Mikey stumbled forward, his wrists bound in glowing cuffs, his arms tightly gripped by Bobo and Luce—both clad in stolen soldier gear.
They marched him across the dock, the harsh metallic clang of their boots echoing across the vast expanse. The scent of salt, sweat, and burning fuel hung thick in the air.
Ahead, the main gate loomed: a towering slab of reinforced chrome framed by black carbon-fiber walls. It looked less like a doorway and more like the mouth of some unfeeling machine.
Two armed guards stood on either side, their matte armor gleaming under the overhead floodlights. One of them stepped forward, visor locking onto Bobo.
"401. Report. What happened on your patrol?"
Bobo squared his shoulders, dropping his voice half an octave. "Found an unmanned vessel drifting near the outer perimeter. This Defector"—he gave Mikey a shove—"was stowed aboard. We're bringing him in for questioning."
The guard nodded curtly.
"Good. Take him in for branding."
Bobo blinked.
"Branding?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
The other soldier tilted his head. "Right. Forgot you're new to this sector. We brand all prisoners for tracking and identification. Standard procedure."
He turned to Luce.
"325. Show him the way to Ward 6."
Luce nodded with stiff military precision.
The soldier tapped a wrist console. With a loud whirr, the massive gate began to rise—mechanical limbs grinding and groaning as metal folded upward like a great eyelid opening to reveal the horrors within.
Light poured out.
Harsh.
Blinding.
Unnatural.
Mikey squinted, eyes adjusting as the interior of Jöten unfolded before him.
What he saw made his stomach twist.
A sprawling plaza stretched out before them—steel and carbon laid out like a battlefield. Rows of prisoners in black jumpsuits were herded like livestock, their heads shaved, many of them bruised or limping. Towering watchtowers loomed at the plaza's edge, each bristling with mounted weapons and scanning tech. Drones swarmed overhead, their engines buzzing like hornets, while armored carriers descended and lifted off in a steady rhythm.
It was a machine-city, where everything had a function—and none of them involved mercy.
A robotic voice echoed from the plaza's loudspeakers:
"All noncompliant behavior will result in immediate discipline."
The sheer intensity of the place—its light, its noise, its rigid choreography—sent a jolt of dread through Mikey's spine.
He leaned closer to Bobo, voice hushed.
"You're not actually gonna let them brand me, right?"
He gave a weak laugh, but his eyes were wide.
Bobo looked down at him with a frown.
"Let's hope not."
Mikey swallowed hard.
They moved into the central plaza, dwarfed by the architecture around them. The ground beneath their feet shimmered like black glass, etched with grid lines. Above them, set into the heart of the prison complex, was a massive control tower—all sharp angles and blinking lights. Its panoramic windows stared out over the entire facility like an omniscient eye.
Luce kept her pace tight beside them. She whispered out the side of her mouth.
"How the hell are we supposed to find Amelia and Ryosuke in this place?"
Bobo didn't miss a step.
"No idea."
His voice was steady, but Mikey could feel the tension coiled in his arms.
They walked with purpose across the plaza, boots clanging on polished steel. Signs above their heads flickered with glowing digital text—WARD 1, WARD 4, ADMIN BLOCK, each one pointing deeper into the belly of Jöten. The prison was a maze of corridors and open air sectors, each one humming with cold, methodical cruelty.
Mikey kept his head low, scanning everything. He leaned back slightly, whispering to Luce.
"Think they've got a control room somewhere? Somewhere we can find out what ward Amelia and Ryosuke are in?"
Luce didn't miss a beat.
"Yeah. And if I had to guess…"
She nodded toward the towering structure looming over the entire complex.
"That big-ass tower's it."
Bobo gave a subtle nod.
"Looks like command central to me."
They adjusted course, heading toward the sleek behemoth of metal and glass.
Then they saw them.
Lined up along the far wall of the plaza—twenty, maybe thirty prisoners. On their knees. Hands bound. Faces grim. Each of them wore the Defector brand seared into their skin like a badge of honor.
Mikey's breath caught.
All three of them slowed their steps.
Rows of armored soldiers stood facing the prisoners, rifles raised, formation tight.
A firing squad.
Luce froze mid-step, her head tilting slightly beneath the helmet.
"...Damn it," she murmured.
Bobo turned toward her.
"What is it?"
Her voice was low, tight.
"That woman... halfway down the line. That's Karla. I trained with her."
Bobo followed her gaze and saw her—a dark-haired woman, dirty but defiant, staring straight ahead with her jaw set.
None of the prisoners begged.
None cried.
No one asked for mercy.
Mikey saw it in their eyes. These weren't criminals. These were warriors. They knew what was coming, and they met it with dignity.
Bobo gently tugged Mikey's arm.
"Keep walking," he said under his breath.
They passed by, hearts heavy, pretending not to notice.
Then—
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Gunfire exploded behind them.
The air split open. Mikey flinched. Bodies thudded to the steel deck like sacks of meat. Blood painted the carbon floor in long, quiet strokes.
He risked a glance back—not at the scene, but at Luce.
Her head was turned away. She was stiff, her shoulders trembling slightly. A single tear slid from beneath her helmet, carving a trail down her cheek.
"Damn it…" she whispered, barely audible.
Mikey's chest tightened. The horror of it all churned in his gut.
Bobo's grip around Mikey's arm grew tighter—his fists clenched, knuckles white beneath the gloves. Rage radiated off him like heat.
His voice was a low rumble.
"We'll make this right."
They kept moving, swallowed by the blinding lights and deafening noise of Jöten—the iron fortress where justice had been replaced with slaughter, and hope was fading fast.
They rounded a corner, leaving the chaos of the execution field behind them. Ahead, nestled between two towering chrome walls, was a narrow corridor—cold, quiet, clean.
A single soldier stood at the far end, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. The glow from an overhead light cast long, angular shadows across the alley.
Mikey's eyes went wide.
Bobo grinned.
Oh god.
Mikey could see it in his face—that dangerous flicker of mischief. Something stupid was coming. Luce must've felt it too; she held her breath beside him.
As they got closer, the soldier straightened up.
"Halt," the soldier called out, voice sharp but bored. "This isn't your jurisdiction. No prisoners past this point."
Bobo casually released his grip on Mikey's arm and stepped forward.
"I know," he said low, voice almost friendly. "But this one's an exception."
The soldier narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean by—"
CRACK.
Bobo's fist slammed into the soldier's jaw. The man dropped like a bag of cement, unconscious before he hit the floor.
"Bobo!" Luce hissed. "What the hell?!"
"Yeah—what the fuck?!" Mikey echoed, his jaw slack.
Bobo grabbed the unconscious man by the collar and dragged him effortlessly into a break in the alley—a small maintenance nook half-hidden behind a vent duct and some supply crates.
"C'mon, both of ya," Bobo muttered.
They followed, half in disbelief.
Inside the tight space, Bobo knelt beside the downed soldier and began stripping the armor off with practiced speed.
"Luce," he said, hand out.
She rolled her eyes but reached into her belt pouch and tossed him the handcuff keys.
He clicked Mikey's cuffs open in one smooth motion. The steel fell away and landed on the metal floor with a dull clink.
Mikey blinked.
"Wait—what are you doing?"
Bobo stood up, holding the stripped-down armor in both arms. He looked at Mikey, a crooked smile on his face.
"Happy birthday, kid."
He handed over the gear.
"Get changed. Should fit you. We'll move easier with all of us dressed as soldiers."
Mikey stared at the armor, still stunned, then slowly nodded.
"Right… yeah… okay…"
He took the armor and started pulling it on, the coldness of it biting against his skin.
Behind him, Luce shook her head and muttered, "You're lucky that guy didn't hit an alarm."
Bobo shrugged.
"He didn't. We're fine."
"Barely," she grumbled, but there was a trace of a smirk on her lips.
Mikey buckled the last strap and stood upright in full gear. It fit—tight in some places, but manageable. For the first time since entering Jöten, he didn't feel completely powerless.
He took a breath, slipping on the helmet and visor.
"Okay," he said, voice steadier now. "Let's do this."
Bobo clapped him on the back.
"Now you look like one of them."
The three of them slipped back into the alley's shadows, one step closer to the control tower—and to finding Amelia and Ryosuke.