View source for 2023-02-12: Traumatic Synergy

*'''Cutscene:''' Traumatic Synergy
*'''Cast:''' [[Character :: Leina Ashta]]
*'''Where:''' A Vist Facility
*'''Date:''' 2023-02-12
*'''Summary''': ''A captive.  An experiment.  Old trauma becomes new again.''
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[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Phase 1, Turn 3]]

That moment of waking, that transition from insensate to awake.  In this liminal space, awareness comes slowly, the sterile scent comes first, then the sound of a creaky unoiled wheel, the feeling of movement.

And then the lights overhead.  In even spacing, a rhythm of light to dark to light again, she can’t help but watch.  Trying to move her head resulted in her neck not moving very far, nor her wrists or ankles.  The feeling of thin fabric the only thing between her skin and the rest of the world, like a hospital gown.

It takes a moment for it to dawn on her what the most logical conclusion this might be as she rasps out shrilly in utter panic, “NO!  NO!  OH GOD PLEASE!  DON’T DO THIS TO ME!  PLEASE DON’T!” It’s easy to imagine several dozen countless horrible places she could be right now.

“Oh, do shut up.” Came the voice of a middle-aged woman, “Stop your sniveling.  This is all on you, the natural consequences of your actions.” While another man tells her sympathetically, “We’re not going to kill you.  We’re-” “Alberto.” The other voice warns.

Her eyes water, the movement doesn’t abate, the lights continue in that rhythm of light to dark to light again under the blur in her eyes. “Would that make you Martha Vist Carbine?” Leina whispers, fighting back against the chemical induced fog in her brain, “Good guess.  You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?  I suppose you would have to be after someone like Doctor Mass raised you.”

She still can’t move her neck enough to see them, light to dark, light to dark, that rhythm continued, as the rhythm was only broken up just slightly as they pushed through double doors. “My brother will…  he’ll come for me.  You have no idea what lengths he'll go to to get me back-“ And all the praise left Martha’s voice in an instant as it turned to disgust, “I take back everything I just said.  I would have thought your time as Glemy Toto’s pet doll would have taught you the proper lessons about turning to a man first to save you.  Apparently, you are much duller than I thought.  Acting as if you were some fairy tale princess in this position.  Sickening.  It’s time for you to face reality, Ms. Ashta.”

Leina found herself shocked speechless, about being lectured on this by someone like Martha Vist Carbine, a war profiteer, but she found herself still fighting against the fog in her brain, the rhythm of light to dark to light again.

This time the rhythm was broken up by a left turn through another set of double doors and then just dark, turned to all light, as the lights flared on in sequence, causing her to squint her eyes against the horrible glare. “We’re here.  Raise the head of the stretcher and let her see our pet ‘project’.”

The head of the stretcher raised, and now she could see the face of the middle aged Martha Carbine Vist, the stout form of Alberto, Leina gasped immediately, her voice sotto voce with horror, “What…  have you done?” Alberto cleared his throat, and looked proud, “Why we salvaged it, of course. The mobile suit is nothing special of course, we have a dozen mothballed in storage, but it is still a fascinating piece for reasons besides. The Psycommu system while far cruder than the modern Psycoframe does have some interesting features for our purposes, name-“

As he lectured on the technical aspects, the glare of the light contrasted with the swelling darkness that felt as if it were calling to her.  Her breathing started to quicken, pupils dilating.  She was a child on a beach again, being lured away from all help, fading from this world.  Someone without a face reaches for her, she knows who it is.  Her breathing became agonal in how it struggled fought for even the smallest mote of air of air within her lungs, her expression locked in this horrible moment of diaphoretic agony.  When she had just enough air, she tried to scream-

-and even that was cut off by the phantom sensation of cold metal against her throat, before everything in the brightly lit room grew dark.