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

[withimagination]

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!]

Comments

[handsomefoil]

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."

[withimagination]

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.

[handsomefoil]

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.