Arthur knows he's arrived in Anchor and not heaven when he meets Leonard Snart, a man who would egg the pearly gates and pick-pocket the devil, given the chance. A tall, lean man who doesn't bother to hide the fact he's trying to break into a utility closet with a set of lock-picking tools glares up at Arthur from where he's kneeling on the floor, one hand drifting to his hip in that timelessly cagey fashion.
At least it's something Arthur can recognize.
"You got a staring problem, cowboy?"
The bad mood isn't Arthur's fault. It's hard to catch Leonard in any other way, especially on his rare escapades into the colony proper. He's always edgy. Ready and waiting for this place to do something crazy, or go to shit, like it always does.
Anchor is something like purgatory. Not good, or evil, but distressingly neutral. Anchor doesn't care of if you're claustrophobic, anti-social, or ambitious, the colony, and the changing landscape surrounding it, will keep on keeping on whether you like it or not. Everyone else is just along for the ride.
Len's fingers remain perfectly still near the holster of his cold gun, a heavy, strange looking fire-arm strapping to his thigh, waiting on this Clint Eastwood looking motherfucker to give him a reason to use it.
Then he sees the door past Arthur, and does the math. Everyone stumbles out of the receiving room with the similar stupid, near pitiful looks on their faces. Like lost puppies.
Some more violent than others.
"If you're waiting for the welcome wagon, it ain't coming. People come and go all the time. No one cares." A smirk, hand falling away from the holster of his gun as Len shrugs off Arthur as no immediate annoyance or threat, is the only housewarming gift on offer.
A. (i'm sorry)
At least it's something Arthur can recognize.
"You got a staring problem, cowboy?"
The bad mood isn't Arthur's fault. It's hard to catch Leonard in any other way, especially on his rare escapades into the colony proper. He's always edgy. Ready and waiting for this place to do something crazy, or go to shit, like it always does.
Anchor is something like purgatory. Not good, or evil, but distressingly neutral. Anchor doesn't care of if you're claustrophobic, anti-social, or ambitious, the colony, and the changing landscape surrounding it, will keep on keeping on whether you like it or not. Everyone else is just along for the ride.
Len's fingers remain perfectly still near the holster of his cold gun, a heavy, strange looking fire-arm strapping to his thigh, waiting on this Clint Eastwood looking motherfucker to give him a reason to use it.
Then he sees the door past Arthur, and does the math. Everyone stumbles out of the receiving room with the similar stupid, near pitiful looks on their faces. Like lost puppies.
Some more violent than others.
"If you're waiting for the welcome wagon, it ain't coming. People come and go all the time. No one cares." A smirk, hand falling away from the holster of his gun as Len shrugs off Arthur as no immediate annoyance or threat, is the only housewarming gift on offer.