The cold metal bit at his wrists.  Two benches and small table, both bolted to the floor, were all that adorned the otherwise barren room.  The only sounds that could be heard were the emotionless drone of the ventilation system and his own breathing.

        Just fifteen and he was here, the single color jumpsuit issued to him too large on has gaunt frame.  He was no longer Marcus Ashford, his number becoming his identity. 262777695.  “Kind of ironic”, he thought, “it was numbers that got me here in the first place.”

        Footsteps approaching in the hall outside disturbed him from his thoughts.  There was a rattle of keys and the door opened. A parade of suits followed by a burly black security guard entered the room.  The door closed behind them.

        He did not make eye contact with any of them, but a smug grin showed he was not intimidated.  They spoke to him, but he hardly payed attention. A torrent of legal terms recieved nothing more than a monosyllabic answer at best. Finally, they left, leaving him alone with the guard.  M. Baldwin read the name badge.

        Baldwin spoke, “Get up, we’re going.”  He didn’t need to say where. There was only one place they could be headed.  The place they said would be his home for the next six months.  A doubtlessly bland cell with the same minimal decor.

        It could have been longer, but the judge had been lenient, saying “he’s just a kid, didn’t know any better.”  “Stupid bastards, I wouldn’t have gotten where I was if I didn’t know what I was doing.”  Slowly, Marcus obliged, in no particular hurry to get where they were going.  

        “Hey,” getting Baldwin’s attention, “little help?” nodding towards his worn backpack carrying the few things he had been allowed to bring.

        Baldwin bent over and picked up the backpack with no visible effort.  Apparently thinking the lanky teen to be of little threat in comparison to the others bound to be present. He was motioned to go first, proceeding down the hallway, Baldwin following close behind.  It could have been a school, except for the noticeable lack of activity in the halls, and the unbreakable mesh in each window.  

        They arrived at the door, he only had a moment to see the new name plate secured to the door.  Above it a more worn looking one bearing the name P. Miller.  The door opened, and he was ushered inside.  Baldwin removed the handcuffs, and he sat on the bunk rubbing his wrists.  Baldwin told him the others were out on grounds time, his roommate would return soon.

        He nodded, and Baldwin was almost out the door before he spoke. “What does the M stand for?”, the muscular man stood there a moment perplexed before Mark slowly pointed to his chest.  Realizing what he meant he said almost friendly “Methuselah, Methuselah Baldwin. But don’t tell the guys or they will never let me live it down.”    Then he was gone, leaving Marcus alone with his thoughts again.  “First guy I’ve met that’s treated me with any respect,” Marcus thought.

        It would be a game of waiting.  He had a failsafe, but it wasn’t scheduled to activate for another three weeks.  Knowing this he reached for his backpack.  Unzipping it he pulled out a dog eared copy of A Tactical Schematic of the Enterprise C.  Leaning back, he opened to the page he’d left off.  “Too bad there weren’t detailed plans of the detention facility, could be of some use.”  Was his last thought before becoming absorbed in the book.  

        He took little more than a glance when P. Miller came in the room.  Miller was exactly what you’d expect of someone that was here.  Stocky and musclebound, a shaved head.  Even a small tattoo adorning his right shoulder, just visible on the edge of his ripped off sleeves.  He practically screamed delinquent.  But he did not speak, he stoically lay on  his bunk on the other side of the room.  Marcus returned his full focus to reading after a moment of silence.

        Miller spoke, “you know they are gonna beat your ass if you do that.”  Without looking up from his book Marcus responds confidently, but with the sigh of someone resigned to there fate “why don’t you, there is nothing I could do, anyways.”  This leads only to another quiet spell from the puzzling roommate.

        Finally, Miller shifts a little and carefully chose his words “you don’t look like you belong here.  What did you do?”  Marcus Ashford looks up from his book, for the first time giving the strange neighbor his full attention.  His deep-set eyes, somehow piercing in there dull glimmer.  “Im a hacker, I hijacked the internet. ...the whole internet.”