TITLE: The Decode Artistry
AUTHOR: ArcaneAngel92
CHAPTER(S): Multi-chapter
CATEGORY: Movies Inception
GENRE(S): Horror/Romance
PAIRING(S): Ariadne/Eames, implied and one-sided Arthur/Ariadne
RATING: T for Teen, rating could be subjected to change due to graphic violence and sexual content.
SUMMARY: What if the method of extraction wasn't adapted for the progression and stability of business ventures? What if it was used to pluck out the darkest confessions from a disturbed serial killer? What if the art of extraction and impersonating was to protect Ariadne from the Minotaur? (Speculative summary)
I.
"We are spinning our own fates, good or evil, and never to be undone. Every smallest stroke of virtue or of vice leaves its never-so-little scar." ~ William James
The washing of blood is a bastardized litany—a religious symbol of purification. It's a cliched one, Professor Monsard would've said, his voice brusque and matter-of-fact. Still, the blood-washing is a necessary removal of evidence. It's an odd thing to look through the eyes of someone whose hold on sanity is slipping, a tentative grasp on the most basal of humane things. It's nightmarish having the visceral imagery of ruptured tendons and arties rippling through your mind. Eames has to quell the migraines with pills. He has to retire the buzzing of his mind in alcohol and strong beer the first few times. It never gets easier because the files become more elaborate, the photos more shocking and ritualistic in their contents. So when Eames and his team of detectives specializing in the art of Extraction are approached by the criminal investigative division he hesitates.
It's when his lips are pursed, his hand stilling in the motion of bringing a cup of strong, black coffee to his lips that they track him down. He is reclining in his living room, having hastily put on a robe and shooing away his latest bedroom conquest. The brunette is nonplussed if not a little perplexed at being rushed away. He busies himself with putting away the fine china and dishes in the sink, scraping remnants of half-eaten scones and husks of oranges and apples into the dustbin.
"Mr. Eames …," Aidan Quinn, donning a tailored suit complete with the FBI badge greets him from his door held ajar by his steady hand. It had been months since he'd gradually stopped suffering nightmares of the blood-washing, the image of crusted blood on hair swirling down the drain. It had taken longer for him to take regular showers in the bathroom. And this is why; he thought with a wry grin, they insisted on bi-weekly psychological evaluations for his specialized team. Still Eames is good at burying the darkest vestiges of his work into the recesses of his mind, filing away the haunting in cabinets he never opens. A grin widens on his face, a toothy one and he crosses one leg over the other.
"You have a job for me don't you love?" Aidan raises an eyebrow, seemingly perturbed at the younger man's casualness but he presses on. Quinn was always a stiff jacket, someone who dragged his work home with him, displaying the spilled contents on the dining room table. Eames doesn't envy the man, sitting across from him, nor does he desire the rigidity of companionship and fatherhood. Bachelorhood suits him anyway. Still, he doesn't feel particularly pleased at being called back months later to sink into the psychology of a crazed killer. Sometimes he questions why he even pursued the dark pathway of homicide, insisting on trying to navigate the twisted hallways and passageways of a murderer's mind. Then he remembers lesser men than him would've gone "completely marbles" as he'd said to Cobb over coffee a few weeks ago.
"Something like that, you recall the Jameson case a few years back? 30 year old Caucasian male, blond hair, Ed Geins type mixed in with the disturbing psychological operations of a Ted Bundy sociopath …," Eames nodded remembering the countless sleepless nights he'd studied his reflection in his bedroom. The vanity had become a breeding ground of unspeakable gore and horror. An organized pile of various newspaper clippings and files that had been thumbed through innumerable times still sat in the dusty corners of his apartment. How could someone forget the charming innocent visage of the brown-haired murderer? How could anyone will the image of his victims, scalped, pleading and bloody? The blood staining his philtrum, the way he scrubbed his hands raw of their life?
Eames almost didn't want to do it.
"Yeah I couldn't forget the sick bloke if I tried," and the facade splintered just for a bit. He felt the tiredness settling in his 34 year old bones more than he acknowledged it. Tiredness was something you buried in coffins made of books, television shows and endless chatter. Restlessness was something you purged yourself of in the smell of sex and noncommittal pledges.
Quinn bit his lip before continuing, "we've reopened the case, Eames and you're the best offense profiler we have. You're the best analyzer we have and it's more of a need than a want at this point."
"Coffee or perhaps some leftover scones, they're a bit dry though, good yeast and butter is hard to come by in Winchester," Eames forcefully bemoaned at the treachery of the baking soda aftertaste of his blueberry scones experiment. He shuffled around in the kitchen and assembled a lovely bone-china tray of warmed scones and coffee within minutes. Ignoring the topic let him momentarily forget how fucked up his job was, if only for a few seconds. Quinn didn't miss the intentional evasiveness of that polite gesture.
"That's fine, just cream and two sugars please."
"Not man enough to take it completely black?" Eames challenged, settling the tray on the imported coffee table. The wood had come from Mombasa if he hadn't been mistaken. Or perhaps it was a region in Southeast Asia. His memory had suffered poorly in the past few months. Lack of sleep robbed you of everything.
"No, just some things need to be diluted," like your memories, Quinn seemed to be saying, his eyes flashing in the dimness of the fluorescent lamps on either side of the couch. Eames considered the manila folder Quinn had retrieved from his briefcase. The ever present carrying case of every profiled murderer and serial rapist since 1994 was bound in that home of leather and Marlboro Blacks. Eames wondered if Quinn had ever attempted quitting cold turkey again. Every detective had a vice—you needed something to bury your sanity in when it came to that line of work.
"Mm. I'll consider it, I suppose. He killed another girl two months back?" Eames didn't feign interest then, barely recoiling at the sight of the black and white photo of the girl's bloodied scalp.
"Two weeks," Quinn amended and that's when Eames let the realities of the graphic nature of the photos hit him. There was the girl, unruly tendrils of wispy brown hair mottled with blood and there were her hands clasped as if in prayer. A rosary was placed about her neck. Jameson had a thing for rosaries and the imagery of saints. Eames had defined it as a suppression of strict Catholic upbringing, a manifestation of a troubled household, possibly a controlling father and a mother he idolized. Classic signs …
There were no signs of blood splatter. The crime scene was absent of the killing thing—the blunt knife or kitchen knife or whatever sort of bladed instrument Jameson had used had been systematically removed. The man was meticulous about his methods of cleaning up: insisting on using surgical gloves when handling everything from doorknobs to faucets or sinks and showers to car doors.
He'd developed numerous monikers and rented more cars than Eames nor Cobb or even Arthur, the specialized agent and resident point man could bother keeping track of. Still numbers was something they had to keep up with and cosmetic changes from cheap dye jobs to surgical reconstructions were something Eames had to take into account. He wondered, grinning behind the mug of too-cold coffee, gone insipid, if Jameson had broken his nose more than a few times to cover his bloodied footprints.
"Cobb and Arthur want this guy … the latest victim was 25 years old, Eames. Same age as our budding agent and recruit, Ariadne," and then Eames thought of the Architect-major turned special agent-in-training. He thought of how they'd groomed her to become desensitized to the smell and sight of bloodshed. He thought of her getting used to recoil and the handling of ballistic weaponry as opposed to pistols, how Arthur had to drill the art of sniping into her head like a religious mantra. Like an edict. He thought of the shock she'd said her parents had experienced at the hand of her registering with the FBI, committing her life to probing files of men who stripped away flesh as easily as they stripped away confidence and womanhood. How one woman could trade the life of erecting buildings into the tapestry of a city for a gun and a badge baffled Eames. Still he admired her and somehow the idea of someone like her and unlike her being murdered … that bothered him. It bothered him a lot.
"…I'm not saying to draw comparisons … you can't compare someone who's traded in a skill and a trade to becoming a trained sniper, a contracted killer who kills killers. There's no comparison but I'm saying … girls unlike Ariadne, around her age … they're the ones at risk. I know you want to put this to an end. I know it haunted you-"
"Stop it Quinn! For God's sake I'm fine and I didn't bloody well answer my door to be heckled and bribed into playing impersonator again. It's not that I can't do the job; it's never been about that … I just don't want to get involved knee-deep. No one wants to wade through the psychological fodder of a twisted man's psyche."
"I know," Quinn murmured before taking a mouthful of scone and trying to feign a delicate cough. Instead he fumbled for the coffee mug and took an uncharacteristic swig of the beverage as if it was some sort of stout.
"It's a little dry, my apologies, like I said cheap yeast and ingredients does not a good scone make, my friend. I apologize for my outburst it's just … sleep has become sort of a wanted commodity lately," Eames's eyes flit over to the prescription sleeping pills on the counter top of his island. Quinn followed his gaze and then they flickered back to Eames's, a bit of concern and recognition worrying the slight laugh lines on the detective's face.
"Tell you what," Quinn stood up, taking one sweeping look over the odd chaos of Eames's well-decorated apartment, "you take a week or two to consider this case. The file will remain open indefinitely unless no new leads spring up. You know where to find me once you make your decision." With that Aidan Quinn excused himself, shaking Eames's hand and exiting the apartment, briefcase in hand.
Eames sighed and he hastily picked up his cell phone from the side table, easing back into the couch with a sigh of distress. He fingered the remote and settled on Food Network, losing himself in the preparation of complex cuisine by Ina Garten. It was odd being so casual when the niggling sense of honor and duty troubled his subconscious. 'There's no comparison but I'm saying … girl unlike Ariadne, around her age … they're the ones at risk. I know you want put an end to this …' and he did. If it were up to Eames he would've been a psychological vigilante for the rest of his life, ensuring demonic abominations like Jameson got their just desserts. Men who murdered for the simplicity of murder—for the primal thrill-they were the ones he detested and loathed. The thought of that girl, her white-knuckled hands clasped in prayer was the deciding factor. The double-sided die on one of his bookshelves caught the offense profiler's eye and he dialed the number.
Ariadne sat back, dainty fingers smudged in charcoal; a work of spiraling constructs seemingly jutting off of her canvas. She discarded a few of the pastels and charcoals into a plastic container, more of a bin really and rubbed a particularly sore spot at the back of her neck. When she finally opted to eat some leftover Chinese, the remnants of which she'd partaken of with her recent roommate, Emily Chin, her cell phone started to buzz. She picked up the offending thing what with its irritating vibrations and peered at the contact name in mild consternation.
-Eames-
Ariadne flipped it open, absentmindedly filling a plate with lo mein and Kung pao chicken.
"Eames, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Darling, you never told me there was a reopened case. I found a meddlesome Aidan Quinn trying to play coddling mommy on me this morning," Eames's smooth voice lilted through the receiver of her touch-screen phone. She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the forming of a grin on her delicate lips. Quinn had a way of being unexpectedly obtrusive even when he feigned gentleness to get you to accept a job. Still it didn't shock her that Quinn had been adamant enough to try and coerce the young offense profiler for his unique services. It wasn't every day that a civilian could not only delve into a criminal's mind but access his psyche and become him. Eames's skill was a unique and helpful one even if it wasn't something admittedly enviable. She placed the plate in the overhead microwave and started to heat up the food, her stomach protesting in a dull gurgle.
"If I told you then the poor guy would've been standing there waiting for you to open up for over an hour."
"Well he does so remind me of our favorite point man, his seriousness is irritating. Nothing wrong with a little bit of waiting, love."
"So why did you really call me Eames?" Ariadne's curiosity got the best of her, her needing to fix things and put the components back together was an insistent itch for her. She lounged on the battered pea green couch her and Emily had gotten at a yard sale.
There was a pregnant pause and the shifting sounds of what seemed like a man hell-bent on channel surfing his day away. She wondered if Eames suffered from nightmares too. Did he have to pop pills or did he resort to drinking himself away? She hoped he didn't indulge in both but he seemed like a man who could fall prey to substance abuse. Something about him was sinfully unbridled.
"I haven't slept in months and I'd rather not rely on pharmaceuticals to help me count my sheep …," his voice was uncharacteristically dark, having lost its sardonic edge. She was interrupted by the incessant beep of the microwave and the emergence of a sleepy Korean roommate. Emily rubbed her eyes, yawned tiredly and mussed up her half shorn mass of black hair.
"Morning," she mumbled through a heavy yawn. Ariadne waved back in sympathy, knowing that her roommate was suffering over her third year finals. It sucked being a junior in college. Ariadne didn't miss the unbearable pressure of deadlines and the insistence of memorization.
"… You've been having nightmares too haven't you?" her voice lowered, not wanting her roommate to hear the inaudible details of her conversation. It wasn't that Emily wasn't necessarily privy to the basic nature of Ariadne's work it was more that a certain protocol had to be maintained. Certain aspects were intimate, such as the effects of working with homicide suspects and engaging in the experimental process of Extraction. The most Emily knew was that Ariadne, Arthur, Cobb and Eames were all put into a deep REM sleep via the use of PASIV and that needles and veins were involved.
"More or less, I need you to tell me that I shouldn't take this job that it's too bloody difficult, that I'll be tormented psychologically and numbed to everything unholy and bastardized. I need you to tell me that I should be traveling to Asia somewhere … vacationing on the beaches of Singapore or something with a beautiful local woman beside me," Ariadne scoffed softly, it was so like him to want a female companion. She was temporarily reminded of Doctor Who and realized she hadn't watched that show in ages.
Then she was reminded of Evan Jameson, how prolific and extensive his history of brutality and murder was. He'd slain over 12 women since he'd dropped out of Yale and where he was now no one knew. The only sign he was still alive was the image of the young woman hidden away in the file Ariadne had received a week earlier. Those were the sort of skeletons you kept locked up in your closet, the ones who used to be so full of vitality and youthfulness, and the ones who screamed when they were killed.
She thought of Eames spending hours poring over files and audio transcripts of interviews with the murderers, re-watching interviews with family members. She thought of him rifling through a box full of a killer's childhood memorabilia and how he said every object "held a memory" how it was "sort of like a box of secrets, clichéd as that sounds."
She thought of how he was the only one who could get Jameson off the streets, if they could find the elusive serial killer that is.
So she said: "I'm going to say that you should do it," ignoring the older man's loftier sigh, "because you're the only one who can get into his mind and whittle away at his defenses. No one else has the extensive training that you have. Quinn is absolutely right for meddling around … I'm going to be selfish and say we need you, Eames."
"Fine, I'll call the bloody bloke in two weeks. I need to at least wean myself off these damn sleeping pills. Good thing for the reunion though, I've missed your pretty face sweetheart," and there he was slipping back into the facade ever so effortlessly. Ariadne hung up a moment later and noticed how warm her cheeks were, how flushed they felt. Eames was certainly attractive but the prospect of a relationship with any of the men; even with the admittedly adorable point man was daunting. You were never supposed to mix work with pleasure. And Eames was notorious for flirting with anyone that so much as breathed his way. Ariadne wasn't exactly fond of players which Arthur certainly was not. The point man was just charming, diffident and yet contrastingly bold. She thought of the smoldering looks he'd sometimes give her and …
"Ariadne, there's barely anything in the fridge," Emily whined and the young brunette gave an apologetic smile as if to say, 'I tried.' Her roommate pulled her pea-green coat on and buttoned it up. The chill of February clung to the air outside. It wasn't frigid so much as it was uncomfortable and required a good fall jacket.
"Going for more Chinese or …?" Ariadne intentionally faltered off, her hands busied with putting away her recent sketches that were more fantastical than realistic.
"Nah maybe some Indian, you feeling for some Tandoori chicken later," Emily pinned back the remains of her half shaven hair with two different colored bobby pins and pulled on her combat boots.
"Yeah sounds good. Hey, I'm gonna head over to one of my coworkers; get some details on the latest case. Call me if anything happens alright? Stay safe," although Emily rolled her eyes at Ariadne's display of protectiveness she nodded anyway and placed her hand on the older girl's shoulder. They'd forged an unlikely bond despite their differing tastes in music (Sex Pistols to Ariadne's love for classical music and Adele) and TV shows (Dexter to The Big Bang Theory). Ariadne would be lying if she said she didn't care for the slightly younger girl in some way and the thought of a serial killer on a random rampage made her worried.
"You know …," she thought after a beat, "you could come with me … I think it'd be okay if you met the rest of the team."
"Isn't that against protocol or some shit though?"
Ariadne winced at Emily's abrasiveness; another different was the usage of language or in Ariadne's case an absence of it.
"… Well as long as we're not discussing work but—never mind we're going to be doing exactly that. Just be careful." Emily nodded once and a few minutes later she was gone. Ariadne wouldn't see her for another 48 hours.