[Fic] The Totally Fictitious But Rapturous Love Story Of Rokudo Mukuro and Hibari Kyouya (1/3)
Title: The Totally Fictitious But Rapturous Love Story Of Rokudo Mukuro and Hibari Kyouya
Series/Characters: [Reborn!] Mukuro/Hibari, Tsuna, Chrome, Reborn, Gokudera, Yamamoto, Dino, Ryohei, Varia, minor filler OCs et al.
Disclaimer: Non-commercial/fair use/parody.
Word Count: 13,651
Notes: Un-beta'd. This is a purely indulgent piece of head-canon, one that I'd begun writing more than 3 years ago. Can't even pinpoint where it departs from canon anymore, but at this point Amano's canon has gone off in such a direction that I don't think I can follow it even if I wanted to.
Preemptive apologies if the shifts in writing styles are too jarring. This is for the 6918 fandom: a magnus opus for the crowning dysfunctional Murder Couple of my heart. This is for everybody and anybody who misses the Vongola Gear-less days.
Also available as one post at AO3.
Summary: To be honest, a conventional love story this is not. To be perfectly honest, “love story” might even be a bit of a misnomer. In all seriousness though, “vaguely obsessive and somewhat stalker-friendly story” just simply doesn’t sound as good as “love story.”
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The Totally Fictitious But Rapturous Love Story Of Rokudo Mukuro and Hibari Kyouya
by kasugai gummie
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[ A ROMANCE TO SPAN THE AGES ]
So to be honest, a conventional love story this is not.
To be perfectly honest, “love story” might even be a bit of a misnomer.
See, the crux of the problem is this: Love is, for all practical intents and purposes, best identified as that enthusiastic dose of affection between individuals; that beatific feeling of mutual like; that ebullient potential for a fantastically torrid romance. Il Amore. L’Amour. El Amore. It is the endorphins-glazed stuff pubescent girls lap up by the dozen-fluid ounces and do extraordinarily stupid things for, by the power of, in the name of, so help them god.
Love, as it is defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary (see entry: \ˈləv\ noun. “warm attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion”), plays the part of an absentee here. It has, for all practical intents and purposes, quite kindly fucked off into the literary aether.
This is not a bad thing by any means. There is still plenty of enthusiasm to go around-enthusiasm to beat another until concentrated fruit juice is leaking from every unclogged orifice. There’s devotion too-though some would insist that it was more of the borderline illegal sort (and why not just call it “stalking” to be fair).
It’s only the warm, fuzzy feelings that are missing, really.
Purists and linguists alike may argue that such false advertisement is reprehensibly misleading. They may insist that such disrespect does nothing but cheapen the ideologically sacred concept. And they may even have a point.
Alas, and for shame.
In all seriousness though, “vaguely obsessive and somewhat stalker-friendly story” just simply doesn’t sound as good as “love story.”
And in the end, the gist is the same anyway.
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So say it begins with something like this:
Boy gets picked up by a group of malcontents. Assume the group is mafia. Assume the group is as ambitious as can be for all the wrong reasons. Assume the Boy gets misused by said mafia in ways that would goad most human rights activists into fits of frothing-at-the-mouth rage.
Boy deals with his existentialist angst. Boy does so by going on a killing spree.
Boy ends up with a huge chip on his shoulder, go figure, and makes a shit-list that he tends to quite religiously, for all that he isn’t religious. But it’s not enough; never enough. Boy never does things by halves.
Give the Boy a few years. Boy ultimately decides to bring the funeral to the Sicilian network’s backyard from the inside-out. Boy figures it best to start some shit on some Other Boy’s turf to get the ball rolling. Not surprisingly, Other Boy doesn’t take it too kindly when shit is started on the sanctity of his grounds and blindly sets out to bite a bitch.
Boy meets Boy.
Boy lures the Other Boy into his parlour, makes a gamely attempt to woo the Other Boy with really pretty flowers and tattered upholstery, and-oh, yes-apparently out-of-season plants can be just as effective as date rape drugs. Who would have thought?
Somehow it ends like this:
Other Boy gets over his roofie’d by vegetation problem and manages to bite the bitch dead. For his troubles, Other Boy also enlists a creeper’s feathery little helper into the practical service of Namimori.
Boy doesn’t fare as well, gets his ass sort of kicked, and is hauled off by the representatives of a mafia-run penitentiary system.
Boys don’t meet again for a very long time.
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There’s a continuation though.
(“They still found each other interesting” is putting it nicely.)
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The decision to spring free the less trustworthy and infinitely more insidious half of Vongola’s Mist Guardianship happens approximately one year after Sawada Tsunayoshi finally claims his birthright with his predecessor’s blessing. Any earlier would have only resulted in a grand orchestration of failure and Reborn had been nothing if not thorough in beating most of that out of his protégé.
And Tsuna had waited. He first waited patiently for the ceremonies and the formalities to pass. Then he waited some more for the first wave of assassination attempts to die down. Only when he was reasonably sure that he was no longer ranked “Number One Most Likely to be Assassinated By Stepping Out the Front Door,” did he round up his consigliere and his guardians for a little communal tête-à-tête.
One particular guardian would have completely ignored the summons though, had Reborn not been pre-emptively dispatched as a proxy. Which is why Hibari finds himself being pulled aside a few days prior to the actual meeting date by Reborn who casually informs him of the forecasted agenda: Rokudo, a possible prison break, Mukuro, a possible chance for a rematch, and oh yes, something about Rokudo Mukuro-you remember Rokudo Mukuro, don’t you?
It’s an irresistible lure for someone like Vongola’s Cloud.
(Of course he bites.)
When Hibari arrives at Tsuna’s office suite days later, he is alone and just late enough to avoid the others arriving en masse. Technically this makes him the last attendee to arrive, much to Gokudera’s bitten-off vocalizations of displeasure, but he still somehow manages to commandeer an entire triplet of chairs all to himself.
Looking around the long, oblong table, it’s easy to pick out those who have some sort of inkling as to what the meeting aims to cover and those who don’t:
The Mist girl is quietly ecstatic, her hope a painful, tangible thing. She exchanges looks with Hibari for a brief moment and the amount of cautious optimism in her carriage and brightly glittering eye is absurd. When Hibari narrows his own gaze in response, she frowns back defiantly, turning away only when the lights dim seconds later and Tsuna begins to speak.
Hibari quirks an eyebrow at her profile, but remains, for the most part, unimpressed.
Another cursory glance around the room suggests that Chrome’s fortifying enthusiasm has not quite caught on with the rest of the herd. At least, not so much from the looks of the miniature ash-and-filter, neo-modernist sculpture sitting in front of Tsuna’s chain-smoking lapdog. But it is also obvious that Gokudera had practically put together the presentation himself, if the painfully professional graphic design with its immaculate lines and typeface choices are of any indication.
“Thank you all for coming here on such short notice,” Tsuna says, face aglow from the projector screen’s soft illumination. He offers the room a small smile and steadfastly ignores Hibari’s unimpressed sneer and Reborn’s running counsel on how good mafia leaders “should always get to the point.”
“Now, I know a lot of you won’t like what I’m about to propose and most of you probably won’t agree with the logic behind it anyway,” he continues, “but please keep in mind that I’ve been considering this for quite a while now.”
Hibari props his head against a fist and yawns just as Tsuna gives Gokudera a subtle go-ahead. An impressively stark and ugly rock wall, dotted with curiously uniform holes which may or may not have constituted as windows, replaces the title card.
“I’m sure all of you are at least somewhat familiar with the Vendicare Prison and the Vindice,” Tsuna says, nodding in time with each following transitional image of the fortress and its suspiciously non-human keepers.
Hibari looks on, unimpressed at the virtual tour. He blinks slowly at the progression from exterior to interior and idly contemplates the merits of closing his eyes against the tedious parade of heavily manned entrances and dimly lit corridors.
“Okay, so one thing I’m sure everybody has noticed by now,” Tsuna flourishes out a pocket laser pointer, “is that Vendicare Prison’s facilities are very high-tech.” The little orange dot flickers over the tell-tale installations of military-grade restraints and consoles. “Unfortunately,” he adds, “they’re also notably unhygienic.”
“That’s a patch of Stachybotrys chartarum by the way,” Gokudera points out helpfully and scowls when nobody reacts. “Toxic fungal growth,” he clarifies. Again, no reaction. “Black mold? Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s shit that’s bad for you.”
Security layouts and poisonous mushrooms. So this is why they had asked to borrow Hibird’s infiltration services some odd months ago at the non-negotiable rate of 200 Euros per day of service and 50 Euros per photo taken. Hibari lifts his head up off his hand to consider the medical charts juxtaposed with the high-resolution photos of Vendicare’s holding cells. They were, indeed, quite dingy. And the irony of just how similar the prison interior looked to Kokuyoh’s scornful state of disrepair when Mukuro had first shown up like the persistent cockroach he was-is-makes Hibari’s upper lip curl ever-so-slightly over his teeth.
(Nobody faults Lambo who, despite the empty seat between him and the sudden spike in killing intent, jerks up at that very moment and relocates to a new spot, five chairs away.)
“As I was saying, these conditions are obviously problematic and can’t possibly be good for anybody’s well-being.”
The images of the dank and depressing hallways cut to a single close-up of an isolated holding cell inhabited by a lanky figure, oxygen mask obscuring half his face whilst suspended completely submerged in an aqueous chamber.
Hibari scoffs at the pause taken then. Silly tactics favoured by silly people.
“Especially not for a member of the Vongola Family, no matter his or her crimes.”
When Tsuna pauses yet again, it’s to allow the rest of his audience a moment for the implications sink in. And the herd doesn’t disappoint, Yamamoto reacting quickest with an affirmation-seeking “PINEAPPLE?” pantomime followed by Ryohei’s loud exclamation upon finally recognising Mukuro floating in what pretty much constituted as a glorified vat of preservatives.
Meanwhile, Hibari takes the opportunity to work himself into a fine, murderous rage. A slow, acidic burn that pricks its way through his veins with each additional second Mukuro’s photograph remains up on the projector-screen. If asked, he’s more than ready to take the nearest available jet-Vongola, Varia, Cavallone, or even his own-to Vendicare and sever all of Mukuro’s life support himself.
He grinds his teeth, just audible enough for Lambo to hear, flinch, and lean away despite the distance already between them. It’s been five years after the fact, and the defeat by someone whose mere personal effects had violated the entirety of Namimori’s three-paged guidelines on appropriate appearances still rankles.
(He will drain him first, hang him on a clothesline by his toes to dry, and shave off that aesthetically displeasing and wholly illogical tuft of hair. Then he’ll bite him dead.
He’ll bite him dead twice. Just to be sure.)
The audible dissent within the confines of the room is minimal, more whispers of intrigue than those of mutiny. But the rest of the presentation is of no more concern to Hibari-least of all Tsuna’s other motives (such as “needing everybody available to ensure the successful execution of the master plan,” or something else equally offensive, pathetic, and not worth his time).
Apparently the Vongola Decimo never got the memo concerning the mafia and its ethical position on humanitarian acts, such as saving somewhat sociopathic illusionists from cryogenic-stasis induced health complications.
Hibari continues to frown his express distaste at all the free-flowing abundance of Mukuro’s long tresses on the projector screen as the rest of the reactionary hubbub dwindles down and Tsuna picks up where he’d previously left off. Reborn had promised him one thing to ensure his attendance. Hibari checks his watch, impatience growing.
He has places to be, research to collect, Hibirds to feed, and certain miscreants to dispose of.
“The main plan is already well underway; Gokudera will continue to accompany me during my meetings with the other Families while I argue our case. But in Mukuro’s best interest, we need to get him out as soon as possible. It has come to my attention that muscle atrophy is very common in, ah, holding-cells such as Mukuro’s. And it’s not like his jailors take him out on daily strolls or anything. So. This is where back-up comes in. Please keep in mind that this is only if the more diplomatic negotiations fall through, but is anybody willing to volunteer for a collaborative rescue operation with Mukuro’s group?”
Hibari blinks at the word “rescue,” but doesn’t linger on the semantics of Tsuna’s proposition.
There’s a momentary lull in the proceedings, but even that does not last.
It goes without saying that Hibari will join the so-called rescue operation. But rather than doing something as pointless as raising his hand like Ryohei, or even straightening in his seat like Chrome, he catches Tsuna’s eye with a very direct stare.
“Thank you Ryohei, Chrome, and”-Tsuna falters-”you too, Hibari-san? But I thought you-”
“Don’t presume to think. I have my reasons.” Hibari rises from his seat.
“What other possible reasons could you have you self-serving prick,” Gokudera growls from where he is also half-rising out of his seat, so ready to defend his owner.
Hibari ignores him, opting instead to pin Tsuna with a final close-mouthed imitation of a smile that only lab-tampered woodland animals could love, would love. “Send the details with Tetsu. You know how to reach me.”
He doesn’t stay long enough to see the growing alarm plant itself on Tsuna’s face.
He does manage to hear the tail-end of Reborn’s casual, “Try not to regret this,” though.
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Days later, and the diplomatic negotiations don’t exactly fail per se; it’s more like they snag on a viciously insistent hangnail than actually fall apart.
In any case, Tsuna only needs two more Families to fall behind his case; two more Families to throw in their support of popping Rokudo Mukuro out of his watery cage. But while the Estraneo family hadn’t been particularly well-liked by its peers, the memory of its downfall lingers still. And to say that they had been without a single ally during their decline would be an exercise in ignorance.
“This isn’t working, Tenth,” Gokudera says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other from behind his leader’s chair, the only sign of his frustration when another representative from the Ignoto Family takes the floor in strident tones, warning the assembly against heavily metaphorical dangers and biblical plagues.
“I know,” comes the terse reply some long, arduous heartbeats later.
Tsuna worries his inner cheek between his teeth and is ever aware of the weight of the cell phone in his inner breast-pocket. He needs all his Guardians on call, literally and figuratively, if his grand master plan to overhaul his Family’s modus operandi is to succeed even the tiniest bit during this lifetime.
But first things first.
Ideally, they would manage to gain a majority once the decision comes down to a vote. And, as Gokudera had previously noted, they had a problem.
He can’t really fault the dissenters their caution. Not really. Not when the Vongola themselves had been divided on the issue; still are, in fact. And if the Vongola were “uneasy,” then the other Families on the mailing list could be justifiably classified as “fucking worried.” Worried enough to fall back upon whatever constituted as mafia filibuster whenever the issue presented itself, so admirably determined in making sure no logical loophole existed in the original sentencing to help one Rokudo Mukuro walk free.
Yet, for all the religiosity upon which La Cosa Nostra often invokes its Lady Fortuna in matters of business, intrigue, and good-old murder, fortune remains ironic indeed.
Or perhaps fortune simply favours all that which has a tendency to send the Wheel of Rebirth careening off its axis.
In one life, Rokudo Mukuro saunters out through Vendicare’s entrance in the midst of an on-going war, charred debris lining his path and muscle atrophy laid low by illusions. In another, he is couriered away by his ever-loyal retinue on a stainless steel gurney lined with silk filched from Glo Xinia’s sumptuously decorated bedroom.
The fact of the matter is this: Nine times out of ten, Rokudo Mukuro escapes Vendicare with everything-limbs, wits, and glossy locks-intact. Even in the rare case where he doesn’t get out completely unscathed, Mukuro still manages to cheat his life-sentence while waving about a one-finger salute at the mafia as a whole.
And Tsuna knows this. Or rather, his intuition informs him enough that, in this life, he is the designated getaway driver.
“What do we do, Tenth?”
“They’re not being very subtle, are they?”
“Well, the crazy fucker didn’t really endear himself to them by single-handedly smearing one of their closest allies into a bloody afterthought on the patio.”
“There’s that,” Tsuna agrees before adding: “I’m afraid my Italian might be getting rusty. Did he just compare Mukuro to a swarm of locusts?”
“I think so. It’s a biblical reference.”
“Ah,” Tsuna says mildly. “Good to know.”
And it was, good to know. The repercussions would be messy; the backlash, epic. But thanks to Reborn, Tsuna could quite comfortably say that he’s been through much, much worse.
He slides his phone out before he could convince himself otherwise and hands it back to his right-hand man. Gokudera starts punching in the G-script code necessary to access the secure channel they used for mission purposes almost immediately.
“Remind Hibari that this is a rescue mission.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And could he please try to not actually kill anybody on his way in?”
The officious tapping slows, hesitates, and stops altogether. When Tsuna glances over in askance, Gokudera is looking doubtfully back at him.
“Forgive me, Tenth,” Gokudera says, “but remember Saigon?”
How could he forget Saigon. The mission where he’d dispatched Hibari with explicit instructions to follow, and somehow ended up with a small civil war broiling unpleasantly in his lap instead.
Tsuna considers this very excellent reminder.
“No, you’re right,” he says at last. “Just make the suggestion generic then, like, could he try to keep the maiming to a minimum.” He lays a hand on Gokudera’s arm. “I trust your judgement,” he adds very sincerely.
Gokudera is still looking mildly constipated when he excuses himself to make the call, but Tsuna will take his victories where he can get them.
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As it turns out, however, Hibari doesn’t get the message until much, much later.
As it turns out, breaking into Vendicare Prison is a lot like taking candy from a baby. A baby who is fully capable of changing his own diapers, who fully appreciates the taste and texture of chilled limoncello on a hot summer afternoon like any good Italian liqueur connoisseur, and who is, in all actuality, a cursed hitman with a very fashionable penchant for tastefully feathered fedoras.
Come to think of it, that particular baby wouldn’t really allow his candy to be taken anywhere by anyone without his express permission anyway. He’d protect his candy as he would his authority: with a steady trigger-finger and what pretty much amounts to a portable all-in-one, change-on-demand arsenal.
Vendicare Prison isn’t actually manned by an army of well-dressed arcobalenos though, so that makes things a little easier.
(Hibari tries to not feel too disappointed at that.)
They send out Ryohei first with the very simple instruction to “go all out” tucked under his belt. Because if there is anything Vongola’s very own boxing expert excels in, it is creating twenty-first century craters the size of small parking lots with nothing but his fists and an extreme love for life.
Perfect, for loud, obnoxious, and almost excessively explosive distractions.
So while Ryohei wreaks merry havoc on the surrounding scenery just outside the prison grounds, the rest of the team has a grand old time bypassing the outer-most perimeters; incapacitating the mercenaries on guard duty at every other watch post; dismantling the automatics peering not-so-shyly from every crack and crevice in the fortress walls.
By the time they actually receive the call from Gokudera to commence Plan B, they’re already well within enemy territory and moving along at a nice, brisk pace.
“This is Chrome checking in; we’ve just breached the inner holding areas and are now proceeding along routes B, C, and E. We’re a little ahead of schedule, but-ah, could you repeat that? Why? Because the Cloud Guardian and Ken both insisted.”
Gokudera’s invectives blister across the signal’s transmission, and Hibari, prowling just a bit ahead and away from the potential crowding, turns off his headset with an air of absentminded annoyance.
“Alright. Affirmative. Yes, it’s best to not think about it… yes, I’ll be sure to remind him not to-no, I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference. I’ll pass along the message anyway, if that makes you feel any better.”
They all know she won’t, whatever the message may be. She hasn’t bothered trying again since the first mission together. After all, why bother when the recipient has heard it all before and makes it very clear where he thinks both sender and messenger can shove it?
But, for once, Hibari doesn’t snort his disdain, and Gokudera doesn’t question her reasonable intentions.
“We’re entering the lower level cells. Will report again when we’ve completed phase two. Chrome out.”
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It should be worth mentioning that the mafia, like any other sprawling criminal collective, puts a premium on information above all else. In a way, information is valued the way a decorated sommelier values the fruits of the vine.
However, the mafia’s figurative grapevine doesn’t quite refer to the rolling Mediterranean vineyards from whence they came, but rather to the viciously efficient gossip system encouraged by the upper echelon’s enthusiasm for secrets and hearsay. It helps in particular that the capobastone and the consiglieri seem to have developed a reputation for gathering together weekly, like little old ladies trading stories and other choice tidbits over cookies and Chianti.
It’s a regular tea party with the lot-or so Tsuna is led to believe.
(He remembers, for instance, when Gokudera and Yamamoto came into his office just last week, arguing animatedly about pedigree and human husbandry of all things.
“Rufina gave birth again,” Yamamoto had reported, secretive and maybe just a tad too gleeful. “Nobody knows who the daddy is, but Stefano brought in this gigantic, what was it called?”
“Torta alla Monferrina.”
“That! He brought this gorgeous cake to the meeting anyway. And it was delicious! Sorry we couldn’t save you some, Tsuna, but if you ever want a puppy...”
“We’re worse than a knitting circle,” Gokudera confessed mournfully.)
So when news of the Vendicare break-in burns its way through the ranks at least a good solid hour ahead of schedule, Tsuna can’t find it in himself to be particularly surprised.
Resigned, yes. But not the least bit surprised.
“Vongola! What is the meaning of this? Explain yourself!”
Tsuna sighs. “Please calm yourself, Don Ignoto.”
By the time Gokudera returns to Tsuna’s side, the entire room is in the midst of having the most passive aggressive, most restrained uproar in recent mafia history.
Even Dino, who’d been previously supporting the Vongola the loudest, appears aghast.
“Please tell me that Vendicare is still standing. Lie if you have to,” Tsuna hisses from the corner of his mouth. It’s not exactly a plea because the don of the Vongola family does nothing of the sort. Rather he inquires in hushed tones, urgently and desperately.
Gokudera swallows around his pained expression, as if something large and spiny had lodged semi-permanently in his throat. “Well, the good news, for whatever definitions of, is that Hibari hasn’t actually killed anybody just yet…”
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“The bad news is that they’re already at the extraction stage, and if Hibari gets his way, we might be getting Mukuro back more dead than alive.”
Beneath the weight of his respiratory mask, Mukuro smiles.
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Phase two had been straightforward enough on paper:
Secure the target; exit premise with minimal disturbance; regroup at to-be-determined reconnaissance point.
But Hibari has his own plans; his own set of priorities. So he makes his revisions to the original document accordingly:
Terminate target; dump body elsewhere.
In all, it’s a much simpler, much less time-consuming approach to Tsuna’s endeavour, and Hibari suspects that there are quite a few countermeasures in place against his superior interpretations.
Not that any of them would be effective in any way.
They enter the antechamber together, he and Mukuro’s purportedly better half. They’ve worked together often enough that the instinct to neutralize the inherent threat she poses has become more of a subconscious insistence than anything more pressing. Something more like a mouse nibbling at his better judgment than a rat gnawing on his peace of mind.
No doubt Tsuna is hoping that her presence will act as some sort of moral deterrent.
The passage opens to a large, tepid room, lined with tanks all evenly spaced. Most are empty. The occupants in the few tanks don’t even seem to register their intrusion.
The air is damp and smells of wet steel and organic decay. A poorly lit nursery in an insect hive.
“Row six, tank nine,” Chrome says, reading off their intel without a hint of irony. She shrugs when Hibari slants a disbelieving look at her from the corner of his eye.
“The Vendicare has a poor sense of humour?”
His lip curls in disdain. It’s tempting to comment on the hive-mind of idiots everywhere, but he doesn’t. He’s feeling generous today.
“After you,” Chrome murmurs with a dainty sweep of her hand.
Hibari continues to eye her, suspicious, but he moves past her nonetheless. They go deeper into the chamber, past rows three, four, five, until he’s standing in front of row six, tank nine. It’s only when he’s gazing up at the once-familiar form of the man who has only occasionally plagued his dreams that the double prickle, one from the front and the other from where Chrome hovers, coalesce into one.
He moves closer. The single eye not sealed beneath tube and tape snaps open into a baleful blue stare as Hibari stops at the very edge of the watery cell.
They regard each other in hostile silence for what can only be a few seconds, but what feels like minutes, hours, a life-time. The years have not been kind to Mukuro. Muscle atrophy was inevitable, Hibari notes, eyes skittering over the sharp definition of bones shifting beneath pallid skin. He quashes the little flicker of disappointment at the flash of rib definition.
“Mukuro-sama.” Chrome is a soft exhalation of yearning when she joins him at the tank’s edge. She presses a hand to the glass and that single visible eye slides to regard her with a crinkle at the corner that softens the stare. “I am here, Mukuro-sama.”
Hibari rolls his eyes, but allows them their little reunion. He can afford to wait, so he does. He waits as he releases the shears built into his tonfas. They spring open from their polished alloy casings, powerful and sharp, and more than capable of cutting through the rat’s nest of tubing amassed above.
He decides he is done with waiting after another minute of the one-sided, mostly silent conversation and walks briskly away from the tank back towards the exit. Row five, row four, row three.
When Chrome finally seems to notice his distance, Hibari is already some odd vertical tank-lengths away from Mukuro’s own tank. “Hibari-san?” she ventures cautiously, trying to read his expression from afar.
Mukuro on the other hand eyes the heavy-duty industrial cable-cutter blades held loosely by Hibari’s side; the curiously self-satisfied expression on Hibari’s face.
Realisation blooms behind the glass just as Hibari is rocking forward on the balls of his heels and sprinting past Chrome, stepping, vaulting off the raised ledge at the base. Momentum carries him up, past the curved glass; just enough to grab the upper rim and flip on top of Mukuro’s tank.
“Wait, wait Hibari-san!” Chrome cries from below.
“You weren’t speaking. I assumed you were done,” Hibari says as he picks his way through the large bundles of cables and tubes, trying to decide which one was responsible for delivering life support.
He tests his newly installed accessories on a narrow cable no thicker than his wrist. The ends part like butter beneath the blades and Hibari hums in equal parts of satisfaction and disappointment: satisfaction that the shears worked; disappointment when Mukuro doesn’t immediately float to the top of his tank, belly up.
“What do you mean-Mukuro-sama, why are you… Hibari-san, you can’t!”
Oh, but he can. And that’s what sets Hibari above the masses, above the rules, above those who crawl and never learn to fly. What Hibari cannot do is a question apropos of nothing.
Chrome’s protests and diversionary tactics fade into the background hum of generators as Hibari makes quick work of the serpentine mess sprouting from Mukuro’s tank. Too heavy. Too thin. Obviously connected to a light fixture and not at all vital in keeping Rokudo alive. Hibari discards the last two pieces over his shoulder.
Soon all that is left are some of the thickest cables, wider than his entire torso, and the occasional tremors attributable to Ryohei at work. Hibari contemplates his shears, momentarily, then shrugs. Nothing a little bit of effort and a judicious, if not haphazard, application of chained maces couldn’t fix.
(He could always upgrade his tonfas with the pocket laser cutters next time anyway.)
The blades tuck back into their secret compartment neatly. But it’s just as he releases the catches on the chained maces that the prickle he’s come to associate with Mukuro’s aggravating presence flares up like sunburn across the back of his neck.
“You know,” Chrome says from the foot of the tank, a quiet certainty lending her voice the intensity to be heard, “he hadn’t pegged you for someone who leaves things unfinished.”
Hibari stills. The sunburn prickle spreads beneath his collar and the snarl comes to his lips, unbidden.
Below, Chrome is holding a one-sided conversation. “If you’re sure, Mukuro-sama,” she says and takes a deep breath. “You looked best on your hands and knees,” she relates dutifully, hands clasped demurely around the trident’s black and silver etchings, her expression serene, “and that is the memory I shall take with me into the next life.”
She continues without pause:
“All is not lost; the unconquerable Will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?”
By now the prickle has turned into what felt like a completely unacceptable spider web of bifurcated lines, and Hibari abandons his immediate task at hand to hop back down to ground zero.
On the floor, Chrome has wisely manoeuvred herself outside the immediate strike-range of his tonfas. But Hibari could care less anyway, especially while trading lengthy, calculative glares of mutual loathing with Mukuro.
This goes on for as long as until Chrome coughs into her fist.
Mukuro jerks his head in an impatient gesture.
“This is only a temporary stay of execution,” Hibari tells him.
Mukuro bubbles back, derisively.
“That’s what you think. Once you’re back to your original state, I will bite you so dead, even your precious Buddhist theories won’t be able to save you.”
Mukuro rolls his one visible eye.
“Are you quite done yet? is what he says,” Chrome translates. She tilts her head to the side, as if listening. “Apparently the Vendicare are regrouping, and Sasagawa-san has run out of fresh topography to mark up.”
“Going to bite you all to death,” Hibari mutters, and quite matter-of-factly shatters the tank with a well-placed kick, brimming with unbridled violence.
“How long has it been since you’ve gotten laid?” is the first thing Mukuro says to him using vocal chords raspy with disuse. “Because that was a very repression-fuelled kick, if I ever saw one.”
Hibari takes a moment to debate the merits of bundling Mukuro in the splintered remains of his tank for the trip back. It’s a good thought, especially when the water-logged illusionist flaunts all forms of rationale and takes his silence as permission to continue.
“Oh, never mind, I get it. Still deluding yourself, I see,” Mukuro mocks. He pitches his voice into an offensively accurate imitation of Hibari’s: “Only herbivores overtly concern themselves with such base needs. What is this mysterious thing called ‘sex,’ anyway?”
“We’re running out of time,” Chrome interrupts before Hibari could take a step towards forcibly ejecting Mukuro from Vendicare via tonfa-propelled means.
“Yes, yes. We mustn’t keep Tsunayoshi waiting. I hear his blood pressure nowadays is abnormally high for his age.”
Being cheated out of his prey not once, but twice in one day does not for a content Hibari make. But Hibari settles, for the time being, with eyeing the two illusionists, one vertically challenged and becoming increasingly water-logged; the other already sopping wet and barely standing on his own even with the help of illusionary muscle mass.
It would be so easy to just kill Mukuro right then and there. So, so easy. But-Hibari shakes his head. He is, if anything, honest with himself at the very least, and he knows himself well. Well enough to understand that there would be no satisfaction there. He would settle matters with Mukuro later, when the other has grown back his fans.
Hibari stifles a yawn. Until then, he needs a nap.
__________________________________________________
(And if that’s all a little anti-climatic, well, too bad.)
__________________________________________________
In the end, the rescue operation is a rousing success despite all the literal and figurative potholes along the way.
Mukuro purses his lips as another explosion dislodges another portion of the ceiling, wall, and floor. “We should hurry before Sasagawa decides to put craters within his crater’s craters.”
“We’ll be okay,” Chrome assures him. “Sasagawa-san knows better now than to beat a dead horse to the ground.”
“By my count, this is round three though, isn’t it?” Mukuro doesn’t look convinced when another aftershock causes more pebbles to tumble down behind them, but decides not to push the issue. “By the way, that last bit with Milton was very inspired. Bravo, my cute little Chrome, bravo.”
“I learn from the best,” she demurs.
Mukuro chuckles. “And you’ve picked up flattery!” he croons. “What else have you learned? Come now, surprise me!”
“Nothing you’re not already aware of, Mukuro-sama.”
They’re hobbling down the tonfa-made corridor at a decidedly slower pace than that of their companion, not quite chasing after the echoes of Hibari’s briskly irate steps.
“I persuaded Ken and Chikusa to leave early,” Chrome is saying as they round a corner. “I think they’re doing some last minute shopping with M.M. for your welcome back party. Is there anything you’d like in particular?”
“A chocolate fountain.”
“Already delivered.”
“An inflatable ball pen.”
“That’s in transit.”
“Hm. Has Tsunayoshi reproduced yet?”
“Mukuro-sama.”
“Then,” Mukuro says, mismatched gaze flickering briefly ahead to where the object of their vaguely insulting conversation continued to pull further away. “Pineapple chicken. Or Peking duck.”
Chrome looks knowingly at her mentor. What might have been reproach tinges her tone. “I don’t think any of the restaurants in the area serve Asian cuisine, Mukuro-sama.”
Snickering indulgently, Mukuro presses his lips to her hair. “Then not to worry,” he says with an airy smile that is all felonious intent and maybe a smidgen of sexual-predator. “I can wait.” Because for all his grandiose ambitions, Mukuro is nothing if not a patient man.
Everything comes together eventually. All in good time.
__________________________________________________
[ NEXT ]
Series/Characters: [Reborn!] Mukuro/Hibari, Tsuna, Chrome, Reborn, Gokudera, Yamamoto, Dino, Ryohei, Varia, minor filler OCs et al.
Disclaimer: Non-commercial/fair use/parody.
Word Count: 13,651
Notes: Un-beta'd. This is a purely indulgent piece of head-canon, one that I'd begun writing more than 3 years ago. Can't even pinpoint where it departs from canon anymore, but at this point Amano's canon has gone off in such a direction that I don't think I can follow it even if I wanted to.
Preemptive apologies if the shifts in writing styles are too jarring. This is for the 6918 fandom: a magnus opus for the crowning dysfunctional Murder Couple of my heart. This is for everybody and anybody who misses the Vongola Gear-less days.
Also available as one post at AO3.
Summary: To be honest, a conventional love story this is not. To be perfectly honest, “love story” might even be a bit of a misnomer. In all seriousness though, “vaguely obsessive and somewhat stalker-friendly story” just simply doesn’t sound as good as “love story.”
__________________________________________________
The Totally Fictitious But Rapturous Love Story Of Rokudo Mukuro and Hibari Kyouya
by kasugai gummie
__________________________________________________
[ A ROMANCE TO SPAN THE AGES ]
So to be honest, a conventional love story this is not.
To be perfectly honest, “love story” might even be a bit of a misnomer.
See, the crux of the problem is this: Love is, for all practical intents and purposes, best identified as that enthusiastic dose of affection between individuals; that beatific feeling of mutual like; that ebullient potential for a fantastically torrid romance. Il Amore. L’Amour. El Amore. It is the endorphins-glazed stuff pubescent girls lap up by the dozen-fluid ounces and do extraordinarily stupid things for, by the power of, in the name of, so help them god.
Love, as it is defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary (see entry: \ˈləv\ noun. “warm attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion”), plays the part of an absentee here. It has, for all practical intents and purposes, quite kindly fucked off into the literary aether.
This is not a bad thing by any means. There is still plenty of enthusiasm to go around-enthusiasm to beat another until concentrated fruit juice is leaking from every unclogged orifice. There’s devotion too-though some would insist that it was more of the borderline illegal sort (and why not just call it “stalking” to be fair).
It’s only the warm, fuzzy feelings that are missing, really.
Purists and linguists alike may argue that such false advertisement is reprehensibly misleading. They may insist that such disrespect does nothing but cheapen the ideologically sacred concept. And they may even have a point.
Alas, and for shame.
In all seriousness though, “vaguely obsessive and somewhat stalker-friendly story” just simply doesn’t sound as good as “love story.”
And in the end, the gist is the same anyway.
__________________________________________________
So say it begins with something like this:
Boy gets picked up by a group of malcontents. Assume the group is mafia. Assume the group is as ambitious as can be for all the wrong reasons. Assume the Boy gets misused by said mafia in ways that would goad most human rights activists into fits of frothing-at-the-mouth rage.
Boy deals with his existentialist angst. Boy does so by going on a killing spree.
Boy ends up with a huge chip on his shoulder, go figure, and makes a shit-list that he tends to quite religiously, for all that he isn’t religious. But it’s not enough; never enough. Boy never does things by halves.
Give the Boy a few years. Boy ultimately decides to bring the funeral to the Sicilian network’s backyard from the inside-out. Boy figures it best to start some shit on some Other Boy’s turf to get the ball rolling. Not surprisingly, Other Boy doesn’t take it too kindly when shit is started on the sanctity of his grounds and blindly sets out to bite a bitch.
Boy meets Boy.
Boy lures the Other Boy into his parlour, makes a gamely attempt to woo the Other Boy with really pretty flowers and tattered upholstery, and-oh, yes-apparently out-of-season plants can be just as effective as date rape drugs. Who would have thought?
Somehow it ends like this:
Other Boy gets over his roofie’d by vegetation problem and manages to bite the bitch dead. For his troubles, Other Boy also enlists a creeper’s feathery little helper into the practical service of Namimori.
Boy doesn’t fare as well, gets his ass sort of kicked, and is hauled off by the representatives of a mafia-run penitentiary system.
Boys don’t meet again for a very long time.
__________________________________________________
There’s a continuation though.
(“They still found each other interesting” is putting it nicely.)
__________________________________________________
The decision to spring free the less trustworthy and infinitely more insidious half of Vongola’s Mist Guardianship happens approximately one year after Sawada Tsunayoshi finally claims his birthright with his predecessor’s blessing. Any earlier would have only resulted in a grand orchestration of failure and Reborn had been nothing if not thorough in beating most of that out of his protégé.
And Tsuna had waited. He first waited patiently for the ceremonies and the formalities to pass. Then he waited some more for the first wave of assassination attempts to die down. Only when he was reasonably sure that he was no longer ranked “Number One Most Likely to be Assassinated By Stepping Out the Front Door,” did he round up his consigliere and his guardians for a little communal tête-à-tête.
One particular guardian would have completely ignored the summons though, had Reborn not been pre-emptively dispatched as a proxy. Which is why Hibari finds himself being pulled aside a few days prior to the actual meeting date by Reborn who casually informs him of the forecasted agenda: Rokudo, a possible prison break, Mukuro, a possible chance for a rematch, and oh yes, something about Rokudo Mukuro-you remember Rokudo Mukuro, don’t you?
It’s an irresistible lure for someone like Vongola’s Cloud.
(Of course he bites.)
When Hibari arrives at Tsuna’s office suite days later, he is alone and just late enough to avoid the others arriving en masse. Technically this makes him the last attendee to arrive, much to Gokudera’s bitten-off vocalizations of displeasure, but he still somehow manages to commandeer an entire triplet of chairs all to himself.
Looking around the long, oblong table, it’s easy to pick out those who have some sort of inkling as to what the meeting aims to cover and those who don’t:
The Mist girl is quietly ecstatic, her hope a painful, tangible thing. She exchanges looks with Hibari for a brief moment and the amount of cautious optimism in her carriage and brightly glittering eye is absurd. When Hibari narrows his own gaze in response, she frowns back defiantly, turning away only when the lights dim seconds later and Tsuna begins to speak.
Hibari quirks an eyebrow at her profile, but remains, for the most part, unimpressed.
Another cursory glance around the room suggests that Chrome’s fortifying enthusiasm has not quite caught on with the rest of the herd. At least, not so much from the looks of the miniature ash-and-filter, neo-modernist sculpture sitting in front of Tsuna’s chain-smoking lapdog. But it is also obvious that Gokudera had practically put together the presentation himself, if the painfully professional graphic design with its immaculate lines and typeface choices are of any indication.
“Thank you all for coming here on such short notice,” Tsuna says, face aglow from the projector screen’s soft illumination. He offers the room a small smile and steadfastly ignores Hibari’s unimpressed sneer and Reborn’s running counsel on how good mafia leaders “should always get to the point.”
“Now, I know a lot of you won’t like what I’m about to propose and most of you probably won’t agree with the logic behind it anyway,” he continues, “but please keep in mind that I’ve been considering this for quite a while now.”
Hibari props his head against a fist and yawns just as Tsuna gives Gokudera a subtle go-ahead. An impressively stark and ugly rock wall, dotted with curiously uniform holes which may or may not have constituted as windows, replaces the title card.
“I’m sure all of you are at least somewhat familiar with the Vendicare Prison and the Vindice,” Tsuna says, nodding in time with each following transitional image of the fortress and its suspiciously non-human keepers.
Hibari looks on, unimpressed at the virtual tour. He blinks slowly at the progression from exterior to interior and idly contemplates the merits of closing his eyes against the tedious parade of heavily manned entrances and dimly lit corridors.
“Okay, so one thing I’m sure everybody has noticed by now,” Tsuna flourishes out a pocket laser pointer, “is that Vendicare Prison’s facilities are very high-tech.” The little orange dot flickers over the tell-tale installations of military-grade restraints and consoles. “Unfortunately,” he adds, “they’re also notably unhygienic.”
“That’s a patch of Stachybotrys chartarum by the way,” Gokudera points out helpfully and scowls when nobody reacts. “Toxic fungal growth,” he clarifies. Again, no reaction. “Black mold? Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s shit that’s bad for you.”
Security layouts and poisonous mushrooms. So this is why they had asked to borrow Hibird’s infiltration services some odd months ago at the non-negotiable rate of 200 Euros per day of service and 50 Euros per photo taken. Hibari lifts his head up off his hand to consider the medical charts juxtaposed with the high-resolution photos of Vendicare’s holding cells. They were, indeed, quite dingy. And the irony of just how similar the prison interior looked to Kokuyoh’s scornful state of disrepair when Mukuro had first shown up like the persistent cockroach he was-is-makes Hibari’s upper lip curl ever-so-slightly over his teeth.
(Nobody faults Lambo who, despite the empty seat between him and the sudden spike in killing intent, jerks up at that very moment and relocates to a new spot, five chairs away.)
“As I was saying, these conditions are obviously problematic and can’t possibly be good for anybody’s well-being.”
The images of the dank and depressing hallways cut to a single close-up of an isolated holding cell inhabited by a lanky figure, oxygen mask obscuring half his face whilst suspended completely submerged in an aqueous chamber.
Hibari scoffs at the pause taken then. Silly tactics favoured by silly people.
“Especially not for a member of the Vongola Family, no matter his or her crimes.”
When Tsuna pauses yet again, it’s to allow the rest of his audience a moment for the implications sink in. And the herd doesn’t disappoint, Yamamoto reacting quickest with an affirmation-seeking “PINEAPPLE?” pantomime followed by Ryohei’s loud exclamation upon finally recognising Mukuro floating in what pretty much constituted as a glorified vat of preservatives.
Meanwhile, Hibari takes the opportunity to work himself into a fine, murderous rage. A slow, acidic burn that pricks its way through his veins with each additional second Mukuro’s photograph remains up on the projector-screen. If asked, he’s more than ready to take the nearest available jet-Vongola, Varia, Cavallone, or even his own-to Vendicare and sever all of Mukuro’s life support himself.
He grinds his teeth, just audible enough for Lambo to hear, flinch, and lean away despite the distance already between them. It’s been five years after the fact, and the defeat by someone whose mere personal effects had violated the entirety of Namimori’s three-paged guidelines on appropriate appearances still rankles.
(He will drain him first, hang him on a clothesline by his toes to dry, and shave off that aesthetically displeasing and wholly illogical tuft of hair. Then he’ll bite him dead.
He’ll bite him dead twice. Just to be sure.)
The audible dissent within the confines of the room is minimal, more whispers of intrigue than those of mutiny. But the rest of the presentation is of no more concern to Hibari-least of all Tsuna’s other motives (such as “needing everybody available to ensure the successful execution of the master plan,” or something else equally offensive, pathetic, and not worth his time).
Apparently the Vongola Decimo never got the memo concerning the mafia and its ethical position on humanitarian acts, such as saving somewhat sociopathic illusionists from cryogenic-stasis induced health complications.
Hibari continues to frown his express distaste at all the free-flowing abundance of Mukuro’s long tresses on the projector screen as the rest of the reactionary hubbub dwindles down and Tsuna picks up where he’d previously left off. Reborn had promised him one thing to ensure his attendance. Hibari checks his watch, impatience growing.
He has places to be, research to collect, Hibirds to feed, and certain miscreants to dispose of.
“The main plan is already well underway; Gokudera will continue to accompany me during my meetings with the other Families while I argue our case. But in Mukuro’s best interest, we need to get him out as soon as possible. It has come to my attention that muscle atrophy is very common in, ah, holding-cells such as Mukuro’s. And it’s not like his jailors take him out on daily strolls or anything. So. This is where back-up comes in. Please keep in mind that this is only if the more diplomatic negotiations fall through, but is anybody willing to volunteer for a collaborative rescue operation with Mukuro’s group?”
Hibari blinks at the word “rescue,” but doesn’t linger on the semantics of Tsuna’s proposition.
There’s a momentary lull in the proceedings, but even that does not last.
It goes without saying that Hibari will join the so-called rescue operation. But rather than doing something as pointless as raising his hand like Ryohei, or even straightening in his seat like Chrome, he catches Tsuna’s eye with a very direct stare.
“Thank you Ryohei, Chrome, and”-Tsuna falters-”you too, Hibari-san? But I thought you-”
“Don’t presume to think. I have my reasons.” Hibari rises from his seat.
“What other possible reasons could you have you self-serving prick,” Gokudera growls from where he is also half-rising out of his seat, so ready to defend his owner.
Hibari ignores him, opting instead to pin Tsuna with a final close-mouthed imitation of a smile that only lab-tampered woodland animals could love, would love. “Send the details with Tetsu. You know how to reach me.”
He doesn’t stay long enough to see the growing alarm plant itself on Tsuna’s face.
He does manage to hear the tail-end of Reborn’s casual, “Try not to regret this,” though.
__________________________________________________
Days later, and the diplomatic negotiations don’t exactly fail per se; it’s more like they snag on a viciously insistent hangnail than actually fall apart.
In any case, Tsuna only needs two more Families to fall behind his case; two more Families to throw in their support of popping Rokudo Mukuro out of his watery cage. But while the Estraneo family hadn’t been particularly well-liked by its peers, the memory of its downfall lingers still. And to say that they had been without a single ally during their decline would be an exercise in ignorance.
“This isn’t working, Tenth,” Gokudera says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other from behind his leader’s chair, the only sign of his frustration when another representative from the Ignoto Family takes the floor in strident tones, warning the assembly against heavily metaphorical dangers and biblical plagues.
“I know,” comes the terse reply some long, arduous heartbeats later.
Tsuna worries his inner cheek between his teeth and is ever aware of the weight of the cell phone in his inner breast-pocket. He needs all his Guardians on call, literally and figuratively, if his grand master plan to overhaul his Family’s modus operandi is to succeed even the tiniest bit during this lifetime.
But first things first.
Ideally, they would manage to gain a majority once the decision comes down to a vote. And, as Gokudera had previously noted, they had a problem.
He can’t really fault the dissenters their caution. Not really. Not when the Vongola themselves had been divided on the issue; still are, in fact. And if the Vongola were “uneasy,” then the other Families on the mailing list could be justifiably classified as “fucking worried.” Worried enough to fall back upon whatever constituted as mafia filibuster whenever the issue presented itself, so admirably determined in making sure no logical loophole existed in the original sentencing to help one Rokudo Mukuro walk free.
Yet, for all the religiosity upon which La Cosa Nostra often invokes its Lady Fortuna in matters of business, intrigue, and good-old murder, fortune remains ironic indeed.
Or perhaps fortune simply favours all that which has a tendency to send the Wheel of Rebirth careening off its axis.
In one life, Rokudo Mukuro saunters out through Vendicare’s entrance in the midst of an on-going war, charred debris lining his path and muscle atrophy laid low by illusions. In another, he is couriered away by his ever-loyal retinue on a stainless steel gurney lined with silk filched from Glo Xinia’s sumptuously decorated bedroom.
The fact of the matter is this: Nine times out of ten, Rokudo Mukuro escapes Vendicare with everything-limbs, wits, and glossy locks-intact. Even in the rare case where he doesn’t get out completely unscathed, Mukuro still manages to cheat his life-sentence while waving about a one-finger salute at the mafia as a whole.
And Tsuna knows this. Or rather, his intuition informs him enough that, in this life, he is the designated getaway driver.
“What do we do, Tenth?”
“They’re not being very subtle, are they?”
“Well, the crazy fucker didn’t really endear himself to them by single-handedly smearing one of their closest allies into a bloody afterthought on the patio.”
“There’s that,” Tsuna agrees before adding: “I’m afraid my Italian might be getting rusty. Did he just compare Mukuro to a swarm of locusts?”
“I think so. It’s a biblical reference.”
“Ah,” Tsuna says mildly. “Good to know.”
And it was, good to know. The repercussions would be messy; the backlash, epic. But thanks to Reborn, Tsuna could quite comfortably say that he’s been through much, much worse.
He slides his phone out before he could convince himself otherwise and hands it back to his right-hand man. Gokudera starts punching in the G-script code necessary to access the secure channel they used for mission purposes almost immediately.
“Remind Hibari that this is a rescue mission.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And could he please try to not actually kill anybody on his way in?”
The officious tapping slows, hesitates, and stops altogether. When Tsuna glances over in askance, Gokudera is looking doubtfully back at him.
“Forgive me, Tenth,” Gokudera says, “but remember Saigon?”
How could he forget Saigon. The mission where he’d dispatched Hibari with explicit instructions to follow, and somehow ended up with a small civil war broiling unpleasantly in his lap instead.
Tsuna considers this very excellent reminder.
“No, you’re right,” he says at last. “Just make the suggestion generic then, like, could he try to keep the maiming to a minimum.” He lays a hand on Gokudera’s arm. “I trust your judgement,” he adds very sincerely.
Gokudera is still looking mildly constipated when he excuses himself to make the call, but Tsuna will take his victories where he can get them.
__________________________________________________
As it turns out, however, Hibari doesn’t get the message until much, much later.
As it turns out, breaking into Vendicare Prison is a lot like taking candy from a baby. A baby who is fully capable of changing his own diapers, who fully appreciates the taste and texture of chilled limoncello on a hot summer afternoon like any good Italian liqueur connoisseur, and who is, in all actuality, a cursed hitman with a very fashionable penchant for tastefully feathered fedoras.
Come to think of it, that particular baby wouldn’t really allow his candy to be taken anywhere by anyone without his express permission anyway. He’d protect his candy as he would his authority: with a steady trigger-finger and what pretty much amounts to a portable all-in-one, change-on-demand arsenal.
Vendicare Prison isn’t actually manned by an army of well-dressed arcobalenos though, so that makes things a little easier.
(Hibari tries to not feel too disappointed at that.)
They send out Ryohei first with the very simple instruction to “go all out” tucked under his belt. Because if there is anything Vongola’s very own boxing expert excels in, it is creating twenty-first century craters the size of small parking lots with nothing but his fists and an extreme love for life.
Perfect, for loud, obnoxious, and almost excessively explosive distractions.
So while Ryohei wreaks merry havoc on the surrounding scenery just outside the prison grounds, the rest of the team has a grand old time bypassing the outer-most perimeters; incapacitating the mercenaries on guard duty at every other watch post; dismantling the automatics peering not-so-shyly from every crack and crevice in the fortress walls.
By the time they actually receive the call from Gokudera to commence Plan B, they’re already well within enemy territory and moving along at a nice, brisk pace.
“This is Chrome checking in; we’ve just breached the inner holding areas and are now proceeding along routes B, C, and E. We’re a little ahead of schedule, but-ah, could you repeat that? Why? Because the Cloud Guardian and Ken both insisted.”
Gokudera’s invectives blister across the signal’s transmission, and Hibari, prowling just a bit ahead and away from the potential crowding, turns off his headset with an air of absentminded annoyance.
“Alright. Affirmative. Yes, it’s best to not think about it… yes, I’ll be sure to remind him not to-no, I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference. I’ll pass along the message anyway, if that makes you feel any better.”
They all know she won’t, whatever the message may be. She hasn’t bothered trying again since the first mission together. After all, why bother when the recipient has heard it all before and makes it very clear where he thinks both sender and messenger can shove it?
But, for once, Hibari doesn’t snort his disdain, and Gokudera doesn’t question her reasonable intentions.
“We’re entering the lower level cells. Will report again when we’ve completed phase two. Chrome out.”
__________________________________________________
It should be worth mentioning that the mafia, like any other sprawling criminal collective, puts a premium on information above all else. In a way, information is valued the way a decorated sommelier values the fruits of the vine.
However, the mafia’s figurative grapevine doesn’t quite refer to the rolling Mediterranean vineyards from whence they came, but rather to the viciously efficient gossip system encouraged by the upper echelon’s enthusiasm for secrets and hearsay. It helps in particular that the capobastone and the consiglieri seem to have developed a reputation for gathering together weekly, like little old ladies trading stories and other choice tidbits over cookies and Chianti.
It’s a regular tea party with the lot-or so Tsuna is led to believe.
(He remembers, for instance, when Gokudera and Yamamoto came into his office just last week, arguing animatedly about pedigree and human husbandry of all things.
“Rufina gave birth again,” Yamamoto had reported, secretive and maybe just a tad too gleeful. “Nobody knows who the daddy is, but Stefano brought in this gigantic, what was it called?”
“Torta alla Monferrina.”
“That! He brought this gorgeous cake to the meeting anyway. And it was delicious! Sorry we couldn’t save you some, Tsuna, but if you ever want a puppy...”
“We’re worse than a knitting circle,” Gokudera confessed mournfully.)
So when news of the Vendicare break-in burns its way through the ranks at least a good solid hour ahead of schedule, Tsuna can’t find it in himself to be particularly surprised.
Resigned, yes. But not the least bit surprised.
“Vongola! What is the meaning of this? Explain yourself!”
Tsuna sighs. “Please calm yourself, Don Ignoto.”
By the time Gokudera returns to Tsuna’s side, the entire room is in the midst of having the most passive aggressive, most restrained uproar in recent mafia history.
Even Dino, who’d been previously supporting the Vongola the loudest, appears aghast.
“Please tell me that Vendicare is still standing. Lie if you have to,” Tsuna hisses from the corner of his mouth. It’s not exactly a plea because the don of the Vongola family does nothing of the sort. Rather he inquires in hushed tones, urgently and desperately.
Gokudera swallows around his pained expression, as if something large and spiny had lodged semi-permanently in his throat. “Well, the good news, for whatever definitions of, is that Hibari hasn’t actually killed anybody just yet…”
__________________________________________________
“The bad news is that they’re already at the extraction stage, and if Hibari gets his way, we might be getting Mukuro back more dead than alive.”
Beneath the weight of his respiratory mask, Mukuro smiles.
__________________________________________________
Phase two had been straightforward enough on paper:
Secure the target; exit premise with minimal disturbance; regroup at to-be-determined reconnaissance point.
But Hibari has his own plans; his own set of priorities. So he makes his revisions to the original document accordingly:
Terminate target; dump body elsewhere.
In all, it’s a much simpler, much less time-consuming approach to Tsuna’s endeavour, and Hibari suspects that there are quite a few countermeasures in place against his superior interpretations.
Not that any of them would be effective in any way.
They enter the antechamber together, he and Mukuro’s purportedly better half. They’ve worked together often enough that the instinct to neutralize the inherent threat she poses has become more of a subconscious insistence than anything more pressing. Something more like a mouse nibbling at his better judgment than a rat gnawing on his peace of mind.
No doubt Tsuna is hoping that her presence will act as some sort of moral deterrent.
The passage opens to a large, tepid room, lined with tanks all evenly spaced. Most are empty. The occupants in the few tanks don’t even seem to register their intrusion.
The air is damp and smells of wet steel and organic decay. A poorly lit nursery in an insect hive.
“Row six, tank nine,” Chrome says, reading off their intel without a hint of irony. She shrugs when Hibari slants a disbelieving look at her from the corner of his eye.
“The Vendicare has a poor sense of humour?”
His lip curls in disdain. It’s tempting to comment on the hive-mind of idiots everywhere, but he doesn’t. He’s feeling generous today.
“After you,” Chrome murmurs with a dainty sweep of her hand.
Hibari continues to eye her, suspicious, but he moves past her nonetheless. They go deeper into the chamber, past rows three, four, five, until he’s standing in front of row six, tank nine. It’s only when he’s gazing up at the once-familiar form of the man who has only occasionally plagued his dreams that the double prickle, one from the front and the other from where Chrome hovers, coalesce into one.
He moves closer. The single eye not sealed beneath tube and tape snaps open into a baleful blue stare as Hibari stops at the very edge of the watery cell.
They regard each other in hostile silence for what can only be a few seconds, but what feels like minutes, hours, a life-time. The years have not been kind to Mukuro. Muscle atrophy was inevitable, Hibari notes, eyes skittering over the sharp definition of bones shifting beneath pallid skin. He quashes the little flicker of disappointment at the flash of rib definition.
“Mukuro-sama.” Chrome is a soft exhalation of yearning when she joins him at the tank’s edge. She presses a hand to the glass and that single visible eye slides to regard her with a crinkle at the corner that softens the stare. “I am here, Mukuro-sama.”
Hibari rolls his eyes, but allows them their little reunion. He can afford to wait, so he does. He waits as he releases the shears built into his tonfas. They spring open from their polished alloy casings, powerful and sharp, and more than capable of cutting through the rat’s nest of tubing amassed above.
He decides he is done with waiting after another minute of the one-sided, mostly silent conversation and walks briskly away from the tank back towards the exit. Row five, row four, row three.
When Chrome finally seems to notice his distance, Hibari is already some odd vertical tank-lengths away from Mukuro’s own tank. “Hibari-san?” she ventures cautiously, trying to read his expression from afar.
Mukuro on the other hand eyes the heavy-duty industrial cable-cutter blades held loosely by Hibari’s side; the curiously self-satisfied expression on Hibari’s face.
Realisation blooms behind the glass just as Hibari is rocking forward on the balls of his heels and sprinting past Chrome, stepping, vaulting off the raised ledge at the base. Momentum carries him up, past the curved glass; just enough to grab the upper rim and flip on top of Mukuro’s tank.
“Wait, wait Hibari-san!” Chrome cries from below.
“You weren’t speaking. I assumed you were done,” Hibari says as he picks his way through the large bundles of cables and tubes, trying to decide which one was responsible for delivering life support.
He tests his newly installed accessories on a narrow cable no thicker than his wrist. The ends part like butter beneath the blades and Hibari hums in equal parts of satisfaction and disappointment: satisfaction that the shears worked; disappointment when Mukuro doesn’t immediately float to the top of his tank, belly up.
“What do you mean-Mukuro-sama, why are you… Hibari-san, you can’t!”
Oh, but he can. And that’s what sets Hibari above the masses, above the rules, above those who crawl and never learn to fly. What Hibari cannot do is a question apropos of nothing.
Chrome’s protests and diversionary tactics fade into the background hum of generators as Hibari makes quick work of the serpentine mess sprouting from Mukuro’s tank. Too heavy. Too thin. Obviously connected to a light fixture and not at all vital in keeping Rokudo alive. Hibari discards the last two pieces over his shoulder.
Soon all that is left are some of the thickest cables, wider than his entire torso, and the occasional tremors attributable to Ryohei at work. Hibari contemplates his shears, momentarily, then shrugs. Nothing a little bit of effort and a judicious, if not haphazard, application of chained maces couldn’t fix.
(He could always upgrade his tonfas with the pocket laser cutters next time anyway.)
The blades tuck back into their secret compartment neatly. But it’s just as he releases the catches on the chained maces that the prickle he’s come to associate with Mukuro’s aggravating presence flares up like sunburn across the back of his neck.
“You know,” Chrome says from the foot of the tank, a quiet certainty lending her voice the intensity to be heard, “he hadn’t pegged you for someone who leaves things unfinished.”
Hibari stills. The sunburn prickle spreads beneath his collar and the snarl comes to his lips, unbidden.
Below, Chrome is holding a one-sided conversation. “If you’re sure, Mukuro-sama,” she says and takes a deep breath. “You looked best on your hands and knees,” she relates dutifully, hands clasped demurely around the trident’s black and silver etchings, her expression serene, “and that is the memory I shall take with me into the next life.”
She continues without pause:
“All is not lost; the unconquerable Will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?”
By now the prickle has turned into what felt like a completely unacceptable spider web of bifurcated lines, and Hibari abandons his immediate task at hand to hop back down to ground zero.
On the floor, Chrome has wisely manoeuvred herself outside the immediate strike-range of his tonfas. But Hibari could care less anyway, especially while trading lengthy, calculative glares of mutual loathing with Mukuro.
This goes on for as long as until Chrome coughs into her fist.
Mukuro jerks his head in an impatient gesture.
“This is only a temporary stay of execution,” Hibari tells him.
Mukuro bubbles back, derisively.
“That’s what you think. Once you’re back to your original state, I will bite you so dead, even your precious Buddhist theories won’t be able to save you.”
Mukuro rolls his one visible eye.
“Are you quite done yet? is what he says,” Chrome translates. She tilts her head to the side, as if listening. “Apparently the Vendicare are regrouping, and Sasagawa-san has run out of fresh topography to mark up.”
“Going to bite you all to death,” Hibari mutters, and quite matter-of-factly shatters the tank with a well-placed kick, brimming with unbridled violence.
“How long has it been since you’ve gotten laid?” is the first thing Mukuro says to him using vocal chords raspy with disuse. “Because that was a very repression-fuelled kick, if I ever saw one.”
Hibari takes a moment to debate the merits of bundling Mukuro in the splintered remains of his tank for the trip back. It’s a good thought, especially when the water-logged illusionist flaunts all forms of rationale and takes his silence as permission to continue.
“Oh, never mind, I get it. Still deluding yourself, I see,” Mukuro mocks. He pitches his voice into an offensively accurate imitation of Hibari’s: “Only herbivores overtly concern themselves with such base needs. What is this mysterious thing called ‘sex,’ anyway?”
“We’re running out of time,” Chrome interrupts before Hibari could take a step towards forcibly ejecting Mukuro from Vendicare via tonfa-propelled means.
“Yes, yes. We mustn’t keep Tsunayoshi waiting. I hear his blood pressure nowadays is abnormally high for his age.”
Being cheated out of his prey not once, but twice in one day does not for a content Hibari make. But Hibari settles, for the time being, with eyeing the two illusionists, one vertically challenged and becoming increasingly water-logged; the other already sopping wet and barely standing on his own even with the help of illusionary muscle mass.
It would be so easy to just kill Mukuro right then and there. So, so easy. But-Hibari shakes his head. He is, if anything, honest with himself at the very least, and he knows himself well. Well enough to understand that there would be no satisfaction there. He would settle matters with Mukuro later, when the other has grown back his fans.
Hibari stifles a yawn. Until then, he needs a nap.
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(And if that’s all a little anti-climatic, well, too bad.)
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In the end, the rescue operation is a rousing success despite all the literal and figurative potholes along the way.
Mukuro purses his lips as another explosion dislodges another portion of the ceiling, wall, and floor. “We should hurry before Sasagawa decides to put craters within his crater’s craters.”
“We’ll be okay,” Chrome assures him. “Sasagawa-san knows better now than to beat a dead horse to the ground.”
“By my count, this is round three though, isn’t it?” Mukuro doesn’t look convinced when another aftershock causes more pebbles to tumble down behind them, but decides not to push the issue. “By the way, that last bit with Milton was very inspired. Bravo, my cute little Chrome, bravo.”
“I learn from the best,” she demurs.
Mukuro chuckles. “And you’ve picked up flattery!” he croons. “What else have you learned? Come now, surprise me!”
“Nothing you’re not already aware of, Mukuro-sama.”
They’re hobbling down the tonfa-made corridor at a decidedly slower pace than that of their companion, not quite chasing after the echoes of Hibari’s briskly irate steps.
“I persuaded Ken and Chikusa to leave early,” Chrome is saying as they round a corner. “I think they’re doing some last minute shopping with M.M. for your welcome back party. Is there anything you’d like in particular?”
“A chocolate fountain.”
“Already delivered.”
“An inflatable ball pen.”
“That’s in transit.”
“Hm. Has Tsunayoshi reproduced yet?”
“Mukuro-sama.”
“Then,” Mukuro says, mismatched gaze flickering briefly ahead to where the object of their vaguely insulting conversation continued to pull further away. “Pineapple chicken. Or Peking duck.”
Chrome looks knowingly at her mentor. What might have been reproach tinges her tone. “I don’t think any of the restaurants in the area serve Asian cuisine, Mukuro-sama.”
Snickering indulgently, Mukuro presses his lips to her hair. “Then not to worry,” he says with an airy smile that is all felonious intent and maybe a smidgen of sexual-predator. “I can wait.” Because for all his grandiose ambitions, Mukuro is nothing if not a patient man.
Everything comes together eventually. All in good time.
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