"Inmate." A correctional officer's voice rudely boomed through the echoey cell. Banging his baton over the bars loudly, shaking James from his train of thought.
Officer Schmidt had been assigned to James from the moment he got back to Riker's. Just another obese white man with shockingly abusive control issues. He had quite the reputation of being a corrupt officer. Basically running his own drug ring from the inside.
James laid flat on the frigid concrete of his cell, head resting on the paper thin pillow he was provided. Ignoring him.
After his outburst, ripping his bunk off of the wall the few days before, they outright removed it from his cell as a punishment. Nights were spent sleepless. Hours of shivering on the floor, intertwined with haunting nightmares, wearing him down to a lowly state of insanity.
"You have counseling. Let's go."
"I don't feel like going to school today, mom." He muttered, keeping his stare at the ceiling.
Schmidt stormed off, pissed at the attitude.
James had refused counseling since he had arrived. He didn't want yet another pair of hands trying to pick his brain apart. He had seen his fair share of therapists over the years. Spending tens of thousands of dollars on the best the world had to offer and they all made the same diagnosis— Antisocial personality disorder. A sociopath. Sometimes with the added narcissism diagnosis.
Most of the time talking to those so-called 'experts' was spent manipulating them. Getting them to collude unknowingly. He had mastered the art of seeming stable and rational.
People were easy that way. Simple minded folk being completely taken advantage of by the charming devil James could be. It wasn't until he met— Her. The little curly haired angel. His doll. His weakness. She made him realize he had a microscopic amount of normalcy in him. Some semblance of romance made his stone cold heart beat again.
James slammed his head back on his pillow again and again, trying to literally knock the thought of Her out of his brain. He figured with just enough brute force, he could forget the girl altogether.
Once the intrusive thoughts slowly filtered away, he closed his eyes, enjoying the silence of his cell. Plenty pleased with his success at dodging everything he didn't want to do from the moment he was booked.
Although his ample experience with the system gave him literally zero privileges around the joint, it also allowed him the advantage of having an established reputation of someone that shouldn't be fucked with. Most of the guards knew firsthand just how dangerous James could be.
Just as he started to doze off, two more guards came back with Schmidt. Standing like a wall of pure power trip on the other side of the bars.
No words were exchanged this time. The men rushed into the cell, crowding James. Ripping him up to his feet.
"I said, I didn't fucking want counseling." He growled, eyes wide. Absolutely disgusted by all the clammy, grime covered hands on his skin. The feeling was leaving him enraged.
"You don't run this place anymore, inmate." One of the guards spat back, voice strained from trying to hold him up, getting dangerously close to James' face.
While his arms were held back, Schmidt landed a hard punch to his jaw. His head knocked back, but he didn't even register the pain. Years of violence making him practically numb to it. Sometimes he swore his pain receptors didn't work anymore.
Despite that, blood pooled in his mouth. He spit out a wad, unintentionally landing it on one of Schmidt's boots. He would've outright laughed if it weren't for the sheer fury racking through every last nerve of his tattooed body.
Earning another punch, this time to the gut. He was cuffed and dragged out of his cell.
Barely moving his feet as he was marched down the hall. Doing everything he could to prolong his journey to the shrink's office.
When he finally reached his destination, his anger amplified tenfold over who he saw smugly waiting for him.
Earl Pritchard.
James figured he would've retired by now, but no. Realizing his pathetically, measly salary would probably keep him chained to a desk until the day he died.
He looked like he had gained about fifty more pounds. White hair thinned so much, he could see his pink scalp glistening under the fluorescents. Reflecting brightly off of his greasy skin. Still wearing one of his ill-fitted, cheap suits.
Trained eyes catching that his wedding band was gone. Leaving a slight tan line where it once sat. Probably just finished signing divorce papers a few months ago, he thought to himself. Clearly things had not gotten much better for the old fuck.
"Barnes." Pritchard smiled, arrogantly. "Welcome home."
James was shoved forward, stepping further into the familiar office. Everything was the same. He remembered every last detail. The sickening, faded cream color on the walls. The rips in the woven fabric of the patient chair. The putrid smell of the room. The fucking ridiculous motivational posters from the eighties, covering the wall to his left.
Plopping down into the chair, with a harsh push from one of the guards. His wrists were secured to the desk like the hundreds of times before. Routine reminders weighing heavily on his mindset.
"You trip on the way here?" Pritchard jeered, pointing to his blood covered lips with a pen.
"Eat a dick, Pritchard."
His eyes widened, taken aback by James' willingness to even speak. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not, Thing was, it wasn't. He was in a grim, dire state of mind. Feeling like he had nothing to lose anymore.
"You just earned yourself a shot, inmate." Schmidt barked from behind him.
James smirked at Pritchard, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb, to the guards. "Didn't realize Rikers had a disabled hiring requisite."
A hard smack to the back of his head, made it knock forward, only widening his grin.
"So, you're back." Pritchard started, huffing an irritated breath. "Wanna tell me what happened?"
Stare flicking up, James narrowed his eyes. "I know you have access to my files. You're well aware of what I did."
Pritchard let out a loud belly chuckle, wafting his foul, liquor scented breath across the desk. "I just want to hear you say it, Barnes."
James clenched his jaw. Tilting his head to look down his nose at him. "Read. My. File."
"Yeah? Okay." Pritchard took a long sip of his spiked coffee. A scent James knew so well. Cheap instant coffee powder with a dash of even cheaper whiskey. "Ya know, I was pretty surprised to hear that it was at the service of someone else."
He dug through his drawer, pulling out a thick file of papers. Flipping it open the looking over the top sheet. "Margaret Everlee." He stated, looking back up a James. "She's your little girlfriend right?"
James blinked, keeping his cold stare locked on his shrink. Instantly shutting down at the mention of— Her.
"I heard she came to visit you. How did that go?"
Earning himself a bloodcurdling death stare from James. Eyes blown wide now.
Pritchard knew exactly how it went. James was quite the point of gossip with the officers. Especially with his return after over a decade of astounding financial success— he was practically a celebrity in the city, so the staff's interest was peaked to say the least.
As much as James wanted to rip his cuffs from the desk, dive over and beat Pritchards face until it was a bloody, boney pulp, he held back. He knew they had a solitary confinement cell ready with his name on it from the moment he got back. A cold, concrete hellhole. A second-by-second attack on his soul.
"Don't want to talk about it?" He pressed.
James observant nature saw right through his therapeutic facade. It was apparent he was just trying to push his buttons and dig up more tales about his transgressions to spread around the prison. Pritchard didn't care one bit about his wellbeing. Not a speck of concern in him.
"No." He finally stated. Raspy drawl breaking his streak of silence.
Pritchard chuckled, leaning back in his chair. Creaking under his gelatinous figure. "Stubborn as ever I see..." muttering to himself. "Well, if you don't want to discuss your current case, we'll move on to my next topic. I got word today that your friend Brock Rumlow is being transferred over here to max. Apparently he's been causing quite the trouble over at gen-pop."
Lips curling a microscopic amount, so small it was missed by Pritchard's age-related macular degeneration.
Hearing that Rumlow would be within the vicinity should've been the cause of some serious uproar by James, but not now. The guy clearly had a death wish and James was more than willing to fulfill those dangerous desires.
"He's being booked today, so I need you to be on your best behavior." Pritchard crossed his arms, tugging the thin fabric of his blazer to its absolute furthest stretching point. "You need to keep your goddamn nose down and not do anything stupid."
James' brows pinched, surprised by the uncharacteristically helpful advice from him.
"I'm gonna level with you, Barnes. As much as I'd love to see you rot in here until the day you die, you're probably my least favorite person in the world. I hate seeing your self-congratulatory expression everyday, so keep to yourself and get the fuck out of here."
There it was. The answer to James' internal questioning. Pritchard didn't care if he was rehabilitated. He wanted him gone one way or another. "The feelings mutual." He grumbled.
Pritchard let out a slow breath from his nostrils, eyeing him. "We're done here." He called over to the officers standing stationed behind James.
Cuffs unlocked from the desk, two sets of hands landed on him in one go, lifting him from the chair.
Plodding back to his cell. Through the dilapidated, rusted hallways. Passing by other inmates, being dragged around by more CO's.
Eyes flashing over to see someone being pepper sprayed and kicked to the floor. Leather boots stomping down over his face, definitely breaking the guy's nose. Screeches and blood shot out from the unsuspecting prisoner, echoing down the hall.
None of it phased James. He'd seen it all before and then some.
But what came next caught his complete and undivided attention.
Rumlow.
He was being onboarded. Just like Pritchard said. Walking to his new cell, still wearing his brown jumpsuit from gen-pop. Head slumped low, glaring right back at James as they passed by each other. He had a disgusting black eye, swollen shut. With a split lip to match.
"Cute little shiner you got there, Rumlow." James mocked, voice frigid.
Rumlow gritted his teeth, grunting, trying to rip from the grasp of his officers, earning a hard smack in the side of his head with a baton. The loud crunch of his cheekbone made James laugh as he was pulled away.
"I'll fucking rip you to pieces, Barnes." Rumlow boomed over his shoulder.
James peeked back around with a devilishly cunning grin. "I'd love to see you try. It'd give me a mighty fine excuse to finally kill you, fuckface." Voice gruff with homicidal intent.
Guards hardening their grip on him, yanking his cuffs, picking up their pace as they walked towards his cell.
Being forced inside and locked in, the same as everyday. Treated like an animal. Thing was, if you treat someone like an animal, that's what they become. James' mentality had shifted. Practically feral with bloodlust now. Holding onto this sanity by the skin of his teeth. A hair away from snapping and going full on American Psycho at this point.
Schmidt uncuffed him through the bars. He rubbed over his wrists. Almost bleeding now from how hard he was ripped from Rumlow.
"That new guy Rumlow really got to you, huh inmate?"
James' lip twitched, ignoring the condescending tone.
"Ya know, I could help you out with that." He smirked, digging into his pocket. Pulling out a knife, and extending it through the bars.
Staring down at the glinting silver blade, practically begging James to take hold of it and mince everyone in the place. He fantasized about the sheer amount of hot, sticky blood he'd have on his hands. How delicious the revenge would feel.
Eyes widening at the flawlessly crafted drop point blade. Fingers twitching at his sides, so close to jumping for the weapon being extended to him.
James huffed out a breath, turning away. "Fuck off."
"You sure? I won't tell anyone. Come on, just take it." Schmidt simpered.
The offer was obscenely tempting, but he knew this game all too well. Take a weapon from an officer and they'll turn right back around and bust you for it. They'll give you drugs and then threaten to put you in solitary if your family doesn't meet them in a parking lot with a large sum of cash.
Rikers supplied their inmates with everything they needed to keep them locked up forever. Population holding steady to keep funding the place. It was barely a prison. It was like hell on earth. There was no rehabilitation. No support. No laws. Overrun with drug abuse, corrupt officers, violence, and gang consolidation.
It was the kind of place you had to choose— predator or prey. There was no in between.
All of that considered, James was too smart to fall into the community he was surrounded by. He was above everyone there. Intelligence, wealth, and status giving him a petulant superiority complex.
"I said, fuck off." He repeated, sitting back down on the ice cold floor.
Scmidt stomped off, leaving James to his thoughts.
Mentally plotting a way to kill Rumlow, without taking the blame for it. Years of experience with the law and ample therapy, shifting to a deranged, brainpower based violence.
Giving him everything he needed to take down Rumlow in a way that would be untraceable.