He'd lived in mansions, castles, a kingdom ruled by an actual queen who was very aggressive in and out of bed, and in expensive hotels – and still not been nearly at ease as he was now, in this small, obscure town.

Namimori was a weird place, but Shamal liked it.

For all that it was not ordinary, there was still a peace to the town that came from a lack of death around every corner. It was the kind of place that let Shamal be a doctor over a hitman.

He didn't get to do that, often, no matter what he preferred. For that alone – although the pay was definitely a factor, as was the chance to have the Vongola owe him one – this job was worth it, no matter his personal opinions about the heir being groomed for the throne.

Even now Shamal was skeptical about Sawada Tsunayoshi making a good Vongola Decimo. The boy wasn't the type who would thrive in the dark world Shamal lurked in, and while people changed, Shamal still remembered him with Skull Disease.

Skull Disease, the borderline-supernatural condition that forced the darkest secrets to the surface of their skin for all to see, in their own hand as if they'd taken a pen and written the confession themselves.

Because that was what Skull Disease did. It was called that because of the skull rattling out hidden truths for the world to see, but Shamal had always been of the belief that it was a misnomer. It was so much more than the skull.

Unlike what Reborn had claimed, Skull Disease didn't kill, not directly. Contrarily, it was a condition that was a sign of a struggle to live. Truly live, in the sense of stripping away the mask everyone wore and reveal the true self by spilling what the affected ones saw as secrets making up their selves, their greatest shames. The parts they weren't proud of and wanted to hide and could not dissociate themselves from no matter what.

It was just that in this world – and in the world that Shamal lived in, especially – to reveal such things was to give one's weakness to anyone with eyes. Confession of murder, of wrongs, proof on the skin of all their sins?

A death sentence, delivered sooner or later. In that sense it was very lethal. Physically, spiritually, maybe socially.

There was a cure, other than Angel Disease, but given the time-consuming nature of the 'traditional' cure, Reborn, impatient as he was and disliking inefficiency, had simply called in Shamal.

And Shamal witnessed the confession of a boy who clearly did not belong in the world of the mafia.

The sheer mundanity of the secrets the disease spilled was, well, refreshing. Nothing about murder, destruction, greed, violence, jealousy, lust, want or shame.

Dumb, almost child-like truths. Secrets that didn't harm anyone, except maybe himself – and even then, it was only mild embarrassment.

It was unreal.

The boy couldn't drink coffee, was scared of moths and slugs, wasn't the smartest kid around, and so on. Shamal couldn't understand it, and it was more than just the question of why anyone would have difficulty with something as simple as the multiplication table. He had known it by the time he was three, and Hayato learned it early enough, too.

Sawada Tsunayoshi was a dumb kid with dumb secrets that didn't belong in the world of the mafia. If Shamal was a betting man, he would bet that as he was now, Sawada Tsunayoshi, the boy who was scared to sleep without a light, wouldn't last two days in the darkness.

But, well, if anyone could change a boy like that into a decent boss, Shamal supposed Reborn could.

And speaking of Reborn –

Shamal preferred being a doctor, he really did. His mother had, for as long as Shamal remembered, been devoted to finding cures or treatments for diseases he drew in like honey drawing in flies. He grew up listening to her discuss medicine with his father, was familiar from a young age with the tools of her trade, and first read her medical texts instead of picture books.

Even after his parents died and he was left to care for himself, Shamal wanted first and foremost to save lives, not end them. Neither he nor this world wasn't soft enough to forgive those that tried to kill him or force him to do something he didn't want, but he was a doctor first. Keeping someone holding onto life was harder than killing them, and therefore more precious.

But he was also a talented hitman, who took the trick of controlling mosquitos his father taught him and turned it into a deadly means.

Reborn warned him to keep an eye on Sasagawa Kyoko and Kurokawa Hana and step in if – when – they were in danger. Shamal had no problems with that – they were students at the school he worked at, and while he didn't have the pride that the weird Hibari kid did, he was a professional. Students he was supposed to take care of wouldn't be put in danger by some second-rate hitmen.

Especially not by those sent by Rokudo Mukuro. Just yesterday all Shamal knew was that he and his minions had escaped the Vindice's prison. Impressive, but also not a big worry because they would soon be hunted down and the fault corrected. It was the Vindice. Shamal gave them a month, tops, and didn't give more thought to it.

Then they just had to go and attack Hayato.

Stubborn and bull-headed and blind as he was, Shamal was still a little fond of Hayato. He was never going to have kids, which made his cousin's kid the closest thing he'd ever have to a son of his own. He'd been there to keep Lavina alive through her pregnancy, to help her deliver the brat, to watch over him as he grew up.

Closest. Shamal wasn't a father figure, would never be a father figure to Hayato. Couldn't, really.

Shamal wasn't big on family. Family had a way of dying on him. Lavina was dead, his uncle and aunt were dead, his parents were dead. He was a magnet for diseases and viruses, alive only by a dumb miracle of coincidence. Whatever family legacy his old man and Lavina's father had going on, Shamal wasn't interested in continuing or finding out, let alone forcing on Hayato.

Hayato was still the dumb brat that didn't understand the value of life, the weight it had. Shamal was still furious that he would consider pride to be of greater importance than his life, the very life Lavina fought so hard to give him.

Even now, the dumb brat prioritized fighting over healing his injuries. Off with the packet of medicine to treat the disease Hibari was infected with, and a powerful virus burning through his veins right now, not a clue towards what was most important.

Shamal ran a hand through his hair and stood up. He could try to teach the dumbass things to keep him alive, he could try to lead him towards seeing the value of his own life, but at the end of the day it was his life Hayato had to live. It was his choices he had to bear the burdens of.

Time to work and keep the health of the students in this school.

It was his fault that Gokudera was hurt by the guy with the yo-yos, because like an idiot he had frozen and needed to be protected. If Bianchi force-fed him a tableful of her Poison Cooking, Tsuna could honestly say that he wouldn't have the right to look her in the eyes and refuse. He wouldn't like it, but he'd definitely feel a lot of pressure.

According to Reborn, it was also because of him that this was all happening.

Tsuna pulled on his clothes, but he took a glance back towards his mom, and Lambo, and I-Pin. The kids were happy as could be, unaware of the problem brewing in town. As for his mom, he was essentially about to go to the very base of operations for the people responsible for her worry for precisely the kind of reason that would give her a heart attack if she found out.

Jailbreak? Prisoners? Rokudo Mukuro?

The words were still a little foreign to him, because they didn't belong in the normal life he'd been living. The one where he had fun – despite Reborn's chaos being thrown into the mix – with his friends.

Ordinary days.

His hand stayed. Was it going to be possible to go back to those days? He didn't disagree that Rokudo Mukuro had to be stopped, if only because he couldn't just watch Gokudera, or Yamamoto, or anyone else get hurt because of him, but Tsuna felt like he was standing on the edge of something big, something deep.

One more step, and there was going to be a change.

Tsuna was scared about what that would mean, because if there was no going back –

"That's why we're going to go and put a stop to them," said Reborn, matter-of-factly, interrupting the downward spiral his thoughts were entering. "So we can return to our ordinary days."

Reborn had a way of saying things like it wasn't a big deal when it was. Tsuna huffed. "You make it sound easy – what the heck?!"

Face covered with the goopy green cocoon that was Leon, Reborn stood in front of him like he was wearing the head of an alien mascot designed to scare the living daylights out of everyone who saw it.

Somehow, Reborn acting like Reborn made Tsuna feel better about the whole situation. A sense of security, in that it was going to go well.

"Oh, by the way, I won't be taking part in the fight, so do your best to not die."

Like an ice chip under a hot summer sun, his relief disappeared without a trace. "For real?!"

How was he supposed to fight convicts that escaped a high-security prison without Reborn helping?

To make things worse, there was only one Dying Will Bullet because those were apparently made inside Leon like pearls in a clam shell. It was official, this was the weirdest, worst day ever. The news that there was only one Dying Will Bullet to be shot into his head wasn't cheering him up but doing the complete opposite instead. He should be happy that he wasn't going to strip down to his underwear and do crazy things, but was he? No, instead he was disappointed that he wouldn't be fighting in his boxers against convicts who escaped from prison to come after him. The world could end right this moment and he wouldn't be more scared than he was now.

But even so, Tsuna stepped out with his friends and began to make his way towards Kokuyo Land.

When the ground collapsed under the combined weight of him and his attacker and he fell, Takeshi's first thought was, 'I'm in so much trouble'.

Because if Haru or Hotaru heard that he died from falling, they were going to be so mad. Either they would think he jumped on purpose 'again', or think he was stupid enough to go on another high but not very secure place and do stupid things.

Then he landed and the pain was effective in knocking out the dumb thoughts from his brain. Ow.

The good news was, he wasn't dead, or hurt. Sure, a little pain from the rough landing, but nothing serious.

The not-too-good news, possibly bad news, was that he wasn't alone down here.

"Be careful!" Tsuna shouted from far above, and wow, he really had fallen far. "There's a beast or something to your right!"

Rough breaths, not just from him, filled the air, and Takeshi tensed as something dark moved forward. He liked animals and all, but between the zombie dog puppets and whatever beast this was –

"Welcome, Yamamoto Takeshi," said the thing in the shadows, and Takeshi corrected himself. Not a beast, a person.

"Kakipi's asleep, you know~" continued the figure in the shadows, and it was a guy's voice, not one he recognized. He didn't know who 'Kakipi' was, either. "I've got no orders, and nothing to do, so I'm really bored."

It was almost like a suspenseful scene from television, where the character was approached by the villain, emerging from the dark. Whoever was in there, he was speaking like the role, too, almost like this was a game he was winning.

"Then here comes my prey, all by himself. That makes me . . ."

There was only one source of light down here, through the hole he fell. The figure finally stepped into that limited light, and Takeshi recognized the Kokuyo uniform only.

"Real happy," finished the guy. He looked around their age, with wild, spiky blond hair. A horizontal scar stretched across his nose, under his eyes. He wasn't the type of person whose appearance was easily forgotten, and Takeshi felt pretty safe in saying that he'd never met him before.

It didn't take long for the blond to start. He rushed at Takeshi with a speed that made him briefly want to pull a Sasagawa Ryohei and recruit someone into the baseball team. Sure, he was in a different school, but that speed was impressive.

Pitches – both baseball and recruiting – could be made later, though. Takeshi dodged to the right, but the Kokuyo student didn't stop.

The blond jumped up – far up, above even Takeshi's head with enough force to twist mid-air and grip the wall.

A moment later, he pushed off, as if jumping, releasing a wild whoop. Gravity helped with the direction he was aiming toward – down, at Takeshi – and he had only a moment to pull the bat from behind him to in front of him.

Takeshi was used to his bat by now. The telescope feature, he didn't use as much because there were only so many times he could look around with it before he got bored.

But turning it into a sword? That was a feature he used in practice a lot, because it required control over the speed of his swings.

Takeshi brought it forwards, in front of him, the sword acting as a shield. Maybe it was wrong of him to use it as a shield instead of a blade, though, because a second after he did that, the blade shattered.

Where the blade had been, there was a scarred face, giving him a fanged grin. Literally – he had changed, just a little, so that he was still recognizable, but different, nonetheless. From between the fangs – long, like an animal's, not human teeth and not like what he had been like just a moment ago – dropped the broken shards of his bat in blade form.

The larger part of the blade, snapped off, flew behind him with the impact of the attack, and clattered loudly.

Instead of pushing forth and continuing to attack, the blond leapt back and whooped loudly.

"The next thing I gouge out," he said, shards of metal dropping from his mouth. "Will be your throat."

Oh, Takeshi realized. So that's how it was. Instead of aiming for anywhere else – and he could have – the blond aimed for his sword and broke it with a bite. Instead of pushing forth when Takeshi was surprised and likely wouldn't have been able to respond as quickly, the blond jumped back and taunted him.

He was being underestimated. And maybe that was fair – he hadn't exactly done anything impressive so far, after all. But still – sheesh.

Takeshi didn't like to think of himself as a sore loser. He just liked to win. That wasn't something anyone could blame him for. Everyone liked to win, and it wasn't like he cheated or had no boundaries he was willing to leave uncrossed for the sake of victory. If he lost, then he had a new goal – to improve, so that the revenge match ended very differently. Work hard for victory, so he could be proud of it.

In this case, where his bat had just been broken and he was being issued a challenge, it was obvious what he had to do.

Takeshi had to step up and take his opponent seriously, so that he'd regret not taking Takeshi seriously.

"So, that's the rule, then?" he asked, taking off his bag and tossing it to the side, where he was less likely to trip over it.

Maybe his point got across, because the blond explained his sudden change.

"You know how you can change game cartridges to play different games?" He held up a hand near his face, and between each finger rested a set of teeth. It wasn't the kind of set old people wore so they could use their fake teeth to chew – it was the kind of teeth people wore with costumes, to look like they had fangs.

It was a pretty cool kind of doping, though Takeshi didn't really want to use it himself or see it used in a baseball match. That wouldn't really be fair.

Especially the gorilla doping. That was a close one. He patted down his biceps to check for injuries. No breaks or tears on his arms, thankfully, but that was because of luck.

"You keep running away," drawled the blond, resting his attacks in a crouch. "Are you purposely drawing out this fight with an opponent like me?"

Well, his strategy was to dodge the blows while looking for a slip-up from his opponent so he could strike, but he didn't want to say that. "Aha ha, nah, nothing like that. It's just I have other things to do than the mafia game, you know."

Like he was going to show Hotaru injuries from non-baseball things. Yeah, right.

"I don't get you, dumbass." Another swipe, and while it didn't hit him, it did catch on his wristband and shred the cloth.

A good thing, Takeshi thought, but then Tsuna fell from the hole above with a scream.

Tsuna was fine, still alive – though in pain, guessing from the sounds – but like a wolf with its eyes on a new prey, the blond turned to Tsuna.

Okay, change of plans, now.

There were a lot of rubble around, broken piece of concrete and dirt and glass and a bunch of other junk.

It wasn't hard to find some pieces of concrete roughly the same size and shape of a baseball.

Takeshi threw the first one, and it struck the wild blond hairstyle with a solid thwack. He threw it a little desperately, so while it didn't lack in accuracy, it lacked in power. Still, the strike was enough to stop him from lunging towards Tsuna and turn around to face Takeshi again.

The blond looked fine, just a little annoyed, as most people would be when they were pelted with rocks. "What?!"

He still had one more chunk in his hand. Takeshi showed it off, tossing it upwards with a flick of his wrist before snatching it out of the air with little effort.

"You were fighting me first, right?" Takeshi raised it to the front like the piece of rubble was the only thing he had – but more importantly, the only thing he needed. "C'mon. If I get you with this, it's game, set and match."

He fell for the taunt. "Challenge mode, huh? Then here's me being serious."

Spots grew over his face. "Cheetah Channel!"

The speed before? That was nothing, compared to this sprint. Takeshi threw, this time with proper force, but there was no accuracy there. Or rather, there would have been, but the blond dodged it.

His bat was broken, and the handle wasn't long enough to be his shield. Takeshi raised his left arm in front of him and felt the pain a split second later, skin pierced by fangs and force.

It hurt, a lot – but it was his left arm held tight, and Takeshi was righthanded.

And despite his bat being broken, he still had the handle in his right hand.

"Got you!"

Takeshi smashed the butt of the handle into his temple with as much force as the pain he felt. The resulting crack, and the guy collapsing, was as satisfactory as a home run.

He hissed in pain as his arm was released, and – yup. He was in trouble. It wasn't something he'd be able to hide very easily, even if it wasn't too serious or permanent.

But –

"I'm sorry!" Tsuna, despite the fall he'd taken, was staring at his arm with horror turning his face pale. "I'm sorry, it's all my fault! Your arm, it's -" he took a deep breath and blurted out the rest. "What about the tournament coming up?!"

His friend looked ready to cry.

Despite the pain, Takeshi smiled. There were a few things he regretted in life but being friends with Tsuna was never going to be one of them.

"Give me a break, Tsuna," he said, keeping his voice light to lessen Tsuna's worry. "I'm not the kind of person that would choose baseball over a friend, you know."

That Yamamoto Takeshi had died on the school roof, after the turning point that taught him what was important.

Contrary to the belief of witch-hunters in the past, most witches did not go around causing plagues or pestilence or illnesses. Using magic to curse someone into ill health required a pretty heavy price, one that could end up corrupting the soul and leaving them vulnerable to very nasty things.

Any cunning folk with half a functioning brain wouldn't curse someone to death, lest their very magic grow dark against them. The ones that had been burned were always those that were scapegoated to appease the mob, likely healers who had only wanted to use their gift to help them from diseases brought by their own literal filth.

The good died young. The ones that survived were those who prioritized their own survival above that of the dumb masses and became more 'cunning'. Secretive.

And for some, willing to get their hands dirty if necessary.

Using magic to kill someone directly and using magic to create something that could then be used to kill someone were two very different things. A curse to make someone die? Difficult, and also costly. A bit of magic to, say, change the nature of food so that instead of providing life it threatened it? Surprisingly easy if one had a talent for potions and applied the knowledge correctly. Poisons used right could become medicine and vice versa, after all.

It wasn't common, per say, for cunning folk to go into the hitman profession like Bianchi did. The root of their practice was, after all, based in helping others. Unorthodox and not scientific, but still effective.

Most cunning folk nowadays who used their gifts went into other services, such as folk healing, potion or charm making, dowsing, or exorcism. Even the mafia – especially the mafia – ran into problems that were not quite fully on the boundaries of this side of the world. It was more profitable in the long run to not curse people. Vengeance demanded two graves dug, and curses affected the caster, too.

Not common, but not impossible. Bianchi herself was one such example of someone who didn't always use her gift to heal or help, even if she was more the 'flying this by the seat-of-her-pants' kind of maga than a proper one.

And clearly, so was this one. Not all redheads were witches, contrary to what stereotypes there were about redheaded women, but the sample population here really wasn't helping those claims. She had hair of a reddish shade, inherited from her mother along with her knowledge, and M.M.' s hair was dark red, the kind that came to mind at the word 'redhead'.

As much as she disagreed with the girl's mindset, Bianchi had to admit that she was more than decent in that regard. Magic using music as a medium were mostly supportive in nature. Healing, primarily, especially for the mind and soul. It wasn't carrying a curse, but the way she amplified the vibrations to the point where they could act like a microwave was impressive and suggested that M.M. had a talent for her brand of magic, even if it was rough around the edges. She was probably untrained but had still figured out how to make use of the gift she'd been born with.

And that made Bianchi be the one to step in to fight, instead of letting the future Vongola and his potential guardians be the ones to take the challenge. That was why Reborn called her over, to recognize enemies of the cunning kind and get the Vongola Decimo used to poisons.

She wasn't the best at exorcising curses or casting protective spells over others. It was doubtful that Tsuna or Yamamoto would push this M.M. to the point of her cursing them, and Hayato certainly wouldn't when Tsuna was here, but still.

"This one's mine." Bianchi could protect herself, because she knew what to be on the lookout for, what to avoid and deal with if M.M. grew desperate enough to manage a raw curse with her dying breath.

Even if it was unlikely. No truly powerful cunning folk was ever so obsessed with something as material as money.

"It's not money that's important," she said, slapping down a challenge. "It's love."

Magic, like all things truly important, came from the heart, and love.

M.M. gave her a look just loaded with disdain. "Love? What are you, a Disney princess? Bring it on, then."

Bianchi pulled up two large plates filled with Poison Cooking, each one holding enough to feed three, if they survived consumption of it long enough to finish their portions. She wasn't exactly a proper maga herself, since she left to find her own path before her mother could teach her all the tricks of the trade, but she was a proper hitman.

And so was M.M., it looked like. Just force, no curses were in the soundwaves. Each Burning Vibrato boiled the contents of the large plates she carried as shields until they burst, and close enough now Bianchi pulled up a shortcake to finish her off.

M.M., in return, undid her clarinet with a snap of her wrist, changing the instrument to a nunchaku.

"Sorry to disappoint," she drawled, flipping the blunt weapon around her body expertly, "but close-quarters combat is my specialty, too."

She swung towards her face, hard and brutal, and Bianchi had to throw herself with the blow to lessen injury. Her cheek protested in pain and she fell ungracefully to the ground, but she wasn't concussed or knocked out, would have no difficulty continuing to fight if she needed to, which was a plus.

And more importantly, Bianchi had touched the weapon. The weapon that, by its nature as a wind instrument, would meet the hitman's mouth and tongue.

"'Love'?" scorned M.M., reconnecting the separated pieces back into a single instrument. "Don't make me laugh. Nothing beats money. I'll boil that into your brain."

M.M. raised the clarinet to her lips, and Bianchi smiled as the tingle of the magic that was her Poison Cooking ran up her fingers. Game set and match.

AN: Shamal and Bianchi, like Futa, joined in Daily Life but only really got the spotlight in this arc, because it would have just been a copy+paste of canon and I'm trying to avoid that.

In Petrichor Shamal (and Gokudera) are related, and descendants of a guardian. Bianchi, though not a descendant, is a witch (cunning folk, maga), as was mentioned in interlude ii. You cannot tell me that Bianchi isn't a witch. She turns food into poison, she has immunity to poison, and she calls in a summoner so she can exorcise the ghost of her ex. I like magic and witches.

Maga refers to the Italian word for 'sorceress'.

Updating for not just the FE Heroes banner like I usually do, but also on the day of elections so depending on who wins I might be very happy or depressed.

TL;DR

Shamal: Yeah, the brat means nothing to me I'm not his keeper or anything.

Also Shamal: Anyone associated with Rokudo Mukuro is going to die of a painful disease.

+ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+

Takeshi: The girls are never going to believe it if I tell them I got hurt from falling accidentally I need to not get hurt.

Also Takeshi, to a hitman: fITE ME SRSLY.

+ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+

Sweet Dreams~