A/N: This story is set in between the events of the first and second anime releases, after Angelica and before Pinocchio. Jean and Jose's names are spelled Italian-style: Gian and Giuse, respectively. Pronunciation is the same.

I: Senza Aiuto

"So," grunted Silvano, hiding his shock behind a thoughtful scowl and a drag on his MS Rosse. "You use children."

He breathed out slowly and watched the smoke rise to the ceiling. His new boss' office was uniform but comfortable, a study in earth tones and understated elegance; a world apart from the cramped sweatboxes and stacks of paperwork he was used to. Just when he thought he knew what to expect from civil service jobs, the Social Welfare Agency had come knocking. First his old army buddy Giorgio, then a stuffed shirt named Gian Croce who seemed more interested in his service with the Carabinieri and Italian Special Forces than his most recent job as a military record keeper. He thought that rather strange until he learned of the Agency's true purpose—and its unorthodox brand of "social work."

"Correct," Lorenzo replied, hands folded on his desk. He was a candid, unsmiling fifty-something with short gray hair and glasses. "All of our operatives entered the program as females aged 10 to 16."

Silvano felt his skin prickle with unease. He had seen child soldiers during the Somalian Civil War, and gang members as young as twelve in the streets of Naples. On some nights, when sober, he saw their faces in his dreams. "Is that necessary?"

The director remained impassive. "It is expedient. The younger the subject, the more effective the treatments. They can move about relatively unnoticed, slip in and out of tight places. Their senses are more acute than those of any adult. Our cybernetic implants and mental conditioning lend them the physical strength and discipline they would otherwise lack. On the whole they are quite proficient and remain viable for several years, though we are conducting research to extend their lifespans. Each requires a handler, to train them and oversee their performance in combat."

Silvano nodded slowly. A bald, barrel-chested man in his late thirties with stern features and a dark growth of beard, he looked the part of a hardened government official. But he also had a contemplative and even gentle side; a moral compass that had always seen him through, no matter how many times he was tempted by the political corruption that threatened to devour his nation from within. Now that compass was pointing straight out of this office. He should decline the job offer and leave while he still had a choice, maybe even call a newspaper. What could they possibly offer him to make this an attractive prospect? The ethical implications of Section 2's program were staggering, assuming what Lorenzo described was even possible. Counter-terrorism was one thing, science fiction was another.

"These are gravely ill or suicidal children who are receiving a second chance at life," Lorenzo continued, sensing his hesitation. "We rehabilitate them, give them a comfortable place to live, and allow them to fight the very same crimes they were once victims of. Is that not a worthy cause, Mr. Silvano?"

He took another pull on his cigarette and thought hard. "With all due respect, Director, I'd have to see it to believe it."

"Her parents were farmers in South Africa," Gian Croce said, looking dispassionately through the window. "Their property was attacked by political extremists. Her father and brother were stabbed repeatedly, her mother beaten and assaulted in front of her. She was the only survivor."

Silvano stepped up to the glass and looked. A frail tiny form lay nearly motionless on the hospital bed. The doctor had strapped her down at some point, and he could see bruises on her arms where the nurses restrained her. A feeding tube protruded from her left arm. Lank blonde hair spread over the pillow and covered one side of her face. She was deathly pale and probably sedated, with only the slight rise and fall of her chest to indicate she was alive at all.

"She's veered between violent panic attacks and total unresponsiveness ever since. With no living relatives to claim her and the Director taking an interest in foreign subjects, we had her brought here as a refugee."

"How old?"

"She's twelve."

What must a thing like that do to a child? Silvano tried to imagine it and failed. His boyhood in Piedmont had been happy for the most part; his family never had much money and papà drank too much after a hard day's work in the orchards, but that was all. Crime hardly touched him until his teen years, when some mafiosi on the run forced a shootout with local police and his friend Lui was killed in the crossfire. Even if her traumatic memories were suppressed by the brainwashing—which, according to Gian, was not only standard but a blessing in disguise given what these girls had endured—there was no telling when they might resurface.

He watched her silently. For one of the few times in his life, he felt uncertain what to do next.

"Beto," Gian said, earning a glare from Silvano, who wasn't used to the agents' disconcerting habit of calling each other by their first names. "We could visit all the hospitals in Italy if you insisted. And at every one of them you would find a child like this. One who can't be helped by conventional doctors or therapists, though many have tried. Can you walk away from all of them?"

"A lesson in compassion, Gian?" he said incredulously. Tact had never been his strong suit, and he struggled to hide his distaste for the man. Almost unwillingly he turned back to the window, part of him hoping the girl would be gone and that this was all a nightmare he would wake up from any moment. She was still there; alone, suffering, helpless, and in that moment he knew the bastard was right.

He couldn't walk away.

For a gritty counter-terrorism organization, Section 2 was quite fond of euphemisms, and chief among these was "conditioning." Such a neat, tidy, emotionless word hardly described what Silvano witnessed here: repeated sessions of brain surgery via laser technology he never knew existed, interspersed with brief waking fits on the operating table as her body struggled to reject, then adapt to the alterations.

"Any questions yet, Mr. Silvano?" Dr. Bianchi asked while they waited out another round of convulsions. An agreeable-looking man with a soul patch, he went about his duties with a clinical detachment. This girl wasn't the first he had modified, nor would she be the last.

No questions came to mind other than "how the hell do you sleep at night," and asking that would not be conducive to a friendly working environment. Because he was working for the Agency now, whether he liked it or not. He couldn't take another day of that filing job, the bills had to be paid, and Lorenzo promised him reinstatement in the Carabinieri if he completed three years of service.

Only three years? They must be hurting like hell for handlers—another euphemism that didn't sit well—and that didn't surprise him a bit. No man would accept a job like this unless he held a deep-bleeding grudge and could twist his conscience out of shape for long enough to fulfill the contract ... assuming one survived those three years without a Padanian's bullet renting space in his occipital lobe.

"These are only the preliminary stages," Bianchi continued as he studied his monitors. "She won't be usable for at least two weeks. With the recommended dose of conditioning it could have been one, but the minimum dose you opted for is a more delicate process. You don't have to be present for all of it."

"I'm not leaving," Silvano insisted. No matter what the doctor said, he did have to be here. From the moment he accepted her, this girl became his responsibility. He needed to see what was happening to her, to know exactly what he was participating in. The Silvanos were a stubborn lot, and they didn't do things by halves. Every training exercise, every covert operation, every police raid and gunfight he'd distinguished himself in was carried out with one hundred percent effort. It had earned him a reputation that not even the higher levels of government could ignore. He wouldn't compromise that for anyone.

He must sever any emotional attachment to her in his mind; put his misgivings aside and ride it out until he was back on the force, with all the authority he needed to do the job his way. That Mafia scumbag from twenty-five years ago was still out there somewhere—with Luigi Conti's blood on his hands.

"Mr. Silvano."

He looked up with red-rimmed eyes. Ferro, a female staffer who displayed less emotion than the cyborgs themselves, was beckoning him to the two-way mirror. Through it they could see into a recovery room next door, where she'd been resting for several days.

Now she was sitting up.

He stood, extinguished his Rosse and went straight for the door.

"Please compose yourself," Ferro said. "We don't wish to excite her. You must give her a name as well."

"I'll let her tell you," he grumbled, and swept out with his gun in hand. It was an old Beretta 8000 Cougar from his paratrooper days in the Special Forces. He strode into the girl's room, where she was sitting on the edge of the bed and examining her surroundings. She rose to her feet and fixed on him immediately. Her face was heart-shaped and pretty, though not enough to draw unwanted attention. The eyes were blue and pale as the surface of a frozen lake, the nose dotted with barely visible freckles. Her hair was trimmed to a golden cap so as not to hinder her sight or her movements, and a daily regimen and training schedule were prepared in advance. Both were utilitarian choices made without emotion on his part, much like the one he was about to make now.

"Your name is Kess," he said unceremoniously. "Repeat it."

"Kess," she echoed. One syllable, so he could get her attention immediately. In combat situations every second would count. He'd considered Tess as a nod to her Dutch ancestry, but decided that was unimportant and changed the first letter. Her real name had been Nelleke Janssen, but she was never to remember it. Her past was nothing now.

"You are a cyborg designed by the Social Welfare Agency to serve and protect the government of Italy. I am Beto Silvano, your supervisor." He refused to let the word "handler" cross his lips. She was a cybernetic assassin, not a circus animal.

"I am a cyborg designed by the Social Welfare Agency to serve and—"

He sighed irritably and held up his hand. "You don't have to repeat that."

"Understood." Her voice was quiet and cool and slightly hoarse; whether that was natural or an effect of the conditioning he couldn't say. If nothing else it had made her fluent in Italian, though the Afrikaner accent persisted.

"Your job will include spying, surveillance, and eliminating targets as directed. I expect you to carry it out to the best of your ability and obey my orders at all times. That is the extent of our relationship."

Kess said nothing, but her eyes lit up. Interesting. Perhaps his words had jibed with the doctors' brainwashing.

All right, Lorenzo ... time to see just what your little girls are made of, Silvano thought to himself. And YOU, Beto, need to stop thinking of her as a little girl and get down to business.

"Your first mission is to dodge this."

The veteran brandished the butt of the pistol, stepped forward, and whipped it across her face.

She wasn't there.

It happened so quickly he didn't even see her move, and he nearly lost his balance into the bargain. Silvano righted himself and spotted her by the bed. One hand was braced on the wall and the other on the railing as her eyes scanned every breath he took, every tiny shift in his muscles. She was a fearless, disciplined machine who anticipated his next move even as she waited for further orders. No longer broken, and anything but helpless.

Good.