03:00 Hours. Landing Zone Alpha.
The jolt was brutal. Not the usual air turbulence, but a harsh mechanical slam as the transport aircraft's landing gear struck the wet concrete runway. The sound of the magitech jet engines, which had been roaring like a banshee, slowly faded into a low, ear-piercing whine, replaced by the sound of ferocious waves crashing against the facility's outer walls.
Devon exhaled a long breath he had been holding in his chest. The air inside the cabin felt stifling, smelling of cold sweat and old metal.
"We have arrived, Princess," Eira's voice broke the tense silence of the cabin.
The Elf woman rose from her seat with irritating grace. She stepped closer to Devon, the magnetic key in her hand blinking blue. With a casual motion, she pressed the key against the mana-suppression cuffs on Devon's wrists.
Click. Hiss.
The heavy shackles released, falling to the metal floor with a loud clang. Devon immediately massaged his reddened wrists, stretching his stiff fingers. The sensation of blood returning felt like ants crawling beneath his skin.
"Finally," Devon muttered, rolling his neck until it cracked. "The service on this flight is atrocious. No peanuts, no blankets, and the cuffs were too tight. Zero stars."
Eira chuckled softly, a sound like small bells amidst a storm. She leaned in, bringing her beautiful face close to Devon's ear. "Enjoy your temporary freedom, Devon-kun. Because the moment you step out that door... you are no longer a guest. You are an asset."
On the other side of the cargo door, the sound of hydraulic mechanisms rumbled. The ramp slowly lowered, allowing the salty, freezing sea wind to invade the cabin, carrying with it droplets of rain that pricked the skin.
Sharky, the shark-woman of the Selachian race who had been silently observing with her pitch-black eyes, stood at the threshold. She grinned, baring rows of terrifying, saw-like teeth.
"Heee..." she hissed, her voice wet and raspy. "You lot are dead meat. Come on, hurry up and get out, fresh meat! The Monolith does not like to wait!"
Devon stepped out, followed by Stormclaw behind him. The white-furred humanoid cat walked with an upright posture, though his twitching ears betrayed his alertness. His yellow eyes swept the surroundings, assessing every threat.
The sight that greeted them was the very definition of military intimidation.
Zone Alpha was illuminated by blinding giant floodlights, slicing through the darkness of the stormy night. The rain fell sideways, lashed by strong winds. On the vast runway, dozens of elite soldiers in gleaming black armour stood in formation, holding energy rifles aimed straight at them. Behind the ranks of humans and demi-humans stood several four-metre-tall mecha units—Magitech War Golems—with red sensor lights glowing on their heads, tracking Devon's every movement.
Devon inhaled deeply, hoping for fresh sea air. Instead, what filled his lungs was a mixture of ozone, rocket fuel, and faint despair.
"Haaa..." Devon sighed, white steam escaping his mouth. "No. This isn't fresh air. It smells like... oppression."
"This reminds me of..." Devon muttered, his eyes narrowing at the advanced military technology. "...a cheap sci-fi movie."
Stormclaw grunted behind him. "At least it's better than the gutter," he murmured, his voice heavy. "Or perhaps... far worse." He stared at Devon's back, feeling a strange mix of annoyance and reliance on this odd human. From their silly venting session on the train to ending up on this cursed island, their fates seemed bound by a tangled red thread.
Suddenly, a different roar cut through the sound of the waves. From the cliff side of the platform, the seawater exploded upwards.
BOOOM!
From the dark sea beside the runway, a massive shadow leapt from the water, shooting into the air, and landed with a thud that shook the entire Alpha Zone. The concrete runway cracked beneath its feet. Steam billowed from its wet body as the seawater evaporated instantly due to its body heat.
Viorak the Cyber Abyss.
The Vice Warden stood tall, nearly four metres in height, towering over everyone like a monument of death. His massive cyborg-shark body glistened under the floodlights. His neon purple eyes glowed brightly, scanning Devon and Stormclaw with predatory intensity. Mechanical gills on his neck opened and closed, emitting a terrifying hissing sound.
"SALUTE!" shouted one of the soldier captains.
In unison, the entire force on the runway stamped their feet and saluted with perfect military precision. The sound was like a single explosion.
Viorak ignored his troops. He stepped forward, every stride heavy and full of menace, heading towards the two new prisoners. He stopped right in front of Devon, lowering his monstrous head until his face was only centimetres away from Devon's. Devon could smell engine oil and old blood on the monster's breath.
"Welcome to your grave," Viorak's voice echoed, deep and distorted, as if coming from the bottom of an ocean trench. "Here, there is no hope. There is no god. There is only me... and discipline."
Viorak shifted his gaze to Stormclaw, the grin on his shark face widening. "And you, Little Kitten... I will enjoy breaking your spirit, bone by bone."
Without warning, Viorak laughed.
"BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
His laughter boomed, rough and terrifying, rattling Devon's ribs. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, Viorak turned and walked away towards the main tower, his black cloak billowing in the storm, leaving a thick aura of terror in his wake.
"What a delightful welcome," Devon muttered sarcastically.
"Shut it and move!" Sharky barked, shoving Devon's back roughly with the barrel of her rifle.
They were herded into a cold concrete bunker building—the Prisoner Processing Area.
Inside, the atmosphere was sterile and blinding. The walls were pristine white, the floor slick ceramic tiles. Two burly Hobgoblin officers with dull green skin and crooked noses awaited them in the centre of the room. They wore thick rubber aprons and medical gloves that reached up to their elbows.
"Stand on the 'X'," ordered the first Hobgoblin, his voice raspy like grated coconut.
Devon and Stormclaw complied.
"This is standard procedure," said the second Hobgoblin, holding a high-pressure spray hose. "Cleaning. Sterilisation. And asset inspection."
Without warning, cold water mixed with chemical disinfectants blasted towards them. Devon coughed, his eyes stinging as the liquid hit his face. Stormclaw simply closed his eyes, accepting the spray with the stoicism of a warrior.
After being soaked and shivering, the first Hobgoblin pointed to a stack of plastic baskets.
"Strip. Everything. Now."
Devon raised an eyebrow. "Eh? Why stark naked? Don't you have X-ray scanners or detection magic?"
"This is a thorough visual and physical examination, Prisoner," the Hobgoblin replied flatly, his yellow eyes staring sharply. "We must ensure you aren't carrying contraband. Knives, poisons, spell scrolls... or mini bombs."
Stormclaw, without much talk, immediately took off his soaking wet flannel shirt. He did not possess the same sense of shame as humans. Within seconds, he was naked, revealing a body full of muscle and wet white fur.
Devon sighed in resignation. "Fine, fine. Don't peek."
Reluctantly, Devon removed his tattered clothes. His black t-shirt fell to the wet floor, followed by his cargo pants. He stood there, his pale skin contrasting against the ceramic floor.
The second Hobgoblin approached, his eyes scanning Devon's body from top to bottom with an uncomfortable, appraising look. "Heee... not bad," he muttered, grinning lewdly. "For a human, you're reasonably well-built."
He walked around Devon, inspecting every inch of skin, looking for magical tattoos or hidden implants. His rough rubber-gloved hand pulled at the red wings on Devon's head.
"Ouch!" Devon flinched. "Hey, those are sensitive! Don't pull them like that!"
"Real wings," the Hobgoblin noted. "Strange. Mutation or mixed race?"
"Let's just call them permanent accessories," Devon grumbled.
"Right," said the first Hobgoblin, holding a metal clamp tool and a torch. "Now, turn around and bend over. Hold your breath."
Devon's eyes bugged out. He took a step back, covering his rear with both hands. "Wait a minute! What?! You can't be serious about checking my back orifice!"
"Standard procedure," the Hobgoblin repeated in a bored tone. "We have to ensure nothing is hidden inside body cavities."
"That's insane!" Devon protested, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "What kind of lunatic hides a weapon in their arse?! That's unhygienic! And anatomically very uncomfortable!"
"You'd be surprised," the second Hobgoblin replied with a chuckle. "Last month we found a pocket knife, two mana-crystals, and a live hamster inside an Ogre's backside. Don't ask how the hamster was still alive."
"That is disgusting! And I swear, by all the gods dead or sleeping, I am not keeping anything in there! It's empty! Clean!"
The first Hobgoblin clicked his tongue, impatient. "We don't need your oath, we need visual proof. Do it quickly, or we'll call Viorak to 'help' you open up."
The threat was effective. Imagining Viorak's giant hands performing this procedure was far more horrifying.
"Damn it."
With immense reluctance, his dignity shattered into cosmic dust, Devon turned around and bent over.
The Hobgoblin clicked his torch on. "Hmm... oh, nice arse, actually," he commented casually, as if judging the quality of fruit at a market. "Very firm and muscular. Clearly well-trained."
"Just do your job and shut up!" Devon yelled, burying his face in his hands.
After the most humiliating moment of his new life concluded (Stormclaw underwent it too, but with a flat face as if it were merely a routine check-up), they were given a sheet of rough grey cloth to cover themselves temporarily.
They were herded to the next station: Measurement and Registration.
Devon stood in front of a height chart.
"Straight!" barked the medical officer, a female Cyclops in a white coat.
Devon tried to straighten his body; the red wings on his head stood up, adding a few centimetres.
"Lower the wings," the Cyclops ordered, then pressed Devon's wings down with the measuring board. "Hmm... 186 cm. Proportional body weight. Dense muscle mass. Blood type... unknown, your cell structure is strange."
She typed on her data tablet. "Age?"
"Seventeen," Devon answered.
"Seventeen years old and already in this hellhole," the Cyclops sneered. "What a waste."
She moved to the next column. "Name?"
Devon straightened his chin, putting on a serious and mysterious expression.
"Write this," he said in a deep voice. "SOV-ALL / UNIT-∞ / AXIOM."
Silence.
The Cyclops woman stared at Devon with her single large eye without blinking. She slowly lowered her tablet.
"Hah?"
"That is my name," Devon said, maintaining his chuunibyou character. "Short for Sovereign of All, Unit Infinity, Axiom of Reality. You may address me as Your Highness."
"What kind of name is that?" The officer snorted, a bit of spittle flying out. "Disallowed. Our system does not accept mathematical symbols or fake royal titles. This is a prison, not a comic convention. Keep it simple."
Devon frowned, slightly disappointed that his cool name was rejected. "Okay, in that case... how about Zorynthraël Væxx'Ommnyrion Khae'Tharuun Elyxx'Zhaor? It's an ancient name in the eldritch tongue which means—"
"NO," the officer cut in sharply, her finger pointing at Devon's face. "Do you want a beating? Give me a name that can be pronounced by a normal tongue in less than two seconds!"
Devon sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. "Fine, fine. People here have no artistic taste."
"Name?"
"Devon."
"There, that was easy, wasn't it," the officer muttered, typing quickly. "Devon. Race: Human (Variant). Classification: High-Level Prisoner."
After that exhausting bureaucratic process, they were finally given prison uniforms—dull orange jumpsuits with serial numbers printed on the chest. Devon's number was 7734, while Stormclaw received 7735.
They were taken to a corridor junction.
"Block 20, that way," a guard said to Stormclaw.
"Wait," Devon interrupted. "We aren't in the same cell?"
"Of course not, Idiot," the guard replied. "The big cat goes to General Population, hard labour sector. You... you have a special ticket to Block 12."
Stormclaw turned to Devon. There was worry in his amber eyes. "Be careful, Devon," he growled softly. "Don't die before I get to see you again."
"You too, Cat," Devon smiled faintly. "Don't let them turn you into a rug."
They were separated. Stormclaw was herded into the dark left hallway, while Devon was pushed into the right hallway, which was cleaner but felt more... clinical.
"Devon-kun!"
That cheerful voice greeted him. Eira was already waiting at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall with a sweet smile that promised nothing good.
"We meet again," said Eira, stepping closer and caressing Devon's cheek. "I requested that you be placed in my block. Block 12. A special place for special people."
They walked down a long corridor lined with heavy iron doors. Sounds of screaming, maniacal laughter, and bodies slamming against surfaces could be heard faintly from behind those doors.
"Well, here is your room," said Eira, stopping in front of a solid iron door numbered 12-09.
Devon looked at the data placard beside the door. Written in bold red letters:
OCCUPANT: ASSET HEMO-WOLF X9 & PRISONER 7734.
"Eugh..." Devon grimaced, goosebumps rising on his skin. "I have a bad feeling about this. Hemo-Wolf? Sounds like a monster that will eat my face while I sleep."
Eira chuckled, unlocking the door with her access card. BEEP. CLANG. The heavy sliding door opened slowly.
"Don't worry," Eira said, pushing Devon's back gently. "There is another prisoner inside, but relax... she isn't dangerous. She's sweet, actually."
Devon stepped inside hesitantly.
The cell was spacious for a prison, but cold and sterile. The walls were grey metal. There was a stainless steel sink, a toilet without a lid, and a bunk bed bolted to the floor and wall.
On the top bunk, a creature sat facing the wall, back to the door.
The figure turned slowly upon hearing Devon's footsteps.
Eugh... what kind of creature is that? Devon screamed internally.
It was Zerath. Or Asset HEMO-WOLF X9.
At a glance, she looked like a woman—or at least a very tall, athletic feminine humanoid. She was over two metres tall. Her body was clad in a modified prisoner outfit (torn here and there), revealing pale, marble-white skin adorned with natural black striations resembling cracks. Her muscles were taut, perfect, and... sexy.
But her face. Her face was covered by a hard white bone structure resembling a skull mask or a natural helm. The snout area was short but wide. There was a vertical black stitch running from the nose to the chin.
Zerath turned her head towards Devon. And then, her mouth, a roughly stitched slit, suddenly tore open.
The smile was wide, revealing pink gums and neat white teeth. Her eyes crinkled into friendly crescents. She waved her hand, which tipped with long claws, in a flirtatious motion.
Devon took a step back, bumping into Eira behind him.
"Ouch, Eira... can I move to another cell?" Devon whispered in panic. "Seriously. Solitary confinement is fine too. Or a dog kennel. Anything but here."
"Eh, why?" asked Eira, feigning confusion. "She's tame. Look, she's smiling at you."
"That is not a smile!" Devon hissed. "That is the grin of a predator looking at the dinner menu! I'm afraid of getting bitten! Just look at her teeth! What if when I'm sleeping, suddenly my arm is gone? Or worse?"
"Ah, that's enough. Stop talking nonsense," Eira cut him off, pushing Devon fully into the cell. "She's lonely. Keep her company. Have fun, Devon-kun!"
BLAM!
The iron door shut tight. The sound of the electronic lock engaging sounded like a death sentence. CLICK-LOCK.
Devon stood frozen near the door, staring in horror at the creature on the top bunk.
Zerath had stopped smiling. Her bone-mask face was flat again, staring at Devon with an intensity that was hard to read. Her dark, pupil-less eyes seemed to absorb the light in the room.
"Hah..." Devon exhaled a long breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "Okay, Devon. Calm down. You've defeated gods (in your imagination). You can handle this."
He forced an awkward smile at Zerath. "Hello... my name is Devon. Nice to meet you?"
Zerath did not answer. She merely tilted her head, like a bird observing a worm.
Devon swallowed hard. He walked slowly towards the bunk bed, moving cautiously as if walking on broken glass. He chose the bottom bunk.
"I... I'll sleep on the bottom," he muttered.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was thin and hard. The air in the cell felt hot and humid; the ventilation didn't seem to be working properly. Sweat began to trickle down Devon's back.
"It's so stuffy in here," he complained quietly.
Devon stood up again. He decided to take off his orange prisoner shirt. He pulled the zipper of the jumpsuit down, then peeled it off to his waist, letting his athletic, pale-skinned upper body be exposed to the air. The red wings on his head drooped limply from heat and stress.
He lay back down on the mattress, staring at the bottom of the top bunk—right below where Zerath was sitting.
Okay, Devon. Calm down. Just sleep. Figure out a way to escape tomorrow, he thought.
Suddenly, a face appeared over the side of the bed, upside down.
Zerath lowered her head, her white hair dangling down like a ghostly curtain. Her bone-mask face was now only centimetres away from Devon's face. Her red eyes glowed brightly in the darkness.
They stared at each other.
"H-hello...?" Devon greeted awkwardly.
Zerath did not answer. Instead, a wet krrkk sound was heard.
Zerath's facial mask suddenly split.
Horizontally and vertically, the white face bloomed like petals of grotesque meat. Behind the mask, there was no human face. There was only raw red flesh pulsing, exposed muscles, and a double jaw opening to an impossible width.
"SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECHHHH!"
Zerath screamed. The scream was not a human sound. It was the sound of static distortion, the shriek of a wild beast, and the cry of a baby fused into a sonic shockwave.
"UAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!" Devon screamed too, pure terror taking over.
Zerath pounced.
She fell from the top bunk, landing on Devon's body with crushing weight and bone-shattering force. Her claws dug into Devon's shoulders, pinning him to the mattress.
"Wait! Don't! N—"
Zerath's inner mouth, full of teeth and red meat, snapped shut.
CRUNCH.
The sound was wet and final.
Minutes later, silence returned to Block 12.
Devon lay sprawled on the mattress, which was now soaking wet with crimson. The scene was a nightmare made real.
Half his head was gone; the left side of his skull had been chewed open, exposing greyish-red brain matter spilling onto the pillow. His remaining eye stared blankly at the ceiling with an expression of eternal horror.
His chest was torn wide open, broken ribs jutting out like accusing white fingers. His abdominal cavity had been forcibly torn open, and his internal organs—slick intestines, a crushed liver, a torn stomach—spilled out, dangling off the side of the bed to touch the cold floor. A pool of blood gathered beneath the bed, reflecting the dim corridor light.
Zerath sat on the edge of the bed, beside the mangled corpse of her new cellmate.
She held a clump of Devon's intestines in her hand, chewing on it casually as if it were an afternoon snack. She licked the blood coating her long, clawed fingers, cleaning every drop with her long, fleshy tongue.
After she finished eating, Zerath stood up. She stretched her body. Her split face closed back up, the bone mask fusing with a neat click, returning to a plain white face with a mysterious smile.
She walked to the sink with light steps. She turned on the tap, washing the blood from her hands and face calmly. Red water swirled into the drain.
Once clean, she dried her hands on Devon's prisoner shirt lying on the floor.
With a casual movement, she climbed back to the top bunk. She pulled up her blanket, curled up comfortably, and closed her eyes.
A soft snore escaped her lips. She slept soundly, as if there wasn't a cooling piece of corpse right beneath her. As if nothing had happened.
And in the corridor, the lights flickered once, then died.