If I had to choose a favorite, Rico probably qualifies….I really hope everyone likes this!
Rico: Sunflower
Quote:
"Bring me then the plant that points to those bright Lucidites swirling up from the earth, and life itself exhaling that central breath!
Bring me the sunflower crazed with the love of light!"
*Gunslinger Girl Manga Spoiler Alert!
~0~
She grew in cracked, disapproving Earth, and yet stays indifferent to the tough soil, and lifts her face to the sunshine. It doesn't seem to matter much to her that the owner of this flower seems to regard her as a mere automation, nor is she unhappy when the fruits of her labor are silently taken, without word of thanks. The Sunflower never complains, nor bends easily, even when the bright yellow petals grow dull, and its cheerful head begins to droop. It never asks for much; water once in awhile, occasional weeding, maybe-but these are relatively small requests, and the Sunflower never needs much care.
Which is a very, very thankful thing, else, this bloom would have withered away and died by now, if it hadn't succumbed to darkness long before.
In the days that Rico was not Rico-and had another name, she could faintly remember dried flowers growing in a window box near her hospital bed. She could never reach out to touch them, however-no leave the safety of her bed. Her continuously trembling, aching body would not have permitted her such a luxury, and thus, in her mattress, hooked up to a series of large and frightening-looking machines, she stayed, struggling to breathe while her parents ill-conceived their yelling at each other, day in, day out.
"Just where have you been all this time, woman?"
There was a pause; then, the sound of breaking glass.
"I'VE been HERE! The one place where you're always too BUSY to be! I TAKE CARE OF HER!"
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THESE HOSPITAL BILLS RUN UP? THAT'S why I'm away all the time!"
In the end, the Doctor's diagnosis wasn't good. It hadn't changed from the day the child had stumbled into the world with a series of paralyzing birth defects. She couldn't move. Breathing was labored, and burned at her insides with a fire that seemed to radiate itself perpetually from her chest and tummy.
Rico would never move without assistance, given her state. And, sooner or later, (Most likely the former) the girl was going to die, leaving her parents with a broken marriage, and a series of bills that piled on their already high mortgage rate.
One of the head physicians, a Dr. Bianchi, seemed to pity the young family. He invited in the little girl's parents to his office with a proposition on the child's eleventh birthday.
To her parents, the proposition seemed an unlikely miracle. All hospital bills would be quietly shuffled aside; financial expenses over. Besides, surely this was the right thing to do: After all, their child would be made well again, right? She could walk. She could do….certain things. What those certain things were, no one was quite certain, but they had to be GOOD things, right? Italy's New Social Welfare Agency was said to be doing immense good for society; that children who were previously lame could now walk with cheap, artificial implants, that people were continuously correcting new, safe medical procedures for 'adaptations made for the safety and wellbeing of society as a whole.'
The girl's mother hesitated before signing the form. She'd been careful to read the fine print, unlike the father, who had scribbled his name on the thirteen consent forms almost immediately.
She would never see her child again. The small ray of sunshine in the hospital room she visited every day. The confining, depressing, bleak hospital room, which the mother always visited with ill humor, feeling as though she ought to be canonized as a saint for her sacrifices. The one that always smelled of antiseptic, IV fluids, and medicine. The one that was always filled by the sound of many machines humming or beeping, the child's gasping, or her and her husband's screaming.
She found it easier then she thought she would to sign her name. She didn't notice the pitying look that the Doctor cast the two of them, or the look of abhorrent disgust he fired at them as they quietly closed the door.
A young man, his features handsome, but hardened and cold, had entered the child's room as a team of doctors trooped in afterwards. He'd stared at her, icy blue eyes fixated on the pale child, flickering occasionally to her blonde hair and blue eyes-ones that greatly resembled his. She could easily pass for his daughter-or even little sister.
He'd approached her unceremoniously. At the sound of his footsteps, the girl's eyes opened, and she feebly turned her head in his direction. At this, he raised an eyebrow.
"Do you want to learn how to walk?"
At this, the girl's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to hastily reply:
"Can you teach me? What do my parents say of this?"
The man did not reply for a moment. Then-
"I asked you if you wanted to learn how to walk. On your own."
She needed no more prompting.
"Yes, sir-very much. I do want to know how, though my legs are-"
He turned away, and waved aside her words, which soon died away. He turned to face the nearest nurse, who jumped when he addressed her:
"She'll do. I've had a good look at her charts, so she'll be an acceptable prototype. Just be sure to cut her hair-that's not something we need. Call a Barber, if you must. I don't care who does it."
With that, he slowly began to retreat out the door. The nurse stared at him in a stupor, and, upon recovering her wits, stuttered out:
"H-How short, s-sir?"
The man slid on a pair of dark sunglasses, not breaking his pace as he proceeded to walk down the hall.
"Short. I thought I had made that perfectly clear."
~0~
They wheeled her into surgery, with the curious girl being none the wiser as to what was about to happen. For some reason, Mother and Father were nowhere to be found.
Nineteen hour s later, her eyes flickered open. Her mind felt heavier, more opaque then before. It was as if a haze had settled in upon her mind and body, making it harder to shift around. It was as if she'd become a little marionette whose strings were being tightly pulled.
But she didn't dwell on that for very long. For, not thinking about it, she shifted in her bed, quite easily, as if she'd been born knowing how to do it.
And, her heart nearly stopping in midbeat, she moved.
It was a glorious miracle; one that had her light blue eyes stinging, and the tears spilling down her face. She slowly turned to face a small mirror that had been in her hospital bedroom for over nine years, able to see her reflection for the first time.
Her cornflower hair had been cut-but who cared? While she had once entertained the idea of being able to wear a ballgown or to have elegant hair curled into a bun as a small toddler, what did that amount to having hands that could curl into fists-to being able to wriggle, or kick her feet? To being able to breathe without her body having small spikes of pain that made her eyes mist over?
Deliriously excited, she attempted to stand, but tumbled to her knees on the cold floor. Her eyes at last drifted over to the man standing beside her bed, near the old windowbox, recognizing him.
He was talking on a cellular phone, brow furrowed.
"Yeah. Yeah, the procedure's done. She should be waking up soon. Once I teach her a few things about moving, I can give her her first pistol. It's a reliable little airgun, so it's a good start."
There was a pause.
"Si. I told them to use an excess of conditioning. Jose, I don't care about that."
He sounded like he was getting annoyed.
" Yes, I do realize the repercussions, believe it or not, brother. It's a small sacrifice. Maybe if you were willing to make one for the good of your country instead of wallowing in every hospital in Italy, you'd find an unlikely payoff. This girl will be one, if I have any say in it."
With that, he closed his phone, and turned around. His eyes narrowed.
"About time you woke up. I was wondering."
He crossed the room over to the dresser, and crossed his arms, quietly surveying her. There was no love or approval behind his glasses-not that the girl could let herself care. She was still trembling with the miracle now moving her body-the way SHE wanted it to move!
"P-Please, sir, how-"
"You belong to me, now," Jean interrupted, curtly. Puzzled, though still admiring her twitching hands, the girl's curiosity was mildly piqued.
"Sir…?"
He abruptly cut her off.
"You will address me as 'Jean,' or 'Sir.' Whichever one works-I don't much care."
He stared at her; Rico's startled reflection appearing twice on the surface of his dark shades.
"Is that understood?"
For some reason or another, it was easy to humbly nod. Her mouth immediately fell shut, and quiet clarity fell over her body. Thrilled as she was, exhilarated as she was, she must listen to Mr…what's his name, Jean.
Jean turned to the side, turning glassy eyes towards the door.
"Tomorrow morning, we start training. You better know how to stand by then; otherwise, there's no point in bringing you back to the SWA with me."
"What about mother and father?"
The traitorous words escaped from her mouth before she could stop them. Jean's face soured, and he slowly approached Rico's petite form still sprawled out on the floor.
"They signed you over to us yesterday morning. You're officially in our custody."
Silence. The little blonde haired girl blinked once, and then returned her attentions to her foot, which she was shaking slightly, back and forth, back and forth.
There were no feelings of betrayal burning inside of her; no sense of grief, nor loss. The tears would not start burning at her eyes.
Was this strange?
The little girl felt nothing. Jean could have told her that both of her parents had died, and yet, she doubted she would feel much more then what she felt right now.
Inside….she felt….well, there was no other word for it-quiet. She was quiet. It was not, she felt, an altogether unhappy feeling.
Quiet meant that the machines stopped humming, and that the screams had stopped. She was glad for her parents, but felt no yearning to behold them. Not really. If her mother ever came by to visit her when she was younger, that was fine. If, for whatever reason, she did not, that too, was fine. Neither of them had ever been close. Likewise for her and her father.
Something new had curled up inside of her. Was this part of having her own body to move? She supposed it must be-she had never felt anything quite like the dispassionate peace inside of her at the moment.
Jean cleared his throat, breaking her reverie again. He began to head towards the door, but he paused as his hand met the knob.
"If you need anything, just press the buzzer by the door-someone will be with you shortly. Get a good night's sleep tonight-you're going to need it."
He turned the handle, opened the door, and paused again.
"We'll get you settled in a dormitory soon enough where you'll be living. You'll have a room to yourself to awhile, though I'll suspect you might have a new roommate soon."
"Who-"
Jean turned his head around, scowling.
"Be quiet. We'll start with basic firearms training tomorrow morning after the hospital discharges you."
Discharge. After twelve years. Discharge. The idea almost made her giddy again. A dormitory. Practice with….what was it? Fiyarms. That sounded interesting, to say the least. Would the other people staying in the dorms be using fiyarms, too?
But Jean's voice immediately brought her out of her waking dreams:
"I've taken the liberty of checking your size charts, so I already bought you some clothes and shoes. Soon, they should be set up in an old dresser for you at the Agency.
"Ah….um…thank you very much."
Jean went on as if he hadn't heard her.
"You'll need a name."
She didn't bother telling him she already had a name. That was irrelevant. And why say anything when she was so much happier just listening to Jean talk?
Jean's eyes narrowed again as he considered her.
"I'll tell the people at Paperwork that your name is Rico. We'll get a file started immediately."
Rico. That was a boy's name. She knew that much. It meant 'Brave Ruler.'
But Jean had still not finished:
"You should work on some stretches tonight. Be ready to leave at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow."
Rico's voice was quiet as she answered him, sunny smile still plastered on her face.
"Yes sir."
Jean paused again at her smile, but soon, simply left the room. She watched him go, and listened to his footsteps as they trailed away down the hallway.
By now, panicked buzzes and countless questions would be stammering through any person's head as they heard Jean leave the room. But Rico only leaned back awkwardly against the floor, and thought.
SWA. What that was, she didn't know, or care. Her mind was patiently explaining what Jean had not done so very well: She must try to stand. Once she did that, she could walk. Walking could mean she could go places, such as out of the hospital, by Jean's side, to a car. She'd heard cars before from outside-could hear the Ambulances shrieking and roaring across the road. They went to the Hospital, and then away once again. Only Rico meant to never, ever enter a hospital again. Not if she could help it. She needed to be beside Jean, even if he snapped or scowled or got angry. That was just fine with her. Cruelty was something Rico could easily understand, and work with. It would have been bewildering if he treated her kindly-scary, almost.
Besides, in Rico's eyes, Jean had been very, very kind. He gave her a body of her own-one that moved at her will. Anything else was so easily forgotten. She'd already forgotten that he'd yelled at her.
Awkwardly, she scooted across the room, arms wobbling violently as she crawled on her knees, just managing to keep balance. She didn't stop until she came to a small, plank shelf nailed into the wall by the old window.
She paused.
Then, slowly working herself into a sitting up position, she slowly began to reach for the small piece of wood. Her fingers kept sliding off the old surface, and it creaked as she moved, but at last, she had a hold of it.
Then, Rico began to try to stand.
By the time that Jean came for her tomorrow morning, Rico had already packed her scant belongings, and was sitting on her bedside table, rocking her legs back and forth, back and forth in midair. There was a chaste smile on her features. The newborn sunflower sprouts shone a tranquil green in the warm sunlight.
~0~
The days go by, much as they always do. Rico shoots with hawk-eye precision whenever Jean points and says 'shoot.' Whether her weapon of choice happens to be the CZ-F5, or MG 3 'General Purpose' Machine Gun, she doesn't question her Handler's orders. If they are to die, well, there must be a reason for it-one Jean knows. Rico doesn't really think about it much, but perhaps that's alright. The only death that even caused her a pang of regret was when she was forced to kill her concierge friend, Emilio.
Jean's safety is first and foremost. She doesn't think when it comes to his safety-she simply does. If a waitress so much as spills water on her handler, then there's no use in considering anything when it's time to twist off an arm. (Thankfully, Jean works for the Government, and was able to pull them out of THAT mess.) Jean must live. Why, she doesn't know, but she's sure Jean does, and that's enough to keep smiling.
Jean can be ungrateful or as brutal as he likes; Rico doesn't really care, either way. A rare praise, a pat on the head, or an approving nod is all she really needs from Jean-and all a girl can really ask for. Rico is lucky in the fact that she does her best to please, and asks for little. Life had already taught her well that asking for little meant that you were much less likely to be disappointed.
Besides, to her, what's there to be disappointed in? She loves Jean. She loves learning German, even if it's still a bit tricky for her. She loves it when Henrietta helps her play the Violin, or when Claes lets her help in the garden.
Rico loves a lot of things. She has to think for a moment if she's asked what she DOESN'T like.
To her, every day is a new blessing. After waking up and checking that, yes, her body is still there and functioning, she'll bid Henrietta good morning, same as always, and occasionally do laundry with her roommate before heading down to breakfast. Then, it's usually off to the training grounds, the conditioning chambers, or to work, if Jean has a new assignment for her, today. Sometimes, she gets to see places like Naples. Or Florence. Or Venice. Every day is a new adventure with Jean, and so, she keeps her head to the sky….unless, of course, Jean shoves her head down to avoid it meeting a bullet head on.
Elsa and Angelica's deaths didn't register to Rico as much as the embrace as her Handler had once given to her. It had been the one genuine gesture of affection he'd ever allowed himself to show Rico.
If she died then and there, it would have been just fine with her. Life was precious any day, but Jean's affection meant more to her then she'd ever allowed herself to think about, or believe.
One day, when she was asked if she were willing to die for her handler, Rico blanched. It was then she offered a thin smile to her questioner, wanting to be truthful, but also not disappointing.
"Um, well, I don't really want to die..."
But Jean had said that it was only right for her to do so, if it meant protecting her fratello. And she accepted that. Because if Jean says so, then it must be true. World without End. Amen.
Besides, dying was a much better alternative to becoming useless.
Being left behind-unable to please, unable to work, unable to move, knowing that Jean was disgusted with her and would never bother to see her again-that idea made the tears spill out onto her pillow at night.
Still, she'll keep going until she burns out. Until she's dropped all the seeds she can offer the people who actually mean something to her, she'll destroy by Jean's side, until all the Padania members lie dead in their unholy graves.
That's the fate of the Sunflower.
And she'll smile and glow every second of it, drinking in every ounce of beautiful sunlight until the end.
Alright….hoped this one went well. Next, we have Elsa: Cluster Amaryllis