Putang-ina! Marc! You'd better be alive when I get to you!


Sadly, Marc is bad at keeping promises.

His lifeless, naked body sprawls undignified upon the bed. His head hangs at an ugly angle, unseeing eyes bulging from their sockets. Stuffed in his gaping mouth is a pillowcase soaked in dark blood.

Shit. I'm too late. Again.


Gunslinger Girl

Crossover


Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.


Mystery/Discovery


I survey the room. No bathroom door. Windows are big, closed and locked from inside. Big bed. Table. Chairs. Dresser. Clothes litter the floor. The boxers tell me they're Marc's.

No sign of Triela. Good. The last thing I want is her shotgun aimed at the back of my head.

The police aren't here yet. Figures. These motels are very solicitous of their customers' privacy. They probably only send their clean-up crew in when the couple returns the room keys to the concierge. I slipped in through the unguarded back door.

I know the drill. Mask on. Gloves on. (Never leave base without them, even when on vacation. Fingerprints are a no-no.) Thank you, CSI.

The flesh on Marc's neck is hard as stone. Feet are the same. Rigor mortis enters the body from head to toe. Leaves the same way, too. Say four to six hours dead? I never really bothered to check if the people I killed were rock hard or jellied.

Facial features twisted. He choked on his own blood. Slight bruising on his face. A punch? No, too small and slight. A slap? Considering it was a cyborg's hand delivering it, it got to hurt.

Blood-soaked pillowcase stuffed into his mouth. Post-mortem. Smart of the killer. No sense making a mess. But why?

Throat marked by series of small, dark bruises. Strangulation? No. It doesn't explain the internal bleeding.

I gently finger the back of Marc's neck. At least one spinal vertebra out of alignment. It's obvious how he died. Triela snapped his neck. His spinal cord got cut almost in half at the point of dislocation. Instantaneous death. Also caused internal bleeding. The placement of the bruises around his neck suggests she was throttling him while they were face-to-face.

But why did she take so long? For her fingers to inflict such bruising meant that she was throttling him for a prolonged amount of time– but not strong enough to immediately break his neck. Even accounting for cyborg's superior strength…

Did she hesitate? Don't tell me she liked this bastard? I stare at the once-handsome face. If so, what forced her to kill him in the end?

The rest of his body is unmarked. I fix a cold glare at his small, limp penis. You little fucker. You're supposed to think with the head on your shoulders, not the one hanging in between your legs.

Back to work. Correction on the rest of the body being unmarked. Wrists and right hand's pointer fingers are dark and swelled. Broken, probably, by a hard object. But what? Mystery piles upon discovery.

I sniff the rumpled bed sheets. My nose wrinkles at the familiar smell of sex. There would be both seminal and vaginal fluids aplenty here. Enough for DNA testing to get positive IDs. That and fingerprints…

Oh. Oh. Oi. You, Triela, are screwed. Big time. Your handler is going to kill you. I almost want to be there when your agency tries to bail your pretty ass out of this fine mess.

I stare at Marc's body again, then at the bed, and shake my head.

So young. So stupid. Now one of you is dead and the other is going to get thrown into a nunnery or into the nearest river, depending on what your boss Jean thinks. I'm lucky I work the other side of the street. Jean strikes me as the sort who'd have you killed for the good of the service, even if you were on the same team.

One last thing to do.


"Hello, Carabinieri HQ here."

"Ma'am? My name is Sheo Darren. I would like to report a murder…"


Sheo Darren is now a haunted, hunted man whose face is now known to the cops for the simple reason that he had a chat with them over a dead body.

The cops ask me questions. My identity? "My name is Sheo Darren. I'm a Filipino novelist visiting Italy for my book…" My relationship to Marc? "I don't know him personally..." My purpose in following him to the hotel? "I'd rather not have a patron of my restaurant get thrown into jail. It's bad for business…"

Christ. What am I doing? I'm blowing a perfectly good cover for a stranger who couldn't keep his dick in his pants when his life depended on it. I've gotten the bad end of a deal here. And I didn't even want to get involved in the first place. I'm not getting paid for this shit. Hell, I'm on fucking vacation!

"You might be called on to be a witness at court," a cop gravely tells me.

Fuck.

I can't go to court. Mister Silver will go crazy if I do that. He trusts me a lot, but not to the point of stupidity. Soon as I become an unnecessary complication, he'll have me killed. (I've been in Amalgam long enough to learn that when someone senior wants you dead, it's inevitable.) He'll have Elena and Giuseppe killed as well because he can't trust them after what I did. He might even go after Ami and Canon for the mere reason that they were my friends. And then there are Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco and Hobbes and Marc's drinking buddies to worry about, too.

God, why is it that the people I care for always get dragged into my shit? I'd rather kill myself before they get harmed because of me. Especially Giuseppe and Elena. I can't face Jess after failing her. I won't stand adding two more innocent faces to my nightmares.

Kaede, why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? Sure, I spared you twice, you did the same once, and maybe the shit I said about me wanting to live did get through to your hard, horned head. But aren't you supposed to be psychotic or hateful or something? Or is this your revenge? A painful life instead of a quick death. Christ, Sanada would be laughing his ass at me forever if he ever hears of this. Corbin, too.

Enough, Rolito. Take this like a man. You call yourself a swordsman. Prove it. Defend the right– even if you are outside it.


I plead anonymity. Said I wanted to avoid the press. "My mom wanted me to be a journalist," I explained, using my favorite joke, "But journalists always get killed. So, please, guys…"

The cops laugh. They let me go after they get my testimonial. "We'll see you again soon," one says.

"Sure," I said.

Not if I can help it, though.


Sorry, Marc. This is all I can do for you. Not without getting killed myself.

Yeah. I know. You didn't deserve to die. None of us do. We all want to live.

Even if it means someone else has to die.


To Be Continued/Tsuzuku/Itutuloy