Author's Note: Nothing much to note or warn about. But I'd like to apologize for the slow pacing of recent chapters. Long story short, as the plot keeps unwinding, I've been running short on ideas and energy, so I've sort of been pantsing it, slowing the plot to a crawl in some areas. But once I get myself sorted out, I'll fix up some things and get the story back to its former (slightly faster) self.
Ah, Teufort. A lovely, rustic little town. Founded in 1890, the town had grown into a thriving city—one that is unidentified by most maps. That is because of the many secrets hidden beneath its surface. Deep underground, at the end of this long hallway is one of Teufort's biggest mysteries. One that its gatekeeper would prefer to keep as such. The keeper's name? Well, most know her as The Administrator.
“You're late. Again.” Sitting in the midst of a dark room, lit only by the blue light of the computer screens, displaying security footage of everything that goes on within the countless facilities belonging to RED and BLU, is a sharp-edged woman, clad in purple. She must be just as old as him, yet much of her hair—graying as it is—remains dark as night. Talk about aging gracefully. “On top of your perpetual tardiness, your numerous breaches of contract have me on edge for far too long. If not for your frequent contributions to Team Fortress Industries, I would have had you eliminated ages ago.”
“Helen, please do forgive me. I am only doing vhat is best for zhe company.”
“The intelligence I have gathered tells otherwise.” With a snap of her fingers, The Administrator summons her servant, a bookish-looking young lady in purple. The woman hands her a manila folder and steps aside. “Performing unauthorized experiments, reviving the dead, dealing with the devil... Your list of moral and legal infractions is even longer than Santa's 'naughty' list. Whatever it is you're up to, it better be good.”
“'Good'? It's only the secret to true power. Imagine not having to hook up to a machine to barely survive. Vith my research, you never have to worry about growing old or ill. If it proves successful, the entire vorld vill be at your feet. Cave Johnson has considered my offer; vhy not you?”
Helen sits there, frozen and unreadable. “Alright, then. You may continue your research. But if you so much as think about betraying me, I will see to it you shall work as a test subject for Aperture Science for all eternity.”
“Ja, ja. I'll get right to it.” He turns to the door, then looks over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a deep growl. “In fact, my latest experiment is vell undervay.”
Above the surface, Mortimer Mundy is rudely awakened by a loud, tinny ringing noise. “So much for a peaceful night's rest,”, he groans as he moves sluggishly out of bed. The unusually large bed, with no bunk to hit his head against this morning. Looking around, he finds himself in a cozy room, with a bookshelf and a desk and a typewriter. Hung up on a wall is a cutesy calendar, decorated in pastel creatures and scribbled-down times and deadline notices. “MANN CO. CATALOGUE DUE”, one note in red states. Unable to connect the dots just yet, he shuts off the alarm.
The door opens, startling Mort into turning around. “'Morning,” says Joey, his gruff voice like music to his ears. “I brought you over to my place to get something, when you crashed on the bed. I'm only letting you get away with this just once, so don't get used to it.”
Mort sniffs the air, catching a whiff of pan-fried bacon and eggs. Even in his recent state, he cannot resist the smell of bacon. “Food!”
Joey chuckles. “Yeah, Zhen-y's cookin' in the kitchen. Good to know you still recognize good food.” He ruffles the smaller Sniper's brown hair. “Let's talk more at the table.”
The two of them meet up with Zhen as he serves them bacon and fried eggs with golden-brown toast and green tea on the side. Looking at the food before him creates a nauseous feeling in the pit of Mort's stomach, but he ignores it for his own good. “So, whaddaya wanna talk about?”
“The hair dec, of course.” Mort almost spits out his drink. “I found it in your pocket after you burnt out. Dante gave it to you, didn't he?”
Gulping down his mouthful, he whimpers, “Y-yes. How didja know?”
“Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. So what's got you eating out of his hand?”
“I ain't—”
“If there's one thing I know 'bout Dante, it's the fact that he's a manipulative scumbag. He's totally got dirt on you, so spill.”
With great reluctance, he recounts his conversation with the RED Medic, glossing over various details in the process. The end result is vague, brief, and overall unsatisfying. “I promised not to tell anyone about it. Sorry.” Joey gives no reply, save for a grim stare. “But at least Zhen-y got his hair clip back.”
“I suppose so.” He averts his gaze to hide the concern in his eyes. “We obviously can't meet up like this during work hours, but if you ever need a hand, you're welcome to drop by our flat whenever. I can make a spare key later today and hand it over to you in the morning.”
“You don't have ta do that—”
“I can't take any chances. Danny's clearly up to something, so you need constant surveillance.”
Zhen butts in with: “Plus, you've been acting funny. Before, you used to smile and jump around a lot. Now you're all mopey, and you wanna be alone all the time. And you hardly eat anything.”
Huh? I don't act like that... or do I? “Well, I've been awfully tired lately. Ain't no big deal.”
“It is to me! I can't have you bein' a killjoy like Joey.”
“Oi, who're you callin' a killjoy? C'mere, you!” He puts Zhen into a headlock and rubs his knuckles against his head while the poor child struggles to escape his grasp. But despite their rough manners, they clearly are having fun. Mort stares longingly at this bonding moment between the two. When was the last time he smiled like that?
He stands up and swipes a slice of toast from his plate. “I'd better get to work. 'Ooroo, mate!” Walking out, his mind starts to race. I wonder what Al's up to. With all that big talk of 'is, I bet he's got something big!
Deep in the Teufort barracks is a storage room, dark and steely. Row upon row of Sentries and Dispenser parts line the walls, with wooden crates and cardboard boxes stuffed into a corner or two. The lighting is poor, with only a lamp on a desk providing a proper light source. On the desk are blueprints for various devices and the tools with which to make them. The desk—and the rest of the room—clearly belongs to the team's Engineer, but the blueprints are done by somebody else's hand.
Picking apart the Sapper in his hands, Alan examines and replaces each piece with great care. He mutters unintelligible commentary, and tosses them aside. His nimble hands tremble as they handle the device. A slip of the wrist causes a piece to jump out and bounce into the surrounding darkness. A minor setback, he reassures himself as he continues. A loud knock on the door breaks Al's concentration, causing the whole thing to fall apart. “Can't you see I'm busy?”
The door opens, and Vincent walks in. “Sorry. I wasn't aware.” He glances at Alan, then the mess of a machine in his hands. “Fixing up your Sapper?”
“Modifying it, actually,” Alan says, sighing in shame. “But I can't get anything to work right. Maybe I should just give up.”
“Nonono! Don't give up! Maybe you just need a break. Ooshiro made tea in the lounge.” Staring at the Spy's face, he notices dark bags under his eyes. “Were you working all night?” He nods. “Oh, dear. You should head off to bed. There's no reason you should be awake for that long. Here, let me help you.” Vince rushes over to clean up the Sapper bits and escort him out.
“Th-thank you,” the Spy says meekly. “You probably think I'm acting silly now, don't you?”
“No, of course not! Not many people can deal with machines like this. Heck, I'm a guy, and I don't know jack about these things. So what if you're a girl? This is a really useful skill to have.” He pauses, realizing what he just said, then slaps himself in the face. “Sorry, Al. I just looked at you and—well, I keep thinking you're a girl.”
Alan laughs, airy and light. “No need to apologize. I get that a lot. You can call me whatever you like.”
“Oh, um, okay.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But if your name is Alan, and I call you a girl, then—”
“—it does not matter either way. Alan is but a name given to me by Monsieur Petrinni. I have no real name of my own. At least, none that I am aware of.”
“You don't have a name, yet you take a random name because your mentor gave it to you. Won't that make him your dad?”
“Something like that. He doesn't like it when I call him that. He prefers being called Sir Petrinni. I think he's embarrassed to be associated with me.”
What kind of father is that? Vince wants to say. Instead, he replies, “I don't think he's embarrassed. He's probably urging you to try harder. You've got talent, even he can see that.” Glancing at the disassembled Sapper in the Spy's hands, he continues. “Just keep working on what you're doing, and you can build something that will jump him off his pants! No, wait, that didn't come out right.” His confidence waning, he starts scratching the back of his head again.
Alan smiles, delicate and feminine like his voice. “Thank you. I don't remember the last time somebody told me that.”
They finally reach the lounge entrance, which is left wide open. A tea set is left out on the counter, and Ooshiro can be seen sipping on a cup himself. “Ohayō,” he greets in an unusually cheerful manner. “Busy with work, Astor-chan? Please, allow me.” He sets aside his drink to serve them. “I hope you don't mind green tea.”
“It's no problem at all.” He takes a sip. “Wow! This is delicious!”
“Thank you. It's an old family recipe, for energy and good health. It also helps with digestion.” He chuckles nervously. “But considering all you've been through recently, I thought it would help you relax and approach the day with a smile.”
While drinking the tea, Vincent takes Ooshiro's words into consideration. He's doing an awful lot for Alan. What have I done to help? He gulps down the last bit and slams it on the tabletop. “I'm heading out. I'll be back by the next match.” He waves goodbye as he walks out the door.
Out on the street, Mortimer is heading back towards the BLU fortress. Or he would, had he not spaced out and taken a wrong turn along the way. But he doesn't mind too much; this detour gives him a rare opportunity to explore parts of the city he overlooked. Trekking onward, the commercial area gives way to the outskirts, the buildings gradually becoming smaller and more dilapidated with every block he passes. From the pointed roofs and chimneys, Mort can only assume he is in the residential area. But wasn't I just there?
Though the houses are clumped close together, the population appears sparse, with shady figures strutting about. A group of these figures whisper strange phrases, very few of which Mort is familiar with. Then one of them starts approaching him. “'Ello, mate,” they said, their accent clearly from Down Under. “Yer lookin' a bit high-strung. Howsabout you relax to summa this?” They pull a small paper bag from their pocket. “All-natural, straight from Oz. 'Ave ya heard of poppy flowers? Great stuff, poppies. Ya mix 'em right, you can make all kindsa stuff. Tastes sweet, too.” The figure grins, crooked teeth in full display. “So how 'bout it? Willing t' buy?”
Mortimer's vocal chords are paralyzed. He knows full well the benefits of poppy flowers. Simple, beautiful flora which create seeds that induce a pain-reducing effect. However, as proven in the recent past, it also can be abused as a crude drug and sold for illicit profits. His father had taught him that much, and also told him repeatedly not to trust suspicious-looking people. Though personal experience has taught him otherwise, Mort knows without a doubt that this person cannot be trusted. “Sorry, mate. Maybe another time.”
“Oh? Are you sure about that?” The figure pulls out a gun and points it at his head. “Yer workin' for Teufy, right? Everybloke here knows you men are loaded. So fork over a few bucks 'n' nobody gets hurt.”
The other figures start circling him, backing him up into a wall. “I'm sorry, mate, but you got the wrong guy. I spent my last paycheck on yesterday's lunch. I don't have a cent on me!” He pulls his pockets inside-out. “See? Nothing!”
The shady stranger scoffs. “You think you can pull one on me?” He fires a bullet inches away from the Sniper's ear. “Gimme yer money, or yer li'l lady friend gets it!”
Lady friend? He doesn't mean... “No. Not Al. Anything but...!”
“Yeah, yer li'l Spy friend's been on our radar fer quite a while now. Der Fuhrer don't want that spook creepin' about any longer. He didn't offer crap fer our services, so we're lookin' to get our due. So how about it? You lookin' to pay up?”
Cornered and on the verge of actual death, Mort has to think fast. Fight or flight? Should he try to outsmart them? No, he's not smart enough for that. He can try fighting back, but it's four against one, with a greater chance of failure. His breath runs quick and shallow. Vision blurs. He felt this once before, this feeling of helplessness. Recently, in fact. And they mentioned that name—Der Fuhrer, the last words he heard before Dante went and destroyed him from the inside. “I'll pay you yer due, alright,” he answers, shooting daggers at the crowd. “Take my life instead... if you can try!”
A swift motion removes the gun from the assailant's hand, and the game begins. They throw a punch—miss. Mort knees them in the gut, sending them airborne and crashing against the wall of an unfortunate shack. The other three henchmen throw themselves at him, and fists fly. He manages to dodge and block every last one, retaliating with a punch or kick. It takes out a great deal of his energy, but he eventually knocks them out cold. The original gunholder, writhing in pain, begs for mercy. But Mort is in no mood for that. He takes the bag—which was thrown aside and almost lost during the fight—then, with his inhuman leg strength, he kicks and stomps on their face, not stopping until their skull is crushed and their blood carpets the ground.
As he walks away from the scene, the adrenaline wears off, and he is left frozen in shock. He just killed a man in cold blood, and for once, Respawn isn't going to work. Try as he may to rationalize it—“He deserved it, he was a bloody bastard, he wanted to kill Al”—nothing he can come up with can undo his actions. The worst part? He enjoyed it! However brief the moment was, he felt a thrill bashing their heads in, even outright murdering them. It's not the first time he killed a man, even up close like that, but the very thought that such potential and bloodlust exists inside him is what sickens him most. His head throbbing from overexertion, he leans against a wall and passes out.
Meanwhile, watching from afar is another figure, cloaked in red. He moves with an awkward gait, his eyes both focused and aimless, and his hand grips tightly to a cleaver. He approaches the unconscious man, then leans over to inspect his face. “So this is what he wanted all along. Not Alan, not even me. All along, he wanted you. The only question is, why?” Brushing aside the mussed-up hair reveals the naked skin of his neck. “Perhaps if I take part of your essence, I can find out.” Lowering his head, he bares his fangs and sinks into the flesh.
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