Hi, guys. I'm back after a hiatus of [one] day to cloud fanfiction with more of my stuff. I wanted to try my hand in some AU this time, since I've exhausted all canon storylines that interested me. I was gonna put it off a little, but then I saw a prompt in the kink meme requesting it – so I decided to start it.
Summary : Set in an AU that runs parallel to the canon universe in some ways, Kristoph Gavin is the head of the Gavinne Familly. Zak Gramarye stands at the beginning of our story as the rival to the family, himself being the head of the Gramarye Family. With Bruno Cadaverinni newly gone, the balance of the mafia's power in the city is askew, and all the crime lords are struggling to take over everything that belonged to the Cadaverinnis. Then a large shipping of drugs disappears, and the city burns between the gangs, and like quicksand, they suck in all those around them...
Apollo, a straight-laced public defender, gets sucked into the underworld mess, and there, he'll meet Klavier, the unappreciated brother of Kristoph, who's just waiting for that golden oppurtunity to show the world exactly how badass he can be when he wants to be. In case it's not already obvious, contains badass!Klavier and badass!everyone else.
Niceties : ...Do not exist. Well, you know the drill. Violence, swearing, etc. etc.
Pairings : Klavier/Apollo.
Okay, that's enough bitching. Fuggedabout it, let's get this thing started.
How marvelous, how beautiful, society!
Look, madame, and smile at it!
Can you not see, it's cracked beauty?
It's charming grace, it's distorted face?
Smile madame, smile with me!
We shall sit here, we shall drink tea,
Watch, as the crows, flutter amongst these,
Paltry no-goods, yesterday's peas!
Here madame, have some sugar,
You'll need it, in the face of danger –
Not that it would come to us, of course!
We'll let it run, yes, run it's course...
Prologue : One of Five, is gone
Mike drew the cigarette out of his lips and dragged it down the rough surface of the wall. A moment later, it's on flames – no, not because the wall light it up with friction, because that never happens outside of Survivor – but because he's lighten it up. He blows a ring of smoke out, an art's he's mastered, making a perfect O shape in air. That's really the only thing he's good at it – blowing smoke rings. And because he's an associate whose only skill is to blow smoke rings, he's never going to make it big in the crime ring. That's a given thing. Hello everyone, meet Mike Michaels - a man destined to have his whole life's story in one paragraph, and will never live up to the lofty expectations of himself. An insignificant man. A worm.
Mike smokes, and the smoke, it trails up and floats away, wising up and curling around in midair like somebody's mistress. It floats all of five feet across the gray pavement outside the PA Medical Alliance, and it hits the man standing in front of him like a brick. The smoke curls, and the smoke wises up some more. It hits the nose of Diego Armando like a million tonnes worth of pins and needles, and he whips around to glare at Mike.
"You gonna stop that? Because that, my man, is going to take five years out of your leftover ten."
Mike snorts and raises one lip in answer – but the cigarette stays. He stops puffing it out in Armando's general direction though, because Armando and him? They don't rub. Armando runs with the Gramarye family, who in turn runs about a quarter of the city. If there's such a thing as good guys in the underworld, it'll be them - there's never been a bigger bunch of flower-loving, tree-hugging pussies. Mike on the other hand, he knows how to choose his cards right. No, he turn tricks for the Gavinne family instead. They run a quarter of the city too, but with a man like Kristoph Gavinne in the helm, with a man who knows which apple to pick and which apple to drill ten holes right through - you know you won't go wrong. If you stick to Kristoph Gavinne, you'll either make it out rich and fabulous...Or not at all.
Life's funny that way, aye-aye.
They wait a little while longer, and Armando, he presses up against the fence all careful like and checks his watch. It's those pulsar kind, or whatever thing-a-ma-jigs they've invented while Mike's been keeping his eye on the football winnings. Sends some message up to the satellites, and sends them back down. These are the kind of watches that are never wrong, always precise, and five minutes to one in the morning, when Armando announced that fact – Mike believed him.
They crammed themselves up besides the brick and mortar pillars besides the gate. It's sealed shut now, but in a couple of minutes or so it's going to open and Viola Cadaverinni is going to come out, out from her cave and back into the real world for some serious and sleazy business. And the guys here today are all to stop that from happening. They come from both camps, the five or so guys in the place, trying to look inconspicuous underneath the greenish glow of the goddamned ugly green lamp. There are people like him, from the Gavinne Family, and then there are people like Diego Armando, who comes and goes at the bidding of Zak Gramarye. They're all united in one thing tonight though – to not fail. To carry out the wishes of their poundmasters and return like the good bitches they are, carrying the head of Viola Cadaverinni on a silver platter, now with dressings.
They wait, in short, rather like bloodhounds in the dark, attuned to every twitch in the night air. It's a cold night tonight, you see, and most of them are all wrapped up in their dirty coats. No one knows why. It's almost the end of April, and it should be burning hot in L.A by rights now – except it isn't. The snow's drifting down, softly and translucent and looking like someone's green spittle depending on how the light plays on it. Bloody global warming has screwed with the weather the way nothing's ever done before, and all of them were shivering, waiting there like frozen sentries. Waiting for Viola Cadaverinni to dance to their attendance.
Three minutes to one.
A light flashes up on the ground floor window of the PA Med. Alliance. It doesn't look anything like a hospital – it looks more like a sprawling mansion out of an old movie, back when spaces were more available and people can build big shits however they want. One of the eight-panel windows downstairs flashed, and the next thing they know, yellow light is coming right out of it. A couple of figures float pass the window, looking like silent black ghosts gliding through it, and then the doors are thrown apart.
A lady walks out, her dark brown hair reaching waist-length. It's been many years since her marriage with Furio Tigre, and now the man stalks out beside her, all swagger and no bones to prove it. She flicks a hand, and two other guys retreated back into the Medical Center. It's shut off for the night – the whole place having been booked for Bruno Cadaverinni. Now that he's dead, the whole place is dead like him too, and Mike made a mental note of the two guys who went back in, or he'll end up dead himself. All it takes them is to shoot out from inside, and they'll all be dead before they hit the ground. Mike has no idea what kidnapping Viola Cadaverinni is going to give the boss, but he's learned to stop thinking about things that are too big for him now.
Mike's not a smart guy, you see. He leaves 'em thinking to 'em people who can actually think. He's just the spanner you use to pick screws out. You don't need to think too hard when all you needa do is function. What do you need a spanner that can think for?
"So, what are we going to do now?" Mike hissed at Armando's back. He may not like the guy, per se, but he knows where to look for guidance when guidance is necessary. Mike isn't delusional. He knows he ain't got the skills to pull this one off. Armando's the one in charge, the one with the smart ideas, the one with the plan. When the man didn't respond, Mike nudged him on the shoulder.
"Hey, you heard me? I'm asking ya – what are we gonna do?"
The man held out a hand to silence him. "Take it one step at a time, that's what I always say."
"If we take a step in there, we're gonna die like sponges." Another guy pointed out. "There aren't that many of them from the looks of it – just that two kids at the back and the lady and her tramp. But if we make one wrong move, we'll be down and dead before we can spell M-O-O-N."
The man smirked.
"We spell something else then, like C-O-F-F-E-E."
Two minutes to one.
Someone in there must have pressed some buttons, because the gate creaked like an ancient sentry, dragging it's dark green self across the cement ground and scraping it every step of the way like an unwilling slave being dragged off. Furio Tigre and Lady V is on their way, halfway across the spacious parking of the Medical Center. They still had no plan, had no idea what they were doing – and Armando isn't giving them any instructions. They were told by the guy who briefed them earlier to wait 'til one. Something's massive's gonna happen then, and they're suppose to take the chance. But they had no idea what it's going to be - that job is left to one of Kristoph's other men, those important guys that always get the job done and done well, like an egg. Take it one step at a time, just like he said, Mike supposed.
Mike extracted his gun from his coat. It's a brand-spanking new one, just came down from the boss for all the guys put on this job. A shotgun, sawed off and packing enough firepower to blow a very large hole in a very thick man, as well as a silencer each – in case the job needed discretion. The other guys followed his lead, and one by one, the guys all took out their guns – except for Armando. Armando doesn't do shit, and finally Mike got tired of waiting.
"What are we doing, dammit. Standing here and frosting to death?"
Actually, he isn't shivering from the cold anymore. He's shivering from the anticipation. The buzz, the nervous energy in the air. Hey, he's done it plenty of times before, but just because you got ran over by a car a million times doesn't make it a pleasant sensation, does it? You don't run out there, asking cars to run over you for fun, do you? Same theory applies.
Armando clicked his tongue. "Just wait."
One minute to one.
Mike has no idea what in the name of carnations they're waiting for, and he's getting impatient. He's hopping from one foot to one foot, eager to get this over with, not because he's bloodthirsty but like medication, it's best to pour it down in large gulps. He wants to get it over you see - there's a big match down in NHL tonight, and Mike's hoping he gets home in one piece and with both eyes so he can catch the match. But Armando is still stagnant, and Mike decided – screw him anyway. Screw Armando. He heard he's a big ass, a big shot down in Gramarye. Almost as good as the Firebird himself. But if this is what he does on the job – standing around – then screw him. Mike can do better. He's not just good for smoke rings. Mike was getting ready for the action. Getting ready to screw the lady real good when out of nowhere, a sudden shrill scream came out--
"Achtung! It's one now, folks!"
This may be a recorded message. This may be someone shouting through a mic. This, for all Mike knows, might be a message from the heavenly cluster of alien planets, Mike does not know, is not in the know – but what he does know, is that in the next second or so, the building exploded.
From what, he has no idea either, only that the building IS exploding, and is doing so very loudly. It starts with those popping sounds that marked that the building's sinews have been severed, then it was a growl, a beastly sort of noise. Then you're not hearing all those anymore, because a deafening boom sounds out - like those Chinese firecrackers Mike's seen that one time in Chinatown - and it goes boom-bash-boom-bash like a Chinese New Year parade you watch while you eat rubbish dim sum you can afford on your rubbish salary.
Bits of metal whizzes past, zooming outwards - an invisible baseball batter is inside there, batting at them. They zip pass like said invisible baseball batter is going at it like a biological freight train, beating out home runs that fly out like projectiles and embed themselves on their surroundings like bullets. Then the home runs are followed by the loudest cheer humanity has seen since Nagasaki and Hiroshima, coming at them in the form of a heat wave that roasted them and made them crinkled on the corners like fries you've left in the oven for too long a time. It goes pass them and through them, pure unadulterated shockwaves of heat.
This, Mike decides - is why using the microwave is a bad thing. You should never cook chicken using an oven, not now, not after you've felt what it feels like to be roasted alive.
If they were all balloons, they would certainly have so much of it by now that they would be floating up to outer space on sheer warmth, but they're not. They're humans, and their skin makes the proper adjustments to stop themselves from turning into Easter Eggs. Pores open out and sweat, it drenches like every drop of water in them is being pulled out, only to immediately dry up because in the face of that kind of heat, you don't have any choice but to dry up like an old lady in a paper bag.
Then the building SANK – and Mike realized what they had done – whoever it was who had done it. They had planted the bombs in the underground parking space, and when they go off, blowing the pillars and foundations to the kingdom come of mortar and bricks, the building sank with it. It doesn't take much. Give it two or three bombs – placed well, placed near, and placed exactly beside the main foundations. What you get is the building going down like a rock in a pool. The ground around it cracks, and the whole building is sinking into the ground, twisted into the vortex of it's own grave, dug by it's creators at birth.
Thank goodness they were an entire parking space away. If they had been any nearer, Mike had no doubt that they'll melt like ice-cream with a sunstroke. He wanted to clap his hands on Armando's shoulder, but it came out more like he was clinging onto the man for dear life.
"You--" He roared over the sound of the building collapsing, not even caring that he could be heard by Lady V anymore. "You rigged this up!?"
"Not me!" Armando roars back, flinging Mike's hands off. "It was your gangs! Now if you'll excuse me, I have some business to settle!"
Mike lost his grip on the man, and he looked up just in time to wince. Another bomb is going off somewhere in there – whoever set this up has to be some kind of visual performing arts guy, because no way is anyone with a sane head doing something like that. There were at least two bombs, going off one after the other, and from the looks of it – they were the kind you use to blow buildings up when your contractor needs to build a new, taller piece of shit in it's place. Whoever set this up, is an egocentric jerk, that's for sure – and that's the last thing Mike notes before Armando dashes off like a man.
Lady V and the Tiger had turned around the moment the building went rah-rah. (And who wouldn't.) Tiger had clamped Viola down to stop her from being blown away completely by the waves of the explosion – thin as a stick as she was – and now the two of them were looking at the building from the ground like it had suddenly popped up and danced them the Paso Doble. In shock, in other words. The building had just...Went up in flames. Someone's roasting turkey. That's enough to put even the most hardcore of mob heads to shock, especially when it had come entirely without warning like theirs.
Armando took that chance, homing in on them like a smart missile that needs no alternative instruction other than to attack the target. A friend of the Firebird is a friend indeed, when you need to ice someone like a six pack. He was on them before the minute hand of one hit two minutes, drawing his own Colt. It's a beautiful baby, the love child of a cowboy and a cowpoke, long slim necks and all – and it hit like a son of a bitch too. He shot it twice – and boy is that guy a good shot, because both Armando's hits went into Furio Tigre. Where, Mike does not see, because from the back of the building, the security booth to be precise, came a toupee of monkey boys. The circus is getting started.
They were Lady V's boys, and were they pissed as shit. They were shouting at the top of their lungs, some obscenities, some shouting ridiculous things like 'Stop!' Mike has no idea why people like to shout 'Stop!' at him when he's doing something, like riding down a speeding train. I mean, this is a train we're talking about right? Not your friendly neighbourhood traffic light? Ridiculous, and Mike drew up his own shotgun to take care of the appropriate nuisances. Gavin pays him for one thing, and it's not to stand around holding metal pompoms and cheering Diego Armando on. He's scared as shit, and if this is normal life, Mike would be pissing his pants. But he doesn't, because God's greatest gift - adrenaline - had kicked in. Without this, there might be less war and more peace, but it would certainly mean no more Mike Michaels, because he would have been shot dead right there.
"GET THEM!" Armando roared at them – and that's all the cue they need. They burst into motion, stomping down the alley and towards the guys in a head-on suicide confrontation. If they had their wits about them – either side – they would have been able to crawl behind a wall and picked them off like fruit flies. But their brain's just been blown to bits by the explosion back there, and their train of thought is going as raggedly as the rhythm of the building is as it falls, collapsing on itself, folding like a house of cards. They should be hiding behind walls and fences and gates, watching bullets ricochet between them. Instead, both sides lunge at each other like an American football match - without reserve.
At this point, Mike is no longer conscious of much except that he needs to shoot and maybe try not to be shot at. Diego Armando however, had no such luxuries. He's facing two against one – and he isn't sure who's more vicious, Lady Viola or her pet tiger. Certainly the pet tiger is more vicious, but he's gone down after the shots. He's back up now though, trading fists with Diego. They're in a barfight now, and the whole medical center scene and go and impale itself on a stake, for all they cared.
There isn't much that Diego would give Tigre credit for – but the man does throw a mean punch. He sidestepped one, took one in the gut like a man – and from the corner of the eye he sees Viola aiming the gun at them. Her hands are steady, rapier straight and certainly not as shaky as one, and the moment Diego proves the victor, that's it. Lady V will show them what V stands for, and it sure as hell isn't something as sweet as the melody of a Violin.
He spins around, dancing like a butterfly – or so he would call it if he had the time to stand aside and narrate it calmly. But he doesn't, so his brain goes off like a football commentary without his usual flair. And now he hits you with an uppercut! You dodge! You give him a jawbreaker, and boy, does that jaw breaks like a nut! Say hello to this fist, because it's nothing short of a nutcracker! Tigre swings again, and Diego swings out of the way with it – knowing he has to do something about Lady V. Winning with her around is just the same as losing, and when you put that up, the picture doesn't fit. The victor goes down as the spoils?
Not his way!
They're getting closer to Viola now – and Diego can see her turning around in time with them. She doesn't back away. The closer she is, the easier it would be to shoot, and though she's no amateur when it comes to holding the guns, it's obvious that she isn't used to being on the battlefield. Armando sees through that – you can't hide something like that from him. Tigre gives him one last punch, and Diego's close enough to Viola now – she's barely five feet away from them. He flicks an eye at his gun, lying on the concrete ground like a sad, forlorn lost puppy. Well, you know what they say – if you don't have a weapon, you find one!
"That how you punch, kitten? I've seen beanstalks hi-jump-kick better!"
With an angry roar, Tigre lunges forward, and Diego tosses himself aside just in time. Tigre nearly falls, and behind him, Viola lets out a tiny shocked gasp. Diego took the chance like it was a mother of pearl. He twisted behind her, swishing like they were jiving to jazz instead of melting metal and gray rocks, and he clasped her hands from behind. She's stunned for just that fraction of a moment, then she struggles against Diego – but too late. He hooked his finger around her trigger finger, and presses what she wouldn't. The bullet goes out like a caterpillar outta an apple, and bam, it hits Furio Tigre in the chest.
Viola screamed an uncharacteristic scream, howling with fury. She tore one hand off and pulled out a switch blade, and before Diego could stop her, jabbed it backwards and into his left eye. Diego screamed, feeling the pain and feeling it good – but he doesn't let go of her. He came here for his madame as prize, he's not going to walk off without collecting the loot. The eye can be dealt with later, and he clamped down on his lower lip to halt the burst of pain. Knocking her knife off carelessly with one knuckled, he hissed.
"It takes a true contender to know when she's lost."
"Don Tigre!"
"Is down and out! The kitten's bowed, and it's time you do the same!" She shrieked, the usually soft-spoken Lady V disappearing in rage as she sees her husband down and out, maybe even dead. Certainly she does thrash like an eel, and Diego does admire her persistence, if not quite so much the effect. With one hand, he twisted the gun out of her thin hands and clamped the other one around her other wrist, dragging it backwards to stop her from moving so much. Then – he hate to do this to a lady, but sorry kitten, a job's a job, alright? - he brings it down and slams it into her skull, cleanly knocking her out.
Yeah. Mob boss daughter she might have been. Mob boss she might be now. Doesn't give her a veil of invincibility. Infinite ammo code? Off. Infinite life? Off-er still. Diego looks up at where the Gavinne boys are fighting for dear life with the Cadaverinnis. His own two boys had done as he said – flee when the fighting starts, no point wasting lives over a pointless cause. Leave the fighting to them instead, and leave the dying to them too. A real man needs to know how to pick their fights, and it wasn't like their boss would care. Gavin wouldn't give a damn if they came back in a bag or not at all - perhaps even gladder that they won't be coming back. Certainly, it looks nicer on the annual finance. You don't have to pay dead people for doing a job after all.
Quietly, Diego threw Viola over his shoulder effortlessly. She weighted less than a big bag of flour does, and definitely easier to carry. Wincing at the pain of his bleeding eye, now compounded because adrenaline is no longer coming in such large surges, he made way out of the Medical Center's compound. The van's down the road, and Gavinne's boys – the real ones that had been sent out for the job and not just some weeds waiting to be herbicide-d, is down there with it. That's where he's gotta go, to send in the loot. This is the first chain, the first link of a cycle that's going to spin for a very very long time, and he'll be damned if he isn't going to be the one who starts it. Humming jazz tunes, Diego made his way towards the van.
"WOOOOOOOOO!"
Two pairs of hands, making four – shot up into the air and whooped. Both owners were standing on the roof of the van, shouting and whooping at the gone-going-gone building. The explosion is drowning off their voices, but every time the explosive cracks dimmed, it's their voices that can be heard, whooping at the top of their lungs. One of them is Klavier, his blonde hair a little mussed from the wind that had came when the building went down in a pile of fiery red awesome. It's a hellfire - an inferno, and baby, you had better believe him when he said he set that up.
"Are we on fire, or are we on fire, baby!?"
"We're on fire, baby!"
The two of them whooped again, like spectators at a football match, watching as the building collapsed on itself with one final wheeze. It falls into itself, and now it's flat ground when seen from afar, nothing but a pile of smoking gray granite. Nothing but a hole in the ground, and it won't be medicating anybody anytime soon. Klavier slapped Zee on the back, the both of them still a little wild-eyed, watching their handiwork blossom like a flower. This must be what parents feel like when their kids grow up...Explosively. Snicker, snicker. Yes, explosively is right. Nothing beats the feeling of seeing something you set up going. A train system that you've lined and switched, chugging smoothly and fine. Or maybe a chain of dominoes you've pushed.
"Achtung! That my man, is a job well done. Congratulations baby – you're on fire!"
"We're on fire! Whoop, whoop!" Zee accompanied each whoop with another punch into the air, then he let the fist down, and let himself fall backwards until he landed on the roof of the van with a thunk, falling like a dumbbell.
"Okay," He announced. "That is my heart. It's gone bon voyage. Bye bye baby. I'm dying and hitting the 9-1-1s."
"Ach, don't be stupid." Klavier collapsed beside him too, knees feeling a little shaky. He can't believe he just did that. Blew up a building. His knees felt like jelly, his stomach like a blender. Whirling and spinning and churning his supper and dinner into mush, and if he had eaten more - as undignified at it was, Klavier rather thought he would turn around and throw up all over into the bushes.
Yes, he knew full well it was going to happen. Yes, he was the one who had snuck into the place, planted the bombs, and made kitty before they could sink their fangs into him. Yes, admittedly he's been doing this sort of stuff since he's seventeen, running about and completing errands for his brothers. It doesn't make it any easier though, or less nerve racking. Especially when the jobs his brother hands him are mostly – like this one – jobs that cannot be failed. If you walk in on these with your hands empty, chances are you'll be frothing blue bubbles by midday next week. Not that it mattered to Klavier Gavin – why would he fail, ja? He's the star prosecutor, the infallible one. It'll take more than a little lady and a little mortar to beat him.
"That," Klavier pointed at the hole in the ground. "Is a job well done. I would flatter us again, but I think I've run out of praises."
"We're so awesome it hurts to be us," Zee agreed. The two of them nodded like they were debating Republican, then laughed at themselves – two kids back at playing street pranks and admiring their own handiwork. They couldn't care less that the building's been reduced to a pile of rubble - after all, isn't it going to be built right back up using their tax money? And Kristoph would of course, donate a generous sum to rebuild the thing, thereby repaying his karma debt and boosting his standing amongst the politicians. So why care about something that's going to be running once again by the middle of next month?
"Right, we better get down. Armando's gonna come around anytime soon, and we gotta get away before the white hats comes a-calling."
Klavier nodded in agreement and slid down the roof via the way of the windshield, landing like a cat on both feet. He looked up and down the street to see if the explosion had alerted anyone, but no one lives around here for blocks. It's an office-shoplot area, and the street had emptied out for the night. With one side of the PAMC ending in a small park-forest, the sound had been muffled by wood and lice and solid, impenetrable gloomy. The white hats won't be here, at least not until someone notices the dragon of smoke in the sky, curling and shrieking in the night air and begging for attention.
A moment later, Zee joins him, grinning so widely he looked as if his face would split into half any moment now. They stood there grinning, until an irritated rap on the windshield told them to move and they did. Zee's still grinning as they waited for Armando, leaning against the van, the metal cool to the touch. The van's parked so far away that the explosion hadn't left them with any visible effects other than a slight mussing of hair. Klavier understood though, why Zydaline's grinning like a – like a – well, there's no other word for it – like a pyromaniac. The job's a job well done, and when you've done a job well done, you must smile like a man who's done a job well done - rule of thumb. Smile, make love to your face, or you'll be left with wrinkles the size of the Grand Canyon by Father's Day when the realization of what you've done sinks in.
Klavier couldn't help a small self-satisfied smirk of narcissism. He, Klavier Gavin - he makes the most useful friends, no? Zee's handy, like a spanner. He's good at the drum, and he doubles as a bomb diffusing expert down in the PD, and here's the thing, ja? When you teach people how to unmake something, chances are – you're teaching them how to make it too. So here's Zee, bomb fighter by day, bomb planter by night. Handy all 'round, and it's no wonder his brother keeps him around like said spanner. He's a set meal - you get all the chili nachos on one side and the burning tomato sauce on the other.
The smile got wiped off Zee's face though, as he looked pass Klavier's shoulder. Klavier followed his line of sight, and the both of them frowned out at the parking lot. There's some kind of...Fight down there. People are going at it like screwdrivers, screwing each other around like said things. Shootings, shouting – and in the middle of it, the recognizable weed-thin form of their target, Viola Cadaverinni. There's a bunch of other people too, but none they can recognize from afar. The only thing that stood out about her is the hair. The both of them leaned against the undamaged decorated fence on the far side of the PAMC, staring in with slight scowls marring their foreheads.
This isn't what they had in plan. What they had in plan, in their little dreamy rock-star world was that they would blow the place up and take out half of the guys stationed around the place, and Armando would snatch the lady away while heads were still turning. Then again, they had no real plan either - hadn't had time to clobber up one. They barely had time to snuck the bomb in, as it was, and watch with just that tiny tinge of worry as a full out fight broke out in the parking lot.
Klavier whistled as a fist collided into Diego's face. "Ach, I hope Armando does what he said he will do. My brother won't be pleased with him if he fails us."
Zee shrugged, not having a comment either way on Diego Armando. There are some other things for him to worry about - like if the bomb structure could be traced to him. Besides, there's nothing of Diego he cares about. They've heard of him sure, these things travel fast. He's a good guy – not those backstabbing, face-ripping kinds. He's a good guy, and he does his job well. He fights well, shoots well, and in their world, in this topsy-turvy world where everything is either three shades of black or three and a half shades of black, that's really all you need to know.
You fight well, shoot well? Good to have you. Not on our side? Here's a bullet through your heart.
They watch as the tussle went on. Someone goes down, someone goes up again. It's like a dance - a wild but repetitive sort of jiving - and within moments, the spectators were bored. Klavier yawned. It's getting sleepy. He has court tomorrow, and this whole Batman thing doesn't make him immune to being sleepy. Tomorrow, he's going to suffer for this, having dark eye circles but enjoying the knowledge that while his colleagues had been asleep and dreaming of their stock markets, he had done this - this thing that will be all over the news tomorrow and the only thing on their minds as they eat their toast and drink their coffee and watch as their stock market goes up up into the sky.
"Let's go in," He told the other man, and they slid the door of the van apart and winged their way into it. Inside, it's all warm and cosy – beats being outside, where the frost is starting again. Something about L.A weather these days...
They waited in the darkness, not daring to turn on the lights and attract attention to the lonely little van. Klavier propping himself up using one arm to stop himself from falling asleep, and Zee pulling out a magazine and reading it in the bad light. Their driver for the day, he doesn't say anything. Just sits there and stares out of the frosting glass like it's a web of spiders that had enchanted him. So they keep their mouth shut, and the door shut, and five minutes later, a loud pound came from the door.
"Open up," A voice growled.
Klavier took the cue, waking up and peeling the door backwards. It slides smoothly and with a vrooming sort of noise as the metal slides flawlessly, and Viola Cadaverinni was immediately dumped into the van like a sack of cool potatoes. Zee whistled.
"In one piece! You're amazing --"
"Keep your pointless flattery to yourself," Armando growled.
"--But not as amazing as we are of course," He quipped in return. "Did you see how we blew that thing up? It went like smoked salmon on the rocks."
Armando slammed the door shut and growled in answer, never one to offer praises, even grudgingly. "That was the showiest piece of fireworks I've ever seen. Completely pointless, and it could have gotten you killed if the situation is different."
Klavier had better things to occupy his time than pointless banter. He immediately got down on one knee, knelt beside Viola in the space that they had cleared in the van for her, and pulled out a small device. It's barely bigger than a pager, but it does what it needs to do. Klavier dragged one of Viola's unconscious thumbs and pressed it down hard against the device, grinding it in when it doesn't respond well. It beeps. Once, twice, then the thing read in a way a fool would've understood : MATCH
"Ausgezeichnet, Herr Armando." He complimented, putting the PD-pilfered device away. "It looks like we got the right person after all."
"If it looks like a kitten and it smells like a kitten, it can't be anything but a feline now, can it?"
Klavier shrugged. "There have been stranger things than plastic surgery, ja? But it's of no consequences now – she's Viola Cadaverinni, exactly who we want." He climbed back up to the seat, stretching his legs as the van purred and moved out from it's spot on the road, even as sirens began it's slow mournful wail in the distance.
"A job well done, Herr Armando. I see their praises do not fall flat."
"Save it," Armando snapped back. "I'm not here to serve your brother. I'm helping him out. Giving him a hand. Never and don't ever forget that."
Klavier nodded regally, every inch the gracious person when he wants to be. "Of course, Herr Armando." He smirked at the unconscious lady. The light from the van window plays in while they move, shooting in and making the colours of the van interior vary. It becomes yellow when they pass a street lamp, green when they move out of it's illumination, and black when there is none. Propping his head up to nap again, Klavier wondered exactly how much fun the next few months is going to be. Certainly a lot of fireworks – from the look of it. His brother's got plans. Big plans.
"Well, we have our cue shot," He announced. "Now let's see the runners run, ja?"
A tiny tiny chapter to start things off. A little note on the side ; In this AU, Daryan is not in the band. The band encompasses Klavier and the three other leftover members. I don't really like making a band out of him and OCs, but unfortunately, it has to be done - Daryan's going to appear later as something entirely different. And because this is a first chapter, I was too lazy to cook up any kind of spectacular plot, so I just made the building explode and sink.