October 22nd

The sun basks lightly upon Hana-chan and I as we sit eating ice cream in the brisk afternoon. The pretty young brunette has called me several times today, questioning my absence at school and offering to deliver my homework. And so, once I awoke from my morphine-laced sleep, I called back my considerate classmate and talked her into a date. I was still slightly disoriented at first, vaguely remembering Dee's white bathroom sink stained with my blood, red drops splattering everywhere on the marble surface, running down my arms in streams, and watching the ceiling as shards of glass were pulled from my skin, the slight pinch and pull I couldn't fully feel. There was talk, strange whispered arguments between Dee and me that I can't quite remember.

Two hours later from awakening, after getting showered and dressed (difficult, with a cut up and bandaged up right hand), Hana-chan and I sit together munching on cold, sweet vanilla ice-cream. The fall weather of Namimori pleasantly comforts me and raises my spirits with its chilled air and clear skies. It seems as good as time as any to sit outside in front an ice cream parlor and chat with a friend. 'A friend,' I think excitedly.

Changed into posh clothing, expensive jeans as well as a silk blue blouse, Hana-chan seems as cool and grown-up as ever. With a natural grace, her body shifts into another august position, and I find myself slightly envious of the elegant curve of her back. Never has someone sat before me in such an exquisite and dignified manner. "You look so pretty today Hana-chan." I marvel with a cavalier tone. A playful smirk accompanies my remark and it seems to amuse my friend.

She politely repays me for the compliment with one of her own, a mention about my cool and causal clothing. Wearing my lucky blue jeans and a clingy but impossibly complimenting thin, black long sleeve shirt, I feel like an extreme badass. Like someone who robs banks then meets her cool older boyfriend for lunch right after. But then, that may just be me walking around with a suspiciously bandaged up hand talking. As people eye me while walking down the street, I just shoot them a cool kid smirk and proudly toss my head, leaving them wondering about my untold story.

"What exactly happened to your hand?" My friend questions with a leery look.

Those sharp gray eyes capture mine, and I allow it. "Smashed a bottle," I explain. "But my cousin says it will heal in a few days."

She accepts this answer with a thoughtful nod before advising me to be more careful. Then she jokes, "I can't wait to hear what kind of rumors this stirs up at school. 'The lone wolf with a suspiciously bandaged hand.'"

"Lone wolf?" I inquire with a hint of a smile. Please let this be a badass nickname I have at school and am just now finding out about.

She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "You didn't know? They call you the lone wolf since you talk to no one, associate with no one, and have interest in no one. Kyoko-chan just thought you were shy but others figure you have a solitary nature. You come off unapproachable."

So in other words I'm the class badass? Got to love Japanese schools.

"What do you think Hana-chan?" I ask lightly.

She replies, "You probably just think America is much cooler."

Her words, though not exactly accurate, prompt me to pour out opinions I was unaware of. "America is wilder, at least the it is in the state I come from. And so wild is in my nature, which clashes a bit in comparison to Japan." Realizing how rude it may sound, I attempt to explain further. "Your etiquette is beautiful, but I'm a stubborn and proud person which is taken much better in my homeland. In fact, some even consider it endearing and useful. Americans enjoy a crazy fight and a crazy party, at least they do where I come from. The country is a melting pot of sorts, so it really depends on where you go."

My patriotic, if not melodramatic, speech seems to interest Hana-chan. She quickly asks me what I think of Japan, to which I reply its like 'living in a manga'. Her expression crumples into absolute disappointment. I lick away at my ice cream, and give away a few more Japan-centered compliments, remarking among the beauty and discipline which I've found here. My friend gives me a knowing smile and explains some of the finer points of her culture and country as well as Japan's major problems (in her opinion). Composure, precision, dedication, sophistication. Stubborn, weird, harsh.

Much to my pleasure, Hana-chan is quite the romantic soul despite her mature appearance. She wishes to study overseas, have a mature musician lover, and travel the world in style. 'The heart will lead and the body will follow.'

"What about you?"

I grin, "What about me?"

"What are your dreams for the future?"

I pause for half a second, wondering if bluntly saying I have no future dreams is all right. Perhaps my current life, coasting through middle school and living with my assassin cousin in luxury, is enough. Until this lifestyle ends and drifts into a different and unforeseen future, I just want to continue enjoying my time with Dee and continue seeking our shared amusements. But then considering our current amusement is watching the Vongola's ring scramble, I may not have a future.

"I have no future." I pause, realizing what my statement implies. "Dreams. I have no future dreams."

Hana-chan apprises me for the lackadaisical attitude toward the future, but I breezily blow her off. The sailing is fairer when floating down the stream of life without a destination, or some such nonsense. Either way, there is no ten year bazooka being blown in my face so the future isn't an immediate concern. And even if it was I would only have to be concerned for all of five minutes. Hana-chan gives me a look that I playfully return, and we erupt into chuckles and giggles. Her light laughter is more delicate than my cousin's, and reminds me of how fragile my flowery friend is in comparison.

"Oh, watch out for glass Hana-chan. When I was coming home the other day I think I spotted some in the school's courtyard."

She nods in thanks of my warning when the poetic lyrics of a favorite song begin playing from my right jean pocket. I bumble around for the phone with my uninjured and uncoordinated left hand and manage to pick up before the song ends. I give the pretty girl across from me an apologetic arm gesture, awkward for me with one busy hand and another unusable one yet apparently amusing for her, then greet my cousin through the plastic blue phone.

"Howdy. Where are you?"

With a proud smile, I inform Alana that I am with my friend, Hana-chan. "Oh, Hana-chan," she says as if realizing something obvious., as if she knows who Hana-chan is. I've never told her about Hana-chan before; until now, we functioned under the basis that I had no friends besides her. This is her que to ask, but she doesn't. "That's cool. Well I'm just letting you know that I'm here." Then she continues with a cheery and strained tone, "And it really fucking freaked me out that you weren't here."

I offer to bring her home mint or coffee ice cream; her favorite flavors. She politely declines but claims to accept any chocolate treat nonetheless. I make a note to stop for a sweet treat on my way home. "All right, well I'm going to let you go now. Love you, bye."

Looking up to my recently made friend, Hana-chan has a cross of amusement and admiration dancing among her face. Those normally steely and guarded eyes are relaxed with warmth. She sweetly tells me that I have an endearing relationship with my boyfriend. I blush heatedly and stumble to correct her.

"No! That's my cousin!"

I don't have a boyfriend! Especially not in middle school! What middle school relationship lasts? Besides, guys probably don't look at me like that. Not with my prissy personality and young age.

With a bit of surprise, she explains most people here aren't as affectionate with their family. She tells me more things, such as kisses are usually reserved for lovers, Kimonos are usually for the winter, girls always carry around a handkerchief, and that modestly and politeness are necessary for every lady.

I bluntly tell her that arrogance and pride are more amusing than insulting in America. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction, and I smirk with her. Her arragance can be spotted in that gleam but mine is only hinted out in the slight turn of my pink lips. We silently bond over unspoken pride, and quietly revel in need to shine our wonderful arrogance.

"You would fit in so well in America." I say, meaning every single word.

The flattery causes a fair pink to bloom upon Hana-chan's cheeks, and her thick black lashes flutter down for a second so she may properly soak in the compliment. Our conversation carries on for nearly half an hour, discussing our classmates, our lives, and our opinions. Time flies as I sate myself on the warmth of friendship, of earnestly talking and enjoying myself with someone my own age. I'm smiling and laughing, dizzy with happiness, as Hana-chan and I part from the café. I'm all but skipping down the road, and humming a merry tune when ordering come Nana Chocolate at the local bakery. The walk home, since it's impossible to ride a bike with the current state of my right hand, is utterly endurable and relaxing. I don't even notice the walk up the unreasonable size hill (mountain).

Once I've reached our clearing in the Namimori mountain, I break into a run towards home. The door is unlocked as I rush in, and my words spill out in bunches before the door even gets a chance to fully open. "Alana we need handkerchiefs!" I exclaim excitedly, clumsily shutting the wooden door behind me. My cousin is on the couch, lounging in a blue sweater and jeans. Her dark eyes glance me over for a second before going back to the newest issue of Shounen Jump before her.

"Why?" She drawls, her smooth is voice unnaturally hoarse. There are reddish marks completely around her neck, just above the metal dog collar she always wears. Did someone try to strangle her? Damn.

"Because every girl and woman is supposed to have an handkerchief. It's a Japanese thing." I explain quickly, ignoring the obvious angry blotching on my cousin's neck.

"Alright," She tiredly agrees. There are dark circles under her eyes and a pale tint to her skin. "Let me go get them from my closet."

She stores trophies from kills in her closet. There must have been a target, a dead guy, that collected handkerchiefs. And she wants to give them to me.

"Your trophy handkerchiefs?" I exclaim, slightly wired out. No one wants the handkerchiefs of a dead guy.

"No, I collect handkerchiefs."

"You collect handkerchiefs?" I question, utterly baffled and thrown off. Never once have I seen a handkerchief in this house. "Why?!"

"Because they remind me of Grandpa." She defends. "Fuck you."

I pause, we've been living together for over a year, yet this hobby has never been brought up. I inquire as to what else I don't know about her. She answers with a mysterious and jovial grin. "You will never know." Then she breaks out into an evil 'mwahahaha' laugh and walks away to the upstairs, to her room. Just before she steps on the spiral stair case, Alana turns around, her brown eyes crinkle with mirth, and she arrogantly declares, "I win again.", then continues to up the stairs.

The cool line lingers in the air, and with no ill will I think, 'Fuck, she totally did.'

Then both of us are laughing, her rough and hoarse chuckles fall from upstairs. There is a painful throbbing in my cut up hand, but nothing can take away how great I feel. No school and two friends, it's the definition of happiness.


October 22nd

The school desks are pushed together, six of them in the form of a large rectangle. The blue blanket I brought is lying on top of the makeshift platform along with a beige wicker basket. Alana is laying flat on the left side, her gaze focused on the scene past the classroom window. I have a red quilt wrapped around me, keeping me warm for the extreme air conditioning, and am licking away some of the flavor from my lips. Tonight I have brought with me an assortment of snacks and food; our favorite sandwiches, chips, cookies, candy, and a lidded bowl of popcorn. The cold milk is sealed inside a plain and large thermos. Just earlier Dee was mocking my idea of a school picnic.

"What are we gonna do if someone comes? Throw candy at them and say 'taste the rainbow bitch'?"

"Leave the stuff an run. It's only food."

"Whatever, I'm totally smashing popcorn in someone's face."

It turns out that the food is a good idea since the fight has turned into a drive in movie. On the building across from us, the Rain battle is being projected onto a beige wall, though the fight has yet to officially start. The eavesdropping device is completely unnecessary tonight; instead, Dee just opens a window in the classroom and let the sounds flood through from the Cervello's speakers.

It is two till eleven.

"There will be no time limit."

"Heey!" Squalo calls antagonizing from the screne, his sharp face brimming with arrogance and excitement. "Looks like you still haven't learned your lesson from a week ago." The tall man with thick blonde hair and viciously quick movements raises his mighty gladiator sword. "I'll make you regret not running away a week ago!"

My classmate Yamamoto-san looks at him with a calm but excited stare. There is a smile on his lips and a glitter in his eyes as he looks upon his fearsome and revered opponent. A bamboo sword rests upon his shoulders like a baseball bat, and his fingers grip it tighter. "Haha!" he laughs, humored by his opponents dominating words. "You never know if you don't you give it a try."

Their stadium tonight is the wrecked and abandoned building of Namimori's middle school. The concrete structure is scorched with dirt marks and planted with holes bigger than cars. Thick streams of crystal clear water streams from the ceiling and pool onto the ground in an attempt at symbolizing the meaning of the ring. Every floor is slightly flooded and flowing with liquid blue, but the lowest floor has already reached past a foot, though both the swordsmen are standing and moving in the liquid with no problem. It is the prettiest of all Cervello's set-ups and seems to be modeled after a fountain, only instead of overflowing when full, it floods. Mysterious and cool, just like falling rain.

"Now, for the Ring of Rain: Superbi Squalo vs. Yamamoto Takeshi. Begin the Battle!!"

Superbi launches in fast, swiping at Yamamoto-san almost faster than my eyes can follow, with ripples of water left in his trail. But the teenage swordsman leans forward just as swiftly and has the bloodthirsty blade swipe above him while he does a low step forward. I almost miss the sight of strange pellets chasing after him, exploding into a blast of smoke and a recoil of water that both swordsmen easily avoid by a few quick steps.

Earlier, before the match started, my cousin told of the legendary Superbi Squalo who fights tonight. She told me, with a false apathy, that he is the current sword emperor, unparalleled in the craft, and renowned throughout the whole world by the time he was fourteen. His achievements and adventures go beyond the wildest dreams, and the Vongola all wept with joy when he agreed to join them so was his infamy and skill. 'He is one of the best killers around. Better than me. And I've got the proof to show it.'

On Dee's back there is a thin scar, from her right shoulder blade to her left hip the slim, almost delicate, silver line runs. It's almost pretty, so perfectly diagonal and balanced, as if had been made by an artist with a gossamer touch. Now I know where it came from.

Yamamoto-san is talking about how his image training paid off when Squalo disappears before his eyes, leaving behind a ripple of water. The Varia commander, second in charge of the most infamous cluster of killers, clearly has years of experience and talent at disposal. His superfluous arrogance is justified by every cut he gives, yet, that Yamamoto Takeshi...He seems to have battled Squalo before and his confidence subtly clouds around him. Even with seeing what the other Varia members can do, even with knowing how great and fearsome Squalo is, Yamamoto-san seems so sure. Perhaps... he... really does...have a chance...?

The infamous shark swings around a large cement pillar and clangs his sharp sword against Yamamoto-san's blunt bamboo. The young Asian barely fends off the attack, and keeps a focused expression even as Squalo yells for him to DIE and slashes some more. There is another explosion shooting from Squalo's sword when he swings it, and water combines with it to make a ginormous blast that consumes the screen. But the blast spins upward into a cloud of mist and an upward swirl of darkly lit waters. It's art to look at with the twinkling water and spinning rings of currents. How incredible it is to manipulate your environment and its elements so effortlessly.

Among the leaky and worn down building, standing in the center of the blue hazed lights and dripping tank, is Yamamoto Takeshi. The bamboo stick is gone from his hands, replaced, or rather transformed, into a sleek tradition Japanese sword with black cloth hilt. The water steams from him like humid rain and his face is slick and runny from the spraying but still those eyes hold steady. His thin causal clothing, something you would see on any teenage boy walking down the street, is now sticking against his toned body, slightly crumpled and very soaked. With a strange grasp on his samurai weapon, Yamamoto-san has successfully evaded one the scariest assassins in the mafia world.

"Ah!" Alana exclaims in a fangirl like way. "A form-changing sword!"

I stuff the salty and buttery popcorn in my mouth, throwing a few M&M's after words to balance the taste. No longer am I surprised by these strange mafiosi and their toys; though, Alana probably wants to steal this thing now too...

As Squalo faces his teenage opponent, the long-haired man seems flabbergasted and pissed off that his attack has been blown back by an amateur. Yet even as he yells and screams and flies across the water with a trail of rigorous waves, the bloodthirsty shark never losses that ravenous smile. "HEEY! Don't freeze up on me! Weakling!"

And true to his sword Yamamoto-san stays, holding and wielding it like a well-trained muscle. His confidence itself cuts through any insults and criticism that Squalo throws at him. My classmate's mind seems to be entirely focused on winning. When Superbi attacks again, his furious waves attempt to splatter against the baseball star, but is sliced through and properly deflected. The bare hands dance with the sword, using elegant and efficient movements to control and carry the water along with it, protecting himself with the thick current of water he draws. Such fast and fluid movements mimics a dance of sorts, and Yamamoto-san a dancer. The emperor's sword slices through the water wall without wounding, but the water is beaten down to the floor by gravity, revealing a half kneeling, fully unscathed, and utterly tranquil Yamamoto-san. His samurai sword stands straight, shielding its wielder from direct harm.

Yet Superbi wears a rather pleased expression on his face, proclaiming Yamamoto-san an idiot for not attacking after defending. According to the loud man, it was the only chance to wound him. I pop in some more delicious munchies into my slightly gaping mouth and agree with the Italian man; given Yamamoto-san's disposition in the battle, he should be taking every advantage he can get. I lick the salt off my lips, and shiver at the expression crossing my classmates face. A foxy smile and closed eyes, the muffled chuckles are heard easily but seem to ring in harmony with the dripping and streaming water around him. A little laugh leaves those simpering lips, a passive aggressive condescension playing hide and seek in the simple three-syllable laugh. Ha...ha...ha. "When you say last..." Yamamoto-san muses cheerily with well hidden anger. "You sure like to talk big don't you."

The easygoing facade flashes away, replaced with sharp eyes, cutting words, and a thinning smile. "Let me first make this clear. This isn't all there is to the Shigure Souen Style."

He raises his weapon, tip pointed directly at his opponent, ready to pierce through the blue mist and blue aqua and straight into his opponent's fighting pride. A golden swallow is engraved on top of the golden guard, ready to fly. Then there is a rush, Yamamoto-san breaks into a baseball run with his sword following and his left shoulder leading the way. His hands tighten, his teeth clench, and a blur slashes across Squalo only to be blocked. But then the sword falls to Yamamoto-san's right hand sneakily, I hadn't even noticed he dropped it, ripping away at Squalo's already dodging stomach. The Shark had been quick enough to dodge, to throw his body backwards, bending forward as to receive the least amount of damage possible. To succeed in such a feat, to react inhumanly quickly, to throw away thoughts and panic to replace with instinct and movement, how gifted is this man?

And if this man who yells too much, moves too quickly, and lust for blood like a shark in frenzy, is only someone considered for being the Varia boss— just what kind of monster is the Varia boss himself?

I shiver, remembering the murderous, overwhelming, and unanticipated presence from the Thunder Battle.

Even though Superbi Squalo, Second Sword Emperor, candidate for Varia boss, and experienced assassin, falls into the water on his back, I know better than to count him out yet. I could see it, his amazing dodge, how his body was prepared, how there was no resistance. This Italian silver haired man is a long ways from striking out. I wonder if that incredibly confident Yamamoto-san realizes this, that the big leagues is far more extreme than any middle schooler can expect. Judging by that chocked expression when Squalo emerges from the body like a great white leaping from the sea, he doesn't.

"That didn't do anything at all." Squalo comments condescendingly calm. He stands up, Spartan sword raised diagonally in front of him with one hand, resting in its natural position. The metal is crying for blood, and the water rolling off of its sharp edge forms like tears of past victims. Its owner stares strait ahead undauntedly, brimming with the intensity of fighting. I can almost hear Superbi's blood rushing as he grins and calls to Yamamoto-san. Like this, in his most natural and adrenaline filled state, Superbi Squalo seems handsome. His violent passion seeps into his face, and those brine blue eyes, subtle smile, and soaked blonde hair suits him.

"Heey." He calls languidly, the Japanese sounds rolling off his tongue like a mean caress. "This style of yours, the one you call invincible," His voice raises high with the taunt. "—is that all there is to it?!"

That long hair of his, which is partly sticking to his face and partly dripping with water, is cut so his hard blue eyes have no difficulty into staring beyond. That posture, so perfect and high-class and ready to strike, contains the cunning and unbeatable beast within. Those dark and high lifted brows have only the slightest of tension. This man, his nerves are shuddering with the want to kill, his mind is churning with the ways to kill, and his expression seems to call out for Yamamoto-san. He wants more from him, more and more and more. His arm is definitely aching to slice and chop meat. My blood hums inside of me, that beating in my chest takes off, and more that anything that great Superbi Squalo absolutely deserves to win. I hope he looks this glorious when slaughtering Yamamoto Takeshi.

My classmate is frowning, understating his opponent's sheer genius and skill just as I have. That confidence of Yamamoto-san's hasn't wavered, but the pressure just increased ten-fold.

"Other than that, there is something else that I am not getting." Squalo says. "And that's that, during that swing just now, why did you use the back of the sword instead of the blade?"

Yamamoto-san smiles, and turns his head causing a runoff of water to slide down his face. "Well that—I did it to win against you, not to kill you."

Alana gasps at the unintentional insult and then laughs at the rudeness. I'm slightly aghast that such a young boy has the nerve to be so rude to his sempai. To say he doesn't have to take him carefully.

"HEEY!" Squalo roars, insulted. "AREN'T YOU UNDERESETIMADINGT ME TOO MUCH!" Then he goes in to strike. "Looks like you still don't understand what kind of situation you're in! I'll make it so you can never open that conceited mouth of yours again!"

Yamamoto Takeshi pulls up a water barrier with his sword, and Squalo, with a beastly grin and fluttering bangs, does the exact same while running. The waters swoosh up, and the shark goes in. For a second there is just that blue liquid, pouring and rushing down and up. Then emerges Squalo, his black leather uniform flashing along with a glint of his sword, and a splatter of blood comes from Yamamoto-san. My classmates barely holds his form together, internally fending off shock, and continues to watch Squalo as the man jumps back a step. Superbi flings the crimson from his blade and angles his thin face up, basking in feel of cutting. Those thick blonde bangs cover his gaze and a warm smile taunts on his pale lips.

"How's that! Hurts, doesn't it!? Let me tell you one last piece of bad news that will make you despair." He speaks cruelly and tilts his head up so that one focused blue eye peas out from his bangs and can focus on Yamamoto Takeshi's expression. "I've completely seen through all of your techniques. This Shigure Souen Style of yours is one I've already defeated long ago!"

By this point Yamamoto-san has lost his balance and now sits in the water, the bright blue liquid slowly easing past his hips. His back is hunched over slightly, but there is still a shine of fight left in him. Even as Superbi Squalo continues on with his story while showcasing a predatory smile.

"To defeat the man called Emperor of the Sword, and his mastery of the sword, I searched for strong opponents. Then, I heard of a vanquishing style in the east, a sword of murder said to be completely flawless. That was the Shigure Style." His low carrying voice rises into a victorious shout. He is basking in the memory. "I found them, the successor to the style and his two apprentices. They used the same eight forms as you." Something about his tone implies the battle was fun and killing them felt like a well-deserved honor. "But it was just some imitation of ancient sword technique! I experienced each and every form! It didn't do them any good! I sliced them to ribbons!"

I take note of how Squalo's Japanese speak looses its smoothness in the face of his excitement.

Yamamoto-san's head is hanging down, and his right hand is clutching at the bloody gouge on his left shoulder. The thin white button down and black undershirt is torn in the wounded area, giving full view of the split skin and streaming red. "I've never heard of such a thing..." The red blood oozes down and swirls with the blue water below. He stands up and the floating blood fades into a watery shadow. "The Shigure Souen I've heard about is completely flawless and invincible."

"Heeey! Are you an IDIOT?!" Squalo asks, and I think he really wants to know. Personally, my bet is that Yamamoto Takeshi is just really stubborn.

The Asian looks on, gaze still steady and water—maybe sweat?—pouring down his body. "You won't know if you don't give it a try."

The Shark looks on, gaze heated and murderous presence growing—no, revealing. His razor sharp teeth are bating themselves for dinner. "I'm... I'm done holding back. "

They lunge forward together, weapons held back ready to strike. Then Squalo is swinging his sword and splaying water everywhere, so much water it temporarily shields Yamamoto-san from my view, and then there is more swinging—Squalo is calm and smiling—and blood pops from my classmate's right eye. I gasp and shudder, clearly recalling when I scratched my cornea and the incredible pain that followed. Yamamoto-san gurgles of pain resonate with me as he hits the flooded ground. I look to Squalo who is moving on the balls of his feet, shouting out and going in for another swing with his hair flowing wildly behind him.

My classmate barely holds his blade up in time to repel the attack, and as he goes in for a swing with poor balance, his sword is hit with a strange clang. Squalo's sword rests against his for a moment, perhaps trying to push back Yamamoto-san. The shark's Spartan weapon climbs up into the air, the steel glinting with water and light, then falls down on climax like a guillotine. Yamamoto-san doesn't step away from the execution.

"Why doesn't he move?" I question, accidentally out loud. I shoot my brown eyes down and noticed smashed popcorn in my grasp after which I release onto the floor before looking back to the screen. Yamamoto-san punches his sword-wielding hand before being sent flying into the concrete wall by his opponent. He gets up as quickly as he can, his elbow against the wall and a bamboo stick in his other hand. The injured middle schooler whom I barely know, keeps himself from being sliced again. The strain in his face is pitiful, but my cheers lie with the thrill kill of a man, Superbi Squalo.

"So how is it?" The proud assassin mocks, while zooming in closer for Yamamoto-san's death. "You are looking a little under the weatheeeer!"

Yamamoto-san begins running as well, in the direction of his death, but makes a sudden leap on a collapsed pillar of concrete, then another leap onto the next floor. He's lucky that there are many dangerous and gaping holes in this building.

Wait a minute, isn't that a safety hazard? Why hasn't this building been torn down yet? Someone could get hurt!

I chalk it up to a Japanese thing, and watch with a grin as Squalo bursts through the concrete ground and continuously jabs his sword at Yamamoto-san in a fashion too quick to follow. When the numerous jabs end, and Squalo's sword is still clean of blood, Yamamoto-san beings to fall. His body plunges through the dangerous gaping hole and splats onto the water with a smack that hurts to the point I can even feel it.

The camera goes back to the victor. He stands tall in the sprinkling water, rain slipping down the long blonde hair that sticks and drips on his shiny and black leather-covered knees. His feet are spread wide, his head tilted down just so slightly that his eyes are unreadable from beneath his bangs, and his mouth curls up at both sides—satisfied. Superbi Squalo just glows in the luminescent light of victory.

"Well then brat! I'm going to shred your heart!"

Yamamoto Takeshi is laying against the rectangular concrete pillar, at the top, the only part not completely submerged in murky ultramarine blue. One piece of concrete lies limp in the lake, the other keeps him from sliding in and drowning to death. He looks shipwrecked. His only moving body part are those lips as they mumble about a dad who would be mad at this one-sided battle. The kid has finally lost his conceited self-confidence.

"Heey, you still wanna go? With that Shigure Style you're so proud of, How about it! Since you're the successor, how about I show you all eight forms." It's not really an offer, and even if it was, Yamamoto-san is too beaten to refuse. "In the end, when the eighth form Autumn Rain is released, you can just tragically disintegrate!" Even when speaking quietly, Squalo's words still seem to scream. The vicious man turns to the camera and smiles really pretty for it. "Heeey! You brats! This katana brat's ugliest last moments, you'd better burn them into your mind!"

He is gloating and shouting on the ledge of the hole, but from that pillar, the one that the water is slowly rising over, Yamamoto-san stands up. Even though his hanging head has no strength, that firm stance declares this fight is not yet over. Squalo tells him to lay down, offers to break him that way. With too much confidence, Yamamoto-san declines. "Because the Shigure Style is completely flawless and invincible."

Squalo's expression quiets, and thoughts church behind those sharp blue eyes. He is considering possibilities, his opponent's abilities, and his own strength. Then he smiles and vaults across the hole. "You trash! I'll start out by cutting out that insolent tongue of yours!"

Yamamoto-san rushes to meet him with blast of water flying at his feet, eventually jumping up so high that he lands behind Squalo on the second story. "Let's go."

"What did you come here for...?"

"Shigure Souen Style."

Both hands wrap around the hilt.

"Heey, looks like you don't have any brain cells."

The Asian dashes forward in typical baseball fashion, headfirst, and cutting and striding.

"I know that stance!"

Squalo lunges forward by the balls of his feet, just as Alana does when quickly moving, sword trailing behind him. "Do it now! Autumn Rain!"

The extravagant bamboo stick mists into the razor sharp blade again, the blade that is different shades of steel blue.

The swordsman's eyes are the same, steady, determined, seeing something in their opponent that is hidden from me. Closer they get, the high water parting beneath their feet, but never does the eye contact break. Closer, and closer. Splashing, and splashing. They are feet away from each other. Then black leather and a Spartan sword clashes with teenage casual and a katana, and water is everywhere, covering everything. The screen is blinded by the rushing blue, but clears quickly, revealing a black uniform and long hair being thrown back and a panting Asian youth standing firm. The katana is now bamboo again.

Squalo lands disgracefully in the water, on his back like a bitch. Poor guy, to be humiliated by an amateur swordsman. By a middle schooler.

"YOU! DID YOU USE A STYLE OTHER THAN SHIGURE SOUEN STYLE?!" His tone is absolute furry, and he is now turned onto his hands and knees. Though only his head and chest can be seen above the water.

"No," Yamamoto Takeshi explains, back turned to him and sword turned down. "That was also the Shigure Souen Style." Yamamoto-san smiles slightly, still watching Squalo from the corner of his eyes as he says, "The eighth form, pouring rain, was created by my dad."

Clearly his dad taught him this oh so sacred from but changed up the ending slightly so that it took the seasoned assassin by surprise. Why do men always feel the need to talk to each other about these things? Can't they ever just kill without words or wondering whys?

Squalo stands up silently with the water barely stirring as he did so. With that shiny black material he wears, the superior assassin wipes away the excess liquid from his face and fiercely glares at my classmate. "Hey, Brat...I really didn't think you would get this far." I here a hint of warm anger in his words, despite the calm demeanor around him. "So I don't get that pathetic strike with the back of your blade so far." He seems to be musing, mulling over what must seem to him, a grave insult. "You are making a mockery of a genuine match. Or do you have some other forms that I haven't seen before."

With idiotic honestly, the kid answers that the first through seven forms are the same one Squalo knows. This brat deserves to die for this stupidity alone! If Squalo doesn't win, I'm going to be super pissed.

"Looks like you are dead for sure after all!" Squalo proclaims with a hearty yell. "Having already tasted that poring rain once, I've already seen through it!"

Whoa, that's really cool. I don't know what 'seeing through it is' or the deal with poetic names for a sword movement is, but nonetheless Superbi sounds impressive.

"You really are something else. I guess there is nothing for it." Water drips off the golden bamboo sword as it rises into the air and Yamamoto-san grips it like a baseball bat. "Then I'll show it to you. Shigure Souen Style, Ninth form."

"What the hell is that ridiculous stance?" Squalo questions in ridicule and amusement. His eyes squint weirdly and unevenly, and he is holding back a laugh. "Are you planning to play baseball?

Yamamoto-san grits his teeth with a smile. Despite his bloodied and battered body, despite his ripped and torn clothes, despite his closed and swollen right eye, Yamamoto-san continues to smile and has a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "Unfortunately, I'm not much good at anything other than baseball."

"Why the fuck is this kid so confident?!" I ask the world, slightly outraged by the discreet and subtle arrogance. He is just so sure everything is going to go his way and he only barely tries to mask it. "Talk about a winner complex," I mutter.

"DON'T FEEZE UP ON ME BRAT!" Squalo yells gleefully while giving a succession of slashes, striking the water before him. The blade itself doges my eyes but its glints of light are clearly focused on one point. "EXPERIENCE THE TRUE POWER OF MY SWORD!"

Then like Moses, the water arches back and parts for him like the red sea. "DIE!" He screams, raising up a gigantic water wall, disproportional to his size, and only a light shadow can be seen through it.

"Let's go!" Yamamoto-san says before the water wall, moving by Squalo's sword, completely consumes him into its blue abyss.

...

...

Did he drown?

No, he disappeared.

Takeshi Yamamoto holds his sword horizontally in a defensive position, unscathed by Squalo's attack, breaking the water that hits him. It now falls like furious rain in the stadium. Squalo continues to chase after him, weaving around inside of an animated bullet of water, forcing his opponent to jerk his body around wildly to keep up. I don't question how he preforms the inhuman technique but watch on as he finally connects his sword with Yamamoto-san's. The middle schooler is blown backward in the air but manages to land on his feet and keep moving, dodging behind a pillar. Naturally Squalo follows, still encased in his mobile wall of water though it is dissipating fast.

The next actions happen so quickly I miss part of it when looking away in search of my large thermos of milk. I put the plastic opening to my parched lips when my attention is caught on Yamamoto-san being impaled through his stomach mid-air by Squalo's mechanical and unnaturally bent hand. Squalo twirls around, blond locks flailing with him, and the current of water crashes against his back as he stops. His stance never wavers, the assassin barely notices the wave, instead focused on something else. There was no falling body.

From behind, Yamamoto appears with his sword silently swinging down, every second of baseball practice utterly evident, crashing upon the back of Squalo's head before the seasoned assassin can draw his next breath. There is a confused pause, all of us in the audience are trying to figure out what just happened. Because it doesn't make sense. Then Squalo's body starts to fall and our senses come rushing back to reality. Oh. Shit that was quick.

"He won."

My favorite swordsman withers to the wet ground with his pretty silver strands fluttering behind him. No other movement follows.

The screen switches to a headshot of Yamamoto-san, who is grinning wildly with his injured right eye slammed shut. Ripped skin and bloody cuts don't hinder the happy expression he wears. He holds up an encrusted silver ring as proof. "I won."

Then deep laughter erupts. "He lost!" The man's—no, the monster's, I correct with a shiver—cruel and ruthless roars, filled to the brim with amusement, are even apparent in his words. "How pathetic!" Xanxus screams with laughter. "That Trash!"

I lift myself up and slide off the blanket-covered desk. With a few steps toward the classroom window, I rest my form against wall and continue peering out. A strange anger burns in my chest; it is righteous and flaming as I argue against Xanxus's ridicule. Squalo lost by chance, and despite his lost is still one of the best swordsmen out there. It's unfair to just mock him like this, to just throw him away as if he's worthless. From what I've seen tonight, he's worth everything. Squalo loves his profession, revels in what he does, and is damn good at it. A man like that deserves more than mockery from a thoughtless thug.

Yet my anger dissipated just as quickly as I look to the screen. My gaze is lost on the unconscious man paraded around on the screen. I never bother to look at the Varia or the young candidates: my eyes are only on him. If you fail a mission in the Varia, you die. I know this and am already feeling the world's loss. Such passion. Such talent. He was a man that outshone the world.

"He's outlived his usefulness. " Xanxus says darkly, blithely.

"Boss there's no need for you to do it yourself."

"Should I take care of it?"

"Please stop." A Cervello request with that irritating and monotone voice. "It is dangerous to enter the aquarium at the moment. The designated water depth has been reached, and the ferocious sea beast has been released."

On screen a metal gate is opened, and a mutant shark on steroids swims ferociously out. Larger than a whale shark and more aggressive than a Great White, the thing easily swarms around the completely flooded first floor. I blink twice, stunned at the monstrous spectacle.

The fucking Vongola keep getting weirder and weirder.

I frown, thinking over the strange things I've been shown this week. Time traveling bazooka, magic flames, man-killing robots, swordsmen that can manipulate water. I breathe in deeply, ignoring the murmuring outside over Squalo's fate. The mafia is extraordinarily weird and incredibly crazy. They do impossible feats and then chalk it up to being cool. I smile, considering the concept. They are sort of like Alana and I.

On the movie screen, Yamamoto-san slings Squalo's arm across his shoulder and attempts to hold him up, but the Italian man is too tall and too heavy though, that overwhelming height obvious even compared to my tall classmate. The rain battle victor seems to crouch under the burden. Even the assassin's sword is uncooperative, dragging against the ground awkwardly. His eyes slide over toward the camera sheepishly, and his expression is too innocent for a natural born killer. "It's only natural to save someone in this situation, right?"

I glance back toward my cousin who is chewing on a chocolate chip cookie. Her brown eyes are focused on the projected images but are widened with disbelief. "This kid is an idiot isn't he?" I say a slight condescension in my voice.

My head tits toward the window the window and some soft hair brushes against my cheek at the movement. Even in poor lighting, its easy to see Dee make a face at what she considers idiocy. The scorn is her own, sensible, form of self-righteousness. I'll never tell her that part of me agrees saving with the talented and impressive Superbi Squalo. And that's why, because I'm so desperately grateful Squalo is being saved, I have to call Yamamoto-san a fool for it. Because I know it is foolish yet would do the same exact thing.

"Evidently, who the hell saves someone that was trying to kill them thirty seconds ago?"

The answer suddenly seems obvious to me, in an ironic type way. "The Vongola."

With snark and cynicism, and of course humor, she states that it is a first on the Vongola's behalf. I smile at the snide comment just as I do at all of her other snide comments. My cousin's greatest charm is her sense of humor. Her second greatest is her too white teeth.

The ominous dorsal fin glides through the water, murky blue aqua being pushed as it narrows in on Yamamoto-san's and Squalo's location. The leaking blood from my classmate attracts the hungry shark, the monstrous fish circles on the flooded story below, waiting and anticipating its prey. The moment those two fall, their skin will be shredded and ripped from their bones and every part of them will be disfigured and digested.

"Haha. How scary." The teenage boy says without a smile. "But it can't reach us yet."

But then the floor bellows them severs and both swordsman fall into the water below. Irony is God's joke to the world. A large piece of concrete keeps them afloat but the shark fin is coming.

"Hey! Your too noisy!" Squalo, who seems to have woken up, yells and then kicks Yamamoto-san away from him-away from the shark and the danger. My classmate lands, rather softly, on a far off island of ruble and Squalo stays as bait for the shark. And the predator bites, lunging out of the water, gulping Squalo, before immediately sinking back to its dark blue lair. The only left overs is a stream of furious bubbles, popping and gurgling on the surface. Then they stop, the water surface going still.

For a whole moment no one dare breathes.

The blue water swishes and streams calmly, even as red begins to stain the surface. Dark red floats aloft the blue ripples and I feel slightly sick as the Varia boss begins rudely laughing. Alana says something, to which I causally reply, but in my head there is only that red stain. Eaten alive. I'm ready to go home now.

I watch Yamamoto-san's figure, alone on the island of ruble with nothing but a bitter taste of death. Luckily, the camera only shows his back. It would be too sad to see his expression.

A Cervello appears on screen, announcing the winner (Yamamoto) and the next battle (mist). Immediately afterwards, we begin packing up our tasty treats. All the cookies, chips, candy, popcorn, sandwiches, and crackers are stuffed into Ziploc bags then stored away in the wicker basket, I take a swig of the cold milk before sealing it off and putting that away too. Dee only has us wait for ten minutes, enough time for all others to clear out, before leaving the school as well. There is no trouble this time as we walk to Alana's car—no bike because apparently it was stolen yesterday—and the drive is peaceful and quiet.

When we go home, cold conditioned air greets us. We speak for a moment then head to bed early. Surrounded by the cold blue blanket I used earlier, cuddled in the clothes I've been wearing all day, my eyes shut, closing off the image of slight light hiding beneath my door and closing off the tiredness that has been subtly creeping in. The smell of my room curls in my nose, and everything gets so comfortable and easy. I vaguely notice sleep drifting in. My last conscious thought is of the deceased swordsman, the one who was an emperor of his craft, revered and worshiped as an idol by killers. My last conscious thought is of how sad it is that he died.