Disclaimer: Eyeshield 21 is © Inagaki Riichirou and Murata Yuusuke, Shueisha, Viz, etc.. This is a non-profit fanwork. This is obviously an AU. Names have been changed accordingly . . . don't worry, for the most part the characters should be fairly obvious.
Nothing Good Will Ever Come of This
Prologue: Bang Bang
Night lay on the streets, heavy like the weight of a cheap whore on a married Sicilian's conscience. The street lamp flickered erratically. Rain dripped from the brim of the man's fedora, the bottom of his long coat, the tip of his nose. He leaned against the brick wall, droplets scattering from him like spray, and waited. His hand fumbled in his coat pocket for his book of matches. He needed a goddamned smoke.
Silence rang out more poignantly than sound and Musacchi might have flinched while lighting his cigarette. Or that might have been a trick of the light.
A tall figure emerged from the alleyway.
Without looking his way Musacchi took a puff of his cigarette and said, "It's done then?"
Youichi "Deimon" Hiruma rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, then glanced dispassionately back at the blood-covered mess of what had once been a face, slumped over a crumpled body.
"Yeah, it's fuckin' done."
Musacchi crossed himself reflexively and said, "I still wish you'd let me handle it."
"You still fuckin' sulking 'bout that? It was a fuckin' favor." Like confession and repaying debts, Hiruma took handling favors seriously. He gestured. Musacchi handed over the Colt semi-automatic, eyeing the still-smoking Nagant revolver Hiruma held.
Hiruma raised an eyebrow at Musashi's expression. "This here is fuckin' tradition. You know that."
"I know it."
Hiruma started walking towards where they'd parked the car. "Stop fuckin' frowning. You look fuckin' forty. If you're carrying on this fuckin' bad, Kurita must be havin' a goddamn litter of kittens."
Musacchi couldn't help but smile at that. A smile that quickly faded as he asked, "Who was he, anyway?"
Hiruma shrugged. "Some fucker named Capone."