Chapter Seven: Ties That Bind

Author's Note: Relatively straightforward chapter. The main highlight of "Ties That Bind" is the introduction of the first RED OC--depicted here by Selan Pike.

Neither of them have realized how much time had passed since they ventured out to complete Vince's morning errands. Miller orders them to get their ass in gear, and get them in gear they do. Despite appearing in the middle of a match, Mort and Vince manage to adapt to the flow of chaos. It takes some time for Mort to regain his composure enough to aim straight, while Vince's tired, quivering legs eventually gain the strength that allows him to run and jump about the field. One of the advantages of arriving late is that the enemy never sees them coming until it's too late. However, as Mort is beginning to learn, once a Sniper has been spotted, it's crucial that they move out quickly lest they become a target. The RED Heavy—whom the bushman assumed was an unintelligent gorilla of a man—unleashes a spray of bullets at the roost where he resides, injuring him as he flees into safety.

Whilst traveling through this way and that, trying to find that one other spot he found comfort in sniping from, he bumps into a waist-high obstacle of some sort. “Ow!” He wraps an arm around his abdomen, recovering from the impact, but the soreness is gradually replaced by a warm, tingly sensation, similar to the feeling one gets when they lie against a warm blanket or heating pad. The gunshot wounds stop stinging, and are rapidly closed up, fully healed. Mortimer looks down at the obstacle he bumped into, and kneels to its level. It looks like a dispenser of some sort, but it has a bunch of little doodads attached to it, and he swears he can see it emitting some sort of glowing aura. As if by instinct, his hand reaches to touch the machine.

The machine makes a clattering sound, and a small drawer pops out, a cartridge encased inside. Inspecting the cartridge, Mort realizes it's filled with the exact type and amount of ammo he needs. How convenient. Refilling his artillery, he turns away from the dispenser and starts running off when a strange, twitching sensation bites him. Kukri in hand, he scans his surroundings. That feeling he just had, it was the feeling of somebody's presence. But there's not a person in sight... or is there?

Suddenly, an explosion echoes in the distance. Mortimer would have passed it off as one of the Demomen at work, if it wasn't preceded by the sound of buzzing, like a machine short-circuiting. He runs in the direction of the source and stumbles upon a pile of broken parts, the remains of a high-level sentry. Looking around, he finds no sign of Miller. Where his head barks orders to save himself, his gut rebels, and he searches the building for the Engineer.

It doesn't take long for Mort to find him. Lying in an unmoving heap is Miller, bleeding from his chest. Slowly, the pieces begin to connect. The sensation, the sentry's destruction, Miller's death... It can only be one thing. “Spy!”

As if on cue, the Spy comes out of hiding. Unlike Alan, his suit is the color of dried blood, and his graceful, upright stature implies he's been at this for a long, long time. Twirling the butterfly knife with one hand, he slowly approaches the Sniper. “Doesn't take a monkey zhis long to figure zhat out. Zhen again, if you were smarter zhan a monkey, you Snipers would not be such easy targets.” He stops fiddling with the knife and holds it straight, as if he is wielding a rapier. “Come now. Let us dance.”

Mortimer mimics the RED Spy's movements, accepting his offer, and the duel begins. Mort has the advantage in range and physical strength, but his movements lack grace and speed, and his strikes rarely hit his opponent. “Give up now, filthy dog!” The RED merc quips as he parries the kukri and almost stabs Mort in the eye. The Spy's accent sounds similar to that of his own Spy, but heavier, as if he had lived in Europe all his life. Combined with his graceful demeanor, he resembles—in Mort's eyes—Alan all too greatly. No longer is he angry at the Spy, but rather curious. Where did he come from? Does he know Alan at all? Do all Spies speak French, as he does? Perhaps if they stop fighting for just a moment...

Unwittingly, the blade of his kukri sticks itself into the RED Spy's abdomen. Mort removes the knife, letting the RED fall to the ground. His breathing is shallow, but he's still alive. “Merde,” the Spy curses under his breath. “It seems zhe fool has won zhis round. Come closer, Mortimer. Tell me... What do you know about zhe BLU Spy, Alan?”

The Sniper's not surprised that his foe knows his name—he wrote it off as a Spy thing a long time ago—but is dumbfounded when he asks about his own Spy. “He's really nice, though a bit odd in the head. Can't say I know much about 'im, but he's the closest thing I have to a best friend here.”

The RED Spy chuckles and wheezes. “Oh, how little you know about him! How little you know!” He raises a hand to brush his fingers against Mort's sideburns and whispers, “Tell dear Alan... Daddy's here.” His hand drops, and his body stops moving.

Letting dead dogs lie, Mortimer stands up and heads back in the direction where he last found the dispenser. As he probably should have expected, it's no longer there; like the sentry, it died along with its maker. He can hear the Announcer counting down the seconds, but his mind's too far gone for it to matter. As the round ends and his teammates on the field rally about to celebrate, he merely heads back to the locker room. He's in no mood to fight.

“Somethin' the matter, pardner?” Mort turns around, and standing there is the man whom, just moments ago, was shot and left for dead. Though the Sniper is perfectly aware of the Respawn System's effects, it doesn't stop him from feeling the warm sense of relief that Miller's presence brings.

“I, uh, it's nothin', really,” Mort sputters out. “Just not really in a fightin' mood today, I guess.” He can't tell him about what the RED Spy told him. Spies probably have some sort of confidentiality agreement about these sorts of things. “You feelin' alright, mate? You got in quite a kablooey, I figured.”

The Engineer laughs. “Eh, it's hardly anything. Just a Spy doin' his job. Anywho, I'd better get back t' work. See ya around!”

Mort watches the Engineer head for the gates, and before he knows it, he blurts out, “Wait!” Miller, confounded, stares back at the Sniper. “I was jus' thinking... Maybe we can, um, go for a stroll 'round town later today? Get a quick bite to eat? Hang out? Like-like...”

“Pals?” Mort blushes and softly concurs. Miller scratches his chin as he ponders over the proposal. “Well... Oh, why the heck not? Sheldon can take my place.” He slides his toolbox into his locker and locks it up tightly. “I know a great place on Blitz Creek Street. We can take my truck.”

The entire truck drive over to Blitz Creek Street, Mort's stomach is overflowing with butterflies, all of them as restless as he. But it's not a terrible feeling; he's actually quite ecstatic. Looking out, he begins to notice a pattern in the distribution of the buildings in the commercial area: no matter which turn or road they go down, there is a guarantee that one will never find a BLU-sponsored business standing right next to a RED one.

As Miller explains, mercenaries are—by technicality—allowed to buy or spend their money in any store, but as a means to prevent loophole-induced betrayal, stores will sell the items at obnoxiously high prices to customers on the team opposite their sponsors. “Doesn't stop some folks, though,” he says lightheartedly. “'Course, there are some exceptions. Some businesses, such as restaurants an' bars, have a 'neutral territory' policy, which allows for more leeway in prices an' a bit of cross-faction mingling, so long as no one causes a ruckus.” Shortly after he finishes his bit of exposition, he catches up to the restaurant—a lavish, pagoda-like building with a bright red roof and decorated with golden lanterns at each corner—and swerves to park his pickup. “Well, we're here. I don't normally eat in these places back at home, but there's a good variety of food here. It's quite interesting.”

The two of them enter the restaurant, and Mort stares, absolutely gobsmacked, by the sight before him. Sturdy red pillars rise up to the ceiling, like titans joining together to carry the sky, and above each table hangs large, round lanterns made of red paper. Serpent-like dragons adorn the walls, flying though cotton-like clouds outlined in gold. Waitresses in qipao carry trays of delectable food to the tables. Contrasting with the exotic elegance of the rest of the place is a sign above the enclosed bar in the center, which has an adorable-looking panda mascot decorated in traditional Chinese garb.

Miller drags him over to the nearest empty table. It doesn't take long for a server to notice them and approach them. “Nihao! Welcome to Kanpai's!” The Sniper snaps out of his trance long enough to notice him. The person serving them is wearing a helmet—the trademark of a Soldier—and a red outfit trimmed with gold, the silhouette of which resembles something worn by characters in martial arts films. Unlike the tall, beautiful waitresses walking around, the Soldier is short and boyish in appearance and voice.

The Engineer smiles and says, “Hey, Zhen. This is Mortimer Mundy, our new Sniper. I've been showing 'im around.”

The server bows in Mortimer's direction. “Nihao, Mundy-san. My name is Dou Zhen—I mean, Zhen Dou—but you can call me Zhen. Or Dou-san. Whichever you prefer.”

“Gaday, Zhen-y. You can jus' call me Mort. No need to get all fancy with me.”

“B-but, aren't you my senpai? I mean, my superior?” Noting the confusion on Mort's face, Zhen sighs and continues. “A-anyway, here are your menus.” Hands trembling, the Soldier gives the two BLU mercs their menus and rushes to get food delivered to another table.

Miller turns his attention to Mort. “So, what do you think so far? Pretty nifty, huh?”

Not to his surprise, Mortimer's grinning from ear to ear. “This is great! I've never been to an Oriental restaurant before. We never had these back at home.” He scratches at his temple. “Actually, I don't think I've ever seen any Orientals back at home.”

“Is that so?” Miller smiles, feigning interest in the bushman's conversation. “Then you're gonna love the food.” Just hearing the word “food” causes Mort to brighten up and flip through the menu like a madman. He's an overgrown puppy of a man, he muses to himself.

Moments later, Zhen returns. “S-sorry for the delay. We're very busy at lunchtime, as you can see. What would you like?”

“I'll have the usual root beer an' ribs, thank you.” He hands his menu over to the server and looks at Mort. “How 'bout you? An' don't worry—lunch is on me.” As if relieved to hear that, Mortimer proceeds to order a little bit of practically everything the place has to offer, plus a beer. By the end of it, Miller—regretting his earlier offer—repeats bitterly under his breath, “Lunch is on me.”

After bringing their big lunch to the table, Mort asks Zhen—currently on break—to sit down and chat with them. Along with other menial things, such as family and the restaurant, they talk about mercenary work and training. “I'm not an official member of RED yet because I'm still a minor, but I am currently in training,” Zhen says. “I've been a student at SOLDR for almost six years now. When I graduate next month and turn eighteen, it's only then I can call myself a Soldier.”

SOLDR—known as the Secret Organization for Learners of Demolition and Rocket-jumping—is an under-the-radar educational facility which trains children from the ages of thirteen to seventeen the essentials of battle: from bombs to rockets to explosives-based self-propellance to grenade launching, this is the school where many Demomen and Soldiers were made. They don't take just anyone, though: through a long, convoluted process, they cherry-pick from the youths of the world's population and bring them into shelter for training. According to statistics, many of these youths were either kidnapped, or orphaned, or both; Zhen was one such exception to the rule. “I was enrolled because of my family history. My grandbaba was a Soldier, and so was Baba. So it was inevitable that I, too, would be chosen.” The youth smiles casually, as if such a predicament was normal.

“Wow! That must be hard work. Maybe that's why Janey's such a hardass.”

“'Janey'? Is he someone from your team?”

Mortimer nods. “He's a Grumpy Mcjerkface, but he doesn't seem all bad. Why, you know him?”

“I can't say for sure. 'Jane Doe' is the school's go-to alias for Soldiers—confidentiality reasons. I'm too proud of my heritage to change my name.”

Not that it sounds any different, Miller wishes to point out. “Well, he's a bit older than you, anyway. Probably too old to be even an upperclassman.” Not “probably”—definitely. He's done the math in his head.

Zhen sighs in disappointment. “Well, unless he's teaching classes part-time or something, that means I'll have to wait a while longer until I can see him.”

Mort, sensing the student's glumness, munches on some noodles. Suddenly, a light bulb turns on in his head. “Unless we bring him over here for dinner!”

Zhen's face brightens up. “Really? Tell him he's welcome anytime! We'll even give him a special Soldier's discount.” The Soldier-in-training stops speaking and stares at Mort's hands as he picks at his food with the chopsticks. “By the way, you're using them wrong. You've gotta hold them like this.” Zhen takes the Sniper's hands and fiddles around with the fingers until they are holding the sticks correctly, then takes the extra pair Miller left untouched and shows him how to use them. “It's tricky at first, but once you get the hang of it, it feels more like using tongs.” Zhen isn't sure why, but holding Mort's hand like this feels weird somehow. As if his kindness and warmth is spreading through to the child's body, burning his cheeks and creating a ticklish feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's a weird feeling, but a nice one, as well.

Under the student Soldier's tuteledge, Mort masters the art of wielding chopsticks in almost no time at all, and he wastes no time in taking advantage of this new skill. Eventually, all their plates are cleared, their leftovers packaged into styrofoam boxes and paper bags, and the extensive bill paid by a weary Engineer. As the BLU duo head back to the truck, Mortimer chirps, “Thanks for bringin' me over here, Miller. You were right—the food was delicious! An' Zhen was a really nice sheila. I hope we can see 'er again soon.”

Miller raises a brow. “'Sheila'? Mort, Zhen's a boy.”

This revelation shocks Mort, like lightning striking a tree dead-on. “B-b-but she—er, he, he's so small an' cute an'...!” His words devolve into unintelligible blubbering as he attempts to process this information. Standing less than five feet, with chubby cheeks and soft fingers, combined with a high-pitched voice, Zhen could easily pass for a girl, if he wanted to. An' Lord knows what he looks like under that helmet of his...

Attempting to prevent the Sniper from suffering a total meltdown, Miller puts his ungloved hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry 'bout it. He gets all of us the first time. Heck, he even threw me for a loop! Alls there is to do is roll with it.” Mort takes in the shorter man's words and heaves a deep breath of relief. “Now, you feelin' in the mood to head back?” This time, the bushman is less certain, cringing at the thought of being on the field again; the pain is obvious in his eyes. “Well, I'll let it go just this once. But you're gonna have to head back eventually. No point in bein' here if you can't stand yer ground and fight for yer life. That's the gosh-darned honest truth!”

His shoulders slumped and fingers balled up into fists, Mort replies bitterly, “I know. It's not my life I'm afraid of. It's yours, and Vincent's, an' everybody else's! Respawn System or not, the feeling doesn't hurt any less, seeing everyone around me gettin' killed. How can you treat this like it's normal? It's wrong, that's what this is! I—”

His rant is suddenly interrupted by a slap so hard, it feels not unlike what Valdo must have felt when assaulted by Jane's shovel. The wrist of Miller's gloved hand twitches and rotates as it readjusts itself back to normal. The Engineer's face is contorted with a tranquil fury that Mort has never seen before. His voice matches his expression, though it also quivers with a hint of bitter sadness. “If it's so wrong, then why did you choose to come here? You're a hunter, for god's sake—act like one! We all have to get used to it, watching our closest friends and companions die over and over. It's a cruel game Fate likes to play, and we are all her pawns.” He stares down at his gloved hand and mutters, “Just pawns in a chessboard.”

Mortimer is unsure what to say; Miller just slapped the words right out of him. He knows he doesn't act like a hunter should, and he knows he never would. So why did he come here? Why travel down this path that he so hated? Well, it was because he happened to be good at it. Recalling the days when he would shoot cans from a distance, just as his dad taught him; the days when he wielded his rifle against wild dingos and other ferocious critters that tended to wander onto his farmlands; the days when he would hunt game, just to vent out his frustrations over recent squabbles with his dad. Because he learned to master the rifle, he chose to make a living out of it, despite his father's protests and despite his own pacifistic beliefs. Though he loathed the idea of taking lives, human or not, it paid good money, and when you're a runaway minor with nothing but a gun and the clothes on your back, you'd do whatever it takes to survive. He's lived more than half of his life in a constant battle with himself, and it wasn't until this man, who, just a day ago, was a total stranger to him, forced him to realize it.

Left with no other choice, Mort wraps his arms around the shorter man and embraces him tightly. Miller is taken aback, and not all too happy with being touched in such a way, but he gradually cools down and awkwardly pats his taller comrade in the back. Slowly, but surely, he can feel the pain seep away from him, leaving behind a feeling of numbness.