Life Goes On


Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl, Noir, Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid, Metal Slug and Saikano are owned by their respective owners. CRG owned by Colonel Marksman. I 'own' my original characters Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito.


Revamped Chronology: This story happens past Volume Six of Gunslinger Girl, several years after Noir, a year or so after Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid and five years or so before the events of Saikano (manga). Will release a semi-chronology soon.


Thirteen

Rimuginare

Musing


Rolito felt no joy. Not because Murphy's Law loomed unseen over his head, waiting to cut him down to size if he so much indulged a single moment of smugness. No, his accomplishments were nothing to be proud or happy about.

It was a letter perfect mission so far. Initial planning alone was a breeze. Not a single need or problem, however minor, was overlooked.

Manpower came first. Amalgam troopers were nice but off-limits. No use having one of them captured, tortured ("We don't bother with niceties," Leonard noted matter-of-factly, "And neither do our enemies." Rolito agreed.) and pointing every commando in the world in their direction. A third party was found.

The CRG wanted revenge. They happily lent "Colonel Daren" (Rolito posed as s a Taiwanese Chinese weapons dealer) a dozen men, all trusted "sons of God and brothers of Christ". They wouldn't slow down a conventional assault, much more cyborgs. But they could manage the bridge and engineering, freeing him one hassle. Early warning would be provided by a network of remote sensors placed throughout the ship. Rolito and Giuseppe handled the killing.

Phase Two: securing a good battleground. Hijacking the Mirasol was his most ingenious move yet. The Italian-flagged tanker was the last place anyone wanted to have a gunfight. Carrying two hundred thousand barrels of crude oil, it was a floating disaster looking for a place and time to happen. The mere thought of a spill sent chills down the spines of every soul on both sides of the Adriatic. And if it exploded–

But there were no bombs aboard. Rolito didn't bother calling Franco and Franca, his only reliable local source of such. Those two would balk at blowing up an oil tanker parked off their homeland's scenic shores. Terrorists they might be, but they were also patriots. (What a strange combination.) Neither did he relish the thought of fighting on a huge and primed Molotov cocktail. Besides, his mission wasn't to destroy the Mirasol, but to defeat Section Two. No expending energy on side issues, he always told Giuseppe.

Forcing the enemy to pussy-foot around was invaluable. "How many mines do you need to make a minefield?" a US General once asked a reporter during the nuclear-aborted First Gulf War. "None. All you need is a press conference."

The Italian media, as well as standard terrorist and commando doctrine, was doing exactly that. "They just have to have bombs. They'reterrorists!"

It was so nice to be scarier than you actually are.

He quickly got rid of the civilians. Managing twelve men, one cyborg and– but he kept his ace in the hole secret for now– was difficult enough. Prisoners were only useful so far. Rolito wasn't bloodthirsty. Releasing the crew ensured Section Two would know about them. Same reason Giuseppe (masked for anonymity, but the message his presence delivered was crystal clear) stood within camera view during the televised speech.

Ah, yes. The speech. Rolito was Catholic, though not the kind espoused by the CRG. Zealots are all the same the world over. So shortsighted.

Admittedly they were useful tools. And the CRG was helping him so he needed to respect their views to make them feel good. Or at least keep his cynicism to himself. So Rolito dutifully read aloud makeshift prompt cards with his angriest tone, threatening death to all heathens at the hands of the Godly. Giuseppe's mask hid a smile at his sensei's pretend rabblerousing. They had a good laugh after that.

What followed next wasn't funny. To belabor his allies' point– and prove he kept their best interests in mind–, Rolito shot down a TV news helicopter. It was a military necessity. Was it?

Watching burning pieces of the multimillion euro aircraft plunge into the dark waters, he allowed a little pity for the four lives he'd just snuffed out.

And Mommy always wanted me to be a journalist…

A reaction was expected. That the commandos attacked during the day surprised him. It was a shame (but also a relief) that it was the Italian Army and not Section Two. Complicating things were inflatable human-sized dummies that Rolito scattered here and there earlier, wasting ammo and confusing the attackers, slowing them down.

The soldiers did kill two and wound three of the CRG contingent. Then the Amalgam assassins hit. The battle became a slaughter. Only a matter of Giuseppe running down the last commando, who put up a brave stand and went down fighting, and it was done. Tenuous peace returned to the Mirasol.

For all it's worth…

For the first time since the mission began, Rolito wished he brought Elena along. Having a second mechanical body around isn't such a bad idea now, is it? Not with half a dozen or so wanting your head, and only one on your side. And it's nice to talk to someone who likes you. The CRG bastards sure as hell don't. Especially that punk Patricio. Wanted me to kiss a crucifix and all. After what I've done, seeing what he and his buddies had done and wanted to do, he still believes God is on his side?

We are who we are: the folly born of our hubris, Lucifer fallen from the sky as if lightning. God forgive us– if He still has the stomach for us. Amen.

Giuseppe patrolled the corridors below. Rolito was supposed to be doing the same on the sundeck. Instead, here I am, spacing out, practically begging for a knife in the back or a bullet in the head. It would be ironic, but also funny, if after all his preaching about alertness, he then got himself killed in a careless moment like this.

But he couldn't help it. He found the whole business distasteful. He would rather think of something else. Not necessarily a better topic, but what was? Besides, he was feeling his age again. When was the last time I took my medicine? I can't remember anymore…

The gifted (one of his few arrogant affectations) historian in him decided to tackle the radical evolution of human warfare.

Conventional ground forces were proving too big and bulky for the rapid, sinuous flow of recent conflicts. They were also proving vulnerable to the killing grounds of the urban environment, as the Americans relearned to their sorrow in Iraq. The lethality and range of modern weapons ensured the Americanism "If you can see it, you can hit it; and if you can hit it, you can kill it." Except that now other people were using it.

Sure, armies still retained their original value of taking and holding territory. But wars were no longer about land. They were about political and economic goals. You didn't have to kill every Tom, Dick and Harry in uniform. You just had to persuade them that taking you on will cost them far more than what they'd care to spend. That was the concept behind détente.

No, numbers didn't do it anymore. Neither did weight. You had to be an amalgam (he smiled at that) of the best. Fleet but hard-hitting. Precision, skill and drive. A boxer, not a puncher. A rapier, not a sledgehammer. Butterfly and bee combined in a killer package.

The Arm Slave was a step in the right direction: speed, protection and firepower in a relatively compact package. But it was little more than a glorified tank-jet hybrid. Already big and expensive, they were definitely overkill for running down guerrillas –the "civilized" world's new enemies– hunkering inside sewers and deserts despite the Soviets' penchant for using them in such a manner.

No, special operations units were now the vogue. Fast, precise, hard-hitting, stealthy, clean and deniable. And spec-ops had endlessly improved ever since Ulysses conceived the Trojan Horse (Rolito believed that legend always had to have at least a little bit of truth behind it). Paired with advanced technology and firepower, the commando was, pound for pound, perhaps the most tactically powerful trooper in history and reality.

Yet they were mortal, still, and fallible. They were only human. Perfection remained a far-away dream.

Enter cyborgs. Stronger, faster and tougher than the most seasoned and fit commando, capable of being trained and equipped to an equivalent or superior level, a single unit would be a powerful force multiplier. Those who can turn the tide of battle with their very presence alone, the more lyrically inclined part of Rolito mused.

But there was no romance in war, only starkly cold practicality. And one glaring problem with the otherwise grand vision of the cyborg soldier remained. So far, all mechanical bodies were children. And for all the good reasons, too– if one can term 'good' a reason for creating a killing machine.

Children were smaller targets, required less resources to convert and maintain, and were more obedient and easily bent by conditioning. (Even Amalgam cyborgs used such drugs, though to a far lesser extent than their contemporaries.) And even the most hardened killer would hesitate to shoot a child– allowing the "child" to shoot first. And the side who shot first almost always won.

There was no changing that. What's to change? Thousands of years of human preference? Common sense?

He found the demand for secrecy slightly ridiculous. Top Secret, Classified, need to know basis. His own wards were protected by a simple technique: everyone else didn't know they existed.

But there was no thing as a complete secret. Someone always knew. Rumors got out. Spies slipped in. The very lack of evidence was evidence enough. "Cannot be confirmed– nor denied…" Everyone knew to some degree or another. They just didn't want to talk about it.

Rolito didn't bother with illusions. A firestorm of outrage would break out once news of the cyborg children's existence leaked to the general public. Whatever nation or race or creed, all acknowledged children to be important.

The repercussions would be felt worldwide. Italy was still a conservative Catholic country. At its heart was the heart of Catholicism, a heart shared by Christians and the West. And the rest of the world would follow suit. Section Two and its sibling organizations would be publicly shut down.

But what would happen to their operational units? Would they simply go back to their original lives? Hey, little girl, you can stop being a killing machine now. Here are your dresses and your favorite teddy bear Jean Paul. Go home, hug your new mommy and daddy, and tell them you love them very much and won't need to kill anyone anymore.

Gloved hands gripped the rail tight. No. All the good intention in the world wouldn't even slow down the really determined governments and militaries and terrorists. Sure, everyone would sign impressive documents and hold international conferences condemning the use of cyborgs and their users, denying possession of such. And behind the smiles they would be hurrying to make or steal their own units, to make them better, to keep them a secret until the time was ripe to let loose the dogs of war.

An arms race unlike all others was coming. Focusing on human weapons, on children converted into robot soldiers, to be sent to kill and be killed in accordance with national policy and the dictates of the selfish bastards occupying the top.

Wars are always fought by children. And war is only murder en masse.

Children murdering other children… The thought made him, a veteran murderer, sick. We're not content with killing each other. We have to bring our kids into our sins, too?

There was no stopping it. Italy's Section Two, Israel's Childville, the Americans' Handsome Men (and what kind of name is that?), the Soviets' "SOP 002", his own wards in Amalgam's "Project Child"...

Even Japan, "Self Defense Force" Japan, had joined the bandwagon of mutual suicide. Rolito's extensive connections hinted about a newly-formed Special Missions Team with an unspoken but easily guessed mission. He even had a name. Chise. An acronym? Cybernetic Humanoid Independent Strategic Engager? Or maybe that was her real name. She was a girl, after all. Only ten or eleven. And cute, too, from the pictures his contact smuggled out.

Ten, cute and a flying launcher for pinpoint hydrogen bombs. She would be the weapon to render all other weapons obsolete, the goddess of Death, Mistress Kali, Shiva the Destroyer, the fire that purified Heaven and Earth of the filthy pollution that is Man.

Words came unbidden to his mind and lips.

"Saishū Heiki Kanojo."

She, The Ultimate Weapon.

You were always good with names and words. But fancy words and pretty names are not going to change the fact that the world is about to end.

The only thing the human race was good at was killing itself. Humans we so engrossed in it, they fail to notice they were killing the planet faster than they did each other. Pollution. Topsoil erosion. Global warming. Overpopulation.

Not that it really matters. We breed faster than we die. Like cockroaches, if with a couple million years less of a head start. We'll outlast the Earth's bio system– only by a few days, sure, but what was a minute here or there? We're all going to die, anyway?

That or we'll finally succeed in killing each and every one of us on this little planet. Given time and considering how stupid we are, that's a likely possibility…

He could always blame the Whispered. A lot of people did. Arm Slaves were bad enough. But no, they had to build something that could wipe out the human race. And it had to be cute, too. The stupid voices in their heads should do us a favor and just shut up.

Yet in the end, the culprit was not mysterious voices or tormented individuals, but men. Selfish, sorry, stupid Man, who began the entire thing in the first place and was bound by stupidity and obstinacy to see it through to the deadly finish.

Our only true sciences are discord and death and self-destruction.

And you're one of the leading proponents. Bravo, honorable sir. I applaud your hypocrisy.

What would Jess say to the idea of her being made into a killing machine? Even Masakari didn't go around killing children. And you called her a psycho. What does that make you, then?

Hypocrite. Coward. Failure. Monster. Human.

How do I tell Giuseppe and Elena about the bombs inside their bodies? What do I say to explain the command word I've memorized? The word that will end their unhappy lives: my sister's name.

He blinked away tears.

Oh, Jess, forgive me for desecrating your beautiful name. Forgive me, though there is no reason to forgive. I'm just another human being who desperately wants to live just a little longer...


The brief electronic chirp, then the voice of his ward, came through his Codec loud and clear. Sniffing, he set about to clearing his mind, refocusing his thoughts.

"Yeah, Giuseppe?"

"Sensei? It's about time."

His head bowed. There was a time to reminisce and a time to act. A time to kill– and to die. In the rain. Thank you, Hemingway. "Get in position. Commence commo blackout after this."

"Haii."

"And Giuseppe? Be careful."

"Yes, Sensei. You, too."

The Codec went silent.

He took one last look at the blackened sea. He couldn't see them yet. If he did, that meant they could see him, too, and– well, such a nice life I had led.

They were there. Coming for him. His enemies. Children with bulletproof skin and cybernetically-enhanced musculature, armed with automatic weaponry, walking weapons. Cyborgs. Mechanical bodies. Gunslinger Girls.

Victims, all, you and I.

With that the man who once went by the name of Elde Talonn disappeared into the belly of the beast.


Slowly the fated meeting is set. Soon the swordsman will meet the gunslinger girl. And then– Next on Life Goes On: Battaglia (Battle).