(no subject)
Year of Silence
Prompt: Arthur is actually Dom's kidnap victim and has been for years, maybe since he was a teenager. He's been trained/threatened/tortured to follow Dom's every order, and he has a very good reason for rarely smiling.
The only way Arthur will be allowed to leave and go free is A) once Dom gets his kids back, or B)the inception in the film is actually one Arthur and Eames are working on Dom to convince him to let Arthur go.
Er, this doesn't make that much sense, but it was such an intriguing prompt!
It’s a typical fall day, with clear skies, a sun that warms the back of Arthur’s neck, and a breeze that makes him glad he put his coat on before he left.
He’s supposed to be getting coffee for everyone. Three drips, plus a chai. The trip will take him eight to ten minutes there and back; lines aren’t that long during midday, so add in maybe another one or two minutes. Another minute for putting in cream and sugar. Which means that Dom will start pacing around after fifteen minutes, and he’ll probably head out to look for Arthur after twenty.
All these calculations occur in his mind automatically as he walks. The cafe is looming ahead now, and he crosses the street in a light jog. Sure enough, there’s no line at the counter. Of the four wrought iron tables outside, only one is occupied, by a man reading a book.
Arthur goes inside and orders the drinks, along with an extra cup, then steps a few feet to the left to wait. His eyes flit over the autumn decor on the walls -- there are dried leaves bordering the chalkboard menu and turkey hands taped over various spots. He accidentally catches the gaze of one of the baristas -- she works on Mondays and Wednesdays, he knows this -- and she immediately turns away with a slight blush.
It doesn’t even occur to him to try to run. Not anymore. Not yet.
After he gets the drinks, he takes out a pen and methodically labels each cup with its ingredients. Two creams. One cream, one sugar. Three sugars. The extra cup is last; on that one, he writes a phone number, digits crammed along the bottom rim.
By the time he steps outside, the drinks have been nestled into a cardboard carrier. He tosses the extra cup into the trash, right by one of the outside tables.
Eames doesn’t look up.
Arthur keeps walking, glancing both ways before he crosses the street. Twelve minutes have passed. He quickens his pace.
*
Almost a decade ago, Arthur had slipped into the world of mindheist. His presence barely caused a ripple, seeing as how extractors and points and architects were growing by the dozen each day. He worked almost tirelessly, and almost never again with the same people.
The only exception to this informal rule was Eames. Forgers were rarely needed and therefore hard to come by, so Arthur had kept tabs on him since their first meeting. Communication between them was sporadic and shared jobs even more so, but at some point Arthur had looked back and realized that Eames had become the only constant in his life.
The image of Cobb in those early days is still barely a smudge in Arthur’s memory. He can’t pinpoint exactly when and where they had worked together, but he does remember Mal being there. He remembers that it wasn’t anything special at all, just another job before he moved on. Which is why it was such a surprise, then, to come home one night only to be greeted by Cobb slumped in the single armchair in the living room. Arthur had his gun drawn before the overhead lights had even swelled to full brightness.
“What the hell,” Arthur gritted out. It took him a minute to place the name. Dominic Cobb.
Cobb finally looked up. His eyes were red, and he was sitting in the chair like he’d never get up. “I need you to come with me,” he said scratchily.
Arthur clicked the safety off. Too soft of a move, it turned out, because Cobb’s response was to shoot him in the shin.
Three years ago, Mal had died and Arthur had disappeared for a little over a month. Nobody gave it second thought or examined it closely. The only exception was, once again, Eames.
*
They’re in the Pennsylvania suburbs, set up in an unfinished housing development. The unit is a corner one with skeletal walls, tarps hanging in various places, and stairs too rickety to climb. Chilly in the daytime and fucking freezing after 5:00, but at least it’s close to the highway and one exit from the Raddon and Zimmerman building.
When Arthur ducks under a tarp, he sees Cobb studying the whiteboard while Joel and Hiva are rolling out blueprints onto the drafting table.
Cobb turns around. “That was fast,” he remarks.
“Not really.” Arthur shrugs. He holds up the carrier. “Who wanted the chai?”
*
They disband a few hours later, having revised and gone over the plan enough times to have it drilled into their heads. Joel and Hiva are staying at a hostel downtown. Cobb drives himself and Arthur to the hotel and they part ways in the elevator.
“Meet up at noon, right?” Cobb asks, holding the doors open with an outstretched arm.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Good night, Dom.”
Cobb nods. He lets the doors slide shut and Arthur resumes staring straight ahead.
He doesn’t think of it as captivity anymore. It’s just another occupied period of his life like his service in the military, where he has an obligation to devote ‘x’ amount of time before it’s over. Arthur was never good at handling the concept of delayed gratification, but he’s changed. Years of being trapped down in dream time and more than a dozen failed escapes in real life will do that, he figures.
There have been benefits to merging his best interests with Cobb’s. Such as, Arthur doesn’t wake up in a dream, screaming himself hoarse. The panic attacks are rare now. Cobb lets him go on fucking coffee runs. But the best thing might be that Arthur has been allowed his own hotel room for about six months. He feels stupidly grateful for the solitude every single day.
The watch comes off first, and then the cufflinks, the tie, and the belt. The burner phone is still taped onto the back of his knee. He rips it off without blinking.
Half an hour later, Arthur is showered and waiting for room service to bring up dinner. The TV is set on the news, muted. When the phone vibrates against the pillow, he picks it up and immediately heads into the bathroom, where the water is still running.
“Tell me again about Mal’s father,” says Eames, his voice warm and real.
Arthur presses the phone harder against his ear. He closes his eyes. “Born and raised in London. Still teaches architecture in France. He believes Cobb, and is the one most likely to support him when things get rough. I don’t know if he’d give up a whole lot to do it, though.”
Eames makes a thoughtful noise.
“You have a picture, right?” Arthur asks.
“Yes. Won’t be any trouble to imitate,” Eames says absently.
“Listen,” Arthur begins, but Eames cuts him off.
“I know it’s rude, but I’m really not going to.”
“I just need you to know,” Arthur says fiercely, “that Cobb is seriously unhinged.”
“Ah, yes, that is such scintillating news. I hadn’t quite gotten that from the kidnapping and the holding you hostage.”
Arthur switches tactics. “I can run.”
“You can’t,” Eames says sharply. “That would ruin this entire plan. Alright, Arthur? You can’t run.”
Arthur still has his eyes closed. It’s easy to flash back to the first time Eames had made a drop, in the form of a crumbled lottery ticket with seven numbers bubbled in on the grid. Arthur had discovered it in his suit pocket after getting off the subway with Dom. It was subtle enough to skate the line between significant and not, but if it was Eames -- if it was -- then he’d probably be counting on the fact that Arthur would take a gamble.
And he had, at the payphone, while Dom was talking to a potential chemist.
“Hello,” Eames had said, staticky and far away.
Arthur had gripped the silver paneling with his other hand and simply said, “Eames.”
When Arthur finally opens his eyes, the bathroom is overly yellow and saturated. He tries to blink his vision back to normal.
“Two days,” Eames reminds him. “Raddon job tomorrow, you said. Joel and Hiva will be gone by eveningtime,” he prompts.
“Yes,” Arthur confirms. Keeping everything straight is exhausting, because he doesn’t dare write anything down, ever. He can barely sleep for the information churning around in his mind. “And then we go in blind and you’re leading the cavalry into a suicide mission.”
“I’ve always admired your improvisational skills anyway,” Eames says breezily. “Ariadne and Yusuf are flying in tomorrow. We’ll come to you.”
There are, of course, an infinite number of things that Arthur can respond with. What kind of name is Ariadne. Why is Eames doing this at all. What are they going to do if Dom’s mind is too chaotic to handle. Is this finally going to be the right time to just give up the ghost and kill him. Why is Eames doing this.
What Arthur does say is, “Remind me to shoot you afterward for convincing me to try this.”
“Will do.” Eames stays quiet for a bit. “See you soon. Kill this line as soon as possible.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, please,” Arthur says, just for the sake of ending it on a note that has nothing to do with what they’re about to attempt.
He hangs up, then breaks the phone in half before flushing the pieces down the toilet. Raddon job tomorrow. And after that, who the hell knows.
Prompt: Arthur is actually Dom's kidnap victim and has been for years, maybe since he was a teenager. He's been trained/threatened/tortured to follow Dom's every order, and he has a very good reason for rarely smiling.
The only way Arthur will be allowed to leave and go free is A) once Dom gets his kids back, or B)the inception in the film is actually one Arthur and Eames are working on Dom to convince him to let Arthur go.
Er, this doesn't make that much sense, but it was such an intriguing prompt!
It’s a typical fall day, with clear skies, a sun that warms the back of Arthur’s neck, and a breeze that makes him glad he put his coat on before he left.
He’s supposed to be getting coffee for everyone. Three drips, plus a chai. The trip will take him eight to ten minutes there and back; lines aren’t that long during midday, so add in maybe another one or two minutes. Another minute for putting in cream and sugar. Which means that Dom will start pacing around after fifteen minutes, and he’ll probably head out to look for Arthur after twenty.
All these calculations occur in his mind automatically as he walks. The cafe is looming ahead now, and he crosses the street in a light jog. Sure enough, there’s no line at the counter. Of the four wrought iron tables outside, only one is occupied, by a man reading a book.
Arthur goes inside and orders the drinks, along with an extra cup, then steps a few feet to the left to wait. His eyes flit over the autumn decor on the walls -- there are dried leaves bordering the chalkboard menu and turkey hands taped over various spots. He accidentally catches the gaze of one of the baristas -- she works on Mondays and Wednesdays, he knows this -- and she immediately turns away with a slight blush.
It doesn’t even occur to him to try to run. Not anymore. Not yet.
After he gets the drinks, he takes out a pen and methodically labels each cup with its ingredients. Two creams. One cream, one sugar. Three sugars. The extra cup is last; on that one, he writes a phone number, digits crammed along the bottom rim.
By the time he steps outside, the drinks have been nestled into a cardboard carrier. He tosses the extra cup into the trash, right by one of the outside tables.
Eames doesn’t look up.
Arthur keeps walking, glancing both ways before he crosses the street. Twelve minutes have passed. He quickens his pace.
*
Almost a decade ago, Arthur had slipped into the world of mindheist. His presence barely caused a ripple, seeing as how extractors and points and architects were growing by the dozen each day. He worked almost tirelessly, and almost never again with the same people.
The only exception to this informal rule was Eames. Forgers were rarely needed and therefore hard to come by, so Arthur had kept tabs on him since their first meeting. Communication between them was sporadic and shared jobs even more so, but at some point Arthur had looked back and realized that Eames had become the only constant in his life.
The image of Cobb in those early days is still barely a smudge in Arthur’s memory. He can’t pinpoint exactly when and where they had worked together, but he does remember Mal being there. He remembers that it wasn’t anything special at all, just another job before he moved on. Which is why it was such a surprise, then, to come home one night only to be greeted by Cobb slumped in the single armchair in the living room. Arthur had his gun drawn before the overhead lights had even swelled to full brightness.
“What the hell,” Arthur gritted out. It took him a minute to place the name. Dominic Cobb.
Cobb finally looked up. His eyes were red, and he was sitting in the chair like he’d never get up. “I need you to come with me,” he said scratchily.
Arthur clicked the safety off. Too soft of a move, it turned out, because Cobb’s response was to shoot him in the shin.
Three years ago, Mal had died and Arthur had disappeared for a little over a month. Nobody gave it second thought or examined it closely. The only exception was, once again, Eames.
*
They’re in the Pennsylvania suburbs, set up in an unfinished housing development. The unit is a corner one with skeletal walls, tarps hanging in various places, and stairs too rickety to climb. Chilly in the daytime and fucking freezing after 5:00, but at least it’s close to the highway and one exit from the Raddon and Zimmerman building.
When Arthur ducks under a tarp, he sees Cobb studying the whiteboard while Joel and Hiva are rolling out blueprints onto the drafting table.
Cobb turns around. “That was fast,” he remarks.
“Not really.” Arthur shrugs. He holds up the carrier. “Who wanted the chai?”
*
They disband a few hours later, having revised and gone over the plan enough times to have it drilled into their heads. Joel and Hiva are staying at a hostel downtown. Cobb drives himself and Arthur to the hotel and they part ways in the elevator.
“Meet up at noon, right?” Cobb asks, holding the doors open with an outstretched arm.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Good night, Dom.”
Cobb nods. He lets the doors slide shut and Arthur resumes staring straight ahead.
He doesn’t think of it as captivity anymore. It’s just another occupied period of his life like his service in the military, where he has an obligation to devote ‘x’ amount of time before it’s over. Arthur was never good at handling the concept of delayed gratification, but he’s changed. Years of being trapped down in dream time and more than a dozen failed escapes in real life will do that, he figures.
There have been benefits to merging his best interests with Cobb’s. Such as, Arthur doesn’t wake up in a dream, screaming himself hoarse. The panic attacks are rare now. Cobb lets him go on fucking coffee runs. But the best thing might be that Arthur has been allowed his own hotel room for about six months. He feels stupidly grateful for the solitude every single day.
The watch comes off first, and then the cufflinks, the tie, and the belt. The burner phone is still taped onto the back of his knee. He rips it off without blinking.
Half an hour later, Arthur is showered and waiting for room service to bring up dinner. The TV is set on the news, muted. When the phone vibrates against the pillow, he picks it up and immediately heads into the bathroom, where the water is still running.
“Tell me again about Mal’s father,” says Eames, his voice warm and real.
Arthur presses the phone harder against his ear. He closes his eyes. “Born and raised in London. Still teaches architecture in France. He believes Cobb, and is the one most likely to support him when things get rough. I don’t know if he’d give up a whole lot to do it, though.”
Eames makes a thoughtful noise.
“You have a picture, right?” Arthur asks.
“Yes. Won’t be any trouble to imitate,” Eames says absently.
“Listen,” Arthur begins, but Eames cuts him off.
“I know it’s rude, but I’m really not going to.”
“I just need you to know,” Arthur says fiercely, “that Cobb is seriously unhinged.”
“Ah, yes, that is such scintillating news. I hadn’t quite gotten that from the kidnapping and the holding you hostage.”
Arthur switches tactics. “I can run.”
“You can’t,” Eames says sharply. “That would ruin this entire plan. Alright, Arthur? You can’t run.”
Arthur still has his eyes closed. It’s easy to flash back to the first time Eames had made a drop, in the form of a crumbled lottery ticket with seven numbers bubbled in on the grid. Arthur had discovered it in his suit pocket after getting off the subway with Dom. It was subtle enough to skate the line between significant and not, but if it was Eames -- if it was -- then he’d probably be counting on the fact that Arthur would take a gamble.
And he had, at the payphone, while Dom was talking to a potential chemist.
“Hello,” Eames had said, staticky and far away.
Arthur had gripped the silver paneling with his other hand and simply said, “Eames.”
When Arthur finally opens his eyes, the bathroom is overly yellow and saturated. He tries to blink his vision back to normal.
“Two days,” Eames reminds him. “Raddon job tomorrow, you said. Joel and Hiva will be gone by eveningtime,” he prompts.
“Yes,” Arthur confirms. Keeping everything straight is exhausting, because he doesn’t dare write anything down, ever. He can barely sleep for the information churning around in his mind. “And then we go in blind and you’re leading the cavalry into a suicide mission.”
“I’ve always admired your improvisational skills anyway,” Eames says breezily. “Ariadne and Yusuf are flying in tomorrow. We’ll come to you.”
There are, of course, an infinite number of things that Arthur can respond with. What kind of name is Ariadne. Why is Eames doing this at all. What are they going to do if Dom’s mind is too chaotic to handle. Is this finally going to be the right time to just give up the ghost and kill him. Why is Eames doing this.
What Arthur does say is, “Remind me to shoot you afterward for convincing me to try this.”
“Will do.” Eames stays quiet for a bit. “See you soon. Kill this line as soon as possible.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, please,” Arthur says, just for the sake of ending it on a note that has nothing to do with what they’re about to attempt.
He hangs up, then breaks the phone in half before flushing the pieces down the toilet. Raddon job tomorrow. And after that, who the hell knows.