Brick/Inception: Après Moi, le Deluge
Title: Après Moi, le Deluge (10/24)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Fandom: Brick/Inception fusion
Word count: 3,592
Pairing: later Brendan(Arthur)xEames, mentions of BrendanxEmily and BrendanxLaura
Rating: R
Warnings: currently violence, language, mentions of character death
Summary: Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.
Special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing! <3
TEN
"Laura's in London."
Brendan was still awake, sprawled out across his bed like a corpse, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to make his brain shut down when Brain burst in. He didn't wait for Brendan to ask questions, crawling onto the bed and setting the laptop down on Brendan's stomach for him to see.
There, in a grainy black and white photograph was no doubt Laura Dannon. Brendan would recognize her face anywhere.
"I got a picture of her off of the security cameras at a Tesco," Brain said. "She just bought a deck of cigs and walked out. This was two days ago. I haven't found a more recent shot, but we do know that she's not far."
"Great," Brendan said sarcastically, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. "Shit."
"So what do we do?"
"Not sure yet," Brendan admitted, sitting up and passing the laptop back off to Brain. "Keep hunting for images of her. Try and obtain a pattern to her movements and see if we can pinpoint where she's staying. I want her under my thumb. If we find out where she's going all the time, maybe we can find where Wells is and get rid of the problem. Might as well go straight to the top and let everything else crumble on its own."
"Get rid of…" Brain trailed off, quiet for a minute. Brendan got out of the bed in the meantime, going to the double doors that led out onto the terrace and looking out into the night. "Brendan… are you going to kill him?"
"I…" Brendan sighed. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet."
"O-okay, but… It's never been like this, Brendan. You never went into these kinds of things with the idea that you might off someone."
"Who says I didn't? Just because I didn't tell you doesn't mean that I didn't."
"I know you, Brendan. You might not have an outstanding moral obligation, but you know better than anyone how messy a body on your name is. You wouldn't kill someone unless you had no other choice… Do you really think you're backed that far into a corner?"
"I already told you I don't know," Brendan snapped, fists clenching. He released a small, shaky breath to calm his nerves.
No matter how much Brain might have known Brendan, he wouldn't understand this. Brendan already had plenty of bodies on his name, even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself. He didn't think he was trapped just yet, but everything was still very up in the air. He didn't know what was going to happen, and that scared him. Brendan didn't like the fact that he couldn't make a plan of action, didn't like that he had to rely so heavily on these dangerous strangers to protect him.
"Brendan…" Brain said softly. "We could walk away from this. We could just go home and pretend it never happened."
"You know that's shit, Brain," Brendan sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the door. "They aren't going to let us lie, and the fact that we've been missing for days means it's not going to be quiet when we head back. There'll be questions. We've moved our pieces forward. We can't move them back now, not until the game is over."
"This isn't a game, Brendan. There are lives at stake."
Brendan rolled his eyes. "I was being metaphorical, Brain. I'm aware."
"I know you were," Brain said, "but I still had to say it. I needed to make sure you hadn't forgotten."
"What makes you think I've forgotten?"
"Nothing, but you've always been a bit of a hard read. You're spending a lot of time out of reality, down where deaths are meaningless, where killing people is meaningless. That kind of thing doesn't stay separate. When you wake up, that knee-jerk reaction will still be there, and I don't know if you realize that these lives are real and have connections to the world."
Brain paused, shifting awkwardly on the bed. "I know I'm not really the best person to be spitting about human connections and lives. I'm no good at it. I've been invisible most of my life, which makes me a good informant but not so much a rung on the social ladder. I know all that… but even if I don't interact, I still know its value. I'm not saying that you shouldn't off him if you have too, all right? You do what you have to do to survive. That's not what I'm worried about. I'm just reminding you that you promised you wouldn't lose yourself, and I'm trying to hold you to that. You told me you wouldn't, but you've been kind of fading away ever since Em ended it."
Brendan was silent for a long time, smoothing his hands over the thighs of his pajama bottoms since they didn't have pockets to hide in. After a while, he asked, "Why does it matter so much to you, Brain?"
Brain snorted. "That's the dumbest question you've ever asked me."
Brendan lifted his head, glanced over his shoulder at Brain. "Keep your specs on for Laura," he mumbled. "Let me know what you dig up… and get some sleep. Your head's not completely right."
"Are you talking to me or to you?"
"Go," Brendan said, waving towards the door.
Brain shrugged, shutting his laptop and climbing off of the bed. "All right. I know when I'm not wanted. Still, think on it, okay?"
Once Brain was gone, Brendan threw himself onto the bed, buried his face in his pillow and sighed. As an afterthought, he remembered to take off his glasses and set them on the nightstand. He didn't fall asleep for another two hours when the swirling deluge of thoughts finally settled into a dull roar.
"Cobb says you're not too shabby at building."
Brendan looked from where he was scribbling in his notebook up towards Eames who had blocked his light with his shadow. "Yeah," Brendan said vaguely, "I guess."
"Did you still want a lesson in forging?"
Brendan blinked. "I thought you weren't-"
Eames shrugged a shoulder. "They did say they wanted you to know the basics of everything. Besides, you're a good builder which means you might have potential for forging. The least I can do is show you how it works and give you the tools to spot a forgery in the dream level."
"O… okay," Brendan said, weirdly agitated by the offer. Perhaps it was because Eames had presented it as a challenge before, and now he had forfeited so easily. It seemed that Eames's favorite thing to do was the opposite of what was expected of him. It only served to make Brendan all the more suspicious.
Still, he had picked up on everything else somewhat quickly, apart from Emily hunting them down in the mazes he made. Because of that, Cobb was apprehensive about letting him build with knowledge of the layouts, but Brendan wasn't about to let Cobb's worries stop him from doing anything. He settled into his chair and attached himself to the PASIV with Eames and allowed himself to be sent under.
When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor of a room with reflective walls, staring back at endless replications of himself in the mirrored glass. Eames was standing behind him, hands in his pockets and looking all around as smug and carefree as he usually did. Brendan stared at Eames's reflection rather than directly at him. "So, this is where the magic happens?" he asked flatly.
"I can have a bed built in if you like," Eames chuckled, the sound growing to full-blown laughter when Brendan's expression soured. "Oh, bloody relax, would you? Not everything has to be taken quite so literally. I thought we had this friendly banter going on between us, didn't we? I'm allowed to mess about."
Brendan got to his feet, brushing off non-existent dust. "Okay, fine. Let's just get on with the lesson."
"Oh, yes, we must be very focused," Eames said in the same mock-serious tone he'd used before.
Brendan rolled his eyes, turning to throw a barb in Eames's direction only to stop short. "Your eyes aren't supposed to be brown," he announced before he could stop himself.
"That's right," Eames said, blinking and revealing his dark blue eyes once more. "Being able to notice these little details are important when spotting a forgery. A forger will almost always pretend to be somebody that you know, someone you trust. Not all of them are as good at it as I am, so they'll more often than not muddle up something, even if it's small. Eye color is a rather big thing since it's something one can find out just from looking at photographs, but it's the way a person moves that can be a dead giveaway. For example-"
Brendan jolted back as he found himself suddenly staring back at himself. For a moment he thought it was a trick of the mirrors, but this version of himself was wearing an Eames-like expression. It clicked almost instantly, and Eames-Brendan grew pleased at the reaction.
"You see?" he said in Brendan's voice. "Even though I'm wearing your body, you can tell that it's me. It might not even be entirely obvious, but the way I carry myself is nothing like you. You know yourself well enough that you can instantly see what's not working. Of course, no forger would forge as you to fool you, but it's to make a point. If someone were to take on the form of one of your mates-"
Suddenly, Eames had shifted form into Brain, from his dirty white Converse tennis shoes to his signature plaid-patterned shirts to his magnified eyes behind oversized glasses. Eames-Brain shifted his shoulders a few times, testing out his new bones, and then slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Brendan knew that he was actually looking at Eames in disguise, but his thoughts kept firing out that he was looking at Brain. In the dream world, it was hard to keep track, even though he'd witnessed the shift before his own eyes.
"I'd say I've got a pretty good read on your friend, don't you think?" Eames asked in Brain's voice. "I've been able to give him a slant more than once though. Not all forgers are quite so lucky to be so close. Of course, most of those other scratchers don't have to deal with someone who pays such close attention to details, so it probably evens out somewhat."
Eames had learned Brain's slang, had even imitated the rise and fall of his voice absolutely perfectly. Even Brendan could admit that it was pretty incredible, if not a bit terrifying. "Eames, I am impressed," he said.
"Are you being condescending? I think you are," Eames said delightedly, his true self showing through the disguise. "Either way, you're being a little more open. You see how it works? Even though you know it's me, you're still inclined to be friendlier towards me when I'm wearing this face. That is why you absolutely must be cautious of anyone. Never give away any information if you can help it."
"I understand."
"Good."
"So, how do I forge as someone else?"
Eames-Brain took Brendan by the shoulder and turned him to look in the mirror in front of him. He discovered Eames in his natural form in the reflection. When he looked back, Eames had returned to normal. "It might seem simple, but it's actually pretty difficult. Don't feel dejected if you can't manage it. There's a reason why there are so few of us."
"What's so difficult about it? It's like acting, isn't it?"
Eames's lips thinned as he thought about the comparison. "No… well, not exactly. I guess in a sense it's similar, but when you're acting you never erase yourself completely. When it comes to forging down here in dreams, the best way to go about it is to literally become your forge rather than pretend to be anyone. That requires deleting your entire being so that you have a space to fill up with the forge's consciousness. Even a good majority of those who consider themselves forgers never master it completely."
Brendan looked back to the mirror, staring at their reflections side by side. He had to admit that this whole concept of forging was intimidating. As much as Brendan liked to pretend he could separate himself from situations, he knew it wasn't very easy for him to. It was how he'd gotten wrapped up in Laura, how he'd gotten ensnared in that whole situation in the first place, and this situation too. It was personal. It had always been personal.
"Let's start with something a little less complicated than all that," Eames said, settling his hands onto Brendan's shoulders. His palms were warm against the fabric of his shirt. "Don't try to change yourself into someone else just yet. Let's start by changing your hair or your clothes. A lot of the time we have to forge ourselves into certain styles so we can fit into the dream. We don't want to be standing out like sore thumbs, now do we?"
Brendan shrugged his shoulders, mostly to get Eames's hands off of them. "Right, fine."
Eames stepped back a little, crossing his arms over his chest, humming. "Just focus on your reflection. That's where you'll want to start since you're still wet behind the ears. Once you get the hang of it, it should be as simple as blinking, but for now it's best if you see the changes."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. What kind of rags am I supposed to change into?"
"Surprise me."
Brendan sighed through his nose, staring intently at his reflection, trying only to focus on his clothes and none of the other things that were taking up residence in his head. He first put together a suit, dove gray, a little big and with a black tie. He imagined a long black flogger coat over the top of it and black leather gloves. He mentally combed his hair, brushing through the tangles until his hair was pushed off of his face completely, and then let a gray fedora reminiscent of the detectives he'd seen in movies settle over the top of his tamed curls.
As he pictured it, piece by piece, it slowly started to appear in the mirror. He was grateful that he wasn't the excitable type, otherwise he probably would have lost his focus. Instead he just stood completely still until the image had solidified in the mirror. He even banished his glasses, finding that the dream world provided him with perfect vision as long as he decided that was the case.
"Well, look at that," Eames said, pleased. "I certainly didn't expect bloody Sinatra. It's quite a classy look for you. Mal was right, you do have a face underneath all that hair and attitude."
Brendan realized quickly that without even a thought the clothing he'd created in the mirror had moved to his actual body. He flexed his fingers, feeling the slight resistance of the leather. "I hardly think you should be the one jawing about attitude."
"When have I ever acted a sourpuss?"
"Never," Brendan replied, expression growing awkward as Eames started inspecting the clothes more closely, "but the fact that you never get angry is a little concerning, don't you think?"
"Do you think I should hold onto my anger like you do?"
Brendan stayed silent, trying not to jerk his arm away from Eames as it was pulled up. He wanted to curl up into himself and hide, but he knew Eames would know he'd hit a nerve. He didn't want to give him that satisfaction.
"It's my turn to be impressed," Eames announced. "You've got an eye for detail, that's for sure. Even the seams are stitched in here accurately. These gloves are especially nice… The only problem is that you didn't change your shoes."
Brendan looked down at his feet, flexing his toes in the worn-out Dexters he'd been wearing since freshman year of high school. Their brown color, scuffed exterior, and splitting soles certainly didn't fit with the rest of the look, but Brendan hadn't even thought about it. They were the only pair of shoes he'd owned and worn for years.
"How did I miss…" he started to say but trailed off.
"It's not about missing it," Eames said. "This is what I mean by not being able to separate yourself. This is a manifestation of you not being able to completely let go… Oh, and by the way, that's part of why I don't hold onto my anger. It just leaves you with dirty shoes."
"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?" Brendan asked, squinting at Eames skeptically.
Eames just laughed, pushing Brendan's hat down over his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be singing a swinging standard by this point?"
Brendan huffed, taking the hat off and smoothing his hand over his hair. "I was going a little less Sinatra, a little more Humphrey Bogart."
"Oh, well," Eames chuckled instantly shifting form to the actress Ingrid Bergman, mimicking her look and voice to absolute perfection, "perhaps we could go to Casablanca sometime once you get that little dishy blonde under control?"
Brendan cut his eyes towards Eames, aggravation lining his expression. "I do have it under control."
"I'd hate to see it out of control. I imagine that projection would be much more brutal; it would probably go after all of us rather than tearing through us to get to you."
"Can we get back to business? You're supposed be teaching me to forge."
Eames-Ingrid seemed to be resisting the urge to roll her eyes but otherwise didn't say anything. Instead he slipped back to his own skin. "Go back to the way you were before. We'll start trying to mimic others voices, and if you can manage that then we'll work towards transforming your physicality. I'm warning you that it most likely won't work. Mal can mimic voices but can't change her form, and that was only with several, several hours of practice. Cobb can't forge for shite. I'm inclined to think you'll lean more to his side of the spectrum."
"And why is that?"
"For the same reason I already told you. You don't know how to let go. Cobb hangs on tighter than anyone I've ever known, and you're a lot like him in that aspect. The only difference is that he's obsessed with a bint who happens to still be alive."
Suddenly all Brendan could see was red. "What gives you the right-" he started to say, cutting himself off when the mirror behind him splintered into a spider web of cracks.
"Under control, hm?" Eames said tightly.
The glass shattered, revealing Emily waiting behind it with the brick she'd used to break it. She was dripping with water and pale, her soft white jacket hanging too far over one shoulder.
"Eames-" Brendan whispered, right before she pulled back her arm to smash his face in.
Eames, without missing a beat, pulled a gun from thin air and promptly shot Emily in the forehead, causing her to crumple lifelessly to the floor. "Okay, back to the lesson."
Brendan just stared at her body amongst the broken pieces of glass, blonde tangles of hair hanging over her soft face, blood pooling behind her head. It made his stomach twist unpleasantly, made his eyes sting.
"Why… why did you do that…?" he asked softly, voice trembling.
"She was about to beat you to death with a brick," Eames said flatly, "What did you expect me to do?"
"I would have just woken up. You… you didn't have to shoot her. She's just a projection!" he shouted. Her blood was spattered across the front of Brendan's t-shirt, bright red.
"Err… yes, which is why I'm not entirely sure what you're so upset about. I already told you that she's not real. Would you rather your face resemble hamburger meat?"
"She…"
"Forget it. This lesson is over with," Eames sighed. "The lesson you really need to be taught is that you've got to be able to put a bullet between the eyes of someone or something harmful. If you can't fight this projection yourself, then it's never going away. Get your shite together."
Before Brendan could register a complaint, Eames fired a round into Brendan's skull as well, sending him toppling clumsily backwards until he was laid out right next to Emily, their blood mingling, their hands just touching each other.
As everything turned cloudy and faded around Brendan, he heard Eames mumble, "That's a bloody shame."
When he awoke this time, he didn't panic. At least he was getting used to being shot, he supposed. Brendan sat up, blinking a few times so that the phantom pain from the dream could completely fade. It didn't take Eames even half the time to adjust. He was already moving to his feet and sauntering out to smoke a cigarette.
"Didn't go well?" Cobb asked.
Brendan didn't respond, standing with a soft grunt, shoving his hands in his pockets and going up to his room. He slammed the door behind him.
Eames didn't understand. Brendan couldn't just shoot Emily.
Projection or not, it was the only way he could see her now.
also available on AO3
Author: osaki_nana_707
Fandom: Brick/Inception fusion
Word count: 3,592
Pairing: later Brendan(Arthur)xEames, mentions of BrendanxEmily and BrendanxLaura
Rating: R
Warnings: currently violence, language, mentions of character death
Summary: Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.
Special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing! <3
TEN
"Laura's in London."
Brendan was still awake, sprawled out across his bed like a corpse, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to make his brain shut down when Brain burst in. He didn't wait for Brendan to ask questions, crawling onto the bed and setting the laptop down on Brendan's stomach for him to see.
There, in a grainy black and white photograph was no doubt Laura Dannon. Brendan would recognize her face anywhere.
"I got a picture of her off of the security cameras at a Tesco," Brain said. "She just bought a deck of cigs and walked out. This was two days ago. I haven't found a more recent shot, but we do know that she's not far."
"Great," Brendan said sarcastically, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. "Shit."
"So what do we do?"
"Not sure yet," Brendan admitted, sitting up and passing the laptop back off to Brain. "Keep hunting for images of her. Try and obtain a pattern to her movements and see if we can pinpoint where she's staying. I want her under my thumb. If we find out where she's going all the time, maybe we can find where Wells is and get rid of the problem. Might as well go straight to the top and let everything else crumble on its own."
"Get rid of…" Brain trailed off, quiet for a minute. Brendan got out of the bed in the meantime, going to the double doors that led out onto the terrace and looking out into the night. "Brendan… are you going to kill him?"
"I…" Brendan sighed. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet."
"O-okay, but… It's never been like this, Brendan. You never went into these kinds of things with the idea that you might off someone."
"Who says I didn't? Just because I didn't tell you doesn't mean that I didn't."
"I know you, Brendan. You might not have an outstanding moral obligation, but you know better than anyone how messy a body on your name is. You wouldn't kill someone unless you had no other choice… Do you really think you're backed that far into a corner?"
"I already told you I don't know," Brendan snapped, fists clenching. He released a small, shaky breath to calm his nerves.
No matter how much Brain might have known Brendan, he wouldn't understand this. Brendan already had plenty of bodies on his name, even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself. He didn't think he was trapped just yet, but everything was still very up in the air. He didn't know what was going to happen, and that scared him. Brendan didn't like the fact that he couldn't make a plan of action, didn't like that he had to rely so heavily on these dangerous strangers to protect him.
"Brendan…" Brain said softly. "We could walk away from this. We could just go home and pretend it never happened."
"You know that's shit, Brain," Brendan sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the door. "They aren't going to let us lie, and the fact that we've been missing for days means it's not going to be quiet when we head back. There'll be questions. We've moved our pieces forward. We can't move them back now, not until the game is over."
"This isn't a game, Brendan. There are lives at stake."
Brendan rolled his eyes. "I was being metaphorical, Brain. I'm aware."
"I know you were," Brain said, "but I still had to say it. I needed to make sure you hadn't forgotten."
"What makes you think I've forgotten?"
"Nothing, but you've always been a bit of a hard read. You're spending a lot of time out of reality, down where deaths are meaningless, where killing people is meaningless. That kind of thing doesn't stay separate. When you wake up, that knee-jerk reaction will still be there, and I don't know if you realize that these lives are real and have connections to the world."
Brain paused, shifting awkwardly on the bed. "I know I'm not really the best person to be spitting about human connections and lives. I'm no good at it. I've been invisible most of my life, which makes me a good informant but not so much a rung on the social ladder. I know all that… but even if I don't interact, I still know its value. I'm not saying that you shouldn't off him if you have too, all right? You do what you have to do to survive. That's not what I'm worried about. I'm just reminding you that you promised you wouldn't lose yourself, and I'm trying to hold you to that. You told me you wouldn't, but you've been kind of fading away ever since Em ended it."
Brendan was silent for a long time, smoothing his hands over the thighs of his pajama bottoms since they didn't have pockets to hide in. After a while, he asked, "Why does it matter so much to you, Brain?"
Brain snorted. "That's the dumbest question you've ever asked me."
Brendan lifted his head, glanced over his shoulder at Brain. "Keep your specs on for Laura," he mumbled. "Let me know what you dig up… and get some sleep. Your head's not completely right."
"Are you talking to me or to you?"
"Go," Brendan said, waving towards the door.
Brain shrugged, shutting his laptop and climbing off of the bed. "All right. I know when I'm not wanted. Still, think on it, okay?"
Once Brain was gone, Brendan threw himself onto the bed, buried his face in his pillow and sighed. As an afterthought, he remembered to take off his glasses and set them on the nightstand. He didn't fall asleep for another two hours when the swirling deluge of thoughts finally settled into a dull roar.
"Cobb says you're not too shabby at building."
Brendan looked from where he was scribbling in his notebook up towards Eames who had blocked his light with his shadow. "Yeah," Brendan said vaguely, "I guess."
"Did you still want a lesson in forging?"
Brendan blinked. "I thought you weren't-"
Eames shrugged a shoulder. "They did say they wanted you to know the basics of everything. Besides, you're a good builder which means you might have potential for forging. The least I can do is show you how it works and give you the tools to spot a forgery in the dream level."
"O… okay," Brendan said, weirdly agitated by the offer. Perhaps it was because Eames had presented it as a challenge before, and now he had forfeited so easily. It seemed that Eames's favorite thing to do was the opposite of what was expected of him. It only served to make Brendan all the more suspicious.
Still, he had picked up on everything else somewhat quickly, apart from Emily hunting them down in the mazes he made. Because of that, Cobb was apprehensive about letting him build with knowledge of the layouts, but Brendan wasn't about to let Cobb's worries stop him from doing anything. He settled into his chair and attached himself to the PASIV with Eames and allowed himself to be sent under.
When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor of a room with reflective walls, staring back at endless replications of himself in the mirrored glass. Eames was standing behind him, hands in his pockets and looking all around as smug and carefree as he usually did. Brendan stared at Eames's reflection rather than directly at him. "So, this is where the magic happens?" he asked flatly.
"I can have a bed built in if you like," Eames chuckled, the sound growing to full-blown laughter when Brendan's expression soured. "Oh, bloody relax, would you? Not everything has to be taken quite so literally. I thought we had this friendly banter going on between us, didn't we? I'm allowed to mess about."
Brendan got to his feet, brushing off non-existent dust. "Okay, fine. Let's just get on with the lesson."
"Oh, yes, we must be very focused," Eames said in the same mock-serious tone he'd used before.
Brendan rolled his eyes, turning to throw a barb in Eames's direction only to stop short. "Your eyes aren't supposed to be brown," he announced before he could stop himself.
"That's right," Eames said, blinking and revealing his dark blue eyes once more. "Being able to notice these little details are important when spotting a forgery. A forger will almost always pretend to be somebody that you know, someone you trust. Not all of them are as good at it as I am, so they'll more often than not muddle up something, even if it's small. Eye color is a rather big thing since it's something one can find out just from looking at photographs, but it's the way a person moves that can be a dead giveaway. For example-"
Brendan jolted back as he found himself suddenly staring back at himself. For a moment he thought it was a trick of the mirrors, but this version of himself was wearing an Eames-like expression. It clicked almost instantly, and Eames-Brendan grew pleased at the reaction.
"You see?" he said in Brendan's voice. "Even though I'm wearing your body, you can tell that it's me. It might not even be entirely obvious, but the way I carry myself is nothing like you. You know yourself well enough that you can instantly see what's not working. Of course, no forger would forge as you to fool you, but it's to make a point. If someone were to take on the form of one of your mates-"
Suddenly, Eames had shifted form into Brain, from his dirty white Converse tennis shoes to his signature plaid-patterned shirts to his magnified eyes behind oversized glasses. Eames-Brain shifted his shoulders a few times, testing out his new bones, and then slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Brendan knew that he was actually looking at Eames in disguise, but his thoughts kept firing out that he was looking at Brain. In the dream world, it was hard to keep track, even though he'd witnessed the shift before his own eyes.
"I'd say I've got a pretty good read on your friend, don't you think?" Eames asked in Brain's voice. "I've been able to give him a slant more than once though. Not all forgers are quite so lucky to be so close. Of course, most of those other scratchers don't have to deal with someone who pays such close attention to details, so it probably evens out somewhat."
Eames had learned Brain's slang, had even imitated the rise and fall of his voice absolutely perfectly. Even Brendan could admit that it was pretty incredible, if not a bit terrifying. "Eames, I am impressed," he said.
"Are you being condescending? I think you are," Eames said delightedly, his true self showing through the disguise. "Either way, you're being a little more open. You see how it works? Even though you know it's me, you're still inclined to be friendlier towards me when I'm wearing this face. That is why you absolutely must be cautious of anyone. Never give away any information if you can help it."
"I understand."
"Good."
"So, how do I forge as someone else?"
Eames-Brain took Brendan by the shoulder and turned him to look in the mirror in front of him. He discovered Eames in his natural form in the reflection. When he looked back, Eames had returned to normal. "It might seem simple, but it's actually pretty difficult. Don't feel dejected if you can't manage it. There's a reason why there are so few of us."
"What's so difficult about it? It's like acting, isn't it?"
Eames's lips thinned as he thought about the comparison. "No… well, not exactly. I guess in a sense it's similar, but when you're acting you never erase yourself completely. When it comes to forging down here in dreams, the best way to go about it is to literally become your forge rather than pretend to be anyone. That requires deleting your entire being so that you have a space to fill up with the forge's consciousness. Even a good majority of those who consider themselves forgers never master it completely."
Brendan looked back to the mirror, staring at their reflections side by side. He had to admit that this whole concept of forging was intimidating. As much as Brendan liked to pretend he could separate himself from situations, he knew it wasn't very easy for him to. It was how he'd gotten wrapped up in Laura, how he'd gotten ensnared in that whole situation in the first place, and this situation too. It was personal. It had always been personal.
"Let's start with something a little less complicated than all that," Eames said, settling his hands onto Brendan's shoulders. His palms were warm against the fabric of his shirt. "Don't try to change yourself into someone else just yet. Let's start by changing your hair or your clothes. A lot of the time we have to forge ourselves into certain styles so we can fit into the dream. We don't want to be standing out like sore thumbs, now do we?"
Brendan shrugged his shoulders, mostly to get Eames's hands off of them. "Right, fine."
Eames stepped back a little, crossing his arms over his chest, humming. "Just focus on your reflection. That's where you'll want to start since you're still wet behind the ears. Once you get the hang of it, it should be as simple as blinking, but for now it's best if you see the changes."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. What kind of rags am I supposed to change into?"
"Surprise me."
Brendan sighed through his nose, staring intently at his reflection, trying only to focus on his clothes and none of the other things that were taking up residence in his head. He first put together a suit, dove gray, a little big and with a black tie. He imagined a long black flogger coat over the top of it and black leather gloves. He mentally combed his hair, brushing through the tangles until his hair was pushed off of his face completely, and then let a gray fedora reminiscent of the detectives he'd seen in movies settle over the top of his tamed curls.
As he pictured it, piece by piece, it slowly started to appear in the mirror. He was grateful that he wasn't the excitable type, otherwise he probably would have lost his focus. Instead he just stood completely still until the image had solidified in the mirror. He even banished his glasses, finding that the dream world provided him with perfect vision as long as he decided that was the case.
"Well, look at that," Eames said, pleased. "I certainly didn't expect bloody Sinatra. It's quite a classy look for you. Mal was right, you do have a face underneath all that hair and attitude."
Brendan realized quickly that without even a thought the clothing he'd created in the mirror had moved to his actual body. He flexed his fingers, feeling the slight resistance of the leather. "I hardly think you should be the one jawing about attitude."
"When have I ever acted a sourpuss?"
"Never," Brendan replied, expression growing awkward as Eames started inspecting the clothes more closely, "but the fact that you never get angry is a little concerning, don't you think?"
"Do you think I should hold onto my anger like you do?"
Brendan stayed silent, trying not to jerk his arm away from Eames as it was pulled up. He wanted to curl up into himself and hide, but he knew Eames would know he'd hit a nerve. He didn't want to give him that satisfaction.
"It's my turn to be impressed," Eames announced. "You've got an eye for detail, that's for sure. Even the seams are stitched in here accurately. These gloves are especially nice… The only problem is that you didn't change your shoes."
Brendan looked down at his feet, flexing his toes in the worn-out Dexters he'd been wearing since freshman year of high school. Their brown color, scuffed exterior, and splitting soles certainly didn't fit with the rest of the look, but Brendan hadn't even thought about it. They were the only pair of shoes he'd owned and worn for years.
"How did I miss…" he started to say but trailed off.
"It's not about missing it," Eames said. "This is what I mean by not being able to separate yourself. This is a manifestation of you not being able to completely let go… Oh, and by the way, that's part of why I don't hold onto my anger. It just leaves you with dirty shoes."
"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?" Brendan asked, squinting at Eames skeptically.
Eames just laughed, pushing Brendan's hat down over his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be singing a swinging standard by this point?"
Brendan huffed, taking the hat off and smoothing his hand over his hair. "I was going a little less Sinatra, a little more Humphrey Bogart."
"Oh, well," Eames chuckled instantly shifting form to the actress Ingrid Bergman, mimicking her look and voice to absolute perfection, "perhaps we could go to Casablanca sometime once you get that little dishy blonde under control?"
Brendan cut his eyes towards Eames, aggravation lining his expression. "I do have it under control."
"I'd hate to see it out of control. I imagine that projection would be much more brutal; it would probably go after all of us rather than tearing through us to get to you."
"Can we get back to business? You're supposed be teaching me to forge."
Eames-Ingrid seemed to be resisting the urge to roll her eyes but otherwise didn't say anything. Instead he slipped back to his own skin. "Go back to the way you were before. We'll start trying to mimic others voices, and if you can manage that then we'll work towards transforming your physicality. I'm warning you that it most likely won't work. Mal can mimic voices but can't change her form, and that was only with several, several hours of practice. Cobb can't forge for shite. I'm inclined to think you'll lean more to his side of the spectrum."
"And why is that?"
"For the same reason I already told you. You don't know how to let go. Cobb hangs on tighter than anyone I've ever known, and you're a lot like him in that aspect. The only difference is that he's obsessed with a bint who happens to still be alive."
Suddenly all Brendan could see was red. "What gives you the right-" he started to say, cutting himself off when the mirror behind him splintered into a spider web of cracks.
"Under control, hm?" Eames said tightly.
The glass shattered, revealing Emily waiting behind it with the brick she'd used to break it. She was dripping with water and pale, her soft white jacket hanging too far over one shoulder.
"Eames-" Brendan whispered, right before she pulled back her arm to smash his face in.
Eames, without missing a beat, pulled a gun from thin air and promptly shot Emily in the forehead, causing her to crumple lifelessly to the floor. "Okay, back to the lesson."
Brendan just stared at her body amongst the broken pieces of glass, blonde tangles of hair hanging over her soft face, blood pooling behind her head. It made his stomach twist unpleasantly, made his eyes sting.
"Why… why did you do that…?" he asked softly, voice trembling.
"She was about to beat you to death with a brick," Eames said flatly, "What did you expect me to do?"
"I would have just woken up. You… you didn't have to shoot her. She's just a projection!" he shouted. Her blood was spattered across the front of Brendan's t-shirt, bright red.
"Err… yes, which is why I'm not entirely sure what you're so upset about. I already told you that she's not real. Would you rather your face resemble hamburger meat?"
"She…"
"Forget it. This lesson is over with," Eames sighed. "The lesson you really need to be taught is that you've got to be able to put a bullet between the eyes of someone or something harmful. If you can't fight this projection yourself, then it's never going away. Get your shite together."
Before Brendan could register a complaint, Eames fired a round into Brendan's skull as well, sending him toppling clumsily backwards until he was laid out right next to Emily, their blood mingling, their hands just touching each other.
As everything turned cloudy and faded around Brendan, he heard Eames mumble, "That's a bloody shame."
When he awoke this time, he didn't panic. At least he was getting used to being shot, he supposed. Brendan sat up, blinking a few times so that the phantom pain from the dream could completely fade. It didn't take Eames even half the time to adjust. He was already moving to his feet and sauntering out to smoke a cigarette.
"Didn't go well?" Cobb asked.
Brendan didn't respond, standing with a soft grunt, shoving his hands in his pockets and going up to his room. He slammed the door behind him.
Eames didn't understand. Brendan couldn't just shoot Emily.
Projection or not, it was the only way he could see her now.
also available on AO3