Where the truth is lost, like scattered bits of glass;

You can't hold them. They stare back at you.

They stare, and say,

You are not...

Not what?

Cobb eyelids were heavy, heavy, heavy as lead. His face felt numb and weighty. He could hardly feel himself breathe - hardly feel anything beneath the slow, persistent rising of his chest. His mind moved filmy and slow, and he realized after a long, long effort, that he had been drugged.

The Extractor forced himself to stir upon this realization. He was definitely over-medicated - it was not any sort of pain medication to subdue his bullet-torn leg, but something heavier, something to subdue him entirely. It was not, he was very aware, any doing of Eames. He tried to clench, unclench his fingers - but his hands seemed miles, miles away, in some distant place he couldn't reach. He tensed his body up, tried to send strength to his muscles.

"He's awake," the statement was blunt, blurred with white noise that resonated in Cobb's head.

He became gradually aware of his position; lying on something hard and flat - a table, or maybe an empty bed-frame - and by the subtle ache in his back, he'd been lying there a while. His half-open eyes were adjusted to a semi-dark room, flooded only with a cold green light that seemed to come from somewhere behind him. There were two forms to his left - thick, dark forms, one standing against the gray-green wall, the other seated near the Extractor's side. He couldn't focus enough yet to get a clear view of their features.

"The famous Dom Cobb," said the man sitting closest to the Extractor. He was tossing something small, back and forth, between his hands. Cobb was dimly aware that he was very, very tall; his complexion was rich and dark, and his dress suggested someone of Indian origin. The man beside him was shorter, and fatter, and the glint from his face suggested he was wearing glasses.

"He couldn't have done Inception. Look at him," the fat man snorted disdainfully.

Cobb's heart suddenly seemed to burst into action in his chest. He could be in a dream. He could be in reality. It didn't matter - they had him. One of them was the Eradicator.

His mind flashed, involuntarily, to James and Philippa. A memory of James, with dirt and grass stains coating his hands and shirt, smiling a white smile; Philippa beside him, holding a paper cup with a captured ladybug inside, her laughing face more golden than the sun.

"...Where is Eames?" it took a heroic, monumental effort to force the words from his throat, to say them over the huge, beautiful memory that was consuming him. His tongue felt heavy and swollen.

"You should be much more concerned with your own state of things," there was no mistaking it now. The man's accent was thick, thick Indian. "We're going to break you, Mister Cobb. We're going to break you and you're team. That's our job. I believe you can respect that."

A memory when Mal was still alive, and whole. She and Philippa poured chocolate syrup on their waffles.

"...You won't do it..." and if Cobb could have smiled, he would of. The best damn Forger between North and South; an unfailing Point Man; an unrivaled Architect; a studied Chemist. They wouldn't break them. Not all of them.

But a gentle, mocking smile pulled up the corner of the Indian's mouth. Cobb ignored it. Focus.

James' first birthday. He tried to eat the candles off the cake.

"As strange as it may seem, Mr. Cobb, you don't know everything about Extraction. And you know nothing about Eradication."

Cobb's heart stopped. He tried to open his eyes wider, to convince himself that what he saw wasn't real.

But how could he be sure?

Because in the dark-skinned, Indian man's hand was Mal's precious spinning top.

"Mr. Cobb, you're not the one in control anymore."

l-l

Cobb, Eames, and Yusuf were four hours late for rendezvous.

After they had been late for one hour, Arthur packed up the warehouse; his notes and research went into the lining of the silver briefcase. The furniture and lawn chairs, swamped with DNA, he packed into a small moving van, and paid a local taxi man three thousand pounds to drive it into the English countryside and abandon it.

Two hours after they'd missed rendezvous, the Architect and the Point Man were on RailEurope, taking the train from London to Brussels. Arthur was particular about their seating on the train; Ariadne sat in the back corner row, and nobody sat beside her (he made their luggage occupy the vacant seat). He stood in front of her like a human wall, a sentinel, physically blocking access to the Architect. One hand was wrapped around the steadying rail, while he kept the other in his pocket, poised just under the Beretta still strapped to his chest.

Ariadne felt herself staring at his back, the train swaying, lurching. She was deeply aware of why he'd been so particular about the seating. From this vantage, no one could get to her, not even from the windows; his tall, well-dressed form, standing before her seat - it hid her from everyone. He had become her human shield.

He'd told her not to speak on the train. That they would have to wait and see if they were followed. That she had to stay close to him. That she had to do as exactly as he said. It was the soldier in him, she knew. That direct, give-and-follow orders mentality that awakened in him whenever he sensed danger was near. Yet, there was something distinct, different about it now - something that was starting to revolve around her, a silent sense of responsibility, an urge to protect her.

He had his arm wrapped around her as they entered the train station, even though this was impractical and made it difficult to carry their bags. She hadn't stopped him, dimly aware of some looming danger they were in, that something had happened to the rest of the team. She pressed into his side as they walked, and he just tightened his grip on her waist, he dark eyes forever studying the station, the suspicious waves of people, the rush of silver trains. Like his arm, wrapped around her waist, was the sole thing keeping her safe from innumerable invisible enemies.

She wished he would shove the bags to the floor and sit next to her on the train. She wished he would wrap his arm back around her, and she could melt into his steady, collected, fearless form.

But Arthur stayed where he was. Between her and the rest of the train, between her and the rumor of danger.

Brussels had been the alternative meeting point. Specifically, a small pub in the north end of Brussels, frequented mostly by local families, off the beat from the tourist track. If the rest of the team did not show up to the pub Mort Subite by the end of the night, Arthur and Ariadne were on their own.

They took a cab to the pub; Ariadne sent Arthur a look, begging the chance to talk, but Arthur shook his head - not even around the cab driver. When they arrived and Arthur entered the heavy glass door, the customers barely cast him an acknowledged glance before returning to their drinks. If was dim, crowded, and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. Ariadne was reminded of her friends cramped studies in Paris.

Arthur nodded once to the bartender, who seemed trained to recognize the Point Man. In a subtle motion he slid a key across the counter to Arthur, who took it easily, almost imperceptibly. Wrapping his arm back around Ariadne, he guided her past the cluttered stools and tables and bar patrons, unlocking the back-room door and slipping inside.

They were in the bar stock-room. Crates of packaged bar peanuts and pretzels were stacked against the walls, thick bottles of wine, scotch, whiskey all standing on rickety iron shelves. Everything smelled like beer and salt, and then, suddenly -

"Goddamn..."

It was Yusuf, striding in relief towards the pair, looking like he hadn't slept in days. It was sixteen hours since his last contact with Cobb or Eames, and every waking minute was a darting glance over his shoulder, a pressing fear that any moment would find a bullet in his temple, or a bag over his head. He'd taken a complicated web of flights to Brussels, had arrived at the bar a half hour before Arthur and Ariadne; in that short amount of time, to curb his paranoia, he'd emptied a whole bottle of wine. Ariadne could smell it on his breathe when he hugged her, gratefully.

"What the hell happened?" Arthur was not in a much relieved state, and did not seem pleased by Yusuf's intoxicated state.

"I don't know, I really don't," Yusuf said, honestly, his speech slightly slurred. "They never came to the terminal. Cobb was supposed to go under again, and Eames to monitor - they sent me to get boarding passes -"

"Dammit," it came out as an angry hiss in Arthur's teeth. Ariadne could see plans forming behind his eyes, and he raised his face to hers. Both the Chemist and the Architect were looking towards the Point Man for direction - some semblance of stability, now that the job was falling apart.

"Cobb knows one place to get in contact with me," Arthur finally said. "Yusuf, you take Araidne back to Paris. They won't know about her yet, and if they didn't follow you here, then they can't know about you either. You stay in Paris, hold up at Professor Miles place - but don't tell him about Cobb."

"Wait - and what do you want me to do?" Ariadne sought his eyes, but he avoided looking at her. he was checking his watch, formulating a dark and dangerous plan to get Cobb back.

"You go back to school, resume like nothing happened. You stay close to Yusuf and Professor Miles. It won't be hard. You'll adjust."

"But I don't want to go back," Ariadne persisted. she felt stung, somewhere deep inside, at his ability to brush her away so effortlessly. "I told you that - that I couldn't re-adjust. I can't adjust to normalcy anymore. I want to help you find Cobb and Eames. I'm... I feel responsible for them, too."

A bothered, slight look passed over Arthur's face. She was aware that he didn't like his orders being ignored, especially when they involved keeping her alive.

"It's safer in Paris. And you never told me you had a problem with normalcy before," there was something hidden behind his voice that she couldn't pinpoint.

"Yes I have - I did last night. Please. "

"...When, last night?" the perfect, expressionless form of Arthur's face was broken only partially by the knitted, gently confused placing of his eyebrows.

"...Late," Ariadne felt herself blush, instinctively, as though she knew there was something inappropriate - something odd - about recalling that particular part of their evening. "You know, when we were walking the runways. After dinner."

A silence enveloped Arthur. It was not his normal silence - that calm, warm, collective, observant silence that Ariadne had grown to know, to bathe comfortably in whenever he was near. No; this silence was cold, and distant, like the silence that hid in frigid, labyrinth caves and corners. It made her shiver.

"...Ariadne, you went back to the hotel after dinner. I walked you to your room."

Yusuf looked between the two uncertainly. The disconnect became apparent; something wrong - something misunderstood - Ariadne began to speak -

"...But I..."

And suddenly, it all hit Ariadne -

- the dark, dark night, and no planes flying from the runways at the busiest airport in England -

- the cold, cold wind, and no lights on the horizon though London surrounded them -

- and the strong line of Arthur's jaw, but it was dark and she couldn't see his face, couldn't smell his cologne, and why had he said "yes" so quickly to her question about the Eradicator? Hadn't he been convinced that there wasn't such a thing? That Eradication was impossible?

All the warmth drained out of her.

She began to shake.

"Yusuf - test her. Now," Arthur's eyes were fixated on the Architect, but the expression in them was terrifying. Ariadne, already struck, immobile with the realization that - but it was real, wasn't it? - couldn't meet the Point Man's gaze. There was anger there - but not anger at her - and suspicion, and worry, and something else. Something else, that made him step towards her, that made his hand reach out and taker shoulder, to feel her shake - something like fear - but he was never afraid, was he?

"What? You mean, test her for -" Yusuf had not caught the meaning yet.

"Yes, dammit, now shut up and do it!" that deep, resonating voice, ferocious, shaking with - fear? It couldn't be fear.

Yusuf, disgruntled at being addressed this way, sped to the wall and opened his own bags beneath incoherent mutters. Ariadne's throat was suddenly dry as cotton, and her body was paralyzed, and - had she lost track of reality? She couldn't...

"Here. Sit here."

Arthur's hand guided her to a discarded bar stool beside a crate of beer. She obeyed him, numbly, hardly feeling his hand rolling up her sleeve, his attempts at comforting her, it's alright, breathe, just breathe -

"Maybe I just dreamed it," she breathed outward.

But that simple statement - which a year ago would have made everything alright, because it was just a dream and dreams aren't real, right? That statement now made whatever was left of her strength crumble - because even if it was just a dream, what if wasn't her dream?

"Ariadne," Arthur's voice was steady, like his hand on her arm. He was knelt down beside her as Yusuf approached, a clean syringe in one hand, a clear, filled bottle in the other. The Architect looked longingly at the Point Man, saying things with her eyes, things there weren't words for; wanting him to steady her; wanting the warmth of his protection and assurance.

Yusuf slid the needle into Ariadne's forearm. Ariadne was numb with shock, with the horrible idea that was someone in her head? Yusuf drew a long stream of red blood from her vein, pressing a cotton clothe to her arm as he slid the needle out. Arthur placed his own hand on the swab, pressing it down against her fragile arm. She felt her other hand move magnetically across her body; it gripped the tailored sleeve of Arthur's suit, fingers wrapped around his arm as though to anchor her.

The Chemist took the needle from the syringe and carefully, carefully dropped a small fraction of Ariadne's blood into the clear bottle. The blood swirled in the glass, faded; and the liquid turned a soft, almost translucent pink.

"...She's positive," Yusuf seemed to say it as quietly, as apologetically as possible. Ariadne's hand tightened, vice-like, on Arthur's arm.

"What does that mean?" she breathed, as Yusuf turned and began to pack the kit back together, glancing around the room worriedly, jumping when a rowdy group in the pub behind them erupted into laughter.

"It means you've been sedated in the last 24 hours," Arthur answered, and she was aware of his hand, resting on her knee. He opened his mouth again, as though to elaborate, but the words wouldn't come out. But she understood.

It means someone's been in your head.

"Arthur, we have to go. He could have followed you," Yusuf's tone was almost begging. He had opened the stock-room door a crack, and was peering into the pub, searching for suspicious figures.

"I know," though his eyes were still on Ariadne. "Find us a cab. Pay the bartender for his service. We'll come out a few minutes after you."

Yusuf hesitated for a moment, obviously not wishing to leave the presence of his teammates - and especially not wanting to leave Ariadne, as upset as she was, petrified on the bar stool. But the Point Man's words were final, and the Chemist slipped out into the pub.

If Ariadne wasn't trembling so much, she would be motionless with fear. A horrible, vulnerable feeling had consumed her, unlike anything she'd ever known; she felt used, violated in a terrible, irreparable, intimate way. Someone had sedated her; someone had infiltrated her mind; someone had entered her dream, imitated Arthur, struck her at her most vulnerable core. And she hadn't been able to tell - didn't know it was a dream, couldn't tell it from reality.

"Ariadne, stand up. It's ok."

He pulled her gently to her feet. She placed one hand on his chest; he felt firm, stable, a living statue dressed in a tailored suit and tie. She paused, froze; stared at her hand, resting against his chest. Is he real?

"Your totem. Your totem, Ariadne" was what he said, his fingers wrapping gently around her wrist.

Her other hand drifted to her pocket, independent from the rest of her. Slid inside, grasped weakly at the little golden chess piece.

Turned it over in her fingers. The small, easy-to-miss, grainy patch.

Her knees weakened, threatened to give out under her. Both hands found his chest, now, and she sank into him - was she crying? - her face felt wet, as she pressed it against his immaculate suit.

"I'm sorry, Ariadne. I'm sorry. I should have..."

What should he have done? Guarded her while she slept? Shared the hotel room? A half-formed idea.

She tried to tell him things without saying them. It's not your fault. Oh God. Don't leave. Protect me. Tell me it's real.

And he was there, stable, his expressive eyes filled with what couldn't be fear, talking back. Never again. This is real.

Tentatively, shakily, Ariadne wrapped her arms around Arthur's neck. She buried her face into him and smelled his cologne, as though to keep reminding herself - It's real. It's real. It's real.

They stare, and say,

You are not...

Not what?