Hamelin is fast asleep in dreamland, drooling impressively on his desk when the door to his office slams open and interrupts his nap.
“Aaahaa...no...” he groans miserably, quite literally turning the other cheek and resting it on his forearm. He cracks a pale, sleepy eye open to look at the little analog clock sitting in front of him. It hasn’t even been an hour since he finished all the paperwork Scarlet demanded he do and settled down for some shut eye, but there’s already trouble.
“Don Hamelin, it’s urgent! Please get up!” the Grimm subordinate is shuffling up the papers that Hamelin has managed to scatter around his desk during his short-lived snooze and stacking them off to the side where they probably belong.
“Can’t it be quietly urgent...?” Hamelin finally sits up and rubs at one eye with the side of his fist, wondering why John is here in the first place, cleaning up after him.
He’s pretty sure that job is reserved for his first caporegime.
If this is about another stunt the twins have pulled like he suspects, he is looking for the sniper to come bursting in as well at any moment, just as frantic.
John’s shoulders slump like he’s about to deliver the worst news in his life.
“Still in the city, Don... Trying to convince Hansel and Gretel to cease further property damage and come home.”
“Mm, I see...” Hamelin’s eyes decidedly slide away from the nervous messenger and his teeth clamp down on the corner of his lips.
“And who did we manage to tick off this time?”
John looks pale, but he answers his don without hesitation.
“It’s The Bad Apples, sir...”
Hamelin droops in his chair, feeling his stomach pitch at the name of the gang. They and Grimm have only had a few minor scuffles in the past, but he recalls that is only because Hansel and Gretel (fortunately) seemed to decide the backlash wasn’t worth their mischief.
Whatever had changed their mind, the outcome certainly didn’t bode well for either faction.
“How bad is the damage?” Hamelin wants to know as he stands up. He follows John out of the office and down to the foyer where several other subordinates, evidently back from the city, are waiting to speak to him.
“Massive,” a woman, Claire, answers, and John looks grateful that he no longer has to be the sole bearer of bad news.
The don grimaces, but really, what else was he expecting?
“The twins have gone too far this time,” another man speaks up, taking a step forward. His hands and face are scratched up, likely from dealing with the debris from the fight. Looking around, all of his members appear to be pretty worn out. “Respectfully, this isn’t something that’s gonna go away with a check and an apology letter.”
“You’re probably right...” Even Hamelin has already determined that the usual approach is not an option. Standing there thinking, his fingers drum on the musical pipe attached to his hip.
“It’s not,” Scarlet walks into the foyer just then, letting down the hood of his bright red mantel with his second and third caporegimes shuffling behind. The twins are scratched and bruised, their clothes torn from fighting in places, but otherwise appear to be okay, if the dissatisfied frown on Gretel’s face means anything. Hansel quietly takes her hand and leads her up the stairs.
Scarlet turns a reprehensive scowl in Hamelin’s direction, that little nose scrunching slightly up in the way it does when he’s annoyed at him. Before the mafia boss can even get a word out to defend himself, the sniper crosses the room and hands him a folded up sheet of paper.
“This is a list of all the property belonging to The Bad Apples that was destroyed in the fight. I managed to get them back home, but it was pretty intense... People might have gotten hurt, Mr. Hamelin.”
Hamelin looks over Scarlet’s notes as he continues to speak.
The damage extended as far as four blocks?
And people might even have been injured this time.
The don goes quiet as he takes in the faces of his other subordinates, wondering how things always seem to get so out of hand.
He knows it’s his fault for not supervising the twins a little better, but he can hardly hope to control them.
It’s his fault that they own as little as they do, because he chooses not to fight for it.
“I guess it can’t be helped...” Hamelin sighs, walking past Scarlet and heading for the front doors.
“Wait! Where are you going?” the sniper wants to know, automatically moving to follow after him.
“That’s... you’re unarmed! You’re just going to walk in?”
Hamelin waves him off, instructing him to keep an eye on the twins in his absence.
“I’ll come back,” he says, and lets the doors fall shut behind him, cutting off whatever protests his second in command might have offered.
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