Gunslinger Girl Fan Fiction ❯ A Day in the Life of a Gunslinger Girl ❯ Chapter 1

Author's notes: This tale, penned by me, Nachtsider, is based on the excellent anime/manga known as `Gunslinger Girl', which is the brainchild of Yu Aida. In Volume One of the manga, Rico hinted that at least four other fratello teams existed besides the six we already know. In this yarn, the cloak of anonymity slides off one of these additional operative-supervisor pairs. Bearing in mind that all original characters, their distinctive likenesses and related elements featured in this publication are my property and may not be used without my express permission, enjoy the story, check out the illustration of the duo at my Deviant Art account (nachtsider dot deviantart dot com) if you wish, and feel free to drop me a line at the relevant electronic mail address (nachtsider at yahoo dot com)!

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A GUNSLINGER GIRL

I rouse from my slumber and wipe the sleep from my eyes. Before me lies the supine form of a petite, lithe, nightgown-clad nymph with emerald eyes, skin like alabaster and shoulder-length, raven hair that arches upwards at the tips. She mimics my every move. Yes, you guessed it - she is my reflection in the large mirror with the ornately carved frame that hangs on the far wall.

Out of my comfy bed I leap and flex my limbs. I pace into the spotless bath, remove my nightdress and take a refreshing shower. I then slip into my work clothes - a snug black bodysuit, an elegant gray duster and matching gloves and boots. After topping off the ensemble with a Swiss Army timepiece and a scarlet choker, I fix myself a tasty snack from the plethora of mouth-watering victuals that fill my refrigerator.

I am halfway through my meal when I hear a knock on my door. I unbolt and open it. On the threshold stands an athletic man wearing a dark windbreaker, pleated pants, leather gauntlets and chucker-type shoes. He looks like a celluloid gangster. His angular features and piercing gaze project a formidable image, which could easily frighten a young child like me. Paradoxically, I never feel afraid of him, instead always being bathed in a sense of security.

“Top of the morning to you, Liesel,” he greets with typical politeness. “How are you keeping?”

“Thank you for your concern, Altheus,” I smile. “I'm very well.”

“That's good. Be all set before 0800 hours - we leave by then.”

Altheus departs. I gobble down the last of the food, clean up and collect my equipment, which is lying on my desk where I left it last night after giving it a thorough tune-up. I check my combination cell phone and miniature digital camera one last time. I load my silenced Glock 18. Reaching for the Amati violin case lying beside my armchair, I stow my ST Kinetics SAR-21 MMS with noise suppressor, telescopic sight and sufficient ammunition inside it. The camera and pistol I slip under my duster and the case I grip in my left hand.

Bidding my puzzles and Rubik's cubes adieu, I exit my tasteful little apartment and step into blinding sunshine. Around me loom an assortment of ultramodern buildings, comfortable offices and facilities, enormous warehouses and a six-story hospital, all of it surrounded by rolling hills populated by thick groves of deciduous trees. This is where I spend my days - the headquarters of the Social Welfare Agency, situated on the outskirts of Rome.

Down the corridors of the complex I walk until I reach the car park. There waits Altheus in his snazzy Corvette. I hop in and we zoom off. My watch strikes 0800 just as we clear the gatehouse and leave the environs behind.

666

Like all the other children at the Social Welfare Agency, I am known only by my given name and have been here for as long as I can remember. I was apparently taken into the care of this state-run aid association - in actuality a secret government paramilitary force masquerading as a state-run aid association - shortly after my birth. The reasons behind this occurrence and the identity of my biological family are a conundrum to me.

Plenty of stories are told about me. Some say I am a war orphan plucked from the Bosnian killing fields. Others reckon I am of British nobility and got abandoned for reasons too terrible to speak of. I have no way of knowing about all this - Bosnia and Great Britain are so far away, they seem to belong to a different world altogether. One thing everyone seems to agree about, however, is that I am one of the Agency's best and brightest.

Up until two years ago, my life was spent in training. Altheus, the veteran law-enforcement agent who is my supervisor and guardian, taught me the art of stealth, use of firearms and explosives, survival techniques and hand-to-hand combat. He educated me in physics, chemistry, electronics, mechanics, languages, history and international affairs. We discussed cryptography, false documentation, `legends' or cover stories, how to resist interrogation and much more.

Thanks to the special abilities the Agency outfitted me with, my training was a walk in the park. I possess the strength of many men and am capable of physical feats that most people would find impossible. Conventional arms like blades and bullets deal me not even the least discomfort. My five senses are incredibly sharp. I am able to swiftly grasp any concept and put it to use with ease. Fatigue and aging are unknown to me.

All the Agency's young wards have abilities akin to mine and were similarly tutored by their respective supervisors. The purpose of the lessons: to turn us into super-soldiers who will carry out covert operations - espionage and counter-terrorist in nature - for the government. This scheme has succeeded well beyond initial expectations.

666

We traverse the highways and byways for quite a bit before arriving at a large and picturesque country resort. The Agency's impeccable intelligence-gathering apparatus has ascertained that this is where Gaetano Luchinni, the notorious underworld kingpin, is holidaying.

This prince of rogues is behind the lion's share of organized crime in Guidonia and Tivoli. He has powerful friends in high places, making it unattainable to convict him in a court of law. However, it is paramount that his sordid activities be checked. Only one option remains open, namely eliminating Luchinni. I have been ferried here to do just that.

“Execute your task as quickly and efficiently as possible, Liesel,” advises Altheus, “and do not forget to take photographic evidence. I shall be waiting here in the parking lot for your return.”

“Got it,” I say before setting out with my gear.

There are a number of people strolling about the resort's wooded parkland, but none impede me as I head for my objective. In fact, most smile at me and comment on how adorable I look. For the umpteenth time I take in why adolescents like me have been selected for this vocation.

To some people, the idea of employing children as dealers of death might seem weird and unorthodox. In truth, it is ingenious. Young operatives are more apt to succeed in their purpose than grownups. An adult might arouse suspicion, but not a child. Nothing could look more harmless or more innocent than a little kid. The more I chew it over, the more devilishly cunning it appears.

The chalet where Luchinni is staying is rather out of the way, which is completely fine with me - the less unwanted attention, the better. I pretend to bypass the building, at the same time giving it a detailed and furtive look-over. It is a nice-looking, single-storied, half-timbered structure with ivy growing on its walls. All the windows are shut. The front and rear entrances are each watched over by a trench-coated sentry. I note the near-imperceptible bulges of holstered firearms under their garments.

Disappearing from view down a little-used footpath, I enter a thicket and stop. There, I doff my coat, open my violin case and remove its contents. Loading my rifle, I carry it at `port arms' and stealthily move through the underbrush towards the chalet.

Crouching behind a large shrub, I put my rifle to my shoulder and sight through the scope, targeting the man guarding the front door. I put the crosshairs on his eye and squeeze the trigger. My rifle gives a muffled thud and jerks. I see the side of the man's face disintegrate in a spray of blood and bone. Before he hits the ground, I am already marking down his comrade. I take careful aim and fire. The second guard's head disappears in a cloud of liquid crimson as he topples like a felled tree.

Making optimum use of cover, I sprint up to the chalet. I carry both corpses into the nearby undergrowth where they will be immune from discovery and slip into the edifice via the back door. Following the sound of a blaring gramophone, I venture down a hallway and end up in a lounge. Right before me sits the burly, business-suited form of Gaetano Luchinni, sipping vintage port and listening to music. Also in the room is his remaining pair of henchmen.

My entry startles the trio, but the shock far from paralyzes them; it instead galvanizes them into action. As I raise my rifle, Luchinni's flunkies draw their Berettas and shield their leader by leaping into my line of fire. We blast away at each other at almost the same instant. The bodyguards crumple, dying, to the floor - the expressions on their faces at seeing me remain unharmed after being hit twice in the head and once in the abdomen are simply priceless - while I pursue Luchinni, who has taken advantage of the distraction to bolt out a side exit.

The side door leads into a utility room, full of storage cupboards and disused furniture. Luchinni initially appears to have vanished, but my keen senses soon disclose his hiding place - he is crouching behind a table to my right. Suddenly, he jumps up and hurls a flask at my face. Instinct tells me that this is no ordinary weapon and prompts me to dodge.

I twist aside, avoiding the missile. It whistles past to smash against the doorframe. A bubbling hiss fills the air as the container's acidic contents corrode and dissolve the metal and wood. Following my instincts was indeed the correct course of action. Cursing vilely, Luchinni draws a bayonet and attacks.

The crime boss fights like a tiger, quickly disarming me and lunging for my throat. But for all his speed, I am too fast, parrying his blows and launching a kick that strikes him with the force of a battering ram. Luchinni is catapulted across the room and into a stack of boxes. As he painfully gets to his feet, ribs broken and life-juices trickling from his mouth, I produce my sidearm and give him a dose of lead poisoning where it does him the least good.

I proceed to take numerous photographs of my gory handiwork. Picking up my rifle, I exit the chalet the way I came, venturing once more into the woody thicket to retrieve my jacket and violin case. Stowing away my armaments and sliding my garment back on, I make my way through the resort and back to the parking lot. Once again, no passersby hinder my progress.

“How did it go?” asks Altheus upon my return.

“Here's how,” I reply, passing him my camera phone.

Altheus examines the snapshots and smiles. “Very nice. These pictures will give the mob plenty of sleepless nights and spur them to curb or cease their monkey business once copies are discreetly circulated among gangland circles. My satellite-linked laptop is lying on the seat beside me; use it to e-mail the images back to the Agency for development.”

“Are we not going home?”

“Not just yet. You deserve a treat for a job well done - I'm taking you on an outing.”

We burn rubber. After sending the data, Altheus and I spend the rest of the day strolling the crowded streets of downtown Rome. I window-shop for hours on end, fantasizing about exotic, faraway places and mentally dressing myself in the luxurious garments that I see in rows of alluring shops. We have espressos at a café, the delicious beverages accompanied by sweet rolls and a few slices of French bread.

666

It is way past dark when we return to the Agency. Altheus walks me to my quarters. We bid each other a fond goodnight before he disappears into the gloom and in the direction of his personal suite.

After taking a bath, I don my dressing gown, sit on the couch and turn on the television. As I watch the moving pictures, my thoughts seem to reach new heights. I start thinking of an age-old dream; vistas I have never seen and fantasies lived times before. Over clouds and past the stars my mind will soar, seemingly forever now - I can't reason why. My body tries to leave my soul - or is it merely I? Oh, I wish I knew...

I contemplate on how near I came to going west today. It was my first close shave on the job, and something tells me it will by no means be my last. Wondering about it makes a strange ache well up in my heart, but I never feel any pain.

It would be amusing to know what occurs when life ends, wouldn't it? Extrasensory perception, life after death, telepathy… can the spirit live on and journey through space and time? Perhaps I'll find out someday. And when I know all the answers, maybe then I'll come back to impart them. To whom, I have not considered. I'd like to think that when I die, I'd get a chance to return another time - reincarnate, play the game over and over again.

On second thought, why dwell on demise? I'd rather live my life with a passion. Everything I do, I'll do well. You only get out of life what you put in, so they say. You can make your own luck and you create your destiny. I believe you have the power if you want to; it's true. You can accomplish anything you want to if you try a wee tad harder. A little bit of faith goes a lengthy way, oh, yes it does.

Through the night I plough, my breath bated, calculating and praying. As the metaphorical compass swings, my will is strong; I will not be led astray. I've got to keep running the course; I've got to keep running and triumph at all costs. I've got to keep going and be strong. I must be determined and push myself on.

Time will flow and I will follow. Time will go but I will follow. Where I go I have no idea, I only know the places I've already been to. I'm uncertain what my future will behold. But I feel that I'm a legend and my own story will be told.

Eventually, all these psychedelics give me an awful headache. They sort of draw and quarter my brain and make me liquefy through the floor. Then I flip off the set, stumble to my bed, collapse onto the pillows and wordless, melodious voices pierce my mind, whispering soothingly to me as I go out like a light. Oh, what they are, I crave to know, and please don't somebody tell me they've got to leave.

THE END