K_S
Unrepentent Giovanni and Rocket fan
- Partners
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Author's note/Salutation:
Welcome to the edited version of my Villiantine's prompts. As it says on the tin, there be editing... as well as some dividing. My frantic note storage made the O.G version a nightmare to read, so I'm splicing them up into standalone pieces and re-releasing so anyone who wants to read my most recent work can skip a migraine.
Enjoy!
Most didn't know, but Giovanni Sakaki was skilled in more than the Famiglia Business. It'd started as a spark of idle curiosity, one of his infamous, dreaded, why questions uttered at dinner.
Why were they having to eat out here on the lawn and not in the dining room?
His stupidity had been noted by his whole family. And they all had things to say, from the youngest la nipote who called him some weird thing that he'd had to look up (it had meant stupid head in Kantoese) to oldest Capo who was gracing their table courtesy of a legal loophole and paying off his bail with a bribe steep enough that his parole officer would of testified the old grey beard was on the moon. Cat calls and jeers were given by one and all. And tall tales about how the Mad'am must have dropped him on his head as a baby...
The sadder truth, the Madam hadn't laid a finger on him more than was necessary. It'd been wet nurses and aides who'd done the deed, assuming any dropping had happened at all.
A Capo, older than Sal, swatted him upside the head, bellowing that, "Wasn't it obvious, the fucking plumbing's gone crazier than a golbat outta hell and..."
Gemma wasn't nearby to save him or explain.
Not that Giovanni was totally in the dark.
"Golbat out of hell", was a tame way to encapsulate the black slime that'd been oozing out of all the sinks and tubs, and the screaming and stench. Giovanni hadn't been near any of the sinks and stuff, having been yanked out of his attic hidy hole with some friendly rattata he'd been chatting up. But he'd smelled something foul, and knew something was up.
It was why he'd been hiding.
Between the puke-inducing reek, and having to play hide and seek unexpectedly, Gemma'd been furious. Fuming about why she "had to be the responsible one", and ordering him to "swat that dust bunny off his head, it was gross", while doing that hauling.
She'd unrepentently dumped his six-year-old ass between xenophobic zia and hard ass zio before badgering an adult for a phone so she could see if someone in her social circle had a working shower.
Fumbling through a language he should have been taught over his cradle, and hadn't, he managed to squeak out one more why question. In the proper tongue, before his xenophobic Aunt had hushed him with a tug on his long locks.
"Why don't we fix it? We got tons of fixers?"
"They aren't that type of fixers," he squawked at a brutal tug, but didn't cry, dared not, and wising up a little, he kept his head down and his mouth shut.
But still, he wondered.
What started as curiosity was fanned into a blaze by sheer irritation. Unfortunately, mob carelessness and repeated frustration had driven Giovanni to master basic piping and household maintenance. Despite all the stereotypes, he learned to spite both Nona and the Madams' networks.
If they weren't able to come in, to work in his abode, it was harder for them to plant things in his house. Be it bombs or bugs.
His passion project had inspired his famiglia to gift him all sorts of red hats. He'd burned them. Especially the ones mongrammed with an "m".
His talents were a blessing at Nona's, and were swiftly becoming a curse here.
This was the fifth fucking time his roommate had poured grease down the sink. Did the moron think that the magical drain clefairies were going to skip down Mount Moon and fix things for him?
The last was snarled, out loud, at the guilty grease dumping party. Fabio, unrepentant ass that he was, had no craps to give, and his bored monotone showed it.
"Look man," Fabio, a dullard even by mafioso breaker standards, hovered over him. Passing down tools to the biggest tool of a roommate he'd ever had. "It's not like we aren't made of money, make a call, cough up some dough...."
"It'll be handled in-house." The only nice thing about Fabio was you didn't have to make lame excuses. Truth could be told. "You know that, I know that. Even if we pay double to get an outsider to do the work, they'll get intercepted..."
"So?"
"Bugs, you dumb... I do not want to spend three hours combing through our things for fucking bugs!"
Because if he did, he was throwing the lanky man's things out the second-story window. Again. The fall would shake off the dust if nothing else.
Fabio yawned, a few heavy steps were heard, and the fridge door clicked open. Chewing ensued.
"Ish 'ow th' f'ks show th' 'are."
Care? The man was clearly more brainwashed than a mareep. And brain-damaged. It was a thin consolation, but the first semester would likely see this dumbass to the curb due to bad grades.
Shame it couldn't be sooner.
Giovanni grit his teeth. Counted to ten twice, then decided to take a break. Wrench clenched in his hands, squirming back and out, the first sight beyond pipes and cobwebs was of the (regretibly) familiar form of a man who hadn't been encouraged towards cleanliness as a child and flaunted it as an adult. The man was wearing an oversized "GO Tauros" shirt, and boxers, and about a half-week's worth of grease atop his head.
It was the sight of the pizza in the bastard's hand that froze Giovanni as if he'd been ice beamed to the spot. Oblivious, chewing like the cow his shirt advertised him to support, Fabio looked down at him, long features stamped with obvious boredom.
"Whash y'r," a loud swallow, and at gulps' end a wild coherence appeared, "problem Sakaki?"
The problem? The leftovers were from a box clearly labeled as his.
Before he could even begin to express his anger at the theft, the pipes rattled. The grimmer, when it reared up out of the sink, was as nauseating as they came. Marked with chickenwing bone spines, eggshell armor that crinkled with every move, and a pen and some papers rising out of its back like a half crumpled fin. It was half 'mon, half grease ball, and a complete nightmare.
It was also proof that Fabio had no fucking clue how to use the god damned garbage disposal. Fabio managed to both multitask and lower himself in Giovanni's admittedly abysmal regard for the man. Screaming and puking, the lankey man staggered back, agog in panic and nausea.
Of course, the grimmer absorbed the half-digested meal with a sloppy trill.
Scrambling to up, wrench in hand, Giovanni managed a few good swings with his off hand, while using the other to call campus security. If Fabio got clipped in the ensuing madness... well, it was all heat of the moment.
Suffice to say, the university president was not pleased to have two prominent mafioso members in his office the first week of class. Small blessings be, there were no bodies. Greater blessings, the Fabio boy's family had paid a garchomp's ransom to keep things hush-hush.
The younger, some kid named Sakaki, had had no patron swan in to pay his dues. So by economic casualty, the boy was going to be the patsy. The president had had the younger boy go through all the motions. Locked in the campus holding cell, parents called, then once apathy levels were established, the young man had been hauled in by campus security.
The campus president had already seen the Fabio's out, by the sound of raised voices, both mobsters had seen each other, and there'd been some verble roughhousing.
Rich mocking poor. Slurs. Evil preying on evil, that sort of thing.
But that wasn't his business, and the Fabio's money was squirreled away in its proper accounts.
As far as the President was concerned, all was well.
The Sakaki boy was... rather underwhelming. Sporting a fresh shinner. More knees and angles than anything else. There'd been rumors the boy had skipped a few grades, having not grown into his last growth spurt, it was something the resident suspected was true. And he also wondered if the boy's age had been ticked up a few degrees. Regardless, the mafioso was an oddity not only in stature but in hair. He'd cut it near military short, eschewing his types perchance for long luscious locks and effeminine builds.
Sakaki's clothes were a point of satire. The boy was wrapped up in enough school advertising merch to look almost enthusiastic to be there. His original attire was mercifully at the campus laundry, being scrubbed within an inch of it's life. Sakaki's borrowed attire had been purloined from a school gift shop, so that this interview could be done with something like decency.
The attendant fees for all that school spirit were going to be added under the "damages and expenses toward college property".
Set out in its proper place, front and center, were expulsion papers. The list of accumulated fines and charges, and a pen for the boy to scrawl his name upon it all. The confessions would be legally binding, and the money due wired in, once things were said and done.
"Do you understand why you're here, young man?" After all, might as well go through the motions.
"I understand," The young man's voice was a study of pure rage. He had that growling tone that made a quiet voice carry. Shame he hadn't shown a lick of interest in theater, he'd of had a knack. Rubbing his wrists where cuffs had been, the young man flicked his dark eyes on the papers. "That my roommate's habits caused every pipe on wing A to spawn grimmer."
Silence, as the President smoothed his features to not let a lick of amusement show.
"Mon will do as mon will. That's the nature of beasts. Path of least resistance and all that."
Pointedly, the President set his pen on the table. Waited as comprehension dawned. Pale hands snatched the papers, flipped through them, as black eyes flicked over each line like a pair of startled deerling, skatting over each cause, clause, and bill. As if speed would shield him from the consequences.
"You're a mad man," near hysterical, Sakaki looked up at the President, eyes bugged. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"I understand that in business circles, your mother is feared. You also need to understand, before you begin any postering, she was... disinterested... in intervening."
Disinterested was a mild term to describe the sheer utter scorn she held for her boy's academic future. Exercising a smidge of kindness, the President did not disclose exactly what mother had said about offspring. He also had not recorded this meeting despite her stating the only thing she regretted was not being able to personally see "widdle Giani's world fall apart".
"Any protections you think you harbor are not." Best he state that plainly. Least the boy get lethal ideas about help that wasn't coming. "So I advise, most strongly, that you sign without fuss. There is a payment plan for the fees, with a twenty-five percent interest, if you can't pay it all up front. Page nine-"
"He started it. You can't ignore that he was dumping my papers into the garbage disposal. Pouring grease, writing supplies, fucking around with the toilets in the women's dorms...."
Gossip had spread like wildfire yet again. Really details like that were normally only known between the guards and thier growlithe partners. And normally the staff here was discreet. The President made a mental note to talk to the head of security after this...
Because how had this slip of a man heard anything about the Fabio boy's other acts, considering he'd been incarcerated during the peak of the plumbing disaster... that was a mystery that needed to be sussed out.
Fast.
There were more secrets here than one frat boy's schenanigans. And here, all secrets needed to be kept least they lose thier tenious agreement with the Viridian Mob that guaranteed staff safety for educating the criminal's offspring.
Clearing his throat, the President folded his hands in front of him. Attempted to loom, without getting up. At his age, getting up and down was only to be pursued when absolutely necessary.
"The Fabio's have been handled. All things between them and this facility are squared away, you, however..."
"Fuck you." The brat tossed the papers down. "You know what he did, and I'm the patsy because my mother is a deadbeat bitch?!"
"You will calm down and sit down, or security will be called, and you will be escorted back to a cell. What state you are in when you're picked up by the real police will be concurrent with your compliance."
Silence, as old man looked down at the younger. Slowly, the scowl of rage crumpled. The young man folded into himself, slumping into his arms, quick enough that the President wasn't sure if he'd imagined the wetness around the young man's eyes, or not.
Masking his face, shoulders shaking, Hate born composure long gone, Sakaki croaked. "You know... I thought by going here, I was getting out."
"You can't get out," the President sighed. "No one does."
Reaching out, he patted the young man's shoulder.
He'd seen this often enough. Children who'd held on, scrambled, and scraped with a ghost of morals and decency, thinking education would set them free. They shattered, each in thier own way, when they found out the one place that'd take them wasn't the escape they wanted.
There were no anti-racism laws in Kanto, or Johto. No checks. No balances. No documentation. And because of that, so many Italians were destitute. Overlooked for any type of employment because they might have connections to the mob.
Supposedly far-flung Galar boasted some social progress. Mandates that prohibited firing for being Italian. But Galar was so far away it might as well be another world, rather than another region. And Johto and Kanto had enough history with the Italian diaspora and thier mob ties that thier refusal to deal with them was considered by the masses to be justified.
Even a form of self-defense.
"Let go of me."
The president did so, picking up his pen, tapping it on the desk. A mute warning. He wasn't here to be the young man's counselor. Just here to collect a signature, funds, and move on with his day.
Finally, with a shaky breath, Sakaki straightened. Scraping tough-looking hands over his face with a watery sigh. Smoothing his hair back with a grumble.
The mute, nothing to see here, was pathetic, but understandable.
"I'm going to give you one shot to do the moral thing," Sakaki warned, voice gritty with frustration and aborted tears. "You make this disappear, move me to a different dorm, and nothing happens."
Pathetic and delusional.
Lips curling into a sneer, the President ordered. "You sign now, or I call the guards. You have five minutes."
Younger stared down at his elder. Face still, eyes redlined, hands clenched together. Refusing to move, speak, and barely breathing. Finally, tired of it all, the President reached for his phone. Fingers one inch from pressing on the old-fashioned keyboard, he froze when Sakaki spoke.
"The bottom cabinet, right-hand side, has a false bottom. Inside is a custom cocktail tailored to both your allergies and heart medicines. You're an expensive man to provide for, since you're allergic to most generic fillers. You have two pouches, supplied on the regular. One is an off orange color that's an asphoradic."
"Which isn't a crime. If I had something like that in my possession."
Unmoved by the President's deflection, Sakaki carried on, thin lips quirking into a cruel smirk.
"While it's understandable for a man your age to have performance issues and you not wanting the embarrassment of going through open channels for your fun times... It's the other bag that's the kicker. The contents are quite the mix. A bit of this and that... Basically, it's a memory inhibitor and aphoristic... It has a slow release, twelve hours for both, that build so its victim might just think they're sick, a little loopy, then the lust kicks in atop the confusion... Someone might have an afternoon meeting with you, feel sick after hours, and be on the cusp of a confused chemical-born breakdown by nightfall. Mind degrading, body wanting..."
The president swallowed, eyes flicking anywhere but the young man, thin hand clenching.
"Then, the twist. A paralictic chaser to keep them from getting away while you take the master dorm keys in hand, follow them to thier room, and help yourself to the first bag."
Silence, the President slowly, carefully cradled the phone. Fingers hovering.
"You're lying. And delusional. I call for help, and you never step foot in this place again."
"That's one option. But I have contacts in the drug business. Maybe once academia doesn't work out... I can go back to those roots. I'm a fairly good chemist, aced AP, you can check yourself. With my skills, I could easily get into manufacturing custom orders. But I'm sure a man of your moral fortitude would never need to worry about any additives. Your stash is just a hold over from your sowing your wild oats days. A sentimental... curiosity."
The phone was set down.
"I took thier money, you can't go back. Those were the terms."
"I wonder," shuffling the papers, stacking them neatly, Sakaki considered causes and clauses of his expelling with a smirk. "if there's been a few investigations... Mob and otherwise... If you've left any traces of your indulgence on your victims. How would those mafioso families react, knowing you've been raping thier kids' friends and allies?"
Face turning an intriguing shade of grey, eyes wild, the old man looked at the younger. Trembling in his seat.
"Tell me, Mr. President," the fake disinterest fell away, as Sakaki lifted his gaze to meet the old man's eyes. "Have you ever laida hand on anyone in the familgia?"
The man's whole body flinch said worlds.
"Interesting, well, since we're done here and this is all harmless chit chat, I'll just sign these and..."
The pen was snatched and tossed aside. The papers were ripped away, ripped up.
"I think Viridian University would be.. honored..." the old man swallowed, clearly choking down on puke. "To keep someone of your... ah, pedigree... around, as long as you see fit."
"Are you stating I could get access to unlimited classes, no charge, for however long I want?" Eyebrows hopping in surprise, the young Rocket looked genuinely interested.
He'd also looked friendly earlier, when rattling off the contents and processes of the bags.
The President was uninclined to trust anything form this young man.
Smiling a sickly grin, the older man nodded. "We do have scholarships for a reason, Mr Sakaki."
"Well, don't let me slow you down, go ahead and toss something together on paper. We can do the signing right now. No time like the present."
And there was something sharp in the man's smile, something acidic to his pseudo-bubbliness. But once it was signd and sealed, legally binding, and swept away (Sakaki prefered the night classes, a win for both the President and Fabio both, less chance for encountering him) the President lived in fear for a month, maybe two. But time distanced him from that threat.
Sakaki was a typical mobster's son, indifferent to morals once his needs were met. He lived and let live. And that had been a relief. There'd been this girl, then a boy. Both so sweet, all young and innocent...
Then come winter holiday. There'd been a friend, of a friend, of a Mob family. Brought along on a legitimate scholarship, she'd taken her celebration with the staff and a few lingering students.
Sakaki had been there, but had been distant. An apathetic guest and a guard to no one. Content to settle into a nook, scan the room, and indulge in the free food.
Out of sight, out of mind, the President was content to let things be. He had a fresh dose from a new shipment and mixed it into the unsuspecting thing's water. And she left, never knowing what she drank, wandering off caterwauling silly tunes with some carolers before deciding to go home. He'd followed a few hours later, orange baggie in hand.
He'd dose, then slip in. Experience told him he'd have twenty minutes to set things up... Taking a draw, he shuddered, familiar pins and prickles teasing his nose and mouth. But when it started to burn, literally burn, he realized what had happened. His newest dose had been tampered with. He couldn't even scream; his airways smoldered, and he choked on the damaged flesh. Then a paralytic kicked in, pinning him in place, leaving him to his slow smoldering death in the snow.
He was found by pre-dawn clean-up. His body was whisked away to be dropped into the sewer system. After all, what was another death but just another secret to be swept away? A few flicks of the keyboard and a post-holiday sabatacial was declared, the man stepping down via email due to health concerns, and none were the wiser.
Welcome to the edited version of my Villiantine's prompts. As it says on the tin, there be editing... as well as some dividing. My frantic note storage made the O.G version a nightmare to read, so I'm splicing them up into standalone pieces and re-releasing so anyone who wants to read my most recent work can skip a migraine.
Enjoy!
PROMPT 5:
Fix/ a fix/
definition:
General: to repair something or hang something.
Slang: a dose of illegal drugs
Mob slang: to commit murder
Content warnings, ranked R, slurs, racism, discussion of drug use, and sexual assault.
Fix/ a fix/
definition:
General: to repair something or hang something.
Slang: a dose of illegal drugs
Mob slang: to commit murder
Content warnings, ranked R, slurs, racism, discussion of drug use, and sexual assault.
Most didn't know, but Giovanni Sakaki was skilled in more than the Famiglia Business. It'd started as a spark of idle curiosity, one of his infamous, dreaded, why questions uttered at dinner.
Why were they having to eat out here on the lawn and not in the dining room?
His stupidity had been noted by his whole family. And they all had things to say, from the youngest la nipote who called him some weird thing that he'd had to look up (it had meant stupid head in Kantoese) to oldest Capo who was gracing their table courtesy of a legal loophole and paying off his bail with a bribe steep enough that his parole officer would of testified the old grey beard was on the moon. Cat calls and jeers were given by one and all. And tall tales about how the Mad'am must have dropped him on his head as a baby...
The sadder truth, the Madam hadn't laid a finger on him more than was necessary. It'd been wet nurses and aides who'd done the deed, assuming any dropping had happened at all.
A Capo, older than Sal, swatted him upside the head, bellowing that, "Wasn't it obvious, the fucking plumbing's gone crazier than a golbat outta hell and..."
Gemma wasn't nearby to save him or explain.
Not that Giovanni was totally in the dark.
"Golbat out of hell", was a tame way to encapsulate the black slime that'd been oozing out of all the sinks and tubs, and the screaming and stench. Giovanni hadn't been near any of the sinks and stuff, having been yanked out of his attic hidy hole with some friendly rattata he'd been chatting up. But he'd smelled something foul, and knew something was up.
It was why he'd been hiding.
Between the puke-inducing reek, and having to play hide and seek unexpectedly, Gemma'd been furious. Fuming about why she "had to be the responsible one", and ordering him to "swat that dust bunny off his head, it was gross", while doing that hauling.
She'd unrepentently dumped his six-year-old ass between xenophobic zia and hard ass zio before badgering an adult for a phone so she could see if someone in her social circle had a working shower.
Fumbling through a language he should have been taught over his cradle, and hadn't, he managed to squeak out one more why question. In the proper tongue, before his xenophobic Aunt had hushed him with a tug on his long locks.
"Why don't we fix it? We got tons of fixers?"
"They aren't that type of fixers," he squawked at a brutal tug, but didn't cry, dared not, and wising up a little, he kept his head down and his mouth shut.
But still, he wondered.
Xxx
What started as curiosity was fanned into a blaze by sheer irritation. Unfortunately, mob carelessness and repeated frustration had driven Giovanni to master basic piping and household maintenance. Despite all the stereotypes, he learned to spite both Nona and the Madams' networks.
If they weren't able to come in, to work in his abode, it was harder for them to plant things in his house. Be it bombs or bugs.
His passion project had inspired his famiglia to gift him all sorts of red hats. He'd burned them. Especially the ones mongrammed with an "m".
His talents were a blessing at Nona's, and were swiftly becoming a curse here.
This was the fifth fucking time his roommate had poured grease down the sink. Did the moron think that the magical drain clefairies were going to skip down Mount Moon and fix things for him?
The last was snarled, out loud, at the guilty grease dumping party. Fabio, unrepentant ass that he was, had no craps to give, and his bored monotone showed it.
"Look man," Fabio, a dullard even by mafioso breaker standards, hovered over him. Passing down tools to the biggest tool of a roommate he'd ever had. "It's not like we aren't made of money, make a call, cough up some dough...."
"It'll be handled in-house." The only nice thing about Fabio was you didn't have to make lame excuses. Truth could be told. "You know that, I know that. Even if we pay double to get an outsider to do the work, they'll get intercepted..."
"So?"
"Bugs, you dumb... I do not want to spend three hours combing through our things for fucking bugs!"
Because if he did, he was throwing the lanky man's things out the second-story window. Again. The fall would shake off the dust if nothing else.
Fabio yawned, a few heavy steps were heard, and the fridge door clicked open. Chewing ensued.
"Ish 'ow th' f'ks show th' 'are."
Care? The man was clearly more brainwashed than a mareep. And brain-damaged. It was a thin consolation, but the first semester would likely see this dumbass to the curb due to bad grades.
Shame it couldn't be sooner.
Giovanni grit his teeth. Counted to ten twice, then decided to take a break. Wrench clenched in his hands, squirming back and out, the first sight beyond pipes and cobwebs was of the (regretibly) familiar form of a man who hadn't been encouraged towards cleanliness as a child and flaunted it as an adult. The man was wearing an oversized "GO Tauros" shirt, and boxers, and about a half-week's worth of grease atop his head.
It was the sight of the pizza in the bastard's hand that froze Giovanni as if he'd been ice beamed to the spot. Oblivious, chewing like the cow his shirt advertised him to support, Fabio looked down at him, long features stamped with obvious boredom.
"Whash y'r," a loud swallow, and at gulps' end a wild coherence appeared, "problem Sakaki?"
The problem? The leftovers were from a box clearly labeled as his.
Before he could even begin to express his anger at the theft, the pipes rattled. The grimmer, when it reared up out of the sink, was as nauseating as they came. Marked with chickenwing bone spines, eggshell armor that crinkled with every move, and a pen and some papers rising out of its back like a half crumpled fin. It was half 'mon, half grease ball, and a complete nightmare.
It was also proof that Fabio had no fucking clue how to use the god damned garbage disposal. Fabio managed to both multitask and lower himself in Giovanni's admittedly abysmal regard for the man. Screaming and puking, the lankey man staggered back, agog in panic and nausea.
Of course, the grimmer absorbed the half-digested meal with a sloppy trill.
Scrambling to up, wrench in hand, Giovanni managed a few good swings with his off hand, while using the other to call campus security. If Fabio got clipped in the ensuing madness... well, it was all heat of the moment.
Xxx
Suffice to say, the university president was not pleased to have two prominent mafioso members in his office the first week of class. Small blessings be, there were no bodies. Greater blessings, the Fabio boy's family had paid a garchomp's ransom to keep things hush-hush.
The younger, some kid named Sakaki, had had no patron swan in to pay his dues. So by economic casualty, the boy was going to be the patsy. The president had had the younger boy go through all the motions. Locked in the campus holding cell, parents called, then once apathy levels were established, the young man had been hauled in by campus security.
The campus president had already seen the Fabio's out, by the sound of raised voices, both mobsters had seen each other, and there'd been some verble roughhousing.
Rich mocking poor. Slurs. Evil preying on evil, that sort of thing.
But that wasn't his business, and the Fabio's money was squirreled away in its proper accounts.
As far as the President was concerned, all was well.
The Sakaki boy was... rather underwhelming. Sporting a fresh shinner. More knees and angles than anything else. There'd been rumors the boy had skipped a few grades, having not grown into his last growth spurt, it was something the resident suspected was true. And he also wondered if the boy's age had been ticked up a few degrees. Regardless, the mafioso was an oddity not only in stature but in hair. He'd cut it near military short, eschewing his types perchance for long luscious locks and effeminine builds.
Sakaki's clothes were a point of satire. The boy was wrapped up in enough school advertising merch to look almost enthusiastic to be there. His original attire was mercifully at the campus laundry, being scrubbed within an inch of it's life. Sakaki's borrowed attire had been purloined from a school gift shop, so that this interview could be done with something like decency.
The attendant fees for all that school spirit were going to be added under the "damages and expenses toward college property".
Set out in its proper place, front and center, were expulsion papers. The list of accumulated fines and charges, and a pen for the boy to scrawl his name upon it all. The confessions would be legally binding, and the money due wired in, once things were said and done.
"Do you understand why you're here, young man?" After all, might as well go through the motions.
"I understand," The young man's voice was a study of pure rage. He had that growling tone that made a quiet voice carry. Shame he hadn't shown a lick of interest in theater, he'd of had a knack. Rubbing his wrists where cuffs had been, the young man flicked his dark eyes on the papers. "That my roommate's habits caused every pipe on wing A to spawn grimmer."
Silence, as the President smoothed his features to not let a lick of amusement show.
"Mon will do as mon will. That's the nature of beasts. Path of least resistance and all that."
Pointedly, the President set his pen on the table. Waited as comprehension dawned. Pale hands snatched the papers, flipped through them, as black eyes flicked over each line like a pair of startled deerling, skatting over each cause, clause, and bill. As if speed would shield him from the consequences.
"You're a mad man," near hysterical, Sakaki looked up at the President, eyes bugged. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"I understand that in business circles, your mother is feared. You also need to understand, before you begin any postering, she was... disinterested... in intervening."
Disinterested was a mild term to describe the sheer utter scorn she held for her boy's academic future. Exercising a smidge of kindness, the President did not disclose exactly what mother had said about offspring. He also had not recorded this meeting despite her stating the only thing she regretted was not being able to personally see "widdle Giani's world fall apart".
"Any protections you think you harbor are not." Best he state that plainly. Least the boy get lethal ideas about help that wasn't coming. "So I advise, most strongly, that you sign without fuss. There is a payment plan for the fees, with a twenty-five percent interest, if you can't pay it all up front. Page nine-"
"He started it. You can't ignore that he was dumping my papers into the garbage disposal. Pouring grease, writing supplies, fucking around with the toilets in the women's dorms...."
Gossip had spread like wildfire yet again. Really details like that were normally only known between the guards and thier growlithe partners. And normally the staff here was discreet. The President made a mental note to talk to the head of security after this...
Because how had this slip of a man heard anything about the Fabio boy's other acts, considering he'd been incarcerated during the peak of the plumbing disaster... that was a mystery that needed to be sussed out.
Fast.
There were more secrets here than one frat boy's schenanigans. And here, all secrets needed to be kept least they lose thier tenious agreement with the Viridian Mob that guaranteed staff safety for educating the criminal's offspring.
Clearing his throat, the President folded his hands in front of him. Attempted to loom, without getting up. At his age, getting up and down was only to be pursued when absolutely necessary.
"The Fabio's have been handled. All things between them and this facility are squared away, you, however..."
"Fuck you." The brat tossed the papers down. "You know what he did, and I'm the patsy because my mother is a deadbeat bitch?!"
"You will calm down and sit down, or security will be called, and you will be escorted back to a cell. What state you are in when you're picked up by the real police will be concurrent with your compliance."
Silence, as old man looked down at the younger. Slowly, the scowl of rage crumpled. The young man folded into himself, slumping into his arms, quick enough that the President wasn't sure if he'd imagined the wetness around the young man's eyes, or not.
Masking his face, shoulders shaking, Hate born composure long gone, Sakaki croaked. "You know... I thought by going here, I was getting out."
"You can't get out," the President sighed. "No one does."
Reaching out, he patted the young man's shoulder.
He'd seen this often enough. Children who'd held on, scrambled, and scraped with a ghost of morals and decency, thinking education would set them free. They shattered, each in thier own way, when they found out the one place that'd take them wasn't the escape they wanted.
There were no anti-racism laws in Kanto, or Johto. No checks. No balances. No documentation. And because of that, so many Italians were destitute. Overlooked for any type of employment because they might have connections to the mob.
Supposedly far-flung Galar boasted some social progress. Mandates that prohibited firing for being Italian. But Galar was so far away it might as well be another world, rather than another region. And Johto and Kanto had enough history with the Italian diaspora and thier mob ties that thier refusal to deal with them was considered by the masses to be justified.
Even a form of self-defense.
"Let go of me."
The president did so, picking up his pen, tapping it on the desk. A mute warning. He wasn't here to be the young man's counselor. Just here to collect a signature, funds, and move on with his day.
Finally, with a shaky breath, Sakaki straightened. Scraping tough-looking hands over his face with a watery sigh. Smoothing his hair back with a grumble.
The mute, nothing to see here, was pathetic, but understandable.
"I'm going to give you one shot to do the moral thing," Sakaki warned, voice gritty with frustration and aborted tears. "You make this disappear, move me to a different dorm, and nothing happens."
Pathetic and delusional.
Lips curling into a sneer, the President ordered. "You sign now, or I call the guards. You have five minutes."
Younger stared down at his elder. Face still, eyes redlined, hands clenched together. Refusing to move, speak, and barely breathing. Finally, tired of it all, the President reached for his phone. Fingers one inch from pressing on the old-fashioned keyboard, he froze when Sakaki spoke.
"The bottom cabinet, right-hand side, has a false bottom. Inside is a custom cocktail tailored to both your allergies and heart medicines. You're an expensive man to provide for, since you're allergic to most generic fillers. You have two pouches, supplied on the regular. One is an off orange color that's an asphoradic."
"Which isn't a crime. If I had something like that in my possession."
Unmoved by the President's deflection, Sakaki carried on, thin lips quirking into a cruel smirk.
"While it's understandable for a man your age to have performance issues and you not wanting the embarrassment of going through open channels for your fun times... It's the other bag that's the kicker. The contents are quite the mix. A bit of this and that... Basically, it's a memory inhibitor and aphoristic... It has a slow release, twelve hours for both, that build so its victim might just think they're sick, a little loopy, then the lust kicks in atop the confusion... Someone might have an afternoon meeting with you, feel sick after hours, and be on the cusp of a confused chemical-born breakdown by nightfall. Mind degrading, body wanting..."
The president swallowed, eyes flicking anywhere but the young man, thin hand clenching.
"Then, the twist. A paralictic chaser to keep them from getting away while you take the master dorm keys in hand, follow them to thier room, and help yourself to the first bag."
Silence, the President slowly, carefully cradled the phone. Fingers hovering.
"You're lying. And delusional. I call for help, and you never step foot in this place again."
"That's one option. But I have contacts in the drug business. Maybe once academia doesn't work out... I can go back to those roots. I'm a fairly good chemist, aced AP, you can check yourself. With my skills, I could easily get into manufacturing custom orders. But I'm sure a man of your moral fortitude would never need to worry about any additives. Your stash is just a hold over from your sowing your wild oats days. A sentimental... curiosity."
The phone was set down.
"I took thier money, you can't go back. Those were the terms."
"I wonder," shuffling the papers, stacking them neatly, Sakaki considered causes and clauses of his expelling with a smirk. "if there's been a few investigations... Mob and otherwise... If you've left any traces of your indulgence on your victims. How would those mafioso families react, knowing you've been raping thier kids' friends and allies?"
Face turning an intriguing shade of grey, eyes wild, the old man looked at the younger. Trembling in his seat.
"Tell me, Mr. President," the fake disinterest fell away, as Sakaki lifted his gaze to meet the old man's eyes. "Have you ever laida hand on anyone in the familgia?"
The man's whole body flinch said worlds.
"Interesting, well, since we're done here and this is all harmless chit chat, I'll just sign these and..."
The pen was snatched and tossed aside. The papers were ripped away, ripped up.
"I think Viridian University would be.. honored..." the old man swallowed, clearly choking down on puke. "To keep someone of your... ah, pedigree... around, as long as you see fit."
"Are you stating I could get access to unlimited classes, no charge, for however long I want?" Eyebrows hopping in surprise, the young Rocket looked genuinely interested.
He'd also looked friendly earlier, when rattling off the contents and processes of the bags.
The President was uninclined to trust anything form this young man.
Smiling a sickly grin, the older man nodded. "We do have scholarships for a reason, Mr Sakaki."
"Well, don't let me slow you down, go ahead and toss something together on paper. We can do the signing right now. No time like the present."
And there was something sharp in the man's smile, something acidic to his pseudo-bubbliness. But once it was signd and sealed, legally binding, and swept away (Sakaki prefered the night classes, a win for both the President and Fabio both, less chance for encountering him) the President lived in fear for a month, maybe two. But time distanced him from that threat.
Sakaki was a typical mobster's son, indifferent to morals once his needs were met. He lived and let live. And that had been a relief. There'd been this girl, then a boy. Both so sweet, all young and innocent...
Then come winter holiday. There'd been a friend, of a friend, of a Mob family. Brought along on a legitimate scholarship, she'd taken her celebration with the staff and a few lingering students.
Sakaki had been there, but had been distant. An apathetic guest and a guard to no one. Content to settle into a nook, scan the room, and indulge in the free food.
Out of sight, out of mind, the President was content to let things be. He had a fresh dose from a new shipment and mixed it into the unsuspecting thing's water. And she left, never knowing what she drank, wandering off caterwauling silly tunes with some carolers before deciding to go home. He'd followed a few hours later, orange baggie in hand.
He'd dose, then slip in. Experience told him he'd have twenty minutes to set things up... Taking a draw, he shuddered, familiar pins and prickles teasing his nose and mouth. But when it started to burn, literally burn, he realized what had happened. His newest dose had been tampered with. He couldn't even scream; his airways smoldered, and he choked on the damaged flesh. Then a paralytic kicked in, pinning him in place, leaving him to his slow smoldering death in the snow.
He was found by pre-dawn clean-up. His body was whisked away to be dropped into the sewer system. After all, what was another death but just another secret to be swept away? A few flicks of the keyboard and a post-holiday sabatacial was declared, the man stepping down via email due to health concerns, and none were the wiser.
