The Last of the Platinum Blonde Bombshells

[fic] "The World As It Should Be," Squalo-centric gen

2009-11-30T18:23:13Z

this is how i treat a great piece of filipino literature: i use it in fic ^^;

disclaimer: i really, really love this poem (read the full piece here) and i'm sure other people do too and i'm really sorry but i had to do this. the idea's been percolating for so long and tonight it demanded to be poured out.

i know the poem talks about a "she," but when you hear the words "or that he left her aureoled in flame", isn't squalo the first person that comes to mind??

...don't deny it D:

The World As It Should Be

It was a sacrilege, the neighbors cried,
The way she shattered every mullioned pane
To let a firebrand in.

He made fun of his teachers, he messed up campus property, he fought with other students on a regular basis, he got raving drunk on school grounds, he threw all his books into the fountain and he peed on the school founder's statue. These were just some of the things that Squalo Superbi should have been expelled for.

But he was a Superbi by blood. His father was the head of the Superbi family, which stood in firm allegiance with the powerful Vongola family. And he was spoken for by Dino Cavallone, his classmate, firstborn of the Cavallone don. These were everything that kept Squalo Superbi from being expelled.

His teachers rebelled constantly against being forced to put up with him, and everyone knew it was just a matter of time before he left school on his own. Only his father's stern presence kept him from going anywhere. But as Squalo Superbi grew older and wilder, people were sure not even that would be enough to hold him down.

Dino Cavallone couldn't say that he and Squalo Superbi were friends, exactly. Their families were very closely tied, as all the families connected with the Vongola clan were, and boys of the same age from such families tended to find each other in the same small spaces, whether they liked it or not.

Squalo Superbi was often at family meetings or social functions - a few steps behind his father, and just a few steps ahead of his father's bodyguards. He often came with a scowl and a snarl, complained loudly that he was bored, then stomped out with great fanfare in the middle of a discussion or event. Everyone knew he was going to get hell for it later; the head of the family that prized itself for fostering world-class assassins did not tolerate misbehavior, especially not from a blood member. But the kicks and blows and curses never ended his lifelong habit of walking out on formal affairs.

Beside his father, the young Squalo Superbi looked frail - slim and silver-haired, exactly as his mother was. But there was no denying the eyes. Those were Superbi eyes, eyes that sought power. Eyes that tolerated nothing but the way reality should be.

In the exclusive school they attended, Dino Cavallone shared some classes with Superbi Squalo, but the classroom was not where they most often met. They met outside, while Dino was slacking off and Squalo was steering clear of some disciplinary committee or other.

Often Dino would find Squalo either training with his sword, or reading a book. And when it was the latter, Squalo made a show of hiding the book or throwing it away.

"What do we have for today?" Dino asked, lazily smiling because he really didn't have any other expression for the other boy.

"Nothing," Squalo snapped. Dino caught a closer look at the cover between the boy's long fingers: it was an old book of poetry from around the world.

They were not friends, but there was one true thing Dino Cavallone knew about him: Squalo hated to study, but he loved to learn. He loved reading about history, old wars especially. Like any other boy, Dino supposed, starry-eyed at stories about heroes and villains, conquerors and kings - though his thirst for knowledge was certainly not limited to that.

He would say that one needs to educate oneself in order to become a stronger fighter, and a stronger person - though that was true, that was beside the point.

"You've been reading that book for a week now," Dino pointed out, amused. "It's not even required for class."

"I'm not reading this for class." He threw the book off to a short distance, to show it meant nothing to him. "Only whiny idiots like you want to please your damn teachers."

"What, me? Study?" Dino chuckled.

They were not friends, but they found themselves in each other's company as often as if they were. For Dino, not being pushed away at every opportunity already meant they shared a sort of bond - especially for someone like Squalo Superbi, who fascinated him.

Squalo claimed to choose all his paths in life, but his destiny hung over him like a sharp unyielding sword. He would never find happiness, but he would always search for it.

It would take Dino Cavallone many years before he could think of all those reasons, and figure out exactly what about the sight of the silver-haired boy made him sad.

"If you're not going to use it for school, what are you going to do with all the stuff that's in your head?" Dino asked.

His question was met with a huge, predatory grin.

"Take over the world," Squalo answered, "what else?"

***

They tried in vain
To understand how one so carved from pride
And glassed in dream could have so flung aside
Her graven days,

He was ruthless, murderous, wild - after all of this, he was still not considered a blight on the Superbi family's name. No one wondered why.

It was common knowledge in the underworld that the Superbi family favored the strong. Skilled fighters were given their choice of jobs, on top of prestige and wealth, while less skilled fighters were treated as no more than cannon fodder. If you respected discipline, honor and strength above all else, your place was with the Superbi. They would protect you, give you everything you want and nurture the killer in you - all you had to do was throw away your heart and put your life in their hands.

And Squalo's victims were proof that the boy had all of the things the Superbi family treasured. They were killed in honorable duels observed by mafia swordsmen through the generations. They were killed neatly, with great skill, and with little waste. They were killed without mercy.

Genius, no less. Except Squalo had no authority to kill.

He was a teenager who had dropped out of school and run away from home, to embark alone on a journey to become the strongest living swordsman in the world. He had not allowed himself to be raised according to the traditions of his family - had not risen in rank as any honorable Superbi would, until he was ready to represent the family in games of skill.

As such, he certainly did not have the authority to challenge other swordsmen to duels, even if he did not present himself as a member of the Superbi family. The other swordsmen agreed to his challenges because they knew him, and besides being known as a magnificent punk, he had also built up a considerable reputation independent of the by-laws of the Superbi clan.

But it was only a matter of time before the families decided that enough was enough; he was little more than a child, and Squalo Superbi must be brought home. A one-armed swordsmaster named Tyr, who was then head of the Varia, sought him out, rounded him up with the help of the Vongola's finest, then brought him back, all as instructed.

Tyr stood with the heads of the Vongola and Superbi clans as the fate of the boy named Squalo was being decided. He studied the boy with the power-hungry eyes, memorized every small movement of his wiry body.

"Do you understand why you've been brought before this council today?" the Vongola Ninth asked, in his perpetually calm and gentle voice.

"I wasn't able to kill you all first," the boy sneered. After that he was taken away - not just yet to the medium-security Vindice prisons, but to a holding cell that was nearly as secure. If that had not happened, at one point he would have yelled loudly that he was bored, then walked out of the gathering on his own.

The boy's father did not say a word to object when his son was being taken away. Did not even blink.

The heads of the involved families met to discuss what must be done about the little rogue. He was strong, and the mafia needed a strong fighter. But how to keep him in line? For clearly, not even the years of methodical beatings he received from his father were enough.

It was Tyr the Sword Emperor who proposed the most viable plan. This was the one true thing he knew about Squalo Superbi: He was intolerant of weakness, in himself and in others. He tended to train himself into exhaustion, or until he had mastered a specific technique, whichever came first. And so, he had more control over his young body than many of the others Tyr knew.

His skill was carved in his many scars, his controlled movements, his intent glare - and most of all, in the way he consciously kept from trembling in conditioned fear, when he was brought before his father again.

Tyr said he a good use for Squalo's intolerance of weakness. So, at his recommendation, young Squalo Superbi was placed in the Varia as a trainer. He would be under Tyr's command, and while Tyr lived to keep an eye on him, his skills would be further refined, and he would not be allowed to misbehave.

Of course, this plan relied on the Sword Emperor living to keep an eye on him.

They would ask him later how he could do it to his own teacher - the man who had saved him from being thrown to the Vindice prisons, where he deserved to languish. The man who had taught him everything he knew about the sword, so that he may add it to his own pool of knowledge.

Why did he do it? Was it simply for the title of Sword Emperor? Was he truly a monster?

Oh, he would gloat about it - how he, a stripling, had beaten one-armed Tyr, greatest swordsman alive and fierce leader of the fearsome Varia. How he would insist that they had fought in a clean and proper duel, even if his opponent clearly had the advantage of age and experience.

- And it would be the truth. He had challenged Tyr to a duel, and Tyr had accepted. The battle had been close, very close, but he won.

The Sword Emperor would not have agreed if he had not thought that the battle was going to be fair.

It was over. Now Squalo was free. Now he no longer needed to coddle the milksops that made up the lower ranks of the Varia, no longer needed to play at patience and calm, when he knew he was stronger even than the best swordsman that the revered Vongola family could find.

He no longer had any reason to stay. He had no obligation to explain. And he had no qualms about speaking ill of the man who had trained him, now better known as the man who had died by his sword. After all, he was ruthless, murderous and wild - a killer without a heart, or so he was recognized.

The first thing he did when he left the Varia was to cut off his left arm. He would say later that it was to better understand Tyr's excellence with the sword, the techniques of the only man ever to have almost beaten him - but it would forever be a strange reason.

Squalo charged into his next several duels still bleeding and howling with pain and rage. It seemed then that he would never stop winning.

***

or why she dared profane
The bread and wine of life for some insane
Moment with him. The scandal never died.

He had not suspected that on that night, only one of many empty, ordinary nights, his life was going to change.

The dive had an Italian noun as its name: in these dark corners of the world, it was a covert sign that the owner had ties with the Italian mafia. Otherwise they would name it something more generic, like "Lady Luck" or "Denny's."

By the time Squalo had arrived, the chaos was ending. A man was standing alone in the middle of a sea of bodies, some dead and some barely breathing. He glanced over at Squalo standing by the doorway. And for the first time in his life, Squalo found himself rooted to where he stood.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, lean - he did not look at all like a mafioso, though he certainly looked like he could deal as much chaos as if he were. Mafia moved in small circles all over the world, and if the man was indeed mafia, it was no surprise that he and Squalo would find themselves standing together in the same out-of-the-way plot of land, whether they liked it or not.

The man had dark hair and dark eyes, like Squalo's father did - but in those eyes burned something that he had been looking for. He did not know he had been looking for them before now.

At that moment, the young Squalo Superbi was filled with a feeling he would never be able to describe, not in his entire life. It was the first and only time such a feeling would come to him. He felt it most distinctly as remembering something he thought he had long lost, in his seemingly endless quest for perfection. It was the end goal, the final objective - the reason for a lifetime of restlessness.

It robbed him of sleep. He regretted over and over the precise second when he stepped out of the way just so the man could walk past him. Unhurried, the taller, older man made his way into the stunned crowd that had gathered outside the bar. The crowd had parted for him, scattering in all directions, and to Squalo it seemed he had shone in his isolation, brilliant with something blazing from within.

He was like a demon from a storybook, something that existed above and beyond human understanding. Fire and spirit burned up the spaces in which he moved, and his every word, every movement etched itself deep into the young Superbi's imagination.

Squalo should not have let the man go. And so he spent the next few days tracking him. He had picked up the talent of sniffing out targets from years of hunting them down in order to challenge them to duels.

(In the streets, they would call it "stalking." In the Varia they would call it "surveillance.")

It was not terribly difficult to find him, anyway. It seemed he was always in some sort of trouble. Usually he would start it, and usually he would finish it, knocking down his opponents with pistols or bare hands.

The man had no technique whatsoever when killing. He was not an expert marksman, even if he boldly carried his pair of pistols around in broad daylight. He just pointed and shot. He killed to get people out of his way - fast, efficient, messy as hell.

Squalo was captivated.

Finally, one day, this man faced several hitmen from the Sicilian mafia. Squalo found himself wondering why the Varia had not been sent in. If this exceptionally difficult bastard had troubled any of the Sicilian families, shouldn't the Varia be deployed?

But there was no time to mull it over. The man was facing a grim situation, surrounded by five elite soldiers all at once. Clearly he needed help. And clearly Squalo had to get in there and save the man's ass.

The man took one look at the silver-haired teenager who had drawn a sword out of nowhere and jumped into the fray - then proceeded to ignore him completely. They never worked together to get out of that bind: Squalo had his targets, the man had his.

And when the fight was over, the man simply started walking away.

Being brushed aside annoyed him, certainly... but for some reason, Squalo wasn't in the mood to bite the man's head off, the way he would do to any other ungrateful stronzo. He somehow felt that if he and the man came to blows, he would lose -and the greatest swordsman in the world couldn't understand why or how he knew that for sure.

"What do you think you're doing?" the man asked over his shoulder.

Squalo, who never minced words, answered, "Following you. Got a problem with that?!"

The man said nothing and never looked back over his shoulder again.

Thus Squalo Superbi threw away his heart and put his life in the hands of a complete stranger.

***

But no one guessed that loveliness would claim
Her soul's cathedral burned by his desires
Or that he left her aureoled in flame…

It was probably where the whole thing was headed to begin with.

This was what Squalo said to himself, as he lay alone inside a medium-security prison cell in the Vendicare, every inch of his body in agony. He had not fully recovered from the battle for the Vongola rings... but he was guessing he wasn't exactly put in this place to recuperate.

The Vindice never killed - although they sometimes sentenced their captives to fates worse than death. It depended on the severity of the crimes, and on how unpopular the criminal happened to be at the moment.

If "worse than death" was what was waiting for him at the end, Squalo said to himself, so be it.

Squalo Superbi had done what he had set out to do, which was to serve the man called Xanxus with everything he had. More than that, it was to serve what Xanxus stood for - the world he had seen reflected in the raging files of the man's soul.

Even if his dream was ground to dust, he had seen reality as it should be. It was a world of heroes and villains, conquerors and kings.

And he was, in the end, a Superbi.

Despite himself, he wondered what his own father must think of him. He had lived as a Superbi should live, giving his all in pursuit of strength. Someone had stripped him of the title "Sword Emperor" in a fight in which he'd had all the advantage. It was by no means a bad ending.

Then the door opened.

His first instinct was to attack whoever came in. But the weight of the complicated shackles on his arms and feet reminded him that it was futile. He forced himself to remain calm and still, regulated his breathing to seem as if he'd fallen asleep.

A familiar voice greeted him. He did not answer. There were more than one people inside the room, but he sensed that none of them was a threat.

Someone set a chair down beside the pallet he lay in. Someone else sat down on it. This someone spoke to him, in the voice that had greeted him first.

"Well, Squalo. What do we have for today?"

Squalo kept his eyes shut. One of the downsides of being in a medium-security cell was that you were still allowed high-profile visitors, and there was no guarantee that any of them would be a welcome sight.

The visitor spoke on and on as if he didn't care if Squalo was listening. Clearly he was there for the noble purpose of keeping Squalo updated on his teammates in the Varia, the Vongola brats, the goings-on in the outside world. The people who had entered the cell with the visitor maintained a respectful silence while he spoke, unacknowledged.

The visitor was Squalo's age, but there was a familiar lilt in his voice, and through Squalo's closed eyes he could still see that boyish lazyass smile. He spoke of Squalo being pardoned, of being considered for an official position in the Varia. It wasn't clear what position it would be exactly - but since he already had extensive field experience, it was likely a command post.

Then, after an eternity, one of the other men in the room whispered "Boss, it's time to go." The visitor stopped speaking. Squalo could sense him standing up, and the chair being drawn back and out of the cell.

"I found this among my old school things," the visitor said to him. "I think it belongs to you."

Squalo felt the visitor place something light on the bed beside him.

When the visitor was gone, and the footsteps had faded, Squalo finally opened his eyes again. He turned his head toward the gift he had been left: an old book of poetry from around the world.

Both his arms were restrained, but his one good hand was free to move its fingers. He picked up the book and turned the yellowing pages until he found a particular passage, which brought back a hint of a feeling he thought he had long lost:

And seeing nothing but her blackened spires,
The town condemned this girl who loved too well
and found her heaven in the depths of hell.

just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in~

2009-11-04T03:12:27Z

updated my master list with my three newest reborn fics. there are still quite a few pot fics i haven't listed, but since they were posted before the tagging system, they're a bit of a pain to rummage for. those can wait :3

in the meantime, i spaz a bit about the two latest PoT chapters, because omg. i'm sorry if i'm not all that familiar with the newer characters after shitenhouji (whom i barely recognize, as it is), but RIKKAI!! thank you, sanada and niou especially, for re-establishing yourselves in my life. i am now having niou/atobe fic ideas that i presume the rest of fandom will forgive me for, because it's now soooo damn easy XD

also changed my lj layout. the "blond bombshell" one that nonartisan made for me was gorgeous and it was home for years, but photobucket died on me. so, shifting to a free layout. it's easier and i'm a total klutz when it comes to coding anyway.

hope everyone's doing good!

[fic] Second Chance | D59, sorta

2009-10-08T00:49:26Z

for mienai_hoshi. i'm sorry, this is probably a very old fic/doujin plot, but it only occurred to me recently and it demanded some ficcing XD;

(hugs len)

These were the very first things that Dino had noticed about the boy:

White gold hair.

And eyes like fire.

"Stop looking at me like that," the boy snapped at him. It made him sit up and blink.

"Like what?"

The boy's eyes narrowed. He pouted, seemingly without being aware of it. He might have thought he was scowling, which only made it all the more adorable. If it was indeed intended to be a scowl, it was the most unsuccessful scowl Dino had ever seen.

The boy tried to read again. But soon enough an annoyed grumble made its way up the boy's throat, as he realized he wasn't going to be able to read in peace. He wasn't in a position to tell his host to bugger off either, seeing as this was his library and it was his book the boy was holding in his hand.

"I'm not looking at you, Gokudera," Dino calmly assured him.

In answer the boy stood, tucked the book under his arm, and made his way to the balcony.

Dino didn't begrudge him that; it was brighter there, anyway. Dino liked to read there himself, if it wasn't too windy. It was a bit windy, but it didn't seem like that mattered to his young guest. What mattered was getting away from his pesky host and his host's pesky habit of staring.

But his host wasn't exactly glued to his seat either. When the boy left for the balcony, Dino followed. He stood, leaning back against the marble bannister, while the boy sat cross-legged on the cold floor.

The boy was pointedly ignoring him, as evidenced by his complete disregard of Dino's presence, while he fished in his pockets for a lighter and a cigarette.

"If you feel like I'm hovering, I'm sorry. The Ninth asked me to keep an eye on you," Dino said to the boy. And it wasn't a lie, exactly. The Ninth had asked him to put up the boy while he was in "sabbatical," also known as long-range attack training, back in Italy. Nothing was said about how much attention the boy had to be given.

"What for?" The boy lit the stick protruding from between his lips. "I'm not going to kill myself or anything." The flicker lit up his eyes briefly, and Dino had to smile.

"Is that a promise?"

The boy glared. "Why would I get myself killed NOW? I'm in training! The Vongola Tenth needs a good right-hand man!"

A right-hand man...

How passionate he was about his Tenth, Dino thought sadly to himself. How single-minded. There was so much more to him, and so much more to his life, but he was ready to give it all up, everything, for what he believed to be greater than himself.

Why would he want to get himself killed NOW? Why indeed. If he had been asked this question a few months ago, when he and the young Vongola Tenth had not yet met, what would he have said?

A right-hand man. It seemed that Gokudera Hayato's whole life was geared toward this purpose - this desperate belief. That he was important to something or someone else.

Looking at Gokudera Hayato, Dino Cavallone would find himself thinking of another teenage boy, from long ago, with white gold hair and eyes like fire. Another boy, whose whole existence relied on the faith that he was important to something or someone else.

"Dino."

The Ninth had looked at him and seen through him. His smile was the smile of someone who had lost something very dear to him as well, and knew how it felt.

"This boy will only follow his own heart."

Gokudera Hayato was no Superbi Squalo. And he would never be. But it was so strange, so strange...

"That is a good thing, this time."

...that Dino would feel like this when he looked at the boy.

He was so close. They would not be this close very often. But already he was thinking of ways to make himself more indispensable to this boy, this awkward foundling, and to whatever he had given himself to. Regardless of his other responsibilities, Dino would make sure that he would guide this one down the right path. He would do everything in his power.

And someday he would be able to stand this close without wanting to reach out and touch the boy's hair. Just to see if it would feel the same on his fingertips. Without wanting to lean down and whisper something tender, something the boy would never understand even if it was in his mother tongue:

Caro mio. Perdonami.

He didn't know why he was so afraid of this feeling. Of what it was doing to him.

He just knew he could never lose sight of it again.

Not again.

KHR vs Project Arms

2009-09-13T12:44:30Z

i... lost my first writeup of this. oh well. i hope we can all settle for the crappy rewrite.

i'm sure this is nothing new anyway, but for the sake of the people i've been squeeing to, i'm finally getting it out into the open :D

i'm sure KHR has been compared to other j-media (i dunno the right term for this, it seems to pay tribute to a lot of different j-media by mashing up cliches?) such as one piece, kingdom hearts, etc, and comparisons with the (kinda old) award-winning shounen series Project Arms are unavoidable.

and i suppose it was already apparent to shounen manga aficionadi in the beginning... but for people in the english-speaking fandom who don't read a lot of manga to begin with (such as myself), the resemblances between KHR and PA came as a pleasant surprise.

so, on this post we are going to have a small comparison between some of the main characters of:

and

[images taken from random sources off the web...i'm afraid i was in too much of a hurry to keep track. i'll try to replace these with proper screengrabs sometime, but in the meantime if any of these images was used in your site and credit is in order, please let me know.]

SHINGU Hayato Arms: left arm (and gokudera wants to be the "right hand," GET IT?!) angsty hot-headed white-haired transfer student, comes to new school with unexplained grudge against protagonist classmate. ends up being protagonist's head cheerleader and best friend. * i love the balance of angst and pure fury this character has. he's still a crazy messed-up kid, but he's definitely no victim. i can't help but squee a little every time he comes on.	GOKUDERA Hayato angsty hot-headed white-haired transfer student, comes to new school with unexplained grudge against protagonist classmate. ends up being protagonist's head cheerleader and ~~willing love slave~~ dedicated underling. * i think i've elaborated enough on this character XD the resemblances between this hayato and THAT hayato are just so striking that i enjoy it whenever they come to the fore.
TOMOE Takeshi Arms: legs (yes) coward, weakling, avoidant with v.low self-esteem. smart, however, with good sense of self-preservation. also bears a pair of the most kickass (literally?) "arms" in the show. * i laughed. he's so different from the KHR takeshi, and yet the physical resemblance is undeniable. there was even a time i think that he tried to jump off the school roof, but couldn't because he was too chicken XD can't help but feel the variations are deliberate. i have a little more respect for KHR takeshi's characterization now. PS: i call him "hot legs".	YAMAMOTO Takeshi self-assured, outgoing, popular, capable. driven to be useful, admittedly not very smart. will not run from clear and present danger even if it hits him in the face. * designed to be sexy, clearly. i think now that it's a stroke of genius that amano decided to make him a confident and balanced character, in contrast to the weakling sub-hero on which he was (presumably) based. either way the takeshi character acts as a great buffer for the "right hand man", and an awesome support for the protagonist. PS: i also call him "hot legs".
KURUMA Kei Arms: eyes powerful but bitter loner. formerly an enslaved killing machine, now driven to survive alone no matter what. adopted wholeheartedly by protagonist and his gang of two, becomes a grudging ally. * her angst, it is mighty. and yet, i love how the protagonist and his pals seriously act like they don't have time to suspect her of betrayal XD when she bitches about her power always taking away the people she gets close to, they just go ahead and prove that they can't be gotten rid of that easily. still a potential enemy, but at the moment under the spell of her adoptive "family's" unconditional acceptance.	ROKUDOU Mukuro powerful, charismatic and elusive. experimented on as a child by his own mafia family. kills them all except for two minions and starts up his own world domination scheme. adopted wholeheartedly by protagonist (and nobody else, iirc), becomes a grudging ally. * like kuruma kei, definitely has his own agenda. but unlike kuruma kei, possibly completely insane. charisma makes a big difference; i can honestly not see kuruma kei as a formidable opponent of takatsuki ryou precisely because she lacks the ambition, the cunning and the leadership potential. mukuro, on the other hand, displays all the characteristics required of a decent arch-enemy. also, as for the use of the eyes - as i understand it, kei's eyes allow her to predict her opponents' moves and neutralize/mirror their powers, as well as heal her own injuries. very useful, but mostly defensive. mukuro's "hell eye" gives him access to a variety of powers, the limits of which are as yet unknown.
TAKATSUKI Ryou Arms: right arm head "arms", leads the other arms in a rebellion against the people who made them that way to begin with. very self-sufficient and strong-willed, with strong sense of loyalty to his friends, constantly struggling to master the malicious rogue AI which threatens to take over his body. * honestly, after today's shounen manga trends, i found a non-antihero/non-idiot savant protagonist most refreshing. much like the fudou akira of old, the good-hearted ryou has a dark side that he has to temper (i.e. the arms AI "jabberwock"), which constantly tries to break him by invoking his love for his family and friends.	SAWADA Tsunayoshi coward, weakling, avoidant with v.low self-esteem. beloved by murphy's law, never seems to get a break. is nonetheless very loyal to the people he calls his "family," and subconsciously fast growing into his ubermensch legacy. * see, he actually resembles PA takeshi here, it's just like he and yamamoto were PA's ryou and takeshi with their personalities swapped XD interesting deviation, and still quite endearing... and compared to the ever-avoidant PA!takeshi, has quite a few moments of genuine greatness.

ps: i only get to watch Project Arms on local cable on weekends, and i tend to miss episodes if i forget the time/happen to be out of the house.

so i would like to give my love to all the little sisters out there who recap episodes of anime they don't like very much for their big sisters who are out of town for work or just really, really forgetful XD ♥

[fic] [khr] The Don's Shadow

2009-09-13T12:36:05Z

hi. i've been away ♥

i'm sorry, but i haven't been up to date on what's been going on. and after my next post, i might not post again for a while. it's been difficult to stay online, there's too much to do. if anyone needs me though, feel free to poke me via a PM or LJ. if i can be around, i will be.

***

once upon a time, i broached an idea to izkariote about dino from the future wearing his old outfit. um, yeah, this sort of builds on that. also, this fic was written for khursten, who requested dino/romario a loooong time ago.

sorry bb, it's no casablanca, it's nothing explicit and I CAN'T LAY OFF THE ANGST, but HI. IT'S FOR YOUUU :D

ps: this song. i love it. although the lyrics don't quite apply to the scenario (they're bound to apply somewhere. dino/gokudera for example? *NUDGES AGGY*) the melody is just the right kind of despondent i need.

I'm amused that people think of running a mafia family as similar to running a business. It's not. Maybe it's the black suits that give that impression.

Running a mafia family is looking after several interests, legal or otherwise, simultaneously. Naturally, this means you're outside normal business process. Naturally, you are above anything that could bring normal businesses down.

Paper trails all end somewhere. And that "somewhere" is never at the mafia don's doorstep. The name of the mafia don is one whispered in the dark, cried aloud in the middle of a wide open field outside of town that doubles as a graveyard for those who dare to cross him. It's spoken only in soundproof rooms, and only in reverence and fear. It never reaches the newspapers, and if it does, it's usually the name of a petty turf boss who calls himself a "don": a fall guy handpicked for his face and his loyalty.

The true mafia don is someone who doesn't exist. He is the leader of all the things that don't exist; the unseen that makes everything else move.

The mafia don knows everything about shadows. We wear nice suits, but we're not afraid to get them bloody. We smile and speak in calm voices while we say we're going to murder your children if you don't do as we say.

He doesn't have to show his face. In some cases, he has no face. I've often had to introduce myself as the "shadow" of Dino Cavallone, for a number of reasons. Sometimes, I simply have a more intimidating face, and one is called for in certain transactions. Sometimes, Dino Cavallone has more important things to attend to.

During his early years as head of the Cavallone family, it was a well-known fact that the head of the family was a boy barely out of his teens - he played on this mystique, by seldom showing himself to anyone except other mafia heads. It suited him: he could go round as he wished, just another rich boy having fun, flaunting his wealth. The mafia don is not spoken of in daylight, and back then, he could walk around without needing to behave like someone to be feared.

It was all right: he was a boy, still on the way to getting used to power.

But the boy had blood on his hands.

He was a boy whom the shadows loved. But the more we tried to protect him, the worse it became.

It wasn't always the blood of the guilty; that came with the territory. He would allow no one to take on his responsibilities. More and more, he pushed himself to suit his position, to become the leader he was expected to be.

Over the years, how many innocents has he ordered kidnapped and tortured?

How many family and friendly ties has he broken to ensure the safety of his own people above all else?

How many times have I seen that killing look on his face?

Now he is no longer a boy barely out of his teens. He is a man, a mafia don, and the clothes left behind by his father fit him now, and the life bringing light into his eyes has faded.

His face, which doesn't exist for the rest of the world, has changed.

I know, because I've been with him all this time.

One morning he woke up unable to recognize himself in the mirror. And the many days after that, he labored to live with the stranger who looked like him, but bore too much guilt to belong to the same boy who had walked carefree in broad daylight.

For a time I thought the Millefiore had succeeded in killing the child that he was, and only the man remained to watch over the rest of us. For the longest time, day in and day out, I saw him sitting in his chair leaning forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of his face as if in prayer, listening grimly to reports from all over about markets crashing, cities burning, heads of state waging war upon each other or dying in a variety of "mysterious causes."

He speaks, and the shadows scramble to do his bidding. A snap of his fingers, and people fall to their knees. He would never let the family crumble, no matter how many losses it takes, or sacrifices it makes - he would never break.

One day there was word of children appearing out of thin air in the middle of the Millefiore battle plans, causing havoc within the ranks. And I found him looking in the mirror again. Intently this time, searching for something.

"They won't recognize me," he said. "I've changed, haven't I?"

I didn't answer.

"Maybe there's a way to soften the blow." An empty smile, perfected with many years of practice. "I still have that old jacket from before."

He didn't need to say anything else. I bowed and excused myself. The outfitters on our payroll had his measurements. He's grown taller, a bit broader about the shoulders, since the last time he wore that favorite jacket... but there were not many other adjustments to be made besides that.

When the clothes came back, and he put them on, I saw something I had apparently failed to see, in this closeness: he was the same boy as the one we loved a lifetime ago. Only thinner, more worn, and more stretched out.

"Almost like the good old days," he said softly to the empty smile in the mirror.

He glanced over at me with a question: Is this good enough?

I reached up and brushed a few more locks out of place, gently, made sure that his hair covered most of his eyes.

No one knows the shadows better than a mafia don.

And no one knows a mafia don better than his own shadow.

[fic] [Endtimes] The Hand that Feeds | Maes and Abel Mordechai, gen, PG-13

2009-04-15T11:04:33Z

taking a break from anime ficcing - this is a short something written for izkariote, based on her Endtimes universe. i haven't had the chance to read everything, but i've enjoyed what i've been able to read so far~

so you remember that meme where you tell your friends which characters remind you of them? pam said that she associates me with maes mordechai so i went "who's maes mordechai?" and she explained, and i said i wanted to write maes fic, so here it is. and here we are XD

not even sure if this is OC hahah but i have pam's permission to post this, so i dare presume it's acceptable ^^ this particular drabble @ pam's writing journal provides a nice introduction to maes and abel mordechai.

and after that lengthy intro...

The Hand that Feeds

Abel woke to find the other side of the bed empty.

He knew he was supposed to stay put, but the cold and the darkness of the early morning would not let him rest. Sleep would not take him again, not while he lay alone.

Though he had been here for a few months, the child was still not used to this house - this place that seemed so large and so isolated from the rest of the world.

All the rooms were filled with quiet things that seemed to lie in wait. He ventured from the bedroom cautiously.

He found what he was looking for in the storage shed. The door was closed, but the door was made of wood, and the wood had spaces between the planks, large enough for little eyes to see through.

The noises were muted by the closed doors, but in the absolute silence they were inescapable.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. It would have been as regular as clockwork, but a long pause made Abel dead still. He was only able to move again when the sounds resumed.

Thwack. Thwack. The man who had adopted him was inside the shed, dressed for the cold morning, his back turned to the closed door. He was holding a large knife, he was hacking away at...

Something.

It seemed to be a piece of meat, hanging from an enormous hook dangling from the low ceiling. It took Abel a while of staring, and a while of convincing himself he would not be caught spying, before he could make out what it was -

Two days ago, a stray dog wandered into the yard, hungry and weak. While bringing out food for it, Abel tried to pat it on the head. The dog bit his hand and ran off with the meal.

The man who had adopted Abel came home that night to find his charge bleeding. He demanded a description of the dog. He was smiling and laughing, as usual, making light of the injury even as he treated it, saying he was glad Abel didn't cry, because boys shouldn't cry over every little scrape.

Abel wondered what had happened to the dog. He needn't wonder anymore.

It was hanging from a large hook inside the storage shed.

The dog's limbs had been severed clean. Its guts protruded from the many large gashes on its torso, its tongue lolled out of its wide open jaws. Its teeth still looked menacing in that state. Its eyeballs were cut out of its sockets; they must be lying somewhere on the floor of the shed.

Abel did not even know how it had gotten there. Had the man killed the dog, kept the corpse hidden somewhere, then dragged it back to the house for this? That would make sense, wouldn't it? Abel thought - the man must have found and killed this dog a while ago.

That would also explain those nights when he woke to find the man's side of the bed empty. The man would enter the house before first light, loud and hearty as ever, calling the boy out of his cold half-empty bed and down for breakfast. He had been hunting for the dog. After that, he had been down here, with his large knife.

The man stopped cutting away at the meat. Breathing heavily, otherwise not making a sound, he stepped back from his handiwork. The silence bore down on Abel like an oppressive weight.

Then it moved.

The corpse moved.

Abel could not take his eyes off the weak writhing of the remnants hanging from the ceiling. He wanted to scream.

He wanted to run.

And the man with the knife stood there, unmoving, face turned slightly to one side, as if listening.

Abel forced his heart to calm down. He turned away and sat with his back against the door, hands over his ears. Calm down. Calm down. This was not happening.

He almost wanted the hacking sounds to start again. He wanted the man to come out and find him. Anything that would end this and turn it into something else.

The man's hand, the one holding the knife, was covered in blood. Of all the images in his mind, that one burned the brightest. He remembered the first time the man reached out that hand to claim him: it left a stain on Abel's skin that made him lash out.

Sometimes Abel entertained thoughts of killing the man who had adopted him; he did not deny it. He did not try to convince himself he might have come to respect that smiling monster, not when the room brightened up with its laughter - when it fed, clothed and sheltered him as if he were its own. When its arms kept him safe and drove the nightmares away.

He daydreamed of doing more than leaving a scar on one side of the man's face. He daydreamed of butchering him while he was laughing that loud, boisterous, careless laugh of a man who had so many friends and so many enemies. Cutting him in so many places and leaving him alive for as long as he could, just like he was doing to the dog.

Just like this.

No, not like this, Abel said to himself.

It should not be this easy.

The door opened, but Abel stayed where he was, the way he was. His knees were weak. He did not move.

He sat and waited for the man's bloody hand to touch his shoulder.

rushpost - subtitled: m.e. reborn on easter!

2009-04-12T15:58:31Z

behold my new fandom XD XD

i'm getting another one of those IF ONLY I CAN DRAW moments. i want to see ayala and araneta-cubao as semes in action. i would fic them if i could, but since i don't know enough about this shiny new thing yet, i'll have to settle for being the unofficial official trainspotter.

*

re: KHR: ... tsuna FINALLY TELLS ONE OF THE TWO GIRLS ABOUT THE WHOLE DEAL. i wasn't expecting this development, it's been all about the boys thus far, and it hadn't looked like it was going to end anytime soon.

without going into the things the girls (esp. bianchi) said too deeply, it seemed like this chapter is still about the boys - but this time the girls as side characters are given way more exposure (way WAY more exposure. then again, fanservice has always been part of the territory).

i was kinda hoping haru would be there when tsuna told kyouko too. oh well. it would be interesting to see her reacting to NOT being told, if it's at all in the agenda. even if it's not, and even if it left some things to be desired, this was still a refreshing chapter.

although i was sort of hoping yama would have a more interesting reaction to being told that he wasn't going to be trained along with everyone else. like a mild peek back into his deep-set angst. but i may be wishing for too much XD

i kind of feel like the story is progressing. it's a fun illusion. am i the only one looking forward to the motorcycle fights, though?

*

i haven't talked about the new tenipuri manga, but i find there's very little to say. hi to the influx of new characters, very few of whom actually have character designs that i find interesting - although the guy that reminds kirihara of yukimura is very, very intriguing. i wish for more of him please~

*

now i really have to turn off the comp. sorry if i haven't been around, things have been... unusually stressful. please leave a message here or email me if i've missed anything i shouldn't have.

i'll keep trying to be more visible!

you people need to stop dragging me back to lj XD

2009-03-18T14:02:36Z

i am... kind of awed at the number of people who have listed me as yamamoto in their memes. you know, that meme where you say which person in your flist reminds you of which characters, which i am NOT DOING due to constraints placed upon my time and onlineliness.

but as tickled as i am, i would really like an explanation? is it just because i utterly failed at rp-ing him at one point because seriously - never doing that again XD;; i am around such leet rp-ers, i sometimes feel a desperate need for failure nakama...

-

and then, i need to be here for pimpage :3 there's stitchedophelia's recent lovely birthday fics (so grateful i have many march-born online friends XD), and caelestin's heartful self-insert birthday fic for theprerogative ♥ i just checked to see if nikki's replied and saw i had a cameo with dino ahahahahah XD XD oh nikki. you pwnz the crack FOREVER PERIOD NO ERASE~

-

i'm sure there have been many more pimp-worthy fics since i've been away, i hope to come across them :3 recommendations most welcome!

morphaileffect @ 2009-03-16T14:14:00

2009-03-16T06:16:00Z

this is ages late, but khr_undercover reveals are out and it's full of Really Great Fics that everyone should read. hie ye over to the submissions journal and enjoy!

(this is your cue to join me in pretending i didn't just write what i did for this round XD;; i am really very sorry for the lame, but my crack demanded attention. i thought i had it under control but apparently not T_T i actually fear it was offensive. please tell me if it is?)

right now i post my long-delayed and completely useless khr ramble. for posterity, i suppose?

KHR 232

- i love spanner's shot here. bishier and bishier baby <3

- GEEKLUUUUV <3

- chrome :-( poor baby... although here you look well and thoroughly molested by i-pin. WHO IS SO CUTE. GROW UP QUICKLY PLEASE. chrome-neesan needs you in her life <3

- ooooh tsuna gets a battle hopper! MASK RIDER ~~TSUNA~~ DECIMO! kinda has a nice ring to it...

KHR 223

- motorbike fights. i don't have anything against motorbike fights. i think this has awesome potential.

- it's nice to see tsuna once more being the fraidy cat/spaz we know and love.

- i am not above squeeing at a certain duo's bunk positioning in this picture xD OH GOKUDERA, WE ALL KNOW YOU JUST TOP BECAUSE HE LETS YOU.

- okay, so... what is the sky box creature and what cute thing does it eventually turn into?

morphaileffect @ 2009-02-19T07:22:00

2009-02-18T23:26:55Z

KHR Undercover fics are up!

try to guess which one is mine? hint: it's the one you'll swear off ever having read - and if you'd written it, you'd disown it and run off to live merrily by yourself in a hermitage at the bottom of the sea.

have fun reading and guessing! in the meantime i run off to live merrily by myself in a hermitage at the bottom of the sea.

still trying to catch up after so long of being away...

2009-02-11T22:17:13Z

guys, no really. someone should write KHR/Doctor Who fic. maybe something along the lines of this brilliant idea.

really. like now :D

a fic exploring the different ways DW could go if different characters could be the doctor and his companion/s would be great also!

[fic] Deliverer | Shamal-centric gen, PG

2009-02-08T08:27:34Z

four things brought this fic about:

1. Shamal wiki entry: He claims to be infected with 666 diseases that have no effect on him due to the negating effects of each disease; if he has a disease that rapidly decreases body temperature, then he has another one that increases it, and so on.

2. Reborn once mentioned Shamal as the one who helped give birth to him. i forget where and when, but i presume this occurred sometime during the daily life arc?

3. the recent appearance of a (rather hot) shamal lookalike. um, maybe XD it's not related to the events that transpire in this fic, but it was inspiration.

4. i always go overboard with ideas. please avoid this fic if you wish to keep your canon unsullied and devoid of prefabricated angst.

takes place sometime before the Great 10YL Switch. notes at the end.

Deliverer

The door flew open. The three men in the back room of the warehouse stood abruptly, upsetting the table and the cards, coins and whiskey glasses on it. They pulled out the guns from their holsters and trained them on the person who had kicked the door nearly off its hinges.

The newcomer was standing at the doorway, dripping wet from head to toe. He was wearing a lab coat that may have used to be white, but was torn and stained in several places, the original color was no longer recognizable. He looked unshaven, haunted, exhausted to the bone. His shoulder-length hair hung lank down the sides of his face.

The men who had their guns trained on this man froze. They did not even have the presence of mind to turn the safety off, or to close their mouths while they stared.

This was the man whose throat they had slit, whose body they had dumped into the bay, two nights ago.

And, after a long pause, this man said: "I forgot my bag."

He took a step forward. The men took a few steps back. One stumbled on the chair he had overturned when he stood and fell on his backside. Their faces were all pale, but the face of the man on the floor seemed completely drained of blood.

The newcomer grunted. "You wouldn't have taken my bag, would you? It's not like you idiots would know how to use it. Can't even kill a man properly."

The man who fell cried out, waving his gun in the newcomer's general direction: "YOU'RE DEAD. YOU'RE DEAD. I KILLED YOU -"

"Oh...?"

The newcomer took another step forward. One of them fired - and missed. The newcomer had moved with lightning speed, and in the blink of an eye he was down on one knee beside the man on the floor, holding him up by a fistful of the front of his shirt.

"This look dead to you, punk?"

"Punk" was actually a funny thing to call the man on the floor, who was balding and huge and who seemed older in age to the newcomer. But the man on the floor didn't even have time to protest. He lay in the newcomer's grip whimpering like a small animal trapped in a shrinking box.

If his companions were only paying attention, they would have seen that the widening of their friend's eyes was not caused merely by fear. The vessels on their friend's face were starting to expand, turning into tiny red rivers twisting angrily beneath the skin. The newcomer let go of the man's shirt and stood, stepped back, just in time to avoid the blood that erupted from the man's eyes, nose and mouth.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

And before the man's two friends could know what was going on, the newcomer had stood, strode over to them, and... patted them on the shoulders. This, if anything, made the thugs fall deathly still. If you could move with superhuman speed, would you actually stride up to your assailants just to seem friendly?

"Now let's take it easy," the strange guy in the lab coat said in a low voice. "You're just kids. Obviously you've never heard of me."

The two men started to shudder - and not because of what the newcomer had said. The shudders turned into convulsions, and the two men collapsed.

"I'm the one you shouldn't have messed with."

The man in the lab coat kept his grip on their shoulders as they sagged to the ground.

Again he stepped back, just before the fountain of blood sprayed from the men's faces, and their convulsions turned into simple twitching, then to absolute stillness.

When all was silent, the last one left standing took a deep breath. He wiped his hands on his coat - not a drop of blood was on them, but they were by no means clean.

He looked around. Saw a brown leather doctor's bag sitting in a corner. It still had visible traces of what he presumed was his own blood on it, from when it was torn from his hands, after his throat was slit.

Too bad the men didn't throw it into the bay with him - he could really have used the mosquitoes he'd hidden away in there. That way he wouldn't have had to get his hands dirty come payback time.

He still wasn't sure who put him up for the hit - maybe an enemy of the Vongola, or someone he had personally offended. Maybe one of the women he'd "interacted with" over the past few days, even. He could probably hazard a guess after he'd had a full meal and a good night's rest... though if he'd really wanted to know, he would have left one of the men alive to tell.

Leaving well enough alone was best, he decided. Since the Millefiore came into power, there had been a bounty on the heads of everyone allied in any way with the Vongola. Basically the whole world wanted them dead.

The man in the lab coat picked up the bag and got ready to leave. Just before leaving the scene, he gave one of the corpses on the floor a light kick on one leg.

"Which gutter did you crawl out of this time?"

She was a vision in red standing at the top of the stairs - but no matter what she wore, she was a vision. And no matter what expression she had on her face, it was difficult to take one's eyes off her.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that this beauty in her early 20s was the firstborn child of Don Gesemano, shrewd businessman and broker of one of Europe's most notorious prostitution rings. Though she still resided in her father's house, she did not belong in it, or to anything that was not of her choosing.

"Bianchi, my sweet!" Shamal dropped the bag unceremoniously and opened his arms wide. "Such coarse language does not suit you! Come over here and give these tired old bones a ki - "

Instead of a ki -, what he got was a face full of pie. Normally this would be funny, if only the pie were an ordinary pie and Shamal were an ordinary clown.

Alas, the not-ordinary-in-the-slightest pie was filled with a corrosive gel, and if Shamal were an ordinary clown the flesh would have melted from the bones on his face.

Shamal's skin was unusually resistant to toxic substances. Surely the beauty knew this as well. She just had to rub it in, in a manner of speaking.

"Wash up and change into something presentable. Sawada Iemitsu has been waiting to talk to you for days." She turned on her heel and made her way out of his sight, aloof and indignant as he had gotten used to.

Shamal wiped the last traces of hardly edible material from his face, sighed and picked up his bag again. He would have gotten more than a pie in the face, he knew, if he had trailed water into the house. It was a good thing he had dried off on the way back from that side trip by the bay.

Some twenty-four years ago, he wouldn't have had anything to do with a certain young woman... but it was a special favor from Don Gesemano. He usually dealt with prostitutes, jaded women, young girls who had run out of hope (Hush, my sweet, it will all be over soon) and therefore women like her were not his specialty.

Women like her, who were pure, innocent, untouched save by one drop of poison, the drop that grew in their bellies and drained away everything that kept them safe.

As repayment for the safe delivery of her child, she had played the piano for him. He remembered sleeping well that night. He would, of course, because it was rare for him to sleep well.

He did not know why she chose the song she had played for him, of the many songs she could have played... and he knew nothing of music, could not remember the name of the piece, but he remembered looking for it long after she was gone.

He remembered her as passionate, filled with dreams and ideals... the man she loved, the perfect man, was going to leave his family and be with her and their baby forever, and they would all live together in light and love and music.

In spite of his many years of bile, he did not have the heart to tell this young one that the man she loved had wanted her dead, and her baby alive. (He had refused. "You bring them in for me to treat, not to kill, not when they don't need any mercy." It was perhaps the Don's mistake, taking her to him and not to another mafia doctor, just because he knew that when "Trident Shamal," the cold-blooded Vongola assassin, was tasked to do something, he always delivered. Somehow Shamal felt that he could not let this one go, not this one.)

The child turned out to be nothing like his mother. Or even his older half-sister, who had dutifully watched over him as he grew past infancy. He was sullen and sensitive and resentful - and why he chose Shamal, of all people, as his guardian and guide growing up, the man would never know. He supposed it was a sign that the boy was definitely NOT a good judge of character.

And in spite of the many women who walked in and out of their mansion - or, perhaps, because of them - he seemed to show no interest in the fairer sex. Which was too bad, because apparently many of them found him cute. Shamal sighed at the injustice of it all.

The child grew up, and decided early on that he was going to devote his life to a Calling, which came in the form of another boy - the Vongola Tenth, to be precise, who was roughly the same age but by no means of the same inclinations toward violence and noise.

The child who was nothing like his mother, Shamal feared, was growing up late.

Or gay.

Not that he cared, although he might have precious little to teach that one about sex.

"Are you honestly telling me that in all these years you've been alive, you've never been gay ONCE?"

Shamal glared at Sawada Iemitsu, the pervy bastard. "That so hard to believe?"

The fact was, it only became pervy when the talk turned to male homosexuality. They could talk about sex and lesbian sex over whiskey all day and neither of them would feel uncomfortable. Iemitsu had expressed his concerns about it because "Kids these days, you know" and they both knew exactly which kids he meant.

Shamal wouldn't have cared if the Vongola Tenth himself turned out gay. It was just that unlike Iemitsu, he never felt the need to discuss his own feelings about it.

"Sure I tried it once or twice." Out of boredom. Or desperation. But there was no need to give details. Besides, the details were fuzzy. "Kept coming back to the home court, as it were." He started saying that there was probably a gay immortal hanging around somewhere, it just wasn't him.

"Okay, don't get your panties in a twist," Sawada chuckled before downing a shot of scotch. Shamal shared the booze, but didn't look forward to becoming as happy. "Anyway, that has nothing to do with why I'm here. Just wanted someone to talk to about it, you know?"

Sawada needed as many opportunities as he could to talk to someone else about things that were not directly related to the mafia. Shamal knew.

The Millefiore was moving. Sawada Tsunayoshi had destroyed the Vongola rings, and things were not looking good. Safeguards had to be put in place, and in line with this, Reborn had requested to speak with Shamal personally.

"Reborn can't leave Japan," Sawada disclosed. "And the only secure means of communication we have in this part of Italy is through this house. Bianchi says you can use the setup in her room."

He meant for only one eyebrow to rise, but both of them shot up unbidden to his hairline. "Really? Bianchi's letting me into her..." He suddenly felt that scotch kicking in, if that was indeed the scotch. His face felt flushed.

"Try not to sound too happy," Sawada warned him. "She says she'll be watching you through the cameras, and if you try anything with her underwear, you're dead."

He and Reborn normally stayed out of each other's way. When two immortals find their paths willingly crossing, something big is brewing.

The first time, Reborn had asked him to train the child known as Gokudera Hayato - nothing like his mother, or his sister, or anything that was not of his choosing. Reborn had not minced words: the child needed Shamal to help him grow up quickly and to prepare for war.

Shamal did what was required of him. Now, after so many years, the boy was a man, who did not need anything he had to teach. It was time for an entirely new set of tasks.

...How did Shamal even get involved in the mafia? He could barely remember. He vaguely recalled stumbling into a gunfight and rescuing a child who was stumbling into it too, but from the opposite direction. The child turned out to be a scion of the Vongola clan, and since then he had found himself in the Vongola clan's employ and protection.

Some protection.

He was sometimes an assassin, sometimes a physician. Sometimes a researcher/lab rat. Once he was the Vongolas' willing guinea pig for their artillery research, but one can only handle getting shot in the heart (to no avail) so many times; he simply abandoned his post, and no one tried to stop him. Once he fell into the hands of what was then the Estraneo family. And he discovered exactly how much pain he could stand before going mad.

The simple truth was, it was impossible for an ordinary human like himself to live forever without going crazy now and again. Once he consciously threw himself into a raging river in the middle of a storm, knowing the rocks and the waves would tear his body limb from limb; he woke up on the shore feeling like he was filled with pain and jelly, the start of a new left forearm already growing where the old one had been ripped off.

Once he had arranged to be beheaded - through an accident, an unfortunate encounter with a steel slicer. It was truly unfortunate, for he survived the encounter. His neck healed cleanly. Suffice it to say, he was never trying that again.

And once he drank enough alcohol to kill a man five times his body weight... only to wake up in the morning throwing up the partially-digested remains of a calcified liver (a new one having materialized in its place) and a hangover that put him in bed for days.

He wasn't invulnerable. He just couldn't die.

He remembered things that the modern world would now consider ancient. He remembered being found in the streets of Baghdad with not a scrap of cloth on him, with very little memory of anything prior to this. He was called "Shamal" because the ones who found him and took him in believed he came from the north.

He remembered discovering that he was a skilled apothecary, that he could save lives as well as take them, with the medicine he somehow knew how to create. And then, to his delight and eventual horror, discovering that he wasn't growing older and that nothing could kill him. Not even the worst poisons he could concoct were strong enough to take him down - and in fact, the more of a poison he took, the less it seemed to affect him.

The holy men had decided that sometime before he had lost his memory, he must have discovered the elixir of life, and partaken of it. He fled Baghdad before he could be stoned to death (or something close to it) for bargaining with evil spirits for the recipe.

He remembered being in love. And being left behind. And not having anything to look forward to. And clinging to whatever got him through the memories, washing them off like blood on wounds that only waited to heal.

He was fully aware that he could have taken over the world, if only he knew exactly how, if he only had the inclination, and if only he wasn't in so much pain all the time. Tears, the oldest of painkillers, didn't promise instant relief. It hurt a litle, then a lot, then too much, too much - and then it didn't hurt at all.

"Shamal," the nine-year-old Arcobaleno greeted through a choppy video reception. "I apologize for troubling you."

"No trouble. In fact, I gotta thank you." Shamal wasn't sure if his wry grin got through to Japan, but he showed it anyway. "You finally got me into Bianchi's room."

A corner of the child's lips may have risen at this. "I don't think she'll let you stay there longer than necessary. So I'll be quick."

Reborn proceeded to tell the Doctor about the radiation research the Millefiore was working on. The first wave of the Millefiore attack, the Vongola spies have gathered, was aimed at eliminating the Arcobaleno, and upsetting the balance of power within the mafia families all over the world.

This first wave was set for launching in a few days.

"I'm probably going to die, Doctor." He said it with a straight face, as was forever his way. "And you'll probably need to bring me back into this world very soon."

He forwarded to Shamal a list of names and contact information - hospitals with maternity wards in the general area of Namimori, where he was going to die. Within nine months, a woman was probably going to enter one of them, heavy with child, and she was probably going to show the tell-tale signs of being ready to give birth to an Arcobaleno.

"You would know," Reborn said to Shamal. Shamal only nodded. He'd seen it too many times before.

He studied the face of the child in the video feed. Too young. The last time, in the Vongola Ninth's employ, he had at least made it to the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Once, in one of his previous lives, he had even made it up to forty-three - but who knew if and when he would ever again be as lucky.

Cursed existences were not the sole province of the Arcobaleno. Shamal could refuse. He knew the new Reborn might still survive if he wasn't around to attend to the delivery, but his presence would definitely tip the scales in the baby's favor.

And if Reborn was gone, he would have the world all to himself. He would, at last, be the only one left to suffer all of this.

"See you in the next life, Doctor," the child on the screen said, all trust and resignation.

Shamal nodded. "I'll just be around."

Reborn muttered a curt farewell, and the screen went dark.

Shamal was alone in this large, empty room filled with various scents. He closed his eyes and made his way through the exotic fragrances, threading past the traces of flora and spice until he found one particular scent.

There.

He breathed her in - Bianchi, all her passions, all her longing and her grief. Her scent, underneath complex layers of everything else.

It wasn't quite her underwear, but it was close.

He knew she was watching him through the cameras in her room, but surely she would think nothing of him leaning back into the chair, eyes shut and senses taking in as much as they could, in secret.

He didn't know why he did things like this, but he no longer questioned it. Impossible to live this long always doing things for a damn good reason.

"Bianchi, my sweet," he called into the silence, "have Rosa take a bottle of brandy up to my room and wait for me there, would you? There's my girl."

He knew she wasn't going to do as she was asked, but he had to ask anyway. He needed to laugh a bit at himself.

There was always time enough for tears in this life.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

things:

1. a few months back, i was looking up references to shamal as an immortal (because i was sure such a fic has been written... or maybe i dreamed it?) and i found an original multipart story hosted on deviantart, titled "Immortal Shamal."

i wasn't able to read much of it, but i can't seem to find it again now. maybe the author took it down? that's a shame, i think i'd like to read it more closely...

2. google taught me this: "shamal" means "north" in standard arabic. in farsi, it means "wind." it's also used to refer to a strong north-westerly wind that blows through the Gulf states, bringing dust.

3. stray idea: shamal as the Doctor...? bestest Doctor EVAR X3

that said, i cannot WAIT for the next season.

spoilers for 227

2009-02-01T19:14:38Z

i am almost scared to come back to this journal... i've missed so many things.

but i can't miss the spazz for this chapter.

1. it seems that byakuran knew that irie was a turncoat all along. but as lyn pointed out in chat, it doesn't seem evident that irie has ALWAYS been a turncoat. it's highly likely he was completely taken with byakuran at the start.

WHY, what byakuran did to ensnare him, how byakuran processed the realization that irie was a possible spy, are fun things to think about!

2. this is really, really farfetched, but... i'm seeing a few parallels between millefiore's guardians and the vongola guardians. i'm sure others have thought of this, but i'm putting out my thoughts anyway.

here are my possible matchups, based on physical and conceptual similarities:

white-haired person (male? female? can't tell atm) with limiter-type clip earring = gokudera
angsty ~~shin angyo onshi knockoff~~ reborn/yamamoto/shamal lovechild = yamamoto. is it my imagination, or is that a chin scar??
guy with sparkly eyes in mask and wrist cuffs = mukuro. this one particular person is setting off AU alarms in my head. i mean if byakuran can be some AU form of tsuna, can't this guy - and the other millefiore guardians! - be an AU of his vongola counterpart as well?

although it really seems unlikely. aggy had pointed out, it might just be one of mukuro's cellmates XD he can't be the only one in the vindice prison, ne? edit: okay, not mukuro. i am very easy to convince XD
scarred guy - hibari
masked(?) fanged guy - ryohei
little girl(?) - lambo. i also have a feeling s/he might be arcobaleno. s/he'd be the same age RL lambo would be, i think... if s/he'd been allowed to grow up. and afaik, we haven't seen gingerbread yet.

and you know, for me, this just opens up possibilities of the millefiore guardians being the vongola guardians pulled from other dimensions. some of them - byakuran included - might even be AU!vongola, ten years hence.

(please don't think i'm fully convinced of this. argumentation is still welcome in this white padded room.)

3. LUSSURIA CAN'T SEE WITHOUT HIS GLASSES. i can't be the only one seeing the angst potential in this, can i?? i mean, those are DARK glasses. tinted so dark you can't see into his potentially bishie eyes. how come he can't see without them? is the future so bright he gotta wear shades??!

right. need to sleep. there's this thing called work and it's going to start biting my ass in roughly four hours.

i... will... try to catch up somehow with my flist as soon as i can. i'm so sorry T_T

i have awesome writers in my friends list. this is not a secret ♥

2009-01-02T12:30:09Z

mlina recently wrote an amazingly sensual Bianchi/Lambo fic that i think everyone should read. she's a bit shy about showing it off, but i'm not shy about reccing it :P no one does sexy bianchi quite the way noey does. if you read and liked, please leave a comment! help me encourage her to write more sexyfic :3

half_sleeping is also doing a KHR/Dresden Files crossover that has... inspired me to finally watch the Dresden Files. i've always wanted to see this series and i thought this must be the best time to start. have seen two episodes so far. kye_kestrel has also suggested that i try the books. should do this before vacation ends!

i'm adding two more recs: cleartempest wrote me 8069* for khr_exchange. 8069!! this makes me ridiculously happy. although the author says it's gen, my fangirl mind quickly slid to the gutter. i am not sorry :P~

cartografie wrote an interesting future!yamamoto introspective piece. a bit long, but worth the read. i love stories that appear to have a deeply personal meaning to the author, and this is one of them. the style she chose is different, and quite effective for yamamoto, i think.

in conclusion: i love my fandom and i love my friends list :3 but for now, i gorge on this copy of Gomorra i found quite by accident :) HAPPY NEW YEAR, everyone!

* - a bit of trivia i learned from the relationship rating form of the stamp_a_hitman comm⁺: yamamoto and mukuro have NEVER interacted in canon. is this true?? i just find this intriguing. the number of possibilities for this pairing has just multiplied by a factor of ∞ >3

⁺ - please rate me if you have the time?

christmas ficcage

2008-12-24T22:00:48Z

Other Lives [prince of tennis, inui/yanagi] - written for the yanagi renji fic exchange. i'd just link to the comm version, but since i'm anal and i can't edit that, i've reposted it on my journal XD the idea of renji and inui interacting in alternate universes has been knocking around in my head for a while. i'm happy to have finally gotten it out.
A Matter of Timing [prince of tennis, niou/yanagi] - again, written for willow_lotus. comm version is here. my first (and last?) yanagi/niou XD
This is our death sentence [katekyou hitman reborn!, yamamoto/hibari] - angst, hibari's pov.

...i really hope i didn't let my recipients down too much. it's my first time actively participating in a holiday fanworks exchange, and i keep feeling like i've done it rong or something T_T it was fun and challenging, though! i want to be able to do this again next year!

the internet ALWAYS wonks out during the holiday season. ALWAYS. on the up side, i hope wonky internet + free time = a little more writing done. at least one more fic before returning to the grind :) allons-y!

morphaileffect @ 2008-12-10T13:09:00

2008-12-10T05:18:13Z

I AM SO HAPPY.

as-yet-anon writer, you have made me very happy. i hope i can find out who you are so i can thank you personally, in addition to reccing your wonderful fic like this ♥

mannnn all the renji exchange fics posted so far are just SO GOOD. i feel so intimidated and SO IN AWE. tenipuri fandom, in case i never said it before - i am grateful that you took me in. i never regretted it for a second.

spoiler text for chapter 221 + crossover communities?

2008-12-03T20:56:25Z

the raw scans aren't out yet, so this may or may not end up being accurate. i just felt like talking :P

"jill"? cute. kinda reminds me of boys named jennifer. also, of "fran." (incidentally, is fran a boy frog or a girl frog? i... haven't looked that closely.)*

i think it's possible that the next mare ring holder is bel's murdered brother. however, this opens up a whole new set of questions re: byakuran's power. i keep thinking about the "alternate universes" idea that 15yo!lambo revealed to tsuna several chapters back (anyone have the link?). even if it doesn't apply to this specific instance, i'll probably wonder about that revelation until it's been properly explained ^^

if the alternate universe theory holds here, byakuran's "godlike" power may involve reaching into possible worlds and pulling out deus ex machinis to carry out his ebil schemes. but i'm curious about what irie meant by byakuran's power working "only under certain circumstances"... are we talking about full moons, leap years, planets(/rings/wave energies) aligning, that sort of thing?

the "spoilers" are kind of vague, too... or maybe i'm just not reading them right. is jill the holder of the mare ring... or is it bel? is the "bel" currently in the varia actually jill, who'd taken on his murdered brother's identity?

...way to overthink XD getting ready to make an override post when the raw scans come out. anyway, not putting my money on the raws confirming/answering any of the questions i asked here.

* edit: it might be a spelling issue. come to think of it, we don't know how fran's name is officially romanized, either...

i think i'd prefer "gil". it's a better parallel for "bel." but what would his full name be, if so? gilgamesh? XD okay, no.

***

and for kicks, pimping two crossover (mainly fic) communities:

undyingwill [membership closed] - a KHR/tenipuri crossover community. not much in there yet, but the members writing in it are really talented. i'd love to read more!

shootnserve - a very new slam dunk/tenipuri crossover community. last i heard, there was talk of fuji x fujima. after some thought, i realized that this is quite possibly relevant to my interests >P so - fic plz?

are there any other crossover fic communities that you guys would like to pimp out to me? i'd love to take a look!

[fic] The Horse Chases After the Cloud | D18, PG

2008-11-29T07:15:44Z

my first d18 fic! and it is ANGST! ^o^/

very worksafe. i'm only rating this PG because i have no idea how to rate stories about organized crime.

The Horse Chases After the Cloud

(you know you need a life if your diary entries for the last ten years have been all about your boss)

April 23, 20XX [Brussels, Belgium]

Yesterday, Crowne Plaza Hotel. Today, luncheon with the Geci. Tomorrow, dinner party by Grevia Alcomor. Inspection of new southern depots over the weekend.

Rest is required. Rescheduled shopping trip for Tuesday.

April 28, 20XX [Brussels, Belgium]

Shopping for fifty grown Italian men and women whose measurements you already have = not hard. Shopping for teenage Japanese boy who is not even present = near impossible.

Wish I could rely on some sort of data, not his memory. Sick of "Romario, don't you think this one's a little too large around the waist?"

Exhaustion. Also, excess baggage of around 50 kilos.

May 4, 20XX [plane to India]

Japan trip cancelled. He is not happy. India next stop.

Tasked to send gifts to Tokyo for stockpile until he could deliver them himself. He is clearly not too old for tantrums. Comforting thought :)

May 7, 20XX [Delhi, India]

India operations now stable, but additional safety nets necessary. Tense political situation not helping.

Formal refusal to strike deal with Singh perhaps cost us half of Gurgaon holdings. He says that with Singh's dubious alliances, plus blow already suffered by our Maharashtra real estate, benefits outweigh risks.

Believe this is good call. Also believe there will be Talk with Signori C and G upon return to Sicily.

May 9, 20XX [Naples, Italy]

Talk went fairly well. Signor C sympathetic. Signor G however has hinted that he may independently contact Singh in the coming days.

Boss says to watch them both.

Also says to prepare hot bath and book next flight to Tokyo.

May 15, 20XX [Salerno, Italy]

You've got to be kidding. After buying all those expensive gifts, he still wants to buy more expensive gifts??

Burning holes in the family pocket, suppose it's to be expected. Not that we're in trouble, exactly, but he hasn't even spent this much on his girlfriends!!

Hoping infamous Cavallone generosity doesn't drive the family to financial ruin again.

July 22, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

School is out in Japan. He is in Namimori for two weeks - romping with next-generation Vongole, no doubt. Meanwhile, am stuck in Sicily dealing with loudmouthed aunts and thieving operatives :(

On the up side, I get to sit in the comfy chair!

Gervasio reported that after fourth day, he returned to limousine looking happier and more refreshed than he's been in days.

Also with black eye, slight limp and red mark suspiciously resembling hickey just above the collarbone.

August 7, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

Now, smiling stupidly, saying he wants to add cloud to horse tattoo.

Considering psychiatric help.

August 23, 20XX [Naples, Italy]

Two weeks of work to offset two weeks of play. Signor G has contacted Singh and staked Gurgaon holdings in especially risky deals. Also, partners in Southeast Asia decided to be difficult all at once and refused to speak to anyone but the Cavallone head personally.

Needed to call in Doctor S last Friday. Just a day or so of rest, and he should be up and about.

Asked him if he still wants cloud tattoo. Was laughed at. The family would go ballistic if he pushed through with it, he said. He meant it as a joke, of course.

November 18, 20XX [New York, USA]

Trip to Japan cancelled. Again. Today's tantrum involved him throwing papers out of the New York headquarters' window.

And because these were very sensitive papers, fifty Italian men and women in expensive black suits scrambled on hands and knees all over the New York sidewalk to collect every single sheet.

This will be in the news tomorrow morning.

Yelled at him. He seemed genuinely sorry. Said he's just been stressed lately. And even with parties and surfing trips and family time - all things he used to enjoy - he's starting to feel caged in.

Not sure why I'm not surprised that the boy never replies to his invitations.

November 22, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

Tea with Signora M today. She confirmed one of my suspicions. Apparently, late Don Cavallone was also like this when they were young. Normally charismatic and easygoing, he became unfocused and unreasonable when "distracted."

Signora M told me a story that has been in the Cavallone inner family for ten generations. Horses are very imaginative creatures, she said. Sometimes a wild horse changes demeanor and you see him running at full speed toward nothing in particular - but it isn't nothing at all. The horse has spotted a cloud, thought it saw something in it - perhaps his future, perhaps his heart's desire - and he runs.

He bends all his will to the task, convinced that once he gets to the horizon, he and the cloud will meet, all his efforts will be rewarded and he will be happy.

But it is the nature of clouds to vanish or change shape. When it happens, the wild horse just stands there, looking up. It takes him a while to rejoin his herd if he has gone very far, but he almost always does. Or else, he doesn't return - and according to Cavallone lore, this means he has found his cloud.

Every Cavallone man is entitled to one cloud, once in his life. Perhaps it is even his fate.

I said, I presume Don Cavallone went back to normal when you were married? She smiled sadly. No, she said; He went back to normal when he learned that the girl he loved had married another man.

Not comforting. Have more suspicions to confirm.

January 29, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

Today he leaves for four-day vacation in Patmos. Would have extended it, but he refused, saying he needs to be back ASAP for family matters.

As always, he sent out an invitation. As always, no answer.

Sent Vito and Arevalo to Japan, to check out a tip from our contacts there.

Not looking forward to what they find out about our little Vongola boy, exactly.

February 3, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

Not looking forward to telling him.

February 14, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

Less than three minutes of discussion, a phone call not answered, and his whole day is ruined.

All appointments for the day cancelled.

March 26, 20XX [Lima, Peru]

Struck him across the face today. Didn't want to, but no one else could have done it.

He was about to stage a rubout of a small Albanian organization, for inconveniencing some of his Brussels operatives. All because the incident had forced him to cancel a vacation trip to Japan that he had been planning for months!

He looked at me with anger, but did not strike back or turn away. He knew it was better that I did it for him, than if his Vongola home tutor would come back and beat him senseless for putting his personal feelings before his work.

He has just turned 24. That means he's still so young.

April 8, 20XX [Sicily, Italy]

Phone bills are ridiculous. Expensive gifts I can deal with, but this number of overseas calls means he's not getting any sleep.

So he's found that his little Vongola is not exactly faithful. Not as if he's the world's most faithful lover, either. Reports from Patmos recall need for discretion. Wouldn't do for the Signori of Naples, especially, to find out.

In spite of Patmos, he is becoming thinner and more irritable. Might be time to call in Doctor S again.

May 3, 20XX [plane to Japan]

He's run away.

I need to find him.

May 5, 20XX [Namimori, Japan]

Another late-night long-distance call from halfway around the world won't matter, but I don't want anyone else to know just yet.

He's asleep on the bed. Have cleaned him up and fed him and assured him everything was going to be all right. Have also told him what I've been telling him all this time - that he's needed by his family, that he has to get his head back together, that he deserves better and that he should not put himself through this.

But he wasn't listening. And I've run out of things to say.

He couldn't find the boy, of course. He couldn't do much all on his own. But this is something I cannot help him with. The Vongola boy has always been difficult to track, but now it seems he has simply vanished. It was easier to find the tenth head of the Cavallone family running around drenched, lost and confused, in the pouring rain at night in Japan.

Must talk to the Vongola boy, eventually - if he cares enough to show his face. I am certain he is aware of the Cavallone's current state, but I am not certain if he could be asked to give a damn. I am never certain of anything about him. I wonder how this could be worthy of anyone's affections.

Patching an emergency call through to Doctor S. If Boss returns ill, people will worry. There's money to move and deals to settle and plans to see through.

I wish he could forget about his cloud and come home soon.

caelestin's reborn fic/drabble meme

2008-11-29T02:33:48Z

it's high time i shared the link to this. it's been keeping me happy all WEEK:

[ caelestin's reborn fic/drabble meme ]
it's still going on. caelestin is an awesome meme hostess ^o^ the mechanics and drabbles are on this page, if you wish to jump in.

browsing through the whole archive may be difficult, with the meme gone so long, i recommend ~~running scripts with "unfold all" options for LJ threads, like this one.~~ (this script does not work with all layouts. try the livejournal add-ons plugin instead, it's what i use.

a lot of the starting participants in this meme are also players in reborn_biz, the KHR publishing AU which i pimped out a while back. if you liked what you read here, you should check out their RP logs as well, they are much fun and then some!

so proud of you, guys. so proud.

chapter 218 thoughtdump

2008-11-14T14:07:07Z

groove has gone through the raws and provided her own take on what's going on here. i'm still really confused, but her post really helped clear some things up for me ♥

of course, like the rest of the populace, i still have some questions.

there are two slots left on the machine - i presume it's for mukuro and ryohei. but if mukuro isn't in the round machine... where is he? in chrome's body? if so, why did it take him longer than chrome to get there? and if it's not mukuro, who is the last spot for?

...actually. are the slots even for absent people? or just people who were not fully "assimilated," as it were?
groove has said that it was 15-year-old irie pulling the strings all along. but is it, really...? the last two pages, where irie is shown out of his millefiore coat, confuse me. i can't really tell the difference between teenage irie and his 20-something version... although the mussed-up hair is probably a giveaway ^^

after this, i ask: who was doing the shooting in the present time? if it's younger irie, WHY? is he in contact with the older irie, or with anyone in the future? is he just doing it for kicks?

and if it's older irie... how come the younger irie can stay in this future? shouldn't older irie be in the white machine too, if like tsuna and the rest, younger irie can stick around for more than 5 minutes?
if irie is really on the vongola's side, WHY DID GOKUDERA WANT HIM DEAD? i'm inclined to believe that irie is:
- lying aboout being a vongola ally, or
- being played. i think i remember someone saying a while back that byakuran called up the younger guardians so he could get the rings. is this a theory, or is this in canon? anyway, it's possible that he's letting irie get the vongola together precisely to facilitate his ring acquisition scheme.
so... how did the vongola know exactly when they were going to be shot?
what does irie's betrayal mean for the giglio nero? did gamma know about it all along? if not, how would he react?
byakuran's power. what is it, exactly? what did it do to uni (and possibly also to genkishi)?
i... still don't completely get the 7^3 thing. three sets of seven items are supposed to make up the whole world - and byakuran is aiming to complete them, why? so he can build the world over from scratch? why would he want to do that? what is his "vision" really - is it just to become the supreme ruler of all, like xanxus? or does he have Noble Intentions Disguised as Evil(tm), like rebuilding a world without mafia?
why is yamamoto still down T__________________T on the other hand, i-pin and lambo knocked out on his legs is ♥
the location of all the other guardians has been revealed, so... how come we still don't know why present!ryohei didn't get shot? leet dodging skills? or um - did 10yl!ryohei carry his ring with him after all, and this was why there was no need for his younger self?
...i know i have other questions, but i can't think of any more. i just don't want to leave this list hanging at 9 XP

in conclusion... this makes very little sense to me XD but since the whole story hasn't been figured out yet, there's plenty to keep me hanging on.

PS: groove raised an interesting question: why do spoiler pics circulate faster than scans of the raw in KHR fandom?

PPS: sorry for the v.late LJ replies. things have been crazy. hope there's time for replies over the weekend, but i'm honestly not holding my breath ^^;

[fic] Eyes (2/2) | Irie-centric, PG

2008-11-10T00:55:21Z

this thing deviates from canon so bad... and i forgot to put AU warnings in the first installment haaahaha. LEMMEDOTHATNOW.

sharing a mood song: [ Placebo - Infra-red ] (thanks to a_lighter_side for the file ♥)

part 1 is here.

Eyes
Part 2

Irie had to convince himself that he was not without his resources. He was smart, he was at the top of his class in university, had published scientific papers internationally, had been granted several academic awards for his innovative projects.

Of course he could think his way out of this.

He didn't think he could leave Japan now that he had been marked (by whoever left that paper on the diner table - the "tall man"), but the best he could do was go somewhere obscure. He rented a room he didn't have to give a name for, far from Tokyo, where he had hastily withdrawn his meager savings.

He needed to be in a city, however, as he constantly needed tools and implements to survive: weapons. Security devices. Anti-surveillance safeguards. Everything a paranoid techie needed to somehow sleep at night.

And as it was easy to trace purchases of ready-made items, Irie built everything himself from scrap. The first restless night, he spent building a handheld plasma gun capable of blowing a hole the size of a golf ball through a man's torso. The combination locks, the trigger bombs, and the bug scramblers, he made only when he couldn't sleep, which was often.

Many quiet days passed, but Irie he was far from at peace. Heavy bags had started to appear under his eyes. Lack of proper nutrition and rest made him start to look pale, ghostlike. He refused to talk to anyone more than necessary - which invited suspicion, he was sure, but at least it did not invite enmity.

He lived like this, like a fugitive, untroubled save by his own guilt, and the fears gnawing away at him.

Until one night.

Irie was awakened by a series of explosions. It took him a while to process what was going on, but it wasn't until the last bomb went off, somewhere right outside his building, and the makeshift monitors by his bed abruptly shut off, that he realized -

These were no ordinary bombs. These weren't designed to cause property damage. They created noise, but only as much noise as was necessary while projecting bursts of static energy that shorted out any electronic device within the blast radius.

Just a few well-placed explosions, and all the lights in the neighborhood went out. All of the monitors, alarms, safeguards Irie had set up in his room were disabled.

- All except for one. Irie reached for it from under his pillow, grasped the handle tight.

The now perfectly ordinary wooden door to Irie's room burst open in splinters. One could easily guess that this was caused by the strangely gleaming sword held by the first person who entered - a tall young man about Irie's age, with broad shoulders and close-cropped hair, and a thin but expressive face.

A... sword? Who would be carrying a sword in this day and age? Much less one that gleamed?

The stranger looked at Irie. Irie froze. But the stranger was not the one who spoke first. This was his companion: a young Caucasian man with silver hair that fell to just below his ears. Irie knew it was silver in the shadows of the unlit room because for a split second, his features caught the glow of the sword the first stranger held.

"Irie Shouichi," the Caucasian said with a perfect Japanese accent, as well as a note of hostility, "come with us."

"W-what?" Irie stammered. "Who are you people? How did you find me?"

"We're... representatives of the Vongola family," the taller one said casually. It was not the same voice Irie had heard over the phone a lifetime ago. He smiled at Irie. God forbid that Irie in his panicked state should find that smile reassuring. "Sorry, it took us a bit long to find you."

"What are you talking about?" Irie's trigger finger started to itch.

"Your entire family has been kidnapped and tortured to death." Again, the silver-haired one, who didn't flinch even when Irie's shocked look fell upon him. "Your location has been traced and leaked, and now an army of mafia hitmen are headed this way. We're your only chance of surviving. Do you want to die or not?"

"Gokudera," the tall one snapped. He didn't sound too happy with what his companion had said. Gokudera... where had Irie heard that name before?

Why did these two seem somehow familiar?

Irie found himself unable to process anything. What was that the silver-haired one had said...? His entire family was dead? How could something like that happen... what was going on?

"We can't waste time," the silver-haired one scoffed. "He was bound to find out, anyway."

The tall Japanese paused to compose himself. He strode up to Irie. "He's right. Time is what we don't have. Please come with us." He had not sheathed his sword. In fact, he was holding it exposed at his side, while he extended a hand to help Irie up off the bed. And by its glow, Irie could see he wasn't smiling anymore.

Irie's eyes widened. That tall one - could he have been the one who -

(a newspaper on the table. a headline. his blood turning cold, his heart skipping several beats. the feeling of drowning, of blacking out, of being trapped, his friends were dead, his family was tortured, his sisters, his parents screaming in pain idon'tknowidon'tknowwwhyisthishappening)

Without even thinking, without taking his eyes off the tall stranger, Irie drew out his gun.

He had not yet even registered the stunned look on the tall one's face when he pulled the trigger.

Oh God.

Oh God...

He had just shot a man. No he hadn't, he'd missed. Hadn't he...?

The tall stranger staggered away from the bed. The hand he had extended to Irie was now covering his face. Was there blood seeping through his fingers? It was hard to see.

The silver-haired one let out a cry. That cry could have been his companion's name. But Irie's heart was pounding too loud in his ears for him to be sure. He pulled the trigger again. The silver-haired one fell back against the wall behind him as if thrown.

Irie might as well have had his eyes shut tight. One blind shot, then another, burning holes through his apartment room walls, not caring who else they would hit.

The next thing Irie knew, he was out of his apartment room and running down the street, still in the underclothes he wore to bed. And still holding his plasma gun, his one fang, his only defense.

How did he get here? Wait, it didn't matter...

Where was he going? That, at least, he had to decide.

The past several days had been spent in a paranoid haze. This moment felt like trying to wake up from a fever dream. Perhaps the two men had not meant to harm him. But he was scared, he was scared, he had no choice...

He might have killed one of them - he might have killed them both. He might have misheard when one of them said they were Vongola. He might have imagined the grenades (maybe the streets were unlit tonight for a reason. Maybe there was simply a power outage), and the door to his room exploding.

He didn't even remember how he was able to stumble outside his apartment. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe he had dreamed up the whole thing and had sleepwalked out of his room after all.

But who could he turn to for help? He still had a warm gun in his hand. And damned if he was going to let go of it. Damned if he was going to trust anyone.

He heard a car screeching to a halt somewhere nearby. Doors opening and closing. When hands as strong as iron clamped around his thin arms and led him into the car, he couldn't resist.

He was suddenly in the company of four large, unsmiling men, only one of whom immediately looked Asian. Seated in the car with them, Irie felt small and immensely breakable.

"Irie Shouichi," the Asian man greeted, then proceeded to say in formal Japanese, "You are now in the hands of the Gesso family. Please do not struggle and all will be well."

Even if he didn't trust anyone, even if Irie told himself he would rather die than be taken by any of the mafia scum that had caused all his troubles, his gun was pried out of his hands. In the end, he didn't have the strength to hold on even to that.

Then Irie was taken to a safehouse, where he was treated to a luxurious bedroom, a full-course meal, a hot bath, and a good night's rest.

In fact, he had several days of this. He even had people at his beck and call, ready to assist him at any time. The Gesso family's servants were alert, respectful and informative. They told Irie everything he wanted to hear.

Through them, Irie learned more about the Gesso - a large mafia family based in Italy. Over ten generations the Gesso have amassed enough firepower and influence to become quite strong, strong enough to take on the Vongola.

The Vongola, Irie discovered, was not the largest Sicilian mafia family, but it was recognized as the strongest and the unofficial "central" family. This was done with deference to Giotto, the very first head of the Vongola, who had brought together the different Sicilian families in an effort to consolidate their underground activities.

Thanks to Vongola Primo, as Giotto was better known, bloody disputes between families were kept in check. But after his passing, things seemed to go downhill, with the next generations of Vongola heads wantonly abusing the power they had inherited. There had been too many deaths, the Gesso servants said, too many wars struck up for the wrong reasons, and in the end the Vongola's supremacy became impossible for any other Sicilian group to contest.

The more Irie learned about the Vongola, the more he disliked them. In fact, by the end of his stay, he had grown to hate them. It didn't help at all that he learned about a childhood schoolmate, Sawada Tsunayoshi, being granted the title of Vongola Decimo only a few years ago - his memories of Sawada Tsunayoshi did not involve anything pleasant. Far from it. He could believe that Sawada's infamous "dame-dame" status was a front to cover up his true nature.

The Vongola family was central to a great many deaths and executions, lives ruined and futures destroyed. No doubt the Vongola were behind the killing of Irie's friends and family as well, if only because their beloved Vongola Decimo had wanted information on the Millefiore.

No doubt.

The Gesso, he was told, were getting ready to launch a coup against the Vongola. Gesso spies had discovered that the Vongola Decimo was planning to destroy his own family's Guardian rings (perhaps in order to create better, stronger ones) very soon, and immediately after that would be the best time to strike.

But the Gesso needed help. Specifically, they needed a leader who was stronger than the Vongola Decimo. They had the people, the money, the firepower - what they didn't have was someone with the strength to rival the Vongola Decimo's inherited dying will flame.

And this was why they needed Shouichi.

We will give you everything you need, they said to him - sweetly, seductively. We will help you finish your research. In return, we need your help in finishing off the Vongola. We need your talents to help us destroy the family that had destroyed your life.

It sounded like an excellent deal.

The Gesso already had a leader - a young man slightly older than Irie, who had inherited the blood of Gesso Primo, a selfless and noble man.

But he had not inherited much more of Gesso Primo than his blood. The young man was shy, awkward, perpetually confused, and basically useless.

When they finally met, Irie - who already considered himself weak in social situations - found himself in awe of how much of a loser the Gesso Decimo was. The slouching young man would fidget and avoid Irie's gaze, or look past him while talking in monosyllables, or fix his stare on his own shoes. He looked like he wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible.

I was told you wanted to help me. Help you... yes. Um... I need to finish working on the Millefiore machine. I will need a laboratory, funding, test subjects... Yes. Yes. And when I have completed my research, I will require your personal cooperation. It is for your exclusive use that I'm developing this machine, isn't it? Hahah. Yes. Me. Of course. Is everything clear? ...

Irie could not help but let out a sigh. This was the one who would lead the coup against the almighty Vongola...? He didn't seem competent enough to dress himself, much less head an army!

Do you want my help in crushing the Vongola? Irie thought to ask. And he thought he saw a flicker of life in those dull eyes, eyes that hid nothing, commanded nothing. The young man looked up and said Yes. Please.

As it turned out, the Millefiore device was not the only thing Irie had the resources to develop in the Gesso base in Italy. He also had the means to create cutting-edge weapons, vehicles, biological enhancements - everything one needed to start a war. And Irie took full advantage.

The Gesso scientists working under him were brilliant, and just as dedicated as he was to pursuing their family's vendetta. They all had their horror stories involving the Vongola, and even as Irie felt like he was in the most futuristic laboratory in the world he also felt like he was in a war library. There was so much grief, so much history of hate.

Their priority was the Millefiore machine. When it was done, they presented it to the head of the Gesso family and his aides. Irie was the one called upon to elaborate on the device's benefits, the risks involved.

"The device has been fully tested," he said to the entire room, "but the results between the test subjects varied. One constant finding is that the test subjects underwent a personality change. While the device gives them power to 'rewire' how other people behave, their behavior is 'rewired' as well." He looked at Gesso Decimo. "Are you ready to give up what you are for this?"

The tenth head of the Gesso clan avoided his chief scientist's eyes, barely audibly answered: "I don't exactly have much to give up, do I?"

The Gesso advisers were right. The Millefiore device was all they needed. Their plans for a coup were falling into place - thanks to their leader, who now called himself Byakuran and controlled all their operations with an iron fist.

Byakuran held "private meetings" with political bigwigs, heads of other mafia families, religious leaders, other influential men. When they refused, he resorted to blackmail and force, mowing down as many innocents as it took. He knew what he had to do, and he did not hesitate to do it.

Irie enjoyed some status as the power behind the throne. He would be stuck in his laboratory, listening to his favorite music while losing himself in his plans, drafts, formulae. He did not mind this - he preferred to keep his hands clean and let the butchers deal with the actual slaughter.

In fact, he preferred to know everything that Byakuran thought up, content as he was to simply follow through with Byakuran's grand schemes, as well as enjoy the feeling of not being hunted down.

As a sad result, Irie would not know a lot of things.

He would not know, for example, why or how the Vongola Decimo and his Guardians had been lured to the Gesso base for a meeting with Byakuran. What Irie was told, quite vaguely, was that the Gesso had in their "safekeeping" an individual who was personally important to the Vongola Decimo. A close friend, perhaps, or a lover - certainly someone whom the great Sawada Tsunayoshi would risk coming to rescue.

Irie said to himself that he did not need to know who this person was. All that mattered was that this person would bring about the Vongola's downfall.

He did not know.

That the one whose freedom the Vongola Decimo had gone to negotiate was his.

Irie Shouichi has been working for us. But we are aware that you have been looking for him. If you want him, state your price, and if it is acceptable we will consider a trade.

He did not know how that particular "private meeting" went. He did not know that the Vongola Decimo's dying will was stronger than his Millefiore device. That the talk ended in a bloody battle, with the Decimo being the only real casualty. That the six Guardians had scattered, taking with them as much of their family's resources as they could individually muster.

The Vongola family was as good as dissolved.

This was all Irie needed to know.

Byakuran's twisted sense of elegance dictated that he send flowers to his victims before he moved in for the kill. The Vongola Decimo had received a thousand white orchids when he was invited to the Gesso base for that fateful meeting. Irie knew this.

He also knew this was why whenever he saw white orchids, a chill ran up his spine.

This shudder did not escape Byakuran's notice. His eyes, now the most powerful eyes in existence, seemed to track Irie's every move. This time they could meet Irie's gaze without hesitation.

Those eyes - Irie had made them, fashioned them from the depths of his imagination. He had created them so he could take over the world.

And there they were, stripping him bare, devouring him.

"Stop looking at me," Irie said. Byakuran smiled.

"But I like looking at you, Shou-chan." The glee there was umistakable. And just a little mad, Irie was aware. Mad with the weight of over a hundred souls now. "You're... quite a piece of work. Did you know that?"

"A compliment, coming from you," Irie said dryly. "Leave me alone, I'm busy. I'll report to you later."

He tried to speak to this creature - this less-than-sane, more-than-human thing - as if he had power over it. He needed to.

Because when this creature slithered over to him, and ran its fingertips up his spine from the small of his back, rested its long, slender talons on his shoulder, he was paralyzed. Trapped.

"I see you," Byakuran whispered.

Irie could feel the eyes he made burning into him, piercing through any darkness to find where he hid. And he dared not look.

*****************

1. ...a plasma gun, m.e.? really??

2. i am sorry for never identifying "the tall man" who dropped the newspaper in the diner in the previous chapter. to tell you the truth, i don't know who he is, either XD let's call him Nameless Gesso Henchman #1.

3. i still think tsuna is byakuran. NO, THE CRACK, IT HAS JUST BEGUN ♥

[drabble] [PWP] Swimming

2008-11-09T03:31:09Z

taking a break from the irie crack because omg, the thing requires thought processes i do not currently have.

i love doing contrasts between gokudera and yamamoto. i don't know why. maybe because it's so easy? XD first one i did is over here, and because i'm lame it's largely gen. so is this one, as a matter of fact.

have to go atm, but will try to catch up with the flist and such later! the latest chapter's already out right? (has not read T_T)

There is a science to swimming. Before you dip your feet in the water you have to know exactly what your goal is and exactly how you plan to go about it.

Is there a finish line you want to reach? Is your goal to get to another shore and start over? Is there someone else you have to impress or to blow out of the water? Or do you simply plan to survive, to stay afloat for as long as possible?

For Gokudera, this is a very basic thing. And people who don't know this are idiots. The only way to see the water is as something you have to conquer. And you don't go into uncharted areas without having a plan.

You scheme, you plot, you draw maps and diagrams and secret codes, because this is a war zone and your goal isn't going to lay itself bare before you. It's not going to understand your pain, or go easy on you, or give you what you need without a fight.

In the end, all that matters is that you get what you want and come out on top. And in order to do that you let nobody, nobody tell you how to swim. If someone else is trying to reach out to you, chances are they want to get one up on you, or they're just out to see you suffer, or they simply want to mislead you in order to get you out of their hair.

Until you've conquered your own waters, people will not respect you - they'll see you as a threat, or a nuisance at the very least. The strong prey on the weak. This is just how it is.

There is no science to swimming. You're thrown into the water and you react, do everything your body thinks it needs so you can stay afloat. And then you sink, or else you swim. That's all there is to it.

As far as Yamamoto knows, swimming is just another way to keep from dying. He's been thrown into the water several times in his life - he's floundered more times than he can count. And yet he's still alive, isn't he?

There's something else Yamamoto knows for certain: if you learn to love the water and think of it as not your enemy, but just as a matter of course, you can make a game out of every single stroke. Then it'll be a lot more tolerable. Then, it could even be fun. Let's see who gets there first, shall we? Don't go alone. Don't be scared of what you don't know. See who's faster, stronger, wiser, who could help you improve your play. Sometimes it's not so fun; all is fair regardless. Let's see who doesn't drown.

So, let's have a scientific experiment. What happens when two very different people are put into the same water?

For one of them, it's a battlefield - for the other, it's a playing court. Nonetheless, they have the same goals. Inevitably, they will fight for them, even if their attitudes toward "fighting" are completely different.

Gokudera fears one thing: that the bastard will always win. That someone who does everything very differently has been doing them the right way after all. Because he fears this to the very core of his being, he is driven to prove to himself there is no reason to be afraid. Planning, strategizing, is the only way to go, even if the competition gets a little ahead.

For you see, if the bastard gets a little ahead sometimes, Gokudera always manages to catch up. Gokudera is too young and too driven to see it for what it is. To him, it's only logical that he catch up because he's smarter. For Yamamoto, there are three reasons why it's important for Gokudera to catch up:

One, it's not as much fun to swim alone.

Two, the two of them stand a greater chance of getting to their goal faster and more easily if they swam together... even if it's not all of the time, and even if Gokudera doesn't look at it as "swimming together."

And three, he knows Gokudera is afraid.

[fic] Eyes (1/2) | Irie-centric, PG

2008-10-30T08:32:28Z

this is sort of a companion piece to Hands and Hearts. i'm sorry if this is boring... this is all in head tone, so it's probably going to sound overly ~~mental~~ technical.

IIRC half_sleeping was the one who first brought up the idea of a set-up being the main reason why irie hates the vongola ♥ i'm only expounding on it a bit here.

there are notes at the bottom, but BEWARE OF SPOILERS. the whole batshit scenario was made up by me, but this is STILL not a fic to be read if you aren't familiar with the 10yl arc yet. please tread with caution.

Eyes

A proposal was recently published in the World Scientist, an exclusive journal that all science colleges worth their salt subscribed to. In this, 21-year-old Japanese prodigy Irie Shouichi put forth the idea of mechanical eyes.

Eyes that could trap human souls inside them.

The academia was in shock. Irie Shouichi was fresh out of university - even if his experiments in robotics had called attention to his talents, no one had ever suspected that he was in fact as brilliant as this.

How could a child like this have drawn up such an ambitious scheme, and such flawless equations? More important, what did he intend to do with it?

Irie promised nothing, revealed nothing of his plans. He only said that the project was already being developed by himself and a few close friends.

And that it was called the Millefiore device.

The device could be modified. It could be altered to perform many different functions. But this was what Irie claimed the prototype could do: it could store a million souls. First it would reduce the human consciousness into a series of electronic signals, then file those signals away in microscopic storage cells inside the brain, which would allow the bearer of the optical implant to instantly modify whatever data was stored in them. This meant memories, secrets, dreams, and - if the device was perfectly set up, even gene-locked energy. Such as the dying will flame.

When the soul was returned to the body, the body adopted the modifications made to the soul. This would put the bearer of the device in the position of "puppetmaster," able to reprogram the movements and thoughts of other people - a million other people, to be precise.

The whispers grew into talk. Talk grew into uproar. News outfits started picking up on the info and moral debates ensued everywhere in the world, about the implications of having a device like this placed in the wrong hands.

This was how Irie Shouichi was thrust into the spotlight.

On Irie's end, the meetings, symposia and late-night parties never ended. Offers for exclusive rights to develop his formula poured in from everywhere.

There were also offers to recruit Irie and his research team (a bunch of friends he met in various scientific conventions - including an eccentric young inventor named Spanner, who coordinated with them from his home base in Italy) into high-paying positions in private and government R&D outfits.

"We're in the big leagues now, aren't we?" one of Irie's friends slurred over his third glass of beer. Takamiya was such a lightweight, two glasses of beer already messed with his coherence.

"Not until someone tries to kill us," another of his friends laughingly replied. Sanada was always the cynic; it made her invaluable to the team. "You know it's only a matter of time."

Maybe it was, Irie told himself. But who would be stupid enough to push through with it? With knowledge so powerful at their hands, none of them was expendable. They were young and indestructible, and they had every right to enjoy the fruits of their labors.

They could not be harmed. Everyone wanted what they had created - cybernetics research specialists, heads of state, corporate bigwigs, religious leaders.

And mafia dons.

Irie made it a point to hide from all of them. It was partly arrogance, and partly his annoyance at being disturbed. He thought he had set up all the electronic blocks that would make him disappear off the face of the earth for the time he needed to work on the Millefiore device.

But in the middle of the night, his cell phone rang.

It was an extremely secure line. Only his coworker-friends knew the number, and they could only reach him through their own secure lines. The signals were specially encrypted so as not to be tapped or traced by outside parties.

The number reflected on the phone screen was one he did not recognize.

There was nothing for Irie to do but take the call.

"Irie Shouichi?" the voice on the other end of the line said. It was a generic male voice, hesitant and respectful - it might have belonged to someone young. Perhaps the voice was even familiar... Irie couldn't be sure.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

"I'm... I'm a representative of the Vongola family."

The Vongola family...? Where had he heard that name before? "How did you get this number? You shouldn't have been able to reach me here!"

"Our hacker was able to punch a hole in your static block. It'll only last for a minute." The young man on the other end of the line might have sounded nice enough, but he also sounded like he was in a hurry. "I don't have time to explain. But you're not easy to get hold of, and this is important."

Irie took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Go on. What is it."

"We must ask you to abandon your research on the Millefiore device."

"What?" Irie's hand gripped his cell phone more tightly. "I don't understand..."

The caller asked him if he knew about the Estraneo family. Irie shook his head as he said no. He felt this was something he wouldn't want to hear.

He was right.

The caller then spoke about the Estraneo family - an old mafia line that built its fortune on the manufacture and trading of bioweaponry. But the Estraneo's passion for discovery turned into a mad ambition, and they began to employ inhumane experimentation methods in order to develop powerful but taboo creations.

"I don't understand," Irie interrupted. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Because they refused to give up their research, the Estraneo were wiped out," the caller said, without reluctance now, "by another mafia family."

Irie's blood turned cold. "Is this - " He began to shout into the phone. "Are you threatening me?"

"I... I'm asking you to be careful. A lot of people want your device - and some will do whatever it takes to get it. This is for your own safety."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Irie decided not to hold back. If this was an intimidation tactic, it was failing miserably. "I see what you're up to. You're telling me to abandon my research, but what you're really saying is if I don't hand over my research to you, you'll kill me." He smirked. "You can't get to me. You don't even know where I am. So spare me your empty threats."

"Irie! You don't get it. Listen!" The note of desperation in the other person's voice could very well have been faked, and knowing it only infuriated Irie.

"Don't be so familiar with me."

"If we can only talk - "

The call was dropped.

One minute - this was the longest amount of time the Vongola hacker could manage, before Irie's static block repaired itself, and double-wove new layers that would make a repeat contact damn near impossible.

Nonetheless, there were two more calls in the next few days. Irie did not pick up; he may not recognize the new numbers, but he did not want to risk further contact with the Vongola. The next call may be traced - he sincerely hoped that this "Vongola family," whoever they were, did not think he was stupid enough to let that happen.

Soon after that incident, Irie Shouichi was asked to deliver a talk on robotics at an American university, as the sole credited inventor of the Millefiore device.

That was when he received a frantic call from Takamiya on his secure line.

"Sanada and Midoriyama have been murdered." Takamiya could hardly speak. Irie knew it wasn't because of alcohol this time.

All the information Takamiya was able to spare was that their friends' killer/s left no trace that would reveal their identity, or how they were able to track down where Sanada and Midoriyama lived.

Their rooms were searched through and it seemed that all their research data was stolen.

"Bad" was not strong enough a word to describe this situation. Irie and his friends had been confident that their information blocks were iron-clad. No one should have been able to gather so much information on them, much less reach them to confirm their existence. The only time someone did was -

- No. Irie should not tell Takamiya about the Vongola's successful attempt to contact him only a few days ago. Not with Takamiya in this state.

"They might want to understand how we developed the Millefiore device," Irie mused aloud. "But that doesn't make sense... if they did, they should have kidnapped Sanada and Midoriyama, not killed them!" He suddenly realized his hands were shaking. He had quite possibly lost control of how fast his heart was beating, and that on its own frightened him. "Takamiya... what should we do?"

"I don't know. I don't know." Takamiya's sobs mangled his words. "Why is this happening?"

There was little Irie could do or say to comfort Takamiya. At this moment, they needed to calm down enough to formulate a plan.

Irie decided he was taking the next plane back to Japan. He and Takamiya were to meet at such and such a place, at such and such a time, so that they could brainstorm about their next step. In the meantime they were not to contact their family or loved ones, lest they too would be placed in the murderers' sights.

Irie could tell no one about what happened. He did not know whom he could trust. If it was true that he and his friends were being targeted, the best course of action, he figured, was to disappear as quickly and as thoroughly as possible.

On the way to the airport, Irie thought he saw people observing him at every corner. He couldn't sleep on the plane, and feared that every stranger was watching him somehow without looking at him.

In Japan, he checked into a seedy hotel, where he believed his anonymity was assured. Then, carrying nothing but his cell phone, he proceeded straight to his meeting place with Takamiya.

He tried calling Takamiya on their secure line. There was no answer.

Finally, he reached their rendezvous point. The 24-hour diner was quiet, fairly deserted at 4 AM, and not somewhere he and his friends frequented, which made it an ideal meeting place.

Irie stopped trying to contact his friend and waited.

He was falling asleep in his seat when something was dropped onto the table in front of him. He woke with a shout, startling the girl behind the counter - but when he jumped to his feet and looked around, he saw he was still the only patron there.

Cautiously, he picked up the thing that was dropped on the table. It was a section of the early morning newspaper. Among the headlines, he read:

THIRD MILLEFIORE RESEARCHER MURDERED

There was a photo of Takamiya Akira, age 21, cropped from an awarding ceremony he had attended only a few months ago. The murder, the brief and rushed report said, occurred at around 9:30 PM last night. The body was discovered at 10 PM, when a person living in the same apartment noticed Takamiya's door was open, and wandered in.

There were no signs of a struggle, although some drawers were rummaged through and some things were taken - similar to what happened with the young researchers Sanada and Midoriyama only less than 24 hours ago. The investigators concluded from the half-filled suitcases that Takamiya was getting ready for an out-of-town trip, when the killer walked in.

It was a quick and quiet assassination: a bullet hole to the head. Takamiya had died instantly. There was blood all over the floor.

The paper dropped from Irie's hand. He stumbled to the counter, to the night shift waitress looking at him with alarm.

"Was there - Did someone - " His mouth was dry and couldn't form the words. He began again, more carefully: "Was anyone here. Just now. With that newspaper."

"Yes," she warily answered, "a tall man. I don't think I saw him enter, but I saw him leave. He just dropped that paper off and walked out.."

Though his knees were shaking by this time, Irie staggered out the door. There was, as he expected, no one in sight.

So he ran, ran as fast as he could.

What else was there for him to do?

He wasn't thinking anymore. He didn't know where to go or what he should do next.

His friends were dead.

His friends were dead.

And Irie could only think of one group of people who would do something like this.

(tbc)

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

i've had this theory of the "round machine" in my head for a while now, but four things led me to actually writing this out:

1) look closely at the round machine in the anime (ep 96, 18 mins and 30 seconds in - thanks to kye_kestrel for the exact location ♥). [screencap 1] [screencap 2] kinda looks like an eye, dunnit?

2) in chapter 202, 10yl!hibari said to genkishi: "did you just get that white round machine installed?" perhaps the japanese text can give more insight on what hibari meant, but for the purpose of this fic, i took "install" to mean "implant."

3) in the anime, mukuro showed the eye-like device to chrome in her dreams, and when chrome reached out to it, she asked "why are you in here?"

note also that mukuro's "evil eye" was mysteriously damaged in his fight with byakuran, but there was no weapon at hand which would explain how mukuro's eye was hurt.

this was initially the LASER BEAM OUTTA BYAKURAN'S EYE theory, but since chrome asked "why are you in here?" it evolved into the even more ridiculous "byakuran has sucked mukuro into his iris" theory.

(edited to add: the round machine that harmed mukuro could be the jewel in byakuran's mare ring: THIS IS ALSO VERY POSSIBLE. it would still make sense that genkishi has one, because he wields the Mist Mare ring. however, the eye theory is much crackier.)

4) the latest chapter spoilers, bb. genkishi was spewing illusions out of his eyes (and mouth?) and i had to write this out before canon could prove me 100% crazy.

if #2 is in effect, and genkishi has the "white round machine" implanted in him as well, perhaps the device works in tandem with the hell ring and therefore does NOT have the same effect as byakuran's round device (presuming byakuran has a round device. in this fic, i'm saying that he does.)

♥

please don't send me back to the white padded room.

part 2 is here.

khr chapter 216 spoilers

2008-10-30T00:18:08Z

more maybe later when i've actually read the chapter. i just skimmed through, have to run.

1. SO WHY IS YAMAMOTO THE FIRST IN LINE FOR TSUNA'S THROAT? HUH? HUH??

is it genkishi's twisted sense of humor sending wall-boy out to kill tsuna first? or is it just that yama's the one tsuna trusts the most?

how does genkishi's power work, who decides these things?

2. i should've expected genkishi would be the one to pull out this shounen formula. it was bound to happen sooner or later, na? that, and tsuna still has to fight his "dark self" in order to rise in skill level XD (i mean he's already confronted the truth about his bloodline, it's only a matter of time)

3. hmm, the hell rings are apparently older than the mare rings, and they bind their wearers to some sort of covenant. i am not sure this is significant in the long run, but still pretty interesting. what kind of contract is mukuro bound to? how did he get hold of hell rings in the first place?

4. the one thing i'm spazzing about the most: this chapter is dangerously treading on killing the suspense value of this fic i've been working on in-between workstuff (which is eating up my life) for five days.

but lame fic is lame anyway, so let's see.

[fic] Hands and Hearts | Spanner-centric, G

2008-10-26T02:04:06Z

IN MY DEFENSE, IT'S STILL THE 25TH IN THE OTHER HEMISPHERE!!

belated happy birthday, a_lighter_side! i wanted to write you supatsuna for your birthday but i'm afraid Spanner introspection was all i could manage. i'm sorryyy T_T

i know things are toxic right now dearest aggy, but i hope you were able to find time to enjoy your special day ♥♥♥ much love, Boss! (kneels and kisses your ring XD)

Hands and Hearts

What is beautiful to a man who works with gears, wires, metal scraps and numbers, who has no time for a social life and barely understands the need for it?

Spanner often asked himself that question.

He had never felt lonely in his life. There was always so much to do, so much to make better and so many ideas to give shape to. What if this algorithm was better suited to this module? Or if this combination of gears, wires, metal scraps and numbers could be improved by adding this program, or that function?

And when he was done, he stepped back and looked at his creations - the Moscas, the transport vehicles, the guns. All bore his mark, were filled with his knowledge and energy and time.

He asked himself: Was this beautiful?

Once, as very young men, Spanner and Irie discussed the concept of a mechanical heart.

As with all their discussions, they almost immediately found something to disagree on.

"It should be an enhancement, not a replacement," Spanner said coolly. He was always cool. It was nothing to him if Irie blew a gasket or not. "The heart will still be there - the device will only serve to regulate the existing pressure based on need."

"Another enhancement," Irie sniffed. "Enhancements are inferior, Spanner. You know why we even have cybernetics? It's so machines can take the place of inefficient objects. Like hands and hearts."

Hands and hearts? Spanner frowned. "You do realize that it's human hands and hearts that create things to begin with?"

Irie smiled wryly. "You're not an artist. Stop sounding like one."

But Spanner was an artist. Perhaps Irie didn't notice, or he did but he didn't acknowledge it. To Irie, it was beneficial (or is the correct word "comforting"?) to keep seeing Spanner as a grunt, not as an inventor - someone whose entire existence depended on how well he could use his hands.

And like Irie, Spanner sought elegance. He might lack ambition as an inventor, might not seek glory or fame, but his passion for streamlining his output rivaled Irie's.

(Why replace something that works perfectly, if you can simply enhance it? Spanner asked. What's the point of keeping something around if you can install an improved version in its place? Irie asked him back.)

Spanner was not a conqueror. He had no vendettas. He asked himself useless questions and busied himself with trivial details... all tendencies which would keep him locked up in an underground garage forever, Irie was sure.

Spanner heard that the Vongola Tenth was everywhere. He had even attended the big robotics conference in Stockholm in '13, as a private (and of course, unlisted) sponsor. But Spanner was not present at the Stockholm '13 conference, so he missed his chance at meeting the man in the flesh.

It was said that the Vongola Tenth's cape got caught in a demo rotor, he got thrown about the exhibit area and some of his guardians had to band together to save him. It was legendary.

Spanner had also heard that the Vongola Tenth had stopped a civil war in a small Asian country, first by wiping out the private armies employed by the mafia heads of the region, then by calling the heads of the families involved for a truce. It was said he himself had torn down a weapons factory with the strength granted to him by his Vongola blood.

For Spanner, who was not known as an artist or a conqueror, the Vongola Tenth was the ultimate human being. He felt for others, and he made things happen with his own two hands.

But Spanner had never seen the Vongola Tenth. So he made up the Vongola Tenth in his mind. He had always been an unabashed otaku, but he could confidently say it wasn't until he learned about the Vongola that his love for all things Japanese reached its height. For the Tenth was Japanese - it was an essential part of his being.

Hajimemashite. Spanner to iimasu, Vongole Juudaime-san. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.

Spanner often played with the idea of offering his services to the magnificent Tenth - stepping out of his dreams and getting into his car, as it were - but Spanner felt he was too young, there was still so much to learn. He might not yet be a master inventor like Giannini, whose almost magical creations fueled the dreams of young robotics engineers, but he had his own ideas.

He could, for example, create a new and improved version of the famed X Gloves, which would give the Tenth more strength than he had ever wielded. He could create special goggles (or would contact lenses be more appropriate?) which would help the Vongola Tenth better plot his course around his enemies. Or! He could create a cape that would never snag on anything. In fact, he had already started researching on that...

But time passed.

And one day Spanner heard that the Vongola Tenth was dead.

He did not know how to feel. His hands fell still. He looked at the incomplete gloves and other devices he had begun to develop exclusively for the Vongola Tenth's use.

There were suddenly no more dreams to step out of.

And then they met.

Spanner raised an eyebrow at the cute boy sitting on his bed (handcuffed to the heater), blinking up at him.

So, Spanner, remember all those times you dreamed about how a man like the Vongola Tenth could ever need your skills? A roll of the tongue, and the lollipop stick protruding from his lower lip pointed in another direction. Well, wake up, kid. He's NOT dead, he's right in front of you and boy, does he need your skills.

It made sense to him, in a twisted way, that the Vongola Tenth would be a child with a default "klutz" setting. Vongola blood in repose would have to be outstanding in some form, and even if it were unusually stupid it would be logical.

Spanner didn't mind if his vision of the Tenth was shattered; he had no right building the man up in his mind to be some sort of god anyway.

Although he had imagined the Tenth would be a little... taller.

It wasn't as if Spanner had been keeping those gloves and contacts around because he was using them; he'd only finished them because he had set a deadline for himself and he always finished things on time, as a matter of personal policy. The Vongola Tenth accepted his offerings - and before Spanner's bewildered eyes the little klutz transformed into a thing of terrifying grace, moving through air more swiftly, more efficiently than any of his creations.

The power of machine amplifying the power of man.

Spanner watched him go - his masterpiece, this angel, propelled by the wings he had made, striking down the enemy with the hands he had fashioned - and there was an ache in his chest.

He was suddenly very, very aware that he was lonely. Had been lonely all those years.

Spanner asked himself: was this beautiful?

The thing that hurt the most in him replied: No. This was perfect.