[ Eames crosses an intersection with a wave of other pedestrians. He tilts his face up, squinting into the sun, and smiles at nothing in particular. Old times is a funny notion to him. He's young enough still to feel like he's not old enough to have old times yet, but old enough that it doesn't feel like a wholly ironic thing to say anymore. But he does anyway. ]

For old time's sake, [ he repeats. ] Yes, I suppose I can be talked into letting you buy a drink for me. Provided you agree to leave all your pointy things at home or, at least, hide them somewhere where I can't see them.