A/N: So blah blah blah Arthur showed Ariadne his totem blah Cobb told Ariadne what his totem did blah blah. In my opinion, if you need something to help you figure out reality from dreams, you keep your mouth shut about it. If you do happen to tell anyone, they have to be in your Circle of Trust (initial caps, yes I went there). I'm saying this up front because…
Chapter 4:
"Okay, I think I have everything."
Ana looked up at Arthur from her dinner and carefully set her fork down. No longer running simply on adrenaline, she felt calm for the first time that day.
They were in the mini-kitchen-cum-dining-room of her hotel room while Eames sat on the couch in the living area. His stockinged feet were propped up on the dark wood table and he was typing away on a small laptop he'd pulled out of the gym bag taken in from the car. Both Arthur and Eames had eaten earlier, the former arriving just as room service came up, and remnants of their meal were piled up on the far end of the counter where she sat.
"And what is it that you have exactly?" Eames asked. "All you've done is pace for the past ten minutes."
Ana stared down at her plate, willing herself not to blush at the sound of his voice.
Earlier, Eames had half-jokingly offered to feed her and she'd been embarrassed by his suggestion; she still felt awkward around him. After their conversation, he'd put her passports back into their hiding place and even re-dressed her bandages, helping her get as cleaned up as well he could.
The whole time though, she couldn't help but shake the suspicion that he'd been far closer to her before. Each time he came into contact with her bare skin, he'd linger there, with a gentleness that belied his rough exterior. There was a sense of familiarity in each touch, a minute moment of hesitation that told her he was holding back only for her sake.
"Who are you to me at all?"
It didn't seem wholly sexual… It was deeper. As if he were enjoying the fact that she was there.
"An account of Ana's actions from this morning," Arthur said, pulling Ana from her thoughts. He flipped through a small notebook as he continued pacing behind the counter. He'd taken his sweater off and rolled up his sleeves but he still looked sleek and fresh.
Ana watched as he turned a page back.
"You arrived at the suite at approximately eight-fifteen this morning, carrying your bag but not wearing a jacket even though it was chilly. You settled down on the couch next to Ariadne's desk. From then to around ten-thirty, you went through your notes on the mark, only minimally interacting with the others. You asked for my notes and I gave them to you and you clarified a building plan with Ariadne.
"At about ten forty-five, Miron announced that he was close to perfecting the new formula. You were interested in this and you had a conversation with him about it until about eleven-twenty, when you left the hotel. During this conversation, you offered to test it for him. When you left, you took your notes and your bag with you. You didn't come back until three in the afternoon."
"For the record, I find it creepy you were watching her so closely," Eames said drily. "Playing at Hitchcock, Arthur?"
"You keep track of people," Ana said, before Arthur could snap back. "It's what you do, isn't it? Keep going, please."
"You didn't get re-settled. Miron told you he was done with the formula and asked if you still wanted to test it," Arthur went on. He glanced at his notebook and then stopped pacing with a sigh. "And you did. I offered to go under with you but you declined. You set yourself up on the PASIV for ten minutes topside – that's two hours in a dream – and when you woke up... Well."
When he looked at her, she noticed his eyes always went to her hands first. He seemed fixated on her injuries, as if he'd been the one who had driven her into the mirror in the first place. He couldn't seem to let it go.
He's seen me hurt before.
"You asked me why I volunteered. You said it wasn't my 'thing,'" she said. "Those were your words when I first woke up and you didn't know yet that I couldn't remember. Were there any other anomalies in my behavior this morning?"
Arthur glanced at Eames briefly.
"You were quiet," Arthur said. "But you've been quieter lately anyway."
"Am I usually more talkative?" she asked. "What happened to me?"
"Call it a side effect of an exciting life," Eames said, getting up from the couch and moving towards them. He stood next to Ana on her stool, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. "It doesn't matter right now. You were studying up on our job for most of the morning and you tend to get lost in your brain during the initial stages. Nothing too peculiar about that."
Somehow Ana felt that Eames was lying but he kept his face too well to be sure. Arthur's face was like stone but his gaze once again moved down to her hands.
Gotcha.
Why are you both lying to me?
"Alright," Ana said slowly. "So the only really odd thing I did was volunteer to be a guinea pig. I must have trusted Miron if I went out of my way to offer myself up. What was this new formula supposed to do? There's a timer on the machine, the PASIV, so how did I leave the dream early?"
"There are two ways to leave a dream before the timer goes off. One way is through what's called a kick, when your sleeping body a level above you or in the real world experiences the sensation of falling or being moved abruptly," Eames explained. "You see, you can go down more than one level in a dream: a dream within a dream and so on. You wake up through a kick when at the level above you, something jolts you awake."
His mouth turned down slightly then.
"The rather more gruesome way out is to die in the dream itself. Either in an indirect or direct manner. It's much faster and doesn't require additional people but it's far less pleasant."
Ana made a face but stayed silent.
"The new formula was supposed to stabilize the dream but it only worked on one level," Arthur said, taking control of the conversation again. "The point of it was to help the extractor find information easier so that depth wouldn't be required. The dreamer would be able to navigate through the mark's mind more efficiently. It provides clarity, a heightened level of mental acuity but only for the person using it."
"So in this scenario, the extractor would have to be the only one to use it," Eames added. "Faster processing isn't distributed, it's centered on the actual user, the dreamer. More than one user, you compromise the stability of the dream. So the dreamer had to be the extractor."
"Which is me," Ana said, trying to make sense of it all. The terms whirled around in her mind. "I extract information from people. From a mark."
And then she realized what that really meant.
"I steal from them."
"You don't take jobs that extract from innocents," Eames said. His face was serious. "You never have."
But that didn't matter to Ana. She thought, I steal from people.
"It's not a permanent removal, Ana," Arthur said, moving towards her. "Eames is telling the truth. You only do extractions on people who deserve it. It's not stealing, it's–"
"It's taking something that isn't mine to take," she said.
She closed her eyes briefly to center herself and when she opened them again, she found that Arthur was closer. She could see the fine lines around his eyes and mouth as he frowned and the sinewy muscle in his forearms as he gripped his notebook with both hands. He smelled like sandalwood and rum and faintly of the food he'd eaten. She saw his belt was tightened to the second notch and his slim fit pants were perhaps a touch looser than they should have been.
He's lost weight recently, she thought. He probably has a naturally fast metabolism and he hasn't been eating enough to keep up. He probably keeps himself fit but not lately.
He's tired.
"How do I know I'm not still dreaming?" she said. The thought lay heavy on her shoulders and she hunched over. "What if I'm locked in a dream and I need to wake up?"
Arthur paled at the question and Eames stood up straight, uncrossing his arms. They both looked alarmed and Ana was chilled by the look in their eyes. They were frightened.
Oh my God, I never considered it but…
What if I'm dreaming?
What if I'm still dreaming?
"Ana, you're awake," Arthur said firmly. "This is real."
"And I have only your word on that?" Ana said, shaking her head. "How can I tell?"
"We have things called totems," Eames said. He held out the poker chip he'd been fiddling with earlier and flipped it in the air. It landed in the palm of his hand and he curled his fingers over it so it was hidden. "Something you can keep with you at all times, something special that you could carry with you anywhere. It tells you if you're dreaming or not because it behaves differently in a dream than it does in reality."
"Wouldn't a dreamer simply manipulate the dream so your object changed?"
"No, because only you'd know what it did outside of dreams," Arthur said. He reached up and then paused, lowering his hand. He eyed her neckline. "You're wearing a necklace, aren't you?"
Ana nodded slowly. "I noticed it when I first woke up but when I tried to–"
"No," Arthur nearly yelled out. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to come loose. In a softer voice he said, "Don't tell us. Don't tell anyone what you discovered about that necklace. It's your secret alone. It's how you can tell you're in a dream. Usually totems have a defect, something that sets it apart from other objects like it. A broken toy or an inscription on a ring. Again, only you should know what that that defect is."
Ana reached up and touched the slight bulge underneath her shirt with her fingertips. Earlier that day, she'd noticed it but hadn't given it much thought. She'd figured she would have to examine it later.
Now Ana stared at Arthur. "How did you know what my totem was?"
Arthur looked away.
"You told me what it was," he said. "Not the secret about it; that was yours to keep. But I knew about it because you told me."
"I trusted you that much?" Ana said. "Do I know what your totem is?"
"I trusted you that much," Arthur repeated. He raised his eyes and for a moment, she saw longing there, deep and wild.
And then it was gone.
Ana felt at a loss for a moment, unsure of what conclusions she could draw. It was confirmation of her earlier thoughts – that her and Arthur had been close but now, instead of being simply curious she felt sad. Whatever had happened, Arthur still felt deeply about it and she realized that looking at her, being able to be this close to her, must have felt like being on borrowed time for him.
Is that why you don't want to tell me anything yet? Because it gives you the chance to stay close?
"You should go check it," Arthur said. He walked away and faced one of the windows that looked out on the setting sun. "Prove to yourself you're not dreaming. I don't think it would be difficult to figure out the trick."
It seemed logical. Ana stood up and headed towards the bedroom. Halfway there she turned around and looked at Eames. He was still leaning against the counter, his gaze faraway and thoughtful.
"Did you know what my totem was?" she asked. "Did I tell you too?"
Eames' face was as still and cold as ice. He shook his head once and walked into the living room without another word, as if he couldn't trust himself to speak.
Ana touched her necklace and stared after him for a moment.
"Who are you to me at all?"
###
It was a gold locket on a medium sized chain. It was delicate and pretty, with an intricate design on the edge and an engraving on the back.
M & M
Ana couldn't open it though. The locket was welded shut and when she tried to remove it from her neck for a closer look, she realized that the clasp on the chain was welded together too.
I didn't want to take any chances.
A good tug might have been enough to break the links and perhaps a pick could have opened the locket but she didn't want to do that. Apparently, her totem was a locket that wouldn't open; a locket that had initials carved on the back of it.
My name is Ana so what do the M's stand for?
Ana looked up at the reflection in the bathroom mirror and though she felt uneasy looking at it, she forced herself to study it.
It was time to play the game again.
She glanced at the door to make sure it was locked and then began to undress until she stood in her underwear, clothes piled on the counter.
What do I see? What does it mean?
The things she'd noticed before were still true: she was tall and thin with dark hair and pale eyes, that wouldn't change – but she noticed new things.
She was pale all over so she must have spent most of her days indoors. No signs of a tan line around her ring finger so unless she was in a secret relationship, she wasn't married or engaged. Her nails lacked polish but were cut short and neat. She studied the ends of her hair and noted they were straggly – she could have used a haircut six or seven months ago.
I maintain myself but only just barely enough to fool people who aren't looking too closely.
But those were relatively minor details.
What happened to me?
A small round puckered wound on her right shoulder. A long dark pink scar next to it. Pink thin lines all over her stomach. She glanced down at her arms and saw slashes on the underside of her forearms placed at odd angles. They were so faint they nearly blended in with her pale skin.
I've been hurt recently.
But the ones on my arms are old – maybe a few years old. Likely scenario?
Ana closed her eyes and tried to imagine what could cause such odd, localized wounds. She remembered Arthur's face as he burst through the door of the bathroom in the other suite, his furious, frightened expression…
Crawling through broken, sharp bits. Broken concrete? Metal?
Glass.
Ana opened her eyes and lifted one leg up, setting her foot on the counter. After a moment, she switched legs.
There were far fewer scars but they were there.
When it happened, I wore pants and my arms were unprotected.
But if her arms were completely unprotected, the scars would have run deeper.
Probably used something to cover them. A shirt or blanket or something. Something thin enough to cut through if pressed upon but sturdy enough to use as protection.
It was just a theory but it felt right. Based on the faint marks, Ana had crawled through glass not less than two years ago and been stitched up so well the scars were nearly gone. She apparently wasn't self-conscious about them at all – after all, she was wearing a skirt that day.
Arthur had been there or he'd seen the aftermath. May explain why he's so touchy about my hands.
Ana pressed the lines on her stomach and while she felt no pain, she could feel the raised flesh of healing wounds.
Shallow cuts, not meant to really do much damage but…
Ana's hands fell to her sides and she looked up at her reflection.
Torture.
Someone wanted to frighten me.
She would have bled pretty badly. As she stared at the faintly pink lines, she realized they were straight. Deliberate. Someone had held her down and sliced her flesh.
Ana looked up at her shoulder again. She felt no pain there but the gunshot wound and surgery scar, because that's what she knew they were, weren't very old. She'd had the best of care, a good recovery. Likely not much rehabilitation was needed.
I was hurt but not for long. Tortured for a short time. I was treated shortly after it happened.
Ana moved onto her clothing and began to pick through them as best she could. Her shirt was a silk button-down with matching pearl buttons. No pockets. Well-made but not tailored, off the rack but high-end. The sleeves were wrinkled from where they had been rolled up earlier and there was a spot of blood where she had ripped the cannula out of her arm. She studied the cuffs closely, noting with interest that there was a white powdery substance on the outer edge near the button of the right sleeve.
She sniffed it and smelled perfume, likely hers. A light floral mix. Sniffed again and smelled sweat and…
Old.
Dust? Old papers? The scent was faint but it made her think of old books. Had she been in a study? A library? Perhaps one with a chalkboard.
I was out of Arthur's sight for a little over three hours.
Where did I go?
Ana put the shirt down and picked up her skirt. Dark blue. Heavy material. She flipped it over, searching…
There.
Another smudge of white, on the right side of her skirt, next to the pocket. Something had gotten on her hand and she had likely wiped it away on her skirt. She sniffed it and smelled the same old, dusty scent.
She searched both pockets but only came up with a crumpled candy wrapper. Putting the skirt aside, she pressed the wrapper down on the counter and looked at it. It was a vibrant gold and green and smelled strongly of mint and chocolate.
The letters were in French.
"You should eat. I haven't seen you eat at all today."
Arthur's words. Meticulous, observant Arthur. Protective, note-taking Arthur.
He didn't see this because he wasn't there when I got it.
It was a fresh wrapper. Likely from earlier that day.
I need to check the room to make sure I didn't get it from here. Then the other hotel.
And then…?
Ana looked at her face in the mirror. At her half-naked body with its history of old wounds and past hurts. Arthur said the morning had been chilly but she hadn't worn a jacket.
I took a taxi here but I didn't care about the cold. I don't care about taking care of myself.
She thought about the marks on her sleeve and the wrapper in her pocket.
Chalk and chocolate. If they were from the same source then I was probably at…
"A school," she said, staring at her own alien face.
###
Eames was on the phone when Ana walked out of the bathroom. She'd gotten dressed, carefully tucking the necklace underneath her shirt and tried to keep her face as neutral as possible.
"I'm still not sure this is real," she said honestly when Arthur looked up at her. He was sitting at the counter now, working on his own laptop and she sat across from him. "I think a totem would only work if I knew what it did before. As it is, it's just a trinket."
Arthur's expression was unreadable but the lines around his eyes deepened.
"I know," he said. "But Ana, don't do anything foolish, alright? Wait until we get this sorted out. Just… Just don't do anything."
"I won't," she said. "I'll trust you on this. But Arthur – what's my name?"
He didn't look surprised, which was a surprise in itself. In fact, he looked as if he were expecting the question.
"Ariadne said that 'Ana' was how she knew me," Ana went on. "But that doesn't mean it's my real name. I imagine that dreamshare is a dangerous undertaking. Not too many people would be pleased to have someone in their dreams, so we don't use full names do we? Or real names, for that matter."
Arthur focused on his laptop. The sun was more than half way down the horizon and the room was darkening. The light from the screen made Arthur's face look ghostly, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the hollows underneath his dark eyes.
"Miranda," he said. "Your full name is Miranda."
Ana almost touched her necklace but stopped herself.
M & M
She thought back to the passports, to all the names she'd flipped through. None of them had been addressed to Miranda. Or Ana, for that matter.
"But Ana is what you've always gone by. You prefer it."
His tone was wistful though his expression was guarded.
"You've always called me Ana," she said after a short pause. He nodded and then she asked in a softer voice, "How long have you known me, Arthur?"
He raised his eyes. "A long time."
"College?" she pressed. "High school? Before then?"
His mouth tilted up slightly and the shadow of a dimple appeared. "Not exactly diapers."
"But close?"
He didn't answer her but he didn't look away either.
Did you look out for me, Arthur? Is that what this is about?
Maybe. Maybe it was more.
"I asked Eames why he couldn't just tell me who I was and he threw out some psychobabble bullshit that I don't think he even believes," Ana said, in an almost whisper. Eames might have been on the phone but she wanted this moment to be just between her and Arthur. "But I've known you longer, haven't I? You know me better, maybe. So why won't you just tell me the truth? It could be that simple, Arthur. You could just help me. Like you… Like you always have."
It was a gamble and Ana knew it but she didn't quite expect Arthur's face to crumple the way it did. It was only for a second; his defenses came up again quickly, shuttering the look in his eyes. But she had seen it: an expression of guilt so deep that Ana knew he felt it to his very core. It was something he carried with him and hid, underneath his stoic, stern manner.
"I haven't helped you," he said. He lowered his gaze and began to type again. "Not always. But I'm trying now. Until we know for sure it wasn't chemical or an outside influence that caused this, I think it's better if you don't try so hard to remember. Let it happen on its own."
"You're trying now to help me?" Ana asked. Arthur kept typing and she leaned forward, placing her hand on the edge of his screen. "Because you think I did this. On purpose. You think I did something. That this is something I wanted."
Arthur clenched his jaw. "I didn't say that."
Stop. He looks miserable. If I keep pushing him…
But Arthur held all the cards and expected her to play along. That wasn't fair and really, who gave him this power over her?
I did. If I did do something to myself then I ultimately gave up control.
Something inside of her rebelled against the idea though.
"Do you always have to say something for me to understand what you mean?"
She expected Arthur to storm off or to shut down completely and ignore her but to her surprise, Arthur smiled. He looked younger then, with his dimples and warm brown eyes.
"No," he said quietly. "Guess that's both a blessing and a curse."
"Why do you think I would do this to myself?"
"You two look cozy."
Ana jumped, feeling oddly guilty. Eames looked at them with a raised eyebrow as he put his phone back in his pocket.
"How's Miron's research coming along?" Arthur asked, once again focused on whatever he was typing out. The smile was gone; the moment was over. "Found anything?"
Eames' eyes narrowed as he looked at Ana but he spoke to Arthur. "Nothing helpful but Yusuf's on his way here. The man loves a challenge. However, Miron's not convinced it has anything to do with his new formula. I hate to say it but I did look over his notes. Everything seemed legit."
"What if it's not the formula?" Ana asked. "Maybe something happened in the dream, my dream, while I was sleeping. Is that possible? Could dreams affect memories?"
Arthur looked uneasy. "Maybe. We're essentially dealing with the subconscious in dreams and that has far reaching consequences. But we can't know for sure unless we–"
"Unless we go under." Eames leaned down, putting his hand on the counter beside her. "What do you think, Ana? Do you feel up to mucking about in your subconscious again?"
"No," Arthur said resolutely, shaking his head. He closed his laptop with more force than Ana thought was necessary. "I think we should wait until Yusuf gives us the go-ahead before we do anything else."
"It's not up to you, Arthur."
"I don't think I'm ready," Ana said. She glanced at Arthur and then turned to Eames. She felt slightly ashamed to be nervous but she didn't yet trust them enough or the machine, the PASIV, to enter her dreams. It still seemed too invasive, too soon. "Could we wait until tomorrow maybe?"
Eames chewed on his bottom lip and let out a soft breath. "Of course," he said. "In your own time."
"Thank you."
She glanced at the night sky through the window behind Arthur. The sun was gone now and the moon was just making its ascent. It would have been a lovely sight, a moonlit night in Paris, if only the circumstances were different.
It's one thing to be lost, quite another to lose yourself.
She suddenly felt lonely even with Arthur and Eames beside her and a hollow, melancholy feeling swept over her.
Does anyone care where I'm at right now?
Ana stood up and faced the two men. If she was going to brood, then she wanted to do it alone. "Look, I'm tired. I know it's early but I want to lie down for a bit."
"Do you need help getting ready?" Arthur gestured vaguely and Ana wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all – they apparently shared dreams but Arthur could barely look her in the eye about helping her to bed.
She shook her head. "I think I can manage. Good night, Eames. Arthur."
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