Chapter 8
(in which Fran embarks on a journey)
-/-
Fran hovered in a vast, limitless space between consciousness and unconsciousness, and tried to figure out which way he wanted to go. It wasn't easy, because the world around him was pitch-black and all directions looked exactly the same; or rather, there were no directions at all to speak of. Technically, it should make him uncomfortable and disoriented, but in reality, the feeling only existed as a sort of background knowledge – Fran was aware of the fact that things must be going pretty bad, but couldn't find it in him to bother, at least for now. He didn't really want to do anything about his rather unusual predicament either. He was quite fine in this timeless, in-between place, at least for the given value of fine, which was fast becoming an unfamiliar concept.
Actually, the time itself appeared to have become an unfamiliar concept, and Fran had absolutely no idea as to how long he had been floating about in the cozy, private darkness of what was apparently his own head. His memory was all hazy and blurred. It might as well belong to someone else, for all Fran cared, so small, and far-off, and unrelated it all seemed to him now. It hadn't vanished or gone wrong, of course, it just wasn't making any sense; as if someone particularly creative had decided it might make a jolly good puzzle and dumped all the pieces on the floor in a big heap. Not a single one was lost, but there was no way to tell what the original picture looked like. Fran prodded at it experimentally, to see if something happened, but the cool, black waters of amnesia remained still. He opted to let it go. Who cared, anyway? It was so peaceful here.
Well, except for the weird echoing noise that was very faint and muffled but at the same time seemed to be absolutely everywhere; an urgent susurrus as if the aliens were conversing about a very important matter. Since he had nothing better to do, Fran urged his disembodied self to drift toward what he liked to believe was the sourse of the sound, and tuned in.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing? Bel!"
"What?"
"What's up with this shit you put over his head? What's the big idea?"
"It's a plastic bag, Captain Squalo. So he can't see what we're doing."
"But he'll fucking suffocate!"
"Oh? Since when did you become so caring?"
"Caring, my ass! We need this little slug alive by the time we get back to the boss, or else we're screwed."
"You're screwed, you mean. And I couldn't care less about that."
"You're fucking included!"
"No, I'm not. The boss put you in charge of the search, Chief Commander, so it's all your responsibility. I'm just here for fun."
"One more fucking word, brat, and I'll shove you into that stinky bag and kick you all the way back to Italy so you can repeat all this to our damn boss. Especially that last bit about fun."
"He's expecting the new illusionist, not me."
"Exactly, asshole. And you're gonna have the honour of explaining to him why you went and offed the only decent guy we could find. My advice is, try to break it to him gently or he may decide to roast you on the spot. Lots of fun, eh?"
"Your sense of humour is as crappy as ever, Captain Squalo."
"No worries. I'll just chill here for a couple of days and work on it while you two sort the shit out."
"Whatever. The little idiot's going to be just fine, I'm telling you. Do you really think it's the first time I put a bag over someone's head? Have you forgotten I'm a prince? When Mammon and I were–"
"Alright, but I knocked him out anyway. We don't even need your shitty bag."
"Yes, we do. He's stirring."
"These are fucking convulsions, you dumbass!"
The voices faded away, drowned out by the darkness as it swirled and became denser and heavier, and somehow even darker than before, although Fran wouldn't be able to explain how it was possible if his very life depended on it.
Speaking of which, Fran thought, was he still alive? Vaguely, he remembered that somewhere out there, he used to have a physical body which he was presumably still attached to, or else he would now be whooshing through a tunnel of white light and hopefully heading for some sort of paradise, because thiscertainly wasn't it. On the other hand, no one had ever promised him a happy ending, so maybe he was dead, after all, just not in the paradise. Fran felt rather irritated. He was prepared to put up with a great deal of things – he'd had plenty of time to learn it was the best way to stay afloat in the world – but he found that he strongly objected to the idea of the afterlife full of nothing but excrutiating boredom and imaginary voices that kept on bickering about things he couldn't even begin to understand. They must be spirits, he concluded. Evil spirits, probably, knowing his luck. The sheer amount of swearing that permeated their conversation was proof enough of that.
Fran wasn't sure how many there were, seeing how the voices were so distant they might as well be coming from another dimension, but there was clearly no love lost between them. It was a little puzzling, because one would expect aetherial beings to be above such an idiotic – and human – thing as petty arguments, but who was he to judge?
They also seemed to be completely oblivious to, or uncaring of, Fran's presence, if it could be called that. In his heart of hearts, Fran knew without as much as a shadow of doubt it was the latter. Nothing could be more natural and fitting than for him, after a lifetime of being ignored, to wind up in a place where even the denizens considered him unworthy of their attention. They must know he was accustomed to such treatment and had simply decided to put off dealing with him and carried on with their own business instead.
To his great surprise, Fran realized he was now beyond irritated – in fact he was getting closer and closer to angry. It rarely happened – anger was only useful when you were strong enough to back it up, preferably with a shotgun, or a very big fist, and he had neither – but these invisible snobs had really managed to upset him. This time, he thought, he was going to give them a piece of his mind.
The vacuum around Fran snapped. The blackness had lost its thick woolen quality and began to receed somehow, so that what remained in its place was a less impressive, less suffocating kind of darkness, such as might be found behind the firmly close eyelids. The voices of the evil spirits also returned, and this time they were not far-off or muffled, but clear, and loud, and different, so it became obvious that two beings were contributing to the dialogue.
"Holy fucking shit," said the first voice, with unbearable loudness. "Will you look at this."
"Look at what?" The second voice was more tolerable, if only because it was considerably quieter.
"We need to tie up the little fuck, you brainless wacko!"
"Who are you calling brainless, Commander? Wanna know whose IQ's higher?"
"The only damn thing I wanna know right now, brat, is why the heck our stupid boss won't let me cut off your head and put it on a pike in the garden. I mean it's high time we renovated the place anyway, it's so fucking dull."
"The boss knows the Prince is more valuable than the rest of you lot." An impossibly smug note entered the quieter voice.
"Oh yeah? Then you'd better hold on to that thought when the bastard feels all cranky and kicks your kidneys out through your ears." The loud voice sounded amused, in a dry, matter-of-fact sort of way. Then, almost without a pause, it assumed a business-like tone. "Hey, got a rope or something?"
"A rope? And you were the one complaining about the Stone Age. Didn't you bring the cuffs?"
"I damn well did, but they're no use. Look at his wrists."
"Ah..."
"Tch. Yeah. How was I supposed to know he's an anorectic shrimp?"
There was a moment of gloomy silence which Fran attributed to the fact that both voices needed some time to contemplate the problem without interruption. Then the quieter voice said.
"Didn't you see his picture though? I mean, it doesn't really take a genius like me to see when someone can hide behind a broomstick. It should have been obvious even to the likes of you, Captain Squalo."
"You also saw the bloody picture, smartass! Why didn't you say anything then?"
"I'm not supposed to do your job for you, that's why. Actually you should be grateful I was generous enough to help you out with that lock. Have you already decided how you're going to return that favor, by the way?"
"By not chopping you up for a fucking carpaccio!"
"As if you could. Well, who cares? Let's try this."
"Huh? Ah, right... hey, why the hell are you doing it with just one hand?"
"Because my other hand is occupied with the cake."
"The cake? You actually had the time to go and steal a cake?"
"I found it. I didn't steal it."
"You so did, didn't you? Because you never pay for any damn thing... Oh, cut the crap and gimme that, I'll do it myself!"
The world jerked once, then twice, and the comfortable darkness fled. Physical pain invaded the territory and immediately Fran was forced to come to terms with the idea of being very much alive and capable of feeling everything that was currently being done to him. None of it seemed to be nice. The bliss of the temporary amnesia had also dissipated, making everything that had occurred in the last few hours come back in a rush; and as soon as it did, the disembodied voices of what he had labeled as evil spirits stopped being disembodied and attached themselves to the two people Fran wanted to see the least at the moment: the blond psycho with the knives and wires, and the other psycho, with the sword. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool, his vision was blurred, and his wrists must be on fire, because all the pain in the world seemed to have concentrated in them. Well, it wasn't particularly surprising, of course, given the fact that he had his hands twisted behind his back at a very unnatural angle.
Fran coughed and made a valiant attempt to spit out the dust, but it was no use: he was lying face-down on the spotless floor of W.W'.s cozy kitchen and beginning to realize it wasn't as spotless as it had previously appeared. In fact, by the looks of it, the place was in dire need of cleaning. Tears welled up in Fran's eyes – he wasn't sure if it was because his hands hurt so much, or because of the dust – but he did his best to ignore it and tried think of a way to safely get out of this situation instead.
Or, if that didn't work out, to just get out. In one piece, if that wasn't too much to ask.
Fran had met a lot of bullies in the course of his life, and he knew what to expect and wasn't thrilled at the prospect. He was also smart enough to know that a creative bully was even worse than a regular one. A regular bully would feel satisfied to knock out your teeth. A creative one wouldn't let it go until he made you wear them as a necklace. A recollection of what had only recently transpired down in the hall presented itself for inspection and Fran was forced to admit that he had no desire to find out exactly how much imagination the blond freak could boast of.
He craned his neck, and found himself staring at a boot. It was black.
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing down there, wriggling like a worm, eh?" said the loud voice from far above. "Keep still. Or else."
"I don't really mean to piss you off, guys," Fran began, but the quiet voice interrupted him with a joyful laugh.
"Don't worry. You already have."
The boot moved. The darkness descended. This time around, Fran didn't even bother with being surprised
.
-/-
M.M. lay on the floor, unmoving, and waited for the door to close. For some unfathomable reason, she had expected the Varia to bang it so hard it would fly off the hinges, but they had done nothing of the sort, of course. It stood to reason, she supposed. Why would they want to attract the attention of the neighbours to the fact that someone was trying to sneak a lifeless body out of the apartment? Even if the body in question was wrapped tightly in a blanket.
She heard them grumble at each other in the hallway; Belphegor's soft hissing voice, like an irritated snake, and Squalo's low, half-hearted snarl. They seemed to be incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes. M.M. wondered if they noticed it or if they simply didn't care enough to stop. Or maybe it was a typical Varia-style verbal exchange, who could say.
There was more grumbling, and more swearing, and some suspicious shuffling noises as well, but eventually the door clicked shut. M.M. strained her ears, still prudent enough, or paranoid enough, for that matter, to remain still. She wanted to make absolutely sure they had left –reallyleft for good – before she did anything she might come to regret if, for example, those crazy jerks suddenly realized they had a long road ahead and returned to grab a sandwich. It was rather unlikely, seeing how they had somehow procured a cake (they had argued about it for about five minutes before finally setting off), but one could never be too careful.
She had no idea why they had been gracious enough to leave her alive, but she didn't want to give them a reason to reconsider. They had dragged Fran away with them – quite literally dragged – back to Italy, she assumed, where they supposedly had an office, or a base, or a den, or whatever else it was where the lot of them lived and, eh, worked, for the lack of a better word. M.M. found it hard to imagine the Varia assassins leading a life even remotely similar to that of ordinary people. Judging by how infuriatingly rude and unrefined they were, they might as well inhabit a cave. A dark, stinky hole with lichen crawling across the walls and a pile of bones and skulls in a corner. It wouldn't surprise her in the slightest. They would probably eat raw meat, too.
No more sounds came from the hallway. Even the faint echo of their footsteps had died out, so that all she could hear now was the fly buzzing against the window and the cars speeding past the house in the street outside. M.M. decided it was okay to open her eyes and, at long last, relax. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath, either, and it was such a tremendous relief to stop doing it. She stared at the ceiling, her mind almost empty safe for the single thought she hadn't been able to cast away for the last half an hour.
What on earth was she going to tell Mukuro? Because sooner or later he would undoubtedly inquire about Fran again, even though he hadn't done so in a while. M.M. didn't really think Mukuro was deluded enough to actually expect her to fight the Varia, much less come out as a winner – haha! wasn't that funny? – but she still dreaded the moment when she had to give explanations. They bundled him up in a blanket and carried him away because I was scared out of my wits was the sort of excuse that did nothing to boost her self-esteem, and nor was it something Mukuro might be delighted to hear. She could just about picture his expression when she told him. She hated that expression. She hated being the cause of it even more.
Anyway, it was definitely time to wave Fran good-bye, whether she wanted to or not. If only she knew anything at all about the mafia and its charming ways, she wouldn't be seeing the little prick again any time soon. Maybe they would even kill him. Why not? Killing was the daily bread for the Varia, after all. It was the reason they had money to afford the aforementioned daily bread, as well as a great deal of other, less daily things.
She wasn't about to shed any tears of regret over Fran's sudden and unnatural departure, of course. His absence was the part she actually liked; and she sure as hell wasn't going to miss him. It was Mukuro's reaction she had a problem with, but she couldn't do anything about it, so perhaps it was better to resign herself to the fact that he was going to be unhappy and maybe even take it out on her.
M.M. stared fixedly at the tiniest, almost non-existent stain on the pristine ceiling of her kitchen and prayed he would choose some other victim. Ken, for example, would serve as a perfect stress ball. She knew she would simply love to kick Ken's dirty ass to the end of the world. Besides, he was so absolutely useless and disgusting, it wouldn't be a loss anyway.
Speaking of losses, it was becoming painfully clear that unless she paid a visit to a dentist in the nearest future, she was in for paying for artificial teeth instead. Squalo, that bastard. Had it really been necessary to hit her across the face! What the hell did he usually do with that fist of his, smash bricks? Slowly, M.M. sat up and brought a hand to her jaw but stopped short of actually touching it, for fear some of her teeth might fall out if she prodded too hard. Half her face must be swollen already, she thought gloomily. Inwardly – she wasn't sure she should open her mouth at all at the moment – she cursed Squalo, and the rest of the Varia, and, of course, Fran, and wished something big and ugly would materialize and eat them all.
A girl could dream, as she liked to say. Even if it was only because she couldn't do all the other cool stuff.
-/-
Once inside their private jet, Squalo dropped the bundle that was Fran on the floor and headed toward his seat, scowling at nothing in particular as he did. Belphegor had already plopped down and was now contemplating the cake box h'd brought along, a thoughtful expression on what was visible of his face.
"What's wrong, brat?" asked Squalo brusquely. He had known Bel since forever and didn't need to go and look him in the eye to realize something was up. "Aren't you gonna open the damn thing? If you had to go and steal it, you might as well eat it."
"I didn't steal it. I looted it off the fallen enemy."
Squalo sneered nastily. "Looted it? So you were off killing bakers while I was doing all the fucking work?"
"Not at all, Chief Commander," replied Belphegor with dignity. "He dropped it when I chased him up the stairs." He flicked his hand in the direction of the blanket-covered form on the floor. "That makes this cake my trophy. The spoils of war kinda thing." He smirked arrogantly. "Besides, you shouldn't be complaining. You got the best part of the job."
Squalo, who had already pulled out a bottle of cognac and was in the middle of opening it, paused and frowned. "Which was...?"
"The interrogattion, of course." Bel chuckled under his breath and proceeded to unwrap the cake.
"What? How come that is the best part, you idiot?"
"Because you got to play with the girl, of course, why else?" Bel opened the box and measured the cake with a look. "Ah, chocolate. By the way, Captain Squalo, did you bang her or not? You had plenty of time."
Squalo had to concentrate to avoid choking on his cognac. It was a good, high-quality cognac and it deserved better treatment. "So that was what you thought I was doing? Fucking her? Whatever the hell gave you the idea?"
"Well, you were so dead set against me interrogating her, so I figured you were just desperate," Belphegor flashed a wide, insolent smile at Squalo and began to cut the cake with one of his custom-made knives. "I mean, obviously, there's no way you can compete with me, right? So I decided to be merciful and step aside. Oh, and that's the second favor I did you today. There was also the lock, remember?"
Squalo gaped at him for a split second, then exploded.
"Shut you filthy trap! I'm not fucking desperate! I can have anyone I want! Any damn where I want, got it, you snotty fuckface?"
"And yet all you ever get back home is cheap whores..."
"The fuck are you saying! My whores aren't cheap!"
"They so are. Even Levi agrees, just so you know."
"Levi? Levi agrees?" Squalo slammed a fist into the wall – the pilot squeaked feebly in alarm and was ignored. "You assholes are discussing this shit behind my back, aren't you!"
"Oh yes." Belphegor confirmed shamelessly and bit into the biggest piece of the cake. "Anyway, it's too bad you missed your only chance." And he actually managed to look disappointed.
Squalo opened his mouth to instruct the brat on where he and Levi could shove their worthless opinions, but then it occurred to him that Bel looked a bit too disappointed for this whole thing to be just a stupid joke. This was downright weird and completely unlike his normal attitude. Squalo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He definitely smelt a rat here. And there was also that other stuff that didn't make any sense...or did it?
"Hey, punk," he said casually. "Forget that for a while," But we'll get back to it later and I'll make you pay, he didn't say but thought. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."
"Ah?"
"Back there," Squalo waved his good hand, indicating Paris, which was, by now, far below and fading away quite fast. "Why did you stop me from killing the little bitch? And don't give me that crap about you being merciful, because I'm not buying it," he added before Bel could reply.
"Oh, that wasn't about mercy," Bel fished out his own bottle and uncorked it. "I just thought the boss might not appreciate us killing her."
"The boss?" Now Squalo was trully puzzled. He was prepared to hear more or less anything, but he had never expected the conversation to veer toward Xanxus. "Where does he come into this?"
"You're pretty slow, Captain Squalo." Bel giggled and slurped his wine. "Mukuro Rokudo is part of the Vongola, in case you've forgotten."
"Are you delirious, brat? You sure nothing bit you? What does he have to do with anything?"
"Well, the little bitch is his girlfriend, or sidekick, or something like that. Before the Vindice got their hands on him for the second time, he'd always dragged her and those other two with him wherever he went. We've got a file on him and her picture is in there, remember? Wouldn't have looked good if we'd killed her without the boss' permission."
Squalo looked at Belphegor and – a rare occurrence – remained silent. The latter took advantage of the fact and attacked the cake again, but Squalo didn't even have it in him to comment, at least for the time being. Rokudo's girlfriend? Damn, that was one dumb word. But it was true – now that Belphegor had reminded him, Squalo finally understood why her face had seemed so familiar. He had never met her in person before today – he would have recognized her if he had – but he had indeed read Rokudo's file, along with the others, and seen her picture. Oh, shit.
He tried to guess what Xanxus would say if they had really offed the slut, and gave up. There was no predicting the boss. His reaction might range from a disinterested whatever to blasting their heads off with the Flame of Wrath. You never knew what was coming, with Xanxus. Squalo was more than glad that this time he wouldn't be putting his luck to the test.
"Hey, look who's back with us." Belphegor's gleeful voice brought him out of his dark musings.
On the floor, the blanket was stirring.
"Huh." Squalo reached down and jerked the thing off Fran in one motion. "Time to wake up, little shit!" he barked loudly, and his and Bel's wine glasses responded to his voice with a gentle tinkling sound.
Fran looked up, blinking owlishly, eyes still clouded and devoid of understanding. He shook his head like a person might do upon waking up after a long, long sleep.
"Eh?"
"Welcome aboard," Bel sang happily. "And thanks for the cake."
Fran's empty gaze fell automatically on the cake, half-finished by that time, then, as if by magic, he appeared to come back to his senses.
"This is my cake."
"Not anymore."
"This is my cake. Why are you eating my cake?"
"Because I'm a prince, obviously." Bel was so smug it was almost unbearably disgusting.
Fran seemed to give the matter some consideration. Eventually, he must have decided it was bullshit – which, as Squalo fully agreed, it was – because he looked up defiantly and declared.
"Then you must be a fake prince. If you were the real thing, you'd have your own cake."
The haughty smile slid off Belphegor's face and was replaced by an unattractive scowl. Of all the possible insults, this was the one that not only ticked him off, but made him go on a rampage.
"I'll show you which of us is fake," he hissed, reaching inside his jacket.
Squalo decided he didn't need a bloodbath just yet.
"Shut up, both of you idiots!" he snarled and reinforced the order by giving Fran, who was closer, an encouraging kick. "You put your fucking knives away, Bel, and finish the shitty cake. And you, little piece of shit, pick yourself up... nah, better stay down there, you're too damn dirty, and tell me every damn thing you know about Mukuro Rokudo. Now."
Fran sat up on the floor and, instead of answering, examined the front of his shirt. He fingered the hem, prodded at the right sleeve, which seemed to be on the verge of falling off, and heaved a sigh that indicated he was in the middle of a personal tragedy.
"Well?" snapped Squalo impatiently.
"It's my second-best t-shirt," said the little punk in that annoying monotonous voice of his. Right now there was a hint of reproach to it. "You've completely ruined it. Look, this sleeve is torn, and– "
"If you don't shut up and start talking, I'll ruin a lot more for you!" Squalo wondered what awful crimes he'd committed to deserve being saddled with morons who had to have everything repeated to them before they got the message.
"No, you won't. I only have one t-shirt here," Fran pointed out helpfully, and Squalo's hands itched to rip his head off, but unfortunately, that was not an option.
Well, maybe Xanxus wouldn't like the little shit either, and then he, Squalo, would have the privelege of chop him up like a cabbage. Without further ado, he brought his fist down on Fran's head and sent the boy sprawling on the floor again, although this time he took care not to knock the brat unconscious. There was more interrogating to be done.
There were issues to be resolved before that, though.
"You try to show off again, you pathetic piece of crap, and I'll take that as a sign you don't really need all those fingers," he said menacingly as Fran rubbed the back of his head. "His fucking majesty here will be delighted to help you get rid of them. So you hurry up and make up your mind. And you," he growled at Bel who was giggling maniacally as he watched the spectacle unfold, "are going to explain something to me while this freak is gathering his wits. And tell you what, you'd better come up with a real good answer, or else I'll cut out you heart and make you eat it."
"Oh?" Bel stopped laughing but the grin remained glued to his face. Squalo chose to ignore it: he was too livid to bother anyway.
"You knew the woman was Rokudo's personal bitch, didn't you? You recognized her?"
"Sure I did." Bel's smile was threatening to split his face by now. "So what? Some of us have good memory."
"Good memory?" Squalo barked, stabbing an accusing finger at Belphegor and wishing he hadn't put his sword away. "Then why don't you do me another fucking favor and explain why the hell you wanted me sleep with Rokudo's girlfriend!"
A/N.: Bel is such a troll here. I have no excuse.=) But hey, at least we get to find out what happened to the cake.
I'm so grateful for all the reviews, you have no idea. Please leave me another one, I'd love to know what you think! :)
