Bang; hc_bingo
Title: Bang
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Prompt: Mistaken Identity
Medium: Fic
Wordcount: 812
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kidnapping
Summary: He's mistaken for someone else.
AN: ...so it's never explicitly mentioned, but it is a case of him not being the person they think he is (probably another boss.)
He hears them talking, voices muffled by the steel sheet between them. He can’t hear anything-nothing to indicate why he’s taken of all people. He’s afraid; he knows what they’re like.
It’s not hard to see they’re from the Yakuza. Tattoos scattered over their skin, the way they dress (business casual, an irony that he ignores because he’s going to die), those muscles rippling as they manhandle him into a room-he has no chance against them.
The sounds he can make out are all gibberish to him-he wonders if they’re even speaking Japanese. (He knows that the Yakuza now have a connection with Italy, and he briefly wonders if he’s wrong about them being Yakuza-but Yakuza won’t allow foreigners to settle in their territory, so he assumes they’re Yakuza.)
He has considered making a run for it-but they can find him again, right? He doesn’t want anyone else to get involved, even if he doesn’t know why they target him.
There’s no debt to the Yakuza-he doesn’t even know where they’re located. The red-light district is something he can only dream about, not that he has any desire to ever step foot in there (and if he manages to get out of this, he’ll never even think about coming here again.)
But it’s futile to think about the future when he’s not even sure he’ll live beyond today. There’s no reason for the Yakuza to keep him alive. Not when he knows where they are-not when he knows who’s a part of the Yakuza.
He just hopes that his death is quick.
But it doesn’t come. They don’t kill him-they just keep him locked up in a room.
It’s comfortable. Almost like a room he wants-except he wants to leave. There’s a bed and the sheets don’t look dirty and he sees that it’s meant for comfort, but it doesn’t do anything for him. He’s too nervous to relax.
They don’t bother to tie him up, certain he won’t try to run. (He doesn’t. He can’t.)
He sits in the room, brooding on his life up to this point. He doesn’t see why anyone wants him captured by the Yakuza-he doesn’t antagonize his coworkers or his peers, and he doesn’t think his family has any enemies.
He can’t figure out who wants him dead.
He sits there on the bed, picking at the blanket, as he awaits someone to come and tell him his fate. He doesn’t think anyone will save him.
(The police will probably tell his family he’s committed suicide, and maybe it’s a mercy for them to think that instead of learning that he’s involved with the Yakuza, somehow. They won’t be targeted-he hopes.)
He hears someone stomping to his temporary room, and he braces himself for his death.
Except, when the door opens, he’s greeted by a fairly thin man who rounds on his subordinates and yells at them. He doesn’t understand anything except a name (maybe), but he sees the way they pale.
They may be dying instead of him.
The boss then turns to him, and he can see how someone as small as him manages this group. He has a look in his eye, sharp and calculating, and he feels fearful of him. (Which is funny because after being manhandled by tall, buff men, he shouldn’t be afraid of a normal-looking Japanese man.)
“What should we do with you,” he asks. His voice, so different from the harsh shouting before, is smooth and silky.
He tries to shrink away from the hand caressing his face, but there’s nowhere to escape. He almost hopes for death.
“We can’t let you go,” he murmurs. “You know too much.” He looks to his subordinates, contemplating.
He can’t find his voice, find a way to tell this man that he won’t reveal anything to the police-but he doesn’t think he’ll be believed.
“We shall keep you here,” he decides.
The boss takes one last look at him before he leaves the room, his subordinates following behind him.
He’s left alone in the room, and he wonders if anyone will come to find him. (But they won’t-they can’t-and he can only hope that they’ll decide he’s too troublesome to keep. If it’s a choice between being captive and death, he finds that he’d rather die.)
He doesn’t cry, doesn’t allow himself to cry, but he clings to a pillow. He buries his face into the pillow, hoping to block out everything wrong with where he is.
Laying on the bed, on top of the sheets and blanket, he closes his eyes and starts to fall asleep.
His last thought, before he falls asleep, is that he’s not even sure if he’ll wake up tomorrow. (But that’s better than staying here and dying when he gets old.)
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Prompt: Mistaken Identity
Medium: Fic
Wordcount: 812
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kidnapping
Summary: He's mistaken for someone else.
AN: ...so it's never explicitly mentioned, but it is a case of him not being the person they think he is (probably another boss.)
He hears them talking, voices muffled by the steel sheet between them. He can’t hear anything-nothing to indicate why he’s taken of all people. He’s afraid; he knows what they’re like.
It’s not hard to see they’re from the Yakuza. Tattoos scattered over their skin, the way they dress (business casual, an irony that he ignores because he’s going to die), those muscles rippling as they manhandle him into a room-he has no chance against them.
The sounds he can make out are all gibberish to him-he wonders if they’re even speaking Japanese. (He knows that the Yakuza now have a connection with Italy, and he briefly wonders if he’s wrong about them being Yakuza-but Yakuza won’t allow foreigners to settle in their territory, so he assumes they’re Yakuza.)
He has considered making a run for it-but they can find him again, right? He doesn’t want anyone else to get involved, even if he doesn’t know why they target him.
There’s no debt to the Yakuza-he doesn’t even know where they’re located. The red-light district is something he can only dream about, not that he has any desire to ever step foot in there (and if he manages to get out of this, he’ll never even think about coming here again.)
But it’s futile to think about the future when he’s not even sure he’ll live beyond today. There’s no reason for the Yakuza to keep him alive. Not when he knows where they are-not when he knows who’s a part of the Yakuza.
He just hopes that his death is quick.
But it doesn’t come. They don’t kill him-they just keep him locked up in a room.
It’s comfortable. Almost like a room he wants-except he wants to leave. There’s a bed and the sheets don’t look dirty and he sees that it’s meant for comfort, but it doesn’t do anything for him. He’s too nervous to relax.
They don’t bother to tie him up, certain he won’t try to run. (He doesn’t. He can’t.)
He sits in the room, brooding on his life up to this point. He doesn’t see why anyone wants him captured by the Yakuza-he doesn’t antagonize his coworkers or his peers, and he doesn’t think his family has any enemies.
He can’t figure out who wants him dead.
He sits there on the bed, picking at the blanket, as he awaits someone to come and tell him his fate. He doesn’t think anyone will save him.
(The police will probably tell his family he’s committed suicide, and maybe it’s a mercy for them to think that instead of learning that he’s involved with the Yakuza, somehow. They won’t be targeted-he hopes.)
He hears someone stomping to his temporary room, and he braces himself for his death.
Except, when the door opens, he’s greeted by a fairly thin man who rounds on his subordinates and yells at them. He doesn’t understand anything except a name (maybe), but he sees the way they pale.
They may be dying instead of him.
The boss then turns to him, and he can see how someone as small as him manages this group. He has a look in his eye, sharp and calculating, and he feels fearful of him. (Which is funny because after being manhandled by tall, buff men, he shouldn’t be afraid of a normal-looking Japanese man.)
“What should we do with you,” he asks. His voice, so different from the harsh shouting before, is smooth and silky.
He tries to shrink away from the hand caressing his face, but there’s nowhere to escape. He almost hopes for death.
“We can’t let you go,” he murmurs. “You know too much.” He looks to his subordinates, contemplating.
He can’t find his voice, find a way to tell this man that he won’t reveal anything to the police-but he doesn’t think he’ll be believed.
“We shall keep you here,” he decides.
The boss takes one last look at him before he leaves the room, his subordinates following behind him.
He’s left alone in the room, and he wonders if anyone will come to find him. (But they won’t-they can’t-and he can only hope that they’ll decide he’s too troublesome to keep. If it’s a choice between being captive and death, he finds that he’d rather die.)
He doesn’t cry, doesn’t allow himself to cry, but he clings to a pillow. He buries his face into the pillow, hoping to block out everything wrong with where he is.
Laying on the bed, on top of the sheets and blanket, he closes his eyes and starts to fall asleep.
His last thought, before he falls asleep, is that he’s not even sure if he’ll wake up tomorrow. (But that’s better than staying here and dying when he gets old.)