[FIC - Inception] The Helix Trap Chapter 11/19
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Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 11/19 (6,330 words) (For other parts please check my My main post)
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, Browning, and others.
Warnings: Violence, sexual content.
Disclaimer: These characters and setting do not belong to me and are being used without permission but for no profit
Summary: After the Inception proves successful, Eames tracks down Robert out of concern for its unusual side effects. Meanwhile, Arthur is hired to a dangerous job that forces the rest of the team to take sides: whether to defend Robert and his fragile mind, or ruin him completely.
Notes: C&C Welcome and appreciated. Thanks to my beta chypie for her input!
WARNING: This chapter has an extra trigger warning for a brief torture scene. I don't think it's any worse than the violence already in the fic, but I know some people are freaked by this specifically, so if you want to know exactly what it is ahead of time let me know.
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--
To Chapter 12
Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 11/19 (6,330 words) (For other parts please check my My main post)
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, Browning, and others.
Warnings: Violence, sexual content.
Disclaimer: These characters and setting do not belong to me and are being used without permission but for no profit
Summary: After the Inception proves successful, Eames tracks down Robert out of concern for its unusual side effects. Meanwhile, Arthur is hired to a dangerous job that forces the rest of the team to take sides: whether to defend Robert and his fragile mind, or ruin him completely.
Notes: C&C Welcome and appreciated. Thanks to my beta chypie for her input!
WARNING: This chapter has an extra trigger warning for a brief torture scene. I don't think it's any worse than the violence already in the fic, but I know some people are freaked by this specifically, so if you want to know exactly what it is ahead of time let me know.
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--
To Chapter 12