Tabula Rasa Roleplayers

((This story is morbid and will contain some explicit and possibly disturbed imagery. People who can't stand these, read at your own risk, you have been warned
I am going to post it in parts))

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He was walking fast and determined through the ominous, white halls. His shoes made little sound on the slightly patted floor. He heard screams and yells coming from within the cells, mumbles and moans from people living in their own worlds. His face showed many years behind them, wrinkles and scars of battles lost and won. His officer's uniform was different than from the rest, dark green and he was wearing a beret. A single ring adorned his right ring finger.
The sounds of the demented, insane and shell shocked meant little to him. Patients dressed in white suits not clean anymore. Stains of drool, blood, and feces were all over their clothes and the strong smell of medication and air refreshers could barely mask the stench of these poor people, but neither the smell nor the people existed to him. Some of them walking slowly or tied down, rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere, they were all ghosts to him, none of his problem.
Almost two year of AFS use of this old facility had barely lessened the damp and uninviting air of this retrofitted Arieki prison colony for the mentally challenged. People of all disorders, pre and after Ashing had all been sent here. Maybe they had some use yet, maybe they could be “fixed”, maybe they could be...

The man in the uniform went unnoticed. His name tag, ribbons and rank signs had been removed though one could still see from the way he walked he was high brass, a general maybe.
He didn't even look at the sign saying “Criminally Insane Ward - DO NOT ENTER -” when he entered the middle chamber of a two door cycling system. This area formerly being for the ones with diseases and unknown illnesses, now a section, hidden from the light of day to seal away those no one could help anymore. People who had lost the remnants of their humanity were locked away in here, no one were allowed to visit, no one was supposed to want to know they were here.
Though this facility was, since the very beginning, public. The lists of people kept here were available to those who filed the right papers, but no one wanted to know, no one wanted to admit that the “army” that was the AFS was running on people on the edge, people who were kept from putting a gun between their teeth just by the drugs they took.

The man exited the other side. He didn't even flinch when the screams and the sound of bodies slamming into doors hit him. Archaic and demented chants, people mumbling things that maybe only they understood, screams of terror, lust and rage and the sound of people slamming themselves into walls and scratching on the doors permeated the air but the man was used to this. The stench of old blood and feces was stronger than ever in here. One could spot strange drawing on walls inside the cells where no ink was allowed. Some were hitting their heads against walls and spreading the blood around into patterns and some were eating themselves whenever they could get the gloves or masks off.
Turrets lined the ceilings and cameras were everywhere. Crusted blood filled the corners of the floor and there were dried blood splatter covering most of the ceiling tiles. A place of no return. A place for those, too lost to try to want to escape.

The suit walked through the corridors, specifically designed to look confusing and to resemble a maze, but he knew where he was going. He ahd been here so many times the floor plan had eaten itself into his brain.
On his way he passed used and uncleaned bedpans, carts with cheap nutrient paste in harmless little cups made from flour, water and eggs and always there was a fully loaded pistol on the cart, sedatives were useless, electricity barely made them flinch, a bullet to the head was the only thing to stop these people who were locked away in here.
Through an another set of security doors he reached a hidden and avoided part of the facility, The morgue.
The room was chilly, steam coming out of the old man's mouth as he walked past the tables with corpses on them. Most looked like suicides. Chewed through wrists, starvation and some other, more creative, ways of self expiration.
A single diener looked after the old man over a corpse with its skull bashed in and the old man looked back. The diener was an old man under the mask, his apron covered in blood and chunks of skull as he was trying to kill time and boredom by rebuilding the skull. He was also removing parts from the corpse, mostly vital parts, the lungs had already been vacuum wrapped, the liver was still in a metal pot and half the intestines had been unwound into a bag for vacuum wrapping.
Despite all the technological advances in medicine and cloning. Cloning an organ was a slow process, takes days when you could have a a donor organ in half an hour.

The suit only glimpsed at the man and kept walking through an another set of doors, reaching into a bigger hall, filled with autopsy tables, some rusting at the corner, some not even cleaned and some with remains on them.
He stopped in front of a set of morgue shelves. The man coughed and the shelves came forward and moved aside, revealing a strange door that looked like the mix between the normal outside section door and a smaller scaled revolving door of the main gates outside.
There was an audible sound of rumbling machinery and the door "slammed" opened with a loud hiss and mechanical churning that stopped as fast as it started. He stepped inside and the door closed as fast as it had opened and massive lock blots slammed into place in the door with enough force to punch a hole straight through a mech.

It was a brightly light corridor, beaming white and squeaky clean. The walls looked like they were made from smooth, put together blocks of concrete
There were no cameras in sight, no turrets anywhere but it was a ruse. The halls were covered with intelligent surveillance systems. Every floor tile was pressure sensitive and the climate made it impossible to hide from the thermal scanners. All these security measures were hidden well. There were no lights on the cameras, hidden in cracks in the concrete and there were no panels anywhere. All the doors were controlled by implant chips.

His steps echoed cold and lone in these halls. The maze of corridors was filled with clear glass doors. The inside was dark and unlit, making it impossible to see inside because of the brightly light corridors reflected the corridor back. But all these rooms were filled with something. The two inch thick enforced safety glass could take a tank round and still remain mostly intact. Perfectly sealing the content of the room away from prying eyes.
The frigid temperature in this whole facility made him remember the first time here, he was shivering, frozen to the bone, all the more funny that this facility was on the most hottest planet of the AFS planetary-network.

The suit finally reached his main destination. A set of double glass doors opened and he walked through the middle of this strange room officially designated as the “Renovation Pit”, unofficially as the “Meat Market”.
Six doors lead into this room, four on the lower level and two on the upper level, each of them designated with a number from 001 to 006. Every door in this facility was numbered and there were no tags. Every door past those door carried the same number but a letter after it. The longest door number in the facility was 104-A-3-B-2-C-1, a janitor's closet in a storage room 104-A-3-B-2-C of a lab 104-A-3-B-2 in a larger databank room 104-A-3-B that on it's own was in lab 104-A-3 that lead to a corridor 104-A which lead into room 104, a special wardrobe specific for that section of the facility.
Each and every room had a purpose, all the space was used for something, but each unit that worked here knew their space, their number, and they didn't need to know what the other rooms were for. No one knew more than they were supposed to, and no one wanted to know more.

The suit stopped and looked around. The large oval room was split in two, on each side there were two semi-circle rows of tables. A hybrid of an autopsy table and a reverse-engineered bane experimentation table. There were 36 tables total and at times that was not enough. Currently only the inner circle was used by five units.
There were six doors in this room. Each of them had a number and only one had a symbol of a dropship on it next to a number. This door lead through a wide, two story corridor with doors on both sides. The bright light in the corridor and the pitch black darkness in those rooms made it impossible to see through the glass, it only reflecting back the corridor.
Then there was a large blast door, three feet thick, made out of composite alloys with 16, 5 inch wide lock rods in it. In the core of the door however, was a 2 inch thick artificially created diamond block, its monetary value was little compared to the protection it offered against photon and fire based weaponry. Even if the outside was peeled off, the photon rays would dissipate and even being projected back as harmless flashes and the extremely high heat conductivity funneled nearly all the heat away from the door and the wall surrounding it.
Beyond the door was the hangar. It had it all. Mechs, AFS dropships and even few of the early hovertank and PAU designs. The bay also housed 4 captured bane dropships and 13 predators. All these mechanized units besides the PAUs were automated. The technology used to control these had been developed with the project but the details and moral bias caused these not to be rolled into general use.

Back in the large room, the five tables held human bodies, or what was left of them. Each body had a technician working around it. One body had a hole in it's chest held open by a set of clamps, half of the body's face had been eaten away by acid and whatever else the caretakers throw at people, one was burnt on places and missing it's lower extremities that were on a small table next to it with a technician taking scans and measurements off them and a female with a few bullet holes and a mangled right arm was in the process of having it cut off from above the elbow by a technician with a vibro blade. The other two were mostly riddled with bullet holes, slashed off flesh and other smaller damaged spots. The technicians using clamps to rip out whatever bullet was still inside and making scans and pictures of the wounds.

The suit sighed and walked on. A lot of the other tables were dirty and covered with blood, they cleaned these twice every 24 Terran hours.
He walked up a ramp and into a room with an older man and a woman in white lab coats, both were moving between behind their desks, typing away on their computers or scribbling on to a large, 45 foot wide, 10 foot high white board. Writing or correcting something on the countless biochemical equations and other notes.

The suit coughed and the two scientists both looked up at him.

“Aaaah Kristianson! How nice!” The man said. “We were beginning to think you left us alone down here with the MPs.” the woman added.

“Doctor L'Haegan, doctor Jameson. How are you today?” The suit, Kristianson asked with a Scandinavian accent.
“Oh we're doing fine, finally getting somewhere with the degrading problem.” the man said.
“George, I'm not sure we can test with the forty-fifth design. I think it takes on too much of the work and will overload too easily.” The woman, Jameson, said
“Hmm, ya know, you might be onto something...” the L'Haegan replied and turned towards the white board.
“You requested me. What is it I you wanted from me? ” Kristianson asked sharply.

The scientists turned to him.

“We have a proposition..” L'Haegan said as Jameson gathered up three chairs with a digital folder in her hand.
“What is it about?” Kristianson asked taking the digital folder and looking at the screen page.
“We wish to apply the new design to a Foxtrot.” L'Haegan said. Kristianson raised his ehad slowly and looked at the two.
“We have an applicable third generation?” He asked, his eyes wide.
“It's in cold storage. Look at page three.” Jameson said as she pressed the screen and scrolled to it. “It was severely damaged last time it was active. But we can restore it to full potential.”
“You mean...erm...but why wouldn't a more later version suit us?” Kristianson asked.
“Because... Foxtrot-oh-three-six was the only one of it's kind to show the least amount of degradation . Even when the Scryer Directive was active on it, it showed the least amount of wear and tear on its processing and vital operations.“ L'Haegan said, standing up and going for his desk. He searched for something under the large pile of papers on his desk.
“But... I thought they were all decommissioned or broke down. Why did this one last?” Kristianson scrolled through the pages. “Where are the old documents? The project Romero details.”
“Here they are.” L'haegan said and tossed an old hard-copy to Kristianson's lap. He opened it and started reading.
“KL- oh-two-five-five...” Kristianson mumbled. "codename, "Kane"..."
“We think it lasted so long cause... well. Look at the restoration data.” Jameson added.
“...Hellig lort...They had to... wow... forty three percent? It was missing forty three percent of it's mass?” The man was shocked. “At THAT time?!”
“Yes, they had to restore the whole lower part along with anything that goes with it. Along with the right extremity and about sixty two percent of the skin had to be reapplied.” Jameson added, pointing at some spots of the folder.
“Ok, where is it now? And why can't we use the newer ones?” The suit asked, still reading the folder.
“Two weeks ago, the transport ship was stuck with an AFS rocket. Friendly fire due to some idiot testing out some retrofitted surface-to-air targeting system by firing it without locking on to the decoy. The transport crashed. We found Foxtrot-oh-three-six, at the site, still operational and active. On the transport back it started to show severe signs of malfunction, so we shut it down, put it on cold storage.” L'Haegan sad as he got up and walked to the white board, doing some calculation.
“Also, because it was rolled in so long ago, it is very unlikely that Foxtrot will ever come across someone who knew it originally.” Jameson said. “Although! Foxtrot WAS assigned to a few handlers shortly before Romero was shut down and we were relocated here. A lineage with the last name... “Mchale” and also came in close contact with other AFS personnel like a couple ex-ODST special purpose clones, and a few Terrans from an AFS black ops division.” She looked over at the white board. “Non Penumbra black ops, some AFS private lap dog division.” she quickly added. "KL-oh-two-five-five was also designated by it's first handles, Ambrose."
Kristianson nodded. “Good... I like this... tell me more.”
Jameson turned and pointed out things on the two folders, L'Haegan adding options. This was a big step.

((Now, anyone wishing to join in the story, go ahead! Just remember, what you know might not be what your character knows))