Ahhh, a new story... I am so excited for this, YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Been meaning to write this ever since Big Time Movie. I mean, come ON- they left Moon just floating in the air shaking his fist and screaming, "I'LL GET YOU BIG TIME RUUUUUUUUUSH!" How is that NOT an invitation for fanfic authors to go crazy?

Disclaimer: ... I own the whump...?

Enjoy!

...

The prison bus rumbled beneath Atticus Moon's feet and jolted as it hit a bump. Atticus was jerked an inch into the air, only to be stopped by the chain cuffed to his ankle. He hit the seat with a rough thud and scowled at the pain it delivered.

The officer at the front of the bus laughed at his obvious misery. "Don't worry now, Sir Moon," he said with a smirk. "The road's only this bumpy the entire way."

Atticus turned to the man he was chained to, frowning. "Is he mocking me?"

The man spared him a sneer and sidelong glance, which Atticus supposed was probably better than what he would get when they reached the federal prison. He was forced to wear the same outfit as these hooligans—a dull gray jumpsuit, minus the millions of tattoos snaking along this man's skin. He might as well practice staying out of their way.

All things considered, it could be worse—but Atticus didn't see how.

Again he found his thoughts travelling back to that infuriating American boy band, Big Time Rush, and he felt his blood boil. Everything had been perfectly planned out, even at the times when it all went wrong. He'd been so close to starting his revolution—and a bunch of teenagers stopped him? It wasn't just a humiliation—it was an outrage. It was unfathomable. It was a disgrace.

He had to get back at them.

His chance came eight minutes later.

"What the hell…?" one of the prison guards muttered. Atticus couldn't see outside of the windshield, but he knew by the look on the guard's face that something happened—something bad.

The guard reached for his radio, but before he could contact anyone the glass windshield shattered. The bus swerved to the right, crossing lanes and narrowly avoiding traffic. The brakes screeched. Prisoners shouted but Atticus simply sat and watched, an amused smile sitting softly on his lips.

Finally, the bus groaned to a stop. The prison guard stood shakily, gun out, but it nearly fell from his trembling fingers as a huge bear of a man with a shaved head and a silver hammer for a right hand stepped onto the bus stairs.

"Stop," the guard managed to gasp out.

Maxwell hit him in the face with his hammer. The guard dropped like a stone.

Atticus watched as Maxwell made his way to moon. He nodded, and Maxwell snapped the chains around his wrists and ankles.

The remaining prisoners began to protest loudly as Atticus made his way towards the front of the bus, nudging past the three unconscious prison guards. As he reached the door Atticus turned and waved mockingly at the prisoners. They roared in protest.

"Thank you, Maxwell," Atticus said, rubbing his wrists as he stepped off of the bus.

Maxwell grunted in return and then nodded to the alley behind him. Atticus turned to see a man stepping forward—dark skinned and dressed simply in a pressed silver suit and dark sunglasses. He held a cane in his hands although he walked with no limp, sauntering up to Atticus like he owned the world.

"You must be the famous Sir Atticus Moon," the man said—American, surprisingly, although a strange accent hinted in his voice. He bowed deeply. "What an honor it is to meet you."

Atticus waved him away. "I'm no longer a knight. However, I am curious. Was it you who organized my escape?"

"Indeed it was," the man said, smirking. "Amazing what money and connections can do these days."

"May I ask why?"

"Atticus, my good man—" the man swung an arm over Atticus' shoulders, "—I believe we both have something in common."

"And what would that be?"

His dark lips curved into a wicked smile. "We both want revenge on Big Time Rush."

Atticus felt his gut tighten at the name of the stupid American boy band. "I think you and I are going to get along just fine, friend."

"Please," the man said, smiling slyly at him. "Call me Hawk."

…

Carlos shot upright, a scream trapped in his throat. Wild eyes raked the dark room, looking for any sort of threat near him, the wisps of his nightmare still clinging to him. As he recognized his bedroom, James starting to stir on the other side from his bed, the terror melted away. Carlos trembled and put his face in his hands.

"Carlos?" James murmured. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. "What's up?" he asked, sounding more awake now as he saw Carlos hunched over.

The Latino shook his head emphatically, which alarmed James. He threw off his covers and hurried over to Carlos' side of the room, sitting down next to Carlos and wrapping his arms around him.

"Did you have that nightmare again?" he asked.

Carlos lifted his face from his hands. He wasn't crying but the fear was still there. "I don't know why I keep having it," he mumbled. "It just—"

"Don't say that it feels real," James warned. "You know what happened the last time you said that."

Carlos gave him a small smile. "Sorry."

James sighed. "Don't be. Just go back to bed, alright? And be happy it's the first night we get to sleep in."

He ran a hand over Carlos' new short haircut and went back to his own bed. Carlos watched him and was grateful that he had such good friends. Otherwise, he had a feeling his dream really would come true. And it wouldn't be good for any of them.