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Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick....
The clock on the wall, the only thing approaching an amenity or courtesy they'd left to him in this place, incessantly ticked on and on, mockingly counting the passage of time. Beneath the clock itself, linked to the timepiece itself, was another timer. Slowly it counted down, and down, and down, displaying the time remaining until it ran out.
Until his sentence ran out.
There were no bars in his cell, no windows, no door. They hadn't taken any chances with him, not with his absurd strength and habit of finding a way out of any 'normal' prison. There was nowhere here for him to get leverage to try and rip his way through the walls, and with the state he'd been left in of being just short of starved to keep his strength in check, he couldn't just punch through the walls.
It was a sad, sad state of affairs.
In spite of it all, though...the look in his eyes had never changed. The grin that split his mouth wide, exposing his teeth to the world, had never died down. The anger and hunger had never left him, depression or resignation had never taken root. Even in circumstances this poor, when he knew full well that he had been sent into certain death, his deranged pride and self-assured knowledge that he would survive and not only get out, but deliver payback in more than equal measure, had given him enough sustenance to survive.
The fact that he suspected his Gourmet Cells had gone into dormancy to conserve what little strength he had also helped. It provided another dose of kindling to the fire that burned just below the surface, of course; without his Gourmet Cells fully active, he had lost most of his power, especially in his starved state. He didn't even have the juice to shatter this place wide open with a Sound Bazooka, or blow the head off of one of his 'guards' with his Machine Gun Voice. He might as well have just been a normal human.
And that made Zebra very, very angry. Angry enough to resort to the one thing he despised; the one tactic he loathed above all others: Patience.
He had bided his time, let himself be starved out and weakened, but saving up every ounce of strength he could. Every spare calorie, every spare second. He hadn't even moved, save to eat the few meager bits of food that he was served up, in weeks now. It was still a pitiful, weak amount of energy, and he had been exhausted and half-asleep most of the day now. The growling of his stomach was akin to a mad beast's snarls of anger, but it didn't sway him from his plans.
Because they were working. Any day now, he would finally have the strength again. The strength for one last burst of sheer force. It was a desperate gamble, all hinging on whether he could manage to put the strength he'd squirreled away to quick enough use to make a go at his escape.
Just one key second; one solid grip on the only way in or out of here when it opened...
Just the way he liked it.
The clock on the wall, the only thing approaching an amenity or courtesy they'd left to him in this place, incessantly ticked on and on, mockingly counting the passage of time. Beneath the clock itself, linked to the timepiece itself, was another timer. Slowly it counted down, and down, and down, displaying the time remaining until it ran out.
Until his sentence ran out.
There were no bars in his cell, no windows, no door. They hadn't taken any chances with him, not with his absurd strength and habit of finding a way out of any 'normal' prison. There was nowhere here for him to get leverage to try and rip his way through the walls, and with the state he'd been left in of being just short of starved to keep his strength in check, he couldn't just punch through the walls.
It was a sad, sad state of affairs.
In spite of it all, though...the look in his eyes had never changed. The grin that split his mouth wide, exposing his teeth to the world, had never died down. The anger and hunger had never left him, depression or resignation had never taken root. Even in circumstances this poor, when he knew full well that he had been sent into certain death, his deranged pride and self-assured knowledge that he would survive and not only get out, but deliver payback in more than equal measure, had given him enough sustenance to survive.
The fact that he suspected his Gourmet Cells had gone into dormancy to conserve what little strength he had also helped. It provided another dose of kindling to the fire that burned just below the surface, of course; without his Gourmet Cells fully active, he had lost most of his power, especially in his starved state. He didn't even have the juice to shatter this place wide open with a Sound Bazooka, or blow the head off of one of his 'guards' with his Machine Gun Voice. He might as well have just been a normal human.
And that made Zebra very, very angry. Angry enough to resort to the one thing he despised; the one tactic he loathed above all others: Patience.
He had bided his time, let himself be starved out and weakened, but saving up every ounce of strength he could. Every spare calorie, every spare second. He hadn't even moved, save to eat the few meager bits of food that he was served up, in weeks now. It was still a pitiful, weak amount of energy, and he had been exhausted and half-asleep most of the day now. The growling of his stomach was akin to a mad beast's snarls of anger, but it didn't sway him from his plans.
Because they were working. Any day now, he would finally have the strength again. The strength for one last burst of sheer force. It was a desperate gamble, all hinging on whether he could manage to put the strength he'd squirreled away to quick enough use to make a go at his escape.
Just one key second; one solid grip on the only way in or out of here when it opened...
Just the way he liked it.