Thread: Flassche's house of plot/smut: open for all.

Realistic Tartarus Title Tartarus Excerpt Imagine being send to the most secure prison in the world. One that, despite its relatively young age, is covered in a bloody history. Both inmates and guards have heard of the tales of the blood Ghost, or prisoner 112. So what happens when your character not only gets send to this hell hole, but also receives the prisoner number 112. Both the plot and smut devices would be similar, dark and intense. Content -Prison -Crime -Noncon -Murder Scenario 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 2033 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 shrinking job markets and 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 ever 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 31,2 degrees Celsius. Should a prisoner step one foot outside the walls of Tartarus and 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 now a days. It is currently housing 54.000 thousand inmates with a daily death rate of 0,1. Food and water is grown and distilled inside the facility, maintained 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 a 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 other 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. There are 4 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 or murdering another inmate will be executed or send out for a cold walk. 4. Any inmates caught carrying weapons will be shot on sight, regardless of having used them or not. Blake 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 four.. maybe five years now? He had been one of the first the best of the worst humanity had to offer- too have been sent 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. Blake 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 wasnt. 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 half a year. 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. Blake 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. He 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 lost 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. Blakes 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. Blake 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 and thin smile. Perhaps there was one other that would understand him! If not he would mould the inmate into perfection. He wasnt 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. Setting Realistic My Characters Blake Mathew Grey would be a born and bred killer, raised from a very young age to be a professional assassin, yet further honed to perfection in the prison where he now dwells. He is tall young man, yet his eyes are hard and icy blue, almost sharing a connection with the frozen landscape outside of the prison. To the outside is seen as a shy and nave prisoner, often associated with someone who did financial crimes. As soon as he takes of this mask he would assume the role of a sharp and almost regal individual, charming and deliciously instable. Your Characters The number 112 alone would not suffice. He or she would need something unique, something that keep the Ghost interested and possessive. She could be older, he could be younger. She might be much more aggressive, he more sly. Try to conjure up with a character that is either as unique as you can manage or find something that would supplement the Ghost. Either one or more main characters are allowed. Requirements Some measure of knowledge about how prisonsgangs work. Able to play side characters if the need arrives. Other information -Possible elements of impregnationpregnancy -Possible elements of Physicalmental alterations -Possible Gender swap. Inspiration for the scene -None.