Prologue: Inizio
"Don't forget to do up your tie properly!"
That'd be what she would be saying right now if she were still alive. Minuet – my wife – always loved teasing me because I had a hard time figuring out how to tie a tie properly. Tell me to rig up a two hundred ton tender to the side of an Italian Navy destroyer, and I'd be done in ten minutes flat. Tell me to put together the wiring harness for a Semtex vest and I'll be done in two minutes and thirty seconds, with a garment fit to be sold on Savile Row. Tell me to tie a full Windsor knot with an Italian silk tie, and watch me struggle and turn beet-red. Whenever that happens, she'd come over and fix it for me, and we'd stare into each other's eyes and smile, and do little silly things that any couple loved to do when the situation is right. Three years of marriage hadn't dulled the fire any, and I loved her even more – if that was even possible – when she told me that she was pregnant.
All that stopped five months ago when Minuet and I were walking back to our car after dinner at one of the local restaurants. I was on leave from the COMSUBIN - Comando Raggruppamento Subacquei ed Incursori Teseo Tesei, the Italian equivalent of Navy SEALS – and I had surprised her by showing up at home unannounced before taking her out to dinner. I'd parked a block down from where the little pasta place was, and I'd offered to fetch the car for her – seeing as how she was six months pregnant at the time, and walking was difficult for her – but she insisted on walking with me. So, that was how we found ourselves squarely in the path of a car chase replicated straight out of the dregs of American television. There was a nut in an Alfa Romeo barreling down the street, followed by a bevy of police cars with their sirens blaring and lights blinking. The blue-and-white Fiat Stilos were hard-pushed to keep up with the faster coupé, and at the high speeds that they were traveling at, momentarily lost control as they crested a small hill. With its sports suspension, the Alfa Romeo Jiuletta went over the hill easily; with the not-so-sports suspensions on the Stilos, they did a little hop as they crested.
The third car in the coterie of police vehicles went airborne rather awkwardly, and was balancing on only two tires when it landed. Whoever was inside panicked, did a poor job of correcting – made the car fall on its right side, really – and turned what had been a slightly off jump into a disastrous roll. The little car was shedding parts as it tumbled towards us. We were less than fifteen feet from the quickly disintegrating vehicle, and I realized the danger we were in. I scooped Minuet up in my arms, and tried to dodge the police car. Tried to – didn't quite make it.
Something large struck my back and caused me to stumble, nearly dropping her as I lost my balance. Then, as another object hit me, I did lose my balance and fall. I tried to twist mid-fall to use myself as a cushion for her, but only managed to turn enough to make the both of us land on our sides. My arm snapped in several places – I could feel that easily enough – but Minuet was relatively unhurt. She'd landed on top of my hip, and probably had some sprains and bruises, but she was alive. Her eyes – brown, and windows to her soul – found mine, and she mouthed, "I love you," as though it was the last thing she'd ever say to me.
Then everything went black as the smoking carcass of the car came upon us.
Those three words were the very last things she said to me. When the paramedics found us, they had to roll the car off of us first before they could administer first aid. It was too late for Minuet - she had died from a combination of blood loss and extreme shock. I, however, was on the brink between death and life. Her body had apparently shielded me from the majority of the flying shrapnel and impact of the car's hulk as it rolled on top of us; she had saved me. Our baby was dead – with no mother sustaining it, how could've it not died? I often wished that I could've followed her that day. Suicide had crossed my mind, but my mother's words stopped me from going down that path: "Would Minuet have saved you just so that you could commit suicide? Think about it, Donatello. You know better than that. Don't waste her gift."
So I spent the next three months in hospital, recovering from six broken ribs, two broken legs, a bevy of other muscle injuries including torn ligaments and a broken arm, on top of which learning how to re-use my body took up another month and a half. Many friends from university and from the service came to visit, including my CO, Major Ettore Falcone. He pointed out a contact number for me to call if I wanted to know what really happened that day, and left after telling me that I would always have a place in the Operational Raider Group (Gruppo Operativo Incursori) if I ever decided to come back. Curious – how could I not be, after such a cryptic message – I called the number and was connected to someone called 'Ferro.' After finding out who I was and how I got this number – I mentioned Ettore Falcone and her entire demeanor just changed – she began giving me an explanation of the events on that day.
The person in the Alfa Romeo was supposedly a top member of the Padania Republic Front whose cover had been blown and was "flying the coop," so to speak. The cops eventually lost the terrorist in the winding city streets, and hadn't the slightest clue as to who he or she was. It wasn't surprising – outside of NOCS (Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza) the police force wasn't much to speak of, and definitely ill-suited to anything beyond routine police activities.
What was surprising was the job offer that Ferro extended to me. Work as a trainer for her agency, she said, and I'd be able to chase down the PRF terrorist if it didn't conflict with the mission at hand. After I'd served with them for a certain length of time – to be discussed, she intimated – I'd even be able to go back to the ORG as an instructor if I wished; that was probably the best that I'd be able to do, considering my injuries. Getting back onto the active list was a qualified pipe dream, so this was probably the next best thing. I certainly wouldn't have known what to do with myself if I had been tossed out into the civilian world after my hospital stay. I accepted, of course. She then told me that she'd contact Major Falcone to expedite my discharge, and wait for them to contact me again within a two-week period. In the meantime, I was to rest, relax and finish settling into what was left of my life.
Today was the day that I was to meet with Ferro in person for an interview. I was almost done dressing; all that was left to do was the tie. Finishing up the knot – a full, proudly arched Windsor – I smile sadly at the mirror. See, Minuet? I finally learnt how to tie a Windsor.
I brush my fingertips over the photograph on the dresser next to the mirror – it's of Minuet and I, on our honeymoon in Egypt – pick up the folder on the dresser and leave the one-bedroom apartment for the meeting with Ferro. The rendezvous was at a street-side café; this was probably a preliminary location, and we'd be moving to another location if I were found acceptable.
I was five minutes early when I arrived, but I saw two people sitting at the outer left table – the place where I was supposed to meet – and pegged the woman as Ferro, and the older man as her superior. Ferro seemed to be radiating an aura of coolness to me, while the older man had a hard edge to his demeanor, with a hint of weasel. A strange combination, I mused, before I walked up to the table and got their attention.
We introduced ourselves to each other, and I found out that her boss was a man named Lorenzo, and that he was the chief of the agency that was offering me this job. The next half-hour was your standard interview, with a few odd questions thrown in. One question that they paid particular attention to was whether or not I liked children. I answered in the affirmative, and I was surprised by the faint smile that Ferro offered me. A panel van pulled up, and I was unceremoniously ushered into it for a forty-five minute long trip in total silence; looks passed between Ferro and Lorenzo, but I couldn't decipher them. They were playing the game in a manner far above what my meager skills could even attempt to understand.
They took me to a hospital, much to my surprise. It was one I've never heard of before, and with a surgeon as a brother, that meant something was afoot. The place wasn't very big, but you could almost feel the aura of confidence and arrogance the staff there exuded. Everything was still bright and shiny there, as if the equipment had seen little use or was still very new. Lorenzo took me by the arm, and guided me to an observation room. We both looked through the window down towards the bed in the middle of the operating room, and gazed at the young girl sleeping peacefully.
My curiosity got the better of me and I asked Lorenzo what this trip was all about. As I understood it, I was to be a trainer of the agency's men – presumably in maritime-related tactics and exercises, considering my prior background. What were we doing here then, looking upon a child in a place of medicine? He explained.
I was to be the trainer of this child, I was told. She was a victim of a pirate incident off the coast of Sicily. No family left to speak of – they all died in the incident. Her boat was found adrift by a merchant ship, which had sent a crew over to investigate. Amongst the carnage of the floating charnel house, her desecrated body had been found still breathing, with her mewling pitifully from the pain. The pirates had forced her to do physically impossible actions, sexually abused her, and broke her back before leaving her there, slowly dying, just for kicks. The agency had salvaged her, rebuilt her, and enhanced her, transferring her from Hell into eternal purgatory (at least, that was my opinion of what had happened). If I was to accept the offer of the position as her trainer – her handler, as Lorenzo put it – she was to be mine. Mine to mold in my image, to train in my own unique way and to care for by my hands. Most importantly, mine to wield.
I accepted. A satisfied smile crossed Lorenzo's face as I verbalized my agreement to his offer, and again, I caught a whiff of weasel. Something was not right with this gray-haired man who was the chief of this agency. I turned my attention back to the red-haired girl lying limply in the bed, and studied her face. If she'd possessed brown hair, I would've mistaken her a younger Minuet. Their facial structure was almost identical, I thought. Lorenzo left the room, and Ferro came in his stead. She told me that in three days, she would be moved to the dorms where the other girls already were (there were others?) but I needed to name her first. After announcing that, she produced a pen and a clipboard holding some paperwork, and proffered them to me. I wrote down a single word on the first line.
Renata.
Salvezza
A Gunslinger Girl Fan Fiction
By Roastpuff
