seeorseem | (no subject)

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It's been a long time since Eames had to be the subject of a dream. He's been very good to avoid it, given that his subconscious often gives too much of him away without his intentions there (that is, after all, why they call it a subconscious), but in order to properly show Mystique the dreamspace, he's allowed her to be the architect. That said, the moment they hit the dream and the PASIV was working away, Eames had hit the ground running, rearranging his body and his voice and his core balance to become a lovely little blonde number that the hotel had seen fit to introduce to him.

He's honestly beginning to believe the Nexus is his crash course in the minutia of perfect forgery (though not perfect, never perfect. It always helps to have some flaws).

Now, though, he's sitting in a little chair with a drink as he waits for Mystique to find him in the dream, wondering if she'll be able to pick Eames out. If not, then he's more than patient and can wait until she comes around before engaging and seeing what fun someone who can shift in real life can have when there are no rules at all.

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A decade had done its work in making pain as intimate and familiar as an old friend. It had proven to be as much ally as enemy when she had had too many of the latter, too few of the former. In comfort it was easy to forget how the lingering agony of an injury might keep you awake to hear the snap of twigs beneath a nearby boot and allow you a moment more to make your escape before you could be caught. It was a thought she could not forget then when it rose with his words, and if she stilled a second at hearing them, she had no desire to draw attention to it.

"That's...pleasant," she replied, allowing her shape to pull enough to have a white dress falling into place over the blue curves of her as she considered the scenery. "Do you know how they work, the projections, are they kind of like gravity? You know, you know it works and how to avoid getting on the wrong side of it, but you don't know how."

While she had not excelled in the least at school, let it not be said she wasn't always ready to absorb some new information that might prove itself useful. Even had there not been the added weight of then being inside his head and ready prey for whatever madness might come with that territory.

Eames watches the fabric of the dress, beyond impressed by the way she's taken to it, though he supposes if one shifts like this in the day to day, learning it in dreams should come naturally. He smiles, slightly, when she asks about projections. "I'm not exactly an expert on the mechanics of the dream outside of forging, though, if you're very nice and you let him see your talents, I'm sure my mate Arthur might be happy to share."

Mate might be a bit casual, but Eames doesn't like to get too serious, too fast. "Arthur's probably got diagrams of how to keep projections in line. Me? I find blending in is the best way. A good forgery means no one notices you in the dream. A great forgery means they trust you enough to think you belong."

The ability she had been born to was one that was built as much of instinctive action as active observation, the years having given her more flexibility in her shifts for her having fine-tuned the raw ability already at hand, rather than having grown in power in any way. Perhaps it might have felt like cheating to borrow a few hours of Eames' dream world and flex her proverbial muscles. Perhaps, but for the fact that it was a wholly new experience and not one she would have wanted to pass up for some strange idea of fair play (as if the underlying thread of competition was of anything but of a friendliness that was at once foreign and inviting).

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.

The very fact that someone not born to it had such control over his own transformations (his echoing her temporary Sophia Loren in little more than a second or two being proof of that) was enough to earn a modicum of extra respect, as far as she saw it. As familiar as she was with the idea of someone manipulating the mind of someone else, the translation into what little she knew of what Eames did felt...different. More invasive, less, she didn't know. Different, though, that much she was sure of.

"My talents," she repeated, turning over the prospect of giving over the truth of herself to another person in a world she used as a safe haven. The fact that she had agreed to the dreamscape at all was proof of having decided to trust Eames as far as that, further perhaps than he might understand to allow herself to be left insensate in the presence of someone who wasn't bound to the same cause she was, but still she needed a moment to consider. "Okay. Introduce me and I'll play nice, I promise."

Returning to the thought of projections, she lifted a hand to indicate her blue form, "Should I slip something else on for now, or will this do?"

He can't wait to see what Arthur thinks of her, if Eames is honest. True, he's somewhat wary for his own personal sake, having taught himself how to survive (which does include a great deal of selfish looking out for number one), but there's a fascination in learning. He's the best forger in the world at the moment, but what happens when some young child discovers a PASIV and starts becoming better than him? "I really don't mind," he assures. "Perhaps years ago, when I was first learning, I might have held a few hangups, but once you learn to live in anyone's skin, those fall away rather quickly."

"As for the projections, it might suit better if you were as you naturally are. Less for them to target as out of place," he explains. "Bad forgers are horrible on the job. Gets you ejected from the dream quite painfully when they figure out something is wrong with the fabric of their reality."

Perhaps there was something in the steadiness of his gaze as he watched her, or in the easy slackness of his broad shoulders as he sat across from her, Mystique believed him. At least as far as anyone could believe a professional liar. Where a decade had hardened her, it had as well taken the sheen off her desperation for the acceptance that lay forever out of reach. It was no longer absolution, but valued still for the rare nature of the thing.

As it was, she did her best not to read too much into what amounted still to a stranger's opinion. Not without valuing it, of course, but in understanding that he could not be aware of the implications even so casual a statement would mean in her world.

"A blue woman," she said with a broad smile, tipping her head back with the action. "Wouldn't be out of place?"

Eames raises both brows at her, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he sinks into the chair before smoothly rising out of it, offering her his arm and encouraging her onwards. "I could have a whole blue naked orchestra playing Salieri in here and so long as it felt right and like it belonged, it wouldn't matter," he says, punctuating the words with a throaty, soft laugh.

"Unless you were aiming for more forging practice?"

How long it had been since she had had a chance to laugh, full out, she couldn't exactly remember. Then again, remembering didn't keep her from it then while she stood and slipped her arm into his as if it were all as easy as that. "I think I'd pay to see that." Strange, she hadn't thought about it for so long, and yet she was almost distracted a moment by the realization that she hadn't ever seen another blue mutant still. No matter how far she had traveled, there had been none quite like her.

There was more curiosity over the dreamscape than there was any desire to mull over the thought before, and when she spoke again it was to say, "That depends. What else can you do here?"

"If I were a more skilled architect, I could play with physics the likes of which you wouldn't believe," Eames speaks, but he settles for a glass of scotch with two cubes of ice in it, at his fingertips even though it hadn't been there before. "Now, mind you, I'm passable," he admits, given that he would never go so far as to be modest, "but it's hardly my wheelhouse. My talent lies in theft and forgery," he says. "Come on," he encourages. "Let's take a tour and maybe you could play with the landscape a touch, see if you've got any talent in that."

She considered his words only for a moment before she replied, the curve of her smile pulling deeper on one side than the other, "You'd be surprised." Revealing what she was capable of had been one thing, but aside from a reference or two to the fact that she was not the only one in her world with abilities beyond human capability, she had never made direct references to the things either Charles or Erik could do. Those were their secrets and for all that had happened between them, she would not betray them that far.

The idea of being able to manipulate the world outside of herself was one she had set aside long before, but was perhaps thrilling. Or maybe the thought brought something more like nausea, she could not be sure. Still, she nodded. "Lead the way, Mister Eames."

He's more than happy to, but he does make sure that there are mirrors sprinkled every so often in their path. If she plans to come after him, he'll be prepared. If not, it's better to be paranoid than to be thrown out of the dream. He opens the door to what appears to be a quaint European street, though none that could actually be named.

Cobb's little lessons about not using memory and reality have sunk in and his own tendency to look out for his sanity have adopted it. "Some architects put detail into everything," he explains. "I've a more focused approach when I build. Put your details where you want the target looking. Guide their attention. And if you can't use the dream, use yourself," he says, changing his tie to a colour brighter than the rest of the dream, that stands out.

Where the inhuman blue of her skin worn openly was more honest than any other face she might have chosen, the hyperawareness that came with wearing what she was could only give off signals that might draw more attention than either of them could use. She let the blue feather away to leave the blonde form that had been her default for so much of her life.

If she avoided looking too closely at her reflection in any mirror she passed, so be it.

"Details," she repeated, brushing a hand down the skirt she had pulled around herself. The skirt shortened into a design more appropriate to her own decade than the Nexus. "Distracting the eye has never been an issue for me." She gave him a wide, bright smile, affecting an air best described as 'distracted California bikini model.'

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