Chapter Eleven: Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

Author's Note: Another Vince-centered chapter, with Hartmann and Mortimer as supporting characters. It picks up the pace from where the last couple of chapters left off, so it should prove a more exciting read.

“MORT!” Hartmann bangs his fist against the door. “You better get out of zhere, or else I'll do vorse zhan two more veeks of janitorial duties.”

Mortimer grumbles and rolls the blankets tighter around him. “Dun' wanna.”

The fat doctor growls under his breath and breaks the door down. “You're gonna get out of bed, and you're gonna get to vork!” He approaches the bottom bunk and rips the blanket from Mort's hands, causing him to roll out of the bed and onto the floor. While the Sniper lands face-down on the floor, Hartmann grabs him by the collar and lifts him to his feet. Then—strangely—his tone becomes far more affable, as he slaps Mort's back and pushes him towards the now-doorless exit. “Now, off you go!”

As he heads downstairs for the cafeteria, Mortimer stretches and cracks his aching back, the stubborn grogginess slowly fading away from his brain. By the time he gets his breakfast and finds an empty seat, he's feeling much more awake. A moment later, Vincent joins him. Compared to his own excessive meal, Vince's breakfast is modest, his plate adorned with bacon, buttered toast, and a small salad with a glass of orange juice. “I hope Hartmann wasn't too harsh on you, sir,” he says with a bashful smile.

Mort laughs nervously. “Actually, he broke our door down. But I think he's learning to control his strength, compared to his earlier attempts.” As he says this, memories of Hartmann's morning ritual flash through his mind, and he cringes as he could hear and feel every bone in his body breaking again.

“I see...” Vincent himself had similar experiences with the doctor, though they were less the fault of laziness and more an attempt to toughen him up. “Well, he always puts his heart into everything, so it might come across as a little over-the-top. He can be a bit harsh, but he's helped me out a lot in the long run.”

“I dunno how throwing me out of bed is gonna help me out.” He looks down at Vince's plate. “Your meals are always so tiny. Don't you get hungry while working? I mean, if I was runnin' an' jumpin' around all day, I'd be starvin' to death before the sun goes down!”

“Of course I do, sir. I take small meals throughout the day, and balance them out for maximum efficiency. You know what they say: a healthy body leads to a healthy mind.” Mortimer never so much as heard of that phrase before, but he finds it sensible enough, so he shrugs it off. “You seem to have a healthy appetite as usual, sir.”

Mort stammers and says, “Actually, I've been tryin' to eat less, to keep from gettin' sick during the mission. Why're you so stingy 'bout food, anyway? You always act pretty old for a kid. Is this Doc's doin'?”

“I've always been a bit mature for my age, but I suppose being raised by Hartmann affected me, as well. I also enrolled in a prestigious boarding school as a kid, so I've been trained to be efficient.”

“Boarding school? Isn't that for fancy rich kids or somethin'?”

“Well, yeah. But it's kind of a specialized school, so even if you're rich, you might not qualify. See, it's kind of a place for students that require, um, special accommodations. But it also helps them discover their talents and tailor their curricula to hone them—so they advertise. Being a New England school, they have high standards, so they still have a pretty heavy workload.”

“So you must be pretty smart.”

“Actually, I'm a pretty average student—don't get me started on art. But I did really well in physical education. I was on the track team in high school, and did a bit of weight lifting every now and then.”

Mort nods, noticing the Scout's muscular arms. “Well, when you're dealing with Doc everyday, you're gonna have to be strong.” He chuckles.

“He would want me to do my best—he paid for my tuition, after all!” He looks up at the clock hanging on the wall and panics. “Oh, my gosh! The next round's about to start. We've gotta go NOW!” He grabs Mort by the hand and runs out of the cafeteria, their meals left unfinished.

As they wait for the gates to open—a sign of the mission's start—Vincent does some quick stretches when Hartmann approaches him. “Guten Morgen, Vincent. It's strange zhat you'd arrive here zhis late. Has zhis dead veight been slowing you down?”

“Oh, not at all. I think he's gotten more punctual, thanks to you.”

“I see...” He highly doubts that Mort has improved much, if his attitude this morning was any indication. “So, are you prepared zhis morning? You've taken your pills, right? Have you been eating vell?” Vince answers yes to every last one of his questions. He's being unusually doting today. “Ah, thank goodness. Vell, I've got vork to do elsevhere, so I can't stay long. Good luck, Kaninchen.” He pats Vince in the back and walks out.

The gates fly open, and all the BLU mercenaries rush out the doors, guns and bomb launchers and melee weapons in hand. Despite being the fastest member of the bunch, Vince is the last to leave, taking an alternate route and carefully approaching the battlefield. Armed with his pistol, he aims and fires at the Heavy lumbering towards the bridge, dodging the rain of bullets that fly his way. With some assistance from a stray rocket or two, the large man is promptly executed, leaving his Medic ally open to fire. He switches to his scattergun and runs towards the bridge, joining Pasha, Duncan, and Jane in mowing down RED's defenses. He barely dodges the enemy Sniper's arrow as he tries to outrun the Sentry's missiles, and manages to gun down an incoming Soldier or two. But for the most part, he's spent a majority of his time avoiding danger whenever he can as he searches for the safest route to the intel room.

“BONK!”

The BLU Scout suddenly feels a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his head as he falls to the floor. As his assailant's shadow prepares to strike the final blow, he rolls over to the side, letting their weapon—a baseball bat decorated with the BONK! brand—crash into the ground beside him. Standing atop of him is a RED Scout that looks exactly like him, save for the droopy-eyed glare he's shooting. Valdo. “It's been a while, big brother. We should spar, like we used to when we were kids.” Vincent dodges another strike from the Scout's bat and gets up on his feet. “Things have gotten boring without you around. It's almost like you've been avoiding me!” He slams the bat against the wall, creating a large dent. “Though I must admit, it's been fun toying with that baby birdy up in his nest. I just love screwing up his aim with my little antics.” A crooked grin distorts his face. “Come on, Kaninchen. Let's play!”

Seeing no other choice in the matter, Vincent swaps out his scattergun for his baseball bat, and successfully blocks Valdo's overhead swing. The two engage in a dance of bats, exchanging blows and parries, in a manner not unlike that of sword-fighting. Valdo is the more cerebral opponent, his speed matched only by his penchant for underhanded techniques, such as tripping up his twin to drop his guard. But in the end, by gaining the upper hand through a surprise blow to his opponent's ribs and finishing with a swift swing to the head, Vincent's sheer strength wins over his brother's dirty tricks. As a reward for his victory, the BLU Scout swipes the suitcase—which had fallen to the floor in the midst of his duel—and is about to run out of the base, when a sharp pain shoots him in the spine. As he blacks out, he can hear the Spy whisper, “My apologies,” as he dissolves into nothingness.

Thankfully, Valdo did not show his face in the next round, so Vincent did not have to worry about wasting his time fighting him. But as he and his gang headed for the intel room, he had the misfortune of running into the newly-respawned enemy Sniper, who—like Hartmann—was an especially aggressive sort for his class. After dealing in a hand-to-hand sparring match with him, he kneed him in the groin and finished him off with a gunshot blast to the head. A perfect waste of time, the Scout thought as he reunited with his team for a well-deserved victory.

He went on for several more rounds before calling it a day, realizing he hardly ate anything in the last few hours. His head dizzy from hunger and pain, Vincent stumbles into the locker room and collapses.

It was a peaceful weekend day in the neighborhood, and all the kids were running about outside. Vince and his seven brothers were playing a casual game of baseball on an empty lot surrounded by a busy street. “Casual” meaning there were hardly any rules or scores to be kept. To them, the fun was in hitting a ball as hard and far as possible and running around like an aimless loon. Though the rule-abiding eldest brother, Valter, found the game difficult to follow, he eventually shrugged it off as part of the whimsy of children and joined along. All was fine and dandy... until it happened.

Vincent, playing in the outfield, watched as Valdo went up to bat, his face stoic while his brother, Vier, taunted him with immature (not to mention unoriginal) chants. As he stepped onto the plate, Valter stopped to give him suggestions on the proper stance—suggestions which Valdo took to heart, seeing as how, unlike most of his other friends and family, he was not as keen on the subject of baseball. Once in position, the young boy concentrated as Vier threw the ball.

“Strike one,” Valter called out as he threw the ball back to the pitcher. Valdo swung again; another strike. But on the third attempt, he heard the crack of the bat, and all the kids stop to stare as the ball went flying, turning into a white speck as it disappeared over the wooden fence. Valdo's feet were stuck to the ground, unable to move as he watched, awestruck. Then Vince saw Valter mouth out the word, “Run!”, triggering the twins into running. Vince, unaware of his surroundings, chased after the ball, which bounced and rolled on the street.

“LOOK OUT,” Valter shouted as he ran out of the lot, followed by his curious siblings. But Vincent, too slow to notice and react on time, had to be pushed aside. He didn't know what happened at the time, and it only took a second to realize the consequences. Lying in the middle of the street, stained in blood, was Valter. Unable to turn away, Vincent sat there, staring in shock as the image gradually ingrained itself into his psyche, where it continued to haunt him for days on end.

Vince gasps as his eyes burst open and shift back and forth. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lighting, but as they clear up, he can make out the faces of Mortimer and Hartmann, both of which are creased with worry. Hartmann sends graces to the heavens as he embraces the Scout. Meanwhile, Mort hands him a slice of carrot cake and some ginger ale “to ease your tummy”. As he accepts the food offering, Vince smiles and stutters a thank you. “But you really didn't have to do all this for me. I could've helped myself.”

“Not in your condition, you vouldn't have,” Hartmann says as he pinches and pulls one of Vince's ears. “Zhis is vhy you need me. You keep vorking so hard, vithout ever stopping to take a break. I thought you vould've learned by now, because you keep making zhe same mistake over and over!” He lets go of his ear and crosses his arms. “You say you vant to be independent, yet you lack zhe ability to take care of yourself. So as punishment, you are to stay vith me until you learn better.”

Mort chuckles nervously as he feels the tension rising between the two. “Doc, dontcha think you're overreacting a bit...?”

“Bullshit,” Vincent snaps. “I was doing just fine until today. If you'd just quit babying me, maybe I can make some actual progress!”

“I did not see any progress. Vhat I saw vas you regressing to your former self.”

“I worked for over half a workday before passing out. And I held up in a fight with Joey!”

“Vincent, a monkey can bring down Joey. Zhat's hardly vorth bragging about.” The Scout doesn't argue back—he knows the doctor was right about that one—and he seethes in silence as Hartmann slams a container of pills and a glass of water on the counter next to him. “Now, take your pills. You get any more tense, you'll risk a panic attack, or vorse.”

Vince sullenly obeys, then takes some bites from Mort's cake, slowly eating the stress away. Between bites, he mutters, “I would've won the first round for us, if Valdo didn't get in the way.”

Hartmann tenses up. “Valdo?”

He weakly nods. “I thought he was to be transferred elsewhere, but I guess they brought him back.”

“He was a mighty pain in the arse, he was,” Mort butts in, tired of being the third wheel. “Try as I might, I just can't get a good shot at 'im. It's almost as if he's fucking with me.”

“He's always like that, sir—especially with Snipers. Best not to let him get under your skin.” What he said is mostly true: though Valdo always had a habit of trolling Snipers with his superhuman agility, he seemed to have taken a liking to Mortimer in more ways than one, so Vincent believes.

“Still, if he's defending for Teufort...” The Medic's brows furrow as he scratches the back of his neck. “Zhis feels more like an omen of things to come.”

Mort frowns and raises a brow. “I know he's annoying, but he can't be that bad... is he?”

“Valdo thrives on making Vincent's life a living hell, and vill go through excessive lengths to do so. Zhis sort of sabotage—even if targeted towards a specific target—vill destroy our team as ve know it.” He glances at Vince. “And he's not zhe only one vith a bone to pick. In zhis line of vork, you're bound to make a nemesis out of somebody.”

The air between the three of them becomes grim and heavy, and the doctor tries to make quick work to eliminate it. “Since you're here, I might as vell put you to good use.” Whipping out a clipboard and pen, he scribbles something down, then hands the written form to Mort. “Zhis is an outline for zhe prescriptions I need. Head down to zhe pharmacy to pick zhem up, and bring zhem back to me immediately. Don't ask questions, just do it. Now, off you go!” He pushes the bushman out the door and slams it behind him. Turning back to Vincent, his expression becomes forlorn. “I'm sorry about earlier. You can keep living in the barracks, but under one condition: Mortimer vill be your bodyguard.”

Vincent almost chokes on his food at the mention of the Sniper. “You're kidding, right? I mean, Mr. Mundy's nice, but he isn't exactly bodyguard material.”

Hartmann laughs. “Of course I'm aware of zhat! But he's a good fellow, and zhe two of you seem to respect each other enough. Plus, he seems to have a bone to pick vith Valdo; zhat's a plus.”

“You make it sound as if you want my brother dead.”

“Oh, I know for a fact he vouldn't do zhat—I'm certain he's incapable of hating anybody zhat much. I'm assigning him to you precisely because I know zhat.” He ruffles Vince's hair. “Doctor knows best!”

Hartmann excuses himself and makes a short trip to the restroom. All the while, Vincent is left to mull over the so-called “doctor's orders”. I know Hart's looking out for me. But why drag Mortimer into all this? And all this because of Valdo. What's going on? This can't be right.

By the time Hartmann returns, the Scout is long gone.