Juro walked through a cramped, dimly-lit hall. Motes of dust glowed in the light of the faintly buzzing lamps embedded in the ceiling. If nothing else, the prison was kept free of rust. Ahead of him lay the door to the canteen, the promise of delicious slop, and the perfect opportunity to attempt to figure out what exactly it was made of. He was becoming increasingly certain that not only was that task impossible, but that the cooking staff didn't actually exist. He figured that they must instead be receiving food from some sort of sadistic spirit. If he ever got the chance, he would have quite a few words for the thing.<br/><br/>He walked in to find the usual rows of faces in varying degrees of disgust. A guard in one corner looked particularly unhappy, making a futile effort to rub his head through his helmet and glaring at anything nearby.<br/><br/>"<span style="font-style: italic">Well, now. Isn't that interesting?</span>" he thought. Juro grabbed breakfast and plopped down a few tables away from the guard, but, if he was lucky, close enough to find the source of his discomfort. He made an effort to appear non-threatening as he searched in order to avoid the attention of the various guards in the room. In his experience, having the attention of any guard was an awful idea.