Probably I'll write a longer and more detailed (or just entirely different) version of this fic later, but I wanted to get it out of me so that I'd stop spazzing. The setting is (for the moment) pre-book (but in the other one it'll probably be an altered post-book reality). THIS IS NOT your typical girl-comes-to-Camp-Green-Lake fic. It was written entirely for the purpose of the Warden/Mr. Sir randomishness. THERE IS NO ROMANCE involving the OC. I don't think. Enjoy!

Disclaimer:: I own nothing. Well, maybe this chick that's my OC... she's kind of me. So I sort of own her. Because she has no relevance to anything.

Full title of the chapter is "What Makes an Arrival an Event Is Not The Arrival But The Events It Arrives Upon."

It was obscenely hot the day she came to Camp Green Lake. The old, worn-out bus had left the night before so that she could make use of her first day at camp the way that she would make use of the rest of her days at camp. Digging.

She was, admittedly, very nervous. She wasn't sure what she was doing, or what she was going to do, at an all-male juvenile correction camp. She understood what she had done, certainly, but why she had been sent to this godforsaken lack-of-a-lake was beyond her. She could practically feel the testosterone hovering in the air, like some giant, metaphorical phallus.

It was all because of her damned curiosity! If she just hadn't... but now was not the time to think about that, because the bus was pulling to stop in front of a small camp made up of several tents and a few wood-and-stone buildings. The cop uncuffed her and she climbed off the bus into the sweltering heat. A man, tall and rather handsome (in a distinctly rugged and evil sort of way) stood alone in the center of the complex, presumably to act as a rather pathetic welcoming committee.

"This her?" he asked, opening a pack of cigarettes with deft fingers. He was a man of few words, she decided. When the cop nodded, he added, "Hm. I expected something less... effeminate." A man of few but scathing words. She bared her teeth and he bared his back, his pearly whites surprisingly so for a man who smelled like he smoked heavily.

He handed the policeman a stack of papers, small but imposing, and the cop left. He stared at her for a few moments, as if unsure of how to approach her. She supposed he wasn't used to dealing with girls.

"Here." He finally shoved a pile of clothes at her, and she took them and stared at him blankly. There was tense silence for a few moments, and then he commanded, "Change into them. That's usually what uniforms are for."

She resented the fact that he thought her stupid, but continued to stare (though it was more like a glare) pointedly.

"Do you really think I care?" he said finally, throwing up his hands and turning his back.

"Bloody pervert," she muttered under her breath as she kicked off her shoes, dropped her pants, and started to remove her shirt.

"Excuse me?" He whirled around, completely unfazed by her defiant half-nakedness, then clapped a hand to his cigaretted mouth and turned back around.

"Bloody homo," she added, pulling the pant legs over her brother's boxers. She had already pulled the orange t-shirt on, and was glad for this when he whirled around again and nearly knocked her over with one hand, placed disconcertingly at her throat.

"I've got enough rumors flying around the damn camp without you throwing in your two cents as well!" he hissed, almost on top of her. A passerby might wonder whether they should call the police or back away, embarrassed for intruding on an intimate moment. His smoky breath was mixed with something else, a rather nice scent. Spiced peaches, perhaps? She found herself less scared and more intoxicated by his closeness, a fact she quickly hid.

"Yes, sir." She adopted a look of intimidated complacency, trying to widen her eyes innocently at him.

"Mr. Sir." The voice came from behind her, a woman's voice full of authority. This was a voice that made her shiver with fear. Evidently Mr. Sir (could that really be his name?) felt the same, because he quickly backed away from her, wiping the hand that had been at her neck on his jeans, as if to wipe away any evidence. She turned slowly, dreading what she might find.

To her surprise, the woman behind her was quite pretty, the way that a coiled snake is pretty, or a bird of prey. She had fiery orange-red hair and a cowboy hat above sharp eyes and a sharp outfit. The sleeves of her plaid shirt were rolled up and the shorts stopped confidently at her upper thigh. The only hot-looking thing about her outfit were a pair of worn black boots that came almost to her knees. As she pulled on her own shoes, the girl wondered how she could stand to be encased in so much leather when it was probably a hundred degrees.

"Feeling her up already, Mr. Sir?" The question was quiet, jesting almost, but Mr. Sir turned a shade of red to rival the woman's hair. "I'd think you'd at least let her get situated first."

Mr. Sir looked absolutely livid. "That's sick," he spat, through clenched teeth. Her mock-heart fell, then rose again. Maybe he was just saying that.

Both females looked expectantly at Mr. Sir, who took a moment to realize they were expecting an introduction. In the singular.

"The Warden. Don't mess with her." His expression demonstrated exactly what might happen if you crossed her. The girl decided it would be best to keep her distance.

The Warden took over for an enraged Mr. Sir, who was having difficulties speaking. He took a long, angry drag on a new cigarette as she spoke. "You'll dig one hole each day, five feet deep and five feet in diameter. Your shovel doubles as a measuring stick. Showers last exactly four minutes, no more. The water shuts off then. You'll have biweekly meetings with your counselor, though you'll see them throughout the rest of the week as well. If you're late for any of the meals, you don't eat. Sleep when you can; you'll need it. Keep your head down and do as you're told, and you'll be out of here on schedule." She turned to Mr. Sir. "Did I miss anything?" she asked.

Mr. Sir considered (or perhaps savored) for a moment, then added, "You're in 'F' tent."

The Warden smiled, and the girl wondered if perhaps she hadn't allowed Mr. Sir that small victory. "Mr. Sir will take you out to the holes in the water truck today. Every other day, you will walk or ride with your tentmates."

The girl headed for the truck and heard Mr. Sir, behind her, do the same. A quiet "wait" stopped both of them, and then the girl walked on. That tone of voice was not for her.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, she could hear lowered voices. She leaned back a bit, the better to hear them.

"... about that." The Warden's voice.

"Yeah."

"You know I don't..." The voice faded out, and the girl leaned back farther, straining to hear.

"Yeah."

"... Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Hard feelings?"

"... No."

She thought she could hear the happiness in the Warden's voice when she answered. "Good."

There was a silence, and the girl was left to use her imagination.