The sun seems to climb up from its galactic bed to wink its beginning lights upon Europa. From those well-built houses in the north that caught some of that inexplicable snow from beyond Ivan's factory to those beautiful beaches right off Mediterranean Lane. There seemed to be a steady climb for the sun today, which caused the black and blue night to retreat as streaks of pink and orange rose to take their place. With these streaks of light and sun came the rise of temperature in the air that lifted the dew off the grass into the air. In the night these molecules accumulated not only in anticipation of their final ascent to Heaven, but also for those precious seconds afforded to them by the still chill of the night before their beautiful deaths basked by the sun.

One other rose, but not in the sense of orbiting the planet. At this ungodly hour, Lovino Vargas stirred from the most peaceful sleep he had taken from as far as he could remember. Right now, he felt the release that ecstasy brought him, the soothing bliss still embracing him as was his brother whom hugged Lovino from behind his naked back. With strain in the dark he saw the slumber that Feliciano was enjoying since the events of last night, barely holding on once Lovino sat himself up on the bed. Eventually, his green eyes adjusted to the lack of ambient lighting besides that far-off solar glow in the distance to see just how his brother looked: his shirt was still on, barely masking his light frame as it breathed small snores that kept him within whatever mystical, far-out dream he was in. It must be a rather good dream, since he was actually smiling. Smiling! Lovino's tired mind exclaimed as if in disbelief that anyone could be happy sleeping, even Feliciano.

Lovino felt a bit happy on the inside that his brother still could hang onto his conditionless grin even while being so deep in sleep in such a lewd position such as this; at least he's happy, that's all I need. But the feeling soon diminished as he began to realize that today was one of his workdays. Unlike Feliciano, he actually had a job to keep to make sure they kept this little abode for themselves. Oh, sure, this little vacation for the past week or so could be called so much worse than back-breaking labour out in town, but in its own perverted ways it was so much better. However, right now it was five forty-seven, his clock would chime for him in three minutes, and his jack-of-all trades' work would begin. Twelve hours of second-hand work all across Europa, looking to help anyone that would pay him to do his or her jobs. What a pain in the ass. Lovino moved his left hand through his bed-wrangled brown hair before staring at his digital clock.

Five forty-eight. So begin would his day, driving the family car down those lonely roads to look for a sign that would hail him in to fill for someone else. Someone who didn't know him, someone who doesn't care for him, someone who is too damn lazy to do their own work, someone's who's a fluttering French bastard named Francis Bonnefoy…

Five forty-nine. "Fuck it." Lovino muttered, and placed his hand on the clock to fiddle with its settings. Five fifty soon became nine thirty, so that today-on he would wake up right next to Feliciano, with Feliciano. As if to provide a valid excuse, he thought What the hell, it's not as if I'll be missed and he lowed himself back into bed. With the gentleness of one handing precious china, Lovino took Feliciano's right hand and placed it right back where it was when he awoke; onto his bare hip.

Those three hours and thirty-five minutes of fresh sleep worked a wondrous spell over Lovino, whom woke only when Feliciano gave out a gigantic yet still petite yawn. The North Italian sat up weakly as he heard the chimes of their clock, giving that yawn while he stretched himself to work out any cricks in his body; however, he didn't seem alarmed at first to see Lovino still in their bed. Rather, a small smile broke over him before the realization of what day it was rolled into his naturally slow mind. That said, he quickly gave his brother a shake on his shoulders to summon him, "Fratello, fratello, please wake up!"

And so he did, his eyes lifting to let him see his brother had shaken him to be laying right on his back. Returning the smile he didn't know he got, Lovino said "Buon giorno."

"Fratello, you're late for work! It's a work-day today!"

If it had been Lovino in his brother's position, he would've completely flipped out with unquenchable rage to awaken him and drag him out of bed. However there was not rage to find but a wily smile full of amusement for this morning call. "Is it now?" He hardly seemed concerned with that fact; he was on top of the world, and no longer gave two-craps about those back on the earth below them. "I hadn't noticed; thanks for telling me." Then again, keeping their house is just as good as frankly confusing talk in bed. So while Feliciano went off to prepare breakfast quickly as possible and to check on the gas in the car, Lovino bathed and dressed himself at the speed of light.

Whatever food Feliciano made was delicious and crunchy, probably some kind of toasted bread or whatnot; the cook was not in the house since he was still checking on their car so that there wouldn't be any problem racing on towards the interior of the town. Personally, Lovino couldn't exactly know what it was since he instantly glommed it down the second his ass hit their wooden chair and got up in the next second to get out the door. One thing stopped him, and it wasn't a door or a wall or something he can scream and yell at: an open book, written in his and Feliciano's language. This was strange since it seemed to be old, ratty and out of place amongst their solidly up-to-date collection of cookbooks, fashion-novels and dictionaries. When he approached it with the caution of a caution of a thief, two things attracted his sight: the first was the pasta-laced blue, red, and white paper lying on the open page. Secondly was the cover of the book that he saw when he closed it, seeing not only the green-coloured cover-work, but also its gold-embroidered title:

Come una Moglie Bene Comportarsi; How a Good Wife Behaves.

A quick refuel of the car from their spare can in the garage guaranteed a safe trip for Lovino, and the food was good enough to get him out of the house; It's a good thing, too; I think I should go take a bath. Cleanliness was always a big point for Feliciano when it came down to it, even if he may get down in the dirt childishly playing around with any one of his friends if they come over. Strange it may seem to see a rather well-dressed Italian running around the beach with men his own age, or even older, but the joy of games and the inexplicable feeling of freedom that comes with water, sand, beach-toys and the cool caress of the ocean's wind that comes from oh so far away always out-weigh any consideration of silliness in their actions. Summer-time is practically year-round near their beach, if not for the coldest and more deranged of winter days that peek around the corner. Now that he thought about it, Feliciano began to think that Lovino would probably never make his way down towards the beach by his own free will because of how tired he is when he returns home, and how early he always needs to leave. We have a house near such a pretty beach, but fratello can't even enjoy it? I think that's called 'ironing', or something like that. The misplaced idea and misused wording of it faded away fast when he re-entered their house to see his brother backing out of their mini-library room. From Feliciano's point of view, his brother looked as if he had just stared into the eyes of a Holy Spirit, or the Devil himself: shock, awe, uncertainty of even being alive painted all over him like a portrait on a wall. To jostle his brother, he said his name once.

To the first one Lovino did not give a response. It was the second call that surely stirred him, for his green eyes looked away at last from the room unseeable to Feliciano towards he who beckoned him. At first, Lovino's eyes still held those rattling stares that looked almost past him, onto a thousand-league journey over his shoulders. Lasting for just those prolonged seconds, Lovino's pause broke as he came back to reality from whatever frozen curse afflicted him at an instant-gradual speed that nearly gave both him and his brother whiplash. "All right, I finished breakfast and everything; is there anything you need while I'm out? I think Work told me that De Wit needs some help on the diluting station for his little farm, but can't do it by himself, so I'll be all over the place in case you need me to buy anything."

For a moment, Feliciano spaced out to think a thought as fast as he could, but could see no real object that he would need for the day. So, he passed out a warm smile and said simply, "Nope!"

A quick nod was all Lovino gave in return as his green-coloured eyes began to react to his emotions. They looked up and down at the un-showered and unkempt appearance of his smaller-physique'd brother, yet the feeling he was giving off told that he was seen an unmovable object before him that he couldn't pass or go around. He moved left and right to find a way around his center-of-the-hallway obstruction, but he always fell back into place in the end. His emotions took control of the wheel after having a surge of impulsive inspiration after reading the title of that foreign yet Italian-named book; that damned book, an intrusion on their lives that kept a hold on his brother so that he did what he did yesterday that dragged them from the afternoon into a night of euphoric bliss, and now made him stand like some sort, some sort…

Nevermind. The sooner he did what he could to make these imaginary walls of awkward staring come down, the sooner he could go out and do other people's menial work for them. With this in mind, he quickly took hold of Feliciano's left hand and brought his knuckles towards his lips in an effort to pass through a momentary gap in the wall of awkwardness. When Feliciano's eyes blinked in an unuttered mental stammer of disbelief by his brother's courteous peck, he was practically turned one hundred and eighty degrees because of Lovino's hurried rush; he had no time to see his brother's face morph from that naturally slightly-tanned colour into a deep, bountiful crimson.

At first, Lovino dreaded his return to work as he pulled into the Europa Mail Office to catch the first of his assignments' lists for the month. Lo and behold he was correct about the Dutchman; his accursed diluting station has once again backed up and broken down. De Wit arose from his bed that morning at his usual hours and began to do his morning routine when, all of a sudden, he heard a mechanic popping in the distance that practically shot the air clean of all sounds. In fact, Timothy said, "Everybody from two-ways down the road heard it, it's true: my sister Laura heard it, Francis heard it, even that old Ludwig all the way over heard it. If you want to, you could probably ask Mist'r Kirkland if he heard anything, I don't think he's out to work yet."

Lovino to all his effort respectively declined the mellow-yet-active suggested inquiry to Europa's finest- and only- police officer-constable. Instead, he tried to keep his new temporary boss on track so he could just move on to the next problem on the list. To this end he cajoled Timothy to lead him directly to the machine, watching where he stepped as he casually led him along so that he didn't accidentally stomp on one of the moistened little crops in the fenced backyard. From the look of the yard itself, it seemed pretty reserved: there was a pond that was, obviously, shared between the Dutchman himself, his Belgian sister right over the fence, and even with Francis the Frenchman, whom despite all his dastardly and frankly perverted mannerisms and flares, actually seemed to own a huge amount of land through fair and legal ownership; there were six different lines of equally-sized gardens that were seemingly plotted there parallel to each other, and perpendicular top the very pond that fed them life (albeit diverted through a master filter which kept all the unwanted minerals and such out). Each garden contained an admittedly beautiful flower, all leading the line of various other plants of fruits and vegetables on their non-existent march onto land from their murky source. Briefly this flora-bravado captivated Lovino, whom swore for a second that the tulip's orange-coloured petals would keep him staring forever if it weren't for the continued accented rattling of Timothy de Wit.

"Do you see, here?" He was four or so metres in front of Lovino, having reached the machine in the water by now by simply rolling up his pants-legs and crouching down in the ankle-deep green and brown. "I think it's the darn'd plug or something, we can never get it to work the right way. 'f course, my sister thinks that there might be something stuck inside of it, but I can't think of anything that could break it, at least not in the lake."

With a conservative jolt of surprise, Lovino snapped back into reality just in time to hear at least half of the explanation; in the end it really did not matter about what Timothy, Laura Roos, or even what he himself thought what the problem really was. Instead, the actual work itself would prove the culprit. The Southern Italian rolled up the sleeves and pants' legs of his Europa-marked jumpsuit that covered him with dark blue top-to-bottom, with the exception of a yellow star on a breast pocket, and made his way into the quite bluntly murky water. He was practically on top of the machine itself before he felt his foot sink further into the mud-bed, causing him to keel over a tiny bit with a yelp of surprise, and followed up with a profane exasperation. At first he tried to keep his charge where he was, assuring him that he could extrapolate his foot from the muck below, but he was quickly rescued from the mineral foot-trap by a large, strong helping hand of Timothy, which quickly pulled Lovino's meek by comparison leg from the deep. To the man who helped this seemed like a rather constant routine for him, saying, "Ah, don't worry about it; I keep getting stuck right around there, I swear it might be a pot-hole under water or something." However, this reaction was not shared by the Helping Man who came to this man's house to help him; it was one of amazement by the strength his companion possessed, which practically threatened to uproot his leg from its socket in a mere twist of the arm if it had wished to. A quick nod of thanks sufficed for him and for Timothy as gratitude, and so he began to examine the filter as best as he could. From the outside the clunky, white machine seemed to be in working order and perfect in shape, not a screw loose or a wire unplugged or damaged or even anything visibly blocking the inside. He steadily determined that they should open the outer case up so that they could see the mechanics on the inside, if only a last-ditch effort before advising a new purchase.

Sixteen bolts and four screws were taken off the shell thanks to the brown-leathered satchel around Lovino's waist, thus allowing for the frame to jiggle off and clang a little. To the Southern Italian's humiliation, he could not free the case by himself, only give it a little jolt and so forth. With a humble glance to Timothy, he seemed to plead for help to get the confounded thing off the concrete base, to which the man readily agreed. However, when the man bent down to help, Lovino could only mutter, "Please, don't try and help; it's my job, and I'll get it done." Surprised by the rather obtuse request, Timothy backed off to see where the brown-haired grunting workman was going with his constant readjustment of feet in the shore and on the concrete base itself to get leverage, all to no avail. After about two minutes of continued struggling Lovino acquiesced to his own blind determination to work on alone and gave another silent plea for help. Together, or rather again by the visibly stronger arms of the Dutchman alone and direction by Lovino's smaller hands they got the entire thing off to see a clean mess of wire circuits, a bulging filtration system, and some various tubes that neither of them knew what they did. It took not even ten minutes to find out that the problem was a loosened wire had snapped all around the case like an enraged rattlesnake's tail, thus providing the racket that happened earlier. During the entire process, Lovino's subconscious continued to contemplate and piece together a mental conclusion that he didn't ask for based on all that has happened in the last week or so, especially with his newly found weakness in strength when compared to this man who did nothing beyond Lovino's knowledge except sit at his house and tend to his garden. It was hard to fight off the deepening grimaces as he remembered how weak he became when his brother whispered whatever it was those nights ago, the swirling world and maddening statements he made when it seemed that he was close to collapse like a drunkard even though his lips had not met a drop of alcohol that night. And, in the end, he felt his stomach churn at the thoughts of how he and his brother had reacted with each other, starting first with that voracious rape of the standards of decency, and later the continued saga of social ackwardness that eventually led to his brother, too, being corrupted by this madness that swelled within Lovino. Was it pride, anger, or weakness that led to their forbidden dances and glances? Every time his mind returned to the word 'weakness' or any image associated with it, taboo or not, Lovino felt as if he was going to die of sheer embarrassment if only to escape the rest of his moral sins.

Throughout his childhood, he had tried to boss his adopted father around like a sort of mythical thug, but merely met a friendly rub on the head or a mirthful laughter of delight at such puzzling assertions; then, years later, he finally met the brother that was separated from him so long ago, and whom was now living with him under one roof. Of course, Feliciano Vargas turned out to be a rather whimpering man, more like a playful boy, whom looked towards books of learning and continued visits with friends both close and acquaintance'd; this seemed to provided Lovino with the opportunity to finally have someone beneath his gaze, to act like the other part of the leader-subordinate relationship that would make him the highlight of his completely imaginary Italian Black Market Underworld. Instead the two came quickly and calmly to a conclusion that there was an order to things, as stated before, and that now there only remained the work and the time between all things left considered and unconsidered, in their already explained system. That was the problem, though: he's too much like a subordinate. Feliciano gave little yelps of fear to the thunder that crashed outside that sent him leaping into bed, pleading for Lovino to hold him and make the Bianco Malo go away; he'd be forgetful half the time and leave whatever shirt or pants he was wearing at the time back inside the house, and go outside wearing either one or the other, or even on occasions that made Francis giggle or Lovino himself groan in humility, both. There was something that occurred to him, despite everything that spoke to the contrary, every mark against the very idea that it would be true, despite the fact that Lovino was the theoretical bread-winner and head of the house and Feliciano was the subordinate and the house-maker, Lovino had to admit that Feliciano was the mental superior. Shocking as it may sound, it was true: Feliciano may seem to only laze around most of the time, the very fact alone that he decided to read, to go to so far lengths as to teach himself every single cooking-recipe he could or read up on such an array of topics that baffled Lovino's mind proved that Feliciano was mentally superior to the both of them. Every mechanical thing around the house was brought in from Feliciano's side of the arrangement of the new house, from the refrigerator to the clock, while everything cultural came from Lovino's side, be it the wooden chairs or the patio out in the back of their house that overlooked the beach. It was almost like breathing for both of them, for Feliciano actually sometimes simply stood up in mid-sentence to tinker with something important in the garage with the concentration of a statue only to come back and trip over his own foot, and Lovino could craft a strong wooden chair but find the light-switch for a room to be an uncontrollable abomination. It wasn't so much genius, as it was what they could do if they had the mind to do it, but these only lasted for brief moments; they had too much to do, really. But now that Lovino had gazed longingly at the flowers and let these factoids and random moments of their personal experiences flow and flow around his mind like a balanced centrifuge, concocting a simplistic solution: he was in this sump water right now, dressed in this jump-suit right now, and he since childhood 'til now considered himself the boss, and was so stressed by his loss of control over his own life because he was the stronger one of the family. From the very beginning of their home-life together, Lovino realized now, there was a sort of 'thing' between them that seemed to separate them naturally into their life-styles; he could not recall what the exact word for it was, especially while he was leafing through the different wires in front of him, but it was definitely something real. His physical strength meant he was the one who would go out to every asshole's yard and see what their problem was, his strength gave him the obligation to memorize every single little manual that he could, and his strength placed him in the water now, trapped within his mind a mere twig in a gigantic wind-storm of mulling thoughts. It was within those ten minutes that one thing became evident, whispering it in the end as he stood up from the water and nodded for Timothy to place the casing back down in finality: If I'm too weak now to save mio fratello from hurting himself, or even pick up a damned filtrator case, then how in the hell can I even try and pretend that I'm doing my part?

And away the storm went, its gusts dissipating back to their respective corners within the confines of Lovino's troubled mind, the complicated words being the only way to describe their attached connotations as this ramble rumbled away from him, as if it was pleased that some unknown point had been made. The loud bang made by the placing-down of the case was capitalized by a little ripple pass through the water from the square concrete base, seeming to keep strength until it died before reaching the parallel strips of garden. Some smaller ones attempted a similar escape from the concrete base, but met the same fate as they faded away into their murky oblivion. So, hitherforth, Lovino shook his head to try and drag himself back again to reality if only to remain on-task and to get out of this pond before he turned a hundred years old.

He and Timothy replaced the case in a split second, and all of the other various details of re-attaching parts and getting out of the water to dry off were little more than brief discrepancies. Both of them got out of the water and proceeded to dry themselves off as quickly as possible, the grimy feel of mud and others still clung to their feet while they walked for Lovino's car. The South Italian kept his gaze towards the little stones that formed the path as his Dutch client rifled through his wallet for some of the flimsy, miniscule, plastic money in his wallet. By now the sun had fully risen to its nominal height of the day, and its rays casted themselves all over the countryside. When it was all said and done, Lovino found himself sitting in his car with forty-five fresh Euro's in his hand. From the point of view from the receiver these nine cards seemed to be little more than placeholders for currency, credit or debit cards of unimaginable than actual money; it was diminutive and flimsy, providing the meagerest impression of wealth. To give him credit, Lovino was trying his hardest to remain in the 'now', rather than falling back into the obtuse, fogged place within his mind that still lingered from his deplorable, pitiful, frightening, rectifiable musings and contemplations. Yet he could not restrain himself from blurting out, "How'd you get so strong?"

Timothy blinked, his eyes retracting from its usually normal neutral-yet-distant demeanour that set in whenever he had nothing else to say, and balked in hesitation as to how to respond properly. "Pardon?"

Lovino nearly slammed his hands against the steering wheel in a desperate need to release the sudden jolt of awkward energy that began to swirl around once more, only now it was with an actual living person! Instead, he directed the imagined power out through his feet into the bottom of the car with the most clandestine strike as he began his explanation, and a puff of breath that restricted itself to the innards of his mouth, causing his cheeks to puff out for nay a second, causing him to look similar to a squirrel with a humongous problem. "I- It's nothing. I mean- really, I want to know, how'd you get to be…" and his voice trailed as he pointed his right hand towards the Dutchman's arms. "How in the world did you get to be so strong? You've only a few plants here, and they were barely bigger than a god-damn little pot when you placed them in the ground!" Lovino would know; Timothy called him in from the Europa Volunteer Service to help install these very mini-levies that filtered and monitored the water in the Dutch garden.

One would assume that such a ham-fisted approach to the question would dissuade the other to answering at all; however, in a way that surprised the man himself, Timothy's facial expression of subtle critical wariness wore away towards a genuine expression of thought. Each time Timothy seemed to reach the verge of having an answer for Lovino, the thought got loose of its leash and ran away again. First, a stutter breached his lips with "Uh" and "Ah", until he could finally form cohesive words that made a sentence. "I'm sorry, but I don't really remember." He wanted to leave it there and then and simply see the man on his way as soon as possible, but something inside the Dutchman, past all of the silence within him, was encouraging him to speak more. "However, I believe that there's a place where you can get a little stronger; it's called a 'gym', I think, and it's a little bit east of Adriatic Pond."

Fuck. Lovino's mind hissed. That's Roderich's territory. He wanted to plant his head through the steering-wheel to compound his agitation, but instead chose to give a nod and a clear-coated answer, "Thank you," he turned on the engine and let his attention dissipate as it normally did these days; it left his voice with little more emotion than simply reciting a timeworn expression. "If you need any more help, please don't hesitate to call the number on the card, I'll be over as soon as possible to lend a hand. I will be out for the entire day, so please don't worry if I don't respond, everyone else needs help just like you." Finally, the engine flared to life as Lovino kept his eyes on the road in front of him. "Have a nice day."

Timothy tried to watch that red car rocket off into the distance, speeding along the pavement with all the ease of a caressing hand on silky skin, but he couldn't; something was preventing him from doing it. The world became round and elongated as water came to his eyes, and when he brought his left hand up to see what was happening, he heard his sister call from her house just one way's over.

"Timothy? Timothy!" she beckoned, "What happened?"

He did not respond, he still looked only at his hand.

This worried the light-brown-haired woman, whom then cautiously exited her house and walked over to the rickety fence that separated their properties. "Are you okay, Timothy? What's wrong?"

At last, after what seemed an eternity of gazing at what he had found with a swipe of his index finger, he turned from the tears that had spontaneously rolled down from his eyes to his cheeks. The only thing that he seemed capable of saying, the only thing that could come to his mind except a blank gasp of air was "I don't know."

His watch beeped at twelve; time for lunch. The Croat gave him a similar wad of plastic cards, intending for it to be payment for Lovino's pan-staking work. Every work day passed, and he would have to bring all of the money to his locker out at the garage that he called his workplace. With that chime, he quickly hopped into his car and sped off to that dismal, wide-open area between Ludwig's house and the Frenchies' flower store, both of which were right around the corner to the town-hall. To any passing observer, Lovino's bright-red, high-end car looked out-of-place at this small, concrete square simply sitting out on the side of the road. One time or another, he had tried to maintain a somewhat decent workplace, but eventually his work kept him out far more then when he was actually in, so the place turned into a run-down storage locker for all the tools and manuals he could need.

If you were to walk in with him, you could have sworn that Lovino was creating the winning-entry for a 'Shabbiest Place in the World' competition; the smell of oil, hot-glue and industrial mini-equipment lingered like death over a fresh slaughter. By now, he was sued to it; he knew where every tool was, even if they were vacant from their designated boxes and cabinets. There's something Antonio had told him at one point when he had stopped by to have some clock or radio fixed (like any good father, he joked that he'd like to have a discount. But, still, he paid full price like a true man would). Just as he was leaving, Antonio left another one of his Spanish-laded proverbs: "Nothing's missing as long as you know where it is".

Lovino placed all of the money he earned into a small, locked and secured box that jutted out from the wall. At the end of his work-day, some of those cards would be left for him to take home as a salary. Some; barely a fraction. He had no clue where it all went, nor did he seem inclined to know at all; as long as he was paid at least some money by the end of it. The box closed with its usual clang, Lovino having turned away from it to wander two steps towards the backroom. This pathetic office-space was where he littered his necessary manuals, so that he would be able to find them instead of having to shuffle through tools or having to read each spine for the books he needed. Who in the world couldn't memorize a bilingual subsection-twelve air conditioner-filter manual's cover? Idiots, that's who. The more he stood there in this green-and-baige shack of hollowed-out purpose, the more that he had time to think to himself: I've got a half-an'-hour to kill. Thomas' parting advice rang again, beckoning him to his next rash decision to blossom. I'm not hungry, and he said that the gym's open all day… Lunchtime is technically for lunchtime, but there's nothing in his employee handbook that says he couldn't go out for just a little exercise. Professionally, he wanted to tidy up this damn place so he could walk through without feeling a wrench underfoot. Instinctively, he wanted to lift mountains of steel to the ceiling or whatever the hell it takes to be strong. Instinct is far more powerful to beings like Lovino: they are driven by Instinct's bed-mate, Emotion, which always had a shotgun-seat for Instinct to hop in and fool around with unsuspecting peoples (especially if they're a South Italian twin). Now he could feel the pressures moving in on him again, encircling his mind as they had done back in the restaurant. They had broken free then, and were having rough-shot over him since; now, they were diving down again for another swipe at his conscience. It hurt him: it enticed him to rub his arms to feel and massage a pain that was not here, to assuage a phantom that haunted him in his mind. But are they real, these two interlopers? One thing was for certain, especially as Lovino jumped into his car in such a way that you might say he was jumping into a life-boat off of a sinking ship:

Lovino never really liked his job, anyways.