Enjoying this?
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"…and love and stuff," Sam finished flatly, taking another bite of his granola bar like he hadn't just summarized systemic abuse, death, and ideological martyrdom in one breath.
Roberto snorted. "Man, you make it sound way less heroic than it is."
"That's because it isn't," Sam replied without missing a beat. "Heroic gets you noticed. Noticing gets you hurt. Hurt gets you buried out back with a number instead of a name."
Nate shot him a warning look. "Sam."
"What?" Sam shrugged. "He asked."
Kaine absorbed all of it in silence, his expression unchanged, eyes slowly drifting across the yard again. Now that he wasn't blinded by first impressions, patterns began to emerge. The way certain inmates clustered near the walls. How others avoided the open equipment unless guards were distracted. The faint scorch marks on the concrete that hadn't been sanded down properly. Blood stains that had.
"Your schedule's inefficient," Kaine said at last.
All three of them looked at him.
"Excuse me?" Bobby blinked.
"You wake at six but eat at eight," Kaine continued calmly. "That creates a two-hour window of fatigue, irritability, and conflict. Guards benefit from it—keeps tensions high, makes justification for violence easier. If this were truly about labor, they'd feed you first."
Sam paused mid-chew. "…Okay, that's unsettling."
Nate tilted his head slightly, studying Kaine with renewed interest. "You think like that automatically?"
"I tend to," Kaine replied. "It's safer."
Bobby crossed his arms, his grin dimming just a little. "So what, you some kind of strategist? Military background?"
"No," Kaine said. And yes, his instincts added, layered in a dozen lifetimes of violence and survival. "Just observant."
Sam finished his bar and dusted off his hands. "Then observe this: you've got that armband. The F means foreman. It's supposed to make you help keep us in line. Or report problems. Or serve as a convenient scapegoat when something goes wrong."
"And does it?" Kaine asked.
Sam's eyes flicked to Bobby, then Nate. "Depends on the person wearing it."
Bobby leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Most guys with that band don't last a week. Guards put pressure on 'em, prisoners hate 'em, and eventually someone snaps. Best case, you get reassigned. Worst case…" He made a slicing motion across his throat, still smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes this time.
"Noted," Kaine said.
Nate frowned. "You don't seem worried."
Kaine looked at him then—really looked. Saw the exhaustion behind the kindness, the strain of holding too much responsibility with too little control. "Worry is only useful when paired with uncertainty," he said. "I already know my options."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "And those are?"
"Learn," Kaine replied. "And my loss is a rational thing if I couldn't win."
Bobby let out a low whistle. "Dang, Gray, you find the quiet scary ones on purpose?"
Nate didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Kaine, that subtle psionic pressure returning for just a heartbeat—testing again, brushing against something vast and coiled far beneath the surface.
He recoiled slightly.
"…You're different," Nate said softly.
Kaine offered a thin, polite smile. "So I've been told."
A sharp whistle cut through the air before Nate could say more. One of the guard towers lit up, and a harsh voice barked over the loudspeaker: "Yard time's over. Line up by unit. Move!"
The mood shifted instantly. Mutants straightened, dispersed, or shrank back into themselves. Guards advanced, batons and rifles visible, armour clanking with rehearsed menace.
Bobby rolled his shoulders, heat flaring faintly beneath his skin. "Showtime."
Sam sighed. "Remember—eyes down, mouth shut."
Nate glanced at Kaine. "Stick close to us. Don't give them an excuse."
[Auther: Anyways, do you feel this is rushed? I'd say it's pretty average, I mean, for most Spider-Man stories, it's considered polite if he's randomly jumped.]