[OPEN] i ain't a gambler

[pointedlook]

WHO? Arthur and [insert your character here]
WHAT? Shared dreaming, sans PASIV, because aliens.
WHEN? When the hotspots really start expanding and taking over hallways.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, trauma, suicidal imagery (ala Inception), angst.

i. physics can be imitated with a controlled explosion

[ It's a hallway of a hotel.

Somewhat upscale, plush carpeting, nicely labeled doors, polished elevator. There's silence and everything seems fairly normal except some things are floating. Down one section of the hallway, a housekeeping cart is unaffected by gravity, hovering in the air along with all of its accoutrements. The other section of the hall has a body, unconscious (or dead), suspended and creepily still. One door opens and Arthur pokes his head out, face alert, serious, exhausted.

If anyone looks in the room, there's more bodies, though they look less lifeless and more like they're asleep. ]

You're not supposed to be here.

[ Hope you're used to having a gun pointed in your face. If not, well, have fun. Arthur doesn't look happy to see you. ]



ii. you're waiting for a train

[ A cityscape is laid out before you, streets stretching and winding into the familiar beat of traffic patterns and neighborhoods. Cars are all along, parked curbside or sitting next to each other in their respective lanes as the lights change from red to green. It's not gridlock, but it's busy, just shy of rush hour. Rain comes down in sheets, pattering off of windshields, umbrellas, raincoats. Overfull gutters create a rushing background noise of water.

Above all the natural sounds of a city enduring inclement weather is gunfire and shouting, the screech of tires. Behind you is the distinct slap! of shoes hitting wet pavement at a rapid clip. ]

Get down!

[ If you don't react in time, you're getting tackled to the ground by Arthur, just as bullets go whizzing by. Unmistakable sounds of glass shattering and someone letting out a panicked scream pop up when those bullets connect to their end point. Arthur pops back up, annoyed and soaked through, gun in hand. He takes aim, ready to shoot at someone down the street when all other noise is drowned out by the horrible whistle and crunch of asphalt as a train comes barreling into the middle of the city street. ]

Fuck.


iii. sweet dreams are made of this

[ The house is lovely. A craftsman style, with real wood floors, wood furnishings, because that's how they've decorated it. Because she said that wood was inviting, warm, home-like. They're sitting in the living room, papers scattered all over the table and on the desk, where Dom is scribbling down notes. Mal is across from Arthur in her favorite chair, legs curled up and tucked under her – 'Dom, I want to be able to drown in this chair, that's how I'd like to go.' 'Honey, that's very unlikely.' 'Still, it's what I want.'

The PASIV sits open on a side table they borrowed from the den, one they use for dinner and movie night. Mal's been working on a new version of somnacin, one with less side effects. Arthur has his legs stretched out in front of him, a sheaf of papers on his lap and some in hand, a pen slanted behind his ear. The beginning of grey is coming in at his temples and a second look at Mal or Dom will show similar signs of age. In the background, through the doorway that leads to the kitchen, a young lady with blonde hair passes through, holds up a coffee pot and a quirked eyebrow.

"How'd you know, Philippa?"

"You're a coffee addict."

"Be nice, dear."

"Mom, you know it's true."

"Yes, that's no reason to say it aloud."

Arthur pretends to look offended, but the smile on his face is too fond to be anything but. Turning, he glances over to you, hand extended. ]

Can you pass me that folder? I think the information I need is in there. This client's case is getting tougher and tougher.


iv. don't build what you know

[ The casket isn't open, her body too mangled to save.

Instead, it's closed, matte and dark wood, as they lower it into the ground. His hands are at his side, gripped into fists so hard his knuckles have turned white.

The weather is beautiful, sunny, blue skies and fluffy clouds. It's California.

There's not much sound, even though someone is saying something in the background. Last rites, maybe. Everything is muted and there's an overwhelming sense of unfairness. Next to his legs is a suitcase– he'd come straight from the airport when he heard the news. ]

He didn't do it.

[ Arthur doesn't turn, nor does he look at you, eyes fixed on where they're shoveling dirt in. ]


v. wake up and let's be young together

[ Maybe you'll find him in a hotspot in the hallway. Or the library. Or just outside his capsule door, slumped against the wall. Careful not to step into odd light, else you'll be pulled in too.

But it looks like he's starting to try and come to. Lend him a hand, if you're feeling generous. Let him sleep on, if you'd rather not interfere. He's a big boy, after all, and he can handle himself. ]

Comments

[pointedlook]

Alright.

[ Obviously he's struck some kind of nerve, but he isn't about to pry. Now is neither the time nor place. And frankly, he isn't really sure he wants to ask.

Arthur still gestures for her to go first. ]

I'll watch your back.

[ It's something he's used to doing, after all. It'd been practically his permanent residence when running with Cobb. ]

That doesn't fill me with confidence. [ He says it as they go up the stairs, looking briefly over his shoulder to make sure they aren't being followed. Nothing just yet. ] Take the door on the right, here.

[bloodings]

Whatever.

[ Mordred doesn't need anyone watching her back. But she doesn't want to stick around, either, so she runs ahead of him; taking the stairs two at a time, which is a pretty impressive feat for her height.

She waits for him to catch up before going through the door — not because she cares, but because she still has no idea what's going on. The last thing she wants is to be dealing with this by herself. ]

What'd you do to piss those guys off? [ Even if it's a dream, he's obviously being targeted. ]