Summary: Eames' first dive into Talbot's dream state. T for Language.

Standing at the foot of the patient's bed, the situation looked as grim as it had three days ago. Arms folded across his chest, Eames considered the comatose figure lying prone, connected to the constant beeping of life support machines. By now his brain function was only supported by the slow in and out whooshing and single green blip travelling across the screen. Highly doubtful there was anything worth looking for in that man, considering how long he was out for. Eames glanced behind him, where the machine sat in wait.

"Sir," A nurse greeted as she entered. The forger turned his attention to her, but the boring blue scrubs she wore swayed his interest. He remembered when nurses were more like flight attendants… or had he dreamt that? He barely had a chance to greet her before she changed the bedpan under Javier Talbot, then left without another word. It seemed like he wasn't getting any help with this one.

Sitting down in one of the hospital chairs, the forger pulled the silver case towards himself. Just like old times, he couldn't open the thing without some extra effort. "Come on… there you go, darling. Not too hard, was it?" He coaxed the thing. They had a love-hate relationship, but it was too expensive to get a new one, even after the Fischer check cashed. It didn't help he was blowing most of his expenses cheating in Vegas these days. He nicknamed the machine Darla, in that it was a stubborn bitch that only worked if he rubbed her the right way.

Yeah, it was named after an ex-girlfriend. Was it that obvious?

Setting the timer to thirty seconds, Eames calculated how long he could be in for. Five minutes to an hour, right? Twelve minutes to a minute… Christ, there was a lot of math involved. He was only good at subtraction. Six minutes to thirty seconds. For a look around the place it would only be a taste, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with. Besides, winding up in Javier Talbot's version of Limbo was not his idea of a vacation.

"Let's take a look, shall we dear?" he muttered as he slid the first plastic tube into the waiting wrist of the patient. Eame's promptly attached his own tube to his arm, then prepared himself in the hospital chair.

"Could've at least given me something comfortable to sit in," He muttered as his thumb pressed the center button down. The machine's calming effect overtook him, and as a second whooshing noise filled the room, Eames fell into Talbot's dream.

0:29…. 0:28… 0:27…

Eames eyes opened. His cheek was pressed against cold earth, yet the heat was unbearable. Cracks in the ground were as far as the eye could see, as if a once fertile body of water had dried, leaving only the earth below subject to the elements. Slowly, the Forger brought himself to his feet to observe his surroundings.

Whichever way he looked, Eames could only see the dried land. There was nothing to find here, only sand. Did his employer want sand? In the far off distance, Eame's could only make out the hint of mountains, but those would be at least a day's walk. In the dreamscape, it could just serve as a background; there might be only flat ground from here to eternity.

"Well this is bloody glorious," Eames frowned, brushing dust off of his jacket. He would have made a beach if he were trapped here forever. That was just him, though.

Suddenly, the wind picked up. Yet it wasn't like normal wind, or even the wind that would occur in a place like this; low and howling. This wind was mechanical and hard, coming on suddenly and strongly. Eames was blown off of his feet, landing with a hard thud.

Shocked awake by the force of impact, Eames eyes snapped open in real life. He scowled, the whooshing of the life support machines still going. He checked the timer of Darla, which was still in the middle of counting down. For all she knew, there was still someone in the dream.

0:13… 0:12… 0:11…

That couldn't be possible. Fifteen seconds? How could he have been kicked out in fifteen seconds? This was just a test round and there was nothing even there… Except that wind…

The life support machines continued to whoosh in the background as Eames pressed the emergency stop on Darla. Probably the damn second-rate machine, there was no way he was getting his ass kicked this badly. He could have sworn he saw a smile on the comatose man's face, but when he looked again the man was as unconscious as ever.

"Nothing down there?" A woman's voice repeated. Sitting at the same table had had shared with Arthur three days ago in the same italian restaurant. He was a creature of habit, he had to admit, but at least he had chosen less annoying company this time around. Eames sat across from Ariadne, the Architect, his hands folded in his lap as he explained his situation to her. Eames was still displeased, and understandably so. He was supposed to not need help, let alone from someone half his age. His experience with Talbot was brief, but it warranted further investigation from someone who knew how these things worked on a more basic level.

"Look, I'm telling you, the only thing down there was ground and wind. It's like his consciousness was… dried up," Eames tried to explain. His accent was coming off strongly this time around. "Why would someone resign themselves to a coma with nothing but flat earth unless there was nothing left."

The young woman across from him bit her lip thoughtfully as she considered this strange case. She wanted to help, but the sound of other diners was interfering with her thought process. It was a busier night this time around. Ariadne always considered herself perceptive, but the architect's path was one of the most minute detail. Glasses clinking together, people laughing, the color pattern of the carpet… She noticed almost everything these days. Annoyingly so.

"Well what do you know about the guy?" She asked after a moment, coming back to reality.

"He's a thirty six year old military strategist. Got into a bit of a nasty motorbike accident three years back, been in a coma ever since. He's from the south of Spain, travelled his entire life, aligned with the US when he was thirty." Eames explained after swallowing a bit of his meal. "Had Arthur dig up as much as he could on him past three days. Couldn't find anything about projection training, but there weren't even projections," He shrugged, unable to tell much else. He cut into his steak again.

Ariadne looked away, tapping her finger against the tablecloth in thought. She then thought of something, her eyes brightening. It was that look that Eames remembered, where she knew something he didn't. "What, love, did you figure it out already?" He asked, putting his utensils down.

"You said he's on life support, right?"

"Yes, but what's th… Oh, you've got to be kidding…" He scowled. It was so obvious… Free Association… Why hadn't he thought of that right off of the bat.

"See, you're not as stupid as you look, Eames," the girl across from him joked. He only put a hand to his face as she explained what he knew already, rubbing his eyes. He was too tired for this. "The wind is Talbot's mind interpreting the sound of the life support machine. It's the loudest thing in his world, so it also comes off as the strongest. That's why it was strong enough to kick you out of his dream. It's like an automatic defense system," She seemed to find the concept simply fascinating, but the forger only saw it as a problem.

"You think Talbot's in there somewhere? It was a wasteland," He repeated, ignoring the free association for the time being. Even if he figured out the automated defense system, there was no point in returning to a dried-up consciousness.

Ariadne just smiled her coy little smirk once more. "Anything's possible in dreams, Eames. Did you forget that?"