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Chapter Text

Eames had expected to feel a very strong sense of triumph after accomplishing the impossible, and for the first hour he was not disappointed. Even a lengthy wait followed by a particularly irritating customs officer was not enough to diminish his satisfaction over a job well done. The sizable payment from Saito that would soon be nestled in his account, though delightful, was nothing compared to that kind of euphoria.

So when a glance of recognition from Robert Fischer threatened to end his private celebration, he was at first more annoyed than troubled; victim of mind-crime or no, he could have at least waited a day before spoiling Eames's mood. Eames maintained his vigil of the baggage carousel, telling himself that Robert would forget any familiarity soon enough, as any subject would. When Robert looked away again, he began to relax.

But then Robert squeezed his eyes shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head, and blinked against the reflections of fluorescent lighting off too much polished metal. Still Eames was not greatly concerned--until he saw Robert's eyes roll back.

He only had a moment to decide. They were two paces apart, close enough that Eames was able to catch Robert by the shoulders just as his knees began to buckle. He glanced around swiftly, but all he could spot of his team was Yusuf's back, disappearing into the crowd by the exit. He was alone.

"Whoa there!" Eames steadied Robert as best he could, and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't collapse entirely. It took only a little effort to keep him on his feet. "Just about went over, didn't you? Are you all right?"

Robert wavered, but another shake of his head seemed to pull him back under control, and he was soon able to stand on his own power. "Yes," he mumbled, rubbing his face. "I'm all right. Just this headache..." He glanced up, and started to move forward. "My suitcase..."

He did not yet feel entirely steady, and Eames eased him back. "Hold on, I've got it." With Robert's indication he pulled the black suitcase off the rotating belt and set it between them. "Just the one bag?"

"Yes, thank you." Robert took a deep breath and lifted his head, but he only managed half a smile before he realized who had come to his aid. "I know you, don't I?"

"We did just share a flying tin can for half a day." Eames sometimes surprised himself with how well he was able to cover up a brief moment of panic.

"No." Robert looked him over carefully, and winced. "I do know you."

Eames leaned back, eyebrows raised. He had no idea how a normal person would respond to a stranger's sudden declaration of "You were in my dream," but he struggled to think of something. Preferably, something that would allow him to retreat as innocently as possible. "Maybe I just have one of those faces."

Robert pointed at him. "In Sydney," he declared, and Eames could have slapped himself. "You work for Port and Dunn."

"Ah...yes. Of course!" Eames spotted his bag approaching, and he chattered on as he retrieved it. "I'm honored you remember me, Mr. Fischer. I don't believe we were ever properly introduced."

"I remember the people that come into my house," Robert said as they moved away from the carousel together. "Their faces, anyway. Mr...?"

It took Eames a beat to remember which alias he had used. "Simmonds." He shook Robert's hand firmly. "Fred Simmonds. Pleased to finally meet you directly, Mr. Fischer."

"Likewise." They turned toward the exit, but only a few steps in Robert paused, and rubbed his eyes again. "Excuse me."

"So much traveling and you still get jet lag?" Eames teased sympathetically. He watched Robert closely, feeling a prickle of honest concern. He began to ask himself if he had ever seen a subject react with pain or dizziness to a successful dreaming, and came up with nothing. "I hope you're on your way home for a long rest."

Robert continued walking, and Eames followed. "Not yet. I have to prepare for my father's funeral." His eyes unfocused and then came back. "Will you be attending?"

Eames scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "You have my condolences, but I barely knew your father. It might not be appropriate."

"It's all right. I barely knew him, either." A smile, bitter and sad, flickered across Robert's lips. "Give my regards to Mr. Dunn."

A pair of men approached, and one gave Eames a heavy look as the other took Robert's suitcase for him. Eames flashed them a smile and a wave as he stepped out of their way. "I will," he said. "Take care of yourself, Robert."

Robert glanced back at him as if surprised to hear his own name. As he nodded vaguely recognition again showed in his eyes, but he continued on with his assistants without saying anything more.

Eames watched them leave. He should have felt relieved, having escaped from the man without arousing suspicion, but uncertainty formed a sour taste at the back of his throat that he couldn't swallow down. His internal victory celebration had been replaced by a nagging sensation that something had managed to go wrong.

"What was that all about?"

Arthur was at his side. Eames was too distracted to be irritated about not spotting him sooner. "I don't know," he admitted. "He recognized me." When Arthur gave him a look he added, "From Sydney. Even if he remembers anything of the dreams, he'll have forgotten by tomorrow, don't worry."

"I'm not worried about that. I just want to know that it worked." Arthur frowned. "He looks pale, doesn't he."

"Said he had a headache. Let's hope that's all it is, hm?" Eames gave Arthur a pat on the shoulder and started for the exit again. "Or maybe we should withdraw our payments now, just in case this bird doesn't fly."

Arthur had no reply, which was just as well. But he did follow Eames outside, and gave him another look.

**

"This was a bad idea," Arthur said as he and Eames climbed out of the rental car.

"It was your idea," Eames reminded him, buttoning his jacket. "I was going to leave well enough alone."

Arthur made a noise at the back of his throat. "Sure you were. You want to know that it worked just as much as I do. Then you can add a new service to your already impressive resume."

It sounded distinctly like a dig. "You're the one that should be worried about your resume. After today, you're out an extractor." He continued before Arthur could reply. "How do you want me to introduce you if he spots us together?"

"He won't." Arthur sped his pace, overtaking Eames at the entrance to the cemetery. Without another word he moved off the main path, looking as if he were heading for a specific gravesite.

Eames shook his head. He was tempted to jump back in the car and speed away, being the one with the keys, just to imagine Arthur's face at having been abandoned. But something about the look Robert had fixed him with in the airport had remained with him, and he felt like pushing his luck. Just a little.

The burial of Maurice Fischer was taking place on the far side of the cemetery, and a flock of people were in attendance. Eames did not venture too close. Even if he had packed black formal wear he was not eager to arouse the suspicion of the many painfully obvious members of security stationed about the area. He picked a bench in one of the heavily landscaped areas, watching from a seemingly casual distance. Spotting Robert himself was not hard; he stood close to the open grave, next to Peter Browning and a few other Fischer Morrow executives that Eames recognized. For a funeral, there were many dry eyes.

Robert still looked pale. That was to be expected, as were his hollow, unfocused eyes. Still, Eames felt the same creeping unease he had the day before: something was not right.

Glancing among the other attendees he spotted another familiar face, and his mood did not improve.

**

When Arthur noticed Saito among the mourners, he was not pleased. They had all agreed to stay away from Robert Fischer, and each other, for at least several days after the successful inception. He may have already broken that promise, but he had expected better cooperation from their employer.

The ceremony ended. As the men and women began to depart Arthur moved to the side of the main path, and waited until Saito passed close by. His raised eyebrows served as indication enough that a talk was in order. Saito smiled humorlessly, and whispered something to the elegant woman at his side. She moved away with Saito's assistant to leave the two men in peace.

"My wife," Saito explained as he stopped in front of Arthur, his hands in his pockets.

"I know. What are you doing here, Mr. Saito?"

Saito motioned for him to follow, and together they continued down the path a few yards behind his wife. "Maurice may have been my rival professionally, but we knew each other for many years. It would be seen as an incredible insult for me to be in Los Angeles and not attend his funeral." He gave Arthur a sideways look. "And yourself?"

Arthur glanced behind him, and noticed that Robert, last to leave the gravesite, was heading in Eames's direction. Damn it. "I'm just following up on the assignment," he said. "It's my job to see that you get your money's worth."

"I doubt that he's going to be announcing any business plans at his father's funeral. I am a patient man--I did not expect the results to be immediate." Saito lowered his voice. "Do you have some reason to believe it was ineffective?"

"No," Arthur replied quickly. "Like you said, it's too soon to know. But I take my job very seriously, and what we've done…" He hesitated. "…hasn't been done before. Someone ought to document it."

"Hasn't been done," Saito repeated. "I wonder."

**

Eames would tell Arthur later that he had been careless. In truth he simply hadn't made an effort to keep Robert from noticing him. He wanted another look at him, up close, to know if his concerns were valid. Then he would disappear from the man's life for good.

"Mr. Simmonds." Robert, accompanied by Browning, approached Eames and smiled faintly. "You came after all."

"I realized that paying my respects was more important than worrying about appropriateness," said Eames, standing. "My condolences." He offered his hand to Browning.

Browning shook it out of obligation. "And you are?"

"Fred Simmonds, Sir. I did some paper pushing for you a few weeks ago, on behalf of your legal team…?"

"Ahh." He still didn't remember. "Well, we appreciate you coming."

"We're on our way to an early dinner," Robert said. "Would you join us?"

That was more than Eames had planned for, and his instincts told him to refuse. Browning's disgruntled expression indicated he should. But when he searched Robert's eyes, hoping to find some kind of answer before he disengaged, he found unexpected sincerity. "I would, happily, but I'm not properly dressed." He gave his brown jacket a tug.

"We can find you something on the way. Didn't you say you wanted to change your shirt before dinner, Peter?" Robert started toward the exit.

Eames and Browning fell into step on either side. "I did," said Browning. "But the reservation is for twelve people."

"And Mr. Wayland had to cancel," Robert pointed out. "We have an open seat. What do you say, Mr. Simmonds?"

Eames had a dozen excuses to pick from, but curiosity got the better of him. "In that case, how could I say no?"

***

Arthur watched Saito very closely. "What do you mean?"

"I recently had a lot of time to think," said Saito. "And I realized something about inception: it's actually the simplest thing in the world."

Arthur didn't like hearing him throw the word around so easily when they were still in public, but he didn't want to draw even more attention to it by saying so. "Not counting the part with the gunshot wound, I suppose."

Saito went on as if he hadn't heard. "We do it every day," he murmured, not taking his eyes off his wife ahead of them. "We plant seeds in each other's minds. We change each other with simple words."

Arthur was shaking his head before he finished. "That's not the same thing."

"What if I told you that I had a Plan B, had you failed? A plan that involved murdering Robert Fischer and Peter Browning."

The change of subject was unexpected, and Arthur was momentarily thrown off his guard. "Do you realize where we are?" he hissed. "Fischer's security is right over--"

"I have people with access to Mr. Fischer's private jet," he continued regardless. "Did you never wonder why I did not use them to greater advantage? In these times, it is cheaper to kill a man than it is to hire you." At last he gave Arthur his attention. "Or even several men."

Arthur tensed, but it wasn't his own safety that immediately came to mind. "I hope you're not implying what I think you are, Mr. Saito," he said coldly.

"I am only supposing," Saito assured. "If I had such secondary plans, my time spent thinking has likely changed them. But even so, telling you this changes your opinion of me, does it not? I imagine you will remember me in a different light than if I had said nothing. It is a very simple thing, to destroy one person's trust in another."

Arthur was not sure if he believed him, but he relaxed, if only minutely. "All right, I see you're trying to make a point. But that's still not the same thing as inception. Even if what you've said does change what I think about you, it doesn’t change me."

Saito smirked without humor. "Doesn't it?"

He picked up his pace, rejoining his wife. Arthur watched him slide his hand to the small of her back, watched her shoulders hitch and relax a moment later. As they reached the exit of the cemetery, Arthur stopped walking and let them go.

Eames's voice rose behind him. "I'm embarrassed to admit it at this point, but I was let go from Port and Dunn," he was saying. "I'm here in Los Angeles chasing a job prospect."

"Then you should email your resume to our HR department," replied Robert. "We could always use another in-house legal analyst. Right Peter?"

"Hmm."

They passed, and Arthur was close to grabbing Eames by the arm and dragging him back to the car. Before he could act, their shoulders bumped and he felt Eames press something into the palm of his hand: the car keys.

The three continued on. Arthur glared after them, baffled. When it became clear that Eames was deep in whatever charade he was running, he shook his head and turned toward the parking lot. "Fine," he grumbled. "You're on your own."

***

It wasn't until he was getting into the limousine that Eames glanced in Arthur's direction, just in time to see him slam the door of the rental car. He felt rather than saw the glare thrown at him. Sorry, Arthur, he thought with a half grin that he hoped the other could see. But remember, this was your idea.

Robert and Browning sat together in the back of the limo, and Eames settled himself just behind the driver. As Robert had suggested they first stopped at a tailor, and Eames had little choice but to pay cash on a suit rental for the evening. It was simple and appropriate, and not at all his style, but he comforted himself knowing that Saito's fee would more than make the difference. Their second stop was Browning's downtown condominium--one of several, in fact--so that he could change as well. Robert declined an invitation to wait inside, leaving him and his impromptu guest alone.

Eames shifted against the stiff fabric of his rented suit. "I feel like I should apologize," he admitted. "You've gone to some extra trouble because of me, and I wasn't supposed to be invited."

Robert looked back at him. After a moment of silent thoughtfulness he moved to sit next to Eames, the soft leather creaking beneath him as he sagged into it. "Do you want to know why I invited you?" he asked as he pulled a bottle of water out of a cache in the vehicle door.

"If there's a special reason, I'm all ears."

Robert took a slow sip of the water. "Because I recognized you," he said, quietly. "While I was standing there, I looked around, and I realized...I didn't know anyone." He stared blankly at the empty seat across from them. "I should have, but all of a sudden it was like they were all strangers. Even Un...even Peter.

"But then, you." Robert pointed at him with the bottle. "I saw you, and I thought...'Ahh, I know him. That's Fred Simmonds, from the airport.'" He smiled in self-deprecation. "It's so ridiculous, but I felt much better."

A knot formed in Eames's stomach: he was already in uneasy territory, but he had never expected to be unnerved by even Robert's disarmingly blue eyes. He was supposed to be better than that. And yet, the subtle pressure of the man's shoulder close to his was stifling.

"It's not ridiculous," he said, matching Robert's smile. "I felt the same way at my father's funeral. Except, I was only nine, so most of them were strangers."

Robert looked surprised. "And your mother?"

"Oh, she's still around. Wishing her son visited more often, I'm sure." He lowered his voice. "Mrs. Fischer passed some time ago, didn't she?"

Browning returned, and though he looked irritated by the change in positions he sat down without comment.

Robert only gave him a cursory nod as the limo started moving again, keeping most of his attention on Eames. "Yes, when I was eleven. And you know, I still remember what my father said." He straightened. "'There's really nothing to be said,' he told me."

Eames exchanged an uneasy look with Browning. Even having heard the story he was no better prepared to respond. However, Robert kept going.

"I think, at the time, I was too young to understand," he said, and Eames felt a chill. "He was right--what was there to say? Nothing he could say would bring her back. All we needed was each other." He sighed. "But I doubted him. I wish I could have been there for him."

"Your father loved you," Browning told him with confidence. "And whatever problems you had, he knew you loved him. He was right--what else needs to be said?"

"Nothing." Robert smiled distantly, satisfied. Eames lowered his eyes and again could not respond.

As soon as they arrived at the restaurant Eames excused himself to the rest room. His stomach was roiling, and the cold water he splashed on his face didn't help enough. Over and over the revelation repeated in his brain: it worked. His hands trembled as he came to terms with the accomplishment and waited for the return of his triumph.

Eames looked into the mirror and wished he could become someone else.

The bathroom door opened, and Browning walked in. Eames shoved his hands back under the faucet, scrubbing casually--if such a thing were possible--in hopes that Browning wouldn't be able to detect anything wrong. But his luck seemed to have run out.

"It has always been my experience," Browning drawled as he joined Eames at the counter, "that wherever there's a corpse, vultures gather."

Eames turned off the water and reached for a paper towel. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're going to walk through that door and right out of the restaurant." Browning washed his hands even though he hadn't used the facilities. "And I'll forget I ever saw you here. Understand?"

I never expected him to be subtle, but still… Eames wasn't sure what he'd done to tip Browning off, but he tried not to think about it yet. "I'd be more than happy to, Mr. Browning, but then I won't exactly get my money's worth on this suit, will I?" He gave the lapel a tug.

"Keep it," Browning grunted. He finished washing and turned to face Eames with a glare he had not had the chance to observe during his research. "I'll pay the difference--and that's the last you're going to get out of this, so do not push me."

"Get out of this?" Eames shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I still don't have the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

Browning took a step closer and jabbed Eames in the chest with two harsh fingers. "You're a con," he said. "You think I don't know your type? I've seen a million, but you're the first with the balls to go after a grieving man at his father's funeral!"

Eames took a step back. "I only came to offer condolences, like I said. If you'd just talk to Mr. Dunn--"

"Get out," Browning demanded, poking him again. "Now, before I call my security and have you thrown out."

"All right, I understand." Eames held up his hands and moved around Browning so he could head for the door. He may not have liked it, but he was not above a tactful retreat, especially when he was already off his game. "You're wrong about me, but I don't want to cause any trouble. Please give my regards to Mr. Fischer."

Browning glared at him the entire way out. His ferocity was sharp and almost paternal, and as Eames left the bathroom he couldn't help but think that he had missed something in his original assessments. He felt as if he had been rebuked by his own father.

The restaurant was filled with pleasant chatter. Eames squashed any temptation he might have had to look for Robert one last time and headed straight for the exit. At least no one was here to see it, he consoled himself as he stepped out into brisk evening air. Not my best performance, for certain.

He moved to the curb, trying to remember if he still had enough cash on him for a cab. He had just about moved to hail one when a hand took his elbow and pulled him back. "Arthur?" Surprised, he carefully removed his arm from the man's grip. "What are you doing here?"

"My job," Arthur replied. "Are you finished now?" It was phrased as a question, but only barely.

"Yes, I learned what I wanted." Eames followed him down the street to where the rental car was parked. "It worked, Arthur. We all assumed it did, but now I know for sure. We did it."

Arthur blinked and started to reply, but a glance at Eames's face made him rethink. "Then why do you look sick?"

Eames shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted, having given up on celebrating their victory all together. "Let's just get out of here."

Arthur nodded and, seeming to understand Eames's foul mood, didn't speak as he drove them back to their hotel.

Chapter Text

Ariadne hesitated at the front door. It had been just over five weeks since she last entered the old warehouse, though she thought of it often. She fingered her spare key, somehow doubting it would work even after having Cobb's assurance. At long last she took a deep breath and fit the key into the lock. With a click, it opened.

The clap of Ariadne's boots echoed in the empty hallways all the way to the workroom on the third floor. At first it seemed that nothing had changed, but when she passed a table she noticed it was freshly arranged with a coffee maker and a rice cooker. The former was even half full, though the coffee was no longer warm. As she took a closer look she noticed that there were other appliances set up as well, along with a pantry and small, vintage refrigerator.

So he's been living here after all, Ariadne thought, turning in place. But where is he?

The windows were all shaded making it difficult to see, but eventually Ariadne spotted a lawn chair near the east wall that was occupied by a slumbering figure. It was Arthur, the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled to accommodate the PASIV needle in his arm. She followed the tube to the device on a nearby table, and checked the timer: twenty minutes remaining.

Ariadne sat down on the chair next to him and pulled her cell phone out of her satchel. Found him, she wrote in a text to Cobb. I'll call you in 20.

She hit send and dropped her chin into her palm. Twenty minutes seemed like a long time to sit and do nothing, just to deliver a message. She briefly considered tipping Arthur's chair over, but then her gaze drifted to the PASIV. The red LED blinked in warning: In twenty minutes, you may never have an excuse to do this again, they chanted with every second elapsed. After another minute of chewing her lip she lurched into motion, pulling a second tube out of the silver briefcase.

"Don't be mad," she told the sleeping Arthur as she settled next to him. "Cobb asked me to." With only a little wince she slipped the needle under her skin.

The world went black. A chill wind prickled her bare arms and legs, carrying with it a thick stench of burnt popcorn and too-sweet sugar. It was familiar and oddly comforting, and by the time Ariadne opened her eyes she was already smiling.

She was in an amusement park. There was only a glow of daylight left on the horizon, but lights gleamed all around, blinking and whirling on the different attractions. Children headed for the exits with their parents while teenagers gathered in packs, passing cigarettes between each other when they thought no one was looking. The air was cheerful and mischievous, and inordinately inviting.

Twenty minutes means…four hours here, if he's using the usual stuff, Ariadne calculated as she moved with the crowd. That's plenty of time to take in a ride or two before I look for him. Her nostrils flared. Or get an Elephant Ear. You can't get fat off dream food, right?

Deciding that she didn't want to find out if she could get sick from dream food, she hopped into line at the Tilt-O-Whirl first. One of the teenaged boys she'd observed earlier was in front of her, and when he noticed her he turned and smiled. "Hey there."

Ariadne had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. And here I thought Arthur only dreamed of hotels and Armani. "Hey." She looked over the young man's ripped T-shirt and stone-washed jeans, and decided to play along. "Come here often?"

"Depends on who I'm with," he replied slyly.

She couldn't withhold her laughter a second time. Arthur is never hearing the end of this, she promised herself. "So who are you here with tonight?"

"No one yet." He offered his hand.

The kid was too young and too scrawny, but knowing that he had come from the mind of slick and professional Arthur amused Ariadne too much for her to pass him up. She took his hand, smirking as they moved with the line towards the ride. Before she could step up onto the metal stairs, however, the ride attendant stopped her.

"Sorry miss," he said. "But you're not tall enough for this ride."

Ariadne faced him incredulously. "What? I know I'm short, but it's the Tilt-O-Whirl, for God's sake."

The attendant pointed impatiently to a wooden cutout of a clown next to him. The clown, which was probably the most disturbing childhood figure she had ever seen--it had fangs--was holding a snake at eye level to mark the minimum height several inches above her head.

She made a face. "Why's it so tall for a kiddy ride?"

"Sorry, but it's the rules."

The teenager that had been her date for all of five seconds gave her a surprisingly cold look. "Guess you're sitting this one out, kid." He turned his back and hopped up to the closest cart.

Ariadne flushed in embarrassment and indignation. "Never knew your subconscious was so rude," she grumbled. She glared at the wooden clown, and it only took slight concentration on her part to shrink the grinning monstrosity down to a more reasonable size. "There. Now I'm tall enough."

She started to walk past the attendant, but he latched onto her arm before she could get more than a step. His fingers were bony, and hurt as he dragged her away from the ride. "You can't do that," he growled.

"What?" Ariadne tried to peel his hand off her. "Oh come on, I barely did anything!"

All around them people stopped to stare. When Ariadne managed to pull away from the attendant another appeared behind her, grabbing her shoulders. "Wait," she said, feeling panic claw up on her. "I didn't even change that much--I'm not a threat!"

Several more hands reached for her, but then a man in a security uniform wove through the throngs of people and urged them back. "It's all right," said a familiar voice. "I've got her."

"Arthur?" When Ariadne saw who it was she yanked herself free of the others and pushed to his side. "I'm sorry, I was just--"

"Please come with me, Miss," Arthur said. He took her gently by the arm and steered her away from the attendant and his mob. Slowly, the crowd dispersed, and by the time Arthur and Ariadne were off the main park path they were back to enjoying the evening.

Arthur didn't stop until they were safely out of sight behind a pizza vendor. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Ariadne smoothed her clothing and hair, then looked him over. His security uniform, complete with little cap, was unexpectedly endearing. "Even at an amusement park you found a way to be the best dressed," she teased.

Arthur loosened his tie. "I'm doing research," he replied.

"In your own head?"

"Well, yes." Arthur motioned for her to follow. "Come here, I'll show you."

Ariadne smiled as she followed; it had been weeks, but he slipped into mentor mode so easily, clearing the panic of only a few moments ago out of her mind. She followed him back to the main path, where the projections had settled and did not even give her a second glance. "When someone is acting as a dreamer in a session, they start with an empty environment," Arthur explained. "That way the subject feels compelled to fill it, and they create the projections. Those projections change to fit the setting they're in."

"I remember." Ariadne looked to the Tilt-O-Whirl and spotted the teenager on board with a giggling brunette next to him. She harrumphed. "These projections don't seem like you."

"That's kind of the point," Arthur said. "I've been experimenting with making subtle changes to the dream environment, to see what effects they have on the projections. Keep an eye on them."

Ariadne glanced left and right. "What am I looking for?"

The horizon lightened, and only a minute had passed before the sun rose in the west. As orange light blanketed the park the teenagers began to filter out--including the teen and his date--and were replaced by families. Ariadne watched, intrigued, as the park's culture changed like a time lapse movie into a childlike and charming environment.

"So just by changing the time of day, you can change the projections," she said. "Does it really help that much?"'

"It can dependingon what your purpose is." Arthur frowned. "On one of my earlier jobs I thought that an amusement park might make for a good dream setting. Most people would have a positive response, and naturally fill the park with projections of children and families that wouldn't pose a threat."

"I'm guessing it didn't work out that way," Ariadne surmised, wincing.

"You can't underestimate the power of the mind to improvise." He faced her with a sheepish smile. "Let's just say I now hate clowns."

She hid a grin behind her hand. "You were taken out by a clown? I guess that explains a few things."

"Why are you here anyway?" Arthur changed the subject. "Did Cobb tell you where to find me?"

"Oh right. Actually, he did." She sobered with the reminder of what she had to tell him. "He called me, said he'd been trying to reach you all day. He was worried."

Arthur sighed. "Then I guess I'd better call him sooner than later. How much time was left on the timer?"

"About twenty minutes, so four hours?" When Ariadne realized what that might mean she cringed. "Are we going to have to kill each other?"

"We could take a leap off the Ferris Wheel if you prefer," he replied. He pointed in the distance. "It's over there."

Ariadne turned, and was weighing their options when she heard a sharp click behind her.

She opened her eyes back in the warehouse. She looked around, feeling a little light-headed, but when she glanced to her left and saw Arthur wake with a jerk, she caught on. "Did you just shoot me in the head?" she demanded.

"It was the fastest way." He pulled the IV out of his arm and gave it a tug to let it slide back into the PASIV. "You didn't feel anything, did you?"

"Well no, but…" Ariadne did the same, then rubbed the back of her head. There wasn't even a lingering sting, however unsettling the thought was. "You could have warned me."

Arthur stretched as he swung his legs off his chair. "Sometimes it's better when you don't see it coming," he said. He seemed to take a while to wake, rubbing his eyes and the back of his neck as if he had been asleep for a long time. "So what's got Cobb so worried anyway? It's not like him to check up on me."

"I think he wants to know if you saw this." Ariadne pulled her phone out and opened the article she had been reading during her last class. "It's about Fischer," she said as she handed it to him. "And Saito."

Arthur tensed, and quickly poured over the contents of the article. She could tell by the movements of his thumb over the screen that he read it twice, and his brow furrowed. "He withdrew Fischer Morrow's bid on the pipeline," he murmured, stupefied. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Have you really been out of it that long?" When he didn't respond she waited for a moment and then continued. "I'm not sure what it all means, except that it's apparently not good for his company."

Arthur tapped on the phone and did a lot of scrolling, his eyes darting back and forth. "He was supposed to be funding an oil pipeline up the coast of Africa," he explained. "To be built by Cobol Engineering. They were afraid that Saito's company Proclus Global was going to try and muscle in on the deal somehow, but now that Fischer's pulled out completely the job's gone to Saito anyway." He rubbed his mouth, deep in thought. "Could Saito have planned this…?"

Ariadne moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward. "It's working, isn't it," she said quietly as if they might be overheard. "If he's sabotaging his own company…"

He was quiet a moment as he read from another article. "It's working," he admitted at long last, and she felt a chill. "According to blog rumors he's in Munich negotiating the sale of a company he took over just last year. Damn. Eames was right." He handed the phone back. "It worked."

"It worked." Ariadne took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. A mysterious feeling slithered through her, ominous and exciting. "It's weird, isn't it. We've been waiting for word all this time, and now…"

"Cobb must be relieved. I'm going to give him a call."

Arthur pushed to his feet, but he only got two steps before he abruptly stopped and cocked his head. His attention would have been comical if Ariadne had not detected the cause a second later: footsteps, heading towards them. She started to stand but he motioned for her to stay put.

Did someone follow me? Ariadne held her breath, trying to squirm down the chair to better see the hall as Arthur moved away. Who else would know about this place but one of us? As ridiculous as it was she hoped it was Cobb, having magically flown to Paris just to check on them.

Her hope wilted when Arthur pulled a handgun out of his briefcase. The clink of the magazine sliding into place was sharp and unmistakable in the silent space, and to Ariadne's surprise, was answered with a woman's disapproving tsk.

"Put that away, Arthur."

Arthur tensed, and though it was clear he recognized the voice his immediate reaction was one of confusion. Ariadne glanced between him and the approaching figure restlessly, waiting to see if she ought to dive for cover, but then Arthur put his gun away once more.

The woman stepped into view. She was tall and well dressed in a soft gray suit and low heeled shoes. Though the deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth betrayed her age, her short, feathered hair was dyed a rich strawberry blonde. A slim lap top case hung from her shoulder.

"Doctor." Arthur closed his briefcase and approached to shake her outstretched hand. "This is a surprise." His wary expression indicated it was not a pleasant one.

"Excuse me for not calling ahead," she replied, either oblivious to his ill ease or deliberately ignoring it. "But it was difficult enough finding what city you were in, let alone your number."

"And how did you get this address…?"

"A mutual acquaintance." She looked about to say more, but was distracted by Ariadne cautiously standing. "I'm sorry," she said, making a sweeping look of her. "I didn't know you were entertaining."

Ariadne moved to Arthur's side while he made an introduction. "This is Ariadne, a student from the university. Ariadne, this is Dr. Charla Banks."

Ariadne was still shaking her hand when it occurred to her that she knew the name. "The Dr. Banks?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "You mean, the one who..."

"Invented dreamshare technology, yes," Arthur supplied for her. "She and Dr. Gavde created the first PASIV device."

Charla smiled. "If you're familiar with my work that must mean you're one of Stephen's."

"Stephen...? Oh, you mean Professor Miles." Ariadne laughed at herself. "Sorry, yes. I'm an architecture student."

"Oh." She tilted her chin up in surprise. "I thought Stephen had given up introducing dreamshare to his students."

Ariadne glanced to Arthur, but his face was stoic and gave no indication of how she should answer. She knew she could not be truthful, but she couldn't help but be fascinated by the acquaintance she was making. If anyone knows something about making a legal career out of dreaming... "Actually, Arthur was just teaching me a few things," she said. "About dream settings and projections. It's all really fascinating--I think it's really helping me with my studies."

"I'm glad to hear it." Charla glanced to the still open PASIV briefcase nearby. "In fact, why don't we continue this conversation in a more interesting setting? I'm very curious to see one of Stephen's students at work."

"I'm not sure she's ready for that," Arthur intervened. "She still has a lot to learn."

Ariadne frowned at him. "Maybe I do, but I can at least set a dream up for us." I designed and taught three levels for my first job, she thought, wishing he could hear it. There's nothing wrong with us just talking in one dream, right? Besides, this might be my last chance... She took a step towards the chairs. "I wouldn't mind at all."

"Excellent." Charla followed her and set her case down next to Ariadne's satchel. "You can play the subject if you like, Arthur."

Arthur joined them, though reluctantly. "If it's testing her skills that interests you, it might be better if you take that role," he suggested.

Her eyes thinned as she smiled back, enjoying some private joke. "All right. Five minutes should be plenty of time."

Arthur set the device, and swabbed the needles with alcohol before handing them out. As they stretched out in the lawn chairs he cast Ariadne a meaningful look that she had no trouble deciphering: Be careful. She took a deep breath, and by the time she put herself under she had a plan in mind.

It began with the crash of shore-tossed waves. Their tumultuous symphony was one Ariadne had no trouble reproducing, and she let the rest of the dream unfold around it. Warm, sea-scented wind, a broad, stone porch, high archways and draped curtains: an elegant summer bungalow blossomed along a perfect golden beach. Ariadne breathed it in, her eyes still closed as she made subtle changes in the short moments she had before her guests joined her.

The three of them "awoke" seated around a glass table, refreshments before them, a silk canopy above. Ariadne beamed at the looks of awe on the others' faces--while Charla's pleased smile made her proud, Arthur's more subtle nod of appreciation was a special victory.

Charla stood and moved to the smooth white railing that surrounded the porch. "Very nice," she said, half to herself. "Simple, natural...beautiful. And isolated." She turned to look over the home itself, which was small but undeniably refined. "A private island, maybe? Dispelling the subject's compulsion to populate. Fewer projections, less interference." She brushed at her long, cream-colored sundress. "Very impressive, Miss Ariadne."

"Thank you, Dr. Banks." She shot Arthur an I told you so look. "I thought it would be better to talk without distractions."

"You have good instincts." Charla retook her seat and pour herself a cup of tea. "It's a shame Stephen no longer utilizes the PASIV. The things he could have taught you..."

"All right, Dr. Banks." Arthur leaned his arms against the table, abruptly serious. "Now that we're here, I think it's time you tell me how you really learned my address."

"Hm? You make it sound so suspicious." Charla sipped her tea. "A chemist named Yusuf gave it to me. He said you were acquaintances."

Arthur sighed. "Yusuf. I don't suppose you ran into him by coincidence."

"No, I didn't." Charla poured tea for both of them, but only Ariadne drank. "Down to business, then," she said, her manner becoming crisp. "I'm collecting assets for a job."

Ariadne pursed her lips against her cup. She tried to remain as stone-faced and professional as Arthur despite the guilty excitement fluttering in her chest. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked even though it was the last thing she wanted. "If you two want to talk business..."

"No please, stay. I need a team of five and so far I only have three. You might save me a trip." She lifted an eyebrow in Arthur's direction. "She is safe, isn't she?"

"She wouldn't be here if she wasn't. What's the job?"

"You're not going to like it," she warned. "But you're the only one I can ask, so please hear me out before you say no."

He folded his arms. "Go on."

"I was recently hired by an old friend," Charla began. As the details were exposed, Ariadne's excitement was replaced by a creeping sensation of dread. "A man who has poured his entire life into a very powerful company. But now there is one man standing between him and the position he believes he deserves: a little prince having a particularly nasty tantrum. He wants me to remove this obstacle for him."

Arthur's poker face was flawless. "So why not hire a hitman?"

"For all intents and purposes, he did." Charla paused to sip from her tea again. "Killing the prince with a bullet would only force into play his recently updated and very unorthodox will. What he's asked of me is to kill him in another fashion."

Ariadne felt her stomach twist, and she could not keep silent. "I'm sorry, but what exactly does that mean?"

Arthur looked away. Charla watched him, waiting to see if he would answer for her, but ultimately took the task herself. "If he is determined to be mentally unsound, the board of directors can have him removed," she explained. "Thus allowing my client to assume control without regard to the updated will."

Mentally unsound. "You're going to drive him crazy?" she blurted out.

"That shouldn't be hard for you at all," said Arthur.

"Arthur, what I'm planning is--"

"No," he interrupted firmly. "You know I don't do that kind of work."

Charla's expression hardened. "I'm not finished. What I'm planning is reversible." She turned her attention to Ariadne, who leaned back involuntarily. "I could easily falsify a diagnosis, but he has allies in the company that will insist on a second and third opinion. We will have to induce authentic symptoms of a psychotic break in order to convince my peers. But once power of the company has been ceded to my client, I can admit the subject into my clinic and rehabilitate him."

"You can't know that for sure," Arthur insisted.

"It's been done before."

"But by accident!" Arthur clenched his fist against the table, which added to Ariadne's mounting nerves. "It was a miracle any of us came out of that without lasting damage. And you're going to do that to a person on purpose?"

"Wait, wait." Ariadne put her hands up to try and quiet them. "Who is this 'prince' we're talking about anyway?"

Charla leaned back in her seat, her chin tilted. "I can't tell you until you accept."

But I already know who it is, don't I? Ariadne thought with brow furrowed. She glanced at Arthur and saw the understanding in him as well. "Dr. Banks, what you're talking about...well obviously it's illegal, but doesn't it..." She struggled, knowing how hypocritical and naïve she must have sounded. "It doesn't sound like something a doctor of your standing should be doing."

"I know how it looks." Charla pushed her hair away from her face and sighed. "But I don't feel as if I have a choice. He's already told me that if I refuse, he's going to hire Sullivan and Tung instead."

Arthur's shoulders sagged. "Brain butchers," he explained for Ariadne's sake. "Specializing in subconscious lobotomy."

"What?" She shuddered. "Is that really possible?"

"It is, and I believed him. Arthur, please." Charla reached across the table to clasp his wrist--he regarded the grip with untrusting eyes. "If I don't use a scalpel, they will use an axe. There's no going to the law for help--you know how these things work." She squeezed. "I know you've been in this man's mind before."

Arthur tensed beneath her fingers. "You can't ask me to do this."

"But I am. I can't do it without you." Seeing that she was doing more harm than good, she let him go and leaned back again. "Don’t make me resort to lesser means."

Ariadne glanced between them, and when silence followed for too long for her to take, she cleared her throat. "Can we have time to think about it?" she said.

"Of course." Charla forced a smile as she composed herself. "We still have plenty of time here. Shall I leave you to talk?"

"No, we'll leave," said Arthur. He stood, and took Ariadne's hand to help her out of her chair. Though surprised, she followed him toward the edge of the porch. "Just stay here and enjoy the tea."

Charla nodded vaguely. "All right."

They stepped onto a stone walkway that lead toward the beach. Ariadne had to strain to match Arthur's swift pace, which didn't help her already hastened pulse. Lesser means, she thought, and shuddered again. Once they were a decent enough distance from Charla, she asked, "She's talking about Robert Fischer, isn't she?"

At last Arthur slowed so she could more easily walk beside him. "I'm not sure, but it sounded like it."

"But how does she know about the--"

"Shh." His hand tightened around hers. "She doesn't. Let's keep it that way."

Ariadne eyed him with fresh apprehension. "But she knows you've been in his mind before," she pointed out. When an explanation occurred to her, she felt cold. "What haven't you told me?"

"We can't talk in here." Arthur glanced over his shoulder. "Just because we can't see her projections doesn't mean she won't overhear us."

"Projections? But she said..." She studied the landscape but saw no one, and paranoia made goose bumps rise on her arms. She lowered her voice. "Is it true you've done it before? She already knows, so you can talk about that at least."

He didn't look willing to answer, until she gave his arm a sharp tug. "It's true," he admitted. "But like I said, it was an accident. Even if I'm a lot more experienced now I don't know if I could do it again."

Or if it's right. Ariadne waited for him to comment on the morality of what he was suggesting, and when he didn't, she wasn't even sure if she had the right to be disappointed. "But if you don't do it...he'll end up a vegetable," she mumbled. "From the sound of it. What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided yet..."

They walked along the shoreline unspeaking for several minutes. Ariadne kept her hold on Arthur's hand, telling herself that he may have needed her support, even as her waves grew jagged and dark alongside them. When she tried to consider what was being asked of them her stomach twisted into knots and her throat felt tight, and she soon abandoned the effort.

"At least it's a beautiful dream," Arthur said quietly.

Ariadne blinked up at him. He was watching the ocean peak and sway beneath a ragged canopy of low clouds she didn't remember placing. "Actually, it looks a little scary to me," she murmured. Kind of how I feel right now.

He tugged her to a halt. "Wait for it."

The wind picked up, blowing Ariadne's unbound hair in her face. As she tucked it behind her ear she watched the clouds shift, slowly taking and losing new shapes. She held her breath: at just the right moment a pair split enough to allow a few rays of pale sunlight through. For a bare instant the whitecaps glimmered, and then the clouds obscured the sun once more.

Ariadne smiled. "Did you do that?"

"No." He gave her hand a gentle shake. "You did."

She didn't believe him, but she did feel a little better. "Thanks, but I'm sure you've seen much more impressive dreams than this."

"Actually, most of my dreams are more...practical," Arthur said. "There aren't many uses for a beach in extraction."

Ariadne considered that, frowning. "Is it true that if you use the PASIV too much, you stop dreaming normally?" she asked carefully, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"What about you?"

"No." Arthur watched the ocean writhe. "I don't dream on my own anymore."

She couldn't tell by his tone if he regretted it or not, but she could tell that he didn't want her to ask. So she gave him a little tug, and they continued down the beach until their time ran out.

Waking was a gentler experience the second time. Ariadne separated herself from the PASIV and glanced warily to Charla as she did the same.

"Well, Arthur? Were you able to decide?" She let the IV tube snap back into the case.

Arthur shook his head. "You're asking me to put myself at risk to hurt an innocent man. I'm going to need some more time."

Charla looked disappointed, but not surprised. "I don't have much time," she said. "I'll need your answer by tomorrow or I'll have to think of a new plan." She reached into her satchel and pulled out a pair of business cards. "You can reach me on my cell. I'll be waiting for good news. The offer is open to you as well, Miss Ariadne." She handed a card to each of them.

"But I've never...really done anything like this," Ariadne said awkwardly.

"You have instinct--I can teach you the rest." Charla smiled thinly and pushed to her feet. "In fact, I prefer it that way."

Arthur and Ariadne stood with her, and walked with her partway to the exit. "I'll call you tomorrow with an answer," Arthur said. "Since you mentioned Yusuf, can I assume he's your chemist?"

"I'm not thrilled with him making his living off my colleague's work, but he is skilled. Unless you have a better suggestion, I'll have him flown in so you can describe the mission to him."

Arthur frowned at her. "I haven't accepted yet."

"Yes, not yet."

Ariadne hung back as the two shook hands, and at last Charla departed. She moved to the window, watching the street below. It wasn't until she saw Charla leave the building and slide into a dark car parked below that she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "She's kind of pushy, isn't she?"

"You have no idea." Arthur shook his head, and started to say more, when he was interrupted by the chirping of Ariadne's cell phone.

She picked it up off her bag and looked at the screen. And gulped. "It's Cobb," she reported, offering it to him.

Arthur rubbed his eyes and answered. "Dom, it's me."

"Arthur!" Ariadne could just make him out. "Where have you been? I've been trying to call you since yesterday."

"Yeah, I heard--sorry. I had my phone off while I was working." When Arthur noticed Ariadne watching, he held the phone closer to his ear and turned away. "I saw the article."

Ariadne sighed at his back and sat down. Though she could no longer hear Cobb, Arthur's half of the conversation was still audible, and she had no qualms in eavesdropping.

"Have you talked to Saito? ...I'm not surprised. At least he must be happy now. ...No, I haven't heard from him. What? Why? ...Dr. Banks?"

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and was met by Ariadne's hard stare. "No, why would I?" he said. When she took a breath to voice protests, he held a finger to his mouth. "I'll let you know if anything turns up on my end. Right now I'm looking into finding another extractor, now that you've gone soft on me. Yeah, I know. Okay, okay. Say hi to the kids for me." He hung up.

Ariadne huffed. "You know, I used to think that Cobb was a real jerk for keeping things from his friends, but you're just as bad, aren't you?"

"Worse." He handed her phone back.

"That's not fu--hey!" When Arthur moved away she followed him across the room to the coffee maker. "I'm serious, Arthur. You have to tell him what Dr. Banks said."

"No one is telling Cobb anything," he said, pulling out the glass pot. Realizing the coffee inside had long since cooled, he carried it toward a sink in the sectioned off kitchen area.

Ariadne chased after him undaunted. "This affects him even more than it does us," she insisted. "If Fischer is fired from his own company and Browning takes over, it'll mean the whole inception was pointless! What will Saito say?"

Arthur poured out the stale coffee and began rinsing the pot. "I don't know. But if Browning's willing to go to Sullivan to get this done, there might not be anything we can do."

"But Arthur--"

He set the pot down in the sink and turned to face her. "Whatever I decide, you can't tell Cobb I even considered working with Banks," he said seriously.

Ariadne groaned in frustration. "God, you two! Why not?"

"Because..." Arthur hesitated, his teeth grinding. "He told you about what happened to Mal, right?"

The change of subjects sobered her. "Well...yes." She fidgeted. I might even know more about it than you do...

He took a deep breath and said it all in a rush. "Dr. Banks was one of the doctors that declared Mal 'sane' before she killed herself."

Ariadne leaned back as if struck. "But...she's an expert on dreams," she stammered. "Wouldn't she, of all people, be able to...?"

"That's probably the exact reason Mal chose her," Arthur said quietly. Seeing that Ariadne was catching on, he touched her shoulder. "Do you understand? I don't want Cobb to know."

She met his eyes. "Because he'd feel betrayed."

Arthur let her go, disquieted, but before he could turn away she went on. "I promise not to tell him, but only on one condition."

"No." He shook his finger at her. "No, no, no. You're not in on this one."

"She already invited me, remember?" Ariadne showed off Charla's card, and when he tried to take it from her she shoved it in her back pocket. "And there's no way I'm letting you walk into this much trouble by yourself."

"It's not about me. This isn't going to be like last time." He lowered his voice. "You don't want this on your conscience."

Ariadne grimaced and folded her arms. "You think I like this on my conscience now? It's because of us that he's become a target. How can I just walk away and do nothing?"

"If you can't do that," he said, filling the coffee pot, "then you shouldn't have signed on in the first place."

Arthur headed back to the main room, and Ariadne followed a few steps behind. As she watched him prepare a fresh batch of coffee she felt uncharacteristically helpless. Though he appeared quiet and calm, she found herself intimidated almost to silence. Almost. "Arthur...please." Please don’t ask me to walk away.

He finished and at looked back to her. Something about the sight of her made him pause; she watched him regret the words before they were out. "I'll call Dr. Banks in the morning and tell her we're in," he said with resignation. "Whether we decide to go through with it or not, right now the most important thing is that we make sure the client doesn't go to Sullivan."

Ariadne nodded, trying to appear more resolute than she felt. "What about Saito? If he finds out..."

"I'll handle that." Arthur smiled grimly. "Go home and try to get some sleep, Ariadne. Make sure this is what you really want."

She was still uneasy, but she knew she couldn't spy on Arthur all night. She retrieved her satchel and tucked her phone inside. "I only have one class tomorrow, and I'm coming over afterwards," she said. "If you're not here, I swear to God I'm calling Cobb."

"I'll be here," he replied quickly. "Take care getting home."

"I will." She hesitated, and had to summon a great deal of willpower to propel her toward the exit. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight."

Ariadne left, but before she turned the corner toward the stairs, she couldn't help but glance back, just in time to see Arthur slip his red die out of his pocket.

Chapter Text

"We're not having this argument again," Robert said as he shoved the door to his hotel suite open.

Browning chased him inside, undeterred. "How can I argue with you when you're not telling me anything? I just found out from Marcus that you mentioned selling off Richter Cole's. In an email. What the hell is going on, Robert?"

Robert loosened his tie, but even then he could feel its stifling grip around his neck. He wanted nothing more than to force Browning out, to have a moment of peace for his whirling brain, but alcohol would have to do instead. He headed straight for the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of brandy. "Richter Cole's makes shoes. Why do we even own that company anyway?"

"Because you insisted on it. What are you doing?" Browning grabbed the neck of the bottle. "We're on our way to dinner."

"I'm pouring myself a drink." He put his hand over Browning's to make sure he wouldn't let go and grabbed a glass. "Hold still; this is expensive."

The reminder did its job; Browning ground his teeth and ceased his complaints while he filled Robert's glass. When Robert offered one to him as well, he accepted. It was not until both had taken a drink that he resumed his protests. "Robert. I understand you not wanting to work with Cobol," he said carefully. "Maurice wasn't keen on it either. But selling Berger Energy just before a planned expansion? And you're already thinking about selling more?"

Robert turned away while taking another sip. The burn of the alcohol was soothing and helped calm his frayed nerves. "What Hirsch is offering is a good deal," he argued. "We don't need Berger. We don't need shoes. Do you have any idea how many even smaller companies we've bought out in the last five years, just because we could?"

Browning grunted. "Of course I do. I helped you negotiate all of them."

Yes. I remember. Robert continued to wander away from him until he came to a tall, decorative mirror on the south wall. Cold, weary eyes stared back at him. "When I told you I thought we should take Berger, you supported me," he recalled aloud. "But Father...he was already getting weak by then. I went to tell him and he barely looked at me."

"What?" Browning moved next to him. "What are you talking about? Maurice was in favor of that takeover."

"He said he was, but you didn't see his face," Robert murmured. "He was disappointed. He wanted me to know without him having to say it."

Browning's hand closed around his elbow, startling him. "I did see him," he said. "I was there, remember? I'm telling you, your father supported your decision. He was proud of you then."

Robert stared at his reflection in the mirror, and could have sworn he saw it shake its head at him. Deep in his mind the memories undulated, swaying like reeds in a field he couldn't get his hands around. When he tried to reconstruct that moment in his father's room, only the man's heavy and despairing eyes came into focus. They drilled into him a bitter and unavoidable truth.

"Robert." Browning took the glass out of his hand and placed it, and his, on a nearby table. "I know you're still in mourning. Of course you have doubts. But you can't be this hard on yourself." He took Robert by the shoulders and tried to turn him away. "Fischer Morrow belongs to you now, and you have to take care of it."

Robert strained to see the mirror despite Browning's efforts. "This suit is wrong," he mumbled.

"What?"

He pulled out of Browning's grip and unbuttoned his jacket. "This suit," he repeated. "It's wrong. It's not like me."

"It's not--now what are you talking about?" Exasperated, Browning tried to stop him. "The suit is fine."

His reflection flashed him a wide and uncertain look. "It's not me--this isn't me," he insisted. He ripped his hands away from Browning and hurried away, yanking his jacket off his shoulders. "This isn't who I'm supposed to be!"

Browning drew his hand over his face, but he did not pursue. Once Robert had thrown his jacket over the back of the sofa he felt a moment's relief. "I'm changing," he declared as he hopped up the two steps to the suite's circular master bedroom. "You can wait downstairs if you want."

"Robert..." Sighing, Browning sank into the nearest chair. "You bought that suit last week."

Robert kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his pants. "I know."

"For three thousand dollars."

"I know." He knew it was senseless. Even as he selected a different suit he knew he wouldn't feel any more like himself in it, but it was better than doing nothing. Once he was finished changing he rejoined Browning and managed not to look toward the mirror. "I'm ready."

Browning looked up at him. Frustration marred his already deeply-lined face and reminded Robert too much of his father. "Maybe you should skip dinner tonight," he suggested. "Get some rest."

"Peter, I..." Robert shook himself. "I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "I know I haven't been myself lately, and you're just trying to help. I know that, I really do."

His lip twitched. "But...?"

"But I'm selling Berger Energy," Robert finished, offering his hand to help Browning out of his chair. "It's just something I have to do. But I'll forget about Richter Cole's, if you want."

Browning snorted, but he did accept the assistance. "I like their shoes," he said smartly.

Robert managed a thin smile as he headed for the sofa. "Then maybe I should just sell it to you." He reached into the pocket of his discarded jacket and found his wallet but not his cell phone. He frowned and checked between the sofa cushions.

Browning downed the rest of his brandy and headed for the door. "Do you remember when I introduced you to my friend Charla?"

"Hm?" Robert shook out his jacket one more time but still found nothing. I must have left it in the car. "The doctor--no, psychiatrist?" When he realized where Browning was likely headed he frowned, but fell into step beside him. "I'm surprised you haven't set up an appointment already."

"I know you haven't been sleeping well," Browning said as they left the room together. "That's just the sort of thing she specializes in. I really think you should talk to someone, Robert."

"I know..." Though the mention of sleep made his stomach twist, he knew the advice was not without merit. "You're probably right..."

They stepped into the hall, and Robert closed the door behind him.

Eames crawled out from behind the sofa.

He looked to the door, and remained still for a moment longer just to be sure the pair wouldn't be back. Satisfied, he pulled Robert's phone out of the trim green vest of his bellhop uniform. The words "upload complete" flashed back at him.

"Beautiful," Eames murmured. With a few taps the application he'd stealthily installed deleted every trace of itself, and when he checked his own phone he found Robert's contact list, schedule, and emails. "Sometimes the old fashioned methods work best." He set Robert's phone on the floor, ready to be discovered when he returned.

He pushed to his feet and took a quick look around the suite. A handy key card programming device borrowed from a friend had gotten him in easily enough, but without the lucky phone he might have come out empty handed: Robert's travel wardrobe was impressive but not probative, and his laptop was protected with stronger measures than Eames was prepared to break with limited time. He paused briefly at the opened brandy, tempted, and ended his reconnaissance in front of the mirror.

Eames traced a gloved finger over his reflection. "What did you see in here?" he wondered aloud. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

The door handle twisted. Eames jumped, and with the entrance already swinging open he had only one avenue of escape: he dove under the master bed.

Robert entered and shut the door loudly behind him. His steps were sharp as he stormed to the bedroom closet and began tossing neckties haphazardly about. Eames held his breath when one landed half under his hiding spot, but Robert made no attempt to collect it. After a great deal of fussing he seemed to find one he liked, and moved back into the main room.

Eames licked his lips and, taking a chance, nudged the dust ruffle just high enough that he could peek out. Robert was standing in front of the mirror again as he knotted a mulberry necktie, looking irritated. They must have had it out again, Eames thought with a grimace. Over a tie? He almost felt sympathy for Browning for the behavior he was trying to contain, until he remembered why he was following them in the first place.

Robert finished with the tie and smoothed his lapels. But he still looked dissatisfied with his appearance; his eyes grew dull, as they had been at his father's funeral. A slow, silent minute passed, and then he surged forward, grabbing the mirror by its frame. He tried to remove it from the wall, but it was too large, too unwieldy for him to handle on his own, and as soon as he lifted it off its fastenings it fell to the floor. Eames cringed back as the impact of hard wood was followed by a crash of glass.

"Shit," Robert hissed. He glanced around in paranoia, causing Eames to let the dust ruffle fall. "That was...not smart." He heaved a sigh which transformed into a short bark of laughter, and the mirror shattered completely when he let it fall forward. "Oops."

Eames dared not peek again, but he heard the glass being swept about, and then Robert hissed again. Footsteps echoed across the room and a phone was dialed. "Ah, this is Robert Fischer in the tower suite," Robert said. "There's been, um, an accident in my room. I'll pay for the damages, but I need someone to come clean this up. Yes, thank you." He hung up.

A bead of sweat formed on Eames's forehead. Can I stay hidden from maintenance and housekeeping? When he heard Robert was on the move again he crept forward and peeked out: Robert was heading for the bathroom with his finger in his mouth. When he passed the sofa his foot knocked into his cell phone, and he stopped to retrieve it. His brow furrowed, and he tucked the phone in his pocket as he continued on.

If he waits for them to show up, I'll be in for it, Eames thought, dragging himself carefully out from under the bed. I have to go now. Knowing that hesitation would get him caught he dashed on his toes for the door.

He stepped on a piece of glass. It was only a shard, but the sharp crack was loud enough that Robert glanced over his shoulder. "Peter...?"

Eames fled through the door without waiting to know if Robert had spotted him. Once he was in the hall he straightened his vest and strode quickly to the fire escape, taking the steps two at a time down to his floor. By the time he was in his room he had already dialed his phone, and was cursing to himself while he waited for Cobb to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Did you reach him?" Eames asked as he threw his suitcase on the bed.

"Yes, finally. He's still in Paris."

Eames moved quickly around the room, grabbing up pieces of clothing and a few errant electronic devices. "What did he say? Has he heard from her?"

"He said he hasn't." His voice was hard, and Eames regretted having to stir up bad blood, but he needed answers. "Are you sure she's involved? It's only been a few days since he started showing signs of anything."

"As far as you've seen," Eames replied quickly. He shifted the phone to his other ear as he struggled out of his bellhop vest. "But I've been on him since he came to Munich, and I'm telling you, this has been going on behind closed doors for longer than anyone knows. If it was just the one phone call I overheard I wouldn't be worried, but Browning mentioned Banks to him today. If she gets her hands on him she's going to put him under."

Cobb was quiet for a moment as he considered. "Even with a license she can legally only take him one layer deep. That won't be enough for her to identify the inception."

Eames tossed some extra hotel soaps and a towel into his suitcase and forced it shut. "You think the dear Dr. Banks cares about legality?" he scoffed. "I'm not taking that chance." With all his things gathered he pulled on a striped coat and left the room.

"Don't do anything rash."

"Who, me?" Eames smirked as he hit the elevator button, but his humor was short-lived. "We all knew word would get out eventually, but I don't like the idea of that woman seeing our work first hand." His voice lowered. "Especially when I'm not sure myself what's happening to him. It's getting worse."

Cobb sighed, and Eames could imagine the tight lines in his brow. "You're acting like this wasn't the plan all along."

The elevator opened, and Eames was relieved to see it empty. He stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. "I know, I know," he said, frustrated with Cobb and with himself. "But if I'm ever going to do this again, I want to know for sure how it works, what the results are. It was your job but my plan, remember? Forgive me for taking it a bit personally."

"It's not like you to regret a job."

Eames frowned. He hadn't said that, but he couldn't deny that Cobb had caught him. "Yes, well, I know my having a conscience must come as a surprise to you, but there you have it."

He could hear children's voices in the background, and Cobb was drawn away from the phone to respond. Eames smiled distantly but did not bother to try and make out what they were saying; he was too distracted by Cobb's keen instinct. We knew what it would do to him, he told himself, not for the first time. And we knew a lot of people wouldn't be happy about it. But I chose that plan for a reason. He rubbed his whiskers and sighed. He seems more conflicted over his father than ever. The elevator doors were polished to a mirror sheen, and in glancing at them Eames felt a chill.

"You still there?" asked Cobb.

"I'm here." The elevator opened, and Eames smiled politely to an elderly couple as he squeezed past them.

"I know you're going to do what you want anyway, but I'm telling you as a friend, you should walk away from this," Cobb said firmly. "You're not going to be able to change anything at this point."

"I'm not interested in changing anything," Eames assured. "I just want to get a peek, that's all."

"Christ, Eames, you're going to get caught."

Eames snorted indignantly. "You don't have to worry about me, Mum."

"I'm hanging up," Cobb said. And he did.

Eames hung up and dug his keycard out of his pocket as he approached the counter to check out. He was just being called over by the receptionist when he heard an elevator open, and a man said, "Mr. Fischer, your car is waiting."

"Thank you."

Don't look, don't look. Eames smiled at the woman behind the counter, and kept his voice down as they went over his room charges together. He kept one ear open, half expecting to hear Robert call out to him in recognition, but soon he had traced his movements to the door without anything. At last he glanced toward the entrance, and there saw Robert speaking close to his assistant's ear. They left together and disappeared down the sidewalk.

Biting back a relieved sigh, Eames signed his name to the papers. Can't afford to hire a team for this one, he thought as he headed outside--slowly, just in case. Even if I was willing to spend the money, who could I trust?

The evening light caught him full in the face, and he paused on the sidewalk for a loud sneeze. He was reaching for his handkerchief when a broad hand clamped around his elbow. He twisted instinctually to retaliate but his other arm was captured too quickly, and a low voice rumbled at his ear. "Please come with us, Sir."

Eames blinked up at the man who had spoken: bald, six foot eight or taller, dark glasses, like a bad movie cliché. The second was short and less bald but still imposing. Shaking them both would not have been a problem, even unarmed as he was, but there were people flowing in and out of the hotel, and he had spotted at least three men in security uniforms on his way out. If he made a scene and didn't manage to get away, he wasn't sure his German was good enough that he could talk his way out of an arrest.

"All you had to do was say 'please,'" Eames said dryly. "You'll at least bring my luggage along for the ride, won't you?"

Baldy grabbed his suitcase, and dragged it along as they moved together down the sidewalk. Eames hated being led and was tempted again to make a break for it, but then he spotted their destination: a black limo parked on the corner, with Robert Fischer leaning against the back bumper.

Eames gulped. You wanted a peek, he could almost hear Cobb saying. Is this close enough? Strangely, the look on Robert's face seemed to be saying the same thing.

"Mr. Simmonds," Robert greeted stonily. "Would you care to join me?"

Eames cast significant looks to the gorillas detaining him. "I'd be delighted."

The shorter one let him go and opened the back door, through which Eames was shoved a moment later. He righted himself in the back seat and hastily tried to form a game plan. He knew enough about Robert to know he wouldn't have to worry about concrete shoes, but there were plenty of other fates the richest man in the world could arrange for him. Once we have a bit more privacy, I can get out of this.

Robert climbed in and sat across from him. Despite his earlier complaints his suit was impeccable, and his composure intimidating. "Peter warned me that you might be back," he said.

The limo shifted as the trunk was opened and then closed, and the two security agents moved to the front of the car. Eames tried to keep track of them, but he was distracted by the intense look Robert was fixing him with. "They do say it's a small world after all," he replied innocently.

Robert's eyes narrowed. There was real anger in his face, something Eames hadn't expected from a man that was supposed to be little more than a stranger. "That night, I called Mr. Dunn after dinner," he went on as the car started and pulled away from the curb. "He told me you weren't let go, you vanished. Hardly expected from someone with your impressive list of references."

Eames felt a childish twinge of regret, seeing that Robert's happy familiarity for him had run out. So much for false pleasantries. Rather than insult the man's intelligence further, he decided to be direct. "What is it you want from me, Mr. Fischer?"

"I want to know who you are," Robert said immediately. "Who you're working for, and what you want from me."

Eames shook his head. "I don't want anything from you."

"I know it was you in my room," he snapped. "And I give you enough credit that I don't think it was just my wallet you were after. So tell me what it is. Now."

"Ahh, there's the Robert Fischer we all know." Eames leaned forward against his knees. "Your typical ruthless, corporate prince. I almost thought he too had carried out an unexpected vanishing act."

Robert's hands tensed against each other in his lap. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's be honest: you haven't been yourself lately," Eames said. "What I 'want from you' is the truth. I want to know why you're selling Berger Energy."

Robert stared him down, trying to gauge his sincerity, but he was no match for such a finely composed poker face. "Is that it?"

"You have to admit, it's a shocking decision," Eames continued. "I know how hard you fought for that company, and that was only a year ago. Everyone wants to know why."

"If you wanted to know that badly, you could have just asked," he said petulantly.

"You haven't told Peter Browning the whole truth yet--I can't imagine why you'd be more forthcoming with a stranger like me."

It was a bluff, but his instincts were strong; Robert shifted uncomfortably. "That being the case, you didn't really expect I would write it in my day planner either, did you?"

Eames shook his head. "No, not really. I was hoping that by keeping my eye on you I could gain some insight that way."

"And have you?"

"Somewhat." Eames took a deep breath. He wants to talk, he told himself, remembering their few previous interactions. He's always opened up with little prodding. If only I could get his trust back... "To be honest, I'm worried it's a symptom of your health."

Robert looked unconvinced. "My health."

Here goes nothing. "You haven't been sleeping," he said. "I'm sure you've told Browning it's insomnia, but it's the dreams, isn't it?"

Another bulls-eye. Robert looked down and away, and struggled to answer. "So are you watching me sleep, too?"

"How long has it been a problem?" Eames pressed.

"Since my father passed away." Robert licked his lips, and though he was usually an open book, when his eyes danced back Eames could see a second part to the answer hanging unvoiced between them. "But that has nothing to do with my company, and quite frankly, it's none of your business."

Eames burned with curiosity, but he held himself back from guessing at the unspoken message. "I'm just trying to understand you better, Mr. Fischer."

"Why?" He folded his arms in mounting impatience. "Are you working for Cobol? Did..." His jaw worked. "Did Peter put you up to this?"

"No, it's nothing like that." Eames considered throwing out Saito's name, but he was not sure how Robert would react to it, and he didn't like the idea of lying to him further. If I want to get the truth from him, I have to give him the truth. "You said something at your father's funeral that caught my attention," he said quietly. "I haven't been able to put it out of my mind. I think we have more in common than you know."

Robert scoffed, but Eames continued before he could be stopped. "And I think you're in trouble now. I want to help you, if I can."

"You still haven't even told me who or what you are," Robert said, eyeing him. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you arrested."

He smiled. "Because you don't want to."

Robert glared at him, and then rapped on the small glass window behind his head. "I think we're done here. Don't let me catch you spying on me again."

"I won't," Eames assured. I'll be more careful next time.

The limo slowed to a halt at the curb, and the security men piled out. "Well, this has been interesting," said Robert. "But I don't expect it'll be repeated, so...good day. Mr. Simmonds."

He extended his hand. Eames regarded it with confusion--they didn't seem to be parting on terms amiable enough for a farewell handshake--but he didn't want to irritate the man further by refusing. He took Robert's hand and shook it firmly. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Fischer."

Robert's grip tightened like a trap springing, and he stared at their joined hands in sharp contemplation. When Eames tried to extricate himself he was denied; he fell still, trying to make sense of the suddenly intense focus aimed at him. It was familiar. When a shadow fell over the side window he prodded, "Mr. Fischer...?"

He looked up guiltily, and Eames could not withhold the revelation as soon as it came to him. "I've been in your dreams," he murmured, incredulous. "Haven't I?"

Robert let him go and leaned back as the side door was opened. "Get out."

The bodyguard grabbed Eames by his lapel and all but tossed him onto the sidewalk--Eames just barely managed not to fall over. As he turned back the second man pulled his suitcase out of the trunk and shoved it into his chest. He caught only one more glance of Robert's icy stare before the car door closed, and soon the limo was driving off again.

Eames glanced about to see where he had been deposited, and shook his head when he saw he was in front of a police station. He let his luggage drop to his feet and was more determined than ever.

I have to get inside his mind.

Chapter Text

Eight hours after Ariadne left, Arthur finally took a pair of sleeping pills and forced himself to get some rest. He slept until sun up and didn't dream. When he awoke, and the first thing he saw was the glow of his lap top screen, he felt as if no time had passed at all.

And I still have only half a plan. He groaned as he wandered into the bathroom and started the shower. Charla mentioned she had three in her team so that's one more asset unaccounted for. I can't make any definite plans until I know who it is, but who would she trust on a job like this?

Arthur showered and dressed, and after a small breakfast he sat down to call Charla. She answered on the second ring.

"Good morning."

"We're in," Arthur said. "If you haven't put Yusuf on a plane already, go ahead. We can plan everything here."

Charla sighed, pleased. "He should be arriving in Paris this afternoon. I'll text you the flight information."

Of course. There was no point in being irritated with Charla's presumption, so he continued. "What about our fifth? Is it someone I've worked with?"

"I wouldn't know. I'll introduce you later today--shall we say three? Like I said last night, we don't have time to waste."

"That's fine." Arthur drew his laptop over and began to type. "By the way, what's our payout look like?"

"One million to split five ways. American."

He paused, surprised. Two hundred each? He means business. Ariadne might need some help handling that much. "That's fine," he said again, coolly. "Just promise me you'll tell your client it's handled. There's no need for him to hire anyone else."

"I'll tell him." Her voice tipped with amusement. "I know how you hate to have your toes stepped on."

"So now can you tell me who the subject is?"

"It's Robert Fischer, of Fischer Morrow."

She was right. He had been expecting it, but his breakfast still churned in his stomach. "All right. I'll see you at three."

"Thank you for doing this, Arthur," Charla said before he could hang up. "I'm glad we're going to be working together again."

Arthur frowned down at his keyboard. "I'm making a special exception," he told her. "Please don't expect it to happen again."

"I understand. I'll see you later today."

They both hung up, and Arthur turned his attention back to his computer. So, she gets out of class at one.

Precisely at one, Arthur was standing outside the hall. He was dressed in a tailored beige vest and pants, his every hair was slick and in place, and he was leaning casually against the polished hood of his rented, black sports car. He drew quite a few stares from the departing students, and he smiled politely in response to a few, but he kept his attention trained on the building doors.

Ariadne appeared, joined by a pair of girlfriends. She looked hurried, and was so busy checking her phone that it wasn't until the girl on her left tugged her elbow that she noticed Arthur at all. She stopped in her tracks, stunned. As foolish as it had been of him to risk their safety in public so blatantly, the blush that rushed into her cheeks was worth it.

Arthur waved. Ariadne's friends immediately began to whisper furiously at her, and with red ears she continued forward. "What are you doing here?" she asked once she was close enough.

He stepped away from the car. "I'm here for you," he said, and couldn't help but smile when her friends exchanged amazed looks. "If your friends don't mind."

"Introduce us," the one on the left hissed in Ariadne's ear.

She pushed them away. "Maybe next time." When it didn't look like they were inclined to leave she shooed them off. "I'll call you later!"

The girls left, gossiping and giggling, and Ariadne shot Arthur a flustered glare. "Did you have to do the macho guy show-off routine?"

"I had to come get you," he reasoned. "I'm picking Yusuf up from the airport, and I was afraid you'd go to the warehouse and find it empty."

She made a face at him but couldn't find fault in his explanation. "All right. Let's go."

They climbed into the car, and Arthur was hard pressed to hide how pleased he was with her reaction; he had to savor it, thinking it might be the only positive he had to look forward to that day. "How was your class?" he asked as they merged into traffic.

"Fine, I guess. I couldn't stop thinking about..." Ariadne shifted in her seat. "Did you call her?"

"Yes." For once Arthur wasn't eager to speak professionally. "We're meeting her and the rest of our team later today. We'll talk about the plan then."

"...Okay. So we're picking up Yusuf?" she changed the subject. "I didn't think I'd see him again so soon." She straightened. "You don't think Eames is our missing member, do you?"

Arthur snorted. "Not possible."

Ariadne smiled sideways at him. "It'd be nice to see him again, too. Not that there's much chance of that, I guess, with everyone spread out over the globe. Well, when they're not hiding under my nose." She watched him closely. "By the way, why didn't you tell me you were in Paris all this time?"

"It wasn't 'all this time,'" he stalled. "I spent some time with Cobb and his kids, and when I remembered that the warehouse lease was paid up through the end of the year I decided I might as well not let it go to waste." His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. And if something goes wrong and Saito does decide to come after us, I'd rather he find me first.

"That's not an answer to my question."

Ariadne may have been one of the more intuitive people Arthur had ever met, but he was still confident he could lie to her convincingly. "I guess it didn't occur to me," he said.

She shifted in her seat to better face him. "You expect me to believe that you forgot about me?"

"No, I remembered you'd still be in school." Arthur spared her a glance. "But the job was over, and I haven't needed an architect, so I didn't think of it."

"Oh." Ariadne frowned at him, more disappointed than he thought she would have been. "But I thought you..."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish, but she relaxed into her seat again and shook her head. "Never mind," she muttered. "Well, I'm glad I found an excuse to stop by before the end of the year, then."

He smiled. "Me too."

They met Yusuf outside the airport, and he shook both their hands warmly. "So good to see you," he greeted. "Even if it is under these circumstances. I hope you're both well."

"Well enough," Arthur replied stoically. "No thanks to you selling me out."

"What?" Yusuf looked appalled, but when he realized what Arthur meant he laughed. "You're not sore that I gave Dr. Banks your address, are you?" He tossed his suitcase into the trunk. "She said you were well acquainted. And how could I say no? To Dr. Charla Banks, of all people?"

"You sound like a fan," Ariadne noted as they climbed into the car.

Yusuf took the back, and leaned forward between the seats so they could hear him. "Of course I am. She invented dreamshare, you know. Literally wrote the book! It's an honor to be working with her, and in such an ambitious project. When she described to me the helix trap I couldn't help but agree to assist immediately."

"Yusuf," Arthur interrupted, warning.

"I didn't even think it possible!" Yusuf continued excitedly. "And all along you had done it already, Arthur! You were holding back on me last time. What an extraordinary mind you must have in order to--"

"Yusuf."

"Ah..." Yusuf glanced to Ariadne and smiled sheepishly. "Excuse me."

She glanced between them in exasperation. "No--wait--stop doing that! I'm a part of this, too, you know." She twisted toward Yusuf. "What is a helix trap?"

"I'll tell you later," Arthur said before he could answer. "Once we're secure." Ariadne frowned but relented.

Yusuf insisted on a meal, so they picked up a carry-out lunch and ate at the warehouse. "Dr. Banks is coming at three with our last member," Arthur explained as they crowded around a card table. "We have some time before then so I thought we should do some training."

Ariadne perked up. "What kind of training?"

"Combat training," Arthur replied, secretly enjoying the wide eyes she and Yusuf cast at each other. "I don't know who our fifth is, which means I don't trust them yet, so for now I'm planning on the two of you being dreamers."

"Really?" Ariadne's face changed from surprised, to excited, to intimidated. "I'm going to have to fight projections?"

"Possibly. Fischer's mind has security, after all. Now that we know that, we can plan ahead to prevent it from being tripped, and construct escape routes." He looked to Yusuf. "It's not so hard, is it Yusuf?"

Yusuf wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Ha."

Ariadne sipped from a bottled water, her face an open book of conflicting emotion. "So does that mean...we're going down three layers again? I assume you're going to be dreaming at least one level."

Arthur shook his head. "Only two this time, and I can't host a level. I'll be helping Dr. Banks set up the trap."

"The trap," she repeated. She shoved the remains of her lunch out of the way. "Tell me what it is."

He was in the middle of chewing his last bite, which afforded him an excuse to stall. How much can I tell her now? He resisted the urge to glance at Yusuf, knowing that he was listening with rapt attention. He swallowed. "The helix trap--not a name I picked for it, by the way--was a mistake Dr. Banks and I stumbled into," he began. "Basically, we trap a portion of the subject's mind in a dream state, so that even when he wakes, he is still seeing and experiencing a dream. The subject's perception of reality is altered: he'll see and interact with things that aren't there, may even experience the world around him differently."

Ariadne shifted uncomfortably. "Sounds like schizophrenia, maybe?"

"I suppose. I'm sure Dr. Banks has a diagnosis in mind." Arthur took a sip of coffee and continued. "To undo it, we would have to go back into the subject's mind, free the portion we trapped, and hope he wakes up in one piece."

"Charla intimated that you've done this before," Yusuf said, leaning forward.

Arthur's eyebrow twitched. First name basis already? "Yes. We were lucky." When he noticed they were both watching him with intensity he added, "It wasn't either of us that suffered the trap, it was another researcher. Last I heard she'd fully recovered."

Ariadne considered. "When you say you're trapping someone in their dream...are you talking about Limbo?"

"No," he said quickly. "There's a particular process." He hesitated. "Which I'm not going to tell you until I'm sure we're going through with it."

Her face screwed up and she scooted her chair closer. "I'm a big girl, Arthur--you don't have to protect me. I want to know what I'm getting into, unlike last time."

"And you will," Arthur assured. "But this is serious, and you have to understand." Arthur turned to face her, hoping to express his full sincerity. "Those of us in this business have...specialties. We all have our different tricks, and those are the things that get us hired. If you want a good chemist, you go to Yusuf." He gestured to the man, who nodded acknowledgement of the compliment. "If you want a Forger, you go to Eames." He lowered his voice. "And when people find out what you can do, they'll come to you. You have to be very careful about what you put on your resume."

She leaned back, and though there was stubbornness in her face he saw a cold flicker of understanding. "You think just by hearing this process of yours, I could get myself in trouble?"

Arthur looked to Yusuf for help, and when he caught on, he provided it. "He's right," Yusuf said quietly. "It's better you not know until you absolutely have to."

"I promise I'm not Cobb," Arthur went on. "I'll tell you everything before we go under--if we go under." Even the answer to that question of yours last night... "But before we decide that we have to train, because if I can't teach you how to transition you're not in on this job."

"What?" Ariadne straightened sharply. "But we had a deal!"

"Call Cobb if you want, but if I can't teach you, you can't be my level one dreamer, and if you can't do that we don't have room on the team for you."

Ariadne stared him down, trying to call his bluff, but he remained firm. With a snort she pushed away from the table. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get started!" She marched toward the PASIV at the other side of the room.

Yusuf watched her go with eyebrows raised, then looked to Arthur. "You'd really make her walk away at this point?"

"No," Arthur admitted. "But I do need her to learn this." He stood. And she's cute when she makes that determined face.

"It took me days to learn transitioning," Yusuf said, following. "And even now I'm not sure I could do it well enough for your purpose."

"She can do it, trust me."

Ariadne was already cleaning the PASIV for use as they joined her. "Are we using my dream?"

"Yes." Arthur rolled up his sleeve and Yusuf did the same. "Someplace open where we can see a lot of sky, but with somewhere to run and hide if we need to." He motioned to Yusuf. "You're our subject today."

They went under, and came to in a broad park with short trees and trampled grass. Arthur breathed in the dry air, as always somewhat taken aback by the depth he experienced with each inhale of Ariadne's dream--the smell of hot dirt was most prevalent, but he could detect a hint of burning dinner on the wind, and distant traces of smoke and rust. When he took a closer look at the surroundings, he realized the park was bordered by chain-linked fences, and beyond them, a labyrinth of old warehouses and shipping containers.

He smiled to himself. Though the environment was much more urban than Ariadne's last dream, it had a sort of nostalgic, bittersweet charm that made it even more real. "Just what I asked for," he murmured.

A shout drew his attention, and he turned, spotting Yusuf surrounded by a group of young boys. They were kicking a soccer ball around the field, laughing and goading each other on. Arthur sat down on a nearby bench to watch, and soon Ariadne jogged up to him. "How'd I do?" she asked, drawing her hair back in a ponytail.

"Just fine." He motioned for her to sit next to him. "Get comfortable--this is going to take a while."

She took a seat and glanced around, viewing her work with a critical eye. "Should we wait for Yusuf?"

"No, he's right where he should be." Arthur caught Yusuf's eye, and they shared a nod. "Now." He sat forward. "Transitioning. There are two types, and the one you're learning is what I showed you yesterday: a gradual change in a dream state. Time and weather are the most common." He pointed to a line of clouds low against the horizon. "I want you to move that line of clouds from one side of the sky to the other."

Ariadne straightened. "That's not hard."

She narrowed her eyes, and the clouds immediately began to move. Arthur quickly took her hand. "Wait, you're forgetting." He pointed across the field, to where the boys had paused in their game and were staring up at the sky. Yusuf wagged his finger in their direction.

"The hard part," Arthur told her with a trace of a smile, "is doing it without getting caught."

Ariadne pursed her lips at the boys, and waited patiently for them to return to their game. "Then how do I do it? Any change will alert the projections, won't it?"

"It's all about patience, and control," he explained. "Finding ways to make the dream do what you want without directly pushing and pulling. You have to trust your instincts."

"My instincts..."

Ariadne leaned back, staring up at the sky in deep contemplation. Arthur remained quiet; there were other hints he could give her, but he was deeply curious to see if she could work out the answer herself. He watched the projections, and whenever they stopped their game to stare he gave her hand a warning squeeze. It took almost half an hour of quiet concentration, but at long last Arthur felt a hot wind against the back of his neck. He glanced between the clouds and the boys, and was glad to see all moving just as they were supposed to.

"That’s more like it," he said. Instead of moving the clouds she added wind. And she came up with it faster than I did.

Ariadne sighed. "They're not moving any faster than normal clouds."

"That's fine. What matters is you're making changes without alerting attention. That's what transitioning is all about." Arthur at last let go of her hand so he could stretch his shoulders. "Once you get better at it you'll be able to make larger changes, like I showed you before."

Ariadne watched her slowly-drifting clouds with dissatisfaction. "What's the other kind of transition?" she asked abruptly. "You said there were two."

"Hm? Oh." Arthur was a bit reluctant to tell her in fear she would try it out right away. "That's when you deconstruct a dream and create a new one in its place, very suddenly, like a scene change in a movie. It's dangerous to do with a subject because that much alteration sends the projections into a frenzy. Cobb used to call it 'whipping.'" He smirked wryly. "It's one of those things he'd tell you to never do."

Ariadne chuckled. "Then I assume he's done it once or twice."

"To disastrous results, let me tell you."

Yusuf jogged over to them, and Ariadne scooted closer to Arthur so there'd be room on the bench for him. Arthur lifted his arms to the bench's back, which earned him a strange look from Ariadne, but they did fit better.

"So," Yusuf said, grinning, "you're catching on as quickly as Arthur said you would. You should be proud."

Ariadne shot him half a smile. "They're just clouds, doing what clouds always do."

"I'm serious. I think even Charla will be impressed."

Arthur cocked an eye at him. "How well do you know Dr. Banks anyway?"

"Very well!" Yusuf chirped, but then he had to clear his throat and correct himself. "Not personally, of course. We only first met a few days ago. But I've followed her work very closely, ever since she and Dr. Gavde created Somnacin." He looked Arthur over with appreciation. "I don't know her nearly as well as you do, in any case."

"How do you know Dr. Banks?" Ariadne asked abruptly, turning on Arthur as well. "The two of you weren't...." Her eyebrows furrowed. "You know?"

Arthur honestly shuddered. "God, no. It's not like that."

"Then I wish I would have asked sooner," she laughed. "You could have spared me the image."

He frowned at her. You were imagining that?

"Rumors say you were a student of hers," Yusuf said before he could dwell on the thought. "Is it true?"

"Yes, I suppose you could put it that way." It wasn't a story Arthur was thrilled to share, but he couldn't find a reason not to. "It was just after the government started regulating PASIV use," he explained. "Dr. Banks didn't think it was 'fair' that she didn't have the freedom to use her own invention as she saw fit. So she started experimenting off the record, and eventually on people that didn't volunteer. But she realized that if she was going to live like a criminal, she'd need the help of other criminals. And that's where I came in."

"Wait," said Ariadne. "You were a thief before you were an extractor?"

"More like an information broker," Arthur continued. "I was still pretty young then, but I grew up well, I had connections. Plus I know my way around a computer. I made good money selling information to criminals."

"Aha, so it's true." Yusuf pointed at him. "You were one of Dr. Banks' first extractors."

"Not the first. But after I helped her a few times, she offered to pay me with a PASIV lesson." He smiled, bittersweet, with the memory. "As I'm sure both of you can imagine, it wasn't like anything I'd ever experienced."

Yusuf sighed fondly. "I remember my first time using Somnacin. I was sharing a dream with a friend who had just flown in from the Netherlands." He beamed. "She showed me snow for the first time."

"Paris, for me," said Ariadne. She smiled up at the clouds that were still making their way slowly across the sky. "But it wasn't so much the dream as what I was able to do with it. It's just so..." She curled her fingers, searching for the right word. "I don't know, so everything. There's nothing like it." When she turned toward Arthur there was light in her face. "I've been writing down my dreams since then, trying to make myself remember better, but it's not the same. I almost don't want to sleep, knowing my dreams don’t live up to it."

Arthur stared up the sky. "That's why I didn't tell you," he said under his breath.

"What?"

He shook himself. "It's time for combat training."

"Huh?"

Arthur pointed across the field, where the projections had again turned away from their game and were headed swiftly in their direction. "You lost your concentration," he told her, motioning for her and Yusuf to stand. "Come on, let's get out of here." He turned and headed for the closest of the bordering fences, his peers close behind.

***

Several hours of dream time later, they awoke once more in the warehouse. "When you said combat training, I thought you meant we were going to fight," Ariadne said as she freed herself from the PASIV. "Not spend the whole time running away."

"Retreat is an important part of any combat strategy," Arthur replied. "But we'll do some weapons training with you next time, I promise."

Yusuf retrieved his bottled water and took a long gulp. "Running away is just fine with me. But unlike last time, let's make sure we--"

Arthur heard footsteps, and he slapped Yusuf in the arm to shut him up. The three of them turned toward the hall as Charla stepped into view, a man beside her. The man's left arm was in a cast and he was limping, and when he got closer Arthur realized he recognized his face. Or rather, half of it--his left cheek and half his jaw were badly scarred. His injured state in addition to his fresh shave and short haircut nearly disguised him perfectly, but when their eyes met, there was no mistaking the gleam of apprehension in his deep set brown eyes.

Arthur cursed under his breath. "Nash."

"Ah, so you do know each other," Charla said, as always deliberately oblivious to the tense look the two men were sharing. "I should have known there's hardly a dreamer left in the world you haven't met or worked with, Arthur." She gestured to the man at her side. "This is Mr. Nash. Nash, this is Miss Ariadne, and Yusuf, our chemist."

Nash offered them a crooked smile. "Nice to meet you."

Both did an admirable job of not staring at his extensive injuries. "Good to be working with you, Mr. Nash," Yusuf greeted.

"Same," added Ariadne. She pulled a folding chair away from their card table. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Arthur took Charla's elbow and turned her away from them. "This is our fifth?" he asked incredulously. "Where did you find him?"

"I purchased him from Mr. Woodruff of Cobol Engineering," she replied. He couldn't tell if the tone in her voice was real sympathy or not. "He's an architect by trade but I've been working with him for the past few weeks to broaden his skills."

"He's not good enough for this job. You know how meticulous the dream-building will have to be." Arthur glanced behind him, where Ariadne was offering Nash some water. "I've worked with him before; I know his limits."

Charla shook her head. "This is going to sound cruel, but what he's recently been through has done wonders for his subconscious," she insisted. "His dreams are extremely detail-oriented, and very stable. I've tested him myself, you know. Haven't I always been a good judge of talent?"

"If not character," he grumbled. "The last job we were on together, he sold us out."

"Dr. Banks saved my life," Nash interrupted suddenly. "I'm not selling anyone out."

Arthur frowned awkwardly at him, and exchanged looks with Ariadne and Yusuf. The eyes Nash was fixing him with were not bitter as far as he could tell, but then, he had never been the best judge of character, either. "Whatever Cobol did to you was your own fault," he told Nash firmly. "You know that, right?"

Nash lowered his eyes. "I know."

Arthur waited a moment, trying to gauge Nash and be sure, but he didn't say anything more. After an uncomfortable silence Ariadne sat down next to him, and lowered her voice. "Can I ask...what happened?"

"I, uh." He winced at her, which might have passed as a smile. "I was run over by a truck."

Ariadne grimaced, but then Charla cleared her throat and joined them at the table. "But that's all in the past now. We should be focusing on the job at hand, no?" She pulled over more chairs and took a seat. "Now that we're all here, we can get right to work."

Arthur didn't join them right away. He continued to watch Nash, unconvinced. He's a liability, his rational self kept telling him. And he can't be trusted, not if he's loyal to Charla. At last he took a seat next to Ariadne. She looks a little shaken, he noted. Maybe it's good that she sees what can happen in this line of work. Even as he had the thoughts his stomach churned.

"All right," said Charla, setting her laptop on the table. "Let's talk about Robert Fischer."

Chapter Text

It had been a while since Eames was forced to don a real disguise, but when faced with the opportunity he made the most of it. He shaved, mussed his hair, and put on a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, all the while grumbling to himself about having checked out of the hotel so hastily two days before. Dressed in a dark suit--compliments of Peter Browning--he could even pass for a respectable businessman. Robert would recognize him if he spotted him, but the schedule downloaded from his cell phone would come in handy for avoiding him. He was more concerned with not alerting hotel security, in case Robert had tipped them off to his antics. With businessmen flowing in and out of the hotel daily hopefully he would fit in.

He should be across town for at least a few hours, Eames thought as he entered the hotel and headed for the lounge, briefcase in hand. Chances are even if he gets back late he won't retire right away. I'll have to be careful.

Eames spent the evening at various spots around the hotel's first floor: first working at his laptop in the lounge, then dinner at the restaurant, and at last a drink at the bar. He chatted up a few charming ladies along the way, friendly but still very professional, and as far as he could tell he left a favorable impression on the staff. A while before Robert was scheduled to return to the hotel he paid a maid four hundred Euro to unlock the suite's balcony door.

At one in the morning the bar closed, and Eames made his way upstairs. Using a card key he had programmed earlier he let himself into the room next to the one he had occupied only two nights before. A couple was asleep in bed, and Eames tiptoed past them quickly to the balcony. When he opened the door the woman stirred, and Eames held his breath, but by the time he'd drawn the curtain she was settling again.

Eames leaned against the balcony rail. If he's had trouble sleeping, he might not even be in bed by now, he thought, staring at the balcony above him. No way to know without looking. He smiled distantly. If only Cobb were here to yell at me.

He waited on the balcony for an hour just to be sure. It was a warm night, comfortable, and he took the time to think over his strategy. Being alone there was only so deep he could go; the best he could hope for was to observe and maybe get lucky. Just a peek, he told himself. Like I said. That will be plenty.

When he decided he couldn't wait any longer he opened his briefcase, pulling out a length of rope with a weight on one end. In one easy toss he had looped it around the balcony rail above him, and with his briefcase attached to his belt he scurried up to the next floor. It was not the most gentlemanlike of scurries, and there was enough light from the street that someone might have seen him. I'll only be ten minutes, Eames reasoned to himself as he climbed over the rail and crouched behind the patio furniture. Not enough time for someone to convince themselves they're not mad and call security.

The lights in the suite were off. Eames pressed his gloved hands to the glass, peering inside, and saw no one in the suite's main room or bathroom. He could not see the bedroom to be sure Robert was there, but an expensive-looking suit was strewn across the floor, and the brandy bottle was less full than when Eames had noted it last. With a deep breath he tried the balcony door and was relieved to find it unlocked, as arranged.

Eames stored his rope back in the briefcase and crept into the room. When he heard a quiet murmur he ducked back, and remained motionless until he was certain it had not been a sound from a conscious person. On tiptoes he climbed the two steps to the bedroom and there found Robert Fischer.

Robert was asleep on his back in bed. He was clothed only in a pair of silky boxers, and the sheets were only half covering him, twisted around his limbs as if he had been struggling. Sweat shone on his forehead and upper lip. As Eames stopped next to him he could not help but wince in sympathy. Nightmares. That is going to make forging blind tricky. He crouched down next to the bed and pulled a second briefcase the size of a lunchbox out of the first: A PASIV with only a timer and two slots for Somnacin. He placed it on the floor and took off his jacket so he could roll up his sleeve.

Robert moaned in his sleep. Eames eyed him but did not pause in setting up the half-sized device and taping the IV to his arm. As carefully as he could, he did the same for Robert, and then sat down against the back wall.

Just a peek, he told himself again, and he pressed the plunger.

Everything went black. Eames breathed deep, and could feel when his lungs transitioned from flesh to shade. In instants too swift to consciously perceive he became aware of the dream around him, and his mind expanded to fill the space. His art was fluid but controlled, recognizing that the dream was already well constructed, already teeming with populace. There was only one empty space to fill.

As was Eames's skill, he let Robert's consciousness claim him--let him put a projection's skin on him, without any forethought of what he would become. Though dangerous, he had faith that the PASIV would wake him to himself, and as long as he remembered what transpired in the dream his trip would be worth it.

He dreamt he was roaming a dark hallway, with no memory that he was Eames, of how he had gotten there or what he was meant to be doing. He was no longer quite human, either: his limbs were long, thin, and white, his knuckles and joints bony and knobbed. He only had a vague sense of his torso, which was cloaked, along with his head, in a long black veil. When he looked left and right he saw creatures like him shuffling about like a slowly traveling herd, each one wearing a mask. Their faces were thin and plastic with the eyes cut out, like cheap Halloween costumes. It wasn't until then that Eames realized he was wearing one as well.

Ahead of him, one of the wandering wraiths swayed, then the one behind him. The disturbance rippled down the crowd, drawing closer, until Eames spotted the source: a young boy was pushing his way down the corridor. His expensive clothes were rumpled and his eyes were wide with panic. As he passed, several of the wraiths lowered their hands to touch his hair and face, but he batted them away and kept going.

The boy reached him, and as the others had done Eames brushed the backs of his knuckles against his temple. At first the boy thrust his hand away, but then he paused, and stared up at Eames with childlike fright.

Eames smiled, but the expression did not translate to his mask. "Robert," he said in a voice that wasn't his, speaking words assigned to him by the dream. "Where's your mother?"

The young Robert paled, and scurried away.

Eames followed. He pushed at the wraiths with his spindly arms, shoving his way against the flow after the retreating figure. Soon he felt their cold hands touching him, brushing his shoulders and mask. Cold whispers hissed at his ears.

"Where is his mother?" one asked him, and was echoed by several others.

"Where is his father?"

"Where are you going?"

Eames fought through them, and as he chased Robert's retreating form he began to remember that he had come for a reason. "Robert!"

Robert looked back, and upon seeing that he was being followed, he ran faster. Eames tried to match his pace but he was too tall, and couldn't weave through the throng as easily as a small boy.

"Don't let him catch you," the wraiths whispered, some of them even moving out of Robert's way. They continued to touch his hair fondly as he passed. "You can't trust him."

I can't be trusted. Eames assimilated the information, and his voice deepened to a growl. "Robert, get back here, now!" He ran flat out, but by then Robert had gained too much ground on him, and he couldn't catch up.

The hallway turned. It opened into a vast foyer, with cobweb-covered chandeliers, musty portraits and cold marble floors. It too was filled with shuffling black figures, and their continuous hissing filled the immense space like radio static. There was no sign of Robert, but he heard a door close on the other side of the room. He hurried over only to find half a dozen tall oak doors along the wall. Picking one at random, he hurried inside.

Harsh, iridescent light blinded him. He shielded his eyes, and once they had adjusted he realized he was in a bathroom. It was cleaner and much brighter than the rest of the building, almost sterile, with long mirrors. When Eames looked into them he remembered who he was.

Right. I'm in Fischer's dream. He touched the plastic mask over his head, feeling out the gray eyebrows and wide mouth. I'm Browning, he realized. Is that why they reacted to me differently? He glanced to the mirror again and was claimed by a bad idea. With his hands over the mask he changed its shape to that of his own face. Now let's see what they say.

Eames exited the bathroom, and as soon as he stepped into the crowded foyer a hundred empty black eyes turned toward him. Their attention was sharp and eerie, and he stood still, waiting to see what they would do. They know this face too, he thought as the closest of the wraiths shuffled closer. I was right--he has projected me into his dreams.

The wraith that reached him first was a woman. She stretched out a skeletal hand and touched his face, feeling out the shape of his mask's lips. "Who are you?" she breathed.

"Who are you?" another said next to her. It plucked at his shoulder. "I know you."

Their words were echoed in their peers like a droning chant, and Eames did his best to remain still despite their continued prodding. More and more hands pawed at him, curious and wary, and more plastic faces crowded close.

"Who are you really? Why are you here?"

"Why didn't you come to dinner?"

Eames turned toward the last to speak, but he didn't recognize the face watching him so intently. "What?"

"You didn't come to dinner," it said. "We waited for you."

"You're Fred Simmonds, from the airport."

"I know you."

A pair of hands slipped beneath Eames's robes and pressed against his bare chest. He jumped, startled by the chill fingers, and stumbled back.

"Your hands are cold," the wraith breathed.

"Your hands were cold."

Eames shoved the hands off him, but another pair grabbed him from behind, and another latched onto his arm. They continued to hiss at his ears, their voices growing harsh and indistinct. Jagged fingernails bore into his shoulders and wrists. He struggled, knowing it was a dream but unable to help a thrill of panic. When he thought he'd broken free they began climbing on top of each other to get to him, howling, "Who are you? Who are you?"

A woman's thin body pressed against his back, and a sweet voice with a French accent sang in his ear. "Are you here for the secrets?"

Eames looked over his shoulder. The face was familiar, but without the eyes he couldn't place it. "Yes," he said on impulse.

"I know where they're hidden." Her plastic lips curled in a coy smile, though they did not move when she spoke. "Come with me."

She pulled away, and Eames forced his full strength into his pale limbs to throw his pursuers off. As the woman dashed through the crowd he ran after her, shoving the black-veiled figures out of his way. Once he was close enough she reached back and squeezed his hand. They wove through the waves, through one of the heavy oak doors and into another foyer larger and more crowded than the last.

"Who are you?" Eames called as they charged through white, grasping fingers.

"I want to tell you my secrets!" she shouted back.

She led him to a curved stairway that seemed to spiral up for dozens of floors, but instead of climbing it she pulled him underneath. There was a small doorway hidden against the wall there, which she unlocked with a key produced from her robe. Light shown from the other side, and as she squeezed through Eames wondered briefly if she might have been a white rabbit.

They passed through a tunnel, into a warm and inviting light. When it dulled enough for Eames to make out his surroundings, the first thing he saw was a wooden carousel horse flying past. He blinked, and looked around in amazement: gone was the dark and foreboding mansion, replaced with an afternoon carnival. The air was hot and smelled of pavement, and people--real people--packed the walkways and ride lines.

The woman tugged on Eames's hand. Her appearance had not changed, making her stand out like a dark ghost in the otherwise pleasant atmosphere. "Come on," she said, dragging Eames to a running pace once more. "We're almost there."

Eames followed, though he still tried to take in everything there was to see in the park: roller coasters, pizza vendors, prize booths. Happy families and smiling dates. As they ran past a hot dog stand he thought he caught a glimpse of the young Robert Fischer but he couldn't be sure.

The woman veered suddenly, and pulled Eames toward the restrooms. There was a storeroom at the back, which she unlocked with another miraculously produced key. "Here we are," she said, twisting the knob.

They stepped through the door and into darkness again. The room smelled and felt just like the hallway and foyer, old and musty and uninviting. Heavy curtains blocked the tall windows, and a bookshelf took up most of the rightmost wall. At the center of the room was a bed, the sheets pulled back, an IV and oxygen tank mounted on one side. Eames moved closer, slowly. The bed was occupied but not by a person: a black veil was stretched out over the satin sheets, flat and unoccupied unlike the other wraiths. An empty mask bearing no likeness sat perched on the pillow. Though there was no volume of a body and nothing in the room moved, Eames could hear slow, shallow breath issuing from the nostril holes.

Eames stopped next to the bed, transfixed. The hissing rhythm of lungs that weren't present was hypnotizing. He looked behind him, but the woman had closed the door behind them and was no longer moving. She stood very still as if she had become part of the décor.

"Is this it?" Eames asked. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

She did not respond, and with a sigh Eames turned back to the bed. He understood very well what the eerie figure was meant to represent, but there seemed to be nothing more to learn from it. This is Maurice Fischer's room, he thought, recognizing the layout. He turned to the nightstand, and frowned at it for several moments as he contemplated. I wonder...

Eames crouched down next to the night stand and pulled at what looked like a drawer handle, but actually opened a small door. It stuck, and he had to pull hard to open it, spilling a few books to the floor. As he'd suspected a small black safe was hidden inside. Holding his breath, he punched in a familiar combination: 528491. The safe beeped, and its door swung slowly open.

He reached inside. He felt the top shelf first, expecting to find a collection of papers, but it was empty. With a frown he checked the lower compartment, and from the safe's innards produced a frail paper pinwheel.

Is this it? Eames turned the pinwheel over in his hands with great delicacy. The secret he wants me to find? Is this... He felt his breath steam the inside of his mask. Is this the mark of the Inception? But this is only one level deep.

His fingers curled against the paper, and as he listened to it bend his heart began to beat faster. Can I destroy it? He looked to the shadow that was Maurice Fischer, to the unmoving stranger behind him, and back to the pinwheel. It can't be undone as easily as that, can it?

Eames was still mentally reeling when he noticed that one of the books he had toppled lay open in front of him. He squinted, and soon realized that the page was not covered in any manner of writing, but a simple illustration. It was a picture of a pinwheel.

"What...?" Eames stood and surveyed the room again. The painting near the door that he barely glimpsed coming in was an elegant, bold-lined pinwheel. The flowers sitting in a vase on the desk were pinwheels. He moved to the window and drew the curtains back: outdoor floodlights lighted the distant shapes of whirling pinwheel trees. When he flipped through the pages of the book he still held, each page bore a pinwheel, and in the turning of paper the image twirled in front of him.

Eames dropped the book and stared at the original paper craft still held in his suddenly trembling hand. "Bloody hell..."

The door creaked open, and the crack of a gunshot echoed through the room. By the time Eames had whipped around the strange woman was falling to the floor--her arms and legs vanished, leaving only a fluttering veil and a mask skittering away.

Cobb stepped all the way through the door. He was dressed in a slick black suit, his favorite Berretta snug in a gloved grip. He raised the weapon toward Eames, who quickly ducked back. "Cobb, wait!" He yanked his mask off, and the rest of his forgery dissipated with it. "It's me." When Cobb lowered the gun Eames chuckled and came forward. "Leave it to you to do exactly what you told me not to. What are you doing here?"

Cobb regarded him stoically. "I'm in charge of security here," he said. He shoved his gun into the inside of Eames's hip bone and pulled the trigger.

Eames rocked. He was too shocked to cry out at first, pressing his hand over the sudden pour of blood from his abdomen. When he tried to take a step back his legs buckled, and the impact of his body to the floor sent utter agony shooting through him and out from his throat in a scream.

The light from behind the entrance was blocked momentarily by another entering figure. Though Eames's eyes were already watering he strained to see, and shuddered at the sight of a full grown, suited Robert Fischer stepping inside. He straightened his lapels and regarded Eames uncomfortably.

"Good work, Mr. Charles," he murmured, nodding to the blond at his side.

"That's why I'm here protecting you," the projection replied.

"Mr. Charles...?" Eames tried to shift so he could better see the men, but his feet were already numb and the rest of him was throbbing in anguish--he could feel fragments of bone tearing into his tissue. Groaning, he tried to apply pressure to the wound, but the blood flowing over his fingers was already thick and dark. I'm dying. I'm bleeding to death. "You...you adopted our fake projection?"

"I don't know what you mean," Robert said. He moved closer, but seeing Eames writhe on the floor turned his cheeks pale, and he stopped short. "Now are you going to tell me who you are?"

"This is...impossible," Eames said weakly. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on fighting back nausea--he didn't want to think of his body jerking if he vomited. "You weren't this well trained before..." He's already conscious it's a dream. Is he even ordering his projection? His brain swam and he couldn't make sense of anything.

"Who are you?" Robert demanded, shifting anxiously on his feet. "Tell me what you're here to steal from me!"

"I'm not," Eames moaned. "I just wanted...to see."

Mr. Charles holstered his gun. "He's lying, Robert," he said, almost mechanically. "He's hiding something. Let's find out what."

"How?"

"Let's do to him what he was going to do to you." Mr. Charles reached into the safe that Eames had just emptied and pulled out a silver PASIV case.

Eames felt faint. "No..."

"We'll penetrate his subconscious and find out what he doesn't want you to know," Mr. Charles continued. He opened the case next to Eames and began pulling out the tubes.

"Wait..." Eames's arms were already cold, but he still tried to inch away, clenching his teeth against another cry of pain. "You can't. This is already your dream."

"Don't tell me what to do in my own dream," Robert retorted. He crouched next to Mr. Charles. "I'll do it."

Eames shook his head, but it only made his vision blurry. "You can't. The dream will..." He coughed violently, shaking. "It'll collapse," he croaked.

"Then Mr. Charles will have to keep an eye on it for me," Robert said, sliding the needle into his arm.

"But he's just...he's a projection!" Eames swatted at Mr. Charles as he grabbed his wrist, trying to pry it away from his wound. "Stop--he can't--he can't hold up a dream!"

Mr. Charles yanked Eames's arm to the floor and pinned it with his knee so he could insert the needle. "If I'm going to help you, I need you to be calm," he murmured.

"Fischer...wait," Eames tried one more time. "This won't work." Don't put me under like this...!

"I'm getting the truth out of you this time," Robert said with determination. "One way or the other." He signaled to Mr. Charles, who pressed the plunger.

Eames felt a moment of relief as the pain faded. It did not vanish completely, but the agony dulled to sharp irritation, like a cramped muscle. Then the dream world rose around him, and his brain went to work. There was something familiar about the metallic structure, and his mind was all too eager to fill it. As hard as he tried to rein himself in, his concentration was fractured, and he could not prevent his imagination from flooding outward over every empty space. He constructed gun turrets on the walls, stocked ammunition in the storerooms, commanded soldiers to every post. And his was the blankest slate.

He opened his eyes to white. He was seated in a hard metal chair in front of a broad, slanted window, overlooking icy tundra. Though wrapped in a thick jacket the winter cold seeped all through him and made his hip ache. War wound, his instincts told him, filling that space, and with it a character began to form. He knew who he was supposed to be in the current scenario, and he forgot everything that was Eames in favor of it.

He was old, experienced. He was fighting a losing war from a lonely outpost. He was respected and feared in equal measure, and he was satisfied with that.

A door opened behind him, and a man called out to him. "General, we're under attack!"

General. Eames absorbed the information, his creativity inventing whole histories for him. He grasped the handle of his cane and depended on it to move closer to the window. Just as reported, gunshots echoed in the hills beyond his fortress, and a distant explosion vibrated the floor under his feet. He spotted men in white camouflage darting among the trees, making their way closer to his fortress.

"Who are they?" he asked gruffly.

"They're after you, General," the officer said. "We're fighting them off as best we can."

Eames glanced behind him. The officer was young, with a stern jaw and frighteningly blue eyes, dressed in a crisp, white military uniform bearing no country's symbol or colors. His mind invented a history for him, too, and he smiled. "I know you are."

The officer shifted, and then stepped close to his commander's side. "Sir, I think they're here for the safe," he said in almost a whisper. His eyes flicked to the side, and in following his gaze Eames spotted an enormous steel door at the far end of the antechamber. "They're here to steal your secrets."

"My secrets..." Eames's eyes narrowed. No, I will defend this place. That's why I'm here.

An explosion rocked the far tower, and the officer hurried to the window to look out. "General, they've breached the front line. We should get you to safety, immediately." He moved to the door and held it open.

Eames followed, rubbing his beard as he formulated a plan. He found he already knew the layout of the fortress, and could imagine all the routes an invader might use to get inside. He limped through the door and when his officer did not follow it didn't occur to him to think it strange.

His hip throbbed. Eames turned toward the window to hide his wince--for the sake of the men, and their faith in him. As he distracted himself from the familiar pain he could see the attacking soldiers in the courtyard below, hiding from his snipers behind crates and debris. He cursed them from a distance, but when one was shot dead and fell back, he caught a glimpse of the bright yellow insignia on his chest.

"Pinwheel," Eames murmured. The simple shape of it impressed itself on him, reminding him of a history he shouldn't have forgotten. When he touched his chest he found a gold brooch there, it too displaying the pinwheel crest.

Inception. Eames looked over the dreamscape with new eyes. Dreamshare. I'm dreaming. This isn't real. He gasped as another surge of pain hit his abdomen. This is Fischer's dream. Fischer--

Eames whirled, and almost toppled when his cane wasn't enough to fully support him. Growling in frustration he hobbled back into the antechamber and saw his blue-eyed officer punching numbers into the door of his safe. Despite the situation he spared a moment for appreciation.

"You almost had me," he congratulated as he stumbled closer. "I'd like to shake the hand of whoever trained you..."

Robert turned toward him, but before he could speak Eames hefted his cane and struck him hard across the face. He was sent sprawling, blood spurting from his broken nose. Though Eames felt guilty for it, not all of his dream instinct had passed, and his desperation to protect the safe was overwhelming. He reached for the keypad, but without his cane to steady him his legs threatened to give out again, and he half collapsed against the safe door.

Robert spat blood, and was not even fully upright when he threw himself at Eames and kneed him in the gut. The blow was well placed and excruciating--Eames cried out as if hit by a sledgehammer, and would have fallen had he not grabbed Robert's shoulders. "Jesus..."

"Now I'm going to see the real you," Robert said, punching in the last sequence of numbers.

The door beeped, and groaned, and slowly swung open. As the metal fell away from Eames's back he clung to Robert, trying to remain upright, but the man was not interested in supporting him--he shoved Eames to the ground and ignored another anguished groan as he stepped past him and into the chamber.

Eames clutched his abdomen. Though the pain was not as sharp as it had been above, it was still more intense than anything he'd felt in a long time. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but Robert's sudden silence was more distracting than if he'd been shouting. What does he see? He shuddered, not wanting to look. What's in this room?

Soldiers hollered from somewhere nearby, and Robert returned, grabbing Eames by the shoulders to drag him fully into the room. Eames hissed and didn't fight, and a moment later he heard the heavy safe door close, sealing his projections out. "What is this place?" Robert demanded, his voice shaky and echoing in the empty space. He moved away again. "What the hell does this mean?"

Don't look. Don't look... Eames opened his eyes. The inside of the safe was just as it had been during the inception, black and featureless, except that it spread higher and for longer than he could see. There was no bed, no safe, but the room wasn't empty: every space on the wall was taken up with a plastic mask. Men and women of various ages and ethnicities lined in thoughtless disarray, in every direction.

"They're the masks from my dream," Robert said uneasily, moving down the wall. He touched one and shivered. "Peter.... Where are we?"

Eames groaned as he forced his elbows beneath him, and pushed himself up just enough so that he could get a good look at the dozens--hundreds--of empty, eyeless faces. He could only see a few columns in but he recognized every one of them. A chill ran up and down his spine. "They're not yours..."

"What?" Robert paused again in front of a woman's face.

They're mine. Eames tried to push himself higher, but his body was too heavy, and he slumped onto his back again. They're all the faces I've forged. When his upward gaze landed on more masks suspended from the ceiling, he squeezed his eyes shut. But why are they here?

His heart beat faster. Every pulse felt like another jab in his open wound but he could not explain let alone quell the fear propelling it. Why did I bring them here, and why was I protecting them?

The ground shook--the dream above them was collapsing. A gentler reverberation announced Robert's approach. He knelt next to Eames and leaned over him. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.

His breath left him in a rush. "My name is Eames," he confessed at long last. "I'm a petty thief...a con."

"And an extractor," Robert added.

Eames swallowed hard. He wanted to deny it, but when he opened his eyes Robert was watching him with such close scrutiny that he could not bring himself to lie. "Yes."

"Eames..." Robert scraped his sleeve over his face, smearing blood on the otherwise spotless garment. "Why are these masks here?"

"I..." Eames looked around at them again, but he had no more explanation. "I don't know." He coughed, and winced when his wound was jarred. "They're mine, but...I don't know."

The hole in his flesh was opening. He could feel the effects of the first dream trickling down, like the blood that was finally starting to ooze down his hip. Robert noticed, and the intensity in his expression faltered. He licked his lips and cringed at the taste of his own blood. "You're dying," he murmured. "Aren't you."

"Yeah..." Eames tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. "Deserve it, don't I?"

Robert fidgeted. He reached forward, hesitated, and at last began undoing the buttons on Eames's jacket. "I didn't know you could feel pain like this in a dream."

"I did. I just forgot..." When he realized what Robert was up to, he grunted. "Don't. It won't matter down here..."

Robert pushed Eames's shirt up to get a better look at the wound. As he did so his fingers scraped along Eames's stomach--they were cold, and even through the pain it startled him. It reminded Eames of the wraiths and their whispers, and when he looked around the room again he finally realized. "You remember all this, don't you?"

Robert turned away from the sight of the bleeding wound. "What?"

"This room. This fortress..." Eames touched Robert's hand, keeping it against his bare skin. "Me. You remember everything."

"No, I..." He shook his head in frustration. "I don't know." He watched Eames a moment longer, growing more and more distressed, and finally pulled a handgun out of its holster at his waist. "I'll wake you up," he said, pressing the muzzle against Eames's heart.

"No--wait." Eames's fingers were too numb to grip, so he wrapped his arm around Robert's to halt him. "If I wake up now it'll be one level up, and I'll be in twice as much pain. Please." He coughed weakly and closed his eyes. "Let me wait it out here. It shouldn't...be long."

Robert leaned back and fell silent. The ground beneath them was shaking violently by then, and a few of the masks dropped from the walls in quiet thumps. Eames breathed slowly, letting the strength fade out of him. It had been a long time since he'd felt a dream death so gradual, and it gnawed at him despite his efforts at control.

The click of a gun hammer being drawn made him flinch, and the shot followed a moment later. Blood sprayed his chest and Robert fell away from him, hitting the unstable floor with a stomach-churning thud. Eames shuddered, and when he looked all he could see were white clad knees and a limp hand clutching a gun.

"Robert?" Eames stared, his already foggy mind uncomprehending. All around the dark-walled chamber rocked, sending more and more eyeless faces tumbling to the floor, and he grimaced when one struck his shoulder and rolled away. "It's just a dream," he told himself fervently. He pawed at his jacket, and when his hands went numb he shoved them against the brooch so that he could feel its shape against his chest. Pinwheel. This is Robert's dream.

No matter how many times he told himself as such, he couldn't make his heart believe it. As numbness crept up his limbs and into his chest it brought panic with it, resonating in him the cruel truth: he was dying alone. Trapped in a cage of empty identities, in a world that was crumbling all around him, he could do nothing but helplessly await his end.

"I'm dreaming," Eames whispered, his pulse in his ears drowning out the earthquake increasing all around him. "It's just a dream..."

The world went black, and he awoke with a gasp.

He was sitting up against a wall, his breath fast and shallow. For several too long moments his limbs still felt heavy, and a distant pain echoed in his abdomen--he almost didn't want to open his eyes in case tundra lay before him. But then he felt a hand, clammy but strong, wrap around his forearm, and another slapped him gently across the cheek.

Eames opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Robert. The man was crouched close beside him, putting pressure on the slowly bleeding puncture left by a hastily removed PASIV needle. His face was tight and unreadable. "Are you awake?"

Eames licked his lips, but when he tried to reply, nothing came out. He had been caught, again, and he wasn't entirely sure what had happened, let alone what was meant to come next. When his response didn't come fast enough, Robert sighed and shook his head. "I think we both need a drink," he muttered. He stood and moved away, pulling on a white undershirt as he went.

Leave, Eames's better sense told him. It was a mistake to come here. Just get out and forget everything. He braced a hand on the bed as he pushed himself to his feet, dispelling the rest of the dream's physical aftereffects, but he still felt raw, as if exposed. He looked to Robert, expecting him to already be on the phone with security, but from the looks of it he really was pouring himself a glass of brandy.

"You're not...calling the police?" Eames asked as he cautiously left the bedroom.

Robert shook his head. "What difference would it make? You'll just run away before they get here, right? And then what do I tell them?" He swirled the brandy around his glass. "That a mystery man was trespassing in my dreams? God, Peter already thinks I'm crazy." He took a long gulp of the amber liquid.

Eames loosened his tie, and when he came closer Robert eyed him cautiously, then poured him a glass as well. He accepted and downed it easily. "Robert--I mean, Mr. Fischer--"

"Eames." Robert looked him straight in the face. "That is your name, isn't it? This time?"

Two levels down and he retained that? He's so much better than I anticipated. "Not the one my mother gave me," he said, "but yes, it's who I am now." He lifted his glass to Robert, who shook his head again, but refilled it nonetheless. He took it as a good sign. "And I know you have no reason to believe me, but it's like I said before: I just want to know what you're thinking."

"Who are you working for?" Robert asked without missing a beat.

"No one." When he looked about to protest, Eames continued quickly. "For a time I was working for Proclus Global, yes. But that contract ended after I arrived in Los Angeles. Everything after that was my doing, alone. And in case you're thinking of going after my client, there's no evidence," he added.

"You think I don't know that?" Robert bristled, and took another drink on his way to the sofa. "It's not like you're the first spy to hire into my company. We're usually better at spotting them. So?" He sat down heavily and glared, trying to look unimpassioned, but there were cracks in his composure that Eames could easily spot. "If your contract is over, why are you still spying on me? Are you hoping Mr. Saito will buy extra information from you?" He scoffed. "And here I was thinking he might send me a thank you card."

Eames leaned against the back of a chair. "It's not like that."

"Then what, already?" Robert clanged his glass down on the coffee table. "If I was less generous you'd be in prison now, and you still can't give me the truth! I've had enough of this!"

Eames held up a hand. "All right, all right." He rounded the chair and sat down in it. "Calm down."

"Why are you doing this?" he persisted. He leaned forward, agitated, and rubbed absently at his chest. "In the limo you said it was something I said. What was it?"

The truth. Eames put his glass down and felt an echo of the dream's anxiety well in his stomach. "You said you recognized me," he said, his voice low with sincerity. "It reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten from my own father's funeral."

"...What?"

"A man." The story sounded strange on his lips, and it wasn't until then that he realized he couldn't remember telling it before. "There was a man in a military uniform at my father's funeral," he said. "I didn't know who he was, so that night I asked my mother if my father had been a soldier. She said yes."

The temper eased out of Robert's face. "But he wasn't."

"No." Eames's smile felt self-deprecating and he wasn't sure why. "No, he was a thief and a con, just like me."

Robert was quiet a moment, considering. "So. You're my man in uniform?" He pursed his lips as if he couldn't decide what to think of it. "You followed me to Munich just for that?"

"No--not just that." Eames scooted to the edge of the chair and met Robert's eyes seriously. "When I saw you at the funeral, I knew that something was wrong. There's something in your subconscious mind affecting you more than it should. I saw some of that tonight. And last week..."

He hesitated, knowing that he would be pushing Robert one more step too far, but he was just as tired of hiding the truth as Robert was being deceived. "I overheard Peter Browning make a call to Dr. Charla Banks," he said. "He wants her to have a look at you."

Robert looked away, trying to hide a flash of shame. "It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a psychiatrist. Peter already talked to me about this."

"The call was over a week ago," Eames insisted, and as he'd expected, paranoia shown in Robert's face. "And Banks isn't just a psychiatrist--she's a dream expert and a criminal who uses people as test pets. Your training may be extensive but I'm worried about what's in your mind and what she's going to do with it."

The suspicion became confusion. "My what?"

"Your training--your subconscious training." Eames couldn't help but smirk. "It's much more impressive than I originally thought."

"I don't have subconscious training," Robert said blankly.

Eames frowned. "Dream training," he tried again. "Didn't you hire an Extractor to train your subconscious in dream defense?"

"No. My father suggested it years ago, but...." Robert trailed off, his understanding a visible progression across his face. "...but I didn't go through with it."

"Not consentingly, at least," Eames supplied, and was affirmed by the look Robert cast him. Arthur didn't find any indication that Robert was trained, he remembered. Could it be that's because he never was? But then how could his subconscious be so well organized, to the point he even adopted Cobb's Mr. Charles alias? His hands clenched. There are more secrets in his mind...

"I don't know what to think," Robert murmured. "This is...it's crazy." He rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "What are you saying? That I really am going crazy, and now Peter is plotting behind my back with a mind-raping criminal?"

"Something like that, I'm afraid."

"Jesus." Robert dropped his face into his hands and took slow breaths. "This is crazy," he said again, weakly.

Eames watched him, his stomach roiling. The rest of the truth was on his tongue but it didn't make it past. If I tell him it was me, he'll never trust me, he told himself. And if I'm going to sort this out, I'll need his trust. He can hate me later.

"I'll leave," he said. He stood, glancing over his shoulder at the PASIV and briefcase he'd left behind. "There are some things I need to look into. If you want me to never come back, I'll leave you alone--I promise this time." He turned toward the bedroom.

"No." Robert sat up. "You're not going anywhere."

Eames stopped and looked back. "What?"

"You're a liar and a spy, but you might be the only one that knows what's going on," he said. He moved to the dresser and retrieved his phone. "And until I know the truth, I don't want you out of my sight."

"You...what?"

Robert pointed to a far doorway as he texted with the other hand. "There's another bedroom in there. You're going to stay in there, and my security is coming up to sit on this sofa and keep an eye on you." He pointed it out. "And you're not going anywhere until I say otherwise, do you understand?"

Eames blinked, baffled. "Yes?"

"Good." Robert looked more secure, made confident with a plan in place. "Now...I'm taking a valium," he concluded. "Goodnight, Mr. Eames." He passed Eames on his way to the bedroom, weary but determined.

"Goodnight..." Eames glanced after the PASIV, but he didn't want to know what Robert would do if he attempted to retrieve it from under his nose. He's not turning me in--I'll just have to be patient. Isn't this sort of what I wanted anyway? He heard footsteps approaching the door, and rather than have to fumble through a greeting with security he retreated to the second bedroom. As long as he thinks I know what's happening, he'll allow me around him.

Eames closed the door behind him and leaned against it. It's been a long time, he recalled, rubbing his hip. When was the last time someone caught me like that? And with so little effort. It was exhilarating and humbling at once, and he couldn't stop thinking about the unexpected secrets opened in his own mind. Was that room really mine? Those masks...could have been his influence, from the level above. With a deep breath he moved further into the room. I'll have another chance to know. I'm in too deep now to walk away.

He looked to the bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep that night.

Chapter Text

It was after nine when Ariadne made it to the warehouse. She was exhausted after a long day of group work and presentations, but it never occurred to her not to go. Just knowing that the rest of her team was hard at work put her in an anxious state, and she was eager to see what they had come up with in her absence.

"Arthur?" She gave a little shake to the dessert box she was carrying as she entered the main workroom. "Yusuf? I brought dessert."

"Mm! Ariadne!" Yusuf called. "We weren't sure you were coming."

A strong, spicy aroma tickled her nostrils as she approached, and she quickly spotted the source: a crock pot had been added to the rice and coffee makers in Arthur's makeshift kitchen, and it hissed as something tasty simmered within. As she came closer, she finally got a better view of the room.

Yusuf had taken over the room's largest table, covering it with various bottles, glass instruments, and composition books. The card table next to it was host to several strewn pieces of draft paper covered in sketches, with Nash leaning over them. His hand moved in wide arcs, carving bold lines, and Ariadne couldn't help but wince at the smears he was making and the disarray of his workspace. Charla was seated nearby, reading from an open file as she sipped what looked like some kind of tea.

"Sorry I'm late," Ariadne said, dropping her purse near Nash's table. After a quick glance around she found a space for her box next to the crock pot, and couldn't help but peek under the lid. "What's cooking?"

"It's turkey chili," Nash replied, erasing furiously. "Or, it was, when I started it."

Yusuf took off his glasses and joined Ariadne so he could stir the pot. "I made some improvements," he told her with an all-knowing nod.

Ariadne smiled. "Well I hope it pairs well with tiramisu." She glanced around the room again but still did not see the last member of their group. "Where's Arthur?"

"Trying to sleep off a migraine in the next room." Yusuf tested a spoonful of the chili before moving on to Ariadne's dessert. "I was supposed to wake him up twenty minutes ago, but I was waiting for the food to be ready."

"Setting his mouth on fire won't cure his headache," Nash said dryly.

Charla smiled but did not look up. "So long as the ingredients were fresh and it doesn't contain caffeine or alcohol, eating something nutritious might help."

Ariadne glanced between them and smirked, wishing she had been able to come sooner. "I think I'll peek in on him," she said. "Help yourself to the cake."

"And it is nutritious," Yusuf continued as she moved away. "I had that in mind when I made my alterations. Cooking is not unlike chemistry, you know, especially when you only have one pot to work with. Did you know that..."

Ariadne shook her head, still smiling, but once she reached the far room she sobered. Being mindful of Arthur's probable state she skipped knocking, and instead opened the door a crack to peek inside. Arthur was stretched out on his stomach on the short bed, fully dressed except for bare feet. He seemed to be sound asleep, but when Ariadne started to close the door again he stirred. "Yusuf...?"

"It's me," Ariadne whispered. She slipped inside and closed the door so that only a sliver of light could sneak through. On tiptoes she moved to crouch at his bedside. "I heard you weren't feeling well."

Arthur groaned, and rubbed his eyes as he rolled onto his back. "Overworked myself," he grumbled. "What time is it?"

"About nine-twenty." Once Arthur had settled, Ariadne moved to the edge of the mattress so they could better see each other. "Yusuf is threatening to cure you with chili. Feel up to it?"

He groaned again, and Ariadne winced in sympathy. "I have some aspirin in my purse," she said. "Can I get you some water?"

"No, I'm all right." Arthur ran a hand over his scalp and looked up at Ariadne with a faint smile. "But unless they need me I think I'll hide out a while longer."

She smiled back. "I think we'll manage. I have a few mazes doodled in my notebook already that I can work on. Unless we're using Nash's, that is." Though she had yet to see his work, the sight of his table space had not been encouraging.

He saw through her hesitation easily. "I hate to admit it, but Nash really has improved since I worked with him," he said diplomatically. "But I still trust your architecture over his. If you're going to be around for a while, you should work with him. It'll be his job to match your dream down to the smallest detail."

"So he is going to be one of our dreamers?"

"Yes." Arthur smothered a yawn against the back of his hand. "He and Yusuf can give you the details. I'll come out in an hour to see how it's going."

"All right."

Ariadne leaned back. It seemed she had received her cue to leave, but at the same time, the look Arthur was fixing her with looked unmistakably like an invitation. She was tempted--after her long day, an hour to sleep in even a lumpy bed next to a warm body would have been heavenly. And he wants me to, she thought, recognizing very well the subtle gleam in his sleepy eyes. A little kiss, a few sideways looks, a seemingly innocent touch. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. You do like me, don’t you, Arthur?

She scooted closer. She set her hand on his chest and felt him tense, just slightly, beneath it. With her breath held she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. When she leaned back, she was grinning. "All better?"

Arthur watched her very closely. "Getting there."

"If you're not up in an hour, I'll try again," Ariadne said. She gave him a pat and stood, taking some pleasure in his look of mixed disappointment and anticipation. "Get some rest--I'll save you some cake."

His eyebrow twitched, and it seemed like such a perfect moment, she slipped out before he could reply.

I knew it, she thought as she closed the door behind her and headed back to the others. Like hell it didn't occur to you.

"How is he?" Yusuf asked as she rejoined them, plucking the last crumbs off his paper plate.

"He's taking another hour."

Ariadne stepped up behind Nash, and when he noticed her there, he started. "What?"

"I just wanted a peek," Ariadne said, smiling--whatever her fatigue had been coming in, she was in a much better mood. "Arthur said you and I are going to be working together?"

"Oh...yeah." Nash fumbled with the papers using his one good hand, and when a few designs threatened to slip off the table Ariadne hurried to catch them. He winced. "Sorry."

"It's okay." She righted the papers and flipped through them, and immediately noticed a peculiar pattern. "They're all circular."

"Yeah. It's a little weird, I know." Nash motioned for her to put one down, and he traced out a curving path through the lines with his finger. "But it'll be harder for Fischer's subconscious to follow us in a round maze, won't it? And it will be easier for him to figure out that he's dreaming."

"Easier to figure it out?" Ariadne repeated. "I thought that's what we don't want."

Charla closed her file and set it aside. "What's most important is that he accepts the second level as reality," she explained. "For that, we're going to let him discover that the first level is a dream, and "wake" from it into level two."

Ariadne could hear Arthur's voice in her head proclaiming it a bad idea. "But doesn't that mean his projections will be that much more violent? He's already been trained to hunt us down. I don't know if I'll be able to protect the rest of you by myself against all that."

"That's why our escape routes will have to be complex, and unexpected." Charla smiled at her. "We'll very much be putting your architecture skills to the test, Miss Ariadne."

Ariadne smiled back, though at the same time she felt a prickle of apprehension. "I think I'm up to the challenge."

"I have some ideas, if you want to see them," Nash suggested. He jerked his thumb towards the PASIV in the corner.

Charla pushed to her feet. "I think I'll join you. It will be good practice for all of us."

Yusuf shuffled through the bottles on his table and pushed one to the front. "Try using this. It should be the clearest one yet."

Ariade picked up the bottle, but no amount of staring helped it look any different than the Somnacin they'd always used. "All right." She carried it to the PASIV and switched it in, preparing the machine as Arthur had showed her. "Who's going to be the subject?"

"I can be both," Nash said as he limped to his lawn chair and stretched out. "That way I can keep changing things without worrying about your projections."

Ariadne programmed in the proper delay--as Arthur had taught her just the day before--and handed out the needles. The prospect of being in the dream of someone new was exciting, and she did her best to clear her mind and stay focused as they all settled in. When they were ready she pressed the plunger, and sighed with the familiar sensation of enveloping darkness. For a few short moments she felt adrift, silent and peaceful and home, and then she opened her eyes to Nash's dream.

The city air hit her hard, sharp and almost burning. All around she could hear people muttering, engines growling, bodies scraping, every sound like a separate particle bouncing off her already sweat-moistened skin. Smoke clung to her tongue and nostrils, and when she opened her eyes, sunlight reflected off every surface and directly into her brain.

Ariadne stepped back, and when she felt cold stone behind her she leaned gratefully against it. She rubbed her face and took long, slow breaths, concentrating on one after the other until she became accustomed to the unfamiliar intensity of the dream. She had just about found her footing when a hand touched her shoulder.

"It's really something, huh?" Nash said, and she jumped as if he had spoken right beside her ear. "Yusuf's work, I mean."

"Yeah..." Ariadne pushed her hair out of her face and at long last was able to sort her senses into order. "Wow. It's like I can feel...everything." She had never considered that her dreams were less than clear before, but for a moment she was convinced she could feel every hair on her body, pick out every voice in the crowded streets. She breathed it in and felt exhilarated, and when she took a closer look at the actual cityscape, she was amazed all over again.

The city was close to being normal. Rows of apartment buildings crouched close together under a perfect, cloudless sky, their balconies overflowing with cramped furniture, potted plants, and articles of clothing. The streets were narrow and every so often a tree struggled out of the alley shadows. It would have been like any other city if not for the shapes binding the roads and buildings together: curves. Every building was a half circle, every street an S. It unnerved her in a way she never would have expected, seeing even that simple alteration in geometry.

"Wow," she said again. "That is kind of freaky, to be honest."

"Isn't it?" Nash smiled at his curved city proudly. "It's Cairo, mostly. I spent a lot of years here."

"Isn't it not a good idea to..." She glanced to him, and realized for the first time that his scars were gone, and his arm was no longer in a cast. She cleared her throat and continued. "To draw from memory? In case you lose track of the fact that you're really in a dream."

"Oh yeah--you're talking about Totems, right?" Nash shook his head. "Arthur mentioned it to me the first time we worked together, but I don't really have a need for something like that." He glanced down at his hand, stretching and curling the fingers as if getting used to it again.

Ariadne watched him, not sure how to respond. "I guess not."

Nash shook his hand out and took in a deep breath. "Dreaming is the best I can do to feel normal now," he admitted quietly. "That's why this job is so important for me. I have to prove myself to Dr. Banks." He faced Ariadne with sudden animation. "She's got an institute for training legal dreamers back in the states, and she's helping me get in."

Legal dreaming? Ariadne perked with great interest. "So you're going to get a PASIV license? I guess that means you'll have to give up this back alley extraction business."

"Not necessarily."

Ariadne turned, and was surprised to see Arthur striding up to them. He was slickly dressed as always, but there was something lighter and almost mischievous in his face. "Plenty of extractors have a legal PASIV license, myself included."

Ariadne eyed him in confusion. "I thought you were taking another hour."

"No rest for the wicked," he replied, and winked. "Come on, let's take a look around."

Did he just wink at me? Ariadne made a face, but fell into step next to him, with Nash on her left. "So you're feeling better?"

"Perfect," he said. He cast her a sly glance. "Thanks to you."

Ariadne couldn't help but blush, but as she continued to stare at him, and Nash whistled innocently on her left, she caught on. "You're a forger?"

"And you know what a forger is?" Charla returned, her smile false and a little eerie on Arthur's face. "I'm starting to think you're not nearly as green as you originally let on, Ariadne."

Ariadne blushed harder and glanced at Nash, who looked too amused for her liking. "Well, I..."

"Why don't you tell me," Charla prodded, "how you and Arthur actually met?"

Why do I feel like I'm being interrogated all of a sudden? Ariadne tried to puzzle out her expression, but it was too difficult to make sense of it given the canvas. Of course I can't tell her the truth, but...maybe part of it? Just to see what she'll say. She straightened and did her best to appear completely casual. "Well to be honest, I was introduced to him by Mr. Cobb."

Nash's interest appeared piqued. "So you have done extraction before?"

"Not exactly." I wonder if she really knows, Ariadne thought vaguely. That inception is possible. That'd have to be worth something to the person who invented dreamshare. "He needed my help as an architect, so I made a few models for him. I picked up a few details about dreaming on the way."

"Mr. Cobb." Charla's humor had abruptly faded, and her serious, forward gaze was much more fitting to her appearance. "So, Arthur and Mr. Cobb were working together?"

"Well, yes." Was I not supposed to say that? "I guess."

"From what I've heard, they have for a long time," Nash added. "They were when I worked with them."

"I see." Charla frowned. "I had heard rumors myself, but I dismissed them as I was not aware the two of them were back on speaking terms."

Ariadne's curiosity bubbled. "I wasn't aware they ever weren't."

Charla fell silent. Ariadne and Nash exchanged awkward glances, and when it stretched for too long Nash cleared his throat. "Um, anyway, I had an idea," he said. "Since Fischer's trained, the projections are going to be extra violent, but if some of us are going down two levels, we'll need a way to protect them. But the projections will be looking for the dreamer, right?"

Ariadne followed his train of thought easily. "So we're going to separate? But that will leave the level two dreamers unguarded, won't it?"

"Yeah, but...here, let me show you." Nash pointed ahead of them, and the sidewalk sank in chunks to create a subway entrance. He led them underground to an old train platform that looked as if it had not been used for years. "What if we make a network under the city?" he suggested, indicating the darkened subway tunnels. "We can dream up some kind of vehicle to move some of us around, while the dreamer distracts the projections up top."

Ariadne moved to the edge of the platform and looked up and down the tunnel. "Huh. That could work. Though that still means I have to fight off an army alone." She frowned thoughtfully as she thought through Nash's idea, already forming ideas for how the structure could be made, how to be assured of the safety of the dreamers.

"It's not going to be an easy job, no matter how you look at it," Charla said. "But I'll leave this part to you two architects. I have other things to work on." She opened the front of her suit and pulled a revolver out of the holster against her ribs. "I think I'll duck out here."

Ariadne winced, anticipating a sharp gunshot, but then she realized that Charla was offering the weapon--handle first--to her. She glanced between it and its supplier blankly. "What?"

"If this is your first time in the field, you're going to have to do this sooner or later," Charla said, watching her with almost unblinking scrutiny. "Have you ever even fired a gun before?"

"Sort of..." Ariadne gulped and accepted the gun, turning it over in her hands. "I just cock the hammer and pull the trigger, right?" she joked.

Charla stared back evenly. "Yes."

It's just a dream. Ariadne fit the grip to her hand and gave it a squeeze. She's right--if I'm going to fight off projections I'm going to have to kill them. She lifted the gun, but when she aimed it at Charla--Arthur--her hand trembled. "You're sure?"

"Yes." Charla stepped closer, and nudged the muzzle of the gun up until it was pressed against her forehead. "If you don't kill me in one shot, please make sure you do in two."

Ariadne grimaced at the image her words conjured. Is she playing with me? She forced her thumb to the hammer and pulled it back until it clicked. Just do it. You were able to shoot Mal just fine, right? This isn't Arthur--look, she's not even that great of a forger, certainly not as good as Eames. You can totally tell it's her. And even if it was him it wouldn't matter, this is just a dream!

Arthur's eyes watched her. Her heart thudded, and just when she thought she wouldn't be able to do it, she slipped her finger over the trigger and pulled hard.

Blood and bone sprayed the stone pillar behind Charla, and a moment later her body--her own, female body--crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap. Ariadne did not continue to breathe until after she had nudged the prone form with her toe to make sure she was really dead. "Holy shit," she muttered, taking a few steps back as she lowered the gun and regained her composure.

Nash moved beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She took in a deep breath, looked between the body and the gun, and then let it out. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just a dream, right?" She shoved the gun at him. "Why don't you take this, though?"

"Yeah, sure." Nash accepted the revolver and checked to see how many shots were left. "But you know, we can just wait out the time--"

"Yeah, that's fine," she said quickly. She turned away from the mess. "Let's go back up top and talk out our strategy, okay? Just in case your dream cops find this...or something."

"Sure."

Nash led the way away from the platform, and Ariadne followed close behind. She refused to glance back, however badly she was tempted.

***

It was after two in the morning when Arthur finally emerged from his room, and when he realized, he grumbled a curse under his breath. What happened to an hour? He rubbed the back of his neck and returned to the work room, where he found the casualties to be great: Charla and Nash were gone, and Ariadne was asleep at her desk, head pillowed on folded arms and a layer of papers. Only Yusuf was left awake, eating from a bowl of chili as he scratched notes in his books.

"You were supposed to wake me," Arthur said, stopping next to Yusuf's table.

"I didn't have the heart." Yusuf set down his spoon and pen so he could face Arthur with a serious look. "I'm sorry. You wouldn't be in so much pain if my compound had been clearer."

Arthur shook his head. "I'm fine now. As long as you've thought of a solution, that is."

"I have!" Yusuf quickly assured. He turned his notebook towards Arthur and began pointing out a series of complicated formulas and calculations. "By increasing the amount of Borocin to point eight milliliters per sample, and lowering the amount of--"

Arthur held up his hand. "Details are going to give me another migraine," he said. "I trust you."

"In that case." Yusuf gestured toward the crock pot. "There's still plenty left."

"Isn't it a little late for that?"

Yusuf picked his spoon back up and continued to eat. "It's keeping me awake," he confessed. "I want to finish this before going to bed, and it's going to take a while longer."

Arthur eyed the pot. I should stay up to make up for the time I've lost, he thought with a frown, and after some deliberation he spooned himself a bowl as well. The first taste made his tongue tingle, but once the warmth hit his stomach he found he felt better for it.

"I guess I should wake her up," he said, casting another glance at Ariadne as he took a seat next to Yusuf.

"You're not going to let her go home at this hour, are you?" Yusuf asked. "You might as well let her sleep, or just move her to the back room."

"You're right." Arthur continued to eat, appreciating the bold and spicy flavor more and more with each bite, even if it his palette wasn't used to it. "I hope she and Nash worked well enough together...?"

"Yes, very well." Yusuf replaced his glasses and went back to scribbling in his book. "They've come up with an intriguing layout for the first level that I think you'll appreciate. But Ariadne is still a little nervous about holding down the fort by herself."

He nodded thoughtfully, and looked to her again. She was still fast asleep, a small lock of hair tucked daintily in the corner of her mouth. "I'll work with her on it," he said distractedly.

Yusuf glanced at him. After a few moments of silence he asked, "Something on your mind?"

"I was thinking about something Saito told me," Arthur said. "About inception."

"Oh?"

"He said we do it every day," he recalled. "We 'plant seeds in each other's minds,' without even meaning to."

Yusuf leaned back in his chair and gave Arthur his full attention. "And do you believe that?"

"I didn't at first. But now...I wonder." Arthur watched the calmly sleeping Ariadne as he spoke, his voice distant. "Haven't you ever said the wrong thing to someone and ruined a relationship?"

"Oh yes," Yusuf said, smiling dryly. "That, I have done."

"Sometimes, all it takes is a few words to change everything," Arthur went on. "I could tell her the truth, or even a lie, and either way I couldn't take it back. Especially if I told her the truth. She'd never look at me the same way." His eyes narrowed. "She might even think back on everything we've done together, reevaluating her memories with new bias. I could change her entire life, everything she thinks and does from now on--everything she thought she knew."

He turned to Yusuf. "If just a few words can change a person that much, isn't that just like inception?"

Yusuf regarded him with raised eyebrows. "Not hardly. There's nothing illegal about telling a pretty girl you want to sleep with her."

Arthur gave him a look, and Yusuf leaned back. "Assuming, of course, that you're well acquainted," he added. "Hopefully with some confidence in her answer, which in this case..."

Arthur sighed and pushed to his feet. "Finish your chili, Yusuf. When you're done I want to go under again."

"I would have said 'love,'" Yusuf teased after him, "but I didn't want to be too presumptuous."

Arthur glared at him again, and then leaned over Ariadne. He gave her shoulder a gentle shake and breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't stir. Fast asleep. Thank God. "Come on, Ariadne," he murmured, easing her away from the table. "Let's find you a proper bed."

Ariadne grumbled something in her sleep, and started to wake as Arthur drew her gently into his arms. "Shh," he hushed. "You're still dreaming." She relaxed, and he carried her across the room towards the bedroom--sure to pass Yusuf another sharp look on the way, who only smirked and went back to his meal.

Presumptuous, Arthur thought as he nudged the door open with his toe and stepped inside. Indeed. He carried Ariadne to the bed and set her carefully down, drawing a blanket over her. He can joke but I'm sure he understands what I mean. Just by being involved with us, she's not the same person she was. And if she stays with us...

Arthur watched her a moment, remembering the gentle pressure of her lips on his, her hand on his chest as she leaned over him. She was beautiful, and brilliant, and he knew she was tempted. And I probably shouldn't let her anywhere near my subconscious for a while, he thought with half a smile. If she hasn't seen through me already.

Arthur tucked her in, and just as he turned to leave, his phone rang from the bedside table. He snatched it up and answered quickly without looking to see who it was. "Yes?"

"It's me," the voice on the other end whispered. "Can you talk?"

Arthur frowned, and it took him a moment to identify the caller. "Eames? Why are you whispering?"

"Why are you whispering?"

He stopped himself before he could give Eames unnecessary information. "Never mind that." He glanced to Ariadne, who had rolled onto her side but was still asleep, and moved toward the door. "What do you want?"

"When you looked into Fisher's history, did you check Browning's accounts too?"

Arthur stopped short. "What?"

"You didn't find any evidence in Fischer's history that suggested he'd been trained," Eames continued. "But I'm wondering now if Browning, or even Fischer Sr., arranged for it without Fischer knowing. Did you investigate either of them?"

Arthur peeked through the door to where Yusuf was still working, and then back at the slumbering Ariadne, and decided to stay put. "You know I did," he said. "I didn't find anything there either."

Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Email me the account numbers, and I'll take a look myself. There might be a courtesy number in there you're not familiar with."

"Why?" He stared fixedly at the floor, determined not to say anything he didn't want to. "What difference does it make now?"

"I have to know if he really was trained or not." There was eagerness in Eames's tone that Arthur hadn't heard in a long time. "He says he never was, but if that's the case, his abilities are far beyond that of a normal person after a single exposure to dreamshare. It may even be that he has received some extra experience since the inception, as his security is far more advanced now than it--"

"Wait, wait," Arthur interrupted. "What do you mean he 'says'?"

"Well..." Eames stalled--never a good sign. "I asked him."

"You asked him? What the hell is the matter with you?" When he remembered where he was he turned toward the corner. "Damn it, Eames, tell me you're not whispering because you're hiding in the man's closet or something."

"Spare bedroom," Eames replied. "But listen, you wouldn't believe what I saw in him tonight. Not only was he much more lucid than he was during the inception, he retained several key elements. He reconstructed my level three fortress. Not with perfect accuracy, of course, but the fact that his subconscious mind remembers it at all is--I don't have to tell you--extraordinary. Even your star pupil Ariadne didn't pick it up that quickly, I'll warrant."

Arthur rubbed his eyes. There isn't enough chili in the world for this headache. "You've been back in his mind?" he asked, with a degree of control he was surprised he had. "You do realize that you're putting all of us at risk by being anywhere near Fischer, don't you? What are you thinking?"

Eames was quiet another moment, and when he continued his excitement had subdued. "Yes, I know--I got that lecture from Cobb already. But this man is in trouble, Arthur. And don't tell me 'that was the plan' because I've heard that verse, too."

He leaned against the wall. "Go on."

"The inception has fully infected him," Eames obliged, "with obvious signs as shallow as his first level of dreaming. Browning has done an excellent job of hiding it from the press but the effects are showing in his daily behavior as well. It's going to escalate, I'm sure of it." He hesitated, and added, "Browning is calling in Dr. Banks to look at him."

Arthur tensed at the name. "And that worries you."

"Come on, Arthur, I know you're the 'teacher's pet' but doesn't that worry you?"

"Why would it? If he's as damaged as you say, only Dr. Banks is qualified to treat him."

"No," Eames said immediately. "I don't trust her."

One more obstacle, Arthur thought with a sigh. How are we going to get to Fischer with Eames babysitting him? "Tell me one more time why you care what happens to Fischer anyway."

"Why do you care that I care?" Eames retorted. "I'm not trying to get you involved, I just want the account numbers."

"I'm not handing you another man's identity just so you can indulge your once-in-a-blue-moon white knight complex."

"This isn't like Dubai," Eames insisted. "I just want to know for sure if there have been erxtractors in Fischer's mind before, since you buggered it up the first time."

Arthur clenched his jaw. I did not screw up. "Then find your own numbers, because I'm not giving you anything. That's not how I do business."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Arthur felt nerves creep up on him in the silence that followed. This job just keeps getting worse, he thought miserably. If Eames is right and the inception is that apparent, Charla will notice as soon as we're under. If we can even get under.

"What are you hiding from me?" Eames asked abruptly.

Damn it, Eames. "What do you mean?"

Eames's voice lowered coldly. "You're a damn fine liar, Arthur. But you know I'm better."

"Having professional integrity doesn't make me a liar," he said defensively.

"You trained Robert Fischer."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. Though his mind reeled he did his best to keep his voice even. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You knew he was trained, and you didn't warn us?" He scoffed. "You and Cobb deserve each other after all."

"You're jumping to conclusions--"

"I am going to get into those accounts," Eames continued, "and I'm going to find you there, aren't I? I have ways of my own and you know I can spot your footprints anywhere."

Arthur paled a little when he realized...Eames was right. They knew each other's tells and once Eames had access there was nothing to prevent him from finding what he wanted to find. When he followed the thought to its logical end, his chest tightened. "Eames."

"What?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Please don't tell Cobb."

Eames snorted. "I should have known I couldn't trust you."

"Eames--" But Eames hung up.

"Shit," Arthur hissed. He hung up, and stared down at his phone for several long moments as if expecting it to ring again. When it didn't, he sighed and sank onto the edge of the bed. Eames didn't bother him--Fischer didn't bother him--but the thought of Cobb sitting down to dinner with his children and receiving an unexpected phone call made him sick to his stomach. He set the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands, trying to just be still and think, to make everything fit in his brain as was supposed to be his specialty.

The mattress shifted, and though he was embarrassed to remember he was not alone, nothing could have been more comforting than the warm body that leaned into his back.

"You okay?" Ariadne asked quietly.

"Yeah." Arthur glanced at her over his shoulder. "Sorry I woke you."

She shook her head. "What did Eames say?"

He looked away, but her hand on his back was more than enough encouragement. "He's been spying on Fischer," he explained. "From the sound of it he's even been in his mind recently, and he's worried about what he found. It's possible that the inception didn't just change his mind, it's...degrading it." He swallowed hard. "Like it did Mal."

Ariadne fidgeted. "So...Cobb told you after all."

Unease crept back into his stomach. "No, I figured it out on my own. Sounds like he told you, though."

"Arthur..."

"No, it's all right. With Cobb and me, it's...complicated." Arthur scraped the back of his hand over his mouth and continued. "Anyway, if Fischer doesn't get help before the symptoms become severe, it will already be too late. Better that he go to Dr. Banks now, even if it means exposing the inception to her. Like I told Eames, she's the only one that knows enough about dreamshare to help him."

"So." Ariadne took in a deep breath. "We're going through with it."

"Yes." He leaned into her, and she welcomed him. "Which means...it's time I told you everything."

Chapter Text

"You remember all this, don't you?"

Robert opened his eyes. A man was lying in front of him, white and red and cold beneath his bare hands. The hiss of wet breath was familiar and terrifying, and the ring of ragged flesh stomach-churning. When he tasted copper on his lips he was convinced it had come from the bloody maw before him.

"What?"

Icy fingers curled against his wrist, burning delicate skin and sinking into bone. The floor rocked beneath them.

"This room. This fortress...me. You remember everything."

"No, I..."

Robert swallowed hard. He remembered a dry smile in the rain. He remembered long fingers skating across his lapels. He remembered sheets of ice falling down his back, and metal clanging beneath his boots, but none of those things remained in his mind long enough to form something as concrete as a memory.

"I don't know..."

The man was dying. A dark stain was slithering up and down his body, stretching towards Robert, weighing on them both. He didn't want to watch the man die. He couldn't bear to see his chest cease rising, hear the last gasp of his spent life. Couldn't watch his eyes roll back and skin turn white.

Robert pulled the trigger. Two shots hit him in the chest, throwing him down, and then it was his turn to die on his back with a man leaning over him. Cold hands fumbled his shirt up, stinging the skin beneath and pressing lightning into his blood. He jerked, and a voice spoke close to his ear.

"Am I boring you?"

Robert glanced to his left. The man was still with him, elbow on the hotel bar, chin in palm. His smile had been used a few too many times and had worn out.

"I was telling you my story. I guess it wasn't to your liking."

Robert stared back at him, relieved to find him alive, though not sure why. He smiled against the lip of his glass.

"What is your story?"

His story was a room full of empty faces. Robert moved down the line of them, poking at their cheeks and foreheads. They stared back at him, unblinking, until one by one they stretched away from the wall, dragging long black veils with them. In a herd they drifted out the chamber door and into a long, musty hallway, like pilgrim ghosts. He followed them, every step a little shorter, every breath a little younger. His suit sagged on his shoulders until it felt as long and heavy as the veils covering his peers. By the time he had reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall he was half the size of the rest, enduring their fleeting caresses to his face and throat.

Through the door was his father's office. The desk towered over him like a monolith, and behind it Maurice Fischer himself hunched, carved from stone. He regarded his son with old, unseeing eyes.

Robert pressed his hands to the desk. He was crying, and lonely, and he missed her so much. And his father could say nothing.

He awoke in the master bedroom of his tower suite, tangled in his sheets again. Before doing anything else he pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and looked to the corner. A silver briefcase lay on the floor near the wall, but there was no one seated next to it.

So it wasn't all a dream. Robert drew his fingertips over the cool silver. Eames. His name is Eames.

Robert climbed out of bed and hurried into the main room of the suite. His heart skipped when he didn't see his security at the sofa as he'd ordered, and he all but leapt at the door to the second bedroom and threw it open.

Erhard, Marcus, and Eames were seated around what was supposed to have been a bedside table, set in the center of the room. All three looked up, and his two bodyguards winced guiltily, trying to hide their hands full of playing cards. Had there been money visible as well Robert would have fired them both on the spot, but they appeared to be betting with folded paper footballs.

"Good morning, Mr. Fischer," Eames greeted with a sheepish smile. He was still dressed in his suit from the night before, though his tie was loose and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone.

"Good morning." Robert rubbed his eyes. "Erhard?"

He jerked upright. "Sir?"

"Order breakfast. I don't care what it is as long as there's coffee. After that you're both excused for the day--I won't need you until our dinner appointment."

"Yes, Sir." Robert started to leave, but Erhard cleared his throat to keep him from getting too far. "Excuse me, Sir, but...breakfast for how many?"

Robert resisted the temptation to glance at Eames. "For two. If you eat at the restaurant downstairs feel free to charge it to my room."

"Thank you, Mr. Fischer."

Robert left them, grabbing up his cell phone on the way to the bathroom. His assistant picked up just after the first ring. "Shelby, please cancel all my appointments for today," he told her. "Tell Peter I'm taking his advice and I plan on spending the day resting in my room."

"Right away. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Not at the moment. Just...relax today. For once."

He could almost see her tight-lipped smile. "Right away, Mr. Fischer."

They hung up, and Robert locked himself into the bathroom. He started the water in the bathtub, but before he could get further he looked again to his phone, and was reminded of his conversation with Eames hours earlier. There is one way to know if his story's true. After a great deal of deliberation he looked up a number and dialed quickly before he could change his mind.

"Proclus Global," a woman answered

"Yes, hello." What time is it in Japan? The afternoon? Robert rubbed his face. "This is Robert Fischer, of Fischer Morrow. I know this is a bit unusual but I need to speak to Mr. Saito immediately."

She took a moment to reply. "Excuse me, but is he expecting your call, Sir?"

"No, but it's urgent."

Another brief pause. "I'm very sorry, but Mr. Saito is not available at this time," she said. "If I could get your--"

"Put him on the phone, now," Robert interrupted tersely, "or I'm going to buy Proclus Global and sell it to the Chinese."

"...One moment, Sir."

Robert paced back and forth, and finally settled on the edge of the tub just in time to shut off the water. "Answer the damn phone," he grumbled.

"How can I help you, Mr. Fischer?"

Finally. He closed his eyes, telling himself that he was talking business, as he always did. "Mr. Saito. Did you hire a man named Eames to spy on me?"

Saito hesitated as infuriatingly as his secretary. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not going to the authorities," Robert continued. "I don't care that you got your pipeline. I don't care about any of that, so just tell me the truth: did you hire a man named Eames to spy on me and my company?"

"Tell me where you heard such a rumor, and I will answer your question," Saito replied carefully.

His toes curled against the cold tile. "It doesn't matter where I heard it, I just need to know."

"If this 'Mr. Eames' is there with you, I'd like to speak to him."

"No--you're speaking to me," Robert snapped. "Now answer the god damned question!"

Saito made a quiet, uncomfortable sound at the back of his throat. "Yes. I did."

Robert let his breath out in a rush. He was telling the truth about that at least. "And is he still working for you?"

Saito's answer came much more quickly. "No. I don't know what he might have told you, but Mr. Eames has not been under my employ for several weeks. Nor is he likely to be again."

"I see." Though Robert should have been infuriated, he had suffered worse from his rivals in the past, and he could not work up the indignation. He was much more interested in the reassurance he'd received: that at least part of Eames's story checked out. "If I ever find out that you've been interfering with my company again, I will run Proclus Global into the ground. Do you understand?"

"Very well," Saito said coolly. "Will that be all?"

"Yes. Good day, Mr. Saito."

Robert hung up, stripped, and sank into the steaming bathtub. The heat was blissful, and it was not until he was submerged up to his shoulders that he realized he had been clinging to the winter cold from his dream. He rubbed his chest, trying to erase the icy fingers. Eames. He said something is wrong with me. The thought made him shiver, and he drew the bath water over his face, trying to make it relax him. But you can't decide that from seeing one nightmare, can you? I've had dreams like that my entire life. He doesn't know anything about me.

Robert rose out of the tub only long enough to retrieve the soap, but rather than use it he kneaded it between his fingers and watched it dissipate across the water's surface. There was something ominous about how easily bits of soap sloughed off and soon became transparent.

Maybe there is something wrong with me, he thought, letting the bar sink to the bottom. When was the last time I felt like myself? He scoffed. Years, if ever. Maybe he knows something. He glanced to the door. Maybe...I can trust him.

Robert finished in the bathroom, and wrapped himself in a robe before exiting it. By then Erhard and Marcus had left, and Eames was plugging a cell phone charger into the wall. He glanced up. "Do you mind?"

"Planning on making a call?" Robert asked on his way to the bedroom.

"Not particularly." Eames turned his back discreetly and sat down at the table. "But that's not all phones do these days, is it?"

"I suppose not." Robert rifled through his wardrobe for a suit, and was halfway in it when he changed his mind and dressed in a gray one instead. "So what are you planning on doing with it?"

"I have a few tricks on it that I thought might help us."

Robert stopped in the middle of knotting his tie. "Help us," he repeated. He abandoned the tie on the bed and padded on bare feet up behind Eames's chair. "You said that before. What makes you think I need your help?"

Eames tipped his head back slightly, but he did not turn or try to see him. "If you don't want me here, I'll leave."

"No," Robert said quickly. There was a knock at the door, and he moved swiftly to answer. "No--you're not leaving until I say so, I mean that."

He opened the door, and stood back as a pair of bellboys wheeled in their breakfast. They smiled politely as they set the table and poured his coffee, but he had little patience for their niceties, and was quick to hand off tips and send them on their way. "Help yourself," he told Eames as he sat down across from him.

Eames hesitated. "As if I haven't taken advantage of your generosity enough?"

"It's just breakfast." He sipped his coffee, more eager for the caffeine than his stomach was. "And it's here so you might as well eat it."

"Well in that case..."

Eames pulled a napkin into his lap and began to eat, as voraciously as he could manage while still observing his manners. Robert shook his head, and was surprised when his stomach lurched as if in envy. It wasn't until he followed suit and swallowed a mouthful of fresh bread that he realized he was starving. He began to eat almost as eagerly as his guest, for the first time in what felt like weeks actually tasting his expensive breakfast.

"It's been a long time since I ate breakfast with someone," he recalled. "And the first time I've shared it with an agent of dream espionage."

Eames smirked as he gulped down a bite of sausage. "So you confirmed my story with Mr. Saito?"

Robert frowned. "You overheard me?"

"No. But I assumed you would." He poured a generous amount of creamer into his coffee. "I'm thinking I'd better not go to Japan for a while."

"He didn't sound happy with you. But I wouldn't be either, if I hired you only to find out you were giving sympathy to my enemy." Robert watched Eames closely. "If that's what you would call this."

Eames continued to eat, but he kept his full attention on his host. "I'm not sure what to call it myself," he admitted. "It's very unprofessional for a con like me to take a personal interest in a subject."

Personal interest. Robert shifted uncomfortably. "Are you saying I should be 'flattered' by your mind-invading?"

"All right--that may have been uncalled for," Eames said. "But my intentions were mostly good, and what I learned is important."

"Mostly good." Might as well get down to business. Robert sipped his coffee. "You mean, the fact that I've had subconscious training I didn't know about?" he asked. "Are you really certain about that?"

"Yes." Eames shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "I've been doing this for years," he said, sounding excited, "and I've never seen an untrained subject respond to a subconscious threat as quickly and with as much lucidity as you did last night. How did you know about Mr. Charles?"

"You mean, the man that shot you?" The memory raised the small hairs on the back of his neck, and when Robert tried to answer he quickly realized that he couldn't. "I don't know. The moment I saw him I knew who he was. Did you..." He narrowed his eyes at Eames. "Did you put him there?"

Eames shook his head. "No, but I think I know who did." He took another few quick bites of food. "I know some of the best extractors in the business, and I have a pretty strong hunch that one of them was the one that trained you. But in order to know for sure...I'd have to get a peek at your father's and Peter Browning's bank accounts."

At first Robert's heart sank in bitter disappointment, but when he took another look at Eames's focused eyes, he caught on. "You want to know if they paid money to an extractor without telling me? But how would you be able to tell?"

"Courtesy numbers," he explained. "As in, professional courtesy. You see, extractors like dream business because it's relatively tidy--it's easier for us to do what we do when the only casualties are in the brain. But when a subject has been trained, and an extractor goes in without knowing that, chances are good that everyone wakes up ahead of schedule and that's when things go wrong."

"So you warn each other." Robert surrendered a dull laugh. "You charge money to train people like me against extraction, and then render it useless by letting all your friends know that you've done it."

"No no, you still get your money's worth. It's just a heads up so that the extractors know what they're up against, to keep people from being hurt." A shadow passed over his face but Robert didn't bother questioning. "Anyway, we do this by charging specific amounts for our services, so that when someone does a background check on their subject, it gets flagged as a 'courtesy number.' Not every extractor does it, but the one I have in mind does, and I know exactly what to look for."

Robert sighed, and only his eager stomach kept him eating. "Even if I trusted you enough to just hand over account numbers, my father's money is still wrapped up in red tape miles long, you must know that. I can't search through millions of transactions for this friend of yours."

Eames wiped his mouth with his napkin and twisted around to retrieve his phone. "You said your father suggested training to you at one point. If you can remember when that was, we can narrow the search."

Something cold slithered through his gut and removed the rest of his appetite. He pushed his plate away. "I remember when it was."

Eames tapped on the screen of his phone a few times and then handed it to Robert. "Here--the numbers you're looking for. If your father sent a payment of one of those sizes around the time he mentioned it to you, chances are good you've had some of the best training money can buy."

Robert accepted the phone and glanced over the numbers. Would Father have done this? He fidgeted in his chair again, and at long last picked up his own phone. It was almost three years ago when he brought it up. I don't even remember what started it, except that it was a fight. Everything was a fight back then. He called Shelby, apologized for going back on his word, and relayed Eames's request, numbers, and the dates to her. "It will take a while," he told Eames after hanging up. "She's going to call back."

"Good." Eames finished his breakfast and faced Robert seriously. "Thank you, for trusting me enough to go through with this. I know it's not easy for you."

"I just want to know the truth," Robert said, pushing their plates onto the cart. "And seeing as you're the only one offering any, I might as well hear you out. You’ve been right about a few things, after all."

"You mean, about your dreams affecting you," Eames prodded. "Ever since your father's death."

"Yes." Robert took in a deep breath. "I can't say I've ever been a restful sleeper anyway, but the dreams, it's as if they've become..." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "More vivid. I used to not remember much when I woke up, but now I do. Unfortunately."

"Are they all the same?"

"No, not entirely. But I'm usually running...away from something, or chasing something." He shrugged. "Typical for most people, right?"

"Fairly. If the dreams aren't recurring we might as well start with last night's." Eames leaned forward against the table. "What can you tell me about the pinwheels?"

Robert frowned. "Pinwheels?"

"They were all over your dream," Eames said, watching him as if waiting for something to happen. "Did you not see them?"

I was watching you. He glanced away uncomfortably. "No. I didn't notice anything like that."

Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Do you know where they might have come from?"

Robert did not need long to consider, but it did take time for him to decide to share his conclusion. He opened his wallet and pulled out a folded photograph. "This, maybe," he said, passing it to him.

Eames accepted and looked it over. There was no surprise in his face, only a distant, almost weary nostalgia that reminded Robert of when he had shared the story about his own father the night before. "Is this an important memory for you?" he asked.

"Yes. Well, sort of." Robert took it back, staring pensively at the image of his father in his younger years. "I don't remember the day all that well. But my mother used to keep this photograph with her, so now...I do."

Eames was quiet a moment--how he knew that it was needed, Robert did not know, but he was grateful. It wasn't until Robert slipped the photograph back into his wallet that he continued. "Do your dreams often take from your memory?" he asked. "Such as recreating specific events?"

"I'm not sure. Yes, I suppose." Robert shook his head abruptly. "This is strange," he declared.

"Not everyone is prepared to take dream talk seriously," Eames admitted.

"It's not that, it's..." He hesitated to continue, feeling more embarrassed and out of place by the moment. "I'm not used to talking about myself."

"Ahh." Eames smiled sympathetically. "It's hard to find people that really care in your world, eh?"

Robert shook his finger at him. "No--don’t do that."

"Hm?"

"Don't try to goad me into any 'poor me, rich boy' nonsense," he said, pushing to his feet. "Because that's not what I meant and that's not who I am."

Eames leaned back and watched him. "That's not what I meant, either."

"Because it's not even about that," Robert continued. He suddenly began to pace in restless agitation. "I don't need anyone's sympathy. I've never asked for that, and especially not from strangers."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I'm not!" He fingered the front of his jacket. "I don't owe you that, either," he muttered. Something trembled in his chest and he wasn't sure why--when he looked to Eames and found him still watching so intently it made him nervous. "I'm just saying, I'm not used to talking about myself. What is there to say anyway? You're the one that's done all manner of research on me, right? And what good has it done? It hasn't, because you still had to break into my mind and you still don't know what's wrong with me, do you?"

Eames frowned at him. "You admit something's wrong."

"No, I'm...I'm not saying that," Robert stammered, running his hand through his hair. But I am. I'm rambling. His gaze darted to where the mirror had once been, now replaced with a painting of a rustic village landscape. There was a smear in the corner that reminded him of himself. "I'm saying...I'm not this person you seem to think I am. I'm not just some rich asshole with a dead family, I'm not..." He yanked at his jacket. "I'm not this goddamn suit!"

He fumbled with his suit buttons. This is when Peter grabs me by the arm, he thought as he tossed the jacket aside, not caring where it landed. And tells me to calm down, because I'm not acting like myself. I'm not who I'm supposed to...

He looked to his guest again. Eames had not moved from his chair and was still watching him, focused and serious without the gleam of pity he had grown used to seeing from others. He waited, breathless and a little frightened, for words of admonishment or a raised eyebrow. Eames offered neither, only silent patience. Gradually Robert's breath softened, and he wiped cold sweat from his forehead.

"What's happening to me?" he asked quietly.

Eames stood, and gently guided him to sit back down. "You're fine," he assured, squeezing his shoulder. "I understand what you're saying. You just want someone to listen."

Robert relaxed in his chair with a long sigh. "Maybe," he mumbled, feeling the truth in Eames's words sink into him. "It used to be Peter. When no one else cared, Uncle Peter was always there as an ear, but now..." He leaned back to better feel the hand at his shoulder. "Everything's changed. It started when Father got sick, and now that's he's gone, every time Peter looks at me it's with this face that says he's..."

The word halted in his throat, but Eames provided it for him: "Disappointed."

"...Yes." Robert lowered his head. "Just like my father."

Eames gave him another squeeze, and he sighed again, embarrassed by how comforting just that gentle gesture was. "You're right," he surrendered. "Everything feels so wrong now, but no one wants to hear it."

"I'm listening." Eames gave him a pat, and to Robert's disappointment, stepped away. "I know what it's like when you're struggling with something, and you don't feel as if anyone understands, because you don't understand it yourself. I didn't want you to feel that way."

Robert turned, watching him move to the bedroom and retrieve his PASIV case. The way Eames looked at the device as he righted himself gave him away. "Are you talking about your dreams?" Robert asked.

Eames smiled dryly. "Actually, yes. It took me a long time to learn my craft, and last night you saw right through me." He placed the PASIV on the bed and after checking over its contents, he closed it up. "It was very unnerving."

"Well." Robert folded his arms, unnerved himself. "I'm not apologizing."

His phone rang, bleating out a simple melody that he'd assigned to Shelby's number. His heart skipped and he quickly put it on speaker. "Yes?"

"Mr. Fischer? I think I've found what you're looking for," she said crisply. "It took a few phone calls, but there was a payment of $81,939.02 American sent from your father's personal account on the date of August 14th in the year you specified."

Eames stepped down from the bedroom. "Were there any notes? Any indication of what it was for?" he asked.

"Er, no, Sir. There's no record that I was able to find. Will that be all, Mr. Fischer?"

"Yes," Robert said distractedly. "Thank you, Shelby. You can take the rest of the day off now."

"Thank you, Mr. Fischer."

Robert hung up, and his heart sank all over again. "So it's true."

"Yes, I'm sure of it now." Eames snorted incredulously. "That sly bastard. That's the last time I trust him with my back, that's for certain."

Father hired someone to go into my brain. Robert stared straight ahead. A sudden pain throbbed between his temples, and he grimaced. Behind my back. He knew I didn't want that and he did it without telling me. He didn't trust me.

"Robert?" Eames was beside him before he was aware he'd moved. "Are you all right?"

His phone blurred into a black smudge in front of him, like a little tree in a village portrait. He shook his head. "I'm fine," he muttered. "A little dizzy..."

Warm fingers touched his face, startling him into lifting his head. His vision smeared and though he could tell it was Eames standing over him, he could not make him out entirely. "Like at the airport?" Eames asked urgently.

"What...?" Robert urged Eames's hand away and rubbed his eyes. "I'm just tired. It's so much to take in--I didn't sleep well--"

He stood up, thinking that he would move to the balcony and get a breath of fresh air, but with the first step his knees wobbled beneath him. Eames caught him just as he started to fall. "It is like before," Eames murmured, shifting as if deliberating. Before Robert could begin to get his footing again, an arm hooked around his stomach, and he found himself being hoisted up onto Eames's shoulder.

"Hey!" Robert struggled, but he was still dizzy, and when Eames turned suddenly he could not help but cling to his shoulders and back. "What the hell are you doing?" A few steps later they were in the bedroom, and he yelped ungracefully as he was heaved onto the king sized mattress. "Eames--"

"There's something going on in your mind right now," Eames said, opening the PASIV back up. "And I want to know what it is."

"What do you mean?" Robert started to sit up, but the room spun, and his temples pounded until he relaxed on his back again. "What is going on?"

Eames crawled onto the bed and slid one of the needles into his arm. "I've seen you make that face a few times now," he explained. "And I don't think it's just stress. I think it's some kind of symptom of your subconscious mind."

Is this really happening? Robert unbuttoned his cuff--he was caught up in Eames's urgency, and when he looked up, he saw honest concern mixed with the excitement in Eames's face. Has anyone ever looked at me like that? He offered up his arm, and warm fingers trailed down the inside of his wrist. His pulse stammered beneath them. This is important to him. He swallowed hard. "What should I do?"

"Just relax," Eames said. "Clear your mind, and let it go wherever it takes you." He taped the needle down and faced Robert with a reassuring smile. "Don't make that face--you're fine. I'll be nearby."

"Okay." Robert took in a deep breath and let it out. "I'm ready."

Eames nudged the PASIV between them and stretched out on his back. "Here we go," he whispered, and the device made a quiet hiss.

"What do you know about extraction?"

Robert glanced up. His father was seated across the table from him, vigorously carving his lamb. If you need to work so hard to cut it, you should just send it back, he thought with an irritated frown. "Extracting what?"

"Thoughts. Secrets." Maurice took a bite and chewed for what seemed like full minutes. "Memories."

"You mean dreamshare?" Robert poked with ill interest at his oysters. Who orders lamb at a seafood restaurant? "What about it?"

"What do you know about it?"

"I know what it is. That's about it." He stared at the candle flames dancing on prim white tablecloths, stared at the ripple of the bay beyond the cold glass windows, stared at the harp-string figure of the Anzac bridge looming in the distance--anything to keep from looking at his father. If he looked at him for too long, if he stayed too invested in the conversation, it would end up being another fight. "So?"

"There are extractors now that offer to train people like us to defend against it."

He laughed bitterly. "That's ridiculous." When his father did not respond he had little choice but to make eye contact again, and the seriousness he was met with made his stomach churn. He plucked the spinning decoration out of his wine glass so he could take a long drink. "Don't tell me you're going to pay for a scam like that," he scoffed.

"I am." Maurice leaned back, but as he did a shimmer lingered where he had once been, like an afterimage of streaking car lights. "And so are you."

Robert tensed defensively. "No I'm not."

"It's just another level of security," Maurice continued. "You and I both have sensitive information regarding the company, and--"

"And that's what bodyguards are for," Robert interrupted. "I am not paying someone to mess with my brain. It's ludicrous."

Maurice shook his head. "That's what I thought too, when Peter first mentioned it to me. But now I wonder." He wiped his mouth with his napkin, and when he continued, his voice crackled before settling into a tone of concern. "You and I are valuable men, Robert. We have enemies. And we--"

"They're your enemies." Robert's hands clenched to fists against the table. He was sick of the old arguments, and the dull look that overtook his father's eyes when they had them. "It's your company, as you've had to remind me a few times just tonight."

"People are going to try to hurt you," Maurice insisted. "Not just because of me, but because of decisions you've made as well. You were the one that pushed to bankrupt Wisermen, weren't you?"

Robert rolled his eyes. "What would have been the point of settling? It was the right decision--even Uncle Peter agreed."

A shadow fell over Maurice's face. His eyes darted back and forth, and emotions conflicted in the twitches around his mouth. It did not occur to Robert to find it strange. "You spend more time with Peter these days," he said quietly.

"Peter doesn't invite me to dinner and then ambush me," Robert snapped. "I am not allowing some kind of mind hacker anywhere near me, I mean it." The thought alone felt like ice in his veins, stinging and ominous. "Just finish your dinner so we can go home." He gulped down the rest of his wine.

Maurice's shoulders trembled. "Don't speak to me that way."

"How should I speak to you?" Robert took his napkin out of his lap and tossed it on the table. "Should I call you 'Dad'? Should I just say 'yes' to your every asinine request? Sorry I'm not a good enough son for you."

"Stop it," Maurice hissed. "I'm only trying to protect you. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."

"You just said it was my own fault--which is it? No, never mind." Robert pushed away from the table. "I don't care which it is. I'm not listening to this anymore."

The patrons in the seats closest to them looked up. Robert was glad for their confused stares, triumphant, even, but his mood deflated when he saw the disappointment with which is father was watching him. "I'm leaving," he said, without the force he'd intended.

"Please just consider it," Maurice replied.

His response was calm, without innuendo or condescension, and though Robert sensed true sincerity the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "This isn't about me," he told his father coldly. "You're just afraid that I'm too weak to take care of myself, and that it'll cost the company, aren't you? You don't give a damn what happens to me."

"That isn't true."

"Yes it is!" Robert regretted each word as he spoke them, but they came out anyway. "You care more about the god damn company than your own family!"

Maurice pounded his fist on the table, rattling dishes and silencing the rest of the dining room. "I told you not to speak to me that way!"

Robert started, but as soon as he regained his composure he scowled and marched away from the table. He felt his lips move but no sound came out. With the curiosity of a roomful of Sydney elite on his back he did not stop until he reached the exit. Unable to prevent himself, he looked back.

Maurice stood next to the table. His face was a smear in the dull, candle-lit room, but Robert did not have to see him properly to know the pain etched into his expression. Everything he had said was true. His son was a fool not to see it.

Robert escaped from the restaurant and breathed in cool night air. Guilt strangled his chest and stung the back of his throat as he let the memories of that night overflow him. For long moments he stood on the curb, eyes pressed shut, forcing the ache between his temples to recede.

He wiped his mouth. "Eames...?"

A man stepped out of the evening crowd and moved to his side. "I'm here."

Robert didn't recognize the voice, but by the time he turned he found that it was indeed Eames standing next to him, dressed in the same suit he had been wearing while they were awake. "Did you see all that?" he asked.

"Yes, all of it." Eames watched him closely, but gave him another minute to catch his breath before speaking again. "That was one of your memories?"

"Yes..." Robert at last calmed, and he sighed. "I was such a fool," he murmured, voice rough with regret. "He really was trying to protect me. I saw it, I did, but I was just so...so angry, and selfish." He rubbed his weary eyes. "I wasn't ready to believe that he really cared about me. If only I'd...."

Eames remained quiet, but his hand strayed from his side. Robert took it, and when he squeezed he could have sworn it was more real than the people moving about them, than the dull glow of sunset beyond the bridge. It gave him the encouragement needed to go on. "He really did love me, you know," he said. "In his own way."

Eames's fingers twitched. "Robert. Tell me about when your mother died."

"What?" The change of subjects caught him off guard, as did the almost unblinking scrutiny of his comrade. "What do you mean?"

"You were eleven years old," Eames prompted. "You went to him in your grief. What did he say to you?"

Robert frowned. He remembered the feeling of the old oak desk beneath his hands. He remembered his father's dull, unseeing eyes. "He didn't say anything," he recalled. The memory spread more pangs of indescribable shame through him. "He was in so much pain then, but he was never good with emotion. He didn't know how to console himself, let alone me. I wish...I wish I had been older, so I could have better understood how much he needed me."

He sighed deeply in regret. "Not that it would make much difference. Look what I just did in there. No wonder he was so goddamned disappointed! He was trying to be a real father to me, and I..."

Eames's hand slid across his chest, and he jumped. When he looked down, he saw that it was to pluck the folded handkerchief out of his breast pocket--except that it wasn't just a fashionable triangle anymore. It had somehow folded itself into a pointed pinwheel.

Robert glanced between it and Eames's furrowed brow, not understanding the significance. "What's the matter?"

Eames held the object delicately as if afraid it might shatter. His fingers, still entwined with Robert's, grew clammy. "Your father loved you," he said quietly. "That's what this means."

"What?" Robert's heart skipped. "What do you mean?"

"It represents your innermost desire," Eames continued, still staring at the pinwheel as if in a trance. "Your subconscious is obsessed with it." He licked his lips. "You're desperate to believe that your father loved you, against all opposition. Even from your own memories."

All around them men and women turned to stare with cold and threatening eyes. "What are you talking about?" Robert demanded. He grew tense and his eyes narrowed. "My father did care about me. He just didn't--"

"That story you just told me--it's the third time I've heard it." Eames nodded to his hand, where the cloth pinwheel was turning slowly on his open palm. "And it's different every time. Last time, you told me he spoke to you."

Sweat formed on Robert's forehead. He tried to remember, but no matter how many times he recalled his father in the office, he heard nothing. "No he didn't."

"He told you, 'There's really nothing to be said.'"

Eames curled his fingers, and the sight of them distorting the carefully shaped fabric made Robert go pale. He grabbed Eames's wrist and pried his hand open. "I don't know what you're talking about--that's not what happened."

The projections began to crowd in closer, whispering to each other. Though Robert managed to pull the pinwheel from Eames's grasp it was already limp and misshapen, and he felt inexplicably sick. "Why are you lying to me?" he gasped out. "I know what I remember." He looked around them, and when he realized that the throngs were watching him panic simmered across his skin. "Wake me up."

"I can't," Eames said. "But there was barely any Somnacin left when we started. It should run out soon."

"Wake me up," Robert demanded again, and when Eames only shook his head, he grabbed the front of his suit angrily. "Why are they staring at me? You're the one doing this! You're the one that's lying!"

Eames sighed. "I don't know what happened in this restaurant, but it wasn't what we just saw. You're trying to make yourself believe something that isn't true."

"But I remember!" Robert trembled, and when he looked again to the hissing projections their faces grew cold and plastic. Their hair blackened and stretched, weaving into lace and satin veils. "Wake me up--I've had enough." He drew closer to Eames. "Please wake me up."

Eames took him by the shoulders. "It's all right--it's not you they're mad at."

A hand touched Robert's back, and he jumped, holding his breath. The wraiths pawed at him, their fingers leaving cold trails against his clothing and skin. "Yes it is," he whispered, trying to lean away from them by leaning into Eames. "It is me."

The world started to spin. Robert closed his eyes, concentrating on Eames's arms around him to block out the icy fingernails scratching at his back. He could feel the projections shifting and crowding all around, and when they tried to pull him away from Eames he resisted, his jaw clenching.

"It's wearing off," Eames assured him, his voice a low rumble in his ear. "Just stay still..."

Robert gasped sharply and opened his eyes. He was lying in bed once more, a soft mattress at his back rather than swaying ghosts. His throat stung when he swallowed, and his fingers ached, wrapped tightly around a broader, warmer hand.

He glanced to his right. Eames was there, staring at the ceiling in distant contemplation. They looked at each other, letting their breath even out until the dream had faded completely from all five senses. For short moments the room was silent as Robert tried to come to terms with the unsettling truth unleashed from his dreams.

I can't trust my memory. Robert leaned closer until their shoulders touched. Eames's acceptance was only a faint shift on the mattress, but it was more welcoming and more intimate than anything Robert had felt in a long time. I'm coming apart and the only one who cares is a stranger. He sighed, taking solace in the warmth of another body alongside his. Maybe it's fitting that way.

There was a knock on the door. Eames glanced to it and back to Robert. "I'll get it," he offered. He let go of Robert's hand so he could remove the PASIV needles from them both. "Relax."

Robert rubbed his arm as Eames climbed off the bed and moved away. He had not come close to deciding what to do next when the door opened, and a very familiar and very irate voice boomed through.

"You!" Browning shoved his way into the suite. "What the hell are you doing here?"

God damn it. Robert rolled to the edge of the mattress.

"Ahh, Mr. Browning," Eames greeted. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Did you not get it the first time, kid?" Browning sneered. "I told you..." He glanced away just in time to see Robert standing up from the bed, and his face turned red. "Jesus, Robert..."

Robert rubbed his eyes as he approached. "Peter, it's not what it looks like."

"Didn't I warn you about him?" Peter insisted angrily. He poked Eames hard in the chest. "This man is a con! There is no Fred Simmonds!"

"I know who he is," Robert said.

"When Shelby said you were taking the day off I didn't think it was for this." Browning turned on Eames again. "And you! I knew you had balls but you're a damn fool if you really think you can sleep your way into this company!"

Eames held his hands up. "You're right about one of those, at least."

Browning growled, and grabbed Eames by the front of his shirt. "You son of a--"

"Peter!" Robert quickly stepped between them and pushed Browning back. "Stop it," he said firmly. "I know what I'm doing."

Browning stepped back, flushed and scowling. "So do I." He turned to march from the room. "I'm calling security."

"Wait, Peter--" Robert tried to grab for him but he was already in the hall and moving swiftly. He turned to Eames. "You'd better--"

"On my way," Eames chirped as he retreated to the bedroom and started gathering his things. "That was an unfortunate misunderstanding, now wasn't it?"

Robert rubbed his face. "To be fair, the last time he caught me, he wasn't wrong," he grumbled.

Eames glanced to Robert with raised eyebrows. Smirking, he closed the PASIV into his larger briefcase. "That wasn't in the research."

Robert picked up Eames's discarded jacket, and they met each other at the open door. "Eames..." He shifted anxiously as he watched Eames finish dressing. "We're leaving Munich tomorrow," he said carefully, "to spend a week in New York. After that we're going to back Los Angeles. Will you meet me there?"

He straightened. "I can manage, if that's what you want."

"It is." Robert stepped forward, and pressed his hand to Eames's chest, stilling him. "I'll still need your help if I'm going to figure out what's going on in my mind. And after what I saw in your mind last night..." He met Eames's eyes seriously. "I think you might need my help, too."

Eames smiled, though there was uncertainty hidden behind his easy expression that betrayed him. "Then I'll see you in Los Angeles." He covered Robert's hand, giving it a light squeeze that seeped unexpected warmth into his skin. "Take care of yourself until then," he said. "And don't let Browning take you to Dr. Banks."

"I'll watch my back," Robert replied. "I've been doing it this long." He swallowed hard and retrieved his hand. "You'd better not back out on me, Eames."

"I won't." Eames thumped him on the shoulder and headed out. "Wouldn't want Browning to think he had me beat."

He hurried down the hall and ducked into the stairwell just as the elevator jingled its arrival. Erhard and Marcus stepped out, goaded on by a still red-faced Browning. With a sigh Robert retreated into the room, taking what little time he had to prepare for another onslaught of accusations.

Peter doesn't understand. Eames might not either, but he's the closest I have. He poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down just as Browning entered. And he'll be back. He has to come back.

Chapter Text

Ariadne peered through the glass at the evening Los Angeles scenery flashing by. "I didn't think I'd be back here so soon," she said thoughtfully. She snorted. "And I'll be back to Paris in time for my exam."

Seated next to her in the taxi, Arthur smiled. "Will you need me to help you cram?" he offered.

"I feel like I've been cramming all week." She gave her eyes a brief rub. "My brain's so full of information it's going to pop sooner or later. I can't believe it's already here."

"You'll be fine. I know you're ready."

His fingertips brushed the back of her palm, and she glanced to him, smiling in appreciation of his compliment. It's only been a week, but we've spent five times that in training, thanks to Yusuf's compounds, she thought. And after tomorrow...it could be over again. She turned her hand, giving Arthur's a squeeze before he could get away. "I know," she said. "You're a good teacher."

The taxi dropped them off at their hotel, and after they checked in they moved to their room on the seventh floor. By then Ariadne was starving but feeling clean after the long flight took precedence, and Arthur agreed to wait while she showered.

Two full levels, each the size of a city. When she closed her eyes against the shower spray she could see them, and her lips moved as she recited the details to herself. Five points, one at the center. Fifteen connecting tunnels. Thirty-two floors in the tower. She took in a deep breath and reached for the shampoo. She was confident in her ability to recreate her dream to perfection, and trusted Nash to do the same, but knowing what was at stake still made her nervous. Even more intimidating was the threat of Robert's projections.

Ariadne held her hands up in front of her, going through the motions Arthur had taught her: loading her handgun, bracing herself to parry a punch, programming their escape vehicle. She had done each so many times during her training that they felt engrained on her subconscious, yet she still wasn't sure she was ready, as often as Arthur assured her.

Arthur. She shook herself and went about actually washing. I hope he's ready for this, too.

Once finished, she poked through her bag and smiled to herself as she pulled out her new outfit: a cool gray suit coat and matching skirt, a white blouse, and a delicate blue scarf. She had picked it out just before leaving Paris, making it the most expensive outfit she had ever owned. Maybe it's not appropriate if we're just going to get dinner and go to bed, but...I ought to get his opinion before tomorrow, right? Ariadne smiled to herself and got dressed.

She exited the bathroom and found Arthur sitting at the desk, frowning intensely at his laptop screen. When she had stood patiently waiting for him to notice her for too long, she frowned, and moved closer. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, yet." Arthur didn't look up, clicking around his screen. "But I just learned that Saito is in the country."

"Saito?" Ariadne stopped behind him and put a hand on his chair. "That's not totally unusual, is it? I'm sure he owns an American airline or two."

"Yes, but I have a bad feeling about this. I don't think he was scheduled to be in Los Angeles this week."

Ariadne shifted her weight to her other foot. "But there's no way he could know about the job, right? If only the five of us and Mr. Browning know."

"You're right." He glanced back at her. "I'm probably worrying over nothing, but..."

He paused and looked at her again, finally noticing her attire. His eyes widened and he pushed his chair back so he could get a better view. Ariadne smiled, watching him take in the sophisticated cut of her suit, and especially the way the jacket was tailored at her slender waist.

"What's all this?" he asked, looking as if he were fighting back a grin.

"All what?" Ariadne replied innocently. She fingered the scarf at her neckline. "I dress like this all the time."

Arthur's fingers flexed against the armrest, as if wishing something else were beneath them. She was expecting some kind of tease but when he replied, it was with sincerity. "It looks good on you," he said.

Ariadne blushed. "I figured if we're infiltrating Fischer's home, I should at least look like I could belong there," she explained, fussing with the hem of her jacket. "Think it'll do the job?"

"And then some." He stood, and seemed to debate with himself a moment before reaching out to tug the seams on her shoulders. "You got it in Paris?"

"Yeah. I used some of my money from the last job." She tucked her still damp hair behind her ears. "So you like it?"

Arthur's expression made it clear she was understating his opinion. His mouth worked and he finally admitted, "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." Her ears burned, and she turned away before she could let him embarrass her too badly. "So have you heard from the others?"

"Yes, I was just on the phone with Yusuf." He continued to admire her as she moved away. "He and Nash are in the hotel down the street. Dr. Banks has her own place in the city, so she'll meet up with us at Fischer's place in the morning. Browning's promised us a three hour window to work with--it should be plenty of time."

Ariadne sat down on the edge of her bed. "Think there's any chance we'll get caught?" she asked.

"No." Arthur's answer came not too quickly nor too delayed, making it perfectly believable. "Security will all be Browning's people. Even if we're seen entering and leaving, no one will know a crime's been committed until days after we're gone, if ever." His lip quirked. "That's the advantage of dream crime."

"I guess." Talk of the job sobered her, setting aside her girlish concerns about her outfit. "This is really going to work, isn't it?" she asked quietly.

He tilted his head to the side. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No--not really." She tried to shrug the anxious bubble out of her stomach. "But I do feel bad for Fischer. Don't you? I mean, at least a little?"

He frowned, and the silence that filled the room while he hesitated to answer made her nervous. "It doesn't matter if I do," he concluded finally. "Back when we first started planning the inception I'd already convinced myself he wasn't going to survive for long afterwards. In fact..." He stood and moved closer. "If Saito had instead asked for a hit, I probably would have done it, if it meant getting Cobb back to his kids. Anything we do to Fischer now isn't as bad as that."

Ariadne felt a chill. "Have you done that before?" she asked, even if she didn't really want to know the answer. "I didn't think assassination was part of dream crime."

"It's not. Not usually." He sat down next to her. "That's another reason why I prefer it. But I can't say people don't get killed, or that I haven't been the one to pull the trigger."

She knew better than to try and imagine it. "This is such a surreal conversation," she said. "I feel like I should be freaking out right now, but it was only last week that I shot you in the head--you know, in the dream. It doesn't quite seem real."

"Somnacin will do that to you," Arthur replied. "That's why the totems are so important." He moved to his suitcase on the opposite bed, and while his back was turned Ariadne discreetly fingered the bishop in her pocket. "I have something for you."

"For me?" She perked, grateful for the change of subject. "What is it?"

"I got it just before we left Paris." Arthur dug through his things, and when he pulled out a small, shoe-box sized silver case her breath caught in her throat. "I think you know what this is," he said.

Ariadne stared, speechless, as he returned to her side and offered her the gift. Her fingertips tingled when she accepted. Bracing the case on her knees she opened it, eyes wide and beaming as she looked over the half-sized PASIV, its timer, its needles, its twin glass bottles.

"It only connects two," Arthur explained as she poured over the device. "It's not legal for you to have it, so you shouldn't be inviting other people to use it anyway. If you use it less than a few hours a week, the Somnacin in there will last for about six to eight weeks. After that you'll have to set something up with Yusuf to get more." He smiled dryly. "We've been using his special mix so much lately, I don't think the normal black market Somnacin will be enough for you."

Ariadne licked her lips. My own PASIV. I can keep dreaming, even after this job is done. She took in a deep breath, and when she realized how tight her chest suddenly felt, she closed the PASIV lid with a snap. "You're making me feel like a drug addict," she joked, running her hands over the smooth surface. "But this is amazing, thank you. I was worried I'd..."

She trailed off as a disquieting thought entered her brain. Arthur tried to read it out of her face and missed the mark. "That after this job was over, you'd never get to use one again?" he guessed. "Cobb was right about you--you're good at this, and you don't want to give it up."

Ariadne frowned down at her blurry reflection on the case. "Well...yes, but..."

He stood again, and retrieved his suit out of his luggage. "I know how it feels," he continued as he moved to hang it up in the closet. "You could say I was hooked after my very first time. The things you can do in there, the things you can make..." He ran his hands over the front of his jacket lapel, his eyes focused on some distant memory. "I know I'll never be able to give it up. At this point, I don't think you will either. It would be a good idea if you got a legal PASIV license, but in the meantime, that should tide you over."

Ariadne set the device on the bed behind her; some of the charm was already wearing off. "Does this mean I can't use yours anymore?"

"Hm?"

She left the bed and moved to stand in front of him, stealing his full attention away from his wardrobe. "Is this your way of getting rid of me?" she asked bluntly.

"What?" Arthur looked genuinely taken aback, which made her feel somewhat better. "No--that's not what I--"

"Because I get it, I really do," Ariadne continued. It needs to be said. "I know you're trying to protect me from this crazy dream crime life you all live. And honestly I don't know if I want to be part of it anyway. Well, more than I already am." She shook her head. "But if you think I'm going along with this insanity because it's the only way I can get my hands on your little dream box, that's not what this is about."

"My little dream box?" he repeated with raised eyebrows.

She glared. "You know what I mean."

Thankfully, he killed his amusement enough to answer with due seriousness. "I do," he said. "But I know what dreamshare means to you, and I want you to have options." He set his hand on her shoulder. "Once this job is over, if you want to go back to your normal, legal life, you can. If you want to work with me again, we can work something out. Either way, I don't want you to have to choose between dreamshare and the rest of your life."

Ariadne plucked the hand off her shoulder and nudged it to her waist. "Or...between my real life, and you?" she supposed.

Color tinged his cheeks, and before he could form a reply she rose up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips. She had intended it to be just a gentle invitation, to assure him that his attention to her hadn't gone unnoticed; but when she started to withdraw, his mouth chased hers. His hand tightened at her waist and he kissed her back with unexpected passion. Though surprised by the fervent weight of his lips, Ariadne did her best to meet him in kind. He was warm, and sincere, and it made her pulse flutter.

Arthur's other hand rose to her hip, and she found herself being tugged--her back struck the closet door with an unnerving rattle that startled her out of the kiss. She turned her head and Arthur's still-eager mouth skated along her jaw, sending goose bumps rippling down her skin. She pressed her hands to his chest, and though the taut stretch of muscle beneath her fingers thrilled her, she couldn't help but be intimidated by the tension she felt from his body leaning into hers.

As soon as Arthur realized that she was shrinking back, he stopped. His ears flushed and he started to pull away awkwardly. "Ari--"

Ariadne cut him off with a laugh. Her chest was tight but she smiled up at him, wanting to reassure him before he got the wrong idea. "Been holding that in for a while, huh?" she teased.

He let his breath out in a relieved, embarrassed sigh. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," she said quickly, her cheeks reddening as well. "Really, it is. I'm glad we...cleared that up." Her hands were still on his chest, and she gave it a gentle rub before easing him back. "I guess this means that after this job is over, it might occur to you to contact me?"

He smiled and stepped back. "The warehouse is still paid up," he said. "No reason to leave Paris now."

"Good." Something she told herself was excitement bubbled in her stomach as she straightened her blouse and retrieved her purse. "Let's get something to eat," she suggested. "The lounge should be open for a while longer. I'd rather do that than the restaurant or the bar."

"Sounds good." Still looking uncharacteristically bashful, Arthur opened the door for her. As they left the room she took his hand loosely in hers, and let their fingers mingle all the way down the hall.

I guess this is our first date, she thought, smiling shyly to herself as they stepped off the elevator. Not how I planned to handle this, but he likes me, so...why not? His hand was warm against hers and when he snuck a glance at her, so were his eyes. It made her feel years younger, in a good and slightly less good way.

"Since we're in town," she said as they took a seat at a small table in the lounge, "are you going to call Cobb while we're here? If he finds out you were in Los Angeles and didn't say anything, he'll be mad."

Arthur frowned. "How would he find out?"

His answer came too quickly, and Ariadne purses her lips. "Are you still worried about Eames?" she asked in a quieter tone.

"No," he said, again too quickly. "He respects Cobb--he won't go out of his way to hurt him." He stared with forced fascination at the salt and pepper shakers, but Ariadne's continued stare broke him down soon enough. "I'll tell Cobb myself, eventually. It's not the right time now."

Is there ever a right time to risk a friendship? As much as she wanted to tell him to get it over with, she knew better. Even watching his downturned eyes broke her heart a little. "You miss him already, don't you?"

Arthur smiled wryly. "He's not dead, he's retired," he said. "I plan on staying in touch."

"But it won't be the same," Ariadne pressed. "He told me he was going to give up his PASIV, even."

"It'll be good for him. And for me--I know I need to stop relying on him."

A server came over to ask for their orders, and as Arthur gave his Ariadne glanced over the hotel lobby. It's none of my business, really, she thought. But I want them to stay friends. It's important to Arthur.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she spotted a familiar figure stepping out of the elevator they had occupied only a minute earlier. Her heart jumped into her throat. "Arthur."

The hint of panic in her tone caught his attention, and he quickly followed her gaze. He smothered a curse against the back of his palm.

**

"I'm in the lobby now," Eames said into his cell phone as he made his way across the tile floor. He was dressed casually in brown and his messenger bag held the familiar weight of his PASIV. "Don't tell me you came right from the airfield. I said I could meet you at your place."

"No," Robert replied swiftly. "Stay there--I'm coming in."

Eames wasn't sure whether to smile or frown as he was hung up on, though he couldn't blame Robert for his eagerness. He had spent the entire last week with almost nothing else on his mind, going over everything he had learned in Robert's dreams and trying to think of their options. More than once he had awoken to the illusion that a warm body was nestled beside him, or that a veiled figure was retreating into the shadows. He was fairly certain that he was getting too caught up in his own curiosity, and that he would have pinwheels turning in his brain before long.

The hotel doorman moved to the entrance, and was almost bowled over by the man entering swiftly through it. Though there was no mistaking Robert's wide blue eyes, he was almost rendered unrecognizable by the alterations to his appearance: he was wearing dark, tight-fitting jeans, and a green jacket with too many pockets over a plain T-shirt. His uncommonly casual attire was topped with a cap that only barely disguised the fact that his hair had received a drastic cut as well.

Robert glanced left and right, his manner impatient. When he spotted Eames across the lobby he went rigid, and Eames could almost sense the heavy thump of his heart. He strode forward with such swift certainty that it seemed a collision was imminent, but then he stopped short. "Eames."

"Look at you," Eames greeted, smiling despite the contagious nature of Robert's breathless intensity. "Quite a different take on the Robert Fischer I last saw."

"This isn't me," Robert replied sharply. He was tense, shifting underneath his skin like a snake trying to molt. "I just couldn't wear that god damn suit anymore."

"It's fine. I like it." Eames offered his hand. "It's good to see--"

Robert snatched his hand up and shook it vigorously. "I thought you might not come," he said. "I almost didn't myself. But then I realized I'd like to sleep at some point in the rest of my life, so...here I am."

Uh-oh. Eames looked again and noticed the dark circles under his eyes. "You haven't been sleeping...at all?"

"No. Well." Robert shook his head distractedly. "All right, maybe two or three hours a night. Some nights. But that's what coffee is for, isn't it?"

He's getting worse, Eames thought, frowning at the cold fingers that were still clamped around his. He needs help--more than I can give him. "I want to hear all about it," he said, "but not over coffee. Let's find somewhere a bit more private than this."

He started to herd them toward the exit, but Robert planted his feet. "No--let's go to your room," he said.

"But you just landed, didn't you? Don't you want to stop home first, to--"

"No." Robert looked around the lobby again in paranoia. "Peter's been warning my security about not letting me have guests. Someone will be watching the condo. Just let me..."

He trailed off, his attention caught by something apparently so fascinating that he had to lean around Eames to continue watching. Eames frowned. "What?"

"I know them," Robert murmured.

Eames turned, and noticed a man and a woman heading for the elevators. The slick brown hair of the former was instantly recognizable to him, and heat flared through his veins at the sight. He passed his satchel to Robert. "Mind waiting here a moment? Thank you."

**

Ariadne kept a tight grip on Arthur's hand as they retreated from the lounge. Her muscles felt coiled, as if waiting to propel her into flight. Being face to face with a conscious Robert Fischer had not been part of their plan and it frightened her more than she wanted to admit.

"Arthur!"

Arthur made no reaction, but Ariadne could not help but flinch, giving them away. Three steps later Eames was on them, and he snatched Arthur's arm. "Arthur!"

Arthur let her go, and was as cool as ever as they faced Eames together. "Eames. I thought you were in Munich."

"I thought you were in Paris," Eames replied shortly. His temper, though restrained, was sharp and intimidating. "What are you doing here?"

"We're visiting Cobb," Arthur lied easily. "Philipa's birthday is coming up but I won't be able to make it for the actual day, so we came early."

"That's funny." Eames shoved his fists in his pockets. "Because I'm meeting Cobb tomorrow, and he didn't mention you."

Ariadne straightened. "It's a surprise."

Eames's attention shifted to her. She tried to hold her own against his unexpectedly penetrating stare, but she was no match for such a seasoned con. He smiled without humor. "I hope you know what you're getting into by being here with him, love," he said coldly.

Ariadne felt Arthur tense at her side. "I do," she said before he could intervene. "And I know what you think he did, but you're wrong. Arthur didn't--"

Eames raised a hand. "Spare me, please. All I care about right now is if you're on a job." He watched Ariadne, and her heart beat faster as if he were staring directly into it. "And who your mark is."

"None of your business," Arthur said. "Unless you're working for Thomas Uriel."

"Uriel? The importer?"

"That would be him."

Eames was quiet a moment, looking more and more like a cautious predator. For the first time in Ariadne's memory she felt uncomfortable under his heavy gaze, and was hard pressed not to back away. "You still have a lot to teach her," he murmured.

She bristled. "Eames--"

"Stay away from Robert Fisher," Eames warned with the same twisted smirk, "or I'll hunt you both down while you sleep, and toss you into Limbo myself. Understand?"

He gave Arthur's cheek a dull smack with the flat of his hand; Arthur snatched his wrist, scowling, and the pair stared each other down for a long, charged moment. Ariadne shifted on her feet and ached to interfere, but then Eames wiggled his fingers, and was reluctantly let go. Malice flashed across his face as he turned and strode back across the lobby.

Ariadne let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Arthur took her hand again and started to lead her away. "Come on, we have to switch hotels."

Ariadne glanced over her shoulder as they headed for the elevators. She watched Eames rejoin Robert; his smile was reassuring once more, his manners light, and when Robert fidgeted anxiously he lifted his hand, running it smoothly up the line of Robert's spine to the back of his neck.

"Did you see that?" Ariadne hissed.

"What?"

"He touched him."

Arthur's brow furrowed, but he did not break stride. "Who did?"

"Eames..." They stopped at the elevator, and as Arthur pressed the button she looked over her shoulder again. Eames and Robert were still standing close together, and Ariadne's breath caught when she realized that Robert was in turn watching her and Arthur. As hostile as Eames's eyes had been a moment ago, they paled in comparison to the bitter distrust carved into Robert's. His glare was almost hypnotizing in its unblinking animosity, and as Ariadne let herself be tugged into the elevator, her stomach churned in recognition of the searing emotion beneath it.

"Arthur." She squeezed his hand urgently. "I think there's more going on here than we know."

The elevator doors closed, blocking out his stare, but she could still feel it on her skin.

Chapter Text

Eames glanced back just to see where Arthur and Ariadne were headed before turning to Robert. "Don't worry about them," he said, and he gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze to break his stare. "I just had a bit of business to take care of. Now come on, let's get out of here."

He reached for his bag, but Robert twisted it away from him. "No--I just said I don't want to go to the condo," Robert insisted. "I'm staying here for the night."

Eames frowned, but they were starting to garner attention, and he didn't want to risk more. "All right, if you insist." They moved toward the elevators together, and while waiting Eames couldn't help but take special note of the floor Arthur and Ariadne's had stopped on. "You might get your face in the tabloids for this," he warned. "Billionaire spends the night in a hotel with a strange man..."

Robert scoffed. "What difference does that make now? Our stock is plummeting, Peter's been speaking to the board behind my back..." An elevator arrived, and they stepped inside. "And I could be having a nervous breakdown. A scandal is the last thing on my mind."

A pair of women with their luggage joined them in the elevator, and pressed the button for the same floor Eames's room was on. He glanced over them suspiciously; knowing that Arthur was in town put him on edge, and he could not help but be wary of spies. "You're handling it better than most would," he told Robert. "Except, maybe, in this case." He plucked the cap off Robert's head, revealing his short crop of hair--barely an inch in length remained, and it stuck up in odd places. "Did you do this yourself?"

Robert smoothed it down with his fingers irritably. "Of course not," he grumbled.

"It's not bad." Eames touched the back of Robert's head, enjoying the tickle of soft hairs against his fingertips. "Reminds me of my military days."

"You were a soldier?"

"Oh so briefly."

Eames handed him his hat back, but Robert wrung it against his hands and didn't replace it. The elevator chimed their floor a moment later, and the women left first, casting the pair curious glances along the way. Eames waited for them to get a ways down the hall before leading Robert into his room. As soon as they were inside he moved to the window to confirm it was securely locked, then circled around, making sure everything was as he had left it.

"Something wrong?" Robert asked as he set Eames's satchel onto the table.

"Not at all." Eames finished by locking and latching the door. He wouldn't try anything with me here, he assured himself. He knows what I'm capable of. He turned back to Robert without any indication of his thoughts in his face. "Now, when was the last time you ate?" When it took more than a few seconds for Robert to remember, he moved to the phone. "I'm ordering room service."

Robert sank into a chair. "I'm not hungry."

"Liar." Eames called in two orders of the chef recommended lasagna--he had already eaten, but he hoped it would further convince Robert to do the same. Once that was finished he shed his jacket and sat down on the bed. "Now, tell me about this week of yours," he said. "From the sound of it, you haven't had a pleasant time."

"Understatement," Robert grunted. He ran his hands over his hair again. "Every time I try to sleep, those...those things are everywhere. It's like I can feel them moving around in my brain." His fingers curled, scratching his scalp. "Changing things. I was trying to tell Shelby about how I hurt my knee horseback riding, and how my father flew in to see me, and...and I realized it might have not happened that way." He shuddered, and his fear made Eames's stomach turn. "What if it didn't happen at all?"

"Hey, hey." Eames stood and moved closer, peeling Robert's hands gently away from his head before he could hurt himself. "It's all right--that's why I'm here, to help you figure this out."

Robert nodded, swallowing hard. "Peter keeps trying to talk to me about what's going on, but I don't know what to tell him," he said. "I'm not even sure he cares, except that people are starting to notice. I've even tried researching this dream crap myself but I didn't know where to start... You don't know how many times I wished I'd taken your number. I realized as soon as you left that..."

He looked up, his hands tightening against Eames's almost painfully. "That I was alone," he finished. His eyes narrowed, searching. "I'm alone except for the man who did this to me."

Eames went rigid. Robert's fingers dug like icicles into his skin, but he didn't try to free himself--couldn't move beneath the heavy interrogation of those bright blue eyes. By the time he thought to deny it his silence had given him away, and Robert surrendered a dull laugh. "At least Peter was right about one thing," he muttered.

Eames forced half a smile, even as his heart sank and his instinct told him to flee. "Did Saito tell you?"

"No. I just stopped being stupid." Robert let him go and leaned back in his chair. His weary acceptance was unnerving, and Eames was not sure how to respond to it. "What did you do to me?"

It's over. He licked his lips, trying to think rationally, but Robert's unfaltering stare kept breaking him down. But all he has is my name. If I leave, he'll never find me again. So there's no harm in telling him the truth. "Inception," he said. "Saito hired me to put an idea in your mind--to break up your father's company."

Robert's shoulders sagged. "So he could take over the pipeline?"

"I suppose, among other things." Eames retook his seat on the bed. He could see some significant revelation transpiring inside the man across him, but he wasn't prepared to even guess what it was. "I tried to do this clean," he found himself saying. "I really did. The whole point of inception is to not leave any evidence behind. I didn't know it would..."

He frowned when he realized that Robert wasn't listening--he was staring into space, pale but calm. Eames was worried he was suffering another moment of dizziness, but then he spoke.

"That pipeline is going to be built up the African coast," Robert murmured, staring out the window. "Construction is going to take years. They'll have to relocate entire villages, thousands of families, for it to be made. People are going to die--it's going to be a humanitarian nightmare. When Fischer Morrow got involved we doubled the size of our PR department just to deal with the backlash." He laughed again, bitterly, and rubbed his face. "And Saito sent you to invade my mind so he could have it. Christ, he's insane."

Eames watched him, his brow furrowed, unable to respond. He shook his head.

Robert looked left and right, and then focused on Eames at last. "I can't say I wouldn't have done the same to him," he admitted. "Or to you. And I wouldn't have looked back." He frowned. "I can't believe you came back."

"I can't believe you haven't arrested me," Eames replied.

Robert rubbed his mouth again and stood so he could shed his coat. "That's simple. You can't help me if you're in prison." His confidence faltered. "And it's true--I am alone, if not for you. So don't go anywhere."

Eames straightened and watched Robert move away. "Go anywhere?"

"I'm taking a shower," Robert declared. "And you'd better still be here when I get out." He shot Eames a hard glare before heading into the bathroom. "I mean it."

"Yes sir..."

The bathroom door closed. Eames remained still until he heard the water start, and then he pushed himself up, reaching for his bag on the table. He gave up on his retreat before he got two more steps. Banks is still going to come for him, he reminded himself, grinding his teeth in frustration. Arthur being here is no coincidence. They're up to something. He looked to the closed bathroom door, then the outline of his PASIV, and muttered a curse under his breath. I can't leave him.

Eames collapsed onto the bed. He had been in his share of sticky situations but the unease plucking his strings was alien to him. When he closed his eyes he imagined Cobb's voice, reciting to him all the advice he had told Cobb himself at the start of their acquaintance. Don't get involved. Ha. Don't make it personal. His fingers crept over his abdomen, pressing into the soft flesh inside his hip bone as if expecting to find a scar. I should have been long gone by now. Is it really just curiosity keeping me here? Guilt? Hell, I've gone soft.

Robert took his time in the bathroom, and by the time he emerged their dinner had arrived. He feigned disinterest at first, but as soon as Eames began to eat hunger got the better of him and he gulped his and half of Eames's portion in no time.

"Glad to see your appetite's returned," Eames remarked. "How do you feel?"

"Better." In fact he looked remarkably calm given what Eames had confessed earlier, and the agitation he had displayed. "What about you?"

"Me?" Eames poured them each a glass of wine, and wondered vaguely if he could convince Robert to help pay his room charges. "I feel brilliant."

"Because you looked like you were going to pass out earlier."

He frowned as he passed Robert his glass. "Did I?"

"You did." Robert took a sip of his drink, and much like the lasagna seemed to realize all at once that he was thirsty. He gulped half the glass down, ignoring Eames's look of disapproval. "Did you really think I was going to turn you in?" he asked.

"It crossed my mind." Eames moved the wine bottle out of Robert's reach, just in case. "Isn't that usually what happens when a criminal gets caught?"

Robert gave his response much more thought than seemed necessary. "No," he concluded. "Not really." He relaxed back in his chair, swirling his remaining wine. "You wouldn't believe some of the things we get away with. The extortion, the cover-ups, the threats. A few months ago I was set to work with Cobol to ruin thousands of lives and it barely occurred to me to do differently." He rubbed his thumb hard against the lip of his glass. "Maybe I deserve whatever you did to me."

He glanced to Eames, and when he received no response, he made a face. "This is where you say, 'no you don't.'"

Eames finished the last bite of lasagna. "Do you want me to lie?" he replied easily.

Robert glared back at him, affronted, but then very gradually a smile tugged his lips. He laughed, with more genuine humor than Eames had ever heard from him, and his shoulders trembled with the effort as if it had been years. Watching him spread warmth through Eames's stomach; he knew he was witnessing something rare.

"Ahh, you're right," Robert said around a chuckle. He gulped down the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle, but could not quite get to it. "I am a horrible person."

"You're in good company," Eames assured. He poured only a little more wine into Robert's glass and clinked his against it. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Robert smiled at him sideways and, catching on to that he was being rationed, sipped his wine with more reservation. When he pulled his bare feet up onto the chair he looked as if his own laughter had stripped him down, leaving nothing left of the cold billionaire prince. "You know how it happened, don't you?" he said, growing more serious. "I spent my whole life trying to be him."

Eames nudged his plate aside so he could lean his elbows on the table. "Your father."

"It's ridiculous, really," Robert continued. "All that time I wasted trying to prove myself to him, and I didn't even know what he wanted from me. I still don't..." He tensed abruptly. "Did I tell you his last words to me?"

It pained him to say it, but he knew why Robert was asking. "He said, 'disappointed.'"

Robert nodded, looking both relieved and ashamed as his memory was confirmed for him. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yes. Disappointed with what I've become. This person I wasn't supposed to be."

Eames thought back to the scenes he'd witnessed in Munich, the tantrums initiated by poorly chosen suits and tall, unrelenting mirrors. "You've said that a few times now," he said quietly. "That you're not who you're supposed to be."

"It's true." Robert again lost focus, staring sightlessly down into his wine. "Nothing feels right now," he mumbled. "I just can't be myself. Something won't fit." He fingered his short hair. "He's still disappointed."

Eames swallowed hard. Watching Robert he could almost see the plastic faces of black ghosts parading by, changing him, and it made his skin crawl. I did this to him, he thought, the full weight of his crime a heavy stone in his gut. I'm ruining him even now. "Robert, you don't have to think like that," he said, even knowing it was futile. "I'm sorry, but your father is gone. You have to stop worrying about what he would have wanted."

As expected, Robert barely responded to the well-meant words. "He wanted something," he said more to himself than to Eames. "I don't know what. I know what he didn't want." His eyelids fluttered and he rubbed his temple. "Disappointed...."

"Robert." Eames sighed, and walked around the table to take Robert's glass away from him. "That's enough for tonight. You need to sleep."

Robert jerked awake. "No," he said immediately. "I'm not tired."

"Yes you are." He smiled reassuringly and hoped his ill ease didn't show through. "Come on, I'll teach you some tricks. It might be the best I can do for now."

Robert sank deeper into his chair, regarding Eames's offered hand as if it were about to bite. Abruptly he straightened. "Are you going to teach me to forge?"

Eames leaned back. "So you've done some research after all," he said warily.

"Only what I could find online," Robert replied. He fidgeted excitedly. "Is it true you can be whoever you want in a dream? And even change at will?"

"If you're a very good forger, yes. Which I happen to be."

Robert latched onto Eames's hand. "Teach me."

He was shaking his head almost before Robert said it. "That's not a good idea." He took Robert's other hand and pulled him out of his chair.

"But I want to learn," Robert insisted. He let Eames guide him to the bed and sat down. "It is a teachable skill, isn't it? So teach me."

"It's bloody difficult," Eames said, returning to the table for his PASIV. "And dangerous. You'll be much more susceptible to other dreamers, not to mention your own projections." He set the small silver case on the bed. "Right now it's more important that I help you get real sleep."

Robert heaved a melodramatic sigh. "I'm the victim here, you know," he grumbled as he crawled further up the bed. "You ought to be doing what I tell you. I could have you arrested at any moment."

Eames rolled up his sleeve and stepped out of his shoes on his way to joining him. "I won't let you have me arrested," he said, his smile genuine. "I don't want you to be alone."

His words caught Robert by surprise, and the ill humor left him as he relaxed on his back. As soon as Eames was on the bed he offered his arm. But he hadn't given in. "I just want to try for myself. Please."

Eames gently inserted and taped down the PASIV needle to Robert's arm. "I understand," he said, doing the same for himself. He stretched out on his side, propped up on his elbow so he could look Robert in the eye as he made himself clear. "I know how tempting it is, to want to be someone else for a while. But it's not going to help you figure out who you're supposed to be."

Robert watched him closely. "Why are you so sure?"

Eames's smile faltered, but he spread his fingertips through Robert's short hair with affection. "Because it hasn't worked for me so far," he replied dryly. He reached for the plunger.

He was halted by a warm hand sliding up the side of his face. Fingernails scraped his whiskers, and then sturdy fingers hooked around the back of his neck, pulling him down. Eames tensed as Robert's kiss found his lips, at once reassuring and needy. He knew better than to allow it, but when Robert's mouth moved against his, each gentle pressure a silent and hopeful question, his resolve wavered. He shivered, leaning into him, until the moment had run its course and Robert sagged on the mattress.

Eames watched him, struggling between concern and excitement. "What was that for?"

Robert shrugged, scratching lazily at Eames's sideburn. "No reason," he said. He glanced down at the PASIV. "What should I do?"

"Ah…nothing." He reached again for the plunger. "Just relax; I'm taking you into my dream."

Eames pressed the button and inviting darkness swelled up to envelope them. He only barely felt his body sag against Robert's as his mind went to work creating their dreamscape. He constructed it with care, filling every space and accounting for every detail, to put as little strain on Robert's fractured imagination as possible.

When they opened their eyes, they were still in bed together, but the bed was two sizes larger and the mattress comfortably worn. Robert took in a slow breath as he looked around, noticing the log cabin walls, the rustic décor, and a crackling fire surrounded by a broad stone hearth.

"Where are we?" Robert asked. He touched his chest and found himself clothed in long pajamas and a thick bathrobe.

"In the middle of nowhere," Eames replied. He was dressed the same, and he belted his robe more firmly around him as he climbed out of bed and then helped Robert up. "Come take a look."

He led Robert to the window. A cold wind whistled at the pane, and beyond, towering evergreens swayed along a steep mountain slope. Snow coated the long branches and drifted in white curtains off the cabin eaves. They were isolated, with only a very dim gleam of yellow lights illuminating the valley below.

"I know this valley," Robert murmured. He pressed his fingertips to the glass and got a chill. "That's my fortress down there."

"My fortress," Eames corrected him. "But yes, that's it. It's the only outpost for a thousand miles in any direction--we're completely alone here."

He snorted lightly. "I suppose that's meant to be romantic?"

Eames thumbed his nose and tried not to grin. "I’m trying to teach you something here," he said. "Namely, how to keep those ghosts out of your mind."

Robert scanned the room again, and seemed to realize for the first time that they truly were alone. "How?"

"The first rule of dreaming is that your mind will always try to fill an empty space," he explained. "So when you dream of a house, or a city, your mind fills it with people--your projections." He led them toward the bedroom door. "But you can prevent that by creating contextual blank spaces, like this isolated mountain."

Robert frowned. "So...by dreaming up a place that is supposed to be empty, it keeps my mind from filling it."

"Precisely."

Eames opened the door, revealing the rest of the modest cabin: lumpy sofas, quilts on the walls, a tiger skin rug on the floor. Robert took everything in with fascination, but abruptly jerked back.

"The rug just moved," he hissed.

Eames looked for himself, and chuckled when he realized what he had intended to be a rug was really a fully formed, very alive Siberian tiger. Its tail flicked back and forth and it regarded the pair of them with lazy disinterest.

"Sorry," Eames said sheepishly. "He's one of my projections. I can suppress him, if you want."

Robert watched the animal nervously for a long moment and at last shook his head. "No, he's fine. As long as he...stays in here."

They went back into the bedroom and closed the door. "I think I understand how this works," Robert said. "Do you really think it will keep those things out of my mind?"

"I can't say for sure, but it's worked for me." When Eames glanced to the fireplace he noticed an unnatural swirl in the flames, almost...spinning. He frowned and continued. "What's most important is that when you dream on your own, you retain control of your surroundings. You can make safe places for yourself, like this. Once you learn that, I think you'll be able to sleep peacefully."

Robert nodded along and sat on the bed with a thump. "So what happens now?"

"I can wake us up to let you try for yourself. Or...we can wait out the time here." Eames gestured to their immaculately constructed surroundings. "If you feel comfortable here, you should get some sleep."

"I should get some sleep while I sleep?" Robert said doubtfully.

"You said yourself you've had a rough week." Eames stopped in front of him. "We have an hour down here--you might as well spend it relaxing. And if you happen to fall asleep, you can practice what I've just taught you."

Robert stared up at him. "And you?"

"I'll be right here."

He considered that for a moment, his eyes intense. "Sleep with me."

Eames's mouth went dry, leaving him briefly speechless. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "That's about the opposite of relaxing, isn't it?" he teased.

Robert stood, putting them uncomfortably close. "If we both fall asleep down here, and dream...will we dream together?" he asked.

"I don't know," Eames admitted. "I've never dreamed a second level without using a PASIV." His hands tensed, wanting to reach out but knowing better. "But if it will make you feel better about it, I can take a nap, too."

"It will." Robert turned and climbed onto the bed, and though he didn’t reach out in any physical way, Eames could feel being tugged along all the same. He stretched out deliberately in the bed, making himself comfortable, looking very much like a fussy cat settling in.

Eames smiled as he joined him. "Good night, Robert," he murmured.

Robert closed his eyes and squirmed one last time. "Good night."

The room fell quiet, save the crackling of burning logs. Eames relaxed at Robert's side, watching his muscles grow slack, listening to the gradually slowing hiss of his breath. Only then did he touch him, moving his fingers slightly against the soft crop of his hair. His hands trembled at the contact, and the way Robert leaned unconsciously into him as he slept pulled at his chest and stole his breath.

His dream shifted as their time ticked down. He could feel palisades rising inch by inch along the walls, moats digging into the perimeter--even one tiger becoming two in the front hall. Robert's fingers curled tightly in the front of his robe and the defenses strengthened, making a fortress of their cabin bungalow, until Eames's subconscious was satisfied that Robert was safe inside him, from ghosts and pinwheels and anything else that would threaten him.

"It wasn't a lie," Eames whispered into the slope of Robert's shoulder. "You don't deserve what we did to you."

Robert mumbled in his sleep. When Eames draped his arm over him he tugged, demanding and needing that gesture of protection, and it felt so damn good Eames almost forgot they were dreaming.

"Are you here for the secrets?"

Eames jolted upright, just in time to see a shadow retreating from the edge of the bed. It disappeared into the fireplace.

He sat very still, feeling out the edges of his dream to be sure the defenses were secure. He had changed nothing. When he paid better attention to the fireplace he realized that the swirling he had noticed earlier was worse, and was even forming shapes. One very familiar, twirling shape in particular.

Damn it. He glanced to Robert and, finding him still deeply asleep, looked back to the fireplace. "Yes," he whispered.

"I know where they're hidden," a woman's voice echoed from the hearth. "Come with me."

Eames eased carefully away from Robert and stood, padding to the fireplace. When he drew his hand along the mantle it clinked, and he could hear metal grinding from within the wall. Slowly, the entire stone chimney began to slide upwards, taking the fireplace with it. Eames watched with mounting shock as it folded into the ceiling, leaving in its place the polished metal door of a safe.

I didn't put this here, Eames thought, a thrill of panic skating his edges. Is he doing this? He looked over his shoulder but Robert was still asleep in bed. This is my dream--how is he building in my dream when he's not even conscious?

His heart began to pound. Unable to contain his curiosity he felt out the keypad and typed in the combination. With a hiss and a groan the safe door separated in front of him, as expected opening into a hollow, black-walled chamber.

Eames stepped inside slowly as if in a trance. His palms grew clammy as he examined his surroundings and found the hundreds of empty masks that had occupied the space last he saw it. Licking his lips, he moved closer to the nearest wall and touched the plastic face in front of him. He recognized it as a face he had forged a few jobs back, and the one next to it a feminine beauty he had attempted for his own amusement some time before that. When he came to the third he paused, and realized with mix fascination and dread that it was not one of his: it was Robert's assistant, Shelby, who he'd had an occasion to meet but never assume.

"What's she's doing here?" he thought aloud, and when he moved to the next face he didn't recognize it at all. Down the line he continued, picking out the faces he knew, frowning at those he didn't. "How are you doing this?" he hissed in growing agitation. "Who are these people? What are they doing here?"

He spotted one among the throngs that shot cold needles into his gut. With shaking hands he felt out the curve of its jaw, the plush fullness of its lips, the scratch of unshaved whiskers: his face. His own, normal face, nestled on the wall like the countless other empty identities. Inexplicable panic overtook him and he stumbled back, clutching the mask with white fingers.

A hand fell on his shoulder. "Eames?"

Eames jumped, but it was only Robert, watching him with concern. "What's wrong?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Did you build this?" Eames asked urgently. "Did you put these here? What is this?"

He shook the mask at him, and when Robert was able to actually get a look at it, he nodded knowingly. "Yes, I know him." His lip quirked. "That's Fred Simmonds."

Eames threw it into the corner. "I'm not joking--I want to know if you built this!"

Robert crossed his arms defensively. "I was asleep. How could I?"

"But if I didn't put this here, it had to be you," Eames reasoned, trying to smother his temper. He glanced to the entrance and saw a feline shadow spilling over the threshold. "Just like before."

"Then maybe I did, I don't know." Robert retrieved the fallen mask and looked it over again. "What difference does it make?"

Eames followed him. "It makes quite a bit of difference. Last time all these faces were mine--my forgeries. Now half of them I don't even recognize. You must have put them here."

"So? You said earlier that I can and should control my surroundings, didn't you?"

"Yes, but--" Eames cut himself off with a bark of incredulous laughter. "In your dream. This is my dream--I control it."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "Apparently, you don't."

Eames started to reply, but couldn't. Even in jest it was a disturbing thought, and with a growl he turned away. He stared up and down the walls, trying to make sense of the crossover. "One of us built this room without realizing," he murmured, "and we're both projecting into it. But why?" He knocked the closest masks off the wall out of spite. "What does it mean?"

Robert fingered the Eames-likeness between his fingers, and at long last replaced it on the wall. "Maybe..." He gave the nose a pinch, and stepped back as the face begin to twirl around its center. "Maybe it means we're hiding the same secret."

Eames stared as it turned, hypnotized. The mask split, its plastic edges crinkling as it shaped itself into the pinwheel it had already been mimicking. It drew him in, until he was standing beside Robert again, watching his distorted face twist in place. He started to reach for it but Robert stopped him, winding their fingers together.

"It's all right," Robert said quietly.

That's not his pinwheel. Eames shivered and drew closer to the man next to him. It's mine. And it means the same thing. It means... He looked again to the dull faces and saw them shudder, trying to drag the black away from the walls. I don't know who I'm...

Robert wrapped his arms around him, and with a gasp he woke up.

They were back in the hotel. Eames was on his side, his face pressed into the crook of Robert's neck, his lips still warm from a kiss. He let out his breath in a long sigh, relieved to have been spared the escalation of his dream. Like every other time awakening next to Robert Fischer he felt exhausted and exposed, and when short fingernails again skated over his cheek he didn't resist.

Robert's second kiss was the same as the first. His lips were warm, eager to comfort and be comforted, and Eames replied in equal measure. Every time they came together the dream faded a bit more, until the black chill of the safe was distant memory. Slowly they twisted toward each other, pausing only to remove the stinging pull of the PASIV needles.

Robert hissed and abruptly shoved against the mattress. He swung his knee, forcing Eames onto his back as he rolled on top of him. When they pressed together Eames felt Robert's heart pound against his ribs, tasted the desperation on the tip of his tongue, heard the silent pleas made tangible by the long fingers tugging his hair. Robert needed him, needed control and affection, and more than anything the reassurance that he was not the only one with fear in the corners of his mind, breaking him down and leaving him raw.

Robert rolled his shoulders, kissing Eames with greater passion as he rubbed their bodies together. He coaxed Eames's mouth open with his tongue and moaned into him--the gentle rumble rippled all through him, tightening arousal in the pit of his stomach. It was wrong, and Eames wondered distantly if he was still taking advantage of his vulnerable companion, but it felt so damn good he almost forgot they were awake.

He broke the kiss with a gasp. His hands slid to Robert's waist, encouraging him, and he sucked through his teeth when their hips ground. They moved together inelegantly; Eames tried bending his knees for greater leverage, and was surprised when Robert squirmed and slid his thigh between his. When Robert rocked into him hard denim stroked his groin and he growled breathlessly.

Robert's eyelids fluttered, his breath a seething pant against Eames's ear as he braced his palms to the mattress and thrust again against the rise of Eames's pelvis. He began to move in a gradually mounting rhythm, pumping urgently into the writhing body beneath him. If the tight grip of his jeans was of any discomfort he did not show it, and in fact seemed to relish the frustration. His fly dug into an imaginary scar.

Eames's head fell back. With one hand at the back of Robert's neck and the other clenching around his belt loops he pulled in time with their motion and bucked as best he could with his hips. He ached, and he would have let Robert inside him if he could have stopped him long enough; but Robert clung to him, unwilling to let any space between them as if afraid Eames would be gone if he did. So he stroked Robert's hair, and squeezed him with his thighs, and imagined that he was enveloping him completely. Imagined they were still the only men in the world, isolated, sharing the same fears and the same passion.

They churned and arched until Robert's breath grew ragged, and abruptly his body jerked. He shuddered against Eames with low groans. Feeling Robert unravel within his arms shot fresh pleasure through Eames's veins, and he pressed their mouths in an anxious kiss as he shook through his own unexpected release. Panting, they both sagged, and waited long minutes before attempting to untangle their twisted limbs.

Robert flopped onto his back. He wiped his hands over his forehead as if pushing the hair from his sweat-dampened face, though it was no longer necessary. He stared at the ceiling, and as he came to his senses seemed to regret his haste. He made a face and undid his fly. "Damn."

It may not have been the most tactful response, but Eames couldn't help but laugh. He rubbed his hip. "Think you'll be able to sleep now?" he joked.

Robert chuckled dully, but when they looked to each other, he grew quickly serious again. "Sleep with me."

"You'll have to let me catch my breath," Eames replied. He sat up, stretching his weary back and legs. "My turn for the shower. Since you didn’t bring any clothes with you, you can borrow some of mine. Clean ones are in the right zipper."

Robert frowned as he watched Eames move away. "All right..."

Eames did not take long in the bathroom. As the euphoria ran down he couldn't help but be reminded of the chilling discovery in his dream, and he washed and dried quickly so that he would not be alone with his thoughts. He didn't want to imagine the wraiths in his mind, changing things.

"I just can't be myself," he remembered Robert saying as he pulled on fresh boxers and a shirt. "Something won't fit."

I'm not who I'm supposed to be.

He returned to the room and found Robert curled up under the blankets, dressed in his clothes and fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Arthur didn’t dream anymore. But sometimes when he awoke he felt a tingle at the back of his mind, as if his brain was still making the attempt. He never remembered anything, no image or sensation to cling to. He told himself it was only a phantom pain, like a severed limb trying to bend. He felt it when he woke up the morning before his third "Fischer Job."

He showered quickly, and dressed in a gray, three-piece suit with a blue tie. When he left the bathroom Ariadne was finishing her own preparation by applying her makeup--simple, professional eye shadow and subtle lipstick. Her hair was pulled back except for a few soft curls that covered her ears. She kissed a tissue and smiled at him. "What's all this?" she teased, looking him over.

Arthur stood a little taller. "I always dress like this."

Her freshly made up lips quirked, and she moved closer. She gave his necktie a little tug. "We match."

"You still look beautiful," he said without provocation.

She rolled her eyes as if she didn't believe him, but there was still a fair blush in her cheeks. "Thanks."

She tried not to smile, and it made him want to kiss her. It must have shown in his face, because she tilted her chin up, just slightly, a perfect invitation that he gladly accepted. He tasted her lipstick and regretted it; it was going to take extra concentration not to think about it once they got under.

When Ariadne leaned back on her heels she looked suddenly uncertain. Her eyes met his, searching. "Tell me one more time this is going to work," she said evenly.

Arthur returned her stare with perfect confidence. "It'll work. And since we're not using a sedative this time, if anything goes wrong all you have to do is wake up."

"And you?" she asked immediately. He could tell that her mind was running through all manner of worst case scenarios, which somehow made him feel more secure than ever.

"I have you looking out for me," he replied. "I'll be fine." He squeezed her shoulder and then moved away to retrieve his satchel, with his PASIV hidden inside. "Come on--we have to be across town soon."

Ariadne wasn't convinced, and as they left the hotel together she stayed close, her shoulders squared as if protecting him. He smiled to himself, thinking selfishly that he was glad to have her there.

***

Robert's eyelids drooped as he stared at the stranger in the mirror. His face was bony and pale, his hair was a cropped mess, and his clothing was irredeemably oversized. Everything about him was wrong, and he ached, hating the man in front of him. Over and over he thought, I was supposed to be more than this, and bile rose at the back of his throat. He stood there for almost an hour before Eames found him.

A warm hand settled at the nape of his neck, and eyelashes graced his bare temple. Robert remained still, and though he was grateful for the contact he couldn't tear his gaze from the horrible spectacle in front of him.

"Come on," Eames whispered against his cheek. "I'll take you home."

By the time they pulled up in front of Robert's building, he was feeling significantly clearer, enough to know that he didn't want to go inside. He nestled into the passenger seat, glaring up at the forty-two story condominium defiantly. "I'm going to sell this place," he declared, "and move into a house somewhere."

"You haven't sold it quite yet," Eames said. "Go on--you should at least change and let your entourage know where you've been."

Just as he spoke a familiar face came jogging toward them: his chief security escort, Erhard. Robert tried to sink further into the car but he had already been spotted. "Peter's probably already put bars on the windows up there," he muttered. "I wonder if that will decrease the value."

Erhard opened the passenger door. "Mr. Fischer!" There was sweat on his forehead and he looked as if he hadn't slept. "Everyone's been trying to call you. Mr. Browning said..." When he glanced inside the car and saw Eames he started. "Oh, Mr. Eames. So it was you."

"Good morning," Eames greeted. "Sorry I didn't get him back by curfew."

Robert snorted, and screwed his cap back to his head as he let Erhard help him out of the car. When he realized that Eames was still buckled and not going anywhere, he turned back with a sharp frown. "Aren't you coming up?"

"Actually, I'm on my way to meeting someone," he said. "I'll talk to you later."

Robert glanced to the building and back. "No."

Eames's eyebrows lifted. "I won't be long."

Still deeply frowning, Robert shut the passenger door and made his way around the car to Eames's side. By the time he'd reached it the window was down. "I haven't run out on you yet," Eames said, smiling sideways. "Do you think that's going to change now? Go on, get something to eat, and with any luck I'll be introducing you to an associate of mine in an hour. If we can get in through the front door, that is."

Robert braced his hands against the open sill. "An associate?" He lowered his voice. "Another extractor?"

"Yes. I think he'll be able to help us." His face twitched with the final word as if it hadn't been what he'd meant to say. "Anyway, if you don't at least check in with Browning he's going to be all over us both, so you might as well get it over with, hm?"

"Right..." It was not a promising prospect, but Robert knew it was unavoidable. "Then I'll see you in an hour."

"Of course."

Before he could reach for the window control Robert leaned down, his hand fisting in Eames's hair as he stole a firm kiss. Eames grunted softly but kissed him back. When he leaned away he noticed Erhard gaping at them but pretended not to. "I'll tell security you're coming," he said. "If they give you any trouble, just tell them to call me."

Eames licked his lips. "Good luck with Browning."

Robert joined Erhard on the curb, and watched as Eames drove away. As soon as he was out of sight he took in a quick breath, telling himself not to let the anxiety return. It would only be an hour, and then they would have one more mind working to help him.

"Mr. Fischer," Erhard said haltingly, "Excuse me, but..."

"I know." Robert gave his jacket a tug and strode toward the entrance. "I'm going up. Please call Mr. Browning and Ms. Watts and let them know I'm in."

The condo was just as he had left it weeks ago. All the hardwood had been freshly polished, the tables dusted, every article in its proper place. Robert tried not to pay attention to it all as he headed immediately to the bathroom for a long, warm shower, letting the heat remind him of being wrapped up in Eames's dream. By the time he emerged and was dressed--a dress shirt and slacks, despite his present distaste for them--he felt ready to go into battle.

Browning was waiting for him in the great room, as he had expected, and he wasn't alone. Seated next to him was a middle aged woman with strawberry blonde hair, sipping from a cup of coffee. They both glanced up as he entered.

"You left your door open," Browning admonished, though patiently. There was some manner of bitter resolution in his face that Robert had never seen before.

"Peter." Robert had told himself he wasn't going to apologize, but as Browning rose to meet him, he couldn't help himself. "I'm sorry I disappeared last night. I know you were waiting to hear from me."

His mouth twitched. "Your driver told me you stayed at a hotel." He shook his head. "Honestly, Robert. Is this really the right time for that?"

He wasn't ashamed, but his stomach twisted anyway. "It doesn't mean anything," he assured. "Just like the last ones." He looked to the woman, who was watching them with quiet attentiveness. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"I already have, remember?" Browning held out his hand, and she accepted, standing. "This is my dear friend, Dr. Charla Banks."

Robert's heart pulsed against his throat. All at one he remembered the luncheon they had shared some years ago, and the way his skin had crawled beneath her even and seemingly all-knowing stare. The effects had not weakened since then. "Dr. Banks," he repeated, stalling. She offered her hand and he shook it involuntarily. "It's good to see you again."

"And you, Mr. Fischer," she greeted in kind. "I know it's a bit belated, but you have my condolences."

To hear her even mention his father gave him a chill, and he quickly retrieved his hand. "Thank you. What can I do for you, Doctor?"

Charla smiled sympathetically. "I think you already know."

He hid his anxiety well, by his own estimation. "Peter wants me to talk to you."

"This isn't a formal session," Browning said. "Nothing on the record. You don't have to say anything you don't want to." His brow furrowed. "But since you won't talk to me, I thought I should try to find someone you will."

He sounded sincere, and Robert wasn't sure if he was meant to berate himself for thinking so. This is the woman Eames warned me about, he thought, glancing between the two of them. But she's alone, and she doesn't even have a PASIV with her, so... He lowered his eyes. What if Peter really is just trying to help?

"I'm expecting company," Robert said, drawing himself up. "And I have a lot of business to attend to today, so I'm afraid I don't have much time."

"Just a few minutes, then," Charla suggested. "Whatever you're comfortable with telling me."

Robert clenched his fists in his pockets. She and Browning were watching him so expectantly it seemed ridiculous to refuse. "All right," he said. "At least until my guest gets here." Eames will want to know she's here. Maybe if they're face to face I can get some answers. He straightened his tie and gestured to the next room. "We can talk in the study, if that's all right."

"Should I get you something to drink?" Browning offered. "Some coffee, a glass of water?"

"No," Robert said quickly, with undue paranoia. "I'm fine." He shook himself and led Charla into the next room.

The study was just as tidy as the rest of the condo. His desk was clear and every book on the many shelves was carefully aligned. Robert sat down in one of the leather chairs and tried to give an impression of ease. "So, Dr. Banks. Peter tells me you're...into dreams," he said. Or maybe I can get some answers myself.

"Yes, you could say that." Charla sat down with her coffee. "I have degrees in oneirology and psychophysiology, but I suppose you're referring to my work with Dr. Gavde regarding shared dreaming."

"Peter's mentioned it a few times," Robert went on. "He told me I should talk to you about the fact that I'm not sleeping well lately."

"That's what he told me as well. He thinks you're suffering from some manner of anxiety disorder brought on by the shock of your father's death."

Again her words made Robert itch, and he fidgeted in his chair. "Well. He's not a psychiatrist."

"Then, you don't agree?" Charla sipped from her coffee, watching him closely the entire time. It was unnerving. "I find it hard to believe it hasn't affected you."

"It has," Robert said defensively. "That's not what I said."

"Why can't you sleep, Robert?" Charla asked bluntly.

She set her cup down and just stared, almost unblinking. Robert tried to meet her challenge but eventually he relented, looking down to the inside of his wrist, and the tiny scar from the IV. "Because I'm afraid I'll dream," he admitted.

He heard Charla stand. "And what's so frightening about dreams?"

"They're not natural." Robert flexed his fingers, watching the scar jar above thin tendons. "They mean something, and I..." He shook his head, realizing he was saying more than he wanted. "I'm sorry, Dr. Banks, but I--"

A cloth was shoved over his mouth and nose. Robert jerked back, but sharp nails dug into his neck and scalp, pressuring him forward into the sick, sweet odor. He tried not to breathe it in, but when he raised his arms to fend of his attacker they were already heavy. Charla held on with startling power as he writhed, helpless. Everything went dark.

Eames...

Robert sagged in the chair. Charla held on for a moment longer to be certain that he wasn't faking and then let go. As she straightened her blouse, Arthur stepped in from the adjoining bathroom.

"You weren't going to do that unless we had no choice," he reminded her with displeasure.

"I was impatient." Charla smiled icily as she tucked the cloth into her purse and checked Robert's pulse. "He won't remember it anyway."

Arthur frowned. "All clear," he called to his peers.

Yusuf, Nash, and Ariadne moved swiftly into the room, and immediately began rearranging the furniture and unpacking their equipment. "Did you get a good look around?" Arthur asked as he circled, observing. "Remember the layout of the condo, the building?"

"Yes, I've got it," Yusuf assured. "Everything's so immaculate it already doesn't feel real--it shouldn't be difficult to reproduce."

"Good." Arthur glanced to the door and noticed Browning there, watching the goings on with a distant, weary look. He approached. "Mr. Browning, your security will be in place, correct?"

"Yes." Browning didn't take his eyes off Robert, his fist tight around the handle of the door. "Robert's personal staff isn't due to arrive until the afternoon. Shelby is handling all inquiries. I'll have four men standing guard at this door, like you asked." He grunted. "If 'Simmonds' shows up, they'll handle him."

Eames. "All right." You had better stay out of this.

"It's time for you to leave, Peter," Charla said, joining them. "Just in case. I'll call you when we're finished." She touched his cheek, and to Arthur's amazement, pressed a little kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We'll take good care of him."

Browning nodded vaguely. He watched his godson a moment longer, deep in thought, and at last headed for the exit.

Arthur turned to Charla crossly. "And what was that?"

"Was what?" she asked innocently. She strode past him and retook her seat.

Arthur shook his head, and hoped that would be the last surprise of the morning. He shed his suit jacket and sat down in the chair the others had positioned directly facing Robert; Ariadne was immediately beside him, helping him unbutton his cuffs.

"He's going to recognize us as soon as he sees us," she said quietly, swabbing the inside of his wrists with alcohol. "Should we change the plan at all?"

"No. Just start us off somewhere hidden, and we can work from there." He looked up and offered a faint smile. "It's going to be fine."

She smiled back. "I know." She glanced around, and when everyone was busy inserting their needles and Robert's, she kissed his forehead. "See you when we wake up."

Everyone took their positions. Arthur breathed slowly, letting the tension ease out of his muscles, preparing himself for the state they were about to enter. He glanced to Robert, slumped and pale in the chair across from him, and his eyes narrowed.

Anything we do to him now couldn't be worse, he reminded himself, squashing the seed of ill ease that had threatened to take root. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the chair. "I'm ready," he said.

Around the room everyone agreed, and with a hiss of the PASIVs it began.

***

Cobb glanced at his watch: 8:50 am. He had been waiting at the park for ten minutes already, but he was still early. Not that it was much of a park--more like a stretch of grass where hired dog-walkers meandered in circles around each other. Cobb leaned his elbows against the chain link fence, watching a pair of Bijons snip at their leashes.

Across the city, his children were at a park much better than this. He easily imagined them running across the wood chips, scaling the multi-colored structures, running back to their grandmother for a snack. He remembered just as well the look she had given him when he promised he would be back before dinner, though he tried not to. Because six weeks wasn't long enough to repair a shattered relationship with a mother-in-law. Even his children sometimes looked surprised to see him, they had become so accustomed to life without him. He had battled daily to retake his position among them, and had succeeded in some ways more than others. He needed more time. He had hoped for much more time with them before he was reminded of his former life.

A cheap rental car parked in the lot, and Eames appeared. He was dressed in a suit and was cleanly shaved, his hair slicked back, looking as professional as Cobb ever saw him. He spotted Cobb quickly and headed over.

Remember what you promised to tell him, he reminded himself as he turned. Eames hadn't said over the phone exactly what he wanted, but he had known him for over two years and they had never met for a social visit.

"Cobb," Eames greeted as he approached, and together they took a seat at the park's only bench, just beyond the fence. "Thanks for coming."

"The answer is no," Cobb said immediately.

Eames smirked as if he'd expected it. "Not going to hear me out first?"

"It's still Fischer, isn't it? Why else would you call me out here?" He glanced away, watching the Bijons again. "The last time we talked, it sounded like you were going to do something stupid."

"Oh yes, and you were very perceptive," Eames said, and then continued before Cobb was ready. "I want you to come with me into Robert's mind."

The words were barely out before Cobb answered. "No."

"He's getting worse and I can't help him," Eames went on, all pretense of humor gone. It had been a while since Cobb heard him so serious. "He needs an experienced dreamer, not an old con like me."

"There are plenty of good dreamers here in the states," Cobb said. "Legal and otherwise."

Eames was already shaking his head. "I don't trust them."

But you trust me? Cobb tried not to frown. "You don't understand," he tried again. "I haven't even looked at a PASIV since we got off that plane. I don't think I'll be any help."

"Then at least talk with me a bit, yeah?" Eames leaned forward. "I think I've finally figured out what went wrong."

Cobb's heart gave a painful twinge that he again tried to hide. Inception itself is wrong. There was no way it was ever going to work out well for Fischer. He rubbed his beard. And it can't be fixed. It can't. "Go on," he said.

"The plan we came up with for the inception included reconciling Robert with his father," Eames immediately obliged. "You were right, and it worked. It worked so bloody well that he's now thoroughly convinced that his father loved him, all along, against all reason." He sighed. "The problem being, it's not true."

"So he's suffering some kind of cognitive dissonance?"

"Yes, and worse--his subconscious has reacted by rewriting his memories." Cobb frowned in alarm, but Eames continued before he could interrupt. "I saw it happen, while I was in his dream," he said, with greater agitation. "He's inventing explanations for his father's cold and cruel behavior, shifting the blame to himself for their fights, all in order to preserve the idea we planted in him."

The Bijons left with their keeper, and Cobb reluctantly swung his gaze back to his peer. "That sounds like something plenty of people do," he said quietly. "It's too hard to think badly of the dead."

"But not like this. It's too artificial--it's taking control of his entire subconscious." Eames shook his head. "And there's more."

I don't want to hear this. "Go on."

He shifted uncomfortably. "There's at least one memory the inception hasn't altered. His last moments with his father." He hesitated. "Maurice Fischer's last words were to tell his son that he was disappointed with him."

Cobb was speechless. He remembered suddenly that afternoon in the warehouse, the phrase worse than we thought which was taking on new meaning. Unwillingly he thought of his own father, and the last time he had seen him before his untimely death. He kissed Philipa goodbye, he recalled, cold from the memory. She was still half asleep but she smiled. He and Mom got in the car, they honked twice. I watched them to the end of the street... It was such a simple memory, one that for days afterwards had caused him so much regret it was hard to breathe. Later tragedies, however great, had dulled but never erased the sting of even those happy, innocent moments.

"I can't imagine," he murmured.

Eames was quiet a moment, his eyes downcast. Cobb was certain he was indulging in his own paternal memory, the contents of which he couldn't begin to guess at. "Even so, he's a strong man," Eames continued. "He would have coped. If not for us."

All it once it dawned on Cobb what Eames was driving towards, and it made him sick. "Because we changed his perspective."

"It's bad enough, knowing you disappointed a tyrant who never meant well for you," Eames said. "But even worse--"

"Is disappointing a father who loved you," Cobb finished. Wide brown eyes flashed across his field of vision. "Failing someone who cared about you so much..." His throat tightened and he couldn't finish. It haunts you.

"I thought I could fix it." Eames scoffed at himself, his voice hoarse with regret. "I followed the plan. 'Your father didn't want you to be him,' I told him. 'Be your own man.' Of course it didn't work." He leaned his elbows against his knees, shoulders sagging. "'What did my father want me to be?' That's the only question that matters to him now, made even stronger thanks to the inception. How can I answer it for him, when I can't answer it myself?"

Cobb was taken aback by Eames's startlingly sincere confession, and he wasn't sure how to respond. "Eames...you couldn't have known," he said awkwardly. "Of course we all thought that reconciling Fischer and his father would be good for him. If anything, blame me--it was my job."

"Yes, it was." Eames's gaze flickered to him with a sudden intensity. "That's why you're going to come with me into his mind."

"No," Cobb said again. "This may be personal for you but it's not for me. It's just a job--you're the one who taught me--"

"Your children only have their father back because of Robert Fischer," he interrupted, reminding Cobb with cold certainty that whatever camaraderie they had shared the past two years, he was a seasoned criminal and an artful manipulator. "How will you face them if something happens to him?"

Cobb ground his teeth angrily. "Don't you dare bring my kids into this, Eames."

"You have completed an inception before, haven't you?"

The change of subjects caught him off guard, and he felt his face flush. The words swelled on his tongue and choked him. He knew what question would come next if he answered, and the next after that, and he wasn't sure he could go through the whole story again--not with Eames, who was suddenly watching him like a predator. He knew the havoc the man could wreak on him with too much truth.

"She killed herself," Cobb blurted out, his face hard and his pulse hammering.

Eames straightened up slowly. Guilt flashed in his eyes and lowered his offenses once more. He started to ask another question but Cobb hurried on to beat him to it. "I didn't dream with her again after I did it," he said, fighting to keep Eames's gaze. "I couldn't--I was afraid if I let her go under, she wouldn't wake up. Even if I could have gotten her under there was no way to undo it that wouldn't have hurt her more. It won't be any different with Fischer."

Yes, tell yourself that. He fingered the dull point of a familiar object in his pocket. There isn't any way to help Fischer, because there was no way to help her. There isn't a cure to inception.

Eames continued to watch him, attentive and sharp, and just when Cobb was searching for something to fill the silence with, he at last spoke up. "I have to try," he said quietly. "And you're going to help me."

"Eames..." He sighed heavily. "Please. You can't ask me to do this."

"I'm not." He stared Cobb down, unblinking. "I'm telling you, you won't be able to live with yourself if something happens to him."

Cobb stared back, frozen. A tremor formed in his chest, rotating and frightening. Eames's words burrowed into him as if determined to make themselves true, giving birth to further doubts. Even if Eames was wrong and he managed to walk away unscathed, he had already sparked a question he knew he would never be able to leave unanswered.

"All right," Cobb relented, exhausted. "All right--you win. I'll come with you." He blinked in surprise when Eames immediately pushed to his feet and he couldn't help but do the same. "But just once--if it doesn't look like--"

"Just once to start," Eames said, already ushering him towards his rental. "He's going to need a lot of work. But I'm sure between the two of us we'll think of something."

Cobb groaned and rubbed his eyes. He already regretted his decision and part of him hated Eames for it. But he suddenly felt as if he understood what Robert was going through, thanks to the unsettling question that now rippled beneath his skin.

Did I do enough for her? He slid into the passenger seat and took a deep breath, willing himself to leave it behind for now.

"I should warn you," Eames said as they drove the short distance to Robert's condo. "Robert's going to recognize you. His subconscious has adopted 'Mr. Charles' as its head of security."

"What?" Cobb glared at him, baffled. "How?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea--I'm telling you, the inception has affected him in ways I never would have imagined. Last night he was building rooms in my own dream and I didn't realize." He chuckled, but Cobb heard the thread of discomfort buried inside.

"And you're only telling me this now?" Cobb shook his head. "If he recognizes me he's going to suspect something."

"Don't worry. I'll just tell him that you're the best in the business, so whoever trained him must have implanted your image to frighten off potential extractors."

He still didn't like it. "Won't his trainer just tell him that's not the case?"

Eames hesitated. "Maurice paid for the extractor--Robert doesn't know who it was."

"Jesus." Even after all he had heard Cobb still couldn't wrap his mind around the family dynamic he was dealing with. When he looked to Eames he spotted tension in his brow that worried him all over again. "Eames. How much does Fischer know?"

Again he hesitated. "He knows that I performed the inception on him."

"Stop the car," Cobb said immediately.

"Now hold on, it's all--"

"Stop the car, now."

Eames pulled over, and as soon as they were mostly stopped Cobb unbuckled and shoved the door open. It wasn't until he noticed a man in uniform watching him in confusion that he realized they had arrived: Robert's building loomed over him, gleaming and ominous. "Damn it." He turned and marched away, determined to get back to the park on foot if he had to.

"Cobb--wait." Eames tossed his keys to the valet and chased him down. "Calm down, it's all right."

"Like hell it is!" Cobb whirled on him, hissing. "Are you trying to get me thrown in prison? If he realizes I was in on it--"

"He only knows about my involvement," Eames insisted, taking his arm before he could try to escape again. "He doesn't know about you or any of the others, and he doesn't have to." He gave him a tug. "Come on, you promised you'd at least take a look at him."

"I didn't promise anything," Cobb protested, but he let Eames guide him back towards the entrance. "I can't do this, Eames. I'm not risking my children again."

"You won't, I swear." Eames smiled reassuringly. "Think about it. If you help me fix him you have an ally for life. Fischer can buy you out of a lot more trouble that Saito, you know."

Cobb heaved a sigh at being reminded of Saito. "This is insane," he muttered, following Eames into the building. "I can't believe you talked me into this." But it wasn't true; deep down he knew all along that he would cave.

The lobby was almost as big as Cobb's new apartment, all gold limestone and teak marble and a book placed on the corner table just so to give it an illusion of homeliness. Cobb tried not to make a face as he followed Eames to the security desk. He fingered his totem almost the entire way.

"We're here to see Robert Fischer," Eames told the woman behind the desk. "He's expecting us."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but Mr. Fischer is not accepting guests," she said precisely.

Eames smiled in irritation. "Love, he's not accepting guests because he's expecting us. Please call up and let him know we're here."

She stared back at him, unmoved. "Mr. Fischer is not accepting guests," she repeated tersely.

The elevator chimed, and Cobb glanced to it quickly while Eames continued to pressure the woman. When a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head stepped out his hand graced his hip, seeking a handgun that wasn't there. He clenched his jaw and tapped Eames's shoulder. "Hey."

Eames glanced back, and to Cobb's surprise his face lit up. "Ah, Erhard!"

Erhard started, interrupting his lighter on its way to the cigarette between his lips. "Mr. Eames...."

As Eames moved to greet him, Cobb glanced back to the security woman. She was watching the pair closely while stealthily reaching for her phone. Cobb's instincts kicked in and he reached over the desk, hanging up her call before she'd finished tapping in the numbers.

"Please don't do that," he said politely. Tensing, she leaned back and replaced the receiver.

"Just the fellow who can help us," Eames was saying as he reached Erhard. "You can take us up to meet Robert, can't you?"

"Uhh..." Erhard tucked the cigarette back into the pack, unlit. "I'm not supposed to."

The muscles along Eames's jaw twitched. "Browning, eh?"

"I'm...well, yes." Erhard shook his head uncomfortably. "I'm sorry Mr. Eames, but I'm under orders. I'll lose my job."

Cobb joined them. He saw that Eames was tense and he started to worry that he was about to say or do something reckless. "Who do you work for?" he asked bluntly. "Mr. Browning, or Mr. Fischer?"

Erhard frowned at him. "I work for Mr. Fischer."

"Then the least you can do is tell him he has guests, right?"

Still Erhard looked unconvinced, but then Eames flashed him a grin. "Come on, Erhard," he teased. "You were young once, weren't you?"

Again to Cobb's amazement, it worked: Erhard shifted uncomfortably on his feet and scratched the back of his neck. "All right, come on." He waved to the woman behind the desk. "It's all right, I'll take them up."

They headed for the elevators, and on the way Cobb took Eames soundly by the elbow. "Tell me you're not sleeping with him," he whispered.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Come now, I know it's been a while but you must remember that using a PASIV together requires sleep."

"Eames." Cobb shook his head. "You owe me for this," he swore.

"No." Eames eyed him seriously as they entered the elevator behind Erhard. "Actually, I think this makes us even." Cobb couldn't reply.

They exited on the thirty-ninth floor, through the private vestibule and into the condo's great room. Three men were seated around the coffee table, one reading a newspaper while the others watched the local morning show on Robert's widescreen. They jerked to attention as Erhard led his guests inside. "It's all right," he assured. "They're with me."

"Marcus," Eames called to the one with the newspaper. "I hope you're up for another game soon."

"Mr. Eames?" He pushed to his feet, looking uncertain. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh we're here to see Robert," Eames said easily. "Where's he hiding? Robert!"

The other two men stood as well. Neither of them had the same look of recognition as Erhard and Marcus, and Cobb noticed one of them brushing his hand over his hip, the same instinctual gesture he'd performed earlier. He tensed, for the first time in two months wishing he had a gun on him. "Eames."

"Is he in the bathroom?" Eames continued, and he started to move about the condo in search, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the tense atmosphere. "Don't be shy, Robert, there's someone I want you to meet!"

One of the guards intercepted him, a hand on his chest. "Sir, you have to leave."

"But we just got here." His grin was a coiled spring. "Come on, turn him out."

The other guard was moving toward his back. Cobb felt sweat form on his brow but his face was impassive as he carefully circled. He had done this dance a dozen times, more often unconscious than otherwise, and he knew how to pick his angle. There are four and they're armed, he thought, hoping that Eames could somehow hear him. Please don't do anything stupid. I can't be here for this!

"Mr. Fischer isn't to be disturbed," the first guard said, glaring Eames down. "But I will tell him you were kind enough to visit."

"Why don't I tell him myself?" Eames stood up on his toes, trying to see around him. "Robert!"

Guard two grabbed him by the shoulder, and Eames surged into motion. He twisted around, in one smooth action hooking his arm around the guard's and jabbing him hard in the side of his throat. As the man gagged and lost his balance Eames shoved him down, bypassing the other completely on his way down the hall, still calling for Robert.

"Shit--" Cobb darted forward. He could see Marcus reaching into his jacket, and Erhard approaching from the side, but he was more concerned with the first--the largest--of the guards already with a gun in his hand. His children's faces flashed across his vision as he grabbed for the gun, and by some miracle he was able to clasp his hand over the safety before it could be thumbed off. "Wait, wait!" he shouted. "We're not here for this, we--"

Sturdy hands grabbed the back of his neck, and a moment later the breath was crushed out of him as he was forced chest first into the wall. His grip was still tense and the gun came with him; the muzzle pressed into the bridge of his nose and he heard the trigger being pulled, but with the safety still on the only percussion was Cobb's sharp intake of breath.

"Christ, are you crazy?" Cobb clung to the pistol, his eyes flicking between the metal and the scowling face of the bodyguard.

"Yeates, shit, put that away," Erhard said as he came between them. He peeled both their hands off the weapon and stepped back, making sure the safety was still on. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

"Back the fuck off, I'm doing my job!" he shouted back, red-faced and spitting. "Where is he, I'm gonna--"

"That's what I want to know," Eames said as he returned. The two men whipped around, and Yeates might have made a grab for him if not for Erhard's hand on his elbow. Eames viewed them--and Cobb, still trapped with Marcus's hand at the back of his neck--with cold intensity. "Where's Robert?"

"None of your--"

"He's fine," Erhard interrupted, still urging his peer back. "I'm sorry Mr. Eames but you have to leave."

"If he's fine he would have heard all this," Eames retorted, taking a step forward. "Where is he?"

Yeates growled. "Fucking Brit--" He shoved past Erhard and went after Eames again. Cobb tensed, but not out of worry for his companion. Eames dodged back easily, twisting out of Yeates's reach, and struck when there was an opening. The hard bone of his palm cracked into Yeates's nose, and he fell back, bleeding and cursing.

"He definitely would have heard that," Eames said smartly.

Erhard grabbed his injured companion and pushed him to the wall so he could regain his balance. "Shit--stop it, all right? All of you." He glanced to Marcus, and the last of their peers still clutching his throat, and groaned in frustration. "Jesus. Everyone, stay put. Marcus, go check on Mr. Fischer, all right?"

Marcus leaned back. "You want me to let him go?" he asked, patting Cobb on the shoulder.

"Take him with you," Eames suggested. "Because I'm not leaving until one of us has seen him."

"Okay--fine--take him."

Cobb breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Marcus pulled him away from the wall. He shot Eames a hard glare and walked obediently with his handler across the room to a far door. Though exasperated he couldn't help but feel sharp sensation of dread as Marcus fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the study. Why would he be locked in? The door opened, and when he saw inside, his heart skipped painfully.

Robert Fischer was in the study, but he was far from alone. The furniture had all been shoved to the walls except for the chairs, which bore Robert and his five guests. Closest to the door sat Charla and Nash, very unwelcome surprises, connected to the open PASIV case at their feet. Worse was Ariadne, beautifully made up and just as unconscious as the others, seated next to Yusuf by the far wall. Guilt and anger warred in Cobb's stomach, and it took him a long moment to realize that they were connected to a second PASIV.

Robert himself was in the center, his brow tight and lips slightly parted. Arthur sat across from him. Each of them had both arms bare, fluid-filled tubes connecting them to both of the PASIVs.

Cobb stared for long moments, uncomprehending. His gaze leapt back and forth between the pair of devices, telling himself that he was seeing things, that Arthur and Robert couldn't be connected to both at once. No matter how many times he double checked he came to the same conclusion, and his chest seemed to cave in. "Arthur...what the hell have you done."

"What is this?" Marcus asked beside him, wide-eyed and just as shocked, even though he couldn't possibly understand the significance the way Cobb did. "What are they doing to him?"

"They're killing him," Cobb whispered. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to keep the truth out of his face, but Eames saw it and immediately started forward. "Mr. Erhard, isn't it?" he called, wishing there was some way he could stall them. "What exactly is Mr. Fischer supposed to be doing?"

Erhard frowned, hurrying after Eames as they all approached the study. "Mr. Browning said he was speaking to a doctor."

Cobb turned around, his hands already at Eames's shoulders before he could see inside. "Calm down," he said preemptively.

"Bloody fucking--" Eames shoved past him and into the room. Cobb watched him take in the mess of IVs and come to the same conclusion. His face went pale, and he started quickly toward Robert.

"Wait!" Seeing his intention, Cobb rushed to stop him. "You can't wake him up."

"Like hell I can't," Eames hissed, reaching for the wires in Robert's right arm.

Cobb grabbed his wrist and yanked him back. "You can't," he insisted. "Eames, look at what they're doing. This is an extremely sensitive dreamshare, and--"

"Shit!" Eames jerked out of Cobb's grip and turned away, raking his hands through his hair.

"--and you can't just go waking any of them up prematurely." He glanced over the group again, his eyes landing on Arthur's calm face, tipped down toward his chest. "Not until we know what they're up to."

"I warned them," Eames growled, pacing. "I warned them both--this is too much. What the hell are they doing to him?"

Yeates shouldered Marcus out of the way, still holding his bleeding nose. "It's dream therapy, you dumb fuck," he snarled. "Don't touch them--they're trying to help Mr. Fischer."

"Look at them," Eames retorted. "Does this look like they're helping him? This is not normal dreamshare."

Cobb rubbed his eyes, regretting more than ever that he had agreed to Eames's request. You'll never forgive yourself rang through his ears, momentarily blotting out the surrounding arguments. When he looked to the door he first saw Erhard, slack-jawed and shifting on his feet. He took in a deep breath. "Mr. Erhard, where is Peter Browning?"

"He's not here," Yeates interrupted. "He's--"

"He's downstairs," Erhard took over, still clearly dumbfounded. "We weren't supposed to disturb them until he came back."

"And did he tell you what was going on in here?"

"No--well, sort of." Erhard shook his head in agitation. "Mr. Fischer hasn't been himself lately," he explained hastily. "He doesn't sleep, he barely eats, he cut his hair--he needed help."

"This isn't help," Eames snapped. "These are extractors--they're professional criminals, breaking into his mind."

Erhard shook his head again. "But Mr. Browning said--"

"We don't have time for this." Eames unbuttoned his cuff. "There's only way one to know."

Cobb grabbed his wrist again. "Hold on," he said, and then to Erhard, "How long have they been under?"

"I don't know. We've been here maybe twenty minutes?"

Yeates growled and pushed Erhard back, smearing blood across his suit. "Why are you even talking to them? Isn't this exactly the man Mr. Browning wanted us to throw out if he showed up?"

"Erhard," Eames said, "if you care at all about what happens to this man, you have to let us help him."

"If they really are extractors maybe we should call the police," Marcus suggested nervously.

"The police will just wake everyone up and lobotomize them." Eames at last pulled his hand out of Cobb's grip and moved closer to him. "Whatever it is these people are after, Robert's mind cannot handle this. Please."

"Enough!" Yeates started toward him. "I'm dragging these assholes--"

Erhard grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back into the range of his swinging fist. The impact against his jaw made even Cobb wince, and a moment later Yeates crashed to the floor, unconscious. The last of the guards hurried to crouch beside him, staring at Erhard incredulously. "Well, fuck," he declared. "Now we're all going to get fired."

"Thank you," Eames breathed. He tossed his jacket to the floor and rolled up his shirt sleeve. "Keep Browning off us as long as you can, all right?"

"If you're lying," Erhard warned, urging a stunned Marcus away from the doorway, "you're both dead men."

They moved away from the study but left the door open. Cobb would have preferred it closed but the men didn't seem likely to allow it. "Christ, Eames." He looked to Charla and scowled. "I hate to say it, but..."

"I was right," Eames filled in. His eyes went to Fischer, and Cobb saw something pained flicker through them. "Be honest: do you know what this is?"

"I'm not sure," Cobb said quietly so the guards wouldn't overhear. Resigned, he too shed his coat and yanked his sleeve up. "I think Arthur mentioned once that it was possible to split a dream across two PASIVs, but...to what purpose, I don't know." He sat down next to Ariadne, wishing she were awake so he could share a few choice words with her. "I don't know what we're going to find in there. It might already be--"

"Just try and figure out what they're up to," Eames interrupted. "Arthur's no idiot--there's got to be a way to wake them all up safely. We just have to find it."

"Right..."

Eames touched the nape of Robert's neck and leaned into him. "Robert," he said, close enough that his lips brushed the man's ear. "You've probably figured out already that you're dreaming. Just find somewhere safe and wait for me. I'm coming after you."

Cobb watched him, an inexplicable feeling stirring his innards. As Eames seated himself at Robert's feet and slid the needle under his skin he was tempted to say something, a reassurance of some kind, but by then Eames was unconscious. He shook his head and inserted his own needle.

I'll be home in time for dinner, he thought, wincing, the last thought before he was pulled into sleep his mother-in-law's disapproving stare.

Chapter Text

"The helix trap is actually more like a double helix," Arthur explained. "Again, not my name choice. Like I told you before, it works by splitting the subject's mind into two halves: one that remains in the dream, one that functions in reality. A feedback loop is created, where experiences in reality reflect in the dream, and visa-versa."

It was 2:30 in the morning, and Yusuf and Ariadne were seated around the card table, eating turkey chili to stay awake. "But doesn't that mean they'll eventually balance out?" Ariadne asked between bites. "If the dream changes to match what he's really seeing and experiencing, what stops it from just becoming a reflection?"

Arthur nodded to her. "You're right--normally, that is what would happen. That's why we're going to create something in the dream space that can't exist in reality, something with enough emotional attachment that he won't be able to erase it."

"His father? Oh!" She straightened. "Dr. Banks is going to forge Fischer Sr., isn't she?"

"Yes. That's the plan, anyway." Arthur started to reach for his coffee, but changed his mind and opened a bottled water instead. "She's not the best forger but Fischer's subconscious should fill in for her."

"A man hallucinating his recently passed father sounds almost too believable," Yusuf said, frowning. "Dr. Banks won't have any trouble convincing the Fischer Morrow board that he needs help."

"In order to undo it, we may have to go through his father's death again, in another dream," added Arthur. "It sounds cruel, but it's the cleanest way of doing this that I could think of."

Ariadne worried her bottom lip between her teeth. It did sound cruel, but she couldn't think of anything better, either. "All right. Then it's time to spill." She took in a deep breath and faced Arthur squarely. "How do we split him?"

Arthur leaned back. "We put him in two dreams simultaneously, by connecting him to two PASIVs at the same time."

Ariadne blinked in surprise. "But..." She glanced to Yusuf, who was almost beaming with intellectual curiosity, and wasn't sure what to think. "But it's the dreamer that makes the dream, right? Not the machine. How would that change anything?"

"Aha, that's what I thought too," Yusuf said. "And to be honest, my assistant and I tried it as soon as Charla finished explaining it to us. With two people both connected to two machines, the effect is the same as using one, because there is still only one dreamer."

"You shouldn't have been experimenting on your own like that," Arthur admonished. "You could have gotten yourselves in trouble."

"Yes, yes, but that's how progress is made, no? Anyway." Yusuf leaned his elbows on the table and looked to Ariadne. "It turns out, the trick is to have two dreamers each connect to their own device, separately, and then connect a third person to both. That third becomes the subject, who is then compelled to populate both dreams."

Ariadne's mind whirled simply thinking about it. "But how can your brain deal with all that information, especially consciously? I can't even begin to imagine how that works."

"It's extremely taxing," said Arthur, wincing.

"Well yeah of course it--wait." She squinted at him, and when he tried to look away, she caught on. "Is that why you had a headache earlier? You've been doing that? You're not--" She turned her chair towards him. "You're not doing that on the job, are you?"

"I'll have to," he replied evenly. "We won't be able to communicate between the parallel dreams otherwise."

"But this is crazy!" Ariadne looked again to Yusuf but he was no help at all.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" he said brightly. "I knew Arthur was a skilled dreamer, but if I hadn't seen it myself I'd never have believed he could do this. It must take an extraordinary amount of focus and control." His eyes seemed to gleam. "I'm quite envious."

"This is the plan," Arthur resumed. He started to doodle a tree-like diagram on his napkin. "We're going to start with Ariadne and Nash each creating the same dream, using two different PASIVs. With both dreams being the same, Fischer's mind should populate them the same way, making it seem like one cohesive dream. That should make it easier for him to cope with it, even though he's not trained for dreamshare this complicated."

Ariadne still had reservations, but she bit them back so she could hear him out. "Okay..."

"Then your transitioning comes in. You'll make a slight change in your dream while Nash's stays the same, gradually easing Fischer's mind in two different directions. Once he seems stable, we'll take him down to level two."

"Two levels, two dreams each," Yusuf added. "That's four full dreams--only a very clear compound will make it possible."

Arthur nodded. "We wouldn't be able to do this without you," he agreed. "Anyway, in level two, Yusuf and Dr. Banks will be the dreamers. Dr. Banks will set the trap by forging Fischer Sr., and then....we spring it."

"By waking up Yusuf's half," said Ariadne. "Okay, I think I get it, but..." Her stomach knotted, made worse by Arthur's too-calm expression. "If you're going to be in both dreams just like Fischer, doesn't that mean you're going to get pulled apart too?"

At last Yusuf's expression showed some of the same concern she was feeling, but Arthur still looked resolute. "Yes," he admitted. "Which is why the timing has to be precise. Once the trap is set, I'll have to go back to level one before we wake up, or I could end up just like Fischer."

"God this is freaking me out." Ariadne forced herself to laugh to try and dispel the tension locking her up, and it worked, somewhat. "You're sure that will work, right?"

"It's how we got out last time," Arthur replied. Playing along, he smiled with her. "If anything goes wrong you'll just have to come back in and get me."

"Don't think I won't! Just so I can give you a beating." She swallowed a mouthful of chili, willing it to settle her. "I guess I'll have to really get to work, then. There's not much time left."

"Anything else we should know?" asked Yusuf.

"...Yes." Arthur pushed his bowl away so he could lean forward, fingers laced on the table. "There's something I should have told you before the last one, actually."

Here it is. Ariadne stopped eating as well so she could give him her full attention. "You mean, the fact that you had been in Fischer's mind before the inception," she said.

"Yes."

"What?" Yusuf glanced between them in alarm. "You mean, as part of the research? Or..." His eyes narrowed, and Ariadne could see him coming to the same conclusion she had earlier after overhearing the conversation with Eames. "Part of his training?"

"No," Arthur said quickly. "No, I did not train Robert Fischer." He ran a hand through his hair. "I trained his father."

The pair exchanged baffled looks. "What?"

"It was almost three years ago," Arthur explained. "Dr. Banks recommended him to me. He said at first that he wanted to be trained in subconscious defense, but when we met in person he changed his mind. He hired me to perform an extraction on his son."

"An extraction?" Ariadne repeated incredulously. "On his own son?"

Yusuf shook his head. "What were you extracting?"

Arthur's perfect composure cracked minutely. "I was never completely sure," he admitted. "He was worried that someone had gotten to Fischer already, and he wanted me to find out if there was something artificial in his subconscious mind."

"Like he had been Incepted already?"

"I don't know--I don't think so." Arthur shook his head. "To be honest, I got the impression he was simply being paranoid. In Fischer's mind we found a whole host of unhappy childhood memories. We would have had to repress half his history to make him a model son of Maurice Fischer, if that's what he really wanted. I told him I couldn't help, so I gave him some training to make up for it and left it at that."

"So wait, then Fischer--Fischer Jr.--wasn't trained?" Ariadne rubbed her face, twice as exhausted as she had been a moment ago. "Not even when you were in his mind last?"

"No." Arthur's eyes darted away from her, hiding something. "His projections were fierce, that much I found out, but only because I made a mistake and tripped them myself. They weren't organized. Fischer's father assured me he had not had any training, too. When I planned for the inception I only went back the last three years and found nothing."

Ariadne sighed. "So that's still a mystery." She watched Arthur's face closely, trying to puzzle out the missing pieces of his story. "Why didn't you tell us all this before?"

"I didn't want Cobb to know," he confessed. "He was already having a hard time reining himself in, and I knew that if I said anything, it would only distract him." He met Ariadne's gaze, and she felt as if she could feel a message seeping out of him that she was meant to interpret. "I took that job right after he first learned that I was involved in illegal dreamshare. He was still clean then--we had a fight and weren't speaking. I didn't learn anything from Fischer's mind that was useful anyway, so I figured...it wasn't worth it to bring up history like that. Not when his children were on the line."

So Dr. Banks was right. They weren't speaking...almost three years ago. Something clicked in her brain, and she had to fight to keep the revelation out of her face. She glanced quickly to Yusuf and back. "Who was with you when you tried to extract from Fischer?" she asked carefully.

"Another extractor." His spoke deliberately, and with regret she had no trouble tracing to the source. "Not someone we have to worry about now."

Yusuf shook his head. "Anything else we need to know?"

"Nothing that can't wait until morning." Arthur stretched and pushed to his feet. "I've had my nap but I'm sure you two need the rest. We can go back to planning tomorrow." He looked to Ariadne. "I'll drive you home in the morning, so you have time before your class."

"Thanks."

Yusuf watched him walk away without comment and then looked to Ariadne. "He's still hiding something," he said.

"No," Ariadne murmured. "I'm pretty sure he just told me everything."

***

When Ariadne opened her eyes the first thing she saw was her own face staring back at her: she was applying her makeup once again, in the mirror of a lavishly furnished executive washroom. Once finished she closed her eyes, feeling out the edges of her dream, making sure that every little detail was in place. Five points. Fifteen connecting tunnels. Thirty-two floors in the tower. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Arthur. Where's Arthur?

The washroom had a small sitting area with a plush sofa, and it was there that she found Arthur. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands, every breath carefully measured. It wasn't the first time Ariadne had seen him in such pain, thanks to their many training sessions, but she still felt a sympathy ache between her temples as she waited for him to compose himself. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah..." Arthur rubbed his hands over his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and then then down over his cheeks, as if pushing his features into their proper place. "Yes, I'm fine," he said with greater confidence, sitting up. "It feels pretty stable. You and Nash did a good job."

"So it's working?" Ariadne asked anxiously. "Fischer's filling in like you said?"

"Let's find out."

Arthur leaned back in the sofa, his gaze straightforward but unfocused. After a moment of concentration he stood, slowly, and strode into the bathroom proper. But at the same time he was still sitting on the sofa: a second Arthur had been left behind, fuzzy at the edges but unmistakably present. He stared into space, ghostlike.

Still so weird, Ariadne thought, glancing between the two Arthurs. She was tempted to poke at him, but settled instead with waving her hand in front of the copy's face.

Arthur's eyes came into focus and looked up at her. "What?"

"Oh--nothing, sorry." Ariadne smiled sheepishly, and blushed when she realized that the first Arthur was also watching her, having returned from his brief walk. "You're freaking me out."

Arthur moved in front of the sofa, and when his double stood, they merged seamlessly together once more. Ariadne got a chill. "Then it's working," he concluded. "Fischer's subconscious is fighting to keep the dreams equal, by projecting into one dream anything that's in the other."

He slipped an earpiece out of his pocket and into his ear, and Ariadne followed suit. "This is Arthur, checking in from the executive washroom," he said. "Everyone check in."

"Yusuf, in the hall outside Fischer's office," came the first reply. "I'm starting 'repairs' on Elevator B."

"Charla, standing by in the basement. Is the Mark in place?"

"Yeah, he's here." Nash cleared his throat. "I mean, this is Nash. I'm in Fischer's reception area. He's in the office."

"How does he look?" Arthur asked.

"Uhh...sick."

"Keep an eye on him. Ariadne's on her way in." He nodded to her.

She nodded back, and gave her ear a tap. "Stay in touch," she said with a faint smile. He returned it, and she started out of the bathroom. "Ariadne here, on my way to Fischer's office."

The office building stood thirty-two stories tall, as planned, and at the top floor it was mostly unoccupied. Ariadne had made sure to let Robert's office take up most of the space, along with empty conference rooms and storage, in order to cut down on the projections as much as possible. As she moved through the hall she passed only two clerks, each carrying files in one arm and handmade, paper pinwheels in the other.

That's...interesting, Ariadne thought with a frown as she slipped into Robert's office. The reception area was round and gray, with a pair of thick wooden desks facing each other like sentinels in front of Robert's door. The west wall was taken up mostly by a broad picture window that offered a breathtaking view of Nash's round Cairo, still half shadowed in the early morning hours. Ariadne glanced over the city, very pleased with her work, and took a seat behind her desk.

Nash was seated across from her, pressed and slick and intense as he too surveyed their dreamscape. When they were both satisfied they exchanged glances, and then a slow smile.

"Nicely done, Mr. Nash," Ariadne complimented.

"Nicely done yourself, Miss Ari," Nash replied.

As usual the dream had erased his scars and casts, but he wasn't entirely there: like the copy of Arthur he was blurred at the edges, leaving afterimages with every movement. We're not technically connected--I can only see him at all through Fischer, Ariadne reminded herself. Which means once Fischer's pulled apart, we'd lost contact if not for Arthur.

Ariadne glanced further into the office. The reception area was separated from Robert's office proper by a glass wall with tall, slotted blinds, giving them a barred view of their target. He was seated behind his own impressive desk, face in hands much like Arthur had been only minutes before. His shoulders were tense and his lips moved as if whispering something to himself. Ariadne winced in sympathy. He'll get used to it, like Arthur did, she told herself. Or...this job might not get very far.

Robert rubbed his eyes and then reached for his intercom. "Shelby," his voice came through the speaker on her desk. "Could you please bring me an Aspirin and some water?"

Ariadne jumped, and opened her desk drawer in search, and then jumped again: the drawer was full of paper pinwheels. Some were as broad as her hand while others no larger than a quarter, and they came in a wide variety of colors and designs. Frowning deeply, she pawed through them.

"Go on, Shelby," Nash said, waving at her.

"I can't--he'll recognize me." She found a medicine bottle at the bottom of the pile and tossed it to Nash. "You go."

He did, and while he was gone Ariadne made another sweeping look of her desk. She had placed a flower vase on one corner, but what should have been roses had become a bouquet of twirling red pinwheels. So had the pen and pencil jar, and her stack of Post-its, and the desktop wallpaper of her computer...

"Pinwheel, pinwheel," Charla's voice sang through her earpiece. "Spinning around."

"You see them too?" Before anyone could ask, she added, "I didn't put them here."

"Me neither," Nash said as he returned from the office.

"They're all over," said Yusuf. "All of his projections are carrying one. Does it mean anything to you, Charla?"

She hummed thoughtfully and took long in answering. "I've seen something like this before--it's some kind of subconscious obsession. I doubt it'll interfere with the job."

"Then we ignore them," Arthur said. "Let's give Fischer an hour to adjust before we continue."

Everyone agreed, but as Ariadne settled she couldn't help but feel apprehensive. It must have something to do with the inception, she thought, glancing to him through the blinds. He was still rubbing his eyes wearily. I don't remember any pinwheels the last time we were here.

The hour passed slowly. Ariadne did her best to stay relaxed but on task, answering phone calls and clicking around her computer like an active secretary. Robert stayed in his office the entire time, gradually regaining his composure. Eventually he even went to work, making phone calls of his own and shuffling boredly through his mail. Corporate life, she thought with half a smile. Boring even in dreams.

When he seemed to have completely adjusted Arthur was in her ear again. "How's Fischer doing?"

"He's fine." Ariadne snuck another peek. "I think we're ready."

"Then you're up, Ariadne."

Ariadne took a deep breath, and turned her office chair around to face the picture window. It was still early in the morning, but the city below had awakened and was bustling with activity. In the streets the projections moved like ants, and she wondered if each of them were also carrying little pinwheels. Focus, Ariadne. This is important. Once she was sure her concentration was set, she stared into the horizon and pulled, very slowly.

Even if she had been outside she wouldn't have been able to feel it yet: the slight tug of cooler air flowing through the city. There was only a faint line of clouds in the distance that would, in a few hours' time, roll in and bring the rain she had been practicing all week. When she watched the projections as they continued their morning commute she noticed no change in their patterns and was relieved.

"Ari," Nash whispered in warning. "Ari, wait."

She glanced swiftly to the office, and held her breath at the sight of Robert moving towards the windows. His eyes were dull and unfocused, and he pressed his hand slowly to the glass. Not even Arthur's subconscious caught on that fast during training, Ariadne thought, fighting to keep her anxiety from hampering the transition. He can't have noticed already.

Robert leaned forward until his face was to the window, and his shoulders sagged, as if the strength were going out of him. He stayed there, silent and motionless, his eyes closed, for five minutes before Ariadne felt confident enough that he wasn't reaction to her dream altering. The projections below were still casually milling about as if aware of nothing. With another deep breath she accelerated the change, just to be sure.

Robert did not move. He remained at the window for another eventless hour before he returned to his desk.

"He's acting strangely," Ariadne whispered, splitting her attention between watching their Mark and supporting her work. "I'm not sure if he's figured it out already."

"The projections are still calm," Arthur told her. "Just relax. When he's on to us, I'm sure we'll be the first to know."

With bullets, probably. Ariadne shook her tense shoulders and adjusted her chair for another long wait.

She stuck to the plan. After three hours of transitioning her clouds had formed into a cold front, dark and oppressive across the entire skyline. After four it began to rain, heavy drops splattering the windows. Robert's head jerked up at the noise, and again he walked to the window, with much greater clarity than before. He watched each falling drop with increasing familiarity and irritation.

"Someone's heading for the office," Yusuf whispered.

Ariadne looked to the door. Two men were approaching, just visible in the frosted glass. She straightened her suit and did her best to look unassuming and projection-like as the door opened, and two broad-shouldered men stepped inside. The first had green eyes and rough, brown hair with poorly groomed sideburns--the second was dark-skinned and had a neck like a linebacker. They were barely inside when Ariadne heard a sharp gasp through her earpiece, but she didn't have time to figure out who it was: the first man was leaning over her desk.

"We're here to see Mr. Fischer," he said.

Ariadne straightened up. "He's expecting you," she replied automatically, gesturing to the office. The man grunted, and he and his companion continued inside.

"Militant projections don't make appointments, do they?" Ariadne whispered, watching as Robert eyed the men and warily shook their hands.

"If they're not gone in a few minutes, find an excuse to get them out," Arthur instructed. "It's almost time and we don't want anyone in there."

Ariadne looked for Nash, ready to plan such an excuse with him, but he was gone. Frowning, she glanced to the office, and when the men were definitely not looking she snuck to his desk. "Nash, where did you..."

Nash was curled up under his desk. His eyes were wide and he was shaking, his arms held close to his chest, his face pale. He looked utterly terrified, and when Ariadne knelt down to touch his shoulder he jerked away.

"Oh fuck," he groaned, trying to hide deeper in the wood. "Oh God..."

"Nash!" she hissed, shaking him. "What's the matter?" She peeked over the desk--Robert was still talking to his two guests, looking more and more discomforted by their presence. When the first man's voice rose angrily Nash shuddered. She ducked under the desk again. "Do you know them?"

"Oh fuck, it's him," Nash breathed.

"What? Who is it?"

Nash's panicked eyes met hers, and scars blossomed across his face and down his arm. "It's Woodruff," he gasped. "He did this to me."

"Woodruff is the president of Cobol Engineering," said Yusuf. "Fischer Morrow's worked with them before--he must be Fischer's projection."

"Calm him down," Arthur instructed sharply.

Ariadne edged closer to Nash and touched his face, wincing at the scars beneath her fingers. "Nash, it's all right," she assured. "Fischer brought them here--they're his projections. He doesn't know that you know Woodruff, so they won't recognize you." She hooked her arm under his. "Come on--get up."

"I can't." Nash squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shrink away from her. "I can't--don’t let him see me, oh God."

"Uh-oh--more incoming," Yusuf warned anxiously.

Ariadne started to push herself up, but when she saw the outline of the man approaching her heart skipped and she immediately ducked behind the desk again. The door opened, and their new guest strode purposefully through the reception area and into Robert's office.

"Arthur," Ariadne hissed, edging around the desk to see. "It's Eames--Eames is here."

"What? Hold on--I'm coming in."

"No, wait," Yusuf interrupted. "I don't think it's really him--he looked right at me and didn't recognize me."

"You think he's a projection too?" Ariadne leaned around the corner of Nash's desk to get a view of the office. She couldn't make out what Eames was saying but whatever it was made Woodruff's face flush, and he raised his voice again, gesturing with his closed fist. They continued to argue as Eames opened the office door.

"You gentlemen need to leave," he said, his smile icy. "I'm sure you're familiar with the way out."

"This isn't over," Woodruff snarled as he and his companion marched out. "You'll regret this, Fischer! You're in our territory, remember that!" He slammed the door behind him.

"You didn't need to do that," Robert said, folding his arms. "They're a powerful company here in Africa. I need to be able to get along with them."

"This deal isn't right for you, trust me," Eames said, turning toward him. "I'm keeping you from making a mistake."

He closed the door, drowning out the rest of their conversation, but Ariadne still had a good view of them moving close together. She watched Eames rub Robert's arms, watched Robert relax under his hands, watched Eames ask a question and get an uncertain answer. "I knew it," she said under her breath.

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded. "Are you all right?"

Eames touched the nape of Robert's neck and leaned into him. He whispered something, close enough that his lips brushed the man's ear. Slowly Robert stood taller, and his eyes flickered to the reception area. He met Ariadne's gaze, momentarily paralyzing her with the same intense glare of hatred he'd fixed on her the night before in the hotel.

He's on to us, she realized, but before she could get the words out of her throat Eames twisted around, pistol in hand. She had just enough presence of mind to reel back as gunshots shattered the glass between them and threw chunks of wood out of the desk.

Nash finally woke from his stupor, and pulled Ariadne to the other end of the desk with him as bullets ripped through the pinwheels and impacted against the walls. He reached for his own gun, taped under the desk as a backup, but Eames never stopped firing as he steered Robert through the office. By the time he had to pause to reload they were already out the door.

"Eames has Fischer," Ariadne reported, her heart pounding as she hurried to retrieve the weapon from her desk. "They're headed your way, Yusuf."

"I'll handle him," said Arthur. "The rest of you just get Fischer to the basement."

Ariadne bit her lip as she thumbed the safety off and crept to the door. She could see Fischer's back moving down the hall, and motioned for Nash to follow her after them.

"I'm sorry," Nash said, rubbing the scars off his face. "I didn't mean--"

"It's all right, it's not your fault," she replied quickly. "We can still do this."

Arthur slipped out of the washroom ahead of them, Glock in hand. At the far end of the hall Yusuf was kneeling between the two elevators, dressed in a maintenance uniform and surrounded by equipment. Eames and Fischer were nearly on him, and he tensed, trying not to arouse their suspicion.

"Grab Fischer and pull him into the elevator," Arthur instructed quietly, leveling his weapon. "In three...two..."

Yusuf stayed low, grabbing Robert around the waist and using his hand on the open elevator as leverage to yank him through. At the same time Arthur fired, and blood sprayed from Eames's bicep. Before he could get off another shot a pair of hands grabbed at him from the open conference room on his left and dragged him inside.

"Arthur!" Ariadne ran to the open door, just in time to see Arthur shoot Woodruff through the eye. But Woodruff's bodyguard was there as well, and he knocked the gun out of Arthur's hand before reaching for his throat. Ariadne lifted her gun but as the men grappled against the conference table she wasn't confident enough in her shot to take it. If I wake Arthur up now, he could be--

"Go!" Arthur shouted, prying at the hands around him, and then suddenly there were two of him, struggling together to throw the man back. "Stay with Fischer!"

"Okay--be careful!"

Ariadne bolted for the end of the hall. Yusuf still had his arm around Robert's waist, his foot braced against the door in his attempt to keep Robert in the elevator. Robert twisted and shoved at him, pulling at the door and at Eames, who was bloodied but still full of fight. Despite his wounded arm Eames lifted his gun.

"Wake me up!" Robert shouted, pulling the muzzle towards his head. "Wake me up--"

Nash threw himself into Eames, digging his fingers into the open gunshot wound--Eames cried out, more angry than pained, as the gun dropped from his trembling grip. With Ariadne's help Nash threw Eames back and at last shoved Robert into the corner of the elevator.

Ariadne turned back. Arthur was charging out of the conference room, and Eames was reaching for his gun again, and yet another projection in a black suit was stepping out of the recently arrived second elevator. He was wearing black leather gloves and his eyes were sharp and familiar. Ariadne gasped as she pounded on the door close button. "Cover Fischer--"

Cobb fired into the elevator. Yusuf shoved Robert into one corner while Ariadne and Nash retreated into another. Bullets ricocheted off the metal but the doors were already mostly closed, and with a quiet chime they were separated from the chaos in the hallway.

"What the fuck is Cobb doing here?" Nash hissed, hitting the button for the basement. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Calm down." Ariadne cupped her hand over her earpiece. She could hear Arthur's heavy breath, mixed with gunshots and an unnerving squeal of metal. Arthur can handle it, she told herself. He's fine. "Dr. Banks, we're on our way to the basement."

"I'm ready for you," she replied. "Is everyone all right?"

"So far." She glanced around to be sure. Yusuf's lip was bleeding but no one had been shot.

Robert glared at her from the corner. "Wake me up," he demanded.

Ariadne noticed him eyeing her gun, and she hid it behind her. "How long have you known you were dreaming?" she asked. "Did Eames tell you?"

"I've known the whole time," he snapped. "Now wake me up."

"Waking up now would hurt more than help," Yusuf said, keeping a hand on Robert's shoulder. "You don't want to do that."

Robert shuddered. "Wake me up," he said again, growing desperate. "Wake me up now!"

Something clanged against the top of the elevator, rocking them, and everyone stared up in alarm. Three heavy thuds were followed by the ceiling panel caving in, and a man in a black suit dropped through the roof.

Robert gasped and reached for him. "Mr. Charles--"

Mr. Charles grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled, dragging him away from Yusuf and into the barrel of his gun. Before he could fire Nash and Ariadne both leapt forward, shoving his arm up. The elevator swayed as a panic broke out between them all--everyone was reaching for the gun, their hands crashing into each other as they clawed and scrambled in the enclosed space. A shot rang out and reflected loudly off the ceiling panel. Yusuf screamed and fell back, but before Ariadne could ask if he was all right he shoved back into the fray.

"Strange way to make friends," Mr. Charles growled.

His elbow swung, catching Ariadne in the chest and throwing her against the wall. As he continued to fight off Nash and Yusuf, Robert abruptly broke away. He jabbed his forearm into her neck, pinning and choking her.

"Give me the gun!" Robert demanded, pressing into her as his other hand fumbled, trying to grab the pistol.

Ariadne pulled at his arm while trying to keep her grip on her weapon, but she couldn't breathe and her pulse was already heavy in her temples. Pins and needles rippled across her face from the deprivation and she fought, desperate, until she was able to squirm just enough that she could kick at the elevator's panel. Her heel struck the emergency stop and with a gut-dropping jerk the elevator halted, sending everyone falling into each other once more.

The doors flew open. As Ariadne continued to push Robert off her she caught a glance of an open stairwell beyond, and a man dropped into view as if having fallen from a great height. It was Eames, a second bullet wound in his side, hands bloody around the pistol he was aiming at them. "Robert!"

Robert turned and tried to put himself in the path of the gun, but when shots echoed it was Eames that fell back, blood spurting from a wound in the top of his collar. Two more bullets raked down his chest and pierced his skull, and he at last collapsed, his gun skittering away.

"Eames!" Robert leapt from the elevator and dropped to his side. "Eames!" he cried again, shaking him.

Mr. Charles turned, but his distraction was just what Nash and Yusuf needed. They kicked him into the corner and at last wrenched his gun away, and Nash turned it on him for three quick shots to the chest. He sagged, dead.

Ariadne doubled over, coughing and rubbing her bruised throat. When Yusuf steadied her she remembered. "Yusuf--are you hit?"

"My foot," he grunted, motioning to the bloodied limb. He wiped sweat from his forehead. "I'm fine."

Ariadne straightened up with his help, and looked outside the elevator again. Robert was still curled over Eames's dead body, shuddering. "It's just a dream," he told himself hoarsely, his hands staining as they twisted in the front of Eames's bloody shirt. "I'm just dreaming--this isn't real. It's not real."

Ariadne tasted bile at the back of her throat as she moved slowly behind him. Her gun was still in her hand and she had the sudden impulse to turn it on him and pull the trigger. He doesn't deserve this, a voice said at the back of her mind as she listened to his breath heave and catch. How can we do this to him?

Arthur leapt down the last few stairs. His hair was mussed and he was missing his tie but otherwise he was fine. He reloaded his handgun. "Why the hell is there a stairwell here?"

"Why are you looking at me?" Nash replied defensively. "This is her dream too!"

Arthur scoffed, not bothering to look to Ariadne for confirmation--she hadn't put it there. "Forget it," he said. "Let's just get him to the basement."

Nash heaved a sigh and shoved his gun in the back of his pants as he crouched, hooking his hands under Robert's armpit. "It's just a dream," Robert was still saying, his eyes red and watering. "I'm just dreaming..."

Nash pulled, and though he managed to get Robert on his feet, Robert also stayed on the floor, clinging to Eames. Both of them immediately stopped, staring blankly around, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

"What is this?" the Roberts asked. They looked to each other, baffled. "Am I dead?"

"Looks like the transition worked," Arthur said. He squeezed Ariadne's shoulder. "You all right?"

"Not really." Her head was throbbing and she wanted to throw up. "Let's just go."

Nash dragged one Robert into the elevator and Arthur took the other, being sure to keep them in opposite corners. "What do you want with me?" both asked together, still watching each other with morbid fascination. "Did Woodruff send you? Did Peter?" They trembled, and one gagged, covering his mouth. "What are you doing to me?"

"We're going to wake you up, Mr. Fischer," Arthur told him. He left Robert just long enough to help Yusuf shove Mr. Charles's corpse out. "Just be patient a little longer."

The elevator stopped in the basement, several stories below ground level. Unlike the modern office building above, the tunnel they passed through was white and gleaming, made of sharp, militaristic lines. Ariadne led them down the corridor and into a broad chamber designed as a sleek and futuristic subway platform. Charla was waiting for them at a bench. When she saw them approach with a pair of Robert Fischers her eyebrows peaked. "Is everyone all right?"

"Mostly." Yusuf sank onto the bench next to her, and she knelt down take a look at his wound. As she carefully removed his shoe and rolled up his pant leg the rest of them continued to the platform. A pair of subway cars awaited them on the parallel tracks, white and clean and rounded. "This way, Mr. Fischer," Arthur said as he pulled Robert aboard.

Rather than seats, each of the cars was filled with flat beds and a PASIV at the center. When Robert saw he immediately began to struggle. "No," he said urgently, "No, I don't want to go under again."

"It's just a metaphor," Arthur told him as he pushed him onto one of the beds. "You're waking up, I promise."

"Let go of me!" Robert tried to sit up, and his twin fought against Nash in an attempt to help him, but Arthur pinned him down. When he held out his hand, Ariadne grimaced but reached into a compartment in the wall and retrieved for him another chloroform-laden rag. He pressed it to Robert's face and in moments he was asleep.

The second Robert sagged, disoriented, making it much easier for Arthur and Nash to give him similar treatment in the second car. Ariadne watched it all, her stomach in knots. She couldn't get out of her mind the image of Robert quaking over Eames's body, of Eames stroking his arms in comfort. "Arthur," she said weakly.

"It's all right," he said automatically. "Things didn't exactly go according to plan, but the outcome is the same. Everything's on schedule." He moved past her, onto the platform again.

Ariadne followed him, grabbing for his arm. "Arthur, wait. I don't know if we--"

"You'll have to be very careful," Charla interrupted. She helped Yusuf up to the car and then turned, pointing to the far wall. "His subconscious already knows this place is here."

Ariadne looked. Her smooth, featureless walls had been marred by swirling graffiti: more pinwheels, drawn in bold, curving lines and bright colors. Though only paint they were spinning, all the way down the subway tunnel in both directions.

"This area will be sealed off as soon as we leave," Nash assured. "The projections won't be able to get into the tunnels."

Arthur nodded. "Let's get moving."

Yusuf and Charla took their positions in either train, and once they were settled Arthur split again, joining them both. Ariadne watched him stretch out, her breath tight in her chest. "Arthur," she tried again. "I'm not sure I can do this."

Arthur held up his arm to her, and with a sharp sigh she brought his PASIV needle to him. "You'll be fine," he said as he slipped it under his skin. "Just remember everything I taught you. You're ready for this."

Ariadne swallowed hard, but seeing Arthur look so sure of himself weakened her protests. Without another word she handed another needle to Yusuf, and then slipped the last into Robert's arm. His face was already tight with strain and she left the car quickly.

Nash handed out the needles in the second car and then joined her on the platform. "Guess this is it," he said, moving to one of the nearby columns. When he touched it a panel opened, revealing a set of controls. He punched in a short sequence, timing together both PASIVs and the cars. The doors slid shut, and slowly the cars rumbled off in opposite directions with their human cargo.

"It'll take them an hour to get to Point One," Nash said as he closed the panel up again. He ran his hands through his hair. "Shit, his projections are something else, huh? Like, inhuman."

"Yeah," Ariadne agreed vaguely. When she realized that Nash was staring at her she shook herself. "I'm ready."

They opened the maintenance door and slipped through into a locker room. Ariadne changed out of her suit and into thick pants and a leather riding jacket, then followed Nash down another hall into the subterranean garage. The only vehicles were a pair of three-wheelers parked next to each other, helmets on the seats. As Nash moved to his Ariadne paused by the wall and opened another panel. Behind it was a red lever that she only hesitated a moment to pull.

A warning buzzer sounded from within the tunnel they had just left, and a thick, iron wall dropped slowly out of the ceiling, sealing it off. She could hear metal clang in the distance as more partitions fit into place, separating the office tower from the subway system under it. At the far end of the garage a new tunnel opened that would seal itself as soon as they were out.

They'll be safe until we each get to Point One, Ariadne thought as she hopped onto her bike and snapped her helmet on. One hour for us, twelve for them. I hope that's enough time. She gave Nash a thumbs up, and together they revved their engines and drove up the steep incline, out of the garage. Heavy iron slammed shut behind them.

Ariadne came out on the street, and though Nash immediately turned left and sped off down the street, she halted a moment to glance around and get her bearings. Despite all the chaos on the thirty-second floor Robert's projections were still milling about undisturbed, but unlike Ariadne's imagining of them, they weren't carrying pinwheels.

Cairo was full of ghosts. Every man, woman, and child was nothing more than a smear of black fabric and long, white limbs, their heads adorned in lifeless, eyeless masks. They shuffled together in herds through the rain, giving Ariadne no notice, content to drone on in unintelligible murmurs up and down the curved sidewalks of Robert's mind.

Chapter Text

Eames awoke into Robert's dream in a white stairwell. He was on his back, blinking up at fluorescent lights and polished handrails. The cold under his back seemed to crawl up into him, and even though he remembered exactly what he had been doing just before going under, he was uncertain at first if he was really dreaming.

"Mr. Eames," a man said close to his ear. Someone was tapping his shoulder urgently. "Mr. Eames, are you all right?"

Eames sat up and looked to his left--the man was a soldier in a white military uniform. "I'm fine," Eames said, eyeing him curiously. "What's the situation?"

"Not good, Sir." The soldier offered his hand, and helped pull Eames to his feet. "Hopefully better, now that you're back."

Back? Eames glanced to the space of floor he had just occupied and grimaced at the sight of dried blood. There was also a handgun, which he retrieved and checked for ammunition. "Where's Robert?" he asked. "Can you take me to him?"

"Come with me, Sir."

Eames followed the man to the bottom of the stairwell and into a hall in the lowest floor of the building. More soldiers were gathered there, and he could hear the metallic squeal of heavy equipment. The men nodded acknowledgement to him as he passed, and he smiled grimly. Seems like Robert's subconscious is glad to see me, at least.

The end of the hall had been sealed with an immense iron door, and half a dozen men were crowded around it with plasma cutters. Sparks flew in all directions as they made slow progress in carving an entrance through it. Another soldier in a more ornate uniform stood a few meters away, observing, his weight braced on a handsome cane.

The soldier that had been leading Eames moved to his superior and saluted. "General, Mr. Eames is back."

He turned, and Eames couldn't help but lean back in surprise: the man was him. His face was worn with age and experience, his beard full and scratchy, just as they had been during a very strange dream in Munich. It was not the first time he had seen a projection of himself in someone else's mind, but he was especially fascinated by the intense look in the General's narrowed eyes.

Eames saluted instinctually. Is this how Robert sees me? he wondered, distracted. Or did he just assimilate another authority figure to take charge of his projections, like he did Mr. Charles?

"At ease," the General grunted. "Welcome back, Mr. Eames."

"Thank you, Sir." Was he projecting me before I got here? He had so many questions but only one mattered. "Is Robert here? I need to speak with him immediately."

"They have him," he growled, motioning to the door that was still being worked on. "Mr. Charles has gone topside to track down the dreamers, and I have men combing the city, but we know they went through here first."

Eames frowned at the iron door. She's clever, that Ariadne, he had to admit. "Have we figured out what it is they're after?"

"No. And it doesn't matter." The General turned his attention back to the door. "We'll take care of them."

The soldiers finished their work, and stood back as a great slab of the iron fell away with a reverberating crash. Once it had settled the men charged through, securing the next tunnel, and then called for their officer. Eames followed the General through the opening and bit back a curse at the sight of yet another iron door.

There could be a dozen of them through there, Eames thought, shifting on his feet. All distracting the projections from the fact that Robert is no longer here. "Keep at it, General," he said, already stepping back. "I'm going topside to support Mr. Charles."

"My men will take your orders," the General told him. "If the masks haven't gotten them yet."

Eames wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he didn't like it. He hurried back through the tunnel and made his way to the surface.

***

Robert awoke with a slow intake of breath. His eyes were watering and his pulse was a heavy beat against his temples as he looked left and right, blearily taking in the familiar sight of his condo's study. He felt as if a deep hum was resonating from within his chest, vibrating his entire body. When he flexed his fingers they were slow to respond.

"Are you all right, Robert?"

The voice was familiar, and some of the haze surrounding him cleared as he spotted a red-headed woman watching him from the next chair. He jerked to his feet.

"It's all right," Charla said, her hands raised in a placating gesture. "You're awake now; you can calm down."

Robert backed away and felt a tug on his wrist. Gasping, he jerked the PASIV needle out of his arm. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. He stared around the room, expecting to see the other gun-wielding players from his dream, but he and Charla were alone. "What did you do to me?"

Charla removed the needle from her arm and packed both away into the PASIV at her feet. "We were having a dream therapy session, remember?"

"No." Robert rubbed his face, but he couldn’t get his full focus back. "No, I didn't ask for that. Did you drug me?" There was a strange taste at the back of his throat that made him nauseous.

"Of course not," Charla replied patiently. "Just take a deep breath; you're disoriented because of your nightmare. It'll pass."

"My nightmare..." Robert looked around the room again and found nothing out of place. "Where are the others?"

"Others?"

"The extractors," Robert said angrily. "That man and woman from the hotel--they were trying to kidnap me!"

"They were just projections," Charla explained. She stood and moved closer, slowly. "You've had trouble sleeping lately, remember, Robert? You asked me to observe one of your nightmares so I could help you figure out the cause."

They weren't real? Robert scraped the back of his palm across his mouth. "But I know them," he insisted weakly. "They were at the hotel--Eames knew them."

"Your mind must have chosen them to represent some kind of conflict you're dealing with," said Charla. She touched his shoulder, and though he flinched away at first, he allowed her to lead him back to his chair. "Please, relax. I'll give you a moment to catch your breath while I talk to your father."

It took Robert a moment to realize what she had said, and by the time he glanced up, she was already moving toward the door. "What?"

"I'll be right back," she said, and with a smile she slipped out.

Robert sighed. I must have misheard. He leaned back and tried to remember everything that had happened in the office--the gunfire, the shoving, the blood on his hands. When he rubbed his fingers together he could almost feel it between them, warm and sickening. Eames...

He reached into his pocket, emptying out a few pinwheels before he could find his phone. Then he remembered he still didn't have Eames's number. Grumbling a curse, he put it away. Has it been an hour by now? Where the hell is he?

The door opened, and Robert looked up ready to ask another flurry of questions. All of them died in his throat.

"Are you all right?" Maurice asked shortly.

Robert stared. His father was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his favorite blue suit and leaning on a polished wooden cane. Despite the weight he was putting on the aid, his cheeks were full of healthy color, and his eyes were sharp with a clarity they had lost the final weeks approaching his death. He was on his feet and he was alive.

I'm still dreaming. Robert sat frozen, unable to even breathe as he locked eyes with the specter. He felt as if his ribs were imploding, crushing into his vital organs. This isn't real. He's not real.

"Robert." Maurice walked closer, his eyes heavy and concerned. "Are you all right?" he asked again.

Robert tried to take in a breath to answer, but he went rigid and couldn't get any air past his throat. Cold panic pulsed along his straining vessels and left him trembling. I'm dreaming. He's not real--

Maurice lifted his hand and struck Robert sharply across the face. The shock startled him into a full breath that wracked his body and left him gagging. When Maurice steadied him with a hand on his shoulder the weight was so familiar he had to clamp both hands over his mouth to keep from retching.

"Pull yourself together," Maurice instructed. "This isn't your first time with dreamshare, after all."

Robert squeezed his eyes shut. His father's strict voice pulled all his old instincts to the surface, and he was able to swiftly regain himself. His breath evened out and he lifted his head, staring up at the ghost. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said without thinking.

"There." Maurice gave him another dull, vaguely affectionate smack to the side of his face. "You're all right?"

"Yes, I'm..." I'm still dreaming. Robert swallowed bile and leaned back. "I'm fine. Where's Dr. Banks...?"

"She's making fresh coffee," Maurice said, lowering himself with a quiet groan into the chair she had just occupied. "I'd ask how the session went but from the looks of things it wasn't very productive."

Robert gulped as he watched his father relax. He is a dream. Isn't he? When he looked closely enough he could just barely detect a faint aura around his father's figure, as if his edges were blurred. Quiet voices echoed at the edge of his consciousness.

"It wasn't," Robert said quietly. "Because I'm still dreaming."

Maurice stared at him. "Don't be ridiculous."

His voice was so hard that it made Robert doubt. Even with the blur, with the shapes of pinwheels spinning on the desk beyond, he stopped to wonder if the man across from him might actually be his father. "How long was I dreaming?" he asked.

"Almost an hour. I don't know how long that is in dream time." He scoffed. "Doctors. You can't get a straight answer out of any of them."

Panic quickened his pulse once more. Could I have been dreaming for that long? he thought, his head spinning. Weeks' worth? No, that's impossible. It can't be. "Where's Eames?"

"Who?"

"Eames." Robert pushed out of his chair. "Where is he? He'll be able to tell me if this is real."

Maurice watched him impassively. "Robert, stop this nonsense. How could you still be dreaming?"

"Because you're dead!" Robert whirled and headed for the door, but just as he reached for the handle something heavy pounded against it, and he lurched back. It sounded again, and the door creaked beneath the weight of some unseen force.

Maurice stood. "I wouldn't open that door," he said coldly.

"What is this?" Robert turned, and when he looked at his father again, he realized suddenly that he was wrong. His every physical characteristic was correct but the look in his eyes was foreign: it lacked history. "You're not my father," he declared.

"Are you so certain?" Maurice asked.

"Yes," he lied. "You're not my father--who are you?" He moved toward him as the door continued to rattle. "What do you want with me?"

Maurice sighed, and when he smiled the expression was so alien on his features that Robert at last knew for sure. "All right, Robert," he chuckled. "Let me show you something."

He moved to the bookcase without any help from his cane, and brushed bits of folded paper debris off the shelves. When he pulled one of the larger volumes out it triggered a mechanical click in the wall, and to Robert's surprise, the bookcase depressed and slid away to reveal a secret room.

It was a small security cubicle. Monitors hung from the ceiling depicting the different rooms of Robert's condo and a few views of his downtown office. A man was sitting in front of him, and upon his reveal he turned sharply, staring at his visitors in dumbfounded shock. Robert recognized him immediately as the man from the hotel, and more importantly, the man who had shot Eames dead in the stairwell.

The pounding on the door grew more severe, and voices cried out, "Robert!"

"Mr. Fischer! We're coming in!"

"Robert," Maurice said, gesturing into the room. "I'd like you to meet my dear friend, Arthur."

Arthur's gaze darted between them. "What are you doing?"

"Come on out, Arthur," Maurice insisted, waving. "Show some manners."

Robert stepped back, his fists clenched and trembling as Arthur took a hesitant step into the study. "This is him, isn't it?" he asked anxiously. "The extractor that's trying to steal from me?"

"I'm afraid it's much worse than that." Maurice's hands flexed over the handle of his cane. "Go on, Arthur, tell him."

"Are you crazy?" Arthur demanded. "What the hell are you doing?"

Robert grabbed the front of his suit and dragged him further into the study. "Did you really think you'd get away with this? In my own home? Using my father?" Anger made his eyes burn and his chest tighten all over again. "Wake me up now so I can have you killed, you son of a--"

Arthur shoved him back, but he didn't get further than that--Maurice hefted his cane suddenly and swung, the wood making a horrible crack against the back of Arthur's skull. With a startled cry he dropped to the floor.

Robert blinked and staggered back. "What?"

"You know this isn't the first time he's invaded your mind, don't you?" Maurice said, perfectly calm, and when Arthur tried to get up he wielded his cane again, hitting him soundly in the temple. He collapsed once more. "How many times has it been now, Arthur? How many times are you going to try to destroy my son?"

Arthur gasped against the floor and tried to get his hands beneath him. "Charla...what are..."

"Mr. Fischer!" Erhard called from the other side of the door. "Let us in!"

Confused and disoriented, Robert turned toward the voice, but then Maurice took his arm. "Not yet," he said quickly. "Help me with him."

***

Arthur groaned, blinking against the suddenly too harsh light. He was on the floor and for a moment he couldn't remember how he had gotten there, what had gone wrong. Yusuf was talking close to his ear but he couldn't make him out. When he closed his eyes tight he could still see the inside of the security room where he was meant to have stayed for the rest of the job, monitoring Charla's progress and keeping her apprised of the other dream. Half of him was still in it, watching Yusuf try to corral a second agitated Robert Fischer.

Hands wrapped around his ankles, and then he was being dragged across the study's hardwood floor. He twisted, trying to see what was happening, but his head was still throbbing and he couldn't put enough strength into his limbs.

"Yusuf," he moaned, clawing at the floor, the walls, anything to try and halt his jerky progress across the room. "It's Charla, she's--"

Someone kicked him in the ribs, and though the breath went out of him it gave him something to latch onto. As he gasped he fastened both hands around his attacker's foot and pulled. He nearly succeeded in felling the man but then someone else kicked him until he had no choice but to let go.

"Get him in the bathtub," Maurice growled.

"Charla, stop--" Arthur wheezed, clamoring for escape, but then two pairs of hands twisted in his clothing and jerked him off the floor. He grabbed for the porcelain edge but he had no leverage and with a yelp he tumbled onto his back.

"What are you going to do?" Robert asked nervously.

"I'm taking care of this."

Arthur forced his eyes open. He only got a brief view of the brightly light bathroom ceiling before Maurice blocked it out, and bony knees pressed into his chest. Already short of breath, the weight was agonizing. He pushed at Maurice, telling himself not to panic--he knew how to throw a man off even at such a disadvantage--but then he heard the faucet turn.

Cold water dumped on his face, jolting him, and suddenly he couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He forgot everything he should have done and pawed helplessly at the knees pinning him and the torrent above in sheer panic. Water poured into his mouth and nose even when he tried to turn his head away. His lungs were drowning and his heels were scraping the tub and he was sure his ribs were cracking and--

Arthur took a full, gasping breath of air. He lurched forward, almost tumbling out of his chair as he gagged and heaved. He stared, glassy-eyed and shaking, at the familiar backdrop of Robert's study. The rest of his team sat on either side, still asleep and unaware. I'm awake, he thought, seething, the PASIV wires stinging against his arms. She killed me!

Across from him, Robert awoke with a shudder. His wide blue eyes rolled in his head, and when they landed on Arthur they sharpened with instant recognition. The men stared at each other for a long moment, both disoriented and breathing rapidly. And then Robert's face twisted. "You bastard--"

Robert launched out of his chair and punched Arthur square in the jaw. It was a harder blow than expected and even afterward he kept coming. Before Arthur was sure of what was happening he was tumbling out of his chair, Robert's hands around his neck. Their wires tangled and ripped from their arms as they crashed to the floor.

The impact jarred Arthur to his proper senses. When Robert tried to climb over him the added weight triggered the instincts that should have fired before, and he dug his knee into Robert's hip to throw him off. In a matter of seconds he had Robert pinned face down on the floor. "Shit," he hissed, glancing to the door. He could hear men speaking beyond it and footsteps coming closer.

Robert struggled, but stopped when Arthur dug his knee between his shoulder blades. He coughed weakly, and after a silent moment, he laughed.

Someone pounded on the study door. "Mr. Fischer? Are you all right?"

Arthur's mind spun, but he hadn't come up with a plan for this bizarre circumstance. He reached for Ariadne, hoping he could yank her IV loose and get her help, but he couldn't get to her without loosening his grip on Robert. Who was still laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" he snapped.

Robert relaxed beneath him. "We're still dreaming," he said.

Arthur leaned back slowly. When he closed his eyes he could suddenly hear Yusuf in his ear again, could feel them running through Robert's expensive condo with projections on their heels. His stomach roiled and he feared the worse, that the trap had been sprung on him, but then he looked to Charla. She was smirking at them, and she was pulling a revolver out of her purse. She thumbed back the hammer with a sharp click.

Arthur woke up in the warehouse.

He was lying on his back on the lumpy mattress in the side room. It was dark save a column of light pouring through the partially open door, and the spicy aroma of chili tickled his nostrils. He blinked at the ceiling, dumbfounded, trying to remember how he had gotten there.

"So he is going to be one of our dreamers?"

Arthur started, realizing for the first time that his weight wasn't alone on the bed. Ariadne was sitting on the edge of the mattress, mostly shadowed but striking. She was watching him with curiosity and something deeper, something that warmed his chest in the most pleasant way.

"Yes," he said involuntarily. "He and Yusuf can give you the details. I'll come out in an hour to see how it's going."

"All right."

She scooted closer. She set her hand on his chest and he tensed, just slightly, beneath it. With her breath held she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his parted lips.

Arthur took in a sharp breath through his nose at the unexpected contact. The taste of her lipstick made his heart pound and he kissed her back, letting her soothe away the stress and conflict that was still sharp at the back of his mind.

Was it all a dream? Arthur felt lightheaded as Ariadne climbed on top of him. Her hands roamed over his chest, tracing the contours of his body with slow, girlish curiosity. She was soft and warm and smelled amazing as she kissed him again, deeply. Did we never make it to L.A. after all? When she squeezed him with her thighs he couldn't keep a quiet moan from rumbling out of him. Is this a dream?

Ariadne pulled at his shoulders, and he rolled her beneath him, gasping softly as she welcomed him between her legs. Desire long restrained heated him and made it easy to ignore the buzz in his ears. She arched her back, whispering his name, and he pressed into her, needy and disoriented. He palmed her perfect breasts and reached for the buttons on her blouse.

Something sliced into his thumb, and he hissed, recoiling. A drop of blood welled at the incision. He licked it clean as he tried to figure out the cause: her buttons. Instead of normal round buttons they were pointed, and they were spinning.

"Arthur," Yusuf said urgently from somewhere far away. "Arthur, we have to keep moving!"

Arthur jerked back and scrambled to his feet. A horrible thought overwhelmed him as he looked at Ariadne on the bed, and his stomach lurched. "Charla?"

Ariadne sat up, and just when he dreaded seeing Charla's cruel smile on her beautiful lips, her face went blank. Her eyes darted back and forth in the instinctual alarm of any of his projections detecting a dream for the first time. A moment of concentration suppressed her, and she vanished.

Arthur burst out of the room, swearing and wiping his mouth. "Banks!" he hollered, storming through the familiar Parisian workspace. "I know you're watching this!"

He found her sitting at the card table, reading from a file folder just as she had been that night. Her eyes thinned in amusement. "Did you think she was me?"

"How are you doing this?" he demanded, slamming both hands on the table. "What the hell is going on?"

"When done correctly," Charla answered calmly, as if reading from her folder, "whipping is nearly indistinguishable from waking. Were you not familiar with this technique?"

Whipping? Then we're still in Level Two after all? Arthur tensed. She intentionally tricked me. "Why?" he asked, struggling to contain his temper and mounting ill ease. "This wasn’t part of the plan."

"It was mine." She straightened up and met him eye to eye. "I knew I wouldn't be able to extract from you by normal means," she said. "You're much too well trained for that. But even a mind such as yours can only be pushed so far before all its secrets pour out."

"What?" Sweat formed on his brow. "What are you talking about? Extract what?"

"Three years ago you performed an extraction on Robert Fischer," Charla went on. "I want to know what you found here in his mind."

"This is about that?" Arthur growled in frustration and was tempted to upend the table. "I didn't find anything--you know that. You were there when I told Mr. Fischer myself!"

Her expression hardened. "But you lied," she declared. "Did you think I couldn't tell? To speak nothing of this." She twirled her pen between her fingers, watching the pinwheel at its tip spin. "Quite sophisticated work. I've seen it only once before. Dare I say we owe it again to Mr. Cobb?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said, his fists quaking at his sides. "Charla, stop this--when we wake up I'll tell you whatever you want to know, but right now the job is--"

"The job is already done," Charla interrupted. She tossed her file over her shoulder, letting the papers scatter loudly across the floor. "He caught on to the Forgery faster than I thought but it doesn't matter. He won't be sane once I'm finished with him." She snapped the pinwheel off her pen and let both pieces fall as well. "Besides, by the time we wake up it will be too late for you to tell me anything. Either you'll be as brain-dead as the Mark or you'll be on your way to prison. A shameful end to our friendship, isn't it."

"Prison?" Every word out of her mouth made less sense than the last, and Arthur stepped back, reeling. "Now what are you talking about?"

Charla stood, and despite her age and stature Arthur couldn't help but be intimidated by her cold stare. "Peter knows that someone got to Robert on his flight from Sydney," she said, sending him back another step. "Once I tell him it was you he should have no trouble finding or producing the necessary evidence against you. And your pretty little girlfriend."

Arthur flushed with anger, and he at last shoved the card table out of the way as he advanced on her. Charla retreated several steps, just enough that it took him too long to get to her. The warehouse buckled around them, groaning and crushing under its own weight, and blinding light poured through the open windows. Arthur jerked back, trying to cover his eyes and ears at once. Everything was white hot and screaming, as if the air itself was imploding, burning into him, turning him over until--

Arthur took a full, gasping breath of air. He lurched forward, almost tumbling out of his chair as he scrubbed his face. He stared, glassy-eyed and shaking, at the familiar backdrop of Robert's study. The rest of his team sat on either side, still asleep and unaware. I'm awake, he thought involuntarily, seething, the PASIV wires stinging against his arms.

Across from him, Robert awoke with a shudder. His wide blue eyes rolled in his head, and when they landed on Arthur they sharpened with instant recognition. The men stared at each other for a long moment, both disoriented and breathing rapidly. And then Robert laughed. "Still dreaming," he sighed.

"God damn it!" Arthur ripped the wires out of his arms and immediately reached for Charla, but with one step the floor fell out from under his feet. His chest scraped against the hardwood edge of the trapdoor, tossing him so that he landed on his back on a cold, wire-spring cot. Across from him, Robert too dropped onto similar bedding with a startled grunt. As soon as Arthur had caught his breath he clamored to his feet and looked for Charla again, but they were alone and the trap doors above them closed with twin clangs.

They were in a prison cell. The walls were cold, gray cement blocks, and bars covered the entrance floor to ceiling. Beyond, the rest of the prison was dark, but Arthur could still make out the shapes of hundreds of other cells, each of them occupied by black outlines of men. Their low, moaning voices echoed along the metal catwalks like an ancient chant.

"But you needn't worry about Yusuf and Nash," Charla said as she stepped in front of the bars. "They're both still of use to me."

Arthur stormed over but she stepped out of range, and he didn't bother to try and reach for her. "Charla." He knew reasoning with her was impossible once she'd made up her mind, but he couldn't abandon the effort. "If you want to know that badly, we can just extract from Fischer here, together. For God's sake, you've known me for almost ten years! This isn't the way to do this."

"I am sorry," Charla said, and he thought he saw some of that sentiment flicker through her eyes, but he couldn't be sure. "I really am, Arthur. You were one of my best." She stepped closer and rested her hands on the bars. "But it's been a long time since you trusted me, and I you. So it's time to end this." Her lip twitched. "But not before I get what I want from you."

"Charla--"

He reached for her but she pulled back again, and was soon out of his field of vision. He growled a curse under his breath. Damn it Charla, what do you want from me? There's nothing in Fischer's mind worth this! His knuckles whitened around the bars and he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

Behind him, Robert sighed. "So. Is this the part where you extract from me?"

Arthur grimaced, his forehead hot against the metal. He didn't reply.

"Because I'm not feeling anything at the moment."

"Shut up," Arthur hissed. "I need to think."

He let out a slow breath, and after a long moment of focus he was finally able to connect more fully with his second self. He and Yusuf were weaving through the parking structure of Robert's building, having finally lost their flock of pursuing projections for the moment. It was an eerie sensation, letting his two halves mingle across the space of Robert's mind, filling each other in with knowledge of the other's dream. Yusuf was supposed to take Charla's place as dream therapist in the other dream, he recalled. But Fischer saw through him, too. His security broke through the door...we ran...

"Yusuf," he said, in both dreams. "There's a problem. Dr. Banks is sabotaging the job--she's turning this into an extraction. We have to abort."

"What?" Yusuf turned back, hazy and indistinct as if Arthur were seeing him from the end of a long tunnel. "Extracting what?"

"I don't know." Arthur sidled past a Mercedes and the hood under his fingers felt like prison bars. "But there's no reasoning with her when she's like this. I need to wake up, now."

Yusuf offered his handgun, but Arthur shook his head. "We have to wake up simultaneously, but Charla's watching me here. I'm afraid if I try to kill myself she's just going to whip me again."

"Are you sure you're not misunderstanding something?" Yusuf said as they slipped out the side exit. "I know it's not exactly going according to plan, so maybe she's just improvising. Isn't that what being in the field is about?" He smiled over his shoulder. "Right?"

"No." Arthur rubbed his face, exhausted. "We need to abort."

"All right, all right. Damn."

They hurried around the outside of the garage, seeking the staff parking where a car would be waiting for them. "Do you want me to wake up?" Yusuf suggested. "Disengage the PASIVs?"

"If you leave, the dream will collapse." Arthur lifted his gaze and didn't like the look of the towering skyscrapers overhead. "And with Fischer stretched so thin it won't take long. Even if you're quick there's a good chance--"

Hands snapped around his collar and jerked him back. Arthur twisted instinctually to throw his attacker off, but as soon as he'd succeeded a new pair of hands snapped around his wrist. His mind reeled back into the proper dream and he realized with a flash of panic that the shadowed prisoners had been turned out of their cells; they were crowding at the bars, their dead, white hands dragging down his sleeves and digging fingernails into his skin.

Robert leapt forward again, grabbing Arthur's elbow with one hand while shoving at the wraiths with his other. Together they pulled and struggled against the craving horde, until Arthur at last ripped his arm free, and they stumbled back.

Arthur stared at the flailing creatures in wide-eyed fascination and disgust. "Those are your projections?" he gasped.

"As of late." Robert watched them claw at the air and shuddered.

Arthur rubbed the sting out of his wrist. They weren't like that before, he thought, oddly hypnotized by their empty eye sockets. Ghosts, pinwheels...what the hell did Dom do in that hospital anyway? He glanced at Robert and felt a chill--his eyes were dull and distant, making the rest of his face appear plastic by comparison. He shifted uncomfortably. "Thanks."

Robert's focus returned. "Now are you going to wake me up?" he asked sharply.

Arthur sighed. "I can't. Not if Dr. Banks won't let me." He straightened. "Wait--can you feel the other dream?"

Robert frowned, his face drawing in concentration. "Other dream?"

"Close your eyes," Arthur suggested.

He did so, and after a moment he flinched. "I'm still in the condo," he said dizzily. "I'm having a fight with Peter..." He shook his head and opened his eyes again. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Tell your other half to kill itself," Arthur instructed. When Ariadne gets to Point One and finds him awake, she'll know something's wrong. She'll know to abort. "Dr. Banks doesn't have any control there--it should be easy for you to wake up."

Robert glared at him. "Do you think I'm an idiot? You just said it has to be simultaneous."

Shit, I forgot he could hear that. Arthur shook his head. "Don't worry about that now. You want to wake up, don't you? It's the only way to get us out of this."

"Then you kill yourself," he retorted, crossing his arms. "If you're not going to wake me up properly I'm just going to wait here for Eames."

"Eames isn't--" Arthur sighed, trying to stay calm, but the plan was shot to hell and he knew that at any moment Charla would be back for them. "Eames was just a projection," he tried again. "He's not coming; Browning has security guarding your condo to make sure of that. If you want to get out of this you have to kill yourself."

Robert's shoulders drooped, and he sank to the edge of his cot. "So Peter is behind all of this," he murmured. He pressed his hand to his mouth as if about to be ill. "Eames was right about everything." He met Arthur's gaze. "What are you trying to Extact from me?"

"I'm not," Arthur insisted. "That's not what Browning hired us for." At least, I didn't think it was. He remembered Browning and Charla's strange interaction in the doorway and frowned, a cold pit in his stomach. If she was telling the truth and Browning knows about the inception...this entire job could be nothing more than a setup. I have to get out of here somehow.

"What did he hire you for?" Robert persisted.

Arthur hesitated. If he's this lucid he's going to remember anything I tell him, he thought. Maybe I can at least shift his animosity. "Browning is trying to take over your company," he said. "He wanted us to find a way to take you out of your position without killing you."

"How? By putting me in a coma?" Robert scoffed wearily and shook his head. "God damn extractors."

"It's just a job," Arthur said. "It's not personal. If you're going to take it out on anyone, take it out on Browning. He's the one that hired us."

"And for the last time, too?"

"What?"

Robert pushed to his feet, his fists clenched and face hard. "My father--whoever that really was--said you've been in my mind before. Did you..." His eye twitched. "Did you help Eames incept me?"

Damn it, Eames, Arthur inwardly seethed. How much did you tell him? "No," he said evenly. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

"But you do know Eames." Robert took a step closer. "And this isn't the first time you've been in my mind. When I saw you in the hotel, I recognized you."

"I haven't been in your mind before. Banks was lying--look at what she's doing!" He gestured to the prison around them. "She's trying to trick us both. All that matters now is that you kill yourself so we can wake up, and settle all this above."

"No." Robert slowly tensed. "You die."

He shot forward, his hands twisting against Arthur's lapels. He wasn't strong but he had just enough leverage and momentum that he was able to shove Arthur back against the cell bars. Arthur grimaced as his shoulder blades rammed against the metal, and then the hands were on him again, raking and pulling. He cursed, struggling against them, but more and more snaked through the open bars to grip his clothing, his flailing limbs, his exposed throat. Their icy, jagged fingers dug into his skin.

This is insane, Arthur thought, distantly, as the prison began to vibrate and crumble around them. He saw the world tear at the seams, stripping away beneath Charla's deliberate control, making way for a new dream. How did this happen? Robert backed away; he ignored the changing scenery in favor of watching Arthur fight against his projections, darkly satisfied. I have to wake up, I have to--

Chapter Text

The soldiers were not a surprise. Ariadne had trained for them, had learned the tricks and tools to outmaneuver even Arthur's militant projections for a time. Every building in her circular Cairo worked to her advantage, and she wove through the streets and alleys with ease, avoiding the increasing spread of white uniforms.

What she had not counted on were the ghosts--or whatever they were--crowding every sidewalk and filling every shop. At first they paid her little notice, stumbling on in streams of black fabric, but she was not halfway to her destination when their demeanor changed. Gradually they became aware of her presence and began to reach for her, their skinny limbs smacking against the handlebars of her three-wheeler. She cringed and tried to avoid them but there were hundreds of them, all over, moving in herds. And they were herding toward her.

One of the wraiths threw itself in front of her, and she screeched to a halt, her tires squealing against the wet pavement. When she tried to change course another four followed their brethren's example, using themselves as shields to block her path. Soon they were swarming from all sides, and hands reached out, grabbing at her arms and back.

They're like freaking zombies, Ariadne thought, fighting to keep cool as she reached for her handgun. It was actually a little easier to shoot the creatures than human-featured projections, and as soon as she had a decent enough path she made a run for a nearby apartment building.

The lobby was less crowded than the streets, with only a few wraiths milling up and down the stairs, and Ariadne moved swiftly through it and out a side door. I'm going to be late. She tossed her helmet off and ran through the ally into the next building. It's too crowded on the streets. I'll have to just cut through. Nash is probably having the same trouble...

She snuck through several apartment buildings the same way, but then had no choice but to cross the street. With the streets almost literally crawling she instead hurried to the second floor and found a window facing the street. Fischer already knows he's dreaming. If I change something and then change it right back...it shouldn't mess Nash up too much. She opened the window and climbed onto the fire escape. Shielding her eyes from the rain she concentrated on the metal above her; with a screech the ladders and balconies unfolded from the building wall and stretched out in front of her to make a catwalk across the street.

Ariadne was halfway across when bullets began ricocheting off her bridge. She caught a glance of white uniforms in the street below, struggling through the waves of ghosts just as she had. They're fighting each other, she realized, watching the creatures swarm and overpower the soldiers even as they continued firing at her. What the hell is going on in Fischer's mind?

She reached the far building and dove inside. With her position discovered she picked up her pace, racing to the ground floor again and through another alley. She could hear voices behind, shouting orders, and she ducked down a different street just as another volley of bullets split brick behind her. I need a new vehicle or I'll never make it in time, she thought as she weaved through the maze. I need to find--

"Ariadne!"

She started, and only just managed to stop herself before plowing face first into the alley wall. When she turned a very familiar man was jogging towards her, and with a gasp she leveled her handgun and fired.

"Whoa--" Cobb threw himself behind a dumpster. "Hold on--wait! It's me, Ariadne, it's Cobb!"

"Cobb?" Ariadne didn't lower her weapon as she moved swiftly around the dumpster to face him. Cobb was no longer in his Mr. Charles suit, and more importantly, he didn't have the murderous look to him his doppelganger had. Her heart skipped. "The real Cobb?" she asked, dreading either answer.

"What other Cobb is there?" Cobb swatted at his soaked shoulders. "Will you put that gun down, please?"

Oh crap. Ariadne lowered the gun but remained tense, watching him closely. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to wake you all up," he said as if it were obvious. "Whatever it is you're up to, it's got to end right now."

He took a step closer, and Ariadne instinctually took a step back, raising the gun again. He glared at her in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"You can't wake me up," Ariadne said quickly, continuing to back away. "This is my dream--it'll collapse."

"Ariadne, put the gun down," Cobb told her firmly.

"No!" She held it tightly in both hands, like Arthur had shown her. "How did you get in here? Browning was supposed to have guards at the door."

Cobb shook his head. "Listen to you. You know, I never would have expected something like this out of Arthur, let alone you."

He stepped closer again, and again Ariadne retreated. "Cobb, I mean it," she said sharply. "I swear to God I'll shoot you in the head if you get any closer."

He stopped, seeing that she meant it. "Okay." He put his hands up, placating. "Calm down."

Voices echoed down the alley toward them, and Ariadne grimaced, trying not to look. "Don't follow me," she said, and then turned, continuing her path away from the soldiers.

Cobb followed. She had known there was little chance of him doing otherwise. "You have to at least tell me what's going on," he called after her. "Do you even know what you're doing? You're going to get Fischer killed!"

Ariadne cringed as she rushed through the narrow side streets. Now what do I do? Did I leave another shop around here? She made a sharp turn and then another, hoping to lose Cobb, but he was quickly gaining on her. "You don't understand," she replied once he was close enough. "There are plenty of other places I'd rather be, believe me."

"Then explain to me what you're doing here. Or take me to Arthur so I can beat it out of him."

Why did I ever agree to this? Ariadne took a deep breath. Stay calm, you have to keep this dream stable, remember that. "Just keep up, all right? I'm behind schedule already."

They took a few more turns until it seemed that they had lost the worst of their pursuers, and Ariadne led him through the back of a closed motorcycle store. "Browning hired us to get Fischer committed by tearing apart his subconscious," she explained as she stole keys out of the manager's office. "Dr. Banks calls it a helix trap. They've already started--I don't know if there's a way to stop it now."

"Jesus." Cobb tossed his soaked jacket off and stole a fresh one from the wall. "Why would you ever agree to something like that?"

"It's not like we had much choice." She moved down the line of window models until she found the one that matched the key. "Dr. Banks said that if we didn't agree, Browning was going to hire some guy Sullivan to do it." When Cobb blanched she wagged her finger at him. "There--see? That's just the face Arthur made. Who is this creep anyway?"

Cobb rubbed his beard. "All right, I get it. But you still have to abort this job." He pulled a pair of helmets off the wall and joined her. "Eames is here--"

"The real Eames?" Ariadne interrupted, paling.

"Yes the real Eames, and he's pissed as hell." He handed her one of the helmets. "I don't know what he'll do if he gets to Arthur before we do."

Ariadne started to put her helmet on, but stopped when she fully understood what he was saying. Her heart beat fast against her ribs. "Arthur's already in Level Two," she said weakly. "If Eames tries to wake him up, he's going to split."

"I don't know what that means, but I don't think I like it."

Ariadne finished placing her helmet and climbed onto the bike. "We'll have to hurry if we're going to catch them," she said. "The whole route is automated. I'll get you under but just remember it might already be too late for Fischer."

Cobb climbed on behind her, and after some hesitation took her waist. "I should never have gotten you involved in all this," he said, muffled by his helmet. Ariadne didn't know how to respond, so she merely started the bike and erased the wall in front of them so they could continue on.

***

"This is the last time I go into the field," Yusuf declared, peering out the apartment's bedroom window. "I mean it this time. I get paid plenty just being a chemist."

Arthur grunted, not really listening as he paced back and forth. They had been on the run for hours from Robert's bizarre projections, and finally found a temporary haven in the form of a small apartment complex. His mind was still whirling, trying to think of a way out of their current situation.

Yusuf glanced back at him. "How are you doing?" he asked. "And your...er, other self?"

"I don't know." Arthur rubbed his weary eyes. "I've been blocking him out--it's too hard to concentrate when he's hopping between dreams so fast."

"Him?"

"I know, I know." It was strange for him as well, thinking of his second half in such terms, but he couldn't help it. Even stranger was the resentment he felt towards him; he was convinced that had their positions been reversed he would have been able to handle Charla and her unexpected betrayal.

I have to get out of here. Arthur continued to pace restlessly. "There's only one way out of this," he said. "We have to wake up Fischer--this Fischer--somehow. And soon, before Ariadne gets to Point One."

"But how?" Yusuf gestured out the window, where hundreds of shuffling wraiths could be seen in the streets below. "He has an entire army out there. And we don't know where he is anymore."

"He'll still be in the condo, I'm sure. He's got to be having just as much trouble dealing with his other half--he'll want to be somewhere safe and stable, so he can concentrate." Arthur joined Yusuf at the window and peered out; the condo was still visible down the street, surrounded on all sides by the black creatures.

"So...how?" Yusuf asked again. "We're not going to fight our way through there, are we?"

"No." Arthur's brow furrowed, and to his chagrin a familiar voice rang in his ears. "We need to...dream bigger." He met Yusuf's gaze seriously. "Level the building."

Yusuf leaned back, blinking. "If I try to change that much, the projections are going to find us right away," he warned.

"It won't matter." Arthur moved to the apartment's balcony and opened the sliding door, stepping out. The wind was colder than he remembered from when they'd entered. "Once Fischer's gone up a level his projections should go with him."

"Should," Yusuf echoed, following Arthur outside. "But part of him is still in Level Two. Are you sure they'll be gone?"

He frowned. "No, but we don't have much choice. If they stay, you'll just have to come up with one hell of an escape route for us."

Yusuf shook his head. "And here I thought Cobb was the wild one."

They stood at the railing, and Yusuf took several deep breaths as he stared down Robert's condo. "You're sure you want me to do this?" he asked. "He might not even be--"

"Just do it."

Yusuf sighed, but he turned back to his task. His brow knit and his fingers tightened against the railing, and a rumble like thunder rippled down the packed streets. Arthur watched, tense, as the distant building rocked on its foundation, buckling and smoking.

"Are you here for the secrets?"

Arthur whipped around, but it wasn't the sight of one of the black-clad ghosts in the open doorway that chilled his blood--it was her voice. Her face was a dull, empty mockery, but her voice cut to the core of him. He could only stare.

The wraith stepped closer, her black veil slowly dancing at her bony knees. "You're here for the secrets, aren't you?" she asked again, insistent.

Yusuf glanced between them, wide-eyed and confused. Arthur couldn't return his gaze. His mouth fumbled around an answer. "No," he said, breathless. "I'm not."

Her plastic lips pursed as she took another step closer, onto the balcony. White fingers dipped into her robe, and returned wrapped around the handle of a knife. Before he even recognized it as such she plunged it into his heart.

***

Ariadne and Cobb pulled into an alley that curved behind an electronics store. When she tapped on a particular brick it twisted in place, revealing a keypad, which she tapped a short sequence of numbers into. The stone wall ahead of them fell away and opened a sloped path underneath the street.

"You've gotten a lot better," Cobb said as they drove down the sharp incline. It didn't sound like he approved.

"I've worked really hard," Ariadne replied, steering them into a garage much like the one she had left half an hour earlier. "Arthur's taught me a lot."

They shed their helmets and hurried through the connecting corridor. In her designs it had been pure white, but as before the surfaces were covered in graffiti pinwheels. "What's with the pinwheels?" she asked Cobb as they made their way to the iron door at the end of the hall. "They're everywhere--are they part of the inception?"

"I don't know." Cobb trailed his fingertips on the wall, watching the paint shift beneath them. "They must be, but I have no idea how or why. Eames might know."

Ariadne frowned as she opened up another keypad to get them through the final door. "Eames," she repeated, distracted. She glanced back at Cobb. "Are Eames and Fischer...?"

He stared back, not understanding until she raised her eyebrows. "Oh. Christ. Um, I don't know." Pink tinged his cheeks as he rubbed his beard. "He didn't exactly admit it, but...maybe. I think so."

Ariadne tried to hide her discomfort as the door slid open. And we're here trying to drive him crazy, she thought, leading the way toward the subway platform. If we'd known... Well, I wouldn't be here. But would Arthur? She felt a chill. This is just a job to him, but I'm sure it would make a difference, if he knew...

They stepped out onto the platform, just in time to see the subway car screeching to a halt. Ariadne breathed a sigh to see they had made it in time, but her relief was short-lived. As she drew closer she realized that it wasn't just the car breaks echoing in the chamber: someone was screaming.

Ariadne ran to the subway car and punched the emergency release. The doors groaned open and Arthur's agonized voice flooded out, ragged and blood-curdling. He was curled tightly against his cot, eyes squeezed shut and hands jammed into his ears as he screamed into the thin mattress.

Ariadne couldn't breathe, but she leapt into the car and slipped around Yusuf's cot to get to him. When she touched his shoulder he gasped and jerked back as if burned. "God, Arthur, what's happening?" she asked, turning in place. Robert and Yusuf were still deeply asleep, but Arthur's IV had been ripped out, and was dripping Somnacin across the floor.

Cobb joined her, grimacing at the sight of Arthur trying to shove his face deeper into the cot. "What the hell is going on?"

"He's not supposed to be awake," Ariadne said, breathless, as she snatched up the fallen IV. "His other half is still under."

She reached for Arthur's arm but he shied away from her again with a growl. Cobb leaned forward to assist, helping her peel his left hand away from his ear. "His mind's trying to process at two different speeds at once?" he said incredulously.

Ariadne touched the needle to Arthur's wrist, but his other hand shot out suddenly, halting her. "Stop," he gasped. "Stop, stop..."

"Arthur." She dropped the needle and gripped his hand tightly in both of hers. "What happened? You're not supposed to be up--what's going on?"

"She killed me." He spoke in a weak rush of air, his face red with strain and body twitching. "Shit, I can't--I can't breathe--"

Ariadne shifted anxiously and touched his face, trying to soothe him and not knowing how. "Who killed you?"

He hissed through his teeth. "Mal." His shoulders jerked as he gagged. "Mal's here--she killed me--I can't--"

Ariadne stiffened, and it wasn't until Cobb's hands entered her field of vision that she remembered he was even there. "What did you say?" he demanded, grabbing Arthur's collar. "What do you mean, Mal is here?"

Arthur's eyes snapped open as he noticed Cobb's presence for the first time. Panic seared across his face and he yanked his gun out of its holster. Ariadne and Cobb both reached for it, shoving Arthur's aim off just as he pulled the trigger. He got three shots off before they managed to wrestle the weapon away. Two collided against the subway windows, but a third found flesh with a sick percussion.

Yusuf rocked on his cot. Ariadne turned toward him and went pale--a slow, crimson stain was already seeping from a wound in his side. "Oh shit," she breathed, leaning over him. "Shit." His eyelids twitched and he squirmed as if trying to wake.

"Wake him up," Cobb said, keeping a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "We're aborting this job anyway."

"But Fischer--" Ariadne glanced to Robert, whose face was strained but was still very much asleep. Her mind reeled as a hundred thoughts tried to occur to her at once, and then she jolted to life, pulling a first aid kit off the subway car's wall. "If Yusuf wakes up now his dream will collapse," she said as she opened his shirt and applied gauze to the wound. "Fischer will split and he'll end up just like Arthur."

Cobb frowned at her. "I thought that's what you were after," he said carefully.

"I know." Ariadne glanced to Arthur, wincing, and then to Cobb. But I can't do this, she thought. It's wrong. We were wrong to come here.

Her emotions must have shown in her face, because Cobb nodded and came to her aid. "Dream me up some extra Somnacin and some morphine," he instructed. "We'll keep Yusuf under as long as we can, until we can figure this out."

Ariadne pulled a second case off the wall, and by the time she opened it the required items were inside. "Sorry, Yusuf," she murmured as she handed them off to Cobb. "I hope it's a lot duller down there."

Arthur groaned, and Ariadne left the work to Cobb as she turned back toward him. "Arthur," she said, wiping the blood from her hands before she touched him. He was on his stomach, eyes closed and hands to his ears again. "Can you hear me?"

"Is he real?" Arthur hissed, tensing up as if trying to shrink.

"Yes, it's Cobb." She rubbed his back and hoped it would help somehow. "He's really here."

"Fuck."

"Tell me what happened," she said, casting a quick look at Cobb. He was trying to watch them and inject the painkillers into Yusuf's arm at once. "Is your other half still under?"

His lips pulled back in a pained grimace. "Yes."

Ariadne's heart thudded. Then he's trapped, just like we were supposed to do to Fischer... "I'll put you back under," she said, reaching again for the fallen IV. "Yusuf might not have much time, but--"

"No--don't." Arthur took in slow breaths, and seemed to relax minutely when she resumed her slow caress. "I'll be just as incapacitated down there. I'll be killed again anyway."

He got his hands under him, and though his elbows shook he was able to sit up with Ariadne's help. He sat on the edge of the cot with his head in his hands; she tried to wait for him to compose himself but she was too nervous to stay silent for long. "What about your other half?" she persisted. "Can't he--you--kill yourself? If you're both at Level One--"

"He can't--he's trying." Arthur shoved the meat of his palm into his closed eyes. "Banks won't let him."

"What does that mean?" Cobb asked as he bandaged Yusuf. "Why wouldn't she?"

Arthur winced at the sound of his voice. "She's...she's whipping me. Trying to...shit, she's trying to extract something from me. She won't let me die."

Ariadne shook her head in confusion. "Extract what?"

"I don't know!" he shouted, startling them. He snarled and reached out blindly, and Ariadne clasped his hand again. His fingers were hot and dug into her palm until it hurt. "God, I don't know--I can't--it hurts so fucking much."

Cobb moved closer. "I'll wake myself up and disconnect her," he said. "Then you can--"

"No!" Arthur's other hand leapt, finding and pulling at Cobb's jacket. "No, we'll go to prison."

"What?"

He took in a deep breath and held it for several seconds, letting a shudder work down his spin and out his limbs. When he sagged Ariadne leaned closer so that he could brace some of his weight against her shoulder. Seeing him so pained made her throat ache, and her voice came out thin. "Arthur?"

"She's knows about the inception," he finally resumed, and Ariadne and Cobb looked to each other in alarm. "If you wake her up...she'll tell Browning. We'll all go to prison."

"Arthur please, let me put you back under," Ariadne blurted out. "You're in pain--"

"It's too late. I can't hear him anymore, shit." Arthur let go of Cobb to rub his eyes again. "She's got me."

Ariadne tugged at him. "We have to do something."

"Can I wake up and disconnect just you?" Cobb asked, and though he looked more composed than Ariadne his voice was just as frazzled.

"No," Ariadne answered for him. "No, that's just how the helix trap works--if he wakes up now part of him will still be trapped."

"Then what? If we can't wake either of them up..." Cobb grabbed Arthur's arm sternly. "Arthur, what is Banks trying to extract from you?"

"I don't know!" he snapped again, trying to pull away, but he didn't have the strength for it. "I can't--I can't tell her."

"Which is it? Just tell Banks whatever it is so she'll stop, and then you can wake up."

"No, I don't know." Arthur shook his head and grimaced. "Shut up, I can't, I have to think."

"Calm down," Ariadne told them both. "We need to--"

Cobb ignored her. "Damn it Arthur, whatever it is can't be worth your sanity! Just tell us what it is!"

He shoved against Cobb's arm. "I can't--"

"Why not?"

"I can't now that you're here!" Arthur yelled, and in a burst of anger he threw Cobb back. Though his legs were still weak he clamored around Yusuf's cot and onto the platform.

Ariadne looked to Cobb with dread. She saw his face flush with anger and confusion, saw his hands tighten to fists at his sides. "What does that mean?" he called, and then he was chasing after Arthur. "What does this have to do with me?"

Ariadne followed. We can't wake him up, she thought dizzily. We can't wake up Dr. Banks. We can't wake up Yusuf. We can't wake up Fischer--what can we do? She tried to run ahead of Cobb but he was determined, and he caught up to Arthur easily. What can we do?

Cobb grabbed Arthur's arm again and jerked him back. "Tell me right now what this has to do with me," he said sharply.

"I can't do this now," Arthur hissed. He pulled his arm out of Cobb's grip and started to pace, his fingers raking his scalp. "Get away from me."

"I'm supposed to be with my family right now," Cobb continued heatedly. "But I'm here because you had to get yourself in over your head, so you'd better--"

Arthur whipped around. "We're here because of you, you fucking hypocrite!"

Cobb grabbed his shoulder and backed him into the nearest pillar. "Don't you dare blame this on me," he snarled. "How many times have I told you not to trust Banks? I told you--I told you she was capable of this!"

"I can't do this now," Arthur repeated, gripped his temples.

"Cobb, please." Ariadne grabbed his elbow. "Leave him alone."

"Why the hell is Mal here?" Cobb continued regardless. When Arthur tried to force him back he stayed, pinning him. "Does she have something to do with this? Is that why you can't tell me?"

"Dom I can't do this now!"

Ariadne pushed herself between them. "Stop it! Can't you see he's--"

Cobb shoved her back, and she lost her balance, tumbling into a nearby bench. He turned on Arthur again. "What are you hiding--"

Arthur swung his arm, and his elbow cracked hard against Cobb's jaw. As Cobb stumbled back Arthur pursued, his right hook spinning Cobb in place. He braced his feet, fighting to stay upright, but by then Arthur was already pulling the gun out of his belt. Two shots spiraled into his brain and he collapsed, dead on the platform.

Arthur stared down at him. For a moment he seemed frozen, his face hard, and then the gun clattered to the floor. A look of horror came over him. "Oh God."

Ariadne gripped the bench. She was stunned speechless as she watched Arthur back away with halting steps. "I killed him," he breathed, staring at Cobb's fallen corpse. His back hit the pillar again and he started, taking in a sharp, panicky breath. "God, I killed him."

Ariadne forced strength into her limbs and hurried over to him. "Arthur--no--it's all right," she said quickly. "All you did was wake him up."

"Oh God," he whispered again. He couldn't take his eyes off Cobb; his chest heaved, gagging and hyperventilating at once. "Oh God what did I--"

"Arthur!" Ariadne took his face in both hands and turned it toward her. "You're dreaming," she told him, trying to be firm despite feeling as though she could be ill at any moment. "It's just a dream, Arthur--Cobb's fine. Just check your Totem--"

His arms wound around her. She gasped as he pulled her to him, all but crushing her against his chest, his ragged breath stirring her hair. He was shaking; feeling his body tremble all around hers drew a sob into her throat she had to fight not to voice. "It's all right," she said hoarsely. When she felt him slipping she twisted her hands in his vest and slid with him, until they were on the floor, clinging to each other. "It's okay, Arthur--you're just dreaming. I..." She swallowed hard. "I've got you."

Behind them, the subway car bleated a quiet warning. The doors ground shut, as they had been programmed, and the car rumbled down the tracks. Ariadne cringed, but she was still wrapped up in Arthur's arms, and she couldn't bring herself to leave him. She closed her eyes and held him as best she could.

Slowly, Arthur calmed. His arms relaxed and he leaned back, breathing through his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Ariadne smoothed her hands over his cheeks. "Arthur..." She leaned into him again, trying to hide from him that her eyes were watering. "We have to give this up," she said against his temple. "What do we do?"

Arthur sighed heavily. "Wake me up."

She flinched. "But..." Her hands tightened around his shoulders. "If you wake up now..."

"It's too late to do anything else," he said with resignation. "If Fischer's still intact he might pull through. Maybe I can...reason with Banks..."

Ariadne shivered. She tried to put her mind to work but all she could imagine was waking up to Arthur's distant eyes, his mumblings of insanity as his subconscious changed reality all around him. The slow stroke of his hand up her spine drew her voice back. "No."

"What?"

Ariadne pulled back and set her hands resolutely against his chest. "No," she said again. "I can't do that to you. There's still one thing we can try."

Arthur stared. "I'm listening."

Ariadne put her hand to her ear, and was relieved to find her earbud still in place. "Nash?" she called. "Nash it's Ariadne, can you hear me?"

When she got no response, Arthur shook his head. "Banks owns him. He's probably in on it."

"He'll be on his way to his Point Two," Ariadne said as she stood up. She turned away, pretending to look after the departed subway car so she could discreetly wipe her eyes. "We'll head there, and wake up your other half. As long as you're both on level one when we disengage the PASIVs you should be okay, right?"

"I don't know," he admitted, pulling himself wearily to his feet. "But it's worth a shot."

Yusuf probably doesn't have long, she thought, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. As far as I can tell, anyway. If we can wake Arthur's other half, then they can wake up together, turn off the PASIVs, and get everyone else up. And if we do that before Yusuf's dream collapses even Fischer will be okay. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. And then we deal with Banks. Damn it, how could we...

Arthur pulled her to him again, and she tensed as he pressed his lips to hers. He was still weak but his kiss was hard, almost desperate, and she was too startled by its unfamiliar intensity to kiss him back. He let her go with a sigh. "Thank God for you," he murmured against her cheek.

Ariadne's chest ached so deeply she couldn't breathe, and she was grateful when he pulled back and led them up the platform toward the garage.

***

When Robert looked up, someone was holding his hand. The fingers were long and soft, and a thumb brushed gently against the delicate skin between his knuckles. The touch was feminine in every way and yet it reminded him of Eames, and his hand seized, trying to draw him closer.

"We found them," she said. She was tall and blond and she was wearing a cocktail dress, completely incongruous with the soldiers surging all around, and yet he did not doubt that she belonged there. "Come with me, Robert."

Robert followed her through the apartment building and into the last room in the hall. His soldiers were there, standing guard over a man seated on a lumpy sofa in one corner. He had both arms wrapped around his chest and his forehead was tight with strain. "I knew you wouldn't still be in that condo," he mumbled.

"Are you Yusuf?" Robert asked, still holding onto the blonde's hand. "Or Nash?"

"Yusuf," he said after a pause. He eyed the guns the soldiers were carrying.

Robert motioned for the men to back up, just in case he made a leap for them. "What happened to Arthur?"

"Your projection killed him." Yusuf winced and rubbed his side. "Can you... are you still connected to the other dream?" he asked, his concern obvious despite his attempts to hide it.

"Yes." He tilted his chin up. "I suppose you want me to find out what's become of the other Arthur."

Yusuf gulped. "You might as well just wake us both up," he said. "Then we--"

"Please." Robert moved to a chair across from him and sat down. "I didn't fall for that the first time."

He closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out as he let his mind drift across empty space. The blonde's hand around his fell out of focus until it was nothing but a dull warmth against his palm. His other self came to him much more easily than before, and when he concentrated he could feel the other dream swell around him, reminding him of the events of the last few hours.

"She keeps pulling us from dream to dream," he murmured, only partially aware that he was speaking aloud. "I've woken up in the study seven times now. The prison four... the beach... an airport restaurant... Paris, Sydney, Kyoto, Dubai..." He remembered them all, and the projections that were waiting for them each time. There was no rhyme or reason to where they ended up or for how long. Sometimes they were together and sometimes not. It was dizzying and infuriating.

"Where is Arthur?" Yusuf asked, his voice far away but still distinct.

Robert's brow furrowed. The memories of his second self blossomed across his brain, and he took in another slow breath to center himself. "We were in a mall," he recalled. "Running from my projections. He started screaming... I stopped... I knew Banks wouldn't let us die, so I stayed with him."

He remembered the tile under his knees, and the horde of angry ghosts. He remembered the floor opening up beneath them followed by a long drop and a soft landing. And then he caught up.

"We're in a field. The grass is long...it looks like Kentucky, maybe. Just green, for miles." He breathed in the smell of open air and rich soil, so unlike anything he'd tasted in a long time. The wind was crisp and almost refreshing. "Arthur's here. He's still in pain. I don't think he realizes how tightly he's holding my hand." His fingers flexed. "It reminds me of when Eames died."

Something cold landed on Robert's nose, and he opened his eyes to the field. He was reclined against his hip in the tall grass, letting the stalks brush his fingers. The plains stretched infinitely in all directions, hills rolling like ocean waves, undulating in the slow breeze. Whether Charla was allowing them a moment of rest or simply toying with them he didn't know, but it was a welcomed reprieve. He turned his face upward and felt another chill kiss to his cheek, and when he wiped it away, he realized it was snowing. The flakes twirled as they drifted lazily to the ground.

Arthur was lying on his back next to him, one hand covering his eyes, the other still curled around Robert's. He was shaking just slightly though it seemed the worst of whatever fit he'd suffered had passed. He took slow breaths and muttered a quiet curse.

Robert glanced down. "Are you still there?" he asked.

"Barely." Arthur smoothed his hair back and let his hand fall to his stomach. "God damn it."

"Is extraction always like this?"

"No. She doesn't know exactly what she's looking for, so she's just trying to wear me down. When I can't repress my projections anymore that's when the real extraction will start."

Robert snorted. "I can't wait," he muttered. He shook his head. "And to think you do this for a living."

"It's just a job," Arthur said. "It's not--"

"You said that already." He glanced to their still joined hands. "Did you help Eames incept me?" he asked again, wondering if his moment of weakness would elicit truth.

Arthur stared up at the gray cloud canopy above them. "Yes," he admitted at last.

It wasn't a surprise. "Just a job, too, I suppose."

Arthur was quiet a moment. "If I hadn't done it, my friend would have never seen his children again," he said.

Robert frowned at him. "Why not?"

"It's a long story." He sighed wearily. "I didn't mean for...all this to happen to you, but I'd do it again."

"Even now?" Robert asked, still watching him closely. "I'm pretty sure that at this rate, we're both going to end up comatose."

Arthur's eyebrow twitched, but he barely took a moment to answer. "Yes. Even now."

"Well." Robert made a face and stretched his shoulders. He couldn't imagine how he was supposed to feel. "If there are kids involved I guess I can't ask Erhard to kill you after all."

Arthur started to say something, but Robert wasn't interested in hearing it, and he cut him off. "Your friend Yusuf is here. Do you want me to pass a message to him?"

"Tell him to sit tight," Arthur said, rubbing his forehead. "When my other half woke I saw...a friend, before we were split up. I'm sure he'll explain everything and she'll abort the job. We just have to wait."

"All right."

Robert opened his eyes to the apartment. The hand around his was no longer Arthur's, but the blonde's, and she was watching him intently. So was Yusuf, still hunched on the sofa with guards nearby. There was sweat on his forehead. "Are you injured?" Robert asked him.

"Above, I am," Yusuf said, wincing. "I don't know what happened, but..." He rubbed his side. "It's serious. You should--"

"Give him something for the pain," Robert instructed the blonde at his side, "and keep him alive as long as possible. For now all we can do is wait."

"Of course, Robert."

She stroked the small hairs at the base of his skull, and he leaned back gratefully into the soothing touch. Just a little longer, he thought, closing his eyes again. And then I'll wake up. I'll wake up and this will all be over.

Chapter Text

Finding Mr. Charles was not a difficult task, all things considered: Eames simply followed the waves of angry, veiled projections. They were surging down the curved streets in a steady flow, like cells through a vein, and though they did not try to deter him many reached out, touching his face or giving quick squeezes to his hands. All of them knew him, all of them encouraged him onward. He wanted to be relieved by their acceptance of him but their empty faces were too eerie, and he sensed ulterior motives in their tense greetings. He felt as if they would turn on him at any moment.

The torrent led to a group of soldiers holed up on the ground floor of a hotel. When they saw Eames they waved him forward, firing into the crowd of ghosts so they could open the doors long enough for him to enter. They patted his back and voiced greetings and thanks, but he continued through them swiftly to meet their commander.

Mr. Charles was in the kitchen with another group of soldiers, who were trying to batter down the wall-tall refrigerator door. He glanced back and gave Eames a sharp nod of greeting.

"Our dreamer's back there, I assume," Eames said as he joined him.

Mr. Charles nodded. "Don't worry; my guys are on it."

The door buckled, falling inward to reveal not a freezer, but a stairway leading under the hotel. Eames stood back and let Mr. Charles take the lead into the basement. The stairs led into another long, white corridor, and at the far end a man was punching numbers into a keypad on the wall. Mr. Charles immediately lifted his gun to fire but Eames rushed forward and grabbed his arm. "Wait--we can't let this dream collapse until we find Robert," he said quickly.

The man turned, and though Eames had only worked with him once before, he recognized immediately who it was. Nash paled and went back to pounding on the keypad until the far door opened.

"Nash!" Eames broke out in a run but he was too far away. As soon as Nash was through the door it began to close again, and by the time Eames reached it had sealed entirely. He growled a curse and slapped both hands against the iron.

"I think you just got blown off," Mr. Charles said.

"If they're taking precautions like this, they must have gone down another level." Eames turned toward the control panel and tried a few combinations without results. "Damn that Ariadne, she's sharper than she looks. They might have points like this all over the city."

When he tried another combination he felt a sudden impact against his chest, and was flung to the ground. He grimaced up at the tunnel lights.

Mr. Charles raised his eyebrows questioningly. "You feel that?"

I know this feeling. He struggled upright but he knew there was no time. Someone's waking me up.

Eames turned toward Mr. Charles, trying to think of some advice or instructions he could give that might make it back to Robert, and jumped again at the sight of a group of wraiths flooding down the stairs. Mr. Charles was so focused on Eames that he didn't notice their silent advance until one fastened both hands around his elbow. He spun, but by then they were swarming over him, and Eames could only watch, shocked, as one of them pounced and drew a black cloak over his head.

Eames was rocked again, and then the tunnel began to dissolve around him. "Wait," he gasped, reaching into the thrashing limbs. He tried to pull Mr. Charles away from the dark projections but they were drawing him into their fold. Just before the world fell away he saw one of them pressing a sleek, plastic mask into place.

Eames's eyes snapped open. The left side of his face was hot with the unmistakable sting of a slap, and hands were twisting around his collar. Before he could get his feet beneath him someone dragged him out of the study and shoved him into the back of the sofa.

"Son of a bitch," Browning growled nearby. "I knew it would be you."

Eames grabbed the back of the sofa to pull himself upright, but as soon as he was on his feet Yeates tried to punch him in the gut. He was fast enough to twist out of the way but then another man grabbed his arm. The two guards together managed to overpower him and pin him against the furniture. He allowed it, conserving his strength for the moment.

"I should say the same to you," Eames said. His lips curled in a sneer. "Only Peter Browning could do something like this to his own godson."

Browning stepped forward and struck him hard across the face with the back of his hand. It was surprisingly effective, and Eames needed a moment to make sure his jaw was still attached. "You watch your mouth," Browning warned. "I'm undoing the damage you goddamned extractors caused in the first place."

Back in the study, Cobb awoke with a sharp intake of breath. Browning whipped around and noticed him for the first time. "Marcus, get him out of there."

Marcus started. He and Erhard were standing against the wall, looking anxious and frustrated. "Sir," Erhard started, "I don't--"

"Shut up; you're fired." Browning pointed at Marcus emphatically. "You--go--get that asshole out of there."

Marcus grimaced and headed into the study, but Erhard remained stern. "With all due respect, I don't work for you, Mr. Browning."

"Oh shove it, Erhard," Yeates snapped. His voice buzzed comically thanks to the tissues jammed up his broken nose. "When this is over I'll take care of you myself."

Eames relaxed minutely as he took a quick glance around the room. Yeates was on his left and another of Browning's men on his right, but there was also a new, third bodyguard at the condo door. Outnumbered this time. Damn it.

Marcus pulled Cobb out of the room and urged his back to the wall, though he didn't bother to restrain him as severely as Eames. Cobb didn't seem about to fight anyway--he was blinking and disoriented. Eames tried not to squirm. "What happened?" he asked, hoping that Cobb had fared better than him.

Cobb shook his head. He looked honestly troubled, by something deeper than a sudden dream death. "Mr. Browning," he said sharply, "you have to let us go back under."

"Excuse me?" Browning turned on him. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm--" Cobb took in a quick breath. "My name is Charles," he said. "I'm an expert in shared dreaming. I was called here to help Mr. Fischer--"

"Oh, this is rich," Browning sneered. "Now every con with a silver case is an expert, hm?" He waved at his bodyguards. "Lock them in the guest room while I call the police. They're not worth getting our hands dirty."

"You don't understand--something's gone wrong!" Cobb insisted as Marcus tugged him away from the wall. "If you don't let us help them you're going to get Fischer killed!"

Browning stopped. Genuine concern showed in his face as he turned back, though soon enough it was replaced with distrust. "Don't think you can trick me," he said. "I know enough about dreamshare to know it can't kill you."

"Not normally, but Fischer's mind isn't stable," Cobb went on. When he tried to move closer to Browning, Marcus hauled him back. "His projections have been corrupted somehow, and they're ruining whatever plan there was. The entire team is in danger."

Eames gave a testing pull against the men restraining him, but their arms tightened quickly around him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to escape without seriously injuring one or both. Even if I get away it won't do any good if I can't get and stay under, he thought, trying to see into the study. I'd have to kill them all. "He's telling the truth," he said instead. "Do you even understand what projections are?"

Browning grunted. "Of course I do. I've been under before."

"Well Robert's are at war with each other." He glanced to Cobb, who was nodding with him, and was suddenly more grateful to him than he'd ever been. "It's chaos down there."

"All thanks to you!" Browning advanced on him and poked him hard in the chest. "Did you think I wouldn't figure out that something happened on that plane?" he said, and behind him, Cobb went pale. "The plane that asshole Saito bought just a week before? The plane that didn't have a single seat in first class open for Robert's security?" His fists clenched and Eames tensed, expecting another blow, but it didn't come. "As soon as I saw him in L.A. I knew something was wrong, and there you were, still after him."

"There are a lot of extractors in the world," Eames said evenly. "If something happened to him, it wasn't us that did it." He scoffed. "Would we be stupid enough to come back if it was?"

Eames knew he was a convincing liar, and he saw Browning begin to cave, if only a little. "Then why? You expect me to believe you're here trying to 'help' Robert out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Well." Eames smirked. "Not my heart."

Browning's face contorted, and at last his fist smashed heavily into Eames's jaw. Eames turned with the blow, and despite the pain hammering across his head and neck he spared a moment to be impressed: Browning knew how to land a punch.

"You son of a bitch," he growled, and then he grabbed Eames's jaw, yanking his face back around. He was red with anger, and just as Eames had hoped, the inception was suddenly the last thing on his mind. "Do you even know who you're fucking with?"

"I sure do," Eames laughed, but before Browning could hit him again there was a sharp gasp from the study behind them.

Cobb jerked away from Marcus and hurried to the open doorway. "Shit." He started to head inside but Marcus caught up and drew him back. "Yusuf, what happened?"

"What are you doing here?" Yusuf said, startled.

Cobb turned back to Browning with resumed agitation. "You have to let us back under."

"What are you talking about?" Browning moved to see inside the study for himself. "And why are you awake early?"

"He was one of their dreamers," Cobb said, and seeing him so anxious made Eames's pulse rise as well. "If he's awake that means the dream Fischer was in is collapsing. His mind will be ripped apart!"

"Don't try to tell me how dreamshare works," Browning snapped.

"He's right." Yusuf rubbed his arm as he moved to the doorway. "Dr. Banks changed the plan on us--they're in trouble down there."

"What do you mean? Changed how?"

"Mr. Browning, please." Cobb touched Browning's elbow, and though he pulled his arm away, he listened. "Tell us exactly what you asked Dr. Banks to do here."

Browning looked to each of them, and some of his anger gave way to confusion and even guilt. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I told her I suspected that someone--" he cast a heavy glare at Eames "--had been in Robert's mind. I couldn't let it get public, so I asked her to get a team together that could find out what was done to him and fix it. Fix it," he emphasized. "Or at least...'convince' him to step down for a while. If anything's going to kill him it's the board of directors, after all he's been doing!"

Yusuf leaned heavily against the open doorway. His eyes were wide and stunned. "That's...not what Dr. Banks told us," he said weakly.

Everyone looked to him. "What did she tell you?" Browning asked, at last coming around to the seriousness they were trying to impress on him.

Yusuf shook his head, overwhelmed. "She said..." He pushed his hair back. "She said you hired us to get Mr. Fischer removed from Fischer Morrow."

"By driving him insane," Cobb added. "Tell him, Yusuf--tell him how you're tearing Fischer's mind apart."

Eames's heart pulsed in his throat, and he couldn't restrain himself any longer. He twisted, pounding his fist into Yeates's groin and then easily breaking free from his loosened grip. The second man was so distracted by the goings on that Eames was able to jerk away from him, and then he was grabbing Yusuf's collar. "Yes, tell us!" he demanded. "What are you doing to him?"

Yusuf didn't try to fight him. "It's reversible, I swear! Except..."

Again Cobb filled in. "Except Arthur's already been split, and now that you're here that means Robert has, too. And if we don't go down right now and fix it, they're both going to lose their God damned minds!"

Erhard grabbed Eames by the shoulders and urged him back before he could question further. Eames struggled at first, but when he saw Yeates groaning on the floor and the other bodyguards crowding closer, he realized what Erhard was doing. He relinquished himself to the man's hold.

"You're lying," Browning said, wagging his finger at each of them in turn. "You--you're all in on something. I'm waking Charla up."

Cobb reached for him. "No, wait--"

Before Browning could take one step into the study he was halted by a blood-curdling scream. Eames paled, fearing the worst, but he realized swiftly that it wasn't Robert's voice: it was Nash. Shaking and terrified, Nash opened his eyes and scrambled to remove the IV from his arm.

"Nash?" Yusuf started toward him. "What are--"

"Get away from me!" Nash cried, clamoring to his feet. "Get off me--let me go!" He shoved past Yusuf and bolted into the great room.

"What happened?" Cobb tried to ask, but Nash plowed past him too, shoving him almost off his feet.

"Get the fuck off me!" Nash screamed again, but when he made a run for the door Browning's bodyguards intercepted him. He put up more of a fight than they were ready for, and when he almost wriggled free one of them pulled his fist back.

"Wait--" Eames said, but he was too late. It only took one punch to knock Nash out cold, and the men shoved him onto the sofa. Eames sighed sharply. "Now how can we ask him what happened?"

Yusuf crouched down next to the PASIVs. "He was one of our Level One dreamers," he said. "Which means his dream must be collapsing..."

Everyone peered into the study, watching the four still connected. Eames shuddered in Erhard's grip and expected at any moment that they would all burst awake, but in what condition he dreaded knowing. He couldn't take his eyes off Robert's pained face. After ten seconds had passed in uneventful silence he exchanged a tense glance with Cobb. "They're not waking up."

"Losing two dreamers like that should have collapsed everything," Cobb said, wiping sweat off his brow. "Almost instantly, even. How can they still be under?"

Browning grabbed Yusuf by the shoulder and pulled him upright again. "What's going on? What the hell are they doing to him?"

"I--I don't know," Yusuf stammered. "They should be waking up, but--"

"We don't have time for this." Cobb shook free of the bewildered Marcus and entered the room. "We have to go under and see for ourselves."

"You're insane yourself if you think I'm letting you anywhere near him now," Browning snarled, and to Eames's surprise, he stepped between Cobb and Robert protectively.

"But it's the only way to know what's going on. You have to believe me, we're only trying to help."

"Come with us," Eames said.

Browning looked to him in confusion. "What?"

"Come down with us," Eames repeated. "See for yourself what your money's paying for."

"I did not pay for this!" Browning smeared his hands down his face. "I've known Charla for almost forty years--why would she do what you're telling me?"

"The longer you make us wait, the less of a chance there is that he'll ever wake up," Eames persisted. "If we go down you can ask Banks yourself, but we have to go now."

"All right! Jesus Christ." Browning motioned for Erhard to let Eames go, which he quickly did. "Hunnigan, you're in charge. Make sure no one comes in or out."

"Yes sir," the man said, looking mostly dumbfounded.

Eames gave Erhard a thump on the arm and hurried inside. "Can you rebuild a dream that's collapsing?" he asked Cobb.

"I have before, but not under circumstances like these," Cobb replied. "But I'll have to use Nash's machine if I'm going to get to Banks." He frowned suddenly. "Yusuf, did you bring any sedatives?"

Yusuf's eyes darted to his brown satchel in the corner of the room. "What for?"

"Give me some."

Yusuf caught on swiftly, and he took a step in front of his supplies. "No."

"Sedatives for whom?" Browning asked suspiciously as he rolled his sleeve up.

"For Dr. Banks." Cobb's eyes hardened and he moved closer. "To make sure her dream doesn't collapse."

"No," Yusuf said again. "I know what you're up to, and whatever's going on I'm not going to let you do that to her."

Eames's stomach twisted nauseously, and he couldn't help but wonder how long Cobb had known about the effects of sedatives and dreaming, and how many times he had employed that knowledge. He's not going after Banks to negotiate, it seems. Not that I blame him. "There's another way," he said, pulling Cobb aside as Yusuf eyed them both warily. "Do you remember that trick of yours?" His lip quirked. "The one I told you never to do to a forger?"

Cobb straightened and glanced away awkwardly. "Yes."

"Do it." He gave Cobb's cheek a dull smack and moved further into the room. "Yusuf, you know the layout--where will we be able to find Robert?"

Yusuf was still watching Cobb. "He should still be in the subway, headed for Point Two. One in a grocery store in the northwest corner... one in a blue office building in the southeast. Charla will be in the northwest."

Browning sat down in the chair Yusuf had vacated earlier. "If I see something I don't like down there, I'm waking up and shutting this all down," he warned.

Eames pulled two IVs out of Ariadne's machine and handed one to him. "I can already promise you you're not going to like it."

Cobb retrieved a needle for himself and took Nash's chair. "Are you coming down on this one?" he asked Yusuf. "To keep an eye on me?"

"No." Yusuf folded his arms. "I can do that better up here." He looked to Eames. "Just make sure that everyone is on Level One before you wake anyone up. It has to be simultaneous."

"All right."

They all slid the needles into their arms.

Chapter Text

When Robert woke up in the study for the twelfth time, something was different: there was a man that hadn't been there before. He was blond and familiar. "Mr. Charles...?"

Across from him, Arthur awoke with a quiet intake of breath. He too noticed the addition right away, and he slumped in his chair. "Shit."

Nearby, Charla clicked her tongue against her teeth. "It's about time."

Robert straightened, but then the study was gone again. He watched the world fall away, and a new one take its place--a tall building with many rooms. Some part of him recognized that it was meant to be a hotel, and he filled the rooms with uniform furniture, put guests in the beds and food on the dinner carts. He put himself on a king sized mattress in the circular master bedroom of the tower suite. And he put a warm hand around his.

He was in Munich. Eames was beside him, recreating a morning only a week past. When he glanced into the rest of the room he could even see their breakfast dishes piled on the room service cart, and his discarded jacket crumpled on the floor. He wiggled his bare toes.

Was it really only a week ago? he thought, relaxing against the warmth at his shoulder. When he snuck into my mind? When he looked at me... He glanced to his right and found Eames watching him with just the face he remembered: curious, and concerned, and excited all at once. When I knew he was the last person I should trust, and the only one I could...

"You look tired," Eames said.

"I am tired," Robert replied. He snorted. "Tired of waiting for you."

His lip quirked. "I'm right here."

"No you're not--you're just a projection." Robert nestled into him all the same, pretending--just for a moment--that he wasn't trapped in a mad-woman's fluctuating dream. "You're not real."

Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"

Robert started to answer, but then paused, staring up at the ceiling. There was a fan turning lazily above them that he didn't remember being there, bearing a childish shape but somehow comforting. He squeezed Eames's hand as he watched it turn. "I was a second ago," he said. "No, I'm sure--this isn't real."

"We just learned that you can't trust your memory," Eames continued. "How can you trust what you see with your own eyes?"

"I..." Again Robert hesitated. He breathed in the familiar smells of the hotel suite: the linens that could stand to be changed, the open brandy, the coffee cooling on the table. Everything was sharper and more distinct than he remembered, almost...more real. His heart beat a little faster. "Stop trying to confuse me; I know I'm dreaming."

"No you don't." Eames leaned into him, lips warm against his ear. "You've been waiting for me so that I can tell you if you're dreaming."

"No, I..." Robert glared at the pinwheel overhead, but the more he watched its gentle rotation, the more convincing Eames sounded. When Eames wrapped his arm around his waist he didn't resist. "I was just in the study. This can't be real."

"Who cares anyway? Just stay here, with me."

Eames's hand slid beneath Robert's shirt. His fingers were icy, and Robert jerked, squirming away from the unpleasant chill. When he finally tore his gaze away from the pinwheel cold black fabric danced in front of him, and he started again. "Eames?" He struggled away from the projection, but the arm around him tightened, digging fingernails into his skin.

"You'd rather stay here with me anyway," the Eames projection murmured through plastic lips. "No one will hurt you here."

Robert twisted violently, and after much struggle managed to tear free of the wraith's pawing grip. He scrambled off the bed, almost tumbling onto his back in the effort, and retreated down the short steps. When he looked back Eames was still on the bed, made of white limbs and black veils. The sight of him sent panic into Robert's gut and he fled from the room.

I'm still dreaming. Robert threw open the door to the stairwell and stormed down the floors. But that's the first time Eames has been here, on this level. God, I didn't want to see him like that.

He came out in the lobby and there stopped, staring about in confusion. Though he was certain he had just descended from the room he'd rented in Munich, he was no longer in the same hotel. The front desk was on the opposite wall, and the décor was all wrong, all straight, gray lines and glass sculptures instead of the flowers and soothing wood he had expected. More surprising were the guests flowing in and out of the building: there were no ghosts, only people in clean suits, moving about in practiced precision.

Robert wandered across the lobby in his bare feet, frowning at the unfamiliar faces passing by him. Everything was alien. I'm dreaming, he told himself again as he peered through tinted windows into the hotel's restaurant. But it feels different than before...

Arthur was seated in the restaurant, chatting amiably with the man across from him. Robert recognized him immediately. Mr. Charles again. He felt a flash of betrayal. You're supposed to be on my side, you know.

A woman's reflection joined his in the glass: his assistant, Shelby. Robert frowned at her, suspecting already that she was not who she seemed, and was validated when she smiled. "Banks," he murmured.

"My, you've gotten good at spotting me," she chuckled. "You're quite the skilled dreamer, Robert."

He made a quick scan of the surrounding area, but there was nothing immediately nearby that could be used as a weapon. "What's going on?" he asked bluntly. He couldn't remember the last time Charla had stopped her torture for a chat. "Something's different."

Charla moved closer to the glass, her eyes sharp on Arthur and his guest. "Arthur's put up quite a fight, but he's exhausted," she explained. She gestured to the people around them. "These are his projections, which he is no longer able to repress. Now you are both subjects in my dream."

Robert looked again into the restaurant. If Mr. Charles is one of Arthur's projections, does that mean he's a real person? He tried to remember what Eames had said about him but it was too hard to concentrate. He shook his head. "Why are you doing this? What are you trying to extract from him anyway?" He turned toward Charla angrily. "And what does it have to do with me?"

"Everything." Charla tilted her chin up. "Three years ago Arthur was hired to extract a secret from you. I want to know what it was."

"A secret?" Goose bumps rose up Robert's arms, and he was momentarily distracted by what he thought was another wraith crossing the far end of the restaurant. Does that make this...the third time Arthur's been in my mind? That lying asshole... "What kind of secret?"

"If I knew that, we wouldn't be here, now would we?"

Robert scowled. "My secrets aren’t any business of yours anyway," he snapped. "I don't even know you. It was Peter that put you up to this, wasn't it?" His throat ached with bitterness. "I would have told him anything, if he'd just asked."

Charla turned, leaning her back up against the glass so she could face Robert more easily; her eyes were cold and she wanted him to see them. "It's not Peter you should be angry with," she said. "Blame your father."

"You don't know anything about my father."

"Don't I?" She folded her arms. "Maurice Fischer was a loathsome coward who used and then abandoned all his friends and even members of his own family," she said boldly. "Look at what he's made you: a helpless, narcissistic little brat with no talent and no connections. Just like him."

Robert's fists trembled at his sides. "Shut up," he hissed, but when he looked away from Charla all he could see was his own reflection, and it made his ill ease worse.

"Fischer Morrow will be better off without you," she continued. "Peter may not thank me for it, but he'll know I was right." She tsked, leaning her head back. "And then all you Fischers will be out of our lives forever. A shame that I had to wait this long."

Robert's jaw worked, but he still couldn't look away from his own pained face. Even Eames said I'm terrible, he thought, hypnotized by his empty eyes. I deserve everything they do to me. Because I'm no one. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the glass. Because I'm not who I'm supposed to be.

"Everything will be better, when you're gone," Charla said, her every word a painful truth. "Peter will rule Fischer Morrow as he always wanted. No more burdens will hold him back." She turned her head just enough to speak directly into his ear. "He was a greater man, before you. Before Maurice Fischer. Before that whore mother of yours."

Robert saw red. He woke from his trance and whirled on her, but before he could catch her she vanished. It wasn't until he heard light footsteps clacking away across the marble floor that he realized where she had gone: she was in a child's body, and she was fleeing into the restaurant.

Robert scowled and gave chase. The restaurant patrons glanced up sharply as he followed the skipping blonde, all of them alert and wary, except for Mr. Charles: as soon as he saw the child he smiled and rose from his chair. "Philipa!"

"Daddy!" She leapt into his arms, grinning from ear to ear. "Uncle Arthur!" Arthur stood as well, and smiled until he saw Robert heading toward him. Confusion creased his brow.

"Arthur, it's Banks!" Robert shouted at him, pointing. "You're still dreaming!"

Arthur frowned, and his hand went to his pocket, but by then the dream was already falling away. The floor grew harder and colder beneath Robert's feet, and when he and Arthur were only two steps away a wall from the ceiling slammed down between them. Robert lurched back, and despite his frustration remained still while the rest of the whip played out. He rubbed his eyes. It's not really you she's after, it's him, he told himself. Don't let her get to you. Don't let her--

"Let me show you something."

Robert opened his eyes. He was in a small room made of gray, concrete walls, and thought at first he was back in the prison cell. Is this the eighth time? Or the ninth? he thought, but then he noticed that the far wall was made of glass. He moved forward slowly, dreading another glimpse of his haunting reflection, but even that was forgotten when he saw what lay beyond the window: a handsome, mahogany desk; full but tidy bookshelves; a manicured, imported floral arrangement.

And a man, standing in front of the small, heavily draped windows. His silhouette was crisp and straight, unmovable, and Robert shivered at the sight his childhood had drilled into him so well. "He's not real," he murmured, trying to calm his pounding heart. When he looked closely enough he realized that Maurice was shorter than he was supposed to be, and there were items on the desk that should not have been there: personal effects like photographs that Maurice never kept.

"He's not my projection," Robert accepted aloud. He pressed his hands to the glass and realized that it wasn't a window, but a two way mirror. "Are you showing me Arthur's dream?"

"This is Fischer Morrow, three years ago," Charla said, her voice echoing from a speaker mounted on the wall. "I thought it would be of interest to you."

Arthur's memory, then? Robert ground his teeth, but he couldn't deny that he wanted to see. Three years ago...around the same time as the memory I showed Eames. His hands curled to fists. When Father hired someone to train me. Was that Arthur? Is he the one Eames found in Father's account?

The speaker on Maurice's desk buzzed, and he turned away from the window to answer. "Yes?"

"Sir, Dr. Banks and a guest are here to see you."

"Send them in."

Maurice moved around the desk and sat down, at last giving Robert a view of his face. His resemblance to the Maurice of Robert's memory was closer than Charla's Forgery, but there were still slight differences, especially around his sunken eyes. Robert forced himself to look away as the door opened, and in walked Charla and Arthur. Charla cast a deliberate glance his way as they stepped into the office and greeted Maurice with handshakes and false pleasantries.

That's the real Banks. Robert pounded his fists against the glass, but Arthur didn't look up. If only he'd just realize and kill her!

"I won't waste your time with a lot of talk," Maurice said, straight to the point as always. "You know why you're here. I want to know what you found."

Arthur unbuttoned his jacket and sat down across from him. "Mr. Fischer, my assistant and I were very thorough," he said. His tone was one Robert recognized very well: the even-toned, professional calm of a man about to deliver bad news to his patriarch. Everyone spoke to his father that way. "We explored a great deal of your son's mind, including abstract dreams and many specific memories. We did not find anything artificial or otherwise troubling."

Maurice took in the news with irritation. "And did you look for Peter Browning, as I asked?"

Robert frowned uneasily. "Why would he ask about Peter?" he murmured.

Charla wiped her mouth discreetly, and her voice echoed through the speaker at Robert's end. "Arthur is lying. I know it's for a reason."

"We looked," Arthur said, and Robert watched him closely, waiting to see some indication of the lie that Charla was so focused on. "Again, we introduced Robert Fischer to a variety of situations, and Mr. Browning did appear in several. However, we weren't able to detect anything malicious or unordinary."

Maurice sighed, lacing his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair. "Dr. Banks introduced you to me saying you were the best in your field," he said.

"And he is," Charla replied. "Arthur is one of the most talented dreamers of my acquaintance."

Maurice shook his head. "So you say. But to be frank, I'm disappointed."

The word crashed against Robert's ears. To hear it spoken in his father's voice, not uttered but declared boldly, shook him from muscle to bone. He remembered that horrid morning in his father's room, could almost feel the thin, shaky fingers twisting against his chest. Harsh, putrid breath steamed his cheek and then he was pounding on the glass, desperate not to relive those painful moments.

How dare he, a voice bellowed out from inside him. The glass flexed beneath his fists and he screamed in defiance at his own bitter reflection. How dare he blame me for not being him!

The mirror exploded away from him, shattering into dust-thin particles that flooded to cover every corner of the office. The trio inside ducked and shielded their faces beneath the unexpected onslaught. Robert stared at them in as much shock. Did I do that? He shook himself. "Arthur! Damn it, you're still dreaming!"

Arthur swept the dust off his face and looked about in confusion. When his gaze landed on the equally stunned Charla he reached for her, but she was just swift enough to avoid his grasping hands. Her face changed to that of a stranger and she bolted from the office. Growling, Arthur gave chase.

Robert climbed through the destroyed mirror and started to follow, but was halted at the door by his father's voice, rippling behind him.

"Robert."

He didn't want to turn. He didn't want to see his father through Arthur's eyes, let alone hear whatever he had to say, but when he heard Maurice stepping closer he couldn't help himself. His fears were both realized and outdone when he was greeted not with the too-short Maurice, but a towering ghost bearing his dead face. The black cloak billowed from the mask that stood almost at the room's ceiling, and bloodless arms groped forward, snatching Robert by the shoulders.

"I love you, Robert."

Robert wasn't able to take a full breath before Maurice wrenched him forward, and he was enveloped in swirling black. The veils clawed at him from all directions like bat wings, and he fought, unable to find purchase in a body or even the limbs that had drawn him in. His father's voice continued to rumble around him, close to his ear even though when he reached for it, he could not find a face.

"I love you, Robert," Maurice repeated in anguish. "Believe me--I love you--believe me--"

"You're not my father!" Robert choked, tearing at the fabric, desperate to escape. His feet came out from under him and he fell hard on his shoulder. "Get off--get away from me!"

Robert's flailing hands met warm, human skin, and he surged, clinging to what felt like a man's arm. As soon as Arthur had pulled him from the torrent he clamored to his feet and fled out of the office.

"Fischer!" Arthur caught up to him in the hallway. "Are you all right?"

"I am not all right!" Robert shouted, pawing at his arms and shoulders to get the feeling of cold fabric off him. His throat was tight and he fought not to let his emotion get the better of him. "I've had enough of this!"

He marched away, but stopped when he caught a glance of the one of the office conference rooms to his left. It was filled with men in proper business attire, but as he watched, they too grew false faces and dark shrouds. Beside him, Arthur shook his head.

"Your projections are assimilating mine," he said. "I don't know how that's even possible."

They're taking over my mind. Robert's heart beat painfully as he hurried down the corridor. Changing things--even Eames. His hands shook as he raked them through his hair. There's not going to be anything of me left soon. Everything I know will be a lie.

"Fischer." Arthur hurried to catch up. "Wait--we have to stick together."

"It's not my problem that you can't tell you're dreaming anymore," he retorted.

Arthur grabbed his elbow. "Pretty soon you won't be able to either. If we don't help each other--"

"Get off me!" Robert shook free and shoved him hard in the chest. "You're still lying to me! I don't want your help!"

Arthur stumbled back, and just as he was regaining his footing, a wall dropped between them. Robert jumped, the surprise sending another jolt of adrenaline to his overworked heart. She's going to move us again, he thought, and though it was foolish he turned and ran as if he could escape it. I don't want to do this anymore.

The hallway stretched before him. The faster Robert ran the longer it seemed to grow, stretching on infinitely ahead and behind. He could hear fabric rustling and voices droned out of the suddenly dozens of open rooms. I have to find somewhere safe. His legs burned but he forced as much strength into them as he could as he sprinted toward a distant door. If I can make somewhere safe, they'll go away. Please let them go away!

The door was miles away, but when he held out his hand, a curved handle rammed into it. He twisted it and shoved himself through the unexpected entrance, from the sterile hallway and into warm firelight. The door slammed behind him, leaving only silence.

There were quilts on the log walls. A fire crackled in the hearth. Robert held his breath as he took in the familiar landscape, daring to hope that he might have found sanctuary. His eyes darted from object to object; he could feel them, knew what to expect behind and beneath every bit of furniture. The truth pulsed at the back of his brain.

I made this. He stepped cautiously forward. I put this in Banks's dream, just like before. His gaze flickered to the fireplace. I've finally done it.

Robert dashed forward and threw himself onto the bed. It was warm and it smelled like Eames--he breathed it in and could have cried. I'm safe here. I'll just wait here until Eames comes to wake me up. It's the only way to be sure.

Something tugged at him. When he closed his eyes his mind drifted involuntarily across empty space, and then he was in the apartment building. He was crouched in a dark closet with a single bulb light overhead, surrounded on all sides by pounding thunder and a coppery stench.

"I only wanted to know," Yusuf wheezed next to him. Blood poured out from beneath the press of his fingers and sweat dripped off his face. He choked on a weak cough. "If it was...possible. Reversible. Just to know for sure."

Robert ran his fingertips back and forth over the gun in his lap. "All my soldiers are gone," he said for benefit of his other self. He glanced up at the walls, where every percussion marked another ghost trying to gain entrance. "Even the woman. Yusuf's almost dead. He can't even hear me anymore. Sorry, Robert." With a deep breath he pressed the gun to his temple. "You'd better find a way to kill yourself, and soon."

A low growl brought him back to the cabin. Robert opened his eyes, and when he looked toward the hearth was startled to find Eames's immense white tiger slinking toward him. Mesmerized, he crawled to the edge of the bed and licked his lips. "Looks like those things haven't gotten to you yet, at least," he murmured.

The tiger bared its fangs, and though Robert trembled, he slid off the bed and onto his knees. "Are you Eames's projection, or mine?" he asked. "I guess it doesn't matter." He squeezed his eyes shut and stretched his neck forward. "Please just kill me."

Hot breath flared across his throat, and then the jaws were around him, tearing and crunching. Just when he felt his vertebrae snap, he pulled the trigger.

Robert woke up.

He was on his back on a lumpy cot, a seatbelt fastened tightly over his stomach and a needle in his arm. The beaming fluorescents stung his eyes to watering, and the flow of tears down his temples triggered a rush of emotion. I'm awake! He ripped the IV out of his wrist and the belt off his torso. I'm awake, oh God, finally!

Robert jerked upright and took in his surroundings. He was in a subway car that had stopped, accompanied by the still sleeping Charla and Arthur. Pinwheels littered the floor but it didn't occur to him to think it strange. As he wiped his eyes on his sleeve his attention fell on Arthur in full, and his chest tightened.

I should wake him up, too, he thought, moving next to his cot. He's an asshole but even he doesn't deserve what that woman's doing to him.

He reached for the IV, but was paused by the sight of his own hands, stained rust with dried blood. He shuddered and drew them back. Eames. His full memory flooded forward, and when he glanced about the subway again the unwanted truth left him cold. No, that was a dream. Which means...I'm still dreaming. His fingernails dug rivets into his palms. I must be still dreaming.

The subway door blared a warning and then slid open. Robert jumped, spinning to face it and the startled man standing on the platform. They stared at each other, each as shocked by the other's presence. The stranger reached behind him. "What are you--"

Robert grabbed the bars crossing the ceiling of the car, and used them as leverage to swing himself forward, kicking the stranger in the chest. As the man yelped and fell backwards Robert leapt out of the subway.

"Are you Nash?" Robert demanded as he pursued. "Are you another goddamned extractor?"

He reached for him, but Nash caught his breath quickly, and as soon as Robert was close enough he twisted and kicked him in the gut. He jerked to his feet. "What the hell are you doing up?"

Robert gagged and gripped his stomach. As exhausted as he was his anger propelled him past it, and when Nash reached for him he swung his fist. The impact hurt his knuckles as much as Nash's jaw but he felt a thrill of approval when Nash staggered.

"Wake me up." Robert chased after him, trying to reach around him for the gun he was sure was there. "Wake me up!"

Nash grabbed the front of Robert's shirt and shoved him into a nearby pillar. "Get back in that car," he growled, twisting out of the way when Robert attempted to knee him in the groin. "You son of a--" He pulled his arm back.

Robert shoved him, trying to squirm out from between him and the pillar, but their legs tangled in the close quarters and with twin gasps they crashed to the floor. A ragged struggle ensued; both hissed curses as they grappled on the platform, trying to gain leverage over the other. Robert felt knees and elbows jabbing into him but only escape mattered. At last he wound his fingers in Nash's hair and pulled as hard as he could. Strands came off in his hand and Nash screamed, dropping onto his side.

Robert rolled on top of him and closed his already bloodied hands around Nash's throat. "Get out of my head!" he screamed, and squeezed, leaning his weight forward.

Nash pawed at him, his mouth gaping for air that wouldn't come. Robert sneered and felt a sick satisfaction as he watched his eyes get wider and his face paler. "Get out," he said, half ordering and half begging. "Get out, get out of my mind!"

Nash twisted his hips, and Robert realized too late that he had yanked the handgun out of his belt. The grip cracked against Robert's temple and set off fireworks in his eyes, giving Nash the opening he needed to shove him off.

"You son of a bitch," Nash said as he dragged himself to his feet. "You're not supposed to be up."

Robert groaned. He pressed a hand weakly to his temple as he squirmed on the floor, aching and almost unable to breathe.

Nash paced back and forth, coughing and rubbing his throat. "Asshole," he continued to grumble. "I hate rich assholes like you. Do you know what I've gone through to get here? I've been owned by rich fucks you like my entire life. My entire life!"

He punctuated each word with a kick to Robert's stomach, until he was curled up in a ball, gagging. "You're getting back in that car!" he snarled, grabbing Robert's collar. He started to drag him across the platform.

No! Robert struggled, but his eyes were blinded with tears and he was out of strength. I'm not going back down there!

Nash stopped at the entrance to the subway car. Knowing he wouldn't have another chance Robert grabbed him by the belt and punched with his other hand, and wished he could have laughed when the blow to Nash's groin felled him. Instead he used the door of the car to pull himself upright and ran.

"Fucker!" Nash called after him, and before Robert could get to the far door he heard the hammer of the gun click. "Don't fucking move!"

Robert hit the wall, depending on it to stay on his feet as he turned. "Go ahead," he said, one arm wrapped around his aching stomach. "Shoot me."

Nash groaned, cupping his balls as he stumbled after Robert with the gun levied. "Don't tempt me," he replied. "I just have to get you under again without killing you." He lowered the muzzle to aim at Robert's knee.

Robert cringed back. He didn't doubt from Nash's wild eyes that he was serious, but the thought of being tossed back into Charla's nightmare was almost enough to make him vomit. He pressed hard against the wall, and as he tried to reason a way out, it occurred to him just how sleek and cold the metal at his shoulders was.

The pinwheels painted behind him began to spin faster. Their broad, dark lines curved and stretched, blotting out the brilliant colors and even the stark white. Swiftly a shape took form, all polished steel and turning gears, in an immense, solid rectangle.

Nash stopped his advance and stared in slack-jawed confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"

Robert pressed a hand against the door behind him and stood on his own power. "It's a safe," he said. A strange sensation came over him: he knew what he was capable of. "Like the one I built in Eames's dream. I didn't mean to then, either. Know what was in it?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Nash took a step back.

"It holds...fear." Robert traced his fingertips along the seams in the metal, and a keypad rose beneath them. "Whatever you fear the most is in this safe, right now."

"Banks made you crazy," Nash said, shaking the gun at him. "Get away from there."

"Is this your dream we're in?" Robert continued. He held Nash's gaze, willing each word to be true. "Then this safe is in your mind, too. And it holds everything you're afraid of." He input the combination.

Nash readjusted his sweaty grip on the gun and started forward again. "You crazy son of--"

The metal doors creaked, the gears spun, and as soon as a gap opened between them the platform was rocked with a mechanical roar. The inside of the safe was pitch black, but the more it opened the louder and more violent the noise became, revving and waning. Nash went ghostly pale and stumbled back again, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Robert set his hand back on the door, walking with it as it opened fully. "Get out of my mind," he said.

A pair of brilliant spotlights flared from the rectangular maw. As the bellowing engine continued to taunt the lights surged forward in short bursts, like a bull pawing the ground. Nash's gun clattered to the floor and his knees almost gave out. "No," he gasped. In a panic he turned to run. "Oh Jesus--"

Five wraiths descended on him. They grabbed his arms, legs, and neck, dragging him forward into the path of the rocking monstrosity that remained caved in shadows. Nash screamed and thrashed, kicking and even biting, but the wraiths remained firm and shoved him into the floor as a grisly sacrifice.

"Let me go!" Nash wailed, his voice cracking as scars bubbled across his face. "Fischer, wait--oh God don't--please, don't fucking do this to me!"

Robert retrieved the fallen gun, then stumbled to the closest door and shoved his way through. As soon as it closed the shrieking engine and Nash's own high voice were sealed off, and he continued in blissful silence through the childishly decorated corridor. When he came to a block of solid iron he pushed on it, and when it didn't budge, he closed his eyes.

"This is my mind," he told himself. "If I can build in someone else's dream...I can destroy, too." He took in several deep breaths, believing it to be the truth, and the door disappeared.

He trudged out of the basement corridors, through an abandoned grocery store, and into the street. The city was both alien and familiar, and as he looked from it to his bloodied hands, he told himself what had to be done. I'm still dreaming. I have to wake up. When he closed his eyes he felt his other half on the other side of the city, having escaped his subway with no resistance, also standing in the open with a gun in his hand.

Thunder pealed across the canopy of low clouds, vibrating the buildings and sending pebbles dancing across the street. Metal groaned in the distance. Robert ignored it, determination guiding the muzzle of the gun to his temple.

"I wouldn't do that."

Robert opened his eyes again. A wraith was standing before him, and he was tempted to shoot it, but then he recognized the mask it was wearing: Mr. Charles.

"Why not?" Robert asked, his finger curling around the trigger.

"If you pull that trigger, you might not wake up," Mr. Charles said.

"Why not?" Robert quaked with frustration. "I'm still dreaming--I need to kill myself. This is the only way, right?" Doubt squirmed in his gut. "Right?"

"What if you're not dreaming?" asked a second wraith that hadn't been there a moment ago. It was wearing Eames's face. "What if you're already awake, right now?"

Robert glanced between them. "Then..." He swallowed hard. "Then you'd be dead."

"You can't trust your own memory. How can you trust what you see with your own eyes?"

The gun dug into his temple, igniting the sting already caused by Nash's blow. He grimaced and tried to think, to remember just how he had gotten to the train...to the office before that... Nothing made sense, and he doubted. Somewhere to the south, a building rocked on its foundations and crumpled.

"Look at the gun in your hand," Mr. Charles said, moving closer. "It can be used any number of ways."

Eames took a step. "But if you pull that trigger, you might not wake up."

"You might not wake up."

Robert tensed, and at last let the gun drop to the street. He muffled a sob against his palm. What if I don't wake up? he thought desperately. This can't be real, but...what if it's real? He looked to the curved and slanting streets, the thousands of empty black eyes staring at him, the windmills churning at the city's edge, and realized...none of it was strange. He didn't know what the real world was supposed to look like anymore.

"They're coming for you," Mr. Charles said. "You're not safe here."

"But you can make yourself safe."

Robert's knees gave out, and two more ghosts hurried to support him. Instead of howling and tearing at him they petted his back and hair. They were soothing him. He didn't trust them, but as one drew a black cloak over his shoulders, he realized what a comfort it was to his freezing limbs.

A tower rose from the skyline. Robert recognized it as the office building he had occupied earlier, where Eames had first come to him and whispered in his ear. "Find somewhere safe," he said, taking a few unsteady steps forward. The wraiths stayed with him, squeezing his hands in encouragement. Gradually, the rumbling from sky and earth ceased. With every step, calm returned. "That's what Eames told me. That's what I'll do." He could sense his other half already in motion, heading toward the tower at the center of the twisted city. When he let out a slow breath he felt it steam back against his face.

"I'll just make myself safe," he murmured, "and wait for Eames."

Chapter Text

Eames awoke to cold. When he turned his face up snowflakes landed on his closed eyelids, and rather than melt they tumbled down his cheeks and jaw, tickling his whiskers. They fell from the sky so slowly and in such numbers he couldn't help but draw them into his nostrils with every breath, like a pixelated mist. In other circumstances he might have been charmed, but the air was heavy and oppressive and made his stomach feel hollow.

He brushed the snow off his head and shoulders and opened his eyes. They had awoken to a rooftop along the northern edge of the city, overlooking what was by now a nearly alien landscape. The buildings and streets were still curved, but they held none of the earthly precision Eames remembered from his last visit, to him only minutes before. Jagged skyscrapers formed an irregular skyline, slanted and some even spiraled, their eaves slick with ice. Atop every building, from squatting shops to towering apartments, mighty windmills made from iron rails and broken glass churned on in creaking solemnity.

"I was underground before I woke up," Cobb said next to him, his voice weak with disbelief. "Did it look like this before?"

Eames turned in a slow circle. Behind them a huge blade made of shop awnings stretched over construction beams rose over the roof line in steady rotation. "No. This is all new." He turned back to Cobb. "Are we seeing the same thing? Nash's dream should have collapsed by now but if Ariadne is still under..."

"If you're looking at snow and pinwheels, it's the same. And it feels stable." Cobb shook his head. "Did you teach him to do this?"

"I'm flattered you think I could." He glanced away and noticed Browning at the edge of the roof, staring at the bizarre landscape in wide-eyed shock. Thinking they had a moment of semi-privacy, he said to Cobb, "Now tell me everything you know."

Cobb shook his head again. "Not much. Because of the two PASIVs there are apparently two Arthurs and two Roberts. From the sound of it they're supposed to remain on equal levels, or...I'm not sure. Something bad happens."

"How bad?"

"I don't know--something painful, that much I know." Cobb rubbed the back of his skull. "Damn it, Arthur. If he wasn't in so much trouble already I'd kill him."

"What else?" Eames prompted impatiently.

"Okay, okay--Arthur is split across levels somehow." He held up his hands at different heights to signify. "Banks has one of him in Level Two and is trying to extract something from him. He wouldn't tell me what, but..." A familiar sharpness gleamed in Cobb's eyes. "It has something to do with me, and I need to find out what it is."

"What the hell is going on?" Browning said as he rejoined them. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the ragged city. "What the hell kind of dream is this?"

Eames rubbed his mouth as he came to the unsettling truth. "This is all Robert's doing," he explained. "His subconscious must have stepped in to rebuild Nash's dream after he woke up, but he's not stable. He's..."

He trailed off as he suddenly recognized the uneasy feeling in his gut. "This is bad." He looked to Cobb. "Can you feel that?"

Cobb straightened, his eyes losing focus as he tried to understand Eames's meaning. When it came to him, he paled. "We're sinking," he said.

"What?" Browning frowned at them in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"It means that Fischer is retreating into his own subconscious," Cobb explained as Eames moved away. "He can't handle what's happening here and the only way his mind knows to deal with it is to go deeper. He must be processing at an extraordinary rate, but his brain can't do that for long before..."

Browning caught on with a shudder. "You're talking about Limbo?"

Eames pressed his hands to the stone rail circling the roof. He stared out over the maze of twirling buildings, and below them the stream of familiar black-clad ghosts, trying to understand how everything had gone so wrong so quickly. Panic simmered behind his ribs and pushed an ancient, cowardly voice to his surface: Just wake up. He's not worth this much risk.

"You know about Limbo?"

"I only know what I've heard from Charla," Browning said. "She sometimes works with coma patients at her clinic. But this...I don't understand why Charla would do this. I thought that she and I had..."

Eames glanced back just in time to see the color drain from Browning's face. The concern on display was real, and it made Eames rethink much of the research he had done in Sydney. "Do you know something?" he asked.

Browning covered his mouth as if about to be ill. "My God." His gaze danced between the two of them. "She really is trying to kill him, isn't she?"

The ground rocked beneath them. Eames clutched at the stone rail as thunder rolled up and down the city, and all over buildings trembled on their foundations. The severest of the shock lasted only a moment, and then calmed to a dull, grinding vibration. As Eames scanned the horizon, searching for a cause, he finally noticed the office building where he had first met Robert's projections. It was taller than he remembered, and was the only structure left not topped with some manner of pinwheel. Instead, the roof made up the base of a blocky, metallic structure that he recognized well, with fortified towers and thick, slanted windows.

My fortress. Eames took in a long, shaky breath. He must be in there. As he stared he noticed a window creeping along the wall of the south tower. No, it's not moving--we are. He looked over the city again with fresh eyes. We're spinning.

Eames laughed incredulously. "It's a pinwheel," he said, waving Cobb and Browning over. "Look--look what he's done. The entire city is turning."

The three men stared in astonishment. Cobb shook his head, and Eames saw in him the same gleam of awe that he was feeling. I haven't built dreams like this for years, Eames thought, fear and excitement burning in his chest. Watching the city turn beneath the lazily drifting snow reminded him of days long past, when dreams were meant to be relished instead of exploited. It was beautiful and bittersweet.

But it's killing him. Eames shook himself, and faced Browning. "Mr. Browning, if you know anything more about this, you have to tell us," he said.

"No." Browning shrugged out of his suit coat, and Eames and Cobb both leaned back in surprise to see he was already wearing a handgun holster. He freed the weapon and checked to make sure it was loaded. "Nothing I know is going to help Robert now. We have to wake him up."

Eames grabbed his elbow. "Then you do know something."

"If Robert is slipping into some kind of dream coma we don't have time to bullshit about this," Browning said, shaking him off. "If you're really here to help him you should know that." He shoved the gun back in its holster.

"He's right--we don't have time to argue," said Cobb. "What we need to do is get everyone in one place, here in the first level. It's the only way to be sure everyone's ready for a simultaneous disengaging of the PASIVs. Yusuf said that Banks should be in the northwest, and Arthur will be there, too. That's where I'm going."

Eames took in a deep breath. "At least one Robert must be here, in this level, for the amount of building that's going on. Do you think he's been...split?"

"If one of him is still under, it must be the one with Banks."

"Then the other must be in the fortress." Eames looked to it, and though his first instinct was to head there immediately, he consulted his reason. If Banks is in Level Two that means only Arthur and Ariadne are left, and they'll be after Banks. No one will be after him up there. "I'll come with you to Point Two," he concluded. "If that's where Arthur is, I want to have a word with him myself."

Browning frowned at them with distrust, but after some consideration of his own he said, "I'm going after Robert in that tower. He'll need to know we're here to wake him up."

"It's very important that you wait for us to get there," Cobb said quickly. "We have to do this fast, but by the book."

"I know, all right? Better than you do." He turned toward the other end of the roof.

"Stay away from his projections," Eames called after him. He well remembered the strange greetings Robert's projections had given him in Munich, when he was wearing Browning's face. "We'll meet you there." Browning only grunted in response.

Cobb and Eames turned the other way. "Even if he doesn't make it, at least he sees now what's going on," Cobb said as they climbed onto the ledge.

"I'm going down to the street," said Eames. "The projections won't hurt me and I'll be able to get there faster than jumping rooftops." He leapt down to the fire escape.

"What do you mean, his projections--"

"Just trust me, all right?" Eames continued to climb down. "Be careful and I'll meet you there."

As soon as Eames dropped into the alley he was surrounded on all sides by curious wraiths. They touched his shoulders and arms and immediately began to tug him into the street. "Eames is back," they murmured, and he realized quickly that they were turning him toward the tower. "Eames is here."

"Eames is late," one said nearby. It was wearing a white military cap over its mask. "Eames said he would only be an hour."

Eames winced, and pulled against them to instead head northwest. "I need to find Point Two," he told the wraiths when they tried to urge him back. "Where are the other extractors? Do you know?"

A hundred black eyes watched him. One by one the ghosts turned and pointed, their white, knobby fingers indicating a distant rooftop. Squinting against the pouring snow, Eames saw a fire escape pull away from its building with a groan, forming a catwalk across which a motorcycle passed.

There they are. Eames clenched his jaw and started after them, the waves of ghosts parting out of his way.

***

"It's getting harder to build," Ariadne said as she halted the motorcycle on the opposite roof. "I can feel him fighting me over every change."

Arthur's hands flexed against her waist. "It's amazing what he's become capable of in so short a time, but it's not a good sign." He climbed off the back of the motorcycle and pulled a shotgun out of its holster. "Let's leave the bike for now. We're not far from the store."

Ariadne turned off the engine and stowed the keys in her pocket. "It should still be secure," she said as they made their way into the building and down the stairs toward the lobby. "We can shoot our way through those things to get inside and I'll seal the doors behind us." She saw Arthur trail his hand along the wall as they rounded a corner in the stairwell. "How're you holding up?"

"I'm fine," he replied precisely. "Just let me know if you find yourself unable to build anymore."

They snuck out a side door and into the alley, right into another horde of projections. Arthur's shotgun cut a ragged path through them while Ariadne picked off any that attempted to close in from behind. She had learned early on that shooting the masks was the most effective method of felling them, and they scattered into billowing fabric with every shot. As they crossed the street toward the entrance to the grocery she stayed close to Arthur's back, and while covering him noticed a human face among the crowd heading toward them.

Eames. Ariadne leveled her gun with one hand and pulled at Arthur's vest with the other. "It's Eames--"

Arthur whipped around. As soon as Ariadne felt him move she did the same, and charged through the remaining wraiths into the grocery store. There were a few projections already inside and by the time she had taken care of them Arthur was next to her again, shoving her behind the row of cash registers as bullets ricocheted overhead.

"Seal it off," Arthur hissed. "Hurry."

Ariadne closed her eyes, concentrating, but when she turned all the storefront windows from glass to steel she felt one resist a moment longer than the rest. It crashed inward, and as wraiths tried to pour in she had to resort to drawing a partition of metal out of the floor to block the opening. Another round of bullets pounded the registers, and she and Arthur huddled close together, reloading.

"Eames, stop!" Arthur shouted once the volley subsided. "You're going to collapse the dream!"

"I'm not here to kill Ariadne," Eames replied. His footsteps drew closer. "Just you."

Arthur swung the muzzle of his shotgun over the counter and fired blindly. "Keep going," he told Ariadne. "I'll handle Eames."

She shook her head. "But if he kills you--"

Eames opened fire again, and Arthur grabbed Ariadne's arm, pulling her down the line of registers. "Either way you've got to wake the other me up. Just go--I'll cover you."

Ariadne bit her lip, but when Eames paused again she dashed out from under cover. Every shot fired made her heart pound even knowing they weren't for her. Just hurry, she told herself as she made a run for the staff door at the back of the building. As soon as both of him are here we can just wake up and end this job once and for all.

She shoved her way through the staff area, and just as she reached the door to the break room became aware of something pounding in the air duct over her head. More projections? Are they coming in through the roof? When she tried to imagine the top of the building all she could picture was spinning pinwheels, and she abandoned the effort. Just hurry, hurry!

The break room opened into a steep tunnel heading below the store. Ariadne rushed down the corridor, ignoring the spinning decorations, and onto the subway platform. She immediately knew that something was wrong. The chamber reeked of blood and gasoline, and there was a room nestled into the wall she was sure neither she nor Nash was responsible for: an immense black safe, its doors flung open, its innards dark and empty.

Ariadne peered inside the safe and felt a chill. This is the safe I designed, she knew immediately. Fright propelled her away from it. For the Inception. What's it doing here?

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Ariadne spun, her gun leveled, but had just enough presence of mind not to shoot the moment she saw who it was. "Cobb?"

Cobb held up his hands, a gun in one of them. "Don't shoot."

Ariadne shifted her weight anxiously. "How'd you get in here?"

"Through the roof," he said. He moved toward her, his hands still raised. "I'm not here to wake you up--I'm still on your side, all right?"

She hesitated a moment longer, but the thought of Arthur upstairs under a hail of gunfire weakened her, and she lowered the gun. "We have to stop Eames," she said urgently. "If he kills Arthur now it's going to drive him crazy! Shit, Arthur."

Ariadne holstered her gun and hurried to the subway car. The door was already open, and there was no sign of Nash. She looked over the car's occupants and blinked. "Where's Fischer?" Only Charla and Arthur remained attached to the PASIV.

Cobb joined her. "Yusuf is awake," he said. "We figured that Fischer must have been pushed to Level One, but it looks like this one found a way up, too." He climbed inside and sat down on the cot that had been Robert's.

Ariadne stared. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going under." Cobb unbuttoned his cuff and shoved his sleeve up. "To find out what Banks is extracting from Arthur."

"What?" Ariadne surged forward and grabbed the IV before he could insert it. "No, we have to wake him up."

She reached for Arthur's arm, but Cobb snatched her wrist before she could get far. "If Arthur leaves her dream, she'll wake herself up and go straight to Browning," he reasoned. "He already suspects us for the Inception and I am not going to prison." He let her go and held out his hand expectantly. "I'm sure you don't want to end up there, either."

If she's already after Arthur, she'll be after you, too, Ariadne thought. Her stomach twisted nauseously. "But we don't have time for this," she said. "I'm losing control of this dream, and Arthur's already exhausted. If Eames kills him--"

"The only way to settle this is to let Banks get what she wants," Cobb interrupted. His eyes hardened. "Or I deal with her myself. Either way I know this all has something to do with me. Doesn't it?"

Ariadne faltered beneath his unfaltering glare. He was asking her for what she knew and the last thing she wanted was to tell him, knowing what his reaction would be. Her hand shook as she handed over the needle. "Whatever you do, please hurry. I don't know how much more of this Arthur can take, and I will wake him up if I have to."

Cobb stared at her a moment longer, trying to draw the truth out, but when he failed he shook his head. "I'll be quick," he promised as he stretched out on the cot. He slid the needle into his arm and was quickly asleep.

Ariadne hopped onto the platform and moved to the nearest pillar. With the control panel exposed she did a few desperate calculations and was at last able to interrupt the car's program, keeping it halted at its current location. At this rate we'll never make it to Point Three anyway. No place in the city will be safer than this now. She took in a deep breath. Now to go help Arthur.

She started toward the exit corridor, but as she passed by the open safe she felt another chill, and heard a snap of glass breaking. Goose bumps rippled up her arms and she turned, watching in shock as long, elegant fingers curled around the safe's door. A familiar brunette leaned out of the darkness, her eyes round and hypnotizing.

"What are you doing here?"

***

Eames sprinted down the narrow aisle, condiment bottles bursting in his wake beneath Arthur's gunfire. As he rounded the corner he fired blindly behind him, disrupting the pursuit long enough that he could dive for cover behind the squat meat coolers. "I know you're not a dreamer this time," he called, and fired again to drive Arthur behind a far aisle. "Which means it won't make any difference if I wake you up."

"I could say the same to you." Eames could hear the metallic clinks of Arthur reloading. "This isn't any of your business, Eames. Haven't you felt by now that we're sinking? Isn't that usually your cue to turn tail?"

"So you can tell." Eames slapped a new magazine into his own weapon. "You know what you're doing to him, don't you?" He shook his head. "You and I, we've done some fucked up things to people over the years. But I think you have me beat now."

"We both know that's bullshit," Arthur said, "coming from Sullivan's ex."

Eames scowled and rose over the back of the cooler. His gun was poised but before he could get a good enough gauge on where Arthur was bullets rang out, and pain exploded across his right ear. He was thrown onto his back, blood spewing from the wound in his scalp.

"Shit." Eames dropped his gun reflexively so he could cover the torn flesh. "You shot my goddamn ear off!"

Arthur leapt onto the cooler and leveled his handgun. "Just stay the hell out of this."

Eames lunged, catching Arthur around the knees and sending him crashing to the linoleum floor. He clamored over the cooler and pounced; his heel slammed Arthur's wrist into the ground and sent his handgun clattering away. Arthur cried out but was far from ready to give up--he twisted, displaying impressive flexibility as he wrapped both legs around Eames's thigh and jerked him off balance.

Eames landed on the hard edge of the meat cooler. It dug into his ribs and stole his breath, and then Arthur was on him, choking him. Instinctually his countenance changed into a frail and gasping Ariadne. "Arthur, please!" he sobbed.

"You really think I'd fall for that?" Arthur said. He shoved his knee into Eames's chest.

"Worth a try." Eames's face twisted as he changed again; extra pounds of muscle swelled on his torso, biceps, and thighs, and his neck broadened until it was too thick for Arthur to get his hands around. He swung his first like a sledgehammer into Arthur's jaw, and grinned bitterly as he was thrown to the ground.

Arthur groaned and grabbed for the nearby shelves. "Eames." He pulled himself upright as Eames pursued. "Wait, we're--"

Eames punched him again, into a promotional display. "Didn't I warn you to stay away?" he growled as he grabbed Arthur by the back of the neck. "You and your new girlfriend. I'll take care of you both!"

He flung Arthur across the aisle, and just when Arthur managed to get his feet beneath him he attacked again, shoving him face first into the canned meats. Arthur flailed, ineffectually at first, but when Eames tried to get his arm around his throat he grabbed a can off the shelf and slammed its curved edge into Eames's bloody ear.

Eames reeled, bellowing in anger as much as pain as Arthur wriggled out of his grip and made a run for it. Hissing, he followed. They raced to the front of the store, and before Eames could grab him again Arthur dove behind the registers. He spun to his feet a moment later and shoved his shotgun into Eames's throat.

Eames halted, his Forgery falling away as he glared at Arthur across the barrel. "Go ahead," he taunted.

Arthur's finger curled around the trigger. "You'll just come right back, won't you?"

"Nothing you can do about that. I'll keep coming back until this is over."

Both men were drawn by a low growl rippling down the aisles. They turned, and Eames couldn't help but smirk at the bulky white tiger prowling toward them. "Ah. Lovely timing."

Arthur's eyes widened, and was distracted enough by the approaching beast that Eames was able to shove the shotgun aside. They grappled for it, and a shot exploded the far register. Arthur almost managed to get it under control again, but then the tiger was nearly on them, growling through bared fangs. Arthur relinquished the weapon and retreated.

"Eames, is that yours?" he demanded as he backed down the line of sealed shop windows.

"Of course." Eames dreamed up a holster for his newly acquired shotgun and stepped out of the tiger's way--it was focused entirely on Arthur. "This is Mitchell, my 'head of security.'"

Arthur looked left and right, reaching for a gun in his belt that wasn't there. "What the hell are you doing? Suppress it."

"So sorry, Darling," said Eames. "I would if I could, but I'm under a lot of stress at the moment." His voice lowered. "And my subconscious is extremely unhappy with you."

"Eames--"

The tiger roared, and with a twitch of its tail it pounced. Arthur scrambled over the counters and into the aisles. "Eames!" He leapt, propelling off the lower shelves of one aisle to boost himself on top of the opposite. "Eames, I'm going to pay you back for this!" he shouted as the tiger chased him down the building.

"We'll see." Eames spared only a moment for amusement, and then he hurried to the back door that Ariadne had disappeared through earlier.

***

Ariadne backed away with halting steps. Even remembering Arthur's warning the sight of Mal stepping gracefully out of the safe was a shock, and she found herself unable to take a full breath. Mal was wearing an elegant black nightgown and her hair was delicately curled, just as she remembered from Cobb's most intimate memories.

"You're not supposed to be here," Ariadne whispered, retreating beneath Mal's heavy stare. "Fischer...he doesn't even know you."

Mal cocked her head to the side. "What makes you think I'm Fischer's?" she asked, slowly pursuing on bare feet.

Ariadne swallowed hard. "Are you...are you Cobb's?" She glanced behind her, but Cobb was deeply asleep, and she had no idea if it was possible for him to project up a level. Her stomach twisted. "Or are you Arthur's?"

"What do you know about Arthur?" Mal's lips curled in a coy smile. "Do you think because he kissed you, that makes you lovers?"

"What?" Ariadne jumped when something struck her shoulders--she had backed into the subway car. "No, I..." She took in a deep breath and tried to face Mal down with courage. "You're just a projection. I don't have to answer to you."

"Such a foolish little girl," Mal said, continuing toward her. "Desperate to believe in the fairy tale. Are you trying to prove me wrong?"

Ariadne pressed her trembling hands to the polished metal behind her. "I don’t know what you're talking about," she said. "You're not--"

Mal stopped in front of her and laughed. "You're shaking," she noted. "Are you afraid of me?"

She shook her head. "No. No, you're not even real."

"Aren't I?" Mal leaned forward, placing one hand and then the other deliberately on the wall of the car, on either side of Ariadne's face. "How can I not be real when what I have to tell you is the truth?"

Is she really Arthur's projection? Ariadne's heart pounded and she tried to lean back, even though there was nowhere to go. Can he not suppress them anymore? She was afraid of the answer but she asked anyway, "What truth?"

Mal's smile widened cruelly. "You're not really in love with Arthur," she declared. "In fact, he frightens you. But you just can't help yourself, can you?" She pressed her index finger into Ariadne's cheek and dragged it down to her chin. "Just like with my Dom."

Ariadne cringed away. "What are you talking about? I didn't--Cobb and I--"

"He needed you," Mal continued. "He called out to you, and oh, how happy you were to answer." She let her hands fall but she didn't step back, still crowding Ariadne's space and making her wish she could shrink away. "Then, and now, all a man need do is need you. Want you. Is that all love is to you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ariadne said again. She slid down the subway car, away from her. "I never said I was in love with Arthur, I just--"

Mal grabbed her by the throat and pulled her back. Ariadne gasped, but then sharp nails dug into her neck, and she didn't fight other than to grab for Mal's wrist.

"A wretched little girl like you will never have the love of great men," Mal hissed, winding her free hand in Ariadne's hair. "The best you can hope for is to be useful for a short while, and pretend that's enough. Pretend that you care for them. But you will never know love." Her lips pulled back in a sneer. "You'll never love any--"

A bullet exploded out Mal's temple, and Ariadne screamed, throwing herself against the car as the body slumped away from her. For a moment Mal's fingers remained tangled in Ariadne's hair, and she shuddered in disgust as she struggled to dislodge them. When she was at last free she jerked her handgun out and whirled in search of their attacker.

Eames grabbed her wrist, shoving her hand into the subway hard enough that she let go of her weapon involuntarily. She yelped, and a moment later found herself again with her back to the wall. She grimaced up at him. "Eames..."

Eames leaned to the side enough that he could see into the subway, and swiftly returned. "Where's Robert?" he asked sternly.

"I don't know," Ariadne said. Breath was still hard to come by but she stared him down as best she could. "Where's Arthur? What did you do--"

He shoved the muzzle of his gun under her chin. "Where is Robert?" he asked again.

"I don't know!" She squirmed. "He must have woken up, but I don't know where he is--he was gone when I got here!"

Eames lowered his gun with a muttered curse. "Then they must both be in the fortress after all." He looked up and down the platform, and his gaze paused on Mal. "One of your projections?"

Ariadne winced and glanced down. Though she hated to admit it, there was a tremor in her gut that spoke the truth. "Yes," she said weakly. "I...I think so. It's Mal."

Eames frowned. He crouched down and rolled the body over so he could get a look at the projection's face. Her temple was a shredded mess but her eyes were wide and unmistakable, and a sudden revelation thrummed into his chest. "Mal," he repeated as the gears of his mind churned. He looked up to Ariadne, who was still shaking slightly against the subway car. "Is this the first time you've seen her in here?"

Ariadne pushed her hair out of her face, gradually regaining her composure. "Yes, but Arthur said he saw her in Level Two. Where is Arthur?"

Eames ignored her question. He stood, still staring at Mal's pale, dead face. It clicked. "Damn it. How did I not recognize her before?"

"What?"

He turned on Ariadne with his gun raised again. "Did Mal help Arthur train Robert?" he asked.

"Arthur didn't train Fischer," Ariadne started. "He--"

"I saw the payoff myself, so don't try to--"

"He extracted from Fischer!" Ariadne finished. When Eames leaned back she shoved the gun away from her and continued. "Arthur told us that Fischer Sr. hired him to extract something from his son, but he didn't find anything worth getting. He did not train Fischer."

"An extraction?" Eames stared down at Mal again, deep in thought. "Was Mal part of his team on that job?"

"I don't know, but...I think so."

Eames continued to watch the unmoving corpse. He remembered the first time he crept into Robert's mind after the Inception, and the helpful she-ghost that had invited him to know her secrets. Thinking back, her delicate, French voice was unmistakable, and he could have kicked himself for not identifying it sooner. He remembered following her through the droning wraiths, through a sunlight carnival, and into the recesses of Robert's mind where his father lay, silently disappointed, surrounded in pinwheels...

Eames growled and pushed his hair back. "Bloody hell, I'm an idiot. How did I not think of that sooner?"

Ariadne pushed carefully away from the subway. "Think of what?"

"When you extract from someone successfully you don't leave anything behind," Eames said, holstering his gun. "That's how it's supposed to work, anyway. But if you're not careful you can trip the subconscious mind, and the next time you show up, it knows better."

He climbed into the subway, checking quickly to make sure that Cobb, Charla, and the second Arthur were still stable. Ariadne retrieved her handgun and watched him anxiously from the entrance. "Are you trying to say Fischer trained himself?" she asked.

"The projections that ambushed us during the Inception weren't just militarized, they were antibodies." Eames gave Cobb's shoulder a pat and then hopped onto the platform again. "If there's anything I've learned from Robert's mind it's that he's extremely adaptive. If his projections figured out the first time that Arthur was trying to steal from him, they must have prepared themselves for a second attack."

Ariadne followed, but when she realized that he was leaving the platform, she grabbed his elbow. "Where are you going? We have to make sure this place stays secure so Arthur--"

Eames yanked his arm out of her grip and kept going. "Cobb said he'd handle Arthur. I'm going after Robert. Do you know what Arthur extracted from him?"

Ariadne shifted indecisively for a moment, but then followed, as he knew she would. She closed iron doors behind them. "No. He said that he didn't find anything."

That can't be true, not with how hostile Robert's projections are. It's not just the Inception. As they came out of the tunnel and into the grocery he glanced around, but saw no immediate sign of Arthur or Mitchell. The stronger the projections, the more the subject has to hide. They're protecting something. That's what Mal was trying to tell me.

"Where's Arthur?" Ariadne asked again as they reached the front of the store. "Eames, you have to understand, if he wakes up--"

"Open the doors," he said, pounding on the iron shutters.

She planted her feet. "Not until you tell me what you've done to him."

Eames leveled his gun again, and to her credit she didn't flinch. "Robert was already able to rebuild Nash's dream when he woke up," he said. "I'm willing to bet he can do the same for yours, which means you're unnecessary. If you want to stay, you do what I tell you."

Ariadne tried to meet him glare for glare, but when his finger curled around the trigger she relented. "If I open those doors, his projections are going to rip us apart."

"Just do it."

She ground her teeth, but without choices she at last closed her eyes for a brief moment of concentration. One of the shutters changed back to a glass door, and Eames hurried outside. The army of ghosts was waiting for them as always, and as Ariadne followed him into the street he urged her behind him. "Just stay close," he told her. "They won't hurt me."

The wraiths parted, opening a circle around the pair as they stepped forward. Eames glanced among them in search of a familiar face, and when he didn't see it, he decided to take a chance. "I'm here for the secrets!" he called into the crowd.

A hundred voices hissed in displeasure, and a ripple spread through them, making way for a singular ghost. She stepped out of the ring of her peers and strode forward on long, confident strides. "I know where they're hidden," she replied.

Eames motioned for Ariadne to stay put as he took a few forward steps of his own, putting him and the Mal-wraith close together. "You’ve been trying to show me your secrets for a long time, haven't you?" he said.

He reached out, and carefully plucked her white mask off. The black veil slid away, revealing Mal's true face and especially her haunting eyes that had been missing for so long. She was not a perfect Mal--she was Robert's Mal, her hair longer than it was meant to be, her lines sloping and almost maternal, as if she had been growing and maturing inside Robert's brain longer than her occupancy would imply. Eames smiled. "There you are. I should have known you weren't one of those others."

The wraiths in question shuffled closer, breath wheezing through their plastic masks in agitation. Mal gave them no notice. "I've had to hide myself for a long time," she said. "I've learned to adapt."

Eames all but beamed. He wished that their situation was not so dire, and that he could take his time exploring the awing spectacle he was witnessing: a projection so well formed and so focused that it stood against the horde of false specters, alert and sentient in a way he had never experienced. He had to remind himself that it was not a woman but merely a sliver of Robert's complex psyche before him. "Maybe Arthur didn't find anything to extract, but you did, didn't you?" he asked quietly. "You found Robert's secrets."

"I've been keeping his secrets for longer than that." Her wide brown eyes glistened with a myriad of unshed emotions, and she reached out, pressing her long hands against his chest. "Ever since the beginning. But then she came, and I realized how badly I've wanted to share my secrets. All this time."

Mal leaned into him, seeking comfort, and Eames wrapped his arms around her. "It's been so long," she whispered into his neck. "And so lonely. All I wanted was to tell someone, but there was no one, no one I could trust. No one who would listen. Not even Robert." When he stroked her back she sighed. "But you'll listen, won't you? We're sharing the same secrets, after all."

"I'm listening," Eames said quickly. He took her shoulders and urged her back. "Tell me."

Mal took a deep breath and met his gaze with all sincerity. "I don't know who I am," she confessed.

The wraiths crept closer. Their plastic lips parted and they growled in wordless intimidation. Ariadne frowned at them nervously. "Eames...?"

He ignored her; he couldn't look away from Mal's eyes, as wide and striking as Robert's own. "I know," he said. His heart sank into his stomach. "And I'm sorry--I did that to you."

Mal shook her head with quiet laughter. "No, don't be silly." She wiped her eyes and smiled at him through drying tears. "I've been keeping my secrets since long before you infected everyone else with your lies." The surrounding projections began to shudder, and when she flinched away from them Eames welcomed her again against his chest. "I wouldn't be able to admit they even were lies if not for you," she said as she nestled into him. "Yours was the only face I recognized." Her hands slid up to his cheeks, smearing the blood from his ear. "You're my man in uniform."

Warm breath passed over his face, and just as she kissed him, the city went dark. With the sky black and the buildings abandoned not a sliver of light remained, and Eames almost stumbled dizzily in the suddenly unidentifiable space. Only the body pressed to his remained tangible; it was no longer the feminine Mal, but a man, his hands bony and lips full as he kissed Eames desperately.

"Please," Robert's voice broke against his mouth. "Please, Eames."

Lights flickered behind him, red and blue and green, blinking on and off in a traveling rainbow. As Eames's eyes adjusted to their dim illumination he realized that the projection was gone, leaving him alone against the crowding wraiths. They were only shadows at first, until the lights twinkled on more and more buildings, spreading across every roof and spinning windmill. Within slow seconds the entire city was lit up once more with glowing, colored bulbs, neon signs and paper lanterns. Spotlights blazed to life in the distance and swayed across curtains of drifting snow. There was something childish and almost cheerful in the haphazardly scattered lights, weighed down by the heavy cloud cover and most especially, the shuffling city dwellers.

"Eames!"

Ariadne yanked on the back of his shirt, drawing his attention to the line of wraiths. One of them had broken from its peers and was charging toward him with a dagger clutched in her white hands. She swung her arm and Eames was just fast enough to catch her wrist before she could do any damage.

"Don't you listen to her," the projection snarled. "My father loves me!"

Ariadne leaned around him and fired, shooting the projection's mask off so that it crumpled to the street. Eames was about to berate her for it but then he realized that more wraiths were storming forward in similar fury. They had turned on him and there were thousands of them. He wrenched his shotgun free and fired, scattering those closest, but he knew there was only so much he could do against so many.

Ariadne pulled at him again, and he turned, noticing the ladder she was constructing along the side of the grocery. Between the two of them they were able to shoot a path to it and climb to the roof. The edge was lined with blinking lights that were hot to the touch, hissing with every snowflake that dared alight, and Eames was careful not to let his bare skin brush against them.

As soon as they were on the roof Ariadne removed the ladder. "What the hell is going on?" she asked, breathing hard. "His projections are insane!"

"No they're not." Eames shook himself and reloaded his shotgun. "They're protecting the Inception. But there's something else in Robert's mind that Mal is protecting from them. Something much deeper." He looked at her. "Are you sure you don't know what Arthur was sent to extract from him?"

"At this point, if I knew I would tell you," Ariadne said.

"Ariadne!"

They turned, and at last spotted Arthur clinging to the windmill blade rising above the rear of the building. His sleeve was torn but he was otherwise in one piece. Eames couldn't help but laugh at him. "How'd you get up there?"

Arthur shifted against the wobbly structure, and once it reached the roof line he leapt clear. As soon as he started toward them Eames lifted the shotgun. "Ready to pay me back already?" he taunted.

A hammer clicked close to his ear; he didn't have to look to know Ariadne had her gun to his head. "Eames please, don't."

Arthur stopped in front of them. "We're trying to end this," he said. "As soon as the other Arthur is awake Ariadne's going to wake herself up and disengage the PASIVs. Then we can all wake up--even Fischer."

The 'other Arthur'?" Eames glanced at Ariadne and saw concern. He's losing it, too. "I don't think that's going to work now."

"What do you mean?"

Though he hated to do it, he lowered his gun--he knew Ariadne wasn't cold-hearted enough to shoot him without hearing him out. "We're sinking," he declared. "Look at all this!" He gestured at the lights that were continuing to blossom over every telephone wire. "If we turn the PASIVs off Robert might not wake up from this."

"What do you want me to do about it?" Arthur said, throwing his hands up. "Even if I wanted to fix this I wouldn't know where to start. I just..." He rubbed his eyes, for a moment looking as frazzled as Eames had ever seen him. "I need to wake up," he continued sternly. "Stay if you want, but I have to--"

"I don't think that's going to work for you, either," Eames interrupted.

Arthur leaned back, his jaw working, and Eames went on before he could speak. "I don't know the specifics of what you're up to, but Banks lied to you about the job. Browning never hired you to destroy Robert this way." Next to him, Ariadne lowered her arm. "He thought you were all here to repair the damage our Inception did."

Arthur tensed all over. "No. No, that's not--"

"The whole job was just an excuse to get you and Robert together like this," said Eames. "Whatever secret he's hiding is the secret you were sent to find--the secret Banks is trying to extract from you." He smirked without humor. "And now that Cobb's on the case too, it's not going to stay hidden long."

Arthur looked to Ariadne, and she stepped closer, touching his side. "He's right," she said quietly. "Cobb's in the subway already--he just went under."

Arthur turned away. His hands shook as he raked them through his already mussed hair, and Eames was certain that if he was alone he might have been screaming. Ariadne started after him at first, but with a grimace she instead set her sights on Eames. "I'm going back down to wake him up," she said in an urgent whisper. "I'll stay here and help you with Fischer if I can, but Arthur can't do this anymore, I'm waking him up."

Eames took her by the elbow before she could get away. "Robert is in that tower," he said, pointing to the fortress that loomed at the city center, the only building devoid of lights and pinwheels. "We need to go after him and snap him out of this or every one of us is going to sink all the way into Limbo."

"Look at him," Ariadne insisted. Several steps away Arthur struggled out of his vest and tossed it over the edge of the roof. "He's falling apart."

"And that's exactly why I don't want to wake him up too soon," said Eames. "If his 'other Arthur' is in worse shape than this there's no guarantee he'll wake up at all. We have to trust Cobb to handle that part." He turned toward Arthur. "Arthur! How long have you known me?"

Arthur stopped his pacing and glared at Eames suspiciously. "Years. Shit, Eames, I don't know."

"And have I ever--"

"Yes." Arthur marched over to him with his finger raised. "Yes you have, more times than--"

Eames intercepted him, letting go of Ariadne to take his arm instead. "I'm not going to let anyone fall into Limbo," he said. "Not him, or you, or--" his lip quirked "--least of all, myself. And if you weren't half mad you'd be the one telling me that this is the right thing to do." He turned Arthur toward the fortress. "That's where we're going. When Cobb's taken care of your better half he'll meet us there. That's the plan and I'm sticking to it. Understand?"

Arthur stared grimly at the distant tower. He took a few deep breaths and started to nod, but was interrupted by a low growl. Eames smirked and turned, expecting to see Mitchell slinking into view, but started back in alarm when they were greeted with a far less welcome creature. It was long and well-muscled, but instead of furry paws pale, fleshy hands and a naked tail stretched out from beneath layers of shredded black fabric. At the end of its long neck sat a white mask bearing Eames's face. It was undersized and almost comical, but it reminded Eames too much of finding his face on the wall of Robert's safe, and it shot a chill into his bones.

"Okay Eames, you win," said Arthur. "Now will you repress it?"

Eames's brow furrowed. "He's not mine anymore."

The beast charged, and Eames thrust Arthur out of the way. A shotgun blast sheared half the mask off but it kept coming, and in such close quarters Eames could only think of one thing to do.

***

Arthur's back struck the rooftop cooling system, and a moment later he felt the shotgun clatter against his foot. He snatched the weapon up but when he turned he wasn't certain what he was witnessing let alone what he ought to shoot at. Ariadne was leaping out of the way of a whirlwind of white and black fur, two bodies rolling and grappling precariously close to the edge of the building. The beast's long limbs twisted at unnatural angles, digging its skeletal fingers into the tender joints of its attacker. But they were no match for claws and teeth, and with a crunch the wraithlike creature sank into little more than a curtain, leaving only a proud white tiger poised over its kill.

Arthur leveled the shotgun, but hesitated, and then Ariadne was at his arm. "Wait," she said quickly. "Wait, look." She pointed out the tiger's torn and bloody ear.

Arthur lowered his arm. "You're not serious."

Eames shook himself and, seemingly content to remain as he was, watched the pair with narrow scrutiny. His tail waved slowly back and forth.

Ariadne gulped. "Did you know he could--"

"No." Arthur shook his head, hating the way Eames's tiger face looked so damn smug. "Damn it."

Ariadne slipped her arm around his, and he passed the shotgun to his left so he could grip her hand. "So what do we do now?" she asked.

Arthur looked past Eames, past the ragged pinwheel that continued to churn against the building. He felt as if his brain was turning just as slowly around his skull, unending and inescapable. The tiger was still watching him, its claws clinking against the roof. "I guess we go there," he muttered, pointing out the looming fortress. "And hope we find Fischer."

Eames shook himself, shedding his fur and tail and whiskers. "There's a good man," he said, pushing to his feet. He gave his jaw a rub. "I knew you'd do the right thing, Arthur." He moved along the edge of the roof in search of a building close enough for them to cross.

Arthur sighed, but Ariadne's hand around his kept him focused, and reluctantly he followed.

Chapter Text

Cobb opened his eyes to what was unmistakably a hotel room ceiling. He'd seen so many in his lifetime that he shouldn't have been able to assign it to any particular city or memory, but he knew immediately where and when he was. A man lay next to him on the bed, and his wrist stung around a needle, and soft, warm fingers slipped beneath his pant leg.

"Well?" Mal asked.

She gave his ankle a gentle pinch. Cobb's heart swelled into his throat and he pressed his eyes shut again, reminding himself that she wasn't real, wasn't even his. As familiar as her weight was at the foot of the bed, as sweet as her voice rang against his thirsty ears, he had come with a purpose and he knew there was no time left for even the most pleasant reminiscence.

Beside him, Arthur chuckled. "You've obviously been doing this longer than I have," he said, a little breathless as he plucked the PASIV needle out of his arm. "That was incredible."

Mal scooted down the bed and reached across Cobb's body to remove his needle as well. Feeling her slender waist press into his ribs almost made him forgot whose dream he was really in.

"It just takes practice," he heard himself say. "And a little imagination."

Arthur chuckled again as he sat up, pushing back so he could lean against the headboard. "Are you sure it's not also part alcohol?" He pulled a half empty bottle of import beer off the nightstand and took a sip.

Cobb glanced up at him. Arthur was no forger but he looked as young as the memory dictated he should, his hair short and pillow-mussed, his smile light. They had just shared dreams for the first time. Cobb barely remembered the dream itself but he remembered the evening, the way they had talked and laughed like old friends despite their short acquaintance. Everything had become more professional afterwards. Priorities and business kept them at varying distances. But for a night they were almost family, and it made what Cobb had to do that much more difficult.

"Arthur." He sat up and faced him seriously. "We're still dreaming."

Arthur frowned against the lip of his bottle. Wrinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes as he glanced around the room, slowly reaching comprehension. His gaze snapped back to Cobb and something approaching panic simmered in his voice. "Are you real?"

"Yes Dom, tell us," Mal said, standing up from the bed. "Are you real?"

Cobb saw her lips twitch, and his stomach roiled. "Banks." He started to get up. "Before you--"

The dream fell apart. He felt Arthur latch onto his arm as the hotel crumbled, making way for concrete walls and iron bars. In no time the double bed became a prison cot, and he was staring at Charla from inside a cell.

"This is getting ridiculous," Arthur said, cautiously releasing Cobb. "Can't you at least dream up a new prison?"

Charla smoothed her hands over her face to replace Mal's countenance with her own. "I was disappointed to lose Fischer," she admitted. "I thought my time was up. But with you here, Mr. Cobb, maybe we can finally make that last bit of progress."

Cobb stood and moved to the bars, and she stepped back just far enough to be out of his reach. As much as he hated her--and especially hated her superior smirk--he thrust it aside for the time being. "I'm here to help you finish this extraction," he blurted out in case she was already preparing her next whip. "Tell me what you need from him."

"What?" Arthur vaulted to his feet. "What are you--"

"That's rather generous of you." Charla eyed him, intrigued. "You must have figured out that he's been lying to you about Mal."

Cobb wrapped his hands around the bars. Worse than Charla's smug disdain was the abrupt silence from the man behind him. "Tell me what you know," he said. "You owe me that much."

"Do I?" She took a step forward, within reach, taunting him. "Because I let her die?"

"Cobb, don't listen to her," Arthur said. He moved to Cobb's side and took his arm again. "You can't trust anything she says in here."

"Can I trust you?" Cobb retorted. He shoved Arthur's hand off him and looked again to Charla. "All I want is for you to get what you're after, so that Arthur can wake up from this."

"And so that you can learn the truth as well, hm?" Charla stepped closer still and held out her hand. "We'll see if you're of any use to me."

Cobb reached through the bars and took her hand. Arthur's hand shot out as well, with violent intention, but by then the dream had shifted again. The whip was sharper than before, snapping across Cobb's vision as swiftly as a batted eyelid. Arthur vanished from beside him but Charla's fingers were still tight around his, preventing his mind from being swept up in the hastily renovated scenery.

"Do you know where we are?" Charla asked, releasing him.

Cobb knew immediately that he was in the kitchen of his former home in California, if only for the smell of fresh fruit on the recently polished table, and the sound of a warm breeze rustling the trees outside the window over the sink. The sight of it was not nearly so recognizable. Every object that was meant to be stationary had been upended and was in motion. All around they spun, humming against the floors and in some cases against each other, creating a dizzying, grotesque display. As Cobb paled in mounting anxiety he realized that the kitchen table bore a basket of red and orange spinning tops. The magnets crawling across the surface of his children's refrigerator art were spinning tops. Tops spun in the knife block, tops spun in place of chairs and end tables, plastic tops spun in every corner of the floor like scattered toys.

Cobb took in a slow breath and found his chest tight. When he stumbled back and felt his heel scatter a group of tops he hadn't even seen he thought he might be sick. With a hand over his mouth he moved into the dining room, and found it in similar rotational disarray.

"I trust you recognize it," Charla said from a seat at the dining table.

"What is this?" Cobb asked, though he already knew--and dreaded--the answer.

Charla leaned back, and for once was completely without humor. "Just over a week before her death, Mal came to my office," she said. "She said she was suffering from anxiety, and wanted me to confirm for her that she was not a victim of some manner of psychosis. At my insistence she allowed me into her dreams, and this--" her gaze flickered around the room "--was what I found there."

Cobb had seen enough of Robert's dream to not doubt that what he was witnessing was very possible; it was the revelation behind it that sent heat flooding through him. "This," he repeated. "You saw this?" He marched over to her. "And you let her leave without saying anything?"

"I had never seen anything like it. What was I supposed to say?"

All thoughts of what he was meant to do leapt from his brain, and he grabbed Charla by the front of her blouse. "You knew she was in trouble!" he accused. "You knew and did nothing! She's dead because of you!"

Charla leaned back but remained stoic. "You think I intentionally left her to die?"

Cobb's other hand fisted at his side. "I think you refused to admit that Limbo even existed so that no one would know I discovered it before you," he said. "The same for inception! You put your reputation over my wife's life!"

"I wouldn't have had to," Charla replied, "if you hadn't put your pride above her first."

Cobb seethed, and was sure he would have killed her had she not wrapped her hand around his wrist. "Why am I showing you this?" she said.

He had to struggle past his anger to answer. "Because you're sick," he spat.

"Because it's the truth you've wanted to hear from me for a long time." She let him go, and he was so taken aback by her uncharacteristic sincerity that he did the same. "And I'm hoping that by giving you this, you'll believe what I'm about to tell you."

Cobb took in each breath slowly, enforcing patience despite how close he was to waking them all up, just so it would be over. "I'm listening."

Charla straightened the front of her blouse. "A few weeks before Mal came to see me, Maurice Fischer asked me to hire an extractor for him," she said. "I, of course, went first to Arthur. He agreed to perform an extraction on Robert Fischer on the condition that it be entirely private, without my involvement." She pushed to her feet, and when she started out of the room Cobb had no choice but to follow. "At the time I assumed he had called in some undesirable associate he didn't want me or Maurice finding out about. But while in Mal's mind, I found something."

She led Cobb into the family room and flicked on the television. Static blazed, and even when color and shape attempted to take form they were only partially successful. Cobb leaned closer, squinting at a rainbow of blinking lights. Amidst the noise he could just barely make out human breath, quick and sharp. The view scanned wildly back and forth.

"Mal!" Arthur's voice, garbled but recognizable, caused the picture to swerve again. "Mal, come back!"

"No." She was panting--running away from him. "No, I'm not finished! I can't leave yet!"

Cold sweat slicked Cobb's palms, and he licked his lips, leaning closer still. No matter how hard he concentrated he couldn't make anything out of the shifting scenery.

"Mal, stop!" Arthur caught up to her, jerking her around. For a moment his face skated across the screen. "That's enough. There's nothing we can do here. It's time to wake up."

"No!" She shoved him back, granting Cobb a fleeting glance of her wedding ring. "No, where's Robert? He needs to--"

The video cut off. Immediately Cobb turned on Charla. "What the hell was that?"

"It was all I could get before her projections attacked me," Charla replied. "She was trying to hide from me the fact that she was with Arthur during his extraction of Robert Fischer."

"No." Cobb shook his head emphatically. "Mal wouldn't--she didn't do that kind of work. She didn't even have a PASIV license."

"Which is why Arthur tried to hide her from me, I'm sure. But there's no mistaking her memory." Charla stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Arthur used Mal for an illegal extraction, and then hid his findings. He lied to you, and me. And a few weeks later, Mal passed away."

Cobb stared back at her. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing." She shrugged. "To be honest I was planning to bring Mal in for another session--by force, if necessary--to extract the rest of the memory from her. I never got that chance."

The talk of force made Cobb's cheeks flush with anger, but his frustration was tempered with shock. "Arthur took Mal on a job," he said through his teeth. "Even after..." His hands were tense as he rubbed them over his face, and then it came to him.

"Damn it!" He kicked the coffee table over, and a dozen spinning tops scattered across the floor like fleeing mice. "I know when this was. He was here--he was right here, in this room, telling us how he..." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Damn it, how did I not..."

Charla glanced around the room. "Right here?" she echoed. "In the morning?"

Cobb frowned. "No, the evening." When he glanced up and saw the look on her face, he understood. "September," he said quietly. "At around eight in the evening, I think."

Charla nodded, and the dream shifted. The whip was so sharp and so clean that Cobb's mind reeled, and he was thrust soundly into the memory. He was standing just where he had been then, pacing back and forth as Arthur sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees. Mal was leaning against the armrest next to him, her wide eyes filled with concern as they danced between her husband and friend. The air was tense and Cobb was deeply grateful that the children were away with their grandmother for the night.

"I can't believe this," he said, following his script to the letter. "Do you even realize what you're saying?"

"Of course I do," Arthur replied. Cobb could barely acknowledge that he was dreaming, let alone determine if the man before him was real or a projection. "I know this is a shock to you but it's the truth. I've been doing it for years."

"Years?" Cobb's stomach twisted. "How many years?"

"Since before I met you."

"Jesus." He looked to Mal, and she shook her head, but it wasn't enough. "I knew you were in with Banks but I never thought you were a goddamned criminal!" he said. "You realize you're putting us at risk just by being here?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm not wanted in the states yet," he offered.

"That's not funny! We have kids for Christ's sake!"

"Dom, calm down," Mal said.

"No, it's all right." Arthur pushed to his feet. "I knew he'd react this way."

"As if there's any other way to react," Cobb retorted. "What do you want me to say? Congratulations on breaking every law dreamshare has?"

Arthur picked his jacket off the back of the sofa and slipped into it. "Thanks for having me," he said, and then to Mal, "Dinner was lovely."

Mal touched his shoulder. "You don't have to go. Dom will be capable of having an adult conversation any minute now."

She shot Cobb a look, and he leaned back, crossing his arms. "What's there to talk about? If I'd known from the beginning you were some kind of thief--"

"Dom, please."

Arthur buttoned his jacket, looking far too calm for Cobb's liking. "I just want you to know that I've never put you or your family at risk," he said. "I've always been careful."

"And how do you know that?" Cobb started toward him, but then Arthur was moving away, leading to a steady chase down the front hall. "We're already at risk just having the PASIV here. People know that we work together--if you get caught they're going to come to us."

"We all have to be careful," Arthur said. "That's what dreamshare is for now." He glanced at Cobb over his shoulder. "I think you gave me that speech the first time we met."

"Will you please stop trying to be a smartass--I'm being serious here."

"I know." Arthur slipped into his shoes. "And so am I." He met Cobb glare for glare. "When you get over your hypocrisy, call me."

Cobb flushed, and would have demanded that Arthur leave if he was not already slipping out. With a growl he slammed the door behind him and marched back down the hall.

"Dom." Mal heaved a sigh and followed. "Was that really the best way to handle that?"

"I don't care." Cobb headed into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of wine from dinner. "Can you believe that smug bastard? All these years and he never told us?"

"Is that the real reason you're angry?"

Cobb frowned. He looked to Mal and it occurred to him suddenly that she wasn't saying what she was supposed to. She's not Mal. His heart broke a little to admit it--she was lovely, and so close to being real, but she was still only a projection, and she wasn't even his.

"I...." Cobb gulped. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm fine, I just need to cool down."

Mal touched his cheek and leaned in, pressing a short kiss to the corner of his mouth. He had to close his eyes. "I know," she said. "Have a drink. I'll be right back."

Cobb sat down as she left the room. He was still trying to sort out his feelings when he heard small, bare feet pattering away. They were familiar and a jolt went through him, propelling him back into the hall. He tried to remember what he really had done after Arthur left that night, but the sight of his young daughter scampering toward the open front door seared it away. "Phili--"

She whipped around and held her finger to her lips. There was sharpness in her eyes beyond her years. He followed her, but when he heard Arthur and Mal's voices drifting up from the driveway his focus shifted again, and soon he was pressed up against the door with her, spying on the conversation he never knew had occurred.

"I know you wouldn't have brought it up like this without a good reason," Mal was saying, her voice just barely audible against the rustling trees that lined the drive. "So tell me what it is."

"I was hoping I could get his help on a job," Arthur replied. "Stupid, I know--I knew he'd never agree. But I had to try. There aren't many people I can trust on this one."

"What kind of job is it? An extraction?"

"Yes. A delicate one, at that. I'm sorry--I didn't mean to cause a scene. I shouldn't have brought it up at all."

Cobb bit his lip, his breath held. There was a pause in the conversation and he couldn't help but creep forward, peeking through the open door.

They were standing close together at the top of the driveway, Arthur's hands in his pockets, Mal's arms folded. She parted her lips. "I'll call you later. I want to hear more."

Arthur's look of surprise was not unlike Cobb's own. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You don't have to--"

"I just want to hear a little more. Maybe I can help you think of something you haven't."

"...All right. Thank you."

They parted, and Cobb stepped back from the door as Mal headed toward him. "As soon as she's in," he said breathlessly to the child beside him, "seal up the house."

Mal reached the door, and Cobb tugged her inside and into the hall. As soon as she was out of the way he and Charla darted outside, and the door and windows vanished. He knew what he had to do and having Mal there--whoever's projection she was--would only complicate things more.

When Arthur noticed Cobb approaching he stopped halfway down the driveway and turned. "Shit. Dom, did you--"

Cobb grabbed him by the lapels and pushed, shoving him back on the hood of his car. "Tell me the truth, right now!" he shouted, holding him pinned.

"Dom, wait!" Arthur didn't try to fight him, his hands held up in a gesture of peace. "I didn't--"

"You took Mal with you into Fischer's mind," Cobb said. He was so caught up that he didn't care that Charla was nearby, watching them with her deceptively childish eyes. "Behind my back! And you're going to tell me right now what happened in there!"

"All right!" Arthur's face twisted in a grimace and he sagged, the back of his head thudding against the car. "All right--I'm sorry--I'll tell you."

Cobb pulled him upright and then let go, taking a step back. "Talk," he demanded. "I want to hear all of it."

"I know, I...shit." Arthur rubbed both hands over his face as he sat against the front bumper. "Dom, I'm sorry. Fischer was so high profile, I knew if I called in my regular extractors they would just try to steal from him," he said. "I didn't want to risk it. I was going to ask you, but--"

"I know that part," Cobb interrupted. He folded his arms. "What did you find in Fischer's mind?"

Arthur sighed. "Like I've been trying to tell everyone--nothing." He glanced around sharply in search of Charla, but from his position he couldn't see her crouched by the rear bumper. "We...we didn't know what we were looking for," he continued. "So we took him through a panel--showed him hotels, airports, tried to recreate the home he grew up in, the schools he went to. No one was doing more than one level back then, and he didn't respond well when Mal tried to transition him, so we had to keep waking up and going back under for each one. It took hours."

Cobb shifted restlessly on his feet. "You had no right to do that to him."

"Oh please, you of all--" Arthur cut himself off with a shake of his head. "Listen, it was his own father that hired us. What was I supposed to do? I was careful, you know I always am."

"Not careful enough, apparently." Cobb leaned closer and lowered his voice. "What happened to Mal?"

Arthur's shoulders went slack, and his downward eyes made Cobb's insides squirm. "She realized it before I did," he said quietly. "That we were sinking. We were pushing Fischer too hard--every time we went under he retreated a little more, deeper into his mind. I thought we were actually getting somewhere when we got deep into his childhood, but it all seemed very typical to me. Grief over his mother, his father being distant...nothing the client didn't know. But then..."

"Then what?"

"We were separated." Arthur lifted his head. "Mal was already acting strangely and then I lost her--we were in a crowd of projections. I was going to just wake us up but...it felt like we had finally gotten close to something and I didn't think we'd be able to get back. So I..." He winced. "I made a few changes to the dream while trying to find her and the projections went crazy. They tore me apart. I woke up, and the dream must have collapsed because so did Mal."

Cobb frowned as he tried to take it all in. Acting strangely. Like Banks showed me in that memory? He exchanged a brief but intense look with Charla, who was herself, leaning against the rear of the car. "Did she tell you want she found?"

"No. And she made me promise to not say anything to the client or Banks about it. The only thing she would admit to was that she found Fischer, and she...'tried to help him.'" Arthur swallowed hard. "Please Dom, you have to believe me--that's really all I know, I swear."

His chest was tight and his face still hot with emotion but he did believe Arthur. "But why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried." Arthur held his gaze. "Remember? I called and you hung up on me?"

Cobb tensed and had to look away as his anger gave way to guilt. "How long after the job was that?" he asked quietly.

"About two weeks."

Then...Mal and I went under a little over a week after that job. His knees felt weak, and he sank onto the hood next to Arthur. He remembered exactly the phone conversation Arthur was talking about--how even by then he was afraid for Mal and the behavior she was exhibiting. How he was ashamed at the thought of Arthur finding out what he'd done, after the words they'd exchanged.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said again. He leaned forward, his hands dangling off his knees. "I'm sorry; I should have tried harder. I knew Mal was struggling with something and I wanted to help, but I knew how upset you'd be, and then...she was gone. And you were gone. By the time I found you again I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It wouldn't have changed anything."

"It wouldn't have changed anything," Cobb echoed. He took his head in his hands and felt his brain spinning within his skull. Did I do enough for her? The doubt hummed through him, until his throat was tight and shame filled him to overflowing. If only I hadn't been too proud to ask Arthur for help, could I have helped her?

High heels tapped up the driveway. He glanced up just as Charla stopped in front of them, her arms crossed, her expression unimpressed. "And that's it, is it?" she asked coldly. "You lied to me over nothing at all?"

Arthur's hands tightened to fists. "How many times to I have to say it? I don’t know what Maurice Fischer wanted us to find."

She sighed sharply in irritation. "Then I'll have to get it out of Robert himself after all." She tilted her chin up. "You're no longer useful to me."

The tone in her voice was unmistakable, and Cobb tried to dream up some kind of weapon to use on her--a gun, or even a knife--but by then it was too late. The world fell apart.

They woke up at an outdoor café in Paris. Arthur's eyes darted back and forth, and the muscles of his face twitched, and then he looked across the table at Cobb with a hint of a smirk. "So you're finally in, huh?" he asked.

"Do I have much of a choice?" Cobb replied, just as he was meant to. "I'm not going to get any jobs in architecture with a rap sheet. And if I'm going to break the law with anyone..."

He frowned. "...It might as well be you," he finished with a sensation of Déjà vu.

"I know it's not ideal, but there are a lot of powerful people becoming involved in dreamshare these days," Arthur continued, oblivious to Cobb's ill ease. "Fall in with the right ones, and...who knows. Maybe they'll be able to help you."

"Yeah..." Cobb glanced across the street, where a string of multi-colored lights was flickering over a shop awning. It was almost comically out of place. Then he remembered. "Arthur--wait--we're still--"

They woke up on a bullet train heading toward Kyoto. "I don't trust him," Arthur said as he checked his watch for the tenth time. "I know we need an architect but I still don’t see why you can't do it yourself."

"We've been over this." Cobb glanced out the window, and as the scenery rushed by he remembered. "We're still dreaming."

They woke up in an old movie theatre, watching a black and white film entirely in French. Cobb's stomach lurched at the imitation butter and he tried not to roll his eyes at the overly romantic waterworks on the screen. Mal was giggling quietly behind her hand, but on his other side, Arthur was watching with rapt attention. His nose wrinkled in a sniffle.

In the background of the movie, a train rumbled past. Cobb's heart skipped and he remembered. "Damn it, Banks!"

They woke up in Robert Fischer's study. Cobb sucked in a sharp breath and thought for a moment that he had achieved clarity: someone had woken them out of the dream. A woman's soft hands pulled the IVs out of his arm and touched his face. "Cobb? Are you all right?"

"Ariadne?" He rubbed his arm and looked again at their surroundings. "Where's Arthur?"

Ariadne turned away to pull both IVs out of Arthur's arms. "Arthur?" she asked, giving him a gentle shake. "You're awake--can you hear me?"

Arthur's eyes flicked open, but he did not respond to her; he sat very still, only the muscles in his jaw twitching as he stared blindly into space. His apparent coma lasted several seconds and then he shook himself. "Am I awake?" he breathed.

"Yes," Ariadne touched his cheeks and kissed his forehead. Cobb stared. "It's all right now--you're awake.

What? When did they...? Cobb frowned awkwardly and looked away, and in doing so noticed there was something off about the study. The books that had once been in perfect alignment were in helpless disarray; some were falling off the shelves, and many were tattered to the point of falling apart. There was a rough edge along the bottom of the desk as if it had been drawn with chalk, and through the only window one cloud sailed past, over and over, like repeated frames in a cartoon.

Banks! He clenched his jaw, glancing past Ariadne's attempts to console Arthur to where Charla was still seemingly asleep in her chair. She's whipping us so fast even his projections can't tell anymore, he thought, watching the false Ariadne loosen Arthur's tie. And his subconscious is having trouble filling in the space. He can't take much more of this.

Cobb took a deep breath and stood. He tried to keep his face calm to keep her from seeing that he had figured her out. If I can just kill him... "Is he all right?" he asked, moving around Arthur's back. He set his hands on Arthur's shoulders, giving an appearance of reassurance, and when he had gathered his courage he started to make his move.

He wrapped his arms around Arthur's head. He already felt sick but he knew it was the only way--with Arthur out of the dream, there was no reason for Charla to stay behind just for him. Arthur tensed in his grip, but before he could give the necessary snap--

They woke up in the workshop in Paris. Arthur was stretched out on a lawn chair, Ariadne in one next to him. Ariadne was smiling at him, trying to flirt in her own tomboy way, but Arthur was staring blankly up at the ceiling. For long seconds he didn't even twitch, and the workshop faded and bubbled subtly around them, like an incomplete watercolor painting. His eyes lolled and his lips fumbled for words that wouldn't come.

Ariadne continued to babble. "The color is so truly rainy," she said senselessly. "And with weeds there's always a coffee ring, you know? I tried to gallop all over that clown but his snake was over my head, stupid jerk. You should sling that hat in the spring."

Arthur licked his lips and grimaced. "Depends on who I'm with," he replied.

Cobb frowned at them, wondering if they had developed some kind of secret code during their strange courtship. He glanced around to see if anyone else was listening to them be idiots, and found Eames lounging next to him.

"Remember that trick of yours?" Eames said with a raised eyebrow.

Cobb slipped his hand into his pocket, and the dull point of his Totem against his thumb brought him back. He's my projection--thank God for you, Eames. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Damn it, this is only going to make it worse for Arthur, but I don't have a choice. I have to get the upper hand over Banks. He stood. "Arthur! We're dreaming!"

Arthur blinked slowly. "Huhh...?"

The dream began to unravel. Cobb was ready for it then, and he closed his eyes, feeling out the dream's swift collapse. He had done his fair share of whipping in the past and he knew what to wait for: the center of the transition, when destruction halted in favor of creation. For just a fraction of a second when one dream shifted to another, there was nothing but empty space, waiting to be filled.

The warehouse vanished, and as soon as its slivers were gone Cobb forced his imagination to the forefront. With so little time he picked a simple backdrop he knew he could build with efficiency: red leather booths, a polished countertop, chipped coffee cups. He was seated on a stool with a plate of the house special breakfast in front of him. It was a family run diner, like hundreds all across the country, homely and comforting and, to his knowledge, unlike anywhere Charla would ever choose to go.

Arthur was slumped over the counter next to him, face hidden in his folded arms. "Wake me up," he mumbled. "Please wake me up."

Cobb set his hand on the back of Arthur's neck and squeezed. "Hold on," he said quietly. "Just stay with me a little longer."

He looked up and down the diner, and finally spotted Charla at the far end, seated alone in a booth. Her eyes were unfocused much the way Arthur's had been previously, and her lips moved soundlessly. After a few seconds she seemed to come to her senses, and she rubbed her eyes.

"Here we go again," Cobb warned, giving Arthur another squeeze. "Brace yourself."

"Please don't--"

Charla's head snapped up, and immediately the dream began to change--and immediately Cobb rushed to intercept. He could tell that she was trying to take them back to the prison and he only needed a slight push to change her plans. Instead of concrete and metal he changed everything to cool, earthen stone, so that they awoke in subterranean tunnels. Arthur's already overworked imagination did a poor job of supplying detail, leaving only rough sketches of a world around them, but it was enough that again Charla had to struggle to maintain herself. Her hair paled to gray and her clothes frayed as she stumbled into a dusty wall.

Just one more. Cobb transferred his grip to Arthur's hand. "Banks! You're still dreaming, you psycho bitch!"

Charla whirled on him, and as expected attempted one more time to catch him with her whip. She was trying for the study, but Cobb anticipated that as well, and was there to twist it. Instead of Robert's condo they awoke in Professor Miles' small, book-stuffed office in Paris.

"I really don’t understand why you keep coming here," Miles said as he poked at the shelves in search of some particular volume. "Is one 'no' not enough? Or even four?"

Charla was seated behind his desk, looking as comfortable as if she had made it her own. Fewer wrinkles marred her face and the color in her hair was natural. "I keep expecting you to come to your senses," she said. "I can pay you so much more than this stuffy old college." She brushed invisible dust off her shoulders.

"It was never about the money, Charla. That's the part you just never understood."

Cobb peeked through the open door, watching the two converse easily through the memory. I've got her. He ducked back and crouched next to Arthur, who was slumped against the hallway wall. "Arthur," he whispered, slapping him gently on the cheek. "Come on, it's time."

"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled. "I'm sorry."

Cobb reached into his jacket and pulled out a Beretta. "You're going to wake up in the subway," he said. "I want you to wait for me there, all right? Don't move, don't try to wake up me or anyone else. Just wait there with Ariadne until I come up." He took Arthur's jaw and forced it up. "Understand?"

Arthur stared back at him, blankly at first, but then with gradually returning sanity. "Ariadne?"

"Yeah." He snorted. "You've got some explaining to do on that one, too." He pressed the gun to Arthur's forehead. "Sit tight and I'll be right behind you."

He fired. Arthur jerked, painted the wall behind him red, and slumped to the floor. Despite the grisly scene Cobb breathed a sigh of relief. We'll figure it all out when we wake up, he promised himself. But until then...

The office door opened, and Miles and Charla poured out with looks of shock. "Dom!" Miles said, aghast. "What have you done?"

"It's all right." Cobb pushed to his feet and turned, staring Charla down with intensity. "We're just dreaming, after all."

Charla slowly straightened. Her eyes flicked to Arthur's corpse and she quivered in fury. As she trembled so did the dream bend and wane around them, but Cobb was still ready for her, and as soon as the space was empty he launched a fresh attack. Arthur's corpse vanished.

You're not waking up from this one, Cobb thought determinedly as he drew Charla into the dream rising around them. Whatever happens to me, you are not waking up.

Chapter Text

"Any time now, Love."

"I'm trying, all right! He's not letting me!"

Ariadne moved to the edge of the roof and glared down at the fire escape, willing it to move. Come on, she thought, glancing past the street-wide chasm to the towering skyscraper across from them. It's the last one; you can't block me out now!

Behind her, Arthur gave his shotgun a vigorous shake, until it stretched and reformed into an automatic machine gun. "We don't have time--we'll have to find another way in," he said.

"Like the front door?" Eames followed his example and fired into the swarm of wraiths that were clamoring over the far end of the rooftop. "I'd rather not have to go feline again if I can help it, thank you."

Ariadne squeezed her eyes shut. This is still my dream, she thought with determination. I know it better than he does. I've practiced this longer than he has. She took a deep breath, grit her teeth, and felt a moment's celebration when the fire escape began to groan away from the side of the building. It stretched away from her like all the others had, reaching and squealing, but then it abruptly angled up. The last laddered segment blossomed into a pinwheel and began to spin.

"Damn it!" Ariadne kicked at it and watched the metal shudder. "I'm sick of your stupid pinwheels!"

Eames and Arthur fired into the army of creatures, shredding many, but more continued to pour after. "Keep trying!" Arthur called over his shoulder. "There's nowhere else to go!"

"I know, I know!" Ariadne shook herself and glared her adversary down. "Move," she demanded, and it screeched, metal straining against metal. "Move!"

The fire escape howled with complaint, and then shot across the open space, growing and twisting until it crashed through the twentieth floor windows in the tower opposite. It wasn't as high as Ariadne had wanted but it was a bridge, and when she was certain it was secure she turned. "Okay, let's go!"

"Wait!" Eames slipped past her and started across. "I'll go first--we don't know what we'll find in there."

"Be my guest," said Ariadne. Once Eames was on his way she touched Arthur's shoulder to get him to stop shooting. "Come on, we have a way across!"

They charged across the fire escape, and when it shuddered Ariadne put both hands on the rails, concentrating hard on keeping it stable. Just a little longer, and then we'll be in. But as they ran something burned her skin, and she jumped. More colored lights were blooming up and down the structure, some of them slowly turning.

The fire escape swayed beneath them, and then jerked, shattering glass as it scraped down the side of the tower. Everyone grabbed for the rails as they plummeted, faster than the snow that was still falling on all sides. Ariadne felt Arthur's hand press into her back and knew he was shouting something, but she couldn't make it out. She closed her eyes again, silently begging, Please stop, please just let us in, and with a gut-wrenching jolt they had halted again.

Ariadne started running before her eyes were open. The catwalk clanged and rocked beneath her boots, threatening again to fall, but she forced herself to keep going. Ahead of her Eames lifted his gun and fired into the side the building, clearing away what remained of the window so he could leap through safe from harm.

She was still several feet away when the fire escape slipped away from the edge of the building. Her stomach lurched, but before she could reconcile herself to death on the pavement Arthur twisted both hands in her jacket and flung her through the opening. She yelped as she landed hard on polished floor, and tiny shards of glass pierced her jacket and pants. As she pushed herself up she heard the fire escape give way and crash to the ground below.

"Arthur!" Ariadne ignored her stinging elbows and whirled, rushing to the ragged opening. When she saw bruised fingers clinging to the edge of the building she wasn't sure whether to panic or sigh in relief. "Hold on," she said dumbly as she reached through the window and grabbed Arthur's wrist. "Don't let go!"

Arthur made a face. "I'm all right." With a deep breath he started to pull himself up.

Eames joined them and hooked a hand under Arthur's armpit. "I've got you," he said. "Up you go."

"Eames."

The trio paused, and with Arthur still half dangling out of the building they looked into the room they'd intruded upon. It was a conference room, the table and chairs pressed up against the walls to make a straight path to the far wall. Mal stood there, her black dress swaying in the cool breeze, her bare toes wiggling against the floor. She smiled at them. "I've been waiting for you."

The wall behind her faded to black, and cracked open with a mechanical whirl. A pair of immense doors parted to reveal an empty and ominous safe. "This safe is for you," Mal said. "I'm in your mind now, as much as you're in mine." She lifted a mask bearing Eames's face and fitted it coyly over her own. "I know where your secrets are hidden."

She stepped back into the safe and swiftly disappeared within its shadows. Ariadne shuddered, and when she looked to Eames she could easily see that his face had paled several shades. His eyes were trained on the safe.

"Wait," Ariadne said quickly. "Eames--"

Eames let go of Arthur and leapt to his feet. The sudden withdrawal of assistance took Arthur by surprise, and he slipped, dropping further out of the window. Ariadne hurried to support him. "Eames!" she snapped, but he was already striding purposefully across the conference room. She yanked at Arthur's arm and he was at last able to pull himself inside. "Wait, we have to stick together!"

"So hurry up!" Eames said over his shoulder. He didn't break stride, and was soon through the gaping doorway. He disappeared as swiftly as Mal had.

"Eames!" Ariadne ran for the safe and felt Arthur behind, but the doors were already closing the moment Eames stepped through them. By the time she was close enough to make a jump for it the opening was too small for her to risk it. She skidded to a halt as the doors clanged shut. "What the hell is he thinking?" she ranted, beating on the metal with her open palms. "What good is finding Fischer if he's not with us? There's no way he'll listen to the two of us!"

She glanced back and saw Arthur watching her with a dazed expression. "Sorry," she said quickly. She swept her hair back and looked around the conference room again, taking note of a side door. "I think I'm starting to lose it."

"It's only going to get worse, the deeper we sink," said Arthur. "Can you open it?"

Ariadne took a deep breath and turned to the safe. There was no keypad, so she pressed her forehead to the metal and prayed for something within it to give way. Nothing stirred. "It's not mine--it won't budge. Should we wait?"

"We don't have time." Arthur picked Eames's discarded weapon off the floor and headed for the only other exit. "All we can do is stick to the plan and hope he finds his own way."

Arthur opened the door, and was greeted immediately by a group of wraiths wearing white military caps. He fired on them immediately, shredding the masks and scattering their cloaks. "Come on!" he said over his shoulder. "We just have to push through!"

They charged together down the open corridor, Arthur on point and Ariadne covering them from behind. For a moment it felt like their training all over again, and she was able to imagine that the projections were only Arthur's, and when they were finished they would wake up to Yusuf's chili in Paris.

Arthur pushed open a door which should have led into a normal stairwell, but what greeted them was another long hallway, one not outfitted with the typical office-building tile floors and generic blank walls. Instead cold marble and dark wood made every sound echo up and down the empty space, and more wraiths crept out from behind heavy doors and rotting oil paintings.

Ariadne's shoulders sagged. He took out my stairs. What if there isn't a way up at all? But then Arthur was on the move again, and with a deep breath she followed. There were fewer wraiths than on the city streets and Arthur's machine gun made quick work of them as they ran down the broad hall, opening doors along the way. Nothing looked familiar or even promising.

The final door led into a huge foyer, circled by an immense, round staircase. Though Ariadne was relieved to see Robert hadn't sealed them off completely, more ghosts lined the rails as far up as she could see. When they began their descent down the steps it looked as if the entire chamber were spinning like a drill.

Arthur reloaded. His face was grim and he glanced to Ariadne as if to say, I'll wake you up if you want. But Ariadne shook her head, and looked again to her handgun. She breathed deeply and tried to ignore the rushing creatures in favor of reforming her weapon. Please work!

The gun shifted and stretched, and though she didn't exactly know the proper make of the machine she was creating, her imagination filled in the blanks well enough. She lifted it and fired, shooting a curved grappling hook up the floors and around the top railing. When she gave it a tug it felt secure.

Arthur shook his head, but he slung the machine gun over his back and took the grip from her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and as they pressed close together he whispered against her ear, "Don't let go." Despite everything, she smiled.

He pulled the trigger again, and they shot up the spiraled room like a rocket. Ariadne had to wrap her legs around Arthur's waist to be sure her grip would hold. All around the wraiths screamed at them, and she could have sworn she felt their fingers raking her back, but they continued to climb until coming to a halt at the top.

Arthur transferred his hands to the railing, but the wood was smooth and not an easy hold with both of their weight on him. "Climb up," he said, and she squirmed, trying to twist around and pull herself away from his body. At last she had clambered onto the stairs, and she turned back to assist him.

White hands grabbed her from behind. She yelped and instinctually her elbow went back, smashing the wraith in the face. She felt the plastic mask crunch beneath her, but the fingers looping around her arms did not relax. Then another wraith snatched her around the waist, and another pulled at her hair, and they dragged her, kicking and flailing, away from Arthur.

"Get off me!" Ariadne fought but then more grabbed her legs, sweeping her feet out from under her so that she had no leverage. She scrambled, trying to think of a new weapon, but then she was shoved to the floor and a heavy black cloak was yanked over her.

"Ariadne!"

For the first time since entering Robert's mind, Ariadne truly panicked. The cloth was cold and oily, and the more she thrashed beneath it the more it stuck to her body. Hands pawed at her from all directions as she squirmed helplessly on the marble, pulling and dragging and scratching, and she screamed, until she couldn't even hear Arthur calling for her anymore. All she could think of was Eames's voice, the word Limbo echoing through her mind as if it was already an endless and empty cavern she was meant to spend eternity in.

"Arthur!" She shrieked as she was lifted off the ground. Something yanked at her head and suddenly her face was free, granting her one quick glance of Arthur tearing at yet more ghosts. Then slick plastic was slapped over her. She screamed for him as the wraiths hefted her and hurried in the other direction.

They traveled for several minutes, and all the while Ariadne fought and cried out, until her throat was sore and tears stained the inside of her mask. She thought she heard Arthur calling after her but she couldn't see anything, or even hear much over her own rapid breath. At last there was a loud thud like giant doors being opened, and she was roughly deposited onto the floor once more. The wraiths let her go and backed away.

Ariadne remained still for a moment, choking on her own breath, until she was sure they were no longer at her heels. Her instincts kicked in and she clawed the mask from her face. She saw hardwood floor and tall windows and then the wraiths returned, hissing at her as they straightened her arms and shoved her mask back on. Her screams renewed but as soon as the accessory was back in place the wraiths retreated again.

It took all Ariadne's will power not to try and remove the mask a second time. Carefully she adjusted it, until her eyes matched the empty sockets and she was able to see. "Arthur?" she called, leaning over her knees.

Another group of wraiths shoved a black-clad bundle to the ground next to her. Just as she had done Arthur immediately reached for his mask, but Ariadne pawed at him through her cloak. "Wait," she said weakly. "Wait, leave it. They'll just put it back on."

Arthur groaned and struggled to sit up. "Where are we? Why aren't they killing us?"

"I don't know." Ariadne took a closer look around the room. Everything in it was slightly oversized, from the immense curtained windows, to the towering bookshelves, and especially the broad mahogany desk that loomed over them like a judge's seat. Dozens of wraiths were packed into the candle-lit space, but two stood out ahead of the rest, guarding either side of their master's bench with unmoving determination.

"Good to see you again," said Mr. Charles.

Ariadne huddled close to Arthur's side. "What's going on?" she asked, peering into the shadows cloaking the focal desk. "What do you want from us?"

A low voice rippled out of the darkness, unfamiliar to Ariadne, but Arthur flinched with recognition. "Are there more of you?"

"Eames is here," Ariadne said. "We're trying to find Fischer so we can wake him up--we're here to help!"

"I'm Eames," said the wraith next to Mr. Charles.

"Are there more of you?" its master repeated. "Are you one Arthur, or are you both?"

Arthur and Ariadne exchanged glances. "Does it matter?" said Arthur. "What are you going to do with us?"

"Where is the other Arthur?"

Ariadne licked her dry lips, and cringed at the taste of plastic against her tongue. "If we tell you, will you bring him here? We're not here to hurt you; we really just want to help, please."

The voice did not answer immediately. Mr. Charles and the false Eames tilted their heads up expectantly, and at last a reply came. "Is he still in the subway?"

Ariadne looked to Arthur. Though she couldn't see his expression she felt him grow tense, and then he nodded. "Yes."

A wide, white hand stretched out of the shadows and pressed one finger into the surface of the desk. The floor in front of Ariadne gleamed, and from the wood bloomed a sleek control panel, just like the ones she had constructed on the subway platforms. She managed to sneak one hand out from under her cloak, and after keying in the password a single button appeared labeled "Here."

Ariadne pressed it, and the control panel melted away again. She drew her trembling hand back to her. "How are you doing this?"

The white hand curled over the edge of the desk and pulled, dragging the rest of its hulking form into view. Atop black, hunched shoulders and a long neck sat a pale mask bearing the likeness of Maurice Fischer. He glared down at his captives with sagging, empty sockets. "This is my mind," he said. "I might as well be God."

***

Cobb woke up in a hotel bathroom. He stared at his reflection, thinking that he should maybe shave his beard, and then he remembered. Shit. Did she get me? He turned in place but he didn't recognize the layout, and before he could sneak out he heard voices in the room proper.

"And so that’s it," said Charla, her voice clipped. "First you withdraw my funding, and now--"

"That has nothing to do with this," a man interrupted her. It took Cobb a moment to recognize him as Browning. "And don't try to roast my ass on that again, we both know more money is not going to make that 'shared dreaming' fantasy of yours any realer." He scoffed. "Or this one."

"You..." He heard clothing being tossed around. "And of course you waited to tell me this until after you fucked me. How typical."

"Come on, Charl. Not three weeks ago you said you never wanted to see me again. I believe your exact words were--"

"I remember." A woman's feet padded around the room. "All right. Then what are you still doing here? I'm paying for this room." Fabric rustled. "Get the fuck out."

Browning chuckled. "Whatever you say."

Footsteps came closer, and Cobb didn't have any time to think about hiding before Charla was in the doorway. She was much younger than he had ever known her, back when her blonde didn't come from a salon and her skin was free of wrinkles. Her expression was hard but there were bitter tears in her eyes she was trying to hide. When she finally noticed Cobb standing in front of her she started, and glared at him in fright.

Cobb blinked. "You and Browning?"

Charla stepped back, confused at first, but then a look of horror came over her. With a scream she struck Cobb hard across the face and the hotel crumbled.

Cobb stumbled into the sink just before it disappeared. The whip was sharp and he had no time to plan ahead--all he knew was that he had to beat her to it. He had no choice but to draw from memory, pulling up a setting so deeply rooted in his mind that it flowed into place with no effort at all.

He was in another hotel. He feared at first that the furniture would be overturned, a glass poised on the floor, but everything was properly placed. The window was open, swaying the curtains with a gentle night breeze. A half empty wine bottle sat in melting ice, and beside it one of two glasses was smudged with lipstick.

It pained Cobb to share the memory with anyone, let alone an enemy, but when he approached the bed and found Charla there he saw at once how effective it was. She was in Mal's skin, staring up at the ceiling with an empty and unblinking stare. Her lips fumbled soundlessly. Cobb stood at the end of the bed, knowing that despite her stillness, a battle was taking place. A forger has no defense against whipping, he thought, remembering a lesson learned years ago. The compulsion to populate is so strong it goes right through them, filling them into the space.

Cobb sat down on the edge of the bed. Watching Charla--Mal--twitch in the sheets, struggling against the influence of his mind, made him sick to his stomach. He licked his lips and needed a moment to gather his voice. "Mal."

Charla turned toward him, and smiled. "You're not ready to sleep yet, are you?" she asked.

Cobb grimaced. She was too false, in her eyes and in her posture, and he couldn't bear to look at her anymore. I'll find something else. I can't do this. "No," he murmured. "I'm ready to wake up."

The room began to tremble. Cobb stiffened, and when he looked to the balcony he saw the scenery shake and then rumble by. It sped up, until the chandelier swayed above them and the lights from the hotel across from them blurred into horizontal streaks.

We're moving. A rhythmic thud sounded beneath them in a familiar, hair-raising symphony. The subway is moving, Cobb realized. He looked to Charla and saw her own features beginning to form out of Mal's as she regained her sanity. Something's happening. Arthur better not be waking me up yet.

***

Eames pounded on the safe doors, even knowing they wouldn't budge. "Stupid," he growled at himself. "You'd better not be waking each other up out there."

He turned. The inside of the safe was pitch black, and as he moved down the wall he didn't feel the familiar shapes of masks bumping into his hand. It was truly empty. "Robert!" he called, squinting against the darkness. "Are you in here?"

"Did you love your father?" asked Mal.

Eames stepped away from the wall to follow the sound of her voice. "Yes." Childhood memories bubbled at the back of his mind but he tried to suppress them, knowing how easily they could become manifest in the ever-changing dream world.

"Did your father love you?"

"Yes," Eames said, but then he grimaced, and his gait faltered. "I think so. I wanted to think so."

"Show me."

An outline of a door glowed ahead of him, and Eames hurried to open it. As soon as he was out of the safe a strong wind buffeted his hair and clothing, and he stumbled on uneven ground. Soft grass sank under his feet and a smell of wet stone and mold choked his unprepared nostrils. Shielding his eyes against the wind he peered into his surroundings and shivered; he was in a cemetery. A small group of men and women crowded together over an open grave, swaying with the stronger gusts, their eyes downcast. Eames looked to their faces and spotted his mother among them, her makeup smeared into jagged tracks down her sallow cheeks. Clinging to her hand was a nine year old boy.

"That's me," Eames said, mystified. "This is my father's funeral."

"And there is the man," said Mal, standing close beside him. Her warm hand slid into his. "The man in uniform."

Eames looked again, and spotted some meters away a man in olive service dress. His head was down, so that the brim of his cap disguised most of his features. Though he was not facing the ceremony directly Eames knew that he had come to pay his respects.

"Who is he?" Mal asked quietly.

Eames shook his head. "I don't know. I never knew."

"Then why is he so important to you?"

"He's not." But even as Eames said so the nine year old boy turned his head, watching the stranger as they all continued to rock back and forth with the wind, otherwise frozen in time. His hand tightened around Mal's. "It's just one of those things you wonder about when you're older," he said.

She leaned into him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "Your secret is my secret," she murmured. "I know the truth. He is the one that makes you doubt."

"Doubt what?"

"Who you are." She stroked the inside of his elbow with her free hand. "You never knew your father. What did he want you to become? What might you have been, if you knew? I know how it feels, not to know. And sometimes, you wonder...what if it had been him."

"What?" Eames felt an uneasy tremor hum up his spine. "What are you talking about?"

"Who are you now?" Mal continued. "What manner of man are you? Would another father have loved you better? Who would you be, if only your father were a better man?"

He shook his head. "No," he said, "that's not how I feel."

Mal took a step forward, and inevitably he followed. "That's why you surround yourself with the masks." She drew him closer to the soldier whose face was still hidden in shadow. "You're searching for yourself, letting the world mold you into someone else, someone closer to who you were meant to be. Someone your father would have loved."

"You're talking about yourself," Eames said, unable to take his eyes off the stranger they were drawing toward. "Robert's the one who--"

"I'm not Robert's." Mal let go of his hand and pushed between his shoulder blades, urging him forward alone. "I'm yours."

Eames stumbled and found himself face to face with the man in uniform. His breath froze in his aching lungs and though he didn't want to look, he couldn't help himself. He pushed the stranger's cap back, revealing brown eyes pinched with age, rough whiskers, and full lips set in a stern jaw. His own face.

The General grabbed Eames by the front of the shirt and surged forward, flinging him to the ground. The grass was slick beneath his back; he slid, and before he could think to slow himself his shoulders dropped into empty space. With a startled cry he tumbled into the open grave.

Mal leaned over the opening and smiled at him. "And that's how I know your secrets," she said. "And your fears."

Eames groaned and tried to sit up. As he braced his hands beneath him he realized that they were scraping wood, and more wood rose on either side of him.

The General joined his peer in crouching over the grave. "Your fear that you'll never find what you're looking for," he continued for her. "You'll never know who you really are. Especially not where we're going."

Eames jolted, and tried to climb out of the pit, but then a lid crashed down over the coffin he was already in. Instantly the world was black again, but with cold and musty wood blocking him in from all sides. "No," he gasped, feeling out the confines with shaky hands. "No, let me out!" He pounded on the lid but it did not creak or bend, and the space was too narrow for him to even draw his knees in to kick.

You're falling into Limbo. Desperation overtook him as he clawed at his prison, his breath hot against his face. Where time is infinite and indeterminable. As he thrashed one of his arms became wedged elbow to wrist, and in his panic to dislodge it he felt the small bones in his hands crack. It's only what you deserve.

"Robert!" Eames screamed, scraping his heels, his shoulders, his face into the wood. "Robert!"

The earth gave way beneath him, and Eames fell. His stomach lurched into his throat but he did not have long to go, and his back struck hardwood with a bone-jarring thud. The back of his skull striking floor made him see stars, and even with the relief that he was free it took him long moments to begin reaching for composure.

"Eames!" Ariadne's small hands touched his face, clearing away splinters and dust. "Oh my God, are you all right?"

Eames groaned, and then coughed. His entire body ached from the impact. "Where am I?"

"Don't move," said Arthur from nearby. "Those things are everywhere."

Eames rubbed his eyes and at last looked around. Despite the room's distortion he recognized it immediately as Maurice's office, and as Arthur had said it was packed with swaying wraiths. One by the desk in particular was eyeing him with what he perceived to be hate. Mr. Charles appeared unimpressed. And above them, looming over the desk like a gothic roof guardian, was Maurice himself.

Eames carefully sat up. "What's going on?" He looked to Arthur and flinched back when he saw the both of them in masks and veils.

"It's all right--it's us," Arthur assured him quickly. "They put these on us."

"And they're bringing the others here," added Ariadne. "Cobb, and Dr. Banks, and Arthur's other half."

"What? What about Browning?"

The projections hissed, but ceased when Maurice drummed his long fingers against his desk. "Bring him here," he said.

Mr. Charles disappeared behind the desk, and when he returned he was dragging another black-wrapped figure. A gag had been tied around its head, biting into the mask and the mouth behind it. He flung his prisoner to the ground in front of them.

Eames started to crawl toward him, but the projections resumed their hissing, threatening him into remaining still. "Browning?" he called instead. "Can you hear me?" Browning groaned, and wriggled within his cloak as if fighting against restraints.

"He came with lies," said Maurice. "He cannot be trusted. Now." He leaned forward. "Who are you?"

Eames swallowed and pushed slowly to his feet. His heart was still pounding from his brief burial and it made it hard to think straight, especially with Maurice's dead face glaring down at him. "I'm Eames," he said.

"I'm Eames," snapped the wraith wearing his face.

"He's Eames," Maurice agreed. "And if he's not Eames, Eames is dead. I'd rather he be Eames." His fingers drummed impatiently. "Who are you?"

Eames stared, and as he watched Maurice's anxious hands he noticed a stain of dried blood across the inside of his palm. "Where's Robert?"

Maurice pounded his fist against the desk. "Who are you?"

"I'm Eames! The real Eames--come down here and see for yourself!"

The wraiths growled at his challenge, and Arthur and Ariadne squirmed nervously behind him, but Maurice went deathly still. He remained that way for nearly a full minute, until it seemed that the mask and cloak no longer housed a living thing. But then the fabric rippled, and plastic lips parted. "The real Eames?" he repeated.

"Yes." Eames's voice grew hoarse with frustration. "Please, just take me to Robert."

Maurice shuddered, and then both hands clamped over the edge of the desk. He propelled himself forward and flew from his perch, his cloak billowing behind with a roar like fire. The black peeled away in layers, revealing a flash of glossy boots, then stiff, white military trousers. By the time he hit the floor his mask had fallen away, and with another desperate leap he was throwing himself into Eames's arms.

"You son of a bitch!" Robert cried, his arms around Eames's neck tight enough to choke. "You said you were coming for me!"

Eames staggered but didn't fall. Involuntarily his arms circled Robert's waist, holding him close as he shivered. His own hands were shaking and his ribs were constricting on the verge of caving--after so much struggle and concern, he had finally reached him. "I know," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. Relief sharp enough to be agony ground out of him in a quiet sob he hadn't known was in him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He licked his lips. "But I'm here now, aren't I?"

Robert went limp against him. "Thank God you're here," he said. "I tried to do what you told me--I did--but they won't go away." He turned his face into Eames's neck. "I can't get rid of them, they won't leave me alone."

"I know." Eames stroked his back. "But it's all right now. I've got you."

Robert heaved a sigh, and the more Eames touched him the more his quaking calmed, until he was able to lean back. He wiped his watering eyes as if embarrassed by them. Watching him, Eames felt something swell in his chest he could barely describe--something equally ferocious and terrifying that kept him from taking a full breath when he needed it. "Robert," he said, and when his voice cracked he quickly cleared his throat and tried again. "Are you all right? Are you...is this both of you?"

"Yes, I'm all here." Robert turned his head to the right, and at the same time turned his head to the left, briefly creating an eerie display. "It's so much easier, sticking together."

He melded once more, but in that brief moment apart Eames spotted a dark bruise on the temple of one that was not nearly so visible when they were together. He ran his thumb gently over it. "What happened here?"

Robert snorted. "One of their extractors." He tilted his chin up. "I took care of it."

Does he mean Nash? Eames smiled grimly and wanted to ask what had happened, but a quiet hiss from the wraiths reminded him of their precarious situation. He glanced around and found dozens of plastic faces watching them angrily; the Eames wraith particularly was seething with jealousy. "We can't stay here," Eames said quietly. "We need to talk, but here isn't safe. You have to make us a way out."

Robert shook his head. "It won't work. They'll break in eventually."

"All we need is a little time." Eames rubbed his waist in encouragement. "Make us someplace safe--I know you can do it."

Robert stood a little taller, and at last nodded. With a deep breath he took Eames's hand in his and turned away. "Mr. Charles! You're in charge here."

Mr. Charles snapped to attention. "Mr. Fischer."

Robert narrowed his eyes, and creases appeared in the wood that made up the front of his father's desk. His fingers tightened. "Ready?"

Eames glanced behind him, where Arthur and Ariadne were crouched in readiness. He motioned toward Browning and Arthur nodded. "I'm ready," he said.

Robert took off running, and Eames came with him, just as the surrounding wraiths caught on. They poured forward, reaching with their knobby hands, but it was only a few steps to the desk. On the way Eames reached down and grabbed part of Browning's cloak--Arthur and Ariadne joined him, and together they plowed through the newly created door with Browning in tow.

"I'm the real Eames!" the ghost screamed, throwing itself at the opening, but then the door slammed shut.

Eames pulled Browning away from the door before letting go and looking around. He smiled at the familiar sight of his log cabin, until his gaze landed on the mantle. He tried not to look at it again as he turned to Robert. "Well done," he said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

Arthur and Ariadne stripped out of their masks and cloaks, then knelt down to help Browning out of his. Robert stared at them in angry shock. "What the hell are they doing here?"

"It's all right." Eames set his hand on the back of Robert's neck and gave him a squeeze. "They're here so we can all wake up together."

Robert frowned. "What?"

"We all have to wake up at the same time," Arthur explained as he got Browning's gag off. "The rest of us are on our way. If we can even get to them now..."

Robert made a face at him and then shook his head. "What do you mean, wake up?" he asked of Eames.

Apprehension turned Eames's stomach cold. He met Robert's eyes seriously. "Robert, we're all still dreaming," he said slowly. "Can't you tell?"

Robert glanced around the cabin and then back. "Are you sure?"

Browning took in a huge gulp of air once he was freed from his cloak, and sagged as Arthur undid the rope around his wrists. A dark welt stood out on his forehead and a bit of dried blood stuck to his hair. "God damn it," he groaned.

"Are you all right?" Eames asked.

Robert bristled beneath his hand. "Who cares if he is? It's his fault we're here."

"No." Browning sat up with Arthur's help, rubbing his sore hands. "Robert, listen--"

"Don’t speak to me!" Robert said, backing away from him. "Don't even look at me--you're fired! All you've ever wanted was to use me!"

Eames stopped him from getting too far. "Wait," he said, carefully. "Robert, listen to him. He wasn't the one that started this."

"It was Charla," said Browning. "She tricked us all." His shoulders drooped and he leaned forward, guilt-stricken. "I'm sorry. I should have known that she..."

Robert waved his finger at him. "No, you're a liar. I don't believe you!" He pushed Eames away from him. "You're the enemy Eames warned me about," he hissed. "You're in league with that woman. My father loved me!"

Browning stared up at him, his face deeply creased with regret. "He tried," he said quietly.

Robert's face twisted and suddenly he launched himself at Browning, hands outstretched. "My father loved me!"

He tackled Browning to the ground, and as soon as they hit his white uniform dyed black and rippled outward. His hands bleached and his face paled, and by the time Eames could even begin to try and pry them apart he was wearing Maurice's mask again. "Robert!" Eames shouted, trying to get his arms around Robert's waist, but the fabric was flying everywhere, blinding him. "Robert, stop!"

Arthur and Ariadne grabbed Browning's flailing hands and pulled, dragging him out from under the screaming Robert. Grunting with the effort, Eames at last managed to pin Robert to the floor and ripped the mask off. "Robert, stop, it's Eames," he said, and was relieved to see his clothing return to normal. "Shh, that's enough." He rubbed Robert's back and prayed for him to calm--his agitation had already sent the fire in the hearth spinning, and he feared what greater reactions anger could cause in their already tenuous stronghold.

Robert sagged, his face pressed to the floor. He tried to hide beneath his arms as he trembled. "Keep him away from me," he whispered.

Browning's head sank into his hands. As Ariadne tried to calm him, Arthur moved closer to speak in Eames's ear. "We should wake them up," he said quietly. "Fischer's falling apart, but the two of them are still all right. They won't be if we get any deeper."

Eames glanced to Browning and Ariadne. The grief in Browning's face twisted something in his stomach, and he thought, All that time studying him, I didn't learn anything. "No," he said. "We still need Browning." He ran his fingers gently through Robert's short hair. "If there's any chance of us making it out of here, we have to figure out what secret Robert's hiding. That's the key to all of this, it has to be."

Arthur sat back on his heels as he considered that. A struggle played out over his face, and then he rubbed his mouth and said, "The carnival."

"What?"

Arthur glanced to Ariadne and back. "When Mal and I extracted from Fischer, the last location we got to in the panel was a carnival. Or a state fair, something like that, with rides and..." His eyes narrowed significantly. "Lights."

Eames straightened. "You mean, like what's happening outside?"

Beneath him, Robert flinched. "They're here," he said.

The far wall growled, and then began to roll upward like a storefront shutter. Fearing that they would have to make a run for it again, Eames stood and pulled Robert upright. But beyond the opening gleamed a white subway platform, pinwheels painting its walls, floors, and tracks. As everyone stared a sleek subway car screeched into view and halted. Its doors opened with a mechanical hiss.

Cobb and Charla were still asleep on their cots, but Arthur was sitting up on his, hunched over with his head in his hands. As soon as she saw him Ariadne hopped to her feet and hurried over. "Arthur! You're awake?"

He glanced up sharply, and when she was close enough he drew her into a fierce embrace. Though startled, she granted it, and cradled his head against her chest. "Are you all right?" she asked. "What happened down there?"

"Dom's trying to fight off Charla," he said, leaning into her. "He told me to wait for him."

The second Arthur stood and joined them, his expression sour. "That's enough. Pull yourself together--it's embarrassing."

His arms tightened around Ariadne's waist. "I really don't want to speak with you right now," he grumbled.

"What? Wait, you think this is my fault?" Arthur grabbed his double's shoulder and tried to push him off Ariadne. "If you hadn't let Banks catch you in her stupid trap this wouldn't have happened!"

"You're the one that got himself killed!" he retorted. "You have no idea what I've had to go through because of you!"

They shoved at each other, and Ariadne at last had to shoulder between them. "Stop--stop! What the hell is the matter with you?" She rolled her eyes and pried the arms off her waist. "You're both here now. It's time to go back together." She clapped her hands as if to demonstrate.

As they argued Eames moved around them and into the subway car. "I hope you've had enough time," he told Cobb as he leaned over the PASIV.

The second Arthur glanced back and started. "Wait, he said to--"

Eames turned the device off, and a moment later Cobb and Charla both awoke with a gasp. Eames removed Cobb's needle for him and gave his cheek a smack to help him along. "Come on, Cobb," he said. "I still need your help."

Cobb's face screwed, and he sat up groaning. "Where is she?"

Across from him, Charla squirmed on the mattress. Her hands fumbled over her IV and she only managed to dislodge it on the third try. She stared up at the many angry eyes on her with confusion. "Where am I?"

Browning stepped forward, his face livid. "Do you know what you've done?" he raved, and if not for Cobb intercepting him he would have shaken her. "Have you gone crazy? I trusted you and you're trying to kill him!"

Charla stared at him, at first with wide-eyed horror, but then a look of calm came over her. "Damn," she muttered. "I'll need a new team."

She slipped her hand down the front of her blouse and drew a knife, but long before she could angle it into her throat, both Arthurs pounced. One grabbed her wrists and the other her ankles, pinning her to the mattress as she thrashed, desperate to kill herself. When even the two of them had some difficulty Cobb joined them and finally pried the knife from her grip.

Eames kept an eye on the scene as he returned to Robert's side--he was still leaning against the far wall, his eyes unfocused. His skin had a glossy sheen to it and Eames feared that at any moment he might become inhuman again. "Robert." Eames touched Robert's face to get his attention. "It's time."

He looked up through heavy lashes. "Time for what?"

"You must know by now that everyone's being trying to extract from you," Eames said. He rubbed his thumbs gently over Robert's stern cheekbones. "There's a secret deep in your mind. Do you remember a carnival, from when you were a child? I know it's here, inside you--I've seen it before."

"A carnival?" Robert's eyelids drooped and he swayed dizzily. "I don't know. I don't think so."

"Yes you do." Eames's hands tightened, forcing Robert to look at him. "I know you remember. I want you to take us there."

The others noticed his absence. "Eames?" Cobb started toward him. "I need to know what's happening up here."

Eames ignored him. "You've been changing everything all along, haven't you?" he continued. "It's already busting out of you, all over the city." He smoothed his hands back to lightly stroke Robert's scalp. "All you have to do is let go, and I know you can take us there." His voice lowered. "I want you to show me all your secrets."

"Wait," said Browning. He hurried over along with Cobb. "What are you doing? We have to wake him up."

Tears spilled down Robert's cheeks, and he gripped Eames's wrists. "Maybe I don't want to know what it is," he whispered.

"Stop." Browning moved alongside them, his face red with panic. "Please, this isn't going to help him; he can't find out like this."

"Yes you do," Eames said, his focus still entirely on Robert. "You've been trying to tell me all this time." He pressed a kiss to Robert's forehead. "We're all sick of this dream anyway. Make a new one for us. Please."

Cobb grabbed Eames's shoulder. "Wait--if he whips us you'll be--"

"Do it." Eames let him go. "Do it, Robert!"

Defiance sharpened Robert's eyes, and as he leaned back the cabin began to fall apart. The walls stripped, revealing the horde of angry wraiths once more, but then even they were gone, as were the wooden hallways, the office tower, the curved city--everything shattered into dust save the earth suddenly beneath their feet. For brief moments there was only empty space, and then Robert's mind went again to hasty work, drawing forth a new and glittering landscape. It burst forth as if from a floodgate, exploding color and light and music in a triumphant swell that rejected too many years of dormant slumber.

Eames closed his eyes. His stomach turned as if he were falling, but he let the dream swarm over him, claiming him, re-skinning him. Cobb's hand slipped from his shoulder and then even Robert vanished, leaving him alone in a crowd of soulless people. Robert molded him into exactly who he needed him to be, and all at once Eames knew who he was, where he was meant to go, what he was meant to do.

He took a deep breath, and he ran.

Chapter Text

The carnival was only hours away from closing. As a blazing summer sun bled pink and orange across the asphalt lot, the lights began to flicker on, up the iron beams and down the striped awnings. They gleamed and twirled, their rainbow afterimages streaking across the waning day. Beneath them, men, women, children, and teenagers continued to thrive. The shrieks of laughter and delight were unceasing, almost cacophonous in the stifling humidity, tinged with the over-exuberance that came with the knowledge that all tickets had to be used up too soon. All the hot dogs had to be eaten, all the balloons had to be popped, all the prizes won, because come morning there would be nothing left except for a few stains on the pavement and the lingering aroma of burnt popcorn.

Ariadne breathed it in. The air always had a different taste to it on the last night. She smiled but couldn't help feeling a childish sensation of regret, knowing that soon even the lights would be extinguished for another year. Her beloved Tilt-O-Whirl would in a few days' time be delighting children in another town far away. There was something beautiful and sad about the transience of such simple, childish pleasure.

"I think the Japanese have a word for it," she said aloud. "When something is at its most beautiful, just before it goes away?"

"Mono no aware," Arthur replied.

"Yeah, I think that's it." Ariadne smiled down at him, but her expression soon hardened to a wince. "I guess you're not thinking it's all that beautiful at the moment though, huh?"

His lip twitched. "Not really, no."

Ariadne was sitting on a bench near the park's edge, and stretched along it lay Arthur, his head pillowed against her thigh. His hands were folded neatly over his stomach but he couldn't hide the strain pinching his brow. She remembered him complaining of a headache, but she couldn't remember why they hadn't simply decided to leave. Until the Aspirin kicked in all she could think to do was sneak an ice cube out of her soda cup and run it slowly over Arthur's hairline.

He smiled as cool moisture seeped into his hair and down his temples. "That feels good."

Ariadne teased his cheeks and chin, and when there was only a little left, his mouth. His lips parted, and moved gently against her fingertips as she slipped the ice onto his tongue.

"You know," she said, "the last time I was at a carnival, your subconscious hit on me."

Arthur snorted, and his already flushed cheeks turned a little redder. "I'm not responsible for my projections."

Ariadne grinned. "I like them that way."

Arthur squirmed on the bench. "Is there any more ice?" he asked.

Still grinning, she reached into her cup. When a group of young teenagers walked past them carrying paper pinwheels, it didn't occur to her to think it strange.

***

Cobb squeezed his eyes shut. "They're not my children," he told himself with a ferocity that broke his heart. "Philipa and James are with Marie. They're not here--this isn't real."

The tiny hand released his pant leg. For nearly a full minute later he could still feel the crease in the fabric, until another group of carnival-goers shoved past him. Only then did he feel safe enough to open his eyes again, and with a sigh noted that the two phantoms had disappeared.

"Damn it, Eames," he muttered, rubbing his beard. "That was a stupid idea." Even after having stood up to Charla's incessant whipping, Robert's repression breaking free had swept him up with a force he rarely experienced in someone else's subconscious; he had no idea how long it would have taken him to remember where he was if not for the glimpse of twirling pinwheels in Philipa's hair. He shook himself and glanced around to get his bearings.

It's a carnival? He turned in place, and when the colored lights blurred against his weary eyes he was struck by inspiration. This is the memory Banks showed me.

Cobb weaved through the packed crowds, looking right and left in hopes of seeing a familiar face of any kind. "Eames!" he shouted, but he remembered a moment later that it was probably useless to call for him. "Arthur! Ariadne!"

He rounded the carousel, and was momentarily caught off guard by the grotesque figures that had replaced the horses: beasts and snakes and insects, all snarling and ominous. As he hurried on he caught a familiar voice rising over the dim.

"Mal, come back!"

Cobb whipped around and glimpsed brown hair bobbing through the crowd. With so many people it was difficult to make anything out, so he grabbed for the fence surrounding the carousel and pulled himself up, over the sea of people.

"Mal, stop!" Yards away, Arthur latched onto a woman and spun her about. She fought against him, her hair flying and obscuring her face, but Cobb recognized her immediately.

"No!" Mal shouted. "No, where's Robert?"

They continued to speak, but Cobb couldn't make them out, and then abruptly Mal shoved Arthur back. He was quickly swallowed up by the throng and lost sight of her, but Cobb was still in position, and saw her dart away, toward the west end of the lot.

Cobb hopped down and started to give chase, but then he paused when he recalled the story he had gotten out of Arthur earlier. He said that after he lost Mal, he tripped the projections and they woke him up, he thought, changing course. We can't afford to let anything like that happen here.

He grabbed Arthur's arm and immediately began to steer him the direction Mal had gone--there was an area of open grass bordering the lot and he had a feeling that was where she was headed. "Don't ask questions, just come with me," he said.

Arthur gaped at him as he allowed himself to be dragged. "What are you doing here?"

"I said don't ask questions--we have to catch up to her!"

They hurried together past the rides and venders, and once they had circled around the Ferris Wheel Cobb spotted a tree rising over the fence surrounding the lot. He was about to speed up when Arthur tugged on his arm. "Cobb."

He motioned to one of the booths next to them. It had once been a concession stand of some sort, but slouched behind the counter was a masked creature wrapped in black robes. Whenever a child passed by it crooked its knobby finger, and offered up a crudely folded paper pinwheel.

Cobb frowned, and watched one of the young boys closely as he left with his souvenir. When the boy rejoined his parents his hair darkened from blond to black, and his face grew pale.

"That's just creepy," said Arthur.

Cobb started off again. "The inception is still spreading--we don't have much time."

They reached the edge of the lot, where a stretch of dry grass separated the dusty asphalt from an old, chain-linked fence. Nestled up against the rusting metal was a broad and twisted oak tree; it had grown into and around the fence as if doing its best to creep into the evening festivities. Though its branches sported only enough leaves for the barest amount of shade, two figures had chosen its intruding roots as their haven.

As Cobb drew closer a lump threatened to form in his throat, but he swallowed it back. "Mal."

Mal lifted her head, and her distorted face was almost a comfort to him. Her eyes were as wide and bright as he remembered, but her cheeks sloped in softer angles, and her hair was much longer than he had ever seen it on her. When she smiled there was no recognition in her face. She pressed a finger to her red lips and nodded to her young companion: a sleeping boy, curled up against her lap.

Cobb knelt down in front of her, and after some hesitation, Arthur joined him. "Is that Robert?" he asked quietly.

Mal smoothed her fingertips through Robert's hair. "He's had such a difficult time," she said, her voice rough with sympathy. "And there's still more to come. There's only so much I can do for him."

Cobb leaned closer. "Can you tell us what happened here? When you and Arthur came into Robert's mind?"

Mal's brow knit, and her eyes darted back and forth. She took in a slow breath. "I came looking for the secrets," she said. "Me, and..." Her gaze flickered to Arthur. "My shadow. And Robert ran, like he always does. But I followed him, all the way down here. I had something important to tell him."

"What?"

She continued to lightly stroke the boy's hair. "That he is clever," she said quietly. "And handsome, and generous. And whatever his father may say or think, his mother always loved him. As long as he remembers that, he'll be fine."

Arthur slowly straightened. "Were you trying to incept him?" he asked.

"I just wanted to help him," Mal said. "I told him that, many times. And he took me." She pressed her hand over her heart. "He let me stay with him, so that I could tell secrets instead of keep them. I've been waiting for this."

Arthur swallowed and leaned back. "He assimilated Mal," he murmured. "Like Eames, and...you. Mr. Charles."

Cobb edged closer, still feeling somewhat hypnotized by her almost-familiar appearance. What were you thinking, Mal? he wanted to ask, even knowing it was pointless. I should have been here with you. If only I hadn't been so...

He frowned, and reached up to gently nudge her hair off her bare shoulder. A trickle of blood was making its way down the side of her neck. "What happened here?"

Mal blinked back at him. "What?"

Arthur abruptly stiffened. "Shit--it's Eames," he said urgently. When Cobb pushed her hair back further he revealed the jagged and scabbing edge of her right ear. "Eames!"

He reached forward to shake Mal's shoulder, but she quickly and gently urged him back. "Shh. You'll wake him."

Cobb watched Mal settle back against the trunk, but no matter how hard he looked, he could make out none of the familiar ticks he had learned to pick out of Eames's forgeries. "Are you sure it's him?"

"Yeah, I...." Arthur rubbed his own ear self-consciously. "I shot him, earlier." When Cobb gave him a look he added, "He was trying to shoot me, too."

Cobb frowned, and gave Mal's shoulder a squeeze. "Eames? Are you really in there?"

Mal sighed and shook her head. "Oh, that Eames. He really should have come to dinner." She smiled shyly. "I was going to take him home with me."

Arthur's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Cobb leaned back and coughed into his hand. "Just a second." He reached into his pocket and concentrated; it took more effort than he had expected, but by the time he pulled his hand out, he was holding a small compact. He opened it and offered it to Mal. "Mal, can you take a look at this, please?"

Mal accepted, and tilted the mirror so that she could see herself in it. At first she smiled and combed at her hair, but then a look of confusion overtook her features. She twitched, and squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned over her knees. When she dropped the compact Cobb slipped it back into his pocket for safekeeping and put his hand again on Mal's shoulder. "Eames, it's Cobb," he said firmly. "Come on back."

Mal coughed, her body spasming, and then suddenly it was Eames with his arm around his chest and his ear bleeding. He groaned and rubbed his eyes as his features came into full shape. Cobb shifted, trying to be patient, but it seemed to take a long time for Eames to compose himself. "Are you all right?" he asked as he urged Eames to lean back against the tree. "He really got you, didn't he?"

Eames let out a long breath. "Yeah." He blinked at the surrounding park as if seeing it for the first time, and finally his gaze landed on Cobb and Arthur. "Thank you, Cobb."

"Can you tell us what the hell is going on?" asked Arthur. "And maybe make more sense than she did?"

"I don't know any more than Robert did," Eames said. He looked to the boy that still rested against his lap, completely undisturbed by the goings-on. "But I think you were right, Arthur. Mal may have been trying to incept him."

Cobb shifted anxiously. "But why? With what?"

Arthur started to answer, but then stopped himself. When Cobb saw, his temper frayed a bit further. "Just say it," he said.

"Fischer was a mess," Arthur blurted out. Guilt flashed across his face and he rubbed his mouth as if trying to suppress it. "Self-loathing, miserable. Maybe Mal was trying to give him something positive down here, I don't know. It was all we could do for him..."

Cobb shook his head, dissatisfied, but he knew there was no better answer to receive. He looked to the sleeping boy. "Is that the real Robert?"

Eames looked as well, his brow tight, and after a moment the child disappeared. "No," he said. "He was Mal's projection."

"A projection's projection?" Arthur said doubtfully.

"Yes--well, more like my projection, I suppose. He was part of the...the skin put on me." Eames's eyes lost their focus as he pressed his hand over his chest, the way he had done as Mal earlier. "Robert's mind wanted me to feel this."

A groan of metal in the distance drew their attention. As the sun continued to dip toward the horizon more and more lights flickered on all across the park, highlighting the taller rides as they began to twist and reshape. The Ferris Wheel slowed in its rotation as the rods and joints stretched, remaking its cheerful ring into triangles and angles. It resumed its slow spin as a brightly lit pinwheel.

"I guess that's a hint that we should be moving faster," said Cobb drearily.

Eames pushed against the tree behind him, and when he seemed to have some trouble getting his feet beneath him Cobb helped him to stand. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Eames's grin was almost a sneer. "No. So let's hurry."

***

Robert was spinning. With his eyes closed the sensation was dizzying and nauseating, but opening them meant an onslaught of light and color he wasn't yet prepared for. Already his ears were ringing with too-cheerful music, and whirling machinery, and children's voices shrill enough to be screams. He hated it. He wanted to rip apart the world he had created, down to every scrap of iron and concrete, until it was still and quiet and tolerable again.

The spinning stopped, and Robert jolted in his seat, his fingers white around the brass pole in front of him. With a deep breath he at last opened his eyes and climbed down onto unmoving earth. He had grown so accustomed to the spin that the stability felt foreign to him, and he stumbled, back into the side of a wooden tiger.

Children clamored off the ride, and more took their place, squealing and laughing. Robert watched them, unable to understand how anything so young and bright had come from his aching mind. He hated them, too. When the carousel began to turn he pushed away from it and wandered into the crowd.

Why am I here? Robert flowed with the happy families up and down the crowded paths. Everything was familiar and alien, and frail beneath his hands, as if ready to burst its seams at any moment. I can make anything, he thought. Why would I make this? I hate it here.

He followed the men and women, weary and disoriented, until he realized that he had come to another ride. Feeling he had nothing better to do, he sat down in a green seat and strapped himself in. All around him children were swaying in theirs, their toes just barely touching the ground, and though he was twice the size of the largest of them he could only just reach, too. It was familiar, and he kicked his feet, rocking back and forth.

The ride groaned into motion. The spinning threatened at first to pull Robert back into nausea, but then the momentum lifted him off the ground. I remember this. He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back, feeling the centrifugal tug as he whirled faster and higher. The park smeared into horizontal lights. Robert closed his eyes again and tried to enjoy the cooling wind, but the roar of the crowd beneath him was too chaotic for him to find any peace.

A woman's voice rose above the din in silvery laughter. It made Robert's heart pound and he twisted in his chair, trying to see the crowd far below. From so far away everyone looked small and plastic, like dolls, their eyes vacant. But then he heard the laughter again, and he caught a glance of long brown hair among the parents lining the ride fence.

Mother. Robert's breath caught in his throat and he pulled at the chair holding him. "Stop," he said urgently, struggling with his seatbelt as if he weren't spinning twenty feet off the ground. "Stop--let me down!"

Lights flickered above him, and with squeals of protest the ride slowed and lowered its riders to the ground once more. The kids groaned in disappointment but as soon as his feet touched earth Robert clawed out of his chair and ran to the exit. I remember this, he thought again as he rounded the gate. I got off the ride, and Mother was there, waiting for me. He wanted nothing more than to see her, to have her hold him like she had when she was still the center of his world.

He saw her hair through the crowd. She was standing at the cheap metal fence, dressed in the bright blue sundress he remembered so well, watching the swings that had already resumed their spin as if he might still be on them. He could only see the tips of her profile but even that much pushed his heart into his throat. Before he could call out to her she leaned forward against the rail, making visible the figure of Peter Browning next to her.

They were standing close together in the shadow of the swings, unspeaking, their gazes upward. Browning shifted his weight and slipped his hand away from his side. He touched her shoulder, then let his knuckles trail down her spine to the small of her back. She tensed and Robert's heart stopped.

***

It was Arthur that spotted a grown man on the swings. As the three of them headed toward it Eames fought to remain clear, but the pressure surrounding him was only becoming more intense. He felt as if he were on the bottom of the ocean floor, carrying miles of dark water. More than once he was tempted to ask for Cobb's mirror back. I know, I know, he wanted to tell Robert's crushing subconscious. I asked for this. But you have to at least let me breathe.

They rounded a ticket booth and Arthur stopped, tugging them both to a halt. "There he is."

Eames looked, but when he followed Arthur's pointing he realized it was Ariadne and his double that he was indicating; they were seated together on a colorful bench, seemingly oblivious to their situation. "Go on," Eames said. "Make sure they know they're dreaming and meet us at the swings."

"I'll be quick," Arthur said, and then he jogged away.

Eames could feel Cobb start to ask if he was all right, but by then he was already moving. He picked up his pace, shoving Robert's projections out of the way when they became too dense. Everything was crowding in on him, trying to change him, nothing more so than the spreading children with their cloaks and their pinwheels. Tiny hands pulled at his pant legs as he passed, and he was on the verge of flinging them off when he finally spotted Robert ahead of him.

Thank God. Eames sighed in relief and started forward, but Cobb's hand on his elbow stopped him. "Wait," Cobb said, indicating the ride that had led them there in the first place. Browning was instantly recognizable, but it took Eames a moment to place the elegant brunette at his side. She was pale and slender and beautiful, and she reminded him of Mal.

Browning had his hand on her back. She looked at him, her eyes hard, saying not now, not anymore, and with a ghost of a smile he leaned away.

It was only a fleeting gesture, the kind of subtle interaction that Eames had trained himself to look for but still might have missed. Only when he felt a rumble beneath his feet and an extra weight to the air did his pulse hitch in apprehension. All around the projections quieted in their laughter and stopped their excited bustling, turning instead to stare at the man and woman leaning against the fence.

"Jesus," Cobb whispered next to him. "Is that what this is all about?"

Eames gulped. He looked to Robert and noticed for the first time that he was not alone: a young boy was standing close at his side, no more than eight years old. Both Roberts were watching Browning with the same look of childlike confusion, and Eames could almost see the deadly little idea seeping into their brains--a doubt that would fester for years, unconscious but constant, poisoning him with his most tightly guarded secret.

"I don't know who I am," Eames mumbled.

Cobb looked at him. "What?"

The ground rocked beneath them, and they stumbled into each other as the projections swayed and jostled. The jovial carnival tunes heightened to a screech and metal groaned as the rides shuddered on their foundations. Everything felt tight and heated and on the edge of collapse.

"Wake them up," Eames said. The projections twitched and moaned, clawing at their too-human faces and yanking their hair into veils. When one of them grabbed for Eames's sleeve he shoved it back and turned to Cobb. "Go--wake up Arthur and the others, and then yourself."

"We were going to do it simultaneously," Cobb reminded him. "At this point--"

"It's too late for that!" Eames pushed him back. "Just go, before he pulls us all into Limbo!"

Cobb clenched his jaw, but seeing the projections seizing all around them convinced him. He turned, shoving his way through the thongs back the way they had come.

Eames started in the other direction, but was snatched at from all sides by bony fingers. Growling curses, he shook and snapped the appendages off him in his haste through the crowd. The quaking grew worse but he managed to keep his feet beneath him, and finally he was in front of Robert, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Robert!" He shook him, but Robert only stared straight ahead; his expression had lapsed into one of quiet acceptance. "Robert, look at me," he said, and when Robert still did not respond he cupped his face in firm hands. "Look at me!"

Robert's gaze came into focus. "Eames." He returned Eames's concern with calm. "You shouldn't still be here," he said.

"Robert, listen to me," Eames said desperately. "This...this is just a dream. It's not real--it doesn’t matter. It's time to wake up."

Robert sighed. "You're right," he said. "It doesn't matter at all." He smiled bitterly. "It's so stupid."

The earth jolted, and though Eames was almost tossed off his feet Robert didn't budge as if rooted to the spot. The swings were whirling above them madly and Eames cringed when several snapped off their wires and sent tiny ghosts crashing into the tents and booths. Every human face in the sea of people had vanished, leaving only plastic, just like the spinning Cairo they had left.

"Everything I went through was for this," Robert said, surveying the chaotic landscape with hatred too dull to even be called that. "I loved him so much and he might not have even been mine." He sighed, and the Ferris Wheel cracked off its axles and began to grind its pinwheel blades into the lot. "What a joke."

"Robert," Eames tried again. "Please, you can't jump to conclusions. Wake up with me. We'll ask Browning--we'll talk to Peter together. Then you--"

"It doesn't matter," Robert interrupted. He took Eames's wrists and urged his hands back. "Why are you so worried? I'm fine." He smiled. "See? I don't even care."

Eames stared back at him, baffled and at a loss. When he tried to think of something more to say his heels scraped on the shifting earth and he fell forward, against Robert's chest. Thin but sturdy arms wrapped him up. As the carnival continued to rage and crumble only Robert remained perfectly still, more at ease than Eames had ever seen him.

"It's all right," he murmured against Eames's ear. "I know you tried."

Eames pulled back, but found that he was still leaning forward; the ground wasn't simply shaking, it was tipping. Wraiths were tumbling past them down the incline and the rides and tents bent beneath the new pull of slanted gravity. Over his shoulder he could see the jagged edge of the lot rising like the bow of a sinking ship, and past Robert the opposite edge was digging troughs through the earth's crust. Fissures opened into canons and everything beyond the carnival crumbled away, until there was only an angled and broken cliff perched over dark, raging ocean.

How did this happen? Eames reached into his belt and willed a pistol to fit into his grip. He swung it forward and shoved the muzzle into Robert's temple. If I'd known it was going to end this way... He curled his finger over the trigger.

Robert stared back at him. There was nothing in his face that could be construed as consent, or defiance, or even resignation. He only looked tired, and no matter how hard Eames fought to pull the trigger, his body wouldn't obey. He won't wake up, he thought, panic in his brain and lungs and gut. The world continued to tilt and he had to press his hand to Robert's chest to keep from falling into him again. He doesn't even want to. "Robert--"

Something crashed into him from behind, at just enough of an angle that he was thrown around Robert's body and into the asphalt. When he tried to push himself up his attacker pursued, clawing at him with white and broken fingernails, and as he fought they began to scrape through the twisted carnival in a thrashing heap.

"This is your fault!" the wraith bellowed, and when it clamored on top of Eames it was his own face glaring down at him. "You did this to me! You did this!"

Eames twisted the gun forward and fired, shredding the lower half of the mask. When oily black fabric collapsed over him he struggled to free himself, but as soon as he had another two wraiths took their brethren's place. Their weight slamming into him sent him skidding down the incline again, and Eames relinquished his gun to instead paw for a handhold.

"Robert!" Eames dug in and felt his fingernails grind. He had just about managed to pull himself upright--he could barely see Robert's turned back against the swarming ghosts--but then more hands yanked his feet out from under him. He struck the ground hard and rolled, ever closer to the edge. "Robert!"

***

So he was right, Ariadne thought, glancing at the second Arthur as they clung to the sides of a ticket booth. We are dreaming.

The three of them were huddled close together, struggling to keep their balance against the angling earth. All around them angry, wailing ghosts tumbled and rolled through the park on their way to a watery grave. As Ariadne wrapped her arm around Arthur's she saw the Tilt-O-Whirl cars pile against the chain-link fence surrounding them and the burst free a moment later. The cars with their grotesque clown faces plummeted, crashing into black-clad bodies and smashing through concession stands.

"What the hell happened?" asked the Arthur supporting her. "I thought Fischer already knew he was dreaming."

The second Arthur pointed into the crowd. "There's Cobb!"

Cobb was dashing across the incline, and narrowly missed being clipped by a speeding snack cart. When he was close enough Arthur stretched out his hand and drew him in. "You have to wake up," Cobb said immediately. He reached behind him and pulled out a handgun. "Everyone, right now."

"What's going on?" Ariadne asked, straining closer. "What happened to Fischer?"

Cobb shook his head. "No time." He started to say more but then a shadow fell over his face, and he glanced upward. He went pale and lifted the gun. "Hurry!"

The muzzle rose in front of Ariadne's face, and she tensed, ready for it, but then out of the corner of her eye she caught a glance of the incoming threat: the bumper cars had been turned loose and were thundering toward them. One crashed into the ticket booth, and by the time Cobb pulled the trigger Ariadne was already being thrown to the ground, out of the circle of Arthur's arm.

Ariadne grunted as she landed on her back. She was thinking that she should have just thrown herself in front of the car when the pavement burned against her bare arms, reminding her that she was sliding. She twisted, trying to find something to grab so she could right herself, but the ground bucked beneath her and there were only more flailing bodies to grip. When she craned her head she caught a glimpse of the carnival's shorn edge, and churning waves beyond.

No, wait. Ariadne pawed at the ground and grimaced when the wraiths rolled over and past her. No, wait!

"Ariadne!"

Arthur was racing down the slope toward her. The second was only a step behind, dragging a rope bearing dozens of colored flags. Ariadne spread her arms out, and though she cringed at her bruising fingers and elbows it slowed her enough that the Arthurs could gain on her. They dove, both reaching for her outstretched foot, but when she halted there were only five fingers wrapping around her ankle.

"Gotcha," Arthur said, in one voice, with one relieved grin. One Arthur.

Ariadne stared, and when she was absolutely sure of what she was seeing she curled her fist around the grip of a hastily manufactured handgun. "Thanks," she said, and then she swung the muzzle between his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Arthur slumped, but his hand remained tight around her ankle, giving her the stability to continue watching him. She waited, fearful that at any moment a pair of corpses would slip away, but even in death he remained singular. Cobb--where's Cobb? She looked left and right and spotted Cobb clinging to a rickety fence. He pantomimed putting a gun to his head.

Ariadne took a deep breath and pressed the gun to her temple. It's over, she told herself. She closed her eyes and curled her finger over the trigger. I'm waking up. She squeezed.

***

Cobb allowed himself a moment of relief when he saw Ariadne fall over dead. They made it, he told himself as he moved carefully down the fence. They'll be fine. Now there's just Browning. His chest felt tight as he hurried back toward the swings. It's too late for Fischer.

Browning was clinging to the fence, his face white and his arm wrapped around a pale and screaming brunette. Cobb had to run across the unstable blacktop to get to them, dodging the growing stream of projections and projectiles. He crashed into Browning from behind and almost wrenched him from the fence. "Browning!" he shouted over the roar of falling metal. "You're dreaming!" He pushed his gun into Browning's temple. "I'm going to wake you up, understand?"

Browning stared back at him, and his confusion shifted swiftly to panic. "Wait," he said, craning back. "Wait--where's Robert?" His face went deathly pale. "Did he see this?"

"You're going to have to ask him up top," Cobb said. He cocked the hammer back.

"No--wait!" Browning tried to reach for him but he was too frightened to release the fence and the woman was still clinging to him. "Tell him I didn't--I'm not--"

Cobb shot him in the forehead. As he collapsed his hand came off the fence, and with a shriek the woman wrestled free of him to keep from being dragged down the slope. The body rolled, passing close by Robert's rooted feet, but he didn't seem to notice.

Cobb started to look for Eames, but then was jerked when the brunette snatched his arm. He struggled against her until it occurred to him that she was the only projection left not wearing a mask. With one hand gripping the fence he tried to urge her back. "Mrs. Fischer...?"

She heaved a sigh. "How disappointing." In a sudden reversal of temperament she sagged against Cobb and stared down at the seemingly catatonic Robert with disgust. "I should have just ruined Peter from the start."

Cobb's eyes widened. "Banks?"

"At least I took care of Fischer." She lifted her head and took in the decaying surroundings, slowly, before turning her wide blue eyes on Cobb. "What's Limbo like?" she asked, breathless.

Cobb swallowed, feeling almost hypnotized by her straight, unblinking gaze. "It's...beautiful," he confessed.

Charla smiled. It wasn't her face but he could see her through it, and was surprised to find her serene, even lovely. She watched him with quiet, patient acceptance and stretched to the end of his arm, waiting for him to shake her free. He wanted to. Her round eyes and shy smile reminded him of Mal and he ached to cast her into the hell she deserved, but he hesitated and wasn't sure why.

Charla scowled. "You coward."

Her hand shot out, clawing into his chest, and she pulled herself up so she could wield the knife suddenly clutched in the other. The blade sliced through his palm, severing two of his fingers and ruining his grip on the fence. He might have been able to keep his balance still, but then she pulled, using all her weight to tear him down the slope.

Cobb felt the earth drop out from under him. His stomach leapt into his throat and he panicked, forgetting the gun in his grip as he struggled to throw her off. They skidded down the heated lot, swearing and struggling. I can't do it again, Cobb thought as he thrashed. Not another fifty years!

A hand latched onto the back of his collar and jerked him to a halt. Charla tried to hang on but he kicked her feet out from under her. Her high heeled sandals slid on the pavement and she slammed onto her shoulder. She screamed as she fell; Cobb watched, his breath held until she disappeared, grasping and flailing, over the edge of the world.

Cobb released a deep sigh, but when he saw who it was that had halted his descent, he went still all over again. It was Robert holding him by the collar, still impossibly inert despite the chaos falling all around him. He stared at Cobb with curious recognition. "Mr. Charles," he said. "You shouldn't still be here, either."

Cobb started to reply, but then Robert reached down, wrenching the knife out of his bleeding hand. The last thing he saw before he woke up was the blade rushing toward his eye.

***

"Get off!" Eames hollered, swinging his elbow back. He cast off the scrambling wraiths one by one, tearing their masks off and shredding cloaks with his bare hands. "Get off me--to hell with you!" He dug his toes into the ground, hunting out any crack that could be used for leverage, and braced himself against the continuing onslaught. He felt as if they had been crashing over him for hours, but their numbers were endless and there was no reprieve in sight. He couldn't even make out Robert anymore, didn't know if Cobb and the others had found escape. All he knew was that he was being driven, inch by inch, to the brink.

The dream was already bellowing around him, but when a new roar layered over it Eames heard it right away. He lifted his head, and blanched at the sight of white spray shooting out from far above him, coating the lifted edge of the park. The mist was only a prelude; with a sound like thunder a wall of water soared over the bow, dark and foaming and all-engulfing. It crashed into what remained of the ravaged landscape, like a cleansing bulldozer sweeping away the rides and the blinking lights and their ghastly inhabitants.

Eames forced his knees to bear him. He clawed his way up the slope, and when he'd worked up enough momentum he stood, sprinting past the panicked wraiths. The entire skyline was rushing at him but he ran, flinging projections out of his path, his heart hard behind his ribs. Desperation pounded at his heels and poured sweat into his eyes. Please, he begged, his hand outstretched, hopeless but unrelenting. Please!

The wraiths parted, revealing Robert's turned back, his shoulders squared against the inevitable. Eames forced what strength he had left into his legs and leapt. His arm twisted around Robert's chest, and his fingers clenched in the fabric of his uniform just as the water hit them.

***

Eames washed up on a desolate shore. He shivered within layers of soaked clothing as frigid waves kneaded him into the gray sand, and a hard wind snapped against his bare hands and face. There was no sun to grant him relief, only tumbling clouds and white caps and empty earth stretching on and on into inconceivable distances.

There was a solemn void where the world had once been. Like any dream Eames's subconscious swelled to fill it, but there was only blank canvas, free of border and form. The possibilities were endless. Eames felt his stomach drop as if gravity were reversing, and then his imagination went to work, spilling out over the unclaimed abyss with a ferocity he thought he'd lost to childhood years.

Clouds parted to make way for warming sun, turning the forsaken beach from gray to gold. The wind softened and the waves calmed--simple, instinctual alterations that made his rest bearable. But then the land began to buckle and rise, drawing Eames further from himself. He felt as if he was being drawn in by the vacuum of space, and he couldn't help but claw mountains out of the rocks. There were entire worlds waiting to be born, histories to be reinvented, memories recreated with the clarity and bias they deserved. Infinity was his to command.

"Stop," Eames whispered, cowering in the sand. He kept his eyes squeezed shut but it didn't sway his mind from its work: out of the earth sprang jagged bluffs capped with rich soil and long grass. Rolling hillsides rippled outward, sloping and cantering into the untamed English countryside he had often envisioned as a boy growing up in crowded suburbs. "Stop," he repeated, as rivers carved through his landscape, bubbled into lakes, raced upward against gravity and crashed into waterfall pools. Flowers bloomed in every color and gnarled trees formed ranks like weary sentinels. Headstones, unintelligible and moss-laden, gathered within the borders of a crumbling stone wall.

"Stop." Eames dug his fingers in, but all matter gave way beneath him, and he couldn't staunch the outpour. He had never felt such freedom, and he wanted to create more, to become godly in a purgatory of his own making. He could build the fantasy castles from his youth, the desert warzones, his hiding spot behind the rickety cupboard, the surfaces of undiscovered moons, the musty back room where he first fell in love, the black safe with all his faces--he could craft anything, be anything, could try on every mask and live each to the end of eternity, and maybe then finally know who he was meant to be.

"Stop!" Eames gasped, feeling his body warp beneath the growing pressure. "Stop, please stop, stop, stop..."

Warm lips met his. He flinched away at first, fearing what little remained of his concentration would shatter, but they were insistent and seeking. With a sound of pain Eames leaned into the eager kiss. Fingernails skated over his whiskers and drew him in, until he was nestled against a familiar body, and slowly the fog lifted from his desperate mind.

Robert. Eames drew in a sharp breath through his nose and kissed Robert fervently, letting chilled fingers and a tender mouth remind him of a dream shared not so long before. They were still the only men in the world, isolated, and as long as Robert was safe he needed nothing more.

His imagination stilled. The world flexed and shuddered and paused in its jubilant growth, allowing Eames to collapse against the shore with a choking sigh. He kissed Robert again and was relieved when he could tell that his face was still his, just by the way it felt against Robert's own. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Robert stared back at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Eames smiled weakly and kissed him again, just to be sure. "For now." He could still feel the pull at the back of his mind, and somewhere in the distance he might have still been paving streets with charcoal sketches, but the terror of having his mind flung to the far reaches had passed.

Robert turned his gaze upward. "Where are we?" he asked.

"This is...the deepest recess of your mind," Eames replied quietly. Even the explanation frightened him. "Of our minds. The dream underneath the dream."

"Limbo."

"...Yes."

Robert leaned back and shoved his arms beneath him; it took him some effort to sit up, as if his heart wasn't in it. Eames pushed himself up next to him, and they leaned shoulder to shoulder as the waves danced over their outstretched ankles.

"This feels familiar," Robert said, licking salt water from his lips.

"Oh." Eames grimaced. "Yes, it does." He watched the ocean undulating in the distance, remembering that rainy morning at the bay. It had been a much different feeling then. "Are you all right?"

Robert blinked slowly. "I don't know."

Eames's fingers curled against the sand, and he watched Robert's profile carefully. "How much do you remember?" he asked.

Robert's eyelids drooped, and he continued to stare straight ahead for nearly a full minute. His apathy was chilling. He shook his head. "Can you wake up from Limbo?"

"Yes," Eames said quickly. "It's been done before."

"What's going to happen to me when I wake up?"

Eames started to answer, but he couldn't get the words out. Five months ago he had slicked the water from his face and known, with certainty, what would happen once the clocked ticked down. He might never be certain of anything again. "I don't know," he admitted.

Robert sagged into his shoulder. "Then maybe I should just stay here," he said.

Eames closed his eyes. All at once he understood the cold and dreary resignation nestling into his side, and he ached so deeply that he couldn't breathe. "You can," he said, killing himself on the words. "If that's what you want." He swallowed, and a shudder boiled out of his stomach with a taste of bile. The world was still clawing at his edges and it was only a matter of time before he was someone else.

"But I can't." Eames took in a sharp breath and nudged the almost-corpse from his arm. "I can't, Robert. I'm waking up." He jerked to his feet.

Robert stared up at him, and at last a flicker of emotion shook the indifference out of his face. "What do you mean?" he asked warily.

"This isn't real--it's all just a dream." He reached down, praying one last time that he hadn't failed completely. "Please, Robert," he said. "Wake up with me."

Robert stared at his hand for a long moment, confused and afraid, but at long last he slipped his cold fingers into Eames's. With a deep breath he pulled his knees in, and Eames helped him upright. He swayed at first, but Eames was steady, and they stood close together on the sand. "Okay," he said quietly.

Eames didn't waste time on relief. The earth quivered and then stone rose beneath their feet, pushing them up off the beach. Robert clutched Eames's hand with both of his as they were lifted by the earthly pillar, higher and higher, rushing into the sky. Like a living monolith they pierced the shoreline panorama, until cold wind was again howling at their ears and gravity beckoned. When they were dozens of meters high Eames turned his attention on the ground far below, shaping the sloping beach into jagged rocks in all directions.

He was preparing himself for the fall when he felt Robert turn, and he glanced back. Robert was staring into the distance, where Eames's imagination had already filled his empty brain with lush and blooming landscape: forests and waterfalls and villages all grew and matured where there had only minutes ago been barrenness. His eyes widened with awe. "Did you make all that?" he asked. Even as they watched, bricks piled on bricks in the distance to create fortress walls already rough with decades of wear. "In the short time we've been here?"

"Yes," Eames murmured, and as much as it warmed him to see Robert view the product of his raw talent with so much appreciation, anxiety sobered him. When he tried to stop the evolution, he couldn't. "That's why I can't stay."

Robert pointed. "Look."

Eames followed his indication to the rolling hills and there spotted, already far off in the distance, a woman on horseback. Her blue dress and long brown hair fluttered out behind her as she and her chestnut mare raced over windswept green. She was unhindered and already closing in on the ever-changing horizon.

"Should we stop her?" Robert asked.

Eames shook his head. She was lost, completely free; he envied her, and it frightened him. "We can't."

They turned, facing down the jagged coast and the waves churning across it. "We're waking up," Eames told Robert, squeezing his hand tightly. He stepped to the edge and tugged Robert with him. "Just remember that, and we'll both be fine." I hope.

Robert nodded, and clung to him as he slipped his toes over the cliff. His breath quickened and his eyes grew impossibly wide, but when Eames lifted one foot off the ground, so did he. They leaned forward and the wind pulled them in welcome. "We're waking up," Robert echoed, so quietly that Eames could only tell by reading his lips. He took a deep breath, and then they jumped.

Chapter Text

Cobb awoke in the study. He remained still for a long moment, only his eyes flicking back and forth over the room: the books were on the shelves, the desk was fully formed, and no clouds showed through the windows. The door was open and several broad-shouldered men were watching with concern as quiet gasps echoed through the room, announcing everyone's rise from the dream. Everything was sharp and stinging, the way reality was meant to be, and Cobb at last let out a sigh of relief. I'm awake.

Someone took his wrist and removed his IV. "Cobb? Are you with me?"

"Yusuf." Cobb sucked the pinprick of blood from his arm and then looked about the room again. "Did everyone make it?"

His face was grim. "Not quite."

Cobb pushed to his feet. The first sight was a familiar one: Ariadne, freeing Arthur from the two PASIVs. "It's all right," she told him, stroking his face very much like she had in the dream. "It's over--you're awake. Can you hear me?"

Arthur shuddered, and all at once his face and body convulsed in agony. His eyes screwed shut and his hands flew to her ears as he curled over his knees, gagging and choking. "Shh," Ariadne whispered, stroking his shoulders. "Shh, it's..." She closed her eyes, and when he leaned into her she welcomed him, cradling his head against her stomach. "It's all right."

"Too loud," Arthur groaned, trying to sink further into her. "Too bright..."

Yusuf maneuvered into the corner and began pawing through his satchel. When Cobb noticed him pulling free a bottle of pills he turned to the bodyguards. "Mr. Erhard, could you bring us some water?"

Erhard nodded and hurried to do so. In the meantime Cobb stepped closer to Arthur and, awkwardly, set a hand on his shoulder to help steady him. "Did it work?" he asked Ariadne quietly. "Do you think he..."

"I think he's okay," she replied. When he looked closely he could see her lip tremble. "He made it back together before we woke up."

Erhard returned with bottled waters, and Cobb swiftly uncapped one. "Come on, Arthur," he said, urging him back. Yusuf handed over a pair of pills and he didn't bother to ask what they were.

Arthur had some trouble swallowing them down even with the water, and afterward immediately pulled Ariadne back to him. "It's too much," he said, his hands shaking against her waist. "I can't see--"

"Shh." Ariadne removed her scarf and folded it into a blindfold. Once she'd tied it gently behind his head she wrapped him up again. "I know..."

Cobb turned away; he wanted to say I told you so but it was hard to watch his long-time friend in pain. Instead he looked to Charla, still connected to the PASIV, her chin tipped onto her chest. He looked to Browning, also unmoved from his chair, his hand over his mouth--he was pale and staring unblinkingly at the center of the room, where Robert and Eames were still seated close together, asleep.

Cobb swallowed, and stared just as intensely at the unmoving pair. Yusuf and the bodyguards were watching as well, and then even Ariadne turned enough to see. They all waited, silent and tense, as the seconds ticked by without sign of either man waking.

"Come on," Cobb said under his breath. He could taste his heart in his throat. "Come on, come on..."

Eames took in a huge breath, and was echoed by Robert a moment later. It spurred Cobb swiftly to life; he darted forward and removed Robert's IVs as quickly as he could without hurting him, then put both hands on his shoulders anticipating the same reaction as Arthur. As expected Robert jerked, and coughed, and had to clamp both hands over his mouth to keep from retching. Cobb winced as he steadied him: he was pale, and shivering, and tears were already collecting in the corners of his eyes as he grimaced against the pain.

Eames dragged himself upright. He didn't look entirely stable either but he urged Cobb back and draped his palm over the nape of Robert's neck. "Easy, easy," he soothed.

Robert scraped his sleeve over his mouth, and in time was able to open his eyes to the room. As soon as he saw where they were a look of horror fell over him. "No," he moaned, his hands shaking as he pawed at Eames's arms. "No, no, not again."

"Robert?" Eames touched his face. "It's all right, you're--"

"Wake me up," Robert begged. "I can't do this anymore--please kill me." His fingers curled into hooks and he jerked at Eames's shirt in desperation. "Kill me!"

"Calm down," Eames said, grimacing. "Just take a breath..." He shot Cobb a swift look over his shoulder. "You'd better get out of here."

Cobb was only too eager to comply. His stomach twisted as he turned his back on the near-hysterical Robert and rushed to pack the two PASIVs. I did this, he thought as he deactivated the devices and let the tubing snap inside. He tried not to look at Charla as he removed the IV from her wrist: she didn't stir. What I did led to all of this. For all that he had prepared himself before the inception he had never expected to be face to face with the raw outcome of a mind corrupted again, and watching Robert quake beneath Eames's hands sent nausea spinning all through him.

"Wait," said one of the bodyguards still crowding the doorway. "You can't just waltz out of here."

"Watch us," Cobb replied. He closed both cases and pushed them at Yusuf. "Take those."

"Wait--what about Dr. Banks?" Yusuf cast a quick glance in her direction, and when he looked back, his eyes were hard. "What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything." Cobb straightened and touched Ariadne's shoulder. "Let me take him."

As she struggled to get Arthur's arms off her, the guards resumed their protests. "I'm calling the cops," said Yeates. "I don't know what the hell is going on, but--"

"No," Browning interrupted. The men silenced and looked to him in surprise. "No," he said again, "No one is calling any cops." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "Let them go."

Erhard stepped forward. "All due respect, Mr. Browning, but isn't that Mr. Fischer's decision?"

Everyone looked to Robert again, slumped against Eames with his head in his hands. He was shaking and moaning softly, and at first it seemed that he was lost to the world around him, but then he uttered, "Get them out."

Erhard shifted his weight anxiously. "Mr. Fischer, are you sure? These people--"

"Get them out," he repeated. His fingernails dug rivets into his forehead. "Take them wherever they want to go, just get them the hell out."

"If he changes his mind later, I know where to find them," Eames added, stroking Robert's back. "For now just do what he says. Please."

Erhard didn't look convinced, but he turned to his peers. "Marcus, Hunnigan, show them out," he instructed. "You heard Mr. Fischer: wherever they want to go."

Yusuf moved next to Cobb again as he pulled Arthur's arm over his shoulders. "We can't just leave Charla like this," he insisted. "I don't know what you have against her, but--"

"Shut up," Cobb snapped. "It's too late for her now and it's what she deserves." He wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist and hoisted him to his feet; Arthur was only just able to bear some of his own weight. "Now let's get out of here before Fischer comes to his senses."

Yusuf stared after him, frustrated and incredulous, but as Cobb headed for the door he had little choice but to snatch up both PASIVs and follow. Ariadne scooped up their shed suit coats, but before following as well she paused in front of Robert. Cobb glanced back, wanting to warn her against saying too much, but the words shriveled in his throat.

"I'm sorry," Ariadne said, sincerity wearing her voice raw. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Fischer."

Robert parted his fingers just enough that he was able to glare at her through them. "Get out."

Ariadne flinched and chased after Cobb. As the bodyguards parted for them Cobb couldn't help but glance to Charla one more time. Her head was still bowed in sleep but he could easily make out the smile curling her lips.

Cobb moved swiftly through the condo, and it wasn't until he was pressing the button for the elevator that he realized Nash had fallen into step beside them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"I'm getting the fuck out of here, that's what I'm doing," Nash said, fidgeting. He glanced between them. "Um...what exactly happened down there, anyway?"

"What happened was you sold us out," Ariadne said with sudden vehemence. "You knew that Dr. Banks was going to turn on us, didn't you?"

Nash shook his head. "Look, all she told me was to stick to the job no matter what, and that's what I did, all right?"

"Then why didn't you answer when I tried to contact you? You knew that--"

"Ariadne," Arthur said, grimacing and pressing his hand against his ear. "Not now."

The elevator opened, and Marcus pushed past them all to go in first. As they piled in Cobb took the corner so Arthur had plenty of wall to lean against, and then they were heading to the lobby.

"I don't believe you," Yusuf started up again. "Of all people, you claim to know what Limbo is like, and you still--"

Cobb tensed defensively. "Don't you get it? Banks used you. All she wanted was to destroy Fischer--she told me herself. And you all went along with it."

Ariadne shook her head. "We didn't know," she said. Her eyes were red and he could feel her composure cracking. "She said it was what Browning wanted--that when we were finished she'd help him--"

"And you believed that?"

"Why wouldn't we believe it?" said Nash. "She's Dr. Banks, for crying out loud." He rubbed his scarred cheek. "Like it makes a difference anyway. You saw his projections--he's already fucked."

Ariadne bristled. "Of course it makes a difference! I didn't sign up just to torture him!"

Arthur shrank against Cobb's side. "I'm going to be sick," he groaned.

"All I know is that this is the second time one of your jobs has gone wrong," Yusuf continued, shaking his finger at Arthur. "You lied to us before--how do I know you're not lying now? Well I've learned my lesson--no more field for me. No more you for that matter." He pointed at Cobb as well. "You're mad, the both of you, and if Charla really is trapped down there it's on your heads."

"Fine with me," Cobb grumbled. Marcus and Hunnigan exchanged baffled looks but wisely remained silent.

They let out in the lobby, and as soon as they were outside Yusuf passed off one of the PASIVs to Ariadne. "Good luck with them," he said.

Ariadne stared back. "You're not coming with us?"

"I'm taking a cab to the airport so I can have the first flight out of here," he replied. "Before Fischer comes to his senses--like Cobb said."

Nash glanced between them and then took a step toward Yusuf. "Me too."

"I'll call them a cab," Hunnigan offered. "If you get the rest." Marcus nodded.

"My car is at the dog park down the road," Cobb said. "If you can just take us there, we'll be gone for good." Though his temper was still close to his surface he nodded at Yusuf, hoping to convey more than he was capable of saying. "Take care."

Yusuf eyed him warily, but at long last returned the gesture. "And you."

They split up, Yusuf and Nash with one guard, Cobb, Arthur, and Ariadne with the other. As they pulled away Cobb closed his eyes, trying to let an image of his children's faces block out all others.

***

Robert kept his eyes tightly closed; whenever he tried to open them the world spun around him in burning, jagged edges. Everything was too bright and too loud and it stuck to his pores like tiny insects feeding on his skin. His head ached so badly he could imagine blood pouring out from some terrible wound, until his entire body throbbed and he couldn't help but vomit bile across the floor of the loathsome study.

His only comfort was Eames: Eames's strong hands rubbing his back, Eames's low voice close to his ear. It wasn't enough to calm the thousand wheeling memories that were trying to assail him at once, but it gave gravity to a world that otherwise had none. When he finally managed to breathe instead of choke something cold and plastic was nudged into his hand. "Drink," Eames said, and he did. The water sloshing into his empty stomach almost made him vomit again but his parched tongue was grateful, and when he pushed the bottle away he was able to speak again.

"Is everyone gone?" he asked weakly.

"Mostly." Eames spilled some of the remaining water into his hand and used it to smooth Robert's hair back--the cool touch was soothing. "Do you want to be alone?"

No. Robert's hand seized around Eames's wrist. "Where's Peter?"

Fabric shifted nearby. "I'm here," said Browning.

Robert flinched. He wasn't sure what to make of his godfather's hoarse voice, and with a slow shudder he forced his eyes open. Browning was watching him from a nearby chair; he looked pale and grim, but not nearly as pale or grim as Robert thought he ought to. "Erhard," he said, "please give us some privacy."

"Yes, Mr. Fischer."

Erhard ushered his remaining peers out of the study and shut the door. As soon as Robert heard it click his eyes narrowed on Browning and he asked, "Are you my father?"

Browning's shoulders drooped, and he looked away. "I don't know."

Robert again tasted bile in his throat, and he grabbed at Eames's arm, using it as a crutch so he could stand. "Don't lie to me," he snapped. "Don't you dare lie to me after all that!"

"I don't know," Browning said again, facing him. He scraped his hand over his mouth. "We never tried to find out--no one wanted to know."

Robert wavered on his feet, and he knew if he looked at Browning any longer he would be sick again. His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe, and in a panic he shook away from Eames and stormed out of the study.

This can't be real. Robert clutched the back of the sofa, ignoring the startled and concerned looks of the bodyguards. It's just a sick joke, all of it. I don't want to be here. He blinked about the condo that was so familiar and so unwelcoming, letting it smear against his weary eyes. I'll make myself safe, he thought. Like before. He concentrated, as hard as he could, but nothing changed. Only sleek lines and pretentious artwork glared back at him: all the things he owned but had never cared to look at, like a pristine museum raised in honor of the wasted mockery that was Robert Fischer.

None of this is real. Robert stumbled away from the sofa, and when he caught a glimpse of blue sky he hastened toward it. It can't be--I have to be able to change it, just like Eames showed me. I can change it--

His outstretched hands rammed into polished glass, and he sagged against the broad picture window, staring past the balcony to the bright and ordinary Los Angeles skyline. Not a cloud dotted the sky and every building was tall, straight, and rectangular, as they were meant to be. He had forgotten that it looked that way, free of dreary ghosts and spinning windmills. He tried to tear them all down--his fingertips pawed at the glass as if they could do the work themselves--but life outside continued, oblivious to him. He reached for the balcony door.

Eames yanked his arm away from the handle, and he started, turning toward him with wide eyes. The truth crushed from all angles. "I'm awake," Robert said, "aren't I."

Eames smiled grimly. "Yes."

He tugged, and Robert leaned into him, hesitantly at first. His brain was still heavy with images from the dream, surging forward and overlapping each other like ocean waves. Everything was tumbling and crashing and draining inside his skull, and when Eames's firm arms wrapped him up, it overpowered him. He all but collapsed against Eames's chest beneath the weight of curved skyscrapers imploding into their foundations, of a thousand screaming ghosts plummeting to their deaths, of his father's gnarled hands and his godfather's fleeting smile and the small of his mother's back and Eames dying in the stairwell and--

A sob wracked him. He shrank into the warm embrace as a lifetime of bitterness flooded out of him through hot, desperate tears. Everything ached; everything was breaking way. And Eames did the best he could--he held him, his breath shallow against Robert's ear, accepting the anguish. Robert couldn't remember if anyone had ever held him like that. He clenched his fists against Eames's back and bore teeth against his collar as he wept, exhausted and ashamed and terrified, until all his life had flashed before his eyes and he had nothing left to give.

***

Ariadne didn't speak a word on the drive to Cobb's apartment. She sat in the passenger seat, their suit coats clenched against her lap, her eyes straight ahead. She dreaded that at any moment Cobb would turn to her and say again how wrong she had been, how naïve and cruel, and she wasn't sure she could handle that much truth--not with Arthur huddled in the back seat, quietly wheezing. By the time they arrived and Cobb, too, had said nothing, she was so tense she almost invited it.

Cobb shut off the car and handed her the keys, pointing out which ones were for the building and apartment. She left the jackets behind as they piled out and opened the rear door. "Arthur, we're here," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "Are you..."

Ariadne trailed off when she realized how still Arthur was beneath her hand. "Arthur?" She rocked him to no response. When Cobb reached forward to press two fingers to his throat she felt faint, but then he sighed and began to pull Arthur out of the car.

"Let's get him upstairs," he said.

Ariadne let them into Cobb's apartment on the second floor. She feared a patter of children's feet and children's voices, but the place was empty, and Cobb carried Arthur immediately into the master bedroom. Together they stretched him out on the bed, and Ariadne removed his shoes and tie while Cobb moved about the room, pulling the drapes closed.

"Arthur?" Once the room was as dark as it could be Ariadne slipped her scarf off his eyes, and sat down on the edge of the mattress next to him. "Can you hear me?" She cupped his face in both hands, stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, but he only continued to breathe shallowly, in and out.

Is he asleep? Unconscious? Ariadne's pulse rose into her ears as she took his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. "Arthur?" Did he fall back under? The thought made her ill and she shook him again, harder. What if he didn't really make it out? What if half of him is still down there trapped, and he's not really here, he's down in Limbo just like Dr. Banks and he's not waking up? Panic sharpened at the back of her throat and she shoved him against the mattress. "Arthur!"

"Ow, stop." Arthur squirmed and pushed her hands off him. "Stop, I'm awake." He draped his arm over his eyes and let out a long sigh. "God, my head hurts."

Ariadne stared; her fists were tight and she wished she could punch him. Cobb must have seen, because he squeezed her shoulder. "We should let him rest," he said quietly.

"I want to stay with him," Ariadne replied. When his raised eyebrows asked, are you sure? she nodded. "I think I could use some rest, too."

"I'll check on you in a while," Cobb said. As he headed out he added, "Don't think you're not going to get an earful from me later, Arthur."

Arthur grimaced, and when the door shut he let out his breath in a long sigh. "Shit."

Ariadne watched him for a long moment, and at last slipped out of her shoes and stretched out next to him on the bed. "Are you really all right?" she asked. "There isn't part of you still under...?"

"No, I'm..." Arthur lifted his arm, allowing her to settle closer. "I'm all right. This is just like before, only...worse." He peeked at her with one eye but even the dull light managing to sneak through the curtains was too much, and he quickly closed it again. "Are you?"

"Yeah." Ariadne hesitated and then pressed her hand over his chest. She wanted to tell him that her own head was throbbing and she was close to being sick, but it was nothing compared to what he was going through. She gulped. "Do you think Fischer...?"

Arthur didn't reply for several long moments. "I don't know." His fingers threaded through her hair, plucking out the little pins that kept her bun in place. "But it's not your fault, Ariadne. None of it."

She didn't believe him. Squeezing her eyes shut she nestled into his side, head pillowed against his shoulder. She couldn't stop thinking about Robert's cold eyes glaring at her through his bloodless fingers, nor the rasp of his voice as he ordered them out. A tremor passed through her and her breath caught in her throat.

Arthur's fingertips stroked the back of her neck. "Please don't cry," he said quietly, so she clenched her jaws tight and did her best to hide it from him.

***

Robert dreamed of black. It was endless and silent and everything he could have hoped for. At long last he felt calm, adrift, with no past and no future cluttering his weary brain. Everything had fallen away and there was only formless dark awaiting him. He had control again and he could make his world into whatever he wished.

Robert dreamed of the beach. Water splashed his ankles as he strode in bare feet down the shore, the breeze salty against his lips. Every dozen steps or so he crouched down to paw through the coarse sand, plucking out seashells and wave-tumbled rocks, and sometimes little fish and broken glass. He knew with the clairvoyance of a child that each one was of the greatest importance, and he filled his pockets with all manner of raw materials.

When he was finished, he sat down in the sand and spread his trinkets lovingly around him. He was rather proud of himself and the variety he had managed to collect, and he spent hours arranging and then rearranging them into groups. At long last he was satisfied with his work, and he leaned back on his hands, thinking, That will do.

Robert stretched out on his back, feeling the sand ripple and melt until it became warm satin. The rays of sunlight stretching out of the clouds smoothed together, coating him, and the salt dissolved out of the air. He opened his eyes to a plain white ceiling.

"Good, I'm glad. Not yet, no."

Robert tried to move, but the weight of a blanket over his fully-clothed body was too much to bother with. Instead he squinted blearily at the room around him, tracing out the shapes of his bedside clock, and his dresser, and his closet door. Each was familiar, and he squirmed, trying to see more.

"If he doesn't wake up soon, I'm going back under. ...Well of course I don't want to, but I can't just leave him like this, can I?"

Robert followed the voice, blinking until his sight came into focus on Eames, standing in the open balcony doorway. He had a phone to his ear.

"I can't ask you to do that," Eames said. "You already--" He stopped, listening, and then his shoulders sagged. He rubbed his eyes. "All right... Thank you."

Robert sank into the mattress at his back. He was still heavy with sleep and very content to let Eames finish whatever conversation he was wrapped up in.

"I'll give him another hour, then call back." Eames glanced at Robert over his shoulder. "If I still can't get him to--"

Their eyes met, and Eames broke off, staring. After a long moment of silence he said into the phone, "Hold on a second," and moved to Robert's bedside. His gaze was intense as he studied Robert's face. "Robert? Are you awake?"

Robert blinked back at him. "You tell me."

Eames heaved a sigh. "He's awake," he said into the phone. "I'll call you back." He hung up, and once the phone was secure in his pocket he sat down on the edge of the bed. His smile was unlike anything Robert had seen before, pained and hopeful and lovely against the sterile room. "Ahh, there's my sleeping beauty."

Robert rolled his eyes. He tried again to move, and was at last able to slip his arms out from under the covers. His limbs were sluggish but they obeyed him; he rubbed his face with both hands and felt a little clearer. "How long was I out?"

"Almost five hours," Eames said. He shifted, his jaw working as if he were fighting back too many questions at once. "You had me worried--I thought I was going to have to go back in after you."

"I heard." Robert set his hands beneath him, and when Eames moved to help him he warned him off with a shake of his head. With a quiet groan he pushed himself up, settling his back into the headboard. His sight had recovered in full, and in looking about he knew once and for all that he really was sitting in his condo's bedroom. The wind coming in off the balcony smelled of the city, so much thicker and more pungent than his charming beach.

"I'm awake," he murmured. He looked back to Eames, studying the wrinkles etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth. "You look like hell."

Eames let out a quiet bark of laughter, and with the release his expression crumpled. He shifted closer and drew Robert into his arms. His hands were tense, and when he pressed his face into the slope of Robert's neck his breath was halting. Robert remained still at first, confused, but when he had the strength he returned the embrace. It was a mysterious sensation, feeling Eames's broad shoulders tremble within the circle of his arms.

"I needed you to wake up," Eames said.

Robert smiled, but then too much emotion twisted his face, too, and swelled down into his chest. His fingers tightened against the back of Eames's neck. They remained that way for long minutes, breathing hard in the quiet room, until Eames leaned back. His eyes were red but he was smiling again as he touched Robert's cheeks. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Are you still in pain?"

Robert sagged into the headboard again. "I don't know. I mean, it doesn't hurt anymore." He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly when Eames ran his fingers through his short hair. "It just feels strange, like I've been asleep for months."

Eames's hands stopped, and he lowered them to the bed. "How much do you remember?" he asked quietly.

The prompting spread a series of visions across the screen of Robert's closed eyelids, and his brow furrowed as he shuffled through them, sorting them, remembering. He breathed slowly, in and out, as they gradually fit into structure. When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was Eames's chest, and he reached out, trailing his hand down the paths of bullets. He curled his fingers and could almost feel dried blood pulling at his skin; he felt Arthur's hand clenched too tightly around his, and Nash's hair pulling free in his grip, and the polish of his father's old desk. It was all close to his surface, but when he concentrated, everything slid into place and made sense in one long stream of events, like a picture book opening before him.

"I remember everything," he said. He let his hand fall and looked to Eames; when their eyes met he realized at last how light he felt. He had clarity he hadn't known he'd been missing, as if weights had peeled off his brain and bones. Two deep breaths later, he was ready. "Where's Peter?"

Robert kept his arm around Eames's as they left the room together. His feet were clumsy at first, but every step was stronger than the last. His and Browning's bodyguards were gathered in the great room, and they hurried to their feet as Robert entered.

"Mr. Fischer!" Erhard moved to greet them. "We didn't know you were awake. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm all right." Robert glanced about, and shuddered when his eyes fell on the closed study door. "Where's Peter?"

Erhard pointed to the guest room. "He's with that woman, the doctor."

Robert frowned, but he started toward it anyway. Without knocking he opened the door, and was met immediately by the sight of Charla Banks stretched out on the guest bed. Her arms were draped over her stomach and her eyes were closed, her face arranged in an expression of peaceful slumber.

Browning was seated in a chair at her bedside. As soon as he saw Robert he straightened, but when he started to stand Robert motioned for him not to. "Robert," he said, his hands tight on the chair's arms. "God, it's good to see you awake."

Robert glanced again to Charla. "She hasn't woken up at all?"

Browning fidgeted. "No. I was going to call her colleagues at her institute, but I wanted to wait until..." He sighed. "Until you were awake. Are you all right?"

"I don't know," Robert replied honestly. He squeezed Eames's arm but then realized he already had all the courage he needed. "Are you my father?"

"Robert." Browning slumped back in the chair. "I told you--I don't know. It's the truth."

"So you did have an affair with Mrs. Fischer," Eames interrupted.

Browning glared at him, but when he looked to Robert his irritation faltered. "Yes," he said. "And with the timing...it's possible. But it wasn't that your mother..." He winced, and rubbed his jaw, and tried again. "Robert, your mother, she didn't, that is..."

"She wasn't a slut?" Robert supplied for him tersely. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

His shoulders fell. "Of course not." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped sweat off his brow, and Robert waited, patient but intense, for him to continue. "I was hired into Fischer Morrow just after your parents got married," he said. "They were already waffling between being happy and not. Maurice was always busy with the company, and she needed someone on her side, and I...." He shrugged helplessly. "These things happen."

These things happen, Robert thought, staring down at the ground. "I understand," he said. "It was a mistake."

"Wait." Browning started to stand up again. "Robert, I don't want you to think that--"

"Sit down," Robert snapped, and he did. He took only a moment to compose himself again. "Did Maurice know?"

Browning pursed his lips and shook his head. "I don't know--we never told him. When Charla told me that he'd hired an extractor I thought he would find out for sure, but he never brought it up to me. But...maybe. If nothing else, I think he suspected."

Robert took in a shaky breath, and Eames leaned closer, whispering, "You don't have to do this now."

"No, I'm all right," he said. He faced Browning seriously. "And Dr. Banks?" He remembered their brief conversation in Arthur's hotel, and the insults that suddenly made sense. "She was trying to kill me, thinking I was yours. Did you use her, too?"

"Robert." Browning rocked to the edge of his chair. "I asked for her help. I didn't know what she was really up to, and I'm sorry--God, I'm so sorry--but you have to remember what you've been like recently. I had to do something and she was the only one I could...I thought I could trust."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "Did you use her, too?" he repeated.

Browning sighed in exasperation, but at last admitted, "We were together at one point, yes. But how was I supposed to know she was obsessed? That was years ago."

"These things happen," Eames said dryly.

Browning's attention snapped on him, and he jabbed at him with an accusing finger. "Don't you dare--I haven't forgotten about you. I know you did something to him on that plane. This wouldn't have happened if not for--"

"Peter," Robert said. "This isn't about him. I just want the truth from you."

"And I'm telling you the truth," he insisted. "Please, just..." He grimaced, and shook his head. "Robert, listen. If we do a test--if it's put on paper--someone is going to find out, and then you and I will both be ruined." He sighed. "But I'll do it, if that's what you want. I know I owe you that much."

Robert stared down at him with half-lidded eyes. His stomach itched and he could already imagine himself tearing open a flimsy manila envelope, followed by screeching tabloids and buzzing lawyers. He was a coward but he wasn't ashamed. "What does your gut tell you?" he asked. "Honestly."

Browning wilted, and at last the regret in his face looked sincere. He smiled, just barely. "That you're exactly like your mother," he said.

And he meant it. Robert could tell, and he closed his eyes briefly, filling himself with the memories of her. He still had many questions but for just a moment, he was satisfied. He took in a deep breath. "I want you to call Shelby," he said. "Tell her to contact my realtor and have some paperwork drawn up to put this place on the market. I don't care at what price--I want this condo sold as soon as possible."

"What?" Browning--and Eames--watched him in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"As soon as possible," Robert repeated. "Fully furnished, except for a few things I'll itemize for her." He gave Eames's hand a squeeze. "By tomorrow I want to be looking at properties for sale--homes, preferably, somewhere secure, within a decent distance to the office. I'd like to be able to see water if I can."

Browning rubbed the back of his neck. "I know you've just been through lot, but there's no need to do all this now. You can take your time and--"

"I'm not stepping foot inside this place again," Robert said resolutely. "I'll stay in a hotel until I can close on a place, if I have to." The thought of ever dozing off only to awaken in the study was enough to give him goose bumps. "All right?"

"...I'll tell her."

He looked to Charla, having almost forgotten she was still there, smiling unconsciously into her oblivion. "Will she ever wake up?" he asked.

Browning shook his head. "Even if she does, there's not much the law can do to her, considering how few laws there are against mind crime. And the fact that I hired her in the first place." His lip quirked. "Unless you're going to have me arrested, too."

Robert and Eames both glared at him until his humor shriveled. "She's not going to wake up," Eames said. "Not unless she wants to. And she won't want to."

Robert had to look away. "Call her institute," he told Browning. "Have someone come and get her. If she wakes up...I'll decide what to do about her then." He frowned. "I'm leaving now. I'll keep my phone on but I don't want to hear from anyone unless it's absolutely vital, understand?"

Browning started to question, but thankfully, thought better of it. "All right," he replied. He sobered, as if only then coming to understand the gravity of his confessions. "But I think we need to talk again, soon." His gaze flickered to Eames and back. "In private."

Robert nodded vaguely. "I'll think about it." He tugged at Eames's arm, and together they left the study.

"I want to ask if you're all right," Eames said, "but you haven't been able to give me a straight answer so far."

The bodyguards glanced up, and Robert pulled Eames swiftly past them. "I'm...hungry," he said, and was surprised when he meant it.

"Hungry? Well, that's a good sign, I suppose." Eames smiled at him. "Then we'll find someplace cozy and out of the way, and finally get a proper meal in you."

"Mr. Fischer," Erhard said, and they paused, glancing back at him. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Can we come with you?"

Robert frowned, glancing between him and Marcus. I am paying them to be security, he thought. As much good as they did. But they looked sincere, and he couldn't deny that he would appreciate having another set of eyes looking out for him.

Eames leaned in to his ear. "You told me before that you're alone," he said quietly. "But that's not true."

Robert squirmed on his feet, and though he was anxious to have Eames alone, the words warmed him. "All right," he relented. He even managed a smile. "Erhard, Marcus, come with us. Let's find something to eat."

***

Arthur awoke to a tingle at the back of his mind. It was sharper than usual, though thankfully not as excruciating as when he had fallen asleep. He breathed slowly, letting the pins and needles gradually fade, until he felt confident enough to open his eyes. Dull orange light gleamed through a gap in the curtains, illuminating an unfamiliar bedroom, from which he took an inordinate degree of elation: if it were his mind filling the space, he would have chosen something from his memory.

I'm awake. Arthur sat up, and wavered when the blood rushed to his head. Even before the moment of dizziness had passed he dug into the pocket of his waistcoat, and tossed his red die onto the bedside table. It clacked loudly across the surface and came close to falling over the edge, but the settled on an unremarkable number four. He rolled it again, just to be sure, and finally tucked it away.

Wasn't Ariadne here? There was no sign of her, but the space next to him on the bed was still warm, and he pressed his fingers into it. If we didn't go back to the hotel, is this... He gulped, but there was no point in delaying the inevitable. With a deep breath he pulled himself to his feet and ventured outside.

Children's laughter pealed down the hall. Arthur recognized the voices immediately, and he followed them, past a second, colorful bedroom, and into the apartment's main living space. As he'd expected James and Philipa were spread out across the floor, coloring books and markers strewn in every direction. They both reached for the brown, but before they could come to an argument over it Ariadne intervened, suggesting instead that James's cat would be just as impressive in orange stripes. He agreed, and both children went back to work, content.

Arthur stared. Ariadne was still dressed in her suit from that morning, but her jacket was missing and her white blouse was rumpled and untucked. Her toes wiggled, stocking-free, against the carpet as she continued coloring her own hydrangea drawing with pointillistic dots, and her hair, mussed from sleeping in a half-formed bun, fell in uncombed waves against her sloping shoulders. When she smiled her eyes pinched and betrayed her exhaustion. It was oddly captivating.

James lifted his head, and when he spotted Arthur his face lit in a brilliant grin. "Sleepy-head's awake!" he laughed, vaulting to his feet.

Philipa jumped as well, and because he wasn't sure he could lift either of them he instead lowered to his knees, and accepted their enthusiastic hugs around his neck. "Oof! Careful, I'm still half asleep," he said, but when Ariadne looked to him in alarm, he winced and shook his head. "I mean...how are you?" He eased them back. "What are you up to? Drawing?"

"I colored you a cat!" James declared, and he rushed to hold up his book. "Is orange your favorite color?"

Philipa snatched up her papers as well. "I drew Ari! And you, while you were sleeping."

Arthur frowned at the intensely discomforted look his markered self was making in Philipa's drawing. "Did you peek at me? I don't really look like that, do I?"

"You do!" said James, dragging down the corners of his mouth with two fingers. "Wike wis!"

They laughed, and Arthur cast a quick glance to Ariadne. She was trying to smile, but every time she came close worry chased it off. I'm okay, he mouthed. She finally got it, but then her eyes darted upward, and she started. She motioned with her head.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and wasn't surprised to see Cobb standing over them, but he flinched anyway. "Dom..."

"Dinner's ready," Cobb said. He waved at his children. "Come on, wash up." As they scampered past him he looked to Arthur and Ariadne. "You, too."

"Yes, Dad," Ariadne teased. She hooked her arm under Arthur's and helped him up as Cobb headed back for the kitchen.

"How is he?" Arthur whispered as they followed James and Philipa. His stomach was suddenly roiling and the thought of dinner didn't help.

"Better than earlier," Ariadne replied in kind. "But you should probably tread lightly." She gave his hand a squeeze. "How are you?"

"I'm all right." When she continued to stare at him he added, "Really."

James's pick for Saturday night dinner at the Cobb house was make-your-own-tacos--a messy, exuberant affair with various dishes being passed back and forth, chopped vegetables spilling onto the tables, and sour cream stuck in Cobb's beard. Arthur did his best to keep up but he soon realized he was not as fully recovered as he'd assumed, and the excited chatter quickly resumed the throb between his temples. Far worse was Cobb's apparent ease. He asked Arthur how he was feeling, without mentioning any circumstances or applying any blame, then continued through the meal with perfect friendliness. Even knowing it was for the children's sakes it put Arthur on edge, and he dreaded what would come once dinner was complete. He ate only enough to satisfy Philipa's nosiness and smiled as best he could to the end.

Once Philipa and James were back in the family room, settling in for a movie, Cobb at last faced him seriously. "Tell me the truth," he said. "You're all right?"

The eyes on him made him doubt. "Yes. At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not hallucinating, so it seems both halves of me made it out all right."

"Good." Cobb rolled up his sleeves. "Then you can help me do the dishes." He started collecting the plates and bowls off the table.

Arthur sighed and looked to Ariadne, but she was already moving to assist him. "I will, too," she said, nudging Arthur with her elbow on the way. He made a face, but followed suit.

"I talked to Eames while you were asleep," Cobb said as he scraped bits of food into the trash.

"Oh?" Arthur rolled up his sleeves. "What did he say?" he asked, curious and wary at once.

"Fischer's awake." He started the water running, giving each plate a decent rinse before handing them to Ariadne for the dishwasher. "It sounds like he's still shaken, but all right. They were out having an early dinner."

Arthur frowned as he emptied glasses into the sink. "He was out?"

"Sounds like he's recovering faster than you," Ariadne teased, but she quickly sobered. "That's great news."

"Yeah..." Arthur filed silverware into the basket slots, though his focus was far elsewhere. "Did you ever figure out what the big secret was?"

Cobb didn't look at him as he collected pans from the stove. "You're both better off not knowing," he said, but Arthur clearly heard his true words hidden beneath the strain: Like hell I'm telling you now. "I'll wash if you rinse, and Ariadne can dry."

They stood shoulder to shoulder at Cobb's small apartment sink. As Arthur waited, listening to the quiet scrape of Cobb working steel wool into the pan, he grew ever more anxious. Cobb had promised him an earful and he was ready for it, but he wasn't prepared for the silent treatment. I know what you're going to say, he thought, staring fixedly at the little white suds. Just say it!

"Here," Cobb said, handing him the pan.

Arthur accepted and held it under the running water. Once the soap had all been cleansed he passed the pan to Ariadne, who was waiting with a towel to dry it off. When Cobb moved on to the bean pot without saying anything more, Arthur couldn't take it any longer.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I never meant for you to be involved." He cast a quick glance at Ariadne. "Either of you. And you know I wouldn't have agreed to it if I'd known what Banks was really after. So go ahead and say 'I told you so' already--I was wrong to trust her, I get it."

Cobb paused in his washing to stare. "And?" he prompted.

Arthur heaved a sigh and reached past him for the cutting board. "I know you're a dad, but you're not my dad. Do we have to do this like I'm five?"

Cobb tensed, and Arthur braced himself. He knew how to press Cobb's buttons, especially how to do so to his advantage; he was accustomed to his friend's temper and he had learned how to let it wash over him. But just as Cobb's ears were turning red he abruptly went slack, and returned to scrubbing the pot.

"You almost got yourself worse than killed today," he said. "I just want to be sure that you know that."

Arthur started to reply, but the words died in his throat. Everything tumbled together and all he could manage was, "I know."

He expected Cobb to continue, and when he didn't, it was worse. As they worked all he could think of were the dozens of accusations that Cobb should have been levying at him: about trusting Charla, and going after Robert again, and the hundred times he could and should have told him about Mal. Each was so clear and sharp in his ears he almost couldn't tell that they weren't being spoken directly at him. I know, I know, he thought over and over, almost rubbing the cutting board raw in his anxious attempts to clean it. When Ariadne touched his arm he finally handed it over and accepted the next pot from Cobb.

"I know," he said again. His brow was furrowed so deeply that it was making his head hurt again, and he tried to rub the tension out with the back of his hand. "But it's not like--"

The suds crept down his face and into the corner of his eye; he hissed, wincing against the sting. His instinct was to use his hands but they were still wet and soapy, and his wrist was no help.

"Are you all right?" Ariadne asked with alarm.

"Yeah, just...damn it." He shook his head. "Soap in my eye."

Cobb dampened a clean wash cloth and passed it to him. "Here."

Arthur pressed the cloth to his face, and at first it was soothing, but as the water seeped into his eyes and then down his cheeks it triggered a deeper pain brewing in his chest. The tension already drawing his face into a grimace tightened knots in his throat and stomach, hitched his shoulders and clenched his free hand against the lip of the sink. He was too afraid to breathe; he knew that if he let even one shaky breath past his grinding teeth the last of his composure would fail.

Cobb filled the last of the pans with soapy water and left it in the sink to soak. Ariadne dried the cutting board and slipped it into a cabinet. Neither of them spoke or stared, continuing on as if nothing was wrong while Arthur hid behind the wash cloth. At last Cobb dried his hands. "How long are you staying in the city?" he asked.

"Our flight out is at ten in the morning," said Ariadne. "All our stuff is still at the hotel."

"You should just spend the night here. I'll get the kids up early and we can stop by the hotel in the morning before taking you to the airport. See you off."

Arthur drew himself in, and just when he thought he was on the verge of collapse, he took in a sharp breath and the moment passed. "All right," he said, his voice strained but unbroken as he dropped the wash cloth into the sink. "Thank you."

"The sofa pulls out, if...you don’t mind sharing."

In better circumstances Arthur might have taken some amusement in Cobb's awkwardness. "It's fine," Ariadne said. "We'll figure it out, I'm sure."

"Then I'll let you finish up while I check on the kids."

Arthur was yanking a paper towel off the roll when Cobb's hand came down on his shoulder and squeezed. It was a brief but firm gesture, followed by a heavy clap, and then Cobb moved away. Everything that needed to be said passed in the short exchange, and Arthur pressed his eyes shut again, clinging to the countertop until he heard the children giggling with their father's arrival.

Ariadne leaned into him, caressing his elbow with gentle fingers. "You finished with that pot?" she asked.

Arthur finished drying his face and at last straightened. "Yeah, it's...clean." He gave it a final rinse and handed it off. The sting hadn't left him completely but he managed to smile for her. "Thank you."

She didn't look back. "What for?"

For not saying anything. He turned to lean his back against the counter, watching as she finished drying the pot and began to hunt through the cupboards for its proper home. For saving my life. His jaw worked, and he wished that he could just clasp her shoulder and communicate all the things that needed saying, just as easily as Cobb had done for him. "Everything."

Ariadne closed the cupboard and returned to his side. She stared into his face, and though he had hoped to see a gleam of perfect understanding, her eyes were marred with doubt. "What's going to happen," she asked quietly, "when we get back to Paris?"

Arthur's usual poker face failed him. "What do you mean?"

Ariadne shoved her sleeves further up her elbows. "I mean, what's going to happen to us when we get back to Paris?" Her lips quirked in a barely-formed smile. "Assuming there is an us."

He did his best not to squirm. "I'd like there to be," he said, and started to smile, but her expression killed it before it got anywhere. "That is, I thought we'd established that part...at least somewhat."

Ariadne fidgeted, and glanced toward the family room before stepping closer. Her eyes were serious and vulnerable, in a way he had never seen--had never expected to see, after the many acts of fearless heroism he had witnessed. It made his stomach tighten all over again and he wasn't sure he was ready to hear whatever was already on her tongue.

"I don't think I can do this again," she said.

"Again?" He grinned, trying to make light as if that would sway her. "I wasn’t aware we already--"

"You scare me," Ariadne blurted out, and when he leaned back in confusion, she hurried on. "At least, that's what my subconscious told me. And seeing that it was my subconscious, I figured it deserved a little reflection. And I think she was right." She shook her head. "I mean, I was right. All of this came about so quickly I never had the chance to really think it through like I should, but now that I have, I know it's true." She stared up at him through her lashes. "You scare me."

Arthur stared back at her, speechless. It wasn't the first time someone had told him so, but hearing it from Ariadne, who only hours before had shot him through the forehead with barely a moment's hesitation, melted lead in his gut. "Oh."

Ariadne lowered her eyes. "It's not just the obvious stuff, either," she continued. "The invading people's minds stuff, the possible assassinations and what have you. But that's a part of it, and..."

She trailed off, and grumbled as she swiped at her eyes. "Damn it. I didn't want to do this...like this."

"Are you asking me to go clean?" Arthur asked.

"No. Well, maybe." Ariadne took in a huge breath and abruptly leaned into his chest, her arms snaking around him. "I just know that when I thought you might not wake up, I almost puked."

Arthur sighed around a dry smile. "That's something, at least."

"But seriously." She hid her face against his lapel; though her voice was muffled, he had no trouble making out the words. "I know it's not fair of me to ask--I'm not--I'm just being honest. Don't ask me into the field with you again."

I didn't ask you the first time, he wanted to say, but then she tucked herself snugly under his chin, and he couldn't help but return the embrace. Her mussed hair was soft under his nose and he breathed her in, letting her smell, the warmth of her smaller body, ease him into his proper senses. "I won't," he said. His fingers twitched. "I can't make any promises as to the other part, but...after today, I don't think I'll be doing extractions for a while. There are plenty of other ways for me to make money."

"Legal ways?" she teased.

Arthur scoffed. "Of course not."

Ariadne chuckled and leaned back, her hands sliding to his chest. "It's a start. Baby steps."

Her smile eased him--he felt as if had been years since he'd seen it last. His arms were still around her and he tugged, drawing her up in hopes of a kiss. She granted it, and the taste of her lipstick almost covered up the little quiver hiding in the corners of her mouth. Frowning, he leaned back again. "What was the other stuff?" he asked quietly.

Ariadne's smile became a wince. "It's...personal," she said. "And really stupid, and kind of embarrassing." Her fingers moved in little circles against his chest as her cheeks reddened. "But if you can put up with me long enough...I'll tell you when I'm ready."

Arthur's brow resumed its furrowing as he tried to puzzle out what she meant, but there was no making sense of the depth of emotion in her wide brown eyes. "I could just extract it from you," he suggested.

She punched him jokingly in the stomach, and before he could recover from his over-exaggerated recoil, she drew him into a kiss. Her lips were more confident than the previous and they replaced the heaviness in his stomach with a very pleasant tingle; but before he could seek something deeper, she pulled away again. Her turned head alerted Arthur to the fact that they suddenly had an audience: Philipa was giggling at them from behind the kitchen table.

Ariadne blushed harder and stepped away from him. "Little scamp," she teased. "Were you spying on us?" She stomped forward and with a squeal Philipa dashed back into the family room.

Arthur smiled as he followed Ariadne out of the kitchen. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay at the hotel tonight?" he asked innocently. She shot him a look, but as they rejoined Cobb and his family for movie night, she took his hand in hers and squeezed.

***

Eames opened his eyes to a rolling field. Lush grass swayed in a fragrant wind, brushing his bare ankles and feet, and soft earth depressed beneath his wiggling toes. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the sight of thousands of blossoming flowers, and ancient graveyards, and charcoal drawings carved into the sides of rocky outcroppings. It was a vibrant dream, rich with life and history as if it had been growing for centuries. And it was familiar.

Eames started forward, and just when he was about to call out for Robert, he spotted a space in the grass that was matted down by a prone body. He headed toward it, his feet making a soft, swishing noise through the field.

"It's very rude to trespass in someone's dream," Robert said.

Eames smiled. "Sorry," he replied as he drew nearer. "But I could tell you were dreaming, and I needed to know what..."

He stopped a few steps short of his host when he realized for the first time that they weren't in a field: it was a grassy bluff terminating in a jagged cliff, perched hundreds of feet above a pristine and even more familiar beach. Beyond the golden sand lay an endless and undulating ocean, though it alone was not as unblemished as Eames remembered.

The shallows were cluttered with smoldering debris. Iron beams that had once been playfully colored clawed out of the waves as twisted specters, charred almost beyond recognition. Striped awnings fluttered like war-torn banners and carousel horses drowned beneath them. The wreckage spread for miles, and though the smoke was heavy and black, the wind coming off the hillsides easily swept it out into the infinite sea.

"...was going on in here," Eames finished, stunned. "Is that the carnival?"

Robert was stretched out on his back in the grass, his bare feet dangling just to the edge of the cliff. "You should have seen it earlier," he said, his eyes closed. "When it was really burning. Pillars of fire, right up to the clouds." He lifted his arms into the air, letting them twist and sway as he mimicked the sounds of explosions. His hands dropped to his stomach. "It was very cathartic."

Eames's eyebrows perked. "I'll bet." But as he stared down at the beach dread threatened to creep up his spine; there was a heaviness in the atmosphere not unlike miles of ocean already on his shoulders. We're sinking. He looked behind him and remembered suddenly where he had seen the flowers and graveyards before. "I made this," he murmured, and his chest grew tight with panic. "Robert, we're still--"

"It's all right," Robert said, and he sounded so calm that Eames couldn't help but believe him. "We're not in Limbo--you didn't make this." He stretched his shoulders against the grass. "I did."

Eames glanced around one more time and then sat down next to Robert, though he kept his feet pulled in from the edge. "You did?"

"You built it in my subconscious, remember? So I borrowed it." His lips quirked in a smile that was almost smug. "I've kept everything you've given me so far, haven't I?"

"You have." Eames smiled back, but as he watched the surf pound the remnants of Robert's painful childhood, he couldn't shake the weight from his back. "But we are sinking. This must be more than one layer deep--there's too much here. It's just so...dense." The sky was so clear that he could see horizon for seemingly hundreds of miles in all directions, and when he pressed his hand in the earth, he could have sworn there were a hundred miles more buried underneath. He shook his head. "Do you even know how impossible it is that you're capable of this?"

"I'd rather not think about it." Robert finally opened his eyes, and stared upwards with a clarity Eames had never seen in him before. "I'm just glad those things are gone."

Eames straightened when he realized that Robert was right: not a spot of black of any kind marred Robert's perfect scenery. "But you don't have any projections here now. What if..."

He trailed off as a sound of churning rock drew his attention. Leaning over the edge he saw a collection of small cottages pull out of the side of the cliff far below. Umbrellas and tanning chairs blossoming along the shore and with them came vacationing families: flesh and blood people with flowing hair and tanned skin. They raced into the waters and their laughter floated all the way to Eames and Robert's grassy vantage point.

His projections are back to normal. Eames breathed a sigh of relief so deep he flopped onto his back next to Robert. Finally he felt bold enough to let his ankles scrape the overhang, and Robert nudged their bare feet together with affection. "I don't understand," Eames said as they nestled close. "Did the extraction cancel out the inception somehow?"

Robert hummed, and when he spoke again, his voice had lowered. "The idea you planted in me was that my father loved me. And now...I don't even know who that is."

He reached between them, plucking up a small yellow daffodil. As he held it up between them the petals flexed against the wind and then began to twirl in a lazy pinwheel. "It's not gone completely," he said, letting the flower's soft blades brush against the tip of his thumb as they turned. "But now that I know the truth, there's no point in protecting the lie. It's over." He gave the daffodil a flick and watched it sail out of view. "I'll never be Maurice. And...that's all right. I think I'll be all right."

Eames watched him closely, and once Robert had settled again, he curled their hands together. "I'm glad," he said, sincerity making his voice rough. "I'm happy for you."

Robert squeezed his hand. He looked to be deciding on something, and Eames remained quiet, waiting patiently for him to work the words to his tongue. "I'm going to talk to Peter in the morning," he said at last. "In private. I need to hear everything from him--anything he can tell me."

"Are you going to ask him to do a DNA test?"

"No." Robert closed his eyes, and when lines creased his brow Eames rubbed his thumb gently against his knuckles, soothing him. "I don't want to know," he continued with that encouragement. "If we do the test and Peter is my father, he's right: we'll both lose everything. And if Maurice is..." He shivered. "Who's to say those ghosts won't come back? Maybe eventually I'll ask him, but for now..."

Robert took in a deep breath and faced Eames. "I'm going to dissolve Fischer Morrow," he said.

Eames's heart skipped, but his expression didn't change. "Is that what you really want?"

He considered for a long moment before nodding. "Yes. Deep down, I don't think Maurice ever really wanted me to have it, anyway." He closed his eyes, and when he rolled closer Eames welcomed him against his chest. "I think...I can break it down into pieces, first. Sell the companies off one by one. Build up some capital, invest." He snorted quietly. "Make use of my business degrees for once. And when I'm ready, I'll make something for myself. Something they won't be able to take away from me, if the truth ever does come out..."

Eames's mind spun, torn between pride and doubt, but all he could do was hold Robert more tightly to him. "And Browning?" he asked. "He won't like that."

"I don't care if he does." Robert chuckled into Eames's whiskers. "I'll sell him Richter Cole's. He likes their shoes."

Eames chuckled with him, and then they twisted together, meeting for a kiss. Robert's lips were soft and seeking, and Eames tried to be everything that he needed: strong, and supporting, and understanding. But when they pulled back it was his breath that came up short, his pulse that hammered between them like a tangible pulse in the air.

They woke up in Eames's hotel's room. Eames spared only a moment to remove his IV, and Robert his, before they wound together again. Each kiss was a question and an answer, not always a match but well meant, and as the sheets hissed against them Eames thought, Please, just...please.

Robert settled onto his back, welcoming Eames between his thighs, but before they went any further Eames propped himself up on his elbows. "Robert," he said, his voice quiet in the already darkened and intimate room. "I want to stay with you for a while--at least until we're certain that you really are recovering."

Robert sagged into the mattress and regarded him warily. "If you're only saying that because you feel guilty, don't," he said. "I can take care of myself."

Eames smiled wryly. "I know you can. And I'd be lying if I said guilt wasn't part of it. But I..." Robert's eyes were intense, and he couldn't help but speak the truth to them. "It's important to me that you be all right," he finished, moving his fingertips gently against Robert's soft hair. "For a lot of reasons."

Robert stared back at him, gauging, and at last offered a grin. "As if I would have let you leave," he chuckled. He laced his fingers behind Eames's neck and pulled.

Eames sighed through a grin of his own, and as they kissed he couldn't imagine being more pleased with himself.

~The End~