Life Goes On


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


Revamped Chronology: This story happens past Volume Six of Gunslinger Girl, several years after Noir, sometime after Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid and five years or so before the events of Saikano (manga).


Fourteen

Battaglia (Battle)


The two terrorists guarding the bridge died within seconds of each other, one's skull mostly disintegrated by a .50 caliber round while a smaller but no less lethal .300 Winchester Magnum bullet ripped open his companion's throat.

"Rifle One confirms kill at bridge," the Section Two sniper announced over the secure radio. He had just scored his fourteenth kill with his custom Arctic Warfare 50F rifle.

"My target's down, too." Rico searched for more targets through the powerful Picatinny rail-mounted thermal imager of her Barrett M82A1M "Light Fifty". She barely beat Rifle Two of Second Platoon with a tersely added "Missile man down."

"Snipers, check in."

"Rifle One, my scope's clean."

"Two, clean."

"Rico. No enemies in sight, Jean. Topside is cleared of hostiles."

"Confirmed topside is clear. Assault teams, you have a green light. Go! Go! Go!"


The first thing to break the sparkling black surface was the stubby barrel of a Mini Uzi. Beatrice's goggled head followed. Intent eyes scanned for nonexistent foes. She signaled "all clear" via blinker light before withdrawing the gas-powered grapple gun from her combat webbing, rhythmically kicking legs keeping her afloat.

Ten feet to her right, Liesel, Fio and four other Sparrow commandos aimed upwards. All seven grappling hooks hit their marks and secured well. The junior operatives and Sparrows clipped the grapple guns to their waist belts, ditched their oxygen tanks, and activated powerful motor winches that quickly pulled them up twenty feet.

The room they burst into was empty. Beatrice and Liesel stood guard outside the door while the Sparrows made way for the waiting seven-man Second Squad, First Platoon. Captain Gabriele Leopardi was the first Section One commando up.

"Welcome to the Mirasol, Captain," Fio greeted. The big man grinned back.

"Let's get this party started."


The Zodiac's muffled motor made little noise, lending to the attackers' stealth. Stealth was everything in their business; stealth, speed– which the rubber assault boat also had plenty, its quietly powerful engine putt-putting them towards their target– and lethality.

The three junior operatives and two handlers aboard the inflatable were expertly trained in the principle of IKO ("In-Kill-Out"). The five-member team's collective firepower was equal to a full platoon of conventional soldiers. Their combined skills and experience were equal to or better than any equivalent on the planet. They could be rightly said to be unstoppable.

Mireille Bouquet checked the safety of her MP-7 PDW (Personal Defense Weapon) and the four forty-round magazines in her FAG (Fast Action Gun) bag. Her big Walther P99 semiautomatic rode in a back holster. She looked over her teammates for what could be the last time she might do so, fixing their faces into her mind to somehow make them invincible.

As designated direct fire support man, Altheus lugged a rare Heckler & Koch G11 assault rifle. Its 4.73mm caseless rounds were capable of penetrating a cyborg's armored skin. Since Altheus was an excellent shot, it was deemed advantageous for him to carry the only true rifle-caliber weapon in the team. His sidearm was an Mk 23 Model 0 SOCOM chambered for the big .45 ACP round.

Henrietta's weapons mixed past and present, Giuseppe's influence and Mireille's training. While recovering her "classic" P90 submachine gun, with which she was mostly concurrent since it handled somewhat similar to her F2000 assault rifle, she also retained the Kahr MK40 as backup, superior to her old P239 or any of sisters-in-arms' handguns in terms of raw stopping power.

Not to say the other two junior intelligence agents were lightly armed. Triela toted her customary bayoneted 1897 Trench Shotgun plus an H&K P7M8 in a shoulder harness. Claes had an MP-7 plus her VP-70M, the pistol's trademark stock/holster discarded for easier use.

The smaller caliber pistols were loaded with hollow point bullets designed to blossom upon impact before fragmenting inside the target's body, causing more damage to soft tissue and organs. 4.6mm steel penetrator rounds went to the MP-7 SMGs; these, too, could punch through cyborg body armor. The lone shotgun's awesome killing power was upped at the last minute with military issue anti-personnel flechette shells that instantly shredded unarmored targets caught in its twenty feet deep cone of death.

Also tucked away in Triela's suit was a pair of Delta Force-issue heavy-duty steel slugs that could punch through more than an inch of appliqué steel. These two rounds were mentally labeled "do not use unless there is no choice, and make sure you aim damned well with them because they will go through most anything". Hillshire spared no expense for his partner.

Along with material burdens, everyone carried their own thoughts and dark doubts. Mireille wished for Kirika's presence even as Henrietta repeated her promise never to let her handler down. Triela silently bitched about her slowly abating pain, but thanked God that Hillshire was a good two miles away on shore, away from harm and out of her sight. Claes and Altheus thought on similar lines, completing the mission foremost on their minds. The girl also put away her eyeglasses and silently asked the ghost of her dead mentor to watch over her tonight.

Their beliefs only made them more determined to win.

The Zodiac reached the Mirasol's side a few minutes later. Allied snipers had methodically cleared the upper deck of all hostile sentries. No alarm sounded. Yet the pressure that hounded them throughout their twenty-minute ride only built up.

Thrown grappling hooks secured, Henrietta, Triela and Claes agilely clambered up the ropes and onto the ship's deck in seconds. The three girls protectively fanned out as Mireille and Altheus hauled themselves up.

Once the senior agents joined them, the mechanical bodies proceeded at a brisk pace in a triangular combat spread, Triela leading the way, the adults close behind and ready to support. They expected but saw none of the decoys that the first wave of Army commandos encountered earlier. Neither did they see any enemies– yet.


Giuseppe huddled in one of the many dark corridors within the length of the Mirasol. He caught himself tapping his right thumb on the kukri's hilt– an affectation he slipped into when bored– and stopped it. His transparent orange wraparound visor displayed his battle costume and electronic equipment's current status as well as his physical body's condition.

Anticipating heavy combat, Rolito equipped his ward with a Ballistic Protection Suit. Built by Amalgam using existing technology (not everything was to be attributed to the Whispered), the wetsuit-like BPS was composed of special metallic alloy fibers with a tensile strength equal to that of steel, but the flexibility of silk. It served as an additional layer of protection alongside bulletproof ceramic forearm and shin guards plus Giuseppe's armored (proof versus up to 5.56mm AP rounds) skin.

Built into the BPS was an Electronic Camouflage System. This device was a scaled down version of the same equipment aboard aircraft and 3rd generation Arm Slaves like the M9 Gernsback. It used holographic projectors to cloak the wearer from visual sight and electronic sensors.

Basically, the ECS made Giuseppe invisible. Like that alien hunter from the Schwarz-something movie, the one his sensei mentioned every now and then when describing the suit's capabilities, an apt comparison.

Predator.

The ECS did have problems. Chief was that it couldn't keep up with rapid movement. Once its wearer started running or moving quickly, a barely visible shimmer manifested to betray its presence. This was because the holographic projectors were unable to completely compensate for constantly shifting body motion.

Also, the device could only operate for ten minutes straight before overheating. In fact, after just five minutes, the BPS turned into a compact sauna. The operator's sweating would further interfere with the stealth.

Five minutes was enough. Giuseppe decided to play it safe. Three or four minutes at the longest, the ECS activated shortly before engaging the enemy or to cover a retreat.

His battle plan maximized his advantages of stealth, speed and unpredictability. Stay out of site. Draw the enemy in. Attack at extremely close range, where their guns were at a disadvantage. Take them by surprise. Whittle down their numbers. Kill the rest as quickly as possible. Retreat if needed. Rinse and repeat.

Primary targets: enemy cyborgs. The official Section One term was "junior intelligence agents". Whatever their names, they were definitely formidable opponents.

Rolito assured Giuseppe that the poisons lacing his thrown blades would work. "They still have blood, organs and a nervous system. Your targets will drop dead soon enough." Just that his knives– maybe even the heavy kukri– might not penetrate the durable carbon compound material that made up their skin.

Earlier hypothetical scenarios and stolen data showed that Section Two's "dolls" were built tough– tougher than Giuseppe, the boy was surprised to hear, though he had the edge on agility due his superior Black Tech cybernetics. His BPS armor gave him greater protection, but his weapons were lacking in turn. Unless he got lucky and hit an eye –and then only if his target didn't have armored eyelids like his own–, a junior agent was a hard kill.

Giuseppe wished Rolito taught him to use a gun. Not a pistol or rifle. A grenade launcher, maybe. Or a bazooka. Something that could blow up tanks at long range. Overkill, surely; but infinitely preferable to death. His sensei would understand. The man was a firm believer in firepower despite his penchant and skill for bladed weaponry.

If wishes were horses– why worry? His weapons were the best of their class, maybe even better than guns. You couldn't lace bullets with poison, now, could you? Nine millimeter might make neat little holes in body, but his kukri could chop through wood and bone easy, especially with his superhuman arm power driving the big war knife.

Anyway, back to the plan. Once he destroyed several enemy units, Giuseppe was to rejoin Rolito at their preplanned rendezvous point on deck. They would escape through a rather risky but definitely unexpected and assuredly bombastic manner: typically Rolito.

Their CRG allies were to fend for themselves. No reason to lose sleep over cannon fodder. What few prisoners would be captured could reveal nothing. As far as the terrorists knew, Rolito was a weapons dealer from Taiwan, "Colonel Daren", sent to test a new weapons system against Section Two.

Anyway, Giuseppe didn't like them. Especially Patricio. The man was too arrogant for his own good. Giuseppe was wary of overconfident men. The trait always got people killed.

Sensors told him he faced two separate groups attacking from both ends of the Mirasol. Half a dozen cyborgs. Twice that number of "conventionals", mostly at the rear. As usual, he was outnumbered and outgunned.

But he had cutting-edge technology, unshakeable confidence and the best teacher in the world on his side. Giuseppe knew he would win.

He waited for Rolito. The boy wondered what was taking his sensei so long.


"You what?"

Rolito possessed extensive experience with human stupidity. He would be the first to plead guilt to a good number of patently insane stunts back in his youth. Having rediscovered a once-ignored common sense and carrying plenty of scars from too many close scraps with death, he believed himself wiser now, more mature and level-headed. In short: he was getting old.

Wisdom came with age. Neither were assets of one Patricio belonging to the Covenant Reformation Group, a young Northern hothead who had just endangered the entire mission with his boastful admission.

"Let me get this straight." Rolito talked quickly now, the better to retake control of the rapidly degenerating situation. "You planted bombs on this ship?"

"Six of them." The bastard even had the gall to grin. "Half a pound of C4 each, with a timer set to explode at midnight."

One and a half hours from now, Rolito calculated. "Where are they placed?"

"None of your business, old man."

A graying eyebrow twitched. "Where are the bombs placed?" the man in black repeated.

"Don't be daft," another terrorist countered. "We're here to blow this ship up, right?"

He almost screamed in anger. Then he remembered it was his own fault his allies misunderstood the exact specifics of his mission. So Rolito calmed himself down and began reasoning with someone who obviously thought with his dick and balls instead of his brain.

"No. Let me tell you what we are here for. We are here to eliminate Section Two's mechanical bodies. Understand? If you blow this ship up, every human being on this planet will revile you and your descendants for eternity. And every commando, cyborg or otherwise, this side of the Mediterranean will come looking for your ass."

"Well, they can't find us if no one tells them where we are now, eh?"

Rolito staggered. As if he had been stabbed in the back and the killing knife twisted into him for extra effect. But then his demeanor changed. His posture relaxed. His eyes narrowed as if sleepy. And his frown morphed into a wickedly amused smirk.

"What was that?" he mewled. "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm just reminding you of your place, old man." Patricio was too arrogant to notice the drastic change in the man's personality. "You're just here to take care of the robot kids. We're here to make a statement to the enemies of Christ."

"Truly, now. A statement? To the enemies of our Lord Savior, too. Most eloquent. I grant you that." He even bowed. His cheery smile and airy words betrayed nothing: fear, concern, hatred or coldness.

Rolito went through his Order Of Battle. Four men, Patricio included. Three armed with AKs– the 74, thankfully; the 5.56mm rounds with less armor penetrating power than the older 47's 7.26mm, so there was a smaller chance of a stray bullet holing some important part of the ship that would blow up everything to kingdom come.

A pair of riflemen, one injured in the leg and so distracted, flanked Rolito. The third kept an eye outside the door. Easy kill; save him for last.

His most immediate threat, Patricio himself, waved a Beretta around while declaiming. The model type was unrecognizable and unimportant. It was just a gun, its bearer just another victim.

The longer I spend dealing with these bozos, the longer Giuseppe fights those girls alone…

He felt his kindness slip away. He let it flee, knew it would return in due time. In its place he welcomed a darker creation from the depths of his nightmares, heartless, bloodthirsty by accident yet loving it, the being inherited from a friend long dead.

Thanks, Masakari. Take over now, my darling. Make it quick, please. Someone is waiting for the Cavalry.

Patricio was ranting about "how it was high time the government pigs and the old men in the Vatican realized just who had the will of God on their side" when Rolito interrupted him.

"Your bombs– did Franco and Franca graced you with their precious timers?"

"What?" His former underling took seconds to recover from the rather flowery question and think up an answer. "Don't shit me. I can make better triggers than them."

"So you do arts and handicrafts on the side. But what if one of them blows up early?"

"No way will that happen. Besides, I know where my bombs are. I can get them now if I want to."

"Thank you. That was all I wanted to know."


In his mind's eye, a pool of absolute black rippled once.

Daggers hidden inside sweater's sleeves dropped into waiting hands. Rolito grinned.

And the killing began early.


Triela had yet to start. Twenty minutes of search-and-destroy produced not one terrorist appeared. Not even a single decoy like the ones earlier reported by the Army.

The lack of targets frustrated the blonde. She so badly wanted to shoot someone, to unload her bodily pain into someone else via a cloud of killer darts. Even that terrorist mechanical body would do–

"Triela? Are you okay?"

Henrietta's anxious query bolted her out of her misery. "I'm fine!" To prove it, she hastened her march, biting down on her lip and pain, less guarded.

"Don't get too far ahead," Claes warned from behind.

"I know what I'm doing!"


Hearing footsteps, Giuseppe switched his ECS on. The stealth system blanketed him in warmth and invisibility. He quit breathing.

Three cyborgs. Talking with each other. He recognized the name "Triela". Shotgun or assault rifle. Who are the others?


Triela gave the corridor an once-over. Nothing seemed to be out of place. She peered some more. The Mirasol's still-running machinery degraded her usually potent ears. Her period added to her distraction.


He saw them now. "Point/Shotgun" was Triela. Submachine guns on the other two girls. Line formation. Wise.

His dart launcher wasn't going to be useful in a head-on attack. He changed plans.

Close in. Kill Triela first. Shove her dead body into the middle girl (the dark-haired one; Claes, he now remembered) to immobilize the latter. Kill the rearmost (Henrietta, was that her name?) with a knife to the eye while she was distracted. Finish Claes.

Come on. Come closer. Don't spot me yet. What was that saying of sensei's? Ah. "Come into my home, said the spider to the fly…"


Satisfied, Triela signaled all clear. She stalked forward, shotgun ready for the first sign of trouble. Still no enemies.

Where the hell was the enemy?


Now!

He rushed them. Any noise he made now would help in confusing his targets for just a few more precious seconds.

Giuseppe swung his kukri at Triela's head–


Despite Triela's signal, Claes didn't quite feel right. Something's wrong. What was that word?

She knew this feeling well, felt it many times already. Her tampered memory failed to present the exact image she so badly wanted. But the fragmented account she unearthed months ago, cryptic paragraphs scattered here and there inside various books that once belonged to him, the whole of which she reconstructed– they were recent memories embedded into her mind through rote repetition and troubled dreams. They held the key to her being.

They were her.

Fish. Fishing. Fishing rod.


"Some fish are pretty clever. They have a very slight touch. You'd never notice them nibbling at your bait. What you do, then, is tune up our sensitivity. Feel the line and rod. Be one with it. At the slightest, unnatural shift, wait a little, let him get confident. And then– hah! Reel it in!"


Claes sucked in her breath. Sir Raballo!

Footsteps. The three junior agents froze, their weapons raised. No one was there.

Wait! The air ahead of them shimmered. Claes might have missed it had she blinked. Certainly Triela did.

The fish took the bait. But we are the fish…

She grabbed Triela by the suit collar and jerked her backwards.

"Hey, what's–"


The kukri's tip swished within millimeters of baby blue eyes.


Giuseppe started. I missed!


Claes couldn't fire. Not flat on her back, Triela in the way, the blonde sprawled on her MP-7 when they went down in a tangle of limbs. Not exactly the most brilliant plan she'd come up with, on second thought.

But the Trench Shotgun was up. Reflex, training and a healthy dose of surprise and fear took over. Triela pulled the trigger–


The shotgun's thunderous report soudded right next to his head. Giuseppe staggered into a wall as if punched. The metal bulkheads rang from a hundred metal-tipped darts. So did his head. Or did it? He couldn't hear anything through one ear.

I'm deaf…


The roar startled Henrietta. She saw her teammates down, Triela's shotgun smoking, a bulkhead dented by lots of tiny metal-tipped darts.

Then she saw it: the unnatural glistening in the corridor ahead, like looking through a curtain of oil-water.

"Henrietta!" Perhaps the first time she heard Claes desperate. "Shoot!"

Obediently, Henrietta aimed at the middle of that shimmering mass and cut loose.


He didn't hear the yelled command. But he did partially hear the "tearing canvas" sound of automatic weapons fire and fully felt the latter's effect, the bulk of twenty or so 5.7mm AP bullets smacking him back. They can see me? But the ECS–

Another of Rolito's lessons slammed into his head like a bullet: never completely trust the lab weenies. "It isn't their asses on the line." And: "Don't panic."

Giuseppe held his free arm up to protect his vulnerable face. Bullets ricocheted off ceramic and high-tech fiber. At least his armor worked better than his invisibility.

He found himself sweating profusely. Startled, Giuseppe noticed only then the flashing red light on his visor. The ECS is overheating!


Claes was pleased to see the shimmer turn into a vaguely human outline. She tried to get Triela's weight off her, thought better of it. Doing so would only block Henrietta's aim. Instead: "'Etta! Aim upwards! Hit his head!"


Already he was materializing into an identifiable target. Yelling made it through his lifting deafness. "–upwards! Hit his head!"

The shooter obliged with effect. Two bullets bounced off Giuseppe's hand. Five clipped his arm. Giuseppe spat out a word that would have shocked Elena.

He'd lost the element of surprise, was fast losing his technological advantage. Outnumbered and outgunned, with the range too close– there was no way he could win this.

"Discretion is the better part of valor. So: run like hell!"

A precious moment before the damaged ECS failed, Giuseppe sprinted down the corridor he came from, ripping away his visor and dropping it.


No more time for doubt. She saw the enemy now: a black-clad figure facing away from her, body bent low to protect his vulnerable head. He was running away.

He tried to kill Triela. He would have tried to kill Claes and me.

The crime was heinous, a mortal sin. The sentence: death.

Still firing, Henrietta pursued. The P90 rattled empty. She reloaded on the fly, firing short bursts to harry her target, not pausing.


"I think I need to wring my underwear dry." Triela regarded Claes with wonderment. "Thanks, Claes. You saved my life there."

"No problem. Let's follow Henrietta."

"Roger that." The blonde let her buddy take the lead. The corridor soon split into three. No clue as to which one Henrietta took.

"At least he could have left a trail of bread or something," Triela grumbled. "We'll split, then?"

"Take the left. I'll take the right."

"I hope one of us is right." Triela was warier now, having cheated Death by a hair's breadth. Again she wondered where Mireille was. She said it would only take a moment…


It was the sum of all their fears. Mireille swallowed. She hated the things, preferred a gun or a knife for killing, controlled and precise and relatively neat. Nothing like this monstrosity…

"I've got it," Altheus assured. Then the age old question: red or blue?

The bomb steadily ticked away. One hour fifteen seconds left.


The two terrorists guarding the engine room put up a serious fight. Heavy gunfire pinned down Second Platoon. "Shit!" one of them hissed. "These guys are using real slugs!"

"Take them alive if you can," the hurriedly approaching Fio radioed.

"Lovely order," a second commando groused.

The hitherto wordless Beatrice turned to him."Cover me."

Then, surprising both her allies and enemies, she rushed the terrorists head-on. Everyone actually stopped firing to stare.

"Cover fire!" Leopardi, the first to recover, yelled. Six M16A2s simultaneously roared over the insane-seeming junior intelligence agent. Rubber bullets pinged off metal. Both terrorists flinched– and forgot about Beatrice, now going into a baseball slide beneath their badly-aimed bullets.

She didn't. Coming to a stop on her back not five feet from their feet, Beatrice put a quick two-second burst into each terrorist's leg. The two men screamed and toppled, their leg bones fractured by 8mm bullets.

Beatrice kicked away their AKs before getting up. Her Mini Uzi remained locked on a spot in between them, ready to put a bullet in either or both men's foreheads.

Leopardi stormed over. "Damn it, girl!" If she was one of his men– then the rest of the Platoon would have to buy him a round of beers in the post-mission booze fest. "You could at least give me a head's up if you were going to pull a crazy stunt like that!" he fumed.

The girl's answer was to tip her head slightly. Leopardi shook his head but grinned. "Crazy dolls." It was a compliment.

Fio and a pair of escorts arrived within minutes, having dispatched Liesel and her remaining Sparrows to sweep the levels around and below the bridge. One of her guards carried a med kit.

"Good job, people," she told Beatrice and second Platoon before switching to the radio. "Jean, Fio. The engine room is secure as well." Holstering her Magnum, she turned to the nearest prisoner. "Where are the bombs?"

"Go to hell, bitch of the devil!"

Having dealt with prisoners many times before, Fio was unruffled by the insult. Leopardi, however, took offence for her. He hauled the recalcitrant terrorist up by the man's shirt to clap a meaty hand over his mouth. Then he grabbed the wounded leg, shoved his fingers into the wound and twisted. His hand stifled the scream.

"Lieutenant!" the horrified Fio exclaimed. Leopardi ignored her. He let the man's partner watch his buddy suffer for a long thirty seconds before withdrawing bloody fingers from the mangled wound. He waited thirty seconds more, took his hand off the man's mouth as well. Spent, the scream had tapered off into a low moan.

"Oh, my God," the untouched terrorist moaned. His partner looked to be dead.

"This is against the Geneva Conventions," Fio hotly complained. "There was no call for this!"

Beatrice quietly stood beside the disgusted Sparrow officer. Her Mini Uzi was still aimed at him. There was no pity in her eyes. She terrified him more than the sight of his tortured, half-dead partner.

"Where are the bombs?" Leopardi rumbled.

"No bombs! We didn't bring any bombs!"

"I don't believe you." He took a threatening step towards him, gesticulating with his bloodied hand. The horrified terrorist stumbled over his own words.

"I swear to God! The guy who brought us here didn't want any bombs! He just wanted to get at your robot kids! Please don't kill me, I'm telling the truth!"

"Lieutenant!" Fio put herself squarely between the murderous Leopardi and the second terrorist. "There's no need for this barbarism! I'll handle the interrogation! You go and sweep the area!"

For a moment, Leopardi looked like he was about to get over her case. Fio stared him down. Then, very slowly and definitely displeased, he nodded. "As you wish, Captain." He turned away– and, face away from their prisoner, finally smirked.

Slick, Master Sergeant, very slick…

He bellowed for First Platoon to follow him. Fio ordered her medic to treat their prisoner's wound while she questioned him further.

"How many cyborgs do you have?"

"Just one that I've seen. A boy. He always wears a ski mask. He's somewhere belowdeck right now; I don't know where, exactly. The guy in charge of him, some old-looking guy dressed in black, didn't want to tell us. Security reasons, he said. He didn't trust us."

I wonder why? "But the cyborgh is there? What's he armed with?"

"Swords. Some huge sword and a bunch of knives." He sucked in his breath as the medic taped his wounded leg close. "Maybe he has some other stuff that I didn't see. His boss has a Japanese sword and maybe a bunch of daggers."

"Go on." To Beatrice: "Keep an eye out. That enemy cyborg might come for us."

"Roger."


"Time to save bullets," the calm, professional voice advised, seeing her magazine was half empty, only one extra clip left. She complied, firing occasionally, keeping up the pace.

A thrown dagger whizzed towards her eye. "There was a girl named Chloe…" She ducked and kept running.

Henrietta didn't fight alone. Though far away, her handler's words and advice guided her in battle. Mireille kept her alive.

Let's go, Miss Mireille!


Giuseppe cursed. His pursuer was good. Throwing knives over his shoulder didn't even slow her. But her well-aimed bullets kept clipping him, though the BPS withstood the assault. So far.

Now the gun was silent. Was she low on ammunition?

The throbbing no longer bothered him. He still wobbled a bit, the delicate natural liquid gyroscope inside his ears still disturbed, but his hearing had returned to normal. He trusted himself combat capable again.

Fleeing wouldn't do. He needed to retake the initiative, to end the chase and kill his hunter. Then he could double back and take out at least one more mechanical body before calling it quits.

"Pursuit makes the enemy confident. It lowers his guard, breaks his concentration. Let the hunter become the hunted. Lead him as long as you need to." Rolito decisively sheathed his katana. "Then cut his legs off when he least expects it."

Come on, he silently goaded his stalker, speeding up, dodging left and right forcing her to improvise. Come after me. Keep running. Don't slow down or you'll lose me. Come on! Hurry!

Now: make a stand!

Skidding to a halt, Giuseppe spun around, willing his enemy to come to him.


She felt it coming. That decisive moment that would settle this running battle. As if she could touch her enemy and know what was in his mind.

Come on. Come on! Hurry!

Her pulse raced. Her pace quickened. If I fall behind– I can't fall behind!

"HENRIETTA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

Startled, she almost tripped. But Mireille's voice turned gentle, soothing.

"Take your time. Don't close in too much. Don't play the enemy's game. Don't let him lead you."

Miss Mireille…

Henrietta braked– fifteen feet distant from her suddenly stopped target, out of his sword's lethal range. His throwing knives didn't matter. She brought the P90 to bear on his head. There was no way she could miss.

Got you!


He bared his teeth in challenge. Not quite perfect– but I'll take you with me, if nothing else.

Giuseppe lunged forward.


Henrietta's world stopped.


"Giuseppe…"


Life Goes On. Be reborn.

If we unknowing meet again,

I don't want to lose you a second time. But

Life Goes On. In this era,

As long as I am given life,

I catch it with these arms and this chest.

Believe in love.


They were enemies, weapons. They shouldn't feel. But she asked, "Can't enemies feel for each other when they can?" Next on Life Goes On: Palpare (Feel).