03 ▒ EVENT: STRELA OUTPOST ▒ ASSIMILATION

[ataraxites]

CHARACTERS: Ensemble production!
LOCATION: Strela Outpost.
WARNINGS: Mind horror, hivemindery, etc.
SUMMARY: Communal brainwashing.
NOTES: Divided by locations; players are free to indicate which day/stage, and to begin new subthreads wherever they'd like!

Looks like the authorities have apprehended you and have brought you in for processing. After being forced to wait in the waiting room, you're brought to the assimilation room - a terrible white cell, where you're trapped for hours, sentenced to be slowly stripped of your individuality.

Comments

▒ WAITING ROOM

[ataraxites]

July 28th | OTA

[amethysts]

[Looking for the missing--what a joke. She should have got back on the shuttle and gotten out of here. Should have minded her own business. Should have, could have, didn't. They got her in a stockroom. She had tried to run, turning to water, but the thing about water is that it's a great conductor, and although it hadn't hurt it shocked her solid and disoriented. She fell, but she kicked out hard, blind, and they put another charge in her and something burst in her ear and then she blacked out--

They more have to drag her in than walk her. Libby is just coming back to consciousness. Her right ear is bleeding still, the canal blown out like a gunshot from the inside, burned and hideous. She stumbles between her captors.]

Fuck y--

[She doesn't finish. Instead, she vomits, pitching forward when they let go and barely catching herself before she breaks her nose on the floor. Then she tips sideways, not caring that her hand slides through her sick, and throws up again. And again. Then there's nothing left, but she's still wretching.

Magnesium poisoning. Whatever else was in her bioelectric battery. She knows the symptoms, layered on top of what's already wrong with her. She has to get the battery out but she just--can't get up yet.]

July 28th | OTA

[jurisimpudent]

[They'd approached him as he'd sat in the library, immersed in the scant few monotonous tomes they owned. They'd informed him that he was to come with them. He'd looked up and demanded to see someone in a position of authority, ready to bluster and argue his way out of this. They'd hit him with some sort of electricity. He'd not even been able to fight back; any time he'd made any motion to break free from their grip, they'd just shocked him again, and he'd stumbled forward under their direction.

There's a primal sort of terror thrumming through him as he's pushed into the room which he recognizes as a holding cell. He's not done anything wrong, and he knows that - he's not stolen anything, not assaulted anyone...His shipmates most likely have, of course, knowing them, but he hasn't. So he should by rights be released post-haste - but...

But their concern doesn't seem to be justice.

As soon as he's recovered enough to pace, he paces. The exhaustion induced by suffering those electric shocks fades is as nothing before his furious adrenaline. And he watches as more join him. Periodically, he addresses the guards:]

You have no right.

July 28th ⟡ OTA

[backwordscompatible]

[She's already beaten by the time they bring her in. A late capture; one who'd managed to escape their notice far too long for their liking. Ironically, it had been her own cover that betrayed her. One of them had recognized her cloaking charm for what it was. Followed her. It didn't matter that she hadn't been stealing (at the time). It didn't matter that she was alone and unarmed. The "unarmed" part was a lie. She was a walking danger to them.]

[She needed to be assimilated.]

[They'd grabbed her in a rare moment where her guard was down. Placed a dirty rag over her mouth so she couldn't cry out. Or use magic to escape. The chemicals soaked within took hold of her system a little too quickly. At far too high a dosage for her small frame.]

[Even hours later, she continued to hallucinate. Drift in and out of consciousness. Had she anything left in her stomach, she might've found the need to empty it, but all that came out were dry heaves and rough coughs. Standing wasn't even a consideration; she slumped against the far wall, attempting to distance herself from something her mind was momentarily unable to fully process.]

[What was happening? More importantly...what was going to happen to her?]

july 28th | ota

[noscope]

[he's surprised they'd managed to remain unseen for as long as they had. as it stands, he's kept as close to his sister as he possibly can and now that he's lost sight of her -]

South!

[north tries to twist out of his captors' grip, only to be shocked again, and as he feels the electricity crawling up his spine, he can't help but think they're completely fucked. his eyes are wide as he searches for his twin, vision blurred around the edges, and when he doesn't see her, there's nothing at all keeping one of his elbows from connecting solidly with one of the guards' throats. there is a brief moment in which he thinks he might actually be able to fight his way free and find his way out -

until another shock jolts through his body and he slumps, breath coming in short gasps. when they let him go, he stays on his knees on the floor, just trying to figure out which way is up.]

July 28 | OTA

[notpanicking]

[Being nosy is sort of Roxanne's thing. Admittedly, in the more recent months on board the Tranquility, she's eased up. Hasn't been pushing her nose where it doesn't belong. She's been...relaxing, in a way -- similar to how her boyfriend had...let up on his villainy.

Probably not given up, but she's got to admit that they've both made some progress. It's a compromise, right?

But this? Stopping somewhere, finally after so long on board? She couldn't pass it up. She'd been poking around places she didn't belong, asking too many questions and eventually found herself hauled off - truth be told she'd been curious about where she was being taken and didn't put up much of a fight - and tossed into what appeared to be a waiting room with quite a few others from the ship.

....Huh.]

Well. This doesn't look promising.

July 28th; Closed to Shepard

[andblockbuster]

[The truth is, he never actually makes it to the waiting room.

Topher analyzes the human brain- he knows how it works. Logically, he knows that it's not that he doesn't remember when or how he was grabbed, but more that his brain hasn't caught up yet. And maybe he won't ever remember the details, but things will trigger the same response- the smell of antiseptic in that room he was pulled out of, the sight of harsh lights, a sudden feeling of electricity through his shoulder that brings him down on one knee hard.

Because you have a functioning amygdala and they don't. They don't. They don't, because if they did, they would react more. They would be angrier or more upset. They would mourn their dead. But they don't, because that's not written in the code. They're like dolls. God, they're like Dolls...

That he's still hanging to some adrenaline-fueled fight-or-flight response and the situation, itself hasn't registered. He knows this is bad.

Catecholamine hormones facilitate immediate physical reactions.

Acceration of heart and lung action. Check.

Shaking. Check.

Check. Check. Check.

He goes limp in an attempt to slow their progress, but he's hauled back to his feet and all but dragged. Another shock traces a line all the way up his spine and he lets out a yelp of pain. His brain catches up with his fear response and as the door comes into sight, he tries to draw back more, only to be shoved forward harder.

You can't imprint on top of a fully functional brain, it'll implode. He almost says that out loud, but he bites his tongue. His head's swimming with horrible snippets of out-of-context dialogue, like he's trying to retreat and keeps digging up old memories in the process.

Aren't you Big Brother? Aren't you Lord, my God?

Logically.

Logically, he knows that this is probably what he deserves, that he's heading down the same paths that nearly destroyed the world, that swearing he's changed and that he's not doing that anymore is all well and good when it's true, but not when he's lying.

But he is doing good- he is...

And that's why he can't go down like this- he can't lay here and become a victim of some cruel irony. He elbows one guard in the chest, bites another one on the hand and then jerks his way free. He manages a good five feet before he's brought down again.

But he tried. Flight failed. If it keeps them from putting him in that room, then he'll fight, even if it kills him.]

28 July | Dave & Alex OTA.

[insufferableprick]

[ When they drag him in, he's barely conscious. How many fucking prods did it take to finally bring him down? He didn't count. Couldn't. That shit was far too kinky for him, and he's nowhere near the age of consent.

His head is swimming. His hands are covered in blood, it's not even his.

He's killed imps and weird flying lizards and goblins, hell, he once was faced with having to choose to kill himself--

But he's never killed a human before this.

When they drop him in a corner, his head hits the wall unceremoniously, and strangely, it almost clears the haze swirling through his electricity-addled mind.

It's fucking bright in here.

Oh.

Right.

His shades got lost in the scuffle.

Dammit. ]

HEATHER

[heltersskelter]

[after they'd dragged Riddick off, Tate should have seen it coming. that it would only get worse from there, that anyone even breathing in the wrong direction would be taken. Tate was a master at hide and seek, but only when he was the only one hiding.

he'd lost track of Wichita before they'd even reached this place, hasn't seen Hayley for a day at least, but Tate? he'd never been one to go quietly. it was when they'd wrapped their dirty hands around Heather that he's teeth had set on edge. he wrenches violently hard against the grip they have on him, and while it's an iron tight hold, Tate had death on his side. between two of them, he forces them to stagger to the right as he torques his body to try and get away.]

GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER! [it comes out somewhere between a scream and a snarl, and though the white of the walls looms around them as they drag them into the waiting room, Tate wants nothing more than to reach into their throats and pull out their silent vocal chords, shatter red into the sterile lack of colour that surrounds them. if he even gets one hand loose, nothing is going to stop him.]

july 28th, OTA

[za_rodina]

[Perhaps hacking into the stockroom and then coming back to the outpost had been a bad idea. He hadn't been caught in the act, per say, but he was a threat. As they all were, with their individual states and nonconforming. So eventually, he'd been taken as well, perhaps it was mid to late in the day, and he'd been feeling confident enough in pulling off his thievery to fully notice (a rare thing, truly) but by the time he does, he's over taken.

There's a shock of electricty to his side, burning through his nerve endings and ringing up the rungs of his ribs and he jerks, hands instinctively slipping the leaden pipe from under his coat and swinging as hard as he can, hard enough to send blood splattering and a body crumpling to the ground. He'd never been one to give up easily, more so to fight and fight until your fists were ripped open to show bone and you bled more than you spilled. In the end, that's what he does, snarls and swings away until there's carnage and the thrum of more stabs with those damn cattle prods than he can count. Idly he thinks: "I know to use them now, I can do that." and then there's pressure and the burst of white behind his eyelids, electricity shuddering up his spine and he's falling---

---to his knees in the shimmering shadow of a cell. For a long moment he stays there, pupils blown wide as his gaze sweeps over the people in various state of battery. It takes a moment to lurch up on still shaking legs, spine still thrumming with the after effects, and he crumples into a corner, wipes blood from his nose and ends up smearing more from his hands. His head slumps back against the wall, and he murmurs as he winces.]

That could have gone better.

July 28th, OTA

[statsraaden]

[Stats was hurting. He had been captured again, his nose was most likely broken, as well as his ribs, and he was still stunned from the shocks. He groaned.

He had been captured again.

At least his sons weren't there.

Stats tried to move, but hardly could. He was hurting too much.]

July 28th | ota

[unsoldiered]

In and out, in and out, his vision bobbles as he's dragged off.

How familiar.

Alex is basically dumped like a sad sack of meat. Not that surprising, he supposes, because he's a little too used to being a crumpled body on a floor. Not sure which cattle prod had actually made him temporarily dazed and out, but it's the wet thump of his gashed forehead on the floor that jolts him back up with a hiss. Fighting with all the strength he had must've done little to nothing in the wake of so many guards grabbing him, and he's not a fan of electricity and never will be--

Coughing, he ignores the dripping of renewed blood down his face and looks up to the waiting room. His muscles are all exhausted after being assaulted with exertion (and the shocks of prods), so he can't do much at first except sit up on his elbow.

"Shit... shit..."

Where are they? He sees the guards, but it's the room itself that makes him nauseous. Like a clicking noise, it all slides together: they're going to mess his head up. They're going to scramble his brains and make him like the other patients in the ward... No, he's not going to let them. He can't let them do this.

'Mr. Shepherd's not responding to the usual therapy... I think I'll give the go-ahead on a different treatment...'

It's like the hospital all over again.

"No!!" he snarls out, gritting his teeth before he forces himself to his feet and throws his weight into one of the guards. Not really needed to say, but he ends up collapsing in a heap again after a zap or three. Battered and bruised, he feels like his willpower is teetering, on the verge of shutting down entirely.

don't give up, a firm, crazy voice tells him. Woman's voice.

He'll spend his time in the waiting room helping anyone he can, if he can. If someone's hurt he'll try to see to them, as well, and regardless of how horribly he fails, he'll try to stop anyone they start to drag off from being taken. By the time they'll drag him off, he'll probably be too tired to do much resisting.

7/28, open

[invalided]

[ ...not much of a waiting room, this one, is it. John makes an initial survey of the place when he gets shoved in- a check for accessible doors, windows, ventilation shafts- and eventually winds up finding a place to stand. He'd take a corner, honestly, but they're already occupied.

And as it turns out, demanding answers from the guards is useless. Couldn't have guessed that from spending time walking among the other residents. He tries it anyway, quite calmly and efficiently, just in case.

From there he shifts his attention to trying to help whoever else got picked up and escorted to this place (oh, especially the ones who weren't so lucky as to calmly march in with their hands up- another day, another abduction). Options are sadly lacking in quick medical care as well at the moment. He can't do much more than look them over and try to ask around for spare layers to tear up if people come in bleeding. Makeshift bandages, anything to apply pressure with. Work with what you have, or so it goes.

When it gets down to it, there isn't really a better option than waiting. Just what he gets for getting curious.

At least they're not slapping on collars while they go. ]

all the openness

[lifeinplastic]

[ The electricity is a very new tactic in herding for Rory, surprisingly enough. About 1900 years keeping people from trying to break into the universe's greatest prison- priests, soldiers, noblemen, thieves, all sorts, with swords, guns, farming tools, flails, and some notably very large rocks- and somehow cattle prods hadn't been on the list. He can't say he's all that afraid of them, but he lets himself get shoved along to wherever they're taking him to avoid any... undue melting.

A lot of it may have to do with the fact that he somehow managed to lose track of Amy. Either Amy. It's a big place, but considering history? If groups of silent assaulters are kidnapping people off the street, that's where she's most likely to wind up.

Unceremoniously tripping over his own feet upon being pointed to the door and pushed: check. Awkwardly trying to talk to people and look after them (with his best reassurances that things could be worse): check. Attempting to use the gun hand to keep other people from getting dragged back out (every effort made, especially if there's an Amelia Pond at stake): unsuccessful. At least the scorching won't be on his face. Apologies for any burnt plastic smell that may come of it, however.

Really different from having hostages held by lizard-people, all in all. ]

JULY 28TH » OTA

[ripstides]

[ say what you want about freedom of choice but Percy knows this was doomed to happen from the beginning. okay, so he hadn't known that they were mass kidnapping, shock-happy psychopaths but he knows danger is going to find him regardless of anything he does. ever. in any part of his life. they eventually catch him, drag him in because he doesn't want to hurt anyone.

nobody should have to die.

they're wrong and they're seriously misled but they're human and he can't stop thinking about Chiron's warning from what feels like so many years ago. yes, there's a reason Anaklusmos can't physically cut a normal person. there has to be. and that's fine, there's him and there are others. and he cares enough about himself to try and sneak back to the shuttles but when other passengers are involved, he has to react. when he finds out his sword isn't going to cut it (haha), he has to take drastic measures.

search for water in pipes or fountains or bottles; anywhere, anything.

the floor rattles and he thinks about the bridge and he could do it- he could really just shred the floor open, send half of it or a good chunk of it off into orbit but that wouldn't fix anything and so eventually, he gets tired and worn out, and water and electricity have this thing where they don't get along (thanks a lot, Thalia, Clarice, etc.) and he's got scorch marks and bruises (being vulnerable to injuries again still sucks) speckled all over. he fights and he runs to his last standing breath and then he wakes up on the floor next to someone's feet. gross. no really, that's disgusting. ]

Not what I meant when I asked whose feet I had to kiss to file a complaint. [ he half jokes, sitting up, throat like rocks and sand scraping together. and there are so many freaking people in this room, beaten and battered and choking on sobs that it sobers him up so quickly, it feels like he's been punched in the face again. ]

OTA | prose or action, just starting in prose!

[theredchampion]

Niall supposes he should have known this would happen. No free lunch, as it were. Nothing that looks good is ever really what it seems. He sits with his back against the wall, arms resting on his knees as he idly takes in the guards and the rest of the waiting room.

This is irritating.

These people are irritating and so help him if they start screaming and fussing he might just shut them up himself.

Electric shocks have given him a headache. This is getting a little too close to becoming the worst vacation he's ever been on.

July 28th, OTA

[galacticheroine]

Shepard is dragged into the waiting room unconscious, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, and burned on her neck, having been struck by a cattleprod on the only part of her body that wasn't covered in armor. She's lucky they didn't kill her, the shock they delivered is a scant few inches to the right of her implant site, and enhancements or not, a shock right on the implant would've fried it for sure.

She doesn't stay out for long, however, slowly stirring not long after she's left on the floor. She lets out a low groan, wincing a little as she rolls to her back and gingerly touches the burn on her neck.

"Next time, have a plan B," she mutters, mostly to herself.

July 28 | OTA

[omigosh]

Luck is a very fickle thing. More inconsistent, indecisive, and ready to ditch her at any moment with no remorse whatsoever than any love interest of hers. Which is really saying something since this is Knives Chau's love life.

It was only a matter of time before the good luck that previously aided her in escaping capture would ditch her, leaving her behind ready to be dragged off somewhere creepy by the even creepier authorities. She did her best to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible, teaming up with a familiar face for backup and company while fighting with all her might. But her best wasn't good enough.

All it took was a few minutes away from LB--she really couldn't use the bathroom with someone else around, friend or not--for her to get ambushed, electrified and captured.

At least, they had the decency to wait until I washed my hands to ambush me, she thought wryly before she blacked out into unconsciousness.

When she finally comes to, she finds herself in an painfully bright room. Her head aches. Her whole body aches. She's got electric burns all over, making it rather painful for her to move. Not that it stops her from pushing herself up from the floor to sit up. Mister Chau didn't raise a wimp, after all.

"This totally sucks way more than any hangover ever will," she says to no one particular. At least she's got this nice wall to lean on.

WHENEVER he was basically here the whole time.

[northerner]

[ they take robb the moment he steps off the ship, with grey wind at his heels. it causes a scene, it does, because grey wind is snarling and snapping and more than one uniformed man comes away with ripped flesh and teethmarks on their skin.

and it makes robb uneasy, but he goes with them. he goes with them for the sake of peace, because his behavior reflects all and does a king not try for fairness and resolution before drawing his sword?

it is a mistake.

they muzzle grey wind's great jaws with steel, and lock them both away. robb came down with no weapons, with nothing but the clothes upon his back and he bitterly regrets that now. he could have fought with his weapons, but he'd thought grey wind would be all he needed.

now there is nothing to do but wait, and watch as the room fills with more and more people from the ship, people he recognizes from the broadcasting devices. he buries a hand in grey wind's fur and thinks, we must be the dangerous ones. the ones that cannot be trusted. when the time comes they will release us.

though more and more he thinks of the alternatives, and feels something like fear and anger twisting through his stomach. ]

July 28, OTA

[theguidinghand]

[Some people do not go quietly with the authorities. Guide is one such person. Instead of being escorted to the waiting room peacefully, he's herded into it by an advancing wall of men holding their electric prods out like pikes. A cursory glance would reveal that the authorities are not being overly cautious; his hands are sticky and crusted with blood, and at least one man herding him has shallow lacerations down his arms. Guide himself doesn't seem to have been too badly hurt in the fight, but a closer examination would reveal a rapidly-healing bruise across one side of his face, dark circles under his eyes that are quickly fading.]

[He turns to give them a defiant snarl as the doors of the waiting room close. Strela wins this round, but he's not ready to give up quite yet.]

▒ ASSIMILATION ROOM

[ataraxites]

Okay jfc YOLO; open to Libby and Isaac and maybe Loki and the whole slow-your-roll gang

[jurisimpudent]

Edgeworth doesn't fight them when they come forward and grab his arms. He still thinks - or he still needs to think, wants to think - that this will be nothing more than an arraignment which will be followed thereafter by a trial, to be followed in turn by a quick release, after which he'll be in a position to perhaps organize counsel for those amongst the detainees who were justly imprisoned. He believes that up to the moment he's shoved into that room and the door shuts behind him.

It's dazzlingly bright in there, blindingly so. He presses his eyes shut, but then opens them again, aware that they need to adjust - but they don't adjust. It's all too bright. He keeps blinking with pain at the brilliance. So he gives it a moment, then gives up and starts to walk forward - and hits a wall nearly at once.

His mouth goes dry, and he turns again, and again quickly hits a wall. Again. He turns; again. He takes smaller steps and measures it out - the entire room doesn't seem to be more than a meter square. No more than that. Three feet by three feet, four by four, no larger than a small elevator -

A small noise escapes his throat before he gets a hold of himself. Panic will get him nowhere. He is a prosecutor now, not a child.

"Hello," Edgeworth snaps; his voice is high and thin and sounds idiotically childish. He despises that fact. He hates it. He tries again. "I demand to speak with counsel - " But that's little better. He still sounds so afraid.

He can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

He stands still and presses his eyes closed. Even with that, though, even shutting out the world around him, he's aware of the closeness of the walls. He's aware of the smallness of this room, the fact that he can't even swing his leg out fully without kicking the wall in front of him. A square meter in area, perhaps three meters in height, probably less…Three cubic meters of air. How long will that last? How long before he suffocates…

"Let me out!" The words erupt from him, and his voice is a high and frantic snarl, and hearing himself his courage erodes even further; his hands come up and he claws and then beats at the walls of that room, not caring about his dignity or his pride any longer, not caring about the impression he makes. He just needs out, out from this coffin, out from this trap - out so that he can breathe - "I demand - I demand - " And he's shaking, and still beating at the wall, and the sides of his hands are bruised and he doesn't even know what he's striking at. He kicks, then, kicks until his head is light and he's panting - he thinks of the air, and his struggles slow and he slowly slides down to sit and then to curl up, hiding his face, shaking and drawing sobbing breaths of terror, his arms shielding his head. He's helpless as a child.

He can't think. He can only fear. He's going to die here. He didn't die eleven years ago because he's going to die here and now. He's going to suffocate or he's going to be shot, and they'll shoot the others too - Libby, and Sirius, Jack, Topher, Jenna, all of them are going to be shot and killed and he can't do anything. He can smell blood now, and he can hear frantic panting, and his brain seems to be shutting down. It's the lack of air, just like it was those years ago, the oxygen deprivation that made him stupid and made him incapable of saving anyone.

He'd always just wanted to save someone. Just to prove that it was possible to be saved.

His heart is beating harder now, and it feels like there's pressure in his head. That isn't like it was before, though, which is strange…It's different this time. He feels a thread of curiosity, of confusion, through the fear and the blind panic, and the small part of his mind not given over to terror pulls at it. Why is it different? The scientific processes should be the same. This isn't oxygen deprivation; it's something else. He focuses, tries to isolate it from everything else going on in his head - the fear, the claustrophobia…It's some external influence. There's something else.

No.

He doesn't know what happened in that elevator. There, there is no recovering his memory, but he's not having anything else interfering with his mind now. He doesn't know what it is, but something is trying to act upon his intellect, and he will not permit it to happen. He lifts his head, slowly and shakily stands, presses his back against a wall and forces his eyes open and demands - his voice weak and miserable but still his voice -

"I demand counsel!"

And then, as though in answer, writing appears slowly on the wall. You're welcome, it says, and then there's a door. He's still conscious now, still capable of fighting - no one has perished - and Miles doesn't have time to think of anything because he's driving towards it, his fear now given focus and outlet as he propels himself forward into the air -

The air that is heavy with the reek of blood.

They're scattered around. Whatever killed them wasn't merciful. The floor is stained dark with it, and he can see each of them. Their faces come to him in fragmented pieces, as blank as before, but still, utterly still, and the cry catches in his throat. Because he's not free of it - because just like before, just like in all the nightmares, it ends like this, and he feels like he's still back in there. He can't escape - cannot. There's no one to be saved and no one to save, and everything is terrible and everyone is dead...

He takes a step forward and slips in the blood. He falls, and looks over, and there's a face next to him. It's a man in his thirties, dark-haired and dead. He won't rise again. So Miles pulls up his knees, and covers his head with his arms, and feels tears forcing their way past his eyelids. He feels numb and breathless. He thinks he hears a scream, but he can't look up to see it. He can't breathe.

July 29th - Charles Xaiver [AU] Open to Kirk and co

[excessivehubris]

Thump thump

Charles swallowed convulsively.

Thump .. thump

He tried to swallow again but it was like trying to get spit down around a ball lodged in his throat.

Thump … thump

Groaning, just to hear himself make the noise, Charles lifted his hands to his ears, pressing tightly against them but it only made the slowing sound of his own heart echo louder in his ears.

Thump … … thump

The room was too bright, blindingly so in a way Charles had never imagined light could be blinding. He wanted to close his eyes but he’d tried that once already. Everything had gone still, the darkness racing up to wrap him in an approving sort of comfort that threatened to seduce him down into its soothing embrace.

As he’d teetered on the edge of following the siren lure of stillness, he’d heard Erik’s voice, hard and uncompromising in his head. The words the older man had said just before Erik had chosen to leave the station, while Charles had insisted upon staying.

Chalk another one up for Erik’s instincts on a situation, Charles really did need to start listening to his friend more. The thought was a stray one which made him laugh in a tight, reedy way. A sound that turned into a groan of pain as he felt the pressure within his own skull increase another notch.

The pressure had begun not long after he’d found himself herded away from the others in the room with the guards and into this bright, white, living hell. Charles liked to think he had a good internal sense of time but at this point he could not tell if he’d been trapped in here for minutes or hours.

Thump … … … thump

Charles choked on his own spit, vaguely aware of pain in his knees as he fell to them; his shoulder pushed again the curve of the wall. The pressure in his head felt echoed in the heavy beating trapped in his throat. It made him want to vomit and in the next moment the telepath felt himself retching, dry heaves that left little more than pale, foamy bile on the floor under him.

The humiliation of it caused his fraying temper to flashpoint and Charles snarled, fingers raking at the side of his head over his ears as he gathered his not inconsiderable power and threw his mind back along the lines of pressure. However, just as it had been when he’d tried to read the residents of the station, Charles hit a wall of nothing, like scrambling against glass without so much as the barest hint of purchase to give him anything to work with. His mind hurtled back in on itself and the pressure seemed to increase with a punishing rapidness that left him screaming on the floor.

At least, Charles thought he was screaming. All he could hear in his ears was the choking thud of his own heart, the mounting agony in his head and a sly little voice that kept whispering to him to just let it go.

That was all he had to do. Stop fighting and the pain, the humiliation would all be over. Everything would be all right if he just let it go. Charles shook his head, disgusted at the small voice, which he recognized as his own and he screamed his defiance, even if he could not hear it.

There was more pressure, his sinuses felt as if they were about to explode along with his skull itself. His bones unable to withstand the forces from within, ready to split open like an overripe melon and spill his brains across the floor. Through eyes that were unable to focus, Charles saw dark drops of red falling to the ground under him and his screamed edged into hysterical laughter as he wondered if he was watching his own brain slide down his nose.

No!

No … no it was just his sinuses, bursting under the pressure; a physical response to a physical attack. He was under attack and he needed to fight back! He couldn’t give up, he wouldn’t give up. Erik would kick his ass if he did and he did not want to disappoint the man again.

Get up!

The voice sounded like Erik’s voice, though Charles knew that it was his own mind, using Erik as an anchor, spurring him to his feet. He had to lean against the wall, his legs felt like so much rubber, uncoordinated and unwilling to respond to the demands of his own mind. This was bad … he was running out of time.

Charles’ eyes struggled to focus, the bright light burning its way into his mind’s eye, trapping his brain in a two front war that left him feeling as if his head was caught in a vise. Had it not been for the stark contrast of red against white, Charles would never have seen it.

A door.

You’re Welcome

A trap, it could be a trap. Charles didn’t care. He threw himself forward, his body pitching to crash upon the floor as his legs moved too slowly to catch himself. Half crawling, half dragging himself, Charles fought his way to the door. He was panting, harsh breaths that echoed raw in his own ears as his hands scrabbled for purchase on the door’s surface.

He wanted to just lie down. Lie down and close his eyes.

No, NO!

With a sobbing cry, Charles threw himself at the door, begging, pleading and then tumbling, artlessly threw it as it swung open and he fell from the confines of the white room behind him.

Almost immediately, the unbearable pressure released his mind but the sudden reversal of the onslaught left Charles retching on his hands and knees, falling sideways painfully on his shoulder as his limbs struggled to coordinate beneath him. He fell into something sticky, hands scrambling for purchase to push up and he shoved against something soft but cold.

Turning his head, aching eyes fell upon a body. One of the guards from the waiting room, only now the fixed stare was one of the dead. The man was for lack of a better term, slaughtered, Charles lying in the gore.

Crying out, Charles scrambled back and away from the body, his fuzzy vision quickly falling upon the other three, similarly slaughtered. Back fetching up against a wall, Charles sat there, panting, in shock, still disoriented, telepathy twisted in and around itself until he felt as if his own mind was wrapped in barbed wire.

It made thinking out his next move rather difficult.

July 29th, OTA

[statsraaden]

[They put him in some sort of prison. A too bright one, he commented to himself. As last time, they didn't want him to escape. They wanted him theirs.

He wouldn't be.

After a too long while of boredom and pain, Stats started to feel something prodding at his mind. At first, it felt as if he had a captain again, and they were trying to get his attention. Except continuously. Then it became stronger and stronger.

This was getting more than annoying. Stats rolled his eyed at it.

But it only became stronger. He sighed heavily, then realised he shouldn't have. He hissed in pain.

The he realised something else was wrong. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, as if he'd ran for a long while, but only there. Moreover, the pressure on his mind was even stronger than ever, and he was starting to get a headache. He was also feeling weaker.

After another couple hours, Stats didn't know if all this was supposed to break him, or to kill him. And he was starting to hope for the latter, when he saw something on the wall.

"You're welcome", written in red.

It could only be an hallucination. 'Smiley' couldn't reach here.

Then, some sort of door appeared. Stats has to go and see what it was. Smiley would try to rescue him, now? Unlikely, but it was worth trying.

He crept slowly across the room. He was hurting, and feeling weak, and it took very long. Too long.

At last, he managed to get to the door, and then, though it, out of the room. The pressure on his mind realeast almost at once. Stats tried to get up when he saw the dead bodies. Many dead bodies. Mostly guards. Did Smiley kill them? Why? What were his interests in this matter? Stats threw up and closed his eyes, not wanting to see te bodies anymore.

He tried again to get up, and succeeded after the third or fourth attempt. He was feeling dizzy, but the faster he would get out of here, the better.

If there weren't more people after him when he got out. He would stand out as if he were still a ship. No way he wouldn't get noticed. HE would have to get help.]

29/30 [Open to Erik, then Dave and Isaac later]

[redhotsummers]

It's happening again.

He's trapped, he's being fucked with, torn at, twisted into something he can't handle. Genero had done it before, latching him to a table, using a machine to slowly leach out his powers, torturing him, demanding answers. Answers he never gave, and eventually he was tossed outside the processing center like a used husk, barely alive.

He couldn't let that happen again. Alex had promised himself that no matter what happened, no matter what his future, he couldn't be used like that again.

And while in this place the questions weren't coming, he knew that he was being used for something once again. There were no answers just an overwhelming sense of 'pressure'.

The pounding in his head, his chest, the pressure slowly building; he can't tell how long it's been, he has difficulty processing time. He forced his eyes to stay open, to try and keep his breathing even, to focus on what he knew. Get rhythm, when you get the blues...

He sang every song he knew in his head, just letting the words try to provide him some sort of anchor, of calm as he fought against the intrusion, the overwhelming feeling to submit. His hands were balled up in fists at his sides, nails cutting into his palms. The ache from his previous fighting was still with him, but he focused on that as well, the sharp aches a contrast to the building feelings to let go.

Alex didn't know how much longer he could handle this.

Suddenly there was writing (fucking Smiley, had he been wrong--), and a door.

A fucking door.

Alex wasn't stupid--his principles could shift if he needed them too.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and no loner survives without occasionally taking a hand from another wolf.

Gathering up the last bit of energy, of sanity he had, he let out a blast of plasma from his wrists, sending the door flying.

The rest was a blur. He didn't want to think about the running, his shots of plasma hitting guards left and right. He tried for stunning shots, but with the amount of trauma his psyche had just gone through, he wasn't as accurate on power levels.

He didn't care though--he just needed out. Sending another blast into the last door, it went blasting into a wall--and then he was out.

And running.