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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. )
no subject
"It's based off something I know from reality, that's not a thing I tend to lean towards."
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Not that he's sure who they are. It could be the scientists or even some unknown creature.
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He shakes his head, "Besides, what good is a street to them?"
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He starts to move towards a building, trying to discern if there might be something noteworthy here, but he's skeptical.
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He takes a quick glance towards the alley where his dusty little apartment sits in a sprawling building. He'd felt good in Mombasa, safe and relaxed. And then Cobb had walked back into his life.
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no subject
"Perhaps. Or a deep and unforgiving craving for sunlight. One of the two."
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no subject
"I'll look forward to it."