Kurt
As Kurt walked down the hall with the angry sounds of the gym receding behind him, Wilder walked up to him. Kurt expected another altercation, but Wilder looked concerned and kept his voice low.
“London just got tipped off that one of the dudes in the gym has a weapon. He's gonna search all of them, and you too, since you were just there. Quick, hand me the shiv so you don't get caught with it.”
Kurt slipped the Lullaby from his waistband, trying to keep it out of sight as he passed it to Wilder. The Aryan palmed it and strolled off casually just as London and several other guards charged down the hallway, barking orders at Kurt.
“You! Get back in the gym, and get up against the wall.”
Kurt put his hands up and marched back into the gym, putting his palms against the wall. The guards rounded up the other men, dragging them away from the exercise equipment and shoving them up against the hard, concrete blocks. A couple of the convicts murmured curses, but everyone complied.
As London's stubby fingers patted Kurt's body up and down, he felt the murderous rage again, baking him from the inside out. He hated how many times he'd had to submit to strangers groping him since he'd come here—exploring his underarms, his torso, his crotch, even between his ass cheeks if the guard in question was feeling particularly surly. They never found anything on him, but it was clear that they enjoyed humiliating and dehumanizing him whenever possible.
Kurt fantasized about grabbing London's hands—feeling the bones in the CO's fingers and wrists snap and pop, hearing his screams. If Kurt applied the right amount of pressure, London wouldn't be able to wipe his own ass for three months, and the other guards would think twice about putting their goddamn hands on Kurt in the future.
Best of all—even after the bandages came off and the physical therapy ended—every time the weather got cold or rainy for the rest of London's life, his hands would be filled with a deep and throbbing agony. And he'd wince and rub them, and he'd remember Kurt.
But no.
The momentary satisfaction that would bring Kurt wouldn't be worth the time he'd spend in the hole, or the extra years that would be added to his sentence for attacking a guard.
So Kurt took a deep breath, waiting for London to move on to the next convict, and the next. One of the Sinners was caught with a tiny packet of coke, and another had a “Manifesto”—which was River Oak slang for a shiv made of paper that had been folded many times and then coated with varnish. Those two prisoners were sent to Ad-Seg as their contraband was confiscated, and the rest were let go.
Kurt brushed himself off and returned to his cell. Wilder was in the top bunk, reading an old paperback of The Count of Monte Cristo.
“Thanks for the warning, man,” Kurt said.
Wilder smirked, tossing the book aside. “No need to thank me. See, I was the one who tipped off the guards that someone in the gym had a shiv.” He dangled the Lullaby in front of Kurt for a moment, then slipped it under his own pillow.
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to give that back, or do you and Hawkeye expect me to whack a Sinner with my teeth?”
Wilder laughed. “I wouldn't advise it. Half of 'em probably got AIDS or some shit. No, you had plenty of chances to do what Hawkeye told you today, and you pissed 'em all away. You've made it pretty fuckin' clear that you've got no intention of following orders, but hey, that's okay. Hawkeye's an optimistic dude. He's still convinced he can get through to you somehow.”
“How's that?”
“That's for me to know. For now, all you need to know is that I've got the shiv now, and in about forty minutes, we're gonna be locked in together, the lights are gonna go out, and the guards are gonna take a nice long walk so we get plenty of private time.” Wilder grinned. “Hope you sleep well tonight, Kurt.”
He didn't.
In fact, he didn't get any sleep at all that night.