A/N: Hey, will you look at that. An update.

So yeah, no joke! Here's chapter 2. Good to be back guys :D

Disclaimer: Nomiiine.

-Sanded Silk-

"So she…isn't a projection?"

"I don't know!"

Trent looks at Eames, concerned. Eames rubs a hand through his hair, more confused and angry than concerned.

"Does she have a name, at least?" Trent prods, trying to fill in the holes that Eames has blindly leaped over.

"Not that I know of."

"And how are you sure that she isn't baiting you, or somehow tricking you, or…?"

"I don't know! That's why I'm talking to you!"

Trent heaves a sigh. "Even if we go back in there, she might have a changed appearance. I don't know if projections retain their appearance from dream to dream. If she's a projection, anyway. Her entire consciousness might be different, wiped clean. She might not even remember that she's met you."

"But she's aware that she doesn't know where she is."

"Eames, I honestly think we should just forget it. It's much more likely that she's—that Goldsmith's deceiving you. It's probably not worth our getting headaches over."

"But it was so genuine! She was afraid, she was confused. The fact that she didn't try to kill me like the other projections were—"

"—could have been another ploy to deceive you."

Eames curses in frustration.

"Do you feel like you need to go back?" Trent asks.

"How much does Goldsmith know about our mission?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Trent says. "I know that he saw my face when the mask ripped off, so I probably shouldn't go in with you if you choose to. I can monitor, of course; but only while he's asleep. And…let's see. He doesn't know any names, any identities, anyone else's face. I take it you didn't meet him in the dream?"

Eames shakes his head. "I don't think even the projections got a good look at my face."

"Except her."

"If she's a projection."

"But I don't understand. What else can she be?" Trent challenges.

"I don't know! I need to go back in there, find out."

"You're taking a big risk here, Eames."

Eames sighs. "I know," he says, because he does.

-o-o-

The flight attendant, bought out by Eames, serves Goldsmith a cup of drugged ice water with a smile. Eames watches carefully from his seat as the man, leaning back and completely at ease, drinks from the cup—and almost immediately falls asleep.

Eames jumps to his feet. Trent, sitting behind him and out of Goldsmith's line of sight, throws off his hood and stands as well, stretching his cramped legs.

The attendant's smile drops from her face. Stoic now, she leaves the compartment to retrieve the briefcase from its hiding place.

"Do you think I should take some of the sedative?" Eames asks half-heartedly as he rolls back his sleeve in preparation for the tape.

"Don't know. I don't think you do. Do you think fifteen minutes in reality will be enough?"

"Should be plenty. If I don't find her by then, I'll probably just drop the subject."

"That would be a wise thing to do," Trent says pointedly as he receives the briefcase from the attendant.

Eames ignores Trent's comment and reaches for the tube offered to him. A piece of highly-adhesive tape is ripped and given to him. His heart is hammering, for no good reason that he can discern. Why would he be nervous? Unnerved in any way at all?

He lies down on the seat again, pushing the back of the seat into a recline, and closes his eyes, barely hearing Trent's well wishes.

-o-o-

Leaves skittering, dancing across a blacktop.

Eames looks up. Finds himself standing in the middle of a road, thinly curtained by trees, shooting through a colonnade of identical business buildings, into the rapidly-setting sun. Not the safest place to be, so he moves onto the sidewalk.

And then they swarm in. Bursting from behind walls and trees, intimidating in their number, their metal-soled boots. And armed, every single one of them. Overpowered, outnumbered, possibly even outwitted, Eames puts his hands behind his head, muttering curses.

Drawn to the sound of metal-soled boots, she turns a corner, light-footed despite her heavy gear and metal shoes.

The projections surrounding him turn on her, guns at the ready. Some don't react, staying stoic; others recoil immediately, even crying out at the sight of her.

A good portion of the heavily-militarized projections take to their heels, much to Eames' dismay. The sky is turning dark grey, steadily, visibly. The sun stills, sensing trouble.

She gets closer, stops about a block away. Eames lets his hands flop down to his sides. Now, even the most steadfast of the projections are moving away, looking unnerved. Eames looks between them and the girl.

"What are you doing to them?" he asks her. She's within earshot for him to speak normally.

She moves again, coming closer. Now the projections are gone. Speaking, low and urgently, to themselves and to each other, they hurry from the area in no apparent formation.

She stops beside him, looking up at him. She is a head shorter than him, bird-framed, deep russet hair wrapping elegantly about her waist. Her eyes are big and anxious as before, dark, and clear. She stares him down without meaning to.

The sun dips itself with a sigh beneath the horizon, and the sky turns rose-red, the far corners remaining dark grey. The only sound, for a long time, is the skittering of leaves on the ground.

She turns away. "You…you came back. Why is that?" She asks the empty street.

"…I can't say. It's actually quite the stupid thing to do, isn't it?" Eames jokes, laughing nervously. His first instinct at the first sign of discomfort is to squeeze out a laugh.

"I asked many to help me," the girl muses. "There are many of your kind, seeking information. None of them helped me. But perhaps you will."

Her shoulders shake slightly with silent, brief laughter. "Excuse me. This is kind of surreal."

Excuse me? You're saying that?

"What is it you want help with?" Eames says, cutting to the chase.

"I need you to help me get out of here."

"Out of…excuse me, out of where?"

"I know what you're thinking. Yes, out of Goldsmith's mind."

Eames crosses his arms, looking at her fully. "So you're not a projection."

"I'm not sure what I am," she says slowly. "I was hoping to ask you if…um, if you could help me—"

"—figure out what you are?" Eames shakes his head. "I have no idea how to go about it."

"But you must know someone who might?"

Eames thinks of Trent. "The one person who might have an inkling of an idea was unmasked in the last dream. They can't come back in. And I can't act as some kind of messenger between you two, going back and forth—it's too dangerous."

She is silent for a long time, thinking, staring far into the distance. Eames gets the feeling that she is disappointed, and realizes that it bothers him, her disappointment.

"You are free to go, you know," she says slowly after a long moment.

"…What?" Eames tilts his head, taken aback.

"You're not compelled to stay here and help me. There will be others."

Eames feels guilty for no good reason. She—and Goldsmith—are not his responsibility. He has no obligation to answer her if she reaches out to him. And yet, both the curiousness of her situation and the pity that Eames feels for her confusion make him want to stay, to help.

"Tell me more about your situation," Eames says quite suddenly. She looks up at him, a glimmer of surprise in her eyes.

"Before I leave, I want to know everything about you. What you remember, what you know."

She motions for him to sit down on the curb as she does the same. The setting sun seems to slow.

"How long do you have?" She asks.

"In the real world, fifteen minutes. Down here, maybe an hour. I don't know how the math works. But it should be enough time."

"Okay." She folds her hands about her knee, suddenly looking unprepared. Eames understands—she has not had the opportunity to do this before.

"I'm not sure what my first memory is, but I get the feeling that I've been here—wherever I am—in Goldsmith's mind, I guess—for a long time, for my whole life. I've grown up physically, from a girl to a woman. All the other projections here, in his mind, have always been…um…old, I guess. Older than me, anyway. I have not seen any other children here, besides myself."

"So you think you've been here throughout his entire life?"

"I think so. When he's not dreaming, I'm in some sort of…" The wind threads through her hair as she bites her lips, thinking. "This doesn't sound good, but I'm in some sort of box."

"…A box?"

"Yes. Metal, I think. It's cold and smooth. It's fairly large—I can float in it, relaxed, without touching any part of the box—but there are no openings in the box. I've felt around it before. And it's always pitch black."

Eames remembers that she mentioned a metal box the last time they met. "And this is when he's not dreaming," he says.

"Right. And sometimes…okay, this sounds worse. But sometimes, the box suddenly shrinks really quickly. It becomes painful."

"It shrinks? With you still inside?"

"Yes. It gets hard to breathe, and I lose feeling in some of my limbs…I have to stay away from the walls of the box, because they sting." She lowers her gaze to the curb, remembering. "It's hard to stay curled up for so long," she says, now looking up at him with vulnerable eyes. He finds the need to comfort her, to tell her that the pain isn't her fault.

She looks down, away from Eames. "Anyway. This happens kind of frequently, I guess. Usually, between dreams, it will happen for anywhere between two and twelve times. If I am—"

"Twelve? This can happen to you twelve times in a day?"

She pauses, and nods slowly. "I guess, yeah," she says quietly, looking off to the side as Eames regards her with disbelief and sympathy.

"Well, why do you think this happens? None of the other projections are treated like this, right?" Eames prods.

"I don't know," she says, shaking her head ruefully. "They run away from me whenever I try to talk to them—you saw just now," she says, gesturing at the empty street. "I think the other projections here do not retain their physical forms. I've been seeing adults in Goldsmith's dreams this entire time, but I don't ever see a…a repeat of a face."

"But you remain constant," Eames murmurs.

"Yes," she says quietly.

Eames peers at her from under furrowed brows. She looks away for a long time, before haltingly allowing herself to meet his gaze.

"So you are isolated from the other parts of Goldsmith's subconscious in between dreams; and when you are in a dream, the other projections avoid you like the plague."

"Yes."

"Sounds to me like you're not even part of his mind."

"But I'm not a person, either. My own person. I'm still…as ostracized as I am, I-I'm still part of Goldsmith. I think. By the way, what is Goldsmith's first name?"

"Bennington."

"Bennington? That sounds like a…a last name."

"Yup. Wait, do you have a name?"

"Um…" She looks to the sky for an answer, before realizing that the clouds have cleared. "I don't think I do. I've never had a need to call myself anything. I guess…you can call me…Goldsmith?"

Eames shakes his head, almost in disgust. "Nah, that's just weird. Let's come up with a name for you."

Her eyes open wide. "What? A name for me?"

"Well, yeah. I can't just call you 'girl,' can I?"

"Um…then…" She stutters, looking around, at the ground, into the windows of the building. Eames looks at her for a moment.

"What about Russ?"

"What?"

"Short for 'Russet.' The color of your hair."

"'Russet'? Is that what it is? I always just thought it was…brownish-reddish," she says, lifting a chunk of her hair and pulling it straight before her face to examine it with new eyes.

"Russ, then," Eames confirms. She—Russet—Russ—tilts her head at the sound of her name, and nods once.

The world blinks black, and Eames wakes up with a start, staring with wide eyes at the narrow ceiling of the airplane.

"Come on, let's go," Trent whispers urgently. "The attendant won't let him wake up until we're gone."

Eames gets up numbly, mind racing, and allows himself to be shepherded out of the room by an increasingly-concerned Trent.

A/N: Second chapter dooone. Wow, it's awesome to post something again :D

Review please!

-Sanded Silk-