[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

c

[handsomefoil]

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."

a, darling time to meet the queen

[dorzalta]

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?"