Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, Prologue [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall - Prologue
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,719
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
If no one else is going to write it down, I guess I should. No one’s much for record keeping these days; since the phone lines went out, it’s all going back to word of mouth. Paper’s being hoarded for bartering and trading, or, in really bad times, used as poor substitution for bandages. I guess I have an excuse to keep a journal, though. I really don’t have any other way of communicating. And after all, who better than the mute girl to share with the future generations (if there are any, that is, and given that you’re reading this, then, well. There you go. I rest my case.) an account of what you guys are lucky enough to call the past?
My name is Ariadne Elaine Brooks. And this is the story of how the world ended, and the Hell that followed.
* - * - *
World War I (1914 - 1918) is the war of attrition; the war of trenches and flamethrowers, pillboxes and a clash of twentieth century technology and nineteenth century warfare. It’s also hailed as the supposed “War to End all Wars,” ending two imperial powers of the world and the lives of an estimated fifteen million. Those who keep archives of the past call it the second deadliest conflict in history.
World War II (1939 - 1945) remains forever stamped in the history of humanity as one of the worst global military conflicts and the deadliest conflict in human history, claiming the lives of more than one hundred million military personnel, and over seventy million civilian fatalities. A museum is built to honor the memory of those victimized by the Holocaust, their tormentors brought to justice; the island nation decimated by the only use of nuclear weapons in warfare is rebuilt in the image of the world’s superpower, remade bigger and better for the good of all those involved.
Every great and tragic state of armed conflict has a start: the assassination of an archduke, the invasion of a country, the bombing of a naval base. Every war results in inerasable scars no matter how much the economy recovers, no matter how many holidays pass celebrating the days blood was spilt and millions died for the sake of country, for honor, for the stupidity of others, for nothing at all. Flanders fields and thousands of white crosses on a hillside - we will always remember, always, always, always.
World War III (2020 - 2025) has no set trigger. No one counts the scars it leaves because there are so many that it doesn’t even matter anymore. And no one remembers those who fall - they keep falling day by day, anyway (damn radiation poisoning; that’s what happens in a nuclear war); mushroom clouds dot the sky, brother abandons brother and mothers their children, soldiers desert their posts and the world ends.
Except that it doesn’t.
Armageddon comes and goes. Gabriel doesn’t blow his horn, no God comes to collect His own; there’s no fire. Or ice. Or anything, for that matter, except for ruin.
As it turns out, humans are too stubborn to simply lie down and die.
Thus, at the end of all things, humanity still stands, bending down to pick up the pieces. Mankind limps on. If there’s anything the human race has learned throughout the years, it’s how to fight back, how to endure - no matter what the odds. And we’re awfully good at it, too. We’re parasites of the most resilient strain, feeding off of the remnants of ourselves and each other, cannibalism and survival all in one.
This is the way the world ends.
(Not with a bang.)
This is the way the world ends.
(Not with a whimper - although there are plenty of those to go around.)
This is the way the world ends -
With an idea.
* - * - *
As it turns out, the Mayans should’ve extended their calendar just a bit further. Let’s give them an A for effort, or maybe an A for a-bomb. In the year 2020, World War III breaks out, and, just as everyone expected, it’s a nuclear war.
They launched the first volley of missiles on my birthday. Other girls get cars on their sweet sixteens; I got worldwide panic and Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper having a showdown on CNN. Happy birthday to me, and many happy returns.
Anyone who wants to be anyone is involved, and even those who don’t want anything to do with it eventually get dragged into it. Suddenly, everything you ever learned about World War II in boring history lessons becomes reality: blackouts and mad dashes to underground bunkers, rationing and gas masks, fighter jets whizzing overhead. The draft. I’m not going to go into a bunch of detail, because even in the midst of war, life still goes on. A little slower maybe, and with a hell of a lot more paranoia, but still life.
Five years later, the nations of the international community that are still kicking sign a shaky treaty. Those who don’t sign it have nothing to say ‘cause they’ve been blown off the map. In the aftermath, here’s how the world stands today:
Japan is still the technological capital of the world, and last I heard, it’s doing pretty well. Pretty ironic, considering the last time atomic bombs and nukes were used in warfare, no?
Australia has basically become what the colony of Georgia once was, an entire continental prison and haven for those who want to be forgotten by the rest of society. (Except Georgia wasn’t, and, to my knowledge, still isn’t a continent. Not like part of California, which broke off at the San Andreas fault and dropped into the Pacific Ocean. But you get my meaning.)
Russia’s essentially one huge block of frozen…nothingness, due to weird weather patterns and the apparent results of nuclear winter that seem to have only affected that part of the Northern Hemisphere. Yeah, it’s strange. Don’t ask me, I’m not a meteorologist. I’ve always wanted to be an architect. The Great Wall’s nothing but a bunch of rocks now, and same with the Himalayas, seeing that both have been blown to bits.
South America’s doing okay on its own, I guess. They keep their borders sealed tight, trading occasionally, but nothing more than that. Mexico’s pretty much the same way. Take that, border patrol and illegal immigration laws. Karma’s a bitch.
Cuba’s gone though, having been one of the main fronts during the nuclear war. (Sorry, Castro. No worldwide domination for you, although there’s nothing much to dominate anymore anyway.)
The entirety of Great Britain has shut itself in. Think totalitarian state with a power hungry psychotic maniac, a dystopian society, if you will. Long live the Queen. I’m not sure what the rest of Europe is up to. It’s pretty quiet over there. Kinda like a graveyard.
It’s horribly cliché and stereotypical, but Africa’s become the black market of the world (no pun intended), a seedy underground rife with drug cartels and wars, populated with arms dealers and people I don’t even want to know about.
The Middle East doesn’t exist anymore.
And then, there’s the United States. The USA. Land of the free, and home of the brave. Well, let me tell you about the grand US of A, and the fucking geniuses who decided it would be a great idea to have our very own civil war right after World War III ended. Except this time, it wasn’t so much the North against South with only thirteen colonies in between; this time, there are fifty states (yeah, Alaska and Hawaii found a way to get themselves mixed up in it too), each with their own National Guard plus what was left of the United States Army and the Coast Guard, the Air Force and the Marines.
Well, Alaska’s, um…gone. Entirely. New York and half the eastern coast now lie underwater. Sorry kids, no more Disney World or “The Happiest Place on Earth”. Texas has seceded (from what, no one really knows, because there isn’t exactly a Union anymore). There’s no set government (the President and half her cabinet were shot down over the Atlantic while trying to attend a peace summit) and there’s a huge crater where Capitol Hill used to be (shows you what everyone really thought of Congress); rather, there’re multiple federations fragmented and scattered here and there, all claiming to have the right to power and ability to bring peace. Not like it really helps.
There’s a scar on my left shoulder from when some looters burned our house down and a piece of the falling ceiling hit me. Dad never made it out of the flames. Mom disappeared two months after, and they found a bloated corpse in the river a couple of weeks later, mangled beyond recognition but wearing the necklace that used to belong to Gran before she passed it along to her daughter. A lot of bad things happened, and that’s about the time I stopped talking. Don’t ask me how or why - the world goes to hell; it’s a little distracting. The days all kinda bleed together.
In a fairy tale perhaps, out of the ashes of despair arises the champion of the people, a Prince Charming riding on his noble white steed, charging out of the horizon, come to rescue America the Beautiful.
Maurice Fischer is no hero and he didn’t come on a white horse, offering handouts out of the goodness of his heart. He came with tanks and soldiers, promising order and food and shelter, driving what was left of the American people into refugee camps like cattle, whether they wanted to accept his so-called charity or not. The man basically holds a monopoly on a good chunk of the world’s resources right now, and all the sad remnants of what used to be the world’s greatest superpower in an iron fist. Stupidly enough, he manages to do all of this without even crossing the Atlantic; the original Fischer Industries Headquarters isn’t even based on US soil. It’s his son who runs the entire base of operations here, and the little fucker is as bad as his old man.
* - * - *
“-they sacked the entire shipment?!” Peter Browning’s face is red, and he looks rather like the Big Bad Wolf, huffing and puffing so hard that he must be blowing some house down, somewhere. Someone half-hidden in the shadows replies in a low, even tone and Browning waves his arms like a bird, face turning an even darker shade of crimson. “Goddamn it!”
From behind the conference room’s glass walls, Robert looks up from the scouting reports spread out over the desktop, pen hovering in midair, frowning slightly in concern. Peter Browning is normally a very genial man even in this day and age, ever the voice of cheer and encouragement, so rarely does the younger Fischer ever see his godfather in such a state. The unseen individual on the wrong end of Browning’s very loud and passionate display of frustration steps into view, probably saying something to placate the other man, and Robert’s frown deepens.
The man is all straight back and squared shoulders, slicked back dark hair and stern, clean-shaven profile, lithe frame fitted snugly in a black and green officer’s uniform, the hands clasped respectfully behind his back gloved in black leather. From where he sits, Robert can’t see any visible holstered firearms, but he knows that the man has anywhere from two to ten weapons hidden on his person, not to mention the fact he knows what those gloved hands are perfectly capable of on their own.
The Head of Security of Fischer Industries USA is a busy man. Robert only recalls catching a glimpse of him once or twice before: striding purposefully down a corridor and out of sight, peering through the scope of a Barrett XM109 and taking down an assassin en route to end Uncle Peter’s life. This is the first time he’s ever seen the man up close, and he’s a bit startled at the youthfulness in the other’s features, so different from the mental images he’d always conjured of the ex-Marine who served in WWIII and the Second Civil War, the man who’s always out in the field in direct supervision of the shipment of materials and safety of refugees, the man who they say has a mind like a computer, fights like a machine, and never sleeps.
Whatever the news, it can’t be good.
“Uncle Peter?” Robert half-rises from his seat when Browning enters the conference room, looking slightly mollified but still a bit pink in the cheeks. “Is something wrong?”
His godfather waves a hand dismissively, motioning for him to sit down and doing so himself. “No, nothing; just an…ah, unforeseen derailment of a shipment of supplies.”
Robert frowns at that, because what exactly does that mean? “Which consignment?” He mentally rifles through the list of convoys sent out over the last few days, and his stomach drops. “Not the one bound for sector C-145?”
The silence that meets his query is answer enough, and now it’s Robert’s turn to go red in the face.
“That’s our largest encampment, Uncle Peter; the people there need those supplies!” He’s pacing up and down the entire length of the far wall now, eyes jumping from map to map - topographical sketches of a new landscape scarred by battle, meteorological diagrams of projected weather conditions, scanning the crisscross of different colored lines and symbols, silently cursing what has to be a personal oversight. “Was there an ice storm, or some other unexpected break in the predetermined route?”
Robert’s chest tightens at the thought of all the refugees living in aforementioned encampment going without food or clean water, the hundreds upon hundreds of women and children having to do without medicine or blankets in the middle of February. These people are his responsibility now; they trust Fischer Industries to provide for them, and here he can’t even deliver (both metaphorically and literally speaking). His hands clench and unclench into fists, nails biting crescent moons into his palms. “Was the convoy attacked by looters? Were any of the workers injured? Can we get another shipment from Headquarters by-”
“Robert, really now. It’s being taken care of.” Browning appears entirely too unfazed for a man who was just doing a fine impression of a beet a couple of minutes ago over the very same piece of news; he motions again for Robert to sit, suddenly all warmth and smiles, leaning forward. “I’ve heard from your father.”
Robert sits.
“Is it about…I mean-” His voice is hushed, almost too loud in the room. “He’s doing well, then?”
“Quite.” Browning pauses, waiting for the question both of them know is forthcoming, and Robert takes a deep breath.
“Is there…has he found a way for me to get back home?”
Robert hasn’t seen his father in years, since right before the whole world went to Hell packaged neatly with a bow in a handbasket, since he had the misfortune of being in the United States the day Judgment Day came and went. He’s happy, really, at the chance to run Fischer Industries stateside and to help all the people here who so desperately need it, but still. He knows his godfather’s answer even before it comes, but waits patiently all the same.
Browning’s gaze is sympathetic. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” he replies quietly, “there are still two public enemies at large, and it would be safer for you to remain here until they’re caught.” From a briefcase that seems to have materialized out of nowhere, he withdraws two thick file folders and pushes them across the table. “Besides,” he presses gently, “who would run Fischer Industries USA if you were to leave?”
“You, Uncle Peter.” They’ve been through this discussion before, countless times, over and over again. “I would be safer back home.”
“Your father thinks differently.” The other man spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Let’s not fight, Robert.”
Robert sets his jaw and looks away, suddenly feeling insolent and very childish, but shuts his mouth. Browning smiles and pushes the two file folders forward, tapping the labels with the tips of his fingers. “You should read these. Familiarize yourself with their names and faces. Some of our scouts think they’re poised to launch a full scale attack against USA headquarters sometime soon.” With that, he stands and leaves the room.
Robert tenses ever so slightly as the door swings shut with the softest click, shoulders jerking up minutely as they do whenever he gets nervous or agitated. He’s never been a violent man, preferring words to fists and handshakes to handguns, reality to dreams. He never really understood the fascination with dream sharing when it first began to evolve from military science to thrill seeker’s high, and he still doesn’t understand what those formerly embroiled in the business of subconscious security have to gain from launching attacks against Fischer Industries. What vendetta could these men (or anyone, for that matter) have against those who are simply trying to help keep everyone alive?
He flips open the first of the two files and stares down at the large mug shots and grainy security footage photos, scanning over the neatly typed information marching across the page in blocky font.
Subject: Dominic Cobb, age 36, former leading dream-sharing scientist for the US government
Area(s) of expertise: Extraction, Architecture
Status: Still at large, threat level - Armed and very dangerous
The man responsible for starting the Second Civil War
Affiliates
Wife: Mallorie Odette Cobb, age 34, former leading dream-sharing scientist for the US government
Area of expertise: Architecture
Status: Deceased
Children: Phillipa Marjorie Cobb, age 6, and James Arthur Cobb, age 3
Location: Sector D-250
Associate: William Thomas Eames, age 32, dishonorably discharged from the US Military
Area of Expertise: Forgery
Status: Still at large, threat level - Armed and very dangerous
Noted international con man and thief; rumored leader of Resistance camps
Associate: Arthur Lawrence Davidson, age 29, former Captain in the US Marine Corps
Area of expertise: ---
Status: ---
Cleared of charges, now appointed as Head of Security of Fischer Industries USA
One eyebrow lifts, and then the other. Robert slowly raises his gaze from the file and stares at the man standing next to the door, silent and invisible as ever, but still with such a commanding presence that one can’t help but notice his closed, dark gaze or the way he seems to stand just a little too straight, face just a little too blank. “Captain Davidson?”
The Captain glances up sharply from his position standing next to the door, and inclines his head in a respectable nod, simultaneously palming something in his hand. It’s a smooth movement, deft and almost graceful in a way - but Robert has always had sharp eyes, and he sees the cubical translucency of what looks like a red die against the black of leather before it disappears in the man’s fist.
* - * - *
Word is, it was an idea that ignited the flames of the Second Civil War; an idea planted in the minds of just the right people, an idea that proposed putting the entire country under martial law, a la what Britain’s done to itself in becoming a totalitarian state. Americans are certainly a proud people - arrogant, oh yes indeed; stupid, sometimes; but no one out there beats the red, white, and blue in patriotism. We love our rights and our Constitution, and are willing to fight for them - so fight we did. We fought each other, and nobody won, because everyone lost.
Some historians once said we would never be able to survive another Civil War, and they’re only half right. We’re still here. We’ve survived. But it’s not much of a life.
Most everyone these days lives in official “camps” set up by Fischer Industries. I’m not going to insult those who suffered through true horror in the past by likening these living conditions to concentration camps, but still - there are “workers” who walk around with semi-automatics and batons. We’re crowded together like sheep, tagged with numbers (mine is A8176-109, if you’re wondering), and told what to eat, what to wear, when to shit, shower, sleep, everything. Once every two weeks, a convoy of trucks stop and drop off crates of scratchy blankets, toilet paper, canned goods, and the like. The men escorting the goods wear green and black uniforms. Basically, it’s military rule anyway, only under the guise of charity from an overseas provider.
I guess I shouldn’t complain, though. There’re stories of the people out there who refused to get roped into living in camps, horror stories of cannibalism and of desperation-driven insanity, of said protesters retreating into the wilderness to live like animals, or getting shot down by Fischer’s men.
I don’t doubt any of it. One thing I’ve learned over the past eight years is to believe that anything can happen. ‘Cause the worst has already come and gone.
After there’s no one left to fight, after the country’s been torn apart, people, as they always do, start looking for a scapegoat. Dream sharing has always been a precious commodity, developed by the military and sold off to members of the elite, those who are wealthy enough to buy their dream escapes from the real world. I hear it was some top scientist in the field of dream-sharing, Cobb something or other, although no one knows exactly why.
I hear his wife was caught two years ago, and promptly executed by firing squad.
You know how blind people have excellent hearing? The whole “dulling of one sense leads to the sharpening of another” deal? Well, people around here talk. A lot. And since I can’t anymore, I listen.
I hear there are other camps out there, people banding together to fight Fischer Industries: a Resistance army. I hear Fischer Industries is retaliating by setting out bounty hunters and assassins to do their dirty work, although everyone already knows anyone affiliated with Fischer Industries is a dirty, backstabbing traitor.
I hear a hard rain’s gonna fall.
* - * - *
Part 1
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,719
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
If no one else is going to write it down, I guess I should. No one’s much for record keeping these days; since the phone lines went out, it’s all going back to word of mouth. Paper’s being hoarded for bartering and trading, or, in really bad times, used as poor substitution for bandages. I guess I have an excuse to keep a journal, though. I really don’t have any other way of communicating. And after all, who better than the mute girl to share with the future generations (if there are any, that is, and given that you’re reading this, then, well. There you go. I rest my case.) an account of what you guys are lucky enough to call the past?
My name is Ariadne Elaine Brooks. And this is the story of how the world ended, and the Hell that followed.
* - * - *
World War I (1914 - 1918) is the war of attrition; the war of trenches and flamethrowers, pillboxes and a clash of twentieth century technology and nineteenth century warfare. It’s also hailed as the supposed “War to End all Wars,” ending two imperial powers of the world and the lives of an estimated fifteen million. Those who keep archives of the past call it the second deadliest conflict in history.
World War II (1939 - 1945) remains forever stamped in the history of humanity as one of the worst global military conflicts and the deadliest conflict in human history, claiming the lives of more than one hundred million military personnel, and over seventy million civilian fatalities. A museum is built to honor the memory of those victimized by the Holocaust, their tormentors brought to justice; the island nation decimated by the only use of nuclear weapons in warfare is rebuilt in the image of the world’s superpower, remade bigger and better for the good of all those involved.
Every great and tragic state of armed conflict has a start: the assassination of an archduke, the invasion of a country, the bombing of a naval base. Every war results in inerasable scars no matter how much the economy recovers, no matter how many holidays pass celebrating the days blood was spilt and millions died for the sake of country, for honor, for the stupidity of others, for nothing at all. Flanders fields and thousands of white crosses on a hillside - we will always remember, always, always, always.
World War III (2020 - 2025) has no set trigger. No one counts the scars it leaves because there are so many that it doesn’t even matter anymore. And no one remembers those who fall - they keep falling day by day, anyway (damn radiation poisoning; that’s what happens in a nuclear war); mushroom clouds dot the sky, brother abandons brother and mothers their children, soldiers desert their posts and the world ends.
Except that it doesn’t.
Armageddon comes and goes. Gabriel doesn’t blow his horn, no God comes to collect His own; there’s no fire. Or ice. Or anything, for that matter, except for ruin.
As it turns out, humans are too stubborn to simply lie down and die.
Thus, at the end of all things, humanity still stands, bending down to pick up the pieces. Mankind limps on. If there’s anything the human race has learned throughout the years, it’s how to fight back, how to endure - no matter what the odds. And we’re awfully good at it, too. We’re parasites of the most resilient strain, feeding off of the remnants of ourselves and each other, cannibalism and survival all in one.
This is the way the world ends.
(Not with a bang.)
This is the way the world ends.
(Not with a whimper - although there are plenty of those to go around.)
This is the way the world ends -
With an idea.
* - * - *
As it turns out, the Mayans should’ve extended their calendar just a bit further. Let’s give them an A for effort, or maybe an A for a-bomb. In the year 2020, World War III breaks out, and, just as everyone expected, it’s a nuclear war.
They launched the first volley of missiles on my birthday. Other girls get cars on their sweet sixteens; I got worldwide panic and Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper having a showdown on CNN. Happy birthday to me, and many happy returns.
Anyone who wants to be anyone is involved, and even those who don’t want anything to do with it eventually get dragged into it. Suddenly, everything you ever learned about World War II in boring history lessons becomes reality: blackouts and mad dashes to underground bunkers, rationing and gas masks, fighter jets whizzing overhead. The draft. I’m not going to go into a bunch of detail, because even in the midst of war, life still goes on. A little slower maybe, and with a hell of a lot more paranoia, but still life.
Five years later, the nations of the international community that are still kicking sign a shaky treaty. Those who don’t sign it have nothing to say ‘cause they’ve been blown off the map. In the aftermath, here’s how the world stands today:
Japan is still the technological capital of the world, and last I heard, it’s doing pretty well. Pretty ironic, considering the last time atomic bombs and nukes were used in warfare, no?
Australia has basically become what the colony of Georgia once was, an entire continental prison and haven for those who want to be forgotten by the rest of society. (Except Georgia wasn’t, and, to my knowledge, still isn’t a continent. Not like part of California, which broke off at the San Andreas fault and dropped into the Pacific Ocean. But you get my meaning.)
Russia’s essentially one huge block of frozen…nothingness, due to weird weather patterns and the apparent results of nuclear winter that seem to have only affected that part of the Northern Hemisphere. Yeah, it’s strange. Don’t ask me, I’m not a meteorologist. I’ve always wanted to be an architect. The Great Wall’s nothing but a bunch of rocks now, and same with the Himalayas, seeing that both have been blown to bits.
South America’s doing okay on its own, I guess. They keep their borders sealed tight, trading occasionally, but nothing more than that. Mexico’s pretty much the same way. Take that, border patrol and illegal immigration laws. Karma’s a bitch.
Cuba’s gone though, having been one of the main fronts during the nuclear war. (Sorry, Castro. No worldwide domination for you, although there’s nothing much to dominate anymore anyway.)
The entirety of Great Britain has shut itself in. Think totalitarian state with a power hungry psychotic maniac, a dystopian society, if you will. Long live the Queen. I’m not sure what the rest of Europe is up to. It’s pretty quiet over there. Kinda like a graveyard.
It’s horribly cliché and stereotypical, but Africa’s become the black market of the world (no pun intended), a seedy underground rife with drug cartels and wars, populated with arms dealers and people I don’t even want to know about.
The Middle East doesn’t exist anymore.
And then, there’s the United States. The USA. Land of the free, and home of the brave. Well, let me tell you about the grand US of A, and the fucking geniuses who decided it would be a great idea to have our very own civil war right after World War III ended. Except this time, it wasn’t so much the North against South with only thirteen colonies in between; this time, there are fifty states (yeah, Alaska and Hawaii found a way to get themselves mixed up in it too), each with their own National Guard plus what was left of the United States Army and the Coast Guard, the Air Force and the Marines.
Well, Alaska’s, um…gone. Entirely. New York and half the eastern coast now lie underwater. Sorry kids, no more Disney World or “The Happiest Place on Earth”. Texas has seceded (from what, no one really knows, because there isn’t exactly a Union anymore). There’s no set government (the President and half her cabinet were shot down over the Atlantic while trying to attend a peace summit) and there’s a huge crater where Capitol Hill used to be (shows you what everyone really thought of Congress); rather, there’re multiple federations fragmented and scattered here and there, all claiming to have the right to power and ability to bring peace. Not like it really helps.
There’s a scar on my left shoulder from when some looters burned our house down and a piece of the falling ceiling hit me. Dad never made it out of the flames. Mom disappeared two months after, and they found a bloated corpse in the river a couple of weeks later, mangled beyond recognition but wearing the necklace that used to belong to Gran before she passed it along to her daughter. A lot of bad things happened, and that’s about the time I stopped talking. Don’t ask me how or why - the world goes to hell; it’s a little distracting. The days all kinda bleed together.
In a fairy tale perhaps, out of the ashes of despair arises the champion of the people, a Prince Charming riding on his noble white steed, charging out of the horizon, come to rescue America the Beautiful.
Maurice Fischer is no hero and he didn’t come on a white horse, offering handouts out of the goodness of his heart. He came with tanks and soldiers, promising order and food and shelter, driving what was left of the American people into refugee camps like cattle, whether they wanted to accept his so-called charity or not. The man basically holds a monopoly on a good chunk of the world’s resources right now, and all the sad remnants of what used to be the world’s greatest superpower in an iron fist. Stupidly enough, he manages to do all of this without even crossing the Atlantic; the original Fischer Industries Headquarters isn’t even based on US soil. It’s his son who runs the entire base of operations here, and the little fucker is as bad as his old man.
* - * - *
“-they sacked the entire shipment?!” Peter Browning’s face is red, and he looks rather like the Big Bad Wolf, huffing and puffing so hard that he must be blowing some house down, somewhere. Someone half-hidden in the shadows replies in a low, even tone and Browning waves his arms like a bird, face turning an even darker shade of crimson. “Goddamn it!”
From behind the conference room’s glass walls, Robert looks up from the scouting reports spread out over the desktop, pen hovering in midair, frowning slightly in concern. Peter Browning is normally a very genial man even in this day and age, ever the voice of cheer and encouragement, so rarely does the younger Fischer ever see his godfather in such a state. The unseen individual on the wrong end of Browning’s very loud and passionate display of frustration steps into view, probably saying something to placate the other man, and Robert’s frown deepens.
The man is all straight back and squared shoulders, slicked back dark hair and stern, clean-shaven profile, lithe frame fitted snugly in a black and green officer’s uniform, the hands clasped respectfully behind his back gloved in black leather. From where he sits, Robert can’t see any visible holstered firearms, but he knows that the man has anywhere from two to ten weapons hidden on his person, not to mention the fact he knows what those gloved hands are perfectly capable of on their own.
The Head of Security of Fischer Industries USA is a busy man. Robert only recalls catching a glimpse of him once or twice before: striding purposefully down a corridor and out of sight, peering through the scope of a Barrett XM109 and taking down an assassin en route to end Uncle Peter’s life. This is the first time he’s ever seen the man up close, and he’s a bit startled at the youthfulness in the other’s features, so different from the mental images he’d always conjured of the ex-Marine who served in WWIII and the Second Civil War, the man who’s always out in the field in direct supervision of the shipment of materials and safety of refugees, the man who they say has a mind like a computer, fights like a machine, and never sleeps.
Whatever the news, it can’t be good.
“Uncle Peter?” Robert half-rises from his seat when Browning enters the conference room, looking slightly mollified but still a bit pink in the cheeks. “Is something wrong?”
His godfather waves a hand dismissively, motioning for him to sit down and doing so himself. “No, nothing; just an…ah, unforeseen derailment of a shipment of supplies.”
Robert frowns at that, because what exactly does that mean? “Which consignment?” He mentally rifles through the list of convoys sent out over the last few days, and his stomach drops. “Not the one bound for sector C-145?”
The silence that meets his query is answer enough, and now it’s Robert’s turn to go red in the face.
“That’s our largest encampment, Uncle Peter; the people there need those supplies!” He’s pacing up and down the entire length of the far wall now, eyes jumping from map to map - topographical sketches of a new landscape scarred by battle, meteorological diagrams of projected weather conditions, scanning the crisscross of different colored lines and symbols, silently cursing what has to be a personal oversight. “Was there an ice storm, or some other unexpected break in the predetermined route?”
Robert’s chest tightens at the thought of all the refugees living in aforementioned encampment going without food or clean water, the hundreds upon hundreds of women and children having to do without medicine or blankets in the middle of February. These people are his responsibility now; they trust Fischer Industries to provide for them, and here he can’t even deliver (both metaphorically and literally speaking). His hands clench and unclench into fists, nails biting crescent moons into his palms. “Was the convoy attacked by looters? Were any of the workers injured? Can we get another shipment from Headquarters by-”
“Robert, really now. It’s being taken care of.” Browning appears entirely too unfazed for a man who was just doing a fine impression of a beet a couple of minutes ago over the very same piece of news; he motions again for Robert to sit, suddenly all warmth and smiles, leaning forward. “I’ve heard from your father.”
Robert sits.
“Is it about…I mean-” His voice is hushed, almost too loud in the room. “He’s doing well, then?”
“Quite.” Browning pauses, waiting for the question both of them know is forthcoming, and Robert takes a deep breath.
“Is there…has he found a way for me to get back home?”
Robert hasn’t seen his father in years, since right before the whole world went to Hell packaged neatly with a bow in a handbasket, since he had the misfortune of being in the United States the day Judgment Day came and went. He’s happy, really, at the chance to run Fischer Industries stateside and to help all the people here who so desperately need it, but still. He knows his godfather’s answer even before it comes, but waits patiently all the same.
Browning’s gaze is sympathetic. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” he replies quietly, “there are still two public enemies at large, and it would be safer for you to remain here until they’re caught.” From a briefcase that seems to have materialized out of nowhere, he withdraws two thick file folders and pushes them across the table. “Besides,” he presses gently, “who would run Fischer Industries USA if you were to leave?”
“You, Uncle Peter.” They’ve been through this discussion before, countless times, over and over again. “I would be safer back home.”
“Your father thinks differently.” The other man spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Let’s not fight, Robert.”
Robert sets his jaw and looks away, suddenly feeling insolent and very childish, but shuts his mouth. Browning smiles and pushes the two file folders forward, tapping the labels with the tips of his fingers. “You should read these. Familiarize yourself with their names and faces. Some of our scouts think they’re poised to launch a full scale attack against USA headquarters sometime soon.” With that, he stands and leaves the room.
Robert tenses ever so slightly as the door swings shut with the softest click, shoulders jerking up minutely as they do whenever he gets nervous or agitated. He’s never been a violent man, preferring words to fists and handshakes to handguns, reality to dreams. He never really understood the fascination with dream sharing when it first began to evolve from military science to thrill seeker’s high, and he still doesn’t understand what those formerly embroiled in the business of subconscious security have to gain from launching attacks against Fischer Industries. What vendetta could these men (or anyone, for that matter) have against those who are simply trying to help keep everyone alive?
He flips open the first of the two files and stares down at the large mug shots and grainy security footage photos, scanning over the neatly typed information marching across the page in blocky font.
Subject: Dominic Cobb, age 36, former leading dream-sharing scientist for the US government
Area(s) of expertise: Extraction, Architecture
Status: Still at large, threat level - Armed and very dangerous
The man responsible for starting the Second Civil War
Affiliates
Wife: Mallorie Odette Cobb, age 34, former leading dream-sharing scientist for the US government
Area of expertise: Architecture
Status: Deceased
Children: Phillipa Marjorie Cobb, age 6, and James Arthur Cobb, age 3
Location: Sector D-250
Associate: William Thomas Eames, age 32, dishonorably discharged from the US Military
Area of Expertise: Forgery
Status: Still at large, threat level - Armed and very dangerous
Noted international con man and thief; rumored leader of Resistance camps
Associate: Arthur Lawrence Davidson, age 29, former Captain in the US Marine Corps
Area of expertise: ---
Status: ---
Cleared of charges, now appointed as Head of Security of Fischer Industries USA
One eyebrow lifts, and then the other. Robert slowly raises his gaze from the file and stares at the man standing next to the door, silent and invisible as ever, but still with such a commanding presence that one can’t help but notice his closed, dark gaze or the way he seems to stand just a little too straight, face just a little too blank. “Captain Davidson?”
The Captain glances up sharply from his position standing next to the door, and inclines his head in a respectable nod, simultaneously palming something in his hand. It’s a smooth movement, deft and almost graceful in a way - but Robert has always had sharp eyes, and he sees the cubical translucency of what looks like a red die against the black of leather before it disappears in the man’s fist.
* - * - *
Word is, it was an idea that ignited the flames of the Second Civil War; an idea planted in the minds of just the right people, an idea that proposed putting the entire country under martial law, a la what Britain’s done to itself in becoming a totalitarian state. Americans are certainly a proud people - arrogant, oh yes indeed; stupid, sometimes; but no one out there beats the red, white, and blue in patriotism. We love our rights and our Constitution, and are willing to fight for them - so fight we did. We fought each other, and nobody won, because everyone lost.
Some historians once said we would never be able to survive another Civil War, and they’re only half right. We’re still here. We’ve survived. But it’s not much of a life.
Most everyone these days lives in official “camps” set up by Fischer Industries. I’m not going to insult those who suffered through true horror in the past by likening these living conditions to concentration camps, but still - there are “workers” who walk around with semi-automatics and batons. We’re crowded together like sheep, tagged with numbers (mine is A8176-109, if you’re wondering), and told what to eat, what to wear, when to shit, shower, sleep, everything. Once every two weeks, a convoy of trucks stop and drop off crates of scratchy blankets, toilet paper, canned goods, and the like. The men escorting the goods wear green and black uniforms. Basically, it’s military rule anyway, only under the guise of charity from an overseas provider.
I guess I shouldn’t complain, though. There’re stories of the people out there who refused to get roped into living in camps, horror stories of cannibalism and of desperation-driven insanity, of said protesters retreating into the wilderness to live like animals, or getting shot down by Fischer’s men.
I don’t doubt any of it. One thing I’ve learned over the past eight years is to believe that anything can happen. ‘Cause the worst has already come and gone.
After there’s no one left to fight, after the country’s been torn apart, people, as they always do, start looking for a scapegoat. Dream sharing has always been a precious commodity, developed by the military and sold off to members of the elite, those who are wealthy enough to buy their dream escapes from the real world. I hear it was some top scientist in the field of dream-sharing, Cobb something or other, although no one knows exactly why.
I hear his wife was caught two years ago, and promptly executed by firing squad.
You know how blind people have excellent hearing? The whole “dulling of one sense leads to the sharpening of another” deal? Well, people around here talk. A lot. And since I can’t anymore, I listen.
I hear there are other camps out there, people banding together to fight Fischer Industries: a Resistance army. I hear Fischer Industries is retaliating by setting out bounty hunters and assassins to do their dirty work, although everyone already knows anyone affiliated with Fischer Industries is a dirty, backstabbing traitor.
I hear a hard rain’s gonna fall.
* - * - *
Part 1