Chapter warnings: Very dark, graphic depictions of violence and torture. Seriously. I started writing this story by telling myself "this is a challenge for yourself. Write something dark, something you've never dared write before." And I did. In a way I'm very...proud of this chapter. It turned out exactly as I wanted it to. I feel this chapter met my personal challenge, which should be warning enough.

Part VII. Eames

Eames felt an uncomfortable number of eyes land on him as he stepped through the door, away from Arthur, and into the guard room on his way towards the exit. Arthur's projections, the last line of defence between the Point Man and his enemies now that Eames was leaving, watched him with mixed expressions. Some of them reminded him almost too much of Arthur – face like stone and eyes serious – while others were more fluid and open about their expressions of sadness, determination, and curiosity.

George was at the far end of the guard room, waiting for him. Eames didn't pause in his pace as he drew alongside the projection, unwilling to waste anymore time, but the other man merely matched his pace and followed him out onto the staircase. He saw a few of the snipers along the upper balcony twitch slightly at their sudden appearance, but they calmed quickly and watched them begin their brisk descent down the spiralling stairs.

During the first few flights down the stairs, Eames was focused inward upon his memories. The sensation of Arthur's hair – soft with broken and faded gel – slipping through his fingers, the calm that came over him while massaging Arthur's hand, the feel of the Point Man's fingers digging into his arm to stop him momentarily from leaving. They were all sensations that he had never expected to be allowed, and now he felt as though he had taken his first hit of something far too addicting to be abandoned.

Their stolen moments together had been juxtaposed to what the situation required – what they should have been feeling and how they should have acted – but he was thankful. Despite the fact that they were on a time limit of a few days before they both faded away into nothing, with three enemy dream workers trying to kill them, it had been almost calming working with Arthur again. There was something about how the Point Man held himself when focused on a job; calm, cool and collected. It was nearly impossible not to feel the same when working alongside the man; the mindset was infectious.

Granted, Arthur had clearly been run down and fading fast – less distanced from the job than he would have been if they were safe in some warehouse in reality. The knives strapped underneath a trim suit had attested to that. But that was understandable and the man had still been handling everything with a professionalism Eames knew he himself would never be able to achieve. It had been reassuring to him, despite everything, to see how well he and Arthur still worked together after a year apart – after all of the feelings they had both clearly been dealing with when apart. It had just been Arthur, doing what Arthur did best, and Eames, doing what Eames did best.

It was almost surprising how harmonious they had been and Eames was genuinely grateful that it was just him and Arthur down here. They had needed a large team to even have a chance of completing Inception, but each additional team member had added new stresses to the group. Ariadne had been new, which was stressful enough between teaching someone and making them comfortable and competent enough to complete their work – no matter how naturally talented they were. Dom was also extremely stressful, especially when in the vicinity of Arthur. The Extractor, despite his assurances against such claims, needed almost as much watching as a child. It was understandable after the man lost his wife, but Eames hated how Arthur silently took the responsibility and Dom allowed it without even a second thought. Yusuf was not stressful as a team member, but you learned to be on edge when working with a Chemist; there was no telling when they would mutter an 'oh shit' and reach for their gas mask.

He noticed that George was glancing at him subtly as they continued down the staircase silently and Eames raised a questioning eyebrow. "Question?"

George quickly looked away, looking bashful at being caught. "I was just wondering how things went up there." The projection's tone was curious and maybe even a little jealous, but it was clear that the man was trying to subdue these. Eames could still see hints of the Point Man in this projection, but now he couldn't help but wonder what Arthur would be like with this lesser control over his emotions. The Forger kept remembering those stolen moments since he had arrived down in the Point Man's subconscious, where Arthur had been too shocked, tired, or uncaring to hide some of his reactions to Eames's presence.

Rather than treating Eames like a child that needed to be tolerated and watched lest they set something on fire, Arthur had reacted positively to Eames's presence for the first time since they had split after Inception. Eames didn't want to look too deeply into everything, knowing that the circumstances were unusual to say the least; there was no telling how Arthur would react back in reality if they even made it that far. But he indulged in a small fluttering of hope in his stomach, remembering how Arthur had seemingly relaxed once he knew Eames was there to help him battle this challenge. That, and the Forger was quite sure the sight and feeling of Arthur curled up against his side, leaning into his fingers' touch, would be with him for the rest of his days.

"It went…well, I suppose," he admitted, trying to keep his smile sombre enough to suit the situation. "We got a plan in place and Arthur finally got some sleep and food. You'll have to keep at him though," he glanced over at George as they rounded another landing on the stairs. They were near the bottom at this point, the snipers undefined black dots lining the balcony in an organized fashion; Eames had always wondered if Arthur had been involved in the military – he would have to ask if – when – they got out of this alive.

"He's so stubborn," George muttered in the closest thing to a whine Eames could ever expect from a portion of Arthur's subconscious.

"Just get into an argument with him where the only way he can win is to eat or sleep," the Forger suggested with a playful smirk.

"Arthur's already used to arguing with me; I'm the equivalent to white noise at this point." They reached the bottom of the staircase and Eames paused for a moment to glance back up. There were about thirty flights of stairs winding up the large, tall room, encircling a tastefully elegant chandelier. The crystal refracted the brilliant light, turning the chandelier into a makeshift sun that lit up the entire room despite the size and lack of windows.

Eames turned back to George. "Well you need to figure something out because I'm already using all of my willpower to force myself to leave. I'm not sure I'd be able to stay focused knowing Arthur is allowing himself to fade away."

"When will you be back?" George stepped part way in front of Eames's path, stopping him from progressing through the only set of doors leading to the lobby.

The Forger was somewhat uneasy around this projection, not knowing how to behave. When going into dreams, there were generally projections that appeared and behaved so different from the dreamer that you'd expect them to be strangers on the street. There was, however, the rare exception where an individual you met in the dreamscape would seem to be a true projection of some aspect of the dreamer's subconscious. The boundaries in those situations were always somewhat blurry; you never knew how to take the words and behaviours you experienced – whether they were true but suppressed in reality.

It was even more disconcerting with George since the projection was so conscious in comparison to normal projections. He spoke as though he was simply another being living inside Arthur's head, bickering and questioning. Yet as much as Eames wanted to believe George's actions as manifestations of what Arthur suppressed – the subtle concern and respect that the Point Man occasionally showed much more noticeable in George's words and actions – he had to remember that even if George was a true manifestation, he was still only one piece of an extremely intricate puzzle.

It would be unfair for Eames to make assumptions about Arthur's thoughts and feelings based on a projection. The other dream worker had already showed more of his hand to Eames than the Forger had ever hoped for – he didn't feel foolish assuming that Arthur had, in fact, been feeling something towards him during their time apart. Arthur had been willing enough to show that in those precious moments where the stoic professionalism faded away. And as keen as Eames was to pursue that, to determine how, exactly, the Point Man felt, he had to remember the situation at hand and push those thoughts aside.

Right now he had to work on saving Arthur. Feelings and embarrassingly sappy declarations – on his part – could come later.

"I don't know," he admitted as he focused on manifesting a handgun on his right hip. "We have a few days to work with but I'd like to get things sorted as quickly as possible; Arthur doesn't need any more strain than is necessary. I'm hoping to have the Architect dealt with in a day at the latest."

"And then you're coming back?" George asked somewhat hopefully.

"Unlikely," he sighed, rechecking his pockets for the mirror, map and mobile phone he would need on this job. "It will be better if I just hit the dream workers one at a time before they realize what's happening. But don't worry about me," he gave George his most reassuring smile, the one he knew even worked on Arthur when he was the most high strung, "I'll be fine."

George nodded, jaw tense in a very familiar way. "Best of luck," was all he said before he hooked a hand into the crook of Eames's elbow and began leading him through the pitch black lobby expertly. Even when the Forger strained, he couldn't hear any tell-tale signs of the snipers he knew were lining the outer edges of the room. They stopped shortly after and Eames could feel the cold metal of the door's handle against his palm when he reached out. "Don't worry about Arthur; I'll take care of him while you're away. I'll just remind him that he has something to live for now."

"Which is what?" Eames whispered. He knew he didn't have to lower his voice, but when you were surrounded by an engulfing darkness and you knew there were snipers on standby, you couldn't help but indulge your cautious instincts.

George gave a tiny snort of disbelief and Eames could practically imagine the man rolling his eyes. "You, of course."

Before Eames could respond to that, much less comprehend the meaning behind the words and the fact that they had been spoken by a part of Arthur's subconscious, Eames found himself being shoved outside with the doors closing quickly behind him. The Forger blinked a few times in quick succession for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the sturdy metal doors before dashing for the cover of the alley system. Right now, this was a job. The Point Man was back at base, remaining calm and focused. Eames had to do the same; he had to be the Forger Arthur expected him to be.

With his professional focus restored, despite George's final comment, Eames pulled out the map Arthur had drawn for him and began making his way through the alleys towards the east side of the city. It was still another hour or so before sundown in the dreamscape, but with the walls of the buildings bordering the alleys being so high and narrow, it already seemed close to twilight for Eames. He wished he could create some sort of flashlight to use, but that would certainly not aid in his mission to remain stealth.

Instead he gave his eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting in order to make out the map properly. At first he had been surprised that no other projections seemed to be utilizing the alley system, but he understood why after only a few short minutes. Arthur was meticulous and skilled at everything he set his focus on and Eames had no doubt that he could be the best Architect in the business if he wasn't too busy being the best Point Man in the world.

Every wall of bricks was identical – the same coloured bricks and no blemishes visible that could be used as markers for location – and the maze that was the alley system was so complex that Eames was confident no Extractor would stand a chance. If he did not have a map drawn by Arthur, Eames knew he would have been lost and stuck in the maze until he or the dreamer died. The alleys were as much an asset to Arthur as they were a death trap to any ambitious, daring projections.

It took much longer to cross the city through the alleys than it would have if he had taken the main roads, but he did not experience any violent encounters on his trip. He was forced to stop at one point to memorize the rest of the map as the sun inched down towards the horizon and finally slipped away from view. Once he was sure of the remainder of the route and the fact that he was now in Nikolas's territory of the dreamscape, Eames shoved the map back into his pocket and pulled out his mirror.

In the last rays of dying light, Eames recalled all of the detailed descriptions Arthur had noted of the Architect's projections and began pulling those characteristics onto himself. It was over in less than a minute and Eames squinted at the mirror to check all of the details carefully. If he wasn't careful – wasn't completely sure that he had all of the details right – he would not just let Arthur down; Eames could lose his memory, leaving Arthur alone to fend for himself.

Once he was happy with the results, he pocketed the mirror and recreated his handgun into the make and model Nikolas was apparently most familiar with; it wouldn't do to walk into the party with the wrong gun. After that was complete he headed down the next route he had memorized, finally heading for the main streets. Nikolas's projections would be the easiest to forge out of the three dream workers, making him the easiest first target. The Architect was skilled in his own right, but he had not been in dream work nearly as long as his two team members; he was practically a baby when compared to Arthur and Eames.

Because of this, Nikolas's projections were manifesting the behaviour of a beginner who had not joined this profession for the subtle brutality of the acts. The projections, according to Arthur's records, had been ruthless but sloppy; it seemed that the Architect was busy focusing on staying alive and impressing his other team members. The projections were less likely to plan an attack ahead; they would simply attack the first one of Arthur's projections that they came into contact with. This made it easier for him to forge and fit in with the projections – the novice unpredictability meaning he didn't have to stick to any strict string of behaviours to remain hidden – but it also set him on edge at the thought of the Point Man's projections at the mercy of an inexperienced torturer. No type of torture was enjoyable, granted, but novices were much more likely to go too far too fast; experienced torturers knew how to get their information without utterly ruining an individual.

With that worrying thought as motivation, Eames finally found a mouth of the alleys and cautiously stepped out into the open. The sun had long since set by this point but the moon was edging up into the sky, almost nervous as it exposed itself to the violence below. The light shone through the few scattered clouds and plumes of blackened smoke, aiding Eames as he picked his way through rubble and debris. The streetlights dispersed along the empty street helped as well, sharing their golden glow, but many of them had been smashed with their glass hiding in the patches of darkness.

Eames was just about to congratulate himself on successfully sneaking into enemy territory when he heard a voice call out to him, words spoken with a touch of a Norwegian accent. "Hey!" The Forger frozen. "What were you doing in that alley?"

He turned on his heel slowly, memorizing and adjusting his own internalized speech to match the accent as he looked for the speaker. A moment later a projection in torn jeans and a blood-soaked collared shirt slipped out of the darkness and jogged up to him. Confident in his forgery, Eames relaxed his posture slightly, as if he had suddenly encountered a friend in enemy territory. "I was chasing one of those projections; I wasn't going to let him get away, was I?"

"Where is he then?" the projection glanced back into the shadowed alley suspiciously. "You know we're supposed to bring back as many as we can for questioning."

"'Course I know," Eames scoffed, "But he was squealing like a baby and would've drawn too much attention. So I silenced him," he finished with a voice that was cold but with a touch of excitement, like he was still new to this. He pulled the base of his jacket aside to show off the butt of his gun before allowing the fabric to fall back into place.

The projection, seemingly satisfied with his gun, appearance, voice and excuse, fell into a relaxed stance as well. "Good on you," the young man nodded, not looking much older than the dreamer he was projected from. Eames watched with disgust as the projection pushed his hair out of his face, many of the strands sticking in place with half congealed blood. "But you know we're not supposed to go in the alley. You're lucky you managed to find your way back out alive."

"Yeah, well," Eames shrugged, arrogant but pretending to be modest, "it was only a few turns in."

"I've seen people get lost with less." The Forger did his best to remember and mimic the projection's mannerisms while they were both still somewhat shadowed in the empty street. He wondered how long it would take the projection to notice he had a streak of blood down his cheek, or whether he would even care. "Anyway, we better head back."

Eames didn't know where 'back' was, but he nodded all the same and joined Nikolas's projection as he began towards the eastern edge of the city. They were alone for a few blocks, neither of them speaking, and then they began to come into contact with larger mobs of projections. There were a few crude barricades that had been set up, Nikolas clearly lacking the strategizing skills and experience required to create a security perimeter like Arthur's. He was concerned about getting through the intermittent walls of projections, knowing he would never be able to outrun them all, but he was not subjected to any questioning since he was coming in with other straggling projections. Nonetheless, Eames kept a careful eye on the alley openings he passed, noting with smug satisfaction on Arthur's behalf that everyone gave the alleys a wide berth.

It was as they continued on that other projections began joining ranks with him and the nameless projection, all of them heading for what Eames assumed was Nikolas's own version of a base. He could feel his insides churning though and wondered what colour he would be in natural lighting; pale from nausea, or red with rage? There were a few projections flanking him on each side that were dragging projections behind them on the pavement. Arthur's projections, he reminded himself painfully.

None of them were in good shape and it looked like some of them might die before they even made it back to the base for questioning. It broke his heart to think it, but Eames silently wished for all of their deaths; no one deserved what they were being dragged towards. The projections were of varying ages, some males and some females, but they all broke Eames's heart equally. All of them were bleeding from one cut or another, and a few of them looked as though their bones had been snapped as their limbs were bent the wrong way. One or two projections glanced up at him – just once – silently pleading for help or mercy. Many others kept their eyes on the ground, hopeless.

Eames couldn't help them and couldn't hold their gazes; he couldn't risk one of them being connected enough to Arthur's thoughts to recognize him. Besides that though was his own cowardice; he couldn't bear to meet the gaze of those he was basically damning to torture and death for his own cover. It felt as though he was tearing a piece of himself apart, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Instead, he had to make it worse by sending the occasional smug or victorious smirk to one of the projections dragging their bounty.

By the time they made it to Nikolas's base of operations, Eames was honestly concerned that he might puke. He had known that things were going to be bad, but he couldn't even fathom how Arthur was still alive, let alone coherent with this sort of assault. If this was the novice of the team, however dangerous his inexperience made him, the Forger feared for what the two more experienced dream workers would be like. He wanted to run back to Arthur right then but knew there was nothing he could do to help other than to cut the Architect out of the equation.

He continued to follow the nameless projection he had first met, who seemed rather keen on Eames's forgery, as they entered a rather lavish hotel on the eastern edge of the city. The carpeting they crossed as they headed towards the main lobby had trails of blood soaked into it, showing the direction that Arthur's projections would be taken as they veered off from the empty-handed projections. There were a few weak cries before the projections headed into a row of elevators aimed downward.

Eames swallowed thickly, reminding himself that even though Arthur would be suffering the effects of the torture, it was not Arthur himself being treated so cruelly. He closed his eyes for a breath, solidifying his forgery before blinking and following the others into a large reception hall. It was clear that this was used for meetings, though the décor was far too posh and extravagant for the war happening just outside the building. No one else seemed to notice though, how the elegance of the chandeliers and fabric of the seats were contradictory to the basics normally seen in a time of war.

They took seats without organization in the hall, though all of them ended up facing towards a podium at the far end of the room on a small platform. Eames was desperate to ask what was going on but held himself back, knowing that his question might destroy his façade. Instead, he sat back in silent dread as a young man – identical to Nikolas's photo except for the long blond hair that brushed his shoulders – stepped up to the podium. There was a racket of cheers and whistles at the man's appearance and Eames had to consciously hide his sneer of contempt; they acted as though this was a college football game.

Eames's dread continued to grow, sitting like a ball of lead in his stomach as a clear manifestation of Nikolas began questioning the projections on the rumoured appearance of another dream worker. There were a few shouts of distaste as well as a few jeers towards 'the enemy's cowardice to call in back up'. Eventually, when things calmed down again, the leading projection began sharing the rumour – luckily it had been based upon hearsay from tortured projections rather than legitimate sources – and plans to deal with the new threat. The Forger joined in on the yells and calls alongside the projections around him, shouting outlandish things and threats towards his own person as though he truly wished for death.

The projection Eames had met by the alley had joined in with his shouts, grinning stupidly as though he had just made a best friend through these words of hate. Eames felt a distinct chill run down his spine as he called for his own torture, his own death, and heard the chants of similar messages echo around him. It was always somewhat disconcerting being surrounded by the enemy, but never before had the stakes been quite as severe as they were right then.

The projection behind the podium waved his hands, quieting them all down. Eames hoped that things might end then, all of the projections receiving their mass, sloppy orders to go out and cause more havoc while bringing in more projections for torture. But his new 'friend' leaned over to him and whispered something that made the Forger realize that things had only just begun. "This is my favourite part."

Eames glanced over at him before scanning his eyes across the full reception hall. He noticed that every projection had fallen silent and still now, but it was a silence that was alive with tension and anticipation. The excitement and expectation in the air was like electricity skirting over his skin as he trained his gaze on the small stage. Eames didn't manage to suppress his groan when a half-conscious projection was dragged on stage, but it didn't matter; the roar of approval from the audience was deafening.

"This is the first projection we managed to capture, and he has fought us silently for the last two days," the leading projection yelled across the noise as Arthur's projection was strung up using two cables that had been thrown down from a light fixture over the stage. Eames watched with dismay as the young man, only a couple years older than Arthur himself, was strapped into the spotlight. The metal cuffs around the man's wrists were too tight, cutting into his skin as the projection's knees buckled and most of his weight swung precariously from the cables. "Today I say no longer! He will not hold his secrets from us for another day, and you will all get your chance on him!"

There were more cheers as the projections in the hall began pushing their way towards the stage. Eames felt his throat go dry when he realized how close he was to the stage already, only about twenty or so projections between him and the stage. The thought of having to watch a room full of other projections torture a part of Arthur set his teeth on edge, but the idea of having to take part in the torture himself was nauseating. He could already see that the captured projection was bleeding from a nasty gash on his forehead, as well as a few cuts across his chest under a t-shirt. The man's left ankle and knee was also bent in an abnormal way and Eames guessed the leg was basically ruined.

He watched with mounting helplessness as Nikolas's projections took their turn while the unnamed projection he had met in the streets quickly pushed the Forger closer and closer to the stage. Arthur's projection let out a few heartbreaking whimpers and gasps as knives and fists met his already spoiled skin. There was screaming in the room that almost made it impossible to keep track of his own shouts; projections yelled at the prisoner for secrets and answers while others loudly demanded their turn.

Eames wanted to draw his gun and bury a bullet in as many heads as he could manage, but that wouldn't fix this; Nikolas could simply regenerate new projections. He wanted to cut the captured projection's bonds and rush him to safety, but that would do nothing to save the other projections being tortured behind closed doors. Eames couldn't remember the last time he had felt this helpless and felt his fury mount at an alarming pace; he could do nothing but watch.

He was so lost in his anger and disgust that he didn't realize he was at the stage until a nameless projection pushed him up the stairs encouragingly. Suddenly Eames was met with an uncomfortably close view of Arthur's projection. The man's breathing was harsh and ragged, he was sickly pale, and Eames could see a few unshed tears caught on long eyelashes. The projection didn't even raise his head when Eames came to stand in front of him and the Forger knew with apprehension that the man was on the verge of breaking. "I can't be here," Eames muttered, taking a step away from the prisoner before he regained control of his instincts.

"And why would that be?" the leading projection stepped away from the podium where he had previously been watching the proceedings without any apparent qualms.

Eames heard the suspicion and growing awareness in the other man's voice as he spoke over the impatient crowd. The Forger knew that he was close to losing his cover and needed to fix things fast. He also knew that he had to get to Nikolas before this went any further. "I need to see Nikolas," he stated as strongly as he could manage, not knowing if this might be his downfall. "I…I have new information on the enemy. I think I know how to get past his security perimeter."

"Is that so?" The man regarded Eames curiously as he brushed some of the blond hair out of his face, strands sweaty from all of the heat beating down from the overhanging light fixtures. He seemed to be sizing the Forger up, and then he gave a dangerous smile that sent a chill down Eames's spine. "How about you finish off this projection," a finger was jabbed towards Arthur's projection and the crowd began yelling angrily, "and I'll take you to see Nikolas to share your news personally."

The challenge had been set and Eames was out of options. He could refuse, thus destroying his cover and fixing nothing, or torture this innocent piece of Arthur's subconscious and finally get at the enemy dreamer. So with no choice in the matter, Eames nodded and stepped into the personal space of the captured projection. He grasped the man's clean shaven chin so tightly between his fingers that the skin at contact turned white and the young man groaned. The Forger, heart weighing heavily and shattering with guilt, jerked the man's face up until their eyes met.

His breath caught when those eyes blinked open and landed on him, slightly unfocused. The few trapped tears finally fell free, skidding down bruised cheeks, but no others fell as Arthur's eyes met Eames's. He knew that this projection wasn't Arthur, but the man had identical eyes. They were the same soft shape and dark brown colour, and they shone with a familiar defiance and strength Eames had always admired. The eyes watching him were sharp with pain, but not with fear despite everything, and Eames prayed that Arthur could not see him through those eyes in that moment.

"You have thwarted us long enough," he yelled loudly enough for the crowd of projections to join in, making sure his accent remained precise. "You will tell us everything you know about the enemy!" The projection flinched at the volume of answering yells behind them. The man never broke eye contact with Eames, but he could see that more tears were beginning to well up; helpless and finally willing to give in. The Forger had to force himself not to loosen his grip on that formerly smooth skin as he yanked the projection's face closer and leaned in. "Hold out," he whispered desperately, voice fearfully soft in the throng of voices. "It'll be over soon."

Arthur's projection's gaze sharpened slightly, looking at him with suspicious confusion. Then the gaze softened with what Eames could only describe as relief before the projection allowed his head to drop between his raised shoulders loosely. "Problem?" the lead projection asked smugly.

"No problem," Eames spoke confidently, releasing his fingers from the projection's chin to stand beside the blond projection. "Just trying to decide which method would be the most effective and gratifying."

"Might I suggest my personal favourite?" the man suggested with an eager grin. Eames's hand twitched, eager to feel the weight of his gun in his hand when he saw a medium length bullwhip being drawn and presented to him, handle first.

"This is perfect," Eames whispered as he accepted the whip, converting his hatred momentarily into fake delight for his audience. The leather of the handle felt worn and rough against his palm as he gripped it tightly; it was well used but dedicatedly taken care of. He drew the leather strap of the whip across his other palm, knowing how deeply this type of whip would cut. There were some dispersed shouts of impatience and only then did he realize the reception hall had fallen silent. When he glanced out at the sea of similarly-liked projections who all looked almost identical to himself, he realized he would never be able to forge this identity again without being violently sick.

He readjusted his grip on the handle and unfurled the whip. There were shouts of excitement. He remembered bitterly that Arthur had always been more skilled with a whip than Eames. The Forger knew the mechanics of the movements required to aim and make a mark, but it was Arthur who knew how to curl and flick his wrist to adjust the angle and force of a hit. Eames thought a silent apology and prayer, hoping that Arthur would not feel this directly, and then brought the whip harshly across the back of the captured projection's back.

There was a vicious crack as the tail of the whip broke the sound barrier. It was all Eames could hear as the rest of the room faded away to white noise; that and the utterly wrecked sob that fell from the projection's lips. He could see the gash he had created through the tear in the man's shirt. The Forger felt his mouth go dry when he saw the damage he had caused, knowing some of it would have ricocheted back to Arthur. He licked his lips nervously as blood welled up from the gash and stained the ruined shirt, even as he raised the whip again.

The crowd's shouting turned frantic at the sight of violence, egging him on. Finally ready to fulfill his promise to Arthur's projection, Eames took careful aim and swung the whip again. He watched with morbid fascination as the leather strap wound around that bruised, pale neck, shortly followed by the tiny end that cut a small groove into the projection's neck under his jaw. There was an immediate choking noise and he saw Arthur's projection attempt to reach down to his neck; his attempts were unsuccessful though, fingers broken now that Eames took a closer look, and hands bound in place.

There were shouts of 'more' echoing around the room, and the leading projection gave him a nod when Eames glanced back, feigning uncertainty. He turned back to the tortured projection and stepped closer until he practically had his chest against that bleeding back – bleeding because of him. "Tell us what you know!" he yelled into the man's ear, starting a new wave of shouts as he strategically placed a fist against the middle of the projection's spine. Novices were expected to make mistakes sometimes. "Forgive me," he whispered, hoping Arthur would survive this, let alone understand. Then he readjusted his grip on the handle, confirmed the placement of his knuckles between the vertebrae of that delicate spine, and yanked the short remainder of the whip backwards with violent precision.

Another sickening crack filled the room, but this one had Eames's hands shaking as they gripped the handle of the whip responsible for breaking the projection's neck. His other hand was still against the projection's limp back, feeling the last struggle for breath before the man was finally gone. A few disappointed moans filled the room, mixed in between angry groans and victorious yelling. Eames ignored it all as he subtly checked for a pulse; he wasn't going to leave the projection paralyzed but alive. There was no heartbeat though and the Forger had to allow himself to be dragged away from the dead projection. He knew that his last sight of the man would haunt him for the rest of his days though; whip still hanging tightly around the bruised neck. Thankfully, the projection had died with his eyes closed.

"You know, I didn't mean for you to actually kill him before we got information out of him," the blond projection hissed angrily as he pulled Eames's forgery further into the decadent hallways of the hotel. The man was upset, obviously, but it seemed clear that Eames had made the correct assumption; as a rookie, mistakes were easily forgiven.

"I-I'm sorry," he allowed his voice to waver slightly, though he forced away the messages his body was sending him, telling him that he was about to vomit or faint. "I-I didn't mean…"

"Don't worry about it," the man cut him off, pausing to push an elevator button before pulling Eames into the lift. "It's better that he's gone anyway. He was never going to break and it was just ruining morale. Besides," he shrugged as they watched the numbers of the floor slide by. "We have plenty more."

Eames nodded, silently wondering if he would be able to kill this man and get away with it, when the elevator slowed and finally stopped at the top floor. The door pinged its arrival, and just as the Forger reached for his handgun, another voice joined their conversation. "What are you doing up here?"

He glanced up quickly, not expecting a female voice that cut more sharply than any knife. The woman standing right outside the elevator, clearly waiting for them, was dressed in a suit Arthur could be proud of. It had been tailored to fit her figure well and was obviously made of a very expensive material; the projection looked like she was about to brief security on how to guard a president or king. "I'm bringing this projection to see Nikolas. He said he had information on how to break into the enemy's security." While the formerly-leading projection had sounded authoritative and strong down in the reception hall, his voice had suddenly fallen weak in the presence of the new authority.

"Who do you think you are?" the woman sneered at both of them, looking impatient at the fact that she had to deal with such 'low level' projections. "You, get back downstairs and clean up the mess you've caused," she ordered to the blond projection. "And you, follow me," she waved Eames forward, eyes icy sharp as they scanned over his form critically before heading down the hallway. Without a second glance back at the projection who had brought the torture of Arthur's projections to a gleeful audience, Eames stepped out of the elevator and followed behind the new leader.

"Nikolas, you might have actually manifested a projection that can do more than wield a gun," the woman spoke in a rather condescending tone as she pushed two heavy wooden doors open into a large living room.

Eames was surprised by the clear disrespect coming from the projection. He assumed that Nikolas had experienced his own conscious projections, though his made his internal mind look much more discordant than Arthur's – and that was saying something. He was even more surprised when Nikolas glanced up lazily from the sketchbook he had been working at, looking at the woman with a rather bored expression before turning his gaze on the Forger. "Oh, really? What do you have for me?" he asked Eames mildly. It seemed as though the Architect had already grown bored of war, his sketchbook pages filled.

"I think I know how to get past the enemy's line of defence," Eames proposed carefully while taking a directed seat on a couch, not wanting to give away too much information in case this encounter went disastrously wrong.

The Architect's eyes flashed with noticeable fear at his words and the young man was not skilled enough to hide it. Despite the fact that Nikolas seemed unburdened and bored in his posh hotel room, torture locked away in the basement and violent war beyond the barriers of windows, the Architect was not made for dealing with offensive violence. Eames guessed that the dream worker had been using Arthur's impressive security as an excuse not to try. Nikolas's cowardice rested on Eames's tongue like a bad taste in the air, and the Forger was suddenly desperate to have this encounter come to an end.

Nikolas looked as though he was about to say something in response to Eames's opening statement when the conscious projection interrupted him. The woman had trailed across the room purposefully to stand by a large two-story window that overlooked a vast amount of the downtown cityscape. "Nikolas, it looks like a riot has come to your doorstep," she informed the silent room matter-of-factly, sounding terribly unperturbed for stating imminent violence.

"What?" Nikolas spluttered as he pushed himself from his indented cushion on the couch. The Architect rushed over to look out the window beside his projection, forgetting all about Eames. "Arthur has never pushed hard enough to wage a full offensive attack before," the young man whispered, voice now quiet and panicky, "Why would he try now?"

The harder it will be for me to control my projections to back you up, Arthur's words rang through Eames's mind in response to the question that had not been directed towards him. He felt a flush of gratitude rush up inside him at the realization that the Point Man was still behind him, backing him up, despite his suffering. Eames knew that Arthur would not be able to maintain this frontal attack for long though, especially after the Forger's recent abuse towards his projection, so he had to act now before his window of opportunity faded.

He remained seated, unsure of the reflection of the window giving him away, and cautiously slid his handgun from its holster. The brush of metal against leather was so soft that it did not alert anyone, though that did not help relax Eames's tense shoulders and back. He raised the gun precisely, taking aim before pulling the trigger. The sound of the gun being fired momentarily deafened him as he rushed to his feet in preparation for whatever aftermath would occur.

The bullet had a fair distance to travel across the room, but his aim had been perfect. Unfortunately, the female projection turned and moved in front of Nikolas – reacting at a pace only the subconscious instincts could manage. There was a tiny crack, a mere echo compared to the noise of the initial shot, as the bullet lodged in her skull and she toppled to the carpeted floor, immediately dead and soon to fade. Nikolas spun on his heel, regarding the dead woman for just a moment before focusing on Eames. He knew that his forgery was still impeccable, but that would do nothing to save him now that he had shot Nikolas's main projection.

Eames was already aiming the barrel of his gun again, unwilling to fail now that he was so close, that Arthur was relying on him to succeed. He knew that Nikolas would not be able to bring the woman back to life, at least not in time for it to matter; too many of the Architect's projections were being slaughtered on the streets below as Arthur kept his subconscious occupied and worn. Unfortunately, while his offensive skills were basic to say the least, Nikolas was a brilliant Architect. As the Forger pulled the trigger back, ready for this to be over, a wall suddenly grew from the carpet to swallow up the bullet.

The wall shuddered and fell a second later, just in time for Eames to see Nikolas dash into the adjoining bedroom. Eames cursed loudly even as he silently thanked Arthur for wearing down the enemy enough to make it more challenging to maintain an architectural change. He rushed in through the doors behind the other man, only to see him disappear through a newly created door leading into the hotel's hallway. The Forger ran for it with everything he had, but his shoulder met with solid wall when the door faded away behind the Architect.

Eames backtracked, heading for the living room and the room's entrance without even taking the time to catch his breath to swear or rub the pain from his shoulder. He burst into the hallway with such force that he stumbled into the wall across the hall, using it as a launch base to push himself down the hallway after Nikolas, who was rushing around a far corner. He began again, his gun prepared in his right hand as he sprinted along the carpeting in focused pursuit. This time he was prepared for the turn and placed his left hand out as a buffer to tilt his direction without losing all of his momentum.

There were more barricades in place along the long expanse of hallway, but they were already fading by the time Eames was about to come into contact with them. He was gaining on the Architect, whose skill at running was quickly becoming obsolete when matched with Eames's determination. But that also meant that he encountered the obstacles before they had had time to fade, forcing him to detour through side rooms and zigzag around the light fixtures and ornamental statues crashing to the ground around him.

Eames took another desperate shot at the fleeing Architect, concerned about what might happen if the man made it all the way down to the main floor of the hotel and amongst the masses of his subconscious. The bullet landed, but not in the desired location. It lodged into the Architect's right bicep, ripping a startled cry from the dream worker's lips as he stumbled and practically fell through a doorway into the hotel's stairwell. Hoping the added pain of the wound would cause Nikolas to make a fatal mistake, Eames followed into the stairwell, causing the metal door to slam against concrete with his speed.

He was immediately met with a looping staircase, the entire flight of stairs on the same level and no chance of getting to a lower floor without jumping. Dragging oxygen into his lungs somewhat shakily, Eames rushed to the railing and stared down at the flights below them. Nikolas was already two floors below him, glancing up at him fearfully as he clutched his bleeding arm. Forcing himself to focus, Eames closed his eyes and remembered what Arthur had taught him about crafting Penrose stairs one late afternoon; the Point Man had thought he had dazed out and not given the slightest attention, but he had been wrong.

Eames knew he had been successful in his attempt to manipulate the architecture of the staircase when he heard a surprised yelp, the sound of skin meeting concrete, and the distinct sound of bones snapping. The Forger blinked his eyes open when the other dream worker let out a piercing scream, though he couldn't see the enemy from where he was standing. He altered the staircase enough to be able to rush down the two flights of stairs to come parallel to Nikolas. The man was crumpled on the landing of the stairs, legs bent at odd angles that made Eames momentarily bite his lip in sympathy.

Nikolas was sobbing, not even bothering to attempt crawling away. He would never make it between the damage done to his legs and his wounded arm's inability to support his weight. His projections would never hear him yell either, the distance too great and the projections already distracted by Arthur's projections. "Please," the Architect begged raggedly, "I never wanted this. I just wanted the chance to create."

Eames sat on the bottom stair of the rising staircase, regarding Nikolas sadly. Violence was a requirement in their job, especially when dealing with a threat that simply could not be trusted to be left alone. That didn't mean that Eames had to like it; that he had to be alright with shooting a young man and forcing him to experience the consuming pain of so many bones breaking. He also couldn't forget, before dealing the final blow, that he was about to utterly destroy everything that made this man who he was. When Nikolas woke up in reality, all of his experiences and memories would be gone. He would be alive, true, but was waking up as a twenty-something year old man with no close family or friends – those who got into this profession rarely had such a thing – really a blessing over death? He would be lost, with no one to help him through it. And who was Eames to force him to begin anew?

"You never attempted to make things right," he pointed out, causing Nikolas's crying to grow louder. "You never had to start torturing Arthur's projections." He tapped the barrel of his gun against the side of his knee, safety momentarily flicked back on since Nikolas was clearly going nowhere. Eames didn't want to do what he knew he needed to, but sitting here doing nothing was only prolonging the man's suffering; Nikolas was pleading under his breath nearly incoherently as he sobbed despairingly to himself. Eames had to remember why he was here, why he had done everything today that churned his stomach; to save Arthur. If he didn't deal with Nikolas now, it was almost guaranteed that his Point Man would fade away, out of Eames's reach, and die.

In moments like this, the decision always came down to loyalty. And Eames was loyal to Arthur until the end.

He stood slowly, legs stiff from built up tension and exertion, and flicked the safety off his gun. The Architect's sobbing began anew, louder than ever before as fat tears fell down the young man's cheeks. Eames swallowed thickly, mouth dry as he stepped closer and placed his gun precisely, wanting to ensure that Nikolas would not suffer longer than he needed to. "I'm sorry," was all he spoke before he decisively placed his finger on the trigger and pulled.

When Eames blinked his eyes open a moment later, the dreamscape around him had noticeably changed. There was a sudden stillness and silence in the atmosphere, giving off a sense of confused expectation at the sudden shift. Nikolas's body had already disappeared, dead and no doubt waking up in reality at that very moment. The only evidence that the enemy dream worker had ever been there was the blood streaked across Eames's pants and shirt. He felt bile rise in his throat and immediately shifted out of his forgery, returning to his own form and clothes. Eames told himself that he removed the blood for the sake of getting close to the next two dream workers, but he knew it was for more selfish reasons.

Nonetheless, Eames wiped off his gun with forced indifference and headed down the rest of the staircase towards the main floor of the hotel. He paused behind the stairwell door for a moment, listening for noise, but heard nothing that indicated any life. Just as he had expected, there was no evidence of any of Nikolas's projections when he finally slipped out into the main lobby of the hotel and headed for the downtown streets. All of the projections had faded away with their dreamer, eliminating a third of the threat against Arthur. What was more surprising was the fact that the Point Man's projections, who had come to this part of the city for an effective distraction, were also absent. Even the projections that had been brought here for torture seemed to be gone, finally free from their suffering.

Feeling a little shaky, hands trembling in his pockets as he ran fingers over his pocket mirror and Arthur's map and phone, Eames sat down hurriedly on the front staircase at the entrance of the hotel. The marble was cold under him, even through the fabric of his clothes, but he didn't mind; it was focusing. The chill was permeating, the low-hanging moon sharing no heat. He pulled out his mobile phone carefully, making sure he didn't drop it as his whole body began to shake with every act he had just committed. He needed to talk to the Point Man to plan their next move, but he also desperately needed to talk to Arthur as a means of comfort. He had to know that Arthur was alright, that the man would still be there despite what Eames had just done.

He flipped the phone open and selected the only number programmed into the device before bringing the receiver to his ear. Eames brushed his palms across the fabric of his pants one at a time, wiping away nervous sweat as the phone continued to ring out. After about eight rings with no response, Eames hung up and immediately selected the number again, trying to keep his breathing steady. Why was Arthur not picking up? Had something happened? Was it because of something Eames had done?

The Forger's breath was close to hyperventilating as the sixth and seventh ring passed again. But finally, just as his sight was about to black out due to lack of oxygen, he heard the phone connect to the other line. "Eames," came Arthur's voice, horribly weak and hoarse. Eames's heart stuttered to a stop at how the Point Man sounded over the phone, his voice doing the exact opposite of calming him down. Arthur's breathing was dangerously slow and it sounded as though the man was struggling to drag each breath into his lungs.

"What's wrong?" Eames blurted out immediately, jumping to his feet. "What happened? Arthur? Are you-?"

"Hang on," Arthur cut him off, voice shuddering as the Point Man audibly fought to continue breathing. Eames heard the phone clatter to the ground – tile, by the sound of it – and then the sound of violent retching into a toilet. The Forger winced as the sound echoed around the small, pristine bathroom; Arthur sounded like he was on the verge of death. The dream worker kept throwing up until Eames was sure there was nothing left to expel, Arthur merely gagging on nothing. He knew how painful that could be, and how much it could hinder your ability to breathe.

"Oh, Arthur…" Eames whispered in horror as he sat down again, placing one palm over his eyes and pressing his fingers against his eyes to force away the tears he felt stinging the corners. He knew the Point Man couldn't hear him, the man still busy vomiting, but that was probably a good thing. Eames did his best to focus on not sobbing as he continued to listen to Arthur suffer, pressing the mobile phone against his ear so tightly that it hurt.

After what felt like an eternity, Arthur finally fell silent. Eames heard the Point Man tumble back to the tiled floor, no energy left to make the fall graceful. There was another long moment of ragged breath before he heard Arthur fumble for the phone, finally bringing it back to his ear. "Sorry," the Point Man apologized softly, trying to remain stoic and professional even now. "Tell me…" Arthur spoke between long, purposeful breaths, voice echoing against the tiled floor, "what happened."

Eames took a shaky breath, pulling his hand away to swipe at a few stray tears angrily. He glanced around the abandoned east end of the dreamscape and relayed everything that had happened since he had left Arthur's side. When he was finished there was no response and he felt his heard jump up into his throat. "Arthur, are you there? Make some noise for me, love, please." If his voice wavered, neither of them commented on it.

Arthur gave a long, suffering sigh and a tiny grunt. "Ever the worrier," the man spoke across the phone, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

Eames felt a tiny hysterical chuckle rip up through his throat. "What happened, darling? And where's George?"

"Dead, I think," Arthur admitted rather blandly. "Hang on," the Point Man requested for a second time.

Eames had no choice but to sit silently as the phone clattered to the floor again. He strained to listen for details, guessing by the sounds he was hearing that Arthur was slowly dragging himself up into a sitting and then standing position. Eames could hear the Point Man's hands skid along the porcelain of the sink as he struggled to maintain his balance and weight before the taps turned on. The Forger assumed Arthur was cleaning out his mouth and drinking some water before he heard the phone being picked up and the sound of determined, shuffling steps cross the tile and then carpeting.

The sound of a body toppling onto fabric met his ear next, and Arthur gave a somewhat contented sigh. "Better now," the Point Man promised. "Couch."

Eames knew it was probably killing the dream worker to be speaking only short strings of words, but the man would have no other option until he regained control over his breathing. It was true that Arthur's breathing had returned to a somewhat normal pace, but the Point Man sounded dangerously far from healthy. "Tell me what's going on," he pleaded, though he hated to ask Arthur to speak more at that moment.

"Sent George out…to lead riot," Arthur admitted. "Felt him die and…can't bring him back…too weak." The other man sounded extremely displeased and frustrated about this fact, never suffering enough to not beat himself up over what he saw to be shortcomings on his part. A sharp pang of regret shot through Eames at the thought that George was dead – dead to save him. He had become oddly fond of the projection, and felt guilty at the realization that he couldn't even take the time to mourn the man as Arthur continued to speak. "Think this is from…the projections' torture…" Eames swallowed, guilt all-consuming as it weighed on his mind, heart and body. "Don't you dare…feel guilty," Arthur managed to snap. Eames chuckled weakly despite himself, the momentarily semblance of normalcy calming him.

The Point Man paused for a long moment and Eames felt suddenly self-conscious, somehow feeling that Arthur was considering his tiny snort of laughter. Then it was back to business once again. "Also from dreamscape…manipulation," Arthur continued. "I'm the dreamer so…it wore me down to…to have someone else change architecture. I'm fine now."

"Bullshit," Eames hissed into the phone, suddenly angry. He couldn't save Arthur if Arthur wasn't going to work on saving himself. "I'm coming back right now."

"No," Arthur couldn't yell the way he was, but his harsh whisper had the same effect. Eames immediately felt his back straighten and his teeth clench at the order he wished to directly disobey. "I need you…to deal with…Amelina. She has my projections too and…she's more skilled…" Arthur paused, taking in a slow, deep breath. "Please Eames."

The Forger sighed angrily and pulled himself to his feet again, knowing that there was no way he could argue the order. Returning to Arthur's side would do nothing to help anything; it would not improve Arthur's state and it would leave the remaining enemy dream workers out in the dreamscape to wreak havoc. "Fine," he grumbled, orienting himself towards the north end of the city before trotting down the entrance staircase of marble. "Please take care of yourself, for me."

Another long silence met his ears and Eames bit his lip nervously, wondering if he had said too much – gone too far. However, instead of commenting on his words, Arthur changed the subject seamlessly – neither making the situation uncomfortable nor agreeing to Eames's demand. "Get out of the east end…" Arthur ordered and Eames could tell that the man was, in fact, improving somewhat; he was managing to string together more words before being forced to stop to catch his breath. "I'm too weak to rebuild…the east side and the fog…is coming."

Eames spun on his heel at the words and felt a chill wash over his body. The boundaries keeping the fog away truly were encroaching upon the city at a slow but steady pace. "I hear you, pet," he agreed, adopting a quicker pace as he dashed down a main street of the city. "Stay strong, for me, alright?" he pleaded shyly.

"I am," Arthur whispered before disconnecting the phone.

It was with a hopeful, motivating fluttering in his heart that Eames stole one final, nervous glance back at the fog engulfing the buildings and pavement behind him before slipping into an alley. He pulled out Arthur's map again, unfurling it carefully as he headed towards the north end of the dreamscape. He was ready to deal with the enemy dream workers and get back to reality with Arthur safe in tow.