I like that we more or less agree that when he's off duty, he's a regular adrenaline junkie, but on the job - he is a consummate professional and largely methodical
I'd like to add that Reborn doesn't gamble or risk it for the biscuit because he's just So Good, he eliminates any risk that could happen. He is certain and his shots don't miss. So he can't be a lucky son of a bitch bc he doesn't need luck. Gambling and risk-taking are for plebs and Reborn is no pleb.
"Those Who Walk Away from Omelas" is a response to the "Trolley Problem"
There is no outsmarting or escaping the problem. The trolley will kill one person or many people at once. Omelas can survive only if one kid suffers. What do you do?
If you rescue the one, many will suffer. That's the problem. That has always been the heart of the Trolley and the Omelas problem.
When you're one of the "many" who depended upon the suffering of the "few", how do you live with that? It's not a question of "well I would just make less suffer", it's about confronting the problem of "how would you handle the suffering of any that many rely upon?"
WARNING: Evil Tsuna, gore, child abuse, animal abuse. If you are in anyway squeamish, DO NOT READ. Reader Beware, You're in for a Scare.
Reborn's expectations are rarely exceeded. When Ninth first offered him the job - tutoring the snot-nosed spawn of Iemitsu, he... braced himself. The kid would become a Mafia Boss and a damn well respectable one. But Reborn saw the soft-spoken, dull-eyed boy and well... Tsuna could win gold, of course - Reborn will not stand for silver, but he wouldn't break any world records.
Reborn has never been more wrong and he never will be again because Sawada Tsunayoshi is a singular masterpiece. And Reborn can't even take full credit.
"Hold tight," Vongola Decime whispers, resting a careful hand on the child's thin shoulder. His other hand holds three leashes.
The leashes are connected to three hulking, rabid wolves - starved and beaten to madness. Countless weeping cuts emphasize the outline of their ribs poking through patchy fur. They snarl and scratch, straining the tender leather of their leashes, in a desperate attempt to lunge - to feast.
On the opposite side of this courtyard - it would be the Iron Fort's front courtyard, where they greet all their lovely guest, two grown women are on their knees - forced to kneel by the chains wrapped around their wrists and ankles and necks. Apart from the restraints, and places where those chafe, these women seem entirely healthy and whole. There's not a single bruise upon their smooth, supple skin. They might have gone through a spa before they arrived at the courtyard to kneel in the dirt. And every inch of their skin is currently coated with pig's blood. The Vongola's Storm is pouring the last dregs of viscera and gore on them - entrails slapping against their shoulders on the way down.
A little girl - of an age that Reborn cares not to know - a beloved, little girl stands opposite of these women. Both of her tiny hands fit neatly within the Vongola Decimo's single palm, and together, they hold onto the leashes of these massive wolfhounds.
"You've got it? Nice and tight now."
Each wolf is twice her height and four times her weight, even as wasted and ruined as they are. The little meat left on their bones is reserved for pulling, straining muscle. The girl whimpers - a high, breathless sound of pure, distilled fear. Her hands - soft and scarless - both hands barely wrap around the leashes. She shakes her head wildly as her quivering mouth tries to form words.
The Vongola Decimo smiles. "Good girl."
And he lets go.
The women watch wide-eyed and helpless, unable to even scream through the gags wrapped around their heads. Their little girl does scream - shout - cry. She cries and cries and cries.
"Mommy! Help! Help me! Please!"
To her credit, she holds on longer than anyone expected. She digs her heels in. She straightens her spine. She closes her fists until her nails dig bleeding crescents into her palm.
But the wolves are so hungry.
She slips.
The raw hunger pulls her down - pulls the ground from beneath her feet. For a singular second, she thinks that she's flying as every part of her divorces from the Earth below. Seconds expand into hours, half seconds into minutes. She watches - drinking every detail - as the wolves leap forward, as the women's eyes close, as fangs find flesh.
She crashes onto the ground with a teeth-knocking thud. Her bottom lip splits open, sliced by unseen some rock. It bleeds slightly - a drop compared to the splash that colors her face as the wolves descend. If the women scream, they cannot be heard over the frenzy of snarling and growling and feasting delight.
Tear. Rip. Shred. Claw.
Pig blood looks no different from human blood. The intestines, the bladder, the lungs all mix into a messy slop that drowns the dirt, turning the courtyard into a mudpit. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, pig pen to pig pen. It's all quite poetic.
The wolves glut themselves, gnawing on marrow and gristle. The spoils start to thin and they pick up the scent of meat untouched - unspoiled. It's young and fresh, tender to the teeth. They start to turn.
"Poor thing," Vongola Decimo coos. "I told you to hold tight."
Vongola Decimo carefully picks up the girl. She doesn't struggle. She doesn't fight. Her eyes are flat and dull, hollowed out of any emotion - no fear, no sorrow. From a distance, it could almost look like peace. Vongola Decimo holds her close, before laying his infernal gaze on the wolves.
Pure animal instinct stop the beasts from taking another step. They whine - a high, breathless sound of pure, distilled fear. As one, they turn tail and run - fleeing into the forest that surrounds the Iron Fort. Soon, there's only silence.
Vongola Decimo shifts his hold, cradling the girl against his chest.
"There, there. Those beasties are gone now," he murmurs, wiping the blood from her face.
His smile widens as her gaze lifts towards him. Something wordless passes between them. Tsuna's mouth twists - softening in the corners.
"Some day, you'll hunt them down. Then it will be your turn to feast."
The girl doesn't reply. She simply rests her head against his chest, allowing her eyes to drift shut. Tsuna turns, shifting his gaze.
Reborn finds himself staring straight into the eyes of Vongola Decimo. The burning orange resembles a carefully tamed wildfire - one so strong that the only way to fight it is by starving it. Yet there's no hunger here - no desperation - no urgency. This fire has burned long before Reborn and it will burn long after him. It has all the time in the world.
Reborn smiles, tasting the promise of ash and iron on his tongue. There will be a reckoning. Hallelujah, hallelujah. Let his will be done.
Came back wrong? How about came back right, except that the world you came back to is wrong. Came back just like waking up from a long nap only to find that the people who love you broke themselves into shards and bloody bargains to get you back.
There are new stains that nobody will explain, hidden beneath the rug in the upstairs hallway. Your mother's left eye is clouded and strange. The cat no longer goes near your brother. There's a sharp-edged shadow now, under your lover's smile.
Everybody says you must be remembering wrong, but your sense of smell is just as good as ever. The closet that used to smell like cedar and cinnamon smells like sulfur, now, and nobody will tell you why.
