[Fanfic][KHR!][Vongola] Nature and/of Humanity
This is what happens when I decide to do prompt!writing. Sob. Will write another one to this to make it... good. Better. Argh.
Title: Nature and/of Humanity
Day/Theme: January 14, “Every human folly”
Series: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Characters/Pairings: Vongola (...Vongola/World?)
Rating: PG, for some very... very vague themes and references.
Word Count: INFINITY. Uh, 1,172. Or so.
Vongola is a name.
In fact, it is a term, a word that literally translated means “clam”, means any edible mollusk. An insignificant, nondescript, simple word that beyond occasionally featuring on menus or a fisherman’s list of catches doesn’t show up all too often. A word that is easy to forget, ignore, lose in the recesses of memory only to be rediscovered the next time you sit down to an Italian meal at an Italian restaurant.
Vongola. So simple, so easy.
So deadly to forget what has become the new meaning of the word, now that it is a name. A Name, with full capitalization, will full merits as a proper noun. With all the power that comes with it.
Few in the outside, normal world know of it. Unlike most of their contemporaries, Vongola does not run a single huge corporation, with all of the company’s dealings traceable, trackable. No, better to start a few small companies, build them up from the ground. Say you were an investor all along, and some of those strange dealings? That’s just how it’s always been. And if it’s too late to help build them up, then buy up stocks. Lots of stocks. Just enough to have a large portion of control, but few enough to go unnoticed.
Spread your power, spread your influence. With most groups, this would weaken them. Vongola, though. Vongola thrives on adversity. The harder the situation, the stronger they become. Like clams, with hard shells that-until you pry them open-will remain where they are, as they are, for their entire existence. And prying the shell off Vongola isn’t easy.
No.
It’s impossible.
They are clams with the abilities of spiders, weaving their webs across the world. Encircling it so tightly that few gaps remain, with a gossamer thread so fine, so soft, very few will ever see it is there. Information, money, power, influence: all things get stuck to their webs, and Vongola does with them as it wishes. A few torn parts, ripped to shreds by climate or caught bugs, are easily repaired. Quickly, efficiently, very little fuss or pomp. Unlike the Camorra, unlike most companies, losing control of a situation or area isn’t crippling, isn’t something that can weaken them, but it is an opportunity to show their power, their skills and strengths. Not that most people recognize these events as such. Not that most people could.
Unlike peacocks with their bright plumage, Vongola doesn’t show off regularly, they don’t stand out. Standing out brings attention, which, for them, can be good. But it also brings envy, and greed, and murderous thoughts. So easy to be a target. Even easier to turn the situation around, though, and make someone else into a target. Sometimes a black widow ploy works best (spin your web, catch them, make them stand by your side until they are useless and then devour them for your own needs), or sometimes it’s easier to be a Venus flytrap (lure them in with color, with beauty, and once they’re there don’t bother pretending to be a friend, just gobble them up in a few swift gulps).
So easy. So simple, for them. Masters and Mistresses of deceit, fused into their masks by necessity. Harlequins and Hellequins all, the jokers and the entertainers and the back-stabbing, lying murderers. Your best friend, your worst enemy. Your only path to redemption.
They are brutal, efficient, unyielding. A leopard striking, a lioness hunting, and yet there is no satisfying their hunger. The hunters of the world, preying on the lesser species. Endlessly. So long as there exists a lesser species to prey upon, so long as there is someone willing to step into that role, Vongola will never cease. Almost like a cancer, albeit a cancer that preys upon other cancers. The carcinogen to a malignant tumour, instead of to ripe human flesh. The only problem is that even when the tumour is gone, there is a hole. A gap that needs to be filled. And no part of the human body, of the system of the world, can ever fill it quickly enough.
Unless there’s something already there, already planning on being a stopgap. Maybe not as efficient or well-designed as before, maybe not quite enough to fill the hole, or perhaps too big for its borders. Still, it’s something. And until the body, the world, is able to create something to replace it, then it’s stuck there, more eternal than permanent marker. An illusion of normalcy, where no one besides the illusion or the magicians who cast it will realize the truth.
Lies, cheating, masquerades. Playing the roles so perfectly that it’s hard to tell who or what you’re dealing with. Hard to remember who or what any one person was before. A non-existence, where “self” is melted down and becomes part of “whole”, of “community” and “family”. A world of glamour, of riches, of endless possibilities; a world of squalor, of cold street corners and waste-strewn alleyways, of having no other option but to do what you can to survive. Of all of that and everything in between, all at the same time. So very delicate, so very hard to keep a balance. And yet it can be done, needs to be done.
A woman who is simultaneously the greatest fashion designer in the world and the best negotiator; a man who is both teacher of children and murderer of adults. Which is the lie, which is the truth? Does it matter? Are you sure that the person you’ve known all your life is really who they were at birth? At puberty? Even ten minutes ago? Do they have a reason for the change? Do they need one?
Very few recognize the name Vongola. Not many of those will likely exist for much longer. Still, until that time, they’re useful. Some of them so useful that they’ve earned themselves an immunity, an amnesty from the King who chooses to switch the guillotine to life servitude. Harsh, cruel, yet strangely kind.
Those few indentured servants might recognize the signs, the patterns of Vongola and their movements. But no one knows the inside of Vongola. No one is allowed to. True natures are dangerous things, and Vongola is a collection of the most dangerous things in the world. They play a song, and the rest of the universe dances unthinkingly, impulsively, to their steps. Until the world is strong enough to break free, that is enough. That is all the connection to outsiders, even their own contemporaries, that Vongola needs.
Yet still.
For all their similarities to animals, plants, the movement of the stars; to flora and fauna innumerable; Vongola are, always will be, clams. One big clam that everyone else orbits as satellites to a sun. A clam that is impossible to open, one that has been growing and collecting for hundreds of years.
And, if it was possible to open this clam... well.
However rare it might be, from within clams come some of the most beautiful pearls.
Dear Hod, never let me write stream of consciousness/semi-introspective things again. NEVER. Also, while I could have since it's still the 14th, I am horribly, horribly shy of all the amazing writers over @ 31_days and don't want to embarrass myself in front of them. BECAUSE THIS IS EMBARRASSING.
So it's posted here, because everyone who is a friend knows that I'm a complete dork and nerd who rarely makes sense. ON MY OWN JOURNAL, I HAVE NO SHAME. NONE. BWAHAHA.
Title: Nature and/of Humanity
Day/Theme: January 14, “Every human folly”
Series: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Characters/Pairings: Vongola (...Vongola/World?)
Rating: PG, for some very... very vague themes and references.
Word Count: INFINITY. Uh, 1,172. Or so.
Vongola is a name.
In fact, it is a term, a word that literally translated means “clam”, means any edible mollusk. An insignificant, nondescript, simple word that beyond occasionally featuring on menus or a fisherman’s list of catches doesn’t show up all too often. A word that is easy to forget, ignore, lose in the recesses of memory only to be rediscovered the next time you sit down to an Italian meal at an Italian restaurant.
Vongola. So simple, so easy.
So deadly to forget what has become the new meaning of the word, now that it is a name. A Name, with full capitalization, will full merits as a proper noun. With all the power that comes with it.
Few in the outside, normal world know of it. Unlike most of their contemporaries, Vongola does not run a single huge corporation, with all of the company’s dealings traceable, trackable. No, better to start a few small companies, build them up from the ground. Say you were an investor all along, and some of those strange dealings? That’s just how it’s always been. And if it’s too late to help build them up, then buy up stocks. Lots of stocks. Just enough to have a large portion of control, but few enough to go unnoticed.
Spread your power, spread your influence. With most groups, this would weaken them. Vongola, though. Vongola thrives on adversity. The harder the situation, the stronger they become. Like clams, with hard shells that-until you pry them open-will remain where they are, as they are, for their entire existence. And prying the shell off Vongola isn’t easy.
No.
It’s impossible.
They are clams with the abilities of spiders, weaving their webs across the world. Encircling it so tightly that few gaps remain, with a gossamer thread so fine, so soft, very few will ever see it is there. Information, money, power, influence: all things get stuck to their webs, and Vongola does with them as it wishes. A few torn parts, ripped to shreds by climate or caught bugs, are easily repaired. Quickly, efficiently, very little fuss or pomp. Unlike the Camorra, unlike most companies, losing control of a situation or area isn’t crippling, isn’t something that can weaken them, but it is an opportunity to show their power, their skills and strengths. Not that most people recognize these events as such. Not that most people could.
Unlike peacocks with their bright plumage, Vongola doesn’t show off regularly, they don’t stand out. Standing out brings attention, which, for them, can be good. But it also brings envy, and greed, and murderous thoughts. So easy to be a target. Even easier to turn the situation around, though, and make someone else into a target. Sometimes a black widow ploy works best (spin your web, catch them, make them stand by your side until they are useless and then devour them for your own needs), or sometimes it’s easier to be a Venus flytrap (lure them in with color, with beauty, and once they’re there don’t bother pretending to be a friend, just gobble them up in a few swift gulps).
So easy. So simple, for them. Masters and Mistresses of deceit, fused into their masks by necessity. Harlequins and Hellequins all, the jokers and the entertainers and the back-stabbing, lying murderers. Your best friend, your worst enemy. Your only path to redemption.
They are brutal, efficient, unyielding. A leopard striking, a lioness hunting, and yet there is no satisfying their hunger. The hunters of the world, preying on the lesser species. Endlessly. So long as there exists a lesser species to prey upon, so long as there is someone willing to step into that role, Vongola will never cease. Almost like a cancer, albeit a cancer that preys upon other cancers. The carcinogen to a malignant tumour, instead of to ripe human flesh. The only problem is that even when the tumour is gone, there is a hole. A gap that needs to be filled. And no part of the human body, of the system of the world, can ever fill it quickly enough.
Unless there’s something already there, already planning on being a stopgap. Maybe not as efficient or well-designed as before, maybe not quite enough to fill the hole, or perhaps too big for its borders. Still, it’s something. And until the body, the world, is able to create something to replace it, then it’s stuck there, more eternal than permanent marker. An illusion of normalcy, where no one besides the illusion or the magicians who cast it will realize the truth.
Lies, cheating, masquerades. Playing the roles so perfectly that it’s hard to tell who or what you’re dealing with. Hard to remember who or what any one person was before. A non-existence, where “self” is melted down and becomes part of “whole”, of “community” and “family”. A world of glamour, of riches, of endless possibilities; a world of squalor, of cold street corners and waste-strewn alleyways, of having no other option but to do what you can to survive. Of all of that and everything in between, all at the same time. So very delicate, so very hard to keep a balance. And yet it can be done, needs to be done.
A woman who is simultaneously the greatest fashion designer in the world and the best negotiator; a man who is both teacher of children and murderer of adults. Which is the lie, which is the truth? Does it matter? Are you sure that the person you’ve known all your life is really who they were at birth? At puberty? Even ten minutes ago? Do they have a reason for the change? Do they need one?
Very few recognize the name Vongola. Not many of those will likely exist for much longer. Still, until that time, they’re useful. Some of them so useful that they’ve earned themselves an immunity, an amnesty from the King who chooses to switch the guillotine to life servitude. Harsh, cruel, yet strangely kind.
Those few indentured servants might recognize the signs, the patterns of Vongola and their movements. But no one knows the inside of Vongola. No one is allowed to. True natures are dangerous things, and Vongola is a collection of the most dangerous things in the world. They play a song, and the rest of the universe dances unthinkingly, impulsively, to their steps. Until the world is strong enough to break free, that is enough. That is all the connection to outsiders, even their own contemporaries, that Vongola needs.
Yet still.
For all their similarities to animals, plants, the movement of the stars; to flora and fauna innumerable; Vongola are, always will be, clams. One big clam that everyone else orbits as satellites to a sun. A clam that is impossible to open, one that has been growing and collecting for hundreds of years.
And, if it was possible to open this clam... well.
However rare it might be, from within clams come some of the most beautiful pearls.
Dear Hod, never let me write stream of consciousness/semi-introspective things again. NEVER. Also, while I could have since it's still the 14th, I am horribly, horribly shy of all the amazing writers over @ 31_days and don't want to embarrass myself in front of them. BECAUSE THIS IS EMBARRASSING.
So it's posted here, because everyone who is a friend knows that I'm a complete dork and nerd who rarely makes sense. ON MY OWN JOURNAL, I HAVE NO SHAME. NONE. BWAHAHA.