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azuremewTitle: Mistaken Identity, Part 3
Word Count: 8,710
Pairings/Characters: Carl/Michael, past Carl/Chris, Eames/Robert, past Eames/Yusuf, Arthur, Ariadne, Cobb, Erika, Henri
Rating: R
Warnings: non-graphic sex, violence, bloodplay
Summary: Cobb and his team enter the mind of a vampire, Michael Dane, believing that it is Robert Fischer. Eames and Yusuf wait elsewhere, Eames realizing too little too late just how much they fucked up.
Author's Note: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3
Intermission
Part 3
Scene 1
The setup was simple. Easy. Two hours ago, Robert Fischer entered the Crowne Plaza and went to his room to close his weary eyes and rest. He would dream of being alone because Eames broke his promise. Just like all the others, he was betrayed, let down, and left to suffer his torments in the dreamscape alone. The thought pained Eames, making the job more difficult. It was personal. But then,as the others now knew, this whole ordeal was a conflict of interest since the first night he laid his sights upon that man. Difference was then he swallowed his desire, the yearning and regret, for the job. He protected Robert in every way that he could, as a man that loved him and wanted to see the best end. Freedom, it promised. Not this. Never this.
Eames swallowed the lump in his throat as he fixed his shoulder bag and climbed out of the cab. As per usual, before their agreement to stop these foolish games, he crossed the lobby like any other visitor. It was filled with a light traffic. Families on vacation, visiting the sights for one, last holiday before the winter weather and businessmen staying one night like Robert. Only this time he saw Arthur sitting in the waiting area, reading a newspaper with Henri across from him. Ariadne was at the bar with Cobb, talking about architecture, Miles, and Paris. And Erika. She stood the closest as if waiting for someone in the lobby with her ear buds blaring and this annoyed, bored look.
“Welcome to the Crown Plaza,” the receptionist greeted him after a minute or two. “How can I be of service?”
“I'm meeting someone here. Robert Fischer. He's holding a key for me.”
She nodded and typed something into the computer for confirmation, “Your name?”
“Spenser Eames,” and a passport was produced from his coat pocket as proof.
There was another nod, and she picked up one of the plastic cards to embed the information. “Hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Eames.”
Eames smiled and thanked the woman, pocketing the key. As he turned toward the elevator, Yusuf entered the lobby, and Erika jetted passed. The three of them met in the corridor to pass off the key, Eames wishing that he could wipe that smirk off of Erika's face. “Don't say a bloody word.”
A mock frown quickly replaced, and Erika said instead, “We'll take good care of him. Don't worry. Now go have fun drinking yourself silly while we work.” She started back to the lobby to pick up the others that were convening in the waiting area.
He couldn't stop staring. It was breaking character, the performance that as a forger he was so damned good at, but knowing what happened next made his legs want to move toward the team and Robert.
Yusuf kept him there, though, his hand upon his friend's shoulder. “Mombasa misses you.”
“And I it,” Eames reluctantly said, allowing the faintest smile to press his lips at the distraction. Unfortunately, it would take more than tales to keep his mind from this worry. “Tell me, Yusuf, have you ever had a hangman's blood?”
Scene 2
Erika opened the door to the dark room followed by the others. It was small, with a king size bed, not a suite as some might have expected someone like Robert Fischer to stay, and on the side closest to the door slept the mark. She was quiet as if to not disturb the sleeping form, checking the others occasionally to see if they noticed the slight details that might ruin everything.
“He looks so peaceful,” Ariadne murmured.
“And sick,” Arthur added. “Eames said that he was doing better, but all I see is a cor--” he stopped and refrained from a yelped ow at the elbow in his side. “I'm just saying that someone healthy shouldn't look that pale.”
“It's been a long trip. Stressful, exhausting, and considering what we did to stimulate the right surroundings,” Erika shrugged.
“She's right,” Cobb agreed and sat in the armchair that sat near the window. He looked at Fischer with a hint of sympathy, stopping when the door clicked and woman in a housekeeping uniform entered. Henri took the other chair while Arthur and Ariadne knelt down to settle on the floor. From the cart that should've been filled with towels and cleaning supplies, the contact removed the metal case and opened it, pulling the wires to each of the recipients and two to Erika.
Erika threaded the needle into the arm that was cool, partly wondering if this would even work. It would be so much easier to just open the curtains and let the sun execute justice. It would be, but that would be too quick. “See you on the other side,” she said upon inserting her own before lying down.
The button on the PASIV was pressed, and for a moment there was darkness. Emptiness. Nothing. It was quiet and calm. But it didn't last long. The moment was quickly forgotten, wiped clean from Erika's thoughts as the sound of chatter filled her ears, and she looked down at the designer shoes that matched the black silk dress and up at the cityscape: Grand Rapids, Michigan.
“Beautiful, is it not?” an older man asked. His gray hair was slicked back, matching the undertones of his suit. It brought out the striking blue in his eyes, his tie – the whole composition well thought out to the very point of perfection, Erika thought as she stared at Calvin Bainbridge. “What are you doing here, Erika?”
“Enjoying the party,” Erika replied, plucking a glass from a passing tray. It looked to be filled with a rich, red wine. “You always knew how to throw the best, but if you will excuse me, I have to find your childe. Good eve, seneschal.”
That was strange, she thought with a bemused smile while she searched the endless sea of faces for the few that did not belong. They would not be hard to find. While Michael's mind was more complex than an ordinary human, it held the flaws of being so damned obvious. The projections were pristine, like statues with chiseled features, and alabaster skin. Their faces were painted. If they smiled, Erika wondered if she would see fangs.
This was no ordinary gathering. No, what Ariadne composed was more than a place for people to convene and Michael to be drawn to. This was court. And they accepted her as one of their own despite her warmer appearance, ignoring her as the outsider, only polite to a point that she used to her advantage.
Ariadne, on the other hand, was a fish out of water. She stood in the main threshold, the steel arch that welcomed guests to the common area. Her dress was flawless, the white silk flowing to a breeze that made goosebumps and hair standing on the edge. It was so cold there. And the numbers. Shouldn't such a vast collection of projections cause some warmth to the room?
She sighed, telling herself to not think about it, that it was her mind playing tricks and she needed to focus on the task on hand: finding Fischer. The room was searched, passed the bodies that talked about nothing in particular and the ornate details their mark filled. So elegant, like the parties of financial businessmen and socialites alike. These were the nights Fischer spent while his father was still alive? Her lips thinned at the thought, not because it did not sound nice, but because of what she saw moving down the stairs.
“Excuse me,” Michael said, shuffling passed a group that decided to take position on the stairs. They were doing nothing to help him, to make this easier, forcing him to be rude, to rub shoulders.
“Watch it,” one of them said.
Michael turned, lowering his head in respect, and raised his hands to clasp the chocolate brown tie that was washed out of its natural color. “My apologies, sir.” He twisted the worn silk into wrinkles nervously, but the other man paid little heed after the initial encounter, turning back to more important matters. It cued a deep breath, and Michael sighed, continuing onward through his journey, into the wasteland that would only hold more gravity and grief.
Ariadne could see the sadness in his eyes. He looked more out of place than she, pushing her more to help as if the plan itself was not enough. She stepped into the center of the room, toward Fischer, and ignored the occasional glance.
“Where are you?” Michael asked, barely aware that he spoke out loud. The sensation to yell was repressed only because of the company that surrounded. He knew that he could ask any of them, that they knew, but the responses would come in riddles, taunting him and his incapability to handle the problem himself. He looked about, searching the faces, passed them as far as his sight would allow. It did him no good and made things worse when the strange woman stood just a foot from him. Noticing her, he jumped back, pulling away in a start that left the whole room pausing to see what was wrong.
“Sorry,” Ariadne said, cursing at the fact her dress held no pockets to shove her hands in. They were shaking with her novice anticipation and adrenaline. “You looked lost, and I thought I might be able to help.”
“Who are you?” Michael asked.
“I'm with Mr. Charles, part of the security,” Ariadne answered.
“Mr. Charles?” Michael questioned. “Sheriff Maxwell appointed new deputies to this city?”
Ariadne nodded, and that answer seemed to be enough for the other projections to accept her because Fischer accepted her. “We were sent to help you look for someone.”
“Funny,” Michael said, but he was not laughing at the joke. “I would not think that my sire would ask the sheriff for help in such regards, but then his primary concern would be the composition and not his own blood.” He cleared his throat, internally chiding the vocalization. “Carry on then, miss, to this Mr. Charles.”
Sire? Ariadne thought and concluded that he was referring to his father, Maurice Fischer. The deceased man still weighed heavily upon his son's shoulders. “He doesn't like your decision, does he?” She inquired quietly.
“No, he never does,” Michael returned just as quiet, afraid that someone might hear them.
They approached another two gentleman that looked awkwardly out of place. Even in their suit jackets and smooth shirts, the color clashed with the dark tones of the room. Arthur was just mentioning how was this not to be a business party when his thoughts were clipped.
“Mr. Fischer,” Cobb said. “I'm Mr. Charles. Do you remember me?”
“No,” Michael said, more surprised that he was being approached with use of his old name than the strange men standing across from him. “But this young lady says that you can help me find Carl Dane. Is this true?” He studied the man as he nodded, somehow knowing that he was telling the truth. “He should be here,” he added worriedly, glancing around at the sea of faces. “Everyone else is.”
“Is he normally here?” Cobb asked, and Michael nodded. “Where else might he be?”
Michael frowned, pressing his lips with deep thought of where else Carl could have gone to. “San Francisco, I suppose, but he wouldn't just leave me here.”
“Maybe he was taken?” Ariadne nudged, and Michael's eyes grew wide at the possibility. He nodded and started toward the front door, away from the crowd. Further into the silence of the night, Ariadne looked to Cobb, whom nodded for her to continue since she held his attention. “You said your sire doesn't like your choices. Would he take Carl away?”
“Yes,” Michael said unfortunately. “He's done it before. Not directly, but . . .”
“It's okay, Mr. Fischer,” Cobb assured before the man's anger could get the better of him. “Try to concentrate. Does he work with anyone?”
Michael nodded, “Clinton Host. They both seem to think it's better that I left this well alone.”
“And where would they be?”
“San Francisco,” Michael sighed. He could've sworn that he saw Host in the gathering, but one of his ghouls, maybe Reginald, was watching Carl to make sure he stayed put, away from him.
Cobb pulled out his cellphone and spoke to Henri, “Yeah, it's me. We're ready to go.”
Michael stopped. “You're going with me?”
“Of course.”
It was then that he heard the footsteps behind them. He thought that it might be Calvin and turned quickly, but it was only another, young woman. Skepticism filled his mind as he turned back to Ariadne, “You're not with Sheriff Maxwell, are you?”
“No, we're not. We're here to help you find Carl.”
Michael stepped away, his back pressing against the side of a parked car. A black van was approaching them. “I don't normally trust strangers.”
“Mr. Fischer, you know what's going on,” Cobb said, keeping his voice down. “This has happened before. We're not with Sheriff Maxwell or anyone else that you remember. We're beyond that. We're your subconscious security.”
“You mean dreams?” Michael asked, and he looked back at the building. The people. None of it was right. No one called him Mr. Fischer for almost a century. Then he remembered. “Normally, I look for him, and he finds me. In the courtyard. We leave together, this place, everything.”
“Someone else is here,” Cobb said “They're called Extractors, and right now you're asleep. They're trying to take Carl away from you.”
Many people would, through strange ways and complicated means that he did not clearly understand, so Michael believed him and nodded. “But would they go somewhere so obvious?”
“Hidden in plain sight,” Arthur said and opened the back door.
“But how do we get there?” Michael asked. “By the time we do, it'll be too late?”
“We have a way to travel through your dreams,” Cobb said, and Michael climbed into the back. He opened the metal case that was sitting at the floor of the van and saw the wide, confused eyes again. “All you need to do is think of Carl, of San Francisco, and we'll follow you.” He thread the line around his arm and slipped the needle in. When Michael's head fell back into a resting position, Cobb sighed. “That was easier than I thought it as going to be.”
“Eames did say that he worked on removing Fischer's defenses to let him in,” Arthur said. “But it is strange.”
“Did you think this is what it would be like?” Ariadne wondered, glancing outside as the world moved passed them in a blur toward the Amtrak station. “To become his own man, he became someone else entirely?”
“We know Eames forges other identities to keep his use of the PASIV on Fischer a secret, but I didn't expect it to be this different,” Cobb admitted.
“So if Fischer loves Eames, who is this Carl person?” Arthur questioned. “Wouldn't putting a new someone into Fische's life complicated them?”
“Carl's not meant to be an actual person,” Erika interjected. “He's an idea, something Browning and Maurice didn't want him to have – intimacy, love, something outside of this world. Maybe he's a past love that he lost?”
“It's actually quite brilliant,” Henri commented as he turned into the station's parking lot. “He's built a projection for Fischer to follow in his dreams, to seek in spite of his past. It's an idea, a possibility, and the end product is a physical relationship outside of the dream world – not this Carl, but Eames.”
They opened the doors, and Ariadne carefully held onto the PASIV while Henri brought out a wheelchair to carry their incapacitated mark. “Well, lets hope that we can thread the idea further down than what Eames has accomplished alone,” Cobb added and pushed. They were moving passed more projections, but just like before, some took note. “Whether or not it took, we should know as soon as we get down there.”
“I'll make sure that the projections keep off of you while you find out,” Arthur said. “Although are you sure the kick will work? This is a train on a collision course for a gap in the track. Won't that send us into limbo?”
“I've built the cabin we'll be in to be able to stand the impact. We'll get flung, but it won't kill us,” Ariadne explained. “Just make sure you're buckled up beforehand.”
“Right,” Arthur nodded. “The sign.”
They entered into the station and showed their tickets Henri had ready in his pockets. Sure enough, an empty cabin in the very back was set aside for them. Everyone lied down except for Arthur. He checked the PASIV and muttered, “We're waiting on a train for a kick . . .”
Cobb smiled, “Shut up.”
“Hey, at least you can laugh about it,” Arthur smiled in return. “And this will be a walk in the park now that I'm not worrying about Mal walking up and shooting me.” He pressed the button and watched everyone fall to sleep before exiting. “Although whatever Eames did, it's changed everything.” With the door slid closed and the train starting, some of the projections glanced his way. “This should be fun.”
Scene 3
The good dreams ended like this. Strong arms wrapped around his neck, fingers deep into the muscles, squeezing so tight that it should bruise. They occasionally found a way to rake Michael's back, to push him further to the edge. Michael found pleasure in this, adoration at the willpower of his lover and bent down to kiss him afterward. He could simply ride the wave, let Michael have full control, but this is an equal endeavour.
Afterward, Michael went to the bathroom to clean up. The cold water was splashed onto his face, washing off the rare droplets of blood left on his neck near the collarbone. He dabbed the spot dry and frowned at how pristine he looked, as if the moment never happened.
He returned to find Carl already dressed in his finest cloth that lacked the scent of sex or musk of cologne to cover it up. It wasn't right, not human, but that never mattered. They had to create and keep the fire alive, and Michael was more than willing as his hand wrapped around Carl's. “Leaving so soon, love?” he asked with a pout.
“Chris needs to know.”
Michael pulled away, nodding in solemn reluctance because he knows this in a dream. In most, he wakes up just at the climax, the sun setting and bringing him back to reality with a smile on his face. The conversation never occurs because it never can. There is no knowing if Christopher Montague would have given them his grace, knowing Carl was happy. He hoped. It was hard to keep going when it seemed everyone else thought them otherwise.
He never knew before, and that was okay, but for some reason, he sat down and waited. The dream continued, and he found himself deathly afraid. Their past had a way of creeping up on them, and Michael wondered if given the choice, would Carl choose Chris or him? They both had their flaws, but Chris was so much . . . more.
Suddenly, he stood up from the bed and ran down the stairs. “Carl, wait!” he cried out, fear overtaking his mind. Not knowing was better than this sinking feeling of his inferiority. But the foyer was quiet, the door long closed after Carl left. Still, he opened the door, praying that he might not be too late.
Cobb stood there with his team. “Mr. Fischer.”
“Move,” Michael almost hissed, but he refrained and merely shoved the man aside. Four steps were taken outside of the San Francisco haven, and people were looking.
“Mr. Fischer, come back inside,” Cobb said. “At least to put some clothes on, and we'll go find him. Just as I said.”
Michael took in a deep breath and sighed, turning because yes, he was standing outside with only his boxers on, and this wasn't that kind of dream. This was far worse. “You don't understand. He was right here. We made love . . .”
“It was a projection of your desires Mr. Fischer,” Cobb said as Michael stormed up the stairs to put some clothing on. “Not the real Carl.”
The door closed, and Ariadne spoke quietly, “Are you sure this is right?”
“It'll work,” Cobb assured.
“Cobb, we just tied up the projection of Carl Dane, and Henri's driving him to who knows where with Erika. Doesn't that mean that we're removing any chance from Fischer's mind?”
“Not if he finds it on the next level,” Cobb said just as he heard Michael exit and move back downstairs to the foyer. “Where do we go to next?”
“There's an art studio not far from here,” Michael explained quietly, his voice laced with emotion much stronger than before. “Christopher Montague would know where he is.”
Henri pulled up again in the van, and Erika slid open the door. They climbed in and drove to an old warehouse that was converted into multiple lofts. It was perfect, with several people inside, and a place to hide away from home.
Michael got out first, and before Cobb could catch his wrist, he was up the stairs and kicking down the door. By the time the others found him, he had the projection on the ground. His fist was raised back. There was a pool of blood from a broken nose and laughter from the man beneath him. “Where is he?”
The laughter held in his taunting voice, “You'll never find him, Michael. You don't deserve him.”
With a hiss, Michael's fist came down again, and again, and again. Each connection made a resounding, wet crack still tainted with that horrific sound. Stop laughing, he wanted to scream. Stop laughing at me.
It took both Henri and Cobb to pull Michael off of Christopher. They had their arms locked around him, pulled behind, and Cobb said, “This isn't going to work. He's not going to tell you anything.”
“No shit,” Christopher said, and Michael jerked forward. It was with luck that they had a good grip. He got up and started to straighten his shirt, ignoring the blood droplets that stained it. It was the distraction Erika needed as she slid behind him and grabbed his arm. The needle fell in so easily being a projection, and he reacted as Michael expected him to, falling unconscious to be caught and dragged by Erika and Ariadne to the small couch.
Michael approached the still body and then the corners of the room, searching out something wooden and sharp.
“Mr. Fischer, if he knows where Carl is, we can still find him. We just need to go inside of his mind and find it,” Cobb informed Michael.
Henri opened the case, and each took out a line, threading the needle one, last time. Michael was last. He stared at the body, and Henri put his hand on his shoulder. “What you find down there might not be what you wanted to know, but it's the truth,” he said.
Michael leaned back then and closed his eyes, but his hands still trembled.
Scene 4
“This is rubbish,” Eames muttered and took another swig from the tumbler. The warmth no longer hit his throat or belly, or rather he no longer noticed it. The time, on the other hand, was checked again.
“It's been an hour,” Yusuf said.
“I know how long its been.”
Yusuf frowned, “So stop looking at your watch.” He took a long drink before adding, “Time won't move any faster because you are staring at it.”
“Then what do you suggest? This American football is . . .” his lips thinned before something vulgar could exit. Last they needed was being tossed out and onto the street from causing a brawl. “and I'm out of anything else that might make me stop thinking about the dozen or so ways Cobb could screw this up.”
“I can think of one thing,” Yusuf said. “But you probably wouldn't go for it.”
Eames glanced over at Yusuf, a hint of surprise inside his eyes. Still, his voice remain leveled, “If you mean getting a room, no, I wouldn't.”
Yusuf frowned, feigning being hurt by the rejection. “You have changed,” he said quietly. “And no, I was talking about taking up a show.”
“Liar,” Eames pointed out with the first smirk since they landed. “You know, that was my experiment, and it's not going to work here.”
“No, having sex to get a good night's rest despite being swarmed with stress is almost anyone's experiment at least once in their lives,” Yusuf countered, losing that smirk on his friend's face. “And it works, too, in most cases.”
“Not this one.”
“So, how about that show, then? We have a few hours before anyone comes by to give us the good news, and I know you're not the kind to sit idly by like we're in a hospital waiting room.”
Eames looked at his watch, stared at it in fact, for a few seconds before he needed. “Alright. As long as it's none of that bloody romance.”
“Action it is,” Yusuf agreed and stood. “But first, I have to use the restroom. Do I have to take you in with me?”
“I'll sit,” Eames promised. He waited until Yusuf was through the door and counted to ten. By then, he should be halfway to taking a piss, and that was just enough. It pained him to do this, being colleagues and friends with benefits at one point, but things had changed.
Quickly, he returned to the lobby and made up some story that he locked his key inside of the room and didn't want to wake up Mr. Fischer. With a new one, it was only a short elevator ride before he was strolling down the hall.
If only there was a plan, but the fact that he had no way of getting three levels down at this point was pushed aside by the fact that the housekeeping cart was missing. Strange since they wouldn't bring such a thing into the room, and someone had to stand by. Maybe Erika's contact got bored.
This caused his brow to furrow as he approached the door and unlocked it, but his mood switched yet again at the sight around him. The small room was filled with only one body instead of many. Robert Fischer slept silently, completely unaware of what should be happening.
“The hell . . .” Eames muttered and stopped at Robert shifting beneath the covers. He moved to the bed and sat at its edge, taking his lover's hand and brushing his hair. “Shh, Robert. I'm here.”
Robert's eyes fluttered open and sleepily looked at him, “Eames? You are late.”
Eames smiled. “You were sleeping.”
“Long flight,” Robert yawned and reached up to grab a fistful of Eames' shirt. He pulled him down for a kiss. “Missed you. How was the job?”
“The job was fine, and you have bad breath,” Eames said, pulling away to unbutton his shirt. Surely, he should let Yusuf know, the others know, but at the moment, he didn't give a damn. “And it was the last.” He removed his slacks, shoes, and socks before climbing in, surprised at how simply Robert was taking this. “So does this mean you're no longer mad at me, love?”
“At helping your friends with a job when you said you were through?” Robert asked with open arms, taking Eames in a cradle that was warm. “Absolutely, but I shouldn't stop you from doing what you do.”
Eames sighed, “Maybe you should.”
“Oh?”
“The mark, it was you.”
It took all of Robert's strength to push Eames off of the bed, but the surprise was enough to knock the forger off. They were both up and onto their feet, but Robert couldn't look at him. “And you changed your mind? Or has it already happened?”
“Neither,” Eames said, actually confused about that. “It's supposed to be happening now, but . . .”
But it was just the two of them.
Scene 5
When his eyes open, his hands still trembled. The place was unfamiliar – a building, probably a warehouse, with the bridge that told him at least where he was. They were still in San Fransisco, and people were glancing at them while they sat in a car, dressed in all black, like robbers waiting for the right moment. “What is this place?”
“It looks like a museum,” Ariadne said. “Maybe he stores some of his art here?”
Michael nodded, recalling that Clinton Host was a collector before he became a critic. “So you think it's somewhere in there?”
“It is,” Erika answered and opened the driver's side door to get out. “I'll draw away the security's attention while you go in and find out the truth.” She started towards the main entrance but continued passed it, taking the less obvious route that Ariadne designed to a side entrance at the docking bay. There, she planted a small bit of C4 and detonator. Taking a few paces back, it was hit, sending off a small explosion and louder alarms. They were swarming quickly to the location, giving the last three time to get inside though the very obvious entrance.
Hidden in plain sight, with the security distracted, they ran passed the main gallery of pieces Michael recognized. Darien's manuscript, paintings by Christopher, blueprints by Calvin – they were all there, neatly displayed as he would've wanted them to together. His gaze lied upon them, almost forgetting the mission, surrounded by such beauty, until Cobb stopped and swung his arms out. “Shit,” he cursed.
“What's wrong?” Ariadne asked.
“Erika missed some of the guards,” Cobb said and removed his gun. Taking a defensive stance, he murmured, “Ariadne, you need to take Fischer while I draw the rest of them out.”
Ariadne nodded and took Michael's hand. She turned right while Cobb went left, the sound of gunfire soft in the wind with muffled cries. They twisted and turned, darting passed hanging portraits, to the stairwell. It was all very complicated, confusing in the design, but Ariadne knew the way until they reached a series of offices. “Do you know which one?”
The doors were all closed, unmarked, but Michael nodded.
“I'll wait here and keep watch,” Ariadne instructed.
He went to the last one. It was always the last. They liked the long walk, to prolong the suffering when one was summoned to the office for a talk. And after. It seemed like forever to leave that building, and this was no different. Each step was slow, weighed down. If Michael had a heartbeat, it would be racing then. His hands were shaking. He expected for it to be locked, to be barred from him, but whatever lied behind those doors was something he already knew.
The office was similar to the one he visited before. It resembled Calvin's. It held a presence of power and influence while keeping reservation to not be too much. Modern. And behind the desk, nestled between a set of bookcases, was a tall safe. It was weird that he knew the combination, what mattered to someone he barely knew, but the digits came to the surface of his mind. 4-9-5-0-4, the same as his door to the back area of Luther Fine Jewelry, the zip code of Grand Rapids, Michigan.
It clicked and opened with an ease, Michael expectant of dozens of papers, rolled up canvas, and perhaps money, but none of these were presented to him. Only a pair of black, velvet boxes with gold trip were picked up. “Damn,” he whispered and opened them. The rings stared back at him. One for Carl, another for Christopher, perfect beyond any technique he could've mastered, eternal in an essence that could never, not completely, be broken.
He shut the boxes, and Ariadne should have ignited the explosives she was setting while waiting for him. The charges were set.
She turned the very moment Michael moved forward. Just like Fischer. But the problem was she wasn't alone. Behind her stood Erika with a gun pointed to her head. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Erika smiled, “Because this is what she wants.”
Ariadne blinked, confused. “She? Did you work for Fischer Morrow?” Laughter filled her ears from Erika, but that didn't cause the shiver she felt. Up the stairs, back down the hall from where the mark was, he could hear something inhuman. Predatory. Like two animals fighting. There was a bang of a body against the wall, a scream, and she cried, “Fischer!”
Erika continued to laugh. It only stopped when the blunt side of a gun hit the back of her head, and she fell to the ground.
“Go,” Cobb said and grabbed Erika by the arms. He threaded a wire around her wrists while Ariadne listened. When it was certain that everything was secure, he moved to join her. The scream of shock was almost expected, having heard what he did, but the sight . . . Michael lied on the ground. There was blood everywhere, drenching his clothes from the large, gaping wound in his neck. His mouth was wide open, fangs bared. At his side were the rings.
“Oh fuck . . .” Ariadne cursed, covering her mouth. “What do we do now?”
“You ride the kick with Erika. Tells the others what happened,” Cobb explained as he knelt next to the body and opened the case, ignoring the blood and gore. “I'll join you soon.”
Ariadne nodded, glancing back at the unconscious body still tied up, at the footsteps down the hall that were coming closer, “Cobb, this . . .”
“No,” Cobb said, completing her thought. “This wasn't Mal.”
“Right, sorry, it's just – this is crazy!” Ariadne backed up into the wall and closed her eyes. They opened again at the feeling of strong, sturdy hands holding onto hers.
“Just do the job, Ariadne.” Cobb said. “You'll be fine. Whatever did this wasn't after us. This is his nightmare, his battle. Not ours, but it's our responsibility to make sure he makes it through.”
Scene 6
Washing up on shore, it had happened a dozen times before, but not like this. The water was not warm, and it stained Cobb's suit a deep red that tasted metallic and salty. The sky was dark, infinite space without stars or a moon.
The landscape was rich with green grass and rolling hills, endless in its volume. Cobb got up, pushing himself from the sandy line before the world created in minutes, hours . . . amazing, really. Astounding. By his calculations, this man constructed in minutes what took Mal and him years. It was inhuman, the accomplishment of someone extraordinary in creative capacity, an architect or an artist that knew composition and so easily grasped from conceptualization to execution. Gifted or a well trained master.
It was funny, though, in the ironic sort of way that while Cobb stood in astonishment the piece itself was quite minimal. There was a city – skyscrapers and noise that whispered faint like ghosts in the wind another world that had to be only a few miles away, but here, there was just a house, solitary and beautiful, like one built by Frank Lloyd Wright. No paved roads, or vehicle. Not a single path to show trespass, the virgin soil causing a slight tinge of shame that Cobb had to violate. No strangers were welcome here.
At the front door, Cobb paused, his and resting on the brass knob. A smell caught him by surprise, for while scent triggered memories more profound than sight, it rarely carried in dreams. He glanced to the side and let go of his place, too drawn by this curiosity or perhaps because this was his path in this dream. A garden bed surrounded the house, protected by shrubbery and the high, brick privacy walls. It held tulips in full bloom, but they smelled metallic in nature, cast with a wave of fire and ash.
Cobb looked closer, his hands pressing against the concrete as if to bend over and pluck one for more understanding. A wind blew, cold and salty with the faint, acrid smell of the water. It pulled at the flowers, the petals bending, with a glow of light reflecting off from the pale moon. “Metal tulips,” he said. It was a strange contrast of the natural beauty, but he shrugged it off to continue with the plan.
The inside held a warmth that felt so welcoming compared to he outside. From the burgundy paint to the wooden floors and complimentary carpets, it was cozy. The foyer led into the kitchen and a living room. Bookshelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor, filled with the occasional breaks for knickknacks and sculptures of stone and glass. There were photographs, too, of people Cobb recognized from the previous levels. They looked so happy now. Just passed that were more rooms guarded by closed doors – secrets, but Cobb knew his subject was not hiding there. He could hear noises a little further down, heated whimpers and cries. Intimate and personal, but Ariadne and the others reminded him to press on despite such private moments.
Seeing it, though, made him stop, unable to break the rhythm or out of fear that doing so might find a place lower than limbo.
The fire crackled, lighting up the space with a warm glow. Shadows danced in that illumination, a wild reflection of the pair coupled with hisses and the metallic smell of blood. They were playing. Predator and prey, some might call it if they saw. Such a description would cause laughter, for it was not far from the truth. The blood was real, streaming free down the taller man's shoulder and chest. He stepped back and twisted his body as if to bolt, but a hand shot out and grabbed his lower arm, pulling him back with an vicious force that left him gasping for air.
“Going somewhere, love?” Michael murmured into the spot between the shoulder blades and breathed a lungful of the other's scent. It set off a feral purr, and he stretched up, dragging his tongue up the spine to the neck. The back arched, teased by silk of slick flesh and the sharpness of fang. It wasn't enough to draw, but the scrapes were just as enticing.
Michael turned his foot, throwing his full weight into his upper body to bring his prey to the floor. It made him grin, the freedom he was allowed to do as he pleased. His feline grace gave him the dominance where his strength lacked, enough to hold the other to the floor as he kissed sensitive spots along the neck, breathing gently through his mouth so that hairs stood up. Each touch ignited a shiver, a needy rush of passion and the struggle to make it more of a challenge. It provoked Michael further, and he both the arms, bending them behind the back to lock them in a tight grip that almost hurt.
“Gorgeous,” he murmured and nipped the earlobe. “And mine . . .”
A pause then. His hold softened, head burying into the crook of the neck. It was just enough for his mate to move, to break out and slide onto his back. Hands laced around Michael's waist, and pulled him down on top, away from the momentary thought of a time not long ago. He laughed, kissing the collarbone and then the lips. Eyes closed to think only of that kiss, to lock away the nightmares and draw back the tears that threatened.
“I love you,” Carl whispered, arms settling around Michael to keep him cradled into his chest. It was still warmed by the fire and them, so comforting.
Michael breathed in a deep sigh, “I know.”
Fingers combed through his hair, down his high cheekbones to the soft, deep lips that kissed the tips. “Do you?” he asked. “There is so much doubt in you, Michael. Even while I influence your blood, you find ways to fight it, to wonder, if any of what we have is real.”
“You bring me out,” Michael explained, his voice quiet and sad. “And I you. But we're becoming people we weren't before, and I'm scared that we're spiraling out of control.”
“Or becoming something beautiful,” Carl countered. “Have you ever thought that the others are jealous because we are willing to go to such lengths?”
Michael rose up, staring into those dark eyes, at the warmth, “What if I hurt you?”
“You won't . . .”
“But what if? You won't even know. You've killed for me. You wouldn't have before. You've killed with me. You were . . .” He buried his head into the warmth, shaking his head with a ragged inhale drenched in escaping tears. “You weren't like this before. You were lovely.”
“And lonely. Empty except for the stories of fiction I knew would never become fact – not the romance, at least. I was done with that until you came along.” He lifted up and kissed the tears from Michael's face. “I was safe. I'd rather not be. I'd rather be consumed by your madness, Michael. That is lovely.”
Michael nodded and pulled away, standing up and taking Carl's hand to bring him with. “Then let me show you it, but first, I need to close this fire.” He gave one, last kiss before smacking Carl in the ass, sending him away while he found his pants on the ground. Only when they were secure did he say in a flat tone, “You can come out from hiding, Mr. Charles.”
Cobb cleared his throat and stepped into the den. “Forgive me for intruding, but I need to speak with you, Mr. --”
“Dane,” Michael said softly. There was certainty in his voice as he added, “My name is Michael Dane.” He knelt to scoop up his his shift from the mess of clothes. Raising his arms up to slide the white, cotton cloth over his pale skin, silence filled the room except for the fire. It was not embarrassment that kept his eyes away from the other man but the truth he knew, “And you are not really Mr. Charles, are you?”
“No.”
The soft clicking noise of a tsk exited Michael's mouth. “Not with Sheriff Maxwell, as you mentioned before, and I doubt that you're with the Sabbat or that deVries lot. Neither are so . . . subtle in their infiltration.”
Cobb shook his head, “No, and to be honest, I have no clue what that means.” He waited to see if the other man had anything else to say, and when nothing came, he answered, “My name is Dominic Cobb. I'm an extractor. I was hired for a job, and we missed our mark. You were never meant to be part of this.”
“Missed our mark . . .” Michael repeated, wondering how something so absurd could have happened. “Then why did you lead me this far? If this is a dream, won't I wake up?”
“It's not that simple. We have you sedated, and like I said, it was not until moments ago that I started to realize you were not the mark.”
Michael turned, baring his fangs, “Then you're a fool,” and looked away again. “Tell me, Mr. Cobb, who is this mark that you mistook me for?”
“Robert Fischer,” Cobb answered. “And I know, it was a error on my part and my team. We should have not taken this job,” or forced Eames into taking it. There was one rule they all followed – never to make this personal. Not after Mal, but Ariadne and Arthur, Eames and Robert, they all made it so as much as Cobb.
“Fischer . . .” Michael said and pressed his lips together before a frown. “I see.”
Cobb tried to push back the guilt with a way to redeem them all, “But there is a way out. Any minute now, one of my teammates is going to cause what we call a kick. It's like the sensation of falling in your dreams. You'll wake up.”
“And if I don't want to?”
Cobb blinked, but in some ways he understood. “You will remain here, but your body --”
“Will turn to ash,” Michael answered to cut off any speculation. Without even seeing the eyes, he could sense the terror of knowing, like the prey entranced by his bite, the kiss, until the point just before death. “If that happens, what will become of me?”
“I don't know,” Cobb answered. “I suppose that you will disappear from here as well, but it will take a while. Dreams move slower than reality.”
“Inevitable death in trade for time at peace,” Michael considered, and Cobb could tell that he was truly tempted to allow such a thing to happen.
“He's not real.”
Michael glanced at the fire and took a few steps back to take a seat on the couch. It was the very same as the one in their haven, the one where he waited for dinner and Carl typed his stories on occasion. They snuggled several times, quiet and serene. Now his elbows rested on his knees, and although Michael felt no beast, no hunger or anger, he did feel one thing other than the calmness. “I know.” Sadness. “He's missing something – many things, pieces, depth that I have yet to experience.”
“All the complexity and perfection,” Cobb murmured, and Michael nodded. “But he's still alive, is he not?”
“Yes,” Michael answered solemnly. “But have you ever been hunted, Mr. Cobb? You exist, doing what you do best, and because of it, people are after you, they hate you . . . and you begin to doubt yourself. You begin to doubt where you belong and wonder if they're right.” Cobb was silent, unable to respond, so Michael continued. “Carl, he . . . he believed his former lover, cherished him with every fiber of his being, but the man he loved was not the man he thought. He was a monster. What if I am too? What if I am leading us to a life he will suffer through because of me?”
“Mistakes are made,” Cobb said after a minute or two of his hand thumbing the metal top in his pocket. It wasn't to know if this was a dream. “And we have to live with that, but the regrets tell us that we are not monsters.”
Michael stood then and turned to Cobb, “What do we do?”
“A shot to the head works,” Cobb explained, removing from his pocket the gun that was pointed at Erika, but Michael shook his head.
“I can't leave him,” he said. “He's not real, but there are things . . .”
“I understand,” Cobb replied and lifted the gun to his head. “There will be a kick – a moment that will tell you it's time and wake you up. You have to take that moment though.”
“I will.” Michael promised and watched the man pull the trigger. He fell to the floor, a pool of blood forming on the floor, and someone stepped in it that was hidden behind one of the closed doors. “I was wondering when you were going to come out, Calvin.”
The shorter man in the immaculate suit that accented his physical appearance frowned uncharacteristically. It almost made Michael laugh, but then he spoke words that made sense. “I wanted you to be safe, Michael. That's why I brought you here.”
“Safe from me or Carl?” Michael asked. “You never did like either.”
“Just because we never went to parties, and I did not flaunt your work does not mean that I did not care about you,” Calvin stepped closer, over the body. “I was your sire, and I worried that you would let your emotions distract you from your potential, just as Clinton did me, but --”
“Do not compare me to you!” Michael hissed. “I am not you.”
Calvin raised his hand for Michael to stop, and out of some form of earlier training, he did. “But you've proven otherwise. I know where you are, Michael, and why. You are walking a fine line by entering that guild with false pretenses. Be careful, and be wary of Erika.”
“Erika . . .?” Michael wondered, but Calvin turned to leave him. His sire was never good with words, even ones that he knew were coming more so from his mind than actual events. He concentrated instead at what he knew, recalled the name, and shrugged. None of these people would matter once he woke, not even this Robert Fischer.
Slowly, he went to the bedroom and midway, he heard what sounded like something falling out of the fireplace, causing the flames to escape their brick prison. He could smell the smoke rising into the air and concluded that it had to be Cobb's kick. Ironic, dying by the flames that should be scaring him. It didn't. Not when he knew that he would wake up soon.
The door opened to Carl lying on the bed with a book in his hands. He looked so content in those pages, calm and unaware of what was happening near. Except Michael. At the sound of the door, he fully knew his mate was there and set it down.
A small smile appeared. “I'm sorry,” Michael murmured and crept onto the bed. “I'm sorry that you had to become this. You shouldn't have to kill because of me. You shouldn't have had to have sex with someone to free me.” He saw the open arms and slid into them, ignoring the crackling, engulfing the room. “But you love me, and I will learn to accept that you're willing to do anything for me.”
“You didn't do it intentionally,” the projection said to soothe him, add on because Michael could not speak it. “You're not Chris. You're better.”
Michael could sense the heat rising in the room, but nevertheless nodded, trapped in their thoughts. It was only because he didn't want his mate to suffer that he whispered, “Go to sleep, love, and wake up when this is over.”
Carl shook his head, holding onto him tight. “I'm not leaving you.”
It was then that the fire rolled through, taking first the walls, pulling and curling the paint. They kissed while it all happened, until the pain was too much to ignore. The bedding was smoldering around them and soon caught their pant legs, shirt, skin, and hair. It was almost worse than the rape if Michael could imagine anything like that, almost, but his eyes stayed locked on the ones that stared back at him, not closing, not leaving him to the deep solace of torpor. “I love you,” he uttered before the second kick caused the whole fireplace to explode. It took the house, and with it, them.
Part 4
Word Count: 8,710
Pairings/Characters: Carl/Michael, past Carl/Chris, Eames/Robert, past Eames/Yusuf, Arthur, Ariadne, Cobb, Erika, Henri
Rating: R
Warnings: non-graphic sex, violence, bloodplay
Summary: Cobb and his team enter the mind of a vampire, Michael Dane, believing that it is Robert Fischer. Eames and Yusuf wait elsewhere, Eames realizing too little too late just how much they fucked up.
Author's Note: Dedicated to
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3Intermission
Scene 1
The setup was simple. Easy. Two hours ago, Robert Fischer entered the Crowne Plaza and went to his room to close his weary eyes and rest. He would dream of being alone because Eames broke his promise. Just like all the others, he was betrayed, let down, and left to suffer his torments in the dreamscape alone. The thought pained Eames, making the job more difficult. It was personal. But then,as the others now knew, this whole ordeal was a conflict of interest since the first night he laid his sights upon that man. Difference was then he swallowed his desire, the yearning and regret, for the job. He protected Robert in every way that he could, as a man that loved him and wanted to see the best end. Freedom, it promised. Not this. Never this.
Eames swallowed the lump in his throat as he fixed his shoulder bag and climbed out of the cab. As per usual, before their agreement to stop these foolish games, he crossed the lobby like any other visitor. It was filled with a light traffic. Families on vacation, visiting the sights for one, last holiday before the winter weather and businessmen staying one night like Robert. Only this time he saw Arthur sitting in the waiting area, reading a newspaper with Henri across from him. Ariadne was at the bar with Cobb, talking about architecture, Miles, and Paris. And Erika. She stood the closest as if waiting for someone in the lobby with her ear buds blaring and this annoyed, bored look.
“Welcome to the Crown Plaza,” the receptionist greeted him after a minute or two. “How can I be of service?”
“I'm meeting someone here. Robert Fischer. He's holding a key for me.”
She nodded and typed something into the computer for confirmation, “Your name?”
“Spenser Eames,” and a passport was produced from his coat pocket as proof.
There was another nod, and she picked up one of the plastic cards to embed the information. “Hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Eames.”
Eames smiled and thanked the woman, pocketing the key. As he turned toward the elevator, Yusuf entered the lobby, and Erika jetted passed. The three of them met in the corridor to pass off the key, Eames wishing that he could wipe that smirk off of Erika's face. “Don't say a bloody word.”
A mock frown quickly replaced, and Erika said instead, “We'll take good care of him. Don't worry. Now go have fun drinking yourself silly while we work.” She started back to the lobby to pick up the others that were convening in the waiting area.
He couldn't stop staring. It was breaking character, the performance that as a forger he was so damned good at, but knowing what happened next made his legs want to move toward the team and Robert.
Yusuf kept him there, though, his hand upon his friend's shoulder. “Mombasa misses you.”
“And I it,” Eames reluctantly said, allowing the faintest smile to press his lips at the distraction. Unfortunately, it would take more than tales to keep his mind from this worry. “Tell me, Yusuf, have you ever had a hangman's blood?”
Scene 2
Erika opened the door to the dark room followed by the others. It was small, with a king size bed, not a suite as some might have expected someone like Robert Fischer to stay, and on the side closest to the door slept the mark. She was quiet as if to not disturb the sleeping form, checking the others occasionally to see if they noticed the slight details that might ruin everything.
“He looks so peaceful,” Ariadne murmured.
“And sick,” Arthur added. “Eames said that he was doing better, but all I see is a cor--” he stopped and refrained from a yelped ow at the elbow in his side. “I'm just saying that someone healthy shouldn't look that pale.”
“It's been a long trip. Stressful, exhausting, and considering what we did to stimulate the right surroundings,” Erika shrugged.
“She's right,” Cobb agreed and sat in the armchair that sat near the window. He looked at Fischer with a hint of sympathy, stopping when the door clicked and woman in a housekeeping uniform entered. Henri took the other chair while Arthur and Ariadne knelt down to settle on the floor. From the cart that should've been filled with towels and cleaning supplies, the contact removed the metal case and opened it, pulling the wires to each of the recipients and two to Erika.
Erika threaded the needle into the arm that was cool, partly wondering if this would even work. It would be so much easier to just open the curtains and let the sun execute justice. It would be, but that would be too quick. “See you on the other side,” she said upon inserting her own before lying down.
The button on the PASIV was pressed, and for a moment there was darkness. Emptiness. Nothing. It was quiet and calm. But it didn't last long. The moment was quickly forgotten, wiped clean from Erika's thoughts as the sound of chatter filled her ears, and she looked down at the designer shoes that matched the black silk dress and up at the cityscape: Grand Rapids, Michigan.
“Beautiful, is it not?” an older man asked. His gray hair was slicked back, matching the undertones of his suit. It brought out the striking blue in his eyes, his tie – the whole composition well thought out to the very point of perfection, Erika thought as she stared at Calvin Bainbridge. “What are you doing here, Erika?”
“Enjoying the party,” Erika replied, plucking a glass from a passing tray. It looked to be filled with a rich, red wine. “You always knew how to throw the best, but if you will excuse me, I have to find your childe. Good eve, seneschal.”
That was strange, she thought with a bemused smile while she searched the endless sea of faces for the few that did not belong. They would not be hard to find. While Michael's mind was more complex than an ordinary human, it held the flaws of being so damned obvious. The projections were pristine, like statues with chiseled features, and alabaster skin. Their faces were painted. If they smiled, Erika wondered if she would see fangs.
This was no ordinary gathering. No, what Ariadne composed was more than a place for people to convene and Michael to be drawn to. This was court. And they accepted her as one of their own despite her warmer appearance, ignoring her as the outsider, only polite to a point that she used to her advantage.
Ariadne, on the other hand, was a fish out of water. She stood in the main threshold, the steel arch that welcomed guests to the common area. Her dress was flawless, the white silk flowing to a breeze that made goosebumps and hair standing on the edge. It was so cold there. And the numbers. Shouldn't such a vast collection of projections cause some warmth to the room?
She sighed, telling herself to not think about it, that it was her mind playing tricks and she needed to focus on the task on hand: finding Fischer. The room was searched, passed the bodies that talked about nothing in particular and the ornate details their mark filled. So elegant, like the parties of financial businessmen and socialites alike. These were the nights Fischer spent while his father was still alive? Her lips thinned at the thought, not because it did not sound nice, but because of what she saw moving down the stairs.
“Excuse me,” Michael said, shuffling passed a group that decided to take position on the stairs. They were doing nothing to help him, to make this easier, forcing him to be rude, to rub shoulders.
“Watch it,” one of them said.
Michael turned, lowering his head in respect, and raised his hands to clasp the chocolate brown tie that was washed out of its natural color. “My apologies, sir.” He twisted the worn silk into wrinkles nervously, but the other man paid little heed after the initial encounter, turning back to more important matters. It cued a deep breath, and Michael sighed, continuing onward through his journey, into the wasteland that would only hold more gravity and grief.
Ariadne could see the sadness in his eyes. He looked more out of place than she, pushing her more to help as if the plan itself was not enough. She stepped into the center of the room, toward Fischer, and ignored the occasional glance.
“Where are you?” Michael asked, barely aware that he spoke out loud. The sensation to yell was repressed only because of the company that surrounded. He knew that he could ask any of them, that they knew, but the responses would come in riddles, taunting him and his incapability to handle the problem himself. He looked about, searching the faces, passed them as far as his sight would allow. It did him no good and made things worse when the strange woman stood just a foot from him. Noticing her, he jumped back, pulling away in a start that left the whole room pausing to see what was wrong.
“Sorry,” Ariadne said, cursing at the fact her dress held no pockets to shove her hands in. They were shaking with her novice anticipation and adrenaline. “You looked lost, and I thought I might be able to help.”
“Who are you?” Michael asked.
“I'm with Mr. Charles, part of the security,” Ariadne answered.
“Mr. Charles?” Michael questioned. “Sheriff Maxwell appointed new deputies to this city?”
Ariadne nodded, and that answer seemed to be enough for the other projections to accept her because Fischer accepted her. “We were sent to help you look for someone.”
“Funny,” Michael said, but he was not laughing at the joke. “I would not think that my sire would ask the sheriff for help in such regards, but then his primary concern would be the composition and not his own blood.” He cleared his throat, internally chiding the vocalization. “Carry on then, miss, to this Mr. Charles.”
Sire? Ariadne thought and concluded that he was referring to his father, Maurice Fischer. The deceased man still weighed heavily upon his son's shoulders. “He doesn't like your decision, does he?” She inquired quietly.
“No, he never does,” Michael returned just as quiet, afraid that someone might hear them.
They approached another two gentleman that looked awkwardly out of place. Even in their suit jackets and smooth shirts, the color clashed with the dark tones of the room. Arthur was just mentioning how was this not to be a business party when his thoughts were clipped.
“Mr. Fischer,” Cobb said. “I'm Mr. Charles. Do you remember me?”
“No,” Michael said, more surprised that he was being approached with use of his old name than the strange men standing across from him. “But this young lady says that you can help me find Carl Dane. Is this true?” He studied the man as he nodded, somehow knowing that he was telling the truth. “He should be here,” he added worriedly, glancing around at the sea of faces. “Everyone else is.”
“Is he normally here?” Cobb asked, and Michael nodded. “Where else might he be?”
Michael frowned, pressing his lips with deep thought of where else Carl could have gone to. “San Francisco, I suppose, but he wouldn't just leave me here.”
“Maybe he was taken?” Ariadne nudged, and Michael's eyes grew wide at the possibility. He nodded and started toward the front door, away from the crowd. Further into the silence of the night, Ariadne looked to Cobb, whom nodded for her to continue since she held his attention. “You said your sire doesn't like your choices. Would he take Carl away?”
“Yes,” Michael said unfortunately. “He's done it before. Not directly, but . . .”
“It's okay, Mr. Fischer,” Cobb assured before the man's anger could get the better of him. “Try to concentrate. Does he work with anyone?”
Michael nodded, “Clinton Host. They both seem to think it's better that I left this well alone.”
“And where would they be?”
“San Francisco,” Michael sighed. He could've sworn that he saw Host in the gathering, but one of his ghouls, maybe Reginald, was watching Carl to make sure he stayed put, away from him.
Cobb pulled out his cellphone and spoke to Henri, “Yeah, it's me. We're ready to go.”
Michael stopped. “You're going with me?”
“Of course.”
It was then that he heard the footsteps behind them. He thought that it might be Calvin and turned quickly, but it was only another, young woman. Skepticism filled his mind as he turned back to Ariadne, “You're not with Sheriff Maxwell, are you?”
“No, we're not. We're here to help you find Carl.”
Michael stepped away, his back pressing against the side of a parked car. A black van was approaching them. “I don't normally trust strangers.”
“Mr. Fischer, you know what's going on,” Cobb said, keeping his voice down. “This has happened before. We're not with Sheriff Maxwell or anyone else that you remember. We're beyond that. We're your subconscious security.”
“You mean dreams?” Michael asked, and he looked back at the building. The people. None of it was right. No one called him Mr. Fischer for almost a century. Then he remembered. “Normally, I look for him, and he finds me. In the courtyard. We leave together, this place, everything.”
“Someone else is here,” Cobb said “They're called Extractors, and right now you're asleep. They're trying to take Carl away from you.”
Many people would, through strange ways and complicated means that he did not clearly understand, so Michael believed him and nodded. “But would they go somewhere so obvious?”
“Hidden in plain sight,” Arthur said and opened the back door.
“But how do we get there?” Michael asked. “By the time we do, it'll be too late?”
“We have a way to travel through your dreams,” Cobb said, and Michael climbed into the back. He opened the metal case that was sitting at the floor of the van and saw the wide, confused eyes again. “All you need to do is think of Carl, of San Francisco, and we'll follow you.” He thread the line around his arm and slipped the needle in. When Michael's head fell back into a resting position, Cobb sighed. “That was easier than I thought it as going to be.”
“Eames did say that he worked on removing Fischer's defenses to let him in,” Arthur said. “But it is strange.”
“Did you think this is what it would be like?” Ariadne wondered, glancing outside as the world moved passed them in a blur toward the Amtrak station. “To become his own man, he became someone else entirely?”
“We know Eames forges other identities to keep his use of the PASIV on Fischer a secret, but I didn't expect it to be this different,” Cobb admitted.
“So if Fischer loves Eames, who is this Carl person?” Arthur questioned. “Wouldn't putting a new someone into Fische's life complicated them?”
“Carl's not meant to be an actual person,” Erika interjected. “He's an idea, something Browning and Maurice didn't want him to have – intimacy, love, something outside of this world. Maybe he's a past love that he lost?”
“It's actually quite brilliant,” Henri commented as he turned into the station's parking lot. “He's built a projection for Fischer to follow in his dreams, to seek in spite of his past. It's an idea, a possibility, and the end product is a physical relationship outside of the dream world – not this Carl, but Eames.”
They opened the doors, and Ariadne carefully held onto the PASIV while Henri brought out a wheelchair to carry their incapacitated mark. “Well, lets hope that we can thread the idea further down than what Eames has accomplished alone,” Cobb added and pushed. They were moving passed more projections, but just like before, some took note. “Whether or not it took, we should know as soon as we get down there.”
“I'll make sure that the projections keep off of you while you find out,” Arthur said. “Although are you sure the kick will work? This is a train on a collision course for a gap in the track. Won't that send us into limbo?”
“I've built the cabin we'll be in to be able to stand the impact. We'll get flung, but it won't kill us,” Ariadne explained. “Just make sure you're buckled up beforehand.”
“Right,” Arthur nodded. “The sign.”
They entered into the station and showed their tickets Henri had ready in his pockets. Sure enough, an empty cabin in the very back was set aside for them. Everyone lied down except for Arthur. He checked the PASIV and muttered, “We're waiting on a train for a kick . . .”
Cobb smiled, “Shut up.”
“Hey, at least you can laugh about it,” Arthur smiled in return. “And this will be a walk in the park now that I'm not worrying about Mal walking up and shooting me.” He pressed the button and watched everyone fall to sleep before exiting. “Although whatever Eames did, it's changed everything.” With the door slid closed and the train starting, some of the projections glanced his way. “This should be fun.”
Scene 3
The good dreams ended like this. Strong arms wrapped around his neck, fingers deep into the muscles, squeezing so tight that it should bruise. They occasionally found a way to rake Michael's back, to push him further to the edge. Michael found pleasure in this, adoration at the willpower of his lover and bent down to kiss him afterward. He could simply ride the wave, let Michael have full control, but this is an equal endeavour.
Afterward, Michael went to the bathroom to clean up. The cold water was splashed onto his face, washing off the rare droplets of blood left on his neck near the collarbone. He dabbed the spot dry and frowned at how pristine he looked, as if the moment never happened.
He returned to find Carl already dressed in his finest cloth that lacked the scent of sex or musk of cologne to cover it up. It wasn't right, not human, but that never mattered. They had to create and keep the fire alive, and Michael was more than willing as his hand wrapped around Carl's. “Leaving so soon, love?” he asked with a pout.
“Chris needs to know.”
Michael pulled away, nodding in solemn reluctance because he knows this in a dream. In most, he wakes up just at the climax, the sun setting and bringing him back to reality with a smile on his face. The conversation never occurs because it never can. There is no knowing if Christopher Montague would have given them his grace, knowing Carl was happy. He hoped. It was hard to keep going when it seemed everyone else thought them otherwise.
He never knew before, and that was okay, but for some reason, he sat down and waited. The dream continued, and he found himself deathly afraid. Their past had a way of creeping up on them, and Michael wondered if given the choice, would Carl choose Chris or him? They both had their flaws, but Chris was so much . . . more.
Suddenly, he stood up from the bed and ran down the stairs. “Carl, wait!” he cried out, fear overtaking his mind. Not knowing was better than this sinking feeling of his inferiority. But the foyer was quiet, the door long closed after Carl left. Still, he opened the door, praying that he might not be too late.
Cobb stood there with his team. “Mr. Fischer.”
“Move,” Michael almost hissed, but he refrained and merely shoved the man aside. Four steps were taken outside of the San Francisco haven, and people were looking.
“Mr. Fischer, come back inside,” Cobb said. “At least to put some clothes on, and we'll go find him. Just as I said.”
Michael took in a deep breath and sighed, turning because yes, he was standing outside with only his boxers on, and this wasn't that kind of dream. This was far worse. “You don't understand. He was right here. We made love . . .”
“It was a projection of your desires Mr. Fischer,” Cobb said as Michael stormed up the stairs to put some clothing on. “Not the real Carl.”
The door closed, and Ariadne spoke quietly, “Are you sure this is right?”
“It'll work,” Cobb assured.
“Cobb, we just tied up the projection of Carl Dane, and Henri's driving him to who knows where with Erika. Doesn't that mean that we're removing any chance from Fischer's mind?”
“Not if he finds it on the next level,” Cobb said just as he heard Michael exit and move back downstairs to the foyer. “Where do we go to next?”
“There's an art studio not far from here,” Michael explained quietly, his voice laced with emotion much stronger than before. “Christopher Montague would know where he is.”
Henri pulled up again in the van, and Erika slid open the door. They climbed in and drove to an old warehouse that was converted into multiple lofts. It was perfect, with several people inside, and a place to hide away from home.
Michael got out first, and before Cobb could catch his wrist, he was up the stairs and kicking down the door. By the time the others found him, he had the projection on the ground. His fist was raised back. There was a pool of blood from a broken nose and laughter from the man beneath him. “Where is he?”
The laughter held in his taunting voice, “You'll never find him, Michael. You don't deserve him.”
With a hiss, Michael's fist came down again, and again, and again. Each connection made a resounding, wet crack still tainted with that horrific sound. Stop laughing, he wanted to scream. Stop laughing at me.
It took both Henri and Cobb to pull Michael off of Christopher. They had their arms locked around him, pulled behind, and Cobb said, “This isn't going to work. He's not going to tell you anything.”
“No shit,” Christopher said, and Michael jerked forward. It was with luck that they had a good grip. He got up and started to straighten his shirt, ignoring the blood droplets that stained it. It was the distraction Erika needed as she slid behind him and grabbed his arm. The needle fell in so easily being a projection, and he reacted as Michael expected him to, falling unconscious to be caught and dragged by Erika and Ariadne to the small couch.
Michael approached the still body and then the corners of the room, searching out something wooden and sharp.
“Mr. Fischer, if he knows where Carl is, we can still find him. We just need to go inside of his mind and find it,” Cobb informed Michael.
Henri opened the case, and each took out a line, threading the needle one, last time. Michael was last. He stared at the body, and Henri put his hand on his shoulder. “What you find down there might not be what you wanted to know, but it's the truth,” he said.
Michael leaned back then and closed his eyes, but his hands still trembled.
Scene 4
“This is rubbish,” Eames muttered and took another swig from the tumbler. The warmth no longer hit his throat or belly, or rather he no longer noticed it. The time, on the other hand, was checked again.
“It's been an hour,” Yusuf said.
“I know how long its been.”
Yusuf frowned, “So stop looking at your watch.” He took a long drink before adding, “Time won't move any faster because you are staring at it.”
“Then what do you suggest? This American football is . . .” his lips thinned before something vulgar could exit. Last they needed was being tossed out and onto the street from causing a brawl. “and I'm out of anything else that might make me stop thinking about the dozen or so ways Cobb could screw this up.”
“I can think of one thing,” Yusuf said. “But you probably wouldn't go for it.”
Eames glanced over at Yusuf, a hint of surprise inside his eyes. Still, his voice remain leveled, “If you mean getting a room, no, I wouldn't.”
Yusuf frowned, feigning being hurt by the rejection. “You have changed,” he said quietly. “And no, I was talking about taking up a show.”
“Liar,” Eames pointed out with the first smirk since they landed. “You know, that was my experiment, and it's not going to work here.”
“No, having sex to get a good night's rest despite being swarmed with stress is almost anyone's experiment at least once in their lives,” Yusuf countered, losing that smirk on his friend's face. “And it works, too, in most cases.”
“Not this one.”
“So, how about that show, then? We have a few hours before anyone comes by to give us the good news, and I know you're not the kind to sit idly by like we're in a hospital waiting room.”
Eames looked at his watch, stared at it in fact, for a few seconds before he needed. “Alright. As long as it's none of that bloody romance.”
“Action it is,” Yusuf agreed and stood. “But first, I have to use the restroom. Do I have to take you in with me?”
“I'll sit,” Eames promised. He waited until Yusuf was through the door and counted to ten. By then, he should be halfway to taking a piss, and that was just enough. It pained him to do this, being colleagues and friends with benefits at one point, but things had changed.
Quickly, he returned to the lobby and made up some story that he locked his key inside of the room and didn't want to wake up Mr. Fischer. With a new one, it was only a short elevator ride before he was strolling down the hall.
If only there was a plan, but the fact that he had no way of getting three levels down at this point was pushed aside by the fact that the housekeeping cart was missing. Strange since they wouldn't bring such a thing into the room, and someone had to stand by. Maybe Erika's contact got bored.
This caused his brow to furrow as he approached the door and unlocked it, but his mood switched yet again at the sight around him. The small room was filled with only one body instead of many. Robert Fischer slept silently, completely unaware of what should be happening.
“The hell . . .” Eames muttered and stopped at Robert shifting beneath the covers. He moved to the bed and sat at its edge, taking his lover's hand and brushing his hair. “Shh, Robert. I'm here.”
Robert's eyes fluttered open and sleepily looked at him, “Eames? You are late.”
Eames smiled. “You were sleeping.”
“Long flight,” Robert yawned and reached up to grab a fistful of Eames' shirt. He pulled him down for a kiss. “Missed you. How was the job?”
“The job was fine, and you have bad breath,” Eames said, pulling away to unbutton his shirt. Surely, he should let Yusuf know, the others know, but at the moment, he didn't give a damn. “And it was the last.” He removed his slacks, shoes, and socks before climbing in, surprised at how simply Robert was taking this. “So does this mean you're no longer mad at me, love?”
“At helping your friends with a job when you said you were through?” Robert asked with open arms, taking Eames in a cradle that was warm. “Absolutely, but I shouldn't stop you from doing what you do.”
Eames sighed, “Maybe you should.”
“Oh?”
“The mark, it was you.”
It took all of Robert's strength to push Eames off of the bed, but the surprise was enough to knock the forger off. They were both up and onto their feet, but Robert couldn't look at him. “And you changed your mind? Or has it already happened?”
“Neither,” Eames said, actually confused about that. “It's supposed to be happening now, but . . .”
But it was just the two of them.
Scene 5
When his eyes open, his hands still trembled. The place was unfamiliar – a building, probably a warehouse, with the bridge that told him at least where he was. They were still in San Fransisco, and people were glancing at them while they sat in a car, dressed in all black, like robbers waiting for the right moment. “What is this place?”
“It looks like a museum,” Ariadne said. “Maybe he stores some of his art here?”
Michael nodded, recalling that Clinton Host was a collector before he became a critic. “So you think it's somewhere in there?”
“It is,” Erika answered and opened the driver's side door to get out. “I'll draw away the security's attention while you go in and find out the truth.” She started towards the main entrance but continued passed it, taking the less obvious route that Ariadne designed to a side entrance at the docking bay. There, she planted a small bit of C4 and detonator. Taking a few paces back, it was hit, sending off a small explosion and louder alarms. They were swarming quickly to the location, giving the last three time to get inside though the very obvious entrance.
Hidden in plain sight, with the security distracted, they ran passed the main gallery of pieces Michael recognized. Darien's manuscript, paintings by Christopher, blueprints by Calvin – they were all there, neatly displayed as he would've wanted them to together. His gaze lied upon them, almost forgetting the mission, surrounded by such beauty, until Cobb stopped and swung his arms out. “Shit,” he cursed.
“What's wrong?” Ariadne asked.
“Erika missed some of the guards,” Cobb said and removed his gun. Taking a defensive stance, he murmured, “Ariadne, you need to take Fischer while I draw the rest of them out.”
Ariadne nodded and took Michael's hand. She turned right while Cobb went left, the sound of gunfire soft in the wind with muffled cries. They twisted and turned, darting passed hanging portraits, to the stairwell. It was all very complicated, confusing in the design, but Ariadne knew the way until they reached a series of offices. “Do you know which one?”
The doors were all closed, unmarked, but Michael nodded.
“I'll wait here and keep watch,” Ariadne instructed.
He went to the last one. It was always the last. They liked the long walk, to prolong the suffering when one was summoned to the office for a talk. And after. It seemed like forever to leave that building, and this was no different. Each step was slow, weighed down. If Michael had a heartbeat, it would be racing then. His hands were shaking. He expected for it to be locked, to be barred from him, but whatever lied behind those doors was something he already knew.
The office was similar to the one he visited before. It resembled Calvin's. It held a presence of power and influence while keeping reservation to not be too much. Modern. And behind the desk, nestled between a set of bookcases, was a tall safe. It was weird that he knew the combination, what mattered to someone he barely knew, but the digits came to the surface of his mind. 4-9-5-0-4, the same as his door to the back area of Luther Fine Jewelry, the zip code of Grand Rapids, Michigan.
It clicked and opened with an ease, Michael expectant of dozens of papers, rolled up canvas, and perhaps money, but none of these were presented to him. Only a pair of black, velvet boxes with gold trip were picked up. “Damn,” he whispered and opened them. The rings stared back at him. One for Carl, another for Christopher, perfect beyond any technique he could've mastered, eternal in an essence that could never, not completely, be broken.
He shut the boxes, and Ariadne should have ignited the explosives she was setting while waiting for him. The charges were set.
She turned the very moment Michael moved forward. Just like Fischer. But the problem was she wasn't alone. Behind her stood Erika with a gun pointed to her head. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Erika smiled, “Because this is what she wants.”
Ariadne blinked, confused. “She? Did you work for Fischer Morrow?” Laughter filled her ears from Erika, but that didn't cause the shiver she felt. Up the stairs, back down the hall from where the mark was, he could hear something inhuman. Predatory. Like two animals fighting. There was a bang of a body against the wall, a scream, and she cried, “Fischer!”
Erika continued to laugh. It only stopped when the blunt side of a gun hit the back of her head, and she fell to the ground.
“Go,” Cobb said and grabbed Erika by the arms. He threaded a wire around her wrists while Ariadne listened. When it was certain that everything was secure, he moved to join her. The scream of shock was almost expected, having heard what he did, but the sight . . . Michael lied on the ground. There was blood everywhere, drenching his clothes from the large, gaping wound in his neck. His mouth was wide open, fangs bared. At his side were the rings.
“Oh fuck . . .” Ariadne cursed, covering her mouth. “What do we do now?”
“You ride the kick with Erika. Tells the others what happened,” Cobb explained as he knelt next to the body and opened the case, ignoring the blood and gore. “I'll join you soon.”
Ariadne nodded, glancing back at the unconscious body still tied up, at the footsteps down the hall that were coming closer, “Cobb, this . . .”
“No,” Cobb said, completing her thought. “This wasn't Mal.”
“Right, sorry, it's just – this is crazy!” Ariadne backed up into the wall and closed her eyes. They opened again at the feeling of strong, sturdy hands holding onto hers.
“Just do the job, Ariadne.” Cobb said. “You'll be fine. Whatever did this wasn't after us. This is his nightmare, his battle. Not ours, but it's our responsibility to make sure he makes it through.”
Scene 6
Washing up on shore, it had happened a dozen times before, but not like this. The water was not warm, and it stained Cobb's suit a deep red that tasted metallic and salty. The sky was dark, infinite space without stars or a moon.
The landscape was rich with green grass and rolling hills, endless in its volume. Cobb got up, pushing himself from the sandy line before the world created in minutes, hours . . . amazing, really. Astounding. By his calculations, this man constructed in minutes what took Mal and him years. It was inhuman, the accomplishment of someone extraordinary in creative capacity, an architect or an artist that knew composition and so easily grasped from conceptualization to execution. Gifted or a well trained master.
It was funny, though, in the ironic sort of way that while Cobb stood in astonishment the piece itself was quite minimal. There was a city – skyscrapers and noise that whispered faint like ghosts in the wind another world that had to be only a few miles away, but here, there was just a house, solitary and beautiful, like one built by Frank Lloyd Wright. No paved roads, or vehicle. Not a single path to show trespass, the virgin soil causing a slight tinge of shame that Cobb had to violate. No strangers were welcome here.
At the front door, Cobb paused, his and resting on the brass knob. A smell caught him by surprise, for while scent triggered memories more profound than sight, it rarely carried in dreams. He glanced to the side and let go of his place, too drawn by this curiosity or perhaps because this was his path in this dream. A garden bed surrounded the house, protected by shrubbery and the high, brick privacy walls. It held tulips in full bloom, but they smelled metallic in nature, cast with a wave of fire and ash.
Cobb looked closer, his hands pressing against the concrete as if to bend over and pluck one for more understanding. A wind blew, cold and salty with the faint, acrid smell of the water. It pulled at the flowers, the petals bending, with a glow of light reflecting off from the pale moon. “Metal tulips,” he said. It was a strange contrast of the natural beauty, but he shrugged it off to continue with the plan.
The inside held a warmth that felt so welcoming compared to he outside. From the burgundy paint to the wooden floors and complimentary carpets, it was cozy. The foyer led into the kitchen and a living room. Bookshelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor, filled with the occasional breaks for knickknacks and sculptures of stone and glass. There were photographs, too, of people Cobb recognized from the previous levels. They looked so happy now. Just passed that were more rooms guarded by closed doors – secrets, but Cobb knew his subject was not hiding there. He could hear noises a little further down, heated whimpers and cries. Intimate and personal, but Ariadne and the others reminded him to press on despite such private moments.
Seeing it, though, made him stop, unable to break the rhythm or out of fear that doing so might find a place lower than limbo.
The fire crackled, lighting up the space with a warm glow. Shadows danced in that illumination, a wild reflection of the pair coupled with hisses and the metallic smell of blood. They were playing. Predator and prey, some might call it if they saw. Such a description would cause laughter, for it was not far from the truth. The blood was real, streaming free down the taller man's shoulder and chest. He stepped back and twisted his body as if to bolt, but a hand shot out and grabbed his lower arm, pulling him back with an vicious force that left him gasping for air.
“Going somewhere, love?” Michael murmured into the spot between the shoulder blades and breathed a lungful of the other's scent. It set off a feral purr, and he stretched up, dragging his tongue up the spine to the neck. The back arched, teased by silk of slick flesh and the sharpness of fang. It wasn't enough to draw, but the scrapes were just as enticing.
Michael turned his foot, throwing his full weight into his upper body to bring his prey to the floor. It made him grin, the freedom he was allowed to do as he pleased. His feline grace gave him the dominance where his strength lacked, enough to hold the other to the floor as he kissed sensitive spots along the neck, breathing gently through his mouth so that hairs stood up. Each touch ignited a shiver, a needy rush of passion and the struggle to make it more of a challenge. It provoked Michael further, and he both the arms, bending them behind the back to lock them in a tight grip that almost hurt.
“Gorgeous,” he murmured and nipped the earlobe. “And mine . . .”
A pause then. His hold softened, head burying into the crook of the neck. It was just enough for his mate to move, to break out and slide onto his back. Hands laced around Michael's waist, and pulled him down on top, away from the momentary thought of a time not long ago. He laughed, kissing the collarbone and then the lips. Eyes closed to think only of that kiss, to lock away the nightmares and draw back the tears that threatened.
“I love you,” Carl whispered, arms settling around Michael to keep him cradled into his chest. It was still warmed by the fire and them, so comforting.
Michael breathed in a deep sigh, “I know.”
Fingers combed through his hair, down his high cheekbones to the soft, deep lips that kissed the tips. “Do you?” he asked. “There is so much doubt in you, Michael. Even while I influence your blood, you find ways to fight it, to wonder, if any of what we have is real.”
“You bring me out,” Michael explained, his voice quiet and sad. “And I you. But we're becoming people we weren't before, and I'm scared that we're spiraling out of control.”
“Or becoming something beautiful,” Carl countered. “Have you ever thought that the others are jealous because we are willing to go to such lengths?”
Michael rose up, staring into those dark eyes, at the warmth, “What if I hurt you?”
“You won't . . .”
“But what if? You won't even know. You've killed for me. You wouldn't have before. You've killed with me. You were . . .” He buried his head into the warmth, shaking his head with a ragged inhale drenched in escaping tears. “You weren't like this before. You were lovely.”
“And lonely. Empty except for the stories of fiction I knew would never become fact – not the romance, at least. I was done with that until you came along.” He lifted up and kissed the tears from Michael's face. “I was safe. I'd rather not be. I'd rather be consumed by your madness, Michael. That is lovely.”
Michael nodded and pulled away, standing up and taking Carl's hand to bring him with. “Then let me show you it, but first, I need to close this fire.” He gave one, last kiss before smacking Carl in the ass, sending him away while he found his pants on the ground. Only when they were secure did he say in a flat tone, “You can come out from hiding, Mr. Charles.”
Cobb cleared his throat and stepped into the den. “Forgive me for intruding, but I need to speak with you, Mr. --”
“Dane,” Michael said softly. There was certainty in his voice as he added, “My name is Michael Dane.” He knelt to scoop up his his shift from the mess of clothes. Raising his arms up to slide the white, cotton cloth over his pale skin, silence filled the room except for the fire. It was not embarrassment that kept his eyes away from the other man but the truth he knew, “And you are not really Mr. Charles, are you?”
“No.”
The soft clicking noise of a tsk exited Michael's mouth. “Not with Sheriff Maxwell, as you mentioned before, and I doubt that you're with the Sabbat or that deVries lot. Neither are so . . . subtle in their infiltration.”
Cobb shook his head, “No, and to be honest, I have no clue what that means.” He waited to see if the other man had anything else to say, and when nothing came, he answered, “My name is Dominic Cobb. I'm an extractor. I was hired for a job, and we missed our mark. You were never meant to be part of this.”
“Missed our mark . . .” Michael repeated, wondering how something so absurd could have happened. “Then why did you lead me this far? If this is a dream, won't I wake up?”
“It's not that simple. We have you sedated, and like I said, it was not until moments ago that I started to realize you were not the mark.”
Michael turned, baring his fangs, “Then you're a fool,” and looked away again. “Tell me, Mr. Cobb, who is this mark that you mistook me for?”
“Robert Fischer,” Cobb answered. “And I know, it was a error on my part and my team. We should have not taken this job,” or forced Eames into taking it. There was one rule they all followed – never to make this personal. Not after Mal, but Ariadne and Arthur, Eames and Robert, they all made it so as much as Cobb.
“Fischer . . .” Michael said and pressed his lips together before a frown. “I see.”
Cobb tried to push back the guilt with a way to redeem them all, “But there is a way out. Any minute now, one of my teammates is going to cause what we call a kick. It's like the sensation of falling in your dreams. You'll wake up.”
“And if I don't want to?”
Cobb blinked, but in some ways he understood. “You will remain here, but your body --”
“Will turn to ash,” Michael answered to cut off any speculation. Without even seeing the eyes, he could sense the terror of knowing, like the prey entranced by his bite, the kiss, until the point just before death. “If that happens, what will become of me?”
“I don't know,” Cobb answered. “I suppose that you will disappear from here as well, but it will take a while. Dreams move slower than reality.”
“Inevitable death in trade for time at peace,” Michael considered, and Cobb could tell that he was truly tempted to allow such a thing to happen.
“He's not real.”
Michael glanced at the fire and took a few steps back to take a seat on the couch. It was the very same as the one in their haven, the one where he waited for dinner and Carl typed his stories on occasion. They snuggled several times, quiet and serene. Now his elbows rested on his knees, and although Michael felt no beast, no hunger or anger, he did feel one thing other than the calmness. “I know.” Sadness. “He's missing something – many things, pieces, depth that I have yet to experience.”
“All the complexity and perfection,” Cobb murmured, and Michael nodded. “But he's still alive, is he not?”
“Yes,” Michael answered solemnly. “But have you ever been hunted, Mr. Cobb? You exist, doing what you do best, and because of it, people are after you, they hate you . . . and you begin to doubt yourself. You begin to doubt where you belong and wonder if they're right.” Cobb was silent, unable to respond, so Michael continued. “Carl, he . . . he believed his former lover, cherished him with every fiber of his being, but the man he loved was not the man he thought. He was a monster. What if I am too? What if I am leading us to a life he will suffer through because of me?”
“Mistakes are made,” Cobb said after a minute or two of his hand thumbing the metal top in his pocket. It wasn't to know if this was a dream. “And we have to live with that, but the regrets tell us that we are not monsters.”
Michael stood then and turned to Cobb, “What do we do?”
“A shot to the head works,” Cobb explained, removing from his pocket the gun that was pointed at Erika, but Michael shook his head.
“I can't leave him,” he said. “He's not real, but there are things . . .”
“I understand,” Cobb replied and lifted the gun to his head. “There will be a kick – a moment that will tell you it's time and wake you up. You have to take that moment though.”
“I will.” Michael promised and watched the man pull the trigger. He fell to the floor, a pool of blood forming on the floor, and someone stepped in it that was hidden behind one of the closed doors. “I was wondering when you were going to come out, Calvin.”
The shorter man in the immaculate suit that accented his physical appearance frowned uncharacteristically. It almost made Michael laugh, but then he spoke words that made sense. “I wanted you to be safe, Michael. That's why I brought you here.”
“Safe from me or Carl?” Michael asked. “You never did like either.”
“Just because we never went to parties, and I did not flaunt your work does not mean that I did not care about you,” Calvin stepped closer, over the body. “I was your sire, and I worried that you would let your emotions distract you from your potential, just as Clinton did me, but --”
“Do not compare me to you!” Michael hissed. “I am not you.”
Calvin raised his hand for Michael to stop, and out of some form of earlier training, he did. “But you've proven otherwise. I know where you are, Michael, and why. You are walking a fine line by entering that guild with false pretenses. Be careful, and be wary of Erika.”
“Erika . . .?” Michael wondered, but Calvin turned to leave him. His sire was never good with words, even ones that he knew were coming more so from his mind than actual events. He concentrated instead at what he knew, recalled the name, and shrugged. None of these people would matter once he woke, not even this Robert Fischer.
Slowly, he went to the bedroom and midway, he heard what sounded like something falling out of the fireplace, causing the flames to escape their brick prison. He could smell the smoke rising into the air and concluded that it had to be Cobb's kick. Ironic, dying by the flames that should be scaring him. It didn't. Not when he knew that he would wake up soon.
The door opened to Carl lying on the bed with a book in his hands. He looked so content in those pages, calm and unaware of what was happening near. Except Michael. At the sound of the door, he fully knew his mate was there and set it down.
A small smile appeared. “I'm sorry,” Michael murmured and crept onto the bed. “I'm sorry that you had to become this. You shouldn't have to kill because of me. You shouldn't have had to have sex with someone to free me.” He saw the open arms and slid into them, ignoring the crackling, engulfing the room. “But you love me, and I will learn to accept that you're willing to do anything for me.”
“You didn't do it intentionally,” the projection said to soothe him, add on because Michael could not speak it. “You're not Chris. You're better.”
Michael could sense the heat rising in the room, but nevertheless nodded, trapped in their thoughts. It was only because he didn't want his mate to suffer that he whispered, “Go to sleep, love, and wake up when this is over.”
Carl shook his head, holding onto him tight. “I'm not leaving you.”
It was then that the fire rolled through, taking first the walls, pulling and curling the paint. They kissed while it all happened, until the pain was too much to ignore. The bedding was smoldering around them and soon caught their pant legs, shirt, skin, and hair. It was almost worse than the rape if Michael could imagine anything like that, almost, but his eyes stayed locked on the ones that stared back at him, not closing, not leaving him to the deep solace of torpor. “I love you,” he uttered before the second kick caused the whole fireplace to explode. It took the house, and with it, them.
Part 4
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-10 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-10 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-11 01:03 am (UTC)And the bit about Contacts makes sense.