herpderpin the night away
[ Well, shit.
Arthur would like to say that he's not accustomed to waking up in strange places, but that'd be a lie, and he's never been much of a liar. So when he rolls over onto his back on cold concrete, his fingers dragging through at least an inch of dirt and dust and grime, he's not immediately alarmed. At least not for a second. Or two. Or three. And then everything clicks into place (Australia, Los Angeles, Fischer, Cobb), the wheels start turning, and he's off the floor so fast, his head starts spinning and he has to brace his weight against the nearest object for fear of keeling over.
The fact that he's missing his totem doesn't help matters much, either.
It's two hours since he came to, and the only progress he's made is getting out of that goddamn building. He finds his totem stuck between a crack on one of the cobblestone streets, and before pocketing it, he rolls it across the ground fifteen different times, and fifteen different times he rolls the number five. Eventually he gets fucking tired of being told he's wrong by an inanimate object, and he's back to stumbling through the empty, eerie streets, occasionally stopping to lean his weight against a wall, his breathing shallow, his fingers cold and numb.
That's when the sound starts -- a distance sound, a sound that could be mistaken for anything, but that Arthur recognizes as the dragging of feet, of hard-soled shoes, across the pavement. He peels himself away from the wall, his heart in his throat, wiping his clammy palms over the material of his pants before he curls his fingers around the Glock tucked away inside his jacket.
And he waits. ]
Arthur would like to say that he's not accustomed to waking up in strange places, but that'd be a lie, and he's never been much of a liar. So when he rolls over onto his back on cold concrete, his fingers dragging through at least an inch of dirt and dust and grime, he's not immediately alarmed. At least not for a second. Or two. Or three. And then everything clicks into place (Australia, Los Angeles, Fischer, Cobb), the wheels start turning, and he's off the floor so fast, his head starts spinning and he has to brace his weight against the nearest object for fear of keeling over.
The fact that he's missing his totem doesn't help matters much, either.
It's two hours since he came to, and the only progress he's made is getting out of that goddamn building. He finds his totem stuck between a crack on one of the cobblestone streets, and before pocketing it, he rolls it across the ground fifteen different times, and fifteen different times he rolls the number five. Eventually he gets fucking tired of being told he's wrong by an inanimate object, and he's back to stumbling through the empty, eerie streets, occasionally stopping to lean his weight against a wall, his breathing shallow, his fingers cold and numb.
That's when the sound starts -- a distance sound, a sound that could be mistaken for anything, but that Arthur recognizes as the dragging of feet, of hard-soled shoes, across the pavement. He peels himself away from the wall, his heart in his throat, wiping his clammy palms over the material of his pants before he curls his fingers around the Glock tucked away inside his jacket.
And he waits. ]