Sunday, January 19th, 2014 - 2:45 AM PST - Basement of This Compound - Los Angeles, California

Guard duty, oh how I loathe thee. Oh well, being here means I don't have to deal too much with the rest of the group. Less time to connect with them, the less likely I am to be personally affected when they inevitably end up like Tough Guy #2. However, sitting here with the asshole we picked up during our retaliation attempts is driving me up the fucking wall. Listening to him go on and on about what his friends are going to do once he busts out is just getting tedious, namely because he keeps saying he's going to make me suck his dick. That gets really old, really fast. I think he may be a , especially with that pencil mustache. Oh well, isn't like he's going anywhere.

I feel kinda bad for him though; he's stuck in that makeshift cell, made from a closet. Literally, we tossed him in a closet that was barely big enough to fit him and then locked the door shut. He can't get out; or so he thinks. I'm sure he could eventually break through the door if he kept trying, but after a few attempts and the canned, generic, half interested comments telling him that the door won't open he decided that was true. It's amazing what you can tell someone who thinks there's no way out. It's even more amazing when they believe every word you say because they think it might get them closer to freedom.

"What's up, Zimbardo?" There was Sophia again. It really did seem as if there was something forcing us together since the surgery. I look up from the floor and turn on the part of my brain that gives enough of a fuck to pay attention. She's standing next to me, two cups of coffee in hand, one arm outstretched to me. I take the cup from her hand and take a sip. Shit, too hot still.

"Bored outta my skull." Wait, what did she call me? On second thought, I don't want to know.

"I know the feeling; they're up there discussing how this 'war' is to be fought as if they were an ensemble of Eisenhowers." She blows into the cup, dispersing the steam that floated upwards from the coffee forward. A few seconds pass and the steam returns to its normal position. "Thought I'd come down here and see how our own little 8612 was doing."

"You mean the asshole in the closet?"

"In more blunt terms - yes." The steam rising from her cup appears to have diminished and she takes a sip from the cup, swallowing twice; choking down part of the drink. Realizing that I saw that little misstep, she giggles in an attempt to cover it up before taking another drink. I blow on my own cup and take another sip; it isn't as hot anymore, and dare I say it's a suitable temperature for drinking. I swallow the drops but can't help but notice a difference in taste - this doesn't taste like any coffee I ever had. Catching my reaction, she breaks into another giggle fit, blushing all the while. God damn; that laugh, though. I take another drink of the coffee, smacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth to try to decipher the secret ingredient.

"What's wrong?" she asks, eyes fixed on a brown stain from the coffee against the white as snow rim of the glass. The coffee/whatever mixture burned a little on the way down in a way that didn't seem much like it came from the temperature of the liquid (because as previously stated, it wasn't that hot), almost proclaiming to me that there was something else mixed in. Now, what could cause a burning sensation without necessarily being hot?

This question has likely plagued scientists with much more knowledge in this field than I for decades. Then again, them motherfuckers lying, and getting Shaggy 2 Dope pissed.

Did I seriously just make a mental ICP reference? Someone shoot me now. Preferably multiple times in the chest. From a firing squad. Whose bullets are covered in battery acid and vinegar. Something else to drag out this needlessly long death wish.

"Something's off about my drink," I finally say in response to her question. From behind the door, our guest goes off on his fifteenth tirade of the night all about how we're going to regret fucking with him and his friends or whatever shit he decides he wants to say this time. I don't quite care to catch whatever it is he decides to say this time, as I assume it to be a recycling of the last few words he said to me back fifteen minutes ago. Sophia giggles again, though I'm not sure whether it has to do with my question or whatever it was that fell out of his mouth this time.

"Off's a different way of wording it." Well, that settles that.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Saying something's wrong with it implies whatever you think is wrong is somehow an accident." Her words slurred more the longer the sentence became. What burns as it goes down and makes people slur words? Oh, shit...

"Okay, let me rephrase; what the fuck did you do to my fucking coffee?"

"Nothing!" she exclaims, putting her hands in the air, the handle of her mug precariously hanging in her grasp. "I just added a little vodka..."

"IS NO ONE LISTENING TO HOW FUCKED YOU ALL ARE?"

"Not as fucked as you'll be if you don't shut the fuck up right now!"

Anyway, I take another swig from the cup. Meh, it wasn't Jack Daniels by any stretch of the imagination but it wasn't utterly terrible. She loosens up slightly, seeing that I'm not angry by this whole incident and lowers her arms. I place the rim of the mug to my lips and refuse to pull them away until the last of the concoction has disappeared down my throat. With a satisfied "Ah," I rest the cup against the floor, tilting my head to the side and catching a glimpse of the cage that earlier on in the night could have been the spot I died. At the same time, it gave me my excuse to talk to this increasingly wonderful woman that was now once again in my company. Whether it was actually because she couldn't stand to hear them talk about war or if there was something else to it, I didn't really care.

The fact that the prisoner was pitching a bigger fit with each passing moment? Irrelevant.

Shit, was I falling for this chick? Nah, it's the alcohol. I haven't drank in a while and it's fucking with my system and throwin' me off my game. Yeah, that was it. I feel the need to drink to the point of an acquired incapability to think straight. Then, I'll fuck her and see how I feel in the morning. I look up from the ground to see her finished with her drink, and looking like she's already at that point. Oh well, this wouldn't be the first time I've hooked up with a barely able to function let alone think. Won't be the last. I look around the basement to find something else to prop up against this door so escape is even less of a possibility. No such luck. Oh well, looks like we may have to leave the prisoner unattended.

In a locked closet.

That's a lot easier to escape than he's making it out to be.

I start to chuckle to myself before the words I was planning to say come out of her mouth.

"Hey, wanna head to my room?"

"I thought you'd never ask."