Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.

Thanks for the reviews/favorites/follows. To Iole17: I can personally understand Arthur's feelings completely, but maybe that just means I'm as messed up as him. "There is a fine line between love and hate"? To Knuckiducki: I've never promised a happy ending, but if you keep reviewing, we'll make it to whatever end there is! :D And a special thanks to While: if even half of what you said is true, I'm overwhelmed. Some of those secrets you mentioned are coming up...

Song title from Rise Against.

Prayer of the Refugee

Monday, October 10, 2011: Los Angeles, California: Fischer-Morrow Offices: Arthur

Arthur had never liked skyscrapers.

It was odd and unexpected for his character, he knew. He was someone who worshipped organization and unity, and skyscrapers were pretty good examples of that. Yet he loathed them; he thought they were ugly, and largely unnecessary. They blocked out the sun and the sky, and when he stood below them, he felt trapped and worthless. He was someone who always needed to see the escape route, the trapdoor. Skyscrapers did not give him that. They were too hard to run from.

He was currently cornered in a place he was familiar with escaping, but also familiar with how very difficult that was: an elevator. Cobb stood beside him, looking much calmer and more put-together than Arthur, who felt like screaming. But that might've been for more reasons than just an elevator ride.

Unbidden, he saw her smile, the soft curl of her hair, the way her chocolate brown eyes shimmered. He blinked frantically, ridding himself of the images that had haunted him for days, the images that tormented him to the point of insomnia, that remained in the daylight now rather than in his dreams. Which made everything so much worse, because really, sleep was all that could free him now.

The elevator binged, signaling their arrival on the thirty-second floor. The man in the suit who'd come down to get them stepped forward first, followed by Cobb and finally Arthur, who practically dove out of the elevator. The thirty-second floor wasn't much better, but at least he could see smoggy L.A. skies through the windows.

The man led them down a long hallway, framed on both sides by what Arthur guessed were million-dollar paintings. He could name a few of the contemporary artists they passed, but most he didn't know; Browning's taste was radically different from his. The man reached double doors at the end of the hall and knocked once before pushing them open.

It was a large office, spacious and clean, somewhere Arthur could feel comfortable. If only the man in the large chair behind the desk was not there.

The man stood, smiling uncomfortably and stepping out from the desk, buttoning his coat.

"Mark, would you bring us some coffee and water, please?" He asked. The man nodded and left, while Browning marched forward.

"Mr. Cobb," he said cordially, holding out a hand. Cobb shook it without hesitation.

"Mr. Browning," Cobb replied. That was one thing Arthur could always count on with Cobb: unflappable professionalism in the face of villains.

Browning turned, his eyes widening as if he'd only just realized Arthur was there. He raised an eyebrow, but held out a hand, slightly uncertain.

"And you are…?"

"Arthur," Arthur said, shaking his hand. Browning's eyebrows soared.

"Just Arthur?" He repeated. "That's highly unusual, and not the way I do business. Here, we're very formal and professional."

Is that why you blackmail and torture? "That's the way I work, Mr. Browning."

Arthur could feel Cobb at his side, practically vibrating with something to say. He didn't even glance at the man, keeping his eyes locked on Browning, whose whole being reminded him a little of a snake in the grass.

"That won't do," Browning murmured. "Why don't I just call you Mr. Zaleski, hm?"

Arthur froze, Browning's words sinking in. How did he know? He thought in a panic, his eyes flying to Cobb's, who had the decency to look slightly ashamed.

"Mr. Cobb mentioned he had a man called Arthur Zaleski on his team," Browning explained. "So you can imagine our surprise when my researchers tried to track him down and found over a dozen names circulating around what appeared to be a single man. I think we'll settle for the name Mr. Cobb called you. Unless, of course, you prefer another?"

There wasn't a good answer here. Arthur hesitated, struggling to resist the urge to turn and glare daggers at Cobb. He didn't though, keeping his eyes trained on Browning.

"Mr. Zaleski is fine," he murmured.

Browning grinned like a spider that had just snared a fly. "Excellent. Please, take a seat."

They did, and Mark appeared, carrying a heavy tray laden with tea and coffee fixings. He placed it on the table in front of Arthur and Cobb and left without a word, shutting the door with a quiet snap behind him.

"So," Browning said, leaning forward and resting his hands on his desk. "How's it going?"

There: the whole point of the meeting. Arthur looked at Cobb, allowing him to take the question.

"On a whole, we're progressing," Cobb said. "Our chemist is mixing the sedatives and our architect is busy designing the levels." Arthur kept his gaze impassive as his mind went into overdrive, showing him yesterday's memory of Ariadne in her lace dress, cutting and measuring cardboard, building whole cities out of nothing. He was brought back to Earth by Cobb's mention of his name.

"… Arthur and I have been focusing on the logistics of the job," Cobb finished.

Browning's eyes locked on Arthur. "What is your role, exactly?"

"He's our point man," Cobb explained. Arthur was glad; he didn't want to speak to Browning any more than necessary. He found people tended to take him more seriously if he remained an enigmatic figure. "He runs the job while I focus on extracting the information we were sent in for. Or, in this case, in sending Robert to discover his mistake. Arthur works behind the scenes. He's my right-hand man."

Arthur kept his expression neutral, even as he felt pleased. It was obvious that Cobb's words had struck a chord with Browning, who looked impressed against his will.

"I see," Browning said slowly. "That's quite impressive for a man of your age, Mr. Zaleski."

Arthur merely blinked. "I'm good at what I do."

"I'll say. That doesn't just include shared dreaming though, Mr. Zaleski. Am I right?"

"It depends," Arthur said slowly. "What are you alluding to, Mr. Browning?"

Browning's jaw twitched at how unhelpful Arthur was being. "What have your friends Mr. Eames and Ms. Chopin told you about my research team?"

Plenty, Arthur thought. He remembered the way Eames and Ariadne had looked as they explained what Browning had done, how he had piles of research on them all. Names, birthdays ("Probably social security numbers for you Americans," Eames had added) family and everything in between. He'd had it for all of them: Ariadne, Eames, Yusuf, Cobb, Micah; all of them, except for Arthur.

"They told us you were running an investigation on our backgrounds," Cobb said smoothly.

"Correct," Browning agreed. "Surely you understand why, Mr. Cobb."

"Not entirely," Cobb said, his voice harsh. "We are working for you. You have my children. I wouldn't dare pull something over in the risk that it would kill them."

"You wouldn't," Browning said, nodding in agreement. "I don't doubt that, Mr. Cobb. Not at all. But I don't have anything on the rest of your team. What's to stop one of them going rogue and ruining the mission?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know. But I do hear there's this crazy little thing called an ethic. Are you familiar with it, Mr. Browning?"

"Only as far as you are," Browning snapped, irritated. "And if this job wasn't as geared to success as it has to be, I might leave you all be. But it needs to succeed and it needs to be kept secret. So I've been researching your team. Thoroughly." As he spoke, he twisted his computer around, showing the screen to Cobb and Arthur, who were both prepared. Eames and Ariadne hadn't held back in their detail of what Browning had gathered about them.

But it was still a kick to the gut for Arthur to see Ariadne's face, and a long stream of information and details that ran alongside it. Ignoring the (probably) interesting and important personal information on the others, he stared hard at the facts of her life that no one other than people she loved should know.

Emphasis on the past tense.

Born in Montreal, Canada, on July 19, 1988, to Blaise Chopin and Juliet Roux-Chopin…Older siblings Zacharie (32) and Josephine (29)…Attends the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts…Currently lives in Paris, France…Speaks French and English fluently…

Arthur already knew all of this, but not everyone in the world did, and no one on Browning's team would've normally. He stared as more images of Ariadne appeared, images of her younger, a teenager and even a child, those gorgeous chocolate brown eyes, staring at him, torturing him more—

"This is quite thorough," Cobb murmured. Arthur turned to the older man. Cobb's eyes were locked on the screen, which showed a wedding photo of Cobb and Mal.

"This is a beautiful photograph," Browning said, studying the expressions on the faces of the men before him. Arthur kept his neutral, but Cobb's nostrils were practically flared in disapproval. "You were married in Paris?"

"Yes."

Cobb's voice was clipped, but Arthur knew him well enough to recognize how tight and tense it was, how hard this was for Cobb, to see that photo of his deceased wife and know this monster who was holding her children hostage had it. Arthur wished he could do something to wipe that smirk off Browning's face, but he didn't know what that could be.

"It's quite interesting," Browning continued. "Because of your best man." Before either man could do anything, Browning opened a different photo, expanding it: and there was Arthur, in a gray suit and dark blue tie, standing on Cobb's other side.

Browning looked at them, a soft smile on his face. "Good friends?"

Used to be, Arthur thought. But rather than get into that, he nodded. Browning's smile grew.

"Then I see why Mr. Cobb chose you to help him on this job," Browning said. "Because you, Mr. Zaleski, are the most mysterious man I've ever encountered. You have no references and no background. The only thing I could dredge up were your attendance records from Harvard University."

"I missed a lot of class," Arthur said in a sarcastic tone.

Browning nodded. "Oh, I know. Why was that?"

The million-dollar question, the answer to which very few people in the world knew, and one of them was sitting beside Arthur. Cobb remained cool, arranging his features into one of confusion. Browning noticed.

"Did you not know that, Mr. Cobb?" He asked harshly.

Cobb shook his head, the perfect actor. "I met Arthur through my wife, Mr. Browning. He'd already left Harvard by the time he started working for me. College degrees don't matter in dream sharing. Arthur's actual skills were more valuable than that slip of paper."

"No questions asked?"

"He saved my life during our first job," Cobb said softly. "I trusted him completely after that, something he's never made me regret."

Arthur kept his gaze forward, feeling Cobb's own turn to him. The regret and remorse that emanated from him was stifling, like hot air. It wasn't something Arthur wanted to breathe in right now.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Zaleski has never saved my life," Browning continued. "Which means I need to know his background." He turned to Arthur. "Go on."

Arthur laughed, which was probably the worse thing he could've done. "I'm sorry, Mr. Browning. But I'm not at liberty to divulge that information."

Browning stared. "Excuse me?"

"Most extractors, forgers, chemists, architects and point men of the shared dreaming world are trained," Arthur explained, his tone clipped. "Trained by mentors who came before them. Shared dreaming has been around long enough for there to be a second generation. The first generation were either naturally gifted real-world thieves, chemists and architects, or were there on the front lines and made it up as they went along." He nodded at Cobb. "Cobb was trained."

Browning nodded. "By Stephen Miles."

"Yeah, and Miles trained Mal as well," Arthur confirmed. "Eames is one hell of a good thief already, but he worked as an private investigator in London before he got sucked into the world. He literally stumbled upon it, uncovering a dream heist. He resigned from the company to pursue it, but his work there gave him the background on weaponry and fighting he needed. Yusuf learned everything he needed to about chemistry from his university, and had earned a reputation as a solid dream chemist after returning to Mombasa and learning of the trade. Eames found him, and he entered Fischer's dream with us last year; he'd gone under before, but he was unequipped for fighting or anything like that, so he drove a car on the first level for us."

Arthur paused, taking a moment before continuing. "Miles introduced Ariadne to Cobb last year, exactly the same way he introduced Cobb to his first job. Cobb and I taught Ariadne about the dream world, but she did the designs on her own. Architecture in the dream world is only different in that there are no limits and no boundaries. She's a natural though; she's got a gift for it."

"You've done your homework, Mr. Zaleski," Browning noted, slightly slack-jawed.

"It's my job to do so, Mr. Browning."

"But you haven't said why you cannot tell me about your entry into the world of shared dreaming."

Arthur smiled darkly. "My entry was something else entirely than any of theirs. My story is wholly unique. I was an experiment that went wrong."

Browning looked bewildered. "What experiment?"

"An experiment conducted by the U.S. Military."

Silence followed Arthur's pronouncement. He remained still, watching Browning's face as it changed from shock to awe, to even fear and astonishment. Cobb was quiet, watching as well, keeping his face interested and bemused. Arthur remained cold and steadfast.

"Do you see now why I cannot tell you more?" Arthur asked softly.

Browning swallowed, his guard shaken. "Can't or won't?"

"Can't. I was formally discharged, but I still hold many of the military's biggest secrets. My freedom hinges on my reliability to keep them that way."

He was telling a half-truth, but Browning had no way of knowing that. It was true that Arthur knew many of the military's juiciest and darkest secrets, secrets he knew needed to be kept quiet and followed that order religiously. But many of those secrets had nothing to do with him personally. Technically, there was nothing stopping him from explaining why he was in the military, what had happened to him there, and why he was no longer part of it. He could tell Browning why the experiment that was him went wrong; but he really didn't want to.

His legs seemed to ache the more he thought about it.

"So the United States Military is responsible for why my researchers cannot find anything on you?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes." Again, half-truth. The details of his years in the military were hidden by them, but the facts of Arthur's personal life and childhood were things Arthur suppressed. The military didn't care about that; Arthur did.

Browning leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. "I see. That explains quite a bit. The military guards its secrets."

"They have to," Arthur pointed out.

Browning sighed again, tired of Arthur's insolence. "Very well. We'll have to come up with another way to come by that information."

Arthur's eyebrows rose up. "Come again?"

"I still need to know what the military invested in you," Browning said. "And why. I don't know if you're a liability to them; or an asset. One would think asset, because how else would they trust you to keep those secrets for so long? You earned their trust somehow, yet you claim you were discharged. Dishonorably?"

"Hardly," Arthur snapped, feeling insulted. "Very honorably."

"Then an asset," Browning murmured. "I don't see why they would've let you go then."

Arthur blinked. "I've been told I can be a little sarcastic. That made things confusing."

"Don't be funny," Browning hissed. He regained his composure quickly, recovering from the flare of irritation. "Well, well. Mr. Zaleski, I am deeply interested in you. We'll see how far my team can go."

Arthur inclined his head. "Good luck. Let me know what you find out, would you?"

"Absolutely," Browning grumbled. He turned abruptly to Cobb. "The reason I brought you here, aside from a check-in and the pleasure of meeting your point man-" his eyes slid to Arthur before looking back at Cobb "-Was to tell you there's been a change in setting."

Cobb stared. "What?"

"Robert would rather conduct the meeting at our power plant on the coast," Browning said. "He feels the executives he thinks he's meeting with should see what they are getting."

"Can't you feed him something to change his mind?" Arthur asked.

Browning glared at him. "It's not so simple, Mr. Zaleski. Robert's logic is sound. My raising objections would only make him suspicious. He knows I'm unhappy about this sale."

"Tell me about the power plant," Cobb interjected.

"We have a conference room overlooking the main energy chambers that Robert intends to tour with the executives," Browning said. He reached into his desk and revealed a stack of blueprints, which he passed to Cobb. Cobb took them as Browning continued. "The plant is much bigger than this floor, and it's also smaller in height. The conference room overlooks the energy chambers, with iron stairs running around as viewing areas. There are doors along the catwalks leading to the lobby, restrooms, a cafeteria for the workers and visitors (tours run daily) and smaller areas. Elevators run alongside the building for easy transportation from one part to another. We've also got hydraulic chambers that channel the water through the building and return it to the sea."

"Where is this plant?" Cobb asked.

"Half an hour's drive from here," Browning said. "In the industrial district of Los Angeles."

Arthur pulled a heavy file towards him, flicking it open. A thick stack of official documents and papers looked up at him. He almost smiled. He could handle conversations about himself, though he didn't like it; but what he was really good at was running investigations on other things.

He skimmed the photos. "There's construction going on."

"Yes, we're remodeling a wing of the plant," Browning confirmed. "Adding new technology, putting in a couple new elevators to the addition. It's fairly close to the conference room, but that shouldn't be an issue."

"We need to evaluate all of this," Cobb disagreed. He glanced at Arthur, and Arthur got his meaning: We need to know our escape routes.

"These are yours then," Browning said, waving his hand over the stack of blueprints and files. He got to his feet, indicating they were dismissed. Cobb and Arthur followed suit as Browning extended his hand, shaking Cobb's first.

"Thank you for coming in," he said. "And I expect to see you again on the 15th. As always, if you have any questions, don't hesitate to call."

Cobb nodded tensely. "Of course, Mr. Browning."

"I expect there to be no further problems," Browning continued. "You know what's at stake here, Mr. Cobb."

Arthur was stunned at how low of a blow that was. The look on Cobb's face brought up his old caring feelings for the extractor, and he felt prepared to kill Browning with his bare hands. He didn't get a chance though, as Cobb pulled away, marching straight to the door, where Mark was waiting. Arthur made to follow when a hand seized his shoulder.

"And Mr. Zaleski…" Browning's voice was the epitome of malicious. Arthur exhaled through his nose, forcing his eyes to meet Browning's. The businessman looked smug. "Be careful."

Arthur smirked. "Only if you do the same, Mr. Browning. Have a good day." He tore out of there, hurrying after Cobb, ignoring whatever reaction Browning was having.

The elevator ride back to the lobby was painful. Arthur kept his expression blank, while Cobb stared into the wall. Mark had thankfully not ridden down with them, instead showing them out on the thirty-second floor. But even though they were alone, neither Cobb nor Arthur spoke. Neither would've put it past Browning to have the elevators bugged.

They reached the lobby and hurriedly left the building, emerging into the chilly October afternoon. The sun hadn't quite set yet, but it was threatening to, hiding behind other skyscrapers. Arthur tucked his jacket in around himself, walking quickly beside Cobb as they made for Arthur's car. They jumped in and Arthur peeled out of the lot.

Cobb waited until Arthur had pulled onto the highway to speak. "Where are we headed?"

"I'm taking you to the warehouse," Arthur said. "And then I have to meet an old friend."

Cobb stared at him from the passenger's seat. "A friend? Why?"

"Because I need him to allow Fischer-Morrow to access my files."

There was a long and awkward silence, during which Cobb visibly looked stunned. His mouth opened and closed uselessly. Arthur offered no assistance or explanation; he kept his eyes trained on the road, merging into traffic with breathtaking speed and maybe a little too coltishly.

Cobb swallowed. "Who?"

"A friend," Arthur repeated.

"You have no friends," Cobb said brusquely. "Especially not in California. Who is it? And what do you mean, you want Fischer-Morrow to get your files? You just told Browning he didn't have a prayer."

Arthur nodded. "And he doesn't, unless someone on the inside specifically allows him to see the files."

"Why would you want this?"

"Because," Arthur said slowly. "Because he needs to see who he's dealing with."

Cobb stared at him. "My God. You intend to kill him."

"What, don't you?"

Cobb's mouth opened and closed like a beached fish. "Certainly, Arthur! But not this soon! I was going to get my kids settled out of the country, away from here, before I went after Browning."

"That'll take too long," Arthur disagreed. "You have to strike while the iron is hot."

It hit Cobb as to how hot the iron was going to be. "The job. After we complete the job, you're going to kill him. Right in the conference room."

"He'll be waking up," Arthur said in a dark tone. "He won't know which way is up after being three levels down. We've done this a million times before; we'll be fine and more than capable of taking down a fifty-nine year old man with heart problems." He veered into traffic and Cobb gripped the bar above his head, earning a smirk from Arthur. "It'll be very easy, especially after the job."

"You're insane," Cobb spluttered. "You're actually insane."

"Am I?" Arthur wondered. Very abruptly and without warning, he pulled off, slamming the car to a stop along the road in an abandoned parking lot beside the ocean. The sun was starting to set, a mass of blood reds and oranges.

"Cobb," Arthur said clearly. "This is the man who has taken your life out of your hands. He is threatening to kill your children. And he will, if you fail. He will shoot them through the heads, or hold them under water to drown, or wrap his hands around their necks-"

"Stop!" Cobb gasped. "God, Arthur, I know, I don't need you to tell me-"

"Then why do you think I'm insane?" Arthur demanded. "Who's to say what Browning will do if the idea doesn't take hold in Fischer? What's to stop him from killing us all out of spite, or to hand us to the authorities to send us to jail for the rest of our lives? That almost happened to you," he said, reminding the older man of the years he'd spent hiding from extradition. "And just when that sword was taken off your head, this happens. He's ruined you, Cobb. He's royally screwed us all."

Cobb frowned, considering Arthur's rant.

"I think…" He paused before continuing, speaking swiftly now. "I think you're right, Arthur. I only have one thing to say."

"Yes?"

Cobb looked Arthur in the eye. "Let me kill him."

Arthur paused, about to put the car in drive. "Why? Because he took your kids?"

"Yes," Cobb confirmed. "But it's more than that. I want my killing of Browning to be the first thing I do to try to win your forgiveness."

Arthur froze, his eyes on the road ahead of him. Beside him, Cobb was still, watching the younger man. Arthur swallowed once and blinked.

"You're killing him…"

"…Because I don't want you to have to," Cobb murmured. "Because it needs to be done, and it can be my first step in apologizing. I know I'll probably never succeed in that, but I want to try. And, well… If something goes wrong and they connect the team to Browning's murder… I want to take the fall. Not you."

"But… Your kids-"

"Your freedom," Cobb said strongly. "Your freedom, Arthur. I stole it from you; I won't stand by and watch you risk it all again. Not when I can prevent that."

"Cobb…" Arthur felt overwhelmed. Very rarely did people do anything for him, and never at something of this magnitude. It was too much. "I don't know what to say."

"Okay, works. Or maybe even 'deal.'"

Arthur smiled. "Alright. Deal."

They shook hands, and for one blissful moment, it felt to Arthur like they were partners again, about to begin a mission in the work they loved so much. It wasn't until he'd turned to drive again did he remember the situation, the things Cobb had done that had made him feel the need to do this.

But still, it was one hell of a thing to do. He couldn't deny that.

Arthur drove down the highway, sitting with Cobb in their first comfortable silence since he'd showed up in Paris. They reached the warehouse and Arthur pulled over, helping Cobb gather the blueprints and files.

"Put the files on the history of the building on my desk," Arthur instructed him. "I'll see what I can learn about the land. There might be some drain-off tunnels we can run through if we need to."

"Okay," Cobb said. He climbed out of the car, but paused before slamming the door.

"Aren't you coming in? If I'm killing Browning, there's no need to give him your files. All you'd be doing is giving him a target."

Arthur glanced at his watch. "I know, I won't. But I'm still going to meet my friend. Say hello."

"And this friend… He'll meet you?"

"I think so," Arthur said with a smile. "He thinks I'm dead."

The expression on Cobb's face was priceless. He gaped at Arthur for a long moment before finally letting loose a loud chuckle.

"You're right," he agreed. "People love running into dead men walking." Cobb backed up, clutching the blueprints tightly. "We might order a pizza, should I get you combo?"

Arthur laughed. "Definitely. Make sure Eames keeps his filthy mitts off it, okay?"

"As always. Goodbye, Arthur."

"Bye, Cobb."

Arthur waited until the warehouse door had slammed shut behind Cobb before pulling out his cell phone. He opened the internet browser on it and typed in the name 'Jonah Mellark,' searching for the one in Los Angeles. It didn't take long before he found him. Arthur ascertained that there was no immediate business listing for Jonah Mellark (a good sign) and proceeded directly to home address and phone number. He dialed the number without hesitation.

It rang twice, before a woman picked up. "Hello?"

"I'm calling for Mr. Mellark," Arthur said smoothly. "It's work."

"Oh!" He heard movement in the background as the woman began to search. "One moment please." Arthur listened as she called for Jonah, her voice echoing, not quite able to cover up her yells on the phone.

A man picked up, a voice Arthur hadn't heard in almost nine years. "Yes, this is Mr. Mellark."

"Mr. Mellark, my name is James Browning," Arthur said, snatching the name Browning from his earlier meeting with a real one. "I have a source that has picked up critical information regarding one of your cases. I need to give it to you now."

"Right, of course," Jonah said, scrabbling for what Arthur guessed was paper and pen. "Where can I meet you, Mr. Browning?"

"Anthony's in Santa Monica," Arthur said, looking straight ahead as he spoke and speaking in a lower tone than normal. "The bar. Thirty minutes," he added, estimating how long it would take Jonah to get there from his house in Long Beach.

"I'll see you there. How will I know it's you?"

Arthur smiled. "I'll find you, Mr. Mellark." He hung up his cell phone, putting it back in his pocket and starting the ignition. He pulled away from the warehouse, headed to Santa Monica.

The drive was smooth and uneventful, and Arthur made it to the aforementioned bar in twenty minutes. Anthony's was a swanky place, and even on a Monday night was more crowded than normal places. Arthur gave his car to the valet, blending in with the well-to-do in his suit. But rather than go inside, he hovered to the side of the front doors, scanning the cars as they pulled in.

He waited eight minutes before a Mustang pulled up, joining the line of cars. Arthur smiled in satisfaction as Jonah Mellark emerged from the car. He looked largely the same, but older, more filled-out. He had bright blond hair and rocky blue eyes hidden behind thin-framed glasses (he still doesn't like contacts, Arthur realized with a fond feeling). Jonah was dressed nicely, in a suit as well, but Arthur knew just by looking at it that it wasn't nearly as expensive as his own. That was typical Jonah. Arthur gave him a two-minute head start into the restaurant before following him inside.

The restaurant hung off the edge of a rocky cliff on the Californian coast. The sunset was practically gone now, but it still managed to paint the walls of the restaurant bright colors, now dark reds and slight purples.

Jonah was sitting at the bar, having picked a place surreptitiously out of the way and near the end. He ordered a beer, taking a gulp while keeping one eye on the television (L.A. Lakers were ahead) and one eye anywhere he could see, flickering from person to person in an attempt to find Mr. James Browning.

Who, of course, did not exist.

Arthur stepped forward, until he was standing behind Jonah. Reaching for the stool beside his, he murmured, "Hello, Jonah."

Jonah spun around, slopping beer onto the polished marble. His expression was one of the most stunned Arthur had ever seen, just wide eyes and fully open mouth. He gaped as Arthur sat down. He couldn't formulate words, only managing to do so after Arthur ordered a beer.

"Arthur," Jonah gasped. "Holy shit. Arthur."

"Thanks," Arthur murmured to the bartender, who'd passed him the drink. He smiled at Jonah as he took a sip. "Long time, no see, huh?"

Jonah nodded furiously. "I'll say. Fuck, Arthur—I thought you were dead."

"You're not the only one."

"The last time I saw you…" Jonah ran a hand over his hair, messing it up, an old and familiar nervous habit to Arthur, who'd seen him utilize it many times. "You were being dragged away by militant terrorists, you were covered in blood and you were yelling at the rest of us to run, and—Jesus Christ, how are you alive?"

Arthur studied the polished top of the bar. "I'd rather not discuss that. What happened, happened, Jonah."

"We ran," Jonah croaked, speaking less to Arthur and more to himself. "We booked it outta there. Everyone thought you were dead, no one had heard a thing by the time we shipped back three months later… How long?"

He was staring at Arthur, who took a long drink of beer before answered. "Six months."

Jonah looked even more shocked and horrified. "Six months? Fuck, Arthur. Fuck."

"Pretty much sums it up."

"You were just nineteen-"

"Jonah," Arthur said calmly. "It was hell. It was the worst six months of my life. But I need you to focus on the present moment."

Jonah snorted, but recovered somewhat. "Like hell I will. You were my best friend, Arthur. I deserve to know what happened to you."

"You'll know," Arthur said. "Jonah, I need you to do me a favor."

"What's the favor?"

Arthur smiled. Good old Jonah; always willing to hear people out first before passing judgment. "I need you to open up the files on me to a man called Peter Browning of Fischer-Morrow."

Jonah frowned. "Browning. Any relation to James?"

"Might've gotten the idea there," Arthur said dismissively. "Can you do it?"

"Can I do it?" Jonah repeated. "Come on, Arthur. Do you really think that if I had access to that information I wouldn't have already tried to find out everything I could on you?" He stilled as if he'd realized something. "I went to your goddamn funeral."

"My mother had a funeral," Arthur murmured. "She thinks I'm dead too. Everyone does." He sighed and pressed on. "What do you do for them these days?"

"The military? I'm in the upper levels."

"I thought so. You have access to the central database. You just need a couple things from me to override the pass codes."

Jonah stared. "How do you know about that?"

"I was a bit of a special case," Arthur reminded him. "They practically worshipped me when I came back. I got to make the decisions regarding how to best protect my files."

"Hold on," Jonah said, literally raising a hand. Arthur smirked. "The military allowed you to help them guard your files?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Arthur scratched behind his ear, slightly uncomfortable. "They had two things that they needed to happen: one, I disappear; two, that the information of what happened to me be kept top secret and hidden away. I agreed, on the condition that I be able to access that information."

"Why would you need to access it?" Jonah asked, bewildered.

Arthur shrugged. "Emergencies. My personal sanity, so that I could convince myself of the facts and keep the hallucinations at bay. They didn't need the reasons. They just needed me to agree."

Jonah still looked overwhelmingly impressed. "You bartered with the United States Military."

"You should try it sometime."

"Ha," Jonah said, rolling his eyes. "Fat chance."

Arthur reached across the bar, picking up a napkin and pulling a pen from his jacket pocket.

"I am going to give you the pass codes to my files," he murmured. "When you go into the office tomorrow, I want you to open them and prepare to spam them to Peter Browning on…Say, October 17th." Enough time to warn Browning, but not enough time for him to plan. The job would be three days after that. "Set a time limit on how long he can view them. He has researchers who will attempt to preserve them. I need you to manually override their system and prevent them from doing so. Browning just needs to see the facts."

As he spoke, Arthur wrote down a series of numbers. Though they would've looked random and erratic to Jonah (and anyone else for that matter) to Arthur, they made perfect sense.

1132029151516416316181362613 2201171613201015151641625619 203213220

"Why does Browning have to have your files? What'd he do to earn that?"

Arthur looked up, putting his pen back in his pocket. "That's between me and Browning, Jonah. Don't worry; if you really want to know what happened to me, go for it. Just close out when you're done."

Jonah raised an eyebrow. "You're giving me permission to read your files?"

"Sure. So long as you send them to Browning and follow my instructions."

"Alright," Jonah said. "I can do that. You sure it's okay?"

Arthur nodded. "I figure, since you tried to go to my funeral and all, you probably deserve to know."

"You bet," Jonah commented. "Where the hell have you been for the past nine years then?"

"Here and there," Arthur said vaguely.

Jonah didn't look convinced. "That explains a lot."

"I want to hear about you," Arthur said. "On the phone: that was Lana, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Jonah said, smiling.

Arthur grinned. "Excellent. I'm really glad to hear that, Jonah. When did you two get married?"

"2006."

"Kids?"

"Yeah," Jonah said, smiling more. "A girl and a boy. Vanessa is five and Arthur is three."

Arthur stilled. "What?"

Jonah chuckled. "You heard me right. I named my son after my dead best friend." He paused, letting the bitter run out of his voice. "I wanted him to be like you, Arthur. I'll never forget that day, and how ridiculously brave you were. I'd never seen so much blood, and you were telling me to save myself, to leave you, and… Fuck, I did."

"You feel guilty," Arthur realized.

"Yeah, I do," Jonah said. "Did. No, I still do, even though you made it out. You very well might not have. Most wouldn't have. You're probably the only guy I know who could've lasted that long. What made you crack?"

Arthur blinked. "Crack? I didn't crack."

"No, seriously," Jonah pressed.

"Jonah," Arthur murmured quietly. "I didn't tell them anything. That's why I was there for six months. They didn't let me go. They were raided one day and I was rescued."

It was quiet between the two men then. Jonah stared at Arthur, who felt uncomfortable and turned back to the television. The Lakers had scored another six points before Jonah found his voice.

"You didn't crack," he said in wonder.

"Tell me about your kids, Jonah."

"I can't believe it," Jonah whispered. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit. How many medals did they give you for that?"

Arthur shrugged. "A few."

"No wonder they rolled out the red carpet for you," Jonah said.

"How is Lana these days?" Arthur asked.

"Screw me," Jonah snapped. "Tell me about you, you asshole. I know nothing about you, except that you're the toughest and strongest son of a bitch I've ever met. I'm dying here, man: where have you been?"

Arthur sighed. "It's going to take longer to explain what I've been up to than one beer, Jonah."

"I am prepared for that," Jonah said wholeheartedly. He raised a hand at the bartender. "Hey! Can we get four shots of your best whiskey down here?"

Arthur smirked, finishing off his beer. He glanced down at the bar, at the list of numbers on the napkin, numbers that would almost certainly cause Browning to take aim on him alone, to single him out for death, allowing Cobb to rescue his children and take them home, allowing Yusuf to go back to Makena, Micah to Harvard, Eames to London, and Ariadne...

Home, safe.

And what of Arthur himself? What would happen to him?

"I guess I should ask," Jonah said suddenly. "Do you have a new drink preference?"

Jonah slipped the napkin into his pocket, and Arthur watched it disappear.

"No," he murmured. "I don't care."

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