Chiasm

Jean wouldn't call his relationship with Doctor Bianchi strained beyond professional pertinence. They had often disagreed on matters concerning the cyborgs' emotional health—namely in that it was a concern at all—and Jean often silently judged the doctor as trying to justify his own employment. Within the context of achieving his revenge, though, those were annoyances Jean was willing to put up with.

As things stood currently, he felt the conversation would go better with a bottle from the galley's reserve. With all the self-restraint he'd been practicing, he'd certainly earned a little indulgence. Pretending to treat the matter democratically, though, he gave Rico a consulting look.

Her eyes stayed half-drawn and vacant, just as they had for the past two days. She hadn't gone totally blind just yet, but she might as well have. In what he hoped for her sake was one of the final stages of brain death, she had lost her cognitive processing, language, and probably whatever was left of motor control.

And yet, she still refused to die.

He scowled back. "I did what I could," he muttered, "I'm here. What are you waiting for?"

Rico's vitals responded with an apathetic trundling of beeps. The doctors had hooked her up to food and water yesterday, but they left her breathing to fend for itself. When she went out, it would be because her body failed. Given how quickly everything else was going, Jean was surprised she still had a pulse.

Behind him, the cabin door whined open, then shut again with a clunk. He glanced at his watch out of habit. He couldn't remember what time he'd set with Bianchi, but his gut told him it was too early.

Still… he looked back up to Rico's paling face and put away his thoughts of thought-dulling drink, might as well get it over with.

Behind him, Bianchi let the silence settle in a moment before continuing his approach. "Good morning, Jean," the doctor said quietly, bringing Claes' reading stool to the bedside. "Any change?"

Good, getting right down to business. Jean could work with that. If Bianchi kept on track, maybe he wouldn't even need the drink. "Minor dips in blood pressure, nothing sustained," he reported. "No changes in heart rate or brain activity, either."

"I see..." A soft, annoyingly uncommunicative frown formed on the doctor's face as he pulled a clipboard from under his arm and began filling boxes.

Jean raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Bianchi glanced up, then back to his clipboard. "And that puts us at a stalemate. Without any new information, I can't form a new prognosis. There's only so much I can do for her in this state."

"And if she goes lucid again?"

Bianchi's frown deepened, "That's more in the realm of medical miracle, Jean, and not a minor one."

"Angelica came back."

"Well… yes, but that was also a miracle. According to Belisario's brain scans, she shouldn't have even been cognizant, much less conscious."

"It happened for them," Jean insisted, reaching into his pocket for a lighter. If he couldn't have a drink, he could at least have a cigarette. Not like Rico would object. "It can happen for us. That's the point of you scientists, right?"

"I... wouldn't call this a matter of science."

Jean grunted and almost started up his nicotine treat when he caught a sharp glance from the doctor. "Fine," he lowered the lighter, then grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth, "What would you call it?"

Bianchi paused."If there's any hope for you," he said, drawing himself back up in his chair, "it's in her spirit."

A dry, humorless chuckle spread his mouth in a make-believe smile. "You're saying I should call a priest?"

"I'm saying any response now is outside of empirical cause and effect," Bianchi sighed. "Perhaps we'll boil it down to a reliable scientific formula one day, but for now the incredible force we call 'spirit' works on its own mysteries."

"Huh..." Jean bobbed his head and almost took a drag from his still-unlit cigarette. Catching himself, he settled for flicking non-existent ash off the end. "So what does her 'spirit' want?"

"Peace, probably," Bianchi returned, lifting a sheet on his clipboard to read a buried page, "or perhaps she's waiting for something from you."

Jean narrowed his eyes in an unamused look. If the joke was supposed to be that he wasn't sitting close enough to the bed, then the universe had a poor sense of humor. He had kept dry, unlit, and present for the past three weeks. What else did she want out of him, a hug?

"It's also possible she feels some kind of responsibility," Bianchi went on. "The bond between Handler and Cyborg runs deeper than just the conditioning, and cases like this are usually sustained purely on force of will. Perhaps she's waiting until she knows your own heart is settled."

"And how will she know when that is?"

"Well..." Bianchi stopped again. Jean watched a series of suggestions struggle and die across the doctor's face. "It's... difficult to say at this point," he said at last. "But if she can sense unrest, theoretically she'll also sense peace. Beyond that..."

"...Beyond that?"

The doctor sighed and showed Jean open palms. "In dreams... there is also truth."

He murmured the words with all the confidence of a schoolboy asked to repeat himself. Jean stared for a moment, waiting for some kind of amendment to the ridiculous statement, before looking back again to Rico. Her empty eyes were still open, looking for God-only-knew-what. If this was really the best they could give her, then maybe it was better she couldn't hear them.

Putting the cigarette back in his mouth, Jean got up and walked past Bianchi.

"Jean?" the Doctor called after him with an apprehensive pinch in his voice.

"I'll be back," Jean said, again producing his lighter. "Just going to get a drink."

Dreams or peace or whatever it was she wanted out of him, it would be easier to pretend with a little alcohol in him.

And if she passed before that, at least he wouldn't feel it.

[To be Continued]

Author's Note:

Here ends the first half of Contract Closure. We'll finish up during next year's Shibuya Operation Story Storm but we're all out of time for this season. Can't rush with a story like this, you know? Gotta go for the slow burn. Or perhaps I'm simply using kinder words for the limits of my skill…

That said, thank you for reading this far! I pray I have not tested your patience too much and that this slow unraveling of Jean does not feel too redundant to his canon ending. While Mr. Aida does strike a peaceful, respectful tone with his own handling of the subject, I wanted to do something that examined the more long-suffering aspects of a drug-induced brain death and force Jean into a position where all he can ultimately do is watch. When the only thing his relationship with Rico has left to offer is a shared suffering, how long does he stick around? It's that kind of question that I wanted to poke at.

To be completely transparent, though, Contract Closure is also meant as an homage to the Gunslinger Girl writers I consider my greatest influences: Taerkitty and TheScarredMan. Borrowing heavily from taerkitty's structural style and TSM's interpretations of Jean and Rico (along with certain themes for Season 2), my greatest hope for this work is that it will in some way please those who gave me their time, their genius, and their refining encouragement over the years. Thank you for the lessons, I'll try not to waste them on sentimental nonsense.

Until next time,

-CG [MARCH-8-2020]