Faith never really thought it would be like all those girl-prison movies, with the kinky blonde dyke guards and the perfect tits bouncing everywhere and the bullwhips and stuff, but she wasn't expecting it to be this boring.
Prison's like school. Prison's like fucking study hall, watching the clock tick. Only the bell's not gonna ring for twenty years.
Okay, there's Rosa, little and bleached-blonde and dirty-mouthed and practically Buffy's evil twin, who Faith fucks sometimes, and there was one great fight early on before the girls figured out Faith could kick all their asses and not break a sweat. There's a pretty good gym. There's the do-gooding shrink who tells Faith she needs impulse control and who twitches every time Faith crosses her legs.
But mostly there's just time.
Faith's sorry for the shit she did--she's here, right, and she didn't have to be--but she can't go around being sorry 24/7. Even feeling bad gets boring.
So she thinks about why that dickhead Angel never visits or even sends her a letter, and whether Angel's fucking Wes or Wes just whacks off imagining it, and whether Buffy hates her any less now, and whether Richard Wilkins went to some demon hell place, and whether he misses her.
She thinks about whether some vamp's gonna get Buffy one of these days. If that happens, Faith'll be the Slayer. The world's only, sitting here in the California Institution for Women.
She wonders how long it's gonna take the brainiacs on the Council to figure that out. How soon she can expect a bullet or a knife or some arsenic in her food, so the Council can have a shiny new Slayer-in-waiting.
Maybe she'll fight, or maybe she'll just die. Either way, it's something to look forward to.