I'm going to say this once and you're all going to remember it:
I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Also, my police organization, Interpol, although similar to the real Interpol, is my own invention, because I'm to lazy to do real research. Not that I know nothing about judicial organizations! I am an expert on the CIA/Gitmo, the MI5 and Abwehr during WW2, and the FBI during the Watergate scandel. I feel like it will be easier if I just invent my own police force based off of these organizations that I know from school than spend time sifting through the internet.
Dedicated to the hardcore punk music scene.
WATCHA GONNA DO?
Dead cops
Down on the street
Giving poor the heat
With their clubs and guns
Doin' it all for fun...
Dead Cops
Watcha gonna do
The Mafia in blue
Huntin' for queers
Niggers and you
-MDC, 'Dead Cops'
-Ripping the Belly Open-
Your heels clicked with authority on the cement floor. A guard saluted as you pressed your thumb to the sensor, unlocking the 5-inch thick steel door. On the other side, an Interpol sergeant stood erect in his blue uniform.
"This way, ma'am."
Your fiery red acrylic fingernails scooped up the clip board hanging on the wall just beyond the door. Background information with a pen attached by some twine. Behind you, the security doors closed with a solid –thunk-, and was followed by the hiss of the air-tight seal. Your powerful tap followed the sergeant, a man with the build of a pit bull, down the corridor.
Click.
Click.
Click.
What a reassuring noise. You savored the sound of your own heels beating the floor. Absentmindedly, the pen came to your lips and you sucked on it lightly on. Organized crime? The mafia? How fascinating? How devilishly fascinating? You were so used to interrogating lunatic murderers. Wheedling insane truths out of fundamentalists and terrorist. You had been drawn to their lost causes, but it was getting old. Finally, a criminal with some wiles, with some sense. The sergeant unlocked another door, this time with his own swipe card and a retina scan, then, he stepped aside and let you pass.
A disgusting fluorescent light hung over a simple brown table and two folding chairs. Two guards in blue uniforms held down the prisoner's shoulders. To your left was a mirror. A one-way window. The Interpol sergeant hid behind, watching. Violet skin like bruised petunia petals hung under the man's eyes, contrasting the sharply orange jumpsuit. Otherwise, he didn't seem like the usual murderers. His eyes weren't small. He wasn't overweight or double-chinned. He was young, possibly even handsome if he had the opportunity to groom himself. How curious. Your scarlet lips curled upward in interest.
You pulled the chair out and sat down, smoothing your deep wine-red pencil skirt as you crossed your legs. You leaned, exhaling, back in your chair, pretending to read over the clipboard. Really, you were waiting, slyly studying the Mafioso from the corner of your eye, as he glared at you through a livid death stare. Not that he was the slightest bit threatening. Anything in a straight-jacket lost its horror. Its power.
If you waited long enough, they usually blurted some out-of-place question or compliment, trying to bring a touch of normality to their lives. "Nice lipstick," or "I think my wife uses that brand of perfume." Something to make them appear a bit more normal, more human, despite their utterly perverse crimes. Despite their extreme hatred towards certain people.
And they truly were perfectly reasonable. These criminals, assassins, serial killers, and terrorists seemed so normal in their rock concert t-shirts and their fancy dinner tuxedos. Perhaps it was their utter causality that put you off. Still, it drove you to dig deeper. It drove you to find their hidden lunacy. But no matter what, you could not differentiate the men you interrogated from common strangers you met on the street. The person who bagged your groceries had a tattoo and piercings. The person who sat across from you on the bus looked at you the same way.
So maybe this one would be different. Maybe this one would finally shed light. But, sometimes, it felt like you got that degree in psychology for nothing.
So you waited, silent and smiling like a crocodile with teeth visibly poking out from her closed mouth. You waited for him to crack against the ominous silence. How long had he been in solitary confinement? You glanced at the forms on the clipboard. Two months. Poor thing.
And yet, the business suit, tailored to your curves so well, earned you not one hint of loose lips. Not one curious glance. What stubbornness! You dressed to impress every morning. To intimidate. To make all their eyes catch on fire with lust! Nothing worked better than legs without pantyhose to make the truth rush out like urine from their bladders.
"Well…
well…
well—What do we have here?" You placed the clipboard on the table gently, your eyes dangerously flashing into his, batting spider legs of mascara. His mouth still remained rock tight, his bored, tired expression not reacting to your prodding.
Well, you had more than one trick up your sleeve.
"I must say, our Chief wasn't expecting to catch a member of the elusive Vongola Mafia Family on a simple drug bust." You held up to him your right hand, showing off the red ring on your finger. Your middle finger. An evidence tag dangled onto your palm. "The Vongola emblem. It's very nice."
Ahh! A reaction. You gleefully observed his eyes narrow and his jaw muscles twitch as he clenched his teeth. You had hit a nerve. The fancy crest was something of pride. Something of power. The taunt was working. You pulled the metal band easily off your finger, it being a rather large mens' size ring, and set it on the dark wooden table, next to the clipboard. You were careful to set the crest facing you. You wanted to deprive him of his elite mafia identity, his reputation. He was captured, after all. Your Interpol unit had been chasing the Vongola criminal organization for years, among several others. Those assholes seemed to think they were above the law.
No bastard was above the law. Whether they be avengers or vigilantes, no man was above the law.
And this man, you could tell, would be a gold mine of information, a fountain of knowledge to bring Vongola down. The man looked more like a librarian than a fighter, with his far-sighted vision and dainty complexion. How could two months of prison not tarnish his refined appearance? Everything about him radiated importance, from the name brand suit he was found unconscious and bleeding in, to his amazing ability to keep silent this long. You licked your lips, tasting the bitter lipstick. Tasting a challenge.
Perhaps he needed a bit more riling up.
"We've been looking for you bastards a long time. You know that boss of yours? The one you seem ever so loyal to?" OH! Soft spot. The man looked like a growling dog preparing to bare his teeth. "Someday, he'll be locked up in a dank dark cell, raped every fucken day for—"
"FUCK THIS SHIT!" The floodgates of pent up feelings exploded, powder set on fire, so small and dainty, and you didn't really expect it. But that didn't matter. His voice was perfectly recorded by the small microphone under the table. You win. He tried to get up, squirming in his straight jacket, but the guards immediately restrained him, pushing him back in his seat.
"Don't you dare insult the tenth." He seethed.
"Or what?" You mocked. "You can't do shit. Tell me. Do you really think your going to get out of here? Do you think your pathetic boss even cares—"
"I said, SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING BITCH!"
Ok, now, he was beginning to piss you off. Bitch? Your colleges would never... at least not to your face. How dare he? You were most especially sensitive about your gender. You were no pansy. You were a woman with a career in criminal justice. A woman who faced the dark side of humanity every day. You deserved more freakin' respect. Much more, to have fought your way up Interpol ranks WITHOUT resorting to sex. Without resorting to lay your boss. Of course they looked. They gobbled you up with their eyes. Women were rare at Interpol headquarters. So you deserved better treatment. You deserved better, but no matter what, these breasts just weighed you down. "EVIL WITCH." Your grip tightened on the pen, held in the hand resting in your lap. Even though criminal logic fascinated you, you were equally repulsed. You couldn't help but numb yourself. Your job, interrogating criminals, was like watching the guts spill out of a slaughtered cow, all putrid and tangled. Every day, you poked those guts with a stick.
But, 'fucking bitch'? Your face grew redder as he continued shouting profanities, despite the guards wrestling with him to shut him up. It was affecting you, too. "STUPID CUNT." You were always the shortest person in the elevator, even with your high heels, and you scowled at the men eying you disrespectfully. "Hey sweetheart," they whispered, like their talking to a child. They never knew who you really were, a head interrogator within your own division. A captain. If they survived one of your 'bitch fits,' they wouldn't treat you like some free piece of eye candy. Their glittering gazes always threw you off like a horse stumbling in full gallop. How can you keep your composure when men are constantly mentally undressing you? Some officers tapped their handcuffs, probably wishing they were pink and fuzzy instead of cold and metallic.
At least your own division knew what you were capable of. 'Home sweet home.' If only power was a stuffed animal you could carry around like some childish security blanket, wherever you went, in or out of your office space. That was the purpose of your scarlet, pinstripe blazer—to strike fear. To intimidate. To level this fucking football field of brawny, sweating men—the red endowing power and dominance.
You just couldn't seem to get enough of it.
It just didn't seem to get through to anyone.
You were in charge.
"YOU SHIT-FACED WHORE!" The taser sparked and his eyes rolled upward, body jerking. The guards jumped back to avoid the current. They would have been electrocuted if they were touching the prisoner.
"Watch what you're doing!" one snarled. You didn't care for one stubble of his 5 o'clock shadow. It was his fault the prisoner had gotten out of hand.
"Fucking mafia dog—" you grumbled, ignoring the bitter guard and relishing the sight of the prisoner sagging back in his chair. "You can rot in prison for all I care. Just answer my goddamn questions."
And for the first time he smiled. A smile filled with pride and loathing for your very being.
"Just kill me. I'm not telling you shit." Your eyes flashed, nostrils flaring. What was wrong with him? Most murderers gave in by now. Flaunting your body didn't work. Pain didn't work.
"How long do you want to stay in this piss-hole, huh? Ten years? Fifty?" you threaten, trying to equal his composure. He was like those self-confident suicide bombers, those brainwashed extremists decorated with hidden explosives. Freakin' martyr. Nothing was worth dying for. Nothing was worth rotting in jail for.
But his lips were tightened again, following his word. So fuck him. Would you look at that, eh? The mafia were psycho after all.
You pick up your clipboard, hating your defeat. Well, there was one fact that consoled you. Solitary confinement wouldn't last forever. And he sure did have a girly ass. One inmate would have his sexual fantasies made true.
You flicked out a cigarette from the stash you kept in your breast pocket and snapped a flame from your lighter. A glimmer of desire alighted in your prisoner's eyes, but you missed it. You were already moping about what you were going to tell your boss. You weren't doing well these days. Your previous case had committed suicide in his cell.
"Private, get me the bucket of water."
Water-boarding it would be. You couldn't fake kindness with that pretty face of yours anymore.
