Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 8/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, (8/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,893
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
“Dr. Keiser?”
Jonathan looks up from the clipboard to smile at the young man standing in the doorway of the consulting room. “Mr. Fischer. Come in, come in.” Setting the paperwork aside, he watches Robert step into the room, and his brow furrows as he takes in the slow, halting steps, the rumpled state of the Armani suit, and the red rims around bloodshot eyes. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Fine.” Robert’s voice comes out as a strangled croak and he clears his throat, and tries again. “I’m fine, I just...” He’s holding a file, hand shaking ever so slightly, and with the other he reaches out and closes the door behind him. “I just have a few questions to ask.”
The doctor frowns, adjusting the glasses sitting on the end of his nose. “Alright, why don’t you have a seat, and-”
And then, from seemingly out of nowhere, Robert - young, gentle, naive Robert - pulls out a SIG Sauer P226 and points it in the elderly man’s face. His hand isn’t steady by any means, unaccustomed to the weight of the firearm and his own ludicrous actions, but there’s a grim set to his jaw that Jonathan has never seen before, and the doctor slowly raises his hands. “Mr. Fischer, what are you-”
“You know, don’t you.” Robert’s tone is flat, accusing. “You and everyone else; I’m the only idiot who’s had the damn wool pulled over my eyes.”
“And what is it I am supposed to have known about?”
Robert’s eyes narrow. “This.” He tosses the folder onto the examination table and it slides across the smooth surface; Jonathan reaches out a hand to keep its contents from slipping off the table and as his eyes fall to the black-and-white surveillance photos -
A gaunt-faced woman walking around barefoot, her oversized jeans rolled up several times and secured around her too-thin waist with a piece of rope. Barbed wire weaving in and out of a ten-foot fence surrounding the perimeter of the Fischer Industries USA encampment. A uniformed soldier proudly looming over a mere boy crouched on the ground and pressing a giant book to the back of his victim’s skinny neck, the Fischer Industries insignia stitched over his chest like a badge of honor. The bloated corpse of a child rotting in a ravine.
Robert’s hand shakes as he touches his fingers to the computer screen, choking back a sob as his eyes flit from image to image, each snapshot blown-up in all its grisly glory and fitting to the screen for maximum viewing pleasure. He tries to tell himself that this isn’t real, that it’s a dream because it simply has to be; a terrible, horrendous, fucking god-awful nightmare, but Captain Davidson’s words echo in his mind, truer now than ever before: “I’ve seen the depravity and the wretchedness, the filth and the need - and you haven’t.”
“Fischer Industries,” Robert starts, his face pinched and white, his throat working in a tight swallow, “my namesake and my inheritance, is supposed to give people security, dignity, and a fucking quality of life.” He points the muzzle of the gun down at the images, and his finger is hovering dangerously right over the trigger. “So how the hell did things devolve to this?”
“Robert, son, please put the gun down-”
“Don’t,” Robert bursts out with a sharp jerk of his hand. The gun trembles. “Don’t call me that.” He takes a deep breath. “My father has made it clear enough that he wants nothing more to do with me, and I’ve just found out that the man I might have once thought of as my godfather is a lying son of a bitch.”
There are pages upon pages of documents, request forms, and formal orders Robert remembers signing - except these copies are amended beyond recognition, including content Robert would never put pen to paper to authorize: a rerouting of a consignment of medicines to an overseas black market; appropriating the money set aside for improved sanitation throughout the encampments in sector D-110 and instead putting it towards ordering more weaponry; pardoning one Sergeant Logan Rutland, sentry located in sector A-025, suspected of raping three woman in Encampment 4 and smothering his last victim to death.
And all of them, down at the bottom of the page, are signed in the same, bold hand: Peter E. Browning.
Jonathan chooses his next words carefully, because although the gun is not currently pointed at him, he would still rather not take a chance. “And why are you confronting me?” he asks quietly. “I’m just a physician, Robert. I haven’t left the grounds of Fischer Industries Headquarters in years, just like yourself.”
“That doesn’t mean you haven’t had a hand in this.” Robert inclines his head ever so slightly at the pile of papers. “Why don’t you take a look at what else is in there, Dr. Keiser.”
“Robert...”
“Now!” Robert’s voice wavers, but doesn’t break.
He has no choice but to do as he’s told, and Jonathan spreads the papers over the examination table carefully, gnarled hands smoothing out over the sheets. There are more official documents and ghastly images, personal emails between Maurice Fischer and Peter Browning, a formal presentation of data before the Fischer Industries Executive Board, and a dossier with a single cover page and simply titled PROJECT EXTRACTION. Here, he stops, fingertips barely brushing the blocky font.
Robert watches him from the corner of the room, standing right in the security camera’s blind spot. “Go on.”
When Robert was a child, he wasn’t a prodigy of any sort or anything else so extraordinary; he crawled before he walked, babbled before he learned how to speak, and, like fifteen percent of children from the ages of two to six, suffered from night terrors. His mother always came to his bed in the wake of an episode, armed with a glass of warm milk, a box of tissues, and words of comfort on her lips. His father on the other hand, would merely stand in the doorway and watch dispassionately as his wife sang their son back to sleep, and gruffly declare - loud enough for Robert to hear - that there’s no such thing as monsters, as if such a declaration could chase the bad dreams away.
Only now, at thirty-four years of age, does Robert realize that his father is a liar and the worst kind of monster that can possibly exist - one who wields his cruelty over the helpless and frames innocent men for his own crimes.
“I should’ve known my father was capable of something like this.” The gun is now pointed down at the floor, Robert’s arm down by his side as he stares at the wealth of secret files and evidence he’s already paged through, his features twisted into something wistful and hurt and disgusted at the same time, like a child who’s just discovered that not everything in the world can be categorized into good and bad, that people lie and the ones you love are those capable of hurting you the most. “But I never expected your involvement, Dr. Keiser.” He raises his head and gives Jonathan a look that reminds the doctor of the Biblical phrase about being weighed and judged and found wanting.
“Doctor?” A voice floats down along the corridor, echoing in the walls of the medical bay and Robert’s head snaps to the side as if he’d been slapped, eyes going wide.
Taking full advantage of the distraction, Jonathan makes a grab for Robert’s wrist, one foot coming up to kick at the back of his knee, aiming merely to incapacitate, not to maim or injure. Doctors know how to put people back together and are, conversely, also quite adept at taking them apart - and old as he is, Jonathan still remembers a bit of his training from his days as an army medic - and young Robert, for all his bluster and rash action, is no match. He goes down easily, with Jonathan stripping the gun away from his loosened grip.
No more than thirty seconds later, Peter Browning opens the door to the consulting room.
* - * - *
The walls and the ceiling are a blinding white, a shade that shouldn’t exist on the light spectrum - in realty, anyway. It scathes his retinas and is far worse than staring straight into the sun because these unbleached surfaces are those of nothingness - not a chalky hue or the color of milk or freshly fallen snow - no, this is a blankness that screams not of cleanliness or purity, but of the deletion of extraneous data and other memories that have ceased to be, ceased to exist. They aren’t white because they’ve been scrubbed spotless, but because of a clear distinction between what ought to be pristine and unaffected and kept that way with purpose and grim determination.
In start contrast, the floor is a dark and polished black that swims, hisses, and seethes with everything the walls and ceiling do not, a shade of obsidian that licks dangerously at the place where it meets the walls like tongues of flame, all the way down the hallway that seems to stretch on forever.
Eames stands still for a moment, taking in the heavy-duty bank vaults lining either side of the hallway, enormous circular titanium monstrosities that surely won’t open with a charming wink or a jaunty smile or simple “if you please”. He casts a look over his shoulder and, behind him, the hallway stretches on indeterminately, never-ending in either direction, without points of entry or exit.
Somehow, Eames isn’t the least bit surprised.
The floor moves under his foot as he takes a step forward and it’s a bit like walking on water, small ripples scattering out every which way; the air around him is hot and thick and cloying - probably a side effect of the fever that still grips Arthur in its greedy clutches - and Eames grimaces, pulling at the tie around his neck and allowing the strip of cloth to hang loose, popping the button on his collar and shedding the suit jacket (it’s Zegna; there is no sodding air in the place and it’s got to be close to a hundred fucking degrees, and Arthur’s mind decides to outfit Eames in bloody Italian wool) as he moves to the nearest door on the right, placing his palm flat against the blessedly cool metal door.
“Alright, Arthur,” he murmurs, letting his eyes wander over the door, searching for some way in, some combination or keypad or other accessible entry. “Come now darling, don’t be difficult…”
The term of endearment rolls off his tongue easily and he’s almost as surprised to hear himself say it aloud as he is when tumblers start shifting, cylinders begin to slide, and the door cracks open with a click and a hiss of air. Further on down the hallway, several other doors open as well, swinging open in obvious invitation.
But he hesitates for a fraction of a second; Eames expected faceless projections wielding sniping rifles and a floor made of lava, endless riddles and timed locks, lasers and assailants leaping from the shadows with knife-like smiles and AK-47 semi-automatics. This is easy, too easy, and when has anything with Arthur Davidson ever been easy?
The Desert Eagle is a comforting weight in his hand as he nudges the door just a bit wider, allowing just enough space to fit through, and steps into the vault. A day gate made of glass greets him, behind which is more empty white space, and Eames purses his lips, tapping the muzzle of his gun against the glass once, twice.
“Eames!”
The white space swirls, a molten swirl of colors and then there’s Arthur, dirt and grime and soot streaking his features, standing there in the traditional black ops combat gear, fingers curled around a modified version of the M4 carbine, hair disheveled and kicking down loosely over his forehead in unmanageable layers. His mouth opens, lips forming around Eames’ name again, but this time his voice is lost in the sound of a not-so-distant explosion and he’s thrown forward as the wall behind him explodes in a burst of concrete and debris.
Eames’ throat goes dry, an invisible fist shoving its way down his throat as he involuntarily surges forward, fists banging against the barrier that renders him a mere spectator to this scene, mouth open to answer-
“Arthur!” From behind the glass, Eames watches the memory unfold. The past version of himself steps into sight, whipping the night vision goggles off his face and reaching out to grab Arthur’s arm, hauling the other man upright. “You all right?”
“Something’s wrong.” Arthur shakes Eames’ hand off and throws his assault rifle aside, pulling at his vest and the string of grenades around his waist, casting off everything that might weigh him down. “Facility’s booby-trapped.”
“It’s a war game, love, and The Program’s last one at that; they told us just last night to-”
“The game is rigged, Eames!” Arthur snaps, now stripped of all his body armor, giving Eames a withering look as he swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, spreading the smear of soot across his skin. “It’s not just the level of difficulty; those fuckers changed the damn exits! How the hell are we supposed to-”
The explosion that cuts him off this time is far larger than the previous one and Eames can remember everything with perfect detail - the cloud of smoke and dust, the taste of ash on his tongue and grit between his teeth, and the incessant ringing in his ears as thousands of auditory nerves died a premature death. It’s sort of a surreal, out of body experience, watching himself get flung back and away from Arthur, limbs flailing in a near comical way, head bouncing against the floor.
He escapes with only a few bumps and bruises, but Arthur’s left leg is entirely crushed under a fallen block of concrete, unprotected body embedded with shrapnel, and Eames instinctively starts forward again, his palms pressed flat against the glass as he watches himself stagger to standing and dash over to Arthur’s side, only to fall back with a shout when a pipe above their head bursts, showering down hydrochloric acid.
And then, the screaming starts.
Arthur convulses, sobbing in agony like a man being murdered as the chemicals begin to eat away at his flesh, each droplet hissing at it makes contact with skin. He jerks desperately at his pinned leg, thrashing like a man possessed as he tries to get out from under the relentless spray, trying and failing. His fingers claw desperately at the rubble around him, then at Eames’ arm when the other man dashes over and throws his entire weight against the concrete. Arthur’s grip is frantic and pained and nearly hysterical, so very different from the way he’d clutched at Eames just the previous night as their lips met and tongues clashed.
Eames is just as helpless now as he was back then - more so now, standing here behind a panel of glass, unable to do anything other than watch. Back then, he had the option of giving Gordon a black eye when the other man tried to drag him out (Just fucking leave him Eames; he’s not worth it!), making his opinion on that idea perfectly clear. Back then, he could go up to the nearest General in charge and lay the fucker out after waking from the dream (Arthur was already being carted off by the emergency trauma team; apparently the dreamers weren’t the only ones the higher ups failed to inform of the changes in the game, and the dosage the chemists administered didn’t stop the trauma of the mind from leaking into agonizing psychosomatic pain in wakefulness) and then take dishonorable discharge for his misconduct.
Now all he can do is falter backwards, stepping unsteadily out of the vault. The door slides shut with a magnificent bang and Eames stands there for a moment, staring at nothing. Then he turns and stares at the other open doors stretching on down along the corridor on either side, all of them inviting him in.
* - * - *
Maurice Fischer is the type of man who has no qualms about taking whatever he sees fit for his own purposes, and he sought a means that would allow for easy entry into the mind, since taking over energy supplies and toppling companies in reality was no longer enough. (Some say he was driven half mad by the loss of his wife, but Robert refuses to entertain such a tragically romantic notion.) The tenants outlined in Project Extraction’s mission statement were to explore the lengths to which one might conduct a manipulation of subconscious thought, emotion, and desire, an experimental insight into human behavior and emotion. What would happen, the statement asked, if soldiers could be without fear or lovers without hate, if the next generation could be one of young men without disobedience, sons who could not disappoint their fathers?
“Robert! I’ve told you to keep out the damn-! Why can you never do as you’re told?!”
Once a mere military venture and now a booming industry in its own right, the dream sharing business had exactly the technology needed - but how to obtain it, when there were already those who knew it inside and out and would be unwilling to give it up without a fight?
Easily, as Motion 528-491 proved, a proposal drawn up by Peter Browning, Mr. Fischer’s right hand man and senior executive partner, known affectionately as Uncle Peter and godfather to Maurice’s son, Robert.
PROJECT EXTRACTION: MOTION 528-491 - A Declaration of Intent
Recipient: Maurice A. Fischer
WHEREAS, the United States military is unwilling to cede the rights of the PASIV dream-sharing technology
over to Fischer Industries, and aforementioned rights are also unable to be bought,
WHEREAS, the peoples in the dream-sharing industry are unwilling to cooperate with Fischer Industries in its
experimental ventures,
WHEREAS, the United States has always been a country whose people value their rights, traditionally view the
government with a certain degree of suspicion, and are always willing to fight for individual freedom,
WHEREAS, Dominic Cobb is a leading member in and well-respected scientist of the dream-sharing industry
THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED that Fischer Industries will take appropriate action to have the people of the
United States rise up in arms against each other and their government by implanting the rumor of a
threat of martial law in the wake of World War III,
BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that Dominic Cobb be implicated for the highest crime against his people and
country, charged with incepting certain key members of the United States government with the
aforementioned idea
Respectfully submitted,
Peter E. Browning
Robert’s throat goes dry and the piece of paper falls from his numb fingers. This motion is written like a bill set for Congressional approval, but at its core is nothing more than a statement of purpose, a roadmap of a sequence of events to follow. Despite the many complicated provisions and legalese, the implications of the proposition itself are perfectly clear: discredit the peoples of the dream-sharing industry in order to take from them the technology needed for Fischer Industries own experimental purposes. Destroying the United States from the inside out was just Uncle Peter having a bit of fun in the process.
Dominic Cobb was never responsible for starting the Second Civil War of the United States. He never planted an incendiary idea into the mind of anyone in the United States government. He’s a scapegoat, chosen because of his prestige, a mere tool in the hands of those with more power.
* - * - *
While Arthur may be particularly structured and well put-together, his subconscious is decidedly out of order. Chronologically, anyway; knowing Arthur (or what Eames likes to think he used to know about the man), there’s probably some method to the his madness. The scene behind the glass inside vault number two flashes forward to nearly one and a half years into the future, to a muddy field in the thick of World War III. It’s a mere slice of one of the major battles in the first year of the War, a concentrated effort by the Allies (generally thought of as Great Britain, the United States and Canada, and Japan, although it changes depending on who’s telling what story) to push the Russians and the Chinese back through Vancouver.
Eames watches the projection of his past self and Arthur slog through the rain and the mud, tripping over the bodies of the dead and their own feet before stumbling across one another, both exhausted and on edge, nearly shooting each other before the recognition lights up both of their faces. Arthur’s reaction is exactly as he remembers: the slight widening of his eyes (there’d been raindrops fringing the dark lashes, collecting like pearls) and a sudden quirk of the corner of his lips - that is, until a bullet slams into Eames’ back and from behind and he topples at Arthur’s feet like a broken puppet, sinking into the mud without the slightest bit of dignity.
(He’d always wondered what happened after he blacked out and woke up in an unfamiliar room in a bleak makeshift hospital two days later, pumped full of morphine and with Arthur nowhere in sight. The pretty young thing who’d come to check up on him told him of the young, handsome American Captain who brought him there and raised holy hell until the surgeons set to work on Eames’s wound immediately, but very little else.)
Arthur’s face is a terrible mask of fury, his eyes sharp glints of black ice as he first gets to his knees to check Eames’ pulse, then stands stiffly, striding over to the guilty culprit lying a few feet away, an enemy soldier who isn’t quite dead yet and obviously fancied killing one last man before his own demise. With one brutal kick, Arthur snaps the man’s neck and then turns back to Eames, a mixture of grim determination and fear in his face as he grabs at Eames’ unconscious form, pulling him out of the mud.
Eames watches Arthur carry, haul, and drag his dead weight through five miles of sludge and rain before he steps out of that vault and shuts the door. A bead of sweat streaks down the side of his face and he stands there for a moment, forehead pressed against the metal, a suspicious pricking at the corners of his eyes.
- - - - -
Vault number five shows another battle scene, this time on American soil, in front of the Pentagon. The Second Civil War, then. A moment of distraction in the heat of action, a knife raises high, its blade already wet with a dead man’s blood - and then a sniper’s bullet from an impossible distance pierces through the enemy soldier’s left eye.
Eames never knew exactly who saved his arse that day, but now, watching the scene play out from on the roof of the Pentagon itself, looking down at Arthur’s slim form and dark eye peering through the scope, he does.
His shirt sticks to his back, disgusting and uncomfortable. It’s sweltering. Arthur’s fever must still be raging on.
- - - - -
The tenth vault shows a day of relaxation back in the Mojave Desert, taking some time off from drills and training, two bottles of beer gone warm in the sun, and a shared cigarette. Eames can still taste the smoke, feel the merciless sun beating down upon him, see the dancing mirages out in the distance. Arthur’s eyes flick lazily in his direction, dragging over the sleeveless t-shirt Eames wears in the memory, over the ink curving around the biceps, his sharp gaze dark and hungry and wanting. Their fingers brush as Arthur reaches for the cigarette.
The fourth one (going in the other direction and on the opposite side of the hall) is the interior of a darkened tattoo parlor, date and exact location a mystery to Eames. Arthur sits with a towel pressed against one sharp hipbone - he’s wearing Armani pinstripes for fuck’s sake, and Eames wants to laugh out loud at the contradiction. Except it gets stuck in his throat as Arthur slowly pulls the cloth away and touches the tip of a finger to the newly made mark, his smile nostalgic as he wipes away a pearl of blood from the neat black ‘E’ inked into his skin.
Number twenty-one is Sherwood right after Mal’s ugly execution and Arthur looks exhausted, grim lines etched around his mouth; his eyes are tired, his tone sharp. He’s determined to stay with Cobb (who’s a broken mess of a man) even though that means leaving Eames, even though Eames asks, and damn near begs him to stay. They both say things they don’t mean, words flying fast and barbed and ugly, things like forget it and get out and coward, you bloody coward, and Eames watches Arthur walk away from him yet again, watches him punch a tree trunk until his knuckles are torn and bloody, watches him sink to his knees and shed angry, bitter tears.
* - * - *
Robert hisses in pain as his head bangs against the side of the truck and he tries to press himself further into the corner. Everything around him smells like latex and rubber and rubbing alcohol, and he takes a deep breath through his mouth, thinking back to how on earth he managed to get himself into the back of a Fischer Industries truck stocked with medical supplies and driving out toward the middle of nowhere.
“Busy, Doctor?” Browning’s tone indicates he doesn’t particularly care whether the answer is yes or no, and Dr. Keiser is quick to respond accordingly.
“Not at all, sir.” He neatly shuffles the last of the papers inside the file folder and sets it aside with the utmost nonchalance. “How might I be of assistance?”
Robert’s breath comes fast and shallow as he edges closer to the sliver of light seeping in from the crack between the narrow double doors, still slightly winded from Dr. Keiser shoving him inside the nearest supply pantry mere seconds before Uncle Peter came sweeping into the room. He has no idea where the doctor managed to stash the gun so quickly, but is immensely thankful it’s no longer in his grasp, because now, as he stares at his godfather, Robert feels something rash and hurt and angry sending sparks to the ends of his fingertips; the air fizzes with electric energy and his vision hazes with red.
“Our informer has sent word again. She requests a bit more than the standard stock this time; apparently there’s a very injured man that needs attending to.” Browning hands over a list and Dr. Keiser frowns down at it for a moment before nodding.
“Oh, yes. This is doable.”
“The truck will leave in half an hour, then.”
It’s a simple exchange, one that Robert doesn’t understand in the least, and after the fade of Uncle Peter’s footsteps, the pantry doors are yanked open from the outside and Dr. Keiser stands there, beckoning to Robert. “Out now, come on!”
Robert stares at him, unmoving, recent revelations making him far more cautious than before. “What’s going on?”
The elderly physician huffs in frustration and grabs Robert by the arm, pulling him out of the pantry. “The Captain warned me this would happen,” he muttered to himself. “You have to leave, Robert. Follow me.”
“Captain Davidson?”
“Yes. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Now come, quickly!”
Robert still doesn’t move though. “Where?”
Dr. Keiser turns and grabs him, shaking him hard. “Listen to me, boy! When your ‘Uncle Peter’ finds out that you know about Project Extraction, it won’t matter that you’re his godson. Many have been silenced for much less than what you now know.” He steps back, reaches into a nearby drawer, and pulls out the SIG Sauer, pressing it into Robert’s hand. “And with the Captain gone, there is no one here to protect you anymore.”
Abruptly, the vehicle screeches to a halt and Robert goes flying with a thump and a curse, but swallows it down when a woman’s voice floats through the thin walls of the truck’s back compartment: “Hello, little Fish.” There’s the unmistakable cock of a shotgun, and Robert’s blood goes cold.
It seems the Resistance has arrived.
“Fischer Industries intercepted a phone call a little over a month ago from a medic in the Resistance.” Dr. Keiser murmurs, his voice low as he opens the door to the back of what looks like a refurbished ambulance. “Mr. Browning has been sending out medicinal supplies at her request.”
Robert knows this song and dance; his godfather did the same to him years ago, when he’d been but a kid and a rift in the partnership between the senior Fischer and Browning threatened to end the corporation. Uncle Peter had been patient, coming around daily for weeks; buttering little Robert up with presents and candy in exchange for any information he could get about Maurice’s work. It had taken weeks, but he finally asked his godson to steal into Maurice’s office, as kind and understanding and persuasive as anything. “And he asks for information about the Resistance in return.”
“Yes.” He motions to the back of the truck. “In you go.”
“Why are you sending me to the Resistance?”
The doctor gives Robert a look that suggests he might be mentally deficient. “Because you’re better off there than you are here.”
And yet, Robert still hesitates. “I don’t understand. Why are you helping me?”
Dr. Keiser sighs, the lines in his face deepening, guilt and age and far more than that. “You know the part I played in Project Extraction, I assume.” At Robert’s wordless nod, he smiles bitterly. “This, I suppose, is as much as I can do for atonement.”
“What’s your name, Little Fish?” The woman’s voice is cool and just this side of menacing; lightly accented with a bit of the South and confident in the way most everyone would be when holding a weapon.
“Jimmy,” the driver squeaks, and Robert tries to remember his face - young, twenty years old at most, one of the new recruits who would easily be assigned to the menial task of driving a truck full of medicinal supplies out to a drop point. “Jimmy Collins.”
“And is it just you and the truck, Jimmy?”
“Y-yes. Ma’am.”
“Okay. That’s good. Step out, both hands up.” The driver’s side door opens and closes as Jimmy apparently does as he’s told. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn around and just start walking back towards where you came from, and no one will get hurt. Got it, Little Fish?” A moment’s pause, then, “Go on.”
Frantically pounding footsteps sprint past the truck and back in the direction of Fischer Industries; they’re followed by long, even strides approaching the back of the truck. Robert takes a deep breath from his position right next to the back doors, gun set down on the floor, his hands already held up in surrender as the doors open. A blonde man with day-old scruff on his face and piercing blue eyes blinks at him for a fraction of a second before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and throwing him into the dirt. “Reyes!”
A young woman rounds the corner, shotgun at the ready. “No need to shout, Broody, I’m right -”She cuts herself off when she catches sight of the man kneeling in the middle of the forest in a navy blue Ralph Lauren suit, his hands behind his head. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Stowaway.”
“Well no shit, Sherlock.” She scoffs, then raises an eyebrow at Robert. “You got a name, stranger?”
“Please,” Robert whispers, staring at the dirt. “Don’t…don’t shoot.” He lifts his head. “My name is Robert Fischer.”
- - - - -
It began as an experiment in human thought and emotion, mere scientific inquiry that sought to become so much more. Who said that space had to be the final frontier? Why not look inward instead, into the vast complexity of the human brain and all that it does to affect behavior? Synapses and neural pathways, neurotransmitters and the subconscious human mind - the United States had already discovered a way to manipulate dreams, and the possibilities after that had to be endless.
And now he sits here looking over the panoply of it all: gross human rights violations and a breach of every single aspect of the Hippocratic oath, Fischer Industries’ dirty laundry laid out for everyone to see - and he’d been a part of it too, Jonathan P. Keiser, Head of Research for Project Extraction.
Mea maxima culpa.
Jonathan shakes his head, the guilt weighing down in his stomach like a stone as his eyes sweep over the reports written and signed in his own hand, at the CAT scans showing signs of decreasing brain activity, at the names and faces of those whose minds had been ruined in the name of science. It was like Doctor Frankenstein all over again, trying to “extract” depression and sorrow and hate with all good intentions, with only horror and devastation to show for it.
Christ, he wants to rage at his own utter stupidity, to weep for all the men and women whom he’d robbed of sanity and a livelihood, whom he helped transform into the mindless monsters now known as “Tourists” and turned out into the Periphery to die.
He’d refused to continue after only two weeks, after seeing the effects upon the first cycle of subjects, fifty of them in all. But even so, Project Extraction persisted, and Jonathan was demoted down to a menial practice, more or less imprisoned inside Fischer Industries Headquarters. For what reason, he’s still not sure - nowadays, anyone who asks too many questions is immediately and ruthlessly silenced. Just last week, Fischer Industries rounded up a new batch of subjects from various encampments within range for more experimentation. One young soldier who’d tried to protest the taking of a child had been shot on the spot.
A shadow falls over him, blocking out the light, and he looks up. “I suppose this means my time has come.”
“Yes, you suppose correctly.” He watches her as she sits, all willowy limbs and blue eyes that are too bright, sparking with the light of something he can’t even begin to guess. She too, had been one among the subjects of the first cycle - but instead of losing all reason, instead of a successful extraction of hate and cruelty, her brain patterns instead began to imitate that of a psychopath’s. “Why did you help Robert escape?”
Because Robert is too good to pay for the sins of his father. Because it was the right thing to do. Because Jonathan is a dead man walking anyway, and he knows it. Captain Davidson knew it too, and that was why he asked the doctor to keep an eye out for Robert the night he escaped, why he told him of the Resistance, why he approached Jonathan in the medical bay one night and told him, There is a way to make atonement, Dr. Keiser. There is a way to help make things right.
In the end, he declines to answer the question and instead, very quietly, says, “I am so sorry for what happened to you, and for my part in how and why you’ve become like this.”
Mallorie Cobb doesn’t say a word as she raises a gun and shoots the good Doctor in the face at point blank range.
* - * - *
Vault after vault after vault.
Soon, Eames stops keeping count - Arthur laughing with him; Arthur cursing a bloody blue streak to God when he hears of Eames’ dishonorable discharge; Arthur smiling at him when he thinks no one else is looking, and sometimes even when he knows other people are looking.
It’s obvious that these memories, all of them, are about Eames, for Eames - the vaults opened just at the sound of his voice, after all - but he has no idea what to make of it all.
There’s no telling how long he’s been here - he promised Ariadne he’d take care of himself before he went under - and unfortunately, it seems like Arthur’s subconscious failed to accessorize him with a wristwatch while dressing him, and here he stands, no closer to figuring Arthur out than when he’d started. With a low growl of frustration, he pulls the tie off entirely and unbuttons the previously starched dress shirt, now soaked through with sweat. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he turns in a full three hundred sixty-degree circle, then throws his head back to holler full-throated at the ceiling - “ARTHUR!”
His voice doesn’t echo off the walls or reverberate down the long hallway; it doesn’t even carry. Eames is filling his lungs with air, ribs expanding, fully prepared to yell again, his pulse roaring in his ears - when he hears it. His jaw shuts with an audible click, his nostrils flaring as he struggles to get his breathing under control, and he strains his ears, wondering if it’s possible to hallucinate while in someone else’s mind...
There. There.
A minor. Two violins and strings. Allegro. Vivaldi’s L’estro Armonico, Opus 3, Concerto Number 8 - Eames would know that tune absolutely anywhere. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Cabo.”
The floor beneath his feet ripples, shifts, and then undulates, polished black folding in upon itself to reveal a carpet of an unobtrusive pale peach; the music grows louder and Eames feels the air around him prickling his skin, like oil in a hot frying pan. To his left, the row of bank vaults start to shimmer, like a mirage, shifting in and out of focus and if he stares particularly intently, he can see an open balcony and gauzy white curtains billowing outwards into a panoramic view overlooking the blue waters. To his right, a California King with red silk sheets and an abandoned white bath towel...
- - - - -
Ariadne bites her lower lip nervously as she glances from Eames’ slumped form leaning against the cot, to the PASIV, to Arthur, and the cannulae connecting them all together. The blinking red display on the timer continues to count downwards, with two minutes left on the clock. Eames has been under for more than three hours now, and although Ariadne’s no expert in dream-sharing, she remembers reading somewhere that five minutes in reality meant an hour in the subconscious, so...
Wait. What was that? Her gaze snaps back to Arthur, eyes narrowing. Carefully, she sets her coffee aside - the third one she’s managed to get from Leon, the cook, since Eames asked her to keep watch over the both of them - and leans forward, staring intently at Arthur’s hand, which she’s almost positive she just saw twitch.
And she jerks back, mouth open in a wordless cry as Arthur’s entire frame wrenches upwards like an invisible hand just grabbed a hold of his spine, and he begins to convulse.
- - - - -
BANG. BANG. BANG.
One by one, the vault doors all start to slam shut, on both sides of the hallway, and the Vivaldi cuts off in a discordant, atonal screech; the flickering image of Cabo shatters, and the floor beneath Eames’ feet begins to crumble and fall away as everything around him begins to shake.
“Oh, Christ-” The doors begin to crack then shatter into a thousand pieces, like panes of glass, a roaring void in their wake and then Eames begins to run, Italian loafers pounding against the floor, not knowing where he’s heading just so long as there’s a hard surface beneath his feet. “What the bloody fuck-!”
Lunging for a door, Eames’ hands find the spoked handle and, to his surprise, it turns under his weight. The door swings open easily, revealing a chasm bottoming out into spiraling depths of black, and a hand gripping to the very edge of a cliff’s face, knuckles going white with effort-
“ARTHUR!” Eames throws himself to his stomach, digging his toes into the loose rocks along the ledge as he inches close to the edge overlooking the nothingness, fingers of one hand reach out to encircle a slender wrist. “Arthur,” he pants, breath wheezing in his lungs, harsh and desperate.
Arthur looks up at him, dark hair loose and whipping about his gaunt, pale face, feet dangling right over the black. In his wide eyes, Eames can see the empty voids of limbo, and he tightens his grip on the other man’s wrist. “Don’t let go,” he growls, throat burning, face wet with sweat or tears. Perhaps both. “Don’t you dare let go!”
- - - - -
WAKE UP! Ariadne tries to shriek, thumping at Eames’ chest with both fists, but of course, nothing comes from her throat, not even a whisper, not even a strangled gasp of air. She shoots Arthur a quick glance and doubles her efforts. Oh God, Eames, please, please wake UP!
On the cot, Arthur’s muscles spasm and his back arches; his limbs flail about uncontrollably and he’s torn out the line connecting one of the many antibiotics Natasha put him on. His head jerks back and forth, tendons in his neck standing out, and there’s blood streaking down his chin from the corner of his mouth, where he’s bitten his tongue.
On the PASIV, the timer ticks off each second one by one - thirty, twenty-nine seconds, twenty-eight...
- - - - -
“Cuff links,” Eames chokes out, something between a sob and a bark of laughter. Arthur’s hanging over the edge of his own subconscious and he’s still wearing sodding Armani - waistcoat and cuff links and all. “Oh darling, you are impossible.” His voice is stolen away by the shrieking wind though, and he suddenly realizes it’s absolutely freezing; and that’s not right, either -
Arthur’s eyes remain on him as if he’s the only thing in the world, even as the rocks in the ledge begin to loosen. His lips move in an abortive whisper - “Eames-”
- - - - -
Ten seconds left on the clock, and Ariadne is going hysterical. She raises a hand and hits Eames across the face, open-handed, palm connecting with his cheek in a swift, ringing slap. It hurts.
Seven seconds, and Arthur chokes out a terrible, gurgling rasp, then goes completely still.
- - - - -
Arthur falls without a sound, his dark eyes still locked with Eames’ frantic gaze, a shadow disappearing into a darkness that swallows him and Eames’ scream goes unheard by anyone other than himself.
- - - - -
“Eames!”
Ariadne automatically brings a hand to her throat, wondering for one crazy moment if she’s suddenly regained the ability to speak, but that thought quickly dissipates as she recognizes it as Michelle’s voice. The door to the medical cabin bangs open to reveal Michelle manhandling a young man in a well-cut navy blue suit into the room.
What? she gapes, still without voice. Who...?
The man lifts his head, revealing startlingly blue eyes, and gasps, his horrified gaze fixed on Arthur. “Captain?” he whispers, at the same time Cobb shoves his way into the room, takes in the sight of Arthur’s rumpled state, the PASIV, Eames blinking awake - and absolute pandemonium breaks out.
Cobb charges at Eames, his face a terrible expression of fury; Eames leaps to his feet and onto the bed, straddling Arthur’s hips, a raw and primal fear in his eyes; Michelle’s prisoner also tries to lunge for the bed, stilling only when Michelle grabs his arm and twists it up behind his back; and Ariadne stands in the middle of it all, utterly at a loss of what to do next.
“You fucking bastard-”
“Hold still, you, or I’ll be perfectly happy to put a bullet in your knee-”
“Ariadne!” She starts as she hears her name and looks over to where Eames is shoving Cobb back with one powerful sweep of his arm - adrenaline fueled, no doubt - and then returning his attention back to Arthur who lies so utterly still, no pulse in his neck, no breath in his lungs. “Ariadne, breathe for him!”
CPR. Right. I can do that. She darts past Cobb and clasps Arthur’s face between her hands - Jesus his skin is clammy - and tilts his head back to clear his airway when she notices the blood, a thin twist of crimson snaking down his jaw. Oh, no. She waves her hands frantically at Eames, who’s most likely breaking one or more of Arthur’s ribs with the intensity in which he’s doing chest compressions, because she can’t breathe air through the blood in Arthur’s mouth. Stop, Eames, stop!
Cobb isn’t standing by and just gaping though; he yells out the door - “NATASHA!” Within seconds the medic dashes through the door, an AED defibrillator in hand. She darts over to the bed as Cobb reaches up, hooks an arm around Eames’ neck, and bodily drags the other man off the cot - “Get off, you great fucking idiot!”
Natasha rips open Arthur’s shirt and applies the leads to his chest, movements swift and practiced, methodical. From the far corner, the newcomer gives a ragged sob as more ghastly injuries are put on display, but no one pays him any attention - Eames is pulling at Cobb’s chokehold, trying to get free as he curses Cobb to five different hells in a frantic, nonstop babble; Ariadne stares at Arthur, her hands over her mouth and eyes filling with tears; and even Michelle holds her breath as the machine charges. “Charging. Clear!”
Arthur’s body jerks upwards at the surge of electricity. Nothing.
“Charging…clear!”
No, Ariadne thinks desperately, heart pounding in her chest. Oh God no, please, please.
“BLOODY SELFISH BASTARD!” Eames roars over Natasha, voice scraped raw and broken, “always leaving, ALWAYS, you inconsiderate little-”
A loud choking gurgle cuts through the air and at that, everyone gathered suddenly remembers how to breathe again.
Natasha flips Arthur on his side, efficiently stripping the pads from his chest and supporting him across the shoulders with deceptive strength as he coughs out the blood in his throat and mouth before he sags limply, chest heaving with labored gasps.
Eames is there in an instant, carefully lowering him down to the cot, tentatively touching one large hand to Arthur’s pale cheek and gently wiping away the streaks of blood with his thumb. Ariadne watches him lean down to rest his forehead against Arthur’s, in a motion that might possibly be called tender; his throat works in a convulsive swallow as he tries to pull himself together, eyes closed and lips moving in a silent litany, words that may or may not be thank fuck, stay with me, Arthur, darling.
* - * - *
Part 9
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,893
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
“Dr. Keiser?”
Jonathan looks up from the clipboard to smile at the young man standing in the doorway of the consulting room. “Mr. Fischer. Come in, come in.” Setting the paperwork aside, he watches Robert step into the room, and his brow furrows as he takes in the slow, halting steps, the rumpled state of the Armani suit, and the red rims around bloodshot eyes. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Fine.” Robert’s voice comes out as a strangled croak and he clears his throat, and tries again. “I’m fine, I just...” He’s holding a file, hand shaking ever so slightly, and with the other he reaches out and closes the door behind him. “I just have a few questions to ask.”
The doctor frowns, adjusting the glasses sitting on the end of his nose. “Alright, why don’t you have a seat, and-”
And then, from seemingly out of nowhere, Robert - young, gentle, naive Robert - pulls out a SIG Sauer P226 and points it in the elderly man’s face. His hand isn’t steady by any means, unaccustomed to the weight of the firearm and his own ludicrous actions, but there’s a grim set to his jaw that Jonathan has never seen before, and the doctor slowly raises his hands. “Mr. Fischer, what are you-”
“You know, don’t you.” Robert’s tone is flat, accusing. “You and everyone else; I’m the only idiot who’s had the damn wool pulled over my eyes.”
“And what is it I am supposed to have known about?”
Robert’s eyes narrow. “This.” He tosses the folder onto the examination table and it slides across the smooth surface; Jonathan reaches out a hand to keep its contents from slipping off the table and as his eyes fall to the black-and-white surveillance photos -
A gaunt-faced woman walking around barefoot, her oversized jeans rolled up several times and secured around her too-thin waist with a piece of rope. Barbed wire weaving in and out of a ten-foot fence surrounding the perimeter of the Fischer Industries USA encampment. A uniformed soldier proudly looming over a mere boy crouched on the ground and pressing a giant book to the back of his victim’s skinny neck, the Fischer Industries insignia stitched over his chest like a badge of honor. The bloated corpse of a child rotting in a ravine.
Robert’s hand shakes as he touches his fingers to the computer screen, choking back a sob as his eyes flit from image to image, each snapshot blown-up in all its grisly glory and fitting to the screen for maximum viewing pleasure. He tries to tell himself that this isn’t real, that it’s a dream because it simply has to be; a terrible, horrendous, fucking god-awful nightmare, but Captain Davidson’s words echo in his mind, truer now than ever before: “I’ve seen the depravity and the wretchedness, the filth and the need - and you haven’t.”
“Fischer Industries,” Robert starts, his face pinched and white, his throat working in a tight swallow, “my namesake and my inheritance, is supposed to give people security, dignity, and a fucking quality of life.” He points the muzzle of the gun down at the images, and his finger is hovering dangerously right over the trigger. “So how the hell did things devolve to this?”
“Robert, son, please put the gun down-”
“Don’t,” Robert bursts out with a sharp jerk of his hand. The gun trembles. “Don’t call me that.” He takes a deep breath. “My father has made it clear enough that he wants nothing more to do with me, and I’ve just found out that the man I might have once thought of as my godfather is a lying son of a bitch.”
There are pages upon pages of documents, request forms, and formal orders Robert remembers signing - except these copies are amended beyond recognition, including content Robert would never put pen to paper to authorize: a rerouting of a consignment of medicines to an overseas black market; appropriating the money set aside for improved sanitation throughout the encampments in sector D-110 and instead putting it towards ordering more weaponry; pardoning one Sergeant Logan Rutland, sentry located in sector A-025, suspected of raping three woman in Encampment 4 and smothering his last victim to death.
And all of them, down at the bottom of the page, are signed in the same, bold hand: Peter E. Browning.
Jonathan chooses his next words carefully, because although the gun is not currently pointed at him, he would still rather not take a chance. “And why are you confronting me?” he asks quietly. “I’m just a physician, Robert. I haven’t left the grounds of Fischer Industries Headquarters in years, just like yourself.”
“That doesn’t mean you haven’t had a hand in this.” Robert inclines his head ever so slightly at the pile of papers. “Why don’t you take a look at what else is in there, Dr. Keiser.”
“Robert...”
“Now!” Robert’s voice wavers, but doesn’t break.
He has no choice but to do as he’s told, and Jonathan spreads the papers over the examination table carefully, gnarled hands smoothing out over the sheets. There are more official documents and ghastly images, personal emails between Maurice Fischer and Peter Browning, a formal presentation of data before the Fischer Industries Executive Board, and a dossier with a single cover page and simply titled PROJECT EXTRACTION. Here, he stops, fingertips barely brushing the blocky font.
Robert watches him from the corner of the room, standing right in the security camera’s blind spot. “Go on.”
When Robert was a child, he wasn’t a prodigy of any sort or anything else so extraordinary; he crawled before he walked, babbled before he learned how to speak, and, like fifteen percent of children from the ages of two to six, suffered from night terrors. His mother always came to his bed in the wake of an episode, armed with a glass of warm milk, a box of tissues, and words of comfort on her lips. His father on the other hand, would merely stand in the doorway and watch dispassionately as his wife sang their son back to sleep, and gruffly declare - loud enough for Robert to hear - that there’s no such thing as monsters, as if such a declaration could chase the bad dreams away.
Only now, at thirty-four years of age, does Robert realize that his father is a liar and the worst kind of monster that can possibly exist - one who wields his cruelty over the helpless and frames innocent men for his own crimes.
“I should’ve known my father was capable of something like this.” The gun is now pointed down at the floor, Robert’s arm down by his side as he stares at the wealth of secret files and evidence he’s already paged through, his features twisted into something wistful and hurt and disgusted at the same time, like a child who’s just discovered that not everything in the world can be categorized into good and bad, that people lie and the ones you love are those capable of hurting you the most. “But I never expected your involvement, Dr. Keiser.” He raises his head and gives Jonathan a look that reminds the doctor of the Biblical phrase about being weighed and judged and found wanting.
“Doctor?” A voice floats down along the corridor, echoing in the walls of the medical bay and Robert’s head snaps to the side as if he’d been slapped, eyes going wide.
Taking full advantage of the distraction, Jonathan makes a grab for Robert’s wrist, one foot coming up to kick at the back of his knee, aiming merely to incapacitate, not to maim or injure. Doctors know how to put people back together and are, conversely, also quite adept at taking them apart - and old as he is, Jonathan still remembers a bit of his training from his days as an army medic - and young Robert, for all his bluster and rash action, is no match. He goes down easily, with Jonathan stripping the gun away from his loosened grip.
No more than thirty seconds later, Peter Browning opens the door to the consulting room.
* - * - *
The walls and the ceiling are a blinding white, a shade that shouldn’t exist on the light spectrum - in realty, anyway. It scathes his retinas and is far worse than staring straight into the sun because these unbleached surfaces are those of nothingness - not a chalky hue or the color of milk or freshly fallen snow - no, this is a blankness that screams not of cleanliness or purity, but of the deletion of extraneous data and other memories that have ceased to be, ceased to exist. They aren’t white because they’ve been scrubbed spotless, but because of a clear distinction between what ought to be pristine and unaffected and kept that way with purpose and grim determination.
In start contrast, the floor is a dark and polished black that swims, hisses, and seethes with everything the walls and ceiling do not, a shade of obsidian that licks dangerously at the place where it meets the walls like tongues of flame, all the way down the hallway that seems to stretch on forever.
Eames stands still for a moment, taking in the heavy-duty bank vaults lining either side of the hallway, enormous circular titanium monstrosities that surely won’t open with a charming wink or a jaunty smile or simple “if you please”. He casts a look over his shoulder and, behind him, the hallway stretches on indeterminately, never-ending in either direction, without points of entry or exit.
Somehow, Eames isn’t the least bit surprised.
The floor moves under his foot as he takes a step forward and it’s a bit like walking on water, small ripples scattering out every which way; the air around him is hot and thick and cloying - probably a side effect of the fever that still grips Arthur in its greedy clutches - and Eames grimaces, pulling at the tie around his neck and allowing the strip of cloth to hang loose, popping the button on his collar and shedding the suit jacket (it’s Zegna; there is no sodding air in the place and it’s got to be close to a hundred fucking degrees, and Arthur’s mind decides to outfit Eames in bloody Italian wool) as he moves to the nearest door on the right, placing his palm flat against the blessedly cool metal door.
“Alright, Arthur,” he murmurs, letting his eyes wander over the door, searching for some way in, some combination or keypad or other accessible entry. “Come now darling, don’t be difficult…”
The term of endearment rolls off his tongue easily and he’s almost as surprised to hear himself say it aloud as he is when tumblers start shifting, cylinders begin to slide, and the door cracks open with a click and a hiss of air. Further on down the hallway, several other doors open as well, swinging open in obvious invitation.
But he hesitates for a fraction of a second; Eames expected faceless projections wielding sniping rifles and a floor made of lava, endless riddles and timed locks, lasers and assailants leaping from the shadows with knife-like smiles and AK-47 semi-automatics. This is easy, too easy, and when has anything with Arthur Davidson ever been easy?
The Desert Eagle is a comforting weight in his hand as he nudges the door just a bit wider, allowing just enough space to fit through, and steps into the vault. A day gate made of glass greets him, behind which is more empty white space, and Eames purses his lips, tapping the muzzle of his gun against the glass once, twice.
“Eames!”
The white space swirls, a molten swirl of colors and then there’s Arthur, dirt and grime and soot streaking his features, standing there in the traditional black ops combat gear, fingers curled around a modified version of the M4 carbine, hair disheveled and kicking down loosely over his forehead in unmanageable layers. His mouth opens, lips forming around Eames’ name again, but this time his voice is lost in the sound of a not-so-distant explosion and he’s thrown forward as the wall behind him explodes in a burst of concrete and debris.
Eames’ throat goes dry, an invisible fist shoving its way down his throat as he involuntarily surges forward, fists banging against the barrier that renders him a mere spectator to this scene, mouth open to answer-
“Arthur!” From behind the glass, Eames watches the memory unfold. The past version of himself steps into sight, whipping the night vision goggles off his face and reaching out to grab Arthur’s arm, hauling the other man upright. “You all right?”
“Something’s wrong.” Arthur shakes Eames’ hand off and throws his assault rifle aside, pulling at his vest and the string of grenades around his waist, casting off everything that might weigh him down. “Facility’s booby-trapped.”
“It’s a war game, love, and The Program’s last one at that; they told us just last night to-”
“The game is rigged, Eames!” Arthur snaps, now stripped of all his body armor, giving Eames a withering look as he swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, spreading the smear of soot across his skin. “It’s not just the level of difficulty; those fuckers changed the damn exits! How the hell are we supposed to-”
The explosion that cuts him off this time is far larger than the previous one and Eames can remember everything with perfect detail - the cloud of smoke and dust, the taste of ash on his tongue and grit between his teeth, and the incessant ringing in his ears as thousands of auditory nerves died a premature death. It’s sort of a surreal, out of body experience, watching himself get flung back and away from Arthur, limbs flailing in a near comical way, head bouncing against the floor.
He escapes with only a few bumps and bruises, but Arthur’s left leg is entirely crushed under a fallen block of concrete, unprotected body embedded with shrapnel, and Eames instinctively starts forward again, his palms pressed flat against the glass as he watches himself stagger to standing and dash over to Arthur’s side, only to fall back with a shout when a pipe above their head bursts, showering down hydrochloric acid.
And then, the screaming starts.
Arthur convulses, sobbing in agony like a man being murdered as the chemicals begin to eat away at his flesh, each droplet hissing at it makes contact with skin. He jerks desperately at his pinned leg, thrashing like a man possessed as he tries to get out from under the relentless spray, trying and failing. His fingers claw desperately at the rubble around him, then at Eames’ arm when the other man dashes over and throws his entire weight against the concrete. Arthur’s grip is frantic and pained and nearly hysterical, so very different from the way he’d clutched at Eames just the previous night as their lips met and tongues clashed.
Eames is just as helpless now as he was back then - more so now, standing here behind a panel of glass, unable to do anything other than watch. Back then, he had the option of giving Gordon a black eye when the other man tried to drag him out (Just fucking leave him Eames; he’s not worth it!), making his opinion on that idea perfectly clear. Back then, he could go up to the nearest General in charge and lay the fucker out after waking from the dream (Arthur was already being carted off by the emergency trauma team; apparently the dreamers weren’t the only ones the higher ups failed to inform of the changes in the game, and the dosage the chemists administered didn’t stop the trauma of the mind from leaking into agonizing psychosomatic pain in wakefulness) and then take dishonorable discharge for his misconduct.
Now all he can do is falter backwards, stepping unsteadily out of the vault. The door slides shut with a magnificent bang and Eames stands there for a moment, staring at nothing. Then he turns and stares at the other open doors stretching on down along the corridor on either side, all of them inviting him in.
* - * - *
Maurice Fischer is the type of man who has no qualms about taking whatever he sees fit for his own purposes, and he sought a means that would allow for easy entry into the mind, since taking over energy supplies and toppling companies in reality was no longer enough. (Some say he was driven half mad by the loss of his wife, but Robert refuses to entertain such a tragically romantic notion.) The tenants outlined in Project Extraction’s mission statement were to explore the lengths to which one might conduct a manipulation of subconscious thought, emotion, and desire, an experimental insight into human behavior and emotion. What would happen, the statement asked, if soldiers could be without fear or lovers without hate, if the next generation could be one of young men without disobedience, sons who could not disappoint their fathers?
“Robert! I’ve told you to keep out the damn-! Why can you never do as you’re told?!”
Once a mere military venture and now a booming industry in its own right, the dream sharing business had exactly the technology needed - but how to obtain it, when there were already those who knew it inside and out and would be unwilling to give it up without a fight?
Easily, as Motion 528-491 proved, a proposal drawn up by Peter Browning, Mr. Fischer’s right hand man and senior executive partner, known affectionately as Uncle Peter and godfather to Maurice’s son, Robert.
PROJECT EXTRACTION: MOTION 528-491 - A Declaration of Intent
Recipient: Maurice A. Fischer
WHEREAS, the United States military is unwilling to cede the rights of the PASIV dream-sharing technology
over to Fischer Industries, and aforementioned rights are also unable to be bought,
WHEREAS, the peoples in the dream-sharing industry are unwilling to cooperate with Fischer Industries in its
experimental ventures,
WHEREAS, the United States has always been a country whose people value their rights, traditionally view the
government with a certain degree of suspicion, and are always willing to fight for individual freedom,
WHEREAS, Dominic Cobb is a leading member in and well-respected scientist of the dream-sharing industry
THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED that Fischer Industries will take appropriate action to have the people of the
United States rise up in arms against each other and their government by implanting the rumor of a
threat of martial law in the wake of World War III,
BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that Dominic Cobb be implicated for the highest crime against his people and
country, charged with incepting certain key members of the United States government with the
aforementioned idea
Respectfully submitted,
Peter E. Browning
Robert’s throat goes dry and the piece of paper falls from his numb fingers. This motion is written like a bill set for Congressional approval, but at its core is nothing more than a statement of purpose, a roadmap of a sequence of events to follow. Despite the many complicated provisions and legalese, the implications of the proposition itself are perfectly clear: discredit the peoples of the dream-sharing industry in order to take from them the technology needed for Fischer Industries own experimental purposes. Destroying the United States from the inside out was just Uncle Peter having a bit of fun in the process.
Dominic Cobb was never responsible for starting the Second Civil War of the United States. He never planted an incendiary idea into the mind of anyone in the United States government. He’s a scapegoat, chosen because of his prestige, a mere tool in the hands of those with more power.
* - * - *
While Arthur may be particularly structured and well put-together, his subconscious is decidedly out of order. Chronologically, anyway; knowing Arthur (or what Eames likes to think he used to know about the man), there’s probably some method to the his madness. The scene behind the glass inside vault number two flashes forward to nearly one and a half years into the future, to a muddy field in the thick of World War III. It’s a mere slice of one of the major battles in the first year of the War, a concentrated effort by the Allies (generally thought of as Great Britain, the United States and Canada, and Japan, although it changes depending on who’s telling what story) to push the Russians and the Chinese back through Vancouver.
Eames watches the projection of his past self and Arthur slog through the rain and the mud, tripping over the bodies of the dead and their own feet before stumbling across one another, both exhausted and on edge, nearly shooting each other before the recognition lights up both of their faces. Arthur’s reaction is exactly as he remembers: the slight widening of his eyes (there’d been raindrops fringing the dark lashes, collecting like pearls) and a sudden quirk of the corner of his lips - that is, until a bullet slams into Eames’ back and from behind and he topples at Arthur’s feet like a broken puppet, sinking into the mud without the slightest bit of dignity.
(He’d always wondered what happened after he blacked out and woke up in an unfamiliar room in a bleak makeshift hospital two days later, pumped full of morphine and with Arthur nowhere in sight. The pretty young thing who’d come to check up on him told him of the young, handsome American Captain who brought him there and raised holy hell until the surgeons set to work on Eames’s wound immediately, but very little else.)
Arthur’s face is a terrible mask of fury, his eyes sharp glints of black ice as he first gets to his knees to check Eames’ pulse, then stands stiffly, striding over to the guilty culprit lying a few feet away, an enemy soldier who isn’t quite dead yet and obviously fancied killing one last man before his own demise. With one brutal kick, Arthur snaps the man’s neck and then turns back to Eames, a mixture of grim determination and fear in his face as he grabs at Eames’ unconscious form, pulling him out of the mud.
Eames watches Arthur carry, haul, and drag his dead weight through five miles of sludge and rain before he steps out of that vault and shuts the door. A bead of sweat streaks down the side of his face and he stands there for a moment, forehead pressed against the metal, a suspicious pricking at the corners of his eyes.
- - - - -
Vault number five shows another battle scene, this time on American soil, in front of the Pentagon. The Second Civil War, then. A moment of distraction in the heat of action, a knife raises high, its blade already wet with a dead man’s blood - and then a sniper’s bullet from an impossible distance pierces through the enemy soldier’s left eye.
Eames never knew exactly who saved his arse that day, but now, watching the scene play out from on the roof of the Pentagon itself, looking down at Arthur’s slim form and dark eye peering through the scope, he does.
His shirt sticks to his back, disgusting and uncomfortable. It’s sweltering. Arthur’s fever must still be raging on.
- - - - -
The tenth vault shows a day of relaxation back in the Mojave Desert, taking some time off from drills and training, two bottles of beer gone warm in the sun, and a shared cigarette. Eames can still taste the smoke, feel the merciless sun beating down upon him, see the dancing mirages out in the distance. Arthur’s eyes flick lazily in his direction, dragging over the sleeveless t-shirt Eames wears in the memory, over the ink curving around the biceps, his sharp gaze dark and hungry and wanting. Their fingers brush as Arthur reaches for the cigarette.
The fourth one (going in the other direction and on the opposite side of the hall) is the interior of a darkened tattoo parlor, date and exact location a mystery to Eames. Arthur sits with a towel pressed against one sharp hipbone - he’s wearing Armani pinstripes for fuck’s sake, and Eames wants to laugh out loud at the contradiction. Except it gets stuck in his throat as Arthur slowly pulls the cloth away and touches the tip of a finger to the newly made mark, his smile nostalgic as he wipes away a pearl of blood from the neat black ‘E’ inked into his skin.
Number twenty-one is Sherwood right after Mal’s ugly execution and Arthur looks exhausted, grim lines etched around his mouth; his eyes are tired, his tone sharp. He’s determined to stay with Cobb (who’s a broken mess of a man) even though that means leaving Eames, even though Eames asks, and damn near begs him to stay. They both say things they don’t mean, words flying fast and barbed and ugly, things like forget it and get out and coward, you bloody coward, and Eames watches Arthur walk away from him yet again, watches him punch a tree trunk until his knuckles are torn and bloody, watches him sink to his knees and shed angry, bitter tears.
* - * - *
Robert hisses in pain as his head bangs against the side of the truck and he tries to press himself further into the corner. Everything around him smells like latex and rubber and rubbing alcohol, and he takes a deep breath through his mouth, thinking back to how on earth he managed to get himself into the back of a Fischer Industries truck stocked with medical supplies and driving out toward the middle of nowhere.
“Busy, Doctor?” Browning’s tone indicates he doesn’t particularly care whether the answer is yes or no, and Dr. Keiser is quick to respond accordingly.
“Not at all, sir.” He neatly shuffles the last of the papers inside the file folder and sets it aside with the utmost nonchalance. “How might I be of assistance?”
Robert’s breath comes fast and shallow as he edges closer to the sliver of light seeping in from the crack between the narrow double doors, still slightly winded from Dr. Keiser shoving him inside the nearest supply pantry mere seconds before Uncle Peter came sweeping into the room. He has no idea where the doctor managed to stash the gun so quickly, but is immensely thankful it’s no longer in his grasp, because now, as he stares at his godfather, Robert feels something rash and hurt and angry sending sparks to the ends of his fingertips; the air fizzes with electric energy and his vision hazes with red.
“Our informer has sent word again. She requests a bit more than the standard stock this time; apparently there’s a very injured man that needs attending to.” Browning hands over a list and Dr. Keiser frowns down at it for a moment before nodding.
“Oh, yes. This is doable.”
“The truck will leave in half an hour, then.”
It’s a simple exchange, one that Robert doesn’t understand in the least, and after the fade of Uncle Peter’s footsteps, the pantry doors are yanked open from the outside and Dr. Keiser stands there, beckoning to Robert. “Out now, come on!”
Robert stares at him, unmoving, recent revelations making him far more cautious than before. “What’s going on?”
The elderly physician huffs in frustration and grabs Robert by the arm, pulling him out of the pantry. “The Captain warned me this would happen,” he muttered to himself. “You have to leave, Robert. Follow me.”
“Captain Davidson?”
“Yes. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Now come, quickly!”
Robert still doesn’t move though. “Where?”
Dr. Keiser turns and grabs him, shaking him hard. “Listen to me, boy! When your ‘Uncle Peter’ finds out that you know about Project Extraction, it won’t matter that you’re his godson. Many have been silenced for much less than what you now know.” He steps back, reaches into a nearby drawer, and pulls out the SIG Sauer, pressing it into Robert’s hand. “And with the Captain gone, there is no one here to protect you anymore.”
Abruptly, the vehicle screeches to a halt and Robert goes flying with a thump and a curse, but swallows it down when a woman’s voice floats through the thin walls of the truck’s back compartment: “Hello, little Fish.” There’s the unmistakable cock of a shotgun, and Robert’s blood goes cold.
It seems the Resistance has arrived.
“Fischer Industries intercepted a phone call a little over a month ago from a medic in the Resistance.” Dr. Keiser murmurs, his voice low as he opens the door to the back of what looks like a refurbished ambulance. “Mr. Browning has been sending out medicinal supplies at her request.”
Robert knows this song and dance; his godfather did the same to him years ago, when he’d been but a kid and a rift in the partnership between the senior Fischer and Browning threatened to end the corporation. Uncle Peter had been patient, coming around daily for weeks; buttering little Robert up with presents and candy in exchange for any information he could get about Maurice’s work. It had taken weeks, but he finally asked his godson to steal into Maurice’s office, as kind and understanding and persuasive as anything. “And he asks for information about the Resistance in return.”
“Yes.” He motions to the back of the truck. “In you go.”
“Why are you sending me to the Resistance?”
The doctor gives Robert a look that suggests he might be mentally deficient. “Because you’re better off there than you are here.”
And yet, Robert still hesitates. “I don’t understand. Why are you helping me?”
Dr. Keiser sighs, the lines in his face deepening, guilt and age and far more than that. “You know the part I played in Project Extraction, I assume.” At Robert’s wordless nod, he smiles bitterly. “This, I suppose, is as much as I can do for atonement.”
“What’s your name, Little Fish?” The woman’s voice is cool and just this side of menacing; lightly accented with a bit of the South and confident in the way most everyone would be when holding a weapon.
“Jimmy,” the driver squeaks, and Robert tries to remember his face - young, twenty years old at most, one of the new recruits who would easily be assigned to the menial task of driving a truck full of medicinal supplies out to a drop point. “Jimmy Collins.”
“And is it just you and the truck, Jimmy?”
“Y-yes. Ma’am.”
“Okay. That’s good. Step out, both hands up.” The driver’s side door opens and closes as Jimmy apparently does as he’s told. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn around and just start walking back towards where you came from, and no one will get hurt. Got it, Little Fish?” A moment’s pause, then, “Go on.”
Frantically pounding footsteps sprint past the truck and back in the direction of Fischer Industries; they’re followed by long, even strides approaching the back of the truck. Robert takes a deep breath from his position right next to the back doors, gun set down on the floor, his hands already held up in surrender as the doors open. A blonde man with day-old scruff on his face and piercing blue eyes blinks at him for a fraction of a second before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and throwing him into the dirt. “Reyes!”
A young woman rounds the corner, shotgun at the ready. “No need to shout, Broody, I’m right -”She cuts herself off when she catches sight of the man kneeling in the middle of the forest in a navy blue Ralph Lauren suit, his hands behind his head. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Stowaway.”
“Well no shit, Sherlock.” She scoffs, then raises an eyebrow at Robert. “You got a name, stranger?”
“Please,” Robert whispers, staring at the dirt. “Don’t…don’t shoot.” He lifts his head. “My name is Robert Fischer.”
- - - - -
It began as an experiment in human thought and emotion, mere scientific inquiry that sought to become so much more. Who said that space had to be the final frontier? Why not look inward instead, into the vast complexity of the human brain and all that it does to affect behavior? Synapses and neural pathways, neurotransmitters and the subconscious human mind - the United States had already discovered a way to manipulate dreams, and the possibilities after that had to be endless.
And now he sits here looking over the panoply of it all: gross human rights violations and a breach of every single aspect of the Hippocratic oath, Fischer Industries’ dirty laundry laid out for everyone to see - and he’d been a part of it too, Jonathan P. Keiser, Head of Research for Project Extraction.
Mea maxima culpa.
Jonathan shakes his head, the guilt weighing down in his stomach like a stone as his eyes sweep over the reports written and signed in his own hand, at the CAT scans showing signs of decreasing brain activity, at the names and faces of those whose minds had been ruined in the name of science. It was like Doctor Frankenstein all over again, trying to “extract” depression and sorrow and hate with all good intentions, with only horror and devastation to show for it.
Christ, he wants to rage at his own utter stupidity, to weep for all the men and women whom he’d robbed of sanity and a livelihood, whom he helped transform into the mindless monsters now known as “Tourists” and turned out into the Periphery to die.
He’d refused to continue after only two weeks, after seeing the effects upon the first cycle of subjects, fifty of them in all. But even so, Project Extraction persisted, and Jonathan was demoted down to a menial practice, more or less imprisoned inside Fischer Industries Headquarters. For what reason, he’s still not sure - nowadays, anyone who asks too many questions is immediately and ruthlessly silenced. Just last week, Fischer Industries rounded up a new batch of subjects from various encampments within range for more experimentation. One young soldier who’d tried to protest the taking of a child had been shot on the spot.
A shadow falls over him, blocking out the light, and he looks up. “I suppose this means my time has come.”
“Yes, you suppose correctly.” He watches her as she sits, all willowy limbs and blue eyes that are too bright, sparking with the light of something he can’t even begin to guess. She too, had been one among the subjects of the first cycle - but instead of losing all reason, instead of a successful extraction of hate and cruelty, her brain patterns instead began to imitate that of a psychopath’s. “Why did you help Robert escape?”
Because Robert is too good to pay for the sins of his father. Because it was the right thing to do. Because Jonathan is a dead man walking anyway, and he knows it. Captain Davidson knew it too, and that was why he asked the doctor to keep an eye out for Robert the night he escaped, why he told him of the Resistance, why he approached Jonathan in the medical bay one night and told him, There is a way to make atonement, Dr. Keiser. There is a way to help make things right.
In the end, he declines to answer the question and instead, very quietly, says, “I am so sorry for what happened to you, and for my part in how and why you’ve become like this.”
Mallorie Cobb doesn’t say a word as she raises a gun and shoots the good Doctor in the face at point blank range.
* - * - *
Vault after vault after vault.
Soon, Eames stops keeping count - Arthur laughing with him; Arthur cursing a bloody blue streak to God when he hears of Eames’ dishonorable discharge; Arthur smiling at him when he thinks no one else is looking, and sometimes even when he knows other people are looking.
It’s obvious that these memories, all of them, are about Eames, for Eames - the vaults opened just at the sound of his voice, after all - but he has no idea what to make of it all.
There’s no telling how long he’s been here - he promised Ariadne he’d take care of himself before he went under - and unfortunately, it seems like Arthur’s subconscious failed to accessorize him with a wristwatch while dressing him, and here he stands, no closer to figuring Arthur out than when he’d started. With a low growl of frustration, he pulls the tie off entirely and unbuttons the previously starched dress shirt, now soaked through with sweat. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he turns in a full three hundred sixty-degree circle, then throws his head back to holler full-throated at the ceiling - “ARTHUR!”
His voice doesn’t echo off the walls or reverberate down the long hallway; it doesn’t even carry. Eames is filling his lungs with air, ribs expanding, fully prepared to yell again, his pulse roaring in his ears - when he hears it. His jaw shuts with an audible click, his nostrils flaring as he struggles to get his breathing under control, and he strains his ears, wondering if it’s possible to hallucinate while in someone else’s mind...
There. There.
A minor. Two violins and strings. Allegro. Vivaldi’s L’estro Armonico, Opus 3, Concerto Number 8 - Eames would know that tune absolutely anywhere. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Cabo.”
The floor beneath his feet ripples, shifts, and then undulates, polished black folding in upon itself to reveal a carpet of an unobtrusive pale peach; the music grows louder and Eames feels the air around him prickling his skin, like oil in a hot frying pan. To his left, the row of bank vaults start to shimmer, like a mirage, shifting in and out of focus and if he stares particularly intently, he can see an open balcony and gauzy white curtains billowing outwards into a panoramic view overlooking the blue waters. To his right, a California King with red silk sheets and an abandoned white bath towel...
- - - - -
Ariadne bites her lower lip nervously as she glances from Eames’ slumped form leaning against the cot, to the PASIV, to Arthur, and the cannulae connecting them all together. The blinking red display on the timer continues to count downwards, with two minutes left on the clock. Eames has been under for more than three hours now, and although Ariadne’s no expert in dream-sharing, she remembers reading somewhere that five minutes in reality meant an hour in the subconscious, so...
Wait. What was that? Her gaze snaps back to Arthur, eyes narrowing. Carefully, she sets her coffee aside - the third one she’s managed to get from Leon, the cook, since Eames asked her to keep watch over the both of them - and leans forward, staring intently at Arthur’s hand, which she’s almost positive she just saw twitch.
And she jerks back, mouth open in a wordless cry as Arthur’s entire frame wrenches upwards like an invisible hand just grabbed a hold of his spine, and he begins to convulse.
- - - - -
BANG. BANG. BANG.
One by one, the vault doors all start to slam shut, on both sides of the hallway, and the Vivaldi cuts off in a discordant, atonal screech; the flickering image of Cabo shatters, and the floor beneath Eames’ feet begins to crumble and fall away as everything around him begins to shake.
“Oh, Christ-” The doors begin to crack then shatter into a thousand pieces, like panes of glass, a roaring void in their wake and then Eames begins to run, Italian loafers pounding against the floor, not knowing where he’s heading just so long as there’s a hard surface beneath his feet. “What the bloody fuck-!”
Lunging for a door, Eames’ hands find the spoked handle and, to his surprise, it turns under his weight. The door swings open easily, revealing a chasm bottoming out into spiraling depths of black, and a hand gripping to the very edge of a cliff’s face, knuckles going white with effort-
“ARTHUR!” Eames throws himself to his stomach, digging his toes into the loose rocks along the ledge as he inches close to the edge overlooking the nothingness, fingers of one hand reach out to encircle a slender wrist. “Arthur,” he pants, breath wheezing in his lungs, harsh and desperate.
Arthur looks up at him, dark hair loose and whipping about his gaunt, pale face, feet dangling right over the black. In his wide eyes, Eames can see the empty voids of limbo, and he tightens his grip on the other man’s wrist. “Don’t let go,” he growls, throat burning, face wet with sweat or tears. Perhaps both. “Don’t you dare let go!”
- - - - -
WAKE UP! Ariadne tries to shriek, thumping at Eames’ chest with both fists, but of course, nothing comes from her throat, not even a whisper, not even a strangled gasp of air. She shoots Arthur a quick glance and doubles her efforts. Oh God, Eames, please, please wake UP!
On the cot, Arthur’s muscles spasm and his back arches; his limbs flail about uncontrollably and he’s torn out the line connecting one of the many antibiotics Natasha put him on. His head jerks back and forth, tendons in his neck standing out, and there’s blood streaking down his chin from the corner of his mouth, where he’s bitten his tongue.
On the PASIV, the timer ticks off each second one by one - thirty, twenty-nine seconds, twenty-eight...
- - - - -
“Cuff links,” Eames chokes out, something between a sob and a bark of laughter. Arthur’s hanging over the edge of his own subconscious and he’s still wearing sodding Armani - waistcoat and cuff links and all. “Oh darling, you are impossible.” His voice is stolen away by the shrieking wind though, and he suddenly realizes it’s absolutely freezing; and that’s not right, either -
Arthur’s eyes remain on him as if he’s the only thing in the world, even as the rocks in the ledge begin to loosen. His lips move in an abortive whisper - “Eames-”
- - - - -
Ten seconds left on the clock, and Ariadne is going hysterical. She raises a hand and hits Eames across the face, open-handed, palm connecting with his cheek in a swift, ringing slap. It hurts.
Seven seconds, and Arthur chokes out a terrible, gurgling rasp, then goes completely still.
- - - - -
Arthur falls without a sound, his dark eyes still locked with Eames’ frantic gaze, a shadow disappearing into a darkness that swallows him and Eames’ scream goes unheard by anyone other than himself.
- - - - -
“Eames!”
Ariadne automatically brings a hand to her throat, wondering for one crazy moment if she’s suddenly regained the ability to speak, but that thought quickly dissipates as she recognizes it as Michelle’s voice. The door to the medical cabin bangs open to reveal Michelle manhandling a young man in a well-cut navy blue suit into the room.
What? she gapes, still without voice. Who...?
The man lifts his head, revealing startlingly blue eyes, and gasps, his horrified gaze fixed on Arthur. “Captain?” he whispers, at the same time Cobb shoves his way into the room, takes in the sight of Arthur’s rumpled state, the PASIV, Eames blinking awake - and absolute pandemonium breaks out.
Cobb charges at Eames, his face a terrible expression of fury; Eames leaps to his feet and onto the bed, straddling Arthur’s hips, a raw and primal fear in his eyes; Michelle’s prisoner also tries to lunge for the bed, stilling only when Michelle grabs his arm and twists it up behind his back; and Ariadne stands in the middle of it all, utterly at a loss of what to do next.
“You fucking bastard-”
“Hold still, you, or I’ll be perfectly happy to put a bullet in your knee-”
“Ariadne!” She starts as she hears her name and looks over to where Eames is shoving Cobb back with one powerful sweep of his arm - adrenaline fueled, no doubt - and then returning his attention back to Arthur who lies so utterly still, no pulse in his neck, no breath in his lungs. “Ariadne, breathe for him!”
CPR. Right. I can do that. She darts past Cobb and clasps Arthur’s face between her hands - Jesus his skin is clammy - and tilts his head back to clear his airway when she notices the blood, a thin twist of crimson snaking down his jaw. Oh, no. She waves her hands frantically at Eames, who’s most likely breaking one or more of Arthur’s ribs with the intensity in which he’s doing chest compressions, because she can’t breathe air through the blood in Arthur’s mouth. Stop, Eames, stop!
Cobb isn’t standing by and just gaping though; he yells out the door - “NATASHA!” Within seconds the medic dashes through the door, an AED defibrillator in hand. She darts over to the bed as Cobb reaches up, hooks an arm around Eames’ neck, and bodily drags the other man off the cot - “Get off, you great fucking idiot!”
Natasha rips open Arthur’s shirt and applies the leads to his chest, movements swift and practiced, methodical. From the far corner, the newcomer gives a ragged sob as more ghastly injuries are put on display, but no one pays him any attention - Eames is pulling at Cobb’s chokehold, trying to get free as he curses Cobb to five different hells in a frantic, nonstop babble; Ariadne stares at Arthur, her hands over her mouth and eyes filling with tears; and even Michelle holds her breath as the machine charges. “Charging. Clear!”
Arthur’s body jerks upwards at the surge of electricity. Nothing.
“Charging…clear!”
No, Ariadne thinks desperately, heart pounding in her chest. Oh God no, please, please.
“BLOODY SELFISH BASTARD!” Eames roars over Natasha, voice scraped raw and broken, “always leaving, ALWAYS, you inconsiderate little-”
A loud choking gurgle cuts through the air and at that, everyone gathered suddenly remembers how to breathe again.
Natasha flips Arthur on his side, efficiently stripping the pads from his chest and supporting him across the shoulders with deceptive strength as he coughs out the blood in his throat and mouth before he sags limply, chest heaving with labored gasps.
Eames is there in an instant, carefully lowering him down to the cot, tentatively touching one large hand to Arthur’s pale cheek and gently wiping away the streaks of blood with his thumb. Ariadne watches him lean down to rest his forehead against Arthur’s, in a motion that might possibly be called tender; his throat works in a convulsive swallow as he tries to pull himself together, eyes closed and lips moving in a silent litany, words that may or may not be thank fuck, stay with me, Arthur, darling.
* - * - *
Part 9