Last Login:
January 26th, 2021

Gender: Male

Age: 28
Signup Date:
September 27, 2020


11/22/2020 01:51 PM 

[cs] - the recruit

the recruit
There was a set of clean clothes on the floor: white socks and boxers, pressed orange T-shirt, green military-style trousers with zipped pockets, and a pair of boots. Slowly, I picked up the boots and inspected them: rubbery smell and shiny new black soles. They were new. The military-style clothes easily looked as if this was where kids ended up if they kept getting into trouble. I put on the underwear and studied the logo embroidered on the T-shirt. It was a crosshair with a set of initials: CHERUB. Attempting to spin the initials in my head, I couldn’t make sense of them.

Out in the corridor, other students wore the same boots and trousers, but their T-shirts were either black or grey, all with the CHERUB logo on them. A young, male approached me.

“I don’t know what to do”, I said.

“Can’t talk to orange”, the boy said without stopping.

“Can you tell me where to go?” I asked another.

“Can’t talk to orange,” one girl replied.

The other one smiled, saying, “Can’t talk,” but she pointed towards a lift and then made a downward motion with her hand. “Cheers”, I replied.

As I waited for the lift, a white CHERUB T-shirt wearing adult spoke. “Can’t talk to orange”, before raising one finger.

Up until now, I had assumed this was a prank being played on the ‘new kid’, but a much older adult joining in was weird. It took a moment, but I realized the raised finger was telling me to get out at the first floor. It was a reception area. I could see out the main entrance into plush gardens where a fountain spouted water five meters into the air. Stepping up to the desk, an elderly lady was there to greet newcomers.

“Please don’t say ‘Can’t talk to orange,’ I just-“

I didn’t even get to finish.

“Good morning, Marcus Noir. The Commanding Officer, McAfferty, would like to see you in his office.” She led me down a short corridor and knocked on a door.

“Enter,” a soft Scottish accent said from inside. With shook nerves, I stepped into an office with full height windows and a crackling fireplace. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. The Commanding Officer stood up from behind his desk and crushed my hand as he shook it - causing me to make a grimace.

“Welcome to CHERUB campus, Marcus - where we turn bright young men into men ready to join the ranks of our military.”

11/22/2020 01:44 PM 

[cs] - homeless

Three years of surviving on the streets abruptly came to an end when a social worker found me sleeping on a bench outside of the city park. Apparently when you get assigned to a social worker, they keep a very keen eye on you - especially when your parent’s estate consisted of millions of dollars (unknown to Marcus). The social worker approached me cautiously, I guess she was trying to identify me without having to wake me up or disturb me. It didn’t work, the not disturbing me part, as I learned the hard way that you must become a light sleeper to survive on the streets.

“Marcus Arguello Noir?” She asked. I haven’t heard my full name spoken in so long, it almost felt foreign to hear. I sat up on the park bench, giving her space to sit if she choose to do so. “Depends on who’s asking…”, I advised. I gave her the up and down look, trying to see if looked suspicious or like a cop. She went into detail about she was a social worker and how my uncle was going through the process of becoming my legal guardian for the past few years. I questioned why it took three entire years for him to become my legal guardian because… it just felt off. Did the process really take *that* long? Did he have to *think* on it for three years before deciding to essentially adopt me?

“There were… *legal difficulties*.” Her answer seemed to echo with each of my questions. Unbeknown to me at the time, my uncle was trying to find a way to obtain my parent’s estate. He exhausted all options to do so without having to claim legal guardianship of me, but that didn’t work. The next ploy to obtain it was by essentially adopting me and claiming the funds withdrawn would be used in the care of a thirteen year old boy who just lost his parents.

“If you want to gather your… *things*, I can drive you down to the office and we can arrange for your uncle to come pick you up.” She didn’t really know what *things* a homeless kid would have. I looked around, half-expecting to find the *things* she mentioned. But the answer was nothing. If it wasn’t in my physical possession, it wasn’t mine. “I guess… I’m ready.”


I sat in an office that resembled an interrogation room for about two hours. The social worker left me here while she contacted my uncle and made the final arrangements for him to finally pick me up. The doorknob made a noise as it twisted to be opened. In came my uncle that I recognized from holidays, cousins’ birthdays, and other family based events. Just when the image of my father’s face was beginning to blur in my memory, my uncle reminded me of so many of his physical features. For a moment, I imagined my own father standing in the doorway - ready to take me home to see my mother. There was a lump in my throat that burned, causing my tear ducts to betray me.

“There’s my nephew…”, his voice quickly broke the illusion. “Let’s get you out of here.” There was a numbness I felt after waking up from the earlier illusion. Though the idea of having *some* sense of a family was nice, I didn’t like the constant reminder that my father was no longer here - which was exactly what my uncle did. I took a few steps forward, unable to speak or even form coherent sounds. He placed a hand on my shoulder, walking me through the office and out to his car where both my cousins were waiting - Clyde and Lyle. Both Clyde and Lyle were older than me, at least by 4-5 years.

“Why does *it* smell like sh*t?” Clyde’s first words to me after not speaking for over four years. “Clyde! *It* has a name, and it’s Macrus.” Lyle spoke up in my defense. I was still too broken to respond or fight back at this point. Three years of living on the street while my cousins lived a normal, safe life. “Okay, okay. Why does MarcASS smell like sh*t?” Clyde made his rebuttal.

“I know how the homeless get by’, my uncle spoke up. “…stealing from whoever they can just to make it by. He’s a thief, but we’ll see what we can do about that.”

11/22/2020 01:20 PM 

[cs] - the escape

the escape
Six months. That’s approximately how long I’ve been held hostage in Sunset Boy’s Home. At least, that’s what I could tell from the scratch marks I’ve been making along my wooden bed frame. Immediately after the *incident*, I was sent here while the court system figured out what to do with a ten year old boy whose next of kin didn’t want anything to do with him. From the outside, Sunset Boy’s Home looked like a safe place for orphaned boys. The courts would never know the horrors that happened below in the basement. A sweatshop, where they forced all of the boys to work 14 hours shifts sewing knock off shoes.

On top of that, I was roomed with *Chester* - the psychotic, the lunatic, the *pet f***er*. Everything set this guy off: wrong looks, certain words, Tuesdays, not responding to questions. One moment he would go from laying on his bed (touching himself to a dog show) to using a homemade shank to either cut or stab me. Quite a few of my scars, ones that would never heal correctly because they were never treated properly, came from interactions with Chester. But, all of that was coming to an end *today*.

“What are you doing over there, Marcus?” Chester asked from his bed on the other side of the room. “Just reading a comic book”, I replied.

Behind the comic book I was adding the final pieces to my escape plan. Over the past five months, I’ve snuck needles and razors from the basement sweatshop into my room. The guards have noticed the short supply and suspected me - taking me to Mistress Ranks’ office. They stripped me, bent me over, and inspected every possible place I could’ve hidden those needles, but had to let me go when they didn’t find any. Sure, the guards checked my mouth and under my tongue, but they never found the needles I stuck *inside* of my cheeks. Hurt like hell, but worth it.

“Did you get my sandwich?” Chester called back out. It wasn’t actually *his* sandwich. It was his way of saying, ‘give me your dinner’. “Yeah, here you go”, I tossed the food over to him and waited anxiously for him to begin eating. It wouldn’t be long now, starting with the first cough. “What did you - “, Chester struggled to speak between chokes.

“Hard to talk with needles in your throat?” Chester toppled to the floor with both hands wrapped around his neck - struggling to live.

Step two.

I flipped my bed over, creating a sort of barrier between me and the door. “Guards! There’s something wrong with me roommate”, I yelled. “What the f***, Noir”, they asked while unlocking the door and stepping in to check on Chester. “Hiding behind that bed won’t help you.”

“Says you”, I said before tossing the homemade bomb I made over the wall of the bed. “What the f*** is -.“ By the time they realized, it was too late. The mini bomb exploded, projecting needles and razors in every direction. Both guards instantly toppled on to the floor. Chester stopped struggling, now having needles inside and out. I contemplated going to the Head Mistress’ office and doing unthinkable things. The ideas played over in my mind so many times over the last six months. But in the end, I walked away - residing to rather be homeless than live in that hell.

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