Mireille. Henrietta. Of one and the same steel. Forged through fire and baptized in blood.
They were both weapons.
Gunslinger Girl
Life Goes On
Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl and Noir 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. The Noir element is courtesy Sho Tsuzuku and propelled by Soldat #75664's interest.
To Soldat #75664: Mostly Mireille. Enjoy. As for Kirika? Still far off. Don't worry. She's doing pretty well. After all, she's my favorite Noir character.
To Nachtsider and Colonel Marksman: Thanks for your help in factual matters! Hope you don't mind another guest appearance from your fic, Colonel!
To Marian/Barbie: Here you go! Thanks for the appreciation!
Fifth
Mireille
"Henrietta? My name is Mireille. Mireille Bouquet. And I will be your partner."
"What will you name her?"
"She already has a name. Henrietta it is, and Henrietta it stays. It's best to keep things simple. We don't have to worry about tripping on our tongues when we accidentally call her something else.
"Besides," Mireille solemnly added. "She isn't really mine. She's Giuseppe's. Still is and always will be."
Jean nodded.
Thank you, Miss Bouquet– Mireille.
She wasn't allowed to use the P227 and Five-Seven pistols or the FN P90 submachine gun. Not anymore. Not after Mireille pointed out at the last minute that the sight and smell and touch of them might trigger unpleasant memories with Henrietta. She made a very persuasive argument. No one wanted another Elsa de Sica.
The Kahr MK 40 became Henrietta's new sidearm. Though even smaller than the P227, the MK 40 had superior hitting power. Chambered for the powerful .40 S&W round, it packed a tremendous wallop in its compact package. Exactly like its wielder.
Next was a SITES Spectre M4 submachine pistol for close quarter battles. Though an old design dating from the late 1980s, it was pretty hard to beat, what with its fifty-round magazine and a vicious 850 rpm (rounds per minute) rate of fire coupled with simplicity of use and a rugged frame. Few did miniature machine guns better than the Italians, whose criminal underworld invented them in the first place according to legend.
Finally, Mireille tapped Fabrique Nationale to provide her ward's primary assault weapon. The Herstal F2000 multi-role modular assault rifle was a European version of the US Army's OICW (Objective Individual Combat Weapon) program, the answer to the so-called 'new world disorder' that was the current state of human affairs. The first truly ambidextrous 'bullpup' weapons system, it featured extreme ease of usage, cutting edge modular add-on equipment and the theoretical firepower of an entire squad of conventional soldiers. In the hands of a cyborg operative, it effectively became Death's own scythe.
Aside from training with her new weapons, Henrietta also received something far more invaluable: lessons from an old hand in the business.
"A gun is not just a tool," Mireille lectured while her ward assembled her F2000 rifle for the fourth time. "It must become an extension of your arm, of yourself. In effect, your gun must become part of you. And because it is a part of you, you must take responsibility for it. This is because a gun is meant to kill. It is not a toy. It is a weapon. You either use it, or you don't. What you choose to do with it in such a situation is up to you.
"When to draw. When to fire. What stance to use. One hand. Both hands. Standing. Combat crouch. On the move. From behind a rock or table– or a human shield. Directly ahead. Out of the corner of your eye. Without looking or even thinking. If you have to– or if you don't, but still must. Any combination of those. You have to be aware of your options. If needed, you have to pull them off on the fly.
"Awareness is also important. You have to be aware of your surroundings. The battlefield is constantly fluid. It always changes. There might be booby traps. More enemies might appear. Or one of your teammates. Whatever happens, you must be prepared to react.
"But don't overthink. Follow your instincts. You've got good instincts, Henrietta." Of course you do, she didn't say aloud. You had them before we erased your memories. "Trust those instincts. Go with the flow. Just act."
Kirika came to mind, then. How the Japanese girl could almost automatically sense distant, hidden enemies and nail them without looking or breaking a sweat. And all with a dinky little 1932 Beretta built when both sets of their grandparents were just thinking to hook up. An impressed Mireille once teased her partner about being a modern day ninja, only toting an automatic instead of a katana.
Ninja? That was understating things. Kirika was a freaking witch.
Thinking of her this way made Mireille homesick. They hadn't seen each other in a while. Over a year, actually. Their only contacts were over e-mails and an occasional long distance call. Though Kirika seemed to be doing better than fine all alone, Mireille was still one to worry.
They say that long distance relationships are all the more sweeter.
Bullshit.
They kept her separated from her former siblings-in-arms. It was mostly for the others' sake than Henrietta's. While the experts expressed confidence in the conditioning's effectiveness (even with Mireille's timely call on the guns), they weren't quite sure as how the other cyborgs would take emotionally to the sight of their reprogrammed comrade. Someone feared for good reason that Rico, say, or especially Triela might blow away all the hard work invested into Henrietta's new conditioning by dropping one wrong word that would trigger a memory relapse.
It came to such that even Jean became annoyed at their excessive caution. "They should put their damn money where their mouths are," he fumed during one particularly stressful afternoon.
That was big news. Jean was always the cool one in the organization. If he was annoyed, how were the 'hotheads' like Hirscher and Marco doing?
"Judging from Triela's latest complaints?" volunteered Priscilla. "Not very well."
The scary part was that everyone agreed.
Mireille finally put up a good compromise. They would gradually reintroduce Henrietta into operations, but at her discretion. That shifted the burden of responsibility onto her shoulders. If Henrietta screwed up or went berserk, it would be her fault. But it was fine. Mireille had run bigger risks before– including trusting one Yuumura Kirika.
And that last was a decision she never had cause to regret.
"NO!"
They were in the heat of a live fire training session. (Well, almost live fire. The bullets were wax-tipped.) Henrietta was doing pretty well, clearing the sector of opponents without taking a single hit. It was while heading to her egress point that one last lurker popped out of nowhere.
There was no time to dodge. She instinctively raised her free arm to shield her face while shooting back one-handed with the Kahr. She got hit thrice. The wax was hot on her skin but bearable. The same could not be said for her target. The man took two bullets to the face and three on the chest. That was why everyone except Henrietta wore protective gear. To help deaden the pain.
As for Henrietta, cyborgs were mostly dead to pain, anyway.
But Mireille was there, snarling for a time out over the radio even as she stomped towards her ward.
"Henrietta! What the hell are you doing?"
"M-Miss Mireille? W-What do you mean?"
"I mean that stunt you pulled off just now! Blocking bullets with your arm!"
"I– I was just protecting myself…"
"No! That is not the way to go! Getting shot is a no-no! The rule is 'Don't get hit.' Bullets kill. I don't care if you're mostly bulletproof. In fact, I want you to disabuse yourself of that notion right now. You are not invincible. You might be able to take a couple more bullets than the average person out there, but you are not invincible. Repeat after me. I am not invincible."
"I am not invincible. I am not invincible."
"Good. Remember what I told you about situational awareness in a tactical scenario. Stay sharp. Always shoot first. Also, don't block. Dodge. Don't stop moving. Use the terrain. Keep nice big things between you and your enemy. Run away if you have to– and then double back to hit them when they least expect it. Don't stay in one place for long. Standing still is an invitation to get shot. And in my book, if you get shot, you're as good as dead. Got that?"
"Y-Yes! Sorry! I will do better the next time!"
"Don't overdo the apologies." The blonde woman sighed and shook her head. "It's also my fault. I keep on forgetting you girls are cyborgs and capable of stuff I can only dream off. An old fogy like me is getting outdated real quickly these days."
The unexpected protest surprised her.
"T-That's not true! You're not outdated! I appreciate what you teach me very much," Henrietta timidly ventured, "and I would like to learn more from you. If it is okay with you, that is…"
Mireille slowly smiled. "More than okay, 'Etta. Do you mind if I call you that?"
"Not at all. Uh, Miss Mireille?"
"Just 'Mireille' will do."
"Um, yes, yes. Mis- I mean, Mireille? Did you ever get shot?"
She nodded. Absently her right hand reached for her left shoulder, fingering the scar beneath her sleeve to remind herself anew of the painful lesson a girl called Noir had taught her again and again.
"One too many times, 'Etta. One too many times."
Training wasn't eternal. Every Saturday was shopping day. Sundresses. Blouses and skirts. Coats. Shoes. Hats. Henrietta had always been the most well-dressed of Section Two's cyborgs. Then again, Giuseppe was only a man. Mireille had a lot more hands-on experience at playing dress-up. She had Kirika to thank for that.
The violin was set aside. Perhaps for good. Instead, Henrietta took up painting to improve her dexterity. She came to enjoy spending hours of her spare time dabbing colorful designs. Some of her works were quite good, enough to elicit sagely advice and gushy admiration.
"We could have Liesel give her lessons," Altheus mused once in passing.
"Maybe Aharon, too," chimed in Kathryn.
"Actually," Mireille wryly admitted, "I had someone else in mind for a tutor."
"Oh? But would they get along?"
She thought of a kitten and an ex-Foreign Legionnaire and the girl who cherished both in her heart. Mireille smiled.
"I daresay so, yes."
They talked a lot. About many things. About Mireille, mostly. Of course she had to condense her verbal autobiography, and either colored the truth in certain sensitive regions (basically anything linked to Soldats or assassination, which, regrettably, occupied most of her conscious life) or left them out entirely.
But mostly she focused on the happy events of the previous years. Her lighter 'adventures' –'exploits' was too high and mighty for a child's mind to comprehend. Her cases as a private investigator, especially the dangerous but ultimately satisfying pursuit of a white slave market, the results of which brought her into the eye of Jean and Section Two. Excerpts of normal everyday life with Kirika. Henrietta liked the story about the second Prince Mishkin, whom Kirika had plucked from a pound and who later proven to be 'Princess' after giving birth to quintuplets. Mireille had a ball trying to find six people who wanted a pet cat.
As she poured out select portions of her heart to her captive audience, Mireille realized how much she and Henrietta had in common. They were both orphans, mere children when they lost their families to violence. They fell into the depths of depression, but were lifted up from that blank void by people they came to regard as angels –Kirika for Mireille, Giuseppe for Henrietta.
Now they lived as gunslinger girls.
They had to. They knew no other paths. Their lives had been controlled and shaped from the very beginning, making them into what they were now.
Altena. Section Two. There was no real difference between them. They were makers. Creators. The same with their obra maestros.
Mireille. Henrietta. Of one and the same steel. Forged through fire and baptized in blood.
They were both weapons.
They talked about themselves. About their operational relationship. Mireille noticed early on the vastly different manners of interaction for each Fratello team. Jean treated Rico as a tool, though he had mellowed as of late. Altheus was Liesel's aloof commander. In contrast, Hirscher and Triela were the perfect image of mostly-squabbling, sometimes-loving siblings (or, on a naughtier note brought up by Priscilla and a point of humor for the Section Two rank and file, a love-hate romantic couple) while Marco was Angelica's over-demanding, but overprotective, father.
And there was Claes. All alone. Beautiful alone, the girl in question would insist. Everyone agreed with her.
Mireille followed their lead. She chose a unique approach, one she was comfortable with.
"Partners?"
"That's right. Partners work together to achieve a goal they share. Idealistically, they are equals who share the same ideals, goals and maybe even interests. Most importantly, partners must trust each other. Otherwise, they will not be able to work together effectively."
"So," Henrietta slowly enunciated, "So I'm your partner."
"Yeah."
"Mireille? Have you ever had any other partner?"
"Yeah. Just one. She was the best. Probably still is," she mused.
The envious Henrietta put on her characteristic "wounded puppy guilt trip" at that. The effect was so devastatingly cute, Mireille just had to laugh. She rumpled her partner's brown hair fondly while smiling in reassurance.
"You're good, 'Etta. You're good."
That night, Mireille dreamed.
She dreamed of the time Kirika killed her parents before her very eyes. Except that it wasn't Kirika pulling the trigger, but Henrietta.
Something's wrong.
She didn't know what or why, only that it was.
Henrietta turned on her. The girl's face was full of– joy?
"Thank you."
For what?
Then she shot Mireille through the heart.
Falling, she thought she saw another child peeking at the doorway. It wasn't Chloe. The newcomer looked like that quiet bookworm girl, the one who wore eyeglasses and rarely, if ever, talked. Claes.
Why is she there?
She found herself inside an operating room, strapped onto a table. The same table Henrietta had been 'reconditioned', she realized with a chill. The doctors were there. Bianchi. Massi. Nameless others. None of them looked friendly.
"Is this the new mechanical body?"
Mireille gasped.
Jean coldly looked down at her.
"Its name will be Mireille."
Mireille woke up screaming.
Henrietta found her partner's odd mood a cause for concern. Normally Mireille was the professionally confident sort. Not today. Her face was tight, her movements edgy. As if she was being hunted. It showed. She avoided looking at Henrietta for the most part and all but jumped when she ran into Bianchi. The good doctor was just as mystified, but stayed only long enough to remind them of the important meeting for the day before heading back to his office.
She tried not to make anything out of it at first. Instead she concentrated on memorizing the faces and names of the people she would soon be working with. It was only outside the conference room that Henrietta finally gathered enough courage to ask the forbidden question.
"Mireille? Is there anything wrong?"
The pause was all the proof she needed. Mireille's all-too-obvious denial was unnecessary underscoring.
"No. Nothing's wrong."
It was a lie.
And it hurt.
To Mireille's surprise, Henrietta began to cry.
"'Etta?"
"You said– but you said that partners trusted each other. That they had to trust each other, or else they couldn't work together."
A small, tear-stricken face looked up to the woman she had come to admire so much in the recent weeks.
"Don't you trust me?" she pleaded.
And in that sorrowing face, Mireille saw Kirika yet again.
Why? Why can't I feel anything when I kill people?
The blonde sighed.
"I trust you, 'Etta. I trust you with my life. It's just that some things have to be kept a secret– even between partners."
Like what I've done. Like what we've done to you.
"I wish I can tell you all of it. But some of it is very painful for me and maybe for you, too. Until I'm ready– until the both of us are prepared, I'd rather keep it a secret. Do you understand? Henrietta?"
"Yes. Yes, Mireille. I understand."
"Good girl. Let's go in. Jean will be cross if we're late. After all," she softly murmured, "we are the issue at hand."
All the greeting they got from Jean was a curt nod. (To be exact, his left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly upon noting Mireille flinch at the sight of him. He wondered if there was a smudge on his face or something.) The same could not be said for his audience.
All the cyborgs teams, Section Two and Childville both, were in that room.
Rico. Meir. Triela. Liesel. Claes. Aharon. Even Angelica, though the last girl was in a wheelchair.
Everyone stared. At Henrietta, like they had seen a ghost. Their reactions mystified Henrietta.
Triela then noticed Mireille. She promptly glared daggers. As expected of the willful blonde. Mireille considered it lucky that Hirscher was there to keep his partner in hand. Then again, considering that the big German didn't look happy either…
And then to everyone's surprise, Henrietta placed her small body in front of her much taller handler, matching Triela's burning blue eyes with her own brown ones, a physical shield against the silent condemnation thrown Mireille's way. The brown-haired girl's face was quietly set, but there was no mistaking her silent message.
I won't let you hurt Mireille. So: don't. Stop.
Startled by the challenge, biting her lip in concern, Triela relented from engaging in an eyeball contest. She had no hankering for one. Not with the girl who was once– and still was– her friend.
Even if she didn't know it.
Jean cleared his throat. "Settle down, everyone," he ordered. "Remember what we talked about."
Though they did so by various degrees, everyone followed orders and generally kept quiet. Mireille began to unwind from the tenseness that had seized her joints. But she could not get rid of her uneasiness at the scene just earlier.
Henrietta was willing to kill her friends in order to protect her handler.
"Everyone, you all know Miss Mireille Bouquet. Her partner will be Henrietta. They will be working with us for the foreseeable future…"
Henrietta wondered what Jean meant by his earlier order. Why the people in the room, especially the other cyborgs, seemed shocked by her appearance. She was sure she had never met any of them before. After all, she did not find one familiar face.
And why the angry reactions to Mireille's presence? Her partner was a good person. She knew. Why didn't the others know?
She then noticed the dark-haired girl, the one wearing eyeglasses, intently observing her. The girl's gaze made Henrietta feel cold. As if she could see into her soul.
Why? Why?
Freda Claes Johansson pushed her glasses up her nose and nodded to herself. So she noticed. Good.
Henrietta. Remember. For your sake and ours. Remember him.
Remember Giuseppe.
"Our target is the Covenant Reformation Group…"
Tsuzuku
She remembers. She remembers him. Next on Life Goes On: Memoria (Memory)