I couldn't recall my level of education, but the classroom environment was something familiar to me. Guess the nostalgic feeling would be my only confirmation regarding my level of education. Not like it helped in my current predicament.
We were getting our orientation right away. Today was a cleanup day - whatever that meant - and we needed our orientation prior to being assigned our levels.
The prison I was now going to spend my life imprisoned in was called the Psychic Prison for Supernaturals. That was all that I'd gathered from the random thoughts that slipped through the protective walls of my mind.
I'd have to get used to this chaotic environment before I allowed my psychic ability the freedom to pick and choose what was deemed to be important information.
With how powerful the ability proved itself to be at the hospital, I could only imagine the flood of thoughts that would hit me with force in a place like this.
From my initial observation upon entry, this place was packed. It was easy to determine who was a supernatural versus a mere human; the majority of supernaturals carried some sort of aura around them.
Saphire explained that individuals with magic displayed an aura that cloaked their bodies. The ability to see auras was a skill that required magic of your own.
She carried on with the general importance of auras and how their level of energy showed a glimpse of the individual’s potential magic caliber. This information struck a cord in me, and I secretly hoped more useful information would make its debut the longer we stayed in this place.
So far, I knew the place disgusted me. I wondered if I was some sort of clean freak or just had high standards of cleanliness. Either way, I knew from this initial floor alone that the life of imprisonment would give me acne.
My skin was flawless, another common complaint in the minds of these prisoners that gave me dirty looks while they nitpicked me from head to toe. Even the female guard that patted me down had to complain about how "perfect" I was and how that perfection would wither like a flower banned from water and sunlight.
That reminded me of the next big observation I'd made. There were no windows in this facility. The lack of windows was already bugging me. No natural sunlight, and the lights that hovered over the halls were so dim.
I could only imagine the state of our cells, and the idea of wearing one jumpsuit for eons was grating on that cleanliness nerve of mine.
At this rate, it was unlikely I’d survive this prison. From the look of things, this was only the beginning of my torture.
I was given the privilege of remaining in my clothes - thank the fucking heavens - but others were not as lucky.
In fact, no one else in this room was wearing normal clothes but me.
That surely got me more hateful glares, and their thoughts circulated between who I was and how they could fuck me up. The amount of hate that circulated in the minds of these prisoners was a little amusing to me.
Weird, I know.
I found it entertaining how all these strangers who had taken a mere glance in my direction were already eager to either touch me or kill me.
Or both. Might as well attempt both if you're aiming to touch what's not yours.
Another amusing fact was how absurd the security here was. I may not know what kind of supernatural I was, but this place was a fucking joke.
I felt no different than when I'd stood in front of the gates, even though this place was built to suppress the supernatural traits we carried. Or at least that's what the guard was yapping about.
A big chunk of the security staff were mere humans. I couldn't comprehend why supernaturals stuck here.
Was it because the idea of being trapped with a bunch of supernaturals of various levels of power excited them?
Don't get me wrong, the idea did spark a little, tiny, itsy-bitsy part of me - one I'd yet to figure out - but with the list of flaws with myself and what I’d done so far being here for two hours, I'd determined that I was far from psycho in comparison to some of these prisoners.
With a yawn, I began to glance around the room to see where I wanted to sit. I couldn't determine if I was a front-row or back-row person, which led me to a dramatic decision.
"Eenie. Meenie. Miney. Mo."
The bland statement of what felt like a children's rhyme by Saphire was so intriguing and odd that it made me snicker.
The room must have been silent when I did that, because everyone looked my way, and all I could do was giggle quietly. I already saw the conflicted gazes, some filled with concern for my sanity while others looked upset with my almost laughable interruption.
Not like we'd started shit from the get-go.
With a shrug, I decided to sit in the front row; my black heels that I'd honestly forgotten I'd been wearing until we had to strip for the feel-up pat-down clicked loudly as I made my way across the room.
I assumed heels would be uncomfortable, especially when the floors here were odd with weird turns, curves, and crackled tiles. This room appeared to be kept in shape, but some of the paths that lead to this place were lucky to get a sweep of a broom once a month.
Fuck, once a year.
Another new discovery was that my sense of smell was a curse. I hadn't gone on a sneezing storm just yet, but if my cell was as filth-infested with dust and mold as some of these walls were, I'd begin to count my blessings because I'd die from the lack of air quality down here.
Many of the prisoners smelled like they hadn't showered for weeks, and I wouldn't be surprised if those were the rules here. It was a prison, after all. No way were they getting the spa treatment.
God, I need to figure out my nail situation.
My eyes landed on the seat I decided upon, and I was a step away when a large woman sank onto the seat. I stalled in my movement, the echoing of my heels that clicked on the ground bouncing on the walls as the room went silent.
I moved my gaze upward, not caring about this woman's characteristics. All I cared about was my chosen seat and how her plump ass was sitting in my claimed property.
"Prisoner 4850, find a fucking seat already!" the sergeant commander or whatever he was ordered, but I remained right in place.
The woman in question raised her head up in slow motion, that cocky grin on her face already picking at my subconscious to teach her some respect.
"You heard him. Find another chair, Asian toothpick." She tossed the insult as an added bonus, and all I could do was stare at her.
The silence carried right along, and the longer I stood there, the more intense the atmosphere surrounding us got. Even the sergeant seemed nervous.
"Hey! Prisoner 4852, move to the second row," he determined.
"Excuse me?" The prisoner glared at him, his authority and rank meaning nothing to her. "Were you experiencing a flashback while I rightfully sat my ass on this fucking seat? I'm not moving for shit."
Another voice that held a bit of fright to it muttered, "She was staring at it."
"C'mon, bitch!" a louder prisoner from the back called out. "Move your fat ass and let the skinny bitch sit down! I'm hungry!"
"I'm staying right here!" The woman slammed her hands on the seats next to her. The two seats shattered as though they were glass sculptures and a massive hammer fell upon their fragile surface.
Everyone froze, but the woman merely crossed her arms and gave me a wide grin of triumph.
"Now. I'll say it again if you didn't hear me, Asian toothpick. Find another sea-"
She didn't finish before her body began to levitate. The amount of gasps made a flutter of delightedness trickle through me.
"What the fuck?! HEY! Put me the fuck down!"
I blinked innocently as she continued to float upward until her back was against the high ceiling. Taking a single step forward, I turned my body to align with the chair and lowered myself.
Once comfortable, I crossed my right leg over my left and sighed.
"Nice and warm," I calmly commented. "Your cooperation is appreciated."
"I didn't cooperate, you fucking cunt! Let me down!"
My ears zoned her out like she was white noise that deserved to be ignored until she figured out the proper way of apologizing.
The thought of my prisoner number popped into my head, resulting in my eyes darting to the sergeant, who seemed to flinch at my sudden gaze.
"Did you refer to me as Prisoner 4850?" I inquired.
"Uh...Yes! You're Prisoner 4850!"
"Don't like it," I announced. "Choose another number."
"What?" he gasped at my sudden request, and the quiet mutters that seeped through the woman's hollering from the ceiling confirmed how appalling my appeal was.
"The number is silly. I want a repdigit. Specifically, 2222 if it's available."
The tall man just stared at me like I'd requested him to grant me bail.
"There's no way of changing your numbers." His hand cut through the air like it was his final say on the matter.
That wasn't sitting well with me.
"I want the number 2222," I declared.
There was a wave of silence. The strong statement of my desires even shut up the hollering woman temporarily.
The man blinked and stuttered, "There's already a Prisoner 2222."
"Your point?"
"You can't switch numbers. It's based on-"
"I never requested your explanation. I know how the numeration system works. I want the number I've specified as my own. Either you switch it in the system or I'll get rid of the prisoner in question."
"You say I have a problem," Saphire muttered within my mind, but I could feel her enjoyment with this current situation and that only told me she supported this current endeavor.
Don't get me wrong, I knew this overdramatic desire for a solid number was a little childish and unheard of, but that number resonated with me.
It had to have been some sort of identification in the past, and I suddenly desired to continue carrying that numerological symbol with me on this new adventure of confinement.
When he remained speechless, I sighed.
"Fine. I'll do it myse-"
"We'll get it changed for you," he finally approved. Before anyone could counter, he carried on, "Let’s get this shit over with because it's fucking early and I need coffee!"
Everyone continued to remain silent until the woman above shouted, "What about me?! She shouldn't be able to keep me up here! I thought this hellish place doesn't allow magic and shit."
"Says the woman who smashed two chairs," a prisoner quietly muttered from the left back corner of the room. "Don't show off your powers but get mad when someone uses theirs against you."
"I'm going to kill your ass, fucker."
My head was beginning to pound from the obnoxious yelling, and as if it was a common gesture I'd used in the past, I flicked my hand casually to my right. A loud crashing sound was followed with a thump and groan.
No one spoke, and I only gave a quick glance in the direction of the crash to satisfy Saphire's curiosity.
The woman was on the ground, the culprit of the huge crumbling indent in the cement wall. Tiny rocks continued to fall from the place of impact, landing on the woman who remained still on the floor.
As I was waiting to be scolded, I returned to looking at the sergeant in question and his wide eyes that looked between the unconscious prisoner and me.
He cleared his throat and looked around the room.
"As I was saying!" he began, taking a quick, nervous glance my way to see my one-centimeter smirk that tugged at the corner of my lips.
He was approved by me simply for his act of pure ignorance.
"This is Psychic Prison. The prison for supernaturals. Just because you're all magical and shit doesn't mean you can cause chaos and trouble!"
He glanced back to the unconscious woman as if emphasizing his point before he continued.
"Rules are simple. Y'all are stuck here. Don't cause shit," he paused and pointed to the woman, "like that fucking shit. It’s a pain in my ass. Mind your own fucking business and try to get along, 'cause you ain't getting out anytime soon. Some of you, never."
He glanced around the room before he carried on, "Lab checks are done for multiple reasons, ones you lot don't need to know about. If you're summoned, move your ass and get there. Since we have no vampires in this lot, I'm skipping that shit, but if you want to be vampire bait, feel free to volunteer to have your blood drawn. Suicide requests are taken as well, so feel free if you're tired of this shit."
He took a breath and crossed his arms over his chest. "Dragon shifters. The exchange of flame happens once a year. If we feel like announcing it, we will. If not, tough fucking shit. It's not my business."
"Exchange of flame." Saphire's sudden comment puzzled me a little, but I paid no mind to it, my focus back on the man in question.
"Moving on! There are four levels to this place. Seeing as there's far too many of you today, all three levels have been mixed in here. You'll get your confirmation of what level you are after this session."
He lifted his hand to show a single finger.
"Level One! That's where we're currently at. Y'all are essentially useless garbage and don't matter to anyone. Stick to that role and you'll live a somewhat peaceful existence within these walls. Your uniforms are the vested type. Be advised that this prison is mixed in gender, but we do our best to ensure females and males have separate times unless there are special circumstances."
He lifted his finger and continued, "Anyone in orange jumpsuits is Level Two. This group is not harmless in the slightest, so if you die, lose a limb, or get fucked up in some crazy shit, don't blame my ass because I warned y'all!"
He went right into the next level, lifting yet another finger.
"Level Three prisoners can wear whatever the fuck they want." He paused, and I could feel all the eyes in the room land on me.
One would expect to get all anxious from the attention, but I basked in it. I purposely uncrossed my legs, only to lift my left leg onto my right and check my nails for added emphasis.
The sergeant cleared his throat and carried along, "Don't fucking mess with them. You all share the same underground cafeteria, so if you cross their path, move the hell out of the way and show them some fucking respect or…" He stopped on purpose and again gestured to the unconscious prisoner. "You'll be like that. Which brings up another thing! If you think we’ve got time to haul your ass when you're on the seesaw of death, give the fuck up. We ain't your babysitters and unless you're deemed valuable or bought by your superiors, your body is going to stay there unless someone feels utter pity for you or you die. We'll make sure we move your body before it rots, but hey. Sometimes we’ve got better shit to do and you become human compost. The dead can't choose what happens to their remains, so think twice!"
He glanced around the room and continued talking, "They can do what they want, when given permission, of course. They're owned by powerful individuals, ones that can snap their fingers and disintegrate your damn soul. What I'm saying is they're off-limits and again, mess with them, your loss. Many are here on their own accord, a peaceful way of living compared to dealing with the shit called life outside these walls."
"You're telling me they want to stay here?" a prisoner piped up. "That's fucked."
The man actually smirked, which was odd to me.
"You're a Level One, based on a single glance. And I'll tell you this. The world outside these walls is far crueler than this shit of a hell hole. When you've lived for so many years and endured the hardships that come with being a supernatural, prison is a lovely escape from the murderous lifestyles some of these individuals endure. So before you become a Judgy Becky, keep your fucking opinions to yourself!"
That shut the chance of any other questions.
"Finally." He lifted one more finger. "Level Four. That's the 'don't you dare enter' floor. You have a suicide wish and believe the vampire sucking your blood route is too slow, feel free to enter the depth
s of Level Four. They'll gladly murder you on sight, though I can't guarantee the pace of your death. Some have been a few seconds, others have been weeks. The longest record is a year of torture before their remains were sent up to Level One."
The room was pin-drop silent at his declaration, and I could imagine who these individuals possibly were.
"Intriguing." Saphire was really into this explanation session.
“They're living in the depths of these walls because they know just how powerful they are. To you all, captivity is a punishment. To them, captivity is their safe haven. If they go out, it's for pleasure, but it usually also involves many of those catastrophes you hear about on the news. Their existence is a curse to the lands and some have been the reason for our world wars. That's all I have to say about that!"
He took a final glance around the room and nodded.
"Get your asses to the lab! After that, you'll be given the privilege of breakfast before you're escorted to your cells. Again, don't cause shit! If anyone pisses me off this morning before my cup of coffee, you're fucked!"
He clapped his hand once to dismiss us, and I let out a soft sigh.
So hungry.
Glancing at the sergeant, I stared at him until his gaze gravitated to meet mine.
"Why is she staring at me like that? Fuck, if I die before coffee it'll be a humiliating defeat. She has to be a Level Three. Jeez, she could very well be a Level Four. Why can't they get special leadership? Shit. She's still staring at me. I should ask her what she needs."
He walked over to me, a clear attempt to not draw too much attention to his lack of confidence and growing anxiety due to my intense stare.
"Prisoner 4-"
I raised an eyebrow and he cleared his throat. "Prisoner 2222. Do you need anything?"
"Well, are we able to have a small snack prior to lab testing? I'm hungry and the thought makes me queasy."
He stood there for a long moment before calling to the first prisoner his eyes landed on. "Prisoner 4551!"
"Yes!" the girl squealed and rushed to stand up.
Psychic Prison Page 3
