Part One: The Cabin

[lestercraft]

Who: Arthur Lester and others
What: Adjusting to life and vision
When: Late August/Early Sept
Where: Largely Milton generally

Content Warnings: Catch-all warning for Malevolent content (Lovecraftian horror et al) and spoilers through S5


Getting by on getting by (Early on)

It took Arthur a few days for it to really sink in.

It was one thing to know that John wasn't there, that he had his vision back, his arm and leg and was expected to just. Learn how to survive all over again, in a new town in a new world in an environment he had only ever associated with death and hardship, not least of all his own.

It was another entirely to make peace with the fact: to finish smashing the mirrors in his claimed cabin and screaming for Kayne until his voice went hoarse. Either the god wasn't listening or couldn't hear him, and Arthur wasn't sure which was worse.

This too shall pass. And if it didn't, then he'd fucking well learn to live with it. Just like everything else.

The house next to his had been half demolished by something in the past, which left him with plenty of lumber to wade through the ruins and collect, ripping it loose with his gloved hands if he has to, and board over the bottom storey windows of his own cabin. And an empty house across the street provided blankets aplenty to throw over his shoulders, and haul awkwardly back to cut to shreds and insulate the windows inside.

(It also gave him a quite stellar view of the community centre, so. Something to stare at and make notes on, memorise the silhouettes when he needed a break.

Anything but thinking.)

Make Yourself Seen (September)

After that, he hasn't got much excuse to avoid people.

He'd met a few people already, but this time he's rugged up securely in scavenged clothes, hiding his malnourished frame. Not much to be done about the rough sand scars across his right temple, but at least he could hide his ruined ear beneath a knit hat and pray no-one asked much further.

So he starts actively hanging around. Exploring Milton properly. There's plenty of people to meet, it seems like, even if all he does is loiter around the message board. He does eventually pin something there, nondescript and no-nonsense about it, before he walks away.

Comments

[questioningmermaids]

"Oh, us? The 70s? We're completely screwed. You could say anything and you'd probably be right."

He shrugs.

"The real question is where you're from. America, yeah?"

[lestercraft]

He frowns again. "Yes, actually, though I'm- surprised that was your first guess. Massachusetts, in fact."

[questioningmermaids]

"Jesus Christ." It's not Arthur's fault. He shakes his head.

"If we ever get outta here, come to LA. You'll be happier there, trust me. You and your curios."

[lestercraft]

"Hah." A little humourless, but he can't fault the man for not knowing him. "No, thank you. The furthest I plan on going is maybe New York, if I have to, but I'm quite happy in Arkham."

If he ever comes back from England - or here.

[questioningmermaids]

"Where the fuck is Arkham?"

Other than Massachusetts. Arkham sounds made up as hell. Then again, so does Massachusetts. March isn't entirely sure Maine is a real place.

"Jesus--no, look. Come to LA. You'll love it. Everyone loves it. You ever see a film? That shit's Hollywood, man."

[lestercraft]

"Essex county, about twenty miles north-east of Boston," he answers dryly. "Past Salem. And I'm not going to California, it's all the way across the fucking country."

[questioningmermaids]

This is probably one of the stupidest conversations he's had in a while. March is kind of relieved about it.

Finally. No stakes, just annoying some guy because he seems to hate the prospect of having fun in a city that isn't filled with whatever Massachusetts is filled with. Red Sox fans, probably.

"You're missin' out," He says forlornly, and then actually, earnestly eyes him. Alright. He can not be an asshole. He can attempt.

"You, uh, think you're gonna be alright here, though? 'Cause this shit gets pretty wild."

[lestercraft]

Arthur laughs, a flat chuckle that spells nothing good.

"Detective, in the last forty-eight hours I've been assaulted by no less than three gods, and stabbed by a fucking hag. I'm confident in my ability to handle whatever this place has in fucking store."

[questioningmermaids]

"Holland," March says in direct response to that, fairly deadpan despite his inner response.

There's people from space here. There's people from the future here. There's a viking running around and several victorian guys off in their own little world angsting about existentialism with the exception of Hickey, who's groovy. He doesn't think he's met anyone who's met a god before, though.

Damn.

Arthur's life kind of sucks. It's also kind of cool. Not that he wants it to happen to him, just, objectively. Cool.

[lestercraft]

"Holland," he echoes, committing the name and face to memory. "Look- rest assured, I've dealt with wild circumstances a hundred times over now. I'm not about to lose my mind just because we're doing it in Canada instead."

There's plenty of other things to lose his mind over. But he knows what he's capable of surviving, what heartbreak and toil. He'll just have to keep doing it until he can get John back.

[questioningmermaids]

"Good for you," March is alarmingly genuine. "It's nice to have a hero around. Lotta suspicion around, maybe you can shake things up. Whip everyone into shape."

Not him, though. He's not doing shit except getting drunk. He's glad Arthur's here: he doesn't have to do anything now.

Not that he would.

"Kick the Darkwalker's ass with your groovy glove."