Chapter Text
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you...
~~~~
It was the American Bar at the Savoy. Or the Bar as visualised by a Hollywood producer who'd decided it was easier to rebuild it on a sound stage in the good ol' US of A than use the real thing; fundamentally itself but too shiny and bright and perfect to ever exist. Eames had once used it for a job involving a philandering stockbroker that had netted him an unexpected bonus in the form of a few nice tips for the markets (men really would say anything if they thought it would get them laid). Maybe it was that little bit of insider trading nearly doubling his take or just fond attachment to a job that had been both tight and clean, but it was one of his favourite fallback locations when he needed a casual setting more class than dive. Perfect for those sensitive discussions with diplomats-turned-politicians.
Eames'd forged himself a waiter's black trousers and crisp white shirt and topped it off with a pleasant, fresh face (early 20s, presentable, ambitious but not in a cut-throat way, cute enough to get a little extra in tips without being memorable. Straight - if you didn't count a bit of mostly teenage experimentation, which he didn't. Single - not currently looking for anything long term but not actively avoiding it either). Some people talked to the client, explained everything until the tremors of untrained confusion kicked everyone out of the dream in a violent object lesson. Eames had his own object lessons which were just as (more) effective and traumatised the client it a way that was helpful (and provided insurance should the client prove unreliable with regard to payment). He wove his way through the tables, taking the occasional order for verisimilitude as he kept an eye out for Sir Mark. They were playing with the reduced layout, just the bar area and not the entire hotel, so he wasn't difficult to spot. (Formal dress. Corner table; defensive position. Not alone!).
A table of well-heeled projections (female, young, professional, three white, one Asian, one black) offered him a good opportunity to observe. He waited as they debated good-naturedly over what to order, one eye on them and one on his target. The projection that Mark was sitting with was male and blond. Something about him set a tingle of recognition off in the back of Eames' skull that he couldn't quite place. Someone from Sir Mark's campaign? That didn't sit quite right in his mind but no name seemed forthcoming from his subconscious so he mentally put it aside to worry on later. The projection was dressed, as Mark was, in black tie although he wasn't wearing it quite as comfortably. They seemed friendly, chatting easily as they sipped their drinks. The body language was interesting - Mark leaning into his companion who was not pulling away but had a hint of protectiveness about his posture. As interesting as it was, Eames decided it was time he cut in.
An offer of a few more minutes to decide got him away from the table and he walked boldly over to Sir Mark.
"Your bill, sir." Sir Mark looked momentarily surprised but not even the faintest tremor disturbed the dream as the suggestion took. Eames proffered the closed server book politely. It was empty but the moment Mark took it his mind would fill in the details of an appropriate bill. Of course, there was always a risk that the client or mark would dream up enough cash but all it took was a little prompting and when the total was revealed, lo and behold it was an amount you stuck on plastic. "Will you be paying by card?" Eames asked politely.
Sir Mark looked at the bill and nodded easily, waving off the projection who was also reaching into jacket. A projection willing to go dutch - first time for everything. Eames took the folder back, impressed by the list of charges that Sir Mark had conjured up for himself and his companion. Out of habit Eames memorised their drinks preferences. Keying in the total he held out the card reader politely. "If you could just enter your pin..."
The projection withdrew his hand from of his jacket and Eames just had time to be surprised that he was holding a gun before the shot snapped him back into reality. The last thing he registered as the dream broke apart was the look of total surprise on Sir Mark's face and the total lack of expression on the projection's.
That was not at all how it was supposed to go...
~~~~
"Is this really necessary?"
The voice was male. Eames immediately started categorising the accent (Estuary English with a definite Oxford overlay) and the tone (congenial, slightly exasperated, authoritative, resigned). It wasn't something he did consciously - it was just something he did. A few more minutes eavesdropping and he'd be able to do stand-up level impressions (bad stand-up anyway - you could fake a lot with the right attitude - but an unfair test in this case as he recognised the voice).
"As we explained, Sir Mark," the response was deferential but firm, slight Brummie accent not entirely smoothed away by the Whitehall patina, "as a senior member of the opposition and given your... history..."
Interesting. Eames smiled to himself. He'd done a little research (and not just Wikipedia, thank you very much) but when 'history' was said in that manner, and by a government wrangler... that suggested something more along the lines of wild orgies with barely legal rent boys, interns and other people's wives or a hushed up resuscitation after a near miss with a pair of stockings and an orange. Sadly, none of those possibilities jibed with what Eames had discovered. Given the way things had been going for him in recent months it probably wasn't anything more than a warning for possession left over from the carefree days of student hedonism. He wasn't above a little blackmail if that was what it took to get him out of this job and something juicy like a non-RSPCA-approved encounter with an over-friendly Alsatian was always going to have been to much to hope for.
The footsteps started up again and Eames slipped back to the chair he was supposed to have been waiting in patiently. With the ease of long practice he assumed a relaxed and careless pose intended to suggest that he was there of his own volition, had been there sometime and could be there until doomsday, or the nearest reasonable alternative, if necessary. Sipping the cup of tea he had barely filled rounded out the impression rather nicely, he felt.
His mother always said first impressions were important. Of course his mother had also told him not to listen at doors, but no one was right all the time.
The first man through the door was much younger than Eames had been expecting - but Eames would readily admit that he was of the right age that, in his head, all civil servants were Nigel Hawthorne even when they were clearly in their late thirties and Sikh. And he meant that literally (he could have done without his subconscious' projections of Sir Humphrey in a skirt as well).
"So sorry to keep you waiting," the man from Birmingham said (accent lost even further under the formality - probably strongest when he was relaxed. Even odds which way being around his family would push it). His expression suggested he meant anything but. Eames smiled anyway as he stood, hand out in the traditional greeting. The conventions had to be observed after all. The handshake was firm and polite (dry, professional, no sign of gun calluses).
He didn't offer a name but then Eames didn't expect him to. He did, however, step aside and introduce Eames to the real reason he was there.
"Sir Mark," Birmingham began. "This is..."
"Eames," he interrupted quickly. "Just call me Eames." He smiled, two-thirds deprecating and the final third a mix of humble confidence and an invitation to join him in the joke. He'd practised that smile. "I believe we'll be getting to know each other over the next few weeks."
"Mark." The smile he got in return was mostly real with just a little wariness and curiosity thrown in. It suggested friendly trustworthiness without marking the owner out an easy dupe. Eames assumed Sir Mark had also practised. "I understand that you're here to teach me."
"I understand that as well." Eames thought he spotted a flash of amusement in Mark's eyes as he spoke. "You've been briefed?"
"I have some questions." That was pretty much as expected.
Birmingham brought in a familiar looking case; matt black leather rather than silver and with a discreet union jack emblazoned on the top. Eames caught his sharp look at Mark's words. And so was that. One of the reasons he hated government jobs was the bloody bureaucracy.
"Some things you have to see," he demurred. Birmingham concentrated on the case again, at least temporarily reassured that Eames wasn't going to give away more secrets than he was supposed to. Sloppy, Eames thought. If they were going to be that jumpy (and they clearly were - and wasn't that interesting) then they should have sent two spooks to haunt them. PASIVs were only mostly foolproof and he had no intention of having his brain scrambled because someone wasn't paying the attention that they should've been to the chem mix because they were too busy watching him. Especially not someone who wasn't risking their own sanity if they fucked up. When everything was set up and ready, Eames didn't bother to hide the fact that he was double-checking everything, he carefully swabbed Sir Mark's arm and slid the needle in. Sir Mark didn't flinch - Eames gave him points for that.
He quickly swiped the antiseptic over his own skin an drove the narrow needle home with the ease of long practice. With a final quick look at Sir Mark, Eames got himself comfortable and gave Birmingham the nod. The familiar lethargy spread through his body; a goose-feather duvet on a cold night... Ovaltine for the soul... Warm arms around him... Soft lullaby voice whose sound promised safety...
"And if I die before I wake..." Eames thought nonsensically and forced himself to stop fighting.
~~~~
Eames woke with a start - not entirely sure if the headache he could feel brewing behind his eyes was real or metaphysical. He reached out and gave Mark a shove, better to get kicked out of a dream than to have the world disintegrate around you. Neither was ideal for someone's first time but the latter was definitely part of the advanced course along with death-by-projection.
Birmingham was looking at him oddly, clearly unsure if this was part of Eames' normal teaching style. Eames ignored him, squatting down by Mark's chair so he would be immediately seen when he opened his eyes.
"Mark?" Eames said softly. The blue eyes flicked open just long enough for Eames to catch the panic in them before Mark blinked rapidly. "Okay?" Eames spoke quickly but softly - wanting to focus Mark's attention on him without spooking the man. "Mark?"
Eames could almost feel in his own lungs the deep, shuddering breath that Mark took as he centred himself.
"I'm good," Mark said, "I'm good." Eames wasn't about to argue the point. "What happened?"
"One of your projections got a little testy."
"He shot... " Mark frowned slightly. The confusion wasn't surprising, Eames was impressed he'd remembered that much given it was his first time down and they hadn't got around to the big talk. Then again, seeing someone shot in the head right in front of you tended to stick with you - dream or reality.
"He did," Eames agreed. "Shows you have some natural talent. Now we just have to refine it." And while they were doing that Eames could work out what the fuck was going on. He'd never seen projections react like that - not in someone in their right mind anyway and if there was any chance that Mark wasn't in his right mind then Eames wanted to know sooner rather than later. "Ready to go down again."
Jaw set, Mark nodded.
This time Eames took them down to a desert that could have been Afghanistan, could have been Nevada or could have been the Australian outback depending on whether you wanted war games, kangaroos or a Burning Man festival. Eames had used it for all three and on one memorable occasion a combination. Mark's subconscious went with Bedouin encampment. It was rare to see structures that the dreamer didn't create but these projections were inspired by a nomadic group. Eames could happily believe that they brought their tents with them and pitched camp in his dream when conjured there by Mark's subconscious. It was interesting but not significant.
Eames ducked behind the heavy fall of fabric of a wind break and shifted his features to blend in with with the surrounding projections. It was a sloppy job without a mirror to check the fine details (hair - head, face, body - shading through to deepest brown like turning down the brightness on an image, skin - sallower to start with, the trick to not looking like he had a bad tan, then richer to a burnished bronze, eyes - let the black of his pupils spread like ink across the too pale iris to muddy them. Rather how he imagined he might have looked if an accident of history had led to his father coming back from the middle east with a child rather than an unfortunate bout of malaria or had sold his mother for a string of camels as he had once, jokingly, claimed to have considered). Eames knew the feel and weight of a thawb from his own travels within the fertile crescent and drew the weave of those memories around him until the material settled, cool and easy, against his skin. With a smile he rearranged his shemagh into the style favoured by the young and cocky and stepped out into the bustle of the camp.
Everything seemed normal; children running around laughing and playing, men and women doing their chores, making nicknacks and baubles for sale or just socialising with their friends. Nothing, at least, that would suggest some kind of mental aberration. Mark was easy enough to find - sharing tea in the shade of the main tent with the elders of the tribe. His pale ghost of a projection hovered at his shoulder like a malignant growth. Brilliant, Eames thought sourly, just brilliant.
It was disconcerting how he could feel the slate-blue eyes on him as he walked forward when everyone, and everything, else was ignoring him.
He got as far as "Sir Mark..?" before the projection began to move forward threateningly. Eames backed up a few paces, flashing back to an unfortunate incident that had never officially happened as the projection pulled a very sharp looking sword from his belt. He'd shish kebab-ed his arm once while disarming a machete-wielding maniac (because, yes, you could trap a blade between your ulna and radius and then use the leverage of the bone to twist the blade away from your opponent in the name of not being decapitated but it was not recommended even as a last resort) and had no intention of doing it again, even in a dream. Pain was still fucking pain. There was, however, one definite advantage to this particular scenario. With a prayer of thanks to Harrison Ford's piles Eames pulled out a gun he hadn't had a second before and shot the projection before it could get any closer to him. In the five meters he was able to run before he was ripped apart by the furious mob of Mark's other projections he actually felt rather pleased with himself. He also made a mental note not do that again.
When Mark woke, pale and sweating, Eames called a halt for the day and sent him home to do some nice relaxing paper work and have a good stiff drink. Eames rather thought he had earned himself the latter as well.
The next day he conclusively proved it was not his forging that the blond projection was reacting to.
The next week he made it to the intended end of the dream twice - but only because he hadn't gone near Mark at all either time. They started to cover some basic theory but Eames doubted it made much sense without the practical experience to back it up.
The projection killed him fifteen times (and in ten different forms; one of them his, six of them female) before Eames admitted that he needed help.
~~~~
Dom Cobb would not normally be Eames' first port of call for... pretty much anything. Maybe way-back-when before Dom proved that the phrase 'better half' hadn't been a joke. Back then he and his wife had been two of the leading lights of licensed dreamsharing. Back then they had scared Eames silly with their fearless (he'd said reckless, he'd always said reckless) willingness to discover the boundaries of the possible by piling one impossibility on another until chance, or natural law or an outside force blew their card house down. Eames wasn't religious, even by the English definition, but he thought that there was a story about that. Something to do with Babel.
Eames was, however, practical and more than willing to take advantage of the knowledge gained by other peoples' mistakes. He thought about that as he dialled the numbers he had never thought he would need again. It still wasn't his first choice, but if anyone knew about rogue projections... The dial tone clicked into silence.
"Dom?" he asked (friendly, unintimidating - just two old acquaintances catching up).
There was a pause from the other end of the phone and then a faint voice could clearly be heard calling 'Daddy...'
Not Cobb then. Eames waited, idly categorising the noises he could hear filtering through the connection. The sounds of domestication that he only knew from imitation.
"... man on the telephone." He could hear the small piping voice through the open line (male, 4 - 5 years old, wants to be grown up like the people around him. Probably James).
Cobb's voice, lower and quieter, "They didn't say who it was?"
"He had a funny voice," James said helpfully. Eames didn't bother to smother his smile.
"Who is this?" Cobb's voice sounded faintly suspicious as he picked up.
"Eames." The smile is still audible in his voice but there was nothing wrong with that. He knew it made him sound more affable. Or fucking scary. Depending on the situation - it could go both ways. Or so he had been told.
There was a pause then, just the sound of breathing heavy enough on the line that he was almost tempted to make a joke about it not being that type of call. He waited - Cobb hadn't hung up which was a good start. Eames knew Cobb was more of a hard pitch kind of guy (eight times out of ten - it was an extractor thing although that was more likely effect rather than cause) which was why his plan was to go for the soft sell. In that thirty seconds of silence he had gained Cobb's curiosity far more effectively that if he'd jumped straight in and talked fast.
"Eames," Cobb said carefully, "I'm out."
As if Eames would be jumping at the chance to work with him again. "Good," Eames agreed shortly. "I'm sure the kidlets are overjoyed to have daddy home. I'm just looking for some information." Cobb's sharp breath would grow into a 'no' if Eames let it so he didn't. "I have a job, totally above board, that I could use some advice on."
"I really don't think..." He was wavering, Eames could hear it in his voice. Offer an extractor a safe to crack and an academic the chance to show off their knowledge... and Cobb had been an academic until he slipped into a less euphemistically cut-throat method of getting funding.
"It's a security gig," Eames assured him and wavered for a moment over revealing that it was a government job. "Client on the up and up." Well, as much as any politician. "Employer picking up the tab."
"So what's the problem?"
This time Eames didn't let any the smallest hint of amusement distort his tone. "The client has a rogue projection."
There was no answer except the faint sound of two children scampering in the background. "Come on Cobb," Eames pushed, "You owe me this much for the shit you pulled."
As a rule Eames didn't hold grudges; he worked in a business where a certain amount of double-dealing and divergent interests came with the territory so he either got even or let things go. That didn't mean, however, that a little tit for tat wasn't the order of the day. Unless you were seriously taking a guy down then a certain amount of apology was expected for screwing a colleague over. Cobb may have been out, but he had been in the game long enough to know what was expected of him - even if Eames couldn't blacken his name in retaliation if he refused.
"Fine," Cobbs response when it came was clipped and unhappy. Eames figured he'd get over it - or he wouldn't, it didn't really matter either way. "I'll send you something that can help."
The click of disconnection cut off any further comment he might have made. Eames sighed.
"You want this done right," Eames said conversationally to the ceiling, "then this is how it is going down."
Twenty-four hours later Arthur was standing on his doorstep looking less than amused. At least until Eames explained. Then he laughed. A lot.