#preemptivejustice

He does not want to be here.

Fuck, no, Marc does not want to be where he is right now. Does not want to be at this place - doesn't want to exist within this room right now, the building, the city, even. A part of him also doesn't want to be in this country, actually - if he could, he would even leave the planet behind and... fuck off to whatever-land.

Anywhere but here, anywhere but... now.

Granted, people have been rather nice to him so far - nicer than expected. But they're still doing their job, and he's still mentally unstable, apparently. He's served food, they've shown him his new surroundings, his room, explained to him which stuff he's allowed to have and which he is not; Good, yeah, that's good, whatever.

But Marc is still here, and he doesn't want to be here. He wants to go back where he belongs, wants to go back to what feels familiar to him - wants to wear a different uniform than what he is currently asked to wear: A white sweatshirt, white sweatpants, loafers. At least it's comfortable, but... it's different, and it's not what he wants.

Nothing is like what he wants, honestly.

If he only hadn't done that stupid thing he cannot even remember having done in the first place. He's got no memory of it besides... besides waking up in the washroom with his hands and clothes covered in blood, with his own face staring back at him from the mirror above the sink, sweaty and dirty and red and---

---Eyes squeezing shut, with Marc bringing a hand up to his face, fingers pressing against those covered eyeballs. He's seeing stars for a moment there in return because of that pressure he applies, but then those digits pinch the bridge of his nose instead, accompanied by a deep inhale of a breath he's been holding onto for too long.

He doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want to sit in front of a fucking desk made of glass where the supposed Doctor is sitting and staring at him, surrounded by white, clean walls and clean decorations and clean windows and clean, sterile air---

---A noise suddenly pulls him out of wherever the fuck he'd been within his thoughts; Did that man just speak to him? If he did, Marc didn't understand a single thing. He blinks his eyes back open and lowers his hand, then allows dark irises to flick up and meet the gaze of the other - brows knit, a hesitant, displeased expression on Marc's own, tired features.

It was a peaceful night. Temperature was just right, outside was quiet and peaceful, no reason to feel uneasy. And yet, Shrimp found itself turning around in bed, scenarios of death and betrayals haunting their little head. Everything felt real - too real - the accusations, the tears and the fear of not being able to help. Of not only dying. but watching the close ones do it as well, just because it wasn't fast enough. The failure.

When they woke up, the memories of the nightmare were both foggy and still too real, making their head spin, mind unable to tell apart fiction and reality.

Whole body hurting, eyes unable to focus from behind the tears. They weren't even able to recognise the room at first, just looking around like a lost kid. So alone, so confused.

The blanket they were covered with served as something to wipe their face with - something makeshift but effective in restoring them to their presentable state. Just enough to get them to get up from bed, seek actual help.

Minutes later they were knocking on Arthur's door. Not even sure if they could be there. If there were allowed. But it felt right. Knocking was quiet, as if hesitant. But steady enough to consider it somehow desperate.

With Kane straddling the other's thighs like that, he could slide in further, lock their bodies together - allow cores to touch - but he doesn't, remains sitting on Arthur's legs instead, his own spread open with his jeans stretching around thick muscle. He might be cheeky, might be brash, toys with the boundaries of obedience like they're meant to be played with... but Kane's still respecting his partner nevertheless, enjoys to mix his own character into those rules that have established themselves a while ago.

They sprouted and grew like a plant would, like everything else did they're surrounding themselves with - like the pictures decorating their walls, the antique lamp by their side, the couch they're sitting on, the thriving garden right beside their back porch.

Kane hums, doe-eyes falling to look at the book in question - taking in the sight of the cover. A hint of a pout might present itself on his lips, but all it does is to emphasize on the shape of plush skin rather than to disrupt; Where arms continue to rest loosely on top of Arthur's shoulders, around his neck, fingers begin to play with his hairline - curl short strands around digits to let them go moments after, just to repeat the motion again and again and again.

"---I did greet you." Light and airy that statement is, followed by Kane's gaze flicking back up, dark eyelashes thick and full as he peeks through them, taking in the sight of the other's focused features. "I said hey, didn't I?" ---A tad bit too late, though, he knows. But he did, nevertheless.

A hint of a smirk, another gentle hum as Kane allows a second to pass - inhales, exhales - before his eyes are back on letters, syllables, the outside of what fascinates his partner so much. Philosophy Of Right. Very fitting.

"You've been reading a lot." A statement, "I've done the dishes. Made us some snacks for later." An offer, a promise, "Feeling a bit bored." A fact, "...Would love to have your attention on me rather than your book. ---Just for a little bit." A question, a demand of sorts. Another breath is taken through flared nostrils, head tilting to the other side, hips scooting forward - just the tiniest bit, a fraction of an inch, but the movement is obvious and very much visible, despite being minuscule.

"It's been a while since last time, you have to agree to that, no?"

[out of all places Jake could have been right now, Chicago was at the bottom of the list.]

[They were out of the hospital. That's what mattered. Marc was doing ok- well, at least ok enough to try and get them out of here- and Jake intended on helping. But plane tickets cost money and instead of getting any variety of normal job, Marc had settled on putting them up for criminal hire. All Jake could do was protect Marc where he could, and take care of the body when he couldn't, which is where he found himself on this particular afternoon.]

[The whole city felt odd, like a dream Jake had walked through but couldn't fully remember. Dispite this, there were still places he knew he shouldn't go. Some street signs made his stomach turn as he walked past, some business felt too painful to look at, a whole section of the residential area being a waking minefield. He didn't fully know why he- or really Marc- wanted to avoid all of these locations, but he got the picture. There was at least one house he felt no intention of going near.]

[After about 45 minutes of wandering, Jake finds himself standing in a completely unfamiliar cafe, which in this town was like winning the Marc Spector lottery. Jake sits down, adjusting the pulled up hood of Marc's sweatshirt, and flips through the overpriced menu, his roughly 6 bucks splayed out on the wooden tabletop. He would have preferred to spend his secret stash on something a little more exciting- like a nice slice of pizza, or a new CD- but he guessed a plain muffin was good enough. They did need to eat, after all. Eat, and sleep, and not die... Gosh, this stuff sucked.]

The number of times Arthur said 'stuff' while blatantly having no idea what he was talking about would be grounds enough for Khonshu to disappear and ignore the whole charade. How insulting, to think he could get away with lying to his patron, especially so poorly, so blatantly, over something so... like this. Doing 'all that stuff with the moon' and wanting a piece of the action, like he envisioned himself standing on rooftops and moving the sky inch by inch on his own power.

... It could be flattering, if Khonshu felt like being generous. That the little human was interested in the things Khonshu did as easily as breathing, not just what he could use to lord power and might over others. Unless that was what he was hoping for.

"There's a reason that power isn't given out to mortals," Khonshu felt the need to point out. "When the skies can be moved with a flick of the wrist, that responsibility is monitored closely. You're right, that these things are tied to strict cycles. An inexplicable eclipse, the moon drifting backwards-- there are laws against these things. Consequences, for breaking them."

He was leaning down a little closer to Arthur, like he was testing Arthur's resolve. A real interest, or just something he thought he could impress a girl with.

Elliot had spent years exploring a world he'd thought would always be out of his reach. Despite everyone's concerns, not that he spoke to any of those people, he did spend rather a lot of that time in bars; his argument being that it was a better way to meet locals and have a bit of fun. And, if he happened to get a free bed out of it, what was the harm of putting himself out there?

He'd noticed the man as soon as he'd walked into the bar, though Elliot hadn't moved from his spot chatting to the guys playing darts until the older guy had settled down with a drink.

Elliot didn't have a clue how many drinks he was down; he wasn't totally drunk but definitely tipsy, and too used to drinking to need to keep track anymore, as he headed over.

"Good evening." Elliot greeted with the kind of smile that made those younger than him melt and most older than him chuckle fondly or at least be pleased by his boldness. He leaned against the counter as he inhaled deeply and then cast his eyes around the bar.

"Are you from around here? I ain't, I'm just travelling. But, like, I know when a regular comes into a bar. And you just ain't got that vibe." The Brit commented, his voice full of a light kind of openness that had become a habit.

The small town of Whiteswan looked as almost rustic as many of the farms and ranches out in the territory. While there were a few modern stores there, many were small businesses that had been around for a few generations, especially the horse and tack shop that had been in operation for over a hundred years. It was one that Sunnyside Rescue Ranch relied on for supplies for their many horses.

As Mendoza stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk, he had to pause to admire the new halter that had come in. No doubt it would look stunning on his horse and he couldn't wait to get back to the ranch to show his horse, but as he looked up, he gave a slight start and muttered, "Oh no, not again."

Just across the street there was a small unicorn filly at the heels of a man. The young unicorn kept sniffing at his pants before becoming distracted by something in one of the shops. Though magical creatures coming into areas off the ranch were far from uncommon, a baby unicorn appearing in the town was definitely not a sight that people would normally see. And more, this wasn't just a normal baby unicorn. The little one started to shake its head and wrinkle its nose.

"Uh oh," Mendoza exclaimed softly before quickly crossing the street to get to the man and the baby unicorn.

The unicorn sneezed suddenly, sending out magical sparks from its horn that would shock anyone too close to him and Mendoza winced as the magic hit him. He hoped that the other was okay as the unicorn quickly pranced around to face him and wag its small tail.

"Hey you okay?" Mendoza asked, looking at Harrow. "Little foals can get a bit unruly. And curious."

Arthur had a knack for making the ridiculous seem completely reasonable, if only for a moment or two. A silver tongue of quiet but unabashed confidence, like the answer was so obvious, but he was helpfully explaining it anyway. Khonshu was not a child to be humored. He hadn't asked Arthur a question. He had stated his intent and all but made a demand.

It's idiotic, certainly Arthur's mockery of his voice, which has Khonshu scoffing. Did he understand the idea of Arthur wanting to take care of things with his own hands? Yes. Perhaps he did. And he appreciated Arthur acknowledging that Khonshu's gifts were unique, that not everyone suffering pain had relief a thought away. (Or maybe Arthur meant that not all Avatars had their patron leaning over to demand the right to heal. Both would be true.) It only became something else at the final sentence.