[FIC - Inception] The Helix Trap Chapter 14/19
I_RB is almost here, oooooooooh~ Can't wait~~
Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 14/19 (5,900 words) (For other parts please check my My main post)
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, Browning, and others.
Warnings: Violence, sexual content.
Disclaimer: These characters and setting do not belong to me and are being used without permission but for no profit
Summary: After the Inception proves successful, Eames tracks down Robert out of concern for its unusual side effects. Meanwhile, Arthur is hired to a dangerous job that forces the rest of the team to take sides: whether to defend Robert and his fragile mind, or ruin him completely.
Notes: C&C Welcome and appreciated. Thanks to my betas chypie and tanithkitty for their input!
Because of the way dream time works, this chapter takes place during chapter 13. I think it should be obvious how the events fit together. Hope you enjoy~
When Robert woke up in the study for the twelfth time, something was different: there was a man that hadn't been there before. He was blond and familiar. "Mr. Charles...?"
Across from him, Arthur awoke with a quiet intake of breath. He too noticed the addition right away, and he slumped in his chair. "Shit."
Nearby, Charla clicked her tongue against her teeth. "It's about time."
Robert straightened, but then the study was gone again. He watched the world fall away, and a new one take its place--a tall building with many rooms. Some part of him recognized that it was meant to be a hotel, and he filled the rooms with uniform furniture, put guests in the beds and food on the dinner carts. He put himself on a king sized mattress in the circular master bedroom of the tower suite. And he put a warm hand around his.
He was in Munich. Eames was beside him, recreating a morning only a week past. When he glanced into the rest of the room he could even see their breakfast dishes piled on the room service cart, and his discarded jacket crumpled on the floor. He wiggled his bare toes.
Was it really only a week ago? he thought, relaxing against the warmth at his shoulder. When he snuck into my mind? When he looked at me... He glanced to his right and found Eames watching him with just the face he remembered: curious, and concerned, and excited all at once. When I knew he was the last person I should trust, and the only one I could...
"You look tired," Eames said.
"I am tired," Robert replied. He snorted. "Tired of waiting for you."
His lip quirked. "I'm right here."
"No you're not--you're just a projection." Robert nestled into him all the same, pretending--just for a moment--that he wasn't trapped in a mad-woman's fluctuating dream. "You're not real."
Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"
Robert started to answer, but then paused, staring up at the ceiling. There was a fan turning lazily above them that he didn't remember being there, bearing a childish shape but somehow comforting. He squeezed Eames's hand as he watched it turn. "I was a second ago," he said. "No, I'm sure--this isn't real."
"We just learned that you can't trust your memory," Eames continued. "How can you trust what you see with your own eyes?"
"I..." Again Robert hesitated. He breathed in the familiar smells of the hotel suite: the linens that could stand to be changed, the open brandy, the coffee cooling on the table. Everything was sharper and more distinct than he remembered, almost...more real. His heart beat a little faster. "Stop trying to confuse me; I know I'm dreaming."
"No you don't." Eames leaned into him, lips warm against his ear. "You've been waiting for me so that I can tell you if you're dreaming."
"No, I..." Robert glared at the pinwheel overhead, but the more he watched its gentle rotation, the more convincing Eames sounded. When Eames wrapped his arm around his waist he didn't resist. "I was just in the study. This can't be real."
"Who cares anyway? Just stay here, with me."
Eames's hand slid beneath Robert's shirt. His fingers were icy, and Robert jerked, squirming away from the unpleasant chill. When he finally tore his gaze away from the pinwheel cold black fabric danced in front of him, and he started again. "Eames?" He struggled away from the projection, but the arm around him tightened, digging fingernails into his skin.
"You'd rather stay here with me anyway," the Eames projection murmured through plastic lips. "No one will hurt you here."
Robert twisted violently, and after much struggle managed to tear free of the wraith's pawing grip. He scrambled off the bed, almost tumbling onto his back in the effort, and retreated down the short steps. When he looked back Eames was still on the bed, made of white limbs and black veils. The sight of him sent panic into Robert's gut and he fled from the room.
I'm still dreaming. Robert threw open the door to the stairwell and stormed down the floors. But that's the first time Eames has been here, on this level. God, I didn't want to see him like that.
He came out in the lobby and there stopped, staring about in confusion. Though he was certain he had just descended from the room he'd rented in Munich, he was no longer in the same hotel. The front desk was on the opposite wall, and the décor was all wrong, all straight, gray lines and glass sculptures instead of the flowers and soothing wood he had expected. More surprising were the guests flowing in and out of the building: there were no ghosts, only people in clean suits, moving about in practiced precision.
Robert wandered across the lobby in his bare feet, frowning at the unfamiliar faces passing by him. Everything was alien. I'm dreaming, he told himself again as he peered through tinted windows into the hotel's restaurant. But it feels different than before...
Arthur was seated in the restaurant, chatting amiably with the man across from him. Robert recognized him immediately. Mr. Charles again. He felt a flash of betrayal. You're supposed to be on my side, you know.
A woman's reflection joined his in the glass: his assistant, Shelby. Robert frowned at her, suspecting already that she was not who she seemed, and was validated when she smiled. "Banks," he murmured.
"My, you've gotten good at spotting me," she chuckled. "You're quite the skilled dreamer, Robert."
He made a quick scan of the surrounding area, but there was nothing immediately nearby that could be used as a weapon. "What's going on?" he asked bluntly. He couldn't remember the last time Charla had stopped her torture for a chat. "Something's different."
Charla moved closer to the glass, her eyes sharp on Arthur and his guest. "Arthur's put up quite a fight, but he's exhausted," she explained. She gestured to the people around them. "These are his projections, which he is no longer able to repress. Now you are both subjects in my dream."
Robert looked again into the restaurant. If Mr. Charles is one of Arthur's projections, does that mean he's a real person? He tried to remember what Eames had said about him but it was too hard to concentrate. He shook his head. "Why are you doing this? What are you trying to extract from him anyway?" He turned toward Charla angrily. "And what does it have to do with me?"
"Everything." Charla tilted her chin up. "Three years ago Arthur was hired to extract a secret from you. I want to know what it was."
"A secret?" Goose bumps rose up Robert's arms, and he was momentarily distracted by what he thought was another wraith crossing the far end of the restaurant. Does that make this...the third time Arthur's been in my mind? That lying asshole... "What kind of secret?"
"If I knew that, we wouldn't be here, now would we?"
Robert scowled. "My secrets aren’t any business of yours anyway," he snapped. "I don't even know you. It was Peter that put you up to this, wasn't it?" His throat ached with bitterness. "I would have told him anything, if he'd just asked."
Charla turned, leaning her back up against the glass so she could face Robert more easily; her eyes were cold and she wanted him to see them. "It's not Peter you should be angry with," she said. "Blame your father."
"You don't know anything about my father."
"Don't I?" She folded her arms. "Maurice Fischer was a loathsome coward who used and then abandoned all his friends and even members of his own family," she said boldly. "Look at what he's made you: a helpless, narcissistic little brat with no talent and no connections. Just like him."
Robert's fists trembled at his sides. "Shut up," he hissed, but when he looked away from Charla all he could see was his own reflection, and it made his ill ease worse.
"Fischer Morrow will be better off without you," she continued. "Peter may not thank me for it, but he'll know I was right." She tsked, leaning her head back. "And then all you Fischers will be out of our lives forever. A shame that I had to wait this long."
Robert's jaw worked, but he still couldn't look away from his own pained face. Even Eames said I'm terrible, he thought, hypnotized by his empty eyes. I deserve everything they do to me. Because I'm no one. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the glass. Because I'm not who I'm supposed to be.
"Everything will be better, when you're gone," Charla said, her every word a painful truth. "Peter will rule Fischer Morrow as he always wanted. No more burdens will hold him back." She turned her head just enough to speak directly into his ear. "He was a greater man, before you. Before Maurice Fischer. Before that whore mother of yours."
Robert saw red. He woke from his trance and whirled on her, but before he could catch her she vanished. It wasn't until he heard light footsteps clacking away across the marble floor that he realized where she had gone: she was in a child's body, and she was fleeing into the restaurant.
Robert scowled and gave chase. The restaurant patrons glanced up sharply as he followed the skipping blonde, all of them alert and wary, except for Mr. Charles: as soon as he saw the child he smiled and rose from his chair. "Philipa!"
"Daddy!" She leapt into his arms, grinning from ear to ear. "Uncle Arthur!" Arthur stood as well, and smiled until he saw Robert heading toward him. Confusion creased his brow.
"Arthur, it's Banks!" Robert shouted at him, pointing. "You're still dreaming!"
Arthur frowned, and his hand went to his pocket, but by then the dream was already falling away. The floor grew harder and colder beneath Robert's feet, and when he and Arthur were only two steps away a wall from the ceiling slammed down between them. Robert lurched back, and despite his frustration remained still while the rest of the whip played out. He rubbed his eyes. It's not really you she's after, it's him, he told himself. Don't let her get to you. Don't let her--
"Let me show you something."
Robert opened his eyes. He was in a small room made of gray, concrete walls, and thought at first he was back in the prison cell. Is this the eighth time? Or the ninth? he thought, but then he noticed that the far wall was made of glass. He moved forward slowly, dreading another glimpse of his haunting reflection, but even that was forgotten when he saw what lay beyond the window: a handsome, mahogany desk; full but tidy bookshelves; a manicured, imported floral arrangement.
And a man, standing in front of the small, heavily draped windows. His silhouette was crisp and straight, unmovable, and Robert shivered at the sight his childhood had drilled into him so well. "He's not real," he murmured, trying to calm his pounding heart. When he looked closely enough he realized that Maurice was shorter than he was supposed to be, and there were items on the desk that should not have been there: personal effects like photographs that Maurice never kept.
"He's not my projection," Robert accepted aloud. He pressed his hands to the glass and realized that it wasn't a window, but a two way mirror. "Are you showing me Arthur's dream?"
"This is Fischer Morrow, three years ago," Charla said, her voice echoing from a speaker mounted on the wall. "I thought it would be of interest to you."
Arthur's memory, then? Robert ground his teeth, but he couldn't deny that he wanted to see. Three years ago...around the same time as the memory I showed Eames. His hands curled to fists. When Father hired someone to train me. Was that Arthur? Is he the one Eames found in Father's account?
The speaker on Maurice's desk buzzed, and he turned away from the window to answer. "Yes?"
"Sir, Dr. Banks and a guest are here to see you."
"Send them in."
Maurice moved around the desk and sat down, at last giving Robert a view of his face. His resemblance to the Maurice of Robert's memory was closer than Charla's Forgery, but there were still slight differences, especially around his sunken eyes. Robert forced himself to look away as the door opened, and in walked Charla and Arthur. Charla cast a deliberate glance his way as they stepped into the office and greeted Maurice with handshakes and false pleasantries.
That's the real Banks. Robert pounded his fists against the glass, but Arthur didn't look up. If only he'd just realize and kill her!
"I won't waste your time with a lot of talk," Maurice said, straight to the point as always. "You know why you're here. I want to know what you found."
Arthur unbuttoned his jacket and sat down across from him. "Mr. Fischer, my assistant and I were very thorough," he said. His tone was one Robert recognized very well: the even-toned, professional calm of a man about to deliver bad news to his patriarch. Everyone spoke to his father that way. "We explored a great deal of your son's mind, including abstract dreams and many specific memories. We did not find anything artificial or otherwise troubling."
Maurice took in the news with irritation. "And did you look for Peter Browning, as I asked?"
Robert frowned uneasily. "Why would he ask about Peter?" he murmured.
Charla wiped her mouth discreetly, and her voice echoed through the speaker at Robert's end. "Arthur is lying. I know it's for a reason."
"We looked," Arthur said, and Robert watched him closely, waiting to see some indication of the lie that Charla was so focused on. "Again, we introduced Robert Fischer to a variety of situations, and Mr. Browning did appear in several. However, we weren't able to detect anything malicious or unordinary."
Maurice sighed, lacing his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair. "Dr. Banks introduced you to me saying you were the best in your field," he said.
"And he is," Charla replied. "Arthur is one of the most talented dreamers of my acquaintance."
Maurice shook his head. "So you say. But to be frank, I'm disappointed."
The word crashed against Robert's ears. To hear it spoken in his father's voice, not uttered but declared boldly, shook him from muscle to bone. He remembered that horrid morning in his father's room, could almost feel the thin, shaky fingers twisting against his chest. Harsh, putrid breath steamed his cheek and then he was pounding on the glass, desperate not to relive those painful moments.
How dare he, a voice bellowed out from inside him. The glass flexed beneath his fists and he screamed in defiance at his own bitter reflection. How dare he blame me for not being him!
The mirror exploded away from him, shattering into dust-thin particles that flooded to cover every corner of the office. The trio inside ducked and shielded their faces beneath the unexpected onslaught. Robert stared at them in as much shock. Did I do that? He shook himself. "Arthur! Damn it, you're still dreaming!"
Arthur swept the dust off his face and looked about in confusion. When his gaze landed on the equally stunned Charla he reached for her, but she was just swift enough to avoid his grasping hands. Her face changed to that of a stranger and she bolted from the office. Growling, Arthur gave chase.
Robert climbed through the destroyed mirror and started to follow, but was halted at the door by his father's voice, rippling behind him.
"Robert."
He didn't want to turn. He didn't want to see his father through Arthur's eyes, let alone hear whatever he had to say, but when he heard Maurice stepping closer he couldn't help himself. His fears were both realized and outdone when he was greeted not with the too-short Maurice, but a towering ghost bearing his dead face. The black cloak billowed from the mask that stood almost at the room's ceiling, and bloodless arms groped forward, snatching Robert by the shoulders.
"I love you, Robert."
Robert wasn't able to take a full breath before Maurice wrenched him forward, and he was enveloped in swirling black. The veils clawed at him from all directions like bat wings, and he fought, unable to find purchase in a body or even the limbs that had drawn him in. His father's voice continued to rumble around him, close to his ear even though when he reached for it, he could not find a face.
"I love you, Robert," Maurice repeated in anguish. "Believe me--I love you--believe me--"
"You're not my father!" Robert choked, tearing at the fabric, desperate to escape. His feet came out from under him and he fell hard on his shoulder. "Get off--get away from me!"
Robert's flailing hands met warm, human skin, and he surged, clinging to what felt like a man's arm. As soon as Arthur had pulled him from the torrent he clamored to his feet and fled out of the office.
"Fischer!" Arthur caught up to him in the hallway. "Are you all right?"
"I am not all right!" Robert shouted, pawing at his arms and shoulders to get the feeling of cold fabric off him. His throat was tight and he fought not to let his emotion get the better of him. "I've had enough of this!"
He marched away, but stopped when he caught a glance of the one of the office conference rooms to his left. It was filled with men in proper business attire, but as he watched, they too grew false faces and dark shrouds. Beside him, Arthur shook his head.
"Your projections are assimilating mine," he said. "I don't know how that's even possible."
They're taking over my mind. Robert's heart beat painfully as he hurried down the corridor. Changing things--even Eames. His hands shook as he raked them through his hair. There's not going to be anything of me left soon. Everything I know will be a lie.
"Fischer." Arthur hurried to catch up. "Wait--we have to stick together."
"It's not my problem that you can't tell you're dreaming anymore," he retorted.
Arthur grabbed his elbow. "Pretty soon you won't be able to either. If we don't help each other--"
"Get off me!" Robert shook free and shoved him hard in the chest. "You're still lying to me! I don't want your help!"
Arthur stumbled back, and just as he was regaining his footing, a wall dropped between them. Robert jumped, the surprise sending another jolt of adrenaline to his overworked heart. She's going to move us again, he thought, and though it was foolish he turned and ran as if he could escape it. I don't want to do this anymore.
The hallway stretched before him. The faster Robert ran the longer it seemed to grow, stretching on infinitely ahead and behind. He could hear fabric rustling and voices droned out of the suddenly dozens of open rooms. I have to find somewhere safe. His legs burned but he forced as much strength into them as he could as he sprinted toward a distant door. If I can make somewhere safe, they'll go away. Please let them go away!
The door was miles away, but when he held out his hand, a curved handle rammed into it. He twisted it and shoved himself through the unexpected entrance, from the sterile hallway and into warm firelight. The door slammed behind him, leaving only silence.
There were quilts on the log walls. A fire crackled in the hearth. Robert held his breath as he took in the familiar landscape, daring to hope that he might have found sanctuary. His eyes darted from object to object; he could feel them, knew what to expect behind and beneath every bit of furniture. The truth pulsed at the back of his brain.
I made this. He stepped cautiously forward. I put this in Banks's dream, just like before. His gaze flickered to the fireplace. I've finally done it.
Robert dashed forward and threw himself onto the bed. It was warm and it smelled like Eames--he breathed it in and could have cried. I'm safe here. I'll just wait here until Eames comes to wake me up. It's the only way to be sure.
Something tugged at him. When he closed his eyes his mind drifted involuntarily across empty space, and then he was in the apartment building. He was crouched in a dark closet with a single bulb light overhead, surrounded on all sides by pounding thunder and a coppery stench.
"I only wanted to know," Yusuf wheezed next to him. Blood poured out from beneath the press of his fingers and sweat dripped off his face. He choked on a weak cough. "If it was...possible. Reversible. Just to know for sure."
Robert ran his fingertips back and forth over the gun in his lap. "All my soldiers are gone," he said for benefit of his other self. He glanced up at the walls, where every percussion marked another ghost trying to gain entrance. "Even the woman. Yusuf's almost dead. He can't even hear me anymore. Sorry, Robert." With a deep breath he pressed the gun to his temple. "You'd better find a way to kill yourself, and soon."
A low growl brought him back to the cabin. Robert opened his eyes, and when he looked toward the hearth was startled to find Eames's immense white tiger slinking toward him. Mesmerized, he crawled to the edge of the bed and licked his lips. "Looks like those things haven't gotten to you yet, at least," he murmured.
The tiger bared its fangs, and though Robert trembled, he slid off the bed and onto his knees. "Are you Eames's projection, or mine?" he asked. "I guess it doesn't matter." He squeezed his eyes shut and stretched his neck forward. "Please just kill me."
Hot breath flared across his throat, and then the jaws were around him, tearing and crunching. Just when he felt his vertebrae snap, he pulled the trigger.
Robert woke up.
He was on his back on a lumpy cot, a seatbelt fastened tightly over his stomach and a needle in his arm. The beaming fluorescents stung his eyes to watering, and the flow of tears down his temples triggered a rush of emotion. I'm awake! He ripped the IV out of his wrist and the belt off his torso. I'm awake, oh God, finally!
Robert jerked upright and took in his surroundings. He was in a subway car that had stopped, accompanied by the still sleeping Charla and Arthur. Pinwheels littered the floor but it didn't occur to him to think it strange. As he wiped his eyes on his sleeve his attention fell on Arthur in full, and his chest tightened.
I should wake him up, too, he thought, moving next to his cot. He's an asshole but even he doesn't deserve what that woman's doing to him.
He reached for the IV, but was paused by the sight of his own hands, stained rust with dried blood. He shuddered and drew them back. Eames. His full memory flooded forward, and when he glanced about the subway again the unwanted truth left him cold. No, that was a dream. Which means...I'm still dreaming. His fingernails dug rivets into his palms. I must be still dreaming.
The subway door blared a warning and then slid open. Robert jumped, spinning to face it and the startled man standing on the platform. They stared at each other, each as shocked by the other's presence. The stranger reached behind him. "What are you--"
Robert grabbed the bars crossing the ceiling of the car, and used them as leverage to swing himself forward, kicking the stranger in the chest. As the man yelped and fell backwards Robert leapt out of the subway.
"Are you Nash?" Robert demanded as he pursued. "Are you another goddamned extractor?"
He reached for him, but Nash caught his breath quickly, and as soon as Robert was close enough he twisted and kicked him in the gut. He jerked to his feet. "What the hell are you doing up?"
Robert gagged and gripped his stomach. As exhausted as he was his anger propelled him past it, and when Nash reached for him he swung his fist. The impact hurt his knuckles as much as Nash's jaw but he felt a thrill of approval when Nash staggered.
"Wake me up." Robert chased after him, trying to reach around him for the gun he was sure was there. "Wake me up!"
Nash grabbed the front of Robert's shirt and shoved him into a nearby pillar. "Get back in that car," he growled, twisting out of the way when Robert attempted to knee him in the groin. "You son of a--" He pulled his arm back.
Robert shoved him, trying to squirm out from between him and the pillar, but their legs tangled in the close quarters and with twin gasps they crashed to the floor. A ragged struggle ensued; both hissed curses as they grappled on the platform, trying to gain leverage over the other. Robert felt knees and elbows jabbing into him but only escape mattered. At last he wound his fingers in Nash's hair and pulled as hard as he could. Strands came off in his hand and Nash screamed, dropping onto his side.
Robert rolled on top of him and closed his already bloodied hands around Nash's throat. "Get out of my head!" he screamed, and squeezed, leaning his weight forward.
Nash pawed at him, his mouth gaping for air that wouldn't come. Robert sneered and felt a sick satisfaction as he watched his eyes get wider and his face paler. "Get out," he said, half ordering and half begging. "Get out, get out of my mind!"
Nash twisted his hips, and Robert realized too late that he had yanked the handgun out of his belt. The grip cracked against Robert's temple and set off fireworks in his eyes, giving Nash the opening he needed to shove him off.
"You son of a bitch," Nash said as he dragged himself to his feet. "You're not supposed to be up."
Robert groaned. He pressed a hand weakly to his temple as he squirmed on the floor, aching and almost unable to breathe.
Nash paced back and forth, coughing and rubbing his throat. "Asshole," he continued to grumble. "I hate rich assholes like you. Do you know what I've gone through to get here? I've been owned by rich fucks you like my entire life. My entire life!"
He punctuated each word with a kick to Robert's stomach, until he was curled up in a ball, gagging. "You're getting back in that car!" he snarled, grabbing Robert's collar. He started to drag him across the platform.
No! Robert struggled, but his eyes were blinded with tears and he was out of strength. I'm not going back down there!
Nash stopped at the entrance to the subway car. Knowing he wouldn't have another chance Robert grabbed him by the belt and punched with his other hand, and wished he could have laughed when the blow to Nash's groin felled him. Instead he used the door of the car to pull himself upright and ran.
"Fucker!" Nash called after him, and before Robert could get to the far door he heard the hammer of the gun click. "Don't fucking move!"
Robert hit the wall, depending on it to stay on his feet as he turned. "Go ahead," he said, one arm wrapped around his aching stomach. "Shoot me."
Nash groaned, cupping his balls as he stumbled after Robert with the gun levied. "Don't tempt me," he replied. "I just have to get you under again without killing you." He lowered the muzzle to aim at Robert's knee.
Robert cringed back. He didn't doubt from Nash's wild eyes that he was serious, but the thought of being tossed back into Charla's nightmare was almost enough to make him vomit. He pressed hard against the wall, and as he tried to reason a way out, it occurred to him just how sleek and cold the metal at his shoulders was.
The pinwheels painted behind him began to spin faster. Their broad, dark lines curved and stretched, blotting out the brilliant colors and even the stark white. Swiftly a shape took form, all polished steel and turning gears, in an immense, solid rectangle.
Nash stopped his advance and stared in slack-jawed confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"
Robert pressed a hand against the door behind him and stood on his own power. "It's a safe," he said. A strange sensation came over him: he knew what he was capable of. "Like the one I built in Eames's dream. I didn't mean to then, either. Know what was in it?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Nash took a step back.
"It holds...fear." Robert traced his fingertips along the seams in the metal, and a keypad rose beneath them. "Whatever you fear the most is in this safe, right now."
"Banks made you crazy," Nash said, shaking the gun at him. "Get away from there."
"Is this your dream we're in?" Robert continued. He held Nash's gaze, willing each word to be true. "Then this safe is in your mind, too. And it holds everything you're afraid of." He input the combination.
Nash readjusted his sweaty grip on the gun and started forward again. "You crazy son of--"
The metal doors creaked, the gears spun, and as soon as a gap opened between them the platform was rocked with a mechanical roar. The inside of the safe was pitch black, but the more it opened the louder and more violent the noise became, revving and waning. Nash went ghostly pale and stumbled back again, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Robert set his hand back on the door, walking with it as it opened fully. "Get out of my mind," he said.
A pair of brilliant spotlights flared from the rectangular maw. As the bellowing engine continued to taunt the lights surged forward in short bursts, like a bull pawing the ground. Nash's gun clattered to the floor and his knees almost gave out. "No," he gasped. In a panic he turned to run. "Oh Jesus--"
Five wraiths descended on him. They grabbed his arms, legs, and neck, dragging him forward into the path of the rocking monstrosity that remained caved in shadows. Nash screamed and thrashed, kicking and even biting, but the wraiths remained firm and shoved him into the floor as a grisly sacrifice.
"Let me go!" Nash wailed, his voice cracking as scars bubbled across his face. "Fischer, wait--oh God don't--please, don't fucking do this to me!"
Robert retrieved the fallen gun, then stumbled to the closest door and shoved his way through. As soon as it closed the shrieking engine and Nash's own high voice were sealed off, and he continued in blissful silence through the childishly decorated corridor. When he came to a block of solid iron he pushed on it, and when it didn't budge, he closed his eyes.
"This is my mind," he told himself. "If I can build in someone else's dream...I can destroy, too." He took in several deep breaths, believing it to be the truth, and the door disappeared.
He trudged out of the basement corridors, through an abandoned grocery store, and into the street. The city was both alien and familiar, and as he looked from it to his bloodied hands, he told himself what had to be done. I'm still dreaming. I have to wake up. When he closed his eyes he felt his other half on the other side of the city, having escaped his subway with no resistance, also standing in the open with a gun in his hand.
Thunder pealed across the canopy of low clouds, vibrating the buildings and sending pebbles dancing across the street. Metal groaned in the distance. Robert ignored it, determination guiding the muzzle of the gun to his temple.
"I wouldn't do that."
Robert opened his eyes again. A wraith was standing before him, and he was tempted to shoot it, but then he recognized the mask it was wearing: Mr. Charles.
"Why not?" Robert asked, his finger curling around the trigger.
"If you pull that trigger, you might not wake up," Mr. Charles said.
"Why not?" Robert quaked with frustration. "I'm still dreaming--I need to kill myself. This is the only way, right?" Doubt squirmed in his gut. "Right?"
"What if you're not dreaming?" asked a second wraith that hadn't been there a moment ago. It was wearing Eames's face. "What if you're already awake, right now?"
Robert glanced between them. "Then..." He swallowed hard. "Then you'd be dead."
"You can't trust your own memory. How can you trust what you see with your own eyes?"
The gun dug into his temple, igniting the sting already caused by Nash's blow. He grimaced and tried to think, to remember just how he had gotten to the train...to the office before that... Nothing made sense, and he doubted. Somewhere to the south, a building rocked on its foundations and crumpled.
"Look at the gun in your hand," Mr. Charles said, moving closer. "It can be used any number of ways."
Eames took a step. "But if you pull that trigger, you might not wake up."
"You might not wake up."
Robert tensed, and at last let the gun drop to the street. He muffled a sob against his palm. What if I don't wake up? he thought desperately. This can't be real, but...what if it's real? He looked to the curved and slanting streets, the thousands of empty black eyes staring at him, the windmills churning at the city's edge, and realized...none of it was strange. He didn't know what the real world was supposed to look like anymore.
"They're coming for you," Mr. Charles said. "You're not safe here."
"But you can make yourself safe."
Robert's knees gave out, and two more ghosts hurried to support him. Instead of howling and tearing at him they petted his back and hair. They were soothing him. He didn't trust them, but as one drew a black cloak over his shoulders, he realized what a comfort it was to his freezing limbs.
A tower rose from the skyline. Robert recognized it as the office building he had occupied earlier, where Eames had first come to him and whispered in his ear. "Find somewhere safe," he said, taking a few unsteady steps forward. The wraiths stayed with him, squeezing his hands in encouragement. Gradually, the rumbling from sky and earth ceased. With every step, calm returned. "That's what Eames told me. That's what I'll do." He could sense his other half already in motion, heading toward the tower at the center of the twisted city. When he let out a slow breath he felt it steam back against his face.
"I'll just make myself safe," he murmured, "and wait for Eames."
To Chapter 15
Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 14/19 (5,900 words) (For other parts please check my My main post)
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, Browning, and others.
Warnings: Violence, sexual content.
Disclaimer: These characters and setting do not belong to me and are being used without permission but for no profit
Summary: After the Inception proves successful, Eames tracks down Robert out of concern for its unusual side effects. Meanwhile, Arthur is hired to a dangerous job that forces the rest of the team to take sides: whether to defend Robert and his fragile mind, or ruin him completely.
Notes: C&C Welcome and appreciated. Thanks to my betas chypie and tanithkitty for their input!
Because of the way dream time works, this chapter takes place during chapter 13. I think it should be obvious how the events fit together. Hope you enjoy~
When Robert woke up in the study for the twelfth time, something was different: there was a man that hadn't been there before. He was blond and familiar. "Mr. Charles...?"
Across from him, Arthur awoke with a quiet intake of breath. He too noticed the addition right away, and he slumped in his chair. "Shit."
Nearby, Charla clicked her tongue against her teeth. "It's about time."
Robert straightened, but then the study was gone again. He watched the world fall away, and a new one take its place--a tall building with many rooms. Some part of him recognized that it was meant to be a hotel, and he filled the rooms with uniform furniture, put guests in the beds and food on the dinner carts. He put himself on a king sized mattress in the circular master bedroom of the tower suite. And he put a warm hand around his.
He was in Munich. Eames was beside him, recreating a morning only a week past. When he glanced into the rest of the room he could even see their breakfast dishes piled on the room service cart, and his discarded jacket crumpled on the floor. He wiggled his bare toes.
Was it really only a week ago? he thought, relaxing against the warmth at his shoulder. When he snuck into my mind? When he looked at me... He glanced to his right and found Eames watching him with just the face he remembered: curious, and concerned, and excited all at once. When I knew he was the last person I should trust, and the only one I could...
"You look tired," Eames said.
"I am tired," Robert replied. He snorted. "Tired of waiting for you."
His lip quirked. "I'm right here."
"No you're not--you're just a projection." Robert nestled into him all the same, pretending--just for a moment--that he wasn't trapped in a mad-woman's fluctuating dream. "You're not real."
Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"
Robert started to answer, but then paused, staring up at the ceiling. There was a fan turning lazily above them that he didn't remember being there, bearing a childish shape but somehow comforting. He squeezed Eames's hand as he watched it turn. "I was a second ago," he said. "No, I'm sure--this isn't real."
"We just learned that you can't trust your memory," Eames continued. "How can you trust what you see with your own eyes?"
"I..." Again Robert hesitated. He breathed in the familiar smells of the hotel suite: the linens that could stand to be changed, the open brandy, the coffee cooling on the table. Everything was sharper and more distinct than he remembered, almost...more real. His heart beat a little faster. "Stop trying to confuse me; I know I'm dreaming."
"No you don't." Eames leaned into him, lips warm against his ear. "You've been waiting for me so that I can tell you if you're dreaming."
"No, I..." Robert glared at the pinwheel overhead, but the more he watched its gentle rotation, the more convincing Eames sounded. When Eames wrapped his arm around his waist he didn't resist. "I was just in the study. This can't be real."
"Who cares anyway? Just stay here, with me."
Eames's hand slid beneath Robert's shirt. His fingers were icy, and Robert jerked, squirming away from the unpleasant chill. When he finally tore his gaze away from the pinwheel cold black fabric danced in front of him, and he started again. "Eames?" He struggled away from the projection, but the arm around him tightened, digging fingernails into his skin.
"You'd rather stay here with me anyway," the Eames projection murmured through plastic lips. "No one will hurt you here."
Robert twisted violently, and after much struggle managed to tear free of the wraith's pawing grip. He scrambled off the bed, almost tumbling onto his back in the effort, and retreated down the short steps. When he looked back Eames was still on the bed, made of white limbs and black veils. The sight of him sent panic into Robert's gut and he fled from the room.
I'm still dreaming. Robert threw open the door to the stairwell and stormed down the floors. But that's the first time Eames has been here, on this level. God, I didn't want to see him like that.
He came out in the lobby and there stopped, staring about in confusion. Though he was certain he had just descended from the room he'd rented in Munich, he was no longer in the same hotel. The front desk was on the opposite wall, and the décor was all wrong, all straight, gray lines and glass sculptures instead of the flowers and soothing wood he had expected. More surprising were the guests flowing in and out of the building: there were no ghosts, only people in clean suits, moving about in practiced precision.
Robert wandered across the lobby in his bare feet, frowning at the unfamiliar faces passing by him. Everything was alien. I'm dreaming, he told himself again as he peered through tinted windows into the hotel's restaurant. But it feels different than before...
Arthur was seated in the restaurant, chatting amiably with the man across from him. Robert recognized him immediately. Mr. Charles again. He felt a flash of betrayal. You're supposed to be on my side, you know.
A woman's reflection joined his in the glass: his assistant, Shelby. Robert frowned at her, suspecting already that she was not who she seemed, and was validated when she smiled. "Banks," he murmured.
"My, you've gotten good at spotting me," she chuckled. "You're quite the skilled dreamer, Robert."
He made a quick scan of the surrounding area, but there was nothing immediately nearby that could be used as a weapon. "What's going on?" he asked bluntly. He couldn't remember the last time Charla had stopped her torture for a chat. "Something's different."
Charla moved closer to the glass, her eyes sharp on Arthur and his guest. "Arthur's put up quite a fight, but he's exhausted," she explained. She gestured to the people around them. "These are his projections, which he is no longer able to repress. Now you are both subjects in my dream."
Robert looked again into the restaurant. If Mr. Charles is one of Arthur's projections, does that mean he's a real person? He tried to remember what Eames had said about him but it was too hard to concentrate. He shook his head. "Why are you doing this? What are you trying to extract from him anyway?" He turned toward Charla angrily. "And what does it have to do with me?"
"Everything." Charla tilted her chin up. "Three years ago Arthur was hired to extract a secret from you. I want to know what it was."
"A secret?" Goose bumps rose up Robert's arms, and he was momentarily distracted by what he thought was another wraith crossing the far end of the restaurant. Does that make this...the third time Arthur's been in my mind? That lying asshole... "What kind of secret?"
"If I knew that, we wouldn't be here, now would we?"
Robert scowled. "My secrets aren’t any business of yours anyway," he snapped. "I don't even know you. It was Peter that put you up to this, wasn't it?" His throat ached with bitterness. "I would have told him anything, if he'd just asked."
Charla turned, leaning her back up against the glass so she could face Robert more easily; her eyes were cold and she wanted him to see them. "It's not Peter you should be angry with," she said. "Blame your father."
"You don't know anything about my father."
"Don't I?" She folded her arms. "Maurice Fischer was a loathsome coward who used and then abandoned all his friends and even members of his own family," she said boldly. "Look at what he's made you: a helpless, narcissistic little brat with no talent and no connections. Just like him."
Robert's fists trembled at his sides. "Shut up," he hissed, but when he looked away from Charla all he could see was his own reflection, and it made his ill ease worse.
"Fischer Morrow will be better off without you," she continued. "Peter may not thank me for it, but he'll know I was right." She tsked, leaning her head back. "And then all you Fischers will be out of our lives forever. A shame that I had to wait this long."
Robert's jaw worked, but he still couldn't look away from his own pained face. Even Eames said I'm terrible, he thought, hypnotized by his empty eyes. I deserve everything they do to me. Because I'm no one. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the glass. Because I'm not who I'm supposed to be.
"Everything will be better, when you're gone," Charla said, her every word a painful truth. "Peter will rule Fischer Morrow as he always wanted. No more burdens will hold him back." She turned her head just enough to speak directly into his ear. "He was a greater man, before you. Before Maurice Fischer. Before that whore mother of yours."
Robert saw red. He woke from his trance and whirled on her, but before he could catch her she vanished. It wasn't until he heard light footsteps clacking away across the marble floor that he realized where she had gone: she was in a child's body, and she was fleeing into the restaurant.
Robert scowled and gave chase. The restaurant patrons glanced up sharply as he followed the skipping blonde, all of them alert and wary, except for Mr. Charles: as soon as he saw the child he smiled and rose from his chair. "Philipa!"
"Daddy!" She leapt into his arms, grinning from ear to ear. "Uncle Arthur!" Arthur stood as well, and smiled until he saw Robert heading toward him. Confusion creased his brow.
"Arthur, it's Banks!" Robert shouted at him, pointing. "You're still dreaming!"
Arthur frowned, and his hand went to his pocket, but by then the dream was already falling away. The floor grew harder and colder beneath Robert's feet, and when he and Arthur were only two steps away a wall from the ceiling slammed down between them. Robert lurched back, and despite his frustration remained still while the rest of the whip played out. He rubbed his eyes. It's not really you she's after, it's him, he told himself. Don't let her get to you. Don't let her--
"Let me show you something."
Robert opened his eyes. He was in a small room made of gray, concrete walls, and thought at first he was back in the prison cell. Is this the eighth time? Or the ninth? he thought, but then he noticed that the far wall was made of glass. He moved forward slowly, dreading another glimpse of his haunting reflection, but even that was forgotten when he saw what lay beyond the window: a handsome, mahogany desk; full but tidy bookshelves; a manicured, imported floral arrangement.
And a man, standing in front of the small, heavily draped windows. His silhouette was crisp and straight, unmovable, and Robert shivered at the sight his childhood had drilled into him so well. "He's not real," he murmured, trying to calm his pounding heart. When he looked closely enough he realized that Maurice was shorter than he was supposed to be, and there were items on the desk that should not have been there: personal effects like photographs that Maurice never kept.
"He's not my projection," Robert accepted aloud. He pressed his hands to the glass and realized that it wasn't a window, but a two way mirror. "Are you showing me Arthur's dream?"
"This is Fischer Morrow, three years ago," Charla said, her voice echoing from a speaker mounted on the wall. "I thought it would be of interest to you."
Arthur's memory, then? Robert ground his teeth, but he couldn't deny that he wanted to see. Three years ago...around the same time as the memory I showed Eames. His hands curled to fists. When Father hired someone to train me. Was that Arthur? Is he the one Eames found in Father's account?
The speaker on Maurice's desk buzzed, and he turned away from the window to answer. "Yes?"
"Sir, Dr. Banks and a guest are here to see you."
"Send them in."
Maurice moved around the desk and sat down, at last giving Robert a view of his face. His resemblance to the Maurice of Robert's memory was closer than Charla's Forgery, but there were still slight differences, especially around his sunken eyes. Robert forced himself to look away as the door opened, and in walked Charla and Arthur. Charla cast a deliberate glance his way as they stepped into the office and greeted Maurice with handshakes and false pleasantries.
That's the real Banks. Robert pounded his fists against the glass, but Arthur didn't look up. If only he'd just realize and kill her!
"I won't waste your time with a lot of talk," Maurice said, straight to the point as always. "You know why you're here. I want to know what you found."
Arthur unbuttoned his jacket and sat down across from him. "Mr. Fischer, my assistant and I were very thorough," he said. His tone was one Robert recognized very well: the even-toned, professional calm of a man about to deliver bad news to his patriarch. Everyone spoke to his father that way. "We explored a great deal of your son's mind, including abstract dreams and many specific memories. We did not find anything artificial or otherwise troubling."
Maurice took in the news with irritation. "And did you look for Peter Browning, as I asked?"
Robert frowned uneasily. "Why would he ask about Peter?" he murmured.
Charla wiped her mouth discreetly, and her voice echoed through the speaker at Robert's end. "Arthur is lying. I know it's for a reason."
"We looked," Arthur said, and Robert watched him closely, waiting to see some indication of the lie that Charla was so focused on. "Again, we introduced Robert Fischer to a variety of situations, and Mr. Browning did appear in several. However, we weren't able to detect anything malicious or unordinary."
Maurice sighed, lacing his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair. "Dr. Banks introduced you to me saying you were the best in your field," he said.
"And he is," Charla replied. "Arthur is one of the most talented dreamers of my acquaintance."
Maurice shook his head. "So you say. But to be frank, I'm disappointed."
The word crashed against Robert's ears. To hear it spoken in his father's voice, not uttered but declared boldly, shook him from muscle to bone. He remembered that horrid morning in his father's room, could almost feel the thin, shaky fingers twisting against his chest. Harsh, putrid breath steamed his cheek and then he was pounding on the glass, desperate not to relive those painful moments.
How dare he, a voice bellowed out from inside him. The glass flexed beneath his fists and he screamed in defiance at his own bitter reflection. How dare he blame me for not being him!
The mirror exploded away from him, shattering into dust-thin particles that flooded to cover every corner of the office. The trio inside ducked and shielded their faces beneath the unexpected onslaught. Robert stared at them in as much shock. Did I do that? He shook himself. "Arthur! Damn it, you're still dreaming!"
Arthur swept the dust off his face and looked about in confusion. When his gaze landed on the equally stunned Charla he reached for her, but she was just swift enough to avoid his grasping hands. Her face changed to that of a stranger and she bolted from the office. Growling, Arthur gave chase.
Robert climbed through the destroyed mirror and started to follow, but was halted at the door by his father's voice, rippling behind him.
"Robert."
He didn't want to turn. He didn't want to see his father through Arthur's eyes, let alone hear whatever he had to say, but when he heard Maurice stepping closer he couldn't help himself. His fears were both realized and outdone when he was greeted not with the too-short Maurice, but a towering ghost bearing his dead face. The black cloak billowed from the mask that stood almost at the room's ceiling, and bloodless arms groped forward, snatching Robert by the shoulders.
"I love you, Robert."
Robert wasn't able to take a full breath before Maurice wrenched him forward, and he was enveloped in swirling black. The veils clawed at him from all directions like bat wings, and he fought, unable to find purchase in a body or even the limbs that had drawn him in. His father's voice continued to rumble around him, close to his ear even though when he reached for it, he could not find a face.
"I love you, Robert," Maurice repeated in anguish. "Believe me--I love you--believe me--"
"You're not my father!" Robert choked, tearing at the fabric, desperate to escape. His feet came out from under him and he fell hard on his shoulder. "Get off--get away from me!"
Robert's flailing hands met warm, human skin, and he surged, clinging to what felt like a man's arm. As soon as Arthur had pulled him from the torrent he clamored to his feet and fled out of the office.
"Fischer!" Arthur caught up to him in the hallway. "Are you all right?"
"I am not all right!" Robert shouted, pawing at his arms and shoulders to get the feeling of cold fabric off him. His throat was tight and he fought not to let his emotion get the better of him. "I've had enough of this!"
He marched away, but stopped when he caught a glance of the one of the office conference rooms to his left. It was filled with men in proper business attire, but as he watched, they too grew false faces and dark shrouds. Beside him, Arthur shook his head.
"Your projections are assimilating mine," he said. "I don't know how that's even possible."
They're taking over my mind. Robert's heart beat painfully as he hurried down the corridor. Changing things--even Eames. His hands shook as he raked them through his hair. There's not going to be anything of me left soon. Everything I know will be a lie.
"Fischer." Arthur hurried to catch up. "Wait--we have to stick together."
"It's not my problem that you can't tell you're dreaming anymore," he retorted.
Arthur grabbed his elbow. "Pretty soon you won't be able to either. If we don't help each other--"
"Get off me!" Robert shook free and shoved him hard in the chest. "You're still lying to me! I don't want your help!"
Arthur stumbled back, and just as he was regaining his footing, a wall dropped between them. Robert jumped, the surprise sending another jolt of adrenaline to his overworked heart. She's going to move us again, he thought, and though it was foolish he turned and ran as if he could escape it. I don't want to do this anymore.
The hallway stretched before him. The faster Robert ran the longer it seemed to grow, stretching on infinitely ahead and behind. He could hear fabric rustling and voices droned out of the suddenly dozens of open rooms. I have to find somewhere safe. His legs burned but he forced as much strength into them as he could as he sprinted toward a distant door. If I can make somewhere safe, they'll go away. Please let them go away!
The door was miles away, but when he held out his hand, a curved handle rammed into it. He twisted it and shoved himself through the unexpected entrance, from the sterile hallway and into warm firelight. The door slammed behind him, leaving only silence.
There were quilts on the log walls. A fire crackled in the hearth. Robert held his breath as he took in the familiar landscape, daring to hope that he might have found sanctuary. His eyes darted from object to object; he could feel them, knew what to expect behind and beneath every bit of furniture. The truth pulsed at the back of his brain.
I made this. He stepped cautiously forward. I put this in Banks's dream, just like before. His gaze flickered to the fireplace. I've finally done it.
Robert dashed forward and threw himself onto the bed. It was warm and it smelled like Eames--he breathed it in and could have cried. I'm safe here. I'll just wait here until Eames comes to wake me up. It's the only way to be sure.
Something tugged at him. When he closed his eyes his mind drifted involuntarily across empty space, and then he was in the apartment building. He was crouched in a dark closet with a single bulb light overhead, surrounded on all sides by pounding thunder and a coppery stench.
"I only wanted to know," Yusuf wheezed next to him. Blood poured out from beneath the press of his fingers and sweat dripped off his face. He choked on a weak cough. "If it was...possible. Reversible. Just to know for sure."
Robert ran his fingertips back and forth over the gun in his lap. "All my soldiers are gone," he said for benefit of his other self. He glanced up at the walls, where every percussion marked another ghost trying to gain entrance. "Even the woman. Yusuf's almost dead. He can't even hear me anymore. Sorry, Robert." With a deep breath he pressed the gun to his temple. "You'd better find a way to kill yourself, and soon."
A low growl brought him back to the cabin. Robert opened his eyes, and when he looked toward the hearth was startled to find Eames's immense white tiger slinking toward him. Mesmerized, he crawled to the edge of the bed and licked his lips. "Looks like those things haven't gotten to you yet, at least," he murmured.
The tiger bared its fangs, and though Robert trembled, he slid off the bed and onto his knees. "Are you Eames's projection, or mine?" he asked. "I guess it doesn't matter." He squeezed his eyes shut and stretched his neck forward. "Please just kill me."
Hot breath flared across his throat, and then the jaws were around him, tearing and crunching. Just when he felt his vertebrae snap, he pulled the trigger.
Robert woke up.
He was on his back on a lumpy cot, a seatbelt fastened tightly over his stomach and a needle in his arm. The beaming fluorescents stung his eyes to watering, and the flow of tears down his temples triggered a rush of emotion. I'm awake! He ripped the IV out of his wrist and the belt off his torso. I'm awake, oh God, finally!
Robert jerked upright and took in his surroundings. He was in a subway car that had stopped, accompanied by the still sleeping Charla and Arthur. Pinwheels littered the floor but it didn't occur to him to think it strange. As he wiped his eyes on his sleeve his attention fell on Arthur in full, and his chest tightened.
I should wake him up, too, he thought, moving next to his cot. He's an asshole but even he doesn't deserve what that woman's doing to him.
He reached for the IV, but was paused by the sight of his own hands, stained rust with dried blood. He shuddered and drew them back. Eames. His full memory flooded forward, and when he glanced about the subway again the unwanted truth left him cold. No, that was a dream. Which means...I'm still dreaming. His fingernails dug rivets into his palms. I must be still dreaming.
The subway door blared a warning and then slid open. Robert jumped, spinning to face it and the startled man standing on the platform. They stared at each other, each as shocked by the other's presence. The stranger reached behind him. "What are you--"
Robert grabbed the bars crossing the ceiling of the car, and used them as leverage to swing himself forward, kicking the stranger in the chest. As the man yelped and fell backwards Robert leapt out of the subway.
"Are you Nash?" Robert demanded as he pursued. "Are you another goddamned extractor?"
He reached for him, but Nash caught his breath quickly, and as soon as Robert was close enough he twisted and kicked him in the gut. He jerked to his feet. "What the hell are you doing up?"
Robert gagged and gripped his stomach. As exhausted as he was his anger propelled him past it, and when Nash reached for him he swung his fist. The impact hurt his knuckles as much as Nash's jaw but he felt a thrill of approval when Nash staggered.
"Wake me up." Robert chased after him, trying to reach around him for the gun he was sure was there. "Wake me up!"
Nash grabbed the front of Robert's shirt and shoved him into a nearby pillar. "Get back in that car," he growled, twisting out of the way when Robert attempted to knee him in the groin. "You son of a--" He pulled his arm back.
Robert shoved him, trying to squirm out from between him and the pillar, but their legs tangled in the close quarters and with twin gasps they crashed to the floor. A ragged struggle ensued; both hissed curses as they grappled on the platform, trying to gain leverage over the other. Robert felt knees and elbows jabbing into him but only escape mattered. At last he wound his fingers in Nash's hair and pulled as hard as he could. Strands came off in his hand and Nash screamed, dropping onto his side.
Robert rolled on top of him and closed his already bloodied hands around Nash's throat. "Get out of my head!" he screamed, and squeezed, leaning his weight forward.
Nash pawed at him, his mouth gaping for air that wouldn't come. Robert sneered and felt a sick satisfaction as he watched his eyes get wider and his face paler. "Get out," he said, half ordering and half begging. "Get out, get out of my mind!"
Nash twisted his hips, and Robert realized too late that he had yanked the handgun out of his belt. The grip cracked against Robert's temple and set off fireworks in his eyes, giving Nash the opening he needed to shove him off.
"You son of a bitch," Nash said as he dragged himself to his feet. "You're not supposed to be up."
Robert groaned. He pressed a hand weakly to his temple as he squirmed on the floor, aching and almost unable to breathe.
Nash paced back and forth, coughing and rubbing his throat. "Asshole," he continued to grumble. "I hate rich assholes like you. Do you know what I've gone through to get here? I've been owned by rich fucks you like my entire life. My entire life!"
He punctuated each word with a kick to Robert's stomach, until he was curled up in a ball, gagging. "You're getting back in that car!" he snarled, grabbing Robert's collar. He started to drag him across the platform.
No! Robert struggled, but his eyes were blinded with tears and he was out of strength. I'm not going back down there!
Nash stopped at the entrance to the subway car. Knowing he wouldn't have another chance Robert grabbed him by the belt and punched with his other hand, and wished he could have laughed when the blow to Nash's groin felled him. Instead he used the door of the car to pull himself upright and ran.
"Fucker!" Nash called after him, and before Robert could get to the far door he heard the hammer of the gun click. "Don't fucking move!"
Robert hit the wall, depending on it to stay on his feet as he turned. "Go ahead," he said, one arm wrapped around his aching stomach. "Shoot me."
Nash groaned, cupping his balls as he stumbled after Robert with the gun levied. "Don't tempt me," he replied. "I just have to get you under again without killing you." He lowered the muzzle to aim at Robert's knee.
Robert cringed back. He didn't doubt from Nash's wild eyes that he was serious, but the thought of being tossed back into Charla's nightmare was almost enough to make him vomit. He pressed hard against the wall, and as he tried to reason a way out, it occurred to him just how sleek and cold the metal at his shoulders was.
The pinwheels painted behind him began to spin faster. Their broad, dark lines curved and stretched, blotting out the brilliant colors and even the stark white. Swiftly a shape took form, all polished steel and turning gears, in an immense, solid rectangle.
Nash stopped his advance and stared in slack-jawed confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"
Robert pressed a hand against the door behind him and stood on his own power. "It's a safe," he said. A strange sensation came over him: he knew what he was capable of. "Like the one I built in Eames's dream. I didn't mean to then, either. Know what was in it?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Nash took a step back.
"It holds...fear." Robert traced his fingertips along the seams in the metal, and a keypad rose beneath them. "Whatever you fear the most is in this safe, right now."
"Banks made you crazy," Nash said, shaking the gun at him. "Get away from there."
"Is this your dream we're in?" Robert continued. He held Nash's gaze, willing each word to be true. "Then this safe is in your mind, too. And it holds everything you're afraid of." He input the combination.
Nash readjusted his sweaty grip on the gun and started forward again. "You crazy son of--"
The metal doors creaked, the gears spun, and as soon as a gap opened between them the platform was rocked with a mechanical roar. The inside of the safe was pitch black, but the more it opened the louder and more violent the noise became, revving and waning. Nash went ghostly pale and stumbled back again, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Robert set his hand back on the door, walking with it as it opened fully. "Get out of my mind," he said.
A pair of brilliant spotlights flared from the rectangular maw. As the bellowing engine continued to taunt the lights surged forward in short bursts, like a bull pawing the ground. Nash's gun clattered to the floor and his knees almost gave out. "No," he gasped. In a panic he turned to run. "Oh Jesus--"
Five wraiths descended on him. They grabbed his arms, legs, and neck, dragging him forward into the path of the rocking monstrosity that remained caved in shadows. Nash screamed and thrashed, kicking and even biting, but the wraiths remained firm and shoved him into the floor as a grisly sacrifice.
"Let me go!" Nash wailed, his voice cracking as scars bubbled across his face. "Fischer, wait--oh God don't--please, don't fucking do this to me!"
Robert retrieved the fallen gun, then stumbled to the closest door and shoved his way through. As soon as it closed the shrieking engine and Nash's own high voice were sealed off, and he continued in blissful silence through the childishly decorated corridor. When he came to a block of solid iron he pushed on it, and when it didn't budge, he closed his eyes.
"This is my mind," he told himself. "If I can build in someone else's dream...I can destroy, too." He took in several deep breaths, believing it to be the truth, and the door disappeared.
He trudged out of the basement corridors, through an abandoned grocery store, and into the street. The city was both alien and familiar, and as he looked from it to his bloodied hands, he told himself what had to be done. I'm still dreaming. I have to wake up. When he closed his eyes he felt his other half on the other side of the city, having escaped his subway with no resistance, also standing in the open with a gun in his hand.
Thunder pealed across the canopy of low clouds, vibrating the buildings and sending pebbles dancing across the street. Metal groaned in the distance. Robert ignored it, determination guiding the muzzle of the gun to his temple.
"I wouldn't do that."
Robert opened his eyes again. A wraith was standing before him, and he was tempted to shoot it, but then he recognized the mask it was wearing: Mr. Charles.
"Why not?" Robert asked, his finger curling around the trigger.
"If you pull that trigger, you might not wake up," Mr. Charles said.
"Why not?" Robert quaked with frustration. "I'm still dreaming--I need to kill myself. This is the only way, right?" Doubt squirmed in his gut. "Right?"
"What if you're not dreaming?" asked a second wraith that hadn't been there a moment ago. It was wearing Eames's face. "What if you're already awake, right now?"
Robert glanced between them. "Then..." He swallowed hard. "Then you'd be dead."
"You can't trust your own memory. How can you trust what you see with your own eyes?"
The gun dug into his temple, igniting the sting already caused by Nash's blow. He grimaced and tried to think, to remember just how he had gotten to the train...to the office before that... Nothing made sense, and he doubted. Somewhere to the south, a building rocked on its foundations and crumpled.
"Look at the gun in your hand," Mr. Charles said, moving closer. "It can be used any number of ways."
Eames took a step. "But if you pull that trigger, you might not wake up."
"You might not wake up."
Robert tensed, and at last let the gun drop to the street. He muffled a sob against his palm. What if I don't wake up? he thought desperately. This can't be real, but...what if it's real? He looked to the curved and slanting streets, the thousands of empty black eyes staring at him, the windmills churning at the city's edge, and realized...none of it was strange. He didn't know what the real world was supposed to look like anymore.
"They're coming for you," Mr. Charles said. "You're not safe here."
"But you can make yourself safe."
Robert's knees gave out, and two more ghosts hurried to support him. Instead of howling and tearing at him they petted his back and hair. They were soothing him. He didn't trust them, but as one drew a black cloak over his shoulders, he realized what a comfort it was to his freezing limbs.
A tower rose from the skyline. Robert recognized it as the office building he had occupied earlier, where Eames had first come to him and whispered in his ear. "Find somewhere safe," he said, taking a few unsteady steps forward. The wraiths stayed with him, squeezing his hands in encouragement. Gradually, the rumbling from sky and earth ceased. With every step, calm returned. "That's what Eames told me. That's what I'll do." He could sense his other half already in motion, heading toward the tower at the center of the twisted city. When he let out a slow breath he felt it steam back against his face.
"I'll just make myself safe," he murmured, "and wait for Eames."
To Chapter 15