Disclaimer: Kill Bill and its characters aren't mine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was all about the contrast. The pleated skirt spinning as she hurled a shuriken, the brackish spatters on a pristine white sneaker, the long ivory hand settling around her shoulders as if she was the one being protected. They way O-Ren would sometimes drop a maternal kiss on the smooth head and the two of them would share a knowing glance at their own apparent innocence.
There was no room for anything but impersonality. Dead gaze piercing out from under ebony fringe, eyelashes lowering over cold eyes that missed nothing. She did not love, but the juxtaposition pleased her. Smiling, switching her skirt like she had skipped straight out of some second-rate manga, bubblegum and pink fingernails (but only on occasion--it's difficult to clean under her nails when there's polish in the way, and she has little patience for such things), the satisfaction of leaving a victim with a final crystalline giggle ringing in his ears. Coquettishly knifing, bright sprays plastering her blouse against her, then sauntering away with a smile on her lips and a hum in her heart. When she was younger, she would go sneaking into schools sometimes, for the fun of it. But little Gogo is older now.
O-Ren is her goddess, and Gogo respects nothing. A killer at eleven, though, that's admirable; violence and beauty and always composed, something to send one's aspirations soaring. Gogo, in spite of herself, does not aspire, would rather not rise at all. Bodyguard to the best of the best, how much higher is there to go before she's in charge? This is precisely what she wishes to avoid. There's no fun in being at the head of things, ordering everyone else to do the dirty work. Gogo likes the dirty work best. She's a Yubari, at home in the grit of it all. And the contrast is beautiful as blood.