A/N: Second installment to my Breakout Kings trilogy, finally arrived. Well. The first chapter, anyway. Just a heads up, this story has the same rating as 445455 for the same kind of events in that story.
Secondly, to questions about the name, 445455 was the prison ID number for Brent Howson, Damien's tag-along (at least, as I think of him). 24636 is the ID number of Lloyd. And, predictably, 657556 will be the name of the last in this trilogy, as it is Damien's ID number.
Thirdly, though there are hints-that-are-probably-not-subtle-enough-to-accurately-be-called-hints to Lloyd/Damien. Though it's a bit of a story spoiler, I don't ship this ship and as much as I love hero/villain ships, this is not one that falls in my basket. So no, there will be NO Lloyd/Damien, explicit or naw. Zip. Nada. None.
Not to say it won't be implied a couple of times.
R&R, tell me what you think. Criticism is much appreciated, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 1: In which there is such an abundance of quoting you'll have the episode memorized by the time you've read this, and far too much italicizing.
Oh, and Lloyd's a bit insane. (But that's kind of implied.)
"I'm dying and trying / But believe me I'm fine / But I'm lying, / I'm so very far from fine… " -21 Pilots, Fall Away
Headache. He had a headache.
Again.
Lloyd sighed, scrubbing his hands hurriedly down his face as the guard at his door shouted once more - probably loud enough just for Erica and Shea to be able to hear, the bastard - sending spittle through the open door of the cell and onto the floor. Lloyd was glad, not for the first time, that he was sitting in the corner of his mattress farthest from the cell door; his cellmate was currently standing in the far corner, eyeing the exit with great hunger, and Lloyd didn't want to get in the way when his partner suddenly decided to disregard the risks and make a break for it.
His cell-mate, however, didn't get his chance for his prison break, as it was then that the guard brought his meaty face around to the side, his expression falling greatly. A rumbling growl seemed to emanate from the man, and when he brought his head back to Lloyd, his expression was nothing short of murderous. He waved for Lloyd to move with a rather rude gesture, then pointed behind him with a clubbed thumb; Lloyd's gaze lingered on the thumb for a just a moment longer to send the guard a sneer, before he looked over at the person approaching the cell.
White flashed before his eyes until dark shadows moved beyond, and Lloyd winced at the spike of his headache.
It hadn't happened often, but frequently enough for Lloyd to anticipate it with trepidation. He didn't actually know what it was - which was terrifying in and of itself - and he certainly didn't wish to surrender his pride by telling anyone about it. After all, they were only small, momentary episodes in which the colors in Lloyd's vision were burned into his retinas, creating the effect of a blinding white flash, in which also all surrounding sound and smell and other stimuli that could be inputted into the senses were blocked. They never lasted more than a few seconds, and only ever came whenever he got a headache.
When the colors receded and the sharp tang of reality hit Lloyd again, he opened his eyes into squints, heaving an even deeper sigh at the sight of Raymond. Looks like he didn't have a choice, anymore.
Lloyd stood slowly, suddenly very self-aware as he wondered if the tear tracks on his face were prominently visible, or if the dark circles under his eyes had grown into bags at the lack of sleep for several nights straight. He walked with a gait that which only a man who had not moved in longer than a week would have, but Lloyd figured Raymond wouldn't notice that.
He began to walk outside, and stopped once he was outside the cell. Lloyd cleared his throat at the awkward moment that had suddenly sprung to life; Raymond attempted to put a hand on Lloyd's shoulder, but before he could even pick his hand up past torso-length, Lloyd had flinched away. He didn't feel quite up to another man putting their hand on his shoulder and giving it a strong squeeze to hold it in place.
Lloyd groaned internally and turned on his heel, jogging down the corridors and taking random turns; he needed to walk, to distract himself, to do something to keep his mind's persistent memories at bay. His pace was brisk, and Raymond had to gallop slightly to catch up. Immediately he delved into his spiel, trying to change Lloyd's mind, trying to worm his way back into Lloyd's good graces, to get him to do something he didn't want to do.
So many parallels, his mind whispered. It's almost like Damien never left. You've run from one, and another's come running back.
Lloyd cleared his throat once more, pushing the notion to the back of his mind as he suddenly lost track of what Raymond was saying. Lloyd could hear Raymond's words and knew what they meant, but with all of them so fast, he could only pick out bits and pieces that he forgot a moment later.
"… this guy's fascinating. He… bomb… prison… foil, sugar, stump remover… maintenance shed."
Lloyd swallowed, and blinked harshly, struggling to keep himself focused on Raymond's timbre and the current reality he resided in, instead of the sudden distant echoing of the voices and silence replaying his unwanted memories over and over and over again in his head.
He had been perfectly fine until the van had arrived; then had come the daunting image of Erica and Shea's familiar faces, and the handcuffs that he had dreaded since his first day in prison, but now held a heated fear of. Seeing Raymond attempt to convince him to come back was doing nothing to halt the memories that accompanied the U.S. Marshal's presence.
Raymond had been there for the aftermath of the… tragedy, and was therefore too informed of Lloyd's mental instability to be comfortable around, too connected to the memories of the actual trauma in Lloyd's mind; so the genius would prefer to stay as far away from the man as possible, at the moment.
Foil, sugar, stump remover, why did that sound familiar… ? Foil, sugar, stump remover; foil, sugar, stump… two hands running down his chest to slather excess lotion on the fabric, though the motion held a claim of possession, solidifying the dominant and the submissive's clear roles… Foil, sugar, stump remover - !
"Potassium Nitrate. That is fascinating - I wasn't kidding. I am off the team."
An all too familiar taunting smirk aimed his direction, then swiveling away as it was aimed at the other person in the room, whom he began to approach with soft steps, like a prowling cat, circling its prey…
"I'm telling you, it… magic act," Raymond ignored Lloyd's protest, walking him farther down the hall and taking Lloyd with him. "Poof… disappeared… searched the yard… hole in the fence… "
… a mad glint in his eye shining while he finished zipping up his pants and began to advance closer and closer to him, too incredibly close ...
"… mean… coated… two… homemade corrosive… "… One hand steadily climbing his knee to his thigh, the other curling with intimate delicacy around his stomach, slowly moving downward, just barely scraping the waistline of his jeans -
"Mm-hm, how many times can I say it? I'm done. I'm out," Lloyd rushed, eager to stop talking and regain his steady silence to conceal his wavering stability; yet conversely, he was also filled with trepidation at the inevitable intruding thoughts that would once more return at his silence. "And if the other inmates see me fraternizing with the enemy, I am screwed, so if you would please - "
Lloyd was incredibly grateful that Raymond began to shuffle Lloyd into a side office, because the genius could feel the impending break in his voice coming and the pressure building up behind his eyes, and after then, he wouldn't be able to talk at all for fear of dissolving into inarticulate sobs.… he could see into her eyes, her dampened, already-dead eyes just moments before the syringe was emptied into her neck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…
Lloyd immediately took the first seat he set eyes on, grateful for a place to rest, if only for a few moments. Nonetheless, the lack of activity seemed to speed his mind's incessant meandering through his memories, so Lloyd's leg began to bounce of its own accord. He closed his eyes for just a split longer than could be classified as a blink.
He wasn't only mentally exhausted; his reluctance to go to sleep for fear of nightmares was impeding his normal schedule and was therefore affecting his physical health as well. Or perhaps his lack of sleep was caused by a reluctance to lower his guard for such a long period of time that kept him awake and terrified, shivering inside his cot and flinching at the smallest noise…
… he knew he was gambling for his life and Nina's, but the guilt, oh, the guilt was gnawing at his heart, at his soul, corroding it into mere shreds and slivers of what they used to be… but the fear became stronger and stronger, overcoming the guilt as he squirmed desperately to escape the hands now reaching for him, probing at his body with a tender fervor…
"Look… need you back… " Raymond said with a hint of reluctance, as though his pride was the one thing being stained from this encounter. For a moment there, Lloyd had thought it was just the rest of what menial vestiges of mental stability he had left. "… fugitive… up… alley… "
… the reluctant pause of the exploring hands, then regretful retreat, though one hand lingered just to sneak a few fingers under his jeans once more, and he couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything as the man filled his heightened senses, his musk filling the room, his chest far too close, his hands even closer -
"Yeah, Damien was right up my alley; look where that got us," Lloyd rebuked, instantly regretting his words, not only as a new type of guilt settled in the pit of his stomach, but also as his mind flew with that statement, creating a list and compiling everything that had gone wrong ever since Damien… he didn't realize he had begun to list them out loud until he was able to stop himself.
"Charlie's gone. A young woman died, while I watched… "… "You'd like to do the honors? Be my guest!"… the syringe sliding cleanly through flesh… the surge of adrenaline tickling the tips of his fingers as he felt the life leave the girl's body, all by his hands… "… helpless… "
"And Max Morris watched his family die when he was just a kid," Raymond stressed, taking Lloyd out of his self-pity session with a rough jerk and leaving the genius involuntarily squinting slightly in piqued interest.
Ooh … He knows he shouldn't do this, shouldn't get roped into this again, damn, he shouldn't be doing this.
But then again, no painful memories sprang to mind at the subject change…
"They were trapeze artists. They fell to their death right in front of him." Raymond gives a slight pause; Lloyd supposes it's for dramatic effect, but it's enough time for the genius's mind to search through his memories, trying to find the familiarity peeking its head out at him…
"And then years later, he burns down the same circus he grew up in," Raymond continues, and Lloyd gets it with an incredulous blink. Batman, of course. Dick Grayson, the flying Grayson act, his parents falling to their deaths, Boy Wonder going on to fight crime with a distinct lack of pants… or, in this case, Dick Grayson turned dark side and suffering from a mental illness that caused him to burn down the circus. Much more realistic, Lloyd thought. "Now, tell me you're not dying to get inside this guy's head and find out why."
Even taking into account the Batman theme immediately running on a constant loop in the back of his mind and the opportunity to profile a real comic-character-gone-wrong, Lloyd still felt himself being swayed only on an objective level, and therefore it was easy for him to brush off Raymond's attempts to win him over. That and he felt Raymond was being a tad too optimistic in thinking only those factors could drag him back in.
… and yet…
"So, he grew up in the circus - who was his state-appointed guardian?" Lloyd inquired in a soft voice, immediately left trying to fend off the comparison of his own tonality to Damien's sotto voce back in that warehouse… he shook his head, not wanting the memories to come back to the front of his mind. He needed a distraction.
Now that he was considering it, a new case could be an invaluable distraction that would aid in easing him back into society, as well as in socializing with the people who were connected, however indirectly, with his trauma…
"Which state? The circus moves from one town to the next. He grew up off the grid," Raymond says, with just a hint of a shadow of a forming smile. Lloyd's head perks up slightly in a deeper invested interest, and does so even more as Raymond continues, "He doesn't even have a social security number."
A ghost to the system and the folk outside of the circus, and a retarded, insane boy to the only people he could've ever considered family. Lloyd almost winced at the parallel between himself and this Max Morris: he himself was only ever seen as a geeky genius to the outside world, no one ever bothering to get close enough to see his true self, while at home he was treated more as a tool, as a tube of play-dough for his mother to shape and mould into the perfect person, the perfect accomplishment, that just turned out to be her biggest disappointment…
Lloyd paused then, not wanting to think any further back into his childhood. At this point in the recovery of his most recent trauma, it wouldn't be good to retrieve past trauma; baby steps, as spoken in laymen's terms. But despite the similarities between himself and this case, the first distraction to present itself would be the best course of action to take in healing then dealing… or perhaps it wasn't the psychiatrist in his mind thinking that, but rather the guilt of all of the people he had killed that was telling him he just needed to bottle up his feelings, and things would work themselves out…
No. It wasn't his guilt at work here - and he was going to prove it.
"Well," Lloyd began, his mind working to come up with some excuse that would get him on the case and simultaneously keep his pride intact; and he had to act now, while Raymond still had that I'm-desperate-but-you-don't-need-to-know-that expression on his face.
But no excuse came soon enough, before the memories came rushing back, as his mind's last ditch effort to keep him from leaving the prison. Lloyd had never thought he would prefer the inside of a prison to the outside world, but taking into consideration all that had happened…
… the devilish smirk the monster left, along with the dead and defamed Nina Paulson, promising a string of casualties to Lloyd's mind, staring into a room empty of souls and filled with death and death wishes. Images tore through his mind, of Nina and Damien and Charlie and himself and every other life he's taken, lying in a skewered position and piled uncoordinatedly in a scattered heap of bodies, the life fleeting quickly from their eyes, accusing even in death…
"No," Lloyd says, less as a response to Raymond and more of a forced indication for his own thoughts to halt the path they were travelling down. As a plethora of images fill his mind once more, he chokes, "I'm out."
"Yeah?" Raymond asks, and it doesn't seem like a challenge anymore. Lloyd feels slightly guilty, for some reason, and swallows, hoping he took the right choice and giving a small, "Sorry."
"You're out?" Lloyd nodded, unable to look Raymond in the eyes anymore; he couldn't face the disappointment that would be hiding in his eyes. "Well, then, I'm sorry to have to do this to you." The Marshal leaned forward and reached into his back pocket for his phone.
"Threatening me with maximum security, Ray?" Lloyd muttered, exasperated. His tone, if it could even have been described as slightly lighter, immediately fell lower than it ever had before in Raymond's presence, he was sure. It turned bitter at the core, and recently ingrained fear curled and shriveled the tips of his T's into a desolate whisper. Nonetheless, Raymond didn't seem to notice. "It's nothing compared to the hell I've been living in."
Raymond held the speaker up, and Lloyd jumped slightly when a voice rang from over the line. "Hello, Lloyd. Are you there?"
"Mother," Lloyd greeted automatically with a tone far too chipper to be genuine, then turned to look at Raymond, wondering if the Marshal knew what Lloyd's previous thoughts about not venturing into his childhood had been. "Why are you calling her?"
Ah, there was the reason. The slight tinkling of ice in a glass flowing faintly from the other line. Raymond was attempting to bring up the rest of his guilt for abandoning and shaming his mother to get him back on the team; which, at second glance, seemed incredibly counter-productive. Or perhaps not, and perhaps Lloyd was just overthinking things, as he had a habitual tendency to do. Lloyd sighed.
"Is that ice? You drinking already?" He paused, narrowing his eyebrows. "What time is it?"
His mother ignored the last question, and Lloyd's mind answered for him - roughly seven in the morning, given the three hour time change.
"Oh, I'm drinking, Lloyd," she slurred slightly, and Lloyd winced at the venom in her tone as she hissed his name like a curse word. "I'm gonna get shit-faced and forget the shame you caused me."
This was beginning to be counter-productive for both Raymond and Lloyd, now, as his mind came up with several responses, almost all of them concerning his trauma, and he was nowhere near the point to be talking to his mother about it, never mind being hot-headed enough to bring it up in an argument that could spur on a tumble of questions.
Shame. What does she know of shame?
Lloyd sighed again, and placed his hands in his lap, steeling his facial features and refusing to give anything away to Raymond as he starts with an incredibly noticeable forced-calm tone, "Shame? Mother, I - "
"This job was the one good thing you had going," she slurred her words once more, and Lloyd's stomach turned. She had to be incredibly inebriated for the alcohol to hinder her words, as she had inevitably built up a resistance to the drink from all her years of drinking before. Not that that resistance mattered, now. "And you just had to quit it, like everything else from violin," Lloyd blinked at the sudden throwback to that disaster, "to Boy Scouts," an even worse experience, for everyone involved, Lloyd knew.
And that was Raymond's plan. Embarrass Lloyd into coming back onto the team. And, Lloyd considered, why not come back, really? His pride had already been thrown out the window, and if his mother kept talking, Lloyd was sure he would explode with a burst of language that he would not want his mother to hear. There was nothing to lose, except his mind and whatever vestiges of happiness he had left. What could possibly go wrong?
"All right, I'm in," Lloyd caved, and he could see the grin break out on Raymond's face before the man even processed Lloyd's words. His mother was still talking, however, and Raymond wasn't making any move to stop her, so Lloyd held out his handcuffs and repeated, "I'm in."
"And ballet lessons," deeper and deeper into shame; this time, Lloyd's cheeks were flushing an incredible red as he waved his wrists at Raymond and stressed, "Get these things off me."
When Raymond finally complied, Lloyd instantly lunged to hang up the phone call with a sharp, "Goodbye, mother," and then leaned back, taking to rubbing his wrists where the restraints had held him. He glanced up at Raymond, who was already standing, and who was opening the door, gesturing for Lloyd to exit.
He swallowed uncertainly, and gave one last rub at his aching temples before walking to the way out.
If Lloyd was being completely honest, the ultimately terrifying portion of returning wasn't the possibility of flashbacks or being captured or breaking even further because he had ventured back out into the law-abiding world. No, it was the people he was going back to work with.
They didn't know. They never got a singular hint as to what transpired in that warehouse; and for all they know, Damien Fontleroy simply killed a girl, and Lloyd blames himself. The genius almost wants to correct them on just how wrong they are, but that would be speaking about the trauma to the people connected to the trauma, and he wasn't anywhere near ready for that. Not yet.
Plus, he had liquidated far too many of his assets (all of his assets,) getting those police officers to not report what they had gotten out of the evidence and out of Lloyd, for the genius to just give up the information anyway.
To be truthful, Lloyd wasn't even sure he was ready to be in the immediate vicinity of these people, never mind engage in conversation with them. But he couldn't live in fear forever, and this was an important part of his healing - it was, for a familiar reference, a corner he was turning, by going back to the team.
It didn't make the possibility of the stares and questions any less likely, or any less daunting. Especially added to the fact that the elevator didn't seem to be working, and they had to take a long and awkward trek up three flights of stairs with luminous lamps so intense Lloyd wouldn't have been able to tell that he had had two headache spikes, if not for the momentary loss of his other senses as well.
Thankfully, once he actually entered the room, the attention wasn't on him. It was inevitable in the future to have the spotlight, true, but for the moment he had graceful freedom. Lloyd paused for a moment, taking in the scenery about him. The room hadn't changed since the last time he had inhabited its niches with something alike to a comforted assurance of safety. It still held the faint, thickened aroma of bitter peppermint, the stench a result of the combination of dozens of broken air fresheners and the natural sweat-stench that the room emitted naturally. Everything was… normal. Nothing had changed. And yet, it seemed like everything had. Shaking the straying thoughts from his head, Lloyd took to inspecting the object of everyone else's attention at the moment.
Instead of latching their gazes onto Lloyd, everyone else was staring straight at the two other people in the room; Shea looked rather discomforted with a hint of suspicion, while Erica looked immensely stressed and - worried.
"You guys holdin' up my elevator?" Raymond intoned, snapping Lloyd completely back to the current reality. One of the men took a badge from his coat and held it up.
"NYPD," he announced, gesturing to himself and his partner, as they respectfully introduced themselves. "Detective Estes."
"Ray Zancanelli," Raymond greeted, his voice less hostile and more neutral as he shook both of the men's hands.
"Detective Gay," the other detective introduced himself, and all Lloyd could think was that that name was incredibly unfortunate. That is, until the headache he had been nursing for the past month gave another one of its blinding spikes, and Lloyd momentarily lost track of the conversation. He shook himself out of his stupor and blinked several times, trying to get his eyesight back to normal while he peered through slitted eyes to pinpoint wherever his desk had gone.
While the two detectives chatted with Raymond and began to walk towards his office, Lloyd's vision cleared and he slunk his way over to his desk, setting himself down slowly and patiently waiting for the attention to shift to the case they were going to be working on. In the meantime, he tuned into the first detective's' words, as he informed Raymond of the situation.
"NYPD just found a link between Tommy Fitzgerald and, uh, that guy Pete from downstairs."
Raymond looked adequately shocked, and Lloyd narrowed his eyes, suddenly having to halt an onslaught of memories and thoughts that bombarded his mind. He cautiously turned the information over in his mind, analyzing it.
NYPD finding a link between a 'Tommy Fitzgerald' - much more unfortunate than 'Gay', surely - and a man who just happens to work under a U.S. Marshal's head of operations? Judging by the tone of the words, it was quite clear that 'Tommy Fitzgerald' was deceased, and perhaps 'Pete from downstairs' had done him some sort of harm - probably murder. That either made Pete incredibly intelligent, to draw attention to the one base where criminals were located and could be blamed for the act, or incredibly ignorant and didn't realize the Marshals had a base of operations a floor upstairs. Or perhaps Pete was incredibly stupid and had gone and killed a man, when he knew that the Marshals had an operating base just a floor up.
And then a rather terrifying imaginary thought broke his ongoing train: "NYPD just found a link between Damien Fontleroy and, uh, that guy Lloyd Lowery, who interviewed him when he was first caught." And, naturally, Lloyd found himself analyzing his own thoughts involuntarily and without his consent.
The deceased man's name was replaced with Damien's, implying perhaps that Lloyd wants him dead - this idea was reinforced further by the name of Pete, the killer, being replaced by Lloyd's own name. This suggests a rather violent unconscious need to vent, and perhaps an underlying want to kill Damien Fontleroy.
Of course, to rest of the team, this would be completely justified; but Lloyd knew his thoughts had never taken the turn for the violent - at least, not with this intensity. He's never… never wanted to end anyone's life, before.
No, no, it was simply just Damien's latest game messing with his head - pounding head, the headache only got worse on the ride over and the flashes are coming in smaller intervals - and he can't let that happen - he has to keep his mind straight so he can be of some help to the team, so he can focus more on the new runner and get in his head to keep his thoughts away from Damien.
Pulling himself back to reality, he suddenly realized he had been staring rather abjectly at a dusty corner, instead of engaging in any sort of part of reality. He shook the cobwebs from his mind, and looked up. The detective had left. Erica and Shea weren't staring, per se, it was just that their eyes were lingering on him a lot longer than absolutely necessary. And so it begins, Lloyd thought.
He glanced over at Julianne - his heart scaling the lining of his chest and leaping into his throat as he did - and paused expectantly; the smile she was giving him certainly warmed his heart, but oddly enough, it didn't bring the same euphoria as it always had. Not wanting to ponder the possible reasons for that, Lloyd shattered the silence with a rather forceful, "I assume you have a case folder for me?"
"Uh, yeah," Julianne bursts into action, and Lloyd squints suspiciously. She comes back and hands him the folder with a slow movement, and he simply grips it, glancing away once before eyeing her joyous expression once more.
"Right here," she says, rather unnecessarily, as both of their hands are on the file, now; Lloyd gives a slight nod - not knowing in the least what Julianne thought that had meant - and gives the file a harder tug, thus causing Julianne to let go and Lloyd to be able to flip through the file.
Focus on the work, you're here for the work, focus on the work, you're here for the work… circuses… nomadic… root would be at childhood… the words blurred together on the page, and Lloyd sighed, finding he had been rereading the same sentence over and over again for the past two minutes and hadn't gathered a single thing out of it. He sighed, opting to rest his eyes for a few minutes before he got another headache spike or something. They had been happening more frequently, but oddly enough only seemed to happen whenever he wasn't thinking about Damien…
"Alright, thanks for your time, Zancanelli," Detective Estes' word snapped Lloyd out of his resting stupor, and consequently crashed his train of thought. Lloyd hurried to get it all back and write it back down before Raymond could start the meeting to see what everyone had found.
"Sure thing. I'll talk to my people. If we find out anything, we'll be in touch."
"Yeah, yeah. Good."
… intentions in past… parallel… intentions in present… in -
Lloyd flinched harshly at a familiar, abrupt scream and the slight vibration of his desk; he blinked several times and swallowed, taking a few moments to digest the notion that he had mistaken his ringing phone for the late Nina's scream. He glanced for a moment at it, then abruptly turned his gaze and his mind from it. He had work to do. Work, work, work. He didn't have time for Damien. Why would he have time for Damien? There was work, so much work, a lot of non-Damien work, not enough time - !
Of course, Raymond's sentiment turned out to be the opinion that Lloyd should make time, because once he caught sight of the situation, he immediately noted, "Your phone's ringing."
Lloyd bit down on his tongue momentarily, turning to write another thought on a separate file to his right; he then responded with a rather forced casuality, "I see it."
And damn, but he wished Raymond could see whenever the memories flashed through Lloyd's mind, because the genius surely wasn't going to show his emotions obviously enough to be perceived.
Raymond stared for one moment longer, then reached out and took the phone in his hands, peering at it. "It's a blocked number." He paused for a split half-second, in which Lloyd knew that the Marshal was preparing himself to try and see Lloyd's reaction. "Must be Damien."
Involuntarily but not unnoticably, Lloyd recoiled slightly at the man's name; he hadn't heard Damien's name spoken out loud since the last day in prison he had talked to Shea or Erica. Or, rather, it was the first time he had heard Damien's name when it hadn't escaped from his own shivering lips as he lay awake at night. It was because of these nights and the impending inevitability of screaming his secrets and trauma to Erica and Shea that he avoided them ever since they got back to jail.
He had dodged all of his fellow convicts' attempts at reconvening once they had all exited the van that had taken them back to Maybelle, and he had kept himself away from them at every opportunity he was able to. This time stretch of solitude had only lasted a month, but it was the loneliest and most isolated month Lloyd had ever found himself pushing through. He distantly wondered if the distinct lack of his presence had affected Shea or Erica's month-span in prison, but then shook the thought from his mind and turned his attention back to Raymond and the phone.
"Most likely," he responded, perhaps just a second too late, as Raymond glanced at him once more in a wary fashion before putting the phone up to his own ear.
"Hello? Hello?" Raymond called into the phone. Obviously he didn't receive any response, as he soon thrust the phone out in front of him, and right into Lloyd's face. "Talk to him, Lloyd."
It was quite obvious - most definitely at Lloyd's angle, but it should have been at least perceptible from Raymond's angle - that Lloyd had finished writing what he had needed to, but he kept writing anyway, retracing things he had already written and adding in slight more detailed words just to give himself something to do, something to think about that wasn't the fact that Damien was calling for him, or that Raymond had called him 'Lloyd' instead of 'Lowery', so he definitely meant straight business with just a possibility of emotion put into the implied directive.
Meanwhile, he intoned distractedly, "I'm a little busy, Ray, sorry."
Raymond did as he had quite a few times before and simply stared incredulously at Lloyd for a few seconds; he then put the phone back up to his ear, and started, "Hey, Damien. This is Ray Zancanelli. Talk to me." He paused for a few moments, and Lloyd glanced vaguely upward, curious beyond his self-restraint at whether or not Damien had responded. "Come on, Damien."
Perhaps not. Raymond took the phone back from his ear, and Lloyd knew without having to look that Damien had hung up on him. The Marshal turned around to face Julianne, who, at this point, was ping-ponging her gaze between Raymond, Lloyd, and the now-closed phone in Raymond's hand. Raymond pointed to her with said phone, and said, "Track and trace that call."
Julianne, expecting this, had already started the track and trace, but nevertheless noted, "Okay, but it's gonna be the same scrambled signal."
"Do it anyway," Raymond directed to Julianne flippantly, nodded rather unnecessarily, and gestured vaguely with the phone; it was quite obvious his mind was elsewhere already - and Lloyd knew exactly where it had set its crosshairs. Expecting Raymond to be courteous and not cause a scene, Lloyd was unprepared for the Marshal's actions.
The Marshal then stared directly at Lloyd, and demanded, "What's the matter with you?"
Lloyd, slightly startled out of his faux-working as he was not expecting such a direct approach from the Marshal, gave a sharp, "What?"
"Look, I know you went through something awful," Raymond says, and he always seems to say just the right things to get the flashbacks to return. Lloyd does his best to fend them off as Raymond continues with, "but Charlie's killer's trying to reach out to you. At least answer the call."
Ah, the infamous guilt. That always helped matters. Lloyd was quick to dodge the intended shot at his obvious guilt complex, and flushed, "I have a plan, Ray."… I know you love games of chance…
Oddly enough, Lloyd's profession of a plan didn't seem very comforting to the Marshal, who had to take a moment and break eye contact, most likely to keep himself from doing something rash. "What, you have a plan?" he said, lightly and with a mocking huff of a laugh in the tone.
"Yeah," Lloyd responds strongly, knowing that now was the time he needed to convince Raymond of anything he needed convincing of. He was rash and uncooperative, yes, but if Lloyd could break past that barrier, he would make more of an effect than he ever could if Raymond was in his normal mindset.
"You have a plan?" Raymond repeated, but this time it held just a slight note of hope, and perhaps inquiry, that Lloyd jumped on.
"Max Morris, he's all over the news, right?"
… "Every law enforcement agency in the country has a price on your head," …
Lloyd knows he doesn't have much time, and certainly not enough time to calm himself enough to dispel the broken dam of memories, because Raymond's mind was rather comparable to an elevator. The genius had to get his plan into the elevator before the doors closed and Raymond's decision was made ultimately resolute; if he could not make it to the elevator, he would have to take the long flight of stairs up to the 200th floor in order to get Raymond to even consider his plan. So all he could do was let the flood out, hope it doesn't get to him, and convince Raymond to keep an open mind. Unfortunately, the genius could already see the doubt in the Marshal's expression and body language.
"So Damien would've heard about the breakout, and he'll assume, correctly, as it turns out," Lloyd gave a hiccup of a pause to push his chair away from his desk in order to hide the slight fear that crossed his face at his next words, "that I have been furloughed to work the case."
… he can see each moment in distinct detail, the crumble of the weathering concrete of the opposite wall, the splinters of the chair he's sitting in, the small bead of sweat paving a stream down Nina's cheek - or perhaps that's a tear; Lloyd didn't think she had had anymore after all that had happened…
Lloyd's losing him. Raymond's doubt is growing stronger; the elevator's just down the hall, if he can just get there in time…
"And naturally, he's gonna try and call me to taunt me some more," Raymond's almost gone, Lloyd just needs to get the words out, just needs to explain, just needs to be listened to…
"You wanna know a secret? You know why Damien likes glitter lotion?"… it's obvious to Lloyd now, and he can almost imagine, imagine how to feel the man's hands running over Lloyd's own arms instead of Nina's, spreading and maneuvering the lotion into the pores of his skin, not Nina's…
"But if he can't get me on the phone, that lack of attention is gonna drive him nuts."… "You forgot to take into account the most important variable - I'm insane."…
Raymond is hanging on his last thread. It's twirling and untwining and Lloyd can see it unravelling in Raymond's eyes, so the genius scoots his chair closer and puts his arm on the table, and shakes it along with his speech for emphasis. He just needs to get Raymond to pay attention long enough…
… "Wake up, Doc - you can sleep when you're dead."… he's certainly paying attention now, as Damien slides his hands up under the hem of his shirt and massages more of the lotion onto his skin; his hands are cold, just as cold as his expression, and his movements are hungry, just as ravished as the look in his eyes…
"And it's gonna unsettle him, and that - that might be when he slips up." The last image burned into Lloyd's mind puts him off slightly, and he trips in the middle of his sentence, immediately cursing himself soon afterwards.
Already, Lloyd knows and turns over in his mind what he should have said - 'might' indicates that there is a probability that the circumstances previously referred to may not occur. It would have been more beneficial to say that 'that will be when he slips up', as it has a more definite tone; not to mention the stuttering, giving a stressed impression of instability and uncertainty in his own plan.
Shaking those thoughts from his head, he instead focuses on his breathing and his attempts to dispel the memories and now-present-daydreams about what could have happened back in that warehouse… he doesn't need Lloyd's clothes anymore, and the genius squirms in place as the shirt goes over his head and Damien's hands slowly undo the latch on Lloyd's jeans and work their way over to catch on the belt loops and slide the fabric down past his thighs…
However, Raymond didn't seem to be focused too much on giving Lloyd any space - nor any time to work through something the genius obviously needs aid from time to heal. "That's it?"
Lloyd gave a nod as he shuffled uncomfortably, as though he could run from his thoughts. One glance told him Raymond had already seen a flaw fit to contradict the genius' plan… "Ah, you'd like to do the honors? Be my guest!"… he's starting from Lloyd's ankles this time, and working his way upward, and Lloyd can feel every nerve in his body trying to rebel as the hands glide smoothly over his knees and inward on his thighs… Lloyd shifts uncomfortably, trying to shake the image from his head while he responds with a hopefully-strong, "Yeah."
"Your plan to catch Damien is ignore him?" Or… perhaps Lloyd had never had a chance, because Raymond hadn't even listened to him in the first place. All he kept hearing was his own thoughts: Lloyd is wrong, Lloyd is traumatized, Lloyd isn't fit for work anymore because he watched as Damien raped a girl and was then forced into killing her, Lloyd can't even stop himself from imagining every possible scenario in his head in HD resolution… he's finished with the lotion, now, and Lloyd's clothing as well, as he starts to peel off his own, and Lloyd shuts his eyes, not wanting to look, to see…
"Look ... too traumatized… Damien… dress it up… clever strategy."… he can feel Damien now, feel his hands keeping a cold grip on Lloyd's shoulders as he pulled him closer, or perhaps thrust forward, but he can feel Damien, in a way he never had before, can feel him inside of him…
Lloyd almost makes a showcase of what miniscule amount of food he had ingested over the past few days, and manages to swallow it several times before he can take no more of the imaginary memory, and he explodes in a fit that can only be expressed as violently desperate, "Oh my goodness! I'm not dressing anything up!"
If Ray noticed anything of the change in Lloyd's voice, he doesn't say anything about it, but his fleeting expression of shock and his alarmed recoil was enough to showcase that he had, indeed, noticed the change. The building around him seems to recoil just as vehemently, and tilts dangerously. As the image finally shriveled into strips of emotions and laid themselves at the back of his mind, Lloyd was finally able to breathe normally, and think normally once again.
Trying painfully hard to get himself back into normalcy, he found it incredibly hard due to the thumping pulse of blood gathering around his hips. Clenching his teeth and crossing his legs uncomfortably, he focused back on his current objective; convincing Raymond of his mental stability so that the Marshal would believe his plan. Of course, the outburst hadn't helped his situation on the outside, but Lloyd still found he didn't regret it. After all, had he not exploded, the image probably would have gone farther, and who knows what Lloyd would have done then - or, rather, what he would have felt…
Perhaps, Lloyd turned his thoughts back around with a harsh internal beating, this was his chance. He could pry the elevator doors open now, just to try… his outburst may have given him a window of opportunity…
"Ray, there are seven phases to a serial killer's process," Lloyd began, feeling the beginning of dread creeping up on him as his already exhausted mind began spinning again, thinking things Lloyd would wish it wouldn't. "Okay, right now Damien is in the Totem Phase."
Spinning and spinning and spinning … Before he knew it, words were tumbling out of Lloyd's mouth without his consent.
"Right now, I am in the Totem Phase. The next is depression. Now, in order for me to maintain the rush from my most recent murder and avoid a scathing case of the gloomies, I need to hold on to a trophy. Whether this is a physical something - such as a part of my most recent kill, Nina - or an intangible something - such as a working dynamic with one Damien Fontleroy, I need something to keep my morale up, or else I'll spiral down into the dark place."
Violently suppressing a shiver, Lloyd swallowed and took a shuddering breath, hoping with every fiber of his being that he still had control over himself that he hadn't swapped the names when he had spoken out loud. Thankfully, nobody seemed to be utterly shocked, just slightly disturbed and/or unsettled.
Not that that put Lloyd in the clear; there was one startlingly related factor between every person in the room: they had all looked up at him while he had talked, and had not peeled their eyes from him even after he had finished.
So, again with the stares. Lloyd couldn't help but wonder bitterly and with a touch of fear: were they staring at him because he was talking about a serial killer's phases and connecting it to Lloyd himself - which Lloyd had already done before, thank you very much - or were they staring because he was now talking about depression, and they think they may have - seen -
"I'm his audience, Ray," it came out much weaker now that the latter notion had entered his mind, but he nonetheless continued, trying to regain the strength in his words that he's not sure he even ever had; yet, had the weakness not been so prevalent, surely the others would have noticed the slight tone of pride that had snuck into his voice. Either no one noticed, or no one cared enough to act upon it. Lloyd would definitely deny it ever entering his voice whenever the subject of Damien came up, but it was there nonetheless.
"I am the proverbial trophy. If I talk to him, I'm just giving him what he wants." That blow should hit hard enough for Raymond to see sense. "But if I ignore him, that's gonna knock him off balance." See reason, please, see reason …
"Yo," Shea perked up from his place, across the room. Panicking for a singular moment because oh god not now how much has he noticed he's going to point something out that'll be detrimental to this argument please no, Lloyd calmed his expression as Shea seemed to send him a reassuring glance. It took less than a moment for Lloyd to recognize what Shea was doing once the man held up a closed fist; Lloyd breathed an internal sigh of relief. "Fire and ice."
"Fire and ice, Shea-mond," Lloyd pointed triumphantly; after all, it would be easier to win Raymond over if another one of the team was on-board with Lloyd's idea. He would have to thank Shea later, somehow…
Then Lloyd swallowed harshly, cursing himself. The 'fire and ice' method had originally been to get Julianne into a relationship with him. Something had to be said about how Lloyd wanted to unconsciously apply the same method to Damien Fontleroy…
Stopping his thoughts right there, it was rather difficult not to snort in derision at Raymond's next words as he leaned forward and said forcefully, "Well, if you want Damien to think that you're putting all your focus into Max Morris, you better put all your energy into Max Morris!"
Lloyd swallowed, and cleared his throat, finally finding a footing and beginning to regain his composure. "I'm way ahead of you." If there was one thing that Lloyd could always rely on, even when he was mentally unstable, it was his self-assurance.
Oh, he doubted himself; he doubted himself every day, even before Lyssa Ganaway had O.D.'d on his prescription medication. But it was always something that returned, whether it be because of a case, another person, a gamble, etc. It always floated back to him and gave him the opportunity to be - or put up a facade of - being an utter jackass and it was something Damien could never take from him.
He spent the rest of his time presenting all that he had concluded on the case trying not to succumb to the small voice in the back of his head, implying something that Lloyd would rather kill himself than admit, that gave an admittedly good arguments. And if that voice found some other way to make itself known, no one noticed.
The Circus world is rather close to the Serial Killer world.
"It's a world where you can escape society, uh, untethered to any one place."
Running amok, not bending to any rules, free to go and kill where you wish…
"It's a world where you can be free to create your own history."
Rake up the numbers and bodies and countless victories, trophies, accomplishments…
"Where you can, uh, conceal your past through a fictional origin story."
No need to be real. No need to be fake. Be whatever you want to be.
No one noticed.
He recognizes the parallel.
He has a standing IQ of 210, and if that wasn't enough, surely the small psychiatrist voice in his head knew enough to inform him of the resemblance between the situations. He hesitates, for a fraction of a second - 0.6 of a second, his brain sees fit to note - and scrubs the haunted look from his expression, leaving his habitual revelation-face only slightly more blank than usual.
The only subject left to wonder - excluding his most recent revelation concerning the clown-tastrophe - at the moment, was whether or not Raymond had noticed the parallels: his body language implied that he had perhaps considered it, but his further interest in what Lloyd had come up with on the case negates the idea of the parallel as a concerning priority, meaning he thought the case to be more important than the comparison Lloyd had unconsciously drawn. He wasn't concerned.
Lloyd, on the other hand, was incredibly concerned with his own mental health, both as a psychiatrist and a patient. He always knew from the beginning of his studies that in order to render others' minds healthy, he must have a healthy mind himself as a, say, baseline to compare from. But currently, Lloyd's own words echo through his empty mind, seeming to turn and stab him in the neck with each syllable as the genius scrabbles to think of anything else and stands to escape the room.
"It sounds like the circus community unwittingly applied some destabilization - "
"It sounds like Damien Fontleroy shrewdly applied a method of destabilization - "
" - a brainwashing technique where you bully someone and you lower their self-worth."
" - a brainwashing technique wherein he taunted Lloyd repeatedly and significantly lowered his self-worth."
Lloyd scuttled over to the deposition, hurriedly flipping through the pages and trying to focus on listening to how Raymond enunciates his words through his accent, on how Shea was leaning faux-casually against the table pretending to read a file when his full attention was on what Lloyd had found, or on the general musty smell of the warehouse occasionally penetrated by Raymond or Shea's body odor or by Erica or Julianne's perfume, anything, in order to keep his mind off of the parallels it was making.
"You took a malfunctioning mind, and you just broke it, completely."
"He took a superior, yet flawed mind, and just broke it, thoroughly and completely."
"He didn't leave, because he blamed himself for the situation."
"Lloyd couldn't leave the team even when he tried, because he blamed himself for all that had happened."
Lloyd shook his head, willing his brain to halt its thinking on his own words, and focus on the ones on the paper in front of him. It was in there, somewhere, he remembers…
"Max had a very specific reason for setting that fire," he started, and upon realizing his mind could very quickly turn that statement around as well, he added, "I read something in his disposition."
"He tried to fit in by putting together a world-class act, but that didn't even earn your respect."
"Lloyd had attempted to fit into the team by leading with his intelligence, despite his crippling guilt and debilitating personality, but it was futile in every attempt to earn even the slightest respect."
"Is it any wonder he tried to burn the circus down?"
"Is it any wonder he wants to kill Damien Fontleroy?"
"I'm just - " Lloyd swallowed harshly, avoiding the lump in his throat and willing his hands to stop trembling as he continued to flip through the papers. "Okay, here, here," he rushed, finding the line at last. He breathed an internal sigh of relief.
"The prosecutor was asking him if he had any remorse for killing those four people," Lloyd started, and could almost picture himself on the stand, replying coolly to the question asked, "I wanted to kill him."
"What did you have against Shea Daniels?" The prosecutor asked, holding up a picture of a mutilated body, destroyed in a fire. Lloyd stared through it with no spike of emotion.
"I just wanted to kill him."
"And what about that newly-reformed U.S. Marshal, Raymond Zancanelli?" Along with a picture of his corpse, the U.S. Marshal badge made an appearance in the prosecutor's hand as well. Lloyd's face was as blank as a cleared slate.
"I just wanted to kill him."
"And Erica Reed?" There was no photo of her; the corpse had obviously been too fried to identify, excepting the huntress' teeth that still resided in the dental records. Instead, the prosecutor brought up a picture of her, alive and well. Lloyd knew that should sting more, but he stayed as indifferent and impassive as he had when he had finally seen the flames burn the light out of Damien's eyes.
"I just wanted to kill him."
"But here's the thing," Lloyd, more concerned with breaking his mind's image than with what he was saying, continued to speak without filtering through his pronouns. "Erica was a woman. I wasn't talking about my victims. When I said, 'I just wanted to kill him,' I wasn't explaining my actions, I was explaining my intentions."
Evidently, Raymond hears something other than what Lloyd has just said, because he doesn't interrupt, doesn't seem to find the first-person referral odd, so Lloyd continues. "The fire was meant to kill one man; most likely the one person I blamed for my mistakes.
"Damien Fontleroy. The man whom I denied at a younger age, and who promptly vowed to ruin me," Lloyd finishes with a flourish of pursed lips and trembling fingers as he raises the paper higher, hoping the motion would disguise his discomfort at being unable to control his body and mind as adequately as usual.
"Tiny Tony - his real name is Wesley Peebles," Julianne inputs, and Lloyd is momentarily distracted from his mental musings and physical discrepancies by the jump of his heart he encounters whenever he hears her voice. He immediately berates himself, driving it further into his skull that she refused him, she doesn't want him. She refused him, she doesn't want him.
The small lilt in her voice as she glances over at him begs to differ, but Lloyd ignores that fact, tries not to clutch onto it with both of his desperate hands. On the other hand, the alternative is conflicting thoughts and feelings about Damien Fontleroy… Julianne continued. "And it looks like his Social Security checks are being sent to an address in Sugar Loaf, New York."
Right, right. The most likely victim for Max would be his father, Tiny Tony - Wesley Peebles, apparently.
"Let's gear up," comes the inevitable command from Ray, and Lloyd reaches over to grab his jacket, muttering a simple mantra incoherently as he does so, and as he walks down the way to the exit.
"I do not want to kill Damien Fontleroy, I do not want to do Damien Fontleroy." By the time they had made it near the exit door, it had slowly progressed to a whisper of, "I will not kill Damien Fontleroy, I will not do Damien Fontleroy."
Inevitably and quite frighteningly, Raymond seemed to overhear his soft, soothing mantra, and perked up slightly, grabbing a hold of Lloyd's shoulder and pulling him aside.
"Hey, Lloyd," he started, and Lloyd swallowed the rest of the mantra, now stuck in his throat, finding himself unable to look up defiantly at Raymond's gaze. Instead, he kept his nose down and his eyes pinned to his shoes, his face flushing. "I wanna catch this guy as bad as you do. But don't go doin' nothing stupid, alright?"
Lloyd paused for a moment, debating whether or not killing Damien would be a stupid move, but then gave a stiff nod. He then proceeded to huff exasperatedly as Raymond continued staring for longer than necessary, offering just a tad acerbically, "I hereby vow to not kill Damien unsupervised. Satisfied, Zancannoli?"
He shrugged the hand off of his shoulder and continued outside, sincerely hoping he wouldn't have to pay for the former part of that comment later. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud - of course he would, his brain notes helpfully, since when does he not speak exactly what's on his mind? - he was rather proud of that pun; he should have saved it for a better time, should have embraced its true power in front of the entire group of onlookers.
The topic change in his brain was much appreciated by his sanity, and Lloyd walked out of the exit door while Raymond picked up his now ringing phone, the genius attempting to come up with some way to keep his thoughts out of 'insane' territory. Something presents itself as soon as Raymond explains, "Forgot to release the clown," and starts heading back the way they came.
"I wasn't going to say anything," Shea intones, and Lloyd takes the opportunity as it presents itself. When they shuffle inside the truck, he begins with an ultimately sincere expression on his face.
"Okay, Shea, take me back - when did the clown thing start?" Shea slowly turns his head to look behind himself and to the backseat to feed Lloyd an incredibly incredulous expression.
"I don't know when it started," he began, with a twitch of the left side of his jaw - a solid indicator of a lie, his mind supplied - "and I don't want to talk about it."
Ignoring the latter part of that sentence and focusing on the lie, Lloyd stresses, "I'm here to help. Please." He doesn't voice how he's sure that if Shea doesn't distract him that Lloyd will probably explode, but he leaves it roughly implied in his plea.
"I don't wanna talk about it," Shea pointedly enunciates each syllable, adding a small gesture to show his sincerity, but Lloyd takes it as a sign of discomfort instead of veracity. Unfortunately, he's unable to act on what he's noticed, because Erica soon leans into the car without stepping inside.
"I need to call my kid," she says, and Lloyd immediately analyzes that sentence without his mental consent. Casual use of the word 'kid' unintentionally stressing the lack of personal attachment, leading Lloyd to believe that she wasn't calling her child, or she would have used a more personal word such as 'daughter' to impress the severity of the situation. And anything involving her child was immediately filed as a priority emergency, even worthy of keeping Raymond at bay for.
Plus, even if she was calling her kid, surely she wouldn't do it out of the blue without pretense or some sort of prominent reason?
In short, something was up. Which gave Lloyd another topic of conversation available to interpret through his own eyes and Shea's opinion.
Nevertheless, he was glad when Raymond finally arrived once more and fetched Erica from the sidewalk, because staying with Shea was beginning to get rather tedious and when Lloyd was bored, his mind tended to roam. They started the ride to Sugar Loaf, and Lloyd cleared his throat in the sudden silence, peering out the window and allowing his tongue to run loose so his mind wouldn't wander too far.
The rain fell steadily outside, along with Lloyd's spirits, as he was told for the fourth time to "shut up already!". As a result, his mind began its meandering around taboo topics once more.
It was likely that Lloyd's thoughts of Damien wouldn't go away, and the parallel his mind had concocted between himself and the mentally ill fugitive they were currently chasing hadn't done much to reassure him about his mental stability and, by relation, his ability to keep himself under control. But all the same, he was certain of one fact.
Damien wouldn't stop contacting him until Lloyd was six feet under; and, in return, whether he wanted to or not, Damien would always hold a special part in Lloyd's mind for homicidal fantasies that may or may not crop up now and then.
But for now, they had an absent father of a mentally ill fugitive to find.
Lloyd paused, considering that statement, then cursed the parallels his mind recognizes, not for the first, nor the last time.
A/N: Chapter 1 complete. If I have my way (which I usually don't, but let's pretend for a moment that I do), there will be a second chapter (and perhaps a third if I'm feeling generous) and then the last installment will be put up. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed, and I'll do my best to write the second chapter sooner rather than later.
R&R, fam. I dare you.
Peace out!
~IsomorphicTARDIS