Oliver hummed a little tune as the guards dragged him into the room. 24 hours ago he had been rotting away in a jail cell, now he was in a massive underground bunker. He never did like cops, or MP's or whatever these guards were, but he cooperated. He imagined that if he refused he'd end up with six "warning shots" in his chest. He sat down at a long table, filled with foods that typically don't go together. The guards gestured for him to sit down at a seat near the head of the table. 

	The seat was marked with a paper name tag the read "Oliver Mitchel King". The tag faced outwards, so that the other dinner guests could identify him. He hoped it was people his own age, god knew he could use a bit of human interaction. He desperately wanted to dig into the pizza sitting in front of him, but he waited for instruction. The last thing he needed was the guards billy-clubbing him to death while shouting at him to "STOP RESISTING".