multiversallogs | It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

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The man may have a chance for this breath of his, if only because Arthur is not in great condition for such grappling as this. He is, however, squirmy as hell, which should annoy Colins at the very least if not magically defeat him. Again Arthur tries what he knows should work, but is at present kind of hard to execute effectively: a most awkward kick back with his free leg, hopefully to strike a knee, or a shin, or...anything, frankly, so long as it hurts. It will fail, probably, and he knows this, so he's already planning on grabbing one of Colins's hands, seeking out that lovely little nerve right at the tip of the thumbnail, and jamming it hard. He's never met a person who could ignore that. If only he could just... you know, do it.

As a side note, Arthur's being a bit noisier than is typical for him—no shouts of fear, no calls for help, but usually he is dead quiet in his combative efforts and so even these especially vocal grunts are something of an anomaly. He's done this waltz before. It's just damn frustrating this time.

This sucks, in fact. This is the worst. He's gonna beat himself up for it for ages afterward.

The squirming certainly prevents Colins from getting a very good grip which is not only annoying it is down right unprofessional. The kick won't work, it's the sort of thing one would expect. The thumb, however. Who does that. Colins pulls back with a gnh and brings his knee up, aiming to unbalance.

Meanwhile, Footsteps approaches the corner. He stops by a dropped cigarette (still burning) and thoughtfully crushes it underfoot. There seems to be some commotion in the alley way here, who would have thought it possible. Well. What kind of man would he be if he didn't step in soon to offer his assistance.

Colins' knee may not have connected with anything of substance (kind of an awkward angle) but by now he doesn't care. He shoves Arthur away from himself, hand flexing. It's just pain though, pain is transitory. He brings his knee up again, prepared to stomp down on any part of Arthur that will hold still for long enough.

Arthur manages to stay on his feet despite all the pushing (how rude), if only barely. In some combination of agility and drunken spontaneity, he comes back at Colins without delay, flinging himself at the man sort of idiotically, still aware that such a moment of one-footed anticipation should be exploited but not exactly feeling up to the mechanics of elegance, here. Actually, the precise timing of this collision is kind of an accident... but he does at least try to upset their collective center of gravity. On purpose.

If he's aware of the presence of another body nearby, Arthur has yet to make it known.

Drunk people will do unexpected and often dumb things, especially if they have the training for it. It should be obvious, and yet. Colins finds himself on the defensive yet again, forced to grab onto the wall to maintain equilibrium. The second thing he tries to grab a hold of is Arthur. Maybe if he can hold the kid still for long enough this thing can be turned around.

Of course he may not have to, at least not for long. Footsteps have deigned to join the party. There is what could very probably be a tsk and then there is a click. Unless Arthur comes up with further evasive manoeuvres he may find himself touched and introduced to a hand held neuroinhibition device. It's much more sophisticated than any sort of taser and it is certainly more quiet. It'd be incapacitating, but on the upside it won't hurt one bit.

Fortunately for Arthur, he is at the very least unwilling to stop moving unless very strongly restrained; it may be the only reason why he has yet to kiss the alley floor. By some miracle he does hear the click, and if any more miracles are lurking about, like, say, one that will permit him to wrestle Colins between himself and the oncoming attack—it could be a good old-fashioned knife for all he knows, sudden clicks are rarely a good sign—that would be swell.

If not... at least he's not very heavy.

It's a good plan. Solid, given the circumstances. Could have work. No one will fault Arthur on that, not even Colins and he's pretty invested at this point. He's bleeding from a split lip and will probably need dental care in the near future. He doesn't care about any of that though, not right now. He's busy bracing against the wall to keep an enraged badger in slacks from embarrassing him further as backup finally shows up to put an end to this.

Colins will let Arthur drop to the ground once his nerves stop talking to him. He will also, after some consideration, deliver a kick to Arthur's ribs. This is strictly speaking neither necessary or honourable, but he's annoyed dammit.

Footsteps does nothing to prevent this crass and needless violence. He's speaking into a receiver. Something quiet and precise about being ready for a pick-up and please hurry.

The sudden loss of motor control is not at all alien to Arthur. Again, he's done this waltz before, he's taken his licks many times, he knows all about blacking out. In a way, it's as much of a relief as it is a failure—now that he's had it, he can take a rest, at least. There will be time to regroup when he wakes up. If he wakes up.

...Hm. Normally he would have lost consciousness before hitting the ground, or at least on impact—or at least shortly after impact, what is this exactly—so that's new. Also new is taking a full-on kick to the trunk and being unable to do anything more than grunt and wheeze about it (and barely even that). His vision goes white and fades back slowly. Blood vessels winking in and out of existence like fireflies. A squeezing impulse fires from his brain to his jaw and fades well before its destination. He wants nothing more than to curl up and grit his teeth against the pain, and he can't. It's just there.

He watches what he can see of their feet. They could do anything to him and he'd have to take it, just like this.

All right, now he's worried.

No one here cares enough about Arthur's sensibilities to assure him that the effects he's experiencing are temporary and will begin to fade over the next ten minutes. The pain in his side won't, but he's likely to know that.

At least Colins seems to have gotten the violence out of his system. When he crouches down by Arthur it is merely to check him for potentially harmful objects and to secure his wrists behind his back. Zipcuffs. The Militia has its own Stelanmancers.

Mister Footsteps is done talking. He's now watching the street. There is the sound of something approaching, a motorised vehicle. The thing stops and now there is the sound of a door opening. Arthur won't actually have the chance to see it, a bag is being pulled over his head and he's getting hoisted up and shoved into what's probably a back seat.

Next stop will be Dryside and the Spire. Arthur should be able to walk by then, which will be useful to his captors.

Since he ditched the CiD, Arthur is carrying a thin leather billfold containing only what's left of his evening budget (not much), a receipt for the tie he left inside and, ahem, two prophylactics still wrapped. (He likes to be prepared, okay.) He's also wearing a wristwatch, should anyone be looking to take home a souvenir, but while it is tasteful it doesn't appear to be of extravagant worth. The same might be said for the rest of his effects.

When finally they unload him from the mysterious automobile, Arthur moves rather clumsily on his feet, apparently still unable to keep up a proper cadence of stride. He's not exactly comfortable with being half-dragged, but neither does he have much of a choice until this nasty paralysing crap wears off. He could try to talk, but he doesn't bother. It's nice to be able to control his saliva again, though, just saying.

Arthur gets to keep his things for a while longer. Colins had no interest in taking away anything posing no obvious threat for the journey. Pretty conscientious for a man who's not actually going to be along for the ride.

The vehicle seems to have stopped somewhere indoors. Judging from the echoes and sounds, it must be a pretty big place and largely empty. Whoever is dragging Arthur along is not entirely unkind, at least they have the good sense to assist him if he stumbles. Wouldn't want prisoner stains on the floor, now would we. The soundscape soon changes to that of a corridor, and then a room. Arthur is pushed into a chair and a hand stays on his shoulder as the bag is ripped from his head.

The light is a little bright, but eventually he will be able to see ...himself, reflected somewhat awkwardly in the blank mask covering the face of the person in front of him. The actual room is tiny and tiled, much like one of the arrival rooms throughout the city.

Mirror-mask tips its head and, in what it no doubt thinks of as its most encouraging voice, says; "Say something." Anything. Go on. It can't possibly make the situation worse.

Well, that's not creepy as hell or anything.

To his credit, Arthur doesn't seem completely freaked out by these circumstances, if his docile behaviour is any indication, although to be honest this is because most of his focus has been required not to throw up. Removal of the mask abates some of the panic in his breathing, but then the bizarre sight of...whatever is in front of him inspires him to sink into a lopsided slouch (if he's allowed), even though it hurts, and for a brief time his mien on the whole reveals open wonder and revulsion. What the fuck, basically.

And then he is prompted to speak, and his mouth closes slowly, and his face becomes severe, his expression solidifying like a shield over prior signs of vulnerability. If this is a preamble to something awful, he's already preparing for it.

That's the desired effect. Up to a point, at least. It's not possible for a blank surface to look disappointed but if it has a voice it can sigh to express something along those lines. Sigh. If Arthur wishes to slouch in the chair, he can. As long as he doesn't try to slouch out of it. (Yet.)

The hand on his shoulder grips tighter. Something may be coming up.

"No one is asking you to give up your country." Or whatever it is you first gen people think you need to protect. The voice sounds like it could belong to a woman, though it's hard to tell. Either way, it sounds more bored than anything. "Just say something for the sensors."

Should Arthur continue to refuse her(?) most reasonable request for a soundbite by which to identify him, something will indeed happen. The chair will be yanked out from underneath him and the hand on his shoulder will push him to his knees. (And hold him steady in case he's not well enough to stand like that.) A boot step down on his calf. (In case he's more stable than anticipated and plans to do something foolish.)

They are playing for scares, not damage. Willingness to do damage should of course be implied. Poor scare, otherwise.

Nope.

Arthur stopped being willing to play along the instant he realised he was being tracked. The flipside of tenacity is stubbornness, and when it comes to authority figures that he does not personally recognize, he is most definitely stubborn. If he could tell anyone in this room to go screw without giving in to this mirror-bitch's demands, he would do so, but since he cannot he will just have to make do.

So, held there on his knees, head pounding, breathing quick and light through his nose, tiny knives of pain on every inhalation, sore and queasy and very aware of the weight of that sole on his calf, Arthur maintains his most stony and hateful glare in silence.

In addition to the mask, Mirror-face wears something dark and utilitarian. Could be something an anachronistic physician would wear, durable and easy to clean seems to be the idea. She also has gloves on; there is not an inch of skin to be seen. She's probably staring right at Arthur but it's kind of hard to tell, what with the mask and all.

"No. Bring him.. no." Apparently we have a hard time making our mind up. That, or she's actually been moved to pay attention. She approaches. It's just a step or two. "Hold him. His head." The presence behind Arthur complies in the most way by grabbing his hair. Apparently at peace with this arrangement, Mirror-face joins Arthur on the floor. She's kneeling too. There. Aren't we just as equals?

"Got hurt, didn't you. Can tell from your breathing." And general bearing. She holds her hands up as if she wants him to see them before she puts them on either side of his ribcage, searching for potential injury. "Aha. Right... here." And she squeezes.

Willpower alone keeps him from grimacing too openly when the presence makes a fist in his hair, and again when he is touched. In this nearness, the growing anticipation in his breathing and in the twitching details of his expression must be fascinating. And the loathing. Perhaps that is a pleasant thing, too, for such a sick creature as this.

Pressure, then—right there—and he spasms away from the hand on instinct, or tries to, and presses his lips very tightly together so that the sound he makes won't escape in full (and it doesn't, although its pitch is interesting). Still clinging to pretense, if only by his nails. If it doesn't stop there, they may yet have their sound bite.

Edited 2011-08-20 06:48 (UTC)

Stop? When we're getting results? What kind of methodology would that be. As for fascination, there nothing about Mirror-face that can betray personal investment. Arthur is however free to stare into his own face for emotional feedback, should it please him to do so. That's rather the point.

"Shhh," it's a gentle murmur, and quite counter-intuitive when you think about it. The pressure eases up, though the hand remains. "You may have some cracked ribs. If you think we don't break them for you, you would be wrong. Now, would you like to say something?"

He sure would.

It isn't so much a saying as a sharing, though, of fluids, as he spits most fiercely into his new friend's reflective face. Into his own face. Which he tries his hardest to stare through, not at, as he bestows upon his captors a snarling gift:

"Fuck yourself."

There.

Spits runs down the mirror mask and for a few seconds nothing else happens. The hand rests immobile on Arthur's damaged ribs. When the woman finally speaks, it is in the same level tone she used before; "Perhaps you should conserve your liquids." You know. Just in case no one thinks to water and feed you over the coming days.

"We're done here." This isn't for Arthur's benefit, but directed at the person or persons behind him. His hair is released and the bag comes back down over his head. Next he'll be dragged to his feet, taken out of this room and relocated to his own cell. His things will be taken from him, but in turn he'll be freed from the the zipcuffs. No one is going to explain the situation to him for some time. Plenty of hours in which to sober up and think about whatever it is he has done.

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

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