AN The last day before the extractor. Today's another short chapters into one big chapter- last chapter should have been in this too, but oh well. Next chapter will be a flashback, and there might be another flashback chapter, but then we should be at Tuesday, and at least find out who the new extractor is. So enjoy.
Monday
Fischer stared out the window at all the cars below, thoughts heavy. The weight of the world seemed to be hanging off his shoulders. He had never felt so alone, so utterly lonely. As a corporate heir, his friends had almost always often been the sons of executives his father worked with, or schoolmates from the private boarding schools he had attended back in Australia. Yet slowly, he had spent more and more time near his declining father's beside, and his acquaintances had drifted off into business ventures and careers and families. He had stayed.
Now wasn't really a good time, he knew, but he sort of wished there was someone to share his accomplishments with. He was the last of the Fischers and was well aware he was expected to carry on the line somehow.
Or at the very least, he needed a friend. His secretary had just informed him a very irate and drunken sounding Peter Browning was on the line, demanding to talk to him.
Fischer had known Browning for a very long time. He had joined his Father's company when Fischer was about two, and slowly worked his way up the ranks by his brutal and tough stance on company progress and success. By the time Fischer was ten, he had become a close family friend. When his mother became sick, and found religion, also demanding her son be baptized, Maurice had chosen his right hand man as the Godfather. Though admittedly, he had hoped his son would go to him for business practices and advice on running the company than religious questions, Maurice had meant well.
Browning, Robert was starting to see, did not. He found pleasure in being cruel and unethical to get his way, was immoral, unscrupulous, and self-congratulatory when he really contributed nothing. He was quick to find money in everything, and had almost no feelings of family, friends, or personal loyalty, as far as Fischer could tell. He assumed he had hidden this side of him from Maurice, who was a good person, though changed from the death of his wife and the control he needed for the company to succeed. Now, however, it was all coming out. Fischer decided attending a charity gala could be good for him, and instructed the secretary to inform him his presence was being demanded.
Fischer went back to looking out the window, refreshed and more confident in life than ever before. His father had never tried to reform the old scoundrel- yet again, he was fulfilling the late Maurice's wishes and building something for himself.
Robert thought that maybe, if his mother and religion had been correct, his father could see him now; and was looking down on him with the pride and fondness he had had trouble expressing to his son in life. Surely, the Fischer name had found more success at last.
Dom Cobb lifted James from the car seat with a careful and graceful skill acquired from handling explosives and sensitive information. The booster seat made for some awkward getting out of the car, but James didn't mind his father picking him up. Phillipa had already scampered off, pink backpack blazing like a beacon, barely waving to her father before heading inside to school. Today, Dom knew, was the Spelling Bee day, and she was quite excited- she had run into his room at six this morning asking him how one properly spelled 'malicious'.
James, on the other hand, let his father stand by the car for a minute, clearly deep in thought, before tugging gently on his hand.
"Dad," He said patiently. His father often became quiet and introspective- his grandpa had taught Phillipa that word for the spelling bee, and when James had asked what was wrong with dad she had sighed and rolled her eyes and told him he was being 'introspective'.
"You don't even know what that means!" He had yelled at her. She had huffed and put a hand on her hip.
"Do too. It means thinking about Mom. Miles told me."
Actually, Miles had told her it was when a person thought about things that were dear to them. But he had used his son-and-law as the example, and the second definition had stuck.
"Hmm?" Dom asked, coming out of his reverie and breaking into his son's own attempt at being introspective.
"I'm going to school now, okay?" He asked worriedly. His father seemed very lonely, and he didn't like leaving him alone for so long (well, actually, he didn't like school, but he knew the first excuse made grandma sniff and give him chocolate, so he used it frequently), but his father simply smiled at him and waved him off.
"Have fun." Was all he said, stepping into the car. James sighed and trudged towards his least favorite building in the world, knowing his father wouldn't drive away until he'd seen James head inside.
Eames stood in front of a mirror, gesturing rapidly, speaking articulately. Ariadne cocked her head to the side, placing the large white cardboard box filled with crepes on the edge of Arthur's desk and stepping closer to observe. She had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a red coat belted to her frame.
Arthur looked up from the whiteboard. He had spent the last ten minutes attempting to write, but with each movement the markers had squeaked. For four minutes (after the first squeak Eames had checked his watch and started betting himself when the Point Man would give up) he had huffed and rolled his eyes and growled slightly. At the six minute thirty second mark, he gave up, throwing the marker to the floor and throwing himself into a lawn chair, covering his face with hand and running a hand through his gelled hair.
And at eight minutes and twenty two seconds he quickly stood back up, retrieved the marker, and carefully set it on the sill under the whiteboard.
He had then spent the rest of the time staring at it introspectively, only looking away when Ariadne entered the warehouse.
"Morning," He said politely, nodding at the Architect. He debated adding a small smile to it, but with Eames watching like a hawk it seemed unwise. She quickly grinned back at him before turning her attention to the Forger.
"Good morning to you too, Eames," She said loudly, teasing him. Eames met her eyes in the mirror and grinned back at her gleefully.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice me," He said, turning away from his work and reaching for a crepe. She smacked his hand away.
"Not till we're allowed to have them," She chastised him, turning toward Arthur for confirmation. He shook his head, a small smile playing about his face.
"Take your coat off," He told the young architect. "I'm taking you under to plan the Extractor test. Eames, keep working. We need just as good a Browning as you had before."
"We're using Browning?" Ariadne asked in confusion. Arthur nodded.
"Nash called a few minutes ago- Browning wants us to go under in a month, at a charity gala. I told Nash we could make that deadline, so we have to get started now."
"No, but…"
"Two reasons, darling," Eames said, taking her messenger bag for her and grunting. "Bloody hell, what's in this?"
"Papers. I have to grade them for tomorrow." Eames promptly opened the bag and removed a think manila folder full of slightly creased and wrinkled papers, holding them up to the light and examining. Ariadne watched him in amused bewilderment for a moment.
"The first is that Fischer spent the most time with Eames in the dream, meaning he's got a connection with him we can exploit. But also, he spent the most time with Eames undisguised, meaning if we want to get away with this Eames needs to hide himself. The second is that Browning and Fischer have a relationship we can use to our advantage. Plus, Eames is rather good at forging, and usually dreamers try to employ Forgers whenever and wherever they can. They're considered extremely valuable members of the team."
"That's stupid," Ariadne said without thinking. "The Point Man does all the real work. And the Architect built the dream- that's important."
"Yes, well," Arthur began, rubbing the bag of his neck and looking faintly embarrassed. Eames looked delighted. "I wouldn't disagree with you at all, but really, it's the Extractor we have to worry about."
"Oh, right," Ariadne agreed, blushing and stripping off her coat. "I was thinking we use the same dream of the building we use, and then from there opening to a series of paradoxical staircases every which way, that connect to a catwalk with climbing equipment."
"Building you use?" Eames repeated in flustered confusion. Ariadne froze and turned toward him.
"Yes?" She asked, perplexed. "Why…"
"Drop it," Arthur advised, pulling up his sleeves and drawing out the needle packs. He was well aware of what Eames thought they were using the building for, but was adverse to telling Ariadne. "He's just being Eames."
"Oh…" She said lamely, laying back and moving her head, trying to get comfortable. Her eyes never left Arthur, who bent down to attach the needle to her wrist.
"OH!" She explained sharply, and Arthur immediately straightened up and looked to her face.
"Are you alright?" He said quickly, reaching for the needle, "Did I apply it wrong?"
She snatched her wrist away and looked towards Eames. "I know what you meant!" She exclaimed loudly, glaring at him. Eames let out a chuckle and waved Arthur towards his own chair.
"Good night, sleeping Beauty and the beast," He said jovially, deploying the button and watching his companions sink into a shared dream. He grinned to himself and returned to his mirror, shaking his head at his two friends.
