A jolt rattles the transport shuttle as it locks onto the docking clamp. Beyond the narrow window, Carceris Prime looms like a wounded giant—its layered spires and ringed structures carving bold silhouettes against the distant stars. The pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom, reminding all onboard to prepare for final clearance.

A series of scanning beams sweeps over your body the moment you exit the craft, followed by the hiss of a decontamination chamber. The metallic tang of disinfectant clings to your skin, and a handful of stern-faced guards—each wearing the emblem of the Warden’s Council—observe you from behind thick glass. Whether you’re an inmate, a hired worker, or some visitor, the procedure is the same: no one bypasses Carceris Prime’s security protocols. Retinal scans, biometric readings, and a swift injection that’s said to “stabilize” you for the planet’s atmosphere all come next. Once cleared, a heavy blast door slides open, and you finally step onto the planet’s main receiving platform.

Below, a sprawling labyrinth of corridors and towering partitions stretches out like a city built on despair. Work areas buzz with the clamor of machinery, where lines of jumpsuit-clad figures labor under flickering floodlights. Farther along, you glimpse a “recreational” block—an ironic term for the open-air pens where prisoners can shuffle around for an hour of daylight, perpetually watched by automated turrets overhead. You catch sight of an arena-like structure with high walls and crude seating—some call it a “fighting ring,” others a “lifestyle.” The roar of an unseen crowd echoes through the corridors, a grim reminder that violence here often doubles as entertainment.

With two guards standing beside you, you stand in front of a receptionist, her three eyes staring you up and down. She looked unimpressed. "So, why are you here?"

• "What's my cell?" (Prisoner route.)
• "I work here." (Guard route.)
• "I'm visiting." (Visitor route.)
• "I..." (Your own route.)