In a dark, cramped room far removed from the rest of the barracks, the only sounds that can be heard are the clattering of keys from a typewriter. The only source of light comes from a lamp shining down on the desk's surface. Two gloved hands press rapidly on the keys, releasing line after line of information in text form. The message being typed out looks like complete nonsense, but only through a patient and knowledgeable mind can the true meaning be dissected. The message complete, the hands fold up the paper three times and hide it in their body's outfit. If the mission goes over well, the target will fall right into their hands.
Early the next morning, Alan wakes up and stretches, feeling as bright and sunny as the daylight star outside. For the first time in what feels like ages, he had a dream that did not involve fires or creeping hands of darkness. Instead, he dreamed about himself and Mort sitting under a tree in a field of flowers, enjoying a delicious lunch together before it took a rough and rather sexy turn. His cheeks flush a hot pink as he recalls the fictional event, and eagerly scribbles it down, transferring his imagination into a more family-friendly tale. Anonyme and Archer had picnic under the roseberry tree, when all of a sudden, Archer leaned forward to kiss Anonyme...
Wait a minute! Alan's hands, stiff from shock, drops his pen and notebook on his bed. I haven't kissed Mort once since we met. We hardly even talk anymore. Does that mean... we are never meant to be? More than any pain he's suffered on the battlefield or from his illness, Alan's heart aches greatly at this epiphany.
Fists clenched, he slams them down on the mattress. No! I won't let this happen. I will repair this loosening bond between us. I will make him love me again. Mortimer Jem Mundy, your heart will belong to me!
Climbing down the ladder, Alan is surprised to find that Mortimer is not resting in his usual spot. He looks out the window to the parking lot, but the Sniper's van is nowhere in sight. Disappointed, he starts to make way for the door when it opens. “Astor-chan, good morning,” Ooshiro says as he enters the room. “Mort woke up rather early, so I sent him to the pharmacy to pick up some things. By the way, how are you this fine morning?”
Despite his disappointment from Mort's absence, the Spy cannot help but feel comforted by Ooshiro's presence. “Tres bien, Monsieur Same. Is zhere anyzhing you need me for?”
“Actually, I have read in your records that you have problems with breathing and digesting food, and occasionally faint in the middle of strenuous activity. If you don't mind, I wish to discuss this further with you, and maybe see if I can find a solution. I'm a trained professional, so you can trust me.” His eyes smile modestly.
For the next hour, Alan discusses his physical symptoms to the Medic, who writes notes and only speaks up to ask questions. When the subject turns to his fainting habit, the atmosphere turns heavy. “Whenever I black out, occasionally, I would feel a slight sense of consciousness, as if my body's become independent of my thought. I know it's weird, but sometimes I wonder if I ever was completely unconscious in zhe first place.”
Ooshiro stops writing and puts his utensils down. “Back in Japan, I had a friend who used to tell me the same thing. One minute, he would feel just fine, but the next, his mind would go blank, as if it had gone on auto-pilot. He would not remember what happened during that moment, but once he regained consciousness, his friends would fear him, and his family would shun him for things he could not control. After a while, he began to question himself, who he was. For years, he lived a double life, and he was not even aware of it until things got really bad. But once he discovered the root of his problem, he learned to accept it, and learned to gain control over it. It still happens from time to time, but it's not as detrimental as it once was. I cannot guarantee the results will be the same, but perhaps if you dig a little deeper, you might learn to discover yourself as a person.”
Dig a little deeper... “That's it! Merci, Monsieur Same.” Alan grabs Ooshiro's hands and shakes them fervently before running out of the office. Perhaps, he muses, if I get to the root of my problems, I can make it up to Mort in the long run. After all, he's the only friend I have. Only... how would I do that?
Before Alan can conjure up any plans, the PA speakers blare out, with Vincent's voice echoing through the halls. “Testing, testing. Can everybody hear me? Er, I suppose so. Well, anyway.” He clears his throat and continues, sounding more authoritative. “Attention, everyone. I've received an urgent message from the pipeline; they're in dire need of backup. Alan, Ooshiro, Mortimer, get ready and meet me at the train station in thirty minutes. Over and out.”
The aforementioned trio meet up later in front of the train station, where Vince has waited since shortly after making his announcement. After scolding them for arriving a moment too late, he escorts them into the train car, where he explains the mission in depth. “At thirteen-hundred hours, an inventory shipment will arrive at the Badlands fort via the pipeline pathway. Based on those conditions, we should be expecting a team of REDs coming from The Well or Dustbowl, since they're closer to our destination. The reason we're being summoned is because our base in Teufort is starting to run low on supplies, on top of Badlands's BLU team being shorthanded at the moment. By the end of the weekend, we'll be splitting our winnings with our teammates in the base over there, so try to get along.”
Softening up, he uncrosses his arms and stands up from his seat. “It'll be a while until we arrive, so in the meantime, you're welcome to look around. By the way...” He shuffles through the duffel bag beside him and digs out a nicely packaged sandwich, which he hands to Alan. “You haven't had lunch yet, have you? You can have this. I'll be back in a bit.” He smiles awkwardly, then becomes serious again as he turns to Ooshiro. “I also wish to speak to you in the meantime.” With a blink and a slight nod, the Medic complies and follows the Scout towards the back exit.
Mort, staring out the window, watches in awe as the mountain range rushes by in a blur of brown and orange. “This is bloody aces! I've never been on a train before. I love how everything's just all like 'VOOSH', like we're in a race or somethin'.”
Alan chuckles. “Amazing view, isn't it? I used to ride on trains quite often, but zhis is zhe first time in a while. Not zhat zhere's much to look at.”
“Where I'm from, there's not much of anything,” the bushman says nonchalantly. “Jus' sheep an' rocks an' dry grass, an'—”
“Oh! You raised sheep?”
“Yeah, but they weren't mine. Joey's dad owned a bunch of 'em, though. My dad grows crops an' flowers—or tries to, anyway. He wouldn't let us have any, fer some reason.”
“Because you screw zhem, is zhat right?”
Flustered, Mort blurts out, “I was young an' stupid an' bored! Well, anyways, Dad told me I wasn't cut out fer animals, so we never had any. He tried t' get me into other things, like gardening an' rugby, but I sucked balls at those, so I ran off.” He turns away, a solemn look in his eyes. “I couldn't pass eighth grade. I can hardly read, let alone become a doctor. Even as a sniper, I'm horrible. What the hell can I do?”
Feeling his anger rise, Alan pins Mort down against the back of his seat. “Lots of things! You may not be zhe best sniper, or zhe most punctual or zhe brightest, but you've got zhe biggest heart of anybody I know, and you're capable of lots of things. Things zhat not even I can do. Be strong, Mortimer Mundy. Don't you ever say zhat kind of crap ever again!”
As he calls the Sniper out, the Spy can feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes. Tears which are wiped away by a pair of tanned fingers, which then brush against his cheeks before resting on his shoulders. Staring down, he can see a gentle smile form on Mortimer's lips. “Alright. I promise. Just don't start crying again. You're prettier when you smile.” Hearing what he just said, it takes a great deal of willpower not to cry, his heart overflowing with all sorts of emotions. While their arms are locked as they are, they move in closer, forming a warm, intimate embrace. Which is then interrupted by Mort saying, “Say, ya gonna eat that?”
Alan, thrown off guard, he lets go of Mort and starts unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite from it. It is a simple ham and cheese sandwich, with a bit of mayonnaise in the bread, but to someone who has hardly eaten that morning, it tastes like heaven. A strange aftertaste lingers in his taste buds, but he passes it off as an obscure seasoning and swallows. Taking another bite, Alan can feel the lump in his throat rising, but he continues on anyway. As he consumes the sandwich little by little, the feeling gradually fades away, until he hardly even notices it anymore. After finishing it off, his stomach aches in discomfort, and his head throbs in pain, but he is proud of his achievement, however minor it may seem to everybody else around him. Looking over, he notices Mort's eyes are unusually wide. “Al, that's the most I've seen you eat since, well, ever! You should do that more often.”
“Eh, do what more often?”
Eying him up and down, Mort mutters, “Ya know, you have a really nice figure. But it'd look even nicer if you filled out a bit more.”
Alan isn't even sure how to answer to this. While he is aware of how skinny he is, he never had anyone comment on it until now. Because Spies are built for stealth and infiltration, it only seems natural that they would be svelte as they are; Alan had never met a Spy with even an ounce of body fat, at least not since his early days at the academy. So to hear someone suggesting such a thing is unusual. Could it be... Mort's worried about my well-being? Well, he said I'd look nicer if I filled out a bit. But he likes my figure; is that a good thing? “Th-thank you. I know it sounds weird, but eating zhat sandwich without throwing up, it feels good. I actually can't wait for lunch.”
“Neither can I. I'm getting hungry again. Argh, why can't lunch come sooner?” He pouts childishly, then perks up immediately after. “Say, wanna check around? I bet there's all kindsa cool stuff around here.” Seeing Mort's excited, puppy-like expression, Alan cannot help but agree.
Meanwhile, in an isolated seat in the back of an adjacent car, Vincent and Ooshiro are not faring so well. “I take it you do not trust me, is that correct?”
“Not entirely. You are still new, after all. But it's not because of you personally. It's more what brought you here that I have issues with. I know Auto-Balance orders tend to be randomized, but somehow, I can't help but feel like it's rigged somehow. You said so yourself: RED wanted Hartmann. But why him, of all people?” What use could they have for him now? What are they looking to get out of him?
“I hear he has had years of experience, far more than most everybody at the Teufort barracks. Perhaps they are looking for information. I have seen the files he has in his office; with such crucial information at hand, it's no surprise they would want it.”
“Hey, Ooshiro, how good is your memory?”
“M-my memory? It tends to waver. Quite terrible, really. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Just curious.” They sit in awkward silence for a long while.
“Sorry to intrude, but what are your feelings towards Astor-chan?”
Vince stutters, “I, er, well, he's alright, I suppose. He doesn't seem like a bad person at all. I mean, he's graceful and clean-cut and adorable in an eccentric way...”
“Do you like Astor-chan?”
“What? Not in that way!” He rubs the back of his neck as he mutters, “You're sounding just like Hartmann.”
“But you like him, do you not? I see the way you look at him. You may not like him in 'that' way, but you seem to like him, nonetheless.”
“Well, lately, when I'm around him, my body starts acting strange. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack at one point. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I want to be with him. Maybe not in an intimate way, like Doc does with other women, but in a friendly sort of way, I suppose. Ooshiro... am I in love?”
“Well, there's many kinds of love. Family love, intimate love, even innocent love like yours.” Losing track of his train of thought, he says, “I'm sorry, but I am not too good with this subject. But I will say this: if you care about Astor-chan as much as you say you do, then I think it's best if you tell him yourself.”
Vincent's stomach starts feeling that tangled-up ache upon hearing that. “I should check up on him. I can't trust Mort when food is involved.” He stands up and walks out of the car, leaving Ooshiro in the dust. With him out of sight, he can focus on what's more important—namely, the mission, and ensuring the well-being of his teammates are optimal to approach it. As he is about to return, his stomach becomes more knotted with each step; his shoulders tense, and his blood curdles. He felt this ominous sensation before, hundreds of times over. But this time is different. Yet somehow, familiar.
THUD!
What was that? Vince rushes into action as the muffled noise continues to ring out above him. Heading towards the passenger rear, he climbs up the ladder to the roof of the car. His legs tremble as he attempts to retain his balance whilst atop of the speeding train. The perpetrator of the noise—an enemy Scout, based on the outfit—is not far ahead. “Stop right there!”
The perpetrator turns around and flashes a cold grin as they brandish a sharp cleaver. “Guten tag, Wimpcent. I've heard about your little journey to Badlands and thought I'd tag along. Especially after finding out who your companions are; Teufort's no fun without Mortimer and his little Spy friend. So tell me: how's life without the old man? Can't imagine you'd fare well without your precious godfather.”
“I'm doing just fine without him,” Vince says with gritted teeth. “I'll win this mission, and prove to Doc and all of you at RED that I am a good leader.”
“Right. Like a bunch of rookies'll take orders from a control freak like you. 'Specially that Medic... er, what's his name? Hohojirozame, right? Dou Boy talks 'bout him like he's some hot shot, but Mask-Face looks kinda shady, if you ask me. But what can I say? I'm just a psycho with a chip on my shoulder.” Valdo is about to say more, but bites his tongue the second he hears a gun click. With a shrug, he slips his cleaver away. “I see. Well, best I be going. Da svidanya, big brother.” He takes a step towards the edge as gravity take over, pushing him off and letting his body get tangled up and crushed under the wheels of the vehicle. Vincent, falling to his knees, can only scream and cry out for his brother.
After recovering from the initial shock, Vince's heart has grown numb, as his body guides his zombified self back to his seat. He only manages to snap out of it upon hearing Alan's voice. “Vinci? You look a little pale. Are you hungry?” Staring down at the table, covered with platefuls of food, he wonders what time it is. “Mort ordered lunch for us. Don't worry about it; it's all on his tab.”
The Scout reluctantly gives himself some mashed potatoes and chicken, then glances over at the bushman, noticing that he hasn't taken a single bite. “Don't worry 'bout me, mate,” says Mort. “I already ate. 'Sides, Al's built up quite an appetite, all of a sudden.” Vince alternates between Alan and Mort, becoming more confounded by the sudden reversal in roles. “Say, where's Sammy, anyways? Wasn't he with you?”
“Oh, he had to do something, so we parted ways. Alan, are you sure you're all right? You two didn't switch bodies or anything when I was out, did you?”
Alan, in the midst of eating, puts down his fork and raises a brow. “Non. I just ate zhe sandwich and started feeling hungry all of a sudden. I guess it was simply zhat delicious!” Vince sighs in relief; he doesn't want to admit right then and there that he made the sandwich, nor that he added an appetite stimulant he found in Hartmann's medicine cabinet. “But I really have to thank you two. For years, I fell sick so often, I could hardly eat anything since zhen. But now, I feel like I can eat anything and everything.” Right after he says this, he groans and clutches his stomach. “Well, maybe not quite everything.”
Vince takes away Alan's meal and starts finishing it off for him. “Try not to overdo it, or you'll get sick again. But I'm proud of you. You've overcome your fear of food, and you can enjoy it again. I have to say, I love... er, I appreciate it.”
“Truer words couldn't have been spoken,” Mort intercedes. “At this rate, Al would look super-sexy in no time!” Vince almost chokes on his food upon hearing that comment.
“You seem to be having fun. Hope I'm not interrupting anything.” Ooshiro bows in apology and takes his seat. “Funny thing happened on the way here. I bumped into some men in red. One of them looked like you, Vincent.”
Losing his grip, the Scout's fork clatters on the plate. “Valdo? You saw him?”
“Hai. Right after you left, he walked in and asked me some questions. I thought it impolite to refuse, so I told him about you guys being on board. W-was that a bad thing?”
“No. Not at all. He would've known about us eventually.” Pause. “You said you bumped into some men. Did you see anybody else?”
“Just the old Medic from the last mission. We didn't talk much, but he told me to give you this.” Ooshiro takes out a folded slip of paper from within the confines of his coat and hands it to Mortimer. “I'm not sure what it says, but please be careful.”
Mort unfolds the paper and reads it. As his brain takes in the information, his brows furrow, his eyes sharpened to a glare. “No worries, mate.” With a smile, he crumbles up the paper with his two hands and shoves it into his vest pocket. “'S no biggie, anyways.” Everyone can see the truth, but they decide not to argue with him.
They eat and sit in silence until the train finally arrives at its destination. After they get off, Ooshiro says he has something to do and splits. Impatient, Alan makes up a flimsy excuse and follows after him. Activating his cloaking device, the Spy tracks down the novice Medic into the postal office, currently vacant save for them and a fat, gracefully aged man in red and white.
“Salutations, Herr Hoho. Did you give him zhe note?”
Ooshiro pulls down the surgeon's mask. “Yeah. Shiro's pretty dense, spillin' the beans in front of his pals, though. 'F it were me, I'd do it where no one's watchin', take 'em by surprise. But then, I ain't no one's messenger boy. What's the big deal with 'im, anyway? He's just some smelly ol' mutt from outta town.”
“Zhat mutt, my boy, is zhe key ingredient in my plan. He may not look like much, but he holds a great power vithin him. Ve need to give him time. Vatch him until zhen.”
“I thought I told you, I ain't your dog, you—”
“I vas talking to der Spion over zhere.” The elder's eyes turn their attention to the far corner, where Alan has been watching from a distance. “You can come out, Anonyme. I von't bite.”
Defeated, Alan decloaks, appearing before the two doctors. “How did you know I was zhere? And who's zhis 'Anonyme' person?”
The old Medic frowns deeply. “Oh, dear. It seems ve have a slight problem. Take care of him, vill you?”
Cracking his knuckles, Hohojirozame gladly does as he's told. The Spy's vision goes black, as his consciousness—and the pain from the blow to his head—fades. Gradually, the pain returns, but his state of mind is still lost. Instead, his psyche has changed, the voices in his head reflecting not his own thoughts, but those of a broken young girl with nothing to her name. When he—or she—wakes up, she groans and puts her hand to the bump on her head. “W-what happened? Why did you summon me so?”
“Alan has learned somezhing he shouldn't have. You must take over his body, to keep him in his place. Vatch over Mortimer Mundy, observe his every move vith great detail. Stay close to him at all times. Do not let him leave your sights. Understand, Nameless One?”
Using Alan's voice, Anonyme replies, “Yes, Führer Alterheim.”
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