Fic: Bloodless - 3/6
Master post of all chapters here.
Chapter 3: Island, Proclus Territories, Earth
“An entire island in a location known only to ten executives at the company-seems rather excessive, doesn’t it?” Eames commented as he and Arthur got off the airship and into the limousine awaiting them.
“I mentioned to you how valuable Dr. Cobb is,” Arthur said, sliding into the seat across from Eames. “Any number of competitors would love to poach him from the company or, barring that, remove him from the competitive landscape completely.”
“Therefore, the answer is to stow him away in a tower?”
“Well, in his case, the seclusion is voluntary,” Arthur said. “He has his family here, his work, servants and groundskeepers-everything he could ever need.”
“If he was a misanthropic hermit worthy of a cheap romance novel, sure,” Eames replied, staring out at the picturesque rolling green hills and deciduous forest. “Seems a bit creepy for me.”
Arthur’s mouth quirked up at the sides. “For me, too.”
Eames smiled a little to himself, and they both fell silent for a few minutes.
“He was my first assignment,” Arthur said suddenly. “When I first began working for Proclus.”
Eames stared at Arthur, but he was gazing resolutely out the window. “You worked for him, then?’
“Yes. As a research assistant and a-de facto bodyguard,” Arthur said. “He was-brilliant. Truly, one of the greatest minds of our time-and maybe any other.”
“He hadn’t gone completely mental yet, had he?” Eames said, thinking of the limited information in Cobb’s file, the redacted names and dates and project numbers.
“No. Mal was still alive and things were-fine. As fine as they had ever been, I suppose.” Arthur shrugged. “She was brilliant too, although she dealt more in the theoretical. Specialized in the study of memories.”
“Memories?” Eames repeated. “In what context? Altering or deleting them?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Arthur said. “She was always very secretive about it. But I got the feeling that it was more about creation-the formation of memories.”
Eames opened his mouth to speak when the car made a sharp right turn, catching him off-balance and nearly sending him rolling onto the floor. “What the bloody-"
“My apologies, gentlemen,” the driver’s voice echoed through the intercom. “Dr. Cobb has refused to see anyone today, and threatened to turn the security system on the car if we don’t leave immediately.”
“Did you tell him Saito sent us?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Saito made a call himself, but Dr. Cobb is adamant that no one is to come in today. He’s even gone so far as to raise the fortifications.”
“Goddamnit, Dom,” Arthur muttered to himself, before addressing Eames with something close to apology. “He always does this. When he’s in a mood, there’s no reasoning with him.”
“I don’t suppose we could break in and force him to talk?”
“They’re the best fortifications that Proclus money can manufacture and buy.” Arthur shook his head. “I won’t list the specs, but trust me when I say that nothing less than a heavily armed squadron of commandos could make their way through the defenses to reach him, assuming they knew the plan of the complex.”
“Fantastic,” Eames said, slouching low in his seat. “So now what?”
“Now we-" but Arthur’s words were once again cut off by the limo veering sharply to the left, sending the vehicle screeching across the pavement and right off the road. “Driver!” Arthur snarled. “What is-"
Something large hit the roof with a thump, indents appearing in the metal over Arthur and Eames’ heads. A moment later, a fist drilled straight through the car ceiling, right in front of Eames’ face.
"Company,” Eames said as the adrenaline kicked in and he skittered away. “Part of Cobb’s security team?”
“Not as far as I know.” Arthur wrenched open the car door and rolled out, gun in hand.
Eames hopped out a minute after and received a swift kick to the throat, sending him sprawling onto the grass.
Eames watched blearily in between clutching at his neck as the Replicant-the one calling himself Fischer, it looked like-launched himself from the roof of the car and on top of Arthur, causing his gun to fire uselessly off into the sky. Eames struggled to sit up, but there was blood trickling down the back of his head and the world kept spinning unsteadily around him.
A few feet away, Arthur threw Fischer off him long enough to stand, but not long enough to draw his gun. Fischer barreled towards him, fists swinging with plenty of speed, if not precision.
Arthur ducked out of the way to avoid most of the impact, but couldn’t stop one punch from landing against his shoulder, spinning him back with the force of it. Though slightly off-balance, Arthur somehow still stood after a hit that would have sent someone twice his size sprawling to the ground; Eames blinked and wondered if he had seen wrong. But Fischer stopped too, pausing in mid-swing to stare incredulously.
“You’re not Dr. Cobb,” Fischer panted, and Arthur gave him disbelieving look in response.
“Neither of us is Cobb,” Eames croaked, finally succeeding in sitting up. Fischer glanced back at him with surprise, as if he’d forgotten that he’d knocked Eames to the ground unceremoniously only a few minutes ago. “What do you want with him?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Fischer held up his hands, which shook, fingers twisted awkwardly into stiff claws. Now that Eames was paying more attention, he could see where Fischer’s left leg was dragging behind him, slightly.
“Loss of mobility,” Arthur said as he circled Fischer warily. “You’re nearing your termination date.”
“You came to ask for more life,” Eames said as he got to his feet, slowly and painfully. “You came to ask for help.”
“You’re damn right I did,” Fischer said, glancing back and forth between Arthur and Eames, seeming uncertain as to whom to address. “I came all the way to this godforsaken rock of nothing and what do I find? A bunker beneath a walled fortress. Impenetrable, at least with the time I have left.”
“We can’t help you,” Eames said, reaching back for his gun surreptitiously. “Death is a little out of our jurisdiction.”
“It’s not death if it’s just a machine,” Arthur said, and Fischer’s face contorted.
“Just a machine?” Fischer parroted coldly, turning to Arthur. “Coming from-"
The shots rang out through the air in quick succession, and Fischer dropped to the ground with a heavy thump a moment later.
“That’s two down, then,” Eames said as he shot Fischer in the back of the head once more, just to be thorough.
Arthur nodded. “Saito will be pleased, though it looks like the F-679si situation would have resolved itself in a day or two. Cobb must have gone into lockdown mode because of him.”
“Right.” Eames stared down at the bloody remains, and replayed the last thing Fischer had been about to say over and over in his mind, searching for the lie there. Eames couldn’t find it. “Yes.”
They found the driver hiding in the front seat of the limo, terrified but unharmed. Arthur called for someone to come pick them all up, and two separate cars came: one for Arthur and Eames, and one for the driver.
In the relative comfort of another quiet limo, once Arthur was certain the privacy screen was up, he leaned forward to touch the trickle of blood running down the side of Eames’ neck.
“You’re hurt,” he said, voice softer than Eames had ever heard it.
“What? Oh-I hadn’t noticed.” Eames touched the blood and winced when he could trace it to an open cut at the base of his skull. It didn’t feel too deep, though. “Not to worry, darling. I have a remarkably thick head, as we both know.”
Arthur ignored Eames’ attempts to pull away, simply sidling closer and manhandling Eames into a position where Arthur could examine the injury more closely. “I don’t think there’s any serious damage, but we’ll have to check with the med-scanner and make sure you haven’t got a concussion.”
“Still not going to see the wizard?” Eames asked faintly.
Arthur pulled back to let Eames turn and face him, but he didn’t move his fingers from where they rested on Eames’ wrist. “Paranoia is Cobb's specialty. We'll be lucky if we get to see him next week, much less tomorrow.”
“Stubborn genius recluses,” Eames muttered, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. “This is why I simply can’t abide them. Where are we going, then?”
“Avilion,” Arthur replied, eyes scanning over Eames’ face critically, probably still searching for injury. “It’s a small group of residences built for the staff and their families to live. The groundskeepers, the drivers, maids, cooks and all the rest.”
“And you?” Eames guessed.
“Back when I worked for Cobb, yes.” Arthur looked down at his lap for a moment. “I haven’t been back in years.”
“Home sweet home,” Eames said quietly, closing his eyes.
They drove up to a group of twenty buildings, all quaint Georgian architecture on the outside and gleaming modernity on the inside. Arthur led them into the largest house out of the group, which was filled with huge windows and high ceilings outfitted in slick black and chrome. It was clean to the point of sterility, and had clearly been unlived in for some years--even if there wasn’t dust to prove it.
Arthur left Eames to sit in the living room, on a rather uncomfortable leather seat carved into the shape of a figure eight. When Arthur returned with a medscanner and medigel, Eames submitted to Arthur’s treatment wordlessly, focusing on a distant point over his shoulder.
“Would you like something to eat?” Arthur asked once he was done, startling Eames back to reality. “The staff should have restocked the fridge and pantry in anticipation of our arrival.”
“Yes,” Eames said distractedly, standing. “Food would be quite welcome.”
Arthur guided Eames into the kitchen, fingers feather-light against the small of Eames’ back, and if he noticed how uncharacteristically quiet Eames was being, he didn’t show it. “I think we should have enough ingredients to make some decent sandwiches.”
“I’ll have whatever you have,” Eames answered, taking a seat at the island in the middle of the kitchen while Arthur opened the refrigerator and started pulling out fresh vegetables.
Eames watched as Arthur smoothed the mayonnaise and mustard onto four slices of bread, and then piled them high with lettuce, tomato, and roast beef. “You cut off the crusts,” Eames commented, and Arthur glanced up, knife going still.
“Yes, I-" Arthur hesitated, almost as if embarrassed to be caught doing so. “It’s how my mother used to make them. Always cut the crusts of every sandwich, whether it was a peanut butter and jelly or tuna.”
“I can’t imagine you eating a crust-less PB and J,” Eames said, feeling as though something thick was lodged in his throat.
“It was one of the few things she knew how to make.” Arthur finished cutting up the sandwiches and then pushed a plate to Eames. “My mother was good at a great many things, but cooking was never one of them.”
“What did she do, your mother?” Eames took a bite of his sandwich, which was thick and juicy and prepared with the freshest ingredients money could buy. He could hardly taste it.
“She was a translator for various low level diplomats on Earth,” Arthur said, expression softening. “She spoke seven languages fluently and could write in three more.”
Past tense, Eames noted. All in the past tense. “And your father?”
“My mother never spoke of him.” Arthur shrugged. “She never dated or married, and she raised me on her own. I asked a few times, but she never answered.”
“You didn't try to find out?”
“We moved around a lot as I was growing up. It was always the two of us, a team against the rest of the world.” Arthur traced the swirl of the marble countertop with one fingertip. “I was never unhappy. And I never wanted to make her feel as though she wasn’t enough.”
Eames took another mechanical bite of his sandwich and forced himself to keep asking, keep pressing on. “It must have been hard to make friends then, as a child.”
“I suppose I’ve always had some-difficulty,” Arthur paused, “connecting with others. Constantly being on the move made it hard for me to keep in touch even when I wanted to. Then I was recruited to Proclus before the end of high school, and that was the end of that.”
Eames cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to-"
“No, it’s fine.” Arthur smiled, a little lopsided, and it made Eames’ chest ache. “You’re actually the first person who’s bothered to ask since-since Mal died.”
“Is that why Saito hired me on to be your partner?” Eames asked, feeling tired and worn already. “Because he thought you’d be emotionally compromised?”
Arthur sighed. “Saito sent others as soon as the incident on Venus took place. To deal with her.”
“What happened to them?” An unnecessary question, if there ever was one.
Arthur smiled sadly. “What do you think?”
“Did you know her well?” Eames asked. “The original Mal, I mean.”
“As well as anyone could, I suppose.” Arthur took a swift bite of his sandwich. “Dom and Mal were the first people I’d worked with, and I got to know them over the years. I mean-I was there when their son was born.”
“And Mal-how did she die?”
“Space shuttle accident,” Arthur said, looking down. “She went to give a speech off-world and on her way back there was a malfunction in one of the capacitors that led to life support system failure. The capacitor degradation should have been caught by the routine maintenance before they left space dock, but someone got sloppy.”
Eames watched Arthur eat the rest of his sandwich, methodically, neatly, before he spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur nodded. “They reassigned me pretty soon after that, to the Blade Runner division, which helped take my mind off things. Dom, though-he was never the same.”
“And that’s when he came up with the idea of MA-98762,” Eames said.
Arthur rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I never thought he'd take it this far.”
“Who could have?” Eames said, but it was cold comfort.
“I should have told you this sooner.” Arthur lifted his head. “I’m sorry. A partnership is about-trust. I know that now.”
“It’s fine.” Eames summoned up a smile, but it felt thin as it stretched across his face. “It doesn't matter."
Arthur smiled at Eames, a more genuine one, and after a brief pause, said, “You must be tired. Let me show you the bedrooms.”
Eames followed Arthur upstairs, not missing the tension in Arthur’s back and shoulders as he did. Arthur paused in front of the first door down a long hallway, and turned to Eames. “This is my-this is the master bedroom,” he said, voice not quite steady. “I could give you the tour.”
Eames stared into Arthur’s handsome face, took in the flutter of his eyelashes and the way his lips parted slightly. A few days, a few hours ago, this would have been all Eames could want. “I’m exhausted, to tell the truth,” Eames said, not quite a lie as he turned down the hallway before his resolve faded. “I think I should lie down for a bit. Take some time to recover.”
Eames closed his eyes first to the disappointment, and then to the barely concealed embarrassment on Arthur’s face. “Of course,” Arthur said gruffly. “I should-I should file my report.”
Eames walked into the room furthest down the hall, closed the door and leaned back against it. A part of him wanted to open it again and walk back to where Arthur would be waiting, waiting for him-
The mobile rang. Eames stared down at the display and took a deep breath before answering.
“Mr. Eames,” Saito said, the top half of his body appearing in a projection above the mobile. “I have received reports of your success in dispatching with models N-491yb and F-679si. Well done.”
“Thank you,” Eames said, but it felt hollow. “Couldn’t have done it without Arthur.”
“The two of you work well together,” Saito said, seeming to be in good spirits. “Did the either of your targets reveal the location of MA-98762?”
“No, but we’re hopeful Dr. Cobb can give us some more information," Eames seeing. "Seeing as MA-98762 is the Replicant he built after his dead wife.”
Saito seemed not apologetic in the least. “Indeed?”
“Any more secrets you’d like to share while we’re on the topic?” Eames asked. “Such as a Replicant that hunts other Replicants?”
Saito cocked his head to one side with a sphinx-like smile. “I am impressed, Mr. Eames. It would seem that my investment in you was a worthwhile one.”
“Does Arthur know?” Eames asked, feeling his chest constrict. So it was true.
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Eames studied Saito’s face, but all he saw was faint surprise and perhaps-amusement.
“No. Are you?” Saito countered, and Eames fell silent. “He is… an experiment. That is all.”
“You should have told me,” Eames said harshly, but all he could think about was the way Arthur had smiled at him less than ten minutes ago, open and soft in a way that had made Eames’ breath catch.
“And what difference would it have made?” Saito responded. “He is a highly effective Blade Runner, is he not? And much more emotionally stable than any other Replicant we’ve produced-so he should therefore present no immediate danger to you.”
“The memories," Eames said, voice quiet. “That’s why you implanted those memories.”
“Some of the other models developed a strange obsession with experiencing a fuller ranger of experiences than their four year life-spans and circumscribed roles could permit,” Saito said. “These distractions made them less efficient, more prone to error and confusion. Arthur does not present such problems.”
“Efficient,” Eames echoed. “Do you expect me to-retire him once this job is done?”
“And prematurely terminate such a wildly successful program?” Saito seemed genuinely startled by the suggestion. “Of course not.”
The termination date, Eames thought, and closed his eyes. But the words wouldn’t come. “So he doesn’t have a backup copy either?”
“It was deemed far too risky to allow such an unusual model to download to the Mainframe and possibly contaminate the rest of the system,” Saito said. "I'm sure I don't need to explain to you the reasons why."
“My fee just went up." Eames parroted Saito's words back dully, "I'm sure I don't need to explain to you the reasons why."
Saito smiled. “I expected nothing less.”
The call ended after Eames mindlessly negotiated for some vast sum of money he could barely conceptualize in his mind, payable to Marita immediately upon Mal’s demise. Saito conceded to nearly all his demands with good humor, and congratulated him once more on a job well done before ending the call.
Eames sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and pulled the dull grey chip from his pocket, running the pad of his thumb over the well-worn grooves, waiting for the steadying calm that it had once brought him. But all he could think of was the slip of Arthur’s elegant fingers across his neck, and the sweetness of his tiny, secret smiles.
Eames woke up with body and head both aching. He took a shower in the magnificent marble bathroom before changing into a fresh set of clothing.
He walked downstairs through the empty, echoing house, and expected to find Arthur in the kitchen, eating or sipping some coffee. Instead, all that awaited him there was a large spread of fresh fruit, muffins, and a placard that read ‘Breakfast.’
Eames ate a muffin and some fruit, wondering if Arthur had already eaten and gone. He didn’t know whether he hoped Arthur would return or not.
After finishing breakfast, Eames stepped into the foyer to find Arthur standing there, as immaculately suited and pressed as always. Arthur barely glanced up from the datapad he was reading to say to Eames, “Let’s go.”
The ride to Cobb’s manor was spent in frosty silence, Arthur concentrating solely on his reading while Eames watched the green hills go by. It was a truly beautiful island-a lush garden of green amidst most of the overcrowded grey maze of Earth’s surface.
Cobb’s residence was built in the same style as Avilion, with an old-fashioned Georgian exterior and reinforced steel interior. A butler (and likely bodyguard) led them through multiple layers of security to the center of the manor, pausing at a door which led to an open central courtyard. “It is good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Henry,” Arthur replied before walking into the courtyard.
The courtyard was thick with exuberant flowering plants, all of which surrounded a pond in the center, filled with koi goldfish and lilypads. A man stood next to the pond, face upturned, staring at the blue sky that could be seen through thick panes of bulletproof glass overhead.
“Arthur,” the man said, turning to reveal bloodshot eyes and a handsome face that had been aged ten years by grief. “It’s really you.”
“Dom,” Arthur said, hands in his pockets. “You know why we’re here.”
“Guess they trained you to get straight to business.” Cobb knelt by the pond and brushed his fingers across its surface, sending fish swimming away.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” Arthur said. Eames hung back, preferring for this all to play out with as little participation on his part as possible.
“When they first told me, I couldn’t believe it,” Cobb said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a packet of fish food. “Arthur, a Blade Runner? Impossible. And yet here you are.”
“I’m good at it,” Arthur said.
“Of course you are. How could you not be?” Cobb sprinkled the contents of the packet across the water. “And you must be Mr. Eames-I’ve heard all about you and your… talents.”
“Nothing good, I hope.” Eames watched Cobb straighten up.
“You’ve brought down a lot of Replicants,” Cobb said, turning to face Eames. “Many of them I helped design.”
“That was years ago,” Eames said. “Older models-the Halcyons and the Lightsteps.”
“I made many of the Nexus-6 upgrades based on the weaknesses you exploited in the older models,” Cobb said. His tone wasn’t warm.
“MA-98762 and A-528xz,” Arthur cut in. “Where are they?”
Cobb dragged his unsettling gaze back to Arthur. “I don’t know.”
“We were sent by Saito to handle this,” Eames said carefully. “We simply want to know where they are.”
“So you can all have a nice sit-down with tea and crumpets, right?” Cobb’s lip curled. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Eames.”
“All I’m saying is that we are not the enemy,” Eames replied. But they were, and Cobb knew it.
“We know you know where A-528xz is,” Arthur said. “Now tell us.”
“Or what?” Cobb said. “You’ll kill-I mean ‘retire’ me too?”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Dom-"
“Where is Ariadne?” Eames interrupted.
Cobb regarded Eames thoughtfully for a minute before seeming to make a decision. “New York,” he said almost carelessly. “That’s all I know. Now, if you would kindly remove yourselves from my home and allow me to get back to my work.”
Eames started to go, certain that Cobb was definitely lying about not knowing Mal’s whereabouts and probably lying about Ariadne’s, but equally certain that he wasn’t about to give further details anytime soon.
But Arthur didn’t follow. “Why, Dom? Why are you doing this?”
Eames turned in time to see Cobb’s lips thin into a pale line. “Doing what, exactly?”
“All of this.” Arthur's voice was low, furious. “Giving up your life, abandoning your work, protecting that thing-"
Cobb’s nostrils flared. “Be very careful-"
“You made Mal into a goddamned science project!” Arthur snarled, taking a step forward. “How could you disrespect her memory like this? Playing house with some robot copy? It’s disgusting.”
“Arthur,” Eames started, but neither Cobb nor Arthur so much as glanced at him. “We should-"
“You don’t know what it’s like, losing someone you love,” Cobb said, stepping forward to meet Arthur, barely a few inches away. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“It’s a fucking robot,” Arthur snapped, not backing down. “How could you think-"
“Fuck you.” Cobb shoved at Arthur’s shoulders, not moving him an inch. “She was my wife-"
“How did you do it?” Arthur asked, voice rising, baiting Cobb. “How did you convince yourself that this blow-up doll was a real person? Did you teach her how to walk and talk like one? Did you teach her how to pass the Voight-Kampff test?”
“Arthur,” Eames interrupted with greater urgency, unnerved by the wild gleam in Cobb’s eye. “Really, we should--"
“And when’s the last time you took the Voight-Kampff test, Arthur?”
Arthur stilled and stared at Cobb blankly. “What?”
“You heard me,” Cobb said levelly. “When’s the last time you took it?”
“I’ve never-" Arthur let out a contemptuous exhale. “Mock me all you want for being a Blade Runner now, but at least I know I’m human, that I’m real.”
“Do you?” Cobb’s eyes glittered. “Do you really? Because Mal--MA-98762-she has all of Mal’s memories. I implanted them in her before she was activated.”
Arthur stared at Cobb, unblinking as the muscles worked in his jaw. “I know who I am.”
“Arthur,” Eames said, but was roundly ignored.
“MA-98762 knew who she was, too,” Cobb said, voice low.
“That’s impossible.” Arthur took a step back, and then another. “Implanting memories. It can’t be done.”
“That’s what I said until Mal created her first successful prototype,” Cobb said. “A Replicant that thinks it’s a human.”
“That project doesn’t exist at Proclus,” Arthur said flatly. “I would have seen it. I would have read about it.”
“Your clearance doesn't cover everything.” Cobb smiled, but there was no joy in it. “And where do you think I got the research necessary to implant memories in a Replicant? How do you think Mal observed the progress of her prototype?”
“Mal was always too fond of her secret projects,” Arthur said, and Eames could hear his breath catching. “Proclus never would have authorized-"
“Never, Arthur?” Cobb asked. "Are you so sure about that?"
“This is ridiculous.” Arthur turned on his heel and started towards the exit. “Eames, let’s go. Obviously, we’re dealing with nothing more than the delusional ravings of a mad man.”
Eames followed Arthur out of the courtyard and through the complex without a word, barely keeping up with his breakneck pace. Cobb didn't follow, and the butler-Henry-didn't reappear. It didn't matter; Arthur knew the way out.
It wasn’t until they were back in the limousine outside that Arthur spoke again. “Dom’s completely lost it. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore.”
“He built a Replicant copy of his dead wife and filled it with her memories,” Eames replied. "I'm pretty sure the question of his sanity was never up for serious debate."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Arthur said, almost to himself. "A Replicant that believes it's a human? That's impossible."
"MA-98762 calls herself Mal," Eames said quietly. "Do you think that’s a coincidence?"
"I think you can call a Replicant whatever you want but that doesn't make them into something they're not." Arthur pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. "No project like that exists at Proclus."
Eames said nothing as the driver took them back to Avilion; their airship had taken a detour to the mainland to refuel and wouldn't return until the next morning.
"Arthur," Eames started as he trailed behind Arthur into the house again. But Arthur didn't reply before disappearing into his room and locking the door behind him.
Eames blinked awake slowly, disoriented and groggy. After a few moments, the dark room came into focus, and so did the figure sitting in the far corner of the room.
"Holy-" Eames shot straight up in bed and reached instinctively for the gun on his nightstand. "Who's-"
"My mother taught me how to shoot a gun when I was ten," Arthur said. "Every year we would meet at the same shooting range for my birthday, no matter where we were in the world or what we were in the middle of doing. We'd talk and eat dinner together, after."
"Arthur." Eames let go of a rattling breath, and put the gun down.
"I know it sounds strange, but I looked forward to my birthdays because of her. I was always traveling, so I never had any friends I could-" Arthur halted, and as Eames' eyes adjusted, he could see that Arthur wasn't wearing his jacket or waistcoat anymore. His sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow. "They were good birthdays."
Eames rubbed his eyes. "You don't have to tell me all your secrets."
"Do you believe me or Dr. Cobb?" Eames' silence was all the response Arthur needed; he stood up and walked to the side of the bed. “It’s sentimental, I know.” He thrust something at Eames, and his fingers were shaking. “But it’s the only photo I have left of her.”
Eames accepted the datapad even though every cell in his body was screaming for him not to, telling him to give it back before he got deeper in than he already was. “Arthur.”
“Activate it,” Arthur said.
The photograph of an attractive, middle-aged woman holding a little boy in her lap leapt up into the air. They were both smiling, sitting in front of a shabby, two-person airship. They had the same warm eyes, and the little boy had Arthur’s dimples when he smiled.
“When I was nineteen, she developed a rare and particularly efficient form of cancer.” Arthur said, voice only slightly unsteady. “On my twentieth birthday, I waited three hours before I realized she wasn't coming.”
“Arthur.” Eames deactivated the datapad and fumbled in back into Arthur’s hands. “Don’t.”
“Tell me it’s not true,” Arthur whispered. “Tell me that I-"
“I don’t-" Eames swallowed thickly. “You know-"
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know,” Arthur interrupted. “I know that my first kiss was with a boy named Tajima Yi when I was ten, in the back of a convenience store. I know that when I was fifteen, I fell down an old drainage chute in Xi’an, China, and that they had to send a rescue team to come lift me out.” Arthur took a shuddering breath. "I know that I watched my mother fade away to nothing over the course of months."
“Please,” Eames said. “Please don’t-"
“Why would they do that?” Arthur lifted his head to stare at Eames imploringly. “Why would they make me remember those things?”
“To discourage the formation of close interpersonal relationships.” Eames stared down at the serene silver bedspread, the subtle chevron pattern across its surface. “To teach you discipline and calm under extreme emotional duress. To give you-a happy childhood.”
Arthur stared at Eames, eyes flat and dull. “Have you known all along?”
“Not-all along.” Eames watched Arthur’s face crumble. “I didn’t know until Saito-"
“Saito.” Arthur let out a brittle laugh. “Of course. This has all been just some intricate-a joke. I’ve been-" Abruptly, Arthur shook himself and turned away, stalking over to the bedroom door and throwing it open.
“Arthur.” Eames stumbled out of bed. “Wait.”
“Wait?” Arthur whirled around. “For what? I-I’m a fucking machine created to-" Arthur cut off with a sharp laugh. “‘Retire rogue Replicants,’ I was going to say, but it’s broader than that, I think. ‘Be an unwitting tool and science experiment,’ is probably more accurate.”
“This doesn’t have to-change anything,” Eames started, not sure what he was trying to say. The hallway floor was cold beneath his bare feet. “You’re still the same-you’re still Arthur-"
“And who is that?” Arthur demanded. “An amalgamation of fake memories, fake mementos of a life that never took place? A life that was never real?”
“You are real,” Eames reached out to touch Arthur's arm, but stopped himself at the last moment. “You’re-"
“What do you want from me, Eames?” The rims of Arthur’s eyes were red. “What do you want me to say?”
“I-" Words caught in Eames’ throat, half-formed and confused, even in his mind.
After a long moment, Arthur shook his head and pushed Eames back by the shoulders. There was enough force to send him back a few steps, but it represented barely a fraction of Arthur's true strength.
“I expect this has all been a game to you,” Arthur said faintly. “Toy with the robot and see if you can make it bleed."
"That wasn't-"
"I thought that I-that this might be more than just a job to you." Arthur shook his head. "But I should have known better. You're just another degenerate gambler out for himself, searching for the next paycheck to fund his pathetic addiction.”
The words hit Eames like a punch to a gut, leaving him gasping for breath and practically reeling. He fumbled for the chip in his pocket but couldn’t find it, and couldn’t remember where it was.
“I’m leaving,” Arthur said softly. “Don’t follow me, and don’t try to find me.”
Eames watched as Arthur leapt down the stairs, two at a time, and threw open the front door. Eames had enough presence of mind to follow him downstairs, watching helplessly as Arthur broke into an easy run, gradually increasing his speed with grace and agility too fine to be human until he disappeared into the edge of the woods.
He didn't come back. And Eames didn't try to follow him.
Next: Chapter 4