Author's Notes: A little exposition-heavy chapter to break the pacing a bit. It's got plenty of relevant info, though, so try not to skip it.
A light, dizzy feeling fills Mortimer's head as he regains consciousness. His surroundings are dim, but he recognizes the touch of cotton and rotting wood. Passing out and waking up in unfamiliar places. An odd trend he's been following lately. Stepping off the creaky old bed, he starts to explore the premises. In the current room, there is little in the way of decoration, save for dust and cob webs, but off to one side sits a single refrigerating unit. It cannot be more than ten years old, yet the rust and dirt on it makes it look far older. Mort struggles with the handle until it finally opens. Inside are containers of raw meats, blood packs, and frozen mice. He slams it shut immediately and leaves the room.
The rest of the house is hardly much better. Cold, barren, and filthy. Then he finds a kitchen—complete with working oven and fridge. The appliances are better maintained (or appear so), and there is actual food stored in the fridge and cupboards. Canned tuna, canned vegetables, jars of what looks like chocolate (he can't tell for sure, as the words are in another language), and boxes of pasta noodles (this bloke sure likes his pasta). An array of pots, pans, and kitchen tools are assorted neatly on the countertop and in the pantries. They look like new, with one exception: a bloodstained cleaver, marked by a series of odd-looking lines. This looks familiar...
“You're finally awake.” Panicking, Mort grabs a random knife and points it at the stranger behind him. Clad in red with two-colored eyes staring blankly at him, Valdo steps into the kitchen. “You were out for a whole day. I guess you lost more blood than we thought. Don't worry, though—I patched you up real good.” Mort, suddenly feeling an itching sensation in his neck, moves his hand over to scratch it. “I would suggest you not do that. The wound heals faster that way.”
“W-what did you do?”
“I had questions I wanted answers to. So I took some of your essence to access your memories.”
“So you bit me?”
“Just a nibble.” He flashes a grin, his canines longer than normal. “The soul is closely connected to the mind and body; whatever happens to any one of them, the soul feels. The soul is what makes us who and what we are. And you, Mortimer Mundy, are far from what you appear to be.”
“If you think I'm some kind of crazy vampire monster or somethin', you've got another thing comin'!”
“I wasn't going to say that. What I will say, though, is this: you have great power hidden within you. Now, whether it's been around since you were born, or if it's something triggered by your recruitment, I can't say for sure. Really, I can't confirm anything about you. It's like something's preventing me from it. But whatever it is, it must be especially scandalous.”
“Scandalous, schmandalous. Quit yer psychobabble an' let me out!”
“I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm giving you a warning. Dante Alterheim is watching you closely. He's been scheming a whole lot, and experimenting. That thing he sent to sic Alan in Badlands? That was his doing. And he's got plenty more stalking about the bases. Igor, me, we both have one thing in common: Lifeblood.”
Lifeblood. That word again. “What is 'Lifeblood', anyway? Dante mentioned it was the key to immortality, but then he talked about my dad and—”
“Lifeblood is a man-made substance comprised of many things. I can't name all of the ingredients, but among them are opium and blood.”
Mort starts shaking. “B-blood?”
“Yeah, blood. But not just anyone's blood. Blood of a vampire.”
“You're not trying to tell me vampires exist, are you?”
“Actually, I am. Those marks on your neck are sure proof of that. But I'm not the source of the Lifeblood—merely one of the few blessed with its magic. There's a monster in Teufort, Mortimer. Pray he doesn't come after you next.” He gives a crooked smile, and he's gone in a blink.
With Valdo out of the way, Mort wanders about until he finds the front door. “He really could have shown me out, at least,” he mutters to himself. Could've saved a lot of time. More attentive of his surroundings, he treks his way back to the barracks. As the building appears within the horizon, the sun begins to set, the golden rays giving way to orange, red, then the purple-blue of the evening sky. This sunset resonates with a warm nostalgia. Memories of his time with Alan, from their first meeting to their arrival in Teufort, flash through his mind like scenes from a motion picture. He's timid and sophisticated and graceful, like a daisy. No, maybe not a daisy. Like a faerie. Alan may be human, but he has this otherworldly characteristic about him. It's easy to understand why he would be targeted by scum like Dante. But what's so special about me?
Mort has not been able to form an answer, as he arrives at the entrance. Twilight has arrived as well, the sky blanketed with glittering stars. After taking a shower, he rushes to the doctor's office to treat his wounds. Has it really been two days? Two days of doing nothing but sleeping and walking and... He slips out the bag from his pocket and inspects its contents. Tiny and seed-like, yet vibrant in color and symmetrically shaped, like a pill. The thug on the street claimed the substance was all-natural, but Valdo said Lifeblood was man-made. So which is it?
“What's that you got there?” Before Mort can react, a hand snatches the bag away from him. The tall doctor, his hair styled in his trademark pompadour, digs around, squinting at the seed-pills inside. “Wait a minute. This is that new drug everyone's been pushin'!” With great force from a single hand, he pins Mort to the wall. “How'd you get a hold of this?”
Mort stammers, “I found it on the ground—honest!”
A scoff. “Yeah, sure. And I'm the Prime Minister. Just gimme the truth, Mort, an' I won't have to hurt you for it.”
He looks away, thinking hard about what to say. Then the words come out in a mumble, “I got in a fight.” Raising his voice, he details the story about his run-in with the thugs and his subsequent encounter with Valdo. “He tells me there's vampires an' monsters running around Teufort, and that I'm in the middle of all this somehow. It's all really crazy, and I don't know what the hell to do.”
Calming down, he lets go. “I figured this day would come.” He slips the drug into his coat pocket and continues. “Y'see, I've been tailin' Dante, workin' as a double agent for him. With me an' Shiro split like we are, it makes the whole operation that much easier. Anywho, I've been pretending to be his little errand boy, and dug up some good dirt.” He stops briefly to lock the door. “For one thing, Lifeblood's being distributed as a legal drug known as Mortaxin. It's been known to treat both physical and psychological symptoms, so it's really high in demand. But prolonged exposure to it turns patients into blood-sucking freaks like Valdo.”
A lightbulb goes off in Mort's head. “So Danny Boy plans to turn everyone into vampires!”
“Right. But here's where it gets tricky. Luca's not into the whole 'immortality' shtick like Dan is, but he sees some serious potential in the experiment. Rather, his ultimate goal as a mentor for SPAI is to create a 'Super Spy' of sorts. In order to do that, he has to erase the very identity of his own test subject.”
Taking in all this information, the Sniper lets out a gasp. “Al!”
“'Alan' doesn't exist. He's a mask created by Luca to infiltrate our bases. His real self is just an empty shell meant to take our information and use it against us. Cuz that's what Spies do: blackmail and backstab.”
“But Al—”
“Al's not real! Just face it already.”
Mort is frozen stiff by the revelation, the possibility that the person he's known for the past couple of months is nothing but a fabrication. But with each passing second, a boiling anger rises, tensing his shoulders and balling his hands into fists. “I'm gonna tell him. I'm gonna tell him everything.”
Hohojiro rushes to stop him from reaching the door. “Wait! If you tell him, then they'll—” A swift elbow to the stomach stops him flat.
“Fake or not, Alan Astor is my friend. The least he deserves is the truth.” Grasping the knob, he adds, “If Al's not real, then what the hell are you?” Hohojiro, shocked by the extra punch in the gut, cannot come up with a single answer.
Dark, cold, and damp. The sewers are home for rats and filth, certainly not for well-dressed men like himself. But these large pipeways are important, not just because of their filtration system (however questionable its quality). They provide a convenient pathway to the opposing fort, and to many other places in Teufort, if you know where to look. Halfway through the main path is a small corner of concrete land. On the walls are super-sized computers, with whirring gears and flashing buttons. Most of the mercenaries don't think much of these useless machines, but he knows the truth. Pressing a specific set of buttons causes one of the machines to move aside, opening a secret pathway. Walking down the dark corridor leads him to a tiny room with a desk, two chairs, and a bulletin board covered in notes, maps, and blueprints. On the desk is a phone and a golden name plate with “Luca Petrinni” etched in large letters.
It does not take long for Anonyme to arrive. But it's a minute past midnight, and tardiness will not be excused. “You're late.”
“I'm sorry, sir. I was—”
“No excuses. Now, sit.” They do. “Anonyme, what is your mission?”
“To gather information and relay it back to you.”
“And what progress have you made?”
“N-not much, sir. I've tried to retain my consciousness since the trip to Badlands, but it has been a touch unstable lately.”
“Oh, just a touch? Look at you. Your skill with machines are terrible, you cannot fake a fake accent, and you're becoming more and more conspicuous by zhe day.” He stops to stare them up and down. “Have you gained weight? You're looking a bit... fuller.”
Anonyme winces, the terror clear on their face. While body image issues are nothing unusual, to a Spy, even the slightest imperfection is a death sentence. In order to hide in various nooks and crannies and avoid trouble more easily, one must be slender like a rod. Alan was born with long limbs and an androgynous frame. However, his wide pelvis and unusual genetic makeup made it easier to store body fat, especially in the hips, thighs, and rear, which got him stuck in many a tight spot. While Alan was never anywhere near obese, when standing next to his stick-thin peers, he always did look a bit chubbier. “I-I'm sorry. I will try to control Alan better.”
“Don't try. Do.” The look that Luca gives is cold and sharp, like the stalactite in his gloved hand. “Status report on Operation Watchdog.”
It takes a moment for them to process. Is that what he's calling it now? “Oh. Mortimer has been in emotional strain, but he is slowly recovering. But he has been absent the past couple of days; I was unable to track him.”
Luca opens his mouth, ready to strike, when the phone rings. “Hello? Hmm. Yes, I see. Very well, then.” He hangs up and turns to them again. “Good news, Anonyme. Mortimer has finally made his return. And it seems he's looking for you.”
Anonyme's voice shrinks. “M-me?”
“Yes, you, O Nameless One. It appears our little charade is falling apart. Do what you must to keep him from the truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and do me one more favor? Get rid of Hohojirozame. I have the feeling we won't be needing him much longer.”
They hesitate before answering, “Yes, sir.”
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