You wake up with a headache the likes of which you have never experienced before. The pain throbs behind your eyes, and you instinctively bring a hand to your forehead, trying to soothe it away. As your vision clears, you look around to find yourself in a dimly lit cell, the oppressive walls of which feel hauntingly familiar. This cell is all too reminiscent of the one you were in before your supposed execution. The buzzing, flickering light overhead does little to ease your discomfort, casting unsettling shadows that dance across the concrete.
The bed you're lying on is surprisingly more comfortable than the old mattress you had been subjected to before your false arrest. It's still far from luxurious, but it offers a semblance of relief in a place designed for punishment. You take a moment to gather your thoughts, fighting through the fog of sleep, when suddenly the heavy sound of boots clanging against the floor interrupts your reverie.
A guard strides up to your cell, his presence imposing and authoritative. "You, get up," he barks, his voice sharp and devoid of compassion. "Once you're ready, line up back there with the other inmates. Don't take longer than two minutes." He leans closer, his expression threatening. "Oh, and by the way, your new prisoner ID is '9341.' Don't forget it." A chill runs down your spine at the reminder of your status here. The guard's assault rifle slung casually at his side is a clear indication of the power he holds.
Despite the grim circumstances, you find that you have the luxury of a fully functioning sink, a small mercy compared to the dank prison where you awaited your fate. With a sense of urgency, you rise from the bed, hoping that washing your face might help clear the remnants of sleep and the throbbing in your head. The cool water refreshes you slightly, but the headache persists as you brace yourself for what comes next.
Following the guard's orders, you step out of your cell and head toward the line of other prisoners. The moment you do, a voice crackles over the intercom, chilling you to the bone: "Reminder to all EXR-P personnel, the guards' words are final. Failure to comply with any orders given will result in termination."
"That sure ain't comforting," you think to yourself, your heart racing as you pick up your pace. When you reach the line of inmates, the atmosphere is thick with anxiety. A cluster of guards stands vigilantly beside you, their eyes scanning the group with suspicion. As the line inches forward, your turn eventually arrives. A woman sits behind a counter, her demeanor professional but distant.
"Full name?" she asks, her pen poised over a clipboard.
"(Y/N, L/N)," you respond, your voice steadier than you feel.
"Prisoner ID?"
"9341."
"Size?"
"(Size)."
She hands you a piece of equipment that resembles diving gear, its purpose unclear, before snapping, "Move up to the right hallway."
With a sense of urgency, you follow her directive. As you move into the hallway, a guard waits for you, his expression unreadable. "Put on your diving gear," he instructs. You comply without hesitation, the straps tight against your body, feeling increasingly vulnerable.
Once you've donned the gear, the guard steps forward and places a device against the back of your neck. After a few adjustments, you hear a definitive click that resonates ominously in your mind. "Do not attempt to remove or tamper with this device, or you will be terminated," he warns, the weight of his words sinking in. A shiver runs down your spine, the reality of your precarious situation hitting you hard.
"Go through this door. Once you do, move to the main area and follow any orders given to you by other guardsmen," he commands.
"A-Alright..." you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.
With a deep breath, you open the door and step into a massive docking bay. The sight is overwhelming—submarines constantly arriving and submerging, their sleek forms cutting through the water with military precision. You navigate through the bustling area, searching for a place to sit when a guard approaches you.
"Follow me," he says curtly, leading you to a group of five other inmates who seem equally uncertain, waiting for further orders from the guards.
"Attention EXR-P," one of the guards bellows, his voice cutting through the tension, but he is abruptly interrupted by another inmate.
"EXR-P? Is that some kind of new fancy rank or what?" the inmate quips, attempting humor to ease the palpable tension.
"Shut it and pay attention," another guard snaps back, pointing his gun in the inmate's direction with a menacing glare.
"Alright, jeez, it was a joke... my god," the inmate mutters, the humor gone as he realizes the danger of provoking the guards.
"As I was saying," the guard resumes, his tone stern, "your primary directive is to retrieve and secure the crystal. You must prioritize that crystal above all else. Your secondary directive is to secure and collect any loose assets you find along the way—USBs, documents, vials, etc. You've been granted permission to use any equipment you come across, provided it doesn't delay the crystal's retrieval. Be aware, you will face multiple dangers and hazards; avoid them at all costs. Remember, even if you are on a mission, you are still a prisoner. Failure to follow any orders will result in termination. Do I make myself clear?"
Silence blankets the group, no one daring to respond. The guardsmen begin to usher you toward the lower dock area.
"All EXR-P, start boarding this submarine."
As you and the other inmates file into the vessel, the guards speak into their radios, their words unintelligible but heavy with urgency. Once everyone is on board, the heavy door seals shut, and a chime sounds, echoing eerily as the submarine begins to submerge into the depths of the water.
Inside, the atmosphere is thick with uncertainty. You exchange glances with your fellow inmates, all of you wrestling with the gravity of the situation and the sheer lack of information.
"Well... if we're going to spend who knows how long on this mission, we might as well get to know each other, hm?" the inmate who had made the earlier joke breaks the tension, his attempt at camaraderie evident.
"Yeah, I agree," another inmate beside you chimes in.
"Well, I'm James," he introduces himself, a tentative smile breaking through his anxiety.
"And you guys can call me Will," says the second inmate, his demeanor more relaxed.
"I'm Grace, and this is Sophie," a young woman with anxious eyes nods toward her companion.
"I'm Henry," a quiet man adds, looking around as if gauging the group's reactions.
"And I am (Y/N)," you say, feeling a mix of vulnerability and determination.
"Why were the guards so unwilling to share info about what hazards we'll face down here? I mean, we're risking our lives here; we might as well know what's going to pose a threat," Will asks, his voice laced with frustration.
"Who knows, man... who knows..." Sophie mutters, a frown deepening her features.
"I hope this won't take too long; I just want to get out of here," James says, the desperation in his voice echoing your own thoughts.
"Don't we all?" you respond, the weight of your shared uncertainty hanging heavily in the air as the submarine plunges into the unknown depths below.
YOU ARE READING
It can always get worse ( Sebastian solace x reader)
FanfictionYou thought life was hard, Exhausting hours of constant back-breaking work, barely able to buy food and pay rent. You thought life could not get any worse. Little did you know how wrong you were. ...
