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

[bonhomme7h.livejournal.com]

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.

Comments

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

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.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

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.

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

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.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

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.

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

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.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

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?"

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

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.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

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.