Things fell into place very quickly. Mr. Silver had agreed to the terms the faux Mr. Gray asked for. The prototype Extended, codenamed "Alpha", would soon be on his way to Rome with his caretaker– and a significant security detail.
Through a stroke of luck driven by determination, Mithril had recently pierced Project Extended's veil of secrecy. Fortunately, someone in Amalgam (Rolito wished he could be the one to take the credit– or, on second thought, slit the helpful bastard's throat, he corrected himself; it's my ass on the line, after all) had enough sense to use Project Child as a decoy.
Nowadays, every major military power with access to Black Technology used cyborgs. Further, national peacekeeping forces often kept in touch with each other. Section Two could have informed Mithril about Project Child's agents through the Handsome Men or NATO Sparrows.
Thus, Mithril's confirmation of the existence of Project Child was, while unpleasant, more palatable than the discovery of the far more valuable (for the Amalgam bean counters, anyway) Extended.
The obvious was one of the best lies, second only to the truth.
Still, Alpha's demonstration would take place in one of three remote areas to be suggested by (fake) Mr. Gray himself. The final choice depended on Rolito, who postponed committing until he could ensure all three testing grounds to be bug-free and commando-less.
Wow, he grimly thought over a cup of liquor-laced coffee. We get to fight Gundam Laevatein and Super Sergeant Sagara Sousuke. Hurrah.
Least me and Lena will see Seppe again…
His senior ward had flourished under Canon's personal tutelage. Giuseppe took to Arm Slave piloting like a falcon to the sky. His sturdy mechanical body let him shrug off punishing hi-gee maneuvers that would maim or kill non-cyborgs, and his excellent reflexes turned even a clunky junk heap like his Savage training machine into a one-machine army. Given a Shadow– or, better yet, a Codarl, what with Seppe's "conditioning" and training allowing him to use the Lambda Driver…
I gotta come up with a cool tag team attack for us…
Best of all, Canon bore no complaints about his boy, which in Canon-speak meant she completely approved of Seppe. And impressing Canon was only slightly easier than cooking a good steak.
Sure, there was that incident with that other Amalgam Fratello. (Rolito mentally chuckled at his use of the Section Two term. Then he remembered the gory details involved and stopped being so bright.) But Giuseppe had weathered the crisis well, even garnered praise for his exemplary handling of the situation. So while the 'Jessica Episode' had left an indelible black mark on Project Child's previously unblemished record…
Our own– Elsa Factor, was that what the Section Two people called it? Could it be the problem that Seppe mentioned in his letter? No, doesn't seem like it… Well, he'll tell me soon enough…
Other concerns called for contemplation. The prototype Extended, for one, who would be putting on a show for their Padania customers.
Rolito had met Alpha exactly once. He didn't like the boy. Not Alpha's fault. After all, Alpha was only… functioning according to specifications.
He was an excellent… specimen. His Extended biological implants gave him peak human strength, speed and agility; Capitano Italia indeed. Rigorous regimens in gymnastics, track and resistance training polished off that raw potential into sublime perfection.
Alpha was much stronger and faster than a cyborg of equivalent size. And while not as tough as a cyborg, his injuries healed much faster than a human, in comparison to a cyborg, who not only could not heal but also wore down with time and use. That made him… cheaper to maintain.
Otherwise he looked perfectly normal. Five foot nine and a half inches, eighty-two kilograms of handsome Italian urbanite, he could pass for an athlete or a model. His healing factor only made itself felt when he was injured, and that was a rare occurrence, he was simply so fast. His massive appetite (primarily carbohydrates to power his demanding biologics) could be explained as "He's a growing boy who needs to eat a lot". Alpha was only sixteen, after all.
So is Giuseppe.
Obsidian coffee rippled within his cup. They're alike, Rolito realized. Same age. Same country. Same sack of shit dealt to them by Life.
But Seppe smiles. I taught him to kill, made him a superhuman murderer– but somehow he came to love life all the more.
Whereas Alpha…
The Extended prototype was a robot in all but flesh and name. He didn't possess a single shred of personality. No fire burned within his prematurely jaded green pupils. No expressions whatsoever dwelt upon the forever youthful face. Not the slightest semblance of a unique and self-willed personality.
No will to live. Not even to survive; Alpha was expendable, if expensive. He existed only to accomplish his task.
Our Doctor Frankensteins didn't bother the way I did. No need for useless baggage like emotions and friends and family and a life of his own. Subject Alpha isn't a person. Not a killer. Not even a test subject.
No, Alpha is a killing machine. A weapon like my sword and knives and Codarl.
Just like Noir… but even Noir stayed even just a little bit human. So did all the killers I knew. Especially once you get a couple of drinks into 'em.
Oh, how he remembered them all.
Drunk or not, Masakari was cheerily obsessive-compulsive. Colt was funny when drunk.
Revi was a somewhat happy, semi-trigger-happy drunk– a real improvement over her usual wolverine-fierce disposition. Rock was half crying jug and half hostile. Balalaika covered an entire range of emotions, all of them nasty.
Larry– or was it Rally?– no, wait, she was a bounty hunter, not an assassin, so she didn't count. Neither did those two IAF maniacs, Saul and Lavi, though Saul could drink like a fish.
Misato– Mikami, not Katsuragi; no difference, really, just that one used guns and the other used a katana– was tsundere turned yanmama. Yeah, no difference at all...
Gauron was gay for Kasshim, Gates was gay for kittens– a really disturbing image, that–, the Xia sisters were twincest gay for each other, Shin Noir was gay for Noir– but if Colt's girlfriend was who he thought she was…
Even Chise smiles… Hell, Chise always smiles! She's the fucking Ultimate Weapon, she keeps on tripping on her face so much that you'd want to make tripping a crime against humanity, and yet shekeeps on smiling!
Like Seppe… Unit Zero One…
We made these kids that way. They have to live with what's been done to them.
The others ran away. I chose to stay, to see Seppe and Lena as what they were once been, what they always were, chose to love them…
Hypocrite, he told himself. You still let this happen to them. You still stood by and let Seppe and Lena become weapons, made Seppe into a killer.
But if I didn't, I wouldn't have known Elena. She would be dead. Like–
.
Bloodied lips fluttered apart. In his leaden arms, dearest Jessica whimpered softly.
"Kuya… patawad..."
.
Trembling, he hissed. Fingernails dug sharply into the insides of his balled fists. He wanted to strike out at someone, something– anything. Bared, gritted teeth demanded the right and circumstance to kill. A heart raged out of anger. Weakness. Humanity. To prove:
I have feelings. Will. A conscience.
I am still human. Always human.
Am I?
.
Elde.
.
He stiffened. She sternly stood before him. She of the ideals and tradition he adopted.
She whom he loved above all others, even his sister.
If Jess was his guardian angel, She was his Madonna, his Goddess.
And he was no longer frustrated and furious. How could he be? He had neither temerity nor the right.
Not before Her.
Sensei…
Hibiki…
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"I will wait. However long you take to accomplish your vengeance, no matter how much you've changed, I will wait for you. Because I love you."
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"Thank you," Rolito murmured to the blessed winds, "Hibiki."
And now it's time for a chat with the local expert on Extended. No House, that Doc McAllister.
Well, at least Elena's having fun…
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Life Goes On
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Disclaimer
Gunslinger Girl and the other shows mentioned here are not mine. I only own my original characters.
Alpha is derived from Boomer Gonzales' original character. Doctor McAllister is owned by another writer.
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Twenty-Second
Caduta
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"They're done!"
"Wow… they look delicious!"
"Let them cool first…"
"O~kay~"
Carla Rossinari was delighted to have her adopted son's adopted daughter over. It had been so long since the laughter and bustling energy of a child graced their home. Her own children had moved far away and were too busy tending their own families to visit. And of the Rossinaris' two adopted "sons", Marc never visited, while Sheo would often disappear from the face of the world, making Carla occasionally wonder if her boy novelist had gotten into trouble with Mafiosi– or Carabinieri.
She immediately disapproved of the suspicion. Sheo wouldn't do that. He's a good boy. And his Elena is an absolute delight.
The eleven-year-old girl was very much a darling. Elena was quick to spot and help with any chore, was skilled in housework ("Papa can't fold clothes for the life of him…") and possessed a likeably lovable nature. She practically begged to be supplied an abundance of warm busses and hugs, which Carla happily granted in excess.
Sheo's so happy around her. If she was only his age, I can see them married. Though I think he already has a special someone…
Two days ago, her adopted son had arrived at their apartment at around nine in the morning with a very shy Elena in tow. Sheo hugged Francisco, planted a warm buss on Carla's papery cheek along with an embrace, sheepishly declined breakfast, introduced his young companion and sprung his request.
"Auntie, Uncle, can I leave Elena with you for a couple of days? I have a bunch of big meetings scheduled for the week all across Italy. I'll be running around a lot, and I'd hate to bore or tire out Elena. And I don't like leaving her in our hotel suite…"
Of course they had agreed. "We'd be happy to take care of her," Carla insisted. "Don't worry, dear. We'll have fun."
And they did. Once Elena warmed up to her, Carla quickly rediscovered the joy of being a mother– and the energy to keep up with the glowing bumblebee of joy who now buzzed about her abode, very much at home. Her husband was similarly infected and energized. Francisco's once-tired blue eyes twinkled every other minute as he harrumphed good-naturedly at his women's ministrations.
No wonder Sheo adopted her. I feel so much younger thanks to Elena!
She's good for him. Sheo's always been so sad despite his smiles. That boy is so tired from trying so hard… he needs to rest before he breaks down…
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Munching upon Granny Carla's latest batch of cookies expounded anew to Elena why her adoptive father had foresworn packaged cookies like Buitoni, Termini and even Elena's favorite Adriana's. I wonder if Papa knows Granny's cookie recipe? I know he can cook– Rolito had introduced her and her brother to horribly rich and delicious Spanish-Mexican-Filipino cuisine; Elena loved menudo– but can he bake? Well, if not, I'll just have to make them for him…
The Rossinari apartment was small and homely and smelled somewhat of old people, but its warmth was undeniable and its owners were wonderful folks. They beckoned her to nestle deep within their offered comforter of downy care. And Elena was only too happy to snuggle up, cat-like, in the crèche of its owners' arms.
I am home, she told herself.
Silly, she added in self-admonishment.
Home was… had been the apartment in Matera, before hellfire and near-eternal blackness. Now, it was–
Home is where Papa is.
It wasn't half a dozen Amalgam safe houses and forward bases scattered throughout Italy. Certainly not countless rented apartments at least three blocks from their targets, hotels selected to fit the price range of whatever persona her Papa sported at the moment, ingress and egress necessitated by a blend of security and speed.
Not even the Rossinari apartment, though it came close enough. The Rossinari were the first people outside of Amalgam and terrorist groups she had met and known. They didn't know– couldn't know of the shadow world her Papa, their good figlio, frequented. Never should, and never would. Her Papa would never endanger the ones he loved.
Like herself.
Like Giuseppe.
Big brother. How are you?
She missed him. Prayed he was all right. Wished he would come home tomorrow. She had so much to tell him. So much he needed to know.
Sensei is no longer Sensei. Sensei is now Papa.
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"Elena. I'm going to leave you with Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco for a couple of days. Be nice to them, okay?"
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The Rossinari were nice people. Her Papa loved a lot. He didn't tell Elena about them until he thought they were ready for her. He protects them.
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Granny and Grandpa didn't know who her Papa really was. They knew 'Sheo Darren'. They didn't know the iron man masked by the bright smile.
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"My real name is Elde Talon."
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He revealed so much of himself that night. Told her about Jessica Miranda and Masakari Dios and Vientiane Vegamora whom he still called 'Vien' and Jeremy Colt and Harry Odine and Eah Osborn. About 'Ano Shoujo', That Girl, Kaede, she of fire hair and blood eyes and horns and ghost hands that sliced through anything, the demon girl he met and fought over the course of several dark nights in Kamakura. About Chise, Saishuu Heiki Kanojo, the ultimate weapon, a girl not much older than Elena.
He spoke of Quezon City and Bicol and Aklan and Paco, Kyoto and Tokyo and Kamakura and Otaru-shi in Sapporo, Hong Kong and Macau and Beijing, Roanapur, Washington D.C and New York.
He told her about himself. Elde Talon, the young boy of unremarkable parentage who crushed on his first cousin, the orphan in a homeland turned alien, who forged a masterwork katana out of the bitter shards of his broken innocence.
Rolito Miranda, the avenger who wore his heart in his pocket, the shadow that slipped unseen and unheard into fortresses to steal souls, The Good Son, The Best Kuya In The World.
Rouge.
Kira.
Killer.
He didn't tell her everything. They did not have all the time in the world, just one night.
And it was the painful past. Though her Papa lived in it far too long and often fell back in, he belonged to the present, belonged with her and her brother. The past had passed. She had taken him back to the now, back to her. Here he would stay, with her.
.
One day, when this is all over, I'll buy your freedom and your brother's. We'll leave Amalgam and Italy. We'll go home.
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Home was where the heart was. It wasn't the Philippines, though his birthplace it was. He'd lost too much there, sacrificed greatly and got nothing out of it.
Or was it? His parents were murdered in America. He visited their graves every now and then. He was a good son, after all. But he was also alive. He needed to live.
Italy was also impossible. Elena liked the idea of dropping by to see Granny and Grandpa every day. But The Enemy would never let them live in peace. Not after they had seen her brother's face.
And it wasn't Japan as well. Not because of that girl he called Kaede. Not even because of Chise.
Why did her Papa still regard his homeland with fondness?
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"We'll be a family."
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He always left one name unspoken. Yet the owner of that name was just as present as if she was personally, physically beside him.
She. Behind the great man was a woman. Not his mother, murdered on foreign soil while her son slept safe and sound an ocean away. Not his cousin Vien, with whom all bridges of relations had been burned out of necessity, to protect himself and her who was still precious to him. Not Masakari, however much she proclaimed to be his lover, though love him she did, and unrequited it was.
Not even Jessica, who haunted her Kuya still.
No, there was someone else. Another who had wiped away his tears. Who had fought away his fears. Who held his hands through all those bleak years.
She who still had all of him.
A sudden surge of intense happiness caused Elena to hug her shoulders. She smiled at what the future held.
I will have a Mama as well?
So, despite a brand new set of loving grandparents, warm house and a superb time, she missed her Papa.
The doorbell rang.
"Coming!" Once there: "Papa!"
"Yo, Elena." Rolito grinned even as the breath was squeezed out of him. "Tadaima."
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They celebrated the week's success at Rolito's Pasta. Both generations of owners pronounced the bar was open and free for the night. Chuckles abounded over the younger host reminding guests and crew (Hobbes, most notably) present to "mind our manners over our tankards, else our neighbors think this is an Irish pub– or, God forbid, an American bar!"
The resulting scramble for free booze served as a good cover for Rolito to steer Marc out a back door. No one would ever know what exactly happened during their minute-long absence, but Elena was secretly glad that her Papa brought Marc back alive and unharmed.
Not only that, Rolito brought him over to the Miranda-Rossini table and sat him facing Elena, before sitting right beside him. It was a first. The two adopted Rossini weren't bosom buddies and rarely seen together, much more on candid terms, Sheo being often absent.
Tonight, though, the senior brother seemed quite the content Buddha. In contrast, Marc appeared to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The French lad pointedly avoided even the briefest of glances at the blushing young girl seated across the table.
Papa, Elena mentally bemoaned. I'm going to die an old maid this way…
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Several hours later, the guests having gone home, a drowsing Elena tucked away within one of the back rooms under Auntie Carla's warm watch, Rolito studied the twisting alleyway hidden behind the restaurant that shared his alias.
"Irashaimate," he greeted the night personified. "Jerry."
"Rouge," acknowledged the gloomy silhouette.
"I see you're back in the fedora and long tails."
"It's a personal signature. Nice party."
"Thanks. My invitation still stands."
"Thanks but no."
Colt eyeballed his fellow murderer rather hard. Rolito's smile thinned. "What's wrong?" the latter asked.
"You only noticed me about now."
"I was busy."
"I could have wasted you any time I wanted."
"You wouldn't," was the outrageous lie.
"Right. It's that kid, isn't it?"
"Her name is Elena."
"Told her about your sister?" Colt muttered.
"Would you rather I lied to her?"
"Yeah."
That impressed Rolito. Somewhere along the line, the American had learned brevity. Chloe's a good influence on him, then.
"You're heading for a fall, Rouge," Colt grunted.
Rolito shook his head. "Not this time. I know better now. I'm prepared," he assured.
"Tell me a better one…"
"I know what I'm doing, Jerry."
"The fuck you don't, Rouge. Wise up. You're losing touch. You took this long to notice me. You never bothered looking for Chloe-"
A brown finger pointed at a nearby rooftop shadow slightly darker than the rest.
Colt glared. Rolito's smile was stiflingly sincere.
"Jerry. Thanks for worrying about me."
"I'm not," was the gruff counter. "It's my ass on the line, too, Rouge."
"Did I ever tell you that torture doesn't work on me?"
"Yeah, yeah, your Kryptonite's a neurotoxin antidote. The fuck."
"I'll stay on my toes."
"You do that."
"Tell Chloe I said hi," Rolito told the departing coat.
An upraised middle finger agreed to that small favor.
Elena is not going to become another Jessica, Rolito wordlessly promised his friend.
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Rouge, Colt grunted to himself, you're still the same idiot I knew. Watch your ass. This ain't your country anymore… sure as hell ain't mine…
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To Elena's delight two mornings later, Rolito revealed that he knew how to bake– and possessed a copy of Auntie Carla's chocolate chip cookie recipe. "Who do you think I am, Elena?" he boasted over her adoration.
"Oh, Papa…"
The heavenly aroma of heated dough filled their small flat. They had moved in only two days ago, and rather hurriedly, too. Rolito took but a single glance at Elena and Auntie Carla to decide on the move. The greatly decreased distance allowed his daughter and his adoptive relations to see each other more often and much more easily, Rolito's Pasta now just twenty minutes away on foot.
The buzzer rang.
"Can you get the door, Elena?"
"Sure, Papa."
The peephole was out of her reach, so Elena opened the door but partly. A heavy chain kept the gap in her home's defense to a minimum. Rough types were not unknown in Trastevere.
Poised at their doorsteps were two maids. The pair looked to be sisters, perhaps twins, with the same nut-brown hair and brown eyes. One was about Elena's size and age. The other, who stood closer, was perhaps three years younger, and had much longer hair.
They smelled very nice. Elena tried to place their perfume brand. That's nice … I should have Papa get me some, too…
She turned and hollered "Papa! It's maids!"
"Eh? Back so soon?"
"No, they're different maids…"
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Aluminum tray clattered upon the tiled counter. Rolito whirled. "Elena! Get away from the door!" he commanded.
.
Elena froze in place for a heartbeat.
.
At that range, the 'maid' could not miss. Her gun roared.
.
The gunshot could have been aimed at Rolito, the way it stopped him cold in his terrified tracks. Then he was running barefooted on the tiled floor.
No…
Elena slumped face down before the door. Blood pooled beneath the brown mass of her undone hair.
.
Go.
I love you to death.
I'll catch up. I promise.
We'll be a family again, you and I.
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"ELENA!"
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Tatta hitotsu no omoi tsuranuku
Muzukashisa no naka de boku wa
Mamorinuite misetai no sa
Kakegae no nai mono no tame ni
Hatashitai yakusoku
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Within the difficulty of accomplishing my one and only wish, I want to show you that I'll protect you to the end, for something irreplaceable. It's a promise that I want to fulfill.