Cohortes Urbanae Present
A Stygian Productions fan presentation
Gunslinger Girl
- Men-At-Arms -
Based on and utilizing characters and situations created by YU AIDA.
Original characters used with permission of their creators.
PART ONE
Firing
A pristine blue sky oversaw the sparkling waves of the ocean off the beach near Taormina's town center. In the air, one could hear overjoyed tourists laughing and playing, whilst a market near the piazza centro played host to numerous merchants hawking their wares, both agricultural and merely cultural, determined to gouge as much as possible, with both parties leaving with smiles on their faces.
It was against this idyllic summer backdrop that a young girl walked, wearing a sundress that complimented her shoulder-length chestnut hair, and carrying a violin case. Slightly ahead of her was a tall, dark-haired son of Tuscania, dressed in loose summer weight clothes of a fine cut, appropriate for a young heir catching some needed relaxation. Both were wearing sunglasses, the girl's looking somewhat out of place on her, as though she were borrowing someone else's attire. She paused for a second, hands clasping the violin case in front of her as she pondered something for a moment, before apparently coming to a resolution and skipping forward to catch up with the young man, who had kept walking forward along the warm sidewalk. Noticing that his companion was lagging, he turned to her. "Henrietta, is everything alright?"
Henrietta caught up with the man, and her face lit up with a dazzling smile as she responded with youthful exuberance. "Of course, Giuse! The sun is out, everyone's having a wonderful time, and I'm getting to spend today with you! How could everything _not_ be alright?" She threw her arms wide, her wrist effortlessly supporting the weight of her violin case as she spun gaily, giggling happily as she pondered the many things she was going to try and do with Giuse. While the fratello was ostensibly here on business, following up on intelligence about the presence of a mid-level Mafioso gaining strength in the region, Henrietta was never one to pass on the opportunity to spend leisure time with her beloved handler.
Looking around them, it seemed to be impossible that the intelligence that Special Operations, Section 1 had been receiving could be accurate... Taormina served little function other than as a historical tourist attraction. The views were spectacular, with Mt. Etna's majesty rising in the background, a streamer of steam visible today emerging from it's cone. In the other direction, the pale azure of the Ionian Sea reflecting the sunlight in dazzling ripples. It was almost beyond belief that smuggling operations that had resulted in large quantities of Semtex filtering to the various terrorist groups throughout Italy were being conducted here.
When Section 1 had processed the intel and fleshed out a potential target list, they had handed the data to Section 2, separating themselves from the "ghouls n' goblins," (as one rather odd analyst had termed the handlers and their fratelli). Ferro Milani had delegated the deployment to Jean Croce; this esteemed crusader against the Padania Republic Faction had deemed it to be beneath his interest level, and permitted his brother Giuseppe to take advantage of the location to sneak in a working vacation.
Which was how the Croce/Henrietta fratello came to be entering the Piazza Duomo, as much enjoying the tourist-filled crowd's ebb and flow as they were making notes of such points of interest as the local poliziotti scattered around the famous square. It was a well-known fact that local police in Sicily were as much in the pockets of the Mafiosi as their municipalities, so it paid to keep an eye on them when operating on the large island.
Henrietta looked past the one poliziotto in particular and saw a man smiling and laughing, looking at his wife attempting - and failing - to put a straw hat on their adorably-smiling daughter, who couldn't have been more than 6 years old. Her coffee-brown hair glinted in the sun as she shook her head back and forth, comically avoiding her mother's repeated attempts to cover her from the sun. Henrietta smiled warmly at the sight...
Then she ducked for cover, grabbing Giuseppe and pulling him behind a heavy stone planter. As he yelped in surprise, the explosion she had detected igniting on the side of the piazza washed overhead, spewing chunks of masonry in advance of a massive fireball.
Giuse stifled any further commentary, switching to his business mode as secondary explosions scattered shrapnel about the piazza, hurling tourists to the ground with terrified screams. Part of his mind noted 'these aren't timed... they're igniting with the flow of the crowd. Some sick bastard is watching this and detonating when the crowd runs to a certain point.'
Henrietta's trusty FN P90 was already in her hands from its case, her eyes scanning the crowd for threats. Her eyes locked on to the family she had been looking at before the explosions. The part of her that remained an innocent girl noted with horror that the man, whose face had been so happy moments ago was now contorted with agony that had nothing to do with the stumps of fingers missing from his left hand.
Instead, he was curled over two limp forms at his feet, as though trying to figure out which to try and revive first, and knowing that either would be futile. Henrietta's brief assessment told her that, and that same small part of her, separated from her dispassionate "business mode" wept for the little girl who had been giggling less than a minute ago, and who would never giggle again.
As she began scanning again, she noted out of the corner of her eye that the man shook his head, and reached over to the fallen body of the poliziotto, and retrieved his Beretta 92 from his holster, and the two magazines from pouches on his belt.
"Giuse! The man there has a pistol - he just took it from the officer's body!" Henrietta relayed her findings to her handler, trying to keep as much of the piazza in view whilst still keeping this unknown quantity in view.
"Is he a threat, or a cowboy?" Giuse asked, trusting Henrietta to keep the stranger in view while he looked for a possible vantage point for the bomber to be observing the carnage. A nearby church steeple was looking promising...
After watching the stranger's actions for a moment, Henrietta responded "He looks like he's looking for something... I think he's trying to help us!"
Giuse groaned. The last thing he needed was some random factor to foul up an already bad situation. "Leave him be, for now. I need you to head over to that church bell tower... I think our bomber's there, but even if he's not, the height will let you observe better."
"Okay." With a definite course of action directed by her handler, Henrietta's face hardened even further, her eyes narrowed, and she sprinted across the square, juking back and forth between pieces of cover as she advanced on the tower. A flurry of explosions ahead of her path indicated that she was probably moving in the right direction, but she wasn't going to get there just yet.
Giuse squinted at the tower, the sun having started descending in the sky, placing the church in sharp silhouette. He heard movement next to him, and noted that the stranger was next to him behind the tall planter. Giuse got his first solid look at the man, and noted that in addition to two fingers on his left hand being pulped flesh, his upper body was peppered with chunks of masonry, and his face had a truly horrific slice running from his chin, alongside his right eye, which was squinting, up to his temple.
The man spoke, his voice ragged, with a distinct American accent. "Sir, I see the tower. The man up there... uh... bomb... ah..." his frustration was evident as he struggled with his lack of control of Italian. Giuse nodded, and spoke in lightly-accented English.
["Yes, signore, the bomber is in the tower. I don't know if there is another."] He decided to humor the man for a moment. ["Have you seen anyone else?"]
The man's face, a mask of pain, hardened for a moment. ["Signore, I see no-one else right now... but you're right."] The stranger scanned the piazza for a moment, before stopping his search at a nearby alley. "Two men!" he snapped in Italian. "Left, moving!"
"Henrietta! To your left!" Giuse shouted. Henrietta snapped her head and weapon to that angle, spotted one emerging from cover, and ripped off a 5-round burst that took him in his legs and lower torso. The man, dressed in casual clothes, dropped screaming. He was silenced by a single round from the stranger's tactically-acquired Beretta, the 9mm hollowpoint being quite sufficient to splatter his brains across the ground.
The second target reacted by hurling himself behind another planter, firing a quick volley of shots from his weapon, a small submachinegun that Giuse's mind absently noted as sounding like a 9mm. The shots spattered around the stranger's location, who hunched lower behind the planter. Giuse waited for the burst to stop, the leaned around, spotted the target, and snapped off several shots with his Five-seveN. Two struck cleanly, apparently shattering the target's shoulder and causing him to drop his SMG. When he fell, clutching at the disabled limb, Henrietta dispatched him with a perfunctory double-tap in between his squinting eyes and his screaming mouth.
After ensuring that no other foot-mobile threats were in the piazza, Giuse looked up at the bell-tower. Henrietta, after completing her own scan, did the same. Giuse's ersatz brother-in-arms lay, leaning up against the shredded planter, grimacing as adrenaline processed out of his system, and the pain of his injuries became that much more apparent to him.
Henrietta's head snapped to the right. "Giuse! One man fleeing from the tower! White male, green shirt, tan pants, with a backpack!" She raised her P90 to her shoulder, and added in a calmer voice "Armed with a pistol."
"Shoot to wound only!" Giuse ordered. "We need him alive!" Henrietta responded with an affirmative noise, and stitched the ground around the subject's pumping legs. Three... six... twelve rounds, and down he tumbled, limbs flailing like a wasp hit with bug spray, his voice wailing and warbling in a language that Giuse didn't immediately recognize; it wasn't Italian or English in origin was all he could determine. But there was something that was almost familiar...
"Well done, Henrietta," Giuse praised, his eyes fixed on the target. Henrietta glowed with the praise, her attention slipping for a moment before she resumed following Giuse's lead, her face hardening as she ensured her P90 had a fresh magazine. The fratello approached the subject, who had given up his plaintive cries and had begun attempting to drag himself away from the carnage left in his wake.
As the pair's attention was appropriately focused, neither was paying over-much attention to the area they had already cleared - until a single sharp report silenced the groans of their subject and dropping him to the ground. Henrietta whipped around, training her SMG on the cowboy, who half-stood, leaning against a savaged tree for a firing support, his now-empty Beretta held in his hand before him. A look of intense satisfaction suffused his features, before he slumped against the tree completely and slipped to the ground, unconscious.
Jean was livid. Hilshire could tell - his face was carefully composed and not showing any emotion outside of the clenched jaw. His words came crisp and concise. "Hilshire, ask the cowboy just what he thought he was doing, getting involved with the incident? His actions put the Croce/Henrietta fratello at risk, to say nothing of terminating all the participants! We can't interrogate dead men, and none of the bodies had usable intel on them!"
Hilshire turned to the white-faced man who sat, slumped over, against the clean-up crew's van at the disembarkation point. His left hand and cheek were bandaged, with some seepage through the white gauze. In his German-accented English, he relayed Jean's words, filtered so as to avoid revealing anything about the SWA's full scope of operations.
Dull gunmetal eyes looked back up at Hilshire, and with a sinking feeling, he recognized the emotions behind it. Or rather, the lack of emotion. It was the same look he'd had when he realized exactly what had happened to Triela after Rachelle had given up the last of her life saving a girl she didn't know. ["You can tell that filio di putana,"] began the man, baritone voice husky, ["that all I did was kill the bastards who took my wife and child from me. If that stronso has a problem with vengeance, he's going to be upset. I'm not done yet."] He took a shuddering breath, but held his eyes up.
Some of Hilshire's wry amusement must have shown on his normally impassive face, because pale became mottled red immediately. ["And just what, pray tell, is so god-damned funny?"]
Hilshire waved a gloved hand in a conciliatory motion. ["My friend, if there is anything that the gentleman over there understands, it's revenge."]
Turning to Jean, Hilshire relayed the - again, edited - rebuttal from the stranger. The blond government agent sat for a moment, pondering. Finally, he started asking questions, the man answering monosyllabically. Hilshire recognized with a start that he had answered several of the same questions a few years ago, after he had gotten past the concept that the girl who would become Triela had been remade.
If the man realized that he was being given a job interview, he showed no signs of it, as he told about his time with the United States Marine Corps, then later as a police officer. When he was done, Jean sat, pondering for several moments. Then he pulled out his cell phone, pressed a single number, and after a few seconds began speaking softly in clipped sentences. Hilshire ventured to guess that it was Chief Lorenzo on the other end of the conversation.
His time with both the Polizei and Interpol had taught him the fine art of listening to conversations whilst looking to be uninterested. Straining his ears, he could pick up part of what Jean was saying. "No... not as a handler, I agree... Tactical response team? ... Possible, but he would need to be accepted by them... Very well, sir." Hilshire composed his face as Jean turned to him, giving a single curt nod and walking away towards his Mercedes. Hilshire groaned inwardly: this poor bastard had no idea what he was signing himself up for. He motioned for Triela, who came forwards with her shotgun slung, muzzle down over her shoulder. She looked quizzically at the man, then back to Hilshire, who returned her look with a slight crinkling at the corner of his eyes - the merest hint of a smile showing in his demeanor.
Triela relaxed as slightly as Hilshire had smiled, enough to allow herself to examine the stranger more closely. He was tall - not in the same manner as most were to her, but with the telling signs of having received a well-provided upbringing, replete with many nutritious meals. The frame under the shredded clothing suggested bulk without excess, neither in fat nor in muscle. The eyes above the bandages were a gunmetal gray-blue, dull and lifeless at the moment as he sat, lost in his grief. The stomach suggested that his body was perhaps going prematurely to seed, but was not yet lost to the ravages of the typical American overindulgence.
Triela cleared her throat sharply, and the man looked up dully. ["Sir?"] Inwardly, she winced. She _hated_ the way her voice sounded in English - half-Italian, half... something else, also fluid and musical like Italian, but with a harsher edge. ["My name is Triela. Please, come with me?"]
His face remained unresponsive. Triela knew she was speaking correctly; he just wasn't hearing her. She thought for a moment. Hilshire wanted her to take him to the transport van to head back to the SWA -that much she had read in her handler's demeanor. Using her initiative, she surmised that it would probably not be in her best interests to put in him the transport van unconscious, so that ruled out a whole host of options that she felt more comfortable employing.
Instead, she tried another tack. ["You want to help us kill terrorists?"] This provoked an immediate response, as the stranger's eyes snapped into clear focus, centering directly on her own. She felt an almost palpable arc leap from his gaze to her, and stifled the urge to gasp at it's intensity.
"Yes, signorina," responded the man in an icy tone, "I would like very much to kill terrorists. I go with you, I can?" At her relieved nod, the man stood. "Bene... molte bene. I come with you now."
Despite his stilted, accented Italian, Triela could get the sense of exactly how much this man wanted this opportunity. With a start, she realized that the look in his eyes looked very similar to that often seen in Jean Croce's. As she thought about that, she shivered as she walked the man to the nondescript grey van. 'There's two of them,' she thought, suppressing a shiver as she opened the vehicle's sliding side door. The man wordlessly entered and sat in the rear seat. As she waited for Hilshire to collect her so they could leave. She turned to the man and asked him what his name was.
He sat quietly for a moment. Then, oddly enough, he chuckled. It was a fractured sound, devoid of mirth, but with a fair share of warmth. It reminded Triela of Hilshire's occasional musings on the nature of those around them, or whenever he'd make an observation on a co-worker when there was a joke to be had, but the joke wasn't funny. "Call me... John Darme," he said. Then he leaned his head against the window and said nothing else. Triela raised one slender blond eyebrow, but did not press the issue.
After a tense ride in the van to the local branch office in Catania, John was escorted by Triela and Hilshire away from where Jean was heading, instead being seated in an interrogation room. John looked around for the camera as his escort left, found it just above the closing door, in the corner. Having taken care of the preliminaries, sizing up the room, John sat back in the provided chair, noting idly that it was remarkably comfortable for being in an interrogation room.
As he sat back, the events of the last few hours began to flood his mind. 'Not here... not now,' he told himself sternly. 'Later. There will be time later, when THEY aren't watching.' Ignoring the prickling in his eyes, the slight blurring in his vision, and the thick lump in his throat, John forced his breathing to steady.
On the other side of the two-way mirror, Hilshire and Triela sat, watching. Triela looked scornful. "Awful cold for a man who just lost his wife and daughter. You'd think he could at least shed a tear."
Hilshire shook his head slightly. "It's not that simple. He doesn't know who we are or everything that's going on. I don't know if he saw everything that happened in the piazza, but we can assume that he saw Henrietta in action. So he's got a lot of stuff on his mind. From what Giuse and Henrietta reported, he knew what he was doing handling a weapon, so that would support his assertion that he was in law enforcement and/or the military. It looks to me like he's got himself in some sort of 'business-mode,' much like how you cyborgs are when on-mission." Hilshire paused to reflect, noting the tension in John's shoulders. "He's not cold, he's just focused. At least," he amended, facing Triela again, "that's my read on it."
Triela looked at the tall American, face thoughtful. "I can see how you get that... the question is, why hasn't Jean just sent him on his merry way? Why are we sitting here, babysitting a potential security leak?"
"Because," said Jean as he opened the door to the observation room, "right now, I can use him." He finished coming in, and closed the door with the coffee-colored leather briefcase that he was carrying in his left hand. "He's seen a cyborg in action, which means he already knows too much. The only options I have at this point are to tie up the loose end, or to bring him in. He's shown weapons-handling skills, however much the manner he displayed them may infuriate me. And, most importantly, right now he wants to kill whoever killed his family. Which may or may not be Padania at this point; either way, his desires mesh well with the SWA's goals. And so long as we can keep him pointed down-range, I can use him."
Hilshire raised an eyebrow at Jean's cold, matter-of-fact assessment of the situation. "But would we just hand him a cyborg? Without any kind of background check?"
Jean snorted. "Please, give me some credit for operational security. And even if the SWA had a cyborg ready for a handler - which we don't, right now - I don't think this... 'cowboy' would be a good choice. However, as it happens, the SRT has an opening. Providing that his background check through the Americans shows no major discrepancies... we can have this one fighting for us with a minimum of trouble."
"Providing, of course, that the SRT accepts him," Hilshire noted cautiously. "Most of them have been together since the beginning. It's only recently that they've had a... vacancy. They may not appreciate an outsider being foisted on them."
Jean smiled humorlessly. "Leave that to me." With that, he turned and exited the observation room, entering the interrogation room.
John looked up as the door opened, and saw the blond who had spoken with him earlier. He noted the lack of expression on his face, which served to back up his initial impression that here was a very cool fish. He wasn't sure that he liked this man very much, but he had gathered enough information to know that if he wasn't the boss, he was at least the highest one on the totem pole for this strange group of operatives. What was left of John's quiet side continued trying to work out who these folks were, even as Cold Fish began speaking. The young lady who had called herself Triela walked in behind Cold Fish and began translating. The tall one with the glowering face stood just outside the room, looking Teutonic and imposing. John ignored him, and focused on what Triela was saying.
["Signore Croce says that our group is willing to work with you, based on what you said earlier. He says that if you accept our offer, you will be given a chance to back up your words about getting revenge on those responsible for today."]
John's eyes narrowed. 'Dammit, not NOW!' He cleared his throat, but his voice remained thick and husky. ["I don't even know who 'We' are, miss. If 'We' can help me, then I might want to work with 'We,' but I need information, first."]
Triela spoke in brisk Italian back to Croce, whose eyes hardened. John really didn't care, at this point. Either he was going to get a chance for revenge, or he was dead. Either way, he had a feeling that Croce had already made up his mind what he was going to do.
Still, he couldn't help but jerk slightly when Croce lifted his briefcase suddenly, placing it on the table, edge towards him. John didn't SEE anything that looked like a barrel, but still... He relaxed slightly when Croce placed the case flat, then popped the latches, opening it and extracting a dark brown folder that practically screamed "OFFICIAL." John noted idly that it must be a government thing; his Marine Corps Service Record Book had been the exact same shade.
Croce placed the folder in front of John. In the top center was the Italian Coat of Arms, in black; below which was an insignia that he didn't recognize. The text below read "Agenzia di Benessare Sociale Sezione 2." He raised an eyebrow. 'Social Welfare Agency? Aren't they the ones with all the wonderful international medical treatments? Saving kids who are beyond help?'
Croce was still looking at him as he turned his gaze upwards. John wasn't sure, but he thought he detected a hint of satisfaction in his otherwise expressionless gaze. Looking him in the eyes, John asked simply "If I working with you, I can kill these bastards?" Croce nodded - that was DEFINITELY satisfaction. "And if no I say?" Croce's face hardened, as did Triela's. John suddenly noticed that Triela's rather sharp waistcoat had a bulge at the small of her back, and wondered if he might have pushed it too far.
Croce spoke slowly, deliberately, making sure that John's limited Italian could get his meaning. "We hope you will say yes," he stated simply.
John nodded slightly. "Capito. E vero, ho capito."
Once he got to the hotel room, with the admonishment that he needed to stay in there for the rest of the night, John finally allowed his walls to come down. At this point, he didn't care if there were bugs planted and an entire team dedicated to watching him for the evening - grief can only be delayed for so long before the levees holding it back must be demolished. Withdrawing his wallet, John flipped open a section of clear plastic, his gunmetal eyes scanned the photographs contained therein, before they became obscured as the tears welled. A single, raw sob bypassed his lips, and with his pain now vocalized, everything burst forth.
After a period of time that felt like hours, but his hotel room clock impossibly only registered as 45 minutes, the tears stopped, leaving crimson-ringed eyes dry and abraded in their wake. The sobs receded, replaced by raw lungs and throat, and sore abdominals. The pain... remained, but had been covered by something that managed to dull it to the point where it wasn't stabbing into his soul.
A wry chuckle, incongruous in the suddenly-silent room, erupted at the thought. 'Now's not the time to be waxing melodramatic,' John thought. With his initial mourning passed, he was able to function. Stifling a sniffle that made him irritatedly harken back to childhood, John pulled out what he had initially identified as a "new-hire" packet for this "Section 2." Knowing his Italian reading skills were barely passable, and filled with comprehension errors, he approached this task with some trepidation, before noting with surprise that what he was beginning to read actually continued in English.
'A bilingual government agency? Am I in Canada?' He cocked one thick eyebrow before continuing to read. As he continued, successive paragraphs in the introduction indicated that due to a large number of "professionals" (their term) being hired to the Social Welfare Agency ("Henceforth referred to as the SWA"), for ease of translation an English version of the literature was provided by the SWA. "However," the packet admonished sternly in bureaucratese, "all personnel MUST demonstrate proficiency in tactical Italian before being permitted to enter an Active Duty status." John nodded his head at the common sense there, which helped to start resolving his questions as to why he was even being considered for this, given his limited language ability. Obviously, this was something that had been dealt with before.
For the next hour he slogged through the literature, being without anything else to do other than brave Italian television. Occasionally, he would have to set the papers down for a moment, close his eyes, and retreat into memory for a few minutes, before he would be able to continue on. 'It's all part of the mission,' he started telling himself. 'I can work through this - I've done it before, I can do it again. This is all part of the mission: getting back at those rotten sons-of-bitches.'
Before he could finish reading everything, there was a knock at his door. Snapping out of his latest reverie, John raised his oddly fatigued body from the bed and stepped to the door. Standing to the hinge side, he leaned over and peered through the peephole. The - normally quiet - paranoid part of his mind began yammering in his ear, urging caution. "Who is there?" he said, grimacing at the ragged tone to his voice.
"Baggage service, sir," came the cheery reply from the individual on the other side of the door, who was sporting a shoulder-length haircut over a "dressy-casual" outfit of polo shirt and slacks, topped with some expensive-looking sunglasses. He had, sitting behind him, what appeared to be John's suitcase, left at his hotel in Taormina.
John's eyes narrowed. "Leave it," he said, voice changing to a gruffer tenor. He scanned his room rapidly for something he could use as a weapon, seeing only the desk chair as a remote possibility, and cursing his lack of situational awareness.
"Oh, no sir! The _Agency_ requires me to give it to you personally!" The voice remained cheerful, but there was a definite accentuation of the "Agenzia."
Catching on, John said "Do you have a... erm... work badge? Name badge? [Filio di putana, what's the word...?"]
["Si signor, I have an ID card,"] said the man, a note of satisfaction entering into his lightly-accented English, and he produced a folding wallet-type badge holder, which opened to show a simple picture ID, with holographic seal, showing his name to be Amadeo Rossi, employee of the SWA, Section 2. He then flipped the fold back, showing a plain white plasticard ID, with a badly-printed photo of the same man, IDing him as Massamiliano Bossi, of the Agenzia per Bagaglio di Hotel. John raised an eyebrow, then chuckled slightly. Just the thing that a low-budget, fly-by-night company would provide in order to give their people an air of "legitimacy."
"Okay then," John said, opening the door slowly, taking in his unexpected guest. "Come in. It is very dangerous for tourists, yes?"
"Yes sir," said Amadeo/Massmiliano, lugging the small suitcase into the hotel room. John looked expectantly into the hall, but did not see any other bags.
["Where is the rest?"] he asked, closing the door. Amadeo dropped the suitcase on the bed, rolling his shoulders back and rocking his neck back and forth, cracking vertebrae.
["In storage. You do not need to worry about it for now."] He pointedly ignored John's hardening expression, and continued on. ["Per Director Croce, you should be reading your handbook for now. I see that you've already started."]
John pushed aside his initial irritation. 'Focus on the mission,' he reminded himself. "Your English is very good," he essayed.
Amadeo gave a small smile. "And your Italian is not bad, for a beginner. You also speak with a slight Sicilian accent...?" He left the question hanging in the air.
["I was once stationed at Sigonella, for a short time,"] John answered, after trying and failing to respond with the proper Italian. This was going to be more than a little frustrating.
["Military?"] asked Amadeo, sizing up the taller man with a more studied eye. Certainly, anyone could wear a military-style buzz-cut, though few did, even in the military...
["Marine Corps,"] John answered, face unable to restrain a prideful smirk. "Like the San Marcos?" he tried, then immediately regretted it at the hardening of Amadeo's face. 'Whoops... what did I say?' he thought.
"The San Marcos Regiment is... not... the same as your American Marines," Amadeo replied hotly. "We have a history going back hundreds of years, before America was anything more than a colony! To compare the two..."
John held up a conciliatory hand. ["Hey hey hey! I meant no offense... it's just that I've worked with San Marcos before and..."]
Amadeo sniffed slightly, before coughing into his hand. ["It is... fine. In any case, we are with the Agenzia now. It is a different time, a different group. The mission is more... specific."] His face hardened. ["What do you know of terrorists?"]
John raised an eyebrow. "I am an American. After September 11th, you ask me this question?" Even in the - admittedly decreasingly - unfamiliar Italian, the cynicism dripped off of every word.
Amadeo shook his head. ["I do not mean your Arabic enemies, although it is good that you recognize that not everyone in a war wears a uniform."] He sat at the desk, kicking his heels up on the corner. John noted that at the small of his back, revealed by his untucked polo shirt hanging at a different angle, was the hilt of a sheathed knife of impressive size. ["I mean people like Ireland's IRA, like Italy's own Red Faction... like Padania."] This last came out with a dark, guttural spitting of consonants. Whoever Amadeo was, it was evident that he held no love for someone who John only vaguely knew as a political faction.
He could only shake his head, then attempt to put this new information in a context he recognized. "You call Padania like IRA... they are the same?"
Amadeo's mouth twisted slightly, and he wobbled a hand back and forth. "Almost... Padania is not like a military, like the IRA tried to be. They think that North Italy should be separate from the South. It is about money..."
"What isn't?" quipped John without thinking. The two shared a dry chuckle, the earlier brittleness starting to erode as John's place in the grand scheme began to be outlined. As the conversation went on, John was able to get a more concrete idea of just how bad the Padania were making things for the Italian government. He also noted that the more Amadeo talked, the less he spoke in his excellent English, and the more Italian, which became easier for him to follow, albeit with occasional pauses for a translation of an unfamiliar term.
"So now, we come to us, the Agency. The government already had the medical teams doing the research for the prosthetics - the... artificial arms, legs and organs," he amended at John's quizzical look, before continuing. "From there, it was not so long before they began looking at making complete cyborgs. At first, they used adults. They were... not successful." Amadeo winced. "I was hired about that time. I saw the results of the first experiments. It was... not pleasant."
Something chirped in Amadeo's pocket, and he blinked. "Ah, excuse me! I forgot..." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flip cellphone, pressing a single button on the keypad. After a moment, John heard a chipper-sounding female voice through the speaker. "Tourism Promotions Agency, Rome Branch: how may I direct your call?"
Amadeo's voice became smoother, and he winked at John as he spoke. "My beautiful Fallen Angel of Love, it is I, your fellow Agent of Love, checking in with our newest friend and reporting all is well."
John wasn't quite sure how to spell everything that came out of the speaker, but it reinforced his opinion that Italian was a FANTASTIC language to chew someone out in. Whoever this "Fallen Angel of Love" was, she had a commanding ability with some of the saltier aspects of Italian rhetoric.
"I mean, seriously, Director Croce could have been behind me," finished the Fallen Angel. Amadeo had the courtesy to at least look abashed.
"You're right, Priscilla." His face became serious for a moment. "In any case, both I and the new guy are fine. I will be enroute to the field office shortly, once I finish briefing him." He hung up the phone, giving John a small shrug and a 'What can you do?' expression. John cocked an eyebrow. Amadeo chuckled ruefully. "Italian women are... not shy about telling you when they think you are being foolish. That was Priscilla, one of our Intelligence analysts. She has been with the Agency longer than I have. There were about 10 of us at the beginning, doctors, operators, drivers, and agents. It was small, underfunded... but cozy. Then we got our first successful cyborg. Angelica." His eyes grew distant, and John thought he detected a slight mistiness to them. Amadeo shifted in his seat. "Angelica was... special. With her, we learned what we needed to do to make the cyborg program work. She taught us a lot... and not just about the program."
"Was she... like that other?" asked John, matter-of-factly. "Was she a child?"
Amadeo nodded. "I told you that we tried adults first? When that... failed, the doctors started checking their notes and figures, trying to see what went wrong. At about that time, they got a call about a young girl who had been very badly hurt by her father... the bastard tried to kill her for insurance money." Amadeo's face hardened as he spat out the last, and John felt his own do the same. Never pleasant to be reminded of how low some could go. He couldn't even DREAM of doing that to his... 'Dammit, not AGAIN... not NOW. Mission, mission, mission...'
Amadeo coughed into his hand, then continued. "Almost at the last minute, they began to work on this girl, who was not supposed to survive this accident. Everything was wrong with her, both inside and out. The doctors... fixed her. Replaced what was broken with prosthetics - you remember this word? - and gave her special medicine to help her mind adjust to her new body. It was a long process, but once we saw that everything was working with the first operations, it was decided to try and go the full route with the cyborg plan."
John's face fell as he saw where this was going. "So... the Agency uses these children as... agents?"
Amadeo shook his head sadly. "The agency takes those who are basically dead... and gives them a new purpose. These girls have all, without exception, been at the end of their lives, in one form or another. The Social Welfare Agency has given them a new body, a new set of skills, and a new purpose. Not one of them has regretted it."
John sat there in silence, his mind churning. Then he spoke, his voice husky. "Where do I fit in? Am I to work with one of these... children?"
Amadeo shook his head. "No... the Agency does not have a cyborg for you. However... it is not just cyborgs in Section 2. There is also the Squaddra della Risposta Tattica - the SRT - a tactical response team that comes in when an operation is larger, when a couple fratelli aren't enough."
"Fratelli?" asked John, starting to see the picture. "Cyborgs and their handlers are called fratello," explained Amadeo. "Because they look out for each other like siblings. Get it?" John nodded. "When their velvet glove isn't enough, the SWA puts on a fist of mail. That's us. We train with special weapons and tactics and practice knocking the shit out of the Padania and any others who stand in our way. We are the heavy hand, the big guns."
He stood, stretching. "And we want you to be one of us. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you come to Rome. Once your security paperwork clears, you'll be training with us." He walked to the door, opened it slightly, then paused and turned back to face John. "Welcome to the SRT, marine." Then he walked out, leaving John sitting on the bed, at a loss for words.
A night's fitful rest left John bleary-eyed and fumbling for the coffee pot at the wee hours of the morning. His arms would occasionally seek out another form, his sleep-and-medication befuddled mind would attempt to sort out everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, and the force of everything would hit him across the shoulders like a 2x4. After breaking down each time, he would eventually drop to sleep again, to repeat the cycle over and over.
Finally, he gave up on the possibility of getting any rest, and resigned himself to fighting his demons. He knew that time would dull the grief's harsh edge, and he longed for the pain to start receding. In the meantime, he fortified himself with caffeine, and studied his face in the bathroom mirror.
After blinking groggily at his reflection a few times, he essayed a half-smile. ["Mon ami, you look like crap."] Between the gauze pad on his cheek, with a few rusty dots indicating it was due for a change, his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and sallow complexion, John had to admit that he'd looked better. "What better way to go to a job orientation?"
He left the coffee pot on the hotplate to "distill" while he took a shower, doing his best afterwards to apply ointment over his still-painful stitches and re-cover them with fresh gauze. This was exacerbated by his awkward left hand, itself still red and raw around the sutured remains of his ring and little fingers.
He glanced at the stub of his ring finger, focusing on the band of skin at it's base that remained paler than the surrounding flesh, even accounting for the redness remaining after the medics had taken care of him. His other hand reached for an envelope that had been included in his luggage, an envelope that jingled as he picked it up and dumped it's contents on the counter next to the sink. Three bands, two gold and slender, one dull grey-silver and much larger tumbled out. His mind past the point of expressing itself, he dully picked them up, his earlier jocularity completely dismissed. Reaching for his neck, he removed the fine beaded chain that was draped there, the tinny clacking of the tags at the end of it sounding like a hollow, mirthless laugh.
Unclasping the chain, John dropped the three rings onto the chain, refastening it and placing it back around his neck. His right hand clasped around the impromptu pendants for a second, before he shook his head, hardened his expression, and resumed his preparations for the day.
After ensuring that his face retained no stubble from his shave in the shower, John dressed in a manner that he had gotten used to in recent years: sturdy tan pants, billed as "tactical" by their maker, green rigger's belt, dark t-shirt with a design (this one being a dragon with wings spread wide) and a short-sleeved sturdy workshirt, blue in color. Completing the ensemble were a pair of his old Marine Corps suede boots, with a reinforced safety toe.
His preparations mostly complete, he began packing up his suitcase, double and triple-checking the room to ensure that he had everything, and staging it by the door. After all drawers, chairs and tables were checked to ensure nothing was left behind, he sat in the office-style chair at the writing desk and read more of his new-hire packet.
He wasn't reading for long. After but a few pageturns, there was a knock at his room's door. Standing with a sigh, and a sudden realization of just how badly his legs and face were aching, he walked to the door. After a similar exchange of tradecraft from the previous day, a "Giorgio Bianchi" (Funny, John thought, he doesn't look blond at _all_) helped him with his baggage down to a waiting Alfa Romeo 159, done up in standard-issue Nondescript Charcoal Grey(tm). Giorgio wasn't especially talkative, which suited John's state of mind perfectly.
After a brief ride to Catania's bustling airport, John noticed a narrow-bodied turboprop with an odd wing configuration that he didn't recognize sat on one side of the tarmac was loaded with John's luggage. As John boarded the aerial limousine, he noted that several others were already onboard, including Triela and Jean, as well as the pair with whom he had shared a firefight - was it only yesterday? John looked at the young girl with the shoulder-length hazelnut hair who was gazing adoringly at the man next to her, who smiled indulgently. John wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a touch of strain to the young man's face, as though he wouldn't mind being somewhere else right then.
Triela glanced at John as he finishing boarding, and nodded her head in greeting with a small smile, a smile which grew slightly broader when John had to duck to avoid striking his skull on the overhead. The other girl glanced up, and her eyes widened in recognition. Her "fratello" looked up as well, and he stood from his chair, extending his hand. "Glad to see you're not too much the worse for wear. I'm Giuseppe Croce. Call me Giuse - everyone does. This," he indicated the girl next to him, who smiled brightly at the attention "is Henrietta, the other half of my fratello. She makes sure that I don't work too hard." The brunette blushed lightly, and looked down at her hands.
John kept his face neutral. "Call me John Darme. It seem I will be working with you?" His head turned to scan the cabin again, noting that the tall dark-haired man next to Triela raised his eyebrow at the statement. John met his gaze levelly, without rancor or challenge, but also without shrinking from it. To John's surprise, the man gave a small smile, and shook his head sadly. John made a mental note to follow up with that at a later time, when he had his bearings.
Giuse gave a small smile. "Perhaps, although perhaps not with the fratelli... it sounds as though the Director intends for you to join the SRT. We do work with them, sometimes. Not often... the fratelli are more for covert operations." He gave a small, almost Gallic shrug.
John nodded. "I understand. It can be that we will work together again sometime." His face hardened. "I would like very much to kill terrorists with you and Miss Henrietta." He looked over and gave Henrietta a warm smile. She smiled back, then sat back and watched Giuse as he continued.
"Over here is Victor Hilshire, partnered with Triela." Hilshire nodded dourly, and John wondered if he'd imagined that small smile a moment ago. Hilshire's craggy face seemed to be more used to frowns and firmness than moments of friendship. He noted it and looked at the hatch as a final figure walked through it. 'Another cyborg,' he noted, observing the small frame, covered with baggy clothes, and crested with an unruly thatch of flax-colored hair over a pair of startlingly blue eyes.
"Rico," said Jean without preamble, "has everything been loaded?"
Rico smiled brightly, dimpling. "Of course, Jean. Nothing's been left behind, and Mr. Pagani will be coming on board in a minute. He sounded like he was talking to Kara on the phone, and she sounded mad!"
Jean sat there, stone-faced, as this report was delivered in an upbeat manner that John found himself struggling not to smile at, in spite of his somber mood. He wondered who Kara was, and why it would matter if she was mad with this "Mr. Pagani." After a moment's consideration, Jean simply nodded and said "Sit down and buckle up then, Rico." Rico smiled again and took the seat in front of Henrietta, whereupon the two began to chat amiably. John started when he realized that they were talking about Henrietta's firefight in the same tone that most children their age would discuss clothes or television shows that they enjoyed.
Some of his discomfiture must have shown on his face as he sat down across from Giuse, because the handler leaned over. "You become used to it," he commented, performing another of those Gallic shrugs. "When you realise who they are, where they came from, and how much they honestly seem to enjoy the work... it's something that we Handlers have had to adapt to. Not... everyone seems to learn this, however."
Before John could inquire more on that subject, a tallish man in an impeccably tailored suit jacket boarded the aircraft, a mildly-harried expression immediately replaced with a more composed one. "My apologies everyone... Kara is most put out at being left behind on this run, and seems to feel that she should be able to ignore doctor's orders about her shoulder. This will be addressed later on." Jean nodded curtly, and the man, who John assumed must be Michele, went to the command cabin without further delay, snagging a radio headset as he did so.
His mind buzzing with the new information, as well as the leftover input from the previous day, John leaned against the bulkhead of the aircraft. Concentrating on working through everything, he closed his mind in concentration.
He was asleep before the engines began spooling up.
"This will be yours, pending the completion of all your paperwork," Amadeo said with a good-natured smile, unlocking and opening the door with a single motion. John merely nodded his head, stepping inside the small room, which was laid out in a very spartan fashion, with a bookshelf, desk and chair, and single rack, with a storage locker next to the door, all done in a honey-colored wood. On the wall above the desk was a corkboard/whiteboard combo, bereft of any sun-bleaching or incompletely erased marks. Completely unused. New. Virgin.
John cocked an eyebrow at the thought. Amadeo coughed behind him, startling him out of his nascent musings. John turned and examined his relaxed visage. He wondered idly if the rest of the team was going to accept him as readily as the former San Marco.
It had been a short flight from Catania to Rome's Fiumicino airport. John had woken with the bump of the luxury plane's wheels striking the worn tarmac, snapped instantly alert in a long-forgotten instinctive rush to consciousness. He had lowered his hands from where they had shot up in a defensive posture, feeling acutely self-conscious, certain that everyone had been staring at him. Once he had realised that he was not, in fact, the center of everyone's attention (although Triela was giving him a Look with a raised eyebrow), he stood, rubbing his head and stifling a curse when he struck his crown on the overhead. Just that quickly, he'd forgotten the lesson he'd learned upon boarding the aircraft.
The group disembarked, wheeling their assorted luggage towards the main terminal. The two smaller girls... cyborgs... whatever... were still chatting at full speed, laughing in the sun, and giving off an impression of youthful vigor that was very appropriate, given the time of year. Triela was watching over them with an indulgent smile, carrying a large guitar case that seemed at odds with her crisp, no-nonsense attire that would not have looked out of place on a detective. The adults were moving with a more subdued sense of purpose.
Once they entered the building, John's long legs had had to stretch to keep up with the pace set by Jean. Somehow, Henrietta and Rico did not seem to have a problem, despite their small stature. Instead they moved through the crowd, propelled by sheer bubbliness. John couldn't help but curl his mouth into a small smile as they weaved around opposite sides of a group of besuited businessmen, never faltering in their rapid-fire discussion - of all things, zoo animals.
From the terminal, to another series of waiting Alfa Romeos, and a short trip to the outskirts of Rome... John had been unable to follow exactly where they were driving to, and the convoy had not stayed together; yet they had somehow all rejoined and entered into a walled compound through a security gate, manned by a man in a uniform of some flavor that John didn't recognize.
Which, after meeting up with Amadeo, led John to... what? His quarters, his shelter, his base of operations for his nascent mission of revenge? His expression firmed. Whatever this was going to be, he was doing no good standing in place, woolgathering.
"Thank you, Amadeo," he said absently.
The agent started to speak, thought better of it, then stepped back. He merely said "Get yourself settled, then dial 3273 on your telephone. We'll be expecting your call. Even though your paperwork still has to go through, there's a lot that we can do in the meantime."
John nodded, stepping further into the room and grounding his suitcase next to the storage locker. "What are we doing today?"
Amadeo gave a small grin. "Quartermaster. You'll need a set of utilities to train in. You'll be issued a flak jacket and your tactical gear. After that," his grin broadened, "we'll see what we can find for you in the armory."
John raised an eyebrow. "A bit sudden, isn't that?"
Amadeo shook his head. "Not at all. You're either exactly who you say you are, in which case the sooner we get you on the firing line, the better. Or you're an infiltrator, and you won't survive any attempt you make here." Amadeo shrugged. "Either way, nothing's getting done while you're still standing there." He turned, and walked away, putting his hands in his pockets.
Bemused, John chuckled dryly under his breath, and set about unloading his suitcase.
It took until the end of the day, but after several trips, John's storage locker and wardrobe were now filled. In addition to receiving a complete set of new (still in plastic wrap!) tactical gear, he had been seen by a perfunctory tailor, who had wielded a tape measure like a knife blade, rapidly measuring and noting his various dimensions on a tablet, before tossing several pairs of both jumpsuits and two-piece utility uniforms in a rather nondescript blue-grey (all bare of patches, but with several velcro-based locations showing where they would be applied, when given to him). The measurements were then typed into a computer whereupon a fax machine's distinctive electronic chattering commenced.
"There is a tailor's shop in town that does an excellent job, fitting suits for government use," said the tailor, answering John's quizzical look. "There is a reason that most agents look like they're wearing a uniform, even in plainclothes." John nodded sagely, then carried his new issue back to his room.
His trip to the armory had proven productive, as well. He had been given a slightly-beaten Beretta 92FS, along with a cleaning kit. Noting that the vast majority of the pistols in the armory seemed to be chambered for the European-preferred 9mm, he kept his mouth shut, but made a mental note to see if he could get ahold of something in a more... _traditional_ flavor, later. Nothing wrong with 9mm, after all, but there was something to be said for a round that struck with a little more "oomph."
Returning to his room, John went through the rituals of every new-join since time immemorial: fitting his newly-issued gear to himself, and noting with dismay that nothing ever seemed to be in QUITE the right spot. Finally shrugging his shoulders, he got the pouches, straps, and buckles in a "close enough for government work" formation.
It was then that he noticed that the light peering through his mostly-drawn blinds was painting his room in a deep orange-red light, and his stomach was protesting it's vacancy most profusely. 'Hrmm,' he pondered, 'now where was that refectory at?' He stood, knees popping, and dusted off his hands. With routine born of habit, he put on his previously-discarded work shirt and stepped out of his room, locking the door behind him.
Walking along the wood-and-plaster hallway, John was struck by how austere they looked - not in the manner of a barracks, but more along the lines of a sanitarium. 'But who are the inmates? The cyborgs, their handlers, or us "normal" ones?' As he walked, his mind continued to wander, focusing for the first time on the concept of the cyborgs. 'Are they children, doing an adult's job? Are they tools, or weapons, to be utilized until they break down? Are they mindless machines? Are they slaves?' He stopped walking, standing near an open window that looked out onto the courtyard. Walking along the brick path towards the archway on the far side was a pair of short (well, to John, most of the personnel here were short) young girls, probably cyborgs, one with rather dramatic red hair, the other with black hair in a boyish cut, topped by a rather incongruous beret. Both were laughing at some unheard joke, and the black-haired one gave her friend a playful shove.
"Amazing, isn't it?" piped up a familiar voice from behind him.
John jumped, spun, and cursed inwardly that he had let his guard down. 'That's happening all too much,' part of him groused. Leaning against the wood paneling of the wall behind him was Giorgio, idly picking his teeth with a contented smile and half-shrouded eyes. "It's almost as though they were real girls, isn't it?" he continued, his expression hardening as the pair in the courtyard disappeared from view.
"I just ponder that," said John, looking at the archway where the girls had vanished, willing his heart to slow down. He kept his expression carefully controlled as the initial adrenaline surge began to calm down, but there still remained a lingering urge to snap the neck of the man who snuck up behind him like thief in the night. "I think to me, 'who are they?'" Keeping his expression neutral, John shifted his gaze back to Giorgio. "What do you say?"
"Me?" Giorgio smirked as he stood up. "I say they're machines, machines that shouldn't be treated like real people. They aren't real people. The things these cyborgs could do, if they were in the proper hands..." He shook his head sadly. "I mean, people like Vic Hilshire seem to do alright, even though his 'Princess' can get sort of above herself. But man, can she kill Padans..." He shook his head again. "But the rest? Give me just one Generation 1 unit... just one! The results I could get Section 2 would be INCREDIBLE."
He stepped forwards. "But that's not where they've put me, more's the pity. It's okay, though. We in the SRT do just fine, too, without the little pampered ghouls. We're a good crew, with a mission success ratio that is unmatched in Public Safety, anywhere."
John kept his expression neutral, stifling a gulp. Reading the literature and getting the pep talk from Amadeo was all well and good, but it occurred to him that the group he was about to join were all consummate professionals, well-trained in fields that he had only skimmed the surface of. Many of them had been hand-picked out of Special Operations units, most likely; men who trained hard, worked harder, and were capable of feats of strength, endurance and skill that John had only previously been exposed to through media.
Despite not showing it, Giorgio must have sensed his nervousness, scenting it like a shark scenting blood in the ocean. He gave a small smile, devoid of mirth. "And they're thinking is that you're going to be working with us, recluta? We made it this far without losing anyone, until Marizio took that grenade. We made those bastardi pay, not that it did Marizio any good at that point." Each sentence was punctuated by another step, bringing him closer and closer to John's personal space. Unusually, Giorgio wasn't talking with his hands, keeping them low and in front of him, almost like a ready stance.
Part of John knew what this was, and had been readying himself for it. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to simply waltz into a fighting unit without being tested. He just hadn't been expecting it quite so soon.
Before the confrontation could come to a head, one of the doors leading to the catwalk opened up, and two women stepped out. One was dressed in a sharp business suit, no-nonsense, with short-cropped dark hair and shrewd, cat-like eyes. The other was speaking in the normal, Italian way, with vigor, volume, and vibrancy, her chestnut hair bouncing as she made her closing point to her compatriot. Incredibly, she was able to carry on the entirety of the conversation whilst snatching bites from the crusty baguette stuffed with salami that she was holding, and occasionally punctuating some important point with.
John blinked as he noted that Giorgio had stepped back against the wall when the door had opened, seemingly unconcerned with anything around him. John met his gaze, which told him implicitly 'later.' John gave the smallest of nods. Giorgio smirked, and stepped away, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune.
Exhaling, John let his body relax, leaning against one of the stanchions as the two women passed, deep in their conversation, before heading out of the same door that Giorgio had left through. It was a testament to the brown-haired woman's dedication to her subject (the use of shopping as a camouflage, apparently), that her point was still clearly audible for several seconds after their entrance to the next wing.
John took a few seconds to gather his thoughts, noted that the door the women had come through appeared to be the stairwell. Reasoning that the refectory had to be on the ground level, at least, he strolled down it, passing from the artificial lighting back to the natural, the summer sunset washing the grounds outside the double-storied dormitory building with a rich orange-red hue.
Wishing he'd paid attention when he was first walking through the compound, John looked about, finally seeing an adjacent building that had a semi-steady stream of people walking in and out of it. It was the sight of those exiting holding their midsections in a satisfied manner that made his decision for him.
Well, that, and the sudden snarl from his own. Stifling a rueful smile, John headed towards the refectory.
It had been a quiet meal. Despite what had appeared to be a stream of people entering the refectory, they were apparently the last few people who, like John, had been caught short by various duties. John's unfamiliar form had attracted some curious glances from the few employees and cyborgs seated, but nobody had sat at near the stern-looking man.
The irony was that John had not really been in a bad mood, despite his encounter with Giorgio - his heavy brow merely made him seem to be glowering. But with the lack of conversation to distract him, his thoughts turned inwards again, focusing on the rapidity of change that he had encountered in a very short amount of time. He kept observing details that he normally would have brought to the attention of his daughter, teaching Rebecca about the historical significance of this or that. Each time, his heart would twinge, and his face would harden.
By the time the remainder of his food had gotten cold - which was an unusual state of affairs for John in any case: allowing food to go to waste was anathema - he had worked his mind into a frenzied circle of thought that didn't show on his taciturn visage. His brain whirling like a dervish, he had stood sharply, depositing his tray on the wash rack, and left purposefully, taking long strides in no particular direction.
Part of his mind was stepping back, looking at the situation objectively, and John knew that he really should be paying more attention to this part. He knew, deep down, that any brooding that he would do on this subject would only invite a deeper depression, preventing him from functioning, and if he couldn't function, he couldn't kill the bastards responsible.
The vast majority of his mind, however, was shouting much louder, demanding to know answers that would never be forthcoming, to know why his two greatest loves had been snatched away. The wounds were still too raw, too near for him to separate himself completely from them, and the initial numbing shock that had allowed him to operate tactically had worn off.
The worst part of it all was that he knew the more chance that he had to brood, the worse everything was going to get. If he didn't get set on doing something proactive, very shortly, it was probably not going to go well. The objective part of his mind scornfully denounced that feeling as overly dramatic. The rest short that portion of his mind a metaphysical bird and kept ranting in circular logic.
So it was with a blank look of confusion on his face that he met Amadeo at the door to his room, his casual outfit bathed a dim pink in the fading sunlight. It took a minute for his mind to get itself out of the rut it had spun itself into and register what his eyes were seeing, and a few more for his mouth to operate correctly. "Rossi... need something?"
Amadeo blinked, then spoke. "You have everything you need now, correct? Have all your kit, up to speed with the weapons?
John took a second to finish slowing down the cyclotron of his mind, then replied. "I still need a rifle."
Amadeo chuckled. ["This is my rifle, there are many like it, but this one is mine.] Full Metal Jacket... I love that movie."
John's face remained neutral. "Amico, I recite that every day for 3 months. It's as real a mantra as anything." He took a breath, and calmed himself down some more. "For true, I really do need a rifle if I am to work effectively with the team."
Amadeo, nonplussed by his new teammate's volatile personality, ignored the cold first statement, and nodded his head. "Tomorrow, we train. After you complete a physical fitness test and the obstacle course, we will issue you a rifle, and in the afternoon, you will have your first day of range testing. That, and urban operations, will be your life for the next few weeks."
As he pushed himself off of the wall, Amadeo handed him a cell phone. "This is your new lifeline. All the numbers you need will be included on it. If we need you, you will probably receive a call from either me, Giorgio or Nihad - we're the squadleaders, and until you finally get assigned a squad, you're to work with whomever needs an additional body."
John's face had hardened at the information he was receiving. While he didn't relish the idea of a physical fitness test, he was practically salivating at the idea of burning some brass.
Amadeo looked him up and down briefly. "It looks as though you might need to burn off some of that soft living... don't worry. We will make sure that you will be able to keep up with us." John's ears tinged red at his acknowledgement that he had not been as diligent as might have been necessary in the PT department. Amadeo gave him a chuckle and a good-natured slap on the shoulder. "Not to worry, my new friend. There is potential there. We'll get it from you."
John gave a nod, ears still burning. Amadeo started to turn from the door, before halting himself. "Oh yes... there may be some paperwork at some point tomorrow - we would not be a government agency without the paperwork, would we?" John was forced to concede a small chuckle at that, which brought a natural-looking smile to Amadeo's face.
With an exchange of partings, John stepped back into his room. Now that he had completed his tasks for the day, his mind was free to wander. Idly, he found himself rubbing at the still-raw wounds on his face, assimilating the new sensation of his fingers tracing the length of the fresh soon-to-be scars.
Like his wounds, his mind was still raw, too. At least he didn't feel as though he was going to break down this time... plenty of time for that later. But, unbidden, memories of the last few days kept returning.
Furiously, he knuckled his forehead. "This is it, dammit! Accept it! They're gone... nothing you say or do is going to change that. It's time to suck it up, get past this weakness, and get down to the important stuff."
His eyes, blinking out the last of the stillborn tears, found the Kydex paddle holster that had been issued with his Beretta, with the pistol sitting inside it. He grasped the butt of the weapon, broke it free from the holster's retention systems, ejected the magazine, and pulled the slide back. After racking it several more times to ensure that the breech was clear, he methodically slid the rounds from the magazine, emptying them onto the coverlet on his bed. After making sure that both pistol and magazine were clear, he inserted the empty mag, and began dry-firing. Each snap of the hammer onto an empty chamber resounded in his head like hammerblows on a gong.
It was only when he noted how badly his fingers were hurting that he realised that he had passed two hours on a rookie exercise.
Ensuring the alarm on his new phone was set, John began preparing for bed, trying not to let his mind race as it contemplated this next, exciting, terrifying step in the new direction his life was going.
Jean and Lorenzo sat opposite each other in Lorenzo's office, sipping tea provided by Lorenzo's discreet female valet. Behind Jean, leaning against the wall with an air of affected insouciance was Amadeo, while Nihad stood at a relaxed rest position, hands clasped at the small of his back.
"What are your impressions of him," asked Lorenzo, coming straight to the point. "Just broaching the subject to Minster Petris gave me a case of tinnitus. Please tell me that we're not making a colossal mistake in breaching security this way."
Amadeo kept his small smile. "Honestly, he's a bit raw. More than a bit, really - Americans always seem to live so soft. But he seems to have the fundamentals, and we can build on that. The important thing is that he's focused. Almost TOO focused - We're going to have to work to get his anger directed to where it's not going to affect his concentration during operations. The last thing we need is a berserker without the control of Conditioning and the abilities of a cyborg to fall back on."
"I should hope," interjected Jean tersely "that we would not be having this conversation if you didn't think you could rein him in. Otherwise, we could always dispatch one of the cyborgs to take care of him."
Nihad shook his head slightly. "Lt. Croce, the man has just lost his family a mere two days ago. The wound is still raw. Time will tell how it will heal, but as long as he has a strong support structure, I don't doubt that he will do just fine with the team."
Amadeo nodded, his smile slipping into a more serious look for a while. "I know we may play second fiddle to the Fratelli, but the SRT will do right by the SWA with this man."
Lorenzo steepled his fingers, brow furrowed slightly in thought. Finally, he removed his glasses and knuckled his eyes for a moment before replacing them. "Very well... I suppose it's something of a moot point at this juncture, being that Minister Petris immediately informed the American consulate of the deaths of two of their citizens, and a third working with the government on a matter of national security. They're making unhappy noises, and are sending a small delegation there tomorrow, in high dudgeon."
Jean grimaced. "Unpleasant, but I suppose it's unavoidable, given the circumstances. I'll get Priscilla working on counter-intelligence first thing in the morning. She and Olga can draft the 'necessary paperwork' to have ready for the consular attache by the time they arrive."
Lorenzo grunted. "I sometimes question just how Italian our agency really is... between the United Nations that the handler's dorm seems to be, to say nothing of the support staff and medical personnel..." His brow furrowed again. "I suppose it's the cost of shielding Italy."
Amadeo chuckled. "Hey, even the Imperium Romanum recruited foreign auxiliaries!"
"And just look where they ended up," growled Jean. Nihad managed to remain politically silent - his own Somalian heritage not needing to be mentioned at this time.
Lorenzo stood. "Ultimately, it comes down to how long we can make use of Darme. If he proves to be a liability... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For right now, I want the SRT to integrate him as quickly and safely as possible. Get him conversant in Italian - that pidgin that you told me he's making do with isn't going to cut it. As soon as he's up to speed, get him working in an undercover capacity, if possible. Supporting one of the Fratelli would probably be ideal, but we'll slot him in wherever we can fit him."
Amadeo nodded, and stood up from where he had been leaning against the wall. "You got it, Chief. If we can get him up without breaking him, it'll be done quickly."
Lorenzo nodded. "Very well then. You gentlemen go ahead and turn in - I understand tomorrow you're going to run him for a bit?"
Amadeo chuckled. "You could say that."
"MOVE MOVE MOVE! I'VE SEEN GIRL SCOUTS AT A PICNIC MOVE FASTER THAN THAT!"
Amadeo's voice, all the more startling for coming from the normally-relaxed operator, sliced through the air, overpowering the normal sounds of PT rising above the already-warm field. Interested parties, both from SRT operators and fratelli, observed the self-proclaimed "Agent of Love" making a decent showing as a drill instructor running the new guy through the obstacle course.
John, having managed to let his conditioning slip after several years out of the military, was not making a good showing, impacting against the medium wall, rather than boosting up and over it. After picking himself up several times, he was finally able to skim over, breathing harshly, low-crawling under the following obstacle. He felt he did rather well, however, to avoid from screaming at the abuse his injured hand was being subjected to.
It wasn't long after this that Amadeo called a halt. "Candidato... ATTENTI!" he barked. Chest heaving, John managed to pull himself to the position of attention. He marveled at the fact that he was still able to stand at all, and cursed himself for letting his conditioning slip as much as it had.
Amadeo, joined by Nihad and Giorgio, stood in front of John, shaking his head sadly. "To think that this is what you bring to me, after I spoke so highly of you. Here I was, thinking that an American Marine might be something worth speaking about." John's eyes hardened as his brain caught up with the translation, but he managed to hold his temper. "Instead, you bring this... lukewarm performance in front of me... I certainly hope that you're holding something back. I know that Nihad is going to find it, wherever it may be."
John's heart sank - he knew that Nihad was Somali in heritage, which meant that he'd already experienced more hardship by the age of 10 than John could ever experience in his entire life.
To his credit, Nihad kept any trace of expression from his face, simply saying "At the double, forward... march," and immediately matching John's jogging pace as they took off towards the far end of the exercise field.
Giorgio snorted. "Americans are always so lazy... does Lorenzo really think that the Yankee can match up to our team?"
Amadeo nodded. "So do I, for that matter... he's out of shape, yes, but he's pushing himself - that much is evident. Assuming his time in the military was not a complete farce, we should have him remembering what it's like to work hard within a couple of weeks."
Giorgio looked after the retreating pair. "It's not just that," he said after a few seconds. "I wonder how well he'll fit in with the team once he's back in form. By his own admission, he's never worked in a high-speed field like ours - not even as a... what do they call them? 'SWAT?' You and I both know that most of our squads are formerly special forces from the various branches of the military and police. This guy was an artilleryman! What does he know about infiltration, or squad tactics? Undercover observation? If he comes in and causes a good operator to die..."
Amadeo held up his hands mollifyingly. "It'll be okay, mi amico... You know that we won't let him operate if he doesn't show us that he can handle it... and I think he will do fine. As I told Lorenzo, as long as we can keep him focused, he'll be okay."
Giorgio stood, pondering, then nodded. "Fair enough... so long as he can hack it, he gets a fair shot, same as anyone else on the team. Now, on to other problems: Fausto and Paulo are starting to lose coherency in their room-clearing drills..."
Engrossed in their discussion of tactics and personnel, the two squad leaders didn't pay any further attention to John's nascent heart attack as Nihad pushed him verbally on another lap of the field.
After a series of stretches and cool-down exercises, John was finally released to make his sorrowful, meandering way back to his dorm room. Chest burning and vision blurred from sweat pouring into his eyes, John began lurching his way towards a shower and an attempt at some paperwork that he had just learned was coming his way. As he worked on controlling his breathing, he looked about with interest at the field that he had been unable to examine whilst under Nihad's gimlet gaze.
He noted with interest that there were a fairly large number of young girls - 'Cyborgs, obviously' his brain noted sarcastically - being pushed through their paces by a tall, impeccably turned-out man with slicked-back hair, whose clear voice chivvied the stragglers through their paces with a crisp military demeanor. John noted a redhead with twin pigtails leap over an obstacle - the same 6-foot wall that gave him grief earlier - only to clip the top of it with her toe and come cartwheeling down into the mud obstacle on the other side. This resulted in some small outbursts of hilarity from her "sisters," which was swiftly crushed by the cyborg's own drill instructor via a savagely-cadenced series of push-ups.
It took John a moment to figure out why this scene was sticking in his mind, during which time the girls completed their corrective measures and continued on with their obstacle course run. Finally, it struck him: if these girls had mechanical bodies, why did they need to exercise?
It took several minutes of musing before a theory constructed itself sufficiently in his mind to come to a coherent thought process. 'They're given these bodies, but they don't know how to control them fully, or their brains might need to remap neural pathways to their new musculature. They're superhuman... but they're not perfect."
Somehow, he couldn't decide if this thought was comforting or disheartening. He was still mulling this over when he got to his door, in front of which stood a young woman with shoulder-length hazelnut hair, dressed in a sharp blouse and slacks. After a moment, he recognized her as being the highly-animated speaker that he'd seen in the dorm area the previous day.
With a smile at his bedraggled condition, the young lady stepped up to John. ["Good morning,"] she began in lightly-accented English.
John shook his head with a small smile of his own. "Good morning," he replied. "If you please, we try in Italian. Need to learn."
The young lady's smile broadened. "Very well. My name is Priscilla Meleori, and I'm with the Intelligence division of Section 2. I'm here because I spent all night working on some paperwork for you to sign off on, for the U.S. Government to accept you as being willing to work with us on a matter of national internal security."
John raised an eyebrow, prompting a drop of sweat to fall into his eye. He blinked furiously, which rather spoiled the sardonic effect he was trying for. "I think that make my government... uhm... [suspicious?"]
"Sospettoso," supplied Priscilla, nodding, "And you're correct. They're not saying anything, but if I were them, I'd at least be putting your name in a Homeland Security database as a potential mole from the Italian Government. They've already come to the offices of Minister Petris, who oversees our operations. We shall have to step very carefully - for obvious reasons, we're not exactly a well-known branch of the government."
John gave a hoarse bark of laughter. "You should be English, with the way you understate." He pondered for a moment. "You have papers there?" Priscilla nodded, holding them out for John to look over. Both were managing to overlook the fact that John's workout was starting to catch up with the air between them. "In English and Italian... excellent... okay, I think I know how I can word this so that they don't find anything out... They do not know about the SWA; they know I see a terrorist attack... if I let them think I am working with government as witness, it will be ok. I think." He frowned, thoughtfully.
Priscilla nodded again. "That was what we were hoping to do, as well. Hurry up and get ready to leave - as I said, they are in Minister Petris' office, and asking for you. They think I am an assistant, picking you up from a hotel, but we must hurry."
John gave a small nod, then looked at his watch. "15 minutes?" He gave a small sniff, wrinkling his nose. "Ah... 20?" Priscilla chuckled throatily.
"I will meet you downstairs in the parking lot in 20 minutes. Look for the-"
"Grey Alfa Romeo?" John interjected. Priscilla chuckled again, and nodded. "See you in 20," he replied, opening his door.
The consular attache left Minister Petris' offices escorted by Priscilla, whose friendly conversation threatened to bowl him over with it's exuberance, leaving him struggling to catch up with her. Which was sort of the whole point - keeping him distracted and not thinking too hard about John's role in the investigation of the terrorist attacks, wondering just why a foreign national was needed to work with the government to such an extent. It made sense that maskirovka was as much a part of SWA operations as MOUT and assassination ops.
John looked at his new work permit, noting distantly that it was made out in his real name. He scowled, and almost crumpled up the single link left to his former life. Instead, he placed it in the file folder that contained all such documents, and resumed walking towards his room with the file under his left arm.
It was official, now. The United States had (grudgingly) authorized the Italian government to utilize one of its citizens for tasks "of a valuable service to the Italian people, in the spirit of NATO cooperation." Maintaining his Inactive Ready Reserve status in the Corps had not turned out to be a waste of time, after all.
Whatever. It furthered his goals to associate with the SWA. Their immediate goal was the complete annihilation of the Padania Republic Faction and its criminal and terroristic associates. To include the cowardly bastards who took his family away from him.
His left fist clenched hard against the folded bottom of the file, leaving uneven indentations from the two remaining fingers on that hand. After some moments of breathing hard ('the nerve of that woman, going behind my back, behind the SWA's back... the only group that can do something here, and she's almost blowing their cover?'), John reined in his temper, and sat back down in the anteroom chair. Minister Petris' secretary remained tacitly silent, despite having bore witness to the Minister's guest's... episode.
It wasn't long before Priscilla's return, her expression devoid of the chirpy vapidness that she had been displaying, replaced instead with a more genuinely warm smile. She coughed once she entered the room, snapping John out of his still-rambling internal monologue. "All ready to leave?"
"Yes, Miss Meleori. I have my papers. Now, for more training."
Priscilla tsked sternly. "Ah-ah-ah..." she clucked, waggling a finger. "I have been advised to have you meet some of the rest of the staff this afternoon. Normally, I would take you to where Amadeo and Giorgio and the rest of the leatherheads hang out, but most of them have been tapped for a mission today."
John raised an eyebrow, wondering why no-one had told him, before giving himself a mental slap upside the head. Obviously, he was still FAR too raw to even be considered a part of the team. He would have to train even harder - a prospect that his aching body did not relish.
"Instead, I thought it might be a good idea to meet some of the handlers and their fratelli." John blinked, processing the translation in his head for a moment, before a brief, involuntary shudder took him.
Concerned, Priscilla's eyebrows knotted. "What's the matter?"
John shook his head. "Please... excuse me. I mean no bad. Is just... sometime I think to me that little girls should not do this work. I see little brown-hair girl that first day... she is very good at this - much better than me. I see blonde with twin-tails - Triela, yes? - she is very polite, very calm... but her eyes like tiger."
Priscilla's expression softened. "I understand where you are coming from. I thought the same thing when I first was recruited here from the Financial Guard. Working with Angelica - Amadeo told you about Angelica?" Priscilla's expression took on a dreamy look, with a wistful edge to it. "Angelica was a delight. I saw her file, with what happened to her before she came to us. With the SWA's doctors working on her, she was able to move again, to walk, to run..."
Her voice took on a slightly husky tone, and she swallowed heavily before continuing. "But her mind wasn't able to accept the extensive prosthetics without serious damage. It was through the use of the conditioning that she was able to function at all, but it came at the cost of her identity." Her expression firmed, and she swallowed again. "But with us, with the SWA, she wanted to help. All she wanted to do was to work with us. She understood that we had given her this wonderful gift, and she wanted to pay us back, however she could. She would sometimes say 'I've been given this chance to help, this life that brought me Marco and his stories... what kind of person would I be if I didn't do everything I could to help him?"
John felt himself tearing up, in spite of himself. Priscilla noted it, and chuckled, despite the fact that her own eyes were far from dry, themselves. "She does have that effect on people. Always did... when we get back to the compound, I'll show you where we buried her... as well as tell you the story of what happened." As she finished the last sentence, her voice took on a surprisingly hard tone, almost like a snarl. John was taken slightly aback, until she waved her hand. "Later. For now," she shook her head, and her voice became more cheerful, "I think you'd enjoy seeing the girls that we've helped, and the lives that they live today."
John stood, then thought about something. "Is just girls?" he asked, double-checking to make sure that he hadn't left any paperwork behind. Priscilla nodded, and the pair exited the anteroom and proceeded towards the elevator bank.
"At our compound, there are only female cyborgs. They live in their own dorm, apart from the handlers and other adult staff. Amadeo probably didn't talk about them so much, because he and the other leatherheads usually only work with the fratelli in a support role. To be fair," she added as the elevator she had summoned during their conversation arrived with a jaunty *DING* "We really haven't had that many opportunities to deploy the SRT en masse... they tend to go out in small groups, acting as undercover support operatives."
John nodded once the translation worked itself through his head. "Makes sense... we are a 'secret' organization, n'est-ce pas?"
Priscilla quirked a smile. "Kara's going to love you. And yes, sending out a group of unmarked paramilitary troops would no doubt get attention from the public... even in a country with as many 'special forces' groups as Italy."
John's look of surprise coincided with their elevator reaching the ground floor, and the pair stepped out, heading towards the main entrance. John gallantly held the door for Priscilla as she continued explaining. "Oh, you didn't realise it? Not even counting the military units like the 'Col Moschin' paratroops and the Navy's COMSUBIN, the various police forces each have their own counterterrorism or special forces units... you have the NOCS from the Polizia di Stato, the Carabinieri's GIS, my Guardia di Finanzia's own ATPI... I shouldn't wonder that the Polizia Postale don't have their own CT unit hidden from view, somewhere." John couldn't help but smirk at the idea, and Priscilla's eye's sparkled at working a small chuckle from the thus-far taciturn American.
As they finished loading up the Alfa Romeo with everything that they'd brought with them, Priscilla finished up her tangent. "But the thing is, the public knows about these units... their takedowns are published to the media, they march in the parades... we can attempt to camouflage the SRT by applying other unit's patches, we can try and keep things low-key, but we both know that things will not always go according to plan." John nodded, even though his sampling of this particular area was extremely limited.
"But they train for the big operation that may never happen, because Mr. Pieri believes in being thorough. And whenever they're needed, they work in the field with the rest of us. And so will you, when you're ready." She finished up with a broad smile that reached her eyes. John made up his mind that he rather liked this feisty operative - whose personality came off as being genuinely likeable, rather than annoyingly cheerful, as many such often did for him.
"Buckle up," she said, despite the fact that her own seatbelt hung by her side. Before John could question her, she turned the key, revved the engine, slapped the Alfa into gear as though it had personally offended her, and the grey sedan leapt from it's parking space as though it was kicked in the trunk by a petulant god-child. "I hope you like gelato," remarked Priscilla cheerfully as she dodged Roman traffic, utilizing horn and hands in some Mediterrannean mantra for parting gridlocked cars that John was simply not privy to.
Replying that he did, John finally was able to engage his seatbelt, and seized the "oh shit" handle above his door with a grip that was just shy of white-knuckle, murmurming vague oaths and imprecations with each jerk of the car.
Oh yes, he enjoyed gelato. And Priscilla was going to owe him a nice big one after this trip.
Surviving the trip without incident, other than the addition of a few new gray hairs, John noted as he got out of the car that the sun playing down through the architecture surrounding the piazza was rather calming - just what one needed after his impromptu introduction to Roman driving. At times, Priscilla's hands hadn't even been on the wheel as she kept up three seperate conversations between John, the drivers surrounding her, and a third party on her cell phone. All while talking with her hands again. John took in a ragged breath.
Remarking upon his somewhat-harried look, one of a cluster of gentlemen at the edge of the gelateria gave a small chuckle, and nodded his head. "Been introduced to Priscilla's... expedient style of driving, I see." He extended a hand. "I saw you on my plane, but never got a chance to make your acquaintance. Michele Pagani, at your service."
John leaned in slightly and grasped Michele's hand, shaking it firmly, without the stereotypical "contest of strength" that sometimes emerged from such contacts. Acknowledging the American didn't feel the need to exert himself in a pointless show of force, Michele nodded with a slight smile, releasing his hand.
Catching on to the subtle phrasing that Michele had spoken, John raised an eyebrow. "It is your plane, signore Pagani?" When Michele nodded an affirmation, John let out a low whistle, then reddened. "Excuse me, I am sorry... I just... I never meet someone who own a plane before."
An older man who bore an slight resemblance to Sean Connery, had the actor retained his body-building physique let out a rumbling chuckle. ["Pagani has considerably more than the plane, young man," he said, in an accent that carried more than a hint of Albion underneath it's Italian overtones. "I sometimes wonder if he's not secretly bank-rolling the entire endeavor."]
Priscilla waggled an admonishing finger. "Tut tut, Elio! How is John supposed to pick up Italian if you carry him in English?"
John managed valiantly to avoid bursting out laughing as the obvious veteran managed to look both contrite and indulgent at the same time. He even wrung his hands and looked under his brow at Priscilla, who gave a broad smile. "I am sorry, Miss Meleori. Please, Miss Meleori, don't make make stand in the corner."
Priscilla rubbed a hand under her chin. "A girl could get used to this sort of behavior," she murmured, sotto voce. John let out a small snicker - he couldn't help it. Priscilla's good humor, and the easy cameraderie of the coterie of handlers made it near-impossible to hang onto the icicle of bitterness that rested within him.
The tall, brown-haired man to the rear of the group finished chuckling, and added with a voice that rested on a bed of shamrocks "In all fairness, though, she does have a point. If we're going to get you up to speed," (John noted an assortment of eyerolls and facepalms when he spoke the metaphor, and wondered if there was subtext he was missing) "we do have to fully immerse you until you can keep up."
John nodded, his face slipping back into it's neutral expression (the one his wife had always told him that made him look angry all the time... dwell on it later, John). "You have reason... If I cannot even talk, then I am no good to you. Or me. I will get better. I must."
The group shared an uneasy glance at the suddenly chilly tone. Coughing into her fist, Priscilla took a new tack with the conversation.
"Well, you've not really been introduced to everyone yet, so let's make the rounds! This roguish gentleman here," she said, indicating Sean Connery's stunt double, who lifted a cup of coffee in acknowledgement, "is Elio Alboreto. The cheeky beanpole in the back is Brian McDonnell."
Footsteps approached the table from behind the indicated handler - John noted everyone's body language shifted subtly to a more tense posture, prepared to react on a moment's notice. After Brian quickly glanced over his shoulder, however, with everyone else's gaze following, the group relaxed.
John saw that the two newcomers were an adult male, sharply dressed without being ostentatious about it, and a teenage girl, dressed in a similar, modest fashion, her short black hair topped with a jaunty beret. He realised that he recognized both, even as they approached the group.
"Agapita, why don't you go see what your friends are picking out inside?" said the new man. After a brief exchange of glances between the pair, Agapita put on a smile that was only slightly for show, and practically skipped inside. The man then turned his attention to the group, shaking hands with everyone, before his gaze settled on John. "And who do we have here? Another new-hire, come to sample the finest gelato in Roma? Well met, friend!" And before John could decide if he liked the effusive exuberance of the squared-away gentleman, he was pulled into a very masculine arm-clasp, complete with underlying test of strength. Stifling an eyeroll, John gave as good as he got, avoided wincing, and the two pulled back from each other. "Avise Mancini, at your service!" He clicked his heels, almost in a chariacture of a Prussian martinet, to the tune of more eye-rolling from the group.
John couldn't help it - he found himself rather liking the man whom he recognized as the cyborg's "drill instructor" from earlier on in the day. "A pleasure to meet you, sir," said John firmly, with a nod of his head. He managed to successfully hide the throbbing discomfort in his right hand by keeping it behind his back, held in place by his left and maintaining that he was merely holding a parade rest stance - not trying to overcome the effects of someone whose clasp felt as though it almost cost him several fingers.
"John Darme," he said. Avise's eyebrows raised, took in the rest of the group (whose reactions were mostly in a "humor him" vein), and nodded his head slowly. "I... see. Perhaps one day, you may tell me a tale of how you got such an... interesting name?"
"Perhaps," said John, his expression and tone level.
The awkward tone in the air persisted for a moment, then a gaggle of young teenaged girls clamored out of the gelateria, each decrying the merits of their chosen frozen treats.
John blinked at the sudden appearance of the cheerily chattering youths, who ran the gamut from a short and cheerful redhead, her hair in pigtails, to a tall, elegant asian girl, her clothing practically screaming it's price to the world. Agapita cheerily continued a flowing conversation with the redhead, whom John had last seen performing a vigorous faceplant into the mud, earlier that day. A modestly-tall brunette completed the group, and John flashed back to what Priscilla had told him earlier, about meeting the fratelli.
While he could conceive of a fratello as an abstract, once again, coming face to face with the reality of the cyborgs in real life hit him between the eyes like a 2x4. These girls, these... _children_ were lethal special operations specialists - as much, if not moreso than any Navy SEAL or Green Beret... and here they were, in the middle of Rome, just off of the beaten path, and enjoying the summer's relaxed atmosphere like any other schoolchildren.
The girls caught the edge of the remaining tension in the air, although it was Marisa (naturally) who was the last to catch on, her voice loud to reach over the combined buzz of the surrounding crowd and the animated conversations that had petered off around her, without her notice.
"So I said to him, stick it up your- erk." Her wide blue eyes flicked around, before settling on Elio, who simply raised one snow-capped eyebrow. She stifled a nervous gulp, settling instead for a murmured "whups."
John couldn't help it. The moment was just too perfectly crafted for any reaction other than what followed. Sitting in his chair, he tried valiantly to stifle snickers, but they crept past the hand he held against his mouth. With each brief explosion of hilarity, Marisa's face would get pinker, her embarassed expression giving way to one of annoyance. Which, of course, only made it worse.
As John finally succumbed to his sense of humor's bludgeoning of his psyche, Marisa turned crossly to Agapita. "I don't think I like this adult very much, she muttered, not nearly as sotto voce as she probably should have been.
John fell out of his chair.
After recovering from his borderline-hysterical giggle-fit, John was able to politely decline an offer to spend the rest of the afternoon with the fratelli. At Priscilla's slightly-concerned look, John waved her off with a wan smile, reassuring her that he was feeling very fine, and merely wanted a little time alone in the city before returning to the compound. After receiving bus directions and an address where he could be dropped by taxi, as well as a bit of spending money (courtesy of someone's "discretionary spending fund," no doubt) handed over in crisp, middling-denomination bills from Alboreto, John ventured out into Rome proper.
He spent a bit of time meandering aimlessly, peoplewatching, trying not to focus on the families that laughed and took photos of the various landmarks. He passed by the old Roman Forum ruins and let himself get immersed in the sheer history of the city that had seen numerous conflicts over the last couple of millenia.
He pondered the tourists - people going about their lives in ignorance of the powder-keg that the country was becoming. He knew that when he'd looked into coming here with his family, there had been some travel advisories, telling of the protests that would occasionally pop up at random, but like these people, he'd paid them no mind.
Now he knew what was directing the protests, the violence that would occur on the sidelines, to say nothing of the opportunists who would sieze the chance to make some gains of their own in the confusion. He had tasted of the SWA's Tree of Knowledge, and it was not something that he could unlearn.
And, despite the horrible price he'd had to pay to learn it... John didn't think that he'd want to remain ignorant. Not when he was poised to be a part of the group attempting to affect the course of this country, the European Union it was part of, and ultimately the stability of the Western world.
And the girls with whom he'd had lunch were the linchpins to the whole design. Reinforced by more mundane, but no less important adults. Like himself.
John returned to the main streets, and hailed a taxi. He had training tomorrow: it was time to join the team. One man might not be able to make a difference, so far as he could tell, but a group, working in unison, could change the world. And John did not intend to get left behind.
In his office, Lorenzo sat, reviewing files. Priscilla, Olga and Jean stood to one side. "And this is all of the intel we've been able to obtain?"
Priscilla nodded her head, a discomfited expression on her face. "All we've been able to determine thus far is that they appear to be Croatian dissidents, left over from the conflict in the Balkans. We have no funding leads, no contracts have been put out, nothing but their identities through Interpol." She shook her head. "Nothing yet to tie them to Taormina."
Lorenzo steepled his fingers on his chest, leaning back in his chair. "If this is a move to utilize a cats-paw by the Padans or the Five Republics Faction, it's an unusual move for them. Part of their whole argument is against these people even coming into Italy."
Jean's brow furrowed. "A new player? A counter-faction? I don't like what this suggests." Everyone else nodded their heads in grim agreement. It wasn't as if the Italian Government didn't have enough enemies, both without and within as it was.
Priscilla spoke up. "I've sent the word out through the usual networks to start casting a broader net. In addition to their usual targets, we've started examining extranational sources, just in case. It's not much to go on, but it's all we have for now."
Olga spoke up. "Now I see why you asked me to sit in on this one, sir. I will ask around my old contacts through the embassy, see if anyone on the other side of the old Curtain has heard anything that might have been lost by the time they got here."
Lorenzo nodded his head. "Good. Section One is officially working the investigation on this one, but we'll see what our sources can turn up." He coughed thickly for a moment, fist to his mouth, before continuing. "Now, in reference to the Taormina operation... after the bombing, it would appear that the smugglers have holed up in a warehouse in Catania - the whole thing has spooked them, apparently.
Now, because of exposure already through Henrietta's actions at the bombing, I don't feel comfortable deploying a fratello to handle this mission."
Jean raised an eyebrow, and Lorenzo held up a conciliatory hand. "My friend, it would be one thing if they didn't know we were coming, but now they're nervous, and expecting a fight. It's time for more... conventional means."
Olga gave a small, wolfish smile. "Oh, Giorgio _will_ be pleased."
END PART ONE
Well... it has been a long time coming for such a small offering. And yet, I've put a fair amount of effort into this, working whenever I can, getting around the requirements of both my job and my family to toss a few sentences into this every now and then.
And here I sit, nervous, tossing this into the Aether in the hopes that y'all might enjoy the direction in which I'm taking my little slice of the fanon.
MUCH thanks to the entire crew at the Cyborg Central Forum for putting up with me, feeding me constructive criticism, and generally being an awesome sounding board. A few of their Original Characters feature in this, as the more astute of you may have noticed already. Thanks, Professor Voodoo, Kiskaloo, Robert Frazer, Alfisti, and MP5! Comments, criticisms and other assorted communiques may be directed to:
officer dot charon2 at that email wossname from Google.
*eyeroll at spambots*