snowblindrpg | [log] Charlie and Charles Get Jumped by a Vampire [closed]

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[log] Charlie and Charles Get Jumped by a Vampire [closed]

Characters: Charlie Kelly, Charles Yvry, Beckett
Location E27
Date: Afternoon of Day 141
Summary: Charlie and Charles are exploring when a hungry vampire ruins their whole day!!
Warnings: Lots of violence (in particular: eye gore, finger loss, blood, vampire things), language, will update as needed

By the time Charlie and Charles manage to head out for the day, it's already getting late. It took some serious effort, but Charles finally convinced Charlie that they should head south again. Because exploring the new area is important, or whatever. Charlie couldn't give a fuck. Just because he agreed to go doesn't mean he's gonna go quietly.

"You just don't get it, man. We walked around like all day yesterday and didn't find shit. Nothing. Nada." He's not letting this go. Get ready for an earful today, pal. "If we hadn't'a turned back when we did, we woulda gotten locked out. I am not getting locked out again, dude. That shit sucked."

He trudges along behind Charles, fiddling with some loose threads on his poncho instead of keeping an eye out for buildings like he's supposed to. Threat of death aside, he really wants to get at that piano. And that's north. Way north. He grumbles.

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"Yeah well, we did turn back, Charlie. And we'll turn back again if we have to." In other words, if Charlie whines enough.

Charles isn't exactly pleased with the idea of just playing poke the bear with this whole exploration thing. If it were up to him, he'd dart straight down south and keep going, but at the same time, he can understand Charlie's hesitation. Dude did die, alright? Charles was there, it was pretty damn awful. But even so, they're running out of time overall. They have to find that town hall, and that means exploring. Finding keys, finding clues. And they can't really do that if they just play it safe.

Charles stops for a second, glancing over his left shoulder a bit. He makes it look like he's just checking to see how Charlie's holding up, but really, he's just got a bad feeling. Like something's following them.

Watching them.

But there's only the icy expanse behind him. He shrugs it off. Probably nothing.

Jesus though, it's cold out here. The understatement slash captain obvious moment of the century, but still. He balances the hatchet in the crook of one elbow long enough to take off the mittens and try to breathe some warmth back into his fingers. It doesn't really work.

There is something watching them, in fact. Lurking in the ruins. Waiting - or rather, struggling.

Running across other people had not been one of Beckett's hopes for the day. He had left Angel and Rhys behind precisely hoping to travel alone, far from any living thing. Living. He'd lain awake deep into the previous night, listening to the thunder of his companions' heartbeats. He'd woken up to the same, and knew he had to go.

The emptiness of the snowfield helped, and in the silence he'd been able to lay out his thoughts, isolate the voice of the mad hunger - the Beast - and wrest with it as he had done a thousand times. Being Kindred did not mean being an animal - it meant control. And everything was going according to plan, restoring that balance, that control, until he saw the two men in the distance.

At first he'd told himself that he was going up to warn them. That self-deception had lasted maybe a minute, until the first time he ducked behind a half-collapsed wall to watch. He was hunting, and had quickly lost track of time in the struggle to stop. Come near, dart back again; hide, crouch low, pull himself down and fight for his own mind. It hadn't worked, it still isn't working. He is now within a handful of feet from them - only hidden by merit of the rubble and the snow - and getting nowhere in this fight. Have to focus. Pain maybe - pain helps sometimes - he raises a hand up and sinks his eager fangs into it. Focus.

It's a mistake. He knows that as soon as he tastes his own blood. Then he knows very little else.

He leaps over the low half-wall and rushes into the two men's midst, the hunter - what moves him now - counting on the element of surprise. He comes barrelling full into the first living body in his way, just aware enough to choose the man with the obvious weapon to knock down. All his abilities may be gone, but the frenzied hunger makes him fast, strong, utterly careless of pain. And he is not moving to disable or draw this out. Kill them both, then feed at his leisure. That's all the Beast knows.

Charlie isn't quick enough to warn Charles. He doesn't even see the attack until Charles is on the ground. For a fraction of a second, he hesitates, ready to run because if they're getting attacked, it's by an anomaly, and Charlie has more than learned his lesson when it comes to fucking with anomalies.

But then he realizes it's another person. That should be scarier, maybe, but there's not a lot of time to analyze the situation. He throws himself at the attacker. He's not sure what his plan is, but getting him off of Charles is a good start.

Charles doesn't see it coming. Of course he doesn't. It comes from the right, and even though he's been extra careful today, it happens in the fifteen seconds he isn't.

He hears it first; footsteps rushing through the snow. Fast. He turns, further than he would have to if it wasn't for that stupid eye, and by then it's too late. He knows it's too late. He tries to bring up the hatchet anyway, his fingers fumbling in the cold, dropping his mittens, grasping the wood handle, trying to haul back enough to get a good swing in- he hasn't even registered what's coming for him yet- and then it happens. Collision.

The other body hits him like a mac truck, destroying the momentum of the hatchet swing, knocking him off balance. Charles goes down, and on the way there, it slowly filters into his brain that this is a person. A person is attacking him. And somehow, that's way worse than the alternative.

He falls on his back, the snow too hard to really cushion the impact, and the other guy is on top of him, weight holding him down. The realization is enough to make something snap somewhere. Someone is holding him down. For the next few seconds his brain is just a screeching air raid siren of panic. Someone is holding him down.

He fights, but it's half-blind, and not for the usual reason. He kicks, he thrashes, he tries to punch. He isn't sure whether he's connecting or not. All he can think is no no no no no- until the shock of pain in his right hand pulls him back to reality like a bucket of ice water to the face.

The guy is biting him. He's biting his finger. He's- Jesus Christ-

Charles feels it when Beckett takes his finger off with his teeth, and it hurts simultaneously more and less than it should. He cries out- he doesn't think he's legitimately screamed in years- and tries to shove at the guy's chest with all he has.

It goes just as the hunter plans - the leap, the run, the rushing attack that leaves neither time nor room for anything but a panicked, flailing response. Charles is taller than Beckett, but the momentum makes a substantial difference, and then they're on the ground and the instincts of centuries know just what to do, though they lack the claws, the fangs to do it with. And a good thing too, because what they know to do is to go for the throat.

With his claws, he'd have opened his prey's jugular, and that would have been it. Without then, he grabs for Charles' neck nonetheless with one hand, trying to immobilise the man's striking fists with the other. Ge sinks all his weight into kneeling on Charles's chest and abdomen, the kicks that batter his back registering no reaction. He only catches one wrist, though, and the other hand keeps coming at him, at his stomach - a hard hit, no response, not even a flinch - at his shoulder - hard again, and no response - at his face -

Snap.

It's the practised move of someone who bites parts off his foes as a matter of course. He catches Charles's hand in his jaws, his fangs find the soft spot in the joint at the base of one finger, and with a twisting tearing jerk of his head it's over in a heartbeat. Beckett spits the offending piece of meat and bone onto the snow. Blood spurts wildly. He opens his mouth wide for it.

Which is when Charles's desperate shove knocks him off-balance, along with the new attacker at his back. He nearly tumbles, catches himself on one heel, spins on it, things he could never do now - not anymore - if he weren't crazed with the hunger. Instead of resisting Charlie's grab he pushes himself into it, to tip his foe off-balance in turn and force him down. He will get one of them down, it hardly matters to him who, and the more careful planning of kill then feed is retreating between the mounting urge to drink now.

Charlie had thought this was just some paranoid asshole that they accidentally pissed off somehow, that this would just be a quick scuffle and then they'd be on their way. From the way Charles is screaming, though, they aren't gonna be that lucky. Where's all that blood coming from? Everything is moving too quickly for Charlie to assess the damage, but that snap sounded a lot like bone and something bloody drops from Beckett's mouth. His mouth.

Charles throws Beckett away just as Charlie's grabbing him and then Beckett wheels around and somehow, Charlie is on his back in the snow. Fuck fuck fuck, this is not what he wanted. The force of the collision disorients him for a moment, just long enough to give Beckett a window of opportunity. He scrambles to get back to his feet, but it's too late. He makes a last-ditch move for the hatchet.

The hatchet, of course, is what Charles is realizing he no longer has. But there are things he does have, and they're more important at this exact second. He has freedom of movement, he has breath in his lungs. He doesn't have a crushing weight on his chest, he doesn't have someone holding him down, he doesn't have a hand around his throat, and- and he doesn't have ten fingers.

It hits him when he rolls onto his knees, when he tries to catch himself using his hands. There's a searing pain in the middle of the right one, and when he looks down, there's blood on the snow between the fingers. The fingers which are spaced much further than they should be. He counts them and comes up one short.

Son of a bitch.

He's been in plenty of fights before, some of them nasty, some of them he lost, (badly,) but never has anyone bitten off a part of him. Or even like, tried to. This is a whole new level of what the fuck.

He doesn't really have time to crawl around thinking about it though, he's got to get up, he's got to get his head in the game. He can't panic, he can't lose his shit. Just think dammit. He knows what to do here, he just has to get up and do it.

Breathe in, breathe out. His throat hurts. His arms are shaking. He pushes with one knee and staggers to his feet, still a little dizzy. No one's attacking him anymore, but there's no way he laid that guy out with a shove. Where is- Charlie-

They're proving trickier prey than the hungry hunter has hoped for, and he's losing patience. First one, then the other, struggling. Pressing down on top of Charlie, Beckett snarls, showing brightly bloodied fangs. He's still aware of the hatchet at the edge of his vision, and aware that that is the one danger that might cost him the fight and its prize. No, no one is getting that hatchet.

He tackles Charlie again, and this time there's no playing around, no move to immobilise. He goes right for the man's throat. His legs tangle with Charlie's to bring him down, his hands grabbing for his hair, his face, to make that throat easier to access. He barely notices when his fingers, twisted into the memory of claws, sinks into something yielding on that face - only pushes further, harder, tearing and ripping in.

They roll in the snow until the hatchet is practically buried under their struggle. The hunter clamps down, jaws locking. Every drop he drinks makes him want more.

What the fuck is this guy's deal? Charlie goes down hard as Beckett dives for him. The snow cushions the impact a little, but it sure doesn't help his situation. It's that much more difficult for Charlie to flip into a position better suited for defending himself, and by then, the hatchet's already disappearing into the snow. But, it's fine. It's fine. It's still two against one. Whatever Beckett is going to do to him, he can take it, if only to give Charles a moment to get his shit together and rally.

Beckett's fingers dig into the soft flesh near the bridge of his nose, though, and Charlie knows he's wrong. His vision cuts out on one side, just disappears, isn't black but is just gone and he can tell even with his eyes closed. He's screaming because his body knows something is wrong. It doesn't hurt, not yet. When he tries to jerk his head away, something rips instead, and then a chunk of him is scooped out. He blindly swings at Beckett with a fist but he's not sure if it connects.

Teeth open up his jugular and that's when the pain starts. Throbs of it rush through his system as Beckett's mouth crushes the screams out of him. He shudders, weakly trying to pry Beckett off of him just so he can breathe, but it's no use. Charlie can't move. Beckett's fingers are still rooted in his skull.

With the last of his strength, he twists his head out of Beckett's grip, but the nerve catches. There's a snap. He blacks out from the pain.

Charlie's on the ground, with the vampire on top of him, and- Jesus Christ, there's blood everywhere. It doesn't quite register exactly what that means, he hasn't quite figured out whose hands are where, whose mouth is doing what, but Charles needs the hatchet, that's his first thought. He must've dropped it when Beckett plowed into him, and now it's gone. No time to search for it, as the gears in his brain are finally starting to catch, and he's realizing the right course of action and, unfortunately, it's not just hacking at the guy's neck until his head rolls off.

No, because that would take too long.

He dives in, on Beckett before he even processes what he's doing, arms around the vampire's back, up under his armpits, trying to break that grip off- but then Charlie's screaming, and it finally sinks in that one of Beckett's hands is literally in his eye socket. No, can't tear him off; better come up with a new plan, and be quick about it.

Charles lets go, he's up in an instant, his mind slipping into that hyper-zen state of panicked calm that always comes with a fight. Maybe if he hurts the guy enough? He directs a savage kick into Beckett's left side, so hard he feels it up his shin bone. But still the vampire continues, and there's so much goddamn blood.

Maybe he could strangle him? No, too slow. Break his neck? Charles isn't completely confident that would actually work. He wishes he had something sharper, wishes he could just bleed the guy out before he tears Charlie apart, but he doesn't- the hammer.

It's out of his coat pocket before he's finished the thought, but he doesn't have the time to gear up like an all-star batter; instead he just hauls back with his right arm and slams the flat side of the head into the back of Beckett's skull.

If that doesn't drop him, he's gonna have to get creative.

Finally, the hunter has his dues. As soon as Beckett has his grip on Charlie sure, as soon as he knows that whatever it is he's doing to hold his prey down is working - no conscious thought of the eye wound, only the instinct that feels the body under him weaken and then go limp - the hunger reds out everything else. He drinks, mouthful after mouthful, dark blood spurting out and dribbling over the snow. The pleasure of it is unearthly. After months of struggle, the occasional brief and frustrating taste leading to nowhere but more self-denial and anger and guilt, he lets his nature take its course at last.

He's too focused on it for Charles's attacks to register as more than annoyances, even the kick that makes him clearly feel something in him crack. His lungs protest, his mortal body wants to start coughing, but he's had it with that.The beast overrides it. This is what the hunting and feeding means, sating the red hunger. In the last vestiges of his conscious mind the thought pounds, brilliant, heady, no more cold, weakness, illness, despair. This will heal you, make you yourself, make you immortal -

The litany rings bright until the flash of pain crashes through the back of his head and explodes down his spine, and he's out like snuffed candle, collapsing on top of the prey he'd almost claimed.

Charlie is dimly aware of Beckett's jaw going slack, of the vampire crumpling onto him as dead weight instead of pinning him down. He fades in and out of consciousness, his head swimming though the rest of him feels oddly numb, like his body maxed out on pain and just short-circuited. He knows that there's something wrong with his face, but that's not important right now. His neck is leaking. He should do something about that.

Only one of his arms comes up when he moves to push Beckett off of him. Uh oh. Did something happened to the other one? Maybe it's just stuck. He presses the hand he's got to work with into Beckett's shoulder, but nothing happens. He's shaking. Fuck, he'd better not be fucking dying again. It feels kind of the same, almost. Goddammit.

New plan. Stop bleeding. It takes a couple of tries for his hand to find his neck. In the process, he catches something gooey and warm in the snow. What... What is that? He rolls it around in his fingers. The fog in his head lifts suddenly.

His hand clamps down on his neck, having abandoned the thing he's very sure he doesn't want to identify. Blood still gushes between his fingers, but that's okay. He can deal with that. He concentrates hard on trying not to bleed anymore because what was that in his hand and he would like to avoid vomiting all over himself if possible.

He's made a mistake, and he realizes is the second the hammer connects with the back of Beckett's head. Wrong hand, jackass. Charles drops his makeshift weapon in the snow, clutching his wrist as fresh blood drips from his missing finger and fresh pain- no longer dulled by the staccato rush of adrenaline- lances up his arm.

"Shit."

When he looks quickly away from the messy stump, he sees that his attack worked, at least. So this wasn't for nothing. Beckett is down for the count, it looks like, but he's lying on top of Charlie and god that is a lot of blood.

Charles chooses to ignore the pain in his hand for now, because there are more important things. He has to get this asshole off his friend, and then he has to make sure Charlie isn't- He has to make sure Charlie's okay. He leans down and, using the right hand this time, which is to say, his left, he grips Beckett's shoulder and rolls him. Then he does it again, leaving the vampire face down in the hard-packed powder.

It takes him a second of just kind of staring at all the red everywhere to figure out that Charlie's alive. Still breathing, still bleeding, but he's alive. The wave of relief that tries to follow up that discovery is cut short, though, because Charlie won't be alive for very long if they don't plug up wherever's leaking. Charles isn't even sure what Charlie's injuries are. He can't see them through all of the gore.

He guesses he'll just have to figure it out, because time is not on their side.

He drops to his knees next to Charlie, shrugging off his backpack and tearing through its contents. He's getting his own blood on everything, but he barely notices. He still has that bandage thing he found in the pharmacy, right? Or was it from the hospital- fuck, it doesn't matter. He yanks it out and tries to figure out where to put it.

He thinks he's supposed to apply pressure, but there are other things you gotta do, right? What do you do about this? Why didn't he ever bother to fucking learn? Charlie's hand is over his neck, so that seems like a good place to focus on.

"Charlie, you still with me?" He starts tearing off a big chunk of the bandage to wad up and shove against where Charlie's bleeding. Except he's bleeding from his face somewhere too, right? Charles leans over, but before he can inspect his friend's face, he finds himself staring into one of his eyes.

Which is on the ground. Not attached. Just... sitting there.

Charles can't even process what he's looking at. What it is and what it means don't connect, but it still takes a staggering amount of willpower not to just crabwalk backwards as far and as fast as he can. Don't look at it, don't think about it. Bigger fish to fry. He forces his gaze away and back to the neck wound.

"Move your hand, okay? We gotta put something on this."

Edited 2016-08-21 10:16 (UTC)

Now Charles is leaning over him and saying his name, but he can't move, not now, because if he does anything besides breathing, he's pretty sure he'll lose it. Don't freak out, Charlie. It's fine. You're gonna be fine.

He manages to shake his head when Charles tells him to move his hand. No can do. But he's starting to realize how cold he is. He's wet and shivering and it's like the fountain all over again.

Charles is here with him too, in person this time and that's better. Is it? He looks scared, which reminds Charlie that he is scared too, and he is so tired of making Charles take care of him. He's got his own blood to worry about. And what if the other guy comes back? What time is it?

He's gonna tell Charles to just bolt. Leave him here, he'll bleed out soon anyway, and make sure to get inside before lockdown. He's died once and he's half dead now and is saving him really worth it? Just go, dude.

But speaking takes a lot of energy. It's a few moments before he's able to get any words out.

"Am I gonna die?"

Charles' response comes out before he's even really formed it in his brain.

"No, you're not, Charlie. You're gonna be okay." And he can say that this time, because this time is different. He's not trapped behind a door this time, he's here, and he can do something about this. And he's going to do something about it. He's not letting Charlie die again.

"I really need you to put this on your neck though, it'll help stop the blood." And then they can work on... everything else. Charles is already starting to try and gingerly wipe some of the red off of Charlie's face, to try and see where the mess ends and the actual wound begins.

"Okay," he manages, and then again, with a little less shake to his voice: "Okay." He pulls his hand away to let Charles do whatever he's going to do. He's not sure that he believes Charles, but it doesn't matter. What's gonna happen is gonna happen regardless.

When Charles touches his face, Charlie recoils on reflex. "Don't," he says, and isn't sure why. The pain isn't the problem. There's just something about Charles pawing at him like that.

It doesn't matter. Worry about his neck, man. That's the thing that's gonna kill him.

Charles reluctantly moves his hand away from Charlie's face and diverts his attention to his neck. He folds up the cloth in his hand as compact as he can get it and puts it where the blood's coming out.

"This is probably gonna hurt, sorry." He does the whole applying pressure thing, and that's when another piece of first-aid knowledge clicks into place. Something about elevation... ? "I think we gotta sit you up, too." There's what looks like an intact wall nearby, maybe they can lean him against that.

Shit, what time is it? How close to lockdown? Is that wall just a wall or is it a building? And ugh, his own blood is still getting everywhere. That's definitely not a good thing, he doesn't think. He should do something about that, but Charlie's situation is a lot worse than his. It can wait.

"S'fine," Charlie mumbles, and it is. He doesn't feel much different when Charles presses down on his neck. It hurts the same as it did a minute ago, like the pain is all at once everywhere and pinpointed down to the exact cells torn apart by Beckett's teeth. He's going to feel like this for awhile, he realizes. That pisses him off. Good. Maybe if he can focus on being angry, he can forget about everything else.

He sits up and brushes Charles away to take over the "apply pressure" thing himself. "Fine, fine."

Beckett's lying unconscious just a few feet away, his mouth still wet with Charlie's blood. Closer, just past Charles, is the hammer he must have used to take Beckett down. But the guy's not dead. He's still breathing. He'll wake up eventually. Probably. Or.

Charlie pushes himself forward to swipe the hammer out of the snow. He tells himself that he doesn't have a choice. Stay angry.

Charles is wadding up more shit to put into Charlie's... eye hole... when he notices him moving a little more than is strictly required for "applying pressure". Moving when you're bleeding is bad, right? It makes you bleed more? And holy shit Charlie what are you doing-

"Hey! What- Stop." He snatches the hammer away right as Charlie's fingertips brush it. With his left hand this time. Good job. "What the hell, dude?" He can see the expression on Charlie's mangled face. He can guess what the intent here was.

Mostly because he had the same thought himself.

"We can't, okay? We gotta at least find out who he is first. We gotta make sure nobody just thinks we straight up murdered him, right? We gotta... We gotta get on the network."

Right, yeah. Make it known that this guy attacked them first. Make an alibi, justify themselves. Charles isn't completely sold on the idea of punching this guy's clock yet, but hell, maybe they should. The response they get from the town will probably decide one way or the other.

"Now here, I'm gonna tie this around your ey- Around your face."

Goddammit. Charles is too fast. All Charlie manages to accomplish is landing himself on his hands and knees in the snow again. A fresh spurt of blood stains the ice under him. What? Oh. Apply pressure. Right. He rolls onto his back.

Charles is saying something about the network. "Sure, yeah, okay." The words come out garbled. He's concentrating on not barfing. His head is swimming. Again. Ugh.

It's good that Charles got to the hammer first. Charlie probably would've missed, anyway. He should've sat still and let Charles do whatever he's gonna do. Except, now Charles is coming at him wanting to put stuff on his face and, nope. No thank you. Charlie puts his hand up, drapes his arm over his face to shield himself, tries to scoot away but doesn't get very far.

"Stop it. Go network."

He's fine, Charles. Quit touching him.

Well, fine then. Charlie's still bleeding, but Charles doesn't want him to get hurt even more by struggling to force bandages on his face. Reluctantly, he gives up, instead tossing the torn cloth in Charlie's direction.

"Fine, here. You do it."

He pockets the hammer again and digs out his tablet. Time to figure out what the fuck's going on here. And maybe what to do about missing fingers and eyes.

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[log] Charlie and Charles Get Jumped by a Vampire [closed]

[Action!!!]

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[super cw: eye gore]

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[cw: more eye gore]

and even MORE eye gore

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