whitetwoguns | But I ain't no madman.

[ Very possibly Arthur should not be at work to begin with, but the defense is a typical one - if not a good one; he felt reasonable at the beginning of his shift, which amounted a lot less to card turning and a lot more to random things needing to be done (a machine malfunctioning, or so it seemed - it wasn't.) Off and on he spots Mr. White though they never really make eye contact. Eames' words about Orange and White not being cut of the same cloth occur to him more than once but that too is just in passing. He's less at home in the casino working than he would be simply trying his "luck" or being outsourced, gaming mathematics something he honed for a job and, like riding a bicycle, it hasn't left him since.

Anyway, it's the middle of his shift soon enough and he's too warm under the collar, warm all over actually, can feel the usually comfortable press of his shirt and waistcoat sticking strangely. Just a few more hours though, he thinks with an inward scowl. Like having a touch of flu or a cold, he's not sure if it's shown but not enough to get any looks.

Playing the role of dealer isn't bad except for the fact that he finds it exceptionally boring - but the upside is he can pay half attention. He's watching Guy-With-Bad-Tie shift in his seat while Guy-With-Cheap-Jacket looks smug (or is that a grimace.) The other two seem to be friends of a sort and treating the game with proper poker faces - the irony being they're already out but decided to stay and watch the showdown, standing to the side.

In lots of ways this is the easiest job Arthur has ever bothered with having.

That's what he's thinking when he takes a second to blink, the room having gone blurry for no reason and he ends up on the ground not really knowing how he got there, the light over the edge of the table blown out the way headlights do in the rain.]

[Another day, another dollar. Whoever is working the music has a sense of humor turning out the 80s hits. Love is a battlefield, the lady sings. It was never a big favorite of the old man but no one asks him. That's one of the many perks about the job is that there are few times when he is cornered for questions and none of them are about what he thinks. The last time he got up close and personal with an employer it didn't end well. Not at all.

Still, he comes to work armed. That's how it's done if you work security. Mr. White protects himself, the employees and the assets of the casino. Making his rounds by the tables.

Before he knows it, there's a clunk. Before anything can really go down he's shooing off the customers. Lucky is already flanking making sure everything stays there.

Please let there be no bodies on the property today, he hopes earnestly. Shit is just messy. Uh oh. This is Argyle, isn't it. The old man knees and grips Arthur's shoulder. Just a few touches because if he's been stabbed or if something's broken moving him immediately may not be good.]

Hey, pal. It's okay. I gotcha.

[As to how and why, Larry's not sure.]

[ It's his default reply to say that he's fine but he opts initially for just splaying the hand farthest from White (that is White isn't it, he's going to assume yes unless White has a twin running around, which isn't impossible) on the floor, digging into the cheap excuse for carpet. He chalks up the clustered, swimming impression he has of everything to the fever as he props himself up on one elbow. His jaw hurts with how hard he's grimacing but strangely that brings him back to himself better for a second. ]

I'm fine, I'm fine. [ There's the default, Arthur wondering none too cheerfully if standing up would be a Bad Idea. Possibly. Contradicting his own words too. He rubs a hand down over his own face, to cover any wincing or whatever else; he's pretty sure he's never been hit with something as ridiculously pathetic as the flu in all his life. Not to his recollection. But this isn't the flu of course, not really.

Glancing at White out of the corner of his eye makes his headache worse so he turns his head and immediately doubles over again, sort of seasick from the motion and never mind that there isn't any actual sea involved. ]

Easy does it.

[For fine he's acting like the opposite. The old man is giving him enough room to breath he hopes. Lucky the other thug about has his hands full making sure no one is going for the chips. There's only one Mr. White and he's working on gripping Arthur by the shoulders.]

Slowly now. Let's get you some place quiet to sit down.

[And to see if he's really all in one piece. Half lifting, half dragging him to his feet isn't easy. The old man has his fill of patience.]

First get you up. Not gonna have you fall again.

[Yeah, Arthur. That's what you did.]

[It could be worse, he tells himself - and Arthur tells himself a lot of things that aren't necessarily true but this one is. He throws a hand out to the side of the table once he's been pulled back up enough, sets most of his weight on that side at first, not keen on White helping him out but only because he's not keen on anyone helping him, nothing personal to the acquaintance. (He's not sure 'colleague' quite works here though in the relation of the casino, all right, technicality fulfilled.) But he's caused an inevitable scene and there are chips scattered in an impressive diameter so he clenches his jaw like he plans to have it stuck that way and shifts what he knows to be less than half his weight on White. It's enough to get one foot in front of the other and the truth is he'd feel better about this if he had some kind of injury; it's the fact that he doesn't that's really mortifying. He's just sick.

It's strange.

Whatever direction, he lets White pick because he's pretty sure that every time he thinks he's looking one way it turns into another, not saying anything at first but, at some point en route coughing out something that sounds suspiciously like ] Thanks. [ And, ] Sorry.

[ He's most surprised maybe to find that he actually means it but doesn't say anything else, experimentally taking more of his weight off of White from time to time, always having to lean on him again anyway. ]

[No blood. That's great. Sure saves the effort of figuring out who and what brought this on. Game isn't over yet. The old man is there every step of the way.]

Careful.

[Though he's getting the feeling that Arthur isn't exactly capable of controlling what is and isn't gentle. There's a sway to his step. White isn't taking them very far. Just one of the private lounges for bigger poker games. The nearest chair is all of the other man.]

Right here, pal. Easy does it.

[He keeps it tilted toward the table in case gravity fails once more.]

Sit for a spell.

[Because they're gonna play twenty questions. Hopefully that's a no brainer.]

[The only lament Arthur would have for blood would be for his suit, which says more about Arthur than maybe anything else but fortunately no one here is a mindreader, well not out of the two of them anyway. When he ends up noticing the noise has gone down is when he realizes they're in one of the small rooms, but he knows he should have noticed in reverse order, which is annoying - maybe also troublesome.

But he sits as half directed, choosing to lean forward with his elbows on his knees and his forehead pressed to the fold of his hands. Like this, if he stares long and hard enough at the floor between his feet, everything stops moving on its own.

It takes him too long again, the whole noticing thing, in this case to realize White hasn't left. Twenty questions? He'd rather not, knows if he slipped out they'd find someone else easily to take his remaining hours. ]

You can go, you know.

[His voice is strange even to him, not well, but it's audible enough. Besides, what's the point in inquiry? Lost on him. He closes his eyes, and shivers because the warm-to-cold flux has kicked in again too, which just re-instills the obvious - he really needs to get out of here.

Though it's true the apartment isn't that much more appealing - other occupants considered, not to mention distance.]

[Pfffft. Who does he think he is, dismissing the old man.]

Not yet.

[No blood doesn't mean no problem. The old man crouches a little to look at Arthur's face from one side to the other. Eyes look alright. Paw like mitts are off for now.]

You wanna give me a second and tell me what happened? Huh? Drink anything? Feel anything out of the ordinary?

[Was this the work of someone else. That is important. The longer this takes the more whoever was involved (if anyone at all) is making more tracks or could be a repeating offender that needs to be punched in the face.]

[Swallowing down a ruder reply than he wants to actually give White - just a reflex from the annoyance at his current state - he shakes his head but that's a mistake too. The room starts swimming again so he fixes his eyes on one place in the carpet, hand rubbing down over his mouth and jaw again.]

It's been going around. [Is what he says, gaze going sidelong toward White but only for a second.] Just some kind of bug. I guess.

[He doesn't realize what White is driving at, the potential for foul play running amuck, but if he did he would argue that's par for the course in this place (dream) and whoever's responsible for the territory should be stuffed and shelved. Sighing, he shivers, closes his eyes for a moment and laces his fingers, pressing them across the bridge of his nose.]

Didn't seem this bad before. [It's a lame addition and he regrets it nearly as soon as it's out of his mouth but he lets it hang there for the two additional cents it might be worth.

He thinks about pointing out White can go again, but for some reason that strikes him as rude so he doesn't. Not yet anyway.]

[Sick then. The old man straightens up and nods.]

Still looks like it packed an awful punch. You about gave the table a heart attack.

[That's a joke if you can't tell, Mr. Argyle. Though no one is blaming you for not being up to laughing. Larry rubs his own chin and considers the next step./small>

Well, if you asked me... [Which Arthur has not, as the guy that peeled him off the ground] I'd kick it in here awhile until heading home. Unless you want a cab?

[Brow arching at that, Arthur is for a second more interested in the idea of a cab than actually calling one - the striking absence of too many cars or things like cars always hard to ignore. Another second though and he sighs, hands absently smoothing at his knees as if to clean them off.]

No cab.

I'll...figure something out.

[He has to reroute his mouth from call someone to 'figure it out', though he peers at White again, this time able to focus on him a little more steadily. Again Eames' words come back - made of different stuff, he'd said or something to that effect - White and Orange.

None of his business, he supposes and looks away as he repeats, ] Thanks though.

For the help. [It's the kind of clarification he wants to make, frowning at his own knee as he folds a hand at the back of his neck, feeling the collar of his shirt sticking there. Great.]

At least think it over, man. Making your way back home feeling like a sack of dog shit is hard.

[Not to rub in however the kid feels right now. Arthur's a grown man though. Larry looks about the room and steps away a moment. Looks like one of the minibars are there. He crouches in and takes out a bottle of water. What? It's just water. Besides, the mini bars get refilled. He steps on back to Arthur.

He has proven to be something of a stick in the mud, being sick hasn't changed that. Come on, Dimick don't expect a guy to fall out of character because he's sick or anything. That's not how it goes.]

Don't mention it.

True. [There's a thin excuse for a laugh. White is frank and Arthur likes that, not in small part because he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to parse through anything less. He wonders what kind of dreamer he is, or if projections could be so complex (Mal's ghost the only example and hers not so benign) whose subconscious he's peeled out of. Not Arthur's certainly, and Eames would remember. That leaves Yusuf to Arthur's knowledge, and anyone else whole. There's a second or two when he considers asking White what he thinks of this place as a place, what makes him think it's not some really extensive dream (why no one else figures it for that) but it's gone nearly as fast as it occurs to him, a near misstep; he'll blame being unwell, or something.

He ends up just eying White's shoes when they come back into his line of vision, finds himself asking something else instead.]

How long you been here?

[Small talk but not really small talk, he's not looking to keep White longer than necessary but he and Orange seem acclimated enough to the surroundings to ask. Granted after months Arthur and Eames should be too, and they are in a way.

But they don't see the City as a city, just the idea of one, a place cobbled together out of memories of multiple real cities. So asking the people who do believe in it - another world or whatever - never seems to go out of style.]

[In case it wasn't clear enough, the old man puts the bottle of water in his line of vision. That's for him. Since he's the ill one. Or at least it makes sense that he can have that. There's seltzer water and soda. Too bad booze didn't work as medicine. Though he knew a guy who was dead positive that Jack Daniels was the only doctor he needed if he wasn't bleeding. Whatever happened to that guy.

Mr. White doesn't mind the quiet. Arthur isn't a good ol' chum. Even if he was, what can you expect out of a man that passed out, really.]

Me? I been here a year and...I think it's three months?

[Three months spent trying to get the fuck out. Larry goes to the mini bar to get his own water.]

Longest I been someplace...

[That wasn't jail. By definition the City could be a prison to some. Compared to the last two times this one is a cakewalk.]

[Accepting the water, Arthur unscrews the cap, turning it over absently between his fingertips as he takes a sip, watching White get his own. Over a year. That's nothing near Dom and Mal's limbo but Arthur doesn't trust the mechanics of this 'dream' hardly at all anymore and he wonders if time might compound differently than any of them can account for - a year down here, reversed above? It makes him grimace again, nothing to do with being sick so much as the idea of time hurrying on without them. Life seems short enough already.

Longest I been someplace.

That makes Arthur look up, peering at White more directly than he has been so far. After another swallow, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pauses.]

Vagabond? [The first thing that comes to mind though one can stay less than a year and not be a vagabond. Really it's half a joke, mildly humored but humor anyway.

Of course White doesn't have to elaborate at all if he doesn't want to, and in a way Arthur doesn't know why he asked that out of everything else - other things like what have you been doing for over a year in this place anyway surprising him by being secondary. More proof he's been here too long himself.]

[A few more seconds later and White would have sputtered some of that water all over the floor. The bottle was this close. He laughs from deep in his gut. Vagabond. Who says that anymore? Makes him feel like he's in a Charlie Chaplin movie. Larry shakes his graying head.]

No. Uh. Not really. [He is easy to smile unlike other people. Part of his nature. It makes him seem like he's an all around swell guy that hasn't shot up any cops.] I think of it more as a traveling man. I got some kind of a need to be on the road.

[Which makes him sound like a cowboy. That's never bad.]

There's a lot of it to see most of the time.

[Outside of this place is what he means.]

How about yourself?

[It's had to have been at least six months... right? The old man's not 100% sure of when Mr. Argyle became part of the casino scene. People look the part and then there as much a part of the picture as the carpet.]

[It's the other man's laugh that gets a more evident smile. Arthur doesn't do it consciously so much as reflexively, his fingers adjusting absently on the water bottle. His response to White's answer is more an acknowledging murmur than anything else - using the water as an excuse not to speak as much as for its actual hydrating purpose, cool if a bit sharp down the back of his throat.

He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning a little forward, bottle held loose in the cup of both hands. Six months and four days give or take some hours. Arthur's head is constantly rewriting that number though, debating between factoring in his time here previous (and the forger's and Ariadne's too) even though he has literally no recollection of it.

Staring at the water bottle he's not quite listless - traces of his knee-jerk amusement still there though it's a thoughtless sort of transparency.]

Little over six months. [There's a flash of annoyance but it's fast replaced with the dry and mild expression that tends to be Arthur's default.] Seems longer though, [ he adds and keeps to himself the last thing: it might be.]

[Vagabond and rambling man both sound better than criminal wanted in more than one state. Larry will take that in polite conversation any day of the week. Whatever it takes to stay safe and hidden. That's what has let him stay free for so long.

Then along came the City. There's no record of his past crimes or records, it's like a whole new start. All in all he has been relatively clean. The straight and narrow isn't his path of personal selection, but he takes the shortcuts that ensure his way of life remains the same. So far he's been able to keep the diamonds and Mr. Orange in his way. No easy feat, and certainly not one without its disruptions.

Knock on wood.]

The good times make it shorter, the bad times... [he shrugs because it goes without saying.]

Longer. [He fills in not because it's necessary but because it's what comes off the tip of his tongue first, anything else pushed back by another sip of water, then another. There isn't a record here for any of them, which is nice, though it wouldn't have been nearly the same for him even if they had; none of those papers had Arthur on them at least. Nothing here quite resembles any specific real waking locale or concept but it's quite the hodgepodge of influences. Again he's struck with the likelihood there have to be other lucid dreamers here, actively building, or who have. Someone made this place.

Would that be the way out? Logically? But what's logic here?

He lifts the bottle because it's still pretty cold and touches it to his forehead, which is not, using his other hand to fumble out his device and send Yusuf a distress signal - which is to say a hey, got a minute? equivalent before resting it on his knee.]

Being stuck here...must get to you if you're used to traveling.

[Not vagabond but road warrior? Or not. Either way, it's a lot more moving than this place allows for unless you really enjoy communing with nature, as far as he can tell.]

Amen to that brother.

[Boy does he have some stories. Stories about himself and this city and misery. Not all of it is from love. When do you get to see your mother after decades exactly as you remember her? Or what about falling off the wagon a few times? That's happened too.

He takes a sip to keep him from sighing. There are plenty of missteps and shitty memories here. He feels more than a little lucky that there are far more good ones to be found these days. Damn lucky.]

It does some days. Then again, I never gave settling down a real try you know? Challenge keeps a man sharp.

[Brown eyes are watching Arthur idly. Looks like he can keep with it a little longer.]

Think you can keep something down? I know that the bar has a few lunch menu pieces if you need it.

[Just being a good co-worker, Mr. Argyle. It's the White way.]

[Arthur can't help it; he smiles enough that the corners of his eyes crinkle deeply. Brother? Just a spin of phrase he's well aware, lingo, but he can't remember anyone using it on him even colloquially. The word 'challenge' gets as much of his attention but in a different way; he'd never looked at it that way before, the matter of being 'trapped' here. If this was the prototype program, training in environment building (it could have been - the test of finding one's way out, cheating the maze) then maybe, he would understand a bit more the lack of convention, the lack of rules applied in the way they hadn't known enough about to strictly play by.

He thinks about those movies where you wake up and everything was a dream.

Still. A challenge. Huh.] Hadn't thought of it that way.

[ It's more a mumble, thoughtful though it is as well.

His mind feels a bit stuffy, like there's cotton where all the proper thinking parts need clarity but he lowers the bottle, sets it against his mouth again, brow quirking at the question before shaking his head.]

Nah. Don't think...don't think I could, honestly.

[Mouth tightening in a thin line, he leans enough to set the water bottle (3/4 gone) on the floor beside his foot, taps the neck of the bottle once.] This's plenty.

Really.

[He replies quickly to Yusuf's response blinking on his device; the chemist will pick him up, or help hold him up some of the way back. Watch, Arthur thinks dimly to himself, I won't even need it - like not needing an umbrella you remember to carry. He wouldn't mind this time though.

Glancing over at the other man, Arthur doesn't thank him again since that makes the previous one feel somehow less important or less honest; neither of which is accurate, so he decides on something else.]

Should you get back?

[It's far from suggesting White should so much as a good co-worker's regard for the other's security. The most would happen is some brief talking to about lingering but Arthur somehow doubts that as well. White's good at his job here - and depending on the day that entails this, that, the other thing, or all three and he's obviously been around for a while here. Important staying factors. No he won't get in trouble likely, but Arthur points out because he also wants to give White the opportunity to leave.

It's one of those moderately polite business meeting things that seems to work its way into so many of his exchanges with those he hasn't known for years (and that's pretty much everyone except for two.)]

Edited 2011-10-14 08:14 (UTC)

I'm not anybody's Mary Sunshine but I try to keep a bigger, brighter picture in mind. If you don't got that then don't expect other people to do it for you, I figure. Though I dunno if you noticed in this City there are people willing to do some pretty desperate shit to make a stranger smile. Baked goods, parties...shit like that.

[Which could be because of age or magic girl canons. Things that Mr. White may never, ever understand.]

Gettin' there. Gotta make sure you won't fall down or nothing. Especially alone.

[The old man wags a finger as though it's actually something Arthur has a decision on.]

You call someone to get you?

[If not a cab. A roommate, a friend...]

[That is something Arthur has noticed and maybe that out of everything confuses him the most - the niceness, a niceness which doesn't line up with the definitive motivation or reaction of projections in the dream at all which again points him back to the working theory (one of several) - they aren't projections. But what then, dreamers? Remotely? Or all hooked up in the same happy suspect basement? Who knows. It makes his already aching head pulse a bit more uncomfortably, like it's trying to push his skull into a new alignment.

White's words however elicit a half smile as if to say well to the bit about falling and then there's just a ginger nod of his head for the inquiry as he tucks his device away again. ]

Yeah. Shouldn't take long, [ he says and doesn't specify friend or driver or flatmate, but in fact all three are accurate in some sense - or past tense for the second maybe.

The pause is a cross between amused and something like resigned to the possibility as he adds, ] -unless he gets lost or something.

[ He's not sure if Yusuf's been in the Underground himself yet. ]

Hope he won't.

[Going or coming.]

Mind if I smoke?

[Seeing as it's almost a break right here. Larry has no idea about the theory of this place being a dream. For some reason it really has not crossed his mind. His dreams are sometimes very real, but never in a way that they keep on rolling like this. It's too episodic. And the highs are too high. Happy dreams usually get to a ridiculous point before bursting. At least his do. Everyone is different.

In his head gunshot wounds make it all pretty fucking real.]

You can have one if you want.

[As a courtesy.]

[Arthur shakes his head because no he doesn't mind, the most he's ever thought of objecting being kept to anywhere he might live (you can't get the smell out, and while he wouldn't mind about say, a couch, the suits are another matter.) This being none of that, he doesn't have the place to mind, much less a reason to, but he also declines the offer - polite though it is. ]

No - but thanks.

[ Maybe another day, but the scratched, dry threat of his throat already tells him better not and the swimming of his head throws in a second.

But White, Arthur remembers telling Eames, he liked. Likes rather. He tries to imagine him in the dreamshare and fails miserably though - perhaps because of his imagination (sub-par, he's been told, and he knows it's because he likes his rules, his practicalities, even in a dream and is sometimes so stuck on them that he fails to see - the saying goes - the forest for the trees) or perhaps because White is just so...

...well Arthur isn't sure of the word. Grounded? Not quite what he's looking for. Earthy? Further off. He gives up trying, to figure for the moment, finishing his water with some surprise, not realizing he'd gotten that far on it.

Presumably by now White has lit up, and Arthur eyes the cigarette thoughtfully. Eames used to smoke - especially after a fight when they were at the base - or after a meal at the Cobbs', while working on a job in Paris. He doesn't so much now, Arthur has noticed which makes it all the more problematic that it's still Eames he thinks of.

Glancing away, he absently flattens the bottle - habit, though they don't have a recycling bin anywhere remotely near this room. Free hand turning the device in his pocket idly, he ends up asking, ] Ever tried to get out?

[ Of this place, the City he means of course but doesn't think it needs clarifying. Some people have, he knows, but he also believes not all attempts are likely recorded, especially perhaps smaller ones. ]

Edited 2011-10-15 05:45 (UTC)

But I ain't no madman.

(10/11)

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