He was aware of it, simultaneously, but also unaware. Like the world moving too slowly.
The feelings came first, as always. The visual was not as important - not necessary in the dream state. It was the feeling, the general existence that surrounded you.
He felt it first in his feet. Hard, uneven, wood and iron. He walked a step forward, and recognized the sensation of walking on rails, of walking on a train track.
Next was the breeze, holding in the distant scent of salt and sea. With the smell came the first hint of scenery; there was the empty, barren field, and his feet on the winding, endless train tracks, a train that went nowhere and everywhere but you can't be sure and it doesn't matter.
"I'm here, Dom."
Mal.
She was not standing on the tracks with him. The distant, high whistle of the train sounded far away, a forgotten warning. Cobb felt himself grow cold, his feet frozen to the iron train tracks, his gaze resting longingly, sorrowfully, at the image of his dead wife. She stood elegantly, ever so elegantly, in the dry, still air of this windswept part of his subconscious; her frame was small and tender against the distant background of the cities they'd built, toppled, altered, created together. Her eyes were infinite. Her lips, pressed gently together, reminded him of how desperately - for years - he'd wished to kiss her.
"I'm dreaming again, Mal. You're not real."
He said it as if to convince himself. He said it regretfully, almost shamefully.
Mal just looked at him, with a smile that begged his attention.
"Dom. It's time to stop pretending."
He could feel a low, subtle vibration starting beneath his feet - the rumbling of the approaching train. It echoed through him like the shiver of an unnamed fear. The train would hit him, he knew; and he would awaken, he knew; and she would be gone, gone again, forever...
You don't have to wake up. You can stay here with her.
But he would wake up. And she would be gone.
"I know. And I have to go, Mal. I have to go back."
But the smile stayed, and he was caught by the strangeness of it, the way she seemed content with his leaving her. She should be trying to make him stay. Convince him this was reality.
"I know, Dom. And I will finally see you up above. I've waited so long."
Her smile widened, and he was struck by the horrible, wonderful, glittering tears that stained her eyes. His heart reeled, ached, half in utter adoration of the gorgeous woman before him, half in terrible grief that I won't see you up above, Mal, remember? I won't see you.
"What... no, no," Cobb had to restrain himself from reaching out to embrace her, shaking his head. "I'll wake up. But you won't be there, remember? You left us."
The high call of the train whistle, louder now, closer. The glint of silver on the horizon. The distant, thundering drum of rotating wheels, of steam and fire and metal.
"They have lied to you about everything, Dom," there were still tears on her beautiful face. One of them dripped delicately down her cheek, tangled itself in her rich brown hair. "Because - because he was trying to destroy you. He was trying to destroy your subconscious."
Cobb felt a sick, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. A blurred, half-image of a black man, Indian man, sitting near him, turning something over in his hands, something important, something he'd once known - but why couldn't he remember it now?
"...Who?" he knew he shouldn't be asking the question, but what if she did know? - "And how? How could he do that?"
Is it real? Is it true? Just a Shade. Just a Shade.
"By telling you Inception was possible. By telling you I killed myself."
And something in the way she said it, in the way she looked at him, eyes still glassed with tears, hair flying gently across her beseeching face... suddenly the idea of his beautiful, talented wife committing suicide seemed like the most absurd belief in the world.
Why would she leave her children? Why did he believe so faithfully in Inception? How could he have accessed that deepest part of her mind, altered her reality, changed everything about her? Impossible.
But then - the guilt, the guilt, falling down around him - you know where you hope this train will take you -
"Baby, you did. I know you did. You left us," Cobb's voice was breaking, and the pleading, innocent, begging look in Mal's face deepened unbearably, made Cobb want to gather her to him, kiss those beautiful eyes and cheeks and mouth -
"No, Dom. He tried to use your guilt to destroy you. He knew you loved me more than anything. He made you believe we had gone too deep, believe I would not wake up. Don't you see? It's his plan. And none of it was real."
It was loud enough to begin drowning their conversation, loud enough to feel the tension in the air from its rapid approach. The horn blew again, piercing and evil, sparks scattering from the swiftly turning wheels.
"You fell, Mal. You fell," Cobb persisted, heroically, as Mal shook her head, hair flowing side-to-side.
The train coming, coming, coming simply because they were standing there, waiting for it.
"It wasn't real, Dom. I'm still here. I'm waiting for you up above."
"No. No, baby. No."
Then, slowly, elegantly, Mal stepped onto the train track beside the Extractor. Cobb felt a guttural, singular pull as she did this - an almost violent urge to push her off the vibrating tracks, away from the screaming, sinister roar of the approaching train. His beautiful wife. She put a hand on either side of his face, and he was vividly aware of the honest, infinite expanse in her eyes. It captivated him.
"You will see, Dom. We'll go together, just like you dreamed before. But we'll wake up, and you'll see. You'll see."
The train coming, pounding, loud, fast, screaming -
"No, baby, no -"
"The train is here, Dom and we'll be together -"
They were hit, and scattered, like a thousand shards of broken light.
l-l
The man was tall and thick, with a mop of ferociously frayed blonde hair. Yusuf was handing him his duffle bag, so he could deposit it in the trunk of the cab. The Chemist was looking worriedly over each shoulder every few seconds.
"You alright, sir?" the man's accent was thick, but the Chemist couldn't quite pinpoint the nationality.
"I - yes, yes, fine..."
Ariadne had drawn away from Arthur, unwillingly, in the bar stock-room - but not quite enough to completely separate, not quite enough to break the embrace. She was aware of his chin, hovering close the top of her head. She was aware of the black buttons on his dark dress-shirt, and felt the compulsion to count them.
"Are you alright?" steady, deep, resonating. She looked up at him, hazy, struggling to get back her focus. Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart.
She wondered if Arthur ever fell apart. If Arthur ever questioned his reality.
She nodded, slowly. He put his hand to rest on the small of her back again, and an involuntary reaction - a cool, relieved, easy feeling - trickled down her frame.
"No mistakes from now on," his face, chiseled, expressionless - but expressive in how his eyes remained fixed, intent, focused on the Architect. "No mistakes."
She nodded, dimly. Her one hand was still wrapped tightly around her tiny, golden totem.
Yusuf was leaning on the side of the cab when they exited the pub. He looked paranoid, edgy, sweaty; the effect of some cheap Belgium wine had not improved his spirits in the way he'd hoped. Instead he had a growing headache and a weak, half-sleepy feeling that made him all the more vulnerable.
Arthur squeezed Ariadne's arm once, for reassurance. The Architect nodded in mock confidence. She had appeared weak enough already before the infallible Point Man; she assumed his impression of her could not be favorable, not when she had nearly collapsed in the pub, after she'd let someone in her mind, hadn't known it was a dream.
The Chemist nodded to the Point Man, who released Ariadne's arm, took a calculated step towards the car.
And the cab-driver grabbed Ariadne.
"Arth -!"
Her cry cut short, a pressure on her throat, like the mob-death, like fire and water in her chest.
Arthur reacted, instantly, turned, swung his jacket open, hand moving instantly to the Beretta strapped across his chest -
"I wouldn't."
Arthur's fingers gripped the gun, but he did not draw it out. The man's left arm was snaked around Ariadne's throat; his right hand gripped tightly to a small pistol, hidden partially by the sleeve of his coat, the barrel shoved deeply into Ariadne's side. She could feel the pressure of the metal, a spike of pain from where it jabbed into her flesh. His finger on the trigger like a whisper.
"Take it out. Slowly. Throw it in the bin."
For one infinite second, Arthur didn't move, his hand still on the Beretta. The blonde man, impatient, dug the gun deeper into Ariadne's side, and she finally let out a breathy, terrified gasp of pain.
Arthur's stone face hardly changed, but that quiet noise dissolved his defiance. Unwillingly, in horrible slow motion, he drew the pistol from the holster, keeping it half-hidden under his jacket. People strode by them without glancing, without noticing, without knowing what dangerous and delicate transaction elapsed beside the cab. In a quiet, almost unseen motion, Arthur moved the gun across his body and slid it, with a heavy thunk, into the streetside trashcan.
"You. In the passenger's seat," he gestured Arthur towards the cab, then fixated on Yusuf. "You. Drive."
l-l
The Rokugobashi Bridge crossed the Tama River on the southern end of Tokyo. The river was not exceptionally large or dangerous; it was only rated a Class 1; but that didn't matter much when you were plummeting directly into it's cold, staring blue face, trapped inside the cruel metal of a bloody tiny Japanese car.
There were snippets, that Eames could remember clearly; being pursued by two large, black vans, down the busy Tokyo highway; the echoing, rising orchestra of car horns, screeching wheels, the constant, constant banging of gunfire. The scattered debris of metal and paint chipping as bullets found the car doors, the shattered shards of glass as the windows were shot out.
He remembered a loud, painful bang as the back right tire was shot out, the swiftly following screech of metal tearing against asphalt.
He remembered the feeling of being weightless, and the numbing crack when they hit the water.
Something bad had happened in the process - something involving a piece of the bridge railing, and the driver's side of the door, and a high grating noise, and a pain, pain, very real, very real and raw and slicing through him like fire -
The Forger had swam, floundered, somehow, to shore, hidden by an outcrop of rocks and piled refuse. They'd taken Cobb, taken him and believed the Forger dead in the water - dead in the water because of the blossom of blood he'd left on his side of the car.
The railing of the bridge had torn a straight gash through the car door, through the seat, through Eames.
He lay shivering on the bank, clutching his ragged shirt to the messy, jagged slice in his side. Bloody reality. It was easier to deal with pain in a dream, really; easier to withhold the instinctive gasps of pain, the trembling movements of a wounded body, the headache and sea-sick feeling as the blood came out.
"You've got enemies in high places, Cobb," Eames muttered unhappily to himself, his head swimming. "May we never learn from your example."
l-l
Yusuf drove slowly, haltingly. He was severely impaired by the wine, by the man in the back seat of the car, who had a pistol shoved in Araidne's ribcage.
"Go slow, now. Take a right up here."
Arthur's eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror; fixed, unblinking, on the yellow-haired man in the back seat, who's hand clutched Ariadne's white, white throat, pressed the gun into her side. No one could know the terrible pounding in his chest; the ferocious fire of rage, of anxiety, of what couldn't be fear, that coursed in his veins. But the concentrated intensity in his eyes was threateningly, ominously unmistakable - the Point Man was not going to take the situation lying down.
"What have you done with Cobb?" Arthur's voice like stone.
Ariadne felt her thoughts reach out: Do something. Do something. Just as safe in reality.
"I haven't done anything to him," the man replied, snidely. Ariadne felt a rush of disgust usher upwards through her body, as he grinned beside her. "...Not yet, anyway."
Arthur did not respond. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror.
Yusuf let out a worried, upset groan, just quiet enough to make his discomfort apparent. He clutched the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turning white; there were beads of sweat on his brow, on his neck, on his fingers. The car lurched uncertainly between varying speeds, as Yusuf tried to compensate for the traffic, for his own nervousness. The yellow-haired man seemed perturbed by his driving.
"Go slow, now. No need to make a scene of ourselves. Slow and steady."
A flash in Arthur's eyes that only Ariadne saw.
"That's it. Slow, like -"
" - No. Go faster."
Arthur's voice low, and terrible, and so much heavier with threat. Yusuf hesitated, glanced at the Point Man.
"You, shut up," hissed the yellow-haired man. "You, keep it slow."
"Faster," Arthur returned, and the Architect was staring into his eyes through the rear-view mirror. Yusuf seemed to hesitate, glance side-to-side, swallow his nerves - and his foot began to weigh down on the gas pedal. Their speed increased, gradually. Fifty miles an hour.
"Goddamnit it, slow, I said -"
"No. Give it more."
Sixty miles an hour.
"You piece of shit! Pull off! Pull over -!"
Seventy. Eighty.
The roar, roar, roar of the engine -
"I said slow down!"
"Punch it, Yusuf - !"
And the Chemist, drunk, addled, slammed his foot into the pedal. The world became a blur.
The car was propelled forward, skimming horribly against the side of a parked car, leaping out into traffic, slamming them all backwards in their seats. Buildings flew by like colored flashes in a mosaic; cars and people screeched, screamed; the yellow-haired man, his curses lost beneath the sudden tumult of noise, speed, adrenaline, flailed his gun away from Ariadne and placed it against the back of Arthur's head.
Ariadne heard the click of the gun, even thrown back against her seat, even with Yusuf tearing through lane after lane, light after light, too petrified to realize how fast he was going, and the gun, the gun, the gun against the back of Arthur's head -
It was the motion he'd been waiting for.
As soon as the barrel touched his head, Arthur had swung, captured the man's arm, pulled him forward across his seat and into the front of the car -
- the gun went off - BANG - and there was a spurt of red, but whose blood was it? -
- Arthur's other arm already wrapped, exact, efficient, around the man's throat, pulling him towards the dashboard -
- Yusuf, letting out a surprised, deliberate cry -
- the Point Man, kicking the door open, his arm still wrapped, living iron, around their captors neck, and pulled them both out of the moving car.
Ariadne must have yelled - must have done something to distract Yusuf, something to make him swerve heavily and crush the front end of the cab into the standing brick side of a meat factory. The passenger's side door of the cab swung out and open, a metallic flag. Araidne stumbled from the car and into the street, the lanes of traffic parting to either side, honking, yelling, people staring -
Arthur and the yellow-haired captor were on the ground, a flying, bloody mess of fists and curses and kicks, and whose blood was it, scattering across the street in drops of ruby-red? It couldn't be certain who was winning - the captor had hit the ground first, and the back of his shirt was ripped through - but Arthur's whole right side was torn, jagged upwards, skin shredded with brilliant red road-rash and studded with gravel. The Point Man was on the defense, fending off the infuriated assault of their captor, who stumbled and cracked his fist into the side of Arthur's head.
Arthur's weight fell back on his left leg; he shifted against the blow and propelled forwards, barreling into the man's torso, sending them both flying back towards the cab and the open passenger door.
The captor ripped his shoulder on the side of the car; he yelled and thrashed at the Point Man, but Arthur was trained and instant - his fist found the man's jaw, and both their fronts were covered in blood, but who'd been shot? - and he fell on his ass, dazed, just beside where the car door opened.
Yusuf had stumbled from the cab. He turned, pressing his back against the brick wall to stabilize himself.
Ariadne felt a scream, a cry, a yell of warning rise in her throat as she saw their yellow-haired captor reach for something stable, to launch himself back at Arthur.
But Arthur's hand was already on the handle. He took it, threw all of his weight into slamming it -
Slamming the man's head between the car and the door.
Crunch.
The man dropped flat onto the street.
Ariadne felt numb. She didn't even notice Yusuf's drunken cursing; didn't notice the lines of traffic and stunned, horrified faces looking at them; didn't notice the people running, calling the police.
She was staring at Arthur, stooped over the body with the crushed skull, searching its pockets.
He used his left hand. His right forearm was red, red, red, and she could see - dark, dark crimson, the hole in his arm -
"Take this," his body was shaking as he handed her the wallet, the blood-stained documents. She did, automatically, unable to think. Arthur strode back to the car, his right arm still held inwardly to his chest, still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. He picked up their captors gun from the front-seat floor, and the Architect felt a swell - a huge swell of immediate and consuming fear. Arthur was shot.
Somehow, he was able to threaten someone with the gun, just long enough to get them away from their van. Somehow, he was able to get Yusuf back in the driver's seat, though the Chemist was severely impaired with fear. Somehow, Ariadne found herself in the back seat, clutching the wallet, the red-and-white document he'd pulled from the dead man's pocket. Somehow Arthur was next to her, and they were speeding away from the accident scene without immediate pursuit.
But once in the car - once out of sight, out of danger -
The gun dropped, thunk, to the floor, and Arthur collapsed against Ariadne.