Template:Featured Articles/18-2024

Moment of Awesome - Arthur Centino/Longshot: Missing his best friend, Arthur goes to Muir to convince Haller to come home. It doesn't go well. "Ahem." It wasn't until the very end of that drag that the figure standing just enough behind him decided to interrupt. It wasn’t even a proper clearing of the throat, either. He had actually said the word. Still, it was hard to tell how long Arthur Centino had been standing there. Waiting. The politely smiling man’s natural talent for appearing at ease made it seem like he belonged here on Muir, on this stage, like he was written for the part. Dramatically lit with his hands in his pockets, the usually rough, rushing wind made an exception to only gently blow his hair and peacoat behind him like this was, instead, something on the BBC. He held up a finger. Timing, especially in these moments, was key. Arthur took a long, appreciative inhale through his nose before turning his full attention onto Jim and the scene before him. "You know," he began, "convalescence sure is a funny word." Jim choked. "Arthur?" he gasped once the hacking cough had been downgraded to merely streaming eyes. Like a student seeing a teacher outside of school, Jim was having serious difficulty processing the man's presence on Muir. Moreover, conventional flights between NYC and Edinburgh were at least seven hours, and that wasn't even taking into account the four hour time difference. The fact Arthur Centino was currently standing before him, looking every bit the perpetual morning person he was while Jim had "been thinking about" shaving for the last five days, briefly made the telepath wonder if he'd advanced to manifesting people besides those living inside his own head. "It's mostly a thing in period dramas, I think," Arthur continued with his own train of thought — although the look on the man's face could have said any number of other things, namely 'Who else?' or 'Of course it is me' or 'You're the telepath here, Jim.' He turned, contemplatively, to stare out over the sea like the figure from some romantic painting. Did the man have a bad angle? Did probability manipulation mean one never had any bad hair days, or did they steal them from someone else? "You know," he said without any worry about the mechanics of any of that, "something rich nobles or Victorian people do to escape to the countryside. I just never guessed the 'con' part might be literal." "What's that supposed to mean?" Never overburdened by melanin even outside of spending several heavily overcast weeks on Muir, Jim was suddenly grateful for the recent lack of executive function. Maybe the stubble would disguise the uncomfortably guilty heat in his cheeks. The telepath tossed away the cigarette and pulled his collar closer. "Working things out at the mansion wasn't practical. Charles knows me, and Muir has better facilities for powers issues." "Muir is lovely," Arthur conceded. "Moira and your father were very welcoming. Happy to see us, even. In fact, everyone here has been very happy to share how delighted they are that you have friends. It doesn't take a detective, or just an interviewer, to put together this puzzle." His eyes narrowed as he sighed. "Charles knows exactly how you're doing, but he's either too polite or too British — honestly, hard to tell what's happening with that accent — to say anything."