who| Arthur Petrelli and [OPEN, though I'd prefer to hold off on a Petrelli reunion.] what| Arthur arrives, and begins gaining his bearings. where| McRandom Street; Los Angeles when| Directly following this; Late Afternoon. rating| TBA status| Thread, incomplete, and open.
Seizing every tiny thread of probability and yanking on it full-force hadn't left Arthur time to consider what his landing would be like. His head impacted the sidewalk without any pretense of reguard for his skull, which meant the only, and first impression he received of Los Angeles was that it was all very bright and white, with only a few specks of nearly indestinguishable colour for pointless contrast.
Whatever had brought him here, it was not an advocate of soft landings. Or perhaps he'd just annoyed it.
When the world that looked neither new, nor particularly strange, reinstated itself in his vision, he pushed himself into sitting position, and wiped away the blood on his face with the back of his hand. The bloodflow from his nose had already staunched, but a bloodied face was both uncomfortably sticky and attention-getting. He'd garnered enough of the latter for one day.
The heavy hiking bag he'd brought was found several feet away. The street appeared more or less abandoned, allowing him time to extract a packet of moist towelettes and a lighter from the pockets. He used the towelette to clean the blood from his face and hand, and once satisfied with his renewed cleanliness, used the lighter to burn the bloodied material away. None had bled over onto the ground, and so he returned the items to their pockets. Leaving traces of evolved blood anywhere--especially when you didn't know where 'anywhere' was--was not only sloppy, but stupid.
Taking further action against potential idiocy, he gave himself several moments to determine if anything had been damaged by the landing. Arthur might have been in improbably good shape for a man of sixty-five, but that didn't make him immune to concussions or broken bones. He checked his pupils in the cracked, now-defunct surface of his cellphone(It hardly mattered, being full of fabricated information to begin with.). Finding nothing amiss beside the fact he had just been thrown through what could have been time, space, or anything combination and variant of the two; he stood, familiarized himself with the immediate area, shouldered his bag, picked a direction that would lead to population, and began walking.
First, data would need to be gathered. Arthur joined the sluggish flow of people on the sidewalks, attributing the increase in on-foot travel to the lack of traffic lights. The pace suited him, being in no hurry or familiar with the streets and the directions they took. In the time it had taken for him to recognize a respectably sized internet cafe, he had learned that he was in Los Angeles, a man named Magento had knocked out the cable and traffic lights across the city(Arthur had never believed in comic books, and had only barely suffered Peter reading them.), it was August, and there was a message board for the city that specialized in all things clearly insane. He settled in at one of the computers, smiling at the waitress and ordering whatever it is she thought would be best.
He wound up with coffee precisely the way he liked it.
Twenty minutes had him a layout of the city--It had changed a great deal since he had been there--several different accounts for how and why people found themselves in Los Angeles in the year 2005(Three years? To him, nothing worth complaining about.), when they had been noticeably elsewhere before. Additionally, and most importantly, it confirmed his suspicions that his family had been misplaced(And it appeared they were all in one spot, which made them collectively easier to avoid.), and that despite Robert Bishop's daughter being present, there was no Company.
Arthur turned the computer off, stood, and dropped his change in the tip jar before he headed back out onto the street.