Tenure: a fluffy DeaidaraYugao one-shot

Chapter one

Tenure, a Naruto fanfic
26-33 minutes

Time flows differently in each cell. No one completely controls it, nor could they, yet papers on top of papers have filled what used to be thin, cheap cardboard binders, now cracked at the seams caused by the acute pressure from within their aged walls. One may question their contents, undoubtedly, coming from former inmates, yet no figure with inkling of authority to their given name had their statement included, the most initial of suggestions to supplement authenticity to an outlandish study. Their reasoning quite sound, as the risks may far outweigh the reap, for the time being at least; what might one even do with such knowledge at hand and no technology to control it, no ample mind to deter the decay it may face and no means of hiding it from the prying gaze of unprepared swarms, each curiosity a plausible hospice unannounced.

Some may raise a counterpoint to the governments use of the cells, rehabilitation through isolation and asceticism being the primary means of prisons in the first place: the appointed sentence could end up being served too briefly, but they know not the depths of the rayless trench its base parts each hold within, or outside of for that matter, for one is yet to ascertain anything about them, beyond the most basic of outcomes. How might one come across a structure so bland in appearance and man-made in merciless intent, yet so foreign in its meticulous workings; primal simplicity or alien elegance in disguise.

Others have taken the opposite stance, such being the sentence may be overly gruesome, inhumane. How could the guard lead another person, an equal to himself in most simple of anthro-camaraderie instincts, through those iron gates, careful not to step over the straight etched-in line in the cold cement floor, himself shuddering at the thought of encroaching into the room, lest he anger whichever detestation of god placed its anathema the earth in the first place. Praying never put the, for the past three decades solitary, guard at complete ease. His god seemed way too mundane, too naïve in its idealism in comparison to whichever horror lay unabashed, somewhere beyond the edge of mind, toying with the fabric of time much like a cat with a piece of yarn in its paw. Deceptive it be: those claws are there to kill.

The reports are vague in their scientific detail, but thought-by-thought journals in some cases, of prisoners serving their time in the institution. Some more-digestible quotes are served to the public, placed in study books, all but a few too large of a bite for anyone reading. Some similarities weave through the majority of them, and those are taken as fact. As there are no windows in the cells, the circadian rhythm is the only measurement of time passed, a sleep-cycle as the scribes have dubbed them.

There are those sentenced to years in prison, for disturbing crimes, yet welcome the guard with nothing but confusion written over their faces as he unlocks their gate for the first time since the sentencing. However, others are not so lucky, as a man required to spend a mere weeks in the cell comes out a mumbling lump of flesh, unmoving and unyielding to any word of attention, incoherent sounds coming from their lips; their hair long and faces gaunt, wide eyes staring at no point in space, only time written on their skin The guard is the first human they see, same age as the day he led them through the gates, looking not a day older. Such is the reality of the prison and the cells it holds within, its mere existence the most potent deterrent to crime in the entire region. To put it lightly, there are odds one simply does not take.

Deidara is led by the firm, yet almost gentle grip of the aged guard through the narrow corridor. The ceiling is deceptively high above his head, but the creeping darkness seeping upwards to him, gliding up the staircase railings is much more griping. He dares angle his head to the right, and the mist greets him eagerly, its intensity dizzying. He grips the pen in his hand, the solitary item he was allowed and had chosen to bring with him. He hoped there would be enough ink to last his entire stay. He notices the sound of the suit given to him is rustling as he walks, hushing the walls into silence. As they pass each door, there is a note on every one of them:" NO. - DATE OF ADMISSION- DATE OF RELEASE -". yet, he notes with a shiver, he hears no noise bouncing from the walls apart from his own dragging footsteps and the clanking timbre of the guard's keys. Each door is identical to the previous, only the notes contents varying. They pass so many of them, they have started to blend into patterns and shapes in front of his eyes, the numbers losing any meaning they had. They become harder to read and Deidara notes, unaware, it is because the light is becoming weaker.