Riddick paused in his pull-ups, the scientists hated his improvised exercise bar but so far,
they hadn't figured out a way to stop him from working out without completely altering the structural integrity of his cell.
The window next to the door was a source of constant irritation to him so he enjoyed returning the favor by exercising when the watchers were there.
In retaliation, they'd taken the pallet and blanket that had come with the cell.
They really didn't seem to understand that unless they piped in rats and roaches that this was still an improvement over his last prison.
The tests were annoying and at times uncomfortable but so far they hadn't tried to 'improve' him any.
Attempts like that had been made on others though; he'd seen and smelled the human wreckage of the spectacular failures.
So far, he’d seen at least three boys, all in their late teens, marched past his cell, all of them a combination of confident and fearful.
Each time he’d seen a new boy he had heard screams during the next week, smelt blood, the scent of torture, and eventually death.
He’d come to hate the sound of footsteps down the long hall, the echo of unfamiliar feet treading down metal stairs with anticipation and reluctance.
He was so tired of deaths he hadn’t caused and couldn’t prevent.
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