Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 2/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (2/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,318
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
April 28, 2028
Sherwood. What the hell kind of a name is that for the base camp of a resistance movement?
Well, at least no one expects me to be Maid Marion around here. Eames isn’t exactly Robin Hood either, and I know for sure that Cobb is no Little John. Good thing that neither of them feel the urge to prance around in green tights anytime soon. I don’t need to lose my eyesight along with my voice, thanks very much.
Eames’ band of merry men consists of thirteen other people besides himself and Cobb: two other dream sharers on the run from Fischer Industries (just found out that Eames used to be a forger and Cobb…well, everyone knows about him), three other war veterans, and a bunch of others who used to be something in another life, the life before the wars. They’ve got a mechanic, a pair of construction workers, a plumber (whose services are always very much in need given that we’ve only got one toilet here), two cooks, a corporate headhunter (who does really well in predicting Fischer Industries’ scheduling), and a college athlete (I know him as the cute blonde one, but I think his name is Tommy…I’ll have to talk to him later). Cheery bunch.
Word is that they’re going to be having a meeting soon, all of the camp leaders. For some reason, I can’t help but get the image of some old Indian War Council gathered around a campfire in my head whenever I hear about it.
Not quite sure where I fit into the mix. Pretty sure I actually don’t. Eames keeps saying he’s going to take me over to one of the three satellite camps within the resistance movement set aside for refugees they’ve “rescued” from Fischer Industries, but it’s been two weeks and I’m starting to think he’s keeping me around because he likes having someone to pick on (either that or because he doesn’t feel like wasting that much gas on a seven hour drive just to transport one person).
Not to say that Eames is like that; he’s actually a really upstanding kind of guy. He’s a charmer, sure, and the whole accent thing doesn’t help much, but I can see how and why he’s the head honcho here. He’s actually nothing at all like I-
“Writing about me?”
The pen tracks an ugly squiggle mark across the page as Ariadne jumps, flails, and then grabs the notebook, holding it against her chest and away from the prying eyes of one very mischievous looking forger peering over her shoulder. Eames laughs and throws a leg over the picnic bench, sitting down beside her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Ariadne. I’m not going to read your secrets.”
Ariadne makes a face at the man and laughs soundlessly when he makes one back, almost an exact replica of her own. Setting the notebook down on the table, she carefully tucks the pen between the pages and turns back to Eames, raising her hands. Real mature, Eames.
He pulls a face of mock affront. “Well, I never claim to be mature. Just handsome, dashing, and an awfully clever-”
“Son of a bitch!”
Eames blinks. “Well, no, not quite.”
The two of them turn toward where the rather loud exclamation had come from, watching Cobb storm out of the medical cabin, his face dark and brooding as he crosses the length of the common and disappears into one of many tents set up for residence purposes. After a moment, Eames kicks back and lazily puts his hands behind his head. “Well, that one’s been a bit overdue.” At Ariadne’s quizzical stare, he shrugs. “This is nothing new; nothing to worry about.”
And indeed, no one else in the camp stops to stare or gawk like Ariadne, opting instead to go about his or her own business as usual. Ariadne stares about herself in amazement, and then asks, Shouldn’t someone go and try to calm him down or something?
Eames snorts. “Be my guest,” he mumbles, waving a hand in Cobb’s direction. “There’s only ever been one bloke who could help Cobb hold it together, and he-” He stops abruptly, face screwed up in something that Ariadne can’t define, something pained and angry and nostalgic, twisted so finely and privately together in the forger’s countenance that she has to look away, just for an instant.
Cobb is certainly an interesting one; that much is certain, and Ariadne has always been far too curious for her own good. Luckily though, she’s found eager gossips in some of the other camp members, and a thorough (albeit somewhat reluctant) storyteller in Eames himself. She now knows of his innocence, since a man can’t possibly be in the remains of Lawrence, Kansas with his children and in Washington D.C. at the same time, allegedly planting an incendiary idea in the minds of those with power; of how he’s both a liability and an extremely dangerous guest to the resistance; she knows how all the dream sharers were forced to go to ground or be silenced (such as Cobb’s wife Mal, by means of firing squad), how most of them are still in hiding, scattered among the different resistance camps but still managing to get picked off one by one by some of Fischer Industries’ bounty hunters, assassins in the dark that strike and leave no trace behind.
But then that begs the question of exactly who - if not the dream sharers - was responsible for triggering the Second Civil War, and what they could possibly have to gain from blaming those affiliated with the world of subconscious security? And what does this mysterious Captain Davidson spoken of in venomous whispers (accompanied by the stern warning to never mention the name in Cobb’s or Eames’ presence) have to do with anything?
A loud noise startles her out of her wonderings and Ariadne jumps for the second time in less than five minutes, scowling peevishly at the truck that had just backfired before turning her attention back outwards, reaching down for her notebook. Which isn’t there.
What in the…where - Eames!
She makes a wild grab for the small book that looks out of place in Eames’s large, calloused hands. He’s not holding it out of reach teasingly though, or even reading what she’s written - his face is solemn and unusually so as he continues flipping through the back of the notebook, casting her a strange glance out of the corner of his eye. “Well now, this is interesting.”
Ariadne swallows hard. What? she signs, desperately trying to remember what could be so damning for Eames - grinning, charming, easy-going Eames - to be giving her that kind of suspicious, slightly apprehensive scrutiny that a soldier dons whenever scouting out the perimeter or sizing up a stranger of whom he’s unsure of whether to identify as friend or foe.
“You’ve been here but two weeks,” he says finally, tossing the notebook onto the table, pages fluttering open to a rough sketch of the camp’s layout, intricately detailed and drawn exactly to scale. An architect’s blueprint. “So tell me Ariadne, how did you manage to do that when I’ve yet to show you the entire camp?”
* - * - *
“No. Absolutely not. I refuse.”
“Captain-”
“I said ‘no’. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me thus far; I’ve turned traitor for an oppressive regime, I’m manipulating a good man in order to pilfer secrets from his father’s company, but this - this is crossing a line.”
“Captain Davidson, you must understand that those private records are instrumental to this mission’s success. Considering everything you have already done, this is a fairly simple task.”
“I am not going to seduce Robert Fischer just to gain access to some files.”
“I see.” There’s silence for a moment, and then the voice speaks again, soft and quiet, gentlemanly and polite as ever. “You do realize Captain, that should this enterprise fail, I can no longer speak for the welfare of Mr. Cobb or the burgeoning resistance movement against Fischer Industries USA?”
A sharp intake of breath. “…You can’t or you won’t?”
“Perhaps both.”
The beginnings of outrage stir in the Captain’s timbre. “You would go back on your word and forfeit our deal?”
“Please do not think me cruel, Mr. Davidson, but in the grand scheme of things, our deal is expendable. You too, are expendable. You must understand this, yes?”
Silence.
“I need you to get closer to young Robert, to become his friend and confidant, to know all that he knows. If that necessitates becoming his lover, then all the better. In truth, he will probably facilitate your efforts by going to you first.”
“…No. Not that way. I’ll get you the information, but I’m not going to toy with him.”
- - - - -
Captain Davidson paces up and down along the corridor, face hard and eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds as he speaks rapid-fire Japanese into the satellite phone pressed against his ear. His footsteps are silent even in his ire, but, for once, his appearance is less than immaculate - his features are worn and haggard, dark circles under-shadowing his eyes; his gloves are nowhere to be seen as he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, swiping it away from where it falls over his forehead in loose layers. The top few buttons of his uniform are undone, and for the Captain, such a state of undress is akin to another man standing there shirtless. Robert watches, transfixed, eyes locked on the smooth hollow of the other man’s throat, watches the Captain bark out what sounds like an order or perhaps an urgent plea before he hangs up with a curse. Closing his eyes, he leans his forehead against the glass of the windows in a manner reminiscent of Robert himself from not so long ago, apparently unaware of Robert’s presence.
Standing a respectful distance away (and out of arm’s reach; his throat had hurt for days after being shoved up against the wall of his office with the Captain’s arm pressed against his windpipe), he clears his throat politely, single file folder clutched in both hands and held out in front of his chest like a shield as the Captain turns, eyes alighting upon him. “If I may, Captain - a moment of your time?”
“Mr. Fischer. Of course.” The other man straightens, smoothes back his hair, squares his shoulders professionally. “How might I be of service?”
Robert starts to open his mouth again - and stops. He assesses the other man’s appearance fully, takes in the fatigue weakening the intensity of the Captain’s dark gaze ever so slightly, of the bloodshot eyes telltale of little to no sleep. He’s exhausted. Of course he is. After all he’s always up before the crack of dawn, working on anything and everything, picking up Robert’s slack - in fact, just that morning, the Captain had notified Uncle Peter of a recently hired security officer whom he had relieved of duty due to a previously unnoticed deficiency in his eyesight test - an error and an oversight that Robert himself had missed.
His intended speech flies from his mind and Robert, embarrassingly enough, stammers. “B-but you look tired, Captain. Perhaps another time?” Don’t say it, his brain warns, don’t make a fool out of yourself, don’t say it, don’t- “over dinner?”
Well, shit.
Captain Davidson blinks. “You…you want to eat in the soldiers’ barrack, Mr. Fischer?” His tone is hesitant, and of course he’s confused; of course he doesn’t understand because this is stupid and inappropriate on so many levels, but Robert’s mouth and his brain are evidently not on speaking terms.
“No, I mean…upstairs, in the restaurant. Dinner.” His throat works convulsively. “With me.”
Goddamn it.
The Captain is staring at him as if he’s suddenly grown two heads or sprouted an extra set of arms and Robert can feel the flush rising up the back of his neck, knowing from experience that it will soon migrate to his ears and up to his cheeks in obvious splotches of red. A nonstop mantra of shit, shit, shit blares out in his head. “Or if you’ll be indisposed later tonight, then we can simply wait until tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” The Captain’s tone is inquiring now, uncertain in his bewilderment, and Robert rushes to take it back, to explain, but his rebellious tongue loosens itself yet again.
“For dinner. Or breakfast.” Why don’t you just tell him to stay the night, Robert? That would be subtle, too, his mind mocks, and Robert wants nothing more than to disappear on the spot. “It wouldn’t be anything formal. Business. A business dinner, Captain, that’s all. But you wouldn’t have to dress in uniform.”
What the ever-loving fuck.
“Well, I-” Captain Davidson begins, but Robert quickly cuts him off.
“Or, you know what Captain, I can probably send this file off to Uncle Peter; it won’t be a problem at all.” His palms are sweaty, fingers gripping the file so hard that it’s starting to get bent out of shape.
“…Mr. Browning is-”
“Yes, yes,” Robert babbles, backing away step by step, trying to look at everything and anything but the Captain. The flush has spread up to his ears now. “I’m sure he can take care of it.”
“Mr. Fischer, I-”
“So it’s really no business at all-”
“MR. FISCHER.” The two men stare at each other for a moment and then the Captain speaks again, his voice lowered to normal volume. “May I speak?”
Robert swallows, hard. “…Of course. I’m sorry. Yes, of course. Please do.”
“If it’s a matter of such magnitude, there’s no problem in discussing it after hours,” comes the calm reply, and Robert barely refrains from pinching himself to ensure he’s not dreaming.
“Oh. Well.” He says after a brief pause, articulate to the last. “Thank you.” Then, he turns and more or less flees.
- - - - -
There are no candles or anything else so romantic, because this is a business dinner, and there’s absolutely nothing to suggest otherwise. Robert glances nervously at the file chock full of information about everything from the man responsible for starting the Second Civil War to how many bags of chicken feed they’ll be distributing next month, placed on the table between the two plates; a Berlin Wall of paper and nerves and insecurity.
Music plays softly though, the only hint of anything beyond a professional atmosphere, a duo of strings quiet enough to melt into the background, but definitely loud enough to be noticed. It’s the same tune that had been playing in Robert’s office the night he saw Captain Davidson’s face soften from its marble perfection, the night he’d seen the small dimple in the other man’s cheek and a single tear track down his face.
Five minutes to go. Robert paces.
Three minutes to go. He holds himself still, facing away from the door, inhaling deeply and trying to remember how to exhale.
Two minutes. This is ridiculous. It’s insane. He never should’ve tried to… Who is he to even think of asking the Captain-
There’s a rap on the door, then another, then another. One, two, three; all in steady succession, knuckles touching glass with not one ounce of strength any more or less than necessary. Robert smoothes down the front of his double-breasted jacket with one hand as the door opens with a whisper of movement, steels his nerves, and turns around.
His breath stutters. Catches.
“Captain.”
- - - - -
Peter Browning is a very discerning man. One of his great prides is his excellent judge of character, an asset crafted by years of playing the game in the business world, where everyone wears a mask and a most trusted confidant may turn Judas at any moment for the right amount of silver pieces, where one always keeps one’s friends in front so as to reduce the danger of getting stabbed in the back. He personally screens each and every employee of Fischer Industries USA, filling out all the necessary forms and putting all possible candidates through a gauntlet of tests in order to ensure that the company only employs those that Peter himself sees as not only adequate, but exemplary.
Take the Captain, for instance.
Peter’s affections for his godson are indeed like an uncle’s toward his favorite nephew, given that poor Elaine left long ago, and Maurice Fischer knows nothing more than his work. Hell, the man would probably still be barking orders and inquiring after invoices on his deathbed, unconcerned as to the health or welfare of his only son, whom he no doubt views as a disappointment. Robert isn’t really though; he’s just not as ruthless or domineering as his father, but to Maurice, such an attitude equates to a weak mind and helpless case.
He’s actually a good boy, kind-hearted if a little sheltered and somewhat naïve as a result, and Peter takes it upon himself to shield Robert from the true horrors of the crumbling world around him, making it so that his godson acts as a mere figurehead for Fischer Industries in the United States, signing documents and giving his authorization for orders that Peter has overseen first himself. There are some things, Peter believes - a great many things, in fact - that Robert doesn’t need to know, and so in the end, it’s really for his own good that Peter keeps an eye on him at all times, just to make sure he doesn’t expose himself to the toxicity of the true dealings of his father’s company. Yes, let it not be said that Peter cares not for his godson. He therefore only accepts the very best as Robert’s personal bodyguard and the Head of Security for Fischer Industries itself.
And Captain Davidson is, incontestably, the very best.
The Captain is a man with excellent credentials, an admirable work ethic, and a closed-mouthed individual to boot, emotionally reserved and driven to finish the job, no matter the costs. He gets the job done while staying out of the way, just as Peter likes it, and his track record is stunning, including outstanding service in World War III and the Second Civil War and coming away without so much as a shred of mental trauma or physical deformity? Most impressive indeed.
(Of course, there is the slight mar of his former involvement in the world of subconscious security and his former affiliation with Dominic Cobb, but after a battery of polygraph tests - Your name is Arthur Lawrence Davidson? Do your loyalties still lie with Dominic Cobb? Have you any sympathies with those who strive to bring Fischer Industries to ruin? Do you pledge your services and fidelity to Fischer Industries USA? - which the man passed with flying colors and an impassive poker face, Peter finds it easy to accept said involvement as a young and foolish mistake.)
Despite only having been with Fischer Industries for about eight months, the Captain has obviously proved his worth many times over in such a short amount of time, and after the attempt on Robert’s life two months ago, he was the first (and only) candidate Peter had in mind for his godson’s personal guard.
Now though, Peter is beginning to think that may have been a poor decision on his part.
“Pause it,” he orders sternly, and the guard flicks him an odd glance, but punches the pause button once again, and Peter leans in, peering at the security tape footage displaying Robert and Captain Davidson sitting in the restaurant together, the latter dressed in an impeccably tailored thee piece suit instead of his usual uniform. Peter narrows his eyes as he scrutinizes the scene, nose nearly touching the small screen.
This is not good.
“Ah…sir?” The guard says hesitantly, completely lost. This is the first time he’s ever seen Mr. Browning like this, and for apparently no reason. He looks too, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. “They’re just…having dinner and talking business.”
“Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion, 1996,” Peter murmurs, and the furrow in his brow deepens. “Play it.”
The guard shrugs and does as he’s told, and onscreen, Robert reaches out to offer the Captain more wine. Peter sucks in a sharp breath, because he knows his godson well, knows that Robert never reaches out first. He never does. No, Robert always waits, waits whether or not it means he’ll receive anything, and that’s the way it’s always been. As he watches, the scene becomes more and more disconcerting, with Robert leaning forward as he speaks - a definite show of interest, with Robert fumbling his silverware once or twice, in the way Robert gazes at the man sitting across the table - as if the sun rises and sets on Captain Arthur Davidson.
This is very not good.
Then, Robert smiles. And inwardly, Peter Browning snaps.
It’s not a beaming grin or even necessarily a big smile, but that’s not the point. The point is, he hasn’t seen Robert smile like that in years - gentle, genuine, and with such trusting adoration - not since that young Russian woman who hadn’t been nearly good enough to marry into the Fishcer family (and the daughter of the Head of one of their main competitors, to boot!) and had to be…taken care of. Nipped that right in the bud.
“Sir?” the guard queries, puzzled, but Peter is already out the door and striding purposefully toward the elevators, en route to Robert’s study.
- - - - -
He bangs into the glass-walled office with all the subtlety of a hurricane. A huffing, puffing, slightly red-in-the-face hurricane. “Captain. Out.”
Captain Davidson straightens from where he’s reading the dossier spread out on the desk over Robert’s shoulder, and Peter barely refrains from hauling the other man out by the scruff of the neck right then and there as the Captain wordlessly quirks an eyebrow but does as he’s told, placing a hand briefly on Robert’s arm in a supportive manner as he walks by. He instead turns his attention to his godson, watching Robert watch the Captain leave, practically mooning over the man in uniform, and Peter’s heart sinks. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.
“Uncle Peter, what-”
“Robert.” Peter forces himself to remain calm and pauses, sits in the chair opposite the desk. “Robert. What are you doing?”
His godson is indignant. “Well obviously, I’m sitting at my desk. And I was trying to complete this form for the next-”
“I understand you and the Captain had dinner arrangements last night.”
Robert stops short; blinks. “…Yes. It was a business meeting.”
Peter narrows his eyes. “Was it?”
The dear boy doesn’t realize that Peter knows his every facial expression, his every tell, knows what he’s thinking before he does, so he continues to act the part of the fool (which he does very well, truth be told). “What do you mean?”
“Robert, this has to stop.”
Either he’s not acting, or he’s a much better actor than Peter gives him credit for, because Robert sounds honestly confused and somewhat frustrated with the two vague conversations that seem to be happening simultaneously, both of them different and yet somehow the same. “What has to stop?”
In reply, Peter nods at the Captain’s lean form standing outside the office, a silent silhouette separated by a glass wall, a man of mystery and secrets, and a man Peter now realizes for the danger he is. A threat. Robert is far too trusting for his own good, and others are sure to take advantage of that fact, others such as a dashing Captain who’s not what he seems, who arrives on the scene to act as champion and protector and Christ, how could Peter not have seen it before?!
“Are you firing Captain Davidson?” Robert sounds scandalized, and Peter smiles grimly. If only the boy knew exactly what he was planning on doing to the Captain, something along the lines of what the Americans used to call cruel and unusual punishment. His godson is leaning across the desk now, hands splayed wide on the files, half-risen from his chair and surprisingly confrontational. “You are not relieving him of duty.”
It’s the most backbone he’s ever shown, and Peter wants to be impressed, but he can’t. Not in this situation.
“And you will not indulge this any further.”
Robert seems to deflate in an instant. “I…”
Peter softens, just ever so slightly, because he does care for his godson, and hates to see his feelings (or whatever this nonsense might be) dashed - but the company comes first. Business always comes first. “There is no harm in one dinner,” he says reassuringly, “but that is enough. It cannot and will not continue.”
“He hasn’t done anything. I…I haven’t-”
It’s the truth, Peter knows. Throughout the entire footage of the clandestine dinner meeting, there had been nothing about Captain Davidson’s body language or actions that insinuated any mutual interest, but Peter knows where this is going - the Captain is no fool, and sooner or later he will notice Robert’s affections, if he hasn’t already - and what he does from there will not have any beneficial implications for Fischer Industries USA. Greed is at the heart of every man; even the most loyal dog would turn from its master for the right cut of steak.
“You haven’t yet,” Peter says firmly. “But you will. And I won’t allow that to happen.” Peter holds up his hand to cut off Robert’s reply, eyes hardening. “I’ll have Captain Davidson relocated to the Periphery if necessary.”
Robert blanches visibly.
The outskirts of Fischer Industries USA’s influence, also known as the Periphery, is a barren wasteland of shriveled husks of life, bombed out buildings, where nothing grows at all and everything only meets its death. Anyone and everyone sent into exile in the Periphery disappears, literally disappears from the face of the earth. Some say it’s because of the cannibalistic, ravenous savages who prowl what remains of the landscape there, men driven wild by desperation; others say the earth simply opens up and swallows them whole.
No one goes there to live.
Peter lets the threat sink in before sweeping out of the office, and rounding on the man standing right outside the door with all the restrained fury he can muster. The Captain stands half a head taller than him, but Peter draws himself up to his full height, and bluntly demands, “And what are your intentions toward my godson?”
The Captain appears unfazed. “To protect and safeguard-” he begins, as if reciting a speech, and Peter interrupts him with a growl.
“Don’t you take me for a fool, Captain.”
A spark of something flickers through the Captain’s dark gaze, and then dissipates quickly. “If I may remind you, Mr. Browning,” he says slowly, “you were the one who requested my presence here to protect Mr. Fischer.” He inclines his head slightly, but this time it’s a mockery of deference, and both of them know it. “If I have not been fulfilling my duties, then please, by all means, correct my wrongdoings.”
It’s an obvious challenge, and one that Peter knows he can’t rise up against, because the Captain, whatever his intentions, makes no mistakes. He leaves no traces behind, nothing that could be taken as the slightest bit damning or incriminating, and, as Peter Browning spins on his heel and stalks off, fuming, he silently vows to take Captain Arthur Davidson down, even with his bare hands, if need be.
From inside the office, Robert watches Uncle Peter and Captain Davidson exchange words, apprehension gnawing a hole in his stomach. After the former turns and storms away, the Captain turns halfway, glances at Robert for a moment, hesitates - and then walks away.
Robert’s heart sinks. Goddamn it, Uncle Peter.
* - * - *
“No,” Cobb says shortly as he hands the pad of paper back, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “Try again.”
Ariadne purses her lips in annoyance, puts the nib of her pen back to paper, and draws another puzzle in less than two minutes, lines and hard angles, ninety degrees, one hundred and eighty, ninety degrees again. Cobb takes the pen and rips through the maze without fanfare or regard. “No,” he grunts again, this time with a hint of condescension creeping into his tone. “You’re not trying hard enough.”
And oh, that touches a raw nerve.
A scowl crosses her features this time as Ariadne reclaims both pen and paper. Draw a maze in two minutes that it takes a minute to solve; give her a break. She’s not a trained architect or anything. Had she the voice to do so, she might have muttered something less than ladylike under her breath, but it’s not like Cobb would’ve been able to hear it, anyway. She’s sitting on his left side after all, with the ear that was rendered useless by some past enormous explosion - she’ll probably never know the exact details behind the story, and she’s perfectly fine with that. Cobb’s partial hearing loss is the only reason he and Eames know how to sign, so that’s really a plus on Ariadne’s part; no need to snoop into the extractor’s troubled past.
Eames smiles the slow, lazy grin of a Cheshire cat and leans back in his chair, tipping her a wink. On most days Ariadne finds it charming, but as of right now, considering he’s the one who put her into the unfortunate position as Cobb’s unofficial protégé, she merely glowers in return. “Lesson going well then, Ari?”
Well, at least he’s accepted the fact that she has an eye for architecture, an eidetic memory, and a penchant for finishing incomplete maps with blueprints and patterns stored in her mind instead of thinking she’s some type of dirty spy or whatever other notion had been passing through his mind as he’d stood over her with that indiscernible look in his eye. While Cobb is certainly more of the brooding, silent character full of angst (and for good reason), there’s something about Eames - something about his cheerful grin, the three-day stubble on his jaw, his languid manner as he sits there in the chair, whittling away at a piece of wood with a small carving knife - that makes Ariadne know without a shadow of a doubt that should either man fly into a rage, it’s Eames she’ll be running away from first, and as fast as her legs can possibly carry her.
The roar of four-wheel drive trucks mingles with the groans of half-broken down engines as the vehicles roll into camp: battered SUVs, hollowed out Jeeps, Army Dodge trucks that have seen better days, drawing their attention toward the front gates, where the sentries up on their guard posts are checking names and faces, welcoming friends and allies with a handshake here, a familiar clap on the back there. Ariadne counts seven vehicles in all and then looks to Eames, raised eyebrows clearly a request for explanation.
“War council, dove.” The forger chuckles at her slightly puzzled expression, then nods at her notebook. “Fancy coming along to play secretary?”
Cobb, cigarette still dangling from his lips, narrows his eyes. “You really think that’s a good idea?”
“She’ll be fine,” Eames responds simply, stepping off the cabin’s porch and heading off across the common. Ariadne watches him go, hands stuck casually in his jeans pockets and whistling nonchalantly, before turning and meeting a piercing icy blue gaze straight on, one of Cobb’s infamous looks. Ariadne’s taken to secretly cataloguing them and assigning each a number for any particular situation; this one she calls I do not approve of this most unwise decision, for reasons I’m too closed-mouthed to reveal.
“Stay close,” is all he says before he too heads off toward the dining hall, Ariadne trotting to keep up at his heels.
- - - - -
My God, the testosterone.
Ariadne finds herself not even having to consciously heed Cobb’s cryptic warning, drawing inadvertently closer to the extractor as soon as she enters the low-ceilinged cabin, one of the only three permanent wooden structures in the camp (the other two being the storage shed and Eames’ humble abode. Guess being the leader really does have perks after all). It’s a cloudy day, and not much light cuts in through the three windows, but since electricity is a commodity, the interior of the structure is dark for now, and hazy with cigarette smoke.
Men sit about, swapping stories, chatting, waiting, and Ariadne feels terribly out of place even though she sees two women sitting among the others - one is a grey-haired grandmotherly woman with a kind face and gentle eyes, completely at odds with her current surroundings; the other is a striking dark-haired woman with a no-nonsense look about her, strong features, and biceps larger than some of the men sitting around her. Ariadne can’t help but notice the large scar spiraling up the length of one toned arm, over her shoulder, and disappearing beneath her tank.
One individual in particular automatically sends a shiver up her spine though, and maybe it’s his short, closely cropped hair, faded camouflage army jacket, or cruel, cold eyes - but he sneers at her and Ariadne nearly trips over Cobb in her attempt to back up a few steps. Cobb glances toward where the man sits with his booted feet propped up on the table and automatically pulls her slight frame behind him and to his other side, sitting her down in a chair tucked against the wall, as far away from the man as possible. “Stay here,” he instructs firmly but not unkindly, and Ariadne does as she’s told, balancing her notebook in her lap just as Eames sweeps into the room.
Herein lies the difference between Eames and Cobb, she notes with curiosity - the forger’s expression is cheerful and his shoulders relaxed as he exchanges pleasantries with those gathered: a firm handshake with a middle-aged man whose features look like they’ve been chiseled out of stone, a hug from the grandmotherly woman who clucks her tongue and mutters something him being too skinny, and a solid punch to the shoulder from the younger woman, albeit Eames takes it with a grin and nudges the woman playfully in return. (Ariadne notices that he completely bypasses the man in the camouflage jacket though, sparing him only a quick glance and a short nod at his feet, to which the man responds with a curl of his lip before getting his boots off the table. They leave behind a smudge of dirt.) Cobb on the other hand, stands next to the wall, shoulders stiff and arms folded across his chest, clearly not at ease with the crowd - not unwelcome, but an outsider all the same.
“Well then,” Eames says loudly, jovially, and the chatter dies down as he plops down in the chair placed at the head of the table, wearing nothing but jeans and a sleeveless tee, tattooed arms on display and draped casually over the back of the chair: a picture of just about the most laidback resistance leader one can imagine - and Ariadne’s got a pretty good imagination. He slips her a reassuring smile and she flips to a blank page in her notebook, pen poised and ready, nodding back; the smile widens into a grin. “Shall we begin?”
Note to self: never start up a resistance effort because Christ, it’s a hell of a lot of work.
Ariadne writes. And writes. And writes. There’s a new callous starting to form on the side of her forefinger by the time mere housekeeping duties are done and over with, five pages front and back, absolutely covered with Ariadne’s lopsided, scrawling script (it had started off neat at first, but in order to keep up, elegance had to be sacrificed).
Eames runs the meeting with a speed and efficiency that would turn most CEOs green with envy; he’s clearly well liked and respected by most of his colleagues and subordinates, and those who don’t are wise enough to keep their mouths shut. Out of the seven satellite resistance camps, three of them are used to harbor refugees and three out of the remaining four are similarly structured to base camp, consisting of a small count of individuals of a wide variety of skills who’d all be something else in a different life, but now were all one and the same: soldiers and rebels against Fischer Industries USA’s tyrannical regime. Stocks of supplies are discussed; the health and wellbeing of the refugees, the goods acquired from the most recent raids are shared and divvied up according to necessity and emergency.
When she’s not writing furiously, Ariadne watches Eames - Eames, whose face is always honest, despite hiding his fair share of secrets. Natasha, the elderly petite Russian woman, is a trained emergency room surgeon and the head of the remaining camp, a traveling group of physicians that make their way from camp to camp, attending to the ill and wounded; when she requests another crate of anesthetics and bandages, Eames’ expression is attentive and thoughtful, like that of one colleague to another. He nods after Natasha finishes speaking and flicks Ariadne a glance; she flips back to the inventory list and marks it down.
At Eames’ invitation (ladies first, yes?), the other woman begins to speak next: Michelle is definitely not a woman to be trifled with; she’s clearly capable of holding her own in a fight and takes bullshit from no one. Her camp is doing fine, she reports, but warns the others of some of Fischer’s men encroaching more and more upon their territory and a low murmur arises as she leans back and exchanges glances with Eames. There’s clearly some history between the two of them; the way he looks at her in return is fond and mildly amused, like some teenage boy with a that’s what she said joke on the tip of his tongue, but with definite respect in the way mutual attraction never acted upon fades and then solidifies into friendship or steadfast loyalty.
Ezra, the middle-aged war veteran (from the Gulf War, even before Ariadne was born, and that boggles her mind just a bit), grunts. His face is grim. “A bit too late for that warning. We lost Parker in the last raid.”
Everyone falls silent for a moment, and then the man in the camouflage jacket swears, loud and angry, his first words an explosion of expletives. “Fucking Fischer Industries.” Like a well-rehearsed play in which Ariadne seems to be but a spectator, everyone else seems to heave a collective sigh in expectation of the rant to come and sure enough, come it does. The man leans forward, grey eyes glinting in the dim light like a flash of steel. “I told you, we should just take the little bastard out.”
“Yeah, what do you think we’re trying to do?” One of Ezra’s men mutters gruffly, and the man bangs his fist on the table.
“We’ve been fucking around, that’s what. It’s what I keep saying - we have to take Fischer out.”
“Gordon, you do remember what happened to the last mercenary we hired to take Browning out?” Someone else says dryly, and Ariadne sees Eames’ shoulders tense ever so slightly as the others begin to murmur something about a ‘Captain Davidson’.
The newly identified Gordon goes red in the face, and looks around disgustedly as if he’s the only sane man present, surrounded by complete idiots. “Isn’t it fucking obvious, then?” A vein in his forehead bulges. “We gank the Captain.”
Eames goes rigid.
From his position leaning against the wall, Cobb snorts derisively. As all eyes turn towards him, he removes the cigarette from between his lips and speaks, his voice full of scorn. “You’ve got to be on something if think you have the skill to even consider taking Arthur down.”
“And who asked you?” Gordon’s face is a mask of contempt. “In fact, if you’re such a fan, why don’t you give yourself up and save us the trouble, Cobb?” He’s half out of his seat now, and although Cobb stands firm, Ariadne has a very, very bad feeling about this. “Go on,” he goads, “go kiss Fischer’s ass like your point man - or should I say your former bitch boy?”
Oh, shit. Cobb’s face is thunderous, the one Ariadne has privately nicknamed run and duck for cover and she’s fully prepared to do exactly that when Eames breaks in.
“No one’s killing anyone,” he says loudly and with clear authority, but Gordon merely sneers.
“Too scared of getting your hands dirty, sir?” He leans back and props his feet back up on the table, slurring the title mockingly. “Or is it ‘cause you’re still pining, lover boy?”
Everyone goes silent.
“Since when did we go from a resistance camp to a daycare center?” Gordon challenges, voice unusually loud in the sudden quiet, and it’s evident that this provocation has been a long time coming. Ariadne holds her breath, watching the insubordination in action. “And when did our leader turn into a goddamn pansy who pisses his pants over everything Fischer Industries does?”
“We’re biding our time.” Eames’ voice is calm, so very calm that it sends a shiver up Ariadne’s spine, velvet dragging over crushed glass and rough gravel.
“Oh, I see,” Gordon replies snidely. “Waiting until Fischer Industries comes and slaughters us in our sleep. What a fucking genius idea.”
“We’ve got a man on the Captain right now.”
“You know, the way you’re taking this Eames, maybe it’s better that Davidson’s whoring himself out.” Gordon smirks. “Fischer Jr. can’t come after us if he’s too busy fucking the Captain, can he?”
Eames stands up so quickly that his chair knocks over with a loud crash. He draws his gun the same time Gordon does, and the look on his face has a classification of its own, pain twisted with fury and some other emotion Ariadne can’t identify as everyone seems to leap forward at once. She’s shoved out the open door by Cobb who then heads for Eames, clearly having seen the other man like this before. Gordon’s lackeys are drawing their guns to back up their leader, Ezra pulls Natasha behind him protectively and Michelle -
Michelle puts the muzzle of her gun right against the base of Gordon’s skull.
Gordon’s jaw works furiously, his mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Stay out of this, Reyes,” he growls finally, still trying to stare Eames down. “This is none of your fucking business.”
“You’re pointing a gun at my superior,” the woman responds icily. “That makes it my fucking business. Now drop it.”
“You wouldn’t-”
She flicks the safety off, pressing the muzzle even harder against his head. “Now, Gordon.”
Ariadne’s standing awkwardly right outside the door as Gordon storms out, swearing filthily under his breath and tailed by his two men. He almost barrels her over and settles for throwing her a dirty look before turning and stomping all the way back to the truck, slamming the door and swerving out of base like a maniac, throwing up dirt clods everywhere.
After a moment, she sticks her head back in the doorway and catches a glimpse of Michelle holstering her gun, hears the other woman’s voice in a low murmur: “We’ll wait for your man to report back, Eames. But we won’t wait forever.”
Eames is sitting again; head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Much obliged.”
* - * - *
Part 3
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,318
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
April 28, 2028
Sherwood. What the hell kind of a name is that for the base camp of a resistance movement?
Well, at least no one expects me to be Maid Marion around here. Eames isn’t exactly Robin Hood either, and I know for sure that Cobb is no Little John. Good thing that neither of them feel the urge to prance around in green tights anytime soon. I don’t need to lose my eyesight along with my voice, thanks very much.
Eames’ band of merry men consists of thirteen other people besides himself and Cobb: two other dream sharers on the run from Fischer Industries (just found out that Eames used to be a forger and Cobb…well, everyone knows about him), three other war veterans, and a bunch of others who used to be something in another life, the life before the wars. They’ve got a mechanic, a pair of construction workers, a plumber (whose services are always very much in need given that we’ve only got one toilet here), two cooks, a corporate headhunter (who does really well in predicting Fischer Industries’ scheduling), and a college athlete (I know him as the cute blonde one, but I think his name is Tommy…I’ll have to talk to him later). Cheery bunch.
Word is that they’re going to be having a meeting soon, all of the camp leaders. For some reason, I can’t help but get the image of some old Indian War Council gathered around a campfire in my head whenever I hear about it.
Not quite sure where I fit into the mix. Pretty sure I actually don’t. Eames keeps saying he’s going to take me over to one of the three satellite camps within the resistance movement set aside for refugees they’ve “rescued” from Fischer Industries, but it’s been two weeks and I’m starting to think he’s keeping me around because he likes having someone to pick on (either that or because he doesn’t feel like wasting that much gas on a seven hour drive just to transport one person).
Not to say that Eames is like that; he’s actually a really upstanding kind of guy. He’s a charmer, sure, and the whole accent thing doesn’t help much, but I can see how and why he’s the head honcho here. He’s actually nothing at all like I-
“Writing about me?”
The pen tracks an ugly squiggle mark across the page as Ariadne jumps, flails, and then grabs the notebook, holding it against her chest and away from the prying eyes of one very mischievous looking forger peering over her shoulder. Eames laughs and throws a leg over the picnic bench, sitting down beside her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Ariadne. I’m not going to read your secrets.”
Ariadne makes a face at the man and laughs soundlessly when he makes one back, almost an exact replica of her own. Setting the notebook down on the table, she carefully tucks the pen between the pages and turns back to Eames, raising her hands. Real mature, Eames.
He pulls a face of mock affront. “Well, I never claim to be mature. Just handsome, dashing, and an awfully clever-”
“Son of a bitch!”
Eames blinks. “Well, no, not quite.”
The two of them turn toward where the rather loud exclamation had come from, watching Cobb storm out of the medical cabin, his face dark and brooding as he crosses the length of the common and disappears into one of many tents set up for residence purposes. After a moment, Eames kicks back and lazily puts his hands behind his head. “Well, that one’s been a bit overdue.” At Ariadne’s quizzical stare, he shrugs. “This is nothing new; nothing to worry about.”
And indeed, no one else in the camp stops to stare or gawk like Ariadne, opting instead to go about his or her own business as usual. Ariadne stares about herself in amazement, and then asks, Shouldn’t someone go and try to calm him down or something?
Eames snorts. “Be my guest,” he mumbles, waving a hand in Cobb’s direction. “There’s only ever been one bloke who could help Cobb hold it together, and he-” He stops abruptly, face screwed up in something that Ariadne can’t define, something pained and angry and nostalgic, twisted so finely and privately together in the forger’s countenance that she has to look away, just for an instant.
Cobb is certainly an interesting one; that much is certain, and Ariadne has always been far too curious for her own good. Luckily though, she’s found eager gossips in some of the other camp members, and a thorough (albeit somewhat reluctant) storyteller in Eames himself. She now knows of his innocence, since a man can’t possibly be in the remains of Lawrence, Kansas with his children and in Washington D.C. at the same time, allegedly planting an incendiary idea in the minds of those with power; of how he’s both a liability and an extremely dangerous guest to the resistance; she knows how all the dream sharers were forced to go to ground or be silenced (such as Cobb’s wife Mal, by means of firing squad), how most of them are still in hiding, scattered among the different resistance camps but still managing to get picked off one by one by some of Fischer Industries’ bounty hunters, assassins in the dark that strike and leave no trace behind.
But then that begs the question of exactly who - if not the dream sharers - was responsible for triggering the Second Civil War, and what they could possibly have to gain from blaming those affiliated with the world of subconscious security? And what does this mysterious Captain Davidson spoken of in venomous whispers (accompanied by the stern warning to never mention the name in Cobb’s or Eames’ presence) have to do with anything?
A loud noise startles her out of her wonderings and Ariadne jumps for the second time in less than five minutes, scowling peevishly at the truck that had just backfired before turning her attention back outwards, reaching down for her notebook. Which isn’t there.
What in the…where - Eames!
She makes a wild grab for the small book that looks out of place in Eames’s large, calloused hands. He’s not holding it out of reach teasingly though, or even reading what she’s written - his face is solemn and unusually so as he continues flipping through the back of the notebook, casting her a strange glance out of the corner of his eye. “Well now, this is interesting.”
Ariadne swallows hard. What? she signs, desperately trying to remember what could be so damning for Eames - grinning, charming, easy-going Eames - to be giving her that kind of suspicious, slightly apprehensive scrutiny that a soldier dons whenever scouting out the perimeter or sizing up a stranger of whom he’s unsure of whether to identify as friend or foe.
“You’ve been here but two weeks,” he says finally, tossing the notebook onto the table, pages fluttering open to a rough sketch of the camp’s layout, intricately detailed and drawn exactly to scale. An architect’s blueprint. “So tell me Ariadne, how did you manage to do that when I’ve yet to show you the entire camp?”
* - * - *
“No. Absolutely not. I refuse.”
“Captain-”
“I said ‘no’. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me thus far; I’ve turned traitor for an oppressive regime, I’m manipulating a good man in order to pilfer secrets from his father’s company, but this - this is crossing a line.”
“Captain Davidson, you must understand that those private records are instrumental to this mission’s success. Considering everything you have already done, this is a fairly simple task.”
“I am not going to seduce Robert Fischer just to gain access to some files.”
“I see.” There’s silence for a moment, and then the voice speaks again, soft and quiet, gentlemanly and polite as ever. “You do realize Captain, that should this enterprise fail, I can no longer speak for the welfare of Mr. Cobb or the burgeoning resistance movement against Fischer Industries USA?”
A sharp intake of breath. “…You can’t or you won’t?”
“Perhaps both.”
The beginnings of outrage stir in the Captain’s timbre. “You would go back on your word and forfeit our deal?”
“Please do not think me cruel, Mr. Davidson, but in the grand scheme of things, our deal is expendable. You too, are expendable. You must understand this, yes?”
Silence.
“I need you to get closer to young Robert, to become his friend and confidant, to know all that he knows. If that necessitates becoming his lover, then all the better. In truth, he will probably facilitate your efforts by going to you first.”
“…No. Not that way. I’ll get you the information, but I’m not going to toy with him.”
- - - - -
Captain Davidson paces up and down along the corridor, face hard and eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds as he speaks rapid-fire Japanese into the satellite phone pressed against his ear. His footsteps are silent even in his ire, but, for once, his appearance is less than immaculate - his features are worn and haggard, dark circles under-shadowing his eyes; his gloves are nowhere to be seen as he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, swiping it away from where it falls over his forehead in loose layers. The top few buttons of his uniform are undone, and for the Captain, such a state of undress is akin to another man standing there shirtless. Robert watches, transfixed, eyes locked on the smooth hollow of the other man’s throat, watches the Captain bark out what sounds like an order or perhaps an urgent plea before he hangs up with a curse. Closing his eyes, he leans his forehead against the glass of the windows in a manner reminiscent of Robert himself from not so long ago, apparently unaware of Robert’s presence.
Standing a respectful distance away (and out of arm’s reach; his throat had hurt for days after being shoved up against the wall of his office with the Captain’s arm pressed against his windpipe), he clears his throat politely, single file folder clutched in both hands and held out in front of his chest like a shield as the Captain turns, eyes alighting upon him. “If I may, Captain - a moment of your time?”
“Mr. Fischer. Of course.” The other man straightens, smoothes back his hair, squares his shoulders professionally. “How might I be of service?”
Robert starts to open his mouth again - and stops. He assesses the other man’s appearance fully, takes in the fatigue weakening the intensity of the Captain’s dark gaze ever so slightly, of the bloodshot eyes telltale of little to no sleep. He’s exhausted. Of course he is. After all he’s always up before the crack of dawn, working on anything and everything, picking up Robert’s slack - in fact, just that morning, the Captain had notified Uncle Peter of a recently hired security officer whom he had relieved of duty due to a previously unnoticed deficiency in his eyesight test - an error and an oversight that Robert himself had missed.
His intended speech flies from his mind and Robert, embarrassingly enough, stammers. “B-but you look tired, Captain. Perhaps another time?” Don’t say it, his brain warns, don’t make a fool out of yourself, don’t say it, don’t- “over dinner?”
Well, shit.
Captain Davidson blinks. “You…you want to eat in the soldiers’ barrack, Mr. Fischer?” His tone is hesitant, and of course he’s confused; of course he doesn’t understand because this is stupid and inappropriate on so many levels, but Robert’s mouth and his brain are evidently not on speaking terms.
“No, I mean…upstairs, in the restaurant. Dinner.” His throat works convulsively. “With me.”
Goddamn it.
The Captain is staring at him as if he’s suddenly grown two heads or sprouted an extra set of arms and Robert can feel the flush rising up the back of his neck, knowing from experience that it will soon migrate to his ears and up to his cheeks in obvious splotches of red. A nonstop mantra of shit, shit, shit blares out in his head. “Or if you’ll be indisposed later tonight, then we can simply wait until tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” The Captain’s tone is inquiring now, uncertain in his bewilderment, and Robert rushes to take it back, to explain, but his rebellious tongue loosens itself yet again.
“For dinner. Or breakfast.” Why don’t you just tell him to stay the night, Robert? That would be subtle, too, his mind mocks, and Robert wants nothing more than to disappear on the spot. “It wouldn’t be anything formal. Business. A business dinner, Captain, that’s all. But you wouldn’t have to dress in uniform.”
What the ever-loving fuck.
“Well, I-” Captain Davidson begins, but Robert quickly cuts him off.
“Or, you know what Captain, I can probably send this file off to Uncle Peter; it won’t be a problem at all.” His palms are sweaty, fingers gripping the file so hard that it’s starting to get bent out of shape.
“…Mr. Browning is-”
“Yes, yes,” Robert babbles, backing away step by step, trying to look at everything and anything but the Captain. The flush has spread up to his ears now. “I’m sure he can take care of it.”
“Mr. Fischer, I-”
“So it’s really no business at all-”
“MR. FISCHER.” The two men stare at each other for a moment and then the Captain speaks again, his voice lowered to normal volume. “May I speak?”
Robert swallows, hard. “…Of course. I’m sorry. Yes, of course. Please do.”
“If it’s a matter of such magnitude, there’s no problem in discussing it after hours,” comes the calm reply, and Robert barely refrains from pinching himself to ensure he’s not dreaming.
“Oh. Well.” He says after a brief pause, articulate to the last. “Thank you.” Then, he turns and more or less flees.
- - - - -
There are no candles or anything else so romantic, because this is a business dinner, and there’s absolutely nothing to suggest otherwise. Robert glances nervously at the file chock full of information about everything from the man responsible for starting the Second Civil War to how many bags of chicken feed they’ll be distributing next month, placed on the table between the two plates; a Berlin Wall of paper and nerves and insecurity.
Music plays softly though, the only hint of anything beyond a professional atmosphere, a duo of strings quiet enough to melt into the background, but definitely loud enough to be noticed. It’s the same tune that had been playing in Robert’s office the night he saw Captain Davidson’s face soften from its marble perfection, the night he’d seen the small dimple in the other man’s cheek and a single tear track down his face.
Five minutes to go. Robert paces.
Three minutes to go. He holds himself still, facing away from the door, inhaling deeply and trying to remember how to exhale.
Two minutes. This is ridiculous. It’s insane. He never should’ve tried to… Who is he to even think of asking the Captain-
There’s a rap on the door, then another, then another. One, two, three; all in steady succession, knuckles touching glass with not one ounce of strength any more or less than necessary. Robert smoothes down the front of his double-breasted jacket with one hand as the door opens with a whisper of movement, steels his nerves, and turns around.
His breath stutters. Catches.
“Captain.”
- - - - -
Peter Browning is a very discerning man. One of his great prides is his excellent judge of character, an asset crafted by years of playing the game in the business world, where everyone wears a mask and a most trusted confidant may turn Judas at any moment for the right amount of silver pieces, where one always keeps one’s friends in front so as to reduce the danger of getting stabbed in the back. He personally screens each and every employee of Fischer Industries USA, filling out all the necessary forms and putting all possible candidates through a gauntlet of tests in order to ensure that the company only employs those that Peter himself sees as not only adequate, but exemplary.
Take the Captain, for instance.
Peter’s affections for his godson are indeed like an uncle’s toward his favorite nephew, given that poor Elaine left long ago, and Maurice Fischer knows nothing more than his work. Hell, the man would probably still be barking orders and inquiring after invoices on his deathbed, unconcerned as to the health or welfare of his only son, whom he no doubt views as a disappointment. Robert isn’t really though; he’s just not as ruthless or domineering as his father, but to Maurice, such an attitude equates to a weak mind and helpless case.
He’s actually a good boy, kind-hearted if a little sheltered and somewhat naïve as a result, and Peter takes it upon himself to shield Robert from the true horrors of the crumbling world around him, making it so that his godson acts as a mere figurehead for Fischer Industries in the United States, signing documents and giving his authorization for orders that Peter has overseen first himself. There are some things, Peter believes - a great many things, in fact - that Robert doesn’t need to know, and so in the end, it’s really for his own good that Peter keeps an eye on him at all times, just to make sure he doesn’t expose himself to the toxicity of the true dealings of his father’s company. Yes, let it not be said that Peter cares not for his godson. He therefore only accepts the very best as Robert’s personal bodyguard and the Head of Security for Fischer Industries itself.
And Captain Davidson is, incontestably, the very best.
The Captain is a man with excellent credentials, an admirable work ethic, and a closed-mouthed individual to boot, emotionally reserved and driven to finish the job, no matter the costs. He gets the job done while staying out of the way, just as Peter likes it, and his track record is stunning, including outstanding service in World War III and the Second Civil War and coming away without so much as a shred of mental trauma or physical deformity? Most impressive indeed.
(Of course, there is the slight mar of his former involvement in the world of subconscious security and his former affiliation with Dominic Cobb, but after a battery of polygraph tests - Your name is Arthur Lawrence Davidson? Do your loyalties still lie with Dominic Cobb? Have you any sympathies with those who strive to bring Fischer Industries to ruin? Do you pledge your services and fidelity to Fischer Industries USA? - which the man passed with flying colors and an impassive poker face, Peter finds it easy to accept said involvement as a young and foolish mistake.)
Despite only having been with Fischer Industries for about eight months, the Captain has obviously proved his worth many times over in such a short amount of time, and after the attempt on Robert’s life two months ago, he was the first (and only) candidate Peter had in mind for his godson’s personal guard.
Now though, Peter is beginning to think that may have been a poor decision on his part.
“Pause it,” he orders sternly, and the guard flicks him an odd glance, but punches the pause button once again, and Peter leans in, peering at the security tape footage displaying Robert and Captain Davidson sitting in the restaurant together, the latter dressed in an impeccably tailored thee piece suit instead of his usual uniform. Peter narrows his eyes as he scrutinizes the scene, nose nearly touching the small screen.
This is not good.
“Ah…sir?” The guard says hesitantly, completely lost. This is the first time he’s ever seen Mr. Browning like this, and for apparently no reason. He looks too, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. “They’re just…having dinner and talking business.”
“Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion, 1996,” Peter murmurs, and the furrow in his brow deepens. “Play it.”
The guard shrugs and does as he’s told, and onscreen, Robert reaches out to offer the Captain more wine. Peter sucks in a sharp breath, because he knows his godson well, knows that Robert never reaches out first. He never does. No, Robert always waits, waits whether or not it means he’ll receive anything, and that’s the way it’s always been. As he watches, the scene becomes more and more disconcerting, with Robert leaning forward as he speaks - a definite show of interest, with Robert fumbling his silverware once or twice, in the way Robert gazes at the man sitting across the table - as if the sun rises and sets on Captain Arthur Davidson.
This is very not good.
Then, Robert smiles. And inwardly, Peter Browning snaps.
It’s not a beaming grin or even necessarily a big smile, but that’s not the point. The point is, he hasn’t seen Robert smile like that in years - gentle, genuine, and with such trusting adoration - not since that young Russian woman who hadn’t been nearly good enough to marry into the Fishcer family (and the daughter of the Head of one of their main competitors, to boot!) and had to be…taken care of. Nipped that right in the bud.
“Sir?” the guard queries, puzzled, but Peter is already out the door and striding purposefully toward the elevators, en route to Robert’s study.
- - - - -
He bangs into the glass-walled office with all the subtlety of a hurricane. A huffing, puffing, slightly red-in-the-face hurricane. “Captain. Out.”
Captain Davidson straightens from where he’s reading the dossier spread out on the desk over Robert’s shoulder, and Peter barely refrains from hauling the other man out by the scruff of the neck right then and there as the Captain wordlessly quirks an eyebrow but does as he’s told, placing a hand briefly on Robert’s arm in a supportive manner as he walks by. He instead turns his attention to his godson, watching Robert watch the Captain leave, practically mooning over the man in uniform, and Peter’s heart sinks. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.
“Uncle Peter, what-”
“Robert.” Peter forces himself to remain calm and pauses, sits in the chair opposite the desk. “Robert. What are you doing?”
His godson is indignant. “Well obviously, I’m sitting at my desk. And I was trying to complete this form for the next-”
“I understand you and the Captain had dinner arrangements last night.”
Robert stops short; blinks. “…Yes. It was a business meeting.”
Peter narrows his eyes. “Was it?”
The dear boy doesn’t realize that Peter knows his every facial expression, his every tell, knows what he’s thinking before he does, so he continues to act the part of the fool (which he does very well, truth be told). “What do you mean?”
“Robert, this has to stop.”
Either he’s not acting, or he’s a much better actor than Peter gives him credit for, because Robert sounds honestly confused and somewhat frustrated with the two vague conversations that seem to be happening simultaneously, both of them different and yet somehow the same. “What has to stop?”
In reply, Peter nods at the Captain’s lean form standing outside the office, a silent silhouette separated by a glass wall, a man of mystery and secrets, and a man Peter now realizes for the danger he is. A threat. Robert is far too trusting for his own good, and others are sure to take advantage of that fact, others such as a dashing Captain who’s not what he seems, who arrives on the scene to act as champion and protector and Christ, how could Peter not have seen it before?!
“Are you firing Captain Davidson?” Robert sounds scandalized, and Peter smiles grimly. If only the boy knew exactly what he was planning on doing to the Captain, something along the lines of what the Americans used to call cruel and unusual punishment. His godson is leaning across the desk now, hands splayed wide on the files, half-risen from his chair and surprisingly confrontational. “You are not relieving him of duty.”
It’s the most backbone he’s ever shown, and Peter wants to be impressed, but he can’t. Not in this situation.
“And you will not indulge this any further.”
Robert seems to deflate in an instant. “I…”
Peter softens, just ever so slightly, because he does care for his godson, and hates to see his feelings (or whatever this nonsense might be) dashed - but the company comes first. Business always comes first. “There is no harm in one dinner,” he says reassuringly, “but that is enough. It cannot and will not continue.”
“He hasn’t done anything. I…I haven’t-”
It’s the truth, Peter knows. Throughout the entire footage of the clandestine dinner meeting, there had been nothing about Captain Davidson’s body language or actions that insinuated any mutual interest, but Peter knows where this is going - the Captain is no fool, and sooner or later he will notice Robert’s affections, if he hasn’t already - and what he does from there will not have any beneficial implications for Fischer Industries USA. Greed is at the heart of every man; even the most loyal dog would turn from its master for the right cut of steak.
“You haven’t yet,” Peter says firmly. “But you will. And I won’t allow that to happen.” Peter holds up his hand to cut off Robert’s reply, eyes hardening. “I’ll have Captain Davidson relocated to the Periphery if necessary.”
Robert blanches visibly.
The outskirts of Fischer Industries USA’s influence, also known as the Periphery, is a barren wasteland of shriveled husks of life, bombed out buildings, where nothing grows at all and everything only meets its death. Anyone and everyone sent into exile in the Periphery disappears, literally disappears from the face of the earth. Some say it’s because of the cannibalistic, ravenous savages who prowl what remains of the landscape there, men driven wild by desperation; others say the earth simply opens up and swallows them whole.
No one goes there to live.
Peter lets the threat sink in before sweeping out of the office, and rounding on the man standing right outside the door with all the restrained fury he can muster. The Captain stands half a head taller than him, but Peter draws himself up to his full height, and bluntly demands, “And what are your intentions toward my godson?”
The Captain appears unfazed. “To protect and safeguard-” he begins, as if reciting a speech, and Peter interrupts him with a growl.
“Don’t you take me for a fool, Captain.”
A spark of something flickers through the Captain’s dark gaze, and then dissipates quickly. “If I may remind you, Mr. Browning,” he says slowly, “you were the one who requested my presence here to protect Mr. Fischer.” He inclines his head slightly, but this time it’s a mockery of deference, and both of them know it. “If I have not been fulfilling my duties, then please, by all means, correct my wrongdoings.”
It’s an obvious challenge, and one that Peter knows he can’t rise up against, because the Captain, whatever his intentions, makes no mistakes. He leaves no traces behind, nothing that could be taken as the slightest bit damning or incriminating, and, as Peter Browning spins on his heel and stalks off, fuming, he silently vows to take Captain Arthur Davidson down, even with his bare hands, if need be.
From inside the office, Robert watches Uncle Peter and Captain Davidson exchange words, apprehension gnawing a hole in his stomach. After the former turns and storms away, the Captain turns halfway, glances at Robert for a moment, hesitates - and then walks away.
Robert’s heart sinks. Goddamn it, Uncle Peter.
* - * - *
“No,” Cobb says shortly as he hands the pad of paper back, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “Try again.”
Ariadne purses her lips in annoyance, puts the nib of her pen back to paper, and draws another puzzle in less than two minutes, lines and hard angles, ninety degrees, one hundred and eighty, ninety degrees again. Cobb takes the pen and rips through the maze without fanfare or regard. “No,” he grunts again, this time with a hint of condescension creeping into his tone. “You’re not trying hard enough.”
And oh, that touches a raw nerve.
A scowl crosses her features this time as Ariadne reclaims both pen and paper. Draw a maze in two minutes that it takes a minute to solve; give her a break. She’s not a trained architect or anything. Had she the voice to do so, she might have muttered something less than ladylike under her breath, but it’s not like Cobb would’ve been able to hear it, anyway. She’s sitting on his left side after all, with the ear that was rendered useless by some past enormous explosion - she’ll probably never know the exact details behind the story, and she’s perfectly fine with that. Cobb’s partial hearing loss is the only reason he and Eames know how to sign, so that’s really a plus on Ariadne’s part; no need to snoop into the extractor’s troubled past.
Eames smiles the slow, lazy grin of a Cheshire cat and leans back in his chair, tipping her a wink. On most days Ariadne finds it charming, but as of right now, considering he’s the one who put her into the unfortunate position as Cobb’s unofficial protégé, she merely glowers in return. “Lesson going well then, Ari?”
Well, at least he’s accepted the fact that she has an eye for architecture, an eidetic memory, and a penchant for finishing incomplete maps with blueprints and patterns stored in her mind instead of thinking she’s some type of dirty spy or whatever other notion had been passing through his mind as he’d stood over her with that indiscernible look in his eye. While Cobb is certainly more of the brooding, silent character full of angst (and for good reason), there’s something about Eames - something about his cheerful grin, the three-day stubble on his jaw, his languid manner as he sits there in the chair, whittling away at a piece of wood with a small carving knife - that makes Ariadne know without a shadow of a doubt that should either man fly into a rage, it’s Eames she’ll be running away from first, and as fast as her legs can possibly carry her.
The roar of four-wheel drive trucks mingles with the groans of half-broken down engines as the vehicles roll into camp: battered SUVs, hollowed out Jeeps, Army Dodge trucks that have seen better days, drawing their attention toward the front gates, where the sentries up on their guard posts are checking names and faces, welcoming friends and allies with a handshake here, a familiar clap on the back there. Ariadne counts seven vehicles in all and then looks to Eames, raised eyebrows clearly a request for explanation.
“War council, dove.” The forger chuckles at her slightly puzzled expression, then nods at her notebook. “Fancy coming along to play secretary?”
Cobb, cigarette still dangling from his lips, narrows his eyes. “You really think that’s a good idea?”
“She’ll be fine,” Eames responds simply, stepping off the cabin’s porch and heading off across the common. Ariadne watches him go, hands stuck casually in his jeans pockets and whistling nonchalantly, before turning and meeting a piercing icy blue gaze straight on, one of Cobb’s infamous looks. Ariadne’s taken to secretly cataloguing them and assigning each a number for any particular situation; this one she calls I do not approve of this most unwise decision, for reasons I’m too closed-mouthed to reveal.
“Stay close,” is all he says before he too heads off toward the dining hall, Ariadne trotting to keep up at his heels.
- - - - -
My God, the testosterone.
Ariadne finds herself not even having to consciously heed Cobb’s cryptic warning, drawing inadvertently closer to the extractor as soon as she enters the low-ceilinged cabin, one of the only three permanent wooden structures in the camp (the other two being the storage shed and Eames’ humble abode. Guess being the leader really does have perks after all). It’s a cloudy day, and not much light cuts in through the three windows, but since electricity is a commodity, the interior of the structure is dark for now, and hazy with cigarette smoke.
Men sit about, swapping stories, chatting, waiting, and Ariadne feels terribly out of place even though she sees two women sitting among the others - one is a grey-haired grandmotherly woman with a kind face and gentle eyes, completely at odds with her current surroundings; the other is a striking dark-haired woman with a no-nonsense look about her, strong features, and biceps larger than some of the men sitting around her. Ariadne can’t help but notice the large scar spiraling up the length of one toned arm, over her shoulder, and disappearing beneath her tank.
One individual in particular automatically sends a shiver up her spine though, and maybe it’s his short, closely cropped hair, faded camouflage army jacket, or cruel, cold eyes - but he sneers at her and Ariadne nearly trips over Cobb in her attempt to back up a few steps. Cobb glances toward where the man sits with his booted feet propped up on the table and automatically pulls her slight frame behind him and to his other side, sitting her down in a chair tucked against the wall, as far away from the man as possible. “Stay here,” he instructs firmly but not unkindly, and Ariadne does as she’s told, balancing her notebook in her lap just as Eames sweeps into the room.
Herein lies the difference between Eames and Cobb, she notes with curiosity - the forger’s expression is cheerful and his shoulders relaxed as he exchanges pleasantries with those gathered: a firm handshake with a middle-aged man whose features look like they’ve been chiseled out of stone, a hug from the grandmotherly woman who clucks her tongue and mutters something him being too skinny, and a solid punch to the shoulder from the younger woman, albeit Eames takes it with a grin and nudges the woman playfully in return. (Ariadne notices that he completely bypasses the man in the camouflage jacket though, sparing him only a quick glance and a short nod at his feet, to which the man responds with a curl of his lip before getting his boots off the table. They leave behind a smudge of dirt.) Cobb on the other hand, stands next to the wall, shoulders stiff and arms folded across his chest, clearly not at ease with the crowd - not unwelcome, but an outsider all the same.
“Well then,” Eames says loudly, jovially, and the chatter dies down as he plops down in the chair placed at the head of the table, wearing nothing but jeans and a sleeveless tee, tattooed arms on display and draped casually over the back of the chair: a picture of just about the most laidback resistance leader one can imagine - and Ariadne’s got a pretty good imagination. He slips her a reassuring smile and she flips to a blank page in her notebook, pen poised and ready, nodding back; the smile widens into a grin. “Shall we begin?”
Note to self: never start up a resistance effort because Christ, it’s a hell of a lot of work.
Ariadne writes. And writes. And writes. There’s a new callous starting to form on the side of her forefinger by the time mere housekeeping duties are done and over with, five pages front and back, absolutely covered with Ariadne’s lopsided, scrawling script (it had started off neat at first, but in order to keep up, elegance had to be sacrificed).
Eames runs the meeting with a speed and efficiency that would turn most CEOs green with envy; he’s clearly well liked and respected by most of his colleagues and subordinates, and those who don’t are wise enough to keep their mouths shut. Out of the seven satellite resistance camps, three of them are used to harbor refugees and three out of the remaining four are similarly structured to base camp, consisting of a small count of individuals of a wide variety of skills who’d all be something else in a different life, but now were all one and the same: soldiers and rebels against Fischer Industries USA’s tyrannical regime. Stocks of supplies are discussed; the health and wellbeing of the refugees, the goods acquired from the most recent raids are shared and divvied up according to necessity and emergency.
When she’s not writing furiously, Ariadne watches Eames - Eames, whose face is always honest, despite hiding his fair share of secrets. Natasha, the elderly petite Russian woman, is a trained emergency room surgeon and the head of the remaining camp, a traveling group of physicians that make their way from camp to camp, attending to the ill and wounded; when she requests another crate of anesthetics and bandages, Eames’ expression is attentive and thoughtful, like that of one colleague to another. He nods after Natasha finishes speaking and flicks Ariadne a glance; she flips back to the inventory list and marks it down.
At Eames’ invitation (ladies first, yes?), the other woman begins to speak next: Michelle is definitely not a woman to be trifled with; she’s clearly capable of holding her own in a fight and takes bullshit from no one. Her camp is doing fine, she reports, but warns the others of some of Fischer’s men encroaching more and more upon their territory and a low murmur arises as she leans back and exchanges glances with Eames. There’s clearly some history between the two of them; the way he looks at her in return is fond and mildly amused, like some teenage boy with a that’s what she said joke on the tip of his tongue, but with definite respect in the way mutual attraction never acted upon fades and then solidifies into friendship or steadfast loyalty.
Ezra, the middle-aged war veteran (from the Gulf War, even before Ariadne was born, and that boggles her mind just a bit), grunts. His face is grim. “A bit too late for that warning. We lost Parker in the last raid.”
Everyone falls silent for a moment, and then the man in the camouflage jacket swears, loud and angry, his first words an explosion of expletives. “Fucking Fischer Industries.” Like a well-rehearsed play in which Ariadne seems to be but a spectator, everyone else seems to heave a collective sigh in expectation of the rant to come and sure enough, come it does. The man leans forward, grey eyes glinting in the dim light like a flash of steel. “I told you, we should just take the little bastard out.”
“Yeah, what do you think we’re trying to do?” One of Ezra’s men mutters gruffly, and the man bangs his fist on the table.
“We’ve been fucking around, that’s what. It’s what I keep saying - we have to take Fischer out.”
“Gordon, you do remember what happened to the last mercenary we hired to take Browning out?” Someone else says dryly, and Ariadne sees Eames’ shoulders tense ever so slightly as the others begin to murmur something about a ‘Captain Davidson’.
The newly identified Gordon goes red in the face, and looks around disgustedly as if he’s the only sane man present, surrounded by complete idiots. “Isn’t it fucking obvious, then?” A vein in his forehead bulges. “We gank the Captain.”
Eames goes rigid.
From his position leaning against the wall, Cobb snorts derisively. As all eyes turn towards him, he removes the cigarette from between his lips and speaks, his voice full of scorn. “You’ve got to be on something if think you have the skill to even consider taking Arthur down.”
“And who asked you?” Gordon’s face is a mask of contempt. “In fact, if you’re such a fan, why don’t you give yourself up and save us the trouble, Cobb?” He’s half out of his seat now, and although Cobb stands firm, Ariadne has a very, very bad feeling about this. “Go on,” he goads, “go kiss Fischer’s ass like your point man - or should I say your former bitch boy?”
Oh, shit. Cobb’s face is thunderous, the one Ariadne has privately nicknamed run and duck for cover and she’s fully prepared to do exactly that when Eames breaks in.
“No one’s killing anyone,” he says loudly and with clear authority, but Gordon merely sneers.
“Too scared of getting your hands dirty, sir?” He leans back and props his feet back up on the table, slurring the title mockingly. “Or is it ‘cause you’re still pining, lover boy?”
Everyone goes silent.
“Since when did we go from a resistance camp to a daycare center?” Gordon challenges, voice unusually loud in the sudden quiet, and it’s evident that this provocation has been a long time coming. Ariadne holds her breath, watching the insubordination in action. “And when did our leader turn into a goddamn pansy who pisses his pants over everything Fischer Industries does?”
“We’re biding our time.” Eames’ voice is calm, so very calm that it sends a shiver up Ariadne’s spine, velvet dragging over crushed glass and rough gravel.
“Oh, I see,” Gordon replies snidely. “Waiting until Fischer Industries comes and slaughters us in our sleep. What a fucking genius idea.”
“We’ve got a man on the Captain right now.”
“You know, the way you’re taking this Eames, maybe it’s better that Davidson’s whoring himself out.” Gordon smirks. “Fischer Jr. can’t come after us if he’s too busy fucking the Captain, can he?”
Eames stands up so quickly that his chair knocks over with a loud crash. He draws his gun the same time Gordon does, and the look on his face has a classification of its own, pain twisted with fury and some other emotion Ariadne can’t identify as everyone seems to leap forward at once. She’s shoved out the open door by Cobb who then heads for Eames, clearly having seen the other man like this before. Gordon’s lackeys are drawing their guns to back up their leader, Ezra pulls Natasha behind him protectively and Michelle -
Michelle puts the muzzle of her gun right against the base of Gordon’s skull.
Gordon’s jaw works furiously, his mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Stay out of this, Reyes,” he growls finally, still trying to stare Eames down. “This is none of your fucking business.”
“You’re pointing a gun at my superior,” the woman responds icily. “That makes it my fucking business. Now drop it.”
“You wouldn’t-”
She flicks the safety off, pressing the muzzle even harder against his head. “Now, Gordon.”
Ariadne’s standing awkwardly right outside the door as Gordon storms out, swearing filthily under his breath and tailed by his two men. He almost barrels her over and settles for throwing her a dirty look before turning and stomping all the way back to the truck, slamming the door and swerving out of base like a maniac, throwing up dirt clods everywhere.
After a moment, she sticks her head back in the doorway and catches a glimpse of Michelle holstering her gun, hears the other woman’s voice in a low murmur: “We’ll wait for your man to report back, Eames. But we won’t wait forever.”
Eames is sitting again; head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Much obliged.”
* - * - *
Part 3