The Demon Plot: DEATH OF GRINDING MADNESS [July Player Event]

[pillz]

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.

Death of Grinding Madness
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

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.

July 12-15
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.

July 15-18
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.

July 18-21
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.

Comments

[notglitching]

"Not even when you cut off my legs?"

The words are calm. Conversational. Obscenely so, for a topic neither of them has breached since the event. Not so directly. Not in as many words. Rinzler meets the user's gaze with no flinch or anger in the slightest. Just a raised eyebrow. An easy shrug.

"You had to know I wouldn't have been useful."

Not without his limbs. Not leashed to Clu's rules. And not free to follow his own will.

But that goes without saying.

The program's stare drifts toward the suggested route before his head ducks slightly: courtesy, not submission. Of course. He takes a half-step toward the tunnels, action following assent. They wouldn't want Nihlus to be uncomfortable.

[beautifulspaceraptor]

The agreement comes as a welcome surprise, even if it accompanied the feeling that he's about to be lead into a potential trap. Nihlus takes it up anyways, carefully putting some distance between them and the stray civilian.

What Rinzler says draws him to a slow stop at the bottom of the stairwell however. He casts the Program a sideways stare, mandibles clamped against his jaw and expression carefully neutral.

It still comes back to him. He fights it, but it comes back. The stray scent of ozone against the back of his tongue, the crinkle of voxels, Rinzler-

Nihlus takes in a slow shaken breath, letting his claws dig in hard enough to cut into his palm, lets the pain ground him, knuckles white.

"Not even then," he manages, barely managing to push the words out beyond a strained whisper. Swallowing the hard knot in his throat, Nihlus turns a crooked smile on the program.

"You're not useful. You're a pain in the ass and even the Monolith knew that. I only hang around you because I think you're cool."

[notglitching]

Nihlus' smile draws a match of Rinzler's own: the jagged gap carved through his face, crinkling upward. The reply only adds a huff of laughter, and Rinzler shakes his head as he turns back to the stairs.

"I suppose that's true. The first part, anyway."

A silent nod—this way, right?—and the enforcer starts upward. The gesture is familiar, and Rinzler will wait to be sure Nihlus is coming too. But there's no hesitation. None of the reluctance Rinzler shows to letting anyone stand at his back.

Especially Nihlus, after that.

"The deaths on the ship... the fuss Texas made after. Amissis-Re. Earth 91-c. And Clu, of course." There's a musing cadence to the words. A rhythm, one phrase rolling out atop the next. Curious. It almost offsets the cutting quality of Rinzler's speech.

"You really do get your kicks out of helping, don't you? Does it feel more useful, having someone to watch?"

[beautifulspaceraptor]

"Are you saying you're not cool?"

It's strained though, the teasing. Carefully suppressed nausea hidden under the words as Nihlus watches Rinzler start up the stairs. The smile was so strange to see and he can't help but stare, his own fading away into nothingness, blue dripping from numb fingers.

"There's no kick to it."

He forces his feet to move. To follow.

"I don't know what you think helping people's like, but it's actually really thankless, mostly."

It's meant to be humorous but everything falls flat. Nihlus focuses on his steps, one feet in front of the other. Just keep moving. There was a goal before, there was a reason he was doing this- why was he doing it?

Why...

"Rinzler," Nihlus manages suddenly, stopping once again, staring at this strange-familiar person in front of him. "What's happening? Why are you asking me these things now?"

[notglitching]

Thankless. He laughs again. Strange, that a sound Rinzler has never made should come so naturally.

"Oh, I'm sure."

The sound of footsteps falters, and Rinzler pauses, turning back. He meets Nihlus' stare with one of his own, calm and amused, patiently waiting. He even lets the silence linger a beat after. To be completely sure that's all. Why now?

"Because I can."

The program's expression doesn't change appreciably. But there's a scathing curl, a catch, edge slicing to the surface of his tone. He meets Nihlus' eyes, stare unblinking.

"You really think this is the first time I wondered? Whether you'd look. What you'd do. Users, you have no idea how pathetically resigned I was—before you stabbed me in the back. But you kept coming. Games and fights, to interfere and 'educate'. You'd slip up sometimes, but always loop back in the end. To salvage me from my own pathetic glitch."

One phrase atop the next. A rhythm, regular and eerie as the low ticking of corrupted code. But words, in the end.

"I figured it out when your virus friend arrived. I'm not the one who needs to feel useful, am I?"

Just words.

"Or is it wanted?"

[beautifulspaceraptor]

It's manipulation. Nihlus knows, even through the fog. Has used it himself enough times that he can pick out exactly what Rinzler was trying to do, each mechanism, each nut and bolt, a weapon as familiar to him as his rifle.

And he's raw from being dragged under the playbacks of that fucking utility closet, but it's an old scar being cut into here and now. A keloid, hard and fibrous.

He watches Rinzler for a long moment with no answer.

"Do you think it's a weakness?" he asks quietly, suddenly, exhaustion lining the spaces between his words. "To desire being useful? To be wanted?"

Why is Rinzler trying to manipulate him? To what end?

[notglitching]

"Is it a weakness?"

He holds back the laugh this time, if only barely. Still, incredulity strains at each syllable and line, a sharp tang against the whisper of an electronic flange.

"You tell me." Rinzler takes a step back toward Nihlus, trading elevation for proximity. He's close, aggressively so, for all the lack of combat stance or weapon.

"You're the one living with your murderer, aren't you?

"Because you think you owe him."

[beautifulspaceraptor]

Nihlus doesn't move despite the new proximity. His expression slides into something quiet and unreadable, carefully holding Rinzler's gaze. For a long few seconds, he doesn't offer anything by way of answer.

What IS there to say?

This wasn't the first time someone had questioned his loyalty to Saren. Hell, it wasn't even the first time Rinzler had questioned his loyalty to Saren. But Rinzler always only questioned it because his mentor was a very obvious and serious threat.

The Program had never posed the question with this quiet malice. Had never posed it with the intent of trying to use it against him.

"If... you tell me what happened to you," he offers softly, eyes narrowing. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know. How's that?"

[notglitching]

"What happened." It has the taste of blood in water, the quiet, syllabic growl of something penned and vicious, straining at the chain. "What happened."

System Failure. Release Rinzler.

The program laughs, voice cracking like the gap inside his face, and it comes as sharp and hateful and un-natural as it always should have.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Step. "Do you want to know about the first time Clu cut my voice out?" Fingers sketch up, tracing the scars from jaw through throat. Curling to dig into the edges. "Or the second? Or the third. Do you want to know about centuries choking one one breath?" A smile, small and mirthless. "That mask never did have openings. Still, it's better than being caged up in a box. Than bowing and crawling and begging for torture, just to be awake enough to feel how much of me he scraped away each time."

The hand rips free, and more of the jagged, inky blackness glistens from the depth of the wound. It scrapes and rattles, chasing Rinzler's voice with static. And something else, raw and ringing and—

familiar—

"But that's not convenient, is it?" A whisper. "Certainly it doesn't make it easier to pat yourself on the back. He's edited me three times since you put me back where I belonged."

[beautifulspaceraptor]

The pit in his stomach widens as he watches Rinzler reach up. As he listens. Things he'd been afraid to ask, things he didn't even know to ask, every word sending trickles of ice running down his spine.

Nihlus reacts a second too late, reaching out to grab the Program's wrist, to stop him-

"Don't!"

It's black. It's oil instead of voxels. It makes no sense. Not Rinzler but still too close for Nihlus to dismiss as he grips the arm with a frozen hand. Still his friend, standing there as if he hadn't just torn open a hole in his neck.

And then a harsh grind of sound that rakes through Nihlus' mandibles, dark, mechanical, a higher note welling up behind it, sharp as a razor. He hears it in his bones, in his head, in all his nerves and muscles, the memory embedded into each and every atom in his body.

Run.

Nihlus opens his mouth to say something, but the horror mutes him. Keeps him rooted to the spot.

[notglitching]

Rinzler hates being grabbed. In a fight or out of one, there are few better ways to prompt retaliation—with an elbow, or a disk. But Rinzler doesn't flinch. Doesn't move.

"Don't?"

The world rolls out, slick and sharp, a natural syllable embedded in the pattern of white noise.

"Don't fight, don't harm. Or did you mean stop speaking, this time?"

The stairway lights dim and flicker. A low-power hum, sapping light. Sapping energy. The hand on Rinzler's arm will feel it too: a lethargy, caustic and heavy, seeping through the touch. Breath skips in a half-laugh, and the program shakes his head before triggering his helmet to rezz up, one section at a time.

"What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?"

His mouth is covered, but the added shield does nothing at all to damp the ringing. Black eyes vanish out of sight, but Rinzler's stare can still be felt. He twists his wrist, returning Nihlus' hold, and the added contact amplifies the sound. Echoing, after each word. Like a different speaker.

"Because you've been there?"

Like a clear and perfect Voice.

"Or because you thought you'd woken up?"

The opaque mask slants, casting Nihlus' reflection back. Skull exposed. Face hollowed.

And lit from within by two glowing points of blue.

[beautifulspaceraptor]

Can't look away. No matter how hard he tries, Nihlus finds he can't- can't look away. Can't turn his head, can't even blink, can't even breathe, move dammit. Move.

MOVE.

He's slowly sinking to his knees on the cold steps instead, mech arm hanging, a useless and lead heavy weight by his side, strength bleeding out of him with arterial pressure. His body resonates with each word, resonates with the memory of it like a perfectly tuned instrument, filling him to the brim with an endless and perfect light.

It threatens to consume everything. To burn away every trace of him, every single molecule of self, every single thread of sanity, lighting up neural pathways with a flood of fire. He feels himself fracturing again, hairline cracks growing into gaping fissures, edges splintering off into hissing static nothingness-

"You."

The claws around the shadow's wrist tighten suddenly. The grip is feeble, but there's a renewed power behind it and the light that reflects back from Nihlus' gaze isn't from the blue staring into them.

"Woke me up."

His voice shakes, barely above a whisper, barely above a sob- but there's a new defiance woven into every word.

A violent tremor runs through his body and Nihlus breathes, sharp and sudden, closing his eyes. When he reopens them again, the Spectre's stare is icy, unflinching despite the face staring back at him.

"Or did you forget that, Rinzler?"

[notglitching]

Sinking. Failing. It's different than the crash and split of voxels, but no less fascinating a collapse. No less satisfying, seeing wounds fracture along old lines. A facade crumbling, the pretense of being better... stripped away. There's something clean to that. Something beautiful.

All the more so when standing overhead.

It's such a small thing that stops the descent. Such a pointless speck of ego. Rinzler slants his head, slow and curious as the world around them darkens. No strength. No power. Nothing but red lights, and the reflections of bright blue.

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

The smile can't be seen, but Nihlus will hear it. Taste it. It sings through in the background, an exultant, vicious echo twining in and out around the Voice.

"That you wanted things that way?"

[beautifulspaceraptor]

"No-" But he's flagging now, defiance fading. "No. Spirits. I never wanted... I never..."

Fingers loosen one by one as Nihlus sinks further and further, until the hand drops down to the step between them, leaving a print of blue behind on the shadow's wrist. His head dips as if the weight of it were too heavy now, his breaths panicked and harsh.

Until the moment that it wasn't, a sharp, deep gasp cutting through the hyperventilation.

That's all the warning Rinzler gets before Nihlus launches himself forwards, trying to slam his head into the spot just under the ribcage, tucking his long skull in such a way that his crest is flattened against the armored chest. His hand darts out, grabs the railing and, with the additional leverage, proceeds to try and flip Rinzler over his shoulders.

Right down the flight of stairs.

[notglitching]

The collapse seems real. The lunge does catch Rinzler off guard. Still, as crest collides with armor, as Nihlus grabs and twists and pushes, he'll hear something.

A surprised—delighted—laugh.

It's joined, almost immediately, by the click and hum of a drawn disk. Rinzler twists midair, arm flashing overhead to slice a groove into the ceiling and slow his momentum to a stop. It's graceful and elegant, impossibly fast. It's entirely what one might expect of the enforcer.

Less so, the way he sticks to the wall. Darkness hides the way the liquid adhesion of feet and palm, but Rinzler's lights can be seen hovering above the stairway. Rinzler's mask can be seen, a dark-oil sheen reflecting the dim glow.

And Rinzler can, of course, be heard. Cutting. Sharp. Voice echoing with amusement.

"Denial never helped anyone. Least of all your friends."

[beautifulspaceraptor]

The bout of overexertion leaves Nihlus so nauseated he was shaking but the new distance seemed to mitigate the worst of the weakness. There's still that split second where he can't coordinate, where he can't make his body respond, blanched, hunched over- and he hears the hiss of disk cutting through metal behind him-

Move!

Wrenching himself up with the guardrail, Nihlus hauls himself over the last set of steps, up the top of the stairwell, staggering and stumbling. With the lights flickering, he's half dark blind and the hallway stretching out before him swaps painfully between sight and nothingness.

Rinzler's voice snakes up behind him, raising every scale on his neck and setting his teeth on edge.

Friends.

It's easier to ignore the nausea now. Nihlus doesn't wait for it to fade before he starts sprinting.