Chapter 8

The surf slapped Eames in the face and he immediately sucked in a lungful of water and sand and started coughing uncontrollably. He dragged himself up to his hands and knees and found himself kneeling on a beach, the tide doing its level best to drag him out to sea. He got a brief impression of overcast skies and far reaching dunes before a rifle muzzle was jammed between his ribs and a torrent of angry Japanese was yelled at him.

Eames shook his head, chest aching, ribs aching, and actually his whole damn body aching. Where the fuck was he? What was going on?

The rifle wielder above him was dressed in a guard uniform, and Eames caught a whiff of too much aftershave and sea air and sweat before he head-butted him in the bollocks. Eames grabbed the rifle out of his slack fingers and smashed the back of his skull with it, dropping him unconscious in the sand. He checked the area for possible incoming backup and checked the rifle. Then he slung it over his shoulder, drug the guard up the beach, stripped him down to his pants, and stole his uniform, wallet, and badge.

Eames changed clothes quickly and headed in the opposite direction the guard had approached from, hoping it would lead him away from whatever he had been guarding. He kept close enough to the surf that the sand was firmer under his still wet shoes (the guard's wouldn't fit him) and the water washed his tracks away. He walked as fast as his battered body would allow, trying to piece together where he was and what the hell was going on. His name was Eames. He knew that. He didn't have a wallet when he disrobed, just a red poker chip in his pocket, a handgun in his belt, and an impressive array of bruises. He didn't have a mirror on him, but if his beard looked as shaggy as it felt, he might be the only guard on duty that might also pass for a homeless man. For some reason, he knew that the beard wasn't a regular thing, even though it wasn't uncomfortable. So:

Eames,
no beard,
no problem knocking people unconscious and stealing their things.

Beyond that, he wasn't really sure. But that was ok. He could be that person. It was enough to create an identity. He walked, and walked, the beach and dunes seemingly never-ending. Finally, he stopped to rest and he took off the guard's hat and wiped his brow. He'd been piecing together a few other things while he walked, and it made him feel a bit better. As near as he could figure, he:

understood Japanese, but
thought in English, and
had a military background, or, at least, an intimate familiarity with weapons, although he suspected the former.

He wasn't getting any memories of how he'd gotten here, or where the hell 'here' even was. He wasn't, however, inclined to be drug somewhere at gunpoint, though, no matter who he had been before he woke up on the beach. Yes, he could definitely be that person.

It was the thought of gunpoint that made him glad when he didn't see any signs of civilization that night. He turned north and eventually ran out of sand, and at the first clump of trees he came to, he immediately lowered his aching body to the pine needle covered ground, laid his weapons within close reach, and was asleep within five minutes. When he woke, it was morning and he immediately reached for his pants pocket, and when it turned up empty, he couldn't say why it made him uneasy. He was outrageously thirsty, though, and decided he had more pressing matters to worry about than a feeling of unease. Of course he was uneasy. He was lost in the woods with what was apparently bloody amnesia and an obviously rather dodgy past that involved hurting people and stealing things. Jesus fuck, if he didn't feel uneasy there was obviously something wrong with him. Something else wrong with him.

It didn't take him long to find a path, and from there a road, and he chose the direction that led away from the guarded beach and walked. He saw road signs with both Japanese and English (odd, that) pointing out Gas! Food! Hoteru! a few miles away and he headed toward it. When he crested the hill, the first thing he saw was a huge cityscape that he didn't recognize. It was strange, some of the buildings looked familiar, but he was certain he'd never been here before. In fact, there appeared to be a replica of the Sears Tower next to...was that Matsumoto Castle? And how the fuck did he know what both of those were? Eames gritted his teeth and walked to the nearest structure, which turned out to be a shite gas station with a half-asleep attendant and an unoccupied men's room. When he got in there, he confronted the unfamiliar face in the mirror. Eames, he reminded himself. Hang on to that. He poked at his not-yet-visibly-bruised cheekbones and pulled at his hair and beard before running wet hands through the whole mess and calling it good. His fingers twitched and he wished for a cigarette. Did he smoke? He must. He checked the guard's wallet and came up with a drivers license (American, New York), three credit cards, and a twenty-pound note. Huh. Well, as far as weird days went, he didn't suppose it got much weirder than this one, so he ignored it and traded the guard's uniform for his still slightly damp civilians clothes, stuffing the uniform in the bin on his way out of the bathroom. Then between the three credit cards, he purchased $900 worth of Visa prepaid cards, three bottles of water, two sandwiches, and a large nylon duffel bag, then dumped the credit cards in the bin as well. The spotty attendant couldn't have cared less. He rang up the purchases, singing along to a heavy metal song on the radio in an American accent and smelling of weed. Well, it was good to know that some things you could count on. In 15 minutes, he was out the door and on the road again before he realized he hadn't even thought about getting cigarettes.

Eames wandered for a while, down busier and busier streets until he found a chain department store. American and Japanese accents were everywhere. He purchased clothing, toiletries, and as many of the items on the strange list in his head that he knew he'd need, because what he really needed was a new set of paperwork, and he had a feeling he'd be able to do something about that if he had the right tools. He was in the checkout line when he realized the same song had been playing on the overhead speakers that the gas station attendant had been singing along to. That was...odd. He asked the checkout girl what song it was and got an, "Um, I don't really know? Because they just tell us to scan the stuff? And so I don't really listen? Ya know?" and he ended the conversation as soon as he could. He stuffed all his items into his newly purchased duffel bag, cozy next to his concealed weaponry, and headed to the docks.

Eames asked the right questions of the right people, and found himself being offered a new set of papers for "a low, low price, a real steal, you can't find 'em any cheaper, lemme tell ya." He shook his head and offered a twenty-pound note for a chance to meet the guy who makes the papers. Eventually, he's led to a dodgy office in the basement of a bar to meet "Johnny".

He was brought to the man at the door of the office, who was dressed in, of all things, a three-piece suit. Eames's heart stopped and then triple thudded when he saw the suit, but he couldn't put his finger on why.

"And you are?" asked the besuited Japanese man briskly.

"Eames."

"What's in the bag?" His suit jacket did little to conceal the gun in a shoulder holster that he carried, and Eames suspected he knew it. It was a bloody nice suit, though.

"A rifle, a Colt Combat Commander, forgery equipment, and a sandwich," Eames answered smoothly.

The Suit appeared amused. "One minute. Stay right here."

He knocked quickly and entered the office, closing the door tightly behind him. Eames could hear voices but not what they were saying and he waited, patiently, a calm surety coming over him. This meeting, he had a feeling, might decide a lot of things for him, depending on how it went. He hadn't been sure what he was dealing with, but The Suit at the door had settled it in his mind that he might be closer to the top of the food chain than he original thought.

The Suit reemerged with a small frown and said, "Johnny wants to know what you want."

Eames nodded once. "I'm asking a favor and offering my services in return."

"And I assume your services involve the contents of the bag."

"Indeed."

The Suit crossed his arms and leaned his hip against a small desk there. "Surely you're aware that we already have people with your...'talents', shall we say. Why would we be interested?"

Eames raised an eyebrow haughtily and The Suit returned the look. Apparently he wasn't intimidated easily. Eames shrugged. "You might not be interested. But if the set of papers I was offered like it was a deal on The Home Shopping Network is any indication, you might just need me, though."

"Why's that?"

"Ask a lot of questions, do you?"

"It's my job to know everything."

"Is it, now?" Eames was impressed with the cool demeanor of the man in front of him. He reminded him of someone. (Did he? Who?) "You must be a very valuable commodity."

The Suit just looked at him.

"Well, as it turns out, so am I. I make forgeries. Whatever you may need a copy of. And while I can make shite papers like the ones I was offered, my specialty is generally more high-end." The words rolled off his tongue easily, and Eames was fairly sure he was right, but the man he faced looked like he didn't suffer fools lightly.

"Is that it?"

Eames was surprised at his tone, just this side of rude. "Is what it?"

"Is that all you can do?"

"Well, what do you need done, darling?" The teasing slipped out before he could think about it. He immediately felt a sense of guilt and a desire to take it back.

The Suit considered. Then he said, "Kandinsky."

Eames snorted. "That's not even a challenge. Why don't you just ask for a Rothko or a Pollock?"

The Suit smiled. "I happen to like Kandinsky," he said.

"Are you testing me or commissioning me?" Eames was genuinely intrigued by this man in a suit, who worked for what appeared to be a mid-level thug, in a capacity that seemed like an odd mix of bouncer, receptionist, and advisor, but who spoke with authority.

"Both," he said calmly.

Eames couldn't help it. He liked this guy. "I'm new in town. (Probably.) You let me use your supplies and maybe your suppliers, I'll make you one. That's actually the favor I was going to ask, and the payment I was going to offer anyway." Hell, he wanted to get him a Kandinsky.

The Suit nodded, once, then said, "Follow me."

Jesus, if this was the pre-interview, he might be in over his head here.

The door swung open revealing Johnny to be a young, no, make that very young, white kid, whose jeans were hanging halfway down his arse and his stringy black hair was being held back by a stocking cap. His very expensive-looking sunglasses shielded his eyes-indoors-and Eames would have been very surprised if they weren't extremely bloodshot. He had the skinny, twitchy look of a long-time drug user and sat slouched in an office chair, twirling it slightly and chatting on his mobile. As Eames approached his desk, the man said, "And then what'd she do?" and laughed uproariously at whatever the answer was. Eames caught The Suit's eye and raised his eyebrows slightly. The Suit blinked back at him, slowly, and like it took a lot of effort. Then Eames realized...he'd already had his interview. He frowned slightly but nodded to The Suit before settling himself in the chair opposite the desk. He had a feeling if he waited to be asked to sit, he'd be waiting a long time.

Turns out, he was waiting a long time anyway. In this situation, he would have normally assumed whoever it was was trying to intimidate him, or maybe put him in his place by making him wait. But this time, he was pretty sure he was being ignored because the guy in front of him couldn't be arsed to stop chatting with whoever he was talking to. Eames was a patient man, with nowhere else to be, though, and he could out-wait some scrawny 20-year-old addict. It gave him plenty of time to observe.

By the time the conversation ended, Eames had determined a number of things. He watched the kid's movements, the unconscious tics he had, the tells. He was good at this, he decided, studying the little things. The kid came from money, was probably in this position because people were scared of his dad or because they were loyal to his family. Probably both. Second, The Suit was the one running things. He had moved to the far corner of the room once Eames had sat down, pulled out his mobile, and hadn't looked up since. Eames had a feeling he wasn't playing Angry Birds. Third, the kid was a junkie. He probably started out moving shite, got excited about bigger and bigger profits, and then decided no one would miss a little product, after all, he'd earned it. Etc.

"So, Souji tells me that you're a forger."

Eames met the newly named Souji's eyes, then he glanced back at Johnny. "I am."

"Cool. Can you do, like, fake IDs and stuff?"

Eames raised an eyebrow. "And stuff."

"That's cool."

At this point, the conversation seemed to peter out, and Eames fought the urge to roll his eyes. He gritted his teeth and plowed ahead.

"Mr. Johnny, I am here to propose an exchange of goods for services, and possibly setting up a long-term arrangement between the two of us. I believe we can be mutually beneficial to each other and in my estimation-"

"So, like, could you make a fake ID for a friend of mine?"

Eames paused. He risked another glance at Souji, who had looked up from his mobile and was clearly waiting for Eames's official response. Eames took a breath and directed his response at Souji. "The best you've ever seen."

Johnny appeared unperturbed that Eames hadn't acknowledged him. "Oh, awesome, can you have it done by Friday? Cuz that's when we're goin' out and the club we're going to got busted big time by Lord Saito last month? So they're being super dicks about IDs. And Lord Saito has, like, this iron fist, right, so he's got cops and mobsters and judges and, like, fuckin'-" He had started to pick up speed and started talking faster and faster until he was cut off by his ringtone. Of course, it was the song from the gas station. Eames was beyond being surprised anymore. He answered his phone mid-sentence, and Eames knew this portion was over. He stood, and Souji walked him to the door.

Eames paused once they were outside the office, duffle bag in hand, looking at the floor. "How much is he pissing away?"

He thought Souji wouldn't answer, but eventually, he said, "More every day. Eventually, he'll kill himself or get killed, and then his dad will send someone else."

"Why don't you just do it instead?"

Souji regarded him coolly, his dark eyes sharp on Eames's. "I'm an engine, not a driver." Then he shrugged. "Besides, I don't want that kind of heat."

Eames nodded but honestly thought Souji could do so much more and didn't understand the inclination to dream that small. He was a 'go big or go home' kind of guy. "See you on Friday, then."

Souji gave him a curt nod, then turned back to his phone.

Eames headed for the exit but paused and turned back. "Hey, Souji." When the other man looked up, Eames asked, "What day is it?"

Souji appeared amused. "Wednesday."

"Ah," Eames nodded. "See you Friday, then."

Eames headed for the cheapest motel room he could find.

The song was playing in the lobby when he got there. The young man behind the counter identified it as "The Black Album, dude!" when Eames had asked what exactly it was they were listening to, and so Eames nodded like that answered his question and took his room key.

When he was finally sitting on a faded floral duvet behind a closed and locked door, he clasped his hands in front of him and allowed himself to feel somewhat safe. He sorted his new belongings, took a shower and debated shaving the beard while updating his mental list.

Eames
no beard (?)
no problem hurting or stealing
Japanese language and apparently architecture
English
military background
knowledge of how to forge an identity
knowledge of how to forge a Kandinsky (or a Rothko, or a Pollock?)
no knowledge of American heavy metal music

He tried to remember anything from before the beach, but couldn't come up with anything tangible and stopped before he could get frustrated. He would figure this out, and in the meantime, he had preparations to make. He wished he had his mobile, but then on the heels of that earth-shatteringly original desire, he also realized he wouldn't know anyone to call. It was a depressing thought, but there was someone, he could feel it. Someone important. With that thought, the frustration built up before he could stop it and he felt an intense sense of loss.

Well, OF COURSE he felt loss, he couldn't fucking remember anything! Damn it! He scrubbed his hands down his face and decided against shaving the beard. It was starting to grow on him. He grinned to himself and knew he'd get an eye roll for that one. (From whom?) The grin felt rusty and he let it slip off his face. He grabbed his gun and shoved it in his waistband, then headed to the address Souji had given him. He had an ID or two to make.