Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.
Shackles:
The night air was cool against his skin, some small comfort against the sweat that streamed down his body as he ran away from his pursuers—his very persistent pursuers. They had been on the run for two days now, not daring to rest for any extended period, and the exertion was beginning to wear on their bodies. The sound of heavy pants coming from his fellow escapees was getting louder with every step. He came to a stop in the middle of the glade, ducking low to the ground for some meager camouflage. On either side of him, Ken and Chikusa looked on the verge of collapse, their breaths coming in great gasps, their arms propped unsteadily atop shaking legs. His condition wasn't much better, and with no reprieve in sight, they wouldn't make it much farther.
"Mukuro," Chikusa said between breaths, "they're getting close."
"It's no good. We can't get away," added Ken.
Mukuro privately agreed, though he didn't voice that thought aloud. "Let's split up and escape on our own," he suggested. "From here on out, I can get away by myself, but you two will just get in the way."
Ken and Chikusa protested against parting ways—not, he suspected, because they thought there was a better chance of escape if they remained at his side, but because they truly wished to be there. As far as sentiments went, he regarded loyalty as one of the easier ones to manipulate, because it made those who harbored the feeling foolish and sentimental. But sometimes, that proved more of a hindrance than an exploitable weakness; times like now.
"Go on," he told them. "Quickly, before the Vindice find us."
With great reluctance, they stood back up. Mukuro nodded at them, watching as they turned around and resumed running. Soon, their outlines became specks in the distance. He gave them several minutes' head start—as long as he dared, as he could practically feel the Vindice breathing down his neck, their rancid breath flowing over him.
Feeling their inhuman presences drawing closer, he took off again, in a different direction from the others. If he could just reach the forest, there would be enough cover to conceal him while he slipped away.
Almost there… Just another few feet…
A chill ran up his spine, an indication that the Vindice had caught up with him. He heard the sound of displaced air as something rushed toward him from behind. He ducked to avoid whatever it was, but ended up knocked to the ground as a heavy object hit the back of his head.
Rolling onto his back, he was met with the sight of his three pursuers. Before he could react, a heavy collar had already snapped closed around his neck, the metal cold against his skin. From a ring in the center ran a length of chain that led back to one bandaged hand. Sitting on his haunches, he calculated his chances at overpowering his adversaries; they weren't good.
He saw two of the imposing figures break away to head in the opposite direction—the one Ken and Chikusa had taken earlier.
Dredging forth the last of his strength, he summoned pillars of lava from the earth directly before the two figures, then created additional columns to form a ring of magma around them. The two Vindice stopped short of touching the pillars, becoming trapped within.
An instant was all it took for an illusion to overtake one's perception.
"Where do you think you're going?" Mukuro asked. "You still have me to contend with." He allowed his customary smile to slide into place, ignoring the new layer of perspiration coating his brow as his energy reserves were steadily drained.
The one who had ahold of the collar looked down at him. Mukuro tensed, ready to leap out of the way should the towering figure decide to make a move. However, no attack ensued, and the bandaged face gave no indication of the person's thoughts.
"You acted as bait to save your friends," the masked man stated. "Good enough, this man is the real convict." He gestured for the other two to return.
The men inside the ring approached the edge, but pulled back when one's cloak caught fire. Mukuro laughed from his position on the ground, amused despite the circumstances. There was a rough jerk on the collar around his neck, causing him to pitch forward involuntarily; he just barely prevented himself from falling face-first into the dirt.
"Enough. We won't pursue the other two, so let down your illusion."
Mukuro considered allowing the illusion to continue regardless, simply because he could—except he couldn't, not for long. His breathing was becoming increasingly labored, his limbs felt insubstantial, and he was becoming lightheaded—all signs that he had overexerted himself. Although he didn't trust the Vindice to keep their word—they were known to chase their prey relentlessly—there was not much choice in the matter; either he dispelled the illusion himself, or he passed out from the effort of upholding it, and it dispersed anyway.
He would rather end this on his own terms, so he chose the former option, and began loosening the grip he held on the image in his mind. As the fiery image fell away, its counterpart surrounding the two Vindice did as well. Slowly, the bright orange magma softened and changed into formless wisps, dissipating into the night as brightly colored mist.
When the two enforcers were released, additional chains slithered across the grass and wound up his legs, torso, and arms, constricting. They rattled as they dragged him along, the links clinking against one another and emitting mocking laughter. He walked the long way back to the prison the best he could, but the restraints made it difficult; the fatigue that weighed on every fiber of his being didn't help either.
After what felt like eons, they finally reached the prison. Once past the threshold, they stood inside the mountain the Vindice had transformed into their penitentiary. The robed enforcers led Mukuro down a passage that seemed to spiral into the abyss, with no end in sight. As he fought to keep his eyes open, an idle thought occurred to him—if he were to lose his balance atop those steps, he would fall for an age; and when the ground finally swept him into its embrace, his bones would shatter like so much glass, and the darkness would claim him for its own.
"We have arrived."
The announcement broke Mukuro out of his reverie, causing his lids to fly open with sudden alertness, and his mind was briefly abuzz with activity before it slowed back to a lethargic crawl. Looking around drowsily, he realized they had reached level ground, and were no longer suspended over a dark chasm; he must have practically sleepwalked his way to the bottom.
The only light came from a lantern one of the Vindice carried; besides that, there was no other source. Sound, as well, was absent save for his own quiet breathing. When he tilted his head back to surmise the distance between here and the top, he saw only the most miniscule pinprick of white above—barely noticeable against the backdrop of black. Quite far down, then.
If they think locking me away underground will prevent my escape, then they are underestimating Rokudo Mukuro.
He was shoved roughly from behind. Stumbling forward, he tripped over a dais of some sort and ended up lying on the floor, his face pressed against cold metal and his shoulders bruised from the fall. Before he could do more than glare contemptuously, there was a sharp yank on his manacles; he bit back the yelp of pain as his arms were wrenched upward with enough force to pull his body forward with the motion. He found himself in a sitting position inside some circular device, with various instruments being fitted to his body by the guards.
A mask was placed over his nose and mouth. He briefly wondered if it was a muzzle to keep him from speaking. To be fair, he had only taunted the Vindice during his previous imprisonment when there was no other form of entertainment available. It wasn't his fault they couldn't handle the scintillating conversation.
Something was fitted over his replacement eye, and suddenly he felt—with all the tubes and restraints—as if he was back in the Estraneo laboratory, being forced to endure cruel experiments day after endless day. The image of men in white coats and syringes penetrating his skin flashed before his eyes. He struggled to escape his bonds—to escape the resurfacing memories—but was pushed back down; the impact jarred him from his past. When the visions faded, he managed to settle down again.
Once all the apparatus were attached to his body, a clear screen rose from the edges of the circle on the floor. Higher and higher the partition rose, until it connected to the ceiling with a pneumatic hiss. He had never seen this type of cage before. As he stared through the transparent barrier at his wardens, panels on the bottom slid open to admit water. Upon first contact with the liquid, he gave an involuntary shiver at the icy touch. Goosebumps bridged the plane of his skin, but that was not the only sensation that was evoked; he could also feel some foreign entity stealing into his mind, some strange fog rolling across his thoughts, gradually turning everything to a murky haze as the water rose around him, filling the tank. There was just enough time to formulate one thought—that there must be some type of sedative in the water—before he fell into darkness.
Mukuro slept, suspended in the weightless realm of water, in shackles once more. Then again, he had never truly broken free of the shackles of his childhood, and it was these intangible bonds that truly kept him prisoner. The new restraints were only made of steel; steel was a tough, durable material, but at least it was tangible, comprehensible. And while the metal may have bound his limbs, keeping his physical movements restricted, his mind was free to wander.
As he floated through the sea of thoughts that comprised the ether, he drifted from one mind to another, lingering for a dream here, gleaning an intention there, before allowing the flowing tide to sweep him away. It was pure coincidence that he found them again.
Hunger. Cold. Darkness.
He saw Ken and Chikusa huddled in an abandoned warehouse, weary from evading incarceration. Ken lay huddled on the hard floor, and despite the tough image he tried so hard to project, he whimpered in his sleep. Chikusa sat slumped against a concrete column, his face paler than usual and his ribs prominent against the thin prison uniform. Too afraid to light a fire, the two slept in the dark, with only the ghostly puffs of their breaths and the intermittent growls of empty stomachs to indicate life.
How long had it been now? How many days since they had gone their separate ways?
Mukuro studied them for a moment longer, but then let his consciousness be pulled along; there was nothing he could do here.
As he wandered the seemingly endless sea, he sensed a familiar presence from afar. Curious, he sought out the awareness that called to his own. As he got closer, the feeling of familiarity intensified, but the identity of the person to whom the mind belonged eluded him. The knowledge tickled at the edges of his perception, taunting him.
There was the usual flicker of thoughts that he encountered upon encroaching within someone else's mind, the half-formed words and superficial observations that lay on the surface. Digging deeper, doing more than simply skimming thoughts from the surface—that required a special skill, but it was one in which he was well-practiced. With a sensation akin to a bubble popping against one's face, Mukuro broke through the outermost layer and gained access to the deeper recesses of the person's mind. This was the place where secrets lay.
He was met with the sight of craggy mountain peaks in the distance; the image of the lush, rolling hills of the countryside, their surface blanketed by the dark green of trees; the grass and bright flowers clustered at their base blew gently in the breeze, swaying with the soft music of the birds; above him spanned the endless azure sky, the sun a bright orb of heat and energy that cast light upon the land below.
The scenery really was quite idyllic—the type of picturesque landscape that usually got painted on canvases or composed into poems. And yet, despite that, this person's mind was not entirely at peace. There was turmoil and unease nestled beneath the surface of his thoughts as he made his way across the land, every step hesitant and slow.
Intrigued, Mukuro dug deeper into the person's consciousness, peeling back the metaphoric layers like one would the skin of an onion. Peering into the reservoir of buried memories, he teased them out, gently prying them from the depths of the dark container where they were stored.
Shouts. Screams. Gunshots.
An image swam to the surface—bodies sprawled around the room, red seeping out to soak the carpet. A wall of despair hit like a ton of bricks. Eyes wide with horror looked down upon the carnage. An agonized howl ripped free as the faces of the dead sank in.
Mukuro recognized the image, recognized the faces of the dead men strewn about, recognized the raw torrent of emotion that filled the gray-eyed man's cry like a requiem for the dead—there was only one other person in the world who shared this memory.
He should have known it would be him.
Mukuro spent the majority of his imprisonment outside his physical body, gaining access to the minds of those who roamed free in the world. Among other activities, he amassed secrets that could be traded for favors; found people who were receptive to his influence—some especially unique individuals were even attuned to his voice; and cultivated skills in talented persons who may one day aid in his release. But just as often, he would seek out that familiar presence, that image of green pastures. These times when he would observe the world through gray eyes, he would think, the grass really was greener on the other side.
Mukuro often lurked in the thoughts of his former puppet, as the man he had once possessed visited the families of the deceased, this man who was content to spend the rest of his life atoning for crimes he did not commit. Not really.
If Lancia had committed any crime, it was in trusting Mukuro all those years ago.
Now, he was paying the price for that trust.
Mukuro was aware that since Lancia's acquittal, the man had been traversing the homeland, going from green meadows to winding cobbled streets. He would arrive before a modest abode and would—with a steadying breath that did little to abate the guilt in his heart—knock on the sturdy wooden door. The next part was always the same—someone would answer the door with a polite smile and a questioning gaze. He would then explain the purpose of his visit, that he was the reason the person's loved one was no longer with him or her. The confession would usually be followed by incomprehension, then dawning horror, then anguish and grief would pour out in a flurry of fists and tears. Mukuro's name was never mentioned in these little confessions. For whatever reason, the man made no effort to push the blame onto what others would consider its rightful recipient. Standing still in the street, Lancia took it all—the punches, the tears, the burden of all those lives—if only it could ease the pain of the bereaved. Meanwhile, the man's own tears were locked behind steely gray.
A few months later and another change in scenery had occurred.
Mukuro found Lancia in southern Italy. There, he helped small land owners tend to their crops, toiling beneath the hot Italian sun on their little plot of land because their sons no longer came home to help with the harvest. It was menial labor with which Mukuro would never have deigned to dirty his hands, and yet Lancia did it willingly. The strongest man in northern Italy doing menial labor—it was laughable. But after possessing the man for so long, Mukuro knew Lancia's thoughts as if they were his own; it was not absolution Lancia sought—because even that could not assuage his guilt—but some small solace in making amends.
It was a ridiculous notion, a futile effort.
Mukuro did not believe in repentance, primarily because he was not so naïve as to believe in something so superficial as forgiveness—and what was one without the other? Just as he was aware that Lancia would never forgive him for what he had done, he knew that although Lancia sought to repent, whatever words spoken by the surviving kin of those murdered—absolving the man of blame—were only words; the accusation in their eyes spoke volumes louder than any flimsy gesture they could give.
Unlike Lancia, Mukuro also felt no remorse for the things he had done, because in his mind, every action was justifiable—in this life he was human, and humans always served their own self-interests. That was all the reason he needed. Remorse was merely a sugar-coated lie dispensed by the strong to keep themselves in power and the weak complacent. But there was another reason he didn't make it a habit to feel guilt over the things he had done—because guilt led to other questions.
Questions like what ifs.
He didn't do what ifs. Those were an indulgence belonging to the people who had no ambition, no conviction, and no future; therefore they had nothing better to do than waste what remained of their pathetic lives on that which could not be changed. There was no point contemplating the past, because that was a door that shut with a finality and knowledge that it could never be opened again. Therefore, it was wisest to shove all that belonged to the past through the door before it closed, so that it could never see the light of day again. And yet…
There was that mocking laughter again, as the length of his chains coiled more tightly around him in response to the direction his thoughts had taken.
What if he had been able to leave behind his own dark history? He could have used his prodigious talents for his adoptive Family, could have quickly risen to a position of influence that would have allowed him to change the underworld from within.
This time, the mirth bubbled from within himself—wasn't that just idealistic. Him, becoming established in the Mafia world—it was absurd, given his history with those organizations. Except… Lancia had taken his role as a big brother and a mentor seriously. Lancia had loved him, and he had taken advantage of that trust.
It didn't matter anymore. The past was the past.
Yet, despite having no use for it, when he had exhausted himself in the outside world, and no longer had the energy to escape the confines of his mind, it was the memories of those months under the man's care that kept him company in the dark cellar of the Vendicare prison.
Much as he despised his past, it had made him who he was; throughout his life, it had asserted its control, winding its way around his being and refusing to let go.
Xanxus' mind was full of darkness—that had been Mukuro's first impression upon coming across the other whilst wandering through the ether. That man's mind was filled to the brim with rage, and the secrets that swam in its depths were enough to impress even Mukuro. He saw rage often; it was not an uncommon element in the human mind, but rarely was it so focused, so effectively utilized as it was with Xanxus.
There were individuals in the world, those with strong mental capacity, who could offer some defense against Mukuro's probes. But when he had decided to delve into Xanxus' thoughts, it had practically been like being handed an open invitation. There was almost zero resistance, although Mukuro suspected that if the Varia leader were so inclined, it wouldn't have been difficult to construct a mental block. It would have taken a little more effort on Mukuro's part to penetrate the barrier, but he would have succeeded eventually. As it was, Xanxus hadn't bothered to protect himself against mental intrusions, so all his anger and hatred was laid out for the world to see.
Although he viewed Xanxus as a bit of a brute, Mukuro could appreciate the quality of the hatred that boiled within the man, the fuel that fed the rage. And the target of that wrath—a core member of the Mafia that he despised—made it all the better. It was why he had told the Varia leader he wouldn't interfere with the man's plans. In fact, he would have enjoyed seeing how far Xanxus' wrath could carry him, how long before he fell victim to his own devices. It would have been entertaining, if nothing else. But Mukuro didn't like to share his toys, and since Sawada Tsunayoshi was intended to be his future vessel, he needed the Vongola brat to outlive the week.
Lately, it had begun to dawn on him that no amount of bloodshed could purge him of his past. But he was determined to spend the remainder of his life trying; after all, killing was all he knew. When he succeeded in taking control of the Vongola brat's body and subsequently the entire Mafia world, he could set in motion his revenge, and finally cast the world into a darkness that surpassed even Xanxus'.
More snickers, as if his restraints questioned his motives.
Mukuro was beginning to wonder if the damn sound was even real, or if it was merely an echo in his mind. Ignoring their ridicule, he traveled along that well-worn path to the person waiting on the other end. Hovering on the edge of Lancia's awareness, he whispered words into the other's ear.
Varia. Ambush. Vongola.
Then he settled back to watch events unfold.
Lancia tensed, lowering his pruning shears and looking around the vineyard. All he saw were brown vines lying in dormancy, waiting for the warmer climes to return; and golden leaves that blanketed the ground, a sign that autumn had come and gone; nowhere was there another presence, save for the elderly woman down the field, too far away for it to have been her.
He picked up the tool again to continue cutting off the unwanted branches that dangled from the wire. A few stems later, and he thought he heard the sounds again. But just like before, there was no indication of where they originated; they were whispers in the wind.
"Something wrong, dear?"
The voice roused Lancia from his daze, and he realized his hands had stopped moving. "No, I'm fine," he hurried to answer. "If you want to head inside, I can finish up your side in a bit."
The woman gave a hearty chuckle. "Dear, I already finished my end. I came here to see if you needed help."
Surprised, Lancia looked past her shoulder—not difficult, since she barely topped five feet—and saw that all down the row, the excess vines had already been pruned. All that was left were the ones in his section. He must have been out of it longer than he'd realized.
"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly.
The elderly woman took up her own shears and began clipping with an efficiency that bespoke years of practice. "Oh, it's not a problem. If you hadn't been here, I would've had a lot more work on my hands."
Lancia felt that familiar weight in the pit of his stomach. Her son Antonio had been a member of his Family, a good son who sent most of his paychecks back home to help with expenses, called often, and visited whenever there was a day off—until one day, his parents lost all contact with him; it was as if he had simply ceased to exist.
When Lancia found Antonio's mother, she had been getting by on what remained of those savings, since her age didn't allow for much work; and her gardening hobby had provided enough for her and her husband, but she was alone now, and the produce didn't provide much of an income. So he had offered to help for as long as she needed, taking care of the livestock, weeding in the garden, and fixing things around the house for a couple of months. But now, with the harvest past and everything repaired, there was little else to do. And an insistent voice kept telling him something was wrong.
"I have to go to Japan," he said quietly.
"What's in Japan?" she asked.
He stared into the distance for a long moment before answering. He thought he heard rattling chains, but that couldn't be right. He had left his serpent ball hidden in the forest behind the house. He couldn't possibly hear it from here. Was it just his imagination? Or was the sound trying to tell him something?
"I'm not sure… I just have this feeling that I'm needed."