No sound, no light, nothing. All around her, darkness. Her body feels neither warm nor cold; it's a strange, numbing sensation. Without any sense of time, it goes on for what seems like forever. Then suddenly, a light. Everything fades to white, then she opens her eyes.
She's back in the Resupply room, a barren space decorated with a locker, a scale, and a uniform rack. Oh, and that pin-up calendar, tacky as it is. The circled cross painted on the supply locker is colored bright red, ensuring her that she has landed in the right spot. Her instincts tell her to rush towards the locker, but her weapons have already been properly loaded, so there's no sense to it. Lugging her Brass Beast—a gorgeous giant of a weapon, if she ever saw one—with no effort, she storms into battle.
“Hola, Roja,” says the red toreador with a smile. “You don't look so good. Bitter about that blow to the head?”
“No. Well, maybe. I never expected to be so... incompetent on my first mission.”
He laughs. “Relax, Ana! Everyone sucks on their first day. When you don't know anybody or anything, it's easy to get in trouble on the field. Just give it some time—you'll be muy bueno, I'm sure of it!” He gives a quick wave goodbye and runs off, leaving her in the dust.
Ana blasts her foes in cold blood as she runs ahead towards the sawmill. Between her and the Control Point is the rotating saw blade, large enough to slice her in half. A lump builds up in her throat, but she moves onward. As soon as the blade retreats, she runs on, shooting down the blue turret hiding behind it. In little time, she makes it. Standing on the Point, all she has to do is wait for the light to turn red; protecting her territory is an easy task with the saws doing half of the work. She glances down at the light. Just a few more seconds...
BAM!
Instinctively, she jerks her head back, a bullet barely missing her nose as it zooms by. Her eyes shift to the direction the bullet came from. A Scout in blue zigzags towards her, managing to evade the blade in the process. His scattergun—a common, two-barreled shotgun of little note—is aimed squarely at her face. However, her expression remains stoic. “I've heard much about you, Vincent,” she greets. “You're the Scout that can't jump, aren't you?”
He cocks his pitiful excuse of a shotgun. “Trash talk won't keep me from claiming that Point.”
“A pathetic Scout like you won't stop me from protecting it.”
“Who are you, anyway? I would recognize a change in enemy ranks. Especially one as notable as you.”
She smirks warmly, in contrast to her cold stare. “You have a good eye, I'll give you that. But then again, you would notice, knowing your godfather's gone turncoat.”
His hands tremble as they grip the gun tighter. “He is not a traitor! He was forced onto your side.”
“Oh, was he? He could have declined the offer if he wanted to. Of course, that would require dropping out of the game for a while, as a penalty. Possibly forever.”
“He would never quit his job!” He thrusts his gun towards her. “And you can't decline an Auto-Balance order, anyway.”
“And why not? Rules are being broken all the time, and from what I've heard, your godfather is quite the rebel. So if he was more willing to obey orders than quit entirely, whatever could that mean, hmm?” Her smile grows, stretching to uncanny proportions. “I can see it in your heart—even you feel Mallory's betrayed you.”
“ENOUGH!” Vince charges towards her, intending to knock her out with the butt of the gun. Instead, he ends up on the ground, his head inches away from the buzz saw. Staring down is the young girl, her brass weapon held against his chest. He hardly has a second to utter a single word as his torso fills with lead.
He wakes up in BLU's Resupply locker, cursing under his breath as he rushes back onto the field. With a pistol on hand, he blasts every foe that happens to be in his way, then aims the short barrel at the girl, who has moved away from the point to guard the perimeter. But an odd detail—an arrow stuck to her shoulder—causes him to lower his gun. Judging by the faded red aura it's emitting, it appears to be healing her, in a manner similar to the Dispensers that Engineers build. Another arrow is shot, this one landing on her head. It might look silly, having an arrow on their head, but being able to shrug off so many blows—even blows that heal—is a remarkable display of the mercenaries' endurance. Those arrows...! Only one weapon is capable of such properties: the Crusader's Crossbow. Only one man I know uses that weapon...
He runs straight into the RED team's line of fire, wielding a pistol half-filled with ammo, and points it at the one standing on the point. A large, bespectacled man in a lab coat, armed with a crossbow much too small and delicate for one of his stature. Hartmann! Without hesitation, Vince fires shots at the Medic, aiming to capture his attention. It works—perhaps a little too well. Contrary to appearances, Hartmann is amazingly agile, and combined with his strength and aggression, he is one doctor no one wants to mess with.
Hartmann switches out his crossbow for a bloodied saw and swings it wildly at Vince. Though related in spirit, both of them know that on the field, they are enemies out for each other's blood, and so fight like it. The Medic, for all his advantages, makes wide movements that are easy for a smaller, swifter opponent to avoid. But the Scout, fast as he may be, makes hits that can barely penetrate a tougher foe's defenses. On top of that, they have often dueled like this in their former days of training together, so they know each other well enough to nullify the other's moves.
Their fight continues, avoiding the destruction all around them as they run, dodge, and sidestep about the area. A few mercs, like Mara, have stopped fighting altogether, preferring to watch from the sidelines. Others, like Ana, have taken extreme measures to end the fight early, contributing to the surrounding hazards. But only one has been stupid enough to run into the crossfire.
Out of nowhere, a figure—seeming to float in mid-air—collides with the big doctor, knocking him out with one brown boot. Once he's confirmed dead, the figure approaches Vincent and gives him a swift blow to the face. “There's a time an' place fer everything, even for fightin' yer ol' pappy, but that time ain't now!”
Vince looks up, perplexed. “M-Mort?”
The figure—Mort—grins like the idiot he usually is. “The one and only. And it's about time you got back to work.” He pats Vince on the head. “I know you don't trust me much, but we're on the same team. Don't forget that, mate.”
Vince, reluctant to act on Mort's orders, nods anyway. In his feud with Hartmann, he had forgotten his main mission. But now he's determined as hell to finish it. As if on cue, the girl tosses her gun aside and cracks her knuckles. As soon as they are within arm's length of each other, the dance of fists begins. Unlike with Hartmann, the two of them are on equal footing in terms of speed and agility. However, the redhead—capable of carrying heavy artillery—hits much harder than the Scout ever will, putting him in a similar situation nonetheless.
A distant voice announces the one-minute mark, and the battle picks up in pace. Back and forth, the light on the point shifts from red to blue as they step all over it. When one of the giant saw blades rise up, Vince's mind races, and finds an opportunity. As soon as she raises her leg to deliver a roundhouse kick, he ducks, leaving her open. Then, with a swift leg motion, he throws her off-balance, sending her to a quick and painful demise.
With BLU taking the victory, the RED team is forced to flee to their base, lest their enemies send them back there through less pleasant means. In most cases, failure means very little—for them, at least—but after losing both their resources and part of their base, suddenly the big picture is laid out for them. Having worked there for years, Hartmann often wonders if there is even a point to all this. He scans the lunchroom for an isolated spot and sits there, picking apart his lunch.
“Excuse me, Mister Hartmann,” a meek voice asks. “Mind if I sit here?”
Hartmann hesitates, but shrugs and complies. He doesn't even need to peek to know who they are. “Lovely weather zhis evening. Vouldn't you agree, Ana?”
She bites down on a bread bun. “He's okay, I guess. Vincent, I mean.”
He bursts out laughing. “Got a little crush now, don't you?”
“Eh, not really. Too uptight. And too quick to anger.”
“Just like you.” She glares at him, and he clears his throat. “But seriously, a nice Frau like you, you deserve zhe best. Let's see... Zhere's Valdo...”
“Too creepy.”
“José...”
“Too showy.”
“Mara...”
“Too fat.”
He scratches his head. “Er, vell, zhere's still zhat Soldier kid.”
Ana stops to glance at Zhen, embarrassing his neighbor with his loud boasts and extravagant gestures. “He seems bold enough.”
“So you do have a type!”
“I do not! I just happen to admire certain traits. What's the point of this conversation, anyway?”
“Aw, nothing, really. Just an old man being nosy.” He sips on the water near him. “I've been trying to find Vincent a good voman for years now. But I guess he wouldn't like zhat.”
“You really care about him, don't you? Even though you're not even related...” She stares sadly at the food on her plate.
“If zhis is about your father, you can forget about him. Pasha's a jackass, anyvay.” He wraps an arm around her tiny body. “Vell, I've got old-man business to attend to. How 'bout you spend some time vith that Janey kid or vhatever?”
She lets out an uncharacteristic giggle and hugs him back. “Okay. Da svidanya, Papa!”
He waves at her while they part ways. Outside, the sky is a dark canvas dotted with stars and a moon shining over the forest. The earthy musk of dirt and pine passes through his nose as he takes a deep breath. The past few weeks have taken a heavy toll on Hartmann, but his short time here has lifted much of the burden. With Dante working overseas and Luca out of sight, he can finally relax and be himself. As he's learned from his time at RED, the other workers are pretty good folks when they aren't being manipulated. Regardless, he thinks often about his friends on the other side—Vincent, Duncan, heck, even Pasha. Perhaps he can ask Ellen when she arrives.
“Good evening, Doctor.” Speak of the devil. For a woman in her fifties, she looks nothing short of ravishing. Her wrinkles, few as they were, give her an air of wisdom, adding to her beauty. And her raven black hair, with loose strands floating like stocks of wheat, is let down, an unusual change in her style. And her rectangle glasses, well, they're a bit of a weakness for him; especially during the rare moments when she takes them off. The fact that she's one of the few that refers to him as “Doctor” without any hint of irony...
But he's letting himself get distracted. “Evening, Doctor. Vhat brings you here?” He's sweating beneath his collar. All alone, with just the two of them, anything could happen.
“It's about Mortimer.” Oh. Well, he's not sweating as much anymore. “Something's not adding up.”
“Not adding up? Vhat could be missing?” Besides a brain, maybe.
“Well, everything. No birth certificates, no social security, not even medical records. It's like he doesn't even exist!”
“So zhe boy's been living in zhe rough. Vhat about it?”
“Well, there's his father...” She slips out a photo and hands it to Hartmann. A clean-shaven man with platinum blonde hair and steel blue eyes shoot daggers into his soul. Looking closely, the man appears to be holding a black-and-white sign with his name: ALTERHEIM, F. “Faustus Alterheim was a doctor who was convicted of distributing illegal drugs to his patients, including opium. He was bailed out of jail by a relative, then disappeared without a trace. Until now, that is.” She hands him another photo, one of a family of three: a cleaned-up Faustus, a brunette woman, and a young child that looks unmistakably like Mort.
Alterheim... The name brings a lot of memories, very few of them good. “You're not telling me zhat Mort... and Dante... are related?”
“There's nothing to connect them besides this, but it's possible.” RIP! She turns to the sight of Hartmann tearing up the mugshot. “What are you thinking? That's—”
“A secret no one needs to know. As far as ve are avare, Mr. Mundy is just a simple farmer, vith no connection to zhe Alterheim name.” He confirms this statement with a smile.
Ellen opens her mouth to protest, but nods instead, resigned to his optimism. “Yes. Just a simple farmer. Nothing else.”
Halfway across the world, south of the Equator, the air is chilly and dry, and the skies are sunny and crystal clear. The landscape, an unending horizon of brown grass and desert sands, has its own unique sense of beauty. Having lived here for three decades, Felix has adapted to Australia's dangerous and “backwards” environment, even going so far as to say it strengthened him as a person. Isolating and rough as those thirty years had been, he cannot imagine living anywhere else.
Which is why he finds it shocking when he finds an unsuspecting visitor in his house. Sitting on his chair. Drinking coffee brewed by his wife. “Felix, this is Dr. Alterheim,” his wife, Miriam, introduces the stranger in her chipper voice, as if they'd been friends forever. “Dante came all the way from America just to see you. Isn't that simply amazing? Well, I'll be off to town; I'll be borrowing your car. Play nice, boys!”
The door shuts behind him, and he steps over and plops over on the chair across from the other man. He gives a cold, steely look at Dr. Alterheim, playing with his hair in a carefree manner. “Faustus, it's so good to see you! It's been a while, hasn't it, brother,” says the doctor, immediately slipping into his native tongue. “How are you these days?”
“I'm doing just fine,” Felix—or rather, Faustus—replies with a growl. “What's your business, Dante? I've sold you all the stuff I had last month. It'll be a while before I can make more.”
“Oh, no need for that. I have perfected the formula, so I will no longer be needing your services. I came to discuss something else.”
He raises a brow. “What?”
“I came in to report about Mortimer Mundy. You haven't heard from him since he ran off, have you?”
He stammers, gobsmacked. “No. I haven't. He's still alive?”
“Yes, alive and well. He's a spitting image of his mother, that boy. Always optimistic and full of energy—like ein Welpe!”
“Sounds like he's doing well.”
“Yes, he's turning into a fine young man. But we both know adulthood comes with its sacrifices. In time, his heart will harden, and he'll either close himself off or go completely mad. Though the latter seems more likely, especially after that early exposure to the prototype...”
Faustus reaches out and grabs Dante by the collar. “I will not let you turn Mort into one of his guinea pigs!”
“It's much too late for that, dear brother. From the moment I put my seed into your wife-to-be, he was destined to go down the same downward path I have. It's written in our blood.” Not a moment too soon, Faustus punches his lights out. Stumbling, with blood on his face, Dante still manages to pull a smile across his face. “Hm. Perhaps Mort has more in common with you than I thought. Well, I'll be off now. Lebewohl!”
In an instant, Dante disappears from sight, leaving Faustus—once again Felix—to dwell in his sorrow.
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