The Apocalypse According To-
A book of prophecies gone horridly right.
Anathema was fifteen when she shot her first gun.
She missed, and that simply cemented her dismal future. It started with a
-boom, h e a d s h o t.
"And who do we have here?"
No one in particular, no one you need to know/see/hear. Vanilla made sure of it, made sure that no one knew about her little secret. Vanilla was a pretty girl, sure, but she wasn't stupid. She knew that she couldn't simply click her feraligtr flats and go back home.
Because that's not only wishful thinking of the most insidious sort, it's also pathetic.
So, Vani decided, at the young age she was, that no one would find out about the girl she knew by Anathema. It would allow Tiki to kill her, and that was something she wasn't going to allow, no, no, no.
Not because she cared. Because she didn't.
Vanilla was going to be the one to kill Anathema, no exceptions.
Matthias (Momo, he would correct with a steely gaze) hated his current predicament. He hated it, because he knew, deep (deep, deep) inside, that it was kind of his fault. Before the Mafia princess came into his life, there had been a girl.
(A girl? Tequila's smile would turn absolutely feral at the mention of this. Cue two steps forward, a gun at Momo's temple, and a click - I better not hear about her, ever. Wouldn't want to get her into any trouble.)
There had been a girl, with eyes like stars, and a smile that would light up a city. They had been only seven, only children, only so (so, so) innocent.
But that was it. Nothing else. Momo simply wanted the girl, the only artifact of his once upon a fairytale life, to stay intact.
Alas, the chances of she living were slim, zero to none. Tiki wasn't too happy with her existence and contacted some of his buddies. She was found dead in a canal, drifting down a sloping hill, flowers in her hair like a parody of Ophelia. Momo had stared (stared, screamed, kicked, and punched the next son of a bitch who crossed paths with him), and left the area. He went back to the café, like nothing had happened, and handed Vanilla the bag of groceries she sent him to retrieve.
He swore he saw her smirk, but the moment passed as soon as it happened. She returned to the passive drone she was, and Momo went outside, to smoke a delicious pack of cigarettes he had been hiding from Tiki for the last two weeks.
Tequila wasn't someone you screwed with. That was a common fact in the underground scene. If you knew about the boy with angelic grace and demonic feats, then you knew that it would be better for your life expectancy if you didn't know him.
So, when Anathema chanced upon him in the local grocery store, she nearly sprinted out of the store. He was as stunning as described, with blond curls framing his sharp face, and the most gorgeous pair of dark blue eyes. Or where they light blue?
She couldn't tell, they were just so (so, so) pretty. They were hypnotizing. So, she stood, immobile for quite a time, until his lips stretched into a fake smile (so fake, so disgusted), and he lightly tapped her shoulder.
"Excuse me, you're in my way." he chirped, as she silently moved to the side, like a doormat. He didn't look back.
She let out a sigh of relief and immediately decided she wasn't hungry anymore and wanted to go home. So she did.
Until she arrived on the corner of Rio and Atlantic. The busiest pair of streets in the city. Normally, she would continue down on Rio until she hit Holly, and arrived at her cozy one-room home.
Not today, though. She turned left on Atlantic and slipped into one of the narrow alleyways, suddenly developing hyperawareness. She could feel the cold barrel of her favorite Webley-Fosbery press against her thigh, hidden in the folds of her white dress. She clutched the fabric, fingers wrapping around the trigger. Her customer should be arriving soon.
Black eyes scanned the area, and pale lips twisted into a sadistic grin as a suit-wearing faux-gentleman stumbled upon the alleyway. He approached the girl, a lecherous glint dancing in his emerald gaze. He wore a mightyena coat, and serperior boots.
He looked like a train wreck, and Anathema loved that. No one would miss him.
Click. Click. Click.
Anathema radiated displeasure. "Hello."
The man came closer, and whispered, quietly, calmly - "You're here to kill me, Anabel?"
Oh, so that was the name she was using now. Oops. Anathema stifled a chuckle.
"No, sir. I'm not."
(I don't want to kill you/I don't have the need/want/desire to kill you. I just need/want/desire your money.
Fact: Anathema was just a silly girl who shouldn't own a gun.
Fact: Anathema was so poor, she couldn't afford the last two letters of the word. She was 'po'.
Fact: She didn't give a fucking shit. She was going to shoot this man.
She fumbled with her aim and shot his femur.
And two blocks away, Vanilla hears. Vani sips her nonfat decaf chai latte nonchalantly, and smiles like the insane. Momo decides that he never saw Vani smile, and that he should go do something else to eradicate the image from his mind.
Vanilla notices something. She notices Tiki's absence.
And the smile disappears.
Fact: Anathema didn't kill the man.
She ran like the weak-ass coward she was. She managed to swipe his wallet, and his coat, which she planned to sell in next week's black market. At least she managed to accumulate enough money to pay off her tuition.
That was what mattered.
Fact: Anathema had no want to kill. She had a want for money.
Fact: She was a high school student, attending the most prestigious academy in the city.
Fact: She was there on a foundation base off of lies.
Fact: She cheated her way in.
And that was perfectly fine with her.
"Tiki's been gone for a while, huh?"
Momo hates the way her voice changes when talking about Tequila. He hates the way her eyes waver towards the café door. He hates everything about Vanilla Filastrocca when Tequila is the subject of their conversation.
Vanilla will not receive any kind of sympathy from Momo. It will not happen.
"Don't need to be rude, faggot."
She does not deserve any sympathy. She's one of Tiki's minions. All fake and plastic.
"Shut the fuck up."
Sometimes, he wants to be nice. Really. Honest to whatever god reigned over them. Vanilla was a pretty girl, and he wouldn't mind trying (hoping/wishing/wanting/attempting) to get to know her better. Attempting (hoping/wishing/wanting/trying) to form some sort of relationship that didn't have a mutual tie in murder and mafiosi.
But then, he remembers that she's just a bitch in sheep's clothing.
The café opens, and a girl walks in.
She looks like hell, like heaven. She looks like she wants to die.
Good thing that the Happy Brigade Café specialized in that.
Anathema realizes, two-point-three-seconds too late, she has walked into a trap. Like a luxray, the girl in feraligtr flats pounces. She flashes a frightening grin, and presses a Mateba against the black-haired girl's temple.
"My, my, Anathema."
Anathema is going to die.
Is, as in, in the future, Anathema will die. Not now, not as she sits in a room filled with twenty other adolescents.
Etymology, the study of the origin of words. She's never liked the class, and she will never get a chance to change her mind about that.
The teacher is okay, though, she decides. Professor Kyrie, a transfer from some faraway land where they have temples and sacred mountains.
Kyrie loves etymology. She also loves pointing out the origin of the name Anathema.
Fact: Anathema used to be something lifted up as an offering to the gods; it later evolved to mean:
to be formally set apart;
banished, exiled, excommunicated;
denounced, sometimes accursed.
It was obvious that Anathema got the short straw, here.
But Professor Kyrie, and her bottle blonde bob and hazy gray eyes didn't know this. She thought that the studious scholarship student in the back of her classroom was a girl by the name of Anabel.
Fact: The name Anabel comes from the Latin term that means lovable.
Vanilla doesn't like the black-haired girl. She's going to kill her, of course.
But it goes farther than that, she thinks. She remembers when they used to be friends, in a land where they only spoke Italian, before her mother got murdered by some son of a bitch, and before everything changed.
Maybe it was because of envy. But Vanilla can't feel envy. Vanilla can't feel anything.
She can thank her dear Tiki for that, with his aura doubling as a black-hole.
Vani likes thinking of all the advantages of getting rid of Anathema. Vani would be able to chop off the girl's hair, and take her heirloom diamond rings. It would be fine.
Vanilla liked the word fine.
Momo sometimes wondered what would happen if everyone was sucked into Tiki's black-hole. What would happen if everyone lost the capacity to feel every emotion besides happiness?
That would be the apocalypse, he was sure. To think that people would follow Tiki's footsteps, murder with a smile. It would be a...happiness plague.
How disgustingly ironic.
He hated the word ironic.
Tequila arrives at the scene, just on time, like a magician. His blond curls are prettier than ever, and Anathema scolds herself for noticing this at a time of crisis. She was being held at gunpoint by the angel of death, and another absolutely gorgeous male with dead eyes was staring at her like an alien specimen.
It's been three-seconds. The café is silent. Tequila smiles, porcelain teeth hiding monstrous fangs, Anathema's sure.
"My, my, Vani, I didn't realize you had a score to settle."
He's pissed. He's so very pissed, it's almost laughable. But Anathema doesn't know this.
Momo does. He knows Tiki, and he unconsciously steps back.
Vanilla tries her best not to respond to Tiki's hollow threat. She simply presses the revolver harder, burying it into Anathema's skin.
"It's none of your business." Vanilla deadpans.
Fact: It wasn't any of Tequila's business.
It was the business of an envious ten year old, without a mother, with a demented father. It was the business of Vanilla Filastrocca, not of Tequila, not of Momo.
And she was finally going to get over it.
Anathema didn't bother pleading. She knew that as soon as Vanilla placed the gun on her head, she was done for.
And it ended the way it started -
with a boom!, h e a d s h o t.
The blood splatters all over the ivory tile.
Tiki's lips twitch.
Momo sighs. He picks up the body, doesn't even bother saying anything. He leaves.
Tequila glares at Vanilla. She does not notice. She puts away her gun.
The three misfits look at each other. Then the floor.
"Rock, paper, scissors?" offers Tequila.
The other two oblige.
and that's it-
A/N: Adhfaljd jl ;w; This was for Happy2BeMe's contest. Of course, I'm the loser who enters her piece on the last day. XD That said, I don't own the lovely Tiki, Vani, and Momo. They're too cool, and I didn't do 'em justice. DX Oh well. Anathema's a bitch to write. This is why I don't write mafia pieces. I leave that to the professionals.