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"This is Cobb. You know what to do."

C A L L ︙ V O I C E M A I L ︙ E M A I L ︙ T E X T

beer tonight? -C

Need me to vet possible chemists?

Resources are limited here but I'll do what I can.

Please do. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure any of them can get what we need. Too vague. Not enough actual experience. I'm not going to trust this to someone who's not as good as Yusuf. [ ESPECIALLY with the nature of what the hell is going on. ]

That's been my experience so far, too. No one with the skill set that I'd trust enough to do it, not when the compound might need to be tailored in particular ways.

And definitely not when we don't know what compound brought us here in the first place.

Let's keep looking. Maybe if you go through them something will show up.

I'll do my best. Not enough databases around here.

They can't sleep. Neither of them can, and Cobb knows this, even if he doesn't outright acknowledge it. What he acknowledges instead--what he focuses on--is that it's because it's his fault.

Everything is, and Cobb is both acutely aware of it and refuses to address it. They run, and they get into scraps either dreamed or from the real world, and they repeat the entire process while Cobb fights like hell to get back to see his kids.

This is one of those days. Nights, he supposes, in a safe house that's far more like an efficiency apartment. He's made coffee--might as well be fully awake than half asleep--and he's staring at a map when he can sense Arthur behind him. He lifts the cup to his lips, squinting at the map in front of him like it's a puzzle, and his hand is in his pocket, totem curled tight.

"Trying to figure out where to lay low," he murmurs.

It's four in the fucking morning and he feels like a frayed piece of rope. Probably looks like it too, with the number of times he's dragged his hands through his hair while pouring over his laptop, scribbling vicious notes into his Moleskine. Long gone are the days where sparse comments talking shit about some asshole in Dreamshare were recorded; now, most of his comments tend toward that, because most people they work with are incompetent. Or Dom pisses them off. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, often times, both. Lately, anyway.

His eyes feel like sandpaper and his mouth tasted like death--except that he just brushed his teeth twenty minutes ago after snapping out of a light doze. Sounded like someone was barreling around outside. Turns out it was only Dom puttering around and making coffee. Used to be that only he would be up at the asscrack of dawn, and Dom and Mal would be curled around each other. Mal...

Arthur grunts in acknowledgement, walking from the doorway and to the coffee pot. He's been walking away from a lot recently, and each time he does, each time they flee to a new location, that rope of his frays a little more. One of these days, it would snap.

He's not sure what'll happen at that point. Already got into a fight with Eames over it months ago, and he feels ready to fight again. Hackles raised, teeth bared, the dark, cold barrel of his Glock pressed to some poor smuck's head in a dream.

"Anything promising?" He doesn't ask until he takes a scorching gulp of the tar Dom made. "This tastes like shit."

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i c ; contact post

text; backdated to 2/7 afternoon, the day after their meeting

text; dream share encryption (viewable to Ariadne and Eames)

text; dream share encryption | SO SORRY FOR THE LATE TAG

text; dream share encryption | no worries

text; dream share encryption

text; dream share encryption

no subject

prequel?

yeye