#full disclosure i imagined the instigator to be one of the cult members from the timeless au but

[west-tokyo-incidents]

There is something wonderful about Mother, making a place for everything in its body.

CW; emeto mention(brief), torture, blood, general insanity ensues.

The glow of sickening yellow-green not-bile pulses within great spires. Spires that drool from ceiling to floor like the awful trail of saliva from one's lips to the floor after a sudden vomit. Hundreds of them that sway and threaten to break in an unfelt breeze. Spires made of twisting black metal and tech. Spires thicker than buildings at their thinnest point.

Here are contained the prisoners. Those who dare to hide information from The Facility are here. Mother’s Intestines is the deepest pit of the Facility. Within the spires are the twisting hallways of the Intestines. Claustrophobic doesn't begin to describe it. Every path is jammed with wires and struts, doorways often hidden by some new growth of tech like scar tissue. Labyrinthine and comparable to catacombs, some of the halls have to be squeezed into, black, hot metal threatening to burn every inch of flesh that touches it.

Avaro clones of clones of clones scurry back and forth and back and forth, from one place to another to another on the ceiling. Carrying information, carrying tools, carrying laughter on their tongues as hands reach desperately out to try and grab them. Constant, unending noise. Few clones even resemble anything more than their animal, if even that. Disposable, repeatable, nothing but clones so far removed from their original that no semblance of humanity remains.

There are only cells here for the humans. The doors to them are the most often obscured, and being forgotten in one of the dark, too-hot, closet-sized rooms is torture of its own right. But they're never here for long. They spill their information eventually, they're not allowed to die. It takes a human who can resist Regula or Jealousy to even get here and those are few and far between.

The douji who must be interrogated are all but crushed into the moving walls. Walls of Mother's own flesh. It would be comparable to being shoved in a locker, but a locker would at least have airflow. Those that are lucky to have airflow are perhaps the most unlucky. A sharp needle jabs through the holes that let air in, injecting or extracting at the whims of its bearer.

One would think with the powers the Facility holds that such... barbaric things are pointless to them. Or that if they're needed they would only need a few rooms for intense interrogations. But there are endless timelines. Hundreds of billions to sift through. And the Administrator is a patient man.

Torment and a handful of their... associates... are the only people who stay in these halls of their own will.

The rat king; an Avaro instance with no specific name, the center of the swarm in these depths.

Bile; a Sophia instance who's moral compass is lost in some metaphorical swamp.

Syphon; an Ultimo instance who's utterly convinced that what he does is good and justified.

And finally Torment themself.

Garion would usually rarely bother coming here himself. The halls are far too taxing on his bad leg and really, getting blood in his hair is SUCH a pain...

This room is one of the few places one can stand straight without brushing a wall just by breathing, and Garion's slim figure takes up most of that space. In front of him is a rig that could be seen in the secret basement of a suburban couple's home just as well as it could be seen here. An x frame rig almost comically plain and simple juxtaposed against the complex, breathing machinery of the walls.

On a vat of something, his little mimic robot chirps out something. Bile giggles and mocks it right back from somewhere unseen. As their voices deteriorate from playful copying to distorted mirroring from repeated repetition, Garion's eyes don't move from their place. Sharp blue, once dulled from boredom, are laid upon the figure strapped to the rig. Whatever they are, whatever timeline they're from, whatever they've done trying to escape this fate, it doesn't matter. He can barely even see them for his hate.

A light brightens and then dims behind him. A latch clicks shut. Something brushes against his back, but he does not move.

"Admin!" A deep mechanical rumble of a voice above him feigned surprise, as if they didn't know why he was here, "We dont see your pretty face around here often. And with such a lovely gift."

Garion doesn't move except to blink slowly.

Impatient--some would even dare say nervous--clicks come from the one who entered. The mechanical voice begins to speak again, but this time the higher, almost playful tone is gone.

"What do you need out of them, Administrator?"

The silly mimicry nearby screeches to a halt, Bile catching on and listening as he notices his beloved's voice change.

"I need to know how they got to Fusaji."

"Who--" The fusion is cut off by an Engrave from the Administrator. A vision of a Fusataro instance bleeding heavily onto a very nice looking kimono, hiding himself as deep as he could into a corner. Terrified. The memory is colored with anger, fear, but most importantly relief and overjoy at finding this instance alive. Until this 'Fusaji' flinches away. Hurt in such a way to flinch even from his lover.

Lover.

As the memory abruptly ended, a low rumble rippled under the sounds of the moving metal and the scratches of not-mice on the ceiling.

"I understand."

Garion turns to face the fusion, his eyes finally landing on the opaque black mask.

"And once you have that information," a painfully fake smile spreads like a mold on his face, "Don't stop. Have all the fun you want."

He pushes past, ignoring that a sharp piece of metal from the fusion cuts a hole in his sleeve. Trickery clicks its tongue and jumps off its perch to follow quickly after as its master leaves the small room.

"Oooooh, the Intestines have a VIP now!" Bile giggles and kicks his legs. The large vat on the Fusion's back drops to the ground.

"So it seems!"