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<mp3>INTIALIZE.mp3|download</mp3> | |||
The Owl King sits impatiently tapping a pencil on his desk and gritting his razor sharp, bone-white teeth. He stands and moves to the front of his [[Executives|executive]]-style desk; looking out the window down at the "crops". "Managing the old farm can grow tiresome." he thinks about the overgrown remains of the Northwestern Airship Co.'s former landing grounds. Some of the old bunkers house the most violent of their patients/crops now. Off-limit areas where the ones who've not taken to being transmuted into horrific Daemons or Robots in the Ghost-light planes now wither their shattered limbs in self-created nervous system cess pools on the farm. | The Owl King sits impatiently tapping a pencil on his desk and gritting his razor sharp, bone-white teeth. He stands and moves to the front of his [[Executives|executive]]-style desk; looking out the window down at the "crops". "Managing the old farm can grow tiresome." he thinks about the overgrown remains of the Northwestern Airship Co.'s former landing grounds. Some of the old bunkers house the most violent of their patients/crops now. Off-limit areas where the ones who've not taken to being transmuted into horrific Daemons or Robots in the Ghost-light planes now wither their shattered limbs in self-created nervous system cess pools on the farm. | ||
⤓ The Owl King sits impatiently tapping a pencil on his desk and gritting his razor sharp, bone-white teeth. He stands and moves to the front of his executive-style desk; looking out the window down at the "crops". "Managing the old farm can grow tiresome." he thinks about the overgrown remains of the Northwestern Airship Co.'s former landing grounds. Some of the old bunkers house the most violent of their patients/crops now. Off-limit areas where the ones who've not taken to being transmuted into horrific Daemons or Robots in the Ghost-light planes now wither their shattered limbs in self-created nervous system cess pools on the farm.
If you approached this Lenisker operation as any 3rd party spectator you might get the impression it was a nuthouse with a few violent cases at worst. Underneath what it really boiled down to was augmented-human battles arranged for higher sentience entertainment and genetic research. Like the alien equivalent of dog fights doubling as a source of lab rats.
Jimmy wakes up in a dimly lit room - the furnishings are quite minimal, a bed, a sink, no mirror. He can't seem to recall - had The Collector dragged him here? Last he could recall, he was wandering around the Kingdom Within.
"Time for your first session" laughs a built, bald orderly from the slit in the door. A clang of the lock turning, and the figure is cast in silhouette as the door slowly creeks open. The man is tapping a vicious looking club against his left hand.
Several hours seem to go by that Jimmy can't recall. Dr. B. sits smiling at him upon awakening, "I'm overseeing your case personally, Jimmy." Ol' Jimmy-B can't seem to move his arms very well, a serious lack of vitality he associates with DOR-exposure. He lays there helplessly for a bit lost in strange imagery of alien cocoon flesh ripping in metamorphosis, onxy claws, gnarling grins with thousands of bloody teeth. "What the fuck just happened...." he thinks. "Time for your group art-rehabilitation." B. interrupts his thought before nodding to the guards to lead him off.
Jimmy-B's scribbling somewhat crude but elaborate drawings on his page with the crayons, colored pencils and ink pens they've provided. Comic book style depictions of horrific mutations. Some horrible zombie self is the first panel. It shortly thereafter degrades into splashes of grotesque and bloody chimeric slaughter. His pictures seem to draw themselves in perfect fashion, almost as though they develop on the page through unseen guidance of his hand.
He looks to his right and laughs at the glitchy-circuitry some of the other patients are operating on as they go into waves of half-retarded, seemingly epileptic fits and tantrums. Smacking the table, rolling around, speaking gibberish while drooling and starring off into space. What the fuck is this place? Had he gotten here from the Underground Bee hives? He can still hear some low rumbling sound underneath the complex that he first became aware of when being lead to Dr. B.'s office. It's starting to wear on him - "I could really use a cigarette about now..." he thinks awkwardly applying texture to his pictures with his thumbs and ink. The textures seem to morph in black expanse, depicting some intangible energetic lines of malice. Looking over at his neighbor in a stupor he says "You too, buddy?"
The evil mistress of this therapy session cast a sharp glare at him, the guards seem to respond almost telepathically, inching their way towards him and crumbling up his latest drawing. "Tell them what happens to the disobedient, Johnny?" says the burlier of the two. A young man behind Jimmy, covered in odd sores about his body repeats in a stuttering fashion the phrase: "Rip your fucking skin-off." as thought it were a mantra he was well acquainted with. He keeps looping the words into an ever decreasing volume, syllables more broken with each utterance. The guards both smile a sick, empty grin. The sun is setting outside the window behind them.
Truth is, it seems this operation has been running for a while under the supervision of Mi-go modified Brantleys. There was also some involvement of peculiar assets it seems Shaun Brantley (III)himself may have provided access rights to. Jimmy doesn't know this though. All he knows is this place is bad news, he tries to scan his memory for the bandwidths for distress transmission to OC and other depts but can't seem to focus or recall. It wouldn't matter anyway, the whole damned place is blanketed in signal jamming EMF.
The next day, the patients are wandering around outside in fields of short, dying grass. The sun seems fake. "A machine hidden behind the solar reflections," he can't help but think.