You would think, with fourty-seven million, eight-hundred-and-twenty-two thousand, six-hundred-and-five years to study the inside of this cell, that Rainbow would have had plenty of time to study every minute detail of it, to memorise each atom such that each wall's unique imperfections of manufacture would allow him to orient himself. However, that ran up against two issues. One is is that this box was perfect. The impenetrable rubber lining had no such imperfections to distinguish one side from another, and no amount of effort could do any damage to them - and he had tried. Clawing, kicking, persistence - not so much as a divot. The other problem was that his mind was not perfect.

He couldn't remember what he did to end up in this cell - or even, for that matter, any of his life before the cell. That time was so distant, such an insignificant fraction of his existence, that it did little more than create the shape that would be doomed to eternity in this prison. Try as he might to hold on, his memories of life outside the cell twisted and eroded into nothing through sheer time alone. They disappeared into his subconscious, beyond active recollection, and eventually, from that too. He dreamed now only of the cell, its humid confines and the discomforts of his permanent uniform inescapable even in sleep.

That is, if he could be said to sleep anymore. Without a single photon from the slowly rearranging stars reaching him, he had no indication of absolute time, and his memory of relative time was just as denuded as every other memory besides four walls of black rubber. He drifted in an equilibrium of semi-consciousness, neither state serving a purpose anymore. Higher brain function long withered away with nothing to do, he had become a creature of instinct, pursuing physiological needs thoughtlessly. Some needs were graciously spared by his imprisonment - he had no need to eat or drink. Indeed, the only thing he had tasted this whole time was the massive rubber ball wedging his jaw open.

Three needs, however, were left notably wanting. One was sleep - though time took care of that. Another was physical comfort. The wet heat of the tiny box kept him constantly sweating, made every surface slick with condensation, made the recycled air feel like soup. It was inescapable, strength-sapping, and the latex clinging to his body practically burned to the touch. His jaw never adjusted to the strain of the gag. It always felt just a little bit too big. And the boots...

These damned boots kept him up on stilts the whole time. Without them he could maybe try and sit, at least. The footprint of the cell didn't make for a hugely comfortable sitting experience - the enormous platforms on the boots made it such that he couldn't sit on the floor without contorting his knees up to his ears. While he had determined - back when he still had the faculty of determination - that his own body was just as impervious to damage as the cell, he had tried to bear the awkward angle on his hips, but just as the gag never got comfortable, neither too did bending his legs that way. It always felt like he was pulling a muscle. So standing forever it was.

Now that he was beyond trying to actively solve this problem and into taking the path of least resistance, usually he was slumping against a wall, occasionally turning which cheek was pressed into the rubber, or flipping to awkwardly push the back of his neck into one wall, with his knees pushed into the other. Eventually that position would lead to him sliding into a sit, and then the self-enforcing mechanism would trigger the pain in his joints and force him to stand up again. At least that sensation wasn't gone.

The third need that he still had was sexual. His junk was locked away in a thick, squishy null bulge, where he couldn't remember what it originally looked like. The more his mind slipped, the more it seemed like the only thing worth doing - pushing his hand into the thing and kneading it, rolling it in his palm, gripping and squeezing it as much as his exhausted body would allow, but never with any goal on the horizon. At one point he would pour desperate waking effort into pummelling it, feeling that orgasm was just around the corner, he just needed to push that little more, pound it a little harder, cling tighter to any kind of erotic memory. Now, his fist kneaded the bulge almost on its own, the only action that brought any kind of desirable sensation, even if it brought a need for a relief he no longer understood.

In truth, he inhabited the most hospitable island of space for a long, long way. His cell orbited the singularity of a spinning black hole, inside the event horizon. Not only was escape beyond his physical strength (and by now, his ability to imagine), it was against the laws of physics. Any attempt to retrieve him would be met with the same fate - assuming they brought their own nigh-indestructible infinity box with them to survive the experience. Here, his prison would be protected from the rest of the universe into the deep future, when the stars burn out and everything turns dark for the last time. When that happens, there he will still be, desperately, fruitlessly clutching the squishy ball of rubber between his legs.

At one point he had considered, with dread, the true meaning of eternity, spent trapped in this cell. The words "permanent prisoner", emblazoned on his arm and flanked by locks, infinity symbols, once seemed a grim reminder of his fate, but absent other verbiage, the letters ceased to refer to words and sounds. As millennia compounded the shapes became associated directly with the heady concept of infinity stretching before him. The faculties of literacy abandoned him, unnecessary in this world, and after them followed language altogether. The words might as well have been another set of damning runes, inscrutably sealing his confinement. He couldn't remember how he got here or why, he couldn't remember a single person, fossilised as they now were, and he certainly couldn't conceive of the fact that the time that lay behind him, crushing his identity to dust, was but a prologue to the chasm of time that lay before him; all he knew was this eternal rubber prison.

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Commission with a story featuring a somewhat spicier look at the big P word!