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Entry tags:
→ this is gonna be reality,
Who: Mr. Eames & you!
What: Considering that this is Eames' jam, anything goes. There will be two options under the cut, one from early on in the event and another when Eames just says fuck it to everything and uses his forging skills to cause mayhem.
When: Day 83 - 88
Warnings: There might be violence considering Eames is an actual dream criminal.
one. The heat in Mombasa is sweltering. It soaks the buildings and the roads and leaves a burn in its wake. Everything is too hot to the touch, prickles at skin as easy and as real as anything. It's busy too, when is Mombasa ever not? The projections scurrying around are carrying packages or chattering with one another off to the side. A few drive cars down the busy street slowly, beeping their horns when people simply won't get out of their way. Nobody pays any attention to the man loading his gun just outside a dusty chemist.
At first he had thought it real. Hadn't remembered ever leaving Mombasa behind. Didn't recall anything of Paris or the flight or the cape. It had only been when he stepped into Yusuf's shop that he realised. Dreams feel real when you're in them. But Eames had found an empty place - void of Yusuf and his potions or his tabbycat. The dream den had been equally as empty. And it had all flooded back.
The cape means he's wrongfooted. It did not act like any dream he knew. The projections too put together, the place too real. His totem had not worked and he couldn't forge and really, he lives in a world where a man's grip on reality can already be loose but he'd thought briefly he'd finally gone and done it, finally gotten lost. But the laws he knows work here. It adds evidence to the theory that maybe everyone in Kore is right. That he isn't dreaming. That he really has been kidnapped. As fanciful as it seems he still thinks it's ... feasible. Eames is a man who thinks with both his head and his heart and right now even his gut is in on the act.
To be in a dream now - where he can change the colour of his eyes, where he can dream up the gun in his hands - is like breathing after almost drowning. The panic is real, is bright and dangerous within him, but he can feel life inside of his veins and that's enough.
So he tucks the gun in his holster and he moves through the crowd as though to try and place where it is this is all coming from.
two. The first rule of dream-walking is to never use things that you remember. Eames usually attests to this rule, all things considered. However, without the use of a PASIV and the warning that going under usually gives, he's pretty much flouting all of those well worn laws. The bar is one he remembers from London, the rain peeling against the windows outside. It's dark and less crowded than Mombasa and instead of the usual stocky build he's slighter. Also blonde.
Also female.
That bit isn't from memory, unfortunately. But he smiles prettily at the bartender and thinks about the last time he'd ordered a drink in here, the hastily stitched bullet wound in his side and Arthur's frowning face in the mirror above the bar. The job had been rough but Eames would gladly trade over all of this to be back there again, where things made sense and he knew who and where he was.
( He doesn't miss Arthur though, or the way he'd nudged Eames in the stitches with his elbow, mouth turned down and an old misery in his eyes.
He doesn't. )
What: Considering that this is Eames' jam, anything goes. There will be two options under the cut, one from early on in the event and another when Eames just says fuck it to everything and uses his forging skills to cause mayhem.
When: Day 83 - 88
Warnings: There might be violence considering Eames is an actual dream criminal.
one. The heat in Mombasa is sweltering. It soaks the buildings and the roads and leaves a burn in its wake. Everything is too hot to the touch, prickles at skin as easy and as real as anything. It's busy too, when is Mombasa ever not? The projections scurrying around are carrying packages or chattering with one another off to the side. A few drive cars down the busy street slowly, beeping their horns when people simply won't get out of their way. Nobody pays any attention to the man loading his gun just outside a dusty chemist.
At first he had thought it real. Hadn't remembered ever leaving Mombasa behind. Didn't recall anything of Paris or the flight or the cape. It had only been when he stepped into Yusuf's shop that he realised. Dreams feel real when you're in them. But Eames had found an empty place - void of Yusuf and his potions or his tabbycat. The dream den had been equally as empty. And it had all flooded back.
The cape means he's wrongfooted. It did not act like any dream he knew. The projections too put together, the place too real. His totem had not worked and he couldn't forge and really, he lives in a world where a man's grip on reality can already be loose but he'd thought briefly he'd finally gone and done it, finally gotten lost. But the laws he knows work here. It adds evidence to the theory that maybe everyone in Kore is right. That he isn't dreaming. That he really has been kidnapped. As fanciful as it seems he still thinks it's ... feasible. Eames is a man who thinks with both his head and his heart and right now even his gut is in on the act.
To be in a dream now - where he can change the colour of his eyes, where he can dream up the gun in his hands - is like breathing after almost drowning. The panic is real, is bright and dangerous within him, but he can feel life inside of his veins and that's enough.
So he tucks the gun in his holster and he moves through the crowd as though to try and place where it is this is all coming from.
two. The first rule of dream-walking is to never use things that you remember. Eames usually attests to this rule, all things considered. However, without the use of a PASIV and the warning that going under usually gives, he's pretty much flouting all of those well worn laws. The bar is one he remembers from London, the rain peeling against the windows outside. It's dark and less crowded than Mombasa and instead of the usual stocky build he's slighter. Also blonde.
Also female.
That bit isn't from memory, unfortunately. But he smiles prettily at the bartender and thinks about the last time he'd ordered a drink in here, the hastily stitched bullet wound in his side and Arthur's frowning face in the mirror above the bar. The job had been rough but Eames would gladly trade over all of this to be back there again, where things made sense and he knew who and where he was.
( He doesn't miss Arthur though, or the way he'd nudged Eames in the stitches with his elbow, mouth turned down and an old misery in his eyes.
He doesn't. )
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He's working under the illusion that Charlie won't remember this tomorrow - they never do unless they're in the know, unless they're like Eames. So he doesn't need to hide very much, not now.
"We're getting too far down for my liking, if I'm right this is ... the fifth layer. Things are definitely going to be more unstable. More likely to get violent."
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I know all about dreams. So my mind can become a trap at any point. You're just going to have to stick close and hope I can work around this."
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He walks through the crowd, conscious of the way the projections are eyeing the both of them up. "We'll get to my apartment, then we can figure out how the bloody hell this has happened."
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"If yous can control it, feel like making all these lot stop giving me the death glare?"
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He passes a shop window, thinks he catches the shadow of someone in the glass. "You're not supposed to be here. My mind knows that. So it's trying to eradicate the problem. Just keep your wits about you and try not to touch too much."
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"Sos is this something people do in the future? Control dreams or whatever the fuck you said it was?"
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He leads Charlie down another narrow street, but thankfully this isn't as crowded. "A few us have very specific skills."
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"From somewhere very far from here."
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"Bloody hell that town sodding exists."
Not a dream, it can't be.
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Running a hand through his hair, a nerve ticking in his jaw. "Is this the first time this has ever happened to you?"
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He cannot help himself, at all. "But were I dreaming about you, it certainly wouldn't be set in Mombasa and we'd be decidedly less clothed."
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"We was going back to yours, weren't we?"
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He watches a young boy playing with a stick down a dusty alley for a moment, then starts up momentum again. "I don't understand any of this at all. It goes against everything I've known."
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"Thought you said yous was some kinda expert with all this."