Chapter 1. The Sparrow's Cage
Eighty-two times--that's how many times I've been thrown in this damn cell. The once soft padding has become crusty and matted, the singular small window near the ceiling so grime-ridden that natural light hardly enters. Every way I've escaped in the past has been changed or altered to ensure I can't get out that way again. Not that I'd try...there's hardly fun in that. Still, I find it amusing that no one thought to transfer me until today. The chains jingle off my wrists as some idiotic guards fetch me--pathetic.
"James, Todd, how are the wives?" I ask casually, though I hardly care.
"Stay quiet until we can get you to the van," one of them grumbles, making me chuckle.
"Whatever you say, mate."
The van's metal seeps chills up my spine, though not of fear--of excitement. This new place they're taking me to supposedly has better security, better funding, and functions on a larger scale, not just as a prison, but as a hospital. The idea of being surrounded by "mentally ill" imbeciles would be annoying if it weren't for the prospect of terrorising unsuspecting civilians at my whim. The only thing I dread is the long ride ahead...alone in a glorified ice cream truck.
As time passes, night begins to settle over a large airport, I recognize as the LaGuardia Airport from my many times of usage. (Though I tend to prefer JFK). The guards drive us around back to a private hangar with "NYPD" written on the side in big, bold letters. I allow myself a sigh of relief, the nightmare drive finally coming to its conclusion. Yet somehow, the blaring cold of the ride here becomes preferable over the stuffy humidity of the private plane's cargo bed. They stick me in a cell, one I hardly fit in, and let me rot throughout the flight. I look out over the sea of luggage and crates, noting labeling that reads "E.N.Y., Crawffer Federal Prison and Asylum" on nearly every surface. I expected as much of a name, but the "E.N.Y" seems to hint that wherever we're going, it's far away from those blasted heroes in Manhattan. Otherwise, I surely would've heard of it. I begin to sweat in my less-than-flattering prisoner attire, somewhat wishing someone would've at least let me keep my suit so I don't die of heat stroke!
Hours later, the plane finally lands, the humidity immediately replaced by a quick cold breeze, striking a blade of chill at my now clammy skin. I shudder slightly, goosebumps rising under the cloth of my attire as I'm led out of the plane and into another van. Only this one looks more like a bus than I thought. A white van with "Crawffer" on the side of it, the inside lined with soft cloth seating. I honestly didn't think they made seats like that anymore, but I suppose I was wrong. The new guards are dressed for war, more decked out than I've ever seen in law enforcement, even SWAT officers! Though I guess that makes sense since this is supposed to be a more private federal establishment, not state-based.
"Well, if it isn't the DarkRune himself!" a man says, walking out from a different vehicle in what can only be described as a Baptist pastor get-up.
I scoff.
"You will refer to me as Malcolm Grey," I correct.
"You need only call me that in a hostage situation."
"Threats. That will do very little to help your case, Mr. Grey. I'm Matthew Jenkins, and I'm the director of Crawffer."
The arrogant little man speaks calmly yet firmly, reeking of apparent superiority--like a principal in a school of vexatious dim bulbs. And clearly, even the brightest bulbs still flicker.
"Mind your tone with me, Jenkins. Are you aware of who you're speaking to?" I ask with a forced chuckle.
"I am well aware, but we'll address that nonsense later. For now, let's get you to your new home! Our family can't wait to meet you and bring you in with open arms."
I narrow my gaze as he speaks, watching him snap, and his "welcoming family" yank the cuffs from my wrists and shoot a sharp pain into my neck. I wince, a tad more concerned than I was before.
"What was that?" I ask threateningly.
"One of our state-of-the-art chips! You'll come to find them more comfortable than any old restraint. Now, come along. You have much to see and so very little time to argue further."
Before I even have a chance to retaliate, the guards shove me in the bus, making sure I have nothing on me before being buckled in. Once the doors close, the bus starts up with an old engine rumble, and the NYPD gets on the plane again to head back after refueling. I stare out the window, assessing the landscape, and my heart just about drops. We're in a forest. A small town, nearly four to six hours away from any major city in any direction, called Ellicottville. The town itself holds nothing of value, at least in my eyes. The population size doesn't even reach 1,000. Not even close...
This was not the cityscape I was used to, nor hoping for, but getting this town to buckle its knees to my order should be easier, at the very least--especially without heroes to stop me. Even then, I worry about this "chip" and what else these people have planned for me. So many villains I've seen taken, never to return, and I refuse to be one of them.
On the outskirts of town, nearly half an hour away from the nearest residential buildings, stands a large complex that looks a bit too fancy to be a prison. It's large with multiple floors and sections visible from even an outside view. It's completely white with a few chipped areas near where the gutter would run, the front decorated with elaborate hedging and dull colored plants. It's surrounded by nothing but trees and a nearby lake, neither of which particularly interests me as much as the building itself. We soon park, the same guards leading me out and inside with that damn Director behind us. The inside looks more like what I've come to expect from a prison--cement tile floors, white and gray walls, and barred windows. No color in sight.
The Director walks up to a welcome desk where a quiet elderly lady sits, hardly paying attention. He dings the bell twice despite her clearly sitting there, standing like the absolute baffoon he is. She looks up at him, smiling.
"Oh, hello, Director! How are you today?" she asks cheerfully.
"Just fine, Linda. Would you mind checking in our guest here?" he gestures to me.
The little lady looks me over.
"You must be Mr. Grey! Welcome to Crawffer, you'll be staying in room 209."
"...thank you."
She nods a "you're welcome" before the director begins showing me around. The first floor is roughly comprised of an activity area, a cafeteria, an indoor pool and gym, and an outdoor recreational area. All things I would expect out of a hotel...not a prison. That is, unless the goal is to make the place so nice, no one ever wants to leave. (Honestly, I would be very impressed if that were the case. It's diabolical!)
"Now, Mr. Grey, Crawffer is a rather extensive establishment, able to contain up to five hundred prisoners comfortably, and according to which floor you reside, the more you're trusted and not seen as a threat, and vice versa. In your case, you'll be kept on the second floor, left-hand side. Which, of course, is the male side of the building. For reasons that should be obvious, entering the female area of the prison on any floor is strictly prohibited. Not that you'd get far..."
"I thought you said threats wouldn't get me anywhere."
"That was a warning--ensuring you that a punishment will happen."
I scoff.
"And I imagine it has something to do with this damn chip?" I ask incredulously.
"Ah, yes...those chips function as both locator and enforcer, so you'd be wise not to test any brilliant theories."
I clench my hands to my sides as he and his men bring me upstairs, almost every room we pass containing some insane man acting like a Neanderthal. That is, until we get to 209: my room. The walls and floor are padded like new, unlike before, and I'm completely alone in a brightly lit room. I'm given a prison cot and nothing else, being shoved inside by the guards as that bastard chuckles.
"You'll serve your time well in here, Mr. Grey, and in the meantime, you'll be assigned a psychologist starting tomorrow to help you work through your issues."
I laugh aloud.
"Wha--a shrink?! Pft-hahaha! Do you take me for a fool, director? I am a god among men, a star in the vastness of space! I have never nor ever will need "therapy". You can keep your efforts."
"It's not up to you, Mr. Grey. It's mandatory, and you'll have the best of the best for your...mental illness."
"Why you-"
"Rest well, Mr. Grey! We don't want you missing out on breakfast, now, do we?" he chuckles.
"So help me...when I get out of here-"
"You won't. No one ever does...or at least they're never quite the same. And you will be no different."
I growl under my breath, glaring at him in silence. If looks could kill, I'd break him in half and show this place what real ruling is. No empty threats, no false prophets--just pure submission to me. Once he leaves, I'm left alone in this white hellscape, thinking in silence. I saw every possible exit on the way in, took note of every guard...but for once, I don't think I'll be able to do this alone. I need someone on the inside. Maybe a guard, a fellow prisoner...or this psychologist Jenkins mentioned. Whatever the case, I don't trust this place on bit. It feels...fantastical. Cultish--and not the good kind, (led by me) either. What sort of staff refers to itself as family yet acts so disconcerned? What kind of establishment has the resources for high-tech implementations and security yet uses a bus from over forty years ago? In what world would a fancy place like this be filled with howls of pain and insanity?
Tch--nowhere good, I think. Everything smells too perfect, everyone comes off too sweet--and promising lads like me are caged like animals. Drifting off to sleep, I can only hope fate will be merciful to me tomorrow, and that whoever my psychologist is, they're at least moderately entertaining. After being imprisoned on and off for my whole criminal career, I certainly deserve a show. And who knows? Maybe this dashing Sparrow has a chance at the impossible: escaping Crawffer Prison and Assylum.
