You know, I'd never figured I'd end up in this situation. Stuck in the back seat of a car with a gun pointed at my head, the smell of blood and sweat and adrenaline plugging my nose with their foul odor. My arm was still sore- Even if the bullets were rubber, they fucking hurt. I'd broken his hand, you see, for trying to shove me in the car when I was perfectly fine getting in on my own. There was the biggest reason I was in the car in the first place- my rebellious streak. I don't like being pushed around. I don't stand for it. My height never got it the way of me showing people that I won't back down. Won't be made into an obedient little shit that they can tell to go clean the floor with a toothbrush whenever they want. I fight back.
He learned that the hard way. He tried to push. So I grabbed the hand that pushed, and I twisted until I heard those bones break and the shout of pain escape him. I admit, it was stupid. I don't like breaking bones, the sound makes me itch, that meaty crack. But he had it coming, and for once, it was worth the rubber bullet I took to the arm a few seconds later. At least they didn't use real guns. But they have to keep us 'non-believers' and 'trouble-makers' in check somehow, so rubber it is.
But I've lost my train of thought, here. I'm supposed to be thinking about the events happening -now-, not then. So here I am. In a car, with locked doors and an angry man in a suit made for angry ass holes. The driver was fidgeting nervously in his seat. There was no cage between him and I, not like in the police-cars. And he was used to submissive little shits, ones that wouldn't fight back. But he'd seen me break the suit-monkey's hand, now. He was afraid he'd be next. But I wasn't that stupid. I needed to get out of this car -alive-, not burning after we careened off the road into a tree and exploded. But his nervous shifts could end soon- we were at the place. 'Eden', they call it. A prison for non-believers, disguised and sugar-coated as a camp for troubled kids.
The car pulled up. Suit-monkey thought better of trying to force me out, instead letting me get out and grab my things myself, simply sticking that damnable gun back into its little holster and walking close behind me, hand on the baton just beside that gun. I was guided into a room so white it hurt my eyes, and by the time I adjusted, I was being asked questions. Some lady with to much makeup and a bored expression, beady black eyes that belonged to a rat peering out from her skull at me. I stared right back, with my apathetic expression, and answered her little questions.
"Avan Wight. Seventeen, male. I'm here because a bunch of jackasses with big he-"
I took a hard hit over the back of my shoulders from the suit-monkey's baton, grunting and correcting myself, with as much sarcasm in my tone as I could muster.
"Here because my lovely father decided it was best for me to spend some time learning about life and how I'm supposed to live it, under the eyes of you gods-forsaken assholes."
I ducked the baton, this time, instead striding out towards the flagpole that the bored lady indicated as her fingers tap-tap-tapped away, not even caring for my sarcasm and insults. She'd probably dealt with worse. The suit-monkey likely went off to get his hand tended, while I walked alone to the flagpole, rubbing absently at the split-open welt on my arm from that rubber bullet I mentioned earlier. That was why I'd been smelling blood, I realized. It -had- broken the skin, the edge of my short sleeve was stained red, and I found my hand slicked with a small amount of blood when I pulled it away. Lovely. But I approached the few people already by the pole with a casual air, waving to them in an absent manner and standing quietly nearby, where I could listen without seeming creepy, nose right next to them and their words. I gazed around, those piercing, stormy-grey eyes of mine taking note of everything around me, from grand to tiny. I might as well get a good look -now-. I had no doubt I'd be paying for that suit-monkey's hand the hard way soon enough. That little, barred box seemed promising, they'd probably stuff me in there. Maybe pour some steaming water on me if I was lucky, burn me in the box. Probably better then just sitting there, it'd give me pain to focus on. And pain I could turn into anger, which I could then turn back into focus later on, when I needed it. But this place didn't look like it would give many chances to need such focus. Escape looked unlikely, and even I have limits- I couldn't be throwing myself into scraps every day, here.
This was going to be a long trial of life.