02-08-2020, 05:41 PM
Pain.
The broadcast, his broadcast, ended. The connection cut to the hundreds of thousands of screens, accumulations of plastic, metal, and electricity feeding information into the brain through the visual cortex. It had been intoxicating while it lasted. Empowering, and intoxicating, and intimidating.
But now it was just pain. The Devil Box stumbled out of his chair, his hands holding the sides of his helmet. It was an act of tremendous will not to vomit, as the blood began to trickle from his nose and eyes, and his own brain revolted against the forces flowing through it, like an overclocked computer.
The helmet, his mask, left him blind and deaf by design. The factory standard senses were a liability when he was connected, especially when he was connected like he'd just been. He'd let the whole city in, and it had been worth it, but now the balance was due.
He took the helmet off, and threw it to the ground. It skidded across the floor and collided with the frame of his cot, making a harsh noise. It was enough to push him over.
Grasping his ears, his initial scream gave way to a choking gurgle as he emptied his stomach on the metal floor. His head was screaming too, a flood of connections being forged and then severed, information seeping into and then tearing out of his brain, a spasmodic orgy of noise with no signal to redeem it.
The Devil Box fell to one side and lay on the floor. He opened his eyes, and through the pain and insistent clench in his stomach, through the wave of phantom sensations, silk on his hands, and sharp needles stabbing into the back of his legs, through it all came a single, resigned thought.
I'm blind this time.
There wasn't anything to do for it. The...aftereffects of his abilities were unpredictable, excepting the pain and sensory overload. Partial paralysis, seizures, aphasia; he'd catalogued a range of neurological conditions thus far.
Worth it. It'll wear off, and I can wait out the pain. And I'm getting better at it.
Almost as if to prove it to himself, Devil Box crawled to the helmet and pulled it back over his head. What little there was to hear in his hideout was cut off, but only for a moment as he connected to the hideout itself. Vision, of a sort, returned to him. The walls and ceiling of his lair were littered with cameras, flat-screen TV's and monitors, and he could see and project through them all. With the knowledge, the understanding he had now he'd wired the place up until he could inhabit it like a body. Nothing could hide from him.
But the intruder hadn't bothered to hide. The Devil Box started, turning reflexively to face the red-suited stranger standing across the room from him, even though his meat-eyes were useless at present. Whoever they were, they were definitely another super, done up like some kind of cyberpunk cowboy, a dark red duster hiding the clearly advanced body armor and weaponry he could at least sense if not effect. It was powerful tech, but the most he could do was try and activate the self destruct feature on the cowboy's energy weapons.
But that'd kill them. Better idea.
SQUIDDIES. UP AND AT' 'EM.
The command went out, and without a moment's hesitation, the cleverly hidden hatches he'd built into the floor flipped open and some of his more...ambulatory creations presented themselves.
The cowboy didn't flinch, or do anything to acknowledge the mechanical horrors rapidly encircling them.
"Hey Zachariah," they said, the voice slightly distorted by their helmet. They raised empty hands in the air, still paying no attention to the squids.
SQUIDDIES. HOLD.
Opening the connections up further in the lair, the Devil Box...Zachariah brought the screens to life, throwing up the first thing that came to mind. Peter Finch, in full swing, exhorting America to throw open windows and shout into the uncaring streets, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"
But instead of ranting, the aged actor glared down at the cowboy.
"Who are you, and how do you know my name?"
"The name's Desperado Red. And I know a lot about a little, and a little about a lot. I know who you are, I know what's happened to you, what you intend, and most importantly, what it's doing to you. And I've come to help, and ask for help."
This is the guy who shot up Southside a few weeks back. The one with the robot horse.
Zachariah put out feelers, opening his mind again to the world beyond him, demanding information on the figure before him.
Not much came back.
"...what do you want?"
"Help with a problem. But don't worry. I'm not gonna ask you to do anything against your morals. I know your story, partner. How lonely you are, how much you've been hurting. I want to help. You want to set everyone free. So do I."
Through the eyes of his lair, Zachariah stared at Desperado Red. Peter Finch got up, arms raised, rain and sweat soaked and approached the camera. But instead of saying the lines from Network, he simply said,
"Okay. Keep talking. What's the plan?"
The squids cautiously began to retreat back below the floor. Taking a few confident steps forward, they extended a hand to help Zachariah to his feet.
"Well, there's a lot to tell you first. But step one...I think we're gonna need some more friends."
The broadcast, his broadcast, ended. The connection cut to the hundreds of thousands of screens, accumulations of plastic, metal, and electricity feeding information into the brain through the visual cortex. It had been intoxicating while it lasted. Empowering, and intoxicating, and intimidating.
But now it was just pain. The Devil Box stumbled out of his chair, his hands holding the sides of his helmet. It was an act of tremendous will not to vomit, as the blood began to trickle from his nose and eyes, and his own brain revolted against the forces flowing through it, like an overclocked computer.
The helmet, his mask, left him blind and deaf by design. The factory standard senses were a liability when he was connected, especially when he was connected like he'd just been. He'd let the whole city in, and it had been worth it, but now the balance was due.
He took the helmet off, and threw it to the ground. It skidded across the floor and collided with the frame of his cot, making a harsh noise. It was enough to push him over.
Grasping his ears, his initial scream gave way to a choking gurgle as he emptied his stomach on the metal floor. His head was screaming too, a flood of connections being forged and then severed, information seeping into and then tearing out of his brain, a spasmodic orgy of noise with no signal to redeem it.
The Devil Box fell to one side and lay on the floor. He opened his eyes, and through the pain and insistent clench in his stomach, through the wave of phantom sensations, silk on his hands, and sharp needles stabbing into the back of his legs, through it all came a single, resigned thought.
I'm blind this time.
There wasn't anything to do for it. The...aftereffects of his abilities were unpredictable, excepting the pain and sensory overload. Partial paralysis, seizures, aphasia; he'd catalogued a range of neurological conditions thus far.
Worth it. It'll wear off, and I can wait out the pain. And I'm getting better at it.
Almost as if to prove it to himself, Devil Box crawled to the helmet and pulled it back over his head. What little there was to hear in his hideout was cut off, but only for a moment as he connected to the hideout itself. Vision, of a sort, returned to him. The walls and ceiling of his lair were littered with cameras, flat-screen TV's and monitors, and he could see and project through them all. With the knowledge, the understanding he had now he'd wired the place up until he could inhabit it like a body. Nothing could hide from him.
But the intruder hadn't bothered to hide. The Devil Box started, turning reflexively to face the red-suited stranger standing across the room from him, even though his meat-eyes were useless at present. Whoever they were, they were definitely another super, done up like some kind of cyberpunk cowboy, a dark red duster hiding the clearly advanced body armor and weaponry he could at least sense if not effect. It was powerful tech, but the most he could do was try and activate the self destruct feature on the cowboy's energy weapons.
But that'd kill them. Better idea.
SQUIDDIES. UP AND AT' 'EM.
The command went out, and without a moment's hesitation, the cleverly hidden hatches he'd built into the floor flipped open and some of his more...ambulatory creations presented themselves.
The cowboy didn't flinch, or do anything to acknowledge the mechanical horrors rapidly encircling them.
"Hey Zachariah," they said, the voice slightly distorted by their helmet. They raised empty hands in the air, still paying no attention to the squids.
SQUIDDIES. HOLD.
Opening the connections up further in the lair, the Devil Box...Zachariah brought the screens to life, throwing up the first thing that came to mind. Peter Finch, in full swing, exhorting America to throw open windows and shout into the uncaring streets, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"
But instead of ranting, the aged actor glared down at the cowboy.
"Who are you, and how do you know my name?"
"The name's Desperado Red. And I know a lot about a little, and a little about a lot. I know who you are, I know what's happened to you, what you intend, and most importantly, what it's doing to you. And I've come to help, and ask for help."
This is the guy who shot up Southside a few weeks back. The one with the robot horse.
Zachariah put out feelers, opening his mind again to the world beyond him, demanding information on the figure before him.
Not much came back.
"...what do you want?"
"Help with a problem. But don't worry. I'm not gonna ask you to do anything against your morals. I know your story, partner. How lonely you are, how much you've been hurting. I want to help. You want to set everyone free. So do I."
Through the eyes of his lair, Zachariah stared at Desperado Red. Peter Finch got up, arms raised, rain and sweat soaked and approached the camera. But instead of saying the lines from Network, he simply said,
"Okay. Keep talking. What's the plan?"
The squids cautiously began to retreat back below the floor. Taking a few confident steps forward, they extended a hand to help Zachariah to his feet.
"Well, there's a lot to tell you first. But step one...I think we're gonna need some more friends."