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Gokudera, lighting up a cigarette on the street, having it immediately ripped out of his fingers by a passing stranger wearing five hidden knives and a gun.

The stranger, before disappearing back into the crowd: "Sawada has enough shit trying to kill him without his Right Hand breathing cancer at him!"

Gokudera -- who grew up under ninth-generation rule -- staring at his empty hand mournfully: "I can't believe I'm being targeted by the mafia to stop doing drugs."

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Tsuna is kind. Tsuna is compassionate. Tsuna, unlike many bosses, does not see himself as more than simply because of his station.

The only people who are capable of bringing out the entitled, spoiled, possessive Mafia Prince - the tiny piece of Tsuna's heart that is a stereotypically behaved Vongolian Sky - are his closest family. And even then, they can only manage it in very specific circumstances.

Allow me to clarify:

Imagine Tsuna, in a café filled with rubble and smoke, looking down at Hayato's fallen form. He stares at the blood seeping out from Hayato's chest - the chest that was torn open when Hayato jumped in front of a bullet meant for Tsuna.

(The assassin's corpse is cooling on the other side of the room, dead too late at the edge of Takeshi's blade.)

Tsuna keeps his eyes locked on Hayato. Hayato, who lies limp and motionless, no matter how much sun flame Ryouhei pumps in to him.

It feels like a dream. It feels fake. He feels detached from it all, like he's watching the world from far above and emotions can only reach him after traveling through a mile of cotton.

"Move," he tells his sun, his dying will flaring in the midst of his strange numbness.

His sun yanks his hands back, as instantaneously as if he were following a reflex instead of words.

Tsuna surveys the scene for another second, still through that mile of cotton, and then decides, "No. No, I refuse."

And, after all, does he not have a right to? He, the holder of the Vongola Sky Ring, the Guard of the Vertical Axis, the Sky of Skies. Is it not his birthright to seize hold of, to command, the threads of time?

He reaches out, burning, and undoes it.

An orange glow erupts around the two of them - his Hayato, and the assassin.

And then there is the assassin, alive again, aiming at a spot Tsuna is no longer at.

And there is Hayato, alive again, throwing himself to protect where Tsuna once stood.

Tsuna already has an arm raised, and sends a blast of power at the assassin. The assassin crumples. And then Tsuna is turning around, spinning towards Hayato, and he feels, within him, a hot, violent rage swell up. How dare he. How dare he.

He stalks over to his Right Hand, hands shaking with anger, and he spits, "You."

His Right Hand looks at him, all wide-eyed and taken off guard. As if he's not a fucking thief.

Tsuna snarls up at him, right up in his space, "Sit."

His Right Hand's knees fold. He just barely manages to catch himself against the table directly behind him, and it's not so much sitting as propping himself up, but Tsuna doesn't fucking care.

Tsuna's fists clench, and he stares directly into those green, green eyes. "You," he seethes, "took an oath, Gokudera Hayato." He feels himself burning, dying will an inferno on his skin. "You swore yourself to me, yes? Your life is mine. You do not have the right to take it from me."

His Right Hand, his storm, his Hayato, says nothing, eyes wide and face pale and lips parted ever so slightly in shock.

Tsuna feels incandescent with rage. "You dare-"

And then he finds himself losing the words, swaying in place as exhaustion slams down across him.

The last thing he feels is Hayato's arms coming up around him, warm and alive and oh so gentle, and the last thing he hears is Takeshi, saying - absolutely delighted, Tsuna knows that tone - "Oh, he is going to be so embarrassed when he wakes up."

And then darkness.

#Vongola #Time travel #This is so Thematically Crunchy #The ability to arbitrate time #perfect for the long line of inevitability which is the Vongola #Framing this as arrogance and entitlement? #Yes yes in this Tsuna is more than the mortal and subject to causality #screaming

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A pride of lions in Serengeti National Park, Tanzania photographed by Daniel Rosengren

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Yes, you're right, "I'd kill for you – please, ask me to kill for you" is a fun relationship dynamic, but where's the love for the classic attack-dog power dynamic reversal? I'd have thought Tumblr would be all over that one, too. The old "I'll kill for you – and kill, and kill, and kill, if needs be – but first you have to tell me exactly what it is you want. You are not permitted moral distance. Tell me what you need from me and admit your soft hands are just as bloody as mine. Say it. Say it."

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家庭教師ヒットマンReborn!

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6 years ago, Shohei Ohtani hit a home run ball that went through the roof of Tokyo Dome.

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Pedro Friedeberg — The Spirit of Cubism (polychrome wood and silver leaf, 2022)

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To be born into the waves and die as foam

Basilosaurus

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was thinking about takeshi and how he's my favorite brand of unconditional devotion btw. the utter and absolute and all-consuming kind that runs so deep to the very core and is so intrinsic and fundamental to it, it can only express itself in the most casual and natural and certain way. without second thoughts, without any room for doubts or for any moral dilemma to be had over it, because of course he ought to always be breathing and living for his chosen person first and foremost. of course he ought to hang on their every word and make them true no matter what, no matter what he has to do to make it happen, no matter what he has to do to other people to make it happen, and no matter what it might turn him into in the process. because it's obviously the way the world should be for his chosen person. at their feet, ready to bend over backwards and break and build itself again to better answer to all their needs even if they don't ask it for it. it's the only right way it should be for them, and of course takeshi's going to do his utmost at all times to make it a reality as much as possible.

and his devotion comes out as naturally as breathing, comes out lighthearted and nonchalant like he might as well be talking about the weather, but it's not unaware of itself. it's not that takeshi doesn't know it's unhealthy and wrong and that he's willing to go entirely too far in its name for anyone's good. it's not that he wouldn't hear you out if you were to sit him down and explain to him just why he needs to tone it down a little (a lot). logically, he'd agree with you and know you're right. and then he'd tell you he's still not going to do anything whatsoever about it. that he's not bothered by it and doesn't feel the need to change anything to his attitude. makes it a point to never let anyone or anything sway him even an inch in the stand he took when it comes to that, no matter how many thousand of times you might go over the subject with him.

because the morality of his devotion isn't the point at all. is entirely irrelevant to it and doesn't affect the way he expresses it all. it's not the metric with which he draws a line in the sand to hold it accountable to. because the thing is, takeshi's entire world revolves around tsuna--tsuna is his entire world altogether, and it's just a matter of fact, that simple. to him it's a truth as unchanging as the sky being blue, and so being the way he is according to that truth is the only way he can imagine being that'd feel right to him. and so the actual and only metric that matters here is "would tsuna be happier if i were to do this?" and/or "is this something tsuna needs me to do?"

and like. i don't think takeshi ever stops being a kind person capable of compassion and understanding and mercy and forgiveness even ten years later once they became mafia through and through. and i don't think either he grows up to be feared and called a monster per se despite the things they inevitably had to do during those ten years (and the things they'll inevitably keep having to do as long as they keep being mafia), at least not in the way, for example, they'll never stop fearing and calling mukuro one. but i do think that among the tenth gen, he ends up being the one with the most ruthless, merciless and horrific blood on his hands of that particular and distinct loving kind. you know the one i mean, right? he comes to be the one most expected and the one first expected to be willing and to take it upon himself to go through with it when the need arises. and to think little of it after, if anything at all. all in the name of making tsuna's reign as easy on him as possible.

and it's to the point where it's the kind of blood that makes even mukuro pause at times. or, when takeshi is the one coming up with solutions himself during meetings, makes even reborn blink. not because it's unjustified or wouldn't be safe or efficient or anything of the sort, but because it is unwarrantedly thorough in its retaliation. and sometimes, at times like this, he's the one tsuna needs to step in for the most, because he's the only one who can reason with him that "yes, this would work in getting rid of our problem" but "no, please, don't do that takeshi". because if tsuna is the only thing that infers on just how much and in what ways he'll let himself be devoted to him, then of course, he's also the only one takeshi's willing to reign himself in for without second thoughts. because he'd hate to ever do something tsuna would disapprove of or wouldn't want him to do. or do something that'd make tsuna see him differently or love him back less even in the slightest.

and it's also like. his devotion isn't an undisciplined one. it's not one he doesn't have control over, the very opposite. it's a very purposeful and conscious choice he chooses to keep making over and over again every step of the way, and he taught himself to have control over it, to know when it's needed and/or wanted, and how much and in which ways it is when it happens, and to keep it down otherwise. and, yes, to also reign it back in at tsuna's request at times when it still slips past his control. because it's all about making tsuna's happiness easier and secure and long-lasting, and never about burdening him with just how committed he is to do that.

so it comes down to this: takeshi willing to go above and beyond and more for tsuna unless tsuna explicitly asks him not to. and to tsuna needing to ask him not to every now and then. and to other people pointing out to him how too many times tsuna's already needed to stop him, and that maybe there's a hint for him to take there. and to takeshi seeing the hint, looking it straight in the eye and recognizing it for what it is and just. deciding it doesn't apply to him because it's all perfectly normal behavior to him. because it's the only kind of behavior that makes sense to him and feels right.

and so—to circle back to my first point—he can only express his devotion as naturally as breathing, so casually, almost like it's something inconsequential and not worth talking about despite how unmistakably it couldn't be further away from being the truth. it's the only way he could have always known how to express it, because, after all, who has ever taken time to ponder about the details and the hows of the way they breathe?

and i, for one, absolutely eat that shit up every time, thanks for coming to my ted talk <3

#that is how Rains are #Their Flame is Serenity #but they have no chill #or else they have too much chill about most things #so conventional morals and norms take second place to the object of their devotion #like Squalo is like this too

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#Sasagawa Kyoko #katekyo hitman reborn #khr

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how the fuck did we get from there to where we are today

#CEDEF Oregano #oregano behavior

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Centuripe, province in Enna, Sicily, Italy

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obsessed with this footnote in my copy of romeo and juliet

#Vongola Settimo/Daemon Spade

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Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, Fabio di Vongola

warning for suicide

It took him a few repetitions to notice. Like a song from a music box, the noises from outside his cell were locked in a seamless loop, the same murmur of conversation repeating on a three-sentence beat. Peering through the bars, he could see the guards cycling through their own series of movements, like figures in a zoetrope, standing up and sitting down only to stand up again.

It couldn’t be. He had taken back the Half-Rings. But it could only be— “Spada?”

“Fabio.” Spada emerged from nothingness, as impeccably dressed as ever, and took a seat on the narrow cot pushed against the wall.

“You know,” Fabio said, trying for teasing and arriving at wistful, “I think this is the first time I have heard you call me by my name.”

“Perhaps.” Spada said, tilting his head back, gaze far away, “What else could I call you, here at the end of all things?”

There was no bite to the words, and yet—Fabio sighed, leaning back onto damp concrete. “I suppose you were right then, when you said that the fight would come to us, one way or another. I can hardly call myself Don Vongola when I failed to see that.”

Spada pursed his lips. It was clear he agreed with Fabio’s own judgement, but they had been friends too long to countenance such sharpness easily. The CEDEF Commander settled by saying, neutrally, “You established a foundation for your heir to build upon. The Vongola will not survive its trials without the resources you have acquired.”

Oh. He had hoped, for a moment, that this was a rescue, but he had personally laid down the law regarding the keeping of omerta, and it would have been hypocritical for him to demand an exception.

“I see.” He needed to focus on the important things. “They took the Ring when they came to the house, they knew what it was for, we have a leak. You’ll also need to take Daniela to my sister Claudia in the Vestals, she has my Will in her keeping—I trust that you have no objections to Flavio as my successor?”

Icy water trickling down his spine. Spada was shaking his head, full of sympathy. “Daniela was arrested the same time as you, and Flavio was tricked into giving himself up for her, not that Mori let her free.”

No. The world spun, the floor of his cell came rushing to meet him—cold hands caught him.

"I have failed then, both as a Don and as a father." He said into the orange flower water scented shoulder of his consigliere.

"Flavio shines gold with honour," Spada said, not quite disagreeing, "He can capture hearts, but is unsuited to scheming."

"But?" Fabio clung to the hope in the upturned lilt at the end of Spada's words.

"But, Daniela blazes as a bonfire." Spada said, "Her Will is unmatched, her courage undaunted, her Flame without peer. Your daughter, Fabio, has the heart and stomach of a king. I would offer the Rings to her."

"She is young." Fabio whispered, "A girl, besides. The Vongola will not bow to her."

"She has the Will to hold it." Spada drew away so that their eyes met keeping his hands on Fabio's shoulders. "Trust in her, and in me who trusts in her. I have witnessed the rise and fall of many heroes, and in Daniela I see strength and conviction which would shame Ricardo. Make a new will here, Settimo, and your daughter will see your dream of the cosa nostra united under Vongola's banner through."

At that, his Intuition, silent in helplessness, pinged. He focused on the incongruity in Spada's declaration. "You would compare Daniela to secondo, not primo?"

Spada smiled, nostalgic laughter in his eyes. "She is as Ricardo, Fabio. The one who rallies the family once their predecessor's failures overtake it. You are like Giotto.”

“The one who failed?”

His friend’s gaze softened. “The dreamer who gave me hope. Giotto was like a shooting star, a spot of brilliance burning out and fading fast, and like him, your work was not half-done when your will faltered. And though for the sake of those works I have turned from you, they sprung from you nonetheless, and I cherish the memories of our fellowship, the joy of which I shall use to hone my grief into vigilance. This I swear.”

Fabio swallowed, his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. That flash of sapphire, years ago, when they had bared their hearts to each other. “I would rather that you just lived—looked up Katzbalger’s old retirement plans, maybe.”

“You need not wish me well.” His friend kissed his hand, the hand bereft of the Vongola Ring for the first time in more than two decades. “You have already returned love to me, when all I had was hate. For your sake, Fabio, I shall avenge thee, and see your children grow old.”

Flavio would be safe too then, under the dark wings of his godfather.

“You speak as if I am already dead.”

“You will be.” The man who had been his External Consultant said at least had the decency to look him in the eyes as he said it, as steady and inexorable as the age-old beat of a marching drum. “You have failed, and have been defeated, Don Vongola. It is time to do as the Romans do, and fall on your sword—or would you give the government their very own puppet, or else allow their kangaroo courts the humiliation of the Vongola name?”

“I cursed my father for putting pride before life and love.” Fabio said.

“You would give your life for love and freedom.” Said the one who had once been one mind with him. “Worry not for your kin. Sostrata has taken your mother to safety in England, and your wife has will return to her father’s house to politic for Daniela there, once your last affairs are arranged. Flavio is being kept in the same gaol as this, and the tumult over your death will give Timoteo the opportunity to extract him. I shall retrieve Daniela myself.”

That was all he still cared about taken care of. Fabio did not relish the thought of life in prison, or giving the government the satisfaction of his execution. But—he had one question left.

“Is my death the price you demand for your service, Daemon Spade?”

His friend froze. Then he started chuckling, vibrant colour seeping into his eyes and hair—pale hair and steel-blue eyes, of course, Daemon would have delighted in getting one over his old rival.

“One might understand it thusly.” Daemon said, drawing himself up to his full height—clearly, the first impression he had given Fabio had been no act, the man was an utter peacock. “Bind me with your lifeblood and last breath, Vongola Settimo, and your daughter shall command the deathless bogeyman of the underworld.”

In his hand he held a straight razor, its edge so sharp as to cut without pain.

Fabio took it. “That’s a bit small for a sword, isn’t it?” He said drily.

Still. Wrist or neck?

He lifted the blade up, Intuition guiding each movement, then drew it swiftly forwards and down.

The last thing he saw was his friend’s face, leaning in.

“O Fabio,” Daemon Spade promised, “Forgive me this, and I shall make you a pyre worthy of any emperor.”

Cool lips touched Fabio’s, sealing them with a kiss, and he knew no more.

Remember what I said about weird Roman traditions? Daemon is leaning particularly strongly into them because of the whole glorious death and redemption through suicide thing he has going on here. Claudia, Fabio’s younger sister in the Vestals, has custody of his will as would have been the case in ancient Rome.

It is also, according to Wikipedia, custom for the closest relative to seal the passing of spirit from the body with a last kiss, in accordance with a belief that equated the soul with the breath. I think I implied that Daemon was committing literal vampirism with the kiss, drawing out all of Fabio’s lifeforce and power and taking Fabio into him.

#khrrarepairweek2023 #Vongola Settimo/Daemon Spade #cw: suicide #cw: self harm

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Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, 4, Policemen, 1

The watery light of Ligurio’s lantern was just bright enough for Fabio to avoid the unidentifiable chunks of gore strewn across his path, a sight that was as familiar as it was gruesome. Spada had put together a similar display on their first meeting, after all, and this time, past midnight in the coolness of winter, he was spared the stench of corpses ripening in the hot afternoon sun.

Nevertheless, his friend’s latest masterpiece was worse than his first.

The dead men, or what was left of them, were wearing the uniforms of the police, and it was their own offices that had become their mausoleum.

“Your consigliere has crossed a line.” Ligurio said quietly, the Mist Flames in his lantern twisting and turning, casting shadows like writhing vines onto the walls.

Fabio closed his eyes.

“Yes.” Don Vongola agreed, “Yes, he has.”

His Guardian followed him onwards without him needing to ask, instead of leaving him to meet Spada alone, as was their custom, and for that, Fabio was thankful. They headed deeper through blood-stained halls, an occasional effort from Ligurio creating shortcuts through the walls, until they reached the dark heart of the station.

Years upon years of violence and cruelty had left their mark in the cells, the memory of suffering sinking into the very ground, and Spada, vicious and brutally brilliant, had stirred the past up in his tableau of vengeance. The victims here were still half alive, each trapped reliving the fates of whichever unfortunate souls had been brought in by the police and beaten and broken by them.

Overseeing things like a demon meting out justice to the damned in hell, Spada leaned casually against one wall, his overcoat hung over one arm.

He smiled as Fabio came into sight.

"Settimo!" He greeted, "What say you about my handiwork? Is it sufficient to make my point? More could be done, but it seemed wise to me to leave some room for future escalation."

"Spada." Fabio said, taking comfort in the glow of Ligurio's lantern. "Do you know what you have done?"

Spada frowned. "I would have thought it obvious. If Mori wishes for war, then war he shall have. This is but a taste of what awaits him and his dogs."

He gestured to the moaning men at his feet. "In addition, I have left these alive so that they may draw suspicion with the inexplicability of their survival, to divide their ranks further, and naturally, once their minds are worn down, I will insert my Flames into them, so that we may always see what they see and know what they know."

"You have openly attacked policemen." Don Vongola said, "And you have done so with Flames. How do you expect all this to end, External Consultant?"

Spada's eyes narrowed. "A protracted battle. We will force Mori to spend so much blood and treasure that he beggars himself and his masters give up on us, or else risk collapsing themselves. And if they persist, then we may as well move north. I have run the calculations. We can afford it."

Fabio’s thoughts stuttered to a halt as his mind refused to comprehend what Spada had said. Surely this was some horrendous dream? It could not be real, his friend, no matter how unorthodox his opinions, would never escalate to such reckless insanity.

“We do not need to afford it,” Fabio tried to understand Spada’s line of reasoning, tried to see just what had made his friend come to such a decision, “We are safe, Spada! Mori’s a blunt instrument, and he is no Sicilian. We’ll feed him his pound of flesh, and he’ll think he’s won his battle, and then we’ll be left alone, as we always are in the end.”

Spada shook his head sharply, the play of Mist-made lantern light over his face turning it into a skull. “Showing your belly or hiding from this fight won’t make you win it, Settimo. The only way to be safe is to make the threat stop, anything else simply delays the confrontation, and to do so without clear intent is to surrender the initiative to the enemy.”

Those words came almost as a relief. This was something he knew how to address.

“That’s why I have you preparing contingencies and fall-back points—it might be a more drawn-out affair in that case, but it would end the same way. We’d have let him see a few shadows, given him the confrontation he wants, and then he’d have left under the impression that his work was done. But now, not only have you rendered a major provocation in the form of a lethal attack on their own, you’ve done so in a manner without a mundane explanation—what do you think will happen then?”

“Lest you have forgotten, Spada, inexplicable occurrences are violations of Omerta.” Ligurio added snidely from beside them. His Mist Guardian had kept a hold on his lantern instead of hanging it up on a hook, so it dangled from his crossed arms, the swinging motion shifting shadows in such a fashion that it only added to the unreality of the situation.

“Only if they lead to further investigation.” Spada sneered back, “Anyone who can lead back to us will be dead before they even begin to do so. All I have done is demonstrate the futility of bearing down upon cosa nostra with simple-minded force, and the extent of the enemy’s ignorance, though I have no hope that their small minds hold the wisdom to see that this is a fight they cannot win.”

An inarticulate sound of frustration slipped past Fabio’s lips. “But you are picking fights and making enemies. Mori won’t even know to target us unless we show ourselves to him, let alone be a threat to us without you making it so—”

He was interrupted by laughter. Bitter, contemptuous laughter.

“You are incurable optimists, the both of you.” Spada’s tone fell short of mocking, laden down by the dark currents of disappointed faith, deep passion, “Or at least you, Fabio, fall prey to this sin. Ligurio’s flaw is simply that he cannot endure a worldview that allows for true crises. Do you think that threats come but from within, and not from without? That the Family must be the intended victim for it to fall prey to the politics of power? In such a storm, there is no such thing as safe harbour; one either rules the storm or one is rolled under. The north will not be stopped until it is made to stop, and if I must bring the full strength of the Vongola to bear to break its will, then I shall, and you shall do so with me, and without hesitation, for to do otherwise would be weak and you have sworn to me that we shall abide no weakness!”

Comprehension struck him like a blow to the head, leaving his ears ringing; like a bucket of cold water over the head, soaking him to the bone with icy fear. “There are laws which even we must obey, Spada! Chief of them all Omerta and barely second to it the commandment against worlds mixing!” Fabio had cast aside composure, Spada was his friend even if he had gone mad and he would not allow him to be lost to the depths of the Vindice’s prison, “If we reach, with Flame, into the world above, then it will not be our peers who police us, but the Vindice coming with their chains to drag you forever into the darkness without any hope of recourse. They cannot be negotiated with. I will not allow it.”

“You would bow to their authority, out of fear, Don Vongola?” From Spada’s lips, Fabio’s title sounded like an accusation.

“I dislike picking unnecessary fights.” Fabio said flatly. “Go home, External Consultant. Ligurio and I will clean up here.”

“CEDEF’s Commander answers not to thee in this.” Spada purred, eyes locking with Fabio’s in challenge.

Fabio sighed. “But I’m asking. Please, Spada.”

A long moment. Then.

“As you wish, Don Vongola.”

Spada vanished.

Fabio looked to Ligurio, who raised his lantern. The pale indigo light revealed no shadows out of place. Spada was gone. Fabio let his eyes slip shut for a count of three.

Modify the memories of the survivors. Place them properly. Arrange the scene. Burn the evidence down. Six hours to morning.

He opened his eyes. “Time to get to work.”

next

#khrrarepairweek2023 #Vongola Settimo/Daemon Spade

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Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, An Estraneo Traitor, 5, 1

warnings for gore, body horror, and torture of both the physical and psychological variety

Sostrata, his Rain, was there with him when the message came. The runner was dressed in trousers, a shirt, and a vest, the messy flop of hair beneath a newsboy cap lending a sense of youth to the ensemble.

“Settimo.”

Fabio checked the time on the clock on the wall of the restaurant’s private room, then favoured his guest with a coldly empty smile. “Well?” He asked as he stood, “Shall we see whether a single sentence of what you have said to me today was true?”

Swallowed by his shadow, Claudio Estraneo flinched, futilely attempting to suppress his urge to disappear into the furniture until Sostrata, unimpressed, seized the other man forcibly by the shoulder and dragged him upright, helpfully sticking Estraneo’s glasses in the man’s shirt pocket.

The agent formerly known as Cinquedea held the door open for them, and after his Rain had passed by her, frogmarching the Estraneo Don before him, she let the door swing shut and slipped behind them to bring up the end of their procession.

Fabio marvelled, not for the first time, at the difference between his counterpart and his counterpart’s subordinates. Had it been Spada behind him, he would have already been regaled with every shameful secret their guest would never have wanted them to know in between luridly violent threats just to keep Estraneo on his toes. Moreover, the CEDEF Commander would never have contented himself with the practiced, habitual manners displayed by the other agents, instead leaving Fabio with the consistent impression that even when bowing as propriety demanded or offering kisses as pledges of devotion, Spada had been playing some private game with the customs of their society. And that feeling had not abated as they had grown closer. Instead, his friend had simply invited him to take part in his sport.

It had been more fun than he had expected, although Fabio had picked up some of Spada’s more vicious quirks—and even that had proven useful, as evidenced by the trembling figure of a traitorous ally being forced into a car in front of them.

Spada was waiting at the gates of the university, and his face was dark with wrath. Behind him, hidden from onlookers by a giant shimmering soap bubble of illusion, stone-faced CEDEF operatives shuttled boxes of evidence onto the driveway, inventoried and photographed their contents, and sorted them into piles to either be commandeered or destroyed on the spot with Storm Flames.

“Remind me again, Sostrata,” Fabio said casually, “Didn’t Don Estraneo swear, on his mother’s grave even, that his nephew’s work with the government was solidly within the bounds of conventional medicine, and that his focus was solely on seeking a cure for tuberculosis?”

“Yes, Settimo.”

“And does this look like the work of someone trying to invent tuberculosis medicine?”

“No, Settimo.”

“What is this, then?”

“The most extreme breach of Omerta since the term was coined.” Spada answered, his raging Will manifesting itself in an all but tangible aura of madness and horror, the shadows of nightmares cast by moonlight turning his pale face and fair hair into a skull. “A famiglia prostituting itself to government dogs, disgracing its history, selling secrets that were not its to sell.”

Restrained by Sostrata, Estraneo went paper white.

“Don Vongola,” Spada snarled, “This goes beyond petty political posturing. Even were it a time of peace, revealing Flames and building—nay, designing—weapons for the military would be an act of treason against the cosa nostra itself, and this now is a time of war the likes of which the world has never seen—you will not let this stand. The one who acted has been condemned to the brazen bull for his treachery, but what of the mind behind him? What of the collaborators which supported him? What of the den of thieves which produced him? What is your will, Don Vongola?”

He could burn Estraneo to ashes here and now, with the Flame Guns at his hip and the Ring on his hand, but. It did not seem to be enough, somehow, not for the magnitude of this crime—of this sin.

At that moment, their prisoner, clearly aware that he was doomed either way, broke out of Sostrata’s grasp to make a break it in an explosion of indigo flames—

—Fabio had pulled the trigger four times.

Both arms, both legs, returned to the elements by the harmony of the Sky, just as the air rippled—an attack by Spada, barely a hair slower than his own. The head and torso of Claudio Estraneo thumped onto the ground. For a moment, Fabio thought that Spada’s attack had done nothing, but then Estraneo started screaming, and something moved in the man’s belly.

“Rats.” Spada offered a word of explanation, somewhat settled by fighting alongside Fabio. “It will be slow.”

“And painful?” Fabio—Don Vongola had come to a decision. “I will be calling for a general assembly immediately, and I intend to make an example of Estraneo. Until then, keep it nonlethal.”

Spada bowed, modifying whatever state he had imposed on Estraneo with a flick of his fingers, all without taking his eyes off Fabio’s.

“We’ll make a show of it.” Don Vongola continued, “But that’s no reason to be sloppy. Send CEDEF agents to keep tabs on all Estraneo members. I’ll have the Families vote to destroy the famiglia before we act, and their job is to keep the Estraneo from going to ground until then.”

“Already arranged, Settimo.”

He didn’t start, because with his Intuition bright in his mind, Flame high in his heart, he could not help but be aware of everything and everyone around him, but his conscious mind had forgotten the last member of the party that had set off from the restaurant.

“Excellent work, Sage.” Spada nodded at the CEDEF agent that had accompanied them—so that was Cinquedea’s new name.

“Of course, sir.” Sage replied, then frowned at the moaning remains of the Estraneo Don. “I’ll get a tarp for the car.”

“I’ll go with you.” Sostrata added immediately, clearly eager to put some distance between himself and the sight of a quadruple amputee with his insides being slowly devoured by illusionary rats.

“Go.” Fabio gave his permission. He paused, riding the crest of his Wrath, and added, “Bring the body of our guest’s nephew. We’ll see that they get to stay together until the end.”

With their subordinates gone, they were left alone (but for their barely conscious victim).

“You are gathering the Families under your banner, I see.” Spada said, once they were out of earshot.

"Divided, we will fall." Fabio said flatly, “And if we are to act as one, then I will only allow the Vongola to lead us all."

Spada hummed appreciatively. “A clever plan.”

“Thank you.” Fabio shrugged, “Now to lighter things—Cilantro told me why you overhauled CEDEF’s names— ‘no comments from the spice cabinet’, indeed—your pride will be the death of you some day, Spada, especially now that it has already become the death of your dignity (and the Vongola’s). But why Sage for Cinquedea? I get that Gladius can sometimes be an acquired taste, like cilantro, but the reasoning for her name escapes me.”

“His.” Spada corrected, “Sage affected masculine stylings for a mission and found the experience euphorically informative, discovering his desire to be a man in perpetuity, and keeping in mind your usual points of consideration, I decided to facilitate his dreams. Choosing a masculine name for him was no trouble, and he has consequently become the most devoted—as his initiative proves. Your methodology regarding bonds and connections produces impressive results, Fabio.”

“I see.” Fabio frowned, “Strange. Timoteo also chose a man’s name and mode of dress—and yet she has never rejected womanhood.”

“There are parallels, yes.” Spada shrugged, “But Sage has spoken with her regarding the matter and informs me that while there are similarities in their experiences, their situations are not the same. Still, it’s a useful condition. The agreeability of their circumstances is tied to the reach of Vongola’s power, and bound with something as intimate as identity, their loyalty will not waver.”

“Somehow I suspect that you have misunderstood my strategies completely, my friend.”

While he had decided to make the Vongola appealing in comparison to competitors, Fabio had not imagined that it would be done this way—and yet Mists were capable of making tangible alterations to themselves with their Flames, which clearly gave them another perspective on indecency, and from what he had heard of Berlin in Germany and some of the more particular establishments of the night, Spada’s subordinate wasn’t a unique case, even if Fabio himself found the situation odd. And yet Spada was correct. The fact that Vongola was offering a degree of freedom and affirmation not found elsewhere would cement Sage’s loyalty.

“I doubt it. That I have done such a thing is only because I have learned its doing from you, Fabio, as you have learned strength from me.” Spada’s attention turned to the returning men, “Sostrata, get in to the car and help Sage lay down the tarp on the middle seat. Sage, sit the corpse there, set Estraneo the elder in its lap, wrap the tarp around both of them to secure them, then let Sostrata hold them steady.”

Sage obeyed, though with tightly pursed lips. Sostrata was more reluctant, but a jerk of the Settimo’s head had his Guardian bowing to the External Consultant’s authority.

Beside Sostrata, Claudio Estraneo was forced to gaze into the melted face of the charred corpse of the nephew whose blackened arms held him in a hellish embrace, some sort of Mist Construct depriving him of even the ability to scream.

Spada looked at his work with satisfaction, then dismissed Sage to coordinate surveillance efforts while he himself slid into the car in Sage’s place. As a finishing touch, he replaced Estraneo’s glasses, just to make sure his victim would have clear sight of his nephew’s death mask.

He smirked at Fabio, as if to say, look how creative I am.

The Fabio of even an hour ago would have balked, but here and now, his Will blazing behind his eyes and upon his brow, Don Vongola only nodded in approval. Here was the fate which awaited all who betrayed the Vongola; to turn from the Family was to turn to hell.

It was the right thing to do. Spada’s smirk turned into a true smile.

But Sostrata wore a grim frown.

This is the high point of the Fabio/Spada relationship, tbh, the point where Fabio has internalized some of Daemon’s viciousness while Daemon has learned that there’s more to power than just having the biggest stick and the greatest willingness to use it.

Fabio’s Guardians and the CEDEF agents, however, are realizing that their bosses are going too far. In particular, Sage, formerly Cinquedea, will be tapped by Daniela to eliminate Spada for being an unmanageable war-hawk after the Allied Victory, and then succeed Spada as CEDEF Eighth.

The Alliance, at this point, is more of a loosely knit coalition of the big Families agreeing not to step on each other’s toes too much than the well-organized, well-coordinated hierarchy of Families with Vongola at the top as the ultimate arbiter. Fabio started the process, but Daniela was the one who used the fires of war to establish the Vongola as the unquestioned leader of the underworld.

I’ll leave it up to you to decide if Estraneo recognized his ancestor.

next

#khrrarepairweek2023 #Vongola Settimo/Daemon Spade #cw: gore #cw: torture #cw: body horror