Beep… beep… beep…!
The alarm jolted Alex awake, and in his panic, he slammed his forehead against the metal railing of his bunk. He groaned, rubbing the sore spot while glaring at the offending alarm.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since he landed in this hellhole, and if he had to sum up his experience in one word, hell would be the nicest way to put it without cursing.
A space station over a hundred years old. A society that treats justice like a joke. A place where all crimes—no matter how small—are punishable by death. And by death, they mean getting shoved out of an airlock.
Yeah. Fun place.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would've thought this was some elaborate prank, a hidden camera show where someone jumps out at the end and says, Gotcha! But reality slapped me in the face—literally—when a guard in a black uniform walked into my cell and knocked me flat on my ass just because I asked, "Where am I?"
That baton of his wasn't just for show either—it had a taser built into it. My back was numb for almost two weeks, and I still had bruises to prove it.
But I'm not the kind of guy who sits around sulking or plotting revenge. That wouldn't fix my situation. So instead of wasting time being angry, I spent those two weeks gathering as much information as I could.
Here's what I found out:
This place is called the Sky Box, located on Level 18 of the Ark. It's basically a holding facility for underage criminals—anyone under eighteen who's broken the rules ends up here.
The Ark is a massive space station—or rather, a fusion of thirteen space stations that survived after a nuclear holocaust wiped out Earth. Humanity's last hope, apparently.
The Ark is divided into factions, but the top dogs—the ones who control the tech, facilities, and major decisions—are from Alpha Station. People call them "royalty," but from what I've heard, they're just glorified dictators.
Every crime on the Ark is punishable by death. Steal a tube of toothpaste? Death. Break into someone's house? Death. Steal medicine to save your dying mother? You guessed it—death. There's no mercy, no second chances, just rules.
The Ark is ruled by a council, made up of different faction leaders, but the guy at the top is the Chancellor. He's like the president of this floating prison. His name is Jaha, and from what I've gathered, he's a self-righteous, power-hungry asshole with a stick so far up his ass, he could be a flagpole.
(But you didn't hear that from me, and I'll deny it if you say I said it.)
So yeah, that's my life now. And I already want out.
Human life here is disposable. The food is—well, I don't even think it qualifies as food. It's synthetic, which is a fancy way of saying fake, and trust me, one bite of this garbage will make you see God. I learned that the hard way when I almost had a heart attack trying to swallow it. The aftermath? Let's just say the bathroom and I got real close, real fast.
Still, it's not all bad. I managed to make a couple of friends.
Harper—my next-door neighbor—seems pretty cool. And then there's Murphy, who acts like a cocky, arrogant bastard but is actually a softie deep down. Not that he'd ever admit it.
All in all, adjusting to this new world has been rough, but I've survived two weeks, so that's something.
That being said… I'd kill for a real hamburger right now. With fries. And a milkshake. Hell, even some stale popcorn would do. It's funny how you don't realize how good you had it until it's gone.
"Lights out in two minutes!" a guard's voice barked from the observation deck above.
Well, that's my cue to sign off. Maybe tomorrow the food won't suck. Fingers crossed.
Oh, and by the way—my name is Alexander Starling, and this is my journey in another world.
To be continued…