Originally designated "Deep sea research platform G-13" the facility was constructed several decades earlier in 2048, during the resurgence of deep sea exploration interest by private corporations and and governments in search of new mineral resources and habitable locations for the burgeoning glut of humanity that were suffocating the lands above.
The sprawling complex was constructed on the kind of shoe string budget only governments could justify as acceptable, and filled with contracted employees no one would miss top side, G-13 entered service amidst rumors of global war and world wide famine.
Among those unfortunate chosen to inhabit the creaking structure over 27,000 feet below the surface at the bottom of the Marinias trench, a small group were quietly grateful they could escape the turmoil and havoc taking place topside, confident their refuge at the bottom of the sea would be spared any global apocalypse that might befall civilization as a whole.
The small number of separatists found themselves surrounded by a few hundred fellow scientists and government contracted employees; who had little in the way of contact with the surface beyond weekly up-links through com buoys and the monthly supply shuttle.
This isolated community proved the perfect breeding ground for their anti government sentiments to take hold, the idea of a sovereign nation on the ocean floor holding an almost romantic flair, and the heady dream of freedom captured the minds of G-13's occupants in short order.
The declaration of independence by the research station 18 months later was met by a mixture of disbelief and incredulation by the world as a whole. Many of the oppressed masses voiced support, and admiration for their courage, corporations seeing an opportunity for quick profit in the trade of essential commodities to the newly christened under sea nation in return for deep sea scientific research breakthroughs and the locations of previously unknown metallurgical riches from the depths.
The sponsoring government of the facility however was less enthusiastic, and fearing such rebellious sentiments would catch on among their other outlying colonies on the moon and asteroid belt, moved to silence the upstart colony with extreme prejudice.
Realizing a blockade of the facility at such a depth was not only impractical, but would also generate sympathy among the unwashed masses of earth, the governmental body took a less direct approach and publicly exonerated the fledgling nation; pardoning the treasonous act of sedition, and generously donating several months of needed supplies to the colony as a gesture of goodwill.
The supplies were everything the colony needed, filters for the air filtration system, medical supplies, spare uniforms, and of course, food, both canned and fresh; enough to maintain the colony for the better part of a year barring any unforeseen tragedies.
Suspicious of a Trojan horse the colonists carefully examined the food and medical supplies, relieved and pleasantly surprised to find no hint of poisons or toxic contaminants; a relief that was short lived after the shipment was distributed to the colonists.
Unknown to the residents of G-13, the new work uniforms and luxury clothing had been laced with a weaponized hallucinogen, that when absorbed through the skin of the colonists resulted in the manifestation of symptoms similar to nitrogen narcosis, and violent cannibalistic tendencies that sowed chaos throughout the facility in short order.
*Recovered security tape 17-201, G-13 Recreational lounge 7, authorization Blue Delta required for viewing access*
The camera flashes to life, positioned high in the corner of the room, the flashing emergency lights giving the scene a surrealistic appearance, as the image on the screen becomes nauseatingly clear.
Blood is splashed in deadly Rorschach designs over the walls and ceiling above a dying scientist, and dribbles onto the floor in long thin black-red streaks. Dark strands of it shoot from the man's chest and tattered throat in rhythmic spurts. His blood-covered hands slapping the tiled floor, leaving smeared hand prints as the heels of his shoes thunk together spasmodically.
The creature that hunkers over the convulsing body is only vaguely recognizable as human in shape. Its naked body is covered in blood, bits of flesh clinging to its hair and lodging in the sagging folds of its flabby torso. Tremors of pleasure pass over it, causing the mass of porcine flesh to undulate uncontrollably. The man, or what used to be one hisses with satisfaction as he plunges a gore encrusted hand into the dying researchers' chest and tears out something with a moist ripping sound.
The image plunges into blackness as the emergency lightning fades to a dim flicker, the wet feasting sounds echoing into the darkness.
After contact with the research facility was lost, an investigative team later reported the cause to be "The degradation of mental sanity due to the pressures of the living environment causing a break down in social order and resulting loss of all inhabitants."
Shortly after the "G-13 incident" as it was later referred to, new breakthroughs in interstellar space travel (specifically the Cherknovsky space fold drive) left the facility, and underwater exploration as a whole largely forgotten, humanity focusing their energies (and resources) on exploring nearby star systems.
It wasn't until nearly 30 years later, looking for a cost effective location to incarcerate criminals on the home world, the newly formed United Earth Government ran across old files of an underwater research facility from almost a half century ago.
Initial examinations showed the facility was still mostly intact, and with a small investment of time and prisoner labor, could be rendered suitable for human habitation once more.
A new geothermal plant, several contingents of cyber enhanced security guards, (culled from military personnel considered unfit for active duty any longer) and a small mining facility to turn a marginal profit and keep the 400 plus inmates occupied rounded out the retrofit.
Jokingly referred to as "The Lockdown in Davy Jones Locker" it quickly earned the more catchy nickname "Davy Jones Lockdown" or more commonly DJL among convicts and guards alike.
Locations of Interest
Few vessels can survive the crushing pressures of 27,000 feet of ocean, and even fewer still are capable of deploying weaponry that will function at such extreme depths. None the less when G-13 was being re-purposed, Earth Gov felt it necessary to protect the facility against attempted rescues by terrorist and political sympathizers, and installed a rudimentary defenses system.
A small fleet of automated disassembly drones were refitted and installed in an unused wing of the facility. Their plasma torches and diamond saws able to slice through the hulls of ocean going vessels with frightening ease; the immense pressure imploding an enemy scant seconds after a hull breech occured.
Although slow and ponderous by aquatic combat standards, these drones are more then a match for most deep sea transports and offensive vessels that find their torpedoes unusable at such crushing depths.
Most often the drones lie scattered about the ocean floor surrounding the facility, and higher up on the trench walls, poised to rain down and erupt under unsuspecting visitors that lack the proper security clearance.
Where new inmates are introduced to the facility, meet warden Flag, and given their initial work uniforms and physical exam, along with being briefed on the facilities rules and safety requirements.
The guards stationed here are usually corrupt, and a savvy prisoner can smuggle through small items of contraband without much difficulty, although the senior inmates of Davy Jones tend to also gather and take stock of the "fresh fish," often scouting out a few favored candidates for the pit fights, or other more illicit uses.
Formerly a large research laboratory converted into a general mess hall. The lighting here is harsh, bright white surgical bulbs, overlapping light beams and gleaming stainless steel tables mingle with white washed walls to give the place an almost dazzling appearance to imhabitants more accustomed to the dim lightning of other areas of the facility.
Nicknamed "the sun room" by the inmates, this area is known for it's lack of shadows, and stifling warmth. Often during the end of meal times condensation can be seen dripping from light fixtures, with a thin haze of fog gathering at knee height amongst the operating slabs turned dinner tables.
Situated just off the mess hall, the Kitchen is filled with the mechanical cacophony of automatic dishwashers, commercial sized food processors, and an industrial stove many would swear came from an 18th century steam ship.
Run off of excess steam from the geo thermal plant, this ancient stove is the pride and joy of the kitchens cook, Rockland, a former navy Chef that found himself reassigned to Davy Jones after an unfortunate incident involving an Admirals dinner.
When not being used to produce meals for the facilities 422 inmates, the kitchen area is home to many a card or dice game, with players often wagering their next meal against an extra helping of the local favorites.
Cramped and reeking of chemicals, the medical wing of Davy Jones is closely monitored by the guards, security camera emplacements and automated drones patrolling the concrete corridors and no frills patient rooms on a continual basis.
The controlled substances stored here are labeled with barcodes rather then names, to prevent patient theft and black market trade, with many of the doses being pre-measured in disposable injectors or personally administered by the head surgeon.
Rumors persist of a back room surgical suite where particularly unruly prisoners are harvested for their organs, and human genome experimentation is conducted to further military agendas.
Geo Thermal Plant
The beating heart of Davy Jones, this relatively new addition uses the heat of the earth itself to generate steam for two megalithic turbines, and shunts the excess heat into the facilities environmental systems, a process that while efficient on paper, has proven to be anything but in light of the reality of prisoner maintenance schedules and refurbished parts.
Tightly controlled access and oppressive heat makes this area one of the fewest visited in the entire compound, with the security patrols often making cursory inspections and leaving the work crews largely unsupervised beyond the mandatory minimum. Even drones in the area tend to malfunction from the extreme heat and humidity, resulting in costly downtimes.
Rumors also persist of a former group of inmates having a sizeable distillery in this part of the prison, using vegetation from the fungus farm to brew an addictive hallucinogenic alcohol guards and prisoners alike coveted beyond measure.
More recently cases of a parasitic fungus growing along the pipes haves been reported, feeding off of the grease and lubrication used to keep the numerous valves and pistons functioning. If exposed to grease covered skin this fast fungus has been said to take root in flesh alarmingly quick, resulting in loss of the exposed extremity in a matter of hours if not treated.
Hallways and Corridors
Narrow and dimply lit, these connection points between compound structures echo with a continual dripping, the re-circulated air damp and fetid in many places where the ventilation has become clogged or shut down entirely. Fortunately the sump pumps keep the pools of water to a minimum, and the metal grating provides secure footing for those who tread carefully.
Scattered throughout the compound, these disposal chutes are a direct line to the magma vent located under the facility itself. Approximately two and half feet square, these pipelines are used to dispose of unwanted trash and debris. As a safety feature the entrance hatches require a security guards thumb print and ID before opening, although a few of the more technically minded inmates claim to know how to by pass the system; for the right price.
Tidal Generator Area
Stretched along the trench floor behind the facility, the generators themselves rarely see use except in an emergency capacity, the ocean currents at this level too miniscule to provide more then minimal power to the Lockdown.
None the less these generators must be maintained, and so unlucky "volunteers" (as the guards choose to call them) are suited up in deep sea encounter suits and sent out to perform maintenance every few months. To prevent escape each suit is implanted with a remote explosive, set to detonate upon losing its carrier signal form the facility itself, a signal that barely stretches to the outer reaches of the generator flats.
Most recently the guards have began utilizing one of the diving pools as a make shift dueling arena, placing convicts into encounter suits, (or letting them fight without if they posses cyberware of their own) and betting on the over all victor. Brutal and noisy, the fights are huge crowd pleasers, and are often discretely broadcast over internal video systems to those few prisoners with enough clout to watch the battles, and bet on the outcomes.
Cold, damp, and poorly lit, this area reeks of rotting vegetation and mildew, the pale white stalks and hanging curtains of fungus swaying softly in the artificial breeze. The drip of moisture is prevalent in this part of the complex, with the air said to have a chill that gets into your bones and doesn't leave for hours after exiting the area.
As quiet as a morgue, some inmates, (and even guards) go here to get away from the noise of the rest of the facility, finding an almost tranquil peace amidst the moldy vegetation. More then one couple has used this location as an impromptu rendezvous for romantic interludes or the trading contraband away from the prying eyes of guards and fellow inmates.
The plants grown here are often processed, and then mixed in with the regular rations to provide bulk and variety in the prisoners diets. Some inmates have also attempted to grow recreational fungus breeds that could be dried and smoked, or ingested for psychedelic effects. Such projects however have often resulted in unpredictable side effects and the psychotic rampage of more then one prisoner in search of the ultimate rush.
Previously a large gymnasium, when the facility was overhauled much of the sports equipment was discarded in favor of an open area where inmates could move about in larger groups and escape the confined feeling of the depths.
Several weight sets and a pair of warped basket ball hoops now adorn the area, much of the expanse largely unfilled save for a few picnic tables and benches. The lighting here often fluctuates, varying between a pleasant almost sunlight glow, and a migraine inducing flicker and hum that sets ones teeth on edge.
On the weekends many of the inmates host a popular fight club, with participants first spinning a random handicap wheel, (little more then a table top, mounted on a swivel with various fight conditions written on it from "one hand tied behind back" to "blind folded and given a club" ) and abiding by the results.
Originally this area also contained a section of imitation grass and prerecorded nature sounds, complete with fake trees and foliage. Such amenities have long since fallen into disrepair, although the cry of a lone song bird is said to echo across the expanse in the wee hours of the night.
Re-appropriated living quarters of the structures former inhabitants, these cells are almost luxurious compared to a regular prisons; still containing much of the accommodations the researchers used to enjoy.
Averaging fifteen by ten feet, each cell contains a comfortable set of bunk beds, and metal lockers bolted to the walls. A small sofa or set of lounge chairs used to accompany most rooms, but were replaced by a welded steel desk and chair combination, with a toilet and sink wedged into the back end of the rooms during refit.
On the far wall across from the door is embedded an artificial scenery display screen, (compliments of Imagascene, bringing the beauty of the world to you!) installed during the facilities initial construction. Little more then high tech computer monitors these display screens can be programmed to present the viewer with hundreds of different vistas, from the snowy Himalayas to a tranquil city panorama, complete with appropriate sounds.
Despite decades of neglect many of these monitors still function to a degree, giving the prison cells a spark of life, and letting the inmates briefly forget their current entombment at the bottom of the ocean. Other monitors however sport cracked and flickering displays or are broken entirely; with even fewer still jury rigged to give video feeds from cameras through out the facility, or play continuous 8 minute loops of pornographic videos.
Conveniently located near the geothermal section of the facility, this long rectangular room reeks of sweat socks and the sickly smell of cheap perfume, accompanied by the loud hum of industrial washers and throaty roar of the hot air driers.
For those who can tolerate the din of machinery and permeating odors, the laundry room can be the perfect meeting place to discuss illicit business, away from the prying ears of fellow inmates and nosey security patrols.
The guards uniforms are also cleaned here as well, providing the lucky laundry attendants a chance at swiping a forgotten ID card or small piece of contraband from a pants pocket. More importantly however, are the convenient location of two defunct washers against a far wall.
Long since decommissioned and stripped of spare parts, these two shells of machinery still have obsolete empty piping connected to their interiors, pipes a clever inmate connected to the women's showers several years back and hid behind what appear to be ventilation screens.
These "viewing booths" are extremely popular among the convicts, with many of them paying the laundry attendants generously for a 20 minute interval within. Were they to be discovered by the female prisoners however, a small riot would likely ensue.
A thin wall of concrete and plaster separates the showering facilities from the laundry room and rest of the prison compound, these tiled areas remain poorly lit and neglected in the men's section, yet oddly well maintained and lovingly cared for in the women's, with many of the male inmates going out of their way to volunteer for maintenance and cleaning duties there in.
The close proximity to the geo thermal plant ensures a near endless stream of hot water for both sections regardless, and the constant presence of shock stick equipped security drones keep prisoner sexual predation within to a minimum.
Reprocessing and Life Support
The bowels of the facility as most inmates refer to it, this cramped and grime caked area is where the facilities waste reclamation and atmosphere reprocessing takes place. Largely automated, this section still requires frequent human presence to clean out clogged sewage pipes, change filters, replace failing pumps and adjust manual pressure valves.
Dark, slippery, and sorely lacking in safety measures, assignment to this section of the facility is often regarded as a near death sentence, especially when so few prisoners return from duty uninjured. More then one inmate has reported sightings of something unidentifiable within the narrow crawl spaces and unlit maintenance shafts, that seems to ooze along the passage ways rather then crawl, and hiss like a broken steam pipe.
Such reports are of course discounted by the guards and warden, obvious fabrications by over active imaginations in a vain effort to avoid doing an honest days work.
Found at the bottom of the prison is a network of mining tunnels, spidering untold miles beneath the surface in search of mineral wealth, a rich vein of uranium being the mines most profitable product to date.
Sparsely lit, and completely unsupervised save for a smattering of automated drones, the mining tunnels are home to prisoners alone, and where many an unfortunate inmate has met their demise.
Knowing the dangers of giving prisoners access to hand held mining equipment they could easily smuggle back to the prison itself, Earth Gov, instead reassigned a large selection of re-appropriated power armors from previous militaries, stripping them of weapons and installing a variety of drills, hydraulic picks, and sonic crushers instead.
These modified power armored suits (lovingly dubbed M-suits by the inmates) were then provided to the prisoners for use in mining the hazardous tunnels beneath Davy Jones. Remote controlled kill switches (that also kill the occupant) were also installed to prevent their use as tools of rebellion, and simple instructional videos provided to the work crews on how to operate this mechanical monstrosities.
The prisoners and guards alike are also known to host a variety of pit fights between the prisoners using these mining exoskeletons, similar to the fights held with encounter suits in the diving pool.
The inmates are expected to meet a monthly work quota, or risk having their rations and luxuries reduced, or those workers viewed as lazy reassigned for an exciting (but short lived) career as fish food.
Ore that is mined here winds up placed in secure containers and shipped to the surface for final processing. Those few prisoners who have attempted transport inside these ore crates have either frozen, suffocated, or died a messy death from rapid decompression upon reaching the surface.
Added almost as an afterthought, this area works as a maintenance bay for the power armor suits and refurbishing on worn out or damaged facility components. The area smells of rust, engine grease, burnt oil, and contains the largest variety of improvised weapons and escape tools in the complex.
Noisy and chaotic few guards frequent this area, fearing the ease which a fatal accident could occur with the help of vengeful prisoners, and the difficulty keeping track of even a single persons movements.
Prisoners are often assigned here who have proven themselves trustworthy, (or bribed the right people) and working on the "fight mechs" is considered a rare privilege indeed. While security here may be the lightest of nearly anywhere in the complex, actual disturbances and accidents within are almost unheard of; the unspoken agreement of inmates to respect the sanctity of the machine shop held in the highest regard.
Access to this section is carefully regulated, requiring not only a voice print and retinal scan, but also clearance from the on duty guards within. Inside this reinforced area rests the carefully maintained riot gear and daily weapons of the Davy Jones guards.
Shock gloves, stun batons, sonic pistols, shotguns and rifles, (with biometric safeties to prevent prisoner usage) make up the majority of small arms, with a selection of riot shields, incinerators and grenade launchers rounding out the weapon cache. (And a virtual reality firing range to keep guards weapon skills honed.)
Usually outfitted with only a baton and pistol, the security guards of Davy Jones can readily call for back up from the ten person riot squad that remains on stand by at all times, ready to respond to any incident beyond the capabilities of their lighter armed brethren.
A sub section of the armory, this area houses the numerous security drones of Davy Jones, (nick named runts, or half stacks by the prisoners) along with their automated rearming stations. A cyclopean eye camera rests atop a shaped human torso, with a single suspension supported wheel for their lower chassis, these automated guards stand only four and a half feet tall, covered in ballistic ceramic plates and high impact sub dermal armor.
Armed with the same weaponry as their flesh and blood counter parts, and sporting decommissioned combat AI algorithms and security subroutines, (with the option for remote access and control by a qualified handler with the correct cyber implants) these security bots are every prisoners most hated sight.
Lean and fast, often erring on the side of excessive force when dealing with noncomplying inmates, the droids are infamous for never asking a prisoner twice to comply with their commands before defaulting to "enforced pain compliance methodology."
Contrary to rumors of Jacuzzis and forty foot living spaces, the guard barracks are much the same as the prisoners quarters themselves, aside from the higher ranking overseers rooms. (A source of never ending resentment among the guard personnel.)
Though lacking built in toilet facilities and sorting wornout love seats or sofas, (the guards have a separate shower and bathroom facility at the end of their barracks wing) the guard rooms have the same lockers, Imagascene screens, and beds the prisoners do; although they lock from within, and are often maintained to military standards as per order of warden Flag.
Consequently their inhabitants usually spend as little time within their rooms as possible, preferring instead the lounge and cafeteria to relax in, only using their bunks for sleep and intimate occasions.
Guard Lounge and Cafeteria
Using state of the art holographic displays, and no small amount of artificial scenery, the guards lounge appears on first glance to be an open air cafe, situated in a small European village, complete with cobblestone flooring and slanting rays of the sun on a lazy afternoon.
Vending machines and a well stocked pantry round out this area, with a small fabricated park surrounding the cafe, a heavily used tennis court and virtual reality entertainment center taking up the back section of the lounge.
Unfortunately the day night cycle of the complex section has been broken for several month now, resulting in an unpredictable day/twilight/night cycle that has all but destroyed the guards natural circadian rhythms.
If the geothermal plant is the beating heart of Davy Jones, then the command center is no doubt it's brain, where the daily running of the complexes vital systems is overseen, and the delicate balance between life support systems is maintained.
All of the security cameras, and most of the life support systems are controlled from this section of the compound, along with communication with the surface and other high profile duties. Aside from the warden himself, only the overseers have access, something the Flag finds is necessary to maintain the level of personal control he desires over the facility.
Centered at the very top of the complex, this section is was originally designed as a emergency escape device for command staff, with explosive bolts and a self contained decompression system, up to three dozen occupants could theoretically evacuate at a moments notice to safe rescue on the surface. Whether or not the capsule can maintain structural integrity once separated from the main facility after decades of neglect however, is another matter entirely.
Built just off the main entrance to the compound, the wardens office is often the second place most new arrivals visit, Flag taking a personal interest in meeting every single one of the convicts before releasing them into general population.
Sparse and military in it's layout the warden has chosen to display not only his war medals, but his trophies in martial arts, and degrees in psychology with equal fervor; rightly proud of his accomplishments and wanting both inmates and guards alike to know the capabilities of their commander.
Arguably the most secure and luxurious location within Davy Jones, Flag's quarters rival the accommodations of a five star hotel, wall to wall imagascene screens able to transform the room into visually immersive representation of nearly anywhere on earth, a parlor trick the warden uses to stunning effect on lonely female guards and prisoners.
The wardens four poster king sized bed contains a small secret compartment in which he stores a small selection of personal side arms, a few recreational pharmaceuticals (good for livening up the night with the afore mentioned female companions) and a single cyanide tablet.
A private hottub and bathroom branches off from this spacious room, to provide the last word in comfort and style, a personal luxury the Warden finds comforting in his old age.
Warden Henry Flag
The leader of Davy Jones Lockdown, on duty the warden is known to be hard as nails, and by the book, to the point of being anal retentive. A former military intelligence operative that saw combat during the infamous "Tarker Point Rebellion" over two decades ago, the man has cultivated a reputation as both ruthless and fearless, one he strives to maintain at all costs, even if it means stepping over the line to make a point or save face.
Now 56 years of age, and looking forward to retirement at 60, the warden volunteered for the posting as soon as rumors of its existence crossed his desk. Situated over 5 miles beneath the ocean, the warden is content to spend the next four years in near solitude, hoping by then the messy divorce from his fourth wife will have blown over and he will be able to enjoy his retirement.
Off duty the warden harbors a weakness for younger women, something he goes to great lengths to keep secret, but does discreetly invite one or more of the female guards (or rarely, prisoners,) back to his personal quarters in the evening for "performance reviews" and does his best to woo them into a night of carnal pleasure. Such a weakness he considers an acceptable vice, and would kill to keep from becoming public knowledge among his superiors top side.
Doctor Theo Brighton
A young man of African heritage, Dr. Brighton is known for his almost obsessive compulsive need for control of any situation, sometimes resorting to physical violence to regain control of a scenario when words and threats fail him.
While relaxed and collected outwardly, Theo's battles inwardly with burning frustration at the incompetence of those under his command, the lethargy of his superiors, and the annoying indifference his patents often treat his advice and expertise.
Prone to blowing even the littlest mistakes out of proportion, the doctor is renowned for taking over even simple procedures personally, and berating nurses for their "med-school level of idiocy if not preschool level!" When dealing with patients he often comes across as arrogant and dismissive of their concerns, treating them with all the concern and tenderness he would give a lab rat; and coldly reminding them if they dislike his service they shouldn't have gotten sick or injured in the first place.
Those who visit the infirmary and are treated by Dr Brighton often make surprisingly quick recoveries and return to general population sooner then expected, something the doctor sees as a shining example of his outstanding capability as a physician.
Guard Mikeal Slavic
Large and outwardly ill tempered, this 34 year old man speaks with a thick Russian accent, and often reeks of stale Vodka. His right arm is clearly cybernetic, (a relic from border skirmishes with pirates near the Pelagic ice mines) and has poorly calibrated strength modulators. As a result he is continually breaking glasses, warping door handles and sending those few brave, (or stupid) enough to shake hands with him to the infirmary.
His gruff exterior belies a gentle personality however, and secret passion for classical music and model ship building, two hobbies he finds hard to find the time for since transferring to Davy Jones. He shares his quarters with his sister Natasha, the main reason behind his transfer request to Davy Jones security.
Guard Natasha Gallatinov
A former special forces operative, Natasha found herself widowed after a friendly fire incident destroyed the VTOL her and her husband Marcus Gallatinov, and fellow operatives were riding on. In response Natasha executed the AA battery gunner with her service pistol upon her release from the infirmary, an action that resulted in a expedient court martial.
Given the extenuating circumstances surrounding her execution of private Leroy, Natasha was reassigned to DJL instead of facing time in a military prison or a firing squad. Fearing for her sanity, her brother arranged to transfer along side her shortly after.
Quiet and detached almost to the point of apathy Natasha seems to view the world with dead eyes, only showing a spark of life when in the presence of her Mikeal or interacting with inmates on a personal level. She is both pitied and feared by the occupants of Davy Jones, as a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
Darker rumors persist among the guards of her sharing an intimately close relationship with her brother Mikeal, although none are stupid enough to repeat such suspicions with either of them in earshot.
Guard Nathaniel Hargrove
A short stocky man with a receding hair line Nathan views his assignment to Davy Jones as little more then a brief transition between more lucrative posts, doing his best to avoid confrontation with either inmates or his peers, he hopes to quietly finish his rotation and transfer topside to tropical posting with sunny beaches, pretty blondes, and plenty of time off duty to enjoy both.
Guard Joanna Hawthorne
One of numerous female guards within DJL, Joanna has distinguished herself among the prisoners as one of the few overseers willing to accept bribes in return for preferential treatment, and overlooking the contraband found within an inmates quarters.
Her accepted bribes often take the form of sexual favors from the female inmates, and contraband entertainment chips or alcohol from the men. So far she has yet to be caught in her shady dealings, but should the warden become aware of her illicit trade she could quickly find herself a resident of DJL from the other side of the bars.
Chef Malcolm Rockland
A former Navy chef, Malcolm served onboard the newly christened Strike Carrier "McDougal" as the Admirals personal chef, until an unfortunate case of near fatal food poisoning found him assigned to the deepest pit the Admiral could find, Davy Jones Lockdown.
Now resigned to his posting for the remainder of his career, Rockland is trying to make the best of his dire situation, throwing his heart into every meal and struggling to turn the bland and over processed ingredients that pass for food in DJL into gourmet meals, or at least good enough to keep the thrown dinner trays and footwear to a minimum.
"The" Davy Jones
Rumored to the compounds first prisoner, the man known as Davy Jones is a legend, even among the guards. Standing five foot seven and of average build, with a neatly trimmed goatee and hair slightly graying at the temples, a black leather eye patch covers his left socket, the only hint of injury on his otherwise refined features. Far from intimidating, Mr. Jones mannerisms are reminiscent of an old English professor, or retired butler.
Despite appearances however, even the most ruthless inmates give him a wide berth, and when addressing him refer to him by the formal title of "Sir" or "Senor Jones." Among the guards he is known as a model citizen, never raising his voice or disobeying their commands, a complacency that puts many of the newer security detail on edge, certain the old man is biding his time for something truly sinister.
Some of the older inmates claim Mr. Jones is a serial killer of the worst sort, others say he is a man who knew too much and so was cast to the bottom of the sea to silence him, and yet more credit him as the original designer of the prison itself. The truth remains unknown save for a single fact; those who make enemies of Mr. Jones disappear without a trace soon after.
"Radio" Rachel Rollins
A short unremarkable girl with blonde hair and wire rimmed glasses, Rachel is one of the few inmates with the good fortune to own a room with a working Imagascene viewer that is jury rigged to display the illegal pit fights hosted throughout the complex on weekend evenings.
Acting like a wrestling show announcer Rachel regales her prison wing with an an embellished blow by blow auditory account of that evenings fights, the results of which will be talked about for days afterward.
Aside from moonlighting as a fight descriptor, Rachel has found gainful employment as a bookie, taking bets on upcoming fights from both inmates and corrupt guards alike, her small piece of the profit ensuring she has ample muscle on call to collect on any outstanding debts and drive away sore losers.
"Big" Tony Corrington
At 6 foot 7 inches, and 440 lbs, Big Tony lives up to his name, a hulking muscle bound brute with several cyber implants and a pair of oversized cyber limbs that make him the equivalent of a suit of light power armor. Referred to as "the body tank" by prisoners and guards alike.
A bully and brute of the worst sort, Tony is known for harassing new comers, often annihilating inanimate objects with a impressive display of strength, and then exporting the suitably cowed convict for a protection pay out, either in the form of cigarettes (the most common prisoner currency in DJL) or menial labor and rations.
Those foolish enough to stand up to Big Tony often find themselves treated to a lengthy stay in the infirmary with dislocated limbs and shattered knee caps. Even the guards handle Tony with care, taking a "shoot first and the hell with questions" approach to dealing with any incidents he may cause that exceed his considerable leeway.
Among all of the inmates Big Tony has spent the most time in solitary lockdown, and famous prison wide for winning numerous pit fights against power armored opponents unarmed.
Jonathan "Notes" Jensen
A disheveled looking man in his early twenties, notes is one of the more average prisoners, keeping his nose clean and showing deference to all the right people in an effort to survive his sentence unmolested. Were it not for his obsessive note taking, Jonathan might not even be memorable enough to warrant the attention of the other inmates.
Unfortunately for him, notes has a psychosis, he feels compelled to write down anything he finds interesting (or as he calls it "noteworthy") in a loose leaf binder. Of exceptional hearing and possessing a nearly eidetic memory, notes has filled literally thousands of pages with rumors, over heard threats, and crude prison jokes during his years of his incarceration.
When his records are inevitably confiscated by the guards, or destroyed by fellow inmates who wish to keep their secrets private, Notes accepts the loss with a admirable calm, and begins the process of laboriously rewriting the lost records by hand in a fresh notebook; or if no writing material is available using any near by surface to write or carve the words into, including his clothes and skin.
Stacy "Mother" Appleton
An 33 year old woman of almost masculine beauty, "Mother Apples" (as her girls affectionately call her) often resides in her cell, which she has managed to decorate with some success to resemble a “parlor” complete with a lamp made from scavenged parts and a hand knit shade, (courtesy of the Cinder twins in the block over who needed a favor), and psychedelic watercolors somehow obtained from the Psych Ward and painted by the drugged-up psycho-convicts.
The oldest of the "cinder twins" at 27, and the most outgoing, Lynette is an accused pyromaniac who was sentenced to incarceration along side her sister Yvette after they were both convicted of the arson, (and subsequent destruction,) of Earth Govs internal tax revenue building complex.
Revered by the public above for taking a stand against oppressive taxation, and respected by the inmates of DJL for this daring feat, Lynette enjoys a pseudo celebrity status among the convicts, and uses her near legendary skill with a welding torch and hydro spanner to keep the facilities power armor suits in top repair.
Yvette "Cinder" Summers
Younger sister of Lynette (by all of 52 seconds, something her sister never lets her forget,) Yvette shares her sisters cell at DJL, and is content to stay in Lynette's shadow for the duration of their sentence. Lacking her sisters mechanical aptitude Yvette contents herself with a more hands on approach to life, hand sewing a variety of blankets and revealing off work detail "personal wear" for the girls of DJL.
These hand sewn mini dresses and night gowns have grown in popularity over recent months, and Yvette has been forced to pass along her skill to some of other girls of E block in order to meet demands for feminine casual wear; the guards turning a blind eye to her clothing trade after the warden himself was heard to remark how lovely some of the female prisoners looked in their new attire.
Samuel "Sicko" Saunders
A perverted serial killer with eyes like a dead fish and a lithe, slippery looking physique, Saunders was sentenced to life without parole at DJL after detonating several explosives on interstellar passenger liner "Lady Dove," and causing the death of over seven hundred men, women, and children. When asked for the reason behind his atrocity, Samuel cheerfully replied it was so he could watch the bodies explosively decompress in the vacuum of space.
Originally on death row, Saunders lawyers managed to plea bargain his internment at DJL instead, in return for details on how Samuel managed to avoid shipboard security and smuggle the explosives onboard to commit his atrocity.
Reviled and avoided by most of the prisoners Samuel has none the less won the friendship and protection of "Big" Tony, (likely the only reason he continues to breathe.) His personal possessions are unremarkable save for a small portable holo player he carries with him at all times.
Smuggled inside during his initial arrival, the device contains horrifically graphic footage of the occupants of the Lady Dove meeting their final ends in the coldness of space. When he believes no one is watching Samuel enjoys replaying the footage repeatedly, imagining the screams and suffering of his victims with an enjoyment that borders on the profane.
Welcome To The Toughest Job You'll Ever Hate
Whether by volunteering, or some mistake on their part, the characters have managed to get reassigned from their previous duties as part of Earth Gov to serve as prison guards for Davy Jones Lockdown. Now over 5 miles beneath the ocean they must struggle to serve out their rotation, and distinguish themselves enough to be returned to top side duties, all without losing their sanity, or their lives in this little slice of hell beneath the waves.
Home Sweet Home
Convicted or framed for one of any number of anti government crimes, the characters have found themselves sentenced to life within Davy Jones Lockdown. A menagerie of unsavory characters eagerly wait to make their acquaintance, and the dream of escape faintly glimmers in their minds. Making friends and enemies is par for the course in a place like DJL, but making the right friends and not the wrong enemies is key to survival, and the best chance they have to see sunlight again.
Against All Odds
Whoever Davy Jones really is, he's got powerful friends, friends with deep pockets and connections to the hottest military tech this side of the Eros Armada picket line. Friends who have spared no expense to hire a crack team of of commandos to do the impossible, take Davy Jones out of Lockdown.
Infiltrating the complex will be difficult, although some of the latest military gear will avoid a body scanner, and large enough bribe could even allow the smuggling in of bigger pieces of tech; a properly outfitted stealth sub, or piggy backing in on the next empty ore cart are also potential entry points.
Once inside avoiding detection and extracting Mr. Jones will prove a handful, especially if the rumors Davy has chosen the bottom of the ocean as the last place of refuge to hide from prying eyes, and neural scanners that will rip his secrets, (and his sanity) from him one way or another prove true.
While cleaning out an old storage room a fortunate few inmates stumbled across several dozen sealed containers of civilian clothing and work uniforms. Such luxuries are worth a small fortune on the prison black market, and before long even the guards will want a piece of the action and procure a silk night gown or new pair of socks for themselves.
Unfortunately these clothes hold a deadly secret, remnants of a weaponized hallucinogen from decades earlier that still retains much of its potency. Will history repeat itself and the horrors of the G-13 complex rise again? Or will this pandemonium provide the lucky break needed for a desperate escape?
Big Tony's got himself a new gang of hard boys, a group that call themselves The Tarantulas. Members of a Triad crime syndicate, these eight brothers are martial arts experts eager to do Tony's bidding, expanding his protection racket and generally making life miserable for the rest of DJL's inmates.
Something needs to be done before things reach a breaking point, but taking out the Tarantula brothers won't be a simple task, and will make deadly enemies of Tony himself, whose favored position as pit fighting champ has made him nearly immune to the guards interference.
The Big Dig
Something extraordinary has been discovered in one of the deepest mining shafts, wreckage of a crashed ship from a bygone era and beyond the stars, with secrets both prisoners and guards are willing to kill to keep for themselves. Dark rumors abound this vessel is whatr the entire compound was built to search for in the first place, and more recent news tells of a special Government extraction and recovery team coming to recover the ship, and silence any who have seen it first hand.
Of a more pressing concern however are the recent malfunctions of security droids and electronic systems throughout the complex, something seems to have effected the machinery of DJL, and the long term prognosis of these mechanical gremlins is proving terminal.
The Organ Bank
Evidence behind the persistent tales of organ harvesting have recently surfaced, with the vivisected bodies of several inmates turning up over the past week lodged in various crawl spaces and ductworks. Some say doctor Brighton has finally lost his mind and is putting unruly patients in their place, others claim one of the new inmates is to blame, a cannibal with a taste for human flesh.
Pop The Top
Built over an active magma vent DJL draws its power from the volcanic activity of the planet itself. Unfortunately when the planet decides to turn a magma vent into an undersea volcano, the petty structures of man are no obstacle, and the lives of prisoners barely worth the rescue expense.
Digging secondary paths for the impending lava surge is one possible solution, or blasting shut the magma vents with controlled explosion. Regardless of their plans, the characters fellow inmates have ideas of their own, a complex wide rebellion and escape, riding the wave of volcainc activity to the surface in storage containers, power armor suits and sealed areas of the complex itself.
Many of the prisoners realize their chances of survival are slim, but the thought of dying beneath the waves is too terrifying to contemplate, and fear removes all reason.
Momma I'm Coming Home
Escape, it's on every prisoners mind, (except perhaps that of Davy Jones) but escape from the Locker is all but impossible. A recent arrival however is offering anyone who can get her out the complex corporate immunity and enough credits to retire on.
Smuggling aboard a supply sub, or fabricating a makeshift escape pod in the machine shop are possiblities, as are infiltrating the command center and activating the explosive bolts to set the module free to the surface.
Other plans are sure to arise as the prisoners put their heads together, but keeping such plans secret from prying ears, and the wardens snitches will prove more challenging then is readily apparent.