Yusuf was pretty fond of complimentary champagne. Though since it's a curse, according to the established logic of this place, it's the deities, isn't it?
4th wall || morning of November 29th || not the limbo you are looking forfraudulentNovember 28 2010, 10:12:33 UTC
[He hears her voice. It's a bell's toll or a siren's call but a bell was never living and a siren is a myth, so maybe she is both of these things now. Dominic Cobb only ever waxed poetics about love and dreams, two creations that became mutual, or maybe always were.
Anyway, he hears her voice, which isn't quite right for all kinds of reasons.
You're waiting for a train.
Same line. Same thing. Same ghost.
"No, I'm not. I can't do this anymore." His mouth shapes the words but he doesn't know what kind of expression he's wearing. He owes a many-times dead woman more than this; it's his fault she is gone at all and it has been his punishment and his grace since she jumped to encounter her in the dreamscape. Dom doesn't necessarily believe he deserves better than to die by her spectral hand, but their children do deserve better and because they are not old enough to decide at guessing about their mother and their father and the in-between they still love him and there is still time
( ... )
[ Arthur's not sure what brought him to the beach at such an early hour. Maybe it was because he hadn't been able to properly sleep all night. Not that it was a problem he was unfamiliar with in the City. The nature of his work had thoroughly destroyed his sleeping patterns long ago
( ... )
[ Sand and saltwater are decidedly disgusting, but this isn't the first or the last time he will be spitting it out to one side, which he manages with some bizarre modicum of control, as if he's afraid he'll hack up his lungs along with it. Hard to tell, and with the echo of Mal's voice still thrumming through his skull like a well muscled secret it's hard really to tell anything else either. The sky and the sand and the water are unhelpfully generic and even the smell seems constructed to give the arrivals no particular indication of where this might be, or where it is supposed to be. Not a paradox, but certainly clever, though this isn't the time to be admiring anything
( ... )
[ Arthur's grip on his gun tightens as soon as the figure starts moving. He continues forward slowly for a few feet before he sees the figure shift again. It's not what Arthur expects, but the hands raised above the figure's head are unmistakable. He allows himself to relax a little as he lets some tension out of his shoulders. It's possible that the person could still be armed, sure, but this is at least a good sign
( ... )
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Dream manipulation is one thing. That was... something else entirely.
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Anyway, he hears her voice, which isn't quite right for all kinds of reasons.
You're waiting for a train.
Same line. Same thing. Same ghost.
"No, I'm not. I can't do this anymore." His mouth shapes the words but he doesn't know what kind of expression he's wearing. He owes a many-times dead woman more than this; it's his fault she is gone at all and it has been his punishment and his grace since she jumped to encounter her in the dreamscape. Dom doesn't necessarily believe he deserves better than to die by her spectral hand, but their children do deserve better and because they are not old enough to decide at guessing about their mother and their father and the in-between they still love him and there is still time ( ... )
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