Dimly lit cells, housing all sorts of people. Prison guards, armed to the teeth, awaiting any suspicious move. This place was not supposed to exist, and yet here he was, looking for the right candidate. Mr. Devoe, former Col. Devoe, was a man on a mission. His particular tastes had led him here, seeing that no one “officially” had the skills he was looking for. His escort went on an on, describing each prisoner in detail. Suddenly, a flurry of activity, the silent alarm had been tripped.
“What’s going on?” he asked him, cutting him off.
“You better come with me, I think you should meet him.”
They hurried, to the lower levels, past the guards to the open cell, the prisoner sat in his chair, typing away at his terminal. A luxury in a place like this.
Guns drawn, doors wide open, yet no one made any attempt to apprehend him.
They simply watched as he typed away, undisturbed by their presence.
Finally, Devoe laid his eyes upon him. A boy, no older than 18, 19.
“Who are you?” he asked, but 824 did not answer.