Being wheeled down the hallways was quite the experience for Troy, the young man never having had the time needed to really see all there was. Everything was a bit brighter than the last time he had been through, the eyes more sensitive to all the input. It might have been due to his time spent asleep or it might have been due to the drugs still hitting him hard. There was no way to truly be sure, and it wasn't like it really mattered.

His head was starting to become something that could be moved. It wasn't to the point where he could look anywhere he wanted or anything, the state of his body is closer to smaller twitches just being accepted. If he truly set his mind to it, the man was reasonably sure he could press his head forward enough to make it susceptible to gravity. Not that he had any real desire to do so, that action resulting in nothing but obscuring the sight of his surroundings. There was nothing fun about it.

It wasn't like Cassandra the officer would do anything. The woman was as silent as stone, the only clue that she was still there being the fact that Troy was still being pushed down the hallway at a regular speed. He couldn't even hear the woman breathe, though that might have been his ears being clogged more than anything. Troy still wanted to know why his hearing was so bad. Had the weeks upon weeks made his ears susceptible to clogging or something? A question for another time, he supposed. It wasn't like he would even hint of an earpiece being important while close to the officers. He refused to even give his name, making any real equipment he had removed from his body more than just a secret.

A sharp left turn left the man a little disoriented, his vision going darker for a moment. He even felt a bit queasy from the sudden movement. Which was weird, since there had been no such indicators of that being possible mere minutes ago. Was it another effect of the drug or did the man need to worry about choking on his own vomit? While Troy would have loved to put that question over to another time, he knew that doing so would make it possible for him not to have the chance of having another time.

Even with his muddled mind, Troy had still been able to somewhat keep track of where they were moving. Three lefts, to rights, and a long stretch down a hallway that led to a series of smaller rooms… it was more commonly known as the more serious holding cells. While the windows that allowed one to see into the cells were turned off, Troy knew that the officers were able to see everything and anything that went on in there. No privacy was allowed at all. Not that the mind was that surprised by it but whatever.

Going down the whole stretch, the two finally stopped at the last door. Beside the door, the window was actually opened up. It was a one-way window, most important, which allowed Troy to see that the cell was actually already used by somebody. An elderly man strapped to a chain. There were two beds inside, one on each side of the room. The chain wouldn't allow one to get more than halfway through the room, making it impossible for two people strapped to each side to interact.

Troy had a bad feeling about this, as he was rolled into the cell. The old man barely glanced up at them, though Troy didn't doubt that he would lounge the moment the chance ot overwhelm the officer came. Or… maybe lounging was out of the realm of possibility

Troy wasn't sure exactly what he felt when he was rolled into the cell. Maybe some form of fear, having to be close to an actual criminal. Maybe there was some shame in having that fear, the young man knowing that he had been previously angry at others for having the exact same idea. Or maybe he was ashamed of fearing the man regardless of what he wanted others to think. Hypocrisy was something he never wanted to be blamed for, after all, and such was something that he was getting closer and closer to.

The officer Troy knew as Cassandra walked to the front of the wheelchair, taking off the strap that stopped the young man from falling forward. His hands had at some point been handcuffed, though Troy wasn't sure exactly when that had happened. It wasn't as if he could use his arms regardless, making the observation almost without any real consequences.

With a larger shove, the young man was lifted from the wheelchair and smacked down on the small bed. It was more a cot than anything with barely enough softness to stop back injury. Troy could certainly feel something hurt when his head hit the mattress, though he wasn't sure if it was serious or not. The woman certainly didn't treat it as such, barely giving him a single glance before starting to leave.

“The handcuffs will unlock in ten minutes. Lie still until then or you will only hurt yourself. This is counted as your official warning, and any attempts at disobeying will be seen as your own personal act of stupidity. This will further equal that we will not pay a dime in medical bills if you hurt yourself while trying to escape,” the officer sounded out, clearly having been instructed to read from some form of a script. It wasn't said word for word, clearly enough, but the woman held it together for the longest of time regardless.

Troy felt the need to make some comment about how needed to get hurt but felt like his tongue had swollen up without his notice. There was no chance of him talking, no chance of him opening up his mouth, and no chance of even removing his tongue from the pressed up position it had gotten itself into.

After the door to the outside was closed off, with a loud locking mechanism heard, the man tried to figure out how his situation was looking like. He was lying almost face down, stomach towards the mattress, with his hands in handcuffs just beside his stomach. It was a rather uncomfortable position, with some part of his left arm already getting sleepy from the position. Yet there was next to nothing that could truly be done about it, no part of his body actually wanting to move.

But… even if his body didn't want to move, the other person in the cell was not one who was among such restrictions. Since his eyes were much still open, Troy was very able to see the other criminal in the cell slowly get up from his own cot, strut over to the halfway point, and stare curiously at Troy’s non-moving body. Due to the mild scarring on the man’s legs, arms, face, and just the whole body in general, the youngest in the room was having a hard time holding himself together.

He had seen some with half their jaws cut off in a freak robbery, yet he had never actually been that scared of the sight. Seeing somebody possibly unhinged close to his body, his body that couldn't currently move in defence of anything was not something that Troy could enjoy. The young man was one who relished the feeling of decisions, able to make his own choice. That meant that he did not enjoy being in a position where he was defenceless no matter what he did.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the other man in the room commented after a good minute. He smiled at Troy, a few missing teeth being shown off instantly. That was likely worse than the scars, in the young man’s opinion. Not that much time was spent on that detail, Troy focusing so much more on the voice. “I could take that as being due to your… injuries, or maybe you’re just a tad too unhappy with how I look.”

The man hit the nail right on the spot. He had clearly heard it a few times before, the grin coming just after Troy widened his eyes a small bit telling a tale worth more than the printing press could survive. Instead of standing around like a creep, the man just went back to his cot, lying down on the thing, closing his eyes, and likely starting to take a nap to pass the time.

Troy could only really think about how old the man was. It wasn't instantly clear in the appearance, the skin only having a couple of wrinkles, yet the voice made it so much more obvious. The roughness of it made it clear that the man had lived several decades more than Troy had. It wasn't the roughness that could be gained through smoke over time or from decades of nerve damage. No… this was the roughness gained by speaking without pause for one’s own life. Though that did leave Troy wondering just how one had spoken so many words yet had ended up alone in a cell in the middle of nowhere.

The man was forced to think about that for the next long while. A click could be heard at the ten-minute mark, the restraints around his arms being released. They fell onto the ground, creating a whole world of noise for the briefest of seconds. The other man in the room didn't seem to hear, heavy breathing filling the room without pause. Troy… didn't do anything personally, the young man’s body still unresponsive.

Or that wasn't the entire truth. After five minutes, he could move his fingers with relative success. Sometimes it misunderstood how to move, going to the sides when he wanted it to go up, going up when he wanted it to go down, and going down when he wanted it to go to the side. It was a curious phenomenon, the man only able to think that it had something to do with the medicine. A part of his brain was clearly still not operating right still.

But time did pass quickly, and the effects grew to be less and less. By seven minutes, the man could feel his toes, even giving them some form of a wriggle. Troy wasn't actually sure if they were all wriggling or not, only the shifts from the other toes giving any indication of their movements, and that was hardly a reliable method of observation. But, it wasn't like his shoes had been removed, and there was no chance of him getting them off, so that was how things would be no matter what.

Ten minutes was the time where he could move his feet. That’s where the fight started. It was a very twitch-based movement system, the fluid movement being out of the range for the man. It was either one way entirely or the other way entirely. He could slightly flex his muscles. Doing it in such a way was slightly painful, and more than time-consuming, but it did at least get easier with time. If that was due to the man gaining practice or if he was just good at waiting out the effects were to be seen at a later time. He just knew that after an extra five minutes, he was able to get the shoes off.

By that time, he could even move his head downwards to see. It was quite the sight, his white socks have turned more than a little red over time. Some part of him had been bleeding, though he was unsure of what that was. Not like that part was too important to him, Troy focusing much more on another fact entirely.

The shoes. They weren't his. And neither was his clothes, now that he thought about it. The grey jacket and trousers he wore was nothing close to his previous gear. How… who had changed his clothes while he wasn't looking?

And why did it have to be so itchy? The moment the man knew of the difference from the previous observation, the man was instantly able to feel the extreme itchiness that the clothes brought with them. It was more annoying than ever, and his arms and hands were more than up for the job of scratching his body. It was also a very nice way to know that enough effort made it possible for him to move his arms and legs, the sudden desire of it being a great catalyst for breaking the previous barriers.

There was something so soothing about itching, to the point where Troy barely noticed that he had scratched a hole into his skin. Or, well, he certainly noticed when his new clothing gained a smaller splatter of blood on it. There wasn't anything he could do but stop at that point, even if the itchiness persisted no matter what. At least the pain helped distract him.

How long a time had passed at that point? That was a good question. Not one that the man could answer at any level, but a good question nonetheless.

Twenty minutes was a good estimate. That’s how it felt, at the very least, Troy’s mind rattled to the point of insanity. The man felt desperate for action, suddenly having even more of an understanding of inmates. Being made to do nothing in a blank cell was a good definition of successful torture. Being unable to look around or anything to that degree only made it more effective.

So… with a determining shove, Troy got himself up from his lying position. He didn't stand up exactly, sitting up being more than he could anyway. It required the use of his arms to remain sitting if that made it more understandable. Not that such a thing would have made the arm desire the new sensation any less, desperate for something to do.

“I think I can talk now,” Troy tested out, fully prepared for it to sound terrible. To his surprise, it turned out that the skill of his tongue had returned.

“Indeed you can,” The old man on the other side of the room stated. Getting up from his bed, he sat down in a similar position. “But are you good enough to have a conversation?”