Vignette #2 Reposted now with AI Image
Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2025 4:10 pm
Vignette #2:
The cold, fluorescent lights of the infirmary hummed with a monotonous dread, a sound as constant as the click of cell doors. For years, Evelyn had listened to it, and for years, she had meticulously studied the woman in charge of it all: Warden Thorne. The warden, a woman whose every movement was steeped in weary authority, made a nightly inspection, a predictable ritual that was also her greatest weakness.
Evelyn's plan was built on this ritual. She feigned a severe illness, a convulsion that sent panic rippling through the infirmary. The guards, momentarily distracted, called for the warden, who arrived with a doctor and an air of detached annoyance. The commotion was just a prelude. Evelyn's real work began as the gas, a silent narcotic she had fashioned from stolen cleaning supplies, began to waft from a loose air vent she had tampered with. The doctor collapsed first, followed by the guards, their heavy footsteps silenced in a soft thud.
Warden Thorne, however, was made of sterner stuff. She staggered, her hand flying to her throat, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. But the gas was persistent, and her legendary resolve dissolved into a dizzying fog. Her last, fading memory was the sound of a prisoner's voice, soft and menacing, saying, "You've been watching me, Warden. Now it's my turn."
Evelyn switched clothes with the woman to complete her disguise and impersonate the other woman, the warden of the prison. The process was swift, a practiced sleight of hand born of years spent observing the prison's intricate rhythms. The crisp warden's uniform, still warm from Thorne's body, felt foreign but right. It was a costume of freedom. Evelyn adjusted the collar, mimicking the warden's stiff posture. She affixed the ID card, its polished surface reflecting the face of a free woman.
The mirror on the wall of the infirmary reflected an image of absolute power. The uniform, the harsh haircut, the grim set of the mouth—it was all there. Evelyn, the inmate who had been nothing but a number for so long, was gone. In her place stood a figure of authority, a woman in command.
She left the real Warden Thorne's unconscious body wrapped in a prisoner's jumpsuit, a cruel irony that delighted her. She walked out of the infirmary, her footsteps echoing with the warden's familiar, heavy gait. The guards in the hallway saluted her, and she returned the gesture with a curt nod, just as Thorne always did. She moved with an unshakeable confidence, a woman who belonged here, who had every right to leave.
As she stepped through the main gates, a new guard held up a hand. "Sorry, Warden, just a quick inspection." He glanced at her ID and then at her face. He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. A flash of fear, cold and real, shot through Evelyn. She had accounted for everything, but a human's gut instinct was a wild card.
"Is there a problem, Officer?" she asked, her voice a perfect, even copy of the warden's.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "No, ma'am. Just thought your hair was different."
Evelyn smiled, a thin, humourless line that was pure Thorne. "A woman's prerogative. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting downtown."
The guard stepped aside, the gate buzzed open, and Evelyn, disguised as the warden, walked out into the cold night air. The prison gates clanged shut behind her, a sound that, for the first time in years, was not a signal of her imprisonment, but the herald of her freedom.
or more anime style
The cold, fluorescent lights of the infirmary hummed with a monotonous dread, a sound as constant as the click of cell doors. For years, Evelyn had listened to it, and for years, she had meticulously studied the woman in charge of it all: Warden Thorne. The warden, a woman whose every movement was steeped in weary authority, made a nightly inspection, a predictable ritual that was also her greatest weakness.
Evelyn's plan was built on this ritual. She feigned a severe illness, a convulsion that sent panic rippling through the infirmary. The guards, momentarily distracted, called for the warden, who arrived with a doctor and an air of detached annoyance. The commotion was just a prelude. Evelyn's real work began as the gas, a silent narcotic she had fashioned from stolen cleaning supplies, began to waft from a loose air vent she had tampered with. The doctor collapsed first, followed by the guards, their heavy footsteps silenced in a soft thud.
Warden Thorne, however, was made of sterner stuff. She staggered, her hand flying to her throat, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. But the gas was persistent, and her legendary resolve dissolved into a dizzying fog. Her last, fading memory was the sound of a prisoner's voice, soft and menacing, saying, "You've been watching me, Warden. Now it's my turn."
Evelyn switched clothes with the woman to complete her disguise and impersonate the other woman, the warden of the prison. The process was swift, a practiced sleight of hand born of years spent observing the prison's intricate rhythms. The crisp warden's uniform, still warm from Thorne's body, felt foreign but right. It was a costume of freedom. Evelyn adjusted the collar, mimicking the warden's stiff posture. She affixed the ID card, its polished surface reflecting the face of a free woman.
The mirror on the wall of the infirmary reflected an image of absolute power. The uniform, the harsh haircut, the grim set of the mouth—it was all there. Evelyn, the inmate who had been nothing but a number for so long, was gone. In her place stood a figure of authority, a woman in command.
She left the real Warden Thorne's unconscious body wrapped in a prisoner's jumpsuit, a cruel irony that delighted her. She walked out of the infirmary, her footsteps echoing with the warden's familiar, heavy gait. The guards in the hallway saluted her, and she returned the gesture with a curt nod, just as Thorne always did. She moved with an unshakeable confidence, a woman who belonged here, who had every right to leave.
As she stepped through the main gates, a new guard held up a hand. "Sorry, Warden, just a quick inspection." He glanced at her ID and then at her face. He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. A flash of fear, cold and real, shot through Evelyn. She had accounted for everything, but a human's gut instinct was a wild card.
"Is there a problem, Officer?" she asked, her voice a perfect, even copy of the warden's.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "No, ma'am. Just thought your hair was different."
Evelyn smiled, a thin, humourless line that was pure Thorne. "A woman's prerogative. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting downtown."
The guard stepped aside, the gate buzzed open, and Evelyn, disguised as the warden, walked out into the cold night air. The prison gates clanged shut behind her, a sound that, for the first time in years, was not a signal of her imprisonment, but the herald of her freedom.
or more anime style
