Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 5/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (5/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,787
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
“I like her.”
Michelle’s voice rises above the rattle, rattle, crash of the Jeep driving through the woods; they don’t dare take the roads for fear of running into an envoy of Fischer’s soldiers. Berkley had gone over the scheduled plans and routes time and time again, but Eames knows from experience that it’s always better to be safe than sorry, especially when the cost of the slightest mistake is the life of a comrade and friend, so they’re setting out in the dead of night, dimmed headlights casting eerie shadows against the trees and brush.
“Sorry?” Eames asks, and Michelle rolls her eyes.
“The new girl. Shorty. The one who’s always carrying a notebook around?” She casually peers at the bullets in the magazine she holds before sliding it back into her gun with a click. Her fingers are callused but swift and sure, fingernails clean although it’s obviously been ages since anyone offered manicures. “Girl’s gotta have some balls and a world of patience to put up with you and Mr. Broody all the time.”
“Ari?” Eames mumbles distractedly, swerving a bit to avoid a log. “Oh, she’s wonderful.”
Wft, click- goes another magazine as Michelle raises an eyebrow at the noncommittal reply and then prods at him. “Okay, you. Talk.” She jabs a finger at a muscled bicep in time with each syllable. “You’ve been moody and distracted all day, and I don’t need you turning into another Cobb. Not on the last raid of the night, at least.”
Eames continues to stare resolutely ahead, out the windshield, expression blank. “It’s nothing.”
“Mhmm.” She studies him for a moment and then leans back, propping her booted feet up on the dashboard. “Would that ‘nothing’ be anything like your Captain Davidson going all Jigsaw on poor Scotty Henderson? That kind of nothing?” The Jeep jerks a bit, breaks squealing and protesting as Eames accidentally stomps down on both the accelerator and the brakes, and Michelle snorts. “Smooth.”
“He’s not my Captain, and you bloody well know it,” Eames growls once he gets the vehicle back under control, tone curt and words clipped, bitten off with full stops like a military command. His brow is wrinkled and he refuses to look anywhere but straight ahead. “And Cobb is certain it wasn’t him.”
“Is he?”
“Quite.”
Michelle pauses, fingers skimming against the passenger side door, tapping restlessly. She bites her lip for a moment then speaks again, quieter this time. “Eames…look,” she sighs. “I’m not saying this as your second, but as your friend. I know you and the Captain have…” She hesitates here, because the telltale muscle in Eames’ jaw is jumping just a bit, and he’s going to burn a hole in the windshield if he stares at it any harder, and she would really rather not find herself at the wrong end of Eames’ pistol. But both she and Eames are the type to believe that things can change through sheer will and stubbornness, so she tries again. “I know you two have History, but-”
As expected, Eames cuts her off brusquely. “Yes, well done, you; now leave it.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel and his voice is harsh, commanding, almost, as he cuts her a withering look out of the corner of his eye before he exhales a lungful of air, voice going quiet. “Just leave well enough alone.”
There are withering looks, and then there are withering looks. This one is the latter, and so she simply slumps further down in the seat and closes her mouth with something that is most definitely not a pout.
Anyone else would’ve been affronted, but Michelle has been friends with Eames long enough to hear the undercurrent of hurt in his tone, a plea as much as an order. This man who sits beside her, staring out into the darkness with the jagged, torn edges of loss and betrayal behind his jovial manner and in his dancing eyes isn’t the man she met so many years ago when he pulled her out of the remains of a bus full of refugees all blown to hell, digging her out of the heap of severed limbs and twisted metal with his bare hands, gently cradling her and telling her hush, hush now, you’re safe. He used to laugh without an empty echo in his voice, used to tell stories of the darling he was waiting for, used to live and breathe without ghosts of the past haunting him day by day.
The news of Fischer Industries USA “acquiring” a fine new asset in the form of one Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson changed all that. Now the silver-white scar spanning across his face seems to mark him as damaged like never before and at times, he reminds her entirely too much of Cobb.
Once again she wonders just who this Arthur Davidson must be to have captured the heart of such a kind, wonderful man like William Eames, captured and kept it. She wants to hate the Captain for not only turning traitor and running to Fischer Industries USA to act as their lapdog, but for having the gall to be so hateful and unfeeling as to treat Eames like something forgotten, half-remembered, and then deemed not worthy enough to come back for - but she doesn’t. She can’t because it’s plain as day that Eames still loves the man more than life itself; such had been evident even during the brief fling she and he had a while back. Both of them had been (and still are, if she’s going to be perfectly honest) too emotionally involved with lovers lost - like knows like after all - and the affair had been purely physical and over almost as soon as it began.
(But if Michelle Rosanna Reyes ever comes face to face with aforementioned Captain, she might just possibly be tempted to kneecap him for breaking the heart of one of the best men she’s ever met.)
“Right,” she says quietly, and watches her friend’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, changing the subject. “So what’re we looking for?”
“Anesthesia. Morphine. Ibuprofen,” Eames lists confidently, ticking off the items on his fingers, now comfortable with the topic of conversation now, slipping back into the role of resistance leader and hiding all traces of inner turmoil and devastation. “Natasha’s fully stocked, but my people are lacking.”
“Well, what about - the fuck?!” Michelle’s feet smash against the windshield and her entire upper body nearly goes flying against the dashboard at an awkward angle as the Jeep slams to a sudden stop; she rights herself and glares at Eames in annoyance, but he’s too busy frowning out at the truck in front of them to pay her any attention, leaning out of the space where the driver’s side door used to be.
“Cobb?”
A hand extends from the driver’s side window of the truck, waving them forward. Frown deepening, Eames puts the Jeep in reverse, adjusts the wheels, and then pulls up beside the truck as Michelle succeeds in putting her feet lower than her head; she raises an eyebrow as she comes face to face with Cobb. Before she or Eames can utter a word of inquiry as to why they’ve stopped though, Cobb speaks, squinting out at nothing in particular.
“Something’s wrong.”
Michelle’s got her finger on the trigger before the last syllable leaves Cobb’s mouth. “Time?” She peers intently into the ghostly mist of the cold spring air illuminated by the dim headlights, eyes tracing the contours of the cinderblock guard post they’re idling in front of. She may not have been trained to be a killer, a fighter in the name of a lost cause, or a soldier of a country that no longer exists, but she’s always been a fast learner and she didn’t whore her way to being Eames’ second in command, fuck whatever Gordon and his little lackeys think.
“Half five,” Eames answers, glancing at the fob watch he’d pilfered from another raid close to a year ago; not many people have the luxury of wristwatches anymore. “We’re on schedule. Last watchman should be switching out for the next shift.”
It’s usually Eames who takes a team out to raid a series of checkpoints on a meticulously careful itinerary, and then brings back the pilfered items for distribution among the other camps. Very rarely do they raid actual Fischer sectors, and the one that resulted in Ariadne joining their merry number was conducted out of desperation. This specific checkpoint they’ve arrived at is the third and final one on their list and it’s nothing extraordinary, just another dot on the service routes of Fischer Industries USA; however, this one is reputed for its extra storage space and rare supplies in stock such as perishable foodstuffs and medicinal items - and because of that, is one of the more heavily guarded targets.
“There’s no one here.”
Michelle snorts. “Kinda the point, Broody.”
He sends her an exasperated glance. “Don’t you hear anything?”
It’s not that they dislike each other; rather, he’s never been especially friendly in the first place and he’s run out of cigarettes (nicotine withdrawal is an ugly thing), and she thinks he has no manners and no other setting besides being broody. They tolerate each other well enough, though, so Michelle merely glares at him as if to say you’re the partially deaf one here, buddy, before tilting her head slightly and straining her ears. “No. Nothing.”
“Exactly.” Cobb’s eyes dart back and forth, uneasy. “No crackling static of a radio, no footsteps, no quiet murmur of late night conversation.”
Eames’ frown pulls at the scar tissue on his face and he nudges Michelle in the side. “Torch,” he mutters, and she obediently unclips the LED flashlight on her belt and hands it over to the man who jumps deftly from the driver’s seat and approaches the guard post, clicking the flashlight on as he goes. The small, perfectly circular spotlight lands on a patch of splatter against grey cinderblock and Cobb narrows his eyes even further, Michelle hisses out a string of curses that would make a sailor proud, and Eames swears under his breath as he touches two fingers to the red. They come away tacky and still slightly wet.
“Shit,” Michelle whispers, breath fogging slightly in the cool spring early morning air. She gets out of the Jeep slowly, cautiously. “Gordon?”
“No,” Eames says sharply, although all three of them know that the man in question is both perfectly capable and willing to carry out such a massacre. Too bad for him that Eames would never approve of him doing so, though, and would undoubtedly take him to task.
Despite being ex-military, Eames isn’t a violent man, and as the leader of the resistance, repeatedly emphasizes that members of the effort are not to meet Fischer Industries personnel with violence unless provoked, engaged, or in case of self-defense; it pits him against some of the more gung-ho zealous types like Gordon, but being at the top has its perks and Eames draws the line at voluntary bloodshed. On raids, they rely on carefully scheduled plans and stealth; all of the camps are connected by a chain of scouts posted at strategic locations between each settlement and in the past six months, they’ve managed to avoid a lot of major altercations with Fischer Industries and therefore, a lot of unnecessary deaths.
William Eames is not a man who appreciates having innocent blood on his hands, or shed in connection to his name.
(And the bloody incident several months past with the single truck of Fischer’s men who’d lost their way back to Headquarters is something he’d really rather forget. Damn Gordon.)
“Tourists, then,” Michelle says slowly, and she’s standing very still right at Eames’ back. “Eames…”
“We’re leaving.” Eames says in reply, wiping his fingers on his khaki pants, turning sharply toward his second. “Michelle, get back in the car.”
“Eames.” Michelle doesn’t move, staring at something over his shoulder, and she has her gun in hand, finger twitching against the trigger; her lips barely move as she grinds out the next words. “Don’t fucking move.”
Oh, bloody hell.
From behind him comes a slow rattle of breath inside a collapsed chest, the groans of a dying man who probably doesn’t even remember being human, shuffling slowly forward. There’s a drag of footsteps, then another, then another; Eames can see Cobb’s eyes widening over Michelle’s shoulder and the slow movement of his hands for a weapon, and he shakes his head slowly, no.
Usually, when you try getting the jump on a tourist, you end up with your throat ripped out, veins and sinew twisted and caught in his teeth like chicken gristle.
“How many?” he murmurs, as much for Michelle as it is for Cobb who’s undoubtedly reading his lips, and Cobb holds up four fingers. Eames looks toward Michelle for confirmation but he never gets an answer as the woman’s eyes widen so much he swears he can see his own reflection in her dark pupils, and she grabs his arm, fingers digging into his bicep -
“Eames, get DOWN!”
The cool morning air splits with the sound of gunshots, animalistic snarls, and a scream.
* - * - *
Arthur wakes with a rattling gasp of a shout as a touch of electricity touches his ribs and shoots throughout his frame, barely managing to bite back on the sound at the last moment, swallowing it down as the black spots dancing before his eyes gradually dissipate.
“Wakey wakey, Captain.”
Oh, merciful fuck. He knows that voice.
The cattle prod crackles again with electricity and as it descends, aiming lower this time, Arthur ignores the screaming of the ribs in his left side and the way his entire left leg below the knee is throbbing like hell as he tenses. His hands are tied behind his back, his legs at the ankles, and his entire body protests the motion, but he manages to roll so that the cattle prod misses his abdomen and hits dirt instead.
“That’s a neat trick.” The man chuckles, dark and low, squatting down to look Arthur in the eye. “But you were always a slippery one, weren’t you, Davidson?”
“Gordon.” Arthur’s pretty sure he has a concussion (why else would his vision be swimming like that?) but he can see well enough to recognize the man looming over him now like a boogeyman he hasn’t seen in years. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He takes in his surroundings for the first time - a low ceilinged, four wooden walled structure, with dim lighting and barely enough space to fit more than five grown men - and his mouth goes dry.
Arthur’s seen enough torture rooms in his lifetime to know when he’s landed himself in one.
“Smart mouth,” Gordon says thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin, darkened with three-day old scruff. Arthur can feel his own jaw caked with blood, probably from the barely scabbed over wound near his hairline. “Some things never change, huh?”
“Just like old times.” Slowly, painfully, Arthur pulls himself into a seated position, back against the wall, watching Gordon with wary eyes. “I see you’re still a sadistic bastard. How quaint.” He surreptitiously tugs at the knots holding him fast, fingers seeking for any signs of weakness in the rope or loopholes to be found, but no such luck.
Gordon has always been, if nothing else, dangerously thorough. Seems like some things never change after all.
The other man sneers at him, stands, raises a steel-toed booted foot, and kicks him viciously across the face. Arthur hears and feels the fracture of the bone and as the foot draws back again and slams into his sternum. He coughs harshly, wheezing for air as blood and saliva drips from his mouth, hunching his shoulders and trying to curl in on the pain. He doesn’t scream, though, doesn’t even allow the notion to cross his mind, the possibility that he’ll give Gordon the sadistic glee of hearing any sound of pain escape his mouth.
Calloused, grimy fingers grip his jaw and grind the dislocated and probably fractured bones together painfully, eliciting a grunt from the back of Arthur’s throat as Gordon forces eye contact again, eyes burning. Such a description is often used to describe the unquenchable madness or terrible ferocity in the eyes of fearsome beasts, heartless psychopaths, or the dastardly villains of a children’s bedtime story, but Gordon is a different type of animal altogether, and Arthur has always been able to see that.
“It’s not going to do you any good to break my jaw if you want me to talk,” he tells Gordon, words slurred slightly, but staring straight into those eyes, unwilling to show any fear, never mind that that is, for the first time in a long time, exactly what he might be feeling.
“Talk?” Gordon’s grin is more than unsettling because it’s the type that spells out childish hatred and glee at having won something, at having won himself a Captain to play with and take apart. “Oh no, you little fucker.” He raises the cattle prod again. “I’m gonna make you sing.”
* - * - *
…and I really, really hope that they manage to find some soap; maybe shampoo, if we’re lucky. Eames mentioned that this raid is only supposed to be for necessities, and I hope he counts cleaning products in that category. I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since my last three-minute shower in freezing cold water. Walter says he’s doing his best to fix the plumbing problem, and I guess we can be thankful that it’s not the dead of winter. I remember that one December two years ago at that hellhole of a Fischer encampment, where-
Propping herself up on her elbows, Ariadne gives the goopy brown oatmeal in the Styrofoam bowl balanced precautious between her journal and the pillow a vicious stir and shakes her head, frowning down at the last line before scribbling over it with a couple of furious pen strokes, forcing the memory into the back of her mind. That was the year almost everyone seemed to get sick all at once, the year the shipments for ibuprofen and cough medicine never came through, the year little Abigail Tuner died from the flu, a common enough disease that no one had the medicine for, lying flushed and shivering and crying in her cot under threadbare covers for days before finally passing quietly the night before her sixth birthday.
(She can still hear the sound of poor Mrs. Tuner’s sobbing. One of the guards on night watch had come around and kicked the poor woman for “making such a goddamn racket”, the heartless bastard.)
Anyway. Her oatmeal has gone cold, and, abandoning the carefully rationed breakfast allotment (that’s really more than the meager portions she could have ever prayed for back in sector C-145), she puts her feet into her boots and moves to the opening of the canvas tent, rubbing her arms a bit for warmth as she stares out into the grey morning. Gotta ask Cobb if I can pilfer a spare jacket from storage…
Tapping her pen against the worn leather cover of her journal, Ariadne scans the grounds for any sign of Eames and the others; she’d promised to help with cataloguing the goods and separating them into groups to be taken to Michelle and Ezra’s bases, with Natasha and her band of traveling medics, and the refugee camps (Gordon had opted out of this raid, a notation she personally is very happy with; that man gives her the creeps). She may not be a fugitive as a former member of the dream sharing enterprise or an active member of the resistance, but she has her pride if nothing else, and is determined to have some way to earn her keep.
It’s sometime around seven-thirty or probably later; people are starting to move about in their normal morning routines but the rain clouds looming overhead make it a bit difficult to pinpoint an exact time. Strange though, it doesn’t seem like Eames and the others have gotten back yet. She’d thought they planned to be back by-
“Ariadne?”
Mouth open in a silent yelp, Ariadne turns away from the sight of Ezra helping Natasha lift another crate of something or other (she’s pretty sure the gruff old war veteran has a bit of a crush on the physician and it’s the cutest thing she’s seen in a long time), fingers reaching for the penknife in her pocket out of pure habit because the jumpiness and paranoia cultivated by years of terror can’t be stamped out overnight.
Tommy jumps and holds up his hands. “Whoa. Hey, hey. Easy.” He takes a giant step backwards, an exaggeration of keeping his distance, and gives her a sheepish grin, one that now looks slightly uncertain. “Um…I just wanted to say good morning?”
Oh. Heat rises to her cheeks and she mentally thumps her fist against her forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He towers over her, looking every inch the Division I college athlete he used to be, swimmer’s physique and all, and somewhere in the back of Ariadne’s mind comes the word yum. Right now though, she’s too embarrassed to do anything other than manage a weak smile and a wave of the hand in what she hopes is the approximation of a friendly greeting in return.
Tommy’s grin grows a bit more confident. “You know, I was thinking that maybe sometime we could-”
The poor boy really has the worst timing in the world though, because he’s interrupted by a squeal of tires and a groaning of badly abused brakes as a Jeep tears into camp, past the guard towers and through the main gates, sending up chunks of mud and other debris. Eames jumps from the driver’s seat, bleeding from an ugly scrape across his left side, and races around the front of the vehicle to help support a shaky, wan Michelle as she stumbles out of the Jeep, face and hands splattered with red, right thigh seeping a bright crimson through the makeshift tourniquet of Eames’ jacket. “TASH!”
Everyone converges on the pair like flies to honey: Natasha’s already running, her emergency medical kit in hand and spouting off a steady stream of Russian, having reverted to her native tongue under duress; the sentries hop off of their guard towers and begin to throw their weight against the heavy gates, pushing them shut after Cobb pulls through in the truck (looking relatively unharmed, thank God); Tommy goes to help them and Ariadne takes a few unsteady steps forward, boots slipping ever so slightly in the mud underfoot.
“What the FUCK happened?” Ezra roars, more or less hoisting Michelle up by the waist and lugging her towards the medical cabin with little to no effort at all.
“Tourists,” Eames spits with a hiss as Natasha chases after him with a swab of antiseptic. “A pack of seven of them. We were - ow! Bloody hell, Tash!”
Natasha shoots something back in Russian, her tone sharp. She whaps him upside the head and then starts attacking his shirt with a pair of scissors, cutting the cloth away as she pushes him none too gently in the same direction as Ezra and Michelle, scolding the entire way.
- - - - -
It’s not until three hours later - after a steady round of curses and complaints from Michelle (“Oh for the love of - stop it, Eames; it’s just a bite. I’m not going to be keeling over or turning into a zombie or a werewolf or…Goddamn it, Broody, will you get this idiot out of here?!”) - that Eames tumbles out of the medical cabin, freshly bandaged and looking no more worse for the wear than the rest of them, striding towards where Ariadne sits on one of the unloaded crates from the raid, taking stock of the goods.
How’s Michelle? She asks immediately, standing up as soon as she sees him, and Eames gives her a crooked grin, reassuring.
“Alright. She’s a tough one.”
And what about you? She’d tried asking Cobb, but couldn’t get much out of him; the man had simply taken on the look of having bitten into something extremely sour or unpleasant and told her to “ask Eames”. What happened? They both know she’s not asking about the how or the why of the injuries they sustained; everyone knows exactly what tourists are, and what they’re capable of.
(They rape you for hours on end, cannibalize you, or make you their plaything. Or if you’re really lucky, they might just kill you before all that.)
“Smashing, dove. We just missed a few small details. Nothing to be fussed about.” He claps his hands and nods at the crates. “What’ve we here?”
From the other side of the pile of crates, Cobb mutters something under his breath, and although Ariadne can’t be certain, it sounds something along the lines of Arthur wouldn’t have missed anything.
Eames stands up so fast from where he’s crouched down inspecting the contents of a crate that he looks like a jack-in-the-box, minus the bells, whistles, and painted on smile. In fact, there’s anything but a smile on his face; he’s got that strange look on his face again, the one that never bodes well for its unfortunate recipient - eyes hard, mouth turned down at the corners, brows drawn so tightly in toward one another that the furrow there looks like another scar marring the man’s features. “What was that?”
His voice is deceptively soft, words laced with warning and something dangerous under the surface, and Ariadne tenses immediately, shoulders going stiff, head still bent over her notebook but pen stilling, waiting for the oncoming storm with baited breath. She remembers what happened the last time Eames spoke in this tone of voice, remembers the war council and the confrontation with Gordon, the end of which she didn’t see, given that Cobb deemed it too dangerous for her to remain in the building after the sparks started flying. Fifty rounds of ammo, twenty rolls of toilet paper, two shovels, one can of ‘Dead Salmon’ colored paint… her tidy penmanship reads, and the letters blur together as she continues starting at them very determinedly.
Eames’s boots squelch out neat little tread patterns in the mud as he stalks closer, stopping a few paces from where Cobb hasn’t moved an inch, obviously unthreatened. “Fancy sharing that with the class, Cobb?” Clearly, Michelle’s near miss (had the tourist’s teeth gone another inch to the left, they would’ve pierced the femoral artery, ensuring death by exsanguinations in minutes) paired along with the news a scout brought of the murder of another dream sharer, Yusuf, one of Eames’ close friends, is putting the man’s nerves on edge.
Cobb isn’t a soldier to be ordered around or intimidated though; he’s not Eames’ subordinate in any way, shape, or form, and certainly doesn’t capitulate easily to the demands of others. Instead, he meets Eames’ glare head on, unperturbed. “I said, ‘If Arthur were here, he wouldn’t have missed anything,’” he repeats slowly, enunciating each word carefully and clearly, putting special emphasis on the name and subject of the sentence, a definite dare if Ariadne ever heard one, although it’s one she doesn’t understand in the least.
Five packs of notebook paper, four tires, sixteen packets of seeds, and ten packets of cooking oil.
“Arthur isn’t here,” Eames responds coolly, the name slipping through his teeth in the same manner one might say the words ulcer, politician, or Judas. “He’s not your point man anymore, Cobb. Or is that something you’ve just conveniently decided to forgive and forget?”
“He’s not a traitor, Eames.” Cobb sounds tired, twice his age, like a man who’s been through the fire and still hasn’t decided whether or not it’s worth his while to continue on. “I know him better than that. You know him better than that.”
“Do I?”
Ariadne’s eyes fly up on their own accord to Eames’s face, and sure enough - there’s just the faintest trace of wistfulness flashing across his features to match the bitterness in the man’s tone, something lonely and plaintive, filled with hurt and promises long forgotten. It’s gone just as soon as it comes though, and Eames is all derision and dry mockery once more, rounding on Cobb with renewed vigor. “Don’t make me laugh. Now you’re just taking the piss.”
A set of seven stainless steel kitchen knives, a box of paper clips, two bottles of toilet cleaner…good grief, it’s like filling up a shopping cart at Walmart or something. Wait a second, where did the crate of nonperishable foodstuffs go?
Maybe she ought to try breaking this up. Men sure do love their little pissing matches, and with the sizes of Eames’ and Cobb’s respective egos, they’re all going to be stuck here until kingdom come, with her turning grey just waiting for their little staring match to end. Ariadne tries clearing her throat politely, and lets out a noiseless growl of exasperation as her vocal chords refuse to emit even that.
“Your intel management here is sloppy,” Cobb shoots back, words barbed, tone sharp. “Maybe the reason Fischer Industries keeps getting the better of you is because you’re heading in with guns blazing and no idea that they have an army of fucking tanks. Even if you’ve decided that Arthur’s the spawn of Satan, at least take a page from his book and shape up before nameless, faceless tourists run you into the ground like they almost did today.”
“You want to bloody talk about sloppiness?” Eames’ voice has risen now; he and Cobb are standing less than twelve inches away from each other, both men looking an inch away from puffing up like peacocks and beating their chests in a primitive show for dominance. “Nevada. The Program’s last war game. You remember that, don’t you, Cobb?”
Cobb pales ever so slightly; he does, apparently, and Eames’ accent thickens with what sounds like barely concealed anger. “The booby-trapped facility, the bloody Generals who decided not to tell the chemists about the game’s hidden trapdoor, and the government’s top leading scientist in the field of dream sharing who somehow forgot to notify his precious point man of- ow!” He breaks off and glares at Ariadne who’s balancing precariously on top of one of the crates, notebook still raised and poised for another good whack on the side of the head if necessary. “What the bloody hell was that for?!”
She tries to inject as much impatience into the words as she can, signing snappishly: Will you two STOP arguing over your imaginary boyfriend Arthur and FOCUS for a second or two?!
Cobb opens his mouth to answer and probably apologize, but Eames beats him, tossing out a distracted “He is not imaginary.”
Ariadne stares at him and signs, slowly, …so he is your boyfriend?
Eames goes red in the face. “Get back to work!” he snaps, turning away stiffly, thereby ending the conversation given that Ariadne has no way of calling him back. She watches him go, head tilted slightly in confusion, wondering just who in the world this Arthur is, and mentally noting that Eames didn’t deny her assumption, merely stormed off like an angst-ridden teenager who honestly doesn’t know the answer to the query himself.
She turns her attention back towards Cobb, who has a slightly guilty look on his face, one that suggests he’s touched a nerve that should’ve been left alone, and pulls on his sleeve. Is he okay?
“He will be.”
Are you going to be okay?
Cobb’s hardened eyes soften near imperceptibly and he gives her a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” It’s clearly a lie. He hasn’t been “okay” for a long time, and it’s unlikely he will be ever again. His wedding ring glints in the weak sunlight as he waves a hand at the crates. “Now didn’t you say you need some soap and shampoo?”
- - - - -
So…he is your boyfriend?
Eames stares up at the fitted and chinked wooden planks of the roof above his head, Ariadne’s curious gaze and innocent question burning a hole in his mind, just when he thought he was done with this nonsense. Rain pitter-patters softly against the cabin; it’s always raining nowadays and thunder rumbles in the distance, echoing the forger’s troubled state of mind.
Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Eames huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. Well, Arthur’s certainly no boy; he’s a man capable of taking down an army with just his mind (Eames has seen it before) and as for the friend part? He’s pretty sure any connections of such nature were rendered null and void the instant aforementioned man put on the uniform of the enemy and ceased to be anything to Eames but Captain Davidson, the Head of Security of Fischer Industries USA.
It doesn’t matter that buried somewhere in the back of the fine arts museum that is Eames’ mind (some people have sprawling landscapes in their heads, others have libraries; Eames has a mansion that puts the Louvre, the Met, and the Polo Museale Florentino to shame) is an entire wing centered on only one subject, only one man, a wing that has been closed for maintenance (or at least that’s what the sign says), gates locked forevermore. It doesn’t matter that sometimes in the moments of fogginess right before consciousness slips into black nothingness (he never dreams anymore, you see) Eames sees a tall, slim man dressed in a sharp black tuxedo gazing at him with inscrutable eyes from across a ballroom floor; sometimes he sees the man dressed as one of Fischer’s soldiers, slim hands hidden by black gloves, face shuttered and unreadable. Sometimes Eames sees (remembers) the man’s lean frame shining with sweat, muscles rippling under pale skin, head thrown back and throat bared in abandon, his usually perfectly styled hair in disarray and he’s beautiful, God, he’s so beautiful.
But none of that matters now. Not anymore.
* - * - *
They say that pain is in the mind. Real or imaginary, neuropathic or psychogenic, superficial or deep, it all starts with stimulation in the peripheral nervous system, and it all dwindles down to the fact that something’s wrong: skinned knees at age five, a busted lip after an altercation in the schoolyard, an accident in the kitchen, an aching head the morning after one too many drinks, an accident that leads to a busted heart in a failed romance. Regardless of the vast amount of self-help literature and the process of building oneself a positive self-image, humans have always been most comfortable in their own skins, knowledgeable of all the ins and outs of their own systems, and the first to notice and protest even the slightest twinge of suffering and discomfort.
They start in simple, at first. Fists and feet, spitting and jeering; the occasional solid blow makes him bend double over his knees and wheeze for breath, but it’s nothing he doesn’t know how to manage. He’s been through the fire and destruction on a battlefield, experienced the loneliness and isolation as a supposed traitor, awakened from deaths that the likes of these idiots can’t ever even begin to imagine - and compared to all of that, this? This is nothing. He can handle it.
The human mind is an incredible construct, the core of all reason and beginning location of all thought, an Eden of neural pathways, synaptic gaps, and neurotransmitters flying back and forth a thousand times faster than comprehension can track. Some say that through the power of “positive thinking” and intense concentration, there are those who can achieve the lengths of putting mind over matter, of reigning in control over their senses and rising above pain of any kind.
He’s still perfectly lucid (although partially blinded, due to how much his eye is swelling) when they set in relentlessly with brass knuckles (imprinting onto his skin and leaving behind bruises blossoming purple and blue-black), beer bottles (he thinks he was being used as target practice that time - five points for blood, ten points for the head, fifty points if you can get him to scream!), lengths of chains that curl around his frame and dig in, links biting down deep and ripping away pieces of skin as they sling back - he feels every single bone as it breaks, hears the snap like a tree branch giving way in a storm, feels skin and flesh giving way. But he breathes through it, breathes although he can taste the copper of blood in his mouth, dripping from his nose, caking on his face and through his hair - he breathes.
He can handle it.
Everyone has a point of no return, his or her own personal limit where once the bridge is crossed, it burns and burns forevermore; everyone, no matter how well-trained, no matter how stoic. Every man who ever lived has that one moment, that one instant when the dam crumbles, when the deluge sweeps through, when he can take the pain no longer.
When he breaks.
They watch gleefully, one of them is smoking a cigarette, another with a sadistic grin stretching his face, yet another laughing out loud, but no louder than Arthur’s cry as he thrashes in unbelievable agony, screaming full-throated at the sky, twisting his wrists in the bonds from which he hangs from a ceiling beam in the small torture room of a cabin.
Gradually, his screams die into heaving, labored wheezes for breath and one man takes a long drag from his cigarette, stepping forward and blowing the smoke directly into Arthur’s face, and Arthur chokes on smoke and blood, chokes because he really hasn’t the strength to tell him to fuck off. Not anymore. It’s been days, and he’s losing the ability to even think straight, much less talk or attempt to hold back any strangled gasps.
The man smiles then, cruel and heartless and ugly, and Arthur recognizes that smile although his eyes are barely slits in his face. “Let’s give the Captain another, gentlemen.” Gordon withdraws the cigarette from his lips and reaches up, grinds it out on the back of one of Arthur’s hands, but by that time both of them, palms and back, are already so covered with wounds of the same nature that Arthur barely responds with more than a small twitch and a low moan.
He’s doused with another barrel of salt water - who the fuck knows where Gordon got it - and his body jerks spastically as each of his innumerable wounds awakens with a tongue of its own, screaming in agony although he hasn’t the breath to do so, the operatic chorus of torture culminating as Gordon’s henchmen drag over something large and bulky, winding wiry, stripped cords around his fingers and burned hands. With the flip of a switch, his entire world explodes and he jerks and fights unseeingly, blinded by the white hot flash of pain. It disintegrates into a million tiny pinpricks attacking each and every nerve receptor as he twitches and his muscles spasm uncontrollably, volt after volt of constant electrical surges running through his battered frame without cease.
A whimper slips past his lips, because he can’t handle it. He can’t.
He can’t.
- - - - -
Under the safety of the darkness of night, a man comes to a stop beside a fallen oak tree, blackened and twisted from a direct hit during a lightening storm. He brings both hands up to cup around his mouth, and trills out a mourning dove’s distinctive call, then waits for a beat.
From somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots a reply, signaling a scout’s presence and readiness to receive a message, prompting him to go ahead.
Here, the man hesitates for a moment. What he’s about to do next is undoubtedly the first domino that will set off a chain reaction of death and other rather undesirable things. But then he thinks of the man who, not half a mile away, is being tortured within an inch of his life, and he makes his decision. Raising his hands again, he imitates the piercing shriek of a hawk, followed by two long whistles.
The message is clear, a distress signal to be taken to Sherwood, and to Eames himself. Gordon’s base. Trouble. Come quickly.
* - * - *
Part 6
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,787
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
“I like her.”
Michelle’s voice rises above the rattle, rattle, crash of the Jeep driving through the woods; they don’t dare take the roads for fear of running into an envoy of Fischer’s soldiers. Berkley had gone over the scheduled plans and routes time and time again, but Eames knows from experience that it’s always better to be safe than sorry, especially when the cost of the slightest mistake is the life of a comrade and friend, so they’re setting out in the dead of night, dimmed headlights casting eerie shadows against the trees and brush.
“Sorry?” Eames asks, and Michelle rolls her eyes.
“The new girl. Shorty. The one who’s always carrying a notebook around?” She casually peers at the bullets in the magazine she holds before sliding it back into her gun with a click. Her fingers are callused but swift and sure, fingernails clean although it’s obviously been ages since anyone offered manicures. “Girl’s gotta have some balls and a world of patience to put up with you and Mr. Broody all the time.”
“Ari?” Eames mumbles distractedly, swerving a bit to avoid a log. “Oh, she’s wonderful.”
Wft, click- goes another magazine as Michelle raises an eyebrow at the noncommittal reply and then prods at him. “Okay, you. Talk.” She jabs a finger at a muscled bicep in time with each syllable. “You’ve been moody and distracted all day, and I don’t need you turning into another Cobb. Not on the last raid of the night, at least.”
Eames continues to stare resolutely ahead, out the windshield, expression blank. “It’s nothing.”
“Mhmm.” She studies him for a moment and then leans back, propping her booted feet up on the dashboard. “Would that ‘nothing’ be anything like your Captain Davidson going all Jigsaw on poor Scotty Henderson? That kind of nothing?” The Jeep jerks a bit, breaks squealing and protesting as Eames accidentally stomps down on both the accelerator and the brakes, and Michelle snorts. “Smooth.”
“He’s not my Captain, and you bloody well know it,” Eames growls once he gets the vehicle back under control, tone curt and words clipped, bitten off with full stops like a military command. His brow is wrinkled and he refuses to look anywhere but straight ahead. “And Cobb is certain it wasn’t him.”
“Is he?”
“Quite.”
Michelle pauses, fingers skimming against the passenger side door, tapping restlessly. She bites her lip for a moment then speaks again, quieter this time. “Eames…look,” she sighs. “I’m not saying this as your second, but as your friend. I know you and the Captain have…” She hesitates here, because the telltale muscle in Eames’ jaw is jumping just a bit, and he’s going to burn a hole in the windshield if he stares at it any harder, and she would really rather not find herself at the wrong end of Eames’ pistol. But both she and Eames are the type to believe that things can change through sheer will and stubbornness, so she tries again. “I know you two have History, but-”
As expected, Eames cuts her off brusquely. “Yes, well done, you; now leave it.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel and his voice is harsh, commanding, almost, as he cuts her a withering look out of the corner of his eye before he exhales a lungful of air, voice going quiet. “Just leave well enough alone.”
There are withering looks, and then there are withering looks. This one is the latter, and so she simply slumps further down in the seat and closes her mouth with something that is most definitely not a pout.
Anyone else would’ve been affronted, but Michelle has been friends with Eames long enough to hear the undercurrent of hurt in his tone, a plea as much as an order. This man who sits beside her, staring out into the darkness with the jagged, torn edges of loss and betrayal behind his jovial manner and in his dancing eyes isn’t the man she met so many years ago when he pulled her out of the remains of a bus full of refugees all blown to hell, digging her out of the heap of severed limbs and twisted metal with his bare hands, gently cradling her and telling her hush, hush now, you’re safe. He used to laugh without an empty echo in his voice, used to tell stories of the darling he was waiting for, used to live and breathe without ghosts of the past haunting him day by day.
The news of Fischer Industries USA “acquiring” a fine new asset in the form of one Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson changed all that. Now the silver-white scar spanning across his face seems to mark him as damaged like never before and at times, he reminds her entirely too much of Cobb.
Once again she wonders just who this Arthur Davidson must be to have captured the heart of such a kind, wonderful man like William Eames, captured and kept it. She wants to hate the Captain for not only turning traitor and running to Fischer Industries USA to act as their lapdog, but for having the gall to be so hateful and unfeeling as to treat Eames like something forgotten, half-remembered, and then deemed not worthy enough to come back for - but she doesn’t. She can’t because it’s plain as day that Eames still loves the man more than life itself; such had been evident even during the brief fling she and he had a while back. Both of them had been (and still are, if she’s going to be perfectly honest) too emotionally involved with lovers lost - like knows like after all - and the affair had been purely physical and over almost as soon as it began.
(But if Michelle Rosanna Reyes ever comes face to face with aforementioned Captain, she might just possibly be tempted to kneecap him for breaking the heart of one of the best men she’s ever met.)
“Right,” she says quietly, and watches her friend’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, changing the subject. “So what’re we looking for?”
“Anesthesia. Morphine. Ibuprofen,” Eames lists confidently, ticking off the items on his fingers, now comfortable with the topic of conversation now, slipping back into the role of resistance leader and hiding all traces of inner turmoil and devastation. “Natasha’s fully stocked, but my people are lacking.”
“Well, what about - the fuck?!” Michelle’s feet smash against the windshield and her entire upper body nearly goes flying against the dashboard at an awkward angle as the Jeep slams to a sudden stop; she rights herself and glares at Eames in annoyance, but he’s too busy frowning out at the truck in front of them to pay her any attention, leaning out of the space where the driver’s side door used to be.
“Cobb?”
A hand extends from the driver’s side window of the truck, waving them forward. Frown deepening, Eames puts the Jeep in reverse, adjusts the wheels, and then pulls up beside the truck as Michelle succeeds in putting her feet lower than her head; she raises an eyebrow as she comes face to face with Cobb. Before she or Eames can utter a word of inquiry as to why they’ve stopped though, Cobb speaks, squinting out at nothing in particular.
“Something’s wrong.”
Michelle’s got her finger on the trigger before the last syllable leaves Cobb’s mouth. “Time?” She peers intently into the ghostly mist of the cold spring air illuminated by the dim headlights, eyes tracing the contours of the cinderblock guard post they’re idling in front of. She may not have been trained to be a killer, a fighter in the name of a lost cause, or a soldier of a country that no longer exists, but she’s always been a fast learner and she didn’t whore her way to being Eames’ second in command, fuck whatever Gordon and his little lackeys think.
“Half five,” Eames answers, glancing at the fob watch he’d pilfered from another raid close to a year ago; not many people have the luxury of wristwatches anymore. “We’re on schedule. Last watchman should be switching out for the next shift.”
It’s usually Eames who takes a team out to raid a series of checkpoints on a meticulously careful itinerary, and then brings back the pilfered items for distribution among the other camps. Very rarely do they raid actual Fischer sectors, and the one that resulted in Ariadne joining their merry number was conducted out of desperation. This specific checkpoint they’ve arrived at is the third and final one on their list and it’s nothing extraordinary, just another dot on the service routes of Fischer Industries USA; however, this one is reputed for its extra storage space and rare supplies in stock such as perishable foodstuffs and medicinal items - and because of that, is one of the more heavily guarded targets.
“There’s no one here.”
Michelle snorts. “Kinda the point, Broody.”
He sends her an exasperated glance. “Don’t you hear anything?”
It’s not that they dislike each other; rather, he’s never been especially friendly in the first place and he’s run out of cigarettes (nicotine withdrawal is an ugly thing), and she thinks he has no manners and no other setting besides being broody. They tolerate each other well enough, though, so Michelle merely glares at him as if to say you’re the partially deaf one here, buddy, before tilting her head slightly and straining her ears. “No. Nothing.”
“Exactly.” Cobb’s eyes dart back and forth, uneasy. “No crackling static of a radio, no footsteps, no quiet murmur of late night conversation.”
Eames’ frown pulls at the scar tissue on his face and he nudges Michelle in the side. “Torch,” he mutters, and she obediently unclips the LED flashlight on her belt and hands it over to the man who jumps deftly from the driver’s seat and approaches the guard post, clicking the flashlight on as he goes. The small, perfectly circular spotlight lands on a patch of splatter against grey cinderblock and Cobb narrows his eyes even further, Michelle hisses out a string of curses that would make a sailor proud, and Eames swears under his breath as he touches two fingers to the red. They come away tacky and still slightly wet.
“Shit,” Michelle whispers, breath fogging slightly in the cool spring early morning air. She gets out of the Jeep slowly, cautiously. “Gordon?”
“No,” Eames says sharply, although all three of them know that the man in question is both perfectly capable and willing to carry out such a massacre. Too bad for him that Eames would never approve of him doing so, though, and would undoubtedly take him to task.
Despite being ex-military, Eames isn’t a violent man, and as the leader of the resistance, repeatedly emphasizes that members of the effort are not to meet Fischer Industries personnel with violence unless provoked, engaged, or in case of self-defense; it pits him against some of the more gung-ho zealous types like Gordon, but being at the top has its perks and Eames draws the line at voluntary bloodshed. On raids, they rely on carefully scheduled plans and stealth; all of the camps are connected by a chain of scouts posted at strategic locations between each settlement and in the past six months, they’ve managed to avoid a lot of major altercations with Fischer Industries and therefore, a lot of unnecessary deaths.
William Eames is not a man who appreciates having innocent blood on his hands, or shed in connection to his name.
(And the bloody incident several months past with the single truck of Fischer’s men who’d lost their way back to Headquarters is something he’d really rather forget. Damn Gordon.)
“Tourists, then,” Michelle says slowly, and she’s standing very still right at Eames’ back. “Eames…”
“We’re leaving.” Eames says in reply, wiping his fingers on his khaki pants, turning sharply toward his second. “Michelle, get back in the car.”
“Eames.” Michelle doesn’t move, staring at something over his shoulder, and she has her gun in hand, finger twitching against the trigger; her lips barely move as she grinds out the next words. “Don’t fucking move.”
Oh, bloody hell.
From behind him comes a slow rattle of breath inside a collapsed chest, the groans of a dying man who probably doesn’t even remember being human, shuffling slowly forward. There’s a drag of footsteps, then another, then another; Eames can see Cobb’s eyes widening over Michelle’s shoulder and the slow movement of his hands for a weapon, and he shakes his head slowly, no.
Usually, when you try getting the jump on a tourist, you end up with your throat ripped out, veins and sinew twisted and caught in his teeth like chicken gristle.
“How many?” he murmurs, as much for Michelle as it is for Cobb who’s undoubtedly reading his lips, and Cobb holds up four fingers. Eames looks toward Michelle for confirmation but he never gets an answer as the woman’s eyes widen so much he swears he can see his own reflection in her dark pupils, and she grabs his arm, fingers digging into his bicep -
“Eames, get DOWN!”
The cool morning air splits with the sound of gunshots, animalistic snarls, and a scream.
* - * - *
Arthur wakes with a rattling gasp of a shout as a touch of electricity touches his ribs and shoots throughout his frame, barely managing to bite back on the sound at the last moment, swallowing it down as the black spots dancing before his eyes gradually dissipate.
“Wakey wakey, Captain.”
Oh, merciful fuck. He knows that voice.
The cattle prod crackles again with electricity and as it descends, aiming lower this time, Arthur ignores the screaming of the ribs in his left side and the way his entire left leg below the knee is throbbing like hell as he tenses. His hands are tied behind his back, his legs at the ankles, and his entire body protests the motion, but he manages to roll so that the cattle prod misses his abdomen and hits dirt instead.
“That’s a neat trick.” The man chuckles, dark and low, squatting down to look Arthur in the eye. “But you were always a slippery one, weren’t you, Davidson?”
“Gordon.” Arthur’s pretty sure he has a concussion (why else would his vision be swimming like that?) but he can see well enough to recognize the man looming over him now like a boogeyman he hasn’t seen in years. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He takes in his surroundings for the first time - a low ceilinged, four wooden walled structure, with dim lighting and barely enough space to fit more than five grown men - and his mouth goes dry.
Arthur’s seen enough torture rooms in his lifetime to know when he’s landed himself in one.
“Smart mouth,” Gordon says thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin, darkened with three-day old scruff. Arthur can feel his own jaw caked with blood, probably from the barely scabbed over wound near his hairline. “Some things never change, huh?”
“Just like old times.” Slowly, painfully, Arthur pulls himself into a seated position, back against the wall, watching Gordon with wary eyes. “I see you’re still a sadistic bastard. How quaint.” He surreptitiously tugs at the knots holding him fast, fingers seeking for any signs of weakness in the rope or loopholes to be found, but no such luck.
Gordon has always been, if nothing else, dangerously thorough. Seems like some things never change after all.
The other man sneers at him, stands, raises a steel-toed booted foot, and kicks him viciously across the face. Arthur hears and feels the fracture of the bone and as the foot draws back again and slams into his sternum. He coughs harshly, wheezing for air as blood and saliva drips from his mouth, hunching his shoulders and trying to curl in on the pain. He doesn’t scream, though, doesn’t even allow the notion to cross his mind, the possibility that he’ll give Gordon the sadistic glee of hearing any sound of pain escape his mouth.
Calloused, grimy fingers grip his jaw and grind the dislocated and probably fractured bones together painfully, eliciting a grunt from the back of Arthur’s throat as Gordon forces eye contact again, eyes burning. Such a description is often used to describe the unquenchable madness or terrible ferocity in the eyes of fearsome beasts, heartless psychopaths, or the dastardly villains of a children’s bedtime story, but Gordon is a different type of animal altogether, and Arthur has always been able to see that.
“It’s not going to do you any good to break my jaw if you want me to talk,” he tells Gordon, words slurred slightly, but staring straight into those eyes, unwilling to show any fear, never mind that that is, for the first time in a long time, exactly what he might be feeling.
“Talk?” Gordon’s grin is more than unsettling because it’s the type that spells out childish hatred and glee at having won something, at having won himself a Captain to play with and take apart. “Oh no, you little fucker.” He raises the cattle prod again. “I’m gonna make you sing.”
* - * - *
…and I really, really hope that they manage to find some soap; maybe shampoo, if we’re lucky. Eames mentioned that this raid is only supposed to be for necessities, and I hope he counts cleaning products in that category. I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since my last three-minute shower in freezing cold water. Walter says he’s doing his best to fix the plumbing problem, and I guess we can be thankful that it’s not the dead of winter. I remember that one December two years ago at that hellhole of a Fischer encampment, where-
Propping herself up on her elbows, Ariadne gives the goopy brown oatmeal in the Styrofoam bowl balanced precautious between her journal and the pillow a vicious stir and shakes her head, frowning down at the last line before scribbling over it with a couple of furious pen strokes, forcing the memory into the back of her mind. That was the year almost everyone seemed to get sick all at once, the year the shipments for ibuprofen and cough medicine never came through, the year little Abigail Tuner died from the flu, a common enough disease that no one had the medicine for, lying flushed and shivering and crying in her cot under threadbare covers for days before finally passing quietly the night before her sixth birthday.
(She can still hear the sound of poor Mrs. Tuner’s sobbing. One of the guards on night watch had come around and kicked the poor woman for “making such a goddamn racket”, the heartless bastard.)
Anyway. Her oatmeal has gone cold, and, abandoning the carefully rationed breakfast allotment (that’s really more than the meager portions she could have ever prayed for back in sector C-145), she puts her feet into her boots and moves to the opening of the canvas tent, rubbing her arms a bit for warmth as she stares out into the grey morning. Gotta ask Cobb if I can pilfer a spare jacket from storage…
Tapping her pen against the worn leather cover of her journal, Ariadne scans the grounds for any sign of Eames and the others; she’d promised to help with cataloguing the goods and separating them into groups to be taken to Michelle and Ezra’s bases, with Natasha and her band of traveling medics, and the refugee camps (Gordon had opted out of this raid, a notation she personally is very happy with; that man gives her the creeps). She may not be a fugitive as a former member of the dream sharing enterprise or an active member of the resistance, but she has her pride if nothing else, and is determined to have some way to earn her keep.
It’s sometime around seven-thirty or probably later; people are starting to move about in their normal morning routines but the rain clouds looming overhead make it a bit difficult to pinpoint an exact time. Strange though, it doesn’t seem like Eames and the others have gotten back yet. She’d thought they planned to be back by-
“Ariadne?”
Mouth open in a silent yelp, Ariadne turns away from the sight of Ezra helping Natasha lift another crate of something or other (she’s pretty sure the gruff old war veteran has a bit of a crush on the physician and it’s the cutest thing she’s seen in a long time), fingers reaching for the penknife in her pocket out of pure habit because the jumpiness and paranoia cultivated by years of terror can’t be stamped out overnight.
Tommy jumps and holds up his hands. “Whoa. Hey, hey. Easy.” He takes a giant step backwards, an exaggeration of keeping his distance, and gives her a sheepish grin, one that now looks slightly uncertain. “Um…I just wanted to say good morning?”
Oh. Heat rises to her cheeks and she mentally thumps her fist against her forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He towers over her, looking every inch the Division I college athlete he used to be, swimmer’s physique and all, and somewhere in the back of Ariadne’s mind comes the word yum. Right now though, she’s too embarrassed to do anything other than manage a weak smile and a wave of the hand in what she hopes is the approximation of a friendly greeting in return.
Tommy’s grin grows a bit more confident. “You know, I was thinking that maybe sometime we could-”
The poor boy really has the worst timing in the world though, because he’s interrupted by a squeal of tires and a groaning of badly abused brakes as a Jeep tears into camp, past the guard towers and through the main gates, sending up chunks of mud and other debris. Eames jumps from the driver’s seat, bleeding from an ugly scrape across his left side, and races around the front of the vehicle to help support a shaky, wan Michelle as she stumbles out of the Jeep, face and hands splattered with red, right thigh seeping a bright crimson through the makeshift tourniquet of Eames’ jacket. “TASH!”
Everyone converges on the pair like flies to honey: Natasha’s already running, her emergency medical kit in hand and spouting off a steady stream of Russian, having reverted to her native tongue under duress; the sentries hop off of their guard towers and begin to throw their weight against the heavy gates, pushing them shut after Cobb pulls through in the truck (looking relatively unharmed, thank God); Tommy goes to help them and Ariadne takes a few unsteady steps forward, boots slipping ever so slightly in the mud underfoot.
“What the FUCK happened?” Ezra roars, more or less hoisting Michelle up by the waist and lugging her towards the medical cabin with little to no effort at all.
“Tourists,” Eames spits with a hiss as Natasha chases after him with a swab of antiseptic. “A pack of seven of them. We were - ow! Bloody hell, Tash!”
Natasha shoots something back in Russian, her tone sharp. She whaps him upside the head and then starts attacking his shirt with a pair of scissors, cutting the cloth away as she pushes him none too gently in the same direction as Ezra and Michelle, scolding the entire way.
- - - - -
It’s not until three hours later - after a steady round of curses and complaints from Michelle (“Oh for the love of - stop it, Eames; it’s just a bite. I’m not going to be keeling over or turning into a zombie or a werewolf or…Goddamn it, Broody, will you get this idiot out of here?!”) - that Eames tumbles out of the medical cabin, freshly bandaged and looking no more worse for the wear than the rest of them, striding towards where Ariadne sits on one of the unloaded crates from the raid, taking stock of the goods.
How’s Michelle? She asks immediately, standing up as soon as she sees him, and Eames gives her a crooked grin, reassuring.
“Alright. She’s a tough one.”
And what about you? She’d tried asking Cobb, but couldn’t get much out of him; the man had simply taken on the look of having bitten into something extremely sour or unpleasant and told her to “ask Eames”. What happened? They both know she’s not asking about the how or the why of the injuries they sustained; everyone knows exactly what tourists are, and what they’re capable of.
(They rape you for hours on end, cannibalize you, or make you their plaything. Or if you’re really lucky, they might just kill you before all that.)
“Smashing, dove. We just missed a few small details. Nothing to be fussed about.” He claps his hands and nods at the crates. “What’ve we here?”
From the other side of the pile of crates, Cobb mutters something under his breath, and although Ariadne can’t be certain, it sounds something along the lines of Arthur wouldn’t have missed anything.
Eames stands up so fast from where he’s crouched down inspecting the contents of a crate that he looks like a jack-in-the-box, minus the bells, whistles, and painted on smile. In fact, there’s anything but a smile on his face; he’s got that strange look on his face again, the one that never bodes well for its unfortunate recipient - eyes hard, mouth turned down at the corners, brows drawn so tightly in toward one another that the furrow there looks like another scar marring the man’s features. “What was that?”
His voice is deceptively soft, words laced with warning and something dangerous under the surface, and Ariadne tenses immediately, shoulders going stiff, head still bent over her notebook but pen stilling, waiting for the oncoming storm with baited breath. She remembers what happened the last time Eames spoke in this tone of voice, remembers the war council and the confrontation with Gordon, the end of which she didn’t see, given that Cobb deemed it too dangerous for her to remain in the building after the sparks started flying. Fifty rounds of ammo, twenty rolls of toilet paper, two shovels, one can of ‘Dead Salmon’ colored paint… her tidy penmanship reads, and the letters blur together as she continues starting at them very determinedly.
Eames’s boots squelch out neat little tread patterns in the mud as he stalks closer, stopping a few paces from where Cobb hasn’t moved an inch, obviously unthreatened. “Fancy sharing that with the class, Cobb?” Clearly, Michelle’s near miss (had the tourist’s teeth gone another inch to the left, they would’ve pierced the femoral artery, ensuring death by exsanguinations in minutes) paired along with the news a scout brought of the murder of another dream sharer, Yusuf, one of Eames’ close friends, is putting the man’s nerves on edge.
Cobb isn’t a soldier to be ordered around or intimidated though; he’s not Eames’ subordinate in any way, shape, or form, and certainly doesn’t capitulate easily to the demands of others. Instead, he meets Eames’ glare head on, unperturbed. “I said, ‘If Arthur were here, he wouldn’t have missed anything,’” he repeats slowly, enunciating each word carefully and clearly, putting special emphasis on the name and subject of the sentence, a definite dare if Ariadne ever heard one, although it’s one she doesn’t understand in the least.
Five packs of notebook paper, four tires, sixteen packets of seeds, and ten packets of cooking oil.
“Arthur isn’t here,” Eames responds coolly, the name slipping through his teeth in the same manner one might say the words ulcer, politician, or Judas. “He’s not your point man anymore, Cobb. Or is that something you’ve just conveniently decided to forgive and forget?”
“He’s not a traitor, Eames.” Cobb sounds tired, twice his age, like a man who’s been through the fire and still hasn’t decided whether or not it’s worth his while to continue on. “I know him better than that. You know him better than that.”
“Do I?”
Ariadne’s eyes fly up on their own accord to Eames’s face, and sure enough - there’s just the faintest trace of wistfulness flashing across his features to match the bitterness in the man’s tone, something lonely and plaintive, filled with hurt and promises long forgotten. It’s gone just as soon as it comes though, and Eames is all derision and dry mockery once more, rounding on Cobb with renewed vigor. “Don’t make me laugh. Now you’re just taking the piss.”
A set of seven stainless steel kitchen knives, a box of paper clips, two bottles of toilet cleaner…good grief, it’s like filling up a shopping cart at Walmart or something. Wait a second, where did the crate of nonperishable foodstuffs go?
Maybe she ought to try breaking this up. Men sure do love their little pissing matches, and with the sizes of Eames’ and Cobb’s respective egos, they’re all going to be stuck here until kingdom come, with her turning grey just waiting for their little staring match to end. Ariadne tries clearing her throat politely, and lets out a noiseless growl of exasperation as her vocal chords refuse to emit even that.
“Your intel management here is sloppy,” Cobb shoots back, words barbed, tone sharp. “Maybe the reason Fischer Industries keeps getting the better of you is because you’re heading in with guns blazing and no idea that they have an army of fucking tanks. Even if you’ve decided that Arthur’s the spawn of Satan, at least take a page from his book and shape up before nameless, faceless tourists run you into the ground like they almost did today.”
“You want to bloody talk about sloppiness?” Eames’ voice has risen now; he and Cobb are standing less than twelve inches away from each other, both men looking an inch away from puffing up like peacocks and beating their chests in a primitive show for dominance. “Nevada. The Program’s last war game. You remember that, don’t you, Cobb?”
Cobb pales ever so slightly; he does, apparently, and Eames’ accent thickens with what sounds like barely concealed anger. “The booby-trapped facility, the bloody Generals who decided not to tell the chemists about the game’s hidden trapdoor, and the government’s top leading scientist in the field of dream sharing who somehow forgot to notify his precious point man of- ow!” He breaks off and glares at Ariadne who’s balancing precariously on top of one of the crates, notebook still raised and poised for another good whack on the side of the head if necessary. “What the bloody hell was that for?!”
She tries to inject as much impatience into the words as she can, signing snappishly: Will you two STOP arguing over your imaginary boyfriend Arthur and FOCUS for a second or two?!
Cobb opens his mouth to answer and probably apologize, but Eames beats him, tossing out a distracted “He is not imaginary.”
Ariadne stares at him and signs, slowly, …so he is your boyfriend?
Eames goes red in the face. “Get back to work!” he snaps, turning away stiffly, thereby ending the conversation given that Ariadne has no way of calling him back. She watches him go, head tilted slightly in confusion, wondering just who in the world this Arthur is, and mentally noting that Eames didn’t deny her assumption, merely stormed off like an angst-ridden teenager who honestly doesn’t know the answer to the query himself.
She turns her attention back towards Cobb, who has a slightly guilty look on his face, one that suggests he’s touched a nerve that should’ve been left alone, and pulls on his sleeve. Is he okay?
“He will be.”
Are you going to be okay?
Cobb’s hardened eyes soften near imperceptibly and he gives her a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” It’s clearly a lie. He hasn’t been “okay” for a long time, and it’s unlikely he will be ever again. His wedding ring glints in the weak sunlight as he waves a hand at the crates. “Now didn’t you say you need some soap and shampoo?”
- - - - -
So…he is your boyfriend?
Eames stares up at the fitted and chinked wooden planks of the roof above his head, Ariadne’s curious gaze and innocent question burning a hole in his mind, just when he thought he was done with this nonsense. Rain pitter-patters softly against the cabin; it’s always raining nowadays and thunder rumbles in the distance, echoing the forger’s troubled state of mind.
Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Eames huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. Well, Arthur’s certainly no boy; he’s a man capable of taking down an army with just his mind (Eames has seen it before) and as for the friend part? He’s pretty sure any connections of such nature were rendered null and void the instant aforementioned man put on the uniform of the enemy and ceased to be anything to Eames but Captain Davidson, the Head of Security of Fischer Industries USA.
It doesn’t matter that buried somewhere in the back of the fine arts museum that is Eames’ mind (some people have sprawling landscapes in their heads, others have libraries; Eames has a mansion that puts the Louvre, the Met, and the Polo Museale Florentino to shame) is an entire wing centered on only one subject, only one man, a wing that has been closed for maintenance (or at least that’s what the sign says), gates locked forevermore. It doesn’t matter that sometimes in the moments of fogginess right before consciousness slips into black nothingness (he never dreams anymore, you see) Eames sees a tall, slim man dressed in a sharp black tuxedo gazing at him with inscrutable eyes from across a ballroom floor; sometimes he sees the man dressed as one of Fischer’s soldiers, slim hands hidden by black gloves, face shuttered and unreadable. Sometimes Eames sees (remembers) the man’s lean frame shining with sweat, muscles rippling under pale skin, head thrown back and throat bared in abandon, his usually perfectly styled hair in disarray and he’s beautiful, God, he’s so beautiful.
But none of that matters now. Not anymore.
* - * - *
They say that pain is in the mind. Real or imaginary, neuropathic or psychogenic, superficial or deep, it all starts with stimulation in the peripheral nervous system, and it all dwindles down to the fact that something’s wrong: skinned knees at age five, a busted lip after an altercation in the schoolyard, an accident in the kitchen, an aching head the morning after one too many drinks, an accident that leads to a busted heart in a failed romance. Regardless of the vast amount of self-help literature and the process of building oneself a positive self-image, humans have always been most comfortable in their own skins, knowledgeable of all the ins and outs of their own systems, and the first to notice and protest even the slightest twinge of suffering and discomfort.
They start in simple, at first. Fists and feet, spitting and jeering; the occasional solid blow makes him bend double over his knees and wheeze for breath, but it’s nothing he doesn’t know how to manage. He’s been through the fire and destruction on a battlefield, experienced the loneliness and isolation as a supposed traitor, awakened from deaths that the likes of these idiots can’t ever even begin to imagine - and compared to all of that, this? This is nothing. He can handle it.
The human mind is an incredible construct, the core of all reason and beginning location of all thought, an Eden of neural pathways, synaptic gaps, and neurotransmitters flying back and forth a thousand times faster than comprehension can track. Some say that through the power of “positive thinking” and intense concentration, there are those who can achieve the lengths of putting mind over matter, of reigning in control over their senses and rising above pain of any kind.
He’s still perfectly lucid (although partially blinded, due to how much his eye is swelling) when they set in relentlessly with brass knuckles (imprinting onto his skin and leaving behind bruises blossoming purple and blue-black), beer bottles (he thinks he was being used as target practice that time - five points for blood, ten points for the head, fifty points if you can get him to scream!), lengths of chains that curl around his frame and dig in, links biting down deep and ripping away pieces of skin as they sling back - he feels every single bone as it breaks, hears the snap like a tree branch giving way in a storm, feels skin and flesh giving way. But he breathes through it, breathes although he can taste the copper of blood in his mouth, dripping from his nose, caking on his face and through his hair - he breathes.
He can handle it.
Everyone has a point of no return, his or her own personal limit where once the bridge is crossed, it burns and burns forevermore; everyone, no matter how well-trained, no matter how stoic. Every man who ever lived has that one moment, that one instant when the dam crumbles, when the deluge sweeps through, when he can take the pain no longer.
When he breaks.
They watch gleefully, one of them is smoking a cigarette, another with a sadistic grin stretching his face, yet another laughing out loud, but no louder than Arthur’s cry as he thrashes in unbelievable agony, screaming full-throated at the sky, twisting his wrists in the bonds from which he hangs from a ceiling beam in the small torture room of a cabin.
Gradually, his screams die into heaving, labored wheezes for breath and one man takes a long drag from his cigarette, stepping forward and blowing the smoke directly into Arthur’s face, and Arthur chokes on smoke and blood, chokes because he really hasn’t the strength to tell him to fuck off. Not anymore. It’s been days, and he’s losing the ability to even think straight, much less talk or attempt to hold back any strangled gasps.
The man smiles then, cruel and heartless and ugly, and Arthur recognizes that smile although his eyes are barely slits in his face. “Let’s give the Captain another, gentlemen.” Gordon withdraws the cigarette from his lips and reaches up, grinds it out on the back of one of Arthur’s hands, but by that time both of them, palms and back, are already so covered with wounds of the same nature that Arthur barely responds with more than a small twitch and a low moan.
He’s doused with another barrel of salt water - who the fuck knows where Gordon got it - and his body jerks spastically as each of his innumerable wounds awakens with a tongue of its own, screaming in agony although he hasn’t the breath to do so, the operatic chorus of torture culminating as Gordon’s henchmen drag over something large and bulky, winding wiry, stripped cords around his fingers and burned hands. With the flip of a switch, his entire world explodes and he jerks and fights unseeingly, blinded by the white hot flash of pain. It disintegrates into a million tiny pinpricks attacking each and every nerve receptor as he twitches and his muscles spasm uncontrollably, volt after volt of constant electrical surges running through his battered frame without cease.
A whimper slips past his lips, because he can’t handle it. He can’t.
He can’t.
- - - - -
Under the safety of the darkness of night, a man comes to a stop beside a fallen oak tree, blackened and twisted from a direct hit during a lightening storm. He brings both hands up to cup around his mouth, and trills out a mourning dove’s distinctive call, then waits for a beat.
From somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots a reply, signaling a scout’s presence and readiness to receive a message, prompting him to go ahead.
Here, the man hesitates for a moment. What he’s about to do next is undoubtedly the first domino that will set off a chain reaction of death and other rather undesirable things. But then he thinks of the man who, not half a mile away, is being tortured within an inch of his life, and he makes his decision. Raising his hands again, he imitates the piercing shriek of a hawk, followed by two long whistles.
The message is clear, a distress signal to be taken to Sherwood, and to Eames himself. Gordon’s base. Trouble. Come quickly.
* - * - *
Part 6