To Follow the Rogue
By Lilith-Hoshi
Chapter Two: Locomotive Breath
Somehow Charle never expected himself to be on a high-class train with a little room to himself and a view of the countryside as he sped by. But there he was – Charle the Second, sitting on a soft, nice cushioned seat and wondering if he hadn't made the worst mistake of his life four hours ago. Follow the ghost of his father to Arizona, complete with a sunrise. Goddamn, sleep deprivation was hitting him like a motherfucker – he could barely think straight.
Any sane person would've said no. Especially considering what he was getting into. Where he was headed to was a secret intelligence-operations building that was smack-dab in the desert. Except thing is, it wasn't secret anymore.
"Those BLU bastards built an intelligence center right next to ours so they could intercept our messages. It was supposed to be a temporary structure for a mission of theirs back in '57, but…Well, it's not going down anytime soon."
"Yeah?"
"You, as the spy in an elite team of nine specialists, must work to get whatever intelligence they've got in their building, and make sure they get their hands off ours. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"Another thing. Your father was murdered by a BLU spy – a ruthless traitor to the States that was feeding information to the Soviets. We nearly nabbed him for it in a trial, but before we could execute him, he made a deal with the devil and got BLU operatives to bust him out. His name…"
Vincent Toussaint. Charle couldn't help but keep the name in his head. It echoed in his brain and taunted him. It said, "I killed your father, boy, and I'll kill you too."
Still, it's not like he was…upset. He barely knew his father, after all. It's not like he was…
-Yay, daddy, you're home!
His father came in with a big white paper bag. That meant daddy had gone to the store.
-Hey kid, how are you?
-Daddy!
He ran to his daddy and gave him a big hug. Daddy laughed and smiled.
-I got you a present, Charle.
-What is it?
Daddy pulled a big toy car from the white paper bag.
-Wow, daddy! That's exactly what I wanted!
He gave his father a squeeze. Daddy laughed again.
-Come on, dad, let's go ride the elephant!
A big hand took his little one, and he heard his father chuckle.
-I don't think your mother would appreciate it.
-That's why it'll be fun! Come on, dad!
Another chuckle.
-Alright son, but you owe me.
Alright son, but you owe…
Alright son, but you owe me…
Fucking son of a bitch.
Was he really crying? He brushed the stream of tears off his face. Eighteen years old and Charle was blubbering like a fucking baby. He tried to focus on the real dad – the one that had betrayed his family and ran off to play good spy, bad spy. The bastard that had lied to him and his mother for twelve whole goddamn years. Charle the First, may he rot in his goddamn grave.
Better now. He felt angry instead of sad. Now he wanted to snap a neck.
Then the door to his room slid open suddenly, and Charle nearly screamed. A black-haired man in a long white overcoat poked his head into the room. Charle blinked as he watched the man push his glasses back up his nose. They looked at each other for a moment.
"Ach…Sorry, must be te wrong room," the man said. Charle frowned.
"Don't you mean 'the'?"
"Ach, your crazy language. I never got te hang of te… 'tay-hah' sound. In Deutsch, ve say 'tay-hah' like English say letter 'tee'." The man scratched his nose for a long, awkward moment. "Oh vell. I am called Dietrich Schwarz. Pleased to meet you." He bowed a bit, pushing his arm to his side like he was holding a hat in his hand. Charle nearly rolled his eyes at the formality. To mess with him, Charle shrugged his shoulders and looped his arms around the back of his head to rest on his hands.
"Name's Charle. Charle Magnier…the Second," he added. Charle never did understand why his father insisted on tacking 'the Second' onto his son's name, rather than put 'Junior' like normal people did. Of course, considering what his dad did behind his back for twelve years, Charle had to wonder whether his father was normal after all.
"Ah! You're Magnier's son!" Dietrich smiled. "I tought you look like him. But you have much more pimples."
Charle had to keep himself from launching himself at the German and clawing his goddamn eyes out. It was one thing to get scared by a German, another to play language advisor to said German, but when the German insulted his acne problem like all of the other kids in high school that thought they were so fucking clever when they made fun of his acne…
"Yeah. Whatever. So, what do you do?"
"Oh, I am te dok-ter," Dietrich said, pronouncing each syllable strangely. Charle guessed he meant 'doctor'. "I fix te vounds, burns, and te like." The German scratched his nose again. "Itchy nose, today. Don't know vhy."
Charle didn't care. "So, are you headed to Arizona?" Please say no.
"Ja! Te rest of te team ist on board, as vell," Dietrich said cheerily. Fuck! Charle thought. He sighed.
"Okay. Where's the rest of the team?" he asked. Might as well know the people he'd be working with.
Dietrich pointed to his left. "Oh, tey are over tere."
"Thanks." Go to hell. Charle got up and walked out of the room, leaving the German behind him. He walked down a bit further until he reached a door marked 'Lounge' on it. Charle opened the door and saw the room was completely painted light red. There were two sofas and a wooden table between them. On one sofa, to the left of Charle, sat a big man eating a sandwich. Much to Charle's disgust, bologna slathered with the slime of ketchup and mustard mingled together was slowly slipping out of the slabs of bread. Charle was never much of a sandwich person – and watching the gigantic man eating his lunch reminded him why. Quickly he looked at the man sitting next to him – a much lankier man with short hair, a five o'clock shadow on his face, and polishing his rifle with the grimace of a man bred to kill. Immediately Charle knew not to fuck with him, and just as quickly looked to the next one on the sofa, whom he recognized as the Texan man with the strange goggles. Opposite to him on the other sofa was the old soldier, still wearing his old helmet.
"…The kids these days are spitting in my face. I go and lob a few grenades into some priceless buildings that were built centuries ago to make sure none of the goddamned Nazis got a hold of the Statue of Liberty and rape her. What do the youth do? They waste themselves with drugs and alcohol and listen to that Jethro Tull shit while humping anything with reproductive organs. And here I have such a fine example of youth today!" The soldier pointed a finger not at Charle, but at a skinny kid his age with a baseball cap on his head, a white wifebeater shirt, and baggy pants that seemed to be trying to compensate for something. Probably a small dick.
"Just cause I'm having a good time doesn't mean ya gotta stop me, man. Happiness is the key, they say." The kid looked around and took a seat next to the sandwich-eating giant, apparently a risk-taker. "We got any pop? Or some booze?"
"Goddamnit, I ought to just save myself some trouble and strangle you in your sleep. Little shithead." The old soldier got up. "Where the fuck is Archie?"
The big man piped up, actually pausing between chews. "No clue! Steals all booze for himself," he said in a heavy Russian accent, and resumed eating his disgusting sandwich. Charle nearly groaned. Here he was, on a train to Arizona with a fucking Soviet, a medic who couldn't speak English, a crabby old soldier, a delinquent kid, a Texan with freakish goggles, and an alcoholic named Archie. Ooh, big money, Charle! Just have to deal with all of society's rejects!
"JESUS ON 'IS CROSS, IT'S AE GHOST!"
Charle looked at the black man in the doorway behind him, a bottle in one hand and an eyepatch over his left eye with a black bandana that obscured his head. "It's ae goddamn ghost!" He tumbled towards Charle drunkenly and slammed him to the floor.
"Watch it, you son of a bitch!" Charle growled, and he shoved the black man off him. He stood up and dusted off his shirt, only to realize how silent the room was. He looked up and saw everyone's attention was on him.
"Uh…hi."
A moment of silence. Then the Texan man clapped and started to laugh. "A chip off the old block, if I do say so myself…Welcome aboard, Charle Magnier – the Second."
The black man looked at Charle in surprise, stunned. "Yae dun mean to tell meh that this is Charle, mark two?" He took a swig of his bottle, then stared intently at Charle with drunken eyes. Charle stared back. The black man laughed. "'E's Charle's boy! Got the goddamn eyes, even! If I dint know better, I'da think it was a clone!" He lumbered to the sofa the old soldier sat on and hopped on the cushions, resting his body lazily. Charle raised a brow. He would've taken a seat, but since the rest of the couch was taken by a drunk Scottish black man – did those even exist? – Charle decided standing wasn't that bad of a fate.
"So, Charle," the Texan man began, "I figure we should introduce ourselves. I'm Tim Johnson, graduate of Texas University's engineering program – the very best in this country."
The old soldier huffed. "Goddamn Longhorn. I'm Marcus Steele, an Aggie. I bleed maroon. You don't believe it? Try me." He tipped his old helmet down his face. "Veteran of Double-You-Double-You-Two. That's World War II for dipshits, like Carl over there."
"Hey, you can shove it, assclown," the kid retorted. He looked at Charle. "I'm Carl Donner. Don't fuck with me, and I won't fuck with you. Got it?"
"Yae know yae like it up the arse, Donner!" the black man said, laughing at his own joke like a loon. "Ae'm Archie Hancock, demoman. Ae blow stuff up."
"I Vladimir Novikov! I heavy weapons guy!" the Soviet chimed in. I wasn't asking you, you goddamn Commie, Charle nearly said, but then realized he wasn't really asking anything. "And dat is Benji McNoughton next to me!" Vladimir added, pointing to the man polishing his rifle. Benji merely grunted in response.
"Have you met Dietrich yet, Charle?" Tim asked. Charle nodded.
"Yeah. He came into my room by accident."
"That's him, alright. Has a bad sense of direction," Tim said with a smile. Charle kind of grinned in return.
"I do not," said a voice behind Charle. Dietrich came into the room grinning, much to Charle's surprise. Maybe the German had a sense of humor?
"Yeah you do! You went into the BLU fort when it was nighttime and ceasefire was called!"
"Ceasefire?" Charle raised a brow. He hadn't heard about this. Dietrich nodded.
"Ja, vhenever we do an operation, we go into the oter fort and retrieve intelligence, oftentimes with the BLU team dead, or they surrender. Sometimes neiter side has intelligence when an operation – either BLU or RED called – happens, so we call ceasefire. Tat vas one time…And I tought tat te door was our door, danke schön!" Dietrich laughed heartily, as did the rest of the team, minus Benji.
Charle grinned. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad. "So when are we arriving in Arizona?"
"Four more hours. Go take a nap or something, kid," Marcus said. "You're going to wish you had later, believe me."
Oh god, a nap. That sounded heavenly to Charle at the moment, even if he was going to sleep on a train. "Yeah…Thanks for the introductions. Bye guys."
"Bye little Charle!" yelled the Russian man after Charle as he turned to leave. He walked down the hallway to a chorus of "Bye!" from the room. He rubbed his eyes and grinned.
Maybe, maybe it wasn't going to be so bad.
He opened the door to his room and walked in. He laid himself down on the cushioned seat and curled up in the most comfortable position he could've possibly gone to sleep in.
Soon sleep came to him.
'Charle…'
Charle woke up to a field of flowers with bright sunlight in his eyes. God, it was bright. It blinded him temporarily – he had to put a hand over his eyes so he could recover his eyesight. The sky was so blue! There was wind in his hair and a song in the breeze: it said to him that he was happy, he was free, he was a child again.
'Charle…'
'Daddy!' Charle looked up to see his father's face smiling at him. He gave his dad a big hug and giggled. 'Where've you been, daddy?'
'I was gone a little while, son. How are you? How have you been?'
'I missed you, daddy.'
'I missed you too, son. Listen…'
The sky grew dark, and the flowers suddenly wilted. The ground turned to mud – it pulled Charle's feet down, slowly. His father leaned to his ear and whispered…
'I am the god of my own history.'
In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath
Runs the all-time loser
Headlong to his death
Oh, he feels the piston scraping
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle,
And the train, it won't stop going
No way to slow down-"Locomotive Breath", Jethro Tull
Author's Notes: Hi, I wanted to make a note about Dietrich's accent. I decided to go with a less stereotypical TF2-esque German accent, as it is not the Germans that pronounce the 'th' sound as a 'z' sound – that's the French, actually (and probably a few other native speakers of other languages). Germans, however, do have troubles with the 'th' sound when they first learn English, as in German, when a word is spelled with a 'th', it just sounds like a hard 't' – like 'Mathe', which is 'math', but pronounced 'mah-tuh'. If there are any native German speakers who want to correct this, as I get my knowledge from my German teacher (but I'm only in German I thus far), then by all means go ahead – I love linguistics.
Also, yes, I do love Jethro Tull. I'm a flutist and guitarist. I can't help but love Ian Anderson. :P