Chapter 14

(in which the world is somewhat blurred and we are reminded yet again that it's always darkest right before the dawn)

-/-

The world, when seen through the cracked glasses, always came off as a bit surreal.

Lussuria tried in vain to remember if he had any spare ones stashed away somewhere and ended up hoping like hell that he did. There was little to no chance that Xanxus, Squalo and the rest of the crew would suddenly become compassionate and understanding and let him put off his duties until the new glasses were made and delivered. If anything, they were more likely to come up with some extra nasty work for him to do, precisely because the circumstances would prevent him from succeeding at it. And neither of them would hesitate to gloat and point out how useless he really was, there could be no doubt about it. Lussuria knew his colleagues well enough. There was no love lost between them. The only thing that had managed to survive so far was the Clenched Teeth Teamwork, which meant that each and every one of them hated everyone else's guts but grudgingly agreed to collaborate, for a price.

Squalo especially was likely to get creative, he added to himself with resignation. The Chief Commander was not exactly what one might call vindictive – although he certainly had his moments of dark glory and those were unsafe times to be around – but the illusionist business had apparently become a very personal issue for him, and Squalo never forgot anything he considered personal, be it good or bad. Not even in ten years' time. Not even if he got hit over the head repeatedly. Sadly, that meant that all the insults and failures were also recorded carefully and remembered fondly, and whoever had the balls to confront Squalo and survive the first rendez-vous could rest assured: a new meeting would soon follow and it would happen on Squalo's terms. In a way, the swordsman was so devoted to his enemies it bordered on obsession.

Or rather, he was devoted to the idea of having enemies. Everything about Squalo revolved around ideas. It was a hard-to-digest theory as he always seemed to be a man who had his feet planted firmly on the ground, not to mention how fond he was of efficiency and how openly disdainful of all things impractical.

And yet deep down, Lussuria was sure of it, Squalo was driven by reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with such mundane things as profits and pleasures. There were multiple signs that anyone who cared to look could very well spot, and Lussuria found it infinitely ironic that he was apparently the only one to notice them despite the fact that he was nearly blind.

Unlike Mammon, although Squalo, of course, preferred to have money, he couldn't care less if he lost it. That was also why Mammon, prior to his untimely demise, used to be the one to manage the Varia's budgets. Well, that, and the fact that Xanxus apparently thought that taking care of the finances was beneath him.

Unlike Belphegor, although Squalo liked to be the first and the best, it didn't really matter to him if people gathered around to applaud his success – it was a pleasant but unnecessary part of the show. The fact that he knew how awesome he was usually sufficed in the end even if he didn't get the praise.

Unlike Levi, who worshiped not only the boss, but also the footprints Xanxus left in the dust as he walked, Squalo's loyalty was clearly a finite resource. It extended really, really far, that was true, but there was never any blind obedience or fear in his eyes. There was no friendship between the him and Xanxus either, only a sort of unspoken agreement based on some obscure, twisted variety of respect.

Unlike Xanxus, although he too was explosive and prone to physical violence, Squalo knew where to draw the line and give up if he had to. Lussuria had been quite surprised to find out, one day, that underneath all the decisions Squalo made, no matter how spontaneous they appeared at first signt, was the solid foundation of common sense and the most blood-chilling logic Lussuria had ever had the chance to encounter. It was frightening because it proved Squalo was in control even when he didn't look it. It meant that he was not being carried through life by emotions and everything he did really was his personal, conscious choice.

And unlike Lussuria himself, although he had spent all his adult life in the Varia, Squalo had never entertained any sentimental thoughts about the true purpose of its existence, which was to eliminate the enemies of the Vongola Family and, if possible, survive to be able to do the same thing tomorrow, not get together to have fun because they were all on the same side of the barricades. There was simply never any fun on the barricades, whichever side you chose.

Lussuria had had a hard time coming to terms with this – well, mostly with the fact that whichever side you chose, you were irrevocably alone there anyway, and if you screwed up big time, you got your bullet very quickly – but Squalo had known from the start and still persisted.

It made one wonder what he was doing in the Varia at all

Lussuria believed the reason was that Squalo, for all the stregth and skill he had, knew his limits. They were so inhuman normal people would never be able to even see them with a naked eye, but Squalo had taken care to explore and test himself and by now he should know exactly where those limits lay - and hate the mere fact of their existence. It must have been the hardest thing to accept, Lussuria thought, for someone as focused, as hell-bent on perfection as Squalo, to know and remember always that there was an end to the road he was walking – like admitting, if only to himself, that he was dreaming a dream that could never come true.

And that would also explain why Squalo respected Xanxus as much as he did. Because Xanxus was precisely what Squalo, with his cold, razor-sharp mind and unforgiving clarity, could not afford to be – his own master, living in a world of his own making, a separate reality where only things he approved of existed. He either ignored or mercilessly eliminated those who advised him to lower the bar of expectation or accept defeat, or force him to make ammends and look for common ground on which he might coexist peacefully with his enemies. Xanxus never even considered the possibility of compromising. There was no room in his head for such a concept. He had to win at all costs, and nothing else mattered. If Xanxus ever looked like he had made peace with someone he disliked it only meant he was biding his time.

And the truly beautiful part of it was that Xanxus did not even have to make any effort – it came naturally as breathing to him, that indomitable streak. You could cage a tiger and learn to keep it sated and lazy, but if one day you forgot to be careful and slipped a little, it would bite your head off and snack on your innards without a trace of remorse.

There could be no other man better suited to be the boss of the Varia in the whole world.

Broken glasses and bleak future forgotten, Lussuria felt his face split into a grin nobody in their right mind would ever call sane if they saw it.

-/-

Belphegor was lying flat on his back on the roof of the mansion. It was a strategically safe position, or at least as safe as it got under the circumstances. Not as comfortable as his bed, of course – far from it, sadly – but still decent. Besides, for once he was in the mood to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings. The night was cool, but not cold, the sky gleamed, full of stars, reminiscent of a royal mantle embroidered with big, smug diamonds, and he had just successfully pushed his Commander's buttons and got away with it.

Not to mention that there was even a new victim for him to torture in the nearest future. Sure, the frog-faced little excuse for an illusionist was no Mammon, not even close to Mammon, no doubt, and that was a pity because it suggested that more responsibility and more actual work would automatically drift Belphegor's way, and he'd have to deal with them or face the wrath of the boss. Xanxus liked to keep things simple if he could, and his idea of who had to answer for what was best expressed as the higher you are on the hierarchical ladder the more shit is your job. That was the reason Squalo was responsible for just about everything in the Squad, really.

How exactly that rule applied to Xanxus himself was still a puzzle no-one had ever had the courage to solve.

Nevertheless, the mere thought of horror and unfairness he would inflict on the newbie made Belphegor feel all giddy. If ever there was a truly potent aphrodisiac, it was the absolute power to make someone else's life a living hell. The fun to come was worth it after all. Well, except for the throbbing pain that had already made itself at home in the left half of his skull and was getting more and more intense by the moment.

Fucking dumbass Commander Squalo. He had managed to land one blow before the prince escaped through the window and it was now becoming painfully obvious that even without a sword the bastard was far from harmless. Who would have thought he could hit so hard, really. And so accurately.

The sky above seemed to tip sideways like a bowl of soup, and began to spin out of control. The stars danced a weird spiraling dance. Down below Squalo was yelling on top of his lungs for Bel to stop hiding, come out and get what he deserved, which meant getting the shit kicked out of him – Bel knew for sure because Squalo was apparently having the time of his life elaborating on the subject. Oddly enough, the usually aggravating sound of his voice came slightly muffled, as if Belphegor had a thick woolen scarf wrapped around his head, covering his ears.

Oh fuck. The bastard must have given him a concussion. That sure was bad news.

But what the hell, that look on Squalo's face, that dim light of realization illuminating his horizon, the understanding that he'd been had – screw the concussion, it was really still worth it. It was a memory he would treasure till he died, Bel decided as he tried to make himself more comfortable without moving too much. What with his head spinning, it would be only too easy to slip and fall off the roof, and how ridiculous would that be? Luckily, the Varia HQ was an old, old mansion, and the proper architecture of those times tended to be excessively ornamental, full of frilly stuff, arches and mosaics, and statues and various extra elements slapped on top of the main carcass of the building. There was even a grumpy gargoyle protecting him from the wind. Bel felt a sudden urge to hug the gargoyle and tell it how grateful he was to have it around, which he attributed to the ill effects of the concussion and decided to stay put instead. It wasn't like he was in a hurry.

Bel let his eyes close, and a wide grin spread across his face.

He winced and stopped grinning. His head felt like a bucketful of sharp, rusty nails all grinding together, and even blinking was apparently going to become a laborious task soon. The crown seemed to weigh a ton, and as if it were not enough, it was trying to squeeze his skull so hard, his brains would come out of his ears next if he didn't do anything about it.

Well, whatever, that problem was hardly even a problem. Normally, of course, he wouldn't do it, but it wasn't even like anyone was around to poke fun at him for taking the thing off.

Very carefully, Belphegor released his grip on the roof tiles and reached up for the crown with his right hand.

Except that the crown wasn't there anymore.

For the first time in years, if not in his life, Belphegor felt his heart sink and stop beating. The wind howled about the roof like a pack of wolves, malevolent and angry and triumphant.

Or perhaps it was Squalo after all. The headache was getting worse.

-/-

Several floors below, Fran was also experiencing things for the first time in his life.

Never before had he even imagined there might be a place in the world as much in need of... well, immediate action as this one. Any action, really, provided that that it involved taking things out as opposed to putting them in which clearly had been the case up till now. He could think of a whole lot of methods that would undoubtedly do a world of good were they applied to the sight in front of his eyes. A barrel of oil and a burning match would definitely be number one in the hit parade of potential solutions.

When he had slithered back into the mansion, guided by the suddenly discovered desire for vengeance and the equally unexpected onrush of greed, Fran had had a somewhat different scenario in mind. He had reasoned that although it seemed like being inside the house was more dangerous, it actually wasn't, because all the inhabitants were outside looking for him. Logically, it meant that outside was dangerous, and inside was safe and, more importantly, deserted, leaving whatever riches the Varia had in their possession orphaned and unprotected.

It would be only proper, he had thought as he tip-toed quietly and cautiously back in, if I took something from them. They won't even notice, anyway.

His calculations had proven to be more or less correct: he'd found the corridors empty safe for the echoes of the shouting coming from the outside where Squalo was even now advertising the demonic power of his vocal cords; and he had been successful in choosing the right staircase. It had eventually led him into a long corridor, wider than those he had graced with his presence before and slightly cleaner, for the given value of the word. The walls were completely unadorned so it hadn't taken much to notice the few doors that dotted the dull, monochrome expanse of stone.

He had tried to open one or two and found them locked. He hadn't been surprised – if he were one of the Varia, he wouldn't leave his door open even if they paid him to do so. Still, there was such a commotion, such an uproar of activity, everyone running around and getting yelled at by Squalo. Surely at least someone must have forgotten to turn the key in distress?

It had dawned on him that if he was unable to find somewhere to hide in, he'd still be here, in the middle of an empty hallway, when they all returned empty-handed and angry and that would be the end of him. They would undoubtedly come up with horrible, horrible things to inflict upon him, like drowning him slowly in a cauldron of bubbling acid.

Why it would be bubbling at all was something Fran had never paused to consider, as a vivid image of his own dissolving bones had formed in his mind and spurred him on. He had run to the next – and the last – door, situated only a dozen paces away from a dark staircase leading up to who knew where.

It had opened when he turned the handle; and he slipped quietly inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

Five minutes later he was still standing on the same spot, gazing at the chaos in front of him and wondering what he should do.

The room was spacious, with high ceilings and great, arched windows that stood wide open, the curtains billowing in the night breeze in a slightly sinister way reminiscent of vampire movies. If Fran had been a lovely young girl in a nightdress, he would have felt properly awed and scared, but being himself, he was more inclined to marvel at all the crap that covered the floor and other available horizontal surfaces.

He had never seen that much crap in one place before. This room was as personal as Fran's, in W.W.'s apartment, was impersonal. Where Fran had one pair of boots, the owner of this room had about half a hundred and they were all in plain view. Where Fran could boast of three t-shirts and one spare pair of pants, here was a choice of sweaters, jackets, shirts, suits, uniforms, jeans and other clothes of all possible colors and types, mostly piled up in heaps as if there were no wardrobe – except that it actually was there, and a very big one too. By the look of it, it was made of precious old oak.

Where Fran had a framed photo of kittens on the wall to look at, this guy had a map of the world taking up the best part of one wall, with multicolored pins stuck into it in various places – who knew what it meant, but likely nothing particularly pleasant – and a dartboard, and an enormous TV, and a wide bed, and a desk with a computer on it.

And a banana peel on the floor near Fran's feet; a scarf that looked like a convulsing snake in the dark; apparently dirty underwear; an old apple; broken DVDs everywhere; magazines with pictures of naked women; random keys and crumpled bank notes; and at least a dozen empty coffee cups.

And that, Fran thought in a daze, was only the first layer. Who knew what might be buried underneath?

A bear trap, for example. And a bear. It was the Varia Headquarters after all.

With that in mind, Fran made his way further into the chaotic realm, stepping very carefully so as to avoid possible surprises. He wondered what kind of person could inhabit such a place and still feel all happy in it. A blind one? Zatoichi, the blind assassin. Or a sloth. A procrastinator who knew he had to clean up but was unable to bring himself to do it.

Fran paused in the middle of the room, dangerously close to a beer bottle lying forlornly on its side.

Where would a guy like this keep his valuables? Under the mattress so he could sleep on them like a dragon? This way at least they would be close at hand... No, that seemed stupid. It really didn't help that Fran had never been acquainted with rich people before and was thus unaware of their habits. Who knew what kind of twisted, psychotic idea might occur to them?

And it was a very big room. With lots of stuff. Mountains of stuff, to be more precise. It meant the owner was someone important, not just a thug the big-jobs wouldn't mind accidentally losing in a stupid fight.

Fran scratched his head thoughtfully and let his gaze wander. It was beginning to become quite obvious that his awesome plan was hardly that awesome, and that, sadly, he couldn't think straight either. He was tired and beaten and really wanted to just crawl somewhere dark and safe and sleep for a year, and maybe see interesting dreams. Instead, he suspected, he had only made the matters worse by coming back in here and strolling into someone's private domain.

If only he could turn back time. He would have run like blazes and would have continued to run until he dropped dead, and maybe they would have given up on chasing him. Maybe he would have gotten away, after all. Italy had its share of woods and mountains and forgotten farms and whatnot, it should have been easy enough to disappear, if only he hadn't been that much of an idiot.

So immersed he became in his own world of misery and regret, that he very nearly missed it when a suspicious sound came from outside the room. Fran strained his hearing, hoping he had imagined it, but, alas, the sound repeated and this time there could be no mistake.

Someone was in the corridor. Coming closer very slowly.

Fran stared at the door like a rabbit at a boa constrictor. Whoever was approaching his hiding place stopped suddenly, then resumed walking. The pause must have lasted about five seconds or so, but Fran's terrified mind interpreted it as an eternity that had ended way too soon. The footsteps stopped again, right in front of the door.

There was no time to lose. Whether it was the owner of the place or someone else, it didn't matter. Fran doubted anyone in the Varia was likely to sympathize with his current condition and offer helpful tips on how to escape their HQ in one piece.

Not bothering to think about the possibly dire consequences, Fran dashed over to the open window and leaped out into the waiting arms of the night.

A/N: The final chapter got too long and I realized I would never finish the story unless I split it into two.

Anyway, finally managed to write a chapter without Squalo in it. Go me! Somehow, about one third of it is still about Squalo though.

The last installment is on its way - have fun and review this one if you have a moment! :)