4vA]^#PG#IN-7#ST-7#SP-7#DR-7#EP-7#FS-1
Post by Uatu the Watcher on Oct 19, 2008 3:10:59 GMT -5
[Brubaker, Ed (w), Michael Lark & Stefano Guadiano (a), and Frank D’Armata (c)] “The Devil in Cell-Block D Part Three” Daredevil., v2, #84, (June, 2006), Marvel Entertainment: [1-3]
Adapted By: Uatu, The Watcher
There’s an eerie silence that grips the atmosphere of Ryker’s Island after the early hours of the morning light. An unusual occurrence despite the recent events of unexplained violence and hostility. The squeaking axels of rusty wheels silence the surrounding commotion for those that hear it. All eyes are on transfer gate as the silent disruption begins to wheel its way through the cell blocks. Locks turn and doors open, passing about the disturbance. The convicts. The correctional officers. All of them seem to stop immediately at the passing. Simply staring, rarely blinking. Lips shut tight. Hearts stopping cold. They had to see it for themselves. To see what the fully armed strike team kept their firearms trained on. Their fingers twitching and resting on triggers of their weapons as set their sights on the convict they wheeled in. With every inch that the dolly rolled the new prisoner further down the hall, the correctional officers continued to keep a close and strong perimeter around the target—ready to kill at the slightest hostile gesture. Strapped into the cart, the convict’s body was held secure by a straightjacket—his mouth and jaw encompassed in a muzzle. His bare, hairless, scalp held not one drop of sweat to be seen anywhere, unlike the officers about and the other prisoners that watched, but it did proudly and infamously boast the crosshair shaped scar located in the center of his forehead. It was a greeting fit only for an assassin of Bullseye’s caliber.
As the riot squad rolled Bullseye into his new permanent residence, an eight by ten foot cell within solitary confinement, correctional officer Gruber was already waiting inside to greet the new arrival. The tall, husky, square jawed officer held a stern and firm posture in the presence of the notorious murderer, but the drops of cold sweat on his brow and stains of perspiration underneath his armpits betrayed his intentionally enforced intimidation technique. “You will be served liquid food, in plastic bags.” The nearly unnoticeable tremor in his voice diminishes the fortitude in his attitude. “You will not be given a straw, or even a spork.”
Gruber raised his hand, jamming his index finger within the vicinity of Bullseye’s facial restraints. “If at any time you attempt to cause trouble, or try to escape this cell, vents will open in the ceiling, filling the room with gas, and when we are sufficiently sure you are unconscious, I and several of my colleagues--a few of who watched you slaughter their friends during your last escape…” Gruber paused briefly, in remembrance of exactly how sinister and heartless the convict, whom he harshly addressed so unhesitatingly, in all actually hand been and was capable of doing again. Bullseye uttered not a single word despite his attempts of intimidation. “These men and I will enter this room and fire bullets into your head until we are 100 percent certain that you are dead.”
There was a demented twist as Bullseye lowered his stare—from aimlessly gazing about his new surroundings to looking C.O. Gruber directly in the eyes, and said not a single word. Simply looking.
“Is that understood?” Gruber implied that a response was necessary but expected none, and received none. And for once, even though the convict refused to respond, Gruber took not a single disciplinary action towards Bullseye in retaliation for such disobedience; except a single nod at the strike team surrounding them just before he exited the cell. Upon exiting, the officers began to chain Bullseye into his new restraints. Locked into place, wall to wall, with steel restraints and locks; for the entire remainder of Bullseye’s permanent stay at Ryker’s Island.
Adapted By: Uatu, The Watcher
There’s an eerie silence that grips the atmosphere of Ryker’s Island after the early hours of the morning light. An unusual occurrence despite the recent events of unexplained violence and hostility. The squeaking axels of rusty wheels silence the surrounding commotion for those that hear it. All eyes are on transfer gate as the silent disruption begins to wheel its way through the cell blocks. Locks turn and doors open, passing about the disturbance. The convicts. The correctional officers. All of them seem to stop immediately at the passing. Simply staring, rarely blinking. Lips shut tight. Hearts stopping cold. They had to see it for themselves. To see what the fully armed strike team kept their firearms trained on. Their fingers twitching and resting on triggers of their weapons as set their sights on the convict they wheeled in. With every inch that the dolly rolled the new prisoner further down the hall, the correctional officers continued to keep a close and strong perimeter around the target—ready to kill at the slightest hostile gesture. Strapped into the cart, the convict’s body was held secure by a straightjacket—his mouth and jaw encompassed in a muzzle. His bare, hairless, scalp held not one drop of sweat to be seen anywhere, unlike the officers about and the other prisoners that watched, but it did proudly and infamously boast the crosshair shaped scar located in the center of his forehead. It was a greeting fit only for an assassin of Bullseye’s caliber.
As the riot squad rolled Bullseye into his new permanent residence, an eight by ten foot cell within solitary confinement, correctional officer Gruber was already waiting inside to greet the new arrival. The tall, husky, square jawed officer held a stern and firm posture in the presence of the notorious murderer, but the drops of cold sweat on his brow and stains of perspiration underneath his armpits betrayed his intentionally enforced intimidation technique. “You will be served liquid food, in plastic bags.” The nearly unnoticeable tremor in his voice diminishes the fortitude in his attitude. “You will not be given a straw, or even a spork.”
Gruber raised his hand, jamming his index finger within the vicinity of Bullseye’s facial restraints. “If at any time you attempt to cause trouble, or try to escape this cell, vents will open in the ceiling, filling the room with gas, and when we are sufficiently sure you are unconscious, I and several of my colleagues--a few of who watched you slaughter their friends during your last escape…” Gruber paused briefly, in remembrance of exactly how sinister and heartless the convict, whom he harshly addressed so unhesitatingly, in all actually hand been and was capable of doing again. Bullseye uttered not a single word despite his attempts of intimidation. “These men and I will enter this room and fire bullets into your head until we are 100 percent certain that you are dead.”
There was a demented twist as Bullseye lowered his stare—from aimlessly gazing about his new surroundings to looking C.O. Gruber directly in the eyes, and said not a single word. Simply looking.
“Is that understood?” Gruber implied that a response was necessary but expected none, and received none. And for once, even though the convict refused to respond, Gruber took not a single disciplinary action towards Bullseye in retaliation for such disobedience; except a single nod at the strike team surrounding them just before he exited the cell. Upon exiting, the officers began to chain Bullseye into his new restraints. Locked into place, wall to wall, with steel restraints and locks; for the entire remainder of Bullseye’s permanent stay at Ryker’s Island.