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“You want me to be a what?” Ariadne demanded.
“A wife in a Mad Max dream,” Dom repeated patiently. “The target fantasizes about that movie all the time, it’ll be the perfect opportunity. She wants to be Furiosa, and she'll spill everything we need to the wives.”
“Why isn’t Eames forging a wife, then?”
Eames nodded. “That’s rather my question, too.”
“No, you have to be Max,” Dom said with a shake of his head.
“And why is that?”
“Because you look just like that actor, it’s perfect!”
“Because I look like some actor,” Eames repeated flatly.
“Yes! Oh come on, you look exactly like…oh damn…whatshisface, had that tighty-whities pic on FaceSpace a million years ago…doesn’t he kiss some alien slime monster or something in some movie? He’s been in everything, you know the guy.”
“He’s a forger,” Arthur snapped. “He can look like anyone he wants.”
“Oh sure. But this way, he doesn’t have to worry about slipping.”
Eames straightened in his chair. “...Slipping?”
“Anyway,” Dom said hastily, “that’s the plan, we’re short on time and we’re going to run with this, so let’s get all the details sorted!”
Barren wasteland stretched for miles under a scorching sun, the monotony of sand broken only by occasional bits of scrub brush, darker traces against the burning gold.
“This looks amazing,” Arthur said with approval while inching away from the reflected heat of the metal tanker truck he and Ariadne stood beside.
Ariadne glowered. The searing breeze tugged at her outfit, mostly thin strips of pale muslin, and she crossed her arms to hold it closer. “I hate this,” she muttered. “I’m hot and I feel ridiculous.”
Arthur winced as a group of vehicles roared past with Dom waving and whooping at them. “Some of us are certainly enjoying this more than others.”
He looked up at the cab of the truck to see Eames leaning out the window, leering through his metal mask and holding up a wispy white piece of cloth.
“Last chance, Arthur!”
Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Last chance for what?”
“You’d make a lovely and enticing wife, petal…ouch!”