Chapter 7

You Now Get to Decide Whether This is Your Last or Second to Last Chapter.

Greetings, one and all. Your journey is almost finished. Damn you person who told me that the only part of my stories you read is the Author's Note! Now I have to say something interesting. Well, here's something interesting. There's one AFTER each chapter too! Okay, here's something interesting: December 22nd is the winter solstice (extra credit question on the semester physics final). Yes, I'm just going to do the chapter now. No more interestingness for you. Ha, my computer doesn't say that interestingness is misspelled! WIN FOR WORD 2003!

Disclaimer: Don't own Inception, do own Mutua (who can be a pain in the you-know-where sometimes. Caspian, I expect appreciation for that.)

They sprinted down the corridor leaving Fischer and his unconscious guards behind. Several minutes later, they burst out a set of grey double doors into a back parking lot occupied by a dozen or so white vans and other maintenance vehicles. Eames pulled on the handle of one of the vans and the door swung open. He hopped lightly into the seat.

"Want a lift?" he asked.

"I think I'll walk," said Arthur, shaking his head. His face was cast into shadow by the street lamp behind it, but Eames could swear he detected the hint of a smile. "Nice seeing you again."

"A pleasure as always," said Eames. He watched Arthur walk across the street and off into the darkness before pulling out the van's circuit board and hotwiring the engine. He thought about leaving a parting gift for Fischer, but just then, faint, angry shouts reached his ears, and he turned out into the street and drove away.

Andrew waited, but Eames remained silent. "Is that it?" he asked.

Eames nodded. "Yeah. That was the last time I saw him."

"So you don't know where he is!"

"You asked me to tell you about him, not where he was. You wanna know that, go and find Ariadne in Paris. She'll know, more likely than I would anyways." Eames stood up.

"But where do I find her?" Andrew called after Eames' retreating back. He wove his way through a much thicker crowd than had been present when he'd entered, towards the bar.

"On your tab, Mr. Eames?" said Ahmad.

"No, I'll pay," said Eames, setting a few bills on the counter. "I'm not coming back." He patted Mutua once on the head, and started for the door.

Andrew, coming to his senses, yanked on his back pack and hurried after Eames. The second he emerged from the shade of the bar, he was blinded by the white hot sunlight. Squinting, he pressed forward desperately, uncaring of whom or what he knocked over. He turned frantically left and right, searching for the head of sandy blonde hair. There! He ran again, buffeted from all directions.

"Eames!" he bellowed. "Wait! Please, wait!"

And then he was nose to nose with the British man. "No, I will not wait. We're done. Stop following me. You'll only get hurt. I've done more for you than I would have had your father been anyone else. You want more, find Ariadne. The architecture department of the Sorbonne. But leave me alone." He vanished once more into the crowd.

Andrew could only stare, rooted to the spot.

Two days later, Paris

The information woman at the Sorbonne had, in a rather patronizing way, told him that Ariadne was no longer a student there, and that if he wanted, he could talk to the architecture professor. She gave him directions and sent him on his way, shaking her head in a very, well, Parisian fashion.

The architecture professor's office was the near end of a long corridor floored and walled with light brown wood which gleamed as though newly polished. Andrew peered through the window, but the office was dark and clearly unoccupied. Hoping that perhaps he'd just gone out for coffee, or to the restroom, Andrew wandered further down the hall, looking idly into the other rooms, most of which were also dark. The room at the very end of the hall was light, however, although upon hope-filled investigation, Andrew realized that it was merely because the theater style classroom had floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall with flooded it with natural light. Andrew sighed, thinking he might as well return to the hospital and try again tomorrow, but paused as he caught sight of the plaque beside the door. It read: Architecture-Stephen Miles. It was identical to the one beside the office, but Andrew hadn't registered it fully until just now. Stephen Miles was the man from Eames' story, who had trained Dom Cobb. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Heart pounding, Andrew pushed open the door.

At first, he'd though the room was empty, but as he descended the steps toward a cluttered desk completely covered with books and papers, he spotted a head of cotton white hair. He cleared his throat, and the man looked up.

His face was wrinkled as an old treasure map, yet his eyes were piercingly clear, even from this distance. Andrew felt as though he was being X-rayed.

"May I help you," said the man with a pleasant British accent.

"I'm…" Andrew struggled to find his voice. Ariadne! His mind cried, but his lips wouldn't move. "Mmmm…Ariadne. I-Do you know where Ariadne is?"

The man's eyebrows raised an inch or two. "Yes," he said, "I do." He scribbled something down on a scrap of paper and held it out. Andrew didn't move. "Well, come on boy. I'm an old man, you can come at get the address with your young legs."

Andrew stumbled forward and took the piece of paper, on which a number and the name of a road were written in small, neat print. "Thank you," he managed, and hurried out of the classroom.

The address had led him to a small building just of Place St. Michel, and Andrew climbed a small set of stairs to the second floor, where he was met by a cheerful green door. He knocked three times.

The door swung open to reveal a tiny woman with shoulder length brown hair and chocolate colored eyes, which roved up from Andrew's feet and settled on his face.

"I'm-" he started, but she cut him off with a brilliant smile that made the cramped hallway a thousand times brighter.

"I know who you are. Come inside."

A/N: This qualifies as an end. If you want to, stop reading hear and don't read Chapter 8. It is not a happy ending, and I've known it was coming since I started writing this (two months ago, during math). Obviously I can't force you not to read the next chapter, and I'm still going to post it for any masochists, and because Caspian has spoken, and I must do as they wish. But I shall not be held personally responsible for any reactions to the end (unless they are good, in which case I reserve the right to say I knew you'd love it all along.)

Thanks for reading/reviewing!

-esking.