Miles is privately relieved to see Mark finally take the food, though he snatches it as though Miles has been holding it just out of reach. Like he's afraid someone might take it away. What the hell did Galen do to this kid? Because Miles has seen that, knows what it looks like, and it numbs his appetite a little. Speaking of Dagoola indeed.
He shrugs again, more moving his food around than eating it now. Dagoola still wasn't that long ago, still fresh, and talking about this one small part of it brings the rest of it rushing to mind. Miles forces all the memories of Murka and Beatrice back, trying not to recall his hideous nightmare on top of all of it. Maybe mentioning Dagoola in particular had been a mistake. But he'd offered it, and now Mark's asking, and really, is he asking so much? Miles puffs out a little breath through his nose, trying not to feel cold.
"Because they could, mostly. They sure as hell weren't going to wear 'em." He lets a faint snort despite himself at the absurdity of it. "You have to understand -- Dagoola wasn't your run of the mill war camp. It was an expertly designed exercise in psychological torture. The Cetagandans managed to, technically, follow the letter of the law, while whole-heartedly violating it in spirit. There were no guards, no special facilities -- just one huge force dome with a light that was always on, a source for drinking water, latrines, and twice a day they'd shove a pile of rat bars in. Twelve hundred people shoved in that miserable dome -- what d'you think happens in that kind of environment? Survival of the fittest. Great displays of power over the weak -- " He gestures at himself with his fork. "-- in the hopes of spooking off anyone fitter than you but not wise enough to know it. So what do you do when you see a twisted little mutie standing around with no friends? You beat the hell out of him and try to steal his dignity, just to show you can."
no subject
He shrugs again, more moving his food around than eating it now. Dagoola still wasn't that long ago, still fresh, and talking about this one small part of it brings the rest of it rushing to mind. Miles forces all the memories of Murka and Beatrice back, trying not to recall his hideous nightmare on top of all of it. Maybe mentioning Dagoola in particular had been a mistake. But he'd offered it, and now Mark's asking, and really, is he asking so much? Miles puffs out a little breath through his nose, trying not to feel cold.
"Because they could, mostly. They sure as hell weren't going to wear 'em." He lets a faint snort despite himself at the absurdity of it. "You have to understand -- Dagoola wasn't your run of the mill war camp. It was an expertly designed exercise in psychological torture. The Cetagandans managed to, technically, follow the letter of the law, while whole-heartedly violating it in spirit. There were no guards, no special facilities -- just one huge force dome with a light that was always on, a source for drinking water, latrines, and twice a day they'd shove a pile of rat bars in. Twelve hundred people shoved in that miserable dome -- what d'you think happens in that kind of environment? Survival of the fittest. Great displays of power over the weak -- " He gestures at himself with his fork. "-- in the hopes of spooking off anyone fitter than you but not wise enough to know it. So what do you do when you see a twisted little mutie standing around with no friends? You beat the hell out of him and try to steal his dignity, just to show you can."