Author's Note: This is the first in a series of post-inception one-shots, exploring the relations of Ariadne and Arthur, and as well as Ariadne and Cobb. Characters will be in and out, and almost all settings will be in a dream. There may be a song for each chapter, but don't hold me to that because songs and stories don't always coalesce for me. Please read and review! Thank you and enjoy!
Suggested song for Ch.1: Video Games by Lana Del Rey. (Don't ask me why, because I have no idea whatsoever.)
Arthur abruptly found himself sitting at a glass table, smoking a cigarette.
Eames was sitting across from him, but other than the British man he was surrounded by strangers, none of which existed.
Eames was in the middle of telling a story, and inspiring raucous laughter from the strangers. Arthur had know idea if the story had actually happened or if Eames was making it up as he went along; if he was doing the latter he was a genius.
Arthur observed the neat yard. The sun was setting in colors of orange and red, an impressive spectacle. He had done the research on this residence, of course, and told Ariadne the details so she could recreate it. There was a patio next to the large house, which had a wall of windows facing toward the yard itself. The grass was a vivid shade of green, and a few trees in full bloom dotted the landscaping. One short tree with bare branches was sporting several glass bottles per branch. Upon closer inspection, several expensive wine labels could be seen. Regardless, the combination of the colors of the sunset and the translucent bottles created a pleasant coalescence. A little pond with a fountain bubbled up by the white picket fence. It was a summer house—it got enough use to look cozy, but not enough use to be filled with crap.
The partygoers were dressed like rich people trying to look casual; the men in khakis and polos (upon making this observation Arthur found himself to be wearing something similar, and groaned inwardly. He missed his three piece suit), the women in floral print dress. It was a spring celebration party and barbecue on a warm Sunday afternoon.
A familiar laugh drew Arthur's eyes. Ariadne emerged from the windowed house, a loose white sundress on her small frame. Cobb strode next to her, something he had said had inspired her laughter. Cobb smiled slightly at the brunette woman.
Arthur bit his lip and tuned back into Eames' tale. He stubbed out his cigarette, having no idea why he was smoking it.
Eames met his eyes, and Arthur nodded. Eames wrapped up his story.
The two men rose from the table, and wandered in separate directions to meet up again in a discreet corner.
"How come you get to wear a suit?" Arthur asked indignantly, taking in Eames' terribly matched shenanigan, which he was trying to pass for a hipster-esque outfit.
Eames smiled evilly. "Ariadne likes me better."
Arthur just glared, as he did so often when the forger was around.
Yusuf came sauntering up from a spot Arthur had not known he'd been hiding. He was dressed sharply in a black blazer and maroon button up shirt.
Eames looked at Arthur. "I guess Ariadne likes everybody better than you."
"Shut up."
Yusuf ignored them. "I found her."
"Where?"
"Under the weeping willow, by the pond. Seems an appropriate spot, judging by her mood." None of the three men looked, they knew better.
"Alright, then. Eames?" Arthur said.
"Right." Eames, being the best with words when it came to women, was always the one to extract in situations such as this. He lumbered in zig zagging route toward the weeping willow.
It was then that Arthur caught sight of the garden party host. An older man, but still fit, black hair flecked with grey, with a warm smile and an intelligent disposition. So smart, yet so unsuspecting. He wore a black turtle neck.
Arthur met the eyes of Ariadne briefly. She smiled slightly. It was look that had come to mean, Relax, Arthur.
Arthur was good at a lot of other things. Relaxing was not one of them.
He turned his attention to eavesdropping on Eames, and the woman quietly sobbing under the willow tree.
Arthur recognized the woman. Dark haired, with a vaguely olive tint to her skin. She had been born in France, the research had told him, and her father was wealthy, allowing her to immigrate to California as a young women to attend an American university. She was the late wife of their Mark, the host in the turtleneck. She was the reason they were there.
"Hey, baby, what's wrong?" Eames said gently.
"Too much to tell." Was the quivering answer.
"Lucky for you," Eames smiled charmingly, "I have a pair of ears and some time on my hands."
She had stopped sobbing, and was breathing unevenly, wiping at her eyes. She gave Eames a tentative smile.
Arthur lent one ear in their direction while he turned his attention to the rest of the party. Constant vigilance was always necessary, in his opinion, with matters as delicate as this.
The Mark had not noticed the intruders, nor had he spied the projection his subconscious had made of his wife. He was busy entertaining, or rather, being entertaining, judging by the joyous group of people that surrounded him like an aura of happiness.
Their Mark was a business man, and an exceptional one at that. A recent scandal, though, had put a roadblock in fresh innovations. His younger wife had died unexpectedly, in an abnormal fashion, and naturally the media drew their own conclusions. One of his many flailing competitors had hired Arthur and the rest of his team to find the truth, and what better way than to ask the woman herself? After all, she would know the truth, just as much as their Mark did.
Arthur saw Ariadne, in bright white sundress, combing the tables stacked with food. Having put together a satisfying plate, she returned to one of the wrought iron tables to sit next to Cobb.
Arthur turned back to Eames, and guessed at the Englishman's progress.
He had the woman talking, and it was clear the conversation had gone down a dark path. He had know idea exactly how Eames had managed to get a complete stranger to share her deep, painful secrets in only a few minutes, but he did not question the Forger's gifts.
Arthur felt entirely too useless. It was odd, because though it was a tricky job, the actual dreaming part only needed a few people to get it done. Eames, obviously, and someone as back up. And yet they'd all wanted to come.
It had taken a while for Arthur to figure out why.
After the Fischer Job, the team had split in as many different directions as possible. But something had drawn them back together, encouraged them to do more jobs. They were unstoppable. The best extraction team in the world. Who could pass up the possibilities of what they could accomplish together?
Their dreams kept them together, and no one would do something without the rest of the team backing them.
Looking around, Arthur sensed a foreign feeling come over him. Peace, one could call it. He thought about how he was surrounded by trained, trustworthy professionals. He thought about the concealed firearm carefully hidden under his khaki pant leg. Maybe he didn't have to worry as much as was usual for his racing mind.
He decided to practice his relaxation, and found an empty table to sit down and pour himself a drink at. He took a sip, and enjoyed the colors of the setting sun.
It was sometime later that he was jarred from his half asleep state of meditation by a rumbling in the ground. The ice in his glass chimed against the sides.
The projections carried on, oblivious, but the dreamers knew immediately.
The Mark had excused himself for a moment to serve himself some barbecue, when he saw Eames and his wife conversing under the willow tree. He still stood by the buffet table now, stalk still but fully aware of his surroundings. He had at once deduced what her appearance meant. He knew he was dreaming, and he knew what the extractors wanted.
This is what I get for relaxing, Arthur thought bitterly, and rose to his feet. He hoped Eames had gotten adequate information, because this whole situation was about to get shot straight to hell.
The subject knew he was dreaming, which meant the structure of the dream would soon be coming apart at the seams. Ariadne would do her best to hold it together, but the Mark's thoughts would tear it to shreds in no time. Not to mention the projections, which would be closing in at any moment.
There was a tense moment where neither the dreamers nor the subject made a move. Then the Mark lurched forward out of his stupor and walked briskly toward Eames and the woman. Ariadne and Dom lunged out of their seats to follow him as projections started to stare in their direction.
A resigned Arthur pulled himself from his chair and waited from a safe distance to see how this would unfold. Yusuf seemed to be doing the same. There was nothing they could do.
The Mark marched up angrily to the waiting Eames, who had stood in preparation for the coming confrontation. He faced the man with an expression that could only be described as apathetic. To add to it, he sighed.
The subject had barely opened his mouth before the fissure split the yard in half.
He was subconsciously destroying the dream. Ariadne pressed her lips together as she reached the willow tree.
Arthur was drawn to the freshly created canyon like a moth to a lamp. It was twenty feet across, and infinitely deep, its brown walls descending into complete darkness. Several projections had already disappeared into its depths, including Yusuf and Dom, who were nowhere to be seen. Ariadne, Eames, and Arthur had managed to avoid it, though, and now stood on the same side of the crevasse, gaping at its size.
The Mark was equally astonished, but quickly turned to anger as he looked at the extraction team and his wife. The ground was shaking, the canyon widening. He couldn't seem to form words. Arthur was not surprised. It didn't matter that he knew he was dreaming, because even in your own dream sometimes you can't move, can't speak, when you most need to.
Eames asked one more question of the woman, still sitting by the willow tree. Arthur couldn't hear it over glass shattering, metal clanging, the rumbling of the Earth. He saw the roots of the willow tree protesting the quivering soil. They had seconds before this dream was gone. But, assuming Eames had done his part, they had what they needed. The Mark would wake up without no memory of them, and they would have definitive proof whether he was guilty or not. It was almost neat, despite this rough patch.
Eames looked up from the woman, met Arthur's eyes and nodded. Arthur turned to Ariadne, just in time to see the willow give up. His feet were glued to the ground as the old, heavy tree fell with a terrible cracking, and crushed the small girl in the white sundress.
Arthur stared, unmoving at where the tree lay. He couldn't see Ariadne under it, she was already gone, and yet he still couldn't make his brain agree with his feet.
The house was in shambles, the sky was clouding over, and a billion smaller cracks had formed in the ground. Eames made an executive decision, and pulled out his gun to shoot the Mark twice in the chest. He wouldn't wake up immediately, he would die a slow death in the dream. Eames didn't care. From the information he had just extracted, he figured this nasty shit deserved some suffering.
A white light was taking over the scene, with the subject almost gone. Any projections that were still around vanished into dust. Ariadne was topside now, but Eames saw Arthur's hesitation, and swore to himself.
Arthur was too stunned to notice what was happening around him. Some part of his mind was telling him to get over himself, that it was just a dream, but seeing her die had shoved him into a state of shock that he could not return from.
Eames rolled his eyes, and got a running start.
He slammed into Arthur's chest, effectively tackling him and sending them both over the edge into the fissure.
It was seconds later that they awoke.
Arthur's eyes shot open. His heart beat was accelerated, and he was short of breath. Cobb and Yusuf were hurriedly grabbing their things from the hotel room, and Eames was plucking the needle from his wrist, and sending Arthur a dirty look. The Mark was writhing in his sleep, but wasn't quite awake yet. They were in his hotel room, in New York, where he was staying alone for the weekend on a business trip.
Arthur looked to his right, and saw Ariadne skillfully gliding the needle from her vein. She smiled when she saw him.
They were gone in less than a minute, The Mark unsuspecting in his sleep.