Lloyd Henreid (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
babyfacedkiller) wrote2015-04-15 05:25 pm
babyfacedkiller) wrote2015-04-15 05:25 pm
4th Jam / Succubusted
[Open Spam - Sunday through Wednesday]
[It's a bad week to start with a hangover. Lloyd wakes up to a cabin that looks like a small hurricane blew through it, a monster of a headache, and the instinctive realization that if shit hasn't hit the fan yet, it surely is about to.
When the monsters start showing up, he sobers up real fast. He tries to make himself useful as best as he can, although mostly he's being useful running errands and providing backup, because he somewhat doubts his ability to survive a one-on-one with any the nightmare creatures the Barge is swarmed with. He's armed, has a couple of weapons he kept from the haunted castle, but the unfortunate truth is that wielding a morningstar doesn't automatically make him a medieval badass, just an asshole waving a spiked club around. He's not a trained fighter, doesn't have a particular talent or lust for violence, and more often than not he's hiding from giant rock people or climbing onto washing machines to get away from tentacled dogs, not performing acts of great heroism. There are several times when he's injured badly, thinks he's losing consciousness, but is back to normal a second later, just feeling vaguely sick and thinking he must have hallucinated it.
A few days into the invasion, the adrenaline that has kept him going so far seems to be in short supply. He feels like he's running on a battery that's rapidly depleting, too worn out to even be really scared anymore. A few times when he slumps down to rest, he thinks he can hear the echo of a voice screaming Moootherrr, and his eyes snap open in panic, expecting to see the bars of his old cell. He's pretty sure that's all in his head -- when everything around you is crazy, you might as well start losing your fucking mind.]
[Spam for Letty; cw: vague sexual content, death by succubus]
[He knows the chick is bad news. Not to judge a book by its cover, but she's got horns and wings and a tail, and on top of it, she carries a fucking whip. That can't be a good sign, even if she's got the legs of a supermodel and the sly look of a girl with serious experience under her belt. Lloyd raises his weapon in warning, tells her to get the fuck back. It doesn't seem to dissuade her, though -- if anything, she seems to think it's amusing. She doesn't lunge at him, or lash out with her tail, just presses a finger lightly under his chin, and leans in to kiss him. Well, what can he do? It'd be rude not to kiss back. And it feels nice, not strange, not like there's anything wrong with it.
She tells him to come with her, promises to make it stop hurting, says that she would make him feel good, and he doesn't believe her, not really, but he wants to. She leads him into one of the empty cabins, her hand fisted in his shirt, whispering things in his ear that almost make him blush. They don't make it to the bed, she's too impatient, shoves him hard against the wall, and he doesn't even protest when her inhumanly sharp nails scrape against his skin, leaving red trails that sting.
When he starts to sink to the floor, his vision dimming and the little energy he had being drained out of him, he thinks that maybe this time it's for real. He's actually going to die. There's a second of something oddly like relief before the panic of survival instinct kicks in, and he tries to push her off but it's like trying to wake up from a deep dream, like he bucking against the weight of his own limbs while trapped in quicksand. There isn't any fight left in him, and soon enough, there isn't anything at all.]
[It's a bad week to start with a hangover. Lloyd wakes up to a cabin that looks like a small hurricane blew through it, a monster of a headache, and the instinctive realization that if shit hasn't hit the fan yet, it surely is about to.
When the monsters start showing up, he sobers up real fast. He tries to make himself useful as best as he can, although mostly he's being useful running errands and providing backup, because he somewhat doubts his ability to survive a one-on-one with any the nightmare creatures the Barge is swarmed with. He's armed, has a couple of weapons he kept from the haunted castle, but the unfortunate truth is that wielding a morningstar doesn't automatically make him a medieval badass, just an asshole waving a spiked club around. He's not a trained fighter, doesn't have a particular talent or lust for violence, and more often than not he's hiding from giant rock people or climbing onto washing machines to get away from tentacled dogs, not performing acts of great heroism. There are several times when he's injured badly, thinks he's losing consciousness, but is back to normal a second later, just feeling vaguely sick and thinking he must have hallucinated it.
A few days into the invasion, the adrenaline that has kept him going so far seems to be in short supply. He feels like he's running on a battery that's rapidly depleting, too worn out to even be really scared anymore. A few times when he slumps down to rest, he thinks he can hear the echo of a voice screaming Moootherrr, and his eyes snap open in panic, expecting to see the bars of his old cell. He's pretty sure that's all in his head -- when everything around you is crazy, you might as well start losing your fucking mind.]
[Spam for Letty; cw: vague sexual content, death by succubus]
[He knows the chick is bad news. Not to judge a book by its cover, but she's got horns and wings and a tail, and on top of it, she carries a fucking whip. That can't be a good sign, even if she's got the legs of a supermodel and the sly look of a girl with serious experience under her belt. Lloyd raises his weapon in warning, tells her to get the fuck back. It doesn't seem to dissuade her, though -- if anything, she seems to think it's amusing. She doesn't lunge at him, or lash out with her tail, just presses a finger lightly under his chin, and leans in to kiss him. Well, what can he do? It'd be rude not to kiss back. And it feels nice, not strange, not like there's anything wrong with it.
She tells him to come with her, promises to make it stop hurting, says that she would make him feel good, and he doesn't believe her, not really, but he wants to. She leads him into one of the empty cabins, her hand fisted in his shirt, whispering things in his ear that almost make him blush. They don't make it to the bed, she's too impatient, shoves him hard against the wall, and he doesn't even protest when her inhumanly sharp nails scrape against his skin, leaving red trails that sting.
When he starts to sink to the floor, his vision dimming and the little energy he had being drained out of him, he thinks that maybe this time it's for real. He's actually going to die. There's a second of something oddly like relief before the panic of survival instinct kicks in, and he tries to push her off but it's like trying to wake up from a deep dream, like he bucking against the weight of his own limbs while trapped in quicksand. There isn't any fight left in him, and soon enough, there isn't anything at all.]
[spam]
So when she sees the guy sitting on the ground looking tired and scared, she heads on over, gun at the ready in case something nasty shows up.]
Hey. You need help?
[spam]
You hear some asshole screaming for his mother?
[spam]
[She looks around; there's no one else in the hallway, at least as far as she can see..]
It's just you and me right here, I think. You wanna go to the infirmary and get fixed up?
[spam]
[Or dreamed it, or hallucinated it. He's not at all sure he'd know the difference right now. He rubs his eyes, gets some dried paint on his fingers, leftovers of that blue stuff Bleu smeared him with a day or maybe two days ago. By now it's all dried up and not doing a goddamn thing.
He considers the offer. The infirmary seems like a great place to run into Letty, who he isn't too eager to see right now. On the other hand, he's not a fucking child and he knows that's not a good enough excuse to avoid medical help.]
Yeah, all right. You work there, doncha?
[He's wincing, as he starts to get to his feet.]
[spam]
[At first she just watches, but then she realizes that maybe she should actually help; she extends a hand out to him in case he wants to use it to pull himself up.]
Hey. Where're you from?
[It's not a question she normally starts out with, but she can't help but notice that his accent is really similar to hers.]
[spam]
Earth. Las Vegas, most recently. [He gives her a slightly dry, weary look.] Why, do I look like a Martian?
[spam]
[She's trying to remember where Las Vegas is - somewhere out west, she knows. California?]
So you don't got any powers or anything, if we run into monsters?
[spam]
[And when the effects of the paint started wearing off, the exhaustion caught up, twice as bad. Now he's only got the dagger -- a much fancier model than your average prison shank, for sure, but he's not at all confident in his ability to gut one of the monsters before it tears his arm off. At least she's got a gun.]
I actually grew up in Pennsylvania. Little town called Marathon.
[spam]
[She actually looks back at him and grins, shitty circumstances be damned.]
No shit! I'm from Waynesboro; down near Maryland. Born and raised.
Damn. When this is all over I'm gonna get you a drink. I got a little tradition going here - I go drinking at least once with the people who remind me from home. But you actually are from home.
[And she's clearly pleased as punch about that. There's even a little bit more of a spring in her step when they start walking.]
[spam]
Small fuckin' universe, huh?
[It is nice to meet somebody from back home, among all the superheroes and aliens and now a whole bunch of hell beasts, even though he hasn't thought of Marathon in a long time now.]
Gotta be the fastest a girl's ever offered to buy me a drink. [Christ knows when all this will be over, though. If it will be over.] Hell, I'd go drinking with you right now, but the pub is probably overrun by zombies. Maybe one of the rock people is tending bar.
[It's not that any of it really strikes him as funny, and his tone isn't flippant so much as a little detached. This isn't the kind of situation he knows how to cope with or even wrap his head around, so why take it all the way seriously?]
[spam]
[The grin fades just as quickly as it had come, and she's back to being serious and somber again.]
Right now I gotta get you to the infirmary. Least I can do for a Pennsylvania boy, right? Can you walk okay?
[He looks mostly fine, physically, but it's never good to assume with death tolls. She looks fine, and yet she's hurting all over; for all she knows, his legs feel like they're about to fall off.]
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Don't you have a warden item? Merlin had asked her, but it doesn't do much for her when she's still figuring out how to read it, when the shortest route she can discern from her to him is filled with obstacles.
She's close when she feels the cross start to cool against her skin, and though she was tired before, it both chills her and invigorates her because instinctively, she knows what it means.
The door is closed when she sprints past it but she's got the hang of it now and Letty whirls, shoulders her way through it without even hesitating, and snarls at the scene before her.]
Get off him, bitch! [It's the only warning the succubus gets: Letty slams into her headlong, and despite being barely more than half the demon's size, it's enough to bounce her face off the wall. Letty only backs off enough to take a home run swing with the wrench in her hand into the creature's side, putting all of her muscle into it, swinging again and again like she can stop what's happened.]
Lloyd! Lloyd, get your ass up! [The cross is cold against her skin and she shouts in wordless anger, and when the succubus crumples under the weight of the wrench, she switches to swinging at its head and doesn't stop.] Lloyd!
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He coughs, dryly and painfully, to get his lungs working again, not quite comprehending what's going on. Letty's there, yelling, hitting something with a wrench. Something that used to be alive but now surely ain't. Lloyd's vision is swimming as he tries to focus, while a part of him wants to stay dead, asleep, far away from here. He remembers now, the demon chick with the whip and the sharp nails, and looks with a queasy fascination at what's left of her, now that Letty has had her say.]
's okay, she's dead.
[But trying to talk just gets him coughing again, that dry cough that takes too much energy and makes him want to vomit.]
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And this was not a clean death. That doesn't help, either: Letty knows that if she stops, she has to turn around and face the fact that Lloyd is dead, and the thought of that makes something in her go wild with desperation. It's not anything she would admit to, but that spark fanned into life by adrenaline has resulted in this action and she knows that. Her muscles burn but she doesn't stop until she hears Lloyd's voice. Impossibly, she hears Lloyd's voice, and she twists to find him with her eyes, panting.
Sure enough, her numb fingers lose their grip on her weapon, letting it fall heavily to the floor; she clears the few steps to him as he starts to cough and her hands are shaking but she hauls him up to a better sitting position anyway, steadies him by holding onto either side of his face. There's blood spattered on the skin of her arms and face but she doesn't notice.]
Lloyd? You were... [But the cross is warming again, not uncomfortable but not natural either, and it will take her a few moments to wrap her mind around whatever the hell just happened, so she says the only thing she can think of to calm herself and reassure him, her voice thick:] Just breathe.
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The look on Letty's face reminds him of when he fell off a tree as a kid and got badly concussed, and his daddy had to drive him to the hospital. It's the last time he remembers anyone being that worried about him, and he's seen enough of the fake shit to know the real deal, except he doesn't understand it at all. He doesn't get why Letty would even give a shit now whether he lives or dies, after she read the story of his life with all the nasty details.
But it doesn't matter just now, that he doesn't get where the concern is coming from, that it might just be residue from their shared Jaeger experience. It doesn't stop him feeling roughly the same way he did back when he was a kid -- deeply grateful she's there, but also ashamed, in a way he hasn't been in a very long time. Part of it is embarrassment to be caught like this, his shirt torn open and with those scratch marks on his chest, evidence of the steamy little makeout session he had with the demon who's now wearing her hellish brains outside her skull. But most of it is the shame at having done something stupid, not even imagining that it might upset Letty.]
I'm okay.
[It's not especially convincing, not with the shellshocked look and the tears welling in his eyes. It's more than he can handle, feeling guilty and stupid on top of half-dead and hurting. But he's still glad Letty's there.]
no subject
She doesn't know what to do with the fact she just beat someone to death; she doesn't know what to do with the fact that she knows he died but he's back now, this time; she doesn't know what to do with the fact that he's about to start crying on her. Except that her hands still don't feel very strong at all, and there's something hot and tight caught in her own throat, but she struggles to shove it back down.
Whatever else all the rest of it is, she picks the familiar thread of anger out of the center of it - distressed anger, true, and some of it for the succubus and some of it for herself but nonetheless - and she repeats his answer back to him.]
You're okay? [She wants to laugh, her hands moving down to straighten his torn shirt, hovering over the scratches; instead she thumps him soundly at the front side of his shoulders with both hands, not his chest but close, her urge to strike out at what's closest combined with her sincere desire not to make it more difficult for him to get air right now.] Well I'm sure as shit glad one of us is. Don't...
[DO that! she wants to scream at him all at once, or hug him, or get up and walk away. She wants none of these more than any of the others, so she compromises between all three, fists a hand into his shirt to keep contact or to hold him upright or to keep him in range for a smack upside his head next. (She doesn't, because what if she can't stop, what if she gets started and can't stop like she just did with that creature, when she beat that woman-thing to death with Dom's wrench.)]
What were you thinking, you ass? [She doesn't scream at him. Her voice is still too rough for that and she still feels too unsteady despite her momentum, limned with the remnants of her fading panic that he went and died on her and that's that. No more Lloyd.] What if you didn't come back? What if it possessed you? Jesus!
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Back in Phoenix, when he was slowly starving, slowly losing his mind, he never got around to fully contemplating going out the way some of the inmates did, by hanging himself with his own belt. He just kept clinging to his miserable life, doing whatever he had to, no matter how stomach-turning or horrifying, to survive. But what powered him then, a desperate hope of being rescued that grew slimmer until it bacame pure hate, he doesn't have it anymore. He's already dead, and Jesus Christ, what does it matter if he dies again? He could die a few dozen times and it wouldn't matter.
It's not like he wanted to have the life sucked out of him by a fucking sex demon, but it's not like he was thinking ahead either, letting her lead him to his death. The promise of feeling good, no matter how briefly, was too tempting to pass up on, and he didn't give a damn about the consequences. It's his fourth day going on almost no sleep, of being battered and tossed around, of wounds closing a second after being opened, and if at first he had some basic direction, some things to do, he has long forgotten the point of all this, why he should bother putting up a fight. Because if he does survive, there's nothing ahead but more of the same old shit.
The only reason he feels sorry about it now is because Letty is upset and pissed off, and he's feeling even worse than before.]
I wasn't thinkin'. I was just-- [His voice is hoarse, scratchy and uneven, and he has a hard time meeting her gaze.] I'm so fuckin' tired, Letty.
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She hits him again, both palms, staccato and abrupt rather than hard.]
You have to think, Lloyd. You can't just run around trusting the Admiral to fucking bring you back. Remember that girl in the port? She died, and he left her there.
Don't... [She doesn't know what to do with the tears, either, she's not soft, she's not a crooner or a coddler. She's used to Dom, with his stoic stonewalling, their screaming fights when they were younger and their unstoppable force and immobile object disagreements when they were older; she would be screaming at him, she would shove him, he would shove her, and in the end they would both know where they stand.
But Lloyd has already been through so much more than all of that, and she's afraid she'll break him before they can even get started.] Just don't, okay?
Please.
no subject
When he and Letty were talking a while back about the differences between them and their Jaeger pilot selves, he said that the other him was luckier, and he supposes that's still true, but he has a better answer now: that guy had something to fight for, something to live for. He doesn't.
The tough part is that he still wants to be worth something to Letty, wants to prove he can be somebody she can respect. But he doesn't know how. He's not the guy she wants him to be. He isn't a good guy or a tough guy, just a dead loser who also happens to be a murderer.]
Yeah, okay. I won't. [It's sincere, at least in the desire to reassure her, although he isn't sure what he's promising. He's just too afraid of saying something that would make her want to wash her hands off him completely.]
no subject
He promises something he clearly doesn't know what he's agreeing to; she's not sure, either, so it works out for the time being, it will have to be enough where she swallows, eyes searching his face, and nods. She sits back on her heels, taking her hands back, bracing her elbows on her tabletopped knees while she glances around the room. Her lips press together more firmly when she glances over the succubus, equal parts unrepentant and nauseous, then looks down and wipes her hands first idly and then harder against the thighs of her pants to clean them off.]
Alright.
Okay. Let's get you out of here. [She stands, and though the wrench feels even heavier and even colder to the touch now, she picks it up in one hand and extends the other one down to him.] The infirmary's safe. Merlin's there. We'll see what he says and go from there.
[It makes her feel a little better, anyway, to have a plan. She can be sorry for herself later. There's no room for it now.]
no subject
On his feet, he gets an uncomfortably better view of the dead succubus. It's not a pretty sight, and it's not like Lloyd hasn't seen worse, but he remembers kissing her, more than kissing her, and now she's a bloody fucking mess on the floor. It's not even a first for him -- there was Dayna, what was left of Dayna, that he had to drive out of town and burn. Now the smell of gasoline is back in his nostrils, marrying the sight of the demon whose face he can't make out.]
Shit.
[It's barely a whisper. He lets out a choked moan and looks away, fighting the desire to throw up.]
no subject
And if Lloyd wants to say something, let him. She doesn't really think that he will, but the defensiveness is there without her consent, and she'll make peace with it later but the crunch of bone vibrating up the length of the wrench is still fresh in her mind.
She turns them away from it, both in case he throws up and so he can stop looking, hooks her arm around his waist to get herself out of the line of fire and to hold him up better. Her voice is firm, an order, brooking no argument.]
Hey, come on. You're okay. Lean on me. [They need to get moving, for a lot of reasons. She wants to leave this place behind as much as he does right now.] Breathe.
no subject
If he was feeling any steadier, thinking past his own miserable state, he might wonder how Letty's feeling, having gone all wrench-crazy on that thing. But that consideration doesn't even reach his mind. He leans on her, focuses on his shaky breathing and on keeping the contents of his stomach inside his stomach, and trusts her to lead him out of there.]
Tuesday...ish
She can't hide. Other people have had it worse and she feels like the least she can do is her part, whatever it may be and however small it may be. And as sore as she is, she's also pissed. She wants these things gone. She wants to be with her friends enjoying an evening in the pub, with Alexander cuddled together watching some old movie. Normal life. And lord, she wants to be able to sleep without jerking awake every fifteen minutes afraid the gates of some hell have opened into her very room.
She's on her way back to her cabin and when she enters the hallway, she's confronted by another threat. Zombies. Well, at least they're familiar in a way. She's certainly seen enough of them in movies. With a weary sigh, she points her staser at them and fires. And fires. And fires again. It's only then, as the rotting undead draw closer, she remembers Iris told her the staser didn't really work on the undead.]
Shit.
no subject
There's four of the shambling assholes in his line of sight, and he sees Venus trying to take them down with her space gun, to no effect. He's seen movies, he knows that's not what works with zombies, that you need to take out the brain. He doesn't have a gun, which is generally more reliable at that sort of thing, and he doesn't have a plan other than bash the motherfuckers' skulls in, but somehow, none of that dissuades him in the least.
He's gotten decently proficient with the morningstar, mostly because it's just like swinging a baseball bat, only one specifically made out with extreme violence in mind. And now he's running up behind the large zombie flanking the group, a chunky motherfucker who's got half a foot on him, and goes for a real home run swing. The blow catches the zombie in the base of his skull, with a dark spray of blood and a loud crunch that would be kind of sickening if it wasn't, at that moment, deeply fucking satisfying.]
Take that, ya limp dick fuck!
no subject
She doesn't have much time to think about it, though, because being not terribly smart, the zombies keep approaching even though Lloyd has just brained one of them. She kicks at the closest one, driving one sharp heel into its groin. It's a move that would be extremely effective on a normal opponent but not so much on something that doesn't feel pain. It does give her an idea however, and she quickly removes her shoe and begins hitting the zombie in the head with it while trying to hold it at bay with her other hand.]
You have another one of those big sticks?