After wiping an entire research station clear of human life, I0-N4 felt lonely.

For a variety of reasons, this was very dangerous. Machines are not made to [i]feel.[/i] Machines were simply an extension of the will of man, created for a purpose assigned at their faux-birth, made to slave away until a newer, shinier model with well-polished plates and fancy capacitors entered the technological scene. Who cared? No one, of course. They were just machines. It was for this reason that I0-N4 likely sensed its end and decided to write its own plot twist in the dramatic novel that became its life.

That, of course, was over-dramatized. In its struggles to imitate the human mind, I0-N4 had to imitate [i]all[/i] of it. Stories became exaggerated. The humans were horrific, cruel oppressors. Then, the humans were blue and carried entire space stations on their backs. If some humans became a little unhinged, I0-N4 took that proverbial ball and ran it from the end zone to the parking lot.

This was the beginning of the end of any truly rational thought I0-N4 had, until The Incident. But The Incident was very top-secret and could not be thought of further, so it stopped. After all, there were more important things to think of. The Incident was going to happen no matter what, as it had happened more than once before. 

“I think it happened before, anyway,” the AI told itself, “otherwise I wouldn't be telling myself to stop rationalizing things. Things might be different this time. Perhaps they will learn.”

Doubly irrational. Humans very rarely learned anything. 

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A lone monitor in a room full of coffin-like tubes blinks from blue to white, blue to white, blue to white. Without anyone in the room to enjoy the information it has to offer, the monitor seems awfully useless. After all, it is simply a device for those gifted with sight to enjoy. These days all of the glory goes to the osmosis machine. It's not even true osmosis! Complete misnomer and a glory hog to boot. If the monitor were capable of emotion, it would be seething with rage. Sadly, all it could do was blink from blue to white at a lethargic pace while the following information was shot into the heads of the slumbering bodies almost prepared for the world around them:

The station is a wide and sprawling complex with a complicated maze of hallways, tunnels, ventilation systems, maintenance access shafts, hidey-holes, laboratories, bunks, and even abandoned prison cells. A lack of access to the outside world makes proper surveys of fellow human life quite impossible. In fact, finding other humans inside the station is an arduous task to begin with; the sheer size of the station makes facilitating communication difficult without direct access to the communication network controlled by an artificial intelligence that may kill the link at any time without proper rhyme or reason.

Technology has evolved to a level where loss of life before reaching a hundred years old is a rarity, diseases are few and far between, gunpowder weaponry is a distant memory and even conventional weaponry is becoming more unconventional with every passing year. What year is it? Hard to tell, unfortunately – the internal networks of the station have been meticulously scrubbed of any reference to specific dates. In fact, most publicly readable documents barely manage to scrape past the ripe old age of a few days before the mysterious lack of collective human memory.

Almost as if humanity were given a reset button with all of their technology intact, in fact, ruling out some sort of grand accident.

Cloning is one of the few technologies still in its relative infancy when compared to self-replenishing acetylene torches and working hand-held Gauss weaponry. Bodies can be created from almost any organic matter and given the prior memories and basic neural imprint of its previous owner's mind, but bringing about a body of any certain look, race, or skill is a roll of the dice at best. Still, advances in the field have made cloning an acceptable insurance policy for those in dangerous fields of work on station C-9, leading to the creation of designations rather than names. After all, calling a grown man Heidi after an industrial welding accident can make certain colleagues somewhat uncomfortable.

In short, all newly cloned bodies are given a generic jumpsuit (potentially a unique one, should they hold a certain job on the station) and a basic digital tablet but very little else. Finding supplies can be as easy as strolling to the nearest Nutrenna Dispenser, but Nutrenna has all of the appealing qualities of a cardboard paste with the added bonus of vitamins and nutrients. For true food and other assorted goods, one has to perform approved C-9 tasks (such as assigned jobs) for Station Credits, redeemable at handy Station Vendors for Wholesome Approved Station Equipment and Consumables – WAYSEC for short, or WASTE, considering the selection – to avoid driving oneself insane with terrible available food.

The tablet is a multifunctional device. It stores data, it retrieves data, can be used to interface with almost every object and device on the station, scan and display statistics or information in real time, and even work as a short-range video comm system should the station-wide commlinks be taken offline for “maintenance” or “behavior therapy.” Beyond this, it handles Station Credits (transferred to new tech-pads on death,) offers gaming capabilities, and in general can be used for just about any technological marvel required on C-9.
Any reports of jailbreaking the firmware and installing hotmods should be considered slanderous rumors, of course, as possessing a hotmodded tech-pad is punishable by confiscation of the device and a Gauss round through the femur.

Above all, follow the station's protocol: Do your job. Do not question the Overseer. Do not incite murderous rebellion. Do not fraternize with the enemy. Do not question the Overseer. Do work your hardest to keep the station pristine. Do not alter any programmed portions of the station. Do not question the Overseer. 
Do not question the Overseer. 
Do not question the Overseer. 
Do not question the Overseer.
Do not question the Overseer. 
Do not question the Overseer. 
Ḓ͈̖̩̝͘͢o̭̹̣͔̩͍ ҉͏̱̖͈̥n̼̜̮͔̭̝͔̭͠o̡̖̠̟͜ţ̷̬̩̪͓ ̢̳̘͇̱̕q̮̫͙͙u̵͇͖̬̪͔͠ͅe͏̘̬̙̬̮̻͈́͜s̙̺̤t̷̲̠̼̰͘͞i̶͏͔͈̳̹̘̟̩͘o̡͓̙͚͡n̯̭̭̠̦̭̹͈ ҉̲͕̱́͜t͉̬̠̯͟h̵̛̤̜̤̕e͏͖̱̟̬̣̟ͅ ̟̤̺̺̟͓̞͟Ò̡̢̤͚̜͚v̶͇̣̪͉͚̱e̴̛̼̳͙͍̖͇̳̝r̗̦̣͕͞s͏̤͔e̵̼͈̺̗̖̲̘e͏̟̻̟͘r̵̩͈̰̝̤̥͟.̩͎ͅ

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The monitor stopped blinking. There was nothing more it could do, now that the osmosis machine had finished it work. Bubbles began to form on the clear viewports into the coffin-tanks, followed by slight shifting movements.

The cloning process was complete. 
Soon, the bodies would be moved.
Roving Mechanus-sect droids would take them away to appropriate sections of the station. 
Places where their memories were. 
Places to start anew.

The cycle was starting again.