agogelogs | [OPEN] i ain't a gambler

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[OPEN] i ain't a gambler

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. ]

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[It's wonderfully sunny, warm like an old blanket welcoming you back into its embrace. But the mood clashes, a tragedy that was too soon, happened to someone so young.

The sound, muted but still audible, as if he'd plugged his ears, carries on as he walks forward, knowing somehow that this is Arthur's dream.

Knowing it's about her.

Arthur doesn't look at him, so Eames keeps his eyes on the casket too. They've never discussed this. It seemed too painful to bring up. He knows how close Arthur was to Mal. Eames knew her as a lovely woman, a spark that lit up an entire room, a clever little thing. It seems selfish to be sad himself. Arthur has more reason to be.

And still he defends Cobb. Of course he didn't, but he's been an arse to Arthur, to all of them. They didn't deserve to have the choice of doing the Fischer job taken from them. But Arthur is also good friends with Cobb.]

I know he didn't, [he says softly, looking up to his face finally. It wasn't really fair of him to avoid this pain. He feels it keenly now, thinking of the charming woman who encouraged him in his forging, who he worked with quite a lot. God, he hates funerals.] I'm sorry, Arthur.

[ Logically, he knows this was a possibility. Years of knowing someone– you can't hide forever. What's more, the base with the damning lights, with the lucid dreams that spin out of control like an unloosed top; it's built this memory from the ground up. If he looks close he knows there's missing details. The faces of the crowd of people aren't fully realized, they're blurred facsimiles. Only Cobb, the kids, and Miles with his wife stand out, expressions carefully recreated, grief etched into every line.

(His posture is the same, defeated, exhausted, wishing just like he had that day that he could put a gun to his temple and pull the trigger, find out it none of it had been real.)

This was in the past and it's been dredged up. He wants to leave it where it was, bury it along with Mal.

Closing his eyes, he releases a long breath and then looks at Eames, studying his face. ]

I can't watch this a second time. [ A beat and then: ] Let's go. They won't notice.

[He's from southern California, born and bred, so he knows the pleasant, balmy air like he knows breathing. Travis doesn't know the deceased, however, and he barely knows Arthur, standing stolid white-knuckled, quivering fists at his sides.

God, he's so shitty at funerals. He could barely be convinced to go to his own parents' funeral. Why is he at this one -- and why couldn't his subconscious dream up some respectful attire, for fuck's sake? T-shirt and jeans, same as he ever was. Travis can't even bear to fold his hands in respect, even as an instinctive hail Mary almost passes his lips.

Instead, he hovers at Arthur's side like a shadow. Travis feels his hands curl into their own helpless fists where they rest in his pockets.]

Was she killed?

Yes, let's, [he agrees softly, touching Arthur's arm briefly when he turns to walk with him. It's weird to see Arthur like this, more fragile, vulnerable. And Eames can't help but be sincere, even if it's in his own way. He leaves the funeral, not because he's afraid of seeing it, but because it's what's best for his... friend. If that's what they are.]

Arthur, I-... [What can he say? Is there any way to say the right thing here? He pauses, and then takes a breath.] I should have at least called. When it happened.

[He looks at him again, not with pity. Just regret. He should have been there. They're not best friends or anything, but they're... them. He should have done something.]

[ Travis is nearby and it feels weird. Not because it's someone he barely knows, but just... because there's anyone here. If he had it his way, he'd prefer to dream this on his own, without bystanders or the possibility of someone unrelated tripping into it.

Then again, even if someone related– say, Dom– showed up, he'd still hate it. Arthur doesn't do well with vulnerability, especially when it's his own. He's spent so much time crafting an image of dependability, having it all flushed in a single dream leaves him filled with frustration alongside the grief. ]

Suicide. Threw herself off a tenth floor hotel balcony. [ He adds, to clarify: ] She thought she was dreaming and if she died, she'd wake up.

[ Suffice to say, she never did. ]

[ On instinct, he wants to jerk away from the touch, but he lets it pass. He walks from the funeral area, nothing but the soft rustle of grass underfoot. A breeze blows through the trees and he wishes, on some level, that the weather at least had the sensitivity to be miserable too. Rain would've punctuated everything.

Instead, it remains bright and warm. Arthur keeps walking until they exit the cemetery, the delicate iron gate at their backs. The nearby parking lot is hazy, the lines delineating the parking spots seeming to wobble and shift. He doesn't remember this very well. At Eames' words, he comes up to a halt, right under the shade of a tree. ]

You barely knew her. [ Pointedly, he doesn't look over at the forger, just sticks his hands in his pockets and stares out at the rippling details of their surroundings. ] You barely knew me, at the time.

[He walks with him to the parking lot, hazy as it is. Dreams are always so weird, so wishy washy. It doesn't bother Eames, but it makes it hard to grasp reality sometimes.

He stops when Arthur does, looking away. He's always cared a little too much, even when there's the possibility he'd lose that person. It hits a little too close to his insecurities, his voice getting a little tighter.] Yes, Arthur. I hardly knew you two. We just shared life and death experiences with each other. We worked together for days on end.

[He shakes his head, leaning against the trunk of the tree.] I know you, Arthur. And this - [He gestures around him.] - this... holding things in. Isn't great for you.

[ Eames' voice goes tight and Arthur grits his teeth, jaw flexing. His mouth thins, fingers curling into fists in his pockets– this is something he hates about the forger. It's what had set them at each other's throats when they first started working together. Most of the time, Eames knows better, but sometimes, he digs. Sticks the knife in a little deeper and twists.

His job as a forger is to be observant and Arthur hates it when it's turned on him.

He blinks a few times, clears the blurring of his sight, focuses on the tightness in his shoulders, his chest. Anyone who's known him for any period of time knows he's not one to lose his temper easily. But this feels familiar, the climbing anxiety of words that strike too close to home, the resulting inability to deal with them. He breaks years of control and turns on Eames. ]

Fuck you! What was I supposed to do, after this? [ Arthur gestures, one arm straight out, towards the funeral. ] Dom needed to run and I couldn't just fucking break down and cry with that on the line.

[ There's something unsaid wavering in his words: because what if he decided to follow her? ]

If it weren't for this bullshit on base, this would just stay where it's supposed to be.

She really believed it was all a dream? Or was she running from somethin' else, you think...?

[He steps forward, tentative. Empathy has never been his strong suit, but he's not certain of what to do besides talk, on and on.

His eyes come to rest on Arthur's briefcase. There's an irrational part of him that longs to break it open, strew Arthur's clothes left and right-- if only to break the solemnity, to give his hands something else to do besides lie idle in his pockets.]

You talk like you knew her pretty well.

She did.

[ He exhales, a long but quiet sound, and looks down at the ground, studying the grass. It's hard to watch anything to do with his memory of Cobb and Mal and just. All of this. ]

We started as work accomplices. And she– Mal– she had this way with people. It was hard not to be her friend, in the end.

[ Arthur frowns, shakes his head minutely, and then finally glances at Travis. ] Come on, we don't have to watch this, it's just a half-constructed memory. [ With that, he starts walking away, not in any real direction. ]

[Oh fuck. He already knows he's fucking up, but he cares about Arthur. And God, he doesn't have a lot of people he can count on like Arthur. Maybe they're not there emotionally for each other back home, but this place is different. This situation is different. He clenches his jaw, upset and pushing off the tree.]

Yeah, Arthur? How about you let someone in for once, instead of pushing everyone out every time they get close?

[ Damn him.

Damn Eames and his observation. Damn his ability to get under his skin, every time. Most of all, damn him for being his infuriating opposite, for constantly clashing, for knowing exactly what to say to piss him off. The forger pushes away from the tree he'd been leaning on and Arthur straightens, feeling a fight simmering in his blood. ]

How about you just fuck off, Eames. You told me to cut loose whenever there were emotions on the table, so why don't you take your own advice?

[And then Arthur hits back just as hard. Why doesn't Eames listen to his own advice? Because he's a hypocrite, and weak to emotions when they really hit him.

God, he really isn't taking his own advice, and it scares him. It scares the shit out of him. And for a split second, he can't hide the hurt that flashes over his face. And then it's anger. Pure anger and hurt.]

Maybe I should. I don't need you, Arthur. You can stick that attitude right up your arse.

[And he'll turn to wander off if Arthur doesn't answer quickly.]

[ An ugly side of him feels a flash of triumph at the expression that flickers across Eames' face. Observation and mannerisms might be the part of a forge, but details were his area. He could give as good as he got, even when it wasn't the right time or place to do it.

Still, he can't stop himself. Or no, that's not right. He can, just doesn't want to. Directing everything into anger is easier than letting the shuddering in his lungs loose. ]

Yeah, just walk away. It's what you're good at.

[He stops, hesitates. Arthur doesn't know how deeply that hurts, how quickly his mind leaps to his father. His fists clench at his sides, trying to will away the sudden flash of anger and hurt running through him.

They were always really good at getting under each other's skin.]

Piss off, [he says lowly, darkly. And then he stalks off quickly, so he doesn't do something he regrets.]

[ There's a hesitation and a small thrill of adrenaline runs through him. It's entirely possible he'll get punched for his words, something he's sort of been aiming to bait Eames into. Better than being caught in a whirlwind of emotions and stuck in his head.

It's not a good coping mechanism.

But he waits, watches Eames stalk off in an indeterminate direction. Then, like all of his strings have been cut, he sinks to the ground, sits on the edge of the dreamed up curb, and stews. Eventually, he lowers his head into his hands, presses his palms into his eyes, and breathes.

When he comes to, it's in a similar position, but with stifling warmth all around him in the pocket of the hotspot. Sluggishly, he drags himself up– he doesn't want to be here when Eames wakes up. ]

[Dreams were not restrained by the dreamer's sense of logic or understanding of the world. He remembers trailing ends of dreams of nights long past that had seemed so fantastic they might as well have been different worlds entirely, but in the moment of the dream, everything had seemed perfectly understandable, nothing out of place.

Natural dreams offered that much, anyway. These did not.

Revolutionary Paris had been one thing, but the modern city was something completely different. Ashitaka feels paralyzed by it. It's not something he has felt often, typically fast to action when shocked by something that needed challenge, but he had almost nothing familiar here to act upon for precedent. Perhaps the only thing in the city of concrete, glass, steel, and plastic that felt familiar to him was the cool of the rain seeping through his clothing to make it cling uncomfortably to his skin.

And gunfire.

He turns toward the sound of a fast approach, but he's entirely too slow. Too overwhelmed by a culture shock even more powerful than those he had already faced - so he's tackled, hitting the ground hard. He loses his breath in a hiss, though the adrenaline is already beginning to work its way through his system. He drags himself up to a crouch in time to see the identity of the man who'd tackled him: the man he had spoken to in the shooting range a short time ago. What on Earth -

And then the train arrives.

Ashitaka is too astounded by what it is, something so indescribable he can think of it only as the spear of a creature too large to comprehend, striking through the streets of this city.

He is, in a word, overwhelmed. It's a credit to him that he manages to get to his feet at all, glancing at Arthur once he manages to find the ability to tear his attention away from the speeding train crashing through the streets. He seems... calm doesn't seem the right word, but more unsurprised than Ashitaka would think possible.]

We should run, yes?

[This seems like something you would run away from.]

Henry passes the folder to Arthur, like he'd been alongside them for who knows how long. The man and his wife are people he's met before, nice couple, good at what they do. For the moment, he feels seamlessly integrated into this scene.

"Looks like they're upping security. Anything else?"

Arthur looks older, but Henry himself doesn't feel older. He glimpses down at his hand, and his skin feels different. Flexing his fingers, the bones bend slowly and mechanically, but otherwise feel fine. Maybe he's just imagining it.

"Not sure. I'm going to do some more digging."

Arthur gratefully takes the folder from Henry, flips through some of the information he has stored in there. It goes by in a blur, but his mind is supplying the details in this fantasy scenario. After a few moments of study, he sets it down slowly on the coffee table in front of him, folder open to the page he was looking at. Realization pours over him like cold water.

"Be right back, gonna get some air."

Mal looks up from her paperwork and flashes him a smile. It reaches her eyes and not for the first time, he thinks she's beautiful. Dom doesn't look up, but he waves him off. Typical.

Plucking the papers off his lap, he arranges those on the table as well before standing up, angling a glance to Henry. Silently asking if he's coming before he walks out of the room, towards the patio doors.

[ The noise of the train is loud. An unpleasant screeching above everything else, as it plows into cars and the wheels scream on the road with no rails under it. Arthur looks at his sudden companion and nods tersely. Anyone who would be following them will no longer be, not with a distraction like a giant train in the middle of the city. ]

Let's go, there's a hidden pocket built into this level just ahead.

[ This feels like deja vu. And he knows, due to the unfamiliarity of Ashitaka's face, that this isn't the inception job. As he runs, he remembers where he really is. On base, probably asleep. After a block or so, he darts down an alley, making sure Ashitaka is following behind. There's a fire escape just above. Three stories up, there's a flat Ariadne had built in, as a just in case. ]

The moment passes by in comfortable silence, papers shuffling and things being passed around. Mal asked if Henry wanted anything to drink, but he said he was fine, but thank you. He doesn't even realize that he doesn't know her name. It's only when Arthur announces that he needs air that Henry looks up from his own file.

Curiously, he sets his file down too and follows him towards the patio, hands in his pocket. The moment he starts walking, he starts to feel a little strange. Like something behind him is disappearing— what was he doing just now?

"Nice view."

Not sure why he says that of all things, but that's what he's going with apparently.

[Ashitaka has faced down a demon, killing the rotting body of what had once been a god. He had willingly accepted his fate to leave everything that he had ever known in search of a vague promise of something that might absolve him of the curse that that had entailed. There's much and more he had seen (and felt, echoes of violent repercussion he felt in the mark burned into his body and soul) that made it difficult to shock him.

The train plowing through the streets, crushing infrastructure and vehicles alike, had him with eyes wild and wide, expression locked with shock. His muscles burned with the vivid energy of adrenaline, all screaming for him to get away.

Frankly, he has no idea what Arthur is talking about, but he's not in a place where he's going to argue. He nods, racing after the man as he leads the way down a few blocks, then into an alley and to the strange metal scaffolding that Arthur seemed to be looking at.]

Up?

[He's still wrapping his head around how tall these buildings were. And he thought Paris had been a lot to get used to...]

Arthur stands on the back patio, hands in his pockets. His fingers are curled around the die he knows is there. And that if he pulled it out, rolled it, the numbers would shift. This isn't reality. While he's had some difficulty telling the difference sometimes, this is one of those things he denies outright. It's too sunk in that she's gone, that he'd said his goodbyes a while ago.

As Henry steps out, he spares him a glance before looking towards the slope of the yard. There's no fence, so it's easy to see the hills in the distance. The spread of southern California in all its beauty.

"Yeah. They had a thing for aesthetics. Dom liked the house, Mal liked the view." He sounds almost wistful.

Up.

[ At that, he jumps a little, catches the bottom railing of the ladder with both hands and pulls. The ladder gives, metal groaning and creaking with the sudden motion. But it lowers, making it easier for them to climb up.

Leading the way, he goes with a gun in one hand, just in case. It's three sets of narrow metal staircases before they arrive at the correct door. Momentarily re-holstering his gun, he pulls out a small jangling ring of keys, chooses one, and uses it to unlock said door.

Inside is a nicely laid out flat. Posh and maybe edged with hipster, because it was Ariadne's build after all. By the door are coat hooks, one of which is piled with various scarves. One or two look familiar; he swears the architect has worn them before. Of course she'd ignore "don't build what you know" when it comes to her fashions.

From the escape door leads a small hallway and then the kitchen, decked out in stainless steel, dark granite, off-white cabinets. Arthur sets his gun and keys on the island in the middle, starts pulling out the drawers to see what else is in here. ]

We should be fine here for a little while. Long enough to figure out how to kick us out of the dream, in any case.

[ He stops looking through a drawer and shakes his head, as if he's just remembered something. ]

Sorry, I– I'm Arthur. You are?

Hey, wait up--

[He casts the funeral proceedings one last nervous glance, quickening his pace to match Arthur's. In a breath, he's at his heels; in another, he's at his side, hand on the man's shoulder.]

I can't get anywhere without you here, man. This is your memory.

[As well constructed as it all is to someone unfamiliar with the dreams of Arthur's more usual making-- the whisper of the grass, the sun on his skin, even Mal herself, who he knows is in there, somehow-- he can't help but feel like a foreigner here in someone else's head.]

Talk us out of this thing.

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[OPEN] i ain't a gambler

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