Wait, I get Visiting Hours?

[Flux]

Flux, the mutant terrorist, laid on his plastic bed with a copy of The Once and Future King spread open on his chest. If he looked down past his knees he'd see the enormous, heavy plastic door of his moderately-sized plastic cell that was meant to keep anyone from abusing him--or freeing him. To his left, on the opposite wall in the far corner, was the plastic shower that he used to clean himself, and the plastic toilet he used to eliminate his body's waste. The room was otherwise barren, and he found himself sighing at his reflection on the wall mere inches from his face.

He'd been knocked out for a haircut and a shave; no matter how they tried, apparently nobody could come up with a plastic razor or scissors that would let him shave his own face or be awake to hassle the prison's barber. His orange prison uniform stood out harshly on the surface; the only color he'd seen in a long time, aside from the gunmetal gray of the guards' plastic rifles and the sterile whiteness of their Jozua Clinic uniforms. There was the red he'd seen down Below, where he'd been forced to kill Rosanna Hughes, a mutant with uncontrollable powers in a gambit set up by the Clinic's director, Klaus Heidegger. It'd been meant to break his spirit, he supposed, but it'd only hardened his resolve against the man and his goals. He sat up restlessly, allowing the book to fall and shut itself in his lap, and pulled his shirt off partway, letting it stay on his arms as he stared hard at the black stenciled serial number on the back.

JFMP0001T5, it read. Jericho Federal Mutant Prison, Inmate 0001, Threat Level 5, was what it stood for. He was proud of it, in a strange way, but it also made him angry and bitter. He should be outside, furthering the Brotherhood's dream of mutant supremacy, but instead, he was here. They'd finally quit harrassing him about the Brotherhood and their movements. It'd been so long since his incarceration that any knowledge he had was long outdated. So now he was useless, and received no visitors aside from the people sent to do his routine medical check-ups and the psychiatrist who tried in vain to reform him. He heard the sound of approaching people faintly through his reverie and ignored it. It was time to change the guard again, and he already knew all their faces and names and shifts. No sense in looking up to see Terrence Oliver tromping up the walkway with Mack Reed. He didn't move an inch.