Bubblegum Crisis:
The King Has Killed His Heart

	Sylia Stingray stepped out of the car, holding her purse
carefully.  She surveyed the trailer and the empty field where it resided
without expression, and then headed for the steps leading up to its door.

	She circumvented the electronic lock on the door easily; not for
nothing had she ensured that she had a `backdoor' into each of the Sabres
homes -- although she had hoped never to have to use them.  Unfortunately,
events had proven otherwise.

	As Sylia silently opened the door, Priss stood in the middle of
the trailer's `living room' facing away from the door and staring at a
poster on the wall.  The poster depicted Priss in her stage costume,
wearing a dangerous grin.

	With a sudden burst of furious movement, Priss tore the poster
from the wall and crumpled it into a ball, then flung it behind her.  It
bounced along the floor, coming to rest in front of Sylia's shoe.

	Priss had caught a glimpse of Sylia's presence when she turned to
throw the poster.  The leader of the Knight Sabres knelt down to pick up
the crumpled picture, never taking her eyes from Priss' as she did.  "Are
you sure you should throw this away?" she asked.  "It's the poster from
your first live concert, isn't it?"

	"Sylia," Priss muttered in a tone comprised of almost equal parts
relief and resentment.

	"There was no answer when I knocked, so I let myself in," Sylia
explained to forestall the obvious question -- and the less obvious one,
`How did you get *in* here?'  She walked towards Priss, unfolding the
poster as she did, and held it out to her.  "Here."

	Instead of taking it, Priss whirled around to face away from
Sylia.  "I feel bad ..." she said haltingly, rubbing the seat of her
cycle.  "I really do feel bad about this, but I can't go on like this ..."
Towards the end of her `apology', Priss had a hand over her face, and
Sylia had the distinct impression that the younger woman was trying to
hold back tears.

	"What happened wasn't your fault, Priss --" Sylia began smoothly.

	Her hand slammed down from her face to the seat of the cycle.
"Wrong!  It was my fault!  I let Sylvie die ... I wasn't strong enough
... I ... shit ..."

	"Priss," Sylia murmured as she felt her stomach begin to sink.
It wasn't going to be as easy as she'd hoped to talk her out of her
decision to resign -- <secede>, Sylia reminded herself -- from the Knight
Sabres.

	And if she couldn't persuade Priss to reconsider that decision ...
then she was out of options.

	She'd have to kill her.

				*   *   *
	
	"Romanova!"

	Nene's hand snapped back to her side, pulling away from her
terminal's keypad.  She turned to look up at the source of the sudden cry
-- her new shift supervisor, a tyrannical woman who resembled Sylia in
some ways.

	"Yes ma'am?" Nene asked quickly.

	"Were you or were you not about to make a personal phone call on
company time?" the supervisor snarled.  "I saw you keying in the code to
make --"

	"Yes ma'am, I was," Nene admitted.  It was pointless to deny it,
but she quickly improvised a dodge.  "My boyfriend works in the building
right beside the MegaTokyo bank, and I was --"

	"I don't care why you were going to do it, Romanova.  Just don't
make personal calls during crisis situations.  Are we clear?"

	"Crystal clear ma'am," Nene agreed, nodding.

	The supervisor stalked off to bully someone else, and a few more
minutes passed before Nene felt secure enough to use the secret codes
she'd developed for just such an emergency to contact Sylia.

	She never knew how much those handful of minutes changed
everything.

				*   *   *

	Sylia sighed once more, and slowly pulled the pistol from her
purse.  "I'm sorry, Priscilla.  But I can't let you do that."

	Priss stiffened at the sound of her full name, but didn't turn.
Nor did she evince any reaction at the sound of the safety coming off.

	Sylia set her jaw.  "Priss, turn around."

	"So that's how you're gonna play it, huh?" Priss muttered, not
turning.

	"You know the rules, Priss.  I explained --"

	"Yeah, stupid me to think that you might have changed them, joking
around with Linna about her boyfriends."  There was a faint echo of the
old Priss in her sneer.

	"This and that are different, Priss," Sylia replied.  "I --"

	"You fucking *hypocrite*."

	"I don't *want* to do this, Priss," she continued angrily.  "But
you're forcing my hand.  I can't allow you to quit.  You'd be picked up in
half an hour by Genom security, and I can't afford that.  Either stop this
foolishness right now or --"

	"Or what, Sylia?" Priss snarled, turning around to glare at her.
"You'll shoot me?  I never thought you'd be *that* stupid.  I don't *care*
anymore, fuckhead!  Come on, make my day!"

	A quiet part of Sylia's mind insisted that if Priss wanted to die,
she should oblige her.  But it faded beneath her memories of the last time
Sylia had seem the same desolation in those red eyes -- the first time
they'd met.

	She'd wanted to make her life better.  She'd wanted to make the
pain in those eyes go away, and now she had to put the light out of them.

	It didn't make any sense.

	<I'm trembling,> Sylia realized suddenly.  <I didn't tremble when
I killed Mason.  Why ... why am I -->

	"Shit," Priss spat.  "You don't even have the guts to do it, do
you?  Dammit, give me that --"   She reached out towards the gun.

	Reflexively, Sylia's finger tightened on the trigger -- her body
outpacing her mind's remembrance of the gun's hair-trigger.

	The shot resounded in the confines of the trailer.

	Priss stood frozen for a moment.  Then, quite rapidly, she
collapsed to her knees.  Her head dropped to look at the small hole just
above her left breast, from which blood flowed.  "Shit," she muttered.

	And then she fell down the rest of the way.

	Sylia felt a sudden irrational urge to call for an ambulance.  If
she did, Priss would live, but there would be questions.  Many questions. 

	The thought of the questions did not stop her.  She simply could
not move a muscle for a moment.  And when she could, she dropped down to
her knees, and rolled the body over to check for Priss' pulse.

	As she found it, it faded.

	<She's gone,> Sylia realized.  <I did it.  I killed her, father.
Aren't you proud of me?  I showed that I -->

	The beeping of her phone pulled Sylia out of her fugue.  With
unshaking hand, she drew it from her purse.  "What?" she asked.

	"Sylia!" Nene's voice squeaked.  "Those fakes have just shown up
on top of the MegaTokyo Bank -- we've got to --"

	"Very well," Sylia replied cooly.  "I will be there shortly."

	"Sylia, are you all right?" Nene asked in a confused tone.  "You
sound fun--"

	"Be ready," she replied vaguely, and cut the connection.  She rose
up, and realized to mild shock that she'd gotten blood all over her dress.
<Have to change quickly, before the others arrive,> she thought
practically.

	She walked away from the dead thing on the floor, leaving the
pistol in the cooling puddle of blood, along with the last object from her
purse.

	She had to say something, Sylia realized as she settled into her
car seat.  Nothing would ever be the same again.  She couldn't greet the
change with silence.

	"Goodbye," she murmured as the timed thermal grenade went off,
consuming the trailer in a ball of flame.

	And then the car pulled away from the pyre of the future, and
continued towards destiny.

				The End.


Author's Notes

	This story is dedicated, with hatred and bile, to Sarah Davis
<silia_san@hotmail.com>, without whom it would never have been necessary.
It is also my response to a number of "Sylia is evil" stories by one of
Sarah's cronies, Charles Richards.  (What kills me is that Sarah claims to
like Sylia, and hangs out with someone who routinely portrays her as a
monster.  How bizarre, how bizarre.)

	The most likely theories about Priss' planned death in "Red Eyes"
suggest that she would have thrown herself in front of Sylia to protect
her from Largo's mouth cannon.  This contributes to the irony of *this*
story, doesn't it?  Ruthlessness isn't strength; it's a cover for deep and
fundamental weakness.

	Title from The History of King Henry V, Act 2, Scene I, by William
Shakespeare -- in memoriam of another character who could be easily
dispensed with, yet captured the liking of the crowd so much that an
entire play was eventually written around him.  Note any parallels?

	"Bubblegum Crisis" was created by Toshimichi Suzuki and others,
and brought to North America by AnimEigo.  This story, while incorporating
elements of motion pictures held under copyright by others, is copyright
1999 of Chris Davies.

	Nobody sue me, okay?

Chris Davies, Advocate for Darkness, Part-Time Champion of Light.
"It is a sad thing when the designation one has known most of one's
existence becomes nothing more than a toll of doom." -- Seven of Nine,
"Just Between Species", by Gina L. Dartt
http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/banks/277/index.html