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Post by NPCs on Mar 1, 2014 20:19:52 GMT -6
when they haven't invaded your soul | |
The syringe feels strange in your hands. A tiny glass cylinder filled with a liquid with enough power to turn a normal human into a combination of two of Arceus' grandest creations within a matter of five minutes is rolling in your sweaty palm and this all just feels so strange. The serum in your hand. The stereotypical black van that you're sitting in the back of. The tumult that you've been catapulted into through guilt, peer pressure, and – though you're scared to admit – an unhealthy dose of curiosity. Today, they say, you are going to take part in something ground breaking. Something that will start a new dawn. A voice in the back of your mind is only capable of telling you that you're going to take part in something illegal.
It's too late to back out now, though.
Not when the first battle of an entire war is already well underway.
The licorice box slows to a gradual still and you close your eyes tighter than the times when you were a kid, you'd have nightmares, and you'd try to block them out by closing your eyes so much they hurt. The first victim has been spotted out of an undoubtedly thin crowd, and it's time to get this show on the road. The doors will open, a flailing stranger will be tossed in, and after they've drugged him or her, you get to fire twelve shots in certain vital areas all across the body. They'll discard him or her. You'll sleep it off like a bad hangover. That's what they made it sound like, at least. However, when the form of a pastel-blue-haired woman comes into sight from the open door, your masked partners dragging her the whole way, all of that drains away and all you can do is hope the ski mask covering your mortified features is enough to keep your identity – and this terrible act – absolutely hidden. |
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Post by Beatrice Weiss on Mar 1, 2014 20:51:32 GMT -6
when they haven't invaded your soul |
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When a childhood friend visits your region, naturally, you go and visit. One of her few school friends was on vacation, so Bea borrowed a Pokemon that knew Fly from the Pokemon Center and flew to Veherna Citadel to visit. She'd had a nice day, and was on her way back to the Pokemon Center to get another transport and head home.
Naturally, disaster struck.
Two or three people wearing masks covering their whole heads, some with odd features sticking out, quickly made their way into the street and grabbed and gagged her, dragging Bea back into an alley, throwing her into an open van door. It slammed shut behind her, her hands and feet quickly being ziptied. "Mmwhamm mmwo," she tried to say, the gag blocking any attempt to speak.
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Post by NPCs on Mar 1, 2014 21:35:42 GMT -6
when they haven't invaded your soul | |
You watch helplessly as they tie a crimson handkerchief around her jaw to hinder the ability to speak. Watch helplessly as they try to sedate her by shooting some sort of strange substance into her arm with a very similar syringe to the one clutched numbly in your spidery fingers. Ironic; born part Spinerak and you still don't notice you've made a terrible pun about yourself until after you've made it. You avoid looking directly at the scene going on before you, beady eyes staring anywhere that isn't a helpless young lady about to be turned into a monster against her will. It's impossible to tell if the drugs works for that reason, but every drama your elderly mother watches on television has taught you it probably will.
“Now,” someone barks in a gruff voice – the kind that reminds you of that “capped crusader” you so enjoyed hearing stories of when you were younger. What was his name, Golbatman? How ironic to think of a vigilante out against crime when you are about to commit one right now. When you're already in the midst of committing is as you stand from your leather seat and roll the syringe in between your index finger and thumb nervously. You don't want to do this. You don't want to, you don't want to, you don't want to -
But the needle is on a path headed directly toward the area just above her collar bone and there's not stopping it now.
One down.
Eleven shots to go. |
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Post by Beatrice Weiss on Mar 1, 2014 21:58:28 GMT -6
when they haven't invaded your soul |
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000 ● NPCs ● event thread A quick shot in her arm and Bea couldn't move anymore. She tried, and realized it was futile. The girl looked around at her captors, and one closest to her held another syringe, trembling. Shit. She had a inkling about what was in it, but didn't bother to think about it. That would probably make it worse when it happened.
Bea had heard about it on the news, that company with their fancy new invention. And that group with their rights and stuff. She'd always been neutral, agreeing with everything. No one, especially her, deserved what would happen. Then the trembling guy above her stuck a needle in above her collar bone, and then her skin started feeling weird, and then Bea realized it only got worse from there. |
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Post by NPCs on Mar 1, 2014 22:07:59 GMT -6
when they haven't invaded your soul | |
The first shot was in. To leave her there now with only one out of the twelve would almost be more cruel than to go through with it all the way until the very end. The higher ups in Berund never quite said what happened when a patient only received one of the shots, but you don't figure you really want to know. As such, there is a bit more conviction in your movements when you grab for her wrist, exposing the forearm and – higher up – a vein that you'll insert the next shot into. You breath. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Grab another syringe. The folks were kind enough to fetch them from where you forgot them over at your seat. You plunge it in. Liquid disappears from the glass container and you hate yourself a bit for it. You figure you can't possibly hate yourself at this moment more than she does, and that thought alone makes you nearly miss the spot on the back of her neck the third shot goes into.
Nearly.
One after another, you plunge each needle into its respective spot, hands moving purely by muscle memory once you're done. Fingers are still clutching at thin air when all twelve shots are in and there are no more to grab for. You swallow and take a step back, averting your gaze as her body changes structure before you. They advised you the process would not be painful whatsoever, the victim drugged or not.
Regardless, you don't think the pain could ever quite amount to that which sits in your heart. |
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Post by Beatrice Weiss on Mar 1, 2014 23:37:55 GMT -6
The pain coursing through her veins is the most uncomfortable thing ever, Bea decides. With every shot, two, three, four, she loses count. There's no painkiller in the sedative they gave her, just a drug to stop her from moving. It's uncomfortable. Let it stop, let me die, let me die, she thinks to herself, because it seems to be the only way to get the pain to stop.
Something's changing in her bones, it's the first thing that changes about Bea. They feel lighter, and the girl can't help but wonder why. A sharp, twisting pain in her shoulder blades has her skin expanding and new bone growing under it. Something else is growing on her new expansion, and it's so painful that when Bea tries to scream, her attempt is so loud nothing comes out.
When that's over with, a quick pain on the top of her head and two things sprout from the source of the pain. Bea really hopes this is the end of it, but it's not. Her skin was feeling weird because very very light blue feathers were growing on her, covering every inch of her skin except her head, hands, and feet. She knows this because her head is angled slightly towards her left hand, and that's enough for her to realize what she's become. A monster. |
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Post by NPCs on Mar 2, 2014 0:07:02 GMT -6
when they haven't invaded your soul | |
You step away.
The world is spinning in a way it hasn't since the day you got off that triple spinning carnival ride with your eight-year-old son three years ago and the seemingly once-dim lighting in the charcoal black vehicle is so bright, so bright you think you could be staring into a supernova. Two feet are clumsy below you, nearly sending you toppling into just another Berund goon – one who catches you before you can fall – and you're scurrying away. Away, away, away. You're scurrying away because she's changing, turning, becoming something different, something like you, and years of ridicule and torture has injected your heart with such painful guilt you think you're going to vomit if you watch another feather poke out of her pale skin.
They lift her up.
She is still turning, long, blue feathers sticking out of her head growing longer and body changing form when two men lift her submissive body up and into the air. You watch her, mouth moving in silent screaming, and you wonder who she is calling for if she feels no pain, because this isn't supposed to be painful, isn't supposed to be anything. The car door is being opened by a tiny Rattata of a woman – exactly what she is – and then they're – then they're -
They toss her out into the cold, unforgiving street.
They shove her through the opening, slamming the door shut with such force, a gust of winter wind comes burst into your face. Someone is screaming, vocal cords demanding that they, “Go, go, go!” You know the rush. You've got to run, run, run before the popo come and see what terrible atrocities you've done. The leather seat you'd been occupying meets you instead of the other way around when the automobile lurches forward and gravity pulls you down unexpectedly.
It's over.
All you can hope is your mind doesn't play this all over again when you try to sleep tonight. |
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