Inception is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

As of 03/09/13: Totally not dead, dudes! I just went through like 3 laptops between the last update and now which accounts for inactivity (and I'm a grad student…) but this story hasn't been forgotten. All the chapters are being edited and there'll be an update soon(ish).

Edited 5/2018

Chapter 01
Disappearance of the Girl

Fence: Noun (Criminal)—A person who receives, finds and/or sells stolen goods; the 'middle man' between thieves and their buyers.

Shill: Noun (Criminal)—A person who poses as the decoy to trick others into participating; an individual planted into a crowd to set up the mark.

. . .

Amelia Fox sat in her rusted green Bronco, gazing aimlessly out its window as her hands kept busying subconsciously cracking her knuckles. It had begun to rain twenty minutes after her arrival and hadn't let up since; she watched it slam into the asphalt of the highway like hammers, listening to the distant roll of the thunder that rattled her truck's frame. She had been waiting for her employer for over an hour and a half now, just sitting in her truck watching the storm rage outside beyond her windows, with each passing minute her patience decreased, and her nerves rose.

This isn't a good sign.

While she hadn't met her employer, Mister Green, face-to-face before, there were set rules for when she met his mouthpiece, the most important of which was promptness. In all of the less than legal transactions in the past, they had never once been late, and the lack of being so now…was unsettling. It made every bone in her body scream that something was off, call it a fence's intuition but it set her on edge, incredibly so. Her mobile hadn't rang, there were no new messages or missed calls. Amelia was inclined to count it as a good thing, but that didn't stop the nervousness fluttering around in her stomach or her eyes from flirting between watching the rain and the passenger seat.

Or more specifically, what was cradled within it.

The music box was beautiful, and it had been her obsession for the last three years. There had been nothing else but the Amber Room music box as far as Amelia and her employer were concerned. It had been crafted in such a way that only could have been done by someone trained in the craft of the Old World. Covered with amber and gold leafing, it glowed with even the barest of light within the Bronco; the painstaking details that had been applied to it were breathtaking, hypnotizing even. It was fragile though, making it even more stunning, the amber brittle, the checkered pattern cracking and the leafing weakened from its travel throughout the years, but for Amelia, it was her unicorn. It was the score and sell that would make her name known: The finder of the Amber music box.

Her eyes flicked away from the glided box, returning to stare out the window, her fingers tapping nervously on the Bronco's wheel, creating a frantic rhythm that mimicked her pounding heart. If it had been any other deal, she reasoned with herself, she would have left. She would have put her keys into the ignition and driven off from sheer impatience. However, this was not any other deal. This wasn't some stolen piece of Impressionist artwork or blood diamonds, this was in a category of worth and danger all its own.

As the rain began to wane, becoming less like hammers and more like giant globs of water falling rarely, headlights flared through the front window, blinding her. Her employer had arrived. She watched the car–a black Mercedes–come to a stop before her, its light flickering twice. The action caused her to snicker, remembering a scene from a film, but Amelia pushed her amusement aside, this was work, and there was no room for distractions. With a sigh she pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt before zipping up her worn leather bomber and opened the truck door, the Amber box wrapped and tucked gently under her arm, stepping out into the dying rain. Her booted feet sunk into the mud and muck as she gingerly made her way to the pavement from the side of the road, stopping a few feet away from the Mercedes, unsure of what to do.

Fortunately, Amelia was saved from making any rash decision when the passenger side door opened and the mouthpiece emerged.

"Fox," he stated. Well, that's about as close to a hello as I'm going to get from this bloke. He'd never had been overly friendly with their introductions or conversations; any mouthpiece was all business, all the time. "Do you have the box?"

"Grant," Amelia mumbled, slightly insulted. She hadn't spent three years looking for the box for nothing. "Is the transfer to my account ready?"

"My employer has authorized me to make the transfer." He reached into his inner breast pocket, pulling out his mobile for her to see before slipping it back. "Your account will be accredited with the money once I have confirmation of the box."

"That's fair." She squatted down quickly, balancing on the balls of her feet as she gingerly placed the wrapped box on the ground. Even though it stopped raining, she still didn't want to risk the craftsmanship. Slowly she unzipped the top of the square duffel, pulled back the fabric laid upon it to expose the top of the music box. Amelia pulled her eyes away from the sculpted gold figurine on the top to watch the man's eyes flicker away from the box to her face, and then back. "So, is this good enough for you?"

He flashed a quick humorless smile, "Of course."

And that's when everything went to shit.

The first bullet ripped her left shoulder, tearing the muscle and cutting through bone as if it were tissue paper. It all happened so quickly that Amelia hadn't even had time to do anything but fall sideways clutching the wound in pain. Her breathing was shallow as she blinked back the tears that began to cloud her vision, the sound of the mouthpiece walking closer to her filled her ears but was barely heard over the beating of her heart.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Amelia managed to get out between her clenched teeth. Unable to do anything other than wither in pain and watch him slink closer to her, she wasn't even able to reach for her own weapon.

"Just following my orders, Fox, it's not anything personal, though you are a bit of a bitch," Grant said candidly and very matter-of-fact sort of way as he picked up the duffel, only to hand it off to someone behind him that she couldn't see. "My employer just doesn't see the reason he should pay the 10.4 you're asking when we can just take it."

Then with his foot, he kicked Amelia on her back to step on her shoulder, purposely placing pressure on bullet wound with his foot, causing her to give a shrill cry. The cocking the gun, Grant aimed straight at her chest, barring his teeth in something that might have been a smile if it wasn't so hollow.

"Don't take it personally, it's all about economics."

And he pulled the trigger.

. . .

Amelia flung herself from her bed, falling with a thud onto the floor, her heart threatening to burst from her chest as sweat gathered on her forehead. In the darkness of the loft, the primal terror still surged fresh through her body, her left shoulder pulsing with its dull, age-old pain of the once very real wound. Her right hand found itself grasping her necklace that lay limp on her chest, her fingers desperately feeling for the distinct texture of the bronze.

You're awake.

You're awake.

You're awake.

She sat like that—awkwardly sprawled on the metal grate flooring, back against the bedside-for what seemed like hours, the mantra running through her head until she could pull herself up, taking the tangle of sheets with her. Wrapped in them like a queen, Amelia shakily made her way over to her sink turning on the faucet she splashed her face and the back of her neck. Taking a deep breath before her hands gripped the porcelain edge, holding so tight Amelia's knuckles were turning white. She ignored her own haggard reflection in the mirror while she attempted to collect herself, counting down slowly from fifty to nil, waiting for the phantom pain to disappear entirely and control her breathing, which was still shallow and shaky at best.

It took a few minutes for her to even out her breathing, to stop the panic flutter in her chest, but eventually, she calmed herself. And while a stray tremor still wracked her frame, Amelia released the sink, and still wrapped in the sheet, made her way down the stairs, heading to the small kitchenette. Just about on the bottom step, her feet caught on the fabric of the bed sheet, causing her to hastily grab out for the shaky hand railing to stop from busting her face.

Well, should have seen that coming.

Hopping off the stairs, she stalked towards the small area that was somehow considered a kitchen to yank open her liquor cabinet—which, if she thought about, was the name Amelia gave all her cabinets—and grabbed the first bottle she saw. Whisky. Grabbing a questionably clean glass from the rust-colored kitchen sink, she poured herself a more than generous amount then downed it without hesitation. The drink's typical, if not anticipated, the burn was barely felt as Amelia began pouring herself a second glass, then downed that one just as quick, feeling the bite.

It didn't stop her from pouring a third.

It wasn't that she was alcoholic, she wasn't. She knew that, but she also knew she wasn't meant to dream, not anymore. As a result of some of the more…specialized work she got involved with before her forced retirement, she hadn't dreamt in months. It wasn't natural. But, here she was, for the fifth day in a row woken from a nightmare, grasping her poor excuse for a totem-like a child did their blanket and finding herself grateful for buying an industrial space instead of an apartment loft.

Dropping her empty glass down on the counter top, she furrowed her brow. She never did like people that much anyway.

It was then when the silence of the loft was broken by an aggravating noise, the high pitched ringing that was uncomfortably grating on her ears. As a result, Amelia all but knocked by the glass off, fumbling along the cold surface of the countertop until she found the offending object: her mobile

"Hello?" She answered her voice husky and a bit scratchy.

"Fox, don't hang up."

The voice was British and male, though it was the first detail that had her finger hovering over the end call button within seconds. There was a short list of male British contacts that she had and all of them she had left behind when she changed lives. She had gone through extremes to make damn sure nobody could find her without sending up red flags.

"How did you get this number?" She demanded, feeling nauseous.

"You didn't think you could cover your tracks that well, did you, sweetheart?" When Amelia didn't reply, the voice gave a laugh. "You did! Don't worry, it's cute. Naïve, but cute."

Well, if she had any doubts about who it was on the phone with her, they were all erased when she heard that particular laugh. That sound alone made her eyes narrow.

"Eames."

"Fox," He mocked, before growing somber. "I have a…proposition for you."

"Not interested. I'm dead, remember?" She snapped, slumping down onto her only kitchen stool. "What makes you think I'd care about anything you've got?"

"It's from Cobb."

At the sound of that name, Amelia sat a bit straighter, a bit taller. As much as it would pain her to admit, her interest was officially peaked. She could just as much as see his shit-eating grin as hear it over the phone in his tone. She'd been hooked. "…What sort of job?"

"It's something better-discussed face-to-face," He explained airily. "So why don't be a doll and open up your front door so we can speak of the particulars, love."

"Bullshit."

The phrase was out of Amelia's mouth before she even knew it, causing her to wince at that harshness and, on some level, to wish fruitlessly she could take it back. Her curse meant a lot more than just calling him a liar. She knew it wasn't possible for him to be outside her very door, there was no possible way he, or anyone else for that matter, could have discovered her current hideaway. She didn't need to take his bait. She found it difficult to believe.

"You know I wouldn't, not about this." Eames made it all too easy for her to picture him running a hand through his hair, near pacing. "So, why don't you let me before I'm forced let myself in?"

"Fine," She relented, sliding off her stool to finally open a set of blinds to brighten the room. It'll take 30 minutes to pack, 10 minutes for travel…"You get ten minutes. That's all I can give."

Amelia didn't even wait for a response; hitting end call as soon as the words had left her mouth she gave herself no time to change her mind. There were, of course, reasons why giving Eames even ten minutes was a terrible, horrible idea, and all of them seemed to be shouting at her as she grabbed an abandoned sweatshirt to pull on. She stopped before the rusted steel door with her hand on the handle to try and collect herself.

When it rains, it fuckin' pours.

With that thought, Amelia grabbed the key from the countertop and yanked the door open, stepping outside into the crisp air, slamming the door shut behind her. He'd have heard that if he was outside the gate.

It was well into the afternoon; with retirement and quitting the job, came the lack of a healthy sleeping routine. It didn't bother Amelia that much anyway, or she supposed. Amelia's eyes watered though, the sun was high in the sky, while bright, but didn't do much to dampen the seasonal chill that had the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Ignoring it, she made her way down the rusty stairwell quickly, skipping the last few steps out of habit, reaching the double padlocked gate that secured the only entrance to the loft.

Taking a bit of a deep breath, she unlocked the gate, grabbed the handle and gave it a firm yank. There were a few seconds of silence as the gate swung open, revealing a man dressed in a nicely cut black suit and shirt.

Eames.

"'Ello 'Lia."