Welcome to Ashgate Corrections
The cargo helicopter sliced through the air with a deafening roar, its bulky frame swaying slightly as it approached the hulking monolith that was Ashgate Correctional Facility. The horizon was gray and bleak, with storm clouds churning over the frothing sea below. To the untrained eye, the facility might have appeared abandoned—its rust-streaked walls and jagged towers looked like the remnants of an industrial nightmare—but the sharp lights that dotted its structure betrayed its activity.
Inside the helicopter, the atmosphere was suffocating. twenty prisoners sat shackled along a metal bench, their orange jumpsuits sticking to their damp skin. Dean Matroni sat among them, his long, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His sharp brown eyes scanned his fellow passengers: hardened criminals, all of them—except for one.
She was different. Blonde hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck, soft green eyes that darted nervously around the cabin, and plump features that seemed out of place here. She looked as if she belonged on a college campus, not aboard a transport bound for what could only be hell.
The chopper jolted as it began its descent, and a guard standing near the cockpit barked over the noise. “Final stop, folks! Welcome to Ashgate Correctional Facility, your new home!”
Dean shifted his gaze to the other guards. Two of them stood near the hatch, whispering just loud enough for him to catch fragments.
“File says he already has a ‘Tousia.”
“Bullshit. No record of him bein’ here before.”
“Yeah, but look at him. Guy screams ‘monster.’”
“Warden’s orders, though. Keep it under wraps.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. His ‘Tousia—a deadly ability he barely understood—had been dormant since his capture. The guards’ whispers confirmed something he’d suspected: Ashgate wasn’t just any prison.
The helicopter landed with a metallic groan on the facility’s weather-beaten platform. Dean and the others were marched out into the biting sea air. The wind carried the tang of salt and oil, stinging Dean’s nose as he stepped onto the slick steel surface.
Ahead, the facility loomed like a beast. Its massive exterior dripped with rain and seawater, rust streaking the metal like old blood. Despite the decay outside, the moment they entered, everything changed.
The interior was pristine—clinical and cold. Polished steel floors gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Guards flanked the prisoners, their electric batons crackling faintly as they prodded the group forward through the labyrinthine corridors.
A younger inmate near the back muttered, “Place’s clean enough to eat off the floors.”
“Too bad you’ll be eating off your knees,” a guard snapped, eliciting nervous chuckles from the others.
Dean kept his head down, his steps measured, but his sharp gaze darted to every corner, memorizing every turn. They passed locked steel doors, each labeled with a number and what seemed to be medical symbols. Some doors emitted faint sounds—whirring machinery, muffled groans, or worse, screams that faded as they moved deeper into the facility.
They were herded into a stark, white-walled chamber with a steel podium at its center. The space was immaculate, almost surgical, a sharp contrast to the decayed exterior of the facility. As Dean stepped inside, a faint, low hum prickled at the edge of his awareness. It was barely audible, but it wormed its way into his skull, making him slightly dizzy. His vision blurred for a second, and he instinctively reached out to steady himself, catching the edge of a nearby bench.
“On your feet,” barked a guard, his voice cutting through the haze. Dean barely had time to straighten before the man struck him across the back with his baton—not with electricity, just enough force to grab his attention.
“Move it, inmate,” the guard growled, gesturing toward the center of the room.
Dean bit back a retort, his jaw tightening as he fell back into line. Around him, guards lined the walls, their eyes scanning the room like predators waiting for an excuse to pounce.
From a side door, a man strode in—a towering figure with a bearing that screamed ex-military. His dark hair was cropped short beneath the brim of a low hat, and his thick beard seemed more like armor than warmth. Correctional Major Gordon, as he introduced himself, carried an air of authority so suffocating it felt like the walls themselves leaned in closer. His boots thudded heavily against the steel floor, and when he stopped at the podium, the sound echoed like a gunshot.
Gordon paused, scanning the group with a look that was part disdain, part predatory amusement. “Welcome,” he began, his voice low but resonant, “to Ashgate Correctional Facility. Some of you may know it by its old name: Hilmand Correctional Institute. Back then, it was a dumping ground for Dilhamn’s undesirables—the mentally ill, the homeless, the generally useless.” He leaned forward slightly, his lips curling into a sneer. “But those days? Long gone.”
Dean straightened as Gordon’s gaze swept over the room, catching the faint hum from earlier again, making his head swim for a moment. His eyes flicked toward the girl he couldn’t stop staring at during their ride. She stood out in the crowd not just for her features—those long, wavy blond locks framing a face both innocent and defiant—but for the way her chest rose and fell with nervous breaths under the standard-issue jumpsuit. Dean found his gaze drifting lower. {Damn.}
She stiffened as Gordon’s sharp gaze landed on her. “You,” he said, pointing. “Clarke, Sydney. I’ve read your file. Dangerous, resourceful, and…” His tone took on an unmistakable edge of mockery. “…unusually popular with the boys, I imagine. Ashgate is unisex, in case anyone’s wondering. Yes, you’ll be brushing shoulders—and sometimes more—with everyone. But before any of you get clever ideas about touching what isn’t yours, know that we have rules. Break them, and you’ll be begging for death before you even see a cell.”
Gordon straightened, turning his attention back to the group. “Now, for those of you wondering why this facility exists—why you’ve been sent to a rusted rig in the middle of the damned Mazqorath Ocean instead of some cushy land prison—allow me to enlighten you.” He began pacing, his boots clanging against the steel floor with each deliberate step.
“Ashgate isn’t your average prison. This is a place for… innovation.” His smirk widened, as if he were enjoying a private joke. “You’re here because no one out there gives a damn about you. No family, no government, no lawyers hounding us for your rights. Here, you don’t just rot. You’re used.”
The room was silent save for that faint hum. Dean could feel it vibrating in his teeth now, just enough to make him uncomfortable. His hands twitched at his sides, but he stayed still, watching Gordon.
“Some of you,” Gordon continued, letting the weight of his words settle in, “have already been touched by our enhancements. We call it ‘Eaftousia.’ You’ve got something in you—something different. Whether you asked for it or not.” He stopped pacing and turned to face them fully. “For the rest of you who haven’t? Well, the lower levels are always looking for volunteers. Or, should I say, conscripts.”
There was a murmur among the new arrivals. One of the inmates—a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek—whispered something to the person beside him, shaking his head. Gordon caught it instantly.
“You,” Gordon snapped, pointing at the man. “Got something to add?”
The inmate froze. “No, sir,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Gordon’s boots thundered as he closed the distance in three strides, looming over the man like a storm cloud about to break. “Speak up. You got something to say, Scarface? Or was that mouth stitched shut along with your dignity?”
The man shook his head furiously, his bravado evaporating under Gordon’s glare.
“That’s what I thought,” Gordon growled before turning back to the podium. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The Ultimate Prison Fighter program. Here at Ashgate, we’ve turned survival into a spectacle. Think UFC, but with… enhancements. Outsiders pay top dollar to watch you tear each other apart. And if you’re lucky enough to impress them? You might even get bought.”
A ripple of confusion spread through the group. Gordon chuckled darkly. “Oh, didn’t I mention? That’s the only way out of here. Impress one of our esteemed investors enough, and they might take you off our hands. Of course, you’re not going anywhere alive unless they’ve got a use for you. Some of you might end up as bodyguards. Others as… personal servants.” His smirk deepened. “Use your imagination.”
Dean’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure if it was the hum in the air or the implications of Gordon’s words, but a sinking feeling settled over him. This wasn’t just a prison. It was a marketplace, and every one of them was for sale.
“Now, let me make one thing clear,” Gordon said, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. “You don’t own yourselves anymore. You’re Ashgate property. You fight when we tell you to fight. You kill when we tell you to kill. And if you’re thinking of stepping out of line?” He gestured to one of the guards, who stepped forward and cracked his baton against the steel floor, the sound like a gunshot followed by birds chirping as small sparks of electricity flew from the meeting of the baton and floor.
Dean felt a flicker of unease as Gordon’s gaze landed on him. It lingered for just a moment too long before he moved on, but it was enough to make Dean’s skin crawl.
“Welcome to Ashgate,” Gordon said finally, his voice dripping with mockery. “The last place you’ll ever call home. Now, get dressed and get ready. Because your new lives? They started the moment you got off the helicopter.”
The guards barked orders, herding the group toward the uniform station. Dean fell in line, his head spinning with the implications of everything he’d just heard. The hum was still there, faint but insistent, and for the first time, he realized just how out of his depth he was.
Dean’s bare feet slapped against the cold metal grated floor as the guards marched him deeper into the dark labyrinthine halls of Ashgate. The stark contrast between his vulnerable, exposed feet and the heavy, reinforced, no doubt steel toed, boots of the guards didn’t escape his notice. The tight metallic collar now around his neck gave an occasional beep, a constant reminder that he was under watch, under control. The thing felt heavier than it looked, and he was already imagining what it might do if he stepped too far out of line.
He passed other inmates along the way—some lounging in the common areas, others skulking in corners, their faces shadowed by a mix of boredom and malice. The clatter of a chess game in one corner, the rattle of a dice roll in another. The guards barked a few commands to clear the hall, and the inmates scattered like cockroaches, their movements mechanical, practiced.
As Dean approached a cell, the guard escorting him rapped his stick against the metal bars. “This is it. Home sweet home.”
Dean gave a dry chuckle as he stepped inside, taking a sweeping glance around. The cell was cramped but surprisingly clean. A narrow bunk bed lined one wall, a small metal sink and toilet occupying the other. He dropped his standard-issue bag onto the lower bunk and stretched, letting his hand brush the top bar of the bedframe. “Wonder how long this’ll be home,” he said to no one in particular.
A voice from above replied, smooth and dripping with sarcasm. “No matter where you go, there you are.”
Dean looked up sharply. A man with dark, slightly disheveled hair lounged on the top bunk, his hands tucked behind his head. His voice carried the sort of practiced indifference that came with experience, though there was a faint smirk on his lips.
Dean frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
The man grinned wider, his teeth catching the dim light. “It means I’m sharing a cell with another genius who’s never heard of Confucius.”
“Confu-who?”
“Exactly.” The man sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Stokes. And you must be… let me guess.” He squinted at Dean, tapping his chin theatrically as he glanced at his heavily scared hands. “Matroni. Drifter, but not so new fish, but fresh meat still. Looks like you’re already good at making friends with the guards.”
Dean crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I’ve seen your type before. Big guy, tough guy. You look like the kind of guy who’s already got a fan club out in the yard. Give it a week, you’ll be making headlines in the UPF.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, unsure whether Jonathan was mocking him or being serious.
Jonathan tilted his head, studying Dean. “Ah, but you’ve got that look in your eye. That ‘I’ve got a past, and it’s none of your damn business’ look. Let me guess—body count?”
Dean didn’t respond, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Thought so,” Jonathan said with a shrug. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. Half the guys here are murderers. The other half… well, they wish they were.” He leaned back against the wall on the top bunk, folding his arms behind his head again.
Dean sat on the lower bunk, trying to ignore the discomfort of the cold mattress beneath him. “What about you? What’re you in for?”
Jonathan’s grin returned. “Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Let’s just say the warden and I have different definitions of ‘acceptable behavior.’” He paused, his smirk fading for just a second before it reappeared, sharper. “But I know how to get by. You stick with me, and maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”
Dean scoffed. “What could I possibly learn from you?”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Oh, lots. Like how to keep your head attached to your shoulders. For one, don’t pick fights you can’t win. Two, don’t trust anyone who smiles too much. And three…” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Never assume the guards aren’t watching. They always are.”
The faint beep of Dean’s collar seemed louder suddenly, and he instinctively touched it.
Jonathan nodded toward his own collar. “Yeah, that thing? It’s not just for show. They’ve got all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. Stay out of trouble—or don’t. Trouble’s inevitable here anyway.”
Dean stared at his dangling legs for a moment. “You seem awfully calm for someone locked in this hellhole.”
Jonathan gave a light laugh. “Philosophy, my friend. A man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Is that another Confucius thing?”
Jonathan’s grin grew smug. “Nah. That one’s Voltaire.” He settled back on the bunk, crossing his legs. “But hey, don’t worry about it. No one else knows either.”
Dean leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment and letting the hum of the collar fade into the background. This guy was clearly a smartass, but there was something about him—something that suggested he’d been here long enough to know what he was talking about.
The clang of a distant cell door echoed down the hall, followed by a muffled yell and the sound of guards shouting. Dean opened his eyes again, glancing at the barred window of the cell.
Jonathan didn’t even flinch. “See? Trouble. Told you it was inevitable.”
The cell was bathed in the dim orange glow of the overhead light, casting long shadows that stretched and swayed with the occasional flicker. Dean lay on the bottom bunk, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the collar around his neck serving as a constant reminder of where he was. It beeped softly, irregularly, like a predator breathing down his neck.
Jonathan sat cross-legged on the top bunk, his arms resting on his knees as he leafed through a tattered book. The cell was quiet except for the faint rustling of pages and the distant echoes of guards patrolling the corridors. Outside their cell, a soft shuffling sound grew louder, interspersed with the occasional clink of metal.
Dean tilted his head, listening. “What’s that?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Jonathan didn’t look up. “Probably another inmate. They let some of the more docile ones out at night to clean. Good behavior and all that.”
“Good behavior, huh? I’ll bet it’s more like they’ve given up on trying to escape.” Dean’s tone was bitter, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the figure pushing a cart down the corridor. The man’s hollow face and vacant stare told him all he needed to know.
“Resignation does wonders for job prospects,” Jonathan quipped, his lips curling into a smirk as he turned another page. “I’m sure you’ll be scrubbing toilets in no time.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Besides, I doubt this place gives references.”
Jonathan chuckled, shutting his book and leaning over the edge of the bunk to look at Dean. “What about you? You got a plan, or are you just going to scowl your way through the rest of your miserable existence here?”
Dean shrugged. “Haven’t thought that far ahead. Hard to make plans when you don’t know the rules.”
Jonathan nodded thoughtfully, sitting back. “The rules are simple: don’t get caught breaking them.”
Dean smirked. “Sounds easy enough.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised how complicated simple things can get in a place like this.”
The footsteps faded as the cleaning inmate moved further down the hall. The cell fell silent again, save for the low hum of the collars. Dean shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the metallic band around his neck feeling heavier than ever. He rubbed at the edge of it absentmindedly.
“You ever think this thing might… I don’t know, blow up or something if we step out of line?” Dean asked, half-joking, but the thought clearly unsettled him.
Jonathan tapped his own collar with a finger. “Doubt it. If they wanted us dead, they wouldn’t go through the trouble of keeping us alive. Besides, dead bodies don’t fight in their little tournaments nor do they.. Usually sell for much.”
Dean considered this, then smirked. “You seem to know a lot about this place for someone who’s just arrived.”
Jonathan grinned, leaning back. “I have a talent for reading between the lines.”
“Or you’re just good at bullshit,” Dean shot back, earning a laugh from Jonathan.
Before either could say more, a voice crackled to life—not from the intercoms but from the collars around their necks. It was low and distorted, almost mechanical, yet eerily human.
“Pay attention, inmates. The rules of this game are not what they seem.”
Dean froze, his eyes darting to Jonathan, who sat up sharply. His usual smirk was replaced by a look of confusion.
“What the hell was that?” Dean asked, his voice low.
Jonathan shook his head slowly, his brows knitting together. “No idea, its never done that” he admitted, his hand absently brushing against the collar.
The voice didn’t return. Instead, the silence in the cell grew heavier, the faint hum of the collars now feeling oppressive, like the ticking of a clock counting down to an unknown fate. Dean lay back down, his thoughts racing as his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the distant echoes of footsteps fading into the darkness.