Page 40 of Gunslinger Girl
She looked down at the half empty cylinder. “Well, if you want me to keep shooting I’m going to need to reload sometimes.”
“I know, I know, but there’s no showmanship to it!” He waved a hand erratically. “We shan’t worry about that right now. I’ll get Eva to work with you—she’s got a good head for choreography. Now back to work!”
Halcyon and Widmer retreated to a box, giving Pity the run of the arena. At first, the globes launched at regular intervals, and she picked them off leisurely. Then Widmer upped the pace. Soon she was moving back and forth in the ring, spinning and twisting, ears straining for the faint thwip that accompanied each launch. Her heart pounded, but her fatigue was forgotten. She stayed focused on the challenge, rushing to reload between each volley. She wasn’t always fast enough, but by the time Halcyon called to her to stop, she had destroyed a score of targets for each one that had made it to the floor.
“Very impressive,” said Halcyon. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Pity holstered her weapons and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was tired, but it was a good, glowing tired. The best she’d felt in days. “When do I have to do this for real?”
“When I think you’re ready. For now, practice, practice, practice! Here, tomorrow, same time. Until then, my dear”—he gave her a deep bow—“I bid you good afternoon!” He strode off in the direction of his office.
Widmer came up beside her. “So,” he said, “what are your feelings on fireworks?”
Stomach quivering, Pity forced herself to look over the edge. Casimir’s twenty-odd floors stood solid beneath her feet, but every time a breeze blew, her knees turned to pudding. Cessation spread out below her, dark as a blood blister against the pale desert. The black river of asphalt that had delivered her to Casimir cut through its midst, flowing to the oasis within an oasis.
Could you make it out there alone? A week had passed since she arrived, and though she pondered the question daily, no definitive answer ever came.
Pity turned back to the cool canopy of trees. A perfume of flowers enveloped her as an older man in a crisp suit strode past. She recognized him from the Gallery. Last night he had been entrenched at the tables, throwing hand after hand of dice, only pausing long enough to drink, belch, and grope whoever happened to be within reaching distance. This morning he inclined his head politely at Pity and continued strolling.
She returned the silent greeting and ran a hand over a cluster of flowers, their pale blue petals as soft as silk. The garden covered the entirety of the roof, a lush labyrinth of greenery and stone paths. It was nicknamed Eden, despite being one of the few places where people seemed to keep all their clothes on. Of Casimir’s many delights—which included lavish dining rooms, a library full of books, and even a cinema hall—Eden was her favorite.
“Morning.” Max appeared from one of the paths. “Enjoying the garden?”
She nodded. “It’s so peaceful. And I’ve never been so high before.”
He went to the edge. “Ugh, I hate that part.”
“So why are you looking?”
He smirked, the silver rings in his lips reflecting a flash of sun. “Not liking something isn’t the same as being afraid of it.”
“It’s so quiet.” She gazed out over the city. “Hard to believe what it turns into when the sun goes down. On the commune, days are busy. Nights are as quiet as… well, as now.”
“It only looks quiet.” Max took a measuring tape from his pocket. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was looking for you for a reason. If you’re going to perform in the Theatre, you’ll need a costume. So I need some measurements.”
Pity eyed the tape. “I hope that means I’ll be wearing more than paint.”
His mouth turned up at the corner. “Do you want to go somewhere more private?”
She glanced around the nearly deserted garden. “This seems to be about as private as it gets around here.”
“Can’t argue with that. Stand up straight,” Max instructed. “Put out your arms.”
She obeyed. Max laid the tape from her shoulder to her wrist. He pulled out a small notebook and pencil and made a notation. Then he measured Pity from shoulder to hip. His touch was practiced, professional, but her stomach fluttered each time his fingers brushed against her. This is his job, she told herself. But that didn’t quell the sensations kindled within her. She stared straight ahead, face warm.
“You said you weren’t born in Cessation,” she said as a distraction. “So where did you live before here?”
“I’ve been around a few places. More than a few.”
“Have you been to Columbia?”
“Yes.” There was a brusqueness in the reply. “It’s not a place I’m fond of.”
“Why not? I’ve heard it’s something to be seen.”
“Oh, it’s a fine place to live,” he conceded. “If you have wealth and influence. For everyone else… Well, Olivia wasn’t exaggerating when she said you’d have been lucky to find a bed to rent. Trust me, you’re better off here.” He stepped back a pace. “Uh, I also need to measure your… Well, keep your arms out, please.”
Pity’s cheeks tingled—red as beets, she was certain. She raised her eyes to the sky as he looped the measuring tape around her torso, bringing it back together at the swell of her chest. She searched for something else to say, but her tongue felt tacked to the roof of her mouth. No secret flirtation or hayloft kisses from the boys on the commune had left her feeling half as flustered. Finally, Max let the tape fall. He took note of her waist and then dropped to one knee.
