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alchemyaliceTitle: The Outrage of the Years
Author: Alchemy Alice
Artist: Ellegen
Pairing/Genre: mostly gen, eventually Arthur/Cobb, drama
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Cobb is dreaming. But he is also writing. This is a story about waking up.
Prologue: Words
Part One: Inception
Part Two: Mr. Charles
Part Three: Extraction
Part Four: Catharsis
Cobb eases himself upright again, his knees creaking. He carries his jacket carefully to one side of him, as far from his body as possible. It’s half black with soot, but instead of the smudgy gray of charcoal on its fibers, the cloth seems stained through with the pervading darkness of an oil slick.
He glances down at his hand. The black has gotten into the ridges of his fingerprints in places, erasing them from view. The skin there feels cool and smooth and unreal. He is careful not to touch anything but the jacket with them.
There are several more tapestries to go. The cathedral yawns around him while the pacing of guards at the center observation port filters strangely through the stained glass windows.
Soot rises in puffs around the impacts of Cobb’s soles. He keeps going.
And layers up,
***
“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head, crystal chandeliers shattering overhead. She tries to build peace and quiet, but it all falls to pieces and sifts through her fingers “I don’t know.”
***
halfway through.
“Will you come with me? And let me tell you the story?” he asks, finally daring to look back up at Arthur. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept for months, and Arthur wants to fall back to old patterns, ply him with a bedroom and a drink and watch him go to sleep.
Numbly, he nods instead.
***
***
***
”Aha!” Eames says breathlessly, “Found it!”
Ariadne turns her head. She’s huddled against the bookshelves in a haze of lantern light. The library has been still for the past ten minutes, and she’s expended all the energy she can spare on keeping it blazing with light. There are flakes of plaster dusted over every inch of available surface, including her and Eames, and she jumps at the shadows every time she things she sees one move.
They’ve both begun to sweat under the harshness of a hundred lights. Ariadne feels bleached and exposed. Her hands feel oddly numb.
“What is it?” she asks finally.
Eames turns and flops down next to her. She notices with some alarm that there is black spidering up his neck. “This, my dear Ariadne, is the Saga of Arthur, circa July 2010.”
Ariadne frowns. “But that’s...right now.”
Eames looks at her with an unreadable smile. “Yes. Of course. Give me your flashlight?”
“There are five chandeliers in this room,” she says dryly, “And ten streetlamps.”
Eames’ eyebrows twitch in agreement. But then he flips the book open, and tilts it towards her.
She jerks back.
It isn’t just that the pages are black.
They are the antithesis of light.
Eames looks at her patiently. “The flashlight, darling.”
She hands it over. Eames frowns. “Your hands--”
“The soot,” she replies, putting it together and trying not to think about it all at once. “Never mind.”
He looks at her worriedly, and then turns back to the book. “Let’s hope Cobb hasn’t touched it, then,” he murmurs.
“How come you know all the rules here,” Ariadne asks, “And I don’t?”
Eames aims the flashlight directly into the center of the book, and it seems to shiver angrily in his hands.
“I need you to do something very important for me,” he says finally.
She looks at him.
“I’m not real, am I?” she says, slowly.
Eames sighs, and it turns into a wet cough.
And then he says, “I need you to do something very important.”
He listens to her breathe for a long moment. She says, “What.”
“I need you to tell me how this story ends. I need you to tell me how Arthur saves Cobb.”
“Why?”
There’s a hollowness and brittle anger in her question that makes him wince. He meets her eyes, and her gaze is too old, too disciplined.
He takes a breath, and says, “Because the story you tell right now, is what goes in this book.”
***
Cobb is close to Arthur now, enough that Arthur can feel his breath on his cheek. It’s warm and smells very slightly of stale coffee, and he closes his eyes.
“Remember, Arthur,” Cobb says, pleads. “What happens after I held out my hand?”
***
Ariadne closes her eyes. The back of her throat tastes bitter, like black coffee, even though she takes hers with milk and sugar.
Telling a story is so often a process of simply setting up a series of circumstances, and then watching them all play out, with no idea as to how it should end. And when everything starts moving out of control, rolling off into unpredictable places...when that synthesis happens, that spark of creation, it is like drawing from memory some sort of long forgotten tale that had been there all along.
Something the brain just put together while the conscious mind was sleeping.
Or perhaps something that had happened to someone else, in another life.
She wonders whether, if she tries hard enough, she’ll remember the inception too.
“Ariadne,” Eames says, and for the first time, he sounds unsure, his voice breathy with uncertainty and ink.
She opens her eyes to look sidelong at him. “It’s okay.” Then she turns away and shuts her eyes again.
“I’ve got this.”
Then she takes a breath. The words come to her like out of a dream, and she nearly laughs at the great, awful irony of that particular simile.
She says,
“Cobb looks out over the parapet. And then he holds out his hand. Arthur takes it.”
The light from the flashlight begins to stick to the pages in Eames’s hands, black ink peeling away like paint near an open flame. Light, and white, and words. 
Author: Alchemy Alice
Artist: Ellegen
Pairing/Genre: mostly gen, eventually Arthur/Cobb, drama
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Cobb is dreaming. But he is also writing. This is a story about waking up.
Prologue: Words
Part One: Inception
Part Two: Mr. Charles
Part Three: Extraction
Part Four: Catharsis
“‘Exciting bit’?” Ariadne echoed, her heart sinking.
“Mm, yes indeed,” Eames said. He drew a semi-automatic from his belt and handed it to her. “Have you learned how to use one of these?”
Ariadne turned it over in her hands. “Beretta 92SB. Are you trying to show off or something?”
He grinned. “Must I have a reason for indulging in the things I can’t have in reality? And answer my question, it’s important.”
In response, Ariadne took a breath and then with some hesitation racked the slide and cocked the hammer. “Arthur taught me, remember?” she said.
Eames nodded. “Good. Come with me, we’re about to get some education in art history.”
“Okay, your insistence on riddles is starting to get really annoying.”
He took her by the hand and lead her down the darkened corridor, occasionally circling to avoid fallen books, at which point he would stop to retrieve them and place them delicately back in some semblance of order on the shelves. His fingers smudged slightly with ink.
“You know, you don’t really have to do that,” she said. “This isn’t really Arthur’s mind.”
“Isn’t it?” Eames said, looking at her over his shoulder.
She frowned. “Eames?”
“We did hook ourselves up to Arthur, you know.”
“Yeah, but in Cobb’s dream, so this is all Cobb’s...right?”
Eames opened his mouth to answer, and then went stock still. Ariadne clenched her jaw, but obediently did the same.
There was a movement in the darkness, somewhere off to their left. Eames gave Ariadne a brief, instructive look, and then sidestepped silently out of the lamplight and into shadow.
There was one distinct, hard thump of suppressed gunfire and a spark of light some three yards away, quickly gone.
Eames slid back into the lamplight, flicking night vision goggles up onto his forehead. In his hands was an assemblage of tactical harnesses and weaponry, clearly just acquired. Blood lay wet and tacky across some of the straps.
“There’ll be more, no doubt,” he said. “But they’re flying nearly as blind as we are--been in darkness far too long. Better take this though, just in case.” He tossed her a second suppressor and a pair of goggles. She fumbled to catch them and then put the lamp down before threading the suppressor onto the muzzle of her gun.
They went on, the shelves twisting and breaking off at odd times, with plaques reading ESOTERICA and FILM TRIVIA along with more conventional titles like QUANTUM MECHANICS and AIR COMBAT:TACTICAL.
They passed through for a time in silence, but then there was a shuffle of movement above their heads. Eames turned down the flame in the lantern.
“Behind you!” Eames said suddenly, and she swung wildly, dropping the darkened lantern to the floor with a harsh clunk. A splintering pop marked a bullet embedding itself in the bookshelf, and she fired into the darkness just as pain bloomed in her shoulder. The projection grunted, and she stumbled frantically forward to follow it into the shadows. Behind her, she heard Eames through cracks of gunfire and the impact of fists against flesh and rough clothing.
She found the projection in a mess of books, tactical gear strewn around him. She didn’t think, just fired again. The flash of the muzzle went off like sparks.
Eames cursed behind her and unloaded a short burst of automatic fire.
The projection coming at Ariadne didn’t make a sound, even as she took him down; he just shot off two more rounds from the ground, his broken hand warping the trajectory of the gunfire, and she shrieked as she bent forward to shield herself. She fired again and again, trying to maintain steady aim.
One bullet hit his chest, the other his thigh. He spasmed at each impact, but hardly made a sound.
She got close and kicked his gun out of his mangled hand. Blood was pooling beneath him, making slow progress across the carpet.
Ariadne raised the Beretta one more time. It kicked in her hand, the shot suddenly too loud even with the suppressor on.
The projection went still, tactical vest no use against the small and sickly hole in his left cheek. He’d been so quiet; all of them had.
Ariadne didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
“Clear?” Eames said, somewhere in the darkness.
Ariadne swallowed down bile, and answered, choking, “Clear.”
The projection’s eyes stayed open and unseeing. Through the green graininess of her goggles they looked strange and glassy and dark. Books were scattered over and around him.
Eames reloaded, and then put his gun back in its holster. He went to relight the lantern, and it flickered to life with little complaint.
As the light reached Ariadne, she shrieked.
“What is it?” he asked, moving towards her.
Silently, she pointed. He held the lantern higher, and sucked in a breath.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “That is not good.”
***
“Mm, yes indeed,” Eames said. He drew a semi-automatic from his belt and handed it to her. “Have you learned how to use one of these?”
Ariadne turned it over in her hands. “Beretta 92SB. Are you trying to show off or something?”
He grinned. “Must I have a reason for indulging in the things I can’t have in reality? And answer my question, it’s important.”
In response, Ariadne took a breath and then with some hesitation racked the slide and cocked the hammer. “Arthur taught me, remember?” she said.
Eames nodded. “Good. Come with me, we’re about to get some education in art history.”
“Okay, your insistence on riddles is starting to get really annoying.”
He took her by the hand and lead her down the darkened corridor, occasionally circling to avoid fallen books, at which point he would stop to retrieve them and place them delicately back in some semblance of order on the shelves. His fingers smudged slightly with ink.
“You know, you don’t really have to do that,” she said. “This isn’t really Arthur’s mind.”
“Isn’t it?” Eames said, looking at her over his shoulder.
She frowned. “Eames?”
“We did hook ourselves up to Arthur, you know.”
“Yeah, but in Cobb’s dream, so this is all Cobb’s...right?”
Eames opened his mouth to answer, and then went stock still. Ariadne clenched her jaw, but obediently did the same.
There was a movement in the darkness, somewhere off to their left. Eames gave Ariadne a brief, instructive look, and then sidestepped silently out of the lamplight and into shadow.
There was one distinct, hard thump of suppressed gunfire and a spark of light some three yards away, quickly gone.
Eames slid back into the lamplight, flicking night vision goggles up onto his forehead. In his hands was an assemblage of tactical harnesses and weaponry, clearly just acquired. Blood lay wet and tacky across some of the straps.
“There’ll be more, no doubt,” he said. “But they’re flying nearly as blind as we are--been in darkness far too long. Better take this though, just in case.” He tossed her a second suppressor and a pair of goggles. She fumbled to catch them and then put the lamp down before threading the suppressor onto the muzzle of her gun.
They went on, the shelves twisting and breaking off at odd times, with plaques reading ESOTERICA and FILM TRIVIA along with more conventional titles like QUANTUM MECHANICS and AIR COMBAT:TACTICAL.
They passed through for a time in silence, but then there was a shuffle of movement above their heads. Eames turned down the flame in the lantern.
“Behind you!” Eames said suddenly, and she swung wildly, dropping the darkened lantern to the floor with a harsh clunk. A splintering pop marked a bullet embedding itself in the bookshelf, and she fired into the darkness just as pain bloomed in her shoulder. The projection grunted, and she stumbled frantically forward to follow it into the shadows. Behind her, she heard Eames through cracks of gunfire and the impact of fists against flesh and rough clothing.
She found the projection in a mess of books, tactical gear strewn around him. She didn’t think, just fired again. The flash of the muzzle went off like sparks.
Eames cursed behind her and unloaded a short burst of automatic fire.
The projection coming at Ariadne didn’t make a sound, even as she took him down; he just shot off two more rounds from the ground, his broken hand warping the trajectory of the gunfire, and she shrieked as she bent forward to shield herself. She fired again and again, trying to maintain steady aim.
One bullet hit his chest, the other his thigh. He spasmed at each impact, but hardly made a sound.
She got close and kicked his gun out of his mangled hand. Blood was pooling beneath him, making slow progress across the carpet.
Ariadne raised the Beretta one more time. It kicked in her hand, the shot suddenly too loud even with the suppressor on.
The projection went still, tactical vest no use against the small and sickly hole in his left cheek. He’d been so quiet; all of them had.
Ariadne didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
“Clear?” Eames said, somewhere in the darkness.
Ariadne swallowed down bile, and answered, choking, “Clear.”
The projection’s eyes stayed open and unseeing. Through the green graininess of her goggles they looked strange and glassy and dark. Books were scattered over and around him.
Eames reloaded, and then put his gun back in its holster. He went to relight the lantern, and it flickered to life with little complaint.
As the light reached Ariadne, she shrieked.
“What is it?” he asked, moving towards her.
Silently, she pointed. He held the lantern higher, and sucked in a breath.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “That is not good.”
***
Cobb eases himself upright again, his knees creaking. He carries his jacket carefully to one side of him, as far from his body as possible. It’s half black with soot, but instead of the smudgy gray of charcoal on its fibers, the cloth seems stained through with the pervading darkness of an oil slick.
He glances down at his hand. The black has gotten into the ridges of his fingerprints in places, erasing them from view. The skin there feels cool and smooth and unreal. He is careful not to touch anything but the jacket with them.
There are several more tapestries to go. The cathedral yawns around him while the pacing of guards at the center observation port filters strangely through the stained glass windows.
Soot rises in puffs around the impacts of Cobb’s soles. He keeps going.
***
“What...what happened to him?” Ariadne said, after emptying the contents of her stomach into a decorative waste bin.
Eames crouched over the projection to study him. The soldier had fallen into a bookshelf when Ariadne had shot him down, and a whole pile of books had been upended over him. With the end of his gun, Eames carefully flipped one of the books out and away from the soldier’s face.
The book made a strange, squelching sound where it landed. But Eames wasn’t looking at that.
The projection didn’t have a face any longer. The lantern gleamed over smooth, black surfaces that should have added up to a face, but instead were somehow featureless, nondescript. Eames grimaced, and stepped away.
“Eames?” Ariadne asked.
He shook his head, sharply, and dug around in his pocket for a second. He retrieved the plain envelope the librarian had given him. Shoved along with the note was a smaller torn-off slip, written hurriedly.
Don’t touch the books without light --C
“Now you tell me,” Eames growled, and then under his breath, “Does he even know how to communicate topside?”
“What is it?” Ariadne asked, growing impatient.
“Don’t touch the books, love,” he said, a little more loudly. “We’ve got more than aggressive projections to deal with, it seems.”
He looked down at his hand. His third and forefingers were black. He grimaced.
“He’s like that because of the books?” Ariadne said in horror.
“Seems that way. Arthur’s getting his tracks covered rather thoroughly. Come on, let’s move before more arrive.”
Taking up the lamp from where it had fallen, he held it up to take in their surrounds again. “Aha!” he said, with some satisfaction.
The light reflected off of another brass plaque:
BIOGRAPHY
And beneath that, a tacked on sheet of paper with a message far too messy to be in Arthur’s precise hand:
Under construction: Please detour to Arts & Humanities.
Our apologies for the inconvenience.
“Here we are,” he said dryly. “At last.”
“What are you hoping to find here?” Ariadne asked, straightening shakily and wiping her mouth. She looked around at the bookshelves and shuddered, shrinking instinctively away. She knew what they were supposed to find in the biography section--life stories of famous people Arthur was familiar with, filtered information of whatever friends and family he had briefed her on. But clearly, this wasn’t her library anymore. She braced her grip on the Beretta more tightly.
“Information,” Eames said unhelpfully. “And it’s going to be a royal pain in the arse getting it, apparently.”
“About what?”
“About Arthur. It’s not just other people’s biographies in here, you know.”
“What do we need to know about Arthur?”
“You needn’t worry about that just yet. I do need your help, however.”
Eames was approaching the Biography section like it was about to bite him. It was a bit creepy, though this wasn’t to say that the rest of this hostile, dark, labyrinthine library (with apparently hostile books) hadn’t been. As the lamp cast light on this section, however, Ariadne could see that it was blocked off with caution tape and translucent plastic sheeting, presumably to keep in the dust.
“What do you need?” Ariadne asked.
“Light,” Eames answered. “Right now, I need great deal of light.”
He was almost to the second hand. Almost.
The pendulum swung again, a throb of motion that felt
like an earthquake on this scale, ticking off the seconds
in a violent return. Arthur ducked beneath it,
keeping low and pressing forward as quickly as he could,
because the gear he’s standing on was working
against him, rotating slowly
in the opposite direction.
Stop time, Cobb had said.
A pistoning motion took him off guard, the minute hand
registering one tick forward. It jolted like a man out of a nightmare,
skidding across the clock face. Arthur made a decision.
He darted towards the main spring.
“What...what happened to him?” Ariadne said, after emptying the contents of her stomach into a decorative waste bin.
Eames crouched over the projection to study him. The soldier had fallen into a bookshelf when Ariadne had shot him down, and a whole pile of books had been upended over him. With the end of his gun, Eames carefully flipped one of the books out and away from the soldier’s face.
The book made a strange, squelching sound where it landed. But Eames wasn’t looking at that.
The projection didn’t have a face any longer. The lantern gleamed over smooth, black surfaces that should have added up to a face, but instead were somehow featureless, nondescript. Eames grimaced, and stepped away.
“Eames?” Ariadne asked.
He shook his head, sharply, and dug around in his pocket for a second. He retrieved the plain envelope the librarian had given him. Shoved along with the note was a smaller torn-off slip, written hurriedly.
Don’t touch the books without light --C
“Now you tell me,” Eames growled, and then under his breath, “Does he even know how to communicate topside?”
“What is it?” Ariadne asked, growing impatient.
“Don’t touch the books, love,” he said, a little more loudly. “We’ve got more than aggressive projections to deal with, it seems.”
He looked down at his hand. His third and forefingers were black. He grimaced.
“He’s like that because of the books?” Ariadne said in horror.
“Seems that way. Arthur’s getting his tracks covered rather thoroughly. Come on, let’s move before more arrive.”
Taking up the lamp from where it had fallen, he held it up to take in their surrounds again. “Aha!” he said, with some satisfaction.
The light reflected off of another brass plaque:
BIOGRAPHY
And beneath that, a tacked on sheet of paper with a message far too messy to be in Arthur’s precise hand:
Under construction: Please detour to Arts & Humanities.
Our apologies for the inconvenience.
“Here we are,” he said dryly. “At last.”
“What are you hoping to find here?” Ariadne asked, straightening shakily and wiping her mouth. She looked around at the bookshelves and shuddered, shrinking instinctively away. She knew what they were supposed to find in the biography section--life stories of famous people Arthur was familiar with, filtered information of whatever friends and family he had briefed her on. But clearly, this wasn’t her library anymore. She braced her grip on the Beretta more tightly.
“Information,” Eames said unhelpfully. “And it’s going to be a royal pain in the arse getting it, apparently.”
“About what?”
“About Arthur. It’s not just other people’s biographies in here, you know.”
“What do we need to know about Arthur?”
“You needn’t worry about that just yet. I do need your help, however.”
Eames was approaching the Biography section like it was about to bite him. It was a bit creepy, though this wasn’t to say that the rest of this hostile, dark, labyrinthine library (with apparently hostile books) hadn’t been. As the lamp cast light on this section, however, Ariadne could see that it was blocked off with caution tape and translucent plastic sheeting, presumably to keep in the dust.
“What do you need?” Ariadne asked.
“Light,” Eames answered. “Right now, I need great deal of light.”
***
He was almost to the second hand. Almost.
The pendulum swung again, a throb of motion that felt
like an earthquake on this scale, ticking off the seconds
in a violent return. Arthur ducked beneath it,
keeping low and pressing forward as quickly as he could,
because the gear he’s standing on was working
against him, rotating slowly
in the opposite direction.
Stop time, Cobb had said.
A pistoning motion took him off guard, the minute hand
registering one tick forward. It jolted like a man out of a nightmare,
skidding across the clock face. Arthur made a decision.
He darted towards the main spring.
”What sort of lights?” Ariadne asked.
“Big ones. Ones that’ll light up this whole section.”
“I don’t know if I can, if Cobb’s taken this much control over--”
“You can,” Eames cut in, looking back at her steadily. “Come on, darling. Even Cobb said you’d be better than him someday.”
Ariadne huffed. “Glad I’ve got a great recommendation from the comatose one here.”
Eames set down the lamp on a shelf of postmodernist art books. “So go ahead. Let’s see what you can do.”
Ariadne closed her eyes.
“Big ones. Ones that’ll light up this whole section.”
“I don’t know if I can, if Cobb’s taken this much control over--”
“You can,” Eames cut in, looking back at her steadily. “Come on, darling. Even Cobb said you’d be better than him someday.”
Ariadne huffed. “Glad I’ve got a great recommendation from the comatose one here.”
Eames set down the lamp on a shelf of postmodernist art books. “So go ahead. Let’s see what you can do.”
Ariadne closed her eyes.
And layers up,
she wrote on rolls of cheap yellowed paper
of chandeliers to rival those of Versailles, massive crystal structures ablaze with light, and Victorian streetlamps at the junction of the bookshelves, yellow gaslight penetrating the deepest shadows at their feet.
***
of chandeliers to rival those of Versailles, massive crystal structures ablaze with light, and Victorian streetlamps at the junction of the bookshelves, yellow gaslight penetrating the deepest shadows at their feet.
She felt the warmth of it on her eyelids and opened them only to have to squint and shield her eyes.
“Very impressive. See? No problem at all.”
“Hm,” she said, noncommittally. She peered through the translucent plastic sheeting to try and get a look past it, but it seemed exactly the same as every other part of the library they’d passed. “Are we going in now?”
“Yes,” Eames answered slowly. “Though...cautiously. This is where the serum is doing its most essential work.”
Ariadne frowned. “I didn’t know that. Cobb couldn’t know that.”
“Couldn’t he?” he said mildly. “He’s seen it done before, remember?”
“But only from the outside!”
“Hm.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Ariadne hissed.
“Hold the lantern, will you? I’m afraid I have to have my hands free.”
“No.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Eames snorted. “So Cobb wrote you accurately after all,” he said. “Figures.” He turned to face her completely. “Whether or not we were in Cobb’s head—”
“Which we are.”
“--Whether or not we were, we’re now in Arthur’s subconscious. And with the apple tree serum in his system--”
“That isn’t real!”
“--Would you let me finish, darling? It’s real enough here, because Cobb thinks it’s real. And I’m telling you that if this is any indication,” he gestured at the blank, black form of the projection behind them, “It’ll be eating away at Arthur’s biography section first and worst, until all that’s left of him is the story he’ll keep telling for the rest of his life, the one that’s been enshrined in that prison he calls a cathedral.”
“And what story is that?” Ariadne said softly.
“Don’t know,” Eames replied. “Now I need you to close off this section. We don’t want to be worrying about stray projections coming from outside in addition to what’s inside.”
Ariadne knew he was lying. But she did as she was told.
“Very impressive. See? No problem at all.”
“Hm,” she said, noncommittally. She peered through the translucent plastic sheeting to try and get a look past it, but it seemed exactly the same as every other part of the library they’d passed. “Are we going in now?”
“Yes,” Eames answered slowly. “Though...cautiously. This is where the serum is doing its most essential work.”
Ariadne frowned. “I didn’t know that. Cobb couldn’t know that.”
“Couldn’t he?” he said mildly. “He’s seen it done before, remember?”
“But only from the outside!”
“Hm.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Ariadne hissed.
“Hold the lantern, will you? I’m afraid I have to have my hands free.”
“No.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Eames snorted. “So Cobb wrote you accurately after all,” he said. “Figures.” He turned to face her completely. “Whether or not we were in Cobb’s head—”
“Which we are.”
“--Whether or not we were, we’re now in Arthur’s subconscious. And with the apple tree serum in his system--”
“That isn’t real!”
“--Would you let me finish, darling? It’s real enough here, because Cobb thinks it’s real. And I’m telling you that if this is any indication,” he gestured at the blank, black form of the projection behind them, “It’ll be eating away at Arthur’s biography section first and worst, until all that’s left of him is the story he’ll keep telling for the rest of his life, the one that’s been enshrined in that prison he calls a cathedral.”
“And what story is that?” Ariadne said softly.
“Don’t know,” Eames replied. “Now I need you to close off this section. We don’t want to be worrying about stray projections coming from outside in addition to what’s inside.”
Ariadne knew he was lying. But she did as she was told.
***
Cobb frowns. His hands are covered in lamp black now, as are his discarded jacket and vest, leaving him in shirtsleeves in the drafty cathedral. He can’t feel his fingers, or his wrists.
He’s back at the beginning of the bottle, where the door to the outside had once stood, and the last tapestry has been wiped clean.
The date at its corner is July 23, 2010.
He goes over to the next one, even though it is already uncovered. July 11, 2010. The Klein bottle at its beginning.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters, “Why don’t you remember?”
He’s back at the beginning of the bottle, where the door to the outside had once stood, and the last tapestry has been wiped clean.
The date at its corner is July 23, 2010.
He goes over to the next one, even though it is already uncovered. July 11, 2010. The Klein bottle at its beginning.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters, “Why don’t you remember?”
***
One eye on the gears, and the other on his gun,
Arthur released the magazine and shoved it in his pocket.
He could see now how it all fit together,
each cog and tooth finding their places.
He saw its structure, and its point of weakest articulation.
Arthur took a deep breath, feeling the revolution of the
gear he was standing on, and the sharp back-and-forth clack
of the spring on its wheel. As he exhaled,
he felt everything infinitesimally slow.
He threw himself into motion, diving
through an opening in the mechanism, landing hard
and rolling out of the way of the anchor only to nearly
get brained by one of the revolving bars at the base
of the main wheel. He scrambled out of its way,
and made for the top of the pendulum.
He clung to it tightly as it swung, lest it throw him off entirely.
Gripping it with his legs, he took off his waistcoat
and tied it securely to the Glock.
He was interfering with the movement of the clock already--
the pendulum groaned under his weight, and his heart tripped
slightly in reaction to the sudden unevenness
in the marking of seconds. He ignored it
in favor of watching the anchor as it marked
the progression of the escape wheel.
He could almost feel the way the pendulum swung
and the sway of the anchor lined up with the blood
flowing through the chambers of his heart.
It made the job easier, for once.
Timing it with the pulse of his blood,
he swung the waistcoat-gun amalgam up towards the anchor.
The firearm clattered against the escape wheel as the anchor
came down, trapping it between the gear tooth and the anchor’s arm.
The mechanism groaned, and Arthur lunged upward
to grab the tail end of the waistcoat still free
and wrap it around the arm and the gear teeth,
holding it in place as it shrieked metallic protest.
He felt his heart slow.
And the clock ground to a stop.
***
Arthur released the magazine and shoved it in his pocket.
He could see now how it all fit together,
each cog and tooth finding their places.
He saw its structure, and its point of weakest articulation.
Arthur took a deep breath, feeling the revolution of the
gear he was standing on, and the sharp back-and-forth clack
of the spring on its wheel. As he exhaled,
he felt everything infinitesimally slow.
He threw himself into motion, diving
through an opening in the mechanism, landing hard
and rolling out of the way of the anchor only to nearly
get brained by one of the revolving bars at the base
of the main wheel. He scrambled out of its way,
and made for the top of the pendulum.
He clung to it tightly as it swung, lest it throw him off entirely.
Gripping it with his legs, he took off his waistcoat
and tied it securely to the Glock.
He was interfering with the movement of the clock already--
the pendulum groaned under his weight, and his heart tripped
slightly in reaction to the sudden unevenness
in the marking of seconds. He ignored it
in favor of watching the anchor as it marked
the progression of the escape wheel.
He could almost feel the way the pendulum swung
and the sway of the anchor lined up with the blood
flowing through the chambers of his heart.
It made the job easier, for once.
Timing it with the pulse of his blood,
he swung the waistcoat-gun amalgam up towards the anchor.
The firearm clattered against the escape wheel as the anchor
came down, trapping it between the gear tooth and the anchor’s arm.
The mechanism groaned, and Arthur lunged upward
to grab the tail end of the waistcoat still free
and wrap it around the arm and the gear teeth,
holding it in place as it shrieked metallic protest.
He felt his heart slow.
And the clock ground to a stop.
***
”What was that?” Ariadne asked, looking up and around her.
Eames paused, halfway through pulling away the plastic sheeting, the library still aglow with electric light. “That,” he said, with no small amount of respect, “Was Arthur stopping time.”
Eames paused, halfway through pulling away the plastic sheeting, the library still aglow with electric light. “That,” he said, with no small amount of respect, “Was Arthur stopping time.”
***
Cobb pauses, still stooping over sooty tapestry, as he listens to the sudden and intent stillness.
He feels his heart beat once, twice. Then there’s a shift.
“Finally,” he breathes, and then he rises, and makes a run for the flickering door that solidifies as
He feels his heart beat once, twice. Then there’s a shift.
“Finally,” he breathes, and then he rises, and makes a run for the flickering door that solidifies as
Arthur’s grip on the pendulum slipped, and he managed
to make one last knot in the waistcoat to keep it from slipping
and unjamming the mechanism before toppling
from the contraption entirely and falling,
falling too fast towards darkness.
He jackknifed his body to right himself, catch himself--
Instead he felt himself being caught.
to make one last knot in the waistcoat to keep it from slipping
and unjamming the mechanism before toppling
from the contraption entirely and falling,
falling too fast towards darkness.
He jackknifed his body to right himself, catch himself--
Instead he felt himself being caught.
***
“Cobb...he’s not in the cathedral anymore,” Ariadne said suddenly. Her voice echoed strangely now, sealed into the biography section as they were. She had little control over anything beyond that now, she was sure, but this she could sense, this she could narrate, even if it wasn’t her words being committed to the page.
Eames was looking down in consternation at his hands, which were now stained a featureless black. “What, neither of them?”
“No. Cobb’s left, Arthur is long gone, they’re...not there.”
“Well then, where the hell are they?”
“...I don’t know.”
Eames was looking down in consternation at his hands, which were now stained a featureless black. “What, neither of them?”
“No. Cobb’s left, Arthur is long gone, they’re...not there.”
“Well then, where the hell are they?”
“...I don’t know.”
***
They stumbled slightly on landing.
“What...Cobb?” Arthur asked, his stance tight and combat-ready. “How did you...where are we?”
Cobb swallowed, letting go of him abruptly. “We’re in a memory.”
Arthur growled. “Mine or yours?”
Cobb shot him a glance, half apologetic. “Both. Come and see.”
He pulled open the door to the hospital room. Soldiers in uniform were milling around, their camouflage gear incongruous with the sterile white of clean hallways and metal bed frames.
Cobb closed his eyes for a long moment, and then said, “Clear the room, please.”
They did so with quiet efficiency.
Arthur followed him inside and then sucked in a breath. “This isn’t a memory,” he said. “How is this possible?”
Cobb looked over his shoulder at him. “Isn’t it?” he said mildly. “And it’s possible because you stopped your inner sense of time. Without that, narrative becomes a bit more fluid, more easily manipulated. Remember Einstein? ‘Time exists so that everything doesn’t happen all at once’? With everything trying to happen at once, one can...nudge which things happen first more easily.”
Arthur shook his head. “It’s not a memory if I don’t remember being in it.”
“Hm,” Cobb said. “Come here.”
Arthur followed. He noted that Cobb’s hands and wrists were black. He wondered why.
And then he paused, mid-step.
Arthur looked up at Cobb from the hospital bed, and frowned slightly. “What are you doing here, Cobb?” he said sharply. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“That’s not,” Arthur--Arthur who was not on the bed--stepped back. “You have another projection of me in here, Cobb? What the fuck?”
“I have as many projections of you as you have memories with me,” Cobb replied, and then he turned to look at the Arthur on the bed.
The Arthur that wasn’t him.
Cobb took a breath. “You shouldn’t do this,” he said, but his voice was hollow now, like he was reciting lines that were being forced on him. “This is incredibly risky.”
“I haven’t got anything to hide,” not-Arthur shrugged. “And someone has to do it.”
“You’re so above the pay grade for this, you should be tallying the results, not being the guinea pig!” Cobb was pleading with him now, and that made no sense, Arthur hadn’t done anything.
Arthur-on-the-bed pursed his lips, and looked away.
“Arthur,” Cobb said, lowering his voice. “You woke me up. Don’t go to sleep on me now.”
“I’m not. I’ll be out for an hour, I’ll wake up, spout my secrets, and then we’ll be done. I’ll be fine, Cobb.”
“You don’t know that.” And now Cobb sounded positively anguished. He grabbed Arthur’s hand, and they both look surprised at the gesture. But Cobb didn’t let go. “Please don’t,” he said quietly. “Something’s wrong with this trial, there has to be a reason why they want you, and not anyone else on this goddamn base.”
“It was a direct order, Cobb,” not-Arthur said, absolute and calm. The opposite of how Arthur felt now. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Are you ready, Lieutenant?” a nurse asked. She looked disapprovingly at Cobb. “I’m terribly sorry, Dominic, but you can’t be here right now.”
Arthur nodded. The nurse pushed Cobb pointedly aside and drew the curtains.
Cobb, bereft, turned and looked at Arthur.
“This is how I lost you,” he whispered.
“But I’m not—“
Arthur stopped.
No.
No no no no no.
***
“What...Cobb?” Arthur asked, his stance tight and combat-ready. “How did you...where are we?”
Cobb swallowed, letting go of him abruptly. “We’re in a memory.”
Arthur growled. “Mine or yours?”
Cobb shot him a glance, half apologetic. “Both. Come and see.”
He pulled open the door to the hospital room. Soldiers in uniform were milling around, their camouflage gear incongruous with the sterile white of clean hallways and metal bed frames.
Cobb closed his eyes for a long moment, and then said, “Clear the room, please.”
They did so with quiet efficiency.
Arthur followed him inside and then sucked in a breath. “This isn’t a memory,” he said. “How is this possible?”
Cobb looked over his shoulder at him. “Isn’t it?” he said mildly. “And it’s possible because you stopped your inner sense of time. Without that, narrative becomes a bit more fluid, more easily manipulated. Remember Einstein? ‘Time exists so that everything doesn’t happen all at once’? With everything trying to happen at once, one can...nudge which things happen first more easily.”
Arthur shook his head. “It’s not a memory if I don’t remember being in it.”
“Hm,” Cobb said. “Come here.”
Arthur followed. He noted that Cobb’s hands and wrists were black. He wondered why.
And then he paused, mid-step.
Arthur looked up at Cobb from the hospital bed, and frowned slightly. “What are you doing here, Cobb?” he said sharply. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“That’s not,” Arthur--Arthur who was not on the bed--stepped back. “You have another projection of me in here, Cobb? What the fuck?”
“I have as many projections of you as you have memories with me,” Cobb replied, and then he turned to look at the Arthur on the bed.
The Arthur that wasn’t him.
Cobb took a breath. “You shouldn’t do this,” he said, but his voice was hollow now, like he was reciting lines that were being forced on him. “This is incredibly risky.”
“I haven’t got anything to hide,” not-Arthur shrugged. “And someone has to do it.”
“You’re so above the pay grade for this, you should be tallying the results, not being the guinea pig!” Cobb was pleading with him now, and that made no sense, Arthur hadn’t done anything.
Arthur-on-the-bed pursed his lips, and looked away.
“Arthur,” Cobb said, lowering his voice. “You woke me up. Don’t go to sleep on me now.”
“I’m not. I’ll be out for an hour, I’ll wake up, spout my secrets, and then we’ll be done. I’ll be fine, Cobb.”
“You don’t know that.” And now Cobb sounded positively anguished. He grabbed Arthur’s hand, and they both look surprised at the gesture. But Cobb didn’t let go. “Please don’t,” he said quietly. “Something’s wrong with this trial, there has to be a reason why they want you, and not anyone else on this goddamn base.”
“It was a direct order, Cobb,” not-Arthur said, absolute and calm. The opposite of how Arthur felt now. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Are you ready, Lieutenant?” a nurse asked. She looked disapprovingly at Cobb. “I’m terribly sorry, Dominic, but you can’t be here right now.”
Arthur nodded. The nurse pushed Cobb pointedly aside and drew the curtains.
Cobb, bereft, turned and looked at Arthur.
“This is how I lost you,” he whispered.
“But I’m not—“
Arthur stopped.
No.
No no no no no.
***
The library trembled. Ariadne looked up at the chandelier at the center of the biography section, watched the crystals sway, refracting light chaotically.
Eames grunted as he stepped into the shelves, “Too soon.”
She turned to him. “What are you looking for? Let me help?”
“No.” He was scanning book spines now, fingers skimming across them carefully and quickly. His hands seemed lost in shadow between the shelves, despite the lights blazing down on them. “You watch the darkness. If it starts to change, if it starts to grow, you tell me.”
“Grow?”
“Grow, love. Be careful.”
Eames grunted as he stepped into the shelves, “Too soon.”
She turned to him. “What are you looking for? Let me help?”
“No.” He was scanning book spines now, fingers skimming across them carefully and quickly. His hands seemed lost in shadow between the shelves, despite the lights blazing down on them. “You watch the darkness. If it starts to change, if it starts to grow, you tell me.”
“Grow?”
“Grow, love. Be careful.”
***
The hospital darkens, like there’s a power outage somewhere. The generators hum and struggle. The nurses move a little more efficiently, a little more anxiously.
Arthur is still.
Cobb had always told him, never build from reality, because then he might start confusing dreams with reality, but what if it was all a memory after all? What if--?
God, no.
“Arthur,” Cobb starts.
Arthur stumbles back from him like he’d been shot.
“Arthur, please don’t run from me now. We’ve never been so close, you are so close. Please, Arthur. Don’t go back now.” Cobb holds out his blackened hand.
***
Arthur is still.
Cobb had always told him, never build from reality, because then he might start confusing dreams with reality, but what if it was all a memory after all? What if--?
God, no.
“Arthur,” Cobb starts.
Arthur stumbles back from him like he’d been shot.
“Arthur, please don’t run from me now. We’ve never been so close, you are so close. Please, Arthur. Don’t go back now.” Cobb holds out his blackened hand.
***
The library jolted, like the ground beneath it was giving way. Ariadne cried out, was unable to do otherwise. She whirled around and saw nothing but trembling bookshelves.
“Shit!”
The shot was--is--like a crack of thunder; she jumped--jumps. She looks over at Eames, whose gun is trained to the floor, and whose bullet now glows faintly with heat against a shadow that isn’t a shadow. It creeps forward with no physical form or light to guide it.
Ariadne writes a flashlight into her hand and shines it into the darkness. It cringes back.
“Good girl,” Eames says, “But the plaster’s still coming down. I need you to keep us steady for longer.”
As if in defiance, the library trembles again. Ariadne flinches hard.
“Keep us steady!” Eames snaps. He’s black up to his wrists now, his hands moving more sluggishly than before. Ariadne can’t look away from them.
“How?!”
“You’re the bloody writer! Write us some calm! Write us some more light!”
She squeezes her eyes shut, and scrawls fevered illumination. But she can feel the bookshelves shudder, feel the lurch of the earth beneath her feet.
She can’t unwrite what she feels so completely.
The walls buck.
“Shit!”
The shot was--is--like a crack of thunder; she jumped--jumps. She looks over at Eames, whose gun is trained to the floor, and whose bullet now glows faintly with heat against a shadow that isn’t a shadow. It creeps forward with no physical form or light to guide it.
Ariadne writes a flashlight into her hand and shines it into the darkness. It cringes back.
“Good girl,” Eames says, “But the plaster’s still coming down. I need you to keep us steady for longer.”
As if in defiance, the library trembles again. Ariadne flinches hard.
“Keep us steady!” Eames snaps. He’s black up to his wrists now, his hands moving more sluggishly than before. Ariadne can’t look away from them.
“How?!”
“You’re the bloody writer! Write us some calm! Write us some more light!”
She squeezes her eyes shut, and scrawls fevered illumination. But she can feel the bookshelves shudder, feel the lurch of the earth beneath her feet.
She can’t unwrite what she feels so completely.
The walls buck.
***
“What happened here?” Arthur rasps. “What is happening, Cobb?”
“They thought you were keeping data from them. That you were doing freelance not sanctioned by your orders,” Cobb says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “They ordered that you be the test subject of their new serum to find out. ‘Apple tree’, they called it. We thought it didn’t exist. I didn’t believe it. They kept you under for an hour. And when you came out, all you could do was write. The same story, the same words, every time.
“You told the story of how you saved me. How you woke me up after I dreamed the inception.”
Arthur shakes his head slowly, staring at the floor. “But I didn’t. I’m trying to save you right now.”
“Are you?” Cobb counters. “Where were you when Miles called you, to tell you that I had written up three layers? How did you get there, Arthur?”
Arthur tries to remember.
“No. That’s reality. I got that call and I was in Thailand, I was there on a job—“
“A job that was how long ago? Arthur, it was reality, at one point. But it’s a memory now, and a long dead one, at that.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why? Why would I lie to you?”
“You’ve lied to me before,” Arthur snaps, and something inside Cobb seems to collapse, leaving his shoulders to slump over the emptiness.
“They thought you were keeping data from them. That you were doing freelance not sanctioned by your orders,” Cobb says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “They ordered that you be the test subject of their new serum to find out. ‘Apple tree’, they called it. We thought it didn’t exist. I didn’t believe it. They kept you under for an hour. And when you came out, all you could do was write. The same story, the same words, every time.
“You told the story of how you saved me. How you woke me up after I dreamed the inception.”
Arthur shakes his head slowly, staring at the floor. “But I didn’t. I’m trying to save you right now.”
“Are you?” Cobb counters. “Where were you when Miles called you, to tell you that I had written up three layers? How did you get there, Arthur?”
Arthur tries to remember.
“No. That’s reality. I got that call and I was in Thailand, I was there on a job—“
“A job that was how long ago? Arthur, it was reality, at one point. But it’s a memory now, and a long dead one, at that.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why? Why would I lie to you?”
“You’ve lied to me before,” Arthur snaps, and something inside Cobb seems to collapse, leaving his shoulders to slump over the emptiness.
“I know,” he says lowly. “I’m. I’m not lying now.” He looks up at Arthur, blue eyes ancient and tired. “Let me finish the story, Arthur. Please. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Arthur shakes his head, backing away. “You’re not the storyteller. Ariadne is, she’s the dreamer.”
“When did you meet her?” Cobb asks. “Better yet, when did I start talking about her?”
“When you were working on your fifth novel—“ Arthur freezes, and then grabs onto it. “Your fifth novel. See, you’re not an architect, Cobb! You’re a novelist.”
He waits for Cobb’s confusion, his denial.
But Cobb…just nods.
“I know,” he says quietly. “Arthur, I know.”
“I came down here, to your dream, to get you!”
“I know.”
“You thought the inception was real, you had a totem—“
Cobb opens his arms. “And where is it now? Why don’t I have it, Arthur?” He steps forward; Arthur steps back. A confusion of dreams and memories are clawing at his mind, fighting for dominance, but not a single vision makes sense. The hospital swims in front of his eyes.
Arthur shakes his head, backing away. “You’re not the storyteller. Ariadne is, she’s the dreamer.”
“When did you meet her?” Cobb asks. “Better yet, when did I start talking about her?”
“When you were working on your fifth novel—“ Arthur freezes, and then grabs onto it. “Your fifth novel. See, you’re not an architect, Cobb! You’re a novelist.”
He waits for Cobb’s confusion, his denial.
But Cobb…just nods.
“I know,” he says quietly. “Arthur, I know.”
“I came down here, to your dream, to get you!”
“I know.”
“You thought the inception was real, you had a totem—“
Cobb opens his arms. “And where is it now? Why don’t I have it, Arthur?” He steps forward; Arthur steps back. A confusion of dreams and memories are clawing at his mind, fighting for dominance, but not a single vision makes sense. The hospital swims in front of his eyes.
***
”Oh no.”
The wood warps like it is plastic next to open flames, and then black spills down its surface like paint down canvas. Ariadne tries to block it out, but the smell pervades, acrid and smoky.
“Who is telling the story here? You or Cobb?!” Eames shouts at her. “Come on, Ariadne, I need more time!”
The wood warps like it is plastic next to open flames, and then black spills down its surface like paint down canvas. Ariadne tries to block it out, but the smell pervades, acrid and smoky.
“Who is telling the story here? You or Cobb?!” Eames shouts at her. “Come on, Ariadne, I need more time!”
The walls are collapsing, tumbling outside; soon the shadows will be completely inside, and darkness will consume them.
“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head, crystal chandeliers shattering overhead. She tries to build peace and quiet, but it all falls to pieces and sifts through her fingers “I don’t know.”
***
“This is impossible,” Arthur says, and hates how his voice hitches, deviating from steadiness in awful hiccups. “We’re in your dream. This is all to save you, to wake you up, that’s why I’m here.”
Cobb asks, “What’s the date, Arthur?”
“July,” Arthur answers automatically. “July 23rd, 2010.”
Cobb goes over to the wall, where a one-a-day calendar hangs. He tears off the top sheet and hands it to Arthur.
It reads: September 17, 2010.
Cobb says, “Why don’t you remember finishing this mission? That’s what I don’t understand. You saved me. Why don’t you remember that?”
“Because it hasn’t. Happened,” Arthur says, his voice dropping low. “You’ve lost track of the layers.”
“There aren’t layers anymore. There’s just your subconscious, manifesting as unstable dreamscapes; you knew that coming in.”
“Because of the cocktail--”
“--you were given. Come with me.” Cobb holds out his hand again. “Please.”
Arthur eyes it. “Where? And what’s wrong with your hand?”
“Back to the cathedral. Come on, Arthur, please.” He gestures, but the movement is feeble, indistinct.
Arthur swallows his dread. “You can get us there? On purpose?”
Cobb smiles, but it’s a bitter expression, tight and unhappy. “I’ve gotten pretty good at navigating your head, Arthur.”
Arthur has to ask, even if he doesn’t believe it. He has to.
“How long have you been here, Cobb?”
Cobb tugs at Arthur’s elbow, pulling him towards what appears to be a painting. It looks altogether out of place in the hospital; the frame is heavy dark wood, carved with baroque molding along its edge, curled with grotesque reliefs.
The painting itself is dark too--the interior of a church. It looks familiar.
“It’s been on and off,” Cobb says, too casually, “A few days for each try, and recovery time in between.”
Arthur can barely breathe.
Cobb looks at the painting. “You pulled me out of my dream, out of the inception,” he says, “On July 25th, 2010. You’d gotten leave from the base to do so, but the commander didn’t approve. It’s not as if they’d sanctioned my using military technology for personal reasons, anyway.”
Again, the thin bitter smile.
“When you went back, it was business as usual for you, as far as I know. Nine months pass, and I don’t hear from you, but that’s normal, that’s work. Then Eames calls me with a heads up--that you’re going to be a guinea pig for some new experiment with the PASIV, something neither I nor Miles had been briefed on. I got the call on September 15th. And I find you here in this hospital on the 17th. That’s the time line, Arthur. If nothing else, try to remember that this time.”
Arthur swallows. “How many tries, Cobb?”
Cobb looks for all the world like that is what he wants to answer least. He does anyway, though.
“Seven.”
Arthur exhales, and wants so, so badly to wake up.
Cobb takes hold of the picture frame, and pulls. The frame comes away. The painting does not, because the painting--
“Isn’t a painting,” Cobb murmurs, almost too quietly for Arthur to hear.
Arthur tilts his head, and the perspective on the church interior shifts with him, it’s deep brown stones candlelit. Arthur watches the flames flicker.
A cold Irish breeze filters into the room, and some of the nurses shiver.
Cobb steps forward, into the church, stopping
Cobb asks, “What’s the date, Arthur?”
“July,” Arthur answers automatically. “July 23rd, 2010.”
Cobb goes over to the wall, where a one-a-day calendar hangs. He tears off the top sheet and hands it to Arthur.
It reads: September 17, 2010.
Cobb says, “Why don’t you remember finishing this mission? That’s what I don’t understand. You saved me. Why don’t you remember that?”
“Because it hasn’t. Happened,” Arthur says, his voice dropping low. “You’ve lost track of the layers.”
“There aren’t layers anymore. There’s just your subconscious, manifesting as unstable dreamscapes; you knew that coming in.”
“Because of the cocktail--”
“--you were given. Come with me.” Cobb holds out his hand again. “Please.”
Arthur eyes it. “Where? And what’s wrong with your hand?”
“Back to the cathedral. Come on, Arthur, please.” He gestures, but the movement is feeble, indistinct.
Arthur swallows his dread. “You can get us there? On purpose?”
Cobb smiles, but it’s a bitter expression, tight and unhappy. “I’ve gotten pretty good at navigating your head, Arthur.”
Arthur has to ask, even if he doesn’t believe it. He has to.
“How long have you been here, Cobb?”
Cobb tugs at Arthur’s elbow, pulling him towards what appears to be a painting. It looks altogether out of place in the hospital; the frame is heavy dark wood, carved with baroque molding along its edge, curled with grotesque reliefs.
The painting itself is dark too--the interior of a church. It looks familiar.
“It’s been on and off,” Cobb says, too casually, “A few days for each try, and recovery time in between.”
Arthur can barely breathe.
Cobb looks at the painting. “You pulled me out of my dream, out of the inception,” he says, “On July 25th, 2010. You’d gotten leave from the base to do so, but the commander didn’t approve. It’s not as if they’d sanctioned my using military technology for personal reasons, anyway.”
Again, the thin bitter smile.
“When you went back, it was business as usual for you, as far as I know. Nine months pass, and I don’t hear from you, but that’s normal, that’s work. Then Eames calls me with a heads up--that you’re going to be a guinea pig for some new experiment with the PASIV, something neither I nor Miles had been briefed on. I got the call on September 15th. And I find you here in this hospital on the 17th. That’s the time line, Arthur. If nothing else, try to remember that this time.”
Arthur swallows. “How many tries, Cobb?”
Cobb looks for all the world like that is what he wants to answer least. He does anyway, though.
“Seven.”
Arthur exhales, and wants so, so badly to wake up.
Cobb takes hold of the picture frame, and pulls. The frame comes away. The painting does not, because the painting--
“Isn’t a painting,” Cobb murmurs, almost too quietly for Arthur to hear.
Arthur tilts his head, and the perspective on the church interior shifts with him, it’s deep brown stones candlelit. Arthur watches the flames flicker.
A cold Irish breeze filters into the room, and some of the nurses shiver.
Cobb steps forward, into the church, stopping
halfway through.
“Will you come with me? And let me tell you the story?” he asks, finally daring to look back up at Arthur. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept for months, and Arthur wants to fall back to old patterns, ply him with a bedroom and a drink and watch him go to sleep.
Numbly, he nods instead.
***
The library goes suddenly, hauntingly still. Ariadne cracks one eye open cautiously.
“That’s either very good news, or very bad,” Eames says quietly.
“What happens if its very bad news?” Ariadne asks.
“Then the shadows are the least of our worries.”
She swallows. When she gets her voice to work, it comes out small. “Oh.”
“That’s either very good news, or very bad,” Eames says quietly.
“What happens if its very bad news?” Ariadne asks.
“Then the shadows are the least of our worries.”
She swallows. When she gets her voice to work, it comes out small. “Oh.”
***
The cathedral is on the verge of ruins, when they step through. Arthur looks up at the steel gray sky that looks sun-bright through the fissures in the ancient stones and fragmented stained glass. “What happened?” he asks.
“You,” Cobb says simply. “What else happens when you begin to doubt within a dream?”
Arthur spares a guilty thought for Eames and Ariadne, and hopes they’re all right.
The dim glow of the hospital’s emergency lighting filters through the round window, incongruously clinical. Arthur notices that on the cathedral side, there is a familiar grotesque pattern round the edge of the glass. Son of a bitch, he thinks, and the earth trembles again, just slightly. Rocks tumble in smooth arcs around the walls and ceiling, and seem to choose where they settle with no real rhyme or reason. Still no concrete gravity in this place then. An impossible building to the last.
Cobb is watching him, this strange mix of anxiety and longing in his face and stance that Arthur remembers, jarringly, from those painful months when Mal was still alive, but not.
He thinks maybe, just maybe, Cobb could be right.
He begins to remember.
***
The moment that Cobb realizes, truly believes, is a shock of confusion and awe that seems to overpower the whole room. Arthur knows he’s always been like this, his emotions writ large even when they’re affected, but this genuine epiphany hits him like a tropical storm. Never mind the actual hurricane that devours the horizon, one long roar of realization and a dream, so many dreams, coming apart.
“I nearly--I thought I--” Cobb stops at the stone parapet, coat whipping out around him, his whole body a portrait of devastation, and Arthur’s seen him look like this too many times, too many goddamn times, and he’s never known how to put him back together, never.
Not until this time. But even now, he’s beginning to doubt.
“You did. But now you don’t,” he says. He looks out at the skyline, where the hurricane rages, pulling up lighthouses in its torrent of sand and water. “Cobb. Dom. Listen.”
“For what?” Cobb says, voice rough and low and unhinged, almost stolen by the gale that whips up around them. The hurricane is coming in fast to the shore, the beach houses down past the cliffside are shorn down to their foundations; the storm is thick with shingles.
The cathedral will stand, but only barely. Ariadne’s design is bulky and solid, all perfectly straight lines supported by Gothic arches and flying buttresses; but then again, the Irish coastline doesn’t often expect tropical storms, and neither do the structures made along it.
“For the kick. Can you hear it?”
The horns echo on the wind, one long, pulsing, haunting wail. Cobb exhales like he’s been punched. “How many layers?” he asks.
Arthur says, “Three. This cathedral, and then the library, and then your world. Three kicks to go home.” He swallows roughly, and then adds. “Do you trust me?”
Cobb is silent and still, and then he looks down over the edge of the parapet.
He holds out his hand.
***
“Three kicks,” Cobb murmurs. “One fall from the parapet, one destruction of a fake library of your memories, and one...” He looks steadily at Arthur.
Arthur hadn’t realized that he has spoken aloud. He shivers involuntarily, and doesn’t answer.
Cobb breathes out, and nods unhappily.
He takes Arthur by the arm, and leads him over to the dimly lit tapestry, letters and numbers already beginning to gray over again with soot. He wipes the grime away. Arthur sucks in a breath.
“Cobb, your hand--”
“I told you, we don’t have much time,” Cobb says. He is ink-stained up to his elbows, and for the first time Arthur notices that his breathing is labored. “You always were one to scribble out, Arthur, never erase. Always blocks and blocks of black ink until nothing but what you wanted to see was left. But don’t worry about that right now, just look.”
In neat handwriting that Arthur recognizes, he sees the scene, word for word as he recalls it.
...then he looks down over the edge of the parapet.
He holds out his hand.
That was the end, except for the date at the corner. Arthur stands over it dazedly, like he’s standing over a headstone with his name on it.
“That’s the last thing you write, every time. We end up on the parapet, and the cathedral is just a cathedral,” Cobb says quietly. “So what’s after that? I look over the parapet, and I hold out my hand to you, what then?”
“You,” Cobb says simply. “What else happens when you begin to doubt within a dream?”
Arthur spares a guilty thought for Eames and Ariadne, and hopes they’re all right.
The dim glow of the hospital’s emergency lighting filters through the round window, incongruously clinical. Arthur notices that on the cathedral side, there is a familiar grotesque pattern round the edge of the glass. Son of a bitch, he thinks, and the earth trembles again, just slightly. Rocks tumble in smooth arcs around the walls and ceiling, and seem to choose where they settle with no real rhyme or reason. Still no concrete gravity in this place then. An impossible building to the last.
Cobb is watching him, this strange mix of anxiety and longing in his face and stance that Arthur remembers, jarringly, from those painful months when Mal was still alive, but not.
He thinks maybe, just maybe, Cobb could be right.
He begins to remember.
***
The moment that Cobb realizes, truly believes, is a shock of confusion and awe that seems to overpower the whole room. Arthur knows he’s always been like this, his emotions writ large even when they’re affected, but this genuine epiphany hits him like a tropical storm. Never mind the actual hurricane that devours the horizon, one long roar of realization and a dream, so many dreams, coming apart.
“I nearly--I thought I--” Cobb stops at the stone parapet, coat whipping out around him, his whole body a portrait of devastation, and Arthur’s seen him look like this too many times, too many goddamn times, and he’s never known how to put him back together, never.
Not until this time. But even now, he’s beginning to doubt.
“You did. But now you don’t,” he says. He looks out at the skyline, where the hurricane rages, pulling up lighthouses in its torrent of sand and water. “Cobb. Dom. Listen.”
“For what?” Cobb says, voice rough and low and unhinged, almost stolen by the gale that whips up around them. The hurricane is coming in fast to the shore, the beach houses down past the cliffside are shorn down to their foundations; the storm is thick with shingles.
The cathedral will stand, but only barely. Ariadne’s design is bulky and solid, all perfectly straight lines supported by Gothic arches and flying buttresses; but then again, the Irish coastline doesn’t often expect tropical storms, and neither do the structures made along it.
“For the kick. Can you hear it?”
The horns echo on the wind, one long, pulsing, haunting wail. Cobb exhales like he’s been punched. “How many layers?” he asks.
Arthur says, “Three. This cathedral, and then the library, and then your world. Three kicks to go home.” He swallows roughly, and then adds. “Do you trust me?”
Cobb is silent and still, and then he looks down over the edge of the parapet.
He holds out his hand.
***
“Three kicks,” Cobb murmurs. “One fall from the parapet, one destruction of a fake library of your memories, and one...” He looks steadily at Arthur.
Arthur hadn’t realized that he has spoken aloud. He shivers involuntarily, and doesn’t answer.
Cobb breathes out, and nods unhappily.
He takes Arthur by the arm, and leads him over to the dimly lit tapestry, letters and numbers already beginning to gray over again with soot. He wipes the grime away. Arthur sucks in a breath.
“Cobb, your hand--”
“I told you, we don’t have much time,” Cobb says. He is ink-stained up to his elbows, and for the first time Arthur notices that his breathing is labored. “You always were one to scribble out, Arthur, never erase. Always blocks and blocks of black ink until nothing but what you wanted to see was left. But don’t worry about that right now, just look.”
In neat handwriting that Arthur recognizes, he sees the scene, word for word as he recalls it.
...then he looks down over the edge of the parapet.
He holds out his hand.
That was the end, except for the date at the corner. Arthur stands over it dazedly, like he’s standing over a headstone with his name on it.
“That’s the last thing you write, every time. We end up on the parapet, and the cathedral is just a cathedral,” Cobb says quietly. “So what’s after that? I look over the parapet, and I hold out my hand to you, what then?”
***
”Aha!” Eames says breathlessly, “Found it!”
Ariadne turns her head. She’s huddled against the bookshelves in a haze of lantern light. The library has been still for the past ten minutes, and she’s expended all the energy she can spare on keeping it blazing with light. There are flakes of plaster dusted over every inch of available surface, including her and Eames, and she jumps at the shadows every time she things she sees one move.
They’ve both begun to sweat under the harshness of a hundred lights. Ariadne feels bleached and exposed. Her hands feel oddly numb.
“What is it?” she asks finally.
Eames turns and flops down next to her. She notices with some alarm that there is black spidering up his neck. “This, my dear Ariadne, is the Saga of Arthur, circa July 2010.”
Ariadne frowns. “But that’s...right now.”
Eames looks at her with an unreadable smile. “Yes. Of course. Give me your flashlight?”
“There are five chandeliers in this room,” she says dryly, “And ten streetlamps.”
Eames’ eyebrows twitch in agreement. But then he flips the book open, and tilts it towards her.
She jerks back.
It isn’t just that the pages are black.
They are the antithesis of light.
Eames looks at her patiently. “The flashlight, darling.”
She hands it over. Eames frowns. “Your hands--”
“The soot,” she replies, putting it together and trying not to think about it all at once. “Never mind.”
He looks at her worriedly, and then turns back to the book. “Let’s hope Cobb hasn’t touched it, then,” he murmurs.
“How come you know all the rules here,” Ariadne asks, “And I don’t?”
Eames aims the flashlight directly into the center of the book, and it seems to shiver angrily in his hands.
“I need you to do something very important for me,” he says finally.
She looks at him.
“I’m not real, am I?” she says, slowly.
Eames sighs, and it turns into a wet cough.
And then he says, “I need you to do something very important.”
He listens to her breathe for a long moment. She says, “What.”
“I need you to tell me how this story ends. I need you to tell me how Arthur saves Cobb.”
“Why?”
There’s a hollowness and brittle anger in her question that makes him wince. He meets her eyes, and her gaze is too old, too disciplined.
He takes a breath, and says, “Because the story you tell right now, is what goes in this book.”
***
Cobb is close to Arthur now, enough that Arthur can feel his breath on his cheek. It’s warm and smells very slightly of stale coffee, and he closes his eyes.
“Remember, Arthur,” Cobb says, pleads. “What happens after I held out my hand?”
***
Ariadne closes her eyes. The back of her throat tastes bitter, like black coffee, even though she takes hers with milk and sugar.
Telling a story is so often a process of simply setting up a series of circumstances, and then watching them all play out, with no idea as to how it should end. And when everything starts moving out of control, rolling off into unpredictable places...when that synthesis happens, that spark of creation, it is like drawing from memory some sort of long forgotten tale that had been there all along.
Something the brain just put together while the conscious mind was sleeping.
Or perhaps something that had happened to someone else, in another life.
She wonders whether, if she tries hard enough, she’ll remember the inception too.
“Ariadne,” Eames says, and for the first time, he sounds unsure, his voice breathy with uncertainty and ink.
She opens her eyes to look sidelong at him. “It’s okay.” Then she turns away and shuts her eyes again.
“I’ve got this.”
Then she takes a breath. The words come to her like out of a dream, and she nearly laughs at the great, awful irony of that particular simile.
She says,
“Cobb looks out over the parapet. And then he holds out his hand. Arthur takes it.”
The light from the flashlight begins to stick to the pages in Eames’s hands, black ink peeling away like paint near an open flame. Light, and white, and words.
They form thready and thin in Arthur’s memory, winding outward, spinning with them images, scents and sensations, and they--the words--ring true.
He says, “We fall from the parapet. Then the library collapses, set with Eames’ explosives. And then...one shot to the head. In the basement of Oberon Laboratories.” He opens his eyes and looks at Cobb. “I couldn’t do it.”
Cobb looks at him. “Arthur--”
“I froze.”
Cobb doesn’t say anything. Arthur knows exactly why. There’s a ringing clarity roaring in his ears now, and for a second he feels like maybe he’s drunk, or feverish.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, at last.
“Tell you what?”
“About Mal. During the inception.”
“That was just a dream, a narrative device--”
“You told your student. Your protegé. But you didn’t tell me.”
Cobb looks at him, his eyes widening fractionally. “Is that what this is about?” he says eventually. "What made you want to erase all of it?"
Arthur shrugs. “Ariadne should have saved you. You clearly would never have trusted me enough to believe me when I told you it was a dream.”
Cobb exhales, and moves to step closer. He stumbles though, and Arthur is the one to steady him. “That wasn’t a matter of trust,” he says to him, “In the inception, I needed someone who would force their way past me, someone who I could never trust because of just that. I couldn’t use you. I know you too well. I could never believe in any conception of you who found out about Mal and the sedation and would still let me do the job, even alone.”
He is gripping Arthur’s arm now, his hands cold and clammy with ink. “Arthur,” he says fiercely. “I trust you more than anyone. I trust you more than I trusted Mal.”
Arthur snorts. “More than Mal before she died, or after?”
“Mal was a brilliant storyteller,” Cobb smiles, and the expression looks painful. “And that made her an even better liar.”
“Just like you.”
“Just like me. And you, Arthur...you’re an honest man.”
“Lacking imagination?” Arthur suggests hollowly.
“Honest,” Cobb asserts, cupping his face. “So be honest with me, Arthur, and be honest with yourself: You froze. But what happened then?”
Cobb’s hands are too smooth, slick and unfeeling. Arthur swallows, his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck strung tight. He says, “I couldn’t shoot you. You looked...you looked like you were about to lose James and Phillipa all over again.”
“You thought I didn’t trust you,” Cobb says. He watches Arthur intently. “Arthur. When is anyone not afraid of getting shot in the head?”
“When they’re in a dream,” Arthur says dryly.
Cobb sighs, and tips his head forward to lean his brow against Arthur’s. “Did you pull the trigger?”
Arthur pauses.
He says, “We fall from the parapet. Then the library collapses, set with Eames’ explosives. And then...one shot to the head. In the basement of Oberon Laboratories.” He opens his eyes and looks at Cobb. “I couldn’t do it.”
Cobb looks at him. “Arthur--”
“I froze.”
Cobb doesn’t say anything. Arthur knows exactly why. There’s a ringing clarity roaring in his ears now, and for a second he feels like maybe he’s drunk, or feverish.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, at last.
“Tell you what?”
“About Mal. During the inception.”
“That was just a dream, a narrative device--”
“You told your student. Your protegé. But you didn’t tell me.”
Cobb looks at him, his eyes widening fractionally. “Is that what this is about?” he says eventually. "What made you want to erase all of it?"
Arthur shrugs. “Ariadne should have saved you. You clearly would never have trusted me enough to believe me when I told you it was a dream.”
Cobb exhales, and moves to step closer. He stumbles though, and Arthur is the one to steady him. “That wasn’t a matter of trust,” he says to him, “In the inception, I needed someone who would force their way past me, someone who I could never trust because of just that. I couldn’t use you. I know you too well. I could never believe in any conception of you who found out about Mal and the sedation and would still let me do the job, even alone.”
He is gripping Arthur’s arm now, his hands cold and clammy with ink. “Arthur,” he says fiercely. “I trust you more than anyone. I trust you more than I trusted Mal.”
Arthur snorts. “More than Mal before she died, or after?”
“Mal was a brilliant storyteller,” Cobb smiles, and the expression looks painful. “And that made her an even better liar.”
“Just like you.”
“Just like me. And you, Arthur...you’re an honest man.”
“Lacking imagination?” Arthur suggests hollowly.
“Honest,” Cobb asserts, cupping his face. “So be honest with me, Arthur, and be honest with yourself: You froze. But what happened then?”
Cobb’s hands are too smooth, slick and unfeeling. Arthur swallows, his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck strung tight. He says, “I couldn’t shoot you. You looked...you looked like you were about to lose James and Phillipa all over again.”
“You thought I didn’t trust you,” Cobb says. He watches Arthur intently. “Arthur. When is anyone not afraid of getting shot in the head?”
“When they’re in a dream,” Arthur says dryly.
Cobb sighs, and tips his head forward to lean his brow against Arthur’s. “Did you pull the trigger?”
Arthur pauses.
Ariadne pauses.
Eames says quietly, “Don’t cheat, now.”
She smiles. “I’m a better writer than that.”
Eames says quietly, “Don’t cheat, now.”
She smiles. “I’m a better writer than that.”
”No,” Arthur says, and shuts his eyes. “Eames had to.”
“You doubted reality.”
“For a second there, I thought...I thought we’d really killed you.”
“Arthur--”
“I don’t know why, it was so stupid, we’d gotten so far, and we were so close, but I just couldn’t shake--”
“Arthur. You didn’t fail. You saved my life. And I always knew you would.”
Arthur takes a long, shaky breath. He feels like he’s run ten marathons, he feels heartsick and undone and whole.
“This is a dream,” he whispers.
“Yes,” Cobb affirms.
“This is my dream.”
Cobb smiles. His jaw is turning black. “Yes, it is.”
Arthur pulls away, just enough to look at Cobb, to recognize all the small details in his face that he hadn’t seen before, details that were now slowly being swallowed by ink, his ink. He notices that some of the hair along Cobb’s temples has begun to go silver, and the crookedness of the worry lines around his eyes.
He says, “I want to wake up.”
Cobb nods weakly. “And I think you have the best-trained subconscious the world has ever seen, compromised or not.”
Arthur huffs. And then he laughs.
***
On the walls of the fortress around the cathedral, snipers descend to the ground, and unzip jacket pockets to pull plastique from their gear.
“You doubted reality.”
“For a second there, I thought...I thought we’d really killed you.”
“Arthur--”
“I don’t know why, it was so stupid, we’d gotten so far, and we were so close, but I just couldn’t shake--”
“Arthur. You didn’t fail. You saved my life. And I always knew you would.”
Arthur takes a long, shaky breath. He feels like he’s run ten marathons, he feels heartsick and undone and whole.
“This is a dream,” he whispers.
“Yes,” Cobb affirms.
“This is my dream.”
Cobb smiles. His jaw is turning black. “Yes, it is.”
Arthur pulls away, just enough to look at Cobb, to recognize all the small details in his face that he hadn’t seen before, details that were now slowly being swallowed by ink, his ink. He notices that some of the hair along Cobb’s temples has begun to go silver, and the crookedness of the worry lines around his eyes.
He says, “I want to wake up.”
Cobb nods weakly. “And I think you have the best-trained subconscious the world has ever seen, compromised or not.”
Arthur huffs. And then he laughs.
***
On the walls of the fortress around the cathedral, snipers descend to the ground, and unzip jacket pockets to pull plastique from their gear.
In a place without location or name, within which a clock has been disrupted,
with an almighty shudder, vast gears and pendulums crush
a forgotten Glock and waistcoat, and a second hand lurches
into motion.
with an almighty shudder, vast gears and pendulums crush
a forgotten Glock and waistcoat, and a second hand lurches
into motion.
In a badly lit but well-maintained library, a slim woman in a severe suit reaches beneath her desk and presses a panic button.
“What was that?” Ariadne asks. Her voice is hoarse from speaking for so long.
Eames looks up at the plaster that again has begun to shake loose.
“Bloody hell,” he breathes, “It finally worked.”
“What was that?” Ariadne asks. Her voice is hoarse from speaking for so long.
Eames looks up at the plaster that again has begun to shake loose.
“Bloody hell,” he breathes, “It finally worked.”
***
”I think it’s time to finish this,” Arthur says, conversationally.
Cobb nods. “I guess there are some people waiting for us.”
Arthur’s smile is crooked. “So I’ve heard.”
The cathedral shivers, gothic arches groaning.
“You’ll be there when I wake up?” Arthur says, as explosions begin to rock the building.
“Always,” Cobb promises, and leans heavily on him as he loses feeling in his legs.
***
On an Irish cliffside that can be found nowhere in Ireland, an impossible cathedral shudders and crumbles, bursts and tumbles down the sheer drop into the convulsing sea, as plastique detonates and rips it apart in a shower of fire and ash
”I think it’s time to finish this,” Arthur says, conversationally.
Cobb nods. “I guess there are some people waiting for us.”
Arthur’s smile is crooked. “So I’ve heard.”
The cathedral shivers, gothic arches groaning.
“You’ll be there when I wake up?” Arthur says, as explosions begin to rock the building.
“Always,” Cobb promises, and leans heavily on him as he loses feeling in his legs.
***
On an Irish cliffside that can be found nowhere in Ireland, an impossible cathedral shudders and crumbles, bursts and tumbles down the sheer drop into the convulsing sea, as plastique detonates and rips it apart in a shower of fire and ash
that sparks over brass wheels and spinning gears in a crazed whorl of color and light,
burning out in the abyss to fall like coals
burning out in the abyss to fall like coals
that rain down on endless shelves of knowledge and memories alive with light.
Ariadne huddles against Eames’ slowly blackening form and asks, “Will he remember this too? Will I still exist in him?”
“Always,” he replies, pulling her closer as plaster comes down on them and mahogany cracks and splinters and books blast into shards of paper and leather.
She closes her eyes as she feels his lips on her temple, and sees nothing but red as the chandeliers blaze out in a haze of ruptured glass and refracted light against her eyelids, and then everything is white,
Ariadne huddles against Eames’ slowly blackening form and asks, “Will he remember this too? Will I still exist in him?”
“Always,” he replies, pulling her closer as plaster comes down on them and mahogany cracks and splinters and books blast into shards of paper and leather.
She closes her eyes as she feels his lips on her temple, and sees nothing but red as the chandeliers blaze out in a haze of ruptured glass and refracted light against her eyelids, and then everything is white,