You’ve been sitting in the transport bus that hauled you off from prison a few hours ago for what seems like forever. Trees and power lines whip by as you glance out the window, trying to figure out a cure for your boredom. You sit and think for what reason you’ve been crammed into this bus and sent off. The guards haven’t given you any reason to why, other than ‘A special person has a need for you.’, and other vague nonsense. But from you hear a few muttering of the guards crammed in the seats next to you, their rifles laying on their laps.

“I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t trust letting him out, for whatever reason.” “He massacred a entire town, for God’s sake!”

The second guard replies: “I wouldn’t either, but I’ve heard that he’ll be in good hands of that military place. Shape him up and get him to work for them instead. But I don’t know about that, he’s a wild card.”

The first guard speaks back: “yeah, he’s a wild card alright. Could snap from cheery and joyful to primally brutal on a dime.”

The second guard speaks again: “I just hope the sad sap looking over this guy doesn’t have a hard time like we did. That psycho killed about a quarter of our total guards and turned so many of the prisoners into a living pulp just by disagreeing with him.” He sighs and turns silent again, leaving the bus quiet except for the hum of the engine as you’re being driven to who knows where.