Author's Note: Here's another chapter for you lovely readers! Big hugs to FuchsiaGrasshopper for the kind review :)

Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.

The Absolute Basic

Chapter Fifteen

The whine of the underground train was loud and abrasive. Yusuf sat in the metal seat—surrounded by tired, excited, curious people—and thought about all the events that had led up to this point in his life.

The Extractions had never been part of the dream. He remembered going to university with a heart made of gold, ready to change the world. He wanted to cure HIV, to defeat cancer, to give back joy to children who were born with deformities. Yusuf spent hours in the library and in the lab, learning all the newest techniques with a wild, eager frenzy.

Then, he graduated, and everything fell apart. Jobs were hard to come by and his tuition loans had grown to a staggering sum, leaving him broke and abruptly thrown into the world. He tried hard to do things the proper way—he really had—but life seemed to have other plans waiting for him.

It started with a friend who was going through something similar. He asked Yusuf for some way to escape this harsh, cold reality. It took some time, but Yusuf delivered, producing a drug that enabled the sleeper to delve into bright, wonderful realms. To forget the real world was a blessing.

But his friend spread word of his unique experience, and suddenly Yusuf was finding himself with requests from people he didn't know, people who were desperate for something, anything that tasted like freedom. Afraid that his golden ticket might pass him by, he spent more time on the drug, making it better, selling it for more money each time.

He knew his business—if one could call it that—would not go long undetected. So he moved to Mombasa, and, using the money he had accumulated from his early transactions, he set up shop in the bustling city.

And everyone flocked to him, the man who sold happiness at a fair price.

None of it matters now.

Yusuf was above ground, walking the monotonous route to the warehouse. A leather briefcase was in one hand, containing the new and improved sedative.

It was exhilarating to be working on another Inception, but Yusuf's thoughts were still stuck on the past. Just thinking about his past filled him with regret. He had had plenty of opportunities to go back, to revert the change before it became permanent.

And yet here he was, a criminal on a path of no return. At least he had not taken a life, as he suspected Arthur and Eames of having done. Not that it made them any worse in his eyes, it was just that he felt his soul was not as strong as theirs.

The warehouse doors loomed before him, rusted and flaking. Yusuf grabbed the handle at one end and slid the door open.

Someone had turned on the lights inside, but it was still dim; it took his eyes a moment or two to adjust.

When Yusuf's gaze finally landed on the sight before him, his mouth dropped open and the briefcase fell to the floor with a muffled thud, but he did not care; he didn't even care if the sedative had spilt in the bag.

None of it mattered now.

Two hours ago.

Arthur woke up.

He had had a fitful night's sleep, turning restlessly in his sheets before finally admitting defeat in the weak light of day. Insomnia was an old friend of his, always plaguing him in times of stress.

He sat up in bed and stared across at the opposite wall.

In the end, he had listened to Cobb. Without Clara's knowing, Arthur had done his investigations—fuelled by a gut feeling, some unexplained suspicion—and he had uncovered something that might require them to rethink the whole job.

There was no time to waste. He got up, dressed, and walked at a fast pace toward their hideout. He needed to tell Clara and the team what he had found, as soon as possible; it was vital they discussed this now, before they were caught unaware, the rug swept from under their feet.

Nobody was in the warehouse when he arrived.

Arthur laid his bag on a table and sighed. It wasn't just the job on his mind; Ariadne was there, too. He still hadn't managed to pull her to one side and talk about…what? Them? They weren't even a thing; it was just spontaneous feelings and fondness and not wanting to be alone. That wasn't a solid foundation for anything.

And yet he was always picturing her face, smiling and kind (was this what Cobb had struggled with?)

Maybe Clara was right, maybe he should take her some place nice. He cringed a little at the word. Nice. He could almost hear Eames' voice: Take her some place nice? Good God, Arthur, have some imagination.

If they had not recruited her this second time, would he be enjoying the job as much as he was? Because he had to confess, despite the unexpected twists and dangers, every day seemed fresher and more exciting with her around. He felt young near her, which was stupid because he wasn't exactly old to begin with (or so he liked to think). But that was what she did to him: she breathed life into his otherwise grey world, with her chipped pencils, her colourful voice, her dainty red cardigan.

Arthur smiled. Yes, he would take her somewhere romantic, after the whole thing blew over. They would talk, for hours maybe, and hopefully something wonderful might happen.

He didn't notice the man standing in the corner of the warehouse. By the time Arthur turned around and faced him, it was already too late.

"Look what the cat dragged in."

Nash and Cobb had just gotten out of the car. They were dressed impeccably in fitted tuxedos (though Cobb carried himself better, with more confidence), as were Eames and Arthur. Clara was draped in a floor-length dress of midnight blue, which sparkled subtly in the streetlights. The latter three had been waiting on the pavement.

"Now, now, Eames," Cobb stepped in, holding his hands out, "let's be civil. We've got a task on our hands, let's not get in each other's way."

The Forger was still eyeing Nash, mistrust written all over his face. He was on the verge of retorting, but inevitably he held his tongue. "Whatever you say, boss," Eames said smoothly, and that was what Clara admired so much about Cobb: he had the ability to persuade even the most stubborn of people.

"Seems like all the rich kids came out to play," Nash commented, and the group turned to look up at the glimmering Peninsula hotel. The historical-looking establishment had been bathed in a luxurious wash of purple light for the occasion. Long curtains of deep red hung from the window frames, lending an air of grandeur to the already ostentatious hotel.

There was a gathering of bejewelled and polished guests at the entrance, the glass doors thrown wide open invitingly. One by one the guests presented their private invitation cards to the carefully groomed staff and were allowed entry, picking up a glass of champagne on the way.

"Okay," Cobb said in a hushed voice as they neared the fray, "you all the know the plan. Arthur, head straight to the Mark's room, don't get caught; Nash, you're with me, we're gonna tail the Mark throughout the party; Clara and Eames, you two are on his family, get anything you can use in the dreams."

"Let's get going," Arthur said, adjusting his bowtie; he had the hardest job out of all of them. "I'll give the signal if something goes wrong."

"Lead them on a merry chase, won't you, darling?" Eames purred before taking Clara by the elbow and leading her through the doors, skilfully taking two champagne glasses as he went.

Once inside, they were greeted by a dazzling display of wealth and class. The entrance hall was filled with people of distinguished titles and reputations, conversing and laughing conspicuously with one another whilst platters of hors d'oeuvres and canapés waltzed through the crowd. Classical jazz tinkled lightly in the air. Clara was slightly dazed by the scene before her.

"Com'on," said Eames, speaking in her ear and moving her up the wide, sweeping staircase. The music was swelling as they approached the second landing; a live band was playing in an expansive ballroom.

It took them a while, but eventually the pair located the Mark's mother; a stern elderly lady with closely-cropped white hair and surprisingly bright eyes. Eames and Clara strategically loitered, picking up on her habits and speaking pattern; her voice had a way of carrying itself across the crowd, raspy yet strong.

They moved onto the father next, and again repeated the process of hovering without arousing suspicion. All the while Clara wondered how Arthur and the others were fairing. There was a lot at stake on this job.

As they continued to observe the Mark's father, the band struck up a slower blues song. The guests around them lowered their voices and a mellow, moody feel settled over the crowd. Some couples began swaying to the music in small circles.

"Let's dance," Eames said suddenly, and—before Clara could protest—a hand was on her waist.

"Eames," Clara hissed, reluctantly letting herself get pulled towards him gently; she didn't want to draw attention. "Focus."

"Relax, we've got enough," he soothed her, reaching out for her hand and taking hold of it. "Might as well enjoy the moment."

Clara pursed her lips but said nothing back. She placed her other hand on his chest and they turned slowly, Eames leading. Their faces were close; Clara wasn't quite sure where to look. He was holding her rather tenderly, she noticed.

She peeked up at him, silently alarmed that he was still looking at her. His dark hair was smoothed back for the evening, his stubble neatly trimmed. And then there were his eyes: slate grey, sharp like a sheer rock cliff, haunting and daring. He looked so very handsome in his tuxedo; the very poise of his head brooded a kind of style and cavalier, and she had to smile in spite of herself.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Clara rested her head against his shoulder, hiding her smile from the world.

Eames chuckled and kissed the top of her head.

"My dear Clara."

She had many memories of their time together.

They were mostly bad ones. She could remember them clearly: horrible moments of anger, their voices growing ugly with emotion, words that were too honest and true.

And then—to her quiet surprise—there had been the good ones: fleeting and unexpected, stolen frames of other people's lives, always too good to be true. She had dreamt of one last night and had woken up feeling cheated and sad.

What was he thinking now? Did he think her weak and silly, for letting him foil her inner peace so easily? Because at times she, too, had to admit that it was alarming how her totem had bent to his will, how easily he had changed the dreams for her.

It had been cathartic, though, letting out her thoughts. Perhaps Arthur's and Ariadne's persistence had paid off. And even though the old fear was still with her, it was less daunting now. She had relinquished part of it in the act of telling Eames, and she supposed it even felt less real, as if she had made up the whole conversation.

But of course it had happened. Her old totem lay on her bedside table as solid proof, and Clara couldn't take her eyes off of it as she dressed, her hair still damp from her shower. Her imagination was wild; had he kept it at the back of a drawer, perhaps, never expecting her to return? Or had it always been on his person as the years had passed, carried with him in some kind of sinner's fashion?

The doorbell rang.

Clara stood still.

She wanted to delay the moment she had to look into his eyes again. She was scared of what he might say next and of how she might react. The sudden vulnerability that took over her made her sick to the stomach.

After a long enough moment passed, in which she gathered (what remained of) her courage, Clara went to open the door.

There he was. Eames, in a long dark coat, a red tartan scarf wrapped around his neck. His smile was as natural and deceiving as it had always been. And she was terrified to discover that she suddenly felt like a younger version of herself again, back in a time when she had let him use her body and trust.

She returned his smile stiffly.

"Ready?" he asked with ease.

"I haven't eaten yet."

"Me neither, we'll grab something on the way."

She threaded her arms through her coat and followed him with trepidation to a café downstairs. She bought a muffin whilst he opted for a panini.

They walked in silence as they ate, the crowd of commuters thinning as they headed toward the river; their surroundings gave way to big bulking prisms of concrete and brick, and Clara's mind was racing for something to say, anything…

She was saved the trouble, for Eames' phone suddenly started ringing. He answered the call: "Hello?"

Whilst he listened, Clara gazed at the ground and fiddled with her necklace, nudging the silver beads up and down the chain.

"What?! How bad is it?"

Clara jumped and stared back up at Eames. "What's going on?" she asked him, but he ignored her. His brows were strained and a sliver of apprehension was taut in his face. He continued to listen, the phone pressed to his ear.

"Okay, do what you can, we'll be there soon," Eames said finally. He hung up, seized Clara by the elbow and broke into a hurried walk. "We have to go."

"What is it?"

"Arthur. He's been hurt," he replied evenly. "Yusuf's there right now."

Clara felt her breath catch short. "Is he okay?"

"Doesn't sound great, but we'll see soon enough." His voice was calm and steady, nevertheless a dark expression came over him as they arrived at the warehouse. They ran the last couple of strides inside; the door was open.

They halted in their tracks.

Arthur was slumped on a chair, unconscious. He was naked, save for his underwear, and someone had tied him up with a coil of chains. His skin was alabaster white with cold (the heating had been turned off), and under the lighting it took Clara a while to realise someone had drenched him in water; there was a puddle of it beneath him, spreading slowly across the floor. Even from a distance, she could see the goosebumps all over him.

Then her eyes found his injuries. Bruises littered his jaw and cheeks, making his face swollen and purple. Dried blood caked his chin and his lips, prominent and virulent-looking. And still that wasn't the worst of it.

Clara gasped when she saw it: the unmistakable hilt of a small switchblade, protruding from his stomach, and the red trails of blood running down his side.

"Eames!" Yusuf cried; he seemed to have materialised out of nowhere whilst Clara and Eames had sunk into this new nightmare. He was holding a bolt cutter. "Help me with the lock!"

Eames rushed forward and took the tool from him. With a loud snap that tore the air, the padlock broke and clattered to the floor. The two men unravelled the chains around their colleague, and all Clara could do was watch helplessly from the side, uncomprehending, fearing the worst…

"We need to take him to the hospital," Yusuf said, throwing his own coat over Arthur's limp body.

"We can't do that!" Eames snapped impatiently. "The moment we do, the job's over."

"This is his life, Eames!"

"If you take him to the hospital he's as good as dead!" Eames shouted, voice echoing in the empty space. "We all are! Once our boss finds out we've fucked up, they're gonna put a bullet in each of our pretty little heads."

"But-"

"No, listen to me! Someone's onto us, someone who doesn't want this job done." His mind had been made up, Clara could see it. He went on: "Call Ariadne. We have to run whilst we still can, I know someone who-"

"You won't be doing any of that, any time soon. I assure you."

The three of them turned. A man was standing in the shadows, a gun trained on them. He had slick blond hair and wore a business suit.

The very man who had given them their assignment.

"You!" Eames snarled.

"My, don't you all look like deer caught in the headlights," Marcus remarked, unfazed by the look on Eames' face. "Let me put you out of your misery. I clearly stated at the start of this job that you weren't to try and find out whom I represent. You had a task, and you were to do only that. Unfortunately, your friend here decided to snoop into Golden Clover's files. For what reason, I don't know, but he broke into classified information."

"So you tortured him?" Eames retorted, taking a step forward.

"Standard repercussions," Marcus replied, unconcerned. "Let this serve as a final warning to you all: step out of line once more, and I promise you, you will regret you ever wronged us."

Clara could hear footsteps behind her. Ariadne stood in the doorway, her eyes on Arthur, and the shock that filled her face was enough to break Clara's heart.

"I trust you'll explain it all to your youngest," Marcus said, smirking ever so slightly. "Remember, you have until the end of the month."

He turned to leave.

Nobody stopped him.