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If anything changes in the world outside, you don't know about it. You hear nothing in here.
Death, death, death, over and over.
It's kind of a relief when the accumulated trauma drives you mad: for several weeks you are not yourself, so in a sense you're not *<span class="mu-i">here</span>*.
You do notice that you've grown bigger though: they've refitted the iron bed several times to accommodate your increased proportions.
You're a proppa Oik now.
Still trapped though.
°°°
You have considered breaking your limbs and using the bone splinters for a shank or something, but you're not strong enough to do that, and your jailers keep a good watch on you. They're paid five of your bodies a shift; very generous for many and two Times of work a day.
Shammies don't get anything, from what you can tell; you're one of their Dooties now.
°°°
You do try to talk to the Shammies n MeatWerkaz whenever you have lungs; they've been instructed never to answer you direct, only to ask you if you're ready to talk.
Your answer is allus no.
It speeds up your mindbreak-cycles farsta.
