Sam's attempt at fanfic; draft 1

(Decided I'd go with Kick Ass; was actually a little disappointed with existing fanfic for this one, it didn't feature enough of Hit Girl, so I thought I'd write my own completely centred around Hit Girl and her initial foray into 'normal' life as a regular school-going 12 yr old girl, with which the film ends and of which it only albeit deliciously hints).

Frank Dimico was dead. Thanks in most to Dave-aka-Kick Ass. Thanks also to Dave for the death of her father (though not directly; it was again blood on Dimico’s hands, hands which would never have had the opportunity to slaughter her remaining parent had it not been for Dave’s infamous naiveté and inexperience in her world of vigilante crime-fighting). With her father as sole casualty, the killer of her mother had been ‘taken out’, the goal towards which she’d been working since birth, studying any number of martial arts, building up a level of mastery with all manner of weaponry, and cultivating a rather advanced knowledge of ‘sweet-spots’; an anatomy of death, the kill-zones to which the slightest application of pressure (like the wrist-flick kiss of a butterfly-knife) would prove lethal. For any twelve year old girl, such an existence would be an ‘alternative’ mode of being (to say the least), but for Mindy-aka-Hit Girl death-dealings had been the only reality, driven by a father who was in turn driven by a searing vendetta; revenge.

And now it was done.

What next? Well, she was being enrolled into a public school by a (cop) friend of her late-father’s, Mark. It would be her first taste of schooling or any preparation for a future not involving the temperamental justice of a 45-calibre. And Mark was very concerned indeed, rightfully so. His main concern was how Mindy would react to the brutal social hierarchy, permanent fixture of any and all secondary schools. However the worry didn't lie in Mindy’s welfare, rather that of her peers; should they cross her in some way no amount of moral revision could possibly re-wire the near-totalitarian sense of right and wrong she’d had programmed into her by an equally zealous yet loving father. He wasn't judging her father, for certainly he’d had his reasons. Only situations had changed, and he feared a potentially damaging transitional period into a life that didn't call for bullet proof pyjamas or home security systems involving a yard rigged with explosives, among other things.

So there had been the laying down of some foundation rules.

Rule One; no fire-arms or any other lethal weaponry in the house (for he was now legal guardian, not that she needed one, and for the sake of appearances they would be living together as father and adopted daughter). Rule Two; the use of violence will be permitted only as a means of self-defence. Should she meet with a mugger in the street then fine, but not to the death (as daddy had instructed all ‘bad men’ deserved). Should she be approached by a school-mate in a manner threatening, then she was to use only evasive-defence and let a teacher dole out the punishments. Under no circumstances whatsoever was she allowed to use actual combative contact against fellow students; detention would suffice. And in any such school-related incidents should no threat be considered ‘to the death’. That was Rule Three. The most important.

(dear group, feel free to nit-pick my fanfic contribution as you see fit, but don't be too cruel; remember I'm expected to critique your work too . . .)