Author’s Note: I've been suffering from a major writer's block lately, so chapters have been coming up slowly, with equally snail-like pacing. Still, I decided to upload a chapter, anyway. I hope you enjoy this chapter and future ones, too!
Inside the infirmary cabin, Ellen slaves away at today's paperwork. While her daytime jobs as doctor and spy keep her on her feet, her true occupation—the one she puts her mind into—consists primarily of observation, communication, and lots of note-taking. Spread all over her desk are folders containing medical data relevant to each individual patient: prescriptions, health problems that may or may not be affected by said prescriptions, symptoms and emotional strifes, et cetera, et cetera. This would make dull reading to the average person, but to her, it's nothing short of paradise. After a long day of talking to and working alongside people, it is a relief to just sit back and observe the results from afar.
Her ears pick up the whining pitch of the door opening, but doesn't turn around. “Good evening, Vince. You're right on time, as usual. Shall we begin?”
“Um, yes.” He takes a seat in a nearby chair. “Well, there's something I'd like to talk about. It's about Alan.”
“Glad you brought it up. I was wondering how you two have been since our last visit.”
“We're doing a lot better. Ooshiro, too.”
“Ooshiro? I thought you disliked him.”
“Well, I did at first. But then we talked things out, and I guess we sort of accept each other, I dunno.”
“I see... And how about Mortimer?”
He hesitates. “He's fine, I guess. We don't talk a whole lot anymore. He tends to wander off without me knowing. Al, too. To be honest, I'm sort of jealous. When they're together, they seem to have this thing, like they were meant to be together.” His gaze turns downward. “I feel like there's no room for me with them.”
“I know that exact feeling,” Ellen says as she puts a hand on his shoulder. “When I was your age, there was a man I knew. We were friends at first, but soon, I fell in love. Then he met my sister, Annabelle. The two of them clicked instantly, and married soon after. The entire time, I felt like I couldn't get between them, like I could never belong. But they proved me wrong. They proved that there was still room in their hearts for me.” Wiping a tear from her eye, she continues. “Anyway. Whether you and Alan end up together or not, the two of you are already close friends, and I doubt anything will change that.”
“You 'doubt' it. You're not even certain?”
“Vince, no one can be certain about what will happen. All you can really do is do what feels right for you. Even if it means letting go of a few things. As for Alan, knowing him as well as I do, he's not the type to easily abandon a friend. Neither will Mort.”
Lips turned upward, Vince replies, “Thank you. And, um, one more thing. Do you know anybody named 'Anonyme'? It came up in a dream recently, and I just feel like I know that name from somewhere. I know it sounds silly, but—”
“Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question. Not very good with names. How about you ask Alan instead? That's more in his line of work. And besides, it will give you an excuse to talk to him.”
The Scout, stammering, agrees to her suggestion and walks out. As the door shuts behind her, Ellen returns to her work, organizing the medical files for “Scott, V.” She quickly jots down some additional notes on one sheet before moving on to the next folder, labeled “Mundy, M.” The folder is unusually shallow, despite being given so much info from her Spy friends; for much of the patient's history, he fell off the radar, and all records of his birth were non-existent, if not destroyed. The man clearly had a childhood, as she can tell from the family photos she obtained, but as far as the legal public is concerned, he might as well never existed. All attempts at finding an answer only brings up more questions, and with those questions come increasingly undesirable theories. Mulling over the possibilities, she looks through the photos, then reaches for the phone and dials a private number. “Hello, this is Dr. Etranger speaking. Is Dr. Hartmann on the line?”
Back at the barracks, Alan climbs the ladder up to the top bunk, while Mort takes the bottom. Leaning over to look at the beds across from them, the Sniper asks, “Oi, Rami! What's the mission like, anyway?”
Rami, a large, brown-skinned man of middle age, answers with a shrug. “Dr. Etranger never told us much. Only that it's big enough to require two teams. Whatever RED's got, it's definitely worth getting.”
His partner, a long-haired young male with glasses, adds, “Isn't there a rumor about there being Australium hidden in the US? Perhaps that's what they are protecting.”
“Idiot, Australium isn't real! That's just a flock of lies.”
The bespectacled man turns to Mort and asks, “You're Australian, right? Can you prove to this dimwit that Australium exists?”
The Aussie, forlorn, says, “Honestly, I don't know. I've never been to Sydney 'fore heading here, so I can't say for sure.”
“So if you've never been to Sydney, then where were you from?”
“Middle of nowhere, more or less. The nearest town's not on any map I've seen.”
Rami shudders. “Middle of nowhere, so far from civilization. How can any family survive like that?”
“It shouldn't be that hard if he's here.”
“Says you, Mara,” he mutters, embittered. “You not once left the house before we joined BLU.”
Mort speaks up to quell the conflict. “Guys, it's not really that bad. We just lived really far away from town. Though I guess we were closer to the bush than most people. I had a friend that lived in a sheep station. Took a couple of hours on foot, but it was totally worth it. But then he left fer the big city...” He shakes his head. “But enough about me. Let's get some sleep. 'Night!” He flops onto his pillow, pretending to fall asleep until the others have given up on furthering the subject. The conversation still fresh in his mind, he ruminates on his own past, as he often does.
He remembers his mother, her chestnut curls bouncing and swaying with the breeze, and her voice as soothing as a bird's song. Her eyes, large and bright, are ingrained in his memory, as many have commented on his resemblance to hers. His father, on the other hand, looks very little like him: blonde, lanky, with steely blue eyes that cut like a knife; the only thing they share in common is the golden-brown tan they've gained from working under the sun for so long. Everybody who has interacted with them hardly see the connection at all. Almost like his father never belonged.
Perhaps that disconnect is the reason why they fought so often. Father was always cold and harsh, and knew only how to discipline children, not how to raise them. Most parents would have been proud to hear their son's desire to be a doctor, but not Father. He never believed in his own child—not if his grades and reading ability had anything to say about it—and repeatedly pushed him towards his own path of tending to flowers. But those times with his dad were not without benefit: because of his knowledge, Mort learned about the functions and biology of various flora, which proved to be useful in his journey. That knowledge still remains with him to this day, and it seems he will have to utilize it in the future.
Dawn breaks through the windows, signaling the start of a new day. While more than half of the cabin-mates have already sped right to the cafeteria, Mort and Mara are left in the dust. Mara, with his stooped-over posture, stands a couple of inches shorter than Mort, who raises a brow. “Y'know, when I first saw you yesterday, you looked really big. But now that I see you, yer no taller than me.”
“I always look tall when I'm standing next to Ellen,” Mara replies. “Compared to guys like Pasha, I'm a shrimp.”
“Everyone looks like a shrimp next to Pasha. Yer not that small.” He smirks, examining the younger man. One can't deny he's wide. “If you stand up straight, you might get some respect.”
“I don't want your 'respect',” he mutters. “Just leave me alone.” He turns and shuffles a bit faster, avoiding further conversation.
“Don't worry about Mara,” Rami says, reassuring Mort after he explained the situation. “He's not one for social mores. His parents abandoned him as a kid, and since then, he never really trusted anybody. Nobody except me and Ellen. I guess you can say we're his new parents.”
“But why would they do that? Just ditch him like that?”
“I cannot answer that question. Some parents do it with good intentions, others not so much. It's not the best course of action by far, but they have their reasons, so I'm forced to accept it.” With a sad smile, he says, “In a way, I think it's worked well in our favor. Especially since Ellen lost her child...”
Mort gulps. “Lost child?”
“I don't know the full details, but she mentioned losing a child many years ago. If they're still alive today, they would probably be as old as that kid Soldier of yours. Though if they were alive today, Ellen probably wouldn't be here.”
Noticing Rami's downward gaze, he asks, “You've been with Elly a long time, right?” Nod. “And I bet you want Mara to be happy, too, right?” Another nod. “Then what're you waitin' for? If you like 'er, then you should put a ring on it!”
Startled, he shifts his gaze into a sharp glare. “It's not that easy, kid. She doesn't see me in that way, never has. Besides, she's already married.”
“What? To who?”
“To her job. Now, come on. Quit gossiping and get to work!” He grabs Mort by the collar and drags him out onto the field.
Ellen was right when she said this mission is big. So big, in fact, she has to split it in two parts so she can distribute the numbers evenly. On top of a standard territory watch—lovingly dubbed “King of the Hill” by the crew—they have to infiltrate RED's warehouses by blowing a hole in it. After going over the details of the plan, she moves on to dividing the team. “'King of the Hill' missions are relatively straightforward, so we can let the rookies take over. The rest of us can work on pushing the cart.” To drive home the point, she draws a line in the middle of the chalkboard and proceeds to write names on each side. Under the half labeled “KOTH”, she adds Mort, Alan, Mara, Ooshiro, Rami, and Vince, among others. She herself and everyone else are listed under “PAYLOAD”. “If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold the truth.”
The other mercs shrug and keep quiet, but Vincent, face contorted in rage, objects loudly. “Hold on a minute! I've been working at BLU for far longer than half of the Payload team, especially him—” He points at the other Scout, a lanky boy with thick-rimmed glasses, “—and you leave me with a bunch of newbies? I deserve to work the Payload mission, and you know it.”
Everyone lets out a loud gasp, and soft murmurs fill the room as all eyes are on the Scout. Ellen, on the other hand, is completely unfazed. “Vincent, I love you and trust you like my own son. But you have much to learn, especially with that attitude of yours.” She approaches him, then grabs hold of his face betwixt two fingers and pulls him close, her stare cold as ice. “This entire half of the mission is riding upon your shoulders, so I suggest you man up and do as you're told.” With a smile, she chirps, “Comprende?” He nods and is freed. “Glad that's settled. Now then, let's get this show on the road!”
The teams split up, with Ellen's group running down the mountain road, and Vince's team towards the sawmill. The sawmill area is compressed by the surrounding forest and buildings, with the control point located between two giant buzz saws in a barn house-like structure. As the name implies, the mill is one of Mann Co's many sources of building material for a good number of their products, including weapons. “However, rumor has it underneath that control point, there lies a secret so sinister, even the boss doesn't want to remember it,” Mara adds, a creepy tone underlying his flat voice. “But whatever it takes, I will uncover it, as that is my new purpose.”
Leaning towards Rami, Alan points at the young man and whispers, “Is he for real? Nobody talks like that... do they?”
“Mara has his quirks,” Rami explains, as if he's said it many times before, “but you'll get used to them. He does not like to work, but he does not like being useless, either. Just play along for now; you might have something in common. Look.” He points his chin at Mort, visibly motivated by Mara's tale.
“Is all that true? Is there really something hidden under this base?”
“It's a rumor, you dope. How would I know?”
Pouting, he fiddles with his fingers. “Well, you got any idea what it could be?”
“The rumors tend to vary, but the most common one is that it's a facility meant to create an army of super soldiers. As for how,” he shrugs, “Anything is possible.”
From the Resupply room, the team arms themselves and wait for the announcer's signal. Once the gates open, they rush out and spread in all different directions. Ooshiro runs behind to support Mara as he mows down an approaching crowd of REDs with his modified submachine gun. Meanwhile, farther away from the sawmill, Mort climbs up to the highest point possible and readies his rifle. Through the narrow range of the sniper scope, he can see even the slightest action if he focuses long enough. On one end of the field, he spots Alan stabbing an unsuspecting Medic in the back. On the other, Vince, pistol in hand, is running towards the mill. Every which way he looks, somebody is contributing to the cause. Standing on a roost, staring down at them, he begins to wonder if there is more he can do.
A red blur zips by. He pulls the trigger. Miss. More red figures run around, and he cannot keep focused on any one target. Miss, miss, miss. He curses to himself with every bullet wasted, until he runs out of ammo. Running around like a decapitated chicken, he searches for a stray ammo box, barely avoiding a bullet or two in the process. He eventually finds a small box in a secluded corner of the building, along with a medicine bottle. The tension in his shoulders dissipate as he applies the medicine to his wound, and having a gun filled with ammo revitalizes his competitive drive.
Sniping from the old spot wouldn't do him any good; the enemy already caught wind of his presence there. Looking around, there are several hiding spots to shoot from, however far from ideal they may be. Ducking behind a shack corner, he almost gets his hat blown off by the ensuing bullet storm. He raises his rifle to aim at the Heavy—and freezes up.
Approaching the mill is not a large, boorish man like he expected, but rather, a young, petite girl, wielding a brass weapon as long as she is tall. Her short, red hair flows like a flame in the night, and her ruby-colored eyes burn with a reserved passion. She stands proud and tall, despite the weight of the gun in her hands, bringing to mind another person Mort knows. Following behind her is a Pyro, his half-bald scalp exposed and wearing a mouth-covering gas mask, and a dark-skinned Scout wearing a garish-looking outfit akin to what matadors traditionally wear.
While not as young as the girl leading them, they cannot be much older than Vince or J.D. Compared to him, they're practically children. His trigger finger trembles. No. The moment they were recruited, they stopped being children. Still, the guilt will undoubtedly hit him hard. He points the rifle at the girl's head. I'm sorry, he whispers to himself as he pulls the trigger.
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