"Notice: Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

By order of the Author."

- Mark Twain

- - October, 1922 - -

Heartland City, a grimy metropolis situated on the Massachusetts coast between Boston and Rockport, had always been famous for two things: its gambling problem and its mobsters. The downtown speakeasy known as Numbers attracted both of these in spades... though Vector Bariano's favorite suit had, admittedly, always been diamonds. He hummed something to himself that sounded a bit like a swing chart and a bit like Rachmaninoff as he lit up, leaning casually against the wall, watching a nearby table of men slowly get fried on bootleg hooch while shooting craps. In his long and storied career as a connoisseur of criminality, he'd never seen a drum this hopping on a Tuesday afternoon. No wonder the Don was so interested in acquiring ownership.

Not that Numbers was for sale; the owner had just made that abundantly clear. No gang of Sicilians was ever getting his bar, he'd said. Vector tsked, pushing himself off the wall and jogging up the stairs to the exit, pushing open the cellar doors and stepping out onto the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. It was almost a shame he was here as a negotiator; he hadn't gotten nearly enough action since he'd been promoted to capo. He paused for a moment to pull the cig out of his mouth, flick it to the ground, and grind it out under the heel of his patent-leather shoe. A smile slowly spread across his face as he imagined bursting into that ratty little place with a Chicago typewriter and filling all those bums with holes in a glorious spectacle of flying lead and pure adrenaline.

But the Don didn't operate that way, which was the only thing keeping those people from becoming Swiss cheese. The only thing keeping most people from becoming Swiss cheese. Vector had always harbored a desire (sometimes secret, sometimes not so much) to see the whole town burn. Whether it grew out of his less-than-stellar upbringing or a deeper pathology was a question that many had tried to answer, though the man himself usually ended up shooting these people in the face. Vector never bothered with introspection; he left that sort of phonus balonus to people who'd wasted their lives' savings on philosophy degrees.

Speaking of, as he rounded the corner, he nearly ran into a short, bespectacled man in a light-grey suit, who immediately took a step backwards upon recognizing him. Vector smirked. "Afternoon, Dumon. How's skirt chasing at the library working out for ya?"

Dumon only frowned, used to Vector's bushwa by now. "He's not expecting you for another hour."

Vector shrugged. "Not my fault. It was like talking to a brick."

"As if you would ever bother to carry on an intelligent conversation." Dumon brushed past him, pulling his hat brim over his eyes as if to say 'we're done here.' "He's not busy, so it should be fine. I'll be at the DA's office if anyone needs me." His tone seemed to imply that 'anyone' did not include Vector.

Vector grinned slyly as the small grey figure disappeared into the crowd gathered around the trolley stop. "Have fun lawyering," he called out. "I hope your typewriter jams ~ !" He then turned on his heel and sauntered up the street, heading north towards the docks.

After a little less than a fifteen minute walk, he reached a red brick townhouse, notable for its aura of class despite its relatively small size. Vector approached the front door, knocking a palm lightly against the back of the straw hat of a young man who was busy tending to a patch of petunias growing out of a flower box at the base of a first-floor window. "Don't you have anything better to do, Hec?"

Hector Lucchese, while never officially adopted into the Bariano family, just so happened to be Vector's ten-minutes-younger twin brother, and thus had secured himself a certain position within the Bariano ranks. His refusal to be anything but pleasant at any time made him universally well-liked among the upper management, and the Don had come to view him as a cute youngest son and spoiled him frequently. It was generally acknowledged that the family's shadier enterprises were not his area of expertise, so his duties were mostly restricted to housekeeping and/or offering "hospitality" when the need arose. Today was apparently a "gardening" day. "You're back awfully early, fratello," Hector said warmly, his apparent pleasure at this development somewhat offset by the way his tiny pruners hacked a browned flower to pieces.

Vector wrapped an arm around his shoulder, the way he did when he wanted something. "Let's just say negotiations didn't go well," he drawled, slipping his brother a candy cigarette from his pocket. "How is he?"

Hector popped the "cig" into his mouth and thought about it. "Good. Ducky, in fact. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Attaboy." Vector gave him a punch on the shoulder that was a little harder than maybe it should have been before shoving his key into the lock on the door and pushing it open.

The first thing one noticed upon entering Don Thousand Bariano's abode was that almost everything inside was red. The wallpaper in every room except the kitchen and bathroom was a deep burgundy, with a subtle lacy pattern coursing through it. This had the effect of making the whole house look dark and rather smoky. Additionally, all pieces of furniture were either mahogany, faux-mahogany, or simply colored red if they weren't made out of wood. The carpet was a light, springy salmon, and even the frames for the artwork and family photos hanging on the walls were dark maple, at least. And, of course, the ceiling lamps were all made of delicate rose glass, a slightly uncharacteristic bit of extravagance that gave the whole house a warmly foreboding ambiance.

Vector strode down the front hall and climbed the stairs, careful not to make too much noise. While Dumon had said that he wasn't busy, there was always a chance that the Don was currently in the midst of a business transaction, and interrupting him during such times was not at all wise. After reaching the second floor, he turned right and walked until he reached the room at the end of the hall. The door was open slightly, though not enough to see inside, which meant the Don was present but not engaged in something requiring his immediate attention. Even so, Vector gave the door a light rap with his knuckles, just to be safe.

There was a faint stirring within the room, then a low, smooth voice called out, "Come in."

Vector pushed the door open and stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back. The Don got headaches easily, and so kept his window shades closed at all times, making his study even darker than the rest of the house. "I've just been to Numbers, Don," Vector announced, his brash tone reined in for once.

Don Thousand glanced up from his paperwork to fix him with an enquiring gaze. He had dark Italian skin and dark reddish-brown eyes, offset by long blonde hair which he kept tied back; he was a tall man, always clad in a crisp black suit, with multiple signet rings on his fingers. But the most striking thing about him was undoubtedly the aura of power that radiated off of him - he seemed to go beyond simple charisma to a natural command of everything and everyone. "From your early arrival, I would assume that your negotiations have gone either extraordinarily well or extraordinarily badly," he intoned, voice and expression both completely neutral.

Vector plopped himself into a chair and crossed his legs. "Unfortunately, I come bearing bad news," he quipped, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. Because he was so overwhelmingly informal with everyone he ever met, he was allowed a little leeway with the Don as long as he at least started their conversations off politely. "That Kazuma Tsukumo is one dumb sap. Said he'd never hand over his juice joint to Sicilians." He smirked. "Called us slimy, no-good, zozzled ragamuffins, double-crossing hoods and JDs with nothing better to do than ruin a fella's business."

"Hm." Don Thousand didn't seem particularly upset; he rarely got upset about anything. "I've heard rumors about Mr. Tsukumo that involve the Yakuza. They say his grandfather was a shatei with the Yamaguchi-gumi."

None of those words meant anything to Vector. "Maybe. But my sources tell me he's been getting friendly with old Eli Astrala."

The Don froze. "...Has he now?"

Vector nodded, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. "That's where he gets his bootleg from, at least."

Anyone who knew anything about Heartland City knew about the Barianos and the Astralas. The two families had been engaged in a bitter cold war ever since their respective Dons, Don Thousand of the Barianos and Don Eli of the Astralas, came to power. So far, no one from either side had actually broken any of the sacred rules of the cosa nostra, but it was only a matter of time until someone did. Turf disputes were alarmingly common as each family tried to plant itself into the other's rackets; some Astralas were even known to cross over to the other side of the street through oncoming traffic in order to avoid walking too close to a Bariano.

If there was one thing in the entire world certain to invoke Don Thousand's terrible and immediate rage, it was the name of Eli Astrala.

"...Vector." The Don's voice was unnervingly calm. "Will Kazuma Tsukumo ever sell Numbers to us?"

Vector couldn't be certain what the answer was, but he knew what it needed to be. "No."

"Very well." Don Thousand folded his hands on his desk and looked Vector straight in the eye with an unrelenting, impenetrable gaze. "Take him out."

Vector felt a toothy grin spread across his face. Finally, some action.

- - May, 1924 - -

The Heartland City Police Station was, on the whole, a rather laid-back place. Crime in general was not exactly rampant, and most officers had a pretty easy time of it.

Of course, that's excepting the Mob Squad.

In April, war had broken out between the Barianos and the Astralas when an Astrala associate killed a Bariano soldier without Don Thousand's permission. The retribution was swift and terrible; the Astrala was found the next day with both of his eyes shot out and five bullet holes in his chest. The work was undeniably the signature of Vector, one of the four Bariano capos. Vector alone had been behind the deaths of four Astrala associates within the preceding year, as well as the brutal murder of a second-generation Japanese speakeasy owner in '22. Now that open gangland war had been declared, it was clear that Don Thousand intended on utilizing his talents whenever possible.

Of course, no one could prove all of this. No one ever could. The evidence just kept piling up only to disappear thanks to a bribed judge. There were even rumors of a mole within the police station, though these were as ephemeral as a Will O' the Wisp. Sirius Stone never paid any real attention to them, but sometimes he did have to wonder. After all, from the first day he'd been assigned to the squad, he'd felt as though everything he was doing only ever amounted to nothing, that the whole exercise was nothing more than a trip for biscuits.

He sighed, glancing over the case file spread open on his desk. Girag, arguably one of the least-powerful Bariano capos, had been stirring up trouble downtown. Most likely, it was about Numbers again. Attaining the infamous speakeasy had become a contest of pride between the Barianos and the Astralas after the former bumped off the owner and tried to take it over. The result was that the owner's daughter, Akari Tsukumo, had taken control of the business herself with an iron grip, completely blocking Don Thousand's advances and even starting her own small-scale bootlegging racket to remain independent of the gangs. This tempted the Astralas into making a bid for the drum, only to be firmly repelled. The two families had been wrestling for control of the speakeasy ever since, with the conflicts between them becoming increasingly violent as time passed. The cost to both sides by now far outweighed the actual value of the establishment, but neither could face the humiliation of losing the speakeasy to the other. Just another example of the pettiness inherent in gangland, in Sirius' opinion.

He started flipping through the file, trying to isolate an incident that looked promising. Not much was turning up when his partner arrived with two cups of joe, essential in any investigation. Sirius held the coffee in his hands for a moment, deeply inhaling its intoxicating bouquet before taking a sip and then setting it down on the corner of his desk. "Thanks. Anything new on your end?"

Ray Shadows, his partner since the day he'd been assigned to the squad, smiled glumly and shook his head. "Zilch." He pulled over a chair and sat down next to Sirius, reading over his shoulder. His fingers twitched the way they did when he'd gone too long without a cig. "By the way, are you related to Harlan Stone?"

"The U.S. Attorney General?" Sirius questioned, looking a little annoyed. "No. Why?"

Ray shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno, I guess seeing as you have the same last name and all, I thought maybe you were." He sipped at his coffee. "He just appointed some new fish to the DOJ's Bureau of Investigation… Hoover, I think his name was. He's supposed to make a lot of changes."

"Good," Sirius grumbled, taking another swig of coffee. "The whole Bureau is a mess. This place, too. Nothing ever gets done."

"Whatever you say, Debbie Downer," Ray quipped, a friendly smile on his face. "But really, I don't think we're doing half-bad." He leaned back in his chair. "Why, just the other day Antares and his crew pinched Freddie Rizzoli. That's gotta count for something."

"Yeah, except they've been after that low-level torpedo for a whole year now, and he'll probably get sprung anyway as soon as his case hits the courts," Sirius replied bitterly, taking a swig of coffee as if to wash down his own cynicism. "Sorry, Ray, but I'm just not feeling like a guardian of justice today."

Ray giggled. "A guardian of justice? I never figured you for a poet. You make it sound so high-minded!"

"Isn't it supposed to be?" Sirius put down his coffee cup and turned to face his partner. "Being a police officer is supposed to be about serving and protecting the people! It's supposed to be noble."

Ray's face took on a serious expression for once. "Clearly, you and I come from two different worlds, my friend."

Sirius sighed, slender fingers fidgeting with the rim of his coffee cup. "Sorry. I'm not trying to sound like a high-hat..."

Ray's father had been a poor New York beat cop who made so little that the family's wallet hadn't missed him much after he died of the Spanish Flu. Conversely, Sirius had been adopted at a young age by upper-middle class parents that could have afforded to send him to Harvard if he'd wanted to go. In a way, they were both palookas at the station, which was part of the reason they worked so well together.

Ray's face slowly broke out into a grin. "Oh, don't worry; you're not a high-hat, just a wet blanket." His expression became thoughtful. "...You know, now that I think about it, it might not be so bad to feel noble for once." He jumped up off his chair and planted a foot on its seat, placing his hands on his hips and smiling heroically. "The Guardians of Justice! Has a nice ring to it."

Sirius blushed faintly. "Don't ever say that again where people can hear you."

Ray laughed, refusing to break his pose. "Come on, what's the harm? Antares and Regelus call themselves The Bee's Knees." His violet eyes flashed with sudden resolution. "We need a team name, too! Might as well be The Guardians."

Sirius blinked. "'The Guardians...?'"

"Now you're on the trolley!" Ray crowed, stepping down from his chair and slapping Sirius on the back. "Then it's settled; from now on, we're The Guardians. I'll have it printed on my business cards." With that, he picked up his coffee cup and sauntered off. "Let me know if you find anything on Girag."

"What do you mean, 'it's settled?!' Nothing's settled! I haven't even agreed to this!" Sirius called after him, though his protests fell on deaf ears. He let out a long sigh, turning his attention back to the case file before him. "Guardians... how lame..." he muttered, but the warmth of pleasure spread across his chest.

Author's Note: Hey guys (and dolls)! XD This fic is going to be an experiment of sorts; it's being co-authored by me and Durbe the Barian (to whom belong Sirius Stone, Antares, and Regelus). It's an obnoxious 1920s noir gangster police detective AU centered on the Barian Guardians. In addition to that, we'll be "playing a word building game with this story," as DTB put it, so it should be exciting! XD

But more on that later. Now it's time for... PROFESSOR P.I.'S EDUMACATIONAL SEGMENT! (Jyan jyan jyan!)

The American Italian mafia (known as cosa nostra, or "our thing," among its members; also not to be confused with any mafia groups based in Italy) has a very rigid structure and set of rules. Its members are divided into:

- The Boss (or Don) - the head honcho, big cheese, etc. This guy is at the very top and runs the whole show.

- Underboss - second-in-command under the Don. Takes care of day-to-day operations. Usually first in line to succeed the Don.

- Capo (short for 'caporegime') - Italian for "captain." There are a couple of these guys, and each of them heads a crew of soldiers. They report to the Underboss and give a certain cut of their profits to upper management. Usually, each one runs his own racket.

- Soldier - Official members of the organization who carry out tasks - basically, the ground troops.

- Associate - Not official members of the organization, and thus not under the Don's protection. Basically do the same kind of stuff the soldiers do, though.

The most important mafia rule (in this story, anyway) is that anyone a soldier or above is a "made man." These guys have to be of Italian descent, and no one can kill them without the permission of their Don (it is okay to off associates, however). Killing even the lowest-level soldier without permission is enough to start a war.

Other important rules include no revealing family secrets, no talking to police, no fighting with other family members, and no adultery with another member's wife. Homosexuality was also frowned upon.

Now, I tried to write the 20s slang in such a way that it would be pretty easy to tell what it means from the context clues, but some of them are a little obscure, so here's some definitions:

Drum / juice joint - speakeasy

Chicago typewriter - Thompson submachine gun, otherwise known as a Tommy gun. The go-to gun for gangsters, who as an added note were generally better-armed than the police departments.

Ducky - great

Zozzled / fried - drunk

Bootleg - illegal alcohol. Prohibition was in full force at this time, so bootleg alcohol was completely unregulated and often poisonous.

Trip for biscuits - wild goose chase

Pinched - arrested

Torpedo - hired thug

High-hat - snob

Palooka - social outsider

Now you're on the trolley! - Now you've got it!

(As a side note, mostly English names will be used, because frankly, you can't expect someone with a 20s Bahstan accent to say 'Dorube' correctly when it's much easier to just yell 'DERRB!' And you certainly can't expect that person to bother trying to pronounce 'Misael.')

Now that you've been edumacated, here's how this story is going to work. Durbe the Barian and I have a general plot outline set up, but we're going to be alternating chapters without knowing what the other person has written until right before it's published. So this story could go in literally any direction. I have a feeling it's going to be a fun ride, so just hop on the crazy train with us and try not to worry too much about continuity. XD

Abyssinia! (I'll be seein' ya!)