The Expatriate-the story of a Prodigy

11. How They Deal With Prods

 "So what happened?" Andrew asked Alex Mars. Andrew was curious and worried-well, that was obvious since Alex was lying straight on the bed with his shoes on, face buried in the mattress, nose probably hurting from the cover which was not very soft to let the nose sink in with the cotton. Andrew knew that Alex did this only when things were problematic, and things were never too problematic for Alex, he thought. So what might have caused this would have to be a great problem.

 "Went. To. Prison. Brought. Some. Convicted. People. That's all that happened, Andrew," Alex said, voice muffled into the bed. Andrew scratched his head. "I see," He replied. 

 Just then, Mark and John stampeded inside, laughing on some joke or something. They barely noticed Andrew and Alex and continued to prod each other around as usual. But Alex wanted peace-well, he always did, but the havoc in the room was extremely disturbing, especially that day. 

 "Jesus on a pogo stick, just keep your yapping mouths and assess closed for at least an hour!" he yelled, momentarily lifting his mouth off the covers, his voice ringing in the suddenly quiet room-it had been loud enough that even his ears hurt a bit from his own yell. 

 Silence. Alex Mars didn't sigh, though he wanted badly to-sighs after shouting made the others think you were apologetic for shouting. Well, he wasn't. 

 John and Mark plopped on their beds, depressed, the residues of the goofy grins they had been wearing going away. Andrew was actually glad for it since he also hated the noise the other 2 created, but just hadn't had the confidence to scream like what Alex had just done. Yup, his best friend was the most effective guardian and guy, he agreed to it the gazillionth time at the base. He just pulled out 'The Goner, where no one exists' for the 5th time in the base and set to reading silently, trying to savor the temporary peace.  

 Meanwhile, Alex was quiet. He stared into the fabrics of the mattress, thinking. Those convicted had wasted at least a full-2 years in the awful jail, wasting their youth. And just when they are momentarily released, a teen boy in a neat uniform locks them into cuffs. They could have snorted and wanted to attack him in their minds, angered by the injustice. Alex had read that people usually went to jail for the most trivial of reasons. He now tried to fight down the nausea and guilt over the event. Summary: he hated going to the prison, tempting the poor convicted; he was unhappy about his promotion.

 As those thoughts streamed by in his head, John and Mark started off from the conversation that had been caught off from Alex's yelling. 

 "But I thought that killing was illegal," "Was, and still is. If the gov just makes his rules whenever it needs them-and what can we do about it? Nothing," "But I heard that some Prods don't get killed-" Yup, they just get the worst treatment of all-they get banished completely," "I still can't figure out why that's the worst-isn't it the best, with no death and torture?" "Well, every part of it is true, Johnny. The Prods get sizzled under the sun for 12 hours. Then, right after, they get frozen beneath the moonlight for the next 12 hours. Now after at all, and even if some survive, the U.S. will never accept them back. They aren't their citizens now, but simply dirty, roasted and wasted expatriates," "Gee, guess you're' rig -"

 Alex's head snapped up and he glared at them, John and Mark freezing to stone, afraid with their sincere hearts of Alex's anger. 

 But it simply wasn't anger at all. 

 "They execution and banish them?" He snarled. In Alex's mind flashed the general-his words in the morning, those unclear ones-"Or we just-do what the gov tells us," 

 He was meaning killing them. 

 Killing some of the convicted. 

 John and Mark both froze as Alex in seconds swung himself out of the bed and dropped himself to the floor, leaping some 5 feet from the air. But before they could be asked what was wrong, he was out of the room. 

 He had to stop them. Here he meant-well, not them, then. 

Him. 

 -the general. 

 He was clueless about where to go. He was already outside the building, and his eyes found the Jeep. However, it was empty already, no convicted weighing it down on the back. 

 Too late?

 He raced to all the fields he knew of where he had been trained that was an ideal spot for..killing, he gagged even at the thoughts of the word. He just couldn't let some of those men die, he felt...

 He stopped, shoes digging into the soil as he remembered the other words of the general-"It would be of greater pride of patriotism if there were rotten Prods to kill," His hands automatically clenched into fists, and he sighed. No killings or torture would take place that day. At least, on that day in particular, of course.

 As he returned to his room, Alex Mars thought that he had just encountered the worst cruelty of the army. 

 Well, frankly, he was still yet to see the worst, though.