The Prisoner Guild

The change came fast, and the backlash came harder. But the outcome never once wavered.

The quiet connections that had been maintained in secret between inmates and guards snapped in an instant. Even the so-called heavy hitters among the prisoners had to read the room and keep their heads down. The atmosphere inside the prison had already plunged to rock bottom — but a place where people live is the same wherever you go. The inmates had to learn, once again, how to submit to an unjust reality. Public authority won, as it always did.

It's not like criminals climbing the walls against the state was ever going to work anyway.

I picked at my teeth with a starch toothpick — the kind they say you can fry in oil and actually eat — and savored a brief stretch of leisure. I wasn't all that different from the other inmates. If anything, my standing was worse: a death row prisoner with no future at all. And yet I wasn't shaking with anxiety or watching everyone else's faces. I'd been factoring this situation in from the very beginning.

They say if you can't avoid it, you might as well enjoy it. That was the kind of place the world of EFD had become, now that it was my reality.

"Uh, boss..."

"What?"

"What are you going to do now? The way things are going, it doesn't look good."

"Do? What's there to do. We just keep doing what we've been doing."

I answered my cellmate's question like it was nothing. Fortunately, these guys were the kind of petty criminals you could blow away with a puff of air. They were scheduled for release in a few days at the shortest, a few weeks at the longest. Even if they couldn't join General Duty starting today, they didn't have to worry about dying like dogs in the Darkzone.

"That's... well, we're getting out soon, but you're going to be stuck here, boss."

"You making fun of me?"

"N-no, absolutely not! What I'm trying to say is... you should start recruiting people you can actually trust with your back. That's my advice."

Advice, he says. What is he, some kind of courtier? Still, the intent itself wasn't bad, so I nodded without a word.

"Well, thinking about life going forward, you're not wrong. So what, you planning to introduce me to some sharp operators?"

"In this prison, there aren't any sharp operators who'd bother getting friendly with petty crooks like us."

"You know that much. So why bring it up?"

"You're a celebrity now, boss. If you put your name out there and recruit a crew, you might actually pull in some decent guys."

Hearing it laid out like that, it was a pretty solid suggestion. But I couldn't help being skeptical about the idea that "decent guys" would flock to my reputation. Because this was a goddamn prison.

What kind of resume and temperament did you need to be considered "decent" among criminals? The guy who got fifteen years for kidnapping, unlawful confinement, plus dismemberment murder? Or the one who had the balls to steal a mega-corp's cutting-edge tech and sell it overseas, and got twenty years plus a multi-million-dollar fine slammed on him?

I quietly watched the guy who sat there looking so confident, utterly convinced I'd take his suggestion. They say a criminal's way of thinking is completely different from a regular person's. Apparently that holds whether you're a petty crook or a violent felon.

"Your suggestion isn't bad, but I'm not in a rush to recruit a crew either. Like you said, if I'm going to trust someone with my back, I need someone with both loyalty and a sense of responsibility."

"The guys who came in after throwing punches on the outside are packed with loyalty and responsibility, though?"

"Yeah, except that loyalty and responsibility isn't pointed at me."

The types who love playing organization like to treat their fellow members like family and put on a real show of loyalty — but at the end of the day, they're still thugs. I don't have the confidence to make those kinds of guys trust and follow me just like that. And I don't want to, either. If I took them in blindly, I wouldn't be getting a reliable crew I could trust with my back. I'd be strapping a time bomb behind me that could go off at any moment.

Not that there's absolutely no way to go about it...

I crossed my arms and looked around the common area, which as of this morning had become even more packed than a country market on fair day.

"Recruiting a Special Duty crew! Veterans preferred!"

"Looking for a Special Duty Pathfinder! You show up, we go!"

"Wanted: a strong, obedient pack mule! Just carry the bags! The rest of us veterans will handle everything!"

"First come, first served — one spot! Just one! After today, we're not taking any more permanent members!"

The spectacle that had unfolded since the prison announced its bombshell policy. Applications for General Duty had already closed, snatched up by the quick-witted, which naturally left only Special Duty applications remaining. And this was the result. The majority of inmates who could no longer coast on easy General Duty had thrown themselves onto the Special Duty front lines — anything to extend their lives, anything to keep from sliding down into the weakling class.

"What a circus."

The existing Special Duty veterans were looking at the sudden flood of newcomers and happily pondering how to fleece the rookies. Meanwhile, the ones with little or no Special Duty experience were desperately grabbing for any rope they could reach. Rotten rope or golden rope — it didn't matter to them. Was this what happened when the end of the world came striding right up to your face and people's survival instincts kicked in? It was a complete madhouse.

Of course, the prison wanted as many inmates as possible to dive into Special Duty "efficiently," so the traffic control didn't take long. They set up a dedicated space for urgent crew recruitment and stationed extra guards there to handle crew management. In short, a modern prison guild had been born. The only difference from the adventurer guilds that fill fantasy novels with dreams and romance was that this was a prisoners' guild, where nothing existed but pain and despair.

EFD actually had an organization system similar to guilds, so it's not that strange.

Once things had progressed this far, I had no reason to hesitate any longer. I sent my cellmates packing — they'd been hovering beside me this whole time, spouting idiotic "advice" — and approached a guard. The guard, confirming I'd come alone, asked through a face slightly worn with fatigue.

"If you're looking to recruit or apply for a crew, go get your headcount together first."

"I'll be participating in Special Duty alone."

"...Unexpected. With the atmosphere like this, I figured you'd at least round up some bodies rather than move solo."

I snorted inwardly at his words. Right now, this was the equivalent of the most chaotic warlord era in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms. There were the rabble going out of their minds with anxiety because they couldn't coast anymore. There were the vicious agitators thrilled at the thought of fleecing that rabble. And then there were the veteran inmates who were openly planning to eliminate the new competition altogether. In the middle of this chaos, what exactly was I supposed to trust enough to recruit a crew and explore the Darkzone together?

Recruiting a crew came later. For now, I intended to watch and see whether the new arrivals could even survive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this chaotic period. Anyone who failed to grasp the reality of the Darkzone and threw their life away for nothing wasn't even worth considering.

"Well, participating in Special Duty is your guys' choice anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter. The issued gear — anything changed from the application list you filed last time?"

"Nothing."

"Good. You're registered. Let's see how far that famous Super Rookie's luck actually goes."

Personally, I was genuinely curious myself. Whether I could actually see this game's ending.

I turned on my heel and walked out, and a few inmates who recognized me naturally lowered their eyes and cleared a path. Looks like the rumor that I'd finished off the Gwangsu Family in Cell Block H-088 had already spread. The guards, though, didn't seem particularly concerned — Vladimir Borshch had probably taken care of smoothing that over. He really was a convenient, friendly guy at times like this.

Deployment time into the Darkzone had been expanded as well, so I passed through the murmuring clusters of inmates and headed straight for the Darkzone deployment floor. The Modular Exo-Suit I'd put on in advance had been properly charged this time, and I confirmed that the gear issued before deployment was in good condition. In particular, the alloy-steel machete whose edge had been badly worn, and the equipment covered in burn marks, had all been neatly repaired or replaced.

"Next time I should start applying for proper high-grade gear."

The only melee weapons I could use right now were Pretty, my claw hammer, and the alloy-steel machete. The exo-suit was intended more for cargo hauling and emergency ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠escapes than combat, so it didn't count as a weapon. The real weak point was ranged weapons. I was reasonably fond of throwing knives — they were stealthy, and you could recover them after use — but in terms of raw power, they couldn't compete with a compound bow or a personal firearm.

Money pits everywhere. I'm pretty sure my Prison Banking account had something like ten thousand dollars stamped on it. Where the hell did it all go?

Kickbacks to the prison, food, replacement and repair costs for damaged gear, expanding the cell and buying furniture and daily necessities — it had shrunk in an instant. If I hadn't been getting stuff for free from Vladimir Borscht's General Store, I'd be a penniless beggar by now. Was the Darkzone actually a den that sucked up money instead of human lives?

I was entertaining that idle thought when Crazy Clock, which had been sitting silent this whole time, suddenly spoke.

"What?"

"......"

It was a thoroughly sci-fi statement, but I wasn't particularly surprised. The Darkzone wasn't simply some "unknown tunnel" existing in the deepest underground of this prison. It was, quite literally, an otherworld of unknown nature. It wasn't called the Darkzone just because it was a pitch-black space. It was the Darkzone because countless spaces of unknown identity connected through the tunnels beneath the prison. Until we were deployed, we had no way of knowing what darkness we'd be thrown into.

At the guard's broadcast, the tense new inmates and the veterans already used to this situation gathered in front of their assigned deployment gates. The gate I'd been assigned this time had nothing but a single manhole cover sitting there by itself.

With a long electronic whine, every deployment gate opened at nearly the same time. The manhole cover ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in front of me slid smoothly to the side, as if an invisible hand had intervened. Naturally, what existed beneath it was a pitch-black void where you couldn't see an inch ahead.

"This Darkzone's theme is going to be pretty dangerous, huh?"

Even as I said it, my body was already leaping ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the darkness.

After a few seconds of an unpleasant weightlessness in the pitch-black dark, a backdrop no modern person could fail to recognize unfolded before my eyes. A massive human nest, piled high with cement and rebar. I had been deployed into the middle of a modern city center, filled with pale, murky fog.