"INMATE D-790, TURN TO FACE THE WALL. SLOWLY WALK BACKWARDS TO THE DOOR AND PUT YOUR HANDS THROUGH THE OPENING. DO NOT RESIST. THERE ARE NO WARNING SHOTS."

The scratchy intercom blaring through the wall speaker in his cell cut off with a click. The food-tray opening to the cell door – solid metal at least three inches thick – slid open with a screech of rusted metal.

Hurk's chapped lips twitched into a slight frown before quickly disappearing into his customary blank look as he stood up from where he'd been lying down on his cot and thumbing idly through a dog-eared paperback. The man shuffled over to the door, the slack in the chains of the metal cuffs between his ankles not enough for a full stride, and awkwardly stuck his hands out through the only gap large enough.

Two pairs of gloved hands roughly twisted his wrists back further and tied a thick leather restraint around both of his hands before adding on an even thicker metal cuff that hummed audibly. Immediately, Hurk felt the familiar sensation of his energy plummeting down to a dangerously low level that sent a shot of utter exhaustion through his nerves. The guards that had tied him up shoved his hands back through the opening and he took a step forward, his back straightening as the electronically-operated locks on his door engaged with a hiss.

Once the door slid open, four guards descended upon him. Two of them grabbed his arms in strong grips while another slammed a bucket over his head. The last guard had a staff-like instrument with a large, circular ring at the end crackling with electricity and studded with deadly spikes at least four inches long; that went around his neck, hovering menacingly above his skin as a warning against any sudden movements.

"MOVE." The modulated voice of the guard behind him hissed through the helmet.

Hurk took a careful step forward, the chains of his ankle cuffs dragging against the concrete flooring, and the guards at his arms pushed him to move faster.

A few minutes later, one of the guards stopped to punch in a code to a door. The alarm over the door beeped and the hiss of old hydraulics alerted Hurk to the fact that he wasn't in the solitary confinement wing anymore. The guards hastily pushed him down to sit onto a metal chair welded into the floor, chained his ankles and wrists to the also-welded metal table, and then removed the bucket. All of the guards quickly left the room after that, leaving him alone with…

Hurk blinked several times at the sudden influx of blinding fluorescent light, and then let a lackadaisical grin pull at the corners of his mouth once his eyes adjusted.

"Well, what's a pretty lady like yourself doin' in a shithole like this? Don't try and tell me that you're my lawyer, hon, 'cause you ain't one."

A dirty-blonde young woman with a pleasant-looking face smiled politely at him without a single ounce of fear in her body language. Her navy blue blouse had a high collar that covered her throat and her almost-hidden hairband had flowery detailing and two slight raises indicating a cutesy pair of cat ears. Hurk almost wanted to lean back a bit to see if she was wearing a short skirt and thigh-high boots, because this woman was nowhere near the typical type of visitors that showed up in the Labyrinth.

The woman's smile promptly fell from her face as she flipped through a folder in her possession. Hurk felt a hint of unease crawl up his spine at the sudden change.

"Inmate D-790, birth name Hurk, no listed last name. Foster care from two years of age until eighteen. Joined the Red Tyrants gang at fifteen and served time in juvenile detention for the misdemeanors of assault, petty theft, vandalism, and possession of night shade with the intention of distribution. At the age of 19, received a six-year sentence for transporting illegally-obtained weapons for gang usage – a felony violation of PC 186.22 subsection B – and an extension of two years for an assault with a deadly weapon that led to the hospitalization of one correctional officer and three inmates. Current status: age 24 and indefinitely housed in administrative segregation from general population within solitary confinement. Eligibility for good time or parole: none."

With a shit-eating grin, Hurk leaned back in his chair as much as he could with the chains binding him. "Should I be lookin' over my shoulder for Bad Cop right 'bout now?"

"You have quite the slim and unimpressive record for a so-called violent recidivist. I expected worse, to be honest, but I guess I can work with that." The woman's polite smile didn't waver in the least.

"Ouch. I take it back. Where's Good Cop? I'm all for a donut and some soda to butter me up." Hurk kept his grin up and adopted a lazy slouching posture, but his mind was working overtime to read the hidden motives from the woman sitting across from him.

"Inmate D-790, I am not with the police. It would be in your best interests to let me talk without being interrupted during every other sentence." The woman opened up the briefcase sitting innocently on top of the metal table and pulled out a sheaf of papers and a pen.

"Alright, shoot. I've got all the time in the world."

The woman shot him a baleful look. "I am an agent of the Royal Army Intelligence, and I am here to offer you a deal that even you will find foolish to refuse."