"Push! Push! You push!"
Anne-Marie, 'Call me Ann, hunk!', grits her teeth in effort not to screech at that fake-happy nurse to shut the fuck up. No shit is she supposed to push if she wants that little bastard outta there. A small part of her wonders if she would have gotten better service at the Centrals. She doesn't actually think so, ass-kissers are everywhere. Or rather the mindset of social survival. It's nothing personal- just annoying to deal with.
Not that she could afford it in the first place, but it was nice to dream once or thrice in a while. And that dream was in the reach of her grabby hands- or rather in her vagina.
The head midwife finally took pity on the former prostitute, choosing between a job she could always return to or a chance of a luxurious life was an easily done, and snapped some sharp words in that bitch's direction. Ann curses the timing of that contraction, she would have loved and welcomed new additions to her vocabulary.
What a shitty 'hospital'.
On July 28 0Y B.T.B. (Before Tsunayoshi's Birth), in Mafia Land's South-Eastern Central Hospital, a baby girl arrived into this world.
We don't care for the baby girl, who is born to a set of ecstatic, powerful parents; No.
Let's focus on the place located between the Hilarity Highway, the semi-ring on the southern part of the moving island that is set like normal amusement park á la mafia style, the Alcohol Avenue of the Gastronomic Piazza, the Body Borough (fondly nicknamed for the many crime guilds, weapon shops and similar that settled there), and between the Western Central Hospital: Love Lane.
(Which, as you might guess from the name, is an one-way street known for its prostitution facilities.)
If you metaphorically zoom in, you might notice a prostitute awkwardly holding her newborn son at a private hospital.
That infant was named Angelo. No last name.
(People like her are better off without last names.)
One probably won't see another prostitute giving childbirth anytime soon, because while it is not uncommon, most choose to abort due to their work if they get impregnated.
Unless the you're popular and/or the manager has a soft spot for you, you will be fired.
Why don't they just use protection?
Only those with incurable/hard to cure STDs are required to use protection. If they violate that law, yes, it's an actual law, they suffer reputation loss for lack of self-control, a huge fine, and a lifetime ban from the Love Lane.
And if you book a worker, you must show your Mafia Land ID, ML-ID in short.
Sometimes, a prostitute might fall in love and birth the child, hoping to bind the customer to them.
(This rarely ends well.)
Sometimes, a prostitute will birth the child for the same reasons, just without the love part.
(Also rarely ends well.)
Why would they do such a painful thing without the 'love-part'?
Easy answer: The sperm donor is rich and/or powerful. And which powerful and/or rich man wouldn't keep an eye out for future heirs or spares? Keep in mind, that all the customers are related to crime in some way or another.
A ticket to luxury!
So, the first-time mom resolves to raise her bastard child, which is not that great of an insult if you ask her, if not for one huge problem.
How do you contact the sperm donor in question?
According to rumors, the fourth son of Timoteo Vongola, Xanxus, is a bastard as well.
So how did the 'co-worker' inform the Famiglia?
When should she inform them? It would make her a target for the syndicates enemies. She's already under scrutiny for giving birth.
Should she inform them at all?
"I reckon I'll cross that bridge when the time comes." She whispers to her little bastard. He yawns cutely. "Right, Angelo?"
And with that, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
"Mamma." She slowly repeats herself, staring into the same blue eyes as her own. "Mamma."
Angelo tilts his head. "Mwa?"
She smiles. "It's progress, I believe."
Her maternal instincts were awoken, and they are already growing stronger than expected.
Shit.
'Well,' she reassures herself. 'It is beneficial to have a strong bond later on, so a little more caring won't hurt, right?'
She took multiple part-time jobs at cafés and stores, and as soon as she could, she will take a better paying full-time with contract.
"Mwamwa!" Angelo confidently states, making grabbing motions towards her.
She beams, blue eyes softening. "That's my boy! My little bastard, you!"
At the least things are better now than before.
'Well, there are things that never change, I presume.' She dryly comments in her mind. 'Especially those overly chummy, obnoxious butts.'
"Aw, c'mon Bella! Just give me your number!" the customer leers. "I'll promise we'll have a good time, if you know what I mean."
'It's too bad I'm still a part-timer.' She continues to muse, half-heartedly jotting down the low-level Mafioso's orders and ignoring the continuous stream of poor innuendos and pick-up lines.
'If I work full-time here they would tolerate if I handle a customer or two. Or five. Maybe.'
"Listen, here you bitch. I am making advances at you so why aren't you responding?!" The grunt, it's a low-level grunt, otherwise he wouldn't have finally lost his patience so easily, shouts. "Are you implying I'm not good enough for you, huh?"
'I am not implying anything, asshat.' She thinks spitefully.
From the sounds of the snickers and the dull throbbing of her left cheek, she must have said that out loud.
Ice-cold fury spreads out within her. How dare he cost her the job?! She needs the money and this absolutely fugly asshole just ruined a major income source.
"Listen here, butt face." She grits out. "Even if you were good enough for me, which you are not even remotely close to, you need to work on your horrible attitude. It's a truly tragic miracle that you weren't killed, or at least gotten some sense beaten into you yet, by your superiors. You are costing me my most successful job so far, and-"
"Aha! 'Successful job so far', huh?" he pounces at the weakness, smiling sadistically. "Looks like someone is in need for money. C'mon, I'll even pay you properly for your services."
"Even a former prostitute wouldn't sleep with you." She respondes icily, making a quick ponytail out of her long brown hair so it won't get in the way. "Have you glanced in a mirror or did you think it was smudged by your oh-so manly fumes? Because that would be fucking revolting, which you are- fucking revolting. Now it all makes sense!"
And with that, she roars and punches him deliberately on the nose.
The resounding crack and muffled profanities are music to her ears.
Murmurings break out, some sneer at her while others wolf-whistle. The majority just ignore the commotion with ease.
(Please, this is Mafia Land.)
The owner came to scrutinize the commotion. "What in the Vindicare's name is going on here- oh."
He narrows his eyes, sighing in disgust.
"…Sorry boss." She mumbled under her breath, trying to fight back tears at the idea of failing the spawn of hers just because she couldn't shut her fucking mouth for once-
"Not this daft arsehole again."
"…huh?"
"Yes, I know this manky tosser." He elaborates. "He's the one that harassed my sister some weeks ago, I remember clearly of banning him from here."
"Huh," she blinkes, cautiously hopeful. "That's great news. I'll take that as I'm not going to get fired?"
"Nope."
"Do you want to do a number on him before or after me?"
"Ladies first."
"Damn, your sister's lucky." She sighs wistfully, ignoring the twinge of bitterness. "Maybe you should take the opportunity and offer discounts for snacks and drinks."
His brown eyes twinkle. "Good idea, Anne-Marie. Consider yourself promoted" He turns to the spectators. "You heard that? Discounts on snacks and drinks! Each item's price in the category is halved!"
"Mamma had an awesome day today!" Anne-Marie coos at Angelo.
"Mwamwa!"
"Yes, I'm 'Mwamwa', and you're my little bastard Angelo!"
Angelo shrieks in delight when she blew him on the nose.
"'Mwamwa' is very sorry for drawing attention to herself. She needs to find herself a gun fast! Or a very sturdy crowbar. That also works, plus, it's cheaper."
She tries to squash the warmth filling her chest. She's just taking precautions, and it will increase her chances with the Vongola, if she can defend herself better than the basic standard training one receives as a Mafia Land resident and prostitute.
"Now c'mon! It's nom-nom time!" she coos again.
In a back alley, a drunk, beaten up form of a man stirs.
"That…bitch…is… -ugh!" He throws up, before continuing to cuss hatefully under his breath, eyes glinting sharp from malice despite the intoxication.
Unnoticed, a specter-like, bandaged man appears from pure black, and wrapps the drunkard in chains.
He is gone before one knew it, without a single rattle or clink of his chains, leaving only the vomit and blood as a trace that something was there to be taken.
But it doesn't matter, since no one will be looking for him long.
(Or looking for him at all.)
There are always enough people who'll work on Mafia Land. One way or another
Memories are bizarre, fickle things.
Some wish they are always crystal clear.
Others would love to drown theirs in alcohol and other drugs.
Sometimes, they comply, appearing on demand.
Other times, one has to examine every millimeter of the area to find that damn pen!
And not-so-occasionally, one accidentally substitutes an authentic memory with a self-crafted one. Maybe through denial, maybe through imagination; No matter. It's gone.
Memories are unreliable, but everyone still depends on them.
Our whole identity and experiences are directly linked to them.
Memories really are bizarre, fickle things.
But when I one day found myself in a toddler's body with a single mother, underwent a sex change (Angelo is an obviously male name), and surrounded by a foreign language (probably Italian or Spanish, maybe even French), I didn't complain or bitch around.
(Much.)
After all, Death is still a terrifying concept, even if I most likely went through the experience already.
'Angelo' didn't magically become 'Angelo' in an instant.
No, the transition from a fleshbag to an organism with a sense of identity and personality came gradually.
Baby-step by baby-step, one could say.
The flesh bag first began to sleep more, the brain activity sapping away energy, to prepare and cope for the realization, memories, and mature mindset.
Thus, the infant spent more time asleep than awake.
Anne-Marie doesn't complain. She is glad that she didn't have a fussy child, and could use the time to work more and job-hunt.
(I wonder how she would have reacted if she knew what was going on?)
Federico I-have-more-middle-names-than-you Vongola sighs, twirling his pen around and around.
Paperwork is his forte, believe it or not, and he likes to help dad and his brothers, but-
He can't.
Whether he wants it or not, he is the youngest and least proficient of his brothers- even if one includes paperwork related skills. The only reason why he was given the standard respect of a boss candidate, is because he is favoured, for a reason unknown to him, by dad. And maybe his popularity since he likes to help others with their dreaded paperwork.
(And if there are lots of side-benefits, such as gathering information and lessening animosity, well, who was he to complain?)
And Xanxus, the only one who doesn't bother hiring secretaries or such, and usually gives him the biggest number of tasks, has been avoiding him lately.
The self-proclaimed Paperwork-Whiz runs through late interactions that could have caused this change in their relationship.
(He finds none.)
But if he remembers correctly, Xanxus has been acting odd in general; not being his asshole-but-still-a-softie self.
He decides to talk to his dad when he has the time. Oh no, wait, wasn't he working on the negotiations with the Cavallone Famiglia? Then it would be horrendously bad timing if he disturbs dad while stressed.
It still leaves one question unanswered: Who shall he confide in?
(Character changes of unknown cause is a dangerous potential security breach in the world of a criminal's; even more so in a prestigious crime syndicate.
Traitors aren't given second chances.)
Federico I-have-more-middle-names-than-you Vongola closes his eyes, futilely hoping, that maybe, it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
(He ignores the sinking feeling in his gut; his intuition mourning with him.)
The crowbar whizzes through the air, the sunlight reflecting from the metal blinding her momentarily.
That moment is enough.
"Up!" the instructor barkes. "You think this is adequate? A civilian granny can do better than you!"
"Sir!" Anne-Marie quickly picks herself up from the ground, ignoring the way her muscles scream and bruises moan.
Wolfgang smirks. She tenses. What's next on the torturous schedule? Another beat down? Running laps?
"Stretch. I want you to be more flexible than a rubber band when I come back, do you understand?"
She groans internally. "Sir!"
'Angelo, you better appreciate this.'
"Wolfgang being a hard-ass again?"
Anne-Marie just sighs. "You know it, boss."
He pats her shoulder, and then she continues to wipe the tables.
A quiet clang makes her look up. "It's Luke when off shift."
She sips the tea gratefully, glad that the probability of poison was small. "Thanks Luke."
Anne-Marie doesn't ask for a last name. No one asks for a last name on Mafia Land.
(Or at least not the ones that matter much.)
"Y'know, this would go great with some lemon juice. Maybe even some zest. Healthier choices and all that."
"Earl Grey- more lemon-y. Noted. Increase by 0.5?"
"Nah, 0.3. Wouldn't want to drive your less fortunate customers away after all."
No one comments that she belongs to the less fortunate ones.
AN: Because every fandom has it's OC!*insert character* fics, and this fandom is lacking Basilicums, I just decided to hit two birds with one stone.
(...I just hope I actually get to finish the metaphorical birds off with this.)
Wish moi luck!
FOR THE RECORD! THIS IS CROSS-POSTED ON AO3!