"Back to writing...my passion."
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Kaine was put into line as orders were shouted, sharp and mechanical, stripped of individuality the moment they left the warden's mouth."DIAZ, PHELO, AND WARRENS—LAUNDRY!"
A warden with his helmet tucked under one arm barked the commands, scarred jaw clenched, eyes moving over the line like he was inspecting livestock rather than people. Job time. Productive suffering, dressed up as routine. The crowd shifted, names peeling away from the mass as people were sorted and sent off like inventory.
Time crawled. When Kaine finally reached the front, the warden's gaze dropped to the white armband with the purple F.
The man scowled.
No insult. No order.
He turned on his heel and walked away, two soldiers falling in behind him without a word.
Kaine didn't react.
"Nino? What'cha doing, man?" Robert said cheerfully, tapping Kaine's shoulder from behind. "Oh—right. New guy brain." He grinned. "Foremen don't do job time. You're basically…management." He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Which means you're free to walk around. Super cool perk. Also means people expect you to get stabbed eventually."
Robert clapped him on the back. "But Nate would definitely complain if you got killed on your first day, so—stick with me!"
Kaine followed without comment.
As they walked, the camp unfolded more clearly. The outer sections were ugly in a utilitarian way: electric fencing humming faintly, warning signs bolted on every ten feet, reinforced pylons anchoring a final towering barrier that cut the facility off from the world beyond. Beyond that—trees, hills, sky. Freedom reduced to scenery.
Robert, meanwhile, seemed to know everyone.
"¡Gracias!" he called to one group."Oh—and hey, check on Nate in the garden, yeah? Don't let him overdo it!"
Hands were shaken. Shoulders clasped. Jokes exchanged like currency.
An African-American teen stepped forward, returning Robert's handshake before turning his attention to Kaine. His eyes were sharp—too sharp. Calculating."Ooh, a newbie," he said lightly. "Name's Prodigy. Rule one: don't die. I'd hate to see Sam get even more depressing."
Kaine inclined his head. "I appreciate the concern. I'll try not to disappoint."
Prodigy smiled, but it was the kind that suggested he'd already filed Kaine away under interesting variables.
Robert reappeared, rubbing his hands together. "Alright! Our job's easy. We're basically the doormen." He gestured ahead. "Visitor section. We greet, we smile, we reassure. Make the place look…less like a nightmare. Talk about their kids, say how well everyone's doing, so the families don't panic."
He paused, then added, still smiling, "Oh—and don't try anything, dude."
The smile wavered for half a second. Just enough.
Robert stepped up to a sensor and flashed his armband. The door slid open with a sterile hiss."By the way—flash your band or your number for doors. Easy."
Inside, the visitor area was almost offensively pleasant. Clean floors. Neutral colors. Chairs bolted neatly into rows. Plexiglass dividersseparateg inmates from visitors. Soft lighting meant to suggest safety.
The guards ruined the illusion.
They stood in pairs, rifles angled just enough to remind everyone where the power lived. Eyes cold. Fingers close.
"Okay, dude," Robert said, stretching. "Get ready for an hour of talking. Pick a good front desk."
He wandered off toward another checkpoint, already waving at someone through the glass.
Kaine remained still for a moment, scanning the room. He catalogued exits. Guard positions. Blind spots. Camera angles. Response times.
Kaine inclined his head slightly and moved toward an empty front desk near the center of the room. The visitors' section was designed to feel humane—warm lighting, clean floors, informational posters about rehabilitation and public safety. Every detail screamed intention. Comfort for outsiders, control for those within. The chairs were bolted down, the tables reinforced, and every corner had at least one camera subtly embedded into the walls. The illusion of civility was thin, but carefully maintained.
He rested his hands on the counter and stood still.
People began filtering in within minutes. Families first—parents holding children a little too tightly, eyes darting around as if expecting monsters to lunge from the walls. Spouses followed, then siblings, then the occasional lone individual whose posture suggested either obligation or guilt. Each group was processed, checked, and guided. The guards did the threatening; the inmates did the smiling.
Kaine observed.
Robert—Bobby—was already in motion, laughter echoing softly as he leaned over a desk, chatting with a middle-aged woman clutching a handbag like a lifeline. His voice was warm, practiced. He spoke about gardens, about programs, about how her son was adjusting well. None of it was entirely true, but none of it was entirely false either. Kaine noted the efficiency of it. Hope, administered in careful doses, was a sedative.
His first visitor approached hesitantly: a man in his late forties, rough hands, construction worker by posture alone. He held a visitor badge so tightly the plastic bent.
"Uh," the man began. "I'm… here to see my daughter. Unit C."
Kaine glanced at the badge, then at the digital terminal embedded in the desk. A quick scan. "Name?"
"Maria Alvarez."
Kaine nodded. "She's alive."
The man stiffened. "…That's—good. I mean—thank you."
Kaine met his eyes, unblinking. "She works in the hydroponics wing. Minimal incidents. No disciplinary marks in the last three weeks."
The man exhaled shakily, relief crashing into him all at once. "She always liked plants," he said quietly.
"So I've read," Kaine replied, already tapping the console. "Follow the yellow line when called. Do not bring up escape, resistance, or external contacts. You'll have fifteen minutes."
The man nodded rapidly. "Yes. Yes, of course."
As he walked away, Kaine registered the micro-expressions: gratitude, fear, dependence. Useful. Predictable.
Another visitor. Then another.
By the sixth interaction, a guard shifted closer to Kaine's desk, arms crossed, visor tilted just enough to watch him directly. Kaine didn't react. He kept his tone neutral, factual, unprovocative. He neither reassured excessively nor intimidated. He simply informed.
It worked.
People trusted clarity more than kindness.
Across the room, a child began to cry. High-pitched, panicked. The guards tensed immediately, hands hovering near weapons. Kaine turned his head slightly, assessing. The child—no older than seven—had spotted his brother being escorted in restraints along the far corridor.
Kaine spoke before the guards could intervene.
"He can see you," Kaine said, voice carrying just enough to cut through the noise. "He's looking right now."
The child froze, hiccuping.
"He's standing up straight," Kaine continued. "That means he's okay. Crying will make him think you're hurt."
The child wiped their face with their sleeve, eyes wide, searching. Sure enough, the restrained mutant glanced over, shoulders squaring just a bit when he saw his sibling calm down.
The guards hesitated.
One of them leaned toward Kaine, voice low and sharp. "I said no unique behaviour."
Kaine didn't look at him. "De-escalation prevents incidents," he replied evenly. "Incidents require reports. Reports attract attention."
A pause.
The guard scoffed and stepped back.
Robert shot Kaine a glance from across the room—quick, surprised, impressed.
Time stretched. Conversations blurred together. Faces, names, relationships. Kaine memorized them all. Patterns emerged: which families came often, which never did. Which inmates had visitors and which had been quietly abandoned. Resources, leverage, motivation. All catalogued.
An hour passed.
Then another guard approached, older than the rest, rank markings worn smooth with time. He leaned on the counter, studying Kaine openly now.
"You're not like the others," he said.
Kaine met his gaze at last. "Statistically, no one is."
The guard snorted. "Cute. You keep this up, you'll either get promoted or...disappear."
Kaine tilted his head slightly. "Which is more likely?"
The guard straightened. "Depends who you make nervous."
He walked away. "I hate shooting moving targets, kid! Keep it up."
Kaine returned his attention to the room, mind already recalculating. And for the first time since arriving in this world, Kaine felt something dangerously close to satisfaction.
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[Auther: What makes a fan-fic on Marvel good? It's the protagonist, I'd say. So I hope Kaine is interesting.]