Brick/Inception: Après Moi, le Deluge
Title: Après Moi, le Deluge (7/24)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Fandom: Brick/Inception fusion
Word count: 3,420
Pairing: later Brendan(Arthur)xEames, mentions of BrendanxEmily and BrendanxLaura
Rating: R
Warnings: currently violence, language, mentions of character death
Summary: Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.
Special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing! <3
SEVEN
Brendan awoke to the sound of someone rapping on his bedroom door. He grunted softly, burying his face against the pillow in an attempt to will away the sound and give himself a little more time to sleep, but a minute later he was awake enough to know that wasn't going to happen.
He sat up, fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, and trudged to the door to open it.
Eames, relaxed and smiling as always, greeted him with, "Ah, don't worry, darling. You'll be getting plenty of sleep today."
"Darling?" Brendan scoffed and quite literally cringed when Eames tousled his hair, laughing.
"Come down and eat," Eames said. "Your mate Sam is already with the living."
Brendan huffed, rubbing his own fingers through his hair. "I'll be down in a minute. Let me get dressed."
"Afraid you might have to cut and run?" Eames asked, corners of his mouth twitching.
"You never know," he replied, shutting the door on him. He briefly considered throwing himself back into bed, but he hadn't come to Paris for a vacation so he didn't intend to spend his time snoozing for any other reason than training himself on the PASIV. If he slowed down now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get up again, so he threw on a pair of jeans and a charcoal-colored thermal shirt. He slid an old flannel on over it to keep himself warm but left it unbuttoned for the time being, then put on his socks, slipped his feet into his shoes, and turned up the cuffs on his jeans. He didn't bother to brush his hair.
When he came downstairs he found that Eames, Mal, and Brain were all gathered around the kitchen island where a small breakfast buffet had been set up. A quick peek towards the living room revealed that the PASIV was set up on the coffee table.
"This is you dressed? You look the same. I don't see why you bothered."
Brendan turned to glare at Eames and found himself being handed a plate of syrup-soaked waffles. "What's wrong with my rags?" Brendan asked, brow furrowed.
"Well, that is what they are. Rags," Eames chuckled, taking a seat at the table, "or perhaps you're channeling Kurt Cobain?"
Brendan sat down too, sneering a bit. "What difference does it make how they look? They keep me warm." He looked Eames up and down. "Besides, the lapel on your shirt went out of style in the seventies, and I'm not sure if that pattern was ever acceptable."
"I thought it didn't matter what the clothes looked like."
Brain appeared at Brendan's side, setting a cup of java down next to his plate. Brendan never did have his wits about him without a cup of coffee in his system, especially if he was under a lot of stress. During exam times, he and Emily had met up before class and shared a thermos of it at the back of the school by the portables. He remembered how her delicate mouth had pressed against the lip of the top, sipping the warm liquid slowly, grimacing a little at the end because Brendan drank his coffee black, but always ending with a smile. He could still picture the stain of her lip gloss around the rim.
"Hey," Brain snapped his fingers in front of Brendan's face, jerking him out of his daze. "Drink. Drink the coffee. Wake up."
"Is he your mate or your wife?" Eames snorted.
Brendan took a long sip of the coffee, set it down, started cutting into the waffles on his plate. "I trust him," was all he said in response.
Once Brendan had some food and caffeine in his system, he was able to fully focus again. Mal wandered by him as she went to deposit her plate in the sink for washing, ruffling his hair as she passed. "You're not much of a morning person, are you, Arthur?"
"I don't handle jet lag well," Brendan shrugged.
"Sam seems to be doing all right," Eames said, nodding towards Brain.
"Sam doesn't sleep," Brendan replied.
"My brain doesn't shut down very easily," Brain supplied sheepishly, not seeming to realize that the idea was much less intimidating with the explanation. Intimidation didn't suit him anyway, Brendan supposed.
"So you're the brains of the operation, and he's the brawn, eh? Wouldn't exactly be my first pick in a brawl, if I'm being honest," Eames said, looking Brendan up and down.
"You haven't seen him throw a punch," Brain said. "He can take a hit too. He's like iron when he's determined. Nothing can keep him down."
Brendan expected some sort of jab at his expense, but surprisingly enough Eames looked entirely impressed.
"Oh, I would hate to think anyone would be bashing that handsome face anymore," Mal tutted, coming by to top off Brendan's coffee cup.
"Handsome?" Brendan questioned skeptically as he lifted the mug back to his lips. He hoped the slightly pink tint to his cheeks wasn't noticeable.
"Well, of course," Mal said lightly, "I know you've got a lovely face under all that hair and all those bruises. It's a shame any harm has already come to it."
"Flattery won't get you anywhere," Brendan mumbled.
Brendan was saved from further awkwardness when the front door opened, the chill bringing in a very eager-looking Dominic Cobb and a less eager but still as pleasant Miles. "Sorry we're late," Miles said, kissing Mal's cheek, flushed from the cold morning air.
"Oh, non, we're still having breakfast."
Cobb made a bee line to the PASIV device, crouching down in front of it with his brow furrowed in concentration. "So, who is going under?" he asked. "I need to know how to calibrate this thing."
"Just you and me and him," Eames said, "for now. You're building and I'll be digging around."
"Digging around?" Brendan brows met in the middle of his forehead, expression carefully cautious.
"I'm not going to be looking for any major secrets, don't worry," Eames responded, holding his hands up in a placating manner. "It's merely to see what your subconscious defenses will do, see how powerful they are. We just need to know what to expect if we're going down into your mind for whatever reason, how you handle mazes, how vividly you remember your dreams, if you can tell that you're dreaming when you're down below. We're not extractors. We aren't in the business of stealing secrets, and whatever's in your head probably isn't of much value to us anyway so don't get your knickers in a twist."
Brendan was still entirely apprehensive to have any of them rooting around for information in his brain, even if what Eames had said was true. He really didn't have anything that could be useful to them. All of the names and places regarding the Pin's dope ring were old news now, and they likely knew more about Well's goons than Brendan did. That didn't mean, however, that they wouldn't be searching for something to use against him at a later date if needed. He knew he'd have to keep his guard up. Eames seemed like he could be tricky, and Brendan was already well aware of a few of the tricks that could be played in the dream world.
"He'll need a totem, won't he?" Cobb asked, turning to look at Mal as if she had every answer he could ever want. The amount of idolization and punch-drunk puppy love rolling off of him made Brendan want to roll his eyes.
"A totem?" Brain asked. "Like a symbol?"
"Not exactly," Cobb said, brightening. "Mal came up with an elegant solution to keep track of reality. A totem. It's something unique to the dreamer that helps them distinguish dreams from the real world because it behaves differently in the dream world."
"Do you have an example?" Brain queried. He didn't sound like he really believed it. Brendan was already trying to think of what he could use.
"We can't exactly tell you how ours work," Mal explained, smiling sheepishly. Brendan thought she really shouldn't look so radiant while sheepish. "It would completely undermine their purpose. If others were to know how they worked, if we were in their dream, they could manipulate our totems to make us believe we're in reality."
"It needs to be something small that you can carry around with you," Cobb continued, "but it can't be something typical, something other people have gotten their mitts on. As long as we're not going too deeply into the subconscious or staying under for long periods of time, he should be fine, but it's probably best to get one sooner rather than later."
Brendan got up from the table, leaving his half-eaten breakfast. "I'll get right on that, but what do we do first?"
For the rest of the morning, Brendan and Brain sat in on a lesson about the PASIV device where Miles explained all of its ins and outs. The sheer amount of information made Brendan's eyes cross a little, but Brain soaked it up like a sponge just like he always did. Brain's skepticism about the whole thing was fading away, transforming into excitement, and Brendan had a feeling it was only a matter of time before Brain started giving Miles suggestions for modifications to be made.
After all the chatter, they finally got to the meat of it, settling into chairs and on couches to go under. Brendan was about to slip the needle into his arm when he found Eames crouching in front of him to do it instead. "Don't want you to blow a vein," Eames said, effortlessly sliding the cannula in and taping it down.
"I can do it myself," Brendan complained.
"Better to be safe than sorry, yeah?"
Brendan sneered at him but sat back in the lounge chair that had been pulled into the living room, sighing as he closed his eyes. "Sam, I'm counting on you."
Brain nodded, even though Brendan couldn't see it and took a seat in one of the unoccupied chairs to keep his eyes on everyone. It was highly unlikely that there'd be any maiming taking place, but Eames was right about being safe rather than sorry.
"Everyone all settled in?" Mal asked, letting her fingertips linger over the button on the PASIV device. Once she got the signal from everyone, she said, "Sweet dreams," and depressed the plunger.
The PASIV hissed, grogginess overwhelmed Brendan, and he slipped into sleep.
Paris was lit up like Christmas. Brendan moved his way through the crowds of people, all of them vaguely familiar and quickly forgotten. He couldn't quite remember where he was heading or why, but he knew it had something to do with…
…with…
Oh.
It only took him a moment before he remembered that he was dreaming. This version of Paris, glittering with lights and dizzy with celebration had been constructed by Cobb to distract him. This was his first lesson.
Brendan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, doing his best to keep calm. He needed to find Eames first, make sure he wasn't rummaging around in his thoughts. He needed to prove to him that he could keep himself protected from anyone else who might later try. There were certain things he certainly didn't want Eames or anyone to find… and he didn't want anyone to be finding them either.
It was hard to stay focused with the hoopla going on all around him which Brendan figured was sort of the point, but it agitated him all the same. He'd never been the kind of guy who got involved in crowds like these. He tended to be the type to keep a low profile and stay in the background of a scene in order to find out the real story. He wasn't entirely opposed to making his presence known if it served his purpose, but large crowds of people made him uncomfortable, even if they'd been formed out of his subconscious. Too many things could go wrong with enough different heads.
He tried to focus instead on figuring out the location of his secrets. It wasn't hard to discern that they'd be locked up somewhere safe-like a bank vault. He figured he might as well try there first. He asked passers-by projections where the bank was located, since his subconscious knew its way around better than his conscious mind did, and it only took him about fifteen minutes before he made it there. He didn't see Eames around, so he thought that perhaps he hadn't arrived yet.
He approached the main teller, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I want to get into my safety deposit box," he said. "Brendan Frye?"
The teller- a blonde, smiley, Stepford-wifey kind of woman nodded and said, "Right this way, sir." Brendan followed her through the extensive bank, down inexplicably winding corridors and through doorways, until they reached the wall of safety deposit boxes. Had it been reality, Brendan would have been a bit alarmed by the presence of the vault right there in the middle for anyone to sift through, but he was pretty sure Cobb had built it that way on purpose. Eames knew the layout of the maze, and this made it easy to access. Brendan would just wait here for Eames and take him out when he arrived.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?" the teller asked.
"No, I'll be fine on my own, thanks."
"Do you know your code, sir?"
Brendan paused from where he was walking towards the boxes, finding that instead of keyholes, there were keypads for punching in a number pass code. Since it was his own subconscious, he was fairly sure that he could punch in whatever number he fancied and it would work. He looked back towards the teller and nodded. "I can handle it from here."
She nodded and continued to stand right where she was. Brendan blinked, a little annoyed that she hadn't gotten the hint and scrammed. "Heel it now," he said, waving a hand in her direction.
"Sir, I'm required to stay here."
That didn't make any sense because she was supposed to be a part of his subconscious. She should have been following his demands, shouldn't she? He didn't have actual control over these projections of people, he didn't think, but he wouldn't have expected one of them to act so defiant against his wishes. All he had to do was think of the set of rules they should be following in his head and that should have been enough.
That made it apparent pretty quickly that something else was possibly going on. He couldn't help but think of how that scrawny kid who had helped kidnap him back in San Clemente, Charlie Figaro, had taken on the form of the Pin in his dream, not only wearing his face but adopting his voice, his mannerisms. A forger, he'd called himself… and Mal had said that Eames was particularly gifted.
"I'm not going to open it," Brendan informed, leaning against the wall of boxes, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm going to stand here and make sure that you don't."
The teller's forced-pleasant smile warmed a little with a familiar delight. "Do you find that wise? What are you hiding, Mr. Frye?"
"Nothing all that important," Brendan said lightly. "All the same, doesn't mean it won't be important later, so I can't have you getting your grubby little mitts on it and using it to blackmail me or frame me or do whatever it is you might when your back is against the wall and you need a fall guy."
"I wouldn't use you as a fall guy," the teller responded, chuckling as her heels clacked against the floor. She approached Brendan with the confidence of a predator facing down its prey, arms akimbo and eyes bright. "You're far too smart to be a fall guy, and if there was anyone I'd sell down the river it would probably be Cobb. He's too optimistic. He doesn't understand how dire some consequences can be and is much more likely to be a reason why my back is against a wall.
"You however," she continued, her voice distinctly more English than it had been, "are smart. I can see you calculating things even right now. You're smart, you're crafty, and probably a little bit barmy as well. Oh, no, it wouldn't do to cross you. It's hard to believe you're just a sprog with eyes like that."
"Sprog?" Brendan asked flatly, one corner of his mouth curved upwards.
"You're a child," she corrected, placing a hand on his chest. Brendan hadn't realized until then how close he'd allowed her to get to him. His gaze narrowed. "Yes, yes, I know that look. I'm still a bit young myself, but you've still got spots. In your country they probably don't even let you drink yet."
Brendan took hold of her wrist and pulled her hand back away from his chest. "I'm not here to play games so why don't you take your real form and tell me why you're bumping gums with me."
Suddenly Brendan was eye to eye with Eames rather than looking down at the female teller. "Stalling for time," Eames informed him.
"Stalling…" Brendan said slowly, and it all clicked into place. "Cobb's already in the vault."
"You're pretty good at this, darling, I'll give you that," Eames said, moving away from Brendan exactly one step and slipping his hands into his pockets. "However, you didn't think to put pass codes on anything until you were standing in front of them. You should have had that idea prepared as soon as you went under. Of course Cobb knew where the vault was because he built the maze. You're going to have to be quicker than that, Mr. Frye."
The vault door groaned as it swung open, almost as if on cue. The whole room rumbled with it, or at least that was what Brendan thought at first, but then Cobb was staggering out sopping wet and with a bullet in his gut. Clearly this wasn't part of the plan.
"What in the bloody hell-" Eames started, confused but remarkably calm considering one of his colleagues was bleeding to death in front of him. "How did you cock up in a bank vault?"
"It's not how I built it," Cobb coughed, blood on his lips.
Brendan took the moment where they both were distracted to glance towards the vault. Just beyond it he could see the runoff tunnel in the early gray light.
"Not how you built it? What the fuck happened then?"
"There's… there's projections in the vault, no-in the place beyond the vault. One came after me. She… f-fucking shot me!"
A piece of plaster fell from the ceiling. Brendan realized that the world Cobb had built for his subconscious to occupy was starting to crumble. Over the sounds of it, he could still hear the first straining notes of music. "Non, rien de rien…"
"How is that even remotely possible?" Eames snorted, skeptical. "You bollocksed something up, didn't you?"
"I didn't!" Cobb tried to shout but was in too much pain to really manage it, slumping against Eames with his hand pressed over the wound. "You think I did this to myself?"
"He didn't," Brendan found himself saying before he could stop himself.
Out of the vault came Emily, her worn-down brown heels still splattered with mud and water. Her straw-colored hair was dripping and hanging in her face, and her white coat had been marred with dirt. The hand below a wrist of plastic blue bracelets was holding a pistol, one that looked remarkably similar if not identical to the one Tug had used to shoot her and later Dode in that exact tunnel. Brendan had held that same gun when the war broke out, when Tug was beating the life out of the Pin, and the Pin was screaming for his help.
For several seconds, the entire room was silent as all eyes fell on Emily. She smiled, her expression soft and sweet and everything Brendan had ever loved about her, aimed the gun, and fired a bullet directly into Brendan's forehead with a blast of blood, skull, and brain matter scattering from the back of his skull.
He didn't even feel himself hit the ground.
also available on AO3
Author: osaki_nana_707
Fandom: Brick/Inception fusion
Word count: 3,420
Pairing: later Brendan(Arthur)xEames, mentions of BrendanxEmily and BrendanxLaura
Rating: R
Warnings: currently violence, language, mentions of character death
Summary: Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.
Special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing! <3
SEVEN
Brendan awoke to the sound of someone rapping on his bedroom door. He grunted softly, burying his face against the pillow in an attempt to will away the sound and give himself a little more time to sleep, but a minute later he was awake enough to know that wasn't going to happen.
He sat up, fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, and trudged to the door to open it.
Eames, relaxed and smiling as always, greeted him with, "Ah, don't worry, darling. You'll be getting plenty of sleep today."
"Darling?" Brendan scoffed and quite literally cringed when Eames tousled his hair, laughing.
"Come down and eat," Eames said. "Your mate Sam is already with the living."
Brendan huffed, rubbing his own fingers through his hair. "I'll be down in a minute. Let me get dressed."
"Afraid you might have to cut and run?" Eames asked, corners of his mouth twitching.
"You never know," he replied, shutting the door on him. He briefly considered throwing himself back into bed, but he hadn't come to Paris for a vacation so he didn't intend to spend his time snoozing for any other reason than training himself on the PASIV. If he slowed down now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get up again, so he threw on a pair of jeans and a charcoal-colored thermal shirt. He slid an old flannel on over it to keep himself warm but left it unbuttoned for the time being, then put on his socks, slipped his feet into his shoes, and turned up the cuffs on his jeans. He didn't bother to brush his hair.
When he came downstairs he found that Eames, Mal, and Brain were all gathered around the kitchen island where a small breakfast buffet had been set up. A quick peek towards the living room revealed that the PASIV was set up on the coffee table.
"This is you dressed? You look the same. I don't see why you bothered."
Brendan turned to glare at Eames and found himself being handed a plate of syrup-soaked waffles. "What's wrong with my rags?" Brendan asked, brow furrowed.
"Well, that is what they are. Rags," Eames chuckled, taking a seat at the table, "or perhaps you're channeling Kurt Cobain?"
Brendan sat down too, sneering a bit. "What difference does it make how they look? They keep me warm." He looked Eames up and down. "Besides, the lapel on your shirt went out of style in the seventies, and I'm not sure if that pattern was ever acceptable."
"I thought it didn't matter what the clothes looked like."
Brain appeared at Brendan's side, setting a cup of java down next to his plate. Brendan never did have his wits about him without a cup of coffee in his system, especially if he was under a lot of stress. During exam times, he and Emily had met up before class and shared a thermos of it at the back of the school by the portables. He remembered how her delicate mouth had pressed against the lip of the top, sipping the warm liquid slowly, grimacing a little at the end because Brendan drank his coffee black, but always ending with a smile. He could still picture the stain of her lip gloss around the rim.
"Hey," Brain snapped his fingers in front of Brendan's face, jerking him out of his daze. "Drink. Drink the coffee. Wake up."
"Is he your mate or your wife?" Eames snorted.
Brendan took a long sip of the coffee, set it down, started cutting into the waffles on his plate. "I trust him," was all he said in response.
Once Brendan had some food and caffeine in his system, he was able to fully focus again. Mal wandered by him as she went to deposit her plate in the sink for washing, ruffling his hair as she passed. "You're not much of a morning person, are you, Arthur?"
"I don't handle jet lag well," Brendan shrugged.
"Sam seems to be doing all right," Eames said, nodding towards Brain.
"Sam doesn't sleep," Brendan replied.
"My brain doesn't shut down very easily," Brain supplied sheepishly, not seeming to realize that the idea was much less intimidating with the explanation. Intimidation didn't suit him anyway, Brendan supposed.
"So you're the brains of the operation, and he's the brawn, eh? Wouldn't exactly be my first pick in a brawl, if I'm being honest," Eames said, looking Brendan up and down.
"You haven't seen him throw a punch," Brain said. "He can take a hit too. He's like iron when he's determined. Nothing can keep him down."
Brendan expected some sort of jab at his expense, but surprisingly enough Eames looked entirely impressed.
"Oh, I would hate to think anyone would be bashing that handsome face anymore," Mal tutted, coming by to top off Brendan's coffee cup.
"Handsome?" Brendan questioned skeptically as he lifted the mug back to his lips. He hoped the slightly pink tint to his cheeks wasn't noticeable.
"Well, of course," Mal said lightly, "I know you've got a lovely face under all that hair and all those bruises. It's a shame any harm has already come to it."
"Flattery won't get you anywhere," Brendan mumbled.
Brendan was saved from further awkwardness when the front door opened, the chill bringing in a very eager-looking Dominic Cobb and a less eager but still as pleasant Miles. "Sorry we're late," Miles said, kissing Mal's cheek, flushed from the cold morning air.
"Oh, non, we're still having breakfast."
Cobb made a bee line to the PASIV device, crouching down in front of it with his brow furrowed in concentration. "So, who is going under?" he asked. "I need to know how to calibrate this thing."
"Just you and me and him," Eames said, "for now. You're building and I'll be digging around."
"Digging around?" Brendan brows met in the middle of his forehead, expression carefully cautious.
"I'm not going to be looking for any major secrets, don't worry," Eames responded, holding his hands up in a placating manner. "It's merely to see what your subconscious defenses will do, see how powerful they are. We just need to know what to expect if we're going down into your mind for whatever reason, how you handle mazes, how vividly you remember your dreams, if you can tell that you're dreaming when you're down below. We're not extractors. We aren't in the business of stealing secrets, and whatever's in your head probably isn't of much value to us anyway so don't get your knickers in a twist."
Brendan was still entirely apprehensive to have any of them rooting around for information in his brain, even if what Eames had said was true. He really didn't have anything that could be useful to them. All of the names and places regarding the Pin's dope ring were old news now, and they likely knew more about Well's goons than Brendan did. That didn't mean, however, that they wouldn't be searching for something to use against him at a later date if needed. He knew he'd have to keep his guard up. Eames seemed like he could be tricky, and Brendan was already well aware of a few of the tricks that could be played in the dream world.
"He'll need a totem, won't he?" Cobb asked, turning to look at Mal as if she had every answer he could ever want. The amount of idolization and punch-drunk puppy love rolling off of him made Brendan want to roll his eyes.
"A totem?" Brain asked. "Like a symbol?"
"Not exactly," Cobb said, brightening. "Mal came up with an elegant solution to keep track of reality. A totem. It's something unique to the dreamer that helps them distinguish dreams from the real world because it behaves differently in the dream world."
"Do you have an example?" Brain queried. He didn't sound like he really believed it. Brendan was already trying to think of what he could use.
"We can't exactly tell you how ours work," Mal explained, smiling sheepishly. Brendan thought she really shouldn't look so radiant while sheepish. "It would completely undermine their purpose. If others were to know how they worked, if we were in their dream, they could manipulate our totems to make us believe we're in reality."
"It needs to be something small that you can carry around with you," Cobb continued, "but it can't be something typical, something other people have gotten their mitts on. As long as we're not going too deeply into the subconscious or staying under for long periods of time, he should be fine, but it's probably best to get one sooner rather than later."
Brendan got up from the table, leaving his half-eaten breakfast. "I'll get right on that, but what do we do first?"
For the rest of the morning, Brendan and Brain sat in on a lesson about the PASIV device where Miles explained all of its ins and outs. The sheer amount of information made Brendan's eyes cross a little, but Brain soaked it up like a sponge just like he always did. Brain's skepticism about the whole thing was fading away, transforming into excitement, and Brendan had a feeling it was only a matter of time before Brain started giving Miles suggestions for modifications to be made.
After all the chatter, they finally got to the meat of it, settling into chairs and on couches to go under. Brendan was about to slip the needle into his arm when he found Eames crouching in front of him to do it instead. "Don't want you to blow a vein," Eames said, effortlessly sliding the cannula in and taping it down.
"I can do it myself," Brendan complained.
"Better to be safe than sorry, yeah?"
Brendan sneered at him but sat back in the lounge chair that had been pulled into the living room, sighing as he closed his eyes. "Sam, I'm counting on you."
Brain nodded, even though Brendan couldn't see it and took a seat in one of the unoccupied chairs to keep his eyes on everyone. It was highly unlikely that there'd be any maiming taking place, but Eames was right about being safe rather than sorry.
"Everyone all settled in?" Mal asked, letting her fingertips linger over the button on the PASIV device. Once she got the signal from everyone, she said, "Sweet dreams," and depressed the plunger.
The PASIV hissed, grogginess overwhelmed Brendan, and he slipped into sleep.
Paris was lit up like Christmas. Brendan moved his way through the crowds of people, all of them vaguely familiar and quickly forgotten. He couldn't quite remember where he was heading or why, but he knew it had something to do with…
…with…
Oh.
It only took him a moment before he remembered that he was dreaming. This version of Paris, glittering with lights and dizzy with celebration had been constructed by Cobb to distract him. This was his first lesson.
Brendan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, doing his best to keep calm. He needed to find Eames first, make sure he wasn't rummaging around in his thoughts. He needed to prove to him that he could keep himself protected from anyone else who might later try. There were certain things he certainly didn't want Eames or anyone to find… and he didn't want anyone to be finding them either.
It was hard to stay focused with the hoopla going on all around him which Brendan figured was sort of the point, but it agitated him all the same. He'd never been the kind of guy who got involved in crowds like these. He tended to be the type to keep a low profile and stay in the background of a scene in order to find out the real story. He wasn't entirely opposed to making his presence known if it served his purpose, but large crowds of people made him uncomfortable, even if they'd been formed out of his subconscious. Too many things could go wrong with enough different heads.
He tried to focus instead on figuring out the location of his secrets. It wasn't hard to discern that they'd be locked up somewhere safe-like a bank vault. He figured he might as well try there first. He asked passers-by projections where the bank was located, since his subconscious knew its way around better than his conscious mind did, and it only took him about fifteen minutes before he made it there. He didn't see Eames around, so he thought that perhaps he hadn't arrived yet.
He approached the main teller, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I want to get into my safety deposit box," he said. "Brendan Frye?"
The teller- a blonde, smiley, Stepford-wifey kind of woman nodded and said, "Right this way, sir." Brendan followed her through the extensive bank, down inexplicably winding corridors and through doorways, until they reached the wall of safety deposit boxes. Had it been reality, Brendan would have been a bit alarmed by the presence of the vault right there in the middle for anyone to sift through, but he was pretty sure Cobb had built it that way on purpose. Eames knew the layout of the maze, and this made it easy to access. Brendan would just wait here for Eames and take him out when he arrived.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?" the teller asked.
"No, I'll be fine on my own, thanks."
"Do you know your code, sir?"
Brendan paused from where he was walking towards the boxes, finding that instead of keyholes, there were keypads for punching in a number pass code. Since it was his own subconscious, he was fairly sure that he could punch in whatever number he fancied and it would work. He looked back towards the teller and nodded. "I can handle it from here."
She nodded and continued to stand right where she was. Brendan blinked, a little annoyed that she hadn't gotten the hint and scrammed. "Heel it now," he said, waving a hand in her direction.
"Sir, I'm required to stay here."
That didn't make any sense because she was supposed to be a part of his subconscious. She should have been following his demands, shouldn't she? He didn't have actual control over these projections of people, he didn't think, but he wouldn't have expected one of them to act so defiant against his wishes. All he had to do was think of the set of rules they should be following in his head and that should have been enough.
That made it apparent pretty quickly that something else was possibly going on. He couldn't help but think of how that scrawny kid who had helped kidnap him back in San Clemente, Charlie Figaro, had taken on the form of the Pin in his dream, not only wearing his face but adopting his voice, his mannerisms. A forger, he'd called himself… and Mal had said that Eames was particularly gifted.
"I'm not going to open it," Brendan informed, leaning against the wall of boxes, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm going to stand here and make sure that you don't."
The teller's forced-pleasant smile warmed a little with a familiar delight. "Do you find that wise? What are you hiding, Mr. Frye?"
"Nothing all that important," Brendan said lightly. "All the same, doesn't mean it won't be important later, so I can't have you getting your grubby little mitts on it and using it to blackmail me or frame me or do whatever it is you might when your back is against the wall and you need a fall guy."
"I wouldn't use you as a fall guy," the teller responded, chuckling as her heels clacked against the floor. She approached Brendan with the confidence of a predator facing down its prey, arms akimbo and eyes bright. "You're far too smart to be a fall guy, and if there was anyone I'd sell down the river it would probably be Cobb. He's too optimistic. He doesn't understand how dire some consequences can be and is much more likely to be a reason why my back is against a wall.
"You however," she continued, her voice distinctly more English than it had been, "are smart. I can see you calculating things even right now. You're smart, you're crafty, and probably a little bit barmy as well. Oh, no, it wouldn't do to cross you. It's hard to believe you're just a sprog with eyes like that."
"Sprog?" Brendan asked flatly, one corner of his mouth curved upwards.
"You're a child," she corrected, placing a hand on his chest. Brendan hadn't realized until then how close he'd allowed her to get to him. His gaze narrowed. "Yes, yes, I know that look. I'm still a bit young myself, but you've still got spots. In your country they probably don't even let you drink yet."
Brendan took hold of her wrist and pulled her hand back away from his chest. "I'm not here to play games so why don't you take your real form and tell me why you're bumping gums with me."
Suddenly Brendan was eye to eye with Eames rather than looking down at the female teller. "Stalling for time," Eames informed him.
"Stalling…" Brendan said slowly, and it all clicked into place. "Cobb's already in the vault."
"You're pretty good at this, darling, I'll give you that," Eames said, moving away from Brendan exactly one step and slipping his hands into his pockets. "However, you didn't think to put pass codes on anything until you were standing in front of them. You should have had that idea prepared as soon as you went under. Of course Cobb knew where the vault was because he built the maze. You're going to have to be quicker than that, Mr. Frye."
The vault door groaned as it swung open, almost as if on cue. The whole room rumbled with it, or at least that was what Brendan thought at first, but then Cobb was staggering out sopping wet and with a bullet in his gut. Clearly this wasn't part of the plan.
"What in the bloody hell-" Eames started, confused but remarkably calm considering one of his colleagues was bleeding to death in front of him. "How did you cock up in a bank vault?"
"It's not how I built it," Cobb coughed, blood on his lips.
Brendan took the moment where they both were distracted to glance towards the vault. Just beyond it he could see the runoff tunnel in the early gray light.
"Not how you built it? What the fuck happened then?"
"There's… there's projections in the vault, no-in the place beyond the vault. One came after me. She… f-fucking shot me!"
A piece of plaster fell from the ceiling. Brendan realized that the world Cobb had built for his subconscious to occupy was starting to crumble. Over the sounds of it, he could still hear the first straining notes of music. "Non, rien de rien…"
"How is that even remotely possible?" Eames snorted, skeptical. "You bollocksed something up, didn't you?"
"I didn't!" Cobb tried to shout but was in too much pain to really manage it, slumping against Eames with his hand pressed over the wound. "You think I did this to myself?"
"He didn't," Brendan found himself saying before he could stop himself.
Out of the vault came Emily, her worn-down brown heels still splattered with mud and water. Her straw-colored hair was dripping and hanging in her face, and her white coat had been marred with dirt. The hand below a wrist of plastic blue bracelets was holding a pistol, one that looked remarkably similar if not identical to the one Tug had used to shoot her and later Dode in that exact tunnel. Brendan had held that same gun when the war broke out, when Tug was beating the life out of the Pin, and the Pin was screaming for his help.
For several seconds, the entire room was silent as all eyes fell on Emily. She smiled, her expression soft and sweet and everything Brendan had ever loved about her, aimed the gun, and fired a bullet directly into Brendan's forehead with a blast of blood, skull, and brain matter scattering from the back of his skull.
He didn't even feel himself hit the ground.
also available on AO3