thisavrou_log | Indoctrination Plot Part 2

Entry tags:

Indoctrination Plot Part 2

Who: Everyone who wants in on this brainwashing/techno-zombie fun times!
When: In the wee hours of the morning, following this PSA, 12.11.2016.
Where: Around the Moira and in a room in the ILR
What: Mass Effect-style brainwashing/techno-zombie fun times!
Warnings: Brainwashing and potential body horror and techno-zombies! Now with more combat!

The crate is gone now. All of their hard work and finally, here they were, ready for the next stage.

In the center of the room, two glowing spires reach for the ceiling, painting everything around it in a gentle, sky blue light.

With the fruit of their efforts laid out around him, Nihlus finally lets himself rest, sitting on the floor before the Monolith, just… staring into the endless glow. Loses himself within it so completely that time slips past like a distant dream. His eyes are watery when he comes back to himself, after images burnt so deeply into the back of his eyes that he’s nearly blinded by it.

There’s a clawed hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy and so achingly familiar.

“Saren,” he murmurs softly, resting his head against his mentor’s forearm, voice cracked with exhaustion, subvocals bleeding with an old, poorly smothered grief.

“I’m so tired.” Closing his eyes, Nihlus turns and presses his brow plates against the black sleeve, trying desperately to suppress the broken notes in his undertones. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed you both so much-”

Nihlus.

It’s a voice that’d pulled him back from the brink of death countless of times, cool and steady and utterly unshakeable. A lifeline when he’d been bleeding out, alone in the dark, stranded in the aftermaths of missions gone haywire.

You’ve still got a task to complete.

And just like that, the weight is gone.

Nihlus stays where he is for a little while longer, committing the warmth of that touch to memory.

Slowly pushing himself back to his feet, he slides his helmet on as orange shields flicker to life around the Monolith.

((OOC: Prommpts/starters are in the comments! If you have questions, ask them here!))

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Now the whole ship knows. Once Rinzler’s broadcast goes live, the clock starts ticking down.

There are those on the ship who wish to destroy the Monolith- and all hope for the people of the Moira to obtain enlightenment along with it.

You can still save them though. You need to keep it hidden. You need to stop any of the unindoctrinated from reaching it. You need to kill anyone who tries to destroy it.

Most importantly, you need to buy it time. All it needs is a little more time.

After Rinzler’s broadcast, well. Turns out there’s something onboard turning people into brainwashed techno-zombies and that’s just a little worrying.

The problem is just that most of them? Don’t actually look like J. In fact, you’re probably going on your way to help investigate when a crewmate who was perfectly fine just-- up and turns on you.

Murderously so.

You push past them. You sneak past them.

But the further past you get, something changes. There’s a ringing in your head that’s getting louder and louder.

And if you’re not careful, you’re going to be turning on your crewmates too.

Time was running short. Shorter than he’d predicted.

Nihlus finishes diverting the power to the Conversion Room and shuts the electrical box. Someone from Engineering would eventually catch wind of things, but hopefully... hopefully they would all be enlightened by then. It should be enough energy to keep the shields up against most known threats.

He slips out of the maintenance room and into the gloomy hallway, keeping close to the walls, eyes open and scanners online in case he came across any other crew members. The Rot had gotten to this part of the ship and each footstep left a glowing print in the floor.

Nothing much for it. Nihlus starts moving faster.

[Pharah made haste after seeing the network post. She's got on her armor - minus the jump jets, which were still being repaired. She runs a quick system check. Everything seemed to be in working order, outside the jets, She had one concussive shot and one set of barrage missiles ready, but no way to aim it; if it came down to her using it, she'd have to set it up carefully.]

[As she makes her way through the corridors, she hopes it doesn't come down to that.]

[Anyone that crosses her is met with swift force; but she looks to incapacitate rather than terminate.]

[The ringing, though, starts as something so innocuously small she's not even really aware of it over the buzzing of her own thoughts, but increases to a point of constant irritation. She pushes on, determined, and perseveres. On the one hand it's worrying; that it keeps increasing, but on the other, she takes it as a good sign she's going in the right direction.]

[ You'd think seeing what happened to the girl might have had more of an effect-- not the dying, of course, because everyone dies sooner or later, and what's a better reason than faith in a worthy cause?-- but all it's done is affirm his beliefs. How dare they? How dare the small-minded creatures on this ship try to destroy something so beautiful.

There's no reasoning with these people. That's fine, because Han has never been the reasoning type.

The closer he gets to the room where it waits, pulsing in the back of his mind like a secret, second heartbeat, filling him with strength and certainty and a splitting headache.

Blaster drawn, he presses himself against a wall, shuts his eyes, and listens, waiting for them to come, waiting to defend.]

[ Kenobi finds that he has no desire to stand by while those around him take one unwitting suggestion after another. It's become alarming the number of individuals devoting themselves to something... more, and for Obi-Wan's part, he refuses to believe it's by any will of their own.

He's looking for someone else — a friend of a friend, as a favor — when he comes across a familiar face with a familiar blaster. Suddenly he feels oddly at home, standing opposed to an energy weapon in the hands of a disillusioned individual. ]

Han...

[ Or, more accurately, he didn't expect Solo to find himself wrapped up in something so eerily sinister — Obi-Wan knows there's a hefty will there. ]

I didn't see you there.

Pain is the first thing that registers.

Raw. Everywhere. It's not the nauseating press of redirect, not the flare of punishment Rinzler wakes to when he's trespassed in his dreams. It's an ache, a singing fragility edging every line and circuit. It's the systems that define him, wrecked past any sort of use.

He tries to get up, and is answered by a mass of errors. [Power cycles: damaged]. [Energy: low]. Hands find a surface and push, and Rinzler staggers, struggles, shocked by the weakness in his limbs. Visuals refresh to a lagged, blurred image, the circuit lights that line his fingers only the dimmest outlines against the darkness all around. Is he really that low? [Backup: disconnected], and a much larger part of his code freezes.

He needs to get up. He needs to move, and the program shudders, forcing past the sparks and pricks of electricity. He leverages upward, drags a knee beneath, shifts—

falls—

—crashes back down to his front with a scatter of voxels. Rinzler stills (no), looks back (no, no, no), and stills again, taking in the empty, jagged stumps terminating each leg at the knee.

...

Nihlus.

Nihlus betrayed him. Nihlus attacked. Nihlus ruined his systems, took his disk. Cut him to pieces and left him here. Like this. He can't walk, can't fight, can't function. He can't be fixed.

He's. Useless.

...

No.

Rinzler reaches forward, hand clenching against the ground to drag himself forward. One length. Two. He can't get up, can't crawl, can feel what's left of his legs grating off against the ground, one voxel at a time. He doesn't need to look back to see the glittering trail he's leaving, or to know he'll kill himself this way if he goes far enough. It doesn't matter. He won't lie here. He won't wait for the (liar) (user) (programmer) to come back. Nihlus should have finished his work. One way or another.

If Rinzler can't be fixed, if Rinzler can't hurt him—he might as well be dead.

He's trembling by the time he reaches the door. It takes time to prop his frame against it, to reach the handle overhead. He grabs on like a lifeline, jerks with his full weight, but nothing moves. Locked? Sealed, somehow. The program stalls, helpless loathing crashing hard enough to immobilize, before finally activating his MID.

It flickers. Glitches. Fades away.

No contact. No exit. He tries again, and the brief illumination of its errors glints against fresh metal added by the ceiling and floor, welding the vents shut. No escape. No words. He's in a cell (again), and memory fires in sharp, disconnected strings that make him want to laugh, or scream, or break himself. "...merits the most severe disciplinary measure." "We're decently amicable." "Don't be afraid to call on me when things get bad."

*Clang*. The door is solid enough to sharpen the raw ache, but at least that interrupts the loop. Rinzler hits it again, and again, and again. He's too weak to do damage, too drained to force his way out. But he can't stop. He won't.

[He jumps, as he would if nearly anyone snuck up on him, but at the very least there's some recognition in his fevered gaze. It's not enough to get him to lower his guard-- not until he knows Obi-Wan isn't here on some misguided errand to destroy it, the beautiful, terrible thing waiting further down this labyrinth of corridors. But he's a man of sense, at least, even if he's wrong about where he places his faith.]

Shhh....

[Holding up his hand-- the one not white-knuckled around the blaster-- he takes a moment to listen for anything. Footsteps, voices, but there's nothing except the welcome whispering slithering in the back of his mind, so maybe they're all right. It's all right. Everything is all right. When he speaks again, it's barely above a whisper; this is too important to risk drawing unwanted attention.]

What are you doing here?

"Weapons retrieval", he'd said.

That had been hours ago. Rinzler or no, she'd assembled teams from those who had answered the call, and they'd fanned out, searched high and low for additional threats and, most importantly, the source. The Moira delivered a lot of shit sandwiches, but this, at least, was firmer ground for her. There was no processing plant, here — it was a something, another Object Rho, or similar, come to remind her she'd never, never be done.

Or was it someone?

Nihlus hadn't been back to his room. She didn't know where he was — not that that was anything particularly new, these days. He'd been pointedly avoiding her since their fight, but there was avoidance, and then there was... this. The midnight voice message, his disappearance, J's change — the timeline was no coincidence. Find Nihlus, and she'd find her answers.

Other teammates disbanded, or doing their own searches, Shepard had returned again to the site of her encounter with J, new scar tissue settling in nicely, and started circling out once more. The ship was big — but not infinite. With a little patience, and a page or two from Nihlus' own Spectre handbook, she was certain she could--

Clang.

The sound echoes through the empty hallway. Gun already in hand, she scans the corridor, reflexes on a knife's edge, waiting. Watching. If there's husks, what's next? Nihlus is missing. Marauders? Brutes?

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

But the sound is all wrong for an ambush, for an aggressor. Almost rhythmic, it's got no bite — the tired thump of something throwing itself against an immovable force — more a wave crashing on the rocks than a wolf at the door. She follows the source of the noise, adjusting her grip, and steps in front it, a door benignly labeled "CLEANING".

"Identify yourself!"

This isn't working. It doesn't help. Rinzler keeps going anyway, as tremors fracture to an exhausted slump against the wall. He needs power. He should pare down, but core functions are just as useless here as he is. He's supposed to fight. Supposed to move. Serve Clu, but he's failed that directive for the better part of a cycle.

Ever since he asked a user to help hide his disk.

That's why this happened, isn't it? That's why he's here. Rinzler flinches, lurches, strikes another ragged blow against the metal, but it's still not loud enough to drown out the truth. He never should have—

"Identify."

The voice is sharp and close—familiar, though ID takes an embarassingly long time to parse. Shepard. A skilled combatant. Recent ally. He was supposed to join her in searching out the virus. How long ago, now? He doesn't know. He isn't sure it matters.

Before any of the rest, he knew her as Nihlus' friend.

His fist clenches against the ground, and Rinzler stares, dull loathing coiling around his processing in loops. The door is barely dented—and trying has just wasted power he doesn't have. He isn't getting out alone. He doesn't trust the user, but there's almost no harm left for her to do. There's just one problem.

Rinzler. Can't. Speak.

He's meant to be a weapon. He's not meant to be this weak. The program stares, and stalls, and lashes out again. He's shaking too hard to manage even a loud noise. It's violent and wordless. It's pathetic and small. It's all he has.

Still, if Shepard listens closely, she might catch the glitching snarl of frustration, too.

I could ask you the same.

[ And really, in this current climate, he actually is asking without actually asking. With everything that's going on, the most suspicious behavior — especially suspicious behavior — keeps him on edge. ]

What's going on?

For a heartbeat following her shout, the noise stops, and the silence leans in, as if considering its options. Inching closer, finger alongside the trigger, she leans into the silence.

CLANG.

It's so sudden, so much more forceful, she almost fires off a shot, drawing back slightly. But there's something else underneath it, a low hiss like a computer network on the fritz, a VI in a feedback loop, something--

Synthetic. Friend of foe? If it was another husk behind the door, it wouldn't be able to do more than it was already doing. But a program with functionality, even one that didn't speak...

"Knock two plus one times if you understand what I'm saying."

Two plus... oh, this is crashing pathetic. Rinzler glowers, and Rinzler seethes, even as the dim glow of his lights starts to pulse erratically, in and out of complete dark—

[WARNING: critical threshold.]
[WARNING: shutdown imminent.]

If he shuts down, he doubts he'll wake up again. And if he does, he might not be himself. Not that the user isn't just as likely to ensure that anyway, but if he dies from a fault-glitched diagnostic... no.

Fingers curl around the doorframe, steadying (half-numb), and Rinzler strikes the surface again. Again. Again. It is pathetic. Humiliating. Weak, and worthless, and if he's been reduced to this, to playing along with user counting games in the hope that they'll open a door, maybe he should dissolve to voxels here and now. But he won't let himself. He won't die, he won't stop, he'll pass whatever tests he has to.

He's getting out of here. He's getting his disks back. And he's going to destroy the user who took them.

Nothing. Nothing,

[ he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder again. Doing a perfectly convincing job of acting normal. Really he is. No, really. ]

I'm just-- well, it's not important. What about you?

[ There's a fierce, mistrustful look in his eyes, a wildness he can't contain any longer. ]

[ Nothing, indeed. Obi-Wan does what he can to find an appropriate home for the concern knotting his guts into tight loops, but whatever he's sensing beyond Han's misdirection continues to unsettle him. ]

I really haven't the time for games and that's what this is beginning to feel like. Whatever isn't happening here feels terribly important. Why else would you be waving a blaster around?

I guess you've got me there.

[ He doesn't flinch, doesn't sound bitter about having to concede to that logic. It's all right. He can make this work. Han might be focused on a new purpose, but he's still his same self. Still able to talk his way out of anything. ]

Come on. I'll show you.

[ it's a risk, leading the Jedi closer, definitely a risk. But Han is confident: the glory of it will suffice. Kenobi will understand, and then he, too, will serve. He lowers his blaster, nods down the dark hallway. ]

[ There have to be at least a dozen reasons as to why Obi-Wan shouldn't follow Han — the least of which being how very dark that hallway seems to be — but considering how Kenobi is, it's really in his nature to spring that trap. ]

Why must you show me? Can you not tell me on the way to showing me, at least?

[ Urging himself forward, he grips his lightsaber tightly and reaches the other hand out to follow the wall with his free fingertips, as if it's the only way he'll leave himself a trail back home. ]

I don't understand...

There's a pause, once Rinzler finishes his count, and for a moment, it seems like it wasn't enough. Then there's a subtle, dangerous singing sound, like a violin made of razor blades, and Shepard's voice comes through, doing what it does best: commanding.

"Move back."

One, two, three, four, five seconds pass, and then there's a sharp, sudden slice of orange, filling the air with a heady mixture of burnt, melted plastics and metals. A piece of severed door drops outwards — and the door itself, freed of the constraining weld that held it stolidly in place, zips open. There's a sharp intake of breath.

"Rinzler?"

The voice, shocked and worried, as well as the body it belongs to, is already moving towards him, gun slack at her side, slice of orange nowhere in sight.

The warning matters. It takes nearly the full pause for Rinzler to shift from his support. By the time the door splits and slides away, he's half a pace back, propped up by one arm and an awkward sideways curl. Shepard will hear him before she sees him—and smell the piercing reek of ozone the moment she draws breath. Rinzler might have no scent to speak of, but he's been losing charge to the air for hours, and that's not even counting the blasts that took him down.

Lights are dim and erratic, unsteady sparks still pricking from one circuit to the next. The glittering pieces trailed across the floor have more color, even if the heaps that used to be his legs have started to dull. Even past the weakness and the damage, the enforcer's bristling is impossible to miss, and as Shepard closes the gap, his ticking rattle scrapes up in a snarl.

Shock or worry (or pretense at both) aside... if the user tries to grab him, he'll break the reaching arm.

You will. [Which of them is he trying to convince?] You will. It's just... just a little further.

[ He pauses at a bend in the hall, still a little wild-eyed, not doing a great job of keeping it under wraps. ]

Go on.

Go on to what? To where?

[ He's that much more suspicious as Han continues to press, unsettled deep down in a way that feels uncanny. ]

You are being the least helpful, I hope you know.

[ And going somewhere without cause of concern is not Obi-Wan's way, even if it might be easily attributed to Solo. ]

You aren't in trouble, are you? You haven't told me anything. If there's a problem, I'm certain I can help — I'm certain of it.

[ Just don't keep leading him down hallways that don't bode well by the feel of them. ]

We're close. It's fine.

[ Still not an answer. Han thinks he's doing okay. At the best of times, he's really not as smooth a talker as he likes to think, and right now-- well, the best of times, this isn't. But really, he thinks he's doing okay. ]

No trouble. Just... this way. You'll see.

[ He'll see. Once he makes it to the right door, and Han can shove him through it. This will be fine. ]

As soon as he bristles, hisses, she stops dead in her tracks, a full arm's width away. Her first instinct is to ask — what happened? But if Rinzler hadn't responded, hadn't typed anything by now, then he couldn't.

Instead, she takes a moment, allowing herself to take in the scene, and the program's condition. Whoever had attacked had known what to expect, what to hit and disable. Legs gone, and communicative ability shut off, Rinzler light and color wasn't going to last a lot longer without intervention.

"Let me help you."

The assessment isn't wrong. Rinzler can't type. Can't talk, can't move, can't so much as stay online alone. He's been crippled in every way, made utterly dependent: a trapped animal snarling in its cage. Still, Shepard's seen him in a cell before, and one difference is entirely tangible. Rinzler is furious. It fills the air, rattles through the space, traces the angry, coiled lines of every function he's been left.

He wants to break something. He doesn't trust her. He wants to fight, but she hasn't attacked, and that means (something) (nothing), and he doesn't have a choice.

She's not the one he has to kill.

The helmet twitches, flagging and unsteady. Help.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Indoctrination Plot Part 2

Protect! (For the Indoctrinated)

Destroy! (For the Unindoctrinated)

(There is no Green Ending, sorry guys.)

Locked to Shepard

no subject

no subject

no subject

Locked to Shepard (slightly earlier) - CW program gore, dismemberment

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Holy shit im sorry about this 8|

Not a problem!