A/N: The first to be rewritten. It used to be seven separate chapters, but I think it's cooler just as a oneshot. Also, Tsuna gets metaphorical as shit.
SKY
There was an echo in every backstreet, alley, bar and backwater pub in all of Europe. There had been for many years, and there was nothing that could stop it. The tide of snitches and whispers heavily scented with alcohol never failed to come to the topic of VONGOLA.
It wasn't particularly feared, largely because it only existed in the ebbing waves of peoples' minds. That was what was maintained. The mystery was too succulent to resist toying with, and between sips of a drink the stories were told, as there was no other appropriate moment than when the mind was dimmed and frayed.
Some said it was the product of the Italian government, while others fervently claimed it was some sort of advanced mafia, but everyone agreed it was a group that represented the wrath of the heavens. It fell upon the wrong doers, the foolish, the misguided and especially the cruel.
The number of bodies the rumors supplied was supported by nothing but News footage and rumors. The fall of cities, of syndicates, of governments that composed the legend was generally agreed to be facetious.
Upon their judgement, angels descended; agents of a will that belonged to the SKY. This leader did not exist because there was evidence- not that there was any at all for the others -but because there had to be a leader. SKY had been the only acceptable name for such a human, with the forces comparable to a natural disaster at his finger tips and the view of a god.
He realized mildly, one day, that he could no longer remember what the sunset like looked on Earth. The celestial object tucking behind a horizon, forming dark silhouettes of everything that populated the surface until it there was only the light of the moon and stars. He could not even compare the rays that reached him now, with such scant oxygen, to those that he had witnessed for half his life. Now, it slid under the clouds, the Earth making her endless rotations that he casually observed. He found himself sympathetic of the endless cycle.
The metal roof that supported him reflected the poignant orange light with a glare he didn't notice. The clouds rolled passed him, majestic and voluminous today, retreating to the falling sun and away from the darkening backdrop that now stretched a wider expanse of the sky.
Night was coming.
When he first came up, a decade ago and fresh and lonesome, the winds nearly knocked him off the edge of the roof into a several thousand kilometer drop. Now, the frigid blasts were all but balmy, the shere drop in temperature better than what was always neutrally maintained in the estate.
And the temperature was quite easily maintenanced. There was precious little that could disturb it, and he lived in the environment without complaint. All that truly touched him was the view. The strange gravity that rested on his shoulders at the summit was easily acclimated to, if not for ambition then survival. Still, the first few times he warily peered over the edge of the carefully designed metallic shingles and panels, it felt that he would surely plummet. He wouldn't fall back to when he would endlessly wander the globe, surrounded by people rather than clouds. No, he'd simply be consumed by the laws of nature.
While the pressure was alleviated over time, the pain of looking down knew no cure. It was why he climbed out of the secure, heavily protected estate everyday. The last bit of sun, scarlet and without heat, dipped under the blued clouds. Behind him, his close friend climbed through the open hatch, as he did every day at the same instance.
"It's time," the man said, perfectly carried over the vicious gales, and the agent of chaos stood over the entrance back into the estate- facility, really. He glanced back at the man, whose dark visage consumed the little light that the sun still threw up. His dark eyes watched him, as they always did; never active, never aggressive. Such behavior was years behind both of them, when there were millions of kilograms of ground supporting their feet and a full mosaic of people surrounding them. All that was between them now was the age, and the weariness, and the acceptance of near anything, even the juvenile glance at the edge or the more envious one.
Reborn never faltered in that regard. Not once in their long relationship. He smiled at the man, brittle from the temperatures that his thin suit did little to defend against. "They're all still out and about?" he asked, though it was hardly a question when the answer was already ringing in his ears.
"Yes."
He nodded, staring passed him, over the edge, where his friends still scrambled and explored. The taste of abundance and life and warm breezes had died a decade ago. There was only the scene laid out before him, one he had manipulated for himself. Strove for, for his comrades. Again, there was a gust, malicious against his body as it tried to dismount him. Not for the first time, he was tempted to allow it.
"What's today again?" He asked, his step smooth as he walked from the threshold of worlds back to Reborn. The man's demeanor did not change. It rarely did, for the sake of maintenance. "The winter equinox," he replied. SKY smiled ruefully, if not playfully at the vast dome of open sky they were privy to. His keeper, the bridge between worlds, the one with his own name, gestured to the opening in the roof.
He complied easily.
RAIN
The little that was known of VONGOLA was exaggerated and stretched so as to make more than the passing warning it could barely constitute. The supposed deeds of the few members were pure conjecture and fantasy. However, RAIN definitely made up the majority of such supposition, due to the general agreement that he was the main assassin of the group, as a very small number actually attested to witnessing him.
Whenever politicians fell from their podiums, activists in the midst of their movement, or leaders sitting around a table, credit was often given to RAIN, if none other was faulted for it. Those that claimed to have seen him, or believed to have, tended to say he worked with a sword. That description was often ignored to embellish kills that could have only been accomplished with a gun.
Rain had been pelting Namimori in icy, hard sheets for three days. The activities local to early summer had been postponed to wait out the bitter weather. Even insects and other fauna sheltered from the abnormally cold droplets.
Very few pedestrians walked the streets, their umbrellas hardly protecting them. The small market and shops had resigned to the inactivity that had been adopted, shuttering their stalls. The only people actually mulling about were those that still had duties and jobs to attend to and the unfortunate students of the local schools, running through the neighborhoods as quickly as they could through the walls of water and gales.
There was only one aberrant, nonchalantly walking through the streets. An umbrella was apparently tucked into his side, long and undoubtedly strong enough to protect against the turbulence. It remained closed, however. The rain fell on him mercilessly, but he hardly seemed to notice, whistling happily if one were to come near enough to hear it.
The odd student, scrambling through the rain in the opposite direction, would glance at him with confusion and concern, and sometimes suspicion. One attempted to ask if he was lost, as he was completely soaked and thus likely to have been wandering the streets for a while. 'A while' was a relative term, however, as it took only a minute or two unguarded to become completely drenched.
They received a shake of his head, and a smile to reassure them he knew where he was headed. Perhaps he uttered a few words to wish them luck in their classes, or to hurry and not catch a cold. Then the kind child left and he continued in the opposite direction.
He stopped only once, in front of a shuttered shop. Various logos remained, the blue accents and words written calligraphically. He didn't smile per se. The edges of his mouth tugged awkwardly on his face, nothing like the easy expression he would give to a concerned passerby. The restaurant had not been closed for the weather, however. It was shut down, as no one had bought the property yet. No local would.
Then he started again, walking down the street of vendors and shops with the casual stride he had hitherto implemented. No one was peering through a window or was walking down the street to even have a chance of catching the awkward steps that he took, once or twice before he left the district.
He quickly smoothed back into a routine gait. Not long after this he took a turn into the cemetery. Namimori had the traditional Japanese graveyard, with longer stones and lots devoted to families and offerings and incense littering the pedestals neatly, oddly protected from the weather. He strolled to the back of the relatively small area, and continued to the most barren corner. There he kneeled before a singular grave, unaccompanied and dwarfed by the family next to it.
"Hey, dad," he whispered, and the words were immediately erased by the wind. The sound of plummeting raindrops drowned out all but a small bubble. He reached into his dark blazer, which stayed strangely dry despite how wet the outside was, and pulled out several sticks of incense. A small pot overflowing with ash sat before it, and the stone object was weighted so little could lift it.
He stuck the sticks into the ash, protected by the dry shadow the stone cast, and drew out the lighter he rarely used. It was flicked open easily enough, his fingers had rubbed the engraving worn, but the fuel inside hadn't been refilled since he got it. The searing blue light was only lit when a friend needed a smoke, or it was too dark for even his eyes to see through, or to light incense for the dead.
He kneeled there, the rocky ground harsh against his legs, watching the sticks burn and whittle away. The scent was muted by the rain, which seemed to have calmed to normal proportions. Though it was unlikely to have warmed, it had long felt boiling to the man. His eyes watched as the ambers met the ash that the incense was grounded in, and he frowned.
Even after many years, he could not smile at his father with incense at his side, but he had not frowned in a very long time. The private veil of the cemetery seemed to be weightless, tucked into the small town that was shrouded in friendly politeness. Finally, as the last embers faded out, his face started to crumple.
"I'll be right next to you," he whispered, his voice delicate. The umbrella that had been forgotten at his side was picked up. He gripped the folded fabric and pulled the handle away, easily parting to reveal the sliver of steel that has been thinned from many grinding stones. There was no bitterness in his countenance, no fear, no hate. He smiled fondly, setting his lighter next to the pot.
"Sorry, Tsuna."
STORM
Where RAIN instilled a fear that was enjoyable, a mystery that had the faintest chance of being plausible, STORM was the opposite. He had all the deadliness of the other, but had none of the control or precision. This was what was reflected in the stories and feats provided about this particular member.
His accomplishments consisted of destroyed cities, random explosions that sometimes surfaced on World News networks, though often left undiscovered, and thwarted terrorist organizations that rarely ever met the eyes of the public. The work attributed to him was so impossible and outrageous that the fear they instilled, however irrational, was not the pleasant buzz that RAIN provided, or the excitement that SKY invoked. It was his name that was a threat, whom no one ever saw.
A man walked passed the barricade, its guards strewn awkwardly in front of it on the ground. No one noticed them fall, and wouldn't until the shift change in another hour, but he had a confidence they would not be discovered until much later.
The small town not far away bustled mirthlessly, the noises intermingled with few words. The fear of the men with large guns slung over their shoulders or cradled in their arms inspired little speech.
He circumnavigated the patch of low houses and shops until he found an alley that injected seamlessly near the center of the town. He walked down the length and turned onto the sidewalk leisurely, sauntering through the coast town with almost a smile. His darker clothes did nothing to reveal him, the population adopting a despairing wardrobe as they continued their lives through an anxious air. His fedora was pedestrian, nearly every man had one on on Sundays, and inconspicuously hid the silver hair that glowed in the sunlight.
Cars were old and well used, and parked off the road. There were a few fishermen driving rusted pick ups to the docks, carrying coolers and kits and nets even though the hour was late for starting. He ignored the urge to pass the aged buildings to the coast and take in the salt and rhythmic tide against the Sicilian shoreline.
Instead, he observed the trembling children, sneaking peeks through the window at the militiamen across the street, or the resigned, middle aged women and men that stiffly worked through the angry glares of their guards. The youths and teens walked miserably to the school near the barricade of barbed wire and wooden posts, staring pointedly away.
He observed, almost mechanically, that everyone was avoiding an intersection in the middle of town, what was likely the city council meeting hall, and the bar directly in front of it. The older government building had fine marble columns, strangely suiting the otherwise rundown town, and long steps that spilled neatly onto the street. There were a dozen guards, four at the sealed entrance and one at each column.
Another dozen milled around the bar, sitting on the outdoor benches and traveling in and out with morbid pleasure as they totted with them their guns. He walked into the space, hugging the sidewalk on the bar side with barely less than a sneer. None of the men noticed him, as it was then that a relatively well dressed man was thrown out the window. The glass didn't pierce his fine brown suit, but sliced open whatever dark olive skin was left bare.
Despite the blood pouring steadily out of large gashes on his face, the man pushed himself up with a snarl. The intruder paused, leaning into the shadow of the alley between the bar and another shop. After a moment, he took out a cigarette from an inside pocket in his jacket and slid it between his lips.
"You fucking bastard!" the man spat, his face reddening in anger as he stormed through the open entrance. The guards observed happily in their delirium. The stranger did too, watching through the broken glass as he took out his lighter. He frowned at the shallow slosh of liquid inside, as it would have to be refilled again. Still, he was able to light the oddly scarlet flame, dipping the stick inside just long enough to light it. It was quickly returned to his pocket.
The well dressed man had a revolver in his hand, pointed firmly at a man sitting in a booth. Women dressed scantily, sitting in the booth with him, were quiet and watching the angered man fearfully, edging away from the slimmer character's side. Wordlessly, he snaked his arm around the nearest one's waist and pulled her back onto his lap with a wicked grin. The armed man didn't even blink.
"Is there something wrong, Gabriel?" he purred, uncrossing and crossing his legs under the table. There was a vicious, smug grin on his face that reminded the man, observing quietly, of someone he hadn't seen in years. His felt his annoyance skyrocket at the memory.
"You know there's something the fuck wrong, you shit!" yelled Gabriel, cocking his handgun. "The fucking government is going to be on our ass in no time! You said you'd only be here a night! Do you know how packed the church was today? How many people came begging me to kick you out?" he sneered. The other pouted, beckoning at a guard that stood near and promptly pointed his much larger gun at Gabriel. "Gather the men, will you?" he said, and Gabriel relaxed for a second, "We'll need to massacre the town after all."
With those words, the men that populated the bar stood, their drinks forgotten as they dragged Gabriel out snarling and swearing. The man smoking tapped the quickly deteriorating cigarette against the frame of the window. Half fell onto the sidewalk in a small heap of ash. He sighed mournfully, resolving to pick up another box on his way out. He was never going to die at that rate.
Before the trash could step out the bar, or any more of his minions, the building exploded violently in a billowing cloud of red flames. Gabriel looked up in horror at the wave of debris and heat that hit him, dust and ash flying into his wounds and covering his face and suit. The guards that held him stared dumbly, frozen.
The man with silver hair walked over to them, untouched by the heat or sound or impact, his hat not even skewed from his head. He blew out a hot stream of smoke, tinted red unlike the usual blue shade. "You have something," he started, his jade eyes boring into the men standing over Gabriel, before glancing at the marble front of the city hall, now darkened with dirt and small chunks of wood. The guards posted there did not move, several actually having fallen on their behinds. When he looked back at them, one of the three guards yelped, a youth with dark hair and tanned skin. Gabriel looked up at him, having been forced onto the ground, with quickly dawning fear.
"P-please, don't kill us!" the youngest begged, and the man said nothing, putting the cigarette back into his mouth. The other two that survived stared wildly at him. One had the presence of mind to aim his semiautomatic at him, and within a moment, his right arm had been blown off, and he had been thrown back several meters. He made no noise when he finally stopped moving, his left legs bent the other way around and leftover shoulder burnt black and nearly cauterized. The other two now visibly trembled. "Where is it?" he snarled.
Neither of them moved, and finally the man cast his eyes down on Gabriel. Swallowing, he stood, holding his hands up as he backed up to the hall. "I-I'll get it. J-just wait a moment, I th-think I know where it is," he said, his voice a small whisper. He turned around and ran up the steps. The man waited, settling his weight onto the heels of his feet. He quickly had to drop the cigarette, and had another in his hands by the time the small butt hit the ground.
Civilians stumbled outside the invisible border, taking in the destroyed bar and the motionless soldiers. The man that had tried to rebel, and his arm a meter away. They didn't dare continue, or make even a squeak. Gabriel returned after ten minutes, and the other soldiers had yet to move. Gabriel de Luca, whom the man now recognized as a local mafia boss, had left the jacket of his suit inside the building, and had distinctly large sweat stains under his arms. His tie hung limply around his neck, tugged loose, and a metal suitcase at his side.
Sweat poured down his face as he slowly neared him. "Here," he grunted, holding it out, while he stood a distance away. The man breathed out the smoke in what was almost a sigh, and took a step forward. Gabriel dropped it, rigid, and the man was quick to grab the handle before it touched the ground. Shaking his head, he turned around, and walked down the main avenue of the town. The civilians who had become statues scrambled to get to the buildings on either side of the street, seeking their protection.
He had chosen this. He picked up a cartridge of fuel and a box of cigarettes from the general store on the outskirts of town, leaving the money at the register. The weight of the bodies, of the limbs, was minimal compared to what was already there, what was always going to be there. But he had chosen why.
LIGHTNING
In the failing minds of the many drunks and alcoholics that bounced back their stories regarding VONGOLA, LIGHTNING had taken the shape of a woman. Not many women participated in the defensive groups of men, drinking away the day and avoiding the subject of wives and girlfriends and their jobs with gossip. As such, whenever it thundered outside, and LIGHTNING was brought up, it was assumed in each man's mind that she was a woman from the tales they had heard and recounted.
She was credited with silencing the people that spoke freely about VONGOLA, taking down websites about it or deleting forums with threads even mentioning it. Quick and almost unnoticeable if not for the thunder that followed. Even MIST and CLOUD were more widespread with their actions, gathering infamy across the world- not under their names, of course. LIGHTNING, however, was entirely local. Many actually testified that, if they had been traveling and started the discussion of VONGOLA, that none knew of her outside of Italy.
It was generally agreed that she stayed at the base, and simply cleaned up the mess the others left. She was quick and agile and dizzying, but couldn't manage the destruction of STORM or MIST. Only a single stroke was needed, and her job would be complete. Some said that as she was local, she might spend most of her time protecting the 'base', or SKY, and was why she needed to be so fleeting. These musings, however, were overshadowed by considering what she looked like.
The man was so youthful, the small group of assassins were hard pressed to not deem him an adolescent. There were spatterings of pity behind their specialized masks, watching as he sipped wine from a long stemmed glass, the remainder of a bottle that they had poisoned.
His food, gourmet Chinese, had been prepared by a singular girl that visited the small hut only for that purpose each morning and night. She had frowned at him when he opened the bottle, but continued a charming banter as she washed the dishes in the small kitchen alcove. She had left two hours ago.
One of them had drugged the wine while he slept the previous night, injecting the concentrated narcotics with a small syringe. It had been designed for maximum lethality in but a few milliliters, whilst giving no taste or smell. This had been proven in an unsavory way, but the small group regarded it as a reasonable sacrifice for completing the mission.
A lone giant, slightly cut off from the rest of its Alpine family, loomed above them with sheer height. It was slightly shorter than Montblanc, but any that attempted to climb it were turned away by the electric fencing and the guard stationed next to the only entrance claiming it as private property. The very man they were killing.
It should have been fast acting, but considering whom they were attempting to over through, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that the sole guard was somewhat resilient to poison. This, however, was an unknown work of biologic engineering that had taken years to perfect.
He was laying on a cot, small but with finely fluffed blankets and pillows, next to a window on the other side of the house from where they were observing, easily opened and perpendicular to the fence gate. There, he had a laptop positioned over his stomach, awkwardly typing into it, as he had the entire month they had been observing him. Oddly, a charging cord never made an appearance in that entire time.
The wait made one member of the assault squad fidgety and tempted to simply shoot him. He was hardly active, or attentive, even slipping once and falling flat on the floor. Sometimes he received calls, which were so heavily protected that any monitoring equipment they managed to sneak within range didn't even register the presence of cellular communication. The most annoying behavior, however, was how he would sometimes simply play games, his curses the only thing that filled the air when the girl wasn't there.
Unfortunately, they needed the key kept on his person to open the fencing, as well as his handprint and retinal scan. The impressive security extended the entire circumference of the mountain, with anti-aircraft artillery stationed threateningly just below the odd fort at the summit.
So they were stuck with waiting. Finally, as the man finished his glass, he unbuttoned the cow print shirt he had dozens of, shed his pants and pulled on his usual cow print onesie. The strange obsession with bovine animals was slightly perturbing, but the pajamas had ceased being irritating after the second week. The captain let a quiet sigh pass his lips, completely silenced by his mask.
The man closed the laptop and set it under the cot. The captain frowned. He had never done that before. He got up off the bed, his empty wine glass in his hand heading for the sink. He stumbled. One the members of the team tensed, practically burning with anticipation. His hand quickly found the countertop, and his body was suddenly leaning heavily into it. The glass slipped from his hand to the floor.
There was a spark, something green that reflected in the glass as they followed it with their eyes. The captain blinked, his heart falling as his eyes shifted back to the target. He was gone. His jaw had barely dropped, when the man's face appeared in the window wearing an easy grin. "Surprise," he said dryly, seeming to see them easily ten meters away in the midst of the greenery that matched their suits.
He was gone again, and the captain grabbed the elbow of the person in front of him. There was a flash of the same bright green, and before he could comprehend, the elongated barrel of a silencer was pressed to his chest. He didn't hear anything, but it left him within moments, or perhaps he was falling backwards, as he caught the eyes of the two that had been kneeling. He grunted as his backside met with a bush. Finally, he felt his chest searing, as if burned. A scream might have left his throat, he wasn't sure.
Panting heavily, he slid down onto the ground, not daring to look away as he watched the man, still in his onesie, shoot two more in the head and bash the steel into the neck of another. They fell within what seemed to be the same second. The target sighed lazily, as the last member of his squad fell backwards, and started to scramble away. There wasn't a sneer or grin or any emotion flitting through his green eyes as he took a step forward and leaned down slightly to shoot into his back.
A screech entered the air, and the captain could feel himself hyperventilating, his mask choking him. "P-please," he muttered, staring into the man's eyes. There was absolutely nothing. "Please what? You were going to kill me," he said airily, and raised his arm slightly. The captain tensed, unable to move his arms or anything as he watched the gun come down onto his face.
The man crushed his nose and forced it into his head, coating the hilt of his gun in blood, and speckling his sleeve. He sighed, grumbling as he walked a little ways to the left and puked up everything left in his stomach. Immediately, he sighed happily, the horrible buzz in his mind decreasing dramatically. In an instant, he was back in the small house, in front of the phone. There was no dial tone as he picked it up, tapping the number on the receiver, if only to maintain he remembered it.
"Hello?" his savior said, his words like a balm to his dulling headache. "Hey, nii-san. I took out the nuisances," he said cheerily, leaning onto the counter. He remembered the glass, and stooped down to pick it up. "They're people, too, you know," the man on the other line said, and despite the kilometers that separated them, he could picture the disgruntled frown perfectly.
"I know, I know," he replied easily. "You think me and I-Pin could come up tomorrow, since they just failed?" he asked. There was a thoughtful pause, redundant but ingrained into the leader to double check. It was only a moment, however, before he approved and wished him good night. The man set the phone back on the hook, staring fondly at the number displayed before it disappeared.
The bodies outside were still warm, and he had no doubt that the birds would be quite annoying throughout the rest of the night. They were always left out for a while; to send a message, Reborn said. He shook his head, climbing back onto his cot. The home he had been given was warm and protectively tucked beneath the mountain. It was only moving from one shadow to another, he knew, but only there could he choose not to kill; could he live.
MIST
Where LIGHTNING protected VONGOLA in Italy, MIST traveled everywhere, and sometimes seemed to cover the entire globe. Drunkenness did nothing to decrease the sobriety of the massacres that he is acclaimed of having done. Labs, mafia families, military facilities, any place that experienced blood washed walls and chaotic killing was often regarded as his work.
Sometimes male, sometimes female, MIST was the most elusive of the rumored members of VONGOLA. He changed, shifted from man to beast with a smile that haunted any who saw it to their deaths. It was because of this macabre character that he was not talked much about. Only when the TVs and newspapers spread word of a horrid cloud of death was the entity even mentioned in the bars that propagated VONGOLA.
The sister leaned into her brother, watching impassively as men and women drifted in and out of their field of vision. They stood just outside the thin cloud, just thick enough to form silhouettes and thin enough to enjoy the show.
Her brother smirked fiendishly as blood splattered onto the ground. Thick with lies, he often said. Guns went off randomly, and hysteric cries and shouting filled the room. No words were truly formed however; just warped noises that ended in screaming. The sister marveled at the pitches they reached, as she worked on the electronic lock beside the gate.
Her brother carded through her hair, her ponytail having been shot. Mere clumps of hair that fell to the floor, but that was all it took for him to increase the potency and infect deeper into the minds of their victims. His hand was steady and confident, uncaring of the bullets that shot through the air. His thumb rubbed the scar on her forehead kindly.
She looked up at him, and his eyes were liquid warmth. He would be calling the boss after this. But before that, he would finish what was started. The door opened, and they left the first victims and continued to walk through the laboratory, carelessly spreading their mist. It started sneaking through the ventilation, drifting into everyone's lungs and eyes and coiling around their soul.
Her brother still took joy in randomly sticking his trident into a mass of raging scientists and guards. The piercing of flesh and tearing of organs was something he relished in. Only violence could appease him, and, of course, the boss. The only human in the entire world that would not cage them, but give them asylum.
Their pace was unhurried, parading through the halls of the dreary building as men became savages around them and in the metallic boxes they experimented in, observable only by the thick windows that gave the best view. Screaming came from the guards that stood at the entrances of these boxes, experiencing something else than those inside. They would become petrified, falling in false death onto the floor before they got used to the torment enough to be able to curl into a ball.
At the center of the building was a large holding facility, locked and heavily guarded. She did nothing but open the door, and the distinct antiseptic and chemical smell washed over them. Their mist had not touched the scientists and engineers working, and several dropped their coffee or scattered their papers at the sight of them and their bloody appearance. Her brother sneered, the room likely kept on a separate ventilation system.
But they were not looking at the people of science. They were looking at the tubes of suspended bodies, or creatures, humans, almost humans, of chambers separated by thick plastic. Her brother was stiff with rage, so she let out their mist. She felt something, when she looked at the disparaging state of humans in cages, or the barrier between them and their tormentors. They were quick to fall into discord and she found she enjoyed their screaming much more than the guards'.
Her brother hugged her partially, his arm carefully wrapped around her back and his hand held her arm. He slouched slightly into her, staring into the chaotic killing as experiments looked on the other side of windows and glass with horror and relief. She touched his hand and he stopped breathing. Several seconds was all it took for him to relax, and enter the fray. The scholars didn't have the means to kill themselves quickly, so her brother assisted them.
She walked away, searching the control panels from afar and found switches with 'open' settings. A frown settled deeply on her face as she turned the dials and pressed the buttons. The liquid in the tubes drained, and doors opened on the other side of the plastic. She exchanged nods and reassuring smiles that had been taught to her.
She felt some pain in her hand, and looked down at the console. Her grip broke into the machinery, crinkling the metal sheets. The edges and screws cut into her palm, but with something akin to glee pressed on until she saw sparks.
Someone grabbed her ankle. She looked down at the scientist, a man with a beard and broken glasses and she drew out her own trident and plunged it into his head. "Darling sister, you're so frightful when you're mad," her brother remarked from across the large room, proud and slaughtering several people in lab coats. She hummed in concurrence, twisting her weapon to see if she could elicit more pain. The shrill screech that was eked out gave her a fluttery feeling in her gut. She wrenched it out and stabbed another woman rocking on the floor under a desk.
They walked out about an hour later into blistering winds and steely snow. They had collected those victims that were alive in what had to have been a lounge of some sort, making warm drinks and covering their thin, small bodies with blankets. The eldest, a young woman, promised to look after them while they made a call. Despite the blood that soaked into their coats, they all looked at them upon a pedestal.
Her brother held the phone between them, and already her body was warmed, simply by seeing that number. The small indigo flame she held might have helped, but it was weak and cool and only lit because there was no other excuse than these moments. "Hello?" he answered, his voice sweet in their ears, carrying easily over the weather as they hid in the inlet of the entrance. "Greetings, SKY," her brother purred, looking truly pleased. "Hey boss," she said, her lips curving.
"Good to hear from you two. I trust you have taken care of the facility?" As usual, boss's voice turned cold with the topic, but he never had a hiss or bite when he spoke to them. Her brother's face crumpled into a sneer at the word. "Of course. It was our pleasure," he said, thick with gratitude, "I trust there will be trucks provided within the hour?"
"Yes. Now, you two, be careful leaving. You know how sketchy customs is there," there was a shudder in the boss's voice. "It was their fault for having such a pass time," she said into the receiver, and their most beloved released a long suffering sigh.
"Oh, I'm aware," he said, and they knew he was smiling. "Then, I'll be seeing you two?" he asked, and they caught the rising intonation easily. It sullied the pleasure of killing. "Of course, and darling," he brother began, "Thank you, as usual." The expression he wore was indescribable, as it always was when he said thank you. Well, when he said thank you to the boss.
The only man that would assist them in killing, and still loved them.
SUN
Whenever VONGOLA was brought up, it was usually to discuss the persona of SUN. He was the strange fellow that was believed to be the bridge between the group and the public. He sent messages, although he never received them.
In the blind torrent of shots and rounds of beer, men would become quite the psychologists considering the reasons behind innocent slaughters, serial killings, and blind vandalism that bore such a destructive nature that only SUN could cause.
Was he all-seeing, or simple minded? Was he the mouthpiece to spur on the action of the authorities that VONGOLA was said to war against, or blind to his actions as he dumbly carried out orders. Was he profound, foolish, misguided? It honestly depended on the events being evaluated and those that were evaluating.
It was agreed by all, however, that he, being the most forceful, was the least human.
He could feel the skull splinter between his fist and the wall. Blood spewed like a crown on the blue wallpaper, and he imagined them mixing and making purple if not cleaned. The body slid down onto the floor, and he turned to look at those left, pulling against the locked door desperately. He cocked his head, grinning ferociously.
"Am I not being EXTREME enough?" he growled, cracking his knuckles. His yellow gloves were turning orange with blood, and he felt the liquid press into his palm. There were only four left, but already he could feel the warmth seep through the thick fabric to his skin.
One man was shaking his head, his mouth moving, but he could not hear him. He approached him, his target and the others unable to react fast enough to run or even widen their eyes before he drove his fist into his fat gut. He could feel organs mush under his force and blood vessels throb and rupture. The man was forced right into the door, vomiting blood.
A man screamed, and his hand was over his throat before the politician had the thought to form words. His windpipe wilted under his grasp, and the trash fell onto the carpeted floors. Two more, backing away from him. One had the bright idea of making a break for the broken windows.
He watched with amusement as the man slipped on a pile of glass. Before he could get up, he slammed his foot into his skull, flattening it into the floor. He scrubbed his shoe for moment against the carpeting to get what he could off.
The last trembled in a ball in the corner, muttering quietly to himself. Perhaps it was a prayer, but he had never been good at Italian. He smiled, jumping out the window he came in through and onto the ground several meters below. Police sirens were still distant, belayed by the clogged streets of the capital. He shook his head at the response time. Without looking at himself, he knew he simply had to continue into the plot of dense forest.
Once he had travels for a few hours and the sirens were but a memory, his phone rang. He took it out with slight trepidation, wondering how mad his little brother would be. Sighing, he accepted the call. There was a pause, "Why do you keep doing this?" the man on the other line asked. He ran a bloody hand through his hair on habit, cursing at the streaks he left.
"They had been discussing revealing us. You know that's not allowed," he said, managing to maintain a lower volume while applying his usual amount of force. His little brother sighed. "They had the authority to make the decision. I'd feel some consolation if you didn't always leave a traumatized witness in your wake," he said, his voice low and disapproving.
He frowned, and it felt pitiful on his face. "Hey…" he started, biting his lip from saying a sinful word, "Do you really not trust us enough to track our every move?" he asked, forming a fist. The blood was cold and uncomfortable. "Of course not, nii-san. I'm just terrified that one day, you guys won't make it back to me. And that might happen if you keep killing innocents," he said, unfaltering, with more pain than either wanted to remember.
"Yeah. I'm sorry," he said, and sat against a tree. He idly wondered if the police would search this far with the bloodhounds. "It's fine. More importantly, she had some activity today," the other said, and immediately he was standing again. "Really? That's EXTREME!" he shouted, just loud enough to transmit his excitement.
"I know, so come back and see her. She usually has a better color when you're here," his little brother said, and he nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I'll be right there!" It left his lips without hesitation and he hung up. He breathed in shallow breaths, memories floating through his mind as he recalled again that only his little brother cared for his pitiful existence now.
CLOUD
CLOUD was an enigma within an enigma. His work was often peripheral to what most perceived as VONGOLA's objective, not to mention could easily be one of the five other agents. However, CLOUD was defined as brutally efficient and, unlike the disasters and killing that the others were said to take part in, protected witnesses. Of course, he was always described differently, but he was so distinctly separate that some speculated that he was actually independent of the organization.
He carried out the hostage situations that important people hushed, or intimidated CEOs and powerful business men into aligning with the beliefs with VONGOLA and obliterated those that were unsightly. Or at least those were the fanciful notions of those barely able to recall the incidents at all.
He was the cloud, catalyzing others and letting them rage, so it was considered that he may actually have a dual persona entirely because he was the only one that could afford it. Some, in the small hours of the morning, growing desperate and sick, played at guessing who it could be.
Hibari Kyoya walked into a bar. At the moment, however, he couldn't even sneer at the herbivores' antics, having simply stepped into the first establishment he saw. He glanced briefly at the menu before sitting down on a stool at the farest end with a clear view of the door and the windows. "Tea and dumplings, please," he asked the bartender in smooth Chinese. The woman nodded indifferently, passing the order to the small kitchen just out of sight.
It was set before him quickly, and he immediately paid the due amount. She nodded in thanks, as they tended to do automatically even without tip, and fielded the rest of the customers expertly. Hibari sipped his tea, glaring through a window.
Too enraged, he looked away and took a pair of disposable chopsticks out of a container and split them without fanfare. His gyoza disappeared and over the course of his first cup of tea managed to calm down enough to take out his phone. The number of contacts was scant, shortening the maddening process some herbivores went through.
"Finally. I was wondering when you would call," Tsunayoshi, or SKY, as he oddly chose to call himself, picked up immediately. Hibari frowned privately, and the bartender was quick to pour more tea into his cup. He nodded shallowly. "Are you really so bored, Carnivore?" he asked, and considered to himself how the man on the other end would react being called by his proper name. He hadn't done so for a while and the angry, frightful sputtering was always nostalgic and amusing when he did it.
"Yes, I am," he replied tersely. Hibari frowned. "Then come down already. My housing is more than adequate, not foolishly herbivorous like your residence," he said, taking another sip of tea. There was silence, as there was every time he made the offer. It grew longer with the years that Tsunayoshi had gone into seclusion.
"Perhaps. If you come up for a short while, I'll come with you on the way down. Everyone will be congregating here tomorrow, anyway," he said, in a small, pleasant voice that hid something. Hibari narrowed his eyes. "The vegetation as well, I assume," he said, the deep growl natural and the bartender glanced at him worriedly, despite not understanding the language. He took a placating sip of his tea.
Tsunayoshi chuckled breathily. "Yeah, try not to destroy half the base this time. You haven't seen Reborn in a while, too. He's been getting listless, I swear," he whispered, a grin in his voice. Hibari refused to acknowledge his reflection in the mirror behind the shelves of alcohol. "Also, there is the matter of why you called." He grunted, and returned to staring moodily out the window.
"It had obviously been built by herbivores," he declared, and adamantly didn't otherwise comment. "Yes, yes. It's already been replaced by something more you, CLOUD," Tsunayoshi said, and Hibari imagined a sardonic, foolish smile on his face, peering out a square, humorless window, gazing at where Japan might be.
"Please, Tsunayoshi, it's Kyoya to you," he said, and basked in the moment of astounded silence, followed by a solid minute of stuttering and false sentences. He allowed a soft smirk to grace his face, setting his cup down. "I'll be there," and he hung up.
He stood to leave, when a rambunctious patron spoke, "Did you hear about that massacre in Europe? In Romania?" Another in the herd scoffed. "You mean Belarus. It was that Italian group, wasn't it? VONGOLA?" Not another word left his lips when a metal tonfa embedded into the booth that they crowded about.
He plucked it out of the wood, not bothering to acknowledge any of the herbivores. The bar was silent as Hibari walked out, following the path he came. Up a small hill in the Chinese town, he found that his car, previously lifeless and smoking, was replaced with one of the same make as polished as a beetle. A little note on the passenger's seat revealed it now had eight cylinders, and an assortment of features that were controlled by a secondary panel by the glove box. He shook his head, climbing in and finding the keys underneath his seat.
The CEO drove to the meeting place in silence, glancing up at the clear sky every once in awhile, when the fields produced a contrast unblemished by mountains or skyscrapers. He'd take a picture of the sunset before he'd leave. His friend was sentimental like that.