I've got soul but I'm not a soldier (ota and the big boss)
The ground is cold and hard beneath his bare feet, the dusty smell of concrete flitting past his nostrils as he comes too. His head feels like it’s been routinely pounded into with a two by four, and when two strong calloused hands reach up to grab at the pounding temples, there is a soft clang as the standard issue handcuffs pull at his wrists.
Two hazel eyes stare down at them in bewilderment, barely noting the red and abused wrists or bloody knuckles at the sight of his confinements.
It takes a moment for him to focus on the room around him; the cold grey walls of a holding cell, the teal interrogation table with a file sitting In the middle of it’s fake marble pattern.
Wait…he tilts his head to read the subject line on that little dossier only to see ‘Theodore Bradson’ written in precise lettering.
Shit...
Two hazel eyes stare down at them in bewilderment, barely noting the red and abused wrists or bloody knuckles at the sight of his confinements.
It takes a moment for him to focus on the room around him; the cold grey walls of a holding cell, the teal interrogation table with a file sitting In the middle of it’s fake marble pattern.
Wait…he tilts his head to read the subject line on that little dossier only to see ‘Theodore Bradson’ written in precise lettering.
Shit...