Arthur [surname redacted] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aloadeddie) wrote2017-11-11 07:48 pm
aloadeddie) wrote2017-11-11 07:48 pm
MoM plot: memories
It is a bright, warm day, and the sound of laughter is ringing in your ears. You can feel the slight buzz of the wine you've been drinking, a very good wine, as it always is - Mal can be very snobby when it comes to wine.
But you are no longer sipping wine on the porch. No, you've been conscripted, as usual, into a role. You are on all fours, in the grass, not minding the grass stains on the knees of your trousers as you grip a five-year-old boy by the back of his little overalls.
"Boys rescue girls!" he insists, pouting a little.
You smile faintly. "Not always, you know your mommy rescues your daddy sometimes," you point out.
"Pippa doesn't do it right."
"Yes she does. You'll get a turn next time."
You make growly noises until he laughs. You feel happy and comfortable with this family that isn't your own - your thoughts only briefly stray to the father who barely speaks to you these days, a shell of himself since your mother died and perennially disappointed that you left the military. It doesn't matter. You let a tow-headed little girl climb on top of you to defeat you, and laugh, looking forward to the conversation later, after the kids are put to bed. You never feel extra, with Dom and Mal.
It's a relief, getting back to your hotel room in Rio. It's been humid and hot all day, and the nondescript office you've been renting for this job has inadequate air conditioning, to say the least. You've mostly been sleeping all day, memorizing layouts, and yet you're still sweating, your clothes sticking to your body and a damp, sticky feeling all over that you can't wait to wash off in the shower.
What you can't get rid of is the feeling of unease in the pit of your stomach. For months now, you've been avoiding the Cobbs in a way you never have before, telling yourself it's to give them space, to give Mal a chance to recover from... whatever it is that happened. All Dom would tell you is that they spent a long time in limbo. Now she looks at you like she's... sad. About you? Why? You can barely meet her eyes, and the air between Mal and Dom is so strained that you just... ran. Buried yourself in work, haven't seen the Cobbs in weeks.
So when your phone rings and it's their number, you answer immediately. And after that point, everything sort of blurs together. She's gone, Arthur, she jumped, she framed me, I had to run, there's a warrant for my arrest...
"Jesus Christ," you hear yourself whisper, voice suddenly hoarse with grief and shock. "Jesus Christ, Dom."
You weren't there, is all you can think, as you gather yourself, as you tell Dom where to meet you and make plans to back out of this job. You weren't there, for either of them, when they needed you most. Now, despite your own grief, you have to be there for Dom.
You know the minute you walk into the bank that you've been had. You always know, because you can sense the subtle shift in the air, even when the projections don't all suddenly turn to look at you. But they definitely are this time. You conjure a thought, and then a gun is in your hand, and the man next to you also has a gun, and a slight smile on his face.
"Ah, a bit late to the party, are we?" he drawls in his somewhat-infuriating British accent, and you think, goddammit Eames, what have you gotten me into this time? But there's no time to say it, because there's a mob rushing you, and Eames splits away easily, providing his usual helpful distraction while you duck around a corner to your right, entering the maze you memorized two days ago. This is a problem - a problem you can solve, and you anticipate the guard around the next corner, shooting him as easily as taking a breath. Projections drop easier, cleaner than real people, at least when you're the dreamer. You never liked the carnage of real violence, the moans the screams the mess of blood. So it just doesn't happen in your dreams. Most people don't notice the difference, since very few of your marks have any kind of real-world fighting experience. They expect it to be like a movie, and that's what they get.
Another projection drops, and you hear more gunshots echoing down the hallway. You sprint towards it, hearing the faint strains of music that indicate your time is nearly up - and then you spot her. Freeze in your tracks, your heart stopping for a moment in your chest.
"Mal?"
The woman smiles at you, in that way she had. "Hello, Arthur," she murmurs. Then she shoots you in the head, and everything goes black.
There are just too many variables in this job, you didn't like it to begin with and you especially don't like it now. But here you are, regardless, and all you can do is stay calm - because you're the dreamer, and if you don't stay calm, this whole thing will collapse around your ears and you will fail this job, and it will all be for nothing because Dom will never get back to his kids.
So you take a breath and explain "Mr. Charles" to Ariadne, another variable you sort of wish wasn't in play. She's not even supposed to be here, even if you do enjoy her company. Why she's here is a mystery to you, one you've given up on figuring out, as so much between you and Dom these days. You let it lie, and focus on the work.
"Why is everyone looking at us?" she asks, and she's right, they are. She's nervous. That'll only make this worse.
"Because they're looking for the dreamer: for me," he says - not you. And then a thought flashes through his mind, already five steps ahead and planning for the explosives, the hotel room, the chase. "Quick, give me a kiss."
She does. She doesn't even think about it, she trusts you, and you brush your lips over hers. It's brief, but she's warm, and pretty, and you can't help the slight lilt of a smile that plays on your lips as her wide eyes scan the room. "They're still looking at us."
"Yeah, it was worth a shot," you say, and it really is time to go now, no more dicking around. "We should get out of here," and you stand. You have a job to finish, pretty girl or no.
But you are no longer sipping wine on the porch. No, you've been conscripted, as usual, into a role. You are on all fours, in the grass, not minding the grass stains on the knees of your trousers as you grip a five-year-old boy by the back of his little overalls.
"Boys rescue girls!" he insists, pouting a little.
You smile faintly. "Not always, you know your mommy rescues your daddy sometimes," you point out.
"Pippa doesn't do it right."
"Yes she does. You'll get a turn next time."
You make growly noises until he laughs. You feel happy and comfortable with this family that isn't your own - your thoughts only briefly stray to the father who barely speaks to you these days, a shell of himself since your mother died and perennially disappointed that you left the military. It doesn't matter. You let a tow-headed little girl climb on top of you to defeat you, and laugh, looking forward to the conversation later, after the kids are put to bed. You never feel extra, with Dom and Mal.
It's a relief, getting back to your hotel room in Rio. It's been humid and hot all day, and the nondescript office you've been renting for this job has inadequate air conditioning, to say the least. You've mostly been sleeping all day, memorizing layouts, and yet you're still sweating, your clothes sticking to your body and a damp, sticky feeling all over that you can't wait to wash off in the shower.
What you can't get rid of is the feeling of unease in the pit of your stomach. For months now, you've been avoiding the Cobbs in a way you never have before, telling yourself it's to give them space, to give Mal a chance to recover from... whatever it is that happened. All Dom would tell you is that they spent a long time in limbo. Now she looks at you like she's... sad. About you? Why? You can barely meet her eyes, and the air between Mal and Dom is so strained that you just... ran. Buried yourself in work, haven't seen the Cobbs in weeks.
So when your phone rings and it's their number, you answer immediately. And after that point, everything sort of blurs together. She's gone, Arthur, she jumped, she framed me, I had to run, there's a warrant for my arrest...
"Jesus Christ," you hear yourself whisper, voice suddenly hoarse with grief and shock. "Jesus Christ, Dom."
You weren't there, is all you can think, as you gather yourself, as you tell Dom where to meet you and make plans to back out of this job. You weren't there, for either of them, when they needed you most. Now, despite your own grief, you have to be there for Dom.
You know the minute you walk into the bank that you've been had. You always know, because you can sense the subtle shift in the air, even when the projections don't all suddenly turn to look at you. But they definitely are this time. You conjure a thought, and then a gun is in your hand, and the man next to you also has a gun, and a slight smile on his face.
"Ah, a bit late to the party, are we?" he drawls in his somewhat-infuriating British accent, and you think, goddammit Eames, what have you gotten me into this time? But there's no time to say it, because there's a mob rushing you, and Eames splits away easily, providing his usual helpful distraction while you duck around a corner to your right, entering the maze you memorized two days ago. This is a problem - a problem you can solve, and you anticipate the guard around the next corner, shooting him as easily as taking a breath. Projections drop easier, cleaner than real people, at least when you're the dreamer. You never liked the carnage of real violence, the moans the screams the mess of blood. So it just doesn't happen in your dreams. Most people don't notice the difference, since very few of your marks have any kind of real-world fighting experience. They expect it to be like a movie, and that's what they get.
Another projection drops, and you hear more gunshots echoing down the hallway. You sprint towards it, hearing the faint strains of music that indicate your time is nearly up - and then you spot her. Freeze in your tracks, your heart stopping for a moment in your chest.
"Mal?"
The woman smiles at you, in that way she had. "Hello, Arthur," she murmurs. Then she shoots you in the head, and everything goes black.
There are just too many variables in this job, you didn't like it to begin with and you especially don't like it now. But here you are, regardless, and all you can do is stay calm - because you're the dreamer, and if you don't stay calm, this whole thing will collapse around your ears and you will fail this job, and it will all be for nothing because Dom will never get back to his kids.
So you take a breath and explain "Mr. Charles" to Ariadne, another variable you sort of wish wasn't in play. She's not even supposed to be here, even if you do enjoy her company. Why she's here is a mystery to you, one you've given up on figuring out, as so much between you and Dom these days. You let it lie, and focus on the work.
"Why is everyone looking at us?" she asks, and she's right, they are. She's nervous. That'll only make this worse.
"Because they're looking for the dreamer: for me," he says - not you. And then a thought flashes through his mind, already five steps ahead and planning for the explosives, the hotel room, the chase. "Quick, give me a kiss."
She does. She doesn't even think about it, she trusts you, and you brush your lips over hers. It's brief, but she's warm, and pretty, and you can't help the slight lilt of a smile that plays on your lips as her wide eyes scan the room. "They're still looking at us."
"Yeah, it was worth a shot," you say, and it really is time to go now, no more dicking around. "We should get out of here," and you stand. You have a job to finish, pretty girl or no.