Tsuna wasn't a particularly stubborn person. He knew what he was good at, he knew what he was bad at. He didn't have any particularly strong morals that caused him to get into arguments (Like Haru), he wasn't territorial (Like Hibari), he didn't obsess (Like Hayato), he didn't have any ambitions (Like Takeshi or Ryohei), nor was he happy all the time. (Like Kyoko).

But if he decided that he did or didn't want to do something, he was going to do it, regardless of what people thought. (Although, this was probably the sole reason for his laziness and general 'doesn't care' attitude.) Deciding to not be a Mafia Boss was one such example of this.

Deciding to punish the person who put Ryohei in the hospital, was another.

It should also be noted, once again, that Tsuna doesn't obsess. He waits. If there's one thing he's always been able to rely on, it was his instincts and gut feelings. So, he waited for it to tell him something: to let him know when it was time.

In the meantime, he did Reborn's training regime without complaint. Running, dodging, striking, and climbing. (Hibari had helped with this, attacking him for ditching class when he had ran off to go see Ryohei and continuing to attack him every day for his tardiness via baby hitman.) In-between it all, he amused Lambo and visited Ryohei, not able to spare even a second of free time.

Hayato and Takeshi noticed, of course, opting not to interfere as both had been (on separate occasions) in the direct line of sight of Tsuna's determined orange eyes when they had mentioned it.

'No one gets away with hurting my friends.'

Had been the words echoing in their heads ever since. Those words had prompted Takeshi to immediately head to his father after school and beg to be trained in the way of the sword, even if it meant giving up baseball. Those words had spurred Hayato to track down a lazy and perverted doctor to demand more training, flinging lite dynamite as his usual method of persuasion. Those tones morphed from Tsuna's voice to their own, and the words twisted themselves into their own phrases.

So, when asked why they wanted to train so badly, what made them change their attitudes so suddenly. Both replied,

"No one gets away with hurting Tsuna/Tsuna-sama."

"Life and death are two sides of the same coin; I know this already!" An exasperated voice filled the room as gunshots rang one after another. "The barrier, the difference, is 'regrets'." A growl erupted from the monologuing figure as he shot down the dummy in front of him until the clip was emptied from his gun. "But why?!" He threw the empty gun to the side, reaching up to clasp at his hood in frustration. The warehouse didn't answer him, content to just echo back his own words.

Desmond looked down at his dirty shoes, scuffling them across the floor, wishing there was a rock for him to kick away his frustrations. Tilting his head up, he tried to pick out the minute details of the warehouse in an attempt to calm himself down. Lately he found himself more frustrated and angry than usual and it was getting harder with each day. Being back in Italy . . .was hard. Out of all the three assassins, he had synchronized with Ezio the most; as a consequence, it was easier to delve into the Italian's memories. More memories meant more hallucinations. Being in Italy definitely was fucking with his head.

A sigh escaped the bartender's lips as his shoulders sagged. These flames that erupted when a person was about to die was one of the most bizarre things he had ever heard of. And yet, the Underground was full of users wielding them. If he wanted to survive, he had to learn how to wield his own.

It was obvious, however, that he needed a teacher. Testing his skills against Xanxus was helping immensely, but Desmond was sure that the Varia Leader was holding back. He wasn't sure why the violent man was holding back, but Desmond wasn't complaining, as it allowed him to record and understand his fighting style. Knowledge is power, as the saying goes.

At the same time, he felt like there was something he was missing. Ever since he had left the United States, something had been nagging at him at the back of his mind. No . . .even further than that. Ever since he left the White House . . . .

Like the sound of pulling back the safety on a gun, it clicked. The White House . . .looked the same. It looked like a modernized version from Connor's era. If his memory served him right, the White House burned down twice. Why would it still look the same?!

Desmond scrambled over to his piled stuff in the corner of the warehouse. After fiddling with his phone to enable a wifi hotspot, he pulled out the cheap laptop concealed in his bag and began searching the internet. Normally, he would take more precautions, but his subject of curiosity seemed safe enough to warrant a quick look into this world's history.

After a quick read, Desmond concluded that the history here, while similar, had key deviations that he needed to look into. First being, the White House was burnt down, but only once. After this incident, the American branch of an Italian company offered to rebuild it as a gesture of good faith. An Italian company called Vongola.

Desmond snorted. It was brilliant in it's own way. Vongola not only ensured that they would have knowledge of the President's home and base, but they also smoothly inserted themselves into United States politics all the while acquiring a favor. The fact that it was rebuilt much the same as the previous White House cemented his suspicion that Vongola and the Assassins were connected, especially considering the obvious trace the Assassin's left behind. If he were to find any real trace of the Assassins, he needed to follow every lead there was. He'd start in Italy, as it seemed to be full of possible leads, not to mention he wanted to stick to his new job as long as possible.

That still left him with a problem . . .a teacher. Who would be willing to teach him? The mafia seemed to run on the 'favor for a favor' policy, and while it wasn't like he didn't have a few favors under his belt, he doubted he had any flame-users to call upon-

Wait . . .he thought back to Vidic and the temple. Of course! The Chiavarone Heir! Even if he couldn't wield flames, it was very possible that he could direct him to a teacher, or even just a place to start looking. With a plan set, Desmond grinned before stuffing everything away to the corner of the warehouse. It was time to get moving.

Me: I'm back! And . . .still in college . . .and still suffering homework . . .and its really hard to find time to write these days . . . .

ANYWHO! I don't know how often I'll be able to update from here on out, but I figured you guys deserved to know that I'm not dead. Well, I might be undead, as I suspect the stress already killed me long ago, but that's a theory for another time. Happy Holidays everyone!