verumdicit | for pointedlook

[ Part of being who he is, hierarchy aside, is protecting their realms and their dimensions. Seelie never conquered it, no, they don't conquer and claim, they're not interested in things like that, no, but they protect and nurture and defend. Different realities are all held together through vine and leaf, threaded delicately and woven among their forests. They look over time. They look over their own kingdom and court. They look after dreams.

They mettle not in mundane affairs, although Meliorn himself has on more than one occasion visited a bar are two to feel alcohol wet his lips (something other than dreamwine or spirits of that ilk, something mundane made, clumsy but fascinating), for the most part he does what Seelie do: they follow their Queen, and they protect. As he was born a Knight, it's twofold.

There are whispers, and there have been for a while, that mundanes know how to control dreams now. They largely go ignored, as they're not even proper ones. Their dream walking is artificial, like their too-bright lights and too-loud music--although Meliorn is very much a fan of the type of electronic music that's soothing)--and they care not.

But eventually, Meliorn gets curious, like he does with all mundane things. He asks permission of his beautiful, hauntingly ethereal queen, and she allows him to look. And look he does. He bends the branches, summons the magic, and enters one of these artificial dreams without a second thought.

Meliorn doesn't bother to hide his marking, or his ears, or even his way of dressing. Why should he, if this is all fake, anyway? He can smell it, a strange sanitary smell, like bleach in a hospital. He should be able to find the source of the interruption--not the dreamer, but the other visiting--fairly soon. He walks, murmuring softly to himself, and it' when eh rounds the corner that his eyes narrow.

He didn't expect the dream walker to be so... neat. ]

You're not supposed to be here.

[ The entire time, he's smiling. ]

[ The job is somewhat easy. One level, three hours under, a beautiful beachside resort off the coast of Spain. He's here with Barnes, Eames, and an architect named Pullman. Technically, Eames was going to play forger and extractor in the same breath, but as the job got more complicated, it was easier to pull in an extractor. Barnes is dependable, if boring. Pullman is a satisfactory architect, but Arthur's had his hands full making sure he didn't get carried away. Even Eames had to step in and make some judicious remarks.

They're here to just get the name of a mistress, who then in turn they'll need to contact for some off-shore account information. Eames is off doing his spectacular forge of the mark's wife; he'd spent weeks compiling video footage and personal files to get a good idea of what she was like. So far, it was going according to plan. Arthur was busy looking like an upper-crust businessman on vacation, though he hung close to the corner of the bar to make sure he had a good view of everything. There's a sheen of sweat on his brow– a testament to the humid climate. His drink is mimicking, dampening the napkin he placed under it in lieu of a coaster.

Projections pass him by without much of a second glance. He fits in here. Arthur raises his glass to take a drink, only to pause it halfway through when someone addresses him. All of his red flags go up at once, though outwardly he completes his motion, sips his drink before putting it back down. ]

Excuse me?

[ Their mark isn't militarized, not by a long shot. And this projection looks so surreal, so out of place in this modern and upscale resort. Has someone on the team brought them in with them? Another Mal?

(His chest clenches at the thought that he's done this; he doesn't know if he can go through a second run of projected guilt). ]

[ It's hot, human--less of a forest climate that he's used to and more of a jungle climate, but nature is nature, and temperature is temperature, and he adjusts unlike mundanes. But this one adjusts in a different way, in an intriguing way, and when Meliorn smiles, lips taught and pulled back; a feral warning but not quite with teeth bared.

He's interested. He shouldn't be, but something in the way he finishes his drink, self assured, hair slicked back, suit on with a rope around his neck that Meliorn knows is called a tie but calls it as it looks. ]

I'm fairly certain you heard me.

[ There's no malice, no ill intent--he is simply saying a statement as he pulls up a seat next to him, and brown eyes linger up and down his body, checking for weapons in part but also because it isn't very often he sees mundanes like this. It's interesting. ]

But you need to leave. All of this--all of what you're doing--you can't do it anymore.

[ That smile is a warning, knife sharp. Arthur continues to hold the projection's gaze unwaveringly– he's faced down enough bullshit in his life that he isn't about to back down because of some hidden threat. He remains seated, still playing his part of a businessman. Relaxed wrists, loose shoulders. The only tension is in his ankles, where he's got them bent to set his feet on the rest on the stool.

Just as this stranger looks him over, Arthur does the same, taking in his odd appearance. The marks on his face, the elven ears, the smooth hair colored at the tips. There's something that strikes him as otherworldly, even without the obvious markers. ]

Are you going to pay me to quit the job?

[ There's a sharp intake of breath, and, for a moment, it's like all gravity near Meliorn's face shifts left as his eyes slowly roll in that direction. It's not quite an eyeroll, but awful close, and Meliorn's hands carefully fold themselves in front of him, gaze fixed fully on the other's face. ]

I'm not quite sure you understand. Stop dreamwalking altogether.

[ It's habit, avoiding questions altogether. ]

You seem quite capable. Look for income elsewhere. [ His smile is alluringly gentle. ] I'm not particularly interested in asking twice.

[ Is this projection rolling his eyes at him? The more and more he studies him, the more he gets the feeling there's something he's missing. Projections can be so much, so layered. They can feel so real– Mal, in a glittering black dress, holding a gun to his head– and yet. This one is either a very interesting projection or a small possibility of a forge.

Who wants him out of the business this badly? ]

And I don't think you heard my question– are you paying me to stop? This job is almost finished. I don't leave empty handed without reason.

[ Well whoever they are, they're going to find he's very difficult to budge. ]

Look, I don't know where you came from or who you think you are, but I'm not interested in leaving dreamshare.

[ At that, he picks up his drink, finishes it in a couple swallows, and sets the glass back on the bar. He stands, adjusts his suit jacket, listens in on the chatter in his ear; Eames and Barnes are close to acquiring what they need. After he checks his watch, he nods to the stranger and starts to head off to the rendezvous point. ]

It was a pleasure to meet you, Arthur. [ Because Arthur dismisses before Meliorn can deceive, and so quickly and well he feels almost like a curse trying to be cleansed. A bit like when his mentor had completely ignored him for an entire week the one time he was late to spar. It feels cold. Meliorn swears he can taste that feeling on the roof of his mouth. It's not wholly unpleasant. ]

I sincerely hope you heed my advice.

[ He's not even sure that last sentence reaches the mundane's ears. It doesn't matter--the answer is no. Mundanes, while attractive despite flat ears, are awful stubborn. So he sighs and concentrates, pulling on the strings of the dream's weave, feeling and sensing and breathing within until he finds just who he's looking for.

The rest of the team are easy to isolate, although Meliorn finds the one with full lips and a British accent to be the most difficult to trap and make it seem normal. He waits until it's just him, just Arthur, just the offender in his Queen's eyes, and the subject. Meliorn is sure to make eye contact with Arthur as he leans up at their mark's ear, whispering words. When he pulls back, the mark begins to panic. The dream is already starting to crumble, despite whoever's the one hosting it. Meliorn, hands clasped firmly at his back, watches Arthur. ]

I asked politely.

[ Only a few minutes after he leaves the stranger at the bar, he starts getting shouted reports in his ear from Pullman. Something weird is happening in the dream and he wants to bet it's who he dismissed. How they're interrupting the build, he doesn't know. Projections don't have that much sway– unless they're of Mal, of course.

Cursing, he mutters orders into the headset, giving Barnes and Eames full warning. Pullman, he knows, isn't on the field much. He won't stand much of a chance. Or rather, didn't already. He wasn't the dreamer though, so they're safe to go ahead. Well, relatively. The mark's projections don't seem to notice anything strange, which is good for staying in the dream.

Except it all starts falling apart bit by bit. Barnes is gone from the dream a minute later. Eames follows after a longer stint and that's it. The dream wobbles as if impacted, parts of the resort cracking in hairlines and then in more severe sections. Arthur's halfway down a hall when the dream shifts, leaving him standing on the patio, staring at the hibiscus lined trellis, the mark's shocked face, and the stranger whispering, whispering. ]

Fuck off. Answer is still no. [ The dream is crumbling but that doesn't stop him from taking a shot at the stranger. And then himself, after. He needs to be up before the mark, so after he shoots the rogue projection, he turns the gun to his temple, pulls the trigger and

wakes up

blinks

and deals with the absolute chaos of Eames trying to clean up while Barnes and Pullman panic. ]

[ He wakes, sharply and with a gasp, in Crystalsong forest. He's unsurprised to find a small layer of diamonddust covering him--time works much, much differently in the Seelie court--but what he is surprised with is how those last words echo in his head.

They rattle like coins in a coin purse, and Meliorn shakes his head a few times to try and rid himself of it. He even presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, thinking maybe the cold sensation will wash over him instead, but nothing.

Arthur, the mundane with slicked back hair and eyes that assess but give nothing away. Arthur, the dreamwalker who weaves his own without worry of repercussions. Even as Meliorn kneels before his beautiful Queen, he's thinking of him.

Strange. No one has told him to fuck off before, ever, in his entire being, except vampires and the occasional werewolf, but they were hardly creatures of import. He vaguely considers telling the Shadowhunters so they can deal with it when a spike of strange possessiveness peels through him. He tells himself it's just not wanting to disobey the Queen, and waits.

The next time Arthur dreams his too-tidy, bleach-smelling dreams, Meliorn is there once more. He spends enough time unseen only until Arthur is alone, and it's only then he steps from the shadows, dressed exactly the same. ]

You're quite headstrong. It would be admirable if it wasn't foolish.

[ Arthur doesn't think about the stranger until well after the messed up job in Spain. Mostly because he's busy hopping from country to country, burning an identity when he hops the border to Hong Kong. Their mark hadn't been completely powerful, but he's always been the human incarnation of "better safe than sorry". They'd, through some piecing together and blackmail, managed to get the answers despite the job crumbling halfway through.

Bank account slightly more padded and cooling his heels, he checks in with Eames at the very least. And Eames is the one who brings up the stranger in a text that's more question marks than words.

Being a point man, he digs into research and files and people but turns up with nothing. It's like this person doesn't really exist. So he goes to Yusuf, goes through academic papers, tries not to think about another Mal-like projection ready to ruin his whole life from the inside of his head.

All trails lead to a dead end and he doesn't have time to be disappointed since he gets hired into another job on Eames' offer. Arthur takes it, even if it's not entirely his normal repertoire. Get the location of a safe house of a CEO from her secretary, Alice Chin. It's low level, but part of him is being careful because of the last interference. He has a feeling Eames is doing the same thing.

In the dream it's just the two of them. Their chemist is up top, ready to start the music kick when the time comes.

This time, he's sitting in a cafe, pretending to read the newspaper and sipping on his coffee. His suit is an impeccable three piece, a neutral grey, and a royal blue tie that Eames complimented earlier. Across the street is an office building where Alice is talking to Eames-as-a-forge. They're having lunch out on one of the balconies that he can see from his window seat.

He's keeping a close eye on them and so almost misses the motion nearby. Arthur uses the glass to see his visitor, though he recognizes the voice. ]

You know, you're either very new to dreamshare or you're very good at covering your tracks. I'm thinking it's the latter.

[ He turns just enough to glance at the not-projection. ] Are you here to warn me again?

Your friend is attractive.

[ It's not entirely a lie, and he doesn't dignify the question with a response. Dodge questions, get answers, play the long con. Usually, mundanes don't even pick up on it. He has a feeling Arthur will catch on eventually. It sickens him--or excites him? He's not sure which--but it leaves a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He sits, but not before taking a cup of coffee from the table next to Arthur's, claiming it as his. The projection doesn't so much as look up. ]

Without his disguises, of course. [ He lifts the cup to his lips to take a sip, and his features don't scrunch but his eyes close slowly and softly, like a tired mother who has finally seen the final straw. His jaw ripples, very briefly, and he sets the coffee down.

It tastes like bleach, too. ]

Have you considered his safety?

[ If there's one decent thing he can thank Eames for, it's recognizing a con. Arthur might be perceptive, but he's never been entirely good with people. Ever since he started taking jobs more and more with Eames, he's noted the forger deals with all of social interaction when it comes to beguiling and he's thankful for it. As point, he has enough on his plate dealing with logistics alone.

But here, he sees the con as it's happening. The sidestep of questions and bringing up another topic entirely. Arthur sets his newspaper down, neatly folded. He stirs his coffee and takes a drink with the little wooden stirrer held away by his index finger. The ceramic mug clinks against the table when he sets it down.

A moment reprieve for him to collect his thoughts, otherwise he was going to do something very rash. Someone bringing up Eames as a friend sets off warning bells in his head; it could be a bluff. Just stay calm. ]

I'm going to take that as a yes. Do I get your name at least, if you're going to antagonize me?

[ And maybe so he can use it for research. ]

That's his job, to look attractive. He can take care of himself.

You get my name if you earn it. [ There, it's an answer, at least, however vague it may be. The fair folk run on half truths and vague answers. There's also a small part of him that's actually enjoying this, watching the mundane's facial features carefully. It's become quite a game and it's only their second meeting. ]

Arthur-- [ The cup is pushed away, towards the other man, and he clasps his hands in front of him, reminiscent of when they first met. This time, though, he's leaning back on his chair and there's a hint of amusement in dark eyes. ] --Why persue dreamwalking when you could do so, so much more?

Edited 2018-01-05 08:09 (UTC)

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wedding;

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