agogelogs | [OPEN] it's future rust and it's future dust

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[OPEN] it's future rust and it's future dust

WHO? Eames

withimagination and YOU
WHAT? Dream plot!
WHEN? When the hotspots are getting bad
ANYTHING ELSE? No PASIV here, just the dream plot. Warnings for: battlefield scenes, violence

a. gotta wipe the dirt off of your hands

When you open your eyes, you’re greeted with a BOOM and dirt flying up near you. You’re on a battlefield, bullets whizzing past you. If you’re not already running, Eames grabs your arm and tugs you along, down to jump in a trench. There’s a number of soldiers there that pay you no mind, aiming and firing, shouting. Eames himself is dressed as a soldier, dirt smudged across his face. He looks younger, but worn. Tired. He quickly starts reloading his gun, fingers shaking.

"Come on, come on."

Beyond the trench, if you walk on into the light, you’ll see a plain room that’s big, almost like the room of a warehouse. There are drawings of settings everywhere, bottles of a liquid labeled ‘Somnacin’, crude machines. In the middle of the warehouse are cots, dozens and dozens of cots, with people on them, looking like they’re sleeping. Each one has a IV running to his or her wrist. Some of them move a little, furrow their brows, have sweat on their brow. You may recognize some from the earlier scene. Eames, still looking a bit younger, is in one of the middle cots, looking disturbed in his sleep. And then, a woman sits up with a harsh gasp. Another person does the same. Once they’re awake, they pay you no mind, rubbing hands over their eyes, carefully taking out their IV. Eames sits up with his own gasp, ripping out the IV.

"Goddamnit."

b. you only get so far reading faces

The elevator dings next to you. You’re in a hotel lobby, a beautiful one, with crystals and mirrors and chandeliers. The elevator doors open, and a tall blonde steps out with a sly smile, like she has a secret. Her heels clack against the marble floor as she walks like she’s a woman on a mission, though the flashes of the mirror reveal brief glances of the profile of a handsome man walking in her place. But as soon as you think you see it, she’s gone, disappearing around the corner of a mirror.

Walk toward it, go around the corner, and there’s a chubby older man, gesturing to the next corner with his eyeglasses, a small smile on his face. He disappears around it, a flash of Eames in the mirror.

You could go on and on and on through the maze, but eventually you can find Eames in a sitting room, lounging in a chair in front of a mirror. Look in the mirror, and he’s not there.

c. you’re killing me slow

It’s... been quite a day. Getting into a fight with your only ally is really a shitty idea. Unless Henry can be counted as an ally. See, Arthur, he knows people. HA. Take that.

Or that’s what’s running through his head as he uses a test dummy in the armory as a punching bag. Perhaps not its intended purpose, but it works fine and Eames needs to let off some steam. He’s maybe punching it a little too hard, though, and hasn’t taken a break for a while, sweat beading on his forehead.

d. wildcard

[Or plurk me for a different situation!]

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Dreams be damned, he needs to let off some steam like countless others around here. He can't imagine that everyone is having terrible and weird dreams involving people around the place, but it's too frequent to call it coincidence.

He makes it to the punching bag area, dressed down in the clothes that they found on the ship vs his neatly pressed clothes (can't wear them too much until he figures out how to dry clean them here??? maybe he can ask the robots). Eames already beat him to the test dummy, but the punching bag a little distance away is as good as anything right now.

Taking the pointers he'd learned from a grizzled veteran and possible Bruce Willis fan, he starts wrapping his hands to prepare. He watches Eames from the corner of his eye, noting his frustrated energy and how he wasn't giving himself any breaks between sets.

"Eames."

He doesn't really even notice Henry until he speaks. And then Eames actually stops, holding the test dummy still and glancing up at him. Why is he always doing slightly embarrassing things in front of Henry?

He runs a wrapped hand through his hair, sounding a little breathless. "Ah. Henry."

He knows he caught the man off-guard, so he's expecting a little moment of awkwardness. At least he's got a plan for that. Looking the training dummy over, he nods his head a little.

"Let's give that dummy a rest. Think you can hold this for me?"

Gestures to the punching bag with a tilt of his head.

Eames hesitates, then nods, walking over and holding the bag steady.

"Ready."

He's not sure how to proceed conversationally, so he leaves it open for Henry to lead it.

Don't worry Eames, he got you.

As the punching bag stops swaying, Henry rolls his shoulder a bit and exhales through his mouth. Remembering the little brush-up lesson from 76, he throws a few punches. Despite his size, he's a lot stronger than he looks (we're blaming video game mechanics here).

"So, have any good dreams lately?"

It's pretty obvious at this point that it's not just a him experiencing these dreams.

Not bad. Stronger than he looks. Eames holds the bag pretty steady, looking up at him with a snort.

"Yeah. They were brilliant," he answers sarcastically. "Totally love going to my friend's friend's funeral and yelling at him."

Oh. "That was probably more than you intended for me to say."

Looks like Henry didn't even have to work for this one, fortunately. He doesn't stop his set though, only pausing briefly between words so they're not drowned out by the sharp 'thwock' sounds his fists make against the bag.

He ignores the fact that Eames didn't mean to say that last part and goes on like it wasn't even a thing.

"Mn, they've gone and brought our ugly sides out into the light, haven't they?"

He'll admit he's been through some harrowing dreams and can recall nearly all of them. Eames' involvement in one, included.

Bless you, Henry. And he remembers that dream too. That was a quite a ride.

"They have," he says, sounding deflated. "It's... it's stupid. I shouldn't have brought it up."

He's in weird territory here. He's not sure how to proceed, but he doesn't need to be whining to Henry about it.

Normally, he isn't the most eloquent conversationalist, especially when sensitive topics like this come up. This time, though, he started the conversation knowing where it might head.

"I wouldn't say it's stupid," he says almost pleasantly, though his breathing is a little heavier with the force he's exerting. "Something compelled you to bring it up, yes?"

If Eames really doesn't want to talk about it, he won't try to push him but if he can somehow make him feel comfortable enough to tell him on his own accord? Why not? He entered Arthur's dream where Cobb and Mal were still happy, growing old together, and the aftermath of it was incredibly sobering if anything. There's a lot of issues within this group and while he's no psychologist nor does he care if they're mentally healthy or not, he wants to know the reasoning behind people's actions. Plainly said, he's just really fucking curious.

He listens, looking a bit nervous. Sharing is difficult for Eames, with anyone, really. He sighs, still holding on to the bag.

"I'm not-... I don't like it when we're truly at odds. That wasn't just us teasing each other; we got personal and unnecessarily mean."

He doesn't know what that means, why this is really bothering him so much. As good as he is with other people's emotions, he's sometimes kind of awful in interpreting his own.

Henry knows better than anyone that sharing things about stuff sucks. He likes to avoid the more personal parts about himself if he can't help it.

He lets that silence hang in the air for a moment as he punches the bag a few times again, concentrating on his technique rather than focusing on the conversation fully. Not to be insensitive or anything, but he also understands the importance of being a little less fast-paced with his conversations. Can't go too hard or it might clam them up.

"Aye, well... nothing a little time to cool off can't fix. Sometimes, you just have to approach sensitive subjects with care, and not through impromptu dream crashing." He reaches for Eames around the punching bag, patting his shoulder.

"But I'm sure you two will handle it just fine. Being friends and all."

It's working well. The pat makes him smile a bit in amusement. He knows he and Arthur can be a little fucked up sometimes. But, well... they've both been in the military, both been used as PASIV guinea pigs, both been just around the Cobbs. The dream sharing world isn't really made up of well-adjusted people.

He makes a small, skeptical sound at the 'friends' part of it, but he refrains from addressing that part.

"He buries this shit, you know. It's none of my business with what he does with it, but..."

He kicks at the ground with the toe of his shoe, sighing. "I guess I kind of worry... a little bit."

Eames is still talking so Henry takes that as a good sign. He slows on the punches, reverting his focus back onto the man who's opening up a little more to him. Nice, he got somewhere. Leaning against the bag now, he steadies the swaying of whatever Eames isn't already shouldering.

"No shame in that, really."

He's worked up a little sweat, so he could probably stop right here. It wasn't really his intention to work off any aggression for long anyway.

"You want another go at it?"

Once the bag is still, he lets go, shrugging at the first part. Is there no shame? There really shouldn't be, for a healthy person. But showing your weakness to a possible enemy can be dangerous. He's not blind to the possible danger here, but he doesn't feel quite worried. Not because Henry doesn't seem dangerous. Just because he doesn't think Henry would bother to do anything to him.

He shakes his head, tugging the wrappings loose around his hands and slowly unrolling it off his hand.

"My hands don't feel great. I think I've already overdone it."

A glance back up at him, hesitant, but curious. "You knew I was upset... and still engaged me in conversation."

There's a question in there somewhere.

Being in this precarious and dangerous sort of business himself, he just assumes everyone also thinks like him. From how Arthur described his dream espionage gig, he knows Eames is likely to be on the same wavelength as him.

He only offers Eames a sympathetic look about the hands. He had been really going at it earlier, so it only makes sense.

"Is it strange when someone wishes to see how their fellow shipmates are carrying on?"

Edited 2017-12-24 08:54 (UTC)

He looks over him curiously. He likes that Henry's sometimes a little hard to read. It makes things interesting, and Eames always snooped around interesting people.

An arched brow is sent in his direction. "I suppose not, but it's too early for you to be worried about me. Curious?"

Curiosity makes a bit more sense to him.

Eames is at least pretty good about knowing when Henry's bullshitting him. So far, he's run across a lot of people who can recognize a facade when they see one. How brilliant.

Without any more excuse to go off of, he simply shrugs.

"I've killed a couple of cats last because of it, but I think this is a relatively safe conversation."

He smirks, nodding as he folds up the wrappings from his hands.

"I suppose. You really think he just needs a little time?"

Because, well... no one else has offered to hear his problem, and he doesn't need to be at war with his strongest ally.

With a reassuring nod, Henry smiles.

"I know so," he says, even if he doesn't know that for sure 100%. "Men like Arthur, well, I'm sure you know him better than I do... I imagine they'll come to you when they're ready. It gives them a semblance of control, puts them in a better position to talk."

He sort of describes himself here, too. In most cases, were he in Arthur's shoes, he would prefer the other party to give him space.

It happens so quickly, as battles do: awareness, the chaos of harsh impacts, shouting. Her first question is how she'd been returned to Westeros; was she to relive another battle so soon? Tilting her head back, her gaze roves the skies, searching for her sons.

Fingers wrap around her wrist, instead, and she's tugged along. Pale, silver hair streams over her shoulder as she stumbles after the one leading her away from the fray; there are no dragon's cries to steel her spine. And just as the impact of dropping a number of feet from above would slam against her knees, the scene shifts--

Silence. Strange sounds of life, muted, hidden behind fogged glass so very far away. There are people who stand before her, asleep in strange looking chairs, with even stranger ropes hanging from their forearms. Dany frowns, carefully stepping closer. Her boots, her dress--not the Dothraki garb she'd donned moments ago--make no noise.

Still, one by one, those in front of her awaken. The male who curses is the one who draws her attention, and she's straightening, her look growing distant as surprise gives way to the air of a queen.

"Who are you?" A demand. Some strange and shrill noise echoes outside, and she stiffens. (One day, she would learn of a car's honking; today would not be that day, alas.) "What is this place?"

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[OPEN] it's future rust and it's future dust

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a, darling time to meet the queen