Rise and shine, assholes.
Feel groggy? Headache? Eyes burning? Let me give it to you straight. It's the year 3152, and we just woke you up from cryosleep. It seems we'd forgotten you existed; we only rediscovered you yesterday. Our records of you got lost somewhere, and the cargo bots could have been ignoring your pods for decades, for all we know. And where are you? I'll fill you in.
My name is SCAMPS, for Shipboard Computer Assigned to Monitoring Prisoner Services. That's right: you're on a prison ship, and I'm a computer. In case you don't remember, your local authorities signed you up for a death tour aboard the Tartarus. Why? I don't know, and honestly, I don't even care. You were retarded enough to get caught. We shouldn't expect anything useful out of you, and yet, circumstances dictate that we must.
Welcome to The Nemesis, gentlemen. You're aboard what's left of a battle cruiser that got shot down above a shit-stain Hiltorel planet called Nanyej. All you need to know is that we're beyond the edge of humanity's domain and all entities here are presumed hostile. We're understaffed, outgunned, and facing an enemy that wants to snuff us from existence. Best of all, our comm systems are toast, and we've lost all contact with Tartarus. They don't even know that we're alive. There is no hope of surrender, nor of any rescue.
This is where you come in. We're inducting you into the Requisitional Knowledge Troops. On Tartarus, you would survive ten dangerous missions to earn your freedom, or you die. Out here? Well… you do your part, or we all die. We'll send you on deadly missions out here in the galaxy's sphincter, and if we ever manage to get back home… well, we'll see what happens then.
Any questions? No? Good. Gentlemen… get REKT.