The sack jostled again as the men carrying him stopped to argue briefly over directions. John could hear muffled voices outside discussing who would get a cut from the boy's sale, and the reality of his situation struck harder.
"I need to get out of here now," he thought, clenching his fists as he considered his next moves. He looked down at his new hands, now healed and unmarred despite the recent beating. "Could this body have some healing powers? Or maybe it was just the transfer..." It was something he'd need to test—if he made it out of this sack.
Feeling a sudden resolve, he adjusted himself inside the sack, testing the strength of the knot. "If this body has any kind of edge, now's the time to find out." Gathering his strength, he pressed his hands against the fabric, straining against the tightly bound opening. Unfortunately nothing happened.
The men seemed to notice his struggling as opened up the sack, John took the opportunity to take a deep breath only for him to be greeted with a clenched fist that put him to sleep.
The next thing John remembered was being unceremoniously dragged across a grimy floor and thrown into what felt like a cold, metal cage. He heard a heavy lock click, trapping him in.
Opening his eyes slowly, John took in his surroundings. The dim room was filled with other cages, each holding children around his age, all looking just as confused, terrified, and hopeless as he felt. Many had bruises and cuts; others were so thin and weak they could barely sit up. Chains rattled faintly as the children shifted or whispered to one another in quiet, frightened voices.
The first day was one of disorientation and silence. John sat in his cage, feeling the cold metal against his back, absorbing the grim reality around him. The other children, some younger, some older, were visibly afraid, most of them huddling in silence. Any attempt to move too suddenly resulted in the rattle of chains, keeping them confined and meek.
On the second day, the silence began to lift a bit. John leaned against the bars of his cage, observing the children around him and occasionally catching snippets of whispers.
A boy in the cage next to him, about his age, glanced over and offered a hesitant greeting. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice low, as if afraid someone would hear.
John hesitated but finally replied, "John. And yours?"
"Carlos," the boy responded, casting a nervous look toward the door. "I was just on my way home when they grabbed me. And you?"
"... Just trying to survive," John muttered, evading the question. "Do you know anything about who these people are?"
Carlos shook his head, fear creeping into his eyes. "No, but I heard some of the guards talking. They kept saying things like 'new blood' and... and something about 'training.'" Carlos shivered. "I don't know what they're planning, but it doesn't sound good."
By the fourth day, hunger was gnawing at them more deeply, and desperation was setting in. John observed as food was shoved into the cages—barely enough to keep them from starving. He noticed that the kids who were still struggling to eat began to develop a shared resolve; some of the older children started whispering plans of escape, while others simply offered quiet words of comfort to each other.
Then, on the sixth day, a group of men entered the room, pushing a tall, muscular man who carried himself with an air of authority. John watched as a man in a crisp suit stepped forward, pulling out a briefcase and starting a conversation with the guards.
The guards counted the children in each cage, jotting down notes as the man inspected each one of them. John and Carlos exchanged a nervous look as the man finally came closer to them.
"This one's barely worth the price," one of the guards muttered, gesturing at John with a dismissive wave. "Too scrawny. But the buyer's paying for all of them."
The man in the suit glanced at John, his expression bored. "As long as they meet the criteria," he said simply. He handed a stack of papers to the guard, followed by a fat envelope of cash that he tucked into his coat. "Tell your boss it's done. They'll be picked up tomorrow."
With that, the deal was sealed. The guards left, locking the door with a resounding finality, leaving the children alone again. The man in the suit departed soon after, satisfied with his transaction.
That night, John found himself whispering in the dark to Carlos and the others. "Whatever they're planning, we need to stay strong," he said, though his own voice wavered with doubt. "And if there's any chance to escape, we have to take it."
But he knew it was a faint hope. The chains, the guards, the locked doors—it all weighed down like an inevitable fate. And as he drifted to sleep, John couldn't shake the dread of what awaited them after they were "picked up" the following day.
Finally, after a week, the silence was broken by the heavy, purposeful footsteps of someone entering the storage room. The air grew tense as the children's quiet whispers stopped; all eyes turned toward the imposing figure who strode in with a confidence that radiated power and control.
It was Deathstroke, clad in his iconic black and orange armor, his face obscured beneath his helmet, with only a single eye visible. His gaze swept over the rows of cages, assessing each child with a cold, calculating look. John's breath caught in his chest as he recognized the deadly mercenary.
Deathstroke moved between the cages, his gloved hand tapping the metal bars in a rhythmic, unnervingly casual manner. Finally, he stopped in front of John's cage, his gaze locking onto John's. There was a pause before Deathstroke's voice, low and steady, cut through the silence.
"You'll do," he said, nodding slightly, as if confirming something to himself. His words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Behind him, another man, dressed in shadowy attire with a symbol that John vaguely recognized—a hand print wrapped in mystic symbols—stepped forward. "Are they all suitable?" the man asked, his voice cold and clinical.
Deathstroke didn't turn but replied with a slight nod. "They'll be fine. The League of Assassin needs new blood, and these kids—" he looked around, a hint of something that could almost be considered satisfaction in his gaze "—they'll do well enough."
John's heart raced as the reality set in. He wasn't just captured; he was being recruited into something far darker and more dangerous than he'd imagined. And worse, it wasn't just him—every child here was about to be turned into a tool for this ruthless organization.
For the time spent in the cage, John has tried to cut himself to see if he has a healing ability but to his disappointment he did not, knowing that didn't help with John's bad habit as he began to accept the circumstances he found himself in.
His thought process was now falling along the line of going with the flow and not fighting the situation. He is in the body of a child and was now about to be sold off into the "league of Assasin", there was nothing he could do even if he was an adult.