A Work by Gaia Cleaver:
LA MACHERA- A Gunslinger Girl Fanfiction.
Prologue: Furfante.
REVOLUTIONARY: An oppressed person waiting for the opportunity to become an oppressor.
The Cynic's Dictionary.
All was quiet on the streets of the Vatican City.
The city state had fallen silent in the late hours of the evening, swept with darkness, the only sources of illumination being street-lights dotted about the barren roads, along with whatever patches of light originated from lit rooms in homes. Save for the odd handful, the citizens of the country had fallen into a state of slumber, being whisked away, one by one, to the realm of dreams and phantasmagoria.
Well, most of them.
For apart from the aforementioned odd handful that chose to fend off the urges of rest and opted to continue whatever tasks they were performing, there was one more certain person in their ranks. But he was, by no means, any ordinary pedestrian.
No, one could not hope to find him amongst the general citizenry. This particular character shrouded himself from normal society. He had to remain concealed, unknown, unseen by the eyes of the populace.
The reason? He was a revolutionary.
Of course, there were those Pandania terrorists who claimed to be what he was, but, to this man, there was a wide difference between them and him. To this fellow, those nationalists were little more than rabble-rousers, who carried out their acts of disorder with no forethought- he didn't agree with their supporters who labelled them as people who wanted socio-political reform. Simply put, he didn't exactly like them (save for that one couple who had been generous enough to lend him certain supplies).
A revolutionary on the other hand, in the view of this secluded figure, was one who planned their schemes carefully, intricately, making sure that, when the time came, everything ran like clockwork, who made absolutely sure that the masses were educated properly.
And this man was certainly a planner.
It was his practical profession, and his reason for his seclusion. One couldn't plot out in the open, as he knew, and he wasn't asinine enough to put his plans in jeopardy- he knew the rules. In isolation, he had drawn up his grand designs for months, nay, years on end- his design to aid not just the minute Vatican city state, but the distraught and forlorn people of the torn nation of Italy.
But why did Italy become a concern for this fellow?
The man was British, after all- Italy was only a port of call. His main base of operations was in 'good old Blighty', as he quipped. He had the burden of his own work in London riding on his back, and that alone was stressful enough. So why did he venture overseas to this place?
It was all because of the auspicious occasion that the circumstance in the country put forward- it was something fresh, something revitalizing. So, 'Why not?', he thought, 'London can wait', and, in haste and in disguise, departed his homeland and headed off to the crisis that plagued Italy.
He left due to the chance that the case presented- a chance to ignite a revolution elsewhere. What with the nation being so submerged in disarray and the governing forces constantly losing strength, it was a prime location for him to commence his insurrection.
It wasn't anything that would pass by quickly, either- this person intended for his rebellion to be lengthy. It wasn't the repudiation of the current government that he was totally fixated on. He also had other doings to perform- but, like his revolution, he had taken said tasks into account, and he planned for them, too.
Yes, he planned, slaved over his strategy like a devoted scientist seeking to cure some sort of highly destructive ailment. But, as noted, he did so in secrecy. So, where did he hide himself, this vigilante, this up-and-coming rebel, one might ask?
In a church. An abandoned example in the outskirts of the city, left deserted after being ravaged by a fire, the ruins being kept as a memorial monument by the order of the Pope; an ageing, crumbling building which served as his hideout. It was, of course, within the hallowed hall of this derelict place of holiness that he devised his future doings, and vigorously so.
However, tonight was different.
Within the confines of his own personal abode, the tiles of which were worn and chipped with age, and the stone walls of which were undecorated save for the drab natural tan of the material, the man was seated before the altar. Clad in robes of night, and, at last, prepared, he was ready.
He had taken years of his life to flesh out his idea, his intentione diabolique, and it had all boiled down to this point in time. He was mere moments away from setting his scheme in motion...but he still had to perform one final action before he could do so.
The finishing touch, he thought.
He stretched over to his left, and removed an object from a small hanger next to him. It was a mask, forged from porcelain, sporting a jet black pair of eyes that bore a mischievous look to them, as well as something of a malicious intent.
Above the painted lips, there was a moustache, accompanied by a goatee below the lower lip, both making the object appear funny and sinister, but what topped it off was its last feature, and a feature most significant- a smile.
A wide, frozen one, akin to the expression of a deranged psychopath and that of a clown whose mouth had contorted into an overly joyous grin, a mixture of comedy and horror that, ultimately, created something that looked both comic and utterly terrifying.
And this was what he donned.
Having put on his false visage, he glanced at the mirror in front of him- the only other thing present on the altar besides the hanger, and a box placed on its right end. He smiled.
The frozen face grinned back.
He was ready.
The masked man rose from his seat (not before retrieving the contents of the box, first; a set of home-made explosive devices along with a miniature detonator), primed and set for the task ahead, and wheeled about, the cape that he wore over his shoulders billowing outwards behind him- revealing, in turn, a set of knives in scabbards around his waist. His secondary tools of destruction.
And so, with explosives in hand and blades of shimmering steel in his possession, the masked man sauntered out of his hideaway, into the cold darkness outside. Within a moment, he was gone, becoming one with the night.
The time was precisely 11 o'clock, on the fourth of November 2006...and the hour of change was at hand.
Viva la revolucion.
(Author's note: The hideout I've chosen here is entirely fictional. I thought it would be best to use an abandoned church. With it being on the outskirts, were it real, it would probably be near St. Anne's in the Vatican...but, enough babbling. The next one will come soon enough.)