The Engine Space was a colossal, self-contained area buried deep beneath the prison. It powered the entire outer layer of the prison, fueling everything from the bizarre ancient mechanisms to the enigmatic stone doors. When Dante had first arrived, he’d been fascinated by its design and desperate to understand how it worked. But over the years, his curiosity had dulled. The place was far beyond the comprehension of someone like him. Even the alien geniuses and godly prisoners who occasionally worked there couldn’t figure it out. If they were clueless, what chance did a mere mortal like Dante have?
Today, Dante was standing in line with the other prisoners assigned to Engine Space duty, waiting to collect his tools. He hadn’t met his new partner yet, but he did spot a familiar face—or rather, a familiar bulbous head.
“Hey, Grululu!” Dante waved enthusiastically.
The little gray alien turned at the sound of his name and immediately floated over, his small body levitating effortlessly. Upon reaching Dante, he raised a middle finger—a gesture that, in his culture, was a sign of friendly greeting.
Dante returned the gesture, flipping him off with a grin. “Good to see you too, buddy.”
“Dante, my dear friend!” Grululu’s strange, melodic voice carried an unmistakable warmth. “I had no idea you’d be working here today.”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled about it,” Dante replied, shaking his head. “I’ve got trouble on the horizon.”
“Trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?” Grululu tilted his smooth, featureless head, blinking his large, glossy black eyes.
Dante waved him off. “Nah, I’ll manage. Thanks, though. What’s your assignment today?”
“I’ve been sent to the first level,” Grululu said, gesturing with his tiny hands. “My task is to purify the contaminated oil and recycle it. Unfortunately, the oil’s corrosive properties will likely cause severe damage to my skin. I estimate my hands will rot off by the end of the shift.”
“You’ve got it easy compared to me,” Dante said, patting Grululu on the shoulder. “I’m stuck on the second level, cutting contaminated engine parts. But hey, don’t worry—if you finish your job, they’ll patch up your hands.”
Grululu’s eyes dimmed slightly. “That’s only if I meet the quota. If I fail, they won’t treat me at all.”
Dante sighed. It was a brutal truth of prison life: while the daily tasks were labeled “routine,” they were anything but safe. Injuries were common, and failing to meet quotas meant the guards wouldn’t lift a finger to help. Prisoners who couldn’t survive their injuries were left to rot. The lucky ones who made it to the next day could earn medical treatment—if they worked hard enough.
Dante tried to offer a few more words of encouragement, but the line moved forward, and it was his turn to collect tools. He stepped up to the station, where an apathetic guard handed him his gear: a rusted, oversized machete, a battered black bucket with a faintly glowing interior, and a yellowed protective suit that looked like it had been dragged out of a century-old fallout shelter. The suit came with a cracked face mask that vaguely resembled a gas mask.
He was halfway into his suit when his new partner finally made their grand entrance. A man approached him with an unsettling, toothy grin plastered across his face, the expression so forced it looked like his skin might split.
“I’m Bidenson, they said you are my new partner?” the man said, his voice disturbingly calm. His eyes, glowing faintly with an unnatural light, locked onto Dante.
Dante took a deep breath and forced a polite smile onto his face. “Oh, great. You’re finally here. I’m Dante. Nice to meet you.”
“Dante…” Bidenson repeated slowly, rolling the name on his tongue. “What an interesting name, especially in a place like this.”
Dante suppressed a shiver. There was something deeply wrong with this guy. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to keep his distance, but he maintained his casual facade. “Well, You’d better grab your tools. We’ve got a tight schedule.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.” Bidenson’s grin widened—if that was even possible—before he drifted off toward the distribution area like a ghost.
The moment he was gone, Dante let out a long sigh and muttered under his breath, “Yeah, this guy’s not normal. Where is my luck?”
A few minutes later, Bidenson returned, fully suited up and holding his tools. He hadn’t lost that unsettling smile, which was now half-hidden behind his face mask. Dante didn’t bother wasting more time. “Follow me,” he said, heading toward the teleportation area.
Unlike other parts of the prison, the Engine Space wasn’t connected by physical corridors. The only way in or out was through designated teleportation gates. These gates were heavily guarded by a different class of puppet sentinels—elite soldiers who made the standard guards look like toys.
The elite guards wore ancient silver armor that seemed to blend the elegance of elven craftsmanship with the power of myth and advanced technology. Their towering figures exuded strength, and the eerie hum of their long, rune-carved swords only added to their menacing aura. Strange, otherworldly firearms hung at their sides, brimming with latent energy.
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“Name,” one of the sentinels barked, its deep, metallic voice resonating through the chamber.
“Dante Cthulu,” Dante replied, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm.
“Bidenson Lancaster,” his partner added in a quiet, measured tone.
“Step back,” the sentinel commanded. It raised a hand to the ancient wall behind it, triggering a sequence of glowing runes. Moments later, a swirling vortex of deep blue energy materialized within the teleportation gate.
“Enter,” the sentinel said coldly, stepping aside.
Dante gave a mock salute. “Thanks, boss. Catch you on the flip side.” He stepped through the gate without hesitation, the swirling energy enveloping him.
As Bidenson followed, he murmured something under his breath, too low for anyone but himself to hear.
“No, you won’t.”
After a stomach-churning, disorienting teleportation process, Dante found himself on the second level of the Engine Space. It wasn’t his first time here, but the sensation never failed to unsettle him. The space had a way of bending reality, warping the senses in ways that made even the most hardened prisoners uneasy. One thing was clear—nobody liked working here.
Waiting for them at the landing site were the puppet guards. Even here, they donned protective suits, though theirs were in far worse condition—patched with ancient stitches and stained with unidentifiable fluids, as if they were on the verge of disintegration.
“Your work area is C-98. Follow the markers to your destination,” one of the guards barked, its voice muffled by a gas-mask-like helmet. “If you deviate from your assigned zone, you will be punished. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Dante replied with a nod, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.
“Move. You have nine hours to complete your task. The clock starts now.”
Not wasting a second, Dante sprinted off toward C-98. Behind him, Bidenson followed closely, his breathing disturbingly heavy inside the mask. Dante couldn’t see it, but beneath the opaque visor, Bidenson’s lips twisted into a predatory grin. He licked his lips, watching Dante as though the man were a succulent piece of meat.
Before long, Dante reached the heart of the Engine Space. This was where the true horrors of the prison revealed themselves. The “engine” wasn’t the mechanical construct most would imagine. Instead, it was a grotesque amalgamation of living, pulsating flesh.
Everywhere he looked, massive organic components loomed. Some resembled beating hearts, their powerful contractions sending energy surging through thick, blackened tubes that snaked toward lower levels. Others looked like clusters of giant tumors, quivering and writhing as they produced strange, otherworldly fluids. There were structures resembling twisted, oversized lungs, endlessly inhaling polluted air and exhaling purified energy.
And then there were the worst ones—humanoid forms fused into incomprehensible shapes, their bodies bent and contorted into wheels and gears. They crawled endlessly in circular motions, like hamsters on a wheel, their faces frozen in expressions of agony. These were the components that haunted Dante’s nightmares.
He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the task ahead. Staring too long at these monstrosities was a quick way to lose your sanity.
When they finally arrived at C-98, Dante took in the sight of their assignment: a massive, irregular cube of flesh that contracted and expanded rhythmically. Its grotesque surface was dotted with bulbous black growths—oozing pustules that seemed to squirm under their own weight.
“Alright, Bidenson,” Dante said, pointing at the growths. “You see those black pustules?”
“Yes,” Bidenson replied, his voice unnervingly calm.
“Our job is to remove all of them. And remember, we only have nine hours. If we don’t finish on time…” Dante hesitated, not wanting to spell it out.
“What happens?” Bidenson asked, a sinister edge creeping into his tone as his lips twisted into a grin beneath his mask.
“You don’t want to know,” Dante snapped, suppressing the urge to yell. He missed Ares more than ever—if it were Ares, they’d already be halfway through the job by now instead of wasting time with pointless questions.
Shaking his head, Dante barked orders. “I’ll handle the left side, you take the right. We’ll meet at the top to finish up.”
Without waiting for a response, Dante hefted his rusted machete and climbed a rickety ladder positioned next to the flesh cube. Each component was massive, requiring the use of these old, creaky contraptions to reach higher sections. Once in place, Dante set to work on the first pustule.
The black growths had an unknown origin—some said they were a defect in the components themselves, others blamed their presence on the age of the machinery. Still, there were whispers that the death fog somehow seeped into the engine, corrupting it from within. Whatever the cause, the result was the same: the pustules needed to be removed. If left unchecked, they could compromise the engine’s operation, and nobody wanted to find out what would happen if the engine failed.
Using the machete wasn’t as difficult as it looked. Despite its rusted appearance, the blade was shockingly effective. Dante had learned this the hard way during a previous shift when the edge accidentally nicked a ladder rung, slicing through it like paper. The ensuing punishment from the guards had been enough to ensure he never repeated the mistake.
As the machete bit into the pustule, thick, foul-smelling fluid burst forth. Even through his mask, Dante recoiled at the stench. The rancid liquid dripped into the storage bucket he’d brought, where it seemed to vanish as though consumed by the bucket’s mysterious, endless interior space.
“One down,” he muttered, wiping the blade against the edge of the bucket. “Let’s keep this moving.”
He glanced over his shoulder, keeping a wary eye on Bidenson, who appeared to be working methodically on his side of the cube. But there was something off about him—he moved with an almost rehearsed precision, his head constantly turning to check on the nearby guards. His movements seemed calculated, as if he were waiting for something.
“Almost there… almost time…” Bidenson murmured to himself, his voice tinged with barely restrained excitement.
Dante didn’t hear him clearly, but the unease that had been building in his chest refused to subside. He tightened his grip on the machete, cutting another pustule while keeping one eye firmly on his partner.
Several minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the squelching sounds of machete cutting into flesh. Then, without warning, the dim, crimson lights illuminating the area flickered once, twice… and died.
C-98 plunged into total darkness.
The sounds of the writhing components filled the void—the grotesque squelching and pulsating noises amplified in the absence of light. Dante froze, every nerve in his body on high alert. He tightened his grip on the machete, the blade now his only sense of security.
Before he could say anything, a chilling voice whispered directly into his ear, low and dripping with malice.
“Your soul… is mine.”