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

[maredementis]

Annie snaps the guard's neck with two hands and snaps a kick into the solar plexus of the next, and she really is beautiful like this in the most monstrous of ways. This is what people wanted to see in her Games, another beautiful and deadly District 4, but she'd disappointed. Now it's wasted on these eyes as an aesthetic, but as a weapon she's almost peerless. She has trained harder and longer than Finnick in the past five years, if only because she had more time, and she tears a cattle prod from the kicked guard and slams it with lethal force into his eye socket.

They take her down after that, a cattle prod, then another, another, in the small of her back, and Annie crumples like a broken doll, slumping to the floor and cracking her head. She's out instantly, sprawled with half-curled hands. Good night, Alex.

[unsoldiered]

At the sight of her crumpling he drops his forehead into the ground, a wave of pain clawing its fingers into his skull. All he can do his repeat no, verbally, mentally, as they leave Annie there on the floor and start toward him, all the while unresponsive to the corpses that litter the area around them. Alex panics. He moves his arms backward, crawls backward, the burns and marks on his legs and body gnawed with pain.

"Get away from me..."

At least Annie's alive still. Maybe there's hope for her. A rescue. Anything.

"Stay away from me--!"

He shoves but it's weak and heavy, slow like a dying animal; not anything that bothers the guards, because they latch onto his arms with full curling fingers, sliding him against his will across the smooth floor. His head hangs low. He's so fucking tired... He can't...

"I'm sorry... couldn't help..."

He glances blindly, blankly, toward the body resting nearby, before they yank him out of the room by the elbows and wrists, leaving just a few sad smears of blood.

Goodnight.