Summary: Eames meets Mrs. Talbot. Something changes within No Man's Land. Rated T for Language.
Running. One foot in front of the other. Kicking up dust as he traveled forward into the void. The only thing ahead is nothing, and the runner leaves behind nothing. The further he travels, the less hopeful he is. Nothing changes in the desolate landscape of this mind, and the only expectation is the coming wind to howl through, ruining whatever sense of 'progress' the runner had.
Such was the investigation of Javier Talbot.
Eames was getting better at sensing when the winds would be coming, at least. He had tried nearly everything to stop the mental projection of a gale force, but the rhythmic inward and outward of Talbot's life support machine was too engrained in the coma patient's subconscious. It would take days to unlearn a tempo that had been kept in motion for damn near three years. There was no way to stop the life support without killing the former military expert, either.
Right on schedule, Eames thought as a mechanical howling echoed across the barren wasteland. Like a wall of pure air, a blast struck the Forger in the chest. He had half a millisecond, he figured, between the first hint of noise and the impact forcing him off his feet. There was generally three to five seconds of hang-time, before he hit the hard rocky earth face first and
Woke up. Shifting in his seat, Eames was less than pleased at the amount of progress he was making. Nearly two hours of repeated dives and the only thing he had been able to find was a pulsating headache. One could only land face first on the ground so many times…
"Darling, I've never met such a pain in the ass," The Forger exhaled. He could feel bags forming under his eyes as he spoke. Reaching into his jacket, Eames produced a single red poker chip, which he twirled between his fingers casually. Nicked in just the right places, with the casino emblem ever so slightly off-center… yes, it was just as he remembered his totem. He had to admit the repeated dives were wearing on his consciousness, which made it all the more important he knew he was truly awake. The inward and outward sounds of the life support machine filled the room.
Sitting back in the same hospital chair he had been in the past two hours, he rested his head against the cream-colored hospital wall. He couldn't find anything if there was nothing to find, and the automated defense that was Talbot's free association wasn't exactly getting any better. Absentmindedly he spun the poker chip between his fingers, remembering it's feel, it's weight… He briefly wondered if Talbot had a totem of his own.
His thought process was cut off by the sound of someone approaching. The sound of high heels in an otherwise vacant hallway… The forger looked up as the footsteps stopped in the doorway.
The figure was a woman, of course. Eames recognized her from one of the files Arthur had found days ago when investigating Talbot's background. He couldn't recall if the woman was the coma patient's wife or his mother.
"Who are you?" She asked sharply as she stepped inside. Her accent was definitely Spanish. She was wearing a black evening gown, and looked as if she was about to attend some sort of function. Eames shifted in his seat, sitting back up.
"Missus Talbot, I presume?" Eames asked, standing. His legs felt numb from sitting so long. She nodded once before she caught herself and shot back, "Who wants to know?" What a lovely accent, he had to admit.
"Madame, I was sent by your," he took a shot in the dark, "husband's employer to try and obtain information from him."
She simply scoffed. "How's that working for you?" She asked, going along the side of the bed and sitting down at her husband's side. "They did inform you of his accident, did they not?"
"I'd say they were well aware," Eames replied, his arms crossed.
"Then how do you expect to find anything?" She snapped, obviously angered by the Forger's answer. Her attitude, her mannerisms… It reminded Eames of someone from a dream long passed.
"I have my ways, Mrs. Talbot. Were you stopping in for visiting hours?" He asked, diverting her from the dangerous territory he had stumbled into. He was still curious about why she would wear something of the sort to her husband's bedside.
"My husband is a military expert. Until he wakes up, it is my duty to keep his legacy going," she explained, her arms crossed over her chest. She could feel the forger's gaze, and she didn't like it. "I was simply stopping in before attending a dinner," She sniffed. Eames was about to follow up with a new line of questioning, but the woman stood suddenly. She stormed out of the hospital room, shouting something back to Eames.
"The next time I come to visit my husband, I don't want to see your face!"
The forger was left in confusion as the sound of high heels tapped their way down the hall. He sat back down in the chair he had taken a liking to, trying to determine what had just happened, exactly. He glanced to Javier, who didn't seem to notice his wife or the exchange that had just occurred.
"One more round, Darling, then we'll call it a night," Eames suggested. The coma patient didn't move. "Good, I'm glad you're so agreeable," The forger said as he inserted the end of the plastic tubing into his arm. He waited for the life support machine to fully exhale before slamming his thumb down on the button, slowly slipping into Javier's consciousness once more.
Waking up on the cold, cracked ground never got old. Eames slowly sat up again, not bothering to brush the dirt off of his suit. He gazed around the barren wastes of Talbot's mind. Nothing. Then a noise from over Eames shoulder caught his attention. He turned around to find a single shimmering glimpse of a door, built into the earth like a cellar. It had just slammed closed as Eames took off running towards it. He didn't know what had caused its appearance, but he didn't want to miss an opportunity.
Running. One foot in front of the other. Kicking up dust as he traveled forward into the void. The only thing ahead is the door, and the runner leaves behind nothing. The further he travels, the more hopeful he becomes. Nothing changes in the desolate landscape of this mind, and the only expectation is the coming wind to howl through, ruining whatever sense of 'progress' the runner had.
And now the appearance of a door.
Within five feet of the closed cellar, the familiar sound of howling begins. The forger begins to curse, knowing what this change in the environment signals. His hand reaches for the single rusted handle of the door, and he barely grazes it. Just enough of a touch to prove it's really there before the wind blows him backwards. "JAVIER!" He yelled as his body was flung back, moments before slamming into the dirt.
Eames woke with a start, jumping out of his chair. He ripped the plastic syringe out of his arm and was at Talbot's side in a moment, shaking him. "What was that? What is the door?" He demanded, but the coma patient only flopped around uselessly. The shaking wasn't going to do anything, let alone get any answers. Eames calmed down after a moment, digging through his pockets for the poker chip he knew so well. He twirled it between his fingers as he sat down directly across from the doorway. The doorway…
"Oh shit." He said under his breath.
Perhaps Arthur would lend him a suit.