Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan

Chapter 2: Gift

"To the future." Robert raised his glass, and Uncle Peter clinked it with his own.

It had been three days since his announcement, and his godfather had finally found room in his schedule to pencil in a celebratory dinner. Tonight they were dining at a seafood establishment just overlooking the harbour.

After a few quiet minutes of eating and drinking, his godfather cleared his throat. "Robert," Peter began, "you're sure that you don't want to stay on board as a consultant or something? I'm not complaining about the promotion, but I'm still having trouble understanding why you wanted to throw everything away in the first place."

He had been expecting this. "I'm not throwing everything away," Robert said with a twinge of annoyance. He took a bite of his salmon. "I still have my stock options. I'm still filthy rich."

"Yes, but it was all so sudden…"

"I told you, my father would've wanted this. He wanted me to be my own man. That's why I'm going back to school."

"Yes, to explore your options." His godfather looked perplexed. "Not that I don't have faith in your other talents, but business is in your blood."

"You know that my father started off as an engineer?"

"…That's true."

"I rest my case."

His godfather pursed his lips but offered nothing else on that topic. The rest of the dinner went smoothly. They talked about sports, something that Maurice Fischer detested. Robert was just about to ask his godfather if he wanted dessert when a waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine.

"Excuse me, Mr. Browning, but a Mr. Saito sends his congratulations."

"Saito…his name sounds familiar," Robert murmured.

"Yes, he's the head of Proclus Global." Peter eyed the bottle with pride. "Is he here tonight?"

"He's upstairs," said the waiter. "He's also extending an invitation for you to join him for dessert."

"Oh, but I...hmm..." Peter trailed off and gave Robert an uncertain look.

Robert nodded, relieved that he no longer had to endure another half-hour of small talk. Strange that what usually came so easily to him now exhausted him. "You go right ahead, Uncle Peter. I'll take care of the bill."

His godfather bade him good night and left with Saito's gift of wine. Robert paid the waiter and exited the restaurant in higher spirits. He could breathe again.

Eames returned to Saito's private room, where Saito and Ariadne were waiting. "Browning took the bait. He's on his way up."

"And Fischer?"

"He's going home. He just sent Arthur away with the cheque." Ariadne nodded, and Eames slipped into the bathroom to wait.

The gambit they had decided on was the Trojan Horse, in which the Mark was lured into the lion's den with a gift while under the illusion that they had called the shots. This false sense of security in turn lowered the Mark's subconscious defenses, as their mind would be more relaxed before entering the dream state. The group determined that it would be easiest to strike during a casual dinner with Fischer, in which Peter Browning's mental state would be at its calmest. Eames, who was still under contract as part of Browning's litigation consulting team, had managed to sneak a look at Browning's schedule while his secretary was at lunch.

There was a murmuring of voices outside, followed by a clatter of plates. Arthur had brought up the dessert. The dessert, of course, was customized just for Browning.

After several minutes, Ariadne peered into the bathroom. "Let's get this party started."

"If I didn't know better, Ariadne, I'd say you were enjoying this."

Ariadne offered him a mischievous smile. "Well…"

Browning's sleeping form was propped upright in his chair before a half-eaten chocolate mousse cake. The sleeping pill they had used would keep him knocked out for fifteen minutes, max. With a diluted and less potent form of Yusuf's Somnacin compound – no way in hell were they going to risk dropping into Limbo again – that meant they had approximately two and a half hours on the first level to perform the extraction. Saito would keep guard while the trio went under.

Ariadne retrieved the PASIV that was hidden underneath the table and began setting up the IV lines. Eames sat down at the table across from Browning's body and rolled up his sleeves for Ariadne. Arthur took his place next to Browning and gestured at the timer. "Saito, remember to play the music when the clock's down to a minute."

Saito nodded, and Eames put on his headphones.

The last thing Eames heard before slipping into the dream state was a mechanic whoosh as Saito pressed the trigger.

Eames trudged through the hot white sand, holding a newspaper in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other. He plopped himself into one of the fold-out chairs that were waiting for him and Browning just beneath a pair of palm trees.

Ariadne had deliberately built a peaceful, wide open space as to not trigger a feeling of claustrophobia or anxiety in Browning's mind. In the scenario that Browning's subconscious would suddenly feel the need to retaliate, Ariadne had also created a maze-like jungle spanning most of the island's inland. Rising high from the heart of the jungle was a mountain with a concealed cave. If Browning had anything to hide, his mind would fill the cave with the information he was trying to protect.

Eames gazed around him, his ears alert. Only the sounds of lapping waves and chirping birds reached his ears. There were no militarized projections in sight. Browning's sunbathing projections looked like average, harmless tourists. So far, so good.

"Ah, Robert, there you are." Browning strolled up from the shore and sat down in the other fold-out chair. He glanced at the newspaper that Eames was holding. "Anything interesting today?"

"Not really. A few pipeline projects, a report on global warming... Oh, there's this article on corporate espionage." Eames made a show of flipping through the pages. "They say that an estimated $250 billion is lost to the theft of trade secrets each year. And that's only in the United States."

Browning shook his head. "What a pity. Good thing Fischer Morrow doesn't have to worry about anything like that."

Eames saw his chance. "Not with our security," he commented. Browning merely nodded.

"Speaking of which," Eames continued, lowering his voice, "I want to hire them after I start up my new company. What was their name again?"

"Whose name?"

"The extractor who trained me."

"An extractor? What on earth are you talking about?" Browning seemed completely nonplussed.

Eames narrowed his eyes. Alarm bells were going off in his head, but he decided to forge ahead. "You know. Sub-security. Dream-share."

"Dream-share?" Browning looked bewildered. "But dream-share is illegal! How did you manage to find someone to teach you?"

Eames studied his subject's face. As a forger, he specialized in body language. Unless Browning was as good of as an actor as Eames, Browning really was clueless. Besides, Browning would have no reason to keep up pretenses with his own godson if they were actually partners in crime.

"Well, my father hired them for me," Eames improvised. "I didn't know who they were, exactly. They never told me their name, and I have no way of contacting them again."

"But why would you want to?" Browning demanded, a flush creeping across his already ruddy face. On cue, Browning's seemingly harmless projections of tourists simultaneously turned to glare at Eames. Eames willed himself not to panic. He could not allow his disguise to slip, not even for a second.

"Uncle Peter, my father was the one –"

"Don't try to use him as a scapegoat. I know he would never stoop so low as to require the services of a... a thief! How dare you tarnish the Fischer name with your unethical practices? Maurice...your father would be disappointed if he were still alive to hear this!"

Thunder rumbled overhead.

Eames gritted his teeth. The tourists were closing in, slowly but surely. The good news was that it did not appear that Browning had any real sub-security training of his own. The bad news was that agitated projections were still dangerous.

"I'm going to get another drink," said Eames as soothingly as possible. "When I come back, we'll discuss it, okay?"

Browning stared at Eames. Sadness was etched into every line of his face. "Robert, there's really nothing to be said."

Eames felt a pang of betrayal on behalf of the former heir. His godfather had unknowingly thrown in his face the exact sentiment that Maurice Fischer had shared with an eleven-year-old Robert grieving his mother's death. Eames walked away without another word.

To his annoyance, Browning's projections followed him. Eames threw a glance over his shoulder. The tourists trailed through the sand behind him, their laser-sharp gazes fixed on the forger. It was time to put Ariadne's maze to good use.

Eames instantly dropped his disguise of Robert Fischer, channeling all his energy instead into a fast sprint that took him to the edge of the dense forest. Another quick glance told him that he was out of the projections' sight, so he ran deeper into the jungle toward the direction of the mountain. He took out his walkie-talkie and buzzed through to Arthur. "How's it going?"

Arthur's voice was hushed. "Something is definitely hidden up here. There are a lot of projections hanging around, and some of them are armed. We managed to evade most of them, but Ariadne had to kick one off a cliff."

"Browning doesn't have formal sub-security," said Eames, pushing aside a particularly large leaf. "If his mind can generate sub-security on its own, then this secret's got to be bloody important."

"Damn. Where are you? You sound like you're out of breath."

"I'm on my way up."

"What? Why?"

"Browning doesn't know anything about extraction. He didn't know Fischer had his subconscious trained. He got really angry, so I got the hell out of there before his projections could get to me."

"Alright. Be careful, or the dream will collapse before we can find anything."

"Arthur, careful is my middle name." Eames shoved the walkie-talkie back into his pocket and took out one of the pistols strapped beneath his shirt.

It took him a good twenty minutes to reach the base of the mountain. Eames blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The entrance to the cave was supposed to be thirty meters from the ground. He cursed silently at his lack of climbing gear. Unlike Ariadne and Arthur, he was only dressed for the beach.

Eames eyed the mountainside. The last thing he wanted was to attract unwanted attention, but it was the fastest way to catch up with the others. He picked the nearest tree and climbed it, mentally forcing its thicker branches to extend higher and higher until they formed a suitable bridge to cross over to the mountain. Satisfied, Eames hopped off the mutated tree and ventured into the awaiting cave.