The Cerberus Prison System was not what you would consider a typical Heimer Republic government building. For starters, there were checkpoints every few meters or so, making sure those that stayed in, stayed in, and those that weren’t supposed to get in, stayed way, way out. There were thick, steel doors which needed opening from elsewhere, cameras in every corner of every room, and lots of guards roaming about — lots of guards with lots of guns and not a whole lot of restraint. There were machine gun turrets too, mounted to the ceiling and to the walls and occasionally to the concrete floors themselves and whatnot. If Jonathan remembered correctly, they tend to shoot first, ask questions later. At 3000 or so rounds per minute, the bullets shredded potential intruders down to the very bone in fractions of a second. He did not want to be falsely identified as one.

Even though visiting this impenetrable fortress became somewhat of a weekly occurrence, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could not help but feel. . . Nervous.

Which was odd, considering he was a Hunter.

Yes, it was an ordinary prison.

Yes, it kept all of society’s rejects tucked away.

And yes, that was all there was to it.

But deep down, way, way inside, the Hunter felt like there was more to the place.

More to it than just an ordinary prison.

More to it than meets the eye.

It had its fair share of secrets, surely; he knew as much. What they were exactly — only government and Father Destiny knew.

The Cerberus Prison System was a towering, frightening monstrosity looming over the distant countryside, and there was plenty he did not know about it. He did not know why there were battalions of soldiers on standby, close by. He did not know why there were researchers and scientists always scrambling about, whispering and muttering and going on about whatever it is their kind went on about. He did not know much, if anything at all, about The Underground — about The Vaults. It was not the kind of place you wanted to be caught snooping around, else you might end up vanishing.

And the Hunter did not at all feel like vanishing.

The prison itself was one of the many buildings in this disastrous, dizzying, messy architectural complex. There were garages housing some dozen or so humvies and armored personnel carriers and maybe even the occasional tank or two. There were barracks for the reserves; armories for that overwhelmingly excessive, classic Heimer Republic style firepower; nondescript, unmarked structures looking very much so ominous and unfriendly; and perhaps most importantly, there were the Sky Machines.

The mechanized orbs of gray and black and glass and gears, cogs, lights revolving above and about the Heimer Republic all day, every day.

There were double barbed-wire fences circling the entirety of the perimeter, keeping the wildlife and any curious passersby at bay; high, tall guard towers here, there, everywhere, looking for those that seemed even the slightest bit out of place; and bright, bright spotlights which pierced the rain and night itself, blinding Jonathan Wicker Abhrams as he turned and stared much like a stunned deer.

Simply put, the Cerberus Prison System was a military base in and of itself.

And still, the Hunter did not know why.

He didn’t bother asking anyway; there wasn’t much point in doing so. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to answer.

Slowly at first, Jonathan started up the wet, dirt path, dragging splotches of mud along with every step. He was drenched completely — from head to toe. There was the cold sliding down his back, the water sloshing around in both his boots, the wind in his eyes, the freeze in his hands, the hurt on his face; it was a most unpleasant hike, complete with slips and trips and maybe even a fall or two, though the Hunter would never admit.

Already, there were quite a few eyes trained on him, and maybe even the stray barrel or two. He didn’t mind. He was used to being watched, and to having guns pointed his way.

Jonathan kept going, keeping both his hands very much so empty and very much so visible.

He made no sudden moves.

There were two guards by the gate; he recognized neither of them. Both were dressed from head to toe in black, and in tactical gear: they had helmets on, goggles on, dark, black cloth wraps obscuring their faces and bullet proof vests just in case — the whole nine yards. They were truly prepared for just about anything and everything.

Classic Heimer Republic.

“Sir, stop right there,” said the taller one. “Don’t move. Hands up.”

Jonathan did as was instructed.

Slowly, surely, the guard approached him. He was clearly anxious and on edge, as was to be expected from a rookie. The Hunter could tell as much; greenies stuck out like a sore thumb. “Identify yourself.”

“Jonathan. Wicker. Abhrams. Get Lieutenant Colonel Schneider; he’ll vouch for me.”

The man did not, in fact, get Lieutenant Colonel Schneider. He stayed put, one hand on the grip of his rifle; the other, way outstretched and gesturing at a stop. “Sir, I need to see some ID. Show me your papers.”

“What?”

“Your papers, sir. Identification, please.”

“Did you not hear a word I said? I’m verified. Go get Schneider.”

“No can do, sir.”

“Huh?”

“No can do. That’s not how things work around here.”

“Listen buddy, I’ve been here twice every week, every month, for the past five years. I think I know how things work.”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to turn around and place your hands behind your head.”

“What?”

“Sir, if you do not comply, I will be forced to take lethal action.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sir, I’m warning you.”

“Well, go on then. Shoot me. Make my day.”

Jonathan stepped forth.

“Sir!”

The guard raised his rifle.

“Last warning!”

“Fucking shoot, then!”

“Sir!”

Beep!

Neither man moved; neither man blinked.

Beep!

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Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, went the rain, hammering on like an ice, cold shower of needles. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could feel them through his coat and on his bare skin, pricking and stabbing. He didn’t mind. A bullet was colder than any rain; he knew as much.

Beep!

Beep!

Beep!

The guard was first. Still keeping one hand tight on the grip of his rifle, he moved the other free and about, slowly reaching for the tiny box of black — beeping and booping — strapped to his left shoulder. It was blinking a distinct red. It was impatient. It needed replying.

Urgently.

“You move; I shoot.”

“Not in time, you won’t.”

Click!

The radio came to life.

The guard answered.

The Hunter waited.

The Sky Machines watched.

His name was Rhanes, apparently. He was a private, he was posted on guard duty, his ID was 219-B, and he worked night shifts. Jonathan didn’t quite care for this one; newbies annoyed him. All they ever did was get in the way, and getting in the way sometimes meant getting others killed.

As well as yourself, for that fact of the matter.

Beep!

A voice came through from the other end, static and crackled and very much so distorted and unclear. The Hunter recognized it still. It was Schneider, explaining — in very colorful English — three things: to let Jonathan Wicker Abhrams in, to lead the man to the lieutenant colonel’s office pronto, and what an absolute dingleberry, blockhead, good-for-nothing lad Rhanes was. The Hunter quite enjoyed that last bit.

Click!

The radio resumed its slumber, and slowly, a rifle was lowered.

Put away, for a different day.

For a different man, perhaps.

This one lived.

This one was spared the dirt and the dust.

“My apologies, sir. Right this way.”

“That’s more like it, damn,” Jonathan lowered his arms as well, bearing in mind not to make any quick, sudden moves. They were tense out here — as they should be — and tense people tend to do irrational things.

Like accidentally shooting a civilian.

Or in this case, a Hunter.

Pitterr-patter, pitter-patter, went the rain.

Together, they trudged past the double barbed wire fences, a guard post of sorts, numerous “government property; restricted access” signs, and an altogether rather aggressive-looking automated turret. It stared him down hard, as if it was looking for a fight. The Hunter was not. “Do you smoke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give.”

“Can’t do that, sir. It’s against protocols. Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Protocols this, protocols that. Just give me one.”

Rhanes hesitated, finally caving in after recalling his rather unfortunate encounter with Lieutenant Colonel Schneider’s vast arsenal of no-no words. This man — this Hunter — was clearly an important person; surely the rules could bend, if only just a tad bit. Surely he could let this one slide.

And so the guard did. He pulled a pack free from within his coat, knocked a cigarette loose, then flicked it Jonathan’s way. It was caught without hesitation.

The guard glanced about warily, as if he was looking for any who witnessed his bending of the rules. No one did, of course, except for the cameras — except for God’s Eye. They saw everything, and so did it.

Always.

“If anyone asks, you didn’t get that from me.”

“I don’t snitch, Rhanes; quit worrying.”

“Just making sure.”

“And I sure as hell don’t need an escort either.”

“Orders are orders, sir.”

“I know my way.”

“Orders are orders.”

“Right.”

***

The doors — if one could even begin to call them that — were thick. They were 42 inches of heavy, blast resistant, solid steel, and nothing short of Heimer Republic engineering marvel. They opened and closed with such ungodly growl, which, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams assumed, were the inner cogs and gears of this gargantuan mechanism working flawlessly all at once.

“Kind of excessive, don’t you think?” Jonathan said to no one in particular, still trying his damndest to light the cigarette aflame. He was not successful, still; the rain was spiteful, still; and the Hunter was sour, still.

“Sir?” Rhanes said.

“The door, I mean. What do you guys need to keep out? Coyotes and hyenas?”

“It’s not about what needs to be kept out. It’s about what needs to be kept in, sir.”

“Meaning?”

“Classified information. Sorry.”

“Of course.”

A siren sounded off from way inside; the door was fully open now.

“Time to go, sir,” Rhanes stepped lively. “It’s best we don't keep the lieutenant colonel waiting. He doesn’t like that one bit.”

And so they went, the Hunter and the guard, stepping from the rain and into the Cerberus Prison System.

The interior of the main building itself was nothing like one would come to imagine. There were no rooms and hallways, no walls and ceilings. Simply put, it was a big, empty box, with little, if anything at all, inside. There was, one thing: an observatory in the wall directly opposite Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, complete with Black Mirror on all sides.

To the everyday commoner, it looked not unlike an ordinary sheet of polished black; to people like Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, however, it looked like so much more — it looked like government. He knew there were plenty of eyes behind it. He knew they were being watched. He knew they were being recorded.

He knew they were being monitored.

As was to be expected of government.

Black Mirror was a revolutionary discovery. It was a type of glass which allowed for one-way viewing. In other words, they — whoever they were — could see him, but he could not see them.

And that did not at all sit well with the Hunter.

Beep!

Rhanes clicked the radio alive once more. This time, he was the one giving the orders. “Command, close main doors. Private Rhanes Morrison, ID 219-B, going down — access code: delta, hotel, six, four, eight, september, nine.”

“Affirmative. Main doors closing. Stand fast; floor moving.”

“Copy.”

All at once now, the floors grumbled. It wasn’t the sort of grumbling you’d hear from an engine working, or a tractor starting, or an industrial furnace flaring. No. Rather, it was the sort of grumbling you’d hear if fifty tons of concrete cement were to move at will, at once, together, — up and down stories and stories and stories of void nothingness, while possibly supporting loads of up to twice its own weight.

The floor of the Cerberus Prison System was, in fact, exactly that: fifty tons of concrete cement which acted as floor, elevator, and vault door all at once. It was the second line of defense in a long line of defenses.

Jonathan could not, for the life of him, imagine what they were defending.

Maybe riches.

Maybe information.

Maybe something a tad bit more. . . Alive.

Slowly, surely, they descended deep into the Cerberus Prison System, deep underground and deep into the darkness. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could feel the earth close in from all around, like a smothering blanket of black intent on snuffing him out. It was not at all a thought he relished.

Still, the Hunter kept his cool and his breathing ordered.

This was the worst part, and it was almost over with.

“Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Rhanes said. “Everyone feels it.”

“It’s the pressure. Changes from way up there to way down here. Atmosphere or some shit.”

“It’s not the pressure, Mr. Abhrams.”

“John.”

“It’s not the pressure, John. It’s them.”

“What?”

The Hunter could sense an uneasy twitch from Rhanes. The rookie’s voice had lost whatever little sense of authority it once had. He spoke less like a soldier now, and more like a man, and this particular man was scared.

He was afraid.

What he was afraid of, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could not guess.

The guard had with him his trusty rifle, an entire battalion on stand by, tanks, armored personnel carriers, and military humvees, and maybe even an artillery weapon or two, and he was scared.

Made you wonder, really. . .

“It’s. . .” Rhanes hesitated. The floor beneath stopped moving; they were here.

They were in the Cerberus Prison System — finally and officially. Jonathan watched as an elevator door carved into the very earth itself produced a fine ding, opening just mere moments later.

“Conversation for another time, Mr. Wicke — err. . . John.”

“Sounds like you’re hiding something, private.”

“No clue what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Right. . .”

The Hunter didn’t press any further; the guard said no more. “You know where his office is, don’t you?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Then I trust you can find your own way there?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” Rhanes tipped his helmet. “This is farewell then.”

“Ciao.”

“Take care, Mr. Wicker; I’ll be seeing you.”

“Will you?”

The guard paused.

Jonathan swore he heard a snicker.

“I can almost guarantee it.”