He stood outside of the dark, dank warehouse, his blood cold in shade with the freezing, night-time winds. His dark, black hair whipped menacingly at his steel blue eyes. His name is Matt Miller. Or Matthew. Take your pick.

It had been little over two months that he had been bested in the cyber world by the Saints, his humiliation completed by his 'tail-between-legs' escape of steelport, fleeing to the nearest Airport. He remembered the time quite clearly, much like a photograph. A poorly taken photograph, with little arrows and markers on it.

He had wandered into the lobby, his ticket back home to Britain in hand, and his "Nobody Loves Me /3" suitcase travelling behind him, tightly within is grip. He remembered the look the check-in booth lady had given him, before he turned around slowly to face two rather grizzled looking men. They informed him he was under arrest for invasion of personal privacy, money laundering, unlawful entry into government software and grand larcerny. Of course, they where correct, and with an arm of a screeching, bratty Matt enlocked in each of their elbows, they dragged him off into the nearest Airport Security Detention cell.

It was in that dark, dank cell he had waited for what felt like an eternity, his phone cruelly vibrating from the occasional SaintsBook update on the other side of the bars, sitting on a nearby table. He sighed, full up on the heavy emotion of defeat. The next day he had appeared in Juvenile court, but since his parents where unable to attend it, since their being in Hemfordshire, he was found guilty of all charges. He was faced with a short two years of juvenile detention, before a transfer to Maximum security for another five years.

Hell, he'd be twenty three before he got out. In the words of the boss: "FUCK THAT!".

He spilt the beans. All of them. He admitted his crimes, listed names, identified Eddie 'Killbane' Pryor as the leader of the Luchadors, and liquifide all his bank accounts connected with the sydnicate. There was no way, simply put, he would go seven years in jail as some prison-bitch. Or without eye-liner. Or Internet. Hell, he just wouldn't survive.

So, with all that said and done, his punishment was set a few notches down to Rehabilatory Surveilance in the care of a foster guardian.

Which was just going to be fucking brilliant.

Kinzie Kenzington had been charged years before with selling government secrets to the Mossad, and had been dishonourably discharged from service with the FBI on account of innapropriate footage of her in the FBI bed quarters, which she will, to her death bed, deny was her, and claim that it was, in fact, faked and created by the leader of the notorious deckers: Matthew Miller. Her crimes against the state had earnt her a lovely life sentence in a maximum security prison, but luckily for her, her severe agrophobia had it's benefits, and with a few calls to her doctors, she had been sent to a mental ward for rehabilitation for nine months, before completing her time there and was given a grand total of 400 hours community service. At first, Kinzie had tried teaching IT over the internet as a distance education teacher, but after a while she found it too terrifying to even consider opening their emails. The baying, brattish children. She despised and feared children. Had she ever been one? No, she had never considered herself a child. She had spent most of those years typing, her eyes focused on rectangular screens.
Given time, Kenzie then applied to be a foster guardian, though, due to her illness, she was only allowed one foster child per year, and most had left within a week. Perhaps it was the electronics everywhere? Did children fear technology?

...or was it her gimp suits, dildos and half eaten pizza left lying around that warned them away? We may never know.

So, as you can piece together, Matthew is the new foster child of Kinzie's. And now we return to Matthew, standing outside, his duffle bag of clothing in one hand, his laptop and set up gear swinging over his shoulder in the cold breeze as he stared at the doorbell to the warehouse, the surveilance camera's unblinking in their cold, watchful stares. The boy sighed, knocking against the metal roller-cage door, the noise muffled by the howling winds and 10pm skies of black, the distant glow of Steelport City far off in the distance.
He sighed, his head drooping down to look at the note, giving the address and nothing else, bar the reminder that he was to remain in surveiled custody for another four months until his lawyer was allowed to make an official statement of blah blah blah. He threw the note to his left, the paper dully thumping into a puddle of muck and concrete.

He knocked again, his knuckles stinging a little in the freezing cold as they rapped against the rough, corungated steel. The boy rolled his eyes.

"Fucking posers." he muttered, kicking the roller-cage door with his right foot, his numb toes numb inside of their striped blue and black knee-highs.
The door rattled, a few droplets of water splattering back in an almost karma-like response to his kick. That was it. With his eye-shadow beginning to roll down his face, his hair plastering his sixteen year old face, he leant down, pulling up the freezing metal within his stinging, clammy hands, to his chest, a warm breath of air swarming in to greet him, to pull him in. Which he followed, welcoming the loving warmth of the interior as he dragged his suitcase in to greet the scene before him.