I'm sorry this is taking so long, but this requires a good amount of research so I've been trying to get everything as exact as possible while still maintaining some creativity here. All research was done on the official website for the experiment upon which this is based.
I would also like to let you know that while someone was wondering what Ponyboy thought about his brother's experiment, I must have you know that Ponyboy is not related to Darrell in this fic, only to Sodapop. I find it much easier to do this because Darry would never let Ponyboy do something like this if he was in charge and they were related.
In the future, my notes will be brief, and I just wanted to get this out of the way.
Nothing you recognize belongs to me.
Chapter One
It was early one Sunday morning when two police cars pulled up in front of an apartment shared by two college students. The street was quiet for once, with all the late-night partiers going home or spending the night on someone else's couch (or bed, if the situation warranted it). Two policemen stepped out of the car and marched to number 221, before knocking upon the door.
Inside lay an eighteen year old, snoring loudly with the sheets tangled about his legs and a book obscuring his face. It was a late-night study party gone awry, with papers scattered around the mattress (the roommates had never bothered to purchase real bed frames) and coffee balancing precariously on the edge of a crate.
A knock woke the student, who sat up in bed, the book sticking to his face for a moment before falling into his lap. Another knock, more urgent than the last and he was out of bed, trying to flatten down his brown hair. No time to get some pants on...
"Ponyboy Curtis?"
Ponyboy felt his eyes grow wide at the sight of two police officers standing before him. He hadn't committed any felony recently, had he? For a moment, the only thought in his head was I wish I put some pants on before he was taken out of the safety of his home and brought to the patrol car.
"You are being arrested for violation of Penal Code 211, armed robbery. You have the right to remain silent, the right to..." The officer's voice was being shut out by the panic and confusion that filled Ponyboy's mind as he was forced to lean spread-eagled over the hood of the car and was searched by the second officer.
What could I have on me in this? He wondered shortly before being turned around and having handcuffs placed on his wrists.
With that, Ponyboy was shoved into the back of the patrol car, trying to ignore the prying eyes of his neighbors and trying to remember why it was he was being arrested. Little did he know that his fate was to be shared by many college students.
Prison
Two-Bit sat in a holding cell, hearing nothing except the sounds of his own breathing and seeing... nothing. Darkness. Black. He had been arrested for violating some Penal Code, he could never remember what he had been told, and had been carted off to the police station. Now he was alone, blindfolded, and he didn't even remember why.
Of all the things he had done in his life, none of them had earned him this sort of treatment. He felt nervous, even a little bit frightened and he had a feeling it would have been made better had he been able to actually see the eyes of the policemen who had been finger printing him. As it was, he saw nothing except the set frown and a pair of sunglasses.
He could feel himself shaking. The idea that he was in a room, by himself, a small... closed space... although he would have never admitted it to his friends, he was quite claustrophobic, and let out an audible sigh of relief when he was fetched from the holding cell to be taken to the "County Jail" for more processing.
The blindfold was still on as he was shoved forward, but he could hear others talking. How many people had they picked up? Why had they picked him up?
"What the fuck'm I doin' here?"
A small smile formed on his lips. Steve.
The smile was short-lived, however, for he soon found himself walking down what sounded like tile, before the blindfold was ripped off and the fluorescent lights burned his eyes. When he grew accustomed to the change, he was able to get a good look around.
And what he saw made any relief he felt vanish instantly.
It was a small corridor, with cells on either side and what seemed to be a very small closet at the end marked 'Solitary'. There were no windows, the light was purely artificial, and standing in front of him was a hard-looking man with cold, blue eyes.
"You have been made aware of your rights?"
Two-Bit wanted to make a wisecrack, he wanted to mouth off to this man (who appeared to be the warden) but he found himself nodding. Not a word passed through his lips, and he suddenly felt very small.
"You have been found guilty, and are now in my care. You do... understand the severity of your crime, do you not... mister... Matthews?"
"Yessir."
"Follow the guards, Matthews. You're going to need a shower."
Prison
"You realize that you're potentially putting yourself in danger, don't you?" An undergraduate by the name of Bryon questioned, glancing down at the guards who were to be sent out for the next prisoner.
"Yes." One of the guards, a blonde-haired twenty-year old by the name of Sodapop Curtis, gave Bryon a small smile. "We're not gonna run out we—"
Bryon silenced him with a wave of his hand and stopped his pacing to stand before the two. "Now, you can do anything, within reason, to maintain law and order within the prison and to command respect from the prisoners."
"Right," the second one replied. This guard was smaller than Sodapop, thin and meek-looking with big, black eyes. He didn't look threatening at all, which may have been part of why he was chosen.
"Alright. Get on out."
As they turned to leave, Sodapop elbowed Johnny in the side. "Whaddaya think, John? We look like a couplea grade-A Socs in this stuff, don't we?"
Johnny grinned and shook his head, but stopped to look down at his outfit. It was all khaki, hanging off of him and making him look smaller than he already did (at twenty, he only looked eighteen and he hated it). A whistle hung around his neck and he wore mirrored sunglasses. In his hand was a billy club, one issued by the police although he was sure he would never use it. "Yeah, man. If Socs carried this around," he replied, waving the club for a moment before following his friend out the door.
"Where's the prisoner?" Soda's voice echoed in the hall. Johnny glanced over his shoulder, seeing a few prisoners already in the cells. There were three on either side of the hall, each one holding only three prisoners. He had been told that he was only working in shifts, and there were eighteen guards total. One for each "convict".
"Right there," the warden pointed to a nervous-looking college student in jeans and a tank top. "Make 'im strip and hose him down."
"Why?" Johnny asked.
"Gotta delouse him... he might be dirty."
He and Sodapop approached the prisoner, and Johnny tried in that moment to look as menacing as possible. "Strip."
"What? I ain't takin' my clothes off for you bums!"
Johnny took a step forward, the billy club hitting the palm of his hand. "Do it." He must have looked more menacing than he felt, because the prisoner began to undress until he was completely naked, after which Sodapop sprayed him down.
Prison
Ponyboy felt small next to the guards. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the strange fabric under his arms and hunching his shoulders. They had given him a dress, bearing the number 30231. He felt exposed, wearing nothing beneath the smock simply because they wouldn't let him. Whenever he moved, he could hear the chink of metal against metal as the chain on his right ankle moved with him, and his forehead itched from the nylon stocking they had placed over his hair.
"I-I don't want t'do this any—"
"Go to your cell, 30231," one guard ordered, poking Ponyboy in the back with the club, shoving him forward until he was in a cell next to a younger-looking student. He reminded him a bit of Johnny, with his big, black eyes and the defeated air about him, but other than that there wasn't much else. His fellow prisoner turned to him and offered a nervous smile.
"Ponyboy," Ponyboy said, sticking out his hand for him to shake.
"M&M. I mean, it's... it's a nickname but um... I—"
"48913, quiet!" M&M frowned, but quieted.
"Is Ponyboy your real name?" He was holding back a grin.
"Yeah. My dad gave it to me... y'know, to be original."
"D'you ever wish you didn't have it?"
"Kinda. It's not that bad anymore, though. I used t'get teased a lot—"
"Quiet in there!"