Author's Note: Apologies for the delay in updates. I've been blocked up by personal things (writer's block, artist alley work, etc.), but now that I've got some time to myself, I can finally upload something. This entry is actually half of an overly long chapter that I had to chop in half, so if it feels a bit incomplete, that's why.
Downstairs in the infirmary, Vincent scours through the folders hidden away in the filing cabinet. According to theory, the cabinet contains information on just about every person that's ever stepped foot in this office, including Alan. He has known the Spy for little more than a month, so why this sudden attraction to him? Is it his golden locks, when he does show them off? Or is it those deep, blue eyes, bright and sparkling like the ocean? Perhaps it's because of the fact that his features are perfectly symmetrical, down to the last freckle. Whatever the case, Alan has a pleasant aura, one that draws him in somehow. He wants to preserve that beauty any way he can.
“Hello, Vincent,” a voice says, shocking Vince into dropping the papers. Looking up, he shoots back a glare at the young doctor, holding a tray with a porcelain tea set. “I made tea. Would you like some?”
Picking up the papers, he answers with a stern “No.”
“No? I hear this blend is your favorite.” Vince bits his lower lip, then takes one of the cups on the tray.
Setting the cup aside, Vince hurries to file away the sheets. “These files are confidential, only meant to be seen by other Medics. But my relations to Hartmann give me special access.”
“You're looking up those files for Alan, yes? Now, before you start arguing, it should be noted that I, too, am a Medic. Therefore, I can not only access Astor-chan's files, but understand and treat his symptoms, as well.” The Scout furrows his brows, but Ooshiro interrupts him before he can start. “But that doesn't mean you cannot help, as well. You can help fetch the medicine and whatever Astor-chan might need, and I can teach you a thing or two. How about it?” Smiling underneath his mask, he holds up his teacup.
“Become your assistant, or lose my chance with Alan...” With hesitance, he picks up his cup and taps it against Ooshiro's. “Fine. But if you harm her even once, I'm cutting you off, regardless of Hartmann's orders.”
The doctor slips the mask down and sips on his tea. “Going against your father's orders to pursue your own interests,” he says with a humorous tone. “How selfish.” Vince does not answer, preferring to drink in silence. Regardless, Ooshiro takes the Scout's lack of reply well—this moment, peaceful and light, is already working its magic.
When Ooshiro finally returns to the room, he finds Mortimer, curled up at the foot of Alan's bed. Alan is awake, gently stroking his chestnut-colored hair. “H-hello, Astor-chan. I didn't expect you to be up.”
“It's alright. I couldn't sleep, anyway.” He smiles sadly, glancing at the Medic; it's clear that his attention lies elsewhere. “Mort's been greatly affected by zhe incident back in Badlands. He may act like a complete goofball, but zhere's a lot on his shoulders. More zhan I ever would have expected.”
“Don't worry about it too much. Badlands has affected all of us.” He offers Alan some tea, which he accepts. “With all that RED's been doing, I would be surprised if you didn't feel bad.” Swiping the cup meant for Mortimer, Ooshiro takes a swig. “I mean, you had to deal with that-that thing of theirs—”
“That 'thing' was anything but,” Alan interjects, dropping his accent as his voice rises. “He had a name, and a family, and a life, and...” He stops, drinking his tea. He can still remember that Sunday all too clearly.
The morning started off peacefully—no sudden break-ins or kidnappings, like what happened to Mort the day before. The previous shipments were signed and agreed to ship to Teufort the following day. Everything was thought to go perfectly... until the PA announced a stalemate. In this perpetual stalemate of a game, losses were expected to happen every once in a while. But when the troopers made their reports to Ellen, they knew something was up. The second group of nine enter the field, and one by one, they were shot down and sent back to base, as if by some invisible force. They suspected Snipers were the cause, due to the manner in which they died, but Ellen brushed off the idea, believing that the REDs would not be so foolish as to arm their entire front lines with sharpshooters, even if they were competent. Then Ellen herself got shot while trying to heal one of her members, and confirmed their theory.
“Alan, I need you to do something very important,” she told him. Alan's first mission in ages! The mission was straightforward: while the others capture the central control point, sneak into RED's base and take out any immediate threats in the vicinity, allowing BLU's team to proceed safely. Hopeful about the outcome, he jumped at the chance. Sneaking in was easy, thanks to his cloaking device, but the hard part happened once he was inside. Whipping out his revolver, he searched the area for any members hiding about. But as he searched, he found nobody. No Pyros waving their flamethrowers around, no Scouts running about, no Heavies or Medics or Soldiers. No one.
While the Spy could try to rationalize the lack of focus on obtaining the other control points in favor of throwing the match, he could not figure out why they would do such a thing. RED had done some self-destructive actions of late, especially when their primary healer's not around, and this time was no exception. Based on the reconnaissance he had done, he concluded that the only other man around was the Sniper. His legs quivering in trepidation, he approached the final control point.
Logically, the Sniper should have been able to knock out enemy forces early on, using the balcony from one of the lesser buildings as a roost. But they didn't bother to guard the central or even their second control point. Instead, they opted to put all their forces on the fifth and final point, hidden deep within their base. Discounting the more obvious strategic disadvantages in relying on a Sniper to guard a control point in an open, low-leveled building, there was the mystery of why they would go for such a strategy in the first place. It's obviously a trap—Alan knew—now it's just a matter of tripping the wire.
CLICK!
Alan swiveled, his revolver ready to fire. But instead, he froze up. The figure before him had most of his body obscured, almost deliberately, with one sleeve rolled down his arm and the other sporting a thick, leather glove. The rustic gray cloth headwear—a keffiyeh, Alan believed the name was—covered his face, only revealing his sharp, two-colored eyes that seemed to glow from beneath the shadows. In his hands, he wielded a steely black submachine gun. The two of them stood, frozen in place, waiting for the other to make the first move. After an undetermined amount of time, the Spy pulled the trigger, blowing a hole in the Sniper's head. The man laid on the ground, blood flowing in a puddle. Alan stepped back, but dared not turn away—for he knew that man. “I-Igor?”
According to SPAI's records, Igor Volkov was a Sniper that worked at RED for several years. Alan himself recalled his frequent visits to the institution, often with the excuse of tutoring the young blonde in general subjects, but with the added benefit of meeting up with an old friend. He remembered him fondly, for he at one point had a fleeting crush on him. Things took a downturn seven years ago, when he met his mysterious and gruesome demise. Yet there he was in present day, a patchwork man created from the parts of various corpses. His eyes, once uniquely hazel, were since replaced, one cornflower blue and the other reddish brown. His face, once fleshy and handsome, became emaciated and covered in stitches and scars. A corpse, reanimated.
Part of him wanted to bend down and kiss his face, however pale and dead it was. But then he was reminded of his mission, and began to approach the checkpoint. As the light at the center of the point gradually transitioned from red to blue, an arm wrapped around Alan's shoulders, a blade brushing against his throat. Shocked, he dropped his gun, and his captor's boot kicked it out of reach. The Spy struggled to no avail.
“I cannot let you win, Anonyme,” the captor said, his voice low and raspy, as he threw Alan on the ground, away from the checkpoint. Igor, the patchwork man, pinned the Spy down on his back and held him at blade-point. There was a slight delay in his actions, as if hesitant or slow to react. Still, Alan needed to act, and act fast.
Digging through his inventory, he whipped out... his sapper? Whatever, at least it'll make a good diversion. He kneed Igor in the gut, then shoved the radio-like device against his chest, providing a shield between the two. With the sapper attached to him, the Sniper began to twitch and writhe, loosening his hold over the Spy while he slowly malfunctioned. Taking the large, curved blade in his hand, he stabbed himself repeatedly, uttering the phrase “Never resting, always suffering” in Russian with every strike. The knife penetrated through his breast, spewing blood, and his body convulsed wildly before slumping. As tears streamed down his eyes, he muttered with his last breath, “I can finally... rest in peace.”
Alan cannot recall what happened after that. He can only assume he stepped on the point and won the match. But none of that matters, not anymore. Even now, he does not understand what happened back then, but the memory of it sends shivers down his spine. All he knows is that he watched an old friend of his kill himself, suffering to the very end. Judging by his lack of reaction, Ooshiro must be feeling the same way after hearing the story.
“I cannot believe anybody would do such a thing,” he says with a quiver. “Bringing people back from the dead? It's like something from an old horror story. It's terrifying, and yet, fascinating!”
“It's nothing unusual, if you think about it,” Alan replies. “We come back from the dead everyday. But Igor, he was different. More like Frankenstein's monster than anything we've been through.” He sighs. “If only I had more time to inspect zhe body. Maybe then, I would have found some answers.” His heart starts to ache—literally. He winces at the tightening feeling within his breast.
Ooshiro rushes over to tend to him. “Astor-chan, please, don't stress yourself. Get some rest. I'll be here if you need anything.” With gentle urging from the doctor, Alan closes his eyes to rest. For a while, Ooshiro watches the young Spy sleep peacefully. He looks delicate and beautiful, like a princess from an old fairy tale, and his soft lips are ripe for the picking. The Medic leans over for a kiss, but holds back, a twinge of pain throbbing in his brain.
I take it you don't appreciate my rudeness, he thinks to himself—or rather, his other self. Of course not, he—his dominant self—interjects. But Astor-chan, he's so beautiful... I have to kiss him, at least once! His other self answers, Just listen to yourself! As if you weren't already a freak of nature, you're becomin' an outright stalker. He retorts, I don't care anymore! I'm gonna do it. You just watch.
The tall doctor closes his eyes, then slowly goes for the kill—er, kiss. His lips barely brush against Alan's when he freezes up. He glances at Mort, still asleep on his friend's lap, the guilt starts flooding in. I can't do it. He pulls back and exits the room to clear his head. I just can't do it.
A few days pass, with the weather becoming worse and worse. At first, it was merely some cloudy days with an occasional drizzle, but by the end of the week, it's become a full-blown thunderstorm. To put a damper on things, there is no assigned mission for them, leading to a dull day for everyone. Everyone except Pasha, that is. Pasha loves rainy days; he can finally read the books he left piling up on his bedside. But he has also come to love it for another reason.
He knocks on the bedroom door. “Alan? Are you ready?”
The door opens, and Alan pokes his head through. “Ready for what?”
“You will find out soon. Come.”
He hands him a rain jacket, then escorts him out to the town, largely barren save for the occasional car and drifter. The general architecture varies from run-down shack to industrial towers, a mishmash of structures that stood the test of time and transcended the class-based divisions of typical society, while still appearing completely normal. Somehow, someway, Teufort resembles both a desert town found in Westerns and a budding city, and it is that sort of visual patchwork that Pasha finds so appealing. Especially the part of town that they're in: the old warehouse sector, long abandoned by Mann Co., has since become a bustling bazaar for the creative-minded. From hats to guns to unusual critters, this place has everything. “This is Steam Workshop. People make products to show off to fellow craftsmen. Every once in a while, Mann Co. employees would come by and offer contracts to items they find promising. Then those items become part of Mann Co. catalog.”
The Spy, mesmerized by his surroundings, is thrown off-course by Pasha's explanation. “Wait. You mean these things can get picked up and bought by other people? For real?” He picks up a rectangular device, labeled “Explodo-Sapper”, and stares at it in amazement. “Pasha, I have an idea! We can make our own thingy, for zhe workshop!”
The large man almost drops the weapon he was holding. “Workshop? Alan, I don't think you understand. This is hard work, and the chances of it making a profit is—” He stops speaking, distracted by something spotted from within his peripheral vision. “Is that... Dante?”
Al turns around and gasps. Indeed, there he is, the oversized doctor, standing alongside Hartmann, the two engaged in some sort of conversation. The Spy's hand instinctively moves over to press the button on his cloaking watch, only to remember that he had not brought it along. Watch or no watch, he has a case to settle. “Bonjour, mes ami,” he chirps as he approaches the two gentlemen. “My, what a coincidence, running into you, Mallory. How have you been without us?” His smile grows as Hartmann cringes at mention of his name.
“Hallo, Alan,” Dante says in a chipper tone. “Such a pleasure meeting you in person. Luca has told me all about you. He's even told me about your most recent performance—such cleverness!” He holds out his hand. “I'm sure you already know about me, but I am an old friend of Mallory's.” Hartmann winces, tightening his grip on a workshop-made hat. “Ve used to fight in zhe var together. If you can spare zhe time, perhaps I can tell you a few tales over dinner.”
Alan reluctantly accepts the man's hand. “It'll be a pleasure. In fact, I have been meaning to talk to you. And you, too, O'Malley.” Hartmann looks on the verge of tearing that hat apart.
“I have an idea. How about you join us for lunch at Kanpai's? My treat.”
“Zhat would be perfect! How about you, Pash-Pash?”
Pasha averts his gaze, deep in thought. His eyes shift to the stout Medic, his blood red eyes smiling, then stares downward. “Da. Let's go.”
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