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 owned by Nachtsider. I 'own' my OCs 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).


Fifteen

Palpare (Feel)

"Giuseppe."

He froze. No…

It was happening yet again. Once more he saw that Section One commando. He remembered the shock in the eyes of an experienced warrior at the impossibility confronted. Terror at the face of the dead visited.

All that while, the victim frightened his killer far more.

I'm not dead. I'm not the man you called for. I don't know you. I don't know the Giuseppe you are talking about. You're dead. Stay dead. Stop haunting me.

I am alive. I am me!

Am I?


And now this girl did the same to him.

She was younger than him than a year and reached up only to his shoulders. The dark blue school uniform amplified her youth. Red-brown hair and brown eyes were a strange mix but fit her luminous face. All in all she was rather cute.

She also had a FN P90 submachine gun aimed at his face, the 5.7mm bullets decidedly lethal to even him at this range.

He knew her. Henrietta. "One of the most effective operatives in the Agency," the report said Her handler's name was Giuseppe. We have the same name? Is that why she called my name out?

She held his life in her hands. She was a child, yes, younger than him, but also a remorseless killer– again, like him. She was the one who shot at him earlier, forcing him to flee, running him down. Now he stared at the muzzle of her weapon. Practically point blank range, he couldn't block or dodge. He was rooted in place by the deepest astonishment and horror.

All she needed was to pull the trigger.

Do it, a dark, self-destructive part of him urged. Shoot me…


Henrietta stared.

Giuseppe crouched threateningly before her.

He was dead. Mireille told her that. More so, he told her in not so straightforward but far more heartfelt a manner than even her new handler– whom she loved for her own unique qualities– could never hope to match. Only in her dreams could she still see him, talk with him, though every day she lived was an expression of her love for him.

But this was no dream. A nightmare, perhaps; but she was awake and alive in this one.

So was this Giuseppe, her Giuseppe.

No. Not quite. His hair was cut shorter and styled differently. His eyes were bright blue instead of gray. And he was far younger. Not much older than herself. And herGiuseppe hated knives, said so once upon a fairy tale age long gone. He wouldn't use an ugly weapon like the one so lightly grasped in his right hand, stopped in mid-curve.

These and so many other minute details that, combined together, were compelling evidence. This boy was not her Giuseppe.

But he looked and felt so much like him. More so, herself. He struck her as kind despite his stance and sword and motives. (Like me.) His eyes said so. (Like mine.) She couldn't help but whisper his name aloud.

"Giuseppe."

His pause, hesitation and recognition painted on his face, told her she was right. His name was Giuseppe.

But he wasn't her Giuseppe.

She didn't know what to make of this apparition. Giuseppe was dead. Then who is this? A fake? Anger burned quick and hot inside of her; she almost pulled the trigger. (Strange that the boy's eyes longed for her to do just that.) How dare they defile my Giuseppe's name and face!

But… if he is a fake, how did they know what he looked like? And why not make him look exactly like him? Why the differences?

What should I do?

Her finger hung over the trigger but did not tense. Indeed she might have toppled if a slight wind chose to sweep through the corridor. Her focus lost, her guard lowered. So did her gun barrel.


"Don't!"

The boy's sudden declaration stopped her. Saved her. The P90 rising mistrustfully once more, her finger paused again.

"Don't." He spoke low and cold, as hostile as possible. "Don't put your gun away. And don't call my name out like you know me. You don't know me. I don't know you." A lie, technically; but reading file reports didn't constitute knowing a person. Did it? Of course it didn't. "We're strangers. No; more than that, we're enemies. You came here to kill me. It's the same here with me."

She didn't answer, didn't have the words she needed. He spoke for her, for the both of them.

"I," Giuseppe softly, lethally stated, "Am going to walk– no; run towards you and try to kill you. You should be prepared to defend yourself and try to kill me. Do you understand? You will kill me, or I will kill you. One of us must die for the other to survive. That is our mission. So get ready."

There was no compact between killers, after all; only grimly mutual understanding and bloody death from which only one would emerge– if any of them won.

Then why did you talk to her? Why warn her? Egg her to fight you? You could have killed her in that moment where she lowered her gun. This isn't an honorable duel. This is war. Anything goes.

Why, then, did you let her live?

He didn't know. He was almost relieved to see that small face harden, felt her tense. So I don't sound like her handler, but only look like him? That's enough. He did the same, could do no less lest he insult both himself and his opponent.


One last hesitation gripped Henrietta. "Is your name really Giuseppe?" she asked.


Again the deadlock caught them both. Giuseppe wanted to lie, to say no. But he couldn't deny who he was.

"I'm not the person you know." He gathered himself anew. "If you hold that name, that person, so dearly, you will kill me for what I am not."

And then the girl did something that truly frightened him.


Henrietta smiled.

"I understand." I really do, Giuseppe. And I'm very sorry I have to kill you.


No more hesitation. Enough thought. Giuseppe attacked.


Altheus reviewed the bomb. The detonator and timer were crudely done, suggesting its maker's inexperience. That was both good and bad: good, because it wasn't as nasty as one made by Franco and Franca, say; bad, because a badly-made bomb was still dangerous if left alone long enough.

Decided, he cut the red wire. The timer stopped.

Altheus waited for fifteen seconds before releasing his breath explosively. How many more of these things are there?


Now this was something to be pleased about. Patricio, dumb zealot nut that he was, planted most of his bombs relatively close. Rolito counted three disarmed and stowed inside his handy dandy duffel bag. According to sensor readings (he wore a visor similar to Giuseppe's), one of Section Two's attacking elements found a fourth.

They're probably defusing it. Considering how this joker sucks at making bombs, it's a no-brainer. So that leaves two more. Not bad…

Because he didn't trust his prisoner, Patricio's arms were tied behind his back. Rolito also made the man march ahead as a human shield. He was sure his ex-ally was sufficiently persuaded not to make a stupid move. Rendering three armed men into soup stock instantly converted any unbeliever to the tenets of Rolito's "god": Death.


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

Daggers hidden inside the sleeves of his sweater dropped into his hands. Rolito smiled.

And the killing began early.

Almost lazily he thrust his left hand upwards. The dagger cut into Patricio's hand, the one with the gun, making him drop the weapon. A vital artery on the wrist, nicking which would cause quick death through blood loss, was intentionally spared. Rolito needed him alive– for now.

He kicked Patricio in the stomach, knocking the terrorist onto his butt. Spun around to bury the throwing knives into the nearest two guards' faces, killing them where they stood. He dashed past the falling dead, rushed the third terrorist. The katana, still sheathed, appeared in his left hand, held low in his sword school's traditional running iajitsu stance. He tapped the AK's muzzle aside with his sword's hilt before the blade that bore his beloved's name hissed out of its scabbard to gut the rifleman open across his stomach with a single stroke.

The terrorist screamed but once, catching his own purplish innards in his hands, before Masakari stabbed through his heart and abruptly twisted, ending his pain– and his life.

Rolito breathed hard as he pulled his katana free. His chest and limbs burned from the brief assault. I'm out of shape, he grimly critiqued, using a silk towel to wipe away the sheen of blood coating Masakari's length. And old.

But didn't that feel good?

Yeah! Damn hell it did!

He froze Patricio, who was reaching for his gun, in place with an offhand glance. "Who the hell are you?" the terrified Northerner whimpered.

"Noir."

Patricio's eyes bulged.

Rolito loved the sheer genius of it. It was so good to strike fear into the heart of the lesser. "Now, where were your bombs, again?" He added a genial "Please."


Patricio halted. "It's there." He gestured with his eyes to a spot between some machinery.

The suspicious Rolito intently studied his prisoner's face. "Okay." A sideways glance– and there it was, lying in a corner. The bomb's timer blinked steadily. "Number four. Good."

The assassin knelt and reached in for it. That saved his life.

A girl materialized not fifteen feet away to their right. She was armed with an MP-7.

Oh, fuck, both men realized. It was the last thought for one.


Liesel saw two people, one of them kneeling behind machinery. Automatically she fired a burst into the closer, standing target's chest, killing him instantly before shifting aim.

The black Nike duffel bag stood very still in her gun's iron sights.


Back on his feet after an initial stumble, Rolito ran for his life. He silently cursed his complacency and bad luck in assorted languages, ending with a massive "Putang-ina!"

But who'd have thought of it? Walking into a goddamned mechanical body? You're lucky to be alive! By the way: keep running. As fast as you can. Sustain it, lungs and legs, or you'll be fucking dead quicker than you realize.

At least she'll probably go for the bomb. You did leave the bag there. Smart. Okay, not smart. You were fucking frightened out of your fucking wits. Six pounds of high explosive deadweight is not going to help you beat the Olympic million meter dash record.

By the way, are you still running? Good.


Normally Liesel would have pursued. But the encounter's strangeness suggested caution. Checking the abandoned bag's contents confirmed her decision as correct. She radioed in a situation report, making special note of the way the dead man's arms were bound behind the back, and asked for reinforcements.

A pair of First Platoon troopers arrived shortly. Liesel found the bomb in the meantime. Disarming it (Altheus trained her in the delicate task) took less than four minutes She added it to the three others already in the bag. Also defused, she noted to her puzzlement.

Counting the one Altheus reported, this makes five. How many are left?


One. The physically spent Rolito sprawled against the wall as he greedily sucked in air. Far enough, he hoped. He didn't think he could run anymore. I'm really getting too old for this shit…

One bomb left. One is always enough.

He punched the wall in frustration. I'm so sorry, Giuseppe. You'll have to be on your own for a little longer…


Giuseppe lunged. He swung his kukri at Henrietta's head, aiming to shatter the armored skull and smash into her brain. With near-equal speed and intent, Henrietta parried with her left forearm. (I'm sorry, Miss Mireille!) The kukri bit deep into carbon-compound skin and artificial muscles before titanium reinforced bone stopped it.

Not feeling the strike at all, the junior agent powerfully twisted her arm to the right, yanking the kukri out of Giuseppe's hands to clatter twenty feet away. Henrietta shoved her P90 into Giuseppe's lower torso and emptied her last clip in retaliation.

At close range and hitting roughly the same area, the last few AP-tipped rounds managed to pierce the battered BPS, puncturing carbon compound armor/skin. Damage reports flowed across his visor even as his stomach burned. Giuseppe staggered back.

His suit's life support system entered the battle. Belt-mounted pods injected quick-acting dopamine and adrenaline into his body, the former drug canceling out most of his pain with a surge of "feel-good", the latter spurring his aggressiveness.

Roaring, Giuseppe swatted aside the submachine gun and tackled Henrietta.

The two mechanical bodies toppled, Henrietta dropping the expended P90 in the impact. Giuseppe straddled her in a ground infighting position. Keeping her down, he found one of his poison-tipped throwing knives, flipped it point down and stabbed at an open eye.

Henrietta caught the descending wrist in time, stopping the needlepoint a few centimeters above her right eye. Gritting her teeth, she slowly pushed upwards before suddenly wrenching her attacker's wrist aside in the disarming technique Mireille taught her. Her counter move caused Giuseppe to drop the knife, which bounced off her forehead and away. She gritted past his follow-up backhand to her face and drove her knee hard in between his legs.

No painkiller or cybernetic hardening in the world could deaden that terrific pain. Giuseppe instantly buckled. Henrietta shoved the incapacitated boy off and kicked him hard in the groin again, then twice in the head. Catching sight of the kukri, she made a quick beeline for the discarded weapon.

Recognizing his danger despite his pain, Giuseppe desperately hooked an arm around Henrietta's closer ankle and wrenched hard, tripping the girl on her face. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he realized he could see right up her skirt.

Distracted by a glimpse of forbidden white, he took a kick to his blushing face, Henrietta not noticing his "heinous" deed or having any compunction about modesty in the heat of battle. Giuseppe managed to get his left arm up to deflect the next kick before rolling away, the better to get away from the girl's powerful, kicking legs and things he'd rather not see if he could help it.

Both cyborgs got back on their feet. A slugfest like no other commenced. They forgot all their hand-to-hand training or the Kahr pistol strapped behind Henrietta's waist. No dodging, no fancy moves, just a brutal face-to-face exchange of hammer blows to the head and body that staggered the combatants into steel walls, only to bounce right, fists flailing. The razor balance of victory wildly swung this way and that with total abandon.

Giuseppe breathed hard for the first time since he was cyborged. So did Henrietta– as she decked her opponent into a bulkhead with a lucky straight to his jaw.

His vision grayed. Giuseppe blinked to clear his eyesight when his legs suddenly gave way. He dropped.

A fist rang upon the metal behind his head a heartbeat earlier. Henrietta's arm jerked aside, her punch so strong that it actually did her damage. She was briefly open to attack.

Almost out of reflex alone, Giuseppe put all his strength into his left arm. He clotheslined Henrietta across the throat.

(Irrationally he noted his sensei would laugh his head off to see a professional wrestling move straight out of TV actually work in real-life combat against a cyborg.)

The terrific attack would have decapitated a human being. Henrietta practically bounced off the steel floor. Giuseppe kept her down, straddling her to rain blows upon her face with his good hand, bruising that pretty face blue-black. Her retaliation was ineffective and quickly weakening. Still he punched her again and again, hating himself for having to rough a girl like this but doing it anyway because his life depended on it.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry… Just stop fighting and die already!

As if she heard his mental plea-command, Henrietta went limp, her inhuman resilience finally overcome. Giuseppe spared himself a quick exhale of relief. He pulled out another knife. The red hilt told him it was one of the few that weren't coated with poison or drugs.

That was a tough fight.

He felt her stir slightly beneath him. Giuseppe grasped Henrietta's face with his free hand and pried her right eyelid open, exposing the vulnerable eyeball through which the brain could be attacked.


She breathed weakly. She couldn't move for the life of her. Her thoughts were scattered and light. The continuous sledgehammer-like strikes to her face had accomplished a historical first, succeeding where countless bullets had failed: daze her into helplessness.

Her mind screamed to keep fighting. All the despair and fear and rage within her small body, the side that had gone berserk all too many times, fought for release, ripped and tore against her paralysis. Slowly she regained control of her limbs. Slowly she burned through the pain and came conscious once more.

Fight. Fight. Fight! Or else you're going to die!

Again, whispered a small, softer voice, that of a little girl missing right arm and left leg and eye and family, who wanted to die: she from so long ago. I will die again…

Anger sputtered into silence. Everything drained from her body save that tingly, distant feeling of knowing something but never being able to say it out loud.

In her daydream, a handsome figure held his arms out in loving welcome. Giuseppe. My Giuseppe. At last, we'll be together again. Forever…

In her mind's eye, the beautiful blonde woman glanced over a smooth shoulder to smile warmly. Miss Mireille. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry– and goodbye…

Henrietta cried.


The knife plunged down.


In his makeshift "command room", Rolito quickly prepared the entire electronics suite for destruction, lest Section Two be able to divulge any clue to Amalgam's presence here. Waste of good computers. Well, they're not on my salary.

Now and then he tried contacting Giuseppe. All he heard was white noise, static. Jamming? His brief laugh was grim and self-damning. Of course they'd learn from the last time. They're good. I knew I should've gone after the support crews outside the apartment ell when we first took on Section One.

You call yourself a student of history, and yet in the end you suffer the same victory disease you've preached against?

He shrugged. Giuseppe knows the extraction plan. I'll wait. Meanwhile, I've one last service to the human race.


"Sir?" Inside the spacious Section Two/Sparrow mobile command trailer, one of Fio's technicians gestured to Jean. "You might want to listen to this."


"Hi! I assume I am speaking to Section Two's electronic warfare team? By the way: congratulations on countering my jammers and jamming me. You're very good.

"Now listen closely. There are six bombs on the ship. You've defused one and captured three more. That leaves two more. I would have gotten to the fifth if you guys didn't shoot up my guide and cut me off from it. I leave that and the last bomb to you. Here are the coordinates for that sixth bomb…"


Rolito added, "This is not a trap. You've managed to kill or capture the whole CRG group, so don't worry about shoot-outs– unless, of course, you run into my two Terminator buddies." A lie, that last, but necessary. No use giving the enemy too much confidence. "If so, tough luck, I know what you feel.

"Anyway, I hope you get that last bomb before it blows up– which is in about thirty minutes and counting. Good luck to you guys."

He hit the Stop button, rewound the entire sound file and set the last operational laptop to continuously repeat the message. "Good luck," he muttered, triggering his own ECS, disappearing from sight like the ghost he was.


"We're there," Mireille said immediately.

"What if it's a trap? This is the enemy, after all."

"It's all the lead we have. We only have half an hour left. It's worth the risk."

Little hesitation on Jean's side, either. "All right, we'll go with your call. I'm sending Liesel ahead to clear the area for you."

"Thanks, Jean. Tell her to be careful. From Triela's report, the enemy can somehow turn invisible."

"Understood. Be careful, Mireille."

"I will. Over and out."


His cheek dripped blood.

Giuseppe couldn't believe he missed.

The powerfully-driven slim knife blade had snapped upon the steel floor. Hurtling upwards, the broken shard grazed his face, tracing a shallow gash on his cheek before it pinged somewhere behind him. The wound seeped warm blood.

I missed.

The first time was understandable. Somehow that dark-haired girl– Claes–sensed his trap and pulled her teammate away in time. She was good. How would I have fared if I fought her instead of Henrietta? Giuseppe caught himself actually looking forward to such an occasion. What, you like fighting with girls?

But this, the second time– this was criminal. Here he had the upper hand. His opponent was incapacitated. The range involved was zero. He had practiced and done this act of murder so many times that he found it routine, reflexive, not even worth a thought or a nightmare.

I missed. Somehow I missed.

No. I didn't miss. I hit what I wanted to hit.

He stared at the girl beneath him, the girl he needed to kill. The enemy whose life he had just spared. Remnants of tears still graced those soft brown eyes. Tears that had stayed her execution and proven something: she is human.

Just like me.


Beneath him, Henrietta released her breath.

I'm alive. Seeing the boy poised above her, confusion filling his face, she realized: He let me live.

He was hurt. Somehow his still-handsome face had gotten cut. She watched a crimson droplet dribble free of that wound. She did not brace against it, allowed it to splash upon her right eye, the eye that would have taken the knife. Her sight became awash in pink, red blood and clear tears, life and sorrow mingling.

His name is Giuseppe.

Beneath him, she moved. Slowly, so as not to provoke him the wrong way, she reached out to touch his wound. Her fingers hovered over that unworthy streak of crimson that dared mar his handsome face, the face he shared with the man she loved the most.


She's reaching for me. She wants to touch me. She's worried for me.

It was more than he could stand. Angrily shutting his eyes against her kindness, Giuseppe shoved her probing hand aside and looked away.

"No! What is wrong with you?" What is wrong with me? "I want to kill you." I should kill you! "We're enemies! We shouldn't– shouldn't feel–"

"Can't enemies feel for each other when they can?"

Opening his eyes again, he saw her looking hurt by his words. Her brown eyes softened even more. He felt the rest of her body, pinned beneath his weight, follow suit. She looked so vulnerable, helpless. Giuseppe suddenly felt an irresistible urge to comfort her, to– to take advantage of her helplessness and–

He felt like retching at the filthy thought. Instead he shuddered and wept.

God damn you! You– you've beaten me…


She did not know why she said that. Why enemies could feel for their opposite numbers. It just came out. But his sorrow– that, she knew and understood. It was once her burden, too. Still was and forever would be hers to carry.

Tears, his tears, wet her face. Again she reached out to him. Sobbing, he did not resist or evade.

She touched his bleeding wound. She, too, had once bled like that, wounded by weapons, hurt by words and feelings.

Her fingers caught some of his tears. They were real and heartfelt, so familiar. Once, so long ago, she cried in much the same manner. Once, too, she was lost and forlorn and hopeless.

Those memories and emotions were the proof of her. They made her real, as they did the same for him. They make us human.

"Go," she murmured.


Giuseppe howled. (Triela, hurriedly backtracking after the dead end, nearly stumbled in her tracks, thinking a wild animal was somehow loose on the ship.) He howled because he had no other way to express the savage confusion this girl awakened within him, no other way save to take her then and there and–

But he couldn't. Wouldn't. She didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve her.

Henrietta did not stir, only smiled sadly, bitterly. "Giuseppe. Go. Take care."


Unable to resist, unwilling to linger any long lest he lose control of himself, he fled. He knew he could never escape her from that moment on. She would always haunt him.

Henrietta.

Thank you…


Mireille's stopwatch ran down to zero.

Nothing happened.

She waited for a tense minute, then five more. After fifteen, still nothing. No explosions. No fire and death and destruction. All that remained were rapidly dissipating fears and an equally quick rush of heady euphoria.

She exchanged long looks with the equally relieved Altheus. Both grinned despite their professionalism.

"Let's tell them the good news."


"Jean? All bombs have been found and defused. The Mirasol is secure. Mission accomplished."

Jean allowed himself a brief smile. "Good work. To all junior operatives," he crisply ordered, "Run that enemy cyborg down."


Ten minutes after the last bomb was defused, nearly nineteen past their agreed deadline, Rolito finally grinned. "Hop aboard, Giuseppe. We're getting the hell out of here."

The boy shuffled past him with responding. Is he crying? Rolito found Giuseppe's silence puzzling but opted to press for details later. They had to get out of here.

Their ride's armored blast door closed, the cockpit cabin sealing and pressurizing against possible NBC attack. The main screen displayed the Amalgam logo accompanied by electronic whistling and various electronics booting up.


Armored Mobile Master-Slave Unit

Amalgam Plan 1056 Codarl M

Operating System


"Welcome, my Master," a cute female– he was adamant on that particular detail–voice announced.

"Begin systems check," Rolito ordered.

"Okay. Auto systems check initiate. Palladium Reactor, okay. Vetronics, okay. Lambda Driver, okay. All systems final check all green, okay. Ready okay, my Master."

Gundam has nothing on me, Rolito rather immaturely thought. He shoved the arm throttles/controls forward.

"Venom! Launch!"


Rico, still sighting for possible targets through the AMR's powerful scope, gasped. "Jean!"


A huge box container strapped to the Mirasol's upper deck– thought to be part of the ship in satellite photos and Section Two briefings, but actually placed there by an Amalgam ECS-equipped heavy lifter during the previous night– explosively fell apart. The massive figure that rose from just-collapsed concealment briefly stood out against the oil tanker's sparsely festooned, badly-lit topside before suddenly vanishing from sight.

In the next heartbeat, the Mirasol rocked. A powerful metallic clang reverberated throughout the length and breadth of the ship, knocking about its surprised occupants. A few seconds later and several hundred meters away, something big hit the concrete docks. Then there was the sound of giant feet breaking into a run.


They heard it all too well. Whatever it was, it was huge, surprisingly mobile and coming Section Two's mobile command post's way.

Jean turned to his companions. "Get out! Now! Run!"

Section Two and Sparrow personnel scrambled out of the command trailer. Just as Jean, the last man, cleared it, something big hit the fifteen foot long vehicle with tremendous force. The converted cargo trailer tumbled violently for a hundred meters before crashing against an abandoned building. Luckily it did not explode.

The scattered commandos caught brief glimpses of their attacker: a dark humanoid shape thirty feet tall with something resembling a long ponytail floating from the top of its mono-eyed head. The multi-ton figure was astonishingly fleet for its size.

"What the hell was that?" the astonished Hillshire muttered even as the mysterious giant faded away once more, this time for good.

"Arm Slave," Jean coldly swore.


Having indulged himself with destroying the enemy command post, Rolito now focused on escaping Trieste. Their escape ride, a stealthy heavy lift helicopter, waited westwards across the border with Croatia. ETA at current speed: ninety minutes.

The ECS-protected Codarl settled into a brisk eighty mph run, fast but not pushing the machine. Rolito set the navigation mode to Auto, allowing the Arm Slave to proceed on its own while he took a breather.

He also set the sensors into Long Range Scan Mode and placed Combat on Battle Reflex Alert. There was a nearby Italian Army base with heavy lifter-equipped M6 Bushnell rapid response teams. The Italians could also call in plenty of faster attack helicopters and ground attack jets. Rolito wanted to be well warned and ready for any counterattack even as he rested.

Done, the senior assassin finally glanced over his seat's headrest. "You okay, Giuseppe?"

"Yes, Sensei." The boy buried himself as much as possible into the cramped passenger seat, Rolito's Codarl modified as a very tight two-seater. "I'm all right."

"You sure? You sound like you're hurt."

"My face got cut and I took some bullets to my torso." Giuseppe didn't bother mentioning his face being used as a punching bag by a girl, cyborg or not. "That's all. Mostly I'm fine."

"If you say so," was the slightly dubious answer. "Still, we're getting you checked and repaired ASAP. Did you kill any of them?"

He felt his heart beat strongly against battered suit and gloved hand. He remembered gentle fingers that caressed his wounded cheek and tears that shared his own sorrow.

"No, Sensei. I didn't manage to kill any of them."

I couldn't kill her…


Mireille gasped. Henrietta looked like she came out second best in a fight with a bear. Blood and gore dripped from the ugly slash across her left forearm. Her small face had been bruised black. She was a sorry sight, barely able to walk despite Triela and Claes's support.

"Jesus Christ, Henrietta!" Mireille bound the gaping wound with a handkerchief. "What happened to you?"

She looked up to her worried handler, at her equally anxious friends. She remembered the boy who didn't kill her, the boy with his face and name. She started tearing up.

"I'm sorry, Miss Mireille," Henrietta sobbed despite the warm hug. "He got away. I let him get away."


"Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again."

Next on Life Goes On:Pezzo (Pieces).