The Consequences of Trust (Part 2)
Warning: This Chapter is Violent! Character Death.
Author's notes: Oh how I love tortured men.
Beta(s): space_raider182 and queenofinfinite
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_____
Part 1
The first blow makes his ears ring and he can feel the skin splitting along his temple, scraping away from his bone, and filling with grit and dirt. His world becomes one high-pitched noise, one tunnel of focus, one thin line of acute pain. All he sees is bright light and crimson flecked across the tan linen of his primly pressed pant leg. This is necessary. He thinks to himself. It has to be done. Eames' cover can't be blown or the entire team is in jeopardy. Arthur can rationalize this; he can pocket the pain away into the category of job risks willingly suffered for success. It's just a dream. It's just a dream.
The second shatters the bone in cheek. He feels the broken plates shift into his eye socket and sinus cavity. This is so much worse than being shot in the knee. He thinks dryly. It's his last formed thought. Blood pours from gashed skin. His teeth surge sharp signals through the nerve roots, searing hot in the roof of his mouth. Mistake. Not prepared. Frantic flashes, incoherent little snippets of realization are all he can manage now.
One of the strikes detaches his retina. Half his world goes dark and if the pain hadn't taken away his sense of depth, this loss would have. He's vaguely aware of the burning in his wrists as his arms struggle fruitlessly against the restraints in a vain effort to get free from the chair he's been strapped to. He can feel the cuffs cutting into his skin, carving out lines where skin is stretched tightly over bone, but it does little to deter the instinct to shield himself. His breathing is ragged and wet, his lungs trying to keep air pumping through his quickly beating heart as adrenaline and fear course through his veins. How can this hurt so much? He thinks. And it's a safer question, he still somehow knows, then asking how Eames can be the one doing it.
He's caught off guard when a blow is angled upwards, coming from below to smash through the previously untouched side of his jaw. The pain spikes as his body's endorphins run out. He' spits blood and teeth, choking a little as his head lolls backwards on his shoulders. He can't handle this because it hurts too much. He can't escape and he wasn't prepared to die so slowly, feel every blow chip his structure away under his flesh. Blood bubbles in his throat forcing trapped fluid out of his mouth and nose, just rivers of red storming down his broken face.
He knows he must be whimpering because he can hear it hollow in his ears, overpowering the tinny drone of any background noise and the labored breathing of Eames’ forge. He knows he's losing any semblance of control but forces open his swollen eye, the one that still sees though bleary and hard to focus, in defiance. It’s only to find himself staring directly at Eames' forge. They catch eyes; he swears the deep brown eyes flash grey for an instant before turning back to brown, cold and impassive again. His heartbeat stutters in his chest as the man's hand rises, clutching bloody fingers around an equally bloody brick. It's brought down, but instead of pain, the world goes black.
Arthur wakes and his stomach instantly lurches. He barely has time to turn his head before he violently spills his stomach contents onto the carpet. His vision is blurry and he's breathing too hard, choking on his tongue as he tries to pull air into his lungs. He wills himself to calm down. His trembling hands clutch the arms of the chair he was sitting in with a white-knuckle grip. His wrists ghost pain of the lacerations in the dream. He sucks in desperate gulps of air. Just breathe. Just breathe. It's ok. Breathe in. Breathe out.
His eyes are closed but he feels Ariadne is at his side. His skin crawls at her proximity but he's too focused on breathing to react, to push her away. It's been years since he's felt that much pain in the dream. Not since his training when the technology was new and his commanding officers failed to tell him that dying in a dream simply woke you up. He'd struggled through that first time under in a combat scenario with bullet wounds and broken limbs only to find himself topside after a knife was ruthlessly thrust into his throat in a final fight.
His head is one hot searing mass of over stimulated nerves. His breathing is still ragged and fast, the oxygen high feeding the pulsing migraine in his head. His teeth grind together and he can't keep his breathing under control. He can't push the pain away. Ariande's hands are on his wrist and the muted and unintelligible sound that is her voice behind the sharp burn in his mind seems concerned and fearful. He still can't breathe properly and all his nerves are flaring in pain, he struggles for control, a sad parallel to the dream, and again the world goes black.
When he wakes again his head still hurts, but it's a manageable sort of ache. He slowly peels his eyes open to find that the lights have been turned out. The sun from the window cast a soft glow around the dim room. He pulls himself upright in the chair discovering his stomach is an acidic ball of pain wrapped in a cocoon of sore muscles. Ariadne is gone, but his vomit has been wiped as best as possible from the carpeted floor. The room still smells sour with bile. The needle from the PASIV has been removed from his wrist but Eames, the mark, and Jackson are still hooked up to the whirring machine.
He leans forward in the chair, running hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, trying his best to will the rest of his headache to die. The door clicks open and Arthur's head snaps up, pain searing hotter at the movement. He sighs with relief when Ariadne enters the room and curses himself silently because if it had been anyone else he could be dead for real right now.
"Sorry, I went to go get you some food." Ariadne says meekly. He should be angry that she left them defenseless, but he’s secured their position very well. And Arthur takes note of the bag in her hands, which is releasing the delicious scent of cheap Chinese takeout. He is actually desperately hungry, his metabolism running overdrive with no food in his stomach.
He must be outwardly projecting his grateful thoughts because Ariadne's expression visibly brightens and she hurries forward with her offering. They sit and eat in relative silence. Ariadne keeps giving him worried glances, but he's too exhausted and lost in his own thoughts to allow her an opening for the questions he knows she's dying to ask.
How could he do that? Arthur keeps thinking as he stabs wooden chopsticks into his sticky box of glazed meat and vegetable stir-fry. But he thinks that’s a stupid question. He had to. He had to keep his cover. He had to continue on. But it doesn’t help the way Arthur is feeling right now. So his questions continue to loop in his head. How could Eames, someone he's trusted his life with even if he didn't necessarily trust an honest word to come from his mouth, murder him like that?
He glances over at the timer and the PASIV only has a few minutes left of the four hours they had planned for. He realizes now that must have passed out after waking from the dream for at least an hour. That sends a pang of worry through him, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and hurries to finish his food so that he can start on removing any evidence of themselves from the room. He chances a glance at the dreamers on the beds and his chest constricts as if a vice has been tightened around it. He waits for the timer to run out.
Continue to Part 3
Author's notes: Oh how I love tortured men.
Beta(s): space_raider182 and queenofinfinite
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_____
Part 1
The first blow makes his ears ring and he can feel the skin splitting along his temple, scraping away from his bone, and filling with grit and dirt. His world becomes one high-pitched noise, one tunnel of focus, one thin line of acute pain. All he sees is bright light and crimson flecked across the tan linen of his primly pressed pant leg. This is necessary. He thinks to himself. It has to be done. Eames' cover can't be blown or the entire team is in jeopardy. Arthur can rationalize this; he can pocket the pain away into the category of job risks willingly suffered for success. It's just a dream. It's just a dream.
The second shatters the bone in cheek. He feels the broken plates shift into his eye socket and sinus cavity. This is so much worse than being shot in the knee. He thinks dryly. It's his last formed thought. Blood pours from gashed skin. His teeth surge sharp signals through the nerve roots, searing hot in the roof of his mouth. Mistake. Not prepared. Frantic flashes, incoherent little snippets of realization are all he can manage now.
One of the strikes detaches his retina. Half his world goes dark and if the pain hadn't taken away his sense of depth, this loss would have. He's vaguely aware of the burning in his wrists as his arms struggle fruitlessly against the restraints in a vain effort to get free from the chair he's been strapped to. He can feel the cuffs cutting into his skin, carving out lines where skin is stretched tightly over bone, but it does little to deter the instinct to shield himself. His breathing is ragged and wet, his lungs trying to keep air pumping through his quickly beating heart as adrenaline and fear course through his veins. How can this hurt so much? He thinks. And it's a safer question, he still somehow knows, then asking how Eames can be the one doing it.
He's caught off guard when a blow is angled upwards, coming from below to smash through the previously untouched side of his jaw. The pain spikes as his body's endorphins run out. He' spits blood and teeth, choking a little as his head lolls backwards on his shoulders. He can't handle this because it hurts too much. He can't escape and he wasn't prepared to die so slowly, feel every blow chip his structure away under his flesh. Blood bubbles in his throat forcing trapped fluid out of his mouth and nose, just rivers of red storming down his broken face.
He knows he must be whimpering because he can hear it hollow in his ears, overpowering the tinny drone of any background noise and the labored breathing of Eames’ forge. He knows he's losing any semblance of control but forces open his swollen eye, the one that still sees though bleary and hard to focus, in defiance. It’s only to find himself staring directly at Eames' forge. They catch eyes; he swears the deep brown eyes flash grey for an instant before turning back to brown, cold and impassive again. His heartbeat stutters in his chest as the man's hand rises, clutching bloody fingers around an equally bloody brick. It's brought down, but instead of pain, the world goes black.
Arthur wakes and his stomach instantly lurches. He barely has time to turn his head before he violently spills his stomach contents onto the carpet. His vision is blurry and he's breathing too hard, choking on his tongue as he tries to pull air into his lungs. He wills himself to calm down. His trembling hands clutch the arms of the chair he was sitting in with a white-knuckle grip. His wrists ghost pain of the lacerations in the dream. He sucks in desperate gulps of air. Just breathe. Just breathe. It's ok. Breathe in. Breathe out.
His eyes are closed but he feels Ariadne is at his side. His skin crawls at her proximity but he's too focused on breathing to react, to push her away. It's been years since he's felt that much pain in the dream. Not since his training when the technology was new and his commanding officers failed to tell him that dying in a dream simply woke you up. He'd struggled through that first time under in a combat scenario with bullet wounds and broken limbs only to find himself topside after a knife was ruthlessly thrust into his throat in a final fight.
His head is one hot searing mass of over stimulated nerves. His breathing is still ragged and fast, the oxygen high feeding the pulsing migraine in his head. His teeth grind together and he can't keep his breathing under control. He can't push the pain away. Ariande's hands are on his wrist and the muted and unintelligible sound that is her voice behind the sharp burn in his mind seems concerned and fearful. He still can't breathe properly and all his nerves are flaring in pain, he struggles for control, a sad parallel to the dream, and again the world goes black.
When he wakes again his head still hurts, but it's a manageable sort of ache. He slowly peels his eyes open to find that the lights have been turned out. The sun from the window cast a soft glow around the dim room. He pulls himself upright in the chair discovering his stomach is an acidic ball of pain wrapped in a cocoon of sore muscles. Ariadne is gone, but his vomit has been wiped as best as possible from the carpeted floor. The room still smells sour with bile. The needle from the PASIV has been removed from his wrist but Eames, the mark, and Jackson are still hooked up to the whirring machine.
He leans forward in the chair, running hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, trying his best to will the rest of his headache to die. The door clicks open and Arthur's head snaps up, pain searing hotter at the movement. He sighs with relief when Ariadne enters the room and curses himself silently because if it had been anyone else he could be dead for real right now.
"Sorry, I went to go get you some food." Ariadne says meekly. He should be angry that she left them defenseless, but he’s secured their position very well. And Arthur takes note of the bag in her hands, which is releasing the delicious scent of cheap Chinese takeout. He is actually desperately hungry, his metabolism running overdrive with no food in his stomach.
He must be outwardly projecting his grateful thoughts because Ariadne's expression visibly brightens and she hurries forward with her offering. They sit and eat in relative silence. Ariadne keeps giving him worried glances, but he's too exhausted and lost in his own thoughts to allow her an opening for the questions he knows she's dying to ask.
How could he do that? Arthur keeps thinking as he stabs wooden chopsticks into his sticky box of glazed meat and vegetable stir-fry. But he thinks that’s a stupid question. He had to. He had to keep his cover. He had to continue on. But it doesn’t help the way Arthur is feeling right now. So his questions continue to loop in his head. How could Eames, someone he's trusted his life with even if he didn't necessarily trust an honest word to come from his mouth, murder him like that?
He glances over at the timer and the PASIV only has a few minutes left of the four hours they had planned for. He realizes now that must have passed out after waking from the dream for at least an hour. That sends a pang of worry through him, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and hurries to finish his food so that he can start on removing any evidence of themselves from the room. He chances a glance at the dreamers on the beds and his chest constricts as if a vice has been tightened around it. He waits for the timer to run out.
Continue to Part 3