The healthy citizens have to be protected.

[There's no laughter this time, but instead something distant and tinny to his voice as he repeats the propaganda he's heard all his life. That his suffering was necessary for the maintenance of order and stability, the perpetuation of the perfect society. He's always resented the so-called healthy citizens for it, for their complacent, comfortable lives supported by the very trash they threw away.

At the same time, he's always wondered just what was so wrong with him, what made him so worthless and dangerous. He's always hated himself for it, almost as much as he's spent his life hating the world outside.]

See, some of us really are damaged goods right from the start. Psycho-Hazards.

[The danger posed by any individual latent criminal was only part of the story, after all. Everyone was just as concerned about their potential effect on others' crime coefficients.]

If we're lucky, we might be judged useful enough to clean up the other garbage off the streets and get moved into a bigger cage. Those who aren't will die in a facility like this, someday. Young, hopefully.

[He spent fifteen years in this hell. Most of them, without wanting to see another one.]