As Alan sets off for the restaurant, Mortimer is just about to head back into town. The night before, he had another nightmare—his third one since his return from Badlands—and the chill permeating the room intensified, his skin pale and sticky and shivering. His head throbbing, he moved himself into his camper van, where he remained until morning. The rain has kept him from wandering about freely, but within the comforts of his vehicle, he can travel to the barren desert outside of Teufort, in a deliberate attempt to isolate himself for a while. During that time frame, he has forgotten about basic needs, such as hunger and thirst, and can concentrate on more peaceful activities, like reading. Mort hardly had a chance to crack open the book that Alan gave him, and now seems like a better time than never.
The story starts off rather straightforward—boy has an argument with his father, runs away, and lives off the forest itself—but grows more convoluted and violent over time. The young boy gets attacked by increasingly threatening monsters—the descriptions too frightening for a regular children's book—makes discoveries that are neither touched upon nor proven useful in the long run, and even the text itself becomes more typo-riddled and difficult to read. But somehow, despite the questionable content and quality, Mort cannot stop reading; some part of his subconscious begs for him not to, despite his trembling hands. The words on the page, the way they jump to him, they feel familiar somehow.
After finishing the last page, he closes the book and looks at the cover. Dr. Zoyce. The name alone brings a smile to his face. Of course he would recognize it. Dr. Zoyce's books were some of his favorites as a small boy. The adventures his characters go on, the worlds they visit, they resemble all of Mort's deepest childhood fantasies. All his protagonists he related to somehow, some more than others. But this book, it brings back memories. Good, bad, exciting, mundane—every last word triggers them.
The one disappointing aspect of this new story is the ending—or lack thereof. What happened to the hero after he got eaten by that monster? Did he die? Did he live? It's unnerving to even think about it.
A loud rumble echoes from the pit of his empty stomach. How long has he been out there? His watch is no use—it's just as dead as it had been since his first arrival in Teufort. So why does he keep this old thing? Jumping behind the wheel, he tosses out the watch and drives back to town. He considers going to another eatery for a change, but his mind keeps jumping back to Kanpai's. The place has good food and all his closest friends go there. But he cannot head straight there. Not without him.
Joey has been cooped up in his apartment all day, finishing up his entry for the Mann Co. catalog. The forts may have closed up for the day, but Mann Co. stops for no one. He carefully types up the last few words when a loud knock startles him into adding an extra letter at the end. From a distance, he can hear a voice calling his name. “Coming.” He opens the front door. “Mort? What're you doing here?” Examining the drenched man before him, he steps aside. “You look like hell. Go wash up.”
Mort takes a quick shower and changes into a fresh set of clothes provided by Joey. The colorful OZ-brand T-shirt is several sizes too big, but the sand-colored shorts (which the taller Aussie outgrew years ago) and underwear fit better than expected. Joey himself—with a subtle change in hairstyle, clean-shaven jaw, and light makeup application to cover up his scars—looks striking. “I put your clothes in the wash. You can wait here until they're done.”
“Huh? I was thinking about goin' to Kanpai's with you.”
“Oh. Well, I go there all the time, so...” He glances at Mort's dejected look and sighs. “I suppose we can go. I need to run a few errands on the way over.”
After dropping off his manuscript, Joey drives the BLU Sniper over to the red Oriental-style building. One of the waitresses, instantly recognizing his face, points them to his usual table and takes their order. Joey decides to order something light and—in a shocking twist—Mort asks for the same thing. The blonde knows Mort better than anyone, and he knows for a fact that he'll never go on a diet, especially for no good reason. He stays quiet, letting the other lead the conversation. Mortimer talks about the fun he had at Badlands, all the nice people he met, and the unique situations the station leader brought him into. But something about the whole thing seems off. His smile is chipper as ever, but his tone comes across as forced and stiff compared to his natural voice. He's also hardly touched his food; the old Mort would be talking and eating at the same time.
It seems that he has noticed, as he starts eating the remainder. “But enough about me. I'm sure you had even more fun than I did.” The bites he takes are slow and careful, as if lost in thought the entire time.
“I can't say I did anything unusual. We had a couple of new recruits over the weekend, though, so it's a nice change of pace. I think you'd like them if you met 'em; they're good people.” A nod, but no other reply. “Er, I've been thinking 'bout writing a new book. My last foray into adult writing hadn't been very successful, so I took a break from it 'til I got back up on my feet. What changed my mind was...”
“Mortimer Mundy! Vhat a sight for sore eyes.” Mort jumps at the sound of that voice, then nervously turns to face them. Platinum blond hair, rotund body, red eyes—the exact traits he's wanted to avoid. “Out on a date vith your boyfriend?” The BLU Sniper growls at him, but stops the moment he spots his blue-vested ally standing within view. “Funny story, zhis is. I just so happened to have bumped into Herr Astor und his pal earlier. Zhey certainly are an intriguing und intelligent duo.”
“I've been talking with Dante about Badlands, and—”
“Nein, nein. I vould rather say it myself.” Dante stares down at the Sniper. “I vish to make a truce.”
Everyone's jaws drop. But Mort, whose glare is locked on to those red eyes, is amazingly calm. “What kind of truce?”
Losing his default serenity, Dante's voice drops to a grim baritone. “I have no power to abolish zhe var between our respective groups, but zhe least I can do is varn you about zhe dangers you're about to face.” He breaks his gaze to glimpse at Joey and Alan. “I vould prefer to speak vith you alone, if you vould please.” Wary, they step away and out of sight, giving the old man access to the seat across from Mort. “As I'm sure you're aware by now, your family may be in danger. Your father, it vould appear, has gotten himself in a bit of a bind. Sold his medicine to zhe wrong customer, und now zhey are out for his blood. Out for yours, as vell.”
“Why would they want me? I'm not all that special.”
“Ah, but you are. Far more special zhan you vould ever expect. Und it's not just because of your connections to your father. No... Some have come to believe zhat you are vhat connects mankind to zhe great beyond—vhat some have taken to call der Übermensch. You do not know it now, but you have great potential vithin you. Once you unlock zhat potential, you vill gain access to unlimited power. You vill be vorshipped, you vill be feared. But most importantly, you vill be loved.”
Mort freezes up, unable to speak. Thoughts and memories flow through his psyche, motivated by those very words. If he can unlock these “powers”, he will never have to worry about upsetting or offending anybody. Even Dad will love me again. And Joey... “What's the catch?”
“Zhe only catch is Alan must not know about zhis. If he learns about your father's work, he will undoubtedly use zhat intelligence to serve his own needs. He may be your ally, but in zhe end, he is still Luca's child. One must never trust a Spy.”
“What about Vinci and Doc and—”
“Vincent und Hartmann have close connections vith Frau Etranger, und she to SPAI. For zhe benefit of everyone, it is best zhat you tell not a soul.” Mort's brows furrow with worry, as Dante digs out something from the confines of his coat and slaps it on the table. “I found zhis in zhe back alley. You should be lucky it vas not Luca who found it.”
Mort picks up the object—a golden, palm-sized hair clip in the abstract shape of a flower. “Zhen-y's missing clip! Why didn't you give it to 'im when you found it?”
“Zhat boy knows too much. He vould find it too suspicious if I gave it to him directly. So I'm handing zhe responsibility over to you. But zhis is not merely out of laziness. I vant to earn your trust; if you trust me enough to do zhis simple task, zhen surely, I can trust you.” His grim demeanor cracks, returning to its gentle form. “I vant to help you, Mortimer. You may not have known me for long, but I... you're like a son to me.”
Gripping the clip tightly, Mort stands up. “Let's make this clear, old man: I'm doing this for my friends, not for you. So don't go thinking I'm your little errand boy, got it?” He does not bother to wait for a reply—not that he would care what he has to say.
Heading out of the building, Alan continuously pesters Mort for any sort of gossip material, only to receive a snarl or biting remark. After the third time, he shuts up completely. Dante reunites with Hartmann and disappears before the Spy can utter a word, and Pasha's mood after his conversation with the ex-Medic has him feeling as dreary as the weather. Coming in, he thought he could get some answers regarding what happened in Badlands, but all he's getting now is the cold shoulder.
Joey opens the back door of his vehicle. “Oi. You need a ride?”
Alan blinks, bewildered. “Sure. But can you do me a quick favor?” Then, with a sorrowful look in his eyes, he says, “Take me to Igor's grave.”
Despite having already paid his respects, Joey complies and drives the four of them over to the cemetery. Chills run through the Spy's back, a result of both the icy winds and the eerie atmosphere, an array of tombstones set under a dark, cloudy sky. The cemetery is not large enough to get lost in, but with all the numerous casualties, unexpected and otherwise, that occur within the city limits, it is growing in size by the day. Alan finds it distressing to imagine attending a funeral even once, let alone on a daily basis.
As it turns out, there is one such funeral in progress. The name on the grave looks familiar—Minnie Orwell. While not exactly friends, he knew of Minnie's existence by skimming through the enormous database of recruits, some of the info which is barely hidden from view in the infirmary. She was a medical student hired by BLU for her exceptional grades and healing skills; having come from a poor family, she most likely accepted the job for the paycheck, which exceeds even that of a doctor's. He glances at the dates engraved. She wasn't that much older than me...
Present at the burial is Duncan, dressed all in black. Standing next to him is a tall, rose-haired woman, in a conservative dress that barely hides her more notable assets. Alan vaguely recognizes her from the battlefield—it's hard to miss someone with pink hair—but knows nothing about her otherwise. A few other members of BLU are also there, including Carly, her tear-filled eyes betraying her stony face. And off in the distance, watching like a hawk, is Luca Petrinni.
Al clings to Pasha's arm and drags him along. He glances every once in a while, curious about Luca's presence, until their eyes meet. It barely lasts a second, but it has a lasting effect. Head throbbing, grip tightening, breath quickening. The fear instilled within him threatens to turn him haywire, restrained by the larger man's presence and his own tenuous will.
They eventually reach Igor's grave, where Joey whispers something unintelligible before moving aside. Alan digs through his pockets and takes out a photo. Pictured is the three of them: Luca, Igor, and himself at thirteen. “Sorry this is so old. It's the only one I could find.” He sets it down at the base of the tombstone. “I want you to remember who you were before. Before you...” Tears roll down his freckled cheeks, and he wipes them away. “Back then, you were always keeping an eye out on me, telling me to be strong and be myself. Well, I made a similar promise to somebody, told him to be strong. There have been times when I was afraid of breaking both your promises, yet here I am. And I'll keep on living and making promises until everyone I care about is happy. It won't be easy, especially with my ailments, but I want to do it. No, I have to.” Fingers touching the engraved letters, he continues. “Let me make a promise to you now. I'll bring back your body. I'll do whatever it takes, even if it means grabbing them piece by piece! And then—maybe—you and I can finally rest.”
Pasha raises his brow. “That is... unusually passionate, coming from you.”
Alan jumps up and puts his hands to his hips. “Are you saying I'm not passionate?”
“Nyet! It just... you sounded more like Mortimer back there. Stubborn, idealistic, perhaps melodramatic. But it still had that air of you. I, um...” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck while his cheeks flush a bright pink.
Seeing the Heavy so flustered puts a smile on the Spy's face. “Don't say anymore. I understand completely.” Wrapping his arms around one of Pasha's, he turns to tell Joey, “We'll be walking from here. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Buckman.”
Joey watches the couple walk off, then turns his attention back to Mort. “He's right, you know. You are a lot like that. I think you're rubbin' off on yer friend there.” He pauses, waiting for a reply, but gets nothing.
After Alan left, Mort took his place, and is now kneeling before the grave, staring down at the drenched photo. This man, whose face shared a resemblance to the patchwork Sniper he ran into the other day in Badlands. This man, whose frame he hacked and slashed and stabbed in vengeance for attempting to kill his ally on the Control Point. This man, whose name stings, knowing now the significant weight that burden his best friends' hearts.
Mimicking Alan's earlier actions, he makes his own promise, but in silence. I will take out the man that ruined you. I'll do worse to him than what he did to you. And I'll do what it takes to keep Alan—no, anyone—from sharing that fate. That's my word, and I'm stickin' to it.
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