W.I.S.E. Prison

[Jett Sinsole]

Carson Blare

Carson’s eyes were focused on the wall in front of him, he’d been tallying the weeks he’d been here, he didn’t know the exact number but he did know it was quite a bit. His blue eyes examined the tally marks as if there were truly something interesting there, as if there were some hidden message in the scrawled lines. His massive hands were held together in a tight fisted ball in his lap, his thumbs twiddled impatiently, he knew something in the prison’s tale air was different; it seemed cheerier for no one but him. His back was hunched, and shirtless, covered in tattoos of many things; noticeably swastikas and Celtic symbols that were common of prisoners and others that were less common such as TAVOO across his chest and W.I.S.E. on his forehead. Even more disturbing and odd were the amalgam of scars littered across his upper body to his face, obviously these were from the claws of the Tavoo. These claws raked across the left half of his face and neck and all the way down his back into his pants where they presumably stopped. When he heard footsteps approaching his general direction he stood up, cracking his back and rolling his shoulders as he did, revealing just how massive a figure he was. His head was taller than the barred doors in front of him and his chest almost as broad. His muscles rippled with inhuman strength as he stood, every bicep, tricep, ab, pectoral, and all of his other muscle’s moved like a living entity under a thin layer of skin. Carson’s face was odd; a full black beard surrounded his mouth with thin lips, sharp tongue and yellowed teeth. His blue eyes were chilling and hungry for freedom, drugs, power, really whatever he could get his hands on. There was an empty tray from breakfast on his bunk side table, it was made of two-inch thick steel, as Carson picked it up he squeezed and his thumb penetrated the metal. His mind thought this was hilarious but he remained stone-faced, if he showed any sort of good emotion he would be taken off of his drug temporarily, leaving him vulnerable to painless, vulnerable fits of concentrated violent rage out of withdrawal. As the footsteps came nearer he heard the nervousness in them, this was a newbie, someone who’d only heard of him but never experienced Carson in his full glory. Taking the tray he rolled it into a shiv, a rather long, jagged, sharp-steel shiv just in case this newbie had powers that he could have difficulty with. When the new guy came into view Carson’s mind chuckled insanely, no, cackled is a better word, but he remained ever vigilant with his face of ice. What bothered Carson the most about this particular man is he had no gonads, no balls, nothing; he shivered like a baby in a blizzard, in fact the room seemed to quake with the new guy. Then the new guy decided it would be a good idea to open the door, a door that actually protected the world from Carson, his cell being one of the only things that could contain him. The hulk in the cage decided that whoever had the audacity to order his release would be thanked very much so.

Carson watched the man produce an envelope presumably containing some sort of order for him which Carson took from the man with a bear-hand. Then surprisingly gently he looked through the envelope, there was a mission, an immediate order, a month’s supply of his drug and his necklace made of a special type of carbon that was nearly indestructible and with Carson’s bond to it he could extend it and change its cellular makeup and elasticity rather easily. He put the necklace gingerly around his massive neck and read through the files given to him and understood rather quickly. He was to kill the newbie and the newcomers in the desert, just like old times. Carson had never dropped the shiv, but realizing he wouldn’t need it, he placed the envelope on his bunk-side table and cracked his knuckles. His muscles flexed and released with each pop and every slight movement. Then an evil smile crossed his face that was before colder than ice, he let out an exasperated sigh like he was regretting something and then it happened. In a faster-than-humanly capable moment the man’s body was on the ground without a head, Carson’s fist was outstretched over the ground where the man’s head was, coated in a viscous red fluid; blood. On the wall across from him were spatters, and flecks of flesh, bone and blood that stained and permeated the stone. Carson opened his hand and pieces of bone and brain fell out, it was then apparent that he did not punch the man, but crushed his head. The gore was inexcusable, but the odd thing was a pair of sunglasses that the man had been wearing survived Carson’s tight-knit fist. Carson shrugged and put the shades on his head, surprised they fit. Then he picked up the body, wriggled it out of its trench coat that was obviously too big for it and put that on, fitting Carson like a normal leather jacket would. He returned to his bunk-side table, retrieved the envelope, put it into one of the many pockets of his new coat and walked back out of his cell. He grabbed the body and it began to evaporate, including all of the gore spread across the area. When the body was completely gone Carson wiped himself down to check if he was clean or not. Then he casually walked down the hall and up the stairs, the guards let him out of the prison without trouble and he was set free into his new world. Upon leaving the prison he produced a cigar from one of the pockets and a book of matches, he put the cigar in his mouth and used a match to light it. The wind in the desert shot sand up where it bounced off of his incredibly hard, bare-chested body. He stepped out, each footstep in his combat boots sinking into the sand just a little as he made his way nonchalantly to the City.