Prologue!

Take a cup of tea with loose leaves in it, the kind that float around until you drink them or turn the cup upside down to read your fortune. Using a spoon, stir the tea and watch the leaves. Science will tell you that centrifugal force should push the leaves to the outside of the cup, and yet the leaves in a cup of tea will migrate toward each other. It's a paradox. One thing to always remember though is that many paradoxes are solvable.

The money from the Fischer job is enough to pay off my tuition at the Sorbonne, enough to pay for my PhD in neurological biology, and yet all I can think about is returning to the heist; illegal jobs in extraction and maybe even inception, living a life of crime. There's another paradox for you. Just as I have enough money to pay for all of my schooling, I no longer want it. What is it that I want?

I spend my days wandering alone through Paris, reliving the job. Cobb got his retirement with his children, Saito runs the largest energy company in the world, Arthur is in the States and who knows where Eames is. Probably back in Mombasa. At first I thought the money would be enough, that I could return to Paris and pursue my education with new zeal, but then the classes became monotonous, my mind remaining in a place where anything is possible: dreams.

Even when I sleep, I dream about dreams. Almost always the same one. I'm in a city with no name, a city created by imagination only. There are balloons everywhere, flying ships and tall buildings that shine like bronze. It's like a child's dream, so fanciful and filled with colour. The gentle scent of a deep, musky cologne fills my head as if I'm going to fall down dizzy. I'm happy in this dream, and then I wake up. Sometimes I wake up from my alarm or from traffic, but tonight I am woken up, torn from my dream by a simple knock, knock, knock.

I glance at the clock. It's 5am. Who in hell would knock on my door at 5am? I wriggle into a crisp white nightgown and stomp over to the door of my small apartment. The door knocks again, louder this time. I slide back the chain, twist the deadbolt and open the door a crack. The light from the hallway is nearly blinding, but I can make out the distinct figure of a slender man in a sharp black suit. His hair is slicked back and his face lights up into the semblance of a grim when he sees me.

"Arthur?" I murmur. I groan before letting him into my kitchen, reluctantly turning on the light. A quick glimpse in the mirror reveals that I do indeed look like ass. My long hair is curled up in knots and there's mascara running under my eyes. Arthur follows me in and stands near the door. I turn on my coffee maker, knowing that I won't be able to get back to sleep now.

"How are you, Ariadne?" he asks. He looks the same, still handsome in that boyish way, quiet, showing so little emotion ever. I've often wondered what he thinks of, what he dreams of on his own. People's dreams can tell you so much about them.

"I'm doing alright. What about you? I thought you were going to take a break from travelling for a bit," I reply groggily. He chuckles briefly, his gaze on the floor.

"Well, there really is nothing like Paris, is there?" he replies. I let him stand there, grab myself a mug and fill it up with steaming hot coffee.

"You want some?" I ask. He shakes his head no quickly and decisively.

"I'm actually here to give you a job offer," he says. I place my mug carefully on the counter. Be cool, Ariadne, it's not normal to squeal and jump in the air. Act professional. Instead I whip around to face him.

"Yes," I say. Shit. So much for playing hard to get. Arthur's lips curl up gently and he takes a seat at my small, round kitchen table.

"I knew you were hooked," he says. I sigh deeply and sit down beside him. It's been so long, but it seems like just yesterday we were all together everyday, planning out the inception. I didn't realize that I missed the people just as much as I missed the job.

"So tell me about it. What are the parameters?" I ask. He pulls out a large envelope with some papers and photographs. One is an enlarged shot of a little boy, maybe eight or nine.

"This is Zachary Jones. He's the son of-"

"-Waylon Jones. The Waylon Jones?" I interrupt. Arthur nods. God, a job on the Joneses, possibly the biggest name in corporate banking. The name jogs a memory somewhere, something in the newspaper recently.

"The Waylon Jones. His wife was murdered about three months ago. Pretty woman, very sweet," Arthur continues. He pulls out more photos. Mrs. Jones was indeed pretty, with deep full lips and kind eyes. In most of the pictures she and the younger Jones, Zachary, are together. They play in the park, read books together, blow bubbles. They look like the picture-perfect family.

"So who's paying for the job, Waylon himself?" I ask. Arthur shakes his head, no.

"Marjorie was a Van Haun before she was a Jones. Old money meets new money. Her father is our client, and he wants us to extract the murderer from the boy, Zachary."

"If the kid knows, why wouldn't he say? Has anyone ever done a job on a kid before?" I ask. I have about a hundred other questions whizzing through my mind, but I save them.

"Zachary was there when his mother was killed, but he's in shock and doesn't remember anything. Van Haun wants answers, and to get answers, he needs the kid to remember."

"So we're waking up his subconscious," I murmur. To this Arthur only nods. This job is high stakes, and I can only guess how good the pay is. For the first time in months I feel alive again, my cheeks flushed pink with excitement. I look Arthur in the eye as I confirm. "I'm in, but I guess you already knew that. When do we start, and do you have a team already set up?"

"We start tomorrow. This is going to take a lot of background work, so it's best we get going right away. You know the place. The team will be familiar to you, too. Besides us we'll have Yusuf and Eames. They're already at the warehouse now," he replies. I conjure an image of the other two in my mind. Yusuf: quiet and awkwardly funny. Eames. Well, Eames is a whole story in himself, I guess. I'm looking forward to this too much already.

"Umm, I've got to sort out some things with school. What time do you want me over there?" I ask. I'll have to adjust my timetable and make arrangements for my midterm. Also I should probably shower and do some laundry.

"How about five this evening?" he says. I nod and finally let my stupid giddy smile cover my face.