The man in black and the eleven-year-old girl watched the storming of Maria's Heavenly Brewery from the anonymous safety of their rented room's curtained window two stories above and not fifteen meters distant across the street.
"Can you see the sniper, Elena?"
"Not yet, Sensei... Wait! There! On top of that apartment! Maybe fifty meters away from us. There are two of them. An adult and a girl."
They talked in Italian, the girl's native tongue. The man had mastered the language and spoke without any discernible accent.
"Do you think they can see you?"
"No."
"Can you hit them from here with your bow?"
"Sensei! I thought we were just observing them!"
"We are. But just in case–"
"I don't think so, Sensei. They're several stories higher than we are and pretty well enfiladed– I mean, defiladed. It'll be very difficult."
"Just as I thought. Good call, Elena. You should always know to argue with me if you think you're correct."
She blushed. "Thank you, Sensei."
"You're welcome. Now, let's see if we can follow Flopsy and Mopsy back to their burrow…"
Life Goes On
Note: Text in "" are said over the radio. Italicized text denotes thought. Bold text emphasizes certain words.
Disclaimer:Gunslinger Girl, Noir, Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid, Metal Slug and Saikano are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. The Handsome Men and Jeremy Colt are courtesy Person With Many Aliases, and Mr. Gray is owned by Maxwell's Demon. I highly recommend you read up their works to get a better feel out of them.
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).
Twenty
Proposta
(Proposition)
Colt and Chloe took half a day of paranoid backtracking and a host of evasive maneuvers to reach their hideout in relative safety. Colt was at the end of his temper but kept his mouth shut until certain they were safe and alone in their room. Then he blew up.
"What the Goddamned hell were you fucking thinking, woman? You could have fucking gotten us fucking killed!"
"Sorry, Jeremy…"
"Fucking sorry ain't fucking enough."
No cyborg had needed to assist his latest attempted flight out the windows. Colt barely felt his feet hit the ground before he started running. Chloe, slung over his big right shoulder like some kidnapped bride, offered no resistance, she was so slight of weight and stunned by the apparition she'd glimpsed. Somehow that ridiculously puffy beret perched on her head didn't fall off in the five whole blocks Colt sprinted before he tossed her into the back seat of a loitering taxicab.
"The Pizza Barcelona Something," the breathless man had yelled at the startled driver as he hopped in after his limp cargo.
"Piazza di Spagna," Chloe, recovered from her shock, translated. "Hurry."
They spent the forty-five minute ride to the inner city in huffy silence. Colt greedily sucked in air and muttered obscenities beneath his breath. Chloe, forlorn, stared outside the window, conjuring the image of the dark-haired girl bearing haunted crimson-brown eyes upon every street and shop their taxi passed.
The Piazza de Spagna was modestly populated despite the noon heat. The two assassins made their way through the crowd milling upon the white stone stairs of the world-renowned Spanish Steps. "Meet me at the usual in two," Colt grumbled before breaking away, the idea being to present possible pursuers with the complication of two targets going in different directions.
Chloe kept walking forward. Ghosts of That Child peeked out from behind the sheltering bodies of tourists and locals, teasing her, leading her on. Tireless feet carried her up the Spanish Steps, past the Obellisco Sallusttiao and into the church of Trinità dei Monti. Without knowing what she was doing, she joined a jostling group of tourists and pilgrims browsing Renaissance-era art and architecture. She stared without comment or feeling at Naldini's depictions of scenes from the life of John the Baptist, Volterra's moving Deposition and Assumption, frescoes begun by Del Vaga and finished by Taddeo Zuccari. The work of masters found nothing to stir in her distant, occupied heart. Life was dull and tasteless and meaningless.
Hours passed. She remembered her promised rendezvous but could not bringht herself to hurry. Trapped in her walking, waking reverie, unable to impose her will upon her body, possessed by a lethargy she never suspected existed within her. She drifted through a shuffling river of faceless, formless phantoms under the blazing heat of the Italian summer sun, one lost soul in an endless line marching to the nowhere of Purgatory on this sorry planet.
Somehow she made her way to the prearranged meeting spot, the Sant'Agnese in Agone, near Piazza Navona. There she found Colt cooling his boot heels besides the famous fountain. A tourist shirt advertising the renovated Coliseum had replaced his coat and hat. He retained the disguising dark shades and a sullen expression. He had been waiting for three hours past their agreed time.
Without a word he stormed off to get another cab. She mutely followed.
The safe house was a homely three-story apartment on the outermost edge of eastern Rome's suburban sprawl. Their room was on the second floor, fifth down the row. It was rectangular and modestly sized at fifteen feet by twenty feet, and, though well-tended, had been unoccupied for years. Chloe had hurriedly spruced it up for occupancy just days ago.
A simple bed fit for two pressed up against one wall. The door in the wall opposite it led to a small, clean bathroom that managed to squeeze in an enclosed shower, a tub and a toilet. Curtain-clad swinging windows faced the Vatican, the spiritual heart of the Eternal City and the Christian world. Furniture included a pair of grey plastic chairs and an old but comfy lounge sofa, a battered rectangular table and a closet. There were a few electric appliances: a small refrigerator stocked with perishables and drinks, a tinier TV, a radio and a lazily-turning ceiling fan.
Colt rummaged through the refrigerator for a couple cans of whatever the locals called beer. He plunked himself into the lone easy chair with a grunt, popped one can and gulped down the contents. "Fuck this shit."
Chloe sat on the bed with her knees hugged up to her chest in the manner of a lonely child. Her jade eyes burned into the wall across her vantage point. She could have been a lifelike statuette crafted by a master; she barely moved enough to register signs of life.
They remained in that standoff for two days. Neither paid any attention to the other, not wanting to be the first to back down in the war of wills. Professional pride and childish spite demanded the impasse.
Gradually Colt simmered down from fury to merely a tad more brusqueness than usual. He turned his attention to the radio or the TV, griping about the murderously stuffy weather and the lack of an air conditioner and the cold company he was stuck with: piss-poor beer and Antarctic Frenchwoman.
His opposite number likewise kept to her half of the room. Chloe hogged the bed save when using the bathroom or cooking meals. (Colt would then "steal" the bed and get some real shut-eye.) She saw and heard and felt a world separate from this one, one populated by just herself and the girl she adored.
The third night began like the previous two, save worse. Dirty laundry had piled up in one sorry corner of their room. Chloe lay limp across the matted bed she'd just retaken. Exiled onto the easy chair again, Colt carefully nursed the last beer from the depleted fridge. Gonna need to do some shopping soon…
He looked over his partner with a touch of growing concern. Chloe was dreamy again. It was that woman from Maria's, he was sure. I thought that bitch lived in Paris? What the fuck is she doing here in Rome?
He thought he knew why. And the "why" troubled him.
Just what we fucking need to come up at the last fucking minute: the fucking past...
Chloe continued to mope. Colt was tempted to toss the empty can at her blank face just to have her react. A knife thrown in retaliation was infinitely preferable to this bland stalemate.
He wanted her back. With eyes ablaze and a blade at his throat, if it was the only way she was staying. So long as she was with him.
How?
Kirika slowly faded from Chloe's thoughts. Try as the redhead might, she could not brood forever. She was a smart girl with a pretty sensible grasp of reality despite occasional flights of fancy and hotheaded denials.
Past was past. That Girl was not coming to her. Never. Kirika had Corsica's Daughter (but why is Mireille here in Italy? Where is Kirika, then?)
And Chloe had Jeremy.
He came to save her that possibly fatal day at the Manor, despite being half-dead himself. He brought her out of her tragic illusions. He served as the lifeboat she desperately clung to as the stormy sea of harsh reality swallowed up her dream world. And he stayed with her all throughout the trying times that followed.
He could have left her days ago, after her foolish blunder that could have cost them their lives. But he didn't. He stayed. He put up with her silliness.
He really loved her.
She felt an intense need to say or do something. But what? Apologize? That thought made her hot with rage. She was True Noir, the most dread assassin who ever walked the world. She was above such petty things like apologies and longing. And she did not need a man, any man.
Yet–
For him, she would abase herself. She needed him.
She loved him.
Their eyes met.
Brisk footsteps sounded outside the door.
Colt noiselessly leapt off the easy chair. He tipped the lone table over to face the door and ducked behind it. The muzzle of a big M1911-A1 semiautomatic pistol fortified the top of his improvised hardwood barricade. He had a couple of extra eight-round magazines worth of the .45 Magnum ACP "Moro-stopper" at hand and more stashed nearby. It would be a short and messy firefight.
The even quicker Chloe was already pressed up flat to the left of the entrance. She found and hit the light switch. Protective darkness enshrouded the room, a darkness broken only by the glint of shiny steel tucked in between her fingers and the glowing green orbs of her light-sensitive eyes. She watched the windows across the door for the possible forced entry of a commando via combat rappel.
They had an unwelcome guest. Had the Italians or Americans tracked them down? Sorry were the fools who dared challenge lions in their den, so went an old saying.
The footsteps stopped right before their door. Shoes, Chloe realized. Rubber shoes. A man. Rather small, by the sound of his steps. Asian? Casual. Unafraid.
There was the slightest of thumps as the person set something before the door. Grenade? Bomb? Colt's finger rested but lightly upon the single-action trigger. Chloe braced to meet the mad rush head-on.
Rubber Shoes walked off.
The assassins expectantly waited for the storm of Carabinieri or Gruppo commandos or bulletproof hit-kids or fire and shrapnel.
But there was nothing.
They exchanged knowing glances. Chloe swiftly moved to the windows. She parted the curtains and peeked outside before pushing them wide open. She soundlessly disappeared into the warm night.
Colt garrisoned his makeshift fort. He waited for a silent eternity of three minutes and forty-three seconds. He was unafraid for himself and his partner, expected trouble, was ready to pour lead into the throat of the first hero to charge in.
Come in, dearies, I've got plenty of what passes for Medal of Honors in this country…
Three quick raps. Pause. Five more. All clear, no enemies or traps signal.
"Jeremy," the familiar whispering voice murmured.
The hand cannon lowered. "Clear."
A key noisily inserted into the brass knob. The door opened. Chloe's face glistened with perspiration and humidity. She ignored the miniature cannon aimed at her chest. "There's no one here," she breathily reported.
Colt pulled his lover up against him and roughly kissed her full on the lips.
"I'm sorry for being a prick," he told her when they finally broke apart for air.
"I'm sorry for being a blind fool."
He grinned like the madman he partly was. She smiled back– and held up a small white envelope in her left hand. Her right carried a stacked trio of small cardboard boxes that smelled real good. They were branded Rolito's Pasta.
"Fear the Greeks when they bring gifts," Chloe quoted.
The message in the envelope was handwritten, print letters, using a cheap ballpoint pen. It was very direct and phrased in a familiar manner.
Hey, 666-Lives. It's me, Rouge, your old buddy from Wet Works. I have an employment proposition for you. If you're interested, meet me at Rolito's Pasta (it's in Trastevere, near the end of Villa de Luce. Just walk straight. You can't miss it. The sign's a dead ringer) tomorrow at noon. You can bring your lady friend along if you like. The more, the merrier.
P.S. As far as I know, our mutual acquaintances from the dollhouse don't know about this place. You can stay here for a while.
P.P.S. I left dinner. Enjoy.
P.P.P.S. Congratulations. She's a great one. Don't let her get away. Again: enjoy.
Colt's unshaven mug split into a wide grin of pleasure. "Sonofabitch…"
"Who is it, Jeremy?"
"An old friend I thought dead, buried and forgotten. Come on, Chloe." He took the boxes of food. "Let's eat dinner before it gets cold."
"Wow," Elena murmured in wonder, to her Sensei's pleasure.
"I thought you'd say that."
"Do you really own this restaurant, Sensei?"
"Technically, yes. I saved the place almost single-handedly. The owners adopted me and made me an honorary owner."
"So they named it after you?"
"No, it was already called that long before I came. Still, isn't it strange to find a restaurant that shares your name?"
"It is weird, Sensei."
"Elena-chan? What did I tell you to call me?"
"Sorry." Then: "Papa."
"Good girl."
The faux father-daughter pair chuckled.
Elena was glad to learn that Rolito's Pasta existed in real life. She had thought it yet another of her Sensei's tall tales. Like the stories about those aswang vampire monsters he once used to scare her half to death last November. Or defeating a hundred sword-using mercenaries on his own– though Rolito admitted afterwards that there had only been thirty, that he used poison gas on them (which led to his infamous "antidote allergy" story), and had back-up consisting of one knife-wielding asylum escapee. Or so he cheerily stated. Elena could rarely tell if he was serious or not.
She took time to brush and braid her shoulder-long brown hair. They were going to a nice restaurant, so she naturally wanted to look her best. With that in mind, Elena picked a dark blue blouse with long sleeves and white rims to go with a dark brown skirt. She added black ribbons to augment her twin braids' charm before pulling on thick white socks and russet-colored girl boots.
She was told not to bother with weapons. "It's safe there," Rolito assured. Rather confident of him. Rather troubling, too, considering his record for biting off more than he could chew. The Mirasol incident was still fresh in Elena's mind.
Still, her bow sat inside its leather carrying case in the back of their rented Toyota RAV4, the metal blue-colored "family car" SUV parked a block away outside the cramped streets of old-style housing and restaurants that was Villa De Luce, Rome.
Her Sensei went for a loose-fitting white polo, dark blue jeans and white rubber shoes. Rimless eyeglasses heightened his quasi-academic airs. Unlike her, he was armed to the teeth, carrying enough knives (he left his all-too-ostentatious katana beneath the driver's seat) to start a cutlery shop. Yet Rolito Miranda seemed far more relaxed in his guise as "the novelist Sheo Darren" than even the confident mentor persona he assumed around her and Giuseppe. His capacity for verisimilitude awed Elena.
"Rolito's Pasta," he explained during the long drive through tight streets and aging architecture, "Is a classy restaurant in the outer city's quieter suburbs. It's owned by Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco Rossinari. They had some trouble with debt and bad deals, and the shop was about to be foreclosed. Well, I couldn't allow a place named after me to go down, now, could I?"
He had been new to Amalgam then. Seeing his name plastered over the establishment's entrance easily drew him in. The food and the back story kept him there. Rolito (in his guise as "Sheo") ended up paying off the Rossinari's debt, getting a good finance manager and better staff, and frightening off or hospitalizing a pack of local hooligans. The owners happily took him as a surrogate son and also made him honorary owner.
Life was a greater adventure than the best stories fiction writers could concoct.
A well-dressed waiter met them at the entrance. The man's smile was bright and fond. "Sir Darren!" His spoken English possessed the cultured lilt that defined the typical Britisher wherever in the world he might end up in. "Welcome back!"
"Glad to see you again, Hobbes. It's been a while." Rolito patted Elena on the head. "Elena, meet Hobbes. He's the head waiter." He affectionately ruffled her hair, making her flinch and blush cutely. "Hobbes, this is Elena. She's the adopted daughter I've been telling you about." That last was almost the truth. The best lies always were.
"Pleased to meet you, young miss. I hope you'll like this place. Your table is waiting, Sir Darren."
"Lead us to the Promised Land, then, Hobbes."
They arrived at a wall-side table fit for four. Rolito and Elena sat together on a cushioned bench. Hobbes passed Elena a colorful carte du jour. "The usual drink, Sir Darren?" he asked.
"You bet."
Hobbes gave Elena a questioning look. She glanced at the menu. "Apple juice, please."
"Apple juice for the young miss."
Rolito ordered a platter of pita bread as appetizer. "Is there anything new on the menu, Hobbes?"
"Yes, Sir Darren. We have a new drink. Experimental."
"Alcoholic?"
"Quite so."
"Maybe next time, then. Thanks a bunch, buddy."
"My please, Sir Darren. Call me if you need anything."
"Hobbes is a good man," Rolito, now talking in Italian, explained to Elena as the waiter bustled off. "A bit happy and rather talkative, but he's very dependable and good at what he does."
"Why were you asking about a new drink, Sen– Papa?" Elena asked.
"When dining outside, always try out new meals. You never know if you'll hit on a winner."
Elena grimaced. Her Sensei was up to something insufferably clever again. That meant she needed to watch out extra hard for them both. Rolito's brilliant plans occasionally backfired– and did so spectacularly.
She surveyed the half-ful, air conditionedl restaurant. Most of the patrons were twenty or younger. A good number were romantically-inclined couples who saw no trouble in making out in public. Knots of youths cheerfully talked about sports, girls and sex.
Elena shook her pretty little head in disapproval. What was a good rural Catholic girl supposed to do?
A handsome golden-haired French boy, perhaps two or three years older than Giuseppe, seated two tables away, happened to meet her roving gaze. Surprise briefly widened his excellent blue eyes. Then he masterfully recovered by beaming at her.
Elena blushed.
Her "Papa" also noticed. Rolito gave the boy a cold look. The voyeur suddenly became very interested in the contents of his beer mug.
"Stupid Frog," the hit man muttered under his breath.
Elena hid a grin behind the menu she pretended to peruse.
Hobbes shortly returned with drinks and pitas. The duo indulged. "The new cook is good," Rolito judged aloud after an experimental munch. "Fast, too. Hobbes has an eye for them, all right."
Elena, sipping her apple juice with ladylike restraint, tipped her head in agreement. "It's delicious…"
"This place does appetizers and fruit juices fine. The pasta selection, though, is the real moneymaker." A callused finger tapped the menu. "I suggest the carbonara. The sauce is so rich, it made me feel like a millionaire after just a few mouthfuls."
"No wonder you've been putting on weight lately, Papa." It was a joke. Her Sensei was whipcord lean and wiry muscle. Rolito gladly played along by gesturing in a tragic manner.
"Well, well, well," a crusty voice loudly intoned, rising above the background chatter and making heads turn. "If it isn't my old war buddy Rouge!"
Elena nearly jumped out of her seat. She would have launched herself at the source of that arrogant voice out of pure defensive reflex (and possibly caused disaster) had not Rolito grabbed her right hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
"Hush, Elena-chan, it's all right, they're the ones we're waiting for…"
The brown-haired girl bit her lip and kept still as ordered– no, as requested. This wasn't a mission, but a lunch.
A tall man smirked down at them. He was much bigger and heavier than her Sensei (no big feat; Rolito was only about 5'6 and seventy-plus kilos), and less neatly dressed. His dark black hair was short and straight and slicked to sheen. He wore a coat despite the heat, though he did keep it open and unbuttoned the collar buttons of the white polo beneath it for extra ventilation. His dark pants were only slightly better off, and his black shoes less so. The look on his brusue face combined amusement and derision. His arrogant attitude and appearance snarled American.
Beside him was a stern-looking young woman with reddish hair and cold green eyes. Crimson lace and pointy frills festooned her innocently sexy short dress and fancy wrist cuffs. Her childish manner of clothing clashed with her sharply angular face and flinty look. She looked rather like a fox, when Elena thought of it, with the same cunning look and easy movement.
They had happened on her and her sensei without their noticing. Elena picked up whiffs of gun oil on the man, steel on the woman and blood on both. She did not like either of them.
But Rolito grinned. "It's about time you arrived, Jerry," he warmly greeted the American.
"We were here an hour before you guys," Jerry countered with an even bigger grin.
"I know. Sit, sit." The host expansively gestured at the empty bench across the table. His guests did so, but not without warily eyeing Elena. The girl stared back and wished she had her bow or some other weapon at hand.
Again Rolito patted her head. That familiar, comforting touch automatically relaxed her. Elena trusted his judgment. If Sensei is okay with this…
"This is Elena," Rolito introduced. "She's my adopted daughter. Go on, Elena, say hello."
"Hello."
"Cute," Jerry noted with lightly-masked dislike. "You have them, too."
"Yes. I assure you that Elena is one of the best." His praise caused Elena to blush. Rolito gestured at Jerry. "Elena, this is my old friend Jeremy Colt. His friend is–"
"Chloe," the redhead curtly provided.
Elena, seated next to Rolito and having grown familiar with his body language after a month of close teamwork, easily detected her Sensei's subtle tensing. That set off mental alarms. Rare was the mission or person who daunted Rolito. If this woman set him on guard, she was assuredly dangerous.
"Well, now." Rolito absent-mindedly rumpled his ward's hair. "What a coincidence…"
"You know Chloe?" Colt asked.
"In a manner of speaking…"
Chloe's fox-slant eyes narrowed even more. She watched Rolito with the intensity of a hunting cat stalking prey.
Elena tensed at the offered threat to her handler.
Colt grumbled. "Can't you ever talk straight, Rouge?"
"I can." Grinning, Rolito again ruffled Elena's hair. The overprotective girl flinched, her temper defused. "My profound apologies, Miss Chloe. I believe I may have heard of someone who shares your name. I hope you are not offended."
The woman tersely nodded.
"Shall we order lunch? And just in time, Hobbes," Rolito praised the ever-watchful waiter arrive with extra menus. "As promised, lunch is on me. Feel free to order whatever you want."
Colt ordered a beer. Chloe settled for iced water. Both helped themselves to the remaining pitas. "Nice restaurant you have here," Colt approved.
"It's a good retirement plan. I won't be hale forever. I recommend the Seafood Bonanza. I'm allergic to shrimps and crabs and clams, but I braved those for a platter. It made the following bottle of foul-tasting anti-allergen worthwhile."
"If I get food poisoning, I'll hold you responsible."
"Jerry, I'm an honorary owner of this place. Of course I'll be named in the lawsuit."
"I don't deal in lawsuits."
"Don't we all?"
The two men laughed. Elena grimaced while Chloe rolled her eyes. Men…
They ordered. Elena selected a kiddy meal consisting of spaghetti and deep-fried chicken lollipops. Rolito picked his favorite carbonara plus a side serving of chicken caesar salad. Colt got the advised Seafood Bonanza, a burger and smoked sausages from some place called Hilshire Farms. (He wondered why Rolito was grinning like an idiot over the sausages.) Chloe wavered between Colt's pasta and an equally tempting fettuccine Alfredo. She chose both and added a slab of garlic bread.
"Get something with lots of meat, Chloe," Colt complained. "You're too skinny already."
"Excess weight will hamper my movements and slow me down."
"At least she'll be eating a lot of starch," Rolito pointed out. "Carbs are good for our profession."
"I wasn't talking about our profession," Colt tartly returned.
Elena wondered what prompted her Sensei's enigmatic smile.
Hobbes left anew. The adults held animated conversation over courtesy bowls of hot mushroom soup. "You didn't seem surprised to see us, Rouge," Colt noted.
"I already knew you were here. Going early to an important meeting is the oldest trick in the book. Plus, I asked Hobbes."
"All you asked him for was about a drink," Chloe interjected. She paused. "You had a prearranged code."
Rolito raised his glass to her in a toast. "And you can read lips, Miss Chloe. Exactly. I called Hobbes last night. New drink, Jerry's here. Alcohol, he has a friend. Caffeinated, two or more."
"He's a sharp one," Chloe grudgingly conceded.
"But only because I prepare well in advance," Rolito pointed out with extreme humility. "And cheat whenever I can."
Colt laughed. "Damn straight!"
The expletive caused Elena and Rolito to wince in unison. Chloe fixed Colt a reproving look. "Language, Jeremy. There's a child here."
"And a child-at-heart," Rolito added with an extravagant gesture.
"Sissies," Colt told them. He turned serious. "How'd you find us? I don't think you knew we were visiting."
"I didn't. I was watching my good friends the Italians. Then I heard the Americans were in town. The Italians got all worked up over it. Not In My Back Yard and all that. The Italians went to have a chat with the Americans. I followed at a discreet distance. Imagine my surprise to find you preparing to nuke Italy back to the Stone Age."
"Nuke?"
"Well, you do have a reputation for blowing stuff up– which is to be expected of Americans…"
"Yeah? Well, you little brown American wannabes are…"
Elena quickly lost interest in the adult talk. She knew her Sensei didn't mean to ignore her. It's not like I can help him right now. And he seems to be having fun. That's good. He should get a chance to relax every now and then.
She cast her gaze about the restaurant. There might be other, possible threats aside from the ones seated right across the table. Anything to fight off boredom…
The blond boy from earlier beamed at her.
Rolito had called him a Frog. Her Sensei bore a ridiculous grudge against the French. "Of course I sneer at their fancy cigarettes and hairy underarms and penchant for surrendering at the first Stuka dive bomber that flies over their heads. Plus, their A-bomb testing made the American Godzilla. And forget their wine. Italy makes the best wines. The cheese from Normandy, though, is another story…"
But Elena saw nothing wrong with this particular Frenchie. He had a nice, even smile to go along slight dimpling on his cheeks. Frenchly cute, was that the term? He dressed well, too, in expensive-looking casuals that fitted him like a glove. His approving eyes drank in her features even as her own brown ones returned his interest, albeit she did her ogling out of the corner of her eyes. His attention made her finger one of her braids out of nervousness.
Is my hair okay? Sensei had been ruffling it for a while now. Maybe it's mussed up. But he's still smiling at me. Oh, God, I hope he doesn't think I'm Sensei's lover or something!
Elena felt her cheeks heat up. She liked this boy. He was cute and charming and interested in her. He also made her feel like the biggest country bumpkin in the world. She was only thirteen. Worse, she looked eleven, and would remain looking so for the rest of her life. Not to mention formerly being a simple farm girl from the town of Matera in the Basilicata Region of Southern Italy, now an archer assassin-in-training under the wing of a semi-legendary Filipino hit man. In stark contrast, her strapping admirer was probably the only son of some rich foreign businessman. Romeo and Juliet had better chances. Besides, Rolito disliked the boy, and her guardian's disapproval could sink any ironclad battleship with a single laser-like glare.
But girls were girls, boys were boys, and she could not help but think fondly of this dashing youth as he charmed her rather like she thought her perfect man would. Like–
Somewhere in the barren highlands of Afghanistan, snugly tucked within his ultra-light mummy bag, listening to the wild wind howl outside his dome tent while he thought of his loved ones in Italy, Giuseppe murmured his sister's name.
"Elena…"
The brief vision passed. Righteous indignation filled her little heart. Elena stuck her tongue out at the boy.
The startled lad's drinking buddies laughed aloud at the abrupt rejection. "You've been dumped, Marc," one teased.
"Shut up, you guys," Marc muttered.
Familiar fingers fondly ran through her hair. "Elena-chan," Rolito gently scolded, "Don't pick fights with the other customers."
"But, Papa, he was asking for it…"
"In more ways than one," Colt suggested with a wicked grin.
Both Rolito and Chloe gave him long looks of disapproval. Colt smirked back unrepentantly. Elena wondered what their exchange signified. Whatever…
Sensei and Big Brother are all I want and need.
"You told me you had a proposition," Colt told Rolito after Hobbes refilled their drinks. They talked in English, Rolito's adopted native language, the better to protect against possible Italian eavesdroppers.
"I do. I understand our mutual friends have been after you."
"You've run into the Americans?"
"I've met their Italian counterparts. Similarly lovely people."
Colt glanced at Elena. "Your kid's one of them, isn't she?"
"Yes." Rolito waved disarmingly. "Please don't give her that look. It isn't her fault in any way."
"So whose fault would it be?" Chloe asked a bit too tartly.
"That Elena is what she is? That would be mine."
Elena looked up from the empty soup bowl she'd been glowering into in lieu of Marc's face. Rolito's smile was small and cold and angry. His bleak look could have frosted Hell all over.
"I was looking for someone like her. Orphaned. Dying. She was perfect. I could even get her brother aboard. All I had to do was tell him I could save her. Not even a lie. Just the incomplete truth. I didn't tell him how or what happens afterwards. That I would turn them into shadows of myself. Make them into tools I can use to advance my position. Tools of my trade, to be used and discarded as I saw fit."
Unblinking black pupils bored into Chloe's hard green ones. "I'm pretty much a heartless bastard, aren't I?" Rolito softly demanded.
"Sensei," Elena began in his defense, forgetting the fictitious façade of father-daughter she was supposed to put up.
"It's the truth, Elena." Rolito's tone and face softened immeasurably. "I'm not a very nice person. Far from it."
"You picked me and Big Brother. You saved me. You gave us new lives and take care of us. You protect me from myself. You are a good person– if not to anyone else, then to me and Big Brother. Isn't that enough?" Elena's beseeching expression was the very definition of plaintive. "Aren't we enough for you?"
He didn't answer. His silence was affirmation enough.
"You were always a rank sentimentalist, Rouge," Colt said in a surprising bit of sage-like appreciation. Equally unexpected was Chloe's quick nod of agreement.
Rolito wanly smiled. "Coming from the likes of you, Jerry, I think that's faint praise. Thanks."
He leaned forward in a manner both conspiratorial and friendly. "Let's get to business. My organization needs your services. We have job vacancies. You two have useful skills and experience. My boss is interested in contracting you for the long run. I was quite effusive with describing your accomplishments, Jerry. I told him all about your successes against the American… dolls." Rolito gave Elena an apologetic look. "He was very impressed. He wants you for your experience with them in case we ever have to go up against their likes."
"You want the gist of my experience?" Colt huffed. "Stay the fu–" Seeing Rolito's alarm and Chloe's disapproval at his choice of wording, he dropped the half-spoken epithet. "Keep away from them. They go down hard. If at all. I had trouble with them all the time."
"That's my experience, too," his fellow hit man agreed. "Still, you are undoubtedly one of the most experienced and knowledgeable people in our side of the business when it comes to dealing with… them. That gives you an edge over other candidates."
"So, what do I get in return for all my trouble?" Colt asked.
"My organization will supply you with everything you will need or want– within reason, of course. In turn, a liaison will be assigned to you. It may be me or someone else. That liaison will give you your orders when the time comes."
"Are we stuck in Italy?"
"No. My organization operates worldwide. You may be sent to other countries as needed."
"I always wanted to tour the world. Opposition?"
"The usual suspects." Rolito mouthed Mithril. Colt could read lips well enough to get along on his own.
"That's nice. The pay any good?"
Rolito gestured to the restaurant around them.
"What if we want to quit?"
"Complicated– but not impossible. My boss' main security issue is making sure not one single person knows too much. You will have to be discreet when you quit. And we never really burn all our bridges. Every now and then, you might be called out of retirement to do an odd job or three.
"But we're not psychopaths. Leastways not the… division I operate in. Not anymore." And thank you, Sagara, for killing off all the maniacs. "In fact, my boss is one of the most understanding and trustworthy people in the business. You are professionals who know the code. You can keep secrets, can't you?"
"We wouldn't have lasted this long if we didn't," Colt confidently assured his recruiter. Rolito noted with interest that the man spoke for both himself and his companion.
"I know. A tip from someone who's been there, assuming you will sign up. The less you know, the better you are off and the easier it is to cut loose."
"And you?" Chloe interjected. "What about you."
"I'm staying with Giuseppe and Elena."
Elena felt her heart thump at that smiling declaration. Sensei won't leave me and big brother. Not for the world. Never.
"I don't like this, Jeremy," Chloe told Colt. "This strikes me as similar to…" Her jade eyes said Soldats.
"I trust Rouge. As far as I can throw him," Colt added most genially.
"You can trust your enemy," Rolito ventured with a similar smile, "But never trust your partner."
That got Colt to laugh. Chloe fixed the two men with a baleful stare. They immediately shut up. Elena could not help but grin.
"A temporary contract," Colt suggested at last when his lover's glare relented. "Say, a year. At the end of it, we get a chance to review our business relationship. If we like it, we might consider renewing."
"I expected that. Your usual rate with KNiGHTS?" Said rate was in the high end of a seven-figure amount in carefully-laundered dollars. In cash. No one at the table really trusted banks.
"Yeah, about that much is fine. I'd charge more, but you're an old friend, and I'm not a complete bas–scumbag."
"Thanks for the discount. I do have a limited budget. Any place you'd rather avoid?"
"France. Italy. North America. Maybe we can drop by Canada or Alaska or Hawaii every now and then. If you want me in the US of A, I expect to be paid double for my trouble."
"I'll forward that note to the appropriate agencies."
"And Chloe goes with me wherever I go." Colt was adamant on that last. "We're in this together."
"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way myself."
"You make that sound dirty, Rouge."
"Did I? Gomennasai."
Elena pouted at all the adult jokes she couldn't understand.
Lunch arrived. As assured, the pasta looked and smelled heavenly. Rolito crossed himself and murmured a brief prayer in English. Elena did the same but spoke louder.
"Bless us, Lord God, and this meal which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Jesus Christ Your Son our Lord. Amen."
"Amen," the gray-haired hit man appended most piously.
Chloe found herself smiling despite her legendary self-control.
"Itadakimasu," the grinning Rolito, now looking quite younger than his forty-something-year-old appearance, offered. "Let us break the bread."
With Colt and Chloe's probationary contract in his figurative belt, Rolito surprised Elena by driving straight out of Rome and into the gap separating urban expanse and rural hillocks. He stopped at a rare grassy expanse whose smooth greenness was broken by a single oak tree.
"Sensei?"
"Are you up for some archery practice, Elena?"
It was a suggestion. She translated it as an order. "Yes, Sensei."
They got out of the RAV4. Elena checked and cleaned her equipment. Rolito looked around for possible targets. The oak tree helped by standing out. Soon it was soaking up arrow after arrow.
"Sensei? Can I ask why we stopped here?"
"Sure. For one thing, I want to lose any unwanted company we might have picked up. "Don't worry," he added at her burst of alarm, the multi-pronged war arrow nocked to her bowstring sweeping their surroundings for possible target. "I don't think we were followed."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Colt checked our backs for us before we left. I trust him."
"As far as you can throw him?" Elena quoted the American verbatim, down to the splendid accent. Rolito chuckled.
"Exactly."
"When did you first meet him, Sensei?"
"A very long time ago. I forget exactly when." His eyes grew distant as summoned memories came to fore. "I was still with my old assassin organization Wet Works. My code name was Rouge. I was young, then, and pretty enthusiastic.
"I first ran into Colt in Hong Kong. I was after a big Triad smuggler. Colt happened to be my mark's bodyguard. He took to blasting at me. We caused quite a ruckus. My mark got away. For a while. I got the bugger in the end, though, so it was a happy ending.
"Colt and I met on and off afterwards. He had been touring Asia. I don't know why. He never told me, and I never really asked. We sometimes partnered, but we were enemies more often than not. I was playing 'good guy' back then. Not a fun job, especially with Colt on the OpFor. He's very good.
"Finally, he moved to America. I stayed in Asia. The rest is history." In more ways than one, Rolito thought.
"How about Miss Chloe?"
"Her. Well. I don't know her personally. All I have on her is rumors and guesswork and coincidence. But if I'm right– and I hope to God I'm not– she might actually be one of the most dangerous people on this planet."
"More dangerous than you?"
"Very much more. Elena, you might see me as Superman, but I am just a small frog in a large pond. Chloe can kill me with her little finger, and Colt is far more dangerous than I was at my best. And frankly speaking, I'm getting old– while Colt still looks the same since I first met him. I've suspicions about him…"
His spiel tapered off. Rolito lifted his eyes towards the newly-arrived night. Nostalgia and reverence caused him to smile. "It's a nice night, isn't it?"
"Yes, Sensei. It's pretty."
"New orders, Elena-chan. From now on, call me Papa."
"Eh?"
"It's just me spoiling myself." He laughed. "Never mind me. Forget I even said that."
"But if you really want to, Sensei," Elena pressed, seeing the humor and advantage in it, "I can call you that instead."
"Really? But– nah." Rolito shook his gray-streaked head. "I'd be too embarrassed…"
"Do you really mean that, Papa?"
"Stop that."
"But why, Papa? Don't you like me calling you Papa?"
"Elena..." But he was grinning.
"Papa…"
His hand hovered over her head to ruffle her hair. Then he thought better. Rolito hugged Elena tight to his chest. "Elena, my dear, you are the bright gem of my dotage."
"Of course, Papa."
"Ang awiting ito'y para sa iyo, at kung maubos ang tinig, 'di magsisi, dahil iyong narinig mula sa labi ko: Salamat… Salamat…"
Sighing, Rolito drew the singing cell phone (one of three, in addition to his official work phone) to his ear. "Yes?"
"Mr. Herumet? This is Mr. Gray"
Reluctantly he let go of Elena. His free hand gestured for her to keep quiet. Rolito took a few steps back. His cheerful tone was faked so masterfully as to sound genuine.
"Mr. Gray! How may I help you?"
Elena's enhanced hearing allowed her to pick up the caller's words.
"We have considered your company's offering. While we have not yet fully decided to commit to your program, I profess to be personally interested in its practical applications. Can you be so kind to arrange a demonstration of your product within the coming week?"
"Of course, Sir. I will inform my boss and make preparations. May I call you back in three days for a final confirmation?"
"That is an acceptable timetable."
"Thank you, sir. I will be ready to furnish your demonstration in that time. I will call you for further details."
"I will wait for your call. Until then." The line went dead.
Rolito slipped the cell phone back into his pants pocket. He forced himself to look at Elena. Bubbling anxiety roiled inside his gut even as regret wrenched his heartstrings. Briefly he saw the trusting girl as not too unlike the device he put away, as what he angrily told Colt and Chloe earlier, the hateful truth: a tool.
He hated himself for even thinking of Elena in such cold terms, for picking her in the first place, and for being too sentimental and caring for his own good. For it was his mission to make her into a murderer.
Elena had not yet killed a single person. That would change. Soon. She would need to grow up in the quickest, most painful way possible. The same way Rolito lost his own innocence. The way of the killer.
Otherwise– she would be useless to Amalgam. And useless items were… discarded.
To live, we must kill– or be able to die.
Jessica, dearest Jessica, how you must hate your Kuya now for what he has become– and for what he has wrought upon yet another child not unlike you…
He almost cried. Instead he managed a smile so pleasant as to be obviously faked.
"Elena. We have a customer to wow."
She nodded. She knew, and understood, what she had to do. It was her mission. What she received her new body for. The thing she lived for.
"Yes, Sensei. I'm ready."
The Padania Republic Faction wanted a mechanical body agent.
"God The Father sent His Only Son to die for Mankind. I, your father, will kill for you." Next on Life Goes On Padre(Father)
Author Fashion Notes: Elena is dressed up in Elsa de Sica's clothes. Chloe wore the clothes of Ryugu Rena from Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni and that of Al Azif from Demonbane.