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Arthur is standing in a hotel lobby waiting for Eames. The sun shines through the glass windows, reflecting off the polished marble floors. Eames appears in a corridor at Arthur’s left dressed in a startlingly bright yellow shirt.
“Really, Eames?” Arthur says as Eames approaches. “You look like a banana peel. Are you trying to stand out on purpose?”
Eames laughs, unbothered. “Nothing wrong with a little color, darling.”
The marble floor under their feet shifts, unsettled, and Arthur glances around quickly.
“Something’s wrong,” Arthur says, and then the lobby fills with the harsh echo of gunfire. Chaos envelops them.
Arthur shoots down the last of their assailants, and falls to the hard hotel floor beside Eames.The dark red color of Eames’ blood is spreading out from his abdomen, soaking into his too-yellow shirt, staining it a rusty brown as it dries.
Lines like a spiderweb begin to crack across the windows. Eames inhales, a disgusting sound that rattles through his lungs, and sends the glass shattering with it. It sparkles like glitter in the sunlight as it scatters across the floor.
“Shit, Eames,” Arthur says, strained, and shoots Eames through the head. The building vibrates violently as Eames goes limp. Arthur raises the gun to his own temple. The dream is crumbling around him as Arthur pulls the trigger with trembling fingers.
Arthur wakes, moving instantly to kneel at Eames’ side. Eames is coughing, sweat breaking out at his temples. Arthur runs his hand over Eames’ stomach, smoothing over the gray-blue material of his shirt, now free of blood.
“I’m alright, love,” Eames says, brushing his knuckles against Arthur’s cheekbone.
“I know,” Arthur whispers, resting his forehead against Eames’. Arthur takes a deep breath and tries to calm the rapid beat of his heart.