(no subject)
When; Backdated to Monday the 24th.
Rating; PG-13 to R
Characters; construire, windsorknot, et shifts
Summary; Mister PASIV has arrived!
Log;
When the doorbell rings, Eames is the one who happens to be nearest. He debates whether or not to wait and let Arthur or Ariadne get the door, already engrossed in preparing some massively disgusting protein shake that he'd concocted when he was young and had never let him down for getting back into shape - but when neither of them seemed inclined, busy doing whatever it was they had busied themselves with, he turns off the blender. He pulls off the towel he'd left draped across his shoulders, tossing it onto the kitchen counter before he leaves it entirely, and its a short waltz before he's unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door, forgoing the peephole entirely.
He opens it to an empty hall, but at his feet lies a thick cardboard box meticulously taped shut, the types used for packaging. Eames, for his part, doesn't recall ordering anything, and while he would usually have some sort of half-set paranoia toward strange boxes (if only because he's once delivered bombs in said boxes), this is the City, and the City always seems to guarantee some degree of nonadventure. He crouches down to lift the thing into his arms, and the weight seems vaguely familiar, though it's only then does he note a post-it stuck to the side of it.
"Sweet dreams?" he reads aloud, squinting at the scrawling script as he shuts the front door with his foot. Then, to himself: "Oh."
"Ariadne! Arthur!" he bellows, voice carrying through the apartment. Of course the Deities would deliver their request in some sort of ambiguous manner like ding-dong-ditch. Though, who could say whether or not it would actually be the PASIV and the Somnacin - it seemed more likely that they would get less than their preference. "Package!"
Rating; PG-13 to R
Characters; construire, windsorknot, et shifts
Summary; Mister PASIV has arrived!
Log;
When the doorbell rings, Eames is the one who happens to be nearest. He debates whether or not to wait and let Arthur or Ariadne get the door, already engrossed in preparing some massively disgusting protein shake that he'd concocted when he was young and had never let him down for getting back into shape - but when neither of them seemed inclined, busy doing whatever it was they had busied themselves with, he turns off the blender. He pulls off the towel he'd left draped across his shoulders, tossing it onto the kitchen counter before he leaves it entirely, and its a short waltz before he's unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door, forgoing the peephole entirely.
He opens it to an empty hall, but at his feet lies a thick cardboard box meticulously taped shut, the types used for packaging. Eames, for his part, doesn't recall ordering anything, and while he would usually have some sort of half-set paranoia toward strange boxes (if only because he's once delivered bombs in said boxes), this is the City, and the City always seems to guarantee some degree of nonadventure. He crouches down to lift the thing into his arms, and the weight seems vaguely familiar, though it's only then does he note a post-it stuck to the side of it.
"Sweet dreams?" he reads aloud, squinting at the scrawling script as he shuts the front door with his foot. Then, to himself: "Oh."
"Ariadne! Arthur!" he bellows, voice carrying through the apartment. Of course the Deities would deliver their request in some sort of ambiguous manner like ding-dong-ditch. Though, who could say whether or not it would actually be the PASIV and the Somnacin - it seemed more likely that they would get less than their preference. "Package!"