Goode is Taken Hostage.

It begins.

Teacher P.O.V

Percy was a good kid, he had a couple of friends (not as many as I felt a good kid like him should) and, although he struggled with his ADHD and dyslexia, he worked hard in everything he did. If he applied himself to something nothing could stop him. He's always been a happy kid, well, until two weeks ago. When he'd just come back after a few months of absence (apparently he'd been on a trip to Greece and other such places) and he'd had a broken look in his eyes; where once they had a kind-of mischievous sparkle, they now possessed a broken-no shattered-look in them. Like glass that had been repeatedly splintered. As if his very soul had been torn apart and that inner carnage was reflected in those tired eyes.

But that was stupid, he was only eighteen and that sort of thing didn't happen. They were just eyes!

He had quit the swim team and changed for P.E in the toilets, he apparently had a skin condition and when he though no-one was looking the smile would drop and the look on his face would be enough to almost brake my heart. We knew he was trying to hide it, but all the teachers had seen it and we were all worried about him.

I thought about this as I watched him walk across and sit in the chair that the terrorists had brought up.

The leader rubbed his hands together in sick anticipation, "Well lets get started, remove your shirt so I can see my lovely new canvas, a blank canvas is a great place to start." Percy nodded, taking in the sadist's words.

"It is. However, I'm afraid there'll be a problem with that." What did he mean, and why wasn't he terrified. The haunted teen spoke reasonably to the psychopath, carefully choosing his words.
"Oh. And why is that?" The monster raised an eye-brow. But the young boy carried on, completely unflinching.

"Well, as you're going to remove my shirt anyway, there's really no harm in warning you that the 'canvas' as you so kindly put it, is not exactly blank." What?
"Meaning?"
 The leader looked intrigued now.

"Meaning, there are already a few scars." The terrorist barked out laughter.

"I thought you meant something serious there for a minute kid! I'll tell you now, no skateboarding scrapes are going to measure up to what I'm going to do to you ." He motioned to one of his men, who passed him a box. He opened it to reveal various 'tools' that I had no wish to ever see in use, and brandished them tauntingly in front of Percy's face.

Still he didn't seem scared at all. "OK, but don't say I didn't try to warn you." And with that cryptic remark the terrorists started to remove the broken boy's shirt.

Third Person P.O.V

As the pale blue shirt was lifted above the broken boy's head, gasps echoed throughout the hall.

Murmurs sprang out and the noise was deafening until the terrorist shouted for order, bringing immediate silence, then he turned to question his young captive, looking shocked.

"And how did an innocent little city boy come across scars like these?" Percy's torso and arms were covered in a patchwork of scars, burns and brands. Not a square centimetre of flesh was free of the horrendous marks. I felt sick. "Is the seemingly well-behaved young lad in a gang?" Questioned the terrorist.

"Nope." The  captive replied casually, popping the 'p'.

"Previous terrorist attack?" Percy tilted his head to the side. The terrorist was acting like he was playing a guessing game. A morbid version of '20 questions'.

"Not exactly."

"Explosion?"
"A few." More gasps.

The monster paused.