"Henrietta? Would you like to have tea with me?"

"Yes! I mean, yes, Miss Mireille. I would love to."

Before they left, Mireille glanced at her ward's abandoned draft. Her smile saddened.

A handsome man stared at the sunset from the balcony of his seaside villa. His smile was kind.


Gunslinger Girl

Life Goes On


Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl, Noir, Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid and Metal Slug are not mine. Giuseppe (the cyborg, not the late handler) is my creation.


Chronology: This story is set after the first season of Gunslinger Girl, several years after Noir, and somewhere in the Full Metal Panic TSR timeline.


Inspiration: Inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various Gunslinger Girl fan fiction and Deathra's Daddy's Girl. The Noir element is courtesy Sho Tsuzuku (also responsible for the FMP part) and propelled by Soldat #75664 and Barbie's interest.


Eight

Bivio

(Crossroads)

Oriental. Exquisitely alien. Delicious. The six sugar cubes overpowered it, but not too badly. For the life of her, she wondered if her taste buds were really that far gone, calling for so much sugar.

She closed her eyes, the better to heighten the sensory experience. Let the liquid cool upon her palate. Swirled it a little with her tongue. Breathed in the aroma wafting from her cup. Took it all in.

"Well, 'Etta? What do you think?"

"It's wonderful. I've never tasted anything like it before."

"It's a special Chinese tea, one of my favorites. A friend of mine introduced me to it."

"Your friend and you have very good taste, Miss Mireille."

"Thanks, 'Etta." You too, Kirika. "And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille."

Tiramisu accompanied the tea. Mireille watched her ward daintily wash down a slice with a second cup. "You have excellent poise there, 'Etta." Giuseppe taught you well.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. I myself was more of a coffee person. A couple years ago, though, my friend got me hooked on tea. Nowadays I can't do without a cup or two."

Henrietta giggled.

"'Etta?"

"Yes?"

"Before I entered your room, you were sketching, right?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask– if you don't mind, that is? Who was that man in your sketch?"

"Huh?"

For a moment, Mireille worried.

Henrietta looked sheepish.

"Oh, him. He's nobody in particular, Miss Mireille. No one important, I'm sure."

She wondered why her handler looked hurt.


"Jean? Can we talk? It's important."

"Take a seat."

"Thank you." Noticing the absence of her host's blond shadow, Mireille paused. "Where's Rico?"

"She's practicing her technique at the firing range."

That came as no surprise. Jean's strictness with his Fratello was common knowledge. The only man harsher than him was dead a year ago.

"She requested it."

"Excuse me?"

The blonde man's eyes remained on his paperwork. His tone, however, was a bit defensive. "If you are thinking I put her through it as punishment, you're wrong. No one was at fault. Rico voluntarily took extra practice upon herself this morning."

"I didn't say anything…"

"But you were thinking it. Were you not? Of course you disapprove. My reputation with how I treat my mechanical body is rather unpleasant."

"Jean. You know me better than that."

Almost as if waking from a dream, Jean looked up. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, showed in his eyes.

"Excuse my remarks, Mireille. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just tired. The latest developments from our joint operation against Padania…"

"No offense taken. By the way, would you know why Rico went to train by herself?"

Jean frowned. "No. I don't."


Rico put bullet after 7.62mm bullet through a ragged inch-wide hole in the head of the human-shaped target silhouette eight hundred yards away. Her technique was methodical, her movements mechanical, her lethality frightening. The Dragunov was no longer a weapon, but an extension of her physical self. Whatever she saw and wished to touch, the gun reached out to it for her.

Boom.

Headshot.

Boom.

Again.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

As many times as I want.

Click.

She reloaded.

"Excellent technique, Rico." Liesel had also been training all morning. She considered herself an excellent shot, believed her DSR-1 sniper rifle the best weapon of its class in the world. But today her best and that of AMP paled in comparison to her sister-in-arms and a Russian-built 'designated marksman' rifle about as old as either of them. "What's your secret?"

"Inspiration. The right kind."

It was so easy. She only needed to visualize Kathryn's face. Superimpose the Israeli woman's image upon the silhouette's head. Take careful aim. Pull the trigger.

Boom.

And you're dead, Rico coldly told her rival in love


"Achoo!"

"Bless you, Kathryn."

"Someone must be thinking about me."


"Anyway, what is it you wanted to talk about? It isn't Rico, now, is it?"

"No. Jean. I need a favor from you."

His head dipped slightly.

"A bigfavor."

An eyebrow lifted several millimeters. "Define 'big'."

"Very."

Jean became guarded. "Is it about Henrietta?"

"Not just 'Etta. It involves all the girls and their handlers. The conditioning. The entire mechanical body program. Perhaps the whole of Section Two. The only thing I can assure you is that we will all be affected immensely."

For the longest while, he hesitated. She noticed his right hand shift certain papers out of her sight. Automatically she wondered what lay hidden in those documents. Questions? Answers? Or just nothing? At what price, knowledge?

Not for the first time, Mireille found herself in the middle of a dark conspiracy that just might get her killed.

"What exactly do you want?" Jean asked.

She told him.


She stared at her draft, at the man upon the balcony. Tried to put a name to that handsome face. Sought out the reason for his happy smile. Wracked her brains for anything to explain why her handler was so perturbed by a mere sketch, by a man who didn't exist.

It was there, at the tip of her tongue, within reach. But she couldn't identify it. She didn't know why.

"Henrietta?"

The girl from the hotel mission stood in the doorway. Claes. The scene struck her as déjà vu.

"Are you free? If you want, you can come–"

"Help you in your garden?" Henrietta caught herself. Huh?

Claes' responding smile was eerie.

"Exactly."


"Hello? This is the Bouquet residence."

"Hey, Kirika. It's me."

"Mireille! How are you?"

"Great. You?"

"I'm okay."


She imagined the girl on the other side of the line. The small slip of a waif, Japanese, a short crop of dark hair contrasting sharply with hauntingly deep red eyes that saw through darkest night and people's masks. Oh, and probably wearing one of her gift sundresses from years back. Kirika possessed zero taste in a lot of civilian luxuries, i.e. fashionable clothing. Dressing her up became one of Mireille's hobbies.


"So what's your latest plan for this month? Take over the Louvre? Upstage Michelangelo?"

"Not really. I'm just finishing my latest commissions. I'm taking a short break afterwards."

"Tired already?"

"No. I'm trying something new."

"Tell me about it."

"It's hard to explain… I'm really not sure how to put it…"

"I'm listening…"

Kirika tried so hard to explain. Sort of succeeded. Details were still vague. Then: "Mireille? When are you coming back here?"

"Not for a long while. My job's sucked me in deep. It's not easy to let go. And I don't think they'll release me anytime soon."

"Are they holding you against your will?"


The statement hinted protective, possessive menace, terrifying but also sort of adorable. In that and many other things, Kirika and Henrietta were so alike.

Mireille laughed, both to defuse her friend's rather rash offer and to figuratively shake her head at the absurd coincidences life kept springing on her.


"Kirika! Stop being so scary. There's no trouble at all. My boss and my coworkers are very nice people. I can take care of myself perfectly well, you know."


She didn't tell her about taking up the gun once more. Nor did she say anything about her new bosses or the eleven year old killing machine who was her new partner. As far as Kirika knew, Mireille was a noncombatant adviser to a secret European counter-terrorist force based in Italy, far from actual danger. That much, she was allowed to say.

Partners were supposed to trust each other. Lovers didn't need lies.

But people always want to protect the ones they love.


"I miss you, you know. Kirika."

"I miss you, too, Mireille."


She wanted to go back to the old days. To the bad days, even. Their days as Noir. Living on the edge and on nerves. Fighting back-to-back against Soldats and the world, against all odds– and winning. Guns held tight while sharing a bed for the night, not quite trusting each other even as mutual admiration and attraction slowly blossomed.

Mireille wanted to be with Kirika again.


"I have to go. There's someone I need to meet with."

"Is he a new customer?"

"No. It's… an old friend of sorts… complicated…"

"That sounds like my excuse for my job."

"Gomen, Mireille. I might be gone for awhile…"

"No problem. I've got stuff on my side for the next couple of days, too."

"I really want to talk to you more."

"Me, too. Maybe another time."

"Maybe…"


Yet however much they tried, they only grew further apart.


"Goodbye, Mireille. Take care."

"You too, Kirika. And good luck."

"Thank you."


A simple thing bothered Mireille as she hung up. Kirika didn't correct her tease about her date's gender.

"Yuumura? Are you ready?"

She armed her M1934 Beretta, replaced it in a hip holster hidden by her sundress' skirt. She turned to face the tanned youth, her visitor and fellow Japanese, a cross-shaped scar decorating the left side of his face, a veritable arsenal hiding in his civilian clothes. The boy she had been supposed to kill years ago at that airport. Should have killed if not for– but what?

Yuumura Kirika wished she knew why.


"Yes, Sagara-san. I'm ready."


Bystanders would have found them cute. Those in the know would shudder at the coming disaster in the works.

Claes shouldered a hoe. Henrietta lugged a bucket of gardening implements. Their going was slow and steady, their pace dictated by the self-appointed leader of the excursion.

The garden was a small plot fenced by red bricks. Here were assorted vegetables arranged neatly in line, leafy green cabbages and juicy tomatoes, eggplants the color of Claes' hair. Their owner smiled. "Hello there."

"Uh, Claes? Are you talking to the plants?"

"What of it?"

"No, no problem. I was just curious…"

"So I was talking to them. Is there a problem with that?"

Henrietta blushed.

"Good. Let's start here, shall we?" She gestured.

Time flew. So did their hands. They were busy little bees, breaking up the soil, pulling up weeds, watering crops and harvesting. Tiring but relaxing.

"A little patch of Eden," Claes mused to herself.

By now Henrietta knew better than to comment. Instead, she listened. Claes was not just a good gardener, but a teacher who taught through example, instructing with hands and actions as much as words. Her practiced eye always caught the slightest thing amiss. And she always knew what to do with it.

"Here." She tossed the laboring Henrietta a ripe tomato. "Try it."

"Is it okay?"

"It's best eaten when it's fresh."

The juicy red succulent did wonders in quenching both hunger and thirst. And it was as delicious as assured. Despite the heat and sweat, Henrietta found herself smiling.

"You know everything about gardening, don't you, Claes?"

Slowly Claes rose from the eggplants. Her glasses came off. Blue eyes smoldered.

"Happy little girl. You really don't know anything. Do you? Henrietta?"

She didn't know how to explain herself. She barely managed the courage to apologize, had her regrets thrown back into her face.

"Sorry isn't enough. Not after what they've done to you. You should be angry at what happened to you. You lost everything. Everything. Yourself. Your memories. Your most important person– your handler. But all you do is smile and suck it all in like you love it." Claes almost spat. "Well, I'm sick of it. Sick of your ignorance. Your pretend happiness. Sick of you."

"I don't understand. I really don't know what you mean."

"Then why don't you ask your beloved handler to tell you who you really are?"

The mention of Mireille steeled Henrietta. "Miss Mireille is my partner–"

"Your partner? Did she tell you that? How nice of her to tell her tool that."

"Stop it! I'm not a tool! I won't let you talk about Mireille like that!"

"Then make me stop. Go and learn what the truth is, who you really are."

"Shut up! You're just jealous because you don't have a handler, never had–"

Smack.

Henrietta crashed into the cabbages. She clutched at the red welt that was her right cheek, her tears flowing.

"Don't you ever, ever say that to me ever again!" Claes was furious. "I had a handler. I have one!"

But all Henrietta heard was Mireille being badmouthed. That was everything that mattered. She saw red. The hoe was within reach. She grabbed for it, got up, murderous intent. Claes stood her ground.

"Claes! Henrietta!"

Both girls froze.

Triela glared. At her roommate. Her arms folded across her chest in a visible display of disapproval. "Just what do you think you're doing, hmm, Claes?"

The girl didn't relax. "We were working on my garden."

"Looks to me you were working up Henrietta's temper. For God's sake, you can be so obtuse, you know that?"

"What I do is none of your business."

"Wrong. It's my business to keep you from screwing up. And in my learned opinion, you were in for a really big screw up. Really unlike the level-headed girl I roomed with for the last couple of years, as I recall. Have you got no shame?"

Somehow Henrietta felt left out.

Slowly, reluctantly, Claes put her glasses back on.

"Sorry, Henrietta. You, too, Triela."

"You're forgiven. Go and sin no more. Oh, and a group hug is also called for," Triela added mischievously.

"Excuse me." Pointedly avoiding either girl's gaze, Claes left.

Triela snickered. "You okay?" she asked Henrietta, the latter still defensively clutching the hoe.

"I'm all right. Thank you."

"No problem. Any time you've got any kind of trouble, tell me. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good girl. Don't mind Claes too much. She's a nice person overall, but she can get real moody sometimes. She's never done something this stupid before, though. I wonder if her period is on. Oh, wait. She doesn't have one. At least, I think she doesn't. Come to think of it, I never really noticed…"

"Um? Triela?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for getting angry at you when we first met."

"Huh? Oh. That. Don't worry. It's a perfectly natural reaction. You felt your handler was threatened, so you acted to protect her. All of us mechanical bodies are conditioned to do the same for our handlers. Even as much as I dislike my handler, I'm still willing to die for him. In fact, I'd be worried if you didn't care for your handler. You do, right?"

"Yes." Her heart thumped happily. "Yes, I do."

"Well, to be honest, the other girls and handlers dislike Miss Bouquet. 'Cept maybe Angie– Angelica. I admit I don't like Mireille, either. Not through any fault of hers, of course."

"Why?"

"Huh? What do you mean, 'Why'?"

"Why does everyone dislike Mireille? What is it I don't know?"

Triela almost bit her tongue. Me and my big mouth. Jean will have my hide for this. And Hirscher… Hirscher's going to eat me alive like with those terrorists... I'm so dead…

"Claes kept calling me a silly little girl. Told me I should be angry at what happened to me. Told me I had lost everything. Said I lost my handler. But I don't remember anything like that." The bowed head lifted up in defiance. "I don't feel any need to be angry. And I still have my handler, my most important person. Mireille is still with me. I'm happy."

At least, I think I am. I don't know for sure anymore.

"It's that bad, huh?" Privately Triela made a note to hand Claes a royal ass-kicking in their next unarmed sparring session. She had a bad feeling as to what the dark-haired girl was up to. "Well," she began, carefully watching her words, "If you ask me, it's best to ask your handler– Mireille herself."

"I did. Mireille promised she would tell me someday. When I was ready for it, she said."

"She's smart– for an adult. Mind, my handler's a dunce. Hirscher's dense as a cannonball. And just as endearing."

Henrietta laughed. Triela joined in.

Despite everything, life still felt good.


Violet-blue eyes didn't bother with the knocking on her door, focused on her latest pet novel. But she was aware of the intrusion in her small world.

"Yes?"

"Claes? It's Mireille. Henrietta's handler. Can I come in?"

Briefly she entertained a temptation to reject that request. She was not in a good mood. She was so close. Confrontational psychology worked. Just like all her books said. Henrietta was right where she wanted her, at her most psychologically and emotionally vulnerable.

Then, at the worst possible moment, Claes lost her legendary cool at an inconsequential comment. In doing so, she inadvertently revealed her one weakness, a secret whose revelation would assure her damnation and death. Before she could recover, before she could regain control, Triela appeared to drive her off. And the interruption was a good thing, World War III about to break out in her garden with the very girl she was trying to help.

In her eyes, the mission was a complete disaster.

Claes hated backing down. She hated failure even more. She would be the last to admit it, but she was a proud girl.

But one of Raballo's most important lessons was about professionalism. And despite her personal animosity to the nonentity awaiting audience, she was a good student, a good soldier and –most important– a good girl.

"It's not locked. Come in."

The door opened. Her gaze remained riveted upon the latest sensual pleasure from Harlequin Mills & Boons.

"Claes? Are you busy?"

"No." Obviously. "What is it?"

"Henrietta and I are going on a trip. You're coming along."

She considered her short list of options. Allowed some prejudice in her reply, just as a goad to see how far she could go with this woman.

"I'm not interested."

"It's a mission."

Stocking-clad feet stopped moving. The novel came down. Claes graduated Mireille Bouquet from obstinate complication to interesting opponent.

"In that case, I have no choice but to go with you."

"Pack light. We won't be out for long; just three or four days at the most. Oh, and take your handgun with you just in case. No heavy weapons, though."

"It's not a combat mission?"

"No. An investigation is more like it." She would have said 'experiment', decided the word was too cold and impersonal. "I'm not expecting any kind of trouble, but I prefer being prepared. If everything goes well, we can even relax a little."

"I see." Then: "If everything goes well?"

Mireille didn't answer. Claes' eyes narrowed.

"May I ask where our destination is?"

"Sicily."


A gun. A revelation. Acceptance. And one thing more: "Love me– or else." Next on Life Goes On: Sicily.