<strong>Name:</strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;">William</span><br/><strong>Age:</strong>17<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Wrong Place, Wrong Time<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Prison Cell Opposite Group 1<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Group 1<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Outside the plastic of that one particular cell, soon after the woman with white hair is dragged off to God-knows-where, the shout of a boy,“This isn’t fair!” sixteen or seventeen at the sound of him, is heard down the hallway. Shuffling and clear sighs of protest echo off the empty walls. “I didn’t fucking do anything!” Clearly unhappy about the situation he finds himself in. “Get off me!” Dragged by the collar of his dingy gray sweatshirt by a fairly large police officer. A large police officer, with very little manners or grace, who jerks the child about as if the kid little more than a talking doll.<br/><br/>Moving past that odd-group behind their clear cell wall, the young man seems rather out of place. Sweatshirt actually a hoody, stained with splotches of bright orange, a similar tint upon his fingers and dirty nails. Jeans that were worn and slightly frayed fitting firmly to his waist looked like they’d not been washed in months. Shoes with their laces missing, once a great pair of sneakers now covered in stray marks of paint. Yellow and green shining through quit loudly, but there is that matching orange to go with the rest of this good-fellow’s outfit. “This is fucking retarded! I was just painting! That’s not worth a night in fucking jail!”<br/><br/>“You were caught helping known felons escape the scene of a crime.”<br/><br/>“I don’t even know what that means!”<br/><br/>“Some time in here might help you figure that out, William.”<br/><br/>Bared metal door, bars large and lacking space to fit much more than an arm or leg through, opposite those who were otherwise present. A loud buzz, then a click, the cell door pops open and the street-painter is quickly tossed onto the cold concrete within. The officer closes the cell, signals to someone up near the hallway door and leaves after it’s clear that the kid wont be getting out too soon. Scrambling to his feet, the one within the cell quickly gets up and goes to the bars that closed behind him moments ago. Shaking cage walls violently and cursing aloud. “This is bullshit! I want a lawyer! I didn’t do shit! You fucking pigs just picking on me!”<br/><br/>It takes a little while of this before the new cell-block member even realizes there are other people around him. Of course, seeing them behind that high-tech cell, one of those that had been broadcasted on the News-Feeds for months, it wasn’t difficult to figure out who was in there. “Ah! What the fuck? You’re right here! You are right fucking here!" Arms gesturing, pointing and waving around almost as if suffering madness. "How could I help you fucking escape if you’re right fucking here!?” Turning to yell down the hall. “Fucking police fucking brutality is what it is!” Straining, William’s face turns red as each word seems covered in spit with the amount of saliva that is forced out in his rage. “It’s a real thing, you fuckers!”<br/><br/>Spent, leaning head against cold metal, William groans and mumbles to himself. The words are quite and difficult to hear, especially for those across the hall. However, something can be made out. At the very end of a brooding self-monologue, three words ring quite clear. “I’m screwed, man."