Page 83 of Gunslinger Girl
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Buffeted about like a scarecrow in a storm, Pity almost expected straw to spill out when Eva flitted around his blind side, her blade flashing. But it was blood that flowed, dark and wet, soaking his shoulder in an instant. Then came Marius, with a cut to his forearm. The assassin’s cry of pain was barely audible beneath the roar of the crowd. He lurched in Pity’s direction again, but she drove him back with another well-aimed shot. The stony calculation in his face was gone, crumbled away to reveal pure animalistic panic. He thought he was done, Pity mused. But, useless as it was, his instinct to survive had kicked in.
Five bullets. Still enough.
And yet, hands moving of their own accord, she found herself refilling the chambers of her guns. She went to the edge of the arena and took her time as the Zidanes continued their volley. To and fro they flew, slicing and stinging, every cut targeted and shallow. Soon the assassin was mottled all over with red.
Pity watched, knowing she should rejoin the fray. Knowing she was being watched, too. But as soon as the cylinder of her gun locked into place, it was as if her muscles had followed suit. Go, she willed. Get back in there. Still, she couldn’t move.
A voice spoke behind her. “You’re doing fine.”
The words should have been lost, but somehow they had worked their way through the din. She turned to find Patrick Sheridan sitting in the nearest box. He smiled at her, as calm as if she were engaged in some mundane task, while around him the faces of the audience screamed for blood. His gaze seemed to carry the same message as his voice.
You’re doing fine.
At the center of the arena, the Zidanes paused. Pity forced herself to take one step forward and then another. The assassin was a mess, bloodied and pale, and swaying on his feet. She could see beneath the tattered jumpsuit, beyond the fresh wounds to skin that was hatched and crossed with screaming red scars.
As she drew closer, Eva and Marius fell back. A lump formed in Pity’s throat. He’s a rat, she thought. They were three cats playing with a wounded rat.
No. Eva and Marius were cats. She was a kitten—one with six steel claws in each paw but still a kitten on her first real hunt.
And now she was being given the kill.
The audience was rabid, screaming and chanting her name, each syllable a ruining beat.
Ser-en-di-pi-ty! Ser-en-di-pi-ty!
Pity holstered one of her guns. She didn’t need it.
It was time for the show to be over with.
She stopped half a dozen paces from him. When she raised the gun and cocked the hammer, his legs gave out and he fell to the ground. His head hung toward the floor.
“Do it,” he croaked.
No one could hear but her.
“On your feet,” she ordered.
He looked up at her, eyes brimming with resignation. Shook his head.
Her grip weakened. His face became Finn’s, so clearly that tears clouded her vision. She blinked and the assassin returned. “Get up!”
I can’t kill a man on his knees. I can’t…
“Do it!” he said again.
Her voice inched toward the scream that was building within. “I said get up!”
He didn’t stand, gaze burning with a last, tired defiance. Pity’s finger lay tight on the trigger. All she had to do was apply a little pressure.
Inhale, aim. Exhale… She breathed in and then out. Around her the chant continued.
Ser-en-di-pi-ty! Ser-en-di-pi-ty!
Her hand stiffened, but she couldn’t muster that last tiny bit of strength.
Do it!
