A/N: The saega continues... for those of you confused about her age, she's thirteen in this one. I'm going by her on screen age, so in 2013 she'd have been 18/19, whatever it was. Thanks to LeMasquerade as usual for updating me on prison life and shooting down my dumb, uncultured ideas. Remember where Santana put that can before?

August 9th, 2007

For somebody who'd never been outside of New York City, Santana saw more trees in the four and a half hour drive to Taberg than she had in her whole life. She was strangely preoccupied with the scenery that smelled like warm grass and cow shit—an unappealing combination, but miles better than thinking about the shackles that bound her limbs together in a way humans were never meant to sustain. Chains ran from her wrists and her legs to eventually join together, prompting an awkward shuffling gait that had her almost tripping over herself as she crawled into the van waiting out back to whisk her away. She'd barely caught a glimpse of anybody she knew before she headed off to Who The Fuck Knows, USA. And she was going to be stuck with her glasses for a whole month. Fuck.

The sole other occupant of the cramped space was a burly officer who smelled strangely like a cologne much too expensive for somebody of his payroll. It spread out into all four corners of the place until Santana capitulated out of agony and put herself as prone on the bench as she could with her chains, hiding her face in the wood to escape the smell.

Before being shuttled in, Shelby had managed to catch her for a few moments. Santana had never heard of Taberg, but Shelby had, its setting infamous for the high rate of violence against both residents and staff.

"It's only limited security," she had tried to console the teen several times, "don't piss anybody off and your stay won't be that bad." But after carefully looking around she had covered Santana's hands with her own through the bars and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "A lot of those kids are from New York City and they're doing much harder time than you," she cautioned. "Be careful who you try to make friends with."

I don't need friends, Santana had grumped right back, caught up in the moment of trying to be cool and collected while secretly on the verge of passing out.

The van wound its way through a countryside she didn't even know existed, passing indifferent animals and large tractors growling in the mid-morning air as the farmers did their rounds. It was all rather quaint, in a sense; Santana could have watched it for the entirety of her drive, but was instead caught up in a staring match with a little kid in the car next to them. She refused to look away as they glared at each other with undisguised hostility the entire way there.

A sharp corner was turned and hid the van away from the general populace—Santana leaned back in her uncomfortable seat in triumph.

The feeling didn't last.

While some facilities attempt to distract from the unfortunate fact that residents will be rotting away inside their walls, sometimes for years, Taberg was an awkward mix; secure while attempting to be welcoming. Towering chain-link tipped with razor wire was the first barrier to cross as they made their way into the compound, crawling through manually swung gates and crunching over thrown gravel. Santana nearly fell from her bench as they turned right and finally approached one of three bricked buildings before coming to a screeching stop by the doors. Everywhere she looked was the constant looming presence of barbed wire and men who were much, much bigger than her. Strangely enough, there was more grass in the enclosure than she'd seen the entire time she lived in Brooklyn.

Limited security my ass.

They shuffled her indoors and stripped her of everything she owned, socks and all. The man that patted her down was impartial and his hands quick, fleeting; his touch still sent revulsion through her and she flinched away as he went for her front. After discerning that, no, she wasn't hiding a weapon of mass destruction up her ass, they led her to a tiled room with two identical shower heads and a stack of clothing in the corner.

"Strip down," they commanded, and her cheeks burned as she pulled off her court clothing, handing it to them only to be ushered under the stream of water. She sputtered, wiping the spray from her glasses, and glared at the shadow she could see from around the corner. "You have five minutes, kid," the shadow said, gesturing to the little shampoo bottles within her reach.

To spite them, Santana took seven.

Freshly showered and dripping water down her back, she wrung out her hair and wrestled herself into the oversized shirt and sweatpants before stepping into the jumpsuit offered. It was a light red and bared JUVENILE across her shoulder-blades mockingly, the sleeves slipping past her wrists and rubbing against her palms. Her glasses were foreign upon her nose and made her feel gangly and awkward.

"Don't you guys have a smaller one? I'm drownin' in this," she huffed as they took her back with them through another corridor, white sneakers slapping against the tiles and the equally white laces clashing horribly with her complexion.

One of her guards—a woman who looked more like a thing than a person—snorted and towed Santana along regardless of her resistance. "No use making a big hoopla about nothing, girl. That's the smallest one we've got."

(Babies this small shouldn't be in jail in the first place.)

They took her through the halls that looked all the same, stopping eventually in front of a large metal door. It was the only thing with any semblance of uniqueness, its uniformity marred by the blocky WARDEN punched into the brass plating. Two other girls were sitting in chains beside the door, one looking worried and the other casually gnawing on what appeared to be a fist-sized chunk of gum.

Her guard sighed. "In trouble again?" the girl slobbering on her hunk of gum smiled sweetly and shrugged her shoulders.

"What can I say, Ms. Hagberg? Nobody can resist the Motta charm." Santana eyed her warily; she had to be younger than her. The jumpsuit she was wearing was even larger.

"Damn troublemakers," Hagberg grumbled. "You been seen yet?"

A massive bubble blown, precariously close to exploding all over each of them. "Yup."

Her guard blinked slowly, obvious baffled. Santana hid her smirk poorly in the crook of her shoulder.

"Then move out. Hanging around like a stray dog ain't going to get you no scraps."

"Nope." As if possessing a third lung, the tiny girl sucked that infuriatingly pink wad of gum back into her mouth without harm. "Mama told me to hang around and wait for you. I'm supposed to be a guide or something."

Hagberg sighed and shook her head, muttering something about hooligans as she pounded her knuckles on the door in front of them. It swung open a moment later and Santana was pushed into the room, hearing an undignified yelp as Hagberg stuck out her arm and yanked Motta in after them.

The room was sparse in furniture, but the walls were decorated with pictures and photographs—from intricately framed and professional looking shoots of the prison to hand-drawn sketches with names signed in scrawl at the bottom. They gave life to an otherwise imposing space, highlighted by the single metal chair seated before a heavy oak desk. A woman hunched over it, her styled hair shadowing her face, hand furiously scribbling upon a sheet of paper. Santana was sat down—rather abruptly—in the seat and stayed awkwardly fidgeting until the woman looked up.

In retrospect, she looked nothing like the warden of a prison. Her dark skin was flawless and her nails manicured, her hair swept over her forehead. Being surrounded by various medals from unknown factions and accomplishments, however, made her no less imposing.

"Santana, I'm guessing?" she asked, setting her pen down and fixing her with an unwavering stare. The girl nodded and raised her chin in defiance though her insides were rioting against her. A ghost of a smile appeared on the warden's lips.

"No need for that, chickie. I've stared down girls that could twist you into a teeny little pretzel and use your hair as floss for teeth that would make a dentist cry."

A silent beat passed before Santana bit her lip and deflated in her seat, slouching a little bit lower than her usual posture would allow.

"That's better." She laced her hands in front of her. Santana fixed her gaze on the smooth skin of her pale palms and the deep wrinkles that ran through them and betrayed her age; they were strong hands that boasted a lifetime of no compromises. She clenched her own fists and wished for the same. "Now, I'm not sure how much you heard on the trip here, but you're at the Taberg Residental Center for Girls in... well, you guessed it, Taberg. There are about twenty girls here at any time from ages thirteen to seventeen—Miss Motta here is an exception at twelve."

Santana raised her eyebrows in surprise and glanced over to the girl who was now waving cheerfully at her from her position in the corner. Something about her face was familiar...

"I, myself, am the Matron. You're all supposed to call me Warden Washington or something dusty like that, but then I feel older than Hugh Hefner when he realized that he almost hired his granddaughter as a bunny. Most of the girls around here just call me Mama."

"Like that movie?" Santana asked curiously, squinting. There was some resemblance if you took away the tracksuit and added some weight.

Mama smiled, obviously pleased at being linked to Queen Latifah. "Exactly like the movie."

This was starting to feel less like jail and more like a visit to distant relatives. Santana rubbed her eyes tiredly from under her glasses and took a moment to assess if she should bother delving further into this; a snarky if you're good to Mama, will she be good to you wobbled on the tip of her tongue before she swallowed it down instead. She still had some measure of self-preservation.

"You're only here for a month, so you shouldn't get too comfortable in that seat," Mama said, startling her from her musings. "Fortunately for you lights are going out pretty soon, so you've got a little while to settle in. Life here isn't terribly complicated or difficult if you do what you're told." She leaned forward in her seat, pushing what looked like a map towards the middle of the desk. "Wake-up is at seven o'clock sharp, and breakfast is at seven thirty. Class starts at eight, but only being here for a month won't teach you much—provided you don't come back." The steely warning stare she received made her swallow thickly with a nod. "After school... well, you're encouraged to move around but some girls go back to sleep because they have nothing to do with their lazy asses, if you'll excuse my French."

One of her nails tapped what looked to be a brick building with four chambers linked to the center, off to the left of the compound. "This is the main living center. It has four pods that the girls sleep in, with a cafeteria in the center and a guard office up top. There are working showers, enough for all of you—daily showering is mandatory, by the way—but you should probably wear shower shoes anyway. Who knows what some of them have. On weekends and after class, you can take place in various workshops or use the gym. Somebody teaches yoga at night if that's your style."

Mama leaned back in her seat and Santana took the map to study it—the compound was fairly small in the end, with only three big buildings and a bunch of staff-only smaller ones scattered about. She had promised herself to start working out...

"Dinner is gonna end soon, so you're going to have to wait until tomorrow for breakfast. Ms. Motta will guide you around and show you the ropes... she doesn't look it, but she's a crafty one."

Santana glanced back at the vacant smile and wondered how much of it was just for show.

Mama got up from her seat, packing her files away. "Ms. Hagberg, it's time to show Santana to her room."

The clank of chains from behind her alert her to the fact that the younger girl had also risen—moments later they freed themselves from her wrists and wound up again in the guard's pocket. Motta rubbed her wrists with a pout. "Was that really necessary, Mama?"

The older woman grinned. "Just precautions, Sugs. You know how it is."

They were all lead to the door by Hagberg, stopped only by Mama's voice floating out from the end of the office.

"If you behave, you'll learn to enjoy your stay here, Santana," she promised in a way that sounded more like a warning, and before she could reply the doors swung closed. As they were escorted from the building and out into the open air, her escort turned to her so quick she thought she'd fall over.

"So I've never been a mentor before and I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm totally sure we'll be great friends! I'm awesome and you look pretty awesome too."

Santana eyed her warily; taking her silence as confusion, the other girl grinned. "Oh, right, introductions! I'm Sugar. Sugar Motta, but only Mama uses my last name. I'm kind of an icon around here."

"Wait, wait..." Santana stared at the tiny girl before her. "Sugar Motta? As in, daughter-of-billionaire-tycoon-that-makes-pianos-on-the-side Daniel Motta?"

Now that she can place the face to the name, she's unsure how she missed the connection. Sugar was all over the news a few months ago when she took her father's best Jaguar for a joyride and ended up cementing it into a massive corporate building—her father's enemy, no less. True to American tradition, he'd been sued so hard that media buzz speculated his company would go under. It didn't, miraculously, but his reputation had certainly been compromised.

"That's me!" Sugar said happily, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers as they walked through the courtyard. "I'm the hottest thing in this dump."

Santana scratched her temple in confusion. "Why are you here? Shouldn't your daddy have put you in some cushy lockup in London or some shit?"

"Unfortunately not," Sugar sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes to the sky. "The man who owned the building I broke said that he'd 'take every penny our descendants would ever own' if my dad didn't do something with me. So, instead of being poor like a whole bunch of other people—and probably like you too... oh, sorry, Asperger's—he decided to put me here for a few months so I can say I've learned my lesson."

"Is it working?"

"Not really... it's so boring here when you don't have to fight off being somebody's bitch." At Santana's look of alarm, she laughed. "Don't worry, you'll be okay. Just gotta watch out for The Mack, she likes to torment the new girls. I think she's just angry she sucks."

They could hear Hagberg huffing and puffing behind them, but were unsure if it was a scoff at Sugar's story or just general exertion. Soon enough she halted them with a heavy hand on both their shoulders, wobbling up to a blank, white door. It swung open to reveal yet another long hallway.

"God," Santana groaned as she was shuttled into a little room. "Don't you people have more imagination than this? I'm going to gouge my eyes out any second now."

A pile of blankets were placed in her arms and some sheets, all as white as the walls.

"Good," Hagberg said, pointing her back into the hallway. "Maybe that'll stop you from causing trouble. You're in Pod C."

Sugar stepped in with what Santana assumed to be a pout (it looked like she was having facial spasms more than anything, but she bit her lip and kept quiet). "Can Santana be my bunkie? We don't wanna pair her with Lauren, she'll die!"

The guard rolled her eyes. "She's going to be partnered with Aphasia. Now quit your stalling and get back to your dorm."

Sugar flinched at the name and looked to Santana with a pitying expression. "Sucks for you."

Santana looked at her suspiciously. What kind of ghetto-ass name is Aphasia? They were marched back through a large open area with tables in straight rows—the smell of food wafted through the air and Santana groaned quietly as her stomach panged, having not eaten anything since her appearance in court earlier that day. Various girls were scattered around the room and their voices echoed in a million different directions. Several played cards and shrieked as one slighter girl swept the table with a triumphant shout. She waved her spoils in the air viciously—a can of what looked to be Dr. Pepper—and laughed openly as one of her larger adversaries spouted profanities bad enough to make even Santana look twice. Strangely enough, they all had green or yellow laces in their shoes. Even stranger (or maybe not), only one of them was white—the girl that seemed to have lost her drink.

"That's The Mack." Sugar mumbled as the focus of their attention snarled and stalked away. "Until you make friends, you shouldn't talk to her. She likes to pretend she's tough by terrorizing the younger girls."

Their observation was cut short when Hagberg led them into another room, more enclosed this time, with a maze of drywall barriers cutting through in every direction. She could hear the quiet muttering of a few girls already, slippery with secrets, slithering away as they drew nearer.

"Here we are, Pod C. You get the top bunk, Lopez. Make your bed and soon enough it'll be lights out—new inmates have a bedtime of 8:15."

Santana stared at her so hard she was sure her eyes dried out. "8:15? I haven't gone to bed that early since I was nine."

The first smile she'd seen Hagberg pull came then, and it was at her expense. Typical.

"Guess you've been demoted. Get to it!"

She marched right back out of the room, towing Sugar and her promises to meet up for breakfast behind her. Santana watched them leave with a heavy sigh, absently running her fingers through the thin cotton of one of her blankets. How the hell did she get here? Last night she was sleeping fitfully in the sheets of her real bed after hanging out with Puck all day, curled up like a silk caterpillar caught in its own web. Sure, she'd heard stories of prison and the horrors; showering and eating and shanking, always watching your back to make sure nobody jumps on it, weathering the brutality of the staff... but nobody says anything about the sudden, crippling loneliness or unease of being in the wrong place with nobody to rely on. She smoothed down the crisp sheets in her bed, clambering up the little ladder and worming down as far as possible until only her eyes peered out from the blanket. Securing her glasses on a little perch to her right, she glared at the wall in front of her face until the last call went out and the lights shut off for good. A creak underneath her of a body settling in, but by the time her bunkmate had decided to peer up and look, she was fast asleep.

Santana awoke the next morning to Sugar Motta peering into her face. She grunted and recoiled, smacking her head on the corner of the little shelf and sending her glasses tumbling to the floor.

"Learn some fuckin' manners, Sugar!" she hissed, cradling the back of her head and snatching the offered item from Sugar's hands to slide them back onto her face. She could kind of see her guilty expression but ignored it, worming her way out of bed and stepping down onto the cement flooring. Even through the socks she could feel the cold.

"Jesus," she muttered, awkwardly worming into a long sleeved shirt under her jumpsuit, "I'm freezing my tits off in here."

"Yup!" Sugar replied, ever cheerful. "AC's on the fritz this time of day. Should clear up by mid-morning."

They began their walk to the center of the Pod, where Santana could already hear the raucous laughter of a few girls so early in the morning. Absently, she wondered which one was her roommate. "We going to class today?"

Sugar slid down the banister, ignoring the reprimand from a watching supervisor. "It's Saturday, silly! Only immigrants have class on Saturday." She paused and studiously took in Santana's skin tone before offering an insincere shrug. "Oops, Asperger's."

The whole quad seemed to dim as they came into view; there was the sudden burning sensation of a million pairs of eyes upon her, raking, testing, debating. She bristled and stood up straighter, cursing her glasses once again as she slid them up the bridge of her nose and strode towards the line-up with Sugar unbothered by her side. There were only a few girls still waiting for their food, chatting amicably, though it paused as Santana neared.

"You new here?" one of them asked, smacking an obscenely bright piece of gum. It was reminiscent of Sugar yesterday without the slight cute factor—it made her look like constipated livestock, a fact which Santana could barely hide. The other girl whacked the first one upside the head in annoyance.

"'Course she's new, dumbshit. You ever seen her around before?"

"Don't call me a dumbshit!"

"Well, that's what you are!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Nuh-uh!"

Santana watched in disbelief as they snarled at each other in full view of the whole court, almost coming to blows before the watching supe pulled them apart with a forceful yank.

"No need to show the new kid the ugly, girls. Go get your food."

They grumbled and advanced in the cafeteria line with a sour glance backwards, ignoring Sugar's wave.

"Who are they?" Santana asked, picking up a tray as she passed them. With the bickering stopped the noise in the cafeteria had picked up, surprisingly loud for so few residents.

Sugar shrugged and swiped a carton of apple juice from another girl's plate, disregarding a Sugs, that gets a girl shanked 'round here! from an onlooker. "Karla and Keisha. They've been here about two months or so. Basic bitches, both of them."

"Heard that, Motta!" a voice floated from behind the little separation wall, and Sugar simply offered a wide grin with a blown kiss.

They shuffled through the line as they inched closer and closer to their food—Santana attempted to get a good look around at her surroundings, some attempt at weighing her chances with certain groups or something equally as pointless (considering she's been stuck with Sugar, she'll either have an easy time anywhere, or no time at all), but the call of breakfast far outweighed any hopes of her meager attention span. Santana's mouth watered as she came face to face with one of the cafeteria ladies who peered at her hard through her thick glasses.

"You new here?" she asked, shovelling her food into her little containers. Santana saw glimpses of pancakes before she turned to pick something up and brought the container with her.

"Yup," she replied impatiently, tapping her foot as her stomach growled its discontent.

Amused at her desperation, the lady handed over her container and a carton of milk. "Don't let somebody steal it all, sweet cheeks," she warned only half jokingly. "You look like you need it more than they do."

She had half a mind to wonder why people always seemed to be telling her to be careful, but Sugar dragged her from the line and to a table before she could ask. Fork in hand, she flipped open her container and began to bulldoze through her meal with her guide watching on in fascination.

To her surprise, the food wasn't bad. Oh, it certainly wasn't good, not like Rita's homemade pies and pancakes were, but it was far more than edible. She'd eaten half her pancakes before she remembered the syrup, and drowned the rest of them in it.

"Are you okay? You look kinda insane," Sugar asked, eyebrows raising as Santana swallowed a few grapes whole. She paused for a moment, glancing up at her, before grunting and going back to her meal.

"Hafnt e'en shince 'unch," she said between a few mouthfuls, barely stopping to breathe. She was on her last pancake and starting to feel full again when a shadow fell over the table—only Sugar's quiet damn it alerted her to the fact anything was amiss. She scowled, forcing the food down as she glanced up at the girl towering over her plate. She recognized her almost instantly as the one that had a fit yesterday when she lost her container of Dr. Pepper.

"What do you want?" Santana snapped, a bit more abruptly than she had intended, hunching protectively over her food like a mothering vulture.

The Mack's eyebrows raised almost mockingly at her tone. "That any way to say hello?" she asked, leaning down upon the table with her hands. Santana didn't miss the way her eyes lingered on her plate.

"Any way is a good way to say hi," Sugar informed them both seriously, shrinking back a little when The Mack fixed her annoyed stare upon her instead. Still scowling, Santana speared her last pancake and began to cut it; however, a large hand pulled her container away from her and it slipped from her fork. She stared at The Mack in disbelief as she popped one of her grapes into her greedy mouth.

"Hey!" she yelled, getting the attention of several other girls who whispered in anticipation between themselves. "Get your fuckin' hands off my food!"

The Mack simply smirked and tore off a piece of pancake. "What you gonna do about it, shrimp?"

She had a point—Santana was small for her age, and The Mack certainly wasn't. She gritted her teeth and her skin heated with that familiar frustration as the older girl slowly placed the pancake piece in her mouth, closing her eyes to relish the sweet syrup.

Snarling, Santana sunk the plastic fork into the back of her outstretched hand.

Even though two of the prongs snapped upon impact it did its job with impressive results; The Mack shrieked and reared back, allowing Santana to rescue her precious pancakes before they splattered all over the floor. A collective chorus of ooooh raised in the cafeteria as The Mack whirled to her, clutching her hand that dripped small rivulets of blood.

At her disbelieving stare, Santana shrugged. "Don't touch my food."

As if summoned, Hagberg came down the stairs into the cafeteria that had exploded into a chorus of raucous conversation upon seeing Santana's reckless stand. She cast her eyes right, then left, flitting over the bloody fork and The Mack seething with rage to Santana, looking so very small despite the snarl on her lips. She sighed and clamped a hand over both their shoulders. "Looks like you're both paying a visit to the warden."

Santana grabbed the remains of her last pancake and stuffed it in her mouth. "So worth it," she mumbled, licking the syrup from her palm. Sugar made to get up, but Hagberg pinned her to the table with a glare.

"Oh no, you're staying there, Motta. For all I know, you good-for-nothin' is what started this damn mess."

"I didn't do anything!" Sugar protested stubbornly, mouthing a sorry to Santana when Hagberg refused to budge. Though she'd known her for all of half a day, going somewhere without a familiar face sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine. The Mack was handed off to the nurse's station after a brief detour; the woman in charge took one look at her and shook her head, almost dragging her in by the ear. She distantly heard a when will you ever learn? before the door closed and she was marched back down that same hallway to the brass-plated warden's door.

"We got a return call, warden," Hagberg said dryly, pushing Santana forward between the shoulder-blades when she hesitated. Mama put down her pen and raised her eyebrows as she was made to stand at the center of the room, arms crossed protectively over her chest.

"You've been in residency for all of, what, fourteen hours, and you've already managed to get into trouble?" She clicked her tongue and wove her fingers together, laying those strong hands firmly upon the table. The gesture made Santana gulp nervously. "What did you see, Ms. Hagberg?" she asked, never taking her eyes of the teen.

"This one put a fork into Mackenzie's hand," Hagberg grumped. "Don't know how she managed with such piece o' junk utensils, but it happened."

"Was she injured?" Mama asked calmly, giving Santana a look that made her want to sink into the floor.

"She was bleedin', but you know her. Make it worse than it is so she gets favourites."

Mama sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose before getting up, crossing the space so she could instead lean on the front of the desk and close the gap left between them. Without it, she felt less imposing despite her taller stature.

"You're not a bad kid, Santana," Mama said, looking at her intently. "Why'd you go and do something like that?"

You don't know shit, Santana thought internally, but decided if bad kids were kids like this Mack girl, then maybe she didn't want to be her kind of bad. "She tried to take my food," she mumbled instead, scowling at the floor.

"Mackenzie did?" Mama prodded, to which Santana grunted in exasperation.

"No, Sugar. Who else?" she snapped, tightening her arms across her chest.

"Watch your tone, Lopez." Hagberg warned, but Mama waved her off before she could take a step forward.

The warden perched upon her desk. "So instead of informing somebody else who could do something, you decided to stab her with a plastic fork?"

Upon retrospect it seemed rather silly, but Santana was not one to back down from her actions. "By the time anybody would have gotten there, she'd have taken my pancakes. It was the first thing to come to mind."

At Mama's intense stare, she ducked her head and murmured, "And I ain't no snitch, either."

Omertà, Santana. You know what is right and what is easy.

Warden Washington shook her head in irritation; hearing that phrase one too many times grates on the nerves. So instead of reprimanding her, she twiddled her pen between her fingers and rested her elbows upon her knees. "Here's what's going to happen," she started, prompting Santana to look up for the first time in the conversation. "Because you're so new here and it was a minor incident, I'm not going to ding you, but consider it your warning. You step out of line like that again, and I promise that you won't like the results. You're only here for a month, and it would be a shame to double your sentence because you can't control your temper."

Santana blanched at the thought of staying longer than she possibly had to, and nodded her head furiously in agreement. A hint of a smile graced Mama's lips.

"It's only Saturday, so I suggest you take the time to tour around the facility, hopefully with Miss Motta by your side. Maybe you'll pick up a new hobby."

Santana arched a brow. "Like what? Knitting?"

"Like weightlifting. You're looking a bit on the scrawny side," Mama replied, smirking fully when Santana gaped at her accusingly.

"Did- did you just call me weak?" Santana exclaimed incredulously, resisting the urge to fling her hands out like Giovanni when he gets irritated.

"Did I?" was the reply, followed by an amused, "You can take her back to Pod C, Ms. Hagberg. I think we're done here."

Before she could protest, she was whisked away from the room and down the hallway that was now beginning to become familiar. To her surprise, Sugar was standing there waiting, looking entirely like a lost puppy waiting for its owner to return. Hagberg obviously thought the same.

"I thought I told you to stay put," she grumbled, herding them both back into the cafeteria.

"Breakfast finished and I was bored," Sugar shrugged in reply, looping an arm through Santana's and ignoring her venomous glare with abandon. "Besides, we can go wherever we're cleared to go. See these laces?" She lifted her left foot, which boasted a pair of dirty yellow shoelaces in her tiny white shoes. "Means I can wander around nearly anywhere without supervision. I guess I decided I wanted to go down here for the scenery."

Santana looked at her curiously, noting now that each girl still in the cafeteria wore similar laces—some blue, some yellow. A few were green, and she was currently the only one with white. Sugar read her expression correctly (for once) and smiled, pleased to be of help.

"They show your ranking in the lock-up. White laces mean you're a newbie—that's how they tell a lot of times, that and the fact you don't know what you're doing. Blue means you've been around a week or so and you're out of that beginner stage so you can't blame not knowing for doing something stupid. Well, they say you can't, but I still do." With a surprisingly strong grip on her arm she steered them outside to where the sun was in full force, beating down over the shadeless courtyard. Santana flinched and covered her eyes with her other hand, giving up on freeing her arm from Sugar's iron hold.

"What about yellow and green?" Santana asked, stumbling once or twice over her own feet as she was pulled along. A few other girls roamed about in groups of two or three; some were following the gravel paths, but others were simply spreading out over the grass without much of a care at all. What kind of prison is this supposed to be?

"That means you're higher up. Yellow, like me, doesn't really mean you're a senior—I've been here like a month or something, I'm not old—but I guess it means they think they can trust you? I dunno why they didn't in the first place, I mean, I'm flawless. But anyway, I can go wherever I want as long as it isn't staff-only places or with the 'problem girls'."

Her expression gave her away, and Sugar sighed. "Girls that have bigger issues than we do. Your bunkie, Aphasia? She's one of them."

"What did she do?" Santana asked, intrigued, but Sugar glanced around nervously and refused to tell her.

"You'll have to ask her yourself," she muttered instead, tugging Santana along until they arrived at the front doors of a long, squat building that glared at them through two drooping eyes. A long time ago, somebody had tried to paint the brick it was made from, but the colour had long since leeched off, leaving nothing but echoes of a brighter time (a brighter life).

"What's this place?" she asked as she got dragged through the large metal doors, stepping into a short corridor that had a desk shoved into the far corner, a bored looking supe flipping through an old magazine with their heavy, duty-issued boots slung up on the top counter. In the awkwardly constructed space there were pictures at one time; vague impressions of little rectangles hung upon the walls, but somebody had taken them down and neglected to replace them. It made it all seem rather abandoned, almost eerie in the flickering light despite the glaring sunlight outside.

Sugar took her through into a large court where a few girls were playing basketball, a sweat already worked up so early in the morning. Equipment was shoved up upon one wall; worn weights, an ancient looking treadmill, a bench press with a suicidal amount of weight on it. (Lauren, Sugar whispered.) Through the only tiny window sat a massive track, surrounded on three sides by razor wire fencing.

"This is the gym," Sugar revealed, like it wasn't obvious. "I have a feeling you're gonna be spending a lot of time here, so I have to get used to the smell of failure."

Santana arched an eyebrow and her new friend grinned, unrepentant. "I heard how offended you were when Mama called you scrawny. That tone means two things around here."

"Which are?"

"Either somebody's gonna get beat in their sleep—though I doubt that unless you have a death wish—or you're gonna do everything you can to prove her wrong. Just don't turn into a bodybuilder... it's really creepy that their muscles have muscles."

Hey, I—" Santana paused and eyed her suspiciously, "how did you hear that? The door was closed."

All she received was an unsettlingly sweet smile.

Sugar checked her non-existent watch, glancing to the door. "I'm gonna let you do whatever it is fit people do, I got a poker game soon. I'm really craving Karla's portion of chips right now, and she always blinks when she's bluffing." She started to walk away before Santana called her back.

"Those laces. You never told me what the green ones mean." Their gazes travelled over to one of the girls playing basketball, her deep green laces a sharp contrast to her white, white shoes.

Her companion shrugged. "Crazy bitches, all of them. Try not to make friends."

Santana stared after her for a long time before she picked up the first of many weights in her life.

If there was one thing Santana was right about, it was that there was way too much spare time in jail. Saturday and Sunday were spent wandering around the hallways, learning the rooms and different pods, familiarizing herself with the gym and the track. She had always liked to run, sure, but it wasn't a pastime; she'd done more laps in the last few days than she had in her entire life. Monday to Friday was school (who the fuck even goes to school in the summer?) which was an exercise in futility; none of the girls wanted to learn shit, and spent most of their time passing notes or daydreaming. Sugar had secured her a seat next to her, and the two spent their hours communicating with little doodles that grew increasingly cryptic and obscure as the days went by. Afterwards, Santana would spend ages in the gym, watching the other girls play basketball or soccer while she worked out. They never talked to her, and she liked it that way.

The same day she got blue laces was the day she met Lauren.

Well, really, she'd already seen Lauren quite a few times—who couldn't? She was the biggest girl there, and even The Mack knew not to fuck with her. Lauren spent a long time at the gym, too, lifting weights that were probably heavier than Santana would ever be without any effort. Sometimes she couldn't help but stare, and eventually, the older girl took pity on her.

"Shortstack," Lauren called out on a Monday, right as Santana was stretching out, "come over here for a second."

Santana turned her head to glare. "Who the fuck you callin' short?"

Lauren rolled her eyes, placing one large hand on her hip. "Don't start that bullshit with me. I could rip that sharp little tongue right out of your mouth if I wanted."

Wanky, Santana muttered under her breath but got up anyway, walking over to Lauren. Upon standing face to face for the first time, the only thing she could think of was—

"God fucking damn you're big," Santana blurted out, tipping her head back to look at the other girl more fully. Lauren smirked, eyes narrowed through her glasses.

"And you have no idea what you're doing," she replied back, watching in amusement as Santana bristled below her. "I've seen you do a bunch of useless shit 'cause Mama called you scrawny."

"How did you—" Santana paused, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Sugar," she sighed in irritation. Girl couldn't keep her mouth shut to save her life. "Look, what do you want?" she continued in annoyance, "you come here just to insult me?"

Straight to the point... Lauren could appreciate that. "No, I've come to make you an offer." Her lips curled into a smug smirk when Santana's eyebrows raised appraisingly. She'd seen that look enough times. Go on. "You obviously wanna get in shape for some reason that I don't really care about, and I know how to make it happen. You listen to me, and you'll be throwing girls like The Mack over your shoulders easy."

But Santana's been around long enough to know that Lauren isn't somebody to offer something out of pity. "What do you want from me?" she asked suspiciously, looking around at the other girls milling about on the court.

"Dr. Pepper," Lauren replied mildly, unblinking when Santana stared at her.

"Can't you get that shit yourself?" Santana asked with a frown. "I've seen it at the commissary all the damn time."

"Unlike you, I'm broke as shit," Lauren said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Not like it even matters, they've banned it after a fight broke out over the last can. There's only one left until the next batch comes in."

Santana sighed. "Why don't you just get it yourself? Ain't nobody gonna mess with you."

Lauren shook her head. "There's only one person that hoards that shit like it's her baby, and I ain't crossing her."

Who would it be? Santana remembered her first day here and the poker game, The Mack losing her precious can of Dr. Pepper in an angry, drawn out match. The winner rubbed it in her face so badly that Santana swore The Mack would lunge over the table and strangle the life out of her.

"Aphasia," Santana said flatly, recognizing the victor.

"Aphasia," Lauren agreed, the dull reflection of the grimy windows obscuring her eyes. She saw the wheels in Santana's head churn violently, a furrow appearing between her brows. Girl will be a heartbreaker one day, she noted with mild interest as Santana blows out a huff of air through her nose. Could be useful. "Do we have a deal?"

Santana chewed at her lip nervously, rubbing her palms against her thighs. "How long 'till the next batch comes in?"

"Too long," Lauren replied, "and then all you'll have to do is buy it. I don't envy you lifting this one from her."

"Hasn't she drunk it already? It'll be nasty by now," Santana said in confusion, "nothing's worse than flat soda."

"Puking spaghetti into a guy's lap because you tried to give him a blowjob is pretty close," came a voice from behind them, and Sugar appeared from around the corner, not bothering to say hello as she hung from Santana's shoulder and looked up at Lauren through curious and thoroughly unbothered eyes, ignoring the twin looks of disgust. "And to answer your question, she likes to hoard a ton and then drink it all at once to give her, like, a sugar coma or something."

Lauren looked behind them with a frown. "How long have you been listening?" she asked mildly, subtly shuffling back a step.

Sugar shrugged. "Long enough to know you're trying to trick the newbie into stealing a valuable commodity from the resident bad bitch. Figured I'd come help her not get murdered."

"How kind of you," Santana sniped, but the other two had already turned their thoughts elsewhere.

"Now," Sugar started, rubbing her hands together, "I dunno how good you are with planning and stuff, but we have to make sure Aphasia doesn't know it's you. She'll splatter your brains all over the wall and nobody could stop her."

Santana threw her hands up in the air. "Why the hell is everybody so fuckin' afraid of this Aphasia bitch? Lauren could sit on her and break her tits and everything would be great, and I wouldn't have to risk my ass to get some sugar water."

"Rumour has it she got in here for arson because they couldn't pin her with murder," Lauren said in an almost-whisper, side-eyeing the few girls still playing basketball on the other side of the gym. "She'd be doing time in Bedford Hills if the pigs managed to prove it."

And I sleep above this psycho every night? Fantastic.

"I say I swipe it and leave it at that," Santana scowled, sitting down on a bench, "she doesn't even know me. How the fuck is she supposed to figure out that I took it?"

"You're really shit at lying," Sugar informed her, "you do this weird eye thing whenever you try."

"I do fucking not!" Santana snapped back, arms crossed defensively.

"See, there it is!"

"Keep your voice down, girlie!" yelled one of the supes watching them, cracking her gum. "This ain't no circus."

Lauren sighed. This was going nowhere. "All we're saying is watch yourself, shortstack. It would be a shame to lose my only shot at Dr. Pepper for a few months."

Santana rolled her eyes so violently Sugar thought they'd fall out. "Yeah, whatever," she grumbled, already turning away to forget the conversation. Fuckin' morons, all of them. It's like they've never had soda in their lives before.

Yet all through lunch she couldn't stop thinking about it, nor through dinner. She watched Lauren heave massive weights in the air and longed for the same kind of control, knowing it was just at her fingertips if only she would be able to reach it. It haunted her when she lay on her bunk, listening to Aphasia's (who she still hadn't even met) even breathing and knowing that stupid little can was just somewhere below her.

She cracked at three in the morning and began to formulate a plan. What kind of criminal was she cut out to be if she didn't even try? (That's what she told herself, anyway.)

Step one, gather information.

It was a Monday, so she didn't have much to go on in terms of habits yet. Aphasia's in a different grade than her, so she sat in the back of the classroom, making it difficult to spy on her discreetly without receiving looks from the other girls. She fiddled impatiently with her pencil and replied with short, uninterested notes to Sugar, barely restraining herself from whipping around every time a chair scraped on the ground. Eventually they shuffled out to lunch and she took a spot close to the back, able to watch the whole eating room without having to turn. Sugar sat and chattered beside her, completely unaware.

Her target (she liked the sound of that... like she's prepping for a real job) hung out with The Mack and a few other girls whose names she hadn't learned, but... she really hated The Mack. Like, really hated her. It was obvious in every conversation they shared, every turn of her body towards and away. They sneered when the other wasn't looking and rolled their eyes, projecting a thinly veiled friendliness when they made eye contact. It seemed everybody else in the room knew it too and kept far, far away from the train-wreck waiting to happen.

The same went through Tuesday and Wednesday, but Santana noticed late Wednesday night that Aphasia liked to preen the best she could before her nightly (illegal) poker sessions. She disappeared into the bunks and returned a few minutes later, prepped and ready for a session of destruction and chaos. It was in these few moments that she was separate from the rest of her pack, and it would be when she discovered the missing can.

Curious to note, The Mack also went her separate way just before that.

A plan began to form.

Step two, scope.

Santana had never talked to Aphasia, and made an effort to be in her bunk by the time she went to go pretty herself up on Wednesday night. With a book that she couldn't even remember the title, Santana had thrown herself up onto her bed and pretended to read with a studious concentration, peering through her glasses at the words that made very little sense in her distracted state. Like clockwork, footsteps rang through the hallways, a minute shuffling moments later alerting her to the fact that her bunkmate had arrived in her room. She kept her attention away, letting herself spare only a glimpse over to see what the older girl was up to.

Really, Aphasia wasn't that threatening. Only a bit taller than her and just as slender, it was the way the other girl moved that projected her intimidation. Shoulders drawn and eyes cutting, she almost swaggered (if Santana allowed herself to use that term, which reminded her way too much of Puck to be cool at all) across the room and began her nightly ritual. Santana looked out for the drink that Lauren wanted so badly, but found nothing except an odd look from her bunkie, with whom she quickly broke eye-contact.

"Girl, you gotta stop givin' me the side-eye," Aphasia spoke up as she was doing... something with her hair, nearly startling Santana straight out of her bed. "You's comin' off as real interested to me."

Santana frowned with bewilderment, turning more fully to face her. "Interested in what?"

"In me, dumbass," replied her roommate, running a hand down her side with a flourish.

"I— what, no!" Santana sputtered, cheeks burning. "I was just wondering... who you're trying to impress," she finished lamely, unable to divulge the real reason of her staring. Aphasia raised an unconvinced eyebrow but let it go regardless, shaking her head as she finished whatever it was she was trying to do. The girls always came up with the strangest and most ingenious ways to create new makeup for use.

"I ain't tryin' to impress no fool," Aphasia rolled her eyes, smacking her lips a few times for good measure in her tiny little mirror, "but them bitches always know who's in charge when they see me lookin' fly as hell. Especially The Mack, that fuckin' cunt. Thinkin' she can take my shit like we friends." She scoffed to herself at that, ignoring the way Santana's mouth tilted into a devious smirk. "Take my word, newbie, you gotta watch them eyes of yours. People'll start thinkin' you want 'em or some shit."

She left Santana fuming again, face so hot it made her sweat. Yet she had a plan, and she supposed she could spare a little humiliation for that.

Step three, execute.

It was Thursday night, a little ways after dinner. Santana had excused herself from Sugar's presence feigning a headache and made her way to her bunk with her trusty (and still boring as shit) book in her hand, resolutely keeping her eyes forward and away from Aphasia like they wanted. On the way she passed The Mack and was nearly knocked over by her shampoo, a disgusting mix that only she dared use in the shower. It was recognizable anywhere.

(At least, that was what she was seriously counting on.)

Upon entering her room she spared no time in tearing it apart, searching desperately for the little can that would secure her first ever prison transaction. (How exciting, she'd be a proper jailbird!) She pulled up Aphasia's mattress, her mattress, their little dresser and under their little dresser, her hands ghosting along old metal and faded wood. Nothing. She bared her teeth in irritation and flattened herself to look under the bed at the floor, scanning the pristine surface in a desperate effort for something resembling metal. Where the fuck could Aphasia hide the stupid thing? They lived in a fucking shoebox without the coloured walls. She slammed her hand against the bed in anger, cursing when her hand hit something hard in the pillow. It flew to her mouth but her other hand went to it curiously, stuffing her hand in the pillowcase and feeling for the object.

In the end she found it, the coolness alerting her to her prize. Santana drew out that stupid little can with an audible hiss of triumph, short lived as she heard the now-dreaded footsteps in the far hallway. Blanching, she shuffled the pillow back into position and clambered up into her bed, flailing for her book and clenching the can of pop in her sweaty hand.

Where the fuck do I put it? Too late to escape, too late to put it in the dresser—which looks tampered with—or the bed—which also looks tampered with. She offered up a disgusted and exasperated fuck you to whichever god put her in this position to start with, and shoved the can into her shirt, laying down flat just as Aphasia made her appearance.

It was immediately obvious that Aphasia was on high alert. She cast her eyes suspiciously across the room; the crooked mattress, the open drawers, the flattened pillow, and finally to Santana perched reading her book. She never took her eyes off the girl on her stomach as she stalked her way to her room and fluffed her pillow, pausing once she realized her precious charge was missing.

"I'm gon' give you five seconds to give it up afore I put my fist through your face," she warned, and it took everything Santana had to keep the tremor from her tone.

"I dunno what you're talkin' about," she responded mildly, flipping a page. At least, she started to before the book was ripped from her hands and cast across the room. She gulped as Aphasia's infuriated face levelled with her eyes (fuckin' hell she's scary when she's mad) and clenched her fists to stop them shaking, her body squirming with discomfort.

"You know exactly what I'm talkin' 'bout," Aphasia ground out through her teeth, "and you got some serious balls, newbie, but nobody fucks with my shit. Especially not my hard-won shit."

Santana raised an eyebrow in an acceptable imitation of Lauren's many dubious expressions. "What, your hoard? Who the fuck would want that? The twins touched that shit, I'd get a disease."

"Then why you sweatin' like a whore in church?" Aphasia accused with narrowed eyes, crossing her arms. Santana swallowed dryly and went for the truth.

"Because you're makin' an exorcist face and it's creepin' me out. You look possessed. Kinda like Sugs when she remembers her purses back home or somethin'."

A smile threatened to grace her bunkmate's lips for a split second, but it erased itself as soon as she grabbed her pillow. "Tell me how you—" A wafting scent drifted about the room, the distinct smell of a too-strong perfume mixed with hand-soap. It was flowery and, frankly, disgusting. Aphasia brought it to her face, her eyes taking on a glazed look.

"That fuckin' cunt," she snarled in disbelief, running out of their room faster than pancake days. Santana held her breath for a few moments before letting out a relieved groan, her head flopping onto the pillow.

I thought I was gonna die, she thought to herself, shifting uncomfortably on her stomach. The sooner this whole ordeal is over with the sooner she can forget that she just willingly hid a can of flat Dr. Pepper between her tits to avoid getting filleted by the resident crazy.

"Prison is fuckin' nuts."

A week later she had made an alliance with Lauren and the Dr. Pepper shortage had been replenished, restoring some semblance of order to the world inside Taberg Residential Center. Santana had no feeling in her limbs except burning, but her new friend(?) wasn't talking shit when she said she knew what she was doing. She couldn't wait to get out of prison and fuck Puck up with her new-found musculature.

(Okay, fine, maybe she was imagining things a bit right now. Could you blame her? Working out sucks in such a good way.)

Everybody was still talking about the huge blow-out that occurred when Aphasia faced off against The Mack last week, resulting in some fantastic insults and blood-letting being thrown about. Santana had carried herself to the fray and stood silently next to Lauren, pressing the can into her palm. To her credit, she didn't ask how it happened.

Giovanni and Rita had visited her yesterday, enfolding her in a two-way hug the moment they laid eyes on each other. Just being with them made Santana realize how lucky she was that her not-quite-parents were around—Aphasia's dad was never in the picture, Lauren's mom forced her into the whole wrestling gig, Sugar's dad bought her affection with money (not that she seemed to mind). She had a relatively normal household, if you could ignore the whole working for the mafia thing that seemed to shape her entire world.

"How are you doing?" Rita asked as soon as soon as they sat down, leaning forward anxiously in her seat. She worried after all of her kin, and Santana was no exception. "Are you sleeping? Eating? Do they treat you well? What about showering and things?"

Laughing, Santana covered Rita's hands with her own and nodded. "I'm fine, Rita. With the way you guys were talkin' it was like I was gonna walk into some sorta hell, but it's been... decent, I guess. Really boring, and there are a lot of fights here, but except for some of the crazies it's been okay. I'm bunkin' with some bitch called Aphasia who's completely insane."

She proceeds to regale them with the activities of last week, conveniently leaving out the fact that she was the one to steal the can. In a span of twenty minutes they're walked through a day in the life at Taberg, everything from what time they wake up to how many pancakes she likes to get. (She didn't say anything about her first... altercation with The Mack. Why bring up what's already buried?) Even in that cramped little room with the chatter of five other girls, she felt at home. It was a nice change to being constantly out of place in her own skin and surroundings.

"All that fuss over a little shot of soda?" Rita asked in wonderment, her eyebrows raised far up on her brow. "Who would go through the trouble of trying to steal it in the first place?"

"It's important to some people, I guess," Santana answered, desperately trying to not let her eyes float over to Lauren on the other side of the room.

Rita got up to go to the bathroom and Giovanni instantly latched onto his opportunity—he knew what jail was like as well as everybody around them. "Have you made any friends?" he asked lowly, eyebrows raising. Friends in prison were much like friends in the real world... unable to be trusted but useful for your own gain. Santana nodded and discreetly tilted her head to the left.

"That's Lauren," she mumbled, eyeing the girl who seemed to be talking with a scrawny, middle-aged man half her size. "She's helping me lift weights long as I provide her with pop from the commissary."

An eyebrow raised. "Dr. Pepper?"

She grinned. "Ask no questions and I will tell no lies."

"I think that was the most intelligent thing you've ever said to me," Giovanni hummed thoughtfully.

"Hey! I can be smart as fuck when I wanna."

"Now you ruined it."

She huffed in irritation, but he ignored the noise with a smile. "Anybody else?"

Santana looked around; all the other faces are of girls she didn't recognize, people she'd never officially met. She shrugged one shoulder. "I'm pretty tight with Sugar Motta now," she said casually, smirking in delight when Giovanni does a rapid double-take.

"Daughter of—"

"—billionaire tycoon? Yup. She's whack, but I like her."

"Hold onto her, Santana," he said seriously, the glint of the leader she always knew he was appearing in his eyes. The Motta Corporation is so filthy rich that even being casual acquaintances with them will earn her massive standing, let alone friends.

She rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair and nudging him with her foot. "What, you think I'm stupid? No way I'm lettin' her get away from me. Good thing she's like, stuck to my side. I'm surprised she didn't get in here to say hi to you."

"Bring her to dinner when you both get out," Giovanni offered casually, "I'm sure the poor girl hasn't had an actual friend in her life."

"Who said we were actual friends?"

But all she received was a sly smile, very similar to the girl in question. Before Santana could question him further, Rita was returning, and along with her the call for one minute. Santana felt an acute pang at the thought of them leaving, and she chalked it up to sleep deprivation. She was thirteen now, missing your mommy and daddy wasn't considered very tough. She gritted her teeth as they all stood up, and she was once again crushed in their embrace, fighting valiantly against the stinging in her eyes and nose.

"You only got a week and a bit to go, love," Rita said with a smile, kissing her forehead. "When you get back you can invite Puck and Finn... even Karofsky if you want, and we can all celebrate your return back and you can tell us all about the exciting people you met."

"I dunno if exciting is the right word, Rita," Santana muttered but accepted none the less, escorting them along with the guard to the door. "And I, uh... thanks. Y'know, for coming. It meant lots—um, a lot. Yeah."

"Don't strain yourself," Hagberg piped up from beside them, crossing her large arms over her chest. "Wouldn't want it to look like you were trying to express emotions beside anger, huh, Lopez?" There could have been something like a positive facial expression budding, but it smothered itself before it could come to fruition. Shame, it would have been a first.

Santana glared but stood beside her regardless as they left, waving through the little window until they turned the corner and disappeared. She exhaled a shaky breath and stomped away in an effort to escape the guard's knowing eyes.

That was yesterday, and today was spent with the mantra of one more week (and a bit) reeling in her head. Not that she'd ever admit it, but she was looking forward to applying some of the tricks she was taught by the other girls in here, about locks and weapons and smuggling. What you learn here is all relative, Sugar had said in a rare bout of wisdom, everything might not be important, but it's useful.

Just like Santana overhearing The Mack's way of running drugs by swallowing them. You need the shit that breathes so it don't clog up your insides, she had murmured to a few other girls, keep it nice and flexible. Stops you from backing up and not delivering the goods.

She'd thought it was a decent idea until she was told otherwise.

"You gotta stop listenin' in on what The Mack been tellin' others." Recently, Aphasia had started to talk to her. It hadn't bothered Santana; when not in a murderous rage, the girl brought life and noise into an otherwise repetitive cycle that was any inmate's worst nightmare. Santana hung her head down over her bunk to look at her roommate, raising one finely sculpted eyebrow (courtesy of Sugar) in confusion.

"I saw you listenin' when she was blabbin' to them other bitches about smuggling coke through the gut," the older girl elaborated, "and I'm here to tell you she's fulla shit. If them capsules breathe they crack open in yo' asshole and you got an OD on yo' hands. Do I gotta tell you how embarrassing it would be to die 'cause of yo' ass?"

Santana grimaced. "Do you know anybody who's done that?"

"Girl, I know two."

Santana blanched, but frowned as a thought occurred to her. "Wait, so she's been sellin' them newbies shit this whole time? What for?"

Aphasia brought out a hair brush that she began to use, distractedly trying to make something of her frizzed mane. It was a losing battle. "Nah, she been sellin' them shit cause you be listenin'. She hate you, girl. Ever since yo' tiny little hand stabbed her with that plastic fork, she gon' have it out for you."

Santana scowled. "Why don't she say it to my face then? She scared?"

Her bunkmate snorted, tapping her nails against their metal bed frame. "The Mack? Naw, she a slippery bitch. Don't look it, really, but she got some smart in that stupid skull of hers. If she goes for you, that means she goes for Lauren too... and she don't want that. She get flattened like them pancakes you love so much." She rolled slightly out so she could look at Santana square in the face, her expression oddly serious. "You got a week left in here, newbie. Don't go chasing after stupid bitches you ain't ever gonna see again. You gonna get out and never look back."

Growing exasperated with Aphasia's inability to sort out her hair, Santana swung herself down from above and tentatively sat upon her bunkmate's mattress. Aphasia raised one menacing eyebrow but she willed herself to stay still. "I do this all the time by myself 'cause I'm surrounded by boys," Santana offered, pointing at the brush, "I can get it into workin' condition again. You ain't going anywhere by yourself."

After a moment of silence Aphasia handed over the brush; smirking with victory, Santana rotated around her back and set to work. "So," she started, steadfastly focusing on her work, "what's The Mack's story anyway? Was she always such a bitch?"

"Aw, girl, you offered so you could corner me like this? You sneaky shit!" Aphasia complained but made no move to withdraw her head, instead focusing her grumpy gaze upon the blank wall in front of them. "You know askin' questions like that can get a girl shanked, right?"

"Along with stealin' Dr. Pepper, usin' the last of the soap, and callin' the chef ugly. I get it. Hasn't happened yet."

Aphasia huffed and felt Santana work her magic for a few moments. "All I know is she was caught up in some sorta robbery thing," she admitted after a few moments, "caught time with a bunch of rough bitches. They gone to max security now... I wish The Mack followed 'em in. Fuckin' cunt is a pain in my ass all the damn time. She the one that stole my soda! Denies it, but Aphasia fuckin' knows. Who else wears that disgusting shit she calls shampoo?"

Me when I'm trying to get you to hate her more, Santana thought wryly to herself, but kept quiet. In Aphasia's (copious) ranting time, it was wiser to be silent and deflect her wrath onto worthier people. "It is pretty gross," she said mildly in return, "what is it, fuckin' avocado or some shit?"

"Smells like dog shit for sure," Aphasia muttered, "but whatever, she ain't gon' mess with me now that I knocked out a few teeth. Mama don't like her none either, so I gon' get off easy."

"A robbery, huh?" Santana murmured under a breath as she finished her work. "What did she rob?"

Only Aphasia's smirk belied her amusement. "A pet store."

Santana paused. "Like... with animals n' shit?"

"Yup. Cute fluffy puppies and kittens. Apparently one pissed on her 'cause she scared it."

"Serves her right," the younger girl scoffed, "that shit ain't right. Speaking of shit that ain't right, your disaster 'do is fixed. Now you ain't gonna look like The Grudge in the mornin'."

"If only I was that scary," Aphasia sighed wistfully, drawing her tiny little mirror up to her face for inspection. After a tense moment of silence, she nodded in satisfaction and clapped Santana on the shoulder in a way that made her cover a wince. "You alright, Lopez," she said with pleased smirk, gleefully running her hands over her untangled mane.

It was the best thing Santana had heard in weeks.

The buzz went through the compound for lights out; even after adjusting to life in juvenile, the sound never ceased to grate on Santana's nerves. She waited until the guard came in and checked before climbing her way back into her own bed, burrowing herself in the covers before the space was blanketed in darkness. Sliding her glasses off her nose, she perched them on the little stand above her head and closed her eyes tight. In the silence that accompanied lights out, she was hyper aware of the shuffling below her, and the successive pause as Aphasia laid her head down and felt something hard in her pillow. A few mutterings later, she must have pulled out the can of Dr. Pepper Santana had stashed just a few minutes prior, as all of a sudden the hairs upon the back of her neck raised as if she was being watched. She willed herself to remain stationary and finally Aphasia retreated with a disbelieving sneaky bitch sworn under her breath. She hadn't been killed, so Santana deemed the night a success and finally managed to fall asleep.

(It would be the first night she managed to have a decent rest, and would remain that way for the week that accompanied it. On the day of her release Sugar would hug her long and hard and whisper she'd never seen Aphasia so impressed, and right afterwards ask if she ate her out that night.

Santana choked so violently they thought she was having a seizure.)