Chapter 14: To Protect
The warehouse buzzed with activity. With the new weapons and the lead on The Graveyard, the refugees again had reason to act. This was the breakthrough they had been waiting for. Now the wheels of fate had begun to turn and would stop for nothing until they either came crashing through the Satori's doors, or wither and die along with the refugees.
Jean woke that morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. Though slightly bruised and sore in almost every imaginable region of the human body, Jean felt he was still in fighting form. In fact, the action of last night made it difficult for him to sleep. By habit and nature, Jean usually refused to rest after making an important breakthrough on a mission. Instead, he would usually continue to push forward, greedily seeking more information or hounding his target as relentlessly as the Grim Reaper harvests the souls that are ripe for the picking.
Back home, if the location of the target was still unknown to him, Jean would spend these restless evenings doing research. He would pore over the dossiers of notable Padania operatives, or the blueprints of their impenetrable strongholds, expertly pinpointing the slightest weaknesses in both. Once Jean Croce was set on finding someone, they were sure to turn up dead or in his clutches eventually.
At the moment, however, he had no such documents to examine and so wandered the warehouse making himself useful wherever he could, though this alone proved somewhat difficult. After helping Nobu reinforce the inside of the new van's chassis, Jean realized that there was very little for him to do. He observed as Rico and Masaru disassembled the new weapons to examine them for missing parts, listened to Alessandro and Petrushka advise Nana on the finer points of intelligence gathering as she fished the Internet for information, and finally ended up lounging around one of the corners of the warehouse, tapping his foot anxiously, at a loss for what to do in order to occupy his time.
The refugees had so far proven to be surprisingly efficient, considering the oddity of their membership, and their individual skills were put to good use. As a well-rounded operative, Jean was a gifted strategist and mission coordinator, besides being the best shot among the SWA handlers and not at all bad with his fists or a blade. Despite his impressive repertoire, though, he neglected to pick up any hobbies with which he could keep himself busy during his downtime.
And so, of course, Jean decided to shadowbox. He envisioned his opponent before him, hands up in a defensive stance. Jean threw two quick jabs, looking to close an eye or break the bridge of the nose. The shadow evaded easily, deflecting the strikes with two swipes and following with a low jab. Jean's guard took the blow and he ducked the hook that came afterward, weaving his upper body to the side and throwing a hook of his own as he rose up. The strike connected at the jawline and the shadow staggered back. Jean did not pursue, but chose to wait in order to measure the effect of the blow and adjust the weight and targets of his future attacks.
He squared his shoulders and readied himself as the shadow recovered and advanced. Jean cocked his fist back and would have fired it at his invisible opponent in the next instant, but was interrupted by a voice that called out to him.
"May I join you?" the polite voice asked.
Jean straightened himself and turned to see that Osamu had been watching him. He sized up his one-man audience with his trademark piercing, steely gaze. Osamu was an ex-soldier with a heavier, harder build than Jean's. The Italian had the advantage of speed, accuracy, and practice, though, so decided that a friendly spar would not be completely one-sided. After a pause, Jean nodded and readied himself for a more substantial opponent.
They adopted their preferred stances and exchanged a nod. At first, they shuffled and took turns feinting, measuring each other's speed. When Jean circled left, Osamu followed suit. When Osamu advanced, Jean retreated. The longer the fight went, however, the more aggressive the combatants became. Soon enough, they began throwing real blows. They circled around each other, launching attack after attack. Both men were more or less equal. For every heavy strike Osamu landed, Jean answered with two quick, well-placed ones.
Now they were caught up in it, the mutual respect of well-trained combatants testing themselves against the skill and physical attributes of the other. Each clever counterattack spoke of each man's mental strength. Each blow landed, whether quick or strong or both, told the secrets of their drive. As they danced around one another, Jean instinctively formed an intimate understanding of his opponent's true nature and vice versa. Through his cunning technique and relentless combinations, Jean transmitted to Osamu his ruthless, dogged methodology. Likewise, through Osamu's carefully measured strikes and impenetrable defense, Jean found a man who was both powerful, yet protective at the same time.
The sparring accelerated and peaked with a series of brisk exchanges that lacked pause but certainly not adroitness and then, instantly, the fight stopped altogether. Both men stood apart from one another, breathing heavily, and shared a look of something akin to approval. They sat next to one another as their bodies recuperated the energy they spent.
After a few moments of wordless rest, Osamu was the first to venture a conversation. "Jean," he said cautiously, "Why are you here?"
Jean was taken aback slightly at the simple wording of such a complicated question the answer to which he was sure Osamu knew. "I'm here to eradicate the Satori," he answered.
"I mean to say," Osamu began again, "Why do you want to fight the Satori?"
Now the Italian operative understood and he answered with the curt, confident reply that was usual for his nature. "They killed some friends of mine," he said as he stared into the concrete floor.
"Is this revenge, then?"
"This is my job. Revenge is a bonus."
Osamu frowned and thought on this cold, calculated answer that seemed to have been practiced and repeated a hundred times over. "Do you not fear for your life?" he asked.
Again Jean's answer was lifeless and metallic. "I fear dying without serving my purpose."
"Then you are not much different than Rico-chan."
Jean looked at Osamu gravely, searching his face for any sign of ill-intent, but only found a sad, good-natured smile. "Explain yourself," Jean demanded quietly.
"I have spoken to her," Osamu answered innocently, "She is a kind, brave girl with a happy spirit. She does not fear pain or death yet she fears your disapproval."
"The fear of failure is a good motivator," Jean explained as if he was talking about a part of his cyborg's training regiment.
"And so she protects you without fail. But do you protect her as zealously?"
"I watch her back and she watches mine. There's no point in letting her die."
Osamu frowned again and continued his journey into Jean's heart. "You protect her because if you do not, then your safety is compromised. She protects you because she loves you."
"Her 'love' is a hormonal effect of the drugs she takes every day," Jean interjected sharply. He kept calm and he wasn't quite losing his temper, but he knew that it would be difficult to make Osamu understand that the cyborgs weren't really the little girls they appeared to be. They may play and laugh as others do, but in reality their minds and bodies were possessions of the SWA, complete with ID tags and serial numbers. They were human tools and, as such, were good only for the taking of lives. Once they outlived their ability to perform this task, they were as disposable as any other tool.
Osamu paused in thought. "All love can be explained by hormones and chemicals in the brain," he said, "How is her love different from yours or mine?"
Jean didn't answer this question. He seemed to be done with the conversation, waiting for Osamu to become uncomfortable and walk away. Osamu, however, was not finished with Jean.
"My wife," he began, sighing as he recalled fond days long gone, "Was a journalist. She was brave, strong and loyal. But she was also kind and loving. Like Rico, she made great sacrifices for the people she loved, with no fear or hesitation."
In spite of himself, Jean cocked his head toward Osamu just a little bit. He himself had fallen in love with a strong woman and considering the fact that Osamu was alone now, Jean knew that both women had probably met the same fate. "What was her name?" he asked, showing in his own way that his interest had returned to the conversation.
"Hotaru," Osamu answered, "She had a spirit of fire and pursued her stories tirelessly. One day, she told me that she had begun investigating the Satori."
"And that put her in their line of sight," Jean inferred.
"Yes. She knew that this would happen, but she could not be intimidated. She never gave her real name to any of her sources. She hoped to protect our son and myself that way. No one knew at the time how much information the Satori had access to."
"How did it happen?" Jean said, pushing the narrative along as Osamu began to falter, thinking of his wife and son.
"They sent the Hanone," he said, "I believe they knew Hotaru was married to a soldier, so they sent their best. I was not at home when it happened and once I returned it was already too late. Several assassins stayed to wait for me. When I saw them, I knew that my wife was already dead. I killed them all, but I do not remember it. The next thing I remember is finding my wife's body in the corner of our bedroom. She was cradling our son's body with my gun, empty, on the floor next to them."
Jean narrowed his eyes a bit and looked at Osamu. Now the latter was avoiding eye contact. "I don't understand," Jean admitted, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Osamu answered slowly, "While I was there I realize that my son had been killed by a gunshot. The Hanone had used their blades to kill Hotaru."
Jean's mouth compressed into the slightest line when he realized what Osamu was getting at. "Your wife killed your son," he concluded.
"You make it sound like murder," Osamu said sadly, "No. My wife protected our son. She had a choice. She could have wasted her last bullet on one last act of vengeance against the assassins. Instead, she used it to give mercy to the one person she loved most."
Jean stood up now that his body was fully rested. "What does this have to do with me?" he asked as he looked down at Osamu with a critical gaze.
Osamu rose as well and clapped Jean on the shoulder. "Love," he said, "Takes many forms and can be shown many ways. Rico will kill and die for you. That is how she shows her love. If you want to protect someone, loving them is the best way. But there is no easier way to die than protecting someone who does not love you in turn." At this point, he took his hand off of Jean and concluded with a grim, warning expression, "However. There is no easier way to waste death than by losing it in the pursuit of revenge."
And with this final lesson, Osamu left. Now Jean was alone, save for his thoughts and the invisible enemy that he had still had not defeated.