a. the revelry [Honestly, Arthur hadn't really wanted to come out for this one. Hadn't wanted to think about how it's been the better part of a fortnight, now, since he's lost John, and gained little new awareness of what Sweetwater is. People were great about giving him directions, sure, but he didn't really know what anything looked like.
Part of him wondered how John would describe it - what was no doubt a beautiful tree, its lights reflecting on clean, pressed snow.
(And then he remembered the ritual, and no he didn't.)
He came with Helly, but he assures her he'll be fine enough for her to leave him unescorted by a table, one lined with (admittedly delicious-smelling) hot chocolates, and so he's easiest found leaning on a short brick fence, his cane hanging loose from his right wrist as he drinks carefully from a full glass. He can't tell when people are looking at him, but more often than not his polite smile slips, letting through an exhausted kind of melancholy.]
b. the memory [He's almost glad for the countdown, so that he can brace himself when the clock strikes down.
Less glad, obviously, for the sudden loss of feeling that starts creeping up his hands and feet. Terror grips him immediately, heart hammering like a fucking drum, but before he can do more than get to his feet with a panicked-]
John-?!
[- he realises even his own voice sounds faint, distant, and the world doesn't slip away as much as...
He goes somewhere else.
A memory, maybe. Of a young woman looking down at him, begging him to move. Someone he doesn't recognise, but- in the context of that, almost, he feels like he should.
And then the vision - the vision, he could fucking see-- vanishes.
And Arthur is back in his own body with a gasp that feels like the air just got sucked out of him, there's music blaring and people screaming and movement jostling around him and he's still drifting somewhere a few inches behind his body and he curls up tighter like it'll ground him, he can't- he can't fucking breathe he doesn't know where he is where the fuck is John--]
II. The Dolls
a. the fight [The fact that he and Helly both want to go to the shops is suspicious enough, certainly when they've both been increasingly annoyed by the pushiness of the advertisements; but then they end up here anyway, and he's... pretty sure he recognises a few voices when they get there.
But even though he can't see, he can still feel something tense in the air, making the hair on his neck stand on end.]
Wait- something's wrong.
[And then someone screams. And suddenly everything in in motion around him at once, he tries to turn and grab Helly's arm--
And something clocks him hard in the back, sending him to the ground with a shocked-]
Fuck!
[- and starts scrambling, onto his back and away from whatever just hit him, trying to get back to his feet but there's too much going on around him, and when he manages to get back up something slams into his side, throwing him into a table.]
God damnit-!
b. the flight [Eventually, he finds out that hiding is the better option. Largely by accident; turns out scrambling under a table to save his own skin worked, and by the time he got his breathing under control, most of the place had gone quiet.
He has no idea which department he's managed to end up in, no idea which way the front doors are - no idea how long he's spent here, with his energy flagging and bruises burning across his back and sides, every part of him aching.
The only sound now is footsteps, the heavy, clumsy footfalls of something taller and lighter than him, hard and hollow tapping along the linoleum floors.
Maybe if he can at least find the walls, he can get the shape of the room, maybe find an exit. So when he hears the thing tap past his hiding spot, he makes a blind run for it, scrambling quietly out from under the table to try and bolt for a new one. Theoretically it should be straight ahead, right? That's how aisles work.
Someone please help him, he has no idea how close he is to the mannequins seeing him.]
III. Drill it in
the medicine [It was never going to end any other way. He's claustrophobic - the instant he realised he was tied up and helpless, he struggled - and felt the jab in his thigh, and everything went...
Well. It went.
And it makes it... difficult, on a whole other level than it had been before. At least before he could dress himself, trust himself to shave - now his muscles lock up, he nearly falls over in the shower and does crack his head on the tiled wall, and it's only the sting of hot water in the bleeding wound under his hairline that wakes him back up.
There's the dim awareness that he shouldn't leave his house like this, but the thought keeps slipping away like smoke, and he leaves without his cane, under the exhausted delusion that John will keep him right.
This is... very very wrong.]
IV. Freezing in the Snow
the shovelling [Possibly Arthur isn't the one who should be doing this, but he's got two arms and nothing better to do, and it's more to make himself feel like he's not a useless sitting duck than actually achieving a clear path.
...well. The clear path is useful, but. It's a bonus more than anything. And it gets him out of the house and available for people to talk to, if they want to deal with the curmudgeonly Englishman trying his best (and failing) to keep the path he's shovelling straight.]
Arthur Lester | Malevolent | OTA
a. the revelry
[Honestly, Arthur hadn't really wanted to come out for this one. Hadn't wanted to think about how it's been the better part of a fortnight, now, since he's lost John, and gained little new awareness of what Sweetwater is. People were great about giving him directions, sure, but he didn't really know what anything looked like.
Part of him wondered how John would describe it - what was no doubt a beautiful tree, its lights reflecting on clean, pressed snow.
(And then he remembered the ritual, and no he didn't.)
He came with Helly, but he assures her he'll be fine enough for her to leave him unescorted by a table, one lined with (admittedly delicious-smelling) hot chocolates, and so he's easiest found leaning on a short brick fence, his cane hanging loose from his right wrist as he drinks carefully from a full glass. He can't tell when people are looking at him, but more often than not his polite smile slips, letting through an exhausted kind of melancholy.]
b. the memory
[He's almost glad for the countdown, so that he can brace himself when the clock strikes down.
Less glad, obviously, for the sudden loss of feeling that starts creeping up his hands and feet. Terror grips him immediately, heart hammering like a fucking drum, but before he can do more than get to his feet with a panicked-]
John-?!
[- he realises even his own voice sounds faint, distant, and the world doesn't slip away as much as...
He goes somewhere else.
A memory, maybe. Of a young woman looking down at him, begging him to move. Someone he doesn't recognise, but- in the context of that, almost, he feels like he should.
And then the vision - the vision, he could fucking see-- vanishes.
And Arthur is back in his own body with a gasp that feels like the air just got sucked out of him, there's music blaring and people screaming and movement jostling around him and he's still drifting somewhere a few inches behind his body and he curls up tighter like it'll ground him, he can't- he can't fucking breathe he doesn't know where he is where the fuck is John--]
II. The Dolls
a. the fight
[The fact that he and Helly both want to go to the shops is suspicious enough, certainly when they've both been increasingly annoyed by the pushiness of the advertisements; but then they end up here anyway, and he's... pretty sure he recognises a few voices when they get there.
But even though he can't see, he can still feel something tense in the air, making the hair on his neck stand on end.]
Wait- something's wrong.
[And then someone screams. And suddenly everything in in motion around him at once, he tries to turn and grab Helly's arm--
And something clocks him hard in the back, sending him to the ground with a shocked-]
Fuck!
[- and starts scrambling, onto his back and away from whatever just hit him, trying to get back to his feet but there's too much going on around him, and when he manages to get back up something slams into his side, throwing him into a table.]
God damnit-!
b. the flight
[Eventually, he finds out that hiding is the better option. Largely by accident; turns out scrambling under a table to save his own skin worked, and by the time he got his breathing under control, most of the place had gone quiet.
He has no idea which department he's managed to end up in, no idea which way the front doors are - no idea how long he's spent here, with his energy flagging and bruises burning across his back and sides, every part of him aching.
The only sound now is footsteps, the heavy, clumsy footfalls of something taller and lighter than him, hard and hollow tapping along the linoleum floors.
Maybe if he can at least find the walls, he can get the shape of the room, maybe find an exit. So when he hears the thing tap past his hiding spot, he makes a blind run for it, scrambling quietly out from under the table to try and bolt for a new one. Theoretically it should be straight ahead, right? That's how aisles work.
Someone please help him, he has no idea how close he is to the mannequins seeing him.]
III. Drill it in
the medicine
[It was never going to end any other way. He's claustrophobic - the instant he realised he was tied up and helpless, he struggled - and felt the jab in his thigh, and everything went...
Well. It went.
And it makes it... difficult, on a whole other level than it had been before. At least before he could dress himself, trust himself to shave - now his muscles lock up, he nearly falls over in the shower and does crack his head on the tiled wall, and it's only the sting of hot water in the bleeding wound under his hairline that wakes him back up.
There's the dim awareness that he shouldn't leave his house like this, but the thought keeps slipping away like smoke, and he leaves without his cane, under the exhausted delusion that John will keep him right.
This is... very very wrong.]
IV. Freezing in the Snow
the shovelling
[Possibly Arthur isn't the one who should be doing this, but he's got two arms and nothing better to do, and it's more to make himself feel like he's not a useless sitting duck than actually achieving a clear path.
...well. The clear path is useful, but. It's a bonus more than anything. And it gets him out of the house and available for people to talk to, if they want to deal with the curmudgeonly Englishman trying his best (and failing) to keep the path he's shovelling straight.]