[closed to Darcy & Siffleur] even in my dreams, I can't win

[theotherright]

Who: Arthur & Darcy, Arthur & Siffleur
What: Snzzzzzzzzz
When: No time like the present
Where: Let's say library, we love to nap in the library
Warnings: There'll be a lot of very dark subjects portrayed with various levels of comedy or seriousness - child death, murder, suicide, body horror, cannibalism, jaywalking, et cetera.


[For Darcy] The Feast

Arthur is sprawled — like Dorothy — in the bed of poppies that have overtaken the braille & large print section of the library.

Whenever Darcy cares to join in, they'll find — like Alice — a long table with a chequered cloth crammed uncomfortably into a hole much too small for it, set up for tea with nice old-timey china. Near the middle sits a skeleton with several bones missing from its chest; across from it sits Arthur, down an arm and a leg. He's otherwise plumper by far than he is on the ship. In between them is a platter of ribs and limbs, sizzling, flanked by gravy and trimmings. John, a dark and looming shadow, skulks at the end of the table, as far away from the food as possible.

Darcy has a plate too. Arthur looks at them, his mouth full of rib, and then down at their meal. "Are you going to eat that?"


[For Siffleur] The Feast (Nightmare Difficulty)

His dreams cycle back to the prison all the time, one way or another. On the worst nights the oppression of the place is combined with his other, even worse recurring nightmares.

Siffleur finds himself in a grey dirt pit, in front of Arthur in some Cronos Eating His Son ass pose, about half of a four-year-old girl in his hands. He is bawling. This is, and will continue to be, a bad time.

Comments

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy, feeling far more Alice-like than he ever does, takes a good old squint at the scene arrayed in front of him. Is that... raft guy? Not Peter or Bitch Boy (RIP), the other one, the blind dude. Is that who he was rescuing? It's all... fuzzy. Darcy feels himself growing more gaunt with every second he doesn't- although, it could just be a trick of the light. Dead girls don't eat.

"I gave up meat for Lent," he answers, pushing the plate towards... Edward? Was that it? Christ, he needs to get out more.

[theotherright]

"Oh," says Arthur, disappointed. He starts to scoop the contents of Darcy's meal into his large and complicated hat to save for later. He's still, simultaneously, shoving ribs into his mouth, bones and all. He's somehow doing all of this with only one hand.

"Don't tell me that means you didn't bring any?"

The skeleton, which hasn't touched its meal, starts to snicker as its skull slowly turns towards Darcy.

[saltwaterlungs]

Raises a finger at the skeleton, "you shut the fuck up not-duggery, you don't even have a stomach."

He leans both elbows on the table for the sake of being Rude and answers "nope, none that you can have. Hey- who are you, again? You were on that raft, right?"

Please, literally any topic other cannibalism.

[theotherright]

The skeleton picks up a cleaver from the platter, staring at Darcy and, er, drooling. Arthur raises an oar at it threateningly. It slowly lowers the knife.

"The raft, yes," says Arthur, while the motion of the ocean sends teacups skittering off the table and into the water with a series of little plops. The platter starts to go too, and he leaps up in a panic to rescue it it. "And this is all we have to last us until we reach home, so if you would--!"

1/2

[saltwaterlungs]

"Try it, fucking try it, I am begging you to fucking try it, I swear to God you're a few hours away from being broth you Jack Skellington-ass motherfucker," Darcy raises his own blade in reply to the cleaver-

[theotherright]

✊ Arthur respects the hustle, especially when the hustle is going from 0 to violent threats of vengeance --

2/2

[saltwaterlungs]

Only to immediately yelp, drop the blade, and climb up the back of his chair the second he feels the wave pass through. Yes he faced his own death and all but that doesn't mean he wants to be taking a fun little dip in the fucking ocean right now.

"What the fuck- HEY- GET US TO DRY LAND RIGHT THE FUCK NOW-"

[theotherright]

-- oh, that's not good.

The oar goes straight in the water, and Arthur is paddling with all his strength towards the distant shape of an island. Once he shouts "for fuck's sake, John, get out of my head and fucking row!", John unwraps himself from Arthur's shadow, takes a second oar, and starts to help. He now looks like a shortish Chinese man with a broken nose and a pair of shoulders built for tackling.

Abruptly they're close, but the island starts to rise and separate: it's not land, but a mass of tentacles, an enormous hungry kraken.

[saltwaterlungs]

When the camera pans back to Darcy, he's in the same fit as before but flavoured like this. All anglerfish spines and spots faintly bioluminescencing. I already drew one outfit for this thread leave me alone.

Any thought of asking what the fuck is up with 'John' here gets immediately thrown to the wayside, because oooh fuck this is not good.

"No no- no no no- no no no no-" his fingers gripping into the back of the chair still inexplicably on the raft, can he have the cannibalism back the cannibalism was fine don't drown him please please don't drown him he can't he can't-

[theotherright]

"Arthur," yells John, "there are tentacles all around us--"

He starts going off describing the thing, and its masses of tentacles, and as he describes clusters of them those clusters begin to appear -- dead still at first.

"They're writhing--"

Oh, actually they're writhing.

"They're coming closer!!"

You get the picture. Meanwhile, Arthur (who has two hands now) is involved in a complicated situation where he's trying to turn off a brass tap so that the ocean will stop rising and the kraken will go away, but it's too stiff to turn, no matter how frantically he begs and bargains with it.

[saltwaterlungs]

Is he-? Well, Darcy doesn't give himself any time to actually think through the logic of what he's about to do.

"JOHN SHUT THE FUCK UP," Darcy barks, and yes he's still on the back of the chair he's a big man, "THEY'RE NOT DOING ANY OF THAT SHIT. THEY'RE GOING AWAY- THEY'RE GOING AWAY RIGHT NOW, THEY'RE ALL LEAVING AND IT'S FINE-"

[theotherright]

"Wait-- really?" calls Arthur from the tap. It's now about the size of a horse, all the better to let water through. He's having to straddle it to try to turn it off.

And Darcy will no doubt be relieved to see that the tentacles do start to leave, quivering and being sucked back into the water like so much violent spaghetti. "JESUS CHRIST, ARTHUR," bellows John, "they're all sinking under the waves, and they're trying to drag us with them--"

He might need interrupting again!

[saltwaterlungs]

"YOU'RE NOT HELPING!" but Darcy is, he deserves a fucking medal for being the best at dreams forever.

"THEY'RE NOT DRAGGING US ANYWHERE. OUR SHIP IS TOO BIG IT'S LIKE- IT'S ONE OF THOSE FUCKING- GALLON- GALLEON? BIG FUCKING SHIPS WITH THE SAILS AND SHIT. LIKE A PIRATE SHIP. TOO BIG, CAN'T DRAG US UNDER. ALSO JOHN DOESN'T HAVE A MOUTH ANYMORE."

[theotherright]

The tentacles whip at them as they go down, but they're hopelessly outclassed. Darcy and crew's galleon is roughly the size of the Serena Eterna, though very much a vessel from the golden age of sail, its decks polished and cannons shined as if from a boys' own storybook. In place of a Jolly Roger, the skeleton's stupid head is pinned to the flagpole.

From some distance away comes Arthur's surprised shout: "John! I- I've got my mouth back!"

John, who has no mouth and he must complain, says FUCK. ARTHUR, I WAS USING THAT, as a disembodied voice in everyone's heads.

[teethoftherisk]

There is a cougar in the pit. He hates this place. All his hair stands on end. The smell of blood makes him hungry. The shape of a small child makes him wary. The man's weeping makes him angry.

"Quiet." He hisses, ears flat as he paces this too-small space, this awful pit. "Shut the fuck up and eat."

[theotherright]

"Yeah, Arthur, shut the fuck up." John is also in the pit. He's dressed in faded yellow, his face in shadow, his eyes two bright gold scowling points of light. He's not alone. There's a thin woman with fierce eyes, a Chinese man who's built like a boxer, a square-faced and scowling man in work overalls, and more beyond them, in the shadow of the walls.

Arthur shakes his head hopelessly, still crying as he tears off another strip with his teeth.

[teethoftherisk]

He freezes up at the other voice. Who is this? Who are they? This is wrong. He shouldn't be here.

Siffleur moves to the center of the pit, his fur all pulled up. His head turns to face the opening. All of his muscles tense as he gets ready to jump. It's high, but he's a good jumper. His claws are sharp and deep. He'll get high, then climb out.

Except that crying is driving him insane. He turns and hisses. "Stop it. Or stop eating."

[theotherright]

"You can't get out," Arthur sobs, his mouth full. "I've tried. It's too high."

The walls are lined with holes dug as handholds, but they're tall, so tall. The top is indistinct, and the air is thick and damp and dragging.

"You didn't try, you liar, you fucking coward," snaps John. He's now the one in Arthur's arms, his intestines spilling and his throat's flesh torn into long red strips that end in Arthur's mouth.

[teethoftherisk]

Siffleur ignores them. He springs upwards - a beautiful jump, paws outstretched, eyes focused on the top. He doesn't make it out, the top so far above him, but he digs his paws into the wall, his claws leaving deep scratches as he slows himself. He begins to climb, slowly but surely, focused on that rim leading to escape.

The woman standing where Siffleur was looks up at the cougar climbing and sighs softly. "He never knows when to stop. And neither does a man like you."

She turns to look at John in Arthur's arms. Her arms cross over her chest, and through her skull, a piece of something oily slick and ultra sharp flickers in and out, changing positions every few seconds. Then she darts forward, wrapping her fingers in those intestines and yanking. She pulls out more of them and crouches near to bite at them, her eyes flat and unhappy and possessive as she tears into her fistful of intestines.

[theotherright]

Arthur stares in amazement at the slowly ascending figure above him -- for a moment.

When the new woman starts to eat, the change in him is instantaneous. Like a starving dog, he snarls and snaps forward to grab at those intestines she's taken, to pull them away. They bulge sickly between his squeezing fingers.

"Get away! That's mine!"

[teethoftherisk]

She screams, high-pitched like an air raid siren, endlessly furious. She bites at their hands, at the meat between them, not caring who or what she tears at so long as the meat is in her mouth.

Above them, there's a snarl. Siffleur has climbed so high but the sound of his mother has changed his mind. He begins to drop, skidding down towards the fight below.

[theotherright]

He attacks her, more beast than man, teeth and fur and shrunken belly. His breath smells of rot. The bright copper stink of blood makes his mouth water. Her screaming eggs him on.

Growling, he bites at her, twisting to tear off meat.

[teethoftherisk]

She's bitten and the scream changes, from furious to terrified as he touches her with his own teeth.

Siffleur screams as well and he lets go of the wall, dropping down the pit as his body changes. It's a monster that reaches the bottom, a monster that throws himself on Arthur's beastly form and attacks him, tearing and biting and freeing his mother.

She throws herself against the wall of the pit, hands raw and trembling, a high-pitched sound coming from her nose more than her mouth, which is shut and chewing what she bit away. Those copper eyes stare at the fight in front of her and do not look away.

[theotherright]

The thing that is sometimes Arthur attacks Siffleur with a kind of violent, hungry joy. The dream says he's winning, teeth in the monster's throat and thumbs deep in the sockets of its eyes. The dream also says he's losing, his shattered limbs dragging at manic angles. Every few moments it changes. But he's never not attacking.

[teethoftherisk]

He's winning. He's losing. His eyes are burst, leaking down his cheeks. His teeth are deep in the man's gaunt back. He has two heads, both screaming, both biting. He has claws like scythes, paws like dinner plates, a hunger that's never-ending. Siffleur fights with Arthur endless, the two of them tearing each other to shreds again and again.

Across from this violent fight, this endless painful delight, the woman closes her eyes. She digs her hands into the lab coat she wears, stained with blood, and she turns her screaming into a soft sound instead.

When her eyes open again, the colour has faded to a mild yellow. The flesh did the trick. She's herself...

Her hand bleed where they were bit. She gives them a shake as she stands and turns her attention to the walls, palms pressing against them. Her muttering is soft, drowned by the screams of the fight behind her. "Always a hole in the world. Always a bottom to hit."