Hmm a little Dark Drabble maybe? First day out of jail
The rolling iron gate closes with a metallic clang that echoes in his ears. Then the heavy click of a lock rings out, an audible promise of captivity.
But, for the first time in over a decade, Dark finds himself on the other side of that door.
It's startlingly final. Even after the negotiations and paperwork he’d still been more than half ready for them to rip the floor out from under him at the last minute. Even through the handover of documents and possessions and orders to comply, Dark had been ready for that final step to be a false one - for them to walk him all the way to the final door before slamming it in his face and laughing at the fact that he’d been stupid enough to believe them in the first place.
But hadn’t done that. There was no punchline, no rug pull - They really had walked him out of those crypt-like cement halls lined with bars and locks and dumped him on the sunny sidewalk without a second thought.
They had really given him his freedom.
And now he has no idea what to do with it. Dark lingers at the gate, thin-soled shoes scuffing against the asphalt outside the prison entrance. He glances around, looking for direction. He’s off-balance.
Is he supposed to wait for someone? Like a Sheika agent, or a member of the Royal Guard. Or do they expect him to walk his ass all the way into the city? Or maybe take the bus? Is there even a bus that runs from Arbiter’s Grounds?
And when he gets to the city, what then?
His conversation with that Sheika woman, Impa, didn’t cover this. He has some vague ideas of what he can or cannot do. He can’t leave the city as per the agreement. And he has to respond when the royal family calls on him and work for them. But other than that and the general order of “don’t get into trouble”, Dark is free. Well, as free as an ankle monitor will allow. But it’s a hell of a lot more freedom than he had yesterday when he had to ask permission from his CO to go take a piss.
Over ten years of other people planning out his day down to the minute. Ten years of shrewd eyes watching his every movement and ticking clocks counting seconds until his next allowed activity, from showers to meal time to lights out.
And now he’s free to make his own choices. Plan his own day. Do his own thing.
Fucking hell - where does he even start? It’s been so long. Even longer than ten years, if he thought about it. Because before jail, there were the Dragmires. And while they entrusted him to make his own judgments on missions, he never decided on big things - they told him where to go, what to do, when he was expected back. He always had a directive, a lead to follow.
But now he’s been cut free. And freedom has never felt so stifling.
Where does he even start? His instincts tell him to start with the basics of survival. Three minutes without air, three hours without shelter, three days without water, three weeks without food.
Air, he’s got plenty of. But shelter? Is he supposed to get a place to live? Impa didn’t mention setting him up somewhere. How the hell does someone find a place to live? Walk around until they see a vacancy sign? Dark’s never had to find his own place - one benefit of having a controlling boss is that they put you up just so they know where you live. He’s been trained in how to kill a man a thousand ways but he knows fuck all about rent.
Distantly he hears the sharpness of a whistle. Instinctively his head whips in the direction of the jail, fingers twitching. Someone in the yard must be causing problems. But from his position Dark can’t see anything but the grays and browns of the prison's stone exterior, the yard hidden away in the back where decent people don’t have to stare at the undesirables locked away.
Fuck, he can’t just stand here outside the prison gates. He looks like a jackass. Fuck this, Dark will just start walking to the city. He'll figure it out after he gets the hell out of here.
But he only manages a few steps before an obnoxious voice calls out from behind. “Wrong way, dumbass! Over here!”
It’s been years since the last time he heard that voice unfiltered through cheap prison phones. Dark almost doesn’t recognize it without the static of an old phone or muffled through layers of thick bullet-proof glass.
There is a sizable parking lot nearby where guards and visitors park. Among the various cars and trucks, a familiar figure waves casually from his spot atop a black low rider, thumb typing out something on his phone - Shadow’s sitting on the hood, an empty bottle of water resting beside him. He’s been there a while.
And, fuck, it’s wild to see him out and about.
Not big like those guys on the inside who pump iron and beat people bloody for sport; Shadow’s still thin and short, still a fucking gremlin with a shit eating smile. Still decked out in black clothes one size too big with his hood and shades. Still a puny runt that Dark could throw around with one arm.
But he’s also Big - older. An Adult. Fully grown and mature enough to have a license and own that car he’s planting his ass on. Big enough to see out the windshield over the driver's seat. Maybe he even has auto insurance or some shit.
Dark feels like he’s just taken a punch to the jaw. He does some mental math and realizes Shadow is probably in his twenties. Older than Dark had been when he went away.
Fuck. When did that happen? When did that twerp grow up? Dark hadn’t noticed when Shadow visited him. Not with that thick sheet of glass between them.
You know that scene in Shawshank where all those prisoners who get released don't know how to adjust to the outside world? I figure Dark would have that. Doesn't help that before jail he was under Gabon's thumb either. Thankfully he's got a gremlin on the other side to help him out, even if that help comes with snark and headaches.
