"Ciao, Giuseppe. Until we meet again. Goodbye."


Gunslinger Girl

Life Goes On


Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl, Noir and Hamlet are not mine.


Chronology: This story is set after the first season of Gunslinger Girl and several years after Noir. It is inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various Gunslinger Girl fan fiction (the story Battlezone and the characters Meir, Liesel, Kathryn and Altheus) and Deathra's poem Daddy's Girl.

Notice that I changed the name of the chapter. I thought Promessa (Italian for 'promise') was more apt. And it is.


To all my reviewers: my appreciations for all the reviews, assistance and inspirations!


Third

Promessa


Giuseppe's funeral was held one warm morning in Naples just a week later. He would be buried next his parents. Both were long dead, victims of a terrorist attack that had sent their dissimilar sons on their life path. What few direct blood relations that remained were of no consequence. But people that mattered were present and accounted for.

The gathered crowd was almost completely composed of Giuseppe's coworkers in the Social Welfare Service. All the Fratello pairs and support teams who participated in the recent mission were there. Alongside them were their Israeli comrades-in-arms, the Childville delegation. Later a morbid joke would circulate in Section One about a single grenade or mortar round effectively depopulating the 'doll house'– and with some Jews on the side as a bonus.

But who amongst these men and women in attendance cared about such pettiness? Section One was not family. They were. For all intents and purposes, Section Two was Giuseppe's family.

They and the little girl in black, the girl whose gaze was for all intents and purposes nailed upon the dark brown coffin and the man held within.

There were speeches. All had only glowing remarks for their departed comrade. Opinions that would have been otherwise unshakeable were now revised in regards to the deceased's own. Like Marco, who surprised everyone in admitting Giuseppe had been right about Angelica, that he shouldn't be so cold to her even though all seemed lost with her. Death did that to people. It reminded everyone that nothing lasted forever, that people came and went like the wind, and that men were all too mortal despite their beliefs otherwise.

And that made life all the more precious.

Jean was the last. His was brief and simple. He did not indulge in frivolous depictions of previous heroisms or dwell upon optimistic thoughts of paradise in the afterlife. Instead, he pointed out that his brother was just a man like all of them and that all of them would die one day. But in that same way, mortality was the greatest proof of human existence. "And all of us will still go on living– even without Giuseppe."

Aside, Rico and Meir found and grasped each other's hands tightly.

Aside, Claes bowed her head in subconscious reverie.

"Life goes on," Jean affirmed. "So we must. So we must."


Henrietta endured it all.

She should not have even been there. The cybernetics experts had strongly suggested that the 'orphaned' girl be restrained, sedated and placed under heavy guard until they could assess her emotional and mental stability. It was probably the most logical course of action, considering the girl's current grief.

But Jean insisted. Jean, that man of adamantine resolve and Olympian distance, had insisted on her presence. He assured Chief Lorenzo that nothing adverse would happen. In fact, he pointed out, it would be better to have Henrietta attend. The whole of Section Two knew how close she was to Giuseppe. They all believed that she deserved to be present at her handler's funeral. To deprive them of that would be devastating for morale. "They are human," he repeated. "They have human feelings."

And having her fellow cyborgs –no lesser entities would suffice for the task involved– guarding her, keeping her away from the man she cared for, would most assuredly be upsetting to all involved. The cyborgs would not just feel sorry for their distraught friend. They would also castigate themselves for being the ones inflicting added misery, would consider their handler's– and their own– mortality. One dispirited cyborg was bad enough. Two or more would be disastrous.

Partly because Jean was persuasive, mostly because he was pushy, the experts relented. To tell the truth, they were all too happy to dump the responsibility on someone else. Better you than us, their glances had said.

But it was worth it.

After all, it was a promise he made to a dead man.


The service ended. The eulogies were done. Now was the final act. Slowly the casket was lowered into its final resting place.

At a nod from Jean, Henrietta began walking towards the grave.

It was the privilege of a person especially close to the deceased. Like a lover. Jean did not have to insist on this. No one would argue the matter. All were in agreement. There was no one else more fitting for the role. There was no one else more important to the deceased.

There was no one else to be had.

Tightly clasped to her bosom was a bouquet filled with violets. She had picked it for its scent, which she had so liked. But she also chose it for its ancient symbolic value, something Giuseppe had mentioned so long ago in passing, yet another proof in her eyes that he knew everything.

Violets stood for faithfulness.

And she was faithful to him for all eternity.

Her first, small step forward into terror was followed by another, and another. She was utterly alone. She had no one to support her even indirectly. The sun beat down on her. Her composure somehow held despite the heat, despite her vulnerability and loneliness, despite the overwhelming intimacy of the crossing. It was the bravest thing she ever did.

Slowly, surely, she approached Giuseppe's grave.

Hirscher's Literature lessons came to life in her mind even as she approached the dead. Characters blinked in and out of existence, preaching and retorting, demanding and asking. They were familiar. Shakespeare. The Bard. Hamlet. What was that scene? It danced this way and that, just out of reach of her memory's fingertips. It was so fitting for today. But she could not remember.

And then it hit her. The scene stopped her in her tracks like a bullet through the heart. The enormity of its parallelism, its similarity to her situation, devastated her.

Ophelia's funeral. Laertes. Struck half-mad with grief at his sister's untimely passing, he lashed out in condemnation at the people to blame for her death and at those who dared deny the last rite that was her right.

"Oh terrible woe fall ten times treble on that cursed head whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense deprived thee of. Hold off the earth a while 'til I have caught her once more in mine arms. Now pile your dust, upon the quick and dead, 'til of this flat a mountain you have made to overtop old Pelion or the sky-blue head of Olympus."

But the man responsible for the disaster was just as wrought as he was. Hamlet. The Dane. The accursed. The mad.

The orphaned, first by his father, now by his love.

Just like her.

"What is he, whose grief bears such an emphasis? Whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wandering stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I–"

She wished she could do what they did. Bring her heart's content into the open. Have the flame of her passion go out in blazing glory instead of an ignoble fizzling into nothingness.

But she kept her peace. It was not her way. She was not like that. And there was no need for such dramatics. Everyone knew what she felt. Everyone commiserated with her. There was no need to scream. A whisper was more than enough.

Besides, she had her own promises to keep.

"Henrietta. Promise me– no. Promise on Giuseppe's name and grave. Promise that whatever happens at the funeral, you will keep your peace."

"Yes, Jean. I promise."

Dull thuds accompanied the shovels discharging their earthen cargo upon oaken wood. Dirt and soil quickly covered wood and flowers. In minutes, the deed was done.

From dust man came. Into dust he will return.

As the man she loved was hidden forever from her earthly sight, as the earth that was mother of all life reclaimed her Italian son, Henrietta finally allowed herself to cry.

"Ciao, Giuseppe. Until we meet again. Goodbye."

Tsuzuku


It made her happy. It made her fall in love with him in the first place. Next on Life Goes On: Conditioning