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On a Saturday in May, Ariadne stands in front of the door. „Don't even try to say, Oh my, how tall you've grown.“
Dom gives her a cursory sweep and notices the new scar on her eyebrow and the bruises on her knuckles that come from packing a punch, not receiving one, and says „Oh my, how tiny you've stayed.“
In the kitchen, Ariadne unpacks an industrial-sized travel mug filled to the brim with black coffee. She pours herself a cup into the lid and answers Dom’s unspoken question. “Never trust anybody else with your coffee. After you've tasted what Yusuf brews in his laboratory, you are a sad addict hooked for life. Also, no offence, but various people have been trying to poison me three times in the last two months, so I am a tad paranoid.” Inhaling the aroma and letting out sounds Dom really does not want his kids to hear because that would raise awkward questions, Ariadne continues, “And well, I don't think you'd try to poison me, but the people who are monitoring your house might feel creative.”
“Monitoring my house?” Dom almost shoots out of his chair towards the windows, but Ariadne grabs his sleeve and yanks him down. “Yes. They're here because of me, so as soon as I take my leave, they'll sulk off after a few days of watching you feed mashed bananas to the kiddies.”
Taking deep breaths, Dom tries to not stare too obviously towards the bushes in the neighbour’s garden. One of them just moved. “I'm certain I'm going to regret asking, but what have you done that merits constant observation by people covered in branches?”
“Oh, you know.” Ariadne waves her hands over the table covered in wax crayons and rainbow paper. “International espionage. Breaking out of a prison or two. Possession of a top-secret next-gen PASIV prototype. Fleeing countries after being accused of murder.” She smirks at that last one, raising her cup in a mocking salute. Dom keeps his mouth from hanging open. “Did you marry? Did they jump off a building? Do I even want to know?”
Ariadne laughs and unpacks an aluminium box, not unlike those vacuum-sealed ones used by the NASA. It unlocks with her fingerprint and a nine-digit combination. Inside are sandwiches and a bag of fresh strawberries.
“No, in fact I did kill them. Which was in self-defence, I'll have you know.”, she says through a mouthful of cucumber and ham. “But I can't prove that, so we decided that maybe Spain is way too hot this time of year anyway.”
Dom visibly gulps and very obviously does not move his chair away from her. He just grips his mug a bit tighter. Then he inclines his head, because he didn't make his former name as one of the most notorious extractors by not paying attention to what people say. “We? As in, not just the royal one?”
Ariadne’s eyes light up, and she quickly swallows her bite. “I forgot! You haven't been keeping contact, right? And you're not a part of the satellite ring, so of course.”
At Dom’s increasingly confused look, she smacks his shoulder. “You don't think those emails Arthur sends you actually contain any sensitive info? He wants the kids to live, believe me. And you too, after all the trouble we went through to grant you the middle-class-American dream.” She winks and stuffs a strawberry into her mouth. “The satellite ring is the intel network we've been building up in the last two years. It distributes confidential data from various governmental as well as private experiments and research around the world to us on the freelance side of dreamshare. Like a Wikileaks for a very select group of people.”
She offers a strawberry to Dom, who declines in a daze. Shrugging, she continues. “The reason it's called satellite is because we use an actual satellite to establish the connections and relay the news. Much safer than the internet by far because it's a closed circuit data system with defined entry and exit points that are heavily encrypted – and only accessible if you have the coordinates and codes. All very Cold-War-stylish.” Grinning, Ariadne leans back in her chair. “And if you have somebody who finances you a private satellite, well... let's just say there is a reason Proclus Global had three successful high-level mergers in the past eighteen months.”
There is silence in the kitchen, only broken by the sounds of James and Philippa playing upstairs. Dom swallows. It's a bit surreal, how sudden international cutting-edge mind-crime infiltrates your Saturday morning routine. Not to mention the steel-encased strawberries.
“So, we – that is Yusuf for one. You'd be surprised how loyal a man grows once you have formidable blackmail material on him, and nothing says I'll hack your balls off quite like reminding him of his due fate should he ever think to put certain sedatives in certain compounds ever again without telling you all about it beforehand.”
Dom squirms in his seat, and Ariadne gives him a bit of an evil eye. “You deserved that one, you know that. Also,” she continues blithely, “he is a god among coffee beans, and it's nice to have a sort of base, even if it suffers from cat-hair infestations. Which, not for nothing, but at eight I draw the line between charmingly eccentric and crazy cat dude. Yusuf is a crazy cat dude, never let anybody tell you otherwise.” She makes a face into her cup and takes a hefty swallow.
“Then of course Arthur. You saw how he basically frog-marched me out of LAX and stuffed me into an inconspicuous dark car? Of course you didn't, what with being occupied coming home and such. Well, I have to admit, I wasn't around to witness the heart-breaking event to the end, as I was sure I'd soon be cut up into tiny ribbons of erstwhile architect dreams – excuse the pun – because Arthur with a black tie is scary. All he needs is a blood-splattered apron, an axe, and bam, Patrick Bateman.”
She shudders for full effect and Dom leans back, thinking about Arthur happily exploding them out of two levels deep. That sort of heartfelt satisfaction really ought to have been suspicious.
Then Ariadne grins. “But once you get past the starched collars, he's really all rainbows and puppies. And without you around, he's a pressure cooker of opinions and disapproval. It's very endearing.”
Dom stares at her. “Puppies?”
“Absolutely! He has this adorable Shi-tzu mongrel that starts crying if he's on the toilet for longer than five minutes. He never sent you pictures? Oh god.” She grabs for her bag and frantically digs through its unfathomable depths while Dom mentally rewinds everything he ever knew about Arthur. Ariadne thrusts her phone at him, and internationally wanted criminal or not, doggie candids apparently still make women go all mushy inside. Okay, Dom is feeling a bit weak in the knees himself after three pictures. Dogs shouldn't come with faces that make you want to hug them across an unknown number of continents.
Swiping through the photos – there seem to be hundreds – Ariadne smugly elaborates, “You wouldn't believe how rarely we have to bribe cabin crew to allow her out of the transport box. Sometimes we joke that we should just put a bug in her collar, leave the mark alone with her for half an hour, and we'd have all their secrets on a platter.”
Tucking her phone away again, Ariadne sighs happily. “Does wonders for team morale, I tell you. So, while you went into the California hills, Arthur sat me down and told me that I'd get twenty per cent net profit, negotiable expenses and free gun training if I agreed to work with him as an architect exclusively for the next two years. I honestly didn't even listen to the alternative. I've always wanted to know how to shoot a gun.”
Dom’s eyes widen. “Twenty? That's pretty good. Are you going under too?”
“Occasionally, and I usually get a larger cut then. But those are the huge jobs that need more than two people in the dream. Mostly I monitor upside. If we go all out, we fly in Yusuf to monitor. He's in high demand as a supplier, you know.”
Dom nods and counts and asks, “Who's with you then regularly?”
Ariadne grins. “Ha. The stray wolf.”
Dom sets down his cup and squints at her. “Eames? I-will-never-work-with-the-same-people-thrice-Eames?”
“Yes. Apparently there are exceptions. Especially when one is willing to base almost every dream structure on a Bond film.” There is too much mirth on Ariadne’s small face to not spill over. “I can now scuba dive. Funny how naturally stuff you learn when sleeping carries into the real world.”
“So Eames is working as an extractor again?”, Dom ponders thoughtfully. “That's interesting. I thought the market for forgers is not very densely populated.”
Ariadne shakes her head. “It isn't, especially after that shootout LutherCorp job in Shanghai last year. Two were killed. But few teams want to spend the extra dime on forgers, especially as it almost always means hiring an external. And they know exactly what they are worth, believe me.” She winks and eats another strawberry. “Eames sometimes takes jobs on the side as a forger only, and he rakes in more than mine and Yusuf’s regular share on these occasions. Not that he actually does anything with the money.” She frowns, looking puzzled for a moment. “I think he just enjoys the feeling of being richer than the queen, dresses like a pauper in spite, and gambles a bit. Oh, and he buys into databases, Arthur went starry-eyed over that. I believe he has considerable stake in various military networks, it's where we get half the info for the satellite ring from. But of course he never tells me much about that.”
Dropping her voice, she intonates what sounds like a well-rehearsed performance. “Little noses that sniff in places they don't belong get cut off, so keep yours out of trouble, the less you know, the better for you, I'm just trying to protect you.” She slumps a bit. “He's really awfully secretive. Not that Arthur isn't too – hell if I know where they've all been born, maybe they were assembled in a little badass factory in the Russian wilds– but it's the worst when they're having secrets together. And they always do. You'll understand when you're older, Ariadne. It's only for your own good, Ariadne. It's like the happily married parents I never knew I didn't want.”
Dom carefully pats her shoulder and then inches towards the obvious question. „So, Arthur and Eames? Are they still doing the long-distance, passive-aggressive thing?“
Ariadne rolls her eyes, conveying the unnerved teenager with every fibre of her being. “Like a pair of fifteen-year-old drama club queens. You should listen to their skype conversations. Stock brokers issuing a margin call are probably more affectionate. They would also make fewer jokes about sex on planes.” Her face goes through a collection of different kinds of disgust and settles on incredulous. “It's like they enjoy making me exasperated. And to think I once had an almost-crush on Arthur.”
Dom, who spent all of her talk getting more uncomfortable, tries to waggle his eyebrows, which is more tragic than suggestive. „Right. That's why I was a bit worried. Didn't you and Arthur...?“
Ariadne blinks. „What?“
„During the Fischer job. In the lobby, second level?“ Dom soldiers on.
„Oh. That.“ Ariadne says, and then almost drops off her chair with laughter. „That.“
„Yes?“ Dom tries to help her up, but she's rolling on the floor. Dom thought kids stopped doing that when they were over ten. Phillipa stopped.
„That was, I quote, because he wanted to know if he still could not get it up for women, because Eames as a lady is scorching hot, dammit, he so wants to be able to tap that, unquote.“
While she wipes the tears from her eyes, Dom hides his face in his hands. „All the things I never wanted to know.“
„And in case you are wondering, no he can't. Considering Eames can fake bloody Madonna he admits it's a right shame.“
„Why Madonna?“ Dom has given up and stares at her in a mixture of mute horror and desperate interest. Ariadne wrinkles her brow. „Dude, everybody wants Madonna. The gays want Madonna. Robbie Williams wants Madonna. The girls aged fourteen to sixty-five want Madonna. Don't tell me you've never had a wet dream about Madonna, what is wrong with you?“ She takes a fortifying gulp of coffee because some things should not be dealt with without copious amounts of caffeine in one’s system.
Dom helplessly shrugs his shoulders. He's sort of got a single-target sexuality, if he's honest. He's not sure if Ariadne would believe him, but then again she's been murdered by his projection of Mal once or twice, so she might have an inkling.
While Ariadne clears out her bomb-proof lunch box, Dom refills his cup and tries to think of questions that will not lead to him or the children being invaded by people covered in branches. He will have to generously pay for therapy in a few years as it is. He finally settles on, “So what are you actually doing here?” and immediately tries to bite his own tongue off. Well done, that.
Ariadne settles back in her chair and grins. The scar in her eyebrow is nearly white. “I am, in fact, on my way to something I didn't think I'd get to experience any time this decade. But it turns out that threatening someone who really wants to turn you and your comrades into a private special operations army with a burnout breakdown works out amazingly well. As of yesterday, I was informed that Saito owns a private island. As of tomorrow, I'm on vacation.” The smugness seems to roll off her tiny frame in waves. She really spends a lot of time with Eames if she can make slouching look this self-satisfied.
“Not bad.” Dom salutes her with the milk carton. “So where are you headed?”
Ariadne’s face falls as if someone kicked that mongrel she adores so. “Why did you have to go and ask? Now I will have to kill you.”
Dom drops the milk and paints the entire sink white. “What?”
She stares at him with a disapproving glare. “Never ask where the criminal is going next. You also don't read spy novels, do you?”
“No,” Dom says weakly, inching towards the kitchen door, eyeing Ariadne’s backpack nervously. It is still stuffed to burst. A handgun would certainly fit in there. “You could just not tell me.”, he suggests carefully.
“Which is exactly what I am going to do.” Ariadne nods and comes over to clean up the milk. When Dom doesn't move from the counter, she gives him a light shove. “Oh my god, I was joking! I'd never kill you. Well, unless you gave me a good reason to, like almost turn my brain into scrambled eggs again. Then, maybe. But not over something as small as an island.” She winks, and it's hardly fathomable she's the one who's barley over twenty and has been a career criminal for only five years. Then again, Dom spent maybe half that time dreaming on the other side of the law. And he had Arthur deal with most legal issues until they became none-issues. And now Ariadne has Arthur to do that, plus Eames, who probably swindled entire countries into bankruptcy and Yusuf, who has the temper of a teddy bear and the morality of a back-street dentist. And Saito. Dom does not want to think about Saito any more than he has to.
“So, I can't tell you where it is, but that's because Saito is a bit paranoid about his personal safety. Did you know he has up to three doubles running around the world to keep assassination attempts to his actual person to a minimum? Hence, he does not want anybody to know where it is. To be quite honest, I'm not exactly sure where it is. I'm going to be picked up by a private jet at LAX tomorrow, that's it. But Yusuf and his wife are there already and sent me pictures with colourful cocktails to incite my jealousy. I'm so excited for their faces when they see me lounging in their beach chairs.”
Seeing as she practically bounces at the thought and makes no obvious sign of producing firearms form hidden pockets, Dom makes the conscious effort to lower his heart rate and goes for a fresh pack of milk. “Wife?” Today is full of surprises.
“Wife. They married in spring three years ago, it was grand. She's a cat-breeder, go figure. They joined forces and now sell high-end anti-allergic cats for sums you'd buy a small car with.” She chuckles and gets out her phone again. “The party was fantastic. Have you ever seen Arthur limbo? It's a sight to behold. And Yusuf refused to not include the cats in the ceremony, which I think made their wedding night very special.” She holds out her phone again, a picture of Yusuf, a woman in a breath-taking sari, and about twenty cats surrounding them. “I told you. Crazy cat dude. Found his crazy cat lady. May they be happy and furry forever.”
Flipping through the photos, Dom catches glimpses of what seems to be mostly cats with occasionally Yusuf and his wife kissing like the disgustingly cute newly-weds they are in between, Arthur eating prawns with his fingers, more cats, Eames prancing around in what can only be described as a very modern take on an innocent dhoti, cats with bells tied around their paws, Yusuf mixing something blue and ominous, the mongrel enthusiastically licking a hairless cat, a shot of Ariadne, the bride and a huge group of women, all of them holding gigantic orange flowers.
“That’s beautiful.”, Dom says and sort of wishes he was there. Now at least he knows where his share went. That can't have come cheap.
“It was. And watching her mother try and marry Arthur to all the single ladies available was a very special thing. I think Eames laughed himself into a sprained hip.”
“I can imagine.”, Dom snorts. If Arthur were ever to get hitched, his entire mispoche would probably try and succeed to kill each other over the colour of kippahs being worn. It's where he gets his fashion sense from, Arthur claimed the one time Dom saw two of the many, many aunts attack each other with cutlery because the patterns of their shawls were completely incompatible. Arthur then informed him that actually, his grandmother is to be blamed, as she arranged the seating and placed the aunts next to each other out of pure spite over a golden teaspoon bequeathed to the wrong niece half a generation ago, and obviously both their shoes were reason enough to uninvite them for the next two years anyway. Dom left that evening feeling very confused.
“How is it working with them, long-term?”, Dom asks and deems it a moderately safe question. Ariadne chuckles. Her chuckles make Dom vaguely uneasy. “Like living in a house perpetually on fire. Eames is a brilliant bastard, and then some. Arthur is a brilliant bastard, and he takes huge advantage of both these things. Yusuf is a brilliant bastard with an army of cats and a wife who throws thugs out of windows. Saito employs them all most of the time. I think I will be a brilliant bastard one of these days too. I just need to osmotically absorb it. You will be so proud of me.” She flashes him a thumbs-up. Dom is very happy Arthur does not write any sensitive emails. The therapy bills would be insurmountable.
“But all in all, quite well. There are a few other teams or freelancers we occasionally come into contact with, and they all scurry away in fear most of the time or try and become interns. Can you believe that? We sometimes have interns. Eames threw a very dramatic hissy fit and then up and disappeared for two weeks because he thinks corporate structures are the work of the devil. Arthur followed him through what we believe to be all of the former Soviet Union and dragged him back by the ears, a deed we are all deeply respectful of. I like to think it's a sign they're finally reaching the romantic side of their relationship. Then again Arthur invests lots of his money in futuristic guns.”
She rocks back and forth in her seat, tipping it on its two hind legs. “Apart from the random mysteriously disposed of intern, I think we're doing good. Having a dog makes us feel like a happy, dysfunctional family, you know? The cats don't count – they are in Mombasa all the time anyway. The cats don't like anyone except Yusuf and his lady. And Saito. For whatever reason, they adore Saito. Do you think Saito is secretly a crazy cat dude too?” She sways a bit more, humming. Dom shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't know about cats. Mal was allergic.
“And we take breaks now and again, to not get cabin fever and start putting knifes to each other’s throats. Not proper holidays, like the one I'm going on now, because I'll be lying in those hammocks for four months at least. But little breaks, and then I go back to Paris to catch up with my uni friends and Miles, and try to find out what leading a legal life means, and eat lots of Nutella straight off the spoon.” When Dom shows no signs of understanding, she raises her eyebrows it him. “You cannot do that in front of Arthur. He'll have an aneurysm and cover his dogs' eyes.” Dom nods and thinks that this is completely plausible.
“What money Arthur does not spend on guns, he uses to collect houses around the world, so if he needs a breather he makes for any of them with the mongrel in tow. Apparently none of them are pet-friendly, but those barriers are smashed by the power of their combined puppy faces. Don't ask, it's a bit creepy when Arthur tries to look cute. And I don't have any clue where Eames slinks off to, but I like to imagine secret meet-ups in cosy countryside cottages and kitschy sunsets.” When Dom just raises his eyebrows, she huffs. “I can dream, can't I. I have no love-life of my own, I need a substitute. You have no idea how many trashy romance novels one can read when one spends a third of their year on planes.” She shrugs her shoulders in a what-can-you-do kind of gesture and then picks up one of the crayons that are scattered amidst the coffee mugs and breakfast plates. Dom’s Saturdays may be a bit lazy.
“There was this really nice guy in Nagoya – industrial designer, loves his Takashi Miike collection, knows how to make the best cherry cakes I have ever tasted – and when we finally, after extracting all his boss' secrets in a Godzilla setting, sit down to have a nice, dare I say promising, dinner, Arthur sends me a text that says He's involved with the Yakuza for an illegal boxing ring, just thought you should know and then right after, one from Eames that's Do you really want to date a bloke with a tasteless snake tattoo on his arse? And then Yusuf wrote me, Ha! Ha! And that is the story of the last date I have been on in the last two-and-a-half-years. On my vacation, I plan to bang all of Saito's crazy muscular security guards. And if that third double, the guy who has to wear contacts to properly look like the grand man, is there, he's number one on that list.”
Dom is very much eyeing the wallpaper and the crayon spinning in Ariadne’s fingers and thinking about things like his tax return and how to best clean mud out of socks, because thinking about Ariadne going on sex marathons is a lot like thinking about Phillipa kissing the boy who gave her a plastic pearl necklace for her birthday and declaring him her future husband because obviously a boy who knows she loves green is all sorts of fantastic. Dom has no idea how his wires got so crossed, but it really is awfully similar. And he can sort of see himself vet her potential boyfriends too, a few years down the line. He'd never have thought to connect with Arthur on that level. Maybe they can have a commiserative beer over it in half a decade or so. And Eames can sit a respectable distance away and analyse how they've got all sorts of family abandonment issues because obviously Arthur is not over his dead little sister and Dom, yeah, he's not gonna go there, but it stars with M and ends with L, just a hint, it's a three letter word and there's an A in the middle somewhere. And then Eames will take Ariadne for a beer or a vodka or two and sneak Phillipa along too, because someone needs to teach those girls how to drink their funny uncle under the table and that it's the best thing in the world to have a fairy godfather like Yusuf who can make headaches disappear the next morning. Dom is never going to be able to pay all the therapy, or bails, whichever way this goes.
A discreet chirp sounds from Ariadne’s rucksack, and she fishes out a second phone, considerably smaller and sleeker than the one she showed Dom pictures with, and performs several complicated twists with her fingers to unlock it. There seems to be a retina scan involved too, but then Dom did work with the military when they really want to keep something secret, and Saito, who buys airlines in under two hours, and is not as baffled as he could be. He instead looks at the large pin on her backpack, which seems to depict the Eiffel Tower being devoured by a zombie. Dom wonders whether it's symbolic or ironic or a leftover from her college days.
Ariadne reads whatever her phone – is it a phone? Dom is not sure when there are bomb-proof lunch boxes involved – needs to tell her, and makes a face at it. It’s neither unhappy nor annoyed, more interested. But still expressive and sort of inscrutable, exactly like a career criminal would like to look, indicate that she's leading a fascinating life which it would not be wise to ask a lot of questions about. Dom bets she gets that from Eames too, because Yusuf always looks like a cuddly, happy cat with a cunning idea in the back hand, and Saito looks like a very well-dressed shark who knows that his teeth grow back in endless numbers, and Arthur looks like, well, rather civilised, until he gets his hands on an axe and starts looking like Patrick Bateman. But Eames looks like he's been through a Guy Richie movie and survived to tell the tale and retained all the rouge chic paraphernalia and intends to pass along the casual suave brilliance as a sort of odd family inheritance to Ariadne.
“Well, it's been absolutely charming, but it seems like the people who ordered the people who sit in your neighbour’s bushes are getting antsy and consider storming the house in the next thirty minutes, so I'll take that as my cue to leave. Wouldn't want the kids to think their lives could lack one more parent, right?” While Dom starts to discreetly hyperventilate, Ariadne secures the mutant future phone in a pocket of her rucksack, whips out a disinfectant sheet, wipes the table where she's touched it, the chair, and seems to briefly consider cleaning the crayon too, but reconsiders and with a questioning look stuffs it into her backpack as well. “Something to remember the kiddos by – I'll write bright orange postcards from the unknown island, promise. Saito will have them delivered by helicopter or something, that'll be awesome for the little monsters.”
Dom escorts her to the door, or maybe it is the other way around, still trying to covertly stare at the bushes and not faint. He's been doing this civilian thing for far too long it seems, if a few armed men hiding under branches are enough to raise his blood pressure. He used to outrun much worse. Then again the highlight of his week is currently parent's evening at James’ school and whether he's over his biting phase. The only guns he has in his house now are of the water-filled variety. He tries not to feel too ashamed and gives Ariadne a pat on the shoulder he hopes comes off as friendly and says with what is left of his Mr-Charles-humour, “You really stayed awfully tiny. Must come in handy when you're hiding from assassins.”
Ariadne grins up at him, and that grin is one-hundred per cent Saito, too many teeth and the promise of unspeakable horrors. “Oh, I don't hide from them. They're trying not be seen by me.” and turns around, skips to the gleaming black motorbike standing in the driveway and takes off into the blinding afternoon sun.