It hurts.
My body hurts. My right knee hurts. My left elbow hurts. The stumps dribble red. They had burned; now they felt like icy metal.
I'm hurting. It feels like I'm dy-
No. I'm not dying. It's painful, it hurts, but I'm not dying.
"If you were thinking rationally, you would have noticed that you were being led into a trap."
The old hag is as cold and hard as the stony pavement. She loves listening to herself talk, probably because her voice is prettier than her fried face, if only by a little.
"But here you are, a helpless, injured little brat who only came here to die."
Hehe. Heheheh. That's funny. It hurts to laugh, but I do so anyway.
What are you babbling about, you senile old hag? I'm not going to die... I'm not going to die.
We've killed so many people. Many, many, many, many people. Just so we could go on living. Just to prolong our lives. We'll never die. You hear me? Never die!
"Is that what you believe? What an interesting philosophy. However, the situation is just like in that song. 'No one lives forever.'"
That's a lie. That song is a lie. Of course people can live forever. They just have to keep killing forever. Like us. Like Sister and myself.
"And now I shall terminate you with extreme prejudice. By now you should realize that my subordinates are far more important to me than simply serving as mere bait. Unfortunately for you, I am not as nekulturniy as you. I have no taste for the macabre, and I am not one to lose control. My only objective is to watch you die."
You can't do that. You can't just sit there and watch me die because I'm not going to die. You're wrong and I'll prove you wrong.
"With those wounds, you have about ten minutes left to live. I suggest you spend your last few moments on Earth praying for Sakharov and Menshov to rest in peace."
No. No, no, no, no. Ten minutes to live? That's a lie. You're lying. You don't know what you're talking about.
"You... You don't even understand, do you?"
You're the one who doesn't understand! How many times do I have to tell you! I'm not going to die! I don't want to die!
"No use crying now, you fool."
I don't want to die... I want to live...
Sister...
.
The first thing the girl did upon coming awake was gasping for air as if she had been drowning. The second thing was to fumble around her in search for an absent warmth and expected presence.
Brother?
The room lacked windows and light. Yet she could see well enough for the purpose of surveying her immediate surroundings.
She reclined upon an uncomfortable bunk bed that was barely big enough to hold her tiny body. White walls boxed her in from all sides. Cold air issued from vents in the walls and ceiling. The lone fluorescent light bulb was unlit and possibly burnt out.
Who is Sister?
She sought her hair. Her fingers ran into a thick mass of hair that was at least as long as her arm.
I'm Sister.
Where is Brother?
She sat up. Stretched her limbs and arched her back to get rid of the kinks sunk deep in her joints and muscles.
The girl sighed.
Brother.
Sharp clicks brought her out of reverie. The wall opposite her bed. She spotted the outline of a door that swung open.
Hot air and blinding light invaded her cramped world. The girl winced, her eyes taking a moment to adapt to the brightness.
"O-ha-yo-u!"
Through the white tear in the fabric of her reality strode the dark form of a woman.
The girl's vision adjusted, granting her a better look at the intruder. Her visitor wore tight-fitting clothing that bared an impressive amount of arms, belly and thighs. Any other woman it would have been aptly described as 'slutty'. On her it appeared... appropriate, though far from modest.
"That's 'Good morning' in Japanese," the woman explained. She spoke in Romanian, the girl's native language.
So she's Japanese? The girl decided to return the smile and the "Good morning." She added a "Who are you?"
"Atashi wa Dios Masakari desu. I'm Masakari Dios," was the helpful translation. "Dios is my surname. Masakari's my first name. You can call me Ma-chan, Masa-chan, Kari-chan, Masakari, and you crazy bitch."
The last title made the girl blink.
The crazy bitch continued to smile. "Miss Masakari will do, too," she continued. "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu. I'm very pleased to meet you."
"Same here, Miss Masakari," the girl politely replied. "I'm–"
Who am I?
I am sister.
What is my name?
I... I cannot remember.
"Jessica."
The puzzled girl looked to Masakari for an explanation.
"Jessica will be your name," the woman explained. "Jess for short."
"That's a nice name," the girl had to admit.
"I know," Masakari relished. "I got it from an old friend of mine. It's the name of his little sister. It means 'to behold'."
It's not my name, the girl thought aloud.
"Of course it isn't."
Deception, it appeared, was the name of their little game. The girl studied Masakari. Jet black hair cut boyishly short. Pupils like glass-green discs, beautiful but hard. An impish grin.
The sweet scent of a slaughterhouse. The miasma of spilling blood. The reek of butchered meat. Human blood; human meat.
She is a killer, the girl realized. Just like me.
"Now, I've got something for you, Jess-chan…"
Masakari could have fitted 'Jessica' inside the voluminous bag. The stink that issued from the open zipper was familiar. Hard. Sharp. Metallic.
Gun oil.
She is giving me a gun?
"Mitsuketta!" Masakari crowed as she revealed her prize.
The girl stared at a battle ax.
The weapon was steel from eye to knob, wicked deadly steel. Its sharp bit– the aptly-named business edge of the tool– was broad-faced and thin, the better to lop off arms and hack into spines. It looked nothing like the woodcutting implements borne by heroic woodsmen in fairy tales, and in fact would be far more fitting in the hand of a bloodthirsty Viking raider pillaging a typical medieval fantasy village.
The ax called to her. Its edge gleamed bright, a metal smile of greeting.
It's mine.
Masakari proffered the haft of the ax to her stunned audience. Despite gripping the weighty weapon with just one hand, her youthful face showed not a hint of physical strain. "Here you go," she tempted.
Despite the urge of woman and weapon, the girl hesitated.
The ax is for Brother. I'm Sister.
"Is this truly mine?" she finally asked.
"Zenzen. Absolutely. It's certainly not mine," Masakari assured her. "I like knives more." Her free hand twisted at mid-wrist to materialize a fine example pinched between thumb and forefinger. "They're much lighter. Plus, I'm stabby-happy, not choppy-suey."
The girl stared at the hilt-less knife. Like how a stage magician does it. But, she though as her gaze roved across Masakari's bare arms, she doesn't have sleeves. How did she do it?
Masakari's next flippant gesture dismissed the knife from sight. She appeared to be very pleased with her little parlor trick. "Dou? Well?"
Hold it for Brother.
The girl accepted the weapon with both hands to give off the impression of physical weakness. Its lightness surprised her.
So light. Too light.
Am I strong? Have I gotten stronger?
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Dozo. I've got one more thing for you." Again Masakari rummaged through the bag.
The girl considered the busy back and the proffered image of vulnerability.
The bag was big but not cavernous. Masakari was prolonging her search. She was pretending; she was up to something.
She is a killer. She knows I am a killer.
She will try to kill me.
Kill or be killed.
Kill her first.
The girl clenched the handle of the ax.
The ax is for Brother, she reminded herself. I'm Sister.
I need to become Brother.
She grasped at her fake hair, at the wig crowning her scalp, took a handful of the silver strands–
The girl froze.
It's not coming off?
Again she tugged at her hair. Again it resisted.
It won't come off… it won't come off…
She braced herself, winced.
It hurts…
I have to be Brother! I have to kill her!
Desperate and furious, she set her jaw tight, teeth clenched, before yanking at the thick tuft of hair with all her strength.
Her scalp stung. Fighting down a vanguard of tears, she glanced at her prize.
Ocher stained one end of the soft bundle in her hand. The silver strands were easily as long as her arm.
My hair… it's stuck…
I can't become Brother.
The girl whimpered.
Nearby, Masakari remained busy with her bag.
She is pretending. Why?
She is waiting for something to happen. Waiting for me?
She wants me to kill her?
She will kill me.
I must kill her first.
But!
Her gaze fell again upon the ax.
I can't use this. This is for Brother. I'm Sister.
I cannot become Brother.
But I am Brother.
No, I'm not. My hair–
–is not a wig.
I'm Sister.
I'm Brother.
I… who am I?
This is her fault. She has to die.
The leaden weights of her arms rose slowly. Shaking all the while, she lifted the ax, held it over Masakari's head, a desperate executor.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill–
"Yatta!"
The girl stared into the black maw of the light machine gun now slanted upon Masakari's shoulder. She knew the weapon to be a Browning Automatic Rifle.
It looks like mine.
A plushy fob dangled from the BAR's muzzle. The dolly wore a pink dress and an innocent expression.
It is mine.
No. It's for Sister.
Masakari looked over her shoulder, over the BAR, and smiled at the girl poised to cleave her skull in twain. "So," she posed, "Which one is yours?"
That's mine.
But the gun goes to Sister.
I'm Sister.
But the ax is mine.
The ax is for Brother.
But I'm not Brother.
My hair is stuck. I can't be Brother.
Brother is gone?
I'm alone?
The battle ax clattered upon the floor.
The girl bawled loudly. Her tears were cold. She clutched at her face, clawed at skin that refused the bite of her fingernails.
Hands and arms drew her into a soft warmth. Gentle breath soothed her aching scalp.
"It will be all right," Masakari promised softly. "It will be all right."
Warm… she is warm…
She smells like blood. Like a rotten body slumped within the ditch of an abandoned alleyway.
But I like that smell. I smell like that. Brother smells like that.
She is not Brother. But she is like Brother.
I am not alone.
"Thank you," sniffled the girl.
.
Later, after her wounded scalp had been tended to with antiseptic and motherly kisses, she asked, "Who am I, Masakari?"
"Whoever you want to be."
"But I want to remember who I am," she whined. "I need to know who I am."
The dazzling smile bestowed upon her was truly honest in its conveyed warmth. Masakari's gaze seemed distant, as if she saw something, someone else, in her forlorn face.
"Once upon a time, there were twins siblings, a boy and a girl. Their names were Hansel and Gretel…"
.
.
BLACK PHOENIX
.
disclaimer
Sheo Darren does not own Gunslinger Girl or Black Lagoon
.
chapter one
from the ashes
.
"Hi, readers! It's me, Masakari Dios! I'm deeply delighted to get the chance to chat with you at last, especially since Sheo took years and years to finally post this story, which is supposed to be part of his dormant Life Goes On fan continuity. Sheo no baka..." Masakari quickly dropped her pout and resumed her characteristic Stepford smile. "But I'm not angry since I finally get to make my debut!
"Anyway, I'm supposed to let you know that Sheo Darren doesn't own Gunslinger Girl and Black Lagoon. He does own me, though, since I'm his original character.
"Now you know, and like the Amerika-jin say, knowing is half the battle. The other half is the part we love the most!"
Masakari beamed. "Right, Jess-chan?" she asked her companion.
Mirroring her boisterous grin was Unit Zero Two of Project Child, the third Amalgam Plan 2007 cyborg wrought by the Black Technology of the accursed Whispered, an eleven year old girl in a mechanical body.
Her hair had been messily trimmed into a boyish length. The ax used for the impromptu haircut dangled expectantly from her right hand. Her other hand wielded the BAR by its pistol grip with absurd ease.
"Da, sora mai mare Masakari," giggled Jessica Dios.
Yes, big sister Masakari.
.
To Be Continued