A Super Bowl Jackpot

I finished the Bio-Scan in a quarantine chamber in an entirely different sector from the one I'd first been dropped into.

I had no idea what the Darkzone's actual layout looked like, but one thing was obvious: the countless insertion shafts and escape hatches linking Seoul Southern Prison to that extradimensional space were tangled together in a chaotic, indiscriminate web. The place was far too vast, far too immense, and far too grotesque to pass for a simple basement under a prison.

And time itself is warped down there, too.

On my way from the quarantine chamber to the Cargo Valuation Room, I snuck a glance at a wall clock. I'd been inserted a little past noon. I'd come out at five in the afternoon. Generously speaking, I couldn't have spent more than two hours inside — and the time that had actually passed was more than double that.

When I was playing the game, the sessions ran so long I never paid it much mind. So this is what it actually feels like.

Classic Darkzone. Endless content, buried secrets, and dangling plot hooks as far as the eye could see.

"Next returnee, come in."

The convicts who'd come back ahead of me filed out of the Cargo Valuation Room and headed for the freight elevator. A voice from inside called me in after them.

The room was waiting with a strangely mismatched crowd — people in white lab coats that had no business in a prison, people in immaculate suits, and people in full military dress. The guards, who were supposed to be the top dogs around here, were posted near the entrance with security robots, which only made the whole scene weirder.

In the game, you just dumped your loot through a broker or an AI tied into the prison's internal economy. This is actually kind of fresh.

"Ah — please don't remove your gas mask just yet. The specialized goggles on that unit pre-censor information a convict isn't meant to see, so you'll need to keep it on until cargo valuation and settlement are complete. If you attempt to take it off, you may be restrained by somewhat forceful means."

A man in a white coat, almost certainly a researcher, issued the warning before I'd even sat down. I already knew as much, so I just nodded and set my backpack on the table.

A robotic arm descended from the ceiling and began lifting the cargo out one piece at a time, handling the bag as if it might be packed with explosives. Most of what came out were classified files and sample vials I'd judged to be high-value, plus a scatter of miscellaneous electronics.

If I'd been farming in earnest, I was confident I could have done far better — but this had been my first real trip into the Darkzone, so falling a little short of my own expectations ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was inevitable. The people seated across from me like a panel of interviewers, however, seemed to see it differently.

"Oho. Most convicts grab whatever they can get their hands on. This one brought back interesting classified intel and pharmaceutical samples, primarily."

"If we route these to the Biotech Division, they should be of real use to the research."

"They'll help us figure out what 'that place' actually is, too."

"Ahem! That's enough idle chatter. Let's see the value the AI assigned in its preliminary review."

Once every piece of cargo had been extracted and inspected, the AI threw up a hologram of the estimated worth.

Far higher than I'd expected. What the hell?

In EFD, even a hard farming run almost never cracked five million unless you'd hit an actual jackpot.

A seasoned prisoner averaged two to three million per run. Pushing a primary objective — a mission — while farming aggressively on the side was brutal even for veterans. I hadn't had a primary objective at all, and I'd still cleared eight hundred thousand... no, over eight million, off that handful of scraps?

Was this right?

"Hrm. 8.45 million... that's come in a little low, honestly. Those documents alone..."

"The Biotech Division is going to be drooling over those vial samples. If the Business Division puts them up for an internal auction, they should fetch at least..."

While I sat there in a daze, they whispered among themselves, making little circles with their fingers and scribbling figures in notebooks to flash at one another in secret. Was this some kind of hidden-camera prank?

No. If this is before the EFD story starts — or right at the beginning — it actually tracks.

In the game, the government and the corporations already had advanced tech, and they worked convicts like rented mules, hounding them to haul back more and more cargo. Right now, they clearly didn't have that technology locked down yet, and research materials were scarce. They were in the middle of a supply crunch. So of course items that looked merely decent to me would look like a gold mine to them.

Which, in the end, was a win for me. I'd been genuinely worried about how a death row inmate was supposed to scrape together starting capital, let alone invest it in himself.

If this is the market, I can put a seed fund together in no time.

A short while later, the outsiders wrapped up their little secret whispering session and each designated the pieces they wanted, making it known they were prepared to pay a little extra. This was not, of course, out of any consideration for the convict. You paid a prisoner who'd farmed good items a reward to match — and you made damn sure he went back into the Darkzone next time and brought you more of the same. Nothing motivates a broke convict quite like money.

The final appraised value came out to 13 million won.

This wasn't a jackpot anymore. This felt like winning the Super Bowl.

"We've deposited 13 million won into your Prison Banking account. If you'd like, you may verify the transfer at the ATM installed here."

"I'm sure you handled it just fine. More to the point, I'm exhausted. If the cargo transfer is done, am I free to go?"

"Of course. Pleasure doing business."

It had been less a transaction than a one-sided appraisal and handover, but what did that matter? They were still members of this society. I was a death row inmate it had already thrown away.

"Turn in the issued equipment here. Then take that elevator back to your cellblock."

"These are my personal pieces of gear. If I turn them in, doesn't that mean someone else ends up with them?"

"That won't happen. Anything you surrender gets registered to you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and will be reissued normally on your next insertion."

"That's convenient."

I took the waiting guard at his word and loaded every piece ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of issued equipment into a basket. It was soaked through with blood and sweat, the kind of mess that would turn catastrophic if you just left it sitting — but the prison would handle the cleaning, I assumed.

More than anything, I wanted to go back and sleep. Exploring the Darkzone didn't just wreck your body. It chewed through your mind.

I rinsed the blood and sweat off in a cramped washroom, changed into a prison uniform, and boarded the freight elevator in a daze. I seemed to be the only one riding it at this hour; there wasn't another convict in sight.

Then something caught at my wrist. I looked down. The smartwatch was still there.

"Huh."

Why was this thing still on my arm? No — more to the point, how had it slipped the Bio-Scan and the AI's cargo inspection? The Bio-Scan was supposed to catch contraband a stupid convict had stuffed somewhere unmentionable.

As if it had sensed the question forming, the Crazy Clock started talking on its own.

The Bio-Scan and the valuation inspection, then. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But was that even possible?

An ugly thought flickered through my head. If this Crazy Clock stayed clamped to my body, something bad was going to happen. That was a guarantee. This watch had a talent for making a person uneasy that put writing your name in red ink — or sleeping with a fan running overnight — to shame.

"With this era's technology, I could just cut off the wrist you're stuck to and have a new one attached."

Or, hell, skip the replacement flesh entirely and slap on a convenient prosthetic while I was getting body work done. The Crazy Clock, however, found my threat adorable, and offered a new angle of approach.

So if I cut the watch off and needed treatment, I'd have to use the money in the account — and the instant I logged in, it would fry my nervous system?

I needed to spend that money right now to extend my Human Rights Guarantee Period.

"You know, I've been waiting my whole life for a smart watch just like you."

I swallowed the urge to scream that it was a lie — swallowed it dozens of times, hundreds of times — and told it yes. The Crazy Clock settled down again.

Or so I mistakenly believed.

"Wow. I. Can. Hardly. Wait."

How adorably millennial. How very Gen Z.

One of these days, this bastard is first on the list.

I'd pawn it off for scrap and scratch the hell out of both its smart little ego and its screen.

A heavy thunk.

The freight elevator, which had been crawling along at a snail's pace, lurched to a halt and the doors slid open. For a second I thought I was looking at the same scene I'd walked into on the day I was first processed. What unfolded in front of me was nothing of the kind.

"Another fresh returnee!"

"Hey! Got anything to sell?! You must've stashed one or two things on the sly!"

"Or just buy something here! You made a killing, right?!"

"You've got some saved up, don't you? I'll hook you up with a broker from the women's cellblock — 500,000 won an hour, how's that? That's a steal, a steal!"

"Sick of that flavorless ration slop? Come grab a bowl of ramyeon!"

I knew there was a reason that guard sent me up this elevator.

I'd assumed they'd put me on a direct lift back to my own cellblock. Apparently the bastard had been taking bribes from the people in this one. Anyone coming back from the Darkzone would have money sitting in Prison Banking — more or less, depending on the run — so if you dumped them straight into Cellblock H-088, the odds they'd blow it on impulse were excellent. They'd just risked their lives in a deathtrap and clawed their way out alive. Of course every primal human appetite would be boiling over.

Especially if they've got a pipeline all the way to a broker in the women's cellblock. That says it all.

A proper correctional facility kept the women's and men's wings sealed off from each other. This place had been built by shutting down the old detention center and expanding the prison on top of it, so every cellblock was connected to every other by default. Officially, if you wandered into the wrong block and met with an unfortunate accident, that was your problem. In this animal pen, even that was just another tool for making money and grabbing power.

I could already see the convicts who'd returned ahead of me fooling around with lightly made-up women inmates in secluded cells deeper in the block.

"Haa."

My fatigue climbed another notch. I could understand ordinary convicts who still had a shot at getting out, or death row inmates who might die tomorrow, burning through their cash for a single rush of pleasure. Human appetite was a force that even human beings themselves sometimes couldn't hold down.

But there was a difference between taking the edge off and dropping the reins of reason entirely — popping the brakes and letting the whole machine run. Once you did that, was there any climbing out of this filthy swamp?

So I turned my eyes away from the entertainment and amusements laid out in plain sight, and went looking for something else instead.