehow backtrack to the institution. He could try to wrest the gun from the burly soldier, perhaps, but that was… risky. Mosley opened his eyes but didn’t move from his meager shelter behind the boulder, only raising his voice – what did it matter if he spoke when the soldier surely knew where he was? “Put that down before you shoot yourself in the foot,” he snapped. “I’m not armed, sir. Let’s have a civilized talk about this.” ‘Civilized,’ with some specimen of mankind who could enjoy dreamless sleep even while fully aware of what went on in Nethering’s? ‘Talk,’ with someone who had all manner of weaponry at his disposal and the training to use it? What a joke.

Do not be angry, Aleko.

ooc: Thank you, Emilydear. c: And do not apologize for any of those things, especially when none of those things are present in your fantastic post and since it’s taken me so long to finally reply. xD This is such a frankenpost, pieced together on like four different occasions, but whaddya gonna do.

[Emily]

{name:Isaiah "Guy" Newark#|#picture:i40.tinypic.com/wmezis.jpg}

"Eeeek! Eeeek! eek-eek-eek-eek!" The cries of the creatures cried out. Their beautifully sculpted bodies contradicting their harsh screams. Their long, orange beaks, with a dot of red on the bottom, complimented their majestic eyes that were lined in the same bright red as their beak. Their white bodies carried high up off the ground by their slender, stick like legs. Others were carried high up in the sky by their slate grey wings that were tipped with a midnight black. Others were dots in the shallow beach water as they floated along or dove down to retrieve their meal.

"Eeeek! Eeeek! eek-eek-eek-eek!" The seagulls cried out, sending a message out to all of the flock that they claimed whatever food they found. The opportunists were always looking for a new meal. Hunger always fueling their motives. They were little thieves and would go to any extent to get what they wanted. They were rats that crawled in the land, air, and water. It was easy to see how they received their title as rats. They are anything they were given and they fought for survival.

Much like the seagull, the patients were just rats to Guy. He had no reason to like them. They were opportunists. Many would take any chance they were given to either escape the fate they chose for themselves because of a life of crime they chose.

The sea gulls mocking the fallen man with their laughter. They were like beach hyenas with their annoying bark. He clenched his ankle as he laid on the ground. The gun was at his side, lifeless laying and no longer a threat. The man rolled to his back and sat up, clenching his ankle quickly. He tried to scramble to his feet at he watched the human prey fret.

The animal like instincts making the boy slide off his rousting rock and ducked behind it. His gentle hands scraping over it to get him a good grip so he could bolt if necessary. When the gun sounded, the boy fell flat to the ground and blinded himself unintentionally. The wire glasses falling down to the ground and leaving his uncovered eyes naked. After a few seconds and a mumbled word or two, the tall, lengthy man sat up and placed the lens back on over his eyes. He was still covered by the shield of the big boulder.

Guy knew where the man was, so picked up his gun again and tried to come to his feet. The pain shot through his body, so he found himself on the ground, sitting.

"Put that down before you shoot yourself in the foot!" Guy looked up at the rock intensely. His eyes almost burning a hole through toe solid material. His hate for the being was great at the moment. The words trailed around the soldier's head and boiled his skin. It was just a form of disrespect that floated in the choice of words. Guy rolled himself so he was on all fours with his back in the air. He grabbed his gun and continued to try and get himself on to his two feet.

"I’m not armed, sir. Let’s have a civilized talk about this." It was insulting to Guy that this "thing" of a man would compare himself to anything remotely civilized. It was the scum of society. It had its place, and its pace was here with the rest of the trash. Guy's thought train was one track and could do no detours most days. Guy balanced himself up on his lame ankle. He took a few steps to walk off the fall.

His eyes narrowed for the boy. "What are you doing out here?" He wanted to know why he was here and what he wanted. This beach was off limits to unauthorized people. Guy was a man of authority in his head, and he ruled the land when he was on patrol.

Taking a few more steps, he waited for an answer.

INSPIRATION: [X]
OOC:// Sorry for the short post and the LONG wait! I love you Moze! Your post was AMAZING!! I loved reading it and read it several times just because I loved it!

[Emily]

BUMP!
Hopefully Moze sees this. >.<

[Mosley Barnes]

Beneath the shrill, aggravating chorus of seagulls Mosley thought he could hear the man panting, and there was a weak spark of hope; perhaps his pursuer had injured himself worse than he had initially assumed. That would prevent a pursuit, at least, but if the idiot had just happened to injure himself while he was enjoying a bit of fresh air… it would look suspicious, and that would likely be the permanent end to the hours of feigned freedom that he savored whenever possible. He knew that there was a way to worm out of this unfortunate situation – there always was – but the burly guard maiming himself wasn’t the answer. Seconds later – though he couldn’t decide whether or not it was a stroke of luck or misfortune – he could hear the man heaving himself to his feet and crossing the sands towards the boulder. Mosley gritted his teeth in both frustration and disgust for the entire situation – disdain for his own carelessness, disgust for the man approaching him, even a degree of loathing for the subjects of the macabre task that had brought his opponent onto the beach in the first place. He forced himself to relax, pulling his hands out of the tight fists that they had curled into, replacing his expression of mixed panic and unmasked contempt with one of calculated, almost contemptuous politeness, and regulating his breathing. His exterior suggested that he was no more anxious than a college student sitting for an exam – being openly nervous around a soldier would only make them more certain that they were in a place of power and more likely to use it. You didn’t need to reassure a tyrant that they were powerful. He knew that his morning was going to end with him being dragged back to the facility, but at least he could avoid the indignity of being roughed up by some soldier in the process.

Soon the other man had rounded the boulder and came into Mosley’s line of vision; the corners of his mouth twisted into a tight, disingenuous smile, and he nodded slightly in acknowledgement. The man’s age was impossible to guess at, but he was a physical juggernaut, muscles plain beneath the wiry beard and uniform. Mosley didn’t doubt that the brute could snap his neck with minimum effort; his own build was naturally slight, and months of confinement only enhanced this – pacing constantly in a pen of a cell hardly counted as physical exercise – but, with this specimen of hale health before him, he was particularly aware of his weakness. “What are you doing out here?” His left hand curled and uncurled in the lightly-packed sand, the countless grains sifting around his fingers like seconds through an hourglass. There was that look in the bearlike man’s eyes, partially one of arrogance and superiority that he had seen too often in a guard or policemen or someone else with power and the badge and gun to prove it, but there was a bit of self-righteousness in his eyes too. He looks like a juror. The comparison came suddenly and without warning, but it was shockingly accurate. He suddenly felt like a coiled viper, furious and full of venom but cornered by a hawk. A fresh wave of loathing roiled in his stomach, and he had the sudden urge to spit in the man’s face and release a fresh slew of obscenities because how dare this filthy prole look down at him, Mosley Alexander Barnes, as if he were some excrement found on the heel of his military-issued boots, just like how that row of twelve holier-than-thou jurors had looked at him when condemning him to eight years of hell –

He pushed the needling fury away within seconds -- expressing it in such a situation would only get him pistol-whipped at best or make him another addition to the soldier’s task at worst – and not once did his carefully placid expression flicker. “I was enjoying the sunrise,” he replied concisely, the edge in his voice sanded down, “as I’m sure you were.” He didn’t need to disguise his motivation with any lies – the truth was pitiful enough. He held his hands up to show that there was no weapon in his grip before standing; he wasn’t going to stay crouched at this man’s feet like a cowering dog. “You can holster your gun, sir.” It wasn’t pointed at him anymore, thankfully, but it was still in the soldier’s grip and the sight of it was unsettling. “I’m a money launderer, not an axe murderer.” He didn’t avert his gaze from the man – to do so would be to indicate submission, and though subservience would have no doubt been a safer role to play he couldn’t lower himself to it in this situation. “I didn’t realize that enjoying a few minutes of fresh air was such a threat. It’s unhealthy for a man to be confined to the indoors twenty-four hours a day.” The flippancy in the latter statement was apparent, but even then he didn’t look away from the man, the same plastic, scornfully polite smile fixed on his face.

[Sam]

Sam pushed through the door towards the sandy beach. Sam hated the beach. He spent the majority of his time in boot camp on the beach. Cold air, soggy clothes and gritty sand that got everywhere, while his group did their exercises.One...two...three...four...I love the Marine Corps! Repeat ad nauseum. The Marine Corps was good for that. They would drill whatever they want into your brain.

Sam was a good marine. He hated and loved the Corps. As he hates and loves himself. Well, he mostly loved himself, and why not? That good looking guy in the grey jumpsuit. He looked like any other prisoner except in one way: He was allowed to sew his rank patch onto his upper arm, highly supervised of course.

Sam walked along the beach staying far away from the water. He hated water, ever since his mamma drown in Tiger Creek. He stopped taking bathes then and his father was hard pressed to get him to shower. Sam made a habit of taking one minute showers, even in the Corp. This was after his bunkmates decided to give him a ‘GI Shower’. Scrub brushes and steel wool; after that, he didn’t smell anymore.

This was not the case today. As a matter of fact, Sam hadn’t showered in twelve days. Last guard who tried to make him made the mistake of coming alone. Sam was trying to be nice about it, said he didn’t feel like showering. When the guard tried to grab him Sam kicked the guard in the balls. When the guard was on his knees from the obvious pain, Sam place one hand on top of the guard’s head and one underneath the chin and twisted it. Not the first time he had used that move, nor did he hope it to be the last. It was an old favorite of his; quick and clean. Sam got a month in solitary for it. The guards would have killed him if it weren’t for one doctor who wanted to keep him alive. Sam didn’t know why, nor did he care.

Sam continued down the river when he heard a gunshot. Instinctively he dropped to his belly. While prone, he crawled to where he thought he heard the gunshot. He must have crawled fifty yards when he began to make a soldier and a prisoner in usual manner: Soldier had his gun pointed at the prisoner and prisoner spoke quickly to pacify the guard. The guard also seem to hobble a little bit, no doubt from hitting one of the many rocks on this Godforsaken place. Sam was trained in minor first aid and he had seen some pretty bad ankles. A lot of boot grunts tripping over crap in the jungles and desert. He had fix plenty of them too.

“Am I interrupting anything, gentlemen?” Sam smirked at the two of them. “You left the door open, boot.” Sam spoke harshly to the man in glasses. Boot was a marine term for a grunt who was fresh out of boot camp. Inexperienced and practically stupid. But very malleable, most of them learned quick enough. “Why don’t you let me take a look at that ankle, boss.” Sam spoke to the armed guard. “You need to get some ice on that pretty quickly. Looks like it is already starting to swell.” Then again, it could be the man’s muscles. He looked like a big dude. “Come on, grunt. I’m Lance Corporal Sam Walsh, I’m a marine just like you.” Chances are that the guard was actually Army, or private security but they all wear the same uniform, that is what Sam respected.

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OOC: As I flesh out the character, my writing will be better. I swear!
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[Emily]

{name:Isaiah "Guy" Newark#|#picture:i40.tinypic.com/wmezis.jpg}I'm replying! I promise!