Gunslinger Girl is a manga and anime series created by Yu Aida and this story takes place within in the canon of released volumes. All characters featured in Gunslinger Girl are intellectual property of Yu Aida and related publishers, and this fan-fict's author has made considerable effort to avoid altering or otherwise taking the canon characters out of their character as created. What little they are embellished is done so with respect of those characters in mind. Maverick375's original characters are his intellectual property and he would greatly appreciate any usage of them elsewhere to be approved by him. Thank you.
This is my first major fan-fict and as such, I have made some writing errors common to non-professional authors. The first several chapters are short and perhaps lacking in substance, but as the story began to evolve, the feel smoothes out and becomes enjoyable. Above all, this is a story based on my need for a create outlet, and as such it took two years to complete, punctuated numerous times by months of writer's block. If it seems incomplete or unpolished in places, it is because I chose to leave it as such as an indicator of my personal improvement. Please enjoy the story for what it is: a tale of the human heart's boundless determination. -Mav
Gunslinger Girl: Light As Seen Through Darkness
By: Maverick375
Chapter One:
"There's a feeling of satisfaction when you see the target in your sights drop to the ground, dead even before they hit. Your next thought should be to escape undetected and alive. Do you understand, Jamie?"
The young brunette looked up from behind her scope at her mentor, her "brother," and smiled softly. "Yes, Michael."
"Good. Now, slow-fire the next four rounds into the same location. Concentrate on not jerking the trigger and maintaining your cross-hairs on target until the wind lets off." He leaned into the spotting scope and watched the dust at the target's location drop as the breeze subsided. The rifle beside him fired, the sound sharp even through his muffs, and he watched the line the supersonic projectile created as it tore through the air. A hole appeared dead center in the X-ring of the target, a fatal shot even at six hundred meters. This girl had promise as a sniper if nothing else.
CRAAAK… Another shot from the .338 Lapua Magnum struck two inches left of the previous, well within the Minute Of Angle rating of the M24A3 rifle. He let her expend the magazine and clear the rifle before signaling for a target change by the field crew.
"How's the shoulder holding up?" She had torn out a part of a doorframe in the shoot-house the day before, dislocating her shoulder in her hurry to enter the room. She was still somewhat careless in her movements, always determined to please him by being the best. If she would just slow down, her skills and times would improve dramatically. Today's long-range rifle practice was meant to help her learn that, and was probably not getting through to her. If only she weren't so damn natural with guns.
"It's fine. It's not hurting any." Jamie clenched her hand a few times, feeling for any stiffness in the artificial muscles in her arm. The shoot-house had been frustrating. Twenty targets in five rooms, three hostages or other no-shoots in each. It was easy to blast away at a room full of bad guys, but picking your targets out among friendlies was much more difficult. Especially when you're behind on a clock. She had tossed the flash-bang into the last room after letting it tick off two of its three-second fuse, then dove in behind it. She had misjudged it and was caught in the doorway as it went off late, stunning her and throwing off her dive. Her shoulder slammed the doorframe and triggered the P90 sub-machine gun in her hand to fire, stitching two targets and one no-shoot with holes.
Worst of all, Michael was angry with her for what he perceived as showboating. She was only trying to keep from failing him by trying out different things she had read. On some subconscious level, she had to make him proud of her, and despite her best efforts, she was failing.
The field team signaled their task was complete and sought cover in the recessed bunkers. Two targets at five hundred meters were set up, far enough apart that she'd have to shift her firing position a bit to engage the second. Michael handed her a loaded magazine. "Engage the right target first with one round to the head, then swing to the left target. Alternate with one round each as fast as you can while maintaining accuracy. Reload and repeat the drill until the second mag is empty. Do you understand the course of fire?"
"Yes."
"Load and make ready." He set the beep on his shot timer.
Jamie slapped in the magazine and worked the bolt, then disengaged the safety as she settled in. "Ready."
"On the buzzer." He pressed the button. Two seconds ticked away like an eternity, then the high-pitched screech sounded.
The first shot broke clean and ripped through the target head at eye-level. Jamie swung the stock to the right and fired when the second target came into her reticle. The shot grazed the edge of the target head, but the recoil slapped the stock into her shoulder breaking her concentration. She swung to the right target again and jerked the trigger, throwing the shot wide left and slamming her shoulder again. She worked the bolt the third time and focused on getting the stock tight into her shoulder as she swung back to the left target. The crosshairs lined up, she pulled in tight and set for the shot, but the pain in her shoulder made her flinch, anticipating the coming assault. The shot broke and went low and left, shattering one post holding the target and sent it falling to it's right. She worked the bolt again, gritting her teeth through her own frustration, and took aim at the right target again, putting a round through the very top of the skull.
The bolt came open and she released the magazine, feeling for the next where she had placed it, but it wasn't there. She pulled away from the scope and looked down, seeing it nowhere.
"That's enough, Jamie. You can't go into the field shooting like that." His voice was a mix of his own frustration and anger. He grabbed the rifle from her roughly and loaded it, dropping to a kneeling position behind the sandbags they were using as a rest. He tapped the timer and fired a second later as the beep sounded, putting his first shot through the right target, above and touching Jamie's first shot.
Michael cycled the bolt and shifted target to the left one, lying on its side facing him. He took his time with his motions, but was not slow by any means. His second shot went through the head of the target, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. He shot three more times, each round going straight through the head of the respective target. He finally stood and secured the weapon and handed it to her rougher than he'd taken it.
"You completely missed what I said, Jamie. 'As fast as you can while keeping your accuracy'. Fast is slow and slow is fast. If you rush a shot, you miss. If you take your time, you won't have to make a second shot to fix your mistake. My time might have been longer, but every shot went where it was supposed to. You rushed through it and made one out of five. If you were supporting a raid, you would have cost our people their lives." He virtually spit the last sentence at her.
"Now… Pack up the rifle and double-time it, and your ass, to the armory. Clean the gun properly, get a shower, and grab some dinner. I'll let you know when I've decided what to do about this. Get moving."
"Yes, sir." She slung the rifle, picked up her equipment pack, and started the long run back to the training center's armory.
Michael stepped over to his car, stopping at the sight of Jean and Hilshire. They must have pulled up before the last drill started.
"Not as easy as you thought?" Hilshire stepped forward and handed him a bottle of water. It was a hot day, made more miserable by a lack of progress.
"I never thought it'd be easy. I just didn't think I'd have this kind of trouble with her." He watched her jog down the road towards the armory, almost a thousand yards away.
Jean glanced at the targets the field team drove by with. "What's the problem?"
"She's rushing through things. The shoot-house yesterday, the speed-drill today. Several other instances." He drained the bottle in one long pull. "She's got skill but she's too anxious to use it for it to work effectively." He sighed. "Maybe this last drill will help her understand that she has to slow down to be proficient and let the speed come to her."
"I want a full detailed report on your team's status. Strengths and weaknesses. We're coming up on an important set of missions and we're going to need every team in the field. We also cannot have any mistakes, so if she's not going to be ready, I need to know."
Michael glanced between the two, having a feeling where this was leading. "Two weeks. If she takes today's lesson to heart and learns from it, I need two weeks." It was probably a bit short of the time he really needed, but he had to give something hopeful.
Jean climbed in his car and waited for Hilshire. "I want that report tomorrow afternoon so I can go over it with the chief. We'll decide then whether you get your two weeks or if we send her in for conditioning immediately. Time is a luxury we can't afford to waste on failed efforts." They drove off in a cloud of dust towards the office complex.
Michael found another bottle of water in his car and sat down in the shade of it, staring into the bright blue sky. "How the hell did I end up here?"
Chapter Two: Paris Life
Michael Christiansen stared into the bright blue sky above the building rooftops, blocking the sounds of the city from his mind. This little café in Paris had become almost a home for him since he was released from the Central Intelligence Agency. One mistake- one costly mistake- had cost him his job, his home, and what little money he'd had.
His government wouldn't even spot the money to help him back. Even worse, they'd refused to give him a passport after they'd confiscated his fake Agency issued ones. The US Embassy had even refused to acknowledge him his citizenship status, so he couldn't get a passport through them.
Even if he had a passport and money, the French government probably wouldn't let him leave the country since they had no record of his arriving. Maybe his first mistake had actually been in refusing to stash a spare set of credentials in every country he frequented.
So here he was, stuck in France, barely a Euro to his name, doing odd jobs to survive. There weren't too many jobs for a dispossessed American, who has no work visa, who wasn't officially in a foreign country. He'd managed to find a café owner in the tourist district who was short on help and willing to turn a blind eye to his lack of background and now Michael waited tables, primarily for the American tourists whose French was worse than his own. With his earnings he was keeping a small room in the industrial district, which was a roof over his head at best. The owner of that place was shadier than himself, if that were possible.
Three young women sat down at one of his tables and motioned him over. His practiced eye glanced them over quickly. College-bound American teens on summer break, touring Europe together. Their naiveté was obvious. They actually kept their money in their purses and spent every free moment talking rather than paying attention to their surroundings. Add their clothes, mannerisms, and accents and you really couldn't stick out more as an American if you tried. They'd be begging the embassy for replacement passports before the week was out.
"Good evening, ladies. What can I get for you?" He smiled. Heck, why not? He could see almost every thing inside the one girl's low-cut top.
"You're American?" The blonde spoke up first.
"Yeah. The owner keeps me on so the tourists don't stress the French waiter's language skills. If you like I could attempt to speak English in a horrible French accent."
"Err…no thanks." This was the brunette. If his guess about the redhead's personality was correct, this one was the most sensible of the three. "We'll just have three coffees. We're just taking a break before hitting the local shops."
"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment." He stepped to the counter and heard the blonde say what she thought about non-French waiters in a French café. The owner stepped over. "Three regular coffees, Pierre."
"For rich American brats, you would think they would buy more." Pierre poured the coffee and Michael added the usual American cream and sugar sides to his tray.
"Personally, I'm surprised they made it from the airport with their wallets intact. They don't seem like the bright type. Well… the brunette seems smart enough, if inexperienced." Michael balanced the tray carefully and stepped over to the trio. "Three regular French coffees. Anything else I can get for you?"
The redhead looked up from her first sip. "Do you know of any great rave clubs here?"
Michael smiled honestly, having been right on his first impressions of her. "Well, the closest one would be two streets that way," he pointed, " but probably the best I've heard of is down by the industrial park. They turned an old warehouse into a club and evidently got it right because it's packed every night they're open." He wrote down the address in French and English and handed it to them. Some more tourists sat down at another table while he'd been chatting. "Excuse me ladies, duty calls."
"Thanks."
By the time he'd finished dealing with a large party of older tourists, the girls had gone, but had tipped nicely, even scribbling their thanks on the check. Maybe they were naïve, but they weren't so bad. He was disavowed and stuck here, but it was nice to know that some Americans could stick together.
It was after midnight by the time he and Pierre had closed shop and cleaned up. The day had been good for tips and the month's rent was paid now, so any money he pulled in was practically luxury. That was certainly better than the previous month when he'd nearly collapsed from malnutrition trying to make the rent.
The night had turned cold, almost unseasonable for summer, and the lack of moon seemed to add a foreboding feeling to the air. He didn't take the underground, preferring to walk where he had room to run if needed, as well as save some cash. It was a decent length to walk, but it wasn't anything he hadn't done before in less amicable circumstances.
His senses went on full alert as he approached his block. The breeze that seemed to chill him to the bone had dropped off, but he felt colder still. This section was poorly lit and dark alleys made for excellent hiding places for muggers and the like. He glanced around him quickly, peering into the darkness for signs of danger and his keen ears could just barely hear the thumping of the bass in the club, several streets over.
One of the most important things you learn in the espionage business is how to recognize danger. How to spot a tail and to see through simple disguises like growing a beard or a haircut and color. How to feel your way out of a bad spot before you get into it. Right now, he was sensing danger, but could not tell what it was or where it was coming from. It was simply a feeling of things not being right or safe.
He picked up the pace and made a round about course towards his flat, taking him past some empty warehouses. The homeless would take up residence in these until the owners or police kicked them out. Usually they were locked up pretty tight, so an open door on one caught his eye as he passed. The image he had seen took a moment to register in his mind, but it made him do a double take at the door and he stepped back to peer inside.
There was a pair of halogen work-lamps set-up in front of a large crate and the whole scene was bathed in crimson red, with the victims lying still on the floor. Blood was everywhere, yet he felt compelled to get closer, wondering what it was he was seeing. The scene became clear as his mind identified what he was looking at. It looked odd because it wasn't the normal way people looked, even in death. Parts were everywhere; a finger here, a foot there… One of the victims was largely intact, but even she was missing an arm and leg. Her soft brown hair was matted and caked with blood, while large spots were missing, having been pulled out.
Wait…Brown. "No…" Michael looked around the scene and spotted a head of red hair next to the large crate. Blondie was draped backwards over a barrel, her own intestines wrapped around her throat. "Jesus…" he took two steps back, spun around, and vomited, the smell of blood now overpowering. Nothing he'd seen in the agency had been like this. Nothing. He'd seen info from Interpol about such cases, but the pictures had thankfully been left out. In all his experience there was nothing to even compare this to, and that made him even sicker. Six hour ago these girls had been alive and smiling, their lives shining brightly ahead of them. Now they were dead in a warehouse of a city they had probably not had time to find a hotel in.
Michael staggered to the door and welcomed the fresh air in his face. He wiped the bile from his lips and pulled out his cell phone. It wasn't operable for regular calls, but the emergency number here worked independent of the service, just like back in the states. He concentrated on his French so he wouldn't sound like a complete loon.
"Metro police, what is your emergency?"
"Warehouse 384…" he hadn't noticed how hard of a time he was having keeping his stomach back down until now. He swallowed a few times before continuing. "Multiple bodies, blood everywhere. Send police."
"Can you repeat that, sir? You say there's been a murder there?"
"Yes! Send police qui-" He strained to hear. He thought he'd heard- Yes, a moan. Michael ran to the brunette and rolled her over. She was covered in her own blood, her right eye was missing, and her teeth had been smashed, but she was breathing in choking gasps through the bruises.
"Damn it, send an ambulance! One of them is still alive!"
Chapter 3: The Social Welfare Agency
The Parisian police were being kind, Michael knew. Rather than drag him immediately down to the station for booking and interrogation, they believed his account of the events and allowed him to go to the hospital as a pseudo-chaperone for the survivor. After all, if she started talking she'd probably prefer an American, or even better was a person she knew, if only a few hours earlier.
He glanced at his guard, a local policeman. While they might believe the story, they were taking no chances. A man in a suit and carrying a briefcase stepped off the elevator and over to them, flashing a set of credentials at the officer along with some whispered words. The officer then stepped down the hall to the elevator and minded his own business.
"Bradley Williams, embassy attaché." He extended his hand but the gesture was not returned.
"You'll excuse me, Mr. Williams, but my dealings with the embassy have not been very encouraging lately. Couple that with tonight's events and I'm sure you'll understand."
"Certainly, Mr. Christiansen. My apologies for the issues with your passport, but we're working as fast as we can on it." The look on his face told Michael everything he needed to know. If this guy wasn't an agency man, then he was most certainly in on the reason why his papers were being held up. "As it stands, you're probably not going anywhere until the Paris police and Interpol finish asking you a lot of questions about tonight. They've requested information from us about you, and we've of course given them nothing but promises to look into it.
"I'm innocent of any wrongdoing. I met those girls this evening at the café I work at. They asked me for the best rave club in the city and I told them about the one they went to. I turned my back to help some customers and when I turned around again, they were gone. They left me about ten bucks worth of a tip on their three coffees, along with handwritten thanks. I turned those in to the cops. I have nothing to hide."
Mr. Williams seemed unconcerned. "Then you stumbled upon the scene of a multiple murder of those same girls, only two blocks from your house. While not damning, I would say it's suspicious and worth looking into."
Michael rubbed his face and sighed. "Yeah, I'd say that too. You said Interpol is looking into this?"
"Yes. They have some concerns this might link in with some snuff-film makers they've been trying to track down. I've seen the photos," he waved a folder. "This is not bedtime reading material."
"I was there, I know. Anyway, have you picked up the girls' info? I never did catch their names at the café." It seemed the least he could do to remember them was to learn their names. At least then they'd stop being just "Blondie, Red, and Brunette."
"Yeah. Angela Traynor, age nineteen, blonde hair, blue eyes. Carol O'Malley, age eighteen, red hair, green eyes. Janet Wells, age seventeen, brown hair, blue eyes. All were from the Springfield, Illinois area and were planning to attend the same college together. The first two have family, but Miss Wells there was orphaned in January when her parents were killed in a car accident. She has no other relatives listed and the local police say she was living on her own. If she makes it, she'll turn eighteen next month."
"What a waste."
"All too common lately, I'm afraid." The doctor stepped from the ICU room and over to them. He looked about fifty and his English was excellent. "This is the only victim that has been brought in alive, but that's not going to last. She won't make it through the week. She's stable for the time being, but her liver is failing and the other injuries would make a transplant attempt fatal. There's no way to get a transplant in time anyway. It's also only a matter of time before her other organs fail from their damage state. Any family?"
"No, doctor. Her only family was killed in a car wreck in January." Mr. Williams look almost genuinely touched. Michael stared at her through the window, seeing only bandages and tubes.
"Nothing can be done?"
"Nothing here. There's a few doctors in Italy working with artificial organs that have been having mixed luck. One of them was over last year for a convention, a Dr. Bergonzi, I believe. He was testing a new type of artificial heart and had some initial designs on a liver. If there's a chance for this woman, it'd probably be with his research." He'd also heard the selection process was extremely detailed, so she probably wouldn't be picked anyway. In medical testing, you picked subjects with as few bad variables as possible, and this woman was one bad variable after another. It seemed cold to say that, but you had to look at these things clinically.
Michael looked at the attaché. "If we can get this Bergonzi on board, will there be any issue getting her to Italy?"
"I don't see why there would. It's the responsibility of the US Embassy to help her citizens when they're in trouble overseas." He seemed to smile mockingly at Michael.
"Please understand that I'm making no promises here. I only know him as a professional and there's not likely a way I could convince him if he says no, but it's a chance she doesn't otherwise have." The doctor always hated giving hope in cases where there was almost none. It seemed crueler than simply being up front with the truth. He'd had terminal cancer patients with more of a chance than her, but any life was worth a phone call. "I'll give him a call." He went to his office and flipped through his contact book, looking for the name, noting that he'd written down that the number he had was for the Social Welfare Agency in Italy. Humph, at least he had government backing.
"Social Welfare Agency."
"Hello, this is Doctor Loiselle in Paris. I was calling to speak to Doctor Bergonzi about a possible patient for his research."
"Please hold, Doctor, while I check if he's available."
"The second of the next generation cyborgs will be ready in a month but we need to get a third into the pipeline next week or the delay will push us into the end of next year for a full-strength squad. The instability of the first gens is becoming more of a concern. Triela and Henrietta are already showing marked lapses in memory, and they're the most effective of the group. We're bound to lose another one within the year, either through retirement or fatality in combat."
The design team was together for their weekly meeting. Things were going well enough with the cyborgs, but in development you never really take a rest. Things had to get better with new revisions.
"Petra is coming along nicely, Doctor. We've seen no real issues with the implants and the conditioning seems adequate to meet our expectations." Dr. Ziliani's prosthetic work was coming along and he'd already started taking notes for the third-gen design ideas.
A secretary stepped in quietly. "Excuse me, Doctor Bergonzi, you have a call from Paris. A Doctor Loiselle, who says he has a possible patient for you."
"Loiselle…. Maybe from the seminar. Get his number and I'll call him back."
"Yes, sir." She stepped away, but was stopped by Ziliani.
"Go ahead and take it. Maybe it's the patient we've been hoping for."
Bergonzi sighed. "More likely just another charity case. I get two a week from around Europe. I'll be back in a minute." He stepped down the hall to his office and picked the line up on his speakerphone. "This is Doctor Bergonzi, what can I do for you?"
"This is Doctor Loiselle in Paris. I have a patient here who might be in your line."
"What can you tell me about them?" He leaned back, knowing he was going to reject it, so why take notes?
"Female, age 17, an American. She was the victim of one of our snuff-film gangs. She's still alive, but the damage to her liver is extensive and she won't last the week. She's also short an eye, an arm and leg. She hasn't regained consciousness yet, and I don't know if she will."
"Family?" Bergonzi pulled out a notepad. This might be a good one after all.
"None. She was left orphaned early this year, and her friends didn't survive the attack. About the only person who knows her is this American that was working in a café she visited. He's sort of taken to being her guardian."
"Mm-hmm. Doctor Loiselle, thank you. I'm going to consult with my staff and I'll call you back later today with our decision. What is a number I can reach you by?"
"Thank you, Doctor." He gave the hospital number with extension. He ended the call and stepped out to the waiting room to give the hopeful news.
"I think we have one, people." The staff looked up from their papers at his excited tone. He started scribbling on the white-board on the wall. "A female in decent physical health who was a snuff-film gang victim. She's critical and not expected to survive the week. Her only contact is a café worker she met earlier on the day of the attack. We might not have time for the usual series of compatibility tests, but if you people think we can do this one, I'd like to try."
"What's her main risk right now?" Louis Duvalier spoke up from his corner of the table.
"Circulatory failure- Liver, heart, lungs. Virtually every part of her internals was damaged. If anything, this opportunity could test the viability of the commercial applications of our research. But this also dovetails nicely with our schedule demand for the next cyborg."
Ziliani looked around at the others. "I think we should try. We'll send the advanced team for the initial compatibility review. If they give the green light, then we'll skip the remainder and proceed with the cyberization. All agreed?"
The others at the table nodded and left the table to make their own preparations.
Ziliani looked at Bergonzi. "Good luck, you're going to need it."
"I'll consider it a challenge."
Jean leaned against the chief's desk, flipping through the folder for the new cyborg. The team had put it together quickly, and while not as complete as previous ones, it was compelling. The new design of liver was being implemented, a stronger heart, greater lung capacity, better hearing, and the reinforced eye-sockets they'd been discussing.
"The muscular details are primarily the same as the first model-twos, but given the injuries this candidate has sustained, we focused on the internal systems and the new designs' implementation. Endurance will likely be a forty-percent increase, while the changes to the eyes and ears will yield substantially greater results." Bergonzi was proud of his team. They had put together the computer draft of a full cyborg before lunch. Some aspects like height and appearance were subject to change, but the important parts were complete.
The chief glanced through the overview at the front and glanced at Jean, whose face was empty and unreadable as ever. "Stability?" The operational lives on the cyborgs were little pay-off for the time and money spent. The Gen-two's were better, but still not profitable.
"At best, same as the previous two. At worst: a maintenance nightmare. The usual series of compatibility tests would weed that out, but we're short on time and who is to say the new organs will actually perform to our expectations. If it helps, consider this a test-bed for the Gen-Three cyborgs' internals. We might have to make some changes, but probably nothing major. This will save us time on the start-up for that program."
"We'll need a handler, chief. We don't have any prospective candidates at the moment."
"We have a little time for that, Jean. Bergonzi, get your advanced team ready. Jean, you go and take Hilshire and Triela with you. We've had Intel that Padania has links to some of these snuff-film rings, and if there's a French connection, we want everything we can find on that also."
"Are you sure they're the best choice, given their past?" Hilshire's heart had hardened the night he'd found Triela much as this new girl had been. There were still times that he seemed to be on the edge of losing control."
"Know anyone that hates those slime more than he? Or would you rather take Jose with you?"
"No, chief, I don't, and I don't think it's something my brother could stomach. I'll leave immediately for Paris to make arrangements for the tech-team arrival."
Chapter 4: Second Chance
"Doctor Loiselle? I'm Doctor Bergonzi from the Social Welfare Agency. We spoke on the phone."
"Yes yes, welcome to Paris." He was genuinely glad to see him. The girl's condition had worsened since the call confirming their interest, and what had been a week's survival had turned into days at best.
"My team is still unpacking at the hotel, but they'll be here soon to look her over. We have high hopes for her." Jean and Rico stepped off the elevator at that moment and the little girl glanced about the hall, looking for danger to her handler. If you watched them long enough, you could see the lack of vibrant life in their eyes. When they were on the job, anyway.
"Good afternoon. I'm Jean, I'm with the agency."
"Hello." Loiselle glanced down at Rico who had already sized him up and turned her attention to the waiting room down the hall where a man was sitting with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. It almost looked like he was crying. Loiselle followed her gaze and smiled softly. "Poor guy. Ended up in the right place at the right time and saved a life, only to see things worsen. He has not left, and I doubt he's slept."
"That's the American you told me about?" Bergonzi had met his share of Americans, primarily medical in profession. They were excellent doctors, and always seem to have hope, even if it was unwarranted.
"Yes. He seems a bit odd, though. The US Embassy came in first thing and had a few words with him. I gather that he's been stuck here in France due to some paperwork over his replacement passport. Normally it takes a day or two to get one approved, but he's been here a year or so. He's latched onto this victim in a guardian role, saying that she should have an American there should she wake up."
Jean stepped down the hall to the waiting room with Rico close in tow. Maybe he just wanted a free ride home with a coffin. Maybe.
The television was on a channel showing the European Football league. "What's the score?" He'd used his cleanest English. In some places in the United States, he'd passed as a rich American.
"London up by a field goal." Michael looked up at Jean and then at Rico. The man could have been anything, but the little girl was odd. Very alert and attentive, rather than bored or frightened like children were in hospitals.
"You must be the 'Guardian Angel' of that girl we've heard about." Jean sat down across from him and Rico stood against the doorway, watching the hall.
"More like the 'Angel of Death'. If I hadn't recommended that club, they'd probably still be alive."
"Is that the reason why you've been waiting for her to recover? To say you're sorry?" Whatever his usual personality, Jean could act with the best of stage performers. This time he was playing the nice guy but the sharp wit came out without thinking.
Michael's head popped back up with a look that could kill, but he managed to rein it in. "Something like that, I guess."
"I'm Jean Croce, from the Italian Social Welfare Agency. We came to see if we could help this girl, and it seems we're none too soon."
Michael took a closer look at the man across from him. Incredible English skills, even sounding like a Boston Blueblood, a very good acting job on the personality, and a little girl that seemed almost like a bodyguard.
"Who are you with? Intel? Carabinieri? Guardia di Finanza?" He was very suspicious now. Things weren't adding up all of a sudden.
"None of those, fortunately. Being in the Carabinieri right now is like painting a target on your back. Lets just say that the government is funding the Agency, and I'm part of protecting the investment. We really want to help that girl because her survival helps us. We have a member of our staff who was a victim of the same type of crime. Getting a survivor's information helps the authorities to track them down, and we're all about that."
"Uh-huh. And is this 'bring your daughter to work' day?" He nodded at Rico who glanced over momentarily.
"Sister, actually. She hadn't been on a trip with me for some time, and I felt a trip to Paris was something she'd enjoy, if only briefly." He could see the man wasn't buying the lines. While you only had to be of a suspicious nature to not believe it, a skilled operator could read into it. "You seem distrustful, Mister..."
"Christiansen. Michael Christiansen. It's nothing personal, Mister Croce, but I can spot an intelligence guy when I see one. It's the collection of data that leads to a conclusion. Want me to spell it out for you?"
"Please. This should be interesting."
"First, your vibe's all wrong. You might seem pleasant, but your body language is giving off negative waves. You're not comfortable enough being pleasant or chatty, you follow me?" Jean shrugged. "Second: You're using an American accent, not English, despite the claim you're Italian. So either you schooled in Boston or you're practiced at fooling people and expecting them to believe it. Third: The little girl is a little off from what one would expect. She's taken up guard at the door, rather than leaning on it in boredom. Her eyes are constantly in motion, looking for dangers. She also has her coat unbuttoned far enough to have quick and easy access inside. The only people I've seen like that are protection agents. So, Jean, what's the score?"
"You're very perceptive, for an American. Your file at the CIA is a bit less gracious towards you."
That stunned Michael. How had this guy gotten his file? It couldn't have been through Langley, so it must have been the embassy. What the hell...
"No counter to that? I was hoping for a bit more smart-ass American attitude, but I guess you'll have to do. We're leaving with the girl tonight. I'm offering you a job and maybe even a chance to find the scum that did that to her. If you don't want it, you can stay here and serve coffee to tourists." He stood and pulled his business card from his pocket, placing it on the table.
"What kind of job?"
"Does it matter? Take a few hours to think about it, and then call me if you're interested."
"Who is he?" There was a slight bit of noise in the Chief's voice from the secured signal on Jean's phone. He'd have to get it looked at when he got back, but for now it was only an annoyance.
"He's disavowed CIA. He compromised a major operation in Calais and was cut off, and the embassy has a block on issuing him a new passport, so he's been here a year. A contact gave me the info for the usual payoff. It'll be on my expense list."
"If he made a mistake, why do you think we should take him?" Jean was a professional, but his occasional turn to his instincts proved worthwhile in the long run.
" We need a handler, and up until his incident, Mr. Christiansen was everything we look for. His attachment to the girl is a bit strong, but he will probably agree to anything if we give him a hunting license for the kinds of people that kill kids."
"We're not police, Jean. Padania is our target." Losing sight of one's mission is often fatal.
"Hilshire turned up a connection to Padania in Paris. He still tracking it down, but there's money from black market film sales being funneled to several different terrorist organizations. As soon as he's back, we'll get the Intel teams started on it and see what we can turn up."
The Chief made a note for the Intel team to clear their schedules for the next few weeks. "How soon are you returning to Italy?"
"The doctors say the subject will be ready in a few hours and we have a 9 p.m. take-off scheduled. Hilshire said not to wait for him."
"Very good. I'll see you when you get back. We'll have our interview with Mister Christiansen tomorrow morning."
"Understood." He ended the call and looked at Rico who was packing her equipment away. "What do you think of Christiansen, Rico?"
"Umm... He seems nice, but I feel uncomfortable near him. Maybe it's just because I haven't gotten to know him well enough yet."
"Did you feel him to be a threat while we were talking with him?"
"Not really. He wasn't armed, and in the time he'd take to stand up or draw from that position, I could have stopped him any number of ways." She smiled went back to packing her things, softly humming to herself. Jean's phone rang and the number was from the payphone across the street. You research these things when your life may depend on it.
"Yeah?"
"I'm in. But before you consider treating me like a rusty fifth-wheel, look under the bed." The line disconnected and Jean's blood chilled suddenly.
"Rico... Look under the bed carefully." She ducked down and lifted the edge of the cover.
"There's a box with a note." She looked up at him, entirely in danger mode and waiting for instructions.
"Pull it out slowly and gently." The edge of the box came into view and he relaxed. The flaps had been cut off both ends leaving the rectangle of the sides. It was empty and a folded note was taped to the top. Jean removed it and read the one word on the sheet-"KABOOM!"
"Rico, had the room been disturbed since we left it this morning?"
"No. All of the tells we placed were still there."
He smiled and shook his head, feeling a bit better about his choice. "Americans..."
Christiansen smiled to himself as he started back to his apartment to pack. A good agent knew how to protect himself from those who would hunt him. The best agents can get past those protections.
The operation was already in motion and everyone's watches were ticking the final seconds off before the building would go up. The bastard deserved to die for killing the Agency informants and their families like sheep at a slaughter.
Michael had been at the scene, smelled the blood, and knew that they should have gotten them out before that could have happened. The need for information had trumped the lives on the line, and Nicollette had once again marched off to do her part for her country. Only this time the bad-guys caught up to her, and she had paid dearly.
Well, now the bastard that had executed her and her family was about to get a Semtex 'welcome home' from Uncle Sam. But something was suddenly wrong. Just after the target had entered the house, some kids started playing in the street. The bomb was wired to the hall door to the office, the first place the mark would go after getting home. There were only seconds... Michael ordered agents in to get the kids out, but just as they reached them, the windows and doors of the house blew outward and the flames of hell erupted from them, torching everything in the narrow street, including the agents and kids. Their screams seemed to merge with the sounds of sirens, and the smell of burning flesh assaulted him at his vantage point overlooking the alley. How could a good intention turn so bad?
The sun was shining through the windows directly onto his face, and had woken him from the disturbing dream he'd had. Michael rubbed his eyes and the faces of dead friends faded slowly away, along with the fog in his head, as he got his bearings.
The Social Welfare Agency. The walls were plain, the bed comfortable enough, and the room itself was the size of a hotel room. A desk and bookcase were to one side in a designated work area. It wasn't too bad, and certainly a palace compared to his previous lodgings. Things were finally looking up for the first time since he was cut loose.
The previous night seemed a blur between the hospital, airport, and getting on the plane. Maybe it was because he hadn't slept, but it all seemed to blend together in a sort of hash of faces, sounds, and the smell of jet fuel.
The jet had landed in darkness during the night, and once the lights of the city were left behind, he could see almost nothing of the landscape around him. The glow of Rome in the distance gave him some understanding of the remote location, but that was all. Jean had shown him to a room and told him to be ready for a meeting at nine, presumably to get an idea about what his job would be here.
He had lain awake for an hour thinking about the people he'd met so far. Jean was an all-purpose Intel guy, it seemed. An operator... Getting his hands dirty and telling others to seemed to be his job. Hilshire was different. He and another little girl named Triela had boarded the plane just before take-off and discussed things in hushed tones with Jean. Hilshire seemed to be a doer kind of guy. He took Jean's orders, did things, and then reported back. He also had a lot more personality than Jean. Triela and Rico had talked excitedly for a short while, and then had fallen asleep as they began the cruise at altitude. "What was with the little girls, here" Michael had wondered at the time.
It was almost eight when he emerged from his room, showered, shaved, and in a suit that had been hanging on his bathroom door when he'd emerged. A woman in her early thirties and dressed casually greeted him a few yards down the hall.
"Good morning, you must be Michael. I'm Priscilla, one of the Intel-team analysts. Did you sleep well?" Her English was decent and her accent cute, lending itself to her attractiveness.
Michael shook her offered hand. "Good morning. Yes, I did well enough. It's the first decent bed I've had in more than a year, but I'll take the stiffness of a new bed over the stiffness of an old one any day."
She laughed softly. "It looks like the suit fits well enough. I had to guess at your measurements, but you looked like Jose's size and build, so I cheated and checked his labels."
"It fits fine, thanks. Is there some place here I can eat before my meeting? I haven't had much in the past several days and the last thing I need is a noisemaker for a stomach."
She smiled and motioned down the hall. "I was just going to ask you to join me in the cafeteria. Jean asked me to lead you around until the meeting and since my data sheets were starting to look alien, I figured I could use a break."
The place seemed like a museum, with art on the walls and polished marble floors. He also spotted camera fixtures in strategic points. Well, if it housed intelligence people, it was going to be wired like a Christmas tree.
They entered the cafeteria and picked out their meals. It was overly elaborate for a simple cafeteria and certainly spoke of the type of funding they had. Michael loaded up on eggs and ham while Priscilla had only coffee and cereal, and they picked spots in the center of the room. He caught sight of four girls at a table by the courtyard windows. Triela and Rico were talking animatedly with a small girl with dark hair and a dress and a taller girl with glasses and workout clothes on. It was a scene he'd expect to see in an elementary school.
"Those girls..." He trailed off, is mind still chewing on what he could gain from watching them.
"They're something, aren't they? When Henrietta plays her violin, the sound seems to whisper through the halls. I'll step out of the office to hear that sound and it makes me feel like I'm somewhere else, somewhere in the past." Priscilla's eyes had a daydreaming look.
"Hmm. You're a romantic."
"Fallen Angel of Love, I'm afraid." She came back from her daydream and went back to eating her cereal.
"But why are they here? I've heard of employers offering up daycare, but this seems a bit much."
"Mm... You don't know?" Her previously carefree tone took on a much more guarded manner.
"I just got in last night, and Jean hasn't said much about it."
"That's Jean for you. I'm sure you will get the whole idea when you talk to Chief Lorenzo. My advice is to be upfront and honest, and not try to make him like you. If you have something to say, he listens. It had just better be worth his time."
"He sounds like a decent enough guy." Michael's eyes wandered back over to the girls, still trying to figure them out. He had suspected Rico to be armed at the hospital, but had no proof. If she were, that made her a protector of Jean. Or maybe an attack dog. It was hard to tell. It just didn't make sense. Why would you have a little girl as a bodyguard? His thinking was getting him no-where, and Priscilla was saying something, so he focused on the present again.
"What kind of work did you do?"
"Intel mainly. A little covert data acquisition, some participation in raids, and sometimes directing them. The CIA was a place where a variety of skills came in handy at times."
"That kind of flexibility will help you here." She looked at her watch and stood. "Time for the meeting. Follow me."
"All'estremità della terra." At least she smiled a bit at that.
Lorenzo's office was larger than his entire room, Michael noted, but it wasn't a room for show as some political figures had. Real business of life and death was done here and the atmosphere of the room attested to it. It was clean and organized, but like the avid reader who stacks their books in a tower reaching from floor to ceiling. Things were accessible and easily found, but the best bits were kept closer. The few piles of papers and folders were within the occupant's grasp but the blotter of the rich red-oak desk was empty save one folder: Michael's CIA docket.
"Good morning, Mr. Christiansen." He stood to shake hands then motioned to the high-backed chair across from him. "Please, have a seat. This isn't an interview so much as an assignment briefing, so we'll skip further pleasantries."
"Yes, sir." Michael sat down, feeling the slick and cold texture of the leather chair. Jean stepped in with another folder and placed it on the desk, then took a spot by the window behind Lorenzo, almost like a faithful dog might.
"Your dossier is interesting reading. You were a promising operative for Langley, including a citation for valor for the Prague incident. That was a nasty bit of business, wasn't it? We had some information pass our way about it at the time and were surprised at the American reaction. Given your political climate, such an outright assault was hardly something that could get out to the public. How many of those terrorists did your teams kill?"
"Fifty-six," Michael lied.
"Sixty-one. Five turned up in the south quarter the next morning looking like frogs on a biology student's tray. It's one thing to put a bullet in a person's head to send a message to their masters, but a medieval flaying has a flair that one wouldn't expect from your 'Civilized' intelligence service."
"I had nothing to do with that operation." Michael broke eye contact and glanced to the side during that response. "I took two shots to my ballistic vest and one to my shoulder from a Forty-four Magnum revolver during the raid. I spent a week in the base hospital and four months doing rehab."
He had also told his team to send a special message to the group that had killed three of their agents the month before and mailed them to the embassy in large suitcases. The raid was an adequate response to the information they had and the threat posed, but the five examples that were made had the effect of forcing the remaining terrorists to leave the city or go into hiding, certain they were dealing with Israelis rather than Americans. It was a nice coup and netted a ton of intelligence that was left behind in haste.
"But a citation for valor?"
"I saved four agents that were pinned down in a room and took the three rounds in the process."
"How many terrorists had them pinned down?"
"Seven. Four were in the next room and three at the top of the stairs. Before you ask, I only had my 1911, chambered and on a full mag."
"You dispatched seven targets with eight rounds?" Jean spoke up, thinking this had to be an exaggeration.
"No. I took out the four in the room and one as he came down the stairs. The other agents took the remaining two after the one guy caught me staring at a slide-lock. I lost track of my round-count," he admitted sheepishly. He made it a habit to use only high-capacity guns after that.
"You personally conducted numerous 'after hours' searches of other governments' buildings, and planned the operation in Stockholm. That went down without a hitch and caught you the leading Chinese intelligence agent. Then there was the bombing in Calais... You moved your team members into a blast zone to save kids from becoming collateral damage."
"I was told that collateral damage was unacceptable. I also thought I had ten more seconds."
"And you lost the kids, the two agents, and your country cut you off rather than bring you back for imprisonment. Why do you suppose that is?" Lorenzo leaned back, enjoying this a bit. It was like reading a spy novel.
"They thought the friends of that dirt-bag would find me sooner than later. Truth be told, they did. I'm just faster than they were."
Lorenzo looked at Jean who nodded that he was satisfied. "Your resourcefulness is impressive in itself, but your skills and operational experience will certainly be an asset to us. Welcome to Section 2."
Michael nodded; finally getting the feeling that they'd treat him like the professional he had shown himself to be. "I have a question, if you don't mind me asking."
"Please."
"What's with the little girls?"
"Lets start simple. Section 2 is an intelligence and operations group tasked with anti-terrorism work. We have agents, like yourself and Jean here, that are skilled at this field. But conducting operations is costly, as you also know. In order to reduce the costs of such operations, we have paired up some agents with cyborgs who are designed to do the dirty work. Our country's leap to the fore-front of the medical field is due primarily to cybernetic research done here."
"You're saying that Rico and the others are machines?"
"Mostly machine. The brain and other required portions are certainly human, but we re-make their bodies, down to the skeletons if necessary."
"But... They're just kids." Michael was not sick yet, but felt himself heading in that direction. What had he gotten himself into?
"They were children that had no hope of survival. Rico was a little girl who, from birth, could not use her body. Triela was the survivor of a brutal attack and left for dead. These girls had no hope, but through us, they have a body that works and a purpose to their lives." Lorenzo had long tired of justifying his organization.
"And they protect the agents?"
"Yes. They also lead and conduct assaults. The concept is hard to grasp initially, but if you observe them a short time, you'll see that they do not suffer undue hardships and they are happy to follow their handler's orders."
"It's just a bit hard to believe." The pieces came together about Rico and Jean, and then suddenly the young woman he'd saved. "And Janet Wells?"
"She is to be one of our next-generation cyborgs. The original techniques could only be performed on the younger children but our process and technology has progressed some ways. Again, we choose those who would have no other chance to live. We are not depriving anyone of his or her life or livelihood. You might even say we're giving them a second chance at life, and requiring a payoff from our efforts."
"And how do I fit in?"
"The new cyborg will need a handler; someone to teach them to be effective in the field. We teach them basic life skills and make them loyal, but the skills they use will be up to you to teach and promote."
" Make them loyal?" He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.
"We use a chemical brainwashing process to make them usable. Mostly that is essential to adjust to the implants, as the body has to learn new physical limits and control, but it also allows us to implant information on who's friend and foe, their new identity, and basic weapons info. Their memories of everything before are wiped at a conscious level, though we've seen that the memories are still available to the unconscious mind, often coming back in the form of dreams."
Jean stepped forward and handed Michael the new cyborg's design file. "Please understand, Mr. Christiansen, the cyborgs are programmed to defend their handlers with their bodies and lives if necessary. It has to be this way, or they would cease to be useful for our purpose. Doubt and self-determination would quickly build to interfere with their work. Even with the current conditioning set there are times when their emotions begin to cloud their decision making process. It takes only a reminder to get them back on track, but that is why they have to have a handler- to keep them on task. As a team the fratellos can be incredibly effective. On their own, the cyborgs can manage only so far."
"I see." It made sense, but he'd still have to get used to the idea. It seemed so unnatural to him to have a little girl taking bullets for a grown man. He opened the folder and found a selection form on the top. "What's this?"
"That is your part in the design process. The name, hair color, eye color, height, and numerous other items are up for your choosing. You can give that to the people in the design lab when you're ready, but don't delay on it too long. The timetable for a new unit is tight and the training time can be extensive."
"I understand. What do I do in the meantime?"
"I suggest you begin by becoming fluent in Italian. All of our data comes in that way and in a pinch we cannot waste time translating." Jean handed him a schedule for the next week that included refresher training in firearms and unarmed combat. "I'll speak with Hilshire and see if we can't have Triela work with you some. She's good with multiple languages and has a teacher's mentality, so long as you're willing to learn."
Lorenzo nodded. Jean was incredibly efficient in organizational matters. "We'll also work you into the intelligence team for the time being. Another mind is always helpful there. "Now to your cover... As a member of Section Two, you'll have a lot of weight to throw around in Italy, but once you're outside our area of influence you'll have to make do as an American in Interpol. Consider it a reason to push yourself on your Italian. Until you can pass for one, you're of limited operational use when alone. Any questions?"
Michael thought things through and figured any other details he would or could find out. "No, sir. I think that'll do for now." He stood and had stepped towards the door when Jean stopped him.
"One question for you, Mr. Christiansen. That box you placed in my room in Paris. When did you put it there?"
"I followed you from the hospital, waited until you left again, then broke in to find out something about you. I figured a fake bomb might help lend some credit to my reputation. Anything else?"
"No, thank you. I'll arrange for an introduction to the Intel team this afternoon."
"Alright." He walked out the door, leaving it open behind him...
"Yeah... That's how I ended up here. I should have said 'no', walked away, and slammed the door behind me." Michael Christiansen took the last swig of water and glanced at the now-setting sun, the hot feel of it's rays a reminder that he'd probably be a bit sunburned on his face the next day.
Sometimes it was relaxing to just sit and think. He had focused so intently on training his cyborg for the past four months that he hadn't taken any time for himself. The daily drills, the language lessons, and the constant shifting of focus from one item to the next had left him exhausted mentally, and now that he had a few moments to reflect on it, he could see where both his and Jamie's problems were. They needed time away from the forced learning.