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Arc II Final Log A: Therapy

Who: Everyone who goes to the Mediation Center
When: September 24
Where: Underneath Region 5
What: Rescues, bossfights, and decisions
Warnings: Manipulation, mindfuck, brainwashing, violence, and any trauma you might bring. Label your headers!

Running. Fighting. However you've spent the last few weeks, it's been a busy time. The overwhelming force brought to bear against the reclamation depot was successful in re-arming most combatants, and those targeting the network hub managed to safeguard your communications, disrupt the Savrii's, and download no small amount of data on the side. Soldiers and noncombatants alike have built defenses and helped each other stay safe against the killers that tried to intrude. A few individuals have even tried to sway the public.

Still, there are those who haven't been successful. And whether in death or in captivity, a select few of your number are no longer by your side.

Both before and after the disappearance of their friends, a subset of those fighting the Savrii have made it their mission to track down a certain lair. Streets were scoured. Mediation centers searched. Some turned their focus to interrogation, others to following traces left by those who disappeared. Analysis of the communication data turned up a secured relay in Region Five, and as the pieces start to come together, those who promised Mother aid will hear from her again. Two minds that she formed bonds with have filtered back to her awareness. Shadowed—changed—but... not so far. Under the ground.

As convenient as the sudden re-emergence is, you have little choice but to pursue it. And with the added vector, a way beneath can be turned up. Past Region Five's sewers, in a transfer point linked to the EN-line, lies a set of tunnels wide enough to hold a single car that end in a plain, unassuming door. A chokepoint? Kill zone? The assumption wouldn't be unreasonable, but no matter how long you prepare outside, no one will come. It's even unlocked.

The path to understanding is one everyone must choose to take.

explore

One goal of this trip will be met at its beginning. A few adjoining passages off the entrance lead to a control room with a unique console: one capable of shutting down the Artifixx device locking the Ingress Complex off. Once this is done, the team waiting aboveground can embark on their own mission. Those exploring the center will find their own uses for the room; a map of the complex can be turned up, and the console also offers control over the doors. No monitoring devices appear to be included, though. Apparently, those in charge saw no need.

Saw being the operative phrase. The entry passages give ways to halls and rooms, styled similarly to the temporary residences placed in Region 6. This complex is far more extensive, however—even if now, as then, you seem to be the only persons present.

A small infirmary with soft blankets and warm lights. A set of classrooms and meeting spaces, with circular tables designed to foster unity among a group. The library, full of books and datafiles about the Savrii's history, ready and waiting to educate those in need. There's even a small garden. It's all solid and real. All comforting and kind. A place of learning. Of rest. Just waiting to be filled.

And, perhaps, not recently abandoned. Those who search the rooms in depth will turn up recent indentations on the beds. A hair or two, from restless sleepers, or a residual scent. Your friends were here. They weren't alone. And if you search enough halls and passages, you can find the way down.

reflect

At the bottom of the complex lies a stair. At the bottom of the stair lies a passage, and it's around here that communications to the world above cut out completely. Shaped stone progresses to an unshaped cave, and while the stairs down were illuminated, this chamber glows only with a dim silver light—produced, it seems, by something on the ground. Water?

A pool.

Its light illuminates robed figures, standing in the space ahead. All wear the silver cloth that marks the intermediaries. All regard you silently, features muted and distorted in the dark. For once, at last, the intermediaries of Thisavrou have no words for you and yours. But as you step forward, as your weapons raise, the light from the pool flares up.

Reality mirrors, and then melts away.

The Protected:

While all parties present will be affected by the pool's reflections, those who took the link with Mother will be shielded to a degree. For you, perceptions blur and shadow, replacing the sight of those around you with a myriad of ghost-forms. Some turn on you. Some move away. Some wear the robes of the intermediaries, while others look more like those you know—as allies in this place, or enemies back home. While characters who fall within this group will have trouble discerning illusion from reality, it is clear to them illusions are in play. It will also be clear, however, that some attacks are very real. Are the attackers your friends, distorted and confused by simulations? Or your enemies, using them as cover to strike out? You're in the best position to sort one from the next, but it still won't be easy.

The Affected:

Those without safeguards will find the simulations much more solid and complete. Is there an enemy you failed to defeat? A friend you wronged, or lost, or were betrayed by? Or perhaps your focus truly is single-minded, your greatest enemy the intermediaries you came to stand against. Whoever you fear most; whatever you failed or want to confront, you'll find it here beside you, by the pool. This vision threatens your life, your friends, and your purpose. Fight, be killed, or run out into the darkness, but your nightmares—and your enemies—won't stand idle.

The Controlled:

There are those you came to rescue. There are others, who lived in this place before you came. The intermediaries do not fight, not with fists or weaponry, but they have followers still ready to risk their lives on their behalf. And they have captives who have been given no choice at all. Mixed in among the ghosts and nightmares are the Savrii loyalists and the player characters they have taken. Each has their own reasons, but they will attack you, and the harm they do is very, very real.

As is yours.

For all individuals, in all categories of effect, the light from the pool remains the one fixed focus. Silvery and warm, clear and vibrant: a glimmering center where all reflections coalesce. To break the illusion, its power needs to be blocked—through literal obstruction, or destruction at its source. Contact with the water holds great risk, and can bring you further into the simulations, but once the pool is dealt with, all effect will disappear.

choices

You stand in a natural cave of unshaped stone. Without the pool, the only lights are what you brought, but all of them at least show you the truth. The companions who came with you, and the ones you came to save. The handful or so of other bodies mixed into the fight—barely a dozen individuals in total. And at the back of the chamber, a group twice that in number, arrayed in robes and silver cloth.

The intermediaries do not repent.

With the focus broken, their powers are too weak to alter your minds here. Still, if you allow it, they will speak. They insist their actions were for the betterment of Thisavrou. They insist they saved it from the harm dealt out by you and yours. Converse as long as you would like to—or as long as your allies will wait.

But in the end, it comes to your decision.

[For more information, and to participate in the vote regarding the intermediaries' fate, check out the OOC post linked above. The setting transition will occur immediately after this log; you're welcome to thread smaller-scale aftermath things, but please avoid dating anything more than an hour or so forward.]

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Rinzler does spot that wincing. He does not, however, offer any sort of hand. If the user is damaged, all the more reason he should remove himself.

"No."

He's here for Chara. Here to hunt down the threats. The admins this one was still so clearly having difficulties fighting. The opaque mask jerks up, point lingering toward Lavellan in indication.

"Glitched."

If Rinzler had offered to help Lavellan would have just refused it out of pride, so, good call.

As it is, he doesn't manage to suppress a roll of his eyes. He knows full well he's "glitched," thanks, he doesn't need Rinzler to bring it up again.

If he's going to prod at wounds, two can play at that game. Never let it be said that Lavellan doesn't have a tendency toward pettiness.

"You're certainly a chatterbox recently. Why's that?" Well, Lavellan doesn't actually know if this is a sensitive question. But at least it's not a topic about him.

"Edited."

Sensitive? Maybe. Secret? No. Also, don't change the topic, user.

"Not useful. Why come?"

Too late. One thing that is consistent about Lavellan is that he is incredibly stubborn, and he ignores Rinzler's own attempt to deflect entirely.

"Edited. What do you mean, edited?"

Annoyed by questions? Tough shit, he doesn't care.

The enforcer meets Lavellan's stare flatly, noise ticking out from underneath. As much criticism as he's received, he's beginning to think the user is the one who doesn't know how conversation works.

"Not useful. Why come?"

Data exchange, user.

If you don't talk, he certainly isn't going to.

He sighs. He's used the same technique when he doesn't want to give answers. So, it's only fair to indulge Rinzler; and at least that's confirmation that he's struck a nerve.

"Closure."

Ha. Rinzler isn't the only one who can be infuriatingly taciturn and vague. And it's not even false, but to be honest, he's not sure why he keeps doing this. He knows it's not helpful, but he can't keep himself away.

What is it supposed to mean, that he's fixated on this?

"Stupid."

Taciturn being Rinzler's first language, the enforcer minds naturally not at all. He holds the user's stare, helmet tilting slightly in ambivalence.

"Or lying."

Equally possible, but less likely to be confirmed. Besides, in Rinzler's experience, assuming user idiocy was generally a safe bet.

"Presence increases risk of failure."

Lavellan only barely manages not to literally growl under his breath.

"I'm not asking anyone to look out for me."

The fact that he immediately understands Rinzler's implication is probably telling. But it doesn't matter. There was absolutely no way he was going to sit this one out, regardless of injury.

He can take care of himself. He's endured worse than this.

"Doesn't matter."

The user's allies won't have to be asked. They'll risk themselves for him regardless. And more—

"Can't be trusted."

The fuck?

Lavellan nearly stumbles in surprise, and then fully rounds on Rinzler, horrified anger plain on his face.

"I can't be trusted?" His pulse is pounding, his hands are shaking, but for once it's not from fear. "You think I'm going to--to betray you for them?"

"Possible".

Lavellan might be angry. Rinzler, on the other hand, reacts very little to the shock and accusation. Noise ticks out quietly, helmet tilted at a slight angle. Stupid or lying? Still up for debate.

"Betray. Hesitate. Fail. Weren't allowed to leave the room last time." And the user thinks he's capable of fighting these admins?

"Your editors."

He steps back mechanically, feeling nothing short of shock.

"They didn't edit me."

But they did. Didn't they? Chara had proved it to him--

No. His own cowardice had proven that wrong. The intermediaries might have changed his memories, but they only did it to show him the truth. His real thoughts and feeling. His real self.

He holds is head like he's shielding from an oncoming headache, doubles over, starts breathing entirely too fast. Rinzler is wrong. He's wrong.

"They didn't edit me." He isn't a thing that can be written. He's his own person. That's the problem. He's the worst kind of monster, selfish and irredeemable, sure. But still his own.

He wasn't changed. He couldn't have been. He was always this way.

Well, that answers one question, at least.

Definitely stupid.

"Glitching."

It's a simple observation. Barely a retort. Not entirely without understanding, even if it doesn't really make it to the program's tone. Rinzler knows errors. Rinzler knows crashes, and he's been through worse than this.

From one thing that can be written to another?

"It won't get better." The helmet jerks back toward the hallway. "Leave."

"No." It comes out rough, guttural. Raw, like it was forced out through something sharp.

"I can do this."

He's not entirely speaking to Rinzler anymore, but to whom, even he doesn't know. "I have to do this."

He's his own person. His own person. The intermediaries don't have any claim to him anymore. He shook that off. He had to have, or he'll go to pieces.

He's not going to leave.

"Stupid."

It's reiteration. Pointless, useless, and unlikely to help. The user isn't going to turn back, no matter the risk to anyone else here. Whether that's compulsory or merely his own accumulated errors... the enforcer couldn't say.

And this time, Rinzler has other priorities. He shakes his head, crouching down to place a hand against the floor.

Is this a program thing, to think that all things they don't agree with are stupid? Cole had had a very strict outlook on things, too. There isn't much time for him to contemplate, though, because with Rinzler's dropping into a crouch Lavellan tenses into a fighting stance, one hand on his staff--in case there's some threat lurking that he hadn't noticed.

He's had enough giant spiders surprise him not to take chances.

"What are you doing?" It comes out in a hiss, but it's on guard, not angry.

The overreaction earns an amused tip of the helmet. But this user's glitches are still not the priority, and Rinzler opts to show before telling. Motes of light drift up around the point of contact, forming shapes—footprints—before fading out to null.

"Scanning."

The tracks rise and vanish, new to old as he scrolls through the available traces. The bursts of light are uniformly user-white, but none small enough to be a child. Eventually, the last flicker dies away.

No matches.

For a moment, Lavellan forgets his own anger, startled by the phenomenon of the motes. Almost eight months here, and still he's blindsided by the simplest things. Sometimes he feels like he'll never catch up.

He's not winning any points with Rinzler as it is, he knows. So, really, what's losing a few more?

"What was that?" Though, actually, that's not really what he wants to ask. The mechanisms of it don't matter. "What did it tell you?"

The first question gets an unimpressed look. He just told you what it was, user. At the second, Rinzler shrugs.

"Weren't here. Chara," he clarifies.

Which means he doesn't have any reason to linger. Rinzler pushes to his feet, turning toward the door.

So Chara hadn't been in the classrooms. Lavellan isn't sure if that's a good sign or not, if a good sign is even possible in this place.

But here, maybe, his experience could prove useful.

"You may have more luck starting with the," he starts, and his mind finishes the sentence with cells in an echo of Shepard's voice.

He brushes it aside with a dry swallow.

"Meditation chambers. Have you gone through those?"

Steps pause. Rinzler's mask turns back. There's a beat of lag, sound rising and falling in the gap, then:

"Clarify."

Meditation chamber?

"The--"

He swallows again, looks away.

"The rooms where they--keep people." Kept him. Why is this so hard for him to say? It's a simple fact. They're just a place.

"If you're looking for a trace to start with, that's as good a place as any. I can show you where they are."

"Cells."

The enforcer's sound grates out loud and harsh, but his stare is unflinching. Call them what they are.

Still, it's a useful offer. More use than he'd expected this user to have. It doesn't make his presence here a good idea. But Rinzler steps back, mask jerking toward the doorway.

Show him.

Lavellan looks away but, notably, he doesn't correct him.

Instead he turns silently on his heel and leads Rinzler on a winding path elsewhere in the facility. It's slow going, because of his injury and because he'd been here before in a different context and he doesn't quite remember where everything is. But eventually they come to a hallway lined with a multitude of uniformly featureless doors, and Lavellan stops and steps aside. Apparently, he's reluctant to actually go in any of them.

Rinzler can do what he wants from here; Lavellan did his part.

And Rinzler will. It takes time, to search the passages and cells. To stop and scan and sort through data. Eventually he seems to find the vector he needs.

But before he follows it—alone or otherwise—he turns back to the user. Neriel_Lavellan shouldn't be here. It is stupid, and they'd be safer if he left.

But he helped with this. So Rinzler has one last thing to say. Noise rattles out uninterrupted for a moment, and when Rinzler speaks, the words are almost clear. And oddly empty of malice.

"If you help them—I'll kill you."

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lavelly - 2017-11-27 05:56 (UTC) - Expand

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