Chapter Text
Boredom. That was the only thing he managed to feel lately. Such a feeling was so absurd and disturbing he could almost touch it, and Cell couldn't do anything but grunt in frustration while he stared at the peeling ceiling of his tank.
Contrary to what is expected of a common inmate, he had already done everything one could do in that place. He took control of the trafficking gangs, established new cohabitation (and execution) rules, bought the loyalty of every single guard, had uncountable contacts outside, his name was now respected, and feared, not only in some areas but through all of Alcatraz, and some other numberless things that he focused on acquiring through the last two years he chose to stay there. Every single goal of his had been achieved, nobody would defy him or go against him any more — there was absolute peace, all the time.
In other words, things became very fucking boring.
He raised one of his hands to his face, stroking his stubble beard and then messing his hair — now long, due the years he's been there. His arms were covered in new scars he acquired the day he was betrayed by a certain duo , and with many others he conquered during the process of taking full control over the prison. The scars haven't been hurting any more for a long time, and that bothered him deeply. He craved for blood, for turmoil, for anything. He got tired of this void he felt everyday, such a void it was that it overruled his nervous ticks and explosive temper.
Cell was no longer feared by his impulsiveness and erratic behavior. He was feared by his coldness, by his complete lack of expression when he cut the fingers out of a new inmate that would ignore the cohabitation rules, or by how easy and fast he could break one's neck, with no slight sign of remorse. Nowadays he was an apathetic man, silent, and lethal... just like a big, wild feline, that would crawl in the darkness to the attack, with a daunting precision.
Thankfully, for the guards and the other inmates, he had already gone too uninterested in everything in that place to, actively, “hunt" someone. But in the rarest of occasions in which his attention would be bought, the events were more than sufficient for him to acquire his newer and "friendlier" title:
The Alcatraz butcher.
But he couldn't care less for these dumb titles. He received countless of them through the years and never minded them much, caring very little about his infamy and focusing only on achieving his goals... But, now, he didn't have those goals to achieve anymore, and neither had the motivation to find new ones. Maybe it was time to escape and hunt that stupid duo that thought it appropriate to make a fool out of him? He smiled behind the hand resting on his face, and slowly licked his own lips — a slight change to a tic he suffered from for years.
Yeah. I like this idea. I like this idea a lot .
"Cell," a voice interrupted his wanderings, followed by the rattling of the keys against the cell's bars. "Wake up, sleeping beauty. It's time for breakfast."
He opened one of his eyes so he could stare at the guard opening his tank, and smiled mockingly once he recognised who that was.
"Good morning to you, too, Virgilio. How's the family going?"
The guard, with an older looking appearance, once we consider his whitening hair and mustache, only laughed humorlessly and shook his head negatively. Virgilio Nogueira was the Captain and one of the most experienced personnel in Alcatraz, besides being the only one who had the courage to directly interact with Cell without stuttering every two words. The others had no idea how he could do so.
"They'll be fine as long as you don't know who they are," Virgilio calmly said, finishing opening the prison cell and waiting beside the open bars. "Let's go. It's the day of the arrival of new inmates and the guards are anxious. It's better if you stay close to the others in case any newcomer decides to play the smartass."
"Oooooh, new meat?" Cell immediately jumped out of bed, his blue eyes sparkling in interest. "It's been months since we haven't had new guests."
"These are special cases, transferred from an overseas institute."
" Gringos ?" Cell whistled while walking besides Virgilio. "I don't even remember the last time we imported trash from outside. Any special occasion?"
The guard sighed heavily.
"Overpopulation."
"I see, I see."
Virgilio stared at him through the corner of his eyes.
"A look at the lot and this silly smile of yours will be gone, boy."
"As if, old timer. This place is so damn boring. Nothing happens, everyone is afraid of me and nobody tries to stand against me anymore. I rather they're a bunch of assholes so I'll have new motivations to behead someone!"
"Cellbit," Virgilio's bitterness was clear in his tired tone of voice. "Between the five of them, there's a harasser."
Cell stopped walking and, as expected by the guard, the jolly smile on the butcher's face vanished completely.
When he spoke next, his tone could freeze one's bones.
"I thought I had said to not allow such scum to be brought to my Alcatraz, Nogueira."
"We were all against it," Virgilio murmured, disgruntled. "But the warden was offered an exorbitant amount of money for the support, so he just accepted the deal."
"Of course, that moron of a warden," Cell licked his lips. "That man has been annoying me for a while now. It would really be a shame if he, someday, vanishes mysteriously."
Virgilio frowned.
"Please, don't. Every time you kill a warden, they send someone worse to take his place."
"So I'll just keep getting rid of them until they'll send someone who'll follow my fucking rules ," he snarled, cracking his neck out of frustration.
They rounded the corridor and, although Cell heard the voices of the other inmates, he hoped none of them would decide to cross him at that moment. The only motive Virgilio was still alive was because Cell ended up kind of growing attached to the grumpy captain by the passing of the years (it was kinda lonely to be feared, so he appreciated the night talks), but if it was any other guard, the person would already be bleeding to death.
It was best for him to hold back this fury, however. It was great . The more the anger he gathered, the more painful it would be the death he would deliver the human-trash about to arrive, and the necessity of having the warmth of fresh blood running through his fingers almost made his anxiety take control over his body and mind.
He hated harassers. Hated them. One of the first rules he established in Alcatraz after taking over the place was the complete abolition of such revolting act, and if somebody was caught breaking that rule, they would not lose a finger or an eye... but yes receive a full treat from the butcher, something beyond a slow and painful death — that's how great Cell's contempt was towards those who would dare to commit such a repulsive crime.
He was no saint — the opposite, actually, he considered himself to be one of the worst things ever to step on Earth —, but even he had his limits... and that was definitely on the top of his list. Which meant, out of these five newcomers, only four would live to tell the story — that is, if they behaved according to the laws of the King of Alcatraz. Else, things would get ugly really, really fast.
That's what we'll see.
Virgilio eventually opened the door leading to the common room, where the meals and general interactions would happen, and as soon as Cell stepped in, a deafening silence followed him.
He calmly walked to an empty table in the center of the hall and, through the whole path, he felt intrigued and fearful eyes following his every step. He was already used to that kind of thing (people would rarely stare him with anything other than dread, grudge or hate), but it had been some time his presence would not silent some place in full, and even after he settled at the table, if anyone dared to go back chatting, it was only through low whispers he could barely hear.
Maybe it was something in his facial expression. It had been some time Cell hadn't felt as furious as he did at that moment, so it wouldn't be a surprise if his face — usually apathetic —was more frightening than the devil's itself.
Well, he wanted to give the newcomers a memorable first impression, so he didn't put any effort on changing his scary form.
Eventually, a shivering kitchen assistant brought his breakfast, laying it on the table and leaving quickly as Cell didn't even react to his approach. He also barely touched his food, so taken by the murderous thoughts his brain cast as he hid his lips behind his intertwined hands. He got too amused on thinking about the diverse ways he would deal with the new Alcatraz members to remember eating, besides, he always could do that later in his room, so that was not one of his biggest priorities at the moment.
Not much beyond fifteen minutes had passed and the hall finally recovered its vividness, once the other inmates noticed the furious butcher was doing nothing but staring into the nothingness. The guards, however, remained anxious, and all of them tried their best to avoid Cell's eyes. They knew very well the motive behind his silent fury, and they definitely did not want to be anywhere near whenever it would arise.
When the hall's main entrance opened, a bit more than ten minutes later, all the heads turned in its direction, revealing some guards walking through it along with a group of new people, all wearing the jail's characteristic orange uniform and a small tag with their names embroidered on it.
Cell narrowed his eyes, never moving from his analytic position. He had been the only person who hadn't needed to turn in the door's direction, considering he had already been staring at it the whole time, waiting for the new group of inmates. Therefore, as soon as his meticulous sight identified the newcomers, he started his analysis.
Four came in first, three of them very similar to each other, having caucasian skin, short hair in blondish or brownish tones, and preening smiles that brought Cell's blood to boil in his veins. They walked into the hall, parading as a group of rich kids in a private tour instead of inmates in a maximum-security prison, making Cell click his tongue and crack his neck once again. Those guys would certainly give him headaches.
They had an average height, between five to six feet, and an athletic body, which differed a lot from the fourth inmate on their side: a small man, slender, and pale, that looked all around in a very frightened way, almost as if he was expecting someone to stab him on the back at any moment.
Which, in Cell's opinion, was enough to make him smarter than the three others, considering such a thing was definitely likely to happen.
Cell gritted his teeth and laid on the back of his seat. He had been doing this for years, so he knew pretty well how to identify the types of inmates arriving in his jail, which meant he immediately understood none of those four would live, even though only one of them was the harasser Virgilio mentioned to him. They had this aura to them, one that lacked remorse, and in some cases even carried pride for their perverse acts, to which Cell would usually not give a fuck (after all, he was no hero moved by morals), but that attitude told him they were the kind of shit that would arrive in his jail and try to disregard the harmony of things. And Cell hated when newcomers came biting more than they could chew.
Well , he cracked his neck once again. The shitty sexual harasser will go down, and if any of the others try to mess around, he'll acquire some company for the other side.
Cell watched the guards speaking something to the quartet, probably explaining where they were to go for food and stuff, then eventually they headed to the place where the meals were offered. Seeing that as a perfect chance to approach the newcomers and make very clear how things worked from the start, Cell decided to get up and go for them. But, as soon as he planted his hand over the table for support, a fifth, and last, person came in through the door, making the world around the butcher slow down for a beat.
He got so distracted by his aversion for the others that he completely forgot they were meant to be five inmates, and as soon as the fifth one set foot in the enclosure, Cell felt all his senses sharpening in an uncanny way.
He was alluring, one of the most gracious creatures Cell ever had the pleasure to witness. His eyes, chocolate painted, were pervasive, and the red headband garnishing his forehead, which merged between his brown hair strands, had a unique charm. The lips were plump and had a natural red tint to them, which aligned perfectly with his slightly tanned skin and the rather developed muscles, which marked the orange uniform. He was the only one who seemed to match Cell's own height, and differently from the triplet's arrogant gait or the little guy's paranoia, the fifth inmate carried himself in a confident way — a confidence that Cell could easily see through, once he himself had to do the same for years to survive in that jail.
Nothing but a façade, a defense mechanism to show no weakness in front of the predators. The lad was, in fact, scared, confused , clearly uncertain about where he was meant to go or do, looking completely out of place in such insanely hostile surroundings. That was something the butcher hadn't seen for many years, and definitely made clear the man would have a hard time fitting in the prison environment.
The thing is, that wasn't what made Cell go frozen — neither the stunning beauty of his —, but the look he had in his eyes. A look that made the before cold Cell's heart speed up in his chest, once he had never seen such a thing in a criminal ever taken to that place and that, undoubtedly, would make him one of the most tasty and disputed preys in Alcatraz.
The eyes of an innocent .