DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gunslinger Girl, though I do own the NAPoDS. Also, screw he manga - I've only seen the entire anime so far...so yeah.
Total chaos. That was the best way to describe the Accogliente Hotel & Resort on the night of the mission.
It had started out quiet enough - get in, find the room the target was staying in, and ruthlessly fill him chock full of silenced lead, then slip out before anybody noticed. The target in question? A short, stocky man with no visible neck and a very pink, pudgy face. Yuri Stanislav Petrov - a Russian executive from Moscow who's business was apparently interfering with a local politician's agenda.
The mission had gone all according to plan, initially: Jose and Henrietta had walked up to the hotel suite and attempted to convince Petrov and his bodyguards that Jose was a reporter interested in the businessman's success, which had worked several times in the past. The cyborg and her handler were allowed into the luxury suite for a short question-and-answer session with Petrov.
This was when things started to go downhill. The duo was leaving the floor and calling for a cleanup team when absolute hell broke loose.
It had happened extraordinarily fast. A single explosion tore through the hallway, knocking Jose and Henrietta to the ground. From the fading smoke and debris emerged one figure, advancing at a steady and deliberate pace, a silhouette that could only be a gun clutched in its hands, being aimed directly at the two.
Henrietta sprang into action, rushing the figure with her secondary handgun drawn, firing off several shots and attempting to tackle the hostile to the ground, as to keep Jose out of harm's way. This backfired as she was roughly grabbed by the neck and catapulted backwards by a gloved hand.
"Jean!" Jose exclaimed into his earpiece. "We need backup up here, now!"
"Roger that. We got the Hilscher-Triela fratello on the move."
He turned to the young blonde next to him, who was aiming down the scope of her Dragunov SVD, covering the older, dark skinned girl and her handler far below. The Jean-Rico fratello was currently located an eighth story balcony of the hotel's second building. Rico was currently aiming through a wide variety of different windows that, for any other sniper, would reduce her accuracy. It wasn't a problem for her though.
"Come on, Rico. Let's move."
The man made to enter the building again, motioning for his cyborg to follow. Before he could even reach the threshold of the sliding glass door, however, Rico exclaimed and jumped back to the left as a fifty caliber round thundered straight through the scope of her rifle, continued while narrowly missing Jean's body, and shattered the glass. He spun on his heels, drawing his weapon as Rico beat him to it.
The Hilscher-Triela fratello moved swiftly, both disliking the fact they they were moving across such open ground as the parking lot of the resort. Triela clenched her shotgun tightly, worried and puzzled about what could be so serious that Henrietta and Jose couldn't handle it on their own. After all, the intel had suggested that there would only be a handful of guards. No more than ten guards and Yuri Petrov's three sons.
She voiced her thoughts to Hilscher as they ran, who reasoned that Petrov must have had some sort of undercover reinforcements checked into the hotel, unknown to the Social Welfare Agnecy. They're discussion was cut terribly short as the car they were passing by exploded.
Calm yet somehow frantic chatter filled the airways of the Social Welfare Agency's radio interceptors, located in a van off of the resort's property. It wasn't Italian though - not even English. No, it was Russian. This was to be expected, given that they were facing the bodyguard force of a Russian businessman.
"Hey, Olga!" a man asked, turning to the driver in the front seat. "Can you make any sense out of this chatter?"
He handed a pair of headphones to the native Russian woman, formerly an ambassadorial bodyguard. She listened for a moment, before grimacing and looking bewildered.
"Move, move." she translated in a monotone voice. "Yuri-Luyiova siblings have eyes on enemy sniper. Shots fired, target marked. Andreas-Vassilyeva siblings, advance. Enemy reinforcements approaching from east entrance."
The boy was barely a teenager - fourteen years old at the most. His platinum blonde hair went surprisingly well with his extremely pale skin. He was dressed in full combat gear and a maroon beret (coveted by the adults of his battalion , which he had changed into in less than one hundred and twenty seconds, which meant that he was getting sloppy.
The grey camouflage allowed him to blend in with the walls and ground of the property, so long as he was being viewed from an adequate distance. He had been offered the new optical camo, which had been bought off of the Chinese agency, but the boy had declined. Invisibility during combat was a coward's method.
He preferred to use the time honored tactic of shock and awe.
These thoughts went through Andreas's mind as he knelt behind a small Fiat car, observing the approaching hostiles and gripping his AK-10 MAUVe, which was standard throughout the agency - an amazing mash of the AK-47 and Steyr AUG, put together in one weapon and designed specially for his organization. Various information flashed across his vision in light blue text, identifying the weapons they were carrying and their distance from him. The two were even highlighted a nice red color as they moved, their heads surrounded by small orange circles.
The augmented reality was courtesy of the neural processor implanted in his brain. Via satellite uplink, it could show him anything he wanted to need to know about the current situation, and seamlessly connected his comrades and him, allowing them to better coordinate their actions in the field. New, advanced technology being developed by the NAPoDS - that is, the Natsionalʹnoye Agentstvo Po Detyam Sirotam. The international agency headquartered in Moscow, Russia, dedicated to giving orphaned boys a warm bed and a bowl of soup for lunch every day.
At least, that's what the public thought. In reality, the National Agency for Orphaned Children, composed of Russians, Kazakhs, Belorussians, Ukrainians, Finns, Mongolians and other nationalities that bordered the Russian Federation (people liked to think that they all hated each other now that the Soviet Union was dead and gone, but the complex network of political and economic connections that bound them all together remained unknown to most), was created to develop cybernetic assassins for use by the President of Russia...and all of those other countries, when Mister Putin saw fit. Orphaned young boys who were abandoned by their families and had endured horrible physical or psychological trauma were brainwashed, heavily reconditioned, had a powerful computer slapped into their head, then were trained to be heartless, deadly assassins.
Anybody with enough perseverance and knowledge of Legalese could dig deep into the Russian legislature and find that the NAPoDS was indeed a division of the First Spetsnaz Battalion. Amazingly, nobody had ever seemed to take notice of the Agency, which had never shown any particular interest in cutting down on collateral damage or revising its Rules of Engagement to list innocent bystanders\young children as 'non-expendable'.
Now, Andreas knelt here, in Rome, Italy, on a mission protecting some bigshot investor to the Agency. He scowled and leveled his assault rifle, his neural processor calculating the arc of the grenade launcher affixed to the weapon and telling him the exact trajectory needed to hit the location he wanted it hit.
Smiling, Andreas fired the grenade, mumbling the words "Do svadaniya" as he did so.