S2 Episode 15: Benched (Arthur-verse)

╔════════════════════════════════════╗ ║ WELCOME TO THE ARTHUR-VERSE · S2 ║ ╚════════════════════════════════════╝ “Benched” Arthur is a self-created author and storm god. He believes he created this world. The City of Owl’s Walk (O.W.) — inspired by Gotham City — has become self-aware… and calls herself **Mother**. Arthur remains trapped inside the **Hall of Memory**: a vast museum lined with interactive paintings, each one representing a defining moment in Owl’s Walk’s history. Throughout this season, Arthur was guided by: • **Smokey Lois** — a sharp-tongued, time-keeping guide acting as Arthur’s tether back from memory. ──────────────────────────────────── **RULES OF THE HALL OF MEMORY** 🚫 Memories of O.W. must not be rewritten 🚫 Changing canon risks erasing the world 🚭 **NO SMOKING** 🚭 **NO VAPING** ✅ Orthodontic Benefits Available ──────────────────────────────────── 🚭🗂️⚠️ HALL STATUS UPDATE · POST-INCIDENT ⚠️🗂️🚭 ──────────────────────────────────── Following the failed rewrite attempt in the Jared memory, Mother patches the Hall with stricter enforcement: No Smoking. No Vaping. No comfort devices. Smokey Lois—whose tether and body depended on vapor—cannot remain. Her count is gone. Her schedule is gone. The Hall’s tether system still exists, but no operator is left to run it. Arthur is now **untethered** inside the Hall: no countdown, no pullback, no song to insulate Arthur from infinite loops of memory He loops the corridors because stopping would make him think and feel all his fuck-ups. And then the Hall does what it always does when a god starts to unravel— it offers him a frame. A cliff. An ocean. A bench. And a boy named Tim. ──────────────────────────────────── ⚠️ COMPLIANCE REQUIRED · NO OPERATOR ⚠️ [spoken word / rhythmic] In the Hall of Memory
Arthur sits on the bench like it’s the last dry corner in a building on fire. No smoking. No vaping. He tries anyway. Thumbs the button… waits for the glow… nothing. Again. Nothing. No hum. No heat. No sour apple. No anchor. It isn’t the battery. Not really. The Hall just decided… not today. No comfort devices. No loopholes. No Lois on schedule with heels and paperwork and attitude. OW MEDIC on his shoulder… dust on his knees… hands on his head like he’s holding the pieces in. Then the tears come. Not magma. Not rage. Just water. Embarrassing, human water. “Mother,”
he says. Nothing. 
[choir] “Mother!” 

[lead vocalist: spoken]
 louder. Still nothing. No presence in the corners. No voice. No answer. Just fluorescent light… marble floors… and silence that doesn’t care. He stands because sitting will kill him. He walks because stopping will make him think. He drifts the corridor… again… again… past paintings that feel like teeth. Past frames he knows by the shape of the light. Past frames he doesn’t know at all. That’s the worst part. Not knowing. He tossed the catalog. Gutted the file for a kid because it “felt right.” Now he’s in a museum with no map… no rope made of song… no way out if he steps wrong. He loops the halls. Four passes. Five. Then it pulls him. A painting… quiet. A cliff. An ocean. A bench. Someone sits there… small shape… hunched. Not the Pearl Alley kid. Too big… Its not an adult… Too still… Arthur stares until the Hall gives him the name. Tim. Its him. Its Tim. It hits bone-deep. Not logic. Not deduction. Just yes. “Please,” Arthur whispers. “Please be him.” The vape is dead in his pocket. The rope is warm in the other. No music rises. No count. No Lois. Arthur touches the paint. The world doesn’t open like a door. It lets go.
 Wind slaps his face… salty and sharp. Waves hammer the cliff like a heartbeat. Cold metal air. Tim sits on the bench, older now. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Too young for that weight in his shoulders. Arthur wipes his face with his sleeve. Still in the medic uniform. Still… Owl’s Walk…. paramedic... Still pretending he isn’t shaking. “Tim,” he says. Tim whips around. Eyes wide. Not fear—recognition. “You’re… the guy from the circus.” Arthur laughs once… weak. “Yeah. Long time ago… from your perspective, I guess.” Tim studies him like a case file he can’t unsee. Arthur sits beside him. Wood cold under his legs. Ocean loud enough to cover the quiet. “So,” Arthur says. “What are you doing out here?” Tim stares at the horizon. “I’m making a decision.” A pause. Then, “Someone needs my help. I’m trying to figure out if I’m going to do it… if it’s the right call.” Arthur nods like he understands too well… “I guess it depends.” Tim looks at him. Arthur swallows. “…on what kind of hero you want to be.” Tim’s mouth twitches, like a private joke finally landed. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately.” Arthur reaches into his pocket. Pulls out the rope—frayed, coarse, real. 
[choir] “One last gift,” he says. “For you.” 
[lead vocalist] “One last gift,” he says. “For you.”
 Tim’s eyes drop to it. “Wait… is that from—” “Yeah,” Arthur says. “It is.” Tim takes it carefully. Like it might burn. Like it matters. “I need you to have that,” Arthur says. “Why.” “Because it’s important,” Arthur says. “And because it’s going to save someone someday.” Tim holds on. Then Arthur notices the folder in Tim’s lap. Thick now. Worn. Stuffed with pages. Arthur blinks. “That folder… is that the—” “The one you gave me,” Tim says. “Yeah. I used it.” A small shrug. “It helped. Thanks.” Arthur exhales like something unclenched in his ribs. “I’m glad.” Wind tugs at them both. Arthur asks again, softer. “So what are you going to do?” Tim stands. Folder under his arm. Rope in his hand. 
[choir] “I think I know exactly what kind of hero I’m going to be.” 
[lead vocalist: spoken] He hesitates… like there’s more he could say… but he only gives Arthur one awkward, sincere word. “Thanks.” Then, “I gotta go.” Tim walks off. Glances back once. Arthur lifts two fingers in a small wave. Tim nods… and disappears into his own life. Arthur stays on the bench. No song. No count. No Lois. Just the ocean… and the wind… and the quiet. “If I have to be stuck somewhere,” Arthur whispers, “I guess this isn’t so bad.” 
He pulls a knife out from his sleeve and widdles a heart shape into the bench. 
And in that heart… Arthur writes: 
[choir] 
”Timkon forever”
 [lead vocalist: spoken] The waves keep crashing. 
[choir]
And Arthur sits.