Chapter Text
Dominick Cobb isn’t sure why he dreams of the city. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t dream of his city. At night, he sees a city, and it’s not Los Angeles. It’s silver and shining and geometrical. He hears trains when he dreams.
He’s grateful for any dreams. After almost a decade of nonstop somnacin use, they don’t come easy. When your subconscious has spent years relying on outside influence to construct dreams, it simply stops. Now, five years after the last job, Fischer’s job, Cobb hasn’t touched the stuff. He’s had no need to. He has his family, and he has work at an investment firm, just until he can get a stable income. He has a life. He doesn’t need dreams to make another one.
But he dreams again, and it’s a relief, because the natural dreams mean that a part of his old life is gone. He no longer has “extractor” written all over his brain’s chemistry.
But he does not dream of his city. He expects to be haunted at night by familiar faces and to wake up in a panic, but he doesn’t. It’s just this one city, and an imaginary life his healing subconscious seems to have constructed for itself. It’s very vivid.
He thinks that maybe, somewhere in his mind, he misses the thrill of it. He misses traveling to faraway cities and living life at such a fast pace. Maybe this is his mind’s way of coming to terms with that secret nostalgia. He doesn’t miss running for his life, always hiding, always trying to stay one step ahead of all the people who wanted him dead. He misses the freedom and the agency.
* * *
In the dreams, he’s in a tall building overlooking an entire city. He watches the sun rise over an ocean in the distance, shining brightly like a mirror. He’s rarely bothered in the spacious office he sees again and again. Occasionally people come in, asking for approval on forms that he doesn’t understand, and he gives it. He gets food and drinks delivered. He wonders if this is something his subconscious longs for. Just to be alone for a day, silently watching over a city that seems to belong to him.
Maybe it’s a leftover memory from when he built a city from scratch. He tries not to miss that, but he can’t deny the way that kind of creative freedom made him feel.
When he dreams of the evenings, he dreams of private cars taking him anywhere in the city, and lights coming on across a skyline, lighting up the sea.
There are large dinner parties that feel more like a daze, and he ends up quiet, lost in the background as louder, older businessmen take over the conversation and drink late into the night. There are brainstorming sessions where very little gets written down, and Cobb simply listens to the conversations his mind creates.
They talk about an upcoming project; something big, unlike anything done before. They whisper about dreams and extraction. Cobb wonders what this symbolizes.
The car takes him to a house. It is gray and geometrical, a wonder of modern architecture. Sometimes he just wanders the house, exploring the creations of his own natural subconscious. He pours himself a drink and waits at night for her.
There’s a woman in the dream. He sees her almost every night. Late in the evening of the dream, she comes in a coat and a cocktail dress and wanders the house too, mumbling about work. She pours herself a drink. She sits on the sofa and stares at him. She invites him to the bedroom.
They never go very far. Even in a dream, Cobb feels strange touching her. She reminds him a little bit of Mal. It’s something about the twist of her mouth when he amuses her. She has dark hair and dark eyes, and long slender hands.
He admires her hands as she undoes her top and twists her fingers through his hair, and they kiss, but never for long. She leaves a few lipstick stains on his collar, and he delicately kisses her jaw, and they go through the motions. They do it as though they’re acting, putting on a show for someone who isn’t there.
Cobb feels strange, and she seems unenthusiastic. He finds excuses, like headaches, and they lie down next to each other. He listens to her complain about her cousin, who she says is getting married and wants everything to be perfect. She tells him that he’s a good listener.
Something about their meetings is strange, Cobb thinks. It’s like they’re both trying to fill a void. Even his dream projections are unsatisfied. But he listens, and he makes sure she’s comfortable, and they sleep in the large, empty house.
Then, he always wakes up. He wakes up right as his dream self drifts off to sleep.
* * *
“Is something funny?”
Philippa Cobb smiles over her cereal, looking down like she knows something her father doesn’t. James also seems to be in on the joke, barely holding back giggles as Dominick Cobb straightens his tie, waiting for the bus to come from the school downtown and pick them up.
“You were acting funny,” James blurts out.
“I was?” Cobb smiles. “When was I acting funny, huh? I’m just getting dressed.”
“Not today. Yesterday.”
Cobb dismisses their antics, smoothing his jacket and taking one last look in his bag to make sure he has everything for the day. It’s not an ordinary day at the firm; there’s a meeting. The boss , Cobb thinks. The boss has to approve . It’s a pitch meeting for new strategies of leadership in the workplace, new ways of connecting to customers, and Cobb’s been preparing for it until the words he says are burned into his mind. They’re not exactly the words he wants to say, but they’re the words he knows his boss wants to hear.
Mr. Anderson is no one’s favorite to work under. Mr. Anderson is completely detached from his employees’ lives. Mr. Anderson doesn’t think about anyone but himself. A boss, not a leader.
Cobb doesn’t want to step out of line and lose the job, though. He’s changed himself for the security and stability of the job. He carries a mobile phone, a recent purchase in a bold move of overcoming old paranoia. He never liked them, but for the job, he has no choice. He has to put himself on the grid.
At least I’m not a fugitive. At least I’m not halfway across the globe, running for my life , Cobb thinks.
“You guys make sure you have everything for the bus, okay? I’m going to have you stay later at the after-school program because of my meeting, but I should be back in time to drive you guys to gymnastics, okay?”
Philippa laughs. “We don’t have gym today,” she says incredulously. “You’re being weird again.”
“Don’t be silly. I have to go as soon as that bus shows up, and when I get back, you can be as silly as you want, but I’m on a tight schedule.”
He kisses their heads as the bus pulls up to the house, and he sends them on their way. He checks his bag to make sure he has a pen. Mr. Anderson is terrible at providing his employees pens. Mr. Anderson never remembers what they need, and he’s been meaning to talk to him about it, but if he lost Mr. Anderson’s favor…
Cobb tests a pen from his bag on a napkin, and it’s out of ink. He scoffs, testing another one. They are brand-new pens. At least, he thought they were, and he can’t be writing in his sleep.
Cobb puts a new belonging, a leather-bound notebook he got as a gift from Miles, in his back pocket. He hasn’t gotten a chance to write in it yet, but he plans to put it to good use.
Wednesday’s meeting is very important.
* * *
The office falls silent as Cobb enters. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but a way so subtle only someone with Cobb’s attention to detail would notice. He doesn’t like the way some of them glance at him through cracked cubicle doors and over desks.
He shares his space with Anna, a younger intern whom he’s been mentoring. Anna is curious and eager to learn. Anna feels familiar to him.
Today, Anna stares at him silently over her coffee when he enters, smiling uneasily. Cobb sits down and places paperwork on his desk. His only remaining working pen. The notebook.
“Hey,” says Anna.
“Hey,” he replies.
“I just wanted to say that… I think it was pretty cool what you did yesterday.”
Cobb tries to think of something he could have done on Tuesday that would have been “cool.” Tuesday’s work was filing papers and making copies and preparing his speech. He barely spoke to Anna. He didn’t get the chance.
“What do you mean?”
“At the meeting, when you spoke up for us like that. I seriously thought most of us were getting laid off, the way Anderson was talking, but then you stood up and talked to him like that… It was amazing, Cobb. I had no idea you had it in you.”
Cobb freezes. “I”m sorry?”
“I mean, he’s probably going to call you into his office any minute, now that he knows you’re here. I can’t say I envy what’s going to happen to you, but you really convinced him. That takes a lot of guts.”
Cobb spins in his chair to face Anna, who sips her coffee as if she hasn’t said anything strange.
“Anna. What are you talking about? What did I say to Anderson?”
“Yesterday at the meeting. Don’t you remember? When you told him off for screwing over his employees.”
“Anna, there wasn’t any meeting yesterday.”
Anna smiles. “In denial, huh? Come on, at least own it.”
“The meeting is today, Anna. Wednesday.”
Anna starts to open her mouth, as if to correct him, but another figure appears in the door of the cubicle. Nick, the marketing consultant.
“Cobb, uh… Mr. Anderson asked to see you in his office.”
Cobb stands like a man ready to be walked to his execution. “What’s going on?”
“I’d think you of all people would know. You should have expected this.”
Cobb goes to the office, more for answers than to speak with Anderson. He finds his boss there, staring at him, balanced on the back legs of his chair. Anderson is an intimidating figure, but he seems somehow smaller today.
“Close the door,” says Anderson.
“Mr. Anderson, I’m a little bit confused. Anna told me-”
“I don’t think you’re confused. I could tell that you knew exactly what you were saying yesterday. Frankly, I was surprised at you, calling me out like that in front of my entire team. That’s not something any manager wants to go through, Cobb. You must understand that it felt demeaning.”
“Sir, I just need to ask-”
“No, Cobb, you can ask when I’m done. For a moment, I started asking myself if I was going to fire you, the way you walked out of the meeting that way. It crossed my mind, but I went home to my family and I thought about it. Honestly, you were right about the pay cuts. That would be an inhumane thing to do, and terrible for the team. Your speech was a bit of a wake-up call for me, so as much as I feel like you deserve punishment for that… demonstration, I should thank you.”
“What?” Cobb stares, perplexed.
“That’s right. You showed real leadership and drive yesterday, and we need that in this company. So I won’t be firing you, Mr. Cobb. You’re getting a raise and a promotion.”
“Mr. Anderson, I-”
“I know, I know. You weren’t expecting this. I’m more than happy to reward that kind of leadership. Don’t go thinking of me as a villain, do you hear? I’m on your side, Cobb.” Anderson pauses, smiling. “Just, next time you disagree with me at a meeting, maybe keep your voice down and adopt a more… constructive approach.”
Before Cobb can speak, he’s being shown out of the office, and the door closes behind him. Once again, all eyes are on him.
“Fired?” asks Nick, who has been waiting by the door.
Cobb stammers. “No… he gave me a raise.”
“Are you serious? Anderson? ”
“Nick, what day is it?”
Nick’s hands are in his hair, complete and total shock on his face. “You just got Anderson to promote you and you’re thinking about the week?”
“Answer me, Nick.” Cobb orders. “What day is it?”
“Thursday. Dude, this is insane.”
“It can’t be Thursday, Nick. The last time I came to work, it was Tuesday. Yesterday. I never attended that meeting.” Cobb feels his tone grow desperate. “I don’t remember anything from yesterday.”
“I read that sometimes your brain blocks out traumatic memories,” Nick suggests casually. “Maybe in all that adrenaline, you forgot. Anyway, it’s Thursday, and I can’t believe this. He didn’t fire you?”
It can’t be Thursday.
Cobb tries to remember something, anything from the previous day that he might have forgotten, but he draws a blank. He remembers Tuesday, and he remembers sleep and dreaming.
Dreaming . His first dreams in what feels like ages, so vivid and clear and comfortable to return to without the aid of somnacin, and now he’s forgetting entire days. Maybe, just maybe, this is a side effect he’s never heard of before. His mind has been through a lot, he knows. He’s subjected himself to years of experiments, so some sort of withdrawal is expected.
But not forgetting entire days.
“Cobb?”
“Nick.”
“Is everything okay? You seem kind of spacey.”
Cobb shakes his head, stalking back to his desk with Nick following close. “It’s just so odd. I remember none of the meeting, but that’s impossible.”
He doesn’t want to go into too much detail and explain why he thinks he might be losing memories. These people don’t know about his criminal past, and he knows they would never look at him the same. They don’t understand him like…
Arthur. He’ll call Arthur. Arthur knows almost everything about extractors and symptoms. Arthur is a planner and a researcher.
“I’m fine,” Cobb insists. “Don’t worry about it. You’re right. It’s probably adrenaline.”
* * *
Arthur is also punctual. It only takes one phone call and a few words, and Arthur understands that he’s needed. Cobb would never ask him to drop everything, but that’s simply what Arthur does. Even after minimal communication and contact, after years since their last job together, Arthur is loyal as anything. With no jobs currently occupying him, he only takes a day to touch down in L.A.
Cobb and Philippa are in the kitchen together, washing evening dishes, when they hear James shout from the front of the house.
“Arthur! Dad, Arthur’s here! Did you know Arthur was coming?”
Cobb laughs as James presses his face to the window to watch the sleek black rental car pull into the driveway.
“I thought I’d make it a surprise. He told me he can’t wait to see you again.”
“And he brought Uncle Eames!”
Cobb turns, glancing out the window in surprise. Of course, he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. It was something during their inception of Fischer that brought the two back together after various work and emotional circumstances separated them. Since then, he’s called Arthur at various hotels across the globe and heard Eames humming in the background, or chatting casually about nothing. They might easily be using each other to expand their own lists of contacts, Cobb thinks, or it might be something else.
“James,” Cobb laughs, “I know that when he came to visit he told you to call him that, but he’s not actually your uncle. He’s not related to me.”
James disregards the fact, dancing circles on the carpet and waving his arms as the doorbell rings, and Cobb goes to open it.
After all this time, they seem to have rubbed off on each other, and Cobb smiles when he sees these little signs of living, and of the world going on without him. Arthur’s hair is longer, curlier, and unstyled. His clothing is light and loose, and his smile tilts in a knowing way when he sees Cobb and squeezes his shoulders with an amiable greeting. Eames’ individual spirit is unchanged, but Cobb notices carefully-fitted clothes and a beard showing a more delicate level of maintenance than Eames has ever shown. Maybe Eames is picking up on some of Arthur’s careful habits, or maybe he’s not the one cutting his hair and picking his clothes. Either way, the two of them seem relaxed and content for a pair of extractors.
Business must be good, or maybe they’ve found a good work/life balance.
Eames scoops up the children to hug them as Cobb invites them in for coffee. He and Arthur chat—the usual catching-up between friends. Arthur and Eames are between jobs, just coming off a delicate operation in Belize and getting ready to head for France in a few months to do some scouting for a patron. Although it’s behind him, Cobb listens intently. He doesn’t miss the pain, but he misses the rush.
And then he puts the kids to bed, despite their complaining that they want to hang out with the new guests.
“We’ll still be here tomorrow,” Arthur reassures them. Then, to Cobb, “I got us a hotel. I wasn’t sure how long you needed me for, but there’s no rush.”
Cobb sighs, settling into the couch. “Yes. About that…”
“You said it wasn’t good,” says Eames. “From what I’d heard, your recovery was doing pretty well. What happened? Are we back at square one?”
“Not quite that bad, but the symptoms have been weird. The good news,” says Cobb, “is that I’m dreaming again. I did the math, given my near constant exposure years ago, and this was about the time I expected my mind to start doing things on its own again.”
“Good, good,” says Arthur, thoughtfully sipping his coffee. “I’m guessing there’s a but .”
“ But there’s this thing that happened at work. I don’t know if I spaced out, or if this is a hint at something worse going on, and you might have some insight.”
Carefully, omitting no detail, Cobb explains the twenty-four hours that vanished from his mind.
“It’s strange, how just when I start having these vivid, recurring dreams, I start forgetting stuff. I mean, I expected some recurring dreams, since my mind is basically learning how to build them on its own from scratch, but you know.”
Arthur nods. “What do you dream about? Is it… her again?”
“No,” Cobb laughs softly, lowering his voice as if speaking Mal’s name will somehow speak her ghost into existence again. “Mal is just a memory now. I don’t see her, but I see cities and the same people again and again, and it’s like an entire day in recurrence. I have a job, and I have an entirely different house, but it’s not like the one I built in limbo. It’s not anything like something I’d build. None of my dreams are built from memories. They’re all brand-new.”
“That could be good,” says Eames. “That could be a sign of healed abstract trauma in the subconscious… or something.”
Arthur shoots him a glance across the couch. “Is that something you know about?”
“No, darling, but I heard Yusuf say it one time and it sounded clever.”
Arthur bites his lip to keep from laughing.
Cobb smiles. “It might. I just wish I knew what was going on with my mind topside. My coworkers remembered interacting with me that day. So did my children. But I don’t know what happened. And apparently, I was acting pretty differently.”
“I wish I had answers,” says Arthur, “but I’ve never heard of something like that happening to anyone. Of course, you aren’t exactly anyone. You’ve had more experience than anyone I’ve met. I could see that playing out here.”
“Maybe I could give Yusuf a call,” adds Eames hopefully. “He’s worked with all kinds of compounds. If anyone knows about side-effects, it’s him.”
“I appreciate that,” says Cobb.
Arthur thinks for a moment, swirling the last of the coffee in his cup as the evening light outside begins to fade. Cobb can practically see the gears turning in his friend’s mind as Arthur forms a plan. Arthur’s always been good with plans.
“Not to go all therapist on you,” says Arthur finally, “but I’d try journaling, just so you don’t forget anything. Keep track of every incident and see if you notice any patterns. If you can find a pattern, you can connect some dots and find a cause.”
Cobb snaps his fingers. “Brilliant, actually. Miles just got me some new leather blank book, and I’ve been meaning to put it to some use. Might as well be science.”
While Arthur and Eames talk together, Cobb goes to the kitchen and finds his bag from work. The unused notebook has been weighing on him, since he hates leaving gifts untouched. Now, he can solve two problems at once, he thinks, as he reaches into the bag and grabs the spine.
There’s something different about the journal. When he raises it out of the bag, the pages flop like they’ve been used, and the texture of the spine betrays wear.
It’s been opened.
Cobb loses his grip on the smooth leather, and the journal falls open on the floor, pages fluttering. He sees ink. But he has not touched the journal. He knows, because the guilt of not using it has been weighing on him all week. He has not touched the journal.
It falls open a few pages in, and there is writing all over the fresh paper. He recognizes the smooth ink. His office pen, the one that had suddenly and mysteriously run out of ink.
The writing is not his hand, and the letters are not his language. Cobb picks it up and holds the paper to the light. Not letters. Characters, hastily scrawled like whoever wrote them was rushing to get their ideas down.
Hiragana . He flips the page. Hiragana . He flips the page.
“Arthur?” Cobb calls.
“Yeah?”
“You might want to come see this.”
Cobb flips another page. There are days of fast notes here, and he desperately wishes he could understand them, because they are not his. Someone else has been writing in this journal, but somehow with his pen. And yet, it’s impossible. The thing never left his bag or his pocket.
Arthur and Eames pass the book back and forth, reading, trying to make sense of it. Characters, small sketches, numbers and mathematical equations.
“It’s not mine,” says Cobb softly. “It can’t be. I don’t understand it.”
Eames frowns. “I’ve heard of people coming out of comas with the ability to speak entirely new languages, but this… there’s so many variables at play. You don’t remember any of this?”
“I haven’t touched this journal, Eames.” Cobb’s tone rises into slight desperation. “I swear. I haven’t.”
“Okay, okay. That’s okay, I’m only wondering. It’s a little odd.”
“You think?”
Cobb turns another page, and suddenly there’s writing in English. More hasty notes. The pen began to run out of ink, he assumes. He can barely make out the faint words in the dim light of the kitchen.
Something is going on. The dream feels real. If you find this, contact me.
And that’s where it ends. No more information. No clues. Just a riddle Cobb can’t even begin to make sense of.
“I’m losing my mind,” he mutters.
Arthur’s expression turns concerned. “Maybe it would be better if we stayed here tonight.”
“No, no, I’m okay. Don’t feel like you have to. I just…”
“I’ll set up the guest room,” says Arthur. “You just get some rest.”
Cobb runs the words over in his mind.
The dream feels real.
The dream feels real.
He is not dreaming. He knows this. He’s tested it over and over as a compulsion. Less so in recent years, but he’s certain now. He’s never been more certain of anything. So why is he beginning to doubt?
And who is in his head?
* * *
“You’re being quiet. Talk to me.”
She is there. She stands in the doorway to the bedroom in a thin, silk robe, displaying herself, staring him in the eye where he lies. He stares at her, her robe, her soft hair tied back, loose strands framing her face.
“Do you like what you see?” she asks, drawing aside the robe to expose her thigh.
“Not tonight,” says Cobb politely.
The haze of the dream clouds his mind, but he is aware he is dreaming. It’s all so fantastical, and so identical to the dreams he’s been slipping into for weeks. He wants to analyze every detail.
She shrugs, not showing much disappointment, and glides across the room to join him on the bed. She sighs as she leans back on the pillows.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“A lot of things.”
“Work? I told you not to think about work when we’re together.”
Cobb shakes his head. “This place. You. It doesn’t make sense. Such vivid dreams, but I can’t keep track of reality.”
“Isn’t that the way of it sometimes?” She makes a contented noise as she rolls over on silk. “Do you dream about me?”
“Just about every other night. I’m dreaming of you right now, which makes no sense. I’ve never seen you before in my life. You’re just something my mind’s created. Every other night, it’s the city, and the office, and then I ride the train, and then I come back here and I see you. But I don’t even know your name.”
She smiles. “You say things so beautifully, but I don’t always understand them. You make no sense. You sound like poetry. The other day you didn’t say two words to me and now you’re talking about dreaming of me at night. You’re hot and then you’re cold again, and what do you mean you don’t know my name?”
Cobb reaches across the bed to clasp her hand. “I mean it. You’re a creation of my subconscious.”
“That sounds like poetry too, but sometimes I wonder if you’ve simply forgotten my name and are trying to avoid using it.” She smiles mischievously. “Tell me my name.”
Cobb feels like he’s stirring up memories. Some surface-level thing in his mind which doesn’t feel like a memory he himself made, but it’s still there. It whispers information to him about this place, about this person.
Hyodo Sayaka. She’s your secretary. Your relationship is a secret.
“Sayaka,” Cobb whispers.
“That’s right, darling.”
Why do I know your name?
Sayaka sighs. “It sounds so pretty when you say it. Yesterday I was only Hyodo-san. I thought you’d gone cold on me. I was developing a theory.”
“What kind of theory?”
“There’s another woman. You spent all that time in your office making calls, and every time I tried to talk to you, you said you were ‘figuring something out.’ You perplex me, the way you treat women, Mr. Saito. I’ll admit I don’t love you, and this won’t last, but I wish you’d just say so. I’m tired of playing games.” Sayaka rolls her eyes, running a hand through her hair and releasing it from its updo. “You’re a tease. I’m not here to be a toy. I want to be with you as an equal, and I want to talk.”
Cobb sits up. “Sayaka, I know this is hard to believe, but-”
“Mm-hm?”
He moves to touch her shoulder. “Sayaka, what did you call me?”
“A tease, and you are.”
“No, no. Before that. You said ‘Saito’.”
“What’s the matter? Forgot your own name too?” Sayaka teases.
The dream clouds his senses, his awareness, but Cobb forces himself to be aware.
Saito.
He glances down at his hands, his fingers, his shoes. In the dreams, he doesn’t wear clothes he owns or recognizes. The watch on his hand ticks, and it is not his watch. He sits up on the bed and stands, forcing himself to be aware of his body.
“Saito,” repeats Sayaka, looking confused.
“Saito,” says Cobb, equally confused. “It doesn’t make sense.”
He crosses the room to the full-length mirror, lit around the edges in a way that casts a soft glow around his face. And through the haze of the dream state, he can make it out. Clothes, hands, and a bone structure that is just different enough to not be his.
He touches his face. He touches Saito’s face, which is his.
He meets eyes he hasn’t stared into in five years. They are a perfect replica by his subconscious. This Saito could easily be the Saito he worked with so long ago, so remarkably unchanged. He stares in curiosity, running his index finger down the side of the face, and feels the touch. He cups his own jaw as gently as if he were handling another person, staring at details. How vivid it all is.
And why is he dreaming that he’s Saito?
“Are you all right?” asks Sayaka, rising from the bed to stand at his side, meeting his eyes in the reflection.
“Fine,” says Cobb.
Through the cloud of the dream, he suddenly realizes that that is not what he said. It was what he thought, and what he heard in his mind, but it was not the word he spoke. The thought sounded different. Longer.
As he forces more awareness, he knows he is not speaking his language. He’s not even thinking his language. His thoughts are different now, but he can still understand everything.
“Sayaka,” he says, with a mouth that pronounces it so well. He doesn’t even have to think about it.
“You’re acting strange,” she says.
“I feel strange. I… this is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I’m not…”
The writing. The journal. Someone’s notes.
Something is going on. The dream feels real. If you find this, contact me.
Notes, Cobb thinks. Contact me. Notes. The dream feels real.
It does feel real.
All of a sudden, it’s like the haze of the dream grows thicker, and he finds himself stumbling. Sayaka steadies him.
“Mr. Saito, what is going on?” she gasps.
“I’m okay,” Cobb insists. “I’m not… I’m just tired. And I’m not Saito.”
“What?”
It’s like the sensation of waking up. Feeling the world fade around you. It’s not blacking out, it’s a pulling sensation. He’s being pulled away, and Sayaka seems to be growing smaller.
Contact me.
Cobb forces himself to stay present as the sensation grows harder and harder to fight. “Sayaka, I need a pen.”
“A pen?”
“Please, Sayaka. I don’t know where they are.”
She disappears, and within moments, returns with a permanent marker. Cobb looks around the room for paper as he pulls off the cap with his teeth, but doesn’t see any.
Damn rich people and their perfectly clean houses.
So Cobb rolls up his sleeve and writes the only thing he can think to write. His phone number. He frantically writes digits, irritating his skin with the effort, as Sayaka stares in shock. The sensation of pulling grows too strong, and he feels himself slipping away. The pen falls.
“It’s Cobb,” he gasps, sinking to the carpet, overwhelmed by drowsiness stronger than a drug. “Sayaka, when he wakes up, tell him it’s Dominick Cobb.”
The room goes black.
* * *
Cobb is in his bed, and the sun is streaming through the window, warming his face. The clock on the wall ticks softly, and it is seven in the morning.
He can hear footsteps down the hall. Some are soft and quick. Some are heavier. He hears the voices of his children as they laugh, and he hears Eames and Arthur.
Somehow, he is on his stomach. He’s never slept on his stomach—he can’t stand the way the pillow feels against his face. He sits up and blinks, his eyes adjusting to the bright light, and that’s when he feels it under the pillow.
The notebook.
Last night’s dream is starting to fade now, as dreams so often do, and he wonders how his notebook ended up under his pillow. Not only that, but he was holding it all night, his thumb between the covers, marking a certain page.
His mouth falls open as he glances at the paper. It is covered in writing that isn’t his. Paragraphs in careful pen. Paragraphs and paragraphs.
Good morning, Mr. Cobb.
When you read this, it will be Sunday. I know this because I am writing this on Saturday, and I’ve found the pattern. By now you’ve probably noticed that we’re switching every other day, and we have been for about a week.
Cobb frowns, gripping the leather binding.
I keep trying to find some way to contact you, but I get so caught up in your life and I forget. You’re a little bit off the grid. On the next few pages, I’ve written some of the things I remember doing here, which might fill in some blanks. I thought I was dreaming, but the recurrences were too vivid.
Don’t worry. I got the children to their gymnastics club just fine. Your front left tire has a slow leak and needs to be changed.
I don’t understand anything about this, but I thought you might, or one of your associates. I don’t claim to be a scientist, but I wonder if when we spent all that time together, connected neurally, parts of ourselves were left behind in each other. It sounds too impossible to be true, but as I write this, I am staring at your face in the mirror right now.
Cobb runs a finger over the handwriting that isn’t his, exhaling softly.
I saw that you invited Arthur and Eames over. I have not told them about this, and I did my best yesterday to act natural. I didn’t feel prepared to explain something I didn’t understand. For now, I think this will be our secret until we find some way to manage it. It’s unbelievable.
I hope we find some way to contact each other soon.
斉藤
Saito.
Cobb clutches the journal, trying to steady his breathing. His suspicion was correct, and he’d been so proud of his deduction, but it seems that Saito is already miles ahead of him. Saito has already figured out their circumstances to a science.
They are switching places. They are in each other’s minds.
Cobb touches the signature at the bottom of the page. It’s not possible. This kind of thing doesn’t happen. Not with somnacin or any substance known to man. Pieces of people don’t stay behind in each other’s minds when they share dreams.
But they went so deep together, Cobb wonders. He spent so long trying to find Saito. He searched his mind and Saito’s together, and every place where they overlapped, trying to bring Saito back. When he did the same for Mal, a part of her was always with him, even after she died.
Maybe something about that depth becomes a connection, he wonders. Maybe, so deep in the dream, the lines where he ended and Saito began became blurred.
But why now? Why five entire years after the fact?
There’s a knock on the door, and Arthur enters.
“Hey, uh, Eames is making breakfast. Feeling any better?” Arthur asks, good-naturedly. “You seemed in better spirits last night, but Friday was rough on you.”
“Oh yes, much better,” says Cobb, trying to force any expression other than pure bafflement. “Much better. Thanks.”
“Good. Any more dreams last night?”
“Just… the usual kind,” Cobb lies.
“See, it’s good that you talked about it to someone. Maybe that helped on a psychological level. Listen to me, I’m turning into a therapist again, huh?” Arthur laughs, smacking the door. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll stay for as long as you need us. I just wanted to make sure you were going to be okay.”
“Thank you, Arthur. That means a lot.”
* * *
“So I was in the back alley with these three guys, and their boss came out all put out because obviously I was cheating, and he’d caught me that time. Don’t cheat, by the way. Actually, don’t gamble. You’re what, nine?”
“ Eleven ,” corrects Philippa, staring up at Eames. “ James is nine.”
“Right. So yeah, don’t gamble.”
James pokes at a strip of bacon with his fork. “But if the bad guys were chasing you and trapped you in the alley, how’d you escape?”
“Science, actually. It was science and some quick thinking.”
Philippa scoffs. “You escaped because of science? I don’t believe you.”
“Do you know what a Molotov cocktail is?”
Arthur clears his throat loudly, shooting Eames a look. “Alright, who wants waffles?”
Eames smirks.
Cobb finds himself deep in thought as they eat. Eames manages to keep the kids occupied, and Cobb allows his mind to wander back through the dreams. He wants to open the journal again and share the letter, but maybe Saito had the right idea. He can’t tell Arthur or Eames without sounding absolutely insane. Maybe later, when they have it figured out.
Cobb still doesn’t even know what it is.
“Dom.”
Cobb glances up, and Eames is tapping a fork on his plate of waffles to get his attention.
“Your phone’s ringing,” says Eames.
“Right,” says Cobb, zoning back in and hearing the chime. It’s the generic ring, and there’s no caller ID. He wants to think, not talk, and considers shutting it off. But something, somewhere deep in his mind, compels him to answer as he steps out of the room.
“Yeah, hello?”
“Cobb.”
He almost drops the phone. It’s Saito.
“Saito.” Cobb drops his voice almost to a whisper as he turns down the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, unable to believe it.
There’s a moment’s pause.
“I can’t believe… I…”
“I know,” says Cobb. “It’s a mess. I… shit, I don’t even know what to say. I’ve been in this business for years. Well, I was, and I’ve never heard of anything like this.”
“I found your phone number on my arm this morning, and Sayaka was scared. She said she almost called the ambulance because I… you passed out on the floor, and then I woke up.”
Cobb laughs, his voice shaking. “Did you explain? I don’t even know how you’d explain.”
“I couldn’t. I told her I’d been having insomnia. I was exhausted and delirious.”
“Did she believe you?” asks Cobb.
“Of course not,” says Saito, and Cobb can hear the smile in his voice.
Cobb pauses again, sighing, laughing awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. And all of a sudden, he feels uneasy.
“Saito?”
“Cobb.”
“I… I wish I knew… I don’t know how to explain this, and I don’t know how to fix it. I wish I had answers. Honestly, I’m scared. What if we never get it to stop?”
“You mean the switching?” Saito asks.
“I don’t know how we’ll live. Maybe if we could meet in person and go over…”
Saito is quick with an answer. “Fly out here next weekend. We’ll try it out and swap notes and keep in contact, but I have this thing coming up with a new power plant, and they’ll need me in my office. It’s just this one building dedication when we fire it up, but this project is taking so much time. I want to be able to give you my full attention.”
“Saito,” says Cobb. “I’ll be in your office. An entire other week and I…” he pauses to count, closing his eyes. “I’ll be you three out of those seven days. What will I do?”
“I’ll leave you notes. I’ll take care of it. As soon as this is over, we have to meet in person. We have to talk. Listen, if you fly on Saturday morning, you’ll be you and I’ll be me, and that night is the night of the ceremony at the plant. You can come, and we can talk.”
“I’ll do that,” says Cobb, desperately trying to retain the information in the rush of confusion. “Saturday morning?”
“Saturday morning. Is that okay?”
“That’s perfect.” Cobb laughs. “I just… I just want answers. Saito… I’m scared of this.”
A pause, and Saito seems to be collecting his thoughts.
“Me too,” says Saito. “But we’ll figure it out. Whatever’s happening, we’ll figure it out. We’ll find more patterns, and we can stop it.”
Idiot. Cobb’s first thought is harsher than he’d like. Why do you trust me so much?
* * *
“Who was that?” asks Arthur when Cobb returns to the kitchen and his waffles, more enthusiastic than before.
“Telemarketer.”
Arthur is like Sayaka Hyodo, Cobb thinks. Calm and collected. They both go with the flow, but they know a lie when they hear one. Arthur is sharp and observant, and he knows Cobb.
But Arthur simply smiles. “May I have another waffle, dear?”
“Coming right up,” says Eames, casually.
“I hate to ask this of you,” says Cobb, “but I have something this next weekend. Saturday, I have a conference, and I’m taking a day flight. Would you be willing to stay, just until then, to watch the kids?”
“Of course,” says Eames without hesitation. “They aren’t nearly the rambunctious brats you told me they’d be.”
Philippa elbows him. Hard. Eames laughs.
“I don’t mind at all,” adds Arthur. “Happy to help. But if you need anything, you’ll let me know, okay?”
“Of course I would,” says Cobb. “You know I would.”
Arthur smiles again. A knowing smile. That smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes for a brief moment. That smile that says, you lie to me so well.
* * *
Cobb takes the elevator up to the top floor of the building and past Sayaka Hyodo’s desk. He takes care to smile at her and greet her by name. She does not return the smile, but she brings him tea.
The permanent marker on his arm has been scrubbed raw, Cobb notices, but the faded numbers are still there.
“Sorry,” he laughs under his breath, touching the skin delicately where it still aches.
There are notes on the desk. Those yellow sticky notes, covered in that careful, elegant handwriting.
Don’t try to sign any papers. I’ll take care of them tomorrow.
A man named Tanaka should come in at noon with some forms he needs approval on. Say yes to everything, unless he mentions a meeting at Insheim.
If anything comes in that you don’t understand, tell them to take it to Kobayashi two floors down. He’ll handle it.
Wednesday is Hyodo’s birthday. I’ll buy something for her, but you’ll have to present it. Be formal and apologetic. We had a fight yesterday.
Cobb opens a drawer in the desk as he sits down with his tea and finds yet another sticky note.
Everything in here is arranged by color and alphabetically. Don’t move anything unless you have to.
Cobb smiles at that.
* * *
Cobb lies on the bed, Sayaka beside him, but not acknowledging his presence. She seems to have come more out of habit than interest, and they do not make any attempt at their performative intimacy.
“Have you seen a doctor about your insomnia?” she asks, bored.
“No,” says Cobb.
“You should. I heard about people getting very sick from that. They can have hallucinations. I saw it in a documentary.”
“What documentary?”
“ Fight Club .”
Cobb laughs. Sayaka is joking again. That’s a good sign.
“Sayaka, may I ask you a question?”
“Anything,” says Sayaka.
“What am I like? I mean, in the past. What do you think of me?”
“You want me to tell you about yourself?”
“I’m curious what you think,” says Cobb.
“Well,” says Sayaka, “you’ve always been determined. Once you have your mind set on something, you don’t stop until you get it. I admire that. I wish more of the people I’ve worked for could be like that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“But you’re very easy to read. If you’re unsatisfied, or pretending, I can always tell. I can tell what you’re thinking right now, you know.”
Cobb smiles. “What am I thinking about?”
“Someone else. Probably someone you love.”
“How can you tell?”
Sayaka sighs dreamily. “You get this look. I think it’s beautiful. I love looking at people in love.”
“But you don’t think I’m in love with you.”
“You aren’t. And I’m not in love with you. This was just… to pass the time, I think. I think we’re both wandering souls, Mr. Saito. We’re both looking for something.” Sayaka turns, brushing dark hair off her forehead. “Or someone.”
“I hope you find that thing,” says Cobb, “or that person, Sayaka.”
“I wish the same for you.”
* * *
Under the pillow must be one of Saito’s favorite hiding places for things, because Cobb wakes up in his home, sleeping on his stomach, with a handful of sticky notes tucked under his head.
Eames and Arthur are going out into the city this afternoon and won’t be home for dinner. I told the kids we could go to the high school courts and play tennis.
I took the tire in to get fixed. They tried to charge you $200 but I talked them down to fifty.
Anna at your job needs you to fix the copy machine. She says something’s stuck. I didn’t understand it, so I said I (you) would do it today.
You’re out of milk :)
Something about the smiley face makes Cobb crack up. Maybe it’s the absurdity of it. Their consciousnesses swapping bodies across five thousand miles of ocean, and Saito is writing him notes like they share a fridge.
Philippa has been begging for tennis for weeks, but he’s been so busy. He can imagine the delight on her face yesterday when he finally said yes. Maybe Saito taking his body is the best thing to happen to the kids in a while.
His house is tidier. The cars runs smoothly. Arthur and Eames seem more at ease as they chat with him late in the evenings. Maybe Saito is better at pretending to be okay than he is.
* * *
“Saito?”
“Cobb. I was hoping I’d hear from you today.”
Cobb sits on his porch in the evening sun, letting it warm him. “How’s the power plant coming?”
“We’re almost ready for Saturday. Thanks for taking care of that thing with Tanaka for me.” Saito laughs. “Maybe, if we ever fix this, you can come work for me. You seem to know your way around.”
“Yeah, that happens when I have access to all your surface memories,” Cobb jokes.
If we ever fix this. As if something is broken or missing. But Cobb doesn’t feel so broken anymore, and nothing feels missing. There’s only more. More memories. More thoughts. More feelings.
If we don’t fix it, Cobb considers, we’ll be alright.
It would be maddening, always going back and forth for eternity. But they take such good care of each other.
In the afternoon, Cobb plays tennis with the kids until they’re all breathless and laughing, and they get ice cream on the drive home. Arthur and Eames help tuck them in for the night. At night, Cobb leaves his notes, disguised as reminders for himself.
Dinner is in the fridge. Take anything from the containers that you’d like.
Don’t forget the kids’ gymnastics!
Help James with his science homework.
He starts leaving thank-yous under the pillow.
Thanks for helping Philippa with her essay.
Thank you for organizing my desk.
The car looks beautiful.
* * *
“Happy birthday, Sayaka,” says Cobb, stopping at her desk to slide her a small, velvet box. He found it by his bed that morning, along with a card.
Sayaka opens the box and finds the silver bracelet Saito picked out, engraved with the line from the poem that only Cobb heard her profess her love for, in the intimate hours they shared together one night. It was a team effort, but Sayaka doesn’t know that.
“It’s beautiful, Mr. Saito.” She smiles, holding it up to the light. But her smile fades suddenly.
“Is something wrong?”
She shakes her head ever so slightly. “Mr. Uemura called again.”
Cobb runs over Saito’s careful notes in his mind, but doesn’t remember an Uemura. From Sayaka’s tone, it’s not a good call to receive.
“Oh? What did he say?”
She shoots him a look, and Cobb suddenly feels cold. “Don’t play games. You know he knows what you did, and you know he’d rather die than let you have that land. I don’t trust him.”
“What did he say, Sayaka?”
“He asked you to back out of the geothermal deal, or there would be… consequences.” Sayaka swallows emotion visibly, glancing down. “He said this was the last time he would call.”
Cobb does as he was told. “Can you ask Kobayashi to handle it?”
“That’s not funny. I’m worried, Saito.”
“Don’t be,” says Cobb. “I’m sure everything will be alright. We can’t let ourselves be threatened so easily.”
“I wish you’d never gotten involved with Uemura,” mutters Sayaka.
Cobb sighs and opens the door to his office—Saito’s office—and grabs another sticky note off the pad on the desk. He rummages for a pen and writes:
Who is Uemura?
Saito will know. He considers just leaving the note there for Saito to see later, but it occurs to him that he has a more direct route to communicate. He takes care to close the door, goes to his phone, and dials a number he knows by heart—his own.
Nothing unsettling compares to the sound of your own voice answering your call.
“Saito?” asks Cobb, who is Saito.
“Cobb,” replies Saito, who is Cobb.
There’s a pause, uneasy and amused, as they try to get used to it together.
“There’s a problem,” says Cobb.
“What with?”
“Sayaka says there’s someone named Uemura. He’s been sending threats. It’s about this upcoming event, and this geothermal deal you’re in, I think.”
Saito takes a while to answer. “I know.”
“Is this a problem? I mean, should I be doing something? What’d you do to Uemura?”
Saito sighs. “He’s just a small-scale rival, but he’s smart and he has influence. Since the arrangement with Fischer, I’ve continued working with… people like you. You know. Those kinds of information dealers.” He dances around the word extractor, as if he fears someone’s listening in right now. “There’s plenty to be had in Tokyo, for the right money.”
“And?”
“The power plant we’re opening this weekend is built on land that Uemura was planning to buy. It’s a perfect location, and only he and a few of his close associates knew about the plan. I may or may not have intercepted one of those associates on the Yamanote Line.”
“Ah,” says Cobb. “And Uemura knows.”
“Like I said, he’s not an idiot. He’s incompentent in business, though. I couldn’t have let him take that land. He wouldn’t know what to do with it, and it would have gone to waste. He has so many technological ruins around the country because he just can’t keep them running. It’s pathetic.”
“How serious is this threat, Saito?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, I can assure you,” says Saito. “He doesn’t have the guts.”