[ She knew he'd recognize the gun, though it comes as a surprise that he knows someone who swears by it. It is dependable. Durable. A bit too heavy. It took her a couple of rounds at the firing range to get the hang of its trigger, too, but she'd only been fifteen. ]
Is it ego patting if I'm genuinely impressed? [ The counter comes easily. It's not as if she'd be phoning it in. An impressive shot is an impressive shot, and when your only experience is with paper targets and plastic bottles, shooting a frisbee out of the air is cool. ] But, hey, if you're willing to teach, I'm willing to learn.
[ a beat, and then: ] Is there a model you swear by? [ What's Arthur prefer to use? ]
Well, no, but—[ Arthur glanced over, shrugs the rest of the sentence. It's not as if he disregards the compliments lobbed his way. They just ... make him feel a bit itchy, under the skin. The focused attention isn't something he's too used to. ]
Sure. You learned on a heavy pistol, I think you'll pick it up. [ Crossing the street over to the long edge of Central Park, it's only a few more chilly moments before he locates a spot with a mid-height fence. Its wood is warping with age and moisture, but the posts are still relatively straight. ]
Glock 17. Ubiquitous, accurate, and I can take it apart to clean without any tools. [ Setting the rifle case and backpack down on the crunchy frost covered dirt, he crouches to pull a few various targets out of the bag.
As he goes to set the first can up: ] When'd you pick up shooting?
[ Because he thinks he has an idea of why, remembering her telling him about the monsters that seemed fake until they weren't. ]
Without any tools? How impressive. [ The comment slips out smooth, more playful than praising. She knows in his line of work, a clean gun isn’t just maintenance, it’s survival. A jam at the wrong time could mean everything.
She grabs one of the targets and moves to help him set up. ] I was fifteen [ Her tone is easy but the memory anything but. ] Dad and I had just gotten back from the store. There was a man waiting for us in the motel room. [ The memory is sharp, and impossible to forget. The scuffle, the way the lamp hit the floor, her own paralyzed fear. The way his blood pooled. That man was a monster, just a different breed. Arthur might receive flashes through their connection. ]
He went after my dad. They fought. My dad killed him. [ Plainly, almost unbothered. Knowing what she does now, it's not nearly as haunting as it used to be. She glances over at Arthur. ] The next day, he bought the gun. A week later, he started teaching me.
[ She balances a can in place. ] That’s also when we started dying my hair.
[ His eyebrows lift at the age she mentions—which, of course, it makes sense. Her story about the real-not-real monsters sounded like it had been going on for a while, not just in the last year or so.
(Though, he still thinks she would be too young to have to know this stuff).
Listening intently, he sets a glass bottle on a post, carefully nudging it so it wouldn't fall over. As Sharon talks, he gets ... impressions, snippets of the memory playing from her perspective. Like a strobe, the images flick by—the choking fear, the dull thump of the lamp hitting the floor, how the man's blood pooled and sunk into the carpet.
It reminds him, a bit, of his first scuffle. Topside, because for as much as he'd killed people in dreams, it didn't have the same visceral ugliness. He's not ashamed to say he'd retched afterwards and been sick for most of the rest of the day. ]
Practical. [ Necessary. Guns were loud, but allowed for quicker reaction time. And distance, which he imagines both of them would've wanted. ] Was that the first time one of them had shown up like that?
[ Basically on their doorstep. ] I guess you moved around a lot?
The first time that I know of—but probably not. [ They'd been hunting her since she was nine. Chris had an erratic schedule back then, and she'd believed him when he told her it was work. The long nights, the days he didn't come home—he was either dealing with the people who were after her, or trying to research the insanity behind them.
She grabs another can, ignoring that familiar pinch of grief. It comes and goes, less often than in the beginning—a ghost she's good at putting away. ] We moved about every couple of years in the beginning. After that, five times in three years. New identity each time, too.
[ She takes a step back, glancing Arthur's way. ] You ever run under a false identity?
[ Ah, that makes sense, if it was just the first time she'd caught on to the situation in better detail. The death would have been even more shocking, because there hadn't even been a theoretical knowing of the monster-men being killed, before. ]
When was the beginning? [ Between the pinch of grief he gets along the connection and how young she is now–which sure, she's technically an adult, but she also isn't–he dreads the answer. But, context matters to him. Sharon's story matters. Moving around that much and then doing it even more in a short time span ... it would make connecting with people difficult. ]
Yeah, often. [ Satisfied with the target placement, he steps over to the firearms cases, going through the motions of unlocking and unlatching them. ] I've had to burn four; some jobs went wrong. Couldn't risk the local police deciding to escalate and following me across some borders. Technically, some corporate thugs from South Africa still probably want me 6 feet under, so that's a fifth I'm going to have to erase.
[ He says, checking the casing on the pistol first, dragging the slide back to make sure the motion was smooth. Satisfied, he loads the clip in, makes sure the safety's on, and then holds it out to Sharon, handle pointed towards her. ] I've got a colleague, though, who will forge me some new papers for half the going rate, if I ask him nicely.
[ His curiosity about her past is both unexpected and strangely comforting. It throws her off just a little—she’s so used to deflecting that the instinct to change the subject kicks in without thought. But this time, she doesn’t follow it. With Arthur, it feels... safe. At least when it comes to Sharon’s truths. ]
After I was kidnapped by a cult at nine. [ The words carry a bitter twist of humor. She knows how insane it sounds. Still, by now, Arthur understands her history is layered and messy; this just adds another layer he probably never saw coming.
She moves closer as he starts unlatching the cases, curiosity sparking in her eyes. ] You're gonna have to tell me about some of those jobs. [ The dangerous ones. The messy ones. The ones that go sideways. If people want him dead, then the stories have to be good even if they might make him sour—point man and all.
She takes the offered pistol and double-checks it with practiced ease, her movements instinctive. As she squares up to the targets, her grin turns crooked. Her form is solid, even if the weapon isn’t what she’s used to. ]
Oh? And what does 'asking nicely' look like? [ she teases, just as she pulls the trigger. The nearest can flies off, and she flashes him a smug, toothy smile. ]
[ He feels the prickle of surprise along their connection at his question and takes a moment to think–well, she has spent a lot of time running and hiding. Not too many people got the chance to ask her this, he imagines. ]
A cult. What the fuck did they want with a nine year old? [ His expression screws up into one of both confusion and disgust. There are, he's sure, plenty of answers. None of them are likely to be any good. Actual kidnappers rarely are. ] They're not terribly exciting, just full of dreamshare shitheads.
[ Of which there are many.
Arthur watches her double-checking his work after she takes the pistol and he smiles, a sense of approval in his gaze. He sets to work on the rifle next, hands busy even as he watches her take a stance, sight down the barrel, and crack one of the cans off the fence. ]
Solid shot. You're definitely going to make the moving targets cry. [ She'd done all that as easy as breathing, after all. Learning to track the trajectory was going to be cake. Pushing himself to his feet, he re-balances, sets the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, pressing his cheek to the stock as he breathes in, aims– ] Ah, it sounds a bit like: Mr. Eames, don't forget you owe me for Santorini.
[ –exhales, pulls the trigger, shearing the neck off one of the glass bottles. ]
[ The mixture of confusion and disgust in his expression doesn’t surprise her, but she still offers a sympathetic glance because whatever he’s imagining, the truth is so much worse. ]
Back then? They wanted to burn me alive. Said it would cleanse me. [ Her tone is flat, edged with bitter sarcasm as she rolls her eyes. That was just one piece of a much bigger ritual: burn Sharon, force Alessa to manifest, and merge the soul halves into something whole, something divine. ] These days? They think I can give birth to their god.
[ They always believed it, really. That her body could be an incubator for something unimaginable. And the worst part? She's not entirely convinced they're wrong. She was born different and after the fire, something in her cracked open. Something monstrous. Powerful. Maybe even world-ending.
Arthur’s approval lands well—sparks hot pride in her chest. She watches him carefully as he lines up his shot, noting the spread of his stance, the flex of his arm, the calm tension in his frame. The breath he draws in. Her eyes don’t leave him until he pulls the trigger, and then they lift with a low whistle, eyebrows arching in appreciation. Impressive. ]
That sounds like a one-time favor. [ she teases. ] Or is this more of a life debt kind of deal?
Jesus. What is wrong with people? [ Casting a glance at her, his mouth is pressed in a displeased line, continuously annoyed by the weirdos in Sharon's life. ]
[ Her reaction, though, pulls him from the feeling of disgust, and he gives her a small, almost shy smile. Pulling the stock away from his shoulder, satisfied with his shot, and points the barrel down to the dirt, lifting the bolt lever to eject the shell. Another round gets smoothly loaded in its place. ]
Eames owes me for a number of things. [ This time, his smile is toothy, a bit feral. ] Santorini is the least of them.
[ She takes a bit of satisfaction in his displeasure, just as much as she enjoys the small, almost shy smile he throws her way. What’s more flattering than feeling someone's impressed reaction radiating through a connection you didn’t ask for? It beats compliments, that's for sure. ]
Tell me about Eames? [ Casually, right as she raises the pistol, takes a shot—misses. A flicker of heat rushes to her ears, but she doesn’t let it show beyond a brief huff. She adjusts her aim, tries again, and the can sails off with a satisfying clatter. ]
[ It's funny—their last conversation about dreamshare had been so technical. And while he'd mentioned the Cobbs, he hadn't gone into any of the other people he saw in a normal rotation on jobs. Hadn't mentioned the newer plays, like Ariadne and Yusuf.
So, he plants the barrel of the gun in the ground, leaning on the stock as he mulls her question over. He watches as she takes aim, misses, huffs to herself, adjusts, and hits the can off the fence with a loud clang. ]
He's a thief and a forger, both in reality and while dreaming. Counterfeit documents, fake passports, copies of famous paintings, that kind of work. Last I heard, he'd stolen some kind of priceless broach from some collector in Istanbul. [ And somehow made it out of the country, despite being wanted there already. The payout must've been good. ]
He's creative, kinda smug and insufferable, passive aggressive; he likes giving me shit, has made my job very difficult in the past, and is unfortunately competent. [ Arthur sighs, thinking about all the ways Eames liked to grate on his nerves on purpose. Like his cheekiness in showing Ariadne how a kick worked, purposely tipping the chair he'd been sitting and taking notes in. Just because he could.
Picking the rifle back up, he aims at one of the cans, inhales, exhales, fires, and is satisfied when it flies off the post, clattering on the hard packed dirt. ]
He's very good with people. [ Arthur lowers the rifle, glancing over at Sharon. ] I think he'd like you.
[ The more he talks about Eames, the wider her smile stretches, though she tries to keep it tempered when he refers to him as unfortunately competent. It sure sounds like he actually enjoys working with his irritating coworker. Mr. Eames. ]
Of course, he would. [ All sass and grin. ] I mean, I’m ridiculously charming. And honestly? He sounds like a blast. Art forgery? [ She rocks back on her heel, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. ] That might even beat being a point man.
[ Sharon is an artist at heart, a total sucker for anyone with an eye for aesthetics. Put her in a gallery or hand her a brush, and she’ll disappear for hours in a blur of color and composition. Her idea of peace. ]
[ It's funny, actually, how well he'd adjusted to having the background noise of Sharon's feelings bleeding into his own. He's gotten better at catching the trickle of it, making sure it doesn't inadvertently influence his own. Because that's the thing he's worried about more—Sharon, he thinks, wouldn't try to influence on purpose that way.
So, he feels the bubbling amusement as he describes Eames. Knows as soon as he finishes talking that she's got that bright grin lighting up her whole expression, would know even if he weren't looking at her. He gives her a wry smile at the sassy play at ego. And just gives her an unimpressed look when she mentions Eames sounds more exciting. ]
You are charming, even if you're killing my self confidence here. [ That's the truth. The charming part, anyway. He has no issues with how he views himself, even if it's potentially less interesting than forgery. ]
Yeah, well, it's a balance, working with him. He keeps it interesting, I make sure his interesting doesn't get us all killed. [ Arthur points the rifle downwards again, smoothly going through the reloading sequence. As he does, there's a small, wistful moment—a part of him wishes Eames were here. Or maybe Ariadne. It's selfish, to think as much. But, they were good at dealing with change. And just like any other person, he wouldn't say no to a familiar face.
Sorta. He doesn't know what he'd do, if Cobb showed up. Just the possibility of it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Shaking it off, he tracks back to something she focused on: ] Art your kind of thing? Like those great painters?
Bullshit. [ She fires back instantly, her face scrunching into an exaggerated mask of doubt, one aimed directly his potentially damaged ego. Arthur strikes her as someone with a solid sense of self, anyway—steady because he knows exactly who he is and what he’s capable of.
Eames might keep things interesting, but Arthur keeps them alive. Good at what he does, and he knows it. And yet—there—a flicker, a thin thread of longing. For something familiar. For someone. It would be cruel, honestly, for anyone they care about to end up here. No matter how much they’d welcome it.
Maybe even need it.
Her head tips toward him at his question, the hum of her answer breaking that train of thought. ] I would spend all day in an art museum if I could. [ She lines up her shot, knocks down the last can, and only then continues ] My favorite store was the hobby shop. If I wasn’t saving up for an ounce, I was scraping together cash for some fancy-ass paintbrush, or those overpriced Prismacolor pencils I’d always end up losing.
[ Art is her kind of thing.
There weren’t many outlets for her back then, no after-school programs, no part-time jobs, no parties. She learned to make her own fun, though most of it doubled as coping mechanisms. Even Alessa had found a way to create in the Otherworld. That was how she first learned to flip the switch between the fog and the darkness—black ink on white paper. ]
[ At her retort of bullshit, he flashes her a small grin, amused by how fast she'd slung that at him. And by how much her face scrunches up in disbelief. ]
It's not the same, but you been through the Met here yet? [ He's walked through some of it, at least, in those first couple days. ] Painting and dry media—do you have a preference?
[ Not that he has a deep knowledge of all the things one could use to make art. While he's creative in other aspects, drawing, painting, sculpture—those weren't really his thing. That was for people like Eames and Sharon (and even Ariadne, who he's caught doodling in one of her sketchbooks).
So, there's a bit of a fascination with the process and the tools, because he's exposed to so little of it. He's been in one of Eames' little studios, has seen some of the primed canvasses and the half-finished forgeries, but he's never been around long enough to watch him work.
To finish off the round of targets, he aims at the last bottle, watching it shatter into a shower of glass. ]
Haven’t really thought about playing tourist. [ she admits with a casual shrug. It’s hard to picture there being much left at the Met worth seeing anyway, and most of her time has been swallowed by survival or whatever distractions are closest to the townhouse. If she’s looking further than that, it’s usually because someone else has yanked her focus there.
Like now.
At his next question, she shakes her head. ] No real preference. Some days I lean toward paint over charcoal or pastels, but I get bored fast. [ Her work changes as often as her mood, and she’s dipped her hands into nearly every medium at least once, thanks, in part, to her schooling.
When the last bottle shatters, she clicks her tongue in approval, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ] Gonna pull out frisbees? [ The question carries a muted excitement, her eyes bright with anticipation. She wants to see him take down something moving, midair. ]
Fair. I walked through, on the first day or so I was here. Was mostly curious if they had any of the post-war painters on display before, you know. [ Before everything went to absolute shit. There's a light sense of mischief, in his mention of the painters, that transmits over the connection. ]
Versatile, then. Lets you work with whichever one you're feeling, at least. [ He can see the appeal, in having so many options that it was just a matter of picking one and running with it for the day. ]
Alright, hold onto your horses. [ It's a teasing admonishment, as he temporarily sets his gun down in its case. From the backpack, he produces a stack of frisbees, garish neon things that look like they're straight from one of those tourist kiosks. Plucking the rifle back up, he steps closer to Sharon, handing her the eye-searing discs. ] Here, Vanna White, you'll want to toss it up on a vertical. Easier to track.
[ Reloading the rifle, he takes a few careful steps away, setting the stock against his shoulder and tipping the barrel up towards the sky. ] Whenever you're ready.
[ Sharon picks up on the sense of something regarding the painters through the tether. ] Why post-war painters?
[ At his mention of versatility, she taps the side of her nose in silent acknowledgment. Yeah, he gets it. The mock-scolding that follows earns nothing more than a sharp smack of her lips, playful but unrepentant. It’s the end of the world; she’ll take every scrap of enjoyment she can wring out of these moments, knowing they won’t last.
She accepts the neon discs but pauses to give him a baffled look. ] Who the fuck is Vanna White? [ Just before tossing the disc up vertically, exactly as he instructed. The temptation to hurl it sideways, turning it into a nearly impossible shot, is strong, but she decides she can save that little test for later. ]
You're going to think I'm bleak. [ That's not him avoiding the answer, just giving her some possible context on what's following. ] They'd seen the horror of the worst modern conflict at the time, the change in how warfare was conducted. There's not a lot of polish in their work; it's just raw emotion–the anxiety, depression, grief. And there's a question in each of them, wondering why we do this to ourselves, how we're going to remake and rebuild in the uncertainty.
[ All of it is thought provoking, but that last bit is what stops it from being something meant only to incite a sense of profound sadness. Thinking back to their conversation in the orchard, it echoes something he respects, in general: the ability to pick oneself off the ground and keep going.
Something which encapsulates them both, he thinks, as Sharon indicates he'd understood her reasoning for changeable mediums. Art's how she gets it all out, in a way that makes sense to her. Being a master with a particular kind is not the end goal. It's release. ]
What? She's– [ He doesn't get much further in his shocked explanation, since the frisbee gets launched into the air and he's automatically adjusted the rifle's angle to track its downwards trajectory. The neon disc spins, once, twice–he breathes in, breathes out–thrice, and there's a loud crack as he shoots a hole just below the center of the plastic. With the punch of the bullet, the frisbee wobbles and changes course a bit, finally landing with a dull sound a couple of feet from Sharon. ] –anyway, she's an assistant on Wheel of Fortune and turns the letters around when people guess them right. Not a lot of daytime TV in your life, huh?
[ Not bleak, more like quietly profound, the kind of insight that catches her off guard. Considering the weight Arthur carries, it’s natural he'd seek out reminders that humanity keeps moving forward regardless of the grief. Relentlessly. Even through horrors, even after lives lost. People find a way. ] Sounds like some shit Freddie would say. [ Softly. There’s no judgment in her tone; she gets it.
When the frisbee arcs into the air, he’s momentarily interrupted, his focus shifting with surprising ease. She watches him instead of the disc, noticing how his eyes track its descent, how his breathing lines up with the motion. She only looks away once the shot lands, watching the frisbee hit the ground, and grins as if the interruption never happened. ]
Not much cable TV in my life, actually. DVDs, streaming, that’s more my speed. [ She likes choosing what to watch, when to watch it. Just a whiff of control issues. Beyond that, Wheel of Fortune never held her interest, and game shows rarely did. She remembers vague flashes from her past, game shows in black & white flickering on Dahlia's tiny TV, but Wheel of Fortune didn't exist back then.
She flicks another frisbee up again, but only so high before catching it. ] Think you could hit it if I tossed it horizontally? [ She could be wrong, but Arthur gives the impression of a man who enjoys a challenge. ]
Don't think they usually aired on cable, now that I think about it. [ It was just one of those ubiquitous shows he'd always managed to find when he was either sick from school or, much later, in nearly every hotel room across the US. ] Normally caught it when I had the flu or something. Guess you're right, though, streaming's kind of taken over.
[ Though, he's rarely gotten a chance to catch anything new through those services. He's seen a lot of in-flight movies or burned into his podcast list.
That's neither here nor there, so as he reloads the rifle, he catches Sharon's motion and the resulting glimmer of a challenge in her expression. Something about it sparks his own sense of mischief and he gives her a sly look. ]
[ His probably earns an eye roll, though her grin only sharpens with anticipation. She sifts through the neon discs, plucking out one in an offensively bright orange. With a quick flick of her wrist, she tests the motion, then shoots Arthur a single, mischievous: ] Ready?
[ And with that, she sends it sailing into the park.
This time, her gaze doesn't follow him; it clings to the disc's flight. Hit or miss, she's already entertained. ]
[ Just as her grin widens, his own smirk curves up, amusement passing across their quiet connection. ] Bring it.
[ The words are muffled, his cheek pressed to the stock of the rifle, ready for the snap-motion of her wrist. It comes a split second later, the obnoxiously neon frisbee picking up a gust and curving outwards.
All of his attention has narrowed to its arc; made more difficult by trying to catch the edge. He fires, just clips the outer lip, and instead of the leisurely prep he's been doing, he's ejecting the cartridge and reloading in nearly the same breath. Exhaling, he pulls the trigger again as it spirals towards a spindly looking tree, watching the disc drop with a large split up one side. ]
[ Sharon is impressed the instant he clips the frisbee’s edge, sending it spinning off course, and when he opens his mouth again, she shoots him a look and exhales ] Fuck off.
[ The thing was barely two centimeters thick. He’d just shot a needle out of the sky. Under her breath, she mutters ] Needs practice, my ass. [ That kind of trick shot could fill seats, and it might be the coolest thing she’s seen since she got here. ] I want to do that.
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Is it ego patting if I'm genuinely impressed? [ The counter comes easily. It's not as if she'd be phoning it in. An impressive shot is an impressive shot, and when your only experience is with paper targets and plastic bottles, shooting a frisbee out of the air is cool. ] But, hey, if you're willing to teach, I'm willing to learn.
[ a beat, and then: ] Is there a model you swear by? [ What's Arthur prefer to use? ]
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Sure. You learned on a heavy pistol, I think you'll pick it up. [ Crossing the street over to the long edge of Central Park, it's only a few more chilly moments before he locates a spot with a mid-height fence. Its wood is warping with age and moisture, but the posts are still relatively straight. ]
Glock 17. Ubiquitous, accurate, and I can take it apart to clean without any tools. [ Setting the rifle case and backpack down on the crunchy frost covered dirt, he crouches to pull a few various targets out of the bag.
As he goes to set the first can up: ] When'd you pick up shooting?
[ Because he thinks he has an idea of why, remembering her telling him about the monsters that seemed fake until they weren't. ]
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She grabs one of the targets and moves to help him set up. ] I was fifteen [ Her tone is easy but the memory anything but. ] Dad and I had just gotten back from the store. There was a man waiting for us in the motel room. [ The memory is sharp, and impossible to forget. The scuffle, the way the lamp hit the floor, her own paralyzed fear. The way his blood pooled. That man was a monster, just a different breed. Arthur might receive flashes through their connection. ]
He went after my dad. They fought. My dad killed him. [ Plainly, almost unbothered. Knowing what she does now, it's not nearly as haunting as it used to be. She glances over at Arthur. ] The next day, he bought the gun. A week later, he started teaching me.
[ She balances a can in place. ] That’s also when we started dying my hair.
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(Though, he still thinks she would be too young to have to know this stuff).
Listening intently, he sets a glass bottle on a post, carefully nudging it so it wouldn't fall over. As Sharon talks, he gets ... impressions, snippets of the memory playing from her perspective. Like a strobe, the images flick by—the choking fear, the dull thump of the lamp hitting the floor, how the man's blood pooled and sunk into the carpet.
It reminds him, a bit, of his first scuffle. Topside, because for as much as he'd killed people in dreams, it didn't have the same visceral ugliness. He's not ashamed to say he'd retched afterwards and been sick for most of the rest of the day. ]
Practical. [ Necessary. Guns were loud, but allowed for quicker reaction time. And distance, which he imagines both of them would've wanted. ] Was that the first time one of them had shown up like that?
[ Basically on their doorstep. ] I guess you moved around a lot?
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She grabs another can, ignoring that familiar pinch of grief. It comes and goes, less often than in the beginning—a ghost she's good at putting away. ] We moved about every couple of years in the beginning. After that, five times in three years. New identity each time, too.
[ She takes a step back, glancing Arthur's way. ] You ever run under a false identity?
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When was the beginning? [ Between the pinch of grief he gets along the connection and how young she is now–which sure, she's technically an adult, but she also isn't–he dreads the answer. But, context matters to him. Sharon's story matters. Moving around that much and then doing it even more in a short time span ... it would make connecting with people difficult. ]
Yeah, often. [ Satisfied with the target placement, he steps over to the firearms cases, going through the motions of unlocking and unlatching them. ] I've had to burn four; some jobs went wrong. Couldn't risk the local police deciding to escalate and following me across some borders. Technically, some corporate thugs from South Africa still probably want me 6 feet under, so that's a fifth I'm going to have to erase.
[ He says, checking the casing on the pistol first, dragging the slide back to make sure the motion was smooth. Satisfied, he loads the clip in, makes sure the safety's on, and then holds it out to Sharon, handle pointed towards her. ] I've got a colleague, though, who will forge me some new papers for half the going rate, if I ask him nicely.
[ Arthur grins, a bit cheeky over this. ]
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After I was kidnapped by a cult at nine. [ The words carry a bitter twist of humor. She knows how insane it sounds. Still, by now, Arthur understands her history is layered and messy; this just adds another layer he probably never saw coming.
She moves closer as he starts unlatching the cases, curiosity sparking in her eyes. ] You're gonna have to tell me about some of those jobs. [ The dangerous ones. The messy ones. The ones that go sideways. If people want him dead, then the stories have to be good even if they might make him sour—point man and all.
She takes the offered pistol and double-checks it with practiced ease, her movements instinctive. As she squares up to the targets, her grin turns crooked. Her form is solid, even if the weapon isn’t what she’s used to. ]
Oh? And what does 'asking nicely' look like? [ she teases, just as she pulls the trigger. The nearest can flies off, and she flashes him a smug, toothy smile. ]
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A cult. What the fuck did they want with a nine year old? [ His expression screws up into one of both confusion and disgust. There are, he's sure, plenty of answers. None of them are likely to be any good. Actual kidnappers rarely are. ] They're not terribly exciting, just full of dreamshare shitheads.
[ Of which there are many.
Arthur watches her double-checking his work after she takes the pistol and he smiles, a sense of approval in his gaze. He sets to work on the rifle next, hands busy even as he watches her take a stance, sight down the barrel, and crack one of the cans off the fence. ]
Solid shot. You're definitely going to make the moving targets cry. [ She'd done all that as easy as breathing, after all. Learning to track the trajectory was going to be cake. Pushing himself to his feet, he re-balances, sets the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, pressing his cheek to the stock as he breathes in, aims– ] Ah, it sounds a bit like: Mr. Eames, don't forget you owe me for Santorini.
[ –exhales, pulls the trigger, shearing the neck off one of the glass bottles. ]
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Back then? They wanted to burn me alive. Said it would cleanse me. [ Her tone is flat, edged with bitter sarcasm as she rolls her eyes. That was just one piece of a much bigger ritual: burn Sharon, force Alessa to manifest, and merge the soul halves into something whole, something divine. ] These days? They think I can give birth to their god.
[ They always believed it, really. That her body could be an incubator for something unimaginable. And the worst part? She's not entirely convinced they're wrong. She was born different and after the fire, something in her cracked open. Something monstrous. Powerful. Maybe even world-ending.
Arthur’s approval lands well—sparks hot pride in her chest. She watches him carefully as he lines up his shot, noting the spread of his stance, the flex of his arm, the calm tension in his frame. The breath he draws in. Her eyes don’t leave him until he pulls the trigger, and then they lift with a low whistle, eyebrows arching in appreciation. Impressive. ]
That sounds like a one-time favor. [ she teases. ] Or is this more of a life debt kind of deal?
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[ Her reaction, though, pulls him from the feeling of disgust, and he gives her a small, almost shy smile. Pulling the stock away from his shoulder, satisfied with his shot, and points the barrel down to the dirt, lifting the bolt lever to eject the shell. Another round gets smoothly loaded in its place. ]
Eames owes me for a number of things. [ This time, his smile is toothy, a bit feral. ] Santorini is the least of them.
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Tell me about Eames? [ Casually, right as she raises the pistol, takes a shot—misses. A flicker of heat rushes to her ears, but she doesn’t let it show beyond a brief huff. She adjusts her aim, tries again, and the can sails off with a satisfying clatter. ]
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So, he plants the barrel of the gun in the ground, leaning on the stock as he mulls her question over. He watches as she takes aim, misses, huffs to herself, adjusts, and hits the can off the fence with a loud clang. ]
He's a thief and a forger, both in reality and while dreaming. Counterfeit documents, fake passports, copies of famous paintings, that kind of work. Last I heard, he'd stolen some kind of priceless broach from some collector in Istanbul. [ And somehow made it out of the country, despite being wanted there already. The payout must've been good. ]
He's creative, kinda smug and insufferable, passive aggressive; he likes giving me shit, has made my job very difficult in the past, and is unfortunately competent. [ Arthur sighs, thinking about all the ways Eames liked to grate on his nerves on purpose. Like his cheekiness in showing Ariadne how a kick worked, purposely tipping the chair he'd been sitting and taking notes in. Just because he could.
Picking the rifle back up, he aims at one of the cans, inhales, exhales, fires, and is satisfied when it flies off the post, clattering on the hard packed dirt. ]
He's very good with people. [ Arthur lowers the rifle, glancing over at Sharon. ] I think he'd like you.
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Of course, he would. [ All sass and grin. ] I mean, I’m ridiculously charming. And honestly? He sounds like a blast. Art forgery? [ She rocks back on her heel, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. ] That might even beat being a point man.
[ Sharon is an artist at heart, a total sucker for anyone with an eye for aesthetics. Put her in a gallery or hand her a brush, and she’ll disappear for hours in a blur of color and composition. Her idea of peace. ]
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So, he feels the bubbling amusement as he describes Eames. Knows as soon as he finishes talking that she's got that bright grin lighting up her whole expression, would know even if he weren't looking at her. He gives her a wry smile at the sassy play at ego. And just gives her an unimpressed look when she mentions Eames sounds more exciting. ]
You are charming, even if you're killing my self confidence here. [ That's the truth. The charming part, anyway. He has no issues with how he views himself, even if it's potentially less interesting than forgery. ]
Yeah, well, it's a balance, working with him. He keeps it interesting, I make sure his interesting doesn't get us all killed. [ Arthur points the rifle downwards again, smoothly going through the reloading sequence. As he does, there's a small, wistful moment—a part of him wishes Eames were here. Or maybe Ariadne. It's selfish, to think as much. But, they were good at dealing with change. And just like any other person, he wouldn't say no to a familiar face.
Sorta. He doesn't know what he'd do, if Cobb showed up. Just the possibility of it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Shaking it off, he tracks back to something she focused on: ] Art your kind of thing? Like those great painters?
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Eames might keep things interesting, but Arthur keeps them alive. Good at what he does, and he knows it. And yet—there—a flicker, a thin thread of longing. For something familiar. For someone. It would be cruel, honestly, for anyone they care about to end up here. No matter how much they’d welcome it.
Maybe even need it.
Her head tips toward him at his question, the hum of her answer breaking that train of thought. ] I would spend all day in an art museum if I could. [ She lines up her shot, knocks down the last can, and only then continues ] My favorite store was the hobby shop. If I wasn’t saving up for an ounce, I was scraping together cash for some fancy-ass paintbrush, or those overpriced Prismacolor pencils I’d always end up losing.
[ Art is her kind of thing.
There weren’t many outlets for her back then, no after-school programs, no part-time jobs, no parties. She learned to make her own fun, though most of it doubled as coping mechanisms. Even Alessa had found a way to create in the Otherworld. That was how she first learned to flip the switch between the fog and the darkness—black ink on white paper. ]
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It's not the same, but you been through the Met here yet? [ He's walked through some of it, at least, in those first couple days. ] Painting and dry media—do you have a preference?
[ Not that he has a deep knowledge of all the things one could use to make art. While he's creative in other aspects, drawing, painting, sculpture—those weren't really his thing. That was for people like Eames and Sharon (and even Ariadne, who he's caught doodling in one of her sketchbooks).
So, there's a bit of a fascination with the process and the tools, because he's exposed to so little of it. He's been in one of Eames' little studios, has seen some of the primed canvasses and the half-finished forgeries, but he's never been around long enough to watch him work.
To finish off the round of targets, he aims at the last bottle, watching it shatter into a shower of glass. ]
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Like now.
At his next question, she shakes her head. ] No real preference. Some days I lean toward paint over charcoal or pastels, but I get bored fast. [ Her work changes as often as her mood, and she’s dipped her hands into nearly every medium at least once, thanks, in part, to her schooling.
When the last bottle shatters, she clicks her tongue in approval, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ] Gonna pull out frisbees? [ The question carries a muted excitement, her eyes bright with anticipation. She wants to see him take down something moving, midair. ]
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Versatile, then. Lets you work with whichever one you're feeling, at least. [ He can see the appeal, in having so many options that it was just a matter of picking one and running with it for the day. ]
Alright, hold onto your horses. [ It's a teasing admonishment, as he temporarily sets his gun down in its case. From the backpack, he produces a stack of frisbees, garish neon things that look like they're straight from one of those tourist kiosks. Plucking the rifle back up, he steps closer to Sharon, handing her the eye-searing discs. ] Here, Vanna White, you'll want to toss it up on a vertical. Easier to track.
[ Reloading the rifle, he takes a few careful steps away, setting the stock against his shoulder and tipping the barrel up towards the sky. ] Whenever you're ready.
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[ At his mention of versatility, she taps the side of her nose in silent acknowledgment. Yeah, he gets it. The mock-scolding that follows earns nothing more than a sharp smack of her lips, playful but unrepentant. It’s the end of the world; she’ll take every scrap of enjoyment she can wring out of these moments, knowing they won’t last.
She accepts the neon discs but pauses to give him a baffled look. ] Who the fuck is Vanna White? [ Just before tossing the disc up vertically, exactly as he instructed. The temptation to hurl it sideways, turning it into a nearly impossible shot, is strong, but she decides she can save that little test for later. ]
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[ All of it is thought provoking, but that last bit is what stops it from being something meant only to incite a sense of profound sadness. Thinking back to their conversation in the orchard, it echoes something he respects, in general: the ability to pick oneself off the ground and keep going.
Something which encapsulates them both, he thinks, as Sharon indicates he'd understood her reasoning for changeable mediums. Art's how she gets it all out, in a way that makes sense to her. Being a master with a particular kind is not the end goal. It's release. ]
What? She's– [ He doesn't get much further in his shocked explanation, since the frisbee gets launched into the air and he's automatically adjusted the rifle's angle to track its downwards trajectory. The neon disc spins, once, twice–he breathes in, breathes out–thrice, and there's a loud crack as he shoots a hole just below the center of the plastic. With the punch of the bullet, the frisbee wobbles and changes course a bit, finally landing with a dull sound a couple of feet from Sharon. ] –anyway, she's an assistant on Wheel of Fortune and turns the letters around when people guess them right. Not a lot of daytime TV in your life, huh?
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When the frisbee arcs into the air, he’s momentarily interrupted, his focus shifting with surprising ease. She watches him instead of the disc, noticing how his eyes track its descent, how his breathing lines up with the motion. She only looks away once the shot lands, watching the frisbee hit the ground, and grins as if the interruption never happened. ]
Not much cable TV in my life, actually. DVDs, streaming, that’s more my speed. [ She likes choosing what to watch, when to watch it. Just a whiff of control issues. Beyond that, Wheel of Fortune never held her interest, and game shows rarely did. She remembers vague flashes from her past, game shows in black & white flickering on Dahlia's tiny TV, but Wheel of Fortune didn't exist back then.
She flicks another frisbee up again, but only so high before catching it. ] Think you could hit it if I tossed it horizontally? [ She could be wrong, but Arthur gives the impression of a man who enjoys a challenge. ]
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[ Though, he's rarely gotten a chance to catch anything new through those services. He's seen a lot of in-flight movies or burned into his podcast list.
That's neither here nor there, so as he reloads the rifle, he catches Sharon's motion and the resulting glimmer of a challenge in her expression. Something about it sparks his own sense of mischief and he gives her a sly look. ]
Oh, probably. Let's find out, shall we?
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[ And with that, she sends it sailing into the park.
This time, her gaze doesn't follow him; it clings to the disc's flight. Hit or miss, she's already entertained. ]
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[ The words are muffled, his cheek pressed to the stock of the rifle, ready for the snap-motion of her wrist. It comes a split second later, the obnoxiously neon frisbee picking up a gust and curving outwards.
All of his attention has narrowed to its arc; made more difficult by trying to catch the edge. He fires, just clips the outer lip, and instead of the leisurely prep he's been doing, he's ejecting the cartridge and reloading in nearly the same breath. Exhaling, he pulls the trigger again as it spirals towards a spindly looking tree, watching the disc drop with a large split up one side. ]
Well, clearly I need some practice.
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[ The thing was barely two centimeters thick. He’d just shot a needle out of the sky. Under her breath, she mutters ] Needs practice, my ass. [ That kind of trick shot could fill seats, and it might be the coolest thing she’s seen since she got here. ] I want to do that.
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