GSG Fic: Canterbury Saga - P&S

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GSG Fic: Canterbury Saga - P&S

Post by Five_X on Wed 21 Jul 2010 - 2:50

This is the first in what hopefully be a series of fanfics based around my OC fratello, Greg Stevenson and Charlotte Kingston. This is not meant to be taken very seriously at all, unless you want to. This is a light taste of what's to come. It'll likely level out and whatnot in the next couple chapters.

Saga - P&S

Jean Croce stood in the office of Pieri Lorenzo, having a conference with the
man himself. The orange light of dusk filtered through the covered

“So, how's the new cyborg? Is she ready yet?” Jean asked, referring to a
recent “recruit” of the Agency.

Lorenzo mulled over a stack of medical data and various other information. “Yes.
She is a perfect candidate for the second generation program.
Seventeen years old. Beaten with a blunt weapon during an attack on
her school, breaking most of her bones and leaving her paralyzed
below the neck, along with multiple psychological issues. We
contacted her family, and they invested a considerable sum of their
assets into the cybernetic conversion. Currently, she is under
medical surveillance in the wards. We also have a contact, a man
willing and able to be her handler. A certain Canadian man by the
name “Greg Stevens”. He was a Green Beret before entering the
political field in the '80s, serving as an MLA in the province of
Alberta, then being appointed Minister of Culture for the same
province. After some background research, we've verified his service
history. All we need is for you to make the call.”

Jean nodded. He quickly looked over the personnel profile of the prospective
handler, and dialed his daytime contact number. It rang for several
seconds, then was picked up.


In a ruddy apartment in Chicago, the telephone rang. The sole resident of the
place felt around for the '90s era device from underneath a blanket
while laying on the couch, barely recovered from a hangover. “Uh,
what's up?” he asked whoever may have been on the other end.

“Er, this is Greg, Greg Stevens, correct?”

“Uh, Stevens... oh, yeah.” The slightly nauseated man sat up. This
might've been an important call.

“Mr. Stevens, this is the Italian Social Welfare Agency. We have approved
you for the duty of 'handler' in our program. We shall send someone
to escort you to the jet awaiting you. You are located in Calgary at
the moment, correct?”

The guy talking to him was pretty serious. As drunk as this apartment dweller
was, he had to do his best act, for whatever it was he had to do.
“Nah, er, no, I'm at a... conference, in Chicago. You can find me
at 45704 Dudesky Lane. I should be ready in an hour.”

Jean was mostly convinced. “Alright, just watch for a black limousine. We
want you here ASAP to undergo adaptive training.”

The call ended, and Greg Stevenson
sat wordlessly on the couch. “Aw, damn. What've I got into now...
I've gotta get ready. I think I've got a suit left from my sis'
wedding. I hope.” He got up, and proceeded to get prepared to a
montage of classic '80s rock. The aforementioned suit was properly
washed up, and Greg exited his apartment lookin' right spiffy.[/size]

As expected, a black limo pulled up moments later. Greg fixed up his
bushy blonde hair, and stepped in.

“That was most expedient! Don't mind me asking, but what exotic resource
fuels this automobile?” Greg asked the bespectacled driver, trying
to sound as posh as possible.

“Eet's PBP, laddie.”

“Th' bloody hell's PBP?” Greg managed to hide his surprise at the heavy
Scotch accent of the man in the driver's seat.

“Eet's alsa known as 'Pow'red bah Plot', wha'ever tha' means.”

Off in the distance, Greg heard what could be interpreted as a large
palisade or somesuch crashing over.

Conveniently, the limo arrived at the airport in what seemed like seconds. A fancy
private jet stood alone on the runway in the midday sun, as if set up
to be blown to pieces in a Bond movie. Greg ignored these odd
happenings and followed the agency representative into the airplane.

The representative handed him a stack of unstapled sheets of paper. Upon
further inspection, only the first few sheets actually had anything
on them; the rest were just blank pieces of printer paper added in to
make the document seem longer. Greg let those fall to the floor of
the jet.

“Impressive. You're the first to see through the 'intimidating stack of papers'
trick. You'll be well accepted in the SWA.” the representative told
Greg, giving him a tiny fuzzy feeling of accomplishment.

The useful bits of information on the papers included a picture of a
black haired girl who looked like she was in her mid to late teens.
“Charlotte Kingston... hot.” Greg read out to himself.
Immediately afterward he adjusted his tie and re-entered his ever
upper class high society guise.

“I am very much interested in the movement and acquisition of money!”
he exclaimed, and the other passengers in the private jet nodded in
agreement, and muttered sweet nothings to their wallets. They seemed
to be distracted greatly by that remark. Greg kept that in mind.

The plane, fueled by PBP or Unobtanium or whatever reached the Rome
Airport of Rome in an indeterminate amount of time. In Italy, it was
already night, and who-knows-what stalked around alleyways and
backroads, making the route to the SWA most difficult indeed. Luckily
there was a car on hand, saving Greg and Co. a chapter's worth of
walking. Needless to say, Greg approved. He was getting right pissed
about having to maintain this posh attitude.

The SWA compound was most compoundy, surrounded by a large fence, among
other security measures. Greg was guided through all this and given a
rough-as-sandpaper explanation of the buildings. You, as fan(s) of
this anime/manga series, don't need no descriptions. Eventually, they
reached the medical wing.

“This is where your cyborg is located. Currently, she is resting in her
bed. You'll be able to meet her tomorrow morning. Now, chop chop,
tally ho, and get yer arse to the handler quarters!” Greg was even
more surprised by the stereotypical accent of this agency employee.
Nonetheless, he headed off to his appointed room.

“Whoa.” Greg exclaimed upon sighting his living space.

The room in question was, by his standards, completely lame. It lacked
posters, lava lamps and surfboards. It was totally not cool, dude.
The bed was plain, and there was only a plain desk in the corner with
a Pixar-esque lamp on it. Oh, no matter. The redecoration would have
to wait until tomorrow, or next week, or next chapter. Until then he
opted to lay down on his bed, and contemplate his situation.

“Alright... so I, Greg Stevenson, surfer dude extraordinaire and overall cool guy
have been hired by an Italian agency thing, yeah, the 'Social Welfare
Agency'. And they must've mistook me for some other guy. Now I've
gotta be a handler or something for a girl, who happens to be an
assassin. A cyborg assassin, yeah, can't forget that. Wait...”


Then he slept, in hopes of waking up in his shoddy Chicago apartment,
drunk and poor, as usual.

I like my font. Anyways, R&R, please.


"The scoreboard looks like baseball, the start looks like bowling, and the rest looks like cleaning the kitchen floors." - rustyspring on curling

"The world will listen to me!" - Makoto Itou, butchered translation of School Days

"Bullshit! I want healthy Arf back!" - Piero, on Nanoha season three


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Location : Canada

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