“I still can't believe somebody bought that horrid piece of crap,” Luca grumbles as he drops his cigarette and stomps on it. “And for three grand! What kind of tasteless idiot would pay that much for that brat's shitty excuse of art?”
“Be careful vith vhat you're saying, Spion.” The speaker hiding in the shadows approaches the sharply dressed man. A glint of the light emitting from behind the back door leading to the museum shines on the figure's face, revealing his ivory features and the sharp glare hidden behind his glasses. “Zhat brat is our primary source of funding for zhe Lifeblood Project.”
Luca sneers and whips out another stick. “'Lifeblood Project?' You mean your silly little drug trade?”
“I assure you, my experiment is more zhan a drug trade. Any old simpleton can create an addicting drug und sell it on street corners. Vhat I am providing is zhe answer to mankind's ultimate pursuit: triumph over death itself.”
“Please. All you have is a derivative of your Medigun's healing capabilities and one test subject who's completely off his rocker.”
“Zhat test subject is proving to be of far better use zhan a cowardly Spy like you.”
Angered, the Spy throws down his half-finished smoke and grinds it under the toe of his boot. “At least my test subject is faring better than yours.”
“You mean Anonyme? She's nothing but a gender-confused twit only vorth it for zhe information she provides. Vere I in charge of your little SPAI operation, I vould have terminated her ages ago.”
“But you admit yourself she's providing decent results, identity crises aside.”
The white-haired man bites his tongue, his furrowed brows the only notable sign of his inner rage. “Perhaps further testing is required. For both of us.”
His temper simmering down, Luca gives a smug smirk. “That sounds like a reasonable compromise.”
The two men shake hands, careful not to say or do anything to ruin the moment. But all the while, they remain unaware that they are not alone in that alleyway. Hiding behind a dumpster cloaked in shadow is a tiny, childlike figure, their dark hair obscuring half of their face. Their one exposed eye has watched the conversation from start to end, and has seen enough to know something is devastatingly wrong. The small figure slinks further into the shadows and out of sight. However, in their escape, they have made a grave mistake.
The next morning, Zhen Dou goes about his usual routine: waking up early, cooking breakfast for himself and Joey, brush his teeth, and dressing up. But while he usually finishes his routines quickly, this morning, he keeps his roommate waiting impatiently for the bathroom by spacing out in front of the mirror. His eyes are still red and puffy from the previous night.
After the art exhibition ended, he got lost in the crowd, and left through the back entrance instead of the front. But the moment he heard the sound of footprints, he scrambled and hid behind the dumpster. There, he saw Luca and Dante and heard everything. The Lifeblood Project. Anonyme. He had a terrible feeling about those two, but he never realized they were the men behind the curtain of a far bigger conspiracy. He ran straight home and told Joey everything, only to later realize that he lost something of great significance. The golden flower hair clip his mother gave him on his first day at SOLDR, which he had worn everyday since then. Gone.
“We'll go look for it in the morning,” Joey told him. Considering the events that unfolded last night, finding it is an utmost priority. They opt to skip out on the first half of their morning shift to search for the missing hair piece. To their luck, they have a clear idea of the location, so they can head straight there without worrying about searching aimlessly all over the town. But despite scanning the entire perimeter, the hair clip is nowhere to be found. Try as Joey might to reassure him, Zhen is unconvinced.
Lunchtime hour arrives, and Kanpai's is crowded with hungry workers and students. Among them is Joey, accompanied by an enthusiastic Mort and a not-so-enthusiastic Miller. Due to limited seating, Mort decides to have them all share a table together, creating a rift of tension between the BLU Engineer and the RED Sniper. Unaware of his friends' clear discomfort with each other, he blabbers on and on, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.
“... Alan's birthday party just passed a few days ago. You should've been there, it was amazing! There was a big cake, an' lots of presents, an' we went to the fair. 'Course, I wish it could've taken place on 'is actual birthday. Hey, Joey, yer birthday's comin' up, right? I should start thinkin' 'bout presents.”
“Mort, my birthday's not for another four months.”
“Oh, right. What about you, Milly?”
Miller's brow twitches. “My birthday's in February—five months ago.”
“Oh... Well, happy birthday! How old're you now?”
Miller is about to snipe at him when Joey speaks up. “Zhen's birthday is coming up. I should probably get something. He's been awfully down since yesterday.”
Mort is about to ask why, but when a beautiful woman in a qipao approaches them instead of Zhen, his mood turns dreary. They take their orders and stay silent until the lady's out of sight. Determined to know the meaning behind Zhen's sudden absence, the bushman pressures Joey into blurting out everything.
“I never realized anything like that was goin' on in any of our companies.”
“Neither could I. From the sounds of it, the experiments are most likely self-funded, or connected to organizations other than our workplaces. Still, the fact that such a thing could be occurring right under our noses is almost unthinkable.” Joey glances at Miller, who's silent, but visibly uncomfortable with the topic. “You know anything going on at BLU?”
After a moment of hesitance, Miller removes his goggles, revealing sharp red eyes, and glares at him. “I don't know anything personally, but I do know someone who might be of assistance.”
Mort, eager, butts in. “Really? Who?”
“Hartmann.”
The BLU Sniper turns sullen. “But Doc wouldn't do anything like that... would he?”
“I dunno. He's good at what he does, but he's too straightforward a character to have any ulterior motives. Then again, he hasn't told y'all anything, has he?” His eyes shift towards Mort, whose brown eyes are burning with a desire to know. “Well, since ya asked, lemme tell you a little story. Long time ago, there was a young man. He came from Germany with dreams of creating weapons for war. Come World War I, he found an opportunity with an American company that specialized in weapons building. Their name was Team Fortress Industries.
“Throughout the first war an' the second, TFI hired him to build powerful weapons an' 'test' 'em. Those who had a run-in with him called him 'Devil of A Thousand Bullets'—an ambitious and uncreative title for a very dangerous man. After the war ended, RED's bigwig lauded his skills an' hired 'im to work at his company. Things worked out for a while, but then he started getting threats, an' after a few failed assassination attempts, he pushed the big reset button on his life. Flash forward to thirteen years later, he's workin' at BLU, as the world's worst Medic.”
Finished with his story, Miller turns his attention to Mortimer, who's frozen with shock. On the other hand, Joey is stone-faced. “How do you know about this? For all we know, you could be makin' the whole thing up.”
The Engineer shrugs off the comment casually. “As I've said, you could always ask Spook about it. But I'd rather you hear it straight from the horse's mouth.”
“From a former colleague of his?”
“Oh, smart boy, arentcha? I did work with Doc at RED before comin' here. In fact, we used to work together back in the ol' TFI days. We used t' be best buds, 'til he went crazy an' stopped trustin' everybody. Can't imagine why he'd hold a grudge against me especially.”
“Considering he had somebody out to kill 'im, I can imagine not wanting to trust anybody after that.”
Their food finally arrives, and they eat in silence. Once they finish, Joey and the others part ways, with the BLU members taking Miller's truck back to the barracks. Along the way, Mortimer asks, “By the way, you never did answer my question.”
Miller clutches the wheel tightly. “What question?”
“You said yer birthday's back in February. So what's yer number, trucker?”
The Engineer swallows. “Th-thirty-six. You?”
“Thirty!”
Going over the numbers in his head, he realizes he's made a fatal mistake. “Mort, I m-may have fibbed a little back there.”
“Fibbed when?” Mort snaps his fingers. “Oh, you mean when you mentioned you used to work with Hartmann at TFI? Or was it when you said you and he used t' be best mates? Or how 'bout when you forgot to mention that you were the one behind the assassinations, hmm?”
Miller, coming to terms with his situation, pounds the brake, sending the car to a screeching halt. “How...? How did you figure it out? I thought you were just an idiot. Guess I was wrong.”
Serene and innocent, Mort elaborates. “I remembered what you said about Doc holdin' a grudge against you 'specially an' thought 'If I was Doc, who else would I hold a bigger grudge than the blokes who tried t' kill me'? There's also the fact that, like me, you'd be just a kid when World War II began, an' not even born during the first one. Even if I didn't know 'bout all that, the big age gap between the two of you would've been a giveaway. Then again, what do I know? I'm just an idiot.” His smile cracks, turning into a frightening grin. The Engineer, backed into a corner, tries to justify his actions, but a low, growling voice interrupts him. “If Hartmann's the Devil, then you don't even deserve Hell.” Cold, umber eyes bore holes into his soul as he is booted out of his own truck.
Later that day, Mortimer grabs Alan and drags him into the infirmary, where Hartmann is scribbling down notes and sketches for his latest contraption. There, he repeats the story that the Engineer had told him. The doctor does not interrupt him, but his expressions tell all that needs to be said. “Zhat Miller vas alvays a bastard. Calling me a devil and an awful Medic. But blackmailing Spy for my background is going too far.”
Mort raises his brows. “I never mentioned that—”
“It's nothing he hasn't done before. He is not strong enough to deal vith me directly, so he vould bribe or blackmail Spies to get vhat he vants. Isn't zhat right, Alan?”
Alan's eyes grow wide. “How did you know? I wasn't wearing my mask!” His face contorted with anger, he turns to Mort. “You told him, didn't you?”
“I've overheard your conversation vith Miller zhe other night,” Hartmann says. “He threatened to reveal your secrets if you didn't tell him mine. You two vere pretending to be admiring zhe artvorks, but vhat neither of you have noticed vas zhat I vas standing right next to you. Right after you left, Mort came into zhe picture.”
“But how did you know it was him?” the Sniper asks, baffled by this new information.
“Mere assumption, mostly. But even vithout his mask, I could easily recognize his voice and vardrobe. More importantly, who better to turn to for confidential information zhan a master intelligence gatherer? You know everything about everybody around you; you're a valking database, ripe for zhe picking.”
“Zhat sounds like more zhan a 'mere assumption'.” The Spy crosses his arms and glares at him.
“Doc, is it true, though? Are you really 'The Devil of a Thousand Bullets'?”
Hartmann pauses, then guffaws. “Ah, you kids und your crazy imaginations! Zhat vas ein Fehler—a big mistake! Back in zhe day, zhey called me 'Zhe Devil of a Thousand Beauties', because I flirted vith all die Frauen. I vas quite zhe handsome devil back zhen—und I still am.”
“Honestly, I think Miller's story sounds more believable—” Alan is abruptly knocked out by a giant fist in the face.
Hartmann, visibly annoyed, turns to Mort. “Vant to add somezhing?”
“Actually, I wanna ask about you and Miller.”
The Medic's shoulders relax, and his countenance softens. “You're feeling betrayed, right? Zhat's exactly how I felt zhe day I found out. I caught him writing a letter threatening to harm mein Frau, und I confronted him about it. Ve had a fight, but somebody broke us apart before it got too serious. Since zhen, I've realized I could no longer stay at RED, and I requested a transfer to BLU. Zhe process vas a bit complicated, but I managed to start over my life here.” His eyes start welling up, and the edges of his lips curl upward. “I don't regret it one bit.”
Mort stays silent, sparing a moment for the doctor to rub his eyes. “Can I ask one more question?”
Sniff. “Shoot.”
“Why did you become a doctor? No offense, but you kinda suck.”
He chuckles weakly. “Mein Frau... I vanted to save her, to make her smile. Even if it meant having to learn everything myself, I was villing to do vhat it takes to fulfill it. But I couldn't.” Suddenly, in a fit of rage, he sweeps everything from his desk and slams his fists against its surface. “I failed as a doctor and as a husband!”
Breathing heavily, Hartmann slumps back into his seat and covers his face, sobbing uncontrollably. Mortimer, quivering and on the verge of tears, can do little more than embrace him and provide a shoulder to cry on.
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