A/N: Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence and Torture aftermath.
Also, you don't need to have seen Inception to understand this fic, though you may enjoy it more if you have. I will explain quick rules of the shared-dreaming world:-
-Govt invented a way with which multiple people could enter a dream, and share it, using a device called PASIV. It was used as a training program, to fight, kill and be killed multiple times, within the dreams. The criminal side of dream-sharing enters the dream of a Mark, and steal his/her secrets.
-Architects design the dreamscape.
-A dreamer can make changes in the dream, all of the sleepers can change small things, but dreamers have more wide range.
-The subject/subjects bring their subconscious in the dream... all the people around are the projections of those subconscious.
-Pain in the dream feels real; but when you die in the dream, you wake up in the real world.
I think that's everything important needed to understand the story. Enjoy.
John was an outstanding point-man.
He was thorough, followed the Mark and everyone related to them for days before a job; broke into their houses and found information that always proved invaluable to the mission. Weapons were a second nature to him, and within a dream, he could create them out of thin air. His hand never wavered, his gun steady, as he shot projection after projection, making sure the rest of the team made it out of dream alive. Reliable, within a dream and outside it. Sometimes, when Miss Shaw was busy with some other job, he could do more than an adequate job as an extractor as well. John Reese, was essential to any mission's success, as far as Harold was concerned.
Yet, in some respects he was not very easy to deal with. More specifically, in just one respect: he always insisted on being the dreamer.
"No."
"Mr. Reese. Please think about it reasonably. I am the architect, and this job needs us to manipulate the dreamscape on the go, depending on the reactions of the Mark. While I admire how stable you can hold the dream, it would be more prudent for me to be the dreamer, so I could change things if necessary."
"Then just let me know what changes we need to do, I will memorize as many different versions as you want. But I am not going under as a subject." Reese's face was resolute, ready to shoot down any arguments.
"It does not work like that." Finch protested exasperatedly.
"It's either this, or we go under for two levels. I dream the first, and you can be the dreamer in the second."
"That's complicating the job unnecessarily. We would need to involve Fusco and maybe even Miss Groves, when you, I and Miss Shaw will be more than adequate for a one level extraction."
"I don't care Finch. We do this, or I sit this one out. I will run point, until the part where we go under." John declared. It was clear from his tone that this was the end of the debate.
Harold just threw up his hands and walked away from the warehouse, refusing to look back. It was frustrating to deal with Mr. Reese when he refused to see reason. Why was he so adamant about not being the subject of dreams… ever? Finch suspected it might have something to do with his past- an ex CIA agent would probably have a subconscious they did not like revisiting; but for God's sake, everyone in dream sharing had skeletons in their closet. He surely had some. You don't see Harold stubbornly refusing to relive a few bitter memories that came with familiar faces of projections, do you? Not when it would help a mission.
In the end… they ended up doing what Reese had suggested. Fusco- their chemist, agreed to go under with them in level one, and Miss Shaw had to run both point, and extractor in the second dream. Everything went well. Their Mark- a Mr. Simpson, a lawyer with a paranoid personality, was left sleeping in his living room, the information about what he had against their employer for the upcoming case successfully extracted.
"Congratulations Finch." Reese smiled tentatively at him when they were walking away from the Mark's house. Fusco had already left, the moment they had removed PASIV from his arm. He hated the effect of Somnacin- even though he manufactured it- and preferred to drink away the headache.
"Good work Mr. Reese." Finch nodded curtly. He was still slightly miffed about their argument before.
"Okay. I am off boss. I got an empty bed and a bottle of booze waiting for me back home." Shaw walked past them briskly, barely looking at them as she talked, and turned just enough to pass them a wink. "Good job today."
"Good job Miss Shaw. I will call you when we have something new." Harold gave a barely there smile, but it was enough.
They walked for a while, and stopped by a coffee shop. Somnacin did leave a lingering headache, but Harold had been used to it by now, because of dreaming so often. Coffee helped. Sipping on their beverage, they ambled around the sidewalk of New York, directionless.
"I am sorry." John said all of a sudden.
Harold did not bother asking what for. He knew. All he said was, "It's okay."
"No it's not."
"You're right. It's not. But I can't tell you how to deal with your conscience and past. I am not a therapist. You should see one, maybe."
"Who says I am not already seeing one?"
"You are?" Harold turned and looked at him in surprise.
"Yeah. But that's not why I can't be the subject. I can handle my subconscious. I simply refuse to subject anyone else to it." He said with such confidence that Harold gaped.
"That's ridiculous. We have dealt with all kind of militarized subconscious before. I have once been eaten by a shark in a dream- it was a marine biologist- but that's off topic. What I am saying is yours can't be possibly be any worse."
"Oh. You have no idea." Reese smiled bitterly as he sipped the coffee.
When you have been doing the job long enough, you find out that there are a chosen few individuals that you can call 'your people.'
Mr. Reese was Harold's people.
Dream sharing teaches you paranoia. That's the only way to survive to be very honest, and you protect yourself by being wary of everyone and everything. Where you sleep, is especially sacred, because it's where you are at your most vulnerable. 'Only the paranoid survive' may as well be the motto of this business.
Which is why, it was an honor for Harold to know where Mr. Reese lived. The amount of faith that showed, the knowledge that he trusted him with not taking advantage, was staggering. Harold respected his privacy, he really did…
But the situation was bad.
The last job they did, for a company named Northern Lights, had gone according to plan. They extracted detailed information- almost stalker-like- about a seemingly unimportant guy, his sightings from different traffic cameras, his credit card receipts, his phone conversations, and delivered them to the employer. It was a job well done, until Harold realized that the company did not want any loose ends. Mr. Cole- a guy they sometimes hired to go under with them on more complicated jobs- was dead, and Miss Shaw had called the team to inform them to go into hiding. Except, she had told Harold that she had been unable to reach John.
Finch had tried to call him half a dozen times, until fear gripped his heart. What if he was too late already? He was sitting in the car and driving towards John's apartment before he even considered that it might be a breach of privacy.
The door was locked, but there was really no alarm system that Harold couldn't hack- and he had helped in choosing this one, so that made it easier. He was hit by a sudden thought that this wasn't appropriate but he paid it no heed. If there was a chance that Mr. Reese was badly hurt- not dead, he can't be dead, Harold refused to even entertain that thought- Finch would bear through the fallout that came from this invasion of privacy.
Opening the door, barely five minutes after arriving, he jerked open the door and limped towards the stairs. Everything was eerily quiet, and nobody answered him when he called out.
"Anybody here?" He limped into the main hall, and it was completely undisturbed, the blinds on the wall length windows closed. There was no sign of struggle. "Mr. Reese." Reaching his bedroom door he called out one more time, "John, are you in there?"
Still receiving no answer, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. The first thing he felt was relief, because John was lying in bed, and there was no blood around him. In just a few seconds though, dread overcame relief because John had always been an incredibly light sleeper and would've woken up the moment Harold even started tampering with the lock downstairs.
That's when he noticed the Asian guy sitting on the chair next to the bed, and cursed his tunnel vision, as he abruptly realized what was happening. There was a PASIV open on the floor, a needle in both their arms.
This was an extraction. "Fuck." Finch found himself cursing. Terrible, this was a terrible situation. There could be any number of organizations interested in getting information that the magnificent brain of John Reese contained. His hand inched towards the gun in his pocket, but he had never taken a life outside of dream world. He realized he could just give Mr. Reese the kick and they can burn this safe house and run, but Harold knew this wasn't just a safe house for John. This was as close as it got to home.
There really wasn't another choice. He had already crossed a line, what was taking a few more steps?
Bending down, he pulled another tube out of the machine, and adjusted himself to sit comfortably on the other chair- no reason to risk pain when he wakes up. He wiped his cubital fossa with a disinfectant and introduced the needle.
It was an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere. There was not a soul in sight. In dreams, he did not have the limp. Finch always dreamt himself as he was seven years ago, before the military program he was helping with in developing and perfecting the PASIV decided they could do without his and Nathan's help and blew up the ship they had planned a trip to celebrate on. He had turned towards the criminal side of dream sharing in spite. The ease of moving, the comfort of having no pain, never failed to be a joy.
Stepping over rubble, he could not place where this was supposed to be. Extractors usually created complicated modern facilities, to put in a safe they can crack. This looked like more like a…
Finch froze.
This looked like a place where you brought your victim for torture.
As if on cue, he heard a scream. Finch would know this voice anywhere, he had been living with it in his ear for the last three years, almost constantly. In all of that time, he had never heard him scream in such agony. Without conscious thought, he started running, jumping over obstacles and broken rubble on the ground, ducking through the half collapsed walls, and pushing on unhinged doors. Finally he reached a corridor where he could hear voices, and slowed down.
"You deserve this." A female voice sneered, and as he turned a corner he saw back of four people, one female and three male, converged over someone.
"Yes." Finch's heart almost stopped. The defeat in Reese's voice was startling.
"Don't fight it, you know it's what you want." Another venomous voice said, and then a man moved forward and did something that made Reese cry out again.
The movement opened up a view that made Harold want to throw up. He had seen a whole lot of bad in his life, but this was something else. It may also be because this was John!
In the middle of a half destroyed room, John Reese sat, his arms and legs tied securely to a chair, a rope binding his chest and thighs to the back and the seat of chair as well, making all movement impossible. His naked chest was littered with more cuts and gashes than Finch could count, skin ripped away in places, the smell of burnt skin in the air making it obvious that knife wounds weren't all he had. In Harold's line of vision was one of John's hand and he had to put his fist against his mouth to stop himself from screaming: all of the fingers were cut till the second knuckle, and more than just five digits lying on the ground near him- pieces. His torturers had cut them in pieces, prolonging the pain.
"Do you want to die?" The girl from before asked, and she swayed to a side so Harold could see John's face. Pain was etched in his every pore. He nodded weakly.
"Too bad. You haven't paid enough yet. We can do this for a long long time." She spoke in sadistic joy, as if torturing someone was a pleasure.
Man number three, a boy really, long limbed and thin, moved and pulled on John's hair, as he swiped the knife harshly. A howl of pain ripped out of Reese's chest as his earlobe was cut clean off of his person.
"What do you say to that huh?" The boy asked sweetly.
"Thank you." Reese muttered to Harold's horror, and then it became a mantra 'Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.'
When the girl moved again with purpose, a bone crusher in her hand, Harold had enough.
"Stop." He shouted. His voice came out trembling and hoarse, but it was enough to startle the torturers.
"NO." Reese suddenly screamed. "No. No, no, no! You can't be here. You can't."
"Mr. Reese. I am here to get you out. I am sorry I didn't realize they were after you."
"Nobody is after me. You need to go. You can't be here. You can't." He seemed delirious with anxiety as he tossed his head from side to side.
It was too late though, the people who held Mr. Reese captive were turning, and Harold stared at them in terror. The woman, she had an obvious bullet wound on her forehead. The young boy, had multiple holes in his abdomen, as if shot with a close range shot gun. The other two men had distorted faces, and many injuries on their person. If these were projections of the Asian man sitting in the chair in Reese's apartment, that man had some serious mental problems.
This was all he thought of, before the woman lunged at him. He tried to duck, but she managed to embed her finger nails on his face, dragging. A man ran at him with the knife and plunged it straight in his heart, and Harold had a split second to feel relieved because this meant he would wake up faster. The man took the knife out and plunged it again and again, and between the quick blood loss and the pain, he managed to look at John one last time, and see his face contorted in horror, his lips shaping the word, "Harold…" as welcome numbness and darkness enveloped him.
He woke up with a scream that died halfway in his throat. Nausea roiled in his gut and he scurried to the side of the room and started retching, his meagre stomach contents emptying out but his body still trying to force the very heart of him out through his throat. The phantom sensation of nails digging into his face, of plunging knife, made him shudder. He rummaged in his pocket once the retching stopped, collapsing on the floor. When his fingers found the cufflink- his totem- and rubbed on the engraving of H.W on its surface- in a dream it was always smooth- his breath evened out a bit.
A minute later, the Asian guy's eyelids started fluttering, his body moving in a way that showed he was about to wake up. With speed Harold did not know he had, he stood up, and before the man had even oriented himself, he had him shoved against the wall, a gun to his forehead.
"What kind of twisted subconscious was that? No. Never mind. What did you want with Mr. Reese?" The man blinked at him with confusion and he shoved the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead, making his eyes go wide. "Answer me? What did you want with him? Why were you torturing him?"
"Hey man. Hey." The guy raised both his hands in surrender, trying to back off but the wall made that impossible. "I have no idea what you mean yeah? Calm down, would you?"
"I saw it. I saw enough. That's a sick way of extraction. Nobody uses it anymore. I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger if you don't tell me what you did with Mr. Reese."
"I didn't do nothing."
"The hell you didn't. Seriously, you need a psychiatrist with what fucked up things your brain has going on, but a bullet would cure it too I am sure." Harold did not know his heart could even contain so much fury.
"Fuck you man. I am a psychiatrist." The man said in his annoying voice.
"What?" Harold gaped. The hand with the gun falling a little in shock.
"Let him go Finch." A tired voiced spoke from behind him, and he whipped around to see John was awake, was propping himself on the pillows and taking the IV line out of his arm, not showing any hint of the fact that he was being butchered a while back.
"What?" He repeated intelligently.
"That wasn't his subconscious." Reese looked at him with resigned eyes for a second, and then spoke to his lap. "It was mine."
"Don't be ridiculo…" he started saying, at the same time as the Asian guy still standing with his back pressed to the wall says, "See. I was just rendering a service."
Finch turned and stared at the man, and then glanced back at John, eyes going from one to another, trying to make sense of things.
"Leon. You can go." John said at length to the guy he went under with. "We will meet at the next session."
"Hey now. I don't get paid for being manhandled by misguided people. Who is to say I will show up next time."
"You will show up." Reese threw him a glare. "I will pay you double for this session."
"Okay. Fair is fair. Just make sure you keep your psycho boyfriend out of it next week."
"Just go." John sighed, and waited till the man collected his things, and hurried out of the room, banging the door behind him.
Harold felt like his knees would give out soon. He stumbled towards a chair and sagged into it cautiously, looking at John all that while, who seemed to be contemplating something. With more patience than he was feeling, the architect waited for him to speak.
"I was hoping you weren't here. That you been a projection; a new creative way of torture by brain had come up with." He laughed hollowly. "It was effective, I have to say."
"Why?" Finch asked with horrified incredulity.
"I didn't want you to find out." He said sadly.
"No Mr. Reese. What I meant to ask is, why all this? What does this mean? I am afraid to say I am awfully confused right now."
Reese looked at him in despair, upset that Finch had to make him explain this, and then swallowed.
"It's my penance."
"Excuse me?"
"You know what a killer I am. You know the things I have done. You really think my subconscious won't have it out for me? You don't think these people deserve to take their revenge?"
"I apologize for the language but, that's bullshit." Finch protests vehemently.
"Is it?" Reese holds his gaze, and the self-hatred evident in his gaze was enough to break Harold's heart.
"Oh Mr. Reese." He tried to reach out and touch John's face, but he cringed, so he pulled back. "You don't deserve this. These people are dead."
"These are my projections. My faces in the street. Even topside, whenever I turn a corner I am afraid to see yet another face of people I have wronged, maimed, killed. At least this way, I know the right people are just exacting their dues."
"No. I am sorry but that's unacceptable."
"It's not for you to decide."
"It is. I can't let you keep doing this. I don't understand what it is that you are even doing."
"Just, paying back my debt."
"These people are already dead John. And you were just doing your duty. You didn't do anything wrong."
"I pulled the trigger. I swung the knife. Their blood is on my hands." He raises his voices, breath hitching, and then takes a calm breath, "I would prefer being alone right now."
"Mr. Reese,"
"Please Harold."
"Okay." Not knowing what else to say, he got up and started walking away. At the door, he turned back to look at John, who had curled into bed, facing away from him.
"Are you going to see him again? This Leon guy?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.
"You sure you want to know the answer to that Finch?"
He considered this, and then decided that no, he really didn't. Letting the door shut behind him quietly, he left the apartment. Halfway back to his safe house, he realized he had forgotten to warn John about the danger. Not sure if he could handle his voice right now, not when the hoarse screams were still ringing in his ears, he took out his phone and sent him a text.
It was up to him now. Taking a deep breath, he continued the journey towards home, trying not to accept that this felt like walking away from something.