The heavy metal door clanked shut behind Death Mare. He leaned back on the bars for a brief moment - a lit, half gone cigarette still hung loosely from his lips. The room was sparse, outfitted with nothing but a steel framed bed with straw cushioning, a grimy toilet missing its lid, and a dim light-bulb hanging from its thin wire above him. Opposite from Death Mare, a few feet above him, was a window, and he closed his eyes as cold air from the outside world streamed in, caressing his cheek like a kiss from a dead, forgotten specter. Soon, a beam of light from a distant watchtower rushed through the bars separating him from the outside world, illuminating his cell for a moment before passing completely - once again leaving the daunting task of light-bearer to the lone, dangling bulb.
It had only been a few hours since they got him, stirred from a reacquiring nightmare as the sound of pounding hooves shook his front door. He had dreamt of this moment - about the things he'd do when the time finally came - but could only wipe his face of sweat with a hoof before groggily forcing himself out of bed, shuffling himself toward the door with a sort of bored, melancholy malaise.
In his dreams they had pistols or clubs. In his dream they were earth ponies, dressed in the black suits of "The Party." Sometimes they were already by his bed, beating him senselessly as he begged them to stop.