Mid July and every waking ounce of metal in Sugar Valley hit a point so close to scalding it was scarcely legal. Problem with this being the entire building composed itself of the stuff; bad for business when your usual customers are too hot to fuck. Hell, even in the Yard, where a possibility of breezes livedâ€”Gods breath on cooked backs, ask any inmate-- the air was so dusty, tight and thick with the blessings of the season it could scarcely be sucked down into the lungs, for dirt, much preferring to stick and congeal somewhere along the way.<br/><br/>You could sit and watch the ground crack reluctantly under the summer glare before your own two eyes. Like chapped lips pulled into an unnatural grin, the earth would split. They were only small things, chasms to ants, inches to inmates, sometimes even revealing the odd curiosity glistening in the sun; old coins, plastic straws, teeth from the riots of times long gone by... but they were a â€˜proof of sufferingâ€™ for some, much like having a temperature when ill, something tangible, evidence beyond your own word to justify any complaints that might just slip your pretty little tongue.<br/><br/>Reed, an inmate of much complaint and little deliberation, watched for these and silently revelled every time he witnessed said event. Forever safe in the knowledge that when the ground cracked it was fucking toasty.<br/><br/>He drew a digit across the floor, curiously watching the red dust part into a solid line, "I overheard someth'n. Did you know? I overheard someth'n..."<br/><br/>Reed, Quinn Christopher as his induction sheet (arenâ€™t they kind here?) had dubbed him, glanced back up to concrete 'picnic table' besides him. He had bench privileges and wore and worked them like a medal.<br/><br/>The West Bench crew, aptly named for their choice of clubhouse, ignored him. Not now Pirate, not whilst thereâ€™s a pair of gravity defying breasts and mischief arrived at the table. It looked, to him, like a lot of good business.<br/><br/>Reed scowled and caught the sweat rolling free from his cheekbone with one bony digit. He watched closely, toying absently with the string of his eye patch as the woman pulled off every trick of the trade with near flawless fluidity. She was battered, but gorgeous. Her efforts, admirable.<br/><br/>There was more than a touch of sulkiness in his sigh as the petite inmate leant back, letting his weight sink into his elbows, heat of the sun quickly pouring through the flesh of his font.<br/><br/>... The deep purr of bargaining filled the air like smoke around the small congregation of gnarled, world-battered thugs.<br/><br/>â€œItâ€™s fish Friday... yeknow...â€<br/><br/>The reception his remarks met could have done with a little more lustre... the boys carried on as they were, some working out, the glean of sweat on dark skin was like clocking in on gang business, some talking in hushed voices, one or two just staring all wild and animal-esque across the expanse of the yard. Guarding.<br/><br/>You never, not once let your guard down in the glorified scrap yard that was Sugar Valley.<br/><br/>This was where they dumped the broken cogs of society; every last one of them had their sharp edges, every one still turning, still thinking... For Reed, the proof was in the pudding. A few doses of humiliation and one eyeball later he learned hard that the sole exception, the only situation to relieve the onslaught of paranoia was when you had guards and even then they could turn on you like hungry dogs.<br/><br/>But it was the same old song and dance in any prison yard and this one, just like any other was made of the same vital components; concrete, sweat, paroling guards, alarms clear as day on the walls and the promise of snipers in the towers at the far end. It was partitioned off into three clear groups, all separated with a loving stretch of chain link fences and stone walls. Once upon a time this had been to keep the mentally deranged, the particularly delicate and the normal scum apart; nowadays it had a much darker purpose...<br/><br/>An inmate run system-- The first two were just yards, the second, hell on earth. If you did bad, you got put in there with the real nutters, the serial's, cultists and the plain crazed, everything good and nice scattered into a small square space. They turned a blind eye on killings there...<br/><br/>â€œNo? Heard the old piggies talkâ€™n...â€ Shame no one heard him talking, really, â€œSaid, fack John, â€˜cause it were John and Andy rattling on like they do, said, fack John we got a load more arriving tonight... where do we put them? Weâ€™ve already run out of room in block E and, as much as the boss insists, converting solitary is a bad fackâ€™n idea... apparently the bus is cominâ€™ in soon,â€<br/><br/>He shut out the intense azure above and hid in the space behind his eyelid, â€œFack'n love fresh meat, bollocks to the heat, fack'n' bollocks,â€<br/><br/>Coke, his mothers cockatoo, was half asleep on his shoulder, one scaly foot buried in the soft pink plumage of her underbelly. He gave her a scratch, the tiniest thank you for listening.<br/><br/>One of the boys caught the movement and glanced over, laying down his hand of cards. Reed wondered if they'd been playing for smokes. He liked smokes, "What time they coming?"<br/><br/>"Twelve, captain,"<br/><br/>There was a low chuckle, "Lunch," the gang member grinned, saliva glistening on his tombstone teeth, "Best time to get here,"<br/><br/>Reed snorted, "Amen,"