first. accidental video.
[The feed opens on a SLAM CRASH CRASH CRASH and then the skittering sliding of metal on concrete. The communicator has been knocked down to the floor, and it doesn't stop slipping until it clunks into something. The function flickers from voice to video. A perfect view of the bottom trim of the wall. Scenic.
And then, a voice, maybe familiar, strained and scratching with tears and rage:]
FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. YOU STUPID FUCKING MACHINE. YOU STUPID FUCKING--
[The words cut off with a sob, loud at first, and then muted into his hands. For nearly a minute, there is only breathing, irregular gulps of attempted calm. When he speaks again, it's barely above a whisper.]
I can't do this anymore. Please. I don't want to do this anymore. You don't have a purpose for me, you don't have a reason, and I'm sick of the alternative, I am sick of it. I will be boring. I will be s-so-- so thoroughly uninteresting, that you can't keep me here. I just want to go home. Let me go home. TAKE ME HOME! Oh God...
[More breathing, panicked, speeding up, until-- silence. He's noticed that the communicator is recording. The feed catches his footsteps, one by one, as he slowly approaches it and kneels down. He swings it away from the door and focuses it on him. He's a young man, thin and sleepless, with mussed blond hair and a tremble to his lip. His face is covered with bruises and bandages. His clothing is covered in blood.]
Excuse me. [Beat.] I would like to go back to prison now.
And then, a voice, maybe familiar, strained and scratching with tears and rage:]
FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. YOU STUPID FUCKING MACHINE. YOU STUPID FUCKING--
[The words cut off with a sob, loud at first, and then muted into his hands. For nearly a minute, there is only breathing, irregular gulps of attempted calm. When he speaks again, it's barely above a whisper.]
I can't do this anymore. Please. I don't want to do this anymore. You don't have a purpose for me, you don't have a reason, and I'm sick of the alternative, I am sick of it. I will be boring. I will be s-so-- so thoroughly uninteresting, that you can't keep me here. I just want to go home. Let me go home. TAKE ME HOME! Oh God...
[More breathing, panicked, speeding up, until-- silence. He's noticed that the communicator is recording. The feed catches his footsteps, one by one, as he slowly approaches it and kneels down. He swings it away from the door and focuses it on him. He's a young man, thin and sleepless, with mussed blond hair and a tremble to his lip. His face is covered with bruises and bandages. His clothing is covered in blood.]
Excuse me. [Beat.] I would like to go back to prison now.