Billy sat at an empty table and stirred the sticky porridge in front of him, grimacing as the stagnant air of the enclosed canteen pressed against his skin. His head felt foggy; his thoughts waded through the haze like dim searchlights and winked out before he could grab hold of them. He'd fought for every scrap of sleep during the night but the screaming through the wall had wrenched his eyes open in the darkness. It was from Mouse's cell; he was a quiet, sunken-faced guy with a fearful, watery stare, only in for a bit of fiddling the company books. Billy wondered what he'd done to get the fear gas 'treatment' last night. Judging by the way Mouse had chanted this morning's pledge a little louder than everyone else it had done the trick. Billy had seen him jittering down the stairs for breakfast as soon as the cells had opened, but he hadn't the stomach to ask if he was okay. He bet the resident Psychs who'd assessed Mouse would be pretty pleased with themselves.  

Billy sighed. The white canteen walls stood resolute, stretching up to the mezzanine floor of cells which was flanked by two large staircases. He looked around the swarm of white overalls as the queue for breakfast crawled along, scanning over the tables for a familiar face. The tables and chairs in the Institute were toughened white plastic but the cutlery was stainless steel. There were very few stabbings; everyone knew the punishments were severe.  

He caught sight of Slater coming towards his table and nodded in acknowledgement as he took the seat opposite, setting down his own breakfast tray.  

'Alright, kid,' Slater grunted. 'What you got today then?' 

'Laundry duties. Again. Perks of wearing white overalls, huh. You?'  

'Job interview session,' Slater imitated straightening a tie and laughed gruffly, veins protruding from behind the tattoos that snaked over his shaven head. 'Might see if they'll put it on the other wrist this time, make them matching. What d'ya think?' He lifted his left hand, revealing the raw pink flesh encircling his wrist; a reminder of his failure at the last session. He winked, eyes flashing. 

'I swear you get off on the shocks.' Billy shook his head and grinned. 

Another inmate came into view; an Asian guy in his thirties who had some connections with drug cartels. He was holding a tray and looking at the two empty seats on their table. He glanced at them, gauging their expressions and saw Slater. Slater silently raised an eyebrow at him and the Asian moved away, taking a seat at the other end of the canteen. 

'Not sharing, are we?' The cell guard sauntered over to the table, adjusting the policeman style cap that was part of his crisp blue uniform. The shoulders and arms of his jacket were covered in stripes and epaulettes, and the cell key fobs dangled from his taut belt. His grey moustache twitched beneath his hard eyes. 

Billy spoke quickly, with a furtive glance at Slater. 'We're nearly finished, Mr Stevens. Sir.'  

Mr Stevens said nothing, choosing to stare at them intently for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, he turned to walk away and bumped roughly into another inmate. Billy and Slater looked up to see Mr Stevens' reaction but the keys caught their attention instead. The hoop holding the plastic-encased electronic fobs had loosened from Mr Stevens' belt and clattered to the ground by their table.  

Billy shot a look at Slater, sensing what was about to happen. Something nagged at the corners of his mind, something wrong, but he saw everything happen as though he were in a dream and he was far too slow to stop it. Billy shook his head in the same instant Slater bent down and picked up the keys. The canteen fell silent as Slater screamed.  

The skin on his fingers blistered angrily; the white flesh turned a shiny pink then darkened to crimson. Slater dropped the keys and fell from his seat onto the canteen floor, guttural sobs escaping from him as he cradled one wrist with the other hand. The scorched flesh of his palm bubbled, patches blackening, as Billy and the surrounding inmates stared. Billy reeled in confusion as the Warden and Mr Stevens appeared out from the crowd.  

Mr Stevens took a step towards Slater. He looked down at him with no expression and silently reached to pick up the keys. Billy gaped as his fingers closed around them. Nothing. Mr Stevens held them up in his right hand for everyone to see and a droplet of liquid dripped from one fob onto the floor with a hiss. He took his left thumb and dragged it up his right wrist, hooking what looked like his own skin and let it go again with a snap. It was some sort of translucent plastic glove. Suddenly, Billy understood. Mr Stevens fixed his eyes on Billy and smiled.  

The Warden stepped forward. 'Oh dear me, Jack. What have you done?' Dressed in his usual white coat, he cooed down at Slater in his cheerful tone. 'Now, Jack, you weren't supposed to touch those keys, were you? Those aren't yours. And taking other people's things is bad, isn't it? Isn't it, hmm?' 

Slater's face was flushed from pain and shock. He clenched his jaw in agony and stared straight ahead as he curled into himself on the canteen floor, trembling. 'Y-yeah.' 

The Warden beamed. 'Good. Very good, Jack.' He looked around the silent canteen and clapped his hands. 'I think we've all learned a valuable lesson here, haven't we? Let us all say the pledge.'  

The inmates glanced at each other, the air thick with the acrid smell of flesh and fear.  

'"A citizen who commits violence or crime is not a citizen at all..."'  

Billy fought back the urge to vomit right there on the canteen floor; his saliva frothy at the back of his throat. He stared down at Slater and saw his strained lips moving, chanting along with everyone else. Tearing his gaze away, he looked down at his feet and finished through his clenched teeth, '"...and has no rights."'

************************

His breath huffed out cool tendrils in the sharp night air, the tang of cheap scotch still on his lips. Billy shoved his fists into his pockets and turned the corner, taking the long route home, even as the cold air pressed in on the pleasant drink-induced fog of his mind. He wondered what he'd say to her, how he'd phrase it this time. He knew she wouldn't be angry at him; she was his mother, she was on his side, but he'd see that flash of disappointment in her eyes and hear her tell him how there'd be other jobs.  

He snorted under his breath. It didn't matter. There could be hundreds of jobs out there and he still stood no chance. No employer looked twice once they read 'manslaughter' and none of the interviewers hung around long enough for Billy to even say 'self-defence.' They all saw it just as the judge had; that Billy knew how to handle himself and used unnecessary force. But the police had never found the second attacker, so it was Billy's word against a dead man's.  

She probably knew already. She'd known what time the interview was and it was dark now, so she'd have guessed he'd been drowning his sorrows again. Billy's stomach churned as he thought of her sitting there, her sunken eyes staring around the empty house while she waited to hear more bad news.  

Crossing the road, he walked past a shuttered newsagent into a shadowed alleyway which would lead him to the back of his estate. He took a deep breath, trying to sober up a bit so he wouldn't slur when he told her. 

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were right behind him. He was shoved hard in the back and he slammed against the alley wall, his breath snatched away from the force of it. Billy whirled around and saw a figure in a black hoodie, with a black bandana masking his face, advancing towards him.  

'Hand over your money,' the figure demanded. His hand twitched and something silver glinted in the moonlight.  

Billy held his stomach and gasped for air, his thoughts writhing in confusion. He opened his mouth to tell him to back the fuck off or he'd regret it. Blinking into the darkness, he peered at the figure. The black hoodie hazed before his eyes, changing; turning blue and crisp. He saw stripes and epaulettes on the shoulders and a policeman's style cap above a twitching grey moustache. 

'Oh dear me, Billy. What have you done?' the figure cooed. 'You're not supposed to hurt other people now, are you? Let us all say the pledge...' 

His mind jarred and his lips moved automatically. '"A citizen who commits violence or crime is not a citizen at all..."'  

Billy froze. He didn't hear the mugger's frustrated threats or feel the knife as it plunged into his chest. He didn't feel the hard stones beneath his hands as he fell backwards onto the ground. He remembered a place that was clean and white, and a phrase that was important, but he wasn't sure who had said it back then or who was saying it now. He closed his eyes, exhaling with a whisper, '"...and has no rights."'