Are we trying to fuck it?

Are we trying to fuck it?

What?

What, 'what'? We're done with this bumbling-about shit.

The jail. It's right under our feet.

Look at the desks.

Plain, unremarkable, scattered with papers and books. The kind of desks you'd expect to belong here.

The legs are bolted to the floor. What kind of poetry journal does that?

The cabinets too.

Glance at the subeditor.

The young woman is immersed in her work.

Little missy pretend. We don't like her.

Her gaze lingers on the document in front of her, but it's forced. She wants to keep her eyes on you.

What about the editor?

The woman stands as if she belongs here.

She's shitting her expensive breeches, and she doesn't even know it. Second biggest fool in the room.

Examine the floor.

The floorboards are well-kept. Shallow, criss-crossing scratches mark the surface.

We forgot what scratch marks look like? Some poor bastards got dragged through here.

Shit. I almost missed it. (Conclude.)

Nah, the gäng wasn't gonna let that happen. We step up. We look out for our own. Always.

But why now?

Can't cease with the fucking questions, even when the answer's ugly.

I want to know.

Because if we fuck this, we're back in the freezer. Telling ourselves 'no', every day. No pills. No bullet. No razors.

It happens again, we'll pull the plug -- prompto. That what we want?

No.

Good. Remember: we move as one. Now get sharp, or get got.

Fuck no.

Forget it. Let's keep moving.

Always.

Shhh, I'm investigating.

And what a piss-poor job we're doing.