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“I have a plan.”Arthur bit back a grunt of pain, dropping down for cover behind the dumpster. The smell of hot garbage brought bile up in the back of his throat, but it kept him from passing out. Eames crouched beside him, and Arthur felt his steady hand press against the oozing wound on his side, drawing up a deep, hot ache.Pain is in the mind, but Arthur had never been much good at getting out of his own head.Bullets pinged off the cracked brickwork above their heads. Prickling dust fell down the back of Arthur’s shirt.“Enlighten me,” he gulped, shallow breaths against the stink of blood and rot. The vivid minutiae of the dream should have been a dead give-away that this mark was more than they had prepared for - but they’d missed it. Arthur had fucking missed it.More gunfire. Eames leaned against Arthur’s back, his hand slipping against Arthur’s side, making him wince.“Sorry.”“What is it?”“Pardon?”“The plan,” Arthur hissed, swallowing the lump in his throat. “What’s the plan, Eames?”If they couldn’t keep the mark’s subconscious distracted long enough for the rest of the team to get the job done, this whole thing was going to be a wash, and Arthur would probably never work again. A decade of carving out his space in dreamshare, all for nothing.“Oh,” Eames’ breath was hot on the side of Arthur’s neck. “Do you remember the Wilson job?”Arthur’s tense mind wound even tighter. “That’s never going to work.”Eames’ fingertips pressed into Arthur’s side, “Come on, darling. Don’t you trust me?”The frantic stampede of approaching footfalls. The wail of a siren. Arthur took a long breath to steady his heart.“Alright. Let’s make it happen.”