deadlydelicacy | ☆BACKLOG☆ - Reborn and Bianchi history

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☆BACKLOG☆ - Reborn and Bianchi history

Who: Reborn and Bianchi
What: Their first real mission together
When: Two years before the start of the game. ☆BACKLOG☆
Where: A place a lot like New York

To say Bianchi was nervous would be an understatement. It did not help that she'd been paired with Reborn for this mission and was still trying to decide if it was a test or someone just didn't think she could handle it on her own. None of that was making things easier. And she was pretty sure Reborn remembered her little obsession with him from when she was twelve. Her eyes darted sideways for a moment, the dark fedora hard to see but the orange band blazing even in the dim light. There was no way she'd let on she was on edge. Reborn wouldn't treat her differently and she didn't want someone she had great respect for to think any less of her. It was her job to prove herself regardless of what this evening was about.

Both their heels clicked on the sidewalk as they moved toward the building their target was supposedly inside. The expensive black Ferragamo shoes Reborn wore had a hollower sound from the wider heel. And Bianchi's made that higher pitched, focused sound of a three inch stiletto. Her arm was curled lightly at his elbow and they certainly made a fine looking couple as they approached the gallery, the lights from the building throwing the shadows crossways to those cast by the streetlights outside. The cars passing by threw their own shadows making light dance around dizzyingly. As they grew closer, the bouncer at the door was visible. The show was invitation only but of course they didn't forget that detail, Reborn had the invitation in his jacket, Bianchi's clutch was obviously too small to carry it without having to fold the fine paper. Her eyes lifted up the tower of the building and she took note of the windows that were lit. Then let her gaze fall back to the building looking for other exits. "Looks like quite the party." She murmured, voice lazy more because of effort on her part than any real state of calm. Her hand was just a little tight against Reborn's elbow. Madonna it was like having your teacher by your side while you took the SATs.

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He can tell that Bianchi is nervous - it practically radiated from her. But she seemed to be handling it well, the nervous energy she felt translating to something a little more vibrant, more vital, which would serve her very well tonight. It probably didn't feel that way though. He is just as casual in his reply to her polite comment. "I'm sure it will be a very eventful night." He handed the invitation (not forged - what would be the point, when such things were easily obtained to those with the right resources? And such an added concern would be both unwanted and inefficient.) over to the bouncer with every mannerism of someone used to being obeyed, who had absolutely no reason to believe that he would be denied entrance - and so it proved, as the bouncer took the invitation without even examining it closely, bending his head slightly in polite acknowledgement and an appreciative once-over for the figure Bianchi made in her dress and heels.

Once inside, the party is in full swing, the sounds of conversation, of glasses clinking and people mingling, in an almost overwhelming din. When they check in, there are a few non-standard security types, particularly considering that this was an art exhibition, eyes alert behind dark glasses, stances aggressive. It is clear they are searching not just for thieves, but also for any hidden weapons. Scratch that, Reborn thought sardonically, any unsanctioned hidden weapons, noting that their gazes shifted elsewhere despite the crowd checking in, recognizing one or two peripherals to their mark that he knew would definitely be carrying.

He helped Bianchi with her coat, handing it to the person manning the check-in, trusting that she would leave nothing incriminating inside should they have to leave in a hurry (briefly wondering if, in fact, she'd decided to "borrow" a coat for the night; but he didn't judge other professionals on their methods if it didn't affect him), abandoning their coats. But if everything went as planned, that wouldn't be necessary.

If everything went exactly as planned. He smiled inwardly. When did they ever.

Her eyes were already moving around the room as the bouncer nodded them in, taking in men who were obviously security, exits, the door the servers were coming in and out of with champagne and finger food.

Bianchi never borrowed clothing. So the coat that was taken off was definitely hers. She smiled at Reborn as he handed the coat check girl the coat, and curled her arm around her clutch. Inside of which were two vials for use this evening. And two vials she always kept on hand. It was always so complicated to make sure the glass didn't break in her purse, she'd come up with a contraption much like a hard glasses case to hold them. It kept them from clinking together as well not that anything so small could be heard in a room so full of people.

Her fingers absently lifted to her hair, smoothing it back though it was still in perfect condition and she turned toward the general direction of their mark, starting to move like most people would mingle. Just a natural progression in that direction. She wasn't all that interested in the art but there were people here that were quite well known even to families back home. It would serve double purpose to mingle as they kept from drawing attention. "Any faces you recognize?" She asked Reborn lightly. She could see Tony "Knives" Berelli in the next room over. Best keep their distance from him, no need to start fights.

"Oh, a few," he remarked off-handedly, noting her careful observation with approval at her caution and a bit of amused disappointment that she had let him notice at all. "I wonder if you've seen any of Angelo's artwork before," he continued, slightly louder, leading her in the opposite direction, towards another set of artworks. "His style isn't to everyone's taste - his strokes are just a bit rushed - but it would be impossible to deny the overall charm of this effect. I especially enjoy his skill for the play of light and shade in fabric draping..." It was apropos of nothing, save for the fact that they were completely surrounded in enemy territory, meant to be incognito, and that it was much too early in the evening for her to use her particular skill in fulfilling their mission while maintaining anonymity.

She allowed herself to be led away even if there was a mullish twist of the lips for being deterred. She could be a little impatient still. She'd found the less time she spent in an area the less likely everything would go to hell. But she trusted Reborn's intuition. So she looked obediently up at the artwork, eyes scanning over the piece, taking in a few things here and there. Artwork wasn't something she cared much about though she knew enough to get by. "A healthy use of red, interesting choice." She replied, "it makes the blue focal point stand out starkly." She tilted her head to the side a little, then glanced to her left and smiled at the gentleman there. "What do you think?" She asked him.

The man smiled back and tipped his hat. "I think I prefer his earlier works myself. The newer work is more frantic," He glanced at Reborn, "I find the rushed brush strokes unsettling."

Bianchi glanced back, "Are any of his earlier works on display? It would be interesting to see the difference."

Reborn acknowledged the man's glance with a little nod and hidden smile. This was going to be a very interesting night.

They run into the man a few times that night, making a lazy circuit of the room and the art in it, politely mingling, but not overly familiar or effusive. Exactly the sort of persona that would not attract undue and unwanted attention, or linger long in memory. But it is still almost two hours later, when the wine and champagne have been circulating freely under the supervision of the attentive servers with silver trays, the conversations a little louder, a little less inhibited, that Reborn touches Bianchi's arm, nodding towards their mark.

"Method of delivery?" He asked softly, his voice all but inaudible, the expression on his face completely at odds. "I ask out of professional curiosity, you understand."

Bianchi turned her head slightly at the touch and leaned closer to hear Reborn, then her eyes drift over to the target, chatting amiable with one of the artists. "Champagne I should think." She replied, noting the man was holding a long fluted glass. She picked up one from a server on the way by and sipped it to work toward draining it down to the mark's level. she'd managed to extract one of her vials during the rounds and tuck it neatly into her cleavage for easy access.

"Though really it might have been more fun if you figured it out as we went." She gave him an amused smile, more relaxed now that they'd been there a while.

"I only know your abilities by reputation," he murmured, pleased at her newfound poise. "I never assume if I can help it." He likewise snags his own champagne flute, holding it up to the light as if to admire the color. "Shall I find us a seat?" He is asking how long she needs in order to finish making the switch, and how much time her concoction needs to take effect. And whether or not they should stay to follow through.

She snorted softly. "Reputation indeed." Of course from her reputation it should have been easy to figure out what she planned to do. She gave him a brief look as he took champagne of his own. "That would be nice, I have an acquaintance to make." She touched his arm with a natural familiarity that made her appear to be a girlfriend or perhaps spouse which they'd been quite vague about all evening. Her gaze said she could handle it on her own but be ready to move if necessary.

"Don't enjoy yourself too much," he said with a faint smile, and made his way across the room, still holding his champagne flute, as if his attention were on something else.

She looked a little smugly at him leaving and then turned and gave the gentleman they'd be talking with earlier in the night a brief nod as they passed, moving toward the artist. She wove through people quite easily, her hand dipping into her cleavage as though pressing her dress closer to her body to move around a large man. And her thumb flicked the cork out of the vial as she smiled sweetly at one of the women who had been looking incredibly bored the whole evening.

Her hand passed above her own drink and it was almost impossible to see the liquid go into the glass though it made the champagne bubble a little more. Her hand flicked out and the vial landed in a nearby garbage can. And then she was stopping next to the artist and the target leaning in close enough to be heard as she waved her hand at her face in a fanning motion and gushed about meeting the real artist.

Well, that was smoothly done. Reborn admires the figure Bianchi makes, graceful and girlishly effusive, getting close to the mark - who actually waves off his protective satellites - letting her talk to the artist while she pulls off her little sleight of hand...

But even so, his eyes track the room, and something is missing, or just slightly off enough to set off his instincts. He doesn't rush over, or do anything quite so obvious, but he does move into a position he'd scouted out before, reaching into his pocket for insurance.

Reborn's movement did not go unnoticed but she didn't even take a break in her conversation. She took her time, talking to both the artist and the target, laughing at a joke. She perked up as though she'd had a though and asked the artist something, then she fumbled with her bag, clearly having difficulty while holding the glass. She nearly dropped it but the target reached out quickly and looking embarrassed she blushed prettily at him, lips clearly forming a thank you. Her glass was handed off to him and she produced a small notebook and a pen, offering them to the artist and apparently spelling her name for him while he signed an autograph.

Bianchi took the notepad and pen back and read it then that pink returned to her cheeks and she patted his arm in soft reprimand showing the target what was written which earned a hearty laugh. The notepad disappeared back into her clutch. Leaning in she touched the target's arm, with another thank you and a smile that was far more adult than the earlier blushing. She plucked one of the drinks from his fingers with a wink, then excused herself with another thank you to the artist and a tinkling laugh as he made a motion like a telephone. She waved amiable and began moving back toward Reborn. The switch was complete.

Reborn shook his head, halting her from returning. With the slightest unnoticeable gesture, he motioned her towards the left of the room, far from the exit. He himself started walking nonchalantly but confidently towards the stairs leading to the upper gallery. Something else was going on here as his presence proved and he intended to find out exactly what it was.

Bianchi paused, following the direction Reborn wanted her to go with her eyes before setting her glass on a passing serving tray and turning in that direction, eyes scanning the room. She moved along an intersecting path with his, pausing when someone stopped to ask her a question and pointing off toward the restroom before continuing on.

"Interesting show she put on, don't you think?" is the first thing he hears when Reborn finally reaches the upper gallery. What he finds in the shadows is the man they'd run into earlier, peering through the telescopic sight of the silenced rifle in his hand, not even bothering to turn around and face him. "I hadn't seen the Poison Scorpion in action before this. Her reputation is well-deserved."

"What is the interest of the Palmadessa Family in this matter, Marco?" He asked softly, ignoring the little sallies about Bianchi. "You know quite well what this will turn into."

"Oh yes," he says, the slightest touch of a bitter smile on his face. "We do." Reborn ducked a moment before Marco sent an expertly thrown knife spinning over his shoulder, cutting his fingers on the sharpened edges when he caught it barehanded. But he didn't fight back, and Marco didn't do anything further. The silence stretches out between them, the tension surprisingly light.

"The best of messengers," Marco continued, "can contrive to do several things at once. One message delivered to an associate, and an apology." Then he gestures to the gun, turning to look at Reborn for the first time since their run-ins down in the gallery proper. "And one more to go." The expression on his face is resigned. "I'd suggest-"

But Reborn is already gone, walking swiftly down the stairs. They needed to leave. Now.

Bianchi met Reborn at the bottom of the stairs and glanced up into the darkness and then back at him with a frown. "Problem?" She wondered aloud, eyes moving to men talking into headsets. On the plus side the mark seemed to be drinking his champagne. It would take five minutes for the effects to kick in. "Two exits in the back and the one we came in."

"Idiot," he said under his breath. "We're going to have to use another way. All three of them will be watched as soon as-" He doesn't blink, but he does go still, and then there is a clamor and commotion from the far side of the room. "I regret not being able to see the effects of your handiwork at their full potential," he said evenly, almost casually, a very real regret in his voice, but it is absolutely professional. "We'll have to stay it seems," he continued, as the screaming begins, "since our unsettled friend has cut off our routes by involving us in his little scheme." Beneath the near overwhelming noise, he detects the much quieter second bullet that Marco uses to complete his mission.

The idiot, at first, seems directed at her but then when he goes still she stops all motion as well, turning her head only once the clamor starts. Her eyes moved back up the stairs because that was clearly a diversion. If that gunman killed her mark before her work took effect, she was going to hunt him down herself and take it out on his hide. She saw security guards rushing both in the direction of a fallen person and toward the exits. "Were there exits upstairs?" She asked him quietly, turning with false worry plastered across her face, lifting her arms to curl around his like a frightened woman ought to. Her mind was already working through options though and she touched the dagger in her hair that looked like flowers for a moment to be sure it was still there before settling her hand again. "There will be police. And questions. I very much dislike questions."

"Hardly," he replies in a reasoning sort of tone. "They'll ask more questions if we go upstairs." Marco was a thoroughgoing professional. "But, if they're looking for us..." He glanced at her, and took both her hands in his. "There are ways to avoid questioning." He looked the slightest bit rueful. "Just your luck that I joined you on this particular mission, isn't it?"

The sound of sirens is piercing, and far faster than should have been the case, but he had the feeling that local law enforcement had been watching this particular gathering, unofficially, so it was no wonder. But the sooner they came and went, the sooner they could finish this up, and the faster they could investigate exactly how and why an allied family had made such an idiotic move.

She made an annoyed sound, when he cut off the idea right away. But he was probably right. Two people escaping upstairs right after a shooting? Might as well wear a beacon. She frowned and looked up at him when he took her hands trying to determine what he meant exactly. "It is always useful to have someone with experience when things go pear shaped." She agreed carefully, eyes on his hands.

The police were already here? Merda someone expected this.

"Not quite like that," he murmured, but he led her forward, still holding her hands, his entire demeanor protective. There were already a few of the official law-enforcement personnel in the center of the room, asking questions in far too eager tones for people who supposedly had been dragged out late at night to investigate a party gone wrong.

Once they got within earshot, Reborn spoke, his voice strident and outraged, and completely unfamiliar. "I demand to know what the meaning of this is!"

The officer closest to them seemed to startle, glancing over at him with disapproval, the standard formulas at his lips, ready to detain the possible witness but Reborn wasn't finished. "Why weren't you officers here to protect us until after the shooting ended? Or do we not pay enough in taxes to deserve some measure of safety and protection?" He tightened his grip on Bianchi's hands. Around them, quite a few of the guests were echoing his sentiments.

Cooperation in the aftermath of a messy shooting was far more likely to raise suspicions. If someone had been all sweetness and light with the police...well, suspicion and paranoia were far more probable emotions in any case.

He pulled her along by her hands and she followed trying not to look too confused. Which was difficult when he was pulling her toward the police. As soon as he spoke things fell into place and she leaned against him, working herself up to crocodile tears. She had to focus to keep her accent from coming out too obviously thick. "Honey, I'm scared! I don't understand what's going on!" She looked up at the police officered with wide, watering eyes as tears dripped down her cheeks then her eyes fell on the fallen man and they got impossibly wider and she let out a horrified sounding gasp then buried her face against Reborn's chest. "Dead!! He's dead!!" She exclaimed.

Well she always enjoyed putting on a good show. And if she could make the police officers uncomfortable while she was at it, even better.

He had to hide a pleased grin at that. Bianchi was turning out to be quite the accomplice. But he'd expected as much from her, given her childhood potential. He stroked her back soothingly. "Officers," he said, modulating his tone somewhat, though still with some underlying hostility that wasn't at all difficult to fake. "I'd appreciate it if you could speed your investigations-"

He noted the detachment coming down the stairs excitedly to report the presence of the obvious murder weapon - and the body. The officers gave him a once over and dismissed him - he could tell the exact moment when they were written off, particularly in light of all the other guests who were now clamoring to be freed or demanding to know what had happened. He wouldn't recall them now. He turned away slightly - and then he heard a gun cocked right by his ear.

"Of course," he muttered, in Italian, "you choose now to cause trouble, Antonio Barelli."

She still had her body pressed up against his, her tears dampening the lapel of his jacket when she heard the click of a safety being taken off a gun. Oh fucking hell. How many damn hitmen were at this party? She turned a little, eyes narrowed as she took in the features of their new problem. Out of his mind is what this idiot was. The police were three feet away. Any hitman worth his weight would have taken the shot and disappeared in the crowd but this clown was standing around with his gun hanging out. She sighed and smoothed Reborn's jacket, plucking her purse open and dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief, giving Reborn room and herself access to her vials one of which was palmed behind the cloth. "Really darling, your friends have the worst manners."

Edited 2011-04-21 22:50 (UTC)

"You saw him first, that makes him your friend," he countered, and nodded at her formally before he stepped back into the gun, his entire manner casual and utterly confident that he wouldn't shoot though his voice is soft to avoid drawing attention. He'd picked a good moment, he supposed, with the police distracted over the commotion and the reveal of a body and the murder weapon. "What happened to your signature, Tony?" He asked easily, as if merely politely curious. "This isn't exactly the best weapon for such close quarters..."

In a flash his hand comes up to the other hit man's wrist, immobilizing it and causing his fingers to slacken, his grip loose on the gun. Reborn twisted in the crowd, giving Bianchi room to observe and to take her own steps while he held Barelli's arm behind his back. "Drop it," he whispered in a voice of silken menace. "And tell me what you're doing here. Or," he tilted his head in Bianchi's direction, "I'm sure you recognize my lovely escort for the evening."

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☆BACKLOG☆ - Reborn and Bianchi history

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