tabi_essentially (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tabi_essentially) wrote2011-03-13 06:24 pm
tabi_essentially) wrote2011-03-13 06:24 pm
Plenty Of Good Thieves - 6
SO! I really, really, really meant to get Eames into his massively dangerous situation by the end of this chapter. I really had it all planned out. I still do; I am pretty sure of what's going to happen to him. But then this chapter just got longer and longer, and I had to make the choice of cutting out some suggestions and moving ahead with the action, or including the suggestions and letting Eames wait for it. :D I chose to go with including the suggestions, and also I wanted more snogging.
Then, I had to add in some reasons, some plot, and some possible info on who these people are.
So, suggestions, plot, reasons, and snogging won the day. I really hope you guys don't mind waiting for more! In the next chapter, I PROMISE, there will be more danger!
These are suggestions that are either brand new, or that made it into this chapter:
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osaki_nana_707 I wouldn't mind having a feature with Cobb or one of the other Inception team members via phone call or something.
twilightthief - How about Eames says: "It's always been you." Probably too cheesy. But in the right context, that's giving me some ideas! ^_^
gelbwax - A quote- use however you see fit: "Honestly, Mr Eames, you are not in a position to barter."
Anonymous - Maybe I really want to see Arthur collapse the way Michelle did? BUT WHY, I don't know! Maybe they both got incepted, or all three of them? Or drugged? Mmmm, anon, there's almost nothing I like better in fic than Arthur falling down. Couldn't even tell you why.
towel_master - Suggestion: The train officials are corrupt, either with Dinclusin or wanting to stop the train somewhere in the middle of nowhere... LOVE.
Anonymous - is this the first time Arthur has told Eames he loves him in the Tabi universe/timeline? Must be, for Eames to say "don't you dare take it back"...so I would like to see Eames making a similar declaration, just sort of conversationally or casually, like Arthur did. How does Arthur react? Well. LET'S FIND OUT. ^_^
twilightthief - I keep thinking about Eames is involved in another card game or what have you with Dinclusion, Ann, etc in some private room/car and the shit goes down. They're far away enough that no one hears/sees whats going on. Maybe Eames has to defend himself without the help of his gun or Arthur. IDK I think I just want Eames being caught in a tight spot using what he has available in the "shoot out" or whatever. And, I definitely want to see Michelle do some bad ass stuff too.
Older suggestions that I WILL STILL GET TO:
gelbwax - And then he tries to get Eames to do something to Arthur? But he resists! And then Eames TAKES THAT FUCKER DOWN. Using only items he can find in the dining car, which is where he's been trussed up and left for dead. And on top of that, skyvehicle said, what if tremors give way to like, Dr. Strangelove hand? lol, until it tries to choke Arthur after Arthur tries to break into their train car? oooh. Okay, I really like this and I'm going to try to get this in there. I love this direction.
twilightthief also says, Maybe they get lost but really its just someone messing with/ransacking the train? Maybe outside forces or maybe Dinclusin or someone on the train. And I like the idea that Michelle really isn't who she seems. There's something more to our Pokemon lovin' friend.
we_reflamingos says, Michelle has got to be the key to something. A revelation, inspiration, information - she's aces and needs a part to play. Perhaps her parents do too, maybe in that so-clueless-don't-know-what's-going-on-but-it-helps kind of way.
Anonymous said, How about if Eames turns into a killing machine after getting beat up? I'd like to see that. I WOULD TOO. :D
mydeerfriend - I'd really like to see Eames go through some sort of shit but NOT get saved by BAMF Arthur. Because Eames is awesome enough to save himself from danger (and then maybe Arthur would feel bad that he didn't/couldn't help Eames). It is time for Eames to save himself, eh? :)
vattelapesca says, You can always break them both. :D Sweet. And ALSO, this is important: - I don't like it when things turn out to be genuinely supernatural, but I love subtle intricate gambits disguised as magic. I agree, I like that, too! PLUS. Re: the above: "Dinclusin" and "Dromalius" are carefully selected aliases, calculated to unsettle as much as to obscure. Another great idea which cleared something up for me. :D
astheytick - Arthur says to Eames "Just wait. Wait for me."
twisted_ream there's this huge spider on eames' back and he can't get it off and arthur just laughs
efcia a broken mirror, possibly a small one. I can see the shattered glass, maybe even a small amount of blood on them? This gave me a really cool idea! We already know which mirror this could be. :D
quixyjie and twilightthief - wanted Eames smoking a cigar. I will get to that NEXT CHAPTER FOR SURE. :D
Anonymous: One having to carry the other.
towel_master One of them thinks they see something dangerous/weird/downright creepy out of the corner of their eye in Ann's bag? Perhaps they see her opening it while on the train.
gelbwax - WHAT IF the wind whips the fedora off Arthur's head and into the siberian wasteland. OMFG, horror, right? AND THEN. AND THEN. It comes BACK TO HIM. THE FEDORA COMES BACK. RIGHT WHEN HE NEEDS ITS POWERS OF BADASSERY IT COMES BACK TO HIM.
I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. Not in this chapter, but down the road. :D
sparrow_hubris - Eames glances up at Arthur from across an empty train car, posture stiff, with a blank or hostile look. He then turns slowly and walks away. Arthur for some reason cannot follow/can't catch him and it scares the crap out of him how empty/possessed?/haunted Eames looked. SO EFFING CREEPY. Not this chapter, But THE NEXT, I"M SURE. :D Also: And I'm totally in love with the idea of Arthur having to steal something more difficult than truffles because they need it and Eames' hand is too unstable to steal it himself. Nice!
hazysea - A line for Eames to say to Arthur? "Stay at my level and keep to the shadows.
And so, here we go!
** ** ** **
Chapter 6 - "...that will steal your soul..."
Arthur's heart hadn't quit pounding since Eames had begun babbling about him dying old, and then Eames had nearly fainted all over him and he'd panicked and felt that strange, nagging fucking guilt that he'd felt all morning and then he'd stupidly run his idiot mouth and said way too much and he was now having a total stress-spike when the little brat that kept following him everywhere showed up in the middle of a snowy field being trailed by a shady dame and then fell unconscious in the snow.
Arthur was having such a shit day.
He and Eames raced toward the fallen kid as the crowd started to come around the side of the church. It was a damn good thing that all those people saw her lying there before he and Eames got to her. He could only imagine the looks they'd get if they'd been hanging around her first.
As it was, Michelle's mom—Helen, Arthur remembered--pushed in front of everyone and came running over to her daughter, followed quickly by the dad, whom Arthur had seen but not met.
He and Eames both started to hang back once they saw the group of people already crowding her. Arthur knew from experience how awful it was to wake up with a circle of faces looking down at you. Ann hung around the edges of the crowd too, playing the concerned onlooker. Arthur kept an eye on her. He didn't like her expression; she looked more amused than concerned.
"Oh, drat it all," Helen said, kneeling beside her daughter. "Not again."
He and Eames looked at each other.
"It's all right," Michelle's father said to the converging group. "She's got a condition. She's all right, go back to what you were doing. I'm her father, I'm a doctor. Please give her some air."
No one minded him. They just kept clustering around Michelle and her parents.
Eames stepped up and said, "Right, come on then. All of you clear off."
He was doing that thing that Arthur had seen him do, where he suddenly seemed to gain three inches in height, where his voice carried above all the others. He became the man he was when he actually wanted people's attention. The group listened to him, scattering away from his presence as if he were physically shoving them. That was the thing: Eames could forge while he was awake, too.
"Go on," Eames said, shooing the last of the people away. "Go and look at the pretty church now, everything is under control."
Unsurprisingly, Ann had left, too. That was okay. Arthur would maybe take a quick gander into her head later, as well.
"Thanks," Michelle's father said, glancing up to Eames.
"Oh yes," Helen added. "Thank you, yes. My daughter has chronic hypoglycemia, you see. Stupidly low blood sugar. If she so much as forgets to eat a bit, down she goes."
"Mom?" Michelle murmured. She sat up in the snow, pale and dizzy, and pressed a hand to her forehead. "Did I... Oh crap." A creeping, mortified blush chased her paleness as she looked up and saw not only her parents and the retreating crowd, but Arthur and Eames both standing over her. "Crap," she repeated. She looked near tears.
"Hey now," Eames said, crouching next to her. "You can't go making snow angels here, this is a holy place. Stop messing about. You'll get us all kicked out."
It always amazed Arthur that for all that Eames could not be bothered with children, he was without fail completely at ease with them.
"Did you forget your snack, you dumb child?" her mother chided. Her words were harsh, but her eyes were fond. She helped Michelle up with a hand on her elbow.
"I didn't, Mom. God." Michelle stood up on shaky legs and dusted off her ratty camo coat. "I'm all right." She jerked her arm away from her mother's grip as if a viper had wound around her elbow.
"You should go back to the train," her father said. "We ought to get you some rest."
"I said..."
"Your dad's right," Arthur said. He had no idea why he said it. The words came out of his mouth the way intuition often did and he decided not to fight it. The father just stared at him, not sure if he should be wary, insulted, or thankful. "I'm Arthur," he added, holding out his hand. "Michelle came to my aid when I wasn't feeling well yesterday."
"Yes, hello," the father said, shaking hands. "I'm Daniel. Yes, I heard all about you. Sounded a bit worrying, your momentary language troubles. Michelle told me."
Michelle huffed again and stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. Obviously this was supposed to remain a secret.
"I'm all right," Arthur said. "This is my partner, Mr. Eames."
"What is it," Helen asked them both, giving them a reserved and exquisitely polite smile, "that the two of you do?"
"FBI," Arthur said without thinking about it. He grabbed his wallet—the one Eames had failed to steal; he would deal with that later—and flashed the false ID that Eames had forged for him years ago. Helen looked closely at it. She read every word and Arthur saw her look at the seal to see if it was raised.
It was a lie, the FBI gambit, but it wasn't too far off the mark. Arthur had been asked to Quantico on a few occasions and he did have a connection there. As long as he watched his step, and occasionally handed them the goods, they had a symbiotic relationship. It was looking possible that he'd be handing them some more goods in the near future, if his suspicions about Dinclusin turned out to be correct.
"SRR," Eames said, "but out now due to injury. Pleased to meet you both."
"Oh, my," Helen said, intrigued, and buying it immediately from Eames like she hadn't from Arthur.
This, also, wasn't too huge a lie. Eames had done a bit of time in Special Forces before turning rogue with dreamshare. And he did have some injuries. The best lies, Arthur found, were the ones that weren't totally lies.
"So," Helen said, "are the two of you..." She waved her hand vaguely between them.
"Mom!" Michelle said through clenched teeth. "Jesus, stop!"
"We met overseas," Eames said, smiling, charming, looking sweet, strangely shy and youthful, not at all intimidating, and completely deflecting the question. Sometimes it was amazing to watch him work when he wasn't in dreams. "We were heading back to the train by cab; Arthur is exhausted and he can't do buses. If you'd like, we could escort her back as well."
Arthur had asked once why he was always the one who was too tired or ill to go on, in all of Eames's scams. 'Because you're pale, Eames had told him. 'You look tragic and people like that.'
"Oh, would you?" Helen asked. Her eyes were alight with fondness. Eames had already won her over. "Oh, Danny, we could finish up the tour. Dollymop will be all right with two special agents, don't you think?"
Michelle dropped her head into her hands.
"What do you think, Michelle?" her father asked.
Michelle didn't look up from her hands as she said, "Okay. If you'll both stop talking."
"Well, that's that, then," Eames said. "We'll get a snack and lock her into her room until your return."
"Yes, take her away, the wretch can't even bear to look at us, poor abused thing," Helen said. She pulled Michelle to her and kissed the top of her head anyway. "Use your cell phone to actually call us if you don't feel better, will you?"
Michelle grunted in reply.
"Come along then, Dollymop," Eames said.
They left the church. Arthur didn't look back; the entire episode left a bad feeling in his gut. The place was beautiful, but he would forever associate it with their strange little shared breakdown.
They got a cab and Eames hustled Arthur into the front seat, doubtless so that he could have a word with Michelle. He put her into the back, and got in beside her, speaking quick Russian to the driver. In the mirror, Arthur saw him hold his hand out to Michelle. His demeanor changed entirely, quickly, the way it always did.
"Let's see it," he said.
Michelle looked at Arthur in the mirror, as if he was going to save her. "Are you going to arrest me?" she asked.
"No," Arthur said. "We just want to know what happened."
She dug into her pocket and drew out the small compact mirror. "I saw it sparkling in her purse and I wanted it. That's all, no big deal. She'll just think she lost it."
Arthur watched in the mirror as she went to place the compact in Eames's open hand. As soon as it got close, his hand began to shake. He closed his fist. Arthur turned around in the seat and leaned over it, meeting Eames's eyes.
"Hand it to Arthur," Eames said. His voice sounded low and unsure.
Confused, Michelle gave Arthur the mirror and then sat back against the seat. Arthur took another look at Eames, at his hand, which was still curled into a fist, and then back at his eyes. The look he had confirmed what Arthur suspected: He somehow could not touch the mirror without some symptom of either numbness or pain.
He turned his attention to the closed compact. Flecks of glass and gems outlined the edges of the cover. In the center, an etching of a cobra snake seemed to writhe to life amidst the glinting of the gems. Arthur very nearly opened it. He had his finger on the button to click the top up, but his intuition stayed his hand. There was something inside the compact, and it was probably a hell of a lot more than just a mirror.
"Did you open it?" he asked Michelle.
"Yeah."
"And that's when you fainted?"
"Are you shitting me?" Eames said, before Michelle could answer.
"Oh my god, what?" she asked, nervous. "Is there poison in there or something?"
Arthur had no idea. He thought of the flowers in the room the first night and was suddenly very glad he had his gloves on. Fingerprints notwithstanding, he was more worried about what it would get on him, rather than the other way around.
Or, it could be that she'd hidden a camera in there. Or both, really. He could flip it open and Ann Dromelius could be gazing right at his mug before whatever was in it knocked him on his back as well. There could even be a camera on the outside, he mused. He shoved it into his back pocket and hoped that she enjoyed the view. He'd take this thing apart later. Or maybe he would dummy up, and just give it back to her, saying he'd seen her drop it.
It depended on what he found in her head later.
** ** ** **
"Where's your compartment, pet?" Eames asked the girl as he walked her onto the train. Arthur trailed behind them, quiet. Eames knew he was in his headspace, going through scenario upon scenario, and taking the mirror apart in his mind without touching it. That was fine. Arthur worked well inside his own head and Eames didn't want to disturb him.
Also, he couldn't help. His hand had felt burningly hot when Michelle had offered him the mirror. The message was clear: You do not want stolen things. Apparently Arthur had no trouble touching it, though.
They needed to discuss this without the sprog, and they needed to get to work.
Arthur fell back a few paces until he was a ways down the corridor of the train. Only a few of the staff passed him in the hall and Eames knew that he was casing the place, checking their routines to see when he could best break into Dinclusin's apartment. Eames followed Michelle to hers and left Arthur to his business.
"Come on," she wheedled. "Tell me what's going on here. Is she an agent too? Are you going to arrest her? Is she a terrorist or something, because if she is then I think everyone needs to know. And I don't want to be on this train when it blows up or gets derailed or something. Don't you have to alert people if that's what's going to happen? You can't put us in danger."
"I don't know who she is," Eames said. "I don't even know that she's done anything wrong."
Michelle plonked herself onto the bottom bed, in despair. "What if that was anthrax she put on the mirror?"
"Doubt it," Eames said. He leaned against the door and gave it some thought. "There are sedatives that can act quickly with the smallest amount. It probably wasn't meant for you. But you get fainting spells anyway, correct? So it could be nothing at all." Or, he didn't say, just nothing to do with you. But then he remembered Ann's calm, amused look as Michelle had walked away from her with the stolen mirror. Someone didn't want Eames stealing and had gotten into his head to tell him so. Michelle was a little thief herself.
"Steal a lot?" he asked her.
"Spare me."
"I need to know. Believe me when I tell you I have no room to judge. There are further reasons as to why I'm no longer in the service."
She looked up at him, wary, as if testing his honesty. Then she shrugged. "I like it, sometimes. It's not like I need anything, but I think, you never know when you might need to have fast hands. It's just for practice."
"Any strange feelings when you lifted that mirror from her?"
"Not really. I just got dizzy and fell."
"But you ate, so it wasn't hypoglycemia."
"We're back to her giving me anthrax."
Eames waved her off. "Right. Listen, sprog. Stay in this room tonight. Tell your mum and dad you feel ill and don't come out until morning. Watch cartoons or play your Pac Man or something but you must leave us in peace for tonight." He chose his words purposely to sound dated and unfashionable, to see if he could get her to smile or laugh. Smiles and laughs were often precursors to agreement.
She smiled, but didn't agree. "I have to come out for dinner. And jesus, why are you talking like you're 80? You're funny, but you're not that funny. Come on, tell me what's up. Maybe I can help you."
"No. No helping whatsoever. Keep your head down and keep far away from that woman and her friends. Stay clear of me and stay clear of Arthur. Don't take it personally, Dollymop. I was not kidding when I said that I can't be responsible for children."
She slumped against the bed, defeated. "Is Arthur really in the FBI? Are you really Special Forces?"
"No more questions," he said, and started to draw the door closed.
"Are you two married?" she asked, before he had pulled it entirely shut.
He threw the door open again. "Beg your pardon?"
"You're all like, 'Oh, we're not boyfriends.' So are you married?"
Eames rubbed his hands over his face and pressed his palms against his eyes. Since when did people think it was all right to get into his business? In the past, he and Arthur had, by necessity, pretended to be married as part of a con, or had been open about being together, or whatever it was they actually were (he'd never thought of a name for it and didn't want to now,) but he had never felt comfortable with it. You just never showed your hand like that. It made it too easy for people to use against you.
"We're not married," he said. He tried to fight back a tired laugh at himself, at the fact that he was not only answering the question, but actually considering it, choosing his answers as he wondered about it himself. After more than ten years, someone was asking him to define it, and he couldn't. "We work together a lot because Arthur is the best at what he does and so am I."
"But you were making out by the church. So I figured that meant you were, you know. Together like that."
He literally wanted to slap himself. So his moment of weakness had cost him their discretion, and he was lucky if the sprog had been the only one to see. Unlucky indeed if Ann had been lurking around even then – although by now she probably also knew that she could get to one by using the other. A frantic snog probably wasn't necessary to prove it.
"Um," Michelle went on, "and he stares at you the way people stare at the Mona Lisa when the see it at the Louvre. If it's supposed to be some big state secret, guess what? It's not."
"This conversation is over," Eames said, with no real malice. It wasn't her fault he'd been so stupidly throwing himself at Arthur.
"I'm just saying," she said, "if you guys have known each other for all those years and you have sex..."
"Oh, fuck my life."
"And you're not having sex with anyone else, then you should just call a fig a fig. Instead of calling it like, an olive or something. When it's not an olive."
"My figs are none of your business," Eames said, and pulled the door closed.
As he walked down the corridor, he could still hear her laughing.
He found Arthur in their own compartment. He was sat cross-legged on the bottom bed, wearing blue latex gloves and goggles over his wire-framed glasses. He had a small kit of tools beside him and was screwing the hinge of the compact back on.
"Anything?" Eames asked.
Arthur's mouth turned down and that line of frustration creased between his eyebrows. "There was, but it's gone now. There is definitely a compartment in here for something. I didn't find any tech. It lights up, but the battery is dead. If there's a camera or bug in here, it's out of my league." He looked up from his work and removed his ridiculous goggles. They left red lines on his forehead and under his eyes. "How's Michelle?"
"Seems all right. Too nosy for her own good. Or ours, I might add." He didn't need to embarrass Arthur by telling him that she'd seen Eames trying to climb him like a tree.
"Umm, I hope you don't mind," Arthur said, "but I had to go into your work station to get the sedative. I wanted to set it up for a remote release as quick as I could and when none of the train staff was hanging around, so I..."
"That's all right," Eames said.
"I didn't touch anything else. I know fingerprints can fuck up your work. I wore gloves."
"Arthur, it's all right. You are in fact allowed to touch my things."
Arthur smiled, not looking up, and put the compact down. He reached for his Glock and began to field strip it for cleaning.
Eames took a seat on the bed beside him. Tentatively, he reached for the compact mirror on the bed. He saw Arthur glance at his hand, trying to be casual about it. When Eames tried to run his finger across the etched top, a feeling of revulsion made his hand falter. He imagined the snake rearing up and sinking tiny, venomous fangs into the pad of his finger. Arthur was still watching, even as he continued stripping the Glock. To prove a point, Eames touched the snake on top of the mirror. The touch only lasted a second. Nausea burned through his stomach at the touch. He took a deep breath and moved his hand.
Arthur directed his attention back to the Glock, though surely he must have known that touching the stolen mirror had affected Eames. He didn't comment on it.
"Umm," Arthur said. Which, in Arthur-speak, meant that he was going to say something he found difficult.
Eames sat back against the wall and waited it out. The train was motionless and the room was silent without the steady drone of the rails under it. Arthur continued disassembling his gun, baring its insides for cleaning.
"When we were at the church this morning and I was, when you were, and I said. You know, I just wanted to clarify. I wasn't trying to take it back. I just meant, not that I have to qualify it, but the word means so many different things in different contexts and it doesn't change anything, nothing's different." When Eames didn't answer, it forced Arthur to finally look at him. The Glock lay in pieces around his crossed legs, entirely disassembled. "You had to have known."
Eames leaned in and kissed him, running his thumb across his jaw. "I did know," he said against his mouth. "And you must know that I love you, Arthur. I took a bullet for you, didn't I."
Arthur drew back, confused. "When?"
"Are you serious?"
"On the bridge?" Arthur asked. "Pretty sure that one was meant for you."
"No, not on the fucking bridge. Berlin, Arthur? Six years ago? Bleeding behind the trash bins for hours until we found an escape route? Any of this ringing a bell?"
"You got shot that time?" Arthur asked. He wasn't even fucking around.
"I'm going to punch you in the cock," Eames said. "Yes I fucking got shot, I jumped in front of you at the last possible moment. Prick. How could you not remember that?"
"I'm sorry, it's a blur!" Arthur said, throwing his hands up in defense. "I was a little drugged at the time, don't take it personally. I don't even remember a firefight."
"There fucking well was, and I got shot for you, and let me tell you. It would have gone right through your chest had I not shoved you away, and that is why my arm was bleeding for hours behind the trash bins."
"I mean, it's not like I don't realize that you saved me plenty of times before. I know you did. You pulled me out of an interrogation room, out of a fire, out of the fucking ground. You've saved my ass a lot. My ass realizes it owes you a life debt." Arthur's voice had an endearing tendency to crack when he was worked up, as if he were going through puberty.
"Your arse owes me nothing," Eames said. He could never stay irritated with Arthur when his voice got all crackly like that. "I will absolutely collect on the offer of course, but it's not a matter of owing, you see. You've saved my arse just as many times. Your arse jumped across an alley thirty stories up for my arse."
"It wasn't thirty."
"Be that as it may. There is no owing between you and me. I only wanted you to know how little there is in the world that I would not do for you. I've worked with the best in the business. I've traveled the entire globe and lived a lifetime in dreams and died a thousand times. I've seen and understood things that most people can't even fathom. I've slept with porn stars. But there is one thing that I keep going back to and it's always been you. There is only one Arthur."
One Arthur, who sat on the bed staring at him, pieces of his gun scattered around him, one hand holding the grip, the other one empty, palm up, on his knee. A smudge on his wire-frame glasses and his hair in disarray, a few white strands among dark curls. The pretty bow of his mouth open and unsure of what to say. Eames loved leaving Arthur speechless like this. It made his day.
"It's only one in the afternoon," Arthur said. "We have some time before they get back, if you want to fuck."
"Yes, lovely. That works."
He removed Arthur's glasses, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, got frustrated with that, and pushed him down against the bed. He slid his thigh between Arthur's, and his hand followed.
"Wait a sec," Arthur said, shifting underneath him.
"No," Eames told him. "Stop fidgeting."
"The trigger housing is poking me."
"What are you calling it, now?" Eames braced himself on his elbow but did not stop fondling Arthur.
Arthur reached under his back and pulled something out, holding it up. It was a piece of the Glock. "Trigger housing."
"Oh." Eames went back to kissing his neck. "Blast them for having so many parts."
"Mmm," Arthur said.
Then, Eames went entirely still. His breath stopped in his throat, and the ice-cold feeling of intuition locked up his spine. It sucked all the sex clean out of him.
"What?" Arthur asked, understanding years of body language between them.
"I'm having a thought."
"Better be important."
Eames pulled away from him and sat up. There was something on his mind, something he thought he should know, but didn't know he knew yet. Or if he did, he wasn't sure how to get there. It had something to do with Arthur's disassembled Glock.
"Spill," Arthur prompted.
"Let me think." Except, Eames didn't think, not when it came to this. He let his mind go blank and quiet. It came to him, bit by bit. Just a theory, nothing more, but it was one that consumed him, overwhelmed him with intuition. "Arthur, when you brought the Glock on the train, did you have it assembled?"
"No, of course not. The last thing I need is for someone to find me carrying. I had it in pieces. Not just field stripped, but totally disassembled. Why?"
"The two men today. The jacks in this hand."
"The Fenderlyn guys?"
"What were they carrying?"
"I didn't see," Arthur said. "I just saw the outline... Oh. Shit. I might know what you're getting at?"
"It's just a thought," Eames cautioned. "But you were very careful about not being seen carrying. Those two were not so cautious. Why weren't they? Anyone with sharp eyes could see they were armed, yet they had no problem getting past security. Why would they not care who knew? Why would security not care?"
Arthur stared at him, considering. "Do you really think so?" He waved his hand, dismissing the question. "Fuck. I think so. Yes. They walked onto the train both obviously armed. No one questioned them."
The chill in Eames's blood came to the surface and he shivered. It always felt like that when his gut was telling him something and it was true, it was right. Arthur called it his Spider Sense. It wasn't tingling, it was blaring.
"Let me go into the dreams, Arthur, and why don't you take point? I can forge..."
"Eames, you can't steal. How are you supposed to extract? And you don't even know who to forge. I've got this. Just keep everyone away from the compartment for five, ten minutes tops, so that I can wipe it clean."
"I don't like it," Eames said. No, not tonight. Tonight felt bad.
"As is often the case," Arthur told him, "we don't have a choice."
** ** ** **
Arthur sat alone in their compartment on the train, his finger on the button that would release the quick-acting sedative into Dinclusin's room. Eames had left fifteen minutes ago and Arthur sat still, waiting for the signal.
They'd talked for a few minutes, straining to find something that made sense, trying to see if their idea fit: that somehow, the Fenderlyn brothers—the jacks, as Eames called them—were involved with the train's staff. If, in fact, Dinclusin and Dromelius were, too. Nothing made sense. They talked in circles.
After about fifteen minutes, they gave up and Eames finished unbuttoning Arthur's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. He put his thighs and his hands and his mouth back where they'd been before he'd figured out about the guns. And it was good, and hard, and necessary. Eames wrung the excess adrenaline out of him like he always did. And Eames – his hands had worked just fine, not a single hitch. Because, Arthur mused, he was only putting his hands on something that was already his.
His nerves had settled after that, and maybe he'd even fallen into a light sleep. It was easy, with Eames's head on his chest, his hand curling around Arthur's ribs, and all the alarms set up in their compartment. For a few minutes, it felt like peace.
It actually had to have been real, honest sleep, because there was no way he was lying on the bed, suddenly looking at a face with its mouth stretched wide, revealing too many white teeth. He blinked and it was gone. He didn't freak out. It was a dream. He dreamed naturally sometimes, especially under duress.
Still, Eames felt him wake up and moved off of him.
After, they'd sat on the bed going over every eventuality and making plans for the worst. If Dinclusin didn't show up in his room. If all four of them showed up. If they made a move on anyone. If Arthur found something in his head. If he found nothing.
He hoped to find something, some evidence that Dinclusin had fucked around with them, or even knew of someone who had. Just that one answer that would explain everything. Something he could chase, fight, and ultimately fix.
They'd thrown about the idea of inception, even though it seemed unlikely. Arthur only knew of the one, and he'd been part of that. Everything else was rumors.
Of course, some rumors held a grain of truth. Sometimes there really was fire beneath the smoke. And if so, there was nowhere the smoke of rumor billowed more than at a dreamtech.
Eames was going to call Arthur to give him the signal when Dinclusin went into his room. But no one had even returned to the train yet and he reckoned he had a little time. He could make one call. He calculated the time. It was 4:30 where he was. 2:30 in Paris.
He dialed Cobb.
Cobb picked up on the second ring and said "Hello, this is Dom Cobb," as if he hadn't checked who was calling, first. He was probably in his office.
"Hey, it's Arthur."
"Oh!" Dom brightened, like he always did when Arthur called. "Hey! How's Russia?"
"Cold." He could almost hear Cobb thinking, Typical. "But really beautiful," he added. "Umm, great food, really cool train, amazing architecture."
"Is Eames there?"
"Not... not currently. Listen, I actually need to ask you something. It's kind of important."
"Well, fuck," Cobb said. "This was supposed to be your vacation, Arthur. What's wrong?"
Arthur laughed, trying to sound more casual than as bitter and pissed off as he felt. "Believe it or not, it's a question about inception. And, for instance, how one might know if it had happened."
"Arthur." Dom sounded more than concerned, more than stern and professor-ly and big brotherish. "Get off the train and come to Paris. Let me have a look."
"Much as I hate to admit it, we might have to. But first I'm going to take a look inside someone's head."
As briefly as he could, he recounted the essentials of what had happened since they got on the train. Dom made noises of concentration as Arthur spoke, which usually meant that he was taking notes.
"You're sure this couldn't have something to do with what happened last time?" Dom asked. "I mean, I was about 99 percent sure we'd gotten everything out of both of you, actually out of all of us, the entire dream-glitch. But this is the subconscious we're talking about, not an operation. The brain holds onto things, regrows them like weeds."
Arthur knew that. He counted on it. The dream-glitch he'd gotten, well... it hadn't been all bad, really. "It's not that," he said. "It doesn't feel like it. With Eames, it's acting like an inception. Just, I don't know how they would have got to him. And honestly, I don't know of any other dreamwalker who could pull it off, and I definitely haven't heard of any teams with the kind of manpower and skill it would take to get to him. So I was just wondering if you'd heard anything from the students. Like the last time."
Dom laughed, a bit self-deprecating. "The only rumors I hear are about our team," he said. "I've never heard our names mentioned, only that there was one spectacularly incredible team that pulled it off."
"I see."
"People do talk about it, but only as a theory, or as a myth, Arthur. I only know of the two times it actually worked. And both of them, you know. Were me."
"Right."
"As far as I'm aware, it's rare to even attempt it. The only other person I've ever actually met who tried it before us was Eames."
"I know it's mostly thought of as an urban... Wait. What?"
Cobb went silent, obviously weighing how much trouble he had just caused.
"No, it's okay," Arthur said. "I just didn't know. What is this about?"
"You should ask him yourself, Arthur. I don't actually know the story."
"I didn't know there was a story. It's no big deal." Arthur thought in fact that it was probably a pretty big deal. "I only have a small window of time to try to extract from this guy, and Eames is running point for me; I can't grab him and ask him. Tell me what I need to know."
"There's not much to tell," Cobb said. "He told me right before Fischer that he and a team—he didn't say who—had tried it once and failed. He just said that the idea didn't take. What the idea was, who he tried to do it to, when this even happened, I have no idea. He didn't seem too interested in it; chalked it up to a failed job, sounded like. He honestly didn't know much about it."
"I get that," Arthur said. "And it's really probably got nothing to do with this." His gut instinct told him it did. "I just..."
His phone pinged, telling him he'd gotten the signal from Eames.
"Cobb, I gotta go, it's time."
"Arthur." As always, Cobb's voice stilled him and made him listen. "Be careful. Talk about this. Don't rush in."
"I won't." He was going to.
"Call me when you're done. I mean it, Arthur. Let me know what's going on."
"I will. Cobb, thanks. I really have to run."
"Jesus Christ," Cobb sighed, and ended the call.
There was never any sense wishing for more time, more words, more intel, when he'd run out. It was time.
Arthur pressed the button and released the sedative into the room down the hall.
** ** ** **
He sought it within his blood: the calm that came before the job. Whatever may come next, whatever he might find around the corner that would upset his careful plans, Arthur usually held onto his control. As he walked down the narrow, red-lined corridor, the train moving under him once more, he breathed steadily, deeply, thinking it through. The silver PASIV was in its black case, clutched in his hand.
It now seemed obvious that he was dealing with other dreamwalkers who knew more about him and Eames than the other way around. If that was the case, then they knew he was coming. But, he'd already sedated them. He couldn't turn back. This might be his only chance; he would deal with the fallout later. He'd worked against rival teams before, so this shouldn't be too much of a challenge. He only wished that Eames had had the foresight to tell him that he'd attempted an inception once before. Arthur didn't know why that felt like part of this problem, but it did. He couldn't actually fault Eames for not making the connection. He only wished he had.
He saw Eames a few cars ahead, or at least, saw the back of him. He had his casual posture on, and didn't look anything at all like a man taking point and giving Arthur a clear few minutes to break into a train compartment. He looked like a man who simply took up a lot of space, and was too clumsy to elegantly move out of the way when one of the staff was trying to pass him.
In any other job, Eames would just have pilfered a key to the room. As it was, Arthur had to use his lockpick. It was a bit inelegant, and would be more obvious when they woke up, but by then everything would be obvious. He was playing his final hand and he knew it.
He slipped into the room just as Eames finally let the train-staff guy pass.
The sight that greeted Arthur in Dinclusin's room did not make him happy. He'd expected to find Dinclusin sprawled on the floor, the result of a fall after having been dosed with sedative.
What he found instead was both Dinclusin and Ann. Neither of them were on the floor. Instead, they were each in bed, supine, hands folded over their chests. Dinclusin's mouth looked to be smirking at him. We're waiting so politely for you, their postures said. Fuck, they knew, they knew, they had expected this, they'd somehow even expected him to drug them.
He still had to go through with it. He couldn't forge, but he could extract. And he still had a few secrets tucked away, something he had kept even from Cobb. Eames knew because he'd told him. They worked together and couldn't afford to surprise each other. But to the rest of the dream world, Arthur was just the point man. They didn't know that he could still be terrifying, overwhelming, electrifying if he needed to be.
They didn't know about the program he'd stolen, re-written and hardwired into his mind. He'd hung onto the remnants of that.
Arthur set the PASIV down, opened it, and pulled out the wires. He needed to take both of them under, Dromelius and Dinclusin. If she woke, she could so easily put a bullet in his brain. This would be a quick dream-walk, and a brutal one, by necessity. If he fried their brains in the process, well, he would feel bad about that later. Maybe. Depending on what he found.
He hooked them both up, hooked himself up, and pressed the button. He was ready to open his eyes in the dream and lay waste, if he had to.
But when he opened his eyes, there was nothing to lay waste to.
The dream was black, a night at sea with no stars. Arthur tried to create light, tried to dream up space. Nothing. If he could imagine being inside the dream of a corpse, this would be it.
Then the dark started to move around him. It took form, took function, tugged at him. It pulled like a vortex at his insides. Whatever the dream was, it wanted to take him into it, deeper. He felt his back arching into it, as if it wanted to pull him guts-first into the center of itself. He felt himself being stolen, like an object.
Panicking, Arthur held on – to nothing, to everything. Mostly to himself. He tried to call on his own mind, everything he knew about dreams He tried to call up a gun, so he could eject himself. He found nothing.
Pain wracked his sides, his back, his chest. He felt his ribs snapping under the pressure of the black hole, fuck, christ, it was eating him and he wished for it to be over soon, how could this be taking so long...
He heard a loud crack and his legs went numb. His mouth felt wet and hot, filled with blood that he couldn't see and he was choking on it. He breathed it in, trying to die quicker. His hands clawed at nothing and he heard someone laughing, an amused sound.
Arthur leapt awake, frantic like he never was after a dream. He managed to bite back the scream that threatened at the top of his throat as the room spun around him. Fuck, he was caught, so caught.
But Dromeluis and Dinclusin were still hooked up to the PASIV, still under, in the dream. Still both smiling vaguely in their sleep. Arthur wanted to lie back down, catch his breath and check his totem, but there was no time, and this was fucked up, they were fucked up, and yes, they had gotten to him and Eames, obviously.
He freed them from the cannulas with shaking hands and blotted down the spots of blood on their wrists, even though it didn't matter because they already knew; they had to. He wiped down the room too, because it was what he did. He put everything back where he'd found it, and took all of the sedative rigs he had previously set up. Only when he was out the door did he check his totem.
Arthur needed to re-set. He needed to get back to his room, tell Eames what had happened, and from there they would re-group. Work something out so that he could confront this other team on his terms. He wasn't sure what their options were, he only knew which option he did not have: They weren't going to run. They had to settle this.
He had extracted nothing, but had found at least one vital piece of information: They were better than he was.
** ** ** **
So please tell me if you like this direction. The thing about Eames's past (a lot of people suggested that he should have something in his past that Arthur didn't know about, which might cause this,) just popped into my head. Do you like that idea? If so, how do you want me to go with it? What was it he tried to do? What was the plan that failed? That's what I'd like to know. If I get conflicting suggestions, I'll have to take the one that makes the most sense for what's coming up.
When Eames gets into trouble in the next chapter, I'm thinking about having Michelle be with him. What do you guys think?
Also, suggest anything else!
Next chapter, I promise, DANGER. ^_^ And plot, too.
ETA: I'M PRETTY SURE I JUST HAD A NIFTY IDEA FOR WHAT EAMES STOLE. LET'S SEE IF YOU GUYS CAN GUESS IT? ^_____^
7 - Don't Let Him Catch You...
Then, I had to add in some reasons, some plot, and some possible info on who these people are.
So, suggestions, plot, reasons, and snogging won the day. I really hope you guys don't mind waiting for more! In the next chapter, I PROMISE, there will be more danger!
These are suggestions that are either brand new, or that made it into this chapter:
osaki_nana_707 I wouldn't mind having a feature with Cobb or one of the other Inception team members via phone call or something.twilightthief - How about Eames says: "It's always been you." Probably too cheesy. But in the right context, that's giving me some ideas! ^_^gelbwax - A quote- use however you see fit: "Honestly, Mr Eames, you are not in a position to barter." Anonymous - Maybe I really want to see Arthur collapse the way Michelle did? BUT WHY, I don't know! Maybe they both got incepted, or all three of them? Or drugged? Mmmm, anon, there's almost nothing I like better in fic than Arthur falling down. Couldn't even tell you why.
towel_master - Suggestion: The train officials are corrupt, either with Dinclusin or wanting to stop the train somewhere in the middle of nowhere... LOVE.Anonymous - is this the first time Arthur has told Eames he loves him in the Tabi universe/timeline? Must be, for Eames to say "don't you dare take it back"...so I would like to see Eames making a similar declaration, just sort of conversationally or casually, like Arthur did. How does Arthur react? Well. LET'S FIND OUT. ^_^
twilightthief - I keep thinking about Eames is involved in another card game or what have you with Dinclusion, Ann, etc in some private room/car and the shit goes down. They're far away enough that no one hears/sees whats going on. Maybe Eames has to defend himself without the help of his gun or Arthur. IDK I think I just want Eames being caught in a tight spot using what he has available in the "shoot out" or whatever. And, I definitely want to see Michelle do some bad ass stuff too.Older suggestions that I WILL STILL GET TO:
gelbwax - And then he tries to get Eames to do something to Arthur? But he resists! And then Eames TAKES THAT FUCKER DOWN. Using only items he can find in the dining car, which is where he's been trussed up and left for dead. And on top of that, skyvehicle said, what if tremors give way to like, Dr. Strangelove hand? lol, until it tries to choke Arthur after Arthur tries to break into their train car? oooh. Okay, I really like this and I'm going to try to get this in there. I love this direction. twilightthief also says, Maybe they get lost but really its just someone messing with/ransacking the train? Maybe outside forces or maybe Dinclusin or someone on the train. And I like the idea that Michelle really isn't who she seems. There's something more to our Pokemon lovin' friend. we_reflamingos says, Michelle has got to be the key to something. A revelation, inspiration, information - she's aces and needs a part to play. Perhaps her parents do too, maybe in that so-clueless-don't-know-what's-going-on-but-it-helps kind of way.Anonymous said, How about if Eames turns into a killing machine after getting beat up? I'd like to see that. I WOULD TOO. :D
mydeerfriend - I'd really like to see Eames go through some sort of shit but NOT get saved by BAMF Arthur. Because Eames is awesome enough to save himself from danger (and then maybe Arthur would feel bad that he didn't/couldn't help Eames). It is time for Eames to save himself, eh? :)vattelapesca says, You can always break them both. :D Sweet. And ALSO, this is important: - I don't like it when things turn out to be genuinely supernatural, but I love subtle intricate gambits disguised as magic. I agree, I like that, too! PLUS. Re: the above: "Dinclusin" and "Dromalius" are carefully selected aliases, calculated to unsettle as much as to obscure. Another great idea which cleared something up for me. :Dastheytick - Arthur says to Eames "Just wait. Wait for me."twisted_ream there's this huge spider on eames' back and he can't get it off and arthur just laughs efcia a broken mirror, possibly a small one. I can see the shattered glass, maybe even a small amount of blood on them? This gave me a really cool idea! We already know which mirror this could be. :Dquixyjie and twilightthief - wanted Eames smoking a cigar. I will get to that NEXT CHAPTER FOR SURE. :D Anonymous: One having to carry the other.
towel_master One of them thinks they see something dangerous/weird/downright creepy out of the corner of their eye in Ann's bag? Perhaps they see her opening it while on the train.gelbwax - WHAT IF the wind whips the fedora off Arthur's head and into the siberian wasteland. OMFG, horror, right? AND THEN. AND THEN. It comes BACK TO HIM. THE FEDORA COMES BACK. RIGHT WHEN HE NEEDS ITS POWERS OF BADASSERY IT COMES BACK TO HIM. I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. Not in this chapter, but down the road. :D
sparrow_hubris - Eames glances up at Arthur from across an empty train car, posture stiff, with a blank or hostile look. He then turns slowly and walks away. Arthur for some reason cannot follow/can't catch him and it scares the crap out of him how empty/possessed?/haunted Eames looked. SO EFFING CREEPY. Not this chapter, But THE NEXT, I"M SURE. :D Also: And I'm totally in love with the idea of Arthur having to steal something more difficult than truffles because they need it and Eames' hand is too unstable to steal it himself. Nice!hazysea - A line for Eames to say to Arthur? "Stay at my level and keep to the shadows. And so, here we go!
** ** ** **
Chapter 6 - "...that will steal your soul..."
Arthur's heart hadn't quit pounding since Eames had begun babbling about him dying old, and then Eames had nearly fainted all over him and he'd panicked and felt that strange, nagging fucking guilt that he'd felt all morning and then he'd stupidly run his idiot mouth and said way too much and he was now having a total stress-spike when the little brat that kept following him everywhere showed up in the middle of a snowy field being trailed by a shady dame and then fell unconscious in the snow.
Arthur was having such a shit day.
He and Eames raced toward the fallen kid as the crowd started to come around the side of the church. It was a damn good thing that all those people saw her lying there before he and Eames got to her. He could only imagine the looks they'd get if they'd been hanging around her first.
As it was, Michelle's mom—Helen, Arthur remembered--pushed in front of everyone and came running over to her daughter, followed quickly by the dad, whom Arthur had seen but not met.
He and Eames both started to hang back once they saw the group of people already crowding her. Arthur knew from experience how awful it was to wake up with a circle of faces looking down at you. Ann hung around the edges of the crowd too, playing the concerned onlooker. Arthur kept an eye on her. He didn't like her expression; she looked more amused than concerned.
"Oh, drat it all," Helen said, kneeling beside her daughter. "Not again."
He and Eames looked at each other.
"It's all right," Michelle's father said to the converging group. "She's got a condition. She's all right, go back to what you were doing. I'm her father, I'm a doctor. Please give her some air."
No one minded him. They just kept clustering around Michelle and her parents.
Eames stepped up and said, "Right, come on then. All of you clear off."
He was doing that thing that Arthur had seen him do, where he suddenly seemed to gain three inches in height, where his voice carried above all the others. He became the man he was when he actually wanted people's attention. The group listened to him, scattering away from his presence as if he were physically shoving them. That was the thing: Eames could forge while he was awake, too.
"Go on," Eames said, shooing the last of the people away. "Go and look at the pretty church now, everything is under control."
Unsurprisingly, Ann had left, too. That was okay. Arthur would maybe take a quick gander into her head later, as well.
"Thanks," Michelle's father said, glancing up to Eames.
"Oh yes," Helen added. "Thank you, yes. My daughter has chronic hypoglycemia, you see. Stupidly low blood sugar. If she so much as forgets to eat a bit, down she goes."
"Mom?" Michelle murmured. She sat up in the snow, pale and dizzy, and pressed a hand to her forehead. "Did I... Oh crap." A creeping, mortified blush chased her paleness as she looked up and saw not only her parents and the retreating crowd, but Arthur and Eames both standing over her. "Crap," she repeated. She looked near tears.
"Hey now," Eames said, crouching next to her. "You can't go making snow angels here, this is a holy place. Stop messing about. You'll get us all kicked out."
It always amazed Arthur that for all that Eames could not be bothered with children, he was without fail completely at ease with them.
"Did you forget your snack, you dumb child?" her mother chided. Her words were harsh, but her eyes were fond. She helped Michelle up with a hand on her elbow.
"I didn't, Mom. God." Michelle stood up on shaky legs and dusted off her ratty camo coat. "I'm all right." She jerked her arm away from her mother's grip as if a viper had wound around her elbow.
"You should go back to the train," her father said. "We ought to get you some rest."
"I said..."
"Your dad's right," Arthur said. He had no idea why he said it. The words came out of his mouth the way intuition often did and he decided not to fight it. The father just stared at him, not sure if he should be wary, insulted, or thankful. "I'm Arthur," he added, holding out his hand. "Michelle came to my aid when I wasn't feeling well yesterday."
"Yes, hello," the father said, shaking hands. "I'm Daniel. Yes, I heard all about you. Sounded a bit worrying, your momentary language troubles. Michelle told me."
Michelle huffed again and stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. Obviously this was supposed to remain a secret.
"I'm all right," Arthur said. "This is my partner, Mr. Eames."
"What is it," Helen asked them both, giving them a reserved and exquisitely polite smile, "that the two of you do?"
"FBI," Arthur said without thinking about it. He grabbed his wallet—the one Eames had failed to steal; he would deal with that later—and flashed the false ID that Eames had forged for him years ago. Helen looked closely at it. She read every word and Arthur saw her look at the seal to see if it was raised.
It was a lie, the FBI gambit, but it wasn't too far off the mark. Arthur had been asked to Quantico on a few occasions and he did have a connection there. As long as he watched his step, and occasionally handed them the goods, they had a symbiotic relationship. It was looking possible that he'd be handing them some more goods in the near future, if his suspicions about Dinclusin turned out to be correct.
"SRR," Eames said, "but out now due to injury. Pleased to meet you both."
"Oh, my," Helen said, intrigued, and buying it immediately from Eames like she hadn't from Arthur.
This, also, wasn't too huge a lie. Eames had done a bit of time in Special Forces before turning rogue with dreamshare. And he did have some injuries. The best lies, Arthur found, were the ones that weren't totally lies.
"So," Helen said, "are the two of you..." She waved her hand vaguely between them.
"Mom!" Michelle said through clenched teeth. "Jesus, stop!"
"We met overseas," Eames said, smiling, charming, looking sweet, strangely shy and youthful, not at all intimidating, and completely deflecting the question. Sometimes it was amazing to watch him work when he wasn't in dreams. "We were heading back to the train by cab; Arthur is exhausted and he can't do buses. If you'd like, we could escort her back as well."
Arthur had asked once why he was always the one who was too tired or ill to go on, in all of Eames's scams. 'Because you're pale, Eames had told him. 'You look tragic and people like that.'
"Oh, would you?" Helen asked. Her eyes were alight with fondness. Eames had already won her over. "Oh, Danny, we could finish up the tour. Dollymop will be all right with two special agents, don't you think?"
Michelle dropped her head into her hands.
"What do you think, Michelle?" her father asked.
Michelle didn't look up from her hands as she said, "Okay. If you'll both stop talking."
"Well, that's that, then," Eames said. "We'll get a snack and lock her into her room until your return."
"Yes, take her away, the wretch can't even bear to look at us, poor abused thing," Helen said. She pulled Michelle to her and kissed the top of her head anyway. "Use your cell phone to actually call us if you don't feel better, will you?"
Michelle grunted in reply.
"Come along then, Dollymop," Eames said.
They left the church. Arthur didn't look back; the entire episode left a bad feeling in his gut. The place was beautiful, but he would forever associate it with their strange little shared breakdown.
They got a cab and Eames hustled Arthur into the front seat, doubtless so that he could have a word with Michelle. He put her into the back, and got in beside her, speaking quick Russian to the driver. In the mirror, Arthur saw him hold his hand out to Michelle. His demeanor changed entirely, quickly, the way it always did.
"Let's see it," he said.
Michelle looked at Arthur in the mirror, as if he was going to save her. "Are you going to arrest me?" she asked.
"No," Arthur said. "We just want to know what happened."
She dug into her pocket and drew out the small compact mirror. "I saw it sparkling in her purse and I wanted it. That's all, no big deal. She'll just think she lost it."
Arthur watched in the mirror as she went to place the compact in Eames's open hand. As soon as it got close, his hand began to shake. He closed his fist. Arthur turned around in the seat and leaned over it, meeting Eames's eyes.
"Hand it to Arthur," Eames said. His voice sounded low and unsure.
Confused, Michelle gave Arthur the mirror and then sat back against the seat. Arthur took another look at Eames, at his hand, which was still curled into a fist, and then back at his eyes. The look he had confirmed what Arthur suspected: He somehow could not touch the mirror without some symptom of either numbness or pain.
He turned his attention to the closed compact. Flecks of glass and gems outlined the edges of the cover. In the center, an etching of a cobra snake seemed to writhe to life amidst the glinting of the gems. Arthur very nearly opened it. He had his finger on the button to click the top up, but his intuition stayed his hand. There was something inside the compact, and it was probably a hell of a lot more than just a mirror.
"Did you open it?" he asked Michelle.
"Yeah."
"And that's when you fainted?"
"Are you shitting me?" Eames said, before Michelle could answer.
"Oh my god, what?" she asked, nervous. "Is there poison in there or something?"
Arthur had no idea. He thought of the flowers in the room the first night and was suddenly very glad he had his gloves on. Fingerprints notwithstanding, he was more worried about what it would get on him, rather than the other way around.
Or, it could be that she'd hidden a camera in there. Or both, really. He could flip it open and Ann Dromelius could be gazing right at his mug before whatever was in it knocked him on his back as well. There could even be a camera on the outside, he mused. He shoved it into his back pocket and hoped that she enjoyed the view. He'd take this thing apart later. Or maybe he would dummy up, and just give it back to her, saying he'd seen her drop it.
It depended on what he found in her head later.
** ** ** **
"Where's your compartment, pet?" Eames asked the girl as he walked her onto the train. Arthur trailed behind them, quiet. Eames knew he was in his headspace, going through scenario upon scenario, and taking the mirror apart in his mind without touching it. That was fine. Arthur worked well inside his own head and Eames didn't want to disturb him.
Also, he couldn't help. His hand had felt burningly hot when Michelle had offered him the mirror. The message was clear: You do not want stolen things. Apparently Arthur had no trouble touching it, though.
They needed to discuss this without the sprog, and they needed to get to work.
Arthur fell back a few paces until he was a ways down the corridor of the train. Only a few of the staff passed him in the hall and Eames knew that he was casing the place, checking their routines to see when he could best break into Dinclusin's apartment. Eames followed Michelle to hers and left Arthur to his business.
"Come on," she wheedled. "Tell me what's going on here. Is she an agent too? Are you going to arrest her? Is she a terrorist or something, because if she is then I think everyone needs to know. And I don't want to be on this train when it blows up or gets derailed or something. Don't you have to alert people if that's what's going to happen? You can't put us in danger."
"I don't know who she is," Eames said. "I don't even know that she's done anything wrong."
Michelle plonked herself onto the bottom bed, in despair. "What if that was anthrax she put on the mirror?"
"Doubt it," Eames said. He leaned against the door and gave it some thought. "There are sedatives that can act quickly with the smallest amount. It probably wasn't meant for you. But you get fainting spells anyway, correct? So it could be nothing at all." Or, he didn't say, just nothing to do with you. But then he remembered Ann's calm, amused look as Michelle had walked away from her with the stolen mirror. Someone didn't want Eames stealing and had gotten into his head to tell him so. Michelle was a little thief herself.
"Steal a lot?" he asked her.
"Spare me."
"I need to know. Believe me when I tell you I have no room to judge. There are further reasons as to why I'm no longer in the service."
She looked up at him, wary, as if testing his honesty. Then she shrugged. "I like it, sometimes. It's not like I need anything, but I think, you never know when you might need to have fast hands. It's just for practice."
"Any strange feelings when you lifted that mirror from her?"
"Not really. I just got dizzy and fell."
"But you ate, so it wasn't hypoglycemia."
"We're back to her giving me anthrax."
Eames waved her off. "Right. Listen, sprog. Stay in this room tonight. Tell your mum and dad you feel ill and don't come out until morning. Watch cartoons or play your Pac Man or something but you must leave us in peace for tonight." He chose his words purposely to sound dated and unfashionable, to see if he could get her to smile or laugh. Smiles and laughs were often precursors to agreement.
She smiled, but didn't agree. "I have to come out for dinner. And jesus, why are you talking like you're 80? You're funny, but you're not that funny. Come on, tell me what's up. Maybe I can help you."
"No. No helping whatsoever. Keep your head down and keep far away from that woman and her friends. Stay clear of me and stay clear of Arthur. Don't take it personally, Dollymop. I was not kidding when I said that I can't be responsible for children."
She slumped against the bed, defeated. "Is Arthur really in the FBI? Are you really Special Forces?"
"No more questions," he said, and started to draw the door closed.
"Are you two married?" she asked, before he had pulled it entirely shut.
He threw the door open again. "Beg your pardon?"
"You're all like, 'Oh, we're not boyfriends.' So are you married?"
Eames rubbed his hands over his face and pressed his palms against his eyes. Since when did people think it was all right to get into his business? In the past, he and Arthur had, by necessity, pretended to be married as part of a con, or had been open about being together, or whatever it was they actually were (he'd never thought of a name for it and didn't want to now,) but he had never felt comfortable with it. You just never showed your hand like that. It made it too easy for people to use against you.
"We're not married," he said. He tried to fight back a tired laugh at himself, at the fact that he was not only answering the question, but actually considering it, choosing his answers as he wondered about it himself. After more than ten years, someone was asking him to define it, and he couldn't. "We work together a lot because Arthur is the best at what he does and so am I."
"But you were making out by the church. So I figured that meant you were, you know. Together like that."
He literally wanted to slap himself. So his moment of weakness had cost him their discretion, and he was lucky if the sprog had been the only one to see. Unlucky indeed if Ann had been lurking around even then – although by now she probably also knew that she could get to one by using the other. A frantic snog probably wasn't necessary to prove it.
"Um," Michelle went on, "and he stares at you the way people stare at the Mona Lisa when the see it at the Louvre. If it's supposed to be some big state secret, guess what? It's not."
"This conversation is over," Eames said, with no real malice. It wasn't her fault he'd been so stupidly throwing himself at Arthur.
"I'm just saying," she said, "if you guys have known each other for all those years and you have sex..."
"Oh, fuck my life."
"And you're not having sex with anyone else, then you should just call a fig a fig. Instead of calling it like, an olive or something. When it's not an olive."
"My figs are none of your business," Eames said, and pulled the door closed.
As he walked down the corridor, he could still hear her laughing.
He found Arthur in their own compartment. He was sat cross-legged on the bottom bed, wearing blue latex gloves and goggles over his wire-framed glasses. He had a small kit of tools beside him and was screwing the hinge of the compact back on.
"Anything?" Eames asked.
Arthur's mouth turned down and that line of frustration creased between his eyebrows. "There was, but it's gone now. There is definitely a compartment in here for something. I didn't find any tech. It lights up, but the battery is dead. If there's a camera or bug in here, it's out of my league." He looked up from his work and removed his ridiculous goggles. They left red lines on his forehead and under his eyes. "How's Michelle?"
"Seems all right. Too nosy for her own good. Or ours, I might add." He didn't need to embarrass Arthur by telling him that she'd seen Eames trying to climb him like a tree.
"Umm, I hope you don't mind," Arthur said, "but I had to go into your work station to get the sedative. I wanted to set it up for a remote release as quick as I could and when none of the train staff was hanging around, so I..."
"That's all right," Eames said.
"I didn't touch anything else. I know fingerprints can fuck up your work. I wore gloves."
"Arthur, it's all right. You are in fact allowed to touch my things."
Arthur smiled, not looking up, and put the compact down. He reached for his Glock and began to field strip it for cleaning.
Eames took a seat on the bed beside him. Tentatively, he reached for the compact mirror on the bed. He saw Arthur glance at his hand, trying to be casual about it. When Eames tried to run his finger across the etched top, a feeling of revulsion made his hand falter. He imagined the snake rearing up and sinking tiny, venomous fangs into the pad of his finger. Arthur was still watching, even as he continued stripping the Glock. To prove a point, Eames touched the snake on top of the mirror. The touch only lasted a second. Nausea burned through his stomach at the touch. He took a deep breath and moved his hand.
Arthur directed his attention back to the Glock, though surely he must have known that touching the stolen mirror had affected Eames. He didn't comment on it.
"Umm," Arthur said. Which, in Arthur-speak, meant that he was going to say something he found difficult.
Eames sat back against the wall and waited it out. The train was motionless and the room was silent without the steady drone of the rails under it. Arthur continued disassembling his gun, baring its insides for cleaning.
"When we were at the church this morning and I was, when you were, and I said. You know, I just wanted to clarify. I wasn't trying to take it back. I just meant, not that I have to qualify it, but the word means so many different things in different contexts and it doesn't change anything, nothing's different." When Eames didn't answer, it forced Arthur to finally look at him. The Glock lay in pieces around his crossed legs, entirely disassembled. "You had to have known."
Eames leaned in and kissed him, running his thumb across his jaw. "I did know," he said against his mouth. "And you must know that I love you, Arthur. I took a bullet for you, didn't I."
Arthur drew back, confused. "When?"
"Are you serious?"
"On the bridge?" Arthur asked. "Pretty sure that one was meant for you."
"No, not on the fucking bridge. Berlin, Arthur? Six years ago? Bleeding behind the trash bins for hours until we found an escape route? Any of this ringing a bell?"
"You got shot that time?" Arthur asked. He wasn't even fucking around.
"I'm going to punch you in the cock," Eames said. "Yes I fucking got shot, I jumped in front of you at the last possible moment. Prick. How could you not remember that?"
"I'm sorry, it's a blur!" Arthur said, throwing his hands up in defense. "I was a little drugged at the time, don't take it personally. I don't even remember a firefight."
"There fucking well was, and I got shot for you, and let me tell you. It would have gone right through your chest had I not shoved you away, and that is why my arm was bleeding for hours behind the trash bins."
"I mean, it's not like I don't realize that you saved me plenty of times before. I know you did. You pulled me out of an interrogation room, out of a fire, out of the fucking ground. You've saved my ass a lot. My ass realizes it owes you a life debt." Arthur's voice had an endearing tendency to crack when he was worked up, as if he were going through puberty.
"Your arse owes me nothing," Eames said. He could never stay irritated with Arthur when his voice got all crackly like that. "I will absolutely collect on the offer of course, but it's not a matter of owing, you see. You've saved my arse just as many times. Your arse jumped across an alley thirty stories up for my arse."
"It wasn't thirty."
"Be that as it may. There is no owing between you and me. I only wanted you to know how little there is in the world that I would not do for you. I've worked with the best in the business. I've traveled the entire globe and lived a lifetime in dreams and died a thousand times. I've seen and understood things that most people can't even fathom. I've slept with porn stars. But there is one thing that I keep going back to and it's always been you. There is only one Arthur."
One Arthur, who sat on the bed staring at him, pieces of his gun scattered around him, one hand holding the grip, the other one empty, palm up, on his knee. A smudge on his wire-frame glasses and his hair in disarray, a few white strands among dark curls. The pretty bow of his mouth open and unsure of what to say. Eames loved leaving Arthur speechless like this. It made his day.
"It's only one in the afternoon," Arthur said. "We have some time before they get back, if you want to fuck."
"Yes, lovely. That works."
He removed Arthur's glasses, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, got frustrated with that, and pushed him down against the bed. He slid his thigh between Arthur's, and his hand followed.
"Wait a sec," Arthur said, shifting underneath him.
"No," Eames told him. "Stop fidgeting."
"The trigger housing is poking me."
"What are you calling it, now?" Eames braced himself on his elbow but did not stop fondling Arthur.
Arthur reached under his back and pulled something out, holding it up. It was a piece of the Glock. "Trigger housing."
"Oh." Eames went back to kissing his neck. "Blast them for having so many parts."
"Mmm," Arthur said.
Then, Eames went entirely still. His breath stopped in his throat, and the ice-cold feeling of intuition locked up his spine. It sucked all the sex clean out of him.
"What?" Arthur asked, understanding years of body language between them.
"I'm having a thought."
"Better be important."
Eames pulled away from him and sat up. There was something on his mind, something he thought he should know, but didn't know he knew yet. Or if he did, he wasn't sure how to get there. It had something to do with Arthur's disassembled Glock.
"Spill," Arthur prompted.
"Let me think." Except, Eames didn't think, not when it came to this. He let his mind go blank and quiet. It came to him, bit by bit. Just a theory, nothing more, but it was one that consumed him, overwhelmed him with intuition. "Arthur, when you brought the Glock on the train, did you have it assembled?"
"No, of course not. The last thing I need is for someone to find me carrying. I had it in pieces. Not just field stripped, but totally disassembled. Why?"
"The two men today. The jacks in this hand."
"The Fenderlyn guys?"
"What were they carrying?"
"I didn't see," Arthur said. "I just saw the outline... Oh. Shit. I might know what you're getting at?"
"It's just a thought," Eames cautioned. "But you were very careful about not being seen carrying. Those two were not so cautious. Why weren't they? Anyone with sharp eyes could see they were armed, yet they had no problem getting past security. Why would they not care who knew? Why would security not care?"
Arthur stared at him, considering. "Do you really think so?" He waved his hand, dismissing the question. "Fuck. I think so. Yes. They walked onto the train both obviously armed. No one questioned them."
The chill in Eames's blood came to the surface and he shivered. It always felt like that when his gut was telling him something and it was true, it was right. Arthur called it his Spider Sense. It wasn't tingling, it was blaring.
"Let me go into the dreams, Arthur, and why don't you take point? I can forge..."
"Eames, you can't steal. How are you supposed to extract? And you don't even know who to forge. I've got this. Just keep everyone away from the compartment for five, ten minutes tops, so that I can wipe it clean."
"I don't like it," Eames said. No, not tonight. Tonight felt bad.
"As is often the case," Arthur told him, "we don't have a choice."
** ** ** **
Arthur sat alone in their compartment on the train, his finger on the button that would release the quick-acting sedative into Dinclusin's room. Eames had left fifteen minutes ago and Arthur sat still, waiting for the signal.
They'd talked for a few minutes, straining to find something that made sense, trying to see if their idea fit: that somehow, the Fenderlyn brothers—the jacks, as Eames called them—were involved with the train's staff. If, in fact, Dinclusin and Dromelius were, too. Nothing made sense. They talked in circles.
After about fifteen minutes, they gave up and Eames finished unbuttoning Arthur's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. He put his thighs and his hands and his mouth back where they'd been before he'd figured out about the guns. And it was good, and hard, and necessary. Eames wrung the excess adrenaline out of him like he always did. And Eames – his hands had worked just fine, not a single hitch. Because, Arthur mused, he was only putting his hands on something that was already his.
His nerves had settled after that, and maybe he'd even fallen into a light sleep. It was easy, with Eames's head on his chest, his hand curling around Arthur's ribs, and all the alarms set up in their compartment. For a few minutes, it felt like peace.
It actually had to have been real, honest sleep, because there was no way he was lying on the bed, suddenly looking at a face with its mouth stretched wide, revealing too many white teeth. He blinked and it was gone. He didn't freak out. It was a dream. He dreamed naturally sometimes, especially under duress.
Still, Eames felt him wake up and moved off of him.
After, they'd sat on the bed going over every eventuality and making plans for the worst. If Dinclusin didn't show up in his room. If all four of them showed up. If they made a move on anyone. If Arthur found something in his head. If he found nothing.
He hoped to find something, some evidence that Dinclusin had fucked around with them, or even knew of someone who had. Just that one answer that would explain everything. Something he could chase, fight, and ultimately fix.
They'd thrown about the idea of inception, even though it seemed unlikely. Arthur only knew of the one, and he'd been part of that. Everything else was rumors.
Of course, some rumors held a grain of truth. Sometimes there really was fire beneath the smoke. And if so, there was nowhere the smoke of rumor billowed more than at a dreamtech.
Eames was going to call Arthur to give him the signal when Dinclusin went into his room. But no one had even returned to the train yet and he reckoned he had a little time. He could make one call. He calculated the time. It was 4:30 where he was. 2:30 in Paris.
He dialed Cobb.
Cobb picked up on the second ring and said "Hello, this is Dom Cobb," as if he hadn't checked who was calling, first. He was probably in his office.
"Hey, it's Arthur."
"Oh!" Dom brightened, like he always did when Arthur called. "Hey! How's Russia?"
"Cold." He could almost hear Cobb thinking, Typical. "But really beautiful," he added. "Umm, great food, really cool train, amazing architecture."
"Is Eames there?"
"Not... not currently. Listen, I actually need to ask you something. It's kind of important."
"Well, fuck," Cobb said. "This was supposed to be your vacation, Arthur. What's wrong?"
Arthur laughed, trying to sound more casual than as bitter and pissed off as he felt. "Believe it or not, it's a question about inception. And, for instance, how one might know if it had happened."
"Arthur." Dom sounded more than concerned, more than stern and professor-ly and big brotherish. "Get off the train and come to Paris. Let me have a look."
"Much as I hate to admit it, we might have to. But first I'm going to take a look inside someone's head."
As briefly as he could, he recounted the essentials of what had happened since they got on the train. Dom made noises of concentration as Arthur spoke, which usually meant that he was taking notes.
"You're sure this couldn't have something to do with what happened last time?" Dom asked. "I mean, I was about 99 percent sure we'd gotten everything out of both of you, actually out of all of us, the entire dream-glitch. But this is the subconscious we're talking about, not an operation. The brain holds onto things, regrows them like weeds."
Arthur knew that. He counted on it. The dream-glitch he'd gotten, well... it hadn't been all bad, really. "It's not that," he said. "It doesn't feel like it. With Eames, it's acting like an inception. Just, I don't know how they would have got to him. And honestly, I don't know of any other dreamwalker who could pull it off, and I definitely haven't heard of any teams with the kind of manpower and skill it would take to get to him. So I was just wondering if you'd heard anything from the students. Like the last time."
Dom laughed, a bit self-deprecating. "The only rumors I hear are about our team," he said. "I've never heard our names mentioned, only that there was one spectacularly incredible team that pulled it off."
"I see."
"People do talk about it, but only as a theory, or as a myth, Arthur. I only know of the two times it actually worked. And both of them, you know. Were me."
"Right."
"As far as I'm aware, it's rare to even attempt it. The only other person I've ever actually met who tried it before us was Eames."
"I know it's mostly thought of as an urban... Wait. What?"
Cobb went silent, obviously weighing how much trouble he had just caused.
"No, it's okay," Arthur said. "I just didn't know. What is this about?"
"You should ask him yourself, Arthur. I don't actually know the story."
"I didn't know there was a story. It's no big deal." Arthur thought in fact that it was probably a pretty big deal. "I only have a small window of time to try to extract from this guy, and Eames is running point for me; I can't grab him and ask him. Tell me what I need to know."
"There's not much to tell," Cobb said. "He told me right before Fischer that he and a team—he didn't say who—had tried it once and failed. He just said that the idea didn't take. What the idea was, who he tried to do it to, when this even happened, I have no idea. He didn't seem too interested in it; chalked it up to a failed job, sounded like. He honestly didn't know much about it."
"I get that," Arthur said. "And it's really probably got nothing to do with this." His gut instinct told him it did. "I just..."
His phone pinged, telling him he'd gotten the signal from Eames.
"Cobb, I gotta go, it's time."
"Arthur." As always, Cobb's voice stilled him and made him listen. "Be careful. Talk about this. Don't rush in."
"I won't." He was going to.
"Call me when you're done. I mean it, Arthur. Let me know what's going on."
"I will. Cobb, thanks. I really have to run."
"Jesus Christ," Cobb sighed, and ended the call.
There was never any sense wishing for more time, more words, more intel, when he'd run out. It was time.
Arthur pressed the button and released the sedative into the room down the hall.
** ** ** **
He sought it within his blood: the calm that came before the job. Whatever may come next, whatever he might find around the corner that would upset his careful plans, Arthur usually held onto his control. As he walked down the narrow, red-lined corridor, the train moving under him once more, he breathed steadily, deeply, thinking it through. The silver PASIV was in its black case, clutched in his hand.
It now seemed obvious that he was dealing with other dreamwalkers who knew more about him and Eames than the other way around. If that was the case, then they knew he was coming. But, he'd already sedated them. He couldn't turn back. This might be his only chance; he would deal with the fallout later. He'd worked against rival teams before, so this shouldn't be too much of a challenge. He only wished that Eames had had the foresight to tell him that he'd attempted an inception once before. Arthur didn't know why that felt like part of this problem, but it did. He couldn't actually fault Eames for not making the connection. He only wished he had.
He saw Eames a few cars ahead, or at least, saw the back of him. He had his casual posture on, and didn't look anything at all like a man taking point and giving Arthur a clear few minutes to break into a train compartment. He looked like a man who simply took up a lot of space, and was too clumsy to elegantly move out of the way when one of the staff was trying to pass him.
In any other job, Eames would just have pilfered a key to the room. As it was, Arthur had to use his lockpick. It was a bit inelegant, and would be more obvious when they woke up, but by then everything would be obvious. He was playing his final hand and he knew it.
He slipped into the room just as Eames finally let the train-staff guy pass.
The sight that greeted Arthur in Dinclusin's room did not make him happy. He'd expected to find Dinclusin sprawled on the floor, the result of a fall after having been dosed with sedative.
What he found instead was both Dinclusin and Ann. Neither of them were on the floor. Instead, they were each in bed, supine, hands folded over their chests. Dinclusin's mouth looked to be smirking at him. We're waiting so politely for you, their postures said. Fuck, they knew, they knew, they had expected this, they'd somehow even expected him to drug them.
He still had to go through with it. He couldn't forge, but he could extract. And he still had a few secrets tucked away, something he had kept even from Cobb. Eames knew because he'd told him. They worked together and couldn't afford to surprise each other. But to the rest of the dream world, Arthur was just the point man. They didn't know that he could still be terrifying, overwhelming, electrifying if he needed to be.
They didn't know about the program he'd stolen, re-written and hardwired into his mind. He'd hung onto the remnants of that.
Arthur set the PASIV down, opened it, and pulled out the wires. He needed to take both of them under, Dromelius and Dinclusin. If she woke, she could so easily put a bullet in his brain. This would be a quick dream-walk, and a brutal one, by necessity. If he fried their brains in the process, well, he would feel bad about that later. Maybe. Depending on what he found.
He hooked them both up, hooked himself up, and pressed the button. He was ready to open his eyes in the dream and lay waste, if he had to.
But when he opened his eyes, there was nothing to lay waste to.
The dream was black, a night at sea with no stars. Arthur tried to create light, tried to dream up space. Nothing. If he could imagine being inside the dream of a corpse, this would be it.
Then the dark started to move around him. It took form, took function, tugged at him. It pulled like a vortex at his insides. Whatever the dream was, it wanted to take him into it, deeper. He felt his back arching into it, as if it wanted to pull him guts-first into the center of itself. He felt himself being stolen, like an object.
Panicking, Arthur held on – to nothing, to everything. Mostly to himself. He tried to call on his own mind, everything he knew about dreams He tried to call up a gun, so he could eject himself. He found nothing.
Pain wracked his sides, his back, his chest. He felt his ribs snapping under the pressure of the black hole, fuck, christ, it was eating him and he wished for it to be over soon, how could this be taking so long...
He heard a loud crack and his legs went numb. His mouth felt wet and hot, filled with blood that he couldn't see and he was choking on it. He breathed it in, trying to die quicker. His hands clawed at nothing and he heard someone laughing, an amused sound.
Arthur leapt awake, frantic like he never was after a dream. He managed to bite back the scream that threatened at the top of his throat as the room spun around him. Fuck, he was caught, so caught.
But Dromeluis and Dinclusin were still hooked up to the PASIV, still under, in the dream. Still both smiling vaguely in their sleep. Arthur wanted to lie back down, catch his breath and check his totem, but there was no time, and this was fucked up, they were fucked up, and yes, they had gotten to him and Eames, obviously.
He freed them from the cannulas with shaking hands and blotted down the spots of blood on their wrists, even though it didn't matter because they already knew; they had to. He wiped down the room too, because it was what he did. He put everything back where he'd found it, and took all of the sedative rigs he had previously set up. Only when he was out the door did he check his totem.
Arthur needed to re-set. He needed to get back to his room, tell Eames what had happened, and from there they would re-group. Work something out so that he could confront this other team on his terms. He wasn't sure what their options were, he only knew which option he did not have: They weren't going to run. They had to settle this.
He had extracted nothing, but had found at least one vital piece of information: They were better than he was.
** ** ** **
So please tell me if you like this direction. The thing about Eames's past (a lot of people suggested that he should have something in his past that Arthur didn't know about, which might cause this,) just popped into my head. Do you like that idea? If so, how do you want me to go with it? What was it he tried to do? What was the plan that failed? That's what I'd like to know. If I get conflicting suggestions, I'll have to take the one that makes the most sense for what's coming up.
When Eames gets into trouble in the next chapter, I'm thinking about having Michelle be with him. What do you guys think?
Also, suggest anything else!
Next chapter, I promise, DANGER. ^_^ And plot, too.
ETA: I'M PRETTY SURE I JUST HAD A NIFTY IDEA FOR WHAT EAMES STOLE. LET'S SEE IF YOU GUYS CAN GUESS IT? ^_____^
7 - Don't Let Him Catch You...
no subject
Hmm, I think that this idea, which someone wanted to plant in Arthur's mind should be connected with the dream sharing; Arthur worked with Dom and Mal from the beginning, right? (I mean in your version)If so he could become a powerful aliance for someone outside of the legal dream sharing- all secrets about the PASIV (in my mind there is plenty versions of this device), sedatives, generally information what you can do and how... Anything. The way I see it: Mal has rather strong influence on Arthur, right? So she forced him to finally go somewhere, meet some beautiful girl/boy/whatever. Obviously all of this happen during this short vacation, but it leaves my with one serious question: whe Eames didn't recognize him as his mark? Anyway, probably it can be explained somehow and I really like that idea. I also can see Arthur standing on the middle of old city centre in Cracow, squinting his eyes in the brightness of sunlight... Yeah, it's my patriotism, which woke up:)
Another YES for Michelle being with Eames during the danger. She's the type of girl, who won't seat in her room, especially not after somebody told her to do so.
The darkness in Arthur's dream- creepy,oh so creepy. For me it looks like some kind of self defence, much better than anything Arthur could see before.
So, that's it for my ideas. Now I can say that this story is really, really good. I'm so happy you enjoy writing and sharing your amazing ideas with us! As for the mirror- you can't even imagine how big my smile was when I discovered that a simple prompt has developed into something much bigger and complicated.
I'm waiting impatiently for next chapter and the DANGER;D
no subject
As to why Eames wouldn't remember. Could they possibly both have had their memories wiped after the failed inception? Or maybe, maybe, Eames didn't even know who the mark was. Maybe he never saw him, even in the dream?
But that doesn't make sense. Nope, they'd've had to have their memories wiped, I think.
Question is: what was the inception? Hmm.
Overwhelmingly, everyone wants Michelle to be with Eames when the trouble hits. I LOVE that!
And I'm so glad you're enjoying this! Thank you! ^_^