TLV Inbox

[greatoldjohn]

[in a rather deep voice] "This is John Doe. Please leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I may respond in text if I'm currently with Arthur. Apologies."

Now Moved To: Inbox: Act II - please tag in there!

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[greatoldjohn]

[ Not to the best of my knowledge, no. Not unless it's an inmate. I don't think I ever saw someone change a warden's cabin.

Your shoes are off to your right, next to the couch. Careful with the edge of the filing cabinet; it looks sharp. ]

[lestercraft]

"The office is the same, then? Just the lack of doors?" He's still in pyjamas but he's chosen plain navy ones, apparently, so at least he feels partially dressed when he bends over - reaching with his hand to make sure he won't crack his head open straight away, and finds his shoes with his feet to start putting them on.

[greatoldjohn]

[Yes. It resembles your office in our world now, no additional doors to be found. Just the front door, with the frosted glass and all.

We're still on board, however, as I can still leave your body. And I still have my communicator.]

[lestercraft]

"Alright. So, probably, this is going to be something happening to the ship," he comments as they tie his laces, so he doesn't fucking trip of all things. "A-a-a flood, then, since we're still ourselves and we haven't received any lists. We should be careful, we don't know what else might happen yet."

He rounds the bed carefully, aiming for the coat-rack. He's sure he left a jacket there, at least, and his holster.

[greatoldjohn]

[Arthur! Your holster! It's- it's not here.

No one entered the room while you were sleeping, so I don't think it was taken. But while your coat appears undisturbed, the holster, and your gun, are gone.]

[lestercraft]

"What? No-!"

He cracks his knuckles against the rack in his desperation to search it, trying to find the comfortable, faded leather and getting nothing, until he just grips it white-knuckled like it's the one to blame. "Fuck. What about my cane--?"

But he's already reaching lower where he normally keeps it rested in the corner, within reach of the door, and his gut instinct tells him it won't be there.

[greatoldjohn]

John looks down, though, and-

[ A little to your left, Arthur. ...thank fucking Christ.

Oh. One moment.]

He reaches into Arthur's left pocket to check his communicator, seeing the message from Natalie and-

[ ...it appears Natalie is my warden, at the moment. Complete with a file. Which means- ]

[lestercraft]

"Oh thank Christ." He snatches it up and holds it tight to his chest. But when he feels his pocket shift with the communicator, and John's words...

Well, there's a horrible chill that settles low in his stomach.

"Ah. Then- for this flood, we are... inmates."

[greatoldjohn]

[We are.]

A longer pause.

[Natalie has a rifle. And she's offering to come get us. Do you want us to take her up on that offer?

Or shall we try and make it there on our own?]

The Patreon doesn't get to decide this one.

[lestercraft]

The decision doesn't take long, for once.

"We should leave now. It's still early, right? So we'll have the chance to do it safely before any of the really dangerous inmates get the realisation as well. Let's grab some things, first."

He hangs the cane by its wrist strap for a moment so he can take his jacket instead to slip on, movements hasty but confident. "Mind your mask."

[greatoldjohn]

[Very. I suspect she was up late as opposed to up early.

I'll let her know.]

John will secure his mask on the inside of his jacket, a much harder spot to pop out and hopefully, provide some protection for Arthur. He's not unaware that he's stationed right over his heart.

[Thankfully, we're heading down into the less-populated areas. Elevator or stairs?]

[lestercraft]

"The stairs." No hesitation. "Level four, isn't she? It's not far and we have exits if something does happen."

Fuck elevators.

The satchel goes over his shoulder, and in goes his communicator first, since John can use his, but then he's patting the pockets of his pyjamas.

"Shit- where's my...?" His coat next, and his hand dives into his inside pocket, where John's mask is, and finds it. "My lighter- alright."

He doesn't waste time thinking about why it's there, but grabs his cane instead and moves to the door, opening it carefully so John can see without exposing their body. "Anything?"

[greatoldjohn]

[Level Eight. 806, actually.]

He considers for a moment whether there's anything else they should bring, eyes scanning the room. Then he pauses.

[Scissors. There's some on the desk. I'll keep them in the left pocket.]

If he needs to, he'll stab the fuck out of something. It's not much, but it's something.

[lestercraft]

Ah. Well. At least it's down stairs.

"Better than nothing." He'll move back over to the desk, finding the couch with his arm so he doesn't crack his shin against it, and lets John grab them before he makes his way out the door - and makes sure to lock it behind him.

"Is there anything you want from yours, John?" he asks quietly, already on alert with a tight grip on his cane, though he won't necessarily need to use it with John here.

[greatoldjohn]

[No. And we shouldn't waste any more time. Let's get moving, Arthur.]

He remembers his manners a moment later.

[Thank you for asking, however.]

[lestercraft]

Given the tension already winding sharp through all his limbs like lightning (and there's an off-hand thought to curse at that fucking desert snake-monster later), he doesn't pay the brusqueness any mind.

"Right." And he'll head for the stairs. Six flights is a ways to go.

[greatoldjohn]

And down they go.