Page 86 of Gunslinger Girl
Max accepted the passive invitation to enter, face taut with concern. “I wanted to come find you, but I thought you might want to be alone after…” He faltered. “And Halcyon said—”
“Halcyon was covering for me. I… I couldn’t…” She shook her head.
“Pity, what’s going on?”
“I messed up.” She crumpled onto the bed again, still gripped by the anxious fatigue of the last twelve hours. “The Finale… I messed up.”
“What? No, you didn’t. He’s dead, isn’t he? It was—”
“You don’t understand. Selene wanted me to kill him. Me. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t do it. And now she’s angry.”
Pity continued, not allowing any silence for Max to fill with questions. Bit by bit the story trickled out of her, rising to a flood by the time she arrived at Selene’s rebuke. When she was done, Max sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him as his warmth overtook her, the most comfort she had felt in days.
“I remember what you said, about the city and letting it get to me, but…” She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to leave Cessation.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Max. “Selene will cool off. This wasn’t a normal Finale. That man tried to kill her. As tough as she is, that’s not easy to shake off.” His arm tightened. “And you’re too well liked to be kicked out over one little misstep. By the time the next Finale comes around, you’ll—”
She pulled away from him. “Max, I can’t do that again. I can’t.”
“What if you have to?”
Pity stood and strode away. “Last night you told me to say no.”
“That was when I thought it was the audience choosing you, not Selene. Pity, she’ll forgive you for this, but if she wants you to perform in a Finale again, you can’t refuse.”
“Why not?” Her voice rose, beyond her control. “I do my act and everyone loves it, so why do I have to be her executioner, too?”
“Pity—”
“I know what I said about justice, and I know that man would have put a bullet through me without a second thought, but the Finales… they’re not right. They’re not. A person’s death shouldn’t be a spectacle, whether they deserve it or not.”
“Pity, please.” Max stood and reached for her. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t defy Selene again.”
She recoiled. “You know? How do you know, Max? You make costumes. You build sets.” Talons of anger pierced her throat, strangling her words even as she couldn’t stop speaking. “No one is going to ask you to paint someone to death while the audience is cheering you on! So explain to me, how exactly do you know what it’s like?”
She might have slapped him. Though he didn’t move, the whole of his bearing diminished, the emotional blow landing squarely. Silver piercings flickered weakly as he started to speak, stopped, and finally began again.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll never know what it’s like to be in the arena during a Finale. And you know I don’t entirely agree with what they are, but Selene isn’t like CONA. She’s not murdering innocents because they want the freedom to make their own choices about their lives.” He ran an anxious hand through his hair. “I don’t want good people hurt or killed. These aren’t good people, Pity. They’re the very worst parts of a city whose pieces barely fit together as it is.”
“What about Beeks? Did he really deserve to die for being a thief?”
“Beeks crossed Selene.” Max’s voice was unapologetic but saturated with concern. “Is that something you want to do, too?”
A leaden silence fell as anger seethed within Pity. She hadn’t expected sympathy from Eva or Halcyon or anyone else… but Max? She thought he would understand. Instead, he was siding with Selene. Pity longed to lash out, to find any outlet for the resentment swirling within, but before she could, there was another knock on her door.
Crossing the room in two curt strides, she yanked it open. “What?”
It was Duchess. His gaze jumped from her to Max and back.
“Come downstairs,” he said. “There’s something you should see.”
Before they reached the Gallery, the difference in the air was apparent: it hummed, hivelike, with warning. As they drew closer, what should have been a familiar brew of sounds carried an unfamiliar resonance. The halls were scented with something Pity recognized but couldn’t quite identify. When they plunged into the near frenzy of the Gallery, filled to the brim with everyone from patrons to porters, she realized what it was: bloodlust.
Cheers and jeers whizzed like bullets, aimed at a far corner of the room. Peeling away from the others, Pity climbed onto a table so she could see above the crowd. In a booth near the bar, calm as a gentle breeze—save for the shotgun across her lap—was Siena Bond. A man in chains sat beside her.
Daneko.
She jumped down and pushed through the crowd.
