12Author's Note:The entire idea for this poor excuse for a story came out of a thread post concerning how much a mechanical body would weigh compared to a normal one. This story, then, is dedicated to TK3997 and his random slightly off-topic thought.
On Pronounciation:In the manga, Bernardo's nickname for Beatrice is Bicé (pronounced Bee chay with the stress on the first syllable) and I have preserved that convention.
Beatrice Gets a Cold
A Tragedy in Three Parts
Incubation
"All ready, Bicé?" Bernardo asked his charge.
She was done up in a blouse and skirt that alternated blue and white. The skirt and the body of the blouse were a navy blue with white sleeves and stockings. Short, brown hair framed an emotionless face. Her green eyes were focused intensely on her handler and everything he said.
"Yes, sir." They were standing down the street a few hundred feet from a ramshackle cottage on the northern outskirts of Naples. It was just past noon and Section Two was ready to execute another 'information-gathering' operation.
Bernardo smiled down at his ward. He had a narrow, angular face that was used to smiling. His short, dark hair was hastily combed, but none the worse for wear. He wore jeans and a longsleeved shirt despite the balmy weather. He handed her a stack of papers. The top page had a childish sketch of a dog and lettering in Beatrice's own hand.
"Draw your gun," he told her as she accepted the papers. Without hesitation she drew the CZ-100 from its holster and held it in her right hand with the stack of papers in her left. He squatted in front of her to look right at her, putting a hand on her shoulder as he did so.
"Alright. I want you to keep the gun hidden behind that stack of leaflets." She shifted the gun behind the paper in her left hand. "Go over to the house there and knock on the door. When someone answers, offer him a paper and tell him you lost your dog. While his hands are distracted, shoot him then run inside and secure Felipé Gobetti. If you believe him to be a threat you can fire in self-defense, but aim to wound. We want Gobetti alive. Understand?"
She had been listening impassively, but the question prompted a, "Yes, sir," from her.
"Oh, and another thing," he said, standing. "If there's no answer, just slide that under the door," he said, indicating the flyer with the words 'Lost Dog' across the top, "and come back here."
She nodded assent. Bernardo checked his watch. Jean and Rico should be ready any minute, and then we go. As he waited, he regarded his cyborg again. She was quiet, eyes narrowed, looking at the house that was her target. Staring at it as if looks alone could kill. He shook his head and thought yet again, Maybe it had been a mistake to join this outfit.
Bernardo's phone beeped. The text message from Jean was concise: In position.
"Alright, Beatrice, you're on. Good luck."
She nodded and walked towards the house. Bernardo ducked behind a bush to avoid being seen and waited, hand on his own pistol. Hopefully he would not have to use it.
Beatrice continued down the street towards the house. It was a beautiful day out and the rural smells brought back half-remembered images of happier times. But she shoved those distractions from her head and focused on her target. Bernardo was counting on her and she couldn't let him down.
Her shoes made little clopping noises on the wooden steps as she ascended. She stood on the porch for a minute, listening to the men inside. She counted two voices and a single set of footsteps. Holding her burdens in a single small hand, she knocked on the door. She had the gun and paper ready by the time the door opened.
A lanky Italian man in jeans and a plain shirt opened the door to say, "What do you want?" He looked unhappy as he glared down at the little girl. The scents of soap, shampoo and breakfast foods clung to him, almost masking the faint stench of gun oil.
"Excuse me, sir, could you help me? I lost my dog," she said, holding out the stack of pamphlets resting atop the gun. He frowned at the cold tone of her voice but took the proffered page, almost by reflex. The page depicted a poorly drawn, furry brown dog with a white spot over its eye. The words 'Lost Dog' were scrawled across the top while 'Answers to Spot' ran across the bottom of the page. His eyes widened as he realized the rest of papers in the stack were blank.
The sound of gunshots tore through the serene rural setting as the papers spilled from her hand in a tumble of white. Beatrice launched herself at the dying man and shoved him out of her way as she pushed into the interior of the building. With a clear view of the men at the back of the room she dropped to one knee and brought the pistol up.
The room itself was small and cozily appointed, with two other doors and a staircase leading to the second floor. Against the far wall, next to a large window with a beautiful view, sat two men on a couch. One was wearing dark dress pants and a matching button-down shirt. The other appeared to be wearing a white tee shirt and was wrapped in blankets.
The dark clad man reached forward to snatch the pistol on the coffee table in front of him. As he did so, the window behind him shattered, and a fountain of red exploded from his throat as the crack of a rifle echoed outside. In mere seconds it was over. Beatrice held her gun steadily as Felipé Gobetti cowered under his blankets.
Footsteps sounded behind her, accompanied by the musky, comforting scent of her handler. She stood up, never letting her gaze — or the muzzle of the pistol — stray from Gobetti.
"Well done, Bicé, very well done," Bernardo said, coming up behind her and patting her on the head. The corners of her mouth twitched, but the smile never came.
"I— I don't believe it!" Gobetti stammered, staring in horror at the emotionless eyes of the cyborg.
"Believe it. It happened. Let's see some hands, Mr. Gobetti, and don't make any sudden movements," Bernardo said, looking around. "Is there anyone else here?"
Gobetti, slowly raising his hands, shook his head. Bernardo crossed the room, careful to keep out of the girl's line of fire, and picked up the gun on the coffee table, a Glock 19C. He wiped the blood off on the dead man's shirt before pocketing it.
"You can put the gun away, Beatrice," he said, opening his phone and dialing. The doll slipped the pistol back into its holster, and stepped around to the side of the couch. If she needed to leap at Gobetti for whatever reason, she didn't want the coffee table in her way. The fact that she had holstered her weapon had done nothing to reduce Gobetti's unease and he continued to stare at her as if she were Death, incarnate.
"Who are you people?" Gobetti asked when Bernardo put his phone away.
"Maybe you should let me ask the questions, okay? Beatrice, get a whiff of that guy, tell me if he's been in contact with our friend, Mr. Tamagno."
The man recoiled as Beatrice stepped closer. She grabbed his shirt with one hand to draw him closer and sniffed. Unable to contain himself, Gobetti sneezed all over her. Taking it for an attack, Beatrice grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm back, one hand on his elbow. She had the leverage to break the elbow, if only Bernardo gave the word. The words Bernardo gave, however, were very different.
"What the hell! That's disgusting!" he exclaimed, a sudden flash of anger marring his normally cheerful demeanor. "Find the bathroom and wash yourself off," he said to the girl.
"Yes, sir," she said, releasing Gobetti. She walked into the kitchen, leaving Gobetti alone with Bernardo.
"I'm sick," Gobetti said, slightly embarrassed and reaching for a tissue.
"You'll be a lot worse if you don't tell us what we want to hear." Cowed, Gobetti said nothing.
Jean entered, dressed in his usual gray suit. He sported black leather gloves and dark glasses today. Rico was right behind him, outfitted in a black shirt and beige pants. She closed the door after her, eyes fixed on Gobetti. Jean nodded towards Bernardo who returned the curt salutation.
"Tell me then, Mr. Gobetti," Jean began, "what did you do with the pictures you received from Mr. Tamagno?"
"They're upstairs. I didn't believe they were real, but 'Vanni said they were and told me they were important. I didn't have anything to do with taking them or anything, honest!"
"No, of course not. Who else has copies?"
"No one! I didn't have time to make copies! I've been sick," he said, snuffling.
"Really? Rico, help Mr. Gobetti remember about the copies."
Without a word, Rico advanced as Gobetti cringed, professing his innocence.
"Jean!" Bernardo said, "The guy's sick, he might be contagious. He sneezed all over Bicé."
"Rico." The single word stopped her in her tracks. He looked around the room until his gaze stopped on an aluminum baseball bat sitting in a corner next to a catcher's glove. "Use that," he said, gesturing to the bat. "And don't get too close."
Beatrice appeared from the kitchen, hair and blouse still damp. "Mr. Bernardo, sir? I'm fairly certain Mr. Gobetti met with Mr. Tamagno. The cologne smelled the same."
Bernardo turned his attention from his cyborg to Jean. "Do you need us for anything else, here, Jean?"
"I don't think so," the blonde man said as Gobetti coughed in the background. "Call Ferro. We'll leave as soon as I get some info out of this guy," he said, jerking a thumb at Gobetti
"Right." Bernardo gestured to Beatrice to follow him. The metallic PING of aluminum on bone echoed behind them as he opened the door. Gobetti screamed.
"Tell me again who has copies of the pictures of Senator Dini," Jean said calmly as Gobetti whimpered and clutched his shin.
Outside, Bernardo sat on the porch and called Ferro. When he was done, he looked over at his sorella. She stood by his side, alert for danger.
"You did really well today," he said to her. "You should be happy."
"Yes, sir. I will be happy."
He chuckled. "That's not what I meant. I meant that you should be proud of yourself and, y'know, let some of your happiness show."
She turned and beamed an incredibly fake smile at him. The irony of it made him laugh, despite the screaming coming from inside the house. When he looked back at her she still had the faux smile plastered across her face. "Cut that out," he said with a grin. Her face reverted to the normal apathetic look he had come to associate with his partner.
"I will stop being happy, sir."
"No, I want you to be happy," he began, "just... not like that," he finished with a sigh. He wasn't sure what it was. Most of the other girls were full of personality, for better or worse. His Beatrice always seemed so literal and emotionless all the time, in stark contrast to her handler. Someone had even gone so far as to comment that she was a lot like Elsa in that respect, though the comment hadn't been meant for his ears.
When he had first come to the Agency, José had told him that most of the girls were pretty bland their first few weeks after the 'procedure.' He had been certain she would change if just given some time. Thoughts of José made him reminisce...
The question hung heavy in the air between them. José repeated it, slowly, pondering it while studying his glass of wine.
"Do I like my job?"
Bernardo leaned back in his chair while the other man thought. He occupied his own thoughts with images of the gorgeous Italian woman a few tables over from them. He had almost gone over to introduce himself, full of alcohol-induced confidence and swagger. But then her husband or boyfriend had shown up and he contented himself with just looking.
"Tough question, don't you think?" José asked. "I mean, how am I supposed to answer it?"
Bernardo smiled. "Truthfully, I hope."
Bernardo had asked José out for drinks for several reasons, not the least of which was to figure out what the guy was like. Both of them had been relatively free that night and José was reputed to have a good relationship with his cyborg. Maybe he would have some useful tips for the new agent. That and it had been too long since Bernardo had been out for a drink.
Glass after glass had gone down and Bernardo was shuffling lazily from pleasantly buzzed to nice and drunk. He had been nursing his drink for the last twenty minutes. José had practically matched him, drink for drink, but not in any sort of competitive manner. The guy was easy to like and fun to talk to and Bernardo was drunk enough to start asking the serious questions — and drunk enough not to care if the senior agent took offense to the asking.
"Look José, I'm not asking for any severe navel-gazing. I was just making small talk, man. You don't need to—"
"I don't," he said, looking from the glass to his colleague.
"Huh?"
"I don't... like my job." He paused a minute, then drained the glass and poured another.
"Gee... maybe I shouldn't have signed up for this, huh?"
"The job's alright, the pay is great, but it's hard not to get involved too much."
He had asked in the hopes of getting some insight into the sort of person José really was. He sensed no artifice and was pretty certain that José was about as drunk as he was. But then again, Bernardo wasn't exactly a good judge of character when drunk. The only thing for it now, however, was to see where this would take him... and have another drink.
"Whaddaya mean?"
"The girls. They're cute and so eager to please..." For a minute Bernardo thought José was going to say something he'd rather not hear, but he continued, "...it's hard not to like them, but it's hard to work with someone when you know she's only got a few years to live, if that." He shook his head. "It reminds me of something Marco said to Henrietta, once."
"What?"
"I probably couldn't remember it exactly if I tried. Something about if she was afraid to die."
"And. What did she say?"
José took a gulp of wine and sighed. "She said she wasn't afraid to die. But that doesn't mean I'm not afraid to lose her. All the handlers get attached to their girls. As I said, it's hard not to."
"All of them? Even your brother?"
"Jean? Yeah, even him." Seeing Bernardo's look of disbelief, he added, "I've known the guy all my life. I know how he thinks."
"No offense, José, but why does Jean treat Rico like shit then?"
José paused before speaking. Bernardo had been trying to keep the mood light, but their conversation had taken a somber tone just the same.
"He pretends. He figures that if he pretends he doesn't care about her... well, that maybe that will make it true."
There was a long silence as each man was occupied with his own thoughts. José was the first to break it.
"That's probably the best advice I can give you about Beatrice. Try not to get attached. And be prepared to lose her. Neither of those are easy."
Despite any coercion from Jean and Rico, Gobetti adamantly refused to acknowledge that anyone had gotten copies of the photos he'd received. This had proven to be a problem since Jean wasn't sure that any copies had been made in the first place. Even so, photos had been leaked to various news agencies and were all over anti-government websites.
With the business in Naples taken care of, Bernardo and Beatrice were given free rein but were to remain on-call. In characteristic fashion, Bernardo asked his girl if she had any desire to go anywhere or do anything with their spare time. She didn't. She never did.
"I'll go where you want me to go, Bernardo." It was a stock line for her. She never seemed to have any desires that were hers. Like she didn't care where she was going or what she was doing unless he told her where to go or what to do. At least she had stopped calling him 'Mr.' Bernardo.
"How about ice cream?" Bernardo had been wandering aimlessly, Beatrice in tow, through a commercial district thronged with equal parts tourists and natives.
His charge merely looked at him, and said, "Could you rephrase the question, sir?"
He wasn't in the mood to sigh again, so he merely rephrased it, "We're going to get some ice cream. Milkshakes, I think. And it wasn't a question."
"Yes, sir."
After a bit of navigation, Bernardo steered them towards a small café. Once inside he ordered a large chocolate milkshake for himself.
"What flavor do you want?" he asked her while the woman at the counter waited expectantly.
Beatrice was uncharacteristically silent in the face of a direct question. Taking her silence for indecision, Bernardo ordered a small chocolate for her.
"Vanilla, please, sir," she said, somewhat bashfully.
"Such a well-mannered child," the cashier said, after Bernardo revised the order. "Your daughter?"
Bernardo smiled. "My niece. And, yes, she is very polite."
The lady at the counter smiled longingly. "I wish my niece was as nice as yours. My brother's children are all brats."
She thanked him for his business as she handed over the milkshakes and accepted his money. Bernardo walked outside and found a little table where he could sit and enjoy the fine afternoon with his sweet treat.
"I wouldn't have guessed you for a vanilla girl." Beatrice continued to sip her dessert in silence. The milkshakes were a bit uneven, having one or two large lumps of ice cream in them. Bernardo pulled the top off of his cup, seeing how inefficient the straw was. Beatrice did the same.
"We've got an hour or two before we need to rendezvous with Jean and Rico, you sure there's nothing you want to do in Naples? How about shopping? I thought all girls liked shopping."
She looked up from the abandoned newspaper she had been reading and answered, "No, sir," in her flat voice. Her eyes flicked again to the portion of the paper advertising a nearby zoological garden, but Bernardo had busied himself with his drink.
He tried again at small talk. "How's the school coming?" It was a redundant question. He knew exactly how well his ward performed compared to the other girls in the 'academic' assignments that the agency deemed important.
"I am performing adequately, sir."
That's what he had thought she would say. "Sometimes I wish you were a bit more like a normal girl, Beatrice," he said, wistfully. "But don't try too hard to be. I'm sure you would if I ordered you to." She didn't say anything. He let the matter drop. Maybe it was like José had said. It was easier not to become attached so long as she wasn't a normal, cute, little girl.
His milkshake was down near the end and hers was too, judging by the way she tilted the cup back far enough to get the last bits out. He paused, watching her a minute.
There must have been a glob of ice cream stuck to the bottom of her cup. She tilted the cup far back to empty the remaining contents into her mouth, but — as nothing came — she closed her mouth and squinted at the bottom of the cup through one eye, a girlish frown on her face. She put her mouth to the cup again and tried shaking. Bernardo couldn't resist. He gave the outside of the cup a tap on the bottom to free up the sweet creaminess stuck to the inside. All at once it let go and half slid, half fell down to the opening, landing on Beatrice's mouth and nose. She tilted the cup back down, letting the ice cream fall back to the bottom at the sound of his laughter.
When she looked up from her cup, her mouth and nose were painted white. Bernardo laughed even harder at that as he handed her a napkin.
"That's okay. I'm plenty immature for both of us," he said with a smile. She finished the last bit of her treat in silence and without further incident. At least I thought it was funny, he thought as he finished the last of his own milkshake.
The last bit of chocolate-flavored goodness took its time, slowly oozing down the side of the cup. He waited, patiently. Good things were worth waiting for, he reasoned. The scrape of her chair caught his attention. Normally Beatrice would wait until he had gotten up before rising. If she had sensed some danger...
The styrofoam of the cup echoed with a hollow TAP, and suddenly his mouth and nose were covered in melted chocolate. He worked the glob of ice cream into his mouth to finish it before setting the cup down and meeting the eyes of the culprit. The slightest hint of a grin lingered at the corners of her mouth as she stood there, trying to remain impassive. He grinned at her and, once his mouth was free of ice cream, laughed aloud at the antic.
Beatrice brought her hand up to her mouth but a bit of girly giggle escaped, just the same. "Fair enough," Bernardo said, wiping the chocolate stickiness off. Inwardly he was relieved that he'd managed to provoke some sort of reaction. She really was a little girl, after all.
His phone beeped to indicate an incoming text message. He crushed the styrofoam in one hand as he read the message in the other.
"Time to leave. We're meeting Jean and heading back to Rome. Ready to go?" She nodded, green eyes still smiling.
As he tossed the cup in the trash and slid his phone back into his pocket a little sneeze echoed behind him. He turned around to look at the girl who sniffled and wiped her nose.
"Beatrice? Are you getting a cold?"
Next: Weakness of Flesh