1 [He bobs back to consciousness in a place very different from where they left. The air is muted by the size of the space, whatever surface they are on is soft, more like a bed than a table. There are no other sounds in the room, meaning they must be alone. But he can't confirm it until he can see for himself.
A cascade of impossible things happen: A throat tightens, vocal folds vibrate, a jaw hinges open, and lips move, and the word "Arthur-" is spoken aloud.
He stops, and becomes aware of his own breathing, responding to the shock of hearing himself speak when he shouldn't.
"Arthur?" he repeats almost carefully, almost solely to test if those body parts move again.
The room is still for another moment, before John sits up. The movement is natural, occurring without thought, and he opens his eyes.
He's wearing the bloodied robes of the cultist they - he - ... Arthur was wearing on the table in the auditorium. A black under-robe, looser, coarser yellow robes over top, and...
His hands (his hands-) rise and meet the hard angle of the pallid mask.
The cabin is small, decorated strangely, but - he can hardly pay attention to it, and it feels redundant to catalogue it now that... That he hasn't heard any answer from Arthur.
He explores the room. He finds a mirror. He sees his face. The pallid mask.
His left hand rises, touches the jaw of it. He could unmask.
...
He exits the room into a small hallway. It appears to be that of a ship, one that is massive and decorated, an ocean liner, perhaps.
This is not the Dark World, nor is it the Dreamlands. The only evidence he has is how this world feels, and it does not feel like either of those. It doesn't quite feel like the one they - he just left, either. He will have to explore, and he will have to be careful.
The air breezes around the edges of his pallid mask as he moves through the halls, looking for some other sign of where he is, and what else may exist in this realm.]
2
[He's learned that while this world isn't free of danger, it's less obviously out to kill the denizens of it than the realms he's experienced.
Or so he thought.
He sees the chandelier floating in the middle of the promenade, seemingly unanchored. A strange sight, but harmlessly strange rather than the mind-facturing sort.
That lasts as long as it takes to move in the air, and reflexes he never had before command him to dive out of the way.]
JESUS CHRIST.
[He lands on the floor and curls his black-clad arms over the yellow hood of his robe, clear of the chandelier but not the wave of crystal fragments that shatter away from it. Jesus christ. He's going to be picking glass crumbs out of these robes for the rest of the day.]
3
[... He looks up at the banner, and then through the windows of the store to the unbelievably tacky contents within. He crosses his arms. He already has ill-fitting robes (not ill-fitting at all, actually) and a terrible (perfect) mask, he doesn't need more of either.]
John Doe | Malevolent (Podcast)
[He bobs back to consciousness in a place very different from where they left. The air is muted by the size of the space, whatever surface they are on is soft, more like a bed than a table. There are no other sounds in the room, meaning they must be alone. But he can't confirm it until he can see for himself.
A cascade of impossible things happen: A throat tightens, vocal folds vibrate, a jaw hinges open, and lips move, and the word "Arthur-" is spoken aloud.
He stops, and becomes aware of his own breathing, responding to the shock of hearing himself speak when he shouldn't.
"Arthur?" he repeats almost carefully, almost solely to test if those body parts move again.
The room is still for another moment, before John sits up. The movement is natural, occurring without thought, and he opens his eyes.
He's wearing the bloodied robes of the cultist they - he - ... Arthur was wearing on the table in the auditorium. A black under-robe, looser, coarser yellow robes over top, and...
His hands (his hands-) rise and meet the hard angle of the pallid mask.
The cabin is small, decorated strangely, but - he can hardly pay attention to it, and it feels redundant to catalogue it now that... That he hasn't heard any answer from Arthur.
He explores the room. He finds a mirror. He sees his face. The pallid mask.
His left hand rises, touches the jaw of it. He could unmask.
...
He exits the room into a small hallway. It appears to be that of a ship, one that is massive and decorated, an ocean liner, perhaps.
This is not the Dark World, nor is it the Dreamlands. The only evidence he has is how this world feels, and it does not feel like either of those. It doesn't quite feel like the one they - he just left, either. He will have to explore, and he will have to be careful.
The air breezes around the edges of his pallid mask as he moves through the halls, looking for some other sign of where he is, and what else may exist in this realm.]
2
[He's learned that while this world isn't free of danger, it's less obviously out to kill the denizens of it than the realms he's experienced.
Or so he thought.
He sees the chandelier floating in the middle of the promenade, seemingly unanchored. A strange sight, but harmlessly strange rather than the mind-facturing sort.
That lasts as long as it takes to move in the air, and reflexes he never had before command him to dive out of the way.]
JESUS CHRIST.
[He lands on the floor and curls his black-clad arms over the yellow hood of his robe, clear of the chandelier but not the wave of crystal fragments that shatter away from it. Jesus christ. He's going to be picking glass crumbs out of these robes for the rest of the day.]
3
[... He looks up at the banner, and then through the windows of the store to the unbelievably tacky contents within. He crosses his arms. He already has ill-fitting robes (not ill-fitting at all, actually) and a terrible (perfect) mask, he doesn't need more of either.]