Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
Note: A fic based on Hyel's World War I AU pics. Completely AU, with some hinted Pol/Mal.

Gathering Information
by Jemini

“Move your arses! Quickly! Get out of there now!” she bellowed across the camp. All around her people ran, knocking over what remained of their fire and tents. It lasted for a further five minutes, until the last of the attackers had left or been killed.

Sergeant Perks called together her troops. She looked as if she was about the shout, the young privates in front of her flinched in anticipation. Her eyes darted over each of their faces. But instead of the yell they expected they heard only a muttered “Hensford, check the living.” Hensford was the closest they had to a medic, he was no Igor, but he would have to do. Polly turned swiftly, ignoring the mumbled ‘yes sir,’ and returned to her tent.

She sat, head in hands, breathing slowly. How could she have been so stupid! From behind her she heard the tent flap open and close.

“How many?” She asked not bothering to look up.

“Only two, Rosie gave us a bit of a scare for a bit, but she’ll pull through. And Gashnel will keep his leg if he’s lucky.” Polly nodded glumly at the news. She felt a pale hand resting on her shoulder “You couldn’t have known.”

“That’s the third in two months, Mal! They are picking us off! I should have brought them back to base, insisted they were left!”

“They wouldn’t let you. Besides they are all soldiers, they know what they signed up for…”

“They are kids Mal! Robert’s not even 17 yet, I don’t care what is sign up forms said,” she interrupted. “Kids, not weapons. Why do we keep losing them!” She felt the hand snake round from her shoulder, pulling her into a tight embrace. Polly nuzzled closer into her Corporal’s chest, her short hair tickling Mal’s chin.

“They know the land, Pol, we are the foreigners here. Besides if it wasn’t for you we could have lost a lot more.” They sat like that for a few minutes. “The Commander will want a report,”

“I know.”

“We should probably collect the bodies. It may require a fair amount of time though, that grenade was nasty.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I should tell…”

“I know Mal! But can you, can you do it later?” she asked almost pleadingly. Mal nodded, and brought out a packet of cigarettes. “Godsend,” The Sergeant muttered, taking one and leaving the tent. Mal followed, lighting up as she left. Handing the match to Polly she leant against a tree.

“Next time, Mal, I swear next time we will be ready for them.”

---

“Sir, he’s here.”

He sighed, another ambush, another few gone. They were bloody lucky to only lose two though, lucky or brilliant. He made a mental note to promote Sgt. O Perks next time they meet.

“Good, thank you lieutenant, send him in.” The Commander looked over from the report he had been re-reading and lit up a cigar.

He didn’t need to be told, he had heard the whispering down the corridor that always proclaimed Their visits. Sometime They wouldn’t come for a year, sometimes it would be every week. They ranked Sargent, technically. But They weren’t, not really. They were a spy – the best there was. So good They had earned the nickname ‘The Ghost’. The Commander generally disapproved of nicknames, but at least it wasn’t overly dramatic like ‘Shadow’ or ‘Phantom’. And he had to admit the name was apt. Ghost could be in and out of places faster and quieter then should really be possible. And they always got the job done.

Some rumoured that Ghost really was a ghost, a spectre enslaved by the Commander to do his bidding. But this was, like most rumour, completely false. Only five people knew who Ghost was, one of which sat behind a desk right now, thinking these very thoughts.

---

There had been four of them to start with, the greatest there ever was. They were powerful warriors, strategists and gentlemen. The soldier, the tactician, the medic and the spy. Some told the story as five, but no one ever knew what the fifth did. When they broke up, whether through age or arguments, even the commander didn’t know, they had each gone there separate ways. Some to families, or to other careers. The spy however, could not let go. He wanted to train another in his work, to create a new set of four perhaps. But the boy he had chosen failed him, stole his daughter and ran. They in turn had had a child. And when an unfortunate accident occurred, the boy and his wife were killed, leaving the child in care of the spy. The spy raised up the child, teaching them all that they knew. The child was a quick learned and soon turned their hand to…

His train of thought was broken as the door opened. He breathed in a puff of smoke as the figure entered. Ghost couldn’t be called short, although only being about 5, 7, they had a presence that seemed to extend around Them. Ghost’s hood was pulled over, a trench coat concealing Their lithe body.
“You know I don’t approve of hoods, you could be anyone,” the Commander stated, tapping of some of the ash into its tray. Pale fingers pulled the hood back, revealing an androgynous face. The hair cut was messy, slightly longer then military rule, but that was not what most people noticed. Most people noticed the streak of jet-black hair that burnt a path through the white blond of the rest.

The Commander lent back, his cigar to his lips, the light at the end of his table casting an odd glow to the scared skin beneath his eye. “Do you have it?”

“I always do,” came the reply, sharp and steely but seemingly gruff from lack of use.

“There is a first time for everything.”

The figure raised an eyebrow and placed a brown envelope onto the table. The Commander opened it and examined the content.

After a few minutes he nodded at the figure, who turned to leave. As their hand reached the door knob the Commander called after them “You really should get out of this business, Sue,” She turned to look at him, blue eyes burning from beneath a shadow.

“But then, Sir, what would I do?”

---

“Is everyone in position?”

“Yes sir.”

“The fake fire?”

“Set sir.”

“Weapons…”

“It’s done sir,” Mal replied, rolling her eyes. “For the last time Sarge, stop worrying.”

“But what if the info was wrong, what if they don’t attack?”

“When has info from the Commander ever been wrong?”

“First time for everything,” Polly muttered. Mal was about to retort when they heard shuffling from nearby. She looked at her superior, catching her eyes. A split second later the clearing was breached by five men dressed in heavy camouflage. They began a convocation in hushed tones, Polly tried to distinguish what they were saying, but the language was still new to her:

“Should… here,”

“Move?”

“Where? They… far.”

“…fire still.”

It was all she needed to know, nodding to Mal they jumped into the clearing, their squad following suit. The battle lasted only a few minutes, as their squad, depleted as they were, still outnumbered and had the element of surprise. The end of it left one man alive, struggling against two of her men. She turned to Mal.

“We all accounted?”

“A few flesh wounds and a near miss, but nothing that won’t heal.”

“Good.” She turned to the soldier before her. “Can you understand me?” He inclined his head a little. “What are you trying to achieve with these ambushes.” He remained silent. “Well?” she asked, going close to his face “What? Why are you sneaking up on little boys in the night, and slaughtering them. There is a real war going on, we are trying to get back! Why waste men on my squad?” She was angry now, yelling in his face but he just he spat at her. She twitched, it was enough. She pulled out her pistol from its holster and held it to his forehead. The squad drew breath, the world seemed to stand still. Perks was known as having an almost gentle reputation with prisoners, not for shooting them at point blank range and spilling their brains across the floor.

She felt Mal’s hand on her arm. She lowered the weapon, the moment passed. “Tie him up, he’s a Prisoner of War,” she called out, watching them start work. She turned to Mal, her eyes saying what her mouth dared not to. Mal just squeezed her shoulder tightly. She would always be there, to hold her or to stop her. But she would always be there.