[Everything that's happened in the past few days happened so quickly that, even just reflecting back on it, Fugo feels dizzy with a sense of whiplash. From the moment Bucciarati informed them-- not consulted, and hasn't that been a real stick up Abbacchio's ass-- about their new teammate, it's just been one bewildering thing after another. Bucciarati inheriting Polpo's position. Being tasked with protecting the Boss's daughter. Going head to head against the Hitman Team. And now, the craziest thing of all--
Betraying the Boss, to protect Trish. Pitting themselves against not just at the shadowy figure at the head of the organization, but the whole of Passione itself. It's not just reckless, it's stupid. The odds are so against them it's almost comical. None of them can live outside of the mob.]
[And, yet...]
[He can't help but think of Trish, struggling to stay conscious, bracing herself on the side of the boat with her injured arm and a white-knuckled grip. I won't let him make me disappear, she spat, a fire burning in her foggy expression. I want to know my origins, no matter what! I refuse to die before finding out! Blood ran down her wrist and between her knuckles. Later, when Fugo and Abbacchio were wiping down the boat in preparation to ditch it, they found the perfect imprint of her fingers on the edge.]
We need to consider the logistics of this. [And so here Fugo is, sitting at a table with Bucciarati. Trish is resting in the turtle, recuperating from everything that happened in the basilica. Abbacchio, Mista, and Narancia are all beating the shit out of some guy. It's tempting to join them, but there are logistics to figure out. Fugo chews on the pad of his thumb, moodily staring at a plate of food he hasn't touched.] Money, supplies, a rotating watch. None of us can operate on adrenaline forever, Bucciarati.
[His stare shifts sharply to his meal companion, to really drive home his point.]
no subject
[Everything that's happened in the past few days happened so quickly that, even just reflecting back on it, Fugo feels dizzy with a sense of whiplash. From the moment Bucciarati informed them-- not consulted, and hasn't that been a real stick up Abbacchio's ass-- about their new teammate, it's just been one bewildering thing after another. Bucciarati inheriting Polpo's position. Being tasked with protecting the Boss's daughter. Going head to head against the Hitman Team. And now, the craziest thing of all--
Betraying the Boss, to protect Trish. Pitting themselves against not just at the shadowy figure at the head of the organization, but the whole of Passione itself. It's not just reckless, it's stupid. The odds are so against them it's almost comical. None of them can live outside of the mob.]
[And, yet...]
[He can't help but think of Trish, struggling to stay conscious, bracing herself on the side of the boat with her injured arm and a white-knuckled grip. I won't let him make me disappear, she spat, a fire burning in her foggy expression. I want to know my origins, no matter what! I refuse to die before finding out! Blood ran down her wrist and between her knuckles. Later, when Fugo and Abbacchio were wiping down the boat in preparation to ditch it, they found the perfect imprint of her fingers on the edge.]
We need to consider the logistics of this. [And so here Fugo is, sitting at a table with Bucciarati. Trish is resting in the turtle, recuperating from everything that happened in the basilica. Abbacchio, Mista, and Narancia are all beating the shit out of some guy. It's tempting to join them, but there are logistics to figure out. Fugo chews on the pad of his thumb, moodily staring at a plate of food he hasn't touched.] Money, supplies, a rotating watch. None of us can operate on adrenaline forever, Bucciarati.
[His stare shifts sharply to his meal companion, to really drive home his point.]