Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 004
Chapter Title: Prisoner Number 43471 (1)
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"3rd Platoon reinforcements?"
"How long do you think he'll last?"
"He looks scrawny. Three days?"
"I'll give him two."
"Shit, that guy's looking over here."
"Hey! Get away from the barbed wire!"
As the guard banged on the fence around the exercise yard and shouted a warning, the prisoners scattered as if they'd never been clustered together.
"Don't chit-chat pointlessly!"
They were all bandaged up in places, sweeping the ground with brooms.
"They're the wounded."
Joseph shook the ash from his pipe as we walked toward the detention barracks.
"If they're hurt, they make 'em do rehab and clean the barracks inside."
"More humane than I expected."
"Hmph."
He let out an ambiguous chuckle at my half-joking remark that wasn't really a joke.
Joseph checked his wristwatch, opened the door to the cell block, and spoke up.
"I'll show you to your room and explain a few things you need to know while you're living here."
"Like what?"
"First off, unnecessary chit-chat with prisoners from other platoons is strictly prohibited in principle. Same goes for entering other inmates' rooms."
"Got it. Whatever."
It seemed like a rule to prevent organized activity among the prisoners.
"Lights out at 10 p.m. There might be call-outs at dawn, so it's best to hit the sack early. Meals at 7, 12, and 5 p.m.—eat whenever, but miss the times and you go hungry, so keep that in mind."
Just as he said, the inside of the barracks was cleaner than expected.
He kept talking as we walked down the pristine white hallway.
"Normally, when there's no trouble, you can use any of the platoon common areas during duty hours, except for roll call. No one'll bother you."
"Sounds good."
"3rd Platoon shares the 3rd floor of Block 2 with 4th Platoon. Rooms are two per. You'll bunk with your assigned veteran."
"I get a veteran?"
"You'll need help from another inmate to adjust."
He pulled a keycard from his pocket, unlocked the security door, and revealed a modest lounge area.
Looking up, I saw multiple CCTVs watching the place.
"Your room's this way."
The hallway he pointed to had four rooms crammed side by side.
Joseph headed to the one closest to the stairs and opened the door.
"Walter."
A raspy voice came from the pitch-black room.
"What?"
"New guy's yours. Take good care of him."
"New guy?"
Peering inside, a black man in his underwear lay on the bed, lifting only his head.
His arms were completely mechanical. He eyed my face, then snorted.
"Fuckin' welcome to this shithole, new-bie."
"The rest you can hear from Walter. See you at muster, Kyle."
Joseph clapped my shoulder, gave the man called Walter a look, closed the door, and left.
Walter clicked his tongue briefly, got up from the bed, opened a drawer in the nearby desk, and tossed me the keycard inside.
"Prisoner keycard. During duty hours, use it for anything on this floor—training room, showers, whatever. But don't leave the 3rd floor."
He pointed to the bomb collar around his neck.
"Not without guard permission. Ever."
Apparently, wandering off meant your head explodes.
"Don't forget. This ain't your average bomb collar. It's made to kill even hardening supers. Be careful."
Walter knocked on the metal locker.
"This is your personal locker."
I opened the locker door against the wall. Inside were a black combat uniform, body armor, and a carbine rifle.
"The previous guy's stuff, but I wiped it down. When the alarm hits, drop what you're doing, gear up...
Any weapons you prefer?"
"Nah, nothing special."
"Figures. Guards would've taken 'em anyway. So grab the rifle and mags, then haul ass to the yard. You shot one before?"
"Uh... we just leave the gun here?"
"Gulag might not even trust you with a razor, but here? What's the point? Plenty of ways to off yourself anytime."
Suddenly, his mechanical arm split open to the side.
Inside was a bizarre gun barrel.
"Plus, my arm's a weapon. Detach it every call-out?"
"Fair point."
"I won't stop you shooting your head off with it, but not in this room. Messy."
"What about the previous guy..."
I shut my mouth there.
I realized it was a stupid question.
Walter chuckled.
"About time you catch on, right? You got suckered by fuckin' Joseph's silver tongue. Bet he said 3-4 years tops? Hold out and you'd get citizenship?"
He scoffed like it was ridiculous even to him.
"Three? Four years? Bullshit. You're lucky to last a month. Know how many newbies I've seen in this room? Lost count."
His half-mad face pointed at me.
"Clean hell. That's 141. If you hoped to last long, Gulag's a hundred times better."
"Clean hell? Fancy words, mister. You really a trash criminal?"
"Who're you calling mister, punk? My dick's still spry as a twenty-year-old."
"Think I can get along with you, mister."
"What a nutjob. Doesn't faze you hearing this?"
I sat casually on what looked like my bed and asked.
"You're still kicking, mister. Got tips for surviving long?"
"Tips my ass. Just dumb luck."
"Luck doesn't streak forever."
I pressed for info, but Walter just tsked.
"None of your business?"
He flopped back on his bed, silent a moment, then continued.
"Last advice: don't bother getting chummy even with platoonmates."
"Why?"
"Playing dumb? Most croak in under a month. What's the point? So don't talk to me more. I don't collect dead men's memories."
"What'd you do to end up here, mister?"
Walter gave me a dumbfounded look.
"You even listen...?"
"FYI, I killed a mafia boss. Turns out he was a citizen."
"Mafia boss?"
He frowned, then stared at me in shock.
"No way... Ronus Rorione?"
"Yeah, you know him?"
"Holy shit! The Mafia Butcher from the papers... you're that kid?"
Mafia Butcher?
What kinda weird nickname is that?
Walter eyed me with sudden interest.
"You really kill every mafia you saw?"
"...Huh?"
Sounds like the rumors got twisted bad.
That's when it happened.
WEEEEENG-!!
[Situation detected. Situation detected. 3rd and 4th Platoons, change into combat gear immediately and assemble in the hallway. Repeating. 3rd and 4th Platoons, change into combat gear immediately and assemble in the hallway.]
The room plunged into red light. Walter cursed and jumped up.
"Fuck, move! Change gear already!"
"...!"
Guards' voices echoed from outside.
"3rd Platoon!! 3rd Platoon, assemble!!"
I leaped from bed, stripped off the prisoner uniform, and donned the combat gear.
As I finished suiting up, the door slid open with a buzzer.
"Joined today and already shit luck."
"Haha, yeah."
Walter looked exasperated at my calm reply and stepped out first.
Following him into the hall, I saw the other inmates already lined up single file.
True to form for guys who'd pulled off big scores in society, a real motley crew.
Right behind me stood a tall blonde beauty gripping a long sword.
Our eyes met, so I greeted her casually.
"Hey there?"
She shot me a look like I'd lost my mind.
That kinda hurts.
"Everyone, follow the guard! Move out!"
"Hustle!"
Amid the blaring alarm, the 3rd floor security doors slammed open.
I followed the guards down the stairs fast.
Out in the yard, two transport helos waited with roaring rotors.
A guard waving orange batons yelled into his radio.
"Hatch open!!"
The helo rear doors burst open with a bang.
"3rd Platoon! Board the helos ASAP!!"
"Move if you like your head!"
"Fucking move!"
The guard checked headcount as we piled in.
"3rd Platoon all aboard!"
Heavily armed cops boarded after, slamming the windows shut.
"No looking out windows in flight! Ask your neck bomb what happens if you do!"
"Fucking pricks."
Walter beside me muttered as he buckled up.
"Take off!"
The transport lurched into the air.
A jolt, and red lamps lit the cabin.
Glancing around, a scarred, vicious-looking guy clenched and unclenched his fists nervously.
Our eyes met; he bared his teeth aggressively.
"What're you staring at, fuck? I'll gouge your eyes out."
"......"
Makes sense why Walter was picked as my veteran.
Compared to these guys, he felt like a gentleman.
'Gotta be nice to mister.'
He looks lonely. Talk to him more.
Snippets of police radio chatter reached my ears.
'Henzairo? The Henzairo industrial zone?'
I recalled it was a pharma plant bought by megacorp Kepler.
8th Special District was a hotbed of crime, sure, but not without legit business.
Tons of companies operated there. Minimal city hall meddling, cheap illegal labor, massive local demand—it offset the risks.
'But a place like that should have its own security team.'
Calling the cops meant things were worse than thought.
A guard's voice boomed over the chopper's comms.
A skinny guard at the chopper's rear cleared his throat softly.
He held up one finger.
Which basically meant non-citizens were fair game. Right?
Prisoners shook heads. He continued.
Walter exhaled tensely.
Guards moved in, quickly inspecting our cams.
Pilot's voice cut through.
The inmates stood.
Thud—the helo touched down, lamps turning green.