Hello everyone!

First, I just want to say that this is my very first fanfic. I've never done anything like this before, and just want to have some fun, so I'm sorry if some of the writing isn't up to par. I did my best, promise. Also, I'm a student like very many people on here are, but unlike some I'm not very good at managing my time. So updates on this story might be a bit… sporadic. But I'm going to try my best to keep this going! That is if people actually like it… so please oh please tell me if you do. Reviews of any kind are appreciated. A quick thank you to my betas, Mad Hatter and Shannon - couldn't do this without you! Anyway, hope you all enjoy!

I own nothing related to Kill Bill.

Beatrice lay sprawled on the living room couch, right arm thrown haphazardly over an armrest, the other chasing the last surviving piece of popcorn around the plastic red bowl. Her eyes aimed at the television screen before her, watching but not seeing the movie. An explosion rocked the screen, screaming figures flooded into the shot, and yet her hand didn't break the smooth circular pattern it was making in her blind search. She lounged like this for twenty minutes, fingers not stopping their rhythm long after the last morsel of the snack was devoured.

A black clad figure with a gleaming sword strode into the scene.

Beatrice blinked. For the briefest instance, her hand stopped its incessant dance.

Then the motion around the circumference of the bowl began once more, ever so slightly quicker.

He - the figure was a he after all - appeared to be the antagonist of the picture. The male hurried his pace to a graceful jog, and before anyone knew it, his blade hit flesh. Sliced off a man's head with barely a flick of the wrist. The villain spun in a lazy circle and gutted the next attempt at an offensive, the slightest smile playing on his lips.

That smile…

The heroine of the film, a red headed model with a pencil waist, leaped to action - the cameraman not failing to capture the massive jiggling of the breasts that the movement triggered. She dove behind the trunk of a tree, and focused most of her energy on getting the gun out of the inner pocket of her jacket. The girl's gaze flicked away from the attacker and at her weapon, seemingly stuck in the clothing's seams.

"Idiot," Beatrice whispered, "If I were there, your inattention would've cost you your life."

The man, however, took no notice of the blunder, illustrating once again the ineptitude of Hollywood blockbusters to produce anything resembling the reality of combat.

He'd moved on by that point, though. Apparently his arrival awakened a militia, and male citizens charged the mystery figure from all sides. In the background, a man was struggling to join the rest, but a woman with a slightly protruding belly gripped his arm in fierce determination. The baby-faced soldier - they both looked so helplessly young in the lighting - was desperately trying to shield the female while simultaneously pushing her away from the gore before him. The man in black cut down his every attacker with unnatural speed and agility, ending his slaughter in a slightly squatted position. Fluidly rising, her made his way toward the pair. The foolish redhead was still fiddling with the toy that was somehow supposed to save the day.

For an unimaginable reason, Beatrice felt her fingers grip the edge of her bowl.

The antagonist was soon upon the couple. The woman twirled around her partner's side, her hand holding his right shoulder in a pivot. She slammed into his chest, grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and buried her face in his chest. The man, neck arched back in surprise, did his best to keep his eyes on the coming attacker. The black clad murderer continued moving closer until the distance between his and their bodies could have been spanned in a single step.

"P-please…" The woman whimpered into the shirt. Her man, seeing as fighting with her attached to him in such a manner was impossible, let his arms wrap around her in submission...and as a good-bye.

Beatrice flexed her fingers. Her eyes bored into the screen.

The figure in black snorted, drew back his hands, and let his sword slide straight through the interconnected lovers with a crunch all too familiar to the woman still sitting expectantly on the couch.

There was an odd crack. Beatrice looked down, dropping the shards of plastic now digging into her palms. She gingerly wiped her hands together, and yet the red of various sources refused to disappear from her skin. She carefully brushed an index finger against one of the fresh wounds and winced. Sighing, Beatrice rose off the couch and headed toward the bathroom cabinet, hunting for the rubbing alcohol and the band aids she knew she'd soon require.

At least the director fuckers got one part right. She thought. No mercy. There is never. Any. Mercy.

Suburban life was making Beatrice soft. And being soft made her afraid.

Ow. She cringed as her chest went lower for yet another push up. Her scabbing palms still hurt like hell.

Oh suck it up. Beatrice ground her teeth and forced her muscles to lift her till her arms were straight and her elbows almost locked.

Another. Something was stabbing her hands. Another. She should better check. Another. What if there was something there? What then? If her bandages slipped, it could lead to infection. Oh you pampered little American bitch. Imagine if Pai Mei were here! For shame! Another. Another. Another. Last one. Now one more set.

Beatrice fell to the floor, her cheek scrunching against the carpet in defeat. Miniscule bits of plastic her eyes didn't catch when cleaning still dotted the ground. One was almost touching her nose. Her eyes crossed slightly as her exhausted mind sporadically focused on it, as her chest rose up and down in a sharp regular rhythm, as gravity pulled the sweat from her brow and merged it with the twines in the fabric covering the wooden floor. Her nose drills flared as she let out an exasperated sigh.

When did mild exercise become so melodramatic?

Despite all the self loathing thoughts to pass through her mind, Beatrice couldn't find the strength to get up. Twelve years of living in the suburbs could really do a number on you, apparently. She felt mild nausea coming on with every twitch of a limb. Already, a dull throb found its way to her biceps. Her cheeks burned, her face glistened with a mixture of sweat and tears. Beatrice felt like her entire body had been stuffed in an oven set to five hundred degrees.

She…she needed cold. Cool. Anything.

But the ice in the kitchen felt so far away…

…and the only air conditioner was tucked away upstairs…

Ridiculously desperate, she settled on the chill of the floorboards. Her arm strength exhausted, Beatrice used her feet to push herself toward the edge of the carpet. She stretched her neck and threw her cheek down to the ground, instantly relieved after her face made contact with the firm, uncovered ground. A few seconds later, she flipped her head so the other half of her face could be as lucky. Condensation marked her prior resting spot.

She sighed again. Her hands found their place beside her face, fingers splayed in the all too familiar shape of a five pointed star. Beatrice let her eyes flutter to a close, and focused what little energy she had left on regulating her breathing.

Suddenly, the air caught in her throat.

Footsteps.Light, inaudible to all but a trained killer. But there.

It's Tuesday, her mind raced, B.B. still has to be at school…and Michael at work…

The slow and steady footfalls continued to get closer.

Arm yourself. Beatrice thought, her eyes whipping in her sockets in search of the closest weapon. The katana is in the case in the dining room….Too far, too far… a knife from the kitchen? Not possible. Okay, a couch leg? No, no chance of getting it before…

Her muscles tensed as her ears noted the eerie silence.

The steps had stopped.

Beatrice hugged the ground, still panting slightly as her eyes bored a hole into the wall directly to her left. She didn't dare look up, didn't dare relinquish the only asset she had in that one, miserable moment.

"So, Black Mamba, we meet at last," a girl's voice purred from above her.

Then Beatrice was rolling, chucking her body to the left as a bullet dug a crevice in the place her knee cap had previously rested.

She heard a curse escape her attacker.

Ah, the good old fashioned element of surprise.

All prior exhaustion forgotten, Beatrice sprung off the floor to gain better mobility, and of course to see the bitch who had the guts to use her as target practice.

The young African American woman composed herself and was looking for her prey once more. Her springy dark curls were tied back in a short pony tail that was bouncing with every twitch of her head. Almond shaped eyes circled round the room as lightly glossed lips pursed in -concentration? Or fury? Clad in hugging black from neck to feet, she was the splitting image of her mother.

Nikki.