Righty-ho, here's my first fanfic. It's sort of an introduction to a series of alternate universe stories that I've got in mind, but that just haven't worked their way out through my fingers just yet. So, what if 8 year old Giorgio hadn't been picked up after his parents' assassination and taken away to become part of the Gatchaman team, but had instead remained in Galactor territory and grown up as a Galactor? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Francesca Rossi had been following the small family group all day, watching their attempts to lose their pursuers with a detatched amusement that almost shocked even her. She had called off their hunters herself, one by one, to make them think that their escape was complete, and now she needed only to wait for their final betrayal. She still had hope of some redeeming act from her sister, Catarina. Just one little display of the old loyalties, of the sensibilities and priorities of the girl she had shared her childhood with, from the woman who now sat at a cafe table only a few metres away from her. How strange that they had known each other for all their lives, and yet now Catarina did not recognise her own sister. Francesca would not have recognised Catarina either, if she hadn't been following her for the last 28 hours. Catarina's beautiful long hair was gone, a short roughly cut bob in its place, dark brown dye covering the brilliance of its natural dark auburn. Her slim frame, the figure she had worked so hard to retain through her marriage, was no longer hugged and flattered by elegant designer clothing, but smocked in a cheap maternity dress. She had been wearing high heels constantly for so many years that she could barely walk in the flat pumps that she wore now. The usual subtle and sophisticated make-up was replaced with gaudy blue eyeshadow and bright pink lipstick, so much rouge on her cheeks that they looked sunken. She looked positively haggard, most likely because she was tired and scared. Catarina had never been able to convincingly hide her own fears, a weakness that Francesca had often found irritating. Her husband had shaved his head and wore cheap, mismatched clothing instead of his usual smart suit. Their child, fidgeting and confused between them, had his hair tucked up into a cap and freckles painted across his nose and onto his cheeks. They looked very different now than they had yesterday. Only yesterday had they realised that they had to run, that they had been found out. It would soon be time. The wait must almost be over. There was nowhere further that they could run without help. This was the coast of their small island, the little world that they had controlled almost absolutely. Someone must be coming to pick them up, to use the information that they would no doubt give away so freely. Traitors. Giuseppe the traitor, and Catarina his weak wife who thought so much of him that she had forgotten all the things that were once important to her. Catarina who had packed their mother's jewellery but left behind the Book. Catarina who thought so much of this traitor that she would give up her life because of him. Francesca knew, deep down, that there would be no last redeeming act. They had come this far, too far, and Catarina had done so much that was wrong that she probably didn't even know what was right any more. Francesca picked up her bag and walked into the cafe. Time to get dressed for work. The bathroom here had a large window, easy to climb through. The staff of this place must not know that death walked through their doors. Not so that they could ever recognise the real face of this particular death, anyway. She had always prided herself on just how few people she had killed, all things considered. The only ones who died by her hand were the ones meant to die, never bystanders, innocents on the periphery of events that were no fault of their own. She had worked hard to hold on to her morality. So many others in her profession had given up their principles in moments of panic but not her, never her. How could Catarina leave the Book? If Francesca had to run, she would have organised her finances, sorted out her escape plan, ensured the security of the Book and only then would she have tried to save herself. The Book was a gift to the future, Catarina's by right of succession, the work of generations, a history that began in Roman times. It was a part of their bloodline, the explanation for everything, all the inherited character traits that made the family so distinct. How could Catarina leave the Book, exposed on her study desk like some ordinary mass of paper, like something that could be replaced? Francesca didn't want the bloodline to end with her, but what choice was there now? Catarina had only produced one child, too worried about losing her husband through boredom while she spent months feeling bloated and unattractive and sexually unavailable. And little Giorgio showed nothing of Catarina. He was a little version of Giuseppe in every way. She wondered how many illegitimate brothers and sisters he had, other little Giuseppes and Giuseppinas around the island, each of them a perfect miniature of his father. Not one little Catarina anywhere. Catarina should have had more children, should have risked her worthless marriage to continue the line. She owed it to her ancestors, to the future, to the Book. Now Giuseppe and Catarina and little Giorgio were to die, and there would be no more. Francesca could barely stand the thought of that. Over two thousand years of influence that burned behind the paragraphs in so many history texts, never named but always there, untraceable and unmistakeable. If she hadn't taken that bullet in Athens five years ago she would continue the line herself. Not that she had ever felt any maternal urges towards anything, but the family line could not end with her. She pulled back the mask for a moment, wiping the tears from her cheeks. It would be the end of everything important when she died, and how could she be the culmination of everything? A simple assassin? This wasn't how it was meant to be. They should have had more of an effect on the world than this. They should have gone out with a bang, not just teetered to extinction through infertility and weakness. They should have been there at the end of the world, pushing that last button or pulling that final trigger, all history ending with them. The slight vibration of her secure pager brought her to her senses. Pulling it out of her pocket, she quickly decoded the message. The contact was on his way, being tracked in a small seaplane, winding along a route that followed the coast of the mainland. It was time. Opening the window, she climbed out. Her gun was loaded, her rose primed. The painted mask covered her face and distorted its shape. Her own hair was tucked up under the little blue wig. The fur collar of her suit tickled against her neck, as she walked silently around the side of the building. The family had moved, her sister and brother in law now sitting at a beach table while their son played alone at the sea's edge. Not family. Just traitors. They would be a warning to others. None of them saw her. Catarina watched the child in the sand, Giuseppe watched the sky for his rescuer. The boy saw only shells and sand and sea. The resident population of this tiny coastal village were all safe in their houses or at their work, protected from the threatening weather. The little family had been very lucky to find a cafe open here at this time of year, late winter with rain in the air and a chill in the wind. Stella Diavolo pulled our her gun and fired, first into Catarina and then into Giuseppe as he reached for his own gun. They were afraid of death, she knew that. Otherwise they would not have run. They cried out, and then they were gone and only empty shells of corpses remained to fall across the little white table. She had always found it slightly offensive that even the quickest deaths were never clean. The child screamed and ran back to his parents. She watched him come closer, leaving small footprints in the hard wet sand, through the pooling blood to his father's side. How must it feel to see them like this? She was so caught up in curiosity that she barely noticed as he picked up his father's gun and pointed it at her, eyes wild with anger and hate and grief. Survival instincts cutting in suddenly, she leapt backwards, simultaneously pulling away the rose and throwing it at him. The bullet grazed her shoulder as the blast threw the boy backwards, tumbling him back down the beach. Who would have thought that an eight year old boy would think of attacking his parents' killer instead of just collapsing in floods of tears or staring in shocked silence? She picked herself up, remembering her duty to the survivors, the people cowering inside the cafe and peering out from behind the curtains of their upstairs rooms, pale shocked faces wondering at the gunshots, poor sods who would have to clean up the mess she left behind. Whenever she performed an execution, she proclaimed the charges and the sentence for all to hear, that they might better know the rules they should live by. Those few people who thought enough to think of betraying the system that could be their only salvation, often thought hard enough to know that the deaths of all they knew were far, far worse than only their own deaths, that such a responsibility was too much for them to take on. Their own selfishness would make murderers of them. There was no challenge to Stella Diavolo as she spoke the words, loud and clear. Windows shut and curtains fell back into place as people hid from her. Then she walked down to the sea's edge, pulling out a small radio control device from her pocket and punching instructions into it. A distant roar sounded from the cliffs to the east as her escape boat started up and arced around the coast to meet her. As she waited for it to arrive, she glanced back at the the little town in case anyone felt foolish enough to come out of hiding while she was there, and then felt her eyes drawn to the crumpled child on the sand. He was lying on his stomach, looking almost as if he was asleep, except for the tension on his face and the splashes of blood around him, and the way that one of his legs twisted unnaturally at the knee. Her sister's child. Her own nephew. Reaching down, she stroked his hair, then felt for a pulse at the base of his neck. Rolling him over, she checked his injuries. He would survive a little longer, and then he would die in pain. He was in pain now, although he was barely conscious. It was against her principles to cause pain. She positioned her hands to break his neck, to give him a quick death, and then she remembered the look in his eyes as he pointed the gun at her. If his reactions had been trained and his aim had been better, perhaps he would have managed to kill her before she thought to throw the rose. How strange that an eight year old child should react that way. None of the children whose parents' she had taken before had acted like that. They cried or they collapsed in shock, or they died at the same time and knew nothing of it. Children did not normally have such a defined and immediate sense of vengeance. She remembered how she had been told of the death of her own parents, many years before. How she had tried to tear at the throat of the messenger who told her, how Benito and Catarina had to pull her away from him, how his blood had stained the cuffs of her blouse and left little dark rings under her fingernails. Perhaps there was a little of the old family blood in him after all. A little of the important part of their bloodline, at any rate. Perhaps their line did not have to die after all. She picked him up, careful not to twist his knee any further or to allow his torso to sag and cause more internal bleeding, and carried him to the edge of the water to meet the empty boat. She threw his hat, jacket and shoes into the sea, then made him as comfortable as she could on the floor, and raced away from B C Island to safety. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Comments welcome ... meridian_day@bigfoot.com