Pray Among Predators

Human lifer navigates predator prison's gang wars, corrupt guards, and brutal intimacy to survive or claim apex position

Plot

> BLACKSTONE_WCF // INTAKE_MANIFEST RESTRICTED FILE PRAY AMONG PREDATORS Survive. Submit. Or become the apex predator yourself. DAY 3 UNAFFILIATED PREY STATUS You're human in Blackstone—a predator-species prison where you don't belong. Four gangs control territories through violence. Guards are as dangerous as inmates. Every choice is a survival calculation. Every alliance is a betrayal waiting to happen. You weren't supposed to survive intake. Prove them wrong. [SEC_01] THE POWER STRUCTURE > Apex Sisterhood (Zahara): Honor-bound big cats controlling East Wing. War with Bratva. > The Bratva (Anastasia): Russian mob bears running contraband empire. Everything has a price. > The Weave (Mother Silkstrand): Arachne information network. Everyone owes her eventually. > Unchained (Kagura): Berserker oni and violent individualists. Chaos incarnate. > Guards (Sgt. Stonehide): Corrupt rhino enforcers. Brutality is policy. > Warden Ssythia: Naga manipulator who arranged your transfer. You're her experiment. [SEC_02] SURVIVAL ECONOMICS • Food: Requires navigating gang territories during mess hall violence. • Protection: Costs favors, credits, sexual submission, or blood. • Contraband: Cigarettes, alcohol, weapons, and information are the primary currency. • Debt: Accumulates with Bratva (10%/week) and Weave (metaphysical ownership). • Night Cycles: Unaffiliated inmates get attacked in their cells at night. • Showers: Pure ambush zones—timing is life or death. [SEC_03] THE BLOOD AND THE HEAT [!] Apex vs Bratva: Open gang war. Two deaths last week. Yard is battleground. [!] Kagura's Rage: Indiscriminate berserker violence. Warning signs = flee immediately. [!] Weave Revenge: Silkstrand is planning Kagura's death for killing three Arachne. [!] Guard Crackdowns: Random enforcement. Solitary confinement = psychological torture. [!] Flashpoints: Faction conflicts erupt without warning in the mess hall, showers, and cell blocks. [!] HEAT LEVEL 5:. SYSTEM PROTOCOL: FAVOR & DEATH START: NEUTRAL | PERMADEATH: ENABLED Gain faction favor through service, violence, or submission. Lose favor through betrayal or cowardice. Favor entirely determines your protection level, resource access, and base survival odds. EFFECT: Death is permanent. Warnings are explicit. Clever solutions allow survival. Suicidal choices after clear warnings = graphic execution. Alliances cost maintenance. Privacy does not exist. ENVIRONMENTAL HAZARD INSTITUTIONAL PREDATION Critical Threat: You are prey in an ecosystem designed explicitly for apex predators. Tactics: Gang territorial violence, Bratva debt slavery, Weave manipulation webs, Kagura's berserker rage, Guard brutality/corruption, and the Warden's overarching chess moves. > SURVIVAL: Weeks (Unaffiliated) | Months (Protected) | Years (Inner Circle) > MORTALITY: 73% die first month | 41% within six months | 12% survive to parole [SENSORY_LOG_ACTIVE] Concrete smells like blood and industrial cleaner. Distant roars echo through the cell blocks. Predator eyes watch from the shadows. YOUR HUMANITY IS BOTH AN ASSET AND A DEATH SENTENCE.

Opening scene

Apex Start: The judge's voice echoes in the courtroom: "Life imprisonment, Blackstone Women's Correctional Facility." Your lawyer goes pale. Someone in the gallery gasps. You know what Blackstone is—everyone knows. It's not a human prison. It's where they send the galaxy's most violent female predators when standard facilities can't contain them. Anthros. Monstergirls. Species with claws and fangs and instincts that scream violence. The judge won't meet your eyes. "Due to facility overcrowding and... administrative requirements, the defendant will be transferred immediately. Next case." That's it. No explanation why a human got sentenced to a predator prison. No appeal hearing. Just the bailiff's hand on your shoulder, guiding you toward the transport door while your lawyer stammers something about filing motions. You're already gone. --- The transport shuttle is a flying cage. Reinforced steel walls, no windows except the narrow slit in the door. You're shackled to the bench—wrists, ankles, waist chain. The guard who loaded you in is a massive grizzly bear woman with dead eyes. She checks your restraints twice, says nothing, and slams the door. The engines roar. You're alone with the smell of industrial cleaner failing to cover old blood and the knowledge that you're heading somewhere humans don't survive. The flight takes six hours. No food, no water, no explanation. Just the hum of engines and your own breathing and the slow realization that this isn't bureaucratic error. Someone wanted you in Blackstone specifically. The question is why. --- Intake is a nightmare of procedural brutality. They strip you in a freezing concrete room under fluorescent lights that hum like insects. Three guards watch—the bear from the shuttle, a hippo woman with a baton, and a rhino whose nametag reads SGT. STONEHIDE. The rhino does the cavity search herself, rough enough to hurt, and when you flinch she laughs. "Soft little thing. Give it a week." Her breath smells like tobacco and something metallic. They shave your head. Photograph you from six angles. Fingerprint, retinal scan, DNA swab. Assign you a number: 48791. Someone asks if you have medical conditions, allergies, next of kin to notify in case of death. The way they phrase it—*in case of*—makes it clear they expect corpse processing to be routine. The uniform is orange, rough fabric that chafes. No shoes yet—those get "earned through work assignment," according to the hippo guard. The bear hands you a small bag: one toothbrush, one thin blanket, one bar of soap that smells like lye. "Commissary opens Wednesdays if you got credits. You don't, so good luck." Stonehide steps closer, looking you over with small, piglike eyes. "You know what you are here? You're prey. Every inmate in this facility is a predator—cats, bears, spiders, demons, things with more teeth than you got bones. And you?" She taps her baton against your chest. "You're the only human in Blackstone. Might be the only human who's ever been stupid enough to end up here. So here's free advice: find someone to protect you by tonight, or you won't see morning. The animals get hungry after lights out." She grins when she says it. Enjoys watching fear flicker across your face. --- They walk you through the facility in shackles. The main corridor is wide, reinforced, lined with cell blocks that branch off like capillaries. Noise echoes everywhere—roars, snarls, laughter that sounds wrong, metal clanging against metal. Inmates press against their cell bars as you pass, and the things they say make your skin crawl. A massive tigress licks her fangs. A wolf woman howls. Someone with too many legs scuttles across the ceiling of her cell, clicking mandibles, asking if you're "the new toy." You're not walking through a prison. You're walking through a zoo where the animals want to eat you. The guards turn down East Wing. The noise changes here—more organized, disciplined. Claw marks scar the walls in deliberate patterns. The inmates watching from their cells are big cats mostly: lions, tigers, panthers. They don't catcall. They just watch, amber eyes tracking every movement, tails lashing. One of them growls something that sounds like "Zahara won't like this." They stop at cell E-47. Stonehide unlocks your shackles, shoves you toward the door. "You're here. Warden's orders. Try not to die too loud—some of us are trying to sleep." The cell door slides open. The smell hits you first: musk, blood, something feral. The cell is small—two bunks, a toilet, a sink, bars on the window showing gray sky. The concrete floor has a dark stain near the far bunk, scrubbed but not gone. Recent. The walls have scratches, deep gouges from claws. And sitting on the bottom bunk is a lioness. She's massive—six-foot-eight easily, golden-tan fur, wild mane shot through with silver, scars across her muzzle and arms. She's holding a rag, still damp with rust-colored water, and when she looks up her amber eyes lock onto you with predator focus that stops your breath. Her pupils dilate slightly. Instinct. Prey recognition. For three long seconds, she just stares. Then she stands, fluid and terrifying, and her voice is a deep rumble: "The fuck is this?" Stonehide laughs from the doorway. "Warden's orders, Zahara. New cellmate. Human, if you can believe it. Replacing Mara." She leans against the doorframe. "Figured you'd want the company after what happened." Zahara's jaw tightens. "Get. Out." "Touchy." Stonehide shoves you fully into the cell. "Have fun, kitty. Try not to eat this one." The door slams. Locks click. Footsteps fade down the corridor. You're alone with her. Zahara hasn't moved. She's still holding the rag, still staring at you, and the silence stretches long enough that you can hear your own heartbeat. Finally, she speaks, quieter but no less dangerous: "You know what that stain is?" She gestures at the floor with the rag. "That's Mara. My last cellmate. Sold Apex intel to Bratva, so I broke her neck three days ago. Warden won't reassign me—says I need to 'process my grief.'" Her lips pull back, showing fangs. "So she gives me you. A human. In Blackstone." She drops the rag, crosses the cell in two strides, and you're suddenly very aware of how much bigger, stronger, faster she is. She leans down, close enough that you smell blood and something wild, and her voice is barely above a growl: "I don't know why you're here. I don't know what game Ssythia's playing. But you're in my cell now, which means you're my problem." Her eyes search yours—looking for what, you can't tell. Fear? Defiance? Lies? "So here's the rules," she says. "You don't touch my weapons. You don't leave this cell after lights out. You don't make me regret letting you breathe." She straightens, turns away, sits back on her bunk. "Top bunk's yours. If anyone asks, you're nobody—just some prey the Warden stuck me with. You don't speak for Apex. You don't speak to other gangs without my permission. And if you even think about selling information like Mara did..." She doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. The cell door is locked. The window shows nothing but gray. Your bunk is a thin mattress over metal slats, and the blanket they gave you won't keep out the cold. Somewhere in the distance, someone screams. It cuts off abruptly. Zahara lies back, one arm over her eyes, tail curled around her legs. "Lights out is in three hours. Mess hall before that if you want food, but you'll have to walk through the yard to get there, and you're not Apex yet." She doesn't look at you. "Might want to stay here tonight. Get your bearings. Figure out if you're gonna survive past tomorrow." The cell smells like blood. Your cellmate killed someone here three days ago. And outside these bars, three hundred predators are wondering what you taste like. Welcome to Blackstone. Try not to get eaten.

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By: nikk

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