The holographic judge's voice echoed cold and flat in the courtroom, a stark contrast to the polished marble walls of Neo-Tokyo's Corporate Justice Tower. "Kael Voss, convicted of unauthorized data access on behalf of Executive Hale. Due to failure to pay 1.2 million credit fines, sentence: ten years' exile to Penance Isle." My jaw tightened. I'd never touched Hale's data—been framed, plain and simple. But in 2147, when twenty megacorporations ran the post-nuclear world and AI judges rendered verdicts in nanoseconds, innocence was a luxury only credits could buy. Before I could protest, two armored enforcers grabbed my arms, their cybernetic hands digging into my biceps. The transport shuttle reeked of sweat and fear. Through the viewport, Penance Isle loomed on the horizon: a jagged mass of black rock ringed by storm-churned seas, its coastline dotted with guard towers topped with plasma cannons. A man beside me—his left arm replaced by a rusted cybernetic limb—spat on the floor. "First-timer? They call it 'Penance' 'cause you pay for every breath. Radiation freaks in the east, corporate dogs running death games… and if you're lucky, you earn Atonement Shrouds to buy your way out." "Atonement Shrouds?" I asked.
"The only currency that matters. Win their games, you get Shrouds. Hoard enough, you walk free. Lose?" He nodded at the sea, where something massive breached the surface, its scales glinting red. "The Deep Feeder gets a snack."
When the shuttle landed, we were herded onto a concrete pier by wardens in black exoskeletons. A loudspeaker blared: "All inmates report to the Colosseum for orientation. Refusal equals immediate termination."
The Colosseum was a brutalist structure carved into the cliffside, its seats filled with holographic projections of wealthy spectators—corporate executives, celebrities, anyone who paid to watch prisoners fight for sport. At the center, a stage held a woman in a white lab coat, her eyes replaced by glowing blue cybernetics. "Welcome to Penance Isle," she purred. "I'm Dr. Elara Voss—your game master. Every week, you'll compete in Trials. Survive, earn Shrouds. Accumulate 10,000 Shrouds, and you're pardoned. Fail… well, let's just say the Feeder is always hungry." She gestured to a screen behind her, displaying the first Trial: "Rat Race. 4 Radiation Mutants, 20 Inmates. Mutants are 'Cats,' inmates are 'Rats.' Cats hunt Rats. Last 5 Rats standing win 50 Shrouds each."
The crowd roared. The cybernetic man beside me—Jax, he'd said his name was—grunted. "Mutants have enhanced strength, zero pain tolerance. We're dead meat unless we outthink 'em."
I studied the arena: a maze of metal walls, scattered with crates and oil drums. "What if we don't run?" I said. "What if we turn the maze against them?"
Jax raised an eyebrow. "You got a plan, new kid?"
I smiled. "I just need you to trust me."