AUTHOR'S NOTE PLEASE READ

If you have posted 20 or more reviews/comments (not replies to comments) on Petrichor, congrats, you win a prize! On AO3 Gerbilfriend, Witch of Perception and Ninjy, and on FFN Suzululu4moe and kalmaegi are eligible. I counted them when I was dead tired so I might be wrong so if you notice that you haven't been mentioned despite being eligible, let me know and I'll count again.

I can't give much, so it's basically just a 'I will write you a short Petrichor-related gift fic.' You can give me a ship (ex: Byakuran/Hotaru) and/or a story idea (ex: second year sports festival). It may or may not be Petrichor-compliant or AU, and I make no promises on word count, consistency, timely writing or satisfaction (this person).

Some might end up being fairly short and others might reach, like, Saturnine-lengths, and it all depends on the arbitrary thing that is my writing mood. But, yeah. Let me know what you want by a method of your convenience (review, message, Tumblr, Twitter).

This only applies to comments received prior to February 1st, 2020, so if you post a lot of comments after, sorry, that doesn't count until next year, if I choose to do this again.

Before Acheron was given his name and brought to the temple of Elysion as one of its official priests, it was Cocytus who conducted the funeral rites, blessed the prepared bodies and recited the prayers.

He was old, and dying, and a gruff man, but he was a good teacher.

"This isn't a good duty for you," the old man said once, as they worked over the corpses. The brunt of the labor was carried out by others, but as the priests in Elysion, they were the ones to bless and recite the prayers to ready the bodies.

"I'm good at it," Acheron pointed out, and he spoke the truth.

"There's a difference between being good at something, and that something being good for you, boy." Cocytus rapped him on his knuckles to stop him from making a mistake. "What have I said about anointing with the blessed oil on corpses?"

He rubbed at the sore knuckles and withdrew the bottle of oil. "Measure first and then anoint."

Even if his hands were steady and not shaking like the old man's, he still insisted that Acheron always measure and pour it out separately to not spill the entire bottle over the corpse.

Acheron did just that, doing it with deliberate slowness out of malicious compliance. Not that it made the old man bat an eye.

"You're good at it," Cocytus said when he finished anointing the corpse, not annoyed by the slow pace. The person being anointed also had no complaints about the speed, having been dead for a few days. "You're good at a lot of things."

"I'm aware." There was a reason why he was one of the two orphans chosen, and not the other children he'd grown up with in the orphanage.

Cocytus looked like he wanted to rap his knuckles again, so Acheron drew them back, out of reach. "But your arrogance blinds you, fool."

Acheron raised an eyebrow, wondering what Cocytus was about to nag him about now.

"You need to spend your time with the living," warned the old man. "Not with the dead, and not with your illusions. You need a good grip on reality."

"I have a good grip of reality," Acheron objected, insulted that Cocytus implied he was insane.

"You're a child with a talent for illusions confined to a temple for the rest of your life with exposure to corpses and a limited number of living people," retorted Cocytus, the response fast and snappish like a whip. "I can't think of anything that will help you remain sane in all the things I listed, except the last."

Acheron scowled. "You forgot the strength of my will."

It was something Cadmus liked to talk about, the strength of the will, how having a strong one let a person push through the most impossible of odds and create a miracle.

"It was always better than prayer for me," Cadmus had whispered, a twinkle in his eyes as he tapped at the fake arm Daedalus had made for him. "Believing in myself, rather than the gods."

Which, arguably, weren't really appropriate words for a priest to tell a younger priest, but neither were interested in telling. Peleus usually tried to stop Cadmus from going into great details about the battles they saw, back when they were warriors who fought in wars to protect the kingdom, but what he got to hear impressed Acheron. He liked to think he had it too, and that was why he was Acheron, a priest at his young age.

Cocytus slapped his knees and roared with laughter, and Acheron briefly entertained the idea of throwing something at the old man. Something heavy.

A knock at the door of the chamber interrupted his plans, and Sephira poked her head in. Her blue eyes flitted from Acheron's scowling face to the still laughing Cocytus and put the pieces together.

"Are you making fun of him again?" she asked, exasperated.

"Only imparting words of wisdom." Cocytus stretched his back and groaned, a sound mixed with pain and relief. Old bones didn't do well in stone chambers designed to be cool in temperature.

"It doesn't count if you don't deliver them in a way that he can accept and understand them," Sephira retorted. "Anyways – Orbona made honey cakes."

Cakes made with honey – really, anything with honey – were Sephira's favorites. He preferred meat dishes and broths.

But he still liked them, so he picked himself up. "See you, old man."

Cocytus clucked his tongue in his direction, but Sephira offered him a hand, and he took it. Unlike the cold, stiff corpses he touched, her hand was warm and soft, and wrapped around his on their own.

And maybe, he admitted to himself, as they demolished an entire plate of the cakes layered and baked with honey and let their feet get into a wrestling match beneath the table; as Orbona and Euryale chatted about how the new girl was settling into life as a priestess; as Agamede signed to Daedalus with the same enthusiasm he showed in signing and speaking back at her, something about a new arm for Cadmus; as Peleus sat next to Helios, pushing his cakes towards the younger boy and suggesting quietly that he try it with cheese and apples next time.

Maybe Cocytus was right, saying that Acheron might be good at the job he was training for, but that it might not be good for him.

There was always a sense of accomplishment, in anointing with oil and reciting the prayers so that their souls could pass on properly. But it was the same kind of accomplishment that came with completing a task perfectly, like cleaning his room or answering questions correctly or finishing a particularly difficult book and understanding it.

It wasn't the warm feeling he had now, eating cakes and listening to the conversations around him, the conversations that he could be included in with ease and welcome, the kind that told him he belonged, in this relaxed atmosphere.

Not, of course, that he would ever admit that to Cocytus.

(And he didn't, ever, and a few months later Cocytus never woke up from his sleep, and Acheron, for the first time, carried out the funeral rites by himself with shaking hands, over a dead body with a familiar face that had once stood next to him reciting the same words, and he prayed with all his heart that Cocytus, for all that he was a crochety old man, would find peace in his afterlife.)

Nine out of ten times, Yamamoto Takeshi was a chill guy. He was, even in the most frustrating of times, able to provide the calming presence that let them take a deep breath and not be so frazzled.

And that was what made the one time when he wasn't chill out of ten scarier – because if Hibari Kyoya rampaged, then it was just another Tuesday, but if Yamamoto Takeshi's mood was murderous, then you knew there was serious stuff happening.

The good news was the fact that Takeshi was never murderous towards Family. Once the initial panic wore off, Lambo remembered that fact and relaxed. Minutely.

The bad news was, he was still going to see that one out of ten times when Takeshi wasn't the chill one in the room.

"I-Pin," he begged his friend and fellow recent time traveller. "Help."

Lambo could see I-Pin briefly weigh it in her head. On one hand, he was her best friend. On the other hand, everyone knew just how concerned (read: obsessed) Takeshi got about hearing what happened ten years in the past whenever Lambo went back.

The scale tipped cleanly to favor one side.

"Sorry, Lambo," she said, abandoning him to the wolves without any regrets.

He groaned, before a metaphorical lightbulb went off in his head. "You know he'll still track you down, right?"

I-Pin paled because he was right, and she knew it.

Every time Lambo went back in time and then returned, he had to write and file a report, because Giannini and the science department was always curious. Every time, rather than read the report, Takeshi tracked him down.

The first few times he was subtle about it, just making it a conversation about what happened in the five minutes, who he saw, et cetera.

Lambo wasn't dumb, though, no matter what Gokudera said. He saw Takeshi and that mournful look he got sometimes, like a guy who had his heart broken and never healed. He remembered the aftermath of the fight between him and Squalo, after the long-haired swordsman said something no one quite knew but could definitely guess the subject of. He and the other swordsman were still friends, or as much as friends as someone like Superbi Squalo and Yamamoto Takeshi could be, but no one ever mentioned her, at least as far as Lambo knew.

After the pieces connected, he just told Takeshi up front whether he'd seen Tomoe Hotaru or not in the trip to the past.

He looked like he had been socked in the gut by Ryohei, and then tried to cover it up with a smile. He wasn't all that great at it.

Lambo wished he could give him better news. Even if it was something like 'she was wearing purple' or 'she gave me a cake' or 'she was doing homework'. Even if it was probably bad for Takeshi, like a drug habit.

But truth be told Lambo hadn't been around Tomoe Hotaru a lot, or, at least, not used the bazooka around her often. Back then he usually used the bazooka when things were getting chaotic – or, when he ended up making things chaotic – and Tomoe Hotaru, like the girls, had been fairly untouched by the daily chaos that had been their everyday life. There was really nothing he could tell Takeshi about the glimpses of the past he caught. Sometimes, when the smoke surrounded him before clearing to a different sight, he wished he would see Tomoe Hotaru, interact with her in a significant way so he could have something more than 'she looked fine' to tell Takeshi.

That didn't mean he had wanted to see her get acid thrown on her face.

I-Pin went with him, seeking out the Vongola's Rain Guardian. Better to rip off the bandage, all at once.

Takeshi rubbed his face with his hand when he confessed nervously just what happened during this trip to the past. It was as if he was trying to imagine the damage that would have been caused, the pain she would have felt when the acid made contact.

"She healed herself. She was healing herself, when we came back – she won't have scars or anything." he said, I-Pin just as nervous at his side, but she, at least, had done something. She had still managed to help them, take care of the assassins that had been after them. All he had done was basically be a creepy guy expose her secret.

Wait.

She must have been freaked out, he realized just now, finally knowing what had happened ten years ago. A complete stranger attacked her with acid, and then another complete stranger revealed he – they – knew her secret.

How the hell, Lambo asked himself without really wanting to know the answer, but knowing it anyways, would Tomoe Hotaru have felt about that?

Scared. Terrified.

Maybe it was his fault, that she was no longer in Takeshi's life. His heart, initially so startled that it almost felt like it had stopped, stuttered a guilty rhythm in his chest.

In his defense, his mind whispered, churning out excuses, he only had less than five minutes to keep her from being permanently scarred, and she didn't immediately flee from everyone – at least, not for a few years – so Lambo wanted to say it wasn't his fault, but he wondered.

If he had been better about it, more subtle, would things have gone differently?

Given that timelines were diverse, it was possible that this intervention would lead to a different outcome entirely, in a different timeline from this one. Maybe Takeshi wouldn't have to check obsessively whether Lambo saw Hotaru in the past or not. Maybe his heart wouldn't be broken. Maybe Haru wouldn't look so sad when she saw that look on Takeshi's face every now and then, when it broke through the layers of time and other memories and made itself known.

When it came down to it, Lambo was always going to be on the side of Family. Yamamoto Takeshi, the Vongola knew, was heartbroken. He had lost something more important to him than baseball and realized it only after it was gone from his life, and a part of Lambo resented Tomoe Hotaru for that. In crass terms he was never going to use before Takeshi in this context because he didn't want to end up like Squalo that one time, bros before hoes.

It would have been a lot easier, and was, to blame Tomoe Hotaru, but now, Lambo wondered if it was his fault.

Takeshi nodded, and when he removed his hand his face was like a mask, a well-made copy of his face, handsome and scarred at the chin, composed of wax. Almost life-like and not quite, despite it all.

The death mask smiled. "Thanks, Lambo, I-Pin. You kept her safe."

The gratitude was genuine, and that was what made it worse, for Lambo. He really was thankful that I-Pin and he stepped in.

He excused himself, and though he didn't run, Lambo felt like he was fleeing. Takeshi would probably go drinking, and because they were the Vongola he wouldn't be alone. Tsuna would join him, probably cradling the first cup of his drink without drinking from it because being drunk wasn't Tsuna's thing, and he would be there to listen, if any words were said. Gokudera would follow, to glare at everyone and everything and guard Tsuna's side. Maybe Ryohei, too, and he would be unusually somber and quiet.

Lambo wouldn't, because he was too young – even now – but he knew what would happen.

Takeshi could hold his alcohol. That was what happened when you hung out the Varia's second-in-command, a side effect that was aided by superior genetics in alcohol consumption. He was going to do what he always did, whenever Lambo gave him news about Tomoe Hotaru in the past, and drink until he was absolutely hammered and couldn't tell a baseball bat from a sword. It would take a lot of drinking, but he would reach that limit.

There were still a few more years before the time he could go back in would catch up to the loss of Tomoe Hotaru from Yamamoto Takeshi's life. Lambo wasn't sure what would happen after that.

Coward that he was, he kept his lips sealed shut.

Chiba Mamoru, six years old and a new orphan, lay in his hospital bed, sleeping because that was kinder than to have to face his reality. That, and sleep was better to healing, though he had escaped the car crash mostly uninjured.

He had a room to himself, because Acheron could still spare a little bit of compassion and not expose the boy to the sight of other children with living parents still caring for them. A little privacy might be better, in that sense, and money honestly meant very little to Acheron, so the extra cost was worth none of his concern. He didn't have to pinch pennies.

Acheron exhaled, not worrying about drawing attention with his presence erased. He hadn't expected the Chibas – good people, a loving couple who cared very much for their son, their only child – to die in a car accident. He hadn't expected that at all. Chiba Mamoru was supposed to grow up in his normal life and discover one day – preferably sooner than later – that he was not actually normal, awaken as the prince of Terra, become king, and bring a happy ending protecting the planet while Acheron went off and died.

He even had a list of locations he had under consideration as his deathbed. The Giglio Nero gardens, though with the Arcobaleno and all that was a little rude and not as high on the list anymore. The ruins of the Golden Kingdom, the part that wasn't taken into Elysion's wards. Elysion's ends, near the rivers at the boundary – far enough that Helios wouldn't be traumatized. And a few other memorable places. Teresa's grave, maybe, or the gravesites of the other guardians. His life as Acheron had begun with a relation to graves, so it was natural that graves were where he died, not just ended up.

But no, Chiba Mamoru now had no parents – which, great, just great – and he was alone in the world because his parents were both only children, and his grandparents had died off already. The accident hadn't even had the decency to awaken the Flames in him, leaving one Chiba Mamoru, fresh orphan, hospitalized, heavy trust funds and all sorts of protection of legal and financial kinds to his name secure and waiting to be used.

Acheron scowled. That last part was his doing, because neither Chiba parent had expected to unexpectedly pass away and leave their son alone in the world.

He disliked the boy – because he was a boy, no matter that he had once been a man in his previous life, it didn't matter how old he had been when he died because he couldn't remember it now – and maybe it might have been easier for him to awaken his powers and memories in full if he was lacking in more than emotional and social supports, but Acheron didn't push him into a life of poverty and desperation.

(It was for Sephira. For Sephira, because she had been wracked with guilt for centuries, until her dying day, and Acheron would never give Chiba Mamoru reason to find fault with Sephira when he finally regained his memories as Endymion and the truth was revealed at last.

If he did, rightful heir to Terra or not Acheron was going to punch the ungrateful punk in his face with a fist full of Hell Rings until his features were unrecognizable.

At least that might make it easier to look at him.)

A part of him considered becoming an uncle to the newly orphaned boy. It was hardly the first time he had inserted himself into another family tree as a relative despite the lack of blood relations. Forgery was easy, as was lying. Granny might like having another person around.

Then he decided no, he didn't like the idea, and discarded it immediately. Kind of impossible, anyways, given his restrictions, so it wasn't like it would have even mattered.

He glared at the sleeping boy, a little reproachful that he could sleep like he had no cares in the world when the entire planet was at his mercy, without his even knowing it. It had only been four years since the Arcobaleno were made and the world settled. Only four since he made what he prayed would be the last sacrifices, and Acheron was still impatient.

(He was so close. They were so close.)

It wasn't a question of regret. There was nothing he could do to change the past, and he could only live in the present, and continue on towards the future. It was the best choice he could make, for all that it meant. He was not allowed to regret, only accept the consequences of his choices as they were.

"Hurry," Acheron said, knowing his words would reach no one, and certainly not the unconscious Chiba Mamoru. But to speak was a choice, and he felt better for it, giving a confession heard by no one but the sinner himself. "Become a king, assume your responsibilities, and execute me."

The old, after all, had to die to make way for the new, and his time was past due.

His Guardians were, understandably, in severe doubt over his decision.

Timoteo didn't blame them for their apprehension.

The sensible thing for the boss of a Family – of the Vongola, no less – to do in his shoes would have been to execute Xanxus. Both Coyote and Visconti agreed, which was rare in itself, and while the others hadn't been as vocal as those two, they certainly weren't disagreeing.

But dear friends that they were, his Guardians in the end let him have his whims. Timoteo didn't mind their fierce opposition, not when it was because they were worried about him.

"And yet you still went against their advice," mused Gabriel, idly swirling the wine in his glass. His brother-in-law wasn't as active as he once had been, but the slender man, unthreatening in appearance and in combat ability, had always been one to keep an ear out patiently, and seize opportunities when they came up. He showed up with bottles of wine and some food and promptly uncorked one, as if Timoteo's office was a valid place to be drinking.

"Regrets are hard to speak of without a copious amount of alcohol," Gabriel had argued, and Timoteo hadn't been able to argue that sound logic, despite the faint tug in his head warning him.

"Regrets," Timoteo repeated the word. Regret is a monster humans cannot choose, Mother told him and Ginevra, the night before she officially gave him the Vongola Sin and held the ceremony of inheritance. It is a monster that chooses us, hiding under our bed, lurking in our nightmares, waiting, wanting to swallow us. Don't let it do that. Fight the monster and come out alive, a hero of a tale who slayed the dragon.

In his life, Timoteo had many regrets. Mistakes he made, lives that were lost, words that were said – or, not said. Decisions that brought consequences heavy and difficult.

He had regrets when he was young, and he had them when he was old, and as someone who experienced them both, Timoteo could say with bald honesty he couldn't always afford that the latter was worse. Regrets were always terrible, bitter things that lingered like a bad taste that wouldn't go away, the feeling of 'if only' and 'what if' despite the impossibility of changing what had happened.

Gabriel filled both glasses and raised one, a casual toast. "To our regrets."

Timoteo drained his glass, but the flavor failed to ease the bitterness of what they toasted.

They tasted worse, on a tongue old and near-death. Death, the reaper of life that discriminated not, was always close to him by nature of his position, but it was present more than ever, the scythe near his throat and ready to take his life. Regrets in old age was worse, to a man who had spent so long being powerful and 'right' by might, who made decisions on behalf of others and said it was for the best, who had grown so used to the entitlement that he did not see his wrongs until the repercussions were like gunfire. Impossible to ignore, and painful. The echoes of the gunshot, the sting of the rebound, the smell of gunpowder remained after and so too did the ghosts.

If only he communicated more with Xanxus. If only he noticed that his son's pride would fall to a fury unparalleled. If only he had been able to teach Xanxus kindness and patience instead of pride and anger. If only he had been honest. If only he had been able to communicate better, not be held up by the title of 'Vongola Nono' and grow lax to those who should have been treated like they mattered more because they did.

Hindsight was painfully clear.

It was his pride. No, it was arrogance. He had grown used to hearing praise for his insight, swelled up on wisdom without realizing only fools let themselves do so, and that hideous arrogance had reaped its price.

Gabriel did not drink, and of the two cups on the table between them one was empty, and the other half-full of liquid dark red. Perhaps, in a different lighting, it might be mistaken for blood. His face was lined, his hair silvered and receding, but Timoteo could still make out the thin youth he once had been, the young man that had won the heart of a woman so easy to love. Family.

"You shouldn't have sent Coyote or the others away." His voice was heavy with his own regrets. Gabriel, too, had lost so much. The man who once cared for Iemitsu, once called the young lion his blood and family had turned against him, love turned to hate – but he was still deeply in love with the Vongola, would likely always be in love with the Vongola. It was the only thing his brother-in-law had left to love, and at this point it was all he had left to live for. The Vongola, and revenge for his loves that had died before him.

Who was to say that love was always expressed correctly? Timoteo, of all people, had failed to love correctly, and it was his biggest regret.

And regret, that bitter thing, was so much worse to a man near the end of his life, because it meant that he was out of time. Time to live, time to make up for his wrongs. Time, and that reckless confidence, the vitality of youth. To fear the unknown but also crave it, to jump headfirst without cringing in fear – even if it was in bravado.

Old with age, Timoteo had experience that blinded him and a stubbornly stiff neck that didn't know how to bend properly when he needed it to. Foolish of him, to not realize that things which could not bend would eventually break.

The rational, pragmatic part of him, the tactical part that read the situation and drew up the best course of action he should take as Vongola Nono, told him that he should follow the code. A transgression had been made, and punishment was required. Blood was paid by blood.

Timoteo replied to that by pointing out the results of the Cradle Incident – the results born from the 'best course of action', without considering family and relationships and proper communication 'for the greater good'.

He was not a perfect man by far, and his mistakes were many, but Timoteo still loved his sons. All of them.

The consequences sat around his neck like a hangman's noose, or perhaps a serpent. Vongola Nono could remove them at the root, he knew. Simple and clean, as easy as washing away the residue on his hands from firing a gun. Just some water and soap and it would be simple, gone.

Timoteo could not, because the true source, as he saw it, was himself.

And maybe that was why, when he had a faint buzz of warning at the sight of Gabriel, Timoteo hadn't suspected – hadn't dared to suspect.

"Don't forgive me, my brother," lamented Gabriel. He was old, too. His brother-in-law had never been much of a fighter, preferring to deal with information and numbers. Gabriel was fine with not being the muscle, the face, the acknowledged, so long as the work got done. The inglorious work of paper-pushing that would never receive recognition, but someone had to do them, the invisible work that was not lauded or remembered.

It was a work ethic similar to Ginevra, and perhaps that was why his sister chose the head of accounting over the other men who pined after her – the thin, awkward man in glasses who blushed when she smiled and listened to her speak, enraptured, hanging onto her words. She'd broken a lot of hearts, and at least three of those hearts had belonged to Timoteo's guardians.

But Ginevra had been so happy, and no matter who she chose there would have been heartbreak, nonetheless. Timoteo remembered when his sister, and his brother-in-law, and their son had been such a happy family. Not in the front lines but a vital part of the Family nonetheless, the quiet, steady support in rough times, keeping the Vongola strong. United.

Back then, Gabriel's eyes had been filled with a warm light. Not the dark fire they burned with now, flickering madness that fed off a fuel of anger and bitterness.

Timoteo's vision swam.

Then, he recollected, because this odd light-headedness was making him nostalgic, Ginevra died – breast cancer, it was diagnosed, and though she was given the best medical treatment, and everyone who knew her prayed desperately for her return to good health, Ginevra wasted away before her eyes shut for good, and Gabriel focused everything on his only son, who looked so much like his mother, and was so like her in all the ways.

When Matteo was murdered, Gabriel lost any and all means of happiness. Not even Iemitsu could give him that – especially not Iemitsu, who had to watch a man who he looked up to burn the bridge between them all the while grieving his brother.

A man with no means of happiness had nothing to lose. He should have remembered that earlier.

"I never thought it would be you," Timoteo admitted, but he did not fight. He had no right to, because back then he had taken Iemitsu's side, to protect Iemitsu. He had betrayed Gabriel, too, when Gabriel arguably needed him most.

And more importantly, he could not. The drug was working fast. His words were slurred.

It was the obvious choice, back then, to protect Iemitsu, the poor boy-turned-young man who came into his own splendidly against all the odds stacked against him. Iemitsu, and his family, were alive. Matteo had been murdered, yes, and Timoteo grieved his nephew's tragic death, still grieved over the grave of a young man buried by his father, but that was not by any fault of Iemitsu's, and there was no sense in Gabriel's rage.

No sense, no reason, no logic – but it had hurt his brother, nonetheless. Another regret, and Timoteo with so little time to set things right. He didn't regret protecting Iemitsu and the boy, but he should have been better. Done better.

Could he even begin to atone? Or did he no longer have the chance, or the time?

"You wouldn't have," agreed Gabriel, who was still loyal to the Vongola. How could he not be loyal to the Vongola? It was all he had left, with the death of his beloved wife and son, what kept the ashes he had become still moving, still gave him purpose. Vengeance was terrible, and consuming, and harmful to everyone, but it gave him a reason to continue breathing, moving, living. "Because even now, I don't want to hurt you, Timoteo."

But he would, not as an end but as a means – and wasn't it funny, that the head of the Vongola being captured and put in harm's way was not the goal but the method? There were so many hitmen who had died with that as their last goals.

And when the monster moved in, Timoteo didn't know how to fight it because he had made his bed. His consequences had caught up to him.

"My regret," said Gabriel, his voice distant like his ears were filled with wool, "is that I had to do this. I'm sorry."

The monster that chose him for his sins swallowed Timoteo. He slipped out of consciousness.

Family wasn't defined by blood.

Blood by itself guaranteed nothing. There had to be meaning, for something to be defined. Otherwise, it had no value, no inherent importance. To pretend otherwise was foolish, and weak.

That was how simple it was, for Kyoya. It didn't matter that Fumito was his half-brother, that they didn't share the same mother. Mother treated them both as her sons, and so they were her sons. They were different, like night and day, but their differences left them little room to clash over, and so they didn't.

Fumito wanted to be head of the clan. Kyoya wasn't interested in being the head of the Hibari Clan, dealing with simpering herbivores. He had his own pride, his discipline to uphold, and their interests coexisted. Fumito held back from manipulating Kyoya like he did with most others. Kyoya refrained from biting his brother to death and warned with words first if he overstepped.

Father upheld discipline in the house, taught Kyoya the importance of finding his pride in what he could not give up. He taught Kyoya that he should have a code. Not Hibari Subaru's code, because that would not fit Hibari Kyoya. It should be his code, one that did not have to stem from conventional norms or societal expectations. For his father it was the Hibari Clan, and the family. For Kyoya it was the discipline in his territory.

From his mother, Kyoya inherited his outward appearance. Mother liked to pretend she was weak, but she knew her own strengths, and while she hid her fangs she did not run from fights. She was more a spider than a beast, spinning webs and trapping her prey, not letting them be aware until it was too late. Silk-wrapped steel was her way, and it suited her well. She taught him to speak politely, even if his actions didn't match his way of speaking and impressed upon him the importance of being neat, because how could one reign without holding oneself to the standards of discipline they wanted?

If his family had ever been herbivores, trying to force him into their own definitions and limitations, Kyoya would have long since bitten them to death. But they were fellow humans and as he respected them, they respected him.

Mother did not bother sheathing her steel in silk today.

"Leave us," she ordered the doctor, who was cut off in his blabbers. Her frown left no room for argument, and whatever medical expertise the professional might have had suggesting otherwise, faced with a predator he did not have a hope of defeating, he backed down and left.

Kyoya explained nothing. There was nothing to explain. Fumito never went anywhere without knowing something about the situation and hiding half the cards in his sleeves, behind a smile that meant nothing. His parents had the control of the Hibari Clan and all its resources and informants.

The baby was involved. They would have been told of enough.

Fumito wasn't smiling or wearing the mask he wore to appease and fool herbivores. His face was like a mask, blank and wooden, but that was Fumito as he was, unpainted and revealed. Father was frowning, the lines of his face deepened. Mother was studying him carefully, like there was something interesting in the bandages covering his wounds, or the bruises on his skin.

Kyoya glowered at their worry, because he did not want or need pity, and they were crowding.

"Is the person responsible for this dead?" Mother asked at last, one finger tapping against the windowsill she stood next to. The bird he decided to keep was there, curiosity the only thing in its beady eyes as it stared at the richly dressed woman who wore heavy makeup to look the age she claimed to be.

His glower deepened, and Fumito's lips tightened.

Having received her answer from that response, she asked the next question. "Will they stay alive?"

Would Rokudo Mukuro stay alive?

He could have excused the defeat, put fault to that ridiculous disease and the pink petals that triggered it. He could claim the handicap as the reason to his injuries, and loss.

He could, if he was anyone but Hibari Kyoya.

Kyoya despised Rokudo Mukuro, for using what wasn't real to settle the fight and daring to think that it would be enough to hold him down the next time. He was strong, that he would acknowledge, but he despised him.

He narrowed his eyes. His mother asked two things. If he wanted to keep Rokudo Mukuro alive, or if it happened to be that he could not end the man himself.

The former was not something he would consider. He would bite Rokudo Mukuro to death.

The latter was merely a question of when. He did not need the assistance she offered him.

"No."

Fumito exhaled, and his face lost the wooden quality. The frowns in Father's face smoothed out until it was just the usual lines around his eyes. Mother nodded.

"I'll go speak with the doctor," she said softly, the silk covering her steel again, and the demure mask that almost covered up her true personality, just enough to fool duller herbivores returned.

Father nodded at him and left without a word at her side. Left behind, Fumito took a seat on the bed and sighed quietly, before smiling at Kyoya.

"What do you want for lunch?" he asked, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves, playing at a man relaxed.

"Sushi." He had no intention of eating the hospital food.

Fumito hummed. "TakeSushi's closed today. How about hamburger steak instead?"

That was acceptable. Kyoya nodded.

Most days, Bianchi didn't regret leaving to be a hitman before her mother could impart all her knowledge. Some might say it was foolish, when the expert in the field was her own mother and willing teacher, to not take advantage of what she had been given, but they didn't realize.

Or rather, they didn't understand – that while Bianchi had inherited much from her mother, like her appearance and magical talent, she was her own person. She wasn't interested in being the second coming of the Scorpion, the master of potions and poisons. She wasn't interested in being the next head of her mother's coven.

She needed to forge her own path, and she couldn't do that if she just followed her mother.

Monica had respected her wishes and given her freedom, reminding her father when he protested that he still owed her for Lavina and Hayato. He had quietened after that, and Monica merely gave Bianchi her blessings and told her to call if she needed anything as if the air wasn't suddenly stiff on both Bianchi and her father's sides.

It was only slightly spoiled by the fact that Monica used her brother as blackmail, but it was still an expression of love.

Bianchi called regularly. Not often, but enough, mostly to keep in touch with her mother. She didn't mind being the Poison Scorpion, because she liked scorpions and she respected her mother, and she was being her own person, and it wasn't something like the Second Scorpion or Scorpion Junior. The life of a hitman was a dangerous one, but it was hers, and it was worth it. She fell in love, explored becoming herself, got a tattoo – not in that order. The first and last brought Monica's disapproval, but the second gave her the ability to shrug it off.

Hearing from the ranking prince himself that she was third most dangerous in the ranks of the most poisonous killing techniques had made her proud. On the top of that list, of course, had been her mother, and that was a goal to reach and surpass, but still – third. She had been so proud.

And gotten complacent. Rokudo Mukuro got her and she couldn't even do her job properly. Reborn was happy because opportunity for a student, great, but Bianchi wasn't.

Monica hummed after hearing everything Bianchi told her. It wasn't in full detail – she did, after all, have to keep certain things secret – but the key elements had been relayed.

"Do you want to come back?" Monica offered at last.

Did she want to go back, learn more from her mother so that the next time, she wouldn't be so easily placed under contract?

A part of her said yes. It was embarrassing, a strike to her pride, and Bianchi bristled that she had fallen for such a trick. Only Reborn saying that even he hadn't seen such a synchronicity to the bullets appeased her, and even then only somewhat, because that was no excuse.

Bianchi loved her family. She loved her father, loved her mother, and loved her brother.

But the reason for that was because they were family, and they hadn't yet given her a reason to consider them as . . . not.

Was she aware of how imperfect they all were – herself included? Every day. Her father cheated on her mother, and while their union hadn't been of love, there had been trust, and a promise, and it had been broken terribly.

Her mother was always so busy – with the Family, with the coven – that time together was precious and few. The majority of their interactions that Bianchi remembered were all lessons on magic.

And Hayato –

Bianchi sighed. It was one thing to know there was something odd, something not – optimal – and another thing entirely to see and experience for herself something better. Warmer.

She would be lying if she said that she didn't like Sawada Nana, and the Sawada household. That it didn't feel like a home, that she didn't safe in it. Safe. That she didn't envy Tsuna even when he was scolded, because there was proximity there, a warm concern.

Not the distance she had grown up with. Monica was content that Bianchi had been born with her talent in magic, and so long as Bianchi accepted that part of herself – which she did, wholeheartedly – and she was healthy and alive, Monica had no concerns. She told her and Hayato stories of the occult when they were young, and every interaction had a lesson taught towards her true love.

Her true love had always been, and always would be, magic.

Bianchi tried cracking a joke, because she didn't really want to think about how her mother did love her, just that the half of what made her was a reminder of a man who broke a promise with a cunning woman who held her grudges and let them fuel her poison and that would never change no matter what she did. "I'm still in the middle of a job, so I was hoping for something like a few grimoires or tips. Like homeschooling."

Monica hummed, the pitch that of disappointed disapproval.

She threw down the next card she had. "There's also someone you might be interested in."

The head of a coven who had married to secure fellow cunning folk expressed her interest, and Bianchi told her all about the young hitman with a lot of raw potential despite never having been taught the ways of the cunning folk. Bianchi had no qualms about throwing M.M. under the charging chariot that was Monica.

"And she's currently held by the Vindice?" There were two ways that tone could be interpreted, since Bianchi couldn't see the face Monica was making. It could be that she was expressing no desire to get involved with the Vindice, or that she couldn't believe Bianchi was offering someone in the custody of the Vindice as a bargaining chip, a possible future student.

Which was fair. It was the Vindice.

"Can't get more desperate than that," Bianchi pointed out. And she was getting pretty desperate too, if she was suggesting her mother make a deal with the Vindice to get a prisoner into her custody to take as a student. Gods, but she sounded so insane when she put it that way.

There was a moment of silence, and then –

"I'll send some books from my personal collection over," said Monica. "We will talk more when you have more time so I can give you advice tailor-suited to your current skill level. You should also consider interacting with some locals, see if you can learn new things and fit it into your own practice."

Inwardly, Bianchi cheered.

It was before twilight when they escaped, that short span of time between day and night when no sun hung in the sky, and yet, the entire world was not fully dark. L'heure entre chien et loup, that hour between the dog and the wolf – when, in the horizon, the twilight didn't let the eye make out in certain detail whether that canine figure in the distance was the dog or the wolf.

Friend, a dog he could trust, or foe, a hungry beast that would sink its fangs into his throat.

The time was thus so that the sky, dimly illuminated with no sun in sight, looked so broad and wide that if he wasn't in the middle of breaking out of the Vindice's prison, Mukuro might have taken a moment to observe it.

Observe the sky. What an out-of-character thing for him to do. He hadn't observed the sky, or anything not relevant in his quest of destruction, not for years, not since the Estra Neo's experiments.

Even in this dim light, though, Mukuro wouldn't have difficulty telling apart his dogs and wolves. The only two he would ever consider his dogs were at his side, in the same white garbs of prisoners as he.

The wolves were in pursuit, and they would catch up. And this time, due to their record, the Vindice's security on them would increase, because Rokudo Mukuro had made fools of them twice now.

Mukuro held no love for the Vindice, just like the mafia, but he could admit to their skill. It had been hard enough escaping, and he could feel the plan falling through, breaking down.

What would he have done, before? Back when he hadn't spared the sky a glance, too focused on destruction, on spreading the pain he felt inside to the filth of the world?

He would have used everything at his command and slipped away. Ken, Chikusa, his own body. 'Live', as a ghastly spirit haunting and possessing other bodies to carry out his goal until he succeeded, or until he disappeared.

And now?

It hadn't mattered to Mukuro, once, about whether that silhouette in the distant horizon was a dog or a wolf. Everyone was an enemy to him, a wolf that would kill him if he didn't first kill it.

But in the dark of the night a full moon's light had broken the shadows and lit a wolf's shape for him clearly, and the wolf hadn't ripped him to shreds.

Even if he could have. Even if he could have ended Mukuro then and there.

And Mukuro was in twilight, uncertain about that one figure, unable to fully define Sawada Tsunayoshi as a wolf or a dog.

For now.

"What do we do, Mukuro-san?" asked Ken. His breath was heavy from exertion, and beads of sweat ran down his face. Chikusa was in a similar condition, and he saved his breath, not bothering to use them on repeating the question.

Sawada Tsunayoshi wasn't a dog, but he wasn't a wolf, either. Or maybe he was just going about this the wrong way, using comparisons that didn't fit. Metaphors only went so far, after all – eventually, they fell over, because a symbol could never fully represent the whole thing.

Even as part of him waxed poetics, Mukuro was focused as needed on the task at hand. The Vindice were not to be underestimated, after all, and Mukuro had not just himself, but two others with him.

His dogs. The two that would not bare their fangs at him.

And maybe it was that the canine figure in the twilight wasn't a dog or a wolf, but rather a fox, who taught the little prince on what it meant to change, through interactions with others.

Mukuro came up with a plan, hinging on the bruised pride of the Vindice, his talents, and Ken and Chikusa. Tired as they were, they'd been through worse. They, all three of them, had known worse. Back when they were younger, more powerless, more vulnerable.

This?

Mukuro briefly thought about dying and being reborn on the same cold, sterile metal table, the pain of the soul and body screaming for it all to stop, the limbo of Hades he slipped into when he wasn't fully dead.

'Living', since the destruction of the Estraneo, in a blood-tinged haze. A zombie animated only by the vicious desire for vengeance against this world and everything in it. Always on the edge of madness, too much of the abyss between his body and soul for him to truly be himself more than he was a vessel for hell.

Until he lost, was stopped and not killed, but was still reborn. And everything changed – both externally, as in his new place of residence he was currently fleeing, and internally, as in his newly settled soul.

And had he ever felt saner than he did now, more alive?

Something in him sparked, and it was a pleasant, almost exhilarating feeling.

"We separate," he answered as the last dim light of twilight ended. The hour of the dog and wolf was up.

The ghosts of his hells did not haunt him now. There were no screams in his ear, no dissociation from his own body, no feeling of being tied to his body with a tether that could slip loose any moment.

He was his own, in a way he had never been since he was Rokudo Mukuro. He was alive, in a way that he had never been.

Ken and Chikusa protested, loyal beings that they were, and that solidified Mukuro's decision. They would faithfully wait for him in freedom, hidden and serving as his hands where he couldn't.

"You'll only get in my way," he said confidently, because if a lie was told with enough conviction, it could pass as the truth.

That was how illusions became reality.

They were reluctant to flee without him. Perhaps he wasn't as good as a liar as he was to them, or maybe they just knew him too well to fall for the lie, but they wouldn't disobey his orders, and so Ken and Chikusa fled.

Admittedly, it wasn't much of a plan, and that, with the lack of resources he had at his disposal, the only thing Mukuro could aim for was buying time.

If he had aimed for victory, he would have lost. Not letting their guard down around him, the three guards pursing them focused on him, and him only.

Mukuro put up a fight to prove it was actually him, present here and now, but surrendered when he saw no other way to keep himself from grievous injuries.

"You stayed behind so your subordinates could escape," said the Vindice who captured him when his illusions gave way. Sharp, as expected of those that guarded the impregnable fortress. Their reputation was well-earned.

"Should we pursue the other two?" asked the one furthest from him, dark cloak swirling around him. Mukuro kept his head down and didn't react. It wasn't hard, the cuff was heavy around his neck and pressed him down.

"No," said the one holding him, after an eternity of a moment. "This one is the mastermind. Without him they are nothing."

He gambled himself and won.

Contrary to popular belief, the Vindice's prison wasn't as impregnable as the mafia seemed to believe.

Yes, the penitentiary was impressive, but it was more the reputation of the Vindice that made it so infamous. It was rather hard to escape the avengers that could appear without warning.

Unless one had been deceiving them for centuries and had been wandering in and out of the prison since they built it. In which case the prison was less a place to be feared and avoided at all cost and more a place to be visited periodically, like the bank. Secretly, of course, because he was never invited, but periodically. Even if he never used it, Acheron registered it into his mind as a backup, had ever since the Vindice made it in the hopes of catching him.

A bank. Technically, the 'tellers' were eager to see him again for business, so it was an apt metaphor.

Acheron usually visited the Vindice prison for Arcobaleno-related purposes. The Vindice knew that his primary target for Arcobaleno were criminals with powerful Flames – the same as they had been, once. They made an effort to keep an eye and control over possible candidates by declaring themselves the law keepers of the mafia.

(Which was funny, in the way the most ironic of things were. That the ghosts of those who had once been the worst of the worst would declare themselves keepers of law and order, even among the mafia. Ha. Ha ha. Ha.

His own ghosts would have laughed at this. Or maybe they would have wept for the ones that couldn't move on, the ones that were seized in hatred towards the sins he carried as the representatives of the fourteen that had tried so hard to keep the world alive with the fewest sacrifices.)

A part of him applauded their resolution, strong enough to defy death and continue their hatred for centuries, taking on their positions all for the sake of finding him. Back when Bermuda first survived and began gathering others to join his crusade, Acheron had moved to kill them, only to be stopped by Sephira.

(He had been alive for over a thousand years, they – those that were still alive – all were, and from the first time when they started the ritual of the rainbow Acheron knew he would gladly get his own hands dirty a hundred, a thousand times if it meant he could take a load off Sephira's shoulders.

He had been tired, and worn, and shaking with guilt and grief and disgust, but whatever he felt would have been a thousand times worse for Sephira, and he couldn't see her be crushed by the weight of the world.

He couldn't.)

What face would the proud avenger make, if he knew that the reason why he and his merry band of vengeful mummies were only alive because of the words of an unconditionally loving woman who accepted the death he couldn't? Because his desperate struggle and self-immolation with the Flame of the Night like a corrupted phoenix reminded her of when she herself defied destruction and transcended? Because she was always in awe of life, always appreciated the beauty of every single, unique life despite their numbering in the billions?

That even if it was foolish, the grudge more harmful than beneficial, Sephira wished they would be able to find release themselves instead of continuing to suffer under the weight of vengeance?

Maybe one day he would tell them the whole story and ask the question, just to see what the answer was. He could just wipe their memories afterwards.

(Sephira stopped him, merciful and benevolent and unable to give up on those she saw as having wronged – even if it was the choice that led to the least loss of life, she took that burden upon herself, bore that guilt on top of everything else she already carried.)

His mood soured. Or maybe he wouldn't, because it didn't matter.

An illusion cast over himself, the cameras, and all the minds of the Vindice, Acheron slipped into the penitentiary. He had been here just a few days ago, to see why the former Arcobaleno were stirring. Once he realized it was because of a jailbreak, Acheron had lost interest. Yes, they were coming to Namimori, but that was because of the Vongola Decimo being the eye of the storm. Nothing he would need to worry about, Acheron had thought.

Proof that he was not a seer was thrown in his face, though it wasn't as painful as actual vitriolage. The future brought results different from what he expected, and there was, in fact, a cause for worry related to the cloaked avengers haunting this world, looking for his alternate persona.

Today he wasn't here to look for potential Arcobaleno candidates – a habit, to make sure there were always at least three possible candidates for each Flame, because he had already failed once and he learned from his mistake and the loss it brought him – or to see what the Vindice were up to. He'd end up doing that, because he liked to be efficient, but that was on the side.

Today Acheron's main purpose was to see a trio of prisoners he would normally never even bother giving a glance towards. They lacked the resolve for the Flames he looked for and weren't important or related to any of his businesses.

Until they became involved. And with their involvement, so too did he.

Acheron personally liked to think he wasn't very vengeful. At least, not anymore. Peitho had always said so, as she taught him how to fight battles of social interactions, how to cut someone to shreds with a verbal blade. But she had acknowledged that he was pragmatic, and that he did what was necessary at the end of the day and declared his lessons complete centuries before she died.

(But then again Peitho always returned the favor sevenfold, minimum, to both boons and insults, so maybe he was vengeful, just not as much as Peitho.)

Would this be considered vengeance, then? The man and his underlings were already in prison. The strongest, most feared prison in the world, at that. Regardless of the weight of their crimes, to take a life was always with consequences.

Acheron looked down at the frail man, and the twin hitmen, and then reached out to touch their foreheads, brushing his fingertips against each of them.

The Vindice called themselves the law-keepers, but truth be told, they were hardly keepers of justice. They might have gotten a little too into the role of inflicting terror – poor taste, truly – but their main goal had never changed, ever since Bermuda Von Beckenstein filled his dying body with black Flames not of the original seven. They went after those they knew he would most likely pick, those that might be conventionally called 'evil', for their crimes, their twisted minds, their resolve turned to harm, and it wasn't difficult for the Vindice to find them.

After all, like recognized like, and they had centuries to perfect their profiling.

They arrested Rokudo Mukuro because of the potential he showed, the power he had, the havoc he had wreaked. It wasn't wrong, per say, on their part. Acheron now had him on the list of potential Arcobaleno he kept just in case. But it was only now. Before his run-in with Sawada Tsunayoshi, Acheron hadn't given the cursed boy more than a second glance. His soul was too disconnected from his body, his mind too entrapped by the torture he'd been through. His resolve was too brittle.

Acheron sighed as all traces of Tomoe Hotaru were erased from the minds of the hitmen, the process not gentle or careful in any way. They had minimal memories of her, but it never hurt to be thorough. Well, it didn't hurt anyone except these three to be thorough.

With that business done, he went to check on those in the deepest cells of his prison. A walking corpse, essentially, was all Rokudo Mukuro had been. A zombie, not unlike the Vindice themselves. Living while possessed by the influences of the world of the dead, a victim-turned-perpetrator, one that would not become a perpetrator-turned victim like the involuntary Arcobaleno.

And yet. And yet.

He drifted down the halls, to the deepest prisons. Rokudo Mukuro had escaped yet again, taking with him Joshima Ken and Kakimoto Chikusa. The Vindice were in pursuit now, and if Acheron was to make a bet, he would place his money on the undead keepers of 'justice'. Someone like Rokudo Mukuro? The Vindice would likely place in the underwater cell, keeping him held under strict watch in the hopes of drawing in the altered ego he wore when he cursed them.

Bait. An effective one, because unlike before Rokudo Mukuro was now truly someone he would keep on the list, if only out of habit.

The blessing given by the princess of the moon all those years ago had finally come into effect, clearing the harm done to Rokudo Mukuro and re-establishing the frayed bond between body and soul, leaving him stronger, far more stable than he had been.

A miracle, and neither Rokudo Mukuro nor Sawada Tsunayoshi would ever know what truly happened, what it meant.

Only Acheron, who had all the puzzle pieces, could understand the how and why.

Sephira always kept her promises, and proof of it took place indirectly in a way Acheron hadn't dreamed of. Like a Rube Goldberg machine, going roundabout in a way that seemed completely unrelated and irrelevant to the end objective. Almost unnecessary.

He wouldn't deny that a part of him had been foolish enough to hope she would – somehow – return from the dead and fulfill the promise she made Giotto.

Just like Acheron had hoped, when Chiba Mamoru was born and the Arcobaleno were needed for the first time in nearly two hundred years. Just like he had hoped when the sailor soldiers began to awaken to face the threats closing onto Earth. Just like he had hoped when Chiba Mamoru was murdered by Sailor Galaxia, and the Golden Crystal taken.

Just like those times, he was left disappointed by the reality that Sephira was not resurrected, or reborn, or returned. And though he was used to the feeling, it still left him crushed.

(And really, Acheron shouldn't have been – because Sephira had never promised that she would come back, and he knew it. Knew why.

But still.

He hoped, and he hurt.)

"You may call me a genius," crackled the voice of their tech support over the phone on speaker. "Well, us. Tarragon was pretty damn awesome, too, so she can also be called a genius."

"What did you find?" Iemitsu asked, because left to his own devices, Sorrel would go off on a tangent. He needed to be pulled back in.

"Well, first, Tomoe Hotaru. Boring life, clean stuff. Too clean, you know? But nothing that can really be picked out because there is a bit of a paper trail, even for a – I'm probably butchering this but let me try – hikikomori. How'd I do?"

"Not bad."

"Thanks." Iemitsu could hear his best hacker preening over the phone. "So, Hiki-girl, but otherwise nothing wrong with records, I suppose. Suspicious, but nothing solid to pick at, because rather suspiciously her parents were also rather reclusive before they died. Rrgh."

That was him being dramatic. Iemitsu waited, giving him time to unveil his findings. It was faster this way.

"So. Evidence tells me there's nothing to look at, but my gut instincts are like, bitch please? Which means I can't not scratch that itch. I dig into the people around her, because fine, if you're going to be all mysterious on me, I'll take the long way and make it more fun. The journey, not the destination. I probably used that idiom wrong but screw it. See the screen?"

On his screen – and on Oregano's and Turmeric's – appeared the pictures of the three women said to be Tomoe's parents. Adopted, legal guardians, but considered parents by the girl.

"Tomoe Riku and Tomoe Keiko were out – nothing I could get about them worth something at first, second and third glances, at least not without Tarragon checking anyone who knew them in person, which was just going to take way too long. But these three are still alive and they have a far better trail left behind, and you know I love myself a quick payoff. Did some cracking, fascinating ladies achieving things, can I get a yaaas, queen?"

Basil wasn't here to be an obliging audience, which meant that Oregano and Turmeric silently argued with their eyes before Turmeric lost, as was inevitable. He did put up a good three seconds of struggling for the sake of his dignity, which was more than most of CEDEF could say.

"Yaaas, queen," he said flatly, looking like he wanted lightning to strike him dead that very moment.

"Sing it like you mean it, brother, because these queens deserve it. Tenou is a hella fast car racer who's got fans that could probably circle Tokyo a few times if you lined them all up. Kaiou made a name for herself through her magical playing – seriously, the reviews that are left on her performance are always like 'it's magical' and 'amazing' and 'enchanting' and I'm not a classical person, I'll admit, but she's good – and she's rich, on top of that, like a princess or something. And Meiou, like, damn girl, she's got herself a doctorate in theoretical physics, something involving time and space and stuff – her thesis and some papers she's written are on your screens – and she's also into fashion design. Her grandfather's a famous designer, been to New York and Paris and all the snazzy fashion cities for the shows. I have her portfolio too, though she hasn't been as active on the fashion front recently."

Oregano narrowed her eyes. "We've already established this in our first background check."

"I know, I did some of the work for it, like hello? I checked more, and I mean more. Went back to the good old days, of high school, which I assume was not like Mean Girls for these badass ladies. Tenou and Kaiou are together – like, the ideal butch and femme couple, I can't even at how perfect they look together – and have been since high school, when they first met. Now, they both graduated from this place called 'Juban Municipal High School', but! But, but, but! They did not originally attend this school!"

Several articles about 'Mugen Academy' came up on screen. One of the articles was about the academy being permanently closed after severe damages to its campus, which had fortunately been empty of students at the time of its destruction.

"'Disappearances'?" Turmeric read the cause for the school having been closed before it was destroyed and shut down for good. "Of students?"

"Mm-hm. Fancy school where a lot of celebs and talented kids went, couldn't have its students just vanishing, so they closed it while investigations were going on and then all of a sudden, freak storm in Juban and boom, the delta district the school was in is wrecked, campus taking the direct hit and being utterly destroyed, business is over, nothing else to see here folks, move on – and the masses did because you know, it's been years and no one cares. Now, that's all fascinating, yes, I agree, but. Mugen Academy – 'infinity academy', nice, nice – was a place where a lot of talented kids attended, our dear Tenou and Kaiou included. I'm talking idols, sports stars, geniuses – genii? Whatever. You name talent, they have it. Had."

Pictures of students in uniform appeared, and though their faces were younger, they could recognize Tenou Haruka and Kaiou Michiru.

"Meiou herself did not attend, but she was a student – first year – at KO University, really close to the delta where the academy is at the time. The name of the three buildings on the corners of the delta at the time, though, were the same as the family names of the ladies. Can our local Japanese man tell us the meaning of these surnames, please?"

Tenou, Kaiou, Meiou. "Heavenly King, Ocean King, Dark King."

"Edgy," commented Sorrel. "Like the three ho-loving bros of Greek myths. Zeus, Poseidon and Hades. My favorite was Hades. All three were rapists and dicks, but at least the last one was less dicky than his bros."

"Uranus," muttered Iemitsu, mind flying back to something else.

"No, Boss, that's Grandpa dearest. He's the dick that got his actual dick cut off by his son, who was also a dick because he tried to eat his own children but then got overthrown by his son, king-dick-the-third, in some delicious dicking karma. Or, well, I guess more of an asshole."

"I'm not talking about the myths," Iemitsu said, even though he was unsure as to why he felt this was important to mention. His Hyper Intuition was strongest in a fight, and even now it was faint, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was important. "Tenou-sei, Kaiou-sei, Meiou-sei. Those three buildings were likely named after the Japanese names for Uranus, Neptune and Pluto – the planets."

Sorrel paused as he processed that. "Huh. Learn something new every day."

There was nothing more that he could get, though, and Iemitsu gave up, deciding to file that away for later. "Is there more to this?"

"Unfortunately, other than the ladies having lived in the buildings with their respective names – I don't know why, but I don't blame them for wanting to live in the building literally named after them, because if there was a place with my name I'd live in the basement next to the boiler if I had to – there's no further connections. You want to know the name of the principal and owner of the academy when the school was closed, though?"

Sorrel sounded gleeful, and he didn't wait until any of them had replied before a profile of a man with white hair in a lab coat came up on-screen. His face was set sternly – a cold look, that of someone who spared little warmth to anyone. He wore glasses, but one of the lenses – the one over his right eye – was covered. A gadget of sorts, maybe.

"Tomoe Souichi. A charming – I say this full of irony and sarcasm, for anyone not fluent in my native tongue – scientist kicked out of the scientific community for his unfortunate habits in unethical experimentation on his quest for super life. Isn't that family name a little familiar? Can I hear a what-what?"

Iemitsu raised an eyebrow. "Tell me you didn't bring this to our attention just because of a shared last name."

"You insult me, oh great leader mine." There was no real malice or insult in Sorrel's voice, just playfulness. "You speak to a pro. I needed more tangible evidence, so I dug like a bit – not even all that hard, you know – and pop! Like squeezing a zit, hit the motherload, the crowd goes wild! He had family. I say had, because his wife died a few years before he and his daughter did."

Two more profiles came up. A wife – Tomoe Keiko, which might have drawn Iemitsu's attention had it not already been taken up by the picture of the other profile. A daughter, who looked almost identical to the girl that had become friends with his son, give or take a few years. The same girl with a mysterious past and powers that weren't Flames, from what Reborn could discern.

"Her name?" whispered Sorrel, even though everyone could read it for themselves. "Tomoe Hotaru. Cue the dramatic leitmotif and me mic-dropping and moonwalking out. Praise me, I totally deserve it."

Oregano adjusted her glasses as she read through the reports. "Her birthday's the same, just different years," she pointed out. "And – she and her father both died in the school's collapse?"

"Coroner's report was fairly straightforward, death due to being crushed by falling rubble, cremated pretty soon after. Same with the father. Honestly, the guy was not nice, and not just because of what I'm going to share with you shortly after. Tomoe Souichi had a reputation for being a creepy person – like, mad scientist type, y'know? The whole reason why he got expelled from the scientific community was because of repeated cruel experiments on animals and his push for further experimentations on people for the sake of science, or as I feel like it should be said in this case, 'Science!'"

"What else?" Iemitsu pressed. Mysterious ages? Fine, he could deal with that, he knew about Arcobaleno and the presence of mysterious things in this world. What he wanted to know was how this might threaten his family.

"Well, Tarragon was about to head to Japan after she finished her work digging into the Estraneo because of Rokudo effing Mukuro, trying to see if there's anything we can work with on that end – you really picked a wild card as a candidate, BTW, chief, he might make or break your son, and as a betting man I'm leaning more towards 'break' at this point cuz he is so cray – when she found a very interesting name that we've seen before."

Information regarding the Estraneo's research were near-impossible to find. They had been destroyed, along with the family, by the boy now revealed to be Rokudo Mukuro in vengeance. Rather than focus on tracking the destroyed evidence of humanity's greed and potential for terrible tragedies, Tarragon had dug instead into the family's dealings prior to their banishment from the community. Not the content, but what helped the content come to be.

She tracked the path of the money.

"Tarragon found that one of the reasons why Lancia's family was targeted was because an underboss got involved with the Estraneo – and by involved, I mean funded their research. At least, that's what she thinks, because following that trend, the families that were attacked by Lancia – under Rokudo's control – had some kind of connection to the Estraneo. Give the lady a bonus, she did some incredible work, boss."

"She always does, as do you."

Sorrel paused, as he always did when met with a genuine compliment, chatter replaced with awkward silence. "Err. Thanks. Um. Well, anyways, she found an interesting name in where they spent their money. A huge chunk of their finances – like, I'm talking, arm and leg made of diamond kind of money – was paid to a Tomoe Souichi for 'consultation fees'. Three guesses to what for and the first two don't count."

"Research about biological experimentations," deduced Oregano, troubled by the conclusions she drew. She wasn't alone in that. From Reborn's reports, they'd already seen the kind of results such things could bring, the danger it signified.

"I love working with smart people, it makes my job so much more fun when they keep up with my brilliance," said Sorrel with a sigh. "Found a connection with the Machina Family's past records, when I checked just in case, by the way. Tomoe Souichi might have passed away a few years back but man, was his research wanted. Remember how the Machina family tried to make a move into Japan some years back?"

Iemitsu did. Nono had commissioned Reborn to deal with them before they could, trying to not reveal the connection between Iemitsu and the Sawada family in Namimori. Tsuna had still been a baby, and back then it had looked like his son could live a peaceful life not filled with blood and death like his.

Back then, Matteo had been alive, and Gabriel hadn't hated his guts.

"That might have actually been because of the illustrious Professor Tomoe," Sorrel said. "They just wanted to snag up the professor and convince him to join the machine side because they have computer chip cookies or something. They probably didn't even know about your family, boss-man. I'd say we owe them an apology except we really don't, they were dicks, and everyone knew it."

Turmeric raised his eyes, somber and serious. "Tomoe's connection?"

"Speculation at this point, but let's be real, does that look like coincidence to you?" In his mind's eye, Iemitsu could see Sorrel waving his hands at the computer screen like the pixels spoke for themselves. "A girl whose legal guardians coincidentally have connections to a school owned by a creepy scientist with a daughter coincidentally sharing the same name and god-damn appearance? Even their birthday's the same, for crying out loud, just ten years apart! A girl with connections to a Famiglia that experimented on and was consequentially slaughtered by a guy who just so coincidentally went after the next boss of the Vongola?"

Sorrel inhaled sharply at the end of that long rant, replenishing the air voided from his lungs. "I. Think. Not. And you can fight me on this."

"Preaching to the choir," Iemitsu said, mind racing. The most dangerous enemies weren't the ones that approached head-on, like Joshima Ken or Kakimoto Chikusa, or even the ones that outright tried something like Rokudo Mukuro. If Tomoe Hotaru had ulterior motives to approaching his son as a friend, then the outcome could be disastrous.

But that was the life he had condemned his son to, wasn't it? The legacy he had left him. Not the protection he had wanted for him, or a normal life. A path of blood and pain and darkness, one he would be forced to walk just because of his father and the blood that ran in his veins.

Iemitsu had failed several times in his life, but this was the worst of his failures.

Sorrel wasn't done. "More about Tomoe Hotaru – the 'dead' one, air quotes, coming up."

Accident – fire – that left her severely injured, though the hospital records were rather bare after those claims. Mother lost in the same accident, raised by father. Attended Mugen Academy, good grades but no social life until her death, or any activities, clubs or otherwise.

"Her father was the one providing medical care to her," said Sorrel. "Which sounds like a fantastic idea to me, no red flags in ethics popping up there. No records of just what kind of care he provided to her and given his field of expertise we don't want to assume anything except, you know, the worst, but Tarragon thinks she was also bullied in school."

That was a change in subject. "Explain?"

"She interviewed a few of Tomoe's classmates after I tracked them down, 'convinced' them to spill what they really thought, instead of beautifying their memories with the dead – death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders and all that – or lying their faces off trying to look like they weren't bloodthirsty bitches being bullies. Tomoe was pretty 'freaky', according to them, because her dad was a known weirdo and she always wore dark clothes or clothes that covered up everything and she was always sick."

Wearing dark, covering clothes to hide wounds were something all of CEDEF's field agents were unfortunately familiar with. "With what?"

"They didn't know, just said that she was super frail and stuff. Poor health." Sorrel huffed. "Cuz, you know, building full of fire wouldn't burn any skin or damage lungs, right?"

And Tomoe Hotaru – the one in Namimori – had also suffered from poor health until recently. With the power to erase burns by healing them.

There were just too many snags for it to be brushed off as a mere coincidence.

"Here's my theory," Sorrel offered, perhaps as a way to decrease tension, or perhaps just to throw in his own two cents on top of the bank load he had spilled. "The original Tomoe Hotaru died. Or, or, or, she was sick and stuff, or severely injured from the accident. So, Tomoe Souichi, using his highly unethical science and data gathered from experimentations, made a clone of his daughter with the intention of replacing her organs once the clone had aged enough, and maybe added some powers with his research into super life forms or something, like accelerated healing abilities or something else."

What did it say about his life, Iemitsu thought, that this wild theory Sorrel was spinning off honestly didn't sound implausible? He had to remind himself to not get set preconceptions.

"Then, the accident happened, and both he and the original died, and the clone was taken by Tenou and Kaiou and Meiou, to be raised in a normal life. Heck, maybe the accident itself was the original girl just snapping from the stress of bullies and pulling a Carrie. Except, you know, not going after the people who actually drove her to do it. Or didn't she?"

"Sorrel," said Turmeric, a warning tone in his voice. Sorrel was good at what he did – that is to say, hacking and analyzing information – but he also did have a bit of a wild imagination, and he sometimes let that bias cloud his eyes. It didn't help that he loved conspiracies, and that he dealt with information that was sometimes even more outlandish than any conspiracy theories. "No conjectures."

"What? The timeline fits! It fits so perfectly that I can't not believe this to be real! Don't you shake your head and cluck your tongue at me, you blockhead! Use your imagination!"

Oregano eyed him in concern as Sorrel and Turmeric bickered over the line. He had already been intending on heading to Namimori to give the rings to Tsuna, but now he had another reason.

What did he know, for certain? Reborn had assessed Tomoe Hotaru to be genuinely fond of Tsuna, and if that was all he needed, Iemitsu might have been able to make himself relax.

But Tomoe Hotaru had too much unknown variables about her, and Iemitsu could not take the chance of relying on an unknown's fondness alone for his son's safety.

"Get a copy of this report to Reborn," he said at last. "And keep us updated."

They were going to have to check everyone, dig even further than they had in the preliminary searches. Reborn was annoyed that they hadn't noticed this, Lal was annoyed that Reborn was being pissy, and CEDEF was annoyed – in the way one was annoyed when their jobs were just quadrupled in amount and they had several all-nighters to look forward to – so it would be a fun couple of weeks, just like it had been since Rokudo Mukuro.

No rest for the wicked.

"Roger that, chief."

"Illusions," Mukuro whispered. "Are a fight with not just your opponent, but reality itself."

He was the first person to tell her that he needed her, the first person to ever say such a thing – to find and define a worth in her that no one else, not even the mother who had given birth to her or herself – had been able to find until her death.

Fujiwara Nagi died, Chrome Dokuro was born, and without Rokudo Mukuro, Chrome Dokuro could not exist.

He praised her when she met his expectations, gently corrected her when she made mistakes, and gave her a meaning in herself.

She was enough, he said. She was needed, he told her.

And he hadn't lied to her. It had not been in reality they met, but he gave her a reality of her own.

"The best illusionists are those who have a reality – something that can ground them and keep their own senses from being lost in the illusions they weave." He chuckled. "After all, if you are lost to the illusions, then you are merely caught up in a dream you cannot control."

It didn't have to be anything big, he said, or intricate. And yet, it should be significant, and important.

Mukuro became her first reality, and after meeting them, because of the shared connection to the imprisoned man that was their light and reason for living, Ken and Chikusa.

Her master laughed when she told him this. Clutching at his sides, even though they could not hurt in this dream world they met in and wiping at his eyes, he was filled with mirth, and the memory of that moment was one of Chrome's most cherished treasures. Even if he was like a reflection on the water's surface, something that could never be grabbed, and she had never met him, there was something connecting them, a bond that transcended the physical realm.

It just was, and Chrome relished the bond grounding her to reality.

"What's your reality?" Chrome once dared to ask. Maybe a part of her hoped that his reality was her. The more realistic – but still dreaming – part of her said that it would likely be Ken and Chikusa. Still dreaming, because maybe one day she, too, could be what he used to define reality by. Be that significant to him. Be useful, have a purpose.

A pensive light crossed his face. "It used to be pain."

Pain. The sharp, crushing pain of the accident was still fresh in her mind, as was the empty feeling when her master's illusions were gone, and her body started to fail. The long, drawn-out pain of being alone, being ignored, being stifled – like being lost, unable to find the light in a dark tunnel no matter how much she ran, how much she reached out.

Those, Chrome thought, could easily be reality. But it would be a reality she would want to deny, a reality she would not be drawn to over her illusions.

A reality that couldn't hold her by any other way except brute force.

"And now . . ." he trailed off. "And now, I suppose it is something else."

She did not ask again, only continued to work harder so that she could be of better use.

The lesson today was on history – the history of the Golden Kingdom, and more specifically, about the temple of Elysion.

"While it has been refurnished and rebuilt over the centuries," said his tutor, an old man with a silvered beard that was carefully groomed. "The temple was first established by King Aeneas, shortly after his marriage to Queen Lavinia and his creating the Golden Kingdom."

Endymion listened, eager to hear more. The temple was a mystery, and its priests hidden. Those who entered to take the robes were not permitted out until they were of age.

"Unlike most temples at the time – and indeed, even now," continued his tutor. "King Aeneas created the temple of Elysion not to worship or praise the gods of heaven, but rather to venerate those of the earth. He made it clear that it was not the heavens that would decide his path, or that of his kingdom's, but the good earth itself, and his own decisions."

Endymion frowned. "But we pray to the gods."

The older man smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening in mirth and obvious pride. "Indeed, we do. Time changes things, does it not, my prince?"

It did. He scowled slightly.

"How would the earth determine our paths?" he questioned and fought to not flush when his voice broke in the middle of his words. It had been doing that recently, and Father merely laughed when he complained about it, telling him he was becoming a man.

The question was the right one to ask. The old scholar's eyes lit with the passion of one whose interests were deeply vested into the topic.

"There are several different interpretations of the first king's intentions," he explained, and Endymion listened. This was his favorite class, because it had a way of being both informative and interesting. "One is that he wished to reject the thought that fate and destiny were outlined by the heavens and chose the opposite of the heavens."

"The earth," Endymion said aloud.

"Indeed. Another interpretation I've heard is that he did it to stand out among his competitors. Queen Lavinia was the sole daughter to a lord who was much sought after by suitors, and King Aeneas, at the time, was for all his might and strength and wisdom a refugee wandering nomadically. He had to be ambitious and outrageously outstanding, or merely be a beggar seeking out scraps."

Endymion grimaced at the thought of his ancestor being a beggar. "A gamble, then." He could have gained everything – but he also could have lost what little he had. It seemed very unwise, and yet history had remembered him a winner.

A light twinkled in his teacher's eye. "Correct. Sometimes kings must be bold."

And he was to be king. Endymion wondered if he could be that bold. If he could wander lands as a refugee, a leader of other fellow escapees who trusted him with their lives.

He doubted it. Even the closest person to him chose to leave his side, so who could stay with him through everything?

"My favorite interpretation," said his tutor, perhaps sensing that his thoughts had taken a dark turn. "Is that King Aeneas, after witnessing the Fall of Troy and learning the horrors of a war waged in proxy of the gods firsthand, decided that he must be a revolutionary to the fates themselves."

It worked to divert his attentions. Endymion mulled over the words and found himself quite liking them. A revolutionary to the fates. It was very cool.

"And to do so, he gathered in Elysion those with gifts. That is why his preparing for a revolution to start, or at the very least, his stance on fate being in the hands of not gods but the mortals themselves, appeals to me as the best interpretation. At the time, only those who were gifted in some way were raised and trained in Elysion, as if preparing for a war. Over the centuries, the laws have changed so that they are not nearly as exclusive as they were at the start, and those that may have once been guardians gathered against the heavens are now priests who strive to guard our souls, but even to this day, Elysion prefers those with gifts over those without."

Of course they did, Endymion thought glumly. That was why –

And Mamoru woke up from the dream that was more of a memory. His heart pounded, racing like he had been chased.

He nearly stumbled out of bed, reaching for the notebook he kept, the pen between its pages, and desperately scribbled down everything he could remember. His tutor. Aeneas, Lavinia, Elysion. Gifted.

But try as he might, Mamoru could not remember what Endymion had been about to think, what he knew was important.

Elysion. A temple where the gifted went. Mamoru leaned back into his cot and covered his eyes with his forearm.

It was unusual for Basil to be sent somewhere as the sole fighter on a mission. There was his age to account for, sure, but there was also the fact that CEDEF was the only thing that had kept him from being murdered ever since he was seven years old.

When his master told him that he would be carrying the Vongola half-rings in CEDEF's possessions to Japan, to Sawada Tsunayoshi, Basil accepted the critically important mission as what it was – an honor, and a chance to redeem himself to the boy he had robbed of so much.

"I won't let you down," he promised the man who had to give up so much to keep him safe. "I'll protect the rings with my life."

Gabriel hadn't been after him for over a year now, not after the revelation that had been his strike against Sawada Iemitsu. CEDEF wasn't going to let down their guard, but at the same time, why bother going after Basil when Iemitsu's own son was an available target?

His master sighed. "Don't do that," he said at last, and his voice was choked. "Don't die, Basil. Give up the rings if it comes down to them and your life."

They were words that he wanted to hear and felt incredibly – undeservingly – happy to hear. Did it please him to hear that he was worth more than the most valued treasure of the Vongola, the rightful legacy and inheritance of Sawada Tsunayoshi? Shamefully, yes. Very much.

Even if he wasn't going to obey, if it did come down to it. On a set of scales, his life was on one side – and on the other, the life of the person who had lost the most because of his existence. It was the least Basil could offer, if he was to even begin the impossible task of atoning for his sin.

"It won't come down to that," he said instead, not lying but also not admitting to anything. "You should worry about the others. No one will suspect I have the rings, and Tarragon is going with me."

Iemitsu looked pained, and Basil knew he hadn't managed to fool his intuition. Not just that of the Vongola's bloodline, but his insight – the one that had been honed razor sharp during his years of serving the family and fighting with his life on the line.

Basil just smiled instead, because he was of CEDEF, and he was his master's student, and he was not going to lose yet another parent figure.

Being a sailor soldier meant that technically, Ninkilim was the champion embodying her planet. Being champion of Chu, though, guaranteed no great physical prowess. There had never been a Chu known for their physical strength or size, after all.

It did, however, mean that she was guaranteed an abundance of potential in ranking.

And that suited her perfectly fine. Ninkilim loved analyzing information. Call it a stereotype, but that was just how the people of Chu were. Had been.

She sighed and rubbed at her tired eyes. Nabu was right, in saying that he could not leave. The soul reborn as a human was a human now, odd as that was. The past life didn't matter, and the present self was happy where he was.

It would have still been nice, though, to have a pair of hands helping out. There was only so much she could do by herself. Euthalia and Aglaope were busy with bringing life back to their planets, a time-consuming process that left them open to attack. Bastet, Macha, and she were on guard, but Chu's first and foremost strength was always in information. Sailor Mau and Sailor Coronis could be the ones protecting by actually fighting threats that came.

As Sailor Chu, she would arm them with the best weapon she could – information.

Ninkilim focused her efforts on Tau, and not just to repay the favor to the solar system for her old friend. It was close to theirs as well, that wretched, dead star system. A boogeyman for sailor soldiers, the example of what happened when their sailor crystals were swallowed by the darkness of greed without check, to say that Tau was creepy was an understatement.

All that was left in this star system was a graveyard. No future, no potential for life. Dead, and struggling, and hungry.

It took some effort, sneaking there by herself, and she had to borrow quite a few magics from Aglaope and Euthalia to hide her presence, but Ninkilim wasn't Sailor Chu for nothing. Objective information ranked themselves in her head, arranging neat list after list, and Ninkilim wasn't foolish enough to stay around to analyze them where she was. She took what information she could get and left the moment she felt something stirring in the 'dead' star system. She was interested in information, not in being the next example told through hushed stories.

Back in the safety of Fauna, on Chu, Ninkilim sorted out the rankings she gathered and crunched some numbers. It was a fact that Tau had 'life' – under the broad definition of the term – but as she went through the data, Ninkilim grimaced at the picture being painted.

The only 'good' news that her trip had brought her was that Tau wasn't after Fauna. No, Fauna and all its planets – Chu included – were low on the list of Tau's priorities.

It wouldn't be 'good' news for the solar system. It would be terrible news, in fact.

Ninkilim hated being the bearer of bad news.

AN: THANKS FOR REACHING THIS FAR ALSO PLEASE CHECK OUT Palingenesis, it's the Chrome/Hotaru fic that's also a no sailor soldiers AU with 1 chapter so far.

I have been told that the chronological grasshoppering I have going on in my interludes get a little confusing, so this one has most of the events happening in chronological order. Some exceptions but it was easier with this one.

I'm writing Iemitsu and Timoteo while reflecting on my dad, who I thought I resented once. He isn't perfect, and for a while we didn't understand each other because he's bad at communicating and I inherited that, but I realized that I was being a terrible person and he was able to better communicate and clear up misunderstandings and make it clear that he did absolutely love me, he just wasn't good at showing it to us. Love you Dad, please take care of your health I'm scared you're going to die of stress from working too hard. Also stop smoking.

(TL;DR: No bashing, I'm going to try character development for Iemitsu and Timoteo. Let's see how it goes.)

Sorrel and Tarragon are CEDEF OCs and not very important. Gabriel and Matteo are Vongola OCs and are more important. Basil is signed up for regrets and angst.

Hark, is that a hint of SM-brand action? You would be correct, because Senshi stuff should happen.

The theme of this interlude is 'regret'.

Also the interludes are getting longer every time and I joked about it increasing by 2k+ words last time but that actually happened so maybe interlude iv will be 17k+ words warning in advance.

Thank you everyone for one year of support for Petrichor, here's to hoping I can keep it up this coming year too!

+ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+

Hotaru: *actually unaware of just what her father dealt with other than the aliens seeking to destroy the planet, genuinely likes Tsuna because he's a good guy, thinks of him as a friend, has healing powers but also has a lot more, looks like a cinnamon roll but could kill you and the rest of the world if she had to but doesn't want to which makes her a cinnamon roll, I guess*

CEDEF, Reborn: Holy shit she's possibly a human experiment or a shady legacy of a dangerous man, we gotta be on our guard.

+ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+

Sweet Dreams~