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It’s dark when he first opens his eyes. Dark enough he almost thinks they must still be closed for a moment, if it weren’t for the red tinted lens covering one of them. Without his glasses, the blur he’s looking up at won’t completely come into focus. He sees pipes, maybe, and some kind of machinery. But it’s hard to concentrate, because by the Master , his whole body hurts. His head is pounding, and there’s a burning sensation all through the left side of his face and down his chest and right arm. There are things attached there, he knows, constructions of metal and wires that were never intended to be annexed to human flesh. Yet they are welded to his. He can feel them. He can remember the incisions, the unbearable heat. What he cannot remember is how on earth he ended up here, the voice finally gone from his mind, but the rest of him lying on the ground aching. He wonders with a slight shudder if the augmentations were designed for him to survive long, or if he’s been made into a disposable host for the parasite who rose out of his tower.
No, he tells himself. Whatever they did, I am not disposable.
He knows he can’t move much without his legs or his wheelchair, but he needs to know what strength is left in the limbs he can use. He pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning more on the left as the other is weighed down by a now-dead apparatus, but oh stars, no no no. That was a bad idea. He falls backward and cries out in pain as his right arm, chest, and back all scream at him at once. For a moment he’s back on the table, held down against his will, machines ravaging his skin as he begs them to stop, and no, please, you can’t--it hurts it hurts and--
Pause. Breathe. Keep it together. Stop hyperventilating.
His head appears to be all he’s got left, he can’t afford to lose it.
In an attempt to ground himself he grips the--what is this underneath him? Something rubber. Probably a conveyor belt. Yes, that’s definitely what it is. He’s in the factory. Given that the lights are off, production has stopped, and he’s fully conscious, something must have been done to shut down all the power.
Which means…the Overlord…
That’s why he’s free.
Only it’s not a full reboot as he had intended.
His breath catches in his throat. Pixal. She’s--she must be…shut down by now.
He lets out a quiet sigh of grief, closing his eyes. If he considers the technicalities, one loss is better than all of Ninjago being terrorized by the Overlord, but…technicalities are hard to accept when, after all is said and done, she was a person, and he cared about her almost like a daughter.
Still, as important as all that is to know, experiment one has produced less than desirable results. He can’t sit up, and if he can’t do that, there may not be another reasonable course of action.
Then again, if he’s unable to move, he may as well try to assess the damage that made it so. He takes a deep breath to prepare, allowing his heart rate to lower from his previous endeavor. Then slowly, carefully, he runs his left hand along the hardware attached to his chest. His skin has been cut into, that much is clear, but it’s hard to tell how deep at first. He also notices that the side of his torso not overlaid with exposed machinery has been clothed in some sort of fabric covering that attaches to the metal parts at the edge. At least they didn’t leave him half-naked.
How generous, he thinks to himself sarcastically.
He pulls the fabric out of the way to more closely examine the seam between metal and flesh. It hurts to touch still, and he winces slightly, but keeps going. When he presses down slightly in the surrounding area, he can feel a chilling hardness that most definitely isn’t his ribs. In fact, it feels as though it’s right on top of them, perhaps even attached to them directly. He tries not to panic at that thought, or vomit, but simply take in the information. This device is thoroughly embedded under his skin. He can’t take it off. If it can be removed at all, he’ll need--oh… First Spinjitzu Master. He shuts his eyes tight at the realization. He’ll need another surgery.
Alright, alright. Once again, breathe. He’s now survived one without anesthesia. The addition of that vital element can’t be worse. And as for the possibility that this is permanent, or may slowly kill him, well…it’s not productive to consider at the moment, so he won’t.
It does make him start to feel a little like he’s suffocating, though. He is suddenly much more aware of every piece of metal digging into his skin. Especially the one covering half his face. It burns and itches, and by the Master--it was put there to talk to his brain. What if--what if they inserted something-- oh, horror of creation, what if it goes under the skull? He barely remembers that far into the operation; the pain having blurred his senses and flooded what consciousness he had left. He frantically feels around the edges of the device. How and where is it attached?
With a gulp, he realizes the only way to find out may be to try and move it. If part of it does go through his skull, the piece as a whole is unlikely to shift, so it…probably won’t kill him instantly. But whatever happens, it most certainly won’t be pleasant.
Still, the thought of lying here making no progress in understanding his predicament is worse than adding a little more pain to the pile, so he resolves to try it.
Maybe. Possibly.
Fine, so it’s a tad bit terrifying.
He takes another deep breath, slightly shaky this time, and gradually places his fingers on the upper edge of the plate. Then, not roughly but not too lightly, he pulls.
It makes him grimace, but it doesn’t rip off or rupture his brain, and he can feel where it’s adhered to his head now. Notably, it’s mostly around the edges. There are a few places underneath that pulled on his skin, but those seemed surface level, not like full-on implants. That means they probably just attached nodes to his head to send electrical messages, which, come to think of it, is much more efficient anyway. The Overlord must have taken some notes from him beforehand when he planned how to, um, attach brain-altering electronics to his face.
Stars he wants it off. Every fiber of his being wants it off.
He might just--
No, no, that's a terrible idea. It’s much wiser to wait until he can work with a doctor to safely remove it, and…
Oh, that could take hours, though. And he has no idea what state the city is in. Medical staff might be extremely busy, and if it’s not technically an emergency, he certainly isn’t going to make anyone prioritize him. But frankly, he doesn’t know how much longer he can go not being able to touch the left side of his face without having some kind of a meltdown.
He knows it shouldn’t be any worse now than it was a few moments ago, but it’s not even the pain it’s the--it’s the rest of the texture, the way it feels wrong and suffocating and uneven because it’s only the one side and that shouldn’t matter but he has to even it out he has to and more than that it’s the sensation of having something not of himself be forced onto himself and he’s on that damn table again with the machines and his heart is beating out of his chest and there’s metal and wires next to it and and and--
He gasps for air, and tears off the faceplate.
With a cry of pain and a burst of strength he didn’t realize he had, it’s gone. It’s off. It’s off it’s off it’s off.
He releases a shuddering breath, involuntary tears forming in his eyelids, and lets his head fall back against the conveyor belt.
He’s suddenly exhausted, and he’s--he’s bleeding, of course. He can feel it running down from where the edges of the plate used to be. It’s an awful mess, and he’s glad he can’t see it for the time being since he doesn’t normally do well with blood, but it’s proof he’s still alive, at least.
He puts his palm over the left side of his face to feel his skin, his actual human flesh. It stings like a horde of wasps, honestly, and the burned incision down the middle of his face feels like it’s on fire, but he’s free.
He’s free and he’s still…lying on a conveyor belt in dreadful pain.
In hindsight, he may not have improved his conditions much.
His head is throbbing in a different way now, with the addition of sweat collecting there, and a heat starts to wash over his body. Perhaps he’s made a mistake. How much blood is normal to lose from this, anyway? Is he physically unsound in ways he might not have noticed before making such a rash decision? He probably does need a nurse now, or at least an assistant. Maybe, if he managed to crawl to the exit, he could contact--
Right. No. The power’s out. No messaging system.
And…no assistant to message.
His chest aches again, but he’s not sure it’s the machinery.
It would be quite something if they got both of us in one fell swoop, wouldn’t it, Pixal?
He closes his eyes. Maybe it’s better to save his strength, if there’s anything to save it for.
But just as the quiet hopelessness begins to set in, he hears footsteps, and a bright light enters his vision.
He squints. The ceiling fixtures aren’t turned on. No, it’s a flashlight. And there are voices.
“Over here! I found him!” someone calls out.
Cyrus shields his eyes with his left hand and groans slightly. He’s still without glasses, but the man in front of him seems to be wearing a safety orange uniform.
“Are you alright, Mr. Borg?” the man asks, his voice tinted with horror. “Your--your face is--”
“Covered in blood, yes,” he interrupts gently. “I took off the, um--the plate that was attached onto…” he vaguely motions to his face.
“This?” another man next to him questions, holding up the device.
Cyrus nods, thankful not to have to use any more words as his fatigue sets in harder.
“That was…attached to your face? And you just…tore it off?”
“Afraid so,” he mumbles, rubbing his left eye. “But I’m--I think I’m fine. If someone could just help me into my wheelchair…”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Borg,” a woman’s voice answers, and footsteps echo up the stairway.
“Thank you,” he mutters, as the first man helps him sit up without straining himself. “I just have, um, one question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“How--how long have I been out?”
“Frankly, quite a while. We’ve been without power for a few days.”
His eyes widen. A few days? He thought perhaps it’d been hours. By the Master, that’s a long time. Especially when there are people in the city who might be waiting for his aid.
He takes one more deep breath.
It’s time to rejoin society, whatever that may mean now. He has to be ready.
- - -
The daylight is already pouring in through the glass windows of his office when the screens at his desk finally spark back to life. He’s been throwing himself into work as much as his physical state allows, and Pixal (thank the Master she’s alright--he’s still slightly in shock about it) has lended her new-and-improved power source to the cause. Now a few cables mean dozens of important functions and resources are up and running.
He laughs with relief and joy, though it hurts his unfortunately-still-augmented chest.
“We have power!” he exclaims. “By glory's grace, my office has clean, untouched-by-evil power!”
Pixal smiles.
Stars, he’s glad to have her back.
“Thank you,” he tells her earnestly. “Now we can use this to track the Nindroid presence, and they won't see us coming.”
He pulls his wheelchair up to the desk, and begins opening programs. Although he’s facing forward, doing his best to focus, he can almost feel Pixal’s eyes on him. She’s been watching him since they reunited, and he knows why. But he also knows she’ll speak when she’s ready. No need to push the issue. And, admittedly, maybe he doesn’t like to talk about it. Maybe it’s easier to keep working and thinking about anything and everything--other than that.
“You…promised to explain your injuries,” Pixal states hesitantly.
And there it is. The thing he wants to avoid. But it’s true, he did promise. And he can’t blame her for worrying; he’s sure he looks a little frightening.
“I--yes, I did,” he admits. “It’s, um…it’s somewhat hard to explain.”
He gathers his courage in his breath.
“The Overlord had all of this…” he motions to his chest and arm, “added to me. So that he could use my body as a--as a sort of vessel.”
It makes his stomach turn, and Pixal’s face becomes quickly more concerned.
“There was, um,” he continues, “there was a piece here on my face, where I’m bandaged now, but I…sort of panicked when I woke up free, and I…”
Pixal blinks.
“You tore it off.”
Cyrus nods.
“Y-yes, I…tore it off.”
“And the parts that are still there,” she questions. “Are they permanent? And…are they harming you?”
This is one of the more uncomfortable subjects, so he’ll do his best to keep it light.
“I’ve talked to a doctor,” he says. “They aren’t permanent, but…I’ll need another surgery to remove them. In the meantime, they--well, they don’t fit exactly right, but I’m certainly not dying.”
Pixal frowns slightly as she folds her hands and rubs her fingers, the way people do when they’re nervous. He’s always amazed when she learns things he doesn’t remember programming.
“Are you in much pain?” she asks.
He swallows at that question. Truthfully, everything does still hurt. He has pain meds, but they make him groggy, so he’s only been taking them at night.
“Not an overdue amount, as forced surgery goes,” he says honestly, giving her a half-smile, trying not to think about it. Trying not to conjure the images in his mind.
She seems to read something in his expression, then calculates for a moment, and suddenly looks more fearful than before.
“Did they…operate on you while awake?” she asks, seeming horrified in a way that’s buried too deep to fully show through.
Oh. There’s the real flood of memories slamming into his brain.
His heart rate momentarily spikes, which he knows will immediately show up on her scanner.
“They, um--” he starts to answer, but his mouth struggles to form the words.
He blows out a breath, pushing away the additional phantom pains that make him want to twitch, and cry out, and squirm away from instruments poking and prodding.
“Yes, I was…unfortunately, conscious,” he finally admits.
Pixal’s face falls with an almost wounded expression, then an edge of frustration creeps in.
“I should have been there to protect you,” she says.
He looks at her with a sad incredulity. Somehow, that breaks his heart a little. This is not what he hoped for in telling her what happened.
“To protect… me?” he asks. “Pixal, no, I’m--I’m incredibly grateful you made it out. It wasn’t your fault everything got taken over by the virus, and…and I thought you were…gone for good.”
He sighs, gripping the armrest of his wheelchair. “You were built as my assistant, yes, but that’s not the only reason I didn’t want to lose you.”
Pixal doesn’t show surprise easily, but he can see it behind her eyes in this moment. She glances down and to the side, clearly shy about something.
“If…that is how you feel,” she begins, “there is something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” he tells her.
“Sir, you created me and gave me life,” she says. “I belong to you. Yet, Zane saved my life. When I was with him I felt…a connection. I felt…free.”
She smiles in a sort of awestruck way as she finishes her sentence, the bliss of naming a new feeling evident on her face.
Cyrus didn’t realize she felt so…owned by him. He knew she was sentient. Ownership of her was never his intention. He considers her sort of like an employee or partner, sort of like a daughter, either way, to be treated with dignity and taken care of. But he supposes he should’ve been clearer.
“Pixal, remember this,” he tells her earnestly. “You belong to no one. If you want to be with Zane, you should be with him. Whatever you choose to do, that choice is yours.”
Her face lights up in a way he’s never seen before.
“Thank you, sir,” she says.
And then, as if waiting for a perfect moment to ruin, an alarm goes off.
He makes a frustrated sound, rolls his non-augmented shoulder, and turns toward the screen. Time to get back into things. And this time, he is not letting anyone take over his tower, reprogram his loved ones, or add metal pieces to his body.