goneawayworld | HOW THE SAUSAGE IS MADE - Log [Loken and Saturday]

HOW THE SAUSAGE IS MADE - Log [Loken and Saturday]

Who: Loken and Saturday
What: Finding out something sinister
Where: Outside the rig near the village
When: After the execution
Warnings/Notes: Will be added when the threat is revealed.

[Some of the gang is sent out to deal with the outright rioting that's happening in the village that Jorgmund wants leveled. Some of the heavy duty Jorgmund shock troops are with them and this time they're taking point. They expect the New Hires to simply fall in line and do what they're ordered. The New Hires can't be trusted, you see, after letting that other town of people they were meant to take into custody be absorbed by Zaher Bey's pirates.]

[The soldiers tell them that capturing the villagers is a priority. There's a lot of emphasis on it, which is strange since simply scattering them and driving them away is a perfectly good solution to Jorgmund's problem.]

[The New Hires are spread thin in the area where the soldiers are getting ready to deploy. Directed to go to different areas. Possibly to avoid them plotting something against Jorg's will. The soldiers tell Loken and Saturday to stay put, and then go busy themselves with something.]

[This is why Saturday and Loken are pretty far from the others, close to the wall. They're closest ones that can respond...]

[...when the new FOX generation station, planted down just behind the rig, on the pipeline, blows sky high, the victim to one of the improvised bombs the villagers have been planting. In the distance they can see smoke and white hot fire up top, but there's an opening in the wall and a few armed villagers brave the fire to climb inside, possibly to wreak all kinds of havoc.]

[While some of the soldiers struggle with protestors, one of them points and tells the two:]

Go! Stop them from destroying the station! There are fire control systems inside!

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"Open it up then."

He says, almost growling, the knife still in his hands.

Edited 2021-09-03 05:06 (UTC)

Saturday's shoulders slump. She lets out a weary sigh, like a foreman discovering an error that means that day's work is wasted.

"There's a person in there, or something shaped like it an' made of meat. Real still. Suspended, like. Raise your hand if you're surprised."

It's not that she was expecting better, but sometimes it would be nice to be wrong.

The villagers lower their heads.

The soldiers don't but there's a slight slump in their shoulders.

With their help, Gonzo gets the cover off the box.

Inside is a man - or what used to be a man - visible from the chest up. His body is atrophied to the point it's skeletal. His eyes are staring at nothing, kept from being damaged by an automated system occasionally irrigating his eyes. The low swoosh of a ventilator can now be heard with the cover off, and a breathing tube is down his throat.

There is nothing behind his eyes and a monitor attached to a crown of sensors on his head shows very little activity.

There is a huge scar across his forehead.

"Jesus," says one of the villagers. "It's what we expected, but Jesus..."

"Fuck," says one of the soldiers.

"They fucking lobotomized him," says Gonzo. He turns to one of the villagers. "Hey, one of you is a doctor, right? What's this monitor mean?"

"I'm no neurologist but I'd say he's got barely any brain activity, mate. Maybe just enough for the vaguest bit of consciousness, but he'll never wake up again, I'll tell you that much. Those bastards."

"Conscious enough to convert the Stuff, but no thoughts, no dreams, no unconscious," says Gonzo. "So they convert it to...nothing. Stuff, but not. The opposite of Stuff."

Every box, every cluster of 4X5 is another twenty people like this.

Some of those boxes aren't five or six feet tall.

Some are four feet tall. Three feet.

Two.

"This must be recorded. Our companions on the rig must know."

Loken looks at Saturday. "Do we have anything secure enough to share this with the rest?"

Lokens voice is stiff with anger. It is very likely some people are about to start dying

Saturday has felt this kind of outrage a lot, recently, even before coming to the Rig. She sees the smaller boxes, understands what they must mean, and accepts it with no more than a tightening of her jaw. She's be outraged if outrage would help. It won't. So she lets it slip away sideways into grim resignation, and throws her shoulders back against the world.

"We can send it out over the private network. Or, if we're willing to risk it - "

She hesitates.

"Collars aren't hacked yet. But if we're willing to die for it, we could just send it out public. Across the company network. Rank and file don't know about this, I'd bet money. An' I bet your crew can get it broadcast outside the company, Gonzo - right?"

She shrugs, laconically, spreading her hands wide.

"They will kill us, though. Or try, anyway.”

"Hey, Doc, check out these monitors," says one of the villages. "Before we put these people out of their misery, we should make sure they've all got the same damage. That no one should be rescued."

The villager that had been identified as a doctor goes over to verify. The way he shakes his head makes the situation clear.

"We'll spread it," nods Gonzo. "And record it, too, so people believe us. But unless you tell them, they won't know for sure that we know. That anyone else knows. We want to make it look like the factory just blew in the fighting. You'll be the only witnesses they know of. They will probably try to kill you, to try to cover it up."

He goes on, "Might be worth it, though. We used to work on the rig." He nods towards the other soldiers. "Us and...him. The other one. He and I were still one person then. We worked on the rig, with the Bey and the Katiris, providing security from the monsters. Back then it was just humanity's rig, but Jorgmund formed in the Livable Zone and came out to take over. Some of the Katiris were still there when we left and still might be. They stayed partly for the 3 squares a day, partly probably to spy for the Bey. They might be willing to help you, especially when they find out. They definitely don't know about this."

"Gonzo, fire's spreading," says a tall female soldier. "We ought to blow this place to kingdom come. It's...faster than these people burning up."

"You don't have much time," Gonzo says to Saturday. "If you're going to film it, do it now while we film it too and lay down some C4."

"Do it. I will be overwatch."

Loken for the first time draws his bolter, pointedly keeping it well clear of the mercenaries, and is obviously now standing guard for the young physical adept.

He looks back at Saturday. "I will keep you alive, once we are back there." He knows she's good friends with Guts, he wouldn't let a friend's dear companion die. "If that costs me my life, make sure to inform K... tell Sarah what they have done."

He doesn't say anything more than that, racking the slide on his boltgun, eyes returning to watching over the mercenaries and Saturday.

"All right, then." Saturday's pulse begins to beat, the old joy rising up in her despite it all. Time to move - time to gamble everything on wit, and skill, and the cold bastard Luck. If she goes, she goes on her own terms.

Her father named her Makoto for a reason.

"Let's get this party started."

After they do what they need to do, record this horror as evidence, they get ready to clear out.

"Alright, time to blow this place," says Gonzo. "Let's put these poor people out of their misery."

The soldiers and villagers start to clear out.

Loken stomps out, eyes still scanning for possible Jorgmund snitches he might need to terminate. He body language has become far more aggressive now, as though this horror focused him and gave him a brutal, if just purpose.

Edited 2021-09-07 05:41 (UTC)

Saturday's blade is unsheathed in her hands. She's bringing up the rear, falling in to escort the civilians.

At any moment she expects to feel the shock racing through her, building until it stops her heart. She'll have maybe a minute of free action before the collar gets her - with some luck, she can take a few Jorgbots with her.

They clear out and put some distance between them.

Gonzo hits the button. Gonzo is always the one that takes on the weight from his friends, the other soldiers, and they give it to him thoughtfully.

Gratefully.

He doesn't even think to ask Loken and Saturday to do it instead.

The villagers hang their heads as the factory goes up in an explosion. A man starts doing rites in Latin - a former priest. As the ceiling comes down, the reservoir of Stuff flows into the blaze and mixes explosively with the FOX.

It renders the Stuff that was being used there inert.

Gonzo turns to the two.

"We'd stick around to help on the rig but we're needed," Gonzo says. "The liquidation squads are hitting the village on multiple fronts. I'm sorry we can't go with you, but you've likely got better chances than them - there's a whole lot of pure civilians. And if you die we can't let the truth of this die with you."

Splitting up is just the pragmatic thing to do. Two separate forces wandering off able to spread this knowledge. The soldiers and villagers can spread it among the surviving townspeople too.

The soldiers start moving, jogging towards trucks that could win a demolition derby. The village doesn't have much more time than the New Hires. And the explosion will attract attention before long.

And it's not like their squad knows how to get rid of the shock collars.

He grimaces and adds, "Also, I know my other half is on the rig, and I also know he can't be working for Jorg willingly. He was the first - always the first of both of us - to fist fight something if it was wrong. Please help him if you can. And if you make it long enough, let him help you. Between him and the Katiris, you have people that can reach out to us. Or the Bey. If you ever make a run on corporate, plenty of people are willing to show up to the party, trust me."

He starts jogging backwards.

"And tell him...tell him if he's still going by only our last name Gonzo said to just bloody well pick a first name already." It's said with something that is almost affection. It sounds hard won.

"Good luck."

Loken smiles, beneath his helmet, if only slightly, and salutes the man as he leaves, an old Terran salute, hand to his helmet, then begins the long journey back to the rig, to reap the whirlwind Saturday just unleashed.

Saturday is nodding before Gonzo can finish explaining, even giving a dismissive wave. Fiat justitia ruat caelum, and only an idiot would expect not to get hit on the head.

"Don't think I can pass that on, I'm going to get electrocuted to death in a bit. Bet I can take a squadron with me."

She hasn't really been checking her messages, and in a time like this it's better to assume the worst.

"See you on the flip side."

As they head back to the rig, their collars still don't go off. Fortunately, on the rig, Cammie has worked miracles.

But that doesn't mean things will be easy for them.

There is a squad of soldiers in their way.

They start out distracted, at least. For some reason they're gathered around a large pipe that's flattened by debris on one end. They seem to be trying to get at something that went inside - something that is likely trapped due to the burrow-like pipe having no exit.

"- don't need to get a flamethrower, just toss a grenade in there and kill the damn thing. God, I hate these fucking Stuff monsters."

"Fire in the hole." A soldier pulls a pin and tosses one...

...And there is a brief flash of some kind of vine or tendril and the grenade flies back out as if it was caught and thrown. The soldiers all dive to get clear and just barely get away from the bright, burning phosphorus grenade.

It's as good a distraction as any for Saturday and Loken if they want to try to plow through them. Because if the soldiers see them, after Saturday's message, they will absolutely attack.

Edited 2021-09-10 20:04 (UTC)

Loken is merciless to those who have betrayed humanity out of greed. He hurks himself into them, bolter coughing explosive rounds even as he sweeps down a decapitating strike at one of the men who had barely dodged the burning death of a whiskey Pete grenade only to come to an end at the churning teeth of mankind's one of most savage weapon. Be that the sword or the astartes himself.

He roars, a transhuman bellow intending to shock them and give him a moment more to steak ruin upon their bodies.

Saturday is actually diving towards the grenade, knowing she can catch it and return to sender, when the tendril does it for her. She grins, or at any rate bares her teeth, and just keeps going.

The first soldier twists on to his back and raises his weapon just a fraction before her sword pierces his left eye. He spasms. She's already jerked her blade back, and on to the next one. The next one is only just realizing what's happening when she slits his belly stem to stern, and on to the next one. This one has his back to her and that doesn't matter. They wouldn't hesitate; neither does she. On to the next one. It doesn't become a dance, because this isn't dancing. This is a woman who made herself a machine for killing doing exactly what she has designed herself from the age of six onwards to do, and doing it as fast as she possibly can. Which is very nearly, but not quite, faster than the unaugmented human eye can see.

On to the next one. On to the next one. There's no fear in this place of perfect, deadly motion, no uncertainty, no creeping doubts. Only the beat of her pulse and the play of her blade and the enemy before her, dying. She is not afraid. She is in control. For the first time since she's arrived in this godforsaken place, she is in control.

And everyone who owes her is going to pay.

It is a veritable horde of soldiers. For many people, this would be their last stand, a demonstration of nobility and defeat.

But they mow them down. Between the raw power of the astartes and Saturday's elegant dance of death, they fall in ones and twos and sometimes more, soaking the ground in blood.

The time has finally come for a reckoning and to what might have otherwise been a fatal horde of enemies, that reckoning is at hand.

When the last one drops, there is quiet, other than a few gurgling gasps of the nearly dead. There are others that would've been on the ground dying instead, but not these two. Saturday and Loken are the last ones standing.

It is only then that the Stuff creature peers out of its hole. Phosphorescent glowing yellow eyes on stalks curl around the corner of the pipe and the creature slowly creeps out, crawling along the ground.

It looks like an octopodian mass of vines, mostly green, but with some of them shot with blue or streaking flashes of something electric. Some of them have light yellow flowers.

It peers at them. Curiously. Cautiously.

And then some of the leaves on the vines start to flutter in...is it agitation? Excitement?

The creature starts creeping towards Saturday.

It doesn't appear immediately hostile or threatening, which is a reprieve. He ses it approach Saturday and says "Xenos of the stuff variety approaching. We have a job to do still." He sheathes his sword, reloads his bolter, and starts towards the rig, his mercy apparent in his not acknowledging it as a threat.

"Yeah, I'll catch up." Saturday crouches down, not quite unguarded, but not threatening either. Her hand is reaching out, just a little, the way you would if coaxing a cat.

"Hey, kiddo. Nice job with the grenade. Hope you're friendly..."

The thing creeps closer. Slowly.

And slowly reaches out a tendril and curls it slightly around her hand.

The stalk eyes stare intently, as if the creature is trying to be sure it's properly making out what it sees.

The leaves flutter. It's definitely agitation.

But it doesn't lunge. It withdraws the vine and mimics something. It twists a tendril up so that it's an almost humanoid shape and mimes it falling from high in the air. Then it points to a small puddle of stuff nearby.

And then it does something strange. Little harder bits of vine are hidden among the vines. Some of them press together in something that looks like almost like a larynx. Soft membranes among the vines press together in a little gas bag. The being wheezes weakly, as if trying to make the sounds into something.

It doesn't. Can't. Make words, no matter how hard it tries.

It pounds two vines against the ground like fists.

The harmonica-like wheezing takes on the cadence of someone weeping.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, we'll sort it out." Saturday may not understand what's distressing the little creature, but it plainly is distressed. "How about hold up one vine for yes, two vines for no, okay? Did you fall into Stuff, is that how you happened?"

One vine.

"Okay. Not a lot of options for fixing that right now... is there something urgent you need to do right here, right now?"

She is also going to cast anything to write with - surely one of these dead bodies has something and they seem capable of holding a pen in their vines.

The little plant thing points in the direction Loken went to the rig. Pointedly. Decisively.

There is another wheeze. An attempt at communicating. As futile as the last.

So it tries something else.

The vines compress, as if it's trying to force itself into a shape, something more humanoid. It can't manage legs, just something that starts to look almost like a torso. Arms. A head. The bits of vines that look like they're almost pulsing with zaps of energy coil up into something round, and more leaves and vines wrap around that and form the vaguest sense of a head. The glowing eyes on stalks move in place to create glowing yellow irises in eyes that are a lighter green than the rest of it.

It can't form legs.

Coiled up, different patches of color line up together to form larger patches of similar color. The colors align in such a way that its hands and face are a familiar shade of green, its torso is covered in the same color as the rig's jumpsuits, yellow flowers form its hair.

There are several places where leaves shift into small spirals. Several on the torso. One on the head. As if this creature was filled with several holes that caused it to split and unwind apart.

It reaches out for her desperately, something that's almost a (familiar) face looking at her imploringly. Then gestures towards the rig.

And then it looks at itself in horror as it fails at holding a form, as it spirals back apart again. It starts wheezing again, weeping, some of its vines grasping at the yellow flowers like someone pulling out their own hair in anguish.

It holds out a vine towards her and anguish and self-disgust and abject horror suddenly radiate off of the creature, projecting outward. And fear, too, fear for the others, still on the rig.

Edited 2021-09-13 05:19 (UTC)

" - something bad, something at the rig?" Saturday is already reaching out to gather the poor person up in her arms, brain working overtime. "Okay, you've got some kind of projective empathy going on, I caught what you were feeling right now. Focus on how what you know makes you feel, maybe you can break into actual words that way. But keep up with the vines an' hold tight, I can move faster than you right now."

A certain suspicion is blooming in the back of her mind, but there's no proof. Just a gut feeling, and fierce self-loathing the Stuff victim had projected at her.

"Another question. Were you pushed?"

One vine. Yes.

One vine and then that vine points to the very top of the rig.

"Oh, this has killbutton written all over it," Saturday mutters. "Is there a self destruct mechanism for the Rig?"

Somehow the vines convey a shrug.

The sad wheezing stops because it's less upsetting to be at least partly understood.

"Well, we know about the liquidation squads, we have people on that..."

Saturday keeps up a brisk pace, still keeping one eye out for any any stray writing implements.

"Did the execs throw you off?"

One vine.

But then, as the other vines cling to her, two vines do a sort of "come on, get with it" circular motion.

There are no writing implements but one of the dead soldiers has a baton and the dirt is soft where she's walking.

Edited 2021-09-13 06:27 (UTC)

"Okay, there is something I'm not getting here - still kinda coming down from not being eletrocuted and did you know Lubitsch is two people?"

She pauses and grabs the baton, gesturing at the dirt.

"I read English, Cyrillic, Japanese, Theran, and Sperethial. Kindergarden level Korean."

Listen, we can't all be geniuses.

If he could sigh he would.

Okay, he can sort of sigh, so there's an annoyed wheeze.

He clambers down, grabs the baton, and starts writing in the dirty in very large, very crooked letters. But they're still recognizable.

He'd just go for B5 but he doesn't trust he'll be understood so he goes for his nickname.

B R A I N Y

Then the stalk eyes turn to peer up at her, and he jabs the baton at himself. Jerkily. Annoyedly.

"I - wait - what?" Saturday understands right away, of course. It just takes a second to categorize the new data. " - oh, that makes sense. I thought maybe you were someone who got shoved off just now, in all the chaos - don't look at me like that, next time I have to communicate with a freaked out mute vineperson shapeshifting accident I'll remember to ask when it happened, okay?"

She will, to. If it ever comes up again. Saturday does make mistakes, but not generally the same one twice.

" - do you have any idea what's been happening, have you been able to get any news? And if you don't have anything else that needs to be totally clear, we gotta keep moving. Jorgmund is trying to kill everyone on the rig."

The wild muppet flailing makes it clear he had no idea it'd suddenly gotten that bad.

He immediately climbs back onto Saturday and points a vine at the rig.

Edited 2021-09-13 20:04 (UTC)

"Yeah, that was - kinda my fault. Comm's in my left pants pocket, if you can use it, you should let the others know you're alive. Short version is: we found out how Jorgmund makes FOX, and I told everyone. Now Jorgmund is going to kill everyone to keep the secret, including their own people. Long version - well, post should still be up. Haven't had a chance to check since I told CIA barbie to eat my ass, but the comm keeps beeping notifs at me so something is happening."

She's loping along with him on her back, where he can peer over her shoulder. Not exactly a run, but faster than a jog; an brisk, easy pace, the kind she can keep up as long as she needs to.

"They've had more than enough time to shock us dead, so the collars must be out of action, too. Dunno if it's for permanent."

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HOW THE SAUSAGE IS MADE - Log [Loken and Saturday]

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cw: brain damage, cw: implied harm to children.

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