CLANG!

The hollow noise reverberated around the miserable concrete cell.

Arrrr!!

My scream echoed down the corridor.

'Girl if you don't stop kicking those bars we'll shove you in with the loobies in cell block 4 and see how you like things.'

CLANG!

My kick to the metal bars was less vicous this time and defeated I sank back down onto the metal frame I would be using as my bed, twisting my nose ring angrily.

'Shut up Pig!' My grey-green eyes flashed with fury. 'Whatever happened to my one phone-call, huh?'

The uniformed officer just smirked, 'Who did you want to call love? Your shirt says you're one of those street punks. We already used your one phone-call to call the C.P.S.'

My jaw dropped, the fresh twin snakebite piercings scraping across my lower teeth. 'Child Protective services?' I choked out.

But the policeman had already walked away, continuing his rounds.

I sniffed, fighting back my tears of rage. How dare they call those morons on me again? It took me 2 weeks to get out last time! Grinning I ran my scarred hands through my silver blonde hair. No matter, i thought to myself, I've done it before I can do it again no problem. At least I have a rendezvous point this time.

The cop came back and slid a tray in to the cell, a soggy ham sandwich and mouldy apple rested on a paper plate but i ate it thankfully. One perk of holding cells, better food then i'd had all week.

After I ate i paced for a while, went to the toilet that was placed unceremoniously in the corner of the room, and washed the tattered black tee I wore in the sink. Hanging it over the bedframe to dry and laying down in my denim jeans and stain-yellow tank top.

My tee shirt was barely dry by the time the rep for the C.P.S. came by. The role of the Child Protective services is to take in orphans or homeless children and teens and place them in safe foster homes across the country. They were provided with education, a safe home and a kind family.

I have all of that, i thought.

'Megan Wyvan. Why is it that you manage to get caught only when I'm on shift? You really must like our get togethers.' The man was tall and lean. Greasy black hair was slicked across his head in a miserable attempt at a combover. His suit, worn to give him a sense of power, only made him look more like a member of the mafia and less like a government representative. A prickly moustache rested on his lip like a dead mouse and his face was contorted in a way that reinforced this image.

I grinded her teeth together. 'Chandler.'

'Mr. Pierce.'

I grinned. 'No Chandler my name is Meg.'

His eye twitched, 'Follow me.' I followed, my boredom overpowering the natural fight-or-flight reflex.

We were passing through the police station pavilion now. Chandler stopped beside the front desk and proceded to sign the usual papers needed to get me out. Behind the desk was the officer who had been attending me since I came in. His hat was off and his blonde hair was oily with sweat. 'Good luck girl.' He said warmly.

'What's that supposed to mean?' He chuckled.

'It took my brother three years to get out of the gang, I hope you have better luck, you're smart, you know as well as I do this life is gonna' be the death of you.' I just shook my head angrily.

'The Falcons are my family. They're the reason I'm alive. If you ever talk about them like that again, I'll kill you. Your brothers a deserter, not lucky, stupid.' With that I turned on my heels and stalked off to find Chandy's car.

Looking around I knew it would be futile so I sat on the cold concrete steps outside the station. That seemed to be the lay of the land here. Concrete, cold, unwelcoming.

'The board wasn't impressed with your last little stunt.' Came a whiney familiar voice behind me.

I smiled remembering quite clearly the event he was inferring. The Great Heist, as my honorary little brother called it.

'Well the World news would say otherwise. It wasn't off the front page for a good few weeks. No solid evidence to convict me I guess.' I was now being led towards a black BMW parked illegally in a handicapped zone.

'Looks like I'm not the only one doing illegal things Chandler, last time I saw you I distinctly remember a beat up old mini.'

The C.P.S. rep reached in his pocket and pulled out a car remote. The headlights on the BMW flashed and I opened the door and slid comfortably into the front seat. Chandler strode to the other side and climbed awkwardly into the drivers seat, his lanky height meaning he had only an inch of space between his head and the roof.

I rubbed my coarse hands together, obviously feigning excitement. 'So tell me Chandy,' using the obnoxious nickname for my case handler, 'Where are we off to today, the Coromandel, Timaru or the West Coast. I must say I did like Keri Keri but I feel like Christchurch is calling me back, you know?'

If I had a dollar for every foster home I'd been to I would be the richest 15 year old in New Zealand. But even when they sent me to Stewart Island I stil managed to get back to the gang in Auckland.

'Somewhere new this time. You're being housed in a C.i.p.s home until we can figure out a place you'll be safe in.' By that he meant a place I couldn't break out from.

'Better make it Guantanamo baby, even then you better warn security.' I wasn't using a hyperbole. See I did learn things in school, and not just how to forge signatures.

Ignore my sarcasm, well try it happens more often than not. I actually passed all my qualifications 5 years in advance. This only helped my numerous escape attempts.

The rest of our short ride passed in silence, at least the first part did. Once the car coasted to a stop I unbuckled my seat belt absentmindedly, not even taking in my surroundings. 'Chandy, where the Fuck are we?' Well now I took it in, we were at an outlet mall, a huge second hand store if you will.

'You'll be at your new home for a while, the board are providing you with your backup of allowance that accumulated while you were… away.' He handed me two fifty dollar notes. For all those Americans out there, and Brits. 50 New Zealand dollars is roughly 25 dollars in you currency but is A LOT in ours. I was like a kid in a candy store, a teenage girl in a mall. Ok maybe not that enthusiastic.

'Oh my god! I want this so much! And this! Oh and two of these! Do you think the C.I.P.s home would let me bring knuckle dusters? Oh how much is this? Oh wow! Chandy does this make my hips look big?'

In his defense he did follow me around the whole time. Albeit with his head tilted back in defeat, moaning audibly every so often. By the end of the trip I had a Black and grey camouflaged snow jacket, four plain Short sleeve tees, 2 in black 2 in green, a pair of denim cutoff shorts and a pair of brand new asics* sweatpants. To top it all off I had found a large tramping backpack in the army surplus store, best of all it had a sleeping bag hidden in the base.

I gratefully took the $20 change form the intimidated teller. I felt pretty bad for her, I usually have that affect on people. With my twin snakebite hooped piercings in my bottom lip, tiny metal stud in my left nostril, messy grey-blonde hair I tended to look threatening. The black tee with my gangs insignia splayed across the front didn't hurt any either. A silver knife dripping with glistening red blood. The blade of the knife a slightly bent bird's feather. Kay Street Falcons. Responsible for most of the violence in the area, and most recently, for a 3 million dollar heist. That one I took credit for, like Paul and Carlo could ever take credit for it, they barely knew how to turn the laptop on, let alone hack into the National Banks Mortgage data base. Good times, good times.

I threw my hoard into the boot of Chandlers car and climbed back in, slamming the door with enough force to rock the car. I'd just read a sign above me. Motorway 5km. Great. Do you know how hard it is for a girl to hitchhike down a motorway? Impossible that's how. I was in for a long ride, with Chandy. God save me.

Thankfully though the next few hours passed in a semi-awkward silence. Semi as this seemed to be the norm with me and my case worker who would pick me up every two weeks or so. Sooner now that they knew I would be on my way back to Auckland.

I was awoken from my stupor as the car shuddered to a stop. Trees everywhere, I groaned. I hate trees. Trees meant no immediate bus routes. Terrific.

'Out you get.' My case worker said, leaning down to pull the trunk release button.