Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 4/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (4/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,083
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
Arthur relaxes into the embrace, turning his head so that his cheek presses against the man’s shoulder, nose barely brushing warm skin, marveling at the care in the hold, the tenderness that he’d almost forgotten after so long. Right now he’s not a Captain or informant; he’s neither spy nor traitor, he’s simply a man seeking comfort in the arms of another, comfort that duty has pushed away and necessity has forced him to disown.
“I’m tired,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp in his throat. He squeezes his eyes all the tighter as the arms around him tighten, imagining them stronger and corded with muscle, marked with ink and safe, familiar. “I’m so tired of this. Of everything.”
“Okay,” comes the slightly unsure response, a whisper tipped with the slightest hint of an accent and it’s so easy, so easy to imagine not this voice but another, lower in timbre and soothing as ever, murmuring hush, darling. Easy there, love. Just rest.
He inhales and smells antiseptic and the overwhelming cleanliness expected of a hospital wing, but he pushes those olfactory sensations away and imagines sandalwood and spice, cigarette smoke and tea. Fingers wind through his hair a bit hesitantly and Arthur allows his muscles to loosen all that much more, the weariness in his bones slowly seeping away. There’s a name on the tip of his tongue, a memory of a past long gone, of a love-
“Mr. Fischer?”
Arthur immediately stiffens, the spell broken. He lifts his head, pulling away from the other man, a bit embarrassed and slightly angry at himself for losing control of himself and drifting away into the past, for behaving thus especially after he resolved not to play with Fischer’s emotions like that.
The memory is gone, the ghost of the past dissipated and then there’s only Robert: a poor, sheltered puppet; kind and gentle Robert who wants nothing more than to do good for the sake of others, so starved for comfort and even just the slightest bit of touch - Arthur hasn’t forgotten the full-body shudder he saw running through the young heir the first time their fingers happened to brush. Arthur really does mean it when he says Robert’s a good man with a big heart and the terrible luck of being sired by a man as cruel and unfeeling as Maurice Fischer.
He lets Robert carefully maneuver him back into a comfortable position against the pillows, deliberately making his limbs heavy and uncooperative so as to perpetuate the guise of being under the influence of some drug. “Captain?” he hears softly, hesitantly, and Arthur rolls his head to the side, peeking out at the other man through barely cracked eyes, staring at a point over his shoulder, squinting blearily and feigning drowsiness.
“Hmm?”
Robert smiles at the barely coherent murmur and Arthur’s chest tightens, because it seems like despite his best efforts, he hasn’t managed to stop Robert from growing attached to the only source of support he’s ever had, hasn’t managed to prevent Robert from falling for him. His…employer (in the very loosest sense of the word) may not care much for Robert Fischer, but Arthur doesn’t want to see him crashing and burning along with the rest of Fischer Industries, because Robert deserves much better than that - he deserves to be loved and cared about, to be told that there’s more meaning to his existence than to act as a puppet to his father and godfather’s whims.
“I’ll be right back,” Robert reassures softly, and turns to go.
Arthur moves without thinking, reaching out and snagging the edge of Robert’s sleeve (nursing scrubs, really? What happened to the Armani?) in a manner far too swift for anyone high on painkillers, and then curses his own stupidity. “Wait,” he says in a gust of breath and then grimaces with a hiss - a real one this time too, because his ribs really do hurt like a bitch, and he curls in slightly upon himself, wondering how the hell he’s going to sneak out and escape from this prison of a business complex with a two inch deep gash in his side.
When the pain recedes, he finds himself lying flat on his back and a hand pressing a cool towel to his forehead, and looks up to see Robert gazing anxiously down at him, eyes large and round in his face. He looks rather like a child, Arthur muses, so eager to please and always so selfless. “Captain Davidson?” he asks worriedly, and Arthur wets his lips with his tongue, making up his mind.
“Mr. Fischer...” Raising a hand, he beckons for the other man to lean down, and, coloring a little, Robert does so. As soon as he’s within arm’s reach, Arthur reaches up and hooks a hand around the back of his neck, jerking him close: “Project Extraction,” he says firmly and with calm authority into the other man’s ear, “Motion 528-491.”
“What?”
Arthur shakes his head and closes his eyes, acting as if he’s finally succumbing to exhaustion, grip loosening and fingers slipping from around Robert’s neck. “Why.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and, behind his closed eyelids, Arthur imagines the look on Robert Fischer’s face - confusion, amazement, concern, and just the tiniest hint of fear. There’s no understanding there, not yet, but it’s alright. He’ll get there sooner or later.
“Captain?” Robert whispers, but Arthur gives no response, and after a beat, feels a gentle, barely-there brush of fingers against his cheek before the sound of receding footsteps move out of the room and down the hallway. At that, Arthur opens his eyes and, in one swift move, pulls the IV out of his wrist, gets out of bed, and slips out the door.
Robert’s figure retreats down along the edge of the corridor and Arthur watches him go, the slightest hint of regret lancing through him, conscience-stricken at having to abandon his charge to the lions once again.
Then, he turns and begins to run without looking back.
He knows the place well; he has the architect’s blueprints committed to memory and can walk through the labyrinth of darkened corridors and navigate the windowless maze in his sleep. Pain though, makes everything slightly more difficult, and absent-mindedly, Arthur wonders if he shouldn’t have relented and accepted the morphine anyway, because adrenaline can only do so much. He’s a soldier though, born to understand and trained to withstand pain, and so Arthur pushes himself - as he’s been doing for the past eight years - running along the dim corridors, footfalls barely making a sound and never skirting out of the shadows.
Browning’s men had the good sense to clear away the bodies of the two assassins, yet apparently they didn’t have the manners to leave everything else well enough alone. Arthur’s lips thin into a tight line as he stands in the doorway, surveying the damage done not only by his efforts to keep Robert safe (of course he was well aware of the fact that aforementioned idiots were after him - Browning is many things, but subtle, he is not - but there was no reason why the Fischer heir had to get caught in the crossfire) but also as a result of many hands searching for something implicating, something damning, something they wouldn’t have ever found, even if given all the time in the world.
Arthur is a man who keeps his secrets very well hidden.
Stooping slightly - and hissing in a sharp breath at the flash of white that the action sends across his vision - Arthur gently runs his fingers over the yellowed, crinkled paper, mementos of the years before the world went to shit, keepsakes he’s barely been able to hold onto through this post-apocalyptic hell, physical reminders of what’s worth fighting for in this godforsaken clusterfuck of an existence. The memories flash through his mind, some fresh, some faded, some raw and not all of them entirely pleasant.
“James Arthur Cobb,” Dom decides, and Mal nods in agreement, exhausted but still absolutely radiant; she reaches out and gently closes Arthur’s mouth for him, smiling at the stunned expression on his face. And it’s then, holding a slumbering, drooling Phillipa in his lap and watching his namesake blink open bleary brown eyes, that he knows what it feels like to be a part of a family.
Slumping down against the wall, he thinks of the years before the world went to shit, of little James and Phillipa, of Mal’s beautiful smile, of Cobb when he still used to be Dom and didn’t chain smoke like a chimney, when that strange concept called ‘sleep’ came more than once or twice a week to ensnare him in its bottomless depths.
Dom is an absolute wreck, eyes wide and staring at nothing. The tear tracks have dried on his face and yet he still hasn’t looked away from the static on the screen where, half an hour earlier, Fishcer Industries USA proudly broadcasted the live execution by firing squad of one Mallorie Odette Cobb, traitor to the United States and former leading dream-sharing scientist, wife to public enemy number one, Dominic Cobb.
Arthur stands by the door to the small ramshackle shelter, straight-backed and alert, the ever-vigilant point man he’s always been. His face is dry, his mouth pinched into a tight line, his finger brushing against the trigger of the semi-automatic he holds - standing as the pillar of strength for his friend who’s crumbling to pieces.
His eyes alight on a photograph then, a simple shot of two men at a ceremonial dinner, both finely dressed and looking as if they’re having the time of their lives in each other’s company - and something hot and unforgiving sears through his chest.
“Fine, then. Forget it. Bloody fucking - forget everything, darling.” The term of endearment sounds like anything but that, spit out bitterly, words harsh in the heat of anger and hurt. “You want to leave? Then get out.”
Get out.
Arthur leans his head back against the wall, eyes falling shut, fists clenching tight. Stop it, he tells himself firmly, because this sure as hell isn’t the time or place to get weepy and sentimental and, gritting his teeth against the twinge in his ribs, he hauls himself up off the floor, stepping over the scattered pieces of his past.
- - - - -
Fischer Industries USA employs more than five hundred security guards and sentries to surround and safeguard the huge, sprawling business complex; men and women of formidable skill and military backgrounds, trained to shoot on command and kill on sight, without warning and without conscience. Eagle-eyed, young, and limber, they’re the first and last line of defense against all enemies, foreign and domestic - in other words, pure cannon fodder.
Not one of them recognizes the silent figure slipping past them as their superior and Head of Security. Not one of them even notices his presence. It makes sense because Captain Davidson is a legend, and all legends come with the ability to induce a bit of suspension of disbelief - perhaps that’s why the man can make himself invisible, why no one detects one of Fischer Industries’ own vehicles rolling out the back gate, why no one sees the driver with one hand on the wheel and the other clenched into a fist around a red die, speeding off into the night.
* - * - *
Twenty-three feet across and only one and a half inches thick? That’s really not going to work. Ariadne frowns thoughtfully and chews the end of her pencil. Cobb’s sketch isn’t making a bit of sense, and she has a sneaking suspicion that’s supposed to be the point because the man is too good of an architect to have created a building that stands on a foundation this flimsy, even merely on paper - or, that is, the back of a piece of cardstock whose other side depicts a martini glass and the firm instruction to “drink responsibly.”
(The camp is running low on real paper, a problem Eames promises to resolve with the raid he and a couple others are setting out on today.)
“So...”
The weathered picnic bench creaks pitifully and groans under yet more weight, and Ariadne looks up with surprise at the newcomer who props her chin in her hands and smiles, bright and interested, so different from the woman she’d seen pressing the muzzle of a gun to the base of a man’s skull just a day prior. “How’s it going, Shorty?”
Ariadne starts, unresponsive, stunned. She has a feeling that even if she can speak, she’ll still be rendered mute, because Michelle really doesn’t seem the type to just sit down and strike up conversation just because.
Luckily, though, Michelle’s smile simply grows wider. “Yeah,” she chuckles, easy-going and full of spirit, “turns out I’m a girl after all.” She raises both eyebrows, pitches her voice low conspiratorially, “And I need someone to talk to other than these Y-chromosomal idiots.” Her gaze flickers down to the pencil still clenched in Ariadne’s fist, over the calluses on her middle and pointer fingers. “Let me guess. Student?”
Ariadne nods once and Michelle smiles fondly, a gesture that reveals a row of straight pearly whites. “Oh, yeah. Those were the days.” A wistful look flits across her face. “Never made it to college though. Took a year off to backpack through Europe and ended up joining the Peace Corps. Right before the world went to shit.”
Is that where you met Eames? Ariadne writes on a fresh page of her notebook, abandoning Cobb’s sketch for now. In the Peace Corps? I thought he was ex-military.
“Eames.” Michelle shakes her head, tenderness in her eyes. “He’s ex-military, all right. But no, I didn’t meet him until much later.” Her gaze shifts then, into something nostalgic and faraway, and Ariadne blinks.
Oh. She hadn’t thought of Michelle and Eames together like that, but obviously there must be some history between the two -
Her face must reveal a bit of her confusion, because Michelle quirks an eyebrow at her expression then bursts out laughing, hands gripping the sides of the picnic table to keep falling to the ground in stitches. “Oh sweet baby Jesus, not like that.” She has a bit of a southern accent, Michelle does, a bit of Texas in her speech and inflection, a slice of the borderland between the United States and its sister country below; her laugh is that of a woman who has seen far too much but still remembers the joy of happier times, who has been knocked down time and time again and refuses to forget how to stand back up.
Ariadne decides then that she rather likes Michelle; there’s something in the way she can see a lingering sadness behind the tough as nails exterior, the way she can still smile despite the hardness in her face that reveals past hardships and a stubborn will to survive, to fight, to claw through the fucked up day to day reality of life. She can’t be more than five years older than Ariadne herself, really, and yet her hands are callused not with the evidence of endless writing, but from shooting and getting shot at. Ariadne can’t help it; her eyes flick to the scar twisting its way up Michelle’s arm.
“Landmine,” Michelle supplies quietly, and only then does Ariadne realize that she’s been gaping for a while, and she hurriedly looks away with a fierce flush of embarrassment, already ready to sign out a hasty apology when the other woman waves her hand dismissively. “One of Fischer’s. Eames was the one who pulled me from the wreckage.” Both of them are silent for a moment, staring at the shiny pinkish-white jagged line of raised skin, dead tissue and history - before Michelle shoots Ariadne a thin smile. “So, what’s your story, Shorty? How’d you deal with the end of the world?”
Ariadne’s fingers clenching into an unconscious fist around the thin wood of her pencil -
A heavy weight pins her legs, a scrap of cloth clamps over her mouth and dirty fingers grip tightly over the rough burlap sack and she tries to scream but can’t. His breath smells like sour milk and beef as he gropes her and she would be humiliated as the tears roll down her face - hot and silent, silent just like her - if not for the fact that he’s ripping open her jeans. Her eyes slide in and out of focus, most likely from the blow to the side of her head that’s still sending stabbing pains through her skull but she can see the emblem of Fischer Industries USA well enough and as soon he touches her bare skin, she wrenches away from the makeshift gag and tries to plead for mercy, to holler to the high heavens, but the most that comes from her throat is a croak.
She blinks and meets Michelle’s curious gaze, and quickly scribbles down Got scooped up by Fischer Industries USA like everyone else.
A car’s horn beeps out and the two women look up and across the way, where Eames leans out of the door of a beat up Jeep, waving a hand. Michelle flashes Ariadne a smile before getting to her feet. “See you later, Shorty.”
Ariadne watches the Jeep roll out of camp with Eames at the wheel, and quickly signs out a very emphatic BE CAREFUL to which Eames responds with a wink and a reassuring grin. He takes both hands from the wheel to sign back a cheeky Yes, Mom - well, actually with Eames it would be Mum, but she’s not too worried about semantics - and Michelle wallops him on the shoulder, presumably telling him to keep his eyes on the road, damn it. An army truck follows closely - one of Fischer Industries USA’s, stripped and repainted, Cobb at the wheel - and Ariadne bites her lip, rolling the pencil between her now sweaty palms.
Raids aren’t an uncommon occurrence at Camp Sherwood. Of course, had this been before WWIII, Ariadne would’ve pitched a bit of a fit at the convoluted ethical and moral factors of stealing, but that was before…well, before all this. The end of the world kind of changes one’s perspective, even without Eames’ “steal from the rich and give to the poor” Robin Hood shtick. And besides, Ariadne has no problem taking from the bastards at Fischer Industries USA.
Not after what they took from her.
* - * - *
It’s nightfall by the time he takes his foot from the accelerator and steps down on the brake, more or less ripping the keys from the ignition and killing the engine. The surrounding brush and overgrown forest might be rough terrain, but it offers adequate cover; that combined with the cover of the darkness of night should be more than enough to keep him hidden but Arthur’s hand still goes to the holster on his thigh, eyes narrowing at the row of patrol trucks rumbling by on the paved road less than ten meters away. He doesn’t take his finger from the trigger until the last of the headlights have disappeared into the black, the crunch of tires over asphalt faded away. Then he releases a huge sigh and slumps, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
Jesus Christ.
It’s been less than two days since his escape from Fischer Industries USA headquarters, and Arthur knows it won’t be long before news of his disappearance spreads like wildfire and the hounds are set on his trail. There is a small part of him that’s vaguely surprised he hasn’t already heard the crackle announcing Captain Davidson’s treason over the radio built into the unobtrusive Jeep he stole, but the larger part of him doesn’t really give a shit because he’s free.
Oh fucking hell, he’s free.
Arthur fights down the hysterical bark of laughter bubbling up in his chest and threatening to slip out his mouth, a mix between disbelief and joy. Finally, he’s fulfilled the stipulations of the contract that’s bound him to Fischer Industries USA for the past year as the dreaded Captain Davidson - more shadow and terrible myth than man; finally, he’s able to cast off the persona he had to assume in order to spare Cobb and the entire damn resistance from ruin. He’d already been given the green light to leave, and the part where Browning had been stupid enough to send assassins after him and Robert’s presence at that time had only been pure coincidence and fate smiling down upon Arthur for the first time in a long time.
He fishes into his pocket and withdraws a single piece of paper, folded meticulously with the corners perfectly aligned and a single crease down the middle; carefully, he unfolds it and stares down at that which he couldn’t bear to leave behind in that prison of a hellhole.
“And here he comes, the conquering hero. Come to grace us with your presence, Captain?”
“Bite me, Eames.”
“Gladly, darling. But not here. Maybe later, yeah?”
Arthur gently brushes his finger over the glossy finish of the photograph, over the face of the man he misses more than words can express, more than he’s longed for any other living being in existence and has it really been so long since he’s seen the infuriating, amazing, insufferable man, heard that warm accented voice that sends his toes curling when it deepens into a growl, since -
A sound a couple of meters in front of the vehicle alerts his attention and his gun is in his right hand in a flash, his left already reaching for his backup. It was a small sound, like that of a bare foot moving quickly over leaves, a couple of twigs knocked askew from their original place, and it stopped as soon as he’d heard it. For a moment Arthur just waits there in the darkness, his muscles tense and eyes straining in the dark, mentally berating himself for forgetting night-vision goggles in his haste to slip out of Headquarters. He consults the map in his head of the approximated locations of the different camps that make of the chain of the resistance effort, refugee and otherwise (no one knows their exact location, not even him. Arthur hopes he can find his way though, because he’s been there once before and that’s where Cobb is…), calculates his distance from Fischer Industries USA outposts - but it can’t be any of Fischer’s men or more of Browning’s assassins; they would’ve shot him by now. And Arthur has no delusions, he knows he can’t make any promises for the members of the resistance either; as far as they know, he’s still the enemy until he can prove otherwise.
Another moment passes by as he breathes shallowly in the silence and then Arthur slowly reaches out with one hand, his other trigger finger ready, and sticks the keys in the ignition. Then, he flips on the headlights.
And curses. Goddamn it.
The faces that stare back at him - after initially shielding away from the harsh glare of the headlights with wordless guttural noises and hisses of protest - aren’t the carefully blank miens of Browning’s minions, and there’s not a Fischer Industries USA emblem to be seen. But that doesn’t make Arthur holster his gun; rather, he reaches for his other gun, jaw clenching tight as he takes in the small band of emaciated men and women dressed in nothing but rags, their hair greasy and unwashed and matted over jaundiced skin stretched thin over bone, creeping steadily closer toward the Jeep.
Tourists, as they’ve come to be known on both sides of the fence (no one knows why, exactly. Rumor is the term was once used in the dream sharing business, but no one really talks about that anymore), aren’t mindless monsters, per se - they’re human enough alright, those who resisted the advances of Fischer Industries USA and didn’t bother to join the resistance either, didn’t bother to join any side and ended up fending for themselves as the ground turned to cracked, dry nothingness, as the sky refused to produce any rain. The first harsh post-nuclear winter set in and planted into them the seeds of lunacy and wretched despair, seeds that took root as heedless and relentless brutality, driving out any and all senses of morality and reason and humanity, as it were, and instead pushing base, primal, animalistic urges and instinct to the forefront.
Or at least that’s what most everyone thinks. Arthur is one among the very few who know where the Tourists really come from, and how they became the way they are.
“Get back, all of you,” Arthur orders in a low voice as he takes in the dried blood on the hands of the five tourists approaching him - three on their hands and knees like animals, two upright and clearly the better fed of them all - and the corners of their mouths, still stained from their last meal. He meets a pair of glazed eyes and sees the spark of desperation-induced madness. The last tourist that had wandered onto the premises of sector C-145 had been shot on the spot - but the bullet to the knee hadn’t stopped him, nor the ten other pieces of lead that slammed into his body; nothing short of a headshot had finally put him down, frothing at the mouth and laughing as he bled to death.
Arthur doesn’t want to shoot to kill, because no matter what they’ve become, they are still people. Fischer Industries always does its damn hardest to stamp out all traces of humanity and conscience in its employees. As it turns out though, Arthur is damn good at resisting that sort of shit, and a rather fine actor, besides. He learned from the best, after all.
And he knows how they became the way they are now, knows that they can’t possibly be blamed for something that’s not their fault, not when he knows who the real monsters are.
He fires off a warning shot into the ground near one of the women’s bare feet, bit of grass and dirt flying everywhere, and the entire group shrinks away with a cacophony of groans, like a bunch of zombies in a B-rated horror movie, and Arthur takes the split second chance - he turns the key in the ignition and stomps on the accelerator as the engine roars to life.
Recovering quicker than expected, a tourist jumps at him - “Jesus fuck!” - Arthur yells and fires out of pure reflex, putting a small, neat bullet hole in between the man’s bloodshot eyes and the others shriek out in terror or maybe delight, descending upon their fallen companion and tearing into the body with hands and teeth, jaws opened wide at the newly dead flesh, blood spraying everywhere like some morbid cannibalistic sacrificial ritual. Arthur doesn’t stop to observe any further; he jerks the steering wheel to the side and speeds off through the forest, crashing through branches and not giving a damn about the racket he must be making.
His pulse pounds as the speedometer climbs to eighty, then ninety, then well above one hundred miles per hour. Alright, he tells himself sternly, calm down. Tourists travel in groups, but groups rarely travel together in packs.
Not that that really helps any.
The satellite phone in his pocket beeps and Arthur literally jumps, smashing his knees into the steering wheel and hissing out a curse as he fishes in his pocket for the device and pushes blindly at the buttons, his eyes still staring straight ahead. “Saito.”
“Captain.” The business mogul sounds breathless, panicked, and Arthur’s hackles immediately racket up another five hundred notches because Saito is one of the most unflappable men he’s ever met, nary a hair out of place or mote of dust on his person as he takes over continent after continent in this post-apocalyptic world, as he wages war against Fischer Industries, as he corners Arthur in a dark, damp little shithole of a makeshift prison and offers him a Faustian deal - his services as a mole and a traitor in Fischer Industries USA for the continued safety of Cobb and the resistance in return.
“What is it?” Arthur’s hands tighten in the steering wheel, now stripped of the black leather gloves that marked him as Fischer Industries USA’s property, as one of them. He shifts the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “Saito?”
“My man inside the resistance tells me that there is an informer in the central camp. You should wait until the mole is found before you leave Fischer Industries USA Headquarters.”
“What.” Arthur’s voice is flat, but he can feel the scream of frustration and anger building in his chest, rolling and swelling, a black feeling that threatens to choke him unless he finds someway to release it. “What.”
“I understand it will be difficult, so I have arranged for-”
“Difficult, my ASS!” Arthur finally roars, outraged. He can deal with being a puppet, a pawn, however terrible of a taste it may leave in his mouth, but he can’t fucking work with faulty or conflicting or late data. “I’m already out and on my way - GODDAMN IT!”
The phone flies out of his hand, lands somewhere in the darkness with a hard clunk and fizzles into static and white noise. Arthur wrenches the steering wheel violently to avoid the solitary figure suddenly standing directly in the way of the speeding Jeep, swerving hard - and the entire vehicle overturns, flipping not once but three times before shuddering to a halt in a heap of twisted metal and the groaning engine. One of the tires lets out a quiet pft-sssssssss and in the shadows, a man lowers his sniping rifle before joining the three other men approaching Arthur, who lies where he’s been thrown, illuminated by the headlights: limbs spread akimbo, bleeding from an ugly gash on the side of his head, unconscious and defenseless.
“Hot damn,” the man drawls, grinning in a way that looks more like a predatory snarl, all teeth and no pleasantness at all. “Look here, boys. Christmas come early.”
* - * - *
Part 5
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,083
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
Arthur relaxes into the embrace, turning his head so that his cheek presses against the man’s shoulder, nose barely brushing warm skin, marveling at the care in the hold, the tenderness that he’d almost forgotten after so long. Right now he’s not a Captain or informant; he’s neither spy nor traitor, he’s simply a man seeking comfort in the arms of another, comfort that duty has pushed away and necessity has forced him to disown.
“I’m tired,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp in his throat. He squeezes his eyes all the tighter as the arms around him tighten, imagining them stronger and corded with muscle, marked with ink and safe, familiar. “I’m so tired of this. Of everything.”
“Okay,” comes the slightly unsure response, a whisper tipped with the slightest hint of an accent and it’s so easy, so easy to imagine not this voice but another, lower in timbre and soothing as ever, murmuring hush, darling. Easy there, love. Just rest.
He inhales and smells antiseptic and the overwhelming cleanliness expected of a hospital wing, but he pushes those olfactory sensations away and imagines sandalwood and spice, cigarette smoke and tea. Fingers wind through his hair a bit hesitantly and Arthur allows his muscles to loosen all that much more, the weariness in his bones slowly seeping away. There’s a name on the tip of his tongue, a memory of a past long gone, of a love-
“Mr. Fischer?”
Arthur immediately stiffens, the spell broken. He lifts his head, pulling away from the other man, a bit embarrassed and slightly angry at himself for losing control of himself and drifting away into the past, for behaving thus especially after he resolved not to play with Fischer’s emotions like that.
The memory is gone, the ghost of the past dissipated and then there’s only Robert: a poor, sheltered puppet; kind and gentle Robert who wants nothing more than to do good for the sake of others, so starved for comfort and even just the slightest bit of touch - Arthur hasn’t forgotten the full-body shudder he saw running through the young heir the first time their fingers happened to brush. Arthur really does mean it when he says Robert’s a good man with a big heart and the terrible luck of being sired by a man as cruel and unfeeling as Maurice Fischer.
He lets Robert carefully maneuver him back into a comfortable position against the pillows, deliberately making his limbs heavy and uncooperative so as to perpetuate the guise of being under the influence of some drug. “Captain?” he hears softly, hesitantly, and Arthur rolls his head to the side, peeking out at the other man through barely cracked eyes, staring at a point over his shoulder, squinting blearily and feigning drowsiness.
“Hmm?”
Robert smiles at the barely coherent murmur and Arthur’s chest tightens, because it seems like despite his best efforts, he hasn’t managed to stop Robert from growing attached to the only source of support he’s ever had, hasn’t managed to prevent Robert from falling for him. His…employer (in the very loosest sense of the word) may not care much for Robert Fischer, but Arthur doesn’t want to see him crashing and burning along with the rest of Fischer Industries, because Robert deserves much better than that - he deserves to be loved and cared about, to be told that there’s more meaning to his existence than to act as a puppet to his father and godfather’s whims.
“I’ll be right back,” Robert reassures softly, and turns to go.
Arthur moves without thinking, reaching out and snagging the edge of Robert’s sleeve (nursing scrubs, really? What happened to the Armani?) in a manner far too swift for anyone high on painkillers, and then curses his own stupidity. “Wait,” he says in a gust of breath and then grimaces with a hiss - a real one this time too, because his ribs really do hurt like a bitch, and he curls in slightly upon himself, wondering how the hell he’s going to sneak out and escape from this prison of a business complex with a two inch deep gash in his side.
When the pain recedes, he finds himself lying flat on his back and a hand pressing a cool towel to his forehead, and looks up to see Robert gazing anxiously down at him, eyes large and round in his face. He looks rather like a child, Arthur muses, so eager to please and always so selfless. “Captain Davidson?” he asks worriedly, and Arthur wets his lips with his tongue, making up his mind.
“Mr. Fischer...” Raising a hand, he beckons for the other man to lean down, and, coloring a little, Robert does so. As soon as he’s within arm’s reach, Arthur reaches up and hooks a hand around the back of his neck, jerking him close: “Project Extraction,” he says firmly and with calm authority into the other man’s ear, “Motion 528-491.”
“What?”
Arthur shakes his head and closes his eyes, acting as if he’s finally succumbing to exhaustion, grip loosening and fingers slipping from around Robert’s neck. “Why.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and, behind his closed eyelids, Arthur imagines the look on Robert Fischer’s face - confusion, amazement, concern, and just the tiniest hint of fear. There’s no understanding there, not yet, but it’s alright. He’ll get there sooner or later.
“Captain?” Robert whispers, but Arthur gives no response, and after a beat, feels a gentle, barely-there brush of fingers against his cheek before the sound of receding footsteps move out of the room and down the hallway. At that, Arthur opens his eyes and, in one swift move, pulls the IV out of his wrist, gets out of bed, and slips out the door.
Robert’s figure retreats down along the edge of the corridor and Arthur watches him go, the slightest hint of regret lancing through him, conscience-stricken at having to abandon his charge to the lions once again.
Then, he turns and begins to run without looking back.
He knows the place well; he has the architect’s blueprints committed to memory and can walk through the labyrinth of darkened corridors and navigate the windowless maze in his sleep. Pain though, makes everything slightly more difficult, and absent-mindedly, Arthur wonders if he shouldn’t have relented and accepted the morphine anyway, because adrenaline can only do so much. He’s a soldier though, born to understand and trained to withstand pain, and so Arthur pushes himself - as he’s been doing for the past eight years - running along the dim corridors, footfalls barely making a sound and never skirting out of the shadows.
Browning’s men had the good sense to clear away the bodies of the two assassins, yet apparently they didn’t have the manners to leave everything else well enough alone. Arthur’s lips thin into a tight line as he stands in the doorway, surveying the damage done not only by his efforts to keep Robert safe (of course he was well aware of the fact that aforementioned idiots were after him - Browning is many things, but subtle, he is not - but there was no reason why the Fischer heir had to get caught in the crossfire) but also as a result of many hands searching for something implicating, something damning, something they wouldn’t have ever found, even if given all the time in the world.
Arthur is a man who keeps his secrets very well hidden.
Stooping slightly - and hissing in a sharp breath at the flash of white that the action sends across his vision - Arthur gently runs his fingers over the yellowed, crinkled paper, mementos of the years before the world went to shit, keepsakes he’s barely been able to hold onto through this post-apocalyptic hell, physical reminders of what’s worth fighting for in this godforsaken clusterfuck of an existence. The memories flash through his mind, some fresh, some faded, some raw and not all of them entirely pleasant.
“James Arthur Cobb,” Dom decides, and Mal nods in agreement, exhausted but still absolutely radiant; she reaches out and gently closes Arthur’s mouth for him, smiling at the stunned expression on his face. And it’s then, holding a slumbering, drooling Phillipa in his lap and watching his namesake blink open bleary brown eyes, that he knows what it feels like to be a part of a family.
Slumping down against the wall, he thinks of the years before the world went to shit, of little James and Phillipa, of Mal’s beautiful smile, of Cobb when he still used to be Dom and didn’t chain smoke like a chimney, when that strange concept called ‘sleep’ came more than once or twice a week to ensnare him in its bottomless depths.
Dom is an absolute wreck, eyes wide and staring at nothing. The tear tracks have dried on his face and yet he still hasn’t looked away from the static on the screen where, half an hour earlier, Fishcer Industries USA proudly broadcasted the live execution by firing squad of one Mallorie Odette Cobb, traitor to the United States and former leading dream-sharing scientist, wife to public enemy number one, Dominic Cobb.
Arthur stands by the door to the small ramshackle shelter, straight-backed and alert, the ever-vigilant point man he’s always been. His face is dry, his mouth pinched into a tight line, his finger brushing against the trigger of the semi-automatic he holds - standing as the pillar of strength for his friend who’s crumbling to pieces.
His eyes alight on a photograph then, a simple shot of two men at a ceremonial dinner, both finely dressed and looking as if they’re having the time of their lives in each other’s company - and something hot and unforgiving sears through his chest.
“Fine, then. Forget it. Bloody fucking - forget everything, darling.” The term of endearment sounds like anything but that, spit out bitterly, words harsh in the heat of anger and hurt. “You want to leave? Then get out.”
Get out.
Arthur leans his head back against the wall, eyes falling shut, fists clenching tight. Stop it, he tells himself firmly, because this sure as hell isn’t the time or place to get weepy and sentimental and, gritting his teeth against the twinge in his ribs, he hauls himself up off the floor, stepping over the scattered pieces of his past.
- - - - -
Fischer Industries USA employs more than five hundred security guards and sentries to surround and safeguard the huge, sprawling business complex; men and women of formidable skill and military backgrounds, trained to shoot on command and kill on sight, without warning and without conscience. Eagle-eyed, young, and limber, they’re the first and last line of defense against all enemies, foreign and domestic - in other words, pure cannon fodder.
Not one of them recognizes the silent figure slipping past them as their superior and Head of Security. Not one of them even notices his presence. It makes sense because Captain Davidson is a legend, and all legends come with the ability to induce a bit of suspension of disbelief - perhaps that’s why the man can make himself invisible, why no one detects one of Fischer Industries’ own vehicles rolling out the back gate, why no one sees the driver with one hand on the wheel and the other clenched into a fist around a red die, speeding off into the night.
* - * - *
Twenty-three feet across and only one and a half inches thick? That’s really not going to work. Ariadne frowns thoughtfully and chews the end of her pencil. Cobb’s sketch isn’t making a bit of sense, and she has a sneaking suspicion that’s supposed to be the point because the man is too good of an architect to have created a building that stands on a foundation this flimsy, even merely on paper - or, that is, the back of a piece of cardstock whose other side depicts a martini glass and the firm instruction to “drink responsibly.”
(The camp is running low on real paper, a problem Eames promises to resolve with the raid he and a couple others are setting out on today.)
“So...”
The weathered picnic bench creaks pitifully and groans under yet more weight, and Ariadne looks up with surprise at the newcomer who props her chin in her hands and smiles, bright and interested, so different from the woman she’d seen pressing the muzzle of a gun to the base of a man’s skull just a day prior. “How’s it going, Shorty?”
Ariadne starts, unresponsive, stunned. She has a feeling that even if she can speak, she’ll still be rendered mute, because Michelle really doesn’t seem the type to just sit down and strike up conversation just because.
Luckily, though, Michelle’s smile simply grows wider. “Yeah,” she chuckles, easy-going and full of spirit, “turns out I’m a girl after all.” She raises both eyebrows, pitches her voice low conspiratorially, “And I need someone to talk to other than these Y-chromosomal idiots.” Her gaze flickers down to the pencil still clenched in Ariadne’s fist, over the calluses on her middle and pointer fingers. “Let me guess. Student?”
Ariadne nods once and Michelle smiles fondly, a gesture that reveals a row of straight pearly whites. “Oh, yeah. Those were the days.” A wistful look flits across her face. “Never made it to college though. Took a year off to backpack through Europe and ended up joining the Peace Corps. Right before the world went to shit.”
Is that where you met Eames? Ariadne writes on a fresh page of her notebook, abandoning Cobb’s sketch for now. In the Peace Corps? I thought he was ex-military.
“Eames.” Michelle shakes her head, tenderness in her eyes. “He’s ex-military, all right. But no, I didn’t meet him until much later.” Her gaze shifts then, into something nostalgic and faraway, and Ariadne blinks.
Oh. She hadn’t thought of Michelle and Eames together like that, but obviously there must be some history between the two -
Her face must reveal a bit of her confusion, because Michelle quirks an eyebrow at her expression then bursts out laughing, hands gripping the sides of the picnic table to keep falling to the ground in stitches. “Oh sweet baby Jesus, not like that.” She has a bit of a southern accent, Michelle does, a bit of Texas in her speech and inflection, a slice of the borderland between the United States and its sister country below; her laugh is that of a woman who has seen far too much but still remembers the joy of happier times, who has been knocked down time and time again and refuses to forget how to stand back up.
Ariadne decides then that she rather likes Michelle; there’s something in the way she can see a lingering sadness behind the tough as nails exterior, the way she can still smile despite the hardness in her face that reveals past hardships and a stubborn will to survive, to fight, to claw through the fucked up day to day reality of life. She can’t be more than five years older than Ariadne herself, really, and yet her hands are callused not with the evidence of endless writing, but from shooting and getting shot at. Ariadne can’t help it; her eyes flick to the scar twisting its way up Michelle’s arm.
“Landmine,” Michelle supplies quietly, and only then does Ariadne realize that she’s been gaping for a while, and she hurriedly looks away with a fierce flush of embarrassment, already ready to sign out a hasty apology when the other woman waves her hand dismissively. “One of Fischer’s. Eames was the one who pulled me from the wreckage.” Both of them are silent for a moment, staring at the shiny pinkish-white jagged line of raised skin, dead tissue and history - before Michelle shoots Ariadne a thin smile. “So, what’s your story, Shorty? How’d you deal with the end of the world?”
Ariadne’s fingers clenching into an unconscious fist around the thin wood of her pencil -
A heavy weight pins her legs, a scrap of cloth clamps over her mouth and dirty fingers grip tightly over the rough burlap sack and she tries to scream but can’t. His breath smells like sour milk and beef as he gropes her and she would be humiliated as the tears roll down her face - hot and silent, silent just like her - if not for the fact that he’s ripping open her jeans. Her eyes slide in and out of focus, most likely from the blow to the side of her head that’s still sending stabbing pains through her skull but she can see the emblem of Fischer Industries USA well enough and as soon he touches her bare skin, she wrenches away from the makeshift gag and tries to plead for mercy, to holler to the high heavens, but the most that comes from her throat is a croak.
She blinks and meets Michelle’s curious gaze, and quickly scribbles down Got scooped up by Fischer Industries USA like everyone else.
A car’s horn beeps out and the two women look up and across the way, where Eames leans out of the door of a beat up Jeep, waving a hand. Michelle flashes Ariadne a smile before getting to her feet. “See you later, Shorty.”
Ariadne watches the Jeep roll out of camp with Eames at the wheel, and quickly signs out a very emphatic BE CAREFUL to which Eames responds with a wink and a reassuring grin. He takes both hands from the wheel to sign back a cheeky Yes, Mom - well, actually with Eames it would be Mum, but she’s not too worried about semantics - and Michelle wallops him on the shoulder, presumably telling him to keep his eyes on the road, damn it. An army truck follows closely - one of Fischer Industries USA’s, stripped and repainted, Cobb at the wheel - and Ariadne bites her lip, rolling the pencil between her now sweaty palms.
Raids aren’t an uncommon occurrence at Camp Sherwood. Of course, had this been before WWIII, Ariadne would’ve pitched a bit of a fit at the convoluted ethical and moral factors of stealing, but that was before…well, before all this. The end of the world kind of changes one’s perspective, even without Eames’ “steal from the rich and give to the poor” Robin Hood shtick. And besides, Ariadne has no problem taking from the bastards at Fischer Industries USA.
Not after what they took from her.
* - * - *
It’s nightfall by the time he takes his foot from the accelerator and steps down on the brake, more or less ripping the keys from the ignition and killing the engine. The surrounding brush and overgrown forest might be rough terrain, but it offers adequate cover; that combined with the cover of the darkness of night should be more than enough to keep him hidden but Arthur’s hand still goes to the holster on his thigh, eyes narrowing at the row of patrol trucks rumbling by on the paved road less than ten meters away. He doesn’t take his finger from the trigger until the last of the headlights have disappeared into the black, the crunch of tires over asphalt faded away. Then he releases a huge sigh and slumps, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
Jesus Christ.
It’s been less than two days since his escape from Fischer Industries USA headquarters, and Arthur knows it won’t be long before news of his disappearance spreads like wildfire and the hounds are set on his trail. There is a small part of him that’s vaguely surprised he hasn’t already heard the crackle announcing Captain Davidson’s treason over the radio built into the unobtrusive Jeep he stole, but the larger part of him doesn’t really give a shit because he’s free.
Oh fucking hell, he’s free.
Arthur fights down the hysterical bark of laughter bubbling up in his chest and threatening to slip out his mouth, a mix between disbelief and joy. Finally, he’s fulfilled the stipulations of the contract that’s bound him to Fischer Industries USA for the past year as the dreaded Captain Davidson - more shadow and terrible myth than man; finally, he’s able to cast off the persona he had to assume in order to spare Cobb and the entire damn resistance from ruin. He’d already been given the green light to leave, and the part where Browning had been stupid enough to send assassins after him and Robert’s presence at that time had only been pure coincidence and fate smiling down upon Arthur for the first time in a long time.
He fishes into his pocket and withdraws a single piece of paper, folded meticulously with the corners perfectly aligned and a single crease down the middle; carefully, he unfolds it and stares down at that which he couldn’t bear to leave behind in that prison of a hellhole.
“And here he comes, the conquering hero. Come to grace us with your presence, Captain?”
“Bite me, Eames.”
“Gladly, darling. But not here. Maybe later, yeah?”
Arthur gently brushes his finger over the glossy finish of the photograph, over the face of the man he misses more than words can express, more than he’s longed for any other living being in existence and has it really been so long since he’s seen the infuriating, amazing, insufferable man, heard that warm accented voice that sends his toes curling when it deepens into a growl, since -
A sound a couple of meters in front of the vehicle alerts his attention and his gun is in his right hand in a flash, his left already reaching for his backup. It was a small sound, like that of a bare foot moving quickly over leaves, a couple of twigs knocked askew from their original place, and it stopped as soon as he’d heard it. For a moment Arthur just waits there in the darkness, his muscles tense and eyes straining in the dark, mentally berating himself for forgetting night-vision goggles in his haste to slip out of Headquarters. He consults the map in his head of the approximated locations of the different camps that make of the chain of the resistance effort, refugee and otherwise (no one knows their exact location, not even him. Arthur hopes he can find his way though, because he’s been there once before and that’s where Cobb is…), calculates his distance from Fischer Industries USA outposts - but it can’t be any of Fischer’s men or more of Browning’s assassins; they would’ve shot him by now. And Arthur has no delusions, he knows he can’t make any promises for the members of the resistance either; as far as they know, he’s still the enemy until he can prove otherwise.
Another moment passes by as he breathes shallowly in the silence and then Arthur slowly reaches out with one hand, his other trigger finger ready, and sticks the keys in the ignition. Then, he flips on the headlights.
And curses. Goddamn it.
The faces that stare back at him - after initially shielding away from the harsh glare of the headlights with wordless guttural noises and hisses of protest - aren’t the carefully blank miens of Browning’s minions, and there’s not a Fischer Industries USA emblem to be seen. But that doesn’t make Arthur holster his gun; rather, he reaches for his other gun, jaw clenching tight as he takes in the small band of emaciated men and women dressed in nothing but rags, their hair greasy and unwashed and matted over jaundiced skin stretched thin over bone, creeping steadily closer toward the Jeep.
Tourists, as they’ve come to be known on both sides of the fence (no one knows why, exactly. Rumor is the term was once used in the dream sharing business, but no one really talks about that anymore), aren’t mindless monsters, per se - they’re human enough alright, those who resisted the advances of Fischer Industries USA and didn’t bother to join the resistance either, didn’t bother to join any side and ended up fending for themselves as the ground turned to cracked, dry nothingness, as the sky refused to produce any rain. The first harsh post-nuclear winter set in and planted into them the seeds of lunacy and wretched despair, seeds that took root as heedless and relentless brutality, driving out any and all senses of morality and reason and humanity, as it were, and instead pushing base, primal, animalistic urges and instinct to the forefront.
Or at least that’s what most everyone thinks. Arthur is one among the very few who know where the Tourists really come from, and how they became the way they are.
“Get back, all of you,” Arthur orders in a low voice as he takes in the dried blood on the hands of the five tourists approaching him - three on their hands and knees like animals, two upright and clearly the better fed of them all - and the corners of their mouths, still stained from their last meal. He meets a pair of glazed eyes and sees the spark of desperation-induced madness. The last tourist that had wandered onto the premises of sector C-145 had been shot on the spot - but the bullet to the knee hadn’t stopped him, nor the ten other pieces of lead that slammed into his body; nothing short of a headshot had finally put him down, frothing at the mouth and laughing as he bled to death.
Arthur doesn’t want to shoot to kill, because no matter what they’ve become, they are still people. Fischer Industries always does its damn hardest to stamp out all traces of humanity and conscience in its employees. As it turns out though, Arthur is damn good at resisting that sort of shit, and a rather fine actor, besides. He learned from the best, after all.
And he knows how they became the way they are now, knows that they can’t possibly be blamed for something that’s not their fault, not when he knows who the real monsters are.
He fires off a warning shot into the ground near one of the women’s bare feet, bit of grass and dirt flying everywhere, and the entire group shrinks away with a cacophony of groans, like a bunch of zombies in a B-rated horror movie, and Arthur takes the split second chance - he turns the key in the ignition and stomps on the accelerator as the engine roars to life.
Recovering quicker than expected, a tourist jumps at him - “Jesus fuck!” - Arthur yells and fires out of pure reflex, putting a small, neat bullet hole in between the man’s bloodshot eyes and the others shriek out in terror or maybe delight, descending upon their fallen companion and tearing into the body with hands and teeth, jaws opened wide at the newly dead flesh, blood spraying everywhere like some morbid cannibalistic sacrificial ritual. Arthur doesn’t stop to observe any further; he jerks the steering wheel to the side and speeds off through the forest, crashing through branches and not giving a damn about the racket he must be making.
His pulse pounds as the speedometer climbs to eighty, then ninety, then well above one hundred miles per hour. Alright, he tells himself sternly, calm down. Tourists travel in groups, but groups rarely travel together in packs.
Not that that really helps any.
The satellite phone in his pocket beeps and Arthur literally jumps, smashing his knees into the steering wheel and hissing out a curse as he fishes in his pocket for the device and pushes blindly at the buttons, his eyes still staring straight ahead. “Saito.”
“Captain.” The business mogul sounds breathless, panicked, and Arthur’s hackles immediately racket up another five hundred notches because Saito is one of the most unflappable men he’s ever met, nary a hair out of place or mote of dust on his person as he takes over continent after continent in this post-apocalyptic world, as he wages war against Fischer Industries, as he corners Arthur in a dark, damp little shithole of a makeshift prison and offers him a Faustian deal - his services as a mole and a traitor in Fischer Industries USA for the continued safety of Cobb and the resistance in return.
“What is it?” Arthur’s hands tighten in the steering wheel, now stripped of the black leather gloves that marked him as Fischer Industries USA’s property, as one of them. He shifts the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “Saito?”
“My man inside the resistance tells me that there is an informer in the central camp. You should wait until the mole is found before you leave Fischer Industries USA Headquarters.”
“What.” Arthur’s voice is flat, but he can feel the scream of frustration and anger building in his chest, rolling and swelling, a black feeling that threatens to choke him unless he finds someway to release it. “What.”
“I understand it will be difficult, so I have arranged for-”
“Difficult, my ASS!” Arthur finally roars, outraged. He can deal with being a puppet, a pawn, however terrible of a taste it may leave in his mouth, but he can’t fucking work with faulty or conflicting or late data. “I’m already out and on my way - GODDAMN IT!”
The phone flies out of his hand, lands somewhere in the darkness with a hard clunk and fizzles into static and white noise. Arthur wrenches the steering wheel violently to avoid the solitary figure suddenly standing directly in the way of the speeding Jeep, swerving hard - and the entire vehicle overturns, flipping not once but three times before shuddering to a halt in a heap of twisted metal and the groaning engine. One of the tires lets out a quiet pft-sssssssss and in the shadows, a man lowers his sniping rifle before joining the three other men approaching Arthur, who lies where he’s been thrown, illuminated by the headlights: limbs spread akimbo, bleeding from an ugly gash on the side of his head, unconscious and defenseless.
“Hot damn,” the man drawls, grinning in a way that looks more like a predatory snarl, all teeth and no pleasantness at all. “Look here, boys. Christmas come early.”
* - * - *
Part 5