A/N: You know, I was just going through my docs when I stumbled upon my old muse of a story. I had written A LOT for it surprisingly enough, and after having a read of what I had written so far, I decided that I might as well polish it a bit and release it. It's quite a tragedy now that I think about it, but anything for my BAMF Lambo Bovino. Yes, it was the stereotypical OC-reincarnation story, so bear with it. It's a cliche, but it's a GOOD cliche you gotta admit.

PREPARE YOURSELF MORTALS FOR THE ANGST.

And enjoy!

(It's cross-posted with AO3 under the name Quincy_Bright. Also, the summary in was shortened somewhat with the word count. Just one sentence, but it's not that important, haha!)

Oliver hadn't thought much about his death, considering he still had a long life ahead of him and that he was only 24 years old. And he's never thought about dying either. He had a family, friends (probably, he rarely goes out nowadays) and so many possibilities for the future doing what he did best.

Exploring.

As a child, he'd always been described as being too curious for his own good. Too distracted, his parents used to tell him, by anything that holds his interest. Which was a nightmare for his parents as everything had been interesting to him. Books, animals, adventure and the most horrifying of all, his projects. Things that his parents thought were innocent reads turned out to be projects that caused property damage that left adults reeling in disbelief. Doubtful that something like this could be caused by the hands of a mere seven-year-old child. It was then when all the adults realised that yes, he can.

Slingshots the size of a bike flinging canon-like projectiles that have more than once destroyed their neighbours' windows. A firework show that nearly burned the house down from when he tried to re-enact a scene straight out of the Harry Potter series. And the time he came home with a rattlesnake wrapped around his shoulders that nearly sent his mother screaming for the hills.

After a while, everyone knew about the wild little boy in their neighbourhood. They've all had a front-row seat of Oliver's brand of mayhem and they had eventually grown used to it. Shaking their heads once in a while at the odd sounds of explosions coming from his house or the screams that followed.

Oliver had always thought he was lucky for having parents that still loved him despite everything he did. Though he does believe that it was largely due to the fact they were a little glad that Oliver had never had access to more dangerous materials when he was younger. They had once confessed that the thought of him carrying around any kind of acids or, lord mercy, any sort of flammable gas, they would have put a collar on him to prevent him from wandering ever again. Exploration was dangerous, they had hissed humorously.

So no, Oliver hadn't thought about dying.

But he died, and oh, he did.

He still remembers it vividly, since he had been stressed and starving from staying in his apartment studying the living daylights for his final exams. He had gone three days without sunshine, three long days only watching papers and numbers before him—and his eyes had burned when he exited his apartment door. He spent a solid five minutes standing outside, gripping his eyes while cursing profanities that startled his elderly neighbour enough for her to slam her doors open, screaming at him to 'shut your trap'. He had apologised profusely afterward.

Till now, Oliver still didn't know if he regrets walking into the supermarket that day. He had thought that he'd just go in, grab junk food to last him the next three days, and walk out.

Life, on the other hand, was a bitch that way.

Instead, he had walked in, grabbed his junk food, and promptly dropped it when a man wearing a black ski-mask ran in and screamed, "Give me all your money!"

Oliver had almost groaned out loud at the cliché and thought, why me? Why the ever-loving God, me? But it was happening and he had no idea how to stop it. It was only the sight of a gun, a real gleaming gun held painfully tight in the criminal's grip that made everyone in the store tense up. It wasn't a big store mind you, small enough to keep everyone in sight by the criminal's viewpoint, and with him pointing a gun like that made everything just the more dangerous.

Glancing around, Oliver swallowed when he met the gazes of the fearful customers, all too scared to tear their sights from the gun pointed at them. A child started sobbing at the sudden hostility of the situation, and her mother had tried to smother the cries, terrified for their safety. It was a well-deserved fear when the criminal aimed his gun at them much to the horror of everyone else.

"Don't move!" The masked man screamed at one of the customers that tried to make a move towards him. "If you do, I'll shoot the kid!"

Oliver bristled, narrowing his green eyes at the despicable man as the mother started to cry too, pleading for mercy.

"Not my child, please, not my—"

"Shut up!" The robber shrieked, waving is gun frighteningly. Turning his head slightly towards the cashier, the man growled while throwing a bag on top of the counter, "Start packing."

The young girl behind the cashier fumbled for the bag, hands trembling as she tried to gather her nerves as she did what she was told. Oliver wonders if she's from his university, it wouldn't be surprising considering a lot of people worked outside the campus. Getting another close look above the girl, he watched relieved when a man from outside the store whispered hurriedly into his phone, eyes snapping back and forth between the faces in the room.

Thank the lords, Oliver breathed.

Bowing his head, the University student sighed quietly to himself. He was about to do something stupid. A stupid that only happens in cheesy anime or cartoons. He's probably going to regret this later. Possibly. Most likely. Definitely.

I mean, Oliver just had to distract the robber. That's not too hard, is it? The police were coming and seeing the gun aimed at the mother and child brought all the queasy feelings inside Oliver's chest to churn painfully. And besides, who knows what the criminal would do if he hears the police sirens. Shot them in retaliation? In panic? The human response varied and Oliver disliked the many scenarios he's imagining.

Braving a step forwards, mentally screaming 'fuck it', Oliver held his hands into the air while stepping out of his aisle. Before he knew it, Oliver had successfully stepped between the two without getting shot. It was only the criminal, the mother, and a conveniently placed body shield between them. Mentally patting his back at this marvellous achievement, Oliver nodded to himself. He acknowledges briefly at how the mother had decided to curl her body over her daughter in a similar manner of protection.

"W-Wait!" Oliver appeased when the robber cocked his gun at him with wild suspicion. "Let's talk about this!"

"Don't fucking move!" The man screamed again, and Oliver wondered briefly if every petty robber says the same exact words that start with 'don't' and ends with 'move'.

"Please, just lower your gun, it's really unnecessary." What utter bullshit, of course the man wouldn't just drop his gun, even Oliver wasn't that stupid. Instead, he swallowed his fears and carefully squared his shoulders with his palms held forwards.

"We won't do anything. Just take the money and leave." Don't aim at them was left unsaid.

The robber growled, gun still held high but shuffled closer to the cashier who flinched back in response.

"You done yet!" He snapped at the girl.

"J-Just a m-moment, I-I'm almost done! Please!" She whispered, her distress palpable with how pale she was.

While the girl continued to grab anything of worth, Oliver turned his head slightly to send a hopefully what he called a reassuring gaze at the mother who stared wide-eyed at him. It was as her bright eyes directed at him was filled with nothing but gratitude as she held her daughter close.

"I said, don't fucking move!" Oliver gulped as he turned his head back slowly, less he aggravates the criminal further.

Come on, the police should be here soon. Oliver should know considering the police station was only a couple of blocks away. Just a little longer and everything would turn out fine.

He jinxed himself.

In all his brainstorming, Oliver had forgotten about the man by the cashier. The one who had been eager to stop the robber before freezing when the gun aimed at the little girl at the start. He should have seen how the stranger had tensed in preparation, ready to launch his attack while the criminal turned his head away. Alas, Oliver was only human too.

The stranger had pounced like a cheetah, and Oliver could only watch in near super-powered slow-mo as he grabbed the sleeve of the masked robber with a victorious expression. It didn't end well when the criminal squeezed the trigger in surprise, an earth-shattering bang echoing through the small expanse before the stranger grappled him to the floor.

Oliver had recoiled in shock, stumbling back as he gripped his side at the sudden pain flaring from his abdomen. He had almost forgotten to breathe as he blinked, trying to process what happened, only to feel something wet and gushing out from between his fingers. Bringing his hand up, Oliver watched with morbid fascination at the bold red entering his view, dripping and trailing down his arm in large quantities. Peering down in a daze, Oliver caught the growing path of red spreading across his shirt like a crimson wildfire.

It was a scream that caused Oliver to realise what had happened.

He's been shot!

Oliver hitched his breath at the revelation, raising his hands to cover the opening the best he could despite the hiss of pain that escaped his lips at the motion. He ignored it, focusing on closing the wound because he didn't want to die.

Oliver's legs had only buckled instead, knees hitting the floor with a loud crack. It should have been painful, but he had felt nothing as he crumpled to the floor. Instead of pain, everything grew numb as his sight started to blur around the edges. Each breath was more challenging than the last as he scrambled weakly against the floor. No doubt smearing the marble in a horrendous display of blood works as he tried to pull himself up in futile.

Oliver was quickly jostled to his side and soon found himself staring straight up at the ceiling of the supermarket with hazy green eyes. The sight of the mother leaning over him greeted him, soundless words telling him to hold on as another one entered his view to bundle up their jumper to press it against his wounds. Despite their hard work at prolonging his life, Oliver found that he'd already started drifting.

Looking weakly at the mother, Oliver wonders if he should have done what he did. Try to help? Sure. Jumping to stand between a mother and a crook that happened to have a gun? That's not even negotiable. He wouldn't for the life of him leave the mother to suffer the same fate as he is. He'd rather die.

The irony.

Seeing the colours of red and blue flashing blearily across the ceiling, Oliver closed his eyes in resignation. Finding himself satisfied with just the thought that the mother and daughter are alive. A smile reached his lips at the thought and with a quiet exhale, Oliver succumbed to the abyss of darkness that swallowed him whole.

When Oliver had died, he had not expected to wake up again with small failing hands reaching for the skies. Especially not with the pitched wails that wouldn't stop no matter how hard he tried. He was surprised, bordering a mental breakdown when he realised with mortification that reincarnation is real. All those times he scoffed and laughed at the idea of rebirth was all coming back to bite him in the ass.

A cry of horror escaped him.

Just what divine being had he offended to deserve this?

His thoughts were derailed when he was suddenly bundled together by a fluffy blue towel, looping across his chubby arms and legs, cocooning him like a slumbering caterpillar. The nurse holding him had only cooed softly in Italian as she rocked him gently. A language Oliver had never picked up other than to learn a few phrases by his Italian friends. Friends that always—had always made fun of his terrible accent. And now he's expected to speak it fluently. Great.

As his wails pierced the air loudly, he soon found himself quieting down once he was placed in another set of arms. Arms that held him loosely, as if tired from a strenuous workout. Curiously, he wonders if this is his new mother that had given her all in birthing him. He couldn't see much other than the hospital gown pressed against his face, muffling his cries against her soft bosoms. He questions what kind of person she was. Is she strict? Kind? Humble? Overly bright?

With slim hands adjusting her grips around him, the baby found himself facing towards the ceiling of the room. The infant waved away the unease when he remembered that he died facing this way too.

However, when he finally met the sight of his new mother, expecting all sorts of positive things, his blood. Ran. Cold. It's not because she wasn't beautiful— she was absolutely gorgeous with luscious black hair falling over her face in water-like quality. Stray strands of hair sticking to her face that was slick with her sweat from her earlier struggle. No, it wasn't because of her pretty face.

It was her eyes.

Eyes the colour of shining emeralds, framed by long lashes that gazed at him with such coldness that he momentarily doubted their relation. There is no warmth in those eyes. No motherly love or gushing excitement, different from how his aunt acted when she first gave birth to his youngest cousin. Instead, they were blank and devoid of any love towards him.

He watched with squinted baby eyes at the women (his mother?) that pursed her lips at him—her first real expression, and it was filled with nothing but indifference. The new-born promptly shuddered when she spoke for the first time, shivering at how her voice sounded like a day in a desolate snowfield.

"Lambo." She stated flatly. "Lambo Bovino."

He scrunched his brows, puzzled if she had either said something in Italian or had called for him. Yet, whatever she said has sounded remarkably familiar to him. It's definitely not a brand or anything, for sure, but something akin to that? A title? A name? It sounded like a name.

"You sure?" Came the foreign reply from a masculine voice from the corner of the room, and Lambo—his name is Lambo now (he thinks)—tries to strain his head to locate the source of the voice to no avail.

"Yes." Noticing that something had been agreed upon between the two adults, Lambo found himself picked up by someone, away from the emotionless woman.

Taking in the new face that carried him, Lambo noticed the stranger was a handsome one. Like a model straight out of a fashion magazine that he had been forced to read when his mother—his real mother—thought she had missed out on having a daughter to gossip with. The man is tall, sharp-faced with curly black hair cut short over brown eyes, but the hashtag birthmark underneath the left eye was what held Lambo's attention the longest.

On the other hand, just like his new mother, the man had looked at Lambo with nothing but coldness. Lambo sniffled unwillingly at the look, thinking how seriously concerned and creeped out he was with their shared expressions of cold indifference.

"Lambo Bovino." The man hummed before nodding detached interest. "It'll do."

The new-born watched as the man (was that really his father?) walk towards the doors despite the nurses' sputters of indignation. Lambo, formerly Oliver, contemplated the sanity of his new father for taking a newly born baby from any health assistance and ponders if he'll die a premature death so early on in his new life. Lambo could only wail reluctantly at the thought, finding no reassurance at being held by this insane man.

The man halted, brown eyes zeroing onto Lambo as if he had read his thoughts, but tilted his head over his shoulder instead to give the woman that had given birth to him a final glance. He looked almost thoughtful.

"Goodbye, Maria." The man said unequivocally before walking out the doors that had been held open by two giants wearing black suits.

In a trance, Lambo wonders if this new family was people of great importance.

Stilling his cries, Lambo peered up warily at the man that carried him down the dark lit hallway, finding him questioning him and his intentions. Bad vibes practically exuded from the chilling stranger, who was possibly his new father, and wasn't that a concern? Lambo tensed when the man stopped suddenly in the middle of his walk, casting a rather ominous look at his being. A smile graced his face, and Lambo paled at the not so innocent look.

"Lambo Bovino." The man stated once again, and Lambo paled even more when he finally remembered where he had heard that name before. It was like a bolt out of the blue, flashes of a laughing child with a ridiculous afro coming to mind, pulling all sorts of crazy things like pulling a damned bazooka out of nowhere. A bazooka he had been fascinated by as a child when he first watched the series, having tried to dissect it and find out how it worked before he realized that this was anime logic and cried.

He remembered Lambo Bovino. The boy who tried to kill Reborn, the greatest hitman in the world, and the youngest guardian of Tsunayoshi Sawada. The Lightning Guardian. The Crybaby. A fictional character. With a horrified widening of his eyes, he realizes what the adults have been calling him all this time.

Lambo Bovino.

The man, not understanding the inner turmoil the newborn baby was going through, continued what he began.

"Welcome to the Bovino Famiglia."

Lambo, doing what he was best known for, wailed.

A/N: I hope you guys liked it!

Boy, you guys are in for a slow burn of angsty childhood.

Also, I hope you guys notice the parallels between Oliver!Lambo and Canon!Lambo from here on after!