Cluster Amaryllis-Elsa
And thus, we move onto Elsa….*Sighs.* For those who've seen Gunslinger Girl, you'll know her story doesn't end happily. Still, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
For the girls who don't have much of a backstory, in the anime, or in the manga, I've tried inventing
Quote:
"And so, Ho-Kito was buried beside his love, unwept, and unmourned. But for the maiden, tears were dropped like pearls from the heavens, and trembling hands clutched at one another, as if in prayer. While the prince may have forgotten his devotion, the People had not.
The red flowers of the dead were draped over their bodies, and the funeral pyres began to burn."
Her body had moved when it Elsa was simply a normal child, yes. By what, exactly, no one knew. From the day she was born, to the day Elsa had taken her place, only vigor and an overwhelming desire to please had kept her from crumbling into pieces.
For awhile, anyway.
The first time, she'd been given a reprieve, and rescued from the asylum to begin a new existence as a cyborg of the Social Welfare Agency's Section Two.
But the latter, no one could or should help her. She'd seen to that. The only one whose love she craved saw her as an automation. An abomination. And no matter how hard she worked, or how desperate she was to prove her devotion, there was nothing she could do to ever change Lauro's mind.
Ever.
So, she took matters into her own hands. It was simple, really-more simple then she thought possible. Though she hoped-prayed-that there would be no need to use the gun ready in her coat, Lauro had dashed her hopes once again by cold, sneering indifference. He'd forgotten Elsa's special place: The place where he'd named her. Moreover, he seemed disgusted by her decision to bring them there, to that quiet little grove hidden by the trees.
So, just as she took matters in her own two hands, she took hold of the pistol the Agency had given her into her petite, gloved fingers and took aim at the man she loved most while he was walking in the most special place in the world to her.
Her own feelings overruled a series of strict conditioning to protect her handler. How ironic was that?
But he'd crumpled to the ground so easily, so gently-you wouldn't have thought he'd just been shot. Thankfully, Elsa was an excellent marksman, and wanted to make his passing quick, and painless.
And then, she adjusted the revolver around, ready to end her new life where it had begun.
But before I can continue telling this sad story, we must flash back for a moment, if you have the patience to bear with me, gentle reader.
For there are two girls in this story whose story must be told…
Marielle Arabella Di Nico was born to wealthy parents in the heart of Venice. Her father was a successful …..'businessman,' as he put it, while Mother was a 'Housekeeper.' Of course, that was a ridiculous term to use, as the family already had a housekeeper, two maids, and a chauffeur, and, as Mrs. Di Nico had never lifted so much as a mop in her life.
Still, when you're married to a mafia crime lord, I suppose you can have any title you choose. Who's going to argue with you?
I thought so.
'Stay-at-Home mother' didn't quite apply to the good lady, either. She spent most of her days away from the home, having parties with the higher members of society, enjoying spending her husband's money, occasionally hosting balls, mingling with friends in Elitist stores in the city. Her husband, diligent in his work, could be described as a man who treated his line of work as his family.
This, in Roberto Di Nico's case, meant that he had a family outside the home that he enjoyed extorting, coercing, bribing, beating, and burning through a gripthroat hold of terror and awe. He was good at his work, and the money came in chastely every month, much as it had always done before. No one dared to be late with protection payments-only a few people had ever dared refuse Robert Di Nico's network of mobsters to find out.
They were never late, ever, ever again, if they didn't simply go 'missing' first.
In the evenings, Roberto would come home, shout at a few people over the phone if he were in a good mood, and enjoy a glass of port by the fire, or by his swimming pool, if the Di Nicos hadn't traveled to their summer home that year. On the rare occasions that Maria had come home, she usually went to bed, complaining of a hangover, or came home only for a few minutes so she could change into a sophisticated gown or into something else appropriate for fine-dining and endless socializing.
The youngest occupant of the house would usually eat dinner, alone. Not that either Roberto or Maria noticed, really. They rarely remembered the pale little girl who lived on the fourth floor of their estate, in a pink bedroom, surrounded by a sea of cold, lifeless toys and dolls.
Marielle, named for her mother, was a quiet child of eleven years old. She'd been born a year or so after her parents' wedding, and had been promptly handed over to an astounded nursemaid the moment her exhausted mother had tugged her into the world. Maria Di Nico never quite forgave her daughter for the weight she'd gained during the child's pregnancy, and, even now, spent time rubbing a great deal of cocoa lotion onto her womb, desperate to remove the invisible stretch marks she thought were sure to be there.
Roberto, upon initially hearing that his wife was with child, immediately assumed that Maria was bringing a boy into the world-someone to take over the family business.
The ultrasounds had been most unclear, but the family physician had indicated that signs very much pointed to the child's sex to be male.
That had been all the prompting that Di Nico needed. Immediately soon after, he began spending hundreds of dollars on the new baby's room, which were outfitted with blue plush rugs, blue teddy bears, a large toy chest full of engines and rockets for the child to play with when he was over…..blue drapes…..blue wallpaper…..the list went on and on. The interior decorators he'd hired had truly created a 'tasteful piece of artwork-worthy elegance,' as they put it. Even the infant's chosen name-Roberto Jr.-had been carefully stenciled into the walls.
But one cold, wintry day in January, Maria's water had broke, and she'd been rushed immediately to the hospital, with Roberto following behind in his Porsche.
The man had held his wife's hand as the team of doctors carefully worked on the gasping woman, a pair of small blue pajamas ready.
And, after eleven hours of labor, the whimpering, moaning child that had appeared in the world was found, much to the good doctor's discomfort, not the male heir Roberto had so dearly longed for.
A little girl. A very small, underweight, sobbing little girl.
Roberto had eyed the creature with something akin to disgust, as a trembling nurse pulled out a pair of tiny pink pajamas from a nearby drawer. He hardly noticed as she quietly reached for the child, and carefully began to wash off the gleaming fluids on its skin in a nearby basin.
Pitiful, pitiful thing! It wouldn't wail heartily, like every another newborn child. It wouldn't scream or kick in anger-it was just miserably mewing! MEWING!
He would be a laughingstock. Tomorrow, his 'acquaintances' at work were planning on celebrating the birth of his 'son' by passing out cigars, drinking a toast with champagne, laughing, ribbing one another in the shoulder when they talked of the little Di Nico. What would they say when they heard that Di Nico had fathered a girl?
Would a girl be expected to take over the most notorious underground crime society that Italy had seen in over thirty years? Would a girl carry on his legacy of fear and corruption, or wind up decorating the place of his fathers with frills? Lace? Those bimbo Barbina dolls from America?
A vein had started to twitch in Roberto Di Nico's temple as his wife shot him an accusing look. He glared back. How was this his fault, exactly? He had no more control over it then she did!
"Sir?" asked a young nurse from behind him, who had wrapped the baby in a pink fleece bundle. "Sir? We have your little one, here. Oh, wouldn't you like to hold-"
Roberto had abruptly turned around, and strode out of the Delivery Room. He could hear shocked gasps from behind him, but did not care. Still fuming, he went down the hallway, shining loafers making soft squeaks on the polished floor.
Italy could claim to be as liberal as it liked, but to him, the birth of a son was always infinitely more worth celebration then that of a daughter. In his father's day, daughters were little more then marital material. You had one, handed it over to a Rich Boy when she came of age-fine. That was all well and good. But so easily ignored when it came time for a Son to choose a lucky fiancée.
But what would his men say?
The thought made Di Nico stop in the hallway, body turning cold.
They wouldn't dare say anything to his face, but the man could imagine how'd they whisper behind his back, stealing a few guffaws at his expense. He'd lose respect. The respect and fame that he'd worked on creating for over fifteen years, when he'd taken over his father's business!
Surely, the thing wasn't his. But Maria wouldn't dare be unfaithful to him. Besides-the girl HAD inherited some of his features, much to his embarrassment. The same nose, the same shape of the face, the same, dark green eyes that had flickered to his face, searching for any sign of a comforter-
He flicked out his cell phone, and hurriedly dialed a few numbers. Luckily, the hotline was known to be reliable, and he didn't have to wait long before he received an answer.
"Pronto. (Hello.) Si. I am in need of a nursemaid. Send us one with good credentials-but that is all. I assure you, any one will do."
The girl had been named Marielle, and thus, she grew up. Once in awhile, on a whim, Robert would remember that he did indeed have a child (Though he'd told his employees that the baby was stillborn), and send her a few presents. He'd never asked the little girl what she liked, so, it was usually china dolls.
The dolls wore lacy gowns, all tattered with frills and ribbons and sashes. There was even the occasional fake jewel to adorn the beautiful ball gowns the dolls wore, and they sparkled when you held them up to the sunlight. Marielle had never much liked dolls, or had many ideas what you did with one, exactly, but she played with them diligently each morning after lessons, arranging them on the endless shelves in her bedroom, talking to them, or setting them up to enjoy a tea party. That was, what little girls did with dolls. She'd seen that enough times on the telly.
She cradled her baby dolls, though they were cold and hard things, staring stupidly and blankly at nothing at all. She took them out for walks in her toy pram, the wheels' squeaking filling up the entire house. She told them secrets-most of them fake, as Marielle only had one TRUE secret-but whispered them to the unresponding dolls, anyway.
The little girl grew, despite remaining rather small for her age. Sometimes, she'd tiptoe out of her room when her parents were having a party, (Though this was one of the things her parents had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was NOT to do) and peer past the stairs, clutching to the fine banister poles as though they were bars.
Mother always looked so pretty. Her gowns sometimes billowed around her like apple blossom, giving her a fairy-tale like look. Other times, the small child's eyes would nearly pop out of her head at the sheer sophistication of her dresses. They would sparkle under the candelabra's lights, accenting the young woman's perfect form. Mother's dark eyes would sparkle as she greeted guests, occasionally throwing her head up as she started laughing. Marielle loved it when her mother laughed. Her dazzling white teeth would sparkle too, radiating upon everything else in the room: the fine candlesticks, the lovely wineglasses everyone held, the occasional ice sculpture….
She would hear the fine company laughing-hear Papa's booming voice echoing, which meant that soon, everyone would be laughing. Except her. She was too young to understand the jokes. But if she were there, if women had petted her head and called her a little darling, the way Marielle had seen them do with other people's children, she could laugh, too. It wouldn't matter if she understood or not.
On such an occasion, Marielle sat in her nightgown, rocking back and forth. She held a small baby doll in her arms, though she inwardly knew that she was getting much too old for dolls, anyway. Still, every gift from Papa was a treasure-a heaven-sent present. She might have never asked for a doll, and perhaps he'd never asked her what she wanted, but that was alright. She would have been his son, if he asked her to be. Mother had never given her a thing, though Father had sometimes given her a brief nod. She would have traded every doll in her bedroom for a chest of nods, smiles of approval, or….a hug. A single hug would be worth everything. She loved Papa. She adored him. Surely, he felt the same way. It was only people like Mama who kept getting in the way-who spent time with him when Marielle tried to, and was brushed away by a servant.
Poor Papa had so much work on his hands. He was so often away, so often in meetings, so often left to shout at people on the phone in his office. He did his part for the family, so she tried to, too. She had spent years attempting to be the perfect daughter. She never fussed about her lessons, ate her vegetables alone in the great dining hall, and never broke priceless antiques, or went running down the hallways. Mama was different. For although she was lovely, she spent too much money on frivolities. Marielle thought she could be lovely, too. She could be adored the way Mama was adored, if anyone would give her so much as a glance. Maybe she could even walk down the stairs the way Mama did sometimes when they were entertaining-on Papa's arm.
The idea was heaven. She wanted to wear a pretty dress-to be adored. Marielle didn't know what feeling adored was like-but it had to be different then servants telling you to run along, because you were underfoot. It had to be lovely. It had to feel spectacular. Especially when it came from Papa-the man whom she do anything for.
That was why, as Marielle at last stood up to go to bed that night, she carried a soft smile. She slipped into bed, and reached for one of the dolls near her canopy bed, whispering softly to it her one secret as she took it under her pillow:
"Papa loves me. Very much, you know. That's why he's going to hold a big party in four days. It'll be for my birthday. He'll spend the day with me. Just me."
She paused, and then whispered to the Victorian doll:
"I'll wear one of my new dresses. I'll look beautiful, then. Everyone will say so, you see."
Marielle had a thought she was supposed was unkind, but she sleepily murmured it to the doll, anyway.
"No one will notice Mama. We'll all toast champagne. I won't need any presents. Papa will want to pay attention to me the entire night. And Mama, once she realizes no one cares whether or not she's there, will just go up to bed. And no one will notice."
The lifeless doll stared blankly at her.
She nervously straightened her skirt before she knocked on the door, and heard Papa grant permission to enter. She straightened her dark blonde hair before she slowly opened the door.
It was a big room. Papa was at his desk, frowning slightly at a computer, phone cradled at his ear and shoulder. Apparently, he was waiting for someone to answer. He glanced up once, saw who his visitor was, and then back at his computer screen.
Throat growing dry, Marielle slowly crossed the thick Persian Rug, heart beginning to flutter in her chest. She clasped her hands behind her, waiting for permission to speak. When it did not come, she cleared her throat.
"Papa?"
He grunted. He was still on the phone. Grasping for courage, Marielle went on:
"Papa, my thirteenth birthday's tomorrow."
He grunted again. He must have already known. Encouraged, Marielle continued.
"Papa, I don't want anything for my birthday. I just want to spend the day with you. And then, I want to attend the party you're having for me with mother. I have that new dress you got me last week-I can wear that. It'll look perfect."
A frown crossed Roberto Di Nico's face as static began crackling on the other side of the black speaker. He began to nod energetically, ringed fingers zoning in on his computer screen. The young girl's heart glowed, and she slowly began to retreat. She threw her Father an overjoyed smile, however, when she reached the door again.
"Gratzie, Papa. Thank you so much."
He grunted again, and waved his free hand-also loaded with rings-at the door. But Marielle was still smiling when she closed it.
She couldn't wait for tomorrow. It couldn't possibly come soon up.
But, much as it always does, the next day came, bright and early. Marielle's eyes had popped open when it was still dark out, leaping out of bed, a huge smile on her face. She threw open her wardrobe, reached in for a lacy pinafore, and put the carefully laundered article of clothing on with the utmost care.
Her maid helped her put ribbons in her hair, and soon enough, she was racing down the steps to the Dining Hall, spirits soaring.
Much to her disappointment, however, as she bounded into the room, Mama and Papa were not there waiting for her, as she hoped. They must've meant to surprise her, later. She settled into her chair, looking expectantly towards the kitchens.
They brought out blueberry pancakes today-a rare treat. Papa DID remember. Of course he would-how could he ever forget? Well, how could he ever forget when poor Papa wasn't ladled down by work?
Swinging her feet in the air, Marielle waited as she chewed her food, enjoying the sweet taste. She could wait. Mama would pop up smiling any minute now, and Papa would be full of smiles and kisses.
So, she waited. The servants took her empty plate away.
And she waited.
And waited.
By ten o'clock that morning, she'd fallen asleep at the table.
Maybe it was because she'd gotten so little sleep last night, but it was two hours before the little girl stirred. The servants were busy placing lunch on the table-which looked like Roast Beef, today.
So Mama and Papa meant to surprise her with a luncheon! What a great idea, to get all the work that needed to be done out of the way so that they could play later. Marielle wished she'd come up with such an idea herself.
Once she finished eating two courses, the servants hurriedly brought out a large strawberry cheesecake, and set it down on the table without looking at her. Marielle could have clapped her hands from sheer pleasure. It was beautiful-and looked so delicious. There were candles set into the cake, too.
Mama and Papa were probably going to sing her happy birthday, and wait for her to make a wish.
So again she waited.
But still, no one came, even as the candles sank lower, and lower, until they'd become small puddles of wax on the cake itself, and the fires extinguished themselves, with nothing left to burn.
Papa had sent an enormous pile of presents, which she knew were stuffed animals, dolls, bonnets, dresses, hair ties, and toys. Hadn't he heard her say she didn't want anything this year?
She put on her best light blue party dress in the evening. The servants curled her hair. She put on lovely black shoes.
And, around seven that evening, when guests were just beginning to fill the hall downstairs, servants hurriedly whisking away their coats, she'd skipped down the stairs. Curious faces had turned towards her at the sound of her little, pattering feet.
Her light heart had danced at the attention-until she'd seen Mama's horrified face.
She'd stopped dead on the last step, heart now hammering a different tune as her dark eyes searched out Papa.
And the fury in his face made her want to curl into a small ball, and never be seen again.
He had tried to shake off his obvious detestment with a laugh, even as she gazed at him imploringly.
"Sorry, everyone-just one of the servants' children," he had joked, slowly taking hold of the small girl's shoulders, and turned the motionless girl back around. "They keep multiplying like rats, I swear…."
Somewhere in her numb, broken mind, Papa's words echoed hauntingly. Servant's child? Her?
"But I guess I oughta be getting this little signora back to bed, eh? If you'll excuse me for a moment…."
But words found life on her lips.
"I-It's my birthday today, Papa," she'd said falteringly, as people began whispering excitedly amongst themselves. "Today, I'm….."
But he let out a harsh bark of faint laughter.
"Papa! Oh, heavens, listen to this adorable child's stories-"
He'd pinched her cheek-hard. It left a mark, but it had STUNG. There had been no affection behind it, and it made Marielle wince.
"Please, Papa-I want-"
Roberto shoved her up a few stairs, making her stagger slightly. He nodded to a butler who'd been standing beside the door.
"Take this little one upstairs. And lock her in this time."
The idea made her horrified, even as the butler's strong hands took hold of her shoulders, and began firmly tugging the miscreant back upstairs. But the tears were already flowing down her face.
"Papa! Papa, you said I could come down, don't you remember? It's my birthday today! You promised! YOU PROMISED!"
But he'd already turned his back on her. No one seemed to hear her screams, as the embarrassed butler hurried up the stairs with the weeping girl.
"MAMA!"
The woman did not stop talking to her friends, keen to drown out the sound of her daughter's voice.
"PAPA!"
The man did not look back. And horror-unyielding, unfabricated horror-broke over Mariela Di Nico as cold reality set in at last. She screamed one last time before the Servant whisked her out of sight:
"I HOPE YOU BOTH DIE!"
The Butler tossed her in her room. She tumbled to the carpet, but whipped her head around to the closed door, where she could already hear the sound of the key turning in the lock. She raced to the door, and immediately began beating upon it.
"Let me out! Let me out! It's my birthday!"
But she could already hear the man walking away. And soon, Marielle's trembling figure began to sag, as the tears continued to race down her face.
"It's my birthday…."
And, with that, the small wretch to the floor, face buried in her hands as she curled into a ball, sobbing.
Outside her room, the laughing continued long well into the night. But Marielle did not hear it. All that was to be heard was the wind moaning outside, singing itself a sorrowful lullaby.
She didn't move from her place on the floor when she heard a servant unlock her door, and tiptoe away. Her hair was a mess, as was her face. The tears refused to fill in her eyes, anymore. The dark orbs had frozen over, and her face-so flushed with happiness and then misery yesterday-had become as pale as the snow gently falling outside her window.
It took her another hour before she stood up in the silent room. For a moment, she did nothing. She was surrounded by dolls-dozens of them, all staring at her with blank, unsympathetic eyes.
She was ruler of these empty people. In their society, the only society she had been permitted to have, Mama and Papa wanted her to stay here.
She slowly walked across the rug, footsteps echoing in the silent household. Then, she took a small doll off the shelves, and stared at it, her eyes showing neither pity nor love-only cold appraisal. Now the doll knew of the horror that had taken over her body last night.
Now, there was nothing. Nothing inside of her but snow. She'd become a Di Nico overnight-emotions weren't going to guide her hand, anymore.
Well….maybe not quite so. Maybe emotion was the only thing moving her lifeless body anymore. Maybe that, and something else. Something she hadn't decided to do, but knew she would, anyway.
The small doll's body went crashing to the floor. CRASH. Went another doll. China flew in all directions, heads cracked, limbs fell off.
CRASH!
SMASH!
SMASH!
One by one, each doll met the same fate. Her face might as well been carved out of solid ice, but it was composed. The dolls still on the shelves stared at her, but did nothing, patiently waiting for their turn like lambs.
At last, in a sea of china, glass, wood, chips, eyes, bonnets, lace, hair, and ruffled dresses ruined beyond repair, Marielle stood alone in her room.
She crossed it, ignoring the crunch-crunch-crunch sounds coming from beneath her shoes to sit at her bed. She glanced at the nearby clock. It would be quite a few hours to wait.
Well, she'd waited more then her entire life for this moment. She just hadn't known it. A few more hours wouldn't make much difference.
She'd skipped her meals. Afternoon had slowly crawled on towards evening, as Marielle sat there in the darkness.
Evening settled into night. And, at ten o' clock, she finally rose from her bed, and slowly crossed the room again, patiently picking up a large shard of porcelain out of the rubble, not caring when it cut her finger. The servants would have quite a mess to clean up-not that she much cared, at this point.
She observed the piece of porcelain, then dropped it, deciding that she would go down to the kitchen. No one would be afoot there this time of night. And she needed to make a visit or two without anyone interfering in her affairs. If people would not move for her, then they needed to be pushed out of the way. Her father had taught that to her enough.
Thankfully, Mama and Papa had already been in bed when she'd came to their bedroom a few minutes later, clutching her treasure. She didn't bother knocking this time-she'd let herself in.
And, careful not to let the door creak, she entered, cold, cold eyes fixed on her parents' peaceful forms, watching the rise and fall of their chests.
She heard of children fleeing to their parents' bedrooms for safety when they were frightened. Would she have dreamed of such a thing? No. Was she frightened now? No. This was simply what she had needed to do for years now, and had never gotten around to it.
She slowly approached their bed. She didn't hate her parents. Not really. So why was she doing this? Because there was nothing left. Nothing left-so there was no more point in them wasting away anymore. They were full of nothing, just as she was, so she was granting them the same mercy.
She crawled onto the large bed, and slowly creeped up, eyes still fixed on her parents, revealing what she'd 'borrowed' from the kitchen area: A carving knife.
Thankfully, Mama didn't cry out when it was her turn, though Marielle did have to seize a pillow and through it over her face. It wouldn't do to wake up poor Papa, who worked so hard in the days.
She stared at her beloved father for a moment. He hadn't stirred when his wife died; that was good.
The knife flew down.
And, once the deed was done, Marielle turned to herself. She wasn't exactly certain how to stab herself, but it had to be clean and hard…..
A servant had brought in the elder Di Nicos' breakfast, only to fill up the entire house with hysteric shrieks when the door was opened, and the grim spectacle discovered.
An ambulance was called, though two of the pulses had stopped long ago. One pulse, while deathly weak, still lingered.
Police Cars filled the area, and much of Venice rejoiced at the end of the Di Nico empire. Roberto's ranks had ultimately wound up destroying one another in an attempt to seize his family's throne. The extorting ended. The pillaging ended. The deaths and the arson did, too.
Still, the town still talks about just what had befallen the old sinner and his wife and child. Some say that the wife was the one who did it, whereas others insist that Roberto was plagued by his dark acts and eventually driven mad enough to murder his own family.
But those who read the papers know the grisly truth. And they still shake their heads and tut about it-poor little girl. Ghastly as it had been, no one could bring themselves to call the child a murderer. She had done what so many had failed to do, and hadn't she been a victim? Some maintained that she'd been Roberto's offspring from a mistress. Others say that Roberto hated children, and kept her chained upstairs, driving her to madness.
But it didn't matter what they thought. Marielle was soon dragged off to an asylum. If she recovered, officials decided to lock up the little girl where she could do no more harm. She was clearly criminally insane, regardless the circumstances.
But three days after she'd arrived, a hotshot from the government named Jean arrived, inquiring about the newest patient's case...
Two days later, Marielle Di Nico was officially pronounced dead in the papers. Another girl soon took her place at the asylum, and soon, out the door, meekly following a bored-looking man out the doors to a nearby van.
The two had stopped at a nearby park as the driver went to refill the gas tank. It was there that the silent young stranger learned his name: Lauro. Upon querying upon his last name, he had only grunted out, "Just Lauro."
And it was there he decided that she needed a name. And then, he had given her a marvelous, beautiful, precious present: A name.
She was named Elsa di Sica, and named so for a short day thereafter.
Lauro had barely glanced at the girl's profile before he affirmed that, yes, he'd be Elsa's handler. One cyborg was as good as the other to him. In any case, the SWA was generous in its pay, and left a small sum for each handler to cover their 'younger sibling's' expenses.
For Lauro, it was a relatively beneficial job-not hard on the wallet, and in his own field of interest. Being with the government came power, and power was something Lauro enjoyed using very much. Terrorist or one of the Five Republics, it didn't matter much to him. You pointed out whom you wanted dead, and he could easily handle it for you. This job just basically ensured that he was officiated to do what he did best, and paid handsomely, though it was hardly your white-collar dream career.
It wasn't all fun and games at the Agency. For one thing, it was slightly unnerving having this pale little shadow follow him around all the time with haunted eyes. It annoyed him, how Elsa would want to tarry around him in the cafeteria when he and the others were trying to enjoy their meals. He at last had to order her to sit by the other cyborgs, or anywhere else that would ensure him a moment's peace.
Elsa took meals alone in her room, from then on.
She seemed to have no interest in socializing with the other girls. The more Lauro pushed her away, the more she fluttered to him, desperate to be of service, consistently perfecting her markmanship and self-defense martial skills when she was alone. She tended her weaponry each night the way her handler had taught her, and meticulously looked the machinery over for any fingerprints or flaws once she was finished wiping the gleaming instrument down. It was a task that took her a little over two hours to complete, but she didn't care. Lauro wouldn't tolerate anything less then complete annihilation in their missions, and neither would she.
She seemed to take no pleasure in any extracurricular activities. Certainly, she didn't waste any time in stupid, unproductive noise-making, the way that Henrietta did with her violin, or the way Claes did with the piano.
The other girls were annoying, at best. Triela kept wandering by her side, offering her help whenever Hilshire had assigned the girls homework. Lauro wouldn't tolerate her accepting any help, so she turned Triela away each time. Who did that smug showboat think she was, just because she was the oldest girl here? Elsa's eyes narrowed whenever the two exchanged words, wishing the stupid girl would go away, and leave her alone. Maybe learning German was difficult, but she'd manage. She and Lauro always managed. Besides, she'd be much better off offering her time and service to her fratello. Elsa was constantly at work trying to strengthen it, and the girls' lack of effort was dispiriting. But she wouldn't let them make her weak. Let them try. Their so-called 'affection' meant nothing to her. Lauro's affections, however, were an entirely different story.
So what if Lauro never thanked her for her work.
So what if he got angry once or twice during training, and had kicked her? The little girl always smiling like an idiot clown practicing next to her got hit by her handler, sometimes. If she could take it, Elsa knew she could. It hurt her feelings like nothing else when Lauro was displeased with her, but it just meant she had to work harder. For both of their sakes.
But all that changed that night Henrietta had slipped into her room, trying to initiate casual conversation. What a foolish slip of a girl. Elsa could barely comprehend it. Why on Earth would a cyborg care to worry about another when a Handler could usually care less about what you were doing? That WAS what a handler was all about, though. And Elsa had accepted that.
Until, of course, she'd met Henrietta's partner.
He was a quiet man, but had allowed Henrietta to tag alongside him-not behind him, carrying all the equipment-without complaint. He had offered to take her places. And Elsa had once heard Triela complimenting Henrietta on the new dress her 'nice older brother' had gotten her.
It had troubled Elsa like nothing ever did; the foundation of her sturdy, firm world was suddenly thrown into question-into doubt.
Lauro had bought her plain clothes. Plain was fine, sensible. She didn't need a nice red coat or a fancy dress.
But she thought, perhaps, she wouldn't have minded one.
And of COURSE she didn't NEED to travel anywhere. After all, she and Lauro were here on business, not on vacation. They didn't need to go sightseeing together.
But oh, how she would have loved to!
The pats on the head Jose regularly gave to Henrietta, the nods, the elder-brother like attentiveness he gave her, when the four of them were in that tower-
She could only stare at them, when she knew she was supposed to be concentrating on her mark. Worse yet, she'd left the gun safety on right before they were ready to shoot. Lauro had cried out in disgust when she desperately began stammering, desperately trying to regain focus and control.
But Lauro had made her and Jose switch. Henrietta's fratello had pulled her away from her gun with a soft word of apology, and together, he and Henrietta disposed of the target.
Just as she and Lauro had never done together.
It had been bad enough witnessing Jose leave, casting her a look of pity. Worse when Henrietta stared at Elsa, when her world was literally tearing at the edges.
But seeing Lauro's emotionless eyes on her, hearing him mutter the dreaded word-'Useless'-had been the last straw.
Elsa had been left alone in the cathedral tower when everything broke at last. Vaguely, she saw a little girl in a party dress was running down a flight of steps, laughing at her from somewhere in her mind.
It was a gray morning when their bodies were found in that Park, with ravens shrieking overhead. Elsa's face was directed towards the sky, while Lauro's was directly in the Earth below him.
The news of the deaths of Lauro and Elsa were quickly silenced before they could reach the media. Their bodies were removed from the scene, and the two bullet shells that had ultimately taken their lives hastily removed.
The superiors of Section Two knew what had happened. But that certainly didn't mean that anyone else had to find out.
And so, the two were quietly buried, without much ceremony nor fuss. Cluster Amaryllis flowers-the red flower of death-had found their way to their graves, but nothing else.
When it was over, everyone turned their backs on the small graves, some of them discussing things that needed doing that day. None of the girls at the Agency had dropped a tear.
Epilogue:
Their graves are right next to each other, just as Elsa would have wanted it. Occasionally, a stray flower covers one or both of their graves. Usually, it's Henrietta who puts them there. She wonders if Elsa would have minded, but remembers that Elsa's beyond caring, anyway.
Sometimes, when Henrietta's looking at the stars with Jose, she wonders where Elsa and Lauro are now. All she ever got from Jose about Elsa's backstory was that it was not a happy one.
Maybe, just maybe, Henrietta thinks that life might have been kind to Elsa for once, even if it was only after Life had handed her and Lauro over into the arms of Death. Elsa wouldn't have to waste away as a Cyborg at the Agency. She could be with Lauro as much as she wanted to. And no one would ever shout at her or push her away again. Because, chances were that Lauro might need all the comfort he could find, and find solace with Elsa. Perhaps he'd forgive her for shooting him, maybe he and Elsa could find bliss and satisfaction they'd never be able to find on Earth.
Henrietta wonders what Elsa was like before she came to the Agency. Maybe the two weren't so very different after all; perhaps not. It doesn't seem like much to ask for, to be loved, to have something or someone worth living for.
But Henrietta knows that it's everything. And it's the true difference maker, at the end of the day. It was, after all, the prime reason why Elsa killed herself and the people she loved.
There are more then just red flowers at their gravesites. Someone has planted a few seeds near the neglected stones-seeds that will burst into marigolds one day, when Spring comes again.
Henrietta hopes Elsa will appreciate them, wherever she is. These flowers bring word of New Life, and, Luck Willing, Elsa was enjoying hers very much right now.
-The End.
Holy COW, that was seriously long! I was NOT planning on Elsa's story taking so much time to write….I think I'm going to cry, now…