He glances over at the guard, a brow raising slightly as he watches him.
Private with The Abysswalker
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The guard looks at the strange man calmly, unconcerned with him at this distance for the moment.
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"You like staring at me? Sorry, but I don't roll that way." He tells the man.
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The man simply huffs, his shoulders shrugging slightly.
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He lays his head back down on the concrete pylon, looking up at the ceiling, glancing over at the bars.
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Elizabeth is now on her plane, headed back to DC to the FBI headquarters there. Her team sleeps quietly, having not gotten enough sleep during their stay in NYC.
The guard continues to contently watch, wishing that this guy was just a touch more interesting than simply some boring murderer.
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He gets up from the pylon and walks over the the bars, peering out at the man. He gives a small smile that soon becomes a huge Cheshire grin and he starts a giggle before it transforms into a cackle that would make the Joker proud.
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The guard gets a shiver down his spine, though he shows no outward signs of this.
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"Come, join me. I think if I laugh enough I could get you some friends down here." He says, looking at the man with a raised brow. "You seem lonely."
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The guard doesn't even bother to shake his head, closing his eyes to roll them before reopening them to continue his stare.
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He snorts softly, clinking the edge of his handcuffs along the bars. "Y'know, you're awfully boring." He says, pulling at the bars in a few places.
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The heavily armed guard almost smirks, glad that he couldn't be the object of the prisoners ridicule or fun.
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"But," he says, his voice having a sing-song like tone to it. "You are quiet, so are you just mute. Or, does the wife have your stones in a little side pouch in her purse?"
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Naturally, the man does not answer. No, he wasn't married, but that is his doing, because his job is very dangerous.
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He continues to hum to himself, running his fingers along the bars as he giggled to himself.
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The guard knows that this kid is truly mentally unstable, wondering why on Earth he is in a jail cell instead of in a padded room in a straitjacket.
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He smirks to himself, finding a smallish barb on the inside of the bar. He'd use that to try and cut through a link of the cuffs later.
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The guard is standing in front of the cell for an hour or so before the prisoner is finished being processed and can be transported to the state prison to be held for his hearing next week.
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He slowly begins to edge the link of metal against the barb of raised iron. He does his best to stay inconspicuous as he wears away at the steel.
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"It's time to go," The guard says when a dozen other cops come in to transport him.