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the prison is big.
it's the first thing you think, standing outside, down, small, obsidian and lava and blackstone and evil and fear and-
pandora is loving.
sam insists on it. even as his footsteps echo along the corridors, as the redstone hums and buzzes and ticks with a heartbeat so inhumane and bloodflow so inhuman. sam insists. it's alive, and it loves.
pandora is big.
it doesn't matter if you're inside or not. it's just as big, edges of your vision filled, maybe less scary or evil but still looking, dreadful. he brushes his hand over a desk. it throws up dust, half gray, half red.
pandora is all-encompassing.
he pats the wall.
pandora is cold.
obsidian is cold, and warm, and electrifying and scratches at your skin and leaves blood between the walls. obsidian is entirely, unendingly. obsidian is cold. it is warm when it wants to be. sam thinks it's cold.
redstone is warm. it's loving. it buzzes and clicks and speaks in tones nobody speaks but sam. he knows pandora.
the prison is cold.
it's a building. nothing more, nothing less. sam passes the empty cells with not even a glance. no attention, no mercy. the prison loves you. you don't respond. it speaks, and i shove it back until i can't see it.
sam shakes his head.
the prison is empty.
empty cells, no looks, no love. sam sweeps the floor and hopes the obsidian doesn't disintegrate like sugar in coffee or perhaps screams in the halls. the halls don't echo lava, lava, lava surrounding them, keeping the screams inside.
pandora is loyal.
sam hasn't left. he doesn't leave. he's here to monitor, to keep, to stay. he's the dog, the walls the owner, or maybe it's the prisoner he obeys and everything he does is worthless because he's reliant on the prisoner.
what is the warden without his title? what is pandora without the secrets?
the prison is small.
sam feels like his world is shrinking.
pandora is burning.
he patrols. the hallways are clear. the rooms are clear. the entrance is clear. he's alone, just him and sam and nobody else, just them, only them, always them only them him and sam and nobody else
and a third variable but he ignores it because it isn't his job to care. the walls love him. they love you. tell every piston good night or it'll crush you.
pandora is dark.
the lava lights each crevice, but sam shivers because he doesn't remember the last time he spoke to someone without a pair of shears trading hands. he's loyal. he sits and waits for his owner to come home. what is he if not a dog? what is a warden? is sam one? is he doing good? he hopes he's doing good and then he decides he is because it's his prison and he decides things. the prison is his. it's his. it's ours, we own it, it's ours to hold and love and wish good night. the door closes six point three five two milliseconds too early almost crushing you and you swear because it means another gram of redstone to take off to make it weaker and you hate to hinder your friend.
the prison is dark.
the lava doesn't reach the floor or the walls or the ceiling or sam's golden respirator. it's all dark and dreary and dreadful. he hates it. he's loyal. he'll stay. he listens to the redstone. it speaks to him, he knows it does, and every time he writes down what it says the following day he only finds torn pages and spilled ink. what's wrong with him?
pandora loves you.
you're the only one here. it's just you. you wrap the blanket closer around yourself in your sad bed only meant for a few nights stretched to many months. someone visited and brought you food. they said you looked horrible. you don't remember who it was. you remember saying it was what love looked like. that pandora loves you. pandora loves you, right? why would you doubt the empty halls? speak to the obsidian and the redstone, and don't respond to the lava when it tells you how warm it is.
