Part IV. Arthur
Arthur was running before Cobb's limp body hit the pavement. Just as the Extractor had warned, a tense silence had swept across the surrounding area as projections paused their fighting to consider the gunshot. Arthur was already a good few blocks away from the throng of projections when he heard them howl and begin their chase; he could also hear his own projections fighting back more viciously, giving him time to escape.
He made his way back towards the centre of the city, only forced to stop twice en route by projections that preferred to wander alone. The Point Man dispatched them with ruthless efficiency, barely pausing; he made sure to never remain still for longer than necessary. He was dashing into another maze of alleys without confirming that the projections twitching on and staining the pavement were truly dead; it didn't really matter if they were or not, he just needed time to get away.
There was no victory or success in taking the time to kill every enemy projection he encountered. He was outnumbered three to one – the projections maintaining that ratio – and it required little effort to manifest new ones to replace the fallen projections. It was true that killing someone's projections on a mass scale and forcing them to regenerate constantly would wear the dream worker down – you were attacking their subconscious, after all - but Arthur had no time or energy to spare on such a plan.
His own projections had been taking a hard hit themselves, bogged down by the sheer number of opponents. It didn't matter how skilled Arthur – and through association, his projections – were at combat, defence and strategy; three to one odds were never good. As much as he hated hiding, Arthur had been forced to find some central location away from the barriers of the dreamscape and allow his projections to fight on his behalf. He had ventured out into the destroyed dreamscape occasionally, but only to map out the streets and position his militarized projections strategically.
Arthur knew he was nearing his base of operation when the sounds of pursuit and combat fell into the background. He had organized a perimeter around the downtown core, ensuring that only Arthur and his projections gained access without a bullet hole between the eyes. It hadn't seemed entirely necessary considering the fact that his enemies had retreated to the fringes of the city to regroup and strategize, not yet attempting any siege, but Arthur was nothing if not precautious.
Nonetheless, even though Arthur himself had set up the perimeter, it was still disconcerting to enter a section of city that was, in all senses of the word, abandoned. No damage or disaster had befallen these few blocks of the city, windows intact rather than shattered or scratched beyond repair, cars parked silently against the curb rather than overturned and smouldering warningly. Arthur had managed to preserve the area before the combat trailing behind him destroyed it, but now as he jogged through the empty streets he felt as though he was exploring a post-apocalyptic city.
Windows looked in on darkened rooms, buildings unpopulated, and there was not even the sound of nature – birds, trees rustling in the breeze, stray cats and dogs – to keep him company. Instead he was alone as he peeked out from an alley, skirting the area with a careful eye, and then dashed across an empty intersection to slip into the sky scraper that served as the centre of the dreamscape. Even though he knew it was only his projections this far into the centre of the city, he still felt wary whenever he found himself in open, vulnerable locations. He did his best to avoid them at whatever cost.
He slipped in through the heavy metal doors and found himself in pitch blackness; the lights had been cut and all of the windows in the main lobby had been covered up. There were only a few slivers of light that escaped the heavy fabric or furniture pressed against the large windows, reflecting off the shiny marble floors. Arthur squinted as he attempted to force his eyes to adjust to the dark as quickly as possible, the light making the task difficult. Which was, obviously, the point. His breath was harsh and loud in the brief silence.
The sound of a multitude of guns having their safety being flicked off echoed around the room and Arthur could tease out at least ten different locations that the ominous sound was coming from. He knew that those in the room were probably well adjusted to the near-impregnable darkness; it was unlikely that any one shot would miss their mark. "What is your biggest regret?" came a voice from the darkness and Arthur tensed despite himself.
It was a challenge not to whip out his own gun, forcing down habit. "Diane," he answered simply, straining his eyes to make out the firing squad focused on him. He didn't manage to lay eyes on anyone as the solitary name bounced off the marble in the room, echoing back in Arthur's ears painfully no matter how quietly he had spoken.
He was acutely aware of the sound of safeties being put back on guns and could hear a few telltale sounds of guns being relaxed slightly in trained grips – he didn't make the mistake of assuming it would take the snipers long enough to return to shooting position for him to dash across the shrouded lobby. He tensed further when there was suddenly a hand on his elbow, leading him firmly across the wide expanse of the lobby and around obstacles that no stranger would be able to prepare for.
Arthur was led through the lobby and two sets of heavy double doors before he found himself in a very large room with the beginning of a staircase winding up along the four walls of the room – spiralling upwards. He clenched his eyes closed when the lights were suddenly turned on, and then he spent a few moments blinking his eyes to adjust back to the light. The large square room was hollow in the centre as the stairs wound upwards, all the way up towards the top of the building.
He glanced over to the man who had led him in here, taking tired note of the annoyed expression on the man's face. He was dressed as though he was en route to a court case in the Supreme Court, ready to defend someone that only the best lawyers dared. The man was older, short hair black but peppered with gray in a way that spoke of distinguished, rather than old. "You shouldn't continue to go out into the city," the man finally spoke, still sounding irritated.
Arthur narrowed his eyes minutely in agitation before heading for the stairs, the man trailing behind him. He hated when projections began talking back. "You know I had to, and you know why," he muttered while keeping a careful focus on the staircase. There was a reason he had designed it this way; the room was open and wide enough that his projections could attack from above if necessary, and there was also thirty flights he could manipulate into paradoxical loops. His enemies would be sitting ducks, stuck ten floors above ground with the stairs looping in a circle; Arthur's projections on the higher levels could easily rain down hell in the form of precisely aimed bullets.
"I could have gone out and organized the military base in the north," the projection reminded him. "You have been discussing your plans with me since we arrived here, after all," the man spoke calmly, though Arthur was aware enough of his own speaking habits to pick up on the annoyance still keeping the man tense.
"You seem to be overestimating your value again, George," Arthur glanced back at the projection snidely, finding it odd to have named a portion of subconscious and yet knowing how difficult it had become to organize his projections when everyone responded to 'you!' "You are not me. You are my projection."
"Exactly!" the man huffed, noticeably less patient than Arthur himself. "I'm able to carry your knowledge temporarily and yet I am disposable."
Arthur winced to himself at the words, hating how cavalier he and his projections had become over the cost of life down here in the dreamscape. They were at war after all, and it was inevitable that many projections would die to protect the dreamer, but it still felt wrong to speak about death so flippantly. "You forget that I have to see the dreamscape to properly plan where to place the military," he reminded the projection; there were some things that the dreamer had to do directly.
"Yes, but you have the majority of the city mapped out now, and the rest you can see from your office," George retaliated strongly. Arthur couldn't believe that a handful of projections had managed to manifest with more consciousness than the rest. He knew it was necessary in order to survive this encounter – Arthur couldn't run the whole dreamscape and every projection himself – but it was still frustrating to have your subconscious disagree with you. Of course, it happened in reality as well, that little voice in the back of your head reminding you to consider other options or harping on you about making a stupid decision, but it was a much more bizarre experience to have that voice manifested into an independent body.
There had been five of these projections in total and Arthur had sent four of them out, unable to handle the aggravation of more than one projection speaking its mind. That had put one of these higher ranked projections at each corner of the city, bordering the north, south, east and west. Arthur had just finished positioning the last one in the north – the last barrier between Arthur's base of operation and the enemy dream workers. Only George had remained, left in charge of the projections in the building and the surrounding area.
"You think I should just stay up in my office, hidden away and being generally useless towards my own survival," he didn't bother glancing back to meet George's gaze as he stated his question, already knowing the answer. Instead he focused his attention on evaluating the row of militarized projections that surrounded the top balcony of the room; they were all keeping a sharp eye on the floors below, guns at rest position but a mere second away from being prepared.
"I don't think," the projection argued predictably, "I know." George held back as Arthur, satisfied with his projections, turned and began punching in the code to open up one of the many identical doors strewn around the top floor. The more mazes, the better. "It has nothing to do with you hiding away," George continued as the door slid open and they stepped into a long, narrow hallway – bottlenecking the enemy into one entrance was an easy way to control an attack. "You have to stay safe to get out of here; that's the priority. Not to mention you'll be busy maintaining the dream. You're already struggling-"
"Be quiet!" Arthur snapped, furiously glancing back at his projection. The other man, for his credit, only looked mildly terrified as he fell silent. Once Arthur was sure George would remain quiet, he pushed through the next set of doors to find himself in what a Victorian era might call the guard room. There was a throng of armed, trained projections at ease, dressed for battle but guns cleaned and hung up carefully. They would have more than enough forewarning to prepare if one of the enemy dream workers was stupid enough to storm the building.
Arthur met the gaze of every soldier he passed, feeling a sickening mix of pride and guilt swirling inside him. A few of the projections nodded his way or gave a tiny determined smile, ready for die for him. That made Arthur's pace pick up a little faster, nausea clawing up his throat. He knew it was necessary to militarize his projections and place them at strategic points as a barrier between himself and his enemy. But at the same time, even though they were not strictly real, the thought of their lives weighing on him was difficult to bear. He wondered if this was what generals in an army felt like, knowing they had to order their men into the line of fire and near-certain death for a cause that was bigger than all of them.
He found it easier to push the thoughts aside than to consider them further, forcing cool detachment to regain dominance over his mind. He had to do what was necessary to survive. With that, Arthur met the gazes of the last few projections and passed through the last doors barricading him into a safety stained with sacrifice. The doors were sealed and locked behind him and George, only a few projections standing at ease against the walls of the large room; they kept watch in case an attack came from the air. There were only a few windows on the whole top floor, and all of them were on the wall to the left of the door.
The room was vast and open, some utilitarian blend of an apartment and an office building floor vacated of everything but the essentials. There was barren emptiness by the door, nothing but a scratchy carpeting to keep it from looking completely abandoned. Across the large room from the door was a small washroom; showering was the only luxury Arthur had allowed himself since he arrived. Beside that on the far wall was a kitchenette, which had grown smaller and smaller as its value decreased in the Point Man's mind. Arthur spared a moment's glance at the cupboards and refrigerator, unable to remember using it since he arrived.
There was a small bedroom located to the right of the door, a small section carved out of the room even though there were no walls to serve as a boundary for it. It was set up as though any small bedroom would, minus the privacy, with a dresser and full length mirror against the wall and reflecting light from one of the few windows. Arthur would have been more put out by the idea of the lack of privacy, but he saw the dangers of having an unmonitored room while at war. Besides that, he had not yet taken advantage of the luxury of sleeping anyway; his mind had converted the useless bed to a couch, which would most likely vanish soon as well.
Diagonally, the farthest distance from the door, was where Arthur spent the majority of his time. The walls were covered in maps, some overviews while others were of detailed alley systems. His largest map was strewn across his large desk though, covering the majority of the polished surface. It was a map that covered the entire dreamscape, including the barriers holding out the inevitable fog, with excruciating detail. The narrow width of the desk was pressed against the wall, Arthur's chair on the side that allowed him to maintain a constant view of the only two entrances into the room – the door and the balcony.
The cabinets against the wall were filled with files and books, everything he could scrounge up from his subconscious and memory to use for planning against his enemies. The cupboards built into the wall above that was filled with the Point Man's preferred selection of weapons – a collection of his favourite makes of knives and handguns.
Arthur crossed the room silently and took his seat behind the desk, George following behind him and taking the chair across the desk – as if they were about to begin an important interview. Arthur removed his two handguns from their holsters and set them delicately on some spare desk surface within easy reach. He didn't remove the two daggers strapped to his biceps beneath his suit jacket; not even George needed to know about those. As much as he wished to massage his arm – bullet removed and bandaged as well as he could manage – doing so would only show weakness. Then he settled back in his chair as much as his tense body would allow and tiredly searched for a pen.
George watched him silently, knowingly, as Arthur began sketching in the last details of the map on his desk. The details on the periphery of the north, east and west were somewhat vague since that was where the three dream workers had run away to, but the map would be sufficient as it was. The Point Man paused for a moment, well aware of the fact that his projection was growing impatient again, and then picked up a different coloured pen to label in the final details of his military positioning. He knew it was dangerous to write all of this information down, but he also knew that if one of his enemies got far enough to see the map in the first place, Arthur was as good as dead anyway.
Finally satisfied, Arthur set the pen down and turned his attention to George. "I don't like the idea of other people dying for me while I hide away," he stated simply, knowing that he had no clear argument to fall back on.
"I am aware of that," George rolled his eyes, reminding Arthur silently that obviously he knew what Arthur was thinking when he himself was a part of Arthur's subconscious. The Point Man was still intrigued though, and slightly unnerved, that George was so much more open about his expressions than Arthur himself was. "But you will best serve this fight here now, rather than risking your life out there in the alleys."
Arthur fiddled with the bottom corner of his map irritably, stubborn enough to not want to give in and yet aware of the truth in his projection's words. Eventually he nodded, swallowing down his own pride. Mouth twisted in a slight grimace, Arthur sighed and forced himself to stop touching the wrinkled paper. "I suppose I have no choice," he finally conceded. "Tell me what happened while I was out," he ordered when the room fell into an uncomfortable silence, wanting to keep his thoughts busy. There was another long pause of silence, which caused the Point Man's gaze to flash up to George's dangerously, dreading the news. "Tell me."
"We have confirmed reports that a few of your civilian projections were captured by projections of the three dream workers and taken to each one respectively," George finally admitted, face grim.
Arthur's gaze slid from his projection's face to the balcony window, which was just a few feet behind George. "How many?" he asked calmly while his stomach was churning. If the dream workers had a hold on some of Arthur's projections, they would be able to simultaneously wear down his vital energy and also work on extracting information from him. It didn't matter whether the information was what they had come for or whether it was merely information about Arthur himself; both could be used against him. And even though they would not be able to escape with that information immediately, Arthur's subconscious still locked down, he would not be able to maintain the dreamscape forever.
"Five confirmed," George stated, sounding apologetic. Arthur wanted to swear but didn't. Instead he picked up one of his handguns, confirmed the safety was flicked on, and then began cleaning it fussily. He was somewhat absent-minded in his task though, trying to think of how to prepare for this new attack. "You'll need to build your strength up in preparation for this," George supplied scornfully.
Arthur paused his movements on the gun and watched with grim satisfaction as George shrunk back in his chair slightly. "I'm fine," he reassured the man, as well as the other projections he knew were listening.
"You may be fine right now," the argumentative projection agreed, though he still didn't look like he exactly agreed with the statement. "But you are in no way prepared for this onslaught when they start torturing your projections for information."
"I have never fallen prey to an extraction before," the Point Man quoted resolutely, setting his gun down again and beginning to clean the other one thoroughly. And it was true; Arthur had experienced someone digging through his subconscious many times before this occasion. He had never once broken down and lost information to an enemy, be it in a dream or reality.
"True," George nodded but looked anything but conceding. "However," the projection continued, "You have never faced three dream workers attempting to extract information from you at the same time. Nor have you fought off extraction in this state with your subconscious already so drained just from remaining locked down. Nor," George continued, sounding like he hated himself for pointing out Arthur's weaknesses as much as Arthur hated hearing them spoken aloud, "have you been forced to maintain control over so many projections at once, keep them so organized, or focus your attention on specific projections to help them fend off extraction."
Arthur shrugged as if he was physically shrugging off the heavy weight George had just piled onto his shoulders. He knew all of this was true and that this would probably be the most challenging fight he had ever encountered. But what could he do other than remain determined? He wasn't holding much hope towards seeing the real world again, of escaping this dreamscape intact. But he had to make sure that the dream workers didn't steal the information about his team; he had to keep them safe. That, of course, brought up his simmering guilt over attempting to pull Eames into this, but he forced that aside. "I'll manage," he reassured George stubbornly.
The other man looked somewhat sceptical. "You have also been down here for two days already and have not slept or eaten since arriving."
The Point Man had to glance through the windows quickly, seeing a few red rays of disappearing sunlight lighting up the tops of the surrounding buildings. He had barley realized that he had already been down here fighting a war for two days; he wondered how much time had passed in reality. When he turned his eyes back on George, he knew he was looking tired; he was sick of this argument. "Please explain to me how it would be a safe move to sleep and leave my mind completely vulnerable and unwatched while my enemies are preparing to torture my projections for information."
George opened his mouth, paused, and closed his mouth again, looking lost. Arthur nodded in an obnoxious, 'I told you so' manner. He focused his attention on slipping his two guns back into their holsters now that they had been cleaned; the blunt pressure of the barrels pressed against his hip bones was sickeningly comforting. "You'll have someone else to help you maintain the dreamscape when Eames arrives," the other man eventually spoke up, sounding hesitant but hopeful.
Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously as they landed on George, who literally shrunk in on himself. The Point Man nearly snarled as he stood from his chair, towering over his desk as he pinned his projection in place with his gaze. "We don't know that the Forger is coming and I told you not to place your hope in him doing so," Arthur reminded George bitterly before stepping around the desk. The projection flinched, expensive fabric of his suit wrinkling around the arms and shoulders, but the Point Man sidestepped him and headed for the balcony instead.
He sighed as a cool breeze hit his face when Arthur stepped out onto the balcony. He kept his eyes closed for just a moment, breathing in the air that was only somewhat tainted by the smells of smoke and burning flesh at this high altitude. Eventually he blinked his eyes open though, taking in the spoiled, ruined dreamscape with dismay and regret.
He wished he had done more research on his partners before slipping down into this dream. He wished he had not become so addicted to dream work just to keep his brain from straying to thoughts he didn't know how to manage. He wished he had had the courage to deal with his issues in reality, rather than running away to dreams. His stupidity had placed Cobb in danger and now, if the Extractor had actually attempted to contact the Forger, Eames would soon be in danger as well. Arthur had been selfish for far too long.
The sounds of violence drifted up to his ears; glass shattering, explosions that rocked the foundations of the dream, choked off screams. His balcony gave a clear view of the north end of the city, as well as a good portion of the east and west ends of the dreamscape. The building Arthur had chosen was far enough south that he had a view of the entire area the three enemy dream workers had taken over, but far enough away from the southern barriers that they would not disappear into the fog quickly. He still kept some projections maintaining a sharp view of the southern part of the city, but for the most part it had been abandoned. Now it only held a small street war between stray projections.
There were tendrils of smoke spiralling up from a few sections of the city, buildings aglow with fire now that the sun had set; he knew that his civilian projections were busy staging their own battle and making his enemies' lives difficult. Arthur had not seen Amelina, Nikolas or Louis since this began, nor received any contact from them. But it had become quite clear that their tactics were those that their profession fledged; indirect and sneaky. The Point Man knew that the projections warring in the street were as much a ploy to weaken him as to distract him and make it impossible to pass beyond the conflict and into enemy territory. The only benefit was that the other dream workers were similarly barricaded in by the street wars.
Arthur groaned and gripped the balcony railing tightly enough to turn his knuckles white when he felt a pain shoot up his spine and bury itself deep in his brain. His knees nearly buckled with the surprise and pain, but he forced himself to remain standing and ignored the fact that he was leaning somewhat heavily on the metal railing. His breath was coming in quick pants as he blinked his eyes and forced his mind away from the dull throbbing in the base of his skull. He knew it was a good indication that one of the other dream workers had begun their work on his projections and did his best to ignore the insistent pain.
"Projecting Eames might help," George suddenly spoke behind him, causing Arthur to gasp in surprise and tense as another wave of pain – as hot as lightning – flared in his brain.
He was silent for a long moment as he calmed his body again, detaching his body and mind from the pain. It was unlikely that the pain would disappear now – the dream workers would constantly try to wear him down – so he had to learn to ignore it. Finally he turned to regard George coldly, still gripping the railing for reassurance. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course I know what I'm talking about," George narrowed his eyes in a very Arthur-esque manner. Arthur, lacking the motivation to begin another argument, merely turned his back on his projection and stared out across his destroyed dreamscape again. This time he didn't flinch when George came to stand beside him, taking silent note of how tightly Arthur was gripping the metal railing. "There's nothing wrong with it, you know," George spoke softly, clearly trying to sound comforting.
"It's not about right and wrong," Arthur defended angrily, eyes still trained on the dark smoke rising before getting swept away by the breeze.
"Of course it's about right and wrong, for you at least," his projection challenged.
"Okay, it's not just about that," the Point Man released his hold on the railing and began rubbing at his temples tiredly, the initial pain from his projection's torture falling away to a needling headache. "This conversation is pointless," he stated next, clenching his eyes closed as he willed his headache and projection into non-existence. Unfortunately, when he opened his eyes, both were still present. "We've had this argument many times before."
"Maybe now is the time for you to finally face it then," George dared him. Arthur sent him an angry, weary glare and didn't respond. Clearly noticing that the Point Man was fading, George changed tactics and returned to a softer tone. "You need to do whatever is necessary to survive this. If that means you create a projection of Eames to give you some sense of reassurance and comfort, I don't understand why you wouldn't do it."
Arthur didn't bother calling the projection on the falsity – the man clearly knew the dilemma tearing apart Arthur's mind just as effectively as his enemies and projections were destroying his dreamscape. Despite popular belief, dreams were no place for wishful thinking. That was how Cobb had lost himself and Arthur refused to make that same mistake. It was too easy to become content and comfortable in a world and life you built for yourself; too difficult to abandon it even though you knew it was false. On top of that, projecting Eames to comfort himself would only admit that the Forger could provide such benefits.
The Point Man would admit, if only to himself, that knowing Eames was out in the world somewhere, safe, made him feel more stable and less unbalanced. But he could barely comprehend anything beyond that; or was unwilling to admit it, at least. Eames, and Arthur's feelings towards the man, was confusing and bipolar. It was oddly comforting to know that someone knew him so well, and yet that same knowledge was unnerving. Eames was better able to make Arthur smile than anyone else he knew; but those smiles usually came with a tint of smugness when the Point Man managed to prove the Forger wrong or best him. The sight of the man managed to set Arthur's heart aflutter each time, but that could just as easily be blamed on competition and adrenaline as on attraction.
Either way, no matter what side of the spectrum Arthur was on, Eames had always been prominent in his thoughts and focus. Arthur had almost gravitated around the man, however embarrassing that notion was. He always knew where the Forger was, even when it was gallivanting around in Russia taking on jobs that sent a quick flash of worry and terror through Arthur. Each time the Point Man had forced himself to remain where he was, to stay focused on his current job and not race across the globe to come to Eames's aid. The Forger was skilled and independent; surely he would not take kindly to Arthur running in to his 'rescue'. But he would still remain tense and unfriendly to anyone he came into contact with until he received news that Eames had, once again, survived the job. The eventual news of Eames's retirement to Mombasa had been met with a relieved sigh from Arthur that the Point Man hadn't bothered trying to stifle.
He had thought things would be easier then, being able to continue jobs while not having to worry about the safety of the Forger. But it had not taken long for new thoughts to plague Arthur's mind; he began to desire something more domestic than he had ever considered before in his life. The thought of Eames comfortably settled in Mombasa, and the knowledge of how easy it would be for Arthur to arrive at the Forger's doorstep sent the Point Man running. He had begun taking jobs near-constantly at that point, trying to remind himself why he was not able to commit to such an idealized life. It had proved somewhat challenging to convince his mind that he would be endangering the Forger by choosing such a selfish option; Eames was more skilled with certain firearms than Arthur himself was and could certainly take care of himself when the need arose.
The Point Man had ruined his chance though, ignoring the Forger until it was far too late. The other man had pressed a slip of paper into his hand after Inception - a number scrawled there that Arthur had programmed into his phone the moment he was out of sight – and asked Arthur to call him. But Arthur hadn't; not for a job and certainly not for anything else. He knew that the Forger had only passed along his number for job related work, not interested in anything more personal. Eames flirted with just about everything that moved and had disappeared unarguably as soon as Arthur had taken the number. It would be embarrassing to say the least if Arthur called him up proposing something far more intimate than a job.
Besides, it was likely that any conversation that ensued with Arthur calling now would be awkward and uncomfortable. Too much time had passed since they had last spoken for the conversation to run smoothly. And more than that, it had been almost a year since their last job together; it was practically guaranteed that the Forger had found someone that caught his heart by now. The man drew gazes, there was no denying that. Eames was beautiful in every sense of the word; the charm and wit merely making him a triple threat. Anyone who caught Eames's eye didn't stand a chance.
That thought had his stomach roiling again, accompanying his pounding headache. Part of it was due to jealousy and regret, if Arthur was being honest with himself. He knew that he had not possessed any chance to be with Eames; especially considering the fact that even now, despite all of his conflicting thoughts, he didn't know what, exactly, he wanted with the Forger. But another part was caused by guilt as he remembered his selfish demand for Dom to contact Eames and bring him here to help Arthur. If Eames had someone – or something – to live for, there was no way he was going to allow the other man to risk his life to save Arthur. Even though he hadn't yet deciphered his feelings for the other man, he knew he cared enough to ensure the Forger was able to enjoy his life if he had been lucky enough to find something to live for.
Arthur also reminded himself that it was easier to remain independent rather than attach yourself to someone else. Having someone you cared about could just as easily weaken you as it could give you strength. It was so much safer to rely on yourself instead of leaving yourself vulnerable to manipulation and disappointment. At least, that was what the Point Man had told himself for the year following Inception every time he had scrolled through his contacts and hovered over the Forger's number. Now though, when Arthur knew he would probably be dead in a few days, he found it harder to care. It seemed less vital that he fight his thoughts and feelings when they would be muted permanently soon enough.
George, seeming to realize that Arthur's thoughts were spiralling out of control into a dangerous mess, posed a question that helped Arthur regain focus. "How will we know when it is Eames who arrives, rather than some projection or enemy?" As much as Arthur wanted to scoff at the idea of putting in such serious measures to ensure Eames – the Forger – was legitimate, he knew it was a fair question. If his enemies managed to extract any information, Arthur had no doubt that Eames would be a prominent figure in his memories – no matter how infuriating that thought was.
Arthur didn't want to hope for Eames to come down into the dream. He didn't want to be disappointed, because he knew that abandonment would simply solidify what he had been telling himself for months – that he had never been anything special to the Forger. Arthur also didn't want – wouldn't allow – the other man to die or lose his memory on the Point Man's behalf. But he knew there was still a chance that the man would arrive to help out of some foolish brothers-in-arms honour. No amount of wishful thinking would change what was occurring in reality and Arthur had no way of contacting Dom to retract his previous plea.
The Point Man shrugged minutely, noticing how straining the movement had become when his body tensed with the constant pain. He turned his gaze to George, who looked sympathetic; this caused Arthur to narrow his eyes with self loathing and glance back out at the city as night fell. "He'll probably forge himself into my form when he arrives as the best option for getting past my projections. You can use this as an indicator since I'll be staying in the building from now on."
"What if the enemies learn of him and create a projection to fool us?" George questioned, stating a valid concern.
The Point Man remained silent for a long moment, considering what he knew about Eames that was unique enough to make him stand out against any projection. Then a thought struck him. "You're a part of my subconscious," Arthur glanced back at George seriously, stating the obvious. "You are similar to me in most ways."
"Yes, I think we've covered this concept," George responded with a sarcastic quip. His eyebrow was raised, clearly curious about where this was going.
Arthur did his best to give a tiny smile but failed. He turned and leaned on the railing again, eyes drawn to the war below him. He could hear the soft sounds of someone sobbing drifting up into the air; the projection must have been close to his perimeter around the building to be heard over the chaos. The sobs sounded pained and wet, the person clearly struggling to breathe. It was only a few seconds later when he heard the person pleading weakly, the sound of a gun firing, and then the eerie, heavy silence that always followed a death. "If he can somehow accomplish the impossible feat of making you smile after you've been surrounded by this horror for a few days," he whispered, as if he were sharing a secret with George, "It's the real Eames."