( open ) you gentlemen who think you have a mission

[hardcut]

WHO: arthur pendragon and y o u !
WHERE: various; open starters for heropa and de chima.
WHEN: september!
WHAT: catch-all and etc.
WARNINGS: tba.

Heropa;
With the rash of animosity from native civilians, Arthur feels parts uneasy - the awful shit that went down when he first arrived (the Swear-In, the.. 'clones') not sitting right with him - and parts just the opposite. Petty vandalism and pissed off locals are as familiar as anything could be. He avoids the Days of Forgiveness ceremony, being unimpressed with such choreographed sentiment on principle, and chiefly feeling like an outsider among outsiders, still. He hasn't been here long enough for surface opinions to have become fully-informed ones, or anything intelligent to say about them besides. The vandalism slows up, nobody ends up hitting his place of business or residence, but Arthur still finds himself sitting on the porch of the government house he lives in overnight, aimlessly surfing the invisible information waves on his phone and wondering just how pissed off Joe Nobody in this day and age has to be to take a brick to a stranger's window.

Day to day he walks to and from work (and sometimes the Porter), runs in the early morning hours, and only makes one further attempt at driving a car on his own which he quickly aborts. Fucking things. He needs proper lessons, probably. The used car lot's business has picked up a fair clip despite his personal failings in being able to operate the merchandise, a better salesman than he is a giant metal death machine pilot. After a brainstorming session (Arthur thinks he's fortunate that the locals who work here are so keen on imPorts), one of the lads puts an advertisement up on a list belonging to some bloke on the internet for mechanics.

De Chima;
There are all kinds of reasons to wander away from the town his assigned residence and job are both in - company, exploration, novelty - but mostly it's just Florida's weather. He's in no hurry to move, but if he ever does, that'll be why, not any job. Just being fed up with the heat and humidity-- so it's great that he opts for Virginia, tonight, and doesn't think to check the weather app on his phone first, still unused to the ins and outs of American geography. But by the time it occurs to him he's already out of the base, so oh well. Fuck it. At least it's slightly cooler. He's not bothered to spend an evening getting dinner by himself people-watching, or with anyone he happens to bump into.

He opts for the scenic route on the walk back, contemplating the machines (and not magic, it's insisted) that teleport them from place to place. He thinks about the Darklands of Annwn and shifting in and out of that otherworld, though the mage's magic or the sword's. Supposedly the sword's, anyway. He doesn't have Excalibur with him tonight and he's half-glad for it, feeling the itching desire to experiment under his skin. The thought of using magic to just leave is one that he's had before but puts no real stock in; he's not the first arsehole with a magic object to roll through those machines. Could he just move from place to place in one world, though? Now there's something he hasn't picked at. It's what he's contemplating in a public park, resting his forearms against a walkway's railing and looking out over a garden, when a strange sensation - a barely-there second of something like needing to sneeze - flickers in him followed immediately by sparks in the foliage near his feet. Arthur swears and stamps it out-- no trouble, not really, it's barely a match's worth-- and looks around as though whatever triggered it might be lurking, thinking nothing of himself or his uncle's penchant for fireballs. (Stupidly.)

Mystery Box;
If you'd like to do something specific or would like me to write you a starter hit me up via pm or @ sindicate! Also if you prefer [ action ] that is A-OK, I can match it.

Comments

@ baelish

[hardcut]

The Iron Throne (no one's told him about the in-joke with the name yet) isn't what he expects on either side of his experience - neither like a brothel at home nor like the strange tavern-like establishments he's told are the norm here. It's more like the former, to be sure, but the near-familiar aesthetic coupled with modern fixtures like stage lights and a stripper pole is strange. Not off-putting, but something near it, a baser part of his mind rebelling against the edges that don't fit for want of home. He expects that's just him, though, and no reflection on the establishment itself, as it seems above and beyond for what it actually is.

The bar, for example, is a fine standard. And none of the girls are crying or sporting black eyes, which is what he's been trained to anticipate from brothels run by men (even though this isn't a brothel, he has to remind himself). So there's a mark in Petyr's favor. The woman mixing cocktails is happy to chat with him as he sits, her charming attention neatly - if transparently, to Arthur - professional. Rough fingers hold a round glass third-full of cognac as they talk, the ring on his smallest digit occasionally making a soft sound as it touches the side. He hasn't mentioned the fact that the proprietor offered him anything on the house and doesn't intend to. If he runs into the ambassador here, swell, if not, that's also fine. His curiosity is his biggest motivator.

[baetiful]

And Petyr did happen to show up that evening. It was payday and he had to dole out the checks to the girls. And knowing that, he does get a rather warm reception from a few ladies as he walks in. He makes smiling small talk, glancing around before his eyes fall on Arthur -- almost passing him but then returning when he recognizes the man. Well, well. He had been hoping to see the young king in Maurtia Falls.

Dismissing himself, Petyr heads over to the bar, slipping beside him. "I see you decided to take me up on my offer. Either that or you wound up here by accident. Regardless, it is nice to see you again..." A pause. A mischievous little smirk. And then: "Your Grace." He even gives a little bow of his head.

[hardcut]

Arthur slides his gaze over to the other man when he sidles up - the double-take this time is less pronounced, barely noticeable before it's folded away under his normal easy composure. Christ, but he looks like Bill. It's nearly startling even when he expects it. (Is he homesick already? Fuck. Can't be, what nonsense.)

And then his eyebrows jump up before he exhales in a laugh, shaking his head. Arthur raises his glass in a silent well played. "Showing your hand there awful early, Ambassador," he says, nearly teasing. "You can stick with 'Arthur', if it's all the same."

It's probably not all the same, but it's how Art's decided to roll. And who bloody knows what Petyr found looking up Camelot-- some of the stories are completely mental.

"Nice place."

[baetiful]

"If that is what you want, then of course. Arthur it is. But I do have to wonder why such an aversion to the show of proper respect and proper titles." With a wave of his hand toward the bartender, they are being poured two glasses of the finest wine the establishment could get its hands on. Petyr accepts his and gestures for Arthur to do the same.

"I am glad it's to your liking. Some find what goes on here rather distasteful. But most can appreciate the decor and the authentic feel of the place. A touch of home away from home for those of us from worlds not to this modern standard. But even that is tainted a bit by a modern touch..."

He glances toward the artificial lighting that pulses to the beat of the song the latest dancer is performing to.

[storyseeker]

[Elena's spotted the neighbor guy a few times in passing, which means he's probably seen her. Logic. What he hasn't seen is the large, fairly rambunctious St. Bernard dog she's got on a leash. It's not an animal she's used to handling, judging by the way it's yanking her around—and by how it jerks the leash out of her grip entirely to jump at her neighbor and attempt to give him kisses. Ew.]

Oh my god! I'm so sorry!

[hardcut]

[ Ooohh dear.

Being barreled at by a gigantic dog inspires a nervous reaction, even for a guy with Arthur's heightened physical constitution. Y i k e s. For a moment it looks like he's about to leap onto the nearest car, but then decides better of running and creating a target for any hunting drives. ]

Hi-- [ His greeting in her direction dissolves into muffled, alarmed noises with application of doggo-- ] Are you a nice fuckin' monster? Oh, alright, you're just trying to drown me in drool and not eat me, that's less bad-- [ Arthur is currently petting? wrestling with? the dog, his voice only somewhat strained. ]

[storyseeker]

[Jesus. This was such a bad idea.]

Sorry, sorry, sorry—get off him, will you, uh, Spot? He's not your dinner!

[She does her best to wrestle the thing away, but the dog is big and Elena is small.]

God, I'm so embarrassed.

near the de chima porter.

[jalan]

When she had first arrived in the United States, the trust between herself and dragon had fractured so fundamentally that then, she could not dream of this. He'd gone missing, as much as a giant dragon can go missing, and both a return to their world as well as the events in this one had done something to repair it. Now, running this sort of errand feels less like a foolish use of such an immense resource as it does an opportunity to continue to build rapport: dragonlord and dragon.

She gives Arthur the coordinates to a short Uber ride away from the Virginian Porter.

The reserve is not unpopulated, but offers some wide open space away from the usual crush of crowds that makes take off an easier thing. Currently-- well, Arthur might be forgiven for thinking there's a joke to be made, here, as Daenerys sits on the grass with a dragon no bigger than a chicken. Drogon perches on her knee and snaps at the air after her teasing fingers, bat wings flared and tail lashing. His proportions are not quite the fine-boned delicate angles of his infancy, more obviously a scaled down adult given the relative breadth of his shoulders and sternum.

It's a far cry from the entrance she made moments ago, shadows cast and the ground trembling under impact. The evidence of this is marked in the ground where the grass has been disturbed by big dragon claws, crushed by big dragon feet.

Daenerys herself is ready for the journey, her hair bound in curling braids and a messier tail reaching down her back. She wears light, wool lined leathers of pale greys and tan, all customised to her slight frame and peculiar needs, and familiar white combat boots with a few flowers secured very firmly in the eyelets, having managed to withstand the journey here. Her face is mostly clear of makeup, pale skin pink in places from the colder sky winds.

[hardcut]

Arthur could put effort into trying to detective-out what method of transportation Daenerys has coyly offered to share with him to the nation's capitol, or he could go along with whatever her barely-there smile was leading to and let himself be surprised. Still, when that great shadow passes nearing the end of the Lyft drive (one of the blokes at his work is extremely particular about Uber vs Lyft, alright) and the driver swears and goes on a long excited ramble about it, he thinks of little things like someone asking after a dragon on her network post.

Really. Really. Is he amazed or incredulous? Amazed, certainly, especially seeing the little thing in her lap whose transformation he can easily intuit as he hikes across the grass to meet her--

"Holy fuck," is said with a laugh. Good thing he opted for his standard tolerant-of-modern wardrobe choices instead of what he found when he searched the internet for 'business casual'; denim and leather should survive well enough. He crouches down - slightly more than arm's length, surely even a small predator might not like being approached so quickly - and then notices her footwear, prompting another pleased laugh. "No wonder you have to be fireproof."

Surely dragons have the same qualities everywhere, huge and winged and fire-breathing.

[jalan]

At approach, Drogon turns his blocky, to scale head around to scent the air and consider this New Person with inscrutable predator eyes. It doesn't seem so very long ago when Daenerys would, occasionally, gaze into her dragon's expression and find herself utterly unable to read it, all coarse scales, slit pupils, and teeth. Things have improved, since then.

It is also a less intimidating thing, probably, when he is this size. Daenerys is smiling already at Arthur's response, glad -- it could have been received poorly, after all, but then, she mightn't have played at the game of 'surprise!' if she sensed it would.

She ushers Drogon off her knee, and he lands without flutter, more feline than bird, staking clawed feet and folded wings into the grass.

"Family inheritance," she says, echoing herself. "My ancestors rode dragons, long ago. I have three, but only this one followed. His name is Drogon."

Which probably sounds like a deficit in creativity in naming of a dragon, but its spoken with enough sensitive affection that pointing this out might make her cross. Who knows. "His proper size will make quick work of a journey to Washington."

ON THE JOB

[khajidont]

When Jaime sets off on a remote job this morning, he doesn't really expect to run into another imPort. He expects it to be another boring remote job among boring remote jobs, few people to talk to, and even less to do, in the end. They never seem to call them over for any interesting problems, just ones that need hands a little more practiced at fixing cars than their salesman. He rolls up looking grubby in the well-tended car lot, dressed in his mechanic's uniform, hair a mess, a travel mug in one hand and his toolkit in the other. He hides his yawn behind the back of one hand before trudging inside and calling out, "Hello! I'm Jaime Reyes - Valdez's Auto Repair & Customization sent me!"

Okay, that's the spiel he's supposed to rattle off. He trusts that he's allowed to swing round the back from that point on to wherever it is they're keeping the cars in need of repair, and he quickly heads forwards with the air of someone who absolutely belongs in this lot with very little apparent concern for where customers are allowed to go. Either he's the world's worst thief with a penchant for tackling used car lots, or he's just really, really old hat at this job.

(He's honestly just been doing this for a long time.)

[hardcut]

The native employees at the Once and Future Used Car Lot (a name which Arthur gets now, having finally googled himself... g r e a t) don't expect an imPort either, apparently, because the looks the mechanic gets as he rolls through are curious and a little excited. The tension gripping some civilians is absent here, either because they were never inclined to such thoughts or because the imPort assigned to them is so good at convincing people to buy their cars. Or both!

In any event: Jaime is soon enough joined by a tall fair-haired man sporting scars on his forearms and an easy gait, coming around to the back of the lot. "Morning," he greets, insufferably awake at this hour by virtue of originating from a pre-coffee as well as pre-Christian England. No caffeine dependency here. "Are you from somewhere besides Earth? They're playing Bingo in there." Arthur stops beside him and squints at some of the damage at the nearest car. "Damn, they didn't look so bad the other night."

[khajidont]

"Huh?" Jaime's in the middle of taking another long swig of coffee, but at least it's already helping him wake up a bit. Man, he needs to get more sleep at some point. Or maybe just shake off the caffeine dependency.

Eh. That's a problem for Future-Jaime. Present-Jaime is more than happy to continue feeding his addiction. "Oh, the whole imPort thing? They're gonna be disappointed; I'm not all that exciting." He peers behind him, and waves at a few of the looky-loos, who either blatantly stare at him or look away, abashed. "I'm from Earth. And I work in a garage there too."

He glances Arthur over, then sets his toolbox down long enough to stick his hand out for him to shake. "You're an imPort too, right? I'm Jaime. Nice to meet you."

de chima

[knaval]

You know what's strange? Riptide finds it quite easy to hide, even in robot mode. Even being a gradient of blue from deep navy to almost cyan. Maybe when he sits still enough for long enough, people think he's some kind of art deco. He doesn't need to breathe, so there's no movement. Maybe people notice him but decide not to stay anything; it would make sense. A giant, spiky robot with a thunderous expression.

Art didn't miss Riptide, so much as not come from the right direction. Riptide has been people watching for a couple of hours with nothing else to do, wondering how people can be so calm when he's told them there's a member of the DJD on their planet.

He cocks his head when Arthur suddenly starts stomping on the ground, reaching his long gangly arm out to poke him with a giant finger.

"What are you doing?"

[hardcut]

Maybe if he'd come from the proper direction he'd have still blanked out - hard to say. Arthur's no stranger to tall structures, Londinium being built reasonably high and Camelot practically reaching the clouds, but these skyscrapers and spindly square towers of modern architecture and their neon lights are a little dizzying to stare at for too long.

That said.

He doesn't miss a large robot appendage suddenly encroaching on his physical space.

"What are you doing!" is his immediate retort, hopping to one side to evade the poke, because what is that. Oh my god. He gets a look at what figure the metal digit is attached to and thinks he recognizes--

"Riptide?" --sounds like he's trying to pronounce a foreign word. "Don't creep up on somebody like that!"

Right, the giant Panicbot creeped up on anyone.

[knaval]

"I was here first. If anything, you creeped up on me," he says, with a snort.

He retracts the digit, cocking his head.

"This doesn't seem like your scene."

@poe

[hardcut]

So this whole glossed over aborted car driving attempt--

Arthur doesn't know why he doesn't just admit he has no fucking clue to the lads (and ladies) at his work. Maybe the feeling of conceding to struggling with it is a touch too uncomfortable in the face of managing most other technological mysteries all right, or maybe he just inherently doesn't like cars. There's something unnerving about them, truly, closed in and containing the power to crush other living things with a single wrong turn. He makes it to the corner store alright, but ends up on the wrong side of the street on his way back and - you know what, nevermind. To hell with this. He's aware of the odd way he's operating the thing, certain he's making any onlookers or drivers of other vehicles nervous, and that's what prompts him to let the car stop in a desultory slump up against the nearest curb, 'parked' facing the wrong way.

"--Could just stop and go when you're bloody told, you useless collection of inexplicably moving parts," he's muttering, as if the car can hear him. "The fucking phone does things I ask it to and so do dogs and horses and yet you are gonna lurch around and crush somebody's kids if I ain't careful. Why is this the advancement none of these people have made yet--" grumble grumble. Arthur pries open a back door and fishes out his (eco-friendly) linen grocery bags.

[flightforfreedom]

This was hardly the first time that Poe went on his self-ordained 'patrol'. Which was less of a patrol and more of a taxi service, all things considered, but he did try to keep an eye out specifically for people in trouble. Which is why, from his place in the sky, it was all too easy to spot out the car that was driving a little erratically and - ending up on the wrong side of the rode. He was already flying down to see if he could get the guy to stop when the car did it already. So he was within earshot to hear the conversation.

Both sides of it.

Hi, Arthur. Have a man on a carpet hovering just over your car.

"She says that it's not her fault that you can't steer worth a damn, and that if you keep your foot so heavy on the gas petal she can't be held responsible for your actions."

He gave the stranger a bemused smile. "You two alright?"

[hardcut]

Arthur looks up and -

you know what, fine. This isn't the weirdest thing he's seen, even here. He squints slightly against the sun, but otherwise decides he's going to take this new bit of strangeness in stride.

"If 'she' can talk it's the first I've heard of it," he drawls, English accent not quite up to formal Imperial standards. Working class at best. "Actually, not even first, I can't hear anything at all."

He shoulders one grocery bag and keeps hold of the other, shutting the car door with a solidity that is perhaps heavier-handed than necessary, but not deliberately vengeful. "You know," is mused, "saying you can hear a car is even weirder than the flying rug."

HEROPA | at work

[specialise]

The rovers back home were few and far between, but Raven always knew she had permission to drive it. If she wanted to take it out of the garage, she could, no reasons needed, no questions asked.

But Heropa isn't home. Hero's like the earth before the bombs — populated, beautiful, less dangerous. She can't take any rovers around here from their garages, since people seem to own them. It's not like a shared vehicle where the people in charge don't blink an eye when the mechanic takes it out for a drive.

Using the Internet to research the vehicles available in this neck of the lively woods, Raven's located a few dealerships she could visit.

She walks into the used car dealership with a metal contraption wrapped around her left leg, boots on, and a furrow to her brow in place. She heads to the empty reception and rests her elbows on the desk. Leaning over, she spots a book on a lower level of the reception's desk, and decides to flip it around so she can read it.

[hardcut]

The book, it turns out, is about medieval heraldry - an absent receptionist is a hobbyist, apparently (or trying to figure out what their pet imPort's sigil might be?). There's an employee at a back desk wrapped up in phone call with what sounds like a very angry customer - said employee mouths a distressed I'll be with you soon! - but Raven still has a few solid minutes to browse the pictures and dense history before a door in the back opens and someone else comes to her aid.

"Sorry about the wait," Arthur says as he jogs up to the front desk, "kid who usually watches the front is home puking his guts out, which is even worse for helping folks than nobody being here." His English accent is working-class at best, attire unprofessional compared to the standard of business casual, but he's put together well enough for someone still rebelling against the concept of most modern fashions. He grins, "Reckon you're looking for a vehicle or directions to somewhere with less humidity. How can I help?"

[specialise]

Raven's attention is squarely focused on the book she's managed to turn around, flicking through its pages. It's something Bellamy would probably like, being the big nerd he is. It's got pictures that look familiar to her, and words that look foreign as well. It's a book on history, one she thinks the Ark would've loved to have saved, but would've opted to float for the sake of clearing space for the useless junk they kept on board.

Despite her best efforts, she can't pinpoint his accent. She swears she's heard something like it on the Ark, but without Sinclair or anyone else here to remind her of what station he would've belonged to, she can't name it.

Looking up at him, Raven tilts her head and opens her mouth, brows furrowing together. Rather than tell him why she's here, she presses her finger harder down onto the book. "What's all this about?" She looks down at the book to ensure he doesn't misunderstand her. She's pointing to a page that has a big castle on display, but she isn't asking specifically about the castle itself.

mystery box??? that drunk thing we talked about

[gentrify]

[ around about what most 8-5 working people would call the hideous hour of 3am, mickey milkovich comes banging on arthur's door, living relatively close in the sense that they're both in imPort housing in heropa. the first thing that'll hit him when he opens the door is the strong scent of russian vodka, followed by mickey's hand.

not punching him, just slapping onto his shoulder, giving him an excited but obviously shitfaced kind of excited shake. ]

Yo, I need your to help, what d'you name gun shops? Y'know, guns, like-- [ finger gun, pointing it at arthur's face, mimicking firing. ] Pew pew.

I even got-- hey, hold this [ this, being his half empty vodka bottle, while he shrugs his coat off and tosses it on arthur's floor, inviting himself in. ] I even got legit papers and shit. Licenses, man. My old man'd be shitting himself.

[ because it's like his entire bloodline is allergic to legitimate, law abiding lines of work. not that this is going to be strictly law-abiding, but closer than anyone in his immediate family has ever been. ]

good grief charlie brown

[hardcut]

[ Mickey's lucky Arthur is so good at recognizing people, because rolling up so close on the heels of widespread vandalism and in the middle of the night puts him on the offensive at first. But-- oh, for fuck's sake. ]

Why are you shitfaced at this hour? [ is a half-whispered question, because this isn't just Arthur's floor, he's got a housemate, who any day now might just decide to Force choke him or something (not that Art knows that, but still, he tries not to annoy the guy too much). He leaves the coat where it falls, though, and takes the bottle to keep it from getting dropped. He shuts the door and steadies Mickey with one hand, mostly to keep him from wandering off. ]

What are you talking about, you lunatic. [ Sigh. Okay, here we got, shuffling Mickey down the hall to the lower master bedroom where he's set up. ] Do you have any weapons on you, before you keel over and stab yourself?

[ Hi, how are you, etc. Arthur is in nothing but what he was sleeping in, which is a thin pair of gym pants. He flips on a single lamp in his bedroom, flooding it with a muted yellow-orange glow. ]

[gentrify]

'Cause the only other options at this hour are sleeping or fucking, and does it look like I'm up to either of those?

[ mickey is definitely not whispering, and it's difficult to say if that would change were he sober here instead of shit-faced, but it is what it is, and herding him towards the hallway is going to be a Task, as he keeps turning around to try to talk to arthur as they go, then tripping over his own feet or backing into a wall.

the question over weapons gets a look that suggests it's a stupid ass question. mickey does not leave his house without at least a couple knives and maybe a gun on his person, so yes, he is likely armed, in some form or fashion. it's possible he doesn't remember where or what he equipped before frolicking off to the liquor store.

so moving past that. ]

I'm talking about business, man, keep up. Can't just call it some basic shit like 'milkovich guns', 'cause of all this commie scare bullshit and-- what the hell, they have personal trainers back in 600 BC? [ which means mickey's finally noticed how shirtless arthur is. given he's only 5'7" to arthur's 6'1" it probably should've been faster than that. ] Calm your chest down, dude, you're gonna put someone's eye out with that shit.