Flassche: Tartarus (open)

[DarkEnigma]

Please refrain from replying directly to this thread, Pm me if you are interested.

Title: Tartarus

Excerpt:
In the year of 2037 a prison had been built by mankind to house the souls that are deemed unworthy or to vile to walk free, all in an effort to stop the rising crime rate in the world.
There are little rules within the prison and the strong prey on the weak. But like within every environment in the world, there are also things that even the predators fear; a monster.


Content:
-non-con/dub-con
-Violence
-Racial play
-Gore
-Medical play
-Pregnancy (risk of)

Setting:
Modern/slight sci-fi

My Character(s):
To be filled in

Your Character(s):
The story was written with either one or several characters in mind. Age, physical/mental traits would be up to my partner to decide. I am comfortable with playing against one main character, but would eagerly accept more.
Any gender, sexuality or race is up to you to choose, although I am drawn to either a heterosexual male or lesbian female, just to make the whole act more degrading.

Inspiration for the scene:
Weird dreams

[DarkEnigma]

Tartarus Chapter zero: Recalling history

In classic mythology there existed a place called Tartarus. It is a deep, gloomy place, a pit, or an abyss used as a dungeon of torment and suffering that resides beneath the underworld. This prison housed the Titans; foul creatures who had committed every sin imaginable. The gods had built this prison to keep these fiends secure and away from the purity of light.
Fitting then that in the year of 2037 a similar prison had been built by mankind to house its own titans. In a mere twenty short years mankind had lost its innocence –or what was left of it- due to technological advancements and increasingly growing poverty, unemployment and lacking social security. Crimes rates reached an all-time high and quickly prisons began to fill up with all kinds of inmates. In a desperate act for security and control, numerous nations across the world united their efforts to stop this rising crime rate. After 13 years of building, their united effort had finally paid off. It was dubbed the Tartarus.

A long corridor. They had to walk it all the way, exposed, under the observation of the vigilant but ever-blank faces of the guards. The miserable, pathetic prisoners’ eyes were trying to devour them, a corrupted glint in them at the expectation of new spectacles and the walking dead. The pale faces, blue lips and digits spoke volumes off the freezing temperature outside, sometimes plummeting as low as -90 degrees Celsius. Within the walls of Tartarus was a constant temperature off 15 degrees Celsius, not enough to offer comfort, yet enough to keep a soul alive.
Thoughts of escape were foolish and taken from you when you arrived here, having to walk through the icy coldness and seeing the hundreds or so frozen corpses all around the entrance.
Should a prisoner step one foot outside the walls of Tartarus it would quickly become clear why it is the most secure prison in this world.

The facility is built on top of Mount Terror, a large shield volcano that forms the eastern part of Ross Island, Antarctica. With a summit elevation of 3230 meters and numerous cinder cones and domes on the flanks of the shield, it holds a facility of several thousand tons off imported material, although iron and other metals are mined by inmates nowadays. It is currently housing 54.000 thousand inmates with a weekly death rate of 0.7%. Food and water is grown and distilled inside the facility, maintained by automated systems, or on lower floors by prisoners. Every two weeks supplies will arrive per boat, carrying supplies and new inmates. Guards and other staff work two week shifts, each constantly screened upon arrival and leaving. When offered enough credits, inmates can put in an order for supplies and items that are considered ‘safe’ enough.

The facility consists of 60 floors; 54 serving as housing for the inmates, with around a thousand per floor; the other six floors serve specific functions. Inmates are branded with a specific unique barcode upon arrival and been granted a number. The barcode serves as a personal id, allowing them to access their own quarters and sign up for work. The more work an inmate does, the more credit is earned at the end of the week, provided they live that long. The lower the floor a prisoner lives on, the closer he is to the surface and frequent guard patrols. The lower areas are almost never patrolled and dubbed the ‘red floors’.

The prison itself was for all genders, race or nationality. The only rule was that a person had to be older than eighteen to be considered ‘too old to correct’.
Many men, women and other creative genders had been thrown into this place and never returned. Some fought against their banishment, others actively tried to better their lives and work for credits. A person with a high enough credit could buy himself many luxurious items to make his life a bit better, or buy himself up to a floor closer to the surface.

There are 5 simple rules within Tartarus.
1. Any aggression in what shape or form directed at a staff member will result in either death or the cold walk.
2. Any escape attempt will be met with either death or the cold walk.
3. Any inmate caught assaulting another inmate will be downgraded 5 floors or subjected to beatings.
4. Any inmate caught murdering another inmate will be downgraded 15 floors or subjected to beatings.
5. Any inmates caught carrying weapons will be shot on sight, regardless of having used them or not.



Lance Mathew Grey, a spectacle! He hated shows and exhibitions. He could only go through with them when he knew it was necessary for the deceit of the masses. He had always derived immense pleasure from the knowledge that he knew more than what he let the world know. It was almost arousing to be seen as the whimpering fool, when he was planning to strangle the arrogant multitudes in new ways. How many years had it been now since he had been forced in this rotten dump… ten.. maybe twelve years now? He had been one of the first –the best humanity had to offer- too have been dammed to this place. He was one of the few inmates that still bore the barcode upon his right wrist. It quickly had been changed location from the wrists to the shoulder, seeing as dismemberment was a frequent occurrence in the beginning. A ‘barred wrists’ usually was a sign of respect and honour amongst inmates; only a few hundred of them were still living, after all these years. Ancients, people called them, bah! Idiots.

Lance usually kept a low profile, not like back in the beginning. He stayed clear from the three major clans or smaller gangs and kept his mind busy upon other things. A handful people know him by name, or at least what he had told them. Although his face and name was quickly dismissed, his code wasn’t. 112 was the shortest number on the list, making him the eldest. No one knew who 112 was, some even claimed it was a myth. All the people knew was that the beginning of the Tartarus project was covered in blood. 112 murders had taken place within two years. The murders had been systematically. First inmate 111 was found in his cell with a piece of iron jammed in his chest. Inmate 110 remains had been scattered all over the facility. The murders went on for days, months even. Finally when Inmate 1 died, the other inmates thought they were safe, that it was over. A day later they found inmate 113, strung up against the door leading to the service elevator, the number 112 carved in his chest. 

Murder. His father had done it occasionally for the money. A brutal man, however brilliant, whose sole aim in life was to make more money, preferably by using others. Lance was different. His aim, what gave meaning to his existence, was to make artwork out of others. Taking a life from it was just a pleasant fringe-benefit.
Yes, Hunting everything that was strong or blissful excited him more than anything else. The night when he had confronted the brave and blindly, infuriatingly dull Jacob Wordling -or inmate 1- had been one of his most fascinating experiences; one of his more triumphant victories.

Lance had been sent in this place due to a high number of criminal charges, including two attempts at murder and one first degree manslaughter. On the outside he had been a child; unskilled hands slamming a brush against a canvas and arrogantly calling it art. Tartarus had given him clarity and meaning. Each kill had shown him how to increase his skill. Each kill was more rewarding to witness.

Now he occasionally dabbled in his artwork, picking off an Inmate who he decided was ‘durable’ enough for him to practise his skills on, lest he loose his touch. Yet for all the killing and art he had committed, he lacked one thing; a connection. There was no one in this constructed hell that could be considered an equal. There was none that viewed his art in the way he did. There was no love, no affection, nothing. His heart was like the weather outside of these walls, freezing and desperate for warmth. Imagine his shock and reaction when he heard that numbers were going to be ‘recycled’ when a prisoner had died. For five years the numbers 1 to 111 and 113 had been a way to describe this ‘wraith’ that had haunted this prison. Yet now it seemed that the legacy of 112 was at an end, fresh meat was going to fill in the gaps, like concrete dumped on a trophy wall, covering it completely.

Lance’s eyes were scanning the row of scared inmates that were being send inside Tartarus. They wore the dull prison uniform; brown and grey fabric. By his counting at least three hundred souls had been claimed by Tartarus this week. A good number. No doubt enough to fill the gaps that were once whispered in awe. Lance was actually quite startled to see an inmate with the number 112 on the shoulder. For once in his many years here in Tartarus he found himself grinning. A long an thin smile. Perhaps there was one other that would understand him! If not he would mould the inmate into perfection. He wasn’t the only one to notice though. A few murmurs began as the new inmate 112 was pressed into the wardens office. The number 112 was something that instilled fear. No doubt the clans that ruled these floors would want to get their hands on the inmate. That.. or kill.

With that in mind Lance began planning his greatest piece of art ever, both for 112 and the numbers before it.

[DarkEnigma]

Change log

13-04-2017 – Added the plot.
16-04-2017 – Changed the intro.