Ariadne was speaking with a vendor in a marketplace – an elderly black woman who was trying to sell her beaded clothe. It was crowded, sunny, and colorful; low stalls with straw roofs lined the rough dirt streets from one end to the other. A somewhat decrepit, stone-work cathedral was the tallest building in the area; the rest was low stalls and earthen houses lined with brick. The area was bordered with old shea trees with low, brilliant green branches. The projections – Arthur's projections – littered the market, mostly of dark complexions and toting baskets, barrels, or other satchels of goods. Donkeys and pack-laden horses also strolled in the market, but on the outskirts, where they would not interfere with business. She found she was in Togo, West Africa; it was a dreamscape she had designed after taking an African Cultural Studies course.
"It would look good on you," Arthur's voice was behind her, and she turned to see him in a buttoned shirt and brown leather jacket. His pristine appearance looked odd, even comical, in the crowded, dirty market.
"So – are you going to make your projections attack me?" Ariadne meant it as a tease, but secretly felt a waver of fear in her heart. She could never quite get over the idea that, even in a dream shared with Arthur – the man of the team she felt most safe with – the other people roaming the streets could, at any moment, rip her to pieces.
"Not quite yet," Arthur said, which didn't exactly make Ariadne feel better. "The first step to developing dream defenses is to realize you're dreaming. Then you can harness and train your subconscious."
"...But I already do know I'm dreaming," Ariadne said, but without as much confidence as she thought. Arthur began to stroll casually down the street, smiling just slightly at the Architect.
"In a shared dream like this, it's easy to know you're dreaming. There are others around you who came in with you, and you won't wake up as long as there's time on the clock. When you're on your own, though, you need to use other techniques - mainly your totem. You'll need to do checks, periodically, throughout the day, in order to establish reality and discern yourself from your dream-state."
"Checks?" Ariadne asked, but she was already thinking something else, and a river began to wind out from before her feet. Arthur's projections cast sidelong glances at the Architect, but then averted their attention.
"Yes. I check in with my totem at least a dozen times a day. You must evolve the habit so that, even when you're asleep, that same habit will pervade your subconscious, and you'll be able to tell it's a dream."
"That sounds like lucid dreaming," Ariadne thought, turning to Arthur. The Point Man let a small smile slip from the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly. The concept is the same. If you want to keep a dream-journal too, you can, but they've never helped me much..."
Ariadne wasn't really listening to Arthur anymore. She was getting very involved in the dream. The sun was warm, warm on her skin - she had imagined herself wearing only a tank-top - and the market was littered with brilliant sights and smells. She could almost taste curried chicken turning on a spit near them. She stopped before the stall and looked, with a sly little smile, at Arthur. The Point Man glanced hesitantly between her and the chicken.
"It isn't real, you know," he acknowledged. She shrugged nonchalantly, feeling more and more comfortable in this strange, realistic dream-world. She began to consider, in the back of her mind, what Arthur's next step would be.
He had mentioned something about training projections. Encouraged by the fact that she already felt comfortable recognizing her dream - up until this point, she had never once had a problem of discerning dreams from reality, as Cobb did - she decided to enter on this offer. She concentrated on something easy - school, maybe, or her apartment.
Her Drawings & Designs professor suddenly appeared in the street, looking uncertain and uncomfortable in the crowded row. Arthur's projections paused and stared at him - then turned and stared at the Architect. More or Ariadne's projections appear behind him; kids from the college, professors, janitors, even the dean -
"Ariadne," the tone of Arthur's voice had suddenly shifted, and she could feel the tension creeping from him. "Ariadne - what are you doing?"
"You said after I realized I was dreaming, I needed to train my projections - "
She felt her arm wrenched back, suddenly, violently. She had a brief, brilliant glimpse of a swarthy, black face - one of the vendors in the market, one of Arthur's projections - before a crushing, scalding feeling cracked into the back of her skull.
She collapsed to her knees with a halted, gasping cry. Three gunshots ran in quick succession above her, and between the throbbing of her wounded head and the blaring noise in her eardrums, she couldn't resist letting out another horrible cry of pain. In an instant, her projections had vanished; Arthur's projections converged on her like a swarm - she could see them descend like a muddled, messed, mop of color and cold fury. In agony and confusion, she cried out for Arthur and threw herself down onto the dirt street.
Hands, nails, feet, elbows - everything seemed to collide with every inch of her, grasping, beating, bruising, gripping, ripping - at first she flailed, attempted to fight some of the projections off - but they grabbed at her arms and shirt, ripped her clothes, assaulted her unmercifully. Everything was a mess of cold, savagely concentrated faces, arms, hands, kicks, punches. Ariadne thrashed away and curled into herself, as tight as she could, on the dirt ground. Fists and feet pounded into her; her head swam; stars sprinkled in front of her eyes. She felt a slow trickle of blood down the back of her neck, from where the vendor had first attacked.
Gunshots rang out again, and there was some screaming from above her. She was crying into the dust, battered, her body all blossoming bruises. Someone grabbed her by both arms and lifted her upwards into the sunlight, out from beneath the shadows of the assaulting projections. She choked, coughed on what tasted like blood - her lip had been cut, sliced upwards by someone's sharp nail.
Another gunshot - this time very close to her ear, so that she flinched and stumbled into the dirt. She heard Arthur shouting, but couldn't figure out what he said.
All of sudden they were on her again, and she was back in the dirt. Ariadne realized, somewhere within the dream, that she was being beaten to death.
She tried to crawl. They grabbed her legs and held her down. The beat her body with pipes and logs and bats; she cried out, struggled, thrashed, but could do nothing. Then there was stabbing - she felt her inside punctured, ripped, and waves of unparalleled pain erupted inside her. She screamed, sobbed, kicked, and still they beat her, stabbed her, tore at her clothes, dug into her flesh, pressed their knees into her throat until she choked, choked, felt fire and water rise in her chest at the same time and all the sunlight faded out -
Ariadne gasped, screamed, took in a breathe so large she thought it would burst her lungs. She had thrown herself forward, and tumbled sideways out of the lawn chair, hitting the cement floor and ripping the cord from her wrist.
"You're ok - you're ok - Ariadne, look at me -"
It was Arthur's voice, but Ariadne flailed at the sound, backed up, positioned herself against the wall and drew her knees to her chest. Her body was shaking.
"Ariadne -"
"Don't!" Ariadne put out one wild, terrified hand towards Arthur. She was dimly aware that his subconscious had just ripped her to pieces - she was addled, distraught, unable to ground herself. Arthur's face swam in and out of focus. The next time he spoke, it sounded like he was speaking to her from underwater.
"Ariadne, your totem. Take out your totem. You'll see... you're fine..."
She found one hand rooting down into her pocket, blindly. She grabbed the small, gold chess piece, and ran her fingers across the smooth surface, searching for the one, almost imperceptible flaw - the tiny nick - that she alone knew. In the dream, the pawn was smooth, perfect. In reality, she had left one grainy patch, one small reminder.
She felt it just above the base. That miniscule, rough feeling.
She dropped the chess piece and buried her head in her knees, trying to hold back her sobs. Arthur's form was beside her the next instant; she could feel his arms around her, smell that subtle cologne on his vest. She melted weakly into him.
"It's alright. It wasn't real," Arthur's body was steady, so mind-numbingly steady, against Ariadne's shivering, quivering frame. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but another noise came out - a terrible heaving, gasping noise.
"You're hyperventalating. Take a deep breathe and hold it," Arthur said calmy.
Ariadne did as he asked. She closed her eyes as she held the breath, trying to assure herself that she was in reality, that no mob was going to rip her to pieces, that her body wasn't bruised and bloody. That she was sitting in a warehouse in London with Arthur. That everything was alright.
If she had been less distraught, she may have felt the Point Man's heart beating, beating, beating like a terrible drum in his chest. She may have noticed that his regular, studious calm was broken by the terrible guilt in his eyes, by how desperately he clutched her to his chest.
l-l
"...And I thought Cobb's subconscious was bad," Ariadne said, a little while later. "I'd take a stab from Mal over that any day."
Arthur had packed away the equipment, for now, and was instead beginning to set up some model-building materials for the Architect. As he dumped open boxes of cardboard and plaster and paint, and arranged them neatly around the low desk work-space he had constructed for Ariadne, she sipped gently on a cup of real English tea. She couldn't be sure if he had made it or bought it, but it was bitter as hell. She drank it solely for comfort of its warmth.
"That's the worst of it," Arthur said, gently. "When you get ripped apart. Bullets and knives you learn to deal with. You never quite get over the mob-death."
"Why didn't you -" Ariadne felt herself pause, reconsider what she wanted to say. Arthur stopped his work, and fixed her with an unreadable look.
"...Why didn't I stop them?" he finished for her. Ariadne felt herself flush, as though she'd offended him. A brief, hurt look did seemed to flash through Arthur's eyes - she couldn't quite be sure - before he stood and walked to her side, sitting gently in a lawn chair.
"I tried, Ariadne," he said, and she could hear regret in his voice. "I tried. I pulled you out, once, but - there were too many."
Ariadne had a sudden memory of gunshots ringing in her ears - of being lifted towards the sunlight.
"...You were the one shooting," she said in swift realization. Arthur nodded easily.
"Yes. I managed to kill about six of my own projections, and one or two of yours," Arthur said, but there was no humor on his face. "That's why they attacked in the first place, Ariadne. Bringing in a crowd like that, of your own projections - it's like sending a regiment into enemy territory. Everything becomes war."
"...I'm sorry," Araidne felt herself saying. Her heart sank to her feet. Fear had turned to guilt, and to shame; it wasn't Arthur's fault that his subconscious had reacted so violently - she had jumped the gun, had acted without thinking. She felt low and numbingly stupid.
Arthur's hand was suddenly on hers, warm and huge on her small one.
"No. The training is my responsibility," he claimed with some dignity. There was a protective look in his eyes that made Ariadne's stomach flutter in a strange, pleasing way. "I want you to feel safe when you're dreaming with me, Ariadne. I want you to know you're safe."
"...I know I am, Arthur," she found herself saying, softly. Her heart beat gently in her chest. "It's... it really is just a dream. I should be more worried about reality."
She expected Arthur to nod, to release her hand, to go back to setting up her workspace. She was struck, somewhere within, by the selfless, generous way he was treating her - he was unpacking her belongings, without complaint, and distributing them in neat lines and piles. He was comforting her after an ordeal that had, in reality, been entirely her fault. He didn't have to set up her models; she could do it in the morning, or later tonight. He could do research, but he didn't; he could scold her for abusing the dream-space, but he didn't.
And Arthur could have let go of her hand, but he didn't. She felt him squeeze her fingers, gently, and their eyes met. That naked, penetrating feeling came over her again as his deep, brown eyes gazed at her. The scent of his cologne drifted off him, subtle, but masculine. She smelled it, and felt a deep warmth, more than the tea could provide, wash over her.
"...You're just as safe with me in reality, you know," he said quietly.
It was than he released her hand, and strode slowly back to her workspace. She watched him breathlessly as he lifted a box of her heaviest wood materials, placing them easily on the desk.
There was a low, electric rush in her limbs. She realized she wanted to smell his cologne again.