Passive Aggressive
Author: donutsandcoffee
Word Count: 3,010
Fandom: axis powers hetalia, inception
Pairing(s): russia/america. eames/arthur. obligatory dom/mal and little hints of various canon-ish hetalia pairings (usuk, etc)
Summary: It was 6 months after the Fischer Job when the team took the Jones Job, and 8 months when they took the Braginski Job.
Warnings: completely biased to badass!Arthur and badass!Alfred
Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia is Hidekaz Himaruya's and Inception is Christopher Nolan's
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a/n: THIS STORY HAS JUST UNDERGONE A REWRITE. details of this is at the end of this chapter
blanket post for this fic: while it won't be history-heavy per se, this fic will contain historical jargons and concepts, as I'm trying to based it on them. I'm an a level history student with syllabus focusing on cold war history, so most of my knowledge is from that. historical concepts/jargons, if any, will always be explained at the end of the chapter. these explanations will be short (or as short as possible) and definitely the abridged versions. you can always pm me for details or do your own research with wiki, google, or the library
/this/ means there's a strikethrough, because doesn't support that formatting
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One
The New Tourist (who gives some troubles and surprises—mostly, troubles)
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THE NEW YORK TIMES
MONDAY, 13 MARCH 2032
FRONT PAGE
REPORTED ARREST
Los Angeles, 12 March – Well-stuffed wallet, working-class suits and three credit cards. This is the portrait of your everyday Americans, a man that can walk past you without being given a second glance, and yet it is also, horrifyingly, the exact description of a Russian spy arrested in the neighborhood on 12 March, noon.
The arrest marks the twelfth public arrest of Russian spies this year. It has been suspected that there have also been multiple discreet arrests throughout the country.
The arrest had been made public as the man answered his doorbell in his apartment in Bay Area and shot dead two American intelligence agents along with the informer, who had been living in a room beside the man. There were at least five reported gunshots and the man was arrested two hours after the incident.
According to a spokesperson, the man speaks fluent English without a trace of Russian accent. So far his identity is still unknown.
RELATED STORY PAGE 5.
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2032
March
1.
Disasters come and go in one's life, and Arthur's is not an exception. Just like any other disasters too, Arthur's didn't only involve him and him alone; in fact, it involved quite a lot of people, including but not limited to the Dream Team—the name suggested by Eames to refer to those who took part in the Fischer Job, a name Arthur scoffed condescendingly at but, much to his horror, unanimously became their official name.
Of course, just like any other things, Arthur has his own definition of disaster. When talking about disaster, people think of calamitous events—a catastrophe that causes a great loss of lives, a hardship, a business failure.
Arthur thinks of one hell of a job.
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2.
This is the story of that one hell of a job.
(Which involved complicated politic between nations, questionable existence of atomic bombs, the existence of beings one would never imagine existing, and two particular teenagers—a blond, bespectacled American and a silver-haired Russian.
Mostly, it's about the teenagers.)
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3.
It all started with a letter.
Actually, it started with another letter, in Eames' opinion, but Arthur begged to differ. It started with this letter, which came first long before the other letter that Eames was referring to. Ariadne disagreed with both of them, but Arthur's mind had already been made.
The letter was nothing special, really; it was as normal as a letter could be, albeit slightly crumpled and had a stain on one of its edges that Arthur suspected to be coffee stain. Anyone would have considered it harmless from any point of view, maybe an epistolary attempt by an old friend to catch up.
Except that Arthur's apartment never received a letter. Ever.
It had just been six months after the Fischer Job, and Arthur was still lying low, not daring to risk any chances being traced. In fact, he'd made some extra precautions this time, covering his tracks more meticulously than usual and returned back to his house—his real one—that he hadn't visited in years. Arthur doubted that even Dom knew where he was staying; hell, he even doubted that this house even had an address. And yet, there it was: the letter, lying innocently on his front porch, more suspicious than ever.
Arthur eyed the letter suspiciously before picking it up cautiously. He double-checked the letter, making sure there was no hidden device in or around it, then flipped it to see the sender.
Alfred F. Jones
O-11
General
Commissioned Officer
United States Marine Corps
The words were handwritten with black ink, and the handwriting was, for a lack of better words, odd. It was slanted and extremely old-fashioned, reminding him too much of his late grandfather's, the letters leaning onto one another like dancing to a silent melody.
What surprised him more, though, was the marine code Jones used to identify himself. O-11. Arthur may have been years away from his military days, but his memory was still bright and clear: army codes ended with O-10. He was quite sure with that. Highest rank, general, marine code, O-10. There shouldn't be an O-11.
Arthur ran a finger through his hair and walked back to his living room. This Alfred F. Jones—what's with the F, anyways?—was either an uninformed idiot, or a very influential person behind the scene. Arthur wanted to believe the former, but the US Government seal on the letter screamed the latter, and before he knew it, he opened it.
He soon regretted it.
The letter was like written by a literary-challenged teen; it was littered with grammatically wrong sentences, unnecessary abbreviations (such as 'u' instead of 'you'), and what he believed teenagers nowadays dubbed as 'chatspeak'. He resisted the urge to tear the letter into pieces (or worse, correcting every single mistake and sending it back) and started, painfully, reading.
Hi Arthur!
Al's here. Heard 'bout the awesome stuffs you and ur team did to /Fiscehr/ Fischer, inception rite? It seems u guys r srsly the best in this job. So…fancy for a job? If interested (which u def. should), just go to my place at the 25th. My adress is at the back of this paper.
P.s: I sent ur boss and previous teammates the same letter, so dun worry bout telling them.
P.p.s: u have a /sexy./ good name /like someone I know./
/Sincrely/Sincerely,
Alfred F. Jones.
The letter was so abusive to the rule of English language that it made his eyes hurt. He couldn't believe he was saying this, but this Jones was worse than Eames.
But the rule of English language was barely a concern as he started to take in Jones' words. His heart started to pound against his ribcage. He knows. And by the sound of the letter, Arthur was not the only one having this revelation.
As if on cue, his phone rang.
Arthur picked it up.
"Eames."
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2032
March, April
3.
In Dominic Cobb's opinion, it never started with letters.
It didn't start when the letter arrived in his mail, because that day James puked on the pile of letters piled up on the kitchen's floor, and they subsequently got thrown out. It didn't start when Arthur told him about it, either, because like other things, he thought Saito could handle this one.
It started right now, when he was standing in front of the brown mahogany door and squinting at the name written on a bronze plate on the door. He knew it started right now because he suddenly realized that there was no running away from this, and all he could think was: oh shit.
The letters forming Alfred F. Jones seemed to smile back at him amusedly.
He finally knocked on the door: once, twice.
"Come in!" A cheerful voice called from the inside, and Dom did as he was told.
If Dom wasn't very self-conscious, he would've gaped.
Jones was sitting behind the only desk in the room, and he looked so very young. Arthur had warned him that Jones was a nineteen-year old, a teenager, but he never expected him to look so young, so innocent. He looked seventeen, really.
Dom approached the desk cautiously. It was obvious that Jones was relaxed; he had his feet on the desk, his hands crossed on his lap and his lips formed a playful smile. His eyes were bright blue behind the glasses, like the sky, and there was a certain edge in them that Cobb couldn't put his fingers on.
He didn't know if he should feel intimidated or being played at.
"Alfred F. Jones," he tried, clarifying. Maybe Jones went to the toilet, and this boy was the son of Jones, and he was here to visit his old man and—
"That's me!" the blonde replied, still cheerfully, disproving's ridiculous theory. "And I assume you're Dominic Cobb."
Dom nodded. "Yes I am. And Mr. Jones, if you know so much about me, you should've known that I am no longer in the business—"
"Call me Alfred," Jones—Alfred—interrupted, "And let's cut to the chase. No formal bullshits. I know you quit. I know you're now a college professor teaching architecture, send your kids to their school every morning and never touch a PASIV device in months. And no, I am not going to use this information—nor your kids—to blackmail you or something. You're Americans, after all."
Dom opened his mouth to retort, but Alfred continued, "but I need your help. I know you were, and still are, the best extractor in the dream-sharing community. I need you to do a job for me, and this job is not simple: I need you to perform an extraction and—if the situation calls for—an inception."
Dom silently bit his lower lip, thinking. Alfred was now looking directly into his eyes and Dom felt he had to correct himself: Alfred did not look seventeen. There was something in the blue eyes, something that spoke of years of experience and hardships and knowledge, and Alfred suddenly looked older by hundreds of years, literally.
He didn't ask, have you ever fallen into limbo before? He asked, "have you used a PASIV device before?"
Alfred nodded. "I'm familiar with it," he said vaguely, "and in case you're wondering, I'm experienced enough to follow you in this job."
Dom frowned. "There's no room for tourist in this job."
Ignoring the comment, Alfred beamed, "does this mean you're taking it?"
The ex-extractor cursed himself for making such a slip-up. "Maybe," he decided, "you may not understand, Mr. Jones—" Alfred made a face at the name, and Dom corrected himself, "Alfred… but I don't know if this job worth risking my life and my children's future. How important is this job exactly? Why… why must you, the person behind the scene, as they say, be the one meeting me in person?"
Dom could see Alfred fidgeted at the question, his confidence seeping away. "Because I have to make sure you're convinced to take the job," he said in a soft voice, "because… if we fail… there might be another World War coming."
At that, Alfred looked away. Dom wanted to say Alfred was lying, wanted to believe Alfred was lying; but he was always good at judging characters, and he could see that Alfred wasn't lying.
He gulped.
"I—I might take it," he finally said, and Alfred looked up and started smiling again, "but under one condition." Dom thought of Saito, hands desperately clutching his chest, shirt red soaked by blood. "No one is following us. Not you. Not anyone else. No tourists. We simply cannot afford this."
The teen looked devastated. "Then we're not having a deal."
"Fine by me."
Alfred pouted. Dom squinted at him.
Alfred pouted more.
Dom sighed. "One try," he said, "I give you one try in a dreamscape to prove yourself that you are, indeed, a capable tourist. One attempt—you're free to do anything you want, I can even lend you the PASIV. But that's all you get—one try. You fail, the deal's off."
To Dom's surprise, Alfred did not look nervous at all. On the contrary, there was a spark in his blue eyes that had not been there minutes ago.
"Thanks a lot Mr. Cobb! Hey, how about this—I'll give you something totally cool. I'll give you one—exactly one—sentence. I'll give you one sentence, one that will surely impress you. And then we're off for vacation."
Dom didn't say a word. He looked into Alfred's blue eyes, searching for anxiety, for fear, for anything. He found none.
And then, Alfred smiled.
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2.
Arthur met a dead end.
Before you could understand the gravity of this situation, it must first be known that Arthur is a professional. He is one of the best—if not the best—in his line of job, able to extract detailed information of almost everyone, from something as simple as their bank accounts down to little details like their family background some generations back, finding it as easily as taking a stroll in the park. He was also hard working, meticulous and dedicated, all in all the quintessence of a point man every extractor wished to have. Word of mouth was that he's omnipotent in collecting information, having a success rate of not less than 98%—which was saying something, considering the people and the security he was up against—and so far, no one could disprove this.
But apparently, contrary to all the facts, Arthur met a dead end now.
Alfred F. Jones was a very peculiar case. Arthur had searched, searched and searched, questioning all his contacts and breaking into dozens of databases, but nothing—absolutely nothing—came out.
Okay, maybe a photo of him, sure. But no birth certificate, no graduation certificates, no companies he'd ever worked in and childhood friends to spill some past secrets—nothing. It was as if Jones was suddenly materialized out of thin air in Los Angeles at some point in time in the past, 19-year-old and bespectacled and all that, unchanging and not aging.
Arthur scoffed at his own thought. As if. He tried calling another one of his sources.
At the end of the week, Jones' file was empty; the crisp orange file contained nothing except the words "Alfred F. Jones" emblazoned neatly on the cover and a 4x6 photo of the 19-year-old Jones, with bright blue eyes and a smile smugger than even Eames'.
"Dom," Arthur called that night, defeated, "I think I need your help."
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1.
"I said I don't fucking now, Eames, would you please just shut up?!"
From the other end of the line, he could hear Eames curse. Arthur, for once, shared the other's sentiment, knowing that they were both on the same boat now. The same boat that was going to encounter a hurricane and capsize.
"Arthur, darling," Eames tried, "I was just trying to say that I do not expect to be tracked down so easily like this."
Arthur pursed his lip. "This is how it works with the dream community, Eames, you know that—we get tracked down by everyone all the time."
"Not this time, pet," the Brit replied, "not this time."
Arthur couldn't find a word to disagree. Saito was a very influential man—they never expected anyone could know even if they announced the Fischer Job on the TV.
"Shit," was all he could say.
He could hear Eames smile sadly on the other end. "My point exactly. Though—how is Cobb?"
Dom, Arthur realized. Dom had surely got the letter too.
He mentally cursed again—he didn't want Dom to be pulled back into the dreamshare community, where they had to keep breaking laws and cheating and running. Dom couldn't afford this, not when he could have a steady job in a university, teaching architecture and having two children to come home to.
"I'll try to see what I can find about this Alfred Jones," he told Eames as he sauntered to his room, taking numerous notebooks filled with his contact details with his free hand, "try to hear some words about him there, too. We will contact Dom only if necessary," and his words were final.
And Eames knew that too, because he didn't retort and simply said, "if that's what you want," then hung up. Arthur threw his cell-phone to the table and turned on his computer.
Time to work.
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4.
"Mr. Dominic Cobb," Alfred said, "do you remember how you got here?"
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5.
When you are dealing with something as dangerous as dreamsharing, a tiny bit of uncertainties can get you killed. You can't be unsure of your mark's preference, or else he would suspect. You can't be unsure of the time you have left, or you can be caught sleeping helplessly by your fully-awake, your life depended on how trigger-happy he was.
But most important of all, you can't be unsure of how you get to where you are now, because that is the fastest way to know whether you're dreaming or not, and right at the time Dom was—
Realization dawned on him.
"God," he breathed out, shocked, amazed, "we're in a dream."
Alfred clapped. "You can say that," he grinned, holding out his hand, "or you can say we're in the warehouse where you'll be working for me for the next few months. Nice knowing you, Mr. Cobb."
He knew he should've felt threatened or, at least, alarmed, but all he could feel now was awe. Dom may have been away from the business for months, but he still knew how to appreciate a talent; even after he realized it was a dream, everything around him didn't have a surreal feeling to it—everything in the room felt real. None of Dom's projections had broken into the room either, and his was militarized.
Dom couldn't help smiling slightly. "I believe I have no choice."
He took Alfred's hand and shook it.
Arthur was so going to kill him.
-X-
2020
December
2.
"You do understand the gravity of this situation, da?"
He stopped in his track and turned slightly to face the silver-haired man. The man was smiling, but there was no hint of amusement in his eyes at all.
"I'm not stupid, Iv—Russia," he emphasized on the last word, and he could see Ivan's—Russia's—expression got darker. He flicked his gaze away, a desperate attempt to ignore it. "I know very well what I'm doing now."
Russia's smile became wider, colder, and he shuddered. "So I'm Russia now, Amerika?" He stepped closer, "If that's how you want it to be then. Two can play this game."
America kept his gaze trained on the imaginary spot on Russia's shoulder.
"But in case you didn't understand—you were trying to think with that inferior brain of yours, after all—I'm going to break it down to you," he stated calmly, gaze fixed on the blond. "Once you are walking out of the door, there is no turning back. It's final."
America balled his fist even harder, his nails digging into his palm.
He turned away.
"I'm sorry, Ivan," he whispered, and he felt his heart shatter into pieces.
And then, he walked out.
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2032
June
5.
Two months after Alfred F. Jones' letter arrived on Arthur's front door, eight months after the Fischer Job and the successful inception, Ivan Braginski's letter arrived.
To Eames, this is when it all started.
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a/n: FINALLY I GOT THIS OUT OF MY SYSTEM.
I've been wanting to update my other stories, but after falling quite deep into the inception fandom, I can't write anything else but this thing. now that I've finished this first chapter, I can finally write something else.
anyways, how was it?
I haven't read any hetalia-inception crossover at all (fusion not counted), and I'm quite surprised. surely the whole extraction-corporate espionage-politics-countries-hetalia! concept would come to someone's mind? but no one apparently writes it, so here I am, with my own. hopefully nothing confusing as of now, because like anything inception related, this story is going to be filled with plot-twists, dream levels and theories. which are generally confusing.
of course, you can tell me how is this—is this any good? boring? is everyone in character? any suggestions? preferences? requests? ideas? tell me!
the plot will really get going in the next chapter, so stay tuned! :)
reviews, favorites and alerts encourage me to write. especially reviews. :D
eta; reason for rewrite: I started writing this purely to fill the void in the fandoms that is a hetalia x inception crossover, but the overwhelmingly positive feedback this story's getting (I was told that someone even recced it, damn it) has reached the point that this story deserves something much better than the half-assed writing I've been producing. also I've realized some glaring differences/inconsistencies between what I've written and what I've planned and I'm fixing it before it's too late.
edit including some corrections pointed by reviewers (thank you siameze), additional and rewritten lines to fit the planned plot, changes in uses of last names to first names whenever appropriate.