Chapter Text
Virginia, USA
2006
“And you’re sure you’re feeling okay? Did you eat breakfast yet?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, only because his mother can’t see him do it from the other side of the country. “It’s after lunch time here.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I had pancakes with a coworker.” Which is true. “And, yes, before you ask, I ate lunch, as well.” Which is less true, but he has every intention of grabbing a bite once he finishes packing.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Mom.” Arthur stops what he’s doing, willing her to hear the sincerity in his voice. “I promise, I’m taking care of myself. I’m eating, hydrating, getting at least five hours of sleep every other day—”
“Nothing but smartasses in this family.”
He grins. “I got a check-up before I left Seattle. I’m fine.”
Mostly. He’s mostly fine. The medical crew flown into Bremerton had examined him from one end to the other and inside out and given him the all-clear to work. He isn’t back up to his regular fighting form, but that’s just as likely due to the fact that he’s no longer undergoing daily fitness and combat training. He figures he gets a pass for the drop in stamina. He can still do whatever needs doing, and that’s good enough.
As for the rest of what’s wrong with him . . . Headaches. Intermittent tremors. Low-grade fevers even though he constantly feels like the room is too cold . . . Well, some effects would be lasting, the doctors said, so he might as well start learning to live with them.
“I’m hovering, I know. But as my only child, you’re obliged to put up with me.”
“It is my greatest joy in life.”
“Oh, save it. You King men aren’t nearly as charming as you like to think.”
“Lies.” Arthur returns to his packing, lining up ammo and extra clips in a foam-lined case. His transport heads out in two hours, and he needs to get a move on if he wants time for a sandwich before leaving. “Hey, did Dad watch that video yet? The one with the parrot?”
The hardest part about walking away from the agency is also the part he likes best. Operating outside the structure of the United States government, Arthur is at square one in terms of resources and contacts. Sure, Dave keeps in touch and sends interested parties his way. But it’s Arthur’s responsibility, now, to clinch the sale, to fill up the rosters. He’s been tossed into the deep end, sink or swim, and he fucking loves it.
As he makes his way through, he keeps track of all the players he meets. Collects business cards and makes notes of what he hears, what he learns. He builds a database, encrypts it twice, and investigates the backgrounds of everyone he works with.
For the large part, he does it to bring himself up to speed. This business rolls entirely on word-of-mouth advertising, as it were, and Arthur can’t afford to look as green as he truly is. On top of that, the longer he’s in this industry the more aces he’ll need up his sleeve as insurance, collateral, or maybe a hail Mary in the worst-case scenarios.
The one thing he does not do is contact Eames. That is not to say he doesn’t know exactly where Eames is—he doesn’t have that much self-restraint. But keeping tabs on the former corporal is easily excused. Dave basically said it was his job to monitor him, after all, and Arthur does not shirk his responsibilities.
Still, as much of an asset as Eames would be, Arthur is… he’s not ready for that.
Ever since leaving the program, the world has been brighter, louder than he was used to. Sharper. He hadn’t realized how numb he had become until he was out and allowing himself to feel like a living and breathing human again.
Even his memory is a haze, obscured by the folded timeline of dreamshare. Six years or sixty? He doesn’t even know, anymore. It’s all layered and swirled together, too difficult to parse out.
The only clear spots he has of the last six years—that aren’t steeped in pain and horror, that is—are memories of Eames. In a sea of black fog, Eames shines bright like a beacon fire, a blazing warmth that Arthur could always see, even if he could never get close enough to feel the flames.
But flames in the dark are too bright to look at for long, violently vibrant and imposing. And remembering Eames is far worse than reliving pain. It brings back embarrassment and disappointment, longing and regret.
If his memories of Eames are too much to handle, he shudders imagining what the real deal might do to him.
Time passes without much meaning. He works more often than not, eager to build his reputation. But, more than that, he’s fascinated by the criminal application of dreamshare, extracting knowledge directly from a target’s mind just as a cat burglar might sneak into a locked room.
He and Dave had chuckled at the idea of amateurs fumbling their way through the technology. However, the truth, he discovers, is that the world is full of frightfully talented people. Granted, the budding industry is peppered with former military and government personnel like him. But Arthur encounters people from all paths, many of whom were smart enough to evade their governments from the start. They are all equally as fascinating as the work they do, and Arthur makes a point of meeting everyone he can.
He doesn’t really fit in with the crowd, but that’s hardly new. Strangely, though, his personal brand of odd seems to work in his favor with this eclectic demographic. Extractors are often too cerebral to manage the business-end of dreamshare, so the structure he brings to the table earns him a lot of useful gratitude and annoying backslaps. The chemists are an even easier sell, flocking to him for his in depth knowledge of Somnacin and PASIV devices. Word spreads quickly of his expertise, and he fields emails about everything from medication reactions to buoyancy rates.
(He answers that last one by recommending that the extractor in question not submerge a perfectly good PASIV in water under any circumstances. Why that even has to be said, he can’t fathom, but he’ll take the credit.)
It’s not just dreamsharers he meets, though. Smugglers and arms dealers are necessary evils since no way in hell is he working any job unarmed. And then there’s all the basic housekeeping matters when operating within a highly secret organized crime circuit. He makes contact with counterfeiters, money launderers, pawn shop czars and mafia liaisons . . . Only a well-connected person can make waves in the criminal underworld, and Arthur has every intention of controlling the tides. Within his first year as a freelancer, he’s added more names to his contacts list than he’d acquired in twenty years of normal life.
Hackers are the bread and butter of his network. He’s no slouch in that department, but his skills have a long way to go before he can contend with the professionals. Therefore, a hefty chunk of his operating budget is always set aside for hiring hackers, and he makes a point of cultivating arrangements with those who do the best work with the least amount of maintenance.
In those regards, Rahmi Shah is perfect.
He almost doesn’t hire her. He’s in Tasmania, running a job for a new but ambitious tech company, and the crew is comprised of people he’s never before worked with. The extractors and architect seem competent enough, though, allowing him to focus on information gathering rather than babysitting. First order of business in that is always setting up his resources. However tempting it is to stick with familiar names, he prefers to work with local hackers whenever possible. They have a better sense of what’s happening on the ground, as it were, and can recognize anomalies and patterns better than someone sifting through data from across the world. Plus, it’s easier for him to take care of any… personnel issues that might arise.
Rahmi is exactly the kind of asset he’s looking to add to his metaphorical Rolodex. She’s a mid-level player, from what he can determine—excellent references but limited reputation. Which means she’s affordable, and, more importantly, she’s looking to network just as much as he is.
It isn’t hard to convince her to meet in person. Arthur hates working with people he hasn’t seen with his own eyes, especially considering how much of his job involves allowing veritable strangers into his mind. Fortunately, a higher percentage paid up front usually soothes even the most antisocial assets, which is how Arthur finds himself having lunch with one of the most promising hackers he’s ever interviewed.
Rahmi is brilliant. Her work is sharp, yes, but her conversation is even better. She flows gracefully through a discussion ranging from wine pairings to radical activism. Her manners are refined, her words are direct, and the way she looks at him with open interest thrills some needy urge buried deep in his psyche.
By the time their entrees are served, it’s clear to them both that more than lunch and a business deal are on the table.
While they linger over espressos, Arthur mentally hems and haws. Sleeping with a business contact isn’t wise or responsible. But the sad, simple truth is—it’s been a very long time since he was touched. Between work and illness and certain… well, with the way his life has been the last few years, getting laid was far down the list of priorities. And, having long ago lost his taste for single-shot hookups, finding a suitable partner isn’t the easiest venture.
So, when Rahmi touches the back of his hand and offers to show him around town, the decision proves to be quite easy, after all.
They do see the town, roaming around the waterfront before heading to his hotel. They don’t take things slowly; that isn’t what either of them wants, but the doesn’t mean they squander the night. Between heated, tangled bouts of truly excellent sex, they talk art and politics over room service pasta, catch a few hours of sleep, even watch a bit of late-night television while raiding snacks from the mini bar.
It’s the most fun Arthur has had in a very long time.
The following morning, they go out for breakfast and visit the museum together. Seeing landmarks and world wonders in person, instead of merely dreaming them, is still a novelty to Arthur, although he tries to downplay his enthusiasm. Rahmi just laughs and winks, and for once the gesture doesn’t fill him with self-doubt. So he opens up more than he normally would with someone he’s just met, sharing his favorite facts about David Walsh and modernist architecture. He suspects she knows much of it already, but she lets him ramble on anyway, and he appreciates the freedom to be himself.
Everything about being with Rahmi is easy. She’s engaging but undemanding, sophisticated but plainspoken, and incredibly beautiful. Her skin is smooth gold, unmarked by scars or tattoos. He never has to guess what she’s thinking because she tells him, bluntly and plainly, before he even has chance to wonder. And she never calls him by anything but his name.
He reminds himself these are good things.