I was in an asylum. Again. Staring at the wall, which I was pretty sure had been breathing for the past few hours, in boredom. Three days, three days of lying around pondering the existence of grapples. At one point, I was pretty sure I'd eaten a grape flavored apple, but who could tell? I mean, at one point I was pretty sure I was a panda so there's no reason a magical grape-apple can't exist. Maybe somewhere out there in the wide wide world of sports there's even an apple .

So, why don't I explain me to I? Just for the sake of sounding crazy and incoherent. My name is Me. Or at least I'm pretty sure it is. Honestly, I've been locked up in here for three days dreaming about grapes so I'm a little iffy on the line between reality and fantasy right now. But, to continue, I believe I'm fifteen or fourteen. Or twenty seven. Really, rubber rooms and straight jackets don't do me much good so just go along with the first thing I say and let Me be me. But, I digest! There are truly only a few things you need to know about me. I kill people for a living, I'm pretty sure I'm in love with my best friend, I've been placed in over seventy insane asylums, something I'm extremely proud of, and there is a fifty fifty chance I'm secretly a panda. Oh, and I'm absolutely, undoubtedly, positively, certifiably mad. And I'm pretty sure I don't mean furious, though I'm guessing you've figured that out already. By you, I mean the little elf in my head that's documenting this so studiously. The elf named Mitch.

And that's all there is to know about Me. Me Ci, because I do believe that is my real alias. Oh, I remember now! People call me Meci because I introduce myself and they just think it's one name. Now I can go on to detail what has occurred over the past few days. To save the fingers of my elf from the brutality of typing, I'll make things short. Because Mitch doesn't deserve such cruelty. I was in California working on my latest project and, as it turns out, butterfly knives and switchblades are illegal. And ferrets too, which is just a ban on fun to be honest. I'd undoubtably say that California is the worst state in America. What with their hybrid cars and their constant, smug grins because they think they're saving the earth by not eating meat but really they're just depriving themselves of needed protein. Oh, and then they look at you like you're fucking bat-shit when you try to explain you kill people for a living and you're looking for Enrique. It wasn't like Enrique was a bad supplier. I mean, if you need the shit, he's got it. And, since giant battle robots don't build themselves, I figured at least one smug asshole would be willing to point me in the direction of the Mexican drug lord and not send me to an asylum. Again. Attempted short story abbreviated, I started getting testy on my way to purchase some contraband and the lovely residents of California took issue so I pleaded insane.

And here I sit. Waiting. Dreaming about giant mushrooms and the possibility of a dog-lion, which I could probably create if I had any idea about genetics and that twisty stuff in your blood. My family has enough money for one, I'd guess. Oh yeah, my family. I suppose that's something worth telling. Meci has been the staple of the Varia family for six years. Or, not really the staple as much as the random, unnecessary member forced into the family at a young age. I'm pretty sure that's how things went. Maybe. But the point is I'm waiting for someone, maybe a twenty year old swordsman who vaguely resembles someone twelve times his age or maybe an overbearing fruitbasket who thinks a mohawk is totally hot. Doesn't really matter as long as something gets me out of this room. Rubber walls and that stupid straight jacket thing they clamp over your arms.

"Get the fuck up." a very testy voice called me back from the breaking point of my insanity. The word belonged to a plume of gray hair and a sword; it was either my arch nemesis or some crazy anime character come to life. I laid eyes on the silly little leather skirt of magic my enemy insists on wearing and I was assured of one thing, or at least I was pretty sure I was accurate but my mind was still fucked up from solitary confinement, the man before me was, possibly, Superbi Squalo. But, then again, it might be sensei Hankai Fujimoto from some fantastical manga series about supernatural samurai and random schoolgirls that have no earthly business being in a dojo.

"Beating back the roaring sting of arthritis and barely escaping the clutches of Alzheimer's, ancient swordsman Superbi Squalo comes to the rescue of gorgeous damsel in distress, Meci." I snickered. No matter how much I wanted to be saved, there was no possible way my bestest buddy was getting off without a bit torture. He had this hatred of being referred to as old, probably because he used so much amazing, imported, almond and mint shampoo to make his hair look youthful and sexy but was still constantly mistaken for some musty old guy. I felt the kind and gentle embrace of a blood soaked glove smack across my cheek.

"Voi! Little bitch! Voi! I swear I'll kill you before I die!" Squalo pushed the edge of his sword into my back and forced me forwards in a stumbling hobble. He whispered something, or more spoke in a clear but lightly muffled voice seeing as howling was his normal tone, about me being a 'bucking pass mole'. I shot him the largest, stupidest grin I could plaster upon my swollen cheek and was granted a few more broken capillaries. Ah, Superbi Squalo, he brings out the best in all of us. I will not lie, I adore sharks and all variations of the shark, especially the sharphin, but I absolutely, positively despise the disgusting thing known as Squalo. His stupid 'I won't cut my hair until you're the Vongola boss' promise and his lovely way of screeching every word that comes out of his mouth. I swear Levi's going deaf because of it, not that anyone gives a fuck about Leviathan.

"Well then, you might want to hurry up with that because your expiration date is fast approaching." now this time I was silenced by a full-on punch, the crunch of cartilage and the addition of my blood to the scarlet liquid already on his right glove.

"Save yourself, you little bastard! Voi! I fucking hate you!" the furious Squalo pushed me down on my stomach and stomped out of the rubber room. Would I say I hated that idiot? Of course. But would I say I hated my life? Not a chance! When I managed to free myself from the insanity that had been afflicting my thought, I could not explain how much I adored being Meci. However, it seemed that the joy would soon be sucked from my life by the vacuum known as Xanxus.


Review, my childrens~ Hopefully you enjoyed my little prologue! Thanks for reading!

~EXB