I don't own Inception.
It started small, a tiny, niggling feeling at the back of his head. It was like an afterthought. It could be dismissed, and he did so, at first.
An idea was like a virus…
But it could creep down the edges of his mind, poisoning thoughts, colouring judgement, twisting his perceptions of the world. And it spread. The very fundamentals of self could be poisoned and eaten through until they fell, crumbling, becoming twisted shades of what they had once been. Slow – no less deadly than the most lethal viruses, an idea asserted control through a gradual tightening until it could not, would not be ignored.
It was all the more dangerous for it.
He had once heard the story of the frog in the pot of boiling water. Any person with his senses about him would recoil at sudden contact with anything dangerous. But it would take a person with sensitivity – perhaps more – to save himself from that slow, gradual change.
Such people were rare. Or did they even exist? And if they did, was he one of them? He would have liked to think he was; a large part of his time was devoted to being the cool, efficient, passionless man everyone knew him to be. Common sense was part and parcel of who he was. Frivolous emotions were permitted, but only in small doses and never so much that his work would be compromised.
But sensitivity was a different matter altogether. He could save himself from immediate dangers. He could deal with the problems presented in his job dispassionately, without turning a hair. But those were problems which were presented to him directly – what of the problems which were not immediately apparent, or which teemed just below the surface? Those which spread their tendrils, ensnaring their victims without them being aware until it was too late…
The same logic could be applied to ideas. Ideas which were planted, ideas which were formed by oneself – it made no difference. Their power lay in their ability to slowly entangle their victims in a web of passions and convictions. And who would be able to purge ideas as easily as poison or disease?
(and who would want to purge an idea which had fully taken hold?)
The idea, that wretched idea, had probably been in some dark corner of his mind for a long time, festering, planting itself deep, so deep that he could not ignore it. You destroyed Cobb. So farfetched, and yet…
Like some viruses, its symptoms showed themselves gradually. It started out as a little nagging thought at the back of his mind. Cobb's lost his mind. It's your fault. A thought which was easy enough to banish, so long as he kept himself busy.
He needed to keep himself busy.
Resilient…
It refused to go away. Like some incurable disease, it ate at him; growing day by day and there were times when he believed – oh treacherous thoughts! – that Cobb's situation was his fault. It was not. It was not. Outwardly, he presented the same cool, collected persona, but behind the façade, a barrage of emotions and thoughts roiled in his mind, especially in the dead of the night when he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking, thinking, thinking…
If you the research had been done properly, Saito would not have been shot. Cobb would not have to go into Limbo to find him.
Those thoughts floated around his mind whenever he let his guard down. The guilt grew a little every day.
An idea was highly contagious. It could grow. The smallest seed of an idea could grow to define or destroy you.
It grew as steadily as a healthy plant… or was it a parasite? He could not rid himself of it, and he wanted to. He threw himself into his work, doing background checks on marks, making sure everything went according to plan. He gave himself no time to dwell on unnecessary and unwanted thoughts.
It was not his fault that Cobb's mind was gone. It was not his fault that the sedative had been of such strength, that Cobb had not been able to put aside his guilt over Mal's death, that Saito had gotten himself shot. It wasn't like him to feel guilty about such piffling details.
(He was not to blame.)
Or so he told himself.
Two men gone, with one of them your best friend, it taunted much as he tried to deny his wrongdoing, the facts were there for all, including and especially him to see; Cobb's mind was damaged beyond repair, and so was Saito's. All your fault. No, how could he have known that they would drop into Limbo? You could have known that Fischer's subconscious was militarised. That truth threatened to overwhelm him.
"Are you all right?" Ariadne asked one day when they met for coffee.
She noticed. She saw the dark smudges under his eyes, the gauntness of his face. He hid (with reasonable success) behind his mask of impassivity, but she suspected.
He fixed a small smile on his face and said he was fine.
If Cobb had been successful, this wouldn't be happening, and that nasty, squirming feeling would go away. If only Cobb had brought Saito back. Arthur was not a man who went through life saying 'if only' or 'what if'. He accepted facts. He got over them. But this time – the guilt was too much. The idea, by this time, had achieved what it had meant to achieve from the beginning
Your fault.
No, that was unacceptable. Cobb's predicament had nothing to do with him.
Your fault they were not prepared.
Yes, perhaps, a little –
Your fault that your best friend is lost in his mind and Saito remembers nothing.
He wasn't going to cave in. He wasn't going to cave in. He wasn't…
YOUR FAULT.
No! No… he wasn't – he couldn't… he was… responsible. He couldn't – couldn't deny the truth which was staring him so blatantly in the face with an ugly, condescending sneer curling its lip. Yourfaultyourstoblamebecauseofyou. No. It was not an idea. It was a truth.
And Arthur, the Point Man, the Man Who Was Always In Control, cracked open like a nut in a nutcracker.
He was responsible for everything. Cobb was gone, Saito was gone, and it was because he'd made a mistake, a terrible mistake which had had such repercussions. If he had been thorough, perhaps no one would have been shot, Cobb wouldn't have needed to stay behind and find the person, and the job would have been finished with everyone safe. But he hadn't been thorough. He was to blame for - everything.
Your teammate. Colleague.
Friend.
Guilt. Guilty. Let the guilty suffer the consequences… The idea had won. To define or destroy a person, in this case, which would it be? He didn't appreciate being destroyed; no one would. But it was, in essence, his fault.
"My fault," he murmured, so softly that no one would ever hear it. For no one would ever know. It was all in his mind. And it would stay there.
It was just an idea, a simple little idea, and it would stay in his mind, tormenting him for the rest of his life.
A/N: I'm not sure if Arthur's in character here; he's usually so collected and probably wouldn't dwell on such things. And I hope this concept isn't similar to any other story. If so, please tell me. Please review! :)