[Inception] 5 Times Mal Wanted Arthur Out of the Picture
honestly with this story you should just read the first three parts and skip the rest.
Title: Five Times Mal's Shade Wanted Arthur Out of the Picture
Author: vikki
Characters: Arthur, Cobb, Mal
Wordcount: ~6900
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; torture, violence
Summary: what it says on the tin. Written for this prompt at inception_kink.
i. look both ways
Arthur's driving like a madman through his own cityscape.
When Cobb first painted the vaguely Prague-like city almost every car was some variety of foreign luxury vehicle, and everyone drove very similarly: being Arthur's projections, they were fast and ran yellow lights but always used their turn signals. Arthur wonders if subconscious projections are different when one is aware of them, because the mark's subconscious has turned the streets into some equivalent of rush hour hell in New York City, which Arthur doubts the mark likes navigating.
Arthur needs to be across town two minutes ago, though, so he weaves through traffic, knocks cars aside, runs red lights and generally subjects himself to an uncomfortable amount of attention in exchange for speed until he's halfway through an intersection and two small children run out in front of his car.
They might be projections, but even Arthur has base instincts; he slams on the brakes, skidding to a halt, and the children bolt, giggling and holding hands, across the street - blond-haired and no older than two and four.
Arthur's heart is pounding in his chest as he leans his head out the window. "Phillipa? James?" he calls, startled, but he never sees their faces. It's just so unusual to see projections of children in the mind of a single man, and they look so similar ...
Everyone is honking at him and Arthur narrows his eyes, prepares to start driving again, when the passenger side door is opened. He spins, reaching for his gun, and freezes with his hand still in his jacket.
Mal smiles at him, elegant in a dark blue sundress and straw weave hat, and she slides into her seat. "Go, Arthur," she says.
"How did you get in here, Mal?" Arthur asks, ignoring the projections that are getting out of their cars to scream at him. He's going to be torn apart if he waits here much longer.
Mal laughs coyly. "When did Dom ever leave me behind?"
She has a point, Arthur can't help thinking.
"Now, drive," she commands loftily, a passenger to her chauffeur. "Unless you want Mr. Gustaff's projections to take you to pieces."
Arthur drives.
Cobb's projection of Mal is strange. Arthur's known that for months, distantly, but this is the first time he's seen her amongst the projections of a foreign subconscious. She is sullen, distant, the first to tear apart a dreamer when Cobb is the subject. But then there are times like these, where Arthur drives down the sidewalk towards his destination, hitting anything and anyone in his way, projections of policemen chasing his car, and Mal's shade is making small talk about the stores lining the streets.
"Oh, the Banana Republic. It seems strange for Mr. Gustaff to have that store here. Godiva Chocolatier, really? He must have a wife to please!"
Arthur swerves around a corner and takes the side-view mirror off the passenger side of the car when he scrapes past a parking meter. Mal doesn't even flinch.
"If I had time right now," Arthur grates out, "I would kill you." Not that he minds the small talk, which is strangely nostalgic given the situation, but the moment Cobb lays eyes on her his attention will be shot to pieces.
"That's a lie," Mal says harshly. Arthur spares a moment to glare at her, and one of the policeman projections shoots out his left rear tire. "You love me too much."
"No," Arthur snarls, looking back for a foolish moment to shoot through his rear window with a splinter of safety glass, "I loved you enough --" he's going to hit a street lamp, he loses his gun wrenching the wheel sideways - "--to kill you!"
"If only Dom loved me enough to kill himself," Mal shouts over the scream of sirens and car horns. "But I suppose in the end every man is selfish!"
When Arthur banks around another curve and has to fight the deflating tire for control, she pitches sideways against him. There's a screech of metal and Arthur wonders how much further the car will get them just before Mal slams her heel against his instep. The car accelerates. Arthur swears and grips the wheel tightly with one hand, trying for his gun in the back seat, but Mal coils her arms around his bicep and clings, cheek to his shoulder, as she grinds his foot against the accelerator.
"Have you ever wondered, Arthur, what happens if you reach the edge of a dream?"
"Dom doesn't build edges," Arthur protests, but that's not true either: he leaves empty space in cities, sometimes, allows for a free flow of new traffic, especially in extended dreams like this one. They're driving towards an edge right now. Arthur slams his free foot against Mal's ankle. She gasps into his shoulder and Arthur is guilt-stricken despite himself. The car - what's left of it - is screeching down the road on a rim and three tires and the wheel is useless.
Arthur stomps his free foot down on the brake. The car slides, spins, and practically catapults itself sideways, flipping over once like a Hollywood slow-motion stunt and right off the edge of the cityscape.
"I've always wondered," Mal breathes, still clinging to him as the car falls.
Arthur doesn't wonder. He doesn't want to know.
He builds furiously, and when the car crunches, upside-down, to the asphalt, splitting his head between the steering wheel and roof, the last sound he hears is Mal's exhilarated laugh.
ii. always check your safety
Cobb doesn't start carrying a gun everywhere until after Mal dies. He sticks it down the back of his pants like a movie mobster, much to Arthur's dismay.
"This," Arthur says in a patronizing tone, "is a shoulder holster." He holds it up and reflects that, when it's not being worn, it looks more complicated than it is, buckles and straps like a strange bondage contraption. "And if you use one, you'll find it much more comfortable than keeping your gun in your waistband." Cobb looks bemused, but he consents to take his Beretta out of his belt. Arthur's pulls his chin back in surprised horror. "For God's sake, Cobb, why is the safety off!?"
"Oh." Cobb looks marginally surprised, and presses the lever back into place. "Forgot about that." Before Arthur can manage to do more than click his jaw shut, he continues, "Show me how you wear that - thing."
*
In Cobb's dreams, guns don't have a safety. Arthur's Browning GP35 wavers between a Glock and a Beretta alternately, and carries between 7 and 17 rounds depending on how much attention Cobb pays to some idea of 'realistic' action. On the other hand recoil is minimal, and until Malory and Dominic Cobb confirm that killing the population of a dream has no effect on the subject's mind the gun has no use but suicide shots to his own temple, so Arthur deals with the uncertainty with no complaint. Once Cobb starts handling real weapons his dream weaponry begins to settle out to something truer to life, but the safety never quite makes it to the dream gun designs. Arthur wonders if Cobb subconsciously wants to accidentally shoot himself in the foot.
It wouldn't actually be much of a surprise. Cobb is fairly effective at doing so in a less literal way.
*
Arthur is no fan of how Cobb likes to distract marks - specifically, he likes to tell them exactly what he's about to do. "Ms. Feretti, I am the best extractor. Therefore I am best suited to the job of keeping your subconscious safe from intruders."
Ms. Feretti looks like she's more interested in Cobb for his looks than for his skills. She dips her finger into her water glass and glides the pad of her middle finger around the edge; a high-pitched hum emerges. She watches Cobb with a tiny smile on her lips, her long legs crossed. Her Valentino dress is red and striking, revealing without giving much at all away. "Do tell me more, Mr. Titan," she purrs.
Cobb is still too raw from Mal (will always be too raw from Mal) to flirt back; if he notices her tone, he gives no indication. "I can train your subconscious to protect itself. Dreams, when constructed by a lucid dreamer, are often extraordinarily realistic and the subconscious populates it accordingly ..."
Arthur enjoys Cobb's lectures, but they only have eight minutes left topside and that's about an hour and forty minutes of dreamtime. He checks his watch surreptitiously and clears his throat. "Pardon me, Ms. Feretti, Mr. Cobb, I should ..." he tilts his head towards the door.
"Oh, of course," Cobb agrees as if Arthur had planned the interruption. He smiles at Ms. Feretti. "Mr. Black has a previous appointment. If you'll allow him to be excused?"
"Please," Ms. Feretti agrees, never even glancing Arthur's way, and Arthur stands, nods coolly to them both, and lets himself out of the room.
The safe Cobb built into the dream is three floors sideways in Ms. Feretti's office, as far from the conference room where they started as possible. Arthur slinks through the maze, a little surprised by how mundane Cobb chose to make the decor for this dream - motivational posters, cubicles, fake houseplants of suspiciously fine quality lining the dreamspace. A closer look at one such motivational poster reveals that Ms. Feretti's subconscious has given them a slightly disturbing marionette theme. Arthur hastens onwards, past hangers full of designer skirts and frilled dresses and the unusually beautiful and well-dressed projections pushing them in a harried manner.
The closer to the goal he gets, the more hostile the subconscious projections are, jostling him in the hallways and glaring when he passes by. He's not in much danger since he's not the dreamer; Cobb has that privilege, which is much safer in this scenario (and Arthur has been on the business end of a stiletto once before, so he's especially relieved). He turns down a quiet hallway leading to the spacious office designed to suit Ms. Feretti's sensibilities and reaches for his silencer when an office door abruptly opens and Arthur slams face-first into it.
He reels back, grasping his nose and choking off a surprised grunt; it takes him a moment to get his bearings, drop his hands, and attempt to look as if he belongs here. (He does look the part, dressed in three-piece Armani.) But when the door closes and the projection is revealed, it's Mal. She's stunningly out of place in a Versace ballgown and Prada stilettos, manicured nails resting on her hip and the trail of her gown pooling expertly around her feet, but it's the M4A1 Carbine slung across her waist that has Arthur's attention.
He should never have taught Cobb how to use an assault rifle.
"Arthur," Mal says, smiling. "Fancy meeting you here."
Arthur thins his lips. "Mal," he whispers, keeping his voice low and glancing back to ensure they're still alone. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why shouldn't I be?" Mal asks, raising her chin. "This is my husband's dream. And--" she glances around at the oak walls and utilitarian decor before blowing a strand of loose hair out of her face. It's so lifelike Arthur can't help staring. "--it bothers me, to see how much you rub off on him. Such a pedestrian dream. No creativity."
"It's an office," Arthur replies, annoyed and not the least because Mal is right: the level design was Arthur's suggestion. "Now - are you going to let me pass or do I need to kill you?"
"An empty threat," Mal teases, and as if to prove it she taps him lightly on the nose with one finger. Arthur backs up a step in surprise. "I've had an idea, thanks to Dom's little diversion," she continues, now resting both hands on her rifle. (Arthur reaches into his shoulder holster for his own.) "The subconscious is so clever; it learns faster than the subject so often, yes? So I thought: why bother with the middle man? Why not simply teach the subconscious itself?"
Mal nods at something beyond the door still open from her initial intrusion. Arthur feels something in the pit of his stomach drop, and a moment of lightheadedness makes him feel as if he's falling. It's too early for the kick, he thinks. Beyond the door there is the sound of stilettos clacking on the floor, the distinctive clicks of weapons being handled.
Arthur slams his shoulder into the door and it swings shut with a wooden thud. He leans against it, and the projections beyond rattle the handle, shouting indignantly. Arthur glares at Mal out of the corner of his eye, only to start in surprise to see she's aimed her rifle at him. "Mal ...!"
"Oh, Arthur," Mal tsks, shaking her head. "Dom doesn't pay you to think of these things. Don't feel too badly."
She wraps her finger around the trigger and three rounds pump out, tearing into Arthur's stomach and lower spine. Arthur screams and spasms, collapsing against his will. He hits the doorknob with his skull on the way down; his vision wavers dangerously. The one mercy is that his body is still blocking the door, and it will take a bit of time before the trapped projections manage to shove the door open with enough force to move him.
It's probably also a mercy that Arthur can't feel his legs right now. He chokes up blood.
Mal's fingers card into the hair at his temple, prying it up from its gelled stiffness. "Oh, Arthur, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she's whispering. "I didn't mean to shoot you. It was an accident. Will you forgive me?"
Arthur is startled into a laugh that hurts so much his vision blacks out. "Safety," he gurgles out, groping for the Browning in his holster. Slender fingers find his own and guide his hand to the grip, help him lift the gun, press it to the underside of his chin. The pounding in his head could be the projections on the other side of the door or the blood in his ears, he's not sure which.
Mal pulls the trigger for him.
*
"This is more comfortable," Cobb marvels, holstering his gun after Arthur helps him into the straps. "But it's hardly concealed ..."
"Why do you think I get my suits tailored?" Arthur asks mildly. Looking good is important, but a comfortably concealed gun plays no small part. But he reaches for the Beretta in Cobb's holster and tugs it out with practiced ease. "However, if you decide to use one ..." He cocks the gun. "Don't. Forget the safety." He squeezes the trigger. Cobb flinches, but nothing happens; the safety is on. Arthur flips the gun over and hands it back to Cobb grip-first. "Seriously. There are things you could accidentally shoot off that you'll never get back."
Cobb chuckles at that, but he studies the lever, flicking his thumb against it. "I'll remember," he promises.
*
Cobb stops designing levels a month later.
iii. judas iscariot did it for love
It's not very often that a mark realizes he or she is dreaming. Arthur is slightly surprised by how explicitly this must be stated and how the inconsistencies must be pointed out for even well-trained subjects to notice that the city they are in isn't real, or that the businessmen flying to work in jetpacks are pure fantasy. It's a blessing in every way.
This is one of those rare times where the mark has figured it out.
Arthur's the dreamer, so it's no surprise that the subconscious chases him down ruthlessly. Mr. Cutter is untrained, however, so his nightclub patrons aren't particularly well-armed, if they're armed at all; the problem is that their current architect isn't intensely skilled at labyrinth design, so there just isn't enough places to lose the projections attacking en masse. (This was such a simple job, a blackmail job, not particularly well paid; a test run for Kimberly, really, and now Arthur has conclusively failed her.)
He's cornered on a stairwell and wastes all thirteen bullets in his last clip on the first wave of projections; the next wave struggles to clamber over the bodies of their fallen comrades and Arthur chucks the gun at the head of one unbalanced young man, who topples over the railing to a quickly forgotten death. Arthur braces himself for the approaching mob, putting up his fists, and hopes that Cobb gets the job done early enough to kick Arthur out of the dream before he has to blow himself up. Grenades are never a fun way to go.
He punches a guy in the throat, elbows a bikini-clad woman in the back before she stomps on his toes, breaks the nose of another, snaps the arm of the man that grabs his tie, kicks someone in the groin, punches someone else in the solar plexus, and then there's a loud rumble and suddenly Arthur goes flying upwards. He bangs his head on the ceiling twelve feet up and hurtles back down so hard his legs fly out from under him.
Fucking learn how to drive, Arthur thinks of their man topside, the 'taxi driver' hauling their sleeping bodies around Edmonton, but it doesn't save him from the projections that fall on him, crushing him to the stairs hard enough to make his ribs creak. Curled fingers and nails tear at his clothes and exposed neck, feet kick at his sides; Arthur instinctively tries to curl up and protect his face, but a boot finds his eye before he can get his arms over his head. It's better to not protect his vital regions and hope a projection lands a lucky blow but it's impossible to violate his natural instincts so completely.
He's a little surprised when he hears voices over his head snarling, "Get off, get off!" And the hands gradually release him. Arthur dares to lift his head; it's the bouncers from the nightclub, four abnormally tall and muscled men - perhaps Mr. Cutter's idea of ideal bruisers - approaching. Arthur pulls back a fist to punch a kneecap, depth perception rapidly being shot by his swelling left eye.
When the first bouncer gets close enough he nails the guy in juncture of his knee and shin; the man howls and staggers, and Arthur gathers his legs under himself, surging to his feet. He jabs at the throat of the first bouncer, who is caught defenseless and gags, but even in this narrow space the other lead bruiser is agile and a little too quick. Arthur puts up an arm to block the punch from thug number two and is thrown off-balance by the sheer force of it; the hitter follows it up with a sturdy knee to Arthur's stomach. The breath whooshes out of Arthur and he half-falls down three steps into the waiting arms of the mob of subconscious, who grip his arms and waist with bruising force. Arthur struggles to wrench free, but when bruiser two steps forward with a leer, cracking his knuckles, he ends up leveraging their force; leaning back into their grip, Arthur delivers a drop kick that catches the thug in the jaw on the upswing. The bouncer falls back and is steadied by thugs one and three, before the fourth, and biggest one, shoulders forward and stomps on Arthur's foot.
Arthur grits his teeth and hisses in pain; the bruiser fists his beefy fingers around Arthur's tie and yanks him as far forward as he can while Arthur's being held in place by projections. "The boss wants to see you," he breathes. His breath smells like rotten eggs. Mr. Cutter goes in for the stereotypes, it appears.
"By all means," Arthur pants, because as long as he's not dead the dream isn't collapsing, and at the moment that's more important.
The bouncer shoves Arthur back against the crowd and - just for good measure, maybe - socks him in the stomach. Arthur doubles over, the breath knocked out of him, and he's still trying to suck in air when thugs one and two take his arms and yank them back, dragging him to his knees; one of them roughly yanks his pants legs up, checking for hidden weapons, before running his fingers roughly over the rest of his body. He finds the grenade in Arthur's pocket and tosses it another bouncer, who juggles it nervously before gingerly holding it to his side. "Clean," the bruiser says, and Arthur's manhandled back to his feet and up the stairs.
Arthur limps along between the two thugs holding his arms, although he could probably lift his feet and be carried all the way there the way these projections are built. His foot hurts like a bitch and he suspects a bone or two is broken and his breath comes very, very short, but in two hours and thirty-two minutes of dreamtime at the very longest he'll wake up and this will all be phantom pains, eased away by a bath and a proper night's sleep. (After which, in all likelihood, he'll be re-planning this same extraction the way things seem to be going.) After passing by several dingy doors (actually the same three doors twice: the floor is an infinite loop) the thugs settle on the one door Arthur hoped they would pass. He's half-dragged through the entrance of Mr. Cutter's office and if being overpowered by Mr. Cutter's subconscious wasn't upsetting enough, the scene here is something of a nightmare.
The office is in utter disarray, paper everywhere and glass littering the floor; the safe tucked into the corner appears to be undisturbed. Mr. Cutter sits behind his desk with his feet up on the edge, smiling diffidently. Cobb is on his knees with a sallow-faced projection holding a gun against his neck. But Cobb only gives Arthur's entrance a perfunctory glance: partially because it's better if they pretend not to know each other, but mostly because perched against the desk, fingers wrapped around the maple edge, is Mal.
"Hello, Arthur," Mal says, smiling and straightening. Cobb follows her every movement with hungry eyes. "Were they rough with you?"
Arthur glares at her, tight-lipped, but the bouncer holding Arthur's left arm helpfully informs her, "He was rough with us, first. Tough for a skinny guy!"
Cutter snaps his fingers on both hands to grab everyone's attention, dropping his feet back to the floor with an audible thud. The floor vibrates faintly, either with music (not actually) from the nightclub or the taxi topside. "Gentlemen - and ladies," he says with a grand nod to Mal - "I've called this meeting because it has been brought to my attention that someone is trying to steal from me." He smiles so widely the corner of his mouth twitches. "Now, I've caught the thieves but I have been informed - helpfully - that they are working for someone else. And I am ever so curious who that might be." His gaze swivels from Arthur to Cobb and back, as if he can make them blurt the answers with the force of his stare alone. "First one to tell me doesn't get shot."
Of course, Cobb immediately speaks up. "Mr. Cutter, I'm afraid Mal has misled you. Shooting us won't--"
Cutter nods, and the sallow-faced man lifts his gun, points it at Arthur, and shoots him in the hip.
"Ah--!" Agony blooms up Arthur's side and down his thigh; he takes short little breaths through his teeth, sagging in the arms of the bouncers and grimacing. His ears are ringing, but he hears Cobb shout and through blurred vision sees him surge upwards, only to be forced back down by the sallow-faced gunman and one of the two free-handed thugs.
"Tick tock, Mr. Cobb!" Cutter warns, almost laughing. Arthur dimly thinks that they're in trouble: Cutter knows Cobb's name, which could be a problem later. Cutter's amusement is no surprise; untoward things happen around him topside as well, so it's hardly shocking he's enjoying this kind of power in a dream.
"Mal, why are you doing this," Cobb snarls.
"Because stealing is wrong," Mal says, impatient. "Arthur has been such a poor influence on you." She sways towards the point man. "Isn't that true, Arthur?"
Arthur's having a hard time thinking straight; he can't formulate an answer to that question. Cobb keeps right on talking. "He gave me something to keep me alive, to give me some hope of getting back to our--!"
"This is all fascinating," Cutter interrupts. Arthur sees him make some small gesture and then he's being jostled in the grip of the bouncers before a thumb digs into the bullet wound in his side. Arthur's too short of breath to scream; he almost blacks out instead, instinctively wrenching as far away from the painful pressure as he can. His head starts spinning and his vision fades. Cutter says something else; Arthur can't make sense of it. Cobb is shouting. Arthur muzzily wishes it was possible to lose consciousness in a dream, but that's not how it works.
The thumb finally goes; Arthur is lightheaded and trembling in reaction. Someone with a huge hand slaps his cheek twice in quick succession, probably trying to revive him. (If only he was getting that slap topside.) But while his hip throbs, his sight and hearing slowly return. At some point he was lowered to his knees, but his arms are still pulled back by beefy arms at an angle threatening to dislocate one or both shoulders. His breath is ragged and quick.
Less than two and a half hours until the kick. Arthur can take this. (He's not sure he can, but he will.)
"You are one cold-hearted bastard, Mr. Cobb," Cutter observes. Arthur lifts his head groggily and sees that Cobb is white-faced, his gaze flicking between Mal, Arthur, and the mark. He's struggling. Hang on, Cobb. If they give away their employers, they'll likely never find work in the extraction business again.
Mal crouches in front of Cobb. "Just tell him, Dom," she urges, pleading.
"Cobb," Arthur says warningly. It takes a lot of effort just to say his name. Cobb's head jerks at the sound of Arthur's voice, but Arthur is immediately distracted by a heel crunching down on his ankle.
His foot slips sideways and his ankle wrenches, almost bouncing off the floor before the pressure lets up. Arthur manages to not make a sound (with no small help from his cracked rib), but his eyes tear up and he holds his breath to keep back a whimper. It's either badly sprained or broken; Arthur doesn't dare trying to move it to find out. He pants for breath, hanging as far forward as he possibly can in the bouncer's grip, and concentrates on the cement floor.
"Arthur. The young man that riled up my patrons. I'm told you killed fifteen people for a distraction!" Cutter sounds impressed rather than disgusted. "Strange priorities you have. Considering saving your own skin, yet?"
Arthur breathes, uncomfortably aware of how his body shudders with the effort of it. There's something strange about what Cutter's saying. He can't quite get his head around it.
"Wait too long and you'll bleed out," Cutter warns. "The clock's running down ..."
He doesn't know that if we die, we wake up. That's not exactly a surprise - he's untrained. Why would he know that? But it's more than that. Calling the projections 'people' and 'patrons'... He doesn't know this is a dream? He thinks this is real? And with that realization: What is Mal playing at?
He lifts his eyes (although he can barely see out of the swollen one) but not his chin, trying to determine if Cobb has reached the same conclusion; Cobb's eyes are darting back and forth across the ground. Arthur knows him well enough to know that Cobb is trying to decide what to do with this new information.
Cutter sighs when Arthur says nothing. "Break his fingers," he says dismissively, waving a hand. Arthur stiffens against his will; his hip seizes and he thinks he can feel a fresh spill of hot blood against his thigh. It makes him dizzy all over again.
"Oh, come on, can't you see he's going to pass out from blood loss soon? What use is that?" Cobb demands, lifting his head sharply.
"Wait," Mal says, and then she's filling his vision, kneeling in front of him with the imploring look she used to sic on Dom when she wanted something insignificant, like a coffee from the shop down the street. "Arthur, please," she whispers, so close that if he fell forward he'd kiss her. "This is so bad for Dom. He wants out. Let him have a way out, guilt-free. Don't be so selfish."
Arthur tries to gauge how much longer he has to endure this, but he's lost all sense of time. "You call me selfish," he replies breathlessly. "That's a laugh."
Mal's scowl is thunderous. She surges to her feet. "Do whatever you want," she says to Cutter, her tone dismissive but full of vicious undercurrent. "The slim one, Arthur - you'd be amazed what he can endure." She tosses her hair impetuously.
"Mal, no!" Cobb protests, but Cutter is giving Arthur a speculating look. "Come now, Miss, I'm hardly sadistic," he says, but his eyes tell a different story. He twists to look at Dom. "You can end this any time, Mr. Cobb. Just the name of your employer and I let you take your friend to the hospital."
Cobb grinds his teeth together so hard Arthur can hear them clicking fifteen feet away. The bouncers drag Arthur to his feet and across the room towards the desk; the distance is blotted out by the pain of his wrenched ankle and hip and he barely tries to walk. They shove him to his knees and push one hand onto the flat surface; Arthur fights them for each finger, holding a fist as long as he can. It takes over a minute for a thug to get his hand flat and fingers splayed.
"One at a time," Cutter says, leaning forward. Cobb is breathing harshly through his nose. Arthur's attention narrows down to five soon-to-be-mutilated digits and he's terrified, no matter how hard he tries not to be.
Non, rien de rien ...
Non, je ne regrette rien ...
Arthur takes a deep breath and holds it. The kick is coming early. Something must have happened topside. Three more minutes. He can definitely do three more minutes. He tries to catch Cobb's gaze, to let him know, but Cobb won't look at him.
Beyond him, Mal scowls. Her eyes are unnaturally dark.
The bouncer lifts the heavy metal ashtray on Cutter's desk and brings it down.
iv. control of the subject is never absolute
Arthur leans on the railing of the boat and gazes out into the dark.
Nash has outdone himself this time, Arthur has to admit. The cruise boat is elaborately done; there is an onboard casino, dance club, three restaurants, lounge rooms, and a plethora of private rooms, forming an intricate maze that keeps even Arthur confident that he can lose a mob of projections anytime he wants to. Cobb knows nothing about the layout, and while he's on this level - cracking the safe at the end of the maze in about twenty minutes of dreamtime, if everything goes according to plan - Arthur's feeling good about their chances.
Once again, he's the dreamer; they've left Nash alone on the top level of the dream. Eames is keeping the mark company as her fiance. (Arthur, in a fit of what he now feels might have been paranoia, gave Eames a picture of Mal and advised him to keep her at a distance from the mark without explanation. Eames accepted the directive easily enough, but doubtlessly he's done his own research and drawn some conclusions. Arthur feels badly for the violation of Cobb's confidence, but he simply can't take the risk.) This leaves Arthur with little to do but keep an eye on the projections for signs of agitation. In a few minutes he'll find Cobb and tail him through the maze, drawing off suspicious projections. And - possibly - Mal.
Mal, who will doubtless show up at some point in a two-level dream. Arthur is a little surprised he hasn't seen her yet, but maybe she's found Cobb instead. The idea is hardly a comfort. Arthur checks his watch again; Cobb should be passing by any minute now. If he doesn't, Arthur will have to go in his place.
A splash in the water far below draws Arthur's attention, and he can't help peering curiously into the dark waves for some floating object. What he sees instead makes him recoil. The gentle lapping of ocean water is disturbed by a frenzy of bubbles and ominous dorsal fins: at least half a dozen sharks leaping upon whatever was thrown into the sea.
Arthur's hair stands on end. It's not that he has anything to fear from the sharks, but the cruise is in the Baltic Sea. There are varieties of shark there, but they're not well known and Arthur didn't dream them.
"It seems Miss Isud is afraid of shark attacks," Mal whispers in Arthur's ear.
Arthur hates, almost more than anything else, that Mal can sidle into his personal space without his noticing. He stiffens and doesn't turn to look at her. "And that's why she's dreaming them," he says in a flat tone. Although it actually makes sense. Cobb picked the cruise as the setting because she and her fiance will be on a real cruise in two weeks. It's the first time Isud will set foot on a boat. Arthur agreed (and Eames, not that he particularly cares that Eames agrees) because anticipatory dreams are so common. This revelation is not a particularly big deal, but it's a sign of the strength of the phobia that she's brought in projections of the creatures.
Arthur turns to look at the biggest shark in the dream. "What are you doing here, Mal?" he asks.
She's shorter than she usually seems; Mal is dangling a heeled sandal from her pointer finger as she leans on the railing. The light salt breeze tugs her hair into wisps across her face. Arthur wonders where the other sandal is for all of a few seconds before Mal smiles, playfully, and tosses the shoe into the water. It makes the same splash as the first shoe - for that was what hit the water before - and results in the same feeding frenzy. "I think she watched Jaws one too many times," Mal says, amused, instead of answering the question. (Not that Arthur really needs an answer. Cobb is dreaming, and therefore, Mal is here.)
Arthur reflexively checks his watch. Cobb is running a bit late. When Mal reaches out and covers his wrist with a slim hand, he jerks away. "Arthur," Mal says, hurt, and Arthur feels his gut twist.
"You don't get to admonish me," Arthur hisses, turning to rest his back on the railing and scanning the deck for Cobb. "You're not Mal."
"Yes I am." Arthur glances at her just long enough to see the curve of upturned lips, a rouge-warm cheekbone, flyaway brunette hair. "To Dom, I am."
Arthur thins his lips in response. His fingers twitch with the desire to snap her neck, shoot her, end her, but he can't do it. He can't do it because the projections milling around the deck will notice. But deeply, he knows he can't because that is Dom's job, not his. But isn't it Arthur's job to pick up Cobb's slack? He hesitates.
Cobb rounds the corner (finally!) and Arthur straightens a little in response. "Stay away from him, Mal," he warns, preparing to follow Cobb as originally planned (steeling himself to kill Cobb's projection of his wife).
"I can't believe you just said that to me," Mal snarls. "I can't believe you just said that to his wife."
The railing is low and Arthur's attention isn't where it should be. Later he will think that he pretty much deserved it when Mal hooked her ankle behind his, shoved him backwards with all her strength, and he toppled headfirst over the edge of the cruise boat and down, down, hard enough against the water that he's dizzy from the impact.
The sharks are on him in seconds.
v. nobody's a saint
Arthur doesn't quite know how to take it when Mal rescues him from the mob of infuriated projections doing their level best to tear him limb from limb. He's wheezing from a punctured lung (stilettos, he really hates stilettos), a froth of pink at the corner of his mouth, and he can't bring up his left arm to wipe it away with his shoulder dislocated. His ankle is broken and one kneecap shattered, his ribs are cracked, his head is ringing, his nose is bleeding. Getting killed by unarmed projections is very very high on Arthur's list of Deaths to Avoid, but when Mal drags him backwards into an elevator and the doors slam shut, he genuinely wishes he'd been left with the mob.
He lays on his back on the floor of the elevator, struggling for every breath, and Mal bends over him. "Why are you still here," she says, not quite asking a question.
Arthur tries for words but he can't get any breath behind them. He's been asking himself the same question about Mal. He sluggishly crawls his right hand over his torso, seeking to cover the sucking chest wound stealing his air.
The elevator stops. Arthur expects it's Mal who's done it, hit the emergency button or otherwise, but when the doors open he whips his head towards the sound, tensing in preparation for the swarm attack surely coming their way. But only one pair of shoes stumbles into the elevator, stopping short an inch from Arthur's nose. The doors slide closed on a roar of approaching voices and feet and Cobb says, "Mal?" Like she's a huge fucking surprise. "Arthur," he adds belatedly, bending down (the motion sends a rush of cool air on Arthur's body, rustles his torn clothes), and he bends close, finding the wound Arthur's trying to cover and pressing his hand firmly down. Cobb is cradling one arm close to his body and he's bleeding near his temple, his jacket lost somewhere, and Arthur knows he's trying to beat the projections to the information. (Arthur knows his own efforts have been successful because Cobb is much less worse for the wear.)
"There goes Plan B," Arthur manages with the puncture covered. Cobb raises and eyebrow and he explains, "Shoot Nash out. Extract it myself in the collapse."
"Being able to walk would help," Cobb agrees, voice weirdly soft, but he's lifted his head to look at Mal. "You ..."
"I didn't do this," Mal says. "I saved him. Ask him yourself."
"Why?" Cobb is more confused by this than by the times she has killed Arthur; it shows in his voice. Arthur feels bile rise in his throat at the implications. (Sometimes he forgets that Mal is a projection of Cobb's mind.)
"He is so lifelike," Mal murmurs. She bends her long legs and leans over Arthur, head close to Cobb's, and Cobb watches her warily. She touches Arthur's temple, strokes her thumb down to his chin. "Sometimes I forget he isn't even real."
"This is the real Arthur," Cobb whispers intimately in her ear, his voice cracking.
"He can't be," Mal replies. Arthur says, "What," but it's barely a whisper. Cobb's hand isn't giving the pressure he needs. "Only a fool would stay with you. I have no choice. But you--" This is directed at Arthur, and her thumb presses down on his throat, not hard enough to bruise, but a threat. "You should have run."
"Get off him," Cobb snaps, wrapping his free hand around Mal's fingers and pulling them from Arthur's throat. Arthur registers the elevator slowing, stopping, and he looks at the floor. Extraction level. The projections will be unbelievably thick. Arthur can't stand, much less fight. Cobb doesn't have a gun or he'd have shot Arthur out of the dream already. There's nothing left for him but to wait for the kick.
Cobb takes his hand off Arthur's chest and stands, pulling Mal with him. "Come with me," he says to her. He bends over Arthur, who is nearly delirious from lack of air. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Arthur thins his lips, struggling for breath through his nose, and gives Cobb his best unimpressed look. "But this is the best way I know to save you from myself."
He straightens, pulls away, and Arthur stares after him, trying to curl onto his side to grab his attention, but it hurts too much and he lets out a barking shout and finds he's almost suffocating. Cobb takes Mal's arm, looks back at Arthur: Arthur glares back. Mal smiles.
The doors start to close, but just before they do, an unpinned grenade fetches against Arthur's pelvis.
He just catches a glimpse of Cobb's drawn face before the elevator car explodes.
fin
Title: Five Times Mal's Shade Wanted Arthur Out of the Picture
Author: vikki
Characters: Arthur, Cobb, Mal
Wordcount: ~6900
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; torture, violence
Summary: what it says on the tin. Written for this prompt at inception_kink.
i. look both ways
Arthur's driving like a madman through his own cityscape.
When Cobb first painted the vaguely Prague-like city almost every car was some variety of foreign luxury vehicle, and everyone drove very similarly: being Arthur's projections, they were fast and ran yellow lights but always used their turn signals. Arthur wonders if subconscious projections are different when one is aware of them, because the mark's subconscious has turned the streets into some equivalent of rush hour hell in New York City, which Arthur doubts the mark likes navigating.
Arthur needs to be across town two minutes ago, though, so he weaves through traffic, knocks cars aside, runs red lights and generally subjects himself to an uncomfortable amount of attention in exchange for speed until he's halfway through an intersection and two small children run out in front of his car.
They might be projections, but even Arthur has base instincts; he slams on the brakes, skidding to a halt, and the children bolt, giggling and holding hands, across the street - blond-haired and no older than two and four.
Arthur's heart is pounding in his chest as he leans his head out the window. "Phillipa? James?" he calls, startled, but he never sees their faces. It's just so unusual to see projections of children in the mind of a single man, and they look so similar ...
Everyone is honking at him and Arthur narrows his eyes, prepares to start driving again, when the passenger side door is opened. He spins, reaching for his gun, and freezes with his hand still in his jacket.
Mal smiles at him, elegant in a dark blue sundress and straw weave hat, and she slides into her seat. "Go, Arthur," she says.
"How did you get in here, Mal?" Arthur asks, ignoring the projections that are getting out of their cars to scream at him. He's going to be torn apart if he waits here much longer.
Mal laughs coyly. "When did Dom ever leave me behind?"
She has a point, Arthur can't help thinking.
"Now, drive," she commands loftily, a passenger to her chauffeur. "Unless you want Mr. Gustaff's projections to take you to pieces."
Arthur drives.
Cobb's projection of Mal is strange. Arthur's known that for months, distantly, but this is the first time he's seen her amongst the projections of a foreign subconscious. She is sullen, distant, the first to tear apart a dreamer when Cobb is the subject. But then there are times like these, where Arthur drives down the sidewalk towards his destination, hitting anything and anyone in his way, projections of policemen chasing his car, and Mal's shade is making small talk about the stores lining the streets.
"Oh, the Banana Republic. It seems strange for Mr. Gustaff to have that store here. Godiva Chocolatier, really? He must have a wife to please!"
Arthur swerves around a corner and takes the side-view mirror off the passenger side of the car when he scrapes past a parking meter. Mal doesn't even flinch.
"If I had time right now," Arthur grates out, "I would kill you." Not that he minds the small talk, which is strangely nostalgic given the situation, but the moment Cobb lays eyes on her his attention will be shot to pieces.
"That's a lie," Mal says harshly. Arthur spares a moment to glare at her, and one of the policeman projections shoots out his left rear tire. "You love me too much."
"No," Arthur snarls, looking back for a foolish moment to shoot through his rear window with a splinter of safety glass, "I loved you enough --" he's going to hit a street lamp, he loses his gun wrenching the wheel sideways - "--to kill you!"
"If only Dom loved me enough to kill himself," Mal shouts over the scream of sirens and car horns. "But I suppose in the end every man is selfish!"
When Arthur banks around another curve and has to fight the deflating tire for control, she pitches sideways against him. There's a screech of metal and Arthur wonders how much further the car will get them just before Mal slams her heel against his instep. The car accelerates. Arthur swears and grips the wheel tightly with one hand, trying for his gun in the back seat, but Mal coils her arms around his bicep and clings, cheek to his shoulder, as she grinds his foot against the accelerator.
"Have you ever wondered, Arthur, what happens if you reach the edge of a dream?"
"Dom doesn't build edges," Arthur protests, but that's not true either: he leaves empty space in cities, sometimes, allows for a free flow of new traffic, especially in extended dreams like this one. They're driving towards an edge right now. Arthur slams his free foot against Mal's ankle. She gasps into his shoulder and Arthur is guilt-stricken despite himself. The car - what's left of it - is screeching down the road on a rim and three tires and the wheel is useless.
Arthur stomps his free foot down on the brake. The car slides, spins, and practically catapults itself sideways, flipping over once like a Hollywood slow-motion stunt and right off the edge of the cityscape.
"I've always wondered," Mal breathes, still clinging to him as the car falls.
Arthur doesn't wonder. He doesn't want to know.
He builds furiously, and when the car crunches, upside-down, to the asphalt, splitting his head between the steering wheel and roof, the last sound he hears is Mal's exhilarated laugh.
ii. always check your safety
Cobb doesn't start carrying a gun everywhere until after Mal dies. He sticks it down the back of his pants like a movie mobster, much to Arthur's dismay.
"This," Arthur says in a patronizing tone, "is a shoulder holster." He holds it up and reflects that, when it's not being worn, it looks more complicated than it is, buckles and straps like a strange bondage contraption. "And if you use one, you'll find it much more comfortable than keeping your gun in your waistband." Cobb looks bemused, but he consents to take his Beretta out of his belt. Arthur's pulls his chin back in surprised horror. "For God's sake, Cobb, why is the safety off!?"
"Oh." Cobb looks marginally surprised, and presses the lever back into place. "Forgot about that." Before Arthur can manage to do more than click his jaw shut, he continues, "Show me how you wear that - thing."
*
In Cobb's dreams, guns don't have a safety. Arthur's Browning GP35 wavers between a Glock and a Beretta alternately, and carries between 7 and 17 rounds depending on how much attention Cobb pays to some idea of 'realistic' action. On the other hand recoil is minimal, and until Malory and Dominic Cobb confirm that killing the population of a dream has no effect on the subject's mind the gun has no use but suicide shots to his own temple, so Arthur deals with the uncertainty with no complaint. Once Cobb starts handling real weapons his dream weaponry begins to settle out to something truer to life, but the safety never quite makes it to the dream gun designs. Arthur wonders if Cobb subconsciously wants to accidentally shoot himself in the foot.
It wouldn't actually be much of a surprise. Cobb is fairly effective at doing so in a less literal way.
*
Arthur is no fan of how Cobb likes to distract marks - specifically, he likes to tell them exactly what he's about to do. "Ms. Feretti, I am the best extractor. Therefore I am best suited to the job of keeping your subconscious safe from intruders."
Ms. Feretti looks like she's more interested in Cobb for his looks than for his skills. She dips her finger into her water glass and glides the pad of her middle finger around the edge; a high-pitched hum emerges. She watches Cobb with a tiny smile on her lips, her long legs crossed. Her Valentino dress is red and striking, revealing without giving much at all away. "Do tell me more, Mr. Titan," she purrs.
Cobb is still too raw from Mal (will always be too raw from Mal) to flirt back; if he notices her tone, he gives no indication. "I can train your subconscious to protect itself. Dreams, when constructed by a lucid dreamer, are often extraordinarily realistic and the subconscious populates it accordingly ..."
Arthur enjoys Cobb's lectures, but they only have eight minutes left topside and that's about an hour and forty minutes of dreamtime. He checks his watch surreptitiously and clears his throat. "Pardon me, Ms. Feretti, Mr. Cobb, I should ..." he tilts his head towards the door.
"Oh, of course," Cobb agrees as if Arthur had planned the interruption. He smiles at Ms. Feretti. "Mr. Black has a previous appointment. If you'll allow him to be excused?"
"Please," Ms. Feretti agrees, never even glancing Arthur's way, and Arthur stands, nods coolly to them both, and lets himself out of the room.
The safe Cobb built into the dream is three floors sideways in Ms. Feretti's office, as far from the conference room where they started as possible. Arthur slinks through the maze, a little surprised by how mundane Cobb chose to make the decor for this dream - motivational posters, cubicles, fake houseplants of suspiciously fine quality lining the dreamspace. A closer look at one such motivational poster reveals that Ms. Feretti's subconscious has given them a slightly disturbing marionette theme. Arthur hastens onwards, past hangers full of designer skirts and frilled dresses and the unusually beautiful and well-dressed projections pushing them in a harried manner.
The closer to the goal he gets, the more hostile the subconscious projections are, jostling him in the hallways and glaring when he passes by. He's not in much danger since he's not the dreamer; Cobb has that privilege, which is much safer in this scenario (and Arthur has been on the business end of a stiletto once before, so he's especially relieved). He turns down a quiet hallway leading to the spacious office designed to suit Ms. Feretti's sensibilities and reaches for his silencer when an office door abruptly opens and Arthur slams face-first into it.
He reels back, grasping his nose and choking off a surprised grunt; it takes him a moment to get his bearings, drop his hands, and attempt to look as if he belongs here. (He does look the part, dressed in three-piece Armani.) But when the door closes and the projection is revealed, it's Mal. She's stunningly out of place in a Versace ballgown and Prada stilettos, manicured nails resting on her hip and the trail of her gown pooling expertly around her feet, but it's the M4A1 Carbine slung across her waist that has Arthur's attention.
He should never have taught Cobb how to use an assault rifle.
"Arthur," Mal says, smiling. "Fancy meeting you here."
Arthur thins his lips. "Mal," he whispers, keeping his voice low and glancing back to ensure they're still alone. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why shouldn't I be?" Mal asks, raising her chin. "This is my husband's dream. And--" she glances around at the oak walls and utilitarian decor before blowing a strand of loose hair out of her face. It's so lifelike Arthur can't help staring. "--it bothers me, to see how much you rub off on him. Such a pedestrian dream. No creativity."
"It's an office," Arthur replies, annoyed and not the least because Mal is right: the level design was Arthur's suggestion. "Now - are you going to let me pass or do I need to kill you?"
"An empty threat," Mal teases, and as if to prove it she taps him lightly on the nose with one finger. Arthur backs up a step in surprise. "I've had an idea, thanks to Dom's little diversion," she continues, now resting both hands on her rifle. (Arthur reaches into his shoulder holster for his own.) "The subconscious is so clever; it learns faster than the subject so often, yes? So I thought: why bother with the middle man? Why not simply teach the subconscious itself?"
Mal nods at something beyond the door still open from her initial intrusion. Arthur feels something in the pit of his stomach drop, and a moment of lightheadedness makes him feel as if he's falling. It's too early for the kick, he thinks. Beyond the door there is the sound of stilettos clacking on the floor, the distinctive clicks of weapons being handled.
Arthur slams his shoulder into the door and it swings shut with a wooden thud. He leans against it, and the projections beyond rattle the handle, shouting indignantly. Arthur glares at Mal out of the corner of his eye, only to start in surprise to see she's aimed her rifle at him. "Mal ...!"
"Oh, Arthur," Mal tsks, shaking her head. "Dom doesn't pay you to think of these things. Don't feel too badly."
She wraps her finger around the trigger and three rounds pump out, tearing into Arthur's stomach and lower spine. Arthur screams and spasms, collapsing against his will. He hits the doorknob with his skull on the way down; his vision wavers dangerously. The one mercy is that his body is still blocking the door, and it will take a bit of time before the trapped projections manage to shove the door open with enough force to move him.
It's probably also a mercy that Arthur can't feel his legs right now. He chokes up blood.
Mal's fingers card into the hair at his temple, prying it up from its gelled stiffness. "Oh, Arthur, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she's whispering. "I didn't mean to shoot you. It was an accident. Will you forgive me?"
Arthur is startled into a laugh that hurts so much his vision blacks out. "Safety," he gurgles out, groping for the Browning in his holster. Slender fingers find his own and guide his hand to the grip, help him lift the gun, press it to the underside of his chin. The pounding in his head could be the projections on the other side of the door or the blood in his ears, he's not sure which.
Mal pulls the trigger for him.
*
"This is more comfortable," Cobb marvels, holstering his gun after Arthur helps him into the straps. "But it's hardly concealed ..."
"Why do you think I get my suits tailored?" Arthur asks mildly. Looking good is important, but a comfortably concealed gun plays no small part. But he reaches for the Beretta in Cobb's holster and tugs it out with practiced ease. "However, if you decide to use one ..." He cocks the gun. "Don't. Forget the safety." He squeezes the trigger. Cobb flinches, but nothing happens; the safety is on. Arthur flips the gun over and hands it back to Cobb grip-first. "Seriously. There are things you could accidentally shoot off that you'll never get back."
Cobb chuckles at that, but he studies the lever, flicking his thumb against it. "I'll remember," he promises.
*
Cobb stops designing levels a month later.
iii. judas iscariot did it for love
It's not very often that a mark realizes he or she is dreaming. Arthur is slightly surprised by how explicitly this must be stated and how the inconsistencies must be pointed out for even well-trained subjects to notice that the city they are in isn't real, or that the businessmen flying to work in jetpacks are pure fantasy. It's a blessing in every way.
This is one of those rare times where the mark has figured it out.
Arthur's the dreamer, so it's no surprise that the subconscious chases him down ruthlessly. Mr. Cutter is untrained, however, so his nightclub patrons aren't particularly well-armed, if they're armed at all; the problem is that their current architect isn't intensely skilled at labyrinth design, so there just isn't enough places to lose the projections attacking en masse. (This was such a simple job, a blackmail job, not particularly well paid; a test run for Kimberly, really, and now Arthur has conclusively failed her.)
He's cornered on a stairwell and wastes all thirteen bullets in his last clip on the first wave of projections; the next wave struggles to clamber over the bodies of their fallen comrades and Arthur chucks the gun at the head of one unbalanced young man, who topples over the railing to a quickly forgotten death. Arthur braces himself for the approaching mob, putting up his fists, and hopes that Cobb gets the job done early enough to kick Arthur out of the dream before he has to blow himself up. Grenades are never a fun way to go.
He punches a guy in the throat, elbows a bikini-clad woman in the back before she stomps on his toes, breaks the nose of another, snaps the arm of the man that grabs his tie, kicks someone in the groin, punches someone else in the solar plexus, and then there's a loud rumble and suddenly Arthur goes flying upwards. He bangs his head on the ceiling twelve feet up and hurtles back down so hard his legs fly out from under him.
Fucking learn how to drive, Arthur thinks of their man topside, the 'taxi driver' hauling their sleeping bodies around Edmonton, but it doesn't save him from the projections that fall on him, crushing him to the stairs hard enough to make his ribs creak. Curled fingers and nails tear at his clothes and exposed neck, feet kick at his sides; Arthur instinctively tries to curl up and protect his face, but a boot finds his eye before he can get his arms over his head. It's better to not protect his vital regions and hope a projection lands a lucky blow but it's impossible to violate his natural instincts so completely.
He's a little surprised when he hears voices over his head snarling, "Get off, get off!" And the hands gradually release him. Arthur dares to lift his head; it's the bouncers from the nightclub, four abnormally tall and muscled men - perhaps Mr. Cutter's idea of ideal bruisers - approaching. Arthur pulls back a fist to punch a kneecap, depth perception rapidly being shot by his swelling left eye.
When the first bouncer gets close enough he nails the guy in juncture of his knee and shin; the man howls and staggers, and Arthur gathers his legs under himself, surging to his feet. He jabs at the throat of the first bouncer, who is caught defenseless and gags, but even in this narrow space the other lead bruiser is agile and a little too quick. Arthur puts up an arm to block the punch from thug number two and is thrown off-balance by the sheer force of it; the hitter follows it up with a sturdy knee to Arthur's stomach. The breath whooshes out of Arthur and he half-falls down three steps into the waiting arms of the mob of subconscious, who grip his arms and waist with bruising force. Arthur struggles to wrench free, but when bruiser two steps forward with a leer, cracking his knuckles, he ends up leveraging their force; leaning back into their grip, Arthur delivers a drop kick that catches the thug in the jaw on the upswing. The bouncer falls back and is steadied by thugs one and three, before the fourth, and biggest one, shoulders forward and stomps on Arthur's foot.
Arthur grits his teeth and hisses in pain; the bruiser fists his beefy fingers around Arthur's tie and yanks him as far forward as he can while Arthur's being held in place by projections. "The boss wants to see you," he breathes. His breath smells like rotten eggs. Mr. Cutter goes in for the stereotypes, it appears.
"By all means," Arthur pants, because as long as he's not dead the dream isn't collapsing, and at the moment that's more important.
The bouncer shoves Arthur back against the crowd and - just for good measure, maybe - socks him in the stomach. Arthur doubles over, the breath knocked out of him, and he's still trying to suck in air when thugs one and two take his arms and yank them back, dragging him to his knees; one of them roughly yanks his pants legs up, checking for hidden weapons, before running his fingers roughly over the rest of his body. He finds the grenade in Arthur's pocket and tosses it another bouncer, who juggles it nervously before gingerly holding it to his side. "Clean," the bruiser says, and Arthur's manhandled back to his feet and up the stairs.
Arthur limps along between the two thugs holding his arms, although he could probably lift his feet and be carried all the way there the way these projections are built. His foot hurts like a bitch and he suspects a bone or two is broken and his breath comes very, very short, but in two hours and thirty-two minutes of dreamtime at the very longest he'll wake up and this will all be phantom pains, eased away by a bath and a proper night's sleep. (After which, in all likelihood, he'll be re-planning this same extraction the way things seem to be going.) After passing by several dingy doors (actually the same three doors twice: the floor is an infinite loop) the thugs settle on the one door Arthur hoped they would pass. He's half-dragged through the entrance of Mr. Cutter's office and if being overpowered by Mr. Cutter's subconscious wasn't upsetting enough, the scene here is something of a nightmare.
The office is in utter disarray, paper everywhere and glass littering the floor; the safe tucked into the corner appears to be undisturbed. Mr. Cutter sits behind his desk with his feet up on the edge, smiling diffidently. Cobb is on his knees with a sallow-faced projection holding a gun against his neck. But Cobb only gives Arthur's entrance a perfunctory glance: partially because it's better if they pretend not to know each other, but mostly because perched against the desk, fingers wrapped around the maple edge, is Mal.
"Hello, Arthur," Mal says, smiling and straightening. Cobb follows her every movement with hungry eyes. "Were they rough with you?"
Arthur glares at her, tight-lipped, but the bouncer holding Arthur's left arm helpfully informs her, "He was rough with us, first. Tough for a skinny guy!"
Cutter snaps his fingers on both hands to grab everyone's attention, dropping his feet back to the floor with an audible thud. The floor vibrates faintly, either with music (not actually) from the nightclub or the taxi topside. "Gentlemen - and ladies," he says with a grand nod to Mal - "I've called this meeting because it has been brought to my attention that someone is trying to steal from me." He smiles so widely the corner of his mouth twitches. "Now, I've caught the thieves but I have been informed - helpfully - that they are working for someone else. And I am ever so curious who that might be." His gaze swivels from Arthur to Cobb and back, as if he can make them blurt the answers with the force of his stare alone. "First one to tell me doesn't get shot."
Of course, Cobb immediately speaks up. "Mr. Cutter, I'm afraid Mal has misled you. Shooting us won't--"
Cutter nods, and the sallow-faced man lifts his gun, points it at Arthur, and shoots him in the hip.
"Ah--!" Agony blooms up Arthur's side and down his thigh; he takes short little breaths through his teeth, sagging in the arms of the bouncers and grimacing. His ears are ringing, but he hears Cobb shout and through blurred vision sees him surge upwards, only to be forced back down by the sallow-faced gunman and one of the two free-handed thugs.
"Tick tock, Mr. Cobb!" Cutter warns, almost laughing. Arthur dimly thinks that they're in trouble: Cutter knows Cobb's name, which could be a problem later. Cutter's amusement is no surprise; untoward things happen around him topside as well, so it's hardly shocking he's enjoying this kind of power in a dream.
"Mal, why are you doing this," Cobb snarls.
"Because stealing is wrong," Mal says, impatient. "Arthur has been such a poor influence on you." She sways towards the point man. "Isn't that true, Arthur?"
Arthur's having a hard time thinking straight; he can't formulate an answer to that question. Cobb keeps right on talking. "He gave me something to keep me alive, to give me some hope of getting back to our--!"
"This is all fascinating," Cutter interrupts. Arthur sees him make some small gesture and then he's being jostled in the grip of the bouncers before a thumb digs into the bullet wound in his side. Arthur's too short of breath to scream; he almost blacks out instead, instinctively wrenching as far away from the painful pressure as he can. His head starts spinning and his vision fades. Cutter says something else; Arthur can't make sense of it. Cobb is shouting. Arthur muzzily wishes it was possible to lose consciousness in a dream, but that's not how it works.
The thumb finally goes; Arthur is lightheaded and trembling in reaction. Someone with a huge hand slaps his cheek twice in quick succession, probably trying to revive him. (If only he was getting that slap topside.) But while his hip throbs, his sight and hearing slowly return. At some point he was lowered to his knees, but his arms are still pulled back by beefy arms at an angle threatening to dislocate one or both shoulders. His breath is ragged and quick.
Less than two and a half hours until the kick. Arthur can take this. (He's not sure he can, but he will.)
"You are one cold-hearted bastard, Mr. Cobb," Cutter observes. Arthur lifts his head groggily and sees that Cobb is white-faced, his gaze flicking between Mal, Arthur, and the mark. He's struggling. Hang on, Cobb. If they give away their employers, they'll likely never find work in the extraction business again.
Mal crouches in front of Cobb. "Just tell him, Dom," she urges, pleading.
"Cobb," Arthur says warningly. It takes a lot of effort just to say his name. Cobb's head jerks at the sound of Arthur's voice, but Arthur is immediately distracted by a heel crunching down on his ankle.
His foot slips sideways and his ankle wrenches, almost bouncing off the floor before the pressure lets up. Arthur manages to not make a sound (with no small help from his cracked rib), but his eyes tear up and he holds his breath to keep back a whimper. It's either badly sprained or broken; Arthur doesn't dare trying to move it to find out. He pants for breath, hanging as far forward as he possibly can in the bouncer's grip, and concentrates on the cement floor.
"Arthur. The young man that riled up my patrons. I'm told you killed fifteen people for a distraction!" Cutter sounds impressed rather than disgusted. "Strange priorities you have. Considering saving your own skin, yet?"
Arthur breathes, uncomfortably aware of how his body shudders with the effort of it. There's something strange about what Cutter's saying. He can't quite get his head around it.
"Wait too long and you'll bleed out," Cutter warns. "The clock's running down ..."
He doesn't know that if we die, we wake up. That's not exactly a surprise - he's untrained. Why would he know that? But it's more than that. Calling the projections 'people' and 'patrons'... He doesn't know this is a dream? He thinks this is real? And with that realization: What is Mal playing at?
He lifts his eyes (although he can barely see out of the swollen one) but not his chin, trying to determine if Cobb has reached the same conclusion; Cobb's eyes are darting back and forth across the ground. Arthur knows him well enough to know that Cobb is trying to decide what to do with this new information.
Cutter sighs when Arthur says nothing. "Break his fingers," he says dismissively, waving a hand. Arthur stiffens against his will; his hip seizes and he thinks he can feel a fresh spill of hot blood against his thigh. It makes him dizzy all over again.
"Oh, come on, can't you see he's going to pass out from blood loss soon? What use is that?" Cobb demands, lifting his head sharply.
"Wait," Mal says, and then she's filling his vision, kneeling in front of him with the imploring look she used to sic on Dom when she wanted something insignificant, like a coffee from the shop down the street. "Arthur, please," she whispers, so close that if he fell forward he'd kiss her. "This is so bad for Dom. He wants out. Let him have a way out, guilt-free. Don't be so selfish."
Arthur tries to gauge how much longer he has to endure this, but he's lost all sense of time. "You call me selfish," he replies breathlessly. "That's a laugh."
Mal's scowl is thunderous. She surges to her feet. "Do whatever you want," she says to Cutter, her tone dismissive but full of vicious undercurrent. "The slim one, Arthur - you'd be amazed what he can endure." She tosses her hair impetuously.
"Mal, no!" Cobb protests, but Cutter is giving Arthur a speculating look. "Come now, Miss, I'm hardly sadistic," he says, but his eyes tell a different story. He twists to look at Dom. "You can end this any time, Mr. Cobb. Just the name of your employer and I let you take your friend to the hospital."
Cobb grinds his teeth together so hard Arthur can hear them clicking fifteen feet away. The bouncers drag Arthur to his feet and across the room towards the desk; the distance is blotted out by the pain of his wrenched ankle and hip and he barely tries to walk. They shove him to his knees and push one hand onto the flat surface; Arthur fights them for each finger, holding a fist as long as he can. It takes over a minute for a thug to get his hand flat and fingers splayed.
"One at a time," Cutter says, leaning forward. Cobb is breathing harshly through his nose. Arthur's attention narrows down to five soon-to-be-mutilated digits and he's terrified, no matter how hard he tries not to be.
Non, rien de rien ...
Non, je ne regrette rien ...
Arthur takes a deep breath and holds it. The kick is coming early. Something must have happened topside. Three more minutes. He can definitely do three more minutes. He tries to catch Cobb's gaze, to let him know, but Cobb won't look at him.
Beyond him, Mal scowls. Her eyes are unnaturally dark.
The bouncer lifts the heavy metal ashtray on Cutter's desk and brings it down.
iv. control of the subject is never absolute
Arthur leans on the railing of the boat and gazes out into the dark.
Nash has outdone himself this time, Arthur has to admit. The cruise boat is elaborately done; there is an onboard casino, dance club, three restaurants, lounge rooms, and a plethora of private rooms, forming an intricate maze that keeps even Arthur confident that he can lose a mob of projections anytime he wants to. Cobb knows nothing about the layout, and while he's on this level - cracking the safe at the end of the maze in about twenty minutes of dreamtime, if everything goes according to plan - Arthur's feeling good about their chances.
Once again, he's the dreamer; they've left Nash alone on the top level of the dream. Eames is keeping the mark company as her fiance. (Arthur, in a fit of what he now feels might have been paranoia, gave Eames a picture of Mal and advised him to keep her at a distance from the mark without explanation. Eames accepted the directive easily enough, but doubtlessly he's done his own research and drawn some conclusions. Arthur feels badly for the violation of Cobb's confidence, but he simply can't take the risk.) This leaves Arthur with little to do but keep an eye on the projections for signs of agitation. In a few minutes he'll find Cobb and tail him through the maze, drawing off suspicious projections. And - possibly - Mal.
Mal, who will doubtless show up at some point in a two-level dream. Arthur is a little surprised he hasn't seen her yet, but maybe she's found Cobb instead. The idea is hardly a comfort. Arthur checks his watch again; Cobb should be passing by any minute now. If he doesn't, Arthur will have to go in his place.
A splash in the water far below draws Arthur's attention, and he can't help peering curiously into the dark waves for some floating object. What he sees instead makes him recoil. The gentle lapping of ocean water is disturbed by a frenzy of bubbles and ominous dorsal fins: at least half a dozen sharks leaping upon whatever was thrown into the sea.
Arthur's hair stands on end. It's not that he has anything to fear from the sharks, but the cruise is in the Baltic Sea. There are varieties of shark there, but they're not well known and Arthur didn't dream them.
"It seems Miss Isud is afraid of shark attacks," Mal whispers in Arthur's ear.
Arthur hates, almost more than anything else, that Mal can sidle into his personal space without his noticing. He stiffens and doesn't turn to look at her. "And that's why she's dreaming them," he says in a flat tone. Although it actually makes sense. Cobb picked the cruise as the setting because she and her fiance will be on a real cruise in two weeks. It's the first time Isud will set foot on a boat. Arthur agreed (and Eames, not that he particularly cares that Eames agrees) because anticipatory dreams are so common. This revelation is not a particularly big deal, but it's a sign of the strength of the phobia that she's brought in projections of the creatures.
Arthur turns to look at the biggest shark in the dream. "What are you doing here, Mal?" he asks.
She's shorter than she usually seems; Mal is dangling a heeled sandal from her pointer finger as she leans on the railing. The light salt breeze tugs her hair into wisps across her face. Arthur wonders where the other sandal is for all of a few seconds before Mal smiles, playfully, and tosses the shoe into the water. It makes the same splash as the first shoe - for that was what hit the water before - and results in the same feeding frenzy. "I think she watched Jaws one too many times," Mal says, amused, instead of answering the question. (Not that Arthur really needs an answer. Cobb is dreaming, and therefore, Mal is here.)
Arthur reflexively checks his watch. Cobb is running a bit late. When Mal reaches out and covers his wrist with a slim hand, he jerks away. "Arthur," Mal says, hurt, and Arthur feels his gut twist.
"You don't get to admonish me," Arthur hisses, turning to rest his back on the railing and scanning the deck for Cobb. "You're not Mal."
"Yes I am." Arthur glances at her just long enough to see the curve of upturned lips, a rouge-warm cheekbone, flyaway brunette hair. "To Dom, I am."
Arthur thins his lips in response. His fingers twitch with the desire to snap her neck, shoot her, end her, but he can't do it. He can't do it because the projections milling around the deck will notice. But deeply, he knows he can't because that is Dom's job, not his. But isn't it Arthur's job to pick up Cobb's slack? He hesitates.
Cobb rounds the corner (finally!) and Arthur straightens a little in response. "Stay away from him, Mal," he warns, preparing to follow Cobb as originally planned (steeling himself to kill Cobb's projection of his wife).
"I can't believe you just said that to me," Mal snarls. "I can't believe you just said that to his wife."
The railing is low and Arthur's attention isn't where it should be. Later he will think that he pretty much deserved it when Mal hooked her ankle behind his, shoved him backwards with all her strength, and he toppled headfirst over the edge of the cruise boat and down, down, hard enough against the water that he's dizzy from the impact.
The sharks are on him in seconds.
v. nobody's a saint
Arthur doesn't quite know how to take it when Mal rescues him from the mob of infuriated projections doing their level best to tear him limb from limb. He's wheezing from a punctured lung (stilettos, he really hates stilettos), a froth of pink at the corner of his mouth, and he can't bring up his left arm to wipe it away with his shoulder dislocated. His ankle is broken and one kneecap shattered, his ribs are cracked, his head is ringing, his nose is bleeding. Getting killed by unarmed projections is very very high on Arthur's list of Deaths to Avoid, but when Mal drags him backwards into an elevator and the doors slam shut, he genuinely wishes he'd been left with the mob.
He lays on his back on the floor of the elevator, struggling for every breath, and Mal bends over him. "Why are you still here," she says, not quite asking a question.
Arthur tries for words but he can't get any breath behind them. He's been asking himself the same question about Mal. He sluggishly crawls his right hand over his torso, seeking to cover the sucking chest wound stealing his air.
The elevator stops. Arthur expects it's Mal who's done it, hit the emergency button or otherwise, but when the doors open he whips his head towards the sound, tensing in preparation for the swarm attack surely coming their way. But only one pair of shoes stumbles into the elevator, stopping short an inch from Arthur's nose. The doors slide closed on a roar of approaching voices and feet and Cobb says, "Mal?" Like she's a huge fucking surprise. "Arthur," he adds belatedly, bending down (the motion sends a rush of cool air on Arthur's body, rustles his torn clothes), and he bends close, finding the wound Arthur's trying to cover and pressing his hand firmly down. Cobb is cradling one arm close to his body and he's bleeding near his temple, his jacket lost somewhere, and Arthur knows he's trying to beat the projections to the information. (Arthur knows his own efforts have been successful because Cobb is much less worse for the wear.)
"There goes Plan B," Arthur manages with the puncture covered. Cobb raises and eyebrow and he explains, "Shoot Nash out. Extract it myself in the collapse."
"Being able to walk would help," Cobb agrees, voice weirdly soft, but he's lifted his head to look at Mal. "You ..."
"I didn't do this," Mal says. "I saved him. Ask him yourself."
"Why?" Cobb is more confused by this than by the times she has killed Arthur; it shows in his voice. Arthur feels bile rise in his throat at the implications. (Sometimes he forgets that Mal is a projection of Cobb's mind.)
"He is so lifelike," Mal murmurs. She bends her long legs and leans over Arthur, head close to Cobb's, and Cobb watches her warily. She touches Arthur's temple, strokes her thumb down to his chin. "Sometimes I forget he isn't even real."
"This is the real Arthur," Cobb whispers intimately in her ear, his voice cracking.
"He can't be," Mal replies. Arthur says, "What," but it's barely a whisper. Cobb's hand isn't giving the pressure he needs. "Only a fool would stay with you. I have no choice. But you--" This is directed at Arthur, and her thumb presses down on his throat, not hard enough to bruise, but a threat. "You should have run."
"Get off him," Cobb snaps, wrapping his free hand around Mal's fingers and pulling them from Arthur's throat. Arthur registers the elevator slowing, stopping, and he looks at the floor. Extraction level. The projections will be unbelievably thick. Arthur can't stand, much less fight. Cobb doesn't have a gun or he'd have shot Arthur out of the dream already. There's nothing left for him but to wait for the kick.
Cobb takes his hand off Arthur's chest and stands, pulling Mal with him. "Come with me," he says to her. He bends over Arthur, who is nearly delirious from lack of air. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Arthur thins his lips, struggling for breath through his nose, and gives Cobb his best unimpressed look. "But this is the best way I know to save you from myself."
He straightens, pulls away, and Arthur stares after him, trying to curl onto his side to grab his attention, but it hurts too much and he lets out a barking shout and finds he's almost suffocating. Cobb takes Mal's arm, looks back at Arthur: Arthur glares back. Mal smiles.
The doors start to close, but just before they do, an unpinned grenade fetches against Arthur's pelvis.
He just catches a glimpse of Cobb's drawn face before the elevator car explodes.
fin