"Yes, well, I rarely forge myself, flipped," Eames says, a bit heated when it comes to the fact that there's very little choice in this. Eames spins on his stool, crossing his legs so that one high-heel trails along Arthur's calf, Eames leaning his body into his space. "I can't undo it," he complains sharply. "And not a single mirror shows me my true self."