ｊｏｓｅｐｈ ｋａｖｉｎｓｋｙ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pillz) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2017-07-09 01:05 pm
pillz) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-07-09 01:05 pm
The Demon Plot: DEATH OF GRINDING MADNESS [July Player Event]
Who: Ensemble production, all individuals who opted in to the plot
When: July 9-21
Where: Two inhabited planets around the Ingress
What: The demon plot kicks off, in which malevolent shadow beings, copies of existing characters, begin to materialize and harass the PCs across the worlds. Plotting post is here, and a network post will go up within the next 2 days from several PCs advising on how to end the plot.
Warnings: Violence, psychological themes, possibly past trauma, etc.
When: July 9-21
Where: Two inhabited planets around the Ingress
What: The demon plot kicks off, in which malevolent shadow beings, copies of existing characters, begin to materialize and harass the PCs across the worlds. Plotting post is here, and a network post will go up within the next 2 days from several PCs advising on how to end the plot.
Warnings: Violence, psychological themes, possibly past trauma, etc.
Death of Grinding Madness
The Demon Plot
(mild spoilers for The Raven Cycle)
The Demon Plot
(mild spoilers for The Raven Cycle)
On July 9, a demon begins to make its way through the Ingress, summoned through by a shitty teenager.
July 9-12
Harrying
Harrying
It's innocuous in the beginning. A movement in the corner of your eye, a shadow through a curtain-- merely a tree. But then the shadow figures begin to emerge into full being. Black-eyed wraiths that look like enemies, friends with whom you've had past conflict, or even you yourself. At first, it's merely harrying, minor harassment. Threatening gestures, broken gestures, jump scares.
Pursue them, and they disappear-- you might even catch a glimpse of how. They melt down into black slime, racing away across floors, through sewer grates, up walls, impossible to follow. By now, the worst of the climate freeze is over, but residual ice does pose a needles extra obstacle.
Pursue them, and they disappear-- you might even catch a glimpse of how. They melt down into black slime, racing away across floors, through sewer grates, up walls, impossible to follow. By now, the worst of the climate freeze is over, but residual ice does pose a needles extra obstacle.
July 12-15
The Violence Escalates
The Violence Escalates
In the days that follow, the situation only gets worse.
Sporadic harassment turns into outright attacks. The targeting is unmistakable. The shadow beings who can speak tell cruel tales of animosity, spite, even hatred. They are as deadly with their hands or strange powers as their doppelgangers are, and worse, they're functionally indestructible. Rip off one's head and it merely reforms out of sticky black ink. Limbs regenerate just as easily. The being might dispell for a few hours, but no doubt— it'll be back, if not to hurt you then someone you know.
The Savrii begin to notice. It's hard not to. While there is hardly an epidemic of panic, the disruptions are hard to miss-- broken windows, screams, random violence. Soon, the authorities begin to open safehouse facilities at which characters can seek shelter.
Sporadic harassment turns into outright attacks. The targeting is unmistakable. The shadow beings who can speak tell cruel tales of animosity, spite, even hatred. They are as deadly with their hands or strange powers as their doppelgangers are, and worse, they're functionally indestructible. Rip off one's head and it merely reforms out of sticky black ink. Limbs regenerate just as easily. The being might dispell for a few hours, but no doubt— it'll be back, if not to hurt you then someone you know.
The Savrii begin to notice. It's hard not to. While there is hardly an epidemic of panic, the disruptions are hard to miss-- broken windows, screams, random violence. Soon, the authorities begin to open safehouse facilities at which characters can seek shelter.
July 15-18
The Golem
The Golem
On July 17, something horrific begins to happen— several shadow beings merge to form a massive golem in Kauto R1. It is a grotesque, horrifying spectacle, of limbs and eyes and pulsating flesh. It reaches almost sixty feet in height. Combined together, this shadow creature is considerably less intelligent than the individual beings were. However, it is also immensely strong and regenerates just like the smaller ones did.
Within the mall, hundreds of daytime shoppers are trapped within. Luckily, they have food and climate control. Perhaps you're one of them-- or perhaps you're trying to get in to provide medical care.
In the meantime, the attacks from the individual shadow beings don't stop. Despite the intelligence exhibited by some, all of them seem mindlessly bent on tormenting their targets until they are killed.
Within the mall, hundreds of daytime shoppers are trapped within. Luckily, they have food and climate control. Perhaps you're one of them-- or perhaps you're trying to get in to provide medical care.
In the meantime, the attacks from the individual shadow beings don't stop. Despite the intelligence exhibited by some, all of them seem mindlessly bent on tormenting their targets until they are killed.
July 18-21
The Sacrifice
The Sacrifice
On the 9th day, a network post goes up (link pending, will be OOCly forward-dated to July 10th latest) revealing how to remove the invincibility of the attackers.
And by the 21st, the remaining beings utterly vanish without explanation— unless you happen to bear witness to the events that take place at St. Monmouth.
And by the 21st, the remaining beings utterly vanish without explanation— unless you happen to bear witness to the events that take place at St. Monmouth.
no subject
It's still reason to be wary.
The stare is wrong. The words, more so. Is Nihlus drunk? Drunk, or glitched, or altered by the system change. The question registers, and Rinzler's stare flits up—but the eyes slitting in satisfaction are clear green.
But he's still speaking, and Rinzler stiffens, noise rising to a snarl. Nihlus knows why Clu is off-limits. And certainly, it's not a case of fear. Rinzler is loyal, Rinzler is fine, Rinzler won't be shamed for his function. Fingers curl on the holographic keys, a jagged twitch of irritation to tell Nihlus so. He gets as far as Admin.
....Before the projected keyboard dissolves against the brush of mismatched input. Before a taloned hand reaches through and hovers, a spark's width from his lights. Nihlus is much too close. Nihlus is talking, and it's now that Rinzler places the other half of that stare. Not Tron's memories, but his own. Earth_91-c. The user who'd first interrupted him and Chara, flushed expression and leering eyes and hands far too eager to take hold. "I wouldn't mind a test drive."
He'd broken that one's wrist. Her friend hadn't been so lucky. Fingers curl to a fist, and Rinzler's forearm slams outward, aiming to knock the reaching hand—and the user attached to it—away. His frame coils, connection closing to the conduit as his other arm returns to his side.
Back. Off.
no subject
And then it dissipates as fast as it'd come. He smiles again, puffing a soft laugh and letting his arm fall lazily back to his side.
Function, huh?
"Clu and I banged, you know?" It's spoken in a tone that was perfectly suitable for someone sharing a dirty little piece of gossip. "He's awful handsome for a raging prick. Hot little thing in bed too. I really need to stop falling for the asshole sorts, especially the ones that'll get me killed some day. Damn his stupid, fancy hair."
Leaning in, Nihlus cups the side of one mandible, voice dropping to a stage whisper.
"I'll let you in a little secret though. You see, I don't just bang my mortal enemies for shits and giggles, I bang them because it's-" A pause, the Turian clicking his claws together as if he'd forgotten the word, then- "Educational! You learn A LOT about someone when they're whimpering out your name and begging for more. All their soft spots, their private little expressions, the teeny, tiny physical cues that telegraph what they feel from miles away... little pieces to add to that little decrypter I have going on for him. It took a bit of time afterwards to compile everything I'd learned, but learning everything I did made it a real snap."
Here, the Spectre glances off to the side as if checking for someone listening before turning back, eyes glimmering conspiratorially.
"Wanna know what I found out?"
And then, even lower.
"I think he's scared of you."
The grin this time is a bit more human. All teeth. Nihlus steps away, gives the enforcer his space in favor of slowly circling him as he keeps talking, musing out loud.
"Well, maybe not scared of you, you. Scared of something... in you. Scared of losing you? Hm. Maybe a little bit." A thoughtful hum. "I saw this- look on his face, this twisted up little thing, just as you were flickering blue, stepping out of that little coffin back on Earth-91c. Rage and guilt and... grief? I saw it in the greenhouse back on the Moira too, after he tore your arm off, and I didn't really figure out the link back then. Didn't have that Clu Decrypter up to specs yet. Now, though?"
Tapping the his chin, looks Rinzler over, raising a mandible.
"It's for Tron, isn't it? It's for who you were. Who you might become again if that blue decides to become permanent. The person who can destroy Clu, but the one he's still keeping you around for anyways. You're not just a weapon to him. You're something a lot more sad."
The sound of heavy boots against flooring comes to a halt on the enforcer's left.
"What is your real function, Rinzler? Why is Clu so desperate to hang onto the last shreds of Tron that he's willing to risk his life keeping you around? What was Tron to him?"
no subject
Copy. Virus. Corruption. Glitch. The specifics don't really matter, do they?
Nihlus makes a very dangerous threat.
The look recedes, but Rinzler won't be tricked again. Won't let his guard down. Weight stays coiled, noise rising to a low growl as the user leans again into his space. He doesn't react to Clu and I—or the wealth of unwanted detail that follows. It hadn't been hard to infer the basics from the network call, and he's spending his processing on more valuable calculations. Vectors and force, targets and exploits. Rinzler's had a lot of practice fighting this opponent, and he's entirely willing to get more. Say, if Nihlus[?] doesn't back the fault off.
He does, if not by much. Rinzler shifts just barely, putting the wall—and transfer conduit—behind him. He might not have planned for an attack, but it's probably the most effective place to be if one does come. Especially considering the user's preferred method of takedown.
Then again, it's hard to say how many defaults still apply. Usually, Nihlus isn't this fond of hearing his own voice. Lies and truths and guesses all twisted up together. He's fishing. He doesn't know. It's not a secret—not anymore. Rinzler knows what he is.
Clearly, this user doesn't. One hand lingers at the enforcer's side (and slightly back). The other reaches for his TAB.
Not Tron.
The cursor twitches backward, just a moment—then resets on a new line. Rinzler's been making a little more effort, recently, with including (asserting) a specific pronoun: I. But changing a line means admitting to the error, and this threat doesn't need more targets.
Why do you care?
no subject
The expression of offense was awfully genuine.
"Don't you think I finally deserve to know the source of all this fucking drama after constantly dealing with your selfish, self-centered, cryptic fucking varren-shit daily for the past year and more?"
It's hard to see in the lack of lighting, but Nihlus' plates were suddenly- grayer. As if all the color had leached from him, the pale markings on his face almost glowing.
"I got this silly idea in my head that you were my friend." His voice is quiet, soft dissonance in his subvocals. "We fought side by side against every form of fuckery this universe tossed at us. I helped hide your disk, I picked you up after Clu tore you down, watched the exhausting aftermath where you went right back to him again. I've helped rescued you, oh, twice now? Both situations you put yourself in with your own self loathing and short-sightedness, by the by."
Sighing, Nihlus curls an arm over his chest and cups the side of his face, letting his now colorless eyes wander over the empty room.
"Is that it? Is that the list? There's definitely more, I think. Let's see..." Pausing, he takes a moment of faux contemplation and then: "Oh, yeah."
The laugh he lets slip is sharp and bitter.
"I promised Clu he could do whatever he wanted to me as long as he didn't reset you. You know, right after I woke up from having my mind fucked over by that Monolith. Alone. Missing an arm. He was my very first visitor!"
Chuckling, Nihlus waves his hand before adding, "Mind you, Shepard interrupted that little deal and I think your admin shit his glowy pants at the idea of facing her down. It's pretty iffy whether or not that helped influence his decision to leave you be, but then I don't know your version of the copy, do I?"
The laughter trails off into nothingness, replaced instead with a low, melancholic sigh.
"Anyways, my point is, after all this, you ask me why I care?"
Looking up, he locks his gaze with Rinzler's, idly running a wickedly sharp thumb claw over one of the stripes that curved over his cheek. There's a strange, oily liquidity to his movements now.
"Honestly, I don't know why I'm even surprised. Do you really care about anything I ever did for you? Better yet: what, exactly, have you ever done for me?"
"I mean, mostly the stuff I DID ask for were things that'd actually benefit you! Tiny fucking things like: don't fight teenagers and get yourself back in trouble, Rinzler!" Pressing close again, Nihlus looms over him, grinning as he continues listing the requests, mockingly mimicking his own stern tones. "Stop escalating every fucking situation into a fight just because you can, Rinzler! Don't fucking murder kids, Rinzler!"
"And the Monolith. After the Monolith ruined me, where were you? You saw me breaking down and you couldn't even take one second to pull your head out of your digital ass to help me? You knew what happened to me. You knew what IT did to me. Goddess, more than anyone else-"
Cutting himself off, Nihlus stutters to a sudden halting stop and just stands there, strands of black goo wisping up in thin lines like silk in nonexistent wind. Slowly, his expression softens even as his face slowly begins to unravel itself. When he speaks again, there's an odd warmth in his words.
"I saved myself. I got better alone. I pulled myself out of that hell, there was no rescue for me. No one saved me. You were too busy cozying back up to the fucker who screwed you over in the first place- the very reason you trusted me with your disk. The disk I never activated. Not even to peek at the interface. Not even when that terrible, terrible voice told me to. Not. Once."
Smiling, he reaches out again, both hands now so that he could gently, very, very gently, try and curl them over the sides of Rinzler's helmet, fingers smoothing over the gloss.
"You don't get to 'admin' me."
no subject
He stills at deserve. Stalls at friend. Tension winds tighter and tighter, but he doesn't move at all through the litany of aid. Still, the user's marks brighten, and Rinzler's dim, a ragged fluctuation that builds up in his noise. Sheer shock jerks his mask sideways for one brief fraction: he didn't ask for that. Not for Nihlus to save him, and especially not for him to offer anything to Clu—
But he did ask Nihlus to protect his disk. He asked, and Nihlus kept it, and the user never—not even—
Nihlus attacked him, Nihlus broke him, chopped off his limbs and put him in a cage. That wiped any slate. And Rinzler had to obey Clu; Rinzler belonged to him. Clu took his code back because Nihlus—
Rinzler does know, did know, him more than anyone—
(There was no rescue—)
NO. The first clawed talon closes around his mask, and Rinzler flinches back, a graceless stutter that half-collides with the wall before he slips sideways and retreats a pace. Advantage lost, defensive position weakened, but that doesn't matter but it does, this isn't Nihlus, it's a threat.
LYING.
Glitched. Infected. Again.
no subject
Whatever gap Rinzler might've eked out stumbling back is quickly closed again, the shadow following, pressing the advantage, trying to corner now. Trying to trap.
"You saw."
Nihlus' mechanical arm splits, splinters. Shards of metal sprout through and shred the sleeve of his tunic, blue-lined cables spilling out of the cracks and black fluids dripping, leaving a trail on the floor where it trickled off of his claws.
"You saw."
There's a fissure in his throat that grows and grows until the now eyeless skull hovers, disconnected, the gap set perfectly over the line Rinzler had carved, severing his head in the dream.
"I never had to lie to you, you're doing a fine job pulling that off yourself."
no subject
friend] [ally], ripped down to his base code. Reconstructed back into a rotten, oozing whole. Threat.Virus.
He hadn't helped. There was no rescue. Not before the corruption, and not after.
Not while either of them were awake.
Rinzler's flinch coils, tension realigning. The hand behind him flashes up, comes forward, grips meeting and splitting in the same smooth draw. Rinzler falters back into a crouch and reverses just as quickly, first disk slashing wide from left to right as his second punches straight in towards its core.
It's terrifying. Nightmarish. But Rinzler was made to fight those terrors. It's a virus, and he's right. And Rinzler too, remembers what the real Nihlus had asked for in that dream.
'Kill me'.
no subject
The second disk plunges straight through, sludge and liquid where Nihlus' spine should have given some resistance. Its the only warning Rinzler gets before the black solidifies, flash freezes around his wrist to try and trap it in place.
And if that works, the enforcer will find an arm pressed into his throat as Nihlus shifts to slam him into the nearest wall, to pin him, press against him, claws reaching out to trap his other wrist above his head.
"Rinzler," it purrs, the subvocals so distinct it sounded like multiple voices speaking at once, black dripping from its teeth. "I can make you forget. I can fix everything, just let me taste you, you look so delicious-"
no subject
Pressure, momentum, and Rinzler jams his free elbow back, smashing the wall a bare instant before his disk dock slams into its surface. The reflex keeps him from being stunned, but does nothing at all to counter the arm against his throat, or the other claws now groping along his wrist. Rinzler twists and slashes, trying to sever the reaching hand. But the virus is close, much too close, and he's leashed by his own limb.
Pinned. [Trapped.] The enforcer's noise snarls out, a cacophony of errors shuddering through contact as its voice splits and reality goes too. "I can fix it." Hands on his wrists, force on his dock, trapped and kept and pulled apart by pain and pressure, inside and out. He doesn't want to forget. He won't, he won't he won't again [Rinzler] won't let him, no matter what it takes.
His frame rocks back, legs rising, knees level with the enforcer's helmet—before the force uncoils just as fast. Back braced against the wall. Arm jerking inwards. His feet slam out on either side of the embedded limb, aiming to kick (or launch) the virus off.
no subject
The shadow hits the far wall with a gaping hole in its stomach that's already knitting up, leaving a trail of tarry slime in its wake. For all that the force would have stunned the real Nihlus though, this creature doesn't even stop to shrug it off. Lifting its warped mechanical arm up, it shoots the grapple hand at the enforcer's neck.
"Stop squirming so much." Under the sharp, mechanical squeal of the reel spinning, the monster laughs. "I only want to help."
The tether, Rinzler will note, is sizzling. Glowing almost white with heat in a way it hadn't all the times he'd sparred with Nihlus before.
no subject
—a moment—
The familiar click is equal parts warning and impossibility. Rinzler reacts with his own impossible speed: contorting his frame, slamming up his disk to divert the attack. Reflex is quick enough to block, but not to dodge, and for the second time in half a cycle, Rinzler feels the grappling arm lock closed around his disk.
This time, it's burning.
He won't let go. Won't give it up. Cognition blanks and ripples with ghost sickness, overheat channeled through reflected code as much as through the point of contact from his grip. He stumbles forward as the reel jerks back, slick footing and nausea obstructing efforts to brace and hold his ground. He knows how to fight against this tether, but he can't grab it, not like this; can't take control.
He can't give up, either. Certainly, he can't stop. The distance closes one more pace, and both disks flare a pure, blinding white. Rinzler jerks back on the line, pulling it taut as his free weapon slams into the burning cord edge first. He'd damaged it before. This time? He's spending as much charge as it takes to break it.
no subject
And unless Rinzler dodges immediately- he's getting rammed into, bionic elbow slamming down into the enforcer's sternum and the line of circuits there, the unreeled line leaving mirages in its wake as it whips about. If that move succeeds, the shadow will follow through with a with a sharp, vicious kick, armored, taloned feet driving into gut.
"I said," it hisses. "Stop. Squirming."
no subject
He swipes out blindly as he hits the ground. Tucks with the momentum and keeps rolling. This is oppressively, hatefully familiar—he needs the distance, but can't stay on defense (not like this). One wrist twists, flicking out a high-charged blade toward knee-level. If he can make it back to the energy conduit, Rinzler will slap his free hand on its panel, drawing power fast.
no subject
"Rinzlerrr~"
A mass of tendrils are already filling up the empty space by its next step, weaving together tendons, sinew and bones. Barely a hitch in the stride, barely a moment of reprieve. It flicks its own de-handed wrist, snapping the glowing tether through the air like a whip-
Aiming to slice right through the energy conduit's panel.
And Rinzler's hand unless he pulls it away in time.
no subject
All of which makes the next attack less than surprising. Rinzler lifts his hand clear, snatching the returning disk and slamming it back, aiming to embed the cable deeper in the wrecked device. If he's lucky, maybe it will hit a power main and fry itself. If he's not, the tug might still off-balance the virus. His body spins in line with the attack, frame blading to an extended sweep. The threat regenerates most damage, but it can still be stalled. Incapacitated.
And there's one part that hasn't grown back.
If the sweep or tug do meet with success, Rinzler will follow up immediately: weight lunging forward with a vertical slash. The disk is supercharged, aim very specific: to remove that prosthetic arm completely, from its base.
no subject
The hand isn't growing back because the shadow just didn't feel like regenerating it.
It lets the enforcer in close. It lets him slice its arm off. And in the split second opening afterwards, the shadow lashes out with its remaining hand, looking to sink its claws into his throat. If that works it will use the neck as a handhold as it brings its knee up, spur up, rams it up into the gut wound from before.
And if Rinzler's too stunned to resist afterwards, he will find himself being pushed into the floor as a the mass of black tendrils snake out of the now reforming arm to slowly wrap themselves around his wrists.
no subject
Does Rinzler stop fighting? No.
Still, it's enough to get a hold.
no subject
Tendrils reform into claws, hooked through the holes in Rinzler's disks and embed into the flooring. The rest loop around his wrists and arms, tying them together before turning into glowing tether once more. Not super-heated this time, but just a few degrees shy of burning. Just hot enough to sap away at the enforcer's strength.
"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Sinking down onto its knees, the shadow settles astride dark hips, radiating a lazy, smug victory as it idly smooths its free hand over the crinkling gape in Rinzler's abdomen. "So much fuss over nothing and look at what you got for your troubles here. All I wanted was some company."
It takes its time, savoring the moment, savoring the way Rinzler struggled underneath it, the texture of the armor under its palm as it strokes a slow line up the program's chest.
"That shindig with Clu got me a little curious, you know? Circuitry. Nodes. They're conductive, right? Do you share information through touch? And if so, how does this..."
Little flickers of electricity dance, hovering in a pinpoint of light over a claw tip. Blue light slides over the oily blackness where Nihlus' face had been as it holds the finger up between them.
"Feel?"
And that's about the moment the shadow taps the sparking clawtip against the orange 'T' on Rinzler's collarbone.
/belatedly all the cws (violence, injury, sexual creeping)
The light-cable he thought he'd cut apart.
He's trapped. Bound, and the helpless loathing that seeps from old files is nearly as paralyzing as the cord. Worse than the numb failure of inputs, heat lagging the inward pull of arms to an uncoordinated shudder. He can't break it. Can't get out. Can't do anything at all about the possessive trace of contact up his front.
He can't stop trying, either. The shadow's musings draw nothing but a furious clatter, but its discharge has more visible effect. Light crackles through the clustered circuits, a brief flush illuminating finer patterns past the armor as Rinzler's frame jerks inwards. Hips twist, trying to throw the virus to one side as the point of his helmet knocks its hand away.
Don't touch him.
no subject
"Downnnn boy," it breathes, making a show of licking the finger Rinzler's helmet had grazed, voice wrapped in tones tones of hurt so fake they might well be dripping with the lie. "You're really making me work here."
A flick of the left wrist and the omni-tool glows to life. The shade summons an equipment diagnostics panel usually used for hardware repairs, conductive contact points wrapping around its claws.
"That IS... interesting though."
It doesn't go for the pattern on Rinzler's collar this time, but lower, to the little set of lines sitting just above the enforcer's gouged abdomen. This time, pressing the pad of its fingers firmly down, closing the circuit.
The data sent over the touch isn't diagnostics though. The connection yawns open, a quantum system bigger anything Flynn would have access to, but it's not the harmless nonsense gibberish of an alien system trying to connect with binary: it's intent. It's maliciousness using the tiny strips of orange light as a conduit, pinging the connection over and over, faster and faster.
"How 'bout we run you through a stress test?" Nihlus' shadow murmurs teasingly as it slowly ups the output.
no subject
He can't. He tries anyway. There's nothing else to do.
Nothing but watch the threat ready its tools. Nothing but feel the touch-connection close, stray data flicking inwards in a ping. It's corrupted. Sick. He shuts it down, shuts it out, but it comes back. Again. Again. Lights flicker, struggles lagging as internals strain to match the speed. Rinzler is skilled. Rinzler is fast. Rinzler is a thousand cycles of efficiency: pared and practiced and perfected from code that was already a marvel in its elegance.
Rinzler is nothing at all, compared to the enormity he's been hooked into.
It's not quick. Not instant, and that fact alone is staggering. But noise catches, a new pitch threading through the rattle of mismatch. The distressed flicker of the program's circuitry gives way to a maze of color: red lights speckled with pixelized glints of pale blue—both darkening to black in patchwork. His entire body warms. Heats.
Crash imminent.
no subject
The heat is alluring and it makes the shadow press down harder against Rinzler's frame with a soft sigh, watching with a quiet fascination as the lights glitched and flickered and faded. It's such a captivating sight and it was almost tempting to let it go through to the inevitable conclusion.
But, just on the brink, just on the edge of shut down, the fingers carefully lift away.
"Rinzler." A gentle hand cups the side of the enforcer's helmet and the voice drifting down from above is a soft, soft croon. "Come on now, sweetheart. I can't have you blacking out just yet."
no subject
There's too much. Externals barely register, sound rising and falling in harsh, too-fast clicks. Still, Rinzler knows his name. The tags associated with the voice that speaks it (taunt, trap) won't parse, but another does, at the very core of his directive. Threat. It's what's wrong. It's here.
Kill it.
The black mask jerks clumsily, a full ten seconds' lag after the contact. It's not the only part of Rinzler trying to move, but limbs are unresponsive, imperative unfilled.
He'll need another micro to remember why.
no subject
"Rinzlerrrr," it sing songs again, drawing glowing fingertips along the little orange strips in the enforcer's helmet, but the contact points stay dormant.
It's patient. It waits. There were other things to occupy itself with anyways, waiting for the labored ticking to level out.
Curling long claws around the point of the enforcer's mask, it pushes down, holding him down, leaving the arch of his neck exposed as it leans in. The tip of a long, oily tongue slides languidly along the circuitry in his collar, following the seams in his gridsuit in lazy exploration. Up and up, until it reaches his throat.
"Come back to me, dear," it whispers just before slowly sinking its teeth in.
no subject
([
Rinzler] was always made to fight.)Slowly, responsiveness picks up. Recovery can be read in the strength and timing of the struggles. Awareness can be read in the tense loathing that threads through them. The slick, wet slide against his indicator draws a flicker and a flinch, frame yanking in forcefully enough to dig the pattern of restraint into his wrists. It's this that turns that tension to a lock, memory slamming back in jumbled fragments. Had he—Clu—?
No. No, and revulsion washes through every fragment of processing he's gathered—every line he's cleared from the virus' malicious code. Get. It. Out. Teeth sink in, and Rinzler thrashes: mask against hand, limbs against bonds, disks flaring as hands twist in search of a target.
Code splits with the taste of ozone.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
And wrapping up this awful shitshow!