Page 46 of Gunslinger Girl
Along with what else? “Eva?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever done a Finale?”
She was silent for a moment. “Marius and I have done them together, yes.”
“Was it hard?”
Eva pulled out another dagger and stared at it, turning the blade over in her hand. “Killing is rarely easy, nor should it be. But those who end up in a Finale are not people whom you can—or should—spare.”
Pity holstered her guns. “It’s only that I’ve… never…” She couldn’t count the scroungers who’d killed Finn. With no time to think about what she was doing, the grenade had been more luck than intent. While that probably didn’t mean much to them—dead was dead, after all—it made a difference to her.
Eva gave her an understanding smile. “Let me ask you—what do you gain by fretting over a moment that may be years in arriving, if it ever does? My husband likes to say that worry is a poor expenditure of life’s currency. Right now you should be focused on your performance. You will do that many, many more times than you’ll ever do a Finale.”
If, Pity didn’t bother to add, I make it past the first one.
For weeks Pity practiced her showmanship. Sometimes Eva was there; other times she worked on her own. Her body ached constantly as unused muscles were woken and pushed, but it was an invigorating sort of pain, soaked away each evening in her tub. At first, only Halcyon or Max watched her practice, but as the days wore on, more onlookers peppered the stands: Marius, even warmer than his wife; the blank-faced Rousseaus, who never said a word to her; and other Casimir inhabitants she hadn’t met yet. It made Pity so nervous that, at first, she missed more shots than ever. But eventually she settled into the performance, finding a certain rhythm in her shooting and the sporadic applause.
Still, she reminded herself daily, a few dozen people were nothing like the real thing.
Halcyon must have thought so as well, because when he announced the next show, she wasn’t included in it. Not yet, he told her, but soon. There was no set schedule for the Theatre; instead, it was determined by Halcyon’s mood or whoever important happened to be in Cessation at the time.
Pity spent her second show behind the scenes with the other performers, in the spacious passages that ran beneath the stage and stands. There the roar of the crowd was muted, replaced by the frantic hustle of preparations. Trying to keep out of the way, she retreated to the bright alcove that functioned as Max’s work area during a show, where Clare Rousseau stood on a riser as he painted glittering fish scales onto her skin.
“I don’t know how you do that,” Pity said.
“Same way you shoot. Plenty of practice.” He dabbed on a last bit of blue. “Okay, that’s it. Stand still for a few minutes while you dry.” He wiped his hands on a rag and turned to Pity. “How’s the act coming?”
“Good, I guess.”
They went over to a wall of screens displaying various areas in the theatre. In the arena, a miniature ship of wood and satin sailed upon a sea of blue fog. It was manned by a pack of pirates, drawn closer and closer to an island by beautiful sirens, until the mock ship crashed upon the mock shore.
“Wait…” Pity spotted a familiar face in the crowd. She pointed to a screen. “I know her. That’s Maria Alton!”
“Who’s she?”
“The governor of my territory. Every time she visited the commune our mayor would trip over his own feet trying to impress her.”
Alton sat in one of the luxury boxes. Beside her, in a shirt opened enough to show a hint of collarbone, sat Garland. When he leaned over and whispered something in the governor’s ear, she flushed visibly and laughed.
For a moment, Pity imagined herself in the woman’s place. She quickly banished the thought. “Why would she visit a place like this?”
“Besides the obvious?” Max smirked. “Pity, half of Casimir’s clientele are CONA officials or corporate agents. More deals get made here than in the halls of Columbia.”
“And CONA is okay with that?” Pity watched Maria Alton. Though Garland massaged one of her hands in his, she spoke to another man beside her, the movements of their mouths furtive despite the din of the show.
“Not exactly. But what Selene offers, people want. There’s no need for forced propriety or moral smoke screens here. She keeps secrets, brokers connections, and isn’t beholden to anyone. In its way, Cessation is as powerful as Columbia.” His piercings twinkled in the screen’s light. “C’mon, I have something to show you.”
He led her to a workroom littered with mannequins and bolts of cloth.
“Wait here,” he said, features alight with eagerness. “And close your eyes.”
Pity put her hands on her hips but obeyed, content to submit to whatever game Max was playing. His footsteps moved away and returned.
“Okay, you can look.”
Pity opened her eyes.
