Blooming into sword steel
Pertains to the transformation of human to warframe
Content Warnings: Persuasive interrogation (torture), IV injection of infestation, painful transformation, body horror/physical trauma, mouth and eye trauma, mental deterioration
The rattle of shackles signals his consciousness as the overhead lights bloom, surging in electric hums as the door opposite to him slips closed – their status lights beaming red. Locked. There's nothing between him and the administer … a cheeky name given to those presiding over interrogations. In the rattle of sturdy metal Trey tests his restraints; but for what end? The golden cuffs chafe around his wrists, spurs digging into his exposed paled skin trembling in the coercing cold. Where he once wore a uniform, he lies bared – saved only by raggedy pants stained by blood.
"Are you ready to talk, 20964?" The hooded figure smirks beneath the fabric hiding their eyes – their features twisted by augmentation and golden orokin gilding chest down. A hand gestures over towards a side wall as they sit within a seat across from him – sitting beside vials of inky red fluid in tear-drop containers.
He struggles again, pulling his throat against the restraint forcing his upper body flat against the grating sensation against his spine – hissing as fragments of memories kick in. Blood still oozes from a dent in his forehead, a pain blinding his memory as he hopelessly seeks relief. "Why would I?" He growls, settling back into the pain digging into his spine – centering at the base of his neck.
"You see," the other starts, heaving themselves to sit comfortably in their cushioned chair, their brilliant robes draping ever so elegantly over the delicate carved arm rests, swaying on a soundless swivel. "You got yourself in quite the predicament, 20964."
"It's Trey," he hisses, pain-squinting eyes darting around the room – no escape. A sealed room with only one exit behind the Orokin Administer.
"That name does not matter," their blue-toned lips curl, brilliant against their gently greyed skin. "All traces have been scrubbed from the manifests."
Within the debilitating chair, Trey still searches, grazing over the pre-scratched edges of the well-worn seat – shards prodding into his sides and back. Damages baring hints at the results of others put within the same chair, of wounds that pooled beneath the grinding swivel locking him into place and staring at the Administer and their daunting array of devices.
And Trey says nothing, throwing his head to the side to merely brush hair from his eyes.
Defiant.
The Administer stares, a sigh, rising themselves to a height modified for grand statue, to impose dominance over those to be interrogated for crimes against the Orokin empire. A smirk crosses their features, a grin twisted by re-arranged teeth to be hauntingly flawless and gleaming. They take Trey's chin in their gilded hand – enrapturing and sharp it presses at his shivering skin, cold metal slicing a bead of blood from his throat. "Poor little smuggler, you don't even exist anymore;" they start, their once covered eyes gleaming from beneath the brilliantly embroidered hood, "you're nothing."
In an attempt to snap his head away the metal slices him again, letting blood drip down his captive throat. Trey growls, glaring at the imposing Administer as they stand at their full height and push the chair backwards – his feet dangling from the floor. Helpless. "I don't care, Orokin." And the chair snaps back, causing him to gag and choke, straining to hold himself as the interrogator returns to their comfortable chair.
"I don't think that sentiment will last long," they smile beneath their hood, drawing one of the vials from their side table. "Do you know what this is?"
"I don't care," the former courier hisses between choking coughs, knuckles straining against the rough edges of his chair.
"I have – excellent – knowledge, that you do, 20964," they dance it between their palms, drawing up a transparent manifest salvaged from the wipe. "You know about the gardens; you personally delivered these canisters yourself under our behest."
It was true… carrying the canisters to drop points around malnourished colonies, told that they'd make the population flourish. An order from Executor Ballas to deliver to the so far neglected outposts that he was already supplying with aid he could manage around the system. Their weight, ever so heavy as the Administer balances them carelessly between their palms.
Matter made to transform, give new life to the poor and neglected … was about as correct the material was described as. It did transform matter it contacted, given the downtrodden people beneath the Orokin Empire new life… They flourished together, a conglomerate of flesh and blood oozing and chiding in a mass of organs and tissue, blooming in sickly flora on his return.
In his hands, a small case of stagnant nutrients to help the colony in their spiritual ceremony, a clawing in his chest as a town lies twisted in an ill mass amongst dilapidated buildings torn to shreds. Cloth lingering stained with the blood of a massacre and the oozing flora lingering and stinging the air with miasma. A scent digging through his inflight respirator as he stands beneath his courier ship – the makeshift basket dropped at his feet….
"I don't recall," Trey bites his lip as the pain in his spine surges, shoulders seizing as it sparks between and aches against the scratching knobs at his back. "I only delivered things; I can never recall which I delivered where. Scan and drop, that's what I did."
"I hear what you are saying," they sigh, pulling up the tube digging into Trey's inner elbow. It makes him hiss, the inserted needle affixed into place by spires. "But there's no reason to believe someone that doesn't exist anymore, isn't it?" Trey's eyes spark with fear as the Administer slide the canister open, easing the ill sack into their palm and inserting the spout end into the drip.
"I heard Ballas' gardens were magnificent," they chide, sitting back as their hands knead the ill fluid down the tube. There's only a gentle sway as Trey tries to pull away, yet he's kept firmly in place by wrist and neck, fighting against the chilling cold restraints in desperation. "They make for such fine experiment grounds, those colonies. We have to at least thank you for the service of keeping them alive for so long," they laugh, tilting their brilliant golden sight as the courier writhes in pain, veins engorging with the sickly fluid oozing into his veins.
"You know how hard it was to remove someone as hard working as you from the manifests?" the Administer scolds, pushing the agonizing fluid to swarm into Trey's veins, kneading another agonized choked cry from Trey. It blooms through his nerves, overloading his senses as it burns through his elbow and shoulder, fingers digging against the arm rest as he tries to pull away from the pain – much to the Administer's amusement. "You were instrumental to so many tests on our subordinate populous; why now do you choose to rebel when we're in the middle of a war?"
Teeth gnashing, breath heaving as his veins strain to absorb the virus that begins to course through him; it's too much, he wheezes, head thrown back as it crawls through his heart and chest. It swarms through him in a torrent of unassuming agony, like daggers tracing through each individual nerve ending, sparking him into silence as the Administer's words fall onto ears made deaf – the pain is too much.
There's no solace for him as the bag drains, his nerves crawling with microscopic prickles of pain, jolting him aware and agonized as his eyes remain shut. A hand cups his face downwards, forcing him to stare at his tormenter with a stern glare. "I'm not telling you anything," he hisses, coughing as his throat tightens up in pain. And, to his defiance, their dagger sharp nail digs into his heaving stomach, cutting into his gut.
"You -will- talk, 20964, but I'm certain that you've already made your choice at the start," they sigh, yanking his insides towards them, making him agonize and writhe. "That fluid, is not the same as what you delivered," they grin beneath the hallowing hood, "it was specially crafted by dear executor Ballas' command. You're not suited to become a blooming garden… at least not yet." And they release his side, letting Trey ache and strain, blood dripping over his pants as he heaves.
"You Orokin, are tyrants," Trey snarls, trying his best to itch the crawling beneath his skin, the agony sparking in every muscular movement as he tries to find an unyielding comfort. "I know how you fucks operate," he growls, hissing as he arches from the crawling inside his veins. "Everything is just paneling for the next greatness, even you –" and he bites his tongue as pain surges through his stomach – a blade sticking out of his middle where it's been jammed into his guts.
"Shut your mouth," sternly states the administer, twisting the knife with a self-assuring twitch. "There's nothing left for you to achieve, traitor. This fluid," they motion to the other five canisters, filled with the same illing liquid that churns Trey's stomach – though he can't feel it as much with a knife twisted inside his guts. His legs contort below him as he tries to kick the Administer away, faltering as their armor is flawlessly sleek, bare feet sliding from it as he's pushed back once more.
And he shutters as the chair falls forward again, gasping as blood pours from the stab wound over his pants – overlapping the other soak stains that decorate it. The blade glides against his arm, smearing his blood against his skin, removing it completely from the blade as the Administer returns to their comfortable chair, letting it lie against their robe as they pop another bag from a canister. "The coordinates of the suppliers, where are they?"
"I'm not telling," Trey gasps, watching as the fluid begins to ooze through the IV again.
"Who are your contacts, to smuggle the weapons from?"
"I'm not telling," Trey writhes, feet and hands twisting as the burning fluid courses through his nerves.
"The location; the weapon storage," where is it?"
"Fuck you," Trey hisses, aching as his nerves are alight again by the jagged feeling, his veins bulging as the infested fluid coats through his body, drawing him to gasp as it strikes through his heart and the pain contorts. He growls as the pain surges through his organs, hammering in his throat, burning through his cortex and making him queasy.
And he throws up, choking against the restraint around his neck, throat burning as any meal he once had spreads down over his bleeding gut and stained pants. It's never-the-less another result of the agonizing pain, his eyes squeezing shut as he contorts, legs pushing against the floor as his blood begins to fizzle, sparking his nerves again senseless as his thoughts go blank.
There's nothing but pain. Jagged and stabbing as he can only endure it as sickly fluid drips against his skin – his blood and sick making him queasy yet again as the pungent smell festers.
The Administer continues to sit there, kneading the fluid into his veins, staring and bored.
He doesn't wait for the initial pain to subside as the bag runs empty.
"I will ask again; where did you get the weapons?"
"I said," Trey gasps, choking as his stomach rolls over – at least it felt like it did, "fuck. You."
They sigh from where they sat, picking up another canister. "You know, this is disappointing. You had such promise," they chide, turning their frown towards him. "But you had to go and get soft; now did you?"
Trey only glares back, breath huffing as he tries to restrain himself in the restraints.
"Why don't you explain to me, what you think this might do?" And Trey at first says nothing, only glaring, "come on, don't be shy." And pops the third bag of viral liquid into the IV connector.
"Another Orokin bioweapon," is all Trey curses, spitting in the Administer's general direction. "Go ahead and turn me into a pile of goo; I'm not saying anything."
"Oh, this won't turn you into a pile of goo," they grin, gently squeezing the bag of fluid to rush into Trey's veins. "You'll become a tool once more, a frame for war under Orokin control." And Trey's teeth grit, features twisted as the matter plunges through his veins, writhing as veins burst from the overloading fluids. "You will not think for yourself anymore… what was your name again?"
Trey's unable to speak, his voice cracking as his organs begin to puddle in his abdomen, sickly grey fluid gushing from the stab wound in his gut.
"Oh, that's right. You don't have a name!" They laugh, "You're nothing! But, at least you will still be of use," they smile, pushing the bag against their knee, pushing the fluid through the straining IV. "But, there is still time to say where you got the weapons from, 20964. Fess up, and I'll end your suffering."
Barely conscious, swarmed in agony, Trey grits his teeth, staring down beneath his sweat coated bangs.
"FUCK. YOU."
The Administer frowns. "So be it, then," picking up their knife. "That was your final choice; either to 'volunteer' or not. You were a good pilot, it's sad to see you come to this."
A bold-faced lie.
Trey's helpless as they grab his jaw, forcing his head backwards as the knife spreads his mouth wider – tears dripping over his slopping teeth as his muscles slop beneath his control.
As he stares up – the Administer's eyes are glowing, "open wide."
And he can't fight it, helpless as his jaw trembles wide, his cheeks split and bleeding.
The blade dances beneath his tongue, jamming itself between his teeth and throat as it cuts and slices – eyes watering closed as the pain in his mouth is nothing to the fizzling in his gut.
There's a flop against his lap; his mouth bleeding no matter how much he tries … he can't spit, only able to drool as his head hangs lull.
Saliva and blood oozes over the restraints, dripping over hands trying to cradle his head steady as the blade dances further up his face.
And prods against his eyes.
Noise is nothing as fluid drips down his cheeks – eyelids sagging as objects once holding them sink into their sockets empty of fluid.
"Fak oou," he whimpers, trembling beneath the resurging pain.
Nothing.
He can see nothing.
His eyes are fucking gone.
Hands knead against the arm rests as he hears the Administer step away, their knife sliding again against his bare arms as they mumble beneath their breath.
"Now I've gone and gotten my robes dirty," they complain, tinkering with objects on their side table.
Another bag, is all he can figure, listening to them fumble, ready for the agonizing rush through his liquidating veins.
Again, it hits like a hammer, feeling his body contort under the viral bombardment, senses twisting as he can only dripple whatever is left in his gut. Writhing, agonizing, he can feel his body go numb and burning, kicking against the floor as tries to push it all away – useless. "Try all you might," the Administer musters, "but you made your choice."
His body…. He can't feel his body as he tries to twist in the restraints, until his bones begin to snap.
Then it's nothing but gargling screams, haplessly struggling as bones snap like twigs, skin stretching and tearing as the infestation takes his flesh as its own. Inside his elbow he can feel the fluid oozing again – was it the final bag? He's uncertain as all he can feel is unrelenting pain, blooming him jagged and anxious, burning for any solace, any peace as he can hear his body contort in putty metamorphosis. He can feel the Administer's presence – they're just watching him, watching him suffer.
Watching his body blooming hollow and angry, what remains of his voice gagging and twisting, agonizing as it turns from whimpering cries to guttural growls – his mine reading blank as all can be felt is the unbridled pain. What did he do to deserve this? He can't even remember – not like he was in any state to as he pulls against the restraints, struggling as the other voice just laughs.
How Orokin of them.
How very Orokin.
And it echoes in his mind as his body shells itself, snapping the restraints, hands digging through soft and malleable.
How very Orokin they taste.
Metallic. Bitter.
Claws, sharp and jagged, dig into fabric and jaw, scooping through fragmenting skull bones as his back cracks and bones snap into place. Its not done, he can feel as the pain corrodes through his spine, reaching back for the shape embedded at the base of his neck. Yet all is found is skin, skin twisting under his transformation as all his mind can bend is to pain, the suffering, the anger boiling through his gut as his claws dig through the flesh of Orokin tyranny.
But were they really Orokin?
It doesn't matter, his senseless mind concludes, engorging himself on their face, tearing through their chest rending their fabric.
Anger.
Rage festers through him as he yanks through the bones, picking through the remains.
He's so hungry.
And plucks through their flesh, peeling strips from the bones before biting through to the marrow.
His stomach aches, burdened and yet…
So hollow and empty.
It festers inside him as he picks through the messy fabric, frantic as he picks through the devices laid upon the table beside the chair – no flesh to eat.
It collides with the side wall, crashing as he snaps himself around the room for a means to escape, to feed the burning starvation inside his gut. Claws find nothing against the sleek walls, scratching helplessly as he's left blind, driven by instinct to eat – escape, escape from here.
His mind rings silent as he digs against the structure, finding the door and wailing, screaming to be let out.
But there's nothing.
And pacing doesn't help – as his legs wobble beneath him, crawling and scratching as he incircles the room, jumping towards the lighting fixture for any crack – and nothing.
There's nothing to eat, his mind fines folly, his only sense of direction being a mental map, the sound of things clattering on his body as it finally begins to settle around a mind ringing null.
Where is he… his mind slurs, only a figment of wording as senses run recesses, looping in confusion as he tries anything, biting through the fabric remains of a body left with him.
And there's no questions where he is.
No quandary about what happened, as his stomach aches for food.
Not even as a pressure tightens around his chest, squeezing his arms against his side, struggling to fight free of sudden captivity. His voice neither cries or asks, only screeches and growls, mind numb to the noises around him, the banter he's unable to concentrate on. The conversation about him as he's held in restraints and lashes out with a serrating mouth – snarling like a mad beast.
"There's nothing left in this one," a voice sighs, forcing weight down onto a dark tan back while avoiding the curled horns lashing back. "What a fucking idiot, locking himself up while administering the serum," and barely prevents the freshly metamorphized warframe from rolling over – straining to take a bite out of their shoulder.
"What should we do with it, any idea who it was?" Another spits, tying up legs striking out towards the trio.
"No idea, manifest has already been wiped. Just get them out to the next transference transport, might find some use there," the first sighs, watching the loki struggle and hiss, claws tied behind his back and snarling.
Their mind reading blank.