Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the story from the film Inception. That is a work which belongs to Christopher Nolan
Readers: This is intended as a taster chapter, let me know if you want more or if you like it etc. I will update this more in the near future.
The man was tall, a little taller than Eames, with slicked back, dark brown hair. His eyes were a deep, dark chocolate colour that Eames was struggling to avoid. Like a proper gentleman, the man wore a tailored, three piece suit. Eames saw that it was a silver/grey colour, and the dark, charcoal coloured tie matched his shiny leather shoes. Eames held the man's wrist and looked at the time on the stranger's silver Rolex watch; it was late, around eleven in the evening. Eames shouldn't still be out at this time really, he was in the middle of a period of attempting to go to bed earlier so that he could get more rest. His insomnia was getting the better of him nowadays.
"I'm sorry, I should really be going." Eames tried to leave, but the man reversed the hold Eames had on his wrist and gripped him tightly.
"Don't go." His velvet voice was like milk, and his American accent tasted like an exotic cocktail in Eames' ears. "I was hoping I could show you around a little, we could have a good time together maybe…" His voice trailed off at the end, and his eyes became clouded with suggestion. Eames looked around the street they were on to see that nobody was there, and in the distance, between the tall, old buildings, he could see the Eiffel Tower. Now Eames was confused; when did they come to Paris? Who was this man? Why were there no other people? "Don't you wanna stay and spend more time with me?" The man's sultry voice whispered to Eames in the golden light of the street light.
"Well, yes I do but, I should really go." Eames saw the man's expression change from lust to anger as he realised that Eames' confusion had gotten the better of him and he was too absorbed in his strange surroundings to be seduced by the strangers.
"You've brought this on yourself Eames." The man sighed, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out – to Eames' shock – a handgun. Eames started begging, pleading for his life. The man held the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger. Eames screamed when the gun went off and the man fell to the ground. Eames sat with his body, crying from the shock of everything that had happened this evening. After an hour or so, Eames felt the shock drift into a numbness, which in turn became exhaustion.
Eames' eyes drifted open and – as he stared up at a blank, white ceiling – he realised that he wasn't on a street in Paris, but in fact in his own bed, in Manhattan. Another dream. Eames had been having dreams for the last month which all centred on this mysterious man. Eames' imagination was a powerful beast, and so he was sure he had made up this man entirely. It happened often, just usually not to the same level of detail with which it was happening recently.
The only thing about it that really got to Eames was the fact that in every dream, the man always killed himself. Eames could never figure it out.