Re: Janus A/Eames - log
In his (relatively) brief stint as young man, Janus hadn't met very many Brits. They hadn't set any out at the same time as him, not officially, and you didn't run across them out in the countryside crossroads much. He assumed they were about the same as Americans (for worse or better), and he didn't know the difference between one accent or another. Eames sounded kind of smart to him, a sort of university thing, except the blue shirt made him think of, say, Calvin Klein. Vaguely European.
As the soldier sat and thought, his hand shaking and his flickering eyes gently roving the room from one side or another, he looked even more the mortal shade than before. This was their first meeting; Eames was probably wise to be wary of the creature in the chair. It would be hard for anyone to know what was just a shape and what wasn't. And yet, there certainly was a reason that it was only the soldier that could manifest without physical damage. He looked young, hungry, and, frankly, dead.
Janus was surprised enough by the lick of humor, like flame, into the conversation. A delayed smile followed soon after as he caught the implication, a hint at different times. But he stuck with the matter at hand. "Plugged in? To what?"