October 22nd

"So how do you want to do this?"

Sitting quietly atop a nearby tree branch, Stitch's dark eyeglass frames shift away from the dark sky towards my position in another tree close by. I wriggle my eyebrows playfully and give him the option of going in silently or wrecking shit up like Gangbusters.

He lets out a small laugh and repeats in English, "Gangbusters?"

"You know, like guns blazing, Rambo shit!"

He laughs again. "Yeah, let's not act like Rambo tonight."

I roll my eyes. "Lame."

While inspecting my gray raglan sweatshirt and khaki skinnies, the eyes stop, caught on a small 'x' I drew on my hand before leaving Tokyo, a little reminder because to ask Stitch a certain question—one pretty relevant to this evening. So I spring next to him and ask in Italian, "Do you have your packet on you?"

An unexpected crackling snaps my attention to a doe wandering below us as my partner pulls some papers out of his backpack. Don't forget your surroundings, I remind myself.

Quickly I crouch down next to him and take a good look at his info, muttering various details out loud that seem important. I say each target's name and let their faces imprint: young and ehh looking, old, older, grandpa old, middle aged and not bad. My prattle goes on, while I really check if he received all the same jobs I did. Nope, nothing about the case in his file.

"Are you looking at who the targets are for the first time?"

"Is there something wrong with that?"

Stitch laughs while brushing something off of his jeans. "What would the world think of il calabrone if they knew you were so lackadaisical."

My head tilts as I repeat back in English. "The Hornet? Wait. Are you calling me The Hornet?" And what does he mean, 'were?'

"That's what everyone calls you."

I look around the forest for some hidden audience. "Who's everyone?"

Stitch's thick Italian accent growls in hushed frustration, "Do you not keep up with anything?"

I let out a small chuckle. "No. I don't read the newspaper, I don't watch the news, and I don't care what is going on in the mafia world. I go to work and kill a few people, and then I go home and do little shit I like to do or travel… So instead of pissing me off with feeble sarcasm, is there something I should know?"

The tan-skinned man gives a stupefied look, as if I'm some ridiculous minority. He even shakes his head at me. "Well, Dee. While you are busy reading manga and masturbating at home—"

I interrupt. "Masturbating? Please. Don't group me with those dego whores you like to run with."

He huffs. "Fine. Whatever. But you have made a name for yourself in the mafia world. Everyone is calling you the Hornet and our boss seems to be very pleased. Do I need to explain the name, too?"

I smile. "Yes, because the last thing I want to be called is something I'm deathly allergic to… This is sounding way too emblematic." My eyes slide away; smile fading to a pleased smirk. "Like I'm batman or something."

He cocks a brow. "Batman doesn't kill people."

"I know, shut the fuck up. A girl can dream." I start laughing at my own joke. The tree shakes with my humor, too.

Stitch slides his glasses back in place, bringing notice to the nasty scar over his left eyelid: thick, bubbled, and four centimeters long. It reminds that the eye under the scar is only glass. "They are calling you the Hornet because you act like one—you assassinate the assassins. We are hornets and wasps, and you spend your time killing off the wasps regardless of what family they're from, just because you can—and you've made a lot of enemies in the process."

"Hmm." I nod. "Well, I guess I'll have to start locking my front door, then."

Our banter continues about this 'Hornet' thing I have been unaware of for nearly six months while we finish our preparations, checking gear, turning phones off, et cetera. I remind Stitch to cover up his tattoos to avoid trouble in the onsen and he unrolls the sleeves to his maroon shirt. I'm giving the secluded bathhouse a final look. Surrounded by large, old trees, it's a timeless looking structure that every American thinks of when imagining Japan, China, or any oriental place (except India). The silk covered windows only reveal faint shadows of bystanders and targets moving around in their rooms. Behind the super traditional looking bed and breakfast is steam rising from what I am assuming is the hot spring. I am kind of lost in it all until Stitch strangely asks how many people have I killed. I quickly reply that I don't keep a grand total; it's a number best left to the judges.

Then he asks, "Well, do you know how many this year?"

I look up to the black sky above us speckled with countless stars. "Uhh, I think I'm in the 180s this year… but I count bodyguards and dogs and shit like that. Oh! And I can't forget the dude that had the tiger—" My faces reenacts that moment of surprise," That was totally unexpected… but awesome."

"How many were assassins?"

His questions are starting to irk me, but I still answer. "Forty five, fifty, I think."

He nods, silent like the old surrounding woods. I shrug my shoulders, telling him it is time to move. Silent, we drop out of our tree, race down the woodland hill, and flit to a side entrance of the bed and breakfast. The doors are so very close to the hot springs. I would kill for some time to soak.

Right at the door it hits me why he was asking all the questions: the hit I have on him. Stitch's hand is on the door handle as I stop him with gentle arm grab. His hazel eyes snap to mine with firm intent. I smirk.

"Do you trust me, Mike?"

His blood thirst does not subside, but he answers, "Yeah."

I slink in front of him and open the door. "Then you won't die tonight."

My first step inside is light and careful, meant to check the condition of the wood floors. High glossed and void of any residue, my next steps are quick and fixed. Soundless. Stitch turns down a corner to head straight to the banquet room where the targets are supposed to be; I'm after 'black case guy first.' His room is an easy find, and the music playing inside will help mask the events to come. I slide open the silk-screened door.

The Dutch target startles to my appearance in the cozy room. The unexpected visitor that entered without knocking, entered with a grin and entered with obvious intentions. "I'm sure you know why I'm here," I start with a cheerful tone. Kneeling on the floor about two meters from me, at once the fair skinned man is on all fours and racing across the tatami mats to a closet nearby. I clear the distance between us in one bound and grip his mouth shut. My voice is low and imperious. "Where is the case."

His blue eyes (missing the eyeglasses shown in the photos) trail to the closet a foot away. Bingo. I give him a harsh shove and raid the messy closet for the case. The lanky fellow is scurrying around behind me, and after finding my golden ticket under a heap of dirty laundry I turn to see a gun in his hands. "D-drop the case," he shouts weakly in mushed up Japanese.

I hold back my laughter from his inexperienced grip, but a smirk still spreads. With a nod and a shoulder shrug, I reply, "Okay."

Then I throw it at him as hard as I can.

The man's body jolts, dropping the silenced gun for the mystery case, becoming like every other rookie textbook kill. Rushing in, I catch his falling gun by its barrel and clobber him in the face with its handle. My other hand grabs his thin, blonde hair to keep him from hitting the floor too hard. Don't need to alert anyone, almost done.

While the man writhes on floor holding his face, I straddle and cover his mouth before saying, "Jones sends his regards." Like ordered, I hammer the gun down on his left hand repeatedly, fully restraining his thrashing moans. With a sigh, I pound and pound until there is a hand no more, just blood and mush and little pieces of flattened, shredded skin.

At this point there shouldn't be anything that allows him to feel the pain, but his sobs don't stop. I watch him—a full grown man so much bigger than I—cry like a child. Awkwardly. Men aren't supposed cry this way. I don't cry like this, so there's no reason for you to cry so pathetically. Giving him a hard stare, I tell him to stop—its over. He settles strangely, shoulders shaking with his sob-like breathing. I just drop the gun next to the indistinguishable pulp and slink out.

"How the hell did you get lost," Stitch asks when I appear, strutting around the corner. He presses the coin return button on a vending machine next to him and grabs his change. The doors to our banquet room are right across.

"I had some other business to attend to first," I reply, showing off the black briefcase half my size. I gently set the thing next to the vending machines. "Ladies first, I presume?"

Vexed, he gestures me to take the lead.

This part of the night is easy. The doors slide open for me, allowing a dash to the farthest target in the room and snapping his neck. Moving to the next one, I see Stitch punch a bodyguard's throat in. "Wow," I say with a rise of a brow, "looks like I'm working with a badass," while breaking another bodyguard's wrist. I see him give me a small grin while telling me to shut the fuck up, and I start laughing. Then a knife swings and almost gets my left kidney. I laugh more, my grip tight around the blade. "Good one, you almost got me." Giving the attacker a clean hit to his floating ribs, I rip the knife from hands and shove into his ear.

Before I know it we are done, and it all seems so anticlimactic. Well, I did mess up a hand a little being careless. But I chuckle it off and look to Stitch. "What rank was this mission?"

"S."

I look at the five men and seven bodyguards strewn about the banquet room, their table covered in fresh food. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"How lame." I pluck a morsel of pork from a nice smelling platter and eat it. Damn, that's fucking delicious. Then I drink a cup of sake on the table. There's no sense in wasting this.

The both of us walk calmly out of the party room and remain cavalier through the silent hallways. With the black case in one hand and porcelain teapot full of sake in the other, the night is seeming more successful by the second until my eyes hone in on the a scene laid out in front of us at the end of the hallway. Just ahead where our path forks is the man I took the case from sitting inside his room with the door halfway open. Shit! Did I not shut it all the way? I take a breath to stop my unnecessary worry, only to watch the blonde grab the gun I left and shove it in his mouth. A bang rattles the silk covered walls. Someone screams. As the guy plops forward, now missing the back half of his head, Stitch and I stop and look at each other. I can't help but let out a surprised laugh. "Did that really just happen?"

By the time we get out of the onsen, through the woods, and back to where my helicopter is, my teapot of sake is gone. I'm already feeling a light buzz too. I walk through tall grasses with happy hums while Stitch quietly follows. The sky is still dark, still spotted with stars, as I place the mystery briefcase inside the helicopter. Then a shiver runs down my spine, my instincts tell me something is coming—from behind—and I duck, looking back and seeing Stitch throwing a punch at me.

His cold expression reveals this is only the beginning.

My hands start whipping back and forth like crazy to forcefully swat away his rabid punches. My feet speed up to get away from my current position between Stitch and the helicopter. As the one-eyed death bringer swings again, I dodge and lay a good punch on a pressure point in his thigh. He growls and I evade… Well, I stumble.

"What the fuck, man?" I yell at him, my buzz stronger at my new location in this grassy clearing surrounded by woods.

He slides his glasses back in place. "What do you mean, what the fuck?" His steps are a calm and confident prowl. "I've been waiting a long time for this."

My head tilts, now pissed."Is this about your eye? Because if it is, I'm going to be pissed: I said I was sorry. We did the one hit and forget."

"Fuck your hit and forget shit."

I crack my knuckles and point at Stitch mockingly. "No, you shattered my cheekbone and I accepted it. But if you want to plunge up old shit, you'll regret it."

He stops walking, looking down on me with his one eye and readying his clenched fists. "And why's that?"

I smile and throw my hands up, feeling a drunken rage stir. "Because I let you live the first time."

My eyes open to a bright, early morning. I'm lying in the tall grass beside my dark blue helicopter, and there are only the sounds of the outdoors around me. Birds, wind, snapping twigs and bugs. Helicopter, sky, dry grass… I'm still in the small field from last night? When sitting myself up, my head totters as if there is a sandbag attached to it. Shit. I'm still drunk… My knee really hurts… Actually, a lot of me hurts.

"Where—" I stop immediately and grab my sore throat. My voice is wrought and my neck feels like it was nearly crushed. I rasp again. "Where the fuck am I?"

I totally sound like The Dark Night. "Because I'm Batman."

I laugh despite how painful if feels.
The pain makes me laugh more.

Scanning the surrounding field, my vision blurs momentarily in that weird/still drunk haze.I come to realize this is where I landed the 'copter to do our hit last night. "Where's Stitch?" I croak.

My eyes close for a second as I sniff the air. I catch his smell, open my eyes and pause (waiting for everything to stop spinning) before walking where instinct is leading. The aches and pains clawing more every step are ignored. Ahead are a bunch of snapped bamboo trees. Closer to the broken trees, I find my coworker in a very uncomfortable kneeling slump. His head is resting against the ground in the most uncomfortable position for his neck. I lazily sit myself next to him.

"Hey," I mutter in my monster growl. "We gotta go."

Stitch doesn't hear me it seems, so I give him a light shove to rouse him. But the action makes his head and neck tweak into a ninety-degree angle, and now Stitch's vertebrae looks like it is trying to break through his skin. "Agh, that's fucking freaky," I squawk, flinching away from him. Then I get mad and growl, "Dude, don't be fucking exorcist right now," as I shove him again and force him to roll over. Then I see his face. "Holy shit."

Something put a crater in his face.

Obliterated jaw and nasal cavity… something blunt, about six centimeters in diameter… I bet his neck is broken too.

I look at my aching knee. My pants have blood marks all over them. "No…"

I keep staring. Were these stains on me when I left the onsen? "… Damn…"

I scratch my head. I have no idea what the fuck happened last night.

"I will never drink a teapot full of sake again."

In the distance a phone starts going off, my ringtone for Jones, so I rush back over to my helicopter and answer it. He asks why I haven't arranged a meet up, and I make the excuse of a power nap. Looking back to where Stitch lies, Jones says he will call in an hour to arrange a place. My eyes give the phone a time glance. I have no time to get back to Tokyo… The call ends, and I'm left to burn Stitch's body in the quickest and most half assed fashions ever, throwing broken tree limbs over him along with dry grass and some of extra fuel I brought with me. Just enough to make him unidentifiable for at least a month and not start a complete wildfire. Now I have to fly a helicopter. And I am very sure that I am still drunk.

Despite this, I manage to get home in one piece, now in a 'half drunk' state. My flight time was more of a thinking time, and I can remember Stitch pissing me off by bringing up the eye accident from way back and then me admitting the kanji tattooed on his neck actually means pussycat panty whore. I also remember him having his hands around my neck. This whole morning has put me in a very indifferent mood. Maybe its because I really am craving my usual hangover steak and coke from a soda fountain. I need fresh Coca Cola.

But I have no time for food and next to no time to prepare for a meet up. Hungry, indifferent, and now dealing with a headache, I throw in the towel for giving a fuck about this morning and land the helicopter in the yard. I say out loud, "Jones can meet me at the damn cake place for all I care now," and begin walking to the house. The phone starts to ring. I sigh and check to see who it is. Jones. Dammit. A quick answer is given, and the boss reveals that he is pulling into my driveway. I feel my stomach drop. Seeing that black car driving up the gravel road, I get mad. Seething.

How dare he invite himself to my fucking house.

Not even bothering to walk inside the house anymore, I am holding the case he wants as he gets out of the car. Jones is quick to ask for it in his native Russian tongue. "I assume you let nothing damage this?" He asks with an impatient hand reaching for it.

"No damage," I croak in response, "But I'm not giving this thing up so easily. You have a lot of nerve showing up here."

Piqued, he pulls his hand away. "I'm here for more reasons than one. You like to stay busy; I like to keep you busy."

"More like you want me dead."

"If you couldn't kill Mike Bellarizio, then you deserved death. Give me the case."

My half buzz kicks into full gear, and my anger translates to English. "Nuh-uh. You want to fuck with me at my house, I will fucking murder you." Jones' bodyguards assert a more aggressive stance as I continue. "You want this case? Fine. Then I want you to give me my pay and I want Stitch's bank accounts, too. This busy bee wants her honey."

The old man gives me a cold, expectant stare. "And if I don't."

My laugh is scornful. "Then kiss whatever is in this case goodbye because I'm about to destroy it."

Jones and I lock eyes for war, but I do it with a smile. He knows I'll do it. I don't give a fuck. Our eyes scream silent sinister snubs until Jones snaps his fingers at a bodyguard beside him. "iPad." The device of black and silver is passed to him quickly, and Jones' fingers tap the screen in a blaze. "Done," he growls, "Now give me the case."

I let out an idle snort when giving it back. Jones snatches it away before slapping me across the face. Now angrier than ever, I keep my evil grin hidden from Jones' gaze while he spits, "Don't you ever threaten me again."

My eyes lock back on to his, the burn of my pride now throbbing on my cheek. "Keep treating me like a fool, and there won't be a threat."

The man is rearing to slap another lesson into me, but is reminded the time by a bodyguard and stops. Jones' green eyes stab into me. "The Pesca family has three people in Namimori Junior High acting as faculty to keep tabs on the Vongola candidate. Kill them."

A brow cocks. "The Pesca are supposed allies."

"That was before they started keeping secrets. Remind them who is helping who."

After a quick 20 questions, I realize there is no information to go on. I have to figure out who they are and kill them. I'll need to get into the school. Jones informs me that he wants it done within the fortnight. I give him an okay and start walking back to the house. Upon hearing car doors shut behind me, a window rolls down.

"Dee."

I glance back to Jones in his cushy back seat.

"You should start locking your door; you wouldn't want that cousin of yours to go missing."

As soon as the car's engine is too far to hear, I race inside my house. It's absolutely silent. "Mia?" I yell in my scratchy, alien voice. There's no response. My blood starts racing, but I decide to just call her. Her voice answers promptly. "Hello," Mimi answers, cheerful and alive.

Thank fucking Jesus.

"Howdy." I say, trying to sound as normal a possible while racing up the stairway towards my bathroom. "Where are you?" The mirror displays all the damages of last night's fight against Stitch. Nowhere on my neck is my natural skin color.

"I'm with my friend, Hana-chan."

"Oh, Hana-chan." I repeat now shuffling through the many things under my sink. "That's cool." I grab a small cotton towel and a large bottle of white vinegar while saying, "Well I'm just letting you know that I'm here. And it really fucking freaked me out that you weren't."

October 22nd

I thought Mia's idea was stupid. Seriously, who brings a picnic to a sword fight? My cousin does, apparently. I look over to the girl happily munching on popcorn next to me and conclude that she doesn't really understand the weight of the events taking place in front of us. She does not take life too seriously. Well, maybe I don't either.

But here we sit inside a random classroom on the school's second floor with Mia's array of snacks for the Rain Battle showdown between Superbi Squalo and Sushi Kid Takeshi. My busty cousin full of smiles and even brought a blanket to sprawl over a few desks, milk too. Laying flat on my stomach, the thought of drinking some milk is winning me over.

Though we did not get here early tonight like the other nights, we came at the perfect time to hear those Cervello say over an intercom that they will be projecting the fight onto a giant screen outside. So we happily found ourselves the best classroom to watch the charade and set ourselves up for the flick. Mia shows me a bag of chocolate chip cookies… it's on. "Nice!"

"Now for the Ring of Rain: Superbi Squalo vs. Yamamoto Takeshi. Begin the battle."

My gaze whips to the large screen and catches Yamamoto Takeshi barely duck to avoid Squalo's opening slash. The battleground looks to be inside a dilapidated school building void of walls, windows, or an escape. Just cracked pillars and concrete floors with areas completely missing to reveal similar looking levels above and below.

Inside the dark arena, Squalo wastes no time in following up his missed strike with four tiny gunshots blasting out of his blade. Yamamoto barely dodges the bullets, and their impact to the floor causes water to blast towards the ceiling of their decrepit arena. I smirk. Wow, aren't you just an impressive young padawan. You can avoid Squalo when he's fighting at fifty percent.~

Finally amused, I switch to a sitting position.

"Ho, you avoided it, did you?" asks the equally, semi-impressed Varia shark.

"Yikes. The daily image training I did after losing to you paid off." Replies Yamamoto, and that makes me chuckle. Oh, how I worry for Tsuyoshi now… Image training?

Yamamoto's seasoned opponent instantly mocks such cheap methods and hits him with a dose of reality, dashing towards him and utilizing the water in a feint to disappear. Squalo bounces off a nearby wall to attack him from behind. Right as the green sword handler reacts and turns, Squalo informs the boy that he is far stronger than what he has displayed thus far. The Varia Commander proves it too, shooting four more of those gunshots right in Yamamoto's face.

Squalo is already leaping away from the scene, leaving strange and swirling water rings and clouding vapor. My heart pounds at once realizing that this is not what was supposed to happen with that attack. That microscopic hint of surprise in Squalo's pale blue eyes affirms it. "What was that?!" he asks to the Asian no longer holding a kendo stick, but a beautiful katana sized a tad long for his height.

"Ah!" I remark, geeking out. "A form-changing sword!"

He gives the blade a rehearsed swing before situating himself in the rudimentary forward stance. It's cute and amazing all in its own that he has come so far in so little time, that Yamamoto Takeshi.

Yamamoto should be happy his sword is not the first form-changer I've witnessed. That one is in my closet with the other trophies.

Amazing or not, Squalo gives the spry teen no breathing room as he charges in head on. He shoots some more of those little baby gunshots at Yamamoto with another playful swing. As the charging shark rushes in, the sushi kid hesitates before flourishing his katana in a defensive stance that allows yet another escape from a killer slash. Squalo lets out an annoyed groan to the teen kneeling in front him. Then Squalo's expression changes to one of amusement, seeing that proud half-smirk of his.

"Hey brat," the Varia Commander yells, "Why didn't you attack after defending?" Seeing Yamamoto's risen brow, Squalo no longer looks for an answer. "You're really a complete idiot! You just gave up your very last chance at wounding me!"

It's sad to see Squalo looking down on his opponent so much, but it makes sense. I swallow my mouthful of cookies with a quick gulp of milk, and cross my arms to the events at play.

Yamamoto's blank expression unexpectedly turns to a happy grin that shows all of his teeth, his eyes disappear too. It's an expression I know very well—it's exactly how I take an insult. Squalo has ruffled the goose's feathers; will he enjoy the chase that comes after?

"Haha… When you say last…" Yamamoto questions, trying to make sense of Squalo's arrogance, "You sure do talk big, don't you?"

I let out a quick and uncontrollable "Pft!" to my new favorite underdog.

Then Yamamoto Takeshi's brimming arrogance floods the arena with a beautiful proclamation to the shark, "Let me first make this clear. This isn't all there is to the Shigure Souen Style."

The green boy charges forward with gritted teeth, swinging his blade so quickly that I barely catch him switch the hand wielding the katana mid-strike. But I for sure catch Squalo perfectly dodge the beautiful attack. I just shake my head and mutter, "Wow."

Swords are just such beautiful things. It's too bad that I lack the elegance or precision to kill with such finesse. Staring down at my crossed arms, I come to the conclusion that I'm not that great with the fans I am currently using either.

"Hey!" I hear the Varia leader dressed black yell. He's telling the baseball player his attack did nothing at all when my attention goes back to the playing field. The water has risen a little bit since the battle started. While Squalo mocks Yamamoto's 'invincible style,' the camera hones in on Superbi Squalo's expression of sheer contempt. Those slighting eyes barely shown under his silvery white hair, that light heckling smile. The Sword Emperor bears a finely crafted expression of absolute ridicule. It pisses me off.

The last time I saw it was when he left me for dead.

Part of me desires to reflect on the past, but I ignore that and listen to the boot strapped shark's questions instead. The guy asks Yamamoto why he used the back of his sword instead of the blade, and Yamamoto instantly informs that he only wants to win the fight—not kill. My hand swiftly covers my gaping mouth.

Yamamoto—clearly—is not averse to the verbal low blow.

"HEY! AREN'T YOU UNDERESTIMATING ME TOO MUCH," warns the irate assassin. The Varia shark goes headlong for the 'katana brat' screaming, "Looks like you still don't understand what kind of situation you are in! I'll make it so you can never open that conceited mouth of yours again!"

Yamamoto swings his blade, using the same defensive sword form used only a moment ago (no, don't do that retard!). The swing throws water up as illusive shield against an opponent, but the sushi kid could not have expected Squalo to do the same thing. So all we can see on the screen are pillars of water hiding both swordsmen in the run-down claptrap. The question now is which swordsman will successfully strike the other?

When the water walls finally fall, a voice below us, Sawada Tsunayoshi's voice, yells out Yamamoto's name loudly. Anxious and panicky, his tone informs all spectators who he think will win tonight. Squalo has lain what looks like a deep slash into his opponent's left shoulder. I wonder if that look on Yamamoto's face is one of surprise, fear, or a healthy dose of both?

"How's that? Hurts doesn't it?" Squalo jibes haughtily. "Let me tell you one last piece of bad news that'll make you despair: I've completely seen through all of your techniques. This Shigure Souen Style of yours is one I already defeated long ago!"

Yeah, his expression is both.

The young, novice swordsman slumps in front of Squalo like a flightless bird. It's sad and pathetic, and it makes me want to punch the kid. I slightly fidget in my Indian-style position, my back getting tired of hunching over my crisscrossed legs, and gripe at the teen from my faraway spot. "Your dad did not teach you kendo so you could punk out like a little bitch from a flesh wound. Get up, dumbass."

Squalo explains to Yamamoto how, in his search of strong opponents to prepare him for his future fight with the original Sword Emperor, he discovered the Shigure Souen Style. The tall shark happily informs the kid crouched in front of him gripping his wounds about how he sliced up the successor and his two students to ribbons. Apparently they used the same eight forms as Yamamoto does.

Oddly enough, Squalo's high and mighty lecture of how Yamamoto has no chance stirs the boy. "I've never heard of such a thing…" the sushi kid states. Then the baseball boy whose skin is just about as dark as mine and whose are eyes lighter than mine bestir in intent once again. Yamamoto grips his wound a bit as he stands himself up sporting that same cocky smirk from only a few minutes ago. "The Shigure Souen Style I've heard about is completely flawless and invincible."

The one 'he' has heard about? My head cocks to the interesting choice of words.

Squalo, on the other hand, is astounded. "Hey! Are you an idiot!?"

Yamamoto grips his sword tightly. "You won't know until you give it a try."

Wait. Does he mean the sword style he knows is different than what Squalo is talking about? A light, amused snort escapes me as Squalo declares he is done holding back. The sushi kid sprints towards Squalo for their next clash, both swinging their swords wildly. Slash, parry, flourish and water splashes. As Yamamoto is rearing to attack, Squalo smartly hacks his long sword into a cement pillar by him, causing rubble to shell in the sushi kid's direction and take out an eye. Yamamoto lets out a pained groan and falls to the pooled ground.

"Hey, don't stop moving!" chides Yamamoto's radiating opponent who is already moving in for another assault. Squalo's sword makes a strange clang against Yamamoto's, and I can even see Yamamoto's arm just jerk awkwardly after. Oh! Shit!

I point at the screen excitedly. "Damn, he did that paralyze trick."

Yamamoto has the cutest, confused expression as he struggles to grasp the idea that his arm is not moving. Then Squalo shouts, "DIE" with the biggest of grin. That makes the kid react. Yamamoto punches his arm to shock it back to life (like a little genius) but fails to fully escape Squalo's savage slash. Hitting the watery ground, Yamamoto's sword turns back into a kendo stick, but the guardian candidate immediately picks himself back up.

I muse, "Shit, you won't be using that hand for a while," remembering a guy who quickly died after Squalo did that same exact trick. Yamamoto even has that same look of fatigue, too. "Come on. Get em'."

"So how is it? You're looking a little under the weather!" the Varia Commander quips while closing the gap between them. Yamamoto smartly flees up to a higher level over the shredded school building they are fighting in. The kid cutely blows on his hand that is probably numb, and tries to restrain his obvious jitters. Wait, is he wearing sandals?

I quietly chuckle and shake my head to his poor choice in footwear… kids. Give them a fight to the death, and they choose to do it in sandals…

Then out of nowhere the floor under Yamamoto crumbles, and Squalo's is thrusting his sword upward at the teen like a goddamn machine. All reaction leaves Yamamoto as he falls down to the lower level of their battleground and plops into the water. Squalo merely spectates the boy's plight from higher ground. I scratch my head, getting mad that the only match whose ending I do kind of care about… I'll be damned if this kid dies…

"Well then, brat! I'm going to shred your heart," says Squalo in his domineering stance. I find the action a bit over the top and tasteless. Did someone forget to lecture him about beating a dead horse?

Yamamoto, laying lethargically, lightly lips, "Isn't it just one-sided like this… If dad knew I lost, he'd probably be mad…"

Or devastated.

Mia and I watch Squalo taunt Yamamoto like the supercilious shark he is, trying to provoke the kid to fight on and even asking if he would like a demonstration of all eight forms of the Shigure Souen Style, going so far as to say, "When the eighth form, Autumn Rain, is released, you can just tragically disintegrate."

I cock a brow to the twenty year old. Fucking classy, Superbi Squalo. Are you going to demolish him a Yu-gi-oh duel, too? The night is young…

No. Squalo outshines my ideas with an even grander display of douchebaggery. The silver haired Varia leader stares right into the camera and says, "Hey! You Brats! This Katana Brat's ugliest last moments—you'd better burn them into your mind!"

"Jesus…" I groan, just annoyed with the spectacle now, "I swear to God he deserves smiting just on principle alone. This is just embarrassing." You could show some professionalism, I mean, you are a 'world class' assassin.

And then like an answered prayer, the sound of water gushing alerts us to Yamamoto's second wind. "Yes!" I cheer to the game changer. Though his stance seems based on willpower alone, there's a firmness about it that just radiates in positude. Yamamoto Takeshi—the comeback kid.

I look at my cousin at the same time I reach for another chocolate chip cookie in the pile. "Mia, I don't know what they say about Yamamoto at school, but he's cool in my book."

"They all like him," replies my cousin who has been holding the same popcorn for at least five minutes. Her head nods slightly as she adds. "They all say he's a reliable guy."

I'm fixated on the boy Squalo is telling to lie back down while munching on my own handful of popcorn and informing Mia that 'reliable' is a good adjective. Still watching the show in this dark and lifeless classroom, Yamamoto informs Squalo why he cannot lay back down. "… Because the Shigure Souen Style is completely flawless and invincible."

His words make my skin crawl.

Somewhere in that body of his, shown only by that cool and dark tone in his voice just now, is a natural born killer.

Will I get to see his birth tonight?

Standing above on the next story, Superbi Squalo threatens to cut out Yamamoto's tongue with a grin and performs a strong flourish that rouses the water from the level below to attack his green and galling opponent. Yamamoto Takeshi sprints, escapes the incoming walls of water and leapfrogs up some rubble to level himself with Squalo.

The kid doesn't look in bad shape, but the water is getting to him. Tiring him: the price of his inexperience. Standing behind Squalo, damn near close to a kneel, Yamamoto growls through his heavy breaths, "Let's go."

"What did you come here for?" questions Squalo, void of the decency to even face his opponent now. Yamamoto stands behind him ready to fight, all while his opponent only bothers to look back at him. But when the comeback kid begins to say "Shigure Souen Style" again, Squalo gains enough decency to stand side-face to say, "Hey, looks like you don't have any brain cells."

Yamamoto's only reply is in his low, forward dashing stance.

"I know that stance!" Squalo instantly reacts, following his 'idiot' opponent in this game of chicken, yelling, "Well, then, do it! Autumn Rain!"

What a pretty name for a killer sword move is all I can think watching the two men run to each other with their blurred slashes. They both move with speed and finesse, but this time Squalo is the one that falls to the ground.

Yamamoto stands faced away from his floor-bound combatant, re-gripping his sword and chuckling. He mutters something too, but the speakers miss whatever cocky phrase the comeback kid must have said. I give the large black boxes bolted on each side of the giant screen a glance as the Varia Commander's voice blasts through them once again.

"You! Did you use another style other than the Shigure Souen Style?!"

The tall, slender teen looks to the bleeding competitor behind him with a cheerfully demeaning smirk. "No. That now was also the Shigure Souen Style." His sanguine voice gets an ever so slight tinge of arrogance in it as he adds. "The eighth form, Pouring Rain, was created by my dad."

I knew it, thinking back to his comment earlier about the Shigure Souen Style. The comeback kid is a sly one, too. I also give myself a mental high five for my intuition of Tsuyoshi being practiced in martial arts. All of it incites the urge to work, the need of kill thrills. My eyes stay focused on Yamamoto and Squalo composing themselves while I give the right side of my jawline a hard scratch.

"Hey brat! I didn't think you'd get this far," declares the Varia man, "so I don't get that pathetic strike with the back of your blade just now. You're making a mockery of a genuine match." Squalo whips himself into a pose that I'm sure I've seen in a chapter of Sailor Moon as he then asks, "Or do you have some other form that I haven't seen before?"

Yamamoto gives an honest no, and I let out a disbelieving chuckle before covering my face with my crumb-covered hand. This kid is a bona fide ignoramus. I blame Tsuyoshi for this one… Whether or not Tsuyoshi had anything to do with Yamamoto Takeshi's imparted truth just now, Squalo deems the brat a goner because he can taste something once and see through it, or something of that nature. Squalo speaks retarded Japanese.

The comeback kid is still breathing heavy from his nasty gashes as he replies. "You're really something else." His panting pauses him momentarily. "I guess there's nothing for it then, I'll show it to you, Shigure Souen Style Ninth Form."

The young, tall Asian, garbed in a bloodied dress shirt that was once a pristine white, stands soaked to the bone. The way his chest moves gives the impression of some cracked ribs and possibly a clean break on that collarbone. But the kid still manages to strut in this fight—he does it all with a crooked smile—standing confidently in front of the Second Sword Emperor, perfectly poised to swing his sword (currently in kendo stick form) like a Louisville Slugger.

I find myself laughing at him again. This kid is so fucking random. How does he have friends? Then I remember how everyone at fourteen and fifteen is pretty 'out of style.' I laugh more remembering the stupid shit I used to do before hitting twenty.

"Unfortunately, I'm not much good at anything other than baseball," admits the silly boy still wearing that crooked smirk. I think I missed something in the conversation…

Squalo, standing opposite of the young student, rapidly slashes his big sword, yelling that Yamamoto better not freeze up. The water parts at the Varia man's feet, as if he were Moses. Moses with a sword, running like a madman, maybe. "Experience the true power of my sword! DIE!"

All of the water parting at Squalo's feet magically forms into a speeding bullet in front of him whilst he runs in for the kill. Their movements start to blur on the screen. Squalo flourishes Yamamoto, making all of the water around him hammer down on the kid, but Yamamoto is no longer there. All of a sudden the kid is behind Squalo, crouched and holding his once again transformed sword. My head cocks.

Knowing that the form changing swords usually change only while using a specific sword style (because I cannot get mine to transform), I know this kid has done something. I say nothing and let my teeth silently clench. It pisses me off that I've missed it.

Though it seemed as if the baseball boy had just gave himself a moment to breathe, the massive waves twist with their target in front once again. Half a second second passes, and Squalo is in front of Yamamoto laying more high-speed slashes, yet the kid manages to deflect the worst of them. I think the young gun acquired some new cuts from the attack, though.

Cuts or no cuts, I still find this kid impressive, seeing how he is fighting with only one eye. So much of your equilibrium and natural reaction ability is lost without both eyes. There are more people that have lost to that shark with two eyes, and not even lasted as long as he had. Like me. Yamamoto's swings, steps and sways have all lost that hesitation in a matter of five minutes against a Varia leader, whom I believe is his first sword opponent ever. Watching him strikes a beat within my instincts, a feeling I do not get very often. This kid has it. As Yamamoto attempts evasion by putting some distance between himself and Squalo, I know one thing is definitely clear: Superbi Squalo no doubt has a gift for the sword, but Yamamoto Takeshi is pure fucking talent.

It's no wonder why Squalo is trying so hard to kill him.
Snip the shoot before the flower blooms.

Squalo screams, "THIS IS THE END," as he swings a hard and powerful backslash. Then Yamamoto fucking shows up behind Squalo! Like Trinity from The Matrix, except wielding a katana (and not fully garbed in leather), he flies in to attack. But then Squalo's hand just goes exorcist, bending backwards far beyond what's natural, for his sword to impale Yamamoto like a motherfucking javelin!

"Agh!" I yell with some restraint (there are people all around). Mia chimes in, both of us yelling, "What the fuck!?"

If all of that was not enough, Yamamoto then just turns into water, splashing Superbi Squalo like a gentle wave. But the comeback kid appears again! Now in front of Squalo in the same flying matrix stance he was in behind the Sword Emperor, he whacks the Varia Commander on the head with the back of his blade and Squalo collapses like an ivory tower. In the next second the kid also catches something falling to the ground. Yamamoto's hand opens and shows a silver ring he snatched up.

Jesus Christ this is awesome. I'm so fucking pumped; I just want to kill something. My whole body is all fidgety and shit from it all! Like the thrill that comes when death is evaded by grabbing the knife, I can barely even think straight as I hear Yamamoto coolly declare, "I won."

I look at Mia, who is now standing at the windows, watching the screen. With a wicked grin and widened eyes as I hop off of the desks, I situate myself next to her and give a quick peer out the window to everyone below us. Looking down to Sawada Tsunayoshi and his teenage comrades, with the exception of the Arcobaleno and Dino Cavallone, I hear the voice of a certain boss whom I've known to rarely speak. Xanxus.

"How pathetic! He lost!" the boss of Varia bellows. "That trash!"

Unable to help myself, I laugh along with Xanxus at his schoolyard insult and watch the giant projected screen show the once fearsome Sword Emperor, lying face down on rabbled wreckage. The overhead speakers then relay a statement from the Cervello officials to us all. There is now a shark in the battlefield.

I laugh to the irony of it all. The arrogant shark is to be eaten by the hungry shark. What a hoot. My hand quickly whips my phone out. While snapping my photo I notice how Yamamoto does not find it entertaining, as he asks the Cervello what will happen to Squalo. They make it known they don't give a rat's ass.

Yamamoto rejoinders his foresight of such an answer, then makes it clear that he will be the one to save Squalo from the perilous jaws of the hungry shark. "This kid is an idiot, isn't he?" Mia quips.

"Evidently. Who the hell saves someone that was trying to kill them thirty seconds ago?" Yamamoto's good intentions kill my excitement; I'm left standing watching a sappy, budding bromance in the making.

The both of us eye each other for a moment before Mia answers, "The Vongola."

An exaggerated sigh escapes me as my eyes wander from the jumbo screen in front of us. "Humph, well that's a fucking first." While stretching my limbs, a crashing sound booms out the speakers. The heavy sound shakes the windows in the classroom. Even the air itself vibrates. My eyes snap to the screen, where the video camera is moving to zoom in on the two swordsmen that have somehow fallen from an upper level of their school building fight zone to the same level the shark is swimming in.

"Oh fuck," I tell myself.

It looks as if words are exchanged between Yamamoto and Squalo before the Varia Commander kicks the tall, lanky teen away from him shouting. Then I notice the shark's dorsal fin closing in on Squalo and the large puddle of blood that has accumulated under him. Yamamoto lands on a pile of rocks a good distance away and tries getting himself back up. He isn't getting anywhere too quickly in his battered state, but the kid manages to sit himself up to hear what I know will be Squalo's last words.

"Brat… Your sword skills aren't bad. Next, you should get rid of that naivety of yours."

Then the Second Sword Emperor disappears from us all. The large shark got him in one masterful, break-neck champ. "That was fucking great… too fucking cool."

The city streets are barren on the drive home, odd for a Friday night. Yamamoto Takeshi's sad and frustrated expression lingers in my mind as I drive towards the house, that feeling of being so close to saving the world and then utter failure. I snort, remembering failures of my own. I also take note of Mia's silence.

"So hey, you know how they said the Mist Battle is tomorrow?"

She looks to me and gives an idle, "Yeah."

"Well, those ugly Cervello bitches said it's the Mist Battle tomorrow, and Varia's Prince Belphagor made it pretty clear Mammon (their illusionist) will be fighting. I say let's fuck watching tomorrow's match and go on that movie date instead. Illusionists are creepy fellows, not people you want to associate with."

She gives an agreeing nod before saying okay. At the same time I turn down a familiar street and let my eyes drift ahead on the road. Simply passing through, I see the lights of my favorite sushi shop open. I smirk, Don't worry, Tsuyoshi, he's coming home.

Protocol:
word count: 8,385
Credit to the story KHR goes to Amano Akira,
Dee's story is by myself (DEECAPSLOCKISON),
and the character Mimi/Mia belongs to Ausumist

Thank you Ausumist for beta-ing the story

If you like this story, please read And There I live Among the Clams by Ausumist.
It is this story, but from Mimi's point of view, which gives details that this story doesn't necessarily show.

Thanks,
The Captain.