[FIC - Inception] The Helix Trap Chapter 4/19
Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 4/19 (7,533 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 catching a very serious typo >.>;; Long chapter is long, I know. Sorry!
It had been a while since Eames was forced to don a real disguise, but when faced with the opportunity he made the most of it. He shaved, mussed his hair, and put on a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, all the while grumbling to himself about having checked out of the hotel so hastily two days before. Dressed in a dark suit--compliments of Peter Browning--he could even pass for a respectable businessman. Robert would recognize him if he spotted him, but the schedule downloaded from his cell phone would come in handy for avoiding him. He was more concerned with not alerting hotel security, in case Robert had tipped them off to his antics. With businessmen flowing in and out of the hotel daily hopefully he would fit in.
He should be across town for at least a few hours, Eames thought as he entered the hotel and headed for the lounge, briefcase in hand. Chances are even if he gets back late he won't retire right away. I'll have to be careful.
Eames spent the evening at various spots around the hotel's first floor: first working at his laptop in the lounge, then dinner at the restaurant, and at last a drink at the bar. He chatted up a few charming ladies along the way, friendly but still very professional, and as far as he could tell he left a favorable impression on the staff. A while before Robert was scheduled to return to the hotel he paid a maid four hundred Euro to unlock the suite's balcony door.
At one in the morning the bar closed, and Eames made his way upstairs. Using a card key he had programmed earlier he let himself into the room next to the one he had occupied only two nights before. A couple was asleep in bed, and Eames tiptoed past them quickly to the balcony. When he opened the door the woman stirred, and Eames held his breath, but by the time he'd drawn the curtain she was settling again.
Eames leaned against the balcony rail. If he's had trouble sleeping, he might not even be in bed by now, he thought, staring at the balcony above him. No way to know without looking. He smiled distantly. If only Cobb were here to yell at me.
He waited on the balcony for an hour just to be sure. It was a warm night, comfortable, and he took the time to think over his strategy. Being alone there was only so deep he could go; the best he could hope for was to observe and maybe get lucky. Just a peek, he told himself. Like I said. That will be plenty.
When he decided he couldn't wait any longer he opened his briefcase, pulling out a length of rope with a weight on one end. In one easy toss he had looped it around the balcony rail above him, and with his briefcase attached to his belt he scurried up to the next floor. It was not the most gentlemanlike of scurries, and there was enough light from the street that someone might have seen him. I'll only be ten minutes, Eames reasoned to himself as he climbed over the rail and crouched behind the patio furniture. Not enough time for someone to convince themselves they're not mad and call security.
The lights in the suite were off. Eames pressed his gloved hands to the glass, peering inside, and saw no one in the suite's main room or bathroom. He could not see the bedroom to be sure Robert was there, but an expensive-looking suit was strewn across the floor, and the brandy bottle was less full than when Eames had noted it last. With a deep breath he tried the balcony door and was relieved to find it unlocked, as arranged.
Eames stored his rope back in the briefcase and crept into the room. When he heard a quiet murmur he ducked back, and remained motionless until he was certain it had not been a sound from a conscious person. On tiptoes he climbed the two steps to the bedroom and there found Robert Fischer.
Robert was asleep on his back in bed. He was clothed only in a pair of silky boxers, and the sheets were only half covering him, twisted around his limbs as if he had been struggling. Sweat shone on his forehead and upper lip. As Eames stopped next to him he could not help but wince in sympathy. Nightmares. That is going to make forging blind tricky. He crouched down next to the bed and pulled a second briefcase the size of a lunchbox out of the first: A PASIV with only a timer and two slots for Somnacin. He placed it on the floor and took off his jacket so he could roll up his sleeve.
Robert moaned in his sleep. Eames eyed him but did not pause in setting up the half-sized device and taping the IV to his arm. As carefully as he could, he did the same for Robert, and then sat down against the back wall.
Just a peek, he told himself again, and he pressed the plunger.
Everything went black. Eames breathed deep, and could feel when his lungs transitioned from flesh to shade. In instants too swift to consciously perceive he became aware of the dream around him, and his mind expanded to fill the space. His art was fluid but controlled, recognizing that the dream was already well constructed, already teeming with populace. There was only one empty space to fill.
As was Eames's skill, he let Robert's consciousness claim him--let him put a projection's skin on him, without any forethought of what he would become. Though dangerous, he had faith that the PASIV would wake him to himself, and as long as he remembered what transpired in the dream his trip would be worth it.
He dreamt he was roaming a dark hallway, with no memory that he was Eames, of how he had gotten there or what he was meant to be doing. He was no longer quite human, either: his limbs were long, thin, and white, his knuckles and joints bony and knobbed. He only had a vague sense of his torso, which was cloaked, along with his head, in a long black veil. When he looked left and right he saw creatures like him shuffling about like a slowly traveling herd, each one wearing a mask. Their faces were thin and plastic with the eyes cut out, like cheap Halloween costumes. It wasn't until then that Eames realized he was wearing one as well.
Ahead of him, one of the wandering wraiths swayed, then the one behind him. The disturbance rippled down the crowd, drawing closer, until Eames spotted the source: a young boy was pushing his way down the corridor. His expensive clothes were rumpled and his eyes were wide with panic. As he passed, several of the wraiths lowered their hands to touch his hair and face, but he batted them away and kept going.
The boy reached him, and as the others had done Eames brushed the backs of his knuckles against his temple. At first the boy thrust his hand away, but then he paused, and stared up at Eames with childlike fright.
Eames smiled, but the expression did not translate to his mask. "Robert," he said in a voice that wasn't his, speaking words assigned to him by the dream. "Where's your mother?"
The young Robert paled, and scurried away.
Eames followed. He pushed at the wraiths with his spindly arms, shoving his way against the flow after the retreating figure. Soon he felt their cold hands touching him, brushing his shoulders and mask. Cold whispers hissed at his ears.
"Where is his mother?" one asked him, and was echoed by several others.
"Where is his father?"
"Where are you going?"
Eames fought through them, and as he chased Robert's retreating form he began to remember that he had come for a reason. "Robert!"
Robert looked back, and upon seeing that he was being followed, he ran faster. Eames tried to match his pace but he was too tall, and couldn't weave through the throng as easily as a small boy.
"Don't let him catch you," the wraiths whispered, some of them even moving out of Robert's way. They continued to touch his hair fondly as he passed. "You can't trust him."
I can't be trusted. Eames assimilated the information, and his voice deepened to a growl. "Robert, get back here, now!" He ran flat out, but by then Robert had gained too much ground on him, and he couldn't catch up.
The hallway turned. It opened into a vast foyer, with cobweb-covered chandeliers, musty portraits and cold marble floors. It too was filled with shuffling black figures, and their continuous hissing filled the immense space like radio static. There was no sign of Robert, but he heard a door close on the other side of the room. He hurried over only to find half a dozen tall oak doors along the wall. Picking one at random, he hurried inside.
Harsh, iridescent light blinded him. He shielded his eyes, and once they had adjusted he realized he was in a bathroom. It was cleaner and much brighter than the rest of the building, almost sterile, with long mirrors. When Eames looked into them he remembered who he was.
Right. I'm in Fischer's dream. He touched the plastic mask over his head, feeling out the gray eyebrows and wide mouth. I'm Browning, he realized. Is that why they reacted to me differently? He glanced to the mirror again and was claimed by a bad idea. With his hands over the mask he changed its shape to that of his own face. Now let's see what they say.
Eames exited the bathroom, and as soon as he stepped into the crowded foyer a hundred empty black eyes turned toward him. Their attention was sharp and eerie, and he stood still, waiting to see what they would do. They know this face too, he thought as the closest of the wraiths shuffled closer. I was right--he has projected me into his dreams.
The wraith that reached him first was a woman. She stretched out a skeletal hand and touched his face, feeling out the shape of his mask's lips. "Who are you?" she breathed.
"Who are you?" another said next to her. It plucked at his shoulder. "I know you."
Their words were echoed in their peers like a droning chant, and Eames did his best to remain still despite their continued prodding. More and more hands pawed at him, curious and wary, and more plastic faces crowded close.
"Who are you really? Why are you here?"
"Why didn't you come to dinner?"
Eames turned toward the last to speak, but he didn't recognize the face watching him so intently. "What?"
"You didn't come to dinner," it said. "We waited for you."
"You're Fred Simmonds, from the airport."
"I know you."
A pair of hands slipped beneath Eames's robes and pressed against his bare chest. He jumped, startled by the chill fingers, and stumbled back.
"Your hands are cold," the wraith breathed.
"Your hands were cold."
Eames shoved the hands off him, but another pair grabbed him from behind, and another latched onto his arm. They continued to hiss at his ears, their voices growing harsh and indistinct. Jagged fingernails bore into his shoulders and wrists. He struggled, knowing it was a dream but unable to help a thrill of panic. When he thought he'd broken free they began climbing on top of each other to get to him, howling, "Who are you? Who are you?"
A woman's thin body pressed against his back, and a sweet voice with a French accent sang in his ear. "Are you here for the secrets?"
Eames looked over his shoulder. The face was familiar, but without the eyes he couldn't place it. "Yes," he said on impulse.
"I know where they're hidden." Her plastic lips curled in a coy smile, though they did not move when she spoke. "Come with me."
She pulled away, and Eames forced his full strength into his pale limbs to throw his pursuers off. As the woman dashed through the crowd he ran after her, shoving the black-veiled figures out of his way. Once he was close enough she reached back and squeezed his hand. They wove through the waves, through one of the heavy oak doors and into another foyer larger and more crowded than the last.
"Who are you?" Eames called as they charged through white, grasping fingers.
"I want to tell you my secrets!" she shouted back.
She led him to a curved stairway that seemed to spiral up for dozens of floors, but instead of climbing it she pulled him underneath. There was a small doorway hidden against the wall there, which she unlocked with a key produced from her robe. Light shown from the other side, and as she squeezed through Eames wondered briefly if she might have been a white rabbit.
They passed through a tunnel, into a warm and inviting light. When it dulled enough for Eames to make out his surroundings, the first thing he saw was a wooden carousel horse flying past. He blinked, and looked around in amazement: gone was the dark and foreboding mansion, replaced with an afternoon carnival. The air was hot and smelled of pavement, and people--real people--packed the walkways and ride lines.
The woman tugged on Eames's hand. Her appearance had not changed, making her stand out like a dark ghost in the otherwise pleasant atmosphere. "Come on," she said, dragging Eames to a running pace once more. "We're almost there."
Eames followed, though he still tried to take in everything there was to see in the park: roller coasters, pizza vendors, prize booths. Happy families and smiling dates. As they ran past a hot dog stand he thought he caught a glimpse of the young Robert Fischer but he couldn't be sure.
The woman veered suddenly, and pulled Eames toward the restrooms. There was a storeroom at the back, which she unlocked with another miraculously produced key. "Here we are," she said, twisting the knob.
They stepped through the door and into darkness again. The room smelled and felt just like the hallway and foyer, old and musty and uninviting. Heavy curtains blocked the tall windows, and a bookshelf took up most of the rightmost wall. At the center of the room was a bed, the sheets pulled back, an IV and oxygen tank mounted on one side. Eames moved closer, slowly. The bed was occupied but not by a person: a black veil was stretched out over the satin sheets, flat and unoccupied unlike the other wraiths. An empty mask bearing no likeness sat perched on the pillow. Though there was no volume of a body and nothing in the room moved, Eames could hear slow, shallow breath issuing from the nostril holes.
Eames stopped next to the bed, transfixed. The hissing rhythm of lungs that weren't present was hypnotizing. He looked behind him, but the woman had closed the door behind them and was no longer moving. She stood very still as if she had become part of the décor.
"Is this it?" Eames asked. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"
She did not respond, and with a sigh Eames turned back to the bed. He understood very well what the eerie figure was meant to represent, but there seemed to be nothing more to learn from it. This is Maurice Fischer's room, he thought, recognizing the layout. He turned to the nightstand, and frowned at it for several moments as he contemplated. I wonder...
Eames crouched down next to the night stand and pulled at what looked like a drawer handle, but actually opened a small door. It stuck, and he had to pull hard to open it, spilling a few books to the floor. As he'd suspected a small black safe was hidden inside. Holding his breath, he punched in a familiar combination: 528491. The safe beeped, and its door swung slowly open.
He reached inside. He felt the top shelf first, expecting to find a collection of papers, but it was empty. With a frown he checked the lower compartment, and from the safe's innards produced a frail paper pinwheel.
Is this it? Eames turned the pinwheel over in his hands with great delicacy. The secret he wants me to find? Is this... He felt his breath steam the inside of his mask. Is this the mark of the Inception? But this is only one level deep.
His fingers curled against the paper, and as he listened to it bend his heart began to beat faster. Can I destroy it? He looked to the shadow that was Maurice Fischer, to the unmoving stranger behind him, and back to the pinwheel. It can't be undone as easily as that, can it?
Eames was still mentally reeling when he noticed that one of the books he had toppled lay open in front of him. He squinted, and soon realized that the page was not covered in any manner of writing, but a simple illustration. It was a picture of a pinwheel.
"What...?" Eames stood and surveyed the room again. The painting near the door that he barely glimpsed coming in was an elegant, bold-lined pinwheel. The flowers sitting in a vase on the desk were pinwheels. He moved to the window and drew the curtains back: outdoor floodlights lighted the distant shapes of whirling pinwheel trees. When he flipped through the pages of the book he still held, each page bore a pinwheel, and in the turning of paper the image twirled in front of him.
Eames dropped the book and stared at the original paper craft still held in his suddenly trembling hand. "Bloody hell..."
The door creaked open, and the crack of a gunshot echoed through the room. By the time Eames had whipped around the strange woman was falling to the floor--her arms and legs vanished, leaving only a fluttering veil and a mask skittering away.
Cobb stepped all the way through the door. He was dressed in a slick black suit, his favorite Berretta snug in a gloved grip. He raised the weapon toward Eames, who quickly ducked back. "Cobb, wait!" He yanked his mask off, and the rest of his forgery dissipated with it. "It's me." When Cobb lowered the gun Eames chuckled and came forward. "Leave it to you to do exactly what you told me not to. What are you doing here?"
Cobb regarded him stoically. "I'm in charge of security here," he said. He shoved his gun into the inside of Eames's hip bone and pulled the trigger.
Eames rocked. He was too shocked to cry out at first, pressing his hand over the sudden pour of blood from his abdomen. When he tried to take a step back his legs buckled, and the impact of his body to the floor sent utter agony shooting through him and out from his throat in a scream.
The light from behind the entrance was blocked momentarily by another entering figure. Though Eames's eyes were already watering he strained to see, and shuddered at the sight of a full grown, suited Robert Fischer stepping inside. He straightened his lapels and regarded Eames uncomfortably.
"Good work, Mr. Charles," he murmured, nodding to the blond at his side.
"That's why I'm here protecting you," the projection replied.
"Mr. Charles...?" Eames tried to shift so he could better see the men, but his feet were already numb and the rest of him was throbbing in anguish--he could feel fragments of bone tearing into his tissue. Groaning, he tried to apply pressure to the wound, but the blood flowing over his fingers was already thick and dark. I'm dying. I'm bleeding to death. "You...you adopted our fake projection?"
"I don't know what you mean," Robert said. He moved closer, but seeing Eames writhe on the floor turned his cheeks pale, and he stopped short. "Now are you going to tell me who you are?"
"This is...impossible," Eames said weakly. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on fighting back nausea--he didn't want to think of his body jerking if he vomited. "You weren't this well trained before..." He's already conscious it's a dream. Is he even ordering his projection? His brain swam and he couldn't make sense of anything.
"Who are you?" Robert demanded, shifting anxiously on his feet. "Tell me what you're here to steal from me!"
"I'm not," Eames moaned. "I just wanted...to see."
Mr. Charles holstered his gun. "He's lying, Robert," he said, almost mechanically. "He's hiding something. Let's find out what."
"How?"
"Let's do to him what he was going to do to you." Mr. Charles reached into the safe that Eames had just emptied and pulled out a silver PASIV case.
Eames felt faint. "No..."
"We'll penetrate his subconscious and find out what he doesn't want you to know," Mr. Charles continued. He opened the case next to Eames and began pulling out the tubes.
"Wait..." Eames's arms were already cold, but he still tried to inch away, clenching his teeth against another cry of pain. "You can't. This is already your dream."
"Don't tell me what to do in my own dream," Robert retorted. He crouched next to Mr. Charles. "I'll do it."
Eames shook his head, but it only made his vision blurry. "You can't. The dream will..." He coughed violently, shaking. "It'll collapse," he croaked.
"Then Mr. Charles will have to keep an eye on it for me," Robert said, sliding the needle into his arm.
"But he's just...he's a projection!" Eames swatted at Mr. Charles as he grabbed his wrist, trying to pry it away from his wound. "Stop--he can't--he can't hold up a dream!"
Mr. Charles yanked Eames's arm to the floor and pinned it with his knee so he could insert the needle. "If I'm going to help you, I need you to be calm," he murmured.
"Fischer...wait," Eames tried one more time. "This won't work." Don't put me under like this...!
"I'm getting the truth out of you this time," Robert said with determination. "One way or the other." He signaled to Mr. Charles, who pressed the plunger.
Eames felt a moment of relief as the pain faded. It did not vanish completely, but the agony dulled to sharp irritation, like a cramped muscle. Then the dream world rose around him, and his brain went to work. There was something familiar about the metallic structure, and his mind was all too eager to fill it. As hard as he tried to rein himself in, his concentration was fractured, and he could not prevent his imagination from flooding outward over every empty space. He constructed gun turrets on the walls, stocked ammunition in the storerooms, commanded soldiers to every post. And his was the blankest slate.
He opened his eyes to white. He was seated in a hard metal chair in front of a broad, slanted window, overlooking icy tundra. Though wrapped in a thick jacket the winter cold seeped all through him and made his hip ache. War wound, his instincts told him, filling that space, and with it a character began to form. He knew who he was supposed to be in the current scenario, and he forgot everything that was Eames in favor of it.
He was old, experienced. He was fighting a losing war from a lonely outpost. He was respected and feared in equal measure, and he was satisfied with that.
A door opened behind him, and a man called out to him. "General, we're under attack!"
General. Eames absorbed the information, his creativity inventing whole histories for him. He grasped the handle of his cane and depended on it to move closer to the window. Just as reported, gunshots echoed in the hills beyond his fortress, and a distant explosion vibrated the floor under his feet. He spotted men in white camouflage darting among the trees, making their way closer to his fortress.
"Who are they?" he asked gruffly.
"They're after you, General," the officer said. "We're fighting them off as best we can."
Eames glanced behind him. The officer was young, with a stern jaw and frighteningly blue eyes, dressed in a crisp, white military uniform bearing no country's symbol or colors. His mind invented a history for him, too, and he smiled. "I know you are."
The officer shifted, and then stepped close to his commander's side. "Sir, I think they're here for the safe," he said in almost a whisper. His eyes flicked to the side, and in following his gaze Eames spotted an enormous steel door at the far end of the antechamber. "They're here to steal your secrets."
"My secrets..." Eames's eyes narrowed. No, I will defend this place. That's why I'm here.
An explosion rocked the far tower, and the officer hurried to the window to look out. "General, they've breached the front line. We should get you to safety, immediately." He moved to the door and held it open.
Eames followed, rubbing his beard as he formulated a plan. He found he already knew the layout of the fortress, and could imagine all the routes an invader might use to get inside. He limped through the door and when his officer did not follow it didn't occur to him to think it strange.
His hip throbbed. Eames turned toward the window to hide his wince--for the sake of the men, and their faith in him. As he distracted himself from the familiar pain he could see the attacking soldiers in the courtyard below, hiding from his snipers behind crates and debris. He cursed them from a distance, but when one was shot dead and fell back, he caught a glimpse of the bright yellow insignia on his chest.
"Pinwheel," Eames murmured. The simple shape of it impressed itself on him, reminding him of a history he shouldn't have forgotten. When he touched his chest he found a gold brooch there, it too displaying the pinwheel crest.
Inception. Eames looked over the dreamscape with new eyes. Dreamshare. I'm dreaming. This isn't real. He gasped as another surge of pain hit his abdomen. This is Fischer's dream. Fischer--
Eames whirled, and almost toppled when his cane wasn't enough to fully support him. Growling in frustration he hobbled back into the antechamber and saw his blue-eyed officer punching numbers into the door of his safe. Despite the situation he spared a moment for appreciation.
"You almost had me," he congratulated as he stumbled closer. "I'd like to shake the hand of whoever trained you..."
Robert turned toward him, but before he could speak Eames hefted his cane and struck him hard across the face. He was sent sprawling, blood spurting from his broken nose. Though Eames felt guilty for it, not all of his dream instinct had passed, and his desperation to protect the safe was overwhelming. He reached for the keypad, but without his cane to steady him his legs threatened to give out again, and he half collapsed against the safe door.
Robert spat blood, and was not even fully upright when he threw himself at Eames and kneed him in the gut. The blow was well placed and excruciating--Eames cried out as if hit by a sledgehammer, and would have fallen had he not grabbed Robert's shoulders. "Jesus..."
"Now I'm going to see the real you," Robert said, punching in the last sequence of numbers.
The door beeped, and groaned, and slowly swung open. As the metal fell away from Eames's back he clung to Robert, trying to remain upright, but the man was not interested in supporting him--he shoved Eames to the ground and ignored another anguished groan as he stepped past him and into the chamber.
Eames clutched his abdomen. Though the pain was not as sharp as it had been above, it was still more intense than anything he'd felt in a long time. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but Robert's sudden silence was more distracting than if he'd been shouting. What does he see? He shuddered, not wanting to look. What's in this room?
Soldiers hollered from somewhere nearby, and Robert returned, grabbing Eames by the shoulders to drag him fully into the room. Eames hissed and didn't fight, and a moment later he heard the heavy safe door close, sealing his projections out. "What is this place?" Robert demanded, his voice shaky and echoing in the empty space. He moved away again. "What the hell does this mean?"
Don't look. Don't look... Eames opened his eyes. The inside of the safe was just as it had been during the inception, black and featureless, except that it spread higher and for longer than he could see. There was no bed, no safe, but the room wasn't empty: every space on the wall was taken up with a plastic mask. Men and women of various ages and ethnicities lined in thoughtless disarray, in every direction.
"They're the masks from my dream," Robert said uneasily, moving down the wall. He touched one and shivered. "Peter.... Where are we?"
Eames groaned as he forced his elbows beneath him, and pushed himself up just enough so that he could get a good look at the dozens--hundreds--of empty, eyeless faces. He could only see a few columns in but he recognized every one of them. A chill ran up and down his spine. "They're not yours..."
"What?" Robert paused again in front of a woman's face.
They're mine. Eames tried to push himself higher, but his body was too heavy, and he slumped onto his back again. They're all the faces I've forged. When his upward gaze landed on more masks suspended from the ceiling, he squeezed his eyes shut. But why are they here?
His heart beat faster. Every pulse felt like another jab in his open wound but he could not explain let alone quell the fear propelling it. Why did I bring them here, and why was I protecting them?
The ground shook--the dream above them was collapsing. A gentler reverberation announced Robert's approach. He knelt next to Eames and leaned over him. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.
His breath left him in a rush. "My name is Eames," he confessed at long last. "I'm a petty thief...a con."
"And an extractor," Robert added.
Eames swallowed hard. He wanted to deny it, but when he opened his eyes Robert was watching him with such close scrutiny that he could not bring himself to lie. "Yes."
"Eames..." Robert scraped his sleeve over his face, smearing blood on the otherwise spotless garment. "Why are these masks here?"
"I..." Eames looked around at them again, but he had no more explanation. "I don't know." He coughed, and winced when his wound was jarred. "They're mine, but...I don't know."
The hole in his flesh was opening. He could feel the effects of the first dream trickling down, like the blood that was finally starting to ooze down his hip. Robert noticed, and the intensity in his expression faltered. He licked his lips and cringed at the taste of his own blood. "You're dying," he murmured. "Aren't you."
"Yeah..." Eames tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. "Deserve it, don't I?"
Robert fidgeted. He reached forward, hesitated, and at last began undoing the buttons on Eames's jacket. "I didn't know you could feel pain like this in a dream."
"I did. I just forgot..." When he realized what Robert was up to, he grunted. "Don't. It won't matter down here..."
Robert pushed Eames's shirt up to get a better look at the wound. As he did so his fingers scraped along Eames's stomach--they were cold, and even through the pain it startled him. It reminded Eames of the wraiths and their whispers, and when he looked around the room again he finally realized. "You remember all this, don't you?"
Robert turned away from the sight of the bleeding wound. "What?"
"This room. This fortress..." Eames touched Robert's hand, keeping it against his bare skin. "Me. You remember everything."
"No, I..." He shook his head in frustration. "I don't know." He watched Eames a moment longer, growing more and more distressed, and finally pulled a handgun out of its holster at his waist. "I'll wake you up," he said, pressing the muzzle against Eames's heart.
"No--wait." Eames's fingers were too numb to grip, so he wrapped his arm around Robert's to halt him. "If I wake up now it'll be one level up, and I'll be in twice as much pain. Please." He coughed weakly and closed his eyes. "Let me wait it out here. It shouldn't...be long."
Robert leaned back and fell silent. The ground beneath them was shaking violently by then, and a few of the masks dropped from the walls in quiet thumps. Eames breathed slowly, letting the strength fade out of him. It had been a long time since he'd felt a dream death so gradual, and it gnawed at him despite his efforts at control.
The click of a gun hammer being drawn made him flinch, and the shot followed a moment later. Blood sprayed his chest and Robert fell away from him, hitting the unstable floor with a stomach-churning thud. Eames shuddered, and when he looked all he could see were white clad knees and a limp hand clutching a gun.
"Robert?" Eames stared, his already foggy mind uncomprehending. All around the dark-walled chamber rocked, sending more and more eyeless faces tumbling to the floor, and he grimaced when one struck his shoulder and rolled away. "It's just a dream," he told himself fervently. He pawed at his jacket, and when his hands went numb he shoved them against the brooch so that he could feel its shape against his chest. Pinwheel. This is Robert's dream.
No matter how many times he told himself as such, he couldn't make his heart believe it. As numbness crept up his limbs and into his chest it brought panic with it, resonating in him the cruel truth: he was dying alone. Trapped in a cage of empty identities, in a world that was crumbling all around him, he could do nothing but helplessly await his end.
"I'm dreaming," Eames whispered, his pulse in his ears drowning out the earthquake increasing all around him. "It's just a dream..."
The world went black, and he awoke with a gasp.
He was sitting up against a wall, his breath fast and shallow. For several too long moments his limbs still felt heavy, and a distant pain echoed in his abdomen--he almost didn't want to open his eyes in case tundra lay before him. But then he felt a hand, clammy but strong, wrap around his forearm, and another slapped him gently across the cheek.
Eames opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Robert. The man was crouched close beside him, putting pressure on the slowly bleeding puncture left by a hastily removed PASIV needle. His face was tight and unreadable. "Are you awake?"
Eames licked his lips, but when he tried to reply, nothing came out. He had been caught, again, and he wasn't entirely sure what had happened, let alone what was meant to come next. When his response didn't come fast enough, Robert sighed and shook his head. "I think we both need a drink," he muttered. He stood and moved away, pulling on a white undershirt as he went.
Leave, Eames's better sense told him. It was a mistake to come here. Just get out and forget everything. He braced a hand on the bed as he pushed himself to his feet, dispelling the rest of the dream's physical aftereffects, but he still felt raw, as if exposed. He looked to Robert, expecting him to already be on the phone with security, but from the looks of it he really was pouring himself a glass of brandy.
"You're not...calling the police?" Eames asked as he cautiously left the bedroom.
Robert shook his head. "What difference would it make? You'll just run away before they get here, right? And then what do I tell them?" He swirled the brandy around his glass. "That a mystery man was trespassing in my dreams? God, Peter already thinks I'm crazy." He took a long gulp of the amber liquid.
Eames loosened his tie, and when he came closer Robert eyed him cautiously, then poured him a glass as well. He accepted and downed it easily. "Robert--I mean, Mr. Fischer--"
"Eames." Robert looked him straight in the face. "That is your name, isn't it? This time?"
Two levels down and he retained that? He's so much better than I anticipated. "Not the one my mother gave me," he said, "but yes, it's who I am now." He lifted his glass to Robert, who shook his head again, but refilled it nonetheless. He took it as a good sign. "And I know you have no reason to believe me, but it's like I said before: I just want to know what you're thinking."
"Who are you working for?" Robert asked without missing a beat.
"No one." When he looked about to protest, Eames continued quickly. "For a time I was working for Proclus Global, yes. But that contract ended after I arrived in Los Angeles. Everything after that was my doing, alone. And in case you're thinking of going after my client, there's no evidence," he added.
"You think I don't know that?" Robert bristled, and took another drink on his way to the sofa. "It's not like you're the first spy to hire into my company. We're usually better at spotting them. So?" He sat down heavily and glared, trying to look unimpassioned, but there were cracks in his composure that Eames could easily spot. "If your contract is over, why are you still spying on me? Are you hoping Mr. Saito will buy extra information from you?" He scoffed. "And here I was thinking he might send me a thank you card."
Eames leaned against the back of a chair. "It's not like that."
"Then what, already?" Robert clanged his glass down on the coffee table. "If I was less generous you'd be in prison now, and you still can't give me the truth! I've had enough of this!"
Eames held up a hand. "All right, all right." He rounded the chair and sat down in it. "Calm down."
"Why are you doing this?" he persisted. He leaned forward, agitated, and rubbed absently at his chest. "In the limo you said it was something I said. What was it?"
The truth. Eames put his glass down and felt an echo of the dream's anxiety well in his stomach. "You said you recognized me," he said, his voice low with sincerity. "It reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten from my own father's funeral."
"...What?"
"A man." The story sounded strange on his lips, and it wasn't until then that he realized he couldn't remember telling it before. "There was a man in a military uniform at my father's funeral," he said. "I didn't know who he was, so that night I asked my mother if my father had been a soldier. She said yes."
The temper eased out of Robert's face. "But he wasn't."
"No." Eames's smile felt self-deprecating and he wasn't sure why. "No, he was a thief and a con, just like me."
Robert was quiet a moment, considering. "So. You're my man in uniform?" He pursed his lips as if he couldn't decide what to think of it. "You followed me to Munich just for that?"
"No--not just that." Eames scooted to the edge of the chair and met Robert's eyes seriously. "When I saw you at the funeral, I knew that something was wrong. There's something in your subconscious mind affecting you more than it should. I saw some of that tonight. And last week..."
He hesitated, knowing that he would be pushing Robert one more step too far, but he was just as tired of hiding the truth as Robert was being deceived. "I overheard Peter Browning make a call to Dr. Charla Banks," he said. "He wants her to have a look at you."
Robert looked away, trying to hide a flash of shame. "It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a psychiatrist. Peter already talked to me about this."
"The call was over a week ago," Eames insisted, and as he'd expected, paranoia shown in Robert's face. "And Banks isn't just a psychiatrist--she's a dream expert and a criminal who uses people as test pets. Your training may be extensive but I'm worried about what's in your mind and what she's going to do with it."
The suspicion became confusion. "My what?"
"Your training--your subconscious training." Eames couldn't help but smirk. "It's much more impressive than I originally thought."
"I don't have subconscious training," Robert said blankly.
Eames frowned. "Dream training," he tried again. "Didn't you hire an Extractor to train your subconscious in dream defense?"
"No. My father suggested it years ago, but...." Robert trailed off, his understanding a visible progression across his face. "...but I didn't go through with it."
"Not consentingly, at least," Eames supplied, and was affirmed by the look Robert cast him. Arthur didn't find any indication that Robert was trained, he remembered. Could it be that's because he never was? But then how could his subconscious be so well organized, to the point he even adopted Cobb's Mr. Charles alias? His hands clenched. There are more secrets in his mind...
"I don't know what to think," Robert murmured. "This is...it's crazy." He rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "What are you saying? That I really am going crazy, and now Peter is plotting behind my back with a mind-raping criminal?"
"Something like that, I'm afraid."
"Jesus." Robert dropped his face into his hands and took slow breaths. "This is crazy," he said again, weakly.
Eames watched him, his stomach roiling. The rest of the truth was on his tongue but it didn't make it past. If I tell him it was me, he'll never trust me, he told himself. And if I'm going to sort this out, I'll need his trust. He can hate me later.
"I'll leave," he said. He stood, glancing over his shoulder at the PASIV and briefcase he'd left behind. "There are some things I need to look into. If you want me to never come back, I'll leave you alone--I promise this time." He turned toward the bedroom.
"No." Robert sat up. "You're not going anywhere."
Eames stopped and looked back. "What?"
"You're a liar and a spy, but you might be the only one that knows what's going on," he said. He moved to the dresser and retrieved his phone. "And until I know the truth, I don't want you out of my sight."
"You...what?"
Robert pointed to a far doorway as he texted with the other hand. "There's another bedroom in there. You're going to stay in there, and my security is coming up to sit on this sofa and keep an eye on you." He pointed it out. "And you're not going anywhere until I say otherwise, do you understand?"
Eames blinked, baffled. "Yes?"
"Good." Robert looked more secure, made confident with a plan in place. "Now...I'm taking a valium," he concluded. "Goodnight, Mr. Eames." He passed Eames on his way to the bedroom, weary but determined.
"Goodnight..." Eames glanced after the PASIV, but he didn't want to know what Robert would do if he attempted to retrieve it from under his nose. He's not turning me in--I'll just have to be patient. Isn't this sort of what I wanted anyway? He heard footsteps approaching the door, and rather than have to fumble through a greeting with security he retreated to the second bedroom. As long as he thinks I know what's happening, he'll allow me around him.
Eames closed the door behind him and leaned against it. It's been a long time, he recalled, rubbing his hip. When was the last time someone caught me like that? And with so little effort. It was exhilarating and humbling at once, and he couldn't stop thinking about the unexpected secrets opened in his own mind. Was that room really mine? Those masks...could have been his influence, from the level above. With a deep breath he moved further into the room. I'll have another chance to know. I'm in too deep now to walk away.
He looked to the bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep that night.
To chapter 5
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 4/19 (7,533 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 catching a very serious typo >.>;; Long chapter is long, I know. Sorry!
It had been a while since Eames was forced to don a real disguise, but when faced with the opportunity he made the most of it. He shaved, mussed his hair, and put on a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, all the while grumbling to himself about having checked out of the hotel so hastily two days before. Dressed in a dark suit--compliments of Peter Browning--he could even pass for a respectable businessman. Robert would recognize him if he spotted him, but the schedule downloaded from his cell phone would come in handy for avoiding him. He was more concerned with not alerting hotel security, in case Robert had tipped them off to his antics. With businessmen flowing in and out of the hotel daily hopefully he would fit in.
He should be across town for at least a few hours, Eames thought as he entered the hotel and headed for the lounge, briefcase in hand. Chances are even if he gets back late he won't retire right away. I'll have to be careful.
Eames spent the evening at various spots around the hotel's first floor: first working at his laptop in the lounge, then dinner at the restaurant, and at last a drink at the bar. He chatted up a few charming ladies along the way, friendly but still very professional, and as far as he could tell he left a favorable impression on the staff. A while before Robert was scheduled to return to the hotel he paid a maid four hundred Euro to unlock the suite's balcony door.
At one in the morning the bar closed, and Eames made his way upstairs. Using a card key he had programmed earlier he let himself into the room next to the one he had occupied only two nights before. A couple was asleep in bed, and Eames tiptoed past them quickly to the balcony. When he opened the door the woman stirred, and Eames held his breath, but by the time he'd drawn the curtain she was settling again.
Eames leaned against the balcony rail. If he's had trouble sleeping, he might not even be in bed by now, he thought, staring at the balcony above him. No way to know without looking. He smiled distantly. If only Cobb were here to yell at me.
He waited on the balcony for an hour just to be sure. It was a warm night, comfortable, and he took the time to think over his strategy. Being alone there was only so deep he could go; the best he could hope for was to observe and maybe get lucky. Just a peek, he told himself. Like I said. That will be plenty.
When he decided he couldn't wait any longer he opened his briefcase, pulling out a length of rope with a weight on one end. In one easy toss he had looped it around the balcony rail above him, and with his briefcase attached to his belt he scurried up to the next floor. It was not the most gentlemanlike of scurries, and there was enough light from the street that someone might have seen him. I'll only be ten minutes, Eames reasoned to himself as he climbed over the rail and crouched behind the patio furniture. Not enough time for someone to convince themselves they're not mad and call security.
The lights in the suite were off. Eames pressed his gloved hands to the glass, peering inside, and saw no one in the suite's main room or bathroom. He could not see the bedroom to be sure Robert was there, but an expensive-looking suit was strewn across the floor, and the brandy bottle was less full than when Eames had noted it last. With a deep breath he tried the balcony door and was relieved to find it unlocked, as arranged.
Eames stored his rope back in the briefcase and crept into the room. When he heard a quiet murmur he ducked back, and remained motionless until he was certain it had not been a sound from a conscious person. On tiptoes he climbed the two steps to the bedroom and there found Robert Fischer.
Robert was asleep on his back in bed. He was clothed only in a pair of silky boxers, and the sheets were only half covering him, twisted around his limbs as if he had been struggling. Sweat shone on his forehead and upper lip. As Eames stopped next to him he could not help but wince in sympathy. Nightmares. That is going to make forging blind tricky. He crouched down next to the bed and pulled a second briefcase the size of a lunchbox out of the first: A PASIV with only a timer and two slots for Somnacin. He placed it on the floor and took off his jacket so he could roll up his sleeve.
Robert moaned in his sleep. Eames eyed him but did not pause in setting up the half-sized device and taping the IV to his arm. As carefully as he could, he did the same for Robert, and then sat down against the back wall.
Just a peek, he told himself again, and he pressed the plunger.
Everything went black. Eames breathed deep, and could feel when his lungs transitioned from flesh to shade. In instants too swift to consciously perceive he became aware of the dream around him, and his mind expanded to fill the space. His art was fluid but controlled, recognizing that the dream was already well constructed, already teeming with populace. There was only one empty space to fill.
As was Eames's skill, he let Robert's consciousness claim him--let him put a projection's skin on him, without any forethought of what he would become. Though dangerous, he had faith that the PASIV would wake him to himself, and as long as he remembered what transpired in the dream his trip would be worth it.
He dreamt he was roaming a dark hallway, with no memory that he was Eames, of how he had gotten there or what he was meant to be doing. He was no longer quite human, either: his limbs were long, thin, and white, his knuckles and joints bony and knobbed. He only had a vague sense of his torso, which was cloaked, along with his head, in a long black veil. When he looked left and right he saw creatures like him shuffling about like a slowly traveling herd, each one wearing a mask. Their faces were thin and plastic with the eyes cut out, like cheap Halloween costumes. It wasn't until then that Eames realized he was wearing one as well.
Ahead of him, one of the wandering wraiths swayed, then the one behind him. The disturbance rippled down the crowd, drawing closer, until Eames spotted the source: a young boy was pushing his way down the corridor. His expensive clothes were rumpled and his eyes were wide with panic. As he passed, several of the wraiths lowered their hands to touch his hair and face, but he batted them away and kept going.
The boy reached him, and as the others had done Eames brushed the backs of his knuckles against his temple. At first the boy thrust his hand away, but then he paused, and stared up at Eames with childlike fright.
Eames smiled, but the expression did not translate to his mask. "Robert," he said in a voice that wasn't his, speaking words assigned to him by the dream. "Where's your mother?"
The young Robert paled, and scurried away.
Eames followed. He pushed at the wraiths with his spindly arms, shoving his way against the flow after the retreating figure. Soon he felt their cold hands touching him, brushing his shoulders and mask. Cold whispers hissed at his ears.
"Where is his mother?" one asked him, and was echoed by several others.
"Where is his father?"
"Where are you going?"
Eames fought through them, and as he chased Robert's retreating form he began to remember that he had come for a reason. "Robert!"
Robert looked back, and upon seeing that he was being followed, he ran faster. Eames tried to match his pace but he was too tall, and couldn't weave through the throng as easily as a small boy.
"Don't let him catch you," the wraiths whispered, some of them even moving out of Robert's way. They continued to touch his hair fondly as he passed. "You can't trust him."
I can't be trusted. Eames assimilated the information, and his voice deepened to a growl. "Robert, get back here, now!" He ran flat out, but by then Robert had gained too much ground on him, and he couldn't catch up.
The hallway turned. It opened into a vast foyer, with cobweb-covered chandeliers, musty portraits and cold marble floors. It too was filled with shuffling black figures, and their continuous hissing filled the immense space like radio static. There was no sign of Robert, but he heard a door close on the other side of the room. He hurried over only to find half a dozen tall oak doors along the wall. Picking one at random, he hurried inside.
Harsh, iridescent light blinded him. He shielded his eyes, and once they had adjusted he realized he was in a bathroom. It was cleaner and much brighter than the rest of the building, almost sterile, with long mirrors. When Eames looked into them he remembered who he was.
Right. I'm in Fischer's dream. He touched the plastic mask over his head, feeling out the gray eyebrows and wide mouth. I'm Browning, he realized. Is that why they reacted to me differently? He glanced to the mirror again and was claimed by a bad idea. With his hands over the mask he changed its shape to that of his own face. Now let's see what they say.
Eames exited the bathroom, and as soon as he stepped into the crowded foyer a hundred empty black eyes turned toward him. Their attention was sharp and eerie, and he stood still, waiting to see what they would do. They know this face too, he thought as the closest of the wraiths shuffled closer. I was right--he has projected me into his dreams.
The wraith that reached him first was a woman. She stretched out a skeletal hand and touched his face, feeling out the shape of his mask's lips. "Who are you?" she breathed.
"Who are you?" another said next to her. It plucked at his shoulder. "I know you."
Their words were echoed in their peers like a droning chant, and Eames did his best to remain still despite their continued prodding. More and more hands pawed at him, curious and wary, and more plastic faces crowded close.
"Who are you really? Why are you here?"
"Why didn't you come to dinner?"
Eames turned toward the last to speak, but he didn't recognize the face watching him so intently. "What?"
"You didn't come to dinner," it said. "We waited for you."
"You're Fred Simmonds, from the airport."
"I know you."
A pair of hands slipped beneath Eames's robes and pressed against his bare chest. He jumped, startled by the chill fingers, and stumbled back.
"Your hands are cold," the wraith breathed.
"Your hands were cold."
Eames shoved the hands off him, but another pair grabbed him from behind, and another latched onto his arm. They continued to hiss at his ears, their voices growing harsh and indistinct. Jagged fingernails bore into his shoulders and wrists. He struggled, knowing it was a dream but unable to help a thrill of panic. When he thought he'd broken free they began climbing on top of each other to get to him, howling, "Who are you? Who are you?"
A woman's thin body pressed against his back, and a sweet voice with a French accent sang in his ear. "Are you here for the secrets?"
Eames looked over his shoulder. The face was familiar, but without the eyes he couldn't place it. "Yes," he said on impulse.
"I know where they're hidden." Her plastic lips curled in a coy smile, though they did not move when she spoke. "Come with me."
She pulled away, and Eames forced his full strength into his pale limbs to throw his pursuers off. As the woman dashed through the crowd he ran after her, shoving the black-veiled figures out of his way. Once he was close enough she reached back and squeezed his hand. They wove through the waves, through one of the heavy oak doors and into another foyer larger and more crowded than the last.
"Who are you?" Eames called as they charged through white, grasping fingers.
"I want to tell you my secrets!" she shouted back.
She led him to a curved stairway that seemed to spiral up for dozens of floors, but instead of climbing it she pulled him underneath. There was a small doorway hidden against the wall there, which she unlocked with a key produced from her robe. Light shown from the other side, and as she squeezed through Eames wondered briefly if she might have been a white rabbit.
They passed through a tunnel, into a warm and inviting light. When it dulled enough for Eames to make out his surroundings, the first thing he saw was a wooden carousel horse flying past. He blinked, and looked around in amazement: gone was the dark and foreboding mansion, replaced with an afternoon carnival. The air was hot and smelled of pavement, and people--real people--packed the walkways and ride lines.
The woman tugged on Eames's hand. Her appearance had not changed, making her stand out like a dark ghost in the otherwise pleasant atmosphere. "Come on," she said, dragging Eames to a running pace once more. "We're almost there."
Eames followed, though he still tried to take in everything there was to see in the park: roller coasters, pizza vendors, prize booths. Happy families and smiling dates. As they ran past a hot dog stand he thought he caught a glimpse of the young Robert Fischer but he couldn't be sure.
The woman veered suddenly, and pulled Eames toward the restrooms. There was a storeroom at the back, which she unlocked with another miraculously produced key. "Here we are," she said, twisting the knob.
They stepped through the door and into darkness again. The room smelled and felt just like the hallway and foyer, old and musty and uninviting. Heavy curtains blocked the tall windows, and a bookshelf took up most of the rightmost wall. At the center of the room was a bed, the sheets pulled back, an IV and oxygen tank mounted on one side. Eames moved closer, slowly. The bed was occupied but not by a person: a black veil was stretched out over the satin sheets, flat and unoccupied unlike the other wraiths. An empty mask bearing no likeness sat perched on the pillow. Though there was no volume of a body and nothing in the room moved, Eames could hear slow, shallow breath issuing from the nostril holes.
Eames stopped next to the bed, transfixed. The hissing rhythm of lungs that weren't present was hypnotizing. He looked behind him, but the woman had closed the door behind them and was no longer moving. She stood very still as if she had become part of the décor.
"Is this it?" Eames asked. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"
She did not respond, and with a sigh Eames turned back to the bed. He understood very well what the eerie figure was meant to represent, but there seemed to be nothing more to learn from it. This is Maurice Fischer's room, he thought, recognizing the layout. He turned to the nightstand, and frowned at it for several moments as he contemplated. I wonder...
Eames crouched down next to the night stand and pulled at what looked like a drawer handle, but actually opened a small door. It stuck, and he had to pull hard to open it, spilling a few books to the floor. As he'd suspected a small black safe was hidden inside. Holding his breath, he punched in a familiar combination: 528491. The safe beeped, and its door swung slowly open.
He reached inside. He felt the top shelf first, expecting to find a collection of papers, but it was empty. With a frown he checked the lower compartment, and from the safe's innards produced a frail paper pinwheel.
Is this it? Eames turned the pinwheel over in his hands with great delicacy. The secret he wants me to find? Is this... He felt his breath steam the inside of his mask. Is this the mark of the Inception? But this is only one level deep.
His fingers curled against the paper, and as he listened to it bend his heart began to beat faster. Can I destroy it? He looked to the shadow that was Maurice Fischer, to the unmoving stranger behind him, and back to the pinwheel. It can't be undone as easily as that, can it?
Eames was still mentally reeling when he noticed that one of the books he had toppled lay open in front of him. He squinted, and soon realized that the page was not covered in any manner of writing, but a simple illustration. It was a picture of a pinwheel.
"What...?" Eames stood and surveyed the room again. The painting near the door that he barely glimpsed coming in was an elegant, bold-lined pinwheel. The flowers sitting in a vase on the desk were pinwheels. He moved to the window and drew the curtains back: outdoor floodlights lighted the distant shapes of whirling pinwheel trees. When he flipped through the pages of the book he still held, each page bore a pinwheel, and in the turning of paper the image twirled in front of him.
Eames dropped the book and stared at the original paper craft still held in his suddenly trembling hand. "Bloody hell..."
The door creaked open, and the crack of a gunshot echoed through the room. By the time Eames had whipped around the strange woman was falling to the floor--her arms and legs vanished, leaving only a fluttering veil and a mask skittering away.
Cobb stepped all the way through the door. He was dressed in a slick black suit, his favorite Berretta snug in a gloved grip. He raised the weapon toward Eames, who quickly ducked back. "Cobb, wait!" He yanked his mask off, and the rest of his forgery dissipated with it. "It's me." When Cobb lowered the gun Eames chuckled and came forward. "Leave it to you to do exactly what you told me not to. What are you doing here?"
Cobb regarded him stoically. "I'm in charge of security here," he said. He shoved his gun into the inside of Eames's hip bone and pulled the trigger.
Eames rocked. He was too shocked to cry out at first, pressing his hand over the sudden pour of blood from his abdomen. When he tried to take a step back his legs buckled, and the impact of his body to the floor sent utter agony shooting through him and out from his throat in a scream.
The light from behind the entrance was blocked momentarily by another entering figure. Though Eames's eyes were already watering he strained to see, and shuddered at the sight of a full grown, suited Robert Fischer stepping inside. He straightened his lapels and regarded Eames uncomfortably.
"Good work, Mr. Charles," he murmured, nodding to the blond at his side.
"That's why I'm here protecting you," the projection replied.
"Mr. Charles...?" Eames tried to shift so he could better see the men, but his feet were already numb and the rest of him was throbbing in anguish--he could feel fragments of bone tearing into his tissue. Groaning, he tried to apply pressure to the wound, but the blood flowing over his fingers was already thick and dark. I'm dying. I'm bleeding to death. "You...you adopted our fake projection?"
"I don't know what you mean," Robert said. He moved closer, but seeing Eames writhe on the floor turned his cheeks pale, and he stopped short. "Now are you going to tell me who you are?"
"This is...impossible," Eames said weakly. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on fighting back nausea--he didn't want to think of his body jerking if he vomited. "You weren't this well trained before..." He's already conscious it's a dream. Is he even ordering his projection? His brain swam and he couldn't make sense of anything.
"Who are you?" Robert demanded, shifting anxiously on his feet. "Tell me what you're here to steal from me!"
"I'm not," Eames moaned. "I just wanted...to see."
Mr. Charles holstered his gun. "He's lying, Robert," he said, almost mechanically. "He's hiding something. Let's find out what."
"How?"
"Let's do to him what he was going to do to you." Mr. Charles reached into the safe that Eames had just emptied and pulled out a silver PASIV case.
Eames felt faint. "No..."
"We'll penetrate his subconscious and find out what he doesn't want you to know," Mr. Charles continued. He opened the case next to Eames and began pulling out the tubes.
"Wait..." Eames's arms were already cold, but he still tried to inch away, clenching his teeth against another cry of pain. "You can't. This is already your dream."
"Don't tell me what to do in my own dream," Robert retorted. He crouched next to Mr. Charles. "I'll do it."
Eames shook his head, but it only made his vision blurry. "You can't. The dream will..." He coughed violently, shaking. "It'll collapse," he croaked.
"Then Mr. Charles will have to keep an eye on it for me," Robert said, sliding the needle into his arm.
"But he's just...he's a projection!" Eames swatted at Mr. Charles as he grabbed his wrist, trying to pry it away from his wound. "Stop--he can't--he can't hold up a dream!"
Mr. Charles yanked Eames's arm to the floor and pinned it with his knee so he could insert the needle. "If I'm going to help you, I need you to be calm," he murmured.
"Fischer...wait," Eames tried one more time. "This won't work." Don't put me under like this...!
"I'm getting the truth out of you this time," Robert said with determination. "One way or the other." He signaled to Mr. Charles, who pressed the plunger.
Eames felt a moment of relief as the pain faded. It did not vanish completely, but the agony dulled to sharp irritation, like a cramped muscle. Then the dream world rose around him, and his brain went to work. There was something familiar about the metallic structure, and his mind was all too eager to fill it. As hard as he tried to rein himself in, his concentration was fractured, and he could not prevent his imagination from flooding outward over every empty space. He constructed gun turrets on the walls, stocked ammunition in the storerooms, commanded soldiers to every post. And his was the blankest slate.
He opened his eyes to white. He was seated in a hard metal chair in front of a broad, slanted window, overlooking icy tundra. Though wrapped in a thick jacket the winter cold seeped all through him and made his hip ache. War wound, his instincts told him, filling that space, and with it a character began to form. He knew who he was supposed to be in the current scenario, and he forgot everything that was Eames in favor of it.
He was old, experienced. He was fighting a losing war from a lonely outpost. He was respected and feared in equal measure, and he was satisfied with that.
A door opened behind him, and a man called out to him. "General, we're under attack!"
General. Eames absorbed the information, his creativity inventing whole histories for him. He grasped the handle of his cane and depended on it to move closer to the window. Just as reported, gunshots echoed in the hills beyond his fortress, and a distant explosion vibrated the floor under his feet. He spotted men in white camouflage darting among the trees, making their way closer to his fortress.
"Who are they?" he asked gruffly.
"They're after you, General," the officer said. "We're fighting them off as best we can."
Eames glanced behind him. The officer was young, with a stern jaw and frighteningly blue eyes, dressed in a crisp, white military uniform bearing no country's symbol or colors. His mind invented a history for him, too, and he smiled. "I know you are."
The officer shifted, and then stepped close to his commander's side. "Sir, I think they're here for the safe," he said in almost a whisper. His eyes flicked to the side, and in following his gaze Eames spotted an enormous steel door at the far end of the antechamber. "They're here to steal your secrets."
"My secrets..." Eames's eyes narrowed. No, I will defend this place. That's why I'm here.
An explosion rocked the far tower, and the officer hurried to the window to look out. "General, they've breached the front line. We should get you to safety, immediately." He moved to the door and held it open.
Eames followed, rubbing his beard as he formulated a plan. He found he already knew the layout of the fortress, and could imagine all the routes an invader might use to get inside. He limped through the door and when his officer did not follow it didn't occur to him to think it strange.
His hip throbbed. Eames turned toward the window to hide his wince--for the sake of the men, and their faith in him. As he distracted himself from the familiar pain he could see the attacking soldiers in the courtyard below, hiding from his snipers behind crates and debris. He cursed them from a distance, but when one was shot dead and fell back, he caught a glimpse of the bright yellow insignia on his chest.
"Pinwheel," Eames murmured. The simple shape of it impressed itself on him, reminding him of a history he shouldn't have forgotten. When he touched his chest he found a gold brooch there, it too displaying the pinwheel crest.
Inception. Eames looked over the dreamscape with new eyes. Dreamshare. I'm dreaming. This isn't real. He gasped as another surge of pain hit his abdomen. This is Fischer's dream. Fischer--
Eames whirled, and almost toppled when his cane wasn't enough to fully support him. Growling in frustration he hobbled back into the antechamber and saw his blue-eyed officer punching numbers into the door of his safe. Despite the situation he spared a moment for appreciation.
"You almost had me," he congratulated as he stumbled closer. "I'd like to shake the hand of whoever trained you..."
Robert turned toward him, but before he could speak Eames hefted his cane and struck him hard across the face. He was sent sprawling, blood spurting from his broken nose. Though Eames felt guilty for it, not all of his dream instinct had passed, and his desperation to protect the safe was overwhelming. He reached for the keypad, but without his cane to steady him his legs threatened to give out again, and he half collapsed against the safe door.
Robert spat blood, and was not even fully upright when he threw himself at Eames and kneed him in the gut. The blow was well placed and excruciating--Eames cried out as if hit by a sledgehammer, and would have fallen had he not grabbed Robert's shoulders. "Jesus..."
"Now I'm going to see the real you," Robert said, punching in the last sequence of numbers.
The door beeped, and groaned, and slowly swung open. As the metal fell away from Eames's back he clung to Robert, trying to remain upright, but the man was not interested in supporting him--he shoved Eames to the ground and ignored another anguished groan as he stepped past him and into the chamber.
Eames clutched his abdomen. Though the pain was not as sharp as it had been above, it was still more intense than anything he'd felt in a long time. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but Robert's sudden silence was more distracting than if he'd been shouting. What does he see? He shuddered, not wanting to look. What's in this room?
Soldiers hollered from somewhere nearby, and Robert returned, grabbing Eames by the shoulders to drag him fully into the room. Eames hissed and didn't fight, and a moment later he heard the heavy safe door close, sealing his projections out. "What is this place?" Robert demanded, his voice shaky and echoing in the empty space. He moved away again. "What the hell does this mean?"
Don't look. Don't look... Eames opened his eyes. The inside of the safe was just as it had been during the inception, black and featureless, except that it spread higher and for longer than he could see. There was no bed, no safe, but the room wasn't empty: every space on the wall was taken up with a plastic mask. Men and women of various ages and ethnicities lined in thoughtless disarray, in every direction.
"They're the masks from my dream," Robert said uneasily, moving down the wall. He touched one and shivered. "Peter.... Where are we?"
Eames groaned as he forced his elbows beneath him, and pushed himself up just enough so that he could get a good look at the dozens--hundreds--of empty, eyeless faces. He could only see a few columns in but he recognized every one of them. A chill ran up and down his spine. "They're not yours..."
"What?" Robert paused again in front of a woman's face.
They're mine. Eames tried to push himself higher, but his body was too heavy, and he slumped onto his back again. They're all the faces I've forged. When his upward gaze landed on more masks suspended from the ceiling, he squeezed his eyes shut. But why are they here?
His heart beat faster. Every pulse felt like another jab in his open wound but he could not explain let alone quell the fear propelling it. Why did I bring them here, and why was I protecting them?
The ground shook--the dream above them was collapsing. A gentler reverberation announced Robert's approach. He knelt next to Eames and leaned over him. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.
His breath left him in a rush. "My name is Eames," he confessed at long last. "I'm a petty thief...a con."
"And an extractor," Robert added.
Eames swallowed hard. He wanted to deny it, but when he opened his eyes Robert was watching him with such close scrutiny that he could not bring himself to lie. "Yes."
"Eames..." Robert scraped his sleeve over his face, smearing blood on the otherwise spotless garment. "Why are these masks here?"
"I..." Eames looked around at them again, but he had no more explanation. "I don't know." He coughed, and winced when his wound was jarred. "They're mine, but...I don't know."
The hole in his flesh was opening. He could feel the effects of the first dream trickling down, like the blood that was finally starting to ooze down his hip. Robert noticed, and the intensity in his expression faltered. He licked his lips and cringed at the taste of his own blood. "You're dying," he murmured. "Aren't you."
"Yeah..." Eames tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. "Deserve it, don't I?"
Robert fidgeted. He reached forward, hesitated, and at last began undoing the buttons on Eames's jacket. "I didn't know you could feel pain like this in a dream."
"I did. I just forgot..." When he realized what Robert was up to, he grunted. "Don't. It won't matter down here..."
Robert pushed Eames's shirt up to get a better look at the wound. As he did so his fingers scraped along Eames's stomach--they were cold, and even through the pain it startled him. It reminded Eames of the wraiths and their whispers, and when he looked around the room again he finally realized. "You remember all this, don't you?"
Robert turned away from the sight of the bleeding wound. "What?"
"This room. This fortress..." Eames touched Robert's hand, keeping it against his bare skin. "Me. You remember everything."
"No, I..." He shook his head in frustration. "I don't know." He watched Eames a moment longer, growing more and more distressed, and finally pulled a handgun out of its holster at his waist. "I'll wake you up," he said, pressing the muzzle against Eames's heart.
"No--wait." Eames's fingers were too numb to grip, so he wrapped his arm around Robert's to halt him. "If I wake up now it'll be one level up, and I'll be in twice as much pain. Please." He coughed weakly and closed his eyes. "Let me wait it out here. It shouldn't...be long."
Robert leaned back and fell silent. The ground beneath them was shaking violently by then, and a few of the masks dropped from the walls in quiet thumps. Eames breathed slowly, letting the strength fade out of him. It had been a long time since he'd felt a dream death so gradual, and it gnawed at him despite his efforts at control.
The click of a gun hammer being drawn made him flinch, and the shot followed a moment later. Blood sprayed his chest and Robert fell away from him, hitting the unstable floor with a stomach-churning thud. Eames shuddered, and when he looked all he could see were white clad knees and a limp hand clutching a gun.
"Robert?" Eames stared, his already foggy mind uncomprehending. All around the dark-walled chamber rocked, sending more and more eyeless faces tumbling to the floor, and he grimaced when one struck his shoulder and rolled away. "It's just a dream," he told himself fervently. He pawed at his jacket, and when his hands went numb he shoved them against the brooch so that he could feel its shape against his chest. Pinwheel. This is Robert's dream.
No matter how many times he told himself as such, he couldn't make his heart believe it. As numbness crept up his limbs and into his chest it brought panic with it, resonating in him the cruel truth: he was dying alone. Trapped in a cage of empty identities, in a world that was crumbling all around him, he could do nothing but helplessly await his end.
"I'm dreaming," Eames whispered, his pulse in his ears drowning out the earthquake increasing all around him. "It's just a dream..."
The world went black, and he awoke with a gasp.
He was sitting up against a wall, his breath fast and shallow. For several too long moments his limbs still felt heavy, and a distant pain echoed in his abdomen--he almost didn't want to open his eyes in case tundra lay before him. But then he felt a hand, clammy but strong, wrap around his forearm, and another slapped him gently across the cheek.
Eames opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Robert. The man was crouched close beside him, putting pressure on the slowly bleeding puncture left by a hastily removed PASIV needle. His face was tight and unreadable. "Are you awake?"
Eames licked his lips, but when he tried to reply, nothing came out. He had been caught, again, and he wasn't entirely sure what had happened, let alone what was meant to come next. When his response didn't come fast enough, Robert sighed and shook his head. "I think we both need a drink," he muttered. He stood and moved away, pulling on a white undershirt as he went.
Leave, Eames's better sense told him. It was a mistake to come here. Just get out and forget everything. He braced a hand on the bed as he pushed himself to his feet, dispelling the rest of the dream's physical aftereffects, but he still felt raw, as if exposed. He looked to Robert, expecting him to already be on the phone with security, but from the looks of it he really was pouring himself a glass of brandy.
"You're not...calling the police?" Eames asked as he cautiously left the bedroom.
Robert shook his head. "What difference would it make? You'll just run away before they get here, right? And then what do I tell them?" He swirled the brandy around his glass. "That a mystery man was trespassing in my dreams? God, Peter already thinks I'm crazy." He took a long gulp of the amber liquid.
Eames loosened his tie, and when he came closer Robert eyed him cautiously, then poured him a glass as well. He accepted and downed it easily. "Robert--I mean, Mr. Fischer--"
"Eames." Robert looked him straight in the face. "That is your name, isn't it? This time?"
Two levels down and he retained that? He's so much better than I anticipated. "Not the one my mother gave me," he said, "but yes, it's who I am now." He lifted his glass to Robert, who shook his head again, but refilled it nonetheless. He took it as a good sign. "And I know you have no reason to believe me, but it's like I said before: I just want to know what you're thinking."
"Who are you working for?" Robert asked without missing a beat.
"No one." When he looked about to protest, Eames continued quickly. "For a time I was working for Proclus Global, yes. But that contract ended after I arrived in Los Angeles. Everything after that was my doing, alone. And in case you're thinking of going after my client, there's no evidence," he added.
"You think I don't know that?" Robert bristled, and took another drink on his way to the sofa. "It's not like you're the first spy to hire into my company. We're usually better at spotting them. So?" He sat down heavily and glared, trying to look unimpassioned, but there were cracks in his composure that Eames could easily spot. "If your contract is over, why are you still spying on me? Are you hoping Mr. Saito will buy extra information from you?" He scoffed. "And here I was thinking he might send me a thank you card."
Eames leaned against the back of a chair. "It's not like that."
"Then what, already?" Robert clanged his glass down on the coffee table. "If I was less generous you'd be in prison now, and you still can't give me the truth! I've had enough of this!"
Eames held up a hand. "All right, all right." He rounded the chair and sat down in it. "Calm down."
"Why are you doing this?" he persisted. He leaned forward, agitated, and rubbed absently at his chest. "In the limo you said it was something I said. What was it?"
The truth. Eames put his glass down and felt an echo of the dream's anxiety well in his stomach. "You said you recognized me," he said, his voice low with sincerity. "It reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten from my own father's funeral."
"...What?"
"A man." The story sounded strange on his lips, and it wasn't until then that he realized he couldn't remember telling it before. "There was a man in a military uniform at my father's funeral," he said. "I didn't know who he was, so that night I asked my mother if my father had been a soldier. She said yes."
The temper eased out of Robert's face. "But he wasn't."
"No." Eames's smile felt self-deprecating and he wasn't sure why. "No, he was a thief and a con, just like me."
Robert was quiet a moment, considering. "So. You're my man in uniform?" He pursed his lips as if he couldn't decide what to think of it. "You followed me to Munich just for that?"
"No--not just that." Eames scooted to the edge of the chair and met Robert's eyes seriously. "When I saw you at the funeral, I knew that something was wrong. There's something in your subconscious mind affecting you more than it should. I saw some of that tonight. And last week..."
He hesitated, knowing that he would be pushing Robert one more step too far, but he was just as tired of hiding the truth as Robert was being deceived. "I overheard Peter Browning make a call to Dr. Charla Banks," he said. "He wants her to have a look at you."
Robert looked away, trying to hide a flash of shame. "It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a psychiatrist. Peter already talked to me about this."
"The call was over a week ago," Eames insisted, and as he'd expected, paranoia shown in Robert's face. "And Banks isn't just a psychiatrist--she's a dream expert and a criminal who uses people as test pets. Your training may be extensive but I'm worried about what's in your mind and what she's going to do with it."
The suspicion became confusion. "My what?"
"Your training--your subconscious training." Eames couldn't help but smirk. "It's much more impressive than I originally thought."
"I don't have subconscious training," Robert said blankly.
Eames frowned. "Dream training," he tried again. "Didn't you hire an Extractor to train your subconscious in dream defense?"
"No. My father suggested it years ago, but...." Robert trailed off, his understanding a visible progression across his face. "...but I didn't go through with it."
"Not consentingly, at least," Eames supplied, and was affirmed by the look Robert cast him. Arthur didn't find any indication that Robert was trained, he remembered. Could it be that's because he never was? But then how could his subconscious be so well organized, to the point he even adopted Cobb's Mr. Charles alias? His hands clenched. There are more secrets in his mind...
"I don't know what to think," Robert murmured. "This is...it's crazy." He rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "What are you saying? That I really am going crazy, and now Peter is plotting behind my back with a mind-raping criminal?"
"Something like that, I'm afraid."
"Jesus." Robert dropped his face into his hands and took slow breaths. "This is crazy," he said again, weakly.
Eames watched him, his stomach roiling. The rest of the truth was on his tongue but it didn't make it past. If I tell him it was me, he'll never trust me, he told himself. And if I'm going to sort this out, I'll need his trust. He can hate me later.
"I'll leave," he said. He stood, glancing over his shoulder at the PASIV and briefcase he'd left behind. "There are some things I need to look into. If you want me to never come back, I'll leave you alone--I promise this time." He turned toward the bedroom.
"No." Robert sat up. "You're not going anywhere."
Eames stopped and looked back. "What?"
"You're a liar and a spy, but you might be the only one that knows what's going on," he said. He moved to the dresser and retrieved his phone. "And until I know the truth, I don't want you out of my sight."
"You...what?"
Robert pointed to a far doorway as he texted with the other hand. "There's another bedroom in there. You're going to stay in there, and my security is coming up to sit on this sofa and keep an eye on you." He pointed it out. "And you're not going anywhere until I say otherwise, do you understand?"
Eames blinked, baffled. "Yes?"
"Good." Robert looked more secure, made confident with a plan in place. "Now...I'm taking a valium," he concluded. "Goodnight, Mr. Eames." He passed Eames on his way to the bedroom, weary but determined.
"Goodnight..." Eames glanced after the PASIV, but he didn't want to know what Robert would do if he attempted to retrieve it from under his nose. He's not turning me in--I'll just have to be patient. Isn't this sort of what I wanted anyway? He heard footsteps approaching the door, and rather than have to fumble through a greeting with security he retreated to the second bedroom. As long as he thinks I know what's happening, he'll allow me around him.
Eames closed the door behind him and leaned against it. It's been a long time, he recalled, rubbing his hip. When was the last time someone caught me like that? And with so little effort. It was exhilarating and humbling at once, and he couldn't stop thinking about the unexpected secrets opened in his own mind. Was that room really mine? Those masks...could have been his influence, from the level above. With a deep breath he moved further into the room. I'll have another chance to know. I'm in too deep now to walk away.
He looked to the bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep that night.
To chapter 5