6 A.M., the alarm clock screams and throws a mighty tantrum. 6:01 A.M., Joey rolls out of bed and “disciplines” the clock by bashing its head in. 6:02 A.M., Joey follows the sweet smell of cooked bacon into the kitchen, then sits down and has breakfast with Zhen—prestigious chef and most adorable roommate. 6:25 A.M., he dresses up, brushes his teeth, and styles his hair in his usual way. Fifteen minutes 'til seven, he and Zhen are out the door.
“You're late.” The snowy-haired Medic, Dante Alterheim, flashes the two mercenaries his usual, cheery smile, though his eyes tell a different story. “Such tardiness cannot be permitted for much longer.”
“But it's only by five minutes,” Zhen protests. “If you're gonna complain about tardiness, you should go talk to Valdo. He's not even here yet!”
“Oh, am I?” Joey and Zhen turn around, and sure enough, there's Valdo, his cold gaze boring into them. “But I've been here all this time.” A crooked smile forms from behind his striped red scarf. “Haven't I, Dante?”
“Indeed,” says the doctor. “Zhat's vhat I like about you, Fledermaus: you are alvays such a good boy. Unlike some naughty little boys I vould rather not mention.” Zhen turns to give Dante an earful, but Joey covers his mouth before he can do so.
“Vielen Danks, Führer. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?” As he says this, he starts lifting his arm from behind his back, barely displaying the glistening weapon in his hand.
“Ja. I have some files in my office zhat need organizing. Und vould you mind cleaning up my desk, bitte?”
Valdo lowers his arm, hiding the blade again. “It would be my honor, sir.” He turns and walks off, using the scarf to wipe the still-fresh blood from his knife.
“Zhen-y,” he says with a chilling smile, “You can run off now.” Reluctantly, Zhen does as he's told, taking one last glance at Joey before leaving. “As for you, I vould like to speak to you.” With a waggle of his finger, he orders Joey to follow him into the storage room. As he enters, a dove—its feathers stained with crusted blood—flies in through an open window, landing on his pert finger. “A little birdy told me you vere having dinner vith zhe BLU Sniper last night.”
“It wasn't what it looked like. Mort an' I made a bet, and I lost.”
“Regardless of zhe context, you vere spotted fraternizing vith zhe enemy. Tell me, Herr Buckman... How is he?”
The Sniper's eyes is taken aback. “Er, fine. Least, he was when I last saw him.”
“Really? I think he vould be ecstatic. I mean, going on a date vith zhe man he loves.” He sighs dreamily, “It really is quite a romantic scenario.”
“It's not a date,” Joey yells, scaring the bird away. Realizing that his cheeks are burning up, he simmers down. “N-not in that sense.”
Dante, a sad and serene look on his face, gently brushes his fingers against the stubble on Joey's cheeks. “Joey, how do you feel about Mort? Do you really see him as just a friend?”
The Aussie's cheeks, still warm, burn up again at the doctor's touch, and his eyes glisten with tears. His shifting gaze confirms his inner turmoil. “I... I don't know. I like him, but I dunno how much.”
“Ah, vell, you'll know in time. Ve have vork now!” He pats the larger man's shoulder and walks off, leaving him to his business.
Joey, still conflicted, skips out on the entire morning shift.
“Huh? Art exhibit?” Mortimer opens the colorful brochure and skims through it, unable to process the words as well as the pictures. Alan, sitting next to him, is peeking over his shoulder to get a good look.
“Ay, a bar mate of mine works at an art museum 'ere. He said there's a merc holdin' an exhibition there, an' he thought we might be interested.” Duncan takes a swig from the soda can. “I think 'is name was Valdo Scott or somethin'.”
The Sniper freezes up. “V-Valdo Scott?”
“Ain't many people with that kind o' spelling 'round these parts.”
“Say, isn't zhat Vinci's brother's name? Vinci should know about zhis, right?”
“I dunno what's that kid's business lately. If yer lookin' for 'im, you should ask Hart or Janey.”
Neither of them have time to react as Mortimer leaves, taking the brochure with him.
The first place Mort checks is the infirmary, where Hartmann is flipping through folders containing X-rays, prescriptions, and other medical and personal information. His reading ability is not the greatest, but he recognizes the names of his friends well enough to know that the names on most of those folders are not theirs. He picks up a random folder from the desk and flips through it, only for it to be snatched away by Hartmann. “Zhat's classified information, you idiot!”
“You don't have t' worry, doc—I can barely read!”
“Zhat's not zhe point!” He slips the folder between two others—one of which is labeled with Vincent's name—and closes the file cabinet. “Now, vhat is your purpose here? Paper cut? Itchy scalp? Bumped your head getting out of bed again?”
Having caught a glance of the files before Hartmann hid them, Mort snaps his fingers. “Oh, I just remembered! Duncan told me Valdo was holdin' an art exhibition.” He holds out the brochure. “I dunno what it says, but his works're really good. I didn't know he was a drawer.”
“He's a painter, not some piece of furniture,” Hartmann corrects him as he takes the brochure and slaps it against the bushman's head. “Valdo is but a newcomer in zhe art vorld, yet he has been regarded vith much praise. It's no surprise zhe local museum is holding an exhibition for his vorks.”
“So Valdo's, like, a celebrity 'round these parts? No way, I'm totally jealous!” He receives another whap on the head.
“If you have a grudge to hold, take it up vith him personally. He'll be appearing on opening night. Vhich just so happens to be...”
“Tonight?” Zhen fumbles to readjust his helmet after he has slapped it out of balance. “But I've got the closing shift at home.”
“Zhat should not be a concern. Your family vill be catering for tonight's event. I vill make it so.” Dante flashes a gentle smile, which the Soldier reciprocates with a salute.
“Thank you, good sir. I promise I will do my best!” He runs off, eager to call his parents.
Confident that the concessions are taken care of, Dante proceeds to his office. As soon as he enters, he takes a look around, making sure everything has been taken care of. The desk is immaculate, and the files are put in perfect order. Sitting off to one corner is Valdo, painting away. “Vorking on your latest masterpiece, I see,” Dante says as he approaches the Scout. Staring over his shoulder, he can see the splashes of red, circled around what appear to be a trio of glowing white rings. “Tell me, Fledermaus: vhat is zhe meaning of zhis one?”
“There is none. At least, none that I know of yet.” Valdo stops to stare blankly at the work in progress. “I only see purity... and corruption.”
“Ah. Zhe neverending battle of darkness and light, a struggle between ego, id, und superego. How delightful!”
“No. It's just purity and corruption. Look closely.”
Seeing no point in arguing anyway, Dante bends over and adjusts his glasses. Upon closer inspection, he notices something a little off about the shade and texture of the red paint. It is too deep and coarse for the paints he usually buys. And then there's that coppery smell. “Is zhat...?”
“It is what it is, old man,” the Scout replies bluntly as he stares down at his red-stained hands.
“Mein Junge, you really are a genius! I'll leave you to your vork. Cover up zhat smell before people start getting suspicious, ja?” The bearded doctor smiles and pats Valdo's shoulder and heads out. Valdo appears to neither notice nor care about what just happened; his mind is focused solely on his work.
Later that night, a large crowd of people have gathered inside the museum building, waiting for the arrival of the artist himself. Many of the people there are dressed formally and oozing with sophistication, but there are still some locals and non-locals in casual outfits, with an occasional lout too uncouth to bother wearing something nicer. Mortimer—sporting a ratty old jacket and mud-stained boots—is one of said louts.
“You could have at least taken a shower before leaving,” Alan pinches his nose and winces at the musky smell emanating from Mort.
“But Pvt. Stripeytail—”
“Forget about zhose stinky vermin for once, why don't you?”
“Vill you shut up? Zhe curator's speaking.”
Standing behind the podium is a handsome, middle-aged man with sharp, slender features and two whisks of graying hair, shaped like bird wings. The man speaks with an Italian accent that had been softened out through years of interaction with other cultures, especially French and English. “And now for zhe moment you've all been waiting for, here he comes... our beloved virtuoso of mystery, Valdo Scott!”
The man reluctantly steps out of the spotlight while Valdo—who was waiting out of sight of the spectators—takes center stage. The Scout glances at Dante, who gestures an order to smile, then smiles weakly and turns his attention to the audience. “Thank you, Luca. All my life, I've been asking: what is the meaning of life? Is there any? Even now, this question comes up, just worded differently. I've been asked by many people if there's any meaning behind the paintings I do. And my answer is yes. There is a meaning to all of them. The same meaning: struggle.
“People say there is no black and white in humanity—just varying shades of gray. I say they're wrong. There will always be two sides in every battle: good versus evil, soldiers versus citizens, red versus blue. As people, we fight many battles, all at once. And regardless of what people say, most of our problems can only be solved alone. Our purpose is to struggle, to conquer or be conquered, to devour the blackness within us. There is no gray within us; just black and white.”
Luca reenters the stage and pushes Valdo aside. “Thank you, Mr. Scott. Speaking of reds and whites, we are proud to announce zhat a brand new piece would be unveiled at zhis exhibition. Zhere will be a silent auction later tonight, where it will be sold to zhe highest bidder upon closing time. For zhose too poor or uncultured to buy it, you can still see it proudly displayed while it is still available. With zhat out of zhe way, I hope you enjoy zhe strange wonders of Valdo Scott!”
With the grand opening speeches over, the visitors flock into the main hall, where the artworks are displayed. As the crowd thins out, Mortimer and his comrades split up and start wandering about. Mort recognizes a handful of the paintings from the brochure, but many of them are brand-new to him, and even the ones he's familiar with look even more beautiful and vivid in person. As Luca had mentioned, Valdo's works are indeed strange—the figures are warped, the colors overly bright, and the imagery almost nightmarish. But somehow, they speak to him, as if they are the byproducts of his soul. Lost in his own world, he accidentally bumps into a tall figure. “Ye okay?” The voice is deep and rugged, like the figure itself.
Mort's eyes glisten the moment they make contact with the figure's one. “Never felt better, Duncs!” He turns his attention to the painting before them: a depiction of the moon's many faces, accompanied by a horrific sequence of man turning into beast. “Say, ya like this stuff?”
“Yeah. Reminds me of the old legends from my homeland.” Duncan stares at the painting, a glum look on his face. “I don't necessarily agree with the artist's perspective, but that's no reason why I can't enjoy it. Art comes in many faces, and those faces can hold different meanings for everybody. Valdo has a point about life consisting of many struggles, but his vision lacks depth.” He looks at Mort. “What do you think when you see this?”
After pondering for half a moment, Mort answers, “I can't think of anything. I just think it looks cool.”
Duncan chuckles. “That's what I thought.”
“Oi, Duncs, ya think I can become a full-time werewolf? I think it'd be hella sick!”
Instantly, his mood shatters, and he averts his gaze. “You seriously think so?” An eager nod from the Sniper. “Well, there's no doubt there's an appeal to it, but...” He shoos the thought way. “How 'bout you keep looking around? I think I've seen Miller recently. Go check up on 'im, will ya?” The moment he mentions the Engineer's name, Mort perks up and starts skipping down the hall.
Wherever Miller was when Duncan last saw him, he is no longer there. But Mortimer catches sight of a bizarre painting of a ghostly man, with multicolored birds flying from his empty eye sockets and gaping mouth. Right next to it is a painting of a ballet dancer in black, her head bowed and arms stretched out like birds' wings. Though it is the most normal-looking of Valdo's works thus far, Mort cannot help but shiver at the sight of it. Hartmann, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying it, gazing dreamily at it. “Doc?”
Hartmann snaps out of his trance. “Oh. Hello, Morty. Or should I say 'G'day'?” He attempts to imitate an Australian accent and fails tremendously, as he probably already knows. “How are you enjoying zhe exhibition?”
“It's great! Although...” He trails off as he glances at the strange picture nearby. “Doc, how does one person come up with all this stuff?”
“I cannot speak for Valdo, but vhenever I look at one of his paintings, I feel as if he is speaking directly to my soul. He may be seen as eccentric to everybody else, but I think he can see things zhat nobody else can.” He jabs a finger down the long hallway from where Mort had come. “All zhese artvorks you see here, zhey send a message to somebody. Those people, in return, are drawn to zhem, like zhey're under a spell. Many artists have tried to create art vith zhat intent, but very few succeed.”
Mort seems more confused than enlightened. “Doc, yer scarin' me.”
“Vell, you'll find something sooner or later. Just keep looking.”
“Um, alright.” The bushman tiptoes around the Medic, whose expression quickly turns solemn. He continues onward, scanning the walls for something to “speak” to him, but nothing clicks with him. Entering the largest exhibition room, his eyes grow, as he witnesses the biggest painting he's ever seen. It's a large slab of deep red, offset by large rings of white. It doesn't appear to hold much intrinsic meaning, but the simplicity of it makes it all the more eye-catching. Tearing his sights away from it, he notices Vincent standing next to another, taller figure—dressed in a striped white baseball uniform, but with skin too pale for an athlete. He can hear faint hints of a conversation between them, but is unable to piece together the context.
Earlier, Vincent had been wandering around, deliberately avoiding the crowds whenever possible. While he didn't mind being thrown into combat with everything and everyone trying to kill him, in public areas like this, the very presence of people feels suffocating. He's tried to explain time and time again how much he despises social events and large crowds and how uncomfortable they make him feel, to no avail. Tonight, however, he's made an exception for his brother.
He walked through the rooms, admiring his twin's handiwork and even recognizing a few here and there, when he came into the main room, where the newest piece was being displayed. Compared to Valdo's older, more surreal works, this one stood out as rather unusual, due to its simplicity. Spellbound, he approached the painting. He could not piece together the meaning or symbolism behind it—he never was good with that kind of stuff—but something about it spoke to him.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Vincent, startled, flinched and looked up at the voice's source. The figure was tall and pale, and wearing a baseball uniform for some reason. “'Purification in Progress'—that's what he calls it. Pretty straightforward title, if you ask me.” He points at the rings. “Those represent the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
“Strange. I thought it meant Ego, Superego, and Id.” Vince pointed out each ring, assigning a name to each of them.
“Perhaps. But how do you explain that?” He lowered his hand, below the rings to the exact center of the painting.
“Explain what,” Vincent asked, squinting.
“That shadow.”
The Scout rubbed his eyes and looked again. At first glance, everything seemed normal, but as he paid more attention, he noticed the center looked darker than the rest of it. As if something once existed, but was painted over. “It almost looks like...”
Mortimer wants to call out to Vincent, but seeing how engaged he is with the other man, he bites his lip. Feeling downtrodden, he turns and is about to head out when his peripheral gaze spots a small painting largely ignored by the rest. It is a small, simple portrait of an organic shape—one which, upon closer inspection, resembles an animal fetus of some sort—cradled in the arms of a womanly figure while strings of red wrap and swirl around the shape, daring to strangle it. Even by the standards of Valdo's works, this one is downright weird. Yet, he cannot help but be drawn to it. “'Mutter'...” He whispers to himself, reading the title plaque directly below it.
“'Mutter'. It means 'mother' in German,” a familiar voice points out. Suddenly standing beside Mort is the dandelion-haired man from his childhood. “I've tried to pry some sense of meaning from Valdo, but he ain't telling.” He sighs. “But I take it you're thinkin' the same thing I am.”
Facing the painting, Mort's brows furrow, and his gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah...”
“You remember my mum, right?” Mort nods. “They always say mother knows best, but I don't believe that. After the divorce, mum took custody of all of us, but lost something significant in the process. Mothers are supposed to make you feel safe and secure, but at home, I felt anything but. That's why I'm grateful to have met you.”
The BLU Sniper, astonished, turns his attention to the RED. “Grateful? I thought I was just a burden.”
“You were a big pain in the arse. But you gave me something to look forward to, something to protect when I couldn't protect my brothers.” Pause. “Hey, remember what you promised me before I left? You told me you'd grow a beard an' become stronger.”
Mortimer pulls at the hairs on his sideburns. “Well, I'm kinda halfway there.”
“Please! You're too modest. You beat me the other day.”
“But you totally outmatched me in sheer strength. I only won 'cause Vince butted in an' distracted you.”
“That was pretty sneaky of you. Still, you beat me with your own strength, so I say we're about equal now.”
He gasps. “So I...?”
Joey wraps his arm around Mort's shoulder and pulls him closer. “Yeah, you did.”
Eventually, the exhibition comes to a close, and the people gather to hear the results of the silent auction. “And zhe winning bet is... Number twenty-five, for zhe amount of... $3,000?” Luca's jaw drops as the mysterious Bidder #25 steps on stage. As if destiny had foreseen this, the bidder happens to be the pale-skinned man in the sports uniform. “Congratulations, Monsieur...?”
“Batteur,” the man says bluntly, his voice revealing hints of a French accent. “But you can call me 'The Batter'.”
“Er, yes, Monsieur Batteur. Well, we shall have zhis shipped to your place of residence by tomorrow.”
“Thanks, but I'll be taking it now.” His stoic expression sends chills down the other man's spine. Moments later, The Batter—accompanied by Vincent—is carrying the painting to his van.
“Why am I helping out a random stranger, may I ask?” Vince hoists the painting on top of the vehicle and starts strapping it down.
“Because you seem up to the task,” says The Batter as he helps out. “Valdo Scott, isn't it? Your name?”
“Uh, no. I'm Vincent. Valdo is my brother. We're twins.”
“Twins? So the person I met in the main hall, that was you?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Sorry for ruining your expectations.”
“I never had any in the first place.”
Vince's frown sinks lower. “My brother is somewhat of a recluse, so I doubt you'd be able to find him wandering around, anyway.”
“I see. But it would've been nice to get his autograph, at least. But enough of that.” He finishes securing the straps. “Come with me. I'll need help hauling it up to my apartment.”
Vince gives a look of confusion. “But we just met, and my friends are waiting for me—”
“Just a few minutes. I can drive you home afterward.”
“Um, alright. But just this once.”
Vincent hops into the passenger seat, and the stranger drives him into the residential outskirts, where towering condominiums are teeming with out-of-towners and mercenaries who—for a variety of reasons—live there instead of the barracks. Luckily, The Batter's apartment is within sight from where he parked, but it's located on the second floor, which makes the Scout nervous as they carry the painting upstairs. Together, they waste little time getting it into the apartment. A quick skim of the environment tells Vince that the pale man is still breaking into his new home. The furniture is plain, unopened boxes are strewn about the living room, and the walls are bare, save for the hideous, peeling wallpaper and chipping paint. Counting the number of doors, he assumes that there must be a second bedroom just down the hall.
“Sorry 'bout the mess. I just moved here the other day.” The Batter sets down his side of the painting and leans it against the wall nearest the entrance. “It's more spacious than I'd have liked, but at least I have a place to stay for now. Rent's a bit of a monster, though.”
An idea suddenly hits Vincent. “Um, I know it's a bit soon, since we've just met, but would you happen to be in need of a roommate?”
“I never intended for one, but it's a better idea than turning the spare bedroom into storage space.”
“Plus, it'd cut down on the rent.”
“That's true.”
“And I can help you find a job, too.”
“But what about your brother...?”
“Don't worry. I see him way more than I need to. If I recommend you to my company, you can meet him, too.”
“Where do you work, anyway?”
“Oh, just a little place called Builders League United. You've probably seen some billboards on the way here. Don't worry about a thing: they're always hiring.” Vincent flashes a bucktoothed grin—possibly the most genuine he's given in a while. And happiness, as they always say, is contagious.
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