(Boilerplate legalese: Gunslinger Girl is a creation of Aida Yutaka, not me.)

(Author's note: this is a oneshot based on an idea I had for a longer story. Some day I hope to turn it into a complete narrative. In case it isn't apparent, I'm following the manga continuity.)

The Historian of Brescia

"I still don't think it's a good idea."

"Sometimes we have to sweat for our intelligence." Hilshire was starting to work up a sweat of his own: damn this uniform's terrible fit!

"It's not like we never had to before." Priscilla shifted her weight from one knee to the other, grimacing at the feel of the damp earth under her. "I was talking about Marco and Claes."

"That can't be helped," Hilshire pointed out. "We have a handler with no cyborg and a cyborg with no handler. What else can we do with them?"

Priscilla didn't seem to have a ready answer for that. She silently fiddled with her Carcano carbine – one of a stack they'd liberated from a northbound truck two nights earlier – for a minute. "What about Triela?"

"The seizures are getting worse. She puts on a brave face, but she knows her time is almost up."

"How much conditioning do you have left?"

"Enough for another ten days. Maybe two weeks if I can stretch it." Hilshire craned his neck and peered at the stars which twinkled between the treetops above. "I once asked Belisaro what to do if I ever ran out in the field... He said I should give her methamphetamine and pray for a miracle. Let's hope he was joking."

"We're going to need a lot of miracles," Priscilla opined morosely. "I mean, what if Ferro is right and history as we knew it got erased simply by us being here?"

"Don't think about that," the ex-police man advised. "We have more immediate problems right now." Standing up, he switched on his flashlight and shone it upon himself. "How do I look?"

"Miserable," Priscilla replied bluntly.

"He looks normal to me," Triela remarked, materializing out of the undergrowth. "The targets have been spotted: a car with a machine gun, two trucks and a second car. No horses, no armor. ETA is twenty minutes."

"All right." Ignoring the jibe, Hilshire nodded to Priscilla. "Pass the word along."

"Will do."

As she crawled away, the dour man turned about and passed the light over his cybernetically augmented partner. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." It was a lie and they both knew it. "Not that it matters."

She was right, however much her handler wished otherwise. Alessandro had picked up the requisite posture and mannerisms quickly enough, but his spoken German wouldn't fool a native. The same went for Olga, though the onetime embassy driver made a good impression of a Maschinengewehr-Schütze at a distance, and for Marco and Petrushka. That was why Hilshire filled these particular boots, and why Triela – her breasts bound, her own boots stuffed with newspaper and what remained of her hastily shorn blond locks tucked under a field cap – was his number two. In retrospect, perhaps he should be grateful to the hapless grenadier who'd managed to shoot off one of her twin tails during their first night ambush: there was little chance she would have consented to a field-expedient haircut without that.

"Are those live?" Hilshire pointed to the pair of stick grenades stuffed into the adolescent killer's belt, the cylindrical heads of which bore a prominent reminder to be sure a detonator was installed before attempting use.

"Of course."

Even in her dire condition, she hadn't missed any details of Meyer's training. Every part of her costume was as it should be. "Remember," the handler cautioned, "our objectives are to reconnoiter and spread disinformation. No shooting, understand?"

"Jawohl, Herr Hauptfeldwebel." Triela tried to stiffly click her heels together, but the substitute-standard footwear gave dismal results.

"Stop that," Hilshire growled. "You're Unteroffizier Henschel now, so you'd better look the part."

"Any minute now." Hilshire looked around the hastily contrived checkpoint. "Everybody get in character."

Petrushka hunkered down behind the ZB26 light machine gun on the north-facing sandbag pile, tipping the rim of a steel helmet low over her eyes. Olga took the identical piece on the south side. Marco and Sandro busied themselves with a rag and oiler and a slightly blood-spattered issue of Die Wehrmacht respectively. Priscilla and Claes hid amongst the bushes where the group's bicycles, horses and carts were tethered, ready to spring out if the operation went wrong. That left Triela carrying the one available submachine gun, per her position as NCO of their fictional unit, as Hilshire's escort when he welcomed the anticipated visitors.

The convoy was definitely on a higher level than the two they'd previously hit up for supplies, but Hilshire thought his targets' security measures were still feeble considering the situation. Perhaps they just couldn't spare anything more: like most of his colleagues, he'd been rudely surprised to discover that the Third Reich's vaunted powers of mechanization suddenly became scarce if there were no propaganda cameras nearby. The formation was led by a Kübelwagen, a boxy, open-top car with a machine gun on a pintle beside the passenger's seat. Behind it was a two-axle Opel, a second of the same model, and lastly another Kübelwagen.

Here goes, he thought grimly, and approached the first car. The man in the back seat, a haggard, lean-faced fellow with the same rank boards as Triela, saluted as Hilshire approached. He returned the gesture with what he hoped was a convincing balance of politeness and indifference. "I need to see your paybook and travel orders, please."

The soldier looked a little exasperated, but extracted the requested documents and handed them over without protest. "Are the Kettenhunde making you stand in for them?" he inquired, resting an elbow on the lip of the car door.

Kettenhunde... Chain-dogs. Hilshire mentally translated the word into Italian without even thinking about it. "Stay away from the Feldgendarmerie," Meyer had warned. "The bastards hassle everybody. If they catch you, they'll compromise your cover for sure."

"That's right," Hilshire replied, flipping through the paybook – which, as its cover helpfully stated, was also its owner's identification. It had no real relevance to his actual mission, but it would seem suspicious for him not to check it. "We're here until they get replacements for the men who were killed in the partisan attack," he went on, taking out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. A berserk Henrietta might loosely qualify as a form of partisan, he thought wryly. After recording the details of the transit order, he handed that and the paybook back to their owner. This was the important data, especially if Jean authorized more raids. "Nothing wrong here," he announced, hoping he wasn't overlooking some flagrant error. "May I see the cargo manifest?"

"Sure."

Another set of papers was duly presented. Hilshire felt a pang of envy as he perused the list: there was lots of ammunition, of course, but also rocket launchers, self-loading rifles and even a set of experimental assault weapons. "Someone will be celebrating Christmas early," he commented.

The convoy officer chuckled darkly. "I don't think those men will be feeling very festive, not with the SS moving in and – "

"What's the delay?" a demanding voice shouted from the rear of the second truck. "I'm late, goddammit!"

The Unteroffizier gritted his teeth. "It's a security check, Herr Standartenführer! ...Speaking of the SS," he added more quietly, resuming his exchange with Hilshire, "that one is heading for the same place as the ordnance."

Hilshire frowned. "There was no mention of a passenger in your orders."

"He showed up right as we were leaving, saying his ride had been misappropriated." Clearly this was the cause of much irritation. "Our guest has done nothing but complain ever since we set off!"

"I see." The badger in wolf's clothing folded up the inventory list but retained possession of it. "We'll have to inspect your cargo."

This time the man baulked. "Herr Hauptfeldwebel, is that really necessary? We're already behind schedule..."

"Sorry, but I must insist." Hilshire tried his hardest to appear sympathetic. "There are rumors of enemy infiltrators wearing our uniforms, and if you're going to Pescina then we absolutely can't be lax." Waving Triela over, he passed the papers. "Henschel, make sure nothing has been tampered with. Check the passenger's papers while you're at it."

The NCO in the car watched with trepidation as his faux counterpart passed. "He won't like that..."

"He'll have to deal with it," said the Europol veteran firmly. "I'm not making an exception for him."

That scored a few more points with the backseat rider. "So," he said, leaning a little closer, "have you heard anything? About Pescina, I mean."

"Nothing credible," Hilshire hedged. "You?"

"One day they say it was a secret Allied airplane, the next day it's a martian invasion." The Unteroffizier wrinkled his nose. "We army folk were sent to cordon off the area, then the Luftwaffe started parachuting their men in. Now the SS wants to kick us out, and for what?" He shook his head. "We get no explanations, just a stream of orders – go here, go there, on and on..."

"Somebody back at headquarters must think this is important," the inspecting party prompted, "or they wouldn't be diverting all these munitions from the frontline."

"Feh... All I know is, nobody in my platoon is getting any shiny new – "

He was cut off when Triela issued an affronted bark. "I don't care what you think I am, show me your damned papers!" Her handler was about to intervene when she shouted again: "Why don't you come down here and say that to my face?"

Oh no. Triela could walk like a German and talk like a German, but Sandro didn't have the makeup supplies he needed to obscure her Tunisian complexion. Meyer had asserted that the average Landser wouldn't waste much time filtering his comrades for poster children of the master race, but he probably hadn't anticipated one of his pupils eagerly taking on the Schutzstaffel. "Henschel," Hilshire called warily, "is there a problem?"

"This pig-dog had the nerve to call me a Hiwi!"

Now the motorized NCO interceded. "Ah, Herr Standartenführer, we can't go until they finish inspecting..."

It must have had a motivating effect, because Triela briefly stopped yelling. "See?" she proclaimed. "Come on, hand it over... Where are your travel orders? ...You think I'm falling for that?" Kachak! "Out of the truck! Now!" There was a scuffle, then a muffled impact. Somebody's face got planted in the dirt. "Herr Hauptfeldwebel, I think we've found an Amerikaner spy!"

Restraint, Triela, Hilshire thought wearily, show some restraint. "What do you mean?" he asked aloud.

"He claimed he'd lost his travel orders, and his paybook is an imitation of a just-issued replacement."

"Aha." His cyborg was technically still following the mission plan, but she was also risking it by her excessive vehemence. Better wrap this up while they still had the upper hand. "I think you must not have looked very closely at your passenger, Herr Unteroffizier."

The man in the Kübelwagen took the ruse: hook, line and sinker. "I'm sorry, Herr Hauptfeldwebel, I didn't think – "

"What you did or did not think is unimportant," Hilshire interrupted sternly. "You had a close call, so please be more careful from now on. What if the next one is disguised as a general?"

"Yes, Herr Hauptfeldwebel..."

"Good." Hilshire signaled for Marco and Sandro to take over the prisoner watch. "We will deal with this clever spy," he said as Triela returned, her MP40 in one hand and the cargo manifest in the other. "Well?"

"The cargo appears to be as it should," the disguised girl reported gruffly, handing the papers back to her handler. "Nothing is missing or opened."

"Very good." The manifest was summarily restored to its original bearer. "That will be all, Herr Unteroffizier. Carry on."

The man saluted again, trying very hard not to stare when the unconscious 'spy' was dragged past. His convoy sat for some seconds more as Hilshire followed the captive back to the checkpoint, then resumed its journey south. The impersonators kept up their acts for a few minutes longer, until the rumbling of engines had faded into the distance.

"Phew," Sandro breathed, pulling off his helmet. "Mission accomplished."

"They were completely fooled," Priscilla declared, emerging from cover with well-dirtied knees and shins. "Did you see the looks on their faces when Triela yanked that officer out of the truck?"

"No, but we heard it clear enough." Marco began to frown as he flipped through the pages of the KO'd man's identification booklet. "You never told us you had family in the SS, Hilshire."

"What..?"

"Standartenführer Adrian Hartmann, of the First SS Panzer Division... The Leibstandarte 'Adolf Hitler' itself." The veteran handler reached down and flipped Hartmann onto his back. "The resemblance is striking."

"He's got the same taste in guns as well." Triela tossed the prisoner's pistol to Hilshire. "What a coincidence."

Hilshire – no, Victor Hartmann – looked at the Sauer 38H in his hand, then at the face of the man lying before him. Wonderful, was all he could think. Now I know why my parents only talked about the other grandfather. He turned away. "Let's get ready to pull out. You know what to do."

Petrushka packed up the Czech machine guns while Olga went to tend to the horses. Priscilla came out of cover to assist her. Claes joined Triela in trussing up Hartmann as Marco switched on his electric light and started extinguishing the checkpoint's lanterns. Sandro pulled out one of the sandbags and cut it open, revealing not sand but a massive pile of spent cartridge casings. He walked around the checkpoint, scattering handfuls of the gleaming cylinders across the earthen road.

The checkpoint was soon reduced to a couple of sandbag barriers. Those who built and occupied it faded into the dark on horseback and bicycle, leaving the wooden wagons and a pair of lamps behind. Ten minutes later a timed fuze set off enough explosives to turn several meters of road into a deep pit. If anyone were to come looking for the hot-tempered Unteroffizier Henschel or his Hauptfeldwebel after that, it would appear that they'd perished in a partisan attack along with the alleged spy.

Rico and Amadeo were on watch when the party returned to their base, an isolated farm with blacked-out windows and no farmer. Signs of recognition were efficiently exchanged before the returning operatives dispersed into the barn and farmhouse.

"Whew," Marco sighed, easing a rifle sling off his shoulder. "I'm looking forward to trading this for something lighter."

"Yeah." Sandro set his own Karabiner 98 against the wall by the house's front door as Claes, Triela and Petrushka together dragged Hartmann in the direction of the attic ladder. "I could get used to this, though," he added, taking out the 7.65mm Beretta which had been concealed in his pants. "Hey, is anyone hungry?"

"I am," Claes announced, reappearing with Triela at her back. "Petrushka has volunteered for first prisoner watch."

"Go ahead and get something," Marco replied. "I'll see you in a little while, all right?"

The girl departed with a nod, while Triela picked at the sleeve of her uniform tunic. "I'll take this off now, if nobody minds."

If Hilshire minded, he said nothing about it. He'd been quiet for a while now, a brooding look lingering on his face. Since her statement of intent went unchallenged, Triela also disappeared. The adults waited by the door until Olga and Priscilla came inside, then shuffled down the cellar steps for their debriefing.

The pale stubble on Jean's face suggested that he'd been working in the dank, low space ever since the others set out on their mission. Ferro sat at his elbow, looking quite unkempt herself. "Well?" Jean asked, pushing aside one of the maps on his makeshift desk. "Did everything go according to plan?"

"Overall, yes." Hilshire placed the notes he'd copied from the convoy paperwork on the desk. "I believe our disguises were sufficient."

Jean looked over the papers briefly. "Get anything besides these?"

"We picked up an SS officer who was traveling with the equipment. There were irregularities in his documents, so we detained him under the pretense that he was an Allied agent. He might know where Jose is being held, but..."

"But?" Jean prompted, leaning forwards on his keg.

"He's my paternal grandfather." Hilshire let that sink in for a few moments. "I... never knew what he did during the war."

"We'll deal with him soon enough," the blond handler pronounced ominously. "What was your impression of the enemy?"

"Confused. The sergeant I spoke to knew only a little, though I gathered there is some infighting between the Heer and the Waffen-SS. There are also some fantastic rumors making the rounds."

"I see... How was Triela's performance?"

"A little more aggressive than I would have liked," Hilshire admitted, "but beside that she was fine."

"Good. What about Claes?"

"No problems," Marco reported shortly.

"Excellent." Jean folded his hands together. "We received a brief communication from Oberleutnant Meyer while you were absent," he continued, a note of distaste entering his voice. "He believes his company will be relocated soon."

"So no more help from our conscientious soldier?" Sandro asked.

"He doesn't know yet... The situation in Pescina is largely unchanged: the First Fallschirmjäger Division still holds the town, supported by an ad hoc army group. The SS wants its own armor unit to take over, but neither the army nor the air force are willing to surrender control."

"What about our target?" Priscilla inquired.

"Nothing. Carlo Belzoni and his Padanian associates remain at large."

Sandro frowned. "And the time machine? Even if it doesn't work without those parts Belzoni took, when the Nazis figure out what it is..."

"So far they haven't." Jean traded one map for another. "But they do know they've gotten their hands on something important. We also have to consider what the Allies would do if they learned of its existence."

Olga cocked her head. "How long until that happens, do you think?"

"Uncertain. They control the south of the country already, but their ability to reconnoiter past the occupation's defensive lines remains limited. There is, however, a risk that it might be revealed by the anti-Hitler factions inside the German military – by Canaris or von Tresckow."

"No matter how you look at it," Ferro summarized, "it doesn't look good."

"Too true," Olga agreed. "That thing would be no safer in Stalin's hands than it would in Hitler's."

"I'd rather not entrust it to Roosevelt or Churchill either," Jean stated. "Whatever history as we knew it claims, this is a world at war and that means anything goes."

There was a long pause as each marooned agent of the Social Welfare Agency mulled over the precarious position they shared. "So," Priscilla ventured at last, "what do we do now?"

"Rescuing Jose is of paramount importance." Jean's tone made it clear that he would hear no arguments on this. "Henrietta is almost useless without her handler... At the same time, we should continue to strengthen our position. We recruited a member of the Wehrmacht, now we need to do the same with the partisans and, eventually, with the Allied armies. When Belzoni makes his move, we absolutely must be ready for him."

"It's going to take some serious preparation for us to stand against a tank division," Sandro pointed out. "Those SS types have some heavy hardware at their disposal, right?"

"Panzer Threes and Fours plus Tigers, according to Meyer. There will be assault guns and tank destroyers as well."

"Maybe we should have robbed that convoy when we had the chance," Sandro remarked. "We could have used those Panzerschrecks."

"We'll need more than that," Hilshire corrected gravely. He looked to Jean. "Perhaps we should ask Meyer for some tank manuals."

Having satisfied her immediate needs with a displeasing portion of dried meat and not-quite-stale bread accompanied by metallic-tasting water, Claes quietly padded through the farmhouse. She was not the least bit surprised by the sight of Petrushka walking about on her hands below the attic entrance. Leaving the redhead ex-ballerina behind, she entered the humble bedroom and was again not surprised by the sight of a half-naked Triela silently convulsing amongst scattered garments.

By now she and every other cyborg knew what to do. Pinning Triela to the floor, Claes rapidly jabbed her finger against a series of points along the dusky-skinned girl's spine. It took maybe forty seconds for the last spasms to fade. "Thank you," Triela whispered weakly, pulling herself up onto the bed and drawing the tunic around herself.

"I'll fetch – "

"No." Triela's voice was one measure each of pleading and commanding. "Don't... Don't tell him." Her eyes drifted to the Winchester trench gun in the corner, its blued steel faintly gleaming in the lantern light. "Could you..?"

Claes said nothing, but walked over to the shotgun and picked it up. There was a brisk shakchak-shakchak-shakchak as she pumped the shells out one by one before returning. When Triela took the antique in her hands, she cradled it the way other girls might hold those objects which brought them deepest security.

"I'm going to die here." It was a statement of fact. "Hilshire promised me we'd spend Christmas in Napoli with Mario and Roberta and Mimi, but it's impossible now."

"You don't know that," Claes protested.

"I can feel it." Triela swallowed. "You still have time, but me... I've just become a burden to Hilshire. He tries to pull the weight of both of us, but he can't do it forever." She raised her head, meeting her companion's eyes. "I thought it wouldn't be so bad if I shared Angelica's fate, but now... would it be better if it were Elsa's?"

"Don't talk like that," Claes ordered. "Don't even think like that. What will the rest of us do without you?"

"Hah... It used to be me who would say that." Triela closed her eyes. "This was Mario Bossi's shotgun. I didn't know until just recently... Angelica had her dog at the end, and I'll have this."

Claes abruptly sat beside her. "I used to pity you," she admitted. "Having so many sentimental things in your life." She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "But now I wonder..."

"What?"

"Nothing." Claes stood up again. "There are only five of us here to protect the adults. Without us, they have no chance of success... Without us, history might as well be destroyed already." She turned. "So keep fighting, and we'll all celebrate Christmas 1943 together."