Page 29 of Gunslinger Girl
Pity shifted, glad her face was hidden. “It’s none of my business. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I asked Flossie that same question the day I stumbled into Casimir, doing my best to not look like the underfed dissident spawn that I was. You know what she said? ‘No one here does anything they don’t want to.’ Heck, I could be a porter tomorrow if I had a mind to be.” She chuckled again. “But we should all be honest about where our talents lie. Don’t get me wrong, though. Casimir is a far cry from what goes on in Cessation’s alleys. I’d go back to the mudhole camp I grew up in before you’d find me there… Well, maybe.”
“Was it that bad? I don’t know much about what goes on outside the CONA territories.”
“Nothing more than they tell you, I’m sure.” Luster sighed. “CONA called us dissidents as an insult, but in the camps it was a badge of honor. We might have lost the war, but we were free, right? No plutocrats or corporations telling us how to live our lives. Thing is, freedom doesn’t put food on the table. A lousy crop meant a cold, hungry winter. Infighting was common. And even in the better settlements, fate has a cruel sense of humor. Garland—you’ll meet him—came from one of the First Peoples communities. Y’know those, right?”
“Only that they stayed out of the war, and CONA trades with them from time to time.”
“When it suits them, sure.” Luster scoffed. “A sickness came one spring. Wiped out half Garland’s community within months. Yeah, it gets pretty bad.”
Pity didn’t ask any more questions. For all the commune’s flaws, she had never faced starvation or war, or an illness there wasn’t medicine for. What others did to secure themselves wasn’t for her to judge—not when their situations were dire enough to make her wonder what she might do in the same place. How bad would life with her father have had to be to make her jump at an arranged marriage?
Too exhausted to ponder that path, she sipped her wine and floated, letting Luster scrub away the stains of travel. Her eyes opened and closed, vision blurred by more than the steam. She didn’t protest when Luster helped her out of the bath and dried her off with a downy towel, or when Luster led her to the bed and began massaging scented ointments into her bruised skin. The soft anchors of the bath, the wine, and Luster’s skilled touch sank her further and further toward sleep. She roused momentarily when she heard a third knock, but her eyes closed again quickly, the faint scent of cocoa ushering her into the dark.
CHAPTER 9
Midmorning, Max rapped on her door.
A few hours before, Pity had woken to find herself cosseted under the thick comforter, still naked. For a few blissful moments, ignorance lay on her like a different sort of blanket. Then, one by one, memories emerged from sleep’s fog. Where she was… and where she had been. She threw off the comforter, the chill on her skin nothing compared to the flame of guilt in her chest.
You’re lying here, warm and clean, while Finn is rotting away somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
She sat with that guilt for a while, waiting for the flame to ignite something within her, to illuminate some hidden corner of her situation—a different path, a better idea. But when it didn’t, when the feelings remained as directionless as they had on the way to Cessation, she gave in to the draw of the robe Luster had left folded at the foot of the bed. Recalling the previous evening, Pity searched through the black bags in the wardrobe. They were full of clothes—more conventional than what she had observed in the Gallery but far from the shapeless utility of commune garments. She had settled on a pale yellow shirt and a pair of caramel-brown pants, tighter than she liked but as soft as velvet. She’d even found a new pair of boots, sized perfectly.
Max, too, was cleaner but as paint-specked as ever.
“Luster did a great job, I see,” he said. “You look rested.” He wasn’t alone. Behind him stood an older man with silver hair and baggy eyes, carrying a black leather bag.
“Thanks.” Pity pulled at her braided hair, eyeing the stranger. “Stupid me, I went and fell asleep before I could thank her.” Her stomach growled audibly. “Or eat dinner.”
“If you can be patient a little longer, that’s easily remedied.” Max stepped aside. “Pity, this is Dr. Starr. He’s going to give you a once-over. I’ll wait in the hallway, Doc.”
Starr strode across the room and unceremoniously dropped his bag on the table. “They told me about your accident. You were very lucky, it seems. How are you feeling?” He opened the kit and began searching inside. “Any new pain? Headaches?”
“No.”
“Look here.” He swept a light across her eyes a few times, then began prodding her around the neck and stomach. “Tell me if any of this hurts. You’re from the communes, so I assume you’ve had the gamut of vaccines, regular examinations, all that?”
“Yes.”
“Twice blessed, then. Any allergies? Are you fertile?”
“Uh, walnuts… and yes.”
Starr stepped back. “Stay away from the kitchen’s cinnamon rolls, then. For the other thing, we only get enough preventative meds for Flossie’s crew, but if you’re not interested in being a mommy someday, I can do a one-way fix for you.”
“Th-thanks,” she said. Sterilization was illegal under CONA law—very illegal. Apparently Cessation’s offerings extended beyond gambling, booze, and bodies. “I think I’ll stay unfixed for now.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.” Starr grabbed the bag. “Welcome to Casimir,” he said, and departed with as much ceremony as his arrival.
Max popped his head back in. “So, breakfast?”
Unlike the Gallery, the décor of the common dining room was simple: custard-colored walls, bare floors, and wide windows. Morning sunshine streamed across tables occupied by men and women of all ages. Some sat alone, others in groups, chatting and smiling over mugs of coffee and full plates. There were no costumes or uniforms here. Pity couldn’t tell if they were porters, prostitutes, or something else. They could have been workers on her commune—a thought she found oddly comforting.
“As much as Luster loves room service,” Max said, “we mostly take meals here.”
Along the far wall ran a buffet filled with trays. Following Max’s lead, Pity grabbed a plate and piled it with eggs and bacon, toast, fresh fruit, and a mug of cocoa, to make up for the one she had missed. Her hand cramped with the weight of the plate by the time they sat down.
