Sharkface hums again, staring up at the top of the bunk. Staring at nothing but calculating, running down the lists of people he knows and their friends. There's no one around from Holloway's particular platoon or unit — might have been a long shot, but who the fuck knows — but there are plenty of ex-marines running around. None of them are exactly nice, but he knows a couple who aren't complete psychopaths.

Good enough for a place like this.

He snorts. Tomorrow he'll make some introductions. Beat up a guard or two until they transfer Holloway to a different cell. A different, less violent cellmate. The guy's stuck here like the rest of them, but he deserves some consideration. Even if it's small. "Oh? How did you picture it happening?"

This is probably the closest to a normal conversation that he's had in months.