sixthiterationlogs | ghost in the machine, pt. two

Entry tags:

ghost in the machine, pt. two | rescue mingle

WHERE: The southern village, a cave system about 5 miles southwest, and in-between
WHEN: April 6
OPEN TO: Kidnappees (Agent Washington, Tim Drake-Wayne, Cissie King-Jones) & their rescuers (Agent Maine/Brigitte Lindholm; Jason Todd/Stephanie Brown; Diego Hargreeves/Seifer Almasy/Anne Weying)
WARNINGS: Violence & NPC death. Will update further as needed!

OOC details:

All 3 kidnapped villagers wake deep in a system of caves, firmly bound by rope at their ankles and wrists, with their hands in front of their bodies. It will be extremely dark. They will be able to speak to each other, however, and may notice that their wrist devices have been removed. There will be two canteens of water and two plates of berries and rice. They may begin to loosen or cut through their ropes, but it will be slow-going.

When Nat returns to the village and tells everyone about the kidnapping, it seems a fairly safe presumption that there will be folks wanting to go after the kidnapped villagers, locate them, and bring them safely back to the village. These characters may encounter NPCs along the way as they locate the kidnapped villagers and help them escape.

The odd hit-and-run assaults by the strange doppelgangers had finally escalated: three of their own had been taken. And so of course, others would go after them. Three ragtag groups eventually assembled within the southern village, setting out into the wilderness and trying to trace the path back to the origin of these inexplicable attackers, or at least where they’ve been holding their captives. It’s five miles away, so perhaps about two hours’ walk with all the stopping to check for footprints, broken branches, trampled bushes.

Once the rescuers start working through the dark caves, they start running into aggressive NPCs, and it seems likely a fight will break out.

A list of NPC clones they might encounter:

Anne Weying, Ashley Magnus, Aqua, Bobo del Rey, Brigitte Lindholm, Bruce Banner, Cissie King-Jones, Cougar Alvarez, Foggy Nelson, Frank Castle, Jacob Frye, Jason Todd, Jessica Jones, Joe Miller, John Druitt, John Wick, Kalen, Marian Hawke, Natasha Romanoff, Niska Elster, Oerba Dia Vanille, Peggy Carter, Reyes Vidal, Rinoa Heartilly, Rosa Diaz, Samantha Moon, Seifer Almasy, Thor Odinson, Tim Drake-Wayne

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Like Brigitte, Maine has a weapon at his belt: a combat knife stained to the hilt with dried blood. (He has no idea whose blood it is, and he hasn't had time to properly clean it.) However, the knife is tucked behind his back, as though he doesn't intend to use it. Quite frankly, he doubts he'll need to.

One consequence of Maine's physical prowess is a sense of confidence in combat that borders on arrogance. He can count the number of people who can well and truly defeat him on a single hand. Unless Agents Carolina or Texas pop out of the dark to take him on, Maine believes he can beat anyone they encounter.

So he doesn't pull the knife from his belt and ready it for a fight. His curled fists remain empty as he moves by Brigitte's side, his stride naturally shortening to match hers as they start down the winding tunnels.

The good news is that the ceiling is high enough for Maine to stand fully upright. The bad news is that the path they're on soon splits into three: one going up, one continuing straight, and one sloping down.

Maine clicks his tongue behind his teeth in another wordless curse: "shit."

It's grown dark enough in the caves, this far from the sunlight at the entrance, that they're using the projected glow from their wrist devices as a sort of flashlight. Again: not ideal, but perhaps better than giving up an entire hand to a flaming torch and having to juggle that in the middle of a fight. Standing side-by-side, they look back and forth between the three options. Now that they're out of the woods, they don't have snapped twigs or trampled grass to follow anymore; it's just stone and earth, worn from the passage of footsteps, but neither passageway seems noticeably more trafficked than the rest.

"It looks... a bit like straight forward or down has been used more often? I can't tell, though." Frustration ebbs in her voice. Like him, Brigitte's more accustomed to the frontlines of a battlefield; to wading into a more straightforward situation, not this sneaking around.

After a moment, considering the powers he'd gotten from the machine: "Your senses are better right now. Can you listen? See if you can hear any voices or footsteps, far off?"

A person less inclined to stick with their teammates might suggest that they split up. There are two of them, and there are two paths that appear well-used; the option is an obvious one. But the idea doesn't so much as flit through Maine's mind. Brigitte is his ally. Right now, she's his partner on this mission. He's not leaving her side.

The big Freelancer nods in response to her suggestion. Steps to the point where the paths diverge and tilts his head, listening. He can hear himself breathing. He can hear Brigitte breathing. He can hear water dripping; the footsteps of other search parties; a bird chirping back at the entrance. He closes his eyes, furrows his brow in concentration, and tries to focus on the paths ahead.

And then something hits him. It's not a sound; it's a smell. Something that Maine — who has lived in close quarters of one kind of another for his entire life — immediately recognizes: body odor.

The space marine grunts and wrinkles his nose. Turns to Brigitte and points, without a hint of hesitation, to the path leading down.

That way to unwashed people.

What— oh. She bites back a slight laugh once she realises what he's picked up on as they start heading down; not because the situation is all that funny, but because you could cut that wary tension with a knife and so anything feels hysterical then, feels like a sudden puncture of pressure bubbling up in her throat. Instead: she tightens her grip on her shield.

They're trying to be light on their feet, but it's impossible to be entirely stealthy when they need that light to move, like a lighthouse necessarily broadcasting their approach. And so once they turn the corner—

Brigitte felt-slash-heard it more than saw it, the rush of a body moving. Pure hardwired reflex: her arm's already instinctively swung up her shield and it takes the first blow with a clang and a clatter, from someone barreling at them in the half-darkness with a blunt club.

Once the light from their devices falls on the first attacker, it takes her a moment to process: Thor, Thor looking rough and disheveled and maddened. She'd just left him back at the smithy. One of the few men in the village big enough to give Maine a run for his money, maybe, and even remembering the warning (They're us but not us), it still throws her off-kilter for a moment as soon as that recognition sinks in; enough for Maine to step in, cover that stutter-stop from her end.

It's also difficult to be stealthy when one among their number is absolutely terrible at sneaking. Maine is simply too massive to be light on his feet. He's built for strength and power, not agility or speed. Even when he tries not to make noise, a four hundred pound wall of muscle can only creep so quietly.

Really, between the light from their wrists and Maine's footsteps, it's no surprise when someone finds them. What is surprising — to Brigitte, at least — is what the person looks like.

But unlike Brigitte, Maine has never met Thor. He doesn't see a friend, an ally, or even an acquaintance. He sees a perfect stranger attacking his partner. And there's really only one solution.

A full-force punch from Maine can snap a grown man's neck. "Thor" gets lucky; Maine doesn't take the extra second to wind up. He just slams his fist directly into that handsome face, sending the stranger flying back against a wall — with Maine in pursuit.

Edited 2019-04-09 07:08 (UTC)

That moment of reorienting herself is relatively short, but still feels like it lasts far, far too long: re-cataloguing the bedraggled blond as an enemy, as someone to be fought. As Maine surges forward, she sees the two men start landing blows on each other in the darkened space of the tunnels; yet the blunt blows of Thor's club (almost a warhammer, she thinks) seem to faze Maine not one whit. Each impact sounds like pummeled meat, and Brigitte wisely keeps herself clear from flying fists and bodies as they collide again, as "Thor" is slammed backwards once more and dazed. With the strength Maine can throw around, even the wall itself becomes a weapon, becomes a long flat plane to heave someone against. Crack skulls against.

Watch his back, she reminds herself, and she's spun on her heel to have her back to the fray, shield up just in time as another pair of attackers come swarming down the hall towards them, and she's pressing forward, each sharp jab of her shield another stun as she keeps them away.

The wall is indeed a weapon, and it's one Maine intends to use. The blond man is similarly built for strength, but he's slightly faster than Maine, and he's armed. The Freelancer has to take care of the weapon before taking care of him. And he has to do so without getting bashed over the head.

Not for the first time, Maine vehemently misses his armor.

From behind, Maine hears a collision as two more attackers reach Brigitte. An amateur would look; Maine doesn't. He snarls and moves into range of the club. Risks a shot to the head; manages to grab the stranger's wrist mid-swing. He twists; bones snap; the club falls. Then Maine grabs the man's face and slams his head into the wall.

The corpse drops like a stone. Maine stoops to grab the weapon before turning to meet Brigitte's attackers.

But these ones aren't strangers. One looks like a ghost to Maine. A long-dead relative come back to haunt him: Frank Castle. The other is a bedraggled, feral version of Brigitte herself.

What the fuck…?

Brigitte hits "Frank" again, knocking him off-balance. Maine seizes the opportunity (grateful that it's the ghost and not the mirror of his partner) and throws the club full-force at the other man's head while he's unable to dodge.

Edited 2019-04-11 18:25 (UTC)

They haven't fought by each others' side like this before, but she can tell the foundations of synchronicity are already there: that inherent trust to know that, behind you, your ally (your teammate) is taking care of their part. Holding up their end of the bargain, and you'll pivot back to help them in a moment. Which he does, as they face—

It's an even stranger pair-up; like fighting themselves as seen through a mirror, darkly. Smeared and blurry. While she stuns "Frank" with her shield, one of her typical moves in-battle, Maine flings the club and it collides with the other man's head. Doesn't kill him like the wall did the Thor doppelganger, but the impact still drops him, sends him to the ground unconscious and probably concussed.

Which leaves... her. This time, Brig actually hesitates less: because she knows herself and knows that that's not her, no matter how much "Brigitte" looks like her (the woman even has the pattern of her freckles, a small birthmark on her collarbone, in every aspect identical). So she grabs for the mace that she hadn't pulled out yet this fight; when Maine clears space for her, the other woman skittish to be in his way, then Brigitte automatically moves in. Swings. And swings.

Blood smears the end of her mace. Even without its rocket capabilities, it's still effective. Brigitte is breathing heavily, staring down at her own motionless body. It's even more uncanny in death.

"I hate this island," she says.

Sudden stillness presses in around them, oppressive after the rush of combat. Maine doesn't look at the doppelgänger of his ally lying dead on the ground. He looks at the copy of "Frank" instead, and he sees the other man's chest rising and falling. Without a second thought, Maine steps over the fake Brigitte, leans down over the ghost, and — with a quick flex of muscles; a sharp twist; an action too easy for the weight it carries — he snaps the man's neck.

There. Now they can move.

Maine stands up and reaches out to touch Brigitte's upper arm. To guide her past the corpses, if she needs it. To just get her moving if she doesn't. Without a word, he starts leading them onward, following the small scuffling sounds that he can hear echoing from some chamber below.

The closer they get, the more the stagnant air stinks of sweat and less pleasant things. Eventually, it becomes almost oppressive. But it's worth it; Maine's enhanced sight manages to pick out what looks like a familiar shape in the darkness of the next chamber.

Maine reaches for Brigitte's arm again, trying to halt her in case it's not who he thinks it is. Then he utters a low growling noise that would be incomprehensible to anyone else, but will make perfect sense to his best friend: "that you?"

His wrists are raw and bloody from the ropes where he'd been working to try to wear them through. It hadn't been entirely successful - wearing through ropes using rocks is much trickier than films would have you believe. His arms are aching and he's got a throbbing headache from staying awake as much as possible since the kidnapping.

He hates being locked up. The saving grace is that this isn't a white hospital room or a UNSC prison cell. The novelty helps to keep him grounded where otherwise he might start to spiral a little.

He hears movement outside. Too distant to really make out what it is. It could be an attack, but if so, who? Will people be looking for him? he hasn't exactly made many friends in the village so would anyone notice? Maine would, but he'd still have to track down the place Wash has been taken.

He starts working at the ropes with renewed vigour.

He only stops when the footsteps come close, too close to ignore. He stays stock still, trying not to breathe too loud and then-

Relief floods him at that growl. He recognises it. No-one else sounds like that. No-one else would be able to tell!

"Maine?"

Wash's voice echoes out of the dark and Maine lets out a shaky breath of relief. Wash is okay. He was taken, but he's okay. They found him.

"Yeah," Maine grunts out, quickly moving forward. "And Brigitte," he adds, so that Wash won't be alarmed if he sees her. Last thing they need is for Wash to think that the woman is that clone-thing they defeated earlier.

Maine's device provides enough light that, when he tilts his hand, he's able to get a decent look at Wash. The other man looks like shit, but he's responsive and whole. It could be worse. Fuck, it could be so much worse.

Maine kneels down in front of his friend and reaches for the ropes. Touches them gently, one big hand briefly covering Wash's.

"Hold still," he says. Then he pulls the blood-encrusted knife from its place at his lower back so that he can cut through the bonds.

Edited 2019-04-15 03:19 (UTC)

Relief courses through him with the confirmation and he tries to work at the ropes more. Has to get out. Has to leave before anyone else comes in. He isn't going to put them in any more risk than they already are. Brigitte had no real connection to him either - he doesn't want her to get hurt because she was trying to help him!

The light makes his eyes sting and he squeezes his eyes shut. There's a flinch when Maine touches his wrists. It stings. Doesn't know how bad it is but from the pain... probably pretty bad. He does as Maine says and feels more than hears the soft sawing of the knife through the rope.

Finally the bonds loosen, and get picked away and Wash's arms fall to his sides. His arms are burning from being held in that position for so long and now they're waking up with the worst pins and needle sensation. "Thanks. I thought- Thank you."

Brigitte scans the rest of the cave while Maine works on the bonds, enough to verify that the other prisoners are alive and are being cut out of their own restraints. She doesn't know them, doesn't even recognise them; so as soon as she's certain that no further enemies are coming, her attention swings back to the two freelancers in front of her. By the anemic light of the wrist devices, they can see her mouth twitch into what she hopes is a reassuring smile. And relief -- relief twinges her chest, glad to see them reunited.

"Tack och pris," she mutters under her breath, an instinctive little burst of Swedish. Her hand grazes Wash's shoulder, the slightest careful pat before she pulls back.

"Are you okay to walk? Do you need any immediate medical attention?" Once again sounding like the battlefield medic she'd been, once: honing right down on practicalities. "I have some gauze if you need. I couldn't pack much else."

For once, he's not uncomfortable with that touch, and he gives Brigitte a relieved smile. It's good to see her. Good to see anyone. Someone came back for him and it's a little terrifying how much that means to him. His captivity hadn't been anything like his time locked up on the Project, but still... it was captivity and he is so grateful to them.

"I can walk," he says. "Just help me up." He's walked with worse injuries, he's just aching more than anything. The first moments of movements are usually the worst. He shakes his head when she asks. "It's just my wrists. I'd rather get out of here and take care of them later. Do- do you have any water?"

It's easy to see the way that Maine's jaw tightens when he catches sight of Wash's wrists. Easy to see the anger there. Not at Wash, but at the people who took him. At the people who tied him up and kept him captive. If it weren't for the immediate need to get Wash the hell out, Maine would likely track down and kill every fake villager he could find.

Bypassing Wash's hand, Maine reaches for his friend's forearm to clasp just below his elbow. That way, when Maine pulls the other man upright, it won't put any strain on Wash's wrist. As for walking? Maine trusts that Wash knows his own limits — but he'll be sticking close.

When Wash asks for water, Maine's lips twitch down at a corner. He'd left his container outside; he hadn't considered that Wash might need a drink right away. Rescue operations aren't the Freelancer's specialty by a long shot. He casts a quick glance around the cavern, eyes a canteen sitting against the opposite wall dubiously, then — deciding he doesn't trust it — shakes his head.

"Outside," he explains. But he looks to Brigitte, just in case she was able to carry hers alongside her equipment.

Catching Maine's glance, Brigitte reaches for her tool belt, pats it down looking for her supplies. She'd packed light for the unpredictable walk, but she'd taken some things, in the event that their people were injured: a roll of gauze, some antiseptic, a little bit of water to clean wounds. It isn't a large bottle, but it should be enough to wet his parched throat a bit and bring some relief. She hands it over, and tries to gauge Wash's condition as he moves. If he's limping, and how he carries himself. How badly they might have hurt him.

"Come on -- let's get out of here before any more of them show up." Who even knows how many clones they might have out there? Possibly unlimited. "I don't know about you, but I'm not looking forward to killing ourselves over and over," she says, ruefully. A little bitterly.

They throb, like he can feel his pulse running through them constantly. It's a little disconcerting but he doesn't think they're deep enough to worry. He's definitely had more serious injuries than this before.

He grabs hold of Maine's arm when it's offered and lets Maine do most of the work of pulling him up. His muscles scream at him for the change in position after so long spent with little movement. He wobbles precariously for a moment, feeling like all of the blood is shifting in his body. and leaving him light-headed. He keeps hold of Maine's arm for balance until it passes and then takes a step which mercifully lands and he doesn't keel over.

The water is taken with a grateful smile. He opens the bottle and has to force himself not to guzzle the whole thing. That doesn't usually end well, so he keeps it to small sips until he doesn't feel like his mouth is full of gravel. "Thanks," he says, and keeps clutching the bottle like it's some sort of lifeline.

"You..." he looks between them. "They're not right. Something's wrong with them."

Wash's unsteady state ensures that Maine sticks directly beside his friend. He doesn't continue holding on after Wash releases his arm, nor does he reach out to grasp Wash's shoulder in support. He just lingers, ready to catch Wash if it looks like the other man is going to fall. And that's where he'll stay whenever Wash feels prepared to move out.

Maine gives Brigitte a grim nod. Even knowing that the copy wasn't Brigitte, seeing it had still been … disorienting, to say the least. And Maine doesn't relish the possibility of meeting a copy of himself. Not because it would be more challenging to fight on an emotional level, but because Maine knows how hard it is to keep him down. He doesn't want his own near-inhuman endurance to be turned against his friends.

"Copies," Maine tells Wash. "Maybe flash clones."

It's illegal to clone an entire human in such a way, but this isn't their universe. And really, since when have laws stopped anything? The technology exists; the "Observers," or whatever is responsible, might be using it.

"Met Brigitte's," he adds. Then, dryly: "Not nice."

“She really wasn’t,” Brigitte sighs. They’re going to have to pass those corpses on their way back out, too, retracing their steps to find the exit. She’s already determined to not look too closely as they walk past them; she has no interest in seeing that familiar blood-smeared face again, the brown hair matted and unkempt.

Instinctively, Brig moves to Wash’s other side, the one that Maine isn’t covering. She slings her mace aside and swaps it back out for her shield again; a solid wall, a barrier between their weakened comrade and anything that might come at him from this angle.

And she starts moving, leading the way back out. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Do you feel okay?” she asks. “Did they do anything to you?” Because god knows what bizarre experiments might be going on here; she’s heard about the bunker, the blood vials.

He grimaces at the mention of flash clones. He can believe that. There was something off about them right from the start. Something off to one side of human.

He looks between them when they mention Brigitte's clone. "Have you got one Maine?" He really doesn't want to meet a clone of Maine. He's already fought the Meta and came out the worse for it both times. In his current state he knows he would have little chance against the other Freelancer, especially not if they had his skillset.

It feels more secure having them on either side of him and he's painfully grateful for it, even if that's embarrassing to admit to himself. How long has he spent trying to get by on his own? And he can if he needs to, but nothing will ever feel as good and secure as having a team to watch his six.

"I'm bruised and sore, but I'm fine. I think. Don't remember anything weird, but I can't say I've been conscious the whole time."

Although he'd like to give a definitive answer, Maine can't be sure that there isn't a clone of him lurking somewhere in these tunnels. Can't be sure that they won't round the next bend and find the path ahead filled with his own bulk. Even if it's as feral and seemingly mindless as those other clones had been, it would still be a threat. It would still have the body that Maine has transformed into a formidable weapon.

The massive man presses his lips together as he shrugs, then he shakes his head. He doesn't know if he has a clone. He hopes that he doesn't. Not for his own sake, but for Wash and Brigitte's.

Maine falls back slightly behind Wash, watching the backs of his two allies. He raises his hand and angles his wrist so that his device's light illuminates the path ahead of Brigitte — as well as it can, at least. It's as he does so that Maine realizes something strange. Something that he didn't see when he cut the ropes from Wash's hands.

"Wristband?" he asks Wash. Does the other man have it?

That isn't reassuring. Wash sighs and leans against Maine's side, closing his eyes for a moment. "Shit. Guess I'll just keep my fingers crossed."

Because if it comes to a fight with Maine, he's not in any fit state to hold his own. Even before the Meta, Maine had been a hard fight, and up close and personal was not Wash's forte when it came to combat. And he was injured and exhausted. Yeah, that would not go well.

But he has to keep going. He's not going to die here.

He starts walking, keeping a close eye on both of them as much as he can. Doesn't want to lose sight of them in case they vanish, in case they're replaced, in case they turn out to be not real and it's just been Wash's mind playing tricks on him.

He pauses when Maine speaks, and he glances back at him. "Uh- it's-" He looks down at his wrist. His bare wrist. Checks the other one just in case he's somehow missed it. But it's not there either. "I don't know where it is."

Her gaze follows the movement of Wash's wrist, looking for the tell-tale bulk of his wristband, the shape of the device. Nothing. Her mouth twists, considering. What did it mean that it was gone? Seifer had lost his long ago. Did their opponents... want them for some reason?

"There are worse things they could've done, I guess," she says, but it's clear from her hesitant voice that she's not even sure what they've lost. What the repercussions are. She hates not understanding the context or stakes of an engagement.

She glances back down the passageway to where Wash was being kept, for a moment considering if she should run back to look for it. But no. The most important thing is a living, breathing body, and getting him out.

"We can deal with that later. Let's just get back outside and to the rest of the group." Her tone has firmed up, regaining the solidity (her father would call it stubbornness) of having made a decision. Then a moment later, further explanation follows, so Wash won't be caught off-guard: "A few others came with us for the rescue. Seifer, Anne, Steph, Tim, Diego-- I don't know if you know any of them."

Worse things, indeed. Still, a faintly troubled expression passes over Maine's face. Why would the clones want a wristband, of all things? And how the hell did they even get it off? Maine's tried taking his own off before. Suspects that he might have to remove his hand in order to do it.

Unbidden, a sick shiver runs up Maine's spine as he thinks of what Wash's captors could have done. Then he forcibly drags his thoughts away from that possibility. It didn't happen. Wash is going to be fine. He and Brigitte will make damn sure of that.

When Brigitte speaks so decisively, Maine is reminded again of Carolina. He nods and keeps moving, stretching his enhanced senses out as best he can so that no one (and nothing) can sneak up on them.

He can smell blood up ahead. Must be the dead clones.

"Yes, please," Wash says with some vehemence. He doesn't care about the stupid wristband right now. He just wants to not be here anymore. He wants to see the outside.

He shakes his head at the question. "Didn't exactly have much time to chat."

Even if chatting was something that he was generally inclined to do. He's even less likely to do it in a hostage situation.

He starts to walk, determined to leave even if everyone else wants to poke around. This whole situation has been unsettling in the extreme.

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ghost in the machine, pt. two | rescue mingle

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