CONFIDENTIAL: PRISONER BRIEFING

You don't know how long you've been here.
You remember being taken. Beyond that, your memories are fractured. There are fragments of places, faces, voices, and events, but nothing that forms a reliable account of how you came to be here or how much time has passed. You know you've been abducted and imprisoned, but you don't know who is responsible, where you are, or why you were chosen.
You have been taken from your cells for testing and experimentation. You remember being escorted away by figures whose faces are never visible: masked personnel, sealed helmets, and bulky protective suits. No names. No insignia. No identifying markings. Just anonymous figures who appear, take you away, and return you later.
What happens during those sessions is difficult to remember. Your recollections come in flashes: bright lights, unfamiliar equipment, restraints, strange sensations, pain, and the unmistakable feeling that something is being done to you without your consent. Sometimes you remember being afraid. Sometimes you remember screaming. Sometimes you remember nothing at all until you're back in your cell.
Whatever they're doing to you, it isn't pleasant. And you have no idea what it is intended to accomplish.

Your accommodations

Your cell is little more than a box designed to keep you alive and contained. The walls are smooth, the furnishings minimal, and there is little to occupy your time. The facilities are functional rather than comfortable. If you're a robot, there are charging ports built into the wall. If you're not, there is little here that makes your confinement any more agreeable.
The main door is heavy, sealed, and electronically controlled. A small access hatch allows food and other necessities to be passed inside. It is a surprisingly sophisticated piece of equipment, with defensive mechanisms designed to prevent anything from being passed through in the wrong direction—or anything from being used to interfere with the door itself.
There are ventilation ducts in the walls and ceiling. They're accessible from inside the cells, but secured against anyone trying to crawl through them. They do, however, provide places to conceal small objects.
A hardlight projector is built into one wall. It allows a holographic visitor to appear inside your cell without anyone having to open the door.
Your cells are close together. Close enough that, with some effort, you can speak loudly enough to be heard by your neighbors. This is not encouraged. Communication between prisoners is prohibited, and attempts to talk to one another have been punished severely. Whatever the facility's reasons for keeping you isolated, it is clear that they don't want you coordinating with one another.

Your one familiar face

The most regular visitor is Miss Meridian.
She is a holographic woman whose appearance and mannerisms are unmistakably modeled on the advertisements for Meridian Galaxy Cruise Lines. Her presentation is polished, reassuring, and relentlessly cheerful. She speaks with the practiced warmth of a hospitality representative, always ready with an encouraging word, a pleasant greeting, or a reminder that your comfort and well-being are important.
She has been repurposed to serve the facility's needs, apparently to keep prisoners calm and cooperative. She provides information, answers routine questions when she can, and makes occasional visits to check on your condition.
Her cheerfulness can be difficult to endure, particularly given the circumstances. Yet there are moments when the performance seems to slip. A pause that lasts a little too long. A carefully chosen answer that doesn't quite address the question. A hint of concern that seems out of place in her otherwise immaculate presentation.
You haven't been able to determine whether these are glitches, remnants of her original programming, or something else.
Recently, she has seemed particularly uneasy. She's hinted that something significant is approaching, though she hasn't explained what it is. Whatever it may be, she sounds worried.

Other prisoners

Until recently, your isolation has made it difficult to know much about the other people—or things—being held here. That has begun to change.
One prisoner, Bubb Rubb, has apparently developed some kind of mental connection that allows him to relay messages between prisoners. How this works is unclear. Whether the messages are always accurate is another matter. You can communicate through him, but you have to decide for yourselves how much you trust what he tells you.
Another prisoner, Nun, has been offering to establish some sort of bond between you. The nature of this bond, and what it might mean for those who participate, remains unclear. It could be useful. It could be something more complicated. For now, it's an offer, not an obligation.
These connections are unusual, and potentially dangerous if discovered. But they also offer something you haven't had much of since arriving here: a way to coordinate with other prisoners.

The unexplained equipment

Something else has been happening.
Weapons. Tools. Equipment. Items that would be extremely useful to anyone trying to escape—and that your captors would certainly not want you to possess—have been turning up in your cells.
You don't know where they came from. You haven't seen anyone deliver them, and there is no obvious explanation for how they got past the facility's security. Somehow, they've appeared in places where you could find them, and you've managed to conceal them.
Some of the hiding places are obvious enough that they should have been discovered during routine inspections. Yet they haven't been. Whether your captors are careless, something is interfering with their searches, or someone is deliberately helping you is anyone's guess.
You have gradually accumulated a collection of useful items. Not necessarily everything you need, and certainly not a guarantee of success, but enough to make escape seem possible.
For the first time, you have something resembling an opportunity.

What happens next?

You are still prisoners. You are still being watched. Your captors remain faceless, their intentions unknown, and the facility's security systems are very much in place.
But the situation is changing.
You have ways to communicate. You have equipment you shouldn't possess. You have a growing sense that something is about to happen, and even Miss Meridian seems unable—or unwilling—to conceal her concern.
An escape attempt would be dangerous. You don't know the layout of the facility, the full extent of its security, or what waits beyond your cells. You don't know whether the equipment you've found is a gift, a trap, or simply an extraordinary coincidence.
But you do know this:
You cannot stay here forever.
And whatever is coming, you suspect you would rather face it on your own terms.