They say a camera can capture a person's soul. They say a sheet of photographic paper can hold the ghosts of the past.

Superstition is what the ignorant call their ignorance.

But life could be stranger than fiction.


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.


Important Author's Note: This is an edited version of Chapter Nine, with all references to the original Chapter 10, Amore (Love). For further explanation, see below.


Nine

Sicily


Pietro Fermi stifled a yawn. Five A.M, only four hours of sleep logged, his Fiat topped fifty miles on the seaside road. Coffee helped keep him awake. Twitching hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the neck of the senior Section Two agent responsible for this merry little jaunt so early in the goddamned morning.

Jean, you bastard, you owe me big time for this…

"Keep your eyes on the road, dear."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And stop killing the wheel."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The former Elenora Gabrielli smiled at her grumpy husband. A hand protectively held her slightly bulging tummy. Two months pregnant, her firstborn was a girl. She and Fermi were already decided on their baby's name.

"It's not like I'm still some lowly lieutenant with time to burn," grumbled her husband. "I'm the chief of an entire counterterrorist department now. I've got far bigger fish to fry."

"Uneasy lays the head beneath the crown."

"Damn right. There's tons of paperwork to be done. We haven't even begun to put a dent on that mechanical body terrorist case. I have to keep a close watch on that one."

"You have subordinates to pass the work down on."

"Irresponsibility and laziness, like how Draghi bought it." Thanks a lot for that, too, Jean. Speed up my promotion, eh? Get rid of a spy, huh?

"Leader's prerogative, I think. Besides, today is a day off."

He snorted. "Au contraire, Madame Fermi. Today is a working day. It may not appear as such to you, but believe me when I say I'll be working my ass off today. To top it off, this is a Section Two issue. I'm Section One. The Chief of Section One. I shouldn't be doing this. I certainly wouldn't be doing this, even if Jean had personally asked me to."

And Jean himself did personally ask it. The blonde man looked somewhat grim, almost desperate. It was somewhat frightening.

What the hell was that all about?

"But for Henrietta?"

"Call me a softie," Fermi finally allowed.

"That's what I love about you, dear. You're like a grizzled teddy bear."

"Hah! Maybe I ought to put myself up for Triela's adoption, then."

"Hilshire might get jealous. Besides, you aren't cute enough."

"Says you. What's the schedule?"

Out came her magic notebook. Elenora flipped through the bookmarked pages. "There's a ferry for Sicily due to depart in an hour."

"Consider us there."


Henrietta basked in the day's warmth. Her sandals clicked upon pavement even as her sundress swirled around and alongside her. The distant rumble of the surf, the cries of seabirds and the cool sea breeze welcomed her.

An hour and a half to the port, six more riding the ferry and not fifteen minutes since her feet stood once more on solid ground. She could barely help it. The need to release the sudden, throbbing ecstasy locked within her was so great, her heart raring to soar into the clear blue sky. Instead she held herself in place, placing her hands upon her breast in an effort to quiet its mad thumping, allowing only her shining eyes to show her bubbling excitement.

I'm home.

Nearby, Mireille studied both a map and her delighted ward. She wore her usual sleeveless red blouse and black skirt alongside an approving smile. A pair of dark glasses protected her eyes and anonymity. In the duffel bag were the Walther and extra ammo, a fresh change of clothes, toiletries and several very important items.

'Etta seems to be enjoying herself. That's good.

A sideward glance at her other companion reminded her of the unknowns they would face today.

It was Claes' first time away from the base on anything other than a mission. She had not thought vacations could be such a hassle. She knew better now.

Last night was sheer torture. Her mistake was in asking Triela for help. Luckily their only witnesses were the latter's collection of teddy bears, and those wouldn't talk even without 'persuasion'. Their blonde owner, however, was another problem. Triela spent the whole night trying all manner of excessively cute dresses on her stoic roommate– only to laugh her head off at each and every result. How she came to possess so much frill and lace was beyond– but wait, Hilshire was probably to blame. Maybe Priscilla as well, considering the badly disguised disappointment on the intelligence expert's face the next morning.

Having tired of playing the local laughingstock, Claes finally opted for a short-sleeved dark blue vest over a white polo blouse, a pleated skirt and girl's sneakers. Her choice of clothing was simultaneously simple, aesthetically pleasant and allowed her maximum freedom of movement. Decorating her hair was a clip with a colorful flower design, one of two concessions to Triela's loud opinions for something cuter. The other was a generous dosage of perfume– Pupa, was it? Henrietta's personal brand, a left over from Giuseppe–, the concentrate gagging Claes better than tear gas.

Note to self: the next time Hilshire asks for help in dressing Triela up, say "Yes".

And the three of us can probably take on the whole Sicilian mafia, Mireille wryly thought, watching the frolicking Henrietta and reticent Claes. But they were here for more important things. Putting away her map, she flagged down a taxi.


"What is this place?" the mystified Henrietta asked.

"It's Jean's house." Giuseppe's, too. You don't recognize it? But that can wait a while. Mireille unlocked the door. "Come in."

The villa hadn't been lived in for a while. Not since Giuseppe's death. His workaholic brother saw no use for it. But the house's neatness pointed to a fastidious caretaker retained by Jean for the express purpose of taking care of his family property. Not a speck of dust was to be found. Everything was in order.

"Like a ghost house," Claes murmured to herself.

Ghosts of the past, Mireille silently agreed. The very same ghosts we'll be invoking tonight.

A flight of stairs beckoned. Mastering her slight apprehension, Mireille climbed up them, pushed the swinging doors open.

A magnificent view of the Mediterranean greeted her. Here was the balcony from Henrietta's sketches. Here once stood and lived a man named Giuseppe.

"Scenic."

Mireille started. Claes had followed her up without making a sound.

I didn't hear her at all. She's good. Maybe as good as Kirika, even.

Henrietta bit her lip. Right behind Claes, she remembered the latter girl's harsh judgment of her handler just yesterday. I won't let her hurt Mireille.

A sudden swell of apprehension hit Mireille. Watching the two girls' tense interaction reminded her a little of herself and Kirika back in the bad days. She suppressed a shudder, forced a smile. "Here. Take a look, 'Etta."

Henrietta reluctantly took her eyes off her pet peeve. The seaside promptly enthralled her. "It's beautiful."

"It is." Is it familiar?

"I think I've seen this before…"

"Of course. You painted it." Good. Then our trip here wasn't wasted. The hard part begins soon…

"I did?"

Staring at the sea, listening to the lapping waves and squealing seabirds, Henrietta stirred. On an unknown impulse, she took out her Kahr, flicked the safety on and proffered it to her puzzled handler.

"'Etta?"

"You don't want the house to smell of guns, right?"

"Oh. You're right." Mireille pocketed the Kahr in her bag. "Jean would be angry at us."

"Not you?"

"It's not my house."

She then stared at the VP-70M also held out for her taking. Claes smiled slyly. "When in Rome," the dark-haired girl began.

Mireille almost groaned. I'm being outmaneuvered here…


Later that afternoon...

"Knock, knock," Fermi cheerfully whistled as he rung the buzzer.

"Stand straighter, dear."

"Yes, ma'am." His slouch straightened a little.

The door opened partway. A familiar brown-haired girl stared at him.

Despite knowing better, Jean having warned him earlier on what to expect, Fermi grinned. Just like the first time from years ago. Déjà vu all over again, it was.

Now, let's see if I can keep myself from getting shot…


Henrietta tensed. She didn't recognize the stranger, didn't like his knowing smile. Her right hand automatically went for her Kahr. Found nothing. She remembered giving it to Mireille. Lacking a handy weapon, she floundered on her next move.

"Hey, there, Henrietta," cheerily announced the man. "Long time, no see."

She blinked. This man knows my name?

"I'm Pietro Fermi. Remember me? I'm also with the Social Welfare Agency. I'm now the Chief of Section One. Elenora here," he gestured grandly to his companion, "is my wife and partner. Jean told me we could find you here. Can I talk to your handler? We're expected."

Somehow she managed not to reel from all the words dumped on her. Remember you? But I don't know you.

"Henrietta?" Mireille was preparing an early dinner in the kitchen. "What is it?"

The girl recovered. "Visitors, Miss Mireille. It's a man named Fermi. He says he's the Chief of the Agency's Section One."

"Ah! Let him in, 'Etta. We're expecting him."

"He has someone else with him. His wife, he says."

"Her, too." For the two Section One agents: "Come in!"

Distrusting, Henrietta stepped aside.

Fermi allowed himself a little fear. She's completely forgotten who I am. She was willing to attack me if I made one wrong move. Just what did they do to you, Henrietta? He remembered when he first met Rico, how he had come close to getting shot. What the hell have I gotten myself into again?

Damn it all, Jean!

He stared at the small palm proffered before him. "Huh?"

"Give me your guns." Henrietta looked very serious. "I'll put them away. Mireille doesn't want the house to smell of guns."

"Oh." Then: "Oh. Okay." Fermi handed over his service pistol. No dirty jokes this time. "Mind if we sit down?"

His guard's slight scowl told them she did.

Unmindful of Henrietta's hostility, Elenora sat herself comfortably, remaining perfectly placid.

Then and there, Fermi knew his wife to be the bravest woman alive. He didn't follow her example, though.

From the kitchen: "Hold the fort, Claes."

"Understood, Mireille," a girl's voice replied.

Fermi blinked. She brought a second mechanical body? Henrietta's bad enough on her own. What does this woman need a second one for? World War Three?

Mireille finally emerged from the kitchen. She didn't bother untying her apron. "I'm Mireille Bouquet. Sorry for making you wait, Chief. We were making dinner."

"No problem." So this is the famous Mireille Bouquet that Jean's been talking about.

Fermi's detective-trained senses quickly took in his host's salient features. Tall, limber, athletic. A striking face, both attractive and memorable. Wheat blond hair. Intelligent emerald eyes. Nice long legs. And a damn fine chest. Definitely bigger than Elenora's. C cup, maybe?

His wife cleared her throat disapprovingly. When he showed no signs of noticing her displeasure, Elenora pinched him.

"Ow! Elenora!"

"Humph. You men are all the same…"

Mireille chuckled. "I get that a lot."

Smart. Brains to her looks and body. In control of herself and her situation– or is she? Why did she call us here? What does she want from me? What's she up to?

He caught Henrietta's displeased expression. So did Mireille.

"Henrietta! Be nice to our guests."

"Yes, Miss Mireille…"

"And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille." Again Henrietta unconsciously put on her 'kicked puppy' impression. Her handler switched from scolding to damage control.

"Now, now, 'Etta, don't go looking like that…"

"I'm sorry…"

A close and personal relationship. Jean told me she treated Henrietta as a partner. Does she really mean it? Does this woman sincerely care?

After a little bit of fast-talking, Mireille finally got Henrietta to lighten up. Claes served glasses of iced tea. After a moment of wondering who their servitor was, Fermi recognized her. Triela's roommate, the bookworm who didn't care for interviews. She seems to be a player here, too. What's she up to?

"Sorry, Chief, Elenora," Mireille apologized. "'Etta's a rather sensitive girl."

"I know." They're so alike, Giuseppe and this woman. He put his lips to his glass. "So what do you need from me, Mireille?"

"Tell me about Elsa de Sica."

The drinks went untouched for a long time.


In the kitchen, Claes pushed her glasses up her nose.

Perhaps you are not too bad, Mireille Bouquet. Not bad at all.


Night found them gathered in the nearby park. The same park, Fermi informed Mireille, where they learned the ugly truth of the Elsa Incident.

"They still haven't fixed that damned streetlight." He gestured at the offending fixture.

"Not much funding to go on," Elenora reminded him.

"Never enough," agreed Mireille.

"Isn't that the truth?"

The adults laughed.

Claes noted the stress in their voices. They're worried. Frightened, even. They're trying to prepare themselves for tonight.

And then there was Mireille's secret 'request' earlier. On its own, it barely made sense. But Claes was a smart girl. She'd divined a lot on her own already. Her hypothesis actually chilled her– to the point that she tried to keep it out of her mind.


 "Can you do it for me? No– for Henrietta?"

"A good soldier follows orders."

"I'm not asking you as a commander. I'm asking you as Henrietta's handler– and her friend."

"Yes. I will."


What are you up to, Mireille Bouquet? Why are you putting your life in my hands– more so in Henrietta's? Do you want to die?

Whatever the case, Claes knew what to do. After all, she was a good soldier. Good soldiers took care of their commanders.


Henrietta felt like a momentous event loomed just over the horizon. The very air seemed charged. She experienced this kind of feeling only once before. When she first met–

About to say 'Mireille', she stopped short. Another word, a different name, hung on her lips. It would not come out however she tried to make it do so. Why?

They stopped in the middle of the park.

"Miss Mireille?"

"Here, Henrietta. This is yours."

The box was rather large and heavy. "A gift?" she asked.

"No. It's yours. Open it."

She did so. Seeing the contents, Elenora gasped.

It was a camera.

Slowly, incredible care evident in her movements, Henrietta withdrew it. The black contoured plastic felt familiar. She peered through the lens experimentally, but at once pulled her face back, stung by a thought, an insight.

I know this camera… It's mine...

"This, too, 'Etta. You took this picture." It was a photograph of two men talking in the shade of a corridor. She immediately recognized Jean. His companion was the mysterious man of her sketches.

"His name is Giuseppe," Mireille explained.

"Giuseppe…" The name on my lips… Who is he?

"He was your handler. That was his family's house we stayed in. He also gave you that camera. It's the same camera with which you took that picture."

Mireille looked– guilty?

Why?

"He was my handler? But aren't you my handler?"

"I came after him." Bitterness marred the Corsican's beautiful face. "I replaced him."

Henrietta caught her breath.

"Not two months ago, Giuseppe died in a car accident. He died protecting you. Jean got me to stand in his place. You don't know this, but he and Jean were brothers. They hardly look alike. But they are family."

Family, both handler and mechanical body thought. Something we both lost to murderers, Mireille realized. I managed to forgive mine. Can Henrietta ever do the same? Do they deserve forgiveness? Do I?

"They also had a little sister. She looked up to Giuseppe, wanted to follow him into the Carabinieri. He loved her dearly."

"What– What happened to her?"

"She was killed in a terrorist attack by Padania. Giuseppe hated Padania ever since. He and Jean left the Carabinieri and joined the Social Welfare Agency to get their revenge."

Her chest tightened, her heart furiously pounding. Padania. Henrietta also hated them. Only now did she have any clue as to why.

"Several years ago, Giuseppe visited a hospital in Rome. There he found a young girl, the victim and only survivor of a vicious attack on her family. The girl, he learned, had been raped, mutilated and left for dead by the killers. Pitying her, Giuseppe chose her as his mechanical body partner."

Mireille fixed her eyes on her partner. "That girl is you. Henrietta."


 "There's a problem with your theory," Fermi noted.

"You're thinking about the conditioning. That a mechanical body is conditioned to be loyal only to her handler." To Henrietta: "They tested a new kind of conditioning on you. It was meant to both erase your memories of Giuseppe and to reprogram you, allowing me to take his place as your handler.

"But it wasn't perfect. You remembered things. Little things, to be sure, and only unconsciously. Yet you remember. It shows in your paintings, your mannerisms and speech."

"She gave you her gun, didn't you?" Henrietta looked startled by Fermi's shrewd guess. Mireille was less so. "That also happened when I first met you. Elenora and I were investigating the Elsa Incident back then. We found you and Giuseppe at his house. Giuseppe said he didn't want guns around his house or you."

"That's why you wanted Pietro's gun earlier," expanded Elenora. "You recalled Giuseppe's instructions to you. Thought you didn't know why or how, you remembered."

It was almost too much. She didn't know what to do or say. All she could do was to hold the camera close to her. The feel of that item upon her breast both reassured and troubled her.

I…

Aside, Claes entertained her own doubts. Things are going too fast. Henrietta can't handle all this information at once.

"There's one last thing." Mireille took out a pistol. Again Henrietta was dumbstruck. "This is yours, too. It was the first thing Giuseppe gave you."

It was a silver-and-black Sig Sauer P239 semiautomatic pistol. Her P239.

"Take it," Mireille urged.

She reached for it so slowly. In her eyes it was the material manifestation of all the forgotten doubt and fear locked within the recesses of her failing memory, a worn treasure chest whose contents beckoned. Henrietta took it barrel first. Its weight surprised her. The gun's safety was off. A quick pull of its slide partway back revealed a round in its chamber.

"Claes loaded it with live bullets," was Mireille's spoken afterthought. The import of that line shook everyone. Claes' hackles rose. Fermi and Elenora already knew.

Henrietta didn't.

"Henrietta." Mireille showed no emotion whatsoever. "I want you to kill me."


Her heart nearly stopped beating. Her handler filled her vision.

"Why?" I don't understand.

"I deceived you. I kept the truth of who you are from you. I took Giuseppe's place without complaint or protest."

"That's– that's not true…"

"It is. Everyone knew."

"I don't remember anything–" She caught herself. Everyone knew. That day she 'first' met the other mechanical bodies and handlers. Just yesterday at the garden. She remembered Triela's glare, Claes' harsh accusations.


 "Silly little girl. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing."

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

"Well, to be honest, the other girls and handlers dislike Miss Bouquet... Not through any fault of hers, of course."

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


And she remembered.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

The Corsican beauty didn't look away. "I told you that we are partners. Said partners trusted each other. I also promised to tell you the truth one day. I meant all of that. I always keep promises." Except for one, she thought.

"One more thing. Long ago, before I joined the Agency, before my days as a private investigator, I knew a woman. She was insane. She played with the lives of three women, used them as pawns in her mad plan. She caused the deaths of so many innocent people, cut short so many promising lives.

"How do I know? I know of her because I and a friend of mine– the friend I've told you about, Henrietta, the girl who was my old partner– were two of those women she used. I know of her because my friend and I stopped her. Not without cost, not without suffering, but we stopped her at last."

Altena… Chloe…

Kirika.

"My friend and I promised ourselves that what happened to us would never happen again to anyone else. That even as we sought out new lives, we'd fight and die to stop our old lives from happening again." Her fists tightened inwards. "But when I look at myself in the mirror, who do I see but that woman? The way I've used you, taken advantage of your kindness and loyalty, standing in Giuseppe's place, it stinks of her."

Unable to meet Henrietta's gaze, or that of anyone else, Mireille shut her eyes. "I'm no better than Altena," she whispered hatefully. "No better…"

"No!"

The yelled denial stopped everyone in their tracks. Mireille's eyes snapped open.

Despairing did not begin to describe Henrietta. The girl was all worked up into tears. "That's not true! You're better than that evil woman, Mireille! Much better! You never used me. You never wanted to. But there was no way you couldn't. I'm no longer the girl I once was, more so a girl." Though a sad one, it was still a smiling face she bore. "I'm a weapon now. I kill people. That is my only purpose."

"You're not a weapon–"

"Yes, I am. There's nothing you can do to change that. Denying it won't help. And I can't help it. I'm a mechanical body. A killing machine. A weapon."

"But you're still a ten year old girl." Kirika was one, once upon a time. Even Kirika had been one.

"Maybe that's why you looked out for me. You went to all the trouble of hiding the truth from me, took that burden for yourself. Why did you do that? Because you believed you were protecting me. You wanted me to be happy. That tells me you care for me a lot. So don't tell me that everything between you and me was all a lie– because it isn't!

"To tell me the truth of my past, my identity– then giving me this gun and asking me to kill you…" It was not hatred that filled her words, but disappointment. Henrietta sobbed. "It's like you're telling me, 'Love me– or else'. Why? Why do you want me to do that? Is that what you really want? To push me away from you? Do you want me to disappear from your life?"

Her hands and tears and heart reached out to her stunned handler. "Because the truth is that I love you."


Mireille did not know what to do. The Henrietta before her was the total opposite of the one from her dream. Still, even confronted with that heartfelt confession of unconditional love, doubt gripped her. Sinister images of Chloe danced inside her head.

If too much love can kill…

Altena!

"The conditioning," she murmured desperately, "You're just saying that because of the conditioning…"

"Maybe it is. But I believe it is more you, Mireille." Brown eyes softened. "I care for you not just because of the conditioning, but also because of you. You are a good person. I knew it from the very beginning, when we first met, before you became my handler. You proved it again and again. You're like Giuseppe–"

"I'm not Giuseppe!" Mireille almost screamed. Stop haunting me!

"I know you aren't. You are Mireille Bouquet. See? I remembered your whole name. I know who you are. And I want you to stay as yourself. I don't want you to be Giuseppe. No one can be Giuseppe. Giuseppe is dead. But you are here. You are alive. You are my handler now. There's no changing that if I wanted to. And I don't want to. I want you to stay with me. I care for you. So please, Mireille," and the woman did look at her, "please don't push me away."

"You ask why I can't bring myself to kill you despite what you've told me. Why would I? Why would I hate you? How can I hate the person I care for, the person who is most important to me? How can I want to hurt someone who is so kind to me?"

Fermi stared. Elenora's gasp was unnecessary punctuation. They both recognized the danger in those words. And they could be on the moon for all they want, so helpless were they to prevent the coming disaster.

"The only person I can hate is me. I'm not worthy of all this, of you. I'm really sorry, Miss Mireille. I really am."

So saying, Henrietta put the P239's barrel to her wide-open right eye.

Everyone gasped.


 "Henrietta!"


The night sky was beautiful. She remembered seeing it through the scope of a sniper rifle, then later through a telescope built for such a task. Or did she? Whatever, she watched the stars twinkle happily in the sky. Tracked the planets go on their merry way without having to shoot any of them. She could watch them forever.

She looked at the blonde woman sprawled upon her. Her gun lay out of reach. Henrietta remembered pulling the trigger. All she heard was a pop. No flash. No roar.

Why am I still alive?

"I lied about the bullets." Claes picked the P239 up. "They're real ones. Blanks don't weigh the same. But I tapped the powder out so they wouldn't fire." She fired the gun into the air. The resulting sound was rather like a loud clap or pop. And thank you, Tom Clancy, for that bit of information.

In that moment, Mireille knew for certain that there was a merciful God standing watch over them that night. "I'm sorry for putting you through this. Henrietta."

"I know you are. Mireille."

Henrietta wept.


Mireille saw Fermi and Elenora off the next morning. Henrietta was still asleep. Claes was starting to fix breakfast.

"Thanks for your help, Chief."

"Just Fermi will do. Take care of Henrietta."

"I will."

"You're invited to my baby's baptism," announced Elenora.

"You're pregnant? Congratulations." A little bit of good news. "Boy or girl?"

"She's a girl."

"Any names so far?"

Fermi and Elenora fondly smiled at each other.

"Henrietta."


 "Claes? Thanks a lot for what you did for Henrietta and me last night. You saved our lives back then, 'Etta's and mine."

"It's what any good soldier would do for her teammates. But you're welcome."

"Still, thanks." I'd love to meet the man who trained you one day, emerald eyes wordlessly said.

Maybe you still can, dark blue eyes replied in like fashion. "Would you tell me why you helped Henrietta regain her memory?"

"I couldn't live with myself if I didn't." Mireille stared at her cup's contents. "For a very long time, I lived a life of lies. But with a lot of help from my friend, I broke out of it. You see, the truth hurts, but in the end, after the tests and tribulations, it will lead you to the light. It's definitely better than living in the dark."

"I understand. I apologize for any ill will I had for you earlier. You've proven to be a much better person than I first thought."

"Same goes for me. And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille."

"That's a good girl, Claes."

"Thank you."


She looked up to the handsome man before her, felt the warmth of his love for her, and smiled. "Giuseppe."

"So you remembered."

"Of course I do. I promised, didn't I?"

He looked pleased. "You did good, Henrietta. I'm happy."

"You aren't angry? At me or Mireille?"

"Not at all. I'm very happy for the both of you. If you are happy, I'm happy, too."

"Thank you, Giuseppe."

"Be a good girl, all right? Protect Mireille as if she was me– no. Protect her because she is Mireille. Will you do that for me?"

"I will. Even if you didn't ask me, I'll protect her. She is important to me."

"You're a good girl, Henrietta."

"You're good, too, my dearest brother."

He smiled at that. "Don't wait for me anymore. I'll be the one waiting for you now. All right?"

"Yes."

"Take care, Henrietta."

"You, too, Giuseppe. And I love you."

"Me, too. Henrietta."


Explanation: Chapter 9, as you've seen, has been edited, with all the references to the old Chapter 10 (the Rico-Meir ownership issue that rankled a number of people) removed.

Chapter 11, Fratello, will now take the place of Chapter 10 storywise. Chapter 10 will be replaced by an independent, non-canon, placeholder chapter that has no connection to the story.

My sincerest apologies to Nachtsider and to all who were dragged into this issue.

And now, if you will: life goes on.


A few tidbits, here and there, bright flickers of happiness and hope in a world gone so wrong. Chapter 10: Placeholder.