all_inclusive | Entries tagged with zz: eames

Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.

Late December - The Dreamscape

Shapeshifting as she knew it was not simply a physical transformation, although that was always at its core. Her ability was one that required a solid concentration, one that could be accomplished only if she sunk mind as well as body into the new image of herself. It could very well have explained how readily she took to translating that ability into the dreamscape, her mind already used to the flexation required to reshape herself mentally to match the physicality she needed to live.

Eames takes Mystique under into a dream to see what someone who can shift in real life can do in the dreamworld.

weighted_reality

There's live music in the bar tonight, a torch singer of decent talent and no renown, accompanied by a baby grand. It draws Arthur there, one hand thumbing the totem in his pocket and the other wrapped around a glass of whiskey. There's a sketchpad on the table, mostly filled with drawings of buildings, none of them particularly imaginative, each tower restricted to a specific architectural movement. There's very little variation in the doodles of an educated and orderly hand, more meditative exercise than art piece.

Halfway through his whiskey, the girl at the piano encourages her small audience to take to the dance floor if they so choose, an invitation Arthur declines. He lacks motivation and a dance partner to boot and so sees little point. Instead he returns to his sketches, turning his attention to the corners of the bar and the brave few who've stood to dance. What grace he captures in still architecture he doesn't possess in the drawings of people and organic forms.

He's about to stand and order another drink when the piano plinks out a few hauntingly familiar notes and the woman at the microphone croons out words he knows well, "Des yeux qui font baisser les miens...un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche..."

Arthur can't help humming along. He's always loved Edith Piaf.

seeorseem

September | The Nexus

Eames is going to get a masters degree in forging at the rate the hotel is willing to help him along. This time, it's of a more canine persuasion. Luckily, Arthur helps him to switch back before other activities can be practiced.

ADULT CONTENT

concierge

Outside of the Nexus Hotel, waiters and hotel staff had begun to set up the umbrellas and the tables in the middle of the day. Soon, it became clear that something was happening in the shadow of the Nexus. White tablecloths were draped on the tables and drinks and food were brought out with the help of several waiters and servers, staffing tables with hot and cold foods beside bartending stations. Summery drinks in bright, neon colors are laid out one by one and soon, the afternoon light casts a radiant look on the scene.

Music plays faintly in the background and a note at the front desk invites all the Nexus guests to head outside and join in on the summer party, which promises to continue going as long as there are people to stay and continue keeping the warm atmosphere rolling.

On the lawn, social games had been set out -- lawn bowling, croquet, and tables were set up with chairs for anyone who didn't quite have the will or the spirit to get into such games. Soon, a small number of people had begun to mill around, but as with all parties, there's always room for more.

nebaritralk

Chiana walked through the gardens, black eyes wide as she took in the strange array of alien flora. She had never seen flowers of such colour as this one, or one that smelled as sickly sweet as that one, and what of these strange vines? Inside the hotel, she felt on edge, surrounded by too many people, most of them those humans that looked exactly like Sebaceans. Peacekeepers everywhere, how could she not be on edge.

But out here, it turned out, she could relax. There was nobody that might harm her, and nobody she might need to take advantage of. Just plants, and her. She followed a strange yellow and black striped flying bug as it flitted from one flower to the next, her lips stretched in a smile full of wonder. If only Nerri were here to see this with her…

She stopped where she was when she caught sight of a field, and in it... What kind of animals were these? There were a few of them, four-legged and big, even taller than her when they raised their heads, grazing in that pasture. They came in different colours as well and, before she'd really decided to, her feet had taken her to the edge of the pasture. They seemed so peaceful, but she didn't dare vault over the barrier, wary of creatures she did not know. Some would turn on you in an instant.

She shifted her balance when one of the animals headed her way; she was ready to flee. A curious tilt of her head, but the animal just stopped in front of her, on the other side of the barrier, and watched her placidly. She shifted her balance again and leaned closer, extending a gloved hand to pat its brown coat. The animal sighed out through its nostrils, but let her. She smiled again and stepped closer, laughing her shrill little laugh when the animal nudged his nose at her hand. "You're a bossy one, what do you want," she asked it, delighted, and resumed petting it. "Shame the microbes don't work on your language, huh?"

shifting_skin

The taste of ozone lay at the edge of her tongue, the faint pull of muscle and skin knitting too slowly back together at her calf keeping the rush of days just past firmly in mind.

Having found herself from one step to the next transported from the beginnings of a chase she had come to find familiar through the halls of one lush hotel and into an entirely different setting of one, Mystique had thought little of the consequences of her actions and pulled the door closed after her. One shape had melted smoothly into another at the sound of voices approaching, the skin she had worn as her only for so long one she pulled over herself then out of habit and without thought. Gone were the blue skin and red hair, the yellow-gold eyes lacking the human whites that people so preferred. Gone too was the shape of a lobbyist she had borrowed for the sake of a key and a room charged to an account that was not her own.

When a pair of strangers had rounded the corner, swept up in their own conversation and too busy to notice her as they passed, she stood the same blue-eyed blonde young woman she had lived as so long before.

The hotel had made little less a mystery after two days within its walls, an ear kept ever open for anything she might learn in overhearing the conversations of others. The others spoke easily of strange worlds beyond the doors studding the walls of the hallway. Those that served behind the desk had handed her a key to a room of her own with no question of how or why she had come to be there. She had moved through those days with little more than skimming the surface of everything around her, unsure of what to make of the collection of people who walked and lingered through the many bright-lit rooms, less sure of what to make of herself.

She had been drawn in her uncertainty to the massive library, the shelves heavy with books and comfortingly familiar in that same feel all libraries held within their walls of words and of knowledge and of quiet. She stood then fingering the edge of a book's cover on a shelf before her, a smile pulling at her lips as she considered the twisted sense of humor chance had had in her fingers catching over the gold lettering of its title.

The Metamorphosis, indeed.

seeorseem

APRIL 11th | Chicago, IL, USA

"Are you really going to be so stubborn as to ignore me and not even give me the chance to apologize?" he has to wonder, because that's roughly what it feels like is happening.

Eames apologises for pushing too fast, too hard.

PG-13

seeorseem

The fact of the matter, thinks Eames, is that reality should not be this malleable.

If he were asleep and attached to his PASIV, waking up to find himself in this form would be normal -- expected, even, given his tendency to pick up jobs that challenge him and there's something perfect about making a beautiful woman and assigning her minor flaws in order to keep the dreamer from suspecting that something is amiss. The problem is that he's not in a dream. His totem tells him that this is reality, which is making his head hurt.

It's been two days and Eames still can't shake this forge. He's hesitant to even call it that, but for the sake of his sanity, he's needed to retain that distinction in his mind, lest he go absolutely around the bend. He can't be what he is, and yet, he is. It's not the sort of thing he's come to expect to understand and he can't even find Arthur to search for an explanation.

The good news is that Eames has always been rather fluid when it comes to living in another person's skin. He might be forging in reality, but he will do it perfectly. He knows how to walk as a woman, how to wear the clothes, how to sit, and how to speak. It's one comfort in all this madness because at least he feels at home in his own skin.

If he still is himself. Eames raises slim fingers to the bartender, signalling for another scotch on the rocks being that drinking does tend to numb the worrisome notion that he's slipped so far into a dream that he doesn't know what's real anymore.

"You know," he remarks off-handedly to the companion at his side, "I had thought that I wouldn't have to pay so often for my own drinks. My expectations must be re-evaluated."

seeorseem

There are small tricks to forgery that separate the good from the great. Eames has several friends who've forged with him over the years and they can be effusive and charming, they can be technically perfect, but the trouble with them is that it's the detail. Their paintings are noticed because their brushstrokes are hesitant -- every detail is observed, but without fluidity.

Eames has found a great deal of success in focusing on the bigger picture. He creates his architecture in his forgeries and builds on them, uses mannerisms and research until he creates the exact replica. It works in life as much as it does in dreams, though in life it's usually more along the lines of money, paperwork, and art.

There's one other key aspect -- practice, practice, practice.

He's hauled a canvas from home into the Nexus for the privacy of it, taking the easel outside to paint in the daylight. With the sun beaming down on him, he decides that it's feeling a bit like a Monet kind of day, waterlilies at that. It's a famous painting and he hasn't half the canvas he needs to replicate it, but he works on a section from memory, thinking back to early mornings in the Orangerie with his headphones in, tracing the edges of petals that from far away make utter sense, but up close blur into the water.

This is how he stays sharp.

This is how he's going to keep earning money. The trouble is that he keeps pausing, hand hovering in the air. His thoughts keep straying because all this practice and there's no performance. He needs a job and he needs it soon, before he goes out of his mind and does something insane like take on a sleep and run job with some of the high paying politicians who like to request a specific type.

They might pay well, but he does have some dignity left. Not much, maybe, but some.

weighted_reality

By now, Arthur thinks he should know not to trust the doors. If one pulls at him behind the heart, it should be a signal to walk in the opposite direction and not return. It's a shame he was never good at resisting a locked door; maybe if he'd been better at it, he wouldn't be a dream criminal. He also wouldn't be richer than someone of his origins deserves to be.

But this particular door puts a bad feeling in his gut when he pushes down on the handle. The cold, fetid air that blows through is painfully familiar and soon Arthur is standing ankle deep in rapidly-graying Chicago snow, staring at boarded-up businesses that were his hometown mainstays when he was a kid. The people who walk by are almost as gray as the snow, looking a little more downtrodden than he remembers.

He knows if he turns left, he'll walk down to a small house that was his. He'll go back to parents who would hardly recognize him in his Armani suit and slicked back hair. He's not the Arthur they'd know.

If he goes right, he can take the L and go to his barely-used penthouse, to the place where he can be the Arthur he's become, but now it's all so uncertain.

So he stands just beyond the doorway, snow collecting on his hair and jacket.

miss_vas_normandy

In hindsight it had probably been just a matter of time before Tali's shiny new immune system found something it couldn't combat. She'd spent a week hiding in her room, scarcely getting out of bed unless it was to shuffle to the bathroom. Her research lead her to believe that it was most likely a virus, and the only real solution was to wait it out and treat the symptoms.

Tali would have been able to do that if a) she were still in a quarian body and b) had access to the fleet's medical supplies, but alas, she didn't have a clue how to treat human ailments and annoyances like queasy stomachs and fever chills and aching limbs and stuffy noses. Her only experience with sickness was as a quarian, and quarian anatomy was quite different.

So she researched more, and when her fever broke and she felt well enough to drag herself downstairs, she acquired a bowl of chicken soup, a glass of ginger ale, and a sleeve of saltine crackers. With her nose so stuffy, she could barely taste anything but a vague saltiness, though the warmth of the soup did seem to soothe the rawness in her throat, and the ginger ale calmed her stomach. Now if there was only something she could about the irritated glances she kept getting everything she had to cough into a napkin or blow her nose, other than try to look apologetic and pitiable.

"Maybe I should have tried the hot toddy instead," she murmured thoughtfully, using her spoon to poke at a chunk of carrot floating in her soup. "At least then I'd be a little drunk."

[[poor alien girl is sick, feel free to give her advice, pity, or treat her like she's plague-ridden]]

seeorseem

Once, for a job, Eames had procured training as a registered masseuse in order to get close to an array of wealthy corporate clients who enjoyed the privileges of the rich and famous twice a week with accompanying lotions, oils, and rubs. He'd used the information to forge his way into their dreams and drain their bank accounts dry while siccing the treasury on them to cover his tracks and managed to pocket a sizable sum for the honest work.

Since then, he hasn't put those skills to much use, but he does think about keeping himself occupied if he is to stay here at the hotel (and he doesn't have to, but Arthur seems to be stuck and Eames is keen to find out if there's a reason behind that). So he's taken a job. The money is blatantly unnecessary, but nice enough.

After all, he can honestly pay the waitresses now instead of using a little charm and a promise of a payment tomorrow. His hands are a bit slick yet today seeing as he's given a lovely lady named Mrs. B a massage focusing on her tense arms due to her rich husband's neglect. Or something else vapid and boring.

When he isn't researching someone for a case, people can be eclectic and delightful and wonderful, but so very boring and similar and Eames is beginning to itch for a challenge.

"Rye, please," he orders at the bar. "With a touch of ginger."

He searches the room, looking for something. Perhaps a mark, perhaps someone to keep him occupied through the evening, or maybe he's simply keeping an eye out to protect his own hide. Whatever he discovers, though, will have to be better than coasting along waiting for something to happen to him.

seeorseem

OCTOBER 2ND, 2013 | THE NEXUS HOTEL

With no solid lead on a way out, Eames turns to his own subconscious to find clues of escape. Instead, he's followed by Arthur.

PG-13

arentyoulucky

There was no power on Earth- not the begrudging enthusiasm of their broker, not the implausible ratio of price to walking distance from the subway, not the suspicion that Abe was far unhappier with the balance of their relationship than he was letting on- that could detract from the glorious feeling of real success. Peggy knew it now, the fluttering sensation under her ribs and the tight knot of resolve in her stomach. It was a feeling that could be nearly replicated with the liberal application of anxiety and caffeine, and she was intimately familiar with that, as well, but walking the wood parquet floors and gazing out at the East river (past the FDR) from the large picture windows of what would be her Upper East Side apartment, that was success. She'd spent years carving out the things that were hers from the slab that was New York; her job, then her career; her colleagues, then her friends; her mistakes, then her relationship. This apartment would be her home. No more roommates, no more rent checks, no more Brooklyn. Peggy Olson, Copy Chief at CGC, home owner.

She smiled at her reflection, which smiled back in a sunny, washed-out sort of way, and went into the larger of the two bedrooms, the one to which the full bath was attached. She could hear Abe digging into the subject of dollars per square foot, an idea she knew he found deeply offensive alongside the overarching concept of apartment hunting. Absently twitching her grey coat out of the way, she tugged the bathroom door closed behind her, cutting off the dull reverberating sound of whatever answer the Realtor had mustered.

Cut it off quite completely, in fact, and Peggy found herself blinking in quiet surprise at a well appointed room that looked like it belonged in a hotel. She was still for a moment as the bewilderment set in, then stepped further into it as the confusion and curiosity took over.

"What," she murmured to herself, stepping around the neatly tucked in bedspread. It was like the Standard, or the Savoy. It was beautiful, modern but not flashy. It was the kind of room Ted would have booked. Which was a completely inappropriate thought to be having.

"This can't be included in the square footage," she muttered, turning over a stationary packet on the desk, eyes catching on notes other people had apparently left there. Or one person trying to come up with a shoddy and patchwork story, it looked like. Or possibly someone who was mentally imbalanced. She put the stationary down and turned to make a beeline for the door she'd come in through. The fact that she hadn't been informed the back half of the building was a hotel was completely unacceptable.

Oh, well, it would have been a lousy trek to 86th and Lexington 9 months out of the year, anyway.

The door wouldn't open.

"Oh, for- Abe? Abe." She knocked at it, impatience threatening to boil over into frustration. She stopped after a few seconds to listen for voices, the tell tale clicking of heels, the rustle of a key.

She heard nothing.

"...Unbelievable," Peggy muttered, and turned and strode to the opposite end of the hotel room that shared a door with her future goddamn Upper East Side apartment and opened the door to what she assumed would be the hallway with slightly more force than necessary. She took a moment to look it up and down, turned to note the room number, then picked a direction and walked, steps clipped and purposeful. She needed someone in a double breasted jacket and pillbox hat. She needed someone with a clip board. She needed Manhattan to have one damn apartment in it that both fit her budget and didn't have some completely deranged drawback.

"Excuse me?" she said aloud, as the hallway opened up into an expansive lounge, it looked like.

"Hello, I need someone to..." She trailed off as her attention landed on the view. There were large windows with heavy drapes, and a view. Of trees. There were many trees. Peggy knew there was a park around the Governor's mansion, but it was impossible it could be that large. She walked across heavy hardwood floors to look out the large windows at the expansive grounds and seemingly endless forest beyond, goldenrod pleats of her skirt swishing at her calves, grey coat strangely heavy and warm where it was tucked over her arm. Her reflection gazed back at her with startled doe eyes.

This was not New York. This was not New York.

"What," she said aloud, again, and to absolutely no one.

All Inclusive

Reboot Marker

firmatis - utilitas - venustatis

When you kiss me, heaven sighs

Challenged to Change Ourselves

Gathering: Summer Party

Look upward and share the wonders I've seen

But I am, but I am a carefully laid plan

no subject

It's a very subtle art

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We are the greatest pretenders in the cold morning light

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