Chapter Six: Morning Rescue

Author's Note: Now that all that heavy fighting stuff is out of the way, have a lovely little slice-of-life chapter, co-starring the BLU Scout!

With great reluctance, Mortimer worked round after round, filling in whenever the team was short a sharpshooter. He got backstabbed, shot in the head, and blown up more times than he could count (if he even bothered to count, that is). But he also got in several body shots and even some headshots—not a terrible job for the first day, he believed.

But that was the past. Now, in the present, he's lying down on the worn-down mattress of the fold-out bed in his camper van. He could've slept in the top bunk if he wanted to, but something came up.

Earlier that evening, after finishing his last shift for the day, Mortimer returned to his and Alan's dorm room, only to find himself face-to-face with a blond, shaggy-haired youth. Shocked as Mort was to see him, the boy looked just as nervous. “Oh. Uh, hey. I hope you don't mind if—”

“Vincent? What're you doin' here? Shouldn't you be in the emergency room?”

Taken aback by the fact that this stranger somehow learned his name, the youth answered, “I got better, so Hart let me out.” After one day? “Anyway, after my little squabble with Pasha this morning, I'd rather spend the night elsewhere. Then I bumped into this guy!” He pointed at Alan, who was sitting upright and looking as jovial as ever. “He said I could sleep over here. Erm, I hope you don't mind, sir.”

Recalling the argument Vincent had with the big, bear-like man that morning, Mortimer couldn't blame him for wanting to stay away for a bit. “No, not at all! I can always sleep in the camper for the night.”

Alan added, “You can have the bottom bunk; I like top bunks better.” The Spy moved out of the way and scurried up the ladder to the top bed. Vince was awestruck as he motioned over to the bed; clearly, he wasn't used to being on the bottom. He spent an unusually long amount of time fluffing up the pillows and smoothing out the blanket before cautiously settling down. That blow to the head must've affected him more than I thought.

Mortimer is still puzzled by the youth's awkward behavior. When he asked about it, Al described him simply as “a little different from the rest of us”. With that in mind, he wonders how well Vincent does on the field. Jane called him a “spineless little whelp”, but Hartmann insists he's as important as anybody else on the team. What is it about him that makes him so special? The question is beginning to aggravate him. Not solely because of the mystery behind it, but the envy he feels when thinking about the way Hartmann treats him. The reasoning behind his jealousy is unknown even to him, but he knows such feelings are petty, especially when aimed towards a person he hardly knows. All Mort knows is that he should be asleep by now.

Mort could not sleep a wink last night. Slumped over and dragging his feet along the floor as he heads towards the barracks, he looks more like a zombie than a living man. But just as he passes by the lounge doors, the steamy, bitter scent of freshly-brewed coffee beckons him. Sure enough, on one of the counters in the lounge area is a coffee machine, with half of a pot of that sweet black elixir still there. The newly-awakened Sniper rushes over to pour himself a cup.

“Morning, sir,” a voice greets him from behind, almost causing him to drop his coffee. He whips himself around, and is relieved to see it's only Vincent. “I brewed too much this morning, so I'm glad somebody else is awake to enjoy it.”

Mort chuckles weakly. “Thanks. You're a real lifesaver, ya know that?” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “By the way, what time is it, anyway?”

“Oh, about five in the morning.”

The bushman nearly spits out his drink. “That early? What're you up at five for?”

In a deadpan voice, Vince answers, “Work, duh. Plus, I have to run some errands.” He takes a sip.

“But what errands require you to be up this early? Shouldn't you be in school or somethin'?” Mort blows into his cup and does the same.

“First of all, I'm twenty-five. Second of all, you'd be surprised how much I have to do in the morning.” Another sip.

“That much, huh? Well, since I got nothin' to do, maybe I can help.”

Vincent raises a brow, skeptical. “I dunno... Can you lift lots of heavy equipment and stuff?” Mort nods. “Can you run fast?” He hesitates before sipping his cup while staring up at the Scout with puppy-dog eyes. “Er, alright, then. I doubt you can keep time all that well, considering you don't know what time it is, despite wearin' a watch.” Mort glances at his watch (which broke sometime during the road trip) before flashing a sheepish grin in Vince's direction. “But since it's either you or Mr. Doe, I guess you're the better choice. Just stick close to me, and you should be fine.”

“Wait, Janey's up, too?” The bushman isn't eager to face the Soldier again anytime soon. Or ever. He's seen what that man can do, inside and outside the field. He isn't sure if he was even human, the way he callously beats and blows up other people, including those from his own team.

Vince nods, a gloomy look on his face. “He always wakes up to do his morning exercises and stuff. He also goes out at night, though for what reasons, I don't really know.” From the sounds of things, this “Jane Doe” fellow isn't very well-liked amongst the troops. He chugs down the remainder of his coffee and smiles. “Hey, I've heard that you stopped a fight between Hart and Jane. Since you've proven that much, do you...” He hesitates briefly before continuing. “Do you think you can protect me from him? In case we run into him on the way.”

Mort tries his hardest to hide the terror he feels, but his subtly trembling hands give him away. “Sure thing! It's the least I can do.” What—or who—gave him that idea? It's not like I broke up a fistfight or anything.

Unaware of the shaky mug in the Sniper's hands, the youth's mouth widens to a smile. “Thanks, sir! You're the coolest!”

Vince puts his cup in the trash and runs out the door. A moment after, Mortimer drops his half-empty cup, spilling its contents all over the floor. Today is not off to a good start.

Contrary to his expectations, the two of them are fortunate not to have run into Jane Doe in the midst of their errands. Which is good, because there's much to do before the workday begins. First, they have to buy groceries and other necessities for Hartmann, who lives in a house in the residential outskirts of town. Then they have to help deliver supplies to Teufort (thankfully, the supplier is not too far from their destination). And then there's the newspaper route, and minding the store, and more heavy lifting...

“Do you really do all this every morning?” Mortimer says as he pushes a wooden crate into the back of the truck.

“Not always. The store's just a summer job, and I only help out Hartmann when he asks for it. Which isn't really all that often..” Vincent sets his crate on top of Mort's. “I'm not as bad as Duncan, if that's what you're asking.”

“That's not what I meant.” He accepts the box being handed to him by a Mann Co. supplier, and hands it over to Vince. “I'm just tryin' to figure out why. I mean, you've got your whole life ahead of you—you should be havin' fun!”

“I do so have fun!” He shoves the crate into the truck. “I'm just trying to earn money for... something.”

“Earn money? For what? I thought you earned enough from your scouting job?”

“I do! It's just...” He puts down his crate and sits on it. “That money's been goin' elsewhere. Boston, to be exact. The money I'm earning from these jobs is gonna go into buying a new apartment. Great as the barracks are, it feels a little too much like home. Plus, the sooner I get away from Sir Snores-a-Lot, the better!”

Both of them laugh and resume their jobs. “That's a good reason as any to move out. But does Hartmann know about this?”

Whatever joy Vincent felt a moment ago is immediately drained away. “I'd rather not tell him. Not yet, anyway. He still thinks I'm a little kid that needs to be protected. I constantly need to remind him I've grown up since then.”

The weight of the conversation is starting to burden Mort. “But he really seems to care about you. Havin' a father that loves you that much is a rarity.”

A pause, then laughter. “You seriously thought we were related?”

Now Mort is just confused. “You mean, you aren't? B-but the way he— And when you said— How could you NOT be related?”

“Relax, sir. We get that all the time. But to answer your question, we're not actually related—not by blood, at least. He's just really close friends with my mom. Nothing serious.” He averts his gaze and frowns. “I don't even have a father.”

“Oh... But you had to have had one before, right?” The bushman's question goes unanswered, and he sullenly returns to the task at hand.

As they leave the warehouse's parking lot, the two of them stop by a diner to have themselves a real breakfast. Despite doing the most running all morning, Vince doesn't order much; bacon, fried eggs, and a glass of carrot juice is enough. Meanwhile, Mortimer—who hadn't had a bite to eat since he woke up—is shoving every last bit of food into his mouth, having ordered one of everything on the menu. (Duncan, who happens to be working at the time, jokes about how he's going to eat them out of business.) After he's devoured his last muffin, he loosens his belt a notch to give his stuffed paunch room to breathe. But his body won't let him rest for very long, as a moment later, his bladder starts crying out.

While Mort leaves to rush to the john, Vincent reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small container full of oblong pills. He takes two pills, pops them into his mouth, and quickly hides the container with one hand while chugging juice with the other. This action, which has become routine to him after so many years, hardly took him more than a few seconds, but those few seconds were long enough for the one-eyed waiter to notice.

“Still takin' those vitamins,” Duncan asks in a low voice that only Vincent can hear. “Better be careful—you wouldn't want another accident, like last time, don't ya?”

Though the so-called “vitamins” are already beginning to kick in, the young man is still feeling tense, especially after being reminded of that incident. “Doc says there was a mix-up with the prescriptions. But that's been fixed since. As long as I pay close attention to what I've been given, nothing bad will happen. I'll be fine.” He gives a weak smile in an attempt to back up his statement.

The Scotsman isn't totally convinced, but at this rate, he has no other choice but to trust him. “Well, best of luck to ya, kid. Now, who'll be payin' the bill this time?”

Before Vince can answer, Mortimer returns to his seat. “Hey, Duncan! Don't worry 'bout a thing. Jus' put it on my paycheck!”

The path back to Teufort isn't a difficult one, but it's still a long walk from the diner, even moreso on a full stomach. By then, the pills are finally taking full effect, and Vincent feels more relaxed, if a bit spacey. A million thoughts are running through his mind, but he hasn't given a crap about a single one of them. Not seeing any reason to rush, he slows down enough that his bloated acquaintance is able to catch up to him easily. They chat about various subjects, beginning with hobbies and evolving into a discussion about the books they've read. Contrary to his rural upbringing, Mortimer is surprisingly knowledgeable, though his reading speed is a bit on the slow side. (Dyslexia, perhaps? The Scout assumes, despite his lack of knowledge on the subject.) When the Sniper first arrived, Vince thought he would be similar to the other Snipers he's encountered: cool, terse, and more than a little bit grumpy. But the more he learned about Mort, the more the Scout believed that he was cooler than any other Sniper in Badlands.

The fun stops when they see a figure standing in the way. Mort looks at the stranger, then at Vince, then back. The person standing before them shares the same exact features as Vincent. The only notable difference between the two boys is the color of their shirts—Vince in blue, and the other in red. Judging by the expression on the blue Scout's face, he's none too pleased with the doppleganger's presence.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” The red-shirted Scout is swinging the aluminum bat with his right hand while his left is fiddling with the dog tags hanging around his neck. “It's the nervous wreck and his newbie friend. How're things back at BLU, Kaninchen?”

“Mind your own beeswax, Baldo!”

“The name is Valdo, you idiot!” He stops swinging the bat and slams the blunt end of it against the ground. “Say my name right, or I'll knock it into that tiny head of yers.” His gaze shifts towards Mortimer. “Hey, Sniper! How'd you like gettin' backstabbed by our Spy the other day?” He flashes Mort a smirk slimy enough to make any sensible person want to punch him.

Vincent whispers to the Sniper to just ignore Valdo. Mortimer hesitates at first, recalling the pain and numbness he felt on that day, but he smiles anyway. “It was enlightening, to say the least. An' don't worry—I'm sure your Spy was jus' doin' what he was asked t' do.”

Valdo's batting hand twitches, but he remains as smug as ever. “Good to know at least one of you losers at BLU have some fighting spirit—unlike some Scouts I'd like to mention. I'm almost beginning to like you already.” His left hand's no longer fiddling with his dog tags, but have since moved on to Mort's fuzzy chin. “Why're you hangin' around this worthless freak, anyway? Surely, there's people on your team that's more worthwhile. Better yet, why don't you join us? We've got a real bunch of winners over RED, an' we're just cooler.” He flashes a grin, which—buck teeth and pretentiousness aside—serves to make him look astonishingly attractive.

“Hmm...” Mortimer pretends to ponder over the question before answering. “Nah. I think I'd rather stay where I am. I've already made a bunch of good friends here.” He brushes Valdo's hand away. “Besides, dontcha think it's a bit too soon for job offers? I mean, it's only my second day.”

“... Right. Perhaps it is a bit too soon to tell.” Dropping his guard, the RED Scout tips his cap and is about to turn away, but changes his mind at the last minute. “But here's a little advice 'fore I go...” He's inches away from the both of them, and his eyes shift back and forth between the two of them. “When you're on the field, it's every man for himself. Those who can't do their job right might as well kill themselves on the spot. Nothin' holds a team back more than a merc who—”

Valdo's advice goes unfinished, as the sound of steel colliding with bone cuts him off. The RED Scout lies unconscious on the ground, and a black combat boot pokes at the bump on his head, where he was hit. As it so happens, the boot belongs to the small Soldier known to the majority of BLU as “Jane Doe”. Jane mutters to himself while inspecting the body. “Boy's got a point, but his wording's off.” Almost deliberately so, he wants to add, but declines the action. He looks up to see the faces of the two BLU mercs he saved and frowns. “Oh. It's you two again. Well, I was just passing by, so don't expect me to save your asses again.” He's about to go on his merry way when a voice halts him.

“W-wait,” Mortimer shouts at the Soldier before he can venture too far. “You really did us a favor, gettin' rid of that RED bloke. To be honest, he was startin' to get on my nerves.” (Just “starting”? The short man, his brows furrowed in puzzlement, looks at him.) “B-but anyways, I wanna apologize for what happened in the lunchroom yesterday. I thought you were just an ill-tempered ankle biter, but I guess I was wrong. An' I wanna say... Thank you.”

He suddenly wraps his arms around Jane, who struggles to escape his tight embrace. Though he never says anything, the thought is apparently received, as Mort lets go and smiles at him before rushing ahead, re-energized by the positive energy that appears to constantly be emitted from him. Vincent—still shaken up by the RED Scout's words—simply smiles and tiptoes around the Soldier to follow after his friend.

In an instant, Jane is all alone again.