day 6 // leaves for kingdonmicrofics november challenge with @kayleigh-rae but this one is a @kingdonmacrofic
chapter tags: Inception AU; pre-relationship; government fuckery including torture (mentioned)
word count: 842
notes: since k got to have her sportsball au, it seemed only fair i get an inception one. do you need to have watched christopher nolan's cinematic masterpiece, inception, to appreciate this? no, but watch it anyway. a lot of the lore present in this fic is actually dreamhusbands (arthur/eames) fanon lore, so if you ship them, you'll see a lot of nods to that here. needless to say, this au will be around a couple of times during the fest, and it's full of melmisery and frangst.
The U.S. military refers to it as Project Somnacin, an elite training program for select soldiers to learn enhanced interrogation techniques. Not torture—oh no. Who needs physical violence when information can be extracted directly from enemy combatants' dreams? Or at least that’s the party line.
After ten months assigned to the project, Frank Langdon calls it what it is—whatever comes after torture but before death. A limbo of pain that feels like it’s bad enough to kill you but never does, sharp and stagnant.
One hour topside is twelve under, the dream dilating the experience of violence to such a degree that guys start coming apart at the seams after the standard, four-hour session. He keeps a log of his hours, and Frank and his team have spent over 433 days straight torturing people—his fellow soldiers, black site prisoners… hell, whoever Uncle Sam throws at them—and playing guinea pigs for the white coats in the lab.
The only glimmer in his pathetic life right now is one of the research assistants, Melissa, who takes his vitals and observes when he comes topside again. She asks about his experiences, how he feels about his actions, while making notes in his file.
Frank lies about it all, finding ways to twist their conversation to make her blush. She has twenty-three freckles on her face, one beauty mark at the corner of her eye, and a scar on her knee. Her favorite color is purple, and she likes boba. As they sit during observation, Frank asks about her sister, whether she has a boyfriend, what she likes to do on a Friday night.
His own answers to hers are unsubstantial. Life is a miserable rotation of ashen meals in the mess and sleepless nights. And the only thing of substance—I killed seven men down there today—makes him sick. He can’t tell her that. Hell, he certainly can’t tell her the worst of it: It’s getting easier to do it, Mel. She may never smile at him again if he does.
But his stint in Project Somnacin ends tonight. One of the guys overheard Walsh talking about experimenting further with two-level dreams, and that’s where Frank has to draw the line. 144 hours for every hour topside; there won’t be anything left of him after a couple weeks of that.
Frank’s not naive enough to think that they’ll just cut him loose from this project with a thank you for your service, son. You’re in until they say you’re out, and when you’re out, you leave in a body bag.
He’s never been especially gifted at planning, but Frank knows this much: one of the PASIV machines could get him enough money on the black market to keep him flush for a while. It’ll put a target on his head, sure. But the way he sees it? He’s living on borrowed time anyway.
Security is a bit lax around the labs, the routes too routine to be much of a worry. After about 15 minutes, he gets his hands on one of those silver briefcases, the PASIV stored inside. It’s almost too easy; he was bound to hit a snag somewhere. Frank just didn’t expect the snag to be Mel.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
Ushering her inside the lab’s storage closet and locking the door behind them, Frank searches her face—concern, but not fear. For whatever reason, it’s important to him that she’s not afraid. He can’t allow himself to poke at that too much.
“I have to get out of here, sweetheart.”
Mel stares at the floor. “You lied to me. The other researchers tell me what goes on down there.”
His heart sinks.
“And I’m sorry for that. Mel, you have to believe me.” He ducks down to look her in the eyes. “If you know what’s happening, you understand why I can’t keep doing this, right?”
“I just wish you’d been honest,” she says with a shrug. “I could have helped.”
Frank drops the PASIV and takes her hands. “You’ve helped more than you will ever know, Melissa King.”
She kisses him.
He doesn’t see it coming, but Mel’s suddenly there—her lips hesitant, their brush against his chaste. It awakens something inside of him. Drawing her closer, Frank holds her in his arms and deepens the kiss. She needs to understand that this wasn’t just a one-sided thing. That if he were a different man—not a killer-in-training—he would have gotten around to asking her on a date.
His only regret about leaving will be that he’ll never see her again.
“You’re planning on selling the PASIV?” she whispers.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Don’t. There’ll be too much chatter.” Her hand is warm over his heart. “They’ll find you. Keep it and lie low until it’s safer.”
As Mel turns to walk away, Frank stops her. “Why are you doing this? I mean, whatever you feel… it’s not worth your career. Your freedom.”
“You helped me too,” Mel explains with a sad smile. “For a little while, I forgot I was alone.”
day 17 // maze for kingdonmicrofic's november challenge with @kayleigh-rae. This is a @kingdonmacrofic because I didn't have time nor did I want to edit it down.
chapter tags: inception au, established but estranged relationship, frangst, melmisery, addiction issues, point!mel, forger!frank
word count: 769
notes: another for the inception 'verse (see day 6 // leaves and day 8 // haunted for the previous installments if you're interested). the only inception lore you really need to know about is that inception itself is the almost impossible task of planting an idea in the mind of a mark in order to make a desired outcome happen. dream dens are opium den adjacent, where people are hooked up to a pasiv for long periods of time to dream.
He sucks a bruise below her jaw, his wife’s response a half-laugh half-hum that’s all warmth and joy. Her hand snakes up his back, sweaty palms making the long scratches she left there just 20 minutes ago sting sweetly.
Easing back from his work, Frank settles on his elbows and gazes down at Mel, impossibly golden as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. He cards his fingers through her hair, his wedding ring glimmering in the light.
“I love you, Frank.”
“Not as much as I l-love you, sweetheart,” he says, voice breaking.
Mel gazes up at him, serene and pliant. His breath hitching, he closes his eyes and counts to eight to steady himself. Frank reaches between them, stroking himself once before pressing into her wetness.
“Yes, like that,” she sighs. “Please… please.”
Drawing back and adjusting her hips, Frank ruts into her, chasing after the moan she made earlier like a white rabbit. He needs to hear it again—hear her, the memory from Bilbao reaching across thirty-two months like the tinkling of a bell, faint but clear.
“Just… a little…” she pants, circling her hips.
Behind them, the door opens with enough force that the knob hits the closet door, its mirrored surface cracking. He reaches for the gun beneath the pillow and rolls off of Mel, pointing at the intruder who somehow managed to work their way through the hotel’s maze.
His brow pulls. The gun drops. His lips part, the sharp inhale more feeling than sound. From the doorway, Mel scans the room. Frank moves to cover the evidence of his guilt, but the Mel who wears their wedding ring—the projection of his real wife, the woman who doesn’t—is already sitting up unabashedly but thankfully silent.
“Mel, sweetheart?” he asks. “Baby, what are you doing here?”
“Robby,” she replies flatly. “He brought me on the job.”
Oh, fuck him! Fuck him. They had an agreement, and the whole goddamn thing was predicated on leaving Mel far outside the scope of the shitstorm that would rain down on them.
Frank reminded him of that not two weeks ago. We need a Point, Robby had said. And no one does details like Mel. Frank had punched him across the jaw, sending him sprawling into the desk. Get someone else, Frank had spat back. My wife is off limits. Whether motivated by his rigid vision for this job or spite, Robby brought her on anyway.
Noticing the way her eyes fall on the projection, Frank raises a hand to ease her brewing anger. “I can explain.”
He can’t. Not really. What is there to explain anyway? He’s fucking his wife’s projection, his wilting dick still wet with the evidence. But if Mel cares at all, she’s buried her fury under an air of eerie calm.
“My birthmark is on my left thigh,” Mel says.
“What?”
“My birthmark,” she repeats, gesturing at the projection in bed with him.
Frank turns to the projection, the mark on her right, and back to Mel.
“No, it’s not.”
They’ve been married for years. The idea that he doesn’t know the location of his wife’s birthmark—the birthmark he’s worshipped alongside every mole and freckle since their first night together in São Paulo—is laughable.
“Are you really questioning me on this?” she asks, the first signs of emotion—sadness, disgust—edging their way into her voice. She pulls up her dress’ hem to show him, and his stomach drops.
She continues, “Highly classified research on prolonged Somnacin exposure suggests that holes begin to form in the dreamer’s memory.”
“Yeah, well I was a fucking guinea pig from the jump so,” Frank snaps, frightened. “What do you expect?”
“Of course,” she scoffs, wiping tears from her eyes and sniffling wetly. “I expect the truth. I know about Mombasa. Harbin. Yekaterinburg. Ashgabat. Twelve hours in Istanbul. Twelve, Frank. You’re an addict.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re denying it? You’re telling me that you don’t search out the nearest dream den the second you get into a city? That you don’t spend days worth of dream time down here for… for what?”
Frank stands. “For what?! To be with my wife.”
“To fuck me.”
“No.”
He refuses to accept that; she knows better. Mel can’t just reduce everything between them to sex. He loves her. He would die for her.
“I miss you, baby,” he says, stepping forward.
Mel steps back.
“If you hadn’t run off with Robby, you’d still have me.” She swallows hard. “I brought the divorce papers. You can sign them if we survive inception.”
Mel leaves, taking any chance of salvaging their marriage with her.
day 8 // haunted for @kingdonmicrofic's november challenge with @kayleigh-rae
chapter tags: inception au, major character death (heather), established but estranged relationship, robby/heather, frangst
word count: 500
notes: another for the inception 'verse (see day 6 // leaves for the previous installment).
Frank wakes, gasping to fill his lungs. White hot heat pierces his left knee, his right shoulder, his stomach. His throat burns from screaming.
As he rolls off the shitty folding chair and onto the abandoned hospital’s linoleum, the needle in his arm snags, the pain sharper than the rest.
Real.
God-fucking-damn it!
He jerks the needle and tosses it, freeing himself from the PASIV. On the chair beside him, Robby stirs.
“What the fuck was that?!” Frank shouts, staring Robby down with barely contained anger.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he gets up.
“That was no ordinary projection.”
Robby lifts his hands and shrugs. “You’re only getting one apology, Frank.”
He watches as Robby starts winding the PASIV lines, his mouth hanging open. One fucking apology? He just had his body used for target practice, sites chosen for maximum pain and minimal risk of immediate death. Heather wanted him to squirm and beg.
Frank grabs Robby’s arm and forces Robby to look at him. “This is how I find out you have a shade of your dead wife? My best friend. We’re being hunted by… by who fucking knows how many corporations. Interpol is on our asses. And that’s not even accounting for the people we’ve double-crossed who have every fucking reason in the world to want us toast.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point? My fucking point is that you didn’t think to say something? Maybe you could have, I don’t know, mentioned that you’re losing your goddamn mind since I’m dreaming in it?”
“I have it handled,” Robby explains.
Swallowing, Frank stares at Robby’s back. He should leave now; if he sticks around, Robby will get him killed. And even though he doesn’t have much to live for these days, he’s not ready to call it quits just yet.
He wants to see his godson one last time, look into his face and see Heather’s smile, her eyes, to hear her laugh. Tell him stories about his mama—how they met in basic training and travelled across the States on leave one year, how she made kickass strawberry pie and never lost a game of poker when they played. How hard she worked to bring him into the world. How much she loved him.
All things her son will never know because she’s dead.
All things her son will never hear from his father because the Pittsburgh police think Robby killed her.
“You don’t,” Frank says evenly.
Robby turns on him. “Oh-ho-ho, I don’t? I don’t?” He steps closer. “You think I miss those doors that show up in my mazes? The ones with a woman moaning and crying behind them?”
He sobers immediately.
“What happened to Mel, Frank?” Robby continues. “What did you do to her that haunts you so badly it's slipping into the dreamspace?”
A motel. Maicao, Colombia. Twenty months ago. One of the worst days of his life.
