A/N Bit short, I'm having difficulties splitting the story into chapters so please humour me.

Please tell me what you think, constructive crit is much appreciated!

Chapter 2

It had always been that way.

Arthur spotted an alley that hadn't closed up and decided to take the chance. He needed to get out of the open, sooner or later the projections were going to work out that they had to shoot in front of him to hit him. He skidded into the alley and sprinted down it. As he attempted to turn the next corner he was met with as literal brick wall. His shoulder made contact with it and he breathed in through gritted teeth. He regained his composure and reached up to the top of the wall. He shuffled back against the wall behind him and sprinted at the blockade. He scrambled up and rolled over the top. He lay on the concrete where he had landed for a second, regaining his breath, then he saw the figures disappearing round the corner. He removed his Glock 17 from its holster and peeked round. Someone grasped the barrel of his weapon and pulled. Taking Arthur with it the gun was thrown against the nearest wall, but that barely stopped Arthur. As the figure went to punch him he grabbed the mans wrist and pulled him toward him, ducking just in time to pull the other into the wall.

Arthur pushed the man back against the other wall and kicked him in the side of his head. While the man was down Arthur intended to retrieve his gun and end the fight but the man grabbed his ankle and pulled him off balance. In seconds Arthur was pinned. He could feel blood pooling in the ground from a wound where he had smacked his head on decent. The man above him continuously hit him, forcing the trauma on his head to widen from being pushed against the concrete. The man was heavy, but when Arthur saw his gun in the corner of his vision he found strength to shift the man from him. He crawled along the ground and found the grip of his gun, simultaneously pressing the barrel to his attackers chest while pulling a combat blade from his boot and pressing that to the mans throat. He was ready to pull the trigger when a voice pulled him out of his violent haze.

"ARTHUR! ARTHUR! ITS EAMES! HE'S EAMES! STOP, ARTHUR, PLEASE STOP!"

13 months earlier.

"...intestinal worm?" The Japanese man looked down distastefully at the bowl full if food before him.

"I think what mister Cobb is trying to say is..."

"An idea." Cobb interrupted Arthur. As the latter looked over the mints leading up to inception all he saw of that dream was that conversation, talking to a particularly attractive projection and then getting shot. Twice. It almost brought a grin to his usual thin lips at the thought of it. He got shot by a shade, then by his best friend!

But could Cobb really be called a friend, or had Arthur just been a much needed crutch to serve as a temporary support to be hidden in a cupboard among brooms until needed again. It made sense, for that was exactly what happened after inception. They had all promised to keep in touch. Eames almost lived with Yusuf so that was easy, Ariadne had finished her coarse and was now working in America, so she often visited Cobb, who welcomed her with open arms.

But not Arthur.

After the job as the team separated in the airport Arthur had told Cobb and all of the other team members to call him on a phone he reserved for explicit numbers if they needed him, or wanted to talk.

But no one but Eames had, and that had been once, but it had been a familiar voice among so many strangers.

Despite being rich enough to lie back in a villa somewhere Arthur chose to continue work. But he didn't choose, he was pulled toward it like an addict to a drug store. He couldn't let it go as Cobb had, or regulate it as Eames had.

He was addicted, the jobs got more and more adrenaline packed as time wore on. And still, Cobb didn't call. The younger man had tried not to resent those he saw walking hand in hand with a lover, but it was difficult. He told himself it was easier to sever ties after every job, getting attached to someone just made you vulnerable. Even if Arthur tried he probable couldn't keep a relationship.

He had always been the perfect child; smart, quiet at the table and honest, sometime brutally so.

He had been perfect bar one thing.

In their desperation to beat the faults from him Arthur's parents had forgotten to teach him empathy, emotion and how to love. That's why he had felt no remorse leaving that day. Packing his bags and slipping out one night had been so easy. He walked for a while, then changed schools, opting to live and survive on the streets. It was a difficult life full of violence but like the identity he forged for himself he moulded into it seamlessly. He decided that was what he would do. He would become Arthur. Just Arthur.