Axegate Penitentiary: a high-profile white-collar prison, well-known for its ingenious, Bastille-like architectural design, and its two-decade-held record for the least number of breakouts:
None!
Armed on several spots on the fore walls of Axegate were large turrets, which, no doubt, were packed with several munitions to ensure that one would certainly think twice before deciding on trying to tarnish their reputation of being the greatest stronghold in the world.
And to think that the incredibly imposing armed turrets were not enough to completely knock the wits out of anyone, the inner walls of Axegate were hewn out of a hard, rocky material, arguably obtained from a weird mix of obsidian and batholith, furtherly reinforcing the already-impenetrable bastion.
And to make matters even worse, there were three such walls surrounding the main holding facility, which would only entail that: for one to reach the fore walls and outside the prison's vicinity, they would have to scale through—or over the series of death chokepoints, which—by the way, didn't come close enough to graze the realm of possibility and safety.
Everything in Axegate just screamed: "You could literally die of a splitting headache just by thinking about escaping."
And like a bitter icing on a sour cake, Axegate was put under the management of a self-opinionated warden, infamously known for his tyrannical methods of ensuring order within inmates and jailers alike, which, in the homogeneous perspective of the inmates, deemed it as irrational and quite unnecessary, but deeming as trenchant and effective in the homogeneous perspective of the people: Particularly victims, or relatives to victims of a particular crime.
Famed for its advanced technological-steered prison facilities and cells, Axegate was designed for the most, if not all the dangerous and the most influential criminals in the country: men whose heinous crimes transcended conventional norms, morals, and laws.
Several laws even had to be modified, reinstated, or even extended, just to give these set of prisoners a befitting punishment for their crimes... which, in most cases, comprise mainly of individuals who were either given a death penalty, or were on a death row, or living out the rest of their lives in prison.
That was how good they were.
*
But within this mob of confined desperados, Cell. 90 to be precise, was a young man: John Carter.
He was held on pre-trial for the murder of his father, who had sadly been his only living parent... and relative.
His motionless body, lying on the soft, white prison mattress, was garbed in a blue collarless pinstriped shirt, black silk trousers, and a pair of rubber sandals.
His deep-blue eyes bored into the ceiling with a sharp, piercing gaze as he grimly reminisced about the series of devastating incidences that led to his arrival in Axegate.
Stirring in bed moments later to face the wall opposite to him, a streak of tears rolled down his left eye, while a dreadful memory flashed before his eyes.
***
[Three weeks ago]...
It had been yet another dark and moonless rainy night, like every other dark and moonless rainy night in New York City. The constant revving and screeching of various automobiles filled the air, with roads gleaming under the reflections of multiple streetlights on the rain-soaked pavement—only to be disrupted by speeding vehicles and the noisy foot traffic.
Yet none of these sights could be compared to the five-hundred-storey building firmly erected at the heart of the city's business district. Its grandiose appearance dwarfed every other building nearby, mocking them with its ingenious design and style.
Coming out of the building and pulling open his umbrella was none other than John.
Despite the seemingly soothing sensation induced by the cool rain breeze, John wasn't in a good mood to assimilate. His request for a raise due to the recent trend of having to work overtime had been turned down for the fifth time in three months.
Despite his position as the head of the IT department in Static Medicals and Technology, it seemed to have come without the perk of not being subjected to working overtime—like other second-rate positions in the company.
A bit disheartened by this result, John rummaged for his car keys in the left pocket of his Raincoat.
He pulled it out after a while to unlock the doors to his car, but stopped short as he felt his phone buzz in his other pocket.
"Hello," John said, sliding into his car.
A calm yet urgent tone came from the other end of the line:
"John, where are you? I can't find you anywhere in the building."
"Well, Sarah, it's because I'm no longer in the building." John answered.
'Duh...!'
Sarah exhaled sharply. "Look, John, I know you've been working overtime and a little harder than everyone else in this company—since the merger, but let's just face the fact: It's your job!... And it's what you were employed to do."
"No, Sarah. Working overtime with no salary increment wasn't part of the job description. If they have a problem with me leaving work on our signed and agreed time, then... Well, then that's on them, not me!" John retorted.
John started his car and drifted through the street, wading through the mass of the overall traffic, intent on reaching home as fast as possible.
No response came from Sarah's end of the line after John's latter statement, just occasional sound feedback coming from the shuffling of file papers, punching of keyboard keys, and a few cusses in between.
Until a few seconds later:
"Well speak of the absolute devil!" Sarah exclaimed.
"Hm, what devil?" John asked.
"C.M.O. Just sent me the updated version of your contract. And it says here that you will be paid for working overtime till the head-hunter department finds a way to salvage our manpower predicament."
Eyes widening, John asked: "Updated Contract?... What updated Contract?... I'm not signing shtick on any Contract, Sarah!"
"Mm... I don't think you have a choice, John. They also sent you a detailed bank statement of your account, stating that you received the raise before the contract was issued.
So you're roped in, John. You can't leave."
John's heart sank with a pang. "They can't do that."
"Well apparently, they can. And they just did. But on the bright side, it should actually speak volumes on how essential you are to the company, and how losing you would create a devastating rift in the company's market."
John sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to admit it, but the truth in Sarah's words were crystal clear.
"Okay, fine. I'll sign the documents. Just mail them to me tomorrow." John said.
"Mmm... about that..."
John tensed a bit. "What now...?"
"...You are also expected to be at work tomorrow, John."
"What?!" John blinked in confusion. "It's Sunday tomorrow—"
"—I know. I'm sorry, but you have to."
John gritted his teeth in exasperation, tightly gripping his steering wheel as he continued driving.
"Oh and—" Sarah paused. "You have to come in at 5am to get a few hours head start on the system updating."
John let out a slow and a measured sigh as he said: "Anything else?"
"Well—" Sarah hesitated again. "You also kind of have to finish the recruitment sorting process before opening hours—by 6am tomorrow."
John bit his lip so hard it nearly bled.
He then thought:
'Great. Just Great. I just love when things are getting harder than it already is. Not only do I have to be at work on a Sunday, but I have to come in at 5am in the morning.
This can't possibly get any worse.'
John then asked Sarah:
"Is there anything else? Any more reason I shouldn't enjoy my good night's sleep, Sarah?"
"No. No, that's all. For now, I guess."
With that, John hung up the phone and tossed it into the passenger seat of his car.
Hitting hard on the gas, John practically raced home, but at he same time, dreading the avalanche of work that awaited him in the office on a Sunday morning!
*
At about half an hour later, John pulled over at his domicile: a grey-roofed bungalow.
Steering his car to his garage, John parked and then proceeded to his front door, fumbling yet again for his keys—in the right pocket of his raincoat this time.
At that moment, the night sky was clear and devoid of clouds. The rain, once falling heavily, was at its last gasp, and was barely drizzling on John's hand as he reached to insert the key into his door's keyhole.
After a few twists, his front door was unlocked.
Then he swung it open, only to have his body freeze a few meters in—as he laid eyes on a piece of pape--- letter.
As though it had seemed.
With a quizzical look, John turned to his door, which had been locked until that very moment of his arrival.
So whoever had been the sender of the letter had obviously slipped it through the cleft—at the base of his door.
'Effective. Very effective. It's not as if I have a mailbox or anything.'
But coming to think of it, the sender must have seen the pitiful state of his mailbox—which was filled to the brim with several unopened letters—and probably decided not to include the new letter among the pile of pretermitted letters.
'Must be important.'
John thought as he retrieved the letter from the floor.
Then, his breath hitched the second he learned who the sender had been.
"Dad?"