Title: When Lightning Strikes Twice

Author: PowerHouseoftheCell

Summary: When Lambo Bovino, a 25 year-old at the end of his rope, threw that grenade, this was definitely not what he expected. Time Travel. No Pairings.

Disclaimer: I do not own KHR in any way, shape, or form.

Author's Note: After a lot of editing, I am finally confident enough to publish my first fanfic. Huge thanks to Dr. Cultural Studies for giving me some advice!

Edit: 6/5/14
Fixed quite a few errors, added detail, and edited the timeline a bit.

OoO

Stupid cow...

Ahahaha, kid, don't worry...

Lambo...

For what seemed to be the millionth time this month, Lambo Bovino bolted upright, green eyes wide from the haunting memories of the past. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he leaned against the wall to regain his bearings. He ran his fingers through his hair and swung his legs over the mattress, which squeaked a protest and groaned at the loss of weight. He padded across the moonlit room to the cheap bathroom, his feet making only a whisper of sound.

With a flick of his wrist, the dim light flickered and sputtered on, illuminating a dirty, cracked tub, a toilet, and a sink. Lambo walked over to the sink and peered into the smudged mirror, absently clearing black locks from his face. A pair of eyes with deep bags peered back at him, taking in his less than impressive(As a Guardian, even you must keep up an image.) appearance. His cheeks were gaunt, his mouth was set in a grimace, and his hair was stained with dirt.

His pursuers hadn't given up the chase for more than a week this time, forcing him to be on a constant move. He was just so tired of running. There was no safe haven, no safe person to turn to. God knows where I-Pin was. Probably on the run too. Lambo hadn't talked to her in a few years since the base had been discovered. They had both run their separate ways, promising to keep in touch. It had obviously not worked out, what with the constant hunting. His grip tightened on the sides of the sink, pulsing with a green light before he got his anger under wraps again.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Calm. In control.

He slowly loosened his grip, forcing himself finger-by-finger to let go of the now splintered sink. He paid it no mind; he would probably be gone by the time the landlord discovered it.

He pulled away from the sink and his fists clenched involuntarily, forcing tiny crescent moons into his palms. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction of him disappearing...but it was so, so tempting. His mind whimpered a weak no, you can't, don't do it, but his feet were already pulling him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. His legs turned towards the dresser, where an innocuous briefcase laid. A leather, business-type object, by all appearances just storing paperwork. The papers were actually fake identities, but what was lying underneath was more important. Hidden under the array of papers and deadly sharp pencils, a faded pink grenade sat innocently next to a sleek black Beretta. A last resort.

Lambo slowly unlatched the catches on the briefcase with a resounding click. Thumbing the worn leather, he lifted the cover, the hinges creaking from disuse. He lifted the papers, saying a mental goodbye to the unusual identities he had used over the years. The hidden compartment revealed itself and his breath caught in his throat for a second. He closed his eyes and let his arms fall limply to his sides. This was it. He had tried so hard to keep on living for them. To keep the last Vongola guardian alive. It wasn't much of an existence though.

His eyes opened as the hidden compartment sprang ajar, and time seemed to move in slow motion. He reached out and delicately cradled the worn pink grenade in his hand. This was the last one left of the batch Giannini had tampered with so many years ago. They were supposed to have the same effect as the bazooka, but as with most of the inventor's products, they had done something undesirable. The mice they had used to test it had never returned, and no matter what they changed, the mice had still never reappeared. The batch had been thrown away, but Lambo, curious, had secretly stashed one away as a small memento. Who knew what it actually did? With any luck, it would get him out of here. To a better place.

He straightened, clutching the grenade like a lifeline. He pulled on his leather coat, stitched up so many times in an attempt to keep it together. He was shoving his feet into his rubber boots when something clacked in the inside pocket of his coat. A pair of horns(I gave those to Lambo from ten years from now.), gray and worn. His real horns. He had kept them upon his return to the future a few months ago, and they had saved his hide many times since. He placed the grenade down to further inspect it, eyes fixed on the weapons.

He turned one over to reveal the tiny part that had had been chipped away. The yellow surface shone brightly in contrast to the grey, the silly little insult visible. He remembered having to paint over the entire thing in order to cover it up; originally, the paint had been yellow, but the color had faded with time.

He smiled slightly at the nostalgia, chipping away at the rest of the paint. Finally, both horns were their original color. Lambo tucked them back into their pocket and glanced down at the innocent looking sphere in his hands. Was he really willing to throw away his life? To risk it all, when it could end up disappointing him?

Suddenly, he heard the patter of footsteps outside his door. He glanced hesitantly at the grenade, and the answer popped into his mind.

Yes.

He ripped the pin away and threw the grenade down to his feet. Pink smoke filled the air, and the door slammed open. But all that was left was a scattered briefcase and the steady drip, drip of the leaking facet.

OoO

Lambo appeared with a small wheeze of pink smoke in a random alleyway shrouded in darkness. He glanced around, unimpressed with its cleanliness as a putrid stench entered his nose. The alleyway had piles of refuse just sitting on the ground, some of which he suspected belonged either to a bathroom or a graveyard. He was probably in the past, then. Even the third-world countries had cleaned up in his time so they at least weren't as bad as this place. He picked his way through without any mind towards his boots, even as they made a distinct squelch every time he put his foot down. It didn't matter; he could wash off the stuff later.

As he exited the alleyway, his ears picked up on the sounds of a fight approximately two blocks away. He brow crinkled as he tried to make out what it was about. He jogged a little ways down the road, noting the lack of cars and the stone road. That ruled out the 20th century and forward. It also meant that he was in a time when carriages were common.

He stared at the buildings around him, trying to pinpoint the architecture. Two story buildings, all with steep, low roofs. They crowded against each other, as if trying to push each other out of the way to proudly display their pillars and arches. Other houses appeared to slump away from sunlight, cracked and plain. His brow drew together. He didn't think he was before the 18th century, but it wasn't certain.

The sounds of the fight shook him out of his thoughts. They were growing louder, and he heard the shouts of a man and the pound of flesh against flesh. He could estimate roughly eight participants. One versus seven, most likely. Civilian victim? Not dead or screaming, so either he was used to this, or he was somewhat trained in self-defense. Maybe a civilian with special abilities at best.

Tsu- His former boss had drilled into all of the Guar-them that civilians upheld the world so the mafia could work underneath them and so had to be protected. He swore and broke into a run, ignoring the constant squishing from underneath his boots. As he broke into the streets, he noted that some of the buildings looked vaguely familiar. He taken from his racing thoughts by a shout. "Lasciami andate, bastardi!" (1)Italian. He was in Italy.

Just his luck. He stopped and swore underneath his breath. If he was in the time period he thought he was in, he was going to get targeted by the mafia because he looked like Lampo, the first Lightning Guardian. And the possibility of Lampo being a part of the Vongola was all too real for him to be comfortable. He would need a disguise, maybe some makeup. Then he would need to get the hell out (always running away) and go to another country. Another shout broke through his thoughts. He swore again and began running faster.

He can do all of that. After he saves the civilian.

After about five minutes more of running, the mafia thugs came into view. He couldn't see the civilian from here; the thugs had surrounded him in a loose circle. Lambo's guess was that he was unconscious.

"Heh. Guess the brat can't even handle a small beating. He's all talk. Let's rough him up a bit and leave him as a little...message," one of them sneered, the others murmuring their agreement. Guessing from their appearance, he could take them without using his flames. Lambo broke into a sprint, jumping onto one of their backs before they even saw him.

They were slow, idiotic nincompoops, he concluded after looking over their unconscious bodies. It had taken him about two minutes to dispose of them all. Heck, even the civilian landed a few hits beforehand, it looked like. One of them had been limping, another had a crooked nose, and the 'leader' had favored his left shoulder. What kind of pathetic family hired these people? Lambo scoffed and kicked one of them in the ribs, eliciting a groan.

Finally, he turned to face the still unconscious man, focusing on the bruises and cuts that littered his form. "You probably need to go to a-" he said before freezing.

Green hair. Lightning bolt tattoo. White dress shirt.

He had just saved Lampo, the very man he was supposed to avoid.

Just his luck.

OoO

(1) Lasciami andate, bastardi! : Let me go, bastards!