Authors Note:

I LIVEEEEEEEE! Hehehehe. Apparently I haven't died yet and I am back baby. Well, it took some time but I finally found a handle on things and I have started writing for this piece once more. I know that there will be times when I would rely on the canon but rest assured, there will be a marked difference in the actual treatment of the story. Scouts honor. ^-^
Well, here we go. Please forgive me it's a teeny short but here the meeting of the two. Not as in depth yet but like any old custom—this is but the first step. An introduction after all must set the proper tone.
2014 Update: Can't believe I haven't written a single new thing for this work in a year. What the hell happened? Well, I suppose real life can be such a bitter gnome. RL has this insane habit of being annoyingly demanding and draining that all I am left with is mental block. The good thing about re-reading 'Ties…' is that it afforded me time to fix this work and gain back perspective. Try and re-reading the other parts. I made some adjustments.
2015 UPDATE: DO you know—it's really strange re-reading something you've written and have absolutely no idea how you came to do it. Weird….and if you had read this before, give it another go. I think I might have given our favorite tutor a far 'saltier' language than before. No, not quite the level of our favorite swear-happy baby but close.
2017: Really weird reading this. I keep losing track of where I was in the thread of the story line. No wonder I could never finish this damn thing.


Chapter Eleven:
DISEGNANDO LE LINEA DELLA BATTAGLIA

"Rules and responsibilities: these are the ties that bind us.
We do what we do, because of who we are.
If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves.
I will do what I have to do. And I will do what I must."
Neil Gaiman, The Sandman: Book of Dreams


REBORN

You are praying for a child to save and cleanse the sins accumulated by four hundred years of bloodshed and betrayal?

The argument he had hurled at his former friend and current employer echoed mockingly in the back of his mind as his body moved on autopilot, the words taunting him because it revealed more than his irritation at Timoteo's naiveté. It revealed the weakness and vulnerability in someone he never would've pegged as having such. It also made him question the decisions the man has taken over the last decade if this was the result his ruling has been forcing him to make.

It irked him greatly to be proven wrong during the one instance he would've been petty enough to crow and proclaim to the world at large that fate had finally granted him a chance to show off what he could do given the proper medium—given a worthy subject to mold and fashion in the manner of his choosing. But his chance is being jeopardized by a candidate that is less than just unworthy—his long-awaited protégé-to-be is damaged.

Damn you Timoteo. Damn your tainted, foolish whimsical lying soul to the depths of Tartarus. How could you do this to me? Why in the hell did you lie to me, you conniving old goat! You made me believe…you made me dare to hope…made me trust in your words and now I'm drowning in disappointment so acute I can cut it with a stupid silver spoon.

He found his gaze falling on the pathetic excuse for a human being trailing behind him like a drunken, possessed zombie and resisted mightily the urge to simply end the entire charade with a well-placed bullet on that stupid, aggravatingly clear forehead. It would've been so easy to end the existence of this miserable, pathetic excuse of mobile protein and claim that it was a training accident than prolong his annoyance and ire especially while the bitter cauldron of disillusionment churned and bubbled inside of him.

I never should've traded the Cavallone whelp for this wretched lump of flesh and bone. There is nothing here you old fool… nothing to merit the hope you have nursed for so long… nothing to merit the act of betraying the man who was the closest thing to a brother you've ever had. You blind fool…how can you deceive yourself into thinking that you have found the pearl of prize in the heart of this whimpering piece of human mush? This boy couldn't even be made worthy of being used as cannon fodder if you forced me to! Are you deliberately sabotaging me or is mocking my efforts your end-game Old Man?

He has been under the Sawada household for less than 48 hours and already he could feel the familiar itch to hunt something vile and useless and turn it into a thing that could only be identified if someone would have the patience enough to use a sponge to mop up the remains and send it off to a lab that identifies DNA. He had half a mind to fly half-way around the world and lose himself to a few hours of harmless genocide—maybe there was a gang somewhere or a corrupt general who could stand to lose a few hundred men or two to his rage. Somewhere—anywhere was better than where he is at the moment.

He wanted to run, to vent his anger, he wanted to scream. Barring that he wanted to disappear for days on end and wash away the cloying stench of mediocrity that clung to his skin like a bad smell. The place was too conspicuous, too easily breached, too mundane, too bloody fucking normal for someone like him. The commonness annoyed him as much as the sight that currently occupied much of his vision since coming to this suburban hell in order to pay back a decade old debt.

He took the would-be Vongola heir for a short stroll around the town and found to his utter disgust and contempt that the boy was weaker than a newly born pup. Worse, since you can actually afford to give a pup some slack since it hasn't fully developed and it didn't have the benefit of knowing what the fuck it's supposed to be doing.

The boy he dragged around with him was nearly fucking fifteen and he was still utterly useless. A decade and a half of being alive and he was still barely functioning at capacity never mind full potential. It was annoying him just thinking about that fucking fact. After a measly ten kilometer trot around the quiet suburb where the Sawada's lived, the pathetic runt was lying prostrate on the floor of his bedroom much like he had been the night before. Only this time around the room actually echoes with the hoarse broken gasps of breath coming from pale parted quivering lips and a chest that seemed two breaths away from actually exploding.

Pathetic isn't even a word enough to describe what I see. I would need a bloody thesaurus just to find the most appropriate word to describe this level of sheer patheticness. Wait, is that even a word? Fucking gods of all hell—the brat's actually wheezing!

Irritated with even his own inner musings, he turned to check once more on his unfortunate ward. To his utter consternation, he only realized that he was still holding on to the boy, having had to drag the brat himself because the lump that the boy called his body could and would go no further after they've reached the 10-kilometer mark. Never mind the incongruous and frankly humiliating fact that he had to drag the boy that's nearly four times his size up a flight of fucking narrow stairs all while the damned boy gasped and groaned every damned inch of the way.

He cast another disparaging look at the quivering childish flesh that barely struggled in his grasp and wished the kid would stop staring at the toes of his patent leather shoes and look at him. However, it's been nearly a full five minutes already and he could still see the boy trembling uncontrollably and he was not in the mood to be sympathetic. Not that he had very much to spare—that wasn't the point. The point was that he had a very limited supply and the damned brat was burning through his entire stash in less than a fucking day of being introduced to one another. He didn't have much in store to spare anyways on a good day and today most certainly wasn't a good one by any measure of comparison.

How in the name of all the fucked up gods could this child be so weak? All I did was wake him up, drag him from his room and make him run ten kilometers at an ungodly reasonable hour of four a.m. for Hades' sake. What's wrong with that? Followed by eight repetitions of basic exercises and another ten minute full-on sprint—a warm up really, that's all it was! How can that be so difficult and pathetic and useless? And he hasn't even started on the training menu he had planned to implement as soon as he could have his medical exam worked out! What the hell was he supposed to do with such a weakling?

He pulled the small sheet of paper that contained the list of tasks he determined the young Vongola-Decimo-to-be should master before the end of the month from his inner pocket and wondered if he should add some more. The list included a modified exercise regimen—a slightly augmented one from the usual training the Italian Special Force adopted—10 kilometers of jogging every day to be accomplished in less than 2 hours, 100 x 100 repetitions of squats, push up, high kicks and pull ups. Cardio, muscular resistance and weight training all in one—light training, really just the basic and here the boy is already reduced to so much dead meat at his feet with the warm up.

How can he even start properly training the boy when just the warm up's apparently enough to render his apprentice into a coma?

What the hell was wrong with the boy? he mused in agitation. It wasn't like he was doing the required run while carrying a full army pack or being ran down by a pack of rabid hyenas. He has had no room to complain yet! I haven't broken out the rabid dogs yet for god's sake! He should complain when I start shooting whilst trained police dogs chased him—or when I find enough trained wolves to do the job effectively!

He glanced at the fragile wrist he still held within the cage of his fingers and took a moment to wonder at the delicacy of the limb. He didn't want to admit that he was vaguely intrigued at how a child like this didn't even flinch from his touch whereas he'd witnessed many a grown men try every absurd measure short of jumping off a cliff to avoid even the faintest brush of his clothes against any part of their anatomy.

Must be rendered dumber than usual because of the shock. Merde. I've seen monkeys that looked brighter than this brat and I am damned sure if I trained them they would do a commendable job. This whelp is going to be the death of my reputation if I couldn't even make him jog in the morning without looking like some deranged deformed zombie.

It seemed to him that there was nothing of merit in his would-be charge—certainly only a long list of complaints that had it been any other client—anyone else at all—it would've been enough of a deal breaker for him. . It's a good thing he already had practical experience with useless heirs-to-be. Otherwise, he might've thought of other things to do in frustration—the kind of things that wouldn't just leave scars—or even traceable remains. He would've walked out of the deal no matter the amount of money on the table. Sure his skills didn't go for peanuts but he wouldn't even think of considering training such a poor candidate for anything short of the monetary equivalent of the GDP of a small country.

The only thing commendable about him was that he was so unremarkable he might do a good job when training for infiltration since no one would remember what he looked like. The downside, however, is that the boy was so clumsy and uncoordinated he would get himself killed before he could even begin his training. His newest apprentice possessed a face and form too ungainly for words and too pathetic for any insult he could think of.

On second thought, even his impressive repertoire of insults would feel insulted if he dared to use them on the boy.

The boy was short in stature –short limbed, with absolutely no muscle tone whatsoever and was annoyingly pale—promising that he would grow up along less than imposing lines and hardly along any respectable height. In short, pun intended, the next Vongola Don would be a pathetic shrimp of a man.

On a positive note, it would be a sheer delight to the men guarding him since he would be a smaller target and therefore harder to assassinate. Surround the boy with guards that cleared six feet or more and he would be effectively boxed in and would be a sniper's nightmare. Getting a headshot would be near-impossible since all anyone would ever see would be the bodyguard's shoulders and the occasional tuff of messy brown hair.

He had a depressingly regular-looking, completely unremarkable face, marked by baby fat and inexperience. His softly carved cheeks, tip-tilted nose and lithe physique leaned towards more feminine lines than the expected angular, aristocratic features that characterized his European forebears. Reborn couldn't help but grimace at the idea of what the other testosterone-driven, machismo-laden men of the Underworld would say about having a leader who was not only young but would look prettier than their own daughters and wives leading and negotiating with them. He could easily imagine the innuendoes and insults that would end up flying all over the place.

Great, that's just fucking peachy—the next head of one of the oldest, wealthiest and most blood-riddled Famiglia in the history of the Underworld would be a sissy, pallid, effeminate-looking Easterner with a messy head of nondescript, mud-brown eyes and brackish brown hair that gets flustered with the barest of things and then stutters so much no one could make out a word of what he says edgewise. He could almost hear the other Dons calling him 'Signorina' already and lining up dates instead of mergers.

His voice when he did speak was weak and trembling, unsure not just of everyone else's—but most definitively of his own right to speak. There was no command in it, no weight or depth or even the faintest sense of drive or conviction. There was a certain lack of force in his words and hesitancy in even opening his mouth. His voice is faint and the words he chooses to use are often times vague and when he does speak—it's actually more accurate to describe the noises he make as whimpers and murmurs and whispers that no one could even decipher.

No one would submit to a man who cannot muster enough conviction and determination to even fool himself—let alone anyone else. Who would follow the commands of one who couldn't even shoo away a simple Chihuahua for Pete's sake? Even the lowliest grunt would dare to issue a challenge if they didn't know who he was. How would he manage to sit through a merger or even a simple meeting when he refused to look anyone in the eye?

Poor posture and a complete lack of any visible kind of coordination, evident from the way he just tumbled into a heap on the floor made for an even poorer first impression. He carried himself like he wanted to sink through the first available nook or crevice and that's if anyone paid attention. No charisma or appeal existed in him or about him and certainly there was no aura of power around him—none that would compel even the lowliest of grunts to give a vow of fealty. There was nothing unusual about the boy save for the undeniable stench of a prey that fairly oozed off of him just waiting idly by for any lazy predator to come and take advantage.

All in all, his newest student makes for one pretty pathetic picture—nothing to recommend him at all, no saving grace except that he's not a despotic sociopath and god knows the Famiglia already has a surplus of those. Nothing at all—well except for those disturbing eyes of his. In that brief exchange last night he had glimpsed enough to make him take some notice of it.

Eyes. Those were all he had—but hell, if the pair didn't make Reborn sit up and pay some kind of attention. Those colored orbs were all that called and actually held Reborn's formidable attention since his disappointing assessment of his newest trainee/victim.

The would-be Vongola Decimo owned a most unusual pair of eyes this side of the planet. Eyes that seemed so oddly out of place in that mass of underdeveloped, short-limbed, weakened flesh. He had the wizened eyes of someone who has seen too much, knew too much and witnessed something traumatic and tragic for too long and learned too well the depths and depravity that people could and did resort to. Knew it, learned it, and worse of all remembered it all—and yet, for all that those strangely intense orbs contained, they did not gleam with hatred or bitterness or darkness. No, those unusual eyes contained the oddest combination of remembered pain and serenity.

Timoteo's sanctified paschal lamb had the eyes of someone that belonged heaven or someone who has walked through hell. Eyes like those could spell nothing but trouble for me, I can see that much. I've only seen eyes like those ONCE and it was enough to make even someone like me wary. No one mortal or normal should have eyes like those. Certainly not an untried, fifteen year-old suburban-raised weak little innocent dupe.

He resisted—mightily—the urge to kick the boy and his deranged benefactor with him to the outer reaches of Mongolia and back. A bullet through the head would be a far more merciful approach and certainly nothing he would do to the boy would do him any better. At least death would be quick and slightly merciful end to the situation and not a long drawn out, painful process like the torture training him guarantees to be.

Allowing himself a second to vent, he released his grip on the frail wrists he held and allowed the thin appendage to fall heedlessly against a heaving chest. Sinking into what was messy, unmade bed the boy vacated merely two hours ago, he waited for the boy to scramble to his knees and continue where they left off two nights before.

He had honestly expected the boy to bolt after his cavalier introduction of sorts, at the very least run towards his mother screaming his denials and protestations like the wimp that he obviously was. He expected the boy to swear or cry or do something. He certainly didn't expect the boy to simply stare at him in silent horror before turning his gaze away and refusing to speak another word. Even now, he couldn't quite figure out why the boy continued to lie still on the floor, uncaring for his undignified pose or the picture he made as he desperately tried to get his breath back.

As he settled more comfortably for what promises to be an inevitable test of his patience, he recalled the argument he presented his old friend for refusing his current charge and this time he held its cold logic against the very picture of the quivering excuse of a young man lying prone at his feet.


A child uncorrupted by the evils of the world, untainted by the bitter pill of pain…untested and unaware of the darkness, depravity and dangers that lurk behind even the most human of masks…

Reborn couldn't help but note that despite the boy's lack of skills, there was disturbing stillness to the boy. He didn't fidget much when there wasn't a lot of people around—more specifically when his mother was not around to fuss and coddle him. Trapped and alone with someone of obvious superior strength and position—the boy hardly made any discernible sound let alone move.

Like a wild animal who had learned to adapt and play dead.

The idea suddenly popped unbidden into his head and he found a curious distaste for the words no matter how truly they applied to the situation. The child didn't fight his grip when he held the boy's wrist not just because of exhaustion it would seem but because he didn't know what Reborn would do if he did.

The boy didn't fight because somehow he knew and understood—and that Reborn, did too—that sometimes struggling only brought along more pain. His demeanor was that of one already cowed, beaten but oddly not broken—at least not yet. But that distinction made all the difference in the world as far as Reborn was concerned. The child is aware of pain and that people could and did cause others around them to feel it. He knows—intimately—how pain could immobilize, could steal not just strength but will itself. Here was a child that knew of pain and knew it personally—constantly, effectively.


A child that has never known hunger or fear, or deprivation or pain. A child who has never been beaten down by those around him, by life and by the choices he has made.

The frail wrist he held wasn't bruised—he has far too much control to do that accidentally, but his eyes caught the fading marks that lined up the thin arms that lay bared from their initial scuffle. The boy was clearly used to being roughened up and taking it like a damned pro.

The reflex to flinch was there and was barely being repressed as if he already experienced how cruel people can be when they sense fear in others. There was a sense of control within the boy—braced as he was for something rougher and infinitely more excruciating than the reality of an unplanned marathon and exercise regimen. It spoke a language of pain and wariness that has been learned and relearned from constant exposure. It spoke of behavior acquired through a thorough and undeniably painful process of trial and error.

And of course, it didn't escape his attention that the boy was watching his every move, tracking him from beneath the shadow of his bangs and tensing every time he would make any move, especially if it was in the direction of the door that lead to the rest of the house where his mother worked innocent and unknowing. The coiled tension in the exhausted body would immediately trigger every single time his body would angle towards the door as if the boy was preparing to spring at him if he should leave the room to go and seek the boy's mother. It spoke of a protective instinct that went beyond simple self-preservation. The boy had none of to speak of when it comes to himself—that's pretty apparent—but he had a mile-wide streak of it when there was someone else on the line. It was an act of determined and calculated cunning he never would've attributed to someone so fragile looking as this young boy.

And concealing the fact, too, if his mother's reaction to any perceived threat was any indication. She has no idea what her child was capable of and what he is able to endure. Clearly there is something after all, in this little whelp. More than the clumsy wimpy role he seemed determined to uphold. The only question left is what.

"I guess he wasn't kidding when he said I had my work cut out for me."

His hands reached up towards his fedora and he was piqued when he noted that the boy's eyes were still following his every move. Those tell-tale eyes again. He gave the boy a small smirk and found amusement at the flash of alarm that went through the young man. His eyes flickered nervously towards the door before swinging back towards Reborn. Pale, thin lips quivered in a shaky draw of breath, throat swallowing nervously before a soft trembling murmur slipped past.

"W-what are you talking about? W-who are you anyways? And why did you have to drag me all over town this morning?"

"I do hope you're not that slow on a daily basis or this will be absolutely fun for me and I was told by many a reliable source that I tend to savor my enjoyments far too much."

He continued to sit imperiously on the rumpled bed and watched as the young man slowly began to lift himself off the floor. The boy made many attempts—laughable in their clumsiness—until he finally managed the feat. The thin, young arms trembled visibly as do the wobbly legs that could do nothing further except fold messily in an untidy but unmistakable seiza. The oddly formal seating choice intrigued him especially in the light of the boy's clear fatigue. The young man drew a deep breath and then another, trying to steady his breathing before attempting speech once more.

"I-I- d-don't think I-i-i understand. I-i-f you're the t-t-tutor-I don't need one,o-o-okay? S-s-sorry for the t-t-trouble but—I-i- d-don't want a t-tutor."

He resisted the urge to smack the young boy on the back of his stubborn head to curb the annoying stutter. He would work on that first of all. No decent leader could command with a stutter. It simply isn't dignified. And it is certainly NOT becoming of a man that would be Head of a powerful, centuries-old Famiglia.

He pinned the clearly exhausted young man and gave him another of his signature smirk. It didn't surprise him when the boy flinched instead. No one who knows him would find the act reassuring. It pleased him to know that the young whelp knew instinctively that his smirks are nothing more than sublimated threats. It boded well for the brat's sense of self-preservation.

"Who says you have a say about what you want? A boss must always take into consideration what's the best for everyone and not just himself. No one follows a self-centered, selfish boss for long. Such actuations open you up for coups and betrayals and hostile, often messy take-overs."

Those unusual lambent eyes blinked. Reborn watched as they blinked again. When they did the third time he gave in to his impulse and lightly flicked the young man's forehead with his fingers. The boy promptly barreled into a roll twice before sprawling in an undignified heap on the floor.

"Stop looking like a damn deer caught in the headlights. It's unbecoming of a boss to look so irritatingly stupid."

"A boss-?!"

The voice squeaked and Reborn couldn't help but wince at the annoying decibel the noise reached. He made a mental note to device a lesson on how NOT to squeak like an outraged mouse right after the stuttering lesson. Perhaps something involving dynamites would be the best way to go.

"Yes. Don't make me repeat myself. I dislike intensely people who mimic parrots."

"A boss of what?"

"A Mafia Famiglia what else."

"A boss for a mafia famiglia?"

"Yes. You are the next in line to inherit one of the oldest names in the Mafia world and it is my task to prepare you for your inevitable role. I don't know about you—but believe me when I say you have a lot to work on." He stared at the wide disbelieving pair of brown eyes gaping at him and sighed. Really, was a little bit of brains really too much to ask for? He stared at the young man as he clearly struggled for what he wanted to say. Mentally, he started counting down the moments when the inevitable explosion would occur.
Three…
Two…
One.

"What the heck are you talking about?"

Denial. Right on the money. Next would come hysteria and then it would get REALLY annoying.

"You're not making sense. I can't be a Mafia BOSS!"

Really, I should've charged Nono way more than the GDP of Cyprus. Maybe I should renegotiate. The GDP of Canada might be more his speed. Considering this assignment, that's a mere pittance in light of the wealth of the Vongola.

"Well despite your claims, that is exactly what you are going to be."

"You can't just come here and say that! You can't just decide on your own that you want me to become a mafia boss! I don't want to be a mafia boss!"

Looking at the gaping, wild-eyed trembling boy in front of him, he gave in to the urge to grin evilly. Timoteo never specifically ordered that he couldn't or shouldn't be a vindictive tutor. He only said he needed to succeed—not that he had any intention of doing anything less but Timoteo didn't spell out how he was to accomplish the task.

Reaching inside his suit jacket, he smoothly withdrew a slick, unusually hued but unmistakably shaped figure. Pointing it towards the now quivering boy kneeling in front of him, he cocked the hammer back with a smirk and murmured,

"Now, we've wasted enough time, don't you agree? So, let's hurry things along shall we?"


Title Translation: DISEGNANDO LE LINEA DELLA BATTAGLIA = "DRAWING THE BATTLE LINE"