D-San: Hey, everybody! D-San again with a new story in progress. Let me give you a few specifics. The main plotline of this story is fifteen years in the future (15YL! is the shorthand I'll use). The first seven chapters, the character chapters, will be set in the TYL! setting. In the first seven chapters, I'm just introducing the central characters of the story? Their part? Isn't it obvious? No? Then you should read these? Here is the schedule for uploading these character chapters and then getting to the actual plot.

Sunday - Vivian Iman

Monday - Gokudera "Hana-Pi" Hanataro

Tuesday - Song Hayase and Yukijima Hinata

Wednesday - Mikolovich "Knowledge"

Thursday - Edgar Karin

Friday - Yuuko Momiji

Know the schedule? Good! Here's Iman Vivian's chapter then. I hope you enjoy.

Summary:

"Gokudera...I think it's about time that I call a special meeting." The Vongola passes its traditions down from generation to generation. Its spirit is eternal; a long-lasting force in the mafia world. Seven children are gathered from all corners of the earth, despite what they used to be or what they endured...now, they are Vongola. "I will prepare them for the hardships ahead."

Pairings:

It will mainly be OC x OC, but there's hints of OC x 54 and OC x Lam. Those won't be heavily highlighted, though.

My ideal music was what I dubbed "Chaos"; the screams of civilians rising above staccato gunshots and the bass of laughter from my commanders and the boys I traveled with. It had been a soothing lullaby for many years. Remembering these things made me pine for my family; the mother and the father that had been killed and left behind in Africa. The Uprising in Cairo, Egypt had been a long and arduous battle, the dirt loose and red with spilled blood. It was only now that I, Iman Vivian, was coming out of the war zone and into a land of relative peace.

Seeing me, one would believe I was a very angry-looking, steel-eyed, hostile little eleven year old boy. my hair was matted, dull, and long, falling past my shoulders and going no further. My skin was dirty, a combination of dirt and lotion and the conglomeration of dust, blood, and gore. My right eye was injured; it had a scar running down from the top of my eyebrow to the top of my cheekbone. I had nothing but the black jacket on my back, the baggy pants around my tiny waist, and the hat on my head that was too large. I didn't even have on shoes, and the bottoms of my feet were torn to shreds. Coagulated blood was the only bond between scraps and ribbons of young flesh. Calluses and blisters were on my tiny hands, and my young mouth reeked of tobacco. Dried blood was stuck in my nostrils; the cocaine I was given to snort had just about destroyed the inside of my nose. In my condition, I was anything but approachable.

I didn't care about approachability, though. In fact, the person from the rehabilitation center could die on his way to this Italian airport for all I cared. I was motherless, I was fatherless; I was a hybrid that was usually never seen in Egypt. Being Japanese and Egyptian, my family was found by the rebels when I was six. Before the rebels had entered the village where we lived, my mother had pounded dust and cream together and slathered it over my body and the body of my brother to make us seem naturally dark. I remember watching the rape of my mother, and the decapitation of my father. The rebels had taken my brother and I. They mistook me for a boy. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I was tossed a elephant gun one night, and the commander—a large dark-faced brute—told me that I was going to kill for the first time. The man I was placed in front of was trembling, his large bulky body immersed in the scent of urine and shit. "Shoot him now!" the commander bellowed. "No, please don't!" the man pleaded. "I have a family; I have a wife, children, my sick father! Please don't kill me!" Without blinking, I raised the gun to his head and fired. Bang. Cheers erupted behind me, and I lowered the gun. Blood had spattered over my face, and my hands went slack against the trigger and the double barrels of the gun. I didn't give a fuck about that man; I didn't give a fuck about his family, or about how his shit smelled. I cared about me, and that was all I cared about, and that was all I would care about until I either left the country or was killed. My brother was moved to another squad after that for having a weak stomach. There was no room for the weak; even I knew that.

The world spins in a dog-eat-dog cycle, one that is not easily broken by peaceful means. Violence is the needle that runs across the vinyl of the earth's surface, and humanity is the track that is infinitely played on repeat. It's a song that nobody cares to hear, but is somehow comforting; a sign that humanity is alright and that the natural order—kill or be killed, give or take, love and lost—hasn't been knocked out of balance. I have been a part of the soundtrack; I created the screams, the gore, the loss of innocence, the loss of dignity, honor, and hope. Now that I was being taken away from this hell, I felt like a part of the track was missing. The chaos. My part. I was missing. My rehabilitation disturbed the track of humanity.

"Vivian Iman?" I looked up, and saw a woman with dark green hair and violet eyes. Was this the bitch that the rehab center sent to get me? "Come with me."

I stood up, and walked behind the woman as we exited the airport. I felt gazes at the side of my head, but I tried to keep my composure. These people had the nerve to cast those glances at me like I was on their level; they compared me to themselves and it pissed me off. How dare they. I'd kill every one of these petticoat wearing mother-fuckers; all this lady would have to do is go wait in the car.

"Vivian Iman, I would advise you to keep up. Gelaro* doesn't like to be kept waiting."

I could barely walk on these ripped up excused for feet that I had. I stepped up the pace, and I stayed on the woman's sleek black heels. Soon, we made it to an inconspicuous black Jeep, and the woman climbed into the front seat while I slowly climbed into the back. Once I was sucked into the plush black seats, I started to peel off the skin that hung from my feet. New pin-needle drops of blood formed in my wounds, but I ignored them.

"Vivian Iman." I jumped, and stared at the ceiling. There was an intercom hanging down from the ceiling in the form of a opaque black box. That bitch's voice was grating on my nerves. "There are refreshments and bandages in the cooler situated next to you. We will arrive at the Bertesco Mansion in approximately six hours and fifteen minutes. Try to make yourself look presentable; you'll be meeting royalty."

"Fuck you, you fucking guinea*!"

Screaming at the ceiling was my only interaction with these people. I didn't know who Gelaro was or why he wanted me. There were no explosions, no screams, and no gunshots.

The track of humanity was destroyed, and only a stifling, peaceful silence remained as I wrapped my wounds.

~ * ( ͽ ) * ~

"My name is Gelaro, Vivian Iman. Welcome to the Bertesco Mansion, where I am the tenth boss of the family that resides here."

"Goombah*."

"Nice mouth on her."

Scowling, I pushed past the man with the cotton-candy hair and I stood at the bottom of the grand staircase that led to the second floor. Then were was another flight of stairs, and another, and one more flight of stairs that led to the last floor of the mansion. I placed my hand on the railing, and turned to Gelaro, the man who had been so kind as to greet me. He stared at me, his eyebrow raised. What were his thoughts about me? Was he curious? I smoothed some of my hair away from my face, and met his gaze. We stared at each other for a moment, and then I heard a door open and shut in the distant depths of the house. My eyes flickered towards the sound, but I looked back at Gelaro. I didn't want to lose his stare for a second. I wanted to intimidate him; get him scared. He's never stared into the eyes of a child soldier before, I bet.

"Iman, your parents ar..." I narrowed my eyes, curling my lips back so that my snarl was more audible. Gelaro caught the drift. "I mean, your parents were valued members of the Bertesco family. Your mother was a gifted craftswoman in Cairo, keeping connected with our craftsman Solte* here. Your father was our trusted cross-continental intel unit and he served well." Gelaro stared at me, and I felt like I was being compared to my parents. "I wonder what kind of asset you'll be." There was a tense pause. "What are your skills?"

"Killing people."

"Anything practical?"

I scoffed, and thought about my other skills. I was a good marksman. I was agile and flexible. I could handle a melee weapon, such as a club. Those all fall under killing people. What else could I do? I tried to remember; my mind was born in war, and I had no memory of filial warmth, love, or peace. I could recall one thing; one small, seemingly insignificant thing. My father holding up a flashcard, saying cat in English, Arabian, Japanese, and Italian. That was how I learned...I learned to speak. All four languages had been abused and used in the cruelest ways possible.

"I can speak four languages fluently. English, Egyptian Arabian, Italian, and Japanese."

Gelaro looked relatively unimpressed. "Considering your father's occupation, I would have expected you to know more."

"You fucking goombah! You don't know anything about my father!" I sat on the stair, holding onto the railing with my hand.

Gelaro coughed, and I watched him stuff his left hand in his pocket. "Iman, I know what happened to you." Gelaro came to sit beside me, and I could smell the warm scent of musk and some woody fragrance. "You're safe now. Your father contacted me before the rebels came into Cairo."

"He what?"

"He left you some money to further your education, and I was given permission to be your legal guardian."

"...he..."

"I promised to watch over you, Iman. I'm not a good father; in fact, I don't know anything about children. But I will try and make you as comfortable as possible. Stop fighting."

I nodded, and allowed Gelaro to help me onto my feet. As we headed up to the third floor of the mansion, he told me about the room that I would have, the tutors that would teach me, and the friends I would make. There was a bustling neighborhood in the gorge below the mansion, and Gelaro said that I was allowed to go down there anytime I wanted. These things were foreign to me. A new kind of soundtrack.

I liked the beat of it, the sound of it, the rhythm of it.

(*) - Footnote time.

*By Gelaro, I do mean Gelaro from the KHR! game Fate of Heat III: Yuki no Shugosha Raishuu! I figure that even though he was a game character, Gelaro should get more love. Have you seen his picture? Hothothothothot. -Drool- Yes, I'm a total fangirl for Gelaro. 33

*'Guinea' is a derogatory term for an Italian. Of course, Iman says this term out of anger.

*A Goombah is a term that is used usually among Italian men that denotes that someone is a pal or a buddy. In context, though, it is used as a derogatory term since Gelaro is an Italian Mafioso.

*Solte was a character in the KHR! game Fate of Heat II and a side character in Fate of Heat III. He deserves love too. He's adorable! Anyway, Gelaro and Solte in the same context is like my fantasy. I might as well write them in my story.

(*) - Footnote time over.

Okay, so, leave me a review if you think it's good, if you think it's bad, if you think I should improve, etc. See you on my next update day, tomorrow!