Okay, so, I don't own My Chemical Romance, or any of the band members of other bands, a.k.a. Green Day, that are mentioned in this story. I only own the O.C's. Enjoy :)

XOXO

~Alteration~

Frank looked out onto the bleak desert terrain. No one was living out here; no one but them.

He looked down at the orange jumpsuit that held his trembling body. It was dusty and dirty and two sizes to big. But then again, he thought, it was better too big than too small.

The bus continued along the dusty road, small pebbles clanking on the side of the vehicle. He looked around at the other people wearing the same jumpsuit he was. They varied in ages, some younger, around twenty, like himself, some older, closer to fifty. At twenty-one, Frank was among the youngest, and therefore, the weakest.

The bus slowed down as it drove closer to a looming building. High concrete fences laced with barbed wire circled the structure. He could see a man, a guard, at the top of a watch-tower, and he felt as though the man was staring at him and only him, like none of the other delinquents on the bus mattered.

Driving in through electronically activated gates, the bus pulled to an abrupt stop in front of the building. Frank could see other men and women wearing identical orange jumpsuits. Again, like with the guard, he felt as if all their glares were directed at him.

The males and females on the bus stood up, but didn't move. No one wanted to be the first to get out of the bus into the hell-hole that would be their home for the next couple of years, at least. Even the toughest looking guys on the bus looked wearily out of the window at the tall stone building that sat beside them.

"Well, come on, ballerina's!" the bus driver called from behind the wheel, "We don't have all day!"

Still no one moved. Then suddenly, Frank was pushed over, and he fell face first into the aisle. He looked up to see a burly man with a neck that was thicker than Frank's leg glowering down at him, his hairy arms covered in tattoo's. He did not look like someone you'd want to mess with.

Frank stood up. Well, he might as well get this over with. The first impressions were always the worst, and being the first person out of the bus would certainly get him remembered, whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Frank didn't know, but he would soon enough.

He walked up to the front of the bus. He could feel perspiration forming on his forehead, and it wasn't from the heat.

With a glare at Frank, the bus driver pulled a lever that opened up the mechanical door of the bus. Frank stepped down the black rubber steps and onto the coarse dirt. His sneakers had seen better days, so he could feel every rock as he stepped onto it.

Slowly, the rest of the bus began to unload into the desert sun, slightly shadowed by the ominous building that stood directly in front of them.

Near the doors stood a warden. He was wearing reflective aviators, a white collared shirt with a black tie, a black hat and ironed black pants. Next to him, Frank looked like a homeless man, lucky to have found even the one piece garment.

Frank could not see the warden's eyes, but again, for the third time that day, he felt as though they were trained straight at him, like everyone was staring straight into his soul.

"Good afternoon," the warden's voice was deep and commanding, and Frank knew that he didn't really wish them all a good afternoon.

"This shall be your home for the rest of your sentence, however long that might be," the warden gestured to the dark mass behind him, "I am the head warden here and my name is Mr. Reynolds, but you will address me as Sir. Is that clear?"

"Yes," the group said rather half-heartedly,

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Sir cupped his hand behind his ear, as though he couldn't hear the large group of felons that stood before him.

"Yes, Sir!" the group said much more ferociously than before.

"That's right, now follow me," Sir turned around and walked through the open doors into the building. The group followed suit.

The interior was enormous but unimpressive. The walls and floors were made of solid concrete and were un-swept. Prisoners walked around aimlessly, probably heading out or to go to some classes.

Sir led the group to a large, open hall. He instructed them all to sit, and the group obliged, knowing it was best to follow Sir's orders.

"Now, we're going to set you up with your cell mates," Sir's voice reverberated around the large space.

Frank zoned out, staring around the room. It wasn't overly massive, but it could easily fit two thousand people. He decided that this was where the convicts came to eat.

"Iero, Frank," Frank jumped at the sound of his name, causing a few people to snigger. Slowly, he stood up, the cheap chair scraping along the concrete floor.

"Follow Miss. Finer. She'll take you to Division B," Sir motioned at a young warden, probably no older than Frank himself. She had jet black hair that was streaked with magenta and dark eyeliner. She did not look like a prison warden.

Frank walked cautiously over to 'Miss. Finer', who was looking intently at him. He noticed her eyes were blue and grey, like a thunderstorm. They kind of frightened him, the way they were so piercing. Suddenly, he felt underdressed, even though the horrid orange thing covered almost all of him, excluding his head.

Walking through the halls, some men in the cell began to wolf whistle as Miss. Finer passed by. She stopped them by whipping out her middle finger. Frank stared at her. He'd never known a prison warden to blow off convicts.

"By the way," Miss. Finer said after a few minutes of silently walking through the dirty concrete corridors, "Don't ever call me 'Miss Finer'. Around here, I'm just know as Amethyst,"

Frank nodded. He decided it was best to stay on the warden's good side.

Suddenly Amethyst stopped in front of a large, white door. Frank almost walked straight into her.

"Welcome to Division B," Amethyst said with a smile. He couldn't tell if she was genuinely happy, or just being sarcastic. She opened up the door before he could decide.

Through the entry, there was a small corridor of five cells. Through the first cell to his right, Frank could see a man with a large afro spiraling out from his scalp and brown eyes, and a surly male with blonde hair and stubble that sported a black lip ring. Next to his, Frank's small silver hoop looked minuscule. The blonde man's piercing icy blue eyes seemed to bore into Frank's hazel ones.

In the cell to Frank's left sat a man with a pinched face, black hair that was bleached white at the tips and sideburns. He had blue eyes. Seated next to him was another male with large, staring blue eyes and brown hair that was spiked in a Mohawk.

The next cell to the left was empty, but to the right, lying on a bed was a man with bleach blonde hair and crazed looking hazel eyes. The boy sitting next to him shared resemblance, so Frank concurred that he was probably his brother. That was probably the only similarity. The other male had dark brown, almost black hair and was wearing smudged black eyeliner. He looked quiet and discreet, while the blonde looked to be loud.

"Hey Mikey!" the blonde yelled suddenly, his large eyes opening alarmingly, "Lookie who we've got here! Fresh meat!"

Frank stared nervously at the bleach blonde. He did not look altogether there in the head. The guy the blonde had called 'Mikey' looked up briefly from his comic book at Frank, but didn't take much notice.

The last cell was empty but for a bunk-bed and two desks, one of them covered in a few books.

"What are all you guys doing inside?" Amethyst asked the prisoners after walking the length of the hallway, "It's nice and sunny outside!"

The answers varied from, "I'm too lazy," from the blonde with the black lip ring to, "I'm a vampire," from the quiet dark haired brother of the creep, although, it was the mumbled, "I was too busy fucking your mom, Amy," that came from the spiky haired male with the large, staring eyes, that caught Amethysts attention.

"Now, Tre," she said to the male, "You're here to get rid of that behavior," she turned to Frank who was looking questioningly at her, "Frank Edwin Wright III, a.k.a. Tre Cool, twenty seven, rapist," Somehow, Frank didn't find this hard to believe. 'Tre' had that perverted look in his eyes.

"That guy there beside him is Michael Ryan Pritchard, a.k.a. Mike Dirnt, twenty seven, drug dealer," Amethyst explained, pointing at the guy with the black and bleach blond spiky hair.

"And that's Ray Toro," she motioned at afro dude, "Twenty five, identity fraud. His cell mate's Bob Bryar, twenty four, arsonist. Burned down five buildings. Don't give him matches,"

"And that little creep over there," Amethyst jerked her hand towards the bleach blonde with the crazy eyes, "Is Gerard Way, age twenty five. Him and his brother Mikey, age twenty two, are the New Jersey serial killers,"

Frank, being from New Jersey himself, had heard of the serial killers. Seventeen deaths in two years, all perfectly executed, well, all except for the last one. That was close to a year ago.

"Awe, c'mon Amy," the creep Gerard said, his lips turned up into some crazy sort of smile, "We're changed men now! That's all in the past,"

"You shut the fuck up, Gee," Amethyst turned to face the creep, "You're no more changed than you were before. Remember the incident with the knife last week?"

"C'mon! That warden wanted to be stabbed in the hand. I could see it in his face! I could almost hear his thoughts, and he was thinking, 'Darn, I wish Gerard Way, the Almighty, would stab me. That would be such an honor,"

Frank would have laughed if it weren't for the fact that the creep kind of scared him. His eyes were wide and staring, and Frank couldn't even imagine what was going on in Gerard's head.

"Alright," Amethyst said after a few moments of silence, "So, you've met everyone in Division B except for -"

She was cut off as a final door at the end of the hallway, which Frank assumed to be the bathroom and showers, opened and a man with pitch black hair, smudged black liner around his blue eyes and tattoos on his arms stepped out into the hallway.

"Billy," Amethyst continued with a sly smile on her small, pale face.

"Frank Iero, meet Billy Joe Armstrong. He'll be your cell mate,"

Frank looked at the man. He was thin, but well built.

"How's it going, Frank?" Billy asked. His voice was deep, but not overly. Frank shrugged, and in truth, he really didn't know how things were going. All could be well one day and then the next everything could take a complete turn. Nothing was ever going to be the same for Frank either way. He wasn't a tough guy. He had some muscle, especially in his arms from his years of playing guitar, but that was nothing compared to some guys here. He didn't do drugs or rape people, that just wasn't him. He was just Frank, the guitar player who tended to make fun of people without even realizing it.

And you know what they did to guys like him in prison.