Chapter 3: Reality

As always, Arthur didn't open his eyes right away upon regaining consciousness. This was good, because Arthur realized three things:

One - He was tied to his chair with some kind of rope, and the proficiency of the knots was unknown, unless Arthur fancied moving and alerting the captor. Which he didn't. Not yet.

Two - He could hear Sandy arguing with an unknown male in the room, with Hans' muffled cursing as the backdrop. Wait – muffled?

Three – He knew he should've gone on vacation after the inception. Cobb was right, he worked too hard. Too late to worry about that, Arthur supposed. If he got out of this mess, he was buying himself a ticket far, far away. Preferably somewhere with mountains. Arthur liked skiing. Not the beach though. Suits don't work too well in hot weather. Sand was too messy. Sand. Sandy. Arthur needed to focus. What's my problem lately?

Arthur had just resigned himself to opening his eyes when he was slapped across the right check. Hard. His neck took the brunt of the recoil, snapping viciously to the left. It took every ounce of willpower in Arthur's being not to flick open his eyes to catalog who he was going to murder.

Charming.

"Why isn't this fucker up yet?" The American male who had been arguing with Sandy must have decided to come over and slap some encouragement into Arthur's motionless form.

Emilia's timid voice piped up from Arthur's left. "He might not be out of the dream yet, if he wasn't killed."

Any competent person involved in dream sharing would know Emilia's statement was a load of crap. Hans, the dreamer, was awake; therefore any other member of the team would be kicked back to the surface as soon as the dream collapsed. Seeing as how Hans had been shot in the head, the dreams should've collapsed within seconds. Anyone in the business would know this. Arthur perked up - this was important, because for Emilia to be able to slide this one over, the assailant must not be from a past job.

Male, American, ignorant. Arthur knew a lot of people matching this description, but only one made sense in the context of their situation.

Colin Jansen had decided to collect, without paying.

A stream of French erupted from Arthur's right.

"What the hell did that terrorist just say?" Colin's Jansen's voice showed undertones of a European accent, now that Arthur knew what to listen for.

"Ray said he knows a stimulant that can wake Arthur up, he just needs to go over there to find the correct drug." Again, Emilia talked from Arthur's left, near the door of the meeting room.

"Fine. Whatever. Adam, get Mohammed over there out of his restraints, and keep an eye on him while he wakes up pretty boy."

There was some unintelligible shuffling, time in which Arthur felt the proficiency of the knots restraining his hands. He was fairly confident he could work out of them, he just needed a few minutes. Time I don't have, Arthur realized glumly. Sandy had gone back to arguing with Colin, but Arthur knew he couldn't stay 'unconscious' for long.

Before Arthur could form any more ideas about their situation, he felt the brush of Ray's curly hair against his left ear, away from all the commotion. Someone was feeling his pulse. In quiet Italian, Ray whispered, "Colin Jansen. Two bodyguards. Eva was knocked unconscious again, by her son. Sandy knows them all. Be on your guard – I'm going to pretend to inject this into you, now." Arthur felt a slight pressure at his wrist, and then it was gone.

"Er ist wach," Ray proclaimed in German. Arthur took this as his cue, and groaned, rolling his head around in a circle. His joints popped, readying themselves for a fight. Arthur froze in mock astonishment as soon as he "realized" he was restrained, and his eyes shot open.

Arthur was greeted by quite the sight. The door was still firmly shut, blocked by a restrained Emilia. She seemed to be bound by jumper cables. Slumped against her in another chair was an unconscious Eva, her temple steadily trickling blood. Violent blow to the head, Arthur mused. Why was Colin so angry with her?

A man in a black button down stood next to Eva, holding what looked like to be a handgun with a suppressor. On Arthur's right, Sandy, Hans, and Ray were also bound. Hans had a strip of duct tape pressed over his mouth, and having been judged as the largest threat, had a man (who Arthur presumed to be 'Adam'), pointing a pistol (also equipped with a suppressor) at his head. And finally, in front of Arthur, stood a man with wavy brown hair, smiling with all of his teeth - and none of the warmth.

"Hello," the man who Arthur assumed to be Colin Jansen drawled. "We're going to have a little chat, all of us, about those wonderful passcodes."

"And if I yell to the oblivious bankers outside these meeting room walls?" Arthur questioned, picking at the knot encasing his wrists together. He vaguely noted that Colin was wearing a paisley shirt, quite like the ones Eames was fond of wearing. Arthur, motivated by the hideous sight, picked at his restraints more determinedly.

"They would not hear you," Colin replied smugly, polishing his suppressed Sig Sauer on his pants. "Currently, the nearest employees to us, besides my dear mother, are outside, hoping for it not to rain, as they have been evacuated by a bomb scare. There seems to have been an anonymous caller stating that he was going to blow up this building today." Arthur inwardly deflated a little. It would be harder to escape without the distraction of other people. Sinking farther into his chair, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye.

"And why have you tied us up, Colin?" Arthur questioned bitingly, simultaneously glancing out of his peripheral vision. "Have you forgotten that we are working for you?" Emilia was motioning subtly about something, pretending to itch her shoulder with her chin. What was she trying to say? One of Arthur's hands was free of the hemp rope, clutching the slack between his fingers.

"As your colleague no doubt informed you, I have more than just the transfer of stocks riding on this interaction." At the bewilderment Arthur was quick to disguise, Colin smirked even more, jerking his gun over to Sandy. She was glaring, not gagged, although she didn't utter a word in response. "You mean she didn't tell you? During my lovely stay in the US of A, I met some interesting individuals that led me to my line of work today."

Arthur snorted, trying to puzzle out Emilia's continued tick while working one-handedly on a tight knot circling the base of his wrist. "You are referring to your exemplary record as a paper pusher, I assume?"

"No, sweetheart," Colin snarled, clicking the safety off his Sig. "My side job. Hypnosis."

Hans took this revelation as a cue to knock Adam with the back of his heavy office chair, aiming for the gun in the grunt's hands. Without taking his eyes off Arthur, Colin pointed his gun to his left, and fired, shooting Hans in the upper thigh.

A scream of anguish tore through Hans' gag, and he crumpled to the floor, his chair pressing on top of him.

"Are you done interrupting now?" Colin asked, rolling his brown eyes. "I'm trying to outline exactly how your friend 'Sandy' here fucked you over. At least hold the theatrics until I'm ready to kill you." Arthur finally realized Emilia had been gesturing to Arthur's gun. The Glock was lying by other mercenary next to Emilia, at his feet. Arthur didn't see the huge advantage that Emilia seemed to think it gave them, but he blinked twice in an affirmation that he had received the message.

"Anyway," Colin continued, and lurched forward, whipping across Arthur's left cheek with the barrel of his gun. Arthur neck cracked the other way, protesting against the harsh abuse. "Listening now? I met this wonderful murderer during my time in America. She, as I learned from one of my contacts, was a known serial killer; targeting people who were whistleblowers. But not ordinary narcs - snitches on what my associates called the 'dream-sharing' world. I had been working odd jobs as a hypnotist, hired by all sorts of people desperate to convince their loved ones of horrible things – cheating being morally sound, murder equaling justice, Star Trek into Darkness being a great movie…" Colin trailed on, continuing his clichéd bad guy monologue, enjoying Sandy's (or whichever name she is to Colin, Arthur thought bitterly) widening eyes. Arthur's mouth was filling up with blood from where he had been smacked with the handgun, bruises forming across his jawbone. His wrist was starting to bleed from the escape effort, and surprisingly, the knot had been tied well enough on his right hand he was having significantly more trouble loosening it.

"So, of course, as someone who is paid to alter people's perceptions, I was keenly interested in this dreamsharing world. Hypnosis is only effective if the subject is willing. But to have a type of persuasion that was 100% effective? That would be heaven." Colin's eyes glinted, but his expression soured as he looked at Sandy again. "So my friends and I asked around, clueless college students, and made what was judged to be a little too much racket, trying to edge into this lucrative business." Colin leaned forward, stroking Arthur's bleeding cheekbone with the tip of his handgun. "And you know what happened next?"

"I can't say I care," Arthur replied, gritting his teeth as the barrel was pushed into the cut. Colin twisted the cold metal around, ripping the gash open even further.

"You should care, because your friend here decided to kill the ring leader of my group, my best friend. And that's why I'm here today. Vengeance, sweetheart. Not only for the bitch that killed Ryan, but for THE REST OF YOU BOURGEOIS FUCKERS IN THIS FUCKING BUSINESS!" Colin's tone escalated, slightly crazed.

Hans lay twitching on the floor, his blood forming a widening sanguine pool as Arthur contemplated his options. Ray looked tiredly compliant in the corner; and Sandy glared at the side of Colin's head. Both of Colin's hired help seemed used to his rants, looking professionally blank.

"You elitists wouldn't let me enter the business, and now you'll regret it!" Colin was now twitching with rage. "You think a hypnotist isn't worthy?! Well, I got my dumbass mother to let you guys waltz past her defenses, only to kill herself as soon as she noticed that bitch swiping the codes! You played right into my hands!"

Arthur twitched, recognizing all-too-well the signs of a soldier ready to crack, ready to leave the barracks and shoot up the entire camp. If only I could reach my Glock…His eyes strayed to the side, and Colin finally realized no one was paying complete attention to him anymore. "What, you fuckers, are you too dumb to know when you've been conned? Pay attention to me!"

Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Colin raised his silenced gun once again.

Unlike a toddler, his actions had deadly consequences.

The gun went off, blood exploding everywhere. The contents of someone's body splattered against the glass walls. Everyone flinched backwards in shock. Arthur's eyes partially shut against the onslaught of body matter. He felt something warm and heavy splat against his face and drip onto his shoulder. Hans moaned from his spot on the carpet, and Arthur heard something crash to the floor. He blinked away someone else's blood from his lashes.

Ray had crashed sideways, falling into the corner of the room. Ray's head was now partially missing his skull, the insides now staining the floor and frosted glass.

If Arthur hadn't been so jaded he would've gagged. As it was, he felt as though he taking part in some kind of D-rated horror movie, complete with the slimy guts and pitiful villains.

Although shocked, the team all recognized it was time to take action, before another one of their bodies was the one staining the ground.

Emilia had been grossly underestimated. She shot out of her chair, completely free of her bonds - fuck, that's why she had been pointing at my Glock, Arthur thought - scooped up Arthur's gun, and shot the man next to her in the torso. Without a suppressor, the Glock seemed to shatter the previous deadened sound contained in the meeting room.

Eva finally jolted awake, lucid enough to take in Arthur rocking forward, pushing off from the table behind him with his untied left hand. He tackled Colin into the side of the meeting room's glass wall, his inertia carrying them both through one of the flimsy frosted panels. They crashed into the next room, glass flying all over. Arthur got his bearings first, immediately stomping on Colin's wrist as he took in the plush lobby. Slamming down with the leg of his chair, Arthur sent the Sig skittering across the tile. Grabbing a piece of broken glass in one hand, Arthur awkwardly jumped for cover, the chair still strapped to his body. He sawed at the restraints, the glass cutting into his left hand in the process. Gunfire began taking chunks out of the marble corner beside Arthur, sending white pieces of rock flying. In what felt like ten years later, Arthur succeeded in freeing himself from his confines. He used the mirror in his pocket to see around the corner, and noticed – Colin, pointing his recovered gun at Arthur's face.

"I NEED THE STOCK CODES!" Colin aimed his handgun at Arthur's face, spittle flying from his lips, his face an unattractive shade of red.

Arthur opened his mouth to spew some bullshit, but Colin abruptly crashed into him, taken down from behind by a barely lucid Hans. Colin fired even as his arms hit the ground, a bullet speeding mere centimeters to the left of Arthur's leg.

Hans knocked the weapon out of Colin's hand, breaking his wrist against the marble tile. As Colin howled, Hans stated, "Ve haf seconds. The other man vas taken out by Emilia, but not vor long!"

"Got it," Arthur took the handgun from Colin, and crashed back into the meeting room.

Someone must have heard the gunshots by now. Emergency services will be here soon.Arthur mind raced as he swept into the room, noting Emilia training his Glock on a dazed Adam, Sandy still restrained. Eva was in the corner, looking shell-shocked. Arthur snatched the PASIV off the table, clicked it closed, and patted his breast pocket for his totem. In addition, he dragged the case of chemicals off the floor. Ray doesn't need them now. Arthur motioned to Emilia, holding his hand out for his Glock. She handed it over gladly, and Arthur promptly shot Adam in the leg. Arthur wasn't a killer unless he had to be, but he wanted to make sure the remaining team's exit went as smoothly as possible. "Good job with the ropes, but - get out of here," Arthur told Emilia, ignoring the anguished cries of Adam. "Make a new identity. Fly to a different country. Just whatever you do, don't stay behind." Emilia nodded, already heading for the door.

"And you," Arthur turned to Sandy, his tone changing entirely. "If I even get a hint that you're in the same country as me by this time tomorrow," at this Sandy's eyes narrowed, "you're dead."

Arthur pivoted and stepped through the broken glass without a backward glance. Arthur was not a man to waste time. He was also not one for goodbyes.

Arthur again took out his mirror from his inside pocket. He had first seen the corner mirror trick with Cobb, back when he was naïve and would follow Cobb anywhere, and believed every job Cobb chose was reputable. Ever since the botched mission in Lagos that led to a particularly nasty scar running across Arthur's thigh, Arthur always kept a pocket mirror on hand.

Aiming around the corner, the mirror's reflection came back showing Hans and Colin - except the picture was all wrong – Hans was now the one pinned underneath.

In the split second it took Arthur to grasp the situation, Colin popped his head around of the corner, and screamed, "If you fire, I kill your friend!"

Arthur slid behind the lobby's marble counter, adrenaline flooding his veins.

"You're going to kill him anyway!" Arthur shouted back.

Late to the party, four armed men suddenly burst out of the stairwell behind Colin, double doors crashing into the walls on either side. Arthur fervently hoped to see Britain's fine police force, but his hopes were futile. One of the armed men dragged Colin off of Hans, into the stairwell. Another fired a shot to the back of Hans' head, effectively killing Arthur's scheming to rescue the architect. I hope Emilia already ran for the other exits.

Retreating farther behind the counter, Arthur took quick stock of the situation. Arthur's Glock only held fifteen rounds, and he was five bullets down. That left ten bullets for four men, who seemed to have multiple magazines and were moving toward the meeting room, and him, fast. Need a distraction.Arthur's gaze wandered, and landed on a viable solution.

Arthur lined up and shot in quick succession two bullets, aimed for the delicate chain of the opulent chandelier hanging above the lobby. Not sticking around to see if the men were impeded, Arthur tore out of his hiding place to the end of the hall, the deafening sound of breaking metal and glass reaching his ears.

With the PASIV and chemical case in one hand, and his Glock in the other, Arthur sprinted down the cream colored hallway. A few bullets tore by, narrowly missing him, and Arthur shot back across the hallway, hearing a grunt when one of his bullets found its mark. Six bullets left. Arthur reviewed the schematics of the building in his brain, remembering the proximity of the high-rise apartment complex next door. Making his decision, Arthur pounded up the stairwell at the end of his hallway, ascending instead of descending. Once up a few floors, Arthur immediately burst out of the doors, running into a conference room, slamming the thick wooden door behind him. He slipped his Glock into its holster, and threw open the clasps holding closed case of chemicals.

Arthur's hands hovered, frantically scanning labels, hoping for two neatly branded flasks. Oh, no. The labels are in Arabic. Arthur grabbed two vials, leaving the rest of the case open on the table. He bent down, untying his shoe and slipping the shoelace out of its position. Arthur tied the two tubes together using the shoelace, and sprinted back out of the room, turning, feeling the wound on his cheekbone reopening at the sudden change in motion.

Please let this be worth it – please let these flasks be hydrogen and chlorine,Arthur thought desperately.

He ran back over to the stairwell, pausing when he heard boots on the stairs below. Hiking the PASIV under his left arm, Arthur opened one of the wooden doors and heaved the two conjoined vials down the steps, and dived away, skidding across the floor

The floor rattled beneath Arthur, and the temperature in the hallway rose noticeably, signaling the detonation of something, at least.

Jumping up from his stomach, Arthur hung a left, now full out sprinting towards the dead-end of the hallway. God, I hope the building schematics aren't incorrect.

Hunching his shoulders and wrapping his body around the PASIV, Arthur didn't stop running at the end of the hallway breaking through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Glass flew everywhere around him - for the second time that day. At this point, as Arthur free-fell through open air, he thought his only concern was the lack of a parachute - only to feel a sharp punch to the back of his left shoulder.

Arthur's momentum was such that his body careened in a wide arc through the empty air. His hands grasped desperately above him, the PASIV abandoned as he grasped onto the ledge of the adjacent building's fire escape. Legs kicking, Arthur swung through the air. With a grunt, he hauled himself over the railing and onto the platform, crumpling in exhaustion to the metal floor. Arthur rolled onto his back slowly, feeling as though the front of his body was one giant bruise.

The only thing that propelled Arthur to his feet was a spreading numbness, then intense burning in his left shoulder. He was definitely wounded, meaning that the other shooters hadn't been far behind at the time of his leap. Rolling to his feet and suppressing a moan, Arthur spotted a man in black peering out the shattered window. Lining up his Glock, arm trembling with exhaustion, Arthur shot the man in the torso. The man's body pitched forward, tumbling to the ground four stories below.

They were in a side alley, noises from a two lane road echoing close by. Arthur jogged down the fire escape, cataloging white spots in his vision as the spreading numbness made its way throughout his left arm and upper torso. After making the painful descent off the ladder and onto the pavement, Arthur peeled off his suit jacket.

A dime-sized hole decorated the back of it, precisely the size of a bullet.

Oh no, Arthur thought, rather removedly. I've been shot.

He was no stranger to bullet wounds, incurring several both in and out of the military. Arthur knew he was in a state of shock – adrenaline pumping, blood flowing. The wound was already hurting like a bitch, but it would soon incapacitate him if he didn't get treatment.

Arthur picked up the PASIV, walking over to the man's body on the ground, glancing around to make sure there were no security cameras lining the alley. He slipped off his suit jacket, grimacing at the blood, guts, and general unpleasantness staining its surface. He shoved his jacket under the dead man after taking out his belongings, removing the one from the body for himself. The hole in the front looked more like a tear than the bullet hole in his, and he didn't think any cabbie would accept him in the state that other jacket was in.

Arthur glanced down at his shirt, sighing. At least he could cover most of the bloodstains and gore with his new found jacket, right? He still needed medical attention as soon as possible.

As he walked toward the entrance of the alley, Arthur pondered all of the tweaks he would have to do to the inevitable police investigation so he would (and the surviving team members, if there were any minus Sandy) make it out relatively unscathed. Another passport burned, for sure. Arthur figured it was too late to care about his fingerprints lining the inside of the building, and tried to remind himself to take care of the police report later, bullet wounds now.

He walked onto the sidewalk lining the street, gingerly slipping on his new found suit jacket. Both his shirt and the jacket were dark; people wouldn't notice the injury unless paying him close scrutiny. As he walked, Arthur noticed a woman in a blue dress chatting animatedly to her female companion, suitably distracted. As they strolled by him, Arthur plucked her pink iPhone from the top of her purse. He avoided all places with surveillance – convenience stores, street corners and the like. Spotting a non-chain restaurant, Arthur stashed the PASIV into a hanging plant outside the door before entering. Arthur then ducked into this shop, the first shop he had seen without security cameras, a small café.

Once inside the dimly lit interior, Arthur cast the barista an apologetic sort of smile that came out more as a pained scowl. "Could I have a black coffee and directions to the toilets? Sorry, I don't have long off break. Some odd thing going on at CurrencyCorp next door, a bomb evac."

The barista looked up, and did a double take at the appearance of Arthur's face. Arthur had almost forgotten about the laceration he had incurred, and dumbly realized he probably had quite the array of bruises by now.

"Sure, mate," the barista said. "Not a problem. Not my business, but are you alright? Looking pretty bloody beat up there, in more ways than one."

Arthur took in the barista, with his blonde hipster undercut, tortoiseshell glasses, and cheery tattoos, and decided a more dramatic scene was the way to secure his anonymity.

"Actually," Arthur said, injecting a tremor into his voice. "Truth be told, I do work at CurrencyCorp, although I haven't even made it to my desk yet, bomb call aside. My, ah, boyfriend and I had a bit of a row, and I'm -" here Arthur acted choked up, hanging his head. "I'm – I was trying to leave him, you know, for good this time. But – but he didn't take kindly to that." The barista's eyes widened in pity and sympathy as Arthur's narrative wore on, and Arthur felt a flash of guilt. He brushed it aside, going on, "I really, really don't need my co-workers knowing about anything, so I was hoping to use your facilities to wash up a little. If, if that's alright." Which it better be, Arthur added silently. He was starting to become dizzy from the pain emanating from the bullet wound.

"Yes, yes, that's good. Let me – just let me get you some towels and such." The barista came out from behind the counter, quickly going to the front window, flipping the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed'. "Come with me, mate."

Arthur followed the man to the back of the store, flinching every time his shirt dug deeper into the wound on his back. The barista said something to Arthur about how the blows to his face looked pretty bad, and Arthur managed to form some phrases about how strong and large his boyfriend was. Arthur realized he was rambling on, and shut up as they reached the supply area.

The barista said something else, disappearing into the stock room. Arthur waited long enough that he started to get fidgety, contemplating booking it.

But just as he was preparing himself to leave the café, free flowing blood from the bullet wound aside, the barista, whose nametag read "Eddie", strode back into the room, carry an armload of towels, ice packs, tweezers, rubbing alcohol, and anything else medical that Arthur could've dreamed of. This is the point where Eames would have remembered to say something snarky, like 'preparing for the next Armageddon or something, sweetheart?' But Arthur could barely remember to mumble his thanks as he took the bundle, quickly rushing inside the stall, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him. He stripped off his jacket, took out the pocket mirror, and shucked off his tie. Arthur was glad he had left the vest only to the dream world for once. He surveyed himself in the mirror. His pale face stared back wanly, an angry purple-black bruise already marring the expanse of his left jaw and cheekbone. No wonder the barista had looked aghast at the sight of him.

Arthur's black hair was crusted with dark red on the side of where Ray had been butchered. His brown eyes looked duller than usual, less sharp. Drops of red crusted on Arthur's neck, although this time it was his blood, presumably from one of the two times he had decided to propel himself through a pane of glass.

Arthur unbuttoned his shirt with one hand while typing in Eames' number into the (luckily) unlocked pink iPhone with the other. He was desperate. Even Arthur would concede he needed help, badly.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, while Arthur eased his shirt off his left shoulder, cradling the phone with his right. "Fuck, Eames," Arthur muttered. Hanging up, Arthur turned with his back facing the mirror, and took his pocket mirror off the edge of the sink to survey the damage.

The wound was clean cut, as bullet wounds went. Little tearing of the skin. But the bullet was still in the depths of his muscle, and hot blood was dripping steadily out. Arthur needed a resting place. He needed a safe house – and in that moment, he remembered that Eames had one in London. Eames had only mentioned it to Arthur once, definitely not one he visited often, but still – it was something.

Arthur stuffed the edge of the towel in his mouth, and poured rubbing alcohol into the edges of bullet hole, screaming into the fabric. After sweating for a few seconds, breathing hard, Arthur took his tie, cut it in two with scissors from the copious pile of supplies given to him by the barista, Eddie. He fashioned himself a binding on his shoulder, literally stuffing some of the tie into the bullet wound. Arthur used most of the roll of toilet paper to wrap the awkward dressing, and finally washed his hands, wiping down the bathroom. He shrugged his shirt back on with a frown, leaving more buttons open than even Eames would normally. Finally, Arthur wrapped his jacket back on, hiding the bulge caused by the hastily fashioned compression bandage.

Arthur splashed some water onto his face, trying to at least make it look as though he attempted cleaning off his bruises. He took off the iPhone off the sink, and cracked the case, taking out and destroying the battery. Wrapping the whole thing in a few paper towels, Arthur stuffed the evidence into the bottom of the trash can.

With one last look in the mirror to assure himself he could pretend to be human for another thirty minutes, Arthur left the bathroom.

Eddie was there at the counter, waiting with the coffee Arthur had no intentions of taking. As soon as Eddie saw Arthur, he shot him a tentative smile, as though Arthur was about to break. "How're ya feeling?"

"Better," Arthur said quietly, feeling the bullet wound already acting up. "But, if it's all the same to you, I need to get back to work."

Eddie smiled again, this time something a little sadder reaching the edges of his eyes. "I figured as much. Just – promise me you won't go back to that wanker. And, take this; it's a domestic abuse hotline number." Arthur hesitated, then reached out his hand, closing his fingers around the paper.

"Thanks, Eddie. For everything." Arthur gave him one last fleeting nod, and left the café.

Arthur felt his shoulder throb in time with his cheek as he strode down the street, keeping his head down. After grabbing the PASIV, he flagged down a taxi, making sure the company looked sketchy enough to be willing to be paid off. Arthur slid in, gave the address, and settled into his seat, wincing at every bump that jarred his shoulder. He realized he had crumpled the paper from Eddie into his hand, and smoothed out the note on his leg. Along with the domestic abuse hotline for the U.K., another phone number was scrawled, with a note written hastily at the bottom:

Call me if you ever need someone to talk to, or a place to stay. You're a very attractive man, and you deserve more than you have right now. You have a lot of courage leaving that asshole.

All the best,

Eddie

Arthur crumpled up the note, stuffing it into his pants pocket. You deserve more than you have right now.

In another world, Arthur thought. But he couldn't see himself with Eddie, as hard as he tried. It almost felt like cheating, for some reason…

He must have entered some sort of a trance, because the next thing Arthur knew, the cabbie had stopped and turned to look at him, saying, "You alright, sir? You look bleedin' knackered, back there."

"'m fine," Arthur mumbled, alarmed at how difficult it was to form sentences. "Just… just lemme know when're here."

"We are 'here', mate. Middle of nowhere, outskirts of London, just the address you said." Arthur looked around, and dimly noticed the city buildings in the distance.

"Oh. Here." Arthur reached into the depths of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, relived to find that he had remembered to transfer all his currency. Sorting through the wad until he found the right type of money, Arthur paid the cabbie double the fare, muttering an unconvincing, "Keep this lift to yourself," as he stumbled out of the seat.

The cabbie sped off relatively quickly; probably afraid Arthur would snap out of his impaired state and demand the money back.

Once the dust and dirt cleared, Arthur remembered the address he had given the driver – 5 miles south of Eames' purported safe house. Fuck, Arthur thought, barely lucid. I need to start moving before I pass out.

The trek through the wooded area was a humongous blur. Although the job had originally begun early morning, the light seemed to rapidly fade as Arthur continued his clumsy trek through the woods. He tripped over sticks, leaves, and the occasional rock, cursing the fact that he couldn't go to the hospital like a normal person. Every step seemed to jar each individual bruise in his body. Soon, Arthur was overcome, and had to sit down in a wet grassy clearing. The storm clouds had finally rolled in, and Arthur found he couldn't muster the strength to care about the downpour soaking through his clothes. He was done. Finished.

We're internationally wanted murders, Eames voice seemed to whisper in Arthur's ear, taunting him. You're going to bail out on me now, darling? You're so close.Arthur stubbornly struggled to his feet, not stopping again, even as the sky opened and dumped down sheets of rain. Arthur knew that if he stopped now, he wouldn't get up again.

In what seemed like another world, dusk had fallen. Arthur had reached the home. Shadows made the stereotypical English cottage look sinister. Arthur felt watched as his tired eyes took in the ivy slowly devouring the chimney, and heard unknown animals scampering in the bushes close by.

An ugly gnome sat at the front of the walk, and a glimmer of recognition passed across Arthur's subconscious. Arthur slowly, painfully, disabled a trip wire at the edge of the gnome's feet, reaching underneath for a gold key to the side door. Cradling his injured shoulder, waves of pain crashed over Arthur, inviting him to succumb to the darkness creeping into the edges of his vision.

Arthur stumbled up crumbling steps to the side door, leaning his tired frame against the peeling painted wood. Although Arthur fumbled with the key, his vision just couldn't seem to focus enough to put the thing into the slot.

He was ready to give up and bleed out on the wet doorstep. Just as Arthur prepared himself to slide to his knees, the door in front of him gave way, his only support disappearing.

Arthur stumbled forward, the PASIV rolling to the floor as he staggered into what he thought was a wall - until he heard Eames' voice.

"What the bloody hell is - darling? Arthur?"

Arthur just managed to turn his pallid face into the direction of the noise, casting his sight upward. Arthur's gaze registered the kaleidoscope that was Eames' eyes, right before passing out into his solid chest.