ʟᴜᴄɪɴᴀ 'ᴡᴇᴇɴɪᴇ ᴍᴀɢɴᴇᴛ' ᴄʜʀᴏᴍsᴏɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heritors) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diademlogs2025-06-09 07:49 pm
heritors) wrote in diademlogs2025-06-09 07:49 pm
( closed ) catch all
Who: lucina + others!
Where: various.
When: June & July 125.
What: general catch all, tdm overflow, etc.
Warnings: mannequins & all associated trauma.
( interested in catching her out & about? let's chat! cr meme comment here, or feel free to throw me a pm!! )
Where: various.
When: June & July 125.
What: general catch all, tdm overflow, etc.
Warnings: mannequins & all associated trauma.
no subject
Anyway it's fine. He's alive. If this were any other time she'd probably take a second to tell him it's good to hear from him because that's the kind of person she is. Unfortunately, she's also a little busy at the moment. There's another static-y intake of breath, and—
Their phones are old enough that none of these conversations are in any form of high-quality audio; not that it makes a difference to her, but he'll probably feel it. The microphone can't actually pick up the sound of a gunshot, and the speakers can't play back what can't be heard. All of it results in a loud, booming noise of — something, static-y and alarming but wrong. Maybe that's enough.
But in case he's got any doubts about why that would matter: ] Gods— your hitchhiker's here.
I've heard it can be set on fire, but— [ Another gunshot, the sound of rustling, and a grunt. Once more, with feeling: ] Are you alright? Safe?
no subject
He’s seen Clayface impersonating him, before. Come face to face with a mirror image that walked and talked and tagged into a fight with Batman after him. This is worse, by miles, because he can’t get his arms around it. Can’t control the effects, the situation. Even the choice to act directly to try. Every time he tries to combat it directly—tries to focus his intention into action—
…It vanishes, slips through his fingers, and he’s left empty and aimless in the absence. Like stepping onto a stair and meeting air, throwing a punch and missing it and blinking back open to wonder what had happened. All restless, focused anger and no control over his own body. His own mind tries to shift blankly away from the attempt to fight back if he thinks too hard about it, if he tries too insistently to act. He feels sick with it. Like it’s trying to take that, too.
(He tries to hold on to that anger, that violence. That’s his. He earned it. But on some horrifying level it feels like being unmade, slowly, and not just by stiff limbs and a rough throat. Calls back fuzzy half formed memories of being listlessly led around Nanda Parbat like a puppet on a string.)
He’d tried dumping the thing back into the fringes a while back to get rid of it. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. (Among the other things it’s copied away from him: a stubborn, cockroachlike tendency to keep coming back.)
So, yknow. Time to find a way to make more permanent alternatives viable. Problem is he’s still working on that when she calls.
He exhales sharply. Something rattles on his edge of the line.]
Christ.
[Off book. He can work with this. If she can keep out of the line of fire for long enough.
Predictably, he ignores her (inane, he’s not the one getting shot at, thanks) questioning in favor of posing his own. He’s recalculating.]
Where?
no subject
So he gets an intersection of two streets, as if she's been keeping track ( she has ). Then: ] I'm moving east. Wait—
[ But before he can respond, there's another gunshot. The steady huffs of breathing is gone, just a rush of air filling his speakers. The car alarm blares, then fades out. She's still panting when he speaks, but things are ... strangely, abruptly quiet. For now. ]
What do you need me to do? [ She's only dropping the "are you okay" because he doesn't sound panicked; she's filling in the blanks as she goes ( truly phones are so convenient, who wouldn't use them at every opportunity!! ). Skipping a few steps and taking a gamble, but assuming instead of asking is just as dangerous right now, so. What's the plan, Jason? She can do this for a while, but her options in terms of taking care of his problem is a little limited. ]
no subject
He's been in the city a number of weeks, now, and when he isn't ducking out to the fringes he's making a point of learning his way around. Memorizing the map of it so he can better move through it. Know where the resources are, where the people are, where things may or may not be hidden away. For occasions such as...this one.
So: he knows where she is, and it's close enough that he'll roll the dice on her getting there in one piece. Far enough away that he's got a little time to adjust on the fly.]
Whatever you did to piss it off, keep doing it. [Helpful. But, finally and quickly, taking advantage of the momentary quiet—]
There's a lot across from the grocer's on Elm, a couple blocks north. Old construction site. Head that way. Stay on the line if you can, but stay out of reach.
[Also: Don't get shot.]
no subject
It's fine, it worked out. She doesn't miss a beat. ] I'm familiar.
[ She's definitely more used to forests and mountains instead of cities, but that just means more landmarks to orient herself around. A grid of streets makes navigation more straightforward. Her mental map isn't as resourceful as his, but she knows street names. The stores and landmarks she frequents, and the fastest route between them, then to the edge of the city. ( She likes that grocery store; it's got a good butcher beside it. ) ]
It shouldn't take me longer than five minutes. [ A little aggressive on foot, but she'll manage. Just in time, too — there's a quiet grunt, and the street-level noise is back along with the rush of air. Sounds like she's been found again. ]
Once I'm there — my sword can pin it down where you need it to be. [ If that helps at all. ]
no subject
The construction site is, mostly, a shadowy concrete shell of a building, scattered with scaffolding and picked-over piles of supplies and the occasional billowing tarp. Far as he can tell, it’s been left this way for a while. Like whoever was behind it had run out of funding halfway through.
Works for him, though. He needed a staging area. (Preferably one with plenty of concrete. A couple high places to duck in an out...and a way to get his quarry in the right place at the right time.)
Okay.]
Okay. Great. [He’s sounded more than a little rough since he picked up. Pitched low, like he’s trying not to be heard, sure—or else to obscure the extent of the way it sounds like he’s forcing the words through gravel. A crackling rasp at the bottom of his voice that that can't be attributed entirely to static.
All that's left to do is to walk her through her part of the plan. So of course— ] Listen—
[Par for the course, it's barely audible at this point. She gets the fading ghost of a God fucking damn— out before it fades off to little more than a hollow hum. A vexed hiss, wheezing uselessly through calcified vocal chords.
Great.
He resists the aggravated urge to hang up—better to keep an ear on her progress, and better not to distract her with a text message at this point. He's just going to have to hope she picks the right door. (Trust her to follow his lead.)
Because when Lucina ducks her way inside, Jason is—
…nowhere in sight. At least, not right away. The Hitchicker, though, is right on her tail. Drops down across from her from an unfinished first-foor window. He makes a point of giving the room a once-over.
"Nice digs." He says. The gun is still in his hand, though it's cocked lazily to the side as he uses it to gesture at the room. He sounds...exactly like Jason should. Solid, edged with sarcasm. But there's still that inhuman edge to the way he moves. The odd edge to the eyes shadowed under his hood.
As if she needs more motivation to swing her sword at him—"Taking me home on a first date, you didn't seem like that kind of girl."]
no subject
The rest of the trip is uneventful ( outside of, you know, the occasional gunshot ). He gets a murmured, ] I'm here. [ Before she flips the phone closed and ducks under the scaffolding. Her footsteps echo against the concrete with no reason to step lightly, positioning herself to keep her back to the wall as she moves through the space. There's two doorways across from her that have been curtained with tarp, a third that's open ( maybe this one? ). And—
Her Falchion's unsheathed and gripped in her hand the moment it drops in, the tip of it pointed towards the ground. She's quiet, though, even as he eggs her on. Shoulders tensed, as if she's waiting for the first sign of sudden movement from ... it. The building. Something. ( Technically, he's not even wrong — this is probably what her home looks like at this point, abandoned and dilapidated. )
Then she moves.
It's a gamble with the gun in his hand — but she's also not quite human by Jason's standards either. She only needs a jump to close the distance between them, the half-second enough for her to angle the sword in a way that it's aimed to drive right through its chest. The ball of her shoulder meets the plastic as she uses the momentum to push the both of them into the door, until she feels the tip of the sword embed itself into the wall. ]
no subject
Jason, the actual one. Perched on a rafter above them and—apparently—waiting for her to make a play so he can take advantage. He ducks the shot, but not as cleanly as he would, most of the time. He hits the ground floor harder than he should and rolls with the impact. Pulling into a crouch, one arm hanging strangely limp.
Whatever he'd been setting up above crashes down to the ground between them. Hard to make out the specifics, but it doesn't take a ton of imagination as to what it was for. Jerrycan, road flare. It hits the ground between them and cracks, leaking kerosene.
(Quick and dirty, but it doesn’t need a lot of yield. It just needs to burn at the right time—)
They've got the thing pinned down, which would, theoretically, be some kind of best-case-scenario. But it snatches for Lucina's collar, keeping her close. Mouth pulled into a too-wide sneer.
"Let me guess, you've got a few of those stashed around. What was the plan, huh? Cigarette as a slow burn fuse? That's cute.
Actual-Jason staggers up to stand. Kicks the can of kerosene toward their feet. The Hitchicker pushes back against the falchion pinning it to the wall, like its testing how much room it has to move.
"Go ahead and light up. I'll wait."
Of course, Lucina is still in the line of (hah) fire, but given she just pinned 6 feet of haunted bodysnatcher to the wall, Jason has a feeling she can do something about that. The bigger problem, of course, is that even after fishing out a lighter and clicking a flame to life—
He can't. His momentum stutters when he tries to land on next steps. His teeth grit, spine stiff, knuckles pulling white, breathing gone harsh.]
no subject
Her brows are furrowed as she stares back at him: jaw tight and teeth bare as it taunts the both of them. The tinny sound of metal hitting concrete rings in the space, and she picks a harsh exhale from behind her. It's startling clear what she has to do; the broad strokes of the plan were never hard to figure out, and with the parts in front of her—
( It's not the first time she's had to pick up where someone else left off; she's used to the split-second decisions and trusting her instinct. Something's better than nothing as long as they move forward in some form or another. Nothing about this is the highest of stakes, not for her, but nothing's going to stop her from treating it as such. )
There's a beat, then Lucina lets go of the Falchion — go ahead, it said, I'll wait. The rest of it happens with methodical precision: she pulls a dagger from her belt, the gripping it backwards to slice through the Hitchhiker's wrist, freeing herself from its grip with a brutality reserved for something very much inhuman. Next, a match — handy little things for starting campfires — that she lights on the coarse leather of her sheathe.
She drops the match on the growing puddle of what she's hoping is flammable, and jumps back. If she gets caught in the sudden burst of flames, so be it. ]
no subject
Whatever this thing really is, it burns. And quickly, with the help of the fuel, but not all at once. It roars something in rage, shoves itself suddenly forward on the falchion, embedding it further through its chest with a splintering sound. Drops the gun to reach for Lucina's throat with its remaining hand and pull her back toward the quickly spreading flames at their feet.
Jason, meanwhile, catches the spark of light and as she strikes the match and does the math and moves. (He can't act against that thing, but he can reach for her.) He ignores the sudden searing (sourceless) pain creeping up his spine from his feet and darts forward to pull her back by the waist tearing her away from the already-bubbling and blackening fingers of the mannequin as the flames start to lick up toward the both of them.
The makeshift firebomb blows. They hit the dirt as the air starts to fill with the smell of burning plastic.
(And...that's all from him, for a minute. For a few dozen seconds that feel much, much longer than that, it hurts like dying. And he'd know. The first sign that any of this might be working is that the strained, shuddering breaths he's forcing through the feeling of scalded lungs and charring chest starts to give way to actual audible gasps. A bitten off bark of agony caged behind his teeth until his voice comes back and it breaks free.)
And then—it fades. Dims into echoes until it could have never been there at all. The fire is still burning, black, awful-smelling smoke and melting plastic. But the empty building is oddly quiet, otherwise. Jason...finds himself curled in on himself on the ground, and he opts to just kind of stay there for a minute. Arm over his eyes, breathing heavy, trembling faintly at the shoulders and the fingertips from the aimless flood of adrenaline brought on by the (phantom) pain.
Then, hoarsely—]
Not one of my best.
[Plans, that is. Ow. He makes a herculian effort to roll onto his side to get eyes on her. (How are you doing, princess?)]
no subject
She jumps back, but it's not far enough. Something — someone — pulls her back the rest of the way, but the flame's already caught and expanded and she can feel the heat sear her arms that have come up to cover her face. They drop, and she rolls, reflexes kicking in to snuff the fire out before it catches and spreads to the rest of her. ( Tries hard to not think about how much it hurts, stamping down the sudden spike of fear that comes with any pain, gritting her teeth and keeping her eyes open just in case she's ambushed regardless of what logic dictates. ) Her ears ring. Distantly, she thinks she hears someone gasping for breath, but it takes her a second to come to.
— Not as long as him, though. She catches the tail end of the fire flickering out, the tail end of something from him. Her arms still burn, and will for a while — but the initial shock of it has passed into a constant, throbbing ache. Lucina breathes through her teeth before she wills herself to sit up, trying to peel back the parts of her sleeve that are threatening to melt onto her skin, brows furrowed. ( Also because it sounds like he needs the space to recover, for a time. )
She looks over when he speaks, though, before she returns to her other arm — but her expression is a touch softer than it had been. ] It worked. [ Which is all that matters, in the end.
A beat, then her gaze is back on him, and with no shortage of awe in her voice— ] You're alive. [ Extremely normal reaction. ]
no subject
He untangles himself to test his limbs and look for her, and the first bleary glance Lucina’s way confirms that she’s alive, and upright, if pretty visibly singed. Definitely hurt, he notes with a little sting of guilt given the stunt she pulled was in his defense, but it doesn't seem to be so badly that they can’t take a (well-needed) breather before taking care of it. It would be more productive to force himself up and at 'em, anyway. Make sure that thing is really, finally, destroyed. Contain the last of the fire. Get them out of these horrific plastic fumes. But. His nerves are still buzzing in life-or-death alarm, synapses sparking with echoed pain, adrenaline-soaked agitation. Skin still crawling with the lingering feeling of blistering, and cracking, and bubbling away to blackened bone.
(Wouldn’t even be the first time. He very forcefully banishes the thought before the urge to empty his guts on the pavement can pick up steam. Always time for that later.)
Instead, he flops unceremoniously back down onto his back and attempts to remember how to get his heart rate back under control. (Or, more accurately, to remember to use what Bruce had taught him, ages ago. Breathe. In through the nose. Hold for five. Out through the mouth.)
After a moment or so of this, and kind of ironically—]
Guess so.
[Wait. Back up a bit.
Burning these things hurts, but it works, she knew that. She brought it up earlier. He discovers that if he angles his head the right way he can catch most of her face from his sprawl on the cement. Which helps, because he does not want to get up right now, but he does want to squint back at her oddly awestruck reaction.]
You sound surprised.
[He’s not the one who was in the line of (literal) fire at the last minute, there.]
no subject
And yet the thoughts have seeped into her very subconscious until it informs every little thought in some form or another, and she's — what? Surprised that someone's still here? Is that such a difficult thing for her to conceive, somehow? Lucina stares at him, blinking, like she's trying make sense of the fact he's here. In pain and traumatized probably, having lived through whatever that was, but—
She shakes her head. Despite it all ( the aches and pain of her own, the burning that will most certainly scar, the Falchion still surrounded by the fire, the smoke filling the room ), she smiles. It's still something to celebrate. ]
No matter. I'm glad you are, is all. [ Or: she's just really fucking weird. Don't worry about it. ]
no subject
For all their (short) acquaintance, Jason’s always been pretty quick with a reply, a retort, a stupid nonsensical joke she won’t get. But right now…he just kind of stares back at her for a second, like he has to decipher what she means by that. Then a little longer once he does.
Maybe it’s because his brain was being secondhand boiled a few seconds ago, but hearing her lay it out that simply, all earnest, makes something small and secret crack open in his chest. (I’m glad you’re alive. When was the last time someone said anything like that to him? Not in a long time. Said it and meant it? Longer. Even he isn’t always very glad he’s alive a lot of the time.)
His chest hurts, still. (From the smoke, surely.) He closes his eyes, knocks his head against the floor. Takes one more deep breath. And then he drags himself up to sit, fixing her with another slightly-too-intense and searching look. Gestures at the arm she’s trying to pick bits of charred debris away from.]
Gimme that.
[Her arm. Burns are nasty business.]
no subject
She manages to stay unfazed through his scrutiny, at least. Which makes her look way cooler than she actually is, considering he asks for her arm, and— ]
What? [ What is he talking about... ]
no subject
The air is awkward in general. Undeterred, he raises his brows expectantly. Flutters the fingers of his outstretched hand in a "give it here" kind of gesture. He can see the burning from here, Lucina, come on.]
Don't tell me you don't feel that, or we're gonna have to find ourselves a hospital.
[Best he can see from here, he's guessing those burns are solidly second degree in places, so it's gotta smart. But. Hey, could be worse. Kind of a bad sign if the nerve endings have given up, though. Way beyond a field patch.]