Ｉ. ＦＲＥＥＤＯＭ ＬＡＮＤ ＯＦ ＴＨＥ ＳＥＶＥＮＴＩＥＳ (open; limited to x2 responders) [ Properly outfitted and sent on his way, it isn't until Eames finds a relatively quiet spot that he takes careful stock of it. Measuring the gear and finally the pods themselves, he has to stifle a hard laugh that gets caught in his throat as an audible snicker at a single word that has purple being the first color he loads in. He doesn't rightly know how that works (pheromones, chemical warfare, who knows), but he's slowly learning at least that the smaller questions like this are increasingly also the most useless.
He plays at a soldier with impressive efficiency...only if he's not placed next to one with real experience. He's used to relying on the relative inexperience of those around him, so much so that "fake it 'til you make it" may as well be tattooed right on his forehead in some hideously trashy script he'd never live down. He can hide and sneak with the best, but his moves and holdouts are not the most subtle and in the real world, not the most inventive, either. ]
Ｉ-Ｖ. ＴＨＩＮＫ Ｉ'Ｍ ＴＯＯ ＣＯＯＬ ＴＯ ＫＮＯＷ ＹＯＵ (closed to specifications) [ It's a last-ditch effort he's taken to, hiding in the trees like this. Near them, behind them, neither has seemed to work, but once he'd added height to the equation, it's much easier to find a moment of respite. He's seen a few players pass by, but he keeps to his hiding spot instead of going in for the easy hit.
Right now, he's waiting for a specific player, gun loaded equally just for the moment. (How's that for specificity?) He can let a few easy opportunities pass for the right one. He can be patient.
When it matters. ]
ＩＩＩ. Ｉ'Ｍ ＬＩＫＥ ＴＨＥ ＩＣＥ Ｉ ＦＲＥＥＺＥ [ When it's all over--thank God or whoever else, Beezelbub for all he knows lately--or at least his end of it is, he retreats to a corner of the lounge that's surprisingly sequestered from the bulk of the activity. Maybe it's the lingering pain that makes even sitting a struggle (thanks so much, Arthur), the scattering of other forming bruises, or the fact that half of him may well be covered in glitter until he's dead at the rate it scrubs off--not at all--but he's not near as sociable as usual. This leaves him nursing a spiked cocoa as he's watching out the window at very-obviously nothing in particular, rather blatantly licking wounds, as it were. ]
eames | ota (unless marked)
[ Properly outfitted and sent on his way, it isn't until Eames finds a relatively quiet spot that he takes careful stock of it. Measuring the gear and finally the pods themselves, he has to stifle a hard laugh that gets caught in his throat as an audible snicker at a single word that has purple being the first color he loads in. He doesn't rightly know how that works (pheromones, chemical warfare, who knows), but he's slowly learning at least that the smaller questions like this are increasingly also the most useless.
He plays at a soldier with impressive efficiency...only if he's not placed next to one with real experience. He's used to relying on the relative inexperience of those around him, so much so that "fake it 'til you make it" may as well be tattooed right on his forehead in some hideously trashy script he'd never live down. He can hide and sneak with the best, but his moves and holdouts are not the most subtle
and in the real world, not the most inventive, either. ]Ｉ-Ｖ. ＴＨＩＮＫ Ｉ'Ｍ ＴＯＯ ＣＯＯＬ ＴＯ ＫＮＯＷ ＹＯＵ (closed to
[ It's a last-ditch effort he's taken to, hiding in the trees like this. Near them, behind them, neither has seemed to work, but once he'd added height to the equation, it's much easier to find a moment of respite. He's seen a few players pass by, but he keeps to his hiding spot instead of going in for the easy hit.
Right now, he's waiting for a specific player, gun loaded equally just for the moment. (How's that for specificity?) He can let a few easy opportunities pass for the right one. He can be patient.
When it matters. ]
ＩＩＩ. Ｉ'Ｍ ＬＩＫＥ ＴＨＥ ＩＣＥ Ｉ ＦＲＥＥＺＥ
[ When it's all over--thank God or whoever else, Beezelbub for all he knows lately--or at least his end of it is, he retreats to a corner of the lounge that's surprisingly sequestered from the bulk of the activity. Maybe it's the lingering pain that makes even sitting a struggle (thanks so much, Arthur), the scattering of other forming bruises, or the fact that half of him may well be covered in glitter until he's dead at the rate it scrubs off--not at all--but he's not near as sociable as usual. This leaves him nursing a spiked cocoa as he's watching out the window at very-obviously nothing in particular, rather blatantly licking wounds, as it were. ]