Page 37 of Gunslinger Girl

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay, honey,” said Luster. “You just watched a man die. Something like that always stirs up old ghosts.”

“New ones, too.” Pity leaned over her drink, thinking of Finn’s flask the night before they ran. For the pain, she had said. Pity took another long swallow.

“I’m sorry,” said Max. “I wanted to say something, but I was afraid if I did you might get a bad idea about the Theatre.”

“A bad idea?” Pity shoved a stray piece of hair out of her face. “Max—they executed a man! With snakes! Is that a normal thing here?”

“No.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, a Finale is pretty rare. Only the very worst end up there—the ones who do more than enjoy the absence of law, who step over the line and keep going.”

“Yeah, like this.” Duchess pushed closer and lifted his silver shirt to reveal a jagged, florid scar. Pity’s chest tightened as he twisted around to give her a better view. It started above his left hip bone, hooking around his waist and up to the middle of his back. “Not the prettiest thing about me, huh?”

“Where… did you get it?”

“A present from an admirer who liked to break his toys when he was done with them. This was before Casimir, when I was living on the streets.” He let the shirt fall. “Those of us who worked the alleys knew it was happening. Didn’t know who was doing it, but, well, we had to eat, right? I was lucky. I got away. But I didn’t hide or look for a doctor. I came here. Walked right in the front door with my guts nearly hanging out because I knew what Selene would do about it.” He paused. “They patched me up, took me in, and soon enough my admirer was the Theatre’s featured attraction.”

“Still…” Pity searched for the right words, embarrassed at having scolded him earlier.

“Still what?” Duchess drained his drink. “He got what was coming to him.”

“What he’s saying is that no one ends up in a Finale unless they deserve it,” said Max. “And there are some people the world is better off without.”

Did Beeks really deserve to die? Pity took a deep breath. Magnanimous or not, Selene was clearly not a woman to cross. “Is Halcyon going to ask me to do that? Because I’m not sure I could.”

Max nudged her. “You didn’t show this much reluctance when you nearly killed me.”

“That was different. It was self-defense!”

There was a sudden, high cry. Pity and everyone around her turned toward it. A few yards away, in a padded red booth, a man clutched a young woman in white lingerie. She was pushing him away, a frantic look on her face.

“Son of a—”

Olivia launched herself onto the surface of the bar and leapt off, landing among scattering patrons. With a flick of her whip, the man in the booth was clawing at his throat; a yank tumbled him to the carpet. The woman in white retreated behind Olivia as the bartender’s boot descended on the man’s hand with an audible crunch. He howled.

“You got a bad memory or something? You’ve been warned already.”

The man glared, his face half pain and half sneer. “What do you care? I’m a paying customer, aren’t—”

Olivia ground his hand into the floor with her heel. Pity flinched as his argument turned into a scream. “This is my hall, and you will follow my rules when you’re in it. Understand?”

Flossie materialized out of the onlookers, all peachy skin and bouncing pink lace. “Problem, Olivia?”

“Not anymore.” The bartender whistled. A pair of Tin Men ran over. “Give him a shot.”

One of the Tin Men jabbed the man with a shock stick. He bucked as every muscle contracted at once, a cry of pain trapped behind clenched teeth.

“Your turn,” said Olivia.

Flossie addressed the offender. “I’m sorry, sir, but your patronage is no longer welcome in Casimir. Olivia, sweetie, you want to bust his other hand before they toss him out?”

Olivia shrugged. “Why not?”

“No!” he cried. “No, I’m sorry, please don’t!”

“Oh, don’t apologize to me, hon. Apologize to Kitty.”

The man sniffled at the young woman. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I swear I am.”