Bang.
"Right. You're pulling the trigger too fast." The teenager lowered the monocular and sighed.
Bang.
"Still to the right. Ease into the shot. It's not like jacking off. You got time."
"Hey, I'm trying my best here. Are you sure I have to do this with my left hand?" The shooter, a thin German dressed in loose khakis and a polo shirt, turned to look at his spotter.
"Would it help if I dislocated your right shoulder?" Her smile was neither sarcastic nor amused. If anything, it hinted at her imagining the scene.
He got the point and turned back downrange. "Okay, okay. Steady pull, steady pull." He squinted. A slight breeze cooled his brow.
Bang.
"Close enough. Just do that, and you'll qual." She leaned back, lolling her head to the left and right.
Bang.
"Right. Look, your last shot was decent. Just do it again, will you?" She exhaled slowly and lowered her head, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand.
"Cut me some slack, Tiffy. It's not like I have myomer muscles and carbon fibre laced bones. How about showing me how to do it right instead of just carping at me all the time?"
Tiffy stood from the bench, a one-piece picnic table, really. She stalked over to the frustrated man and whipped out her left hand, palm up. If anyone else was present, the pair would have looked quite odd - her, almost his height in spite of having the open and soft face of teen, her off-the-shoulder light brown hair unruly and unkempt. In contrast, the shooter's tightly-curled black hair was closely shorn, pin-neat.
"Gun."
He placed it in her hand. In one fluid motion, she thumbed the release and let the magazine fall free. Just as it cleared the handle, her other hand slammed the other magazine home. Continuing the sweeping movement, her left hand locked onto the center of the concentric rings pinned to the plywood stand downrange.
BangBangBangBang.
BangBangBangBang.
BangBangBangBang.
BangBangBangBang.
"That's how you do it, Stefan."
He accepted the proffered Glock 19, stooped to pick up the half-loaded mag, and turned to face the target, its center neatly punched. He fumbled out the empty magazine for the other one, then released the slide.
Bang.
"Right! Goddamn it! I give up!" She stood from the bench and slammed the monocular on the chipped and weathered green paint. She took three steps back to the parking lot, stopped and turned.
Stefan turned, lowered his pistol, and pushed the hearing protector off his right ear.
"You know what, Stefan? I hope you fail your qualification. I hope you get kicked out. That way, I don't have to keep saving your ass!"
He ejected the magazine, then slowly cycled the slide, careful to capture the unfired round in his palm. It was still warm, too warm to the touch. "Your next partner still won't be Corrado, Tiffy. No one will."
She whirled about. "Whoever it is, they'll be better than you! Goddamn it, it wasn't my fake arm that put those rounds on target like that. You know what it was?"
"I know, it was Corrado."
"Damn straight! I couldn't even eat with a fork without stabbing myself in the cheek when we started. That," she pointed at the target, "that's because he taught me. I'm trying to teach you, and you're not fucking listening!"
Stefan nodded. "I know, I know. And-"
She finished the sentence. "-this is exactly how he taught me. He expected success. Not 'my best'. You know what 'my best' would have gotten me?"
"You told me. A black eye."
"Or a split lip. At the very least, a backhand. If it wasn't for that damn mental injunction, I'd be teaching you exact-the-fuck-lee like he taught me. As it is, you're getting only half the shit he gave me if I turned in as craptastic a job as you're doing."
Stefan closed his eyes slowly. She was right. He was doing a piss-poor job. "You heading back?"
"To the car? Yeah. Your form makes my eyes bleed. I need a break."
"Tell you what. If you bring me the case of 9mm, you can take the car back home." He tossed her the keys.
"How are you going to get home?"
"I guess I'll walk. I got a lot to think about."
She smirked. "I bet. It'll be fun, lugging that huge box of ammo back. I'm sure those things weigh sixteen kilos, easy."
"When I'm fully kitted out for a job, it's twenty. Besides, I don't plan to take any back."
"What, you just going to leave the rest here?"
"No, I plan to leave all of it down there." He pointed at the target.
She shook her head slowly. "Suit yourself. Don't blame me if your finger falls off." She retrieved the case ammo and dropped it on the table with a satisfying thud.
He turned back toward the target.
"Remember, it'll be dark soon." She started the engine, not caring if he heard her.
He did. He was just deep in thought loading his magazines.
As she drove off, she thought her artificial ears picked up him whispering, "Steady pull, steady pull."
Tiffy kept to the speed limit even though this was all property owned by Social Welfare Agency, a cover for Italian Public Security Directive's Section Two counter-terrorist arm. The small practice range was a good five kilometers from the low and wide living hall for the Milan branch. She parked the car, but didn't exit. Why did they have to partner her with such a loser? Yeah, he was hot shit with computers, but was absolutely useless in a firefight. Why wasn't he Corrado? Why did Corrado have to die? Why did she let-
She slapped herself. Her hand came away damp.
That dinner, she sat alone in the cafeteria. The sun painted the sky maroon, then deepened to that grim brown of dried blood. Everyone else sat in pairs, one adult, one minor, be it a teen like her, or an older pre-teen. That's what the doctors said, Stefan explained one night. They say the implants have a better chance of working, the younger you are.
She flexed her arm. It was wiry, but not well-defined by any means. It didn't have to be - the synthetic muscle under her lab-grown skin was many times stronger than any normal human. It looked real, it felt real. Well, she was a little heavier than her size would suggest, but not by much. It wasn't like she was a Terminator, all metal and gears.
She picked at her pork loin. Some of the teams were light-hearted and merry, other somber and terse. Why did I have to have the half-and-half? She loathed how soft Stefan was. He was weak, putty-like. He never showed any fire, any anger. The most emotion she ever detected was his voice going flat. She wanted to see that spark in him, that rage that Corrado had when she messed up.
No matter how she pushed him, he never lit up. He was no Corrado. He never will be, either.
She looked up. The dining hall was almost empty. Those partners that remained were deep in conversation. Hers was the only plate still with food. The sky was full black now. No Stefan. The idiot must still be out there. No big deal. The range has lights.
But the road…
She pulled up where they parked earlier. Sure enough, he was still practicing. The wastepaper drum was filled with empty fifty-round boxes. "Hey! Idiot! You're going to catch a cold!"
Stefan turned around. For once, there was heat in his eyes. His brow was knitted, his neck tensed. "I think I got it down. Check this out."
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
All on the money.
Tiffy honked the horn. "Great, great. Let's get home. I'm cold, even if you're not."
There may be hope for him yet.
Author's Note: This scene was originally a character study for the 'Rehabilitation Branch' shared setting on the "Cyborg Central" Gunslinger Girl Fan Forum off-site with ex-handler Corrado originally named Quentin. Stefan's race was changed from African-American to German to reflect the Euro-centric nature of the SWA.
This series of vignettes takes place in an alternate universe (AU) from the SWA timeline, diverging shortly after the Sandro/Petra character study arc. Dante's attack at St. Mark's Tower and subsequent evens in the manga are not part of this timeline. The SWA is still in the good graces of the Italian government, and funding was never disrupted so many non-canon second-generation cyborgs exist.
The Milan branch takes the fight to the Lega Nord and is staffed entirely with OCs. This collection of short fiction follows the canon in terms of setting, technology, theme, and feel. It does not utilize CCs.