Happy Festivus everyone!
My apologies on the wait for this chapter-school was kicking my butt, so I had to put this on pause so I can kick school's butt. You might be glad to hear that I did.
But enough about me. Onward!
Chapter Eight: Gods and Profits
It was Demoman's own gigantic snore that woke him up. He jolted upright, blinking the sleep out of his eye until the darkened airplane cabin came into focus. For a moment he stared straight ahead with brow furrowed, wondering why on earth he was sitting in this cramped, uncomfortable position with Soldier snoring on his shoulder.
The plane gave a violent lurch, and at the same time so did his memory. Teufort—destroyed. His job—lost. The BLUs—dead. Half his friends—separated. Nuclear war—worryingly imminent.
It was enough to drive a man to drink.
Demoman sat up in his seat and smacked his lips, frowning at the dry, stale taste of his mouth. He shoved Soldier off of him and spent the next few minutes massaging his neck and limbs, trying to rouse his stiffened body back to life. He took to looking around as he did so, assessing his team to try and distract himself from the phantom pins and needles.
The others were fast asleep still: Medic had his head thrown back, Archimedes huddled up in his lap and a worn copy of Carnival Honey dangling from one hand. Heavy was draped across three seats, fingers twitching in his sleep, and Demoman winced in sympathy for the big man's back. Pauling had tucked herself into a tight ball, her glasses folded on the seat beside her.
Demoman continued to massage his neck as he considered Pauling. It had been a very quiet, very uncomfortable ride once Pauling had outlined their objectives. It was all well and good to decide you were going to prevent a war, Demoman thought, but words were always easier than actions. And trying to stop three superpowers from blowing each other sky-high was a very impressive action in and of itself.
And then there was the matter of the Administrator having very nearly killed them all. The principle of the thing Demoman didn't mind so much—after all, if you work as a mercenary long enough you get accustomed to the idea of people wanting you dead. But the execution of their, well, near execution had shivers going down Demoman's spine. The coldness of it all was what bothered him. Going out in a blaze of glory was one thing. It was quite another to have death pounce on you unsuspecting.
The plane gave another lurch and Demoman sat up a bit. He leaned over Soldier to look out the window, relieved to see a brownish-red patchwork of land growing closer. He eased back and smacked Soldier, who groaned and turned his head away. "Nng—Scout, don't touch my honey pots—huuuh? Wha—? DeGroot? Waas happenin'?"
"We're landin'."
"Oh." Soldier yawned and stretched, cracking his neck as he did so. The others began to stir as the plane bounced again and the cabin lights flickered on. The plane's wheels hit the ground with a small screech and slowly came to a dead stop. They had arrived in Australia.
Soldier stood and began to rouse the groggy Heavy out of his row of seats, Medic jumped upright and began to pat around for his glasses, and Pauling rubbed at her eyes, moaning for coffee. Demoman stood and crossed over to the cabin door, popping it open. Sunlight and heat burst into the cabin, making him stagger back and the others yelp and curse in surprise. Curious despite himself, Demoman squinted his good eye and looked out over the empty landscape, wondering just what sort of country would spit out a man like Lawrence Mundy, Jr.
Australia was…certainly everything he expected it to be. They had arrived in the midst of the dry season, and the air shimmered with heat, making the golden-red landscape almost mirage-like. A faint breeze swayed the grasslands, kicking up a cloud of dust and pollen into the air. A chorus of insects sang in the midday sun, their steady thrum-thrum-thrum melody matching Demoman's heartbeat. In the distance some great bird gave a single cry and then hushed.
They had come in for a landing in a small, derelict airfield, so overgrown with weeds it would have been impossible to recognize it as an airfield if not for the small shack serving as an attendant. The only living person for miles, it seemed, was an old man snoring in a rocking chair on the porch of the shack. He didn't even stir as the plane came to a whirring stop and its occupants exited, groaning and popping their stiffened limbs.
Bidwell hit the ground first, and his wobbly legs crumpled underneath him the instant he did so. He was drooping and wan, exhausted from an accumulated three days of travel, and didn't even try to resist when Heavy scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Bidwell hung limp and uncomplaining even as his forehead bounced off Heavy's shoulder. Soldier leaned up and helpfully removed Bidwell's goggles and aviator cap for him.
Pauling, meanwhile, counted out a wad of cash and set it down next to the snoring old man. She brushed a hopping mouse away from the pile of cash, straightened, and turned back to the rest. "All right. Let's go."
"Und where are we going to?" Medic asked. Archimedes was perched on his shoulder, eying the surroundings carefully but otherwise completely still. "I trust you haff some leads regarding the whereabouts of Saxton Hale?"
"Yes. I have a meeting with a former associate of his, one Charles Darling." Pauling straightened her glasses as she spoke. Then she paused, gnawing on her lip as she looked over the RED quartet.
"What?" Soldier demanded, when her evident hesitation became too much to stand.
"You guys…you're not exactly…" Pauling grimaced, fiddling with her fingers as she tried to word it politely. "Uh…how do I put this…you're not…you're not exactly a pretty sight to see."
Her statement was met with blank stares. The REDs looked at each other and then down at themselves, processing what Pauling was saying. She wasn't entirely wrong: they were still wearing the clothes they'd been wearing when Teufort was attacked, caked in blood and dirt, and the distinctive smell of three-day-old trash wafted around them in a cloud. On top of all that, they were still nursing small injuries from the firefight, bumps and bruises the cramped plane ride had not improved. Medic scratched at his fuzzy chin, running his fingers through his accumulated stubble. "Fair point," he admitted. "What, then, do you suggest we do?"
"There's a small town only a few miles from here." Pauling jerked her thumb southwards. "You could rent us a few rooms, freshen up…maybe get some more…er…civilian attire?"
"Trying to get rid o' us, are ye?" Demoman cocked an eyebrow, unpersuaded.
On Heavy's shoulder Bidwell stirred. He lifted his head up to look at the REDs. "She has a point." he groaned. "Darling is notoriously fickle. I don't think he'd appreciate a stinky, blood-splattered horde arriving on his doorstop after how much time and effort went into securing an appointment with him. No offense meant, of course." With that he sank back forward, energy spent.
Heavy looked over his burden in thought before turning back to Pauling. "This Darling will help us find Saxton Hale?"
"He might have an idea of Saxton's whereabouts, yes," Pauling replied. "He and Hale were close for a number of years."
"Very well." Heavy nodded. "If you think it will help, we will do as you suggest." He set Bidwell on his feet, steadying the swaying majordomo with a beefy hand. The Russian's eyes, however, were squarely on Pauling. "But be careful. If you are not in town by sundown, we will come looking for you."
The last thing Pauling wanted was these four men loose and unsupervised in a politically-charged foreign country after sunset, so she agreed immediately. Bidwell came to stand beside her, still wobbly, and she clapped a hand to his shoulder to keep him upright. "I don't think this gentleman would mind if you borrowed his truck for some time."
The REDs smirked and nodded. Together they started off around the front of the shack, but Pauling's call had them looking over their shoulders:
"Oh, and please, don't kill anyone."
"We'll do our very best," Soldier answered solemnly, "but we take no prisoners and make no promise—urk!" The rest of his reply was cut short when Demoman grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away.
With a forlorn sigh Pauling looked back to Bidwell, who was grinning widely. "What?"
"Nothing. I just never knew you were a single mother."
The quip earned him a shove and a pointed glare, which only produced more guffaws from Bidwell. He pointed to a black car parked a little ways away. "Shall we?"
Pauling adjusted her glasses and raked a hand through her hair, silently longing for a shower. "I suppose we shall."
…
"Not exactly a welcome sight, eh, lads?"
Demoman's comment was hushed, spoken in muttered undertones to his companions. The others nodded in agreement but didn't say a word. Their gaze was wholly focused on the dusty Australian town sprawled out in front of them.
Privately, Demoman thought that the town looked like something out of a Sergio Leone film: all ugly colors, dull yellows and faded browns, with the midday sun doing nothing to improve the sight. It was a Podunk, nondescript little town, nothing more than a scattering of buildings and roads, with no signs of the great technological boon Australia claimed to have. If he squinted a little, it even looked a little like Teufort. A bird wheeled high against the bright, cloudless sky, the only movement to be seen for miles.
They might have stood there all day, but necessity (and burning thirst) eventually won out over pride. Demoman's shoulders sank as he sighed. "Let's get this over with."
Having only ever dealt with precisely one Australian in the past four years, and a runt of an Australian at that, none of the RED quartet were particularly sure of what to expect when they set foot into town. A few key phrases of Spy's came to mind—"a bunch of puffed-up barbarians too busy preening their mustaches to learn how to read or carry on a civilized conversation!"—but Spy was not exactly the most reliable of sources either. In the end, they had to take every stereotype they'd ever heard about Oz, subtract it from Sniper, divide it by Spy, and multiply a kangaroo.
And even that wasn't enough to prepare them.
For one thing, this batch of Australians seemed oddly withdrawn. The way they'd heard Sniper and Spy tell it, Australia was a breeding ground for extroverts, a haven for loudmouth musclebound meatheads who would like nothing better than bash heads and wrestle sharks. But a quiet had settled over this town of Australians, their faces pale and withdrawn, eyes hard as they watched the small truck full of strangers rattle into town.
Soldier parallel-parked the truck along one sidewalk with relative ease ('relative' in this case meaning he only smashed into one other car as he backed up) and they clambered out as inconspicuously as possible, a task impossible for men such as them.
Medic, strangely enough, was the one closest to a sense of normalcy. Having shed his blood-splattered lab-coat and gloves, his vest and tie made him look presentable to the suspicious Aussies. Soldier and Heavy were another matter altogether—the American and the Russian stood out stark against the crowd, their red uniforms giving them the distinct look of targets. The instant Soldier opened his mouth to grumble about the lousy parking job everyone else had done, heads were snapping to him and eyes were narrowing in suspicion. Now was not the time to be a foreigner in Australia.
The one who received the brunt of the looks, however, was Demoman. The Scot stared straight ahead, his face curiously blank even as his hands twitched towards his belt, fingers curling around the empty air where his grenade launcher should have been. The silent stares and their equally silent implications bore into his back like knives.
He was considering just how many men he could kill before the local authorities got involved when a shoulder brushed against his own. Soldier had fallen into step beside him, square jaw set tightly and eyes steeled against the stares. Medic moved into place on his left, and Demoman felt Heavy cover his back. Demoman relaxed a fraction, but made a mental note to return once everything was said and done and blow this cesspool of a town sky-high. "Thanks, lads," he murmured.
"Don't mention it." Soldier shrugged. "I tell you, though; this is more awkward than that time doc ubered Sniper by mistake."
"One time," Medic snarled from Demoman's other side, "I uber the Sniper one time, und you vill not let it go."
Soldier snickered at the memory, and the American's laugh earned them more sharp looks from passersby. Demoman jabbed him in the ribs. "Keep it down! We shouldn't bring more attention to ourselves than we have to, aye?"
"Agreed," Heavy said from behind. "Doktor, I think you should do the talking."
Medic grimaced, none-too-keen about having to deal with Australians of all people. "Very well." His eyes flitted around the main street they had parked in, landing on a clothing store. "We should start with the necessities."
"Right then." Demoman sniffed. "This way!" He turned and walked in the opposite direction of the clothing store, marching with a purposeful stride towards a ramshackle little tavern. Soldier and Heavy shrugged and followed suit, leaving Medic to grind his teeth in exasperation. After a moment he too followed.
Demoman led the way into the tavern, smacking his lips loudly as he did so. Thirst burned in his throat and so it was with the air of a man on a mission that he flung himself down into the first empty seat he saw, waving his arm wildly to get the attention of the barkeep. "Oi! A bottle of scrumpy, and make it quick!"
"Scrumpy?" At that the bartender appeared beside Demoman in an instant, wiping his hands on his apron. The bartender was a stout, broad-shouldered Aborigine, his dark hair and matching beard curly. His dark eyes narrowed in contempt. "We don't serve that swill. We have actual cider."
"Then get me a bottle of this actual cider. A man has a thirst!" Demoman banged his fist on the table.
The bartender cocked an eyebrow. "Does a man have means of payment?"
"Ja, he does."
The bartender turned, freezing in place as Medic, Heavy, and Soldier trooped in. They each took a seat at the table Demoman occupied, looking around the empty bar in a mixture of interest and wariness. The bartender studied them with an equivalent expression. When the silence stretched on far too long, Medic jabbed Demoman with his elbow, and the Scot reached for his wallet.
"No." The bartender shook his head suddenly. "No—you don't—your drinks are on the house. What can I get you?"
Shocked by this sudden turn of hospitality, the REDs exchanged startled glances before Demoman almost hesitantly ordered a round of shots for them all. The bartender nodded, wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow, and retreated into the back. The instant he did so, however, he made a beeline for the phone hanging up against one wall. He dialed a number with a trembling finger, chewing on his lip as the line rang and rang. When someone on the other end finally picked up, he slumped in relief.
"Hey, it's me. Look, you're gotta get down here right away. Why? Because a big bald Russian, a four-eyed German, a shouty American, and a black Scottish cyclops just sat down and ordered a round of shots." Christian Byron-Read leaned against the wall, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. "Lizzie, either half your brother's team walked into the bar or I'm in the middle of a very bad joke."
…
"Bidwell? BIDWELL!"
Bidwell's eyes flew open and he shot straight up. The seatbelt he had buckled with such care caught him around the chest and smacked him backwards into the seat of the car. He slipped down a little, groaning and rubbing at his chest.
Pauling gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry. You were shouting in your sleep."
"I was?" Bidwell pressed a hand to his cheek, still groggy.
"It's all right." Pauling kept both hands on the steering wheel and her head forward, but her eyes kept drifting back to Bidwell. "They're getting worse, aren't they?"
"What?"
"Your nightmares."
Bidwell scoffed and shook his head. "I don't have nightmares! I was just…ehrm…"
Pauling stared at him, hard, and under her cool gaze Bidwell's bluster popped. He deflated like a balloon, sinking further down into his seat. "Yes," he admitted in a low voice, "they're getting worse. How did you know?"
"I have the same ones."
Silence fell between them for a time, the grumble of the engine and the crackle of the deadened radio the only things to break the silence. Bidwell sat up fully, still pawing at his chest as if it pained him. He was staring straight out at the long, winding road ahead of them, but his dark eyes were unfocused, his thick brows coming together in thought. Pauling continued to steal glances at him. Bidwell, she mused, did not look well at all. He was paler than before, skinnier too, his cheekbones protruding against ashen skin.
Bidwell caught one of her less-subtle glances. He managed a tired, crooked smile. "I know, I know, I'm too gorgeous, but please, keep your eyes on the road!"
Pauling chuckled, and her laughter snapped the tension clean in two. "I'm sorry, I can't help it when I'm in the company of such a charming gentleman."
"Oh, stop it, you." Bidwell flapped his hands around dramatically. "I know you only love me for my aircraft connections."
"Please," Pauling sniffed in mock condescension, "if you had an any real connections you would have gotten us a bigger plane!"
"Hey now," Bidwell returned, "I was on a tight schedule! A very tight schedule of doing absolutely nothing!"
It felt good to laugh. It felt so good to laugh. It had been ages since she last had a reason to laugh. When she did, it felt as though half the weight bearing down on her had been alleviated, as if she were young and naïve again, as if they were on a friendly road trip and not barreling straight towards the end of the world. She laughed far longer and far harder than she should have, relishing the sound. Bidwell just grinned at her, as delighted by the sound of her laughter as she was.
The rest of their journey passed in silence. Bidwell drifted back to sleep and Pauling kept her eyes on the road, musing to herself. The arid landscape looked all the same, and if it weren't for the occasional road sign she might have sworn they were going in circles. At long last, however, the Darling Estate drew into view.
Charles Darling was a gentleman of wealth and taste. As such, it only made sense that his property would reflect his economic prosperity. An iron gate was wrapped around the vast expanse of his land and golden lions glowered down at visitors from their column perches. Against the gate, written in delicate gold plating, was the word DARLING. Behind the iron gate and lions was a vast, sprawling estate, rolling hills of gold and orange, a winding road leading to a mansion that seemed imposing even from a distance.
Pauling slowed the car as they approached, sharing a worried looked with the now-awake Bidwell. She inched the car forward towards the gate, uncertain of how they were going to get through. The car stalled as the pair considered the wrought iron.
"We could ram it," Pauling suggested.
Bidwell cocked an eyebrow in silence.
"Or…we could not do that."
"Let's trying knocking before we resort to property damage, eh?"
"Fine." Pauling rolled down the window, as the while wondering if she had been spending too much time in the company of trigger-happy mercenaries. She poked her head out the window and called: "Excuse me! We have an appointment with Charles Darling—"
With an ear-splitting shriek the iron gates swung open, unlocked by an unseen force. The way to Charles Darling stood unbarred.
"Well," Bidwell sighed, "that's more ominous than I would have liked."
Pauling gave him a small smile of reassurance and pulled the car forward.
…
The inside of the mansion was even more opulent than the outside, a feat that seemed impossible but was nevertheless achieved. They were shown inside by a pinched-face butler who collected their coats without comment. Another led them through the maze of halls that made up the interior of Darling's mansion. Darling had not missed a chance to show off his wealth and power where he could; the walls were adorned with animal heads and skins, rare guns and paintings of Darling standing triumphantly over his kills. Bidwell grew noticeably paler and Pauling was beginning to feel a little queasy by the time the butler finally stopped outside a closed door. He rapped once with his knuckles and then swung it open. "Sir? Your guests have arrived."
As Charles Darling rose from his smoking chair Pauling couldn't help but to think that such a large man deserved a large estate to call his own. He was as tall as Sniper and as broad-shouldered as Soldier, giving him the veneer of a powerful, deadly man despite his advanced age. He scratched at his neatly-trimmed white beard, smiling down at them with a geniality that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah," he said as a greeting. "I was wondering when Saxton Hale's little lackey would come to call."
Bidwell stilled. His expression iced over instantly and Pauling automatically stepped forward. "Mister Darling. I'd like to thank you first for seeing us on such short notice. My name is—"
"Pauling. Yes, yes, I'm aware. That chain-smoking witch who signs your paychecks made certain I knew who was coming to call."
It was Pauling's turn to stiffen. She stared up at Darling. "T—the Administrator? You know—"
"And you—" Darling turned to Bidwell, ignoring Pauling completely "—are Saxton Hale's top aide. The boy wonder Bidwell. I've heard marvelous things about your breakfast steaks."
Bidwell had recovered by this point. He straightened and rolled his shoulders back, looking back at Darling with nary a hint of fear. "Yes," he replied, "I'm the one Saxton Hale trusts completely."
"And yet not enough to tell you where he was going." Darling turned away again, and so Bidwell's slight flinch went unnoticed. Darling crossed over to a liquor cabinet and set to making drinks. "Don't flatter yourself, boy. Hale didn't get to where he is by trusting people. Excuse me, my mistake. Where he was. But that's beside the point. You need to know where Hale is now."
"Yes." Bidwell stepped forward, accepting the scotch glass Darling handed to him without thought. "We need to find him! It's imperative!"
"Is it?" Darling paused in the middle of making himself a mint julep. He studied their reflections in the glass of his liquor cabinet. "Are you certain? It would seem to me that the what that disappeared the day Gray Mann took Mann Co. is far more important than the who."
"The Australium?" Pauling frowned. She took the scotch glass from Bidwell, grip on it white-knuckled. "I thought we needed to look for Hale. Find Hale, find the Australium. That's what the Administrator said—"
"Hale is only a man. An incredibly formidable man, I'll give you that, but a man nonetheless. And what is a man compared to a god?" At last Darling spun back to face them. He tapped a ring-adorned hand against the glass, the clink-clink-clink sound filling the sudden silence.
"Err…come again?" Bidwell furrowed his brow in confusion even as Darling handed him off another drink.
"Every empire had their deities, Mister Bidwell. The Romans, the Aztecs, the Persians. They all answered to a higher power. The modern era is no different. The Americans have their money, the Soviets their hammer and sickle, and we Australians have our Australium. Or had, I should say." Darling downed his mint julep and turned away to fix himself another drink.
"Had? What do you mean, had?" Pauling snatched the second glass of whiskey away from Bidwell, who frowned down at his suddenly empty hand.
"'Had' as in past tense. As in, no longer do. As in, if you were to weigh the current amount of Australium left unmined in Australia in ounces, pounds, or tons, the answer would be the same. Zero." Darling spun back around, holding his glass to his lips. "There is no free Australium left in Australia."
Crash! Glass and whiskey skittered every which-way as the glass slipped from Pauling's hand and hit the floor. Bidwell jumped back but Pauling remained quite still, staring at Darling in undisguised horror. "How much?" she whispered. "How much is left?"
"Well, if you were to put a solid number on it…" Darling pursed his lips in thought. He swished the whiskey around in his glass for a moment before answering. "89,000 tonnes."
Bidwell staggered back as if bowled over by the number. Pauling paled. "89,000 tonnes? That's all?"
"That's all." Darling nodded. "And Hale was sitting on top of a third of it. You can imagine how desperate certain merchants are to find such a suddenly rare resource. Right now, finding the Australium should be your priority, not Hale. However…if you're truly desperate for Hale…" He leaned forward, ice cubes clinking softly as he swirled his drink. Bidwell and Pauling stared at him in mute horror. Darling considered them as he sipped at his drink. "I know where Saxton Hale is. But such information doesn't come free."
"And why not?" Pauling demanded. "We're on the brink of nuclear war, and you want to play keep-away with such vital information?"
"My dear, I am a businessman at heart," Darling said. "Giving something for nothing creates an unfair balance of trade. I will give you Saxton Hale's whereabouts if you do me one small favor."
"What sort of a small favor?" Bidwell asked.
"There is but one remaining cache of Australium left untouched in Australia. A cache that has traded hands multiple times, but for now sits unguarded and, one must hope, safe. I want you to get it to before anyone else."
"Where is it?" Pauling's eyes narrowed. She was liking this less and less by the minute.
"Ayers Rock."
The name meant nothing to Pauling, but it must have to Bidwell, who drew in a sharp breath. She looked to him, noting his frankly frightened expression. Bidwell swallowed hard. "Ayers Rock?! Ayers Rock?! Do you want to get us killed? That's the most heavily fortified, most jealously guarded Australium mine in history! You expect us to waltz right in and take the last of the Australium? It's impossible!"
"I thought it would be an easy feat for Saxton Hale's top aide." Darling's smile twisted into something more mocking as he looked down at the seething Bidwell.
"How," Bidwell put a particularly fierce emphasis on the word, "do you expect us to get into Ayers Rock?"
"That's your problem, not mine." Darling shrugged. "But if you can manage it, you will have your information on Saxton Hale—and all the resources I have at my disposal to help you in your oh-so-noble quest to stop Gray Mann."
"If your price is so high, why bother helping us at all?" Pauling demanded.
"Gods and profits, my dear. That is what holds this world together. Gods and profits. And simply put, it's hard to turn a profit in the middle of a nuclear winter."
Pauling stared at him with ice in her eyes. When it became clear she didn't believe him, Darling allowed a corner of his mouth to twitch upwards. "You don't trust me. Good. That ought to keep you alive a little longer than the rest. Suffice to say that I possess one resource Gray Mann does not."
"And what's that?"
In response Darling pulled a folded piece of paper from his suit pocket. Pauling took it, unfolding the fragile paper with gentle movements. Bidwell stoop on tiptoe behind her. Together they stared down at the image of a young, beaming Saxton Hale holding a laughing young woman in his arms.
Darling smiled thinly. "I have his heart."
Bidwell has been elected as new king of the Butt Monkeys. Sorry, I don't make the rules.
Happy holidays! :3
~Chaos
