Math IA

He wants more followers, more popularity and admiration. Not this. Followers are irregular – and he knows this. As his hairline creeps back, his followers dwindle and his uncontrollable need for satisfaction builds. He knows this, he just can’t accept it. This has happened to countless others. But it will not happen to him. What he doesn’t realise is that he needs more than poor emulations of his own philosophy. He returns his phone with an uncharacteristically frustrated exhalation. These thoughts are too complex for someone of his status. He snatches a backpack from the passenger seat - he knows that the crime he plans to commit is for the greater good. He pulls his hood higher up over his face and - crouching low - he slinks along the rear wall. He blends in with the shadows until his searching hands find a door. With a piercing click and some rattling, the door creaks open and the figure quickly rushes inside. He peers around in the dark, closing the door clumsily behind him. It’s dark. He walks down the hallways cautiously. It’s practically empty - common for this time of night. In a country town of this size, the security isn’t very advanced. The room is quite bland upon first inspection. Dingy cell blocks line the walls, fluorescent lights casting lines from the bars across the room like a macabre pattern. It’s clinical in nature, and the intruder sweats. Whether this is due to nerves or the significantly warmer temperature is unclear. These cages are not empty – prisoners of all shapes and sizes are inhabiting them and sensing the intrusion. Some show their acknowledgement, casting their cold and calculating glares upon him. Others barely flinch, returning to their slumbers. The setup of the hall is akin to a proud child lining up their display cases of action figures – showing off the unique features of the residents. The intruder knows that it is now or never, and that someone will notice his presence eventually. So, he inhales – remembering that this is the boost to reincarnate his career, to push him out into the celebrity spotlight - and exhales. Shrugging off his bag and jacket, and leaving them idle on a nearby bench, he reaches into the bag. He rummages for a moment, the dark making him clumsy, before flourishing his chosen tool. A long and intimidating hammer, clearly new and never before used. He stands, newly invigorated. The tool in his hands lends him a strength he wouldn’t otherwise possess. Marching towards the glass window, hammer in hand, he faces the inhabitant. He flashes a grin, almost