Disclaimer: Inception does not belong to me. Thank you for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter, means a lot!

Eames took a deep breath, and smiled at his class. Fifteen eleventh graders sat in front of him, all waiting to listen to him deliver a lesson based around verbal techniques. He smiled, and held up his battered copy of David Mamet's Oleanna.

"Ok," he asked, sweeping his gaze over the group, and noting that the girls all seemed to melt in their seats as he did so. "Any questions? What do you think of Mamet's use of language in this play? The way he characterises the professor and the student?"

A couple of hands were tentatively raised. Eames nodded. "Yes, Chris?"

"Um, I think what Mamet is trying to do is shock us into realising that people misinterpret things too easily. Quick to take offence."

Eames nodded. "Mmmmm." He paused, wondering if he should make a cryptic reference to Arthur and Fischer, but decided against it. He looked again. "Elise?"

"Well, I think-"

Suddenly, the door opened. In walked Fischer, immaculately clad in a black suit. He nodded. "Mr Eames."

The drama specialist raised his eyebrows. "Mr Fischer."

"Please continue." The new Vice Principal waved a pale, thin hand as he settled himself into a chair at the back of the room. "I would like to observe."

Eames bit his lip. They were supposed to have notification of observations, usually two days in advance. Swallowing, he turned back to the group, and smiled.

"So, what do you think is the key theme of this?" he asked. A few more hands went up. "Yes, Liz?"

"I think its against political correctness," she said, slowly. Eames nodded. "Good thoughts. Any more ideas?"

The class dragged. Normally, drama lessons went exceptionally quickly, but this one seemed to move at the pace of an arthritic slug. Eames was aware that the students were subdued, primarily due to Robert's presence. He was sitting, with his hand propping his chin, icy blue eyes following every movement. Eames swallowed, and turned to face the class again.

"OK!" He spoke, loudly. "Improvisation. I want to you to get into pairs, and think of a situation where an action can be misinterpreted by another."

There was a murmur amongst the students. One student spoke. "Um, what do you mean, Mr Eames?"

"Well," Eames said, reflectively. "How about this. You're in a restaurant. You have a slight disagreement with someone, and you retaliate by accidently tipping your ice cream into their lap."

There was a brief pause, then a giggle started to snake around the class.

"So, how do you think the other person will react?" Eames said, playfully, noting that Robert was beginning to turn even paler. "Would they accept they'd annoyed you to the point where you did this? Or do you think they'd react by claiming it was an act of assault?"

The giggling intensified. One boy, Joel, raised an eyebrow. "You'd have to be pathetic to do that!"

Eames smiled. "I suppose you would be."

He turned. Robert, who was now white with anger, was getting up and leaving the room.

Arthur sighed, and started strumming his guitair. After a few minutes, he cursed and pulled the strap back over his head.

Nothing seemed to be going right. He had an idea for a song, but it didn't seem to be falling together. With a deep sigh, he slumped in the chair. Suddenly, his cellphone began to vibrate. Exhaling his breath slowly, he reached for it. "Hello?"

"Arthur?" Ariadne's voice floated out of the device. "Arthur, listen to me. Its getting worse. Much worse."

Eames swallowed. He'd been summoned to Robert's - formerly Arthur's - office. As he walked up the stairs, he had an overwhelming feeling of defiance. He was not, he decided, going to be railroaded or spoken down to by a slimy little man in an expensive suit.

He suddenly smiled. Arthur had worn expensive suits, but he would never have described him as slimy. He knocked on the door. "Come in!"

Eames entered. Robert was already sitting in the chair behind the desk; for a mad moment, Eames thought all he needed was a fluffy white cat to stroke. Yes, you would have made a perfect Bond villain.

"Eames." Robert smiled, and leaned forward. "I need to talk to you about your conduct in that class this morning."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "My conduct?"

"Yes." Robert narrowed his eyes, and then smiled again. The effect was almost reptilian. "Shall we begin? Or shall I just hand you a written warning first?"

"A...written warning?" Eames choked out. Robert nodded. "Yes. You made blatant reference to the dispute between myself and Arthur." He shook his head. "Very unprofessional. Listen," he said, leaning forward, "I am going to hand you a written warning. And if this happens again, it will go on your reference. Understand?"

Eames blinked, shocked.

"Oh, and don't use Mamet in your lessons. It makes blatant references to sex and crude language."

At that point, Eames snapped.

"Mamet is an American classic!" he snapped. "Or are you so much of a bloody philistine that you don't see that?"

"Eames!" Robert's tone held a warning. "One more word, and you're gone. Thank you. You can see yourself out!"

Standing up, Eames looked at the slightly younger man. "This isn't over," he snapped, and turning, threw the door open and charged out.

Arthur clicked off. He felt sick, and slightly dizzy.

"Robert's Vice Principal?" he murmured. Sinking back into his chair, he tried to breathe more slowly.

"Only one thing for it," he announced to the empty room. "I'll have to try to get my job back."

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