[FIC - Inception] The Paradox Job Part 2
To Master Post
Part 2 of 4
When Arthur knocked it was Eames who answered. He frowned. "Where's Bone?"
"Out." Eames took a step back. "Won't you come in?"
"Is he going to be back soon?"
"Should be," Eames said, pulling a cell out of his back pocket. He started texting as he headed into the room. "Did you eat? I'll tell him to bring extra."
Arthur closed the door behind him. "That's fine." He glanced around and noticed the second bed was rumpled, and a few extra pieces of luggage were strewn about. So he's staying here.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," Eames said, tossing himself on the bed. "You have something for us?"
"It can wait until Bone's here," Arthur replied. He felt the bottle shift in his inside jacket pocket as he sat down.
Eames smirked at him. "You don't trust me?"
"Of course not," Arthur said immediately. "Besides, you're not my client--he is. So we wait."
"Sure, sure."
The room fell silent. Arthur let his gaze roam, trying to ignore the way Eames was looking at him, but it made him feel like he was in grade school. There's always an in, he told himself. "So what's your stake in all this?" he asked, faking ease. He even managed to smile. "I hope for your sake Bone's paying you better than me."
Eames laughed. "It's not about pay," he said. "We need that PASIV so we can get to some real work."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Dare I ask what?"
Eames gave him a look, the kind that said, "Oh, you know," which wouldn't be annoying at all if Arthur was in on the joke. "Ever hear of extraction?" he asked.
"It's a fancy word for theft," said Arthur.
"Ever done it?"
"Of course." Arthur still couldn't entirely place the look Eames was fixing him with, and he wondered vaguely if a glance at his subconscious would provide a clue, the way Bone's nature was displayed so openly in his projections. "Only once or twice in the field, though."
Eames frowned thoughtfully, and it was then that Arthur realized they weren't talking about the same thing. Arthur had extracted documents, had hacked out security codes and account numbers, but Eames had to have been referring to something else.
"I heard there was a team out here," Eames continued. "You should introduce us."
"That's...not a good idea." Arthur glanced away and noticed Bone's denim sack peeking out from under the bed. "Do you want to dream with me?" he asked on impulse.
Eames frowned again, and he looked about to refuse, so Arthur added, "Just until Bone gets back."
"Are you asking to be the dreamer?" Eames asked with sudden caution. "Or the subject?"
"Whichever. Unless you think Bone would kill us for depleting his stash."
Eames snorted and dragged the device out from under the bed. "It's not his stash," he said as he set the timer for them.
Arthur smiled to himself as he rolled up his sleeve. He's just like all the rest, he told himself. Everyone has buttons to push. He watched to make sure Eames was using the needle Bone had set aside especially for him. "So which is it?"
Arthur held his hand out, but rather than simply give up the needle Eames leaned forward, clasping Arthur's wrist so he could insert it himself. His fingers were hot to the touch and rough, and Arthur couldn't help but flinch at the sting of being pierced.
"My dream," Eames said. "Your projections." Arthur was already thinking he had made a mistake by the time Eames engaged the device.
They awoke on a college campus. It wasn't one Arthur recognized, but there was no mistaking the crowded buildings and young men and women milling about them. The atmosphere was tense, not quite as anxious as Central Park the day before, but bright and urgent.
Final's week, Arthur thought with a bemused smirk. "Interesting choice," he said.
"Thought I'd make you feel at home," Eames replied. He had changed to fit his environment, and was dressed in slacks and a thin jacket over his button down. His shoulders were wet as if it had been raining not long before, matching the real weather above. It was a strange addition of detail that somehow made everything feel a little sharper.
Arthur walked with him down one of the paths toward an old, brick building surrounded by apple trees. "This isn't my university," he said. "You don't even know where I go to school."
"Close enough though, isn't it?" Eames slicked his wet hair back. "And look at all these projections. I feel like I know you better already."
Arthur looked sharply at him. "Excuse me?"
"Isn't that why you invited me to dream with you?" Eames asked, and though his manner was light, Arthur was familiar enough with the game they were playing to know he was deadly serious. "You were hoping to sneak a peek at my mind, yeah? Nice try."
Heat seeped up the back of Arthur's neck, and all around his projections began to cast suspicious looks their way. "I was just trying to kill some time before Bone got back," he said. "No need to be paranoid."
"It's not about being paranoid." Eames pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. "I don't open my mind to extractors."
What does that mean? Several projections altered their course and fell into step behind the two of them. "You don't have anything worth stealing," Arthur said.
"Do you?" Eames cast a significant look around them, noting the continuing agitation of the projections. He pressed a cigarette between his lips and dug into his pockets for a lighter. "Judging by your subconscious, you do."
Arthur took a look for himself, and it clicked. He's talking about stealing from my mind, he realized. Immediately he remembered the shame that had flickered through Bone's eyes, and the thought of being manipulated that easily by a man like Eames made him sick. He tried to face Eames down with calm detachment, but by then the projections were charging forward with murderous intent.
I don't want him in my mind. The sensation flooded through him, and when a brunette stormed up behind Eames and stabbed him in the throat with a compass he was satisfied. Eames dropped to the sidewalk, twitching and gushing blood, and a moment later the campus began to unravel around them.
"No one steals from me," Arthur grumbled as the clock tower tipped off its foundations and raced toward him.
He awoke to the sound of Eames's laughter. "Damn," Eames said, "you've got a nasty subconscious on you. I'm impressed."
Arthur pulled the needle out of his arm just as a key slotted into the front door. Bone fumbled his way inside with an armful of groceries in one hand and a bag that smelled like Chinese takeout in the other. He noticed right away that Eames was nudging the device back under the bed with his foot. "Were you under?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, yeah." Eames looked sheepish as he crouched down to put the device away properly. "I wanted a peek at what an informant's mind looks like."
Arthur frowned as he accepted the Chinese from Bone and set it out on the table. I don't need you to watch my back, he wanted to say. "You mean, you wanted to try and extract from me?" he retorted as he opened up the paper cartons.
"Ah, can you blame me?"
Bone grumbled under his breath and set the groceries down between the beds. "Fine. Whatever. Let's eat."
"I came because I have information," Arthur said as they crowded around the motel's tiny table. "I talked to a drug dealer from the west side that got his hands on some Somnacin from one of his clients, a thief I've worked with before named Abida. He's helped coordinate some high class criminals that have been making their way up and down the east coast for the past few years. There's a good chance they're the ones that hit the General's mansion."
"So you know them?" Bone took a gulp of his beer. "Ask them who they sold it to."
Arthur was already shaking his head. "It's not that easy. They've already left town, and they're not the sort of people even someone like me can track down without drawing attention. But Abida is still around. He said he'd give up the client's name for ten grand."
Eames choked on his beef. "For a name? Bloke's a bit touched in the head, is he?"
"He's a junkie but he had a point," said Arthur. "His team got three million for that job. Like I said, high class."
"Then you either swipe ten large or torture him," Bone said succinctly. "No problem."
"Me?" Arthur leaned back. "Where am I going to get ten thousand dollars? This is your job."
"Our deal was for you to get me the location. So get it."
"And I told you," Arthur insisted, "my hands don't get dirty."
Eames leaned forward. "Mine do," he offered.
Arthur looked to him and had to suppress a chill. Eames had scars on his knuckles, had a wicked gleam in his eye and had muscles hardened through more than dumbbells. It was easy to imagine the kind of damage a man like him could do.
"I'll try to get the name another way," Arthur found himself saying. "Or keep my ear open for a quick job. If that doesn't pan out...you can rough him up if you want, but--" he pointed emphatically "--nothing permanent. And my name never comes up."
"Ahh, like the way you work, Arthur. So professional."
When the food was gone Arthur started to leave, but stopped when he noticed Bone following him out. "What?"
Bone braced his hands in the open doorway as if shielding himself from Eames, who was flipping through television channels behind him. "Your dealer," he said. "He got a number?"
"He's not my dealer," Arthur replied automatically. "He's good for getting information, that's all."
Bone shook his head. "Whatever, just...give me a number."
Poor junkie bastard. Arthur reached for his phone, and when his fingertips brushed the sharp edge of a small box in his pocket bile crept up the back of his throat. Hastily he accessed his call history and let Bone copy Wallace's number onto his palm.
***
After work, Arthur went to the gym in the basement of his building. He had worked out regularly when he was still in high school, having been an athlete with fewer "hobbies" to distract him, but since then a good diet and the occasional run had been his only methods of remaining in shape. They served him well for the most part, but feeling the burn of the weights travel up his arm for the first time in years was like an awakening. Goosebumps rippled beneath his sweat and set his heart pumping. It wasn't anything like sprinting down a perfect beach but his body ached for the stimulus, and was granted it.
The next day he was as sore as he had ever been. After an exhausting day of work he threw himself into bed with his laptop and did his best to research shared dreaming and Somnacin, but there was precious little to find. Dreamshare was a rumor passed between wealthy criminals and conspiracy theorists. There was nowhere left to look without declaring his own experience openly, but he knew better than to offer up so much of himself. Bone and Eames were the only sources of knowledge open to him.
He glanced at his bedside dresser and thought of the ibuprofen box inside.
That night, Arthur dreamt of the beach again. As before it tipped and retched under his feet, and the sand formed jagged ledges that bit into his ankles. The moon wheeled through the dark sky like a bobbing yo-yo and at one point melted into silver ooze on the horizon. All the world was chaos, indistinct at the edges, tumbling over and over.
Metal carved into his chest, spilling molten blood down his stomach and thighs. Screams hammered against his ears and he awoke, sweating and choking.
***
"I've been having nightmares," Arthur said.
He and Bone had left the motel in favor of an empty patch of dying earth on the other side of the highway. He wasn't in his usual slacks that afternoon, instead in sweats and a sleeveless undershirt. Bone had agreed to teach him some hand to hand combat, in exchange for adding the planning of the extraction to their deal.
Bone spat in the mud. "What kind of nightmares?"
"Strange ones. Like, surreal."
Bone came at him. He was tight and controlled and only extended as far as he needed to. He kept the pace slow and let Arthur work his way through a few combinations.
"You should ask Eames," said Bone during another break. "He knows more about that shit than I do."
"No." Arthur shook his head emphatically. "No, I'm not asking Eames. I just want to know if it's normal." He stretched his arms behind him. "It's like the more I use the compound, the more chaotic the dreams become."
"That's normal," Bone said. "If you use Somnacin for long enough, you'll eventually stop dreaming naturally all together."
Arthur frowned. "So it's like building up a tolerance."
"Yup."
After a few rounds they headed back toward the motel. "Did you tell me about your nightmare because you want to show it to me?" Bone asked casually.
Arthur had to consider that for a long moment, and by the time he was approaching an answer they'd reached Bone's room, where Eames was waiting for them on the step outside. "No," he said quickly. "But thanks."
***
Arthur went to work. At his desk, the letters on his keyboard began to smear together, then the letters on the monitor. He dropped his chin in his hand and looked around the office, flicking his favorite red die back and forth across the desk just to hear it clatter. The air was fairly relaxed, men and women in casual business attire milling between the cubicles, and he thought, If they were projections what kind of person would they represent? He was tempted to overturn the water cooler just to see if they might wake him up.
***
Arthur went back to the motel. He had nothing to offer but he was certain that if he asked Bone to dream with him, he wouldn't say no. And he didn't. He dreamed for Arthur rusty battlefields and deep jungles, where the difference between life and death was razor thin and they rarely lived to the end of the clock. The violence hiding in Arthur's subconscious surprised him, but he couldn't say he was displeased with it.
After suffering a nasty death at the hand of South American guerrillas Arthur stepped outside and took in a deep breath. There was moisture in the air but it was cool, making him feel clammy all over. He smoothed his hair back and was preparing to leave when he heard a window open behind him.
"Hey," Eames called.
Arthur turned back. Eames had his elbows braced to the sill and was watching him. If there had been any trace of teasing in his face Arthur would have simply left him there, but he looked serious. "What?"
Eames crooked a finger, and with a sigh Arthur came closer. "What?" he repeated.
"How goes the hunt?" Eames asked with faked disinterest.
Arthur glanced into the room and saw light peeking out from under the closed bathroom door. A moment later the shower started. "I said I would let you know if I had any leads."
"Maybe you shouldn't be hanging around here until you have something."
Arthur blinked, and then smiled--it was usually enough to put most people at ease, but Eames just continued to stare at him as if he had already seen straight through it. "Why not?" he asked. "You think I'm not doing my job?"
"How can you be if you're here?"
Arthur wasn't known for being particularly intuitive, but it wasn't difficult to judge the real source of Eames's concern. There are a million ways, he told himself, and though he mourned for his slacks he sat himself down in front of the window so that Eames wouldn't have to strain to see him. "I know what you're really worried about," he said. "You think I'm just here to bleed your stash dry and run. Right?"
Eames's eyebrow quirked. "It occurred to me."
"It's not about that," Arthur assured him. "Look at what I'm wearing." He gave his jacket a tug. "You don't think I could afford my own compound if that was all I was after?" When Eames conceded the point with pursed lips, Arthur felt bold enough to play a bluff. "It's just...fun, dreaming with someone new." With someone at all.
That caught Eames's interest. "Is your normal team not into dreaming for recreation?" he asked.
"Not exactly." Arthur leaned forward; he took a special kind of pride in being able to lie to a man like Eames. "And you have to admit, Bone has exciting dreams."
Eames frowned, and cast a quick glance back inside the room. "Actually, I wouldn't know," he said, quieter than a moment before.
How can you be extractors together and not share dreams? Arthur thought, and was about to ask, but then he understood. "You don't open your mind to extractors."
"Benny and I are at an impasse," he said with a hint of a smirk. "He only ever wants to be the dreamer, but I refuse to be his subject. I'm surprised we put up with each other."
Arthur shook his head. "Why are you even working together if you don't trust him?"
"It's not just about trust," said Eames. He scoffed. "As a dreamer yourself, I figured you would understand."
Arthur glared at him to hide his spark of anxiety. "Enlighten me."
Eames leaned further out the window. "It's not just about trust," he repeated, as if he were sharing a secret that had been brewing for a long time. "It's not just dreams--you're letting someone into your mind, after all. In some ways, it's the closest you'll ever be to another person." He met Arthur's gaze seriously. "It changes you."
It hasn't changed me, Arthur thought immediately. He stared back at Eames with barely restrained defiance. It's just dreams. But something in him stirred, made curious by the implication of intimacy. "I guess I never thought of it that way."
Eames's eyelids drooped, and for a moment Arthur thought he detected something bitter and almost vulnerable there. Sitting across from each other in the dark like children Arthur at first wasn't sure what it meant, and by the time it came to him, a smirk was already erasing whatever sincerity had briefly inhabited Eames's expression.
Eames chuckled. "You still have a lot to learn about dreaming, then."
Arthur flushed, and with an irritated sigh he pushed to his feet. "Just because I disagree doesn't mean I don't get it," he replied.
Eames leaned back inside the window. "Good night, Arthur."
Arthur turned, ready to march off, but when he glanced back he thought he caught a glimpse of Eames's softer expression, and it made him pause. It changes you. "Eames," he called, doing his best to sound completely nonchalant. "I'll see you tomorrow."
***
"I'm surprised you let me back in here," Eames said as he and Arthur circled each other. "Sure your mind's not about to stab me again?"
"Stop trying to piss me off and you'll be fine," Arthur retorted. His fingers stretched and then curled into loose fists against the tape wrapping his knuckles. He attacked, throwing out a right jab that Eames had no trouble backing out of. His second shot was closer, but Eames was faster than he looked and it also missed.
Eames smirked as he sidled to his left. "Come to think of it, they look a little worse for wear. Your projections, I mean."
Arthur risked a glance at the older men and women surrounding their boxing ring--they did all appear somewhat haggard. "It's because I overworked myself at the gym earlier," he said. "I'm sore."
"Oh?" Eames looked intrigued. "I honestly couldn't tell."
He surged forward, and Arthur thought, It's just a dream. I can be just as fast as him if I want to be. A fist curved toward his head and he shoved his arm up, deflecting it away. He wasn't quite as fast as he needed to be, and Eames's thumb knuckle raked against his temple, but as the blow turned him his own fist found impact in Eames's shoulder.
They broke apart, Eames laughing as he rubbed the sting out. "Come on, I bet you're better than that," he taunted.
Arthur needed a moment to settle his balance, but he told himself again, It's just a dream, my head doesn't actually hurt, and he charged. The two of them traded blows, gradually hitting harder, faster, until their limbs were a blur--and yet Arthur was still keeping pace. It's a dream, I can do anything, he thought, and when Eames's fist rushed forward again he caught it and twisted, flinging Eames over his shoulder.
Anyone else would have landed flat on their back, but Eames twisted in mid-air, faster than should have been humanly possible, and hit the mat on his feet. With barely any time taken to get his bearings he turned and hooked his arm in Arthur's, flinging him into the ropes.
Arthur gagged as the rope dug into his stomach and broke his concentration. By the time Eames was dragging him to the mat he forgot that he was dreaming, and whatever skill he had been displaying over their match leaked out of him. In seconds he was face down, his arm twisted painfully behind him, Eames's knee in his back.
"Okay, okay!" Arthur pounded the mat with his free hand. "Ease up, Jesus."
Eames let go of his arm and leaned back. "You're not bad, for someone who doesn't get his hands dirty," he complimented gruffly. "Gotta work on tricking your subconscious, though."
Arthur rolled onto his back and stretched his sore shoulder. "You can't trick your subconscious," he said.
"Sure you can." Eames slumped onto his hip. "You were doing it just now, weren't you? You've been in enough fights to know you can't throw me, but you overcame your natural instincts and did it anyway."
Arthur frowned up at him. The last time he had been in a real fight was in tenth grade, against a member of the baseball team that had been shit-talking him behind his back. He had fractured a bone in his hand and hadn't thrown a punch in the real world since. Bone was right, he thought. I'm only good at this because I still don't have enough real world experience to tell me otherwise.
"I guess so," he said.
"Let's do it again." Eames smacked him in the ribs and stood. "Come on, try to throw me for real this time."
He lowered his hand, and Arthur regarded it warily for a long moment before accepting. The fingers that curled around his were hard and sweaty, and when Eames pulled him up he felt their strength shudder down the length of his arm.
"You're in a much better mood than last night," Arthur observed.
"Don't worry about that," Eames said, waving his hand. "I was just feeling you out." He smiled wistfully. "It's too bad that there are so few dreamers like us, but we still have to be careful with each other, huh?"
Arthur's curiosity prickled. "Are there many more where you come from? Africa?"
"A few." Eames moved to the edge of the mat and retrieved a bottled water. "But like you said, it's fun to dream with someone new for the first time."
Arthur held up his hand, and after his drink Eames tossed the bottle to him. "So," he said, "I guess that means you were pretty excited to meet me, huh?"
When Eames smiled he looked like a different person. "You could say that."
They practiced a few more times. Arthur took deep breaths, willing himself to remember over and over that he was dreaming, that his mind was just as resolute as Eames's. He could do anything if he thought about it hard enough, even trick Eames into believing he was a skilled dreamer with years of experience.
They came together, heated skin scraping together in close quarters, breath rough. I can beat him, Arthur thought, even as Eames got his arm around his neck. He struggled and dug his heels in, and was at last able to spin them both to the mat. The impact of Eames's shoulder to the floor loosened his grip and Arthur was able to twist around, shoving his forearm into Eames's throat.
Eames relaxed beneath him. His surrender was premature and unwarranted, as he was clearly strong enough to throw Arthur off with little effort, but he didn't try to fight. Instead, he laughed. "That's the spirit. I can see why Benny likes you."
"Likes me?" Arthur sat up on his knees, one on either side of Eames's waist.
"Yeah. You didn't think he shared his stash with just anyone, did you?"
"I didn't think about it." Arthur looked away, and noticed that his projections were suddenly crowding around the edge of the ring, watching with particular fascination. What are they looking at?
"He's a lot easier about letting people into his mind than I am," Eames continued. "But not usually when he's running low on compound. I bet he's thinking of asking you into our team."
Arthur drew his gaze quickly back. "Me?" He scoffed. "Team up with the two of you? To do what, extractions?"
"Sure." Eames smiled slowly, and he covered Arthur's knees with his hands. "We could use someone like you."
Arthur stared. He tried to be disgusted with the idea of being enlisted by a pair of thugs to steal from people's brains, but was distracted by the way Eames was looking at him, as if he were a freshly discovered prize. Arthur felt something unexpectedly inviting stir in his gut. His body was warm from the exercise, thrilled with its accomplishments even if the final victory had been willingly granted. The pulse fluttering through his veins felt more real than even outside the dream. Here, he had power. Here, he had felled a brute of a man who now lay between his legs, panting and submitting.
Eames's fingers flexed against his knees, and Arthur imagined those strong, sweaty hands creeping up his thighs. He pictured them digging into the soft flesh around his pelvis, pulling him into sturdy hips. He saw himself, his hands braced to a broad chest like a lion claiming its kill, his teeth bared, his back arching--
Two old men that had done nothing but watch the match until then climbed into the ring and beat them both to death with twenty pound dumbbells.
"Shit," Eames hissed as they awoke in the motel. "You could have just said no."
***
Arthur emptied the magazine into his target. Not every shot was good but they all hit the paper, a marked improvement over the last time. He reloaded swiftly and with precision, and fired again. His first bullet hit the target in the head.
"Good," Bone said next to him. "You've been practicing."
"When I get the chance," Arthur admitted. "In dreams and out." He fired another three shots and then glanced over his shoulder. "You were right--the first time I dreamed after you brought me here, I couldn't even shoot. But now I'm getting better."
"Good." Bone's eyes narrowed. "If you like the Glock so much, you can have mine."
Arthur frowned and adjusted his grip. "Why?"
"I don't need it."
He considered that over the next few shots. "Eames thinks I'm one of you," he said at last. "An extractor." He snorted. I didn't even know what that was until he mentioned it.
"Do you want me to correct him?"
"No." Arthur shrugged stiffly. "Let him think whatever he wants. It doesn't change the job." He finished off the magazine and then set the gun down. "He offered me a spot on your team," he said, watching Bone closely to see his reaction.
Bone didn't twitch. "Yeah, he told me."
"And?"
"And what?" He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. "No use planning future jobs when you haven't finished this one yet."
Arthur made a face as he pulled off his earmuffs. "I'm still working on it."
"Then we'll talk about it when the job's over."
As they left the range Arthur couldn't help but remember what Eames had said in the ring. "Why are you still letting me use your compound?" he asked bluntly, knowing it was the approach Bone appreciated most. "I've got the hang of it by now. Showing me how it worked was the extent of our deal, wasn't it?"
Bone leaned against the passenger door as Arthur fished his keys out. That same vaguely ashamed look made its way into his face. "I get sick of killing my own projections," he said.
Back at the motel, they went under. Bone dreamed them up a few blocks of city streets ravaged by warfare, complete with martial law soldiers and tanks. It was only the two of them against an army, taking cover in the hollowed shells of store fronts, behind burning cars. I'm dreaming, Arthur told himself, and when he slid out from behind the raised edge of a broken sidewalk slab, every shot from his rifle hit at least something. He ducked back, and when there was another break in the volley, he shot again and did better.
Bone threw a grenade into the enemy line. He was breathing hard and fast, sweat in his whiskers, his lips curled in a snarl that was almost a grin. Arthur knew how he felt, with the adrenaline pumping hard through his veins, exciting him to focus unknown in the waking world. Here, he was powerful. When he rolled out of cover all he had to do was aim and pull, and he could win wars. As a two man team they fought their way up the demolished streets. Dust and gunpowder stung Arthur's eyes to watering but he pushed forward anyway. His hand ached against his gun and his heart sang in his ears, brilliant and gritty and much more real than delivering memos to the office's section chief.
He killed men. He was finally close enough to see the blood spurt from their open wounds--could smell and even taste it. Splinters of bone pierced flesh, explosions rocked the foundations of buildings. Everything burned and blistered and popped in gory display. Unlike the many new experiences Arthur had gained over the past several days there was a gruesome familiarity in the snapping of bodies beneath crumbling debris. It made his heart race until he thought it might beat out of him.
When he woke up he looked at Bone, who still had his eyes closed, savoring the lingering euphoria of the dream. Half of him wanted to punch Bone's face bloody; the other was already eager to go under again.
Eames touched his arm and reached for the IV. His fingers were always warm, always firm, and when he drew the needle out their gazes locked. Arthur had grown accustomed to having him there, though he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something voyeuristic in his attention. The gleam in his eyes made him look as if he was just waiting for the opportunity to slip into Arthur's mind again in hopes of being impressed.
Not yet, Arthur thought. I'm not ready for you yet.
***
That night Arthur dreamt he was driving down a crowded highway at night. Headlights stabbed at him from every angle, and horns blared unceasingly. Sweat rolled down his neck and oozed between his foot and the pedal as he smashed it to the floor. As he rocked and swerved down the winding black the engine began to howl as if in agony, and other cars dove into his path in mad attempts to silence it. Arthur jerked the wheel back and forth, gasping for breath, never letting up until Hell pounded into the driver's side door and snapped his bones into splinters.
He woke up sweating and didn't sleep the rest of the night.
***
After a long day of staring at computer screens Arthur joined a small group of friends for drinks at a hole-in-the-wall bar. There were plenty of accusations of him working too hard, missing too many outings, and he was careful to keep his sleeves rolled down.
"Olivia's parents are hosting their annual 'block party' next week," Roger told him as they slouched together in a corner booth. "You're coming, I assume."
"Don't I always?" Arthur sipped from his drink, and almost choked on it when he saw Eames enter the bar. Heat immediately spread up his neck and he looked away, hoping that without eye contact he wouldn't be noticed. "I already have an outfit picked out."
Roger laughed. "I bet you do."
The women next to them began to whisper, and Arthur couldn't help but look up again. Eames was heading straight for them with a little smirk that Arthur would have liked to slap off his face. Maybe this is another nightmare, he thought as two worlds collided. I'll wake up any minute now.
"Fancy seeing you here," Eames greeted, hands in his pockets as he looked over the four of them. "Hard at work, I see."
Milla and Karisha exchanged grins, and together shot Arthur easily-interpreted looks. Figuring he had no choice if he didn't want things to become strained, he leaned forward. "Always," he said with a smile. "Everyone, this is a work friend of mine, Mr.--"
"Burke," Eames interrupted, extending his hand to each of them in turn. "Sorry to bother you, but I'm new in town and I couldn't help but gravitate toward a familiar face."
"Then you should join us," said Karisha. "And we'll all be familiar faces."
"I'd be delighted." Eames sat down with them, and when he smiled everyone at the table--save Arthur--couldn't help but smile with him. He had long perfected the same skill that Arthur had taken years to craft: charm. Effortless, universal charm. He chatted up Arthur's friends with his smooth accent as well as Arthur himself ever could--even Roger seemed to find his shallow lies intriguing. Arthur played along like a pro but he knew his ears were still red and he kept inventing and then not using excuses to leave.
When he couldn't take any more he announced that he was buying the table a round, and made his way to the bar. Eames, being the perfect gentleman he was, volunteered to help carry. As soon as they were out of earshot of the booth Arthur looked to Eames with a winning smile. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Checking up on you," Eames admitted. When they reached the bar he leaned his elbows against it, giving off every appearance of casual ease. "It's taking too long."
Arthur pursed his lips tight. "Bone hasn't complained. Why should you?"
Eames pulled a cigarette box out of his jacket. "There should be a hundred ways to make ten large in this town," he said. "Or else..." He lifted an eyebrow.
Arthur waited until Eames had his lighter out before saying, "This is a no-smoking bar."
Eames paused, and with a frown he put the lighter away. He left the cigarette between his lips, but as soon as the bartender noticed them and came over, he also reminded him, "Hey, this is a no-smoking bar."
"I'm not smoking it," Eames said with irritation Arthur took a bit too much enjoyment from. "Gimme five beers."
"We already had this conversation," said Arthur as the bartender ducked to collect the bottles. "I'm not taking advantage; these things just take time."
Eames watched him carefully, his eyes sharp and searching. Arthur remained very still beneath his scrutiny, feeling as if Eames were trying to spy directly on his projections. "You're a good guy," he said at last, just as five bottles clanged on the bar between them. "I like you."
Arthur straightened. "Put it on my tab," he told the bartender absently, and once the man had moved away he put his full focus back on Eames. Something bubbled in his stomach. "But?"
"But you've been going under a lot," Eames continued. "It worries me--especially because it's Bone. I may not go into his dreams but I know what he's like."
Arthur's pulse stuttered. "I don't need you to look after me," he said, even as an uncharacteristic sensation of panic gnawed his brain. On impulse he added, "I've been doing this long enough--I know my limits."
He started to turn away sharply, but then Eames's fingers snaked around his elbow. When they dug into sore spot on his inner arm he jumped, as if afraid that he was being given away somehow, and he swiftly jerked free. The bar quieted as several people turned to look at them, and Arthur blinked, suddenly disoriented.
Are they real? They were frowning at him and Eames with curious alarm, just like a flock of wary projections. Immediately Arthur retraced his steps, trying to remember how he had gotten to the bar, what he had done at work that day--
"I'm just asking you to be careful," Eames said. He touched Arthur's shoulder, gently urging him to calm. The rest of the bar went back to their drinks. "I've seen what this stuff can do to someone."
Arthur looked to the hand on his shoulder. It was warm and firm and he wanted to snap it in two. "I can stop," he murmured. "Anytime I want to." He stared Eames defiantly. "I just don't want to."
Eames tongued the cigarette still drooping from his lips. "I suppose you don't dream without it anymore, huh?"
Nightmares welled in the back of his throat, all hot metal and crushing blood. "And what about you?" Arthur challenged. "I've seen the way you watch us--you'd be right there with us if the machine allowed it." He quirked his lip. "You're just jealous he'd rather use it up with me than you."
Eames leaned back, and for a moment Arthur thought he had hit a perfect bulls-eye, but then he smiled, slow and knowing. "Sure."
Arthur smiled, too, and didn't mean it. He was squirming in his skin by the time they returned to the table with the beers, and his phone rang. He nestled into Roger's side as he answered, childishly hoping that Eames might give him a look for it, disappointed when he only continued to smile and chat the girls up.
"Hello," he said into the phone.
"Just wanted to say thanks," said Wallace. "Pimp."
Arthur hated being caught off guard. He went still, and Roger noticed, glancing at him sideways. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"I usually make it a rule not to fuck junkies, but sometimes, there are exceptions."
Arthur scowled and wiped his mouth. "Please tell me you didn't," he said.
She sounded as if she were glowing. "I'll see you at Olivia's next week. Maybe we can do business again."
Arthur almost hung up right then, but then he frowned. "You're going to Olivia's?"
"Of course." She laughed. "I love supporting my clients," she said coyly, and then she hung up.
Arthur shoved his phone into his pocket, his brow deeply creased. Roger nudged him with his shoulder and asked, "You okay?"
Arthur glanced across the booth to Eames, who was watching him with a cocked eyebrow. He didn't break eye contact as he turned his lips to Roger's ear and said, "Let's go to your place."
***
That night, Arthur dreamt he was running madly through the streets. At first he thought he was being chased, but then he caught a glimpse of a figure ahead, and adrenaline surged through him. He pushed himself to his limits, dodging the late night clubbers and drunks, through dark alleys and side streets. The wind was in his face, cold and almost tearing, but he never slowed--couldn't bring himself to give up on his quarry. He was going to win.
He caught up to him outside of a movie theatre, with an old-fashioned angled overhang bearing a hundred yellow lights, and clawed into the man's shoulder, dragging him to a rough landing on the sidewalk. His elbows scraped but still he was determined, his blood on fire as they grappled on the damp concrete. All around men and women flocked past, watching the spectacle as if they were fighting dogs no one dared to interrupt.
Arthur pushed the man onto his stomach. Fabric ripped beneath his desperate hands, and then he was digging into hot, yielding flesh. The body squirming beneath him was strong but he was stronger; he pinned him, scraping them together, hissing and biting at the back of his neck. His voice rumbled out of him as a feral moan and he shoved into him, not just with his hips but his entire body, until his partner gave way beneath him, sweating and writhing and begging for him--until he was tearing the man apart from the inside in a frenzy of straining limbs and pulsing blood.
Arthur awoke on his back, twisted in sheets already warm and musky. His heart was still fast and heavy in the pit of his stomach, but even stronger was the arousal throbbing through his groin. A thin, frustrated murmur escaped him as the dream began to dissipate, leaving him unsatisfied. Before the sensations of conquest and hunger could fade completely he shoved his hand down the front of his boxers and immediately began to jerk himself off in swift strokes.
It had been Eames--he knew the moment he touched himself, and his hand felt too thin, too wiry, that it had been Eames shaking between him and the sidewalk. He groaned again and tried to draw the memory of the dream back, to remember the thrill of triumph when Eames shuddered around him; it sent heat pounding through him unlike anything he had felt before. His skin seethed with perspiration and his hips leapt off the mattress, shoving his cock into his clammy palm in desperate need for release.
Someone rolled into him with lazy kisses to his throat. It wasn't who he wanted but the lips sent extra sparks into his veins, and he immediately grabbed the back of the man's neck and drew him in. They kissed, interrupted by Arthur's breath as he panted and groaned. Strong fingers roamed over his chest and stomach, worshiping and encouraging but staying out of the way of his pumping fist as if to say, Do it, it's okay, do it.
Arthur arched his back and came, wringing out every drop as he cried in ragged ecstasy. He was shaking and gasping, and his limbs burned as if his chase through the city had been real--all of it had been real, and he thought, Fuck you, you smug asshole, I don't need you looking after me, I'm not a fucking junkie, I'm in control and I'm better than you, you fucking--
"Fuck," Roger laughed, his breath too hot against Arthur's ear. "That must have been some dream."
Arthur stared up at the ceiling, still trying to get his breath under control when reality slapped him across the face. His throat convulsed around a knot of disgust, and without a word he dragged himself out of the bed and retreated to the bathroom. He wanted to vomit.
To Part 3
Part 2 of 4
When Arthur knocked it was Eames who answered. He frowned. "Where's Bone?"
"Out." Eames took a step back. "Won't you come in?"
"Is he going to be back soon?"
"Should be," Eames said, pulling a cell out of his back pocket. He started texting as he headed into the room. "Did you eat? I'll tell him to bring extra."
Arthur closed the door behind him. "That's fine." He glanced around and noticed the second bed was rumpled, and a few extra pieces of luggage were strewn about. So he's staying here.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," Eames said, tossing himself on the bed. "You have something for us?"
"It can wait until Bone's here," Arthur replied. He felt the bottle shift in his inside jacket pocket as he sat down.
Eames smirked at him. "You don't trust me?"
"Of course not," Arthur said immediately. "Besides, you're not my client--he is. So we wait."
"Sure, sure."
The room fell silent. Arthur let his gaze roam, trying to ignore the way Eames was looking at him, but it made him feel like he was in grade school. There's always an in, he told himself. "So what's your stake in all this?" he asked, faking ease. He even managed to smile. "I hope for your sake Bone's paying you better than me."
Eames laughed. "It's not about pay," he said. "We need that PASIV so we can get to some real work."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Dare I ask what?"
Eames gave him a look, the kind that said, "Oh, you know," which wouldn't be annoying at all if Arthur was in on the joke. "Ever hear of extraction?" he asked.
"It's a fancy word for theft," said Arthur.
"Ever done it?"
"Of course." Arthur still couldn't entirely place the look Eames was fixing him with, and he wondered vaguely if a glance at his subconscious would provide a clue, the way Bone's nature was displayed so openly in his projections. "Only once or twice in the field, though."
Eames frowned thoughtfully, and it was then that Arthur realized they weren't talking about the same thing. Arthur had extracted documents, had hacked out security codes and account numbers, but Eames had to have been referring to something else.
"I heard there was a team out here," Eames continued. "You should introduce us."
"That's...not a good idea." Arthur glanced away and noticed Bone's denim sack peeking out from under the bed. "Do you want to dream with me?" he asked on impulse.
Eames frowned again, and he looked about to refuse, so Arthur added, "Just until Bone gets back."
"Are you asking to be the dreamer?" Eames asked with sudden caution. "Or the subject?"
"Whichever. Unless you think Bone would kill us for depleting his stash."
Eames snorted and dragged the device out from under the bed. "It's not his stash," he said as he set the timer for them.
Arthur smiled to himself as he rolled up his sleeve. He's just like all the rest, he told himself. Everyone has buttons to push. He watched to make sure Eames was using the needle Bone had set aside especially for him. "So which is it?"
Arthur held his hand out, but rather than simply give up the needle Eames leaned forward, clasping Arthur's wrist so he could insert it himself. His fingers were hot to the touch and rough, and Arthur couldn't help but flinch at the sting of being pierced.
"My dream," Eames said. "Your projections." Arthur was already thinking he had made a mistake by the time Eames engaged the device.
They awoke on a college campus. It wasn't one Arthur recognized, but there was no mistaking the crowded buildings and young men and women milling about them. The atmosphere was tense, not quite as anxious as Central Park the day before, but bright and urgent.
Final's week, Arthur thought with a bemused smirk. "Interesting choice," he said.
"Thought I'd make you feel at home," Eames replied. He had changed to fit his environment, and was dressed in slacks and a thin jacket over his button down. His shoulders were wet as if it had been raining not long before, matching the real weather above. It was a strange addition of detail that somehow made everything feel a little sharper.
Arthur walked with him down one of the paths toward an old, brick building surrounded by apple trees. "This isn't my university," he said. "You don't even know where I go to school."
"Close enough though, isn't it?" Eames slicked his wet hair back. "And look at all these projections. I feel like I know you better already."
Arthur looked sharply at him. "Excuse me?"
"Isn't that why you invited me to dream with you?" Eames asked, and though his manner was light, Arthur was familiar enough with the game they were playing to know he was deadly serious. "You were hoping to sneak a peek at my mind, yeah? Nice try."
Heat seeped up the back of Arthur's neck, and all around his projections began to cast suspicious looks their way. "I was just trying to kill some time before Bone got back," he said. "No need to be paranoid."
"It's not about being paranoid." Eames pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. "I don't open my mind to extractors."
What does that mean? Several projections altered their course and fell into step behind the two of them. "You don't have anything worth stealing," Arthur said.
"Do you?" Eames cast a significant look around them, noting the continuing agitation of the projections. He pressed a cigarette between his lips and dug into his pockets for a lighter. "Judging by your subconscious, you do."
Arthur took a look for himself, and it clicked. He's talking about stealing from my mind, he realized. Immediately he remembered the shame that had flickered through Bone's eyes, and the thought of being manipulated that easily by a man like Eames made him sick. He tried to face Eames down with calm detachment, but by then the projections were charging forward with murderous intent.
I don't want him in my mind. The sensation flooded through him, and when a brunette stormed up behind Eames and stabbed him in the throat with a compass he was satisfied. Eames dropped to the sidewalk, twitching and gushing blood, and a moment later the campus began to unravel around them.
"No one steals from me," Arthur grumbled as the clock tower tipped off its foundations and raced toward him.
He awoke to the sound of Eames's laughter. "Damn," Eames said, "you've got a nasty subconscious on you. I'm impressed."
Arthur pulled the needle out of his arm just as a key slotted into the front door. Bone fumbled his way inside with an armful of groceries in one hand and a bag that smelled like Chinese takeout in the other. He noticed right away that Eames was nudging the device back under the bed with his foot. "Were you under?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, yeah." Eames looked sheepish as he crouched down to put the device away properly. "I wanted a peek at what an informant's mind looks like."
Arthur frowned as he accepted the Chinese from Bone and set it out on the table. I don't need you to watch my back, he wanted to say. "You mean, you wanted to try and extract from me?" he retorted as he opened up the paper cartons.
"Ah, can you blame me?"
Bone grumbled under his breath and set the groceries down between the beds. "Fine. Whatever. Let's eat."
"I came because I have information," Arthur said as they crowded around the motel's tiny table. "I talked to a drug dealer from the west side that got his hands on some Somnacin from one of his clients, a thief I've worked with before named Abida. He's helped coordinate some high class criminals that have been making their way up and down the east coast for the past few years. There's a good chance they're the ones that hit the General's mansion."
"So you know them?" Bone took a gulp of his beer. "Ask them who they sold it to."
Arthur was already shaking his head. "It's not that easy. They've already left town, and they're not the sort of people even someone like me can track down without drawing attention. But Abida is still around. He said he'd give up the client's name for ten grand."
Eames choked on his beef. "For a name? Bloke's a bit touched in the head, is he?"
"He's a junkie but he had a point," said Arthur. "His team got three million for that job. Like I said, high class."
"Then you either swipe ten large or torture him," Bone said succinctly. "No problem."
"Me?" Arthur leaned back. "Where am I going to get ten thousand dollars? This is your job."
"Our deal was for you to get me the location. So get it."
"And I told you," Arthur insisted, "my hands don't get dirty."
Eames leaned forward. "Mine do," he offered.
Arthur looked to him and had to suppress a chill. Eames had scars on his knuckles, had a wicked gleam in his eye and had muscles hardened through more than dumbbells. It was easy to imagine the kind of damage a man like him could do.
"I'll try to get the name another way," Arthur found himself saying. "Or keep my ear open for a quick job. If that doesn't pan out...you can rough him up if you want, but--" he pointed emphatically "--nothing permanent. And my name never comes up."
"Ahh, like the way you work, Arthur. So professional."
When the food was gone Arthur started to leave, but stopped when he noticed Bone following him out. "What?"
Bone braced his hands in the open doorway as if shielding himself from Eames, who was flipping through television channels behind him. "Your dealer," he said. "He got a number?"
"He's not my dealer," Arthur replied automatically. "He's good for getting information, that's all."
Bone shook his head. "Whatever, just...give me a number."
Poor junkie bastard. Arthur reached for his phone, and when his fingertips brushed the sharp edge of a small box in his pocket bile crept up the back of his throat. Hastily he accessed his call history and let Bone copy Wallace's number onto his palm.
***
After work, Arthur went to the gym in the basement of his building. He had worked out regularly when he was still in high school, having been an athlete with fewer "hobbies" to distract him, but since then a good diet and the occasional run had been his only methods of remaining in shape. They served him well for the most part, but feeling the burn of the weights travel up his arm for the first time in years was like an awakening. Goosebumps rippled beneath his sweat and set his heart pumping. It wasn't anything like sprinting down a perfect beach but his body ached for the stimulus, and was granted it.
The next day he was as sore as he had ever been. After an exhausting day of work he threw himself into bed with his laptop and did his best to research shared dreaming and Somnacin, but there was precious little to find. Dreamshare was a rumor passed between wealthy criminals and conspiracy theorists. There was nowhere left to look without declaring his own experience openly, but he knew better than to offer up so much of himself. Bone and Eames were the only sources of knowledge open to him.
He glanced at his bedside dresser and thought of the ibuprofen box inside.
That night, Arthur dreamt of the beach again. As before it tipped and retched under his feet, and the sand formed jagged ledges that bit into his ankles. The moon wheeled through the dark sky like a bobbing yo-yo and at one point melted into silver ooze on the horizon. All the world was chaos, indistinct at the edges, tumbling over and over.
Metal carved into his chest, spilling molten blood down his stomach and thighs. Screams hammered against his ears and he awoke, sweating and choking.
***
"I've been having nightmares," Arthur said.
He and Bone had left the motel in favor of an empty patch of dying earth on the other side of the highway. He wasn't in his usual slacks that afternoon, instead in sweats and a sleeveless undershirt. Bone had agreed to teach him some hand to hand combat, in exchange for adding the planning of the extraction to their deal.
Bone spat in the mud. "What kind of nightmares?"
"Strange ones. Like, surreal."
Bone came at him. He was tight and controlled and only extended as far as he needed to. He kept the pace slow and let Arthur work his way through a few combinations.
"You should ask Eames," said Bone during another break. "He knows more about that shit than I do."
"No." Arthur shook his head emphatically. "No, I'm not asking Eames. I just want to know if it's normal." He stretched his arms behind him. "It's like the more I use the compound, the more chaotic the dreams become."
"That's normal," Bone said. "If you use Somnacin for long enough, you'll eventually stop dreaming naturally all together."
Arthur frowned. "So it's like building up a tolerance."
"Yup."
After a few rounds they headed back toward the motel. "Did you tell me about your nightmare because you want to show it to me?" Bone asked casually.
Arthur had to consider that for a long moment, and by the time he was approaching an answer they'd reached Bone's room, where Eames was waiting for them on the step outside. "No," he said quickly. "But thanks."
***
Arthur went to work. At his desk, the letters on his keyboard began to smear together, then the letters on the monitor. He dropped his chin in his hand and looked around the office, flicking his favorite red die back and forth across the desk just to hear it clatter. The air was fairly relaxed, men and women in casual business attire milling between the cubicles, and he thought, If they were projections what kind of person would they represent? He was tempted to overturn the water cooler just to see if they might wake him up.
***
Arthur went back to the motel. He had nothing to offer but he was certain that if he asked Bone to dream with him, he wouldn't say no. And he didn't. He dreamed for Arthur rusty battlefields and deep jungles, where the difference between life and death was razor thin and they rarely lived to the end of the clock. The violence hiding in Arthur's subconscious surprised him, but he couldn't say he was displeased with it.
After suffering a nasty death at the hand of South American guerrillas Arthur stepped outside and took in a deep breath. There was moisture in the air but it was cool, making him feel clammy all over. He smoothed his hair back and was preparing to leave when he heard a window open behind him.
"Hey," Eames called.
Arthur turned back. Eames had his elbows braced to the sill and was watching him. If there had been any trace of teasing in his face Arthur would have simply left him there, but he looked serious. "What?"
Eames crooked a finger, and with a sigh Arthur came closer. "What?" he repeated.
"How goes the hunt?" Eames asked with faked disinterest.
Arthur glanced into the room and saw light peeking out from under the closed bathroom door. A moment later the shower started. "I said I would let you know if I had any leads."
"Maybe you shouldn't be hanging around here until you have something."
Arthur blinked, and then smiled--it was usually enough to put most people at ease, but Eames just continued to stare at him as if he had already seen straight through it. "Why not?" he asked. "You think I'm not doing my job?"
"How can you be if you're here?"
Arthur wasn't known for being particularly intuitive, but it wasn't difficult to judge the real source of Eames's concern. There are a million ways, he told himself, and though he mourned for his slacks he sat himself down in front of the window so that Eames wouldn't have to strain to see him. "I know what you're really worried about," he said. "You think I'm just here to bleed your stash dry and run. Right?"
Eames's eyebrow quirked. "It occurred to me."
"It's not about that," Arthur assured him. "Look at what I'm wearing." He gave his jacket a tug. "You don't think I could afford my own compound if that was all I was after?" When Eames conceded the point with pursed lips, Arthur felt bold enough to play a bluff. "It's just...fun, dreaming with someone new." With someone at all.
That caught Eames's interest. "Is your normal team not into dreaming for recreation?" he asked.
"Not exactly." Arthur leaned forward; he took a special kind of pride in being able to lie to a man like Eames. "And you have to admit, Bone has exciting dreams."
Eames frowned, and cast a quick glance back inside the room. "Actually, I wouldn't know," he said, quieter than a moment before.
How can you be extractors together and not share dreams? Arthur thought, and was about to ask, but then he understood. "You don't open your mind to extractors."
"Benny and I are at an impasse," he said with a hint of a smirk. "He only ever wants to be the dreamer, but I refuse to be his subject. I'm surprised we put up with each other."
Arthur shook his head. "Why are you even working together if you don't trust him?"
"It's not just about trust," said Eames. He scoffed. "As a dreamer yourself, I figured you would understand."
Arthur glared at him to hide his spark of anxiety. "Enlighten me."
Eames leaned further out the window. "It's not just about trust," he repeated, as if he were sharing a secret that had been brewing for a long time. "It's not just dreams--you're letting someone into your mind, after all. In some ways, it's the closest you'll ever be to another person." He met Arthur's gaze seriously. "It changes you."
It hasn't changed me, Arthur thought immediately. He stared back at Eames with barely restrained defiance. It's just dreams. But something in him stirred, made curious by the implication of intimacy. "I guess I never thought of it that way."
Eames's eyelids drooped, and for a moment Arthur thought he detected something bitter and almost vulnerable there. Sitting across from each other in the dark like children Arthur at first wasn't sure what it meant, and by the time it came to him, a smirk was already erasing whatever sincerity had briefly inhabited Eames's expression.
Eames chuckled. "You still have a lot to learn about dreaming, then."
Arthur flushed, and with an irritated sigh he pushed to his feet. "Just because I disagree doesn't mean I don't get it," he replied.
Eames leaned back inside the window. "Good night, Arthur."
Arthur turned, ready to march off, but when he glanced back he thought he caught a glimpse of Eames's softer expression, and it made him pause. It changes you. "Eames," he called, doing his best to sound completely nonchalant. "I'll see you tomorrow."
***
"I'm surprised you let me back in here," Eames said as he and Arthur circled each other. "Sure your mind's not about to stab me again?"
"Stop trying to piss me off and you'll be fine," Arthur retorted. His fingers stretched and then curled into loose fists against the tape wrapping his knuckles. He attacked, throwing out a right jab that Eames had no trouble backing out of. His second shot was closer, but Eames was faster than he looked and it also missed.
Eames smirked as he sidled to his left. "Come to think of it, they look a little worse for wear. Your projections, I mean."
Arthur risked a glance at the older men and women surrounding their boxing ring--they did all appear somewhat haggard. "It's because I overworked myself at the gym earlier," he said. "I'm sore."
"Oh?" Eames looked intrigued. "I honestly couldn't tell."
He surged forward, and Arthur thought, It's just a dream. I can be just as fast as him if I want to be. A fist curved toward his head and he shoved his arm up, deflecting it away. He wasn't quite as fast as he needed to be, and Eames's thumb knuckle raked against his temple, but as the blow turned him his own fist found impact in Eames's shoulder.
They broke apart, Eames laughing as he rubbed the sting out. "Come on, I bet you're better than that," he taunted.
Arthur needed a moment to settle his balance, but he told himself again, It's just a dream, my head doesn't actually hurt, and he charged. The two of them traded blows, gradually hitting harder, faster, until their limbs were a blur--and yet Arthur was still keeping pace. It's a dream, I can do anything, he thought, and when Eames's fist rushed forward again he caught it and twisted, flinging Eames over his shoulder.
Anyone else would have landed flat on their back, but Eames twisted in mid-air, faster than should have been humanly possible, and hit the mat on his feet. With barely any time taken to get his bearings he turned and hooked his arm in Arthur's, flinging him into the ropes.
Arthur gagged as the rope dug into his stomach and broke his concentration. By the time Eames was dragging him to the mat he forgot that he was dreaming, and whatever skill he had been displaying over their match leaked out of him. In seconds he was face down, his arm twisted painfully behind him, Eames's knee in his back.
"Okay, okay!" Arthur pounded the mat with his free hand. "Ease up, Jesus."
Eames let go of his arm and leaned back. "You're not bad, for someone who doesn't get his hands dirty," he complimented gruffly. "Gotta work on tricking your subconscious, though."
Arthur rolled onto his back and stretched his sore shoulder. "You can't trick your subconscious," he said.
"Sure you can." Eames slumped onto his hip. "You were doing it just now, weren't you? You've been in enough fights to know you can't throw me, but you overcame your natural instincts and did it anyway."
Arthur frowned up at him. The last time he had been in a real fight was in tenth grade, against a member of the baseball team that had been shit-talking him behind his back. He had fractured a bone in his hand and hadn't thrown a punch in the real world since. Bone was right, he thought. I'm only good at this because I still don't have enough real world experience to tell me otherwise.
"I guess so," he said.
"Let's do it again." Eames smacked him in the ribs and stood. "Come on, try to throw me for real this time."
He lowered his hand, and Arthur regarded it warily for a long moment before accepting. The fingers that curled around his were hard and sweaty, and when Eames pulled him up he felt their strength shudder down the length of his arm.
"You're in a much better mood than last night," Arthur observed.
"Don't worry about that," Eames said, waving his hand. "I was just feeling you out." He smiled wistfully. "It's too bad that there are so few dreamers like us, but we still have to be careful with each other, huh?"
Arthur's curiosity prickled. "Are there many more where you come from? Africa?"
"A few." Eames moved to the edge of the mat and retrieved a bottled water. "But like you said, it's fun to dream with someone new for the first time."
Arthur held up his hand, and after his drink Eames tossed the bottle to him. "So," he said, "I guess that means you were pretty excited to meet me, huh?"
When Eames smiled he looked like a different person. "You could say that."
They practiced a few more times. Arthur took deep breaths, willing himself to remember over and over that he was dreaming, that his mind was just as resolute as Eames's. He could do anything if he thought about it hard enough, even trick Eames into believing he was a skilled dreamer with years of experience.
They came together, heated skin scraping together in close quarters, breath rough. I can beat him, Arthur thought, even as Eames got his arm around his neck. He struggled and dug his heels in, and was at last able to spin them both to the mat. The impact of Eames's shoulder to the floor loosened his grip and Arthur was able to twist around, shoving his forearm into Eames's throat.
Eames relaxed beneath him. His surrender was premature and unwarranted, as he was clearly strong enough to throw Arthur off with little effort, but he didn't try to fight. Instead, he laughed. "That's the spirit. I can see why Benny likes you."
"Likes me?" Arthur sat up on his knees, one on either side of Eames's waist.
"Yeah. You didn't think he shared his stash with just anyone, did you?"
"I didn't think about it." Arthur looked away, and noticed that his projections were suddenly crowding around the edge of the ring, watching with particular fascination. What are they looking at?
"He's a lot easier about letting people into his mind than I am," Eames continued. "But not usually when he's running low on compound. I bet he's thinking of asking you into our team."
Arthur drew his gaze quickly back. "Me?" He scoffed. "Team up with the two of you? To do what, extractions?"
"Sure." Eames smiled slowly, and he covered Arthur's knees with his hands. "We could use someone like you."
Arthur stared. He tried to be disgusted with the idea of being enlisted by a pair of thugs to steal from people's brains, but was distracted by the way Eames was looking at him, as if he were a freshly discovered prize. Arthur felt something unexpectedly inviting stir in his gut. His body was warm from the exercise, thrilled with its accomplishments even if the final victory had been willingly granted. The pulse fluttering through his veins felt more real than even outside the dream. Here, he had power. Here, he had felled a brute of a man who now lay between his legs, panting and submitting.
Eames's fingers flexed against his knees, and Arthur imagined those strong, sweaty hands creeping up his thighs. He pictured them digging into the soft flesh around his pelvis, pulling him into sturdy hips. He saw himself, his hands braced to a broad chest like a lion claiming its kill, his teeth bared, his back arching--
Two old men that had done nothing but watch the match until then climbed into the ring and beat them both to death with twenty pound dumbbells.
"Shit," Eames hissed as they awoke in the motel. "You could have just said no."
***
Arthur emptied the magazine into his target. Not every shot was good but they all hit the paper, a marked improvement over the last time. He reloaded swiftly and with precision, and fired again. His first bullet hit the target in the head.
"Good," Bone said next to him. "You've been practicing."
"When I get the chance," Arthur admitted. "In dreams and out." He fired another three shots and then glanced over his shoulder. "You were right--the first time I dreamed after you brought me here, I couldn't even shoot. But now I'm getting better."
"Good." Bone's eyes narrowed. "If you like the Glock so much, you can have mine."
Arthur frowned and adjusted his grip. "Why?"
"I don't need it."
He considered that over the next few shots. "Eames thinks I'm one of you," he said at last. "An extractor." He snorted. I didn't even know what that was until he mentioned it.
"Do you want me to correct him?"
"No." Arthur shrugged stiffly. "Let him think whatever he wants. It doesn't change the job." He finished off the magazine and then set the gun down. "He offered me a spot on your team," he said, watching Bone closely to see his reaction.
Bone didn't twitch. "Yeah, he told me."
"And?"
"And what?" He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. "No use planning future jobs when you haven't finished this one yet."
Arthur made a face as he pulled off his earmuffs. "I'm still working on it."
"Then we'll talk about it when the job's over."
As they left the range Arthur couldn't help but remember what Eames had said in the ring. "Why are you still letting me use your compound?" he asked bluntly, knowing it was the approach Bone appreciated most. "I've got the hang of it by now. Showing me how it worked was the extent of our deal, wasn't it?"
Bone leaned against the passenger door as Arthur fished his keys out. That same vaguely ashamed look made its way into his face. "I get sick of killing my own projections," he said.
Back at the motel, they went under. Bone dreamed them up a few blocks of city streets ravaged by warfare, complete with martial law soldiers and tanks. It was only the two of them against an army, taking cover in the hollowed shells of store fronts, behind burning cars. I'm dreaming, Arthur told himself, and when he slid out from behind the raised edge of a broken sidewalk slab, every shot from his rifle hit at least something. He ducked back, and when there was another break in the volley, he shot again and did better.
Bone threw a grenade into the enemy line. He was breathing hard and fast, sweat in his whiskers, his lips curled in a snarl that was almost a grin. Arthur knew how he felt, with the adrenaline pumping hard through his veins, exciting him to focus unknown in the waking world. Here, he was powerful. When he rolled out of cover all he had to do was aim and pull, and he could win wars. As a two man team they fought their way up the demolished streets. Dust and gunpowder stung Arthur's eyes to watering but he pushed forward anyway. His hand ached against his gun and his heart sang in his ears, brilliant and gritty and much more real than delivering memos to the office's section chief.
He killed men. He was finally close enough to see the blood spurt from their open wounds--could smell and even taste it. Splinters of bone pierced flesh, explosions rocked the foundations of buildings. Everything burned and blistered and popped in gory display. Unlike the many new experiences Arthur had gained over the past several days there was a gruesome familiarity in the snapping of bodies beneath crumbling debris. It made his heart race until he thought it might beat out of him.
When he woke up he looked at Bone, who still had his eyes closed, savoring the lingering euphoria of the dream. Half of him wanted to punch Bone's face bloody; the other was already eager to go under again.
Eames touched his arm and reached for the IV. His fingers were always warm, always firm, and when he drew the needle out their gazes locked. Arthur had grown accustomed to having him there, though he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something voyeuristic in his attention. The gleam in his eyes made him look as if he was just waiting for the opportunity to slip into Arthur's mind again in hopes of being impressed.
Not yet, Arthur thought. I'm not ready for you yet.
***
That night Arthur dreamt he was driving down a crowded highway at night. Headlights stabbed at him from every angle, and horns blared unceasingly. Sweat rolled down his neck and oozed between his foot and the pedal as he smashed it to the floor. As he rocked and swerved down the winding black the engine began to howl as if in agony, and other cars dove into his path in mad attempts to silence it. Arthur jerked the wheel back and forth, gasping for breath, never letting up until Hell pounded into the driver's side door and snapped his bones into splinters.
He woke up sweating and didn't sleep the rest of the night.
***
After a long day of staring at computer screens Arthur joined a small group of friends for drinks at a hole-in-the-wall bar. There were plenty of accusations of him working too hard, missing too many outings, and he was careful to keep his sleeves rolled down.
"Olivia's parents are hosting their annual 'block party' next week," Roger told him as they slouched together in a corner booth. "You're coming, I assume."
"Don't I always?" Arthur sipped from his drink, and almost choked on it when he saw Eames enter the bar. Heat immediately spread up his neck and he looked away, hoping that without eye contact he wouldn't be noticed. "I already have an outfit picked out."
Roger laughed. "I bet you do."
The women next to them began to whisper, and Arthur couldn't help but look up again. Eames was heading straight for them with a little smirk that Arthur would have liked to slap off his face. Maybe this is another nightmare, he thought as two worlds collided. I'll wake up any minute now.
"Fancy seeing you here," Eames greeted, hands in his pockets as he looked over the four of them. "Hard at work, I see."
Milla and Karisha exchanged grins, and together shot Arthur easily-interpreted looks. Figuring he had no choice if he didn't want things to become strained, he leaned forward. "Always," he said with a smile. "Everyone, this is a work friend of mine, Mr.--"
"Burke," Eames interrupted, extending his hand to each of them in turn. "Sorry to bother you, but I'm new in town and I couldn't help but gravitate toward a familiar face."
"Then you should join us," said Karisha. "And we'll all be familiar faces."
"I'd be delighted." Eames sat down with them, and when he smiled everyone at the table--save Arthur--couldn't help but smile with him. He had long perfected the same skill that Arthur had taken years to craft: charm. Effortless, universal charm. He chatted up Arthur's friends with his smooth accent as well as Arthur himself ever could--even Roger seemed to find his shallow lies intriguing. Arthur played along like a pro but he knew his ears were still red and he kept inventing and then not using excuses to leave.
When he couldn't take any more he announced that he was buying the table a round, and made his way to the bar. Eames, being the perfect gentleman he was, volunteered to help carry. As soon as they were out of earshot of the booth Arthur looked to Eames with a winning smile. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Checking up on you," Eames admitted. When they reached the bar he leaned his elbows against it, giving off every appearance of casual ease. "It's taking too long."
Arthur pursed his lips tight. "Bone hasn't complained. Why should you?"
Eames pulled a cigarette box out of his jacket. "There should be a hundred ways to make ten large in this town," he said. "Or else..." He lifted an eyebrow.
Arthur waited until Eames had his lighter out before saying, "This is a no-smoking bar."
Eames paused, and with a frown he put the lighter away. He left the cigarette between his lips, but as soon as the bartender noticed them and came over, he also reminded him, "Hey, this is a no-smoking bar."
"I'm not smoking it," Eames said with irritation Arthur took a bit too much enjoyment from. "Gimme five beers."
"We already had this conversation," said Arthur as the bartender ducked to collect the bottles. "I'm not taking advantage; these things just take time."
Eames watched him carefully, his eyes sharp and searching. Arthur remained very still beneath his scrutiny, feeling as if Eames were trying to spy directly on his projections. "You're a good guy," he said at last, just as five bottles clanged on the bar between them. "I like you."
Arthur straightened. "Put it on my tab," he told the bartender absently, and once the man had moved away he put his full focus back on Eames. Something bubbled in his stomach. "But?"
"But you've been going under a lot," Eames continued. "It worries me--especially because it's Bone. I may not go into his dreams but I know what he's like."
Arthur's pulse stuttered. "I don't need you to look after me," he said, even as an uncharacteristic sensation of panic gnawed his brain. On impulse he added, "I've been doing this long enough--I know my limits."
He started to turn away sharply, but then Eames's fingers snaked around his elbow. When they dug into sore spot on his inner arm he jumped, as if afraid that he was being given away somehow, and he swiftly jerked free. The bar quieted as several people turned to look at them, and Arthur blinked, suddenly disoriented.
Are they real? They were frowning at him and Eames with curious alarm, just like a flock of wary projections. Immediately Arthur retraced his steps, trying to remember how he had gotten to the bar, what he had done at work that day--
"I'm just asking you to be careful," Eames said. He touched Arthur's shoulder, gently urging him to calm. The rest of the bar went back to their drinks. "I've seen what this stuff can do to someone."
Arthur looked to the hand on his shoulder. It was warm and firm and he wanted to snap it in two. "I can stop," he murmured. "Anytime I want to." He stared Eames defiantly. "I just don't want to."
Eames tongued the cigarette still drooping from his lips. "I suppose you don't dream without it anymore, huh?"
Nightmares welled in the back of his throat, all hot metal and crushing blood. "And what about you?" Arthur challenged. "I've seen the way you watch us--you'd be right there with us if the machine allowed it." He quirked his lip. "You're just jealous he'd rather use it up with me than you."
Eames leaned back, and for a moment Arthur thought he had hit a perfect bulls-eye, but then he smiled, slow and knowing. "Sure."
Arthur smiled, too, and didn't mean it. He was squirming in his skin by the time they returned to the table with the beers, and his phone rang. He nestled into Roger's side as he answered, childishly hoping that Eames might give him a look for it, disappointed when he only continued to smile and chat the girls up.
"Hello," he said into the phone.
"Just wanted to say thanks," said Wallace. "Pimp."
Arthur hated being caught off guard. He went still, and Roger noticed, glancing at him sideways. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"I usually make it a rule not to fuck junkies, but sometimes, there are exceptions."
Arthur scowled and wiped his mouth. "Please tell me you didn't," he said.
She sounded as if she were glowing. "I'll see you at Olivia's next week. Maybe we can do business again."
Arthur almost hung up right then, but then he frowned. "You're going to Olivia's?"
"Of course." She laughed. "I love supporting my clients," she said coyly, and then she hung up.
Arthur shoved his phone into his pocket, his brow deeply creased. Roger nudged him with his shoulder and asked, "You okay?"
Arthur glanced across the booth to Eames, who was watching him with a cocked eyebrow. He didn't break eye contact as he turned his lips to Roger's ear and said, "Let's go to your place."
***
That night, Arthur dreamt he was running madly through the streets. At first he thought he was being chased, but then he caught a glimpse of a figure ahead, and adrenaline surged through him. He pushed himself to his limits, dodging the late night clubbers and drunks, through dark alleys and side streets. The wind was in his face, cold and almost tearing, but he never slowed--couldn't bring himself to give up on his quarry. He was going to win.
He caught up to him outside of a movie theatre, with an old-fashioned angled overhang bearing a hundred yellow lights, and clawed into the man's shoulder, dragging him to a rough landing on the sidewalk. His elbows scraped but still he was determined, his blood on fire as they grappled on the damp concrete. All around men and women flocked past, watching the spectacle as if they were fighting dogs no one dared to interrupt.
Arthur pushed the man onto his stomach. Fabric ripped beneath his desperate hands, and then he was digging into hot, yielding flesh. The body squirming beneath him was strong but he was stronger; he pinned him, scraping them together, hissing and biting at the back of his neck. His voice rumbled out of him as a feral moan and he shoved into him, not just with his hips but his entire body, until his partner gave way beneath him, sweating and writhing and begging for him--until he was tearing the man apart from the inside in a frenzy of straining limbs and pulsing blood.
Arthur awoke on his back, twisted in sheets already warm and musky. His heart was still fast and heavy in the pit of his stomach, but even stronger was the arousal throbbing through his groin. A thin, frustrated murmur escaped him as the dream began to dissipate, leaving him unsatisfied. Before the sensations of conquest and hunger could fade completely he shoved his hand down the front of his boxers and immediately began to jerk himself off in swift strokes.
It had been Eames--he knew the moment he touched himself, and his hand felt too thin, too wiry, that it had been Eames shaking between him and the sidewalk. He groaned again and tried to draw the memory of the dream back, to remember the thrill of triumph when Eames shuddered around him; it sent heat pounding through him unlike anything he had felt before. His skin seethed with perspiration and his hips leapt off the mattress, shoving his cock into his clammy palm in desperate need for release.
Someone rolled into him with lazy kisses to his throat. It wasn't who he wanted but the lips sent extra sparks into his veins, and he immediately grabbed the back of the man's neck and drew him in. They kissed, interrupted by Arthur's breath as he panted and groaned. Strong fingers roamed over his chest and stomach, worshiping and encouraging but staying out of the way of his pumping fist as if to say, Do it, it's okay, do it.
Arthur arched his back and came, wringing out every drop as he cried in ragged ecstasy. He was shaking and gasping, and his limbs burned as if his chase through the city had been real--all of it had been real, and he thought, Fuck you, you smug asshole, I don't need you looking after me, I'm not a fucking junkie, I'm in control and I'm better than you, you fucking--
"Fuck," Roger laughed, his breath too hot against Arthur's ear. "That must have been some dream."
Arthur stared up at the ceiling, still trying to get his breath under control when reality slapped him across the face. His throat convulsed around a knot of disgust, and without a word he dragged himself out of the bed and retreated to the bathroom. He wanted to vomit.
To Part 3