Hello everyone! The response for this fic has been wonderful to say the least. So than you everyone for your support! I am obviously a fan of whump so you will see no shortage of that here… but I do love my plots and character development so I find this story will probably longer than I had first anticipated. I'm so sorry for the wait of this chapter, I started writing this to escape the looming depression of finals, and then finals actually came and I had no more time to write. Then winter break got the better of me and I haven't been able to sit down at the computer and focus on writing for a while. Ironically, I'm in India for the month, but I should have more time than I usually do to write. I am very intrigued with where this story is headed, so it will be continued after the little hiccup of no updates :)
As for some of your concerns, do not fret everyone! The torture shall be passed all around and it will hopefully flesh out the further we get into the story. As for relationships, I was planning on keeping this completely a study on the interesting dynamic of Arthur and Eames, because I've watched the movie a couple times again recently and their relationship always strikes me as something important. I will keep it purely platonic on fanfiction, but I do think these two are fascinating halves of a whole, so I'm posting this on archiveofourown as well and I'll see how the story progresses, potentially having diverging paths of where this story ends up.
Anyway, happy reading!
Warning: language
When things become a little too crazy in the real world, it's not out of place to see someone in the dream business dig their hand deep into their pocket to figure out if they truly are awake. Arthur spent a year, five months, and two weeks watching Cobb compulsively fiddle around with Mal's top before the man was finally sent back to his children in the states. He never mentioned it though, understanding why the desperate father constantly needed the conviction that he wasn't stuck in a dream.
Right now, the only good news that Arthur can extrapolate from his totem being stolen is that it means he's not going to die (on purpose) any time soon. But it also suggested that he was going to be subjected to significant amounts of psychological torture.
Anyone who's even allowed in the dreamshare business knows a totem is for one person's eyes only. A totem must be unique and easy to hide so that it is on hand at all times, a comfort to reassure sanity at any given moment the suspicion of a dream starts to creep up.
This is all common knowledge. It is lectured about time and time again, from veterans like Cobb to the eager, wet-under-the-ears students like Ariadne, it is known that if you lose your totem, you're royally screwed. What is equally common knowledge, but never admitted out loud, is the reason why your totem cannot be known by anyone other than the individual who owns it.
If a totem is understood by anybody else, then they have the power to manipulate this object within their own dream to do whatever it is with it they want it to do. They can change the item all together, or make it disappear. They can make a replica of a totem so exact, that the owner can't tell the difference. The secret isn't a secret anymore and the totem then becomes a weapon with immense power. It's a cheap way of going about business, but Arthur can't deny its effectiveness.
So if you know the totem in real life, you can replicate it in a dream. Ergo, Arthur is going to have to damn certain when he's awake and when he's dragged under. It won't make whatever plans for him any more enjoyable, but he's all for not losing his sanity and following the same road as his dear Malorie Cobb.
Blinking his blurry eyes, he is greeted with the same set up as before, with Emilio crouched before him and goons flanking his restrained body on each side. Only this time, Arthur registers, deep seated aches of will be bruises bloom all over his body. He recalls the cannula being forcefully inserted into his arm, but he doesn't remember any dream that followed. It's been ingrained in him since his army days to record each dream and be able to play it back as if it was a movie he just watched when he woke up, and he hasn't forgotten his travels down under with the PASIV since.
Because of this, Arthur knows the only explanation for his amnesia is that he's dreaming right now. Goddamn bastards trying to trick him into thinking he's awake. They're going to have to try a lot harder than deceiving his eyes in order to succumb to madness.
Arthur glares flaming hot serrated daggers at the smirking Emilio lounging in his lawn chair across from him. He makes for a lousy Point at least, Arthur huffs, counting his victories wherever he can find them. The man fiddles with his die and Arthur decides to inform him so.
"Does it make you mad that I didn't know you were in the business?" he tries to raise a quizzical eyebrow, but his face is numb and he can't know if he got the nonchalant façade pinned down anymore. But from the look of fury flashing over Emilio's face, it doesn't seem like it's the drug lord's son who has the upper hand.
His comment earns him a slap to the side of the head and ringing in his ears, but the angry flush coloring Emilio's cheeks makes it worth it.
The mob boss heir just about has his hackles raised when he drags himself away from his seat, standing at full height and finally deciding to grace the room with his omnipresent presence. He circles around Arthur's strapped down form as the cannula is slipped from his exposed inner arm from one of the hulking (and in Arthur's opinion, compensating for something) bodyguards. When Emilio slinks behind him and away from view, a finger brushes over the sensitive skin at the back of his neck and Arthur has to hide his flinch of surprise, masking it with a warning growl. If this is a supposed to be Emilio's show of dominance then he has another thing coming. A lilting tsk berates Arthur's hostile behavior, the other man crouches to Arthur's eye level when he finishes his slow circle.
"Hasn't anyone told you to play nice with your captors? It doesn't seem very wise to make me angry." Emilio's hand rests on Arthur's knee, fingers spread and emitting heat hot enough even through the silk cotton blend of Arthur's trousers.
Arthur shrugs, face blank. "So I'm new to the being kidnapped thing, sue me." He doesn't want to let on that he knows he's dreaming. This time, he's got to keep all his cards close to his chest.
The fingers on his leg twitch in time with the flare of Emilio's nostrils.
"Plus," Arthur stares him dead in the eye, not willing to back off an inch and give this crazed man even the inkling of control. "I'm pretty sure I already got you mad at me, so I might as well keep playing my part."
The toothy smile that stretches over Emilio's face is both mildly startling and wildly disconcerting. This close, he looks like a feral dog, sparkling eyes, bared teeth, untamed hair and all. "That's right," he purrs fondly, almost as if he's forgotten. "I think it was around the time where you went into my father's head and ruined his life forever."
The other man appears pleased with himself and rests a hand over Arthur's chest, his heart fluttering madly under the warm weight. Okay, he thinks, this touching business has got to stop. But the hand is fleeting as Emilio quickly undoes the top button of his vest – which Arthur notes is fully repaired, probably a mistake which was overlooked in replicating reality because of the focused frustration of Arthur's defiance, rather than his clothes – and slips a hand into the pocket where his die is hidden. Emilio rolls it on the dusty ground. They both look down at the three shining up at them.
The chuckle that fills the air is cold, but almost content. "Well look at that."
A sharp pressure is at the crook of his arm before his skin relents and accepts another cannula puncture, Emilio sliding another into his wrist at the same time. Arthur mentally keeps check of situation. Two levels down. He's still asleep.
"Sleep tight, Darling," Emilio whispers, and the words smacks Arthur harder than any slap could. Arthur can't keep the desperate hope from welling up inside him at the thought of his partner. He knows the Forger will be able to find his ransacked room, probably already has. He just hopes that the man will find something useful on the recording Arthur managed to start up before the scuffle broke out. Something warm and light nips at the edges of his fright, lightening the dread that has settled inside him. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised at the calming thought. He doesn't doubt Eames' abilities, never has, even if the man refuses to believe him. So with a hidden smile, he passes out with his thoughts lingering on his one hope out of this mad man's clutches. Come on Eames, I know you can find me.
He supposes the worry that still gnaws at him is the unasked question of when. After that, he blacks out.
When he comes to, he's in the barn, strapped down to a chair, with Emilio hovering over him. So this is how it's going to be then. He doesn't give the people points for creativity, but he can damn well see how this could throw him off his guard if this is how they're going to keep starting the dream. He'll remember how he got here every single time. Begrudgingly, he concedes that the technique is clever if cruel. He's going to have to be absolutely certain when he wakes up for real. Two levels down, he reminds himself, watching his company warily.
"Toss him in the car!" Emilio barks, and Arthur is disgruntled by the use of "toss," not particularly wanting to be tossed anywhere. But he doesn't have time to dwell on it before he's cut from his binds and being manhandled backward toward the door, his feet scrambling to keep up with the long strides of his captors. A canvas bag being thrown over his head obscures his vision before he can make it outside.
He struggles even though he knows that it's pointless, and he spits out curses even though he knows the only response he'll get is laughter at his expense. It feels like he's being thrown into the back of a pick-up truck judging by the metal expanse he's landed on, and the goons clamber on after him, each pinning an arm down to the floor of the truck.
It's a tad overkill, really. Arthur knows he can be difficult, but come on, couldn't he have just been tied up again? It's not like he's going to be able to run anywhere, especially not in a dream. The inside of the bag moistens with a resigned, heavy sigh. He supposes that's the point though, he's not supposed to know that he's dreaming, is he?
The car rumbles to life, and they take off without any extra preamble, both his arms already falling asleep under the bulk of tweedledee and tweedledum.
Somehow, he finds solace in the ride over to the lake. His head keep on smacking back against the bottom of the trundle every time they hit a bump in the road (which is often, considering it was a dirt path), but his subconscious was kind enough to fill the dreamscape with life, the soft chirping of crickets singing over the hum of the car. He focuses on that rather than whatever plans Emilio has for him.
As hopeless as this situation is, his constant goading has distracted Emilio from two very important things. One, Arthur's vest is once again buttoned and ironed to perfection, and two, the drive over to the lake has given him time to think.
There's a bend in the road and he pretends that the weight shifting on his arms and digging into his bones doesn't hurt like hell. It's just a dream after all.
So where does he go from here? Arthur is pretty sure that there isn't a foreseeable escape route; not when he's at the mercy of a whole dreamshare team apparently and currently tired up to a chair in the real world. This understanding brings his thoughts to Eames.
Eames. He hasn't heard any mention of the Forger since he's been locked up, no taunting the safety of his partner in crime above his head, so he can only assume that as of now, Eames is safe. The job Arthur took to extract from Emilio's father was one when the Brit was off visiting his family in London for Christmastime, so Emilio should have no vendetta against the man. And if he really is out of harm's way, there is little doubt that Eames isn't looking for him already. He left his computer on for this purpose, knowing that while the Forger had his roll with the punches personality laid out on his sleeve for the world to see, he was fiercely protective and would fight tooth and nail for his partner, even if the only reason for it was to maintain their dominance over the dreamshare community.
It couldn't be helped that they rose to the top so efficiently, really, though their unlikely companionship had been a surprise to everyone, including themselves in the beginning. They fought and bickered and argued over methods of their work, but in the end, they were the right and left sides of the brain, the imagination and the logic. And when extracting from the brain was their profession, it only made sense that it came so naturally to them when they worked together.
Eames became the Extractor when he wasn't forging in a larger group, his creativity and understanding of the grand scheme of things paralleled by no other. He could charm his way down to limbo and back without any hint of deception, whilst wearing a different mask all the while. His ability to blend in to the crowd was only rivaled by how loud and ostentatious he could be with his disguise, creating a loud enough distraction for Arthur to slip through the woodworks, unnoticed as he stole secrets big enough to topple empires right from under their noses. Eames understood people better than anyone. He knew their fears and their desires; he could mimic them down to the nervous ticks and create people so organic and believable that sometimes his creations could be mistaken as any other projection in the crowd even by Arthur. He rarely alluded to it out loud, and when he did, it was often taken as "I'm surprised you were able to come up with this," but Eames was brilliant.
And as for him, Arthur was the one who saw the details. He did the research and could just about waltz with any computer that fell into his lap, making it twist this way and that, seducing it to divulge its darkest secrets to him like he was their saving grace. Digging up past history, relationships, bank accounts, emails, phone calls, texts, patterns, outliers, security cameras, and data, were his specialty, wrapping it all up in a neat little package that made it seem easy followed naturally. He played along the outskirts of the dream, rarely being seen unless necessary, but manipulating the whole scene with dreams so vivid and so thoroughly accurate that he could fill up the entire Louvre with each single one of the thousands of painting it held, accurate down to the last brushstroke.
They sometimes harped on each other like a two sides of a schoolyard rivalry, but it was how they worked. And it did work, much to their surprise.
In the present, they took a turn down the road and the bodies pinning him down shifted to accommodate. Arthur's stiff shoulders whined in protest, but he shoved those thoughts away, refocusing his attention back to less ominous things than potentially being taken to his miserable dream death. He wonders how long it will take for his partner to find him (since the possibility of not being found is such a small percentage given Eames' record, Arthur doesn't want to begin considering it).
Eames wouldn't care about leaving anyone in the dust to save his own hide, anyone that is, except Arthur. Ari confirmed this fact when they were swapping tales of the inception job, him explaining the concept of giving a kick in free fall to a gob-smacked architect, and her telling him what happened on the levels below. She had told him, with surprise she couldn't fully mask, that before she went down to Limbo, Eames appeared unconcerned with her and Dom not waking up from their dream in the event of not being able to wake up himself. She seemed a little put off, under the impression that Eames would have tried to get them back, but she was still new to the business and didn't yet grasp the value of "every man for himself," or herself, rather. Eames was a forger, but he was also a thief, and thieves tend to be very self-serving creatures, something which the Point Man was quite knowledgeable of.
So Arthur was quite taken aback by the quiet concern — hidden under the guise of a chuckle and the ever present English commentary — that Eames displayed when Arthur was putting the group to sleep on the hotel level. He doesn't think the other man realizes he knows this, but Arthur was touched by the words nonetheless. So as much as Eames pushes his buttons, they have too much history and too much chemistry to let it go to waste.
Arthur lets his lips turn upwards slightly in a strained smile, his body still throbbing with phantom pain even though he's down two levels and the pain isn't really there. It's just a dream. His arms hurt like hell though.
As if on cue, the truck sputters to a stop and the goons clamber out of the back, dragging Arthur along with them. He can only grunt and hiss in protest, his bloodless biceps screaming at the rough hands jerking him around, forcing him out of the car and onto the ground.
It's nothing short of a miracle that Arthur stumbles to his knees and steadies himself there, refusing to fall on his face and make himself to be the fool. He's not lucky enough that he feels a foot plant itself between his shoulder blades and push him to sprawl on his front anyway, his dead arms unable to catch him. The ground against his face, seeping through the bag, is moist and smells like rain. Emilio cackles once more and Jesus Christ the one thing he wants to do more than anything is punch this guy in the face repeatedly.
He's hauled up from the ground, mud clinging to his clothes, and strides as diligently as he can alongside the men bracketed around him. The ground quickly changes from squelching under his feet to sharp clacking under the heels of his loafers, the incline suggesting the presence of a hill.
They stop, and so does Arthur. He thinks about making a fuss, but his arms have lost their ability to move, hanging heavy and limp at his sides under the weight of meaty hands on both of his shoulders. The crickets had stopped their singing a while ago.
Something is being draped over his head. He can feel the itchy fibers tickle his neck and the hand that comes to rest near his jugular when the rope is fastened tightly. It's Emilio, and he's certain of it even though he can't see a thing. They're going to hang me, says little voice flickering through his head before he thinks: that's not nearly painful enough.
"You're being surprisingly quiet, Arthur," Emilio offers conversationally, though his voice is low, measured.
It registers to Arthur that he should be scared. He blinks. Once. Twice. The breath he didn't realize he'd been holding comes out silent, but shaky. His chest shudders. He is scared. Pain is in the mind, but being shot in the knee still feels exactly like a shot in the knee. He can only assume the same authenticity goes for crazy methods of torture. He's never had the opportunity of experiencing it before, but he wasn't too keen on ever finding out. But it's imperative that he doesn't let his apprehension show. His shoulders are tight, his back ramrod straight.
"It wasn't my fault you weren't giving me any fodder to make fun of you with."
The fingers lingering at his collar squeeze lightly before slipping away.
"You're still trying to take away the power that I hold over you… stupid, but admirable. It will be a pleasure to break your spirit."
The weight around Arthur's neck drops and he feels the tug on the rope choking him for a split second before he falls like lead, feet stumbling on the ground which was not as solid as he once thought. The momentum pitches him into the dark abyss below.
He hits the water, head first. He's going to drown, and though his mind is screaming JUST A DREAM, it doesn't have the same reassurance it's supposed to have.