MOST OF THIS FIC IS T-RATED
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Other than Napoleon and the CIA watchdog assigned to him, the prison bus was empty. It was once a schoolbus, but had since been rudely repurposed, painted a dark charcoal gray with the words Virginia Department of Corrections printed in neat white paint under the murky windows. Outside, flat, baked farmland went past, acres of it, dotted sparsely with trees. There was no air conditioning in the bus, and the windows were open only in varying slivers; Napoleon felt like he was baking, himself, in clothes that were three days old. His shirt stuck to his back, and his jeans felt uncomfortably stiff on his legs.
Napoleon watched the trees go past in a daze. His hands were cuffed to the chrome ring attached to the seat in front of him, and his legs were hobbled. It was hard to believe that only four days ago he had wandered through MoMa with a gorgeous leggy blonde on his arm, then wined and dined her at a nice French bistro. Strange how quickly the worm turned, just on the back of a single mistake.
“Right side,” the watchdog said. “Get your first look at your new home for the next decade and a half, kid.”
05 Sep 2018
“We’re your teachers,” Aizawa tries, in a futile effort to appeal to a young teen’s natural cocktail of seething social awkwardness and inclination to cultivate adult disinterest. “Our lives outside of the classroom are not your concern.”