For notes and disclaimer, please see part one. Having a very strange day with insanely high highs and really rather crappy lows... Posting early on the off chance that someone might need a pick-me-up of a new chapter. ~K

Previously: Eames has to trust the projection of Penelope, in order to unlock the secrets Encapsulated in Penelope's mind. Penelope is out of commission, bleeding and near death on the floor of the final room of the maze. Arthur remembers coming home from baseball practice earlier than his mother expected. He remembers a metallic, copper scent, and seeing his sister on the floor. It takes Eames's particular skill set to unlock the final lock on the safe containing Penelope's memories, which is the final level's kick. As the kick travels through the upper levels, they all wake, except for Penelope. She wakes when the time runs out on the PASIV device. As the team struggles to calm her down in the aftermath of undoing the Encapsulation, Eames finally sees scars on Penelope's wrists.

Cobb tried several times off and on to get in touch with Eames. It didn't matter when he called, or how often he called, they always ended in the clipped request for a voicemail. Cobb had already left ten.

"Still?" Ariadne asked.

Cobb shrugged, tossing his phone onto the table between them.

With the warehouse occupied, they'd had to move their meeting location to Cobb's hotel room. The quarters were a little cramped, but it wasn't bad. There wasn't much left to do. They'd need to clear out the warehouse once Penelope woke, but that wouldn't take long. He and Arthur had long-since perfected the art of packing their belongings quickly. More than once, they'd had to leave somewhere on the run.

"What... what's wrong with him? I mean, why isn't he...?" Ariadne drifted off as Cobb leaned back in his chair.

"He'll come around," Cobb said, though he didn't sound too convincing.

"And Arthur... He was okay this morning?" She'd asked the question a dozen times, and the answer had always been the same, but she couldn't seem to stop worrying about them, about all of them.

"He was fine. Quiet."

"There are different kinds of quiet, though," she said. "There's his normal quiet, which is sort of annoyed, sarcastic... Then there's the definitely not normal quiet."

Cobb took a slow breath. "I'm sure he'll be better when she wakes up."

Both turned when the door opened and Yusuf entered.

"Well?" Ariadne asked immediately.

Yusuf was only mildly startled at the request for information. "Well, the patient seems fine. She's breathing, her pulse-rate is excellent. She is doing what she needs to do, sleeping dreamlessly, letting her brain sort of do what it needs to do to get everything back together."

"What about Arthur?" she pressed.

"Arthur is Arthur," Yusuf said with a shrug.

"That's not really... that's not really helping," she said, turning again to Cobb.

The extractor tried not to sigh. "You'll see him at dinner."

"Can't I see him now?"

"He's not the most sociable of people at the moment," Yusuf warned.

Ariadne was quiet but not for long. "What about Eames?"

Cobb rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Ariadne..."

"I just... did you see him, Yusuf?"

The chemist shook his head. "Haven't seen him since this morning."

Eames worked every connection he had, pulled every string he knew how to tug. It would've been an exhausting day had he stopped to think about what he was doing. As it was, he just kept moving forward. The table in his hotel suite grew more and more cluttered as the hours stretched on. The hotel fax worked overtime.

He hadn't told the others where he was staying. While he understood that being part of a team often meant getting along with the rest of the group, he enjoyed having his privacy, particularly as his happened to be overlooking Central Park. The rest of the team had taken up rooms in one hotel closer to the warehouse, not quite as nice, with less appealing views. Granted, with how busy he was staying, he hadn't had much time for gazing at the majestic city.

The more he learned about Lawrence Dillon, the more he despised the man. While Eames hadn't served long, he'd put in some time in a British Army uniform. The dishonorable discharge hadn't been kind to his future employment prospects, but it did lend itself handily to what he was doing at the moment. He remembered enough of the jargon to be able to decipher what he was looking at, and to pepper it into conversations he had with various military officials.

Only when his stomach vehemently growled did he realize he'd worked through breakfast with little more than a cup of coffee, and he hadn't touched anything at lunch.

It was now the early afternoon, and there was still so much left to do.

Drumming his fingers on the table for a moment, he organized what he needed to do first. After placing an order for room service, he took a deep breath and dialed a much longer number, an international one.

He wasn't sure the man would take his call. He needed a favor. While the initial meeting hadn't been the best, he felt like they'd parted on amiable terms. At least enough where he felt comfortable asking for help.

The receptionist greeted him in Japanese first, then English: "Thank you for calling Proclus Global. How may I direct your call?"

"Mr. Saito, please," he said, leaning back in his chair.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. "May I tell him who's calling?"

The smile that graced his lips didn't quite meet his eyes. "A tourist."

It was dark as he ascended the metal stairs, his loafers anything but silent as he clanked his way to the second floor entrance. It had taken the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening to finish up everything he'd set out to do. But, it had been worth it. He had a plan.

Arthur looked up from his chair when he heard the door open. While he'd seen the rest of the team, he figured Eames was long since gone. Cobb had told him that morning that the forger had split from the group shortly after they woke. He narrowed his dark eyes slightly. "Didn't expect to see you."

Eames shrugged his left shoulder slightly. His right hand was preoccupied holding a rather large suitcase. "How is she?"

Arthur dodged the question. "You're taking off?"

The forger arched an eyebrow. "Hardly." He lowered the case onto one of the empty chairs, unzipping it. First, he pulled out a bottle of aged scotch. "Thought you might need a drink."

Arthur cracked a hint of a smile.

"Take that as a yes, then," Eames said, removing two cut-glass tumblers that he'd pilfered from his hotel suite. He filled both glasses with a healthy two fingers worth before handing one to the point man, who gratefully accepted it.

"Thanks," Arthur said, watching out of the corner of his eye as Eames sat down. He took a long, slow sip, feeling the familiar burn, enjoying the taste as the scotch slid down his throat. "She's been resting all day, which is good. It's what she's supposed to be doing." He took another sip before asking. "What about you? What are you doing?"

Eames reached back into his case, pulling out a thick file folder, offering it to Arthur.

"What is this, another job?"

"Of sorts," Eames acknowledged.

As the point man set his drink on the floor at his feet, he accepted the folder, opening it. "Lawrence Dillon," he read. "Our mystery projection."

Eames nodded. "I figured out the how and the when behind Penny's Encapsulation. What I don't understand is the why. What is the dream-like state? What's it capable of?"

Arthur was silent for several minutes, his dark eyes scanning the pages, the information that the forger had compiled. "It's a heightened state of awareness. It opens the mind up to processing better, deeper, clearer. We only use such a tiny fraction of our brain in our daily, waking use. The dream-like state taps into the subconscious, uses it while we're awake."

"Might it make one aware of Extraction?" Eames asked. "Of Inception?"

Arthur nodded.

Eames winced a little, hoping that Fischer was long since past the point of realizing someone else had given him the idea that breaking up his father's empire was the way to go.

"It might make prisoners of war realize that they weren't getting a fair shake," Arthur continued. "The military wouldn't want that, would they? They also wouldn't want to have the added complexity to training soldiers. If everyone was able to tap into their dream-like state, to process at faster speeds... imagine what that would do? Your training instructor says one thing, your mind, sharp as a tack, fast as lightning, says otherwise. What are you going to do?"

The forger let out a mirthless laugh. "Get kicked out again," he said, taking another drink. "Seems our man Dillon, here, has some very dodgy dealings in sleep and prisoners. He seems to like invading the dreams of those being held indefinitely under your Patriot Act. Seems to think he can get away with whatever he pleases. If what you're saying is true, then the only person who could derail his plans... is your sister."

"Why not just kill her, though?" Arthur asked, his words laced with agony. "They killed her lab partner. Why not her, too?"

"Encapsulation has always been a tricky science, even more difficult to perfect than Extraction, than Inception. On the scale and level of Penny's Encapsulation, that's... that's practically theoretical. No one could've imagined that it would've worked as well as it did for as long as it did. I think she was a guinea pig. I think they wanted to see how much they could Encapsulate safely, what kinds of chemicals it would take, what kinds of security it would need..."

"For what purpose?"

Eames shrugged. "Imagine someone like that," he said, nodding toward the file Arthur held. "Someone like a Presidential adviser, able to achieve such great results with someone's life's work. Imagine the kind of hell they might unleash upon, say, that President they have access to."

Arthur's countenance darkened, getting that ex-Marine, that killer look in his eyes.

"At ease," Eames remarked, only half-joking.

Slowly, the point man relaxed, but he had to ask: "What did she dream about? After I left?" Arthur sensed easily that Eames was hesitant to share. "You said earlier, she was hurt?"

The forger nodded. "I was working on the safe. It, uh... Penelope was supposed to keep the other projections busy. That's when her younger projection appeared."

"The other projections... who were they?"

"You... me... her." Off Arthur's quizzical look, Eames continued: "I should've paid more attention, but it was one hell of a lock. When I realized there was a problem, it was too late. She was on the floor, bleeding, from her wrists." Eames watched as Arthur closed his eyes tightly. "The scars. They aren't from the dream. They're from before, aren't they?"

Arthur swallowed hard. "Our mother was very pretty, a lot like Penelope. Lithe, graceful. She was a chorus line dancer in a show when she and Dad met. Dad did odd jobs around the casino. Bouncer, dealer, bartender... Shortly after I was born, he was promoted to pit boss. With that job came new responsibilities."

While Eames wasn't sure where the story was going, he listened closely.

"He worked long hours. It put a certain strain on their relationship. When Penelope was born... they diagnosed my mother with postpartum depression. Dad decided maybe they'd missed that diagnosis after I was born. She was fine, on medication, but she didn't stay on it too long. She stopped going to counseling. She did okay for a while, but it was always strained." Arthur paused for a moment, looking at his hands. "Dad and I were a lot alike. Quiet."

Eames chalked it up to concern for his sister, why Arthur was so chatty. And he wasn't about to interrupt the point man for fear he'd never hear the end of the story.

"He suffered a lot in silence. She always had fears, issues. The older we got, the more Mom didn't hesitate to show her displeasure. She'd scream or yell. It didn't matter what had gone wrong, it was always Penelope's fault. Even if nothing had happened, even if there was no way Penelope was even remotely related to the problem, it was always her fault."

The forger didn't have any trouble imagining the evil shew of a woman he'd seen off and on in the shared-dreaming doing that kind of damage to her own daughter. It made more sense now, why Penelope had acted in such a peculiar way after seeing her mother in Arthur's dream level.

"I was sixteen, Penelope was fourteen..."

He climbed out of his beat up pickup, still in his uniform. There weren't the usual grass stains or dirt clouds. Practice had been called early. The coach had something to do after school, before practice should've let out.

He didn't care. He was fine with going home early, getting a reprieve. It wasn't that he didn't like baseball. It was just nice to have a random day off.

Arthur headed to the front door, sliding his key into the lock. He imagined the look on his mom's face. Things had been coming around for the better for once. He'd made the assumption that she following her doctor's orders again. More than once in a normal week, he'd heard the familiar fight between his parents. The baseless accusations she'd throw about his nonexistent infidelities, followed by his pleading for her to get professional help. She was more than any of them could deal with.

But, as of late, she'd actually been a model mother.

As he entered the house, however, he noticed her on the living room couch. She normally sat on the recliner, so that no one could sit beside her. Her dark eyes were focused solely ahead of her, like she was engrossed in some program on television.

"Hey, Mom," he said cheerfully.

She turned her head to him slowly, tilting it to one side. It was almost like she didn't recognize him at first. "You. You're not supposed to be home yet."

"Wh... Practice got out," he said, frowning.

"No, Arthur, you shouldn't be here..." She sprang to her feet, something sharp and shining in her hands.

He took a half step back when he saw the knife she brandished. "What are you talking about?"

"Leave! Now."

"Mom, I just got here!"

"Just... go. For a little while, just go," she pleaded. "You should... You should go back. You should go back because Penelope and I, we have things to discuss..."

While he tried to figure out what was wrong with his mother, his other senses began picking up the clues. Since when did they have a copper mine in their living room? Or was it iron? It was metallic, out of the ordinary, out of place. As he assessed the placement of everything in the living room, which looked exactly how it was supposed to, he saw something odd on the beige carpet. Something that looked like blood.

His eyes followed the trail back toward where he saw feet sticking out from behind the entertainment center. What Mom must've been watching, he realized. "Penelope?"

"Leave!" she screeched. "Right now!"

Arthur shoved past his mother, ignoring the potential danger in her hands, rushing into the room. "God..."

Adrenaline took over when he saw his sister, sitting in a pool of her own blood. She was breathing, but it was shallow. She blinked, but it was slower than normal.

"What have you done!" he demanded.

"It doesn't matter anymore. It's too late."

Desperate to try to stop the bleeding, or at least keep some kind of pressure on the gashes in his sister's wrists, he removed his uniform top, tearing the thick cotton in two pieces, tying one on each wrist before lifting her into his arms.

"Arthur..."

He walked past her, back out of the house and to his truck. He didn't remember how he got to the hospital, just that he kept looking over at Penelope, seeing her eyes droop from time to time, begging her to hold on.

Eames drained what was left in his glass and filled both his and Arthur's again, more generously that time, after listening to the point man's memory.

Arthur gratefully accepted the glass. "Before Mom could go to trial, she had a medical evaluation, they put her back on her medications. She overdosed three days later. Dad and I never quite saw eye to eye after that. He chose to remember Mom as some kind of saint. I chose to remember her as my sister's would-be killer." He tipped his glass back, taking a long drink. "Point of this story... The dream-like state was always a theory. Why not? The brain only uses a small fraction of what it's actually capable of utilizing, but when Penelope woke up, she remembered the clarity of thought she'd had while bleeding on the living room floor. She realized the subconscious could be accessed while awake. She became obsessed with the idea." Arthur sighed, but it quickly turned into a yawn.

Eames smiled to himself, glancing casually at his watch. Right on time, he thought. He'd barely had time to stand, feigning the need to stretch, when Ariadne walked in.

"Hey," Arthur managed, looking back at the new arrival.

She smiled softly at him, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. "Are you ready?"

Arthur looked at Eames, but the forger was making himself more at home, turning on one of the worktable lights and setting up some of his equipment, or what Arthur assumed was equipment. "Eames, what is this?"

"For starters, you shouldn't say 'what,' because Ariadne is most definitely a 'who.' Who she is, at this particular moment, is your designated driver."

"You shouldn't have come," Arthur said to Ariadne before tossing to Eames: "Because I'm not leaving."

"That's where you're wrong, darling. Penelope isn't scheduled to wake up for another twelve hours yet. You're going to get rest." He looked at Ariadne and Arthur, standing together. "Of some description."

"Eames-"

"She's not going anywhere. Don't worry."

Ariadne slipped her hand into Arthur's. "C'mon," she persuaded gently.

"Booze is yours, as is the file of course," Eames told Arthur. "Cobb may want to take a look at it in the morning."

Arthur regarded the forger for a long moment.

Eames sighed a little, rather playfully put-upon. "I'm doing you a favor here. Don't go getting used to it."

Slowly, Arthur nodded. He couldn't bring himself to thank the forger, but he did appreciate the thorough research into the man who harmed his sister, as well as the reprieve from watching her. As much as he hated to admit it, his sister had been right. He did trust the forger. At least, somewhat.

Eames dipped his head slightly in return.

Ariadne wasn't sure what unspoken communication had passed between the two men, but there was, at the very least, an understanding between them.

Arthur started to leave, but stopped suddenly. "If she wakes early, you'll call-"

"Just go," Eames said, shooing them both out.

When they finally left, he glanced at Penelope. He realized that moment was the first time he'd been alone with her in reality. After all that time in the dreamworld together, they hadn't actually met. He hadn't held her or danced with her or even kissed her. It had all been a lie. While the memories of seeing it happen were fresh in his mind, the sensations were long since lost.

He reached out, brushing a lock of her dark hair back from her face. It was silky, soft. He barely grazed her smooth, porcelain skin with his fingertips in the process.

Exhaling, he let her sleep. He headed to the desk he'd taken over. He still had some things he needed to accomplish before the morning.

The first thing she was aware of was the vehement need her stomach had to expel its contents. When she opened her eyes, she barely recognized the location as the workshop her brother had first brought her to before remembering the placement of the bathroom within the warehouse. Her head felt funny, dizzy almost, as she burst through the door, reaching the commode just in time. There didn't seem to be much in her stomach that warranted escape, quickly moving from bile to just dry heaves.

He woke to the clattering heavy sound of footsteps and someone running into things. Eames rubbed at his eyes, seeing the mildly destructive wake Penelope had left in her path on her journey across the floor. He winced at the sounds that echoed through the tiny bathroom and into the rest of the warehouse as well. Stealthily, he padded toward her, standing just on the other side of the nearly closed door. "Penelope? Are you all right, love?" he asked as he heard the toilet flush.

She jumped at the voice. She didn't recognize the accent at first. It all came back to her in an overwhelming deluge. Her lab partner, Clay, and his family. Her encounters with Lawrence Dillon before her Encapsulation. Vague memories of a British diplomat with music, dancing, a church and a kiss. She nearly crumpled under the weight of the memories, under the realization of what had happened to her. Her knees threatened to dump her onto the cold concrete at her feet. She held desperately onto the sink. "Mr. Eames?" she ventured, as if she weren't sure she could believe or even trust her mind.

He smiled a little. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," she admitted, turning on the faucet. She rinsed her mouth out before splashing some water on her face. The cool sensation was nice but it did little to give her legs back strength or to stop her head from swimming.

If Eames hadn't known better, he would've said she looked drunk or high as she staggered out of the bathroom. Of course, as he checked his watch, he realized she should've still been asleep, under the influence of Yusuf's chemicals. "You've been asleep quite a while."

"What day is it?" she asked, running her fingers through her dark hair.

"It's just after three o'clock Sunday morning."

She looked up at him, blinking. "Sunday..." The last thing she remembered clearly had been going to sleep Friday after work for the mission. The mission that wasn't the mission that... She closed her eyes as a new wave of dizziness flowed. "That explains why my head is still... like... like I'm trying to think through layers of quilt batting. Or... or thick fog."

"Come, sit down," he said, offering her his hand.

She looked at his outstretched palm for a moment. When she looked back at his face, he looked so earnest, so trustworthy. She placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth immediately. They were rough hands. Hands that, despite his outward appearance-his dress and mannerisms-were used to hard work.

"I should phone your brother."

"You just said it's three AM."

"Yes, but he asked that he be notified when you woke," he said as he guided her back to her chair.

As she eased back into it, allowing her muscles to remember the particular curvature of the lounger, she closed her eyes for a moment. "What time did you convince him to go home?" she asked knowingly.

He smiled, somewhat impressed, as he sat down on the chair beside her. "Midnight."

"So, knowing Arthur, he didn't fall asleep until at least one, one thirty... which means we're right at cranky time. Let my brother sleep, Mr. Eames." She looked over at him, taking in the particular hue of his eyes and the dark patches beneath them. "Let me guess... you've had an hour of sleep, give or take fifteen minutes?"

"Thereabouts," he admitted.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said, frowning.

"I'm not." While he was fairly sleep deprived, he was somewhat certain that a pink tinge took to her cheeks.

"Y'know, I don't think we've been formally introduced."

"I guess formalities don't count when we're asleep, do they?"

"No," she said with a smile. It took some effort, but she sat up and offered him her hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Eames. I'm..." She started to tell him her full name, but she didn't. "I'm Penny."

He grinned, taking her hand in his. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Penny."

Coming Attractions...

Lines from the next installment:

They maneuvered through the crowded airport, finding the VIP lounge for their airline. Eames opened the door for her, allowing her to walk through. She still couldn't believe that he'd arranged for them to fly first class, let alone have access to the cushy-looking bar.

When they walked in, a Japanese gentleman in a tailored suit stood from where he'd been seated on a bar stool.

Eames chuckled. "I didn't expect a personal greeting."

"I had other business to attend to in New York. I thought I might welcome you."

"Penny, this is Mr. Saito," Eames began, "CEO of Proclus Global and owner of our airline. Saito, this is-"

Saito held a hand out to Penelope. "I've heard so much about you," he said, gesturing toward the bar's high-definition flat-screen television.