Because I want to do a Kill Bill crossover with my Trekker story. Why? I don't know, and Kill Bill is my main theme to be listening to when I'm writing my Trekker fic. Some (not many) of the Kill Bill cast will be genderbent as need requires, and some of the Hetalia cast will serve in roles that their ethnicity would usually disqualify them from. I only have so many Asian characters, you know? Also, some character's characteristics from both sides have been changed around as well. I'm going to post chapters at a rate of one chapter per day, purely because I'm bored and don't want to just post the whole thing in one go. I have to build up suspension, you know.

Also, I apologize in advance for what you're about to read. *sweatdrop*

Arya's POV:

I could barely breathe. I tasted copper in my mouth. Blood. There was so much blood. I could barely see; my right eye had been swollen shut by a particularly well-placed punch or kick –at that point, I could hardly tell up from down, never mind from who and what the blows were. I felt cold air whistling past what I presumed was a missing tooth, or the ruins of one, and I could feel their cold, emotionless gazes on me, every one.

Footsteps.

Oh no. Oh God no. Please. No. I thought raggedly, whimpering now on every exhale as I tried to breathe through a broken nose and bubbles of blood. The footsteps creaked a little on the quaint wooden floorboards of the church –I could hear spent shell casings rolling away from the no-doubt picture-perfect patent-leather shoes that the approaching man wore. They stopped right above me, and I squinted against the pain and the light, looking up at the silhouette of the man who had ordered this done to me. "Do you find me sadistic?" he asked calmly, and knelt, extending a hand with a handkerchief. A fucking handkerchief. As if that could do anything at this point? And it was his favorite one too, as if that made a difference, the one monogrammed with his first name in dark blue letters.

He began cleaning the blood off my face, softly. "You know…I'll bet I could fry an egg on your head right now, if I wanted to." he murmured. I would have chuckled if I had the will or the breath. Nonsensical as always, I thought deliriously as his hand moved down my throat and chest. "You know, poppet…I'd like to believe you're aware enough, even now, to know that there's nothing sadistic in my actions." He smiled at me brightly, his eyes gleaming with false love. "Well, maybe towards those other people." My eyes started watering at the thought of how he had ruthlessly murdered all the people here, my husband, the reverend, the musician, even. "But not you." he added softly, stroking my cheek with one finger. "No, poppet. At this moment…" He sighed in satisfaction, rising to his feet. "This is me…" I heard bullets rattling, and I used every ounce of remaining strength and willpower to turn my head, staring up at him in betrayal. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

"….at my most masochistic."

I looked up into baby blue eyes as a gun was pointed at my head. "Oliver…" I choked out. "It's your baby-"

BLAM!

***Time Skip***

The sound of an ice cream truck tinkled through the streets as I parked the obnoxiously bright truck I had…liberated, on the curb of the street. I gazed through slitted eyes at the picture-perfect fucking house I had come to destroy, and my grip tightened on the wheel. I opened the door with a grunt, closing it with a slam. It took every ounce of willpower I had to remain casual, walking calmly across the verge of grass as I observed the many plastic toys scattered about. That raised a mental eyebrow, but right now, I was afire with purpose, and there could have been unicorns strewn about the grass for all they would've slowed me down. I sucked in a deep breath and rang the doorbell, waiting on the balls of my feet.

"Coming!"

I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of a barking dog, then quickly looked back at the door.

"Flavio, I cannot-a believe you are early-" my target was saying as he opened the door, but once he got a good look at me, he froze. My eyes narrowed slightly, remembering every last blow and punch that had taken me out a good four years ago, and remembering looking up at this fucker's face as I lay immobile on the floor. Same tan clothes, same dumbass hat, same freaky hair curl. His magenta eyes widened just barely, and then I punched him in the nose, knocking him back into the house. I went to hit him again, but he kicked my fist away and caught my right hook, tossing me into a mirror on the wall, smashing it. Its shards rained down on me as I fell to the ground, crushing a shelf full of DVD cases and books, and I crossed my arms over my chest just in time to block a kick to my sternum. I shoved his foot upwards and kicked him in the crotch, then the face as he bent over with a howl of pain, sending him flying into a glass coffee table, shattering that as well.

He rose with a groan, his hands covered in tiny cuts, and I launched myself over the edge of the couch as he grabbed one of the legs and slammed it into my foot, sending me down on my knees with a shriek. I ducked under another wild swing and he pounced on top of me, swinging the leg down for my face as I grabbed him by the collar and flipped him over my body. He landed with a thud, and I rolled to my feet and grabbed him in a chokehold as he clawed at my hands, choking desperately. We both fell to the ground, me on top of him, as I felt his trachea bending under the force of my arm. His arm suddenly flashed out and he grabbed a poker from the fireplace, slamming it down on my back as I let go with a shriek of pain. He lunged to his feet and whirled, stabbing the length of metal at my face, but I grabbed it and twisted it off course, kicking him in the sternum and sending him into a bookshelf full of breakable objects.

My eyes widened just barely. Shit fuck.

I had barely enough time to curl into a protective ball as he grabbed the case and slammed it down on top of me, making me hiss in pain as glass sliced into my skin. I heard his footsteps running off into the kitchen and swore, staggering to my feet and blindly running after him. I was rewarded for my impatience by a knife, dodging backward as he sliced at my face. "Whatcha gonna do now, cagna?! Whatcha gonna do!?" he snarled as he rapidly backed me into a corner, and I fumbled behind me, grabbing a frying pan to deflect his blows as I quickly stumbled backwards. Just before I entered the doorway, he feinted with his knife and slashed the back of my hand, making me cry out in pain as I dropped the frying pan. He leveled a solid kick at my abdomen, sending me on top of a table with a yelp of pain. Before I could get up, he was on me again, and I rolled to the side as he buried the knife hilt-deep where my heart had been. I landed under the table and unsheathed my own knife, stabbing it up to where I guessed his own heart was. I missed, but didn't let that deter me as I kicked the table upwards, sending him crashing into the wall and sliding down it with a snarl.

I quickly jumped over the table, flicking my blade out as I advanced upon him. He smirked mirthlessly, beckoning me with his free hand. "Okay, c'mon cagna, c'mon..." he purred as I flipped my knife around, coming to rest in almost the exact same place we had started, framed perfectly by the buolic window to his living room. "C'mon. Bring it on." he hissed, darting forward in another feint as I dodged and struck at him. We baited at each other, swaying slightly as his eyes burned into mine, magenta coals in that pale face of his. At least I managed to knock his damn hat off.

I glanced slightly to the right as I heard the sound of an engine, noticing a school bus stopping at this house. Luciano's eyes followed, then widened, moving back to mine. I could see the weakness flooding them, the pleading I had never seen before in the ruthless assassin's eyes, as a young boy hopped down the steps and began to trudle up the driveway. He shook his head slightly at me, begging, transforming in an instant from the viscious, bloodthirsty knife fighter that I knew and hated to a suffering man who dared not make a move for fear of angering the woman before him. I glared at him, gritting my teeth, and whipped the knife behind my back as the door opened, seeing him do the same out of the corner of my eye.

"Daddy, I'm-a home~!" the small boy –Italian as well, it sounded like– called out as he entered the house, and Luciano advanced several steps, putting himself between me and the child. "Hey Flavi. How-a was school?" he asked calmly, as suave as ever. The small blonde stared at us, both bloodied, covered in small cuts, and breathing hard. "Daddy, what-a happened to you and-a the TV room?" he asked hesitantly, and Luciano darted a quick glance at me. "Oh...that-a dog of yours got into the living-a room and acted like a fool. That's what-a happened, Flavi." he said quickly, as smooth as he was at his most deadly. "Flavi" stepped forward, his blue eyes wide. "Marco-a did this?" he asked in surprise, and Luciano quickly held out his hand. "Flavi...now, you can't-a come in here. There's-a broken glass everywhere, and you could-a cut yourself."

Flavi's eyes moved to me, staring silently. I became immediately conscious of all the blood on my neck and right hand, luckily held behind my back, from the broken glass. Luciano, sharp as he was, caught the look and nodded to me. "This-a is an old friend of daddy's I haven't seen in a long time." he said cordially, and I nodded slightly. "Hi kid. I'm Aryana Thompson. What's your name?" Flavi, perhaps wisely, did not speak, and it was Luciano who told me, still eyeing me suspisciously. "His name-a is Flavio." I nodded, sucking in another breath as anger threatened to overwhelm me, keeping a brittle smile on my face. "Flavio. Such a nice name for such a nice boy. How old are you, Flavio?" I asked politely, trying to be as friendly as possible and not act like I was violently wishing to cut his father into itty-bitty pieces. Flavio remained silent, still watching me quietly.

Luciano frowned in a parental manner. "Flavi, Arya asked-a you a question." he chided, and Flavio blinked at me sullenly. "I'm four." he said pointedly, and my fingers twitched. "Four years old, eh? You know, I had a little girl once. She'd be about four now." I said as pleasantly as I could manage, sensing more than seeing Luciano flinch beside me. I looked at him, fighting to keep a neutral expression, and he looked away, deciding instead to confront his son. "Now Flavi, me and daddy's friend-a have some grown-up talk to-a talk about. So you-a go in your room now, and I want you to-a leave us alone untill I tell-a you to come out. Okay?" he asked softly. Flavio glanced at me again, and Luciano snapped his fingers in front of the boy's nose sharply. "Flavio! In your-a room, now."

The boy glanced at us one more time and did as he was told, and I flicked my knife out from behind my back as Luciano slowly lowered his own and looked at me blankly. "...you want some-a coffee?" he asked wearily after a moment, and I shrugged winsomely. "Yeah. Sure." I murmured, and he turned and shoved the front door nearly to as he meandered back to the kitchen. I sheathed my knife at my hip and pushed the door all the way closed as I followed. I watched his back as he moved, clad in a tan shirt and slacks that just barely managed to suggest the military outfit I knew he loved to wear, and the stray auburn curl bouncing above his head as he walked.

My eyes narrowed.

This Pasadena homemaker's name is Enrico Abelli. His wife is Lovina Abelli. But back when we were aquainted, four years ago, his name was Luciano Vargas. His code name was Copperhead. Mine, Black Mamba.

I rubbed at my wrist as we entered the kitchen, feeling blood trickle down from where he had cut me. "Do you have a towel?" I asked as he rustled about, and he muttered "yeah" after a moment of hesitation, tossing it to me from the "safe" distance of about five feet away. "Thanks." I muttered, using it to mop up the blood on my neck and chest. "You-a still take cream and-a sugar, right?" he asked as he turned back to the kitchen, and I nodded. "Mm-hmm." He did not look in my direction, perhaps a mistake, as he poured the coffee. "So I suppose-a its a little late for an apology, huh?" he asked bluntly as he stirred the sugar into my mug. "You suppose correctly." I said flatly as I tucked the towel into my sleeve, and he slammed the spoon down on the table, advancing upon me threateningly. "Look cagna, I need to know if you're-a going to start any more shit around my child." he snarled, pointing at me warningly, and I smiled icily at him. "You can relax for now. I'm not gonna murder you in front of your child. Okay?" I said menacingly as I finished wrapping the towel around my wrist.

He nodded slowly, dabbing at the bloody nose left over from my headbutt with a towel of his own. "That's being-a more rational than Oliver led me to believe-a you were capable of." he said slowly, obviously nonplussed, as he turned back to the coffee. I smirked ruthlessly, wandering over to the counter. "Its mercy, compassion, and forgiveness I lack, not rationality." I said sweetly as he set the coffee down in front of me, and his magenta eyes narrowed. He turned back and walked to the opposite side of the kitchen, putting the towel he had been dabbing his face with down as he did. "Look. I know-a I fucked you over." he began, turning to face me with one hand on his hip and the other on the counter, where he held a mug of his own. "I fucked you-a over bad. I wish-a to god I hadn't, but I did. You have every-a right to want to get even." he said levelly, but I interrupted him with a tiny smirk.

"No, no, no, no, no. No. To get even –even Steven– I would have to kill you…go up to Flavio's room, kill him…then wait for your wife, the good Lovina Abelli, to come home, and kill her." I said with a little chuckle, staring him dead in the eye as he swallowed slightly. "That would be even, Luciano. That'd be about square." I mimed a little square with my index finger as his fist tightened, his eyes firing with a familiar rage. "Look, if I could-a go back in a machine, I would. But I can't. All I can tell you-a is that I'm a different person now." he growled, advancing upon me. "Oh, great." I purred, leaning over the counter. "I don't care." His eyes narrowed. "Be-a that as it may, I know I don't deserve your-a mercy or your-a forgiveness." He walked around me and grabbed a picture from the wall, shoving it in my face. "However, I beseech-a you for both on behalf of my son-"

"Bastard," I sneered. "You can stop right there." He lowered the picture, watching at me angrily. "Just because I have no wish to murder you before the eyes of your offspring does not mean that parading him around in front of me is gonna inspire sympathy." I whispered slowly, deliberately, as he shifted slightly, transforming from a worried parent to the fighter I knew he was. "You and I have unfinished business. And not a goddamn fucking thing you've done in the subsequent four years, including knocking someone up, is gonna change that." I hissed out. He mimicked my position, placing his hands on either side of himself on the counter. "So when do-a we do this?" he asked furiously, his eyes burning with rage. I smiled slightly. "It all depends. When do you wanna die? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?"

He smirked ruthlessly. "How about tonight, cagna?" he interrupted me, and I grinned. "Splendid. Where?" I cooed, feeling my nerves tingle with anticipation as his magenta eyes became cold and clinical. "There's a baseball diamond where-a I coach our little league about a mile-a from here. We meet there about-a 2.30 in the morning, dressed all in black, your-a hair in a black stocking. And we-a have us a knife fight. We-a won't be bothered." he chuckled grimly, then interposed his finger between us. "Now, I need to-a go fix Flavi's cereal." he said with a smirk, turning to one of the cabinets. I wandered over to another, leaning against the wall. "Oliver always said you were one of the best men he ever saw with an edged weapon." I commented neutrally, taking a sip of my coffee. "Fuck you, cagna." he snorted, closing the drawer with a slam. "I know he-a didn't qualify that shit. So you-a can just kiss my motherfucking ass, Black Mamba."

He chuckled as I took another sip of the coffee. It was very well made. "Black Mamba. I should-a have been motherfucking Black Mamba." he muttered, getting some milk out of the fridge. "Weapon of choice? If you want to stick with your pocket knife, that's fine with me." I commented as he moved to the counter, and he laughed. "Very funny, cagna." he murmured, rustling around in the cereal box. "Very funny!" he shouted, suddenly whirling around as I heard a gun go off and a bullet streak past my temple. My body reacted while my mind was still confused; I drop-kicked the coffee mug at Luciano as he ducked to the side, giving me enough time to unsheathe and throw the knife at my hip. It struck him dead in the chest, and he slammed up against the cabinet from the impact, his magenta eyes wide in surprise. Then he slowly slid down, coming to a halt on the cereal-splattered floor. He had fired a gun hidden inside the cereal box.

I walked over to him, relishing the bitter irony of the situation as my boots crunched on the scattered cereal and I loomed over his rapidly dying form. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes boring into mine, and then there was –nothing. A tiny trickle of blood oozed out his mouth, his head slumping back against his shoulder.

He was dead.

I bent down, yanking the bloody knife out of his chest with a tiny scowl of hatred. I stood, still staring down at the body, but whipped around when I heard a tiny gasp. Flavio was standing in the doorway, his blue eyes wide as he stared at the body. I stifled a curse as he looked up at me, unnaturally calm. Where was the tears, the denial, some anger, even? He had just lost his father, but he stood there as if he was made from stone. I groaned and snatched Luciano's towel off the counter, using it to wipe the knife. "It was not my intention to do this in front of you." I said at length. "For that, I'm sorry. But you can take my word for it," I added as I slid the knife home. "Your father had it coming." I turned to face him, the cereal crunching under my feet as I narrowed my eyes at the offspring of my enemy. "When you grow up, if you still feel…raw about it, I'll be waiting." I told him softly, then left the kitchen, crunching the cereal as I went.

For those regarded as warriors, when engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern. Suppress all human emotion and compassion. Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself. This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat.

I got in my truck and crossed out Number 2: Copperhead, Luciano Vargas.

Cast:

The Bride: Aryana/Arya/Ari Thompson

Bill: Oliver Kirkland/2p England

Vernita Green (Copperhead): Luciano Vargas/2p North Italy

Nikkia Bell (Vernita Green's daughter): Flavio Vargas/2p South Italy

Dr. Laurence Bell (Vernita Green's husband): Lovina Abelli/fem!South Italy