Disclaimer: I own nothing original from the Kill Bill realm or The Boondock Saints realm. Quentin Tarantino and Troy Duffy respectively have those privileges. I just like to play with the characters. I make no money off this, sadly. I could really use it as the typical impoverished college student. All it really does is act as an outlet for my overactive imagination. The plot is mine, as is the female lead character and any other new characters.

SLIGHT AU WARNING: Obviously since she is a DiVA member, Kill Bill is slightly AU. And the story starts right after poor Rocco is killed by Yakavetta and the twins finally reunite with their papa. The Yakavetta trial has not occurred yet. The timeline is basically right for both movies, oddly enough. Because on the Kill Bill end the story starts right after the massive assault on Beatrix Kiddo at her wedding rehearsal. The movie was set in 2003 (it was made in 2003, so I'm going by that) when she woke up from her coma four years afterward, which puts the attack right about in 1999.

Full Summary: After tragedy and betrayal, a member of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad quits and walks out on the only family she has known for almost twenty years. She changes her name and moves to Boston, Massachusetts in the hopes of starting her life over and forgetting her past. While there she meets and befriends Irish twin brothers, Connor and Murphy MacManus, and their father. When a notorious mafia boss is publicly executed on the day of his trial, she learns the shocking truth behind her new friends. They might just have more in common than she originally thought. But can she really become involved in the game of the crime world's power struggles again? Would she have a choice? Her decision might mean the difference between life and death for the Saints.

Rating: Well, considering the two movies this fic is the bastard child of—definitely R (M). The beginning is rather PG-13ish (T), so I'll change the rating later on. Plus this site has this annoying habit of filtering out the M-rated fics by default, so I figure it's wiser to market it as a T-rating first just to rake in the readers and reviewers and then change it. Mature content is of course for the blood, gore, violence, extremely coarse language, and the sex, drugs, and rock and roll. If you're fans of the movies then I believe you can handle the story. Suddenly I'm being assaulted with the song "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music…

When Love cast me out it was Cruelty who took pity on me

-Kushiel's Dart

Chapter I

-Boston, Massachusetts—April, 1999 (About Two Months before the Yakavetta Trial)

Everything in this apartment existed under a thick skein of dust. It lay so heavy on the air that she wondered if breathing it in would prove detrimental to her health. The proprietor—well, she supposed the more appropriate term would be landlord—had told her this place was a "fixer-upper". He had also added that, when cleaned up, it could be quite a quaint little dwelling place. He deemed it just perfect for a young, single, working woman. The rent was flexible, and, having children of his own, he often understood when circumstances called for delayed payments. When she assured him payment would never be a problem, he appeared not to believe her. She could not help but feel slightly annoyed at his lack of faith in her ability to make payments on time. Wisely, she kept silent on the issue. Who was she to snub compassion when it was so freely offered?

The landlord was a pot-bellied Irish-American, with more jowls sprouting from underneath his jaw than black hairs on his head. His complexion was the ruddy coloring one would expect of a man who drank of the spirits, and drank often. His brown eyes were perpetually watery from beneath those bushy black brows. She supposed at one point in his life he might have been an attractive man, but age and toil had robbed him of such physical attributes. In spite of that, he was a jovial fellow with a deep, throaty laugh that made her wonder if he were to don a white wig and a prosthetic beard if he would be able to pass off as Santa Clause.

She had looked at many apartments in the past week. She could have afforded one that was five times as expensive as this humble abode due to the sizable inheritance her parents had left behind and her own independently garnered assets. Circumstances being what they were, she thought it best to keep things simple. She was already making things risky enough for herself by remaining in the States in one of her favorite cities no less. But she hoped that the ones who might be inclined to seek her out would expect her to flee the country. By remaining closer to danger, she could keep herself further from harm.

Well, the danger was only as real as she imagined it. She could be quite mistaken and there might not be any danger at all. Either way, she did not want to be found by them. After what they had done, after what he had orchestrated, she could not trust that she would not do something very rash were she to see them again. Normally she was a person of the finest maintained control. In her line of work—correction, her previous line of work—maintaining control was a necessity if one expected to succeed. But there were times when exceptions to her personal rule could be found. Just thinking about the entire debacle and the images it evoked made her curl her fists. But she was skilled enough to master herself when in the presence of others. Mr. McClellan, the landlord, continued to prattle on, oblivious.

"And one of the great things about this place is you're allowed to have pets. I believe you mentioned something about a cat, Miss Rosdale?" he queried. He had his pudgy hands clasped over his distended stomach.

"Uh, yes, just the one though," she replied. The words rolled off her tongue with no trace or hint of a foreign accent. She had more than enough practice sheathing herself within different accents and languages. Passing herself off as an American was not going to be very difficult. She had spent more of her life in this country than she had in England, the country of her birth.

By the end of the hour, she had written out a check for the first two months' rent in advance. Mr. McClellan had not even asked for it, but she handed it over anyway with a small smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. He looked at the plain blue check in wonderment for a moment, obviously caught off guard by the action. Her attention was focused on the area that was to become her new home. An immense amount of cleaning would have to be done if she expected to live in here comfortably. Nonetheless, she felt as if she'd made the right choice here. In spite of the dozens of other more inhabitable apartments, she felt like this was the one where she belonged.

Mr. McClellan licked his lips. She thought that might be a nervous habit, but she was not sure what he should be nervous about. "Well, ah, that settles that, then. If you need anything else I'm in apartment 114 on the first floor. And if you don't know your way around town, I'd be happy to give you directions. Also, I should mention there's a fine bar a couple of blocks over called McGinty's. The man who owns it is a friend of mine. We all call him Doc. He's a real nice fellow. Comes straight from the homeland, you know?"

The homeland he was referring to must have been Ireland. She was well aware that in South Boston one could not swing a dead cat without hitting an Irishman. She, of course, had nothing against the Irish or their country. It was merely an observation she had made. Actually, of all the Irish people she had become acquainted with over the years, there were few that she had really disliked. In general, they were a very charming, affable people. If she was not fond of the Irish, she certainly would not have chosen to live in the Irish district of South Boston.

Mr. McClellan continued, "Anyway, I told him I'd tell any new folks moving into the building that I would tell them to swing by the bar for a pint. It really is a decent place, Miss Rosdale. Doc does not tolerate any disrespect towards his customers, and that goes double for the ladies. And, if you're looking for a fellow of your own, that's a good place to start. In fact, that's where my oldest daughter met her husband." His homely face split into a nostalgic smile as he spoke. His enthusiasm coupled with his easy nature made him almost endearing.

She wanted to laugh sardonically at the part where he treaded around her love life, or, rather, lack thereof.

Instead she smiled appreciatively and nodded while saying softly, "I'll keep that in mind."

--

The mid-April air was breezy and warm. The lights of the city blocked out most of the twinkling stars so that only a few could be discerned in the deep blue-black curtain of night. The sliver of the Moon glowed faintly in defiance of the orange glows of the city. If this had been an uninhabited speck of land where the technology of humans did not hold sway it would have been a most beautiful night. It was still quite pleasant as it was; pleasant enough to draw her out of her new, dusty apartment and onto the narrow deck outside of it. She leaned her elbows against the edge and let the sounds of cars, music, and voices meld together and wash over her.

She felt something rub against her leg and then wrap itself around her ankles. She leaned down to scoop up a black tabby, which purred in contentment and nestled against her chest. She stroked her cat's fur absentmindedly. Her thoughtful gaze continued to stare outwards at nothing in particular.

"Think we're gonna like it here, Archie?" she asked quietly. Even when she was alone she spoke in her adopted accent. It was best to keep at it all the time so one's tongue became used to it. Besides, living in the States for nearly twenty years had certainly expunged much of her English inflection. She had only been eight when she had left London to live in the States with her new guardian. Her parents had died in a horrible accident, or so the authorities had said. For one who was acquainted with her parents' history, she knew foul play was just as likely, perhaps even more so.

The grief over her parents' violent deaths had long since waned enough so that she felt only twinges here and there when she was unexpectedly reminded. Whenever she explored the memories of her own free will, she looked upon them from a distance, as if they were memories belonging to someone else. The thought of revenge had entered her mind a few times, but it eventually dissipated altogether on its own. Her mother and father had been the warmest, affectionate parents a girl could ever ask for. She had lacked for nothing, most especially love and attention. However, their esteem as parents was a completely separate issue from their esteem as people. It was impossible to imagine that a woman could be a ruthless killer one moment and a devoted mother the next. The same went for her father who could (and would) snap necks as easily as he would playfully tickle his daughter's.

It went without saying that enemies had accumulated over the years along with allies. Her parents had known this all too well, which was why they had started training her in their ways at the earliest moment simply for the sake of protecting herself. Even at the innocent age of eight (though her upbringing could never produce a truly "innocent" child), she had known one of her parents' enemies might strike. She knew a day might come when one or both of her parents would not walk through the front door. It was their lot in life, she had been told. They could no more change their fates (or even walk away for that matter) than she could turn the sky pink. Even somewhat expecting their deaths did nothing to assuage the anguish she felt when a portly police officer had taken her upon his lap and explained in that doleful, syrupy tone adults always use when talking to young children about something dreadful that her parents were no longer with them. She had sniffled and sobbed like a little girl ought to at the news. She had buried her face in that officer's chest and soaked his uniform with her tears.

Look at how easily I walked away, Mum and Dad. You're telling me you couldn't have done the same? That was only partly true, though. She had not "walked away" by any means. And it had not been "easy" at all. As a matter of fact, she was almost certain that she would never really walk away from it permanently. One way or another, it was in her blood, in her upbringing, in everything she had been raised to believe. It was almost ironic (or not depending on what angle one approached the situation) that when her parents had died, she had been handed into the care of another just like them. Her adoptive father had continued her training where her parents had left off. Everything she was today right down to the myriad of skills she harbored she owed to the man who had raised and loved her as his own daughter—Bill.

Her eyes glistened with tears she refused to shed even when her cat was the only other presence around. She would not cry over her situation. Crying would solve nothing. Crying would not undo what Bill and the others had done. Crying would not waken her friend from her coma, nor would it save her friend's innocent and defenseless unborn child. Tears would not wash away the pain of the betrayal she felt so deep it scraped her soul. Tears could not overcome the fact that while Bill may have been a heartless, vindictive bastard and she could never forgive him, he was still the man who had taken her in when she had no one else. He had offered his love and protection freely. Even amidst the anger, the sorrow, and the pain, she still loved him like a father.

And she hated him for that.

--

The patrons of McGinty's had dwindled down to just a few by the time the clock struck eleven. Doc was wiping the counter down while his granddaughter gathered up the empty and half-full mugs of beer littering the tables. The jukebox continued to wheeze out old folk tunes that just might have predated the aging bartender. Two men sat side by side at the end of the counter as if off in their own little world. Both of them were smoking cigarettes, and both had mugs a quarter of the way filled with dark beer in front of them. At first glance, one might never suspect the two were related much less twin brothers. It took someone of extended acquaintance to pick out the obscure resemblances.

The slightly taller one had dirty blonde hair that spiked up in some places. His brother was of a stockier build with dark brown hair that laid flat on his head. The most defining features of similarity between the two men were the identical sets of vivid blue eyes perched beneath their brows. At the moment, both pairs of eyes were fixated on the television screen hanging just above the rack of wine and liquor bottles behind the counter. The eleven o'clock news had just started and the first story of the hour centered on the upcoming trial of the infamous Italian Mafia Don Giuseppi Yakavetta, otherwise known as Pappa Joe. They were currently interviewing the mobster's attorney, a sly weasel of a man who had successfully diverted jail from his client countless times before. Anthony Bellosi, of course, did not deserve all the credit for keeping Pappa Joe out of the slammer. The assorted judges and juries that had come and gone over the years, whether through bribery or blackmail, were just as responsible.

The two men watching the television had not a doubt in their minds that Pappa Joe would come out on top of this trial just as he had all the others. That was how their skewed system worked nowadays. The wealthy and the powerful were almost always assured that they would never grace the inside of a jail cell. And if they did, it was never for very long. They would spend perhaps one or two nights at the most while those of lesser fortunes could only expect the harshest of sentences. Murderers like Pappa Joe were regularly cheating the justice system and walking free to continue their perverted reigns of corruption and filth. And most people did nothing but watch in morbid fascination, blindly addicted to the exploits of these mafiosos.

Most people watched, some people grumbled, but very few people actually did something.

"Keep smilin' ye fuckin' bastard," Connor, the lighter-haired twin, muttered darkly as he watched the sleazy lawyer grin at the reporter's comment about Yakavetta's chances. He crushed the remains of his cigarette into the ash tray. "Pappa Joe may escape the laws o' man, but he won't fuckin' escape the laws o'God this time."

His brother Murphy issued no response but smiled wanly in agreement while grounding his own cigarette into the ash tray. He drained the rest of his beer in one gulp just in time for Doc's granddaughter Moira to come by with the tray. He smiled at the young woman and set the mug on her tray, earning a flashing grin in response. They had known Moira almost as long as they had known her grandfather, who was one of their closest friends. She was a lively young woman with golden curls that framed her heart-shaped face and a pair of bright hazel eyes. She was only a few years younger than the twins, who were twenty-seven. Moira was a petite woman, her height only two inches above the five foot line. What she lacked in height she made up for in personality and intelligence, not to mention the temper of a true Irishwoman. Sometimes Murphy reckoned the girl could give his own mother a run for her money.

She divided her time between school at Boston College to become a registered nurse and helping out her grandfather at the bar. Doc adored this grandchild above all the others, whom Murphy and Connor had never actually met. In fact, he said all the others were worthless drunkards who would never amount to anything. The men who frequented the bar flirted and advanced upon Moira at their own risk. Doc had no problem with the attention his granddaughter received, in fact he downright expected it since, in his words, "She's the fuckin' pr-pr-pr—FUCK! ASS!—prettiest lass ye'll ever find this side o' the Atlantic Ocean." But if any man dared to dishonor Moira, a sound thrashing was to follow by the bar's most loyal patrons, including Murphy and Connor.

Once upon a time Murphy had entertained the idea of asking her out on a date. Out of all the men that came to the bar, Doc considered the MacManus brothers the most eligible in regards to Moira. But the crush amounted to nothing and eventually disappeared altogether. He flirted with her all the time out of pure harmless fun, and she was well aware of it. They were more like brother and sister nowadays than a potential couple. Besides, even if he wanted to ask her out on a date (forgetting for the moment his quest to hunt evil), another man had his eyes on her.

"Don't ye have an exam to be studyin' for, Moira? Ye shouldn' be up at all hours caterin' to drunken eejits like us," Murphy joked, his blue eyes twinkling humorously.

Moira snorted and rolled her eyes. "The exam is next week. Besides, with all this tip money, I think I'm close enough to bribing my way to an A." Surely enough, the apron around her waist was bulging with dollar bills.

Her attention flicked over to the television that was currently keeping Connor supposedly enthralled. She shook her head disdainfully, shifting her well defined hips to balance the platter of glasses.

"Jeez, what is so damn interesting about this Yakavetta guy? I tell ya, the media just loves to blow things out of proportion. I am so sick and tired of hearing about him every day. It isn't like there aren't other bastards out there doing the same things he's doing," she grumbled in annoyance.

"Aye," Connor murmured thoughtfully as Moira relieved him of his not entirely empty glass.

And that's why we do what we do.

Though he fought the urge, he could not help but take a quick peak at Moira's tantalizing backside as she trotted away humming to herself. He felt that familiar pang of longing pierce his heart, but logic and common sense quelled it. He could not fathom doing this work and trying to have a relationship at the same time. It was not only unfair to both parties, but also dangerous. Moira was such a bright, shining speck of light in the darkness that now seemed to infect everything the Irishman saw. He could not let the horrors of his calling taint her.

Destroy all that which is evil so that which is good may flourish.

Moira embodied the goodness he wished to preserve in this increasingly decadent society. Even while the world was slowly ripping apart at the seams she stood strong and tall (figuratively speaking, of course), happily living her life with the kindness of spirit Connor wished more people were endowed with. He needed her to stay this way, he needed her to be blissfully unaware of the true horrors humans were capable of. It made his work more meaningful that way, even though he would not have needed a focal point such as Moira to give his work significance. God had asked this of him and his family. He had a purpose in life granted from the Almighty himself, and that was a hell of a lot more than could be said for many people.

However, knowing that each murderer or rapist he and his brother and father sent to hell was one less murderer or rapist that could endanger Moira made it all worthwhile. He would protect her from them at all costs. And if that meant never revealing his true feelings for her—watching her from the sidelines as a spectator who could merely observe and never interfere—then, so be it. He would just bury those feelings deep in his heart and deal with the pain.

After all, according to the papers, he was a Saint, and what Saint was never acquainted with pain and sacrifice?

--

A/N: I know it's not the most eventful of chapters, but it's meant more to be introductory and to set the tone. Reviews are greatly appreciated!