(I had to many words in my description so I'll put some things here that I couldn't fit:
- FlamboyantBanana inspired this idea
- this is gonna have MexAme in it if you couldn't tell from the title somehow
- angst most likely
- smooches but no smut
- censored cursing
- fight scenes most likely
- historical inaccuracies
- I haven't written a dystopian book yet so let's just see how this goes
Ok enjoy)
(I changed this so It's America's POV because I felt like it needed it)
I had always been "the best child". I had always been described as intelligent, I always ahead of my peers ever since I was first talking, and I showed superior comprehension and ability when it came to language, math, verbal expression, you name it.
However, this did not at all make me "the good child".
As far back as I can remember, I was told off over the strangest things.
"Dad! Dad! Look! I made you!" I exclaimed, holding up a picture I'd drawn of my father, Britain. He was terrified and took the drawing away, sending me straight to my room. A bit later, dad came back to explain that I shouldn't do that unless it was for informational purposes, and that I could get in trouble if I tried that at school. I was merely a toddler then.
Later in life, when I was a young boy, I figured out how to whistle, and that if I paired different tones together, it sounded quite nice. When dad heard me whistling an improvised melody, he fearfully explained that one should only whistle to call a dog.
Soon, when I was in high school, I added sunglasses to the skull diagram I had to sketch in class.
I was suspended for a month.
"But dad! It wasn't even creative! I was just demonstrating how glasses aligned with your skull! It was educational!" I exclaimed.
"But it wasn't instructed of you, America, and we discussed that you are a teenager and therefore can only call me Dr. London-,"
"I don't care dad! Besides, I'm not your subordinate employees, I'm your son!" I exclaimed. Dad let out a sigh, and put a hand on my shoulder.
"America, the last thing I want is for you to be punished for being a bit... different.... I love you dearly, and I want you to know this is only to protect you. If you continue with this... creativity... I could lose you...," He said solemnly. I teared up, but tried not to let it show.
"They're not taking Australia forever... right?" I asked. Dad just took a deep breath. He never answered my question. Sometimes, I didn't know if I really wanted the answer.
Years later, I was being sent to a rehabilitation center.
"Morning, may I have your paperwork?" The woman at the front desk said flatly. I nodded silently and handed her his paperwork, which she stared at blankly for a moment. "Are you at the right place, sir?" She asked.
"This is the neurological rehabilitation center, is it not?" I asked. She nodded.
"Are you visiting someone...?" She asked.
"I wouldn't personify my new prison-cell-esque room here to be a 'someone' I'm willing to visit, however it's required by law that I be here for... let me check again... oh yes, sculpting a human without being instructed to do so by a government official," I said, flipping through my paperwork. She stared at me for a moment longer, not seeming to appreciate my sarcasm, before shaking her head slightly and verifying my entry. I was now a grown man.
"Here's where you'll be staying. Classes start at nine, lunch at noon, back to work at one, and you're free at five. Take these clothes, you aren't permitted to wear anything else as a patient," The man who escorted me to my room said, handing me gray clothes. I nodded, going into the room that was all the same shade of gray. The walls, floor, bed, ceiling, desk, chair, everything. I was always rather used to this. Everything was gray. All buildings, products, everything, always had to be gray, if it could be helped. The government-required outfits that could only be worn at certain times for certain occasions were always gray. I used to joke dad was such a rule follower, even his hair turned gray. Dad laughed, but I have to admit, seeing the terror in dads eyes that followed didn't make the laugh worth it. Not at all. I looked up at the gray clock.
Eight thirty, time to get ready for class
(Ok, I know, short start, but I wanted to kick it off to set the scene)
YOU ARE READING
Street Cred (CH MexAme Dystopian AU)
Fanfiction"You have absolutely zero street smarts and it SHOWS... don't expect me to baby you, because I could care less about you," "Don't you mean you could NOT care less about me?" "Ugh.... f*ckin nerd...," -------- Neuorolia, a place where the last surviv...
