AN: Wow, such positive feedback for this little thing. Thanks guys. :)
Previously:
"Chaos." he greeted with a lazy wave "You left so soon last time, we didn't even get to talk."
I tried not to clench my jaw in dismay and, rather than answering in my somewhat broken Italian, I switched to English and prayed that my voice sounded as casual as his.
"Had I been interested in talking, I'd have stayed."
"Ohh… and here I thought that you seemed interested in a bit more than talking." The words were spoken in a joking tone but he'd leaned forward and there was there wasn't even the faintest trace of humor in his searching gaze.
Even though it might have been a sign a weakness, I gave into the urge of closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead as I thought. "Fuck, now what?" How did I get myself into these sort of situations? And more importantly, how would I get myself out of it?
Chapter Two
further excerpts from Archer's diary
I've been in plenty of bad situations over the years... most of them of my own making. I guess it just goes to show that with age doesnt' necessarily come wisdom. Instead, you get an ocean of knowledge to draw from which sounds great in theory. In practice, it means sorting through all the things you've done before, what you should possibly (or shouldn't ever, ever) do again. I'll tell you now that this usually takes a really long time and by the time you act, you've probably been labeled either slow, stupid or lazy.
'Go with your instincts', you might say. And would that be the instinct to run, to cast a Power Word: Blind and run, or to go invisible and run? The problem with having lived such diverse existences is that previous solutions rarely apply.
Though I guess there's a certain pattern there and you might ask, what's with all the 'running'? Cowardice/self-preservation is what it is, the main reason why I try not to tangle with people stronger than me. (Running from the strong, tormenting weaklings, keh... I should probably stop talking about all of that before I make myself look bad.)
What's more, using illusions - from this range - and again, making a run for it, felt like I'd be waving a flag with the words 'Congratulations. Suspicious individual identified. Aim straight for 100 points. Good luck!'
In this case, I was trying to think if there was anything I could do to put Reborn off (...obviously without inspiring any murderous thoughts). What did I know (or thought I knew) about the guy: what sort of people annoyed him the most but somehow managed to survive? I hit upon an idea that was so absurd, so embarrassing… it was bound to work!
I steeled myself, opened my eyes and invaded his personal space (leaning forward as much as I thought wouldn't earn me a bullet) making sure that any shred of attraction I felt could be seen in the stare.
"You're right, Mister Reborn!" I admitted in a loud, serious voice "As expected of the world's greatest hitman, haha! I guess it was too much of assume you wouldn't catch on. Our meetings weren't a coincidence."
"Oh?" he prompted when I tried to continue without gritting my teeth. His glass of whiskey - served neat and barely touched - looked mighty inviting as a shot.
"Some of them I engineered myself but some of them were obviously…" I took a deep breath "fate! The attraction I feel is... undeniable." (it had the benefit of being true, which was even more mortifying) For you to come chasing after me now, fate must really be on my side. I shouldn't play hard to get! So… what are you planning?"
Oh, by Bane's bloody gauntlet… I'd done it - put the most humiliating spin on the situation as possible. And Reborn… he was looking at me with a blend of skepticism, amusement and disdain (I was aiming for disgust and a quick 'Get out of my sight' but hey, I'd take what I'd get) as if he couldn't quite decide if anyone would be stupid or bold enough to lie about their goals and confess to the World's Greatest Hitman in a pub. At length, he turned to face the bar and snorted.
"Sorry. I'm not looking for a relationship." he drawled. I tried not to look as relieved as I felt.
"Oh... I... suppose you'll ask me not to follow you again."
"A reasonable assumption." he praised (voice faintly mocking) and rose. "See that you don't."
This set the tone for all our subsequent meetings.
KHR
I'd left Italy soon after that and it was seven months before I saw him again, in Antwerp.
One of the repeat visitors to my Munich funhouse had hinted at a job for me, working for an acquaintance of his in Belgium, some business mogul who'd apparently been looking to hire the very best magician for his daughter's extravagant parties - a set of six three-day events, one every week for a month and a half. I wasn't the best (not by far) but I doubt many illusionists would use their power to entertain snotty, half-drunk wannabe socialites and their pompous progenitors. I needed the money... (Well, no, I didn't really need it, but I wanted it anyway.)
I assume daddy-mogul must've had some shadier connections than it's healthy because about an hour into my performance him and two others sagged at their tables, face down into their hors d'oeuvres, dead.
The one responsible for the shocking social faux pas called from somewhere above "Chaos."
Figures.
He found me again after the authorities were finally - finally! -done taking our statements, while I was nursing a headache (and my third Martini) at the hotel bar.
Maybe he'd rented a room here (I had no idea and I doubted he'd answer if asked) but I wasn't in the mood to fawn over anyone. When he took a seat some three chairs over, I tried to maintain the fiction of slightly stalkerish fan by asking "Oh, Mister Reborn! Does this mean you've reconsidered?" but it sounded listless and half-hearted even to my own ears.
He snorted lightly, shook his head and went back to his drink. He didn't question me and I didn't bother him.
It was pretty pleasant... as far as awkward silences go.