“Johnny in building C, room four ate his own hands for bio-material. He’s locked up and in quarantine. Supposed low-risk inmate Screwdriver attacked her roommate this morning. Screwdriver is off-site and staying that way for the day, her roommate Gosling is recovering from surgery. Damsel One and Damsel Two are being quiet—mostly keeping to the internet. No sign of agitation, but we’re watching closely after a Damsel Three allegedly appeared on television twenty-four hours ago.”

“If only we got television here,” one correctional officer said.

“If you did, you wouldn’t watch the screens,” the superior said. “Stay the course, people. I want tonight to be quiet.”

As the superior walked around the room, checking on things, including screens with low-res images of various icons moving across a map, the officer with the receding hairline saw words on his screen.

Radio silence from here on out. Avoid phones.
Phones and computers are monitored.
—Teacher

He looked around, making sure the coast was clear.

Communicate all points to others. Nod if understood.

The officer looked over his shoulder at the camera. He nodded.

Bomb anklets must be deactivated ASAP.
Prisoner population must be preserved.

He glanced back, then nodded slightly once again.

The screen went clear.

My heart pounded in my chest as I watched him lean over to the correctional officer next to him, whispering in her ear.

Goddess had said that her danger sense wasn’t flaring from this, and it was apparently nuanced enough to tell her if this was a horribly bad idea. We were good to go, at least in the initial stages of this juncture.

“…gotta run to the washroom,” the officer said.

“Now?” the supervisor asked. “Thirteen minutes until we serve them their third square.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Aaron, take the console from Nick.”

Someone else took over. Our officer strode from the room, using his keycard to get through the door and to the hallway.

Teacher’s influence turned them more and more into zombies as he asserted more control, but there was no fine mind control. They weren’t puppets, and they had to be told what to do.

The lack of volition and the weaker problem solving meant they were more gullible.

“Should I message someone else?” Kenzie asked.

“Let’s not test our luck,” I murmured.

The guard headed straight to a guard who was at one T-shaped intersection of hallways. He leaned close to say something. On Kenzie’s projected image, lines traced his lips and mouth movements. A line of gibberish appeared, then was deleted.

“Couldn’t read his lips. The program might work after a few tries with the right camera angles,” Kenzie said.

“Three factions have the power to win, lose, or decide the course of this game,” I said, to Sveta. “Us, Teacher, and the prison. There are others—the prisoners notably among them.”

“They can’t win or lose. They’re just—”