Dean
The morning began with the clang of metal doors sliding open, the symphony of Ashgate’s awakening echoing through the grated levels above and below. The hum of activity was alive—boots stomping, chains rattling, and the murmurs of prisoners falling into their routines. Dean followed Jonathan out of their cell, squinting against the harsh artificial glow of the overhead lights.
“Alright, Matroni,” Jonathan began, his voice laced with sarcasm, “Welcome to your absurd new reality. Here’s the grand tour of your new life.”
Dean raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, trailing behind Jonathan as they navigated the labyrinthine of corridors and catwalks that made up the various levels of prisoners. The tight collars around their necks gave off faint, intermittent beeps, like insistent reminders of their captivity. Every turn revealed a snippet of prison life—scenes that Jonathan narrated with a tone that swung between indifference and grim amusement.
“First off, our home is separated into eight floors, though these are typically referred to as levels by the guards.” Dean nodded along as Jonthan explained, pointing down. “You got here late, lights were already out, so you probably didn’t notice.” As Jonathan said this, Dean looked down to see that the grated corridors allowed him to see several levels below him. “We can only see five of these floors, with us being on the second. Reserved for new comers and teachers… And sellers.”
“Sellers?” Dean questioned, raising a brow, assuming he was referring to the mules, the inmates who could get their hands on the goods that are traded among the prisoners.
“Sometimes one of the prison investors sends a person here to check the goods. Kind of an undercover inmate.” Jonthan explained catching Dean completely off guard.
{Who the hell would want to do that?} He thought.
“Above us is the first floor, the good boys and girls. Or the fighting champions, pampered with the good life. Movies, books, clicksticks, women, men, children, gold plates.”
“I’m sorry?” Dean squeked.
“The food here is broken into three tiers, Tin is regular prison food, disguesting goop that I wouldn’t be surprised is made of bugs. Silver plates is more normal food. Afforded to the prisoners on good behavior or that make money… And then the gold plates, best of the best by world renoun chefs.” Jonathan said dryly.
“No, you said children?” Dean questioned with his face scrunching.
Jonathan stopped mid-step, his smirk faltering for just a moment before returning with a bitter edge. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean, the humor in his eyes now replaced with a grim shadow. “Yeah, Matroni. I said children. The kind of people who land in this place tend to have… expensive tastes. And the ‘investors’—the ones keeping this hellhole running—they make sure those tastes are met.”
Dean felt his stomach churn. “You’re telling me there are kids here?”
“Not in cells like us, no,” Jonathan replied, his tone low, almost conspiratorial as they passed a group of guards patrolling the catwalks. “But they’re brought in. Quietly. They don’t stay long, though. By the time their ‘clients’ are done, there’s usually not much left to send back.”
Dean’s jaw clenched, his fists curling instinctively. “That’s… that’s sick.”
Jonathan shrugged, his posture casual, but his voice carried the weight of someone long desensitized to the depravity around him. “Welcome to Ashgate, where morality comes to die. You think that’s bad? Wait until you see what the good ol’ doc does to the volunteers.”
Dean shot him a questioning glance, but Jonathan waved it off. “You’ll learn soon enough. For now, let’s keep walking before you make that face in front of the wrong people and end up on someone’s shopping list.”
They continued through the labyrinth of corridors, descending to another level. The grated flooring beneath them clanged with each step, and Dean couldn’t shake the feeling of countless eyes watching them from the shadows. Every now and then, a guard barked orders at a prisoner or slammed a baton against the bars, but most of the inmates seemed to move with the practiced efficiency of people who knew the rules of survival.
They passed a group of inmates huddled around a makeshift table on the side of the walkway. One of them glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Dean. He nudged the man beside him, whispering something that made the others chuckle darkly. Dean’s muscles tensed, but Jonathan grabbed his arm and pulled him along.
“Don’t engage,” Jonathan muttered under his breath. “You’re a drifter. They’re just sizing you up.”
Dean forced himself to keep walking, though his instincts screamed at him to turn back and confront them. “How long until they stop?”
Jonathan snorted. “Depends. If you keep your head down, maybe a few weeks. If you give ‘em a reason, maybe never.”
They rounded a corner, entering a wider corridor lined with cells. The air was heavier here, the smell of sweat and decay mingling with something more acrid. Jonathan gestured toward one of the cells, where an inmate was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes were half-closed, his lips moving silently as though in prayer.
“That’s Barlow,” Jonathan said. “Used to be a big-shot preacher on the outside. Got caught laundering money for a cult, or so the rumors say. Now he runs his own little congregation here.”
Dean frowned. “What kind of congregation?”
“The desperate kind,” Jonathan replied with a smirk. “He promises salvation, redemption, freedom from this place. All he asks for is loyalty… and a few favors.”
“And people believe him?”
Jonathan shrugged. “When you’re stuck in a place like this, you’ll believe anything if it gives you a shred of hope.”
They moved on, passing more cells and groups of inmates until they reached a small, open area that served as a common room. The atmosphere here was charged, a mix of tension and exhaustion that made Dean’s skin crawl. Inmates played cards at a battered table, while others leaned against the walls, their eyes darting between the guards and the other prisoners.
Jonathan leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is where you figure out who’s who. Alliances, enemies, people to avoid at all costs. You’re new, so you’ve got the luxury of being overlooked—for now. But that won’t last.”
Dean scanned the room, his gaze lingering on a particularly smaller framed man pacing the door to a cell surrounded by larger inmates, both male and female. His head giving a few jerks, obviously on something but also obviously a name in here with the guards and the other inmates Dean glanced in the cell behind him, sparled on the floor. The other inmates around him laughed at something he said, but their laughter carried a nervous edge, as if they were laughing because they had to.
“Who’s that?” Dean asked, nodding toward the man.
Jonathan followed his gaze and chuckled. “That’s Big Mitch. He runs the smuggling ring on this floor—drugs, weapons, information. If you want something, he can get it—for a price. Just don’t cross him. He’s got a temper.”
As Jonathan says this, Dean watches Big Mitch lean back and flex his body as he let out a loud howl that echoed around the common area.
Dean filed the information away, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of the complex web of power and survival that governed this place. Every step he took seemed to uncover another layer of corruption, another reason to hate this prison and the people who ran it.
Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Come on, Matroni. Let’s grab some food. You’ll need your strength if you want to make it through the day.”
The mess hall was a cacophony of clattering trays and shouted conversations. Dean observed cliques forming naturally—gangs staking claims at tables, loners sitting tensely on the edges, and the unlucky ones wandering too close to a territory they didn’t belong to. “Stick to the middle ground,” Jonathan advised, nodding toward the chaos. “Too far in any direction, and you’re fair game.” As he said this the two watched an inmate find a tray in his face as one of the groups began jumping him.
Passing through the serving line, an inmate with a hair net and a brown jumpsuit placed a few bits of slop on a pair of plates that Dean and Jonathan grabbed.
“Three meals a day with minor flavorful differences,” Jonathan sarcastically smirked. “You’d think being in the ocean we’d get some fish. Mabye squid. But that’s reserved for siler and gold plates.”
Taking a seat near the center of the canteen, Dean picked up the moldy-looking slick goop with his plastic spoon, but it appeared stringy and had pieces of fuzz mixed in spuradically, causing him to drop it, staring in disguest.
“Yep.” Jonathan said with a good bellow of laughter. “You’ll get used to it before long. Give it a few days and you’ll be swallowing.”
After eating, Jonathan continued their tour, further along, they passed the dimly lit communal showers, where two inmates were locked in a brutal scuffle over stolen soap. Fists flew in quick, wet slaps against bare skin. Dean tensed at the sight, but Jonathan simply leaned against the wall, nodding as if ticking off a box. “Standard morning entertainment,” he muttered. “Notice our cell and the cistern here are the only non-grated flooring around here.”
“Why’s that?” Dean asked, expecting that Jonathan was boating the question from him only to be met with a shrug.
Overhead, guards patrolled the second layer of catwalks with a deliberate rhythm, their heavy boots thudding in sharp contrast to the restless shuffle of prisoners below. Dean glanced up, his gaze following a pair of guards as they scanned the crowd with thinly veiled disdain. “They think they’re gods up there,” Jonathan remarked dryly. “But with strange aeons even death may die.”
The scenes blurred together, the monotony of prison life settling over Dean like a heavy fog. Yet, each moment etched itself into his mind, the unspoken rules of Ashgate becoming clearer with every step.
As they emerged into the gloom, the slang for the yard, the expanse of grated floors stretched out around them. The light filtering down from the uppermost levels was weak, dulled by the haze of clouds above and the layers of steel that rose overhead. The air carried a sharp tang of salt and rust, a constant reminder of their prison’s oceanic perch.
Dean tilted his head upward, squinting against the muted light as he studied the upper levels. The open sky beyond the grates felt close yet tauntingly out of reach. Two thin grated walkways, crisscrossing the air above, led to a twenty-foot wall topped with coiled razor wire. The wall itself, though imposing, didn’t seem particularly thick. Dean’s mind raced, his ‘tousia stirring faintly within him as he considered the possibilities.
He flexed his fingers instinctively, his body already envisioning the explosions he could create. The grates, the walkways, the wall—it wasn’t the most daunting obstacle he’d ever faced. He imagined the satisfying roar of steel crumpling and the sky breaking open, his path to freedom carved through fire and force.
Jonathan interrupted his thoughts with a low chuckle. “Don’t bother, Matroni,” he said, following Dean’s gaze. “Every drifter dreams of the sky for the first few weeks. It’ll pass.”
Dean shot him a sidelong glance. “Not sure you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly the average ‘drifter.’”
Jonathan smirked, continuing their walk, leading Dean up a stariway on the south side of the gloom. “Oh, I noticed. But even you can’t blow through what comes next.” He gestured toward the grated ceiling with a lazy wave of his hand. “See those walkways? There’s guards on rotation, twenty-four-seven. And the moment you so much as twitch wrong, those collars will make sure you’re done.”
Dean didn’t respond immediately, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the walkways again, now finding himself on a lower one. He could make out faint figures pacing along the grates, their movements mechanical, hammered into them from training. His collar beeped softly, a sharp reminder of its presence. He rolled his shoulders, pushing back the dizziness it caused, and turned his gaze back to the sky.
“Still doesn’t seem impossible,” Dean murmured, half to himself.
Jonathan let out a soft laugh, his voice carrying a mix of pity and amusement. “Don’t let it eat you alive. The sky ain’t going anywhere, but you might. Focus on what’s right in front of you. The walkways we have are merely seven feet above the gloom, no one knows exactly what they’re meant for but we use them for ‘vantage points, to watch the yard or,” waving over to another walkways where a group rests, talking amongst eachother, one letting out a healthy laugh. “Chokepoints.”
Dean gave Jonathan a questioning look before asking, “The fuck is a chokepoint?”
“Chokepoints are the usual places for jawbreakers.” Jonathan said matter a fact, but giving out a small sigh at Dean’s continued confusion. “Jawbreakers are fights that are specifically meant to send a message. The stairs or the cisterns are usual chokepoints.” Taking a moment to take something out of his pocket, they watched as the inmate on the other walkway who had been laughing just previously was attacked by one of the members in his circle before the whole group quickly joined in, beating him. “Never go in neither alone or you’ll be seen as a Driftwood… Someone aimless.. looking to be swept away by the tide of trouble.”
Before Dean could reply, a sudden hiss of hydraulics cut through the levels of the gloom. His attention snapped downward, toward a heavy door on a lower level grinding open on the west side. A handful of guards stepped out, flanking a small procession of inmates. Their collars beeped in unison as they shuffled forward.
“That,” Jonathan said, nodding toward the commotion, “are the hollows making their debut. Inmates in solitary. They get gloom time every few days, on rotation, but they usually look fairly broken down, hence…”
Dean’s eyes followed the group as they moved into the yard, his gaze lingering on a man with strikingly pale features. The prisoner’s hair was bleach-blond, bordering on white, and his red eyes glinted faintly in the dim light. He carried himself with a detached calm, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
As the man stepped further into the yard, his gaze lifted, locking directly onto Dean’s. The intensity of it was like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Dean felt the weight of those crimson eyes before Jonathan’s voice broke through the moment.
“That’s the Red Surgeon,” Jonathan said, his tone suddenly devoid of humor. “Best stay out of his way.”
Dean leaned casually against the railing of their walkway, his eyes following the commotion a few levels below. The gloom buzzed with energy, the noise bouncing off steel walls and grated floors in a chaotic symphony of voices, footsteps, and distant clangs. Jonathan stood beside him, arms crossed, his expression torn between amusement and mild disdain with a white stick now resting in his mouth as they both watched the scene unfold.
Suddenly, a loud nasally voice echoed past the other inmates as a man arrived at the bottom of the steps from one of the walks on the fifth level. “A’ight, listen up! All you so-called white people!”
Peaking both Dean’s and Jonathan’s attention, though for separate reasons. “And we have a stitcher.” Jonathan breathed, a bit of smoke escaping his nostrils. “One of the guards are using him for entertainment. Probably Polar.”
“Always thinkin’ you own the damn world! But I’m here to tell y’all it’s different in here! Y’all think y’re safe but imma teach you!” The slim black man called out loud enough for all the levels to hear him.
“Thought you said the new inmates are all found up here? He was on the plane with me, got here just last night.” Dean questioned.
“Like I said, Polar likes to do this sort of thing from time to time. Drags a drifter to the lower levels to tangle with the Gravestones.”
Dean can only assume why they’re called Gravestones, but he’s sure it’s likely something to do with death.
As Xubruce continues his racial rant, Jonathan gives a shrug before blowing out a puff of smoke and saying as he rolls his neck, letting out a series of cracks. “Skin don’t mean much here. I’ve heard other prisons are separated based on that. This ain’t like you’re average prison. Cliques aren’t about race or even some dumb ideology. It’s all abilities and experience. Who’s got the most power, who’s survived the longest—those are the only things that really count. Small groups come and go, nothing ever really stays group wise. Best to get yourself set up with a few characters and work your way around everyone.”
Dean nodded absently, his gaze fixed on the lissom figure of Xubruse strutting along the floor three levels below. The man’s loud voice carried sporadically upward, rising above the background noise just enough for them to catch snippets of his rant.
“My people built kingdoms while y’all were still crawlin’ in the dirt! My people taught you how to bath!”
Jonathan snorted. “That’s a new one.” Releasing a small puff of smoke as another man on their level approached from the side.
“You can always tell the new guys—they get real loud, try to make a name for themselves fast.” A man with shallow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes said. “Doesn’t usually work out the way they think it will.”
Dean tilted his head slightly, ignoring the new inmate. “What’s his deal?”
Jonathan shrugged. “Who knows? Probably got something to prove. Bet you a week of trays he’s dead or in solitary by the end of the day.”
Neither Dean nor the new inmate didn’t take the bet. Instead, he continued watching as Xubruse spun around, addressing the yard like he was giving a sermon. Stopping and starring at a figure with pale hair, Jonathan shook his head.
“You sittin’ there like some kinda demon king, with your freak-ass eyes and that dead-man stare.” He said stepping closer to the Red Surgeon.
But the man remained rooted in his place, having not moved too far from the hydraulic doors that he came from.
Dean leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. “That pale guy—what’s his story?”
Jonathan let out a low whistle as the new inmate explained. “Maxwell Baxter. They call him the Red Surgeon. He’s not like the rest of us. Hell, some say he’s not even human anymore. If you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance.”
Dean frowned as Jonathan let out another puff of smoke. “And if you’re not?”
Maxwell’s hand shot out suddenly with terrifying precision, gripping Xubruse’s wrist. The wiry man tried to pull away, his bravado replaced with visible panic as his arm convulsed. Maxwell’s other hand rested gently on Xubruse’s chest, his movements almost tender in contrast to the agony painted across Xubruse’s face.
The yard fell into stunned silence as Xubruse suddenly gagged, a wet, choking sound escaping his throat. His body spasmed violently before collapsing to his knees. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, pooling on the grated floor. Maxwell stood slowly, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd, his expression as calm as ever.
From above, Dean and Jonathan and stranger exchanged a glance. Dean’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer to the railing, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.
“What the hell did he do to him?” Dean asked, his voice low.
Jonathan shook his head. “Whatever it was, you don’t wanna be on the receiving end of it.”
The stranger gave a small chuckle, saying, “Dude has seemingly total control over a persons body.”
Dean’s gaze remained fixed on Maxwell as two guards approached the pale-haired man. Unlike the chaos that usually erupted after a fight, they didn’t rush in with batons drawn. Instead, they stopped a few feet away, their postures hesitant.
“And just like the rest of us,” Jonathan muttered. “They’re scared of him. One of the only inmates in here that require a Dog to follow him at all times.”
Dean didn’t reply, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what he’d just witnessed. Below, Maxwell turned away from the fallen Xubruse, his crimson eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s once more. For a brief moment, the two men locked gazes, and Dean felt an unsettling chill creep up his spine.
“Yeah,” The stranger said quietly, as though reading Dean’s thoughts. “Welcome to Ashgate.”
Dean’s eyes lingered on the unsettling figure of Maxwell Baxter as the man walked away, leaving Xubruse crumpled on the grated floor. The faint metallic clanging of his boots against the steel reverberated upward, mingling with the hushed murmurs of the surrounding inmates. The spectacle left an impression on everyone watching—but it was clear this wasn’t the first time Maxwell had made such an example of someone.
The stranger beside Jonathan let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Maxwell doesn’t do things without reason. That fool—” he motioned toward Xubruse, who was now being dragged away by a pair of guards—“must’ve really annoyed him.”
Dean finally turned toward the man. “And who the hell are you?”
The stranger smirked faintly, tipping an invisible hat. “Walter B. Stokes. And no, before you ask, no relation to your pal here.” He gestured toward Jonathan, who snorted at the mention.
“Not even close,” Jonathan quipped, rolling his eyes. “This guy’s all class and manners. Me? I’m the better Stokes.”
Walter chuckled, his tone smooth and unhurried. “Better at running your mouth, perhaps.” His sharp features held a distinct refinement, his clean-cut appearance and carefully tailored demeanor standing out starkly against the rough edges of Ashgate. His clothes were noticeably cleaner than most, his posture upright, almost regal. Neatly combed back hair and of slender, almost sickly physique.
Dean crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s your deal, Walter? You seem… different.”
Walter smiled, the kind of smile one might expect from a practiced negotiator. “Oh, I’m many things to many people. But primarily, I’m someone who listens—a rare commodity in a place like this.” He glanced toward Jonathan with an amused expression. “Your friend here could probably use my services, but he’s far too stubborn.”
Jonathan scoffed. “Don’t need therapy from the likes of you, Walter. I’m doing just fine.”
“Of course you are,” Walter replied smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. “But others aren’t so fortunate. In a place like Ashgate, a listening ear can be a lifeline. Guards, inmates, anyone willing to talk—I make it my business to understand them.”
Dean leaned back slightly, studying Walter. “So, you’re what? A therapist for hire?”
Walter spread his hands in a mock display of humility. “You could say that. But I prefer the term ‘facilitator.’ I bridge gaps, smooth over conflicts, and provide a little clarity in the chaos.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “And what’s in it for you?”
Walter’s smile turned faintly wry. “Let’s just say I’ve learned that survival here isn’t about brute strength or violence. It’s about influence. And information is power.”
Jonathan took a long drag from his stick, exhaling a thin plume of smoke before pointing it at Walter. “He’s not lying. Walter here knows everyone’s business—guards, inmates, even some of the investors. If there’s a secret in Ashgate, he probably knows it.”
Dean tilted his head, his interest piqued despite himself. “And you’re just… handing that information out?”
“Not quite,” Walter said, his tone soft but firm. “Information is currency, and I don’t deal in charity. But, I’m also not unreasonable. If you need help, and you’re willing to pay the price, I might just have what you’re looking for.”
Before Dean could respond, a commotion to their left drew their attention. A small figure darted through the crowd, her blonde hair wild and her fists clenched. It was Sydney, her prison jumpsuit slightly disheveled as she charged at a much larger inmate with reckless abandon.
“What the hell is she doing?” Dean muttered, leaning forward to get a better look.
Jonathan let out a bark of laughter. “Looks like Blondie’s decided to make a statement. Let’s see how that works out for her.”
Walter’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing as he watched Sydney throw a poorly aimed punch at the larger man. “A woman? In here? And already picking fights? This won’t end well.”
Dean couldn’t help but crack a smile as she yelled at the larger, heavily tatted inmate. “You’re nothing but a punk who probably cried for his mommy the second he got locked up! You think those inked-up arms mean anything? Pathetic.”
“Ten to one she gets her ass handed to her,” Jonathan said, grinning as he leaned against the railing.
Dean smirked. “I’m not taking that bet. She’s got guts, though.”
Walter, however, shook his head, his tone disapproving. “Guts won’t save her from a beating. Someone should step in.”
As if on cue, Sydney lunged at the man, clocking him with a haymaker strong enough to make his teeth clink, a sound that could be heared echoing through the levels of the gloom.
Jonathan chuckled darkly. “I’ll give her this—she’s got spirit. Stupid, reckless spirit, but spirit.”
Dean’s laughter joined his, though it carried an edge of unease. “She’ll learn. Everyone does.”
Walter’s frown deepened as Sydney hit the floor and was mounted by the tatted man who proceeded to wail-on her. “At what cost? There’s no honor in letting this happen.”
Jonathan waved him off. “Honor doesn’t mean shit here, Walt. You know that as well as anyone.”
Walter gave a disagreeing “Hmph.”
“She’ll be fine,” Jonathan said dismissively, turning away. “Probably. Come on, Matroni. Let’s finish the tour before someone decides you’re the next entertainment.”
Dean hesitated, glancing back at Sydney as she laid beaten and bloody on the ground as the inmate that she had attacked was now being brutally beaten by several guards. Her defiance lingered in his mind, a flicker of rebellion in the heart of Ashgate’s oppressive chaos. Then, with a small shake of his head, he followed Jonathan, leaving the gloom’s chaos behind.
Jonathan led Dean through a narrow corridor, its grated floor rattling faintly under their boots. The air was heavier here, tinged with the sour stench of burning chemicals and metal. Faint orange light spilled out from a distant doorway, flickering like the breath of a beast lying in wait.
“Welcome to the Inferno,” Jonathan said, gesturing ahead with a theatrical wave. “Where Ashgate’s fine labor force makes the magic happen. Or so the guards like to pretend.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, his instincts prickling as they stepped into the cavernous room. The Inferno was a sprawling industrial space, its walls lined with ancient, rusting machinery that looked barely functional. Overhead pipes hissed and groaned, leaking steam that mingled with the haze of smoke and chemical fumes. Inmates moved about in slow, methodical rhythms, their faces slick with sweat and streaked with grime.
The noise was oppressive—a constant dissonance of clanging metal, the hum of generators, and the distant hiss of torches. Dean’s gaze darted to the various workstations scattered throughout. Some inmates pounded on metal sheets with improvised hammers, while others poured viscous liquids into molds, their faces twisted in concentration.
“This is where they keep the drones,” Jonathan said, his voice raised to be heard over the din. “Not the literal kind, though I wouldn’t put it past ZerdinTech. These are the inmates too broken or dumb to know better than to follow orders.”
Dean scanned the room, his eyes settling on a line of inmates feeding scrap metal into a hulking machine that spat out razor-edged fragments. Their collars beeped faintly, a subtle rhythm that matched their subdued, mechanical movements.
“They actually make us work here?” Dean asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
“Not everyone,” Jonathan replied with a smirk. “Just the ones who owe favors, pissed off the wrong people, or don’t have enough brain cells to argue. But it’s not all bad. The Inferno’s also where you’ll find the fences.”
Dean frowned. “Fences?”
“Minor ones,” Jonathan clarified. “People who can get you the small stuff. Clicksticks, maybe a pack of ramen or a fizzler if you’re lucky. This place may look like hell, but it’s where a lot of deals get done. Desperate people will pay a lot to make this shitshow more tolerable.”
As they walked, Jonathan gestured toward a corner where a wiry inmate leaned against a stack of crates. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken, but a sly grin tugged at his lips. He held a small pouch in one hand, shaking it slightly as another inmate approached, their voices low but animated.
“That’s Fletch,” Jonathan said. “A runner. Moves contraband around the prison. He’s good if you’re looking for smokes or something to trade, but don’t expect anything too flashy.”
Dean gave a faint nod, his attention shifting as they passed another group. This one was huddled around a makeshift table cobbled together from scraps of steel. The air around them was thick with the sharp, chemical scent of something being cooked. Dean’s nose wrinkled as he watched one of them carefully pour a neon-blue liquid into a series of tiny vials.
“Drugs,” Jonathan said, his tone neutral. “Mostly painkillers or something to keep you up during a long shift. But every now and then, someone tries to make something a little more… fun.”
“And the guards let this slide?” Dean asked, his skepticism evident.
Jonathan shrugged. “Depends on the guard. Some turn a blind eye for a cut. Some crack heads the moment they catch a whiff. Either way, someone’s always cooking. It’s the only way some of these guys can survive this place. Most understand that and let it happen. They know how hard it is and when we’re doped we can’t do much against them, not that most of us would try anyways.”
They moved deeper into the Inferno, the heat intensifying with every step. Dean’s shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. The punitive environment bore down on him, each breath feeling heavier than the last. Jonathan, by contrast, seemed unfazed, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as he navigated the chaos.
“Over there,” Jonathan said, nodding toward a shadowy corner. A lone figure stood, their back to the room, working on something at a small workstation. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a hammer against metal echoed faintly through the din.
“Who’s that?” Dean asked.
“Vick,” Jonathan said. “She’s quiet, but she’s got a knack for fixing things. If you ever need something repaired—shivs, locks, even collars—she’s your girl. Just don’t expect her to chat.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, watching as Vick adjusted the goggles perched on her face and continued working with laser focus. Her hands moved deftly, assembling a small device that Dean couldn’t quite make out.
“Impressive,” he muttered.
“Yeah, she’s one of the few in here with a brain,” Jonathan replied. “Which is why the guards like to keep her busy. They’re not above exploiting talent when it suits them.”
As they rounded another corner, they nearly collided with a guard. He was broad-shouldered, his uniform stretched taut across his chest, and his baton rested casually against his shoulder. A smirk played on his lips as he eyed Jonathan and Dean.
“Well, if it isn’t Stokes and a new guy,” the guard drawled. “Enjoying the sights?”
“Just giving him the grand tour, Polar,” Jonathan said smoothly, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Polar’s smirk widened. “Good. Maybe he’ll learn something useful before he gets himself killed.” His eyes flicked to Dean, cold and assessing. “You got a death wish, Two-Fifty-Six? Or are you just stupid enough to think you’ll survive this place?”
Dean met Polar’s gaze evenly, his jaw tightening. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Polar chuckled, tapping his baton against the grated floor. “Careful, newbie. Confidence has a funny way of turning into arrogance. And arrogance? That’s just another word for dead.”
Without waiting for a response, the guard turned and strode away, his heavy boots echoing against the metal.
“Charming guy,” Dean muttered.
Jonathan smirked. “Polar’s not the worst of them, believe it or not. But he’s definitely someone you don’t wanna piss off. He’s got a way of making people disappear. He’s the one I suspect that sent that new guy down to level five to die. Probably told him to start a fight too.”
“Why?” Dean questioned only to be met by a shrug from Jonathan as he led the drifter through another grated corridor, the sound of their footsteps blending into the constant hum of Ashgate’s machinery. The path ahead was dimly lit, the sparse overhead lights casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The scent of stale air mixed with something metallic lingered, a constant reminder of the prison’s oppressive atmosphere.
“It’s about time for lunch,” Jonathan said, stretching his arms lazily as if the grime-coated surroundings were a five-star hotel. “It’s the closest thing you’ll find to a social club in here. Just don’t expect decent conversation.”
Dean followed, his gaze wandering as they passed more groups of inmates. Some leaned against the walls, trading low whispers, while others huddled in tight circles, their eyes darting around like prey wary of predators. It was a strange, tense ecosystem, one that Dean was still piecing together.
They rounded a corner, and Dean’s steps faltered. Above them, a massive, circular structure loomed—an enclosed platform surrounded by reinforced glass walls. At its center, faint shadows moved, silhouetted by the glow of monitors and faint blue light.
“What’s that?” Dean asked, tilting his head as he stared up at the strange tower.
Jonathan glanced up, his expression momentarily darkening. “That, my friend, is the Crow’s Nest. An observation room, set up like a Panopticon.”
“A what now?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jonathan smirked, shaking his head. “You’re not much of a reader, are you? Alright, let me break it down. A Panopticon is a type of surveillance setup. The whole idea is that whoever’s inside it can see everything, but you can’t see them. It’s all about control—making you feel like you’re always being watched, even when no one’s paying attention.”
Dean squinted at the structure, his jaw tightening. “So, they’re just sitting up there, watching us like we’re rats in a cage?”
Jonathan let out a low chuckle. “More like puppets on strings. That’s where all the camera feeds go, along with the real-time monitoring. Guards sit up there, drinking bad coffee and deciding who gets to live another day.”
Dean frowned, his gaze lingering on the glowing platform. “That’s… unsettling.”
Jonathan shrugged. “Welcome to Ashgate. If the collars don’t remind you who’s in charge, that thing sure will.” He started walking again, motioning for Dean to follow. “And before you ask—yeah, there are cameras everywhere. Even in places you wouldn’t expect. You’d be amazed how many poor bastards get caught sneaking shivs into their cells because they thought a blind spot existed.”
Dean followed reluctantly, his eyes drifting back to the Panopticon as they moved further down the corridor. He could feel its presence, like an omniscient eye boring into the back of his skull. It wasn’t just the physical structure—it was the idea of it. The knowledge that someone, somewhere, was always watching.
“You ever been up there?” Dean asked as they turned another corner.
Jonathan barked out a laugh. “Me? Hell no. That’s reserved for the guards and their techies. Even if you could get close, those doors are reinforced like a damn vault. Trust me, nobody’s getting in—or out—without their permission.”
Dean grunted, his fists clenching briefly at his sides. The thought of being so utterly powerless gnawed at him, a sharp reminder of just how far he’d fallen. But he pushed it down, filing the information away for later. Every system had a flaw, and Dean Matroni was nothing if not a man who found them.
As they approached the canteen, the sound of voices grew louder, a discordant blend of chatter, arguments, and laughter. A rackety of clattering trays, shouted conversations, and the low hum of tension that permeated every corner of Ashgate. Dean and Jonathan found a spot at a dented steel table near the center of the room, their food trays offering a sad assortment of unidentifiable slop and a stale frozen moldy piece of bread.
Dean poked at his food with his spoon, the prison offered the inmates no forks or even sporks, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on Jonathan. “Alright, Stokes. Spill it. How’d that Surgeon guy manage to do… whatever the hell that was? Aren’t these collars supposed to stop us from using powers?”
Jonathan took a slow bite of his bread, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “They are. For most of us, anyway.” He glanced at Dean, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But there’s always exceptions to the rule, mate. Some folks are just so damn attuned to their abilities—or just plain powerful—that the collars can’t completely shut them down.”
Dean leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “So what? The guy’s just so good at heart-popping that the collar lets him slide?”
Jonathan chuckled dryly, leaning forward as he lowered his voice. “Let me give you a little education in Ashgate’s finest, Matroni. Take Mitchel Carradine, for example. Poor bastard flakes skin like a bad case of dandruff, but his flakes? They’re like crack—literally. People lose their damn minds sniffing it. Doesn’t even have to try, the stuff just falls off him naturally. Collar can’t stop that.”
Dean wrinkled his nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the freakshow,” Jonathan said with a shrug. “Then there’s Cupcakes.”
Dean blinked. “Cupcakes?”
Jonathan nodded. “Real name’s God-knows-what, but that’s what everyone calls him. Big guy, kinda quiet. His ‘tousia lets him grow these little pastry-like things—look and taste just like cupcakes. He trades ’em for favors, clicks, whatever he needs.”
Dean snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “You’re telling me there’s a guy in here baking cupcakes with his bare hands? That’s gotta be the most—”
“Don’t say it,” Jonathan warned, though his smirk betrayed his amusement.
“Gay,” Dean finished, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s the most gay thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jonathan shook his head, his tone mock-serious. “You laugh now, but wait until you see the line of guys begging for one of his pastries. Even the toughest bastards in here’ll trade their mother for a taste.”
Dean leaned back against the cold metal bench, letting out a short laugh. “Alright, so there’s a crack-flaking guy and a cupcake-baking guy. But what’s the deal with the Surgeon? Why didn’t the guards throw him in solitary or beat the crap outta him for killing that loudmouth?”
Jonathan’s grin faded slightly, his eyes darkening. “Maxwell Baxter doesn’t get punished like the rest of us. He’s got… a reputation. Whatever his story is, the guards are just as afraid of him as the inmates are. You saw how they handled him—like he’s a damn bomb waiting to go off.”
Dean frowned, turning his attention back to his untouched food. “So what? He’s untouchable?”
“More like they don’t wanna poke the bear unless they have to,” Jonathan replied. “Rumor is, they’ve got plans for him—something down in the lower levels. Until then, they let him do his thing.”
Dean chewed on that for a moment, his mind working as he mulled over Jonathan’s words. The Surgeon, the collars, the powers, the unisex—Ashgate was turning out to be even stranger than he’d imagined.
“Stick to the middle ground,” Jonathan said, breaking Dean’s thoughts. “Remember that. This place’s got enough crazies without you trying to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Dean glanced at Jonathan, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Middle ground, huh? Doesn’t sound like my style.”
Jonathan laughed, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, I figured as much. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, Matroni.”
As Dean and Jonathan finished their conversation, the ambient chaos of the canteen was interrupted by a figure approaching their table. He was a thin, stringy man with bleached-blond hair, shaved close on the sides but long enough on top to curl awkwardly. His movements were jittery but purposeful, not too far from a snake on speed, his sharp eyes darting around the room like a bird scanning for predators. He wore the same prison uniform as everyone else, but his collar was caked with faint smudges of powdered sugar, a hint of his peculiar trade.
In each hand, he held a small, perfectly-formed cupcake—frosted and everything. The juxtaposition of the dainty pastries in such a grim setting was almost surreal.
“Yo,” the man said, his voice a rapid-fire drawl that was both intense and oddly melodic. “You boys new? I’m Cupcakes. Welcome to my domain. First one’s free, after that, you’re payin’. Take it or leave it.”
Dean stared at the cupcakes for a moment, then up at the man, raising an eyebrow. “You gotta be kidding me.”
Cupcakes narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Do I look like I’m kidding, boy? These ain’t your cafeteria slop. This is premium-grade, gourmet-ass treats. Don’t act like you’re above it.”
Dean snorted, smirking. “Gourmet-ass treats? In here? You running some kind of prison bakery now? What’s next, you gonna make me a candlelit dinner?”
Jonathan stiffened slightly, a warning look in his eye, but Cupcakes didn’t back down. Instead, his jittery energy exploded.
“Bitch, I’ll kill you!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he thrust a cupcake at Dean like it was a weapon. “You don’t even know who you’re talking to! I’m the reason half these fools don’t rip each other apart every damn day. You wanna play games with me?”
The sudden outburst drew attention. Dean looked around and noticed several inmates standing up or shifting their weight, their eyes fixed on him. These weren’t just random prisoners—these were loyalists, people who clearly saw Cupcakes as more than just a baker.
One particularly burly inmate cracked his knuckles, his glare boring into Dean as if daring him to say another word. Another leaned against a wall, casually flipping a shiv between his fingers. The room felt heavier, the tension rising with every passing second.
Dean raised his hands slightly, feigning innocence. “Alright, alright. Chill out, Cupcake. Didn’t mean to ruffle your frosting.”
Cupcakes glared at him for another moment before pulling back, his energy still crackling but controlled. He shoved a cupcake onto Dean’s tray and muttered, “You’ll thank me later,” before walking off in a series of sharp, twitchy movements.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Dean leaned toward Jonathan, his voice low. “What the hell was that?”
Jonathan smirked, shaking his head. “That, Matroni, is why I told you not to underestimate Cupcakes. He’s got more backup than the guards in this place. You’d better eat that cupcake—or at least pretend to—unless you wanna be on their bad side.”
Dean looked down at the pristine pastry, the absurdity of the situation making him laugh under his breath. “This place just keeps getting weirder.”
Jonathan chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Welcome to Ashgate, my friend.”
The canteen’s dull hum of conversation was suddenly drowned out by the crackle of the intercom system. The familiar, grating voice of Major Gordon filled the room, laced with the same cold authority that had greeted them on arrival.
“All new inmates,” Gordon’s voice barked, “are required to participate in tonight’s rounds of Ultimate Prison Fighter. Details are irrelevant; your participation is mandatory. Guards will provide further instruction if needed. That is all.”
The intercom clicked off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Around the room, heads turned toward the new arrivals, a mix of pity and amusement flashing across the faces of seasoned inmates. Dean glanced toward the guards stationed along the walls, their expressions stony and unreadable.
One of the other new inmates—a wavy man with shaky hands and a nervous energy—stepped toward a guard, his voice trembling as he asked, “Excuse me, sir, can you—”
The response was swift and brutal. Without hesitation, the guard jammed a tazer into the man’s side, sending him convulsing to the grated floor. He writhed in pain, gasping as the crackle of electricity subsided. The guard leaned down, his voice low but dripping with malice. “Don’t ask questions.”
Dean’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting back to Jonathan, who shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
“Classic rookie move,” Jonathan muttered, stabbing at his food with his fork. “They don’t want to hear from you unless you’re bleeding or dying. Even then, it’s a gamble.”
“What the hell is this fight about?” Dean asked, his voice low.
Jonathan leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “It’s just a sparring night. Nothing big. They throw the fresh meat into the ring to see who’s got any bite. No major fighters, no names anyone knows. It’s mostly for show.”
Dean frowned. “And if I don’t?”
“You don’t get a choice.” Jonathan chuckled, his tone dry. “They’ll come grab you right after lights out. Lock the cells, then march you down to the pits. Standard procedure.”
“And on bigger nights?” Dean pressed.
Jonathan shrugged. “That’s where the real action is. The twenty-seventh of every month—unless the Warden’s feeling dramatic, then it might be postponed a few days. They bring out the heavy hitters. Big names, big powers, real bloodbaths. Rules depend on the match type, but usually… anything goes.”
Dean’s mind was already racing, piecing together what little he’d seen of the facility. “Can I use my ’tousia?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.
Jonathan smirked. “Oh, you can. They’ll turn the dampeners off in the ring. It’s part of the show. But be smart about it. They’re watching for what you can do—and how much of a threat you might be.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed as his thoughts churned. The fights weren’t just entertainment; they were a test. A way for the Warden and his goons to size up the inmates, to see who could be controlled and who needed breaking.
Jonathan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Don’t overthink it, mate. Just get in, throw a few punches, and get out. No one’s expecting a masterpiece tonight.”
Dean nodded, but his mind was far from the conversation. His focus was on the fights, on the dampeners, on the possibility of using his ’tousia without restriction. A glint of determination sparked in his dark eyes.
Jonathan chuckled again, shaking his head as if he could read Dean’s thoughts. “Welcome to Ashgate, my friend.”