Inception is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

Author's Note: As of 03/18/13 this chapter has been totally rewritten. I've got so many regrets about mucking up the plot because updates would be faster if I didn't have to redo a bunch of chapters. The rating has also been upped since ff and the crazy rating trolls don't need a reason to throw me under the bus. I was gonna add a bit more onto this chapter, but eh it's already like 2500.

Edited 05/2018

Chapter 04
Mistakes

It isn't fair.

That was the only thought Amelia had as she glared at Eames from her seat. While she had been tossing and turning for the last two and a half hours unable to fall back to sleep, Eames went on sleeping like a baby. Eventually, she stopped trying and tried to concentrate reading the file Arthur had compiled for her but gave up on that as well. She couldn't, but she was going to everything in her power to ignore the elephant in the room for as long as she could.

It was that goal that led her to the discovery of the fully stocked liquor cabinet, and while the lock should have deterred her, it didn't do much good. It just gave Amelia an incentive beyond the immediate relief of drowning herself in alcohol. To her delight, the cabinet held a vast, eclectic collection of high shelf schnapps, whiskey, and oddly enough, a large quantity of sake.

Amelia made a face as she pushed the Japanese drink out of the way, that is some nasty shit.

Deciding on a bottle of peach schnapps, Amelia slouched herself down semi-comfortably in her window seat and started the process of forgetting. By the time the plane touched down in Sydney, it was well past 3 AM, and she was halfway done through the bottle when Eames decided to wake.

"Good morning, Prince Charming!" She raised her bottle at him as his glassy eyes focused on her. "Did you know there's an entire cabinet of booze in this place?"

"Yes," He answered groggily. "Thought I suppose this means you've retained your lock pick skills, least you won't be completely useless."

Don't take the bait.

For once, Amelia listened to the rational voice and decided on taking a swig from the bottle instead while the plane taxied and Eames busied himself by straightening out his appearance. She didn't bother, she'd taken the vest off hours ago, and her styling of the dress shirt had fallen into disarray and buttons undone. She was pretty sure her shoes were somewhere.

As she watched him right his tie, Amelia could be honest in saying the better part of their…relationship had been spent in arguments, in the knock-out, drag-out fights that in some cases ended in a bit of blood but mostly on the floor, or in the bed, or on the wall.

"No," He countered with a clenched jaw, his hands wrapping tightly around her wrists. "I don't hurt the people to get what I'm hired to collect."

"Don't hurt people?" She laughed, though the sound was hollow as she ripped herself from his grip before shoving him into the wall. "You manipulate people in the most intimate of fuckin' manners to rob them of their secrets, ambitions, and ideas—you violate them in ways I could never come close to doing. If you don't think that's harmful, and if that doesn't hurt people, then you're the best con man I've ever met."

"There's a difference. I don't use violence," seeing Amelia look of disbelief Eames went on, "My team's never lost someone because of selfishness. Never killed anyone to get what information—"

Her fist connected with his jaw before he'd even finished the sentence; the beginning of the end.

She let the bitter taste of the schnapps' burn its way down her throat before she spoke; she never could stay silent for long anyway.

"'Least you won't be completely rusty'," She mocked in a horrible posh accent, capping the bottle. "If you're gonna insult me, at least do me the courtesy of being straightforward about it."

The way it came out sounded nothing like it had in her head. They were harsher than she meant, without the jesting undertone she thought they would have delivered with them. Thankfully though, she was saved from whatever biting remark Eames had on his tongue by the pilot, who stepped out of the cockpit confirming their arrival and, if sensing the tension, quickly popped open the door and all but ran down the steps.

Eames still didn't say a word, just stood and pulled on his suit jacket while Amelia fidgeted, her fingers twisting and tightening the cap of her Schnapps as he straightened out his cuffs. She'd much rather have him insulting her than subjecting her to the silent treatment.

"You know sometimes you just make me so tired," His voice quiet as he busied himself getting something out of his breast pocket—a folded piece of paper—which he tossed into the empty seat next to her. "I'm sure you can find your own way to the loft, and to your job. The address is in the file."

Her grip on the bottle tightened and she felt the flush of shame heating up her neck, and her eyes closed at the sound of receding footsteps.

"Oh," He paused at halfway out the door. "Make sure you're sober."

She opened the bottle and drank.

. . .

The overhead lighting in the HR office wasn't helping with Amelia's pounding temple as she sat stock straight in her seat while the woman—Mrs. Fields, if she remembered correctly—waited for the printer to finish. She had arrived promptly at 8AM for her meeting despite it all, and managed to even be appropriately dressed—she deserved an award, really because nobody could understand how difficult it was to call someone to call someone who knew somebody with keys to a high-end department store who owed a favor?—with her guise of Ella Sampson all set. Not only that, but despite all the securities put in place against industrial espionage, it had been too easy for Amelia to get in the necessary tools for the job in her small handbag. It'd be ridiculously easy.

The hangover, however, she couldn't shake.

She had already forgone sleeping, which seemed to take the edge off and put the pounding into the region of being just bearable. On top of that, Amelia had chosen to entirely disregard the warning label and swallow nearly an entire bottle of Advil but hadn't seen the fruits of that activity yet. She could feel the sweat collecting on the base of her neck—making her just want to scratch the hell out of her newly dyed hair, Miss Sampson was definitely a Burgundy—and between her shoulder blades making her blouse stick slightly. It probably wouldn't be so bad; she had chosen a black knee length pencil skirt and peach silk blouse for the breathability only to have that factor go out the window with the addition of her charcoal-colored tights.

Fuckin' business attire, Amelia thought shifting uncomfortably. I'm never drinking again.

"Now Miss Sampson," Mrs. Fields said rounding with papers in hand, "I just need you to sign these forms before you can be on your way. They're the standard works; non-disclosure, background authorization, non-compete and temp contract, all of which I'm sure you've handled before."

Amelia accepted the papers with a small smile, "Of course."

The non-disclosure and non-compete were a bit more thorough than Amelia would have suspected, though she didn't think Fischer Morrow would just let temps wander in and out without protecting themselves. A non-compete contract…that was a bit overkill in her opinion, though, so would be hiring an extractor to attempt to break up a company just so your own would have a better chance. She signed the papers with ease though, taking only a second for each line, before handing them back over to the slightly pump middle-aged woman who put them into the matching manila folder with Amelia's alias.

"Now that the paperwork is finished," Mrs. Field stood, motioning for Amelia to follow. "We can be on our way to where you'll be working and discuss what is expected of you."

Barely containing the urge to roll her eyes, Amelia grabbed her handbag and began following behind while wobbling a bit in her pumps. She didn't walk right beside Mrs. Fields—no, no, no nobody needed to see her face up so closely—but rather a step or two behind, psychological giving a boost to the woman in charge by following the lead. Both women's heels click-clacked on the tile floor as they made their way towards the elevator, all the while dodging other employees who were running around with paperwork and messages. It took maybe five minutes top to reach the machine and another three before they entered it, with Mrs. Fields pressing the second highest button.

"Since you're only a temporary assistant your duties will be much more limited in their scope than usual," the woman explained as the elevator began moving. "You will be expected to do the typical things—keep track of Mister Fischer's calendar and schedule, set appointments, greet clients and business associates and basic office functions. You understand?"

"Completely," Amelia quickly nodded. "I've been a full-time personal assistant before."

"I know," Mrs. Field commented while checking her phone's email. "I remember your resume. Your way will reflect the retraction of the workload; however, between you and me and depend on how you perform your job, it could turn into a permanent position."

"That sounds…exciting?"

Amelia's reply sounding more like a question than anything, but truthfully she was only half listening as she watched the floor number above the door rise. People in the real world were so cute.

"It is," The woman hadn't even caught Amelia's own tone of indifference but continued on. "You will, of course, be given your own company cell phone—temporary, and to be returned upon your departure from Fischer Morrow—and it is to be used for company business only. Is that clear?"

Amelia gave a tight smile. "Crystal."

Then the elevator chimed, its doors springing open and both women filed out into the elevator lobby, which was a bit more impressive than most Amelia had seen. Everything was open, or at least there was the illusion of openness with windows allowing ample natural light in. A nice change from what she had just experience while sitting in the HR department. There wasn't much time for her to gawk, because as soon as the pair had stepped off the elevator, Mrs. Fields was marching down the hall. Amelia was forced to play catch up, her heels hitting the plush carpet without much of a sound.

"Now, I can give you one piece of important advice while you're here." Mrs. Field all but whispered once Amelia caught up to keeping pace with her. Really, the whole dramatic effect of whisper when no one else was around was ridiculous. "If you want to survive, stay out of sights of Mister Browning. He's trouble."

Amelia gave her a look. "What do you mean?"

"He's just trouble," the older woman repeated, "He enjoys making work harder for the assistants, and no offense honey, but you look about as sturdy as a shaky leaf on a windy day."

Then Ella is precisely how she's supposed to be.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, ma'am. Thank you. "

"Good, I like you, dear. This is your office here," Mrs. Fields stopping outside a fogged glass door. "There will be your phone, along with the moleskin detailing your job from the last assistant inside, along with the key to the desk safe where you can place your bag and items. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed back in HR."

With that, the plump woman turned on her heel and was gone, leaving Amelia alone. Quickly she checked the watch on her wrist—8:45AM—before pushing the door open and entering her new office area. It was nice, clean and efficient with a small waiting area of (presumably) expensive chairs with a small matching table. To the left of that was another door, leading to what Amelia assumed was Fischer's office. In between everything, with a wall of books, was her new desk; it was large and entirely devoid of any clutter save for the Mac desktop and small moleskin notebook that Mrs. Fields had told her about.

Sliding into the desk's seat quietly, Amelia booted the computer and, upon finding the key for the desk safe in the top drawer, retrieved her new company cell phone, tossing the box onto the desk. She had a good 15 minutes before Fischer would arrive if his schedule were anything to go by, which was just enough time to do what needed to be done.

Without looking away from the screen of the computer, she slid off her watch, pulling at the wristband for only a moment before it snapped apart, turning itself into a small, hidden USB stick. Sliding the USB into the desktop, there was a moment of silence before the screen shifted from its desktop into a black screen.

What did Freddy say? Amelia pondered as she typed in a string of commands from memory, Oh yes, he could cause more damage from his laptop sitting in his bed than someone like me could do on my own.

As the computer's screen gave a second sequence of blinks—confirming her command—before returning to the desktop screen as if nothing had happened, she couldn't help but think his statement was true.

Removing her watch USB from the side of the screen, Amelia reconstructed her timepiece then slid it back onto her left wrist. Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair, slouching down in her seat relaxing for a second before grabbing the moleskin from the desktop to begin reading.

8:55AM.

Five minutes till show time.