OPEN | prompt seven | ARTHUR

[staircases]

prompt seven | A R T H U R prompt style. start your own thread. leave an image, a quote, anything. receive arthur. open to pre-canon, au, crossover, whatever you can come up with.

 

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( inception!au for zeke )

[staircases]

[ In the pursuit of intel, Arthur will be the first to tell you that there are times when you find yourself so out of your element that you've got to wonder: how the hell did I end up here? Granted, his understanding of this principle is a little less practical and a little more abstract; Arthur's not the type to find himself on the short-end of any given situation and, even in the instances where he does, he always seems to know precisely how he got there. (And if he doesn't, the truth'll come out in the wash. Hindsight, twenty-twenty — all of those adages were adages for a reason, and if his time in the army had taught Arthur anything, it was the value of debriefs and lessons learned. Of governance and accountability — not as words, but as practice.)

Ask him how he got where he is now and, without fail, Arthur would be able to provide an answer. Still that doesn't keep him from looking a little out of place as he makes his way down into the dried-out canal system of Old Town. The drainage system in this part of city is antiquated and hasn't been used in over ten years, and once the local zoning board had deemed the entire system as UNFIT FOR USE, a slow migration of skateboarders and extreme sportists had begun to trickle in — all looking to use the snaking system of cement passageways as the staging area for their next big trick.

Despite Arthur's best efforts to blend and be inconspicious, there's no denying that his shoes are a little too expensive and the cut of his leather jacket is a little too posh. Rather than dive straight in and swim with the local fishes, he lingers at the mouth of one elaborate interchange and watches a few skaters attempt to do loop-de-loops around one another in the air. An impossible endeavor here in the real world, but the Dreamspace—

He fishes his phone out of his pocket. Three minutes late and counting. Rather than leave it, he sends a text to the appropriate number. ]

Ollie ollie oxen free already.
T-minus two, or I'm out.

[jacked]

[Zeke is late. He knows because he makes a point of these things - late, messy, loud, troubling. They'd been important to getting him through high school the way he wanted, middle finger raised to authority and every adult figure that tried to act responsible with him. A waste of potential, a waste of intellect, but not many seniors could claim to have a drug lab in their shed and a guy had to have his pride.

It's why he's here. Maybe his careers advisor didn't have anything to give him, but below board, he had a whole range of choices to pick from. Hack drugs, fake IDs - he could do bigger, do better. And dreams, well. That was interesting. It was baby steps, he knew, and maybe that should mean not messing with the guy he was due to be meeting. But Zeke still had that pesky issue with authority, and this guy - with his well-cut jacket and his shiny shoes - seems like an easy target.

Three minutes and counting, and that's the point when Zeke's phone goes off - vibrate only, buzzing in his pocket. He takes a moment to check the message itself before he tucks it back in his pocket, kicking his board down and coasting down the concrete curve.]

Took you three minutes, man. [He kicks his board back up, wheels caught in one hand, shoulders hunching down slightly as he smiles.] Thought you'd be a one minute guy.