Various guns were strewn over the table, the Sniper cleaning them meticulously. He was working on their injured Scout's scattergun when he finally noticed the pacing Medic. He set the gun down and looked up, resting his chin on one hand. Pacing was not something their resident genius did often, so it usually meant bad news when he was. After watching him pace for a good ten minutes, Sniper finally spoke up.
"How bad is 'e, Sheila?"
That stopped the Medic in his tracks, long enough to give the Aussie Sniper one nasty glare.
"His legs are eine Verwirrung. I honestly don't know if our Pfadfinder will walk, let alone run, anytime soon."
The Medic pulled up a chair, sitting across the sea of projectile weaponry, opposite the Sniper. Neither of them were looking particularly optimistic over the whole thought. And they were both thinking the same thing. What if their Scout never ran again? Had the Spy crippled him so much that he would not be able to walk, let alone run? And what about their missing Engineer? What happened to him? Was he alive? Or had he been forcefully 'recruited' by the RED Team? Their faces betrayed their thoughts, though they said nothing about it.
"….how's 'is mind, Sheila?"
The Medic was caught a little off guard by that question. He was not exactly skilled in terms of psychology, but he at least could read faces, body language. Something was better than nothing.
"I am…unsure. If it has affected him, Tucker is doing an amazing job at hiding it."
"Maybe it hasn't hit 'im yet."
Their Scout was never exactly one to hide what he was thinking. He was loud, bratty, snide, sarcastic, and once in a long while he would say something strangely intelligent – just to screw with their heads a bit. He wasn't the type to hide it all, if he had a problem, everyone would know about it. He had spent many an hour in their Engineer's workshop, bitching and ranting, though it usually would end with a pat on the head or a vaguely teasing butt-smack and a few kind words before he was kicked out.
After a long pause, the Sniper picked up the scattergun and started to clean it again.
The Scout lay in bed, fresh bandages on his legs. He raised his hand, his half-lidded eyes staring at the dark band around his wrist. Here he was, confined to bed, a prisoner in his own room. In a perfect world, the Engineer would be at his bedside. But he was alone. His focus shifted back to the bruises. Had the Spy done more than just tie him up and slice his legs to pieces? His blood went cold at the thought, and yet he tried to banish it from his mind. The RED Spy. Flicking his butterfly knife open and closed, circling with a cigarette in his mouth and a madman grin. Quickly, the Scout shook his head and let his arm drop back to his side, squeezing his eyes shut and frantically trying to think of something different.
An hour passed, then two, then three, the Scout having slipped into dreams bound together with extension cords and electrical tape – all painted in red.
It was dark when he opened his eyes, early hours of the morning dark. Scout slowly sat up, now unable to return to sleep. He stretched his arms and fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. Upon finding it, he flicked the switch.
Nothing happened.
Blood drained from his face and he tried it again, and again, and about ten more times hoping that it would work. He almost froze, looking around the barely lit room, hoping to find it completely empty. His heart started to pound in his chest. Darkness was how the RED Spy had caught him the first time. Failed light switch, deceptive shadows. He was praying that the Spy wasn't in the room, watching him now. The Scout groped in the darkness, reaching by the bed, looking for his bat.
That bat. For the barest moment, his mind wandered to the dented, aluminum bat. It was the one thing he kept from home, the one thing they let him keep. It was a reminder of the days running in the streets, he and his older brothers, all like wild dogs charging around their territory, looking for something to fight. That bat had saved his life long before he came to this little hellhole, and many a time had it saved him here.
But now he couldn't find it.
Like the pistol, it was gone. Scout fumbled on both sides of the bed, reaching around, looking frantically for his bat.
In the dark, he felt a gloved hand grab his wrist, right where the bruises were. Before he could open his mouth to scream, a piece of duct-tape was slapped over his lips, muffling any cries for help. When he tried to pull the tape off, the Spy grasped both of his hands, flipping the boy onto his stomach and binding his hands behind his back.
"You have cause quite a few problems for me and mine, petit garcon."
The Scout squirmed uselessly, his legs stinging in pain every time he tried to move them. He had no idea what the RED Spy was planning, and hoped it didn't involve clothing being removed. He was flipped back so he was staring right into the Spy's madman eyes, the smell of smoke heavy in the room now.
"Go to sleep for a little while, petit garcon…"
A rag was once again pressed over his nose; the Scout didn't stand a chance.
Medic snapped his gloves on while he was on his way to check on the young Scout. It was much like doing his rounds when he had been at Redmoor, though fortunately there was only one patient. Part of him hoped that the kid would be more willing to talk, open up if there was something really tearing into him, save for the pain in his legs.
He looked at the door to the Scout's room for a moment. It had his name spray-painted on, with all sorts of baseball memorabilia taped on. He had a few autographs, a picture or too. There was a fuzzy, off color photo of eight boys, the smallest one of them being their Scout. After a moment, Medic opened the door.
The room was empty, blankets tossed all over the bed like there had been a scuffle. Bandages were lying in shreds on the floor, the lamp cord cut. There was a cigarette butt on the floor.
But the Scout was gone.
