The fence that surrounds The Institute for Criminal Rehabilitation is not electric. It is not covered in barbed wire, and there is no behemoth wall to protect the massive factory-turned-prison, where rehabilitees serve life sentences. There is no need for such protection when the facility guards are the best in the Republic of Canada. Prospective guards could apply at age sixteen. After rigorous background checks, to make sure all applicants were First Class, with no criminal history for three generations, and had at least one family member who had fought for the Caps in the war. Those whose applications past the test and caught the attention of the hiring committee were trained at any army camp for a year. A select few are then brought to The Institute to begin an apprenticeship that lasts for five years. After the five years are over, his or her mentor and a team of guards evaluate the apprentice to decide weather the person is worthy of being kept. Only then would they be offered a job as a guard. I knew all this, for I had successfully completed the interview process and the training camp. The Institute was all too eager to hire their dead Deputy Guard’s younger brother.
"Fascinating." Callie swirled the wine in her glass. Her cousin had said this date was going to be different, that she wouldn't be stuck with some drummer from a failing rock band or a 40-year-old poet who hadn't left college. She wasn't kidding. This was a skull-breaker. Just what she needed. Maybe she'd finally found the one guy who could eliminate her ex once and for all.
Opening: Hannah McCarthy.....Continuation: Khazar-khum