The cops are late. They don't bother to interview me since I was one floor down and therefore supposedly inconsequential as a witness. Then again, I didn't to hang around long enough to volunteer myself.

I packed relatively light, two medium-sized duffel bags worth of gear. Spare clothes for a week. Toiletries. Cash in both dollars and euros. Fake ID documents. Four cellular phones, three being brand new, unused and therefore expendable in emergencies; the fourth is my personal unit. My high-end Palmtop, a compromise for leaving my laptop at the base.

My katana, throwing knives, ski mask and gloves– just in case someone needs to die while I'm on vacation. Anyone who requires such action on my part will suffer a slow and painful death.

On with the tour?



Gunslinger Girl

Crossover


Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.


To: Colonel Marksman (or G.D. Wallez, however you're known as right now). Rolito likes peaceful vacations. But peaceful vacations somehow flee him for some reason.


Chapter 2

Innocence/Ignorance



"Hey, Hobbes."

"Sir Darren! Welcome back!"

Sheo Darren, traveling (and struggling) novelist. A name and identity as fake as Colonel Dao-ren (Romanized as Daren, a name the CRG has learned to hate), Remue Dadaam Herumet or Rolito Miranda. One of the best defenses is nonexistence. You can't kill someone who does not exist.I sort of own a restaurant called "Rolito's Pasta". It's a family-run business in the cosmopolitan part of Rome. I stumbled across the place by accident back when I was new in Amalgam. The name instantly caught my attention. Not everyday you find a place that shares your alias.

Though expensive, Rolito's was well worth the money. It's especially popular with dating couples. (Note to self: Bring Ami here one of these days.) I loved the carbonara, the wine and the ambience. I hated the idea that it was being foreclosed due some badly-advised deals by the old couple who own the place. In one of my brief spurts of naïve generosity, I paid their debts and got them a better financial manager. The owners adopted me. Business boomed afterwards.

What else can I say? I'm good luck to a select few.

Hobbes is an Englishman and a senior waiter. I poached him off a three-star hotel to train the new waiters. He thrived in Rolito's soon as he set foot in it. He's bubbly as a girl and completely unflappable. I can spectacularly lose my temper at the slightest thing, but a nuclear bomb wouldn't even stir a single strand of hair on Hobbes' blessed head.

"What brings you here, Sir Darren?" Hobbes cheerfully asks me.

"I was around for the moment, so I decided to drop by."

We chat in English. Italian is a great language, classy and historical, but I grew up with English. I taught Giuseppe and Elena the language. It pays to be multilingual. I mastered English, Tagalog and Japanese. I also know some French, German and Russian, though my command of these is more or less limited to road signs, food and curse words.

Like any good proprietor, I look around. Rolito's is two-thirds full and shows no sign of emptying soon. "Business looks good," I note with pleasure.

"Excellent, Sir Darren, if I may say so myself."

"Great to hear that, buddy. Are Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco here?"

Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco are the original owners of Rolito's. They're a very old-fashioned Italian couple. They happily adopted me. All their kids are grown up and far away, so they always fuss over me whenever I drop by.

"Ah, they are probably home." Hobbes shook his head. "Missus Carla was not feeling good yesterday, so Master Francisco took her home. They called me this morning and bade me take charge."

"Wise decision," I agree. "I'll drop by their place and say hi."

"That is most kind of you, Sir Darren."

Among the customers was a bunch of teenagers enjoying beers. Drinking already? It isn't even noon. I know Italian law is hazy on age limits with booze, but isn't it bad to start the day with beer?

Well, at least this bunch is quite well-behaved. Good. I was at hand during the last time unpleasantness happened a year ago. It was a good warm-up. All the punk kids ended up at the hospital. They studiously avoided Rolito's since then.

"Do you remember that girl Marc took home last night?" one of the kids asked over his beer.

"Yeah."

"She was hot."

"Blonde and dark-skinned…"

"Sexy…"

"Lucky bastard…"

Marc? I seem to remember the name. Let me see.

Oh. Him. That French kid with the smooth moves.

Ah, the joys of being young and single. Though I disapprove of premarital sex. Sex is something special you save for your wedding night with your wife.

Then again, considering I made love to my sensei when I was just a year short of legal age…

Boys will be boys, I guess.

"What was the girl's name again?" one of the kids asked.

"Sounded like an English name."

"But she kind of struck me as Dutch…"

"Triela! That was her name!"

They grin at each other.

Nearby, I freeze.

I think my heart has just skipped a beat or three. And for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

FUCK!

Heart's beating again. Move. Move!

"Where?"

They stare at me. I stare back. "Would any of you know," I softly ask, "Where he took her?"

The kids exchanged guilty glances with each other. Friends of Marc, eh? Good friends, too.

I don't have time to interrogate them. That means I'll have to use a more painfully expensive method.

"Hobbes?"

"Yes, Sir Darren?"

"These young gentlemen's bill? It's on me."

"Yes, Sir Darren."

Returning to the youngsters, I put my friendliest smile to work. "Now, my young friends, since we're all pretty much acquainted, can any of you tell me where Marc took this Triela girl?"

They still hesitate. Very good friends. I have precious few of those. Marc, you may be a bastard, but you've got some good people watching your back.

"It's very important that I find him as soon as possible," I explain in my calmest tone, suppressing the hasty internal anger yanking at the reins of my self-control. "I happen to know something of Triela. Her caretaker is a very scary sort. Marc might get in serious trouble with him."

I'm not lying. I can even claim I'm presenting the barebones of the truth.

"Well," one of them began, "There's this hotel he likes to bring his girls to…"

Bingo.


"Hold the fort for me, will you, Hobbes?"

"Of course, Sir Darren." He paused upon noticing the grim look on my face. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Lives are on the line, Hobbes. See ya."

I run.

Triela is the name of a cyborg from Section Two.

So much for my relaxing vacation…

Putang-ina! Marc! You'd better be alive when I get to you!



To Be Continued/Tsuzuku/Itutuloy