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Seventy-two days after Arthur has come and gone, Eames strolls into the subconscious of the head developer at Murus. Seventy-two days, too long for any hint to linger even in the waking world; and there are no footprints in dreaming, besides.

Arthur has left only two things behind. One, the impeccable results of the job he was hired to do, and two, the equally impeccable job he has done in sabotaging it.

"The safe is on the third floor," says a subconscious security guard, inscrutable in sunglasses. Six or seven of them surround Eames like bodyguards, their movements sharp, the grips on their guns merciless, just the way Arthur would like it.

"Anyone but me and they'd be ripped apart," says Eames, impressed.

"Mr. Arthur has also left you a message," says the guard.

"Oh?" asks Eames.

"He says to look for him at the Grand Formosa," says the guard. "Under Frank Bacon."

"I'll keep that in mind," says Eames. "Lead the way."

They weave through the projections populating the office building. Murus is a Taiwan-based startup that aims to create a large-scale solution for bypassing the Golden Shield firewall. The Chinese government has made no official move yet, and word on the market is that Murus is looking to be acquired by someone bigger. Corporations all around the world are buzzing at the opportunity, and everyone is dying to know what the next step in the merger process is, who is ahead in the race so far.

Murus wastes no time in hiring one of the world's foremost subconscious security experts to militarize the minds of all high-ranking employees. Arthur answers their call.

Several companies waste no time in hiring one of the world's foremost mindheist thieves to extract further information on the buyout. Eames answers their call.

Then Arthur and Eames answer each other's calls.

This is the third con of its kind they pull. Arthur provides the mark with the best militarization training that money can buy, but leaves an Eames-shaped hole in the fence as he works. Months later, hired by competitors and other interested parties, Eames drops into the mark's subconscious and receives VIP treatment from the security detail left by Arthur.

They split the payout evenly, because neither of them would have it otherwise.

"Thank you for your work, ladies and gentlemen," Eames tells the guards. The safe swings open.




It's been years since Project Somnacin was disbanded, and as dreamshare went civilian, so did Arthur and Eames. In their youth and enthusiasm, they overshot it slightly, perhaps; they didn't stop at civilian. They went mercenary.

They meet on a job for Old Man Patterson, whose nerves, it turns out, can't take the strain. He retires to the countryside with his cut, and Arthur and Eames drift together, into one job after another, into one bed after another. But even that's more than a year ago, and now Eames knocks at the door of Arthur's room at the Grand Formosa, grinning and waving through the peephole.

"It's open," comes Arthur's voice.

"Don't mind me, then," says Eames, and tucks his hand inside his jacket. He's carrying several briefcases, and they're unwieldy enough to put him at a disadvantage. He pushes the door open anyway.

There's a flurry of movement from the far side of the room, and Eames drops the briefcases to the floor, whipping out his Jericho in the same breath. He only barely makes it; Arthur has rolled into sight and is crouching on one knee near the foot of the bed, the barrel of a Kalashnikov aimed straight for Eames' face.

For a moment they don't say anything, just stare down the lengths of each other's guns. The windows are open and a breeze stirs their hair.

"You're outclassed," says Arthur, softly.

"Not really," says Eames. "You look good."

He does. Arthur looks well-rested, fresh from his extended vacation. He's in a vest and a button-down, and Eames wonders if that means he's bothered to dress up a little for the occasion. The fabric of his trousers stretches tight across a bent thigh, long and deadly, and the curl of his fingers around the gun makes Eames' mouth go dry.

"Not so bad yourself," says Arthur, and slides the gun back under the bed, straightening up.

"Hello, Arthur," says Eames. "One of these days, I'll just take the money and run."

"You know I'd find you," says Arthur.

"And you know I only do this for your amusement," says Eames. "Honestly, it's not like we'll actually shoot each other-- well, not in real life, anyway. And when I asked for the payment in cash, let me tell you, their faces--"

"Is that it?" asks Arthur, looking toward the briefcases.

"Yes," says Eames. "Prepare for an obscene amount of money in untraceable American dollars."

At that, Arthur's body leans a bit in the direction of the briefcases. His tongue darts out and swipes at his upper lip, like he's heard of something delicious, like he can't wait to taste the money, and it's with that flash of his wet tongue that Eames knows, Arthur is turned on as all hell.

"I've always wanted," says Arthur, and can't even finish his sentence.




The dollar bills fill the bathtub about a quarter-way deep. Stray bits of paper crumple beneath their feet as they lurch out of their trousers, the empty suitcases lying discarded beneath the sink. Arthur breathes quick and shallow, his eyes unfocused, and he fumbles with the buckle on Eames' belt like he can't take the trouble to be precise.

Oh, Arthur, thinks Eames.

They topple into the bathtub and slip on the smooth surface of new money, and Eames tears Arthur's vest open, his shirt, licking up the tense lines of Arthur's chest, and Arthur groans and clutches to the edges of the tub. They're both hard and already leaking onto the bills, so Eames isn't too careful as he coats his fingers with the lube.

"I have the best fucking ideas," pants Arthur, his pupils blown, his hair a wreck.

"Enjoying your own depravity?" asks Eames, pushing a finger into Arthur. The clench of muscle there is answer enough, and Arthur throws his head back, baring his throat.

"Fuck," he gasps.

Eames hitches Arthur's legs up around him, and Arthur bends easy, sliding a little down the slope of dollar bills. Arthur, Arthur. Cool as cool gets, but his blood runs too hot. Arthur lives like he's speeding down a highway, angry and reckless and much too fast. Arthur lives like twenty-seven is as old as he'll ever get.




"Arthur," said Eames, a few weeks back, watching the way the cafe lights filtered through his lotus flower tea. "We can't keep this up forever."

"Keep what up forever?" asked Arthur. He was sipping at his coffee and rifling through an English newspaper.

"All of it," said Eames. "The job, for one. We get away with a lot right now because mindheist is so new, but soon enough, they'll wisen up. They'll know what we're up to."

"We'll do it some other way, then," said Arthur.

"It's not just the job," said Eames. He tugged the newspaper down, caught Arthur's eye. "It's about this."

"Eames," said Arthur, "there is no this."

"You can't run forever, Arthur," said Eames. "You won't stay twenty-seven. You'll have to slow down someday. We can't always do this, point guns in each other's faces and topple into bed, fuck-and-run job after job like it's all we need."

"It's all we've got," said Arthur.

"We could have more," said Eames.

Arthur stirred his coffee, spoon clinking against porcelain.

"If you want," said Eames.

"Here's something to think about," said Arthur. "Just five years ago, only a handful of people in the entire world knew anything about dreamshare. All the rest went on living their lives, we went on living our lives, bored and complacent like we'd learned everything there was to learn."

"Arthur," said Eames, a low warning.

"And then Project Somnacin started recruiting, and it was like we'd been living blind," said Arthur. "In the space of a few short weeks, I realized -- you realized -- that nothing had ever been the way we thought it was. There was an entire field we never knew existed. This bourne, Eames. This subconscious universe."

"What does this have to do with--" said Eames.

"There's this guy in Paris, called Cobb," said Arthur. "He's working with his wife and his father-in-law to expand the use of dreamshare for academic use. He's been trying to turn me legitimate. Not a day goes by that this technology doesn't change someone's life, Eames. We're living in a world that can't hold still."

"Makes you think," said Eames.

"I mean it," said Arthur. "You think I can't run forever-- and maybe you're right, maybe I can't. But if I keep running until I drop down dead, until someone or something drops me dead, isn't that the same thing, really?"

"You're twenty-seven," said Eames, and pretended that the bottom of his stomach hadn't just fallen out. "Most people think they're invincible, at that age."

"Yes, well," said Arthur, "I'm not most people."

"No," said Eames. "You're not."

"Neither are you," said Arthur.

Arthur's lips crooked into a smile, and on anyone else, Eames would have called it a gesture of admiration or acceptance. But Arthur didn't admire Eames, didn't accept Eames, never had and never would.

"Where are you staying?" asked Eames.

"We'll get to that when you finish the job," said Arthur, snapping open the newspaper.




Arthur at twenty-seven is so bright, so innocent in his feral cruelty, that Eames can't imagine him any younger. Twenty-seven is as old as he'll ever get, and twenty-seven is as young as he ever was.

Eames, too, is still young. He's only thirty. But this sort of fire is something he can't understand, the drive that doesn't let Arthur linger on his indiscretions, cherish his bad habits like Eames thinks they're meant to be enjoyed. Maybe it's because I'm not twenty-nine, thinks Eames. Maybe it changed me, being on the other side of a number like a precipice.

It makes him wonder what Arthur was like when he was nineteen.

"What were you like," he asks, "when you were nineteen?"

Arthur makes an impatient noise in his throat and digs his heels into Eames' back, drawing him in deeper. Eames takes the hint, rolling his hips into Arthur's, gripping the brim of the tub where Arthur's hands are. Then Arthur's hands shift, and their fingers slot into place-- lacing together.

With anyone else, it would be a gesture of something tender. But Arthur isn't tender; Arthur is twenty-seven and made of stone and sinew beneath his skin like silk.

"Harder," says Arthur, flushed and ragged. His legs wrap around Eames. Every time they rock together, bits of paper money flutter, coming to rest between them, sticking to their flesh. Arthur moans and the sound echoes off the bathroom tiles, and he's all loose limbs thrown across a pool of cash. Eames fucks him as gently as he will allow. It's not gentle at all.

Eames looks into the closed disapproval of Benjamin Franklin's face as he comes, Arthur shuddering and tightening beneath him. Eames pulls out when he catches his breath, peels the condom off and tosses it into the bowl of the toilet. He falls back onto Arthur, and they're covered filthy with semen, and sweat, and money.

"Eames," says Arthur, and Eames dreads him demanding another round, because he doesn't know if he can. But Arthur doesn't say anything else. Just closes his eyes and brings his hands up to tangle in Eames' hair, trailing down lower like falling asleep, coming to rest on the small of his back.




Eames pulls on his trousers and scoops all the money back into the briefcases. He lifts Arthur to get to what's underneath him, and Arthur is slack in his arms like he never is when he's awake. There are bruises starting to bloom on his hips, on his elbows, because crisp bills aren't much of a cushion to begin with. Eames thinks that maybe he should air the bills out to dry before he tries to deposit them, if only out of common courtesy. Arthur is a warm dead weight.

He scrapes the tub free of every last dollar, locks the briefcases shut, and puts on his shoes. Arthur looks like a businessman who's had too much champagne at a reception, still half dressed and careless in repose. Eames plugs the bathtub and starts a slow trickle of water, and he leaves.

It's about an hour later that his phone buzzes in his pocket.

You took my cut, it says. And my suit is ruined.

Thats my price, he texts.

Then you're the priciest whore I've ever had, texts Arthur.

Eames is checking the number of remaining metro stops until his hotel, and he doesn't remember his thumbs moving across the letters until he looks down and reads, Youre the first john ive ever loved.

He doesn't know what that word is doing there, how that word got there, loved, so he pushes the clear button until the screen wipes blank, delete, delete, delete. The air conditioning is too strong and there are goosebumps down his neck.

When are you leaving? he texts back.

Thursday, texts Arthur. Departure is at 2300. Terminal 1.

You sound like you want me to see you off, texts Eames.

It takes twenty minutes for Arthur's next message to arrive.

Thought maybe you'd want to return my cut, it says.




When Eames thinks that he wants Arthur to settle down, he's not being delusional. It's not about white picket fences near the Alps, a mathematical mean of children playing with border collies, nor is it even about civil ceremonies and discreet gold rings. He doesn't think he wants that for himself, anyway.

But what does he want for them-- that's what stumps him. He doesn't know. He wants Arthur to-- something, wants Arthur to stop living like he's running from life, and if only Eames could grab him and hold him still until he stopped struggling, maybe then everything would be all right.

Arthur is twenty-seven. It might be too much to ask from him.

Eames pretends that what he wants is a lavish wedding, both of them in white, where he dips Arthur low to the ground before kissing him silly as the guests shriek and applaud. He knows that Arthur will have none of it, and attempt to compromise; and maybe what comes out of that compromise will be what Eames has wanted all along. Arthur has a knack for making him happy.

Arthur also has a knack for making him feel like he's lost in the alleys of an unfamiliar city, all the streetlights blown out and the air heavy with smoke, and he's looking desperately for something but he's forgotten what it is, so he keeps walking, choking, looking. He tries not to think about that.

"If I asked you to come someplace with me," Eames had said once, "would you come with me?"

"Eames," said Arthur, "would that be a date?"

"If you want," said Eames.

"Yes," said Arthur, shrugging, and from anyone else's mouth, it would have really meant yes.

Eames took him into a dream where they sat at a long dinner table, laden with candles and plates of food. Eames had projected Arthur's entire family into the setting, the best he could do from the one family portrait in Arthur's wallet. The picture was missing Arthur, but the family had Arthur's dark hair, his smooth jaw.

"It's not that I mind," said Arthur's mother. "Children grow up, they move out."

"Mother," said Arthur.

"Sometimes to ridiculous places like Cincinnati," she said, "or Boise, Idaho."

"Then you never see them again," said Eames.

"You'd think they'd at least pick up a phone," she said. "Try the green beans, Arthur. How will anybody want to love you when you're so skinny?"

"I'm watching my salt," said Arthur.

"You need to feed him better," she told Eames.

"You need to convince him to let me feed him," said Eames. "I'd do a good job of it, you know. What I can't cook, I'd buy. I might be a crook but I'm a very wealthy one."

"Is that all you have to offer him?" asked one of Arthur's sisters. "Money for food?"

"Of course not," said Eames, "I--"

"Does he even want you?" asked another sister. "Arthur, this is it? This is what you're settling for?"

"Arthur," said another sister, turning to him, "don't be a schmuck."

"I thought this was my dream," protested Eames.

Arthur drank his water, dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.

"That's the subconscious for you," he said. "Never does what you want it to."

"You're no good for him," Arthur's mother told Eames.

"Well," said Arthur, "this has been a pleasant evening. Nice to see you again, Mother."

He gave her a ginger hug around her shoulders, and waited for Eames to pull out his gun. When Eames aimed for his forehead, Arthur closed his eyes. With anyone else, it would have been a gesture of trust, but Arthur just looked like he was tired. Like he couldn't stand to see Eames anymore.

"Eames," said Arthur when they woke up, "my household is not a Woody Allen movie."

"I'm sorry that your Jewish heritage is irresistibly exotic to me," said Eames.

That was that.




Thursday, Eames miscalculates the distance between his hotel and Taoyuan International. He runs all the way to the entrance of terminal one, his shirt filling with sweat, hardly able to breathe for the humidity. It's already nine o'clock, and he thinks Arthur must have left already, on a plane to god knows where, silent until the next time they fall into each other.

But he gets to the door and Arthur is waiting there, leaning against a wall.

"Hello," says Eames, wheezing.

"Not your most dignified arrival," says Arthur.

"No," says Eames.

"I thought that if I waited," says Arthur, "you might show up with a few briefcases for me."

Eames stumbles past the awning, trying to catch a breeze, but it's stifling and sweat is running down him in rivulets.

"Not a chance," he says. "You'll just have to take your next job with me. Then you can steal my share and call it even."

"Do you need to sit down or something?" asks Arthur.

"No," says Eames. "You need to go, don't you?"

"I mean, yes," says Arthur, "but--"

"Just came to see you off," says Eames.

Arthur is about to answer, but then the heavens split open above, and relentless meiyu rain pours down like the sky is trying to drown them. It's a Taiwanese summer rain, so thick you can't see, a fine mist filling the air. Warm but heavy, so heavy. There isn't the slightest warning. Eames is rooted to the ground in surprise, soaked through in a matter of seconds.

"Oh," says Arthur. "Wow."

Eames splutters and furiously blinks water out of his eyes, already wet but fully intending to step out of the rain, when he feels the tentative pressure of hands on his chest.

"Thanks for coming," says Arthur's voice, indistinct through the drum of the rain.

"Arthur," he says.

"I'll see you again," says Arthur. From anyone else, it would have sounded like a promise, not a goodbye.

Soft and slick, Arthur kisses him on the corner of his mouth, the rain running between them. Eames is about to pull him in closer when he catches himself, and instead he shoves his hands into his pockets, stock still until Arthur moves away.

"Eames," says Arthur, "I didn't think you'd bring the briefcases."

"You know what I was thinking," says Eames. "I was thinking, with anyone else but you, this would be romantic."

Arthur cocks his head to one side, frowning.

"Why with anyone else but me?" he asks.

"Because," says Eames, and he swallows, then he says, "You should be checking in."

The rain is already letting off a little, but all of Arthur's front is wet. The drops of water bead in his hair, in his lashes, and Eames can't stop looking. Can't stop wanting, can't stop-- he clenches his fists a little tighter.

"Should I?" asks Arthur.

"Yes," says Eames.




He's shifting his weight in front of the token dispensers in the metro, the rain still sloshing in his shoes, when his phone buzzes. He's surprised that it's still working.

Call me, it says. Arthur's number.

"Hello," says Arthur.

"Where are you?" asks Eames.

"Still at the airport, it's not eleven yet," says Arthur. "I'm at the bar."

"All right," says Eames.

"Do you know why I'm at the bar?" asks Arthur.

"Why are you at the bar?" asks Eames.

"Because I'm pissed at you," says Arthur. "I'm pissed that you took all my money. I don't do this work for charity. You took all my fucking money and I'm fucking pissed about it."

"We discussed this," says Eames, "on the next job--"

"By the way, that's a lie," says Arthur. "I don't give a shit about the money."

"Except when you want to fill a bathtub with it just so that we can fuck," says Eames.

"Except then," says Arthur. His laughter is rough. "That's all I want, Eames. I want to fuck in piles of money, wave guns in people's faces, buy expensive suits, steal from assholes, and drink martinis until I die."

"I know," says Eames.

"Really?" asks Arthur. "Is that what you think I want?"

"Arthur," says Eames.

"Tell me something, Mr. Eames," says Arthur. "Why is it romantic with anyone else but me?"

Eames rests his back against the wall, fiddling with the metro token, running his finger across the raised lettering. Because, Arthur, it's because of the way you are. It's because you're twenty-seven and you're running too fast to see me flagging you down. It's because I'm standing here with my hand out for you, and all you can think of is the finish line, the burning, crashing end you think is coming for you, when all you have to do is just slow down. When all you have to do is turn around.

"I knew you wouldn't bring the briefcases," says Arthur.

"What?" asks Eames.

"I was waiting," says Arthur, very slowly, "I was waiting for you."

"You don't mean that," says Eames.

"Why do I have to get drunk just to talk to you?" asks Arthur. "Why do I have to-- why can't I talk to you when I'm actually there with you, why do I have to get drunk and get out a phone before I-- do you know why?"

Because when we're face to face, all you see is the stagnation I can offer you, and it disgusts you to think that you could settle for anything like me. The back of Eames' head hits the wall, and he slides down, flipping the token over and over again in his hands. Because you're twenty-seven and you're looking for something fantastic. You want something I could never give, or be, or attempt to be. Because you're too good for me and you know it.

"It's because you frighten me, Eames," says Arthur.

"Why would I ever--" begins Eames.

"It's not the way you draw a gun," says Arthur, "or the way you slip in and out of minds. It's because you spoil me. Because for everything I do, you tell yourself, This is just Arthur being Arthur. And it makes me wonder, if I were any other way-- would I be someone else? If this is the way I am now, is this the way I'm going to be for the rest of my life?"

"That's not a bad thing," says Eames. "Arthur, I don't-- I don't want you to change."

"But I will," says Arthur. "God, Eames. I'm twenty-seven. Back at the hotel in the bathtub, you wanted to know what I was like when I was nineteen. Well, when I was nineteen, I wanted to be a doctor."

"So you're more Jewish than you think," says Eames.

"Listen," says Arthur. "I wanted to be a doctor, Eames. Can you imagine? When I was nineteen, I thought I was going to save the world. And look at me now. I'm a career fucking criminal stealing ideas from people's heads. I fuck other career criminals in bathtubs filled with money."

"Is your mother disappointed?" asks Eames.

"Don't, Eames," says Arthur. "Please."

They're both silent for a little while. The metro token dances across his knuckles.

"I've known you for maybe a year now," says Arthur. "Whether you like it or not-- whether I like it or not, I'm going to change. Twenty-seven is young."

"So is thirty," says Eames.

"But you-- Eames," says Arthur, "but you know yourself in a way that-- Eames, I'm nothing like you. Of course you know that."

"I know," says Eames. "It's why I love you."

Arthur lets out a long, shuddering breath, a rush of air that echoes through Eames' entire body. And in that moment, Eames is frightened-- of Arthur, of the damage he can do, of the sheer naked boldness of those words-- and he considers snapping his phone shut and disappearing, running like Arthur is running, changing his name and becoming someone else. But then Arthur says,

"It's why I love you," carefully, quietly, clearly like he's right there with him.

"Come now, darling," says Eames before he can stop himself, "I don't need your pity. I didn't call you to listen to you lie. I don't need you to humor me."

"I wish you didn't read people so well," says Arthur. "Maybe then you'd look again, for once, and maybe you'd really see what you do to me."

"I annoy you," says Eames. "I fuck you, sometimes. But that's all I do."

"Somewhere along the way, you decided you knew who I was," says Arthur. "And now, when you look at me-- you're not looking at me, Eames. What you see, that's me when I was twenty-six. That's not me anymore."

"You still push me away," says Eames. "I'm not feeling the love, Arthur. I'm really not."

"When you first started to love me," says Arthur, "you decided I would break your heart. And that's all you're waiting for now, Eames. You're just waiting for me to break your heart. But not everyone loves like you do, so quick and hot and sure of yourself, because not everyone knows themselves like you do. The way you know yourself to turn into everyone else. Usually, people-- what I mean to say is, I-- I think I know what I want, and then I lose it again, and it's a long mess more than anything else, Eames. It's confusing and it's frustrating."

Arthur breathes in, again that rush of air, like he's bracing himself.

"But in all of that chaos, you keep-- I keep finding myself inevitably returning to the same thought," says Arthur. "I meet you in Copenhagen, in Rio, in Taipei, and it always circles back into my head, stronger and stronger-- I think I'm in love with him."

The words are a string of heated syllables.

"God help me," whispers Arthur, "but I think I'm in love with him."

"Arthur," says Eames. "Arthur."

"You only think I'm pushing you away," says Arthur, "because nobody knows how to pull like you do."

"I don't mean t--" he begins.

"And I'll get there, one day," says Arthur, "but that's not today or tomorrow. Maybe it won't even be next year. But I want you to know that I'm only twenty-seven, I don't know the first thing about me, and I'm changing, Eames-- I'm very slow at it, and it's little by little, but I'm letting you sink in."

Eames grips the metro token and thinks that it's massively, colossally unfair that there's an entire airport between them, that he can only hear the smile in Arthur's voice.

"I'm learning you," says Arthur. "Is it all right for us to wait together?"

And Eames knows what he has to do.

"Arthur," he says, and he's surprised at how shaky his own laughter is. "Arthur. You frighten me. You frighten me because you think I'm honorable enough to wait. I'm not just going to sit around on my arse and wait. I'm going to wear you down. So as long as we're waiting for you, I'll pull you as hard as I can. I'll make an honest man of you yet."

"Fine words from a criminal," says Arthur. "I'm touched."

"Don't forget," says Eames, "I'm no good for you."

"Of course you're no good for me," says Arthur. "But don't forget who's been breaking the law with you all this while. I'm no good for you either, Mr. Eames."

Distantly, Eames hears a garbled noise over the PR system on the other end of the line. It's the boarding call.

"I'll see you again," says Arthur, and it sounds nothing like a goodbye.

"Yes," says Eames. "You'll see me again."

"I may not be any good for you," says Arthur, "but I promise that I'll be worth your time."




Once, Eames had thought that what he wanted was to hold Arthur still, to keep him from running, and he thought that would make everything all right.

He'd had it all wrong.

He can let Arthur run, let him thirst for the fantastic, let him fill bathtubs with money and blow up entire blocks of buildings. He can let Arthur be twenty-seven and beautiful, just the way he is, just the way he would never be again.

All he has to do is keep pace. How could he have thought that the right thing was to wait, to stand still and try to catch Arthur's eye? Arthur isn't running from anything, and it's all right for him to run. Through twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. He's only running, running to feel the wind, and Eames is right there with him, breaking the law, filling bathtubs with money, blowing up entire blocks of buildings.

By the time they meet again in Auckland, a week before Arthur's twenty-eighth birthday, Eames has picked out one of those totems that everyone is talking about. You'll be wanting one too, he tells Arthur. It helps you distinguish between dreams and waking.

What's yours? asks Arthur.

Poker chip, he says, holding it out of reach. Because I'll never say no to taking a chance.

Arthur smiles at that, like he knows what it means. But what he doesn't know is the feel of the chip in Eames' hand, the way it moves across his fingers. It's the exact same size and weight as a Taiwanese metro token.

God help me, thinks Eames when he touches it, but he's in love with me.