After five years in "rehabilitation" Aaron had finally found himself "free." But that freedom seemed more like a enclosed safari than the zoo he'd just left. It was an illusion, all of this. A way of decreasing costs of for the money making machines that built these centers. He knew because he'd help conceive the concept of these Islands of hell. His own innovation to decrease crime and maximize profits had ultimately become his "home." He walked in line, keeping his head down and eyes forward. He'd learned that keeping to oneself was the smartest way to survive— the rules of the prison yard applied here as well. Most of all he hoped that<i>no one</i>would recognize him.<br/><br/>Nothing had changed.<br/><br/>The premise of these rehab centers were utopian by all means— advertised and promoted by politicians who were funded by the very men who ran these institutions.<i>Aaron's </i>institutions. It had started as a simple plan; a means to fulfill the growing demand and strained resources of Governments throughout the globe. First came the United Rehabilitation Corporation or URC; they broke into the North American Markets and spread like wildfire. URC was the sole proprietor of these "Units" as they would be referred by his former colleagues. They were effective— only because they artificially lowered crime rates by simply removing criminals of all kinds and simply dumping them into a Unit to be beaten, broken and worked into submission. They were nothing but cattle to be used to their full extent.<br/><br/>His brown eyes flicked up as the girl in front of him held in a laugh.<i>Was she trying to be the center of attention?</i>He simply cleared his throat as he waited for his turn in line. She was ballsy. But being ballsy got you either killed, raped or<i>worse. </i>And he wasn't sure what was worse than those two options. The prison, and the community had hierarchies. There were the Wardens, they were the Gods— their word was not only the law, but if they wanted you dead. If they wanted you to be anything, you<i>would</i>be what they wanted. The guards were the equivalent of faithful servants, vested with arbitrary power. Next you had your band of wealthy Community Members who had influence and were renowned enough to remain at the top. Then you had those who simply had brute force— your murders and rapists. And at the bottom were the regular schmucks; the ones who were imprisoned for stealing or being caught doing drugs. There were ultimately two ways to survive. You move up in the caste system or you try remaining invisible. That girl was either trying to move up and doing a terrible job or she was taking self-destrution to a whole new level.<br/><br/>A small pinch. That's all Aaron felt as the needle was quickly plunged into his arm. The vaccines were vaccines at least at first.  They were nanomites that would attack any foreign organisms within the body, but researchers had quickly realized the nanomites could be programmed to act as tracking beacons making it easy to track every little movement of the Rehabilitated. Aaron was pretty sure they knew when you were walking upstairs or shitting.<br/><br/>And with that pinch they were free. But they were still shackled. A strict schedule was enforced, but that didn't help decrease the violence, murders, rape and various black market activities that pervaded through this little society. These bastards weren't rehabilitated, they were just let loose to prey on each other.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">*********​</div><br/>"New Meat." Victor said as he eyed the new recruits, his single blue orb settled on the the only girl in the new batch of poor fucks. They'd very quickly learn who<i>ran</i>things around here. With greying black hair, an eye patch and a thick beard, the other Rehabitents referred to him as Black Beard— which Victor did enjoy. He'd been in here for the past ten years on account of going on a little murder spree (it began with serial killings and escalated to a mass shooting). Victor had been a gunsmith before his tenure in here, which had left him well built. His towering height also helped with.<br/><br/>Black Beard stood from his seat in the mess hall, his small band of ever present confidants and guards followed behind him, he chewed on a chicken leg, before tossing it to the ground haphazardly. He approached the girl and stood in front of her, his single eye stared down at her without breaking his stripping gaze. "We have a pretty new bird in our midst." He held her chin as he spoke to her, forcing her to look up at him. "Remember Little Bird, you're in my cage now." He let go of her chin and tapped her on her cheek lightly, stepping closer.<br/><br/>"I already have my eye on you. Word travels quickly here. A sharp tongue ends with a sharp knife cutting it out." He squeezed her cheeks with his one hand, "Shelby has a stronger bark than a bite. I on the other hand." He smirked lightly as he shook his head, "Bite as hard as I bark." He smiled as he leaned in so she could feel his warm breath against her neck, "I'll be seeing you later Pretty Bird." He pushed her down to the ground and turned away with his ensemble following him.<br/><br/>It seemed that the entire mess hall had become silent with the little encounter and quickly returned to it's former bustling bazaar of food and chaos.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">***********<br/>​</div>Aaron watched the entire exchange silently. This girl was going to die on her first night. He walked silently up to her, offering his hand to help her up. As he did he spoke up, "Not drawing attention to yourself is the key to survival in here." He helped her stand and smiled lightly. "That's all the advice I can offer. Really that's all I can offer you." Aaron wasn't exactly<i>weak</i>nor was he the strongest. He was well built for his age— still fit. He had boxed at some point and did know how to throw a punch— but punches were mostly useless against men who had no moral or ethical standards. So why fight a loosing fight?<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">​</div>