title: Omertá
summary: "I fled the country to escape from my crackpot sister and her dream of enslaving me to the mafia—which, contrary to popular belief, isn't as cool as it looks on paper. So you can imagine why the idea of trying to assassinate my self-appointed cephaloid teacher before graduation is just a tad bit disappointing." [OC, no pairings]
status: [ on-going ]

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01. when the devil gets desperate

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Japanese immigration freaking sucked.

No, I'm not just saying this because I'm entitled and overprivileged, damn you, and I know it sounds just a bit hypocritical coming from an American. You know, because Americans are the root and core of all things fat, pompous, and arrogant.

Okay, it sounds really bad. I get it though—security reasons, safety, overpopulation, blah blah—but let me tell you, there was nothing as priceless as the look on my face when an American couple who looked like they inhaled syrup for a living got a mere sixty seconds—sixty seconds—at their checkpoint before they were allowed to pass while I, posing as a Polish, got held up over an hour.

Fucking Americans.

You may be wondering, why the hell am I posing as a Polish? Everybody knows Americans get first-class treatment wherever they go—why wouldn't I take advantage of it? Am I really that much of a dumbass?

The answer to the last question is yes, for anyone wondering, but that's irrelevant right now. What's relevant is the fact that I didn't rob my sister, fly from Fort Lauderdale to Poland to Japan, deal with shady foreigners for a fake identity, and brace the Russian winter for this shit.

Okay, maybe it wasn't Russia, but Russia and Poland are basically the same thing. Shut up.

Or maybe all those years of Florida heat had spoiled me. Either way, it was a fucking ice berg out there. Cold as hell—which reminds me, did you know there's a place in Norway called Hell? Apparently, it's one of the coldest places on earth. Ironic, isn't it? Actually, in Germanic mythology, Hel was a deity associated with extreme co—

"You're Polish?" Border Patrol guy broke my historical monologue, his English tinged with the slightest bit of an accent.

Despite being a second away from shitting my pants, I replied with a meek, "Yeah". It wasn't a lie—I'm pretty sure my mother was Polish. I think. Whatever, it wasn't like I didn't look the part; I was your average, run off the mill caucasian little girl.

Then, I realized my mistake.

Border Patrol seemed to catch on, his eyes narrowing.

He set down his pen.

"You're Polish?" he repeated, more of a menacing inquiry this time. Internally, I had killed myself over fifty times, by jumping, sledgehammer, paperweight—it had just started to get more creative because what dumbass posing as a Polish replies to a question with an obviously unaccented, ridiculously American "yeah".

I smiled nervously. "Technically, yes. My family lived in the U.S. when I was growing up—just as green card holders. Never did apply for citizenship."

"Ah, I see. And you're here as an exchange student?"

"Yeah—I mean, yes. Kunugigaoka, if I'm not mistaken?"

His eyes widened a fraction. "That's quite a feat. It's a very well-known school—I wonder if they're lax with foreigners..."

"Oh—I wouldn't really know." I scratched my head. "I'm pretty sure I bombed most of the tests. I got in with oral proficiency."

"You speak Japanese?" He'd switched over to his native tongue. I bit my cheek, unused to such a quick change. I'd have to get used to it, I suppose.

"Mm, though I'm not very good at it yet." My response was slow, not nearly as eloquent as my English. That, and it frustrated me how I sounded like a preschooler speaking Japanese. My sister chalked it to a lack of practice and exposure—I'd always get a tad bit nervous when speaking in a foreign language, my voice rising to a higher pitch and turning a bit docile. Thankfully, Border Patrol seemed to understand, and nodded his head.

"Have a good time, Di..." He squinted at the paper, baffled.

"Dziekowska," I offered, the name foreign on my tongue. I wondered if I'd botched it. "Don't bother, it's a silly name. I prefer Iza anyways."

"I see. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay in Japan, Iza-san."

"Thanks—I mean, thanks." I really needed to break the English habit.

Tokyo smelled like piss and the dirty old cleats that I'd stashed under my bed for a year, but thankfully, I didn't stick out like a sore thumb.

Well, I sort of still did, but it was easy to spot a few foreigners in the streets. It also seemed like the general population was too accustomed to tourists to give a damn, which also meant less opportunities to ask for help. Well, it was safe to say Google Maps wasn't the most reliable source outside the west. Who am I kidding, it didn't even work in Poland—which explains how I had a run in with the Russian Border Police.

Pretty sure it's the lack of Vitamin D up there that makes them all so cranky.

At one point, I decided that I was completely and utterly lost because 1) the amount of people just dropped like flies, which was unusual, because, well, it's supposed to be Tokyo, 2) I could see the freaking mountains, and 3) there's a thing that vaguely resembled a human giggling at something he saw through his binoculars.

Yeah, this really wasn't the guy I wanted to ask for directions.

"Let's see here," I muttered to myself, squinting at the directions bolded in my phone. "If Kunugigaoka is there—" I looked at the direction of the mountains, "—then my apartment should be nearby. I think."

Or not.

"Fuck, I'm lost." Traitorous tears burned my eyes. Out of all times, now. After crossing the freaking continent, changing my name, robbing my sister's safe deposit, and running from angry Russians, the tears finally came. What fucking luck.

Right before I burst into tears, the semi-humanoid man walked up to me, lowered his face, and spoke in a surprisingly kind voice.

"Are you lost?"

I sniffed, looking at him through watery eyes. I was pretty sure I looked like a raccoon with rosacea—or the common cold. Red eyes, messy hair, unwashed clothes and eyebags galore, I was more than aware of my hideous appearance, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Y-you speak English?" Dear God, why did you have to make me sound like a chipmunk on steroids? Wasn't making me ugly enough?

"That I do. Did you lose your parents?"

I shook my head mutely. "...I'm here alone."

"But you're so young..."

"I'm a foreign exchange student. I'm trying to get to my apartment—it's supposed to be near Kunugigaoka Junior High, but I'm not sure where that is..." I looked down, feeling more pathetic by the second. Sometimes I wondered why the hell I thought it was a good idea to just pack up and leave—I still wasn't sure how I pulled it off—but looking back on it, I knew there was no other way. Well, it was either this or go to murder bootcamp in Italy. I liked my options, thank you very much.

"No worries! I know exactly where that is. I can show you the way, if you want."

"...really? You don't look like you're from here...are you even Japanese? And what's with the weird get-up? Who wears a trench coat and a hat in the middle of April? And is that...are you trying to look like a stalker?"

The man began to sweat bullets. "W-what do you mean? O-of course I am! And I'll have you know this outfit is a limited edition vintage set! I saw it in a movie in Paris and I had to have it—"

"Dude, you are lame."

"...HOW DISRESPECTFUL! I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT—"

Looking back on it, I realized I was so desperate that I'd disregarded the fact that this man wasn't quite normal—his mouth didn't seem to move as he spoke, his eyes a strangely beady, and his nose disproportionate to the consistency of his abnormally round face.

But then again, when you're desperate, it's easy to overlook abnormalities, even ones as glaring as the lack of fingers on the hands that held mine.

Or maybe, it was just me being a dumbass.

...okay, you're right, it's the latter.

A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. I have like five fics I haven't updated in a year and what do I do? Start a new one ofc!

AssClass is love, AssClass is life. It had so much potential and so little OC fics...c'mon guys, the cast is hilarious. So many shenanigan possibilities.

So, here it is! Omertá is a fic that just recently came to mind, so it's not well thought out or fleshed out yet. I've been having a huge writer's block where I couldn't write for a year, and thus, I feel like my fanfic skills have sunk outrageously low. Like, this isn't even that funny. I live for humor. But this fic is an outlet to hopefully sharpen my writing skills and get some inspo!

Feel free to tell me what you thought! I don't think romance will be a huge factor in this, but we'll see. There definitely won't be much starting out. If anything, it'll be slow burn. Do you guys want any pairings? I guess I'll have to see who plays well with this OC who is, as usual, useless, untalented, and dumb. I'm beginning to see a pattern here. I hope you guys give her lots of love!

—helxium