Author's Note: A forewarning: this chapter features implications of assault (physical and sexual), and some hurt/comfort elements.
Throughout the night, Alan tosses and turns, disturbed by the fantasies racing through his mind.
He is back in the hospital room from his recurring nightmares, feeling much smaller and yet heavier than usual, and completely naked. Again, he is lured by music, an arrangement of strings and a chorus of voices that wail like angels, and he heads towards the door, a wave of dread clouding his judgment. As he twists the knob and slowly pulls it back, a strip of light pierces through the dark room, expanding as he pulls the door back further.
The door finally opens, revealing an empty space of white. The chorus dies down, a flock of doves fluttering away in Alan's presence, yet the strings continue to play. With every step, the whiteness disappears, replaced by splashes of color, patches of new ground. Halfway down his trek, Alan turns, and recognizes the newly created environment as a hallway from the Teufort barracks—familiar, yet built in a way to appear uncomfortably new. He looks ahead, and finds himself face-to-face with a door: wooden, marred with numerous scratches. The Spy feels something warm and wet beneath him, and, in a moment of temptation, looks down. From the crack beneath the door, a pool of blood pours out, spreading and set to consume the entirety of the hall, drowning Alan. Panicking, Alan opens the door and rushes through, disappearing into the silent darkness.
He blinks twice, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Gradually, the new room reveals itself. The room is a spitting image of the office he found himself in just recently, yet it appears corrupted, somehow. He realizes why as the room lightens up: the floors, strangely soft, have blood seeping through its pores; beaten, barely recognizable corpses hang from the ceiling, strapped there by their own trails of organs; and the walls—he averts his gaze in disgust—are fleshy and pulsing in a rhythmic motion, as if the office is a live, sentient being. Alan desires nothing more now than to escape, but the door has become inaccessible, the flesh from the walls creeping over it like cobwebs.
“Scared, mein Freundin?” Alan turns around. Suddenly, the scenery makes sense: the corpses hanging from his ceiling belong to his allies, the people he's met since he came to Teufort. On the opposite end of the room, sitting on a makeshift throne of wood, metal, and the surrounding flesh, is Mort's zombified self, accompanied by Dante standing by. “Don't be. Zhis is simply your innermost fears manifesting zhemselves.” As he says this, he lays a hand on one of Mort's, which—along with the rest of his limbs—is slowly becoming one with the flesh of the surrounding throne. “Your fears of vhat might come true—if zhey haven't already.”
“Let go of Mort, you freak!” Alan, suddenly equipped with his butterfly knife, starts running towards the throne, but is restrained by fleshy hands emerging from the ground.
“But Frau Astor, who really is the freak here? Me... or you?” The surrounding corpses writhe and mutate, transforming into full-length mirrors. Within every reflection—regardless of whether the mirror is actually facing their target or not—is the Spy, each one different, whether in outfit, or face, or gender. But the one closest to him—the one transformed from the flesh of the largest corpse—is dressed in a mask, leggings, and tunic, looking every bit like the fairy from the stories he wrote for himself. Unlike the other reflections, this one copies his every move, resembling him in all but expression, of which it has none. “I vould suggest you reconsider your comment, mein Frau. Unless you vant your little friend here to suffer.” Dante embraces Mort as the flesh from the throne encroaches and becomes one with the Sniper's, bringing him to life, screaming in pain. “Either vay, it vill all come back to you, Anonyme.” The RED Medic smiles warmly as his victim's screams drown out all sense of thought.
Alan shoots straight up, bumping his head against the bottom of the top bunk in the process. Despite the immense stuffiness and warmth of the bedroom, his body starts shaking uncontrollably. The only thing that brings him back to Earth is Ooshiro's voice calling his name. “Ohayo, Astor-chan. Are you feeling well? You're shivering.”
Wrapping the blanket around himself, Alan replies, “Y-yes. Just... nightmare. I'd rather not talk about it.”
“Oh. Okay.” The awkward silence between them grows thick, as Ooshiro's dark eyes peer around in search of a change of subject. “Would you like something to eat? I can bring some over, if you are not feeling well.” The Spy nods, and his eyes glisten as he sets off for the mess hall, returning moments later with a tray full of food. “I wasn't sure what to get you, so I just brought as much as I could carry.” Ooshiro offers the French toast, which the Spy takes. Neither of them talks as they eat, creating even greater tension until the Medic finally speaks up. “I wonder if Vincent and Mort are faring well. They don't appear to like each other.”
“You're wrong. Zhey're actually pretty close. Which is why zheir arguments are zhat much more heated.” When Ooshiro asks why, Alan answers, “Well, sometimes when two friends get passionate about somezhing, zhey tend to fight a lot over it. Especially if zhat somezhing is a somebody. Oshi, have you ever fallen in love, or even had a friend before?”
“I'm afraid not. As far as my memory tells me, I have always been alone. I never really felt attached to anybody. None except Nasu, that is.”
“Nasu? So zhey're, like, your BFF or somezhing?”
“My sister, actually.” They turn to each other, their eyes locked onto each other. “You remind me a lot of her. Cute, cheerful, a little funny in the head. Delicate in body, yet strong in soul. If you were not born male, you would have a long line of bachelors waiting to court you.”
Alan turns away, his cheeks flushed bright red. “P-please, don't flatter me so! I'm not zhat attractive. I'm really quite horrible.”
“Horrible? How? Just because you are a Spy? That is just your job.”
“N-no! I meddle with other people's business, I act like a know-it-all, I'm selfish, I have a horrible memory, and I have zhis horrible overbite when I open my mouth. And I eat like a fatty, too.”
“What's so terrible about all that? There's nothing wrong with a few flaws here and there. That's what makes you Yamato Nadeshiko.”
“'Yamato Nadeshiko'? Is zhat some weird Japanese saying or something? It better not be an insult, or I'll—”
“It's what you Americans might refer to as an 'ideal woman'. Though you're a bit different from the usual definition, you are my Yamato Nadeshiko.”
“Your...? I-I'm sorry, but—”
Their conversation is forced to come to a close, as Ellen barges in. “Guys, Mort's been kidnapped!” Calming down, she explains the situation, displaying a note written in German. “According to Vincent, the message says, 'The next round will determine who will keep The Nameless One'. The only part of it I could read is 'The Nameless One', but I still don't get why they would take Mort.”
His voice and head low, Alan says, “It's me zhey want.” He raises his head, his voice in synch. “As a resident of zhese dorms, you've probably noticed somezhing we first-timers have not, non?”
Ellen taps her finger against her cheek. “You mean the windows? To reduce costs, only every other room was provided with a window. Of the nine rooms on each side of the hall, only about four or five will have one. Wait, you don't mean...?”
“I mean exactly what I'm saying. They've got zhe wrong person.”
The sparkle lost from Ooshiro's eyes, he stands. “How's Vincent? Is he all right?”
“He's unconscious, but he'll be fine.” Ellen walks over and places one hand over the knob. “You two, on the other hand, would need to hurry if you want to save your friend. Knowing how he works, Mort might not live for long.”
With the team short two people, they're even more imbalanced, even with the backup that arrived this morning. In a last-minute desperation attempt, the Spy resorts to a plan that only he can pull off: impersonate Vincent and take his place in battle. Though he lacks the muscle the Scout has, Alan's hair and eye colors are virtually identical, he can make his overbite prominent at will, and if he runs fast and frequently, even the minor details, such as the wider chin and freckles, can be rendered invisible at a glance. He cannot guarantee it will work, but all Scouts have to do is run and jump a lot and hit things, so nothing can go wrong, right?
As it turns out, being a Scout is a more difficult task than Alan thought it would be. Though expert Scouts can prove to be an annoying target, amateurs tend to hesitate and stand still more often, leading to easy headshots, torching, and backstabbing. In addition, due to their lack of innate defenses, they can be killed off in just a few hits, making hit-and-run attacks not only beneficial, but a necessary survival tactic. Scout weapons also tend to be weak when used for long-range attacks, sometimes forcing Alan to move closer in order to deal worthwhile damage. Luckily, Alan is a fast learner and equally quick on his feet, so his ability to conjure up and act upon strategies on the fly compensates for his inexperience.
Running on the rail tracks, he clears the path leading to the control point and strafes atop of it to claim control of it. Bullets zip by his head as he fires a frenzy of scattered shots in the direction of the Sniper aiming at him. As he moves towards the trough under the tracks, he notices something unusual about the RED team's setup. For all the firepower they brought out, they appear to have never thought about having a Medic to back them up. It's almost like they want to lose. What are they up to?
In a mere six minutes, the BLU team wins the match by a landslide. Along with the usual reward of rights to supply, they also receive a strange, squirming bag, which, when unfurled, releases the missing Sniper, bound, gagged and shaved of his trademark lengthy sideburns. Everybody has asked him what happened, but he won't answer, preferring to be alone. The bruises, cuts, and rope burns state the obvious, but Alan can see in his eyes that there is more to the story, a secret he would rather take to his grave.
Due to the trauma he's been through, Ellen excuses Mort for the rest of the day and recommends he take his time to recover. The first thing he does is try to eat. But the food lacks flavor to his tongue and he feels sicker with every bite instead of better, so he dumps it and heads for his temporary dorm. Just the sight of Vincent, asleep in the bottom bunk, makes his head throb more heavily than any of his wounds. Not wanting to climb the ladder, he walks over and slips into his makeshift bed—consisting of only a blanket and pillow—on the floor. The spot has a chill from his prolonged absence, but Mort doesn't mind; the cold soothes his bruises and serves as proof that he is alive.
But even as Mortimer sleeps, the torture would not end. He dreams about hands of all kinds: bare hands, gloved hands, many holding weapons of some sort. With malicious intent, the hands would cut him with knives, beat him with bats, and scar him with blowtorches or cigarettes. But the worst are a pair of thick, pale hands, which would gently caress his face and thighs before plunging in. On and on the cycle continues, until nothing remains but a husk. Once the other hands have had their fun, the pale hands would wrap their fat fingers around his neck and slowly relieve him of his suffering.
“...imer? Sir, wake up!”
Mort's eyes blink and open, staring at Vince's face, wrinkled with worry. “Are you okay, sir? You were crying.”
Rubbing his eyes, he can confirm the Scout's claim. “Oh. That. Vinci, can you do me a favor?”
“Um, sure. What is it?”
“Kill me.”
“What?”
“I'd rather not explain. Just kill me.”
“But—why?”
“Kill me!”
Vince hesitates, his brows furrowed. When his thoughts are interrupted by his grumbling stomach, he says flatly, “Later.” He gets up to leave, closing the door behind him.
Hardly more than a minute has passed when the sound of rapping on wood resonates from outside. “Can I come in?” Mort doesn't answer, but the person walks in anyway. Alan, clad in a T-shirt, baseball pants, and long, knee-length socks, approaches the Sniper and sits on his knees. “I think you need to see zhis.” He takes the ransom note from his pocket and shows it to him. “I don't know what zhey did to you, but I know I am zhe one to blame. Je suis désolée.” Unable to control himself any longer, Alan breaks down crying.
Initially, the Sniper is numb, incapable of sympathizing with the Spy. But slowly, that tear-filled face, contorted with anguish, thaws the ice freezing his heart, and he wraps one arm around Alan, pulling him close to his shoulder. The warmth of Alan's body melts the remainder of the cold, allowing him to rediscover and embrace his own. Together, they lie in each other's arms, smiling as they sleep their troubles away.
Meanwhile, Vincent has just finished his brunch and is delivering food upstairs to his current roommate when he feels something tap on his shoulder. “Trying to smuggle food into your room, eh? You naughty little boy.”
Startled, he turns around, and is relieved by what he sees. “Oh, Ellen. Sorry, but I've got a dog to feed.”
“'Dog'?” Ellen raises a brow. “Oh, I see. How's Mort, by the way?”
“He's fine. Just hungry, is all.”
Her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms. “You're lying.”
The scout laughs nervously. “Me, lying? What do you mean, lying? Why would I ever lie about my own friend?”
“You're scratching your arm. That's something you do when you're trying to hide something.”
Realizing that he is, in fact, scratching the bandages on his arm ragged, he pulls his hand away and tucks it in his pocket. After being escorted to the office to talk alone, he then explains to Ellen his earlier interaction with Mort and describes, to his best extent, the mixture of emotions dwelling inside of him. “I honestly don't know if I should do it or not. I mean, I almost did back there, but then he woke up and told me to do it, and now I don't know what to do.”
“First of all, calm down. Panicking will only lead to reckless decisions. Vincent, I know you and Mort have had, well, a bit of a rough patch since you came here. But think about how you two got along before yesterday. Tell me, how was your relationship with him then?”
“We got along well, I suppose. I mean, he did save my skin after Jane beat the crap out of me. And he helped me out a lot when I asked him to run errands with me. He's always willing to help out; not just me, but everybody. He's generally been on Hartmann's good side, that Doc even assigned him to be my bodyguard—not that I really need one.”
“Sounds like you two do get along well. So what's the problem now?”
Vince scratches the back of his neck as he tries to come up with an answer. “Well, I guess it started because I wanted to be with Alan. Or maybe before that, when Hartmann left for RED and Ooshiro took his place. Actually, it might've started before that, when I decided to become roommates with a complete stranger. Or back when...”
“You've been through a lot, haven't you? When you find yourself in a new environment, or start having feelings you thought were never possible before, it's hard to adapt, and the stress gets to you. Remember when you started going to that boarding school? You were so scared, you lashed out at the other students, and then had a panic attack in the middle of class. As fate would have it, it was because of that incident that we met.” She pauses, waiting for a reply from the Scout, and continues when it becomes clear he's not keen on talking. “Point is, you're suffering from a lot, and you may feel like you're at your breaking point. But is it really worth the risk? Tell me, Vincent: how do you really feel about Mortimer Mundy?”
At the mention of the Sniper's name, her sharp eyes, cold and distant, appear to stare into Vincent's soul, digging through his psyche, fiddling with the wires connecting the subconscious and conscious, and mangling the core of his very being. The Scout, staring blankly as the Medic-slash-Spy plays around with his mind, clenches his fists as his anger gradually rises to a boiling point.
“I... I hate Mortimer Mundy! I hate him with every fiber of my being. I won't allow him to corrupt my dear Anonyme. No person as beautiful and clever as she should ever fall for a vulgar brute like him. No. He does not deserve to live at all.” He loosens and unravels the bandages on his arms, revealing a series of scars. “With these hands, I will kill Mortimer Mundy.”
No comments:
Post a Comment