Inception, its characters and settings, do not belong to me, and are being used here without permission and for no profit. This fic is rated NC-17 for graphic violence, sex, language, addiction, and non-con. Written for the Inception Reverse Bang with partner birddi.

The Paradox Job

Part 1

"Come on," Arthur said as he tucked his phone into his shoulder. "You could at least give me a challenge."

"Sorry to shame your genius with my pathetic request," Roger said in his ear. "But it'll only take you, what, five minutes?"

Arthur held up a silver tie to his neck, trying to get it to fall straight so that he could compare it to the rest of his outfit. Too formal. He tossed it aside and tried a dull blue one instead. "If that. But you know Professor Robbinson will catch it. She's looks for that sort of thing."

"The semester is over-why would she look? It's only point one anyway."

"Point one makes a world of difference to an engineer," Arthur teased, deadpan, as he pulled the tie around his neck and fashioned it into a Windsor. "Point one separates success from failure, life from death itself-"

Roger sighed in exasperation. "Do you want the fifty bucks or not?"

Arthur smiled, and held the phone away from his ear a moment so he could stand up straight and appraise his wardrobe choice properly. Satisfied, he moved into the other room of his apartment and sat down in front of his laptop. "You'd better have it for me tonight, in cash," he said as he set the phone down and went to work. "My internship starts Monday and I need a haircut."

"Your hair...is superb. You don't need a haircut."

"Tonight, in cash," Arthur repeated. His fingers danced across the keys, carrying him effortlessly past passwords and various security measures. Professor Robbinson's advanced physics, 303. A 3.9 became a perfect 4.0: first trick he had taught himself, though he had never needed to use it for himself. "I'm on my way out now. And next time think of something harder, all right?"

"Yeah, sure," Roger laughed. "If I ever need some corporate espionage done, you'll be at the top of my list. Wait, does that mean you already-"

"I'll see you there," Arthur said, and he hung up. He shut down his laptop and was tying his shoes when his phone trilled with an incoming text message. He turned it toward him so he could read while he finished with the laces.

I hear you're good at finding things.

Arthur frowned at the unfamiliar number. He grabbed his keys and wallet and headed out; as he waited for the elevator he texted back, Depends on what you're looking for.

The elevator opened, and he stepped inside. While the elevator stopped on the third floor to pick up a pair of elderly women, he got a reply: Let's meet. I have a job for you, Arthur.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the screen. He knew his name had gotten around recently, but not to the point where strangers were propositioning him for work directly. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. I don't meet, he typed back. Tell me what you're looking for.

I'll tell you when you meet me, the stranger responded.

"Yeah, right," Arthur muttered. The women let off in the lobby but he rode the elevator to the parking garage in the basement. I don't meet, he sent again, and then shoved his phone into his pocket, thinking that was the end of it. He hadn't gotten as far as he had by being stupid when it came to dealing with criminals.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out.

The party was dreadfully generic. Everyone was dressed to their best and Arthur still managed to stand out, weaving through the familiar faces as they gossiped over their parents' wine. In an hour or two the alcohol would loosen tongues and make things more interesting, but until then they were just another group of Ivy League socialites-in-training patting themselves on the back for one more semester of grad school behind them. Arthur was content to drift about, catching the tail ends of conversations, reconnecting with faces he hadn't seen since winter break. As always, everyone was happy to see him.

Blond, spectacled Roger Hunt found him in the kitchen. "There you are! I've been texting you all night."

They shook hands and Roger tried to be smooth, sliding a wad of cash into the greeting, but Arthur rolled his eyes. He counted the money in plain sight and slipped it into his wallet. "Really? I must not have heard." He reached for his phone to check, but his vest pocket was empty. He checked his jacket and pants and still didn't find it. "Damn."

"Lost it?" Roger asked, surprised. "That's not like you."

"I wouldn't have left home without it," Arthur said, trying to remember the last text message he'd sent. He held out his hand. "Let me borrow yours."

Roger handed it over, and Arthur dialed in his own number and hit send. It rang twice and hung up without going to voicemail.

"Shit." Arthur straightened up and looked around the party, though he knew there was no chance of him spotting anything useful. "Someone has it." He waved at Roger. "Go move around, see if you can hear my ringtone."

Roger looked doubtful, but he nodded and headed into the living room. Arthur went the opposite way, further into the house, and dialed again. The phone rang only once and then hung up again, and with a scowl he thought, If you're going to steal it, you should at least turn it off until I leave the party.

He was about to dial again when a shout rose from the back. People were cheering and wincing loudly, and as Arthur followed someone burst through the patio door shouting, "Fight! Fight!"

Well, Arthur thought, picking up the pace, at least that's something new.

A ring had formed in the back yard, and at the center three men were tangled in a brawl. Another was already on the ground nursing a broken nose. Arthur pushed to the front of the cheering crowd but by then it was almost over: a man in a striped shirt twisted, felling one of his opponents with a sound uppercut. The line of his ribs to his wrist was effortless and picture perfect. The remaining man charged, aiming low, but striped-shirt turned again and grabbed him by his belt. Using his attacker's momentum against him he flung him into the backyard minibar to a roar of approval.

Arthur blinked. Damn.

He tried to get a look at the stranger's face, but as soon as the fight ended everyone flooded forward, patting him on the back and offering him drinks. The man laughed, his voice deep and throaty, carrying above the commotion. It prickled goose bumps up Arthur's arms with a sensation of dj vu.

"What were they fighting over?" he asked a woman next to him.

"Fuck if I know," she laughed.

Everyone continued to buzz over their unexpected hero, and with a sigh Arthur turned away. He hit redial on Roger's phone and hoped that with so many people gathered he might get lucky.

Immediately he heard the indie pop song that Roger had insisted be his ringtone. He turned, craning his neck to see over the crowd, but there were several people with a phone in their hands or at their ear, and he couldn't pick out his own among them. It stopped a moment later, but rather than going silent a man's voice emptied out of the speaker. "Yeah?"

Arthur's spine went rigid. He glanced from man to man but still couldn't be sure. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Who's this?" the stranger returned in a strong British accent.

"This is Roger," Arthur said carefully. He moved through the crowd but then his eye caught on the man in stripes, and the smartphone pressed to his ear. He stopped. "I'm looking for Arthur."

From where Arthur was he could only see the man's back: a collared shirt stretched over broad shoulders, a stern neck, short brown hair. "That's funny," the man said, his cheeks wrinkling with a grin. "I'm looking for Arthur, too."

Arthur felt a flutter in his chest that was part curiosity, mostly apprehension. Is he the one that texted me? he thought, trying to circle around so he could see a face. "What for?" he asked lightly. "One fight wasn't enough for you?"

He laughed again, turning his head so that Arthur caught a glimpse of rough whiskers and full lips. "Oh, no. I'm sure he could take me."

That was even more curious. Arthur slunk closer, his pulse beginning to rise. "You think so? Not after what I just saw."

His voice lowered. "You were watching?"

Why does it sound like he's teasing me? Arthur was only a few steps away. "You were hard to miss," he said.

The stranger looked the other way, and Arthur almost stopped short again when he realized that he was searching for him, too. "Like what you saw?"

Arthur snorted. "Maybe if I knew what it was about."

The stranger turned and spotted him, and Arthur froze. The slow smile that turned his lips was unexpected, and Arthur remained very still as he moved closer, not knowing how to react. We're in public, he told himself as the man stopped in front of him. But then he remembered the fight only a moment ago and was uncertain again.

"Nothing, really." The man pulled the phone away from his ear and offered it. "They pissed me off."

Arthur accepted the phone and hung up the call on both ends. "All right," he said, tucking the phones into his pockets. "You have my attention. What is it you want?"

His eyebrows rose. "To start with?"

Arthur sighed, thinking, This is why I don't meet clients. "I'm Arthur," he blurted out. "So what is it you want?"

"You just gave it to me," he replied slickly. He took Arthur's hand and shook it. "Hello, Arthur."

His fingers were hot and sweaty, and Arthur hated the little shiver it spread up his spine. "Look, this is a party," he said as he retrieved his hand. "I don't do business in public. So if you want to talk, just text me again later." When the man stared at him in confusion, he frowned. "You are the one that texted me, aren't you?"

"Not the foggiest idea what you mean," he said. He waved to one of the guys behind him and was eagerly handed a beer.

"Seriously?" Arthur's ears reddened with irritation, but when he studied the man's face, he realized that he was telling the truth. "Then why did you steal my phone?"

"I didn't." He motioned toward his unconscious brawl-mates with his bottle-the rest of the party was continuing around them, stepping over them when necessary. "Didn't mean to, anyway. I knicked it from them."

Arthur looked, and when he squinted he realized they looked familiar. Unhappy customers, maybe? He couldn't place them right away, but he took his phone out and snapped pictures, sure that he it would come to him later. "Then, um, thanks," he said awkwardly. He gave his phone a shake. "For this."

"Tell Roger I said hi," he said, and with a wink he turned away.

Arthur frowned at his back. He was already embarrassed, but being so abruptly dismissed infuriated him. Scowling, he marched back into the house. This party is pointless anyway, he thought as he moved through the halls. I might as well leave. He checked his phone for any messages he might have missed. Or try to get some real work.

He was considering texting the stranger back after all when five steely fingers wrapped over his face.

Arthur opened his eyes to blood drying in dead grass. His lungs swelled and immediately heaved with the intake of smoke and dirt, and he doubled over, coughing into his sleeve. The air was dry but sweat streamed through his hair and down his back, making a sauna of his heavy fatigues and helmet. Gunfire rippled overhead as he pressed into the ditch and tried to regain his bearings.

"First dead body?" a man said nearby.

Arthur lifted his head. The blood stood out to him again and he followed it down the sloping embankment to its source: a crumpled soldier with a face full of gore. He stared at it, blinking and uncomprehending.

More gunfire sounded, close enough to make Arthur's ears ring. He winced and glanced to the soldier beside him, who was pressed on his belly and firing across the dusty road into tall grass. Dressed for combat as he was only the barest of his features were visible: a long, jutting nose; narrow eyes beneath hooded sockets; dark stubble spattering a sharp-angled chin. His breath huffed through flared nostrils and his lip curled upward with every report of his rifle like that of a barking jackal.

Arthur rolled onto his stomach and crawled up the bank on his elbows. His heart was thundering but his mind became surprisingly lucid, and he knew with a kind of omniscient clarity that he was in no actual danger. I'm not a soldier, he thought even as he pulled the rifle away from his chest and braced the stock to his shoulder. I'm not fighting terrorist insurgents. He glanced to the man again and tried to copy his position. That's not my friend in the ditch.

His finger curled around the trigger. He squeezed, not enough to fire, feeling the weapon tense in his grip as if it were a living thing baring teeth. Sweat burned in the corner of his eyes and his sight wavered, smearing his distant targets into daylight ghosts. I'm not a soldier, Arthur told himself again as he adjusted his hands, digging metal into the meat of his palm. And they're not real.

I'm dreaming.

Arthur squeezed. The rifle screamed and a hail of bullets issued forth, swerving over the dirt road and into the cover of his enemies. Every shot was a perfectly ruptured skull. From so far away he couldn't even see the blood.

The soldier next to him laughed. "I hate greens like you," he said.

"I'm dreaming," Arthur replied. It was difficult to feel proud of himself given that knowledge; all he had to do was aim and pull, aim and pull, and he could win wars. "Why wouldn't I be a perfect shot?"

The soldier stopped shooting to eye him. He was familiar, and after some squinting Arthur realized that it must have been Trevor Hullz, the TA to Professor Miller during his sophomore year. He always had been a pushy know-it-all and his new role suited him.

"So you figured that out already," Trevor said, looking doubtful.

"Figured out what?" Arthur took in deep breath and was no longer bothered by the crowding dust. He fitted his finger to the trigger again, aimed, and pulled. Another man fell dead.

Trevor set his rifle down and unstrapped the handgun from his shin. "Then I guess we'd better move on."

He pushed up on his knees, and Arthur was about to warn him about being picked off when he felt the muzzle press into his right shoulder. The gunshot wasn't as loud as his rifle but the reverberations rippled through his entire body. His shoulder blade splintered, sending shards of bone into his muscles, into his lungs; he could feel each piece shredding a separate path through him. The pain hit a moment later, and Arthur screamed as the bullet exploded from his chest in a burst of blood.

"How's that?" Trevor snarled. "Are you still a perfect shot now?"

Arthur tried to grab for the jagged wound, but his body was too heavy and his rifle was still strapped to his chest and in the way. With every beat of his panicked heart he felt warmth pulse out of him, and in senseless desperation he thought, Stop, stop beating, I'll bleed to death. Tears mingled with the sweat already on his face as he struggled to roll onto his side.

Trevor dropped onto his back as bullets continued to shriek overhead. "Come on, kid," he taunted. "You're dreaming. It's just like a Hollywood movie, right? The hero never dies from a shot to the shoulder."

Arthur slumped onto his uninjured left. The words seeped into him, and as he gasped for breath with half a set of working lungs he told himself that Trevor was right. His body wouldn't believe it. His skin was cold and shivering, and it took all his strength to grab up his rifle again and swing the muzzle toward his attacker.

"If I'm the hero," he said hoarsely, "what's that make you?"

He fired, and missed at first, but he kept his finger to the trigger, spraying lead until the bullets pierced Trevor's helmet and splattered his brain out the other side. The body twitched and its eyes rolled for a few seconds later, and Arthur watched in sick fascination. Once it had stopped he collapsed onto his back and closed his eyes.

I just need a moment, he thought, shoving his palm into hole in his chest. I'll catch my breath and then I'll finish this war. That's what I'm supposed to be doing, right? It's just a dream. Right? Copper welled in his throat and he swallowed it back with a grimace. He knew it wasn't really his blood but the taste was thick and pungent in his stomach, and he began to doubt. A fear was bubbling in his chest that was so potent it had to be real.

The earth shook beneath him. When he opened his eyes again the sky above him was dulling from blue to gray, and a thin line of high clouds began to turn, aiming downward like a plummeting aircraft. All around the already dry grass shriveled, leaving only rusty stains on bald dirt, and somewhere behind him unintelligible voices cried out in terror. Everything was dying; everything was falling apart.

Arthur watched the swift decay with wide eyes. The quaking grew worse and cracks formed all along the bank. They opened like toothy maws, swallowing Trevor's suddenly rotting corpse in bottomless fissures. When the ground under Arthur began to buckle he forced himself on his hands and knees and crawled, in panic and agony, away from his approaching death.

I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming.

He fell through. The wind was cold to piercing, biting every bead of sweat off his face and neck. He grabbed at the stony walls and broke fingers in his attempts to halt the mad descent but his momentum was too great. He fell, and spun, and tumbled into the crevasse until the opening was only a narrow crescent of dim light above.

Arthur awoke with a full body gasp. He jerked in his chair as if it had broken his fall, his hands white and pained around the arms. For long moments he fought for breath against his burning lungs and rubbed his feet against rough carpet until he was positive he was alive and grounded and awake.

"That's what you get for shooting me," a man said close to his ear.

Arthur recoiled, but his limbs were still heavy and weak, and he couldn't focus. His forearm stung and then the man moved away. "What... What the fuck," he wheezed. He rubbed his eyes and at last was able to take in his surroundings: he was in a cheap motel, empty beer bottles on the table and a cigarette half crushed but still smoking in the tray. "Where am I?"

The soldier from his dream picked up the cigarette and took a slow pull before stamping it out completely. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a white undershirt, showing off hints of ink between his shoulder blades and over the rise of his hips. His limbs were long, making acute angles of his knees when he sank into the chair opposite Arthur. As they stared at each other across the short distance Arthur saw that it wasn't Trevor Hullz after all. In fact, he wasn't sure how he could have ever mistaken the two.

This was the client he had refused to meet in person. This was a long-lined thug with scars in his arms and an empty wallet, the kind Arthur had friends to deal with on his behalf. This was a mistake playing out in slow motion.

"Remember me now?" the man asked.

Arthur rubbed his jaw and found it sore. He looked at the man's long fingers and remembered them wrapped over his face, wrapped up in his necktie. "You kidnapped me," he said. He spotted his suit jacket on the bed and sagged at the thought of his doubtlessly ransacked wallet. More pressing a concern, however, was the spot of blood on his arm. He pressed down with thumb. "Did you drug me?" He stood. "You fucking junkie, did you-"

"The needle was clean and brand new, if that's what you're worried about." He gestured to the floor. "Watch your step."

Arthur followed his pointing, and started back. Seated between them was a mess of metal and glass and rubber: two bottles filled with gold liquid were nestled within a ragged apparatus of plungers and coiled IV tubing. Arthur's disgust turned to keen interest as he crouched down and inspected the foreign and yet instantly recognizable device.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, not looking up.

"Africa." He lit a fresh cigarette. "You could say it cost me an arm and a leg."

Arthur's gaze flickered to the man's frayed left pant leg, and what looked like burn scars creeping down his ankle and over the top of his bare foot. Knowing what he did about the substance in the bottles-rumors and hearsay, but believable-he was not surprised. "Then why waste it on me?"

"Because I need you to do something for me."

Arthur's pulse hitched but his face remained calm as he stood. He had done business with plenty of shady characters, and was determined not to be intimidated by even this rough specimen. "Who are you?" he asked sternly. "We don't have anything to talk about until I get a name."

"Bone," he introduced himself with a jut of his chin. "Benjamin Bone." He pointed with his cigarette. "Not Ben, Benny, Bones, Boned, or Boner. Benjamin, or Bone. That's it. Got it, kid?"

"Arthur," he corrected. "Just Arthur."

Satisfied, Bone waved at the chair. "Sit down; now we've got something to talk about."

Arthur did so. As his hands flexed against the arms he was reminded of the dream he had just exited, and his breath threatened to come faster with the memory. Whatever the source of his visions the adrenaline in his blood was real, and it made him anxious on top of the already impending conversation. "What can I do for you, Mr. Bone?"

Bone's eyebrows perked at the choice of address. "I need you to help me find one of these," he said, nudging the device between them with his toe.

Arthur glanced to it and back. "It's right there."

"A real one, smartass." He blew smoke and Arthur's nose twitched. "Two weeks ago someone swiped one of the original five PASIVs out of General Keller's home in Maryland. I know 'cause I was going to steal it myself. Tracked it out here but apparently it got sold off to some rich fuck in the city."

Arthur's face remained impassive. "And you think with my connections I can figure out who bought it, so that you can steal it properly this time," he surmised.

"That's the idea, Arthur."

It was not an unusual request, save for the item involved. Arthur had helped all manner of people find all manner of things in the city he'd grown up in, and something as rare and valuable as a military PASIV wouldn't stay a secret for long. "I assume you want this done as soon as possible," he said. "You won't be the only one after it." He looked Bone up and down. "And it won't be easy to extract, either."

Bone's lip twitched. "Let me worry about that part."

"I have to worry about that part," Arthur said. "Because if you get caught what's keeping you from selling me out?"

Bone rocked forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Do I look like a rat to you?"

Arthur had to admit, he didn't think so. He glanced again to the almost-PASIV on the floor and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Then it's two thousand up front," he said. "Three more when I find it. If you want my help planning the extraction that's another ten, twenty if I'm needed on site. My hands don't get dirty."

Bone listened attentively, and then replied, "I don't have any money."

Arthur straightened at the unexpected admission. "You won't find a more reasonable price for what you're asking, considering what that PASIV is worth."

"I know." Bone took a slow breath of his cigarette. "But I really don't have any money. Thought I'd pay you another way."

You're not worth it, Arthur thought involuntarily, though his gaze lingered briefly on the stern curve of a well-sculpted bicep. When he noticed Bone staring at the device between them he quickly caught on. "With this?"

"Won't need it if I can get a real one," he said. "I don't have a lot of compound left but it's enough that I can show you how to use it. Then you can buy your own compound from the dealers out west and everyone's happy."

There were times when dealing with criminals was not worth the irritation they brought. "I don't want it," said Arthur. "I'm not a junkie and even if I was I wouldn't pay you to shoot me again."

"Then let me show you something else." Bone set his cigarette in the tray and crouched down, messing with the device. "You'll see what I mean, I promise."

He offered up one of the needles, and Arthur couldn't help but narrow his eyes on the pale scars marking the inside of his forearm. His stomach churned, but he was just curious enough to see what a grunt like Bone had in mind. He licked his lips and leaned forward to accept the needle.

Bone retook his chair and slid the second needle into his arm. His pupils were already dilated by the time his toe stretched over the trigger. Arthur followed his example, wincing as his skin was pierced. He was only granted a moment for disgust before the drug seeped into his vein and he was asleep.

Arthur opened his eyes to an open panorama of soaring blue sky and rippling sand. Cold, salty waves lapped at his bare ankles and spread goose bumps up to his knees. When he looked left and right the ocean spread out before him, endless and undulating. He had seen it before, but never so simply, without any interruption from shipping piers or luxury hotels or summer homes. There was only blue sky, and blue water, and a glimmer of whitecaps in the distance to separate one from the other.

Bone stood beside him. He was inexplicably clean-shaven and he no longer reeked of smoke and motel carpet. "Not bad, is it."

Arthur breathed in the ocean air, tasting it at the back of his throat. "It's just the ocean," he said. But when he wiggled his toes and warm, wet sand oozed between them it gave him boyish thrill. "Might be prettier at night."

Bone snorted. Arthur heard breath hiss through his teeth, and to his surprise the sun began to sink rapidly toward the horizon. "Kinda strange," Bone said, "that you can tell so easily you're dreaming."

Arthur watched their shadows lengthen across the beach with a prickle of fascination. "I can always tell." For the first time he thought it was something of a shame.

The sun drooped until it touched the water, bathing it in brilliant orange for brief and gorgeous moments before extinguishing completely. In its place rose a full moon, gleaming silver and impossibly large, filling a quarter of the sky. Arthur almost staggered beneath its enormity. A strange feeling came over him as the air grew cool and soft against his cheeks.

"Come on." Bone slapped his shoulder and stepped back. "I'll race you."

Arthur started. "To where?"

"As far as we can go," he said, and when he smiled, he looked like an entirely different person. He turned and jogged down the shoreline.

Arthur shook his head, but he followed. Sand squished beneath his feet and he strayed closer to the water's edge so that he could feel the waves splash against his ankles. He met Bone stride for stride, their shadows a singular pillar, and when Bone sped up so did he. When he sped up so did Bone. Back and forth they traded brief leads, racing faster until they were sprinting full out across the unending beach. They left gouged prints in their wake to be swallowed by the ocean moments later.

Arthur ran. He ran until his thighs ached and his lungs burned. When his flapping shirt became a hindrance he shed it and delighted in every cold kiss of night air to his sweat-laden skin. It was the simplest of things, just to run down an empty stretch of land without destination or purpose, but as the sky and the sea blurred together he felt as if he was regaining part of himself. He was as wild and uncluttered as the world that was becoming ever more real around him. It was freedom.

He awoke, again, with a gasp. The stench of the cheap motel was choking, and he leaned forward, hating it so much he thought he'd be sick. All that was left of his beach was the sweat on his palms and a distant soreness in his legs, as if it had been days ago since he ran himself to exhaustion and was at long last recovering from its effects.

Bone took his wrist and removed his needle. "You all right?"

Arthur rubbed his arm. "Yeah. Fine."

Bone glanced up into his face, and Arthur frowned in anticipation of an "I told you so," but it didn't come. The eyes on him were intense and almost hopeful, so much so that Arthur had to look away. All his better sense told him to walk. "I need a day to think about your proposal," he said. "I don't usually do business in trades." He scoffed. "Or with kidnappers."

Bone frowned as he packed up the device and slid it into a weary denim sack. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

Arthur grabbed his jacket off the bed and checked the pockets; his wallet was still present, all cash and cards accounted for. He gripped his car keys tightly as he saw himself out without another word.

Outside, the parking lot was slick with May rain. It smelled like smashed worms and exhaust, and as Arthur hurried to his car his nose wrinkled with disgust. He could still taste salt at the back of his throat but it was rapidly vanishing in favor of highway grit.

This is ridiculous. Arthur turned the key and shifted into reverse. I don't need this shit.

Ever since Arthur had been young, he had always been able to tell when he was dreaming. He rarely remembered any dream past waking, but while he was in them each one was like a chapter in some incomprehensible story, and he an actor playing every role. He stuck to the mold and did as he was supposed to, every time.

That night he dreamt of the beach. It was as wide and empty and pointless as it had been in Bone's mind, refreshingly so, but when he tried to run everything smeared together. His legs became lead weights and the ground rocked, trying to overturn him. There was no clarity and when he woke up, frustrated and disappointed, he couldn't figure out right away if any of it had actually happened.

The next day Arthur and Bone played basketball on the deck of an aircraft carrier. They were joined by four soldiers, men Arthur's age with toned muscles and short haircuts. Like Bone the day before they were familiar, reminding him of past acquaintances even though the resemblance was only partial.

"Who are they?" Arthur asked as one of them went in for a layup.

"How should I know?" Bone caught the rebound and tossed it to his teammate. "They're your projections."

Arthur frowned, but the game was still going and he was too competitive not to put his focus in it. He hadn't played in years but the ball felt just right under his palm, rough and warm and ready to jump into the net. He shot from three point territory and missed.

When the game was over they sat on the edge of the ship, drinking beers with their feet dangling off the side. Arthur leaned forward, feeling the pull of the wind as it beckoned him toward the water surging below. "How come I'm a perfect shot with a gun I've never used but I can't make a game-winning three-pointer?"

"Because your mind decides what you're capable of in here," Bone replied. "You've played ball before. Your mind knows the physics involved, that it takes skill. The more practical knowledge you have about whatever you're doing, the more realistic the dream."

Arthur took a long gulp of his beer. "So if I pick up a real gun and shoot it, the next time I dream I'll be worse at it than I was before," he surmised.

"Backwards, huh." Bone finished his drink and tossed the bottle overboard. It disappeared beneath the surf. "You just can't trick your subconscious."

Arthur kept his eyes on the water, and when the bottle bobbed to the surface far off on the waves, he smiled and wasn't sure why. "I guess not."

When they woke up Bone reached under his bed and pulled out a heavy suitcase. He flipped it open and Arthur only just managed to keep his poker face at the sight of half a dozen guns of various sizes. "I thought you said you had no money," Arthur said.

"I didn't exactly pay for most of them." Bone lifted the SDM-R that they had used in their first dream together. "Go ahead-it's not loaded."

Arthur hesitated. When he took the gun his hands drooped, not expecting the weight. The metal was cool beneath his fingers, and it sent an unexpected chill up his arms. There was depth to the weapon he hadn't been able to sense in the dream, and when he traced the fingertip over the trigger it finally occurred to him that he was holding something lethal.

Bone watched him closely. "There's a range twenty miles up the road," he said.

An hour later Arthur was squeezing the trigger of a third generation Glock 17, shredding paper targets one tiny hole at a time. The kick traveled past his elbow and into his chest, where his heart beat an ever quickening rhythm. It wasn't as easy as it looked in the movies. He hadn't gone through his first magazine before his hand started to cramp. He shook it out and paid close attention as Bone showed him how to reload-that part was simple enough. But even after having fired seventeen rounds the eighteenth still rocked him, made his shoulder ache and quickened his breath.

"Why don't you get your hands dirty?" Bone asked, leaning against the side of the booth. "You're a decent shot for an amateur."

"It's not worth the trouble." Arthur took a deep breath, and on his next shot he tried not to blink with the report of the gun. He couldn't do it. "Why do you?"

"Because I have to."

No you don't, Arthur wanted to say, but he didn't. He set the gun down on the shelf in front of him and took off his earmuffs. "I'm taking your offer," he said. "But I want to try the real thing before you leave town."

"Thought you might." Bone offered his hand. "It's a deal."

That evening, Arthur put his feelers out. He sent a few carefully worded text messages to trusted sources and went out with a group of friends, catching up on the town gossip. Everyone was willing to share stories with Arthur: he was just clever enough to amuse without being a show-off; he made eye contact and listened with perfect attention when someone spoke to him; he never talked poorly of anyone to their face or behind their backs. Being handsome and classy helped, too. Everyone trusted a man who showed up in a perfectly fitting Gucci but let his cuffs and tie hang open by the end of the evening.

"Because it's not really about money," he told Roger as they leaned against the balcony of their friend's uptown condo. "It's not even about connections-it's about making other people feel comfortable when they're around you. There are a million ways to do that with any given person. You find the right way in and they'll trust you even if they know they shouldn't."

"That something your old man the lawyer teach you?" Roger asked. He offered Arthur his beer.

"Yeah." Arthur didn't like the brand but he took a long sip anyway, silently proving his point. "He used to say, 'the best thing you can do for your client is have his suit tailored.'"

"Funny thing for a man in a tailored suit to say." Roger trailed two fingers down the back seam of Arthur's perfectly fitting jacket. "There's an implication in there."

Arthur smiled, tipping his head back just enough for it to be an invitation. "Yeah, I guess there is," he said. When Roger leaned into him he sighed, thinking it would be nice to get laid before tackling the first day of his internship come morning.

His gaze wandered over the city lights, and then higher, seeking out a narrow, crescent moon just clearing the skyline. Seeing it so pale and small made him feel sorry for it, and he turned to meet Roger for a kiss so that he wouldn't have to dwell on it anymore.

"Can you have sex in a PASIV dream?" Arthur asked.

"Fuck." Bone squirmed in his windbreaker as if allergic to it. "Come on, Arthur, I'm sure you can figure that out on your own."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It wasn't an invitation."

He glanced around their surroundings that evening, for the first time of his own creation: Bone had insisted he begin slow, and he had chosen Central Park. It probably wasn't the most accurate recreation, as it had been months since his last visit if not longer, but it was simple and organic and he felt he could use a little of both. When he closed his eyes the dream seemed to pulse around him, close to his skin and desperately obedient. He'd never felt anything like it.

"I was just thinking," Arthur went on, "there must be a lot of prostitutional applications for technology like this."

"If there are, they don't interest me," said Bone. "Don't need to beg for the real thing."

"Fair enough."

Arthur watched the projections mill past them. Some research on his own had provided him insight on the nature of the beings, but he felt he understood much better by simply watching. Bone's subconscious was full of men and women who were just as hard-lined as him, all of them hurried and anxious, none of them children. It gave the park a charged air that Arthur appreciated even as it set him on edge.

"I want to try somewhere else," Arthur said. "Is it true that if you change too much mid-dream, the projections become hostile?"

Bone plucked a cigarette out of his pack. "Try it and find out."

Ten minutes later they were sprinting through a fractured landscape of lush trees interrupted by sterile office buildings. Arthur would have liked to pause and appreciate the unintentional beauty in their juxtaposition, but during his earlier reflections he had neglected to notice that all of Bone's projections apparently carried assault rifles. Chunks of bark leapt into their path with every gunshot, and glass shattered on either side. Every few seconds Arthur felt a bullet pass dangerously close, to his arm or even his scalp, and he thought unwittingly of himself as a paper target, hanging precariously from a little metal clip.

Blood splattered to his left, and he glanced back just in time to see Bone crash to the asphalt in a shredded heap. Arthur's heart soared into his throat. They're his projections-they're not supposed to- His fear became real and he fled, his limbs pumping urgently, his breath hard and almost excited. When he ducked off the path the projections lost him for a moment, and he thrilled with his escape, until he turned the corner of one of the office buildings and took a gut-full of hot lead.

They awoke in the motel, as always, and though Arthur's blood was still racing he found himself savoring the fiery euphoria. With his eyes still closed he breathed in and out, gradually winding down. Hearing Bone gasp quietly across from him in the otherwise silent, humid room lent an intimacy to the experience Arthur wasn't prepared for.

We just died together. He passed his hand over his face and up through his hair, smoothing it back. Is this what death feels like?

Someone else was in the room. Arthur tensed and his eyes flicked to the bed, where a man was reclining against the headboard. He was dressed in camo pants and a T-shirt stretched over his muscled chest, and rough stubble attempted to disguise his smooth jaw and full, almost feminine lips. He watched Bone and Arthur with patient curiosity as if he had been there all along.

Arthur stared; the intruder looked so easy in his environment that he had to wonder a moment if he was still dreaming. He looked to Bone. "What is he doing here?"

Bone pulled the needle from his arm. "Oh. You're back."

He swung his feet off the bed and came closer, and Arthur was still so confused by his being there that he failed to react until they were close together. Firm hands clasped Arthur's wrist and gently removed the IV. "Need some help with that?" he asked with a quirk of his lips.

Arthur jerked his arm to his chest; he felt exposed, as if the stranger had intruded on an intensely personal moment. "What is he doing here?" he asked of Bone again.

"This is Eames," Bone introduced. He handed off his needle, and Eames repacked the device. "My partner." He waved between them. "This is Arthur, our informant."

Eames glanced up sharply. "Informant?" he repeated. He gave a short bark of laughter. "You didn't think I could find it?"

"You're not local. This way's faster."

"Or did you think I'd try to keep it for myself?" Eames stole Bone's cigarette pack off the table and thumped down on the end of the bed. "I'm not as desperate as you, mate."

Bone looked away. Something anxious and shamed crept into his face, reminding Arthur of his hurried projections. Desperate was exactly the word for him. Though Arthur had come to the same conclusion early on, seeing Eames lay a man open so carelessly sent a prickle of ill ease along his spine, and in turn triggered an irrational flash of defensiveness.

"So where is it?" Arthur asked smartly. "Let's hear your leads."

Eames stopped with his lighter halfway to the cigarette in his lips. He looked Arthur up and down and then finished lighting it. "Let's hear yours. You're the one that's getting paid."

Arthur's eyebrow quirked, but then Bone cast him a warning look, and he decided not to share the conditions of their arrangement. "It's definitely still in the city," he said. "There are rumors everywhere but nothing definite yet."

Eames puffed lazily. "So in short, you have nothing."

"Did you think it was going to drop into your lap?" Arthur rolled his sleeves down and buttoned his cuffs. "I'm getting the feeling that neither of you really understand what you're dealing with. This is top secret military equipment, not a few grand or a fancy diamond."

"I told you, all you have to do is find it," said Bone. "Let us worry about the rest."

"If you say so." Arthur pulled his jacket on and caught Eames watching him closely with an expression he couldn't identify. "What?"

Eames leaned back on his hands. "Nothing."

"I'll let you know when I have something." He left, feeling Eames's eyes on his back all the way out.

That night he dreamt Central Park was a warzone. The trees were bald and gnarled, the grass yellow, and lanky soldiers in gray fatigues crouched in every ditch and around every corner. Arthur sped through their ranks, a Glock clutched in his fist that he never fired. His only thought was escape, and when a glossy skyscraper rose out of the earth ahead of him he charged inside. He climbed stairways amidst pounding gunfire, dodged rifle stocks aimed at his head, and at last took cover behind an overturned desk in a conference room.

He was catching his breath, at last working up the courage to return fire, when hard lights flared through the windows and a length of curved metal crushed into his back. He died instantly.

Arthur had just finished repairing a minor coding error in his new employer's main server when his phone trilled with an incoming text message. After a quick glance around to be sure that no one of authority was watching, he checked it.

didnt no u dreamed

As a precaution he didn't keep business numbers saved in his phone, so he had to wait until his lunch break to look up the sender: Wallace. When he remembered who that was the taste of his club sandwich took a turn for the worse. He texted back.

Doesn't everyone?

He was on his way back to the office when he received a reply.

lets get coffee im thirsty

Arthur clenched his jaw, and stood in the lobby for a long minute, staring down at his screen. He started to delete the message but stopped himself. He replied.

I'm at work. I'll meet you at 5, same place as before.

A minute later he received an attached photograph of kittens spilling out of an oversized boot. With a shake of his head he went back to work.

At five Arthur took the subway downtown and picked the furthest booth at a McDonald's with just a coffee. After a sip he gave up trying to drink it. He was thinking about the inside of Bone's elbow when a young Indian woman with a shaved head slumped into the booth across from him: Wallace. In terms of deceiving pseudonyms hers was much better. "Hey," she greeted.

"Hey." Arthur had dressed down for the meeting, his jacket shoved in the corner, his tie loose and askew. Wallace had dressed up, in a striped sweater and black Jeggings. They looked just like a pair of college friends sharing coffee in a McDonald's. "You look good," he said, but what he really meant was, Thanks for not coming in leather.

"You too." She slurped her mocha and then reached into her purse. "You said you have a headache?" She slid a small box of ibuprofen across the table.

"Thanks." Arthur gave the box a gentle shake and heard what was definitely not a plastic bottle jingle inside. "How much do I owe you?"

"Seven."

Arthur glanced up sharply. Hundred? She smiled. "Seriously?" he asked.

Wallace grinned at him. "I knew you weren't into this," she said. "You're here to ask me where I got it, aren't you? Who are you working for?"

Arthur shook his head; she would have been a bright girl if only she wasn't a drug dealer. "They're not local. You know what I want, so how much is it going to cost me?"

"For an even G I'll give you the box and a name."

I don't need the box. Arthur glanced down at the box still in his open palm. He willed himself to say it. I don't need the box, I just need the name. "I'll need to find an ATM," he said.