Summary: Some time after the Fischer Case, Eames is confronted with a business venture. T for Language.

Prologue

"I don't think you understand just how hard of a task you're asking us to complete, Mister…"

"Allens."

"Mister Allens, imagine what the subject has gone through the past three years."

"The subject has been in a coma for the last three years," A young businessman protested. He sat at the end of a large wooden desk two sizes too big. Instead of making him look professional, it accented his youthfulness.

"No, the subject has refused to wake up for three years. The mind went into a recession following his motorcycle accident and essentially closed it's borders-"

"Mister Eames," The well-dressed man on the other side of the desk snapped, causing the forger opposing him to stop his retort and fold his hands impatiently. He could wait. "Javier Talbot is –"

"Was," Eames corrected under his breath. Mr. Allens chose to ignore the remark and continued.

"—The most widely regarded military strategist on the planet. He has information we have been trying to obtain since his accident, it's just hidden somewhere in his mind." As the businessman went on, Eames unfolded his hands, holding them out at shoulder length and looking between them. His brow furrowed as he tried to get this stubborn man to understand the gravity of what he was asking.

"Imagine an infinite dimension, Mr. Allens, a dimension where you could change anything at a whim. Not just "I can move this pen,"" Eames picked up a pen from Allens's desk and threw it across the room, much to the businessman's distaste. Who gives a fuck what he thought, Eames had a point to prove. He went on, "But I can create mountains, cities, forests, seas, beaches, everything. Imagine if you were stuck in this realm for so long you mastered literally everything about this dimension. Do you know how long Talbot was stuck in this state? Can you even comprehend the multiplication needed to explain such a length of time?"

"I-" The businessman began.

"Five minutes to an hour, mister Allens. In real time, every five minutes spent dreaming is an hour, and he's been in this state for three. Bloody. Years. Let alone if he's figured to go down another level!" Eames raved, slamming a fist on the man's desk. "Every two hours is a day, every fourteen is a week! Past there… well, mathematics was never my strong suit, but you get the idea." He settled into his seat. This guy just wasn't getting it. He was beginning to retaliate, the Forger could see it in his eyes. With another burst of anger, Eames grabbed a calculator from Allens's desk and began punching in numbers violently, threatening to break the keys.

"A year is five hundred twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes. Three years is One million, five hundred seventy six thousand and eight hundred minutes. That's quite a bit of minutes, wouldn't you say?"

By now the businessman was paling. "Now you're getting it." Eames wagged a finger at him, and then turned back to the calculator. "What's say we finish the equation, shall we? Divided by five. Multiply by sixty. Divide by three-six-five… Well look at that." He slid the calculator across the desk, where it displayed five digits.

51,840.

Years.

Eames silently got to his feet; pulling his jacket off of the black leather chair he had been sitting in. There was nothing more to add. "You should have contacted me within days, not years, Mr. Allens. I'm afraid whatever information you were looking for has probably been built over centuries ago, if not millennia."

"How much would it take, Mr. Eames?"

Eames turned back as he reached the doorway, glancing to the businessman behind him. He placed a hand against the doorframe, his knuckles white as he chose his words. "No amount of money could send me up against a God, Mr. Allens."

"What do you mean, I was wrong?" Eames spat across the table of one of the nicest Italian restaurants in the continental United States. Across from him, Arthur had expected such a reaction. Not days after the meeting with Allens, Eames had contacted Arthur to confirm a nagging doubt.

"There was no way you could have known," Arthur sniffed, taking another sip from his water. He leaned forward and lowered his voice so the couple nearby didn't overhear their conversation. "When sent into a coma, the mind slows down to a fraction of normal brain function. What you estimated to be fifty thousand years would be more likely a hundred to three hundred years, give or take. Talbot wasn't an extractor, so he probably wouldn't think to go a level deeper, either," he explained. The forger crossed his arms, looking down at his steak like a dejected child. Arthur looked him over.

"And there's no way he could master all aspects of creation in that time?"

"Worst case scenario, he's made it to be his reality and stopped changing things. He's been hiding there ever since his mind resigned himself to the coma," Arthur shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure, but given the timeframe there was little other explanation. One mind could only architect for so long, even that became old after some time. Eames just held his forehead, then hissed a swear. He threw his napkin back onto the table and crossed his arms.

"What'd you do?" Arthur asked, crossing his arms as well. Eames just grimaced, and then muttered something. It was too low for the pointman to hear. "Eames, what did you do?" He demanded, his face stern. It was like an adult trying to find who took the last cookie, honestly.

" Turned down… twenty five…" Was all Arthur could make out the second time around. He shrugged.

"Twenty five thousand? That's barely worth getting a team together."

"TWENTY FIVE MILLION, ARTHUR."

So much for keeping their voices down. The couple two tables down were now extremely interested in what the two well-dressed men were discussing. Eames put a hand to his temple, the glasses on the table shaking together. Arthur's eyebrows rose. It was that all too familiar look of condescendence that really got to the Forger sitting across from him. It made his blood boil just to think he had made such an elementary mistake. Arthur dabbed his mouth with his napkin, placing it back up on the table calmly.

"Well what are you still talking to me for?" Arthur asked smugly.

"Bloody hell. I'll let you know how it goes," Eames stormed away, leaving Arthur with the check. "And Arthur!" He turned, sliding on his jacket.

"If you see Cobb, let him know he's done a lovely job sliding off the face of the earth, hm?"