Chapter Text
When he wakes in the stinking elevator, the first thing he feels is confusion. How’d I get here? Then, he feels the panic. It’s cold, and dark, and so very cramped. His hand slips into something that smells like metal and that he vaguely thinks could be blood.
He stands shakily, hands trembling their way into fists at his side. His eyes dart around the box, noting the crates and piles of fabric from broken ones.
“Help,” he shouts, “Let me out of here!”
He can't move around very much because of how small the box is, but the tilting and swaying it does is more than enough to make him crash into boxes and collect bruises. It feels like forever, had actually only been half an hour, but the elevator snaps into place at a stop and he crashes into the ground again.
“Shit!” Sunlight slips in as the doors above him slide open with a squeal of metal on metal. Ow. A group of people surround him, blank faces and vague colors. But the jeering and mocking he could make out clearly.
“Look at that shank.”
“How old is he?”
“Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.”
“You're the klunk, shuck-face.”
“Dude, it smells like feet down there!”
“Hope you enjoyed the one way trip, Greenie.”
“Ain't no ticket back, bro.”
Ugh. A group of gross boys. Their faces swim, smiles twisting nastily and laughs grating against his ears.
His emotions swirled, never settling between the feelings of fear and anger and unease. His stomach lurches with the need to cry, throw up, scream, anything.
The crowd parts suddenly, and a tall boy— presumably the leader— steps to the box and throws a rope. There's a knot at the end, and it lands inches away from where he’s still lying on the ground.
“Well,” the boy calls. “What’re you waiting for? Come up!”
He feels short of breath. It hurts, standing with how banged up he got in the box. The rough and fraying rope is stable in his hands as he clutches it. The boys above give three hard yanks and it flies out of the box and onto the ground.
The world spins, colors mixing and separating like oil with water. His head hurt. His chest hurts. A foot lightly nudges him before its owner is slapped away.
He manages to get his hands under his back and push up, effectively bringing him to his feet. The boy he had presumed as the leader comes into focus, dark skin and a shaved head with a stern look.
“Nice to meet ya, shank.” he says. “Welcome to the Glade.”
A hand from the crowd reached out to steady him and he backed away, nearly falling back into the elevator. A few laughs rang out. He clenched his jaw and shuffled his feet into a steady position, body still swaying.
“Look at the Greenbean,” a scratchy voice called out. “Just got here and already klunking his pants.” More laughs.
“Shut it, Gally.” the boy snaps.
The boys around him look young, the eldest in front of him seeming to only be eighteen at most. And yet as young as they seem, they all look weary and tired. And rude. Their laughs still ring out, though, and that might be why.
Ignoring the feeling of bugs crawling under his skin, he looked around the new area. Four walls of a giant size surround the field they stand in, looming like a cage above them. They're covered in ivy so thick a car could be suspended in it. Openings in the walls stick in every cardinal direction, North, West, East, and West. Well, he doesn't know that exactly, but it seems to be the case based on the sun aligning in the middle of all four doors in the middle of the sky.
It looks like there's just more walls outside the doors, which, why? Why would there be more walls if there's an exit right in front of them? Moving on, he focuses on the field— the Glade the boy had called it. He can't see through the mob of boys, so he pushes to the back. Or, tries to. A boy with short black hair and a bad acne problem shoves him back.
“Okay, Greenie. Hold your horses.”
He tried to focus on the people around him as his vision progressively cleared. A short, pudgy boy shifted on his feet, rocking back and forth, looking at him with wide and hopeful eyes. A tall boy— taller than the leader— with long blond hair tied into a ponytail with a square jaw sniffed at him.
Animals, these boys.
A thick, heavily muscled Asian kid folded his arms and furrowed his brows as he looked at him, shirt sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. The leader at his front frowned. Several other boys stared silently at him or snickered next to their friends.
“Where am I?” he asked, surprised at the way his voice sounded more high pitched than he remembered. Well, couldn't remember, because he had no memories. Still, it sounded wrong. Feminine.
“No where good.” the leader said. “Just keep yourself nice and calm.”
“Which keeper he gonna get?” yelled a boy from the back.
“I told you,” his friend shouted beside him. “He’s klunk. Gonna be a Slopper for sure— no doubt about it!”
The pudgy boy blushed heavily and shuffled a bit more. Poor boy.
Once again, he felt a press of confusion. What was this language? Slopper. Shank. He didn't know what those words meant, he didn't even know his name.
His already shallow breaths sped up as the pain in his chest increased and the voices around him grew louder. His vision, which had just fully cleared, swam with black spots. Faint words made it through the ringing in his ears, louder with each second.
“Greenie!... Shank… Med-Jacks!..”
The floor hit his knees, and he wondered when he had fallen. Hands grabbed his shoulders and he pushed them away, hissing underneath his breath.
“Calm down!”
He couldn't calm down. Not in this circle of boys surrounding him. Not in this cage of rock and ivy. Not in this field. Not in the box, not anywhere near this place. He couldn't calm down.
His vision was overcome by the spots and his head fell to the ground. Ow. His eyes— when had he started crying?— closed and the hands he had shoved away grabbed him again. The ringing in his ears reached a crescendo and he passed out, carried in the arms of four hands with faces he couldn't place.