[INCEPTION] Fic: Kick Music (GEN) 770 words
Title: Kick Music
Summary: A discussion of kick music. And music in general.
AN: Sort of a sequel to Old Ludwig Van. Inspired by Falques. And for reference, here are some YouTubes: The Passenger by Iggy Pop; Horchata by Vampire Weekend; Skinny Love by Bon Iver; Open Arms by Journey; oh and My Generation by The Who.
QUOTE: Age gap, Arthur. This team's not lacking any of that.
Five years later, in that warehouse in Paris.
Yusuf was busy preparing the rations of ultra-powerful sedatives. Saito was off somewhere, having said something about Virgin Airways that Eames, for the life of him, couldn't remember what about Virgin Airways he was refering.
Ariadne and Arthur were on separate chaises. Ariadne wanted to do more mazes and Arthur, the gentleman that he was, insisted on tagging along. Something about paradoxical mazes and him being the expert on them. (Eames had snorted, but they were already asleep to notice.)
He checked his watch: five minutes.
The player kicked in and Iggy Pop's The Passenger came on. Yusuf, at his makeshift chemistry lab off at the corner of the room bobbed his head in time with the tune.
"And everything looks good tonight," Eames and Yusuf sang in unison.
"La-la-la-la-la-la-la," Eames continued. He took his seat near the white board, lifting his feet on a nearby empty chair. His foot tapped in time to the beat.
"Oh, the passenger," he sang some more, "He rides and he rides."
The music stopped and he swiveled the chair around to see why.
Arthur, having already woken, had his finger on the player's stop button.
"Oy, what gives?" Eames protested.
"That sucked, Eames," he commented over his shoulder as he rifled through his small stash of CDs he kept near the player. He took out Vampire Weekend's Contra and played it.
Horchata floated in the air with its funky instrumental-rock fusion, whatever it was called, Eames thought,.
Yusuf looked up, test tube in one hand, and he and Eames shared a look.
"What in the bloody hell is this?" Eames exclaimed, not really expecting an answer because he knew what it was. Crap.
"New music, old man," Arthur replied with an arrogant smirk, folding his arms across his chest.
"It sounds like a theme song on a Sega game is what it is, darling," Eames shot back, snorting.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Arthur frowned. He clearly didn't like how that sounded.
Ariadne chuckled and shook her head, "Age gap, Arthur. This team's not lacking any of that," and she stood up from the chaise to get a CD from her bag.
She pressed stop on the player, to which Eames muttered, "Thank God," (to which Arthur shook his head in disbelief) and put in Bon Iver.
The first chords of Skinny Love replaced the funky tunes.
Eames threw up his hands in surrender, his head falling back against the chair. He was getting exasperated. What the hell were kids listening to these days? "That man sounds like he hasn't got the balls to go out with anyone."
Ariadne gaped at him, "It's soulful! Women like that!"
Yusuf laughed from where he was carefully measuring a dose and quickly stopped when Ariadne shot her a look.
Arthur nodded in agreement. "Yeah, they really like the sentimentality of acoustics."
Eames rolled his eyes at Arthur as if to say, You bloody know it all. "Don't believe everything she says. She's a student."
Ariadne glared at Eames, clearly unamused. "Oh, like you know better?"
Eames beamed almost mockingly. "Oh, sweetheart," he cooed condescendingly, before pushing his foot against the floor and rolling the chair to the player. Narrowly missing rolling over Arthur's foot in the process. He put on a different CD.
The Who's My Generation played.
Arthur looked about ready to protest and Eames looked up at him in challenge. Then as the vocals came on, Arthur nodded his head in reluctant approval. "Yeah, I guess they're alright."
Even Ariadne shrugged non-noncommittally, neither here nor there about it.
Eames grinned in triumph and raised his hand at Yusuf's direction, "Give it here, Yusuf."
Yusuf shook his head indulgently, smiling, raising his hand back and the two did an air high-five.
Ariadne chuckled. "Looks like they haven't heard of the fist bump yet."
Arthur smirked and held his fist at Ariadne, which Ariadne gave the bump it so rightly deserved.
Just as the second chorus played, Cobb entered the room followed by Saito.
"Alright," Cobb said, "Let's try that maze, Ariadne."
The team hooked themselves on the device. Saito hung back with Yusuf.
The maze was explained, the hallways tested for paradoxes (Arthur smiling proudly at Ariadne, with Eames rolling his eyes and Cobb being oblivious to it all). As the minutes wore on, the kick music played in the background.
The very familiar piano intro of Open Arms by Journey filtered into the air of the open New York street the team stood in.
They groaned. (Except Cobb, who was too busy with his inner monologue and general angst.)
When they came to, Saito was at the player, nodding his head in some kind of profound and meaningful way. As if he agreed, whole-heartedly and without reservation, with everything the lyrics stood for.
"Traitor," Eames accused Yusuf, to which the chemist just shrugged his shoulders that could have possibly meant What can you do, he's signing my paycheck.
Eames shook his head but he and Yusuf high fived anyway.
Summary: A discussion of kick music. And music in general.
AN: Sort of a sequel to Old Ludwig Van. Inspired by Falques. And for reference, here are some YouTubes: The Passenger by Iggy Pop; Horchata by Vampire Weekend; Skinny Love by Bon Iver; Open Arms by Journey; oh and My Generation by The Who.
QUOTE: Age gap, Arthur. This team's not lacking any of that.
Five years later, in that warehouse in Paris.
Yusuf was busy preparing the rations of ultra-powerful sedatives. Saito was off somewhere, having said something about Virgin Airways that Eames, for the life of him, couldn't remember what about Virgin Airways he was refering.
Ariadne and Arthur were on separate chaises. Ariadne wanted to do more mazes and Arthur, the gentleman that he was, insisted on tagging along. Something about paradoxical mazes and him being the expert on them. (Eames had snorted, but they were already asleep to notice.)
He checked his watch: five minutes.
The player kicked in and Iggy Pop's The Passenger came on. Yusuf, at his makeshift chemistry lab off at the corner of the room bobbed his head in time with the tune.
"And everything looks good tonight," Eames and Yusuf sang in unison.
"La-la-la-la-la-la-la," Eames continued. He took his seat near the white board, lifting his feet on a nearby empty chair. His foot tapped in time to the beat.
"Oh, the passenger," he sang some more, "He rides and he rides."
The music stopped and he swiveled the chair around to see why.
Arthur, having already woken, had his finger on the player's stop button.
"Oy, what gives?" Eames protested.
"That sucked, Eames," he commented over his shoulder as he rifled through his small stash of CDs he kept near the player. He took out Vampire Weekend's Contra and played it.
Horchata floated in the air with its funky instrumental-rock fusion, whatever it was called, Eames thought,.
Yusuf looked up, test tube in one hand, and he and Eames shared a look.
"What in the bloody hell is this?" Eames exclaimed, not really expecting an answer because he knew what it was. Crap.
"New music, old man," Arthur replied with an arrogant smirk, folding his arms across his chest.
"It sounds like a theme song on a Sega game is what it is, darling," Eames shot back, snorting.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Arthur frowned. He clearly didn't like how that sounded.
Ariadne chuckled and shook her head, "Age gap, Arthur. This team's not lacking any of that," and she stood up from the chaise to get a CD from her bag.
She pressed stop on the player, to which Eames muttered, "Thank God," (to which Arthur shook his head in disbelief) and put in Bon Iver.
The first chords of Skinny Love replaced the funky tunes.
Eames threw up his hands in surrender, his head falling back against the chair. He was getting exasperated. What the hell were kids listening to these days? "That man sounds like he hasn't got the balls to go out with anyone."
Ariadne gaped at him, "It's soulful! Women like that!"
Yusuf laughed from where he was carefully measuring a dose and quickly stopped when Ariadne shot her a look.
Arthur nodded in agreement. "Yeah, they really like the sentimentality of acoustics."
Eames rolled his eyes at Arthur as if to say, You bloody know it all. "Don't believe everything she says. She's a student."
Ariadne glared at Eames, clearly unamused. "Oh, like you know better?"
Eames beamed almost mockingly. "Oh, sweetheart," he cooed condescendingly, before pushing his foot against the floor and rolling the chair to the player. Narrowly missing rolling over Arthur's foot in the process. He put on a different CD.
The Who's My Generation played.
Arthur looked about ready to protest and Eames looked up at him in challenge. Then as the vocals came on, Arthur nodded his head in reluctant approval. "Yeah, I guess they're alright."
Even Ariadne shrugged non-noncommittally, neither here nor there about it.
Eames grinned in triumph and raised his hand at Yusuf's direction, "Give it here, Yusuf."
Yusuf shook his head indulgently, smiling, raising his hand back and the two did an air high-five.
Ariadne chuckled. "Looks like they haven't heard of the fist bump yet."
Arthur smirked and held his fist at Ariadne, which Ariadne gave the bump it so rightly deserved.
Just as the second chorus played, Cobb entered the room followed by Saito.
"Alright," Cobb said, "Let's try that maze, Ariadne."
The team hooked themselves on the device. Saito hung back with Yusuf.
The maze was explained, the hallways tested for paradoxes (Arthur smiling proudly at Ariadne, with Eames rolling his eyes and Cobb being oblivious to it all). As the minutes wore on, the kick music played in the background.
The very familiar piano intro of Open Arms by Journey filtered into the air of the open New York street the team stood in.
They groaned. (Except Cobb, who was too busy with his inner monologue and general angst.)
When they came to, Saito was at the player, nodding his head in some kind of profound and meaningful way. As if he agreed, whole-heartedly and without reservation, with everything the lyrics stood for.
"Traitor," Eames accused Yusuf, to which the chemist just shrugged his shoulders that could have possibly meant What can you do, he's signing my paycheck.
Eames shook his head but he and Yusuf high fived anyway.