The kid couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent an entire two years [i]anywhere[/i] on the planet, and he sure as hell didn’t expect it to be a concentration camp for wayward juvenile freaks in the middle of nowheresville. He still couldn’t help but recall those first few weeks at the camp, it’s hectic ups and downs, and the excruciately long days of grunt work that were delegated by the soldiers and administrative adults who seemed to have nothing better to do than make every single teenager there more angsty and pissy than they already had been. Clearly none of them had kids or they’d at least [i]somewhat[/i] sympathize with what each of their young minds were going through on a daily basis.

[i]Ah, and then there was the White Noise…[/i]

It was enough to drive anyone batshit crazy, and yet it happened more often than not like clockwork, screwing with each of the kid’s minds in a way that was the epitome of mental torture. On a few occasions, when he wasn’t curled up in a fetal position on the floor with his hands cupped over his ears, Bryson found himself clawing at the painted brick walls to the point that a few of his fingertips bled from the incessant friction, and headaches came more frequently, some of which had him cringing in bed for hours.

But, amongst all the chaos, Bryson made the best of it because really, what was the alternative?

Being the outgoing lad that he was -somewhere between a Type A and B personality- Bryson could find a friend in just about anyone he’d had a chance to actually converse with when not being oppressed by the man. It seemed social activities were on the downlow, and generally frowned upon by the upper echelon jerks who ran the place, accept for those within the cabin you were assigned. The kid’s negative outlook toward adults only increased exponentially the longer he was at the camp, realizing that those with power were more to blame than those without, and yet there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He wasn’t violent and never had been even in his earlier childhood, but the more the establishment pushed, the more he wanted to push back. Be a leader for the people, break out with wicked Braveheart quotes while swinging a very large two-handed sword. You know, the normal stuff that fifteen year old kids dream of when they’re held against their will in a prison camp from hell. 

His cabin mates, he supposed, were a decent enough group to get along with, which was one of the only reasons Bryson himself didn't go off the deep end. They all had a knack for keeping each other accountable as best they could, and helped in the necessary steps it took to train and soldier through each of their newfound powers, being careful not to stray past the threshold that could inevitably cause irreparable damage to their surroundings or themselves. Everything went relatively well, that was until Koren got pinched by the patrols and was sent into solitary confinement for what felt like the rest of his life. After that, it seemed as though the soldiers had it out for the crew in our cabin, making their life’s work to make them as miserable as possible. And to think, it could get worse?

First it was the slimming down of ration allowance during mealtimes, followed by random “wake up" calls in the dead of night by way of loud banging along the metal panels outside the cabin. After that, they started shutting off the hot water, forcing each of the boys to take cold showers, and eventually turning the water off altogether, which was a crime in and of itself since teenage boys can stink up a small space like something fierce. 

Needless to say, it made any further attempts to get along with the other kids a challenge as sleep deprivation and even illnesses came and went with the phases of the moon. It didn't take long either, as one by one, each of the kids grew apart, isolating themselves enough at all four corners of their abode, as the welling up of anger, fear, and general unhappiness washed away better judgement.

But a reprieve from the monotony had come, and it rode on the tails of a possible revolution...or a terrorist attack. Either way, Bryce welcomed the break, as whatever caused the earthquake and explosion outside sent enough chaos and confusion flying across the encampment that those soldiers who previously walked their scheduled patrol routes were then focused on whatever was transpiring.

[I]Brilliant.[/i]

“Can anyone see anything?” Bryce spoke up while peaking around one of the steel support columns near his bunk. “We under attack?”

He quickly made it over toward the door and slowly turned the handle, cracking the door just enough to stick his face between the small space.