Chapter Text
“Damen!”
Damen looked up as he worked his zipper, nodding in greeting as Rochert walked into the breakroom. He pulled his coat off and shoved it into his locker, slamming it shut and leaning his shoulder on it, turning to face Rochert.
“Where did you go last night?” Rochert asked as he spun in the combination for his own locker, his brows furrowed as he concentrated on the spinning numbers. “You just disappeared. We all thought you left with the shot girl,” he added, shooting him a suggestive smirk over his shoulder.
Damen waved his hand dismissively. “I caught a cab home,” he explained. “Didn’t want to be out too late.”
“You manning the kitchen with me today?” Rochert asked, shutting his own locker and spinning the knob to a random number.
“Nah,” Damen said, shaking his head. “I’m on electrical.” The door swung open as he said this and he looked over Rochert’s shoulder to see a man he didn’t recognize walk in. He had a guard’s uniform on, so Damen figured that he was new, being that he knew everyone here relatively well. He looked over at Rochert with a raise of his eyebrows, but he just shrugged and shook his head.
The man stepped forward towards the lockers and nodded at Damen and Rochert, setting down his bag on one of the chairs. “Hey.”
“Hey man,” Damen said, straightening himself as he offered his hand. “I’m Damen.”
“Aktis,” the man said, shaking Damen’s outstretched hand before turning to shake Rochert’s as well.
“You new?” Rochert asked, settling his back against the wall and crossing his legs at the ankles.
“I am,” he nodded, reaching into his bag to pull out his badge and ID card. “First day.”
“You’ll love it,” Rochert replied. “It’s delightful here.”
Aktis laughed, shrugging off his own jacket. “I’m sure.”
Damen stretched out his hand so his sleeve rolled up, exposing his watch. He looked at the time and kicked off the locker when he saw that he was due at electrical in five. “Well, I’m off,” he said. He started towards the door and stopped to clap Aktis on the shoulder. “Welcome to Arles.”
Damen walked into the electrical room, looking around him as he did. The inmates hadn’t yet arrived, and the only person there was Radel who ran electrical. Damen nodded at him in greeting as he sat down at the small table at the front of the room, pulling out the attendance log. Every inmate was to sign in with their ID number when they arrived so they could systematically know who did what, and to make sure no one was slacking from their assigned jobs.
Damen ran a hand down his face, trying to squeeze the tiredness out. It had been a long night and he was still feeling the affects of it now. Just as he rested his chin on his palm, a buzz sounded and the door opened. Damen looked up and watched as a group of inmates walked in, sandwiched between two guards, Orlant and Jord.
The men all varied in size and appearance, and Damen didn’t recognize any of them. The prison was separated into two wings, A and B, and Damen’s shifts had always intersected with A wing. The two sections were kept separate in all things other than the yard time, so Damen was generally unfamiliar with everyone residing in B. after a load of new guards had been brought in this past month to compensate with the wave of new inmates, shifts were rearranged and Damen found himself with a whole new group.
“Line up!“ Jord said loudly, and the inmates shuffled towards Damen in a relatively straight line.
Damen watched as a tall man with an indecipherable neck tattoo peaking out of his collar stepped up. Damen reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen, dropping it on the sheet between them. “ID number,” he said monotonously, hearing the weariness in his voice. “Check off that you’re signing in on the side.”
The man grunted in response and jotted his number down before going to take a seat on the far end of the room. “Next,” Damen said, motioning down to the pen as the next person stepped up.
Things moved swiftly, the inmates wanting to get started so they could actually do something. Damen was someone who grew restless quickly, so he understood how unsettling sitting around most of the day doing nothing could be.
His eyes were on the side of the room, watching as Jord explained something while Orlant inspected all the tools lining the wall. Jord was talking animatedly, his hands flailing around wildly and Orlant was nodding along to whatever it was that he was saying. Damen’s fingers were mindlessly tapping against his knee when he heard a voice.
“Damianos.”
It was his full name, not the nickname that all the guards here referred to him as. The voice was smooth and cool, like broken glass. Damen’s eyes snapped forward at the sound of it and he saw an inmate standing before him, their eyes on the tag on Damen’s uniform. “What the fuck kind of name is that?”
Damen opened his mouth to respond, something about speeding it up, when the man flicked his eyes up to Damen.
Damen felt his breath catch. He was distantly aware that there were other people around, that there was still a line of men waiting and most importantly, that this was a convict standing in front of him, but all logic was momentarily lost to him. The man had light, porcelain like skin. His hair was blonde, and it almost looked golden against his fair coloring. His eyes were a piercing blue shade and were sharp on Damen, making him feel like he was stuck in a trance. Damen simply blinked at him, and it was when he raised an eyebrow that Damen snapped out of it.
“It’s Greek,” Damen blurted, as if that explained away the man’s insult. And then because apparently he wasn’t done, “I don’t really go by it. People usually call me Damen.”
Damen watched as the man gave him an odd look, followed by a roll of his eyes as he reached for the pen. Damen shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Write your ID number,” he said with a nudge of his chin, trying to sound authoritative.
The man looked up from the paper where his hand was pressed, the pen curved between his fingers. He shot Damen a dismissive look, and Damen felt himself shift again. “Thank you, I’m not stupid,” he said, scribbling his number quickly. He checked the sign in box with a flick of his wrist and tossed the pen down.
Damen was sure to keep his gaze forward on the next inmate that stepped up. He didn’t speak to anyone else, just nodded along to everyone that signed in. It was only after they were all seated, focused on Radel’s explanations that he allowed himself to slump in his seat, blowing out a breath. What the fuck was that? It’s not like he’s never seen an attractive person before, and he froze up and babbled like an idiot.
The inmates set to work, continuing on whatever it was they had started the previous day or reading up on something new to begin. Damen settled into his chair and leaned his head back, gazing up at the ceiling. Guards had to leave their cellphone with their things when clocking in every day, so Damen had nothing to distract himself with. He let his mind simply wander.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he was starting to become too aware of it and needed a distraction. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table and ran his tongue along his teeth, trying to stop himself from looking at the inmates. He clicked and unclicked his pen and latched his eyes onto a crack in the wall, following its curving path up towards the ceiling. After a few pointless minutes of this, he let out a resigned breath and gave in to the nagging in his head.
He turned his body slightly and let his eyes roam around the room slowly, taking in everyone. His eyes flicked across all the tables, moving steadily until they landed on their goal. He had a screwdriver in his hand and had the pointed side pressed to his palm, mindlessly spinning it against his skin. He was hunched over the metal table and was looking down at an instruction manual, his eyes running across the words rapidly. His attention was absorbed and nobody seemed to be paying attention, so Damen allowed himself to look further.
Despite the fact that he was sitting, Damen still had an idea of his size. He looked to be average height, but he would probably look on the shorter side next to Damen. He was slim, but not lanky or scrawny in the slightest. His uniform shirt had short sleeves, and Damen could see from the smooth ripples in his arms that he was well built for his slender proportions. He had high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, which was tightly clenched as if something particularly unsettled him. Damen watched him lick one of his fingers briefly before turning a page of the manual he was reading.
“I know,” he heard someone say, and his eyes flew up to see Orlant leaning on the wall by him, his arms crossed against his chest. He had a lazy smirk, and a knowing look as he gazed down at Damen.
Damen narrowed his eyes slightly. “What?”
Orlant nodded his head in the general direction of the inmates. “Must be the fuck of a lifetime,” he said, his lips still quirked.
Damen straightened himself and rolled his eyes, already used to Orlant’s sordid humor. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
Orlant’s smile only grew as he pushed off the wall. “Time!”
Damen pushed himself back from the table and went to stand at the front of the room between Jord and Orlant. It was the rule for any job in the prison involving any kind of tools. Before the inmates went back to their cells, they were to be briefly searched to make sure nothing that could be used as a weapon was taken. Damen wasn’t stupid, he knew over half the men in here probably had something stashed among their things, but precautions had to be taken nonetheless. “Lets go,” he said loudly, his voice carrying.
The inmates made three disorderly lines, standing before the guards at random. One by one they raised their arms straight out to their sides and Damen bent down, starting at their ankles and patting up their legs mindlessly. He felt his way up their stomach and chest, finishing off with the length off their arms.
A man stepped forward and stood before Damen. He was big boned and heavy muscled, with a thick layer of flesh overlaying the muscle. His hair was like a lank black cap, and his nose appeared to be flat and broken. He smiled cloyingly at Damen, which Damen returned with a blank stare. He heard the man make a soft hum as Damen lowered himself to the floor, and pointedly ignored it as he began to dutifully pat up his legs. He raised himself up when he reached the man’s chest, and he smirked as Damen patted along his arms. "Feel good, boss?" he asked, his voice leering.
Damen barely suppressed a roll of his eyes as he put his hand on the inmates shoulder. "Clear," he said, giving him a not too light shove.
His gaze naturally followed the man as he stumbled to the side, his eyes lingering there momentarily as he watched him follow the others to the door, where the inmates waited until everyone was done being searched so they could be escorted back to their cells together.
Damen turned to face forward again, and he felt his body still as he found himself looking into blue.
The man from before was next in line, Damen’s line, and he stepped forward steadily. Damen raised his hand in the air, motioning for him to do the same with his arms. He did, but not before giving Damen a scathing look.
Damen ignored it. This was a routing checking, he hadn’t done anything wrong to receive that look. He was simply following protocol. It wasn’t his fault that this particular inmate seemed to be irritated by everything.
Damen lowered himself to his knees again, growing tired of the constant squatting. He placed his hands at the man’s ankles, and noticed an immediate tensing. He paused at this, unsure if that sudden stiffness was nerves or simple discomfort. Damen wasn’t touching him in any suggestive way, so he glanced up to gage his face. He flicked his eyes upwards, and saw that the man was stolidly looking forward, his jaw clenched again as it had been earlier. He didn’t look particularly nervous, but he did seem uneasy.
Damen lowered his gaze and continued with his ministration, working up his legs swiftly. He lifted himself when he reached his stomach, and felt the muscles clench against his hands. Damen kept his eyes cast down, uncomfortable with the fact that he seemed to be making someone seem so unnerved. He swept his hands across his arms quickly and stepped back when he finished.
“Clear.”
Damen walked through the halls later, nodding at other guards as he went. He held up his issued ID at every scanner and pushed the door open after the buzz sounded, walking through and shutting it quickly behind him. He made the same turns he did every day until he reached the front section of the prison where all the different offices were lined. He walked past the Warden’s door, past the multiple counselors’ offices and around the staff bathroom. He made it to the end of the hall to the small room that he knew held all the filing cabinets, order records and all the information pertaining to the inmates and the facilities.
Damen unclipped the key ring from his belt and sorted through them quickly, finding the one with the red mark on it. The room was always kept locked, and only a handful of the guards had access to it. He slipped the attendance log he had in his hand between his lips and unlocked the door, flipping the light on before kicking the door shut behind him. He removed the paper from his mouth and looked down at it, his eyes scrolling up and down the list of numbers. It was Damen’s job to make sure it was all filled out, and then file it away after every electrical work hour.
He stared at all the numbers, taking in the different handwriting with each set. He just had to put the slip in the correct box and he would be done for the day, but for some reason, his eyes kept falling back to a certain row of numbers.
94941.
His eyes flicked across the room to the filing cabinet where he knew all the inmates files were stored. He looked back down to the paper in his hands, and then slowly back towards the cabinet.
Damen clicked his tongue as he tapped the paper rhythmically against his hand. It was stupid. There was absolutely no reason why he needed to know his name, but it was nagging him, and he knew it would bother him until he checked.
He gave himself another minute to ponder this before huffing in exasperation. He was making a big deal out of nothing. He was a guard here. He was in charge of monitoring these men. There was no harm in knowing their names. He stepped forward and placed the sheet on top of the cabinet before pulling open the top drawer. He ran his fingers along the folders, looking at all the flaps with the ID numbers printed on top. 94943, 94942...
94941.
Damen looked around once before pulling the file out, even though he knew no one else was in there with him. It wasn't that he wasn't allowed to look, but he didn't know what explanation he would give if someone asked him why he was looking, unable to even explain it to himself.
He took a deep breath before opening the beige folder, its contents light. Damen had looked at enough of these files to know how they were organized. The fist page was simple details, like any identification. Mug shot. Number. Name. Basic facts.
Damen looked down at the paper and took it all in, starting with the mug shot. He was younger here, his blond hair shorter. The lines on his face looked softer, like being in here had hardened his appearance. His blue eyes were cold and empty, shooting daggers at the camera. He had a scowl on his face, not much different from now.
Bellow the picture was his ID number, and bellow that, his name.
Laurent R Vere
Damen looked up briefly, his lips pursed. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the name seemed to suit him well enough. He looked back down at the paper and scanned the rest of the information briefly, not finding anything of interest there. He licked his finger and put it at the corner of the page, ready to turn it. The second page was the more serious information. Past felonies. Sentencing information. Reason for incarceration.
Damen rubbed the paper between his fingers, his eyes on the picture before him. He was curious. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t deny that he was wondering what would be on the next page. Despite this, he pushed the curiosity down and closed the folder. He generally didn't like to know these things, preferring to keep a certain anonymity in his mind so he didn't treat any inmate differently. This man was just like the rest of them. There was no reason to know anything further.