(no subject)
WHO: mr. eames.
WHERE: the fancy apartment he's borrowing.
WHEN: today.
WARNINGS: none.
SUMMARY: practicing forgery.
FORMAT: solo log.
when eames had first discovered forging, he'd spent a year with a stolen pasiv learning how to make his illusions flawless. he learned to walk in someone else's skin, to imitate and mimic, to wear someone else's face and speak in their voice and bring them to life in the fragile landscape of dreams.
and this is what he thinks of, sitting alone in an apartment that isn't his (mr. and mrs. bronson, the mail reads and eames spares them half a thought before setting the envelopes aside,) and watching his face in the mirror.
this is not forgery.
or rather, it's forgery taken to a new level, a different level. a level where what's changing isn't just an illusion, something torn aside as easily as cobwebs in the wind. the structure of his body shifts with a thought, and it's somewhat grotesque to watch.
he supposes finesse will come with time.
it's harder to maintain. he starts with his favorite, the blonde, a face he knows as well as his own. his skin ripples and his body shrinks and his bones creak (this should probably hurt, but it doesn't, and that in itself is fascinating) and there she is, smiling at him in the mirror.
"Not half bad," he says. his voice comes out without a trace of accent, feminine and smooth, and it's improvement over the last three tries. progress, slow progress, but progress all the same.
a split-second's distraction shatters it, brings back stubble and adam's apple, but that can be remedied. he smiles at his reflection, takes a deep breath, and tries again.
WHERE: the fancy apartment he's borrowing.
WHEN: today.
WARNINGS: none.
SUMMARY: practicing forgery.
FORMAT: solo log.
when eames had first discovered forging, he'd spent a year with a stolen pasiv learning how to make his illusions flawless. he learned to walk in someone else's skin, to imitate and mimic, to wear someone else's face and speak in their voice and bring them to life in the fragile landscape of dreams.
and this is what he thinks of, sitting alone in an apartment that isn't his (mr. and mrs. bronson, the mail reads and eames spares them half a thought before setting the envelopes aside,) and watching his face in the mirror.
this is not forgery.
or rather, it's forgery taken to a new level, a different level. a level where what's changing isn't just an illusion, something torn aside as easily as cobwebs in the wind. the structure of his body shifts with a thought, and it's somewhat grotesque to watch.
he supposes finesse will come with time.
it's harder to maintain. he starts with his favorite, the blonde, a face he knows as well as his own. his skin ripples and his body shrinks and his bones creak (this should probably hurt, but it doesn't, and that in itself is fascinating) and there she is, smiling at him in the mirror.
"Not half bad," he says. his voice comes out without a trace of accent, feminine and smooth, and it's improvement over the last three tries. progress, slow progress, but progress all the same.
a split-second's distraction shatters it, brings back stubble and adam's apple, but that can be remedied. he smiles at his reflection, takes a deep breath, and tries again.