Blanket Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn is the intellectual, artistic, and retail property of Akira Amano, TV Tokyo, and all other similarly affiliated parties. i make no claim over any of the copyrighted characters or events that may appear in this story.

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Quid Pro Quo

Prologue

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What happens after a person dies?

It is a question that terrifies some and consumes others, a question that, sooner or later, crosses every mind—whether nestled in a moment of boredom, during a religious ceremony, or in those precious, last few seconds before the light leaves their eyes and their body begins to cool.

But the young woman at the bus stop, frowning at her phone and waiting for either the next bus or the rain to let up is not thinking about that. No, at the moment she is thinking things like, 'didn't I charge it this morning?' and 'is the bus going to be delayed?' but nothing nearly so existential.

Perhaps she should be. Or perhaps, it is better that she is not. It's really a matter of perspective.

Setting aside the young woman's thoughts for a moment—and that is the best description for her: a young woman, caught in that awkward, almost-grown limbo stretching between girlhood and true maturity, past the blanket term of 'teenager' but still free from the shackles of 'adulthood'—setting aside her thoughts, and whether this is the time for deep pondering or mundane worries, the more important issue to examine is what she is not thinking of right now. What she cannot think of right now. What she does not even realize she does not know.

Why is this young woman at the bus stop?

"To catch the next bus, of course," she would reply if asked, though her brow might begin to furrow for some reason she would not feel inclined to share.

Where is she intending to go?

That question, she would not be able to answer. She would not be able to answer, and it would set off a firecracker of panic beneath her calm, polite facade. She would begin to wonder how she got to the bus stop, when there isn't one in walking distance of her house. She would wonder when she arrived at the bus stop; she knows that she has been waiting for quite some time, but the loss of her phone's charge and the uniform gray of the rain's deluge would leave her unable to gauge just how long. She would search through her memories desperately, trying to remember what she had done leading up to the bus stop, and her stomach would knot itself up in sick worry when she realizes that she cannot recall. She knows who she is, she knows where she lives, knows where she goes to school and works and what her best friend's pet's name is, but she cannot recall how she got to the bus stop, because the last thing she remembers is…

The last thing she remembers…

The last thing…

The last…

…but there is nobody else at the bus stop to question the young woman. Nobody to probe her mind, nudge it away from fluffy, bored thoughts and towards the how's and why's. No, the young woman at the bus stop, frowning at her phone and waiting for either the next bus or the rain to let up is not thinking about that at all. Perhaps it is better that she is not; it truly is a matter of perspective.

So, the young woman continues to wait for her bus, and the rain continues to fall, and time continues to pass and an inestimable rate. If this was a different kind of story, perhaps the bus would never come, and the young woman would continue waiting and frowning at her phone, alone and unquestioned; perhaps she would grow younger or older, oblivious; perhaps the rain would stop, and she would cease to exist as well.

But this is not that kind of story, and eventually—though how long it takes, no one could ever possibly say—the bus does eventually arrive. The bus driver is a tired, portly man, but he offers a small smile when she has her change ready and does not dawdle. She smiles back, polite and warm with the relief of being free of the rain at last, and settles into the first open seat she can find. The bus is not packed to the seams, but the other people are spread out. The young woman quietly asks the young man—a year or two older than her, she thinks—if he would mind her sitting beside him, and he obliges.

Normally, on a bus, the young woman would listen to music or play with an app depending on how far away her stop was. The loss of her phone closes both avenues to her, and turning to stare out the window would probably make the young man closest to it uncomfortable. Her mind might have then turned to wondering what her stop was, which she does not know, and would have set the first domino in a very distressing line of thoughts tumbling. But that doesn't happen, because the young man beside her, against all expectation, turns to her and asks her a question.

"What do you think happens after people die?"

The young woman is understandably taken aback. In her experience, strangers generally avoid engaging in long, philosophical discussions on public transit. The situation is strange to her, but the young man is neither particularly unattractive nor her type, so she feels comfortable enough to answer him.

"Some sort of new beginning, probably." She shrugs a little, uncomfortable with the subject. "I…don't know if I'd say Heaven, exactly, or reincarnation. Just." She glances away and scratches her forearm beneath her jacket. "It just seems like it would be a waste, if a whole life was just converted into nothing that easily. If you want the scientific sort of approach, we're made up of completely non-living material. Even our minds are just electrical impulses. That…has to go somewhere, I think." She cleches her jaw and flushes slightly; she has said more than she intended to, without any idea as to why.

"Interesting," the young man hums, tapping out some beat on his kneecap known only to him. The young woman bristles and glances around, feeling self-conscious, but none of the other travelers seem to be paying them any attention. "What do you think," he asks, "would be the best outcome?"

She bites her lip and the fragments of girlhood still buried shallowly within her whimper 'I don't want to play this game any more', but the woman she is starting to become urges her to keep talking. It is not as though she will ever meet this young man again, but if she does it would be best to be remembered in a good light. "Rebirth, I think," she admits, and as the child of a lapsed Catholic and an atheist, she only feels a little of the knee-jerk guilt that confession elicits. "I mean, who wouldn't want to have a second try? I don't think there's a single person who's managed to die without regrets."

The young man smiles a bit at that, and then asks her another question. "True enough. If you had the choice, what type of person would you like to be reborn as?"

The young woman is beginning to suspect she is in some sort of anonymous interview or survey, which strangely enough finally allows her to relax. "The usual things, I suppose. Prettier, more athletic…more dedicated, less of a procrastinator. Memories of where I went wrong the last time around. The owner of an interesting life, mostly." Her voice turns wistful at that last part, before her lips quirk into something a little more rueful than a proper smile. "I'm not quite sure I'd like the cost, though."

"The cost?" The young man looks a bit startled.

"You can't just get something for nothing," she says, parroting back a favored axiom of her father. "You don't get a perfect, free ride out of the blue; that isn't how life works. There's always going to be some sort of give and take, whether you know about it or not."

"Pragmatic," he comments, but there is something in his eyes that says he might have wanted to use a different word. "But what if it didn't cost as much as you think it does?"

"Then I'm in for a lucky break, once my time is up, I guess." She means to say it jokingly, but it comes out soft and thoughtful. She feels embarrassed, and then deeply relieved as she feels the bus begin to slow. "Well, this is my stop," she says, as an impromptu good-bye. She is not aware of how she knows that this is her stop.

"Good luck," the young man bids her. It strikes her as strange, but she nods all the same and makes her way down the aisle.

She thanks the bus driver, getting another fatigued smile in return, and as she heads for the stairs, she idly thinks that she will not be using this bus-line again. Something inside her drops and ripples out at that thought, and as she jumps down from the bottom step her face abruptly drains of color. She tries to recall which line this is but she cannot even recall how she got to the bus stop, because the last thing she remembers is…

The last thing she remembers…

The last thing…

The last…

The birth of Takahashi Mitsu had not been an easy one. Her mother, Megumi, had luckily been strong enough, and aided by enough doctors that the long labor resulted in both mother and child surviving. Mitsu, due to one of the many complications, was not born unscathed; she was rendered physically mute. Sawada Nana had no idea whether that condition had contributed to Megu-chan's divorce, and to be frank, she didn't particularly care either. One way or another, the two Takahashi ladies had ended up moving into the residence next to the Sawasa household, and Nana was forever thankful for that.

She loved her husband, and she doubted anything could ever change that, but being left to struggle through raising their infant son on her own due to his frequent long-term business trips had been exhausting. But then Megu-chan had blown into her life, newborn daughter in tow and dead set on providing whatever care her child might need. The two mothers had bonded almost instantly, both out of genuine affection and the mercenary understanding that a burden halved was a burden shared. After that, things took a definite turn for the better.

Neither Tsu-kun or Micchan were exceptionally fussy babies, though the latter was often watched and checked on incessently due to her inability to wail if something truly was wrong. Other than a few incidents that weren't as alarming in hindsight as they were at the time, both of their children grew up healthy and hale. Nana didn't know much about Megu-chan's husband, other than that they had split over 'irreconcilable differences in their choice of lifestyle', but she imagined that he had to have been almost as dashing as Nana's own husband.

Micchan was a beautiful child, marked by her foreign father's blood in all the right ways. The sole proof of Megu-chan's own mixed heritage was merely a pair of beautiful glass-green eyes which she had passed down to her daughter, but Micchan was what her husband had called a 'classical beauty' upon first holding her, pale and delicate with a head of hair he deemed Venetian blonde—oh, Nana had practically swooned then; he was so poetic!—thick, a mixture of every tone of gold and copper, and silky to the touch. She was as precious as a little doll.

Micchan, however, had quickly developed a personality all her own, even with the added hurdle when it came to communication. The first time a boy at daycare had called her that sort of moniker, both Nana and Megu-chan had been called in to find the perpetrator bawling in a corner and Mitsu calmly playing with Tsuna in a corner, completely unrepentant. Nana didn't think she could have faced down the angry parents on her own, but Megu-chan did it with a cold veneer that Nana privately thought left the couple cowering as much as their rude son.

Nana had been less horrified when Tsu-kun had later explained, hand in hand with Micchan, that the boy had been making fun of poor Tsu-kun for playing with a 'doll' when the little girl had tackled him. That set the tone for their friendship, honestly. The two had, unsurprisingly, grown all but inseparable. Nana and Megu-chan had made sure that their bedroom windows faced one another, and turned a blind eye to late-night conversations—as long as they weren't too late or loud, of course.

All in all, the sweet life of Sawada Nana had only been brightened even more by the arrival of the Takahashi family. They made things so much more interesting for her and her Tsu-kun.

Mitsu cursed herself, every once in a while, for ever wishing for an interesting life. There were far too many ways for that one word to be twisted around, as she had quickly learned. Mercifully, she hadn't been reborn with full cognizance of what had happened to her; that had come later, little by little, memories resurfacing little by little and then, when she could handle it, most of the rest. She didn't consider herself to be a continuation of the young woman who had wished without the caution she might have exerted if she really thought it would come true. No, Mitsu knew that young woman the way she might a main character in a book, which was highly ironic considering the circumstances.

It had taken Mitsu quite a while to realize it, since Tsuna had always been by her side. She couldn't see the forest for the trees, or some such saying; even when the other shoe finally dropped, it had been a struggle to actually believe it. It seemed ludicrous, that she would know every in and out his life would take.

And it was ludicrous, she eventually realized. She wasn't omnipotent at all; Mitsu herself had changed things already, and as far as she knew the mafia wasn't even directly involved yet. It was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, and she was able to eventually shove the issue to the back of her mind. The Sawada Tsunayoshi she had read about was merely a caricature of what her Tsuna might have become, and she refused to let him sink so low.

The principal of give and take had become something of a governing principal for Mitsu, partly because of her disability and partly because she had always been pragmatic, even before she became Takahashi Megumi's daughter. Tsuna was devoted to her—mainly because she had been his first and only friend—so in turn she devoted herself to him, even when her looks gained her a throng of girls and boys desperate for her attention in one way or another. Anybody who bullied Tsuna immediately made it onto her blacklist, and Mitsu was not a merciful or gentle girl, despite what her countenance might imply to the contrary.

It also allowed her an out in situations such as the one she was currently in. Mitsu carefully uncapped the dry-erase marker she always carried with her, and carefully began to write.

I'm sorry, but I have no intention of dating a person who badmouths my friend. Thank you for your feelings, but I cannot return them.

She bowed politely to the boy who had just confessed to her, making sure he could read the board in her hands, then turned and walked away. She calmly made her way back to the classroom where Tsuna was waiting for her, lunch untouched.

"What did Mochida-san want?" He asked as she took her seat again, sweeping her long hair over her shoulder demurely.

The usual, she scrawled dismissively. And he got the usual answer.

"I really wouldn't mind if you did get a boyfriend, Mitsu," Tsuna insisted for the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time, Mitsu ignored him, stead digging into her lunch with relish. He sighed but followed suit, reassured that he wasn't holding her back.

"Looks like Mochida tried for the General and forgot about her Horse," A boy on the other side of the classroom muttered to his friend. Mitsu heard him anyways and turned to look at the pair silently. They quickly changed the topic.

That was something she had directly changed; the moniker of Dame Tsuna had been struck down firmly the day it was first suggested, and she still glared coldly at the main offender until the day he had transferred out of their school. In its place, however, came an arguably less offensive but ultimately more irritating substitute.

'If you want to shoot the general, you must first shoot his horse' was a common enough saying that was quickly tagged onto tis particular case by the ever-growing number of boys desperate to catch her eye. It was widely known that Takahashi Mitsu was wickedly protective of her childhood friend, and a majority of the bullying that had plagued Tsuna through elementary school abruptly ceased as the bullies began to realize that they were decimating their own chances.

Some, like Mochida, were arrogant enough to think that Mitsu would automatically deem them a worthy trade-off for her friendship with Tsuna, and were promptly shut down. Some girls resented her for her looks and the attention she received because of them, but by and large her brusque and stubborn stance on the matter won her a general sense of friendship with most of the girls in her class, though she made no secret of the fact that Tsuna was still her most important person.

They occasionally had lunch with Sasagawa Kyouko, who was a sweet and cute girl confessed to nearly as often as Mitsu was—and one that Tsuna held an almost embarrassingly large torch for—as well as Kyouko's friend Kurokawa Hana, brilliant if somewhat cynical girl. Today was not one of the days Tsuna could muster the composure not to choke in front of Kyouko, so Mitsu had him all to herself today.

She liked these idyllic middle school days, but a part of her had been on pins and needles since the opening ceremony back at the beginning of the school year. It was already late June now, and Reborn still hadn't heralded in the beginning of what Mitsu knew to be the Daily Life Arc. She wished, not for the first time, that she had been granted crystal clear memories of the serialized version of the path Tsuna's life would have taken without her.

As much as she wished Tsuna wouldn't have to be put by the wringer by the events that were approaching them, she knew it was only a matter of time before things became far more interesting than the oblivious young woman who had thought she was simply making conversation could have ever hoped.

"Mitsu?" She snapped out of her daze and saw that Tsuna was now staring at her, obviously concerned. "Is everything okay?"

I'm fine, she assured him. I'm just worrying over something that's probably still a long ways off.

Tsuna reluctantly accepted that, and they continued eating.

"Ciaossu. My name is Reborn, and from today onwards I'll be your home tutor."

Naturally, it was that very afternoon that they entered the Sawada residence to find a small child in a bespoke suit waiting for them after they had stopped for popsicles on the way home.

"I found a flyer in the mailbox this morning!" Nana chirped as the two middle-schoolers stared in disbelief. Well, Tsuna stared in disbelief, that is; Mitsu merely scrutinized the diminutive 'tutor', firmly reminding herself that he was dangerous, at least thrice her age, and probably would not react well if she kicked him like a soccer ball and dragged Tsuna to the nearest train station at top speed.

"Mom, he's a baby!" Tsuna insisted, gesticulating wildly. "There's no way this isn't a scam—we should call Child Services or someth—urkle." 'Urkle' was, of course, the semi-muted sound of a vicious blow to the solar plexus delivered so efficiently and so fast Mitsu could barely see Reborn move.

Tsuna dropped to his knees, wheezing pitifully as he tried to regain the air that he so desperately needed. Mitsu rubbed his back gently, writing out her own introduction on her ever-present whiteboard.

My name is Takahashi Mitsu. Nice to meet you. I don't understand why Tsuna needs a tutor.

Naturally she understood far more about this situation than she had any right to, but she had also helped Tsuna with his homework and studying for years. He wasn't a genius by any stretch of the term, and he sometimes just barely scraped by, but Mitsu herself ranked near the top of their year and had made sure that Tsuna hadn't gotten a failing mark in years.

As Nana had wandered off to the kitchen to get dinner ready and her own mother was holed up in their home, working furiously on her latest novel, Mitsu was forced to turn to Reborn for answers. Tsuna's answers, that was.

"My true line of work is assassination," Reborn explained calmly, absentmindedly delivering a roundhouse kick to Tsuna's forehead when the boy used his first real breath to sputter incredulously. "But I've been called upon by a certain man to raise Sawada Tsunayoshi into an astounding Mafia Boss."

I don't mean to be offensive, but you have to realize that sounds ridiculous from our perspective, right? Mitsu asked, Tsuna nodding weakly as she leaned against her for support.

"How about now?"

She nearly dropped her whiteboard in shock as a sniper rifle was—suddenly and inexplicably, out of literally nowhere—leveled right in the center of her forehead. She stared, wide-eyed, until Tsuna hurriedly yanked her away.

"O-Okay," Tsuna stammered, somehow finding the courage to inch in front of her protectively. Mitsu was touched, but mostly concerned with keeping Reborn in sight at all times. "Maybe…maybe you are some sort of hitman—"

"The best," Reborn corrected, smoothly checking and reloading his ammo.

"—the best hitman," Tsuna quickly amended, eying the long barrel worriedly. "But…but why me? I'm not anyone special; I can't be a Mafia boss! Somebody like me—ow!" Tsuna flinched at the slap upside the head he received from behind, turning a wounded look on the friend he was trying to protect. "Mitsu!"

You're still forbidden from saying things like 'somebody like me'.

"Agreed," the tiny assassin nodded, somehow managing to spirit his gun back to wherever it came from in the split second they were both distracted. "A Mafia boss should never speak so self-deprecatingly; it reflects poorly upon his Famiglia."

"I keep telling you, I can't—!"

"Tsu-kun?" Nana called from the kitchen. "Could you or Micchan go pull Megu-chan out of her office? Dinner's ready!"

Mitsu watched as her best friend of nearly thirteen years flailed helplessly as the shackles of Fate began inching shut around him, courtesy of the baby padding off towards the kitchen, and heaved a silent sigh.

She had, once upon a time, in another life, wished for things to be more interesting. She had a feeling that, even from a spectator's seat, she was going to be guaranteed that in spades, all too soon.

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To be continued in:

Chapter 1: containing magic bullets, accidental streaking, cover stories, the appearance of an old challenger, the appearance of a new challenger, and a look into the mind of the world's strongest home tutor.