sniplet
Here is a little unrelated-to-anything Inception snippet. It's sort of an idea in search of an actual story.
"Jesus Christ," Arthur gasps out. There's a black, segmented, ten fingered hand around his throat, tightening, another pawing at his chest, leaving deep scratches. "Kate," he says, his voice a strained whisper, "Katie, come on." His vision is going spotty, and then he can breathe again and Kate is looking at him from behind the heavy, gleaming gun he taught her with. There are tear tracks on her cheeks, curling under her chin.
Arthur rolls to the side, shoving the heavy body of him, retching at the smell of it. Kate wipes at her face.
"Fuck," Arthur says. "Sorry, I mean--"
"That’s okay," she says. "We have to go."
"Okay, all right," Arthur says. There’s something wrong at the base of his spine; it takes him a long time to climb painfully to his feet. Kate helps him as much as she can. There are scratches on her cheeks, too, and he can see that her knees are skinned through the torn fabric of her jeans.
"Which way?" Arthur says, turning. They’re in a tangled thicket of old growth trees and pricker bushes, no clear way out.
"Over here," Kate says. The hole between the branches is almost too small even for her, and the thorns tear at Arthur’s clothes and skin as he scrambles after her.
They walk, moving as quickly as they can, for hours. Kate doesn’t talk much, just says, "This way," or "Faster, please," glancing back over her shoulder as the shadows deepen in the forest behind them.
The deep scratches on Arthur's chest itch and burn and by the time they stop to eat, they’ve started to ooze, acrid and black. Kate has a little first aid kit in her backpack and patches him up the best she can, frowning.
"How long do I have?" Arthur asks her, but she won’t answer.
She has an apple in her bag, a peanut butter sandwich, a ziplock bag with two Oreos. Kate divides the food carefully between them.
"You should have brought something," she says.
"I know," Arthur says.
"That’s not the right way to eat Oreos," she says.
*
It's waiting when they get there, crouched malevolently on a rock.
"Arthur, the door," she says, urgently. "The door."
“I see it,” he says, even though it wasn’t there before, a banged-up yellow door in a forest clearing, covered in deep gouges, the paint tattered and peeling.
Arthur goes down the first time the thing hits him, and finds he can’t get back up.
"Get off him," Kate screams, and this time she grabs at the arm and drags it back off Arthur, getting the thing down on the ground and shoving her foot against its neck until it snaps.
"Arthur," she says. "Arthur, get up, get up, it’s coming back, get up." She’s shaking his shoulder and it’s agonizing. Arthur can’t feel his legs. His chest is a mess of hot, radiating pain.
"Kate--"
"You promised, you promised," she says.
"I know," he says. "I thought this would be different, I’m sorry--"
"Get up," she says, "or I hate you." She snuffles in a long sobbing breath and wipes at her nose and says, "I hate you."
"Kate," Arthur says. The inside of his mouth is bleeding, his palms are erupting in raw, itchy hives. "I can’t help you. I want to, but I can’t--"
"But," she says. She's crying now, silently. "You can’t stay here."
"You can get us through the door," Arthur says. "I know that you can."
She nods. "Okay," she says. Her voice is very small. "Can I have your gun?"
"Yeah," Arthur says. She has to roll him sideways to get it, and then she checks it over carefully, like they practiced, flicks off the safety.
"I can’t carry you, you’re too heavy," she says, after a minute, her voice shaking.
"Then you’ll leave me and save yourself," Arthur says. There are more of them coming, coming, scuttling slowly on the wrong number of legs. He’s dying. When he touches his face her hand comes back covered in grey-black blood.
"Okay," she whispers.
*
Arthur wakes up screaming.
"Arthur," Kate says. Dan’s easing out her IV and putting a band-aid over the injection site, and she leans around him to wave at Arthur. "I made it."
"Good job," he croaks out. She's smiling. "That’s good."
*
Dan helps Arthur clean up.
"I really appreciate this," he says. "It’s been--I didn’t know what else to do."
"I think it’ll help," Arthur says. "We can go around again, as many times as she needs."
"Okay," Dan says.
"Also, I used some curse words," Arthur says. "So--sorry about that."
"F-word?" Dan says.
"Yeah," Arthur admits. "And some others."
Dan sighs, but he doesn’t get angry about it.
*
Then Arthur goes home and drinks two beers in the shower, leaning against the tile wall and carefully not thinking about much.
He almost doesn’t pick up the phone when Eames calls.
"Heard you were doing pro bono work with the kiddies," Eames says, sounding cheerful.
"That’s right," Arthur says. "Ever done any?"
“Sounds boring,” Eames says. "How'd you like to do some real work?”
"That’s arrogant and dismissive," Arthur says mildly. He's lying on the couch, enjoying how he can move his legs without any pain.
"Some of my finer qualities," Eames says. "You know I just don’t like to see you wasting your talents on fairy princess parties."
"I'm touched by your concern," Arthur says.
“Speaking of touching," Eames says. "This job--it’ll just be us. Three weeks in sunny Tahiti. Clothing optional, of course.”
“Two weeks with an eight-year-old have prepared me admirably for what sounds like the most annoying job of all time,” Arthur says.
“So you want in,” Eames says.
“Yes.”
“Say please, or I might not remember your e-mail address correctly,” Eames says, lazily, sounding satisfied.
“Please,” Arthur says crisply, and hangs up on him.
"Jesus Christ," Arthur gasps out. There's a black, segmented, ten fingered hand around his throat, tightening, another pawing at his chest, leaving deep scratches. "Kate," he says, his voice a strained whisper, "Katie, come on." His vision is going spotty, and then he can breathe again and Kate is looking at him from behind the heavy, gleaming gun he taught her with. There are tear tracks on her cheeks, curling under her chin.
Arthur rolls to the side, shoving the heavy body of him, retching at the smell of it. Kate wipes at her face.
"Fuck," Arthur says. "Sorry, I mean--"
"That’s okay," she says. "We have to go."
"Okay, all right," Arthur says. There’s something wrong at the base of his spine; it takes him a long time to climb painfully to his feet. Kate helps him as much as she can. There are scratches on her cheeks, too, and he can see that her knees are skinned through the torn fabric of her jeans.
"Which way?" Arthur says, turning. They’re in a tangled thicket of old growth trees and pricker bushes, no clear way out.
"Over here," Kate says. The hole between the branches is almost too small even for her, and the thorns tear at Arthur’s clothes and skin as he scrambles after her.
They walk, moving as quickly as they can, for hours. Kate doesn’t talk much, just says, "This way," or "Faster, please," glancing back over her shoulder as the shadows deepen in the forest behind them.
The deep scratches on Arthur's chest itch and burn and by the time they stop to eat, they’ve started to ooze, acrid and black. Kate has a little first aid kit in her backpack and patches him up the best she can, frowning.
"How long do I have?" Arthur asks her, but she won’t answer.
She has an apple in her bag, a peanut butter sandwich, a ziplock bag with two Oreos. Kate divides the food carefully between them.
"You should have brought something," she says.
"I know," Arthur says.
"That’s not the right way to eat Oreos," she says.
*
It's waiting when they get there, crouched malevolently on a rock.
"Arthur, the door," she says, urgently. "The door."
“I see it,” he says, even though it wasn’t there before, a banged-up yellow door in a forest clearing, covered in deep gouges, the paint tattered and peeling.
Arthur goes down the first time the thing hits him, and finds he can’t get back up.
"Get off him," Kate screams, and this time she grabs at the arm and drags it back off Arthur, getting the thing down on the ground and shoving her foot against its neck until it snaps.
"Arthur," she says. "Arthur, get up, get up, it’s coming back, get up." She’s shaking his shoulder and it’s agonizing. Arthur can’t feel his legs. His chest is a mess of hot, radiating pain.
"Kate--"
"You promised, you promised," she says.
"I know," he says. "I thought this would be different, I’m sorry--"
"Get up," she says, "or I hate you." She snuffles in a long sobbing breath and wipes at her nose and says, "I hate you."
"Kate," Arthur says. The inside of his mouth is bleeding, his palms are erupting in raw, itchy hives. "I can’t help you. I want to, but I can’t--"
"But," she says. She's crying now, silently. "You can’t stay here."
"You can get us through the door," Arthur says. "I know that you can."
She nods. "Okay," she says. Her voice is very small. "Can I have your gun?"
"Yeah," Arthur says. She has to roll him sideways to get it, and then she checks it over carefully, like they practiced, flicks off the safety.
"I can’t carry you, you’re too heavy," she says, after a minute, her voice shaking.
"Then you’ll leave me and save yourself," Arthur says. There are more of them coming, coming, scuttling slowly on the wrong number of legs. He’s dying. When he touches his face her hand comes back covered in grey-black blood.
"Okay," she whispers.
*
Arthur wakes up screaming.
"Arthur," Kate says. Dan’s easing out her IV and putting a band-aid over the injection site, and she leans around him to wave at Arthur. "I made it."
"Good job," he croaks out. She's smiling. "That’s good."
*
Dan helps Arthur clean up.
"I really appreciate this," he says. "It’s been--I didn’t know what else to do."
"I think it’ll help," Arthur says. "We can go around again, as many times as she needs."
"Okay," Dan says.
"Also, I used some curse words," Arthur says. "So--sorry about that."
"F-word?" Dan says.
"Yeah," Arthur admits. "And some others."
Dan sighs, but he doesn’t get angry about it.
*
Then Arthur goes home and drinks two beers in the shower, leaning against the tile wall and carefully not thinking about much.
He almost doesn’t pick up the phone when Eames calls.
"Heard you were doing pro bono work with the kiddies," Eames says, sounding cheerful.
"That’s right," Arthur says. "Ever done any?"
“Sounds boring,” Eames says. "How'd you like to do some real work?”
"That’s arrogant and dismissive," Arthur says mildly. He's lying on the couch, enjoying how he can move his legs without any pain.
"Some of my finer qualities," Eames says. "You know I just don’t like to see you wasting your talents on fairy princess parties."
"I'm touched by your concern," Arthur says.
“Speaking of touching," Eames says. "This job--it’ll just be us. Three weeks in sunny Tahiti. Clothing optional, of course.”
“Two weeks with an eight-year-old have prepared me admirably for what sounds like the most annoying job of all time,” Arthur says.
“So you want in,” Eames says.
“Yes.”
“Say please, or I might not remember your e-mail address correctly,” Eames says, lazily, sounding satisfied.
“Please,” Arthur says crisply, and hangs up on him.