JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.

It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.

The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.

"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.

"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.

Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.

NOTES:

• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.

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You Taste Like New Flesh

( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )

The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm. Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.

"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."

The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.

Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.

Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.

Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.

Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.

Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.

Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.

Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.

The table awaits.

NOTES:

• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )

Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten. At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are. You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.

NOTES

• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.

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I am not worthy

( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )

Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot. First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence. Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall. They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.

"I am not worthy."

One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.

It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.

When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.

What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.

This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.

One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.

NOTES:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!

➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.

➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.

➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!

➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!

➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.

➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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Comments

[pointedlook]

The mind knows when something isn't right. It'll try and fight it off like the body does to infection—everyone's limits are different for what they'll tolerate. [ He's certainly done some jobs where the mark's subconscious was basically docile through most of it. ] You can train against it, though; militarization. Costs a fucking arm and a leg to have it done right.

[ Not that he had to worry about that—by the time he'd finished in the military's little project, his subconscious had been primed and almost immediately hostile to anyone. Over the years, he had to train himself to chill out when set as the dreamer.

That fades to the background as he gets both the appreciation and anxiety from Sharon's end of the connection. Both of which he understands because they speak such a similar language: loyalty, rebellion. Of course she'd enjoy his delinquent streak, especially when it came to Sleep and how she's trapped them all like insects in a jar.

Under that, though, is the real fear he's going to disappear from her life. Another person in a long line of losses she's endured. Carefully, he gives her a reassuring nudge with his shoulder, the sharp grin fading to something more empathetic. ]

I'll know who to call, believe me. Wouldn't have it any other way.

[merged]

[ She studies him for a long moment, searching his face for any hint of a lie. When all she finds is sincerity, the breath she lets out is sharp, almost shaky with relief. He can take care of himself, she knows that, but the idea of losing anyone else twists something deep inside her. Even the thought feels unbearable. ]

So, uh... did you say people train their minds to fight off dream thieves? [ The concept sticks with her, strange and fascinating. ] Like, subconscious soldiers or something. I'm guessing your mind's already trained, right?

[ She tilts her head, curiosity brightening her tone. ] What does that even look like? [ He mentioned the mind treats it like an infection... so does the training work like a vaccine? Exposure to a weaker version of what it'll face so it learns how to fight the real thing? ]

[pointedlook]

[ The weight of her gaze is heavy for a few long moments, tension holding over their shared tether. It's like a breath in, one she finally sighs out when she seems to accept he wasn't lying to her. While he's no longer leaning against her in the dream, there's a gentle sense of that same bolster along the connection. ]

Yep. The subconscious isn't too bad at figuring out when something is off, but it can take time to hit that threshold. [ And by then, it might be too late—whatever needed stealing would be snatched up and the whole team packed up and gone. ] Humans, though, are really good at patterns. So, that's what the training is focused on: showing the subconscious all the ways an extractor might try to break in or divert attention. It requires letting someone in past all your defenses, so you have to trust they're not going to leave you fucked up.

[ A completely terrifying ordeal, really. ] Mine is, yeah. Got it as a bonus from when the technology was being developed for the military.

[ His tone is wry; while he's glad he didn't have to go through militarization outside of that setting, because the training had been brutal, it hadn't been a walk in the park then either. ]

It's a bit like—the difference between getting away with several crimes before the authorities catch you, versus tripping on the sidewalk and having an entire army come running.

[merged]

[ She clings to that feeling through the tether, holding to it as if it were his hand.

Tethers make her uneasy when she dwells on them, a direct line into her mind that leaves her feeling exposed, but the thought of paying someone to enter her head, to train it, unsettles her even more. No, thank you. ]

"Bonus." [ she repeats after him, the quotation marks almost audible. She knows enough to understand that his experience wasn't the thrill of sneaking into a mind to steal its secrets—it was a military experiment. War in the mind, and war is one of the few horrors she, thankfully, has little experience with. ]

What do you do if a mind's been militarized? I assume you usually know before you jump in. [ Right now, he's testing boundaries, probing for triggers to see if anything outside notices. She glances at the unfamiliar dream Vessels at the banquet table. Right now, they don't seem particularly interested. ]

[pointedlook]

Didn't have to shell out for it, at least. [ No, he just paid a different price. That'd been the tune of the military, of the project he'd taken part in. Declining hadn't been much of an option. ] They wanted more results, so, we got them results.

[ Something, anything, to show for the millions of dollars they had been throwing at the program. ]

Usually it shows in the research—I do a lot of digging on the mark beforehand. Bank statements, phone records, schedules, psychiatric history, medical records. Someone who paid to have their minds trained will leave a trail behind and I'm familiar with all the bigger names who offer the service. [ Still hadn't helped when they'd gotten gunfire raining down on them in the first level with Fischer. Something that continues to leave a sour taste in his mouth. ] Whether we know beforehand or not, the tactic is much the same; work carefully and quickly. Run a lot of interference, if possible. Don't stay in one spot. They won't have the advantage of knowing the maze layout, so that is a point in your favor.

[ With a sigh, he realizes one more thing. ] You can also use what's called a gambit to get around dealing with as much sub-security as possible. Risky, though. I don't like having to do it.

[merged]

You still paid for it. [ There's a soft note of insistence in her voice. She knows enough about what he went through to get them those results, and a flicker of familiar anger stirs across the tether before fading as she allows her attention to drift.

Research. Of course. There's a reason he's the point man for these endeavors. It's exactly the sort of digging Sharon has never had the patience for, no matter how much easier it might make things. It's impressive, just in a very different way than his flashy trick shots and lock-picking.

But. ] You know what I'm going to ask about. [ How dare he mention a gambit and then not immediately spill the details! ]

[pointedlook]

[ At her gentle press, he shrugs a shoulder; not a disagreement, it just is what it is.

They don't linger on that, though, and he can clearly see the spark of curiosity in her eyes, even without the pique of it over the tether. Naturally, he knows skipping over Cobb's stupid ploy isn't going to be an option. ]

Dom came up with it, he calls it Mister Charles; the idea is to lean into the knowledge that the person's been trained by someone before. Instead of avoiding any mention of things being unnatural to the mark, you reveal that it's a dream. And Cobb—as Mr. Charles—pretends to be the "head of security", as if he's a subconscious projection. In theory, it's designed to turn the mark against their own subconscious. [ Arthur grimaces before he continues: ] Only problem is that it draws a ton of attention to whoever is holding the dream together, because the subconscious now knows something is up. Which, the past two times he's used it, has been me.

[ Dominic Cobb, the fucking sacrifices he makes for you. ]

The first time we tried it, the gambit fell through and the mark's projections ripped us to pieces. Not our best showing.

[merged]

[ Sharon finds the idea of the gambit intriguing, at least at first. Her curiosity lingers only a moment before fading, replaced by a faint twist of her lips beneath the heavy mask. Dom is Arthur's friend, and friendship demands sacrifice, but the more she listens, the more she wonders if Dom ever thinks about Arthur's well-being or if he's an afterthought.

Knowing Arthur, that's exactly the kind of sacrifice he'd make, though. Even when it costs him. Loyal to a fault, steadfast through thick and thin. It's an aspect of him she likes, but that doesn't erase the unease it leaves in her. A warning bell, really—especially if Sleep drags Dom in one day. ]

And how often has that gambit actually worked? [ she asks, voice edged with a light skepticism. ] Getting ripped apart is a hell of a way to go if you fail even twenty percent of the time.

[pointedlook]

[ It's an easy thing, to catch both the prickle of Sharon's natural curiosity and then how it colors, shifting into dismay. In a way, it feels like his conversation with Ariadne, after she'd woken up that second time and her encounter with Mal's shade. She'd asked if he just didn't see the problem and it had taken a considerable amount of willpower not to spill all of his misgivings then and there. Because for the past couple years, he's had a front row seat to all of Dom's particular issues. And had seen them get progressively worse over time.

He hates to think of how it would play out, should Sleep decide he made a good candidate for her little world. Arthur's rarely struggled with telling the difference between reality and fiction, but, it's been more difficult here. Especially when pockets of dreaming show up within the space of reality. ]

So far, fifty percent success rate. The Stein job was a failure on that front, but for inception—er—the Fischer job, it worked. [ Sighing, he combs a hand through his hair, mussing the perfect coif just a bit. ] Can't say I'd be thrilled to give it a third or fourth try, to get a better sense of the odds.

[merged]

Yeah, I wouldn't try that again if I were you— [ Fifty percent odds wouldn't sound terrible if they hadn't only tried it off twice. She hums low in her throat, nose wrinkling, and absently reaches out to smooth his hair—an easy, almost unconscious gesture. ] —at least not without swapping who gets to play head of security next time.

[ Fair's fair, after all, though it's clear things between him and Cobb were anything but balanced by the time Sleep yanked him here. ] Why'd you call the Fischer job that? Inception?

[pointedlook]

I don't intend to. [ Sharon reaches out and he pauses, tension held in his frame. It all releases as she idly brushes the hair away he'd sifted out of place. ] I'm not really an extractor. On a complicated job, it's better if I'm holding up the architecture of a dream; they're less likely to collapse.

[ Never. They never collapse. Not since those early days, when no one knew what the fuck they were doing. ]

The opposite of extraction is inception. You're not stealing from the mark, you're placing something there instead. I still don't think it's actually possible, but—[ At that, he trails off, making a face. ]—Eames assures me it's because I have no imagination, darling.

[merged]

[ Less likely to collapse, he says, but what she feels through the tether says never. She bites back the grin that threatens to form. For someone as capable and skilled as he is, he has no idea how to give himself the credit he deserves.

He probably calls himself a realist, too. ]

First of all, he calls you darling? [ she snorts. ] Second, that's a terrible British accent. [ A pause follows before she adds, more thoughtfully: ] Third... maybe Eames is right. Our subconscious reacts to things we hear while we sleep, so imagine what you could do from inside someone's head. It's probably not as reliable as extraction, but it's gotta be possible.

[pointedlook]

[ There's a twitch to her mouth that tells of her suppressed amusement. What, exactly, she found comical, he isn't too sure, even with their connection being relatively clear.

Perhaps it's related to the questions she does pipe up with. ]

Always has, even in the military. Trying to make him stop is an exercise in futility. [ So, Eames had slowly but surely won that fight. Maybe he'd even miss it, if the forger stopped. ] I'm too yankee to imitate it properly, you realize.

[ A joke he's drily tossed to Eames in the past in response to nearly any of his obnoxious British habits. ]

The thing is, our minds are pretty fucking good at sorting out when an idea is our own or someone else's, especially at that level. Consider, if I tell you: don't think about elephants, what are you now thinking of?

[merged]

Guessing he called you yankee, too. [ Tone edged with amusement. She's pretty sure she wouldn't like Dom, if only thanks to the way he's treated Arthur those last two years, but Eames? He sounds like the kind of person she could enjoy being around. Not quite like Arthur, but still fun in his own right. ]

Yeah, yeah, I'm thinking about elephants. Pink ones, by the way. Besides, it's not the same. [ She has no idea what she's talking about, but that's never stopped her before. She waves a hand dismissively as she keeps going. ] You just have to make them think it's their own idea. [ Duh ] Works fine on people who are awake, why couldn't it work on their subconscious?

[pointedlook]

When we first met, yeah. It was superseded by darling. [ His tone is edged with a scoff, showing exactly what he'd thought of that change. Nothing to be done about it, though. It's been too many years. ]

That works on people in the waking world because there's a cognitive delay. Well, that and they can't sense your intentions as much, not normally. This dream, for example, it has a feeling, right? [ Loneliness, melancholy, grief. Sure, it had the trappings of a high-end banquet, but there was something in the air that lacked the joviality of a typical celebration. ] When you're sharing headspace with someone, emotions can bleed through.

[ Or memories. Or perhaps both, as he thinks about the train cutting through the middle of Los Angeles on that first level. Either way, he comes back to the point. ]

But, we were trying that method, before I came here. It's extremely complicated and risky on top of everything else—you need multiple layers of dreams. With more layers, more things can go wrong.

[merged]

[ Arthur makes a few solid points, and Sharon's face twists in that particular way that says she hates admitting he might be right, brow furrowed, expression all scrunched up. Emotional bleed would be a nightmare. It makes her think of the tethers binding them, how certain things just come through now—fragments of someone else lodged in her mind, too easy to read. ]

Yeah, okay, sure, whatever, smart guy. Doesn't mean it's not possible, just that it probably takes more effort than it's worth. [ She waves a hand dismissively. Enough with the logic, Arthur. ] Still totally possible, though. I will die on this hill.