I just felt like writing this. Juvenile prison modern AU. I don't know how those things are inside, so I'm making it up. Sorry for plot holes and inaccuracies.
Disclaimer: nyet, eto ne moya istoriya. Spasiba, dobre den. (Fun fact, yes, I do speak a little Russian:)
Race's body ached as he climbed out of the car and watched it peel out of the dark parking lot. Another car pulled up and a man hopped out and tossed Race the keys. The woman with Race, Paris, stopped to glance at her watch and made a face that predicted a yawn, but it never came. She glanced at the tired teenager and smiled tightly.
Racetrack moved slowly as he followed her up a sidewalk, splitting off to get into the low dingy gold car, his fingers twitching inside of his leather jacket's pocket. Breathing the fumes of whatever it was they were going to have more of, Race felt his worry heighten against the pounding of his heart. Just a simple job. It was night. They were in New York state, in the wilderness, for God's sake? What could go wrong with that? They'd pulled it off a thousand times, and every time Paris, his older sister, would give him her real smile, and her ginger hair would frame her face and make her look so pretty and grown up, and so he couldn't say no when she put her arm around him and pointed to the wall, to the map. That moldy wet map had nearly twenty pins. And his sister was happy because of that. They ran their biggest operation through those points, and it was getting stronger every day.
But now, sitting in the dark with his fingers stroking the trigger of his gun, the fifteen-year-old felt the same angry pangs in his chest that made his lungs thirst for air. His palms were so sweaty there was no way he could shake hands. Would he have to shake hands with a crime lord?
But Paris knew what she was doing. And Race was the getaway man. He wouldn't have to do anything, and the gun was just for safety. He just stepped on the gas and steered. He'd done it a thousand times- tonight was no different. If only he could just believe that.
To calm himself as two other shadows joined Paris's and the man's, Race thought over the plan. Slash and Cherry would hold off intruders and give him the signal to start the engine (they couldn't risk the noise) while Paris and Andy talked to Spot Conlan. A trade would be established, the "goods" would be looked over…. Then the signal would come- two fingers coming quickly away from the forehead in a salute- given by Cherry. Slash would take the goods, Paris got shotgun, Slash and Andy would take the back to watch out route and Cherry would get in the car before them, but only because she was the youngest and only here because she was a sharpshooter, and too valuable to risk.
They'd gone over it a thousand times- nothing to worry about Race-
BANG
Race's fingers stiffened on the wheel, and he ducked instinctivly as a window in the building to his left shattered. Three more shots were fired, and one smashed the windshield and caught him in the shoulder. He cried out in agony, barely able to turn the key to start the car. Paris and Slash came bounding out with Andy in tow, but Race didn't even notice Cherry wasn't there until they were screaming at him to drive. Almost to the end of the parking lot, he gritted his teeth and yelled over the firing and screeching of rubber, "I'm going back for Cherry!"
"'Tony, don't!" Paris yelled in her little brother's ear, "The bulls!"
Race felt like his mind was a ping-pong ball, racing around the corners of decision. He flung his wheel around and felt their back wheel left slightly and then slam on the pavement.
"The Bulls!" someone screamed in his ear. It could have been his sister, but it was probably her boyfriend Andy. At this point he didn't care less what the difference was. He just wanted to get Cherry back.
He saw her silhouette jerk as she fired shot after shot. Race winced as he drove closer and saw the splatter of blood on her pale face. She jumped into the car and Race straightened out, swerving to avoid a dumpster. But it was too late. Blue and red light imbued dread inside of him as the car had to come to a halting stop. He jerked a little as his wound began to bleed again, sending ribbond of pain down his arm. Just as the muffled voice of an officer reached his ears and time began to melt into itself, he could feel the blood all the way down to his fingertips. Hands moved his body, and someone called "Race!"
He smiled over the pain when he realized it was Cherry. But he didn't see her as he passed out, slumping into the safety and painless black.
…
Pain came slowly. He sensed it even unconscious, like some kind of tickle, but even more unpleasant, if that's possible.
"Run into a stop sign?" a thickly accented voice jeered from somewhere next to him- left or right, he couldn't remember. Swimming to the surface, he opened his eyes.
A shifting grey ceiling seemed to fall on him as he tried to sit up. Somewhere outside muffled voices made Race think of a movie. But it was too real and too painful to be interesting. He looked to his left. A wall. To the right. Another wall… but no, tinted glass. A young man, probably about two or three years older than himself waved with a brazen smile on his face. He stood close to the glass, a sketchbook of sorts in hand.
"Hiya."
"Hey," Race felt his accent thickening just by listening to this guy. He hated that accent, but now it could be an advantage. He let it loose, "I'se not supposed tah hear yah, right?"
"Nah. But I'se not complainin'." The grin flashed again, "Kelly, Jack Kelly."
"Racetrack." he glanced around, holding his shoulder, "Where is we?"
"The slammer, of sorts. Hospital for kids who got on the wrong side of dah laws at dah wrong place and time. If yah look behind me deres' a hundred uddah kids who we can't hear. Dey's laid up with… occupational accidents, if yah read me. Haven't figured out how tah talk tah dem."
"So youse set dis up? Dis microphone thing?"
"Nah, dat was already dere. Dis is bulletproof glass here," Jack knocked on it. Race could hear him, but he'd closed his eyes to fight the nausea as he slowly sat up.
"Hey, we'se goin' tah dah same place!"
"How do yah know?"
"Saw your papes."
"You got good eyesight," Race said incredulously, not quite understanding, but just wanting this Kelly character to shut up. The door to his room opened, and a doctor in a blue button-down and slacks came in followed by a security guard, who stood near the door.
Race tensed up as the man got closer.
"Who are you?" He lowered the accent to as neutral as possible.
"Dr. Jacobi." He said, "Hear you took a bullet."
"So I imagine. I take it you somehow didn't know dat?"
"Stop moving, lay back." He sighed, "No, I didn't, I just check after the surgeries, not perform them."
"Surgery?" Race's heart pounded.
"Yeah. You were pretty out of it."
Race tried to swallow the feeling that he was about to lose it. "I thought you guys weren't allowed to talk to us."
"You're a kid. They make exceptions for small talk around here." Jacobi whispered jokingly.
His voice hung in the air as he cut away the bandage. Race winced as his skin felt the cold air of the little room. His attempt to strangle a cry of pain made it all the more pitiful. The doctor pulled out a syringe.
Race moved away, "What is that?"
"Drugs. Painkillers, you should be happy."
Race got the gist. He was a drug dealer's accomplice, yes, but he hated the stuff. All it ever brought him was worry. He had panic attacks thinking about it. He moved away from the doctor.
"Don't give that to me."
"Why not? It'll help."
"Don't touch me."
"Afraid of needles?"
"No." Race looked away.
The doctor suddenly made an incredulous sound, "You don't mean to tell me you're afraid of what's inside!"
Race didn't reply. He felt himself shaking, his heart picking up. He tried to get up, to move away from the man, to move away from the drug.
"It's not addictive." The man's was gentle now. "Not if you only take it once."
"I've been clean for months. Once is all it takes." His voice shook, he felt his accent slipping through, "I don't want it."
"Okay." The syringe disappeared. Race laid back and hid his face in his pillow, so no one would see the tears.
After the man left, Race heard Jack's quiet voice, "dat was really brave, kid."
Race laughed dryly at the irony. He was terrified of the stuff. He glanced at Jack. He looked guilty. Race saw him rubbing his arm, saw the marks.
"How long for you?"
"Uhh," Jack laughed nervously, "Three hours." He sank down on the edge of his bed. Race felt his eyes widen. Jack would be experiencing withdrawals, and Race had to watch. Jack looked up at the younger kid, and seeing his face, said, "It's okay. I've lived through it before. Twice." His short laughter turned to stifled sobs. "M' sorry." He mumbled. The intercom flared with static. Race breathed deeply, "It's ok. You'll do great." he offered weakly.
"I shoulda already done that. I'se tryin' not tah think about it, yah know? Tryin' tah draw pretty places… New Mexico," Jack mumbled, shrugging. His eyes closed, "I'm scared."
He climbed onto the bed and curled into a ball, facing away from Race with the notebook clutched to his chest.. The sudden change of emotions scared Race. He couldn't think of what to say. So he didn't.
…
The next few days were hell. People came in and out of Jack's room. Sometimes he was coherent enough to say things, but mostly he just slept and shook and cried. Sometimes he asked for "more, please, just a little." Race blocked out his voice and tried to focus on what to do next. He couldn't talk to Jack; they'd figured out how to cut off the intercom.
Race just wanted to see Cherry. Was she okay? He pictured her wavy brown hair and perfect green eyes. He wanted to hug her and make sure she was okay, and she was going to go make a better life. But he wasn't even sure he could.
...
Four months later, after a miraculously quick trial, and a fast recovery, Race followed Jack's path to the Ryan Emerson-Farthing Center for Juvenile Delinquents- the infamous REF center, or Refuge. Ryan Emerson-Farthing, whoever he was, wasn't around when they got there. Race smirked at the thought as he was taken down to the dorms. There were no girls. He wouldn't see Cherry until they both wiped the slate clean and made their way back to normal. Or at least the closest thing to it. Before Jack had left, he'd run into Race in a hall at the hearing. As they passed, heavily guarded, he whispered, "Don't be a stranger." That felt impossible now.
He was sent to the dorm labeled "Pulitzer-Hearst."
Down the long rows of bunks, he searched for Slash, or maybe someone he used to know. Andy was too old to be sent here, but maybe there was someone…. He felt a nudge in his ribs, and the guard with the name tag Morris Delancey pointed to an empty bottom bunk. He sat down and waited for something to happen. But they just left, all the guards and assistants and everyone he was so afraid of. He was scared of these boys, but at least he was one of them.
As he laid down, his hand went into his shirt and traced the skin under his collar bone until he it the scar. It still hurt, but the pain was solid, and good.
Above him someone was turning restlessly, rustling and moving the bunk. He didn't stop for twenty minutes. Race finally knocked on the metal above his head, "Hey, cut it out!"
"Sorry," the voice murmured. Almost to himself, he said, "Tryin' to figure out what tah do with my hands…"
Race knew that voice. He exhaled in wonder.
"Nice tah hear from yah again, strangah."
So? Thoughts? Should I keep going? Thanks for reading! Review please, if you get the chance!