Katekyo Hitman Reborn

My Fate is Certainly Uncertain

Chapter 1: Every beginning starts with an end, and a black cat.

Overall Warnings: Swearing, blood and Oc-ness.

[Written to : March of Mephisto - Kamelot

Sell Your Soul - Hollywood Undead]

~o0o~

With everything covered in deep, velveteen black, and even with a torch, it was getting hard to distinguish objects in this hell hole. The car was jolting up and down, side to side, thrashing everywhere from hitting pot-holes in this isolated path, making her head bob up and down, that was heading urgently to the nearest airport. The dirt beaten trail resided through a forest that was located to the north of Italy. Rarely it was seen, never used, so sometimes, there would be small branches on the road, or animals that were happily nibbling on a midnight feast. It didn't matter, she ran them all over anyway.

There was only one blood-soaked occupant in the car. It was a brilliant black, Mustang car that she'd inherited from her third uncle, who had passed about two years ago. This was a car that she'd cherished, polished, and was now ripped with bullets and dirty from the wet mud caused by the morning's rain. Her stomach rolled over, and the girl felt like throwing up a few chunks of meat, trying not to gag at the blood on the windscreen that she had tried to get rid of viva the window wipers. Yeah, that didn't work so well.

She sucked it in, feeling the bile burn her throat.

"I have to get out of here." She muttered, glancing over her shoulder, hearing gunshots.

Fuck.

~o0o~

I've never been a quiet child. What's the point, I remember saying when I was younger, small enough to struggle to see over the kitchen table, I don't want people to think that I've 'suddenly' disappeared into the background. That would be horrible.

It drove everybody I knew absolutely insane. Screaming inside the house, running in the supermarket, ripping out flowers from their beds, and generally being a large thorn in my mother's backside. (Although, at the time, that was how I though bouquets of flowers were made. Don't ask me why, ask five-year old logic.) She swore by god that either I was going to die of hyperventilation or loss of air, or that she was going to go deaf before I hit twenty. She even thought I had ADHD. But no, apparently to the doctor, I was just a rambunctious girl who was fueled by the adrenaline of life. A happy, polite girl.

Yuck, what a dick. My mother had said, when we were finally in the car from the doctor's office, and I was sitting in the passenger's seat. Polite girl my ass.

I couldn't blame her for disliking my hyperactivity. (Apparently, I caused her to be short-tempered and pregnant, but I knew that wasn't true.) I was a general hell-raiser. But in that, it was because of how other people treated me. If you were nice, back to you, I'd be bluntly honest, in a respective manner. But if you were a downright asshole to my face, or someone else, I'd kick your ass. Literally. There may have been, and I'm sure, a few bruises and possibly a broken bone here or there. It wasn't uncommon.

My mother wasn't the motherly type. She was more of a good friend that always had an opinion. Always pretty, always observant and always had some sort of drink in her hand. (It changed to a juice of some sort when she was pregnant.) She certainly wasn't an alcoholic, no. There was nothing wrong with having an early drink at eleven in the 'd leave me alone a lot. Always on the phone, she was being called away. It didn't matter if it was in the middle of the night, or early in the morning, in an instant, she could whip out that phone out of thin air.

It was a blast at first, being left alone in a house. I'd scream up the halls, knock everything over, turn the stereo on really loud. But the, my loudness started to diminish, as I realized how lonely I was.

Today wasn't an improvement. I'd been left alone again, when I should have really been at school, getting ready for the annual play: Swan lake. They changed it every year, and this year, I was meant to be a rabbit, which I did not find amusing at all. I was brought up in a mature environment. In itself, I'd wished to get a larger roll, like Odette. Too bad I never get any luck.

It was the normal scenario Just me, watching some sort of cartoon, my eyes locked on the TV while mindlessly, I shoved chips into my mouth. I can't even remember what the show was even about, but what I do remember is that it was interrupted by a phone call.

Tiredly, I stumbled out into the hallway and picked up the receiver, putting it to my left ear. "Hello?"

At first, the voice did not speak a single word, but took a sharp breath in. But then, it spoke.

A man.

"Hello child. Is this the Marchelli residence?"

My eyebrow raised, thinking. That name had come up a lot in the papers found on mothers desk.

"No." I replied, walking into the study, opening the filing cabinet quietly, pulling out the draw with one hand.

"Are you sure?" The man asked, after a pause that resembled water.

"Are you sure?" I shot back at him, finding a random file and pulling it out. This man sounded pretty suspicious, asking around for a family name that mother wrote down. She always taught me to be cautious around anyone. "Are you sure you have the right number?"

That certainly gave the unknown man some time to think. As I lifted the file out, things dropped out of the bottom. Photos, papers, notes. My five-year old self said a bad word and rested the phone on her shoulder, holding it with her head.

"Are you still there?" I asked, looking down at a photo that had a red cross through it, with tiny red scrawls on the bottom. "I'm sorry sir, but I can't help you. My name's Bianca Thrapshaw. This is my father's house."

"Ah, right." He said, after another pause. "My apologies for disturbing you. I'll go now."

"It's okay. Have a good day sir." I picked the phone back up. "I hope you find this Marchelli person."

"As do I." The man said, and the connection cut.

I pressed the end button and put it back where it came from. Then, I went back into the study and cleaned everything up, shuffling all the fallen pieces of papers back into the notebook coloured file, stuffing it back into the filing cabinet and closing the door behind me. Later, when she got home, her stomach bulging so much that it looked like she'd eaten an entire watermelon, I helped her bring in the bags of groceries, which made her smile.

Anything interesting happen today? She asked, flashing her teeth and petting the bump.

No, I replied with a big grin, lying.

I never told her about the files hidden under my mattress.

~o0o~

I'd forgotten about those files until a couple of years later, when I was ten, and at the age where mother had let me walk to school on my own. Just because she wasn't motherly didn't mean that she was a bad mother. (It's just that motherhood was a developing trait of hers.) She knew the basics, like talking to Mason constantly to encourage him to speak, or when I was having a bad day, she'd curl up on the couch with me, and we'd watch a movie.

School had gotten better than I though it would. I had actually made friends, surprisingly. I hadn't needed a day like that for a while.

But then one day, I'd felt sick enough to throw up, so I took it on myself to go home. No use telling Mother, since she'd probably be busy with work, with giving the world a piece of her slick, sarcastic mind.

That's what I'd thought, at least.

"Mom? What are you doing home so early?" I asked, spotting her form bustling around the kitchen, obviously looking for something that had gotten itself lost. Or rather something well hidden. Suddenly, Mason ran past my legs giggling. "W-What are you doing here Mason? I thought you were meant to be at school?"

Mother looked up at me, apparently only noticing me now. "Phillipa, grab Mason."

"Huh?" I muttered, wondering what the hell she was on about. I noticed the frame of the door. "Heck, what happened?! Did someone try to break into the house?!"

Mother pushed a blue sports bag into my arms, and wrangled Mason beside me. My mouth hung open, as I saw the state of the lounge. The TV had a massive hole put through it, coffee table was broken in half and there were papers everywhere, as they were once books themselves that I read often on days when I didn't feel like attending school.

This wasn't like her at all, to be frantic. I called her name again, fear in my voice. "Mom?"

She put her hands on my shoulders and firmly squeezed them, my eyes cringing at the pain. "Philly..." She licked and bit her lips, trying to find her voice. "Babe, go get some clothes for you and Mason." She pushed me into the hallway. "Go, hurry! We don't have much time!"

I remember hearing the same fear in Masons voice that was in mine, filled with confusion and uncertainty that only a five-year old could make. I stomped upstairs as quickly as I could, holding onto the railing, turning a sharp right into Masons room. I filled the bag with all the essentials and his favorite teddy-bear, and quickly ran into my room, that was filled with purple wallpaper.

Opening the wardrobe, I piled in shorts, t-shirts and thermals. I didn't need sandals, I thought, probably a million things running through my head at the time, they weren't necessary. So, I took the sneakers instead, swapping them with my Mary-Jane school shoes. Just as I was about to leave, rather recklessly, my foot hooked around the bottom of the metal bed post, tripping me up, my head hitting the floor with a bang!

What's that? I mused, as I lied on the floor, my foot pulsing with pain and my ears ringing, hearing loud footsteps on the floor below.

My fingers traced the creased edges of the folder that was sticking out of the side of the mattress causing a dent in the bed-sheets, my memories reminding me what they were.

Hearing my mother's voice urging me to hurry up, that folder was the last thing I took with me from the house.

Then, we left Carson City abruptly, a place I had called home. That was where my friends, my happiest memories were from.

I never saw that place again.

It was only later that I wondered to myself, when it had turned dark, the shining lights from the lampposts reflecting off of the car window.

Would my mother have left me there, if I hadn't gone home from school early?

~o0o~

I really didn't understand much, about the world that was turning around me. But what I did know about my mothers job, I decided to keep secret It wasn't advisable to go around telling about my mothers job, of how she regularly came home with blood, or even bits on guts, or maybe even brain on her leather jackets.

Four years later, my slide back into normal life didn't go as I hoped it would. Yet again, I was deemed the 'weirdo' girl, with midnight short, curly hair, who should be avoided at all costs. And that was okay. I didn't like people much now anyway. If I ever did make more friends, I was sure I'd end up in the same predicament as I did before.

So maybe that's why I was a bit apprehensive about hearing that voice, when I was walking home from school, without my jersey.

"Good evening." He said, sitting on the fence. "Or rather, good afternoon. It's too early to use that greeting."

At first, I had thought it was one of those snot-nosed guys, or a boy who tried to flirt with anything that moved and was female. So, I ignored him.

"Wait, come back!" He yelled, and I turned. My eyes turned into gawking dinner dishes, wide in size, trying to comprehend.

I'm not sure what I could say at the sight in front of me.

"Man, what was in that slushy I was drinking?" I asked myself. "It must have been some sort of drug..."

"No, you weren't drugged." The black cat said, leaning forward from the fence. "I'm right here, talking right in front of you. Clear as day, ya' know?"

The cat had just said that it could talk. I really must be going crazy.

"What's with that face, girl? Don't tell me you've never heard of a talking cat."

"I haven't really had a talking cat before. "I replied in a I'm-not-so-sure voice, thinking that I must be going insane. I mean really, a talking cat?! What the heck would turn up next? I shook my head. "You can't be real."

Twenty seconds later after crying out in pain from being scratched everywhere from my face to my hands, I realized that the cat was real. That he was talking to me in clear English.

"Holy crap..." I muttered, looking at him.

"Your name." He asked, twitching his tiny, pink nose.

"You first." I replied, after thinking, my eyes thinning. "Then I'll tell you mine."

"I asked first."

"I asked second."

He closed his eyes and sighed. It was strange to hear a cat do something like that, something that I thought only humans did. "Allemande. That is my given name."

And that's what was given, so I had no choice but to give him mine.

"My name's Alison Vargay."

"That's a load of shit."

"Lillith Margrove."

"Get real." He said, snapping out his claws again. "Say it properly before I rip your face."

Now I was the one that sighed, looking around, checking that nobody was seeing me talking to a cat. It wasn't any use for me to get any more negative stigma than I already had. "Name's Phillipa."

"Nice to meet you Phillipa. Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

I shook away what I was thinking about, waving my hand about. "Wait, wait. How is this even possible?!" I leaned in closer and whispered. "Do other people know you talk?"

"Well, technically, I'm not talking. I'm meowing, but ya just happen to understand me." He jumped of the fence and into my arms, the slushy that I was holding splattered all over the pavement, barely missing my shoes. "Must be a hereditary mutation you've picked up."

"I wouldn't know anything about this." I said, starting to walk again. "But I can tell you that my mother isn't that fond of animals."

"Keep yer voice down girl!" Allemande hissed, as I walked into a busy intersection, standing next to a lady with a thrashing three-year old, who was bright red. "People might think you've gone bonkers!"

That wouldn't be so crazy of a theory, I thought to myself, as the green man appeared across the street. I'm already talking to a cat, aren't I?

~o0o~

And honestly, that was how I met my first friend. My first, real friend that I felt I could trust, which was something I didn't dish out easily. I didn't care that he was a cat, strangely enough. Made up some lame story to my mother that he was a poor kitty-cat sitting in the rain from my way home and that I just simply couldn't leave him alone there, shivering. I don't know why she let me keep him, but apparently Mason was getting older, and he needed responsibility.

So, he became the fourth member of the family for the next year.

I passed my exams, and Mason found new friends, while I immersed myself in my studies. I also decided to take some sot of physical sport up. I actually wanted to do something like volleyball, but mother insisted I take karate up, for self-defense. Against what, I had no idea, but I agreed with her, not really ready to take up an argument with her, which wasn't a wise choice.

But I'm glad I did, when I spotted the back door open.

That was an absolute no-no in our house, and Mason even knew that well. My first reaction was to duck down low and stay hidden.

That was when I heard the voices of two men in the kitchen.

"What's happening?" The first voice said, a man, who I hadn't heard before. "Have you located the children?"

"No." Another replied, another man who sounded younger. "I heard that her children attend the local schools here."

How do they know us? How'd they get into the house, good go, where's mother?

"Ages?"

"One's ten and the other is fifteen, almost sixteen. She attends the co-ed." There was a pause. "We'll defiantly take out the oldest. It would be too much of a hassle to keep her alive. Boss said to kill them anyway."

What?

"Darn. The other one will have to go too. If he was younger, it'd be easy to brainwash him into working with us."

I almost jumped out of my socks when I felt something brush against my leg so much, that I grabbed out to lean against the side of the house for support. I knew saying something would probably be the number one thing that would lead me to getting myself in big big trouble, so I raised my eyebrows, as if to say to him 'What the hell are you doing here? What the hell is going on?'

He seemed to get the gist of it, the part where to not make any noise. But instead of confronting the problem of two strangers musing around in the house, he turned away and started to patter down the driveway, where an unfamiliar BMW was parked on the sidewalk. I knew none of the neighbors in this area were able to afford a car like that, or had any connections with people who had tons of money, so I made a safe guess that the car was owned be the two men.

Allemande sat at the back of the car, next to the boot of the car. "Open it." He whispered, and my eyes darted back at the house. "Quickly now."

I don't know why I felt surprised when I realized that it was left open. Maybe it was because I was so used to keeping everything locked. Quietly, I let the door of the boot slowly lift up to about half-way.

My jaw dropped.

"What do you expect me to do Al?" I asked, my eyes scanning over the various objects that were crammed into the car, disbelief washing over me. "Shoot them?" I shook my head. "No. I'll just call the police."

"What good would they do?" He asked, his tail whipping erratically. "It would only put a target on your back as well as your brothers."

"I wouldn't feel comfortable doing something like this." I shook my head again. "I can't shoot a person."

He scratched my ankles, and when I knelt down in pain, cradling them, he looked me right in the eyes, as mine were beginning to become cloudy. "Would you feel comfortable leaving now, knowing that they're after the rest of your family too? You know your mother's profession. You don't need to be comfortable to kill someone, idiot." He bobbed his head. "Cause if you don't shoot them first, they'll make the first move themselves."

"I don't know..." I whispered, reaching out for the nearest one, the one with a long barrel, and what looked like a device that you used to lock on a target. I loaded it with four bullets and turned the safety off. "I just hope Mom gets here soon."

I followed Al back to the house, walking around crouched, looking through every window with the most absolute caution I could muster. My eyes spotted one of the light fixtures in the lounge, which was around the front of the house, that was broken. Moving shadows were filling the walls, looking as if they were making a move to leave. This made me decide to enter through the back door.

I took my school shoes off and threw them onto the grass. They hardly made a sound, as I tiptoed into the house, Al following after me. There was glass everywhere, and I spotted specks of red, making my heart jump.

The outlay of the house was simple, and it attended our needs. If you entered through the doorway, you'd find yourself in a short hallway, which turned left, and then right, which lead to the lounge, that had only one door. Going through that door lead to another hallway that had the doors of Masons and Mothers room. I slept in the attic. The third door lead to the bathroom, and the one next to it was the kitchen door, which was wide open.

I silently braced myself with a nod, and poked the barrel through the door. Hearing that there was nothing that saw me, I stepped through and quietly made my way to the lounge hiding behind the door.

"It's sad." I heard the man say, the first guy, I think.

"Sad isn't an excuse. It's a barrier for getting a job done." Another pause. Breathing. Possibly looking at each other, communicating with their eyes. I didn't know. Nor did I care. "Let's get out of here and find the youngest first. The children should still be still at school."

Shit! They're going after Mason! Oh Shit!

Go get them then!

But I can't

Why not? They're going to kill you. Look at yourself girl, you're shaking.

But I...

Don't be sorry for people who want to kill you.

My mind was in shatters, and I'm pretty sure I felt my face become wet with my own tears of fear.

Just go for it. Use a double hit kill.

I didn't realize, or even notice my legs pulling me up, and into the lounge, with the rifle held up to my chest. The men were dress in black business suits, and as a second passed, the first man I saw fell to the ground, his white shirt blossoming with the colour red that inked out onto the carpet, two shells landing beside my feet.

Then, I was kicked in the stomach with such force that I flew back into the wall, and I gagged blood onto the floorboards, striking what was a table. I've never felt that type of pain, being confused and afraid caused me to be off-guard and into a pit of danger. The man who had kicked me moved fast, faster than I've ever seen someone move sat on top of me and wrapped his big, meaty, sweaty hands around my neck, attempting to crush my windpipe.

I tried to scream. I tried to sit up, to scratch at his face. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe. My vision started to cloud up with a scary darkness, as a fiery feeling began to spread itself across my chest.

"Ahug...uuhh..."

"Don't speak." The man said in a hollow, rusted whisky voice, his blond fringe had become a mess. "It will only make killing you harder."

Out of nowhere, I heard him screaming, something wet landing on my face that wasn't blood, it seriously looked like saliva. Al, who had been quiet throughout had leaped to my rescue, biting the man's ear, blood pouring out of the wound. "Take your own words to heart, fucking asshole!"

As his hand released their viper grip, I struggled to breathe in air. I felt my hand reach back, tapping, fingering something hard and with my strength, I yelled out my raw, bitter fury, slamming the broken picture frame into the side of his face, as Al jumped to the ground, sickening blood covering his black coat.

He turned into a sloppy mess by the time I reacted to the amount of blood, to physically stop myself, grabbing my own shaking fist, from beating him into an even more unidentifiable pulp. My voice started to spill involuntarily out, whimpering meaningless, thoughtless words, crying out. "Oh god. I just killed a man."

I dropped the frame, feeling the bones in my legs shaking.

I wanted to scream now. So badly I wanted to run.

"Oh god." I whispered, stepping over of the man, who laid face (or what was left of his face) down. For a moment, I could have sworn that one of this fingers twitched.

"Phillipa."

Oh please god. No, no, please, no, no.

I had spotted what Allemande had gestured to.

It wasn't an object.

It had seeped out from under the white door of the bathroom, forming a puddle of red, that was deep and dark. My throat struggled to spill out words anymore. I didn't have control over my voice, neither my tears that bleached my blood-soaked blouse that mother worked furiously on to get the stains out of it. It was beyond repair, and I didn't want to feel someone else's blood on my hands, staining them with guilt.

My stomach lurched.

No, no, no...

Something was telling me not to open the door, but I couldn't. It was like a breastfeeding mother in public; you have to look away, but then again, you can't just ignore it.

I don't remember reaching for the doorknob.

I may have turned it.

No...no...

Or maybe I opened the door with my foot, nudging it lightly, balancing on the other.

But I do remember seeing mother, naked and dead on the ground, with a dark red circle on her forehead.

It was then, that I screamed quietly, falling to my knees, the weight of my body almost too much for me to carry. My feet were stinging and I felt a headache coming on from all of this crying. Time must have passed, because I felt the nudge of Al's furry face against me, his voice sounding distant. The same blue duffel bag that I had brought my broken dreams in was by my side again, somehow appearing, as if it knew that we were going again.

"We have to go." Al urged, pulling my skirt with his out. "Knowing people like these, they probably have back up contacts as well, waiting for them to report back to them. They'll probably be suspicious already, so it's vital that we leave NOW."

"But I can't leave her here..." I whispered, still holding her cold, blue-tinged hand. My eyes were still wet. I didn't want to believe that she was dead. Mason and I were the ones she loved. How was I going to tell him. Oh God. Why do I keep saying that? Do I even believe in him?

"They'll be going after Mason." He whispered back, urging me to get up. "He's your top priority."

I found myself trudging into my own room, mindlessly changing into new, clean clothes and reaching the bottom of the stairs, the ones that connected to the attic. The stopped a few feet from the man who tried to strangle me, shards of glass in and around his head.

I took the picture out of the frame-turned-deadly-weapon and neatly stored it away in a side pocket. It was of the three of us, and after a certain amount of urging on my part, I'd managed to squeeze all of us into the photo. Mothers blonde hair and Masons brilliant blue eyes, I must have been twelve at the time. Then, going through mothers purse, which was on the coffee table in the lounge, I grabbed her keys and left this house, just as I did with the other one, purposely leaving everything on, the heater, the over, electrical appliances and even the TV, set to the music channel with a girl playing a guitar.

Then, I found myself in the car, minutes later, driving towards Masons school.

"What do I do now?" I wondered a thought that was barely above a whisper. "Will there be more of them?"

"Of course there will be."

"Then what do I do?" I asked, louder this time, sobs finally breaking out, my realization that my brother and I were all alone. We had no family to turn to. I didn't have connections. I felt hopeless."What can I do?"

"We're going to find your father, that's what we will do."

~o0o~

*Looks around inconspicuously*

Hello first timers and re-readers! This probably is another story in its own, but this is a second attempt at a story that I felt that I wasn't particularly considering the way Phillipa acted and how it was progressing. It's a bit darker this time around too, so I hope you don't mind. And there will be people who like the old story and those who'll like the new one, and I respect that. (P.S- If you want to go read it, feel free. But you'll have to find it yourself.)

I've had a good think about it this time around. ANd I'm happy that I'm writing for you guys. Writing is one of my favorite creative past-times.

-Verdigurl.