Notes

As there are two people named Giuseppe in this story, I will refer to Henrietta's handler as Jose (dang, I finally had to call him that…) and Giuseppe to my OC.

Also, I made a minor mistake in the previous Pre-Production Meeting. The character Sneezy will be played by Beatrice. (Apt, ne?) Elena will take Beatrice's place as a court lady.


Warning

This fic will feature canon characters acting out of character and imply sexually suggestive overtures between minors. (We all know who gets paired with who, now, don't we?)


Now, on with the play!


The Play Begins


Marco puffed as he manhandled the massive book into a better position against his body. He managed to tuck the leather-bound spine into the crook of his right elbow and pull the covers partly open. The 600-plus pages inside were mostly blank.

This thing is a monster! It has to weigh at least ten pounds! What the heck was Rolito and Mireille thinking when they assigned me this prop? What the heck was I thinking when I accepted it?

"At least it doesn't try to eat my fingers or summons armies of darkness," Rolito had told him. "Wouldn't those be really troublesome?"

Trumpets blared. That was his cue. Gathering his wits and skill about him, Marco spoke out in his best storytelling voice.


"Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a place called the Kingdom of–"


He blinked. Is my eyesight going that bad? No? No…

Unable to believe the audacity of the stage play writer, Marco ruefully stated:


"The Kingdom of Pasta…"


"Haven't I heard that story before?" the curious Angie asked her companions backstage.


"You copied this from Patricia's book and Marco's original story," Mireille accused Rolito over their secure radio. She could almost imagine the chuckling man holding up his palms in surrender.

"(Guilty as charged. Admittedly, plagiarism is the first rule of stage play writing.)"

"I thought that applied to scholarship and not stage play."

"(It applies to a lot of subjects. Besides, this is a parody, as Colonel Marksman corrected Sheo Darren.)"

"Who're Colonel Marksman and Sheo Darren?"

"(It's a long and complicated story.)"

Jean cleared his throat to signal silence and put an end to what appeared to him as flirting.


Jealous bastard, Rolito thought from inside his invisible Venom. Ah, well. I preferred Kirika, anyway. Too bad she went with Sagara.


"The Kingdom of Pasta was ruled by a King and a Queen."


Elena and Elsa stood opposite Aharon and Alpha. All four were dressed in fancy outfits.

"Why am I in this play again?" Al whispered to Aharon.

Pinocchio and Liesel sat side by side on identical thrones beneath the burning glare of the candelabra. Both were regally dressed. Pino also wore a very neutral expression. He was nervous; so nervous, in fact, that he didn't look nervous.


"Their daughter, the Princess, was named Claes."


Claes walked on stage. Her ankle-length gown was the purest virgin white cotton. Her eyeglasses were conspicuously absent and so brought the full force of her strikingly mature face and liquid purple eyes to bear upon whoever she favored with her attention.


Watching from backstage, Luke sighed wistfully. Giuseppe and Meir promptly restarted their "teasing elbow" session. The startled Israeli yelped.

"Hey! Stop that already!"


"Princess Claes was the most beautiful and the also kindest girl in the land."


"Mother. Father." Claes curtsied slightly. She kissed Liesel on the cheek in the manner of a respectful daughter, turned to do the same for her "father".

Pinocchio visibly flinched away.

Suppressing a smirk, Claes fulfilled her mission's first objective by (really) planting a (slightly) wet one on Pino's cheek. Through her lips, pressed lightly against his face, she detected the assassin's minute shudder and almost smiled. Certainly she did so in her mind.

There, Triela. You owe me a big one.


Thanks a lot, Claes. You're a real pal.


In the front row of the audience, Aurora fainted.


Watching from the backstage, Luke growled as he fingered his big Jericho. The rest of the cyborg boys kept their distance now.


"However, one day, the Queen, Claes' mother, died. The King mourned deeply for his beloved wife."


"My dearly departed wife," the black-clad Pinocchio insincerely mumbled as stage hands Amadeo and Lukas carried Liesel, covered in a tarp, off Stage.

"Put some feeling into it," Amadeo half-joked, half-advised in a low voice. Pino did not seem to hear him and instead continued in a monotonous tone.

"…I will never marry…"

"Again," Claes softly murmured. Blinking, Pino nevertheless did as advised– at least, what he thought he had been advised to do.

"For my dearly departed wife, I will never marry…"

The audience stared at the inexplicable repeat. Claes barely stopped herself from shaking her head.


"Then, an evil sorceress came to the Kingdom of Pasta…"


Sharp clicks got everyone to look. They immediately fell to staring with dumbstruck expressions reminiscent of Fresian cows placidly grazing in a New Zealand meadow.

All expected the tempestuous Triela to at least drag her heels while performing a despised task. Some had even bet that she might walk out of the play. Indeed the blond had been highly tempted to do so despite risking an overload of "kicked puppy" angst from the disappointed Sprites sans Elsa and Terra.

But, after spending the vast majority of the practice period either pumping buckshot into target silhouettes at twenty yards (for extra incentive, she followed Rico's advice and decorated her targets with photocopied mug shots of her pet peeve– Hilshire, namely, though there were half a dozen of Pinocchio's as well. She got a lot of headshots that day) or smearing poor Meir all over the sparring ring, Triela underwent a fit of genius.

Everyone is expecting me to lose my cool, throw a tantrum and inadvertently make a laughingstock out of myself.

I wonder how they would look like if I disappointed them…

Her fertile mind hatched a plan. Not only would she deny her malefactors their expected entertainment, but she would also give them a taste of their own medicine. Roles would reverse, hunter turn into the hunted, and Triela emerge victorious. Not to mention popular.

Ah, yes, revenge was a dish best served with the head of your enemy upon a silver platter.


"You mean a dish best served cold."

"Shut up, Claes."


And so, everyone stared as a goddess set foot upon the make-believe fairy tale stage, turning it oh so very real.

A golden waterfall gracefully spilled from the head it magnificently crowned to break upon smoothly bare shoulders into shimmering rivulets of precious softness. Her sparsely but skillfully powdered cheeks energetically competed with her ruby red-moistened lips in bringing splashes of brilliant color to her already dazzling face.

Her clothing perfectly fitted her demeanor and body. The turquoise blue, backless, spaghetti-strap gown was a second, semi-transparent skin that clung tight across her bosom and waist. High heels clicked smartly upon the wooden planks of the stage, her feet gliding in the manner of a supermodel, steps practiced, pace her own.

Simply put, Triela was absolutely lovely.

All the boys stared. So did the men. Even the ones with girlfriends or fiancées like Marco Toni, Patricia being in the audience at his invitation. Even the happily married ones like Fermi. Even the half-wizened, cigar-chomping widower, General Bradley. Even Jean, ice-blooded, frost-hearted Jean– but then he had Jose and Rico and Mireille melting his heart for years now.


Inside his invisible Venom robot, Rolito proceeded to smack himself on the head and verbally castigate his reflection. What will Jess say to hear her Kuya is a lolicon? He wasn't so sure about the answer anymore, Triela's looks doing a good job of scrambling coherent thoughts that didn't involve ideas like naked necks and damn-but-she-sure-is-hawt-for-a-thirteen-year-old-girl.

Well, I'm thankful I'm still inside my Arm Slave.


That was because all the girls proceeded to express displeasure at seeing their respective objects of affection ogling Triela. Their reactions ranged from cute pouts (Henrietta, obviously and unbeatably the champ at inflicting this guilt trip, closely followed by her "disciples" Elena and Angelica); Petrushka's disdainful sniff– I'm much better at the art of seduction than this upstart blond wanna-be–, the redhead being rather disappointed at 'Sandro's wandering, unfaithful eyes; Carol bursting into outright sobbing; Elenora pinching her husband's buttocks; and, on Rico and Elsa's parts, rather dangerous temptations involving guns.

Sadly, there was no warning at all for Luke. Claes didn't have her eyeglasses on, so she couldn't have the dramatic lens flare so favored by theatre.

Exceptions were Terra, who muttered a "Kill me now, that stupid halfie's gone nuts, and so has the rest of the world"; Liesel and Beatrice, apparently immune due their unique training and psyches– though were those glints of envious possessiveness regarding their handles that briefly marred their level gazes? Only they would know; and Mireille, who could appreciate ironic situations even if she was the target of the joke.

"Who bought her that dress?" the awed Jose (the handler, though even the cyborg boy was also staring) asked his brother.

"Apparently, Hilshire did."

"No way!"

They both turned disbelieving looks on their German colleague.

Hilshire was by now doing a good imitation of an ostrich burying its head into the sand, save that he substituted his broad hand for soil. What was I thinking when I bought her that dress?


"I would absolutely love to have a gown like that!"

"Really, Ratiel?"

"Of course! Will you be a dear, Victor, and get me that as a birthday gift?"

"Sure."


The former Victor Hartman grimaced. Right. That. Ratiel, you still haunt me from the grave through the girl I named after you…

Looking through the cracks in between his fingers, he caught Triela winsomely sending him a flying kiss.


Tit for tat, dearest Prince Charming Victor of mine. Now we're even.


That's it. Soon as this play ends, I swear I'm really upping her conditioning.


Marco, somehow regaining his composure, bravely continued (though in an admittedly weaker, distracted voice).


"The evil sorceress beguiled the King into marrying her…"


Triela peremptorily sashayed over to her intended victim.

Pinocchio was pale as milk. His eyes were just about to pop out of their sockets, they were so huge. He reflexively sank himself into his throne as much as possible to present the smallest possible target. I can't run away, those cyborgs would just run me down, and besides, why would I run away from the likes of her– I'm not afraid of her! She doesn't scare me!

I hate women…

"Stay away from me," he warned.

Smiling broadly, Triela stood before Pino, then raised her left leg and slowly, sexily sat herself upon his lap.

"Hey, Hun," she softly murmured into his ear.

The legendary assassin's impossible cool irrecoverably shattered into a million pieces. Pinocchio whimpered like a little boy lost in a department store.

Aurora, just waking up from earlier, instantly fainted again.

Hilshire felt an urge to slug Pinocchio, kill Rolito and spank Triela.

And thank you, all you writers of Harlequin Mills and Boone, a very satisfied Triela thought, her day and personal vendettas complete, for allowing me to strike back at this jerk and Hilshire in the best way possible.


"That wasn't part of the script," Rolito dazedly noted. "Ah, well. It's still very good extemporaneous acting on Triela's part, even if she did translate her role and character persona rather freely..."

Then he bopped his head on the nearest instrument panel. "Ow. What the hell am I saying? This is wrong, wrongwrongwrong…"


"The King promptly fell under the spell of the sorceress. He married her and made her his new Queen."


Triela, very at home on her makeshift throne (she was still seated on Pinocchio's lap, finding the quivering boy's lap much comfier than the cushions of the queen's throne next door), snapped her fingers almost lazily. "Magic mirror! Come to me!"

Meir scurried onstage. The boy carried a wooden frame taller and wider than he was. Its varnished wood sported intricate carvings. He stuck his head out of its opening.

"Yesss, Massster." Meir slurred the letter s for his speech in the manner of Dr. Frankenstein's hunchbacked assistant Igor. "Coming, Massster…"

In the audience, Kathryn chuckled at her inventive ward. That's my Meir…

Triela made a show out of flicking a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. The male half of the audience found themselves hypnotized by the gesture. The female half growled at their partners' distraction.

"Mirror, Mirror, held up by a dolt's hands, who is the fairest within this castle?"

"Why, it isss you, Your Evilnesss." Then Meir, realizing his irreverent slip, prepared to get wrestled into submission via pain hold in a rehash their usual Krav Maga sessions.

But Triela only smirked at that impromptu, apt title. "Excellent!" She almost preened. "Now, tell me, Mirror, who is the fairest of them all?"

"Ah… do you really want to know, Your Wickednesss?"

"That was a rhetorical question, Mirror. Of course I want to know."

"I am insured, right?"

That's one of my better jokes, Rolito decided.

"Yes, yes, now answer my question."

Meir's dismay was pretty much realistic. "Claesss..."

Now that Triela had slotted into her character's persona, she was easily the best actress amongst the group. She leapt off Pinocchio (the relieved boy let out the breath he'd been holding in), quite hysterical yet apparently still good-looking despite playing the part of a psycho.

"What? Claes? That useless four-eyed bookworm who can't give me good psychiatric advice whenever I barge into her room and catch her reading porn?"

That wasn't in the script, either, Rolito realized, grimacing.


Backstage with Claes and Luke:

"No, Luke, I don't read porn."

"I thought so."

"You don't sound too convinced…"


"You lied to me, Mirror! I thought you said I was the fairest in this castle!"

"I did. But you didn't ask me if Claes was inside the castle. She's out shopping with the court ladies. So you see, I didn't lie."

"Argh!" Triela stomped prettily– on Pinocchio's toes. The boy winced. "I wanted Claes dead!"

"I'm a magic mirror, Your Angriness," Meir flippantly reminded her, "Not a blue-skinned genie of a wishing lamp."

"Silence, knave!"


"The sorceress concocted an evil plan. She went to the King–"


Pinocchio braced himself for the returning horror.

"Oh, darling," Triela cooed as she sexily sat on his lap again. She further slipped a smooth arm around the back of his neck and leaned very close to his face. The act gave her target an unasked-for view straight into her dress. "I have a favor to ask of you…"

Pino shivered.

"I feel sick, you see." She put on a good pout that showed off the fullness of her rosy red lips. "You don't want me to be sick, don't you?" Her pout turned into a mischievous grin. "I'm naughty when I'm sick."

The older, female part of the audience had to chuckle at that threat.

Backstage it took Jose, Jean, Amadeo, Ferro, Priscilla and Bianchi to hold the wordlessly furious Hilshire in place, Massi having been strangled and trampled earlier when he accidentally got in the German's way.

"No," Pinocchio whimpered in assent.

"Oh, that is so sweet of you. But I can't get better if I don't get any medicine. You will get me that medicine, now, wouldn't you?"

"What… is it you… need?"

Triela beamed winningly. "Claes' heart."


"Triela reveals her G.D. Wallez-ish cannibal intent. What will happen to Claes? Escape, of course. It would be disappointing to have this fic end in just three chapters. And that's in the next in the next installment of…"


Snow Claes And The Seven Cyborg Sprites


A Gunslinger Girl Christmas Presentation


Disclaimer

Neither Rolito nor Sheo owns Gunslinger Girl, Noir or Full Metal Panic. This is a fan fiction and a parody.


"Stupid lines," Marco grumbles. "This makes me feel like I'm just a fictional character in a crappy story written by an amateur college writer…"


Ah, Marco, Rolito thought with a wan smile, If you and the others only knew…