DISCLAIMER: I do not own KHR (otherwise the Varia would have more screentime). It belongs to Amano Akira, those people who animated it, etc. Feel free to name them all.
This is intended to be a XanxusxOC fic.
CHAPTER 1: Rescue
"Timoteo, probability of the child's lineage stemming from the Fourth's…is more or less seventy percent." The Vongola Ninth stayed in his pensive façade as he had done for the past forty minutes, betraying no emotion and hinting only a few nods here and there as his right hand man relayed the Cloud guardian's report. "Should this warrant our action?"
They would not have gathered in such an uncalled for manner if it weren't for that particular news. It would not have been a big deal if any of his sons were alive to take the helm after his retirement. But no. A year had already passed since Federico, his youngest son, had been murdered. Only his resolve salvaged his sanity to keep moving forth despite the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.
At that juncture, he convened with his Guardians, discussing about a prospective heir in the hands of their enemies. His most trusted colleagues tactfully avoided mentioning anything about his sons, but were not sure what to say either, resulting in a heavy silence with all eyes centered on the boss. He wasn't sure he could take on another all-out mafia war like he did in his prime. Age was catching up and soon he'll be following his sons wherever their kind deserved to end up in. He needed a successor yet his intuition was telling him the child could be all but his heir.
Still, they had to try.
"B-but, Ninth!" Ganauche III, his Lightning Guardian, protested. "We cannot be too sure…what if…like last time…" Pressing on would end up in sour recounting of Enrico's death by ambush so he stopped.
"Nevertheless we cannot be too suspicious," said the Mist Guardian, his first uttered words since the start of the meeting.
"I would have disagreed too, Ganauche…but these are desperate times. We take all risks into consideration."
"Very well. Convey to Visconti that I trust the operation to be a success." The bereaved Vongola boss brought his hands together, crossed fingers concealing part of his face. "This time", he added, "not one drop of Vongola blood will be shed."
No one need respond. The meeting was adjourned.
Someone should have told Visconti as well that he wasn't allowed to get sick.
He never fails. That was for sure. But he wasn't so sure about his upstart pubescent son who was to lead in his place. Try as he might to refute the effects of old age, he simply cannot participate in large scale raids and other stealthy or stressing operations anymore. Especially when accursed flus come knocking.
Damn it.
If curses could reverse time, he would be back in the good ol' days, obliterating enemies like child's play. This was not to say he was getting useless. He could still, in colloquial terms, kick serious ass, just not right now. "Alfredo," he said after a fit of coughing. What an ill-fortuned coming of sickness, he thought bitterly. Is this a test on whether he will be bound by some mere flu as a Cloud Guardian? "Boy, pay attention!"
The person called for can hardly be classified a boy. "Papa, I'm 18 for goodness' sake," he sighed in reply, "Like I said, everything's prepared. I've been checking all the stuff like clockwork since last week!"
The father gruffly sighed. "Fine. Remember that Timoteo will not take failure easily this time," he said, as if pouring salt on fresh wound. The young man did not retort anything back. Almost unconsciously his fists clenched. Was that implied reprimand meant to make him perform better? Who were they kidding, if the heir who practically beat him at everything couldn't take it; then how the hell could have he changed anything? He would have given up anything…anything…just for his friend to live.
Maybe he should have died there instead of Federico, was what he wanted to snap back, but held it in. Though he may very well admit himself a prick, he loved his father and worried that it might worsen his condition. Plus, if by any chance he gets killed, he wouldn't want to regret saying that last. From his mouth came two words, both a literal answer and an affirmation of resolve.
"I know."
This mission will be flawless.
Things weren't only tense among the Vongola's circles. It was as if the whole of Sicily had been devoured by shadows of ill will; especially, of course, the family that caught the Alliance's attention.
"Okay, Im'ma give you one last chance, kid." Gaspare's patience was wearing thin. Not that it was ever that much extendable. The girl was unfortunate to be interrogated by him. "Where the hell did you go last week!?" Upon receiving the silent treatment, a loud slap echoed in the cellar. The sound of chains disturbed in their dormancy joined the curses and threats of the interrogator.
It hurt. Her cheeks stung of the hit and the shackles were too tight. Maybe if they didn't push her around too much, she would have learned to put up with them for a little longer. No, she'll have no more of this crap. Had she acted earlier, circumstances would have been less urgent and there would be no assurance of what's to come next.
The Vongola will discover one time or another and she'd be used as they pleased; better she took advantage of them while she could before the system swallowed her whole. If her hands were free, she thought about patting herself on the shoulder for a job well done. She would be saved and she even needn't do anything except play a distressed damsel part. That she could perform well, the state she was in right now.
A searing hot pain burned so very near her eyes. They must be really alarmed by the threat of the Vongola that they had advanced to using knives with her. Blood trickled out of the slash, multiplying the sting of the previous injuries as it oozed down her face.
Out of the corner of her good eye, she caught sight of a gleam of silver. Then it came. The deafening explosions and gunshots, and voices that sought to be heard amidst the chaos. The knife dropped with a loud clang. "You…you traitor!" bellowed the man. Her eyes widened as he pointed a .45 pistol point blank on her face. "Now talk! What did you do!?"
"...nothing really." Click. Her heart thumped fast.
Damn, it should have been easy to burst forth with a witty comeback. All of them are idiots anyway, a cruel joke of the Creator on the decent-living.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
Yet she remained silent. So why should she? Because she didn't have a death wish, she used to think. She had lost count of people who died because of letting slip a secret, executed for admitting a mistake, killed for speaking out of turn.
Fear would never completely disappear, no matter how bright and powerful the façade. But now she wasn't entirely afraid. So-
Nothing. There was mostly nothing. Actually, if the Vongola decided to ignore her existence she wouldn't mind it very much…maybe. "I-"
Her guts felt as if they were wrenched complicated sewer tubes. This would be a very good time for an entrance, Vongola.
"Die!" In a matter of milliseconds, Gaspare will pull the trigger and it will end. He was never a patient man anyway and she never made any significant attempt to befriend him or any of them for that matter. The only effort exerted was for her to live, to which she had barely succeeded.
BAM.
The door flew off its hinges, knocking the interrogator out with it. In a mishmash of explosions, bullets, debris she could hear voices of unfamiliar people.
He couldn't believe his eyes. That small, frilly dress clad kid would be the heir? "Impossible," he muttered. She was a mess. The girl'd probably kick the bucket any moment now. Not one drop of blood spilled. That triggered back his focus. "Dom, cover for me!"
"Yes, sir!"
Alfredo rushed. "Oi, kid. You alright?" He cursed upon seeing that some of the cuts ran pretty deep, which meant loss of blood and possible doom. Mainly for him. He easily scooped her small form and ran out. "C'mon…"
As she was drifting to oblivion, she made out a figure coming up to her after shouting to someone Dam…or cursing damn… This was a stranger. More often than not strangers meant instant candidate enemies. Somehow though, a feeling of safety flooded her mind. How and why she knew she didn't know. She felt her whole body relax. Maybe she was really afraid of dying.
For three days, the girl recuperated in Visconti's home. It wasn't anything fancy. In fact, it could be just any other middle-class family house but one that shelters some of the most infamous figures in the underworld.
"Papa-"
"No, Alfredo. You have done well." The ninth generation Cloud Guardian recovered fast. Now the son looked sicker than his father was some days before. "Timoteo congratulates you."
He shouldn't be going all sugary on him. "She hasn't even awakened yet. And the Ninth didn't want another drop spilled…he was just…I know he's just too…" Soft? "Che, whatever."
Visconti ruffled his son's hair, "Your mother would have pinched your ear for not comprehending the metaphor, boy. Cut yourself some slack."
Sigh. "I'll do that after she wakes up."
"Then it will all the more be hectic."
"I don't really care anymore, Pops." He heaved himself back on the couch beside the bed. "Look at her. She's what, seven years old, and already to be pressured to do something she might not want. On closer inspection, she doesn't even look Italian to me." That earned him a knuckle hit on the side of the head.
"Of course she doesn't. I believe you told me you checked every single detail."
"Ouch!" He rubbed his head, annoyed. "That was the operation details, not some specifics on this personification of frailty." Yup, he, Visconti, Ninth Generation Cloud Guardian, prays solemnly every night for the merciful Lord not to take him away yet for the sake of his family. His son still has much much more to learn.
"Trust me, Pops, I don't want another death on my head. This gal better be off to the Vongola Main the moment her eyebrows twitch." He wanted to tell his son that he was too young and inexperienced to have saved his friend and should burden befall him, it should be the grief of a lost friend not guilt or regret over surviving.
Two days later, Don Timoteo appointed Alfredo Falzone bodyguard to the rescued girl.
His favorite shirt had never been so vilely desecrated with wine…and steak…and sauce. Oh yeah, and his spit.
A/N: So...should I push forth with this? :)
Visconti is Timoteo's cloud guardian. I got him a surname, Falzone, just because. Alfredo is someone I made up. He's supposed to be Visconti's son who was friends with Federico. C'mon, don't pretend you don't know Federico.
