Rescue Operation (10)
Big. Scary. Safe. Those were the first impressions of the women as they entered the city. But as they disembarked from the ship, crossed the gangway, and stepped into the dark cave, their anxiety amplified endlessly.
Humans are like that. Even in a place of starvation with no glimpse of the future, you get used to it after a while. "I'll die if I stay here. I have to get out!" Logic agrees, but when it's time to actually bolt, some voice in your heart whispers, "Just stay put." Prison life shrinks your decisions and constant control strengthens the urge to settle in. If your body and mind are pushed to the brink, it's even worse. And now, instead of the promised "safe city," they were being led into a cold cave—their resolve naturally wavered.
But it was too late. Even if doubts crept in—"Did I make the wrong choice?" "Should I have stayed in the prison?"—there was no turning back. Their ship had been sunk by some absurd monster.
> MOVE.
The slightest hesitation, and the terrifying robots barked orders with brute force. Those steel machines seemed oblivious to concepts like consideration, respect, or human rights. Even prisoners had rights in their old world—guards couldn't just lash out. Fights between inmates ended with break-ups, warnings, or solitary at worst. That was the common sense, the rule of their world.
But not for these robots. Disrupt order during the rescue, and you'd be hurled by cold, unyielding steel grips. The rowdy ones got rifle-butted. Tough inmates tried arguing—"How can you treat people like this?" Sometimes it was "women" instead of "people." But one glance from a robot (its head sometimes swiveling nearly 180 degrees) silenced them fast. Their faces evoked bleach-soaked piranhas—small, dead eyes like serial killers, spaced wide enough to feel watched from the sides. The inorganic white-and-black scheme was designed for maximum unease, triggering primal fears etched in DNA.
Squelch, squelch. Bare feet on the cold cave floor raised goosebumps. Looking up, red robot eyes floated in the darkness like goblin lights, staring them down.
"Eek... hic..." Some women finally broke into sobs. But their feet kept moving, comrades soothing them as they pressed on. Were they doomed to live like cavemen or WWII POWs in coal mines?
At the cave's rear exit, light awaited. Blinding brilliance against the gloom. Beyond thick reinforced doors stretched an underground city too vast for one glance. Fences funneled them one way.
> MOVE.
Sporadic robots urged them on—some with shotguns, others with long spears flickering blue flashes.
"It's huge," one woman murmured mid-march. All agreed. From the rear gate, the city's terraced structure resembled stepped fields, each tier the size of multiple villages. Dozens of levels. Sealed ceiling like a closed city. Tiers widened downward diagonally—carved from a mountain, expanded underground. Rails crisscrossed the ceiling, ferrying lifts and claw arms. High up, luxurious buildings screamed "elite housing." Balconies boasted Greek-columned outdoor pools; neighbors had rock-and-tree hot springs. Lush greenery everywhere, a river the width of a pool. Concrete, glass, nature in perfect harmony—like elves and dwarves building a modern ark.
But dead center: an unmistakably human, alien tower evoking Barad-dûr from Lord of the Rings. If a ruler existed, they'd lord over all from there. Below: industrial zones, factories denser than any inmate's experience. Perfect efficiency, automation, futuristic finesse in every nook. Majestic was the only word. No grime or oil stink—just factories screaming, "Give me blueprints; I'll recreate anything humanity ever made."
Lower still: city streets, residences. Some plunged deep via elevators into underground apartments—the real urban core.
> KEEP MOVING.
Guided by fences and escort bots, a vast plaza emerged—Saint Peter's Square vibes. Center: a clock tower like in European capitals, but digital screen instead of analog. A woman's face appeared: beautiful, regal, arrogant beyond praise.
Nice to meet you. I am the central control AI of the city, Artemis.
Her gaze at the new residents was odd—not fellow women, but inspecting similar lot-numbered products.
This is Aegis Civilian Disaster City Type 1, abbreviated Shelter. Everything is here—food, clothing, shelter, medicine, hobbies, even visions for the future. This is the only place that can fully satisfy your idea of life.
Nearby, trucks and cargo haulers bustled unmanned. Gasps and screams—people expected, not ghosts. The tower screen shifted to the outside world.
There is no death penalty here yet. But exile exists.
Recon drone footage: ruined cities, barren lands, wrecked cars, shattered roads, apocalypse. Shadows hid twisted ex-humans.
Simulations deem one example necessary for efficient control. Want to volunteer? Simple: act on your desires. Gain freedom; our drones will broadcast your final moments. That journey will nourish our order.
Screens switched to Shelter promo: tasty food, clean water, luxuries, leisure spots—even nail salons, ping-pong.
"City" is no longer generic—it's this place's proper noun.
Obey and be grateful. Follow our order; we'll gift human life. That's our demand.
Artemis vanished. New arrivals felt the new world sink in. Old notions—they were precious humans, machines mere tools—faded. They were weak; machines strong. Simple hierarchy implanted.
Fences led to vast temporary housing: orderly prefab barracks like army camps. Icons marked baths, gyms, clinics, more. Ceiling rails patrolled sentry guns.
Whirr! One dove fast, scanning the marchers, spike gleaming. Imagining it piercing flesh weakened knees—no eye contact dared. Clear with a cheerful beep, it ascended.
Fences ended at housing gates, ringed by taller electrified fences, sentry guns, drones overhead. Concrete floors—no tunneling out. Claws from rails deployed more guard bots, herding to baths.
Airport scanners, plastic bins ahead.
> Commencing external contaminant incineration. Remove all clothing—outerwear, underwear, socks, shoes, no exceptions—and deposit in the bin.
Hesitators jumped at approaching bots. "O-okay, undressing!"
> Surrender all jewelry—rings, necklaces, earrings.
Service bots and drones collected. Bigger backlash here—but salt rounds felled a kicker.
> Sanitation violation and assault on security: 10 days solitary.
Gulps around. "10 days" felt eternal torment. Sporadic shots followed; process smoothed. Full scans checked threats, diseases. Swallowed rings caught some—laxative nights ahead.
Next: baths. Personal kits issued, into vast showers. Hot water gushed—cheers erupted. They'd expected cold. Grime swirled down drains, refreshing souls despite hunger.
Pink-skinned, they exited to clean clothes, shoes. First day—rules later. Now: adaptation via carrots.
* * *
Carrots and sticks: core governance. Meals were self-serve, variety stellar.
"Oh, fuck yeah! This is it!"
Athletic inmates beamed brightest. Cafeteria monitor listed:
Main 1: White Rice (GMO), Sirloin Steak (Cultured Meat), Omelet (Cultured Meat), Chicory Salad, Sauerkraut
Main 2 (Patient Meal): Multi-Grain Abalone Porridge (GMO, Cultured Meat)
Dessert: Cherry Tomatoes (GMO), Sweet Kernel Corn (Lotte Partnership)
Solitary Pending Special: Rice, Bread (1 piece), Multivitamin, Water
Solitary menu warned all. Starved got patient meals. Smiles, laughter nonstop—prison woes, robot terror like mirages. Happiness overflowed. Nina piled three steaks; bot warned waste penalties but didn't stop.
Exiting: beer mountain.
"B-beer!" "Ooh..." "Cooloud?"
Awe, no rushes—learned queues. Screens, tower blared ads synced to stock dumps.
Actor cracks tab, gulps refreshingly. Sweat beads vibrate down manly throat.
Infused with Dignity!
100% Wort, No Added Water—Original Gravity Method!
Premium Ingredients for Authentic European Depth!
Cooloud: Korea's Pride in Brewing!
Gasps, sighs amid voiceover. "Khaaa!" "Haa... haa..." Some teared up chugging. Warmth. Fresh clothes. Itch-free skin. Fullness. Misery purged by bath, feast. Climax: cold refreshment.
Past colds were miseries—floors, bars, sea, winds. But Cooloud foam rewrote them. A voice whispered: "Cool is good." Gulps everywhere. Criminally delicious. (They were criminals, sure.) Carbonation bombed tongues like mythical healer Heo Jun's acupuncture, purifying deceitful mouths. Soul-reviving needles: Cooloud fizz. Gratitude dawned true. Ruler-ruled bond sealed—over one beer can.