.||.Poststructuralism.||.

It reeked.
Of blood, decay, stale air, feces, formaldehyde... the list went on.
It was even difficult to breathe, too, for those whose forced residence was in that underground cesspool.

Cesspool? understatement.
Immorality, where 'ethics' was a strange, forbidden word, and 'whim of a loaded madman' was apparently a law.
The underground laboratory, for all its indelible filth, extraordinarily expensive instrumentation, and overpaid staff (what few there were for such an establishment) was yet undiscovered by any form of law or movement, those kind that are all for human rights and silly nonsense like that.
Human curiosity, on one side, had clearly manifested, rooted, in a worst possible form; it had yet to breach the blood-and-dirt caked, steel reinforced walls of the laboratory from the outside world of the living.

Here the mazes of icy concrete walls opened to chambers of cells: it was a freakshow, a zoo, an aquarium, a prison, a slaughter house, all rolled into one. For an audience of one. Eyes that peered from the shadows of the confinements were hollow, and questionably human. Or they used to be human. Elevator music might be playing, but it would be drowned too often by the resonance of the suffering, illuminated by stark overhead lights, the flow of electricity heard constantly as it strained to keep watch over those forever changed.

Welcome to Hell on earth, one of many of the exciting attractions for the undoubtedly unholy.