Moments We Never Quite Forget [Francis]

[Arthur W. Kirkland]

some coincidences are deliberate

tagged: francis / notes: sorry for the wait uwu

It was apparent that the officials were preparing for another fight in the arena. They didn’t need to announce it, the intention was all too clear whenever they ran numbers, taking careful inventory of the mutants: who had fought recently, who hadn’t, who drew the crowds like flies to honey slathered filth. Whoever lined their pockets made their list for the day. Arthur never relished in these fights, skirmishes meant to entertain the upper-crust of society, filling the government's pocketbooks while the mutants were given a bit of food in exchange for a win. The rest starved. Some savoured a chance to move about freely from their cells and participated with the expected level of potency that ignited the onlooker’s lust for savagery, locking away the guilt associated with cutting down a fellow inmate. Although Arthur had his fair share of wins, the promise of food certainly didn’t show. He still had the sallow look of malnutrition, and the wild look never truly left his gaze, befitting of a person in perpetual role of immediate survival. His eyes were shaded with cynicism and a taste of resentment, a different definition of humanity.

And here he was, chosen to be the next vessel of relentless entertainment. A living bauble for the very people that he’d rather lash out at than adopt the arena as his stage for the next hour or so. The security guards were quick with applying the restraints about his arms, very nearly dragging him out of his holding cell in their haste before leading him along with the other chosen mutants towards a brief waiting area. A designated room where they would be paired and released into the arena later in the day. The stands and other areas of the Underground where spectators flocked were currently being cleaned and prepared. It would be inexcusable, after all, for such upstanding members of society to be forced to rest their eyes on such unattractive filth. Unthinkable.

Arthur’s restraints were removed the moment they shoved him into the waiting room. It was meant for participants to prepare themselves for what was to come in a few hours. Casting a glance at the others, Arthur recognised most of them, seasoned veterans of the aforementioned slaughter. A group of armed officials had already paired them before taking their leave. The name of the mutant Arthur was paired with was unfamiliar. He offered a scant glance towards the other, his youth was painfully apparent. A boy fresh out of Weeds. According to the snide remarks of the others, he had an underwhelming ability. Whatever the case, the boy's face looked drained of blood, his lips pressed tightly together, and his breathy voice a flutter of nerves. Although the boy was eighteen, he had the appearance of someone far younger, the baby fat still present along his cheeks, his limbs more awkward and thin than long and lean, offering very meager show of substance.

A slick sense of uneasiness settled heavily like film over Arthur's stomach with the sight. This was who he was supposed to fight? ...If it could even be called that. Arthur’s uneasiness refused to be sated the longer they waited. Conversation died between the contestants. Their awkward glances avoiding their forced rivals. The boy seemed to follow suit, avoided Arthur's gaze in particular, staring at the ground and sinking his teeth into his already broken lip. The boy's fingers were clenched. The silence lingered, growing heavier. Arthur shifted, as did some of the others. He slowly made his way to the edge of the waiting room, his shoulder pressing against the wall, calculating eyes resting thoughtfully on the door.

Another wave of conversation started. The others were either speaking in uneasy tones among themselves or were otherwise distracted with heavy thoughts. The guards and officials outside of their current confinement were probably still hurrying about, either behind schedule or managing the misfortune of an unexpected guest to the Underground. It wasn’t uncommon to receive such visits, either from prospective buyers who sought to whet their appetite for the available mutants or to make other unsavoury exchanges with them behind closed doors. Whatever the situation outside their temporary prison, Arthur's thoughts rested elsewhere. As the approaching winter did them no favours with their poor attempts at warmth, Arthur desired something a little different than food.

He wanted something, anything, even if it was the false promise of warmth, a burn against his throat and the slow heaviness that would seep into his body. This wouldn’t be the first time that Arthur had filched liquor from the Underground storerooms. He’d had an obscene amount of practice at Weeds. And his ability was thankfully not of the unfortunate sort. He was able to make his way among the most complicated series of corridors and locked rooms. If need be, it also made for one hell of a distraction. It’s not as if he did it too often in any case. And he’d rarely ever been caught doing so, offering him the amenity of having no particular label over his name that would caution the guards of his behaviour otherwise.

The decision was made. The impulse fulfilled.

It was quick and silent. Arthur lingered closer to the door, casting a glance about the room as the lock came undone with unseen fingers from the hallway. The latch opened and he slipped from the room before it moved back into place. If there was a guard on the other side, he was ready with some nonsense excuse of the door already being unlatched, but the coast was clear. Apparently this was a distraction of elite proportions. Part of him was curious with what occupied their attention in the first place. His first guess with being behind schedule didn’t seem as likely considering how early it was in the day, causing him to reconsider the latter option of an unexpected visitor, and a rather significant one at that. Whatever the cause, the commotion was serving him beautifully. Arthur moved as quietly as he could down the hall, following brief movements from invisible confidantes.

He realised perhaps too late that the cellar would’ve been a much lengthier trip from the waiting area near the arena, whereas it was a much more accessible distance from other usual vantage points, such as the holding cells. A minute passed and the holding cells were soon in view. So far, everything seemed to be going well, his slight form still evading detection for the time being. His plan was to slip back to the waiting area before the first signs of preparations had even manifested. At this rate, he had time to kill.

Still skirting the cells, some of which were empty, Arthur approached a wide turn in the corridor that led to a dead-end. It was only when the enclosure came into view that the hairs on the back of his neck rose. The entity leading him rushed past, brushing against his skin, eliciting a violent chill. The warning came far too late; however, and Arthur could already hear voices accompanied with distinct footfalls approaching from the opposite end of the hallway. He stood, immobilised as feeling escaped his limbs. His heart dropped and panic lingered in his gaze for the first time since this little misadventure began.

With his pulse rising, Arthur quickly retreated from the centre of the corridor, his back pressing against the smallest of natural crevices in the wall. It was a small protrusion and it would only offer him seconds before someone drew close enough to see him. Slight as he was, nothing in this corridor could effectively hide him. His palms became slick with a sudden sheen of clammy perspiration and his breaths felt measured, tight. His eyes lingered down the hallway, his shoulderblades now pressing painfully against the icy wall. All he could do was wait for the inevitable.

CODED BY DUCKIE OF GS

[Deleted]

"In a few weeks, I will get time"

Francis more than often enough loathed visiting the Underground. It sickened him to see all of these people being tortured, starved, and treated as nothing more than filthy animals. He wanted nothing more than to free them all from the cages and the slavery they had been unwillingly bound to, but he had the greater responsibility of posing as a pro-slavery attorney general. It was painful, digging down to the pit of his stomach, but the recognization of his own well-being and obscenely wealthy life hurt even more. The blunt awareness of the selfishness was always present heavily on his chest. All he could do right now was continue his act -- sacrifices had to be made for the greater good, he kept telling himself.

He couldn't even purchase freedom for any of the so-called "mutants" now, as there wasn't an auction happening. One was approaching, but it was never soon enough -- and then there were always the horrendous people who adored slavery with money to spend. Despite having the authority he did, the ugly truth was that Francis was helpless to do anything. No matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to persuade the guards a fight wasn't necessary every time he came, they wouldn't listen. It left him frustrated beyond belief; he was causing more pain and hurt, so he might as well just stay away until the time for the auction arrived.

But he couldn't do that either. Francis was under the impression every time he visited the Underground for some sort of business or other, he could perhaps relieve some of the torture, although only temporarily. Of course, it never worked that way -- being only an idealistic notion, far too romantic in views for the trenchant reality of the world Francis lived in. It only made it worse for the people locked down here, their lives being withered away to servitude and disgusting entertainment for those who should burn for eternity in Hell.

He was escorted through the greasy halls by two guards, the floors and walls dirty and hardly respectable. Cold and unwelcoming, it was an accurate reflection of the people who were responsible for the entire operation. The two who were accompanying him began to attempt to make conversation, discussing the new graduates from Weeds and how many new merchandise they'd have up for the next auction. Francis didn't pay attention to any of their words, as they were blathering on about nothing he cared to listen to, and was concentrating on where they were going. He had been down here more than enough times to have a good handle on the maze-like corridors, and he had a fairly accurate idea of where they were.

They would be approaching the hallways after the holding cells soon enough, and Francis planned to rid himself of these two nuisances before that happened. He tuned back into their conversation, smiling pleasantly.

"I know where I am going from here. There is no need to continue escorting me, thank you."

They exchanged glances, looking puzzled. Clearly, they didn't know what to do, or how to handle the situation. One spoke up, "But sir, we--"

It was time to start pushing it. He didn't have any patience today, and he wanted to be alone for at least a good portion of his visit. "Are you questioning my authority?"

"Of course not, sir! But--"

"Then leave. Now." Francis snapped, pleasant aura gone. The blunt way was going to be more efficient than the charming one in this situation, he was certain.

Sure enough, they both began to back away with reluctance, a bit nervously. "Very well, sir. Just let us know if you need anything."

He didn't respond and continued on his way, only glancing behind himself to check if they were gone a few moments later. It was a relief they were, and Francis approached the holding cells. Not many were occupied, he noted with a frown, which was strange. He surrounded himself with an easy-going air and letting the irritation dissipate, not wanting to disturb the people here. He wanted to give them hope; just a flame, enough to stay burning, to keep warm. He doubted it would do much good coming from his mouth right now, and he stayed quiet.

With some more steps, Francis recognized the hallway that resulted in a dead-end. Despite the awareness that the path didn't go on, he moved closer. There must be a reason they chose to have it suddenly cut off here, he assumed, and he was curious to know if they stored anything at the very end. As he approached, his eyes adjusted in the dimmer light. To his surprise, there was a figure -- not in a cage -- pressed up against the wall. An obvious sign they were attempting to hide, trying to camaflouge themselves hopelessly against the wall.

Was this one trying to escape? The way they were tensed offered the observation they were afraid of being caught. Francis didn't blame them. However, this also possibly meant they could lash out in fear, and he slowed his steps to a soothing and non-threatening pace. Hopefully his body language would get the message across, but he prepared himself to protect himself in case it didn't.

"Excuse me," he began tentatively, voice calm, presenting himself with a soft smile. Then he paused, unsure of what else he could really say in this situation without seeming he wanted to harm them and that he had good intentions. "It is, ah, alright. I am not going to hurt you. I am not a guard." Uncharacteristically, he fumbled a little more, scrambling for what else he could possibly say. Maybe being on a first-name basis would offer some comfort. "My name is Francis. And you are?"

electric has gangnam style

SPOILER: Click to show

NOTES: i am so sorry this is such a shitty post i'm really sorry fosainfosdighdsio i don't think i can get it to be any better right now ;;;; also your writing is gorgeous ;u;

[Arthur W. Kirkland]

some coincidences are deliberate

tagged: francis / notes: oh no! don't worry about it at all! I really enjoyed your post. ^^
and thank you! ;w;

Unfortunately, the footfalls drew closer, louder, and far more distinct among the other slick and unexplained noises that filtered through the grimy hallways. Arthur allowed his eyelids to lower, to cloak him in a moment of difficult peace, to force a sense of calm over his hopelessly racing pulse. He knew what would come; he could already feel the ache in his muscles, the sting across his skin. No matter how often he’d been subjected to their method of conditioning, it never made it any easier to accept. And he was so close. The storage was at the very end of the enclosure, though he knew that his punishment would be more severe if he were caught inside, among the items, as opposed to out in the open against the curve of the empty hallways.

The footsteps slowed, somehow gentler than before. It continued, though still growing closer. Arthur opened his eyes, curiosity now forming subtle tension across his expression as he shifted his eyes towards the approaching figure. The lighting was poor, so he couldn’t quite make out the finer details of the stranger. His gait certainly didn’t belong to the guards, however. And when the man’s voice rang out, tentative and calm, he paused. Arthur was unused to having such a mild tone aimed at him in the Underground; he froze, unsure of how to respond for that scant moment. Harsh slanders. Orders. Voices littered with vulgarities and insults that would make seasoned sailors blush. Never this.

Only when he changed his posture, resting his eyes on the stranger did he notice the softened smile forming over his features. That was certainly an out-of-place sight among the grime of this prison. Still, his pulse didn’t slow, though a very brief flood of relief washed over the tension in his body. If the stranger wasn’t a guard, then the inevitable could probably only be prolonged. Though, for how much longer? Hope could be cruel with its unpredictability and lack of guarantees. In either case, seeing no more reason to keep himself in the dimmest part of the hallway, Arthur softly pushed himself from the wall. As his palms brushing against the rough texture of the wall, his posture straightened.

Judging by the man’s stance and lack of care with walking about freely without attendants, he was unquestionably human — well, ‘human’ as society describes those without abilities, as if people who have them don’t deserve such a title. Still, Arthur wasn’t one to act as if he were any less, no matter who this man happened to be, whatever titles or wealth he possessed. He moved where there was slightly better lighting, still keeping a cautious distance, though he was at least able to discern the man's features. From where he stood, it was clear that everything about him was of a higher-than-usual quality; his clothes, his neatness, even in the unspoken way with how he presented himself. He seemed to be a man of stature. Even so, Arthur refused to avert his eyes or to behave in the ridiculously meek manner that was expected of him. He stood straight, a slight tilt to his chin as his eyes found the man’s, staring at him as boldly as if the divisions of social prestige were nonexistent.

Still, Arthur felt the tug of insecurity as he took in the man’s eye-catching finery, matched so severely against his own roughened exterior. It had been weeks since the last auction, far from the last day that he had been allowed to be thoroughly cleaned and given a fresh pair of clothes. He knew that he looked atrocious, as did any of the Underground mutants, but he had to pretend that none of that mattered. Far more difficult than it seemed. ”So you’re not a guard,” Arthur reiterated, a statement of belief, though it sounded somewhat dry and unenthused. His eyes slid across the man’s face, taking in the details, putting them to memory. His voice lowered, softening in the slightest with a mixture of drab curiosity and interest. ”Then, who are you?” A man without attendants, indeed. He must have some level of prominence to ensure such a thing. Unless he simply managed to escape their notice, which would be an entirely different story of interest.

Arthur’s arms folded as he felt the skin along his bare forearms raise slightly from the chill. He tried not to falter in the man’s presence, however. Half successful. He ran his hands briefly along the skin for a poor gathering of heat. “If you’re not going to harm me, then I’m going to assume that includes not handing me instead to those who will be more than willing to inflict the damage in your stead.” Such a thing wouldn’t shock him. He’d been punished in all sorts of creative ways. Being handed to the guards by unsuspecting guests for sneaking out when he shouldn’t had yet to be one of them.

Hearing the man offering his first name was another Underground novelty from guests that forced Arthur's usual dry remarks to pause. He wasn’t sure what it was, the sudden uncertainty with how the man held himself, the soft smile that he wore, or even the fact that he hadn’t done anything to alert the guards, even as Arthur drew closer within conversational distance. Whatever it was, he felt his own name slip from his lips as easily as if they were old acquaintances who finally had the pleasure of knowing the other’s name. ”I’m Arthur.” His eyes rested once more over Francis, as if glancing over a new puzzle, gauging the secrets of its mechanism. ”What brings you to the gutter of society?”

CODED BY DUCKIE OF GS

[Deleted]

"To realise it's right before my eyes"

The body language of the cornered man was enough to tell Francis this was going to be anything but easy. Reserved, stoic, and unmoving; he folded his arms defensively. Francis wasn't welcome here. He hadn't expected anything less, but the other was more guarded and wary than he had originally thought. Cynicism reflected in his expression – Francis was unable to tell the color of his irises in the far too dim light; a shame, he wanted to see what kind of eyes this man possessed. Cold, determined, unreadable? The emotions shown in a person's eyes said a lot about them – they were true windows to the soul.

The assumption was direct, and not completely inaccurate. Francis would, in one way or another, have to bring back the man to the guards and he would be returned to his cell; but certainly not before being punished for having fled their watch. He could make up an excuse with his imaginative skills, which wouldn't be terribly difficult – however, that by no means was no a guarantee there would be no punishment, even with his authority as attorney general. Of course, this didn't mean he wouldn't try.

Upon hearing his name – Arthur, how fitting. His voice presented a prominent British accent, and his current hostile demeanor only seemed to make it more appropiate. But his attitute was entirely justified, and Francis could only imagine how much of a menace he appeared to be. The only interactions Arthur would really have with humans that burning a searing reminder, scarring permanently into his memory – would be with the guards and those who mistreated him for being a “mutant”. The most negative and horrifying moments were always the most powerful, the ones that left an unforgettable taste of fear and hate towards an aggressor who intended to seriously hurt. Weeds of Tomorrow and the Underground fulfilled that purpose with sickening pride, serving their duties with pleasure. It was something abhorrent to witness, to have front row seats – to personally be a part of the organization that's orchestrating the despicable set-up itself.

Francis felt a spark of self-loathing ripple through his being. But he pushed it away, choosing not to embrace it now; it wasn't the time or place for such things.

”I assume you are looking for the truth,” Francis said, letting himself visibly relax to continue showing he did not mean harm. He let his arms hang at his sides, free, hands clearly holding nothing in their grasp. ”I am here to check on the status of the Underground for the upcoming auction. And may I ask what you are doing here?” Gesturing to the dead-end of the filthy corridor, he studied Arthur. He was merely curious; nothing more. This was hardly an interrogation, and Francis would see to it that this remained only as casual and light a conversation this could bear to be in this situation. He would not continue his probing if it was immediately reflected. ”This is quite an unusual place to find anyone.”

electric has gangnam style

[Arthur W. Kirkland]

some coincidences are deliberate

tagged: francis / notes: ~~

Arthur really wanted to avoid being handed back to the guards, which would likely mean a tightening of security over his cell, which would also entail not being able to leave for a long while. He had yet to be caught so unashamedly wandering around outside his cell and he didn’t want to reap the consequences just yet. In all likelihood; however, he would probably receive some sort of punishment for his insolence. Furthermore, it’s not as if the guards would be completely shocked with what he’d been doing, his behaviour certainly laying enough groundwork for such blatant disregard for the rules. In his opinion, mutants perhaps didn’t do enough to aggravate the system… but then again, if they dared to cause too much of a disturbance, then it was likely that they’d be dealt an even heavier, and far more painful hand from the government.

Arthur felt the corners of his mouth curve slightly, vaguely amused with Francis’s statement. ”Of course,” his voice was dry, though not malicious, simply finding the deprecating humour in the simple enough assumption. ”The truth doesn’t receive nearly enough love—always embellished by politicians or only half represented to the people who’d rather hear something pleasant in its place.” He knew that he shouldn’t run too freely with his brand of humour, but he also couldn’t help but to find the smallest bit of enjoyment with speaking to someone he’d never met before among the dullness of the Underground, someone who didn’t seem keen with immediately throwing him into the vicious hands of the guards.

Noticing the clearly empty hands of the man as well as his relaxed countenance, Arthur drew closer, abandoning the shadows of the corridor, now standing within the usual light offered along the walls. His arms loosened, no longer crossed in defiance, though he fiddled with his sleeves, self-conscious now that the details of his dilapidated appearance were clearly visible to Francis. He could hardly bring himself to glance at the other man, his clear position and ability to walk about freely struck a deep, envious chord within him that was almost painful to feel. Still, Arthur bit back his caution and lifted his eyes, meeting Francis’s own.

Arthur raised his brow slightly when Francis revealed that he was checking on the status of the Underground for an upcoming auction. Rumors had been trickling among the mutants about yet another about to take place. Although some thought them fairly regular when held, there were moments where the auctions did seem a bit random, perhaps by purposeful design, to draw out the public’s anticipation and growing willingness to spend their money whenever the next would be held. As much as Arthur resented the auctions, he couldn’t deny that the change in activity was the smallest bit refreshing, a disruption in the dismal tedium of survival in the Underground.

Arthur paused with Francis’s question, not exactly ardent with revealing information to a perfect stranger, somewhat apprehensive with the possibility that this man may even pass on whatever he had to say to the guards.

But still—Francis had given him what seemed to be the truth, perhaps he deserved a bit in return. ”I was chosen to fight today—it’s being held in a couple of hours, as you’re probably aware—as late as they were in putting the event together, I didn’t think they’d miss me if I slipped away for a bit,” he said, his lips threatening to draw into a mock smile for all the good his gamble for time did for him. ”I took a wrong turn in the end. I suppose I deserve getting caught for the mistake. Four bleeding years and I still don’t have a thorough grasp of the layout.” He glanced at Francis, still silently questioning how this man was going to proceed.

Arthur left out how exactly he knew the passageways as well as he did, as mutants rarely ever got the chance to explore beyond what they could see outside their cells. He also had little desire to tell Francis the other reason for why he was in the corridor—he was starving. It wasn’t uncommon for Arthur to close in on one or two of the storerooms for the smallest bit of substance, but revealing something like that probably meant that he would need to spill further details. And he certainly didn’t want to run the risk of an official of some sort letting the guards know that they needed to tighten security over that particular part of the Underground. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take; not with a near stranger whose intentions he couldn’t quite read.

”The others are still organising the fight—“ Arthur paused, willing himself to make an attempt with a bit of persuasion, any man’s best tool when they had nothing else to compromise with. ”There’s enough commotion that I may be able to slip back into the waiting room without notice,” the underlying, yet stubbornly unspoken request for a pass was hopefully bleeding between the lines. He attempted to soften his expression, though glimpses of the hard-edged resolve still lined Arthur's gaze despite the effort. When all else fails, he could always resort to an informal exchange if necessary. Though he’d never resorted to such things before, he couldn’t say that he’d be above it if the situation demanded it. ”Would you be willing to allow me to leave if I offered something in return? It wouldn’t be uncommon for guards to ask for certain favours, to hear the whispered implications between mutants. Arthur continued to watch Francis, gauging his reaction, still deliberating just what sort of man he was dealing with.

CODED BY DUCKIE OF GS

[Deleted]

"And I can take it if it's what I want to do"

Arthur's remark regarding politicians was an entirely truthful one, really; maybe he should have at least taken a slight bit of offense to the statement, considering he himself was one who indeed liked to embellish things to make them more beautiful – but in the end, they were already beautiful at the core. There wasn't any need for Francis's little details that decorated up the ugly that many considered the truth. However, his words had not become pretty lies, remaining somewhere in a good medium; not a lie, but not allowing the blunt truth of it all to be revealed. Arthur was insightful, quite correct, and Francis was amused.

Francis would admit he was just a bit pleased, noting how Arthur was beginning to open himself up just a little bit. His body language was more relaxed – although still tense, cautious. His arms were no longer crossed as they remained at his sides much like Francis's, and he stepped forward, albeit hesitantly. He seemed to have an air of awkwardness about him; perharps it was the discrepancy between their appearances. Francis was well-adorned and looked much more fresh, but that didn't mean Arthur wasn't just as composed. It was always much nicer when Francis found that he could communicate peacefully with people rather than use aggression, and so far this was turning out well. At least honesty had been accepted here without an argument, something that rarely occurred.

And, it seemed, telling the truth warranted the truth in return.

He listened to Arthur's explanation of how he ended up trapped in the dead-end of the dreary corridor, discerning anything that could possibly be lies. A liar knew when he was he being lied to, most usually, but Francis could only find honesty. His words were sharp and just a bit scathing, threatening to cut Francis if he drew too close without thinking of the consequences before hand. The reasoning was plausible enough, and he had been aware of the fight Arthur spoke about. He had not been planning on spectating today, and after this encounter, he still wasn't.

Not allowing his amusement at Arthur's not so sutble inquiry of whether he would allow him to go show on his face, Francis chose to keep his neutral smile in response. He had been, of course, planning to allow Arthur to return without any trouble after their little confrontation; but Arthur had no idea. Which wasn't very surprising, to say in the least – Arthur was most certainly still wary of Francis, not knowing his intentions nor his desire to invite Arthur to come with him and walk freely out of the Underground. He wanted to bring him outside to the world, to liberate him from the loathed chains of the adulterated and vile fetters of this squalor, and protect Arthur from ever having to be forcibly thrown into a fight again.

It was an urge Francis always felt when examining the Underground, but it was stronger than ever right now. Perhaps it was because he had been able to at least have a decent conversation with a rational man who could clearly comprehend and was vigilant with his words and actions for once, something that didn't often happen. Arthur was intelligent and his sarcasm was witty, and surely would be appreciated much more up above.

”I would,” Francis allowed, his lips tugging upwards into a simper. Regardless of what Arthur had in mind of offering up, he would be back in the waiting room without any trouble – he would make sure of that. But after all his years of readying himself to be a politician, Francis was constantly looking for opportunities to gain something in return, even if he necessarily didn't deserve it; yet, there was a chance here. He might be able to ask for a favor regarding the Freedom Fighters and their upcoming plans, and Francis certainly wasn't going to throw that away. All he had to do was wait and see. ”Tell me; what did you have in mind, cher?”

electric has gangnam style

[Arthur W. Kirkland]

some coincidences are deliberate

tagged: francis / notes: ~~

Arthur only ever had his words in the Underground. If there was one thing in life that Arthur would have gravitated towards, would have desired and worked to attain if he could, was power. As most others, had he been born into a different life, he likely would have been far different with his ambitions and stance. Whether that would be a positive or negative alteration, he preferred not to dwell on it for too long. Impractical possibilities were the main reason for swaying his thoughts, the other lie in the reasoning that he may not have liked what he expected to see. Still, that longing for more remained. Fate had been cruel to give him an infuriating lack of power due to circumstance alone. And so, when breaking free of the proverbial restraints failed, he utilised his mind and cultivated his words to become a weapon whenever nearly every other facet had failed him. Unsurprisingly, it was a defence that managed to cut quite deeply if used correctly.

Resting his eyes cautiously on the man who also seemed to carefully maintain his own defences, as Francis’s placid, neutral smile revealed very little about him. It was a mask, and a common one at that for people of his profession. Arthur tried to ignore the irritation crawling beneath his skin at the sight of it. The smile was unnerving, as there could be anything beneath it: disgust, disdain, or the methodical stroke of self-importance. Still, what he suspected beneath the Francis’s careful neutrality didn’t coincide with his actions, which once again begged the question of his motivation. Was he simply drawing out their encounter for his own amusement, only to call the guards when the pleasure of the situation had finally run dry? Or was he simply curious, a man who truly held benign intentions? Time would tell. Perhaps his words would betray him.

Unsurprisingly, the man seemed to at least consider the vague offer. It was possible that Francis was simply silent regarding Arthur’s previous inquiries about being released because he truly wanted something in return. Of course. What human would pass up such an opportunity? Arthur would be in little position to refuse—at least with anything he was willing to give. Drawing close to the possibility of gaining some sort of benefit from the situation— therein at least was a motivation of sorts, revealing that the man did, indeed, want something. Whatever it was it had to be something that Arthur either had on his person, which was painfully little, or it was an action that he could perform, which was the far likelier possibility.

Arthur had posed the question because he wanted to hear the other’s response, to offer a measure of his character. And he almost wanted to laugh at Francis’s last question, though the reaction didn’t quite reach his expression with anything more than a raised brow. What did he expect him to offer? Still, the fact that he was asking to gain something from someone who obviously had nothing material to give raised a much simpler possibility. As with any other human he’d encountered, his motivation was perhaps much more base than expected.

”What do you think?” His voice was dry and falsely warm, as if subtly mocking the notion. ”You know very well that I have nothing more than the clothes on my back and the flesh on my bones. In that case, I’m assuming you would prefer a service of sorts.” Here, Arthur’s lips curled, the satirical smile surfaced, a smile that wasn’t an entirely pleasant one. ”And just what sort of service do you suppose is one of the most commonly requested?” His fingers trailed up along the front of his shirt, circling the buttons, slowly, methodically; a clear answer to the seemingly ludicrous question. Of course, Arthur’s pride would hardly allow it; he’d never follow through with that sort of exchange unless the end result was well worth it. However, that didn’t make it an unheard of practise, otherwise. Even the guards with other mutants at times felt little consequence with their wandering hands with commodity they considered to be unwanted, unsold property, free for a small taste as long as there wasn’t any permanent impairment to be had.


”Or perhaps you’d prefer to make use of an unconventional ability. Is that a practice of yours—utilising mutant abilities to your benefit?” Regardless of the price, Arthur almost wanted to add, but thought better of it before it left his mouth. It was probably a foreign notion to a human; that they could use mutant abilities with no harm done to anyone when all of it rested on the mutant who provided the service, the pain would be theirs alone, and the consequences would lay on their scruples alone. The humans could remain blissfully unaware, continuing to live their pretty lives. Although Arthur's voice was carefully neutral, there was a waspish sting readied behind the words that he was trying very hard to hide behind his calm and collected front. His assumptions were likely similar to what anyone else would assume of a politician—those who constantly sought opportunities, who sought to gain benefit no matter who may be injured by their ambition, and how they could use others with no more consideration than cold pieces on a game board.

”In whichever case, Mr. Bonnefoy, why don’t you tell me what you have in mind? And perhaps I shall counter with whether or not I’m willing to pay such a price,” spoken if he were, indeed, the master of his own plight and suffering. As if a creature of pride and privilege remained hidden beneath the facade of a poorly clothed, poorly fed mutant, consistently told throughout his life that he would never amount to anything more than a pet to be shattered into submission. A ghost of a smirk touched upon Arthur’s lips. He quite enjoyed speaking to humans in a way that mutants weren’t expected, or meant, to speak to humans—the result was usually satisfyingly disconcerting for those who rarely expected such a thing.

CODED BY DUCKIE OF GS