Management (3)
Two internment camps sat in the underground city. One was massive, the other tiny. They were so close that you could practically make out each other's blinks. The larger camp, packed with prisoners, was ringed by towering fences and under constant, ironclad surveillance. The guards' camp? A flimsy fence that was little more than a wall, watched only by cameras. No sentry guns, no drones. The blatant double standard had the stricter side seething with resentment. But they couldn't lash out at the ones calling the shots. Plenty of prisoners had been made examples of right after arrival—smashed to pieces. Those brutal guard robots had more than earned their keep. A bruise from a riot baton was getting off light. Sometimes they'd swing a riot shield like medieval knights, spinning people like tops. The broad side meant no broken bones, but the shock left you gasping for air for seconds.
Prisoners who'd directly messed with the guards got hit with salt rounds without fail. Punishments varied by crime severity, starting with hard labor: meal prep duty, latrine scrubbing—the dirty, grueling stuff. Bad actors got meal restrictions on top. Yeah, the rulers here broke people with food, dirty and cheap. Bread without yeast, water, vitamins. Stick even the toughest bitches on solo confinement special and they'd toe the line quick. So who caught the brunt of the bitching? Obvious.
"Hey, you fucking cunts!"
"No hello for your big sisters? Fucking sluts!"
The prisoners hurled taunts across at the guards' camp. The guards just shrugged it off like, 'Afraid of the shit or just avoiding the stink?' They knew their smaller numbers and past ass-kicking meant any comeback would just earn laughs.
"What the hell are those criminals yapping about?"
All they could do was mutter under their breath. But with time to kill and no assignments yet, the prisoners poured every spare second into riling up the guards. Once basics like food and shelter were covered, humans chased fun inevitably. Some, like Nina, stuck to their old workout routines or shared skills from their jobs. One barracks even had a former Pilates instructor with fifty disciples. The sight of them all striking poses in sync was a spectacle.
But not everyone's idea of fun was healthy. Rumors spread that guards got tastier chow, fanning the flames even higher.
"Yo, saw your mom in that city vid last time? Half-rotted already?"
Eventually, even dead parents got dragged in. When the insults hit peak bullshit, salvation arrived.
"Hey, shh!"
"What? It's getting good!"
"Shut it, bitch!"
The slow-on-the-uptake woman's mouth got clamped by her crew. The mood flipped—faces smoothed from snarls to blank slates as they scanned nervously.
"That the guy?"
Five figures were filing into the small camp. A thirty-something guy, young but seasoned-looking. Four guard robots trailing with shotguns at the ready.
The guards' camp stirred too.
"That's Seo Jinsu?"
They'd seen the training vids, knew the basics of the city's history. That this man was its sole legit resident—and manager.
I'd planned to meet Warden Seyoung solo from the jump. She was the most trustworthy—skills, personality, admin experience all checked out. Passed the admin exam at 23, worked as a correctional officer. No better pick for right-hand woman among the residents.
Arriving at the guards' camp, the first thing hitting me was the shit-talk flying over the fences.
Chirrk.
The gate slid open. Inside, stares packed with shock and curiosity pelted us from all sides. An 80-meter square drill yard anchored rows of prefab barracks, a mess hall, med bay. Minus the mountains, it screamed military base.
"Eek!"
Women we passed scattered quick. Curiosity. Anticipation. Fear. Rare gratitude. Easy reads on their faces as they eyed me.
We hit the target building—Seyoung's spot, assigned with respect to her rank. Voices leaked out, heated argument in progress.
I halted, raised my right hand. My escorts froze.
"So how long we gotta rot like this?"
An older woman's voice.
"They're prisoners, we're guards. Why the same shitty treatment?!"
Pissed-off tone.
"Plenty of villas and standalone houses in the markets out there. Why stick us in this dump?"
Murmurs of agreement followed her rapid-fire rant.
"This is temporary."
Seyoung's voice.
"We need time until quarantine clears fully. City took in four figures overnight—logistics and admin need sorting. Scattering us into residential zones now would make oversight impossible."
"That's your job to fix, right? Little miss exam-passer acting all high and mighty, but it's all hot air?"
"I never acted superior. I'll pass every complaint to the manager. And drop the casual talk. I'm your superior, age be damned."
Smack!
Classic drama slap.
"Hey, watch your eyes, bitch. Got cocky and glaring? Superior? Look at this kid's venom—thinks a little ink makes her boss?"
Crashing sounds.
"Let go!"
Seyoung's yell. Jeers from the crowd. Faint protests.
"Superior? So what? Still playing soldier in this mess?"
Smack.
Another hit. No need to hear more.
I shoved the doors open and strode in. Seyoung on the floor, a 50-something auntie looming. A dozen women ringed them. The scuffle had been fierce—one of Seyoung's sandals dangled off, amping the pathos.
"Hey, I said no one comes in—"
The bitchy turn froze solid.
"Sis, that guy's..."
A petite early-20s nudged her neighbor.
"What're you—gasp!"
One by one, heads swiveled, faces locked. Random gasps as bonus.
Group comedy routine?
"Why're you all suddenly...?"
The hyped-up auntie trailed off meeting my eyes.
I glanced at Seyoung. Cleaned up—not the grubby vid version—she radiated smart beauty. Baby-faced enough for schoolgirl cosplay. Sitting there with red-swollen cheeks tugged my protector instincts hard.
"I get the picture."
Women flinched.
"Um, sir? You're Seo Jinsu, right?"
Auntie forced a shaky smile—unused muscles quivering.
"Everyone out except the warden."
I stressed warden.
> [All personnel except Lee Seyoung, evacuate.]
> [Executing administrator authority command. Zero-tolerance principle applies. Move immediately.]
Two stayed as guards; the other two drew riot batons—Artemis's custom robot design, strong enough to cave in an infected's skull. Human mode dialed power way down, of course.
The clump scattered. Some arm-in-arm pairs panicked—one shoving to flee, the other clinging tighter in freakout. Comedy gold.
"Out, out! Move it!"
Quick vets led; others followed. Pride as top dog? Slow reflexes? The 50s auntie hung back till last.
"Sir—manager."
She rubbed hands, sidling up.
"Got something important to say."
Figured she'd push for better digs herself—what Seyoung couldn't swing. For lifestyle bump or cred among guards.
"Don't hit. At my age, one good crack breaks something."
[Lazer.]
"Huh? Wha—argh!"
A bot holstered, grabbed her left shoulder, yanked the arm wide while twisting wrist 120 degrees.
Thud!
She face-planted, groaning. The bot's free hand held a heavy-duty zip-tie for rioters.
Riiip—
"Gaaah!"
Arms wrenched back near-limit, bound tight amid screams.
"What the—"
"Let's bounce."
Gawkers snapped to at my look, bolting out. Auntie got dragged too. They'd seen the vids—noncompliance meant pain. Thought guards got a pass?
Seyoung watched silent. I scooped her nearby sandal, knelt, lifted her foot gently, slipped it on. Soft, but cold.
"Thank you."
"No biggie."
"Been wanting to smack that auntie one good time."
"..."
Guess booting her beat the sandal assist.