goneawayworld | I've got your name written here

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dan sagittarius

I've got your name written here

Who: Data and Saturday, Robbie and Rogue, assorted rescuers, and a really scary lady
What: Several New Hires get attacked by the murderer and gets some clues
Where: All over the rig.
When: After Catra and Wash are attacked and all the chitchat about what to do.
Warnings/Notes: Lots of injuries! Some pretty brutal beat downs.

The halls of the rig are deceptively empty lately. The lower level executives that sometimes used the same hallways to go to the Cafeteria and a few other places have been very careful about where they go lately, with only some of them daring to. Lower level workers like the janitorial staff do their work together in little groups, and nurses going to work in the infirmary travel in packs.

Gossip travels far and even if the ongoing attacks of rig executives have been downplayed, it's now widely known that several New Hires are recovering from injuries in the Infirmary, some of them serious.

The hallways are dangerous to travel alone. The New Hires know they should, at minimum, go in pairs, or larger groups if possible. But Jorgmund gets suspicious if groups of them walk around towards the evening, closer to lights out.

So it's pairs tonight, after a four person guard shift at the Infirmary, taking separate hallways to meander back to avoid Jorgmund cracking down on them. With others not far off from their routes back to their Quarters, just in case.

But not close enough to come right away.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's a woman, one of the doctors in fact. Not really one of the good ones, but they're few enough to be notable. She's been impaled, pinned to a wall by the legs of a chair. In the doing, someone's broken a shelf, odds and ends clattering to the floor in the office.

In a handy full-body mirror, the murderer can be seen. Wearing a fetishized fetish nurse outfit, the redhead taps at the keys with her index fingers, brow wrinkled in concentration as she hunts and pecks for each letter.

When in doubt, agility is usually the better option. And stealth. Neither of which are necessarily his greatest physical strengths.

"By that measure, your 'pops' sounds like my Captain." Not an unpleasant reminder in most cases. "Tenacity can be a valuable trait."

Data hangs back just enough to give Saturday room to step back quickly if needed-- it could still be some strange, innocuous misunderstanding, after all. Everything depends on what she finds. His hands go from politely folded behind his back to ready at his sides. Just in case.

That's their huckleberry, all right. Saturday ignore the blood, the corpse, pushing away emotional response. Right now, that's just scene dressing. Her grip tightens on 'ni-chan's hilt -

And then relaxes. She's got to know they're there, right? Her choices are either to believe she's better than anyone else on the rig - unlikely - or that everyone else got fooled somehow - super unlikely. If murderbabe is all she's been talked up to be, this is just an attempt to put Saturday off-balance, make her think she has a chance.

Or, if she genuinely doesn't know Saturday and Data are there, she's gonna be the one off balance. And if fighting's no good, then -

Saturday steps fully into the room, her blade retreating - it's not like it takes more than half a heartbeat to bring it out again - and spreads her arms wide, in open curiosity.

"Hey, lady," she asks, innocently curious. "So what's with all the murder?"

There's a long, pregnant pause as the redhead turns to look at Saturday, blinking slowly. It's like she can't quite believe that this woman's dumb enough to even ask that question. Her gaze sweeps over Saturday, her arm, then Data, and then, after about a solid ten seconds, she just... shrugs.

Like it beats watching reruns.

Worth a shot.

"If you do not know, then perhaps you should reflect further. It cannot be allowed to continue." Reflect from a fine-tuned containment field pending legal consequence, preferably. But one thing at a time.

Data inclines his head, a nod towards the monitor.

"May I ask what you are attempting to access?"

... also worth a shot.

Saturday is not so easily demurred, either.

"Like you don't know why, or you can't control it, or what? Because I can tell you, if the plan is fucking over Jorgmund you an' me ain't actually on opposite sides, there."

She's been killing Jorg employees, right? New Hires have just been - wrong place, wrong time. Except Setsuna...

"I mean fucking up our buddies is definitely uncool, but I remain open to this being a misunderstanding. Weirder shit's happened."

Another loose little shrug. No skin off her chin if they know what she's up to. They won't live long enough to appreciate it anyway.

The redhead places her hand on the monitor and rotates it. On display are... medical records. Thus the stripper's idea of a nurse's outfit. She's been going through them, apparently. After the fact, anyone who goes through with a record of how they were originally will find that some have been purged, but others have merely been altered in various ways.

And then she opens her mouth. Her voice is almost beautiful, like an opera singer, but at the same time it's like dragging a sharp blade over the surface of your soul, severing nerves as it goes. "None of you matter."

Data tips his head to one side, brow contracting slightly as he processes.

"Intriguing," he offers. Both her area of interest and the sensation that accompanies her voice. It's not something he experiences every day by any means. He wonders anew what sort of life form she is. "I am afraid I must disagree."

Saturday trusts Data - he's the AI and it's his friggin' name - to grab what information can be grabbed. She focuses on the part she can understand, and do something about.

Her voice is like knives on bare nerves, but so are actual knives, which is a thing Saturday has endured before. She shudders, working up some spit to moisten her suddenly-dry throat, and asks the important question.

"Then who does matter?"

She smiles, thinly, then pauses and looks at a clock. Ah. Well. That took longer than expected.

She turns the monitor back towards her and clicks a few more buttons, then places her hand on the side of the desk. There's a crunching noise and she stands and then she's swinging it at Data and Saturday as if it were filled with styrofoam rather than being well over a hundred pounds of metal, wood, and electronics.

It would seem that the conversation has dried up. It would also seem she has no plans of surrendering peacefully. Unfortunate.

Data does his requisite split-second math on the matter and leans into plan A: trying to push forward into a position to take the brunt of that hit. Of the two of them, Saturday is the only one armed if an opening presents itself, and he has a high physical durability. The logic checks out for him. What's a swung desk among colleagues?

If he can succeed, anyway.

Saturday is happy to let him; she'd made the same assessment earlier, after all. She dives behind Data, having started moving the moment the redhead did, as soon as she sensed the world rippling with the change in her intent.

Saturday's intent is to whip out from behind Data like a nasty satellite, hopefully hitting the redhead on the flank while she's distracted. Her blade is already in her hand.

The problem with that is the speed that she moves at.
She runs forward, kicking the desk with one heeled foot; she uses enough enough force that it starts to splinter. Even Data might find himself sliding back.

At the same time, she summons a whip and is already trying to get at Saturday. It cracks at the side of her cover anytime their attacker sees a tiny bit of her starting to peek out from behind it.

Slide back he does, forced to consider how much closer he is to having pieces of a former desk at hand than... a desk. Rude.

Accounts of her abilities weren't exaggerated. Far beyond the average human. And putting them on the defensive without really leaving space for the opening they were angling to create. Realistically, going by those same accounts, they don't have high odds of winning the day here. Escaping could be in their best interests.

It's a shame. Working towards the same goals, she'd be an asset.

Data considers the defense versus offense options at hand and tries outright throwing the desk at her. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Saturday feels the not-muscles in Data's arm flex a moment before he throws, and just takes the hit from the whip as she rushes out from behind him. Deep, bright pain scores along her left forearm, blossoms white behind her eyes.

She's not aiming for the redhead directly, not anymore. The table hurtles towards their enemy, and Saturday is behind the table; the red head will smash or deflect it but hopefully have no time to respond to Saturday emerging from the rubble and launching a full out assault on her center mass. No fancy shit with called shots, just all out assault as fast and hard as she can hit. Which is pretty fucking fast, and pretty fucking hard.

Won't be enough. Saturday is sure of that. But it might slow her down. Fight's still 2-to-1, after all.

edit: typos....

Edited 2020-11-02 00:24 (UTC)

Their attacker summons a katana in the hand that doesn't carry the whip and slices at the desk with such force it cleanly cuts in half, so that the two halves just fly past her harmlessly. Which means she's right there to meet Saturday. She waves away the whip to bring up her arm instead, casually blocking with movements faster than most eyes can follow. Saturday is very fast, and therefore their assailant has to work just a little more than usual. She takes a few hits that instantly heal.

Behind the attacker some kind of energy ball streaks around, passing through the computer she was working on. Letters float up to the wall hallway wall next to her.

Getting help

Don't die

Talk to other two.

In right place, say GW sent you.

The letters disappear before their attacker turns to see. After one of her blocks, she punches Saturday hard in the throat to stun her and then plunges the katana into her upper abdomen.

But it doesn't stop there. Instead she rushes forward with a force that almost topples Saturday off her feet - and before Data can try something else with his strength, she plunges the sword through Data as well, shoving them both into the wall. The sword plunges into the thick metal hallway wall, becoming lodged there.

Their height difference means that the sword pierces him lower in his torso. The two other swords she also summons to stab her through the shoulders pierces his chest. She uses one more blade and this one slashes lightly at each of Saturday's cheeks, like a light admonition for bad behavior.

The cheek.

For good measure, she does the same to each of Data's cheeks, cutting through bioplast skin, since he's tall enough that she can reach without chopping Saturday's head off. She nods her head like a soccer mom just having a little fun with it while decorating a festive centerpiece for a party.

Then she neatly severs Data's left arm.

She'd been a little bored and displeased with her work earlier with the other two she'd maimed but she's a little more pleased at the effect now. Pierced with blades or shurikens and three of them pinned to the walls like bugs collected on a card.

She looks at Data with a bored curiosity. He's probably strong enough to pull the swords out but that means pulling them out of the elf in front of him, pinned. Remove a blade from a wound and they just bleed out faster. Especially if you don't have a second hand to try to staunch all those wounds with.

So he gets to stand there, trapped, getting to watch a life ebb away, and the only thing that can free him will make the little elf die faster. But she left him with one arm just in case he gauges her as a threat worth killing a teammate faster for, and then he'll just...have to live with that.

Accomplice or witness, but not her savior.

Beautiful.

She could just kill him but this is nice change of pace when she's been so bored lately.

"You could free yourself, I'm sure, but she'll bleed out faster."

She wonders if the logic problem will break his little robot brain. Humans love programming directives to protect humanity into them. Maybe the elf is exempt since she's not human, that'll be fun. She also wonders what blood will do to open circuity.

This time, she stays to watch a little, still on the fence about helping things along, though the arrival of anyone else will cause her to take her leave.

He's very easy to catch in that initial rush, because he'd been moving forward to try to give Saturday what backup he could. A grapple maneuver, maybe. And just as suddenly, of course, maybe not.

Data has the benefit of clarity as it's happening. The insistence of his internal diagnostics-- loss of limb, loss of biochemical lubrication, contamination by organic coagulant. With time, it will reach circuitry that isn't currently being forcibly air-cooled and start to burn. A recalling of the field advice for organic life forms who have sustained this manner of damage-- leave the blade in, keep them still.

Intriguing that their attacker would comment on it. Data had been looking downward, expression lined with what could only be called concern, alarm, however muted, but he finds room for curiosity as he looks back up.

"Then there is no purpose in freeing myself." A blink. A slightly unpolished tilt of his head. "Perhaps through time and effort, you too could understand why this is not a difficult decision."

Even if his logic came out that it would be worth the consequences, it wouldn't make him any more able to apprehend or capture the killer. A poker player must know when to fold.

If Saturday was conscious enough, she might chime in. She isn't. She's in a haze of pain, blood thudding slow in her ears, time gone all wonky and stretched. She knows this place. Death is standing before her, one hand extended.

In a bit, buddy. In a bit. There's a little bit more work left to do.

Bloody hands reach for the hilt in her gut. Slip off it, fail, try again, fail, try, grasp. And she starts to pull. Centimeter by centimeter, bloody hands barely able to grip, she starts pulling the sword from her gut. Can't fight without her feet on the ground. Gotta get this damn sword out....

She tilts her head slightly, watching Saturday's determination. Data has stopped mattering for a moment, his question is only so much noise to a being whose existence is so laser-focused.

She reaches out, grabbing Saturday's hands. The enchanted arm gets a little tug, enough to pull at the flesh where it joins as she considers just pulling it off, taking it for herself. And then... Nevermind. She pushes her hand into a wall, concrete powdering as she does, and comes back with a length of rebar. That gets inserted oh-so-gently into Saturday's fleshy wrist, looped around the metallic one, and then back again through the flesh, spreading the bones of her fore-arm just slightly. The tips are bent so she can't pull them out as easily.

But the redhead gives her a little smile, holding up a grenade. White phosphorus. She curls her tongue through the ring of the pin and slips it free. The rest is stuffed into Saturday's hands. As long as she doesn't let go, they should be fine. But, well. How long can she remain conscious?

It spares Data from having to try to hold the blade in place. If in one of the cruelest, least humane ways possible. He hadn't accounted for that much of a lack in self-preservation. He will simply have to prioritize survival for her.

Options are limited. Statistical probability of full team survival is well below the point where his friends and colleagues have historically preferred not to hear it, unless solicited.

He attempts to support Saturday's hands with the one arm he has remaining. If help is really coming, it's a matter of higher importance.

Saturday tries to curse, but there's a white-hot band around her throat, something collapsed and whistling - oh, that would explain why it's so hard to breathe. She's not really conscious of what is being stuffed into her hand, but she is aware of Data's hand pressing against hers, helping her hold it. It must be important. Okay. Hold on. Death is looking at her with such pity, and she has such green eyes. Saturday closes hers.

If she holds on to this, which must be important, then everything will be all right. Her fingers lock around it, anticipating rigor mortis.

Guts is on the tail-end of a sprint from their quarters when he arrives at the open door, eye widening when the visceral scene spills out from the dark. All his fears are realized when he finds Saturday's mangled and bleeding body pinned to the wall on top of Data's. Her eyes were dim, breathing labored, life swiftly leaving her body. He'd been too slow. Again. Too late to do anything at all.

His breath catches in his throat as he follows the smear of rich crimson on her mutilated wrists to the woman torturing them. All slender, sadistic glee and sickening curiousity. It is all too chillingly familiar, driving a more bestial impulse to black out his fear and looming anguish. No, he could do something. She was within his grasp, still.

Before he has a chance to properly think, to worry about back-up or strategy, Guts finds his body leaping into action like a crack of that whip. Even if he had no sword, no armor, no real way to kill her, he'd beat and tear his way through flesh one way or another. He still had his metal arm to parry and the strength in his limbs. Violence he could do, and any hesitation is swiftly eaten up by his singular desire to smear the walls of this room with her blood.

He attacks - attempting to simply shove his fist through the woman's skull as a greeting.

She moves so fast her arm blurs and one hand catches Guts' punch, holding tightly onto his fist and twisting.

The other aims a punch to his throat.

Fast. Shit - fighting her'd be no better than trying to bareknuckle fight a goddamned apostle. He feels the dull twist of metal and wire as she traps the prosthetic arm, ignoring the pain shooting up from his elbow. He has to, because there's a fist heading right for his windpipe.

He very narrowly avoids the blow - skin brushing skin - glaring back with an insubordinate fuck you written on his face. He still had a free hand in this entire mess - and he'll be using it to try and plunge a snatched-up piece of sharp debris right into her eye socket.

She takes it. Doesn't even flinch as the sharp material gouges into her face, fluids painting her cheek red.

Instead, she smiles.

Here was someone who had plenty of blood on his hands. Tough. Strong. Someone she could toy with. Nowhere near as fragile as some of the others. Her tongue brushes over her lips and she places her free hand on his chest, shoving backwards with a strength that belies her frame, so much smaller than his. Coupling this, she steps back and plucks the improvised weapon out of her face, tossing it aside carelessly as the torn and shredded flesh starts to reknit itself.

She reaches behind her and comes out with a curved knife, something that seems better suited to a ritual than anything else, and makes a few graceful sweeps before crouching slightly, waiting to meet his next charge.

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