A/N

I don't own KHR, just the OC and plot. Please review and enjoy!

*BOOOM!*

"OH MY GOD IT EXPLODED! RUN FOR YOUR LIIIIIIIVEEEEESSS!"

"…."

"SAVE OUR SOULS, IT'S THE END OF THE WOOOORRLLLLDD!"

Another explosion sounded, followed by a high pitch scream of metal bending and twisting before a distinct "thunk!" to the ground.

"….Bella….che hai fatto." (1)

"…Cesa-I uh, added the nitroglycerin…like you asked...in the recipe…thingy…"

"No. There was no nitroglycerin in the recipe. No. Sei il simbolo dell'idiozia! Sciocco! Idiota!" (2)

"Mi dispiace…" (3)

"Alcune cose sono così dire 'scusa' non basta! Torna qui stronza!" (4)

"eheh…no?"

"…"

"AI! Va bene, va bene, scusa, scusa, scusa, non uccidermi!" (5)

And that was how, three months into my internship in the weapons division, I lost my job. Picture a skinny, black-haired, 16-year-old girl who's been eating junk and avoiding exercise ever since she was entered into the mafia academy. European Korean mix with pale skin from staying indoors and thick glasses because, haha, je suis un nerd. Now imagine this short, friendly looking individual sitting on the curb outside a massive limestone building modeled after a Greek temple. She has exactly zero luggage, smoke still coming off singed and burned hair, and a factory smock over a military style uniform. That, dear reader, would be me.

"Well, there goes another potential future," I muttered, blowing an ashy strand of hair away from my nose.

Leaning back on the sidewalk and ignoring the filth that it no doubt was covered with, I stared up at the sky. I'd been living in this little old town in middle-of-nowhere Italy since my last internship went kablooey. That's how mafia school works, you go through lower education learning stupid stuff a normal person doesn't need, then in high school they toss you out to take jobs in the "real world" and "learn by experience."

I experienced a severe reluctance to pull the trigger on my first hit, and so the assassination route was nixed from my resume. Such a shame, I scored highest in the class for marksmanship and rationality.

.

Then, since it was such a disappointment to the school and the principal thought I could be "fixed," I was sent off to training camp in mother-fucking Siberia for five and a half months and given a crash course in "do what you're told, follow the rules." They got rid of me when a slot opened up in a femme fatale program in mainland China. Honestly, that job wasn't so bad since I got to take language courses for a few months before I started hits.

Buuuut, well, there's a huge ick factor involved in being a femme fatale, and you're not allowed to physically assault the target if they try anything funny. You're supposed to encourage that sort of hanky panky, funny business. I did better than at the first internship, I held out until about the twelfth job, but I have an anaphylactic response to pedophiles, and I sort of broke my target's face. And hands. And, well, lower area.

'Twas worth it, "je ne regrette rien!" as Edith Piaf would say.

.

Apparently the school figured I shouldn't be allowed out in the field for a while and that I must, I quote, "learn to appreciate the opportunities for action this institution affords you with." Hah, joke's on them: the weapons division is fricken amazing.

The place looks like a cross between the warehouse from Indiana Jones and a sci-fi heaven of a research lab. You could live indoors for months and never have a moment of regret or boredom. I know this because it's exactly what I did.

See, I honestly loved this internship, and I did not try to get myself tossed to the curb (no pun intended) but my brain isn't really wired for mathematics and precise numbers. I'm a bit more guessworky than is allowed in the lab, and this time I screwed up too much for Cesarino to tolerate. The guy is an honest to goodness genius, but he has issues.

I made those issues worse, it's true, but it's not like they weren't there before I showed up. The other internees ought to have thanked me for drawing all his crankiness my way and making them look so good.

Anyway, long story short, I blew up a mixture that was supposed to go in a prototype bomb by accidentally tipping nitroglycerin in and starting a reaction, which just so happened to destroy some robot that Cesarino's been obsessed with. Was what I did all that bad? Eh, so-so. It was forgivable. Blowing up that robot though? Not so much.

Bertoldo shouldn't have left the damn thing out anyways.

.

.

"It's not so bad, at least it's nice out, blue skies and all. Maybe now the old man can finally lose all hope and die in despair: name another heir and scoot the family along. Ah! Breathe the fresh air! Let go of the shame!"

Breathing deeply, I managed to time things just right to choke on the exhaust of a passing truck. Eyes and nose burning, I rolled over on the pavement wheezing and coughing hard enough to hack up a lung.

"Merde! Ah! *cough, cough* I'm dying!"

"You're not dying. Get up."

At first I thought the voice had come from inside my (slightly asphyxiated)head, but the shiny shoes in my peripherals disagreed with that conclusion.

"Eh? *cough, cough*" Spitting into the road and wiping at my nose frantically, I refocused on the mysterious newcomer that had addressed me.

For a moment I thought my mind was tricking me, a long shadow of a formidable man cutting across the ground. Blinking and readjusting my glasses, I instead saw a toddler in a suit and fedora. I blinked rapidly.

Okay. One of three things is happening here. One, I misheard and the baby is with someone who said I am not, in fact, dying (which is debatable, we are all in the process of dying- focus!). There's no one else around except for that nonna selling apples.

Two, I'm hallucinating as an after effect of the explosion fumes. Very possible, but there should be other side effects physically, and I feel nothing.

Three, the kid really said that and has crawled out of mafia land to come kick my ass. That…is very probable. Stranger things have happened…and the principal is an asshole and a half.

Remembering Siberia and all it's winter glory, I went with option three. Trust me, it's better to look like a lunatic than piss off a mafia messenger. They all answer to someone, and you never know who that someone is.

.

"Er. Hi. And you are?"

It, he, whatever, smirked and tipped his (it's?) hat condescendingly.

"Caiossu. I'm the hitman Reborn. I'm here to bring you to your next job."

My face froze.

Fucking, shit, NO. We, the royal we, are not landing ourselves back in assassination class. Shooting fathers in the head when they just get home to their wife and baby is not an acceptable profession. NO.

Reborn must've seen something in my face, a stubbornness that came through enough to make his smirk widen. Sitting up straighter and adopting the poker face and cold voice I used for business, I said evenly,

"Interesting. I don't recall being given a reassignment. In fact, as far as I'm aware, I'm due for a meeting at the academy tomorrow to discuss my current situation. I'll have to decline your…offer."

"That's not a choice you get to make."

"Oh?" My eyes went dead, and I let a little killing intent roll off me as I studied the kid. He gave off the aura of an experienced hitman, an adult, and I'd already learned that it's safer to trust your gut and not your eyes.

Pulling his hat further down to shadow his pudgy face, a green lizard-gecko thing morphed into a gun. I stared.

Okay. That just happened.

IT WAS A LIZARD, A L-I-Z-A-R-D, AND NOW IT'S A GUN. FREAKIN WHAAAAA?!

And now he has a gun, and you have….nothing. Great. I love where this is going. God, when I die, can you please take me to heaven and keep out the loony mafia men? Please?

I've been good…

Decent...

...

You know you love me.

Keeping a balance between cool headedness (ha ha, please) and bodily tension, I shifted to anticipate his next move. We studied each other for a moment, I don't know how long, but after several minutes he lowered the gun and I relaxed my shoulders, eyes still watching him like a hawk.

"Good. You'll do. Get up, we're going to clean you up and outfit you for school."

Turning, the baby walked away without a second glance, just oozing smugness and authority. Bastard.

"Excuse me? Um, I have my uniform on under this, and also, can you please back up and give me some details? Do you have a dossier or something I can look at? Maybe a seal of authorization so I know who the heck is calling the shots?" He gave me a dry look as I stumbled after him.

"Use your brain Bella, I'm calling the shots. Take off that smock, you look hideous."

Pointedly ignoring that comment, I snorted.

"Yeah, right. You're just a hitman, you don't call the shots, doesn't matter how good you are. Who's your boss and what are the details? Quit being cryptic and show some professionalism damnit!"

The kid smirked again, wider this time like he was pleased with something, and before I knew it I was flat on my back with a yelp, a green cane wrapped around one ankle. Standing over my head, Reborn nodded in approval, eyes calculating.

"I can see why Mancini was so adamant about your potential, and your evident flaws. Here's the dossier, read it while we walk and keep your mouth shut. The next time you talk to me like that I'll do more then flip you on your back."

With a chilling look in his eyes, the baby let me up and handed me a sleek, black leather folder stamped with a very familiar seal.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," I whispered, eyes wide as my pulse skyrocketted.

This is a joke.

"It is not a joke. Read it."

Jerking my head up to retort, I paused. He reads minds. FUCK. The fedora baby looked, daring me to come out and say what I was thinking, like he really hoped I'd slip up, and so I clamped my mouth shut and brushed myself off. I ain't walking into a trap like that.

.

.

Flipping through the five sheets of paper enclosed within, I couldn't help muttering to myself.

"This is unbelievable. What even is this job? And, why? Why me? What cou- the hell!?"

There, on the last page was a personal letter written to me and signed with a sky flame. I turned the paper around in my hands, twisting it this way and that, watching bewildered as the little drop of amber fire sputtered and flicked about in response. The baby was watching and I quickly dropped the sheet, clearing my throat a little.

I think my embarrassing reaction can be forgiven when you consider that I've literally only ever read about that sort of thing in textbooks. I can count on one hand the boss's who have the flame type and the caliber to actually pull off such a signature, and on the other I can tell you how many people I know who've ever seen one up close. Nobody teaches signatures like that, only old families, deep families still have the knowledge and keep the practice.

My point is, a real, bonifide, important boss wrote a letter to me and signed it. Nobody signs letters anymore, nobody even writes letters anymore! They just type, copy, computer stamp it and hit print! It's a big deal, and it's weird. Strange, not good, foreboding: bring out your SAT words people, because I have a lot of feelings roiling around and none of them are pleasant.

A signature like that is mark of significance, of an issue of importance. It's the sort of thing you see when a boss invokes Omerta, and I as I skimmed the letter I wanted to laugh because, haha, go figure, he was. 'Cause you know, I can't be trusted to keep my yap shut about the sort of job that would put a bigger target on me than I already have. Right.

My eyeballs will now proceed to fall out of my head from rolling them.

.

.

.

Dear Miss Kan,

It is with great confidence and expectation that I confer the title of bodyguard to you. Under the observation and leadership of Reborn, you are to guard and guide the future heir to the position of Vongola X, my grandson Tsunayoshi Sawada. This position necessitates total secrecy and discretion of the highest level, therefore, should you choose to accept the position, I shall evoke the code of Omerta and with it total compliance with the measures set in place by Reborn. All materials and equipment will be provided for through the family, and you will receive pay in an amount of $20,000 monthly to your bank account #xxxxxxxxxxxxx. Please read through the enclosed information and consider it carefully. We'll be in touch.

09/20/xxxx

Timoteo Vongola, Ninth

The flame flickered and waved underneath.

.

.

It's stupid, but all I could think to say looking at the letter, the insignia, and the flame signature was:

"Well, that's redundant."

.

.

Translations:

Italian

1) What did you do?

2) You are the epitome of idiocy! Fool! Idiot!

3) Sorry

4) Some things are so bad saying sorry isn't enough! Get back here you bitch!

5) Ouch! All right, all right, sorry, sorry, sorry, don't kill me!

French:

Je ne regrette rien = I regret nothing

Merde = shit

Set to update: 03/01/2020