"tout ça m'est bien égal"
21. Myth
They said members of elite groups gravitated towards each other. No matter how small the group or how big the world, they would always manage to find each other. Perhaps it had something to do with the way they acted, or the way they surveyed a situation, or perhaps it was through some weird, inexplicable link, but those who dealt with dreams could always sight members of their particular trade.
That was why Dom and Mal were not particularly surprised when a stranger approached them at their table one night, having spotted them from across the bustling saloon. He sat down calmly beside them, casually tugging at his cuffs, and observed them frankly.
"I have heard of you two," he said in the clipped tones of a posh British accent. "In the right circles, you are acclaimed for the work you have done."
"I take it this is not a social call," Mal said.
"No," the stranger said. "No, it is decidedly not." Raising a hand, he signalled a passing waitress and received a glass of red wine. "I have a proposition for you," he said, taking a long sip. "A partnership of sorts."
"Is this partnership, strictly speaking, legal?" Dom said. "As you are probably aware, our trade has a habit of going in either direction."
The man set down his glass. "It depends. The work you and your partner—"
"Wife," Dom interrupted.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Congratulations. I had not heard." He took another sip of wine, his eyes focusing on the gold wedding band and twin engagement ring showcased on Mal's slender finger. "The work you and your wife have accomplished has stretched the limits on what can be accomplished in the world of extraction. But to think of what you could achieve if you worked in our field is extraordinary. We could push so much farther, find even greater secrets hidden in the human mind—"
"We are not thieves, monsieur," Mal interrupted. "I certainly did not learn my trade to have my methods abused by those seek only fame and fortune through idea theft for corporations."
The man swished his wine around in his glass. "Very well," he said, "I understand that you do not wish to be associated with those who work outside the law. But I am not asking you to participate in Extraction, I was merely suggesting—"
"We know what you were suggesting," Dom said. "Perhaps I should clarify. Either get to the point, or leave. We are not interested in being bribed to work for the most recent multimillion-dollar corporation to seek out trade secrets of their rival companies."
The man firmly set down his glass. "What do you know about Inception?" he asked.
Mal smiled. "You have come to us for that?"
"I merely want to know whether it is possible. As the leading experts on the subject, it is surely understandable to assume that you would have some kind of answer."
"I do have an answer," Mal said, rising to her feet, "and advice. It is a myth best left forgotten. A fairytale that can never come true – I wouldn't bother wasting my time with it. Goodnight, monsieur; perhaps you will find what you are looking for elsewhere."
22. Dashing
The tall, blonde woman bit gently into the chocolate-covered strawberry, her bright eyes laughing at him from across the table. "So, what kind of work do you do?"
"Are you interested, love?"
"Let's just say I have a healthy dose of curiosity."
Eames leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Well, let's try to curb that, shall we?"
"Are you honestly not going to tell me?"
"A man needs to keep a little mystery about himself," he said, waving a hand casually. "Especially on the first date."
She giggled, and blushed a little under his direct gaze. Eames smiled to himself. Yes, she would be a perfect addition to his collection of disguises. There were some situations where an attractive woman with just a hint of intelligence behind the vapid smile would be exactly what he needed. After all, a man in his line of work needed all the disguises he could get – and if such a search got him a little extra on the side, it was all just part of business.
Working on the opposite side of the law certainly had its perks.
23. Genteel
Arthur was a conundrum, much like the mazes she had designed for the dreamscapes. Ariadne thought she understood people very well; usually when she met someone, she had them figured out within a week. Maybe that was the effect of growing up with psychologists, but Arthur threw her out of her usual loop. He had a very refined personality – one that was almost as refined as his taste in art and cuisine – but at the same time, he was just as comfortable at kidnapping a man at gunpoint as he was at attending art conferences.
Or so she supposed. Some of his conversations certainly made it seem like he went to art conferences. Then again, this was Paris – everyone went to art conferences. Walking down a street was like attending an art conference.
Art conferences aside, it was just weird how easily he could jump from what she had mentally labelled as "action hero mode" to "classy, artsy businessman mode". She was also fairly certain that both "modes" were ingrained in him to the point where he didn't even know they were there.
"What's so funny?" Arthur asked, staring at her as he adjusted his tie.
Ariadne shook her head, bringing herself out of her thoughts. "Nothing. You just knocked someone out."
"Well – yeah. And?"
She spread her hands. "And that wasn't very gentlemanly of you."
He gave her a strange look. "Were you expecting me to be?"
24. Wisp
James could not remember his mother.
Try as he might, he could not remember her, even with every picture in the house to help. He knew what she looked like, of course. He knew she had brown hair and blue eyes. He knew she was French, that her favourite language was her native one, the one that Grandmother kept telling him he needed to use, but it was so hard to speak it at school when no one else understood.
(Maybe they needed to move to Canada? They lived in the United States of America – they always had – but they didn't speak French there. He had learned in Geography class that they spoke French in Canada, and Canada was not all that far away. Maybe they needed to go there – he could still have his friends here, but he could also speak French! He liked French. He liked how he sounded, he just never felt that he could use it here.)
James knew all sorts of little facts about his mother. Phillipa was always telling him about her. Phillipa was older, she remembered these things. But still, he couldn't remember the last time Mummy had hugged him, the last time Mummy had talked to him, the last time Mummy had tucked him into bed at night and sung him to sleep… Phillipa said she had done all these things, but he could not remember.
If he could not remember them, had they ever really happened?
Did he even have a mother?
The answer, like his memories of her, was not there in his mind.
25. Ebony
Dom loved to experiment. He loved pushing the boundaries, he loved taking risks. But sometimes, Mal feared that he could go to far. There were limits to the human mind, lines that should never be crossed. Dom always laughed whenever she mentioned the proverbial line – and then he always reminded her that lines were put in place to keep people in check, and there was never any reasons not to cross them to see what was on the other side.
No matter how hard she tried, he never seemed to grasp the idea that the other side could be dangerous.
"Dom?" she whispered.
"Yes?"
Mal quickly glanced around the corner. The projections were getting closer, their shouts and screams racing down the hall ahead of their thundering footfalls. "What happens if you are knocked out in a dream?"
"If you die in a dream, you wake up—"
"Je sais. But it is possible that they will not kill us." She took a deep breath. "What happens when you lose consciousness in a dream?"
He fell silent. "I don't know."
"Dom."
He smiled and squeezed her hand. "But we can always find out."
Mal sighed. "Dom!"
He kissed her forehead. "Stop worrying," he said. "They'll probably kill us and we'll wake up. Or, barring that, if we lose consciousness, they'll kill us and then we'll wake up."
"Is it possible to descend to another level of dreaming?"
He looked at her. "A dream-within-a-dream?"
"Yes."
"I never thought of that."
A shot rang out, the sound blasting down the hall. Mal shrieked, and threw herself into his arms.
26. Emblem
There was always a sign that you were in a dream. Sometimes it took you longer to recognise it, but it was there. Something out of place, something impossible – a mixture of illusions and paradoxes that looked real when you first encountered them, then shifted into something else.
Arthur had hated them at first. Well, maybe "hated" was too strong of a word. He was unsettled by them. A paradox's existence gave off all kinds of wrongness that unnerved him; as a result, he shied away from them. His teacher, as his father, had always teased him about this trait. But his teacher, as his teacher, reinforced the importance of getting over that little fear.
"A paradox isn't something to be feared, Arthur," he had said. "You can use them. Live with them. Breathe with them. Run with them. They're impossible things, and you should be thrilled that you can witness them."
"But they shouldn't be here!" he had protested. "They're… impossible!" Upon reflection, he thought that sometimes his fifteen-year-old mind could be so unbelievably slow.
"And?" his father had said. "Listen to me carefully. Lewis Carroll once wrote an amazing piece of advice, words that you should consider most seriously: 'Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.' Think about that, and you'll go far."
After that, Arthur never forgot his lessons about paradoxes.
27. Odds
Phillipa folded her arms as she leaned against the doorframe of her grandfather's study, glaring at him with a fierceness that should not be capable in a sixteen-year-old girl.
"You have to teach me."
"I said 'no,'" Miles replied wearily.
"Grandfather, there's no other way. Teach me. Please. I want to learn."
Miles turned a page, refusing to look up at her. He knew that if he did, he would give in. She had the same demeanour, the same fiery look in her eye that Mal did when she had asked him all those years ago.
"Why should I?" Miles said after a moment, his eyes scanning the essay he was currently marking, even though he was not taking in any of the student's words. "After what this – this profession has done to our family, I'm surprised that you still want to learn."
"I need to know and Dad won't teach me."
Miles looked up. Phillipa's blue eyes – frighteningly like her mother's – glared met his with an unwavering resolve.
"Dreams are not to be toyed with on a whim, Phillipa," Miles said, setting down his pen. "The human mind is a fragile thing—"
"I know that."
"It is incredibly delicate, which makes it incredibly dangerous."
"I know that." She took a deep breath. "But if you don't teach me, I'll find another way. I'm sure I can track down any number of people who work the field, and considering that most of them tend to be criminals – my own father included –"
"He never intended—"
"Grandfather, I'm not a child anymore," Phillipa said crossly. "I know what he did, and I know why. But that doesn't change the fact that he was, essentially, a thief and a wanted man for several years of my childhood. Most of his associates are still thieves. I could easily contact them for help. I'm sure they would be thrilled to teach me."
Miles sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "You are as impossible as your mother."
28. Aim
It was something that was only supposed to happen in stories. The woman sees the man at a distance from across a crowded room; he turns, ever so slightly, and sees her for the first time; they both feel a connection, and move so slowly towards each other, meeting, speaking, knowing upon that first moment that they are destined for each other…
It had been like that for Mal. It had been what felt like years ago, at a special dinner held at the université where her father worked his day-job as an architecture professor. One of his students had been there – sitting far away from the swirling clouds of talkative guests, observing and watching, nodding and smiling when he was addressed, but never fully participating.
He had looked up; she had caught his eye. She smiled. He nodded.
And she promptly strode across the room, champagne glass in hand, to ask him why he did not wish to join the conversation.
"Qu'est-ce-que vous faites ici? Vous n'aimez pas des galas comme ceci?"
And he blushed, awkwardly stammered out a few words in French – "Je suis Américain, je ne parle pas le français si bien maintenant" – and she laughed.
"American," she said. "I could have guessed. Is Paris not treating you well?"
"I'm surviving. Culture-shock, I guess – happens to the best of us once we step outside the tourist zone. My French isn't nearly as good as I thought it was."
"Perhaps I can help you with that." She took a sip of champagne and extended her hand. "Mallorie Miles."
He took her hand and shook it. "Dominic Cobb." He paused. "You're Professor Miles daughter, right?"
"Yes."
"I knew it. He keeps talking about you."
She laughed. "I can believe it. My father has always been an overly talkative one."
They spent the rest of the evening talking. By the end of it, Mal knew that Dom was the one she wanted.
29. Token
Tu as un choix, Mal.
There was something hidden deep within her childhood home. Something she had put there, something she had set aside, but she could not longer remember her purpose. Had it been for safekeeping? Had it been to forget? Either way, she could not remember. Whatever her motivations had been for putting it aside, it did not matter. What mattered was that she was staring it in the face, watching it spin and spin, and keep on spinning and spinning –
Was it supposed to spin? Spin without falling? Spin without toppling? Spin indefinitely, for the rest of time, while she was trapped her without a way out?
Tu as un choix, Mal.
She stared at it. Was that it? Was that the secret she had kept hidden? That she had no way out? That this was all… this was all… everything they had done, everything she had created, their entire lives were a lie? This spinning top, the one that could never, ever fall, was that what it led to? A never-ending world that went on forever, stretching into eternity?
Tu as un choix, Mal.
She slammed the door closed, pressing her hands against its cold, smooth surface. No. This world had to be real. It had to. She and Dom… their entire existence here. It had to mean something. It had to.
Slowly, she opened the door again and stared at the top.
It still spun.
Make your choice, Mal… there is only one way.
Were those her words, or his? Had she imagined them? Were they even real?
In a place where she dictated what was true and what was not, how could she believe anything to be true?
The top still spun.
Tu as un choix, Mal.
30. Entwine
Ariadne sat in a corner of her flat, staring at her phone. It was late in the afternoon; already the sky outside was beginning to turn pink, and the busy traffic of the Parisian streets below rang through her open window. She adjusted her position, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on them as she contemplated the black-and-white plastic in front of her, her mind doubling back on her decision, still wandering the paths of possible outcomes, trying to decide what her future could possibly be like once she made that call.
It had been seven months since Inception. She had returned to Paris, continued her studies, and had graduated top of her class. The ceremony had been a week ago. She was still living in Paris, as she was uncertain of what to do next. Already, she had been contacted by several employers looking for someone to handle designs for buildings, but every contact's subject just seemed so dull. She had turned away three of them already, despite the good pay. Her friends and classmates had been appalled.
She hated to think of what her parents would say.
Ariadne chewed on a fingernail. "Okay," she muttered. "Okay. It's just a phone. It's not going to bite you."
It had been seven months since she had seen any of them. Well, she didn't expect to see Eames or Yusuf ever again (or Saito, for that matter – elite Japanese businessmen did not casually contact graduate architecture students), but she had thought she'd spotted Arthur about on a street one day a couple of months back. She had almost called out his name, but then he had disappeared – she remembered feeling disappointed. And Cobb… she doubted she would ever hear from him again, but she hoped that he had made it safely to his family, that he had been reunited with them and was on the way to mending a broken home.
Seven months. It was a long time, but even then, working with that team was not something you forgot easily. She had even wandered back to the workshop, only to find it securely locked. She doubted anyone had been inside it since the team had vacated it. She had been part of something special, and now it was just gone.
Ariadne stared at the phone.
The phone stared back at her.
She had years ahead of her where she could have any job – any architectural job she could think of, where she could spend her days doing what she loved best, but it was nothing compared to those long, drawn-out weeks spent planning, researching, creating, dreaming…
Dreaming. She had always been a bit of an airhead, always had her head in the clouds. Maybe that was what she did best.
She grabbed the phone and dialled.
"Yes? Professor Miles? Hi, yeah, it's Ariadne. I'm doing well, thanks. Yes, I'm still in Paris. Actually, I was wondering if you would be able to give me some help. I know what I want to do with my career. I know, I know what you're saying, but I promise you it's what I want to do. Legitimate or not, there's nothing else out there like it. The chances I've been given… it's pure creation. How could I ever give that up?"