Chapter 3 - The Wardens Rule

The group walked into the mess hall, their boots scuffing against the worn, metallic floor. The air was thick with the stench of overcooked slop and unwashed bodies, the low murmur of prisoners talking over their meals filling the space.

As they entered, eyes turned toward them.

For a brief, terrifying moment, Aeval felt like the entire room could see through them, like they knew what had just happened. Her pulse pounded in her ears, a cold sweat prickling her back.

Then, just as quickly as they had looked, the other prisoners turned away, returning to their meals, uninterested.

The group let out a collective breath and shuffled to their usual table, their movements mechanical. Plates were slapped down in front of them, steam curling off the gray, gluey mess that passed for food. No one touched it.

Then— BZZZT.

A shrill announcement crackled through the overhead speakers, freezing every prisoner in place.

“ALL PRISONERS MUST REMAIN IN THEIR SEATS. THE WARDEN HAS AN ANNOUNCEMENT.”

A rush of dread washed over the group like a cold tide. Nick’s knuckles went white as he gripped his spoon. Huzz swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. Aeval could feel her heartbeat in her throat, her breath shallow.

Hydro, however, didn’t flinch.

"Stay calm," he murmured, his voice steady as stone. "If they knew, we wouldn’t have made it this far."

His words settled over the group like a thin layer of ice, dulling the immediate panic. Still, the food in front of them remained untouched. Their stomachs churned, not with hunger, but with a sickening mix of anxiety and exhaustion.

Then— “WARDEN ON THE FLOOR.”

A hush fell over the mess hall.

From the guarded double doors at the far end of the room, she stepped out.

She moved with an air of absolute authority, her presence alone enough to silence the entire room. Her cyberpunk suit gleamed under the harsh overhead lights—sleek, angular, reinforced with plating that shimmered with embedded circuitry. A holo-display flickered faintly across the side of her wrist, likely a direct connection to the prisoners' execution chips.

Her face was expressionless, but her thin lips were pressed so tightly together it looked like she was perpetually displeased. She surveyed the room, then spoke—a voice both smooth and venomous.

"Good evening, prisoners. I hope your dinner was splendid!"

Bwompy glanced down at his plate—a gelatinous, gray sludge that barely passed as edible. He let out a dry, bitter huff.

The Warden continued, her voice laced with a false politeness.

"We will be ramping up production. Earlier mornings, later evenings. I want these mines fully operational ahead of schedule, so I have moved the deadline up by three months."

A ripple of unease passed through the prisoners.

Then, from somewhere in the mess hall, a voice rang out—raw, angry, desperate.

“This is slavery! We’re already working our fingers to the bone!”

A mistake.

One of the guards immediately stepped forward and drove a stun baton into the prisoner’s gut.

BZZZT—CRACK!

A sharp, electric snap filled the air, followed by a choked gasp. The man collapsed to the floor, convulsing, his limbs twitching uselessly as his muscles seized. The scent of burned flesh curled into the air.

The Warden’s lips curled into a pleased smile—not cruel, but calculated.

She enjoyed this. She let the silence linger, making sure every prisoner saw what had happened before she continued. Then, her expression hardened again, her cold gaze sweeping across the room.

"You are prisoners. You have no rights. You deserve every ounce of punishment you receive." Her voice was sharp as a knife. "I don’t care if you die in those mines. If you want to live, you will step up your performance. If you don’t, we will find someone else who does."

The room sank into defeated silence. The prisoners knew she wasn’t bluffing. She had executed dozens before, with nothing more than the flick of her wrist. Their chips ensured that there was no escape, no rebellion. One press of a button, and they would drop dead where they stood.

They weren’t workers. They were cattle.

Aeval clenched her fists under the table, her nails digging into her palms.

This isn’t life. This is a slow death.

And the worst part?

There was no shortage of prisoners.

It didn’t take much to find yourself here—some had committed violent crimes, sure. But others? They had simply spoken out against the wrong people.

In this world, defiance was a crime.

The Warden

Only Compliance. Only Suffering.

The Warden scanned the room one last time, as if daring someone else to speak out.

No one did.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and strode toward the doors, the guards falling into step behind her. The moment she disappeared, the energy in the room shifted. Prisoners hunched lower, shoveling food into their mouths, their hands trembling. The quiet, dull murmuring resumed, but the hope had been drained from the air.

The group barely touched their food. When the meal was over, the guards marched them back to their cells.

Steel doors slammed shut.

Locks engaged.

The silence of the cell block settled over them like a heavy shroud. There was no relief in making it through the night—no false hope that tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow, they would wake up and face two problems that had no easy answers.

The first—what to do about the dead guards they had thrown into the abyss.

The second—what exactly was that magenta glow?

Aeval lay still on her cot, staring at the ceiling, her mind cycling through every possible scenario. Spoon turned onto his side, eyes open, running the numbers in his head, weighing risks versus rewards. Hydro rested his hands behind his head, calm as ever, but even he knew the situation was dangerously delicate.

Nick and Huzz whispered to each other in hushed tones, but their voices were shaky, betraying the stress pressing down on them all.

And then there was Bwompy.

He lay in silence, his arms folded behind his head, staring at the darkness above him. It wasn’t the bodies that haunted his thoughts. It wasn’t the Warden. It wasn’t even the punishment they’d face if they were caught.

No—Bwompy wasn’t thinking about any of that.

His mind was still back in that cavern, where he had seen something move. That shadow—short, unnatural, its walk wrong, its form twisting under the eerie glow.

And the voice. That inhuman, muttering voice. He had heard a lot of things in his life—but never anything like that. His gut told him that whatever was down there…

Wasn’t human.

And the worst part?

It knew he was there.