Well folks, we have come to the point where I cannot give you any more direct Sneak Peeks. I want some of the funny moments to be leftover for you to see first on screen, and if I keep feeding you them every other day they'll all be gone way too quickly. I am open to suggestions for what should fill the time, but for now I will write for you all on a bi-daily basis a certain fanfic that I owe one of my followers.
00074B, Crook Name: Quetzalcoatl
Most people just called him Q. Everyone in this prison colony was given false, ridiculous, names, by which the prisoners could call each other. The guards always called the prisoners by their number, which was printed on their uniforms front, side, and back. They also all had their heads shaved. Some of the prison barbers didn't take their jobs so seriously, though, and would carve numbers or letters or symbols in the convicted felons' hair.
Beatings from the guards were fairly regular course, as was resistance from the prisoners. Rebellion was the theme of the island prison. Even the guards were usually those dishonorably ejected from the peace-keeping military forces. The United always put their rabble on the desolate icy island prison in the North Atlantic known as "Rott." Apparently, there had been someone back in history with that as a name, but as far as the prisoners and guards alike were concerned, there might as well have been just one T.
The place was a hell hole. The first term didn't apply quite literally, but the second certainly did. The tiny island's surface was covered, for the most part, with a concrete floored "yard" for when the prisoners needed sunlight. The rest of the surface was covered by a concrete and steel building which acted as barracks and command center. The prisoners lived in the hole.
For a thousand feet below the surface there was no ordinary sediment. All had been dug away to make the prison to end all prison, one jail to rule them all. Once the columns of cells and corridors was ended, the mines and hydroponics began. Hydroponics was their normal business, mines was for punishment. And the mines were always full.
Quetzalcoatl, as he had been dubbed for his enigmatic nature, had been given a recently vacated cell near the surface, only about ninety feet down. His cell consisted of the top-half of a bunk bed, a bathroom with only a toilet, a chair, and a table, all packed into a space less than nine feet square. It was one of the better ones. Once they had begun delving deeper, and the United become a more glorious government capable of bestowing good lives upon all its coerced citizens, they had made the cells smaller, lucky to have a bathroom. At the bottom was the final floor (below it magma had become to much of an issue) which was merely a huge room with beds whose sheets were never changed and which had never borne mattresses. A symbol of the progress the United hoped to make global.