❝i had a dream, there were clouds in my coffee❞
den of thieves ; chapter one : coffee | axis powers hetalia | 2000 words | america ; canada ; poland ; lithuania ; france ; hungary ; hong kong | g |
mafia au. in which america and canada arrive to pick up a package and end up leaving with an informant.
Den of Thieves
Chapter One: Coffee
As much of a new-age thinker as America is, there are certain traditions he refuses to break with. One of them is drinking a tall drink of coffee before the start of every mission.
“Al, we’re going to be late,” Canada says out of the side of his mouth as the two of them enter one of America’s favorite cafés. “Is this really necessary?”
America, who had reached up to whip the fedora off of his head as the entered, turned to his brother now with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Of course it is!” he says animatedly. “If I don’t have a grande frappuccino before we begin, we might as well throw in the towel now!”
“I think you’re exaggerating just a bit, Al.” Canada’s voice is as calm and staid as always, but America doesn’t even hear him as he heads for a table in one corner of the room. His brother follows him with a sigh, his hands finding their way to the pockets of his well-tailored blazer.
When the two of them are seated-America leaning back against the window, Canada with his back turned to the interior of the restaurant-and a waitress has taken their order, America steeples his fingers beneath his chin and looks up at Canada inquiringly. “So, d’you have any idea what this is all about?”
“A guess,” Canada replies, biting down on his lower lip. “He wasn’t exactly generous with the details.”
“He never is,” America grumbles, rolling his eyes. “You’d think he didn’t trust us, or something.”
“Because he doesn’t.” Canada shakes his head. “I don’t think he’ll ever fully trust you again, Al. Not after what you did.”
America throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, that? That was nothing.” He waves one hand airily. “He’ll get over it...eventually.”
Canada releases his breath in a sigh. “If you’re sure, Al.”
The waitress returns with two piping mugs of coffee, and America thanks her with a wink as he lifts his from her tray. Bringing the mug to his lips, he takes a long, deep sip before replying, “I’m always sure. Just like I’m sure that a mission that starts without coffee is no mission at all.”
His brother glances nervously down at his wristwatch. “Whatever you say, Alfred. But a mission that starts an hour late is an unsuccessful one.”
“Tch. Tell me something, Matt: what’s our success rate?”
“Ninety-seven percent,” Canada replies promptly. “You know that.”
“I do,” America affirms with a nod, “but what I’m saying is this: a hundred missions, and we’ve only ever messed up three. So stop worrying and relax. This is going to be a piece of cake.”
“I don’t think so,” Canada begins, but America cuts him off.
“Speaking of which, d’you think they serve cake here?”
Canada holds his head in his hands, wondering once more why he always has to be partnered with his boisterous brother. He’s also thinking of the three missions they have failed, and the common factor between them.
- - -
“Liet,” Poland says, dragging out the syllable, “hurry up.” He’s standing in the entrance of the coffee shop, arms crossed over his chest and the sun glaring into his bright green eyes. A few blocks behind him, Lithuania runs to catch up, his pale skin flushed red with exertion.
“I...asked...you...to...wait...!” He finally catches up, gasping for breath and clutching one side of his stomach. “Honestly, Feliks!”
“You’re just too slow,” Poland says, examining his fingernails primly. He turns to Lithuania with a toss of his head. “Seriously, why am I even here, again?”
“Reconnaissance,” Lithuania replies immediately. He continues, as though by rote, “Eduard said that Kirkland would be making his move, today-we have to see what’s going on. But you’re not supposed to do anything, right, Feliks?”
Poland shrugs his shoulders exaggeratedly. “Geez. You guys never let me do anything fun.”
“It isn’t supposed to be fun, Feliks,” Lithuania says apologetically. Poland just rolls his eyes. Sighing, Lithuania swings open the coffee shop’s door and enters, Poland close behind him. He had tried to make them looks as inconspicuous as possible-casual jeans and button-downs for the both of them-but with Poland hanging off of his arm and asking Lithuania’s opinion on the color of his shirt, he fears that they are just drawing attention to themselves.
“Liet, are you even listening to me?” Poland demands after a few moments of Lithuania’s silence.
“Huh...what?” Lithuania asks, shaking his head. Poland pouts up at him, hands settling onto his hips.
“Whatever, Liet. Let’s just go sit down, or something.” The two men head over to the collection of large, comfy armchairs that create a small ring in the center of the café. Poland sits down first, settling himself down and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Lithuania takes a seat beside him, pulling out a sleek silver cell phone as he does so. As Poland orders for the two of them, Lithuania sends a quick text message:
WE’RE IN POSITION; TELL US WHEN THINGS BEGIN TO MOVE.
“You know,” Poland says as their drinks arrive, “I really hate taking orders from that creepy bastard.”
“Eduard?” Lithuania asks, surprised. “Why?”
“Not him,” Poland snaps. “The big man. Why do we even stick around him, Liet?”
Lithuania sighs, the lines of his face drooping suddenly. “I don’t know, Feliks...he keeps us safe. If we broke away from him, who would protect us? We’ve got our own enemies, you know.”
“We could protect ourselves,” Poland insists, slurping up his caramel macchiato. “You know we could.”
“No,” Lithuania says, a sad lilt to his voice, “we couldn’t.”
Poland begins to object, but the cell phone in Lithuania’s hand lights up as it vibrates, so he has no chance to respond. Lithuania flips open the display.
ROGER. TARGET APPROCHING.
“Get ready,” Lithuania murmurs to Poland just as the cell phone lights up again.
AND, TORIS? BE CAREFUL. OBSERVE ONLY.
“Easy enough for him to say,” Poland scoffs, looking over Lithuania’s shoulder. “He just sits behind a computer, like, all day!”
- - -
Unnoticed in another corner of the coffee shop, an elegantly dressed man sits with one leg crossed over the other. His soft blonde hair is loose about his shoulders, moving with him as he turns his head from side to side. His arms gesture exaggeratedly as he speaks.
“My, my, my,” he says, his English thickly accented. “What did I do to deserve this pleasure?”
“You’ve done nothing,” the young woman facing him says disapprovingly. “Just like you’ve done nothing for the past three years, France.”
“Call me Francis,” he says automatically, but the smile on his lips droops as she frowns at him. He sighs, runs a hand through his fair hair. “What do you expect me to do, Elizaveta? I don’t exactly have an organization, anymore.”
She shakes her head dubiously as she sits down across from him. Her thick brown hair is braided over one shoulder; she holds a slim leather computer-bag in one hand. “Don’t try to kid us, or yourself,” she says. “We all know you’re not as powerless as you’d have us believe.”
“Maybe that was true three years ago,” he says with a sigh, “but my resources have dwindled considerably since then. All my old contacts, all my old allies...gone. Nothing left.”
“Except your considerable finances.”
“Yes, well,” he remarks with a rueful grin. “I was able to salvage something. Armani doesn’t exactly come cheap these days, either. But I still fail to see what you and your family want with me.”
“My employer,” Hungary responds, extracting a sleek laptop from the case and lifting its screen, “has a proposition for you. If it works, he’s willing to split the spoils.”
“And what are these spoils?” France asks, leaning across the table to glance at the charts and specs that Hungary is pulling up on the screen. At each new file, his blue eyes spark with anticipation.
“Everything,” Hungary says tightly. She shifts awkwardly in her seat; though used to dealing with France, she’s never particularly enjoyed it. “At least as much as you lost three years ago, perhaps more. And my employer is willing to share with you, provided that you assist him.”
France takes a cigarette out of his front pocket and lights it, inhaling deeply. He blows a ring of smoke out between his lips and sets on elbow down on the table. “What, exactly, does he expect me to do?”
“Your finances aren’t the only thing you have left, France,” Hungary says, her voice gentler than it was before. “You still have your influence, and your knowledge. Those are what he wants to use; those are instrumental to his plan.”
“If I’m instrumental, as you say, then it means he needs me,” France murmurs, his voice smug.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” is Hungary’s quick reply. “You are but one option in a series of similar plans. If you decline my offer, there’re others I can go to.”
“Like who?” France asks blandly. “Your employer isn’t very popular with the other family heads, as I recall. And there aren’t many freelancers like myself-only two, last time I checked. And I doubt your employer wants to work with the other.”
“No one would,” Hungary mutters, somewhat sadly. “It’s not as if he’s much use to anyone, is he?”
- - -
Hong Kong always takes well to American cities. New York, especially, fascinates him, with its fast-paced living and bright lights. He feels at home, here, or as much at home as one can feel on a different continent. That being said, he’s not sure he’s entirely comfortable with what he’s about to do. Still, he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door of the coffee shop, wishing himself luck.
The aromas hit him first-cacao beans and cinnamon and nutmeg and whipped cream. Then the sounds-the clatter of feet against linoleum, a waitress calling in her orders, the hiss of boiling water in kettles. Compared to that sensory overload, the vision itself is unimpressive-beiges, browns, and creams all blend together into a typical American café.
Hong Kong makes his way swiftly through the shop, taking in everything. He reaches up to power up the earpiece he’s wearing, and begins to murmur, ever so quietly, “I spot four, maybe five.”
A voice crackles to life in his ear. “Copy that, HK. Who are they?”
“Two from Braginski’s group,” the young man says, his voice dropping. He’s now positioned to look at the back of Poland and Lithuania’s heads. “No threat, however.”
The voice lets out a small laugh. “I’ll bet. There’re probably just trying to figure out what’s going on. So, who else?”
“The female Ottoman,” Hong Kong says. He tries to crane his neck to see who she’s sitting with, but he can’t make out a face.
”Damn,” his contact curses. “Try not to let her know you’re there, ok? She could be trouble.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Hong Kong mutters. “I know already.” His shoves his hands into his pockets and finally spots Canada and America in the far corner of the room.
“Kirkland’s boys are here,” he says, his voice dropping even lower.
“But we knew that. We expected it. So why not go over and introduce yourself?”
Hong Kong sighs, then replies, “Roger.” He presses the earpiece again, turning it off, and releases his breath abruptly before sucking it all back into his chest. He makes his way over to the two brother’s table, gathering his courage as he prepares to speak.
Embroiled in their own conversation, Canada and America do not notice him, at first. Eventually, however, Canada tugs on America’s sleeve and points to Hong Kong, who is waiting patiently, hands still in his pockets.
“Hong Kong?” America asks, bemused. “You’re the one...?”
“Hello,” Hong Kong says formally, with a small half-bow. “I have some information for your boss; I believe he’s expecting it.”
And thus begins the sprawling mafia au that I have created for the Hetalia verse. All characters function as ordinary people, not nations, though they use a mix of nation and personal names for simplicity's sake. Family/organizational groups are based off a number of things--common languages, ethnicities, and different historical empires. Character relationships and events are also based loosely on history, but its a fairly anachronistic mix so you'd be better off not trying to figure it out. Basically, I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you'll stick with this until the next chapter! &hearts If you did like it, watching this comm is a great way to keep up with this story. ;)
mafia au. in which america and canada arrive to pick up a package and end up leaving with an informant.
Den of Thieves
Chapter One: Coffee
As much of a new-age thinker as America is, there are certain traditions he refuses to break with. One of them is drinking a tall drink of coffee before the start of every mission.
“Al, we’re going to be late,” Canada says out of the side of his mouth as the two of them enter one of America’s favorite cafés. “Is this really necessary?”
America, who had reached up to whip the fedora off of his head as the entered, turned to his brother now with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Of course it is!” he says animatedly. “If I don’t have a grande frappuccino before we begin, we might as well throw in the towel now!”
“I think you’re exaggerating just a bit, Al.” Canada’s voice is as calm and staid as always, but America doesn’t even hear him as he heads for a table in one corner of the room. His brother follows him with a sigh, his hands finding their way to the pockets of his well-tailored blazer.
When the two of them are seated-America leaning back against the window, Canada with his back turned to the interior of the restaurant-and a waitress has taken their order, America steeples his fingers beneath his chin and looks up at Canada inquiringly. “So, d’you have any idea what this is all about?”
“A guess,” Canada replies, biting down on his lower lip. “He wasn’t exactly generous with the details.”
“He never is,” America grumbles, rolling his eyes. “You’d think he didn’t trust us, or something.”
“Because he doesn’t.” Canada shakes his head. “I don’t think he’ll ever fully trust you again, Al. Not after what you did.”
America throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, that? That was nothing.” He waves one hand airily. “He’ll get over it...eventually.”
Canada releases his breath in a sigh. “If you’re sure, Al.”
The waitress returns with two piping mugs of coffee, and America thanks her with a wink as he lifts his from her tray. Bringing the mug to his lips, he takes a long, deep sip before replying, “I’m always sure. Just like I’m sure that a mission that starts without coffee is no mission at all.”
His brother glances nervously down at his wristwatch. “Whatever you say, Alfred. But a mission that starts an hour late is an unsuccessful one.”
“Tch. Tell me something, Matt: what’s our success rate?”
“Ninety-seven percent,” Canada replies promptly. “You know that.”
“I do,” America affirms with a nod, “but what I’m saying is this: a hundred missions, and we’ve only ever messed up three. So stop worrying and relax. This is going to be a piece of cake.”
“I don’t think so,” Canada begins, but America cuts him off.
“Speaking of which, d’you think they serve cake here?”
Canada holds his head in his hands, wondering once more why he always has to be partnered with his boisterous brother. He’s also thinking of the three missions they have failed, and the common factor between them.
- - -
“Liet,” Poland says, dragging out the syllable, “hurry up.” He’s standing in the entrance of the coffee shop, arms crossed over his chest and the sun glaring into his bright green eyes. A few blocks behind him, Lithuania runs to catch up, his pale skin flushed red with exertion.
“I...asked...you...to...wait...!” He finally catches up, gasping for breath and clutching one side of his stomach. “Honestly, Feliks!”
“You’re just too slow,” Poland says, examining his fingernails primly. He turns to Lithuania with a toss of his head. “Seriously, why am I even here, again?”
“Reconnaissance,” Lithuania replies immediately. He continues, as though by rote, “Eduard said that Kirkland would be making his move, today-we have to see what’s going on. But you’re not supposed to do anything, right, Feliks?”
Poland shrugs his shoulders exaggeratedly. “Geez. You guys never let me do anything fun.”
“It isn’t supposed to be fun, Feliks,” Lithuania says apologetically. Poland just rolls his eyes. Sighing, Lithuania swings open the coffee shop’s door and enters, Poland close behind him. He had tried to make them looks as inconspicuous as possible-casual jeans and button-downs for the both of them-but with Poland hanging off of his arm and asking Lithuania’s opinion on the color of his shirt, he fears that they are just drawing attention to themselves.
“Liet, are you even listening to me?” Poland demands after a few moments of Lithuania’s silence.
“Huh...what?” Lithuania asks, shaking his head. Poland pouts up at him, hands settling onto his hips.
“Whatever, Liet. Let’s just go sit down, or something.” The two men head over to the collection of large, comfy armchairs that create a small ring in the center of the café. Poland sits down first, settling himself down and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Lithuania takes a seat beside him, pulling out a sleek silver cell phone as he does so. As Poland orders for the two of them, Lithuania sends a quick text message:
WE’RE IN POSITION; TELL US WHEN THINGS BEGIN TO MOVE.
“You know,” Poland says as their drinks arrive, “I really hate taking orders from that creepy bastard.”
“Eduard?” Lithuania asks, surprised. “Why?”
“Not him,” Poland snaps. “The big man. Why do we even stick around him, Liet?”
Lithuania sighs, the lines of his face drooping suddenly. “I don’t know, Feliks...he keeps us safe. If we broke away from him, who would protect us? We’ve got our own enemies, you know.”
“We could protect ourselves,” Poland insists, slurping up his caramel macchiato. “You know we could.”
“No,” Lithuania says, a sad lilt to his voice, “we couldn’t.”
Poland begins to object, but the cell phone in Lithuania’s hand lights up as it vibrates, so he has no chance to respond. Lithuania flips open the display.
ROGER. TARGET APPROCHING.
“Get ready,” Lithuania murmurs to Poland just as the cell phone lights up again.
AND, TORIS? BE CAREFUL. OBSERVE ONLY.
“Easy enough for him to say,” Poland scoffs, looking over Lithuania’s shoulder. “He just sits behind a computer, like, all day!”
- - -
Unnoticed in another corner of the coffee shop, an elegantly dressed man sits with one leg crossed over the other. His soft blonde hair is loose about his shoulders, moving with him as he turns his head from side to side. His arms gesture exaggeratedly as he speaks.
“My, my, my,” he says, his English thickly accented. “What did I do to deserve this pleasure?”
“You’ve done nothing,” the young woman facing him says disapprovingly. “Just like you’ve done nothing for the past three years, France.”
“Call me Francis,” he says automatically, but the smile on his lips droops as she frowns at him. He sighs, runs a hand through his fair hair. “What do you expect me to do, Elizaveta? I don’t exactly have an organization, anymore.”
She shakes her head dubiously as she sits down across from him. Her thick brown hair is braided over one shoulder; she holds a slim leather computer-bag in one hand. “Don’t try to kid us, or yourself,” she says. “We all know you’re not as powerless as you’d have us believe.”
“Maybe that was true three years ago,” he says with a sigh, “but my resources have dwindled considerably since then. All my old contacts, all my old allies...gone. Nothing left.”
“Except your considerable finances.”
“Yes, well,” he remarks with a rueful grin. “I was able to salvage something. Armani doesn’t exactly come cheap these days, either. But I still fail to see what you and your family want with me.”
“My employer,” Hungary responds, extracting a sleek laptop from the case and lifting its screen, “has a proposition for you. If it works, he’s willing to split the spoils.”
“And what are these spoils?” France asks, leaning across the table to glance at the charts and specs that Hungary is pulling up on the screen. At each new file, his blue eyes spark with anticipation.
“Everything,” Hungary says tightly. She shifts awkwardly in her seat; though used to dealing with France, she’s never particularly enjoyed it. “At least as much as you lost three years ago, perhaps more. And my employer is willing to share with you, provided that you assist him.”
France takes a cigarette out of his front pocket and lights it, inhaling deeply. He blows a ring of smoke out between his lips and sets on elbow down on the table. “What, exactly, does he expect me to do?”
“Your finances aren’t the only thing you have left, France,” Hungary says, her voice gentler than it was before. “You still have your influence, and your knowledge. Those are what he wants to use; those are instrumental to his plan.”
“If I’m instrumental, as you say, then it means he needs me,” France murmurs, his voice smug.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” is Hungary’s quick reply. “You are but one option in a series of similar plans. If you decline my offer, there’re others I can go to.”
“Like who?” France asks blandly. “Your employer isn’t very popular with the other family heads, as I recall. And there aren’t many freelancers like myself-only two, last time I checked. And I doubt your employer wants to work with the other.”
“No one would,” Hungary mutters, somewhat sadly. “It’s not as if he’s much use to anyone, is he?”
- - -
Hong Kong always takes well to American cities. New York, especially, fascinates him, with its fast-paced living and bright lights. He feels at home, here, or as much at home as one can feel on a different continent. That being said, he’s not sure he’s entirely comfortable with what he’s about to do. Still, he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door of the coffee shop, wishing himself luck.
The aromas hit him first-cacao beans and cinnamon and nutmeg and whipped cream. Then the sounds-the clatter of feet against linoleum, a waitress calling in her orders, the hiss of boiling water in kettles. Compared to that sensory overload, the vision itself is unimpressive-beiges, browns, and creams all blend together into a typical American café.
Hong Kong makes his way swiftly through the shop, taking in everything. He reaches up to power up the earpiece he’s wearing, and begins to murmur, ever so quietly, “I spot four, maybe five.”
A voice crackles to life in his ear. “Copy that, HK. Who are they?”
“Two from Braginski’s group,” the young man says, his voice dropping. He’s now positioned to look at the back of Poland and Lithuania’s heads. “No threat, however.”
The voice lets out a small laugh. “I’ll bet. There’re probably just trying to figure out what’s going on. So, who else?”
“The female Ottoman,” Hong Kong says. He tries to crane his neck to see who she’s sitting with, but he can’t make out a face.
”Damn,” his contact curses. “Try not to let her know you’re there, ok? She could be trouble.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Hong Kong mutters. “I know already.” His shoves his hands into his pockets and finally spots Canada and America in the far corner of the room.
“Kirkland’s boys are here,” he says, his voice dropping even lower.
“But we knew that. We expected it. So why not go over and introduce yourself?”
Hong Kong sighs, then replies, “Roger.” He presses the earpiece again, turning it off, and releases his breath abruptly before sucking it all back into his chest. He makes his way over to the two brother’s table, gathering his courage as he prepares to speak.
Embroiled in their own conversation, Canada and America do not notice him, at first. Eventually, however, Canada tugs on America’s sleeve and points to Hong Kong, who is waiting patiently, hands still in his pockets.
“Hong Kong?” America asks, bemused. “You’re the one...?”
“Hello,” Hong Kong says formally, with a small half-bow. “I have some information for your boss; I believe he’s expecting it.”
And thus begins the sprawling mafia au that I have created for the Hetalia verse. All characters function as ordinary people, not nations, though they use a mix of nation and personal names for simplicity's sake. Family/organizational groups are based off a number of things--common languages, ethnicities, and different historical empires. Character relationships and events are also based loosely on history, but its a fairly anachronistic mix so you'd be better off not trying to figure it out. Basically, I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you'll stick with this until the next chapter! &hearts If you did like it, watching this comm is a great way to keep up with this story. ;)