Kill Bill. <3
Wheee, remember me with the Kill Bill fic? I've finished some more of it.
Untitled
By Havana
Snow descended, accumulating beneath her modest feet into a vast terrain of white, as O-Ren Ishii stood in solitude with only the steady trickling of a nearby well breaking the eerie peace. With a stoic, expressionless face, she scrutinized the setting with a combination of awe and quiet amusement. How ironic it was for her, the renowned queen of the Tokyo underworld, to end up in such a ethereal, pure, and heavenly setting. Queen of the Tokyo underworld. She did indeed harbor great pride in her status, but she could never forget what brought her to this point.
O-Ren closed her eyes. Distant yet vivid memories flickered under her eyelids; she didn’t know whether to wince or smile at them. She remembered the very day she fell in love with homicide, oh how she remembered it well. Merely a child, she thrusted a blade deep into the torso of Japan’s deadliest yakuza master, Boss Matsumoto, forcing his face into painful distortion while her own expressed a naïve, detached yet subtly exultant sense of triumph bordering upon the edge of psychosis. She remembered well the geyser of blood that erupted when she withdrew her katana from his wound. She remembered being painted red like the white roses in the story, Alice In Wonderland. She neither winced nor felt a trace of remorse for the sin she had committed. Though you may dismiss her as heartless, foul, and psychopathic, her actions were not without motivation.
The feather snowflakes rained onto her pale, soft cheek, carried away and melted as a single tear dropped from her almond eyes. Merely a child, she had to witness the brutal murders of her parents, orchestrated by Boss Matsumoto. O-Ren winced as she recollected being trapped under the hotel’s bed, hearing her mother’s agonized scream as a katana shot through the mattress at the speed of a bullet. No words could climb up her cluttered throat, only a quivering, tearful “Mommy” as her mother’s blood baptized her.
O-Ren fell to her knees in the snow and quietly sobbed. She did not know why she was weeping; it all happened so very long ago, but weep she did and yet, the snow continued to pour.
The Crazy 88s were engaged in such a boisterous clamor this evening that Sofie’s head began to ache. She never much enjoyed having to participate in these outings because of them. All they did was tell crude jokes, boast about sexual encounters, tell crude jokes about sexual encounters, and taunt the other customers ( and staff ) in the House of Blue Leaves. They were always so noisy; it was impossible to perceive them as bodyguards and members of a substantial crime syndicate. O-Ren was always surrounded by them, though, and Sofie could never leave her out of her sight. Silently, she crept out of the room as they were playing their raucous little drinking games and searched for O-Ren.
O-Ren. Sofie’s heart just fluttered at the sound of her name echoing in her head. O-Ren was her superior; she conformed to her every whim without question or hesitance. Her presence radiated an aura of divine splendor that Sofie became so addicted to. Even with her mixed Chinese-Japanese blood, she was the epitome of perfection through her eyes. She was the goddess told in myths and fairytales carved into flesh.
Sofie’s cell phone suddenly rang, emitting a digitalized tune of “Auld Land Syne”. She paused; a single memory darted across her mind, a single memory that the tune never failed to summon. The memory was set on a New Year’s Eve many years ago, when her employer, Bill, introduced her to O-Ren Ishii. O-Ren’s hair was so different back then. She had cropped it so it wouldn’t get in the way of her lifestyle, the lifestyle of an assassin. She was dressed in a red, leather suit that conformed to her nimble, delicate body. Sofie was also an assassin, infamous for seducing her prey first and then discreetly thieving their lives through poison or blade. Though her methods were quiet, she was still highly efficient with the katana, trained by the one and only Bill himself. Like many women associated with him, Sofie, too, was secretly enamored with Bill and naturally held great envy when she first saw O-Ren. He was the only one who ever seemed to care about her, who didn’t flinch at Sofie’s sinful existence but found a sort of morbid beauty in it. The thought of another woman in his life made her wince; he was already deeply in love with Beatrix Kiddo. That night, in attempt to clear her mind of this envy and frustration, Sofie sought out the meditation room but came across O-Ren. The hallways were so quiet and empty. Bill, Beatrix, Vernita, and Elle were all downstairs, celebrating the New Year with champagne. O-Ren was alone, with a shimmering, slender katana, dressed in a red kimono. She stood still and peacefully, and suddenly erupted with a sequence of intricate choreography with the weapon, her scarlet kimono billowing gracefully with every movement. Sofie swallowed the lump in her throat as she inaudibly admitted how very skilled she was with that thing. She was so poised and beautiful like a dancer, yet so dangerous and agile like the katana itself. It was captivating, mesmerizing, and oddly enthralling, much like a serpent. Closing up her composition, O-Ren returned to her initial state of peace and stillness. “Sofie, isn’t it?” she said in her Japanese tongue without turning her head, her voice melodic and fluid.
Caught by surprise, Sofie kept silent.
O-Ren turned to her. “Bill tells me that you are capable with the sword as well, are you not?”
Repressing any sign of tension, she took a step forward and quickly drew out her own katana from her sheath. It was a beautifully crafted weapon, a graceful object but plenty durable for a sword of its kind. The blade glistened like a mirror, despite the amount of blood it had spilled in its lifetime.
O-Ren’s lips just curved into a haughty smile at the threatening gesture, her posture still tranquil. “Are you threatening me?”
Sofie glared at her.
“Very well then,” O-Ren whispered. Like a spontaneous conflagration, she leapt out at Sofie, swinging her sword over her head, blocked by her opponent’s at the last second. She grinned at her bewildered expression but immediately flew back as the very slight indication of movement, evading a blow to her torso. “You’ll have to be quicker than that,” she taunted her.
The two women clashed blades with the agility and finery that could have put the samurai of ancient Japan to shame; the fight summitted to the point where the katanas were mere blurs, but nonetheless, each strike was blocked by the other. O-Ren Ishii started growing tiresome, as did Sofie - neither of them had made impact in the last quarter hour. As Sofie soared into the air to spin and gain momentum, O-Ren’s katana sliced through the air, missing her head by millimeters, undoing the other’s hair. The tiny band that harnessed the brunette’s hair fell to her feet and they stood still for a moment, staring at each other, Sofie’s eyes agape in alarm. Angered, she jumped at her with her sword but O-Ren, once again, blocked it.
“Your hair is beautiful when it’s down,” she said to her.
Sofie’s eyebrows burrowed; was she offering a random compliment or was she trying to distract her? Either way, Sofie gave no reply and made another attempt to hit her. The shattering clashing of the swords pierced her ears and paralyzed her body for a moment but before she realized, she dropped to the floor on her knees with a impulsive shriek, releasing her weapon and clutching her shoulder firmly. Right at that moment, with frightening coincidental precision, the clock struck midnight and downstairs, Bill and the other Vipers cheered and clinked their glasses of champagne as “Auld Lang Syne” played on the television. Upstairs, tears of pain welled up in Sofie’s dark eyes as she noticed blood trickling from between her fingers and down her arm.
Her chest heaving, O-Ren slid her weapon back into her sheath and combed back a lock of her now unkempt short black hair behind her ear. “You fight well,” she panted, “who was your master?”
Groaning, Sofie softly replied, “Bill.”
“He taught you well.”
“And I still failed him.” She struggled to harness any sign of shame from surfacing to her face. “No wonder he’s replacing me with you.”
Taking a roll of bandages tucked the obi sash of her fiery kimono, O-Ren crouched to her level and tended to her wound. “Is this what it was all about?” She gently wrapped her shoulder with the bandages, smiling warmly, an expression that wildly contradicted the cold, merciless face she wore merely minutes ago. The glare that belonged to an authentic assassin, the glare that belonged to one who had no aversion and felt no remorse in distributing death were now a pair of docile, tender eyes that revealed a kinder, more humane, and ironically more mysterious side to her. “I have no intent on taking him away from you.”
Sofie stared at her for a minute, cheeks flushed from feeling a bit childish and silly. At last, the blood stopped seeping out of her wound. O-Ren’s head declined towards her shoulder and to Sofie’s surprise, kissed the red stain on her bandage lightly. “Auld Lang Syne” continued to float through the air, stroking their ears. Sofie found herself in a flurry of emotions; the kiss drove her pulse up and she did not know why. Her sympathy bestowed s sense of safety and bliss similar to the elation Bill induced, but somehow, very different. For a moment, even he didn’t matter anymore. Her cellphone had been carrying the tune ever since that fateful day.
Sofie scoured the House of Blue Leaves, searching for O-Ren but with no prevail. Starting to become a little worried, she quickened her pace, beckoning her, hoping that she would answer and prove she was out of harm's way. Finally, she reached the end of a hallway, where a pair of large, sliding doors stood, a soft cerulean light glowing through its translucence. She opened the doors to find a beautiful milieu of a terrain of snow with a ethereal blue cast. In the center was O-Ren, wrapped in a kimono even whiter than the snow, cheeks tearstained and ebony locks tumbling from her bun. Alarmed, Sofie rushed to her aid, placing a hand on her shoulder. “O-Ren, whatever is the matter?” she asked in Japanese.
O-Ren, choking on despair, gave no answer but shook her head and clutched onto her dear friend. Quietly, Sofie embraced her tightly, petting her crown affectionately and reassured her that everything would be okay.
Untitled
By Havana
Snow descended, accumulating beneath her modest feet into a vast terrain of white, as O-Ren Ishii stood in solitude with only the steady trickling of a nearby well breaking the eerie peace. With a stoic, expressionless face, she scrutinized the setting with a combination of awe and quiet amusement. How ironic it was for her, the renowned queen of the Tokyo underworld, to end up in such a ethereal, pure, and heavenly setting. Queen of the Tokyo underworld. She did indeed harbor great pride in her status, but she could never forget what brought her to this point.
O-Ren closed her eyes. Distant yet vivid memories flickered under her eyelids; she didn’t know whether to wince or smile at them. She remembered the very day she fell in love with homicide, oh how she remembered it well. Merely a child, she thrusted a blade deep into the torso of Japan’s deadliest yakuza master, Boss Matsumoto, forcing his face into painful distortion while her own expressed a naïve, detached yet subtly exultant sense of triumph bordering upon the edge of psychosis. She remembered well the geyser of blood that erupted when she withdrew her katana from his wound. She remembered being painted red like the white roses in the story, Alice In Wonderland. She neither winced nor felt a trace of remorse for the sin she had committed. Though you may dismiss her as heartless, foul, and psychopathic, her actions were not without motivation.
The feather snowflakes rained onto her pale, soft cheek, carried away and melted as a single tear dropped from her almond eyes. Merely a child, she had to witness the brutal murders of her parents, orchestrated by Boss Matsumoto. O-Ren winced as she recollected being trapped under the hotel’s bed, hearing her mother’s agonized scream as a katana shot through the mattress at the speed of a bullet. No words could climb up her cluttered throat, only a quivering, tearful “Mommy” as her mother’s blood baptized her.
O-Ren fell to her knees in the snow and quietly sobbed. She did not know why she was weeping; it all happened so very long ago, but weep she did and yet, the snow continued to pour.
The Crazy 88s were engaged in such a boisterous clamor this evening that Sofie’s head began to ache. She never much enjoyed having to participate in these outings because of them. All they did was tell crude jokes, boast about sexual encounters, tell crude jokes about sexual encounters, and taunt the other customers ( and staff ) in the House of Blue Leaves. They were always so noisy; it was impossible to perceive them as bodyguards and members of a substantial crime syndicate. O-Ren was always surrounded by them, though, and Sofie could never leave her out of her sight. Silently, she crept out of the room as they were playing their raucous little drinking games and searched for O-Ren.
O-Ren. Sofie’s heart just fluttered at the sound of her name echoing in her head. O-Ren was her superior; she conformed to her every whim without question or hesitance. Her presence radiated an aura of divine splendor that Sofie became so addicted to. Even with her mixed Chinese-Japanese blood, she was the epitome of perfection through her eyes. She was the goddess told in myths and fairytales carved into flesh.
Sofie’s cell phone suddenly rang, emitting a digitalized tune of “Auld Land Syne”. She paused; a single memory darted across her mind, a single memory that the tune never failed to summon. The memory was set on a New Year’s Eve many years ago, when her employer, Bill, introduced her to O-Ren Ishii. O-Ren’s hair was so different back then. She had cropped it so it wouldn’t get in the way of her lifestyle, the lifestyle of an assassin. She was dressed in a red, leather suit that conformed to her nimble, delicate body. Sofie was also an assassin, infamous for seducing her prey first and then discreetly thieving their lives through poison or blade. Though her methods were quiet, she was still highly efficient with the katana, trained by the one and only Bill himself. Like many women associated with him, Sofie, too, was secretly enamored with Bill and naturally held great envy when she first saw O-Ren. He was the only one who ever seemed to care about her, who didn’t flinch at Sofie’s sinful existence but found a sort of morbid beauty in it. The thought of another woman in his life made her wince; he was already deeply in love with Beatrix Kiddo. That night, in attempt to clear her mind of this envy and frustration, Sofie sought out the meditation room but came across O-Ren. The hallways were so quiet and empty. Bill, Beatrix, Vernita, and Elle were all downstairs, celebrating the New Year with champagne. O-Ren was alone, with a shimmering, slender katana, dressed in a red kimono. She stood still and peacefully, and suddenly erupted with a sequence of intricate choreography with the weapon, her scarlet kimono billowing gracefully with every movement. Sofie swallowed the lump in her throat as she inaudibly admitted how very skilled she was with that thing. She was so poised and beautiful like a dancer, yet so dangerous and agile like the katana itself. It was captivating, mesmerizing, and oddly enthralling, much like a serpent. Closing up her composition, O-Ren returned to her initial state of peace and stillness. “Sofie, isn’t it?” she said in her Japanese tongue without turning her head, her voice melodic and fluid.
Caught by surprise, Sofie kept silent.
O-Ren turned to her. “Bill tells me that you are capable with the sword as well, are you not?”
Repressing any sign of tension, she took a step forward and quickly drew out her own katana from her sheath. It was a beautifully crafted weapon, a graceful object but plenty durable for a sword of its kind. The blade glistened like a mirror, despite the amount of blood it had spilled in its lifetime.
O-Ren’s lips just curved into a haughty smile at the threatening gesture, her posture still tranquil. “Are you threatening me?”
Sofie glared at her.
“Very well then,” O-Ren whispered. Like a spontaneous conflagration, she leapt out at Sofie, swinging her sword over her head, blocked by her opponent’s at the last second. She grinned at her bewildered expression but immediately flew back as the very slight indication of movement, evading a blow to her torso. “You’ll have to be quicker than that,” she taunted her.
The two women clashed blades with the agility and finery that could have put the samurai of ancient Japan to shame; the fight summitted to the point where the katanas were mere blurs, but nonetheless, each strike was blocked by the other. O-Ren Ishii started growing tiresome, as did Sofie - neither of them had made impact in the last quarter hour. As Sofie soared into the air to spin and gain momentum, O-Ren’s katana sliced through the air, missing her head by millimeters, undoing the other’s hair. The tiny band that harnessed the brunette’s hair fell to her feet and they stood still for a moment, staring at each other, Sofie’s eyes agape in alarm. Angered, she jumped at her with her sword but O-Ren, once again, blocked it.
“Your hair is beautiful when it’s down,” she said to her.
Sofie’s eyebrows burrowed; was she offering a random compliment or was she trying to distract her? Either way, Sofie gave no reply and made another attempt to hit her. The shattering clashing of the swords pierced her ears and paralyzed her body for a moment but before she realized, she dropped to the floor on her knees with a impulsive shriek, releasing her weapon and clutching her shoulder firmly. Right at that moment, with frightening coincidental precision, the clock struck midnight and downstairs, Bill and the other Vipers cheered and clinked their glasses of champagne as “Auld Lang Syne” played on the television. Upstairs, tears of pain welled up in Sofie’s dark eyes as she noticed blood trickling from between her fingers and down her arm.
Her chest heaving, O-Ren slid her weapon back into her sheath and combed back a lock of her now unkempt short black hair behind her ear. “You fight well,” she panted, “who was your master?”
Groaning, Sofie softly replied, “Bill.”
“He taught you well.”
“And I still failed him.” She struggled to harness any sign of shame from surfacing to her face. “No wonder he’s replacing me with you.”
Taking a roll of bandages tucked the obi sash of her fiery kimono, O-Ren crouched to her level and tended to her wound. “Is this what it was all about?” She gently wrapped her shoulder with the bandages, smiling warmly, an expression that wildly contradicted the cold, merciless face she wore merely minutes ago. The glare that belonged to an authentic assassin, the glare that belonged to one who had no aversion and felt no remorse in distributing death were now a pair of docile, tender eyes that revealed a kinder, more humane, and ironically more mysterious side to her. “I have no intent on taking him away from you.”
Sofie stared at her for a minute, cheeks flushed from feeling a bit childish and silly. At last, the blood stopped seeping out of her wound. O-Ren’s head declined towards her shoulder and to Sofie’s surprise, kissed the red stain on her bandage lightly. “Auld Lang Syne” continued to float through the air, stroking their ears. Sofie found herself in a flurry of emotions; the kiss drove her pulse up and she did not know why. Her sympathy bestowed s sense of safety and bliss similar to the elation Bill induced, but somehow, very different. For a moment, even he didn’t matter anymore. Her cellphone had been carrying the tune ever since that fateful day.
Sofie scoured the House of Blue Leaves, searching for O-Ren but with no prevail. Starting to become a little worried, she quickened her pace, beckoning her, hoping that she would answer and prove she was out of harm's way. Finally, she reached the end of a hallway, where a pair of large, sliding doors stood, a soft cerulean light glowing through its translucence. She opened the doors to find a beautiful milieu of a terrain of snow with a ethereal blue cast. In the center was O-Ren, wrapped in a kimono even whiter than the snow, cheeks tearstained and ebony locks tumbling from her bun. Alarmed, Sofie rushed to her aid, placing a hand on her shoulder. “O-Ren, whatever is the matter?” she asked in Japanese.
O-Ren, choking on despair, gave no answer but shook her head and clutched onto her dear friend. Quietly, Sofie embraced her tightly, petting her crown affectionately and reassured her that everything would be okay.