Thanks for all the reviews and apologies for the long than usual wait - I had to sort out some things with where I wanted to take the job. But it's finally starting, which means more plot and less fluff! I will leave you to interpret the exclamation as good or bad.
Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.
- Li
Matryoshka
A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object
Chapter Fourteen
"He doesn't look like the same person slouched over and drooling, does he?" Eames asks, peering down at Frechette, who, having drunk his fill of Bordeaux, is now sprawled out across the Hôtel Lotti's pristine sheets.
"Definitely not," Ariadne murmurs, wiping the Frenchman's spittle from her sleeve and sincerely regretting ever volunteering to check if the man was properly asleep.
"Well you won't have to look at him much longer," Arthur assures from beside her, handing her a needle. He arranges Frechette into a more plausible position on the bed and slides another needle into the man's arm. "Is the room locked?"
Yusuf nods from his chair beside the door. "I put the sign outside too, just in case."
"Good. The timer's set to ten minutes – that gives us just over three hours at the first level, which should be more than enough."
"We know all this Arthur," Eames points out, rolling his eyes. "Let's just get started so I don't have to watch him drool any longer."
The point man ignores him, eyes flickering to Ariadne instead. "You know what to do? If anything goes wrong – "
"I'll run," she completes, perfectly aware that she'll do nothing of the sort and that, in any case, there would be nowhere to run to. "Don't be so worried, you'll be with me almost the entire time."
Arthur's hand pauses over the PASIV. "Do you still trust me to keep you safe?" he murmurs, so softly that no one else hears the sudden irregular uncertainty in his voice. He doesn't say after I shot you but Ariadne can read the silent addition in his searching eyes. She reaches across him and pushes the button.
"Yes."
She hears voices first, before the room blurs into focus – a cacophony of voices that reminds her of her high school cafeteria, only louder. Much louder. The colours come next and then the shapes, until the entire picture is complete. It's her masterpiece, dreamt up by Yusuf and populated by Frechette's subconscious, and she's right in the middle of it.
The room is simply designed, but elegant, with walls covered by silk drapery of different shades. Displays hang and stand in every corner, models of structures large and small, sturdy and impossible, classic and modern, and everything in between. Frechette's projections buzz between them like bees to flowers, discussing the structural and artistic merits of each. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of Eames and Yusuf standing guard at the exit in matching security uniforms. Frechette is only a few feet away, apparently arguing with his own subconscious – it takes her a moment to absorb the strange sight. When she does, she hastily makes a beeline for the other side of the room before he can spot her and takes shelter with a group around her own age. They're gathered beside a model several feet high of what looks like a literal collision between a quartz crystal and St. Peter's Basilica. Ariadne examines the structure with all the distaste one can have for a first year college project, but she really had been desperate at the time. She edges into the semicircle, cautious not to bump into any of the projections, just in case one them turns out to be a highly trained ninja in charge of overseeing Frechette's subconscious security.
"That's quite something, isn't it?" one of the group, a short, stocky man with a generous dusting of freckles murmurs. "It's…well, I can't decide whether to love it or hate it."
"It's atrocious," another man replies firmly. "On their own, they wouldn't be bad, but squished together like that?"
"I agree," Ariadne interjects before the man can continue. When they turn to look at her, she reminds herself of everything Arthur has ever taught her about talking to projections. "This combination of gothic and modern structure looks like a sad attempt to imitate Michel Frechette. It shouldn't even be at this convention – it's far below Frechette's usual standard."
A girl with red hair that reminds Ariadne of Carla Antonelli shakes her head at her words. "It might not be great, but Michel's always been lenient with the entries at these conventions of his. He says he likes to showcase different architects. And who knows, some people might like this stuff."
"Michel, eh?" the freckled man asks with interest. "Do you know Frechette well then?"
"Yes, my father works as the senior advisor at his firm," the girl replies proudly. "And I'm interning there next fall."
"Are you really?" Ariadne asks, seizing the opportunity to steer the convention away from her school project – not that the projections know – and to the mark. "I hear he's really harsh on his interns. Makes them fetch his dry cleaning and pour his coffee." A stab of guilt pierces through her for spreading rumours about the architect, but it's a necessary lie. She assuages the feeling by reminding herself that technically, only Frechette would ever hear her words.
The girl shrugs. "I don't mind. He's the top architect in the world. I'm bound to learn something from him and it looks good on my resume."
"I wouldn't say he's the top architect," says another woman, older with brown hair pulled into a severe bun. "He's definitely one of the best, but there are plenty of people who could give him a run for his money. What about that Raymond Aoki?"
The stocky man frowns. "Aoki? You mean that college kid who designed the new Cobol Engineering building in Tokyo? He's a one hit wonder if you ask me. He hasn't built anything in the past five years but look at Frechette. How many has he done – three?"
"He only gets those contracts because of his godfather," the woman retorts. "Luke Caligiuri will ruin any man who dares to stand in his godson's way. I don't believe Frechette would get half of the jobs he does if people weren't afraid of refusing him. And now he's got Antonelli Labs on his side too."
"He's marrying Carla Antonelli, isn't he?" Ariadne asks quickly, surprised by how easily her job is going.
The red haired girl nods. "Daddy told me that they have lunch together every Sunday," she replies, and Ariadne is filled with gratitude for this particular projection's evident love of gossip. "And apparently the diamond on her engagement ring is so big you can't even see the rest of the ring!"
Perhaps not so grateful after all, Ariadne muses as the women immediately pump the girl for more wedding details and the men do their best to appear bored by the proceedings. She waits for a suitable lull in the conversation, nodding her head occasionally and keeping one eye on Frechette and the other on Yusuf and Eames.
"So he really likes this Antonelli girl?" she asks the moment the girl shows signs of running out of air – she'd never run out of words and speculations on exactly what the heiress would wear on her wedding day or where the newlyweds would honeymoon.
"Of course!" The girl looks shocked and a tad reproachful, as if Ariadne has insulted her personally. "Why would he marry her if he doesn't like her?"
"I don't know," Ariadne admits. "But you know all the stories about celebrities now – there's always another reason…" She trails off, hoping someone will catch the drift of her words and save her from having to say the inevitable herself.
"You mean Frechette's marrying her for the publicity? But that's ridiculous – he's twice as famous as she is and he's got a fortune to boot."
"She is sole heir to Antonelli Labs though," the older woman points out. "Nobody knows how much that empire's worth."
"There could be some business involved," Ariadne suggests cautiously, alert for any changes to Frechette's projections. However, they continue chatting as before. It puzzles her, this passiveness. Frechette was supposed to have sent an entire team to limbo, yet she's seen no signs of militarized suspicion. The Frenchman's subconscious feels almost friendly, not at all like Fischer's, Cobb's, or even Arthur's.
"A deal of some kind you mean?" the freckled man asks, forehead furrowed in thought. "You might have a point there."
"Well I think that's nonsense," the redhead interjects firmly. "It's obvious that they love each other and anyway, people only marry for business in books." There's an anger in her voice irrational for a practical stranger that makes Ariadne wonder if Frechette's conscious thoughts are filtering through her words.
The brown haired woman chuckles. "That's your age talking. When you're young, you love with your heart, once you get older, you'll do it with your head."
Ariadne nearly gives herself away with a splutter that she just manages to disguise as a cough. Her grandmother had once told her the same thing from across the old, scarred kitchen table, age withered hands busy with clicking knitting needles. It's strange that the projection should mention it; she'd always credited the saying to the silver haired, papery cheeked woman who'd wiped away the tears of her first broken heart. The realization that the words had not been unique and tailored for her stings with unexpected disappointment.
"I still don't buy it," the girl replies stubbornly.
The freckle faced man grins. "To each their own. I never thought of it, but now that you mention it, I can imagine Caligiuri and Antonellis striking a deal over this marriage. They're both in the pharmaceutical business – maybe they're planning a merger of some kind."
"I always thought they were competitors," Ariadne points out, tearing her thoughts away from her grandmother and back to the job at hand. "Would they really want to merge together?"
The man lifts and lowers one shoulder. "Maybe it's a ploy to get rid of each other. These business relations always confuse me – I guess that's why I took up building things instead."
The talk drifts around back to architecture and Ariadne herself drifts away. Whether or not she's done her job and aroused Frechette's suspicions against Antonelli she has no idea, but it would be rather blatant if she tried to swing the subject back to the impending marriage again. She meanders through the crowd of chattering architects to another group near the doors, gathered around a swaying structure of filigree and fibres. A display panel nearby identifies it as Frechette's own contribution to the convention.
"This is amazing." The words come from a tall, olive-skinned woman bent over the model. As she talks, the fibres wave to the rhythm of her breath. "I've never seen anything like it."
"What else would you expect from the Michel Frechette?" another woman asks. "His work is always spectacular. Smart buildings – no one else could have thought of that."
The words fill Ariadne with pride, but also disappointment that she can't proclaim the model as her own work. Still, there were worse things in life than having her work mistaken for Frechette's.
"I wonder where he gets his talent from?" her friend asks. "There aren't any architects in the family, are there?"
"From what I know, Frechette doesn't have much of a family," someone else answers. "His parents died in a car crash when he was little and he was raised by his godfather."
"Luke Caligiuri doesn't strike me as a particularly inspiring role model," the first woman mutters. "It doesn't take much genius to sit in an office and give orders."
Ariadne clears her throat and the woman turns. "He'd have to be pretty smart to have succeeded for so long, especially with all that competition from Antonelli Labs."
The implication sounds so obvious to her ears that she's surprised the projections haven't jumped on her yet. The sign only sign of discontent comes from the woman herself, whose forehead wrinkles in a frown.
"There are different kinds of genius," she tells Ariadne after a moment. "Frechette has the true artistic kind and his godfather, the wasteful conniving kind."
One of the women laughs. "He'd need that to even stand a chance against Antonelli. Those two have taken dirty business to an entirely new level."
"I wonder what they'll do once Frechette and Carla Antonelli get married," Ariadne muses quietly. "Do you think they'll start getting along?" she adds, almost as an afterthought.
"I doubt it – wouldn't be surprised if they used the connection to their own advantage."
A buzz of questions follows immediately as her friends press her to explain exactly what she means. Satisfied with her work, Ariadne sidles to the front of the room. The lack of any retaliation on the part of Frechette's subconscious bothers her a little and makes her worry he doesn't quite understand her hints. Whether or not he does, she doesn't dare to be any more obvious.
She stands quietly in her corner, talking to the odd architect who passes and dropping more hints to the business aspect of Frechette's marriage, but mainly watching the mark wander up gradually from the back of the room. The moment he reaches the front doors, less than an arm's length away from Eames and Yusuf, Ariadne's hand crawls up behind her back and gives one sharp tug on the red box hidden there.
The piercing wail of the emergency alarm breaks out over the ceiling speakers and pandemonium ensues as projections push past each other to the nearest exit. Eames and Yusuf grab Frechette and escort him out the main entrance, guns raised to ward off the crowd of panicking architects. Once they leave, Ariadne slips out unnoticed through a side door hidden behind the drapery.
The moment the door closes behind her, Ariadne breaks into a sprint down the dim hallway. She wishes she'd thought to cover the halls with carpet; her shoes collide so loudly with the smooth tiles that she swears the entire convention centre can hear. It's a relief to burst though the swivelling glass into the busy sunlit sidewalk. The street is so full of suits and heels and taxis that no one looks twice at Ariadne as she speeds through the crowd, disconcerted by the lack of attention. It doesn't at all mesh with the tanks and soldiers she'd expected to populate Frechette's mind.
She walks down one block, turns right and halfway down another one to the hotel. It's neither large nor grand, nothing like the one she'd just been in. It had been Arthur's idea to use a rundown establishment rather than the five star ones Frechette usually occupied; he would never see the place and the security would be less stringent. It had seemed like an excellent plan at the time, but Ariadne regrets it as her entrance into the lobby draws some less than pleasant remarks from the unkempt, rather hairy men lounging over the ripped sofas.
The elevator, when it arrives, is blissfully empty. It takes her four jabs with her thumb before the grilled iron doors consent to close and the elevator slowly rattles up, and then another two jabs to open the doors halfway when it finally stops on the third floor. She thanks the fates for her tiny stature as she squeezes through the broken doors.
Arthur looks up when she enters the room. "How did it go?" he asks immediately.
"Good, I think," she replies, closing the door behind her. "I said as much as I could without giving the whole thing away." Ariadne looks around the small room, but sees no signs of anyone else. "Are they not here yet?"
"In this traffic, driving might not save them any time. Give them a few more minutes. How does Frechette's subconscious feel?"
"It feels too friendly," Ariadne confesses. "I was expecting more…resistance, but the projections don't seem to suspect anything, not even when I talk to them."
He frowns. "You felt it too?"
The question surprises the architect. "Why, did you?"
"No," he says slowly. "But I didn't see anyone downstairs while I was setting the charges, and that alone worries me." He toys with the remote detonator in his hands, turning it over and over again. "Did you see anyone when you came up?"
"I didn't see the other floors, but there was a group of ten or so people in the lobby," she replies.
Arthur's hands freeze and he fixes her with a disconcerting stare. "Are you certain? There were ten of them?"
Ariadne thinks back, counting them mentally. There had definitely been six on the two couches and three standing behind the back couch. She remembers people at the window too, but isn't sure how many, and a group had just come in when the elevator arrived. "I'm not sure. There might have been more, maybe fifteen."
"There were only seven people there when I came," Arthur tells her. "And that was including the receptionist and bellhop."
"They probably came after you," she replies. "There were still people coming in when I was there."
"Maybe," Arthur murmurs, but he doesn't sound at all convinced. "Projections don't usually like to move around. They tend to pick a spot and stay there."
"It might be part of Frechette's defence then," Ariadne suggests. "Maybe they sensed us here and came looking for us."
Arthur shakes his head. "They'd be looking for the dreamer and Yusuf isn't here."
"And now he is," she replies as the door clicks open and the forger and chemist come pouring through, dragging an unconscious Frechette after them. "What took you?"
"You wouldn't think it to look at him, but that man weighs a ton," Eames answers, dumping the Frenchman unceremoniously on the worn carpet and slamming the door shut. "I hate skinny French people," he declares loudly, taking care to step on Frechette's crisp suit as he crosses the floor.
"Talk any louder and you'll have the entire hotel on us," Arthur warns him.
"Normally, I would scoff at that but with the amount of people in this place, I'm actually tempted to listen."
"How many people were in the lobby when you came in?" Ariadne asks curiously.
"At least fifteen or twenty," Yusuf replies, pulling a duffel bag out from under the single bed. "But we passed a bunch more up the stairs."
"Bloody elevator was broken," Eames mutters. "Who designed this place again?"
"Never mind about that," Arthur interjects hurriedly before Ariadne can give the forger a piece of her mind. "The point is, there are more projections down in the lobby every time we check."
The forger shrugs. "I'm more bothered by their lack of hostility than their numbers. That can't have been a very good team Antonelli hired if they were sent packing by this lot. They're about as threatening as kittens."
"Too many of anything can be dangerous," Arthur replies. "Even kittens have their limits."
"If you're that worried, you should get going," Yusuf points out, handing them each a needle. "The faster we get done, the faster we can get out of here." He settles a pair of headphones beside Ariadne. "The music's my ten second mark, so that'll give you just over three minutes," he reminds her.
The architect nods and closes her eyes as the sedative bubbles through her blood. The last thing she sees before the darkness is Yusuf barring the windows. Then comes glaring white light and a familiar warmth around her hand.
More disclaimers: The first crystal/St. Peter's basilica building is inspired by the ROM, which I think is absolutely hideous. They should not have clashed those two buildings together, especially not on such a busy street. It belongs in an open space, not downtown. The second model is from something I saw on a CBC documentary, but I can't remember who designed it, except that he was Canadian. The building was basically built from fibres that would react to people moving around it or to sounds, and his concept was to create a smart building that could adjust colours, temperature, etc. like a mood ring, which is pretty epic. So I don't own the ideas behind either model.