semi-open

[riastraid]

CHARACTERS: lancer, friends, and some open things
DATE: more or less current
WARNINGS: the usual kinda-zombie stuff! hanger, violence, possibly gore
SUMMARY: soulsucking vampirism and zombie appetites go together poorly, who knew

[ prompts to be added in comments, let me know if you want anything in particular! ]

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[riastraid]

[ Occasional hanger pains are strange—food is a luxury for him, not necessity—but easy to find excuses for. Irritability and pallor less so, but still. Manageable stuff. Then a month slips by, and Lancer's thoughts seem to slip with them. And his mind always drifts to the same thing these days.

Which is why he sticks to traveling alone, since he seems to have sudden-onset insanity to look forward to as well. Until then, he's more mindful of his meals.

A. There's plenty of picked through buildings and homes and shops that've been left gutted and open to riots and scavengers, cafeterias that might still have stock, etc. He feels obligated to search them—even if all he gets is a bag of Fritos knockoffs. If he accidentally finds some company in the meantime, he'll pop open the pouch of chips with a sigh. ]

I suggest you make yourself real interesting, or get outta here.

[ Dinner ('dinner') and a show. If he's going to hang around anybody, they need to be distracting. ]

[ B. At this point, he's got no qualms smashing other infected that shamble at him into the nearest wall face-first, blood against brick and mortar. As they're staggering, he seems more ponderous, brow furrowed in thought. He's probably not going to dive straight into cannibalism, but... there are options to consider. ]

WILDCARD

[ Wanna backdate some bounties or something instead? Hit me with anything, or leave me a preference and I'll write a starter. ]

b, ig.

[gutpunching]

[Lancer's busy contemplating his options, but he'll get an interruption before he can make any immediate decisions. You're welcome.]

Wow.

[The wet smack of flesh and bone meeting an immovable object fades, and the voice comes from above. The shadow of a spectator perched on the rail of a second floor fire escape and watching the scuffle go down with some parts caution and some parts plain old nosiness. It's dark out, but it doesn't take long to ID the victorious party as a familiar face.

Presumably the guy was like, trying to eat Lancer's face or something a minute ago. So, y'know, it's not really judgmental. (They're kind of past the point of pulling punches, these days.) But, since he's here and all—]

I sure hope he had that one coming.

[Because it sure looks like it hurt.]

[riastraid]

[ Thanks, buddy. Lancer glances up sharply, teeth baring briefly on instinct. But he's quick to smooth over his ruffled feathers—kind of, as much as he can—clicking his tongue and frowning. ]

Don't we all?

[ He couldn't exactly take it personally if someone did the same to him right now, flicking blood off his fingers and sunken-faced as he is. ]

Hope I'm not offending your delicate sensibilities. [ His temper is violent in the most literal way, but he doesn't expect a lecture from Jason, of all people. But who knows—maybe he's misread him. ]

[gutpunching]

I seem to have left my fainting couch at home, so I guess I'll have to let you slide this time.

[He has a Very Delicate Constitution, you know. Be more considerate. But high and mighty lectures aren't really his thing. Much as he'd made an effort to be nonlethal while the masses were manageable, they've kind of hit a zombie event horizon, here. On that note, he gestures broadly down at the prone and bloodied figure from his perch on the edge of the fire escape.]

As for the rest, I think I'll plead the fifth, personally.

[On the matter of deserving. Saying he likes his face the way it is would be a lie, given that he's not exactly at his best and brightest lately. Even with the low light and the collar of his jacket turned up against the cold, the dark marks under his eyes are stark against his rapidly concerning pallor. But asking Lancer to try and shove his face in a wall isn't high on his list of things to do. Walking into that one's a rookie mistake.]

[riastraid]

[ Lancer's eyes are sharp, and after weeks of avoiding the truth, it's hard to see it in everything nowadays. The infection in him, the infected on the street. The infected teammate he's staring up at now. He doesn't get the saying, but his bantering skill's a little compromised by the constant, amped up aggression anyway. His pupils widen in the dim light.

To hell with all this. ]

I think you're safe.

[ Faces-to-walls exclusively for zombos he doesn't like and know. The one at his feet is out cold, if breathing in a weird, gurgle-y way, which Lancer talks over, the irritability of hunger smoothed over into something musing, pensive. ]

You too, huh?

A

[prodigism]

[ Wow excuse you Lancer but he helped you with those animals before?! Why you gotta be like that, bruh. ]

Is something wrong? [ He seemed a bit different from when they first met and the sudden exchange was odd, given that Arima was just rummaging around trying to find supplies as well. ]

[riastraid]

[ um excuse you arima don't victimblame, he's an innocent zombo just trying to get through some hard times

Which shows in the dark, heavy bags beneath his eyes, which only help make his unimpressed, hooded look a little darker. ]

Nah. I'm great.

[ Just! Peachy!!! His words are a little forced—chatter is a good distraction, and usually a natural state of being for him, but damn if it isn't harder to manage these days. ]

—What're you doin' out here? There's a buncha maniacs on the streets these days, if you missed the news.

[prodigism]

[ He isn't victim blaming at all! But he does notice the others appearance but his own expression doesn't change very much. ]

Getting supplies for those who can't go out themselves. [ People who aren't used to combat and all that jazz needed food too. ]

They aren't a problem.

[riastraid]

[ Lancer scoffs, though there's no bite to it. Restless anger makes a guy irritable sometimes, who knew. ]

Oooh, someone's confident.

[ Though, speaking of food—he looks somewhat bleakly at his bag of chips, then leans back against the nearest wall with a sigh. ]

Helping puppies one week, feedin' the poor—how very altruistic. [ He rolls up the bag, passing it towards Arima to take. Not that it'd feed much of anyone, but beggars can't be choosers these days. ]

ok a real a

[feytality]

[She's always interesting, thanks]

[Anyway-- Maya herself is actually looking for snacks for the quarantined (and not for herself for once, incredible), by herself, like a genius, so when Lancer pops open his chips like a fatso and addresses her, she realizes she's not alone (someone's not paying enough attention to her surroundings) and startles]

Eek!

[But wait, it's just that weirdo with red contacts and the mullet! And that odd feeling she can't quite place, but the point is, he's not a malicious zombie out to eat her flesh and she can probably rest easy]

[Right?]

--Mr. Lancer? What are you doing here?

[He doesn't look to be in particularly great shape... maybe he got more bottles smashed into his face.]

A... Are you okay?

[riastraid]

[ It's a good thing she's got such great awareness of her surroundings and survival instincts for a zombie apocalypse. Oh wait, no she doesn't. Luckily for the both of them, he hasn't totally lost his mind yet or anything, so they're in the clear. Mostly. ]

Man, you sure know how to show up when a guy's at his worst.

[ 2/2 now, very embarrassing. He stays seated where he is, like a true fatso. Though if anything, he looks more gaunt than before; the pallor of his skin does no favors for his image, and he sighs. ]

...I'm just getting some air. Stuff's getting pretty intense lately.

[ He's not stressed per se, but he does have plenty of excuses to find a secluded corner of his own. Not that it's particularly quiet now, thanks, Maya. ]

[feytality]

[Definitely. She's on the ball!!]

Or maybe I show up when you need me most. [She gives him a little smile, trotting closer to get a better look at him]

[Then she'll plop down nearby. Whether or not she's clued in to the fact that he's infected is up in the air]

You can say that again! I dunno if sneaking off by yourself and snacking is gonna help, though... What about snacking with a friend? |[Please stop talking about snacking to an actual zombie, Maya...]

[Also she met him twice, that means they're friends??]

[riastraid]

[ Not only is he sick, but he's also died before. She's sitting next to a literal zombie, talking about chowing down without an apparent care in the world. Self-preservation skills are at a record low, and Lancer scoffs quietly—what a dumbdumb.

On the other hand, it's a nice thought. He reaches out to flick her across the cheek mock-accusingly. ]

You're just tryna weasel me out of my food, aren't you?

[ But he doesn't chase her off, instead offering up the bag with a(n obviously overexaggerated) eyeroll. The signs are a little harder to miss up-close—he doesn't look like he's slept a night in his life—but he trusts himself not to lose it during snacktime on a friend. (Because—yeah, sure. Twice is enough.) ]

just makes this its own top level ig

[heritors]

[ after the world's most useless inbox thread — she returns to the hospital. Lucina can hardly be called a fan of what they have here; while medical advancements seem to be long past what they could handle back at Ylisse, it's nothing like the med tents, either. At least those felt comfortable, in their own way ( they tried to ). These are just sterile. ]

I'm here. [ She should. Probably text him. To let him know she's here. She can hear the irritation in his voice for reasons she hasn't quite pieced together yet, but Lancer isn't the type to get irritated easily; which doesn't exactly bode well. ] Where can I meet you?

how very dare

[riastraid]

[ Don't have to be a modern-day man to find hospitals shitty—he's used to salves and herbs, magic that speeds cells to mending. But none of that is much good against his brain going haywire, so, y'know. Hospital it is. ]

I'm out having a smoke. [ it's the 90s, the nurses are lighting up in the halls, but it's too bustling, crowded with the injured and insane. He could use some fresh air. ] who wants to be around a buncha sick people anyway?

[ just sayin', lucina ]

meh

[heritors]

[ Outside. Which means Lucina stops right at the door way, turn around, and walk right back out; at least no one seems to spare her a second glance. It also doesn't take long to find Lancer at the side of the building. ]

Lancer. [ At least, at first glance, he looks fine. Healthy, with no noticeable injuries. Small blessings, despite what's going on at the moment. ] It's good to see you properly.

[riastraid]

[ He's not injured, but fine is a stretch—if she gets close enough, his brows seem heavier, dark shadows cast over his eyes. His skin is paper-white in comparison. Taking in magic (in, frankly, excessive amounts) had staved off the worst of the Zombie Aesthetic for a while, but even that doesn't help forever.

Still, he's not missing any limbs or miscellaneous chunks, and he sits around without an apparent care in the world. Presentation is everything. He turns to her briefly before shrugging aggressively. His words come out clipped. ] I'm not stickin' around long. What'd you wanna talk about?

A. other sibling appears

[keeper]

[ She's received enough warning from the rest of the household that she doesn't bother with a courtesy call to ask for a location (or permission) to seek him out. A combination of magitek and intuition leads her to (no surprise) another rooftop, where he's partially hidden from public view behind an HVAC unit.

Expectation curbs the inevitable acerbity of his words, though the sight of him is something different altogether, enough that her expression pinches strongly in instinctual concern. (This all feels uncomfortably familiar in too many ways........) Regardless, it doesn't deter her from walking straight over and planting herself down next to him without so much as a blink. ]

Here.

[ Not much by way of greeting, but not much is needed. She sets a bag of carefully scavenged edibles at his feet, though it's mostly filled with an assortment of her magic-packed ice cream. (Bon appetite.) ]

[riastraid]

[ How many times have they done this? Sat around, sparked up conversation like it's nothing. Even after they'd both gotten transferred, they fell into the same routine right away—it's only now that he nearly recoils, the muscles in his neck tensed as she approaches. ]

Ugh. [ Just. Ugh. ] ...Thanks.

[ He carefully tugs out an ice cream by the corner of its packaging (he refuses to say he's sick, but he's sick. no use contaminating the rest.), ripping it open with his teeth so vigorously he almost loses the damn thing. ] You should keep the rest—it doesn't do anything.

[ And real humans with real appetites still gotta eat. Objectively, he knows he doesn't need this, but he bites into the cone anyway. ]

[keeper]

[ She might insist he take the rest anyway, but propriety reminds her she has a sister and in-law to feed, as well as a growing nephew... It's hard to leave him with nothing, though, and she ties up the grocery bag once more with no great hurry, the small movements of her fingers almost labored. (And it might be less awkward were she also eating alongside him, but she isn't hungry and he's right to tell her to conserve what little resources they still have.) The food is transferred back to her side, tucked out of sight and out of mind for now. ]

...

[ What can she tell him that he doesn't already know? Of course she's worried, and she certainly isn't the only one. But it isn't the same as being afraid (there's always a way), and she looks back to the mishaps they've each survived (alone and together), taking some strange measure of solace there. ...She's simply glad she's here now.

She waits for him to finish—doesn't take much long at all—before she offers him her hand expectantly. (Preferably not the one he'd just finished eating with, but she'll forgive him in either case for the purposes of an oxytocin transfer.) ]

[riastraid]

[ It's the gesture that counts, really. If he were the gluttonous sort at all, he'd be all about inhaling more ice cream—there's a brief second where the full-body hunger relaxes, so briefly sated that he can't even savor it. (Besides, it's not the right sort of protein.)

But instead, he just licks the last crumbs off his thumb, eyeing her hand skeptically. ]

...You guys are really bad at keeping to yourselves. [ Still, he takes her hand in his (the clean one, tyvm), with the super reasonable excuse that it helps keep him in check. It's a light grip, more like tapping fingertips together. ] Am I makin' myself too easy to find?

slides in

[respired]

[ Koltira's still not entirely sure how the Master/Servant thing works. The particulars of it. He does his best not to take much advantage of the link between Lancer and himself; he rarely calls on Lancer for any reason, thinking still that this arrangement is solely to keep Lancer from dropping dead due to lack of mana. Or evaporating. Or whatever happens to his kind when they don't get what they need.

But Koltira can feel a sharp pull on his magic, more powerfully and consistently than ever before. His reserves are such that he usually barely notices Lancer taking his fill, but now? This is the work of someone turned gluttonous.

He focuses, reaching out, letting his awareness expand. It doesn't take long before he finds the man he's looking for. Koltira tracks Lancer to a mostly abandoned strip mall. There are a few infected stumbling around, but there's also a recently abandoned sandwich shop. A good place for someone with a ravenous appetite. ]

Lancer.

[ Koltira wishes he had Byfrost with him, but the thing is just too conspicuous. He picks his way through the overturned tables and chairs, frowning. ]

How long?

[riastraid]

[ At first, it wasn't much. He's not greedy, and siphoning magic from his Master is as natural as breathing (or moreso, he doesn't need air). So taking a bit by bit, day by day—it doesn't even register.

Except from there, it never quit escalating. No matter how much he drains away at Koltira's reserves, the gnaw in his gut doesn't fade; whenever his mind drifts to blank hunger, he draws magic like a particularly incessant leech. Multiply that out by five weeks, give or take, and you've got enough stolen mana to leave a hundred ordinary maguses braindead.

Funnily enough, sandwiches work better. He's breaking into a cooler when Koltira shows up, which is at least a step up from attacking him on sight. ]

Long enough to hate being sick. [ He sighs through his teeth, aggrieved, tossing aside a stale french loaf. Useless. ] ...I dunno. A month and some change. [ The rest of the math is easy. ]

[respired]

[ Koltira leans against the wrecked counter, his false human eyes studying, appraising. Despite the ravenous pull of Lancer's appetite, he looks to be in control of himself. For the present, anyway. ]

Some change.

[ He doesn't remember the exact course of the disease--his memory isn't great with details--but he knows that's long enough to be concerning. ]

What will you do if you lose yourself?

[riastraid]

[ He's well enough to be in a sour mood, and he doesn't skip a beat in responding. ]

Sit in my room and take up embroidery.

[ The more reasonable, slower self-awareness comes after, and his shoulders sag slightly. Lancer stops to face him properly, putting aside his quest for lunchmeat. More grimly, ]

What do you think I'm gonna do?

[ Because killing and wrecking shit comes to mind. ]