[ He remembers it well--Cobb had voiced his confusion then, too, because if he was an architect, why would he need to shoot? but maybe now it makes a little more sense.
Or maybe it's the fact that what they do now isn't legitimate that's actually caught up with his tired mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose before taking another large sip, a gulp that would probably make someone with better sense to appreciate the booze wince. ]
[ This, he thinks, will be the harder transition. Dom Cobb is nothing if not adaptable, but the switch from civilian to criminal is not an easy one. There isn't enough paranoia, nor senses sharpened by dealing with humanity on a different level.
Not to mention all the other skills he's going to have to brush up on or learn. ]
For now. Militarized projections aren't going to stand still and let you shoot them.
[ Not to mention that people in the real world hardly stay still either. If a gun is being pointed in their direction, they're likely to run. ]
[ Neither will real people--Cobb's reached that conclusion, too, and he all but slumps into his chair, hand in his pocket, curling around the surprisingly heavy and comfortably familiar weight. The drink is finished, and he exhales, leaning forward. ]
[ Cobb is intelligent. Quick thinker and quicker to pick up on things. So he knows he's come to the same conclusions in the small span of time. Maybe things won't be so bad. But he'll assume worst case scenario, just in case. It's always more heartening to be surprised than it is to be disappointed.
Snorting softly, he stands and stretches, hands immediately sliding into his pockets. ]
Yeah, yeah. You too. Any longer and raccoons will start thinking they're related to you.
[ Because they need something a little lighter to lift the tension. At that, he heads for the drawer he'd stuck his sleeping clothes in, ready to settle in for the night. Weariness thrums through him like a pulse. He knows even a good nights sleep won't shake it—emotional exhaustion is a different monster than the physical. What he hopes for though, is a dreamless sleep. Not to be woken by cold sweats and the fading memory of Mal's hand on his cheek as she so often did. It's too much to hope Dom will dream so blissfully.
(Still, if there's anything out there to grant him this one thing; let Cobb get some rest). ]
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Or maybe it's the fact that what they do now isn't legitimate that's actually caught up with his tired mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose before taking another large sip, a gulp that would probably make someone with better sense to appreciate the booze wince. ]
Stationary targets, right?
no subject
Not to mention all the other skills he's going to have to brush up on or learn. ]
For now. Militarized projections aren't going to stand still and let you shoot them.
[ Not to mention that people in the real world hardly stay still either. If a gun is being pointed in their direction, they're likely to run. ]
no subject
[ Neither will real people--Cobb's reached that conclusion, too, and he all but slumps into his chair, hand in his pocket, curling around the surprisingly heavy and comfortably familiar weight. The drink is finished, and he exhales, leaning forward. ]
Get some sleep.
[ Who knows if he is or not. ]
no subject
Snorting softly, he stands and stretches, hands immediately sliding into his pockets. ]
Yeah, yeah. You too. Any longer and raccoons will start thinking they're related to you.
[ Because they need something a little lighter to lift the tension. At that, he heads for the drawer he'd stuck his sleeping clothes in, ready to settle in for the night. Weariness thrums through him like a pulse. He knows even a good nights sleep won't shake it—emotional exhaustion is a different monster than the physical. What he hopes for though, is a dreamless sleep. Not to be woken by cold sweats and the fading memory of Mal's hand on his cheek as she so often did. It's too much to hope Dom will dream so blissfully.
(Still, if there's anything out there to grant him this one thing; let Cobb get some rest). ]