…

Realm: *Redacted*

Location: Lightonian Arctic Supermax Penitentiary Facility “Nospheross”

The winter’s weep, flurries blown across the fields of white, descending from the cottony-velvet in the sky high above. A sharp chill cutting across the landscape of rising and diving earth topped white. Jagged shards of crystal sticking forth from mounds and flats, the high rise of stone and ice. If one were to describe the surrounding area it would be: a wintery mountainous region.

And so it was…

Yet within these mountains, deep deep in the valleys where the snow tsunamied on down, things were not quite as natural. Bursting from the mountainside like a deformity- a massive iron box surrounded by large walls and towers. Lights pointed out into the white out of sharp knives. A facility easily the size of a castle if not more.

Guards stationed on the walls making the rounds, guards stationed at the towers, guards stationed on the grounds, guards stationed with snowmobiles on the outskirts even. Guards all armed with their rifle looking non-rifle rifles, sufficiently techy with various electronic readouts and gauges. Energy rifles- a creation some might consider sorcery, something some might call futuristic; though for those familiar with the concept, a rather low tech cross of engineering and cosmic energy.

Long rifles, white in color primarily with some patches of black stretched across different parts of the rifle. A scope, various gauges displaying statistics such as the capacity, firing rate, power. Those atop the walkways of the walls were armed with such weapons, with some in the towers and some on the ground before the facility carrying just the same. Many though were armed with relatively old fashion gear ranging from swords to crossbows.

Of course each and every guard had on a super thick layer of bulky coat, hat, pants, gloves, boots, and face mask. They moved slow, feet disappearing beneath the sea of frozen confetti where it wasn’t pact. And while each were certainly armed with their various weapons and equipment, it would prove itself quite clear that none of them were on guard. Rifles hung at their sides, not a single soul marching, some not even bothering to look out away from the facility itself into the dense cloud on the ground.

The facility itself, built into the mountain and stretching down countless levels. What lied within… well-

…

BANG!

“SON OF A WHORE!” cried out a voice deep in bellow, a man’s voice at that.

Soon came the sound of glass shattering across a hard surface. A white liquid fled across the tiled floor, bubbling up a little with air spewing through. Glass stormed out and away, the milk waving outward to create a mess. Through the tile gaps and with the patterns. A man stood there behind a desk, his fist slammed straight down upon its surface.

“Oooooooooooo- tough luck there bud, looks like you lost. Again,” spoke another from well across the room.

“I am so sick of this crap! I put five hundred down on this one. Oh when I get my hands on Big Barry I’m going to-” the angry man howled.

“Going to what? Send him to the infirmary for talking you into a bad bet? Lest you forget my guy that he tried to talk you out of it but noooo- your dumb ass went hard on it.”

“Shut the hell up Derrick.”

The man slouched back into his seat, a brown cushiony seat. A fan buzzed above, connected to a very white panel ceiling, dotted with yellow lights. Walls, about the same as there had been all white and pristine. The wood desk, filing cabinets and book shelves to the back; chairs hovered across on the other side, along with the usual fake tropical trees in pots and a few more shelves.

Upon the desk a dual monitor setup and a small PC box with various wires strewn about, the keyboard and mouse. Plenty of documents spanned across the wood surface, files turned open and others closed.

“Dude. You broke my drink,” the one called Derrick spoke from his chair, looking down at the milk.

“So sue me,” the other man growled, rolling a hand up to his face.

“Marty my guy, you’ve gotta chill. We aren’t even supposed to be gambling on the clock ya know- what if the chief finds out?”

“Screw you man, we practically live here,” Marty muttered, allowing a sigh to escape not long after as he leaned back in the chair, “Bill is busy anyway.”

“Bill busy? What gives?”

“… someone from high command showed up today. Supposed to be here for one of the Level-5 inmates.”

“Well heck that sounds fun. One of the admins, great we’re so gonna get written up then.”

“It’s not an admin.”

“No?” Derrick replied with a head tilt, “Who is it?”

Marty glanced up from his lap, sights set over on Derrick, half closed and tired. Derrick on the other hand was fully alert with his head tilted as it was.

“Bro this book sucks harder than your mother.”

“What the hell Scanlon why would you say that?”

“Another stupid romance novel with some stupid dialogue,” the first man, Scanlon, grumbled.

Scanlon, a rather average looking thirty year old man, looked up from a book & quickly tossed it back behind him. The pages flapping as it went over, crashing to the ground with a thud. There he sat in a wood chair all tilted back. Across the room from him- another man, complete with slicked back hair and glasses.

“Maybe you just don’t like romance?” the second man asked.

“Nah I like romance when it’s all saucy. Last few just suck.”

“Probably has the same tropes then. You need to look into it more before you buy.”

“Or maybe people need to learn to write cuz this slop is garbage. I don’t know how it got greenlit.”

“Why do you have to be like that? If you want something different, I know of a couple fairy tales. My sister is reading something called Ponies On A Boat.”

“I swear I will-”

“Would you two shut up?!”

At the other end of the room, upon the wall were several dozen monitors of which most were broadcasting imagery in black and white. In a rolling chair, a desk chair to be exact, sat a man behind all those monitors looking up. At his hands were a keyboard and a mouse.

His head turned back to give the two a look, “If you two can’t be quiet then I’ll send you back to Archiving.”

“Sorry boss, won’t happen again.”

The man turned his head, sights set back up on the monitors, “I get it, this job is boring as sin; but it’s important. We’re supposed to be making sure the prisoners stay put without incident.”

“Gee well check your monitors, pretty sure they’re all there!”

“Whatever,” the boss grumbled, focusing on one monitor, “No funny business while the General is here alright? Last thing I need is to get demoted back down to Inventory Management.”

“Heck. General Ezdorth right? That man is scary- don’t know who he’s here for but man, I wish them the best.”

“You don’t know? Well, let me tell you… he’s here for that prisoner probably.”

Upon one monitor in black and white, a large metal door taking up the broadside of a barn lay visible with several armed guards standing around- all of whom wore riot gear. All of them perked up to attention stance at once, all looking deadest across the room.

“Show time…” the boss murmured, watching several shadows crawl across the ground.

Into the chamber with the guards moved several of them. Two in white robes, hooded, masked with masks of different designs, the backs of their robes marked with a sky blue star. Then the third, a white long coat over a visible vest of some sort, a blue band on the right arm with a white star marked on it- along with the same sky blue star on the back. A couple of the armed guards, same as those before the large door. And then the final man, in a jacket with a vest and tie.

The group stopped before the door- the guards brought in surrounding the three in white and the man with the tie. The guards before the door already there at attention ever still. Across the way, one guard adorned by a white duelist cape and a saber, stepped forward.

“Director Issacs,” the guard spoke.

“Captain. I require access to The Vault,” the director spoke.

“Very good sir. Your code sir?”

“H-W-E-E-W-I-T-E. Hweewite. Alpha Blue Seventeen.”

“Very good sir. And the… outsiders, sir?”

“General Ezdorth,” the man in the white coat spoke in a gruff voice, stepping up as he did so.

A scruffy fellow with a load of brown hair tossed over his head to watch his brownish amber eyes. A chiseled face, chiseled from what who could say though certainly decorated with facial hair and a scar over the right eye like a thin line. There was significant bulk to his form, particularly the shoulders and and torso- as if he were wearing some form of armor beneath his long coat.

“One of the Dragons,” the captain murmured, looking the man over with only eye movements, “It’s an honor sir.”

“Indeed. Captain we have some time sensitive business to tend to with one of the special inmates,” the director threw out.

“Of course. One moment,” the captain replied, moving a hand up to a shoulder walkie, “Waxferd to Ops. Warden Director William Issacs’s code clears. If ID badges at Point Origin clear, proceed with with GuardLox Procedures. Code 0-0-0-1-0-0-3-Gamma-0-9. Over.”

“…………… you are green lit for entry Director.”

The guards in front of the large door stepped forward, the sound of steam roaring behind in an echo. The clanking of cogs slowly turning, chains rattling, and then the shaking of the door itself. The large metal door rose slowly, the spikes becoming visible as the door propelled up. And as the door rose up the captain again looked to the warden with a nod.

“Best of luck sir,” he spoke, the guards all shifting aside now.

As the door was still lifting up into the air the posy had continued forward. The warden at the lead, the guards surrounding the figures in white. On the other side of the door, multiple levels and floors. Different prison cells, some with bars and others with what resembled glass. Guards stood stationed on each level, some in front of cells on the walkways, others on platforms high above overlooking the entirety of the prison block.

Heads did end up turning as the crew entered; though soon returned to normal.

“Welcome to Level-5 General,” the warden spoke, “We have several types of containment cells here for different species and power users. The cell you want is four from the end of the back, up at the top on the left.”

“Good. Lets get this over with then,” the General grumbled, walking ahead with the warden and the rest of the squad.

Step, step, step, step, step.

Up the stairs and around the metal. Cells empty, cells occupied. Some prisoners chained to the back, some left free. Some old and frail, others young and bulky. Some dangerous and monstrous, others appearing timid and young even. General Ezdorth glanced into a few as he walked ahead behind the warden, only the two in white robes trailing now as the guards awaited at the bottom.

One cell, then another, and another, finally three more and the very next: Cell Z-56.

Turning left, looking straight in, “Hmph…”

A glass wall divided the cell’s space from the outside. Within, not even a bed or a sink, only a man practically crucified to a board short of the nails. Bound with chains and cloth straps stained in runes. His arms held out, his legs held tight. Wires moved towards the braces latched to this man via his wrists, ankles, hands, and boots.

Three thick metal clamps wrapped around his torso with great girth, holding him in place. One more clamped around his throat. The restraints held up much of his frail body to the device behind him, where the wires and other attachments connected back to some sort of generator- large tubes jetting back into the wall behind.

Different IVs poked into his arms and chest, different medical equipment stationed around reading his heart and breathing rate. His face bound, eyes covered in a black cloth. Strands of silvery gray hair, a little black in there. A long thick beard and stache so obviously overgrown from the imprisonment. Old flesh wrinkled and pale. Only this old man’s mouth and nose were free, free of the various restraints binding the overall rest of his body.

The palpable silence that drifted by as both Warden and General laid eyes upon this old fellow who seemed none the wiser to their presence- until his head craned up ever so. The scrunch of the fabric binding him as his face directed itself at them. Were his eyes visible, they no doubt would be right upon them- fierce.

“Well well,” the old man murmured slow and gruff, “It would appear that I have… company.”