i_reversebang fic: Something Like a Hero

[acidpop25]

Fic Title: Something Like a Hero
Author: acidpop25
Pairing(s): Ariadne/Mal with background Arthur/Eames and Mal/Cobb
Word Count: 3,532
Warning(s): Possible mental illness triggers.

Summary: In which Ariadne can move things with her mind, Mal is still alive, and both of these things are a problem.
Art Post: I'll Keep You By My Side by brevanna03.

A/N: Huge, huge thanks to my beta and cheerleader chibi_lurrel, without whom this fic would never have been finished in time.



Ariadne knows she is lucky, but sometimes she doesn't feel that way. It's not like everyone can move things with their minds, and telekinesis is easy enough to hide if she needs to. But she resents that she sometimes does need to hide, resents that she had been rushed off to Paris as soon as her powers manifested themselves to be taught to control them by Miles. Ariadne doesn't want to be special, not like this- special for a brilliant career, maybe, but not because she's a freak who builds birdhouses with her mind when the itch of her ability gets the better of her. Not special because the government wants to watch her every move.

Not that it's all bad. She had liked Miles, who had been kind to her, and the small group of other "gifted" people that took her in is a pleasant haven away from reality. Eames, the shapeshifter, calls them superheroes in a blithe, facetious sort of way. It's true they try to use their talents for good, but she doesn't feel like a superhero. Most of the time it's just tiring. Some days, her friendship with them is all she has to keep her going, and she knows she's not the only one who feels that way.

"You look exhausted," remarks Yusuf, as if he's reading her thoughts- he's not, Cobb is the only one of them who can do that. "Maybe you should get some rest."

Ariadne shrugs. "I'm not sleepy. Just..." she trails off and waves a hand vaguely, but he seems to understand what she means. His expression is sympathetic, but not pitying; Yusuf is better with people than a lot of them are.

"I could make you sleepy," he offers, coming to sit beside her on the low couch of the living area. She considers it for a moment- Yusuf's skin can produce all sorts of chemicals, and a sedative from him would be quick, simple, better than any sleeping pill. Cobb practically seems to subsist on it, though, which is a little unsettling.

"No thanks," Ariadne finally declines, "I'll sleep when I sleep, it's not a big deal."

Yusuf makes a hmmm'ing sound in his throat and peers at her. "Perhaps something for your mood would be more efficacious."

Ariadne smiles slightly, though it's a little strained. "You can't fix everything with chemistry, you know. Even yours."

"So you like to say." It's not the first time they've had this conversation, and it's probably not the last. "Would you like to talk about it then?"

She sighs. "Nothing worth talking about. Just... feeling sorry for myself, I guess."

"You were luckier than most of us. Though I'm sure that doesn't make you feel better." He gets to his feet. "Get some rest, Ariadne. Before I make you."

Ariadne smiles wryly at him and gets to her feet. "Fine, fine. Goodnight, Yusuf."

The next morning, the couch is occupied by a lithe redhead stretched out full length along it with a book propped on her stomach. She's wearing only boxer shorts and a patterned oxford shirt that's much too big for her, but Ariadne doesn't bat an eye.

"Good morning, Eames," she greets him, and leans against the door frame to look in on the kitchen. Her coffee begins to pour itself. "Where's your other half?"

"Don't let him hear you call him that," Eames says mildly, flicking a page and smiling to himself. "He's doing his biocomputer thing somewhere."

"It will never stop being creepy when he checks his email with his brain," she says, summoning her mug to her and plucking it out of the air. "It's the dead eyes."

"He can't help the dead eyes," Eames points out reasonably. "Anyway, he's working."

"What on?"

"He didn't say."

Tracing a sudden epidemic of mental illness in the DC area.

Ariadne and Eames both turn to see Cobb coming through the door. "It doesn't look coincidental," he adds, aloud this time, and sits down heavily on one of the chairs.

"Mental illness isn't contagious," Ariadne points out unnecessarily, and Eames straightens up, frowning faintly.

"That doesn't mean there's not a connection."

"It's a genetic predisposition combined with environmental factors," she argues, "unless you think, what, that there's something in the water or something?"

"I'm not the only telepath in the world," Cobb says gravely.

"Okay, but. Say there is some telepath out there messing with people's minds. Why? Is it just some sick game?"

"I can't know that until I know the telepath," Cobb answers. "Don't worry about it, Ariadne. Arthur's looking into it, and I can handle the rest."

'Bullshit,' Eames mouths at her when Cobb isn't looking.

I still heard that, Eames.

Ariadne lasts until just before lunch before she breaks down and goes looking for Arthur for answers, since he's more likely to give them to her than Cobb. Also more capable of carrying on a pleasant conversation, though whether that's a terrible commentary on Cobb's social graces or an excellent one on the state of experimental wetware computing is hard to say.

Arthur is sitting very still in the dim, soundproof room he uses for work when Ariadne enters, carrying a couple take-out cartons. She takes deliberately loud steps when she comes in to alert him to her presence, and after a moment he stirs and refocuses his eyes squarely on her.

"Do I smell Chinese?"

"I thought you might be needing calories," she agrees, handing over a container and pulling up another chair. "They're like your electricity, right?"

Arthur chuckles. "You can think of it that way. Thanks." He digs into his noodles with relish and is silent for several minutes before pausing to ask, "Is that all that brings you here?"

"Well," she hedges, and Arthur's lips curve faintly.

"I thought so. What would you like to know?"

"Tell me about the stuff you're looking into for Cobb."

"Ah." He takes another bite of his food, looking thoughtful, then swallows and sets his chopsticks down. "Statistically speaking, the probability that the incidences are unrelated is approaching nil. I'll spare you the full analysis; the crux of it is that it's almost certainly related to the factions responsible for passing the Registration Act in the United States and now trying to make it international law."

"Revenge?" Ariadne prompts him.

"Highly probable."

She's quiet for a moment. "How do you feel about it? The law, the attacks."

Arthur smiles gently. "I'm not Gifted," he reminds her, "I'm a computer who got too human, not the other way around."

"I know it doesn't apply to you, but that's not what I asked. You're human enough to answer the question."

Arthur's smile fades. "The general population wants to label and track my friends and my lover like animals," he says flatly, "and the new provisions on the Registration Act let them do it. Does that answer your question?"

"So why are you doing this research for Cobb at all?"

"My programming," he mutters sourly. "Look, I don't like the laws, but to a certain extent I do what I'm told to do."

"Even if you don't agree."

He sighs. "I don't think hurting people, even bigoted idiots, is acceptable. I don't agree with the Registration Act, no, but that isn't the point."

Ariadne frowns slightly. "Cobb does, though. Doesn't he?"

"Cobb thinks Gifteds are more dangerous than they are, and this kind of thing just convinces him further. His powers were too much for him when he was younger, I think he's afraid of what could have happened. He's a little invested in being the Good Freak, now, and meanwhile the rest of us get dragged into it because it's better than being alone." Arthur closes his carton of takeaway and sets it aside. "I'd start packing if I were you. He's going to want us to go to Washington in person."

They're taken aside in US Customs, government-issues wristbands snapped on to all of them. Ariadne's is purple with a gray band for mid-level psionic ability, and it fits uncomfortably over her sweater sleeve. It's not the first time she's worn one- she has been in the States since the Registration Act took effect- but they're heavier now than they used to be, equipped with a tiny GPS tracker so that the government can know her every move if they want to. That part is new and still makes her seethe inwardly, even though she had expected it, but there's nothing she can do about it. Only Eames has any way around the issue, shrinking his wrist so thin the band slips off to be pocketed. Lucky bastard.

Arthur meets them at baggage claim, frowning, and he exchanges muttered words with Cobb while the rest of them pretend they aren't interested in what they're talking about. Arthur looks upset, though, and Cobb shakes his head repeatedly.

They split up outside the airport- it's never wise for anyone Gifted to travel in a group in the US- but Arthur ducks into Ariadne's cab at the last moment.

"I know you're jet-lagged," he murmurs, "but I need some of your time before I can let you sleep."

"Sure. What's going on?"

He shakes his head slightly, glancing pointedly at the driver up front. "Cobb. I'll explain back at the hotel."

The rest of the ride passes in silence, and Arthur hefts her bag for her as they head into the hotel before she can absentmindedly pick it up without use of her hands. Living with the others the past few months has spoiled her; none of them even notice anymore.

"Has Cobb ever told you about his wife?" Arthur asks her once they're shut in her room, and Ariadne shakes her head.

"No. What about her?"

Arthur sits down and steeples his fingers. "Supposedly, she's dead."

"Supposedly?"

"She was a Class Five telepath," Arthur elaborates, "and she and Dom had their differences about Gifted rights."

Ariadne is silent for a moment, trying to catch up with Arthur's train of thought. "You think she's involved in what's going on?" she finally hazards.

"There's evidence of it. A telepath of her caliber could fake her own death relatively easily. Dom is sure she died- he'll swear up and down that he saw the body. But she could have made him think that if she wanted to."

"Is that what you were arguing over with him in the airport?"

"Yes. There's surveillance footage, but it's not very good and there's only a few glimpses, so it's hard to be sure. And, well, she was his wife."

"Okay. Okay, so, why take this to me? Why not Eames?"

"She knew- knows Eames, and he can't hide from a telepath. She doesn't know you."

"So you want me to do the recon," Ariadne surmises. "Makes sense, except for the part where I can't protect myself from a telepath that strong, and I can't ask Cobb for help because he'll lose it if he finds out I'm even looking into this for you."

"It's dangerous," Arthur agrees, "and I'll have your back as much as I can, but she knows me."

Ariadne sighs. "Let me get some sleep, and you can brief me in the morning."

The group has been in Washington for nearly a week before they finally catch a break, an influential lobbyist who has started seeing a psychiatrist out of the blue.

"Finally," Cobb mutters, his patience strained thin. "Eames, you take first shift tailing him, and I'll take over in the evening."

"Bring Ariadne with you," Arthur says without looking up from the man's medical records. "She could use the practice, and a second set of eyes always helps."

Which is how Ariadne finds herself sitting in the back of a van with a telephoto lens, watching an apartment building. Surveillance is boring work and Cobb goes about it in his usual stoic way- she's tempted to pull out her phone and text one of the others just to have something to do, but she's more conscientious than that. Still tempted, though.

"The lights are out," Ariadne points out eventually, "he's not even awake."

"Exactly. The mind is more vulnerable when it's sleeping or unconscious," Cobb replies, squinting through his binoculars. "Everyone has at least a little innate defense when they're awake, but if you wanted to penetrate the subconscious, it's much easier with a target who isn't alert." There is a pause, and then he adds uncomfortably, "Not that I would know from experience."

"If you ever try that shit on me I will throw you out a window," Ariadne informs him absently, her attention focused outside still. "Did you see something move out there?" She leans forward, peering intently into the shadows. "Look, there! On the north wall."

"Yeah- yeah, got it. Wait for them to hit the light, they'll have to be under it in a moment."

Ariadne lifts the camera in preparation and draws a slow breath, focusing her mind. She doesn't like grabbing hold of people with her mind- she's not that much stronger with telekinesis than she is with her muscles, so the whole business is tiring and difficult, and people are a lot squirmier than objects.

"Now," Cobb says, and Ariadne seizes hold of the intruder as she comes into the light, pinning her there long enough to get the needed photographs before letting her go.

"We need to get out of here," Cobb says as they peel away from the curb before the telepath can find their minds to identify them. Arthur is waiting back at the hotel with his laptop to upload the photographs, and he keeps his voice remarkably bland as he turns the screen to Cobb and asks, "Look familiar?"

The woman in the photograph is not familiar to Ariadne, of course, and the half-mask over her face doesn't help, but Cobb goes wide-eyed and pale.

"No," he says at last, "not possible."

"Obviously possible," Arthur retorts. "I know you don't like it, but it's-"

Cobb slams his fist down hard on the table. "There's a mistake!" he shouts. "Mal was my wife, she would never!"

Arthur regards him gravely, unruffled. "Sometimes ideas mean more than love."

"Goddammit Arthur-"

"Hey!" Ariadne breaks in, and both men turn to look at her. "Stop it. Just stop. Cobb, go rest, get your head together, whatever you have to do. This isn't Arthur's fault." She gives him a mental shove toward the door, and mercifully he takes the hint without further protest. Once he's gone, Ariadne lets out a slow breath.

"So," she says to Arthur, "I think you'd better tell me more about Mal."

Arthur had run through the facts of Mal's life like- well, like a computer listing data. Mile's daughter, born in France, married to Dom just out of university. A rare Class Five telepath who had been miserable in the US as the laws slowly but surely tightened restrictions on Gifteds, making her into a second-class citizen. Supposedly she had committed suicide out of desperation by jumping from a window three years prior.

All this information really hadn't prepared Ariadne for coming face-to-face with the woman in the diner down the street from the hotel. Eating lunch one minute, the next hearing a low voice echo in her mind: Don't react. Don't react, Mal says, and slides into the seat opposite at the table. There is no mask today; without it hiding her features, Ariadne is absurdly struck by Mal's loveliness. Her eyes are such a bright, liquid blue.

"Who figured it out?" Mal inquires- her voice is calm, but it has an edge to it. "Not Dom."

"Arthur."

"Of course." Mal plucks a french fry off Ariadne's plate and twirls it absently between her fingers for a moment before she eats it. "Tell him Mal says hello. I'm sure he'll have missed me." She smiles, all teeth.

"Arthur was just doing his job," Ariadne says defensively. "If he caught you, that just means you aren't as clever as you'd like to be."

Mal's eyes give a brief flash, but when she speaks she sounds amused. "Indeed. There's not much to be done about his programming, is there? It wouldn't be the first time he's done things he didn't believe in." She leans in across the table and reaches out a hand to catch hold of Ariadne's wrist, her fingers worrying the government-issue wristband. "Tell me," she murmurs, "do you think this is right?"

"I-"

"You don't need to answer," Mal interrupts. She lets go and gets to her feet, then sets a few bills down on the table with an inscrutable smile. "Lunch is on me," she tells her, and walks out of the diner.

"This is useless," Eames grumbles, tossing a wad of crumpled paper in the direction of the wastebasket. It misses, and Ariadne absentmindedly tumbles it in while he continues, "Now that she knows someone's on to her she's not going to hit the same target again, she's not stupid."

"What's your brilliant plan then?" Arthur retorts. "Wait around doing nothing until she hits a new target?"

"It'll be just as useful as staying on this bloke, and involve a lot less surveillance," Eames replies. "Look, I know you don't like this, but just admit it: we lost this round."

Arthur scowls. "Fine. Take tomorrow off. I'm going to see if I can turn anything up on my own."

"Need any help?" Ariadne asks, but it's cursory; she already knows he doesn't.

"Not for the moment. If that's all, meeting over."

They disperse, and Ariadne shuts herself in her room before anyone thinks to ask her to socialize. She doesn't feel up to it.

It's not, Ariadne thinks as she flops down on her bed, that what Mal is doing is right. It isn't. Of course driving people slowly out of their minds is a terrible thing to do, but Ariadne does see the logic. Discredit the conservative anti-Gifted political figures as "crazy," and their cause starts to look crazy. It's not about revenge, not really, because revenge doesn't change anything, doesn't do anything but make you look petty and dangerous. And a woman who fakes her own death to pursue her ideals, well, that's a woman who makes "the ends justify the means" her maxim.

There's got to be a better way. Mal isn't wrong that the way their kind is treated is an injustice; Ariadne has been threatened and called a freak and isolated and hated enough to know. But there's got to be a better way to change things- isn't Mal just proving their kind dangerous and untrustworthy if she's found out?

Probably, agrees a voice, but do you have any better ideas?

Ariadne jolts upright, but there's no one else in the room that she can see. The bathroom and closet are empty too when she checks them.

Look out your window.

Mal is standing on the sidewalk below, her mask pulled down over her face.

Fancy some air?

Mal knows the instant Ariadne gives in to impulse, smiling her little secretive smile. Ariadne ducks away from the window, half-considers calling Arthur but thinks better of it and instead grabs her room key and leaves without a word to anyone.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm just here to talk," Mal replies, "there's no need to be so nervous."

"I could hand you over to Arthur right now," Ariadne points out, and Mal chuckles.

"You could," she agrees, "but you won't."

"Won't I?"

"No." Mal steps closer. "You won't, because you think I'm right."

"I think you're hurting a lot of people."

"That is not the same thing as being wrong. I'm helping a lot of people, too. I'm helping you. You must be so tired of wearing that wristband, of everyone fearing what you can do with your mind."

"I can't do anything with my mind, not the way you can. I'm a telekinetic, not a telepath."

"Other people don't know that. Other people treat you as if you are. You wouldn't hurt them, but they don't know that."

"You would, though."

"They'd hurt me if they got the chance," Mal answers. "Don't you just get tired, Ariadne?"

Ariadne looks down. "Of course. Of course I do. But that doesn't make what you're doing okay."

"And what they're doing is?" Mal shakes her head. "You don't get it. There are no heroes. There aren't even good people, mostly. Standing on principle makes you feel good, but it'll only hurt you in the end."

Ariadne takes a step back, but Mal follows, staying in Ariadne's space. Ariadne puffs out an unhappy breath. "I don't want to be like you, hurting everyone around me just because I've been hurt."

"So don't, but let me do it so you don't have to."

"I don't have to do anything."

Mal smiles thinly. "That's not quite true, my dear, now is it?" She leans in and presses a brief, dry kiss to Ariadne's cheek. "Now go back inside. I have work to do."

Ariadne almost follows her as she sets off down the darkened street.

Almost.

Almost.