There Are Plenty of Good Thieves
A/N: I do not own Inception, but I have been known to perform it, darling.
Prologue, Part One
When Eames was breaking into the business, he hated boys like Arthur.
Very quickly after determining this was where he desired entrance, he realized Dream Sharing was the cocaine of crime, a drug for the rich and privileged, hand-picked from the best universities and coming from fortune, enough that they didn't need the money in this very profitable business. He was expected to end up on the flipside, the Harlem of things, messy, reality crime in which uni(versity) kids would not dirty their hands, small world things. Big business was for big pockets; that's something you learn young.
At fifteen he had discovered his calling the way he discovered most things. He haphazardly stumbled into a crime scene, as was his habit of 'right place, wrong time'. He found himself looking back on that moment for a long time to come and feeling grateful that the people he'd seen were bloody idiots; elsewise, he would've been shot.
Being who he was, he looked up PASIV's and ended up stealing one, trying it out. Thievery was his go-to method ever since it saved him from starvation and street-sleeping, so he saw nothing wrong with it. Most kids would've accidentally killed themselves with that endeavor, but be it cleverness or luck, he didn't.
As it were, he ended up the only fifteen year-old orphan in merry old England who knew or wanted anything to do with Dream Sharing. He found out it was crime, so fun, but also clean, interesting, challenging, and lucrative. He was too pretty to be in the dirty end of business, (that wasn't the way he sold time, thanks much) and too smart to be a common criminal. This seemed perfect. Skulking about and doing his research (maybe in private, illegal, and government internet databases, but perhaps not) earned him faces and names.
At sixteen, self-studied to the point of earning a B.A. in Psychology, he found that even all of the right names and faces got doors slammed in his face.
"You're just a kid, punk. Go home." He didn't bother saying he didn't have one.
"Nothing like that goes on in here." He didn't bother saying he knew he was lying.
"Sorry, we're not hiring." Liar. He didn't bother saying he knew they were.
"We … this is high level stuff, kid. We need someone with both training and experience." He nodded, impressed and flattered that, for once, someone had not lied badly and baldly, but told him the honest-to-the-fucking-Spaghetti-Monster truth.
The situation was familiar, even if the specific doorstep wasn't; the difference was this time, the man didn't slam the door. He slipped outside before closing it, and took a long drag of his cigarette. The man was young but tough-looking, not the prissy, necktie-formal as most of the queens he'd had run-ins with. He called to mind Tyler Durden in his tacky, red-pleather jacket. He didn't sniff at Eames' age.
"Kiddo … 'Eames' was it? I've heard about you. You've been asking all the right people." Eames' eyebrows climbed his forehead progressively, and the man snickered at the expression, removing a card from his jacket. "Yeah, they're talking about you; you're a fucking nuisance. Your age has kept you alive. People who know as many names as you typically end up dead in a ditch somewhere. But you are asking the right people, that's your problem." He passed over the card. "You need to start asking for the wrong ones."
Eames looked at the scrawled address and nodded profusely. He hadn't been one for much chatter at that age, only for pithy commentary, so he didn't want to open his smart mouth and ruin this.
"I'd ask you if you were serious before sending you there, but you're so damn persistent, you'd better be. Go and ask for 'Hank'. Only ask once; that's his real name and he doesn't like to spread it, but that way you won't have to say anyone specific sent you. He trained me. Prove yourself with a few jobs on the shadier end of things, and then you'll get some legit work."
The address was in New York, but he'd been hitting the pavement here for long enough. He had odd-job money saved, and this looked like the only opening he'd have. You never get anywhere if you can't take a chance.
So he asked for Hank.
"He was trained by Hank? Gods, that's worse than being raised on the street. He's probably insane! Remind me why you want to hire him?"
"Arthur, he's was trained by Hank from when he was sixteen. He's prodigious, I thought you could identify."
"Sixteen? Pssh. And flattery will not gain you concurrence, Cobb."
"As I recall, I trained you from seventeen."
"Yes, you trained me. Someone arguably legitimate. Nothing about what Hank does is ever moral or reasonable, nor those who work with him. And he didn't even school formally!"
"How many options does an orphan have?"
"Oh, the damn orphan card. I bet he's lived his whole short life off of that card. I'm not working with anyone younger and slower than me, thank you. Pick another uni kid, like you did with me. Even Mal will tell you he's too much of a charity case."
"Mal recommended him."
"Fuck."
"And he's nineteen now, so he's a year older and certainly not slow. He's been away from that crowd for two years, and everyone who works with him says he's brilliant."
"Your not letting this go, are you?"
"We need a decent forger. Remember Paris?"
"… Fine. One job."
"So, you've met our architect, our point man, and me, the extractor."
Hank, better known as 'Tank', was the size of his name, giant sausage fingers dwarfing his cigar. Eames dimly wondered if everyone in this business smoked, but he didn't mind. The man was balding and greasy, with a funny smell about him at all times. His vest and off-white business shirt were not as professional or sharp as they possibly once were, sleeves rolled to his hairy elbows.
He chuckled, and Eames could hear all the phlegm and tar in his lungs through it.
"Only one more to meet. See you gents in an hour! I'll bring the boy."
They took the elevator, that screamed like a dying cat as it opened, and they headed for the top floor.
"Why all the way up there?"
He chuckled again, darkly. "She says it keeps her sharp."
The room they reached was white and padded, except for the dauntingly large window. Eames exhaled; it was a great view. However, there was a young girl inside with scraggly long hair and a straight-jacket on, who looked a little older than him, a huddled lump of grey in a corner.
"Hello, Marty!" He bellowed, and she cringed. Eames was tempted to inform him that she wasn't deaf, just insane, but that was just based on appearance. He did what he learned not to later, and kept his trap shut. "How are we doing today?"
"Better before you," she hissed. "Who's the cute one?"
Eames pointed to himself questioningly, startled as she peeled her lips back in a creepy imitation of a smile.
Hank ignored her, turning to the trainee. "She's our forger."
And, without knowing what that meant, he thought 'this really isn't legitimate, is it?' but said "You share dreams … with her?"
"She's better than she looks. Freakin' amazing, that one, for all of being a schitzo."
"Is that a compliment? I lie for a living."
He tsked and turned back to the trainee. "You'll be spending a week with each of us, and at the end of the month decide which art you'd like to be trained in, if you're any good at them. I can guess which one you won't want to be," His eyes flicked to 'Marty' with a smirk. "You can abstain from a training, if you like. If you suck at all but one, we pick for you. If you suck at them all, the deal's off."
Eames very quickly found arms wrapped around him from behind and scraggly hair tickling his neck and shoulder. "Me first," the girl rasped, and he winced.
"Fucking hell, how do you always get out of those!" Hank yelled and staggered back, all his confidence evaporating as he saw her nails rake across the front of Eames' shirt.
"Magic. I'm Houdini."
"Very funny," he mumbled, but was trembling, shooting warning looks to Eames.
"Don't worry, Hanky baby, I like this one."
Eames shuddered. She laughed.
"So …" Hank tried to continue. "We train you for a year, and we keep you for five. Our services are valuable, and I doubt you'll find a better deal elsewhere. Take it or leave it."
Five years? His mind screamed, but Hank had presented his palm, and if his was the way of it, he'd take it, so he began to reach, but …
The girl knocked his hand down. "Don't take it," she whispered, intimately close. "Go for one."
Hank looked puzzled, but Eames turned to her. "Pardon?"
"One year. A year for a year. His time is worth no more than yours; it's a fair deal." He frowned that such stalwart advice was delivered in a serial killer voice, but followed it anyway.
"One year. I'll work for you one if you'll train me for one."
Hank raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't the offer."
"I know. Still, a year for a year. It's fair."
He didn't know if it was the authoritative tone, the sexy accent, or the freakish girl wrapped around his back, but Hank was not unfazed. He grasped his hand and they made a deal.
It was strange to think he now, in some ways, owed this girl four years of his life.
She swirled her drink rhythmically. "He's been likened to 'Ballet', you know?"
"'Ballet'? Really? I never actually believed those stories."
Her hand traced over his shoulders, and he loved knowing his ring was on her finger. "Hm, I always did, Dom. I supposed I liked the idea. The name … the notion of a dreamer being like poetry in motion, stories like that called me into this business. Of course, the man does not sound poetic, but he sounds good, love. Very good."
He grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Arthur won't like him, Mal."
Her laugh was musical. "Who does Arthur like, hm? Other than us, dear."
As he found it to end up with most things, 'Marty' got her way. She was first.
Her mind was beautiful.
The landscape was surreal, but so believed by her that he grasped it. Some odd, convoluted muddle of a Tim Burton film and a Dr. Seuss book, her dream had Truffula Trees and everything, vibrant colors beyond what could physically be created.
She laughed at the gobsmacked look on his face. "This is why I'm not an architect; I enjoy creating worlds like these better. Plain buildings are an insult to the true creativity of a mind."
He reached a whole new level of startled when he found her laugh wasn't the raspy wheeze he was used to. Her voice was different, deeper, vaguely recognizable.
He turned to see her and saw himself instead. "You like, darling?"
"Shit!" He screamed. "You're … you're …"
"Didn't you know what forgers do?" She walked up and poked him in the chest, staring at him with his very eyes. "We imitate. I liked your shell, so I took it."
"Did you … I mean, that's completely me! Did you memorize me physically? How is that … that level of detail physically possible?"
She snickered again, and he watched his own lips curling into a smirk, wondering if this was what drove her, and others in her business, insane. "No. I barely need any detail at all. I master the essence of you, who you are and who you perceive yourself to be. I feed you the skeleton, the base of the structure, and you fill in the rest. It's kind of the mentality of people being able to read scrambled words. Probably the easiest thing to do is fake someone to their face, because they know and think so much of themselves, they jump to fill in for you. Easy, but not very useful."
She shook her (his?) head. "Of course, if this were my shell, I wouldn't act like you. You have so much untapped charm."
"Pardon?"
"There with that accent again!" She chuckled. "The whole 'last name' thing is classy and mysterious, but you could really use that accent better. Like by talking more."
"I typically do, just …"
"Just not to people like me? Touche, love."
"Love?" But he'd heard it roll off his own tongue twice now, and liked it.
She smiled his smile. "Charm like that will get you everywhere, darling. Well, not with anyone that counts, but it would still be useful. Think about it." She pivoted on a heel and turned, rapidly becoming a clean looking tomboy. He recognized her eyes from reality, but here her hair was short and her figure was clean and her posture was good, dressed in a simple wifie and loose jeans. "Now, time for business."
"Is Marty your actual name?"
She looked at him sharply, but he held his ground, figuring that if she could take his physique, the least she could give him was an answer. She sighed. "I don't have an 'actual' name. 'Marty' is what people call me when they don't know any better. The rest of the business knows me as 'Ballet'." She searched his face for anything, a flinch or a grin, in reaction to that. She came back blank.
"Okay. What should I call you?"
"Whatever the fuck you want. Stop being so nervous, hon, it's off-putting; in reality I maybe bat-shit crazy, but in my mind you're safe."
"How does that make any sense?"
"In my mind, I believe I'm sane, Eames. And you see what I believe. Really, at the end of the day, it's all a matter of perception."
A/N: Don't worry, 'Marty'/Ballet is not a persistent character, nor is Hank, or even Mal. Though this is going to be a Pre-Inception Fic, the next part ends the Prologue and then we start with Eames' first job with Arthur. Marty does serve a purpose, but basically these people are simply the channel by which Eames reached the Inception team. Enjoy!
(Perhaps, once we get passed the prologue, it will be first-person Eames. If you have any thoughts on that, feel free to share.)
Review if so inclined/inspired.