Chapter 2:

"Fortunately, it's not a bad cut," Ariadne said as she closed the bathroom door behind them. "There was one time when someone actually did tear open one of his veins waking up from a job and he bled all over the place. He was new to dreamshare though; it's hard to keep still after waking up. All you want to do is move."

Ana watched quietly as Ariadne walked past her and bent down to pull out a small case from underneath the long marble counter. It was a rather large bathroom, with gold accents, thick luxurious rugs and a bathtub and shower stall. There was even a settee and table in the far corner.

Ridiculous.

What kind of work would require a place like this?

Ana turned her attention back to Ariadne, who was pulling out items from the white case. She wasn't at all surprised to find it was a well-stocked medical kit. Ana stared at its contents – the scalpel, syringes, iodine, bottles of painkillers and clear glass vials of morphine, and tried not to think about why the people she was with brought such things with them on "business" trips in lush hotel suites. It clearly didn't belong to the hotel. The kit was too simple, a contrast against the ostentatious surroundings, and the text on the labels were in English. Ariadne moved quickly and efficiently; she'd done this before and wasn't squeamish about it at all.

Am I used to this? Ana thought. Am I like them?

"I'll help you with that," Ariadne said. "Your cut, I mean. I know how hard it is to do that with only one hand."

She picked up a bottle of alcohol and opened it, pressing a sterile square of fabric against its opening and turned it upside down quickly.

Ana frowned. "I still don't understand any of it. Sharing dreams like this, in some hotel room. And someone being in my dreams, in my mind, like that… I'm really alright with it?"

"Arthur will tell you more," Ariadne said, lowering her eyes. Her cheeks flushed and she pressed her lips together in a thin line. In one swift movement, she turned the bottle right side up again and gestured towards Ana's arm.

"Now this is going to sting a little. I'm sorry."

Ana held out her arm dutifully and noted that Ariadne looked faintly distressed, though she didn't think it was due to the task at hand.

She doesn't know what to do with me.

It was fair – Ana didn't quite know what to do with Ariadne either. Or anyone else.

Are we friends or just colleagues?

After a short conversation the group, except for Ana, had all agreed that it would be best to call other so-called "dreamshare" specialists, the ones that could be trusted, for guidance. Eames told Miron to contact someone named Yusuf while Arthur would call someone named Dom.

Dom was an extractor, or had been until a few short years ago. But according to Arthur, he was still an expert and the best at what they did.

An extractor.

She'd been an extractor too apparently. A part of her felt guilty because she knew that the job, whatever it was they were doing, was in large part dependent on her abilities. She wasn't sure what an extractor did or what it had to do with dreams but the way Eames had tried to explain it–

"It's collective lucid dreaming. Think of it this way: someone's mind is a toy store and we get to play with almost anything we want there. And you get to take the most important toy in the store."

–she wasn't sure she liked it.

"Are we criminals?" she'd asked then, half confused and half incredulous, and the fragile peace between Eames and Arthur seemed to snap at the question.

Eames had responded in the affirmative just as Arthur shook his head.

"Oh come on, Arthur. Don't lie to the woman."

"She barely knows who she is – is that what you want her to think of herself? That she's some kind of career criminal? Because she's not."

"I didn't say she was but she should know–"

"No, we need to give her more time to–"

"To what? More time to be confused without a bloody clue as to who–"

Ana had watched them, unsure of what to do. Eames had grown more frustrated and vocal and Arthur seemed to draw inwards, more still, as they argued. It seemed that Eames had wanted to tell Ana everything about herself whereas Arthur thought it was too much, too fast. He wanted to wait and see if Ana's memories would return on their own. Miron seemed to side with Arthur, which irritated Eames.

Ariadne had finally taken Ana away to the bathroom to deal with the one problem that could be fixed immediately. Ana thought she was the most practical of the lot.

She was drawn back to the present as Ariadne swiped carefully over the cut. It stung and she jumped a little but kept her arm out.

"Arthur takes care of the PASIV and I don't doubt he disinfects all the IVs," Ariadne said, almost apologetically. "But you know, you just can't be sure."

"No, I suppose not," Ana said. Ariadne gently wiped the ragged edges of the cut and Ana looked down at it. It wasn't bad but it wasn't pretty either. It would scar for a bit but eventually fade.

She then turned her attention to Ariadne as she worked, noting details with interest. She wore a soft looking gray blouse underneath a cardigan, dark pants with boots and a brightly colored patterned scarf tied loosely around her neck.

Simple items but still carefully chosen.

Ana realized it soothed her to watch people, to study them and draw conclusions from all the little bits of information presented before her. This was something she must have done a lot, she thought – it was something she enjoyed.

"I thought you were a student at first," Ana said, blinking in surprise at the idea. Ariadne looked up, eyebrows raised in a silent question. "But you graduated a few years ago, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did," Ariadne said. She stared at Ana's face and tilted her head to the side. "What else? Tell me more."

"You're an architect by profession but you think of yourself as more of an artist. You like to dabble in sketch art and it helps you relax. You're American but you've lived here for a while. You might go back soon though… You're homesick."

The careful, guarded expression melted away and Ariadne smiled. She almost looked relieved.

"Even with amnesia..." she trailed off. She put the soaked fabric, now stained with blood, on the counter and shook her head. "Should I even ask how you knew that? Especially the part about… Well, the last part."

"Latent memory?" Ana said, but even as she said it she knew it wasn't true. "Maybe it's just something I know about you."

Ariadne made a face and Ana shrugged. "For all I know, I could be wrong."

"You're not. Ana, you're almost never wrong."

"Your clothes and your hair," Ana said. She gestured towards Ariadne vaguely. "Your clothes are professional separates but not tailored like Arthur's or Eames' clothing. Still though, the fabrics are of good material and the cut is better than average. You got your clothes here and not in America. The workmanship is clear. But they're well-worn; the knees are a touch lighter than the rest of your pants and the wrists on your sweater are a little frayed, so you've been here for a bit. You probably bought those clothes during your first year living here."

Ariadne nodded with a smile. "Close. I got them after my first year but that was a while back. Keep going. What about my hair?"

"You've recently got a haircut. Maybe just a trim – the edges are more blunt than they would be if you'd cut your hair a month or two ago. People don't usually get their hair cut in a city they don't live in and if it's a trim then you probably have a stylist you trust here."

Ariadne touched her hair self-consciously and let out a pleased laugh. "Okay, keep going."

"Your fingernails are bitten down on your left hand and there's a callus on the middle finger of your right hand. There are smudges of lead on the side of your pinky. Most architects use CAD programs, don't they? The scale models are yours. The way you knew how to handle them out there told me that you knew just where to grip in order not to ruin the designs. You draw with a pencil or charcoal stick with your right hand and bite down on your fingernails on your left hand. I'm guessing here but if you were working while sketching, you'd use a table instead of your hand to balance a pad. The model was very precise."

"Yeah, I do that."

"The nail biting… It's a new thing. Or maybe something that pops up when you're stressed. You don't have hangnails and the skin around your nails isn't badly chewed up. And you only do it on one hand."

"So the homesickness?"

"I guessed," Ana said truthfully. "You were reading a book. When we walked past it, I looked down at the spine and saw 'Property of Ajax' written on it in marker. The pages looked well-loved."

Ana paused, thinking, and shrugged again. "I'd say it was your brother's book. Ajax and Ariadne. Some parents like having their children's name match and Ajax and Ariadne are very classic names. Anyway, it's an old book, heavy enough to be a nuisance and if you live here, you could have left it at home but instead you brought it with you."

"I'm never not amazed when you do that," Ariadne said. She closed the supplies kit with a faint smile.

"I just… It seemed obvious," Ana said. She suddenly felt extremely tired and let out a sigh, all the pleasure from the little game fading quickly. "Do I do that a lot? You make it sound as if it's a thing with me."

What kind of person am I, that I would build assumptions on such small details?

What kind of person would need to in dreamshare?

"Well it kind of is your 'thing'," Ariadne said, making quotes with her fingers. "But you're an extractor so I suppose that's why you'd be so observant. Eames is good at becoming people but you're good at seeing people. It's what makes a good extractor."

"And what do extractors do?" Ana asked. "I could hazard a guess but..."

Ariadne's face shifted and Ana could almost feel her draw back a little. She turned around and locked the kit again before putting it back underneath the counter.

"Arthur or Eames will tell you," she said. "It's not really my place."

Ana suddenly remembered that the two men were still arguing outside the door but their voices seemed more subdued, less heated than earlier. She turned to face Ariadne, meaning to demand answers but she caught her reflection in the mirror.

Oh.

Ana froze.

She hadn't considered what she looked like although she had taken a quick look down at her own attire. The shock of seeing her face, for what felt like the first time ever, was more than a little startling.

Stupid. It should have been the first thing I did.

She had dark hair, darker and longer than Ariadne's, and her eyes were a pale blue or gray. She was nearly a full head taller than the other girl and her own features were delicate and feminine though the surprised expression she wore at the moment seemed to make her look almost comical. She wasn't daintily pretty like Ariadne but she knew without any false modesty that she was someone who probably received a fair share of attention.

Ana felt ill, her stomach churning with a strange mixture of anger and grief.

It was like looking at a stranger.

It didn't look at all familiar.

Her face was a horrible thing.

Ariadne looked up at the mirror and whirled around, grabbing Ana by the arms. She suddenly realized that she'd almost collapsed, her legs feeling weak and bloodless underneath her. Ariadne gripped her tightly, keeping her upright.

"That's me, isn't it?" Ana said, staring at the face in the mirror. It looked back at her, mouth twisted in disgust. She reached up and touched her cheek and the stranger did the same. "That's what I look like, that's me? I didn't remember that, I didn't…"

How could I not remember what I look like?

"Ana, you're okay, don't freak out, it will be–"

How could I not remember my own face?

"–okay. Ana, come on, we'll fix this, it's probably temporary, it's probably–"

Who am I? Why am I here? Who the hell are these people?

"–just a side effect so you don't have to worry."

Why can't I remember?

"Arthur!" Ariadne cried out. "Eames! She's freaking out!"

The sound of loud, hurried steps came and the door burst open. Arthur seemed to fly into the bathroom with Eames right behind him, close as a shadow.

Ana didn't care about any of them. She was suddenly utterly terrified.

She shook off Ariadne's grip and hurled herself at the mirror with her hands out before the others could stop her.

What if I never remember? What if every time I look at myself, I see a stranger?

(How can I live with this face?)

I can't live like this.

She felt the mirror crack under her fists, felt sharp edges dig into her yielding flesh and she hit the surface again, wanting to destroy it. It was irrational and utterly senseless but Ana felt compelled to destroy the thing she saw in the mirror. She wanted it to fall to pieces, needed the destruction to happen right now because she knew that if she had to look at her face, that strange, alien reflection that apparently belonged to her, she'd go mad.

But before she could land another blow, Ana was shoved backwards and then pushed down onto the floor. She instinctively put her hands to the side to keep from landing on her back and uttered a cry when she felt shards of glass cut deeper into her palms.

"Jesus, fuck, stop it!" Arthur yelled into her face. This time he was furious with her, there was no mistaking that. "What the hell was that, Ana? What the hell were you trying to do?"

His eyes were wild and slightly crazed and he looked ready to snap, his body taut and nearly vibrating with tension. His hands were like vices on her shoulders and when she tried to sit up, he pushed her back down.

"I don't know! It just happened and I don't know," she babbled, looking up at his angry, hard face. "I looked… I was just… I didn't know, I didn't know who I was!"

"Easy there," Eames said, putting one hand on Arthur's arm. He squeezed, digging his fingers into Arthur's arm. "She was scared, Arthur, and you're not doing anything to alleviate that."

"Fuck off, Eames," Arthur nearly snarled and Eames narrowed his eyes. "And get your hand off me."

"Let go of her," Eames said quietly, and despite the distraction of shooting hot pain in her hands, Ana could hear the undercurrent of true danger in his voice.

Her heart beat like it was trying to force itself out of her chest and she drew in a shuddering breath, forcing the urge to scream back down. She didn't know why she had wanted to break the mirror. It came upon her so suddenly, the overwhelming sensation of hate and fear at the face that looked back at her – she was almost helpless to stop the reaction.

And now she was paying for it. She tried to curl her fingers inward and agony shot up her arms in retaliation.

"Arthur, she's bleeding pretty badly," Ariadne said. She was very pale and her small, delicate hands were shaking badly. "I can't fix that. She saw herself in the mirror and… I can't fix the bleeding, Arthur."

Ana thought it was Ariadne's small, panicked voice that made Arthur loosen his grip on her shoulders. His dark eyes searched her face, his expression pained.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, sounding so confused that Ana felt ashamed. "What were you trying to do to yourself, Ana?"

"You didn't know who you were, did you?"

Ana looked up at Eames. He bent his head down and leaned closer, like they were sharing a secret.

"It scared you, your own face," he said, "because you didn't recognize yourself."

Ana nodded dumbly even though she knew that it was only part of the reason why.

"It's a form of auto-prosopamnesia," Eames said; his warm, steady voice was like a soothing balm over her frayed nerves. "Do you know what that means? It's the inability to remember faces, even your own. Sometimes forgers can be affected but it's usually temporary. It would make sense for amnesiacs to be affected as well. Especially ones who are in particularly stressful situations."

His mouth lifted up in a small smile and Ana stared at him, feeling calmer now that the indefinable thing had been named. His eyes flickered down and the smile faltered slightly.

"Now then," he said. "Let's look at those hands of yours, shall we?"

"Eames, don't," Arthur said in a low voice, the fear and fury now gone. His hands were still on Ana's shoulders and for the first time, she noticed that he was crouched down over her, his legs on either side of hers. "Ariadne, please have Miron call a doctor. Jessum is the closest one and he owes me a favor."

"You call him," Eames said, deceptively light. "If he owes you a favor, then he'll answer to you."

He reached down and gently picked up one of her hands. She let out a hiss even though he barely touched her bloody palms.

"It's only a few shards, no smaller pieces," Eames said. "I know it hurts but it's not as bad as it looks. Once we get these out, and your hands covered up, you'll be fine."

"Auto-prosopamnesia," she said. Her voice sounded faint and tremulous and she cleared her throat, forcing herself to concentrate on his words and not her hands or the fact that she was avoiding her reflection in the broken pieces of mirror on the floor. She heard Ariadne walk out of the bathroom and her voice was a soft murmur in the background. "With forgers. What's a forger? Is that… Does that have something to do with what we do?"

"Can you stand?" Arthur asked suddenly, cutting into her question and she turned to him in confusion. "Do you think you can stand up? Can you walk?"

"I think so," Ana said. "But–"

"Good," he said. He threw a challenging glance at Eames before looking back at Ana. "Let's wash you up and then go back to the sitting room. You'll need a few stitches but we can at least clean you up before Jessum gets here."

It sounded logical and she leaned forward, meaning to propel herself up. Before she could do so, she felt Eames slide an arm around her waist and pull her up in one easy move. With two feet on the floor, she swayed slightly and Arthur was there by her other side to steady her. She sagged against him in relief and for a moment, she wanted to pass out.

It would be easier, she thought. It would be easy if I could just close my eyes and drift away again.

And maybe wake up and remember myself.

"Ana," Arthur said. "Come on, don't do that. Keep your eyes open for me. Please?"

It was Arthur's voice, the odd pleading tone that gave her the strength to walk towards the sink. Eames turned on the water and tested the temperature.

"Put your hands under the tap," he said. She hesitated and he looked at her patiently. "It's alright. It will hurt but believe me, it will be worse if you let things stay the way they are."

Is he talking about my hands or something else?

She leaned down, trying to avoid the cracked mirror and couldn't help but wince when the water touched her skin. She almost jerked backwards but Eames kept her hand under the faucet so that she was forced to endure the burning, cleansing pain.

"Now the other one, pet."

They stood there silently for a few minutes and Eames carefully rinsed both of her hands while she leaned on Arthur for support. Both men seemed to understand her need for quiet and as she looked down at the blood making its way down the drain she thought about Arthur's wary, unhappy expression and Eames's small, private smiles.

One is afraid and the other is hopeful.

Something terrible happened and they're keeping it from me for different reasons.

It felt as if her stomach twisted, turned itself inside out and into knots inside her.

For now she had to rely on these people but she knew that only one of the two, Arthur or Eames, could truly be trusted.

She just wasn't sure which one.

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