Holding Pens: Stiles
Stiles was pretty sure whatever he had done in a past life he didn’t deserve what he was getting now. He was alone in one of the smaller pens, muzzled, with a bruise forming on his cheek from the punch he had taken from the guard that had been moving him. Clearly the guy hadn’t like Stiles’ helpful suggestions on where to stick his electric cattle prod he had been using on the slaves. Or the punch Stiles had thrown at his face when he had been told to shut up.
Now the son of the rebel leader, not that anyone knew that because Stiles wasn’t stupid enough to tell anyone, was sitting alone silently as he glared at the people walking by. It was clear that he was drawing very little interest from the people passing by and Stiles was ok with that. He was already forming a plan on escaping like he had been since he had been captured during the supply run. He just wondered how many humans he would be able to take with him.