RTA: To Guest Room: I'm happy to hear that I made you laugh! (Scout abuse here, if any, is mainly mental and psychological, heh) Thank you for reading and reviewing!
To Anon: But of course! I'm glad you're enjoying the story!
WARNING: This chapter contains mildly detailed violence and slight sexual references, including brief discussions about virginity, implied bestiality and homosexuality. Nothing explicit, of course, we're keeping this T-rated.
The lecture had been going on for almost an hour.
The Scout sighed in exasperation, annoyed and bored and annoyed that he was bored. He slumped in his seat resting his chin on the crook of his elbow, propped up on a chair that he was sitting backwards on. One of his knees was bouncing up and down as he stared at the television in the mess hall. After the mess that Gray Mann had created, the majority of the base had been repaired to be as good as new, which included a new television set for entertainment before the mercenaries began trying to find new ways to kill each other and explode them into smithereens.
"HOW HARD IS IT TO LOOK BEHIND?! ARE YOU AN IDIOT OR A COWARD?!"
The runner made an unusual sound from the back of his throat to express his boredom—or perhaps his hate for it. Why could they not show something else other than news? All they were talking about was the abnormal weather and a haze that was too far away from the barracks to affect the men there.
"Soldier, look, I really don't want to argue with you. Can't I strike you a deal?"
The Bostonian glanced out of the nearest window. Deep grey clouds were speckled along the horizon, curtaining the sunset until the bright orb was but a red dot in the sky, swallowing its rays and choking the approaching hour of twilight.
"A TRUE MERCENARY MAKES NO EXCUSES FOR HIS MISTAKES, PRIVATE SCAREDY-SUPERSTITION!"
"Soldier, stop yelling, zhe man is not deaf." deadpanned the Spy as he glared at the patriot. He knew he was partially lying, he had had brief glimpse through part of the newcomer's report: Leave him out in a place of loud noise like the circus and he would adjust to it. Quiet areas only made him unnerved and beyond alert. Judging the current situation and its duration, he was probably ignoring the Soldier's loud scolding.
"YOU STAY OUT OF THIS, SPY! I YELL WHEN I WANT AND NEED TO!" Scowling deeply, the burly man turned back to face the newest recruit. "I DON'T CARE IF IT'S UN-CIRCUS-Y TO LOOK BEHIND, THIS IS WAR, SON!"
The disguiser watched as the Trainer frowned, clearly internally conflicted and reluctant to respond, but he did. "Looking behind invites bad pasts to return, Soldier, but tell you what, here's the deal: I'll start looking behind more often, and you'll swear by America's national animal that until New Year's, you'll follow this saying: When in doubt, remain silent." A slim, scarred hand was extended.
The Spy narrowed his eyes with a judgemental air that no one seemed to notice. The Soldier thought about the proposal for a moment before nodding—it would not hurt, would it?
"Deal." He firmly shook the Trainer's hand with a grunt of confirmation. The latter's grin, of which had dropped since the scolding, returned.
"Thanks."
The Scout lifted his head up to look at the only three other people in the mess hall save for the two dogs—the rest had gone to mind their own businesses. "You frickin' weirdos done?"
"Don't you 'ave a Pyro to play with?" questioned the Spy from his seat.
"Pyro's disappeared. Haven't seen it since I showered." murmured the youngest member sourly.
The Soldier began marching out, but stopped when he passed the runner to pat him on the shoulder. "Give Mumbles some time. If you're up for some violence to distract you, I'll be at Target."
"Thanks, Solly,"
With a final acknowledge, the taller mercenary exited the mess hall, heading for the training room. There was more than enough time before the lights were shut off—around ten or eleven, depending on whether the following day was a ceasefire. That meant around three hours or so to spend on whatever he was to do. Socialising was strange because everyone was scattered one way or another despite having worked together for more than five years.
The burly man snorted in amusement, remembering the one week war that had raged when the RED Demoman wanted to kill him, and vice versa. That was a fun week.
In the room he had just left, the silence remained for several heartbeats before the Trainer broke it, almost like a bad habit that he failed to get rid of. "Anyone up for a Pyro search?" he asked, gaze flickering from the Scout to the Spy, then back again.
"I 'ave no interest in your childish games." the Spy stated bluntly, standing up.
"Not even for Py'?"
"Not even." he deadpanned, swiftly leaving the rooms. He had better plans in mind. The Pyro—or anyone, in fact—held no value to him since he lived by the personal rule that bonding was forbidden. Such personal and emotional ties were only weakness, and yet, his lover… he tried not to think about her too often. It was amusing at first, tormenting the RED Scout that his mother was having an affair with a BLU. He had stopped doing that as frequent when he noticed that the Administrator said nothing about the relationship, and when he realised that his RED counterpart was also in love with the BLU Bostonian's mother.
He thought of excuses to avoid the family gatherings during Smissmas—the enemy Scout would be there, and by contract, that meant chaos. If not a disaster, then a bitter, spiteful Smissmas. Despite the forced, intentional distance he had created between himself and his lover, there was a nagging prick of worry when it came to her health—she was ageing, and he was not. He knew that.
They were stuck in an ageless state due to the Respawn, almost like immortals, yet not.
The Spy sighed. It was not time to think about that, he had to keep alert. With a new mission in mind, he made his way up the stairs, leaving the Scout and Trainer behind without a care.
The last thing he heard was of the latter announcing with far too much enthusiasm: "PYRO HUNT!"
The two dogs burst out from the mess hall, snouts in the air then at the floor, sniffing for the Pyro's bitter charred asbestos scent as their owner adjusted the slim blue object around his finger with a laugh. "C'mon, Scout, the hunt begins!"
Said person forced himself to run at a slightly slower speed so as to not overtake the hounds; they padded this way and that, trying to locate a fresh scent trail in the old barracks. He pointed to the newbie's hand. "Da Hell is dat?"
"Scent rings of sorts, I guess," The other shrugged, digging through a pocket.
"Didn't see ya using dat for battle."
"That's because they're not meant for that." Another blue ring was tossed over and the runner caught it. "They went kind of crazy with creativity. Take a whiff."
"Hell no," the Scout said, but he did not return it. Instead he inspected it, curious, only to find a small white markings of the number six and the Engineer's emblem. With nothing of interest left to investigate, he threw it back. "Did da Admin make one for everyone?"
The Trainer snatched it from the air. "Not really, just you nine."
The speedster's face contorted with pure confusion, his brows furrowed, lips a thin lopsided line and an eye narrowed, as if doing so could help him see the point. Before he could ask another question, the ex-circus performer continued, almost as though reading his mind—or facial expression: "Don't ask me how they did it. I don't know either."
The destructive duo dogs disappeared around a corner and the two humans trailed behind like shadows. The Scout made sure that he was not lagging behind anyone. A new topic entered his small train of thoughts when he noticed something strange about the Trainer.
He looked younger.
"Hey kid—"
"I'm older than you."
The leaner male brushed it off. "Whadevah; how old are ya?"
"Thirty-three," was the answer. Then a question followed: "What's it to you, Mister I'm-Twenty-Nine-Not-Twenty-Three?"
The hatted man huffed, curiosity making him feel less offended. "Since when did'cha get registered for da Respawn? Like when someone shot ya through da head and you woke up later?"
The taller merc blinked and stopped in his tracks, much to the other's slight annoyance. "About five or six years ago, I think." The walking was resumed.
"Ya look different."
"Good or bad?"
"Both."
The Trainer shot the youngest member a curious, inquiring expression. "How so?"
The Scout tried not to snort in disbelief and trip on a backtracking Harlequin at the same time. "What, ya didn't look into da mirror earlier or somethin'?" Without waiting for an answer that he would have deemed unimportant and unnecessary, he continued, "Ya look six years younger an' got lesser scars."
The animal-expert laughed, tugging a sleeve lower to the wrist subconsciously. It was true—the only notable scars were the eagle talon scar around his left eye, the bite marks on his hands and a faded claw scar from his right cheek downwards, partially hidden by his shirt collar, most likely gotten from his time in the circus. Any other scars were hidden under the long-sleeved uniform of his. "The Respawn used my old file, huh? Alpha and Beta were frisky back then."
"Alpha an' who?"
He froze, then barked out a harsh cough and struggled to clear his throat unconvincingly. "…It's like calling Heavy's Sascha a Minigun." he vaguely explained, before something caught his attention. All too suddenly he was dashing after Whiteface, shouting at the dog to wait. The hound popped its head out of the workshop and stepped backwards, confused, only to yelp in surprise when its owner tripped over it and slammed onto the workshop floor gracelessly and unceremoniously. Two cries of shock were heard.
There was the sound of chairs screeching as they were moved. The Texan voice sounded as the Scout caught up. "Y' okay, new boy?"
The other person in the area huffed, unimpressed. "Have half your sight stolen und instead you lose your balance?"
The handler croaked out a wheezy laugh as the mechanic helped him up. Meanwhile the two war dogs had squeezed past the Scout to enter the room, now sniffing around at where the Pyro usually sat whenever it watched the Engineer tinker. Harlequin whined, as though murmuring a discouraged "Not here." With a final bark, it ran off, its partner staying behind with its master loyally.
"If it ain't da two rule-breakers," the Scout said, looking at the Engineer and Medic. "How's ya project goin'?"
The German gave him a skeptical look. "I'd razzer be breaking your bones zhan rules."
The southerner chuckled at the tallest merc, before switching his attention to the two younger men. "Th' Gray Teleporter's doin' fine so far. What're y'all doin' here?"
"Hunting for Pyro." answered the newest addition casually. "Have you seen it?"
Negative responses of shaking heads were given by both scientists. The Scout sighed as the Medic raised a question: "I'm to assume your dogs are trained for more zhan just fighting, ja?"
"Like what, playing games and doing tricks?"
The doctor's expression subtly changed, yet remained unreadable. "Similar enough." he supposed, observing Whiteface with a trained eye as it stood on its hind legs to sniff the Engineer's shoulder. "May I propose a trade?"
The Trainer unnoticeably cringed. "If you promise not to remove any of my body parts again, sure—name it."
The German frowned at the other's request, wondering whether it was worth it. "I'll remove zhem painlessly next time, zhen." Without waiting for approval, he continued his proposition. "I recently lost several vital files for zhe Kritskrieg yesterday evening." he started, gaze flickering from the strong canine to its owner when the animal padded back, making gruff noises as it pushed its snout into the handler's hand to sniff at the scent ring. "You wouldn't suppose your pets can help locate zhem," He looked up, grey eyes swirling with the slightest tinge of judgement. "Do you?"
The younger man wore an uncertain look on his face. "I'm not sure if those papers have a specific scent to track, but if you get a scent, I'll get your papers. Maybe you misplaced them?"
"Unlikely so, Neuling."
The newbie raise his hands in surrender. "All right, fine, deal. Just get me a scent source to give the dogs, okay?"
The Engineer interrupted their conversation by clearing his throat. He tapped the maniacal surgeon's shoulder. "Can tha' wait, Doc? We still got th' Teleporter t' fix up." His voice was kept even, reasonable, but despite that it sounded like he was a young child being told that playtime was over when he wanted to continue burning ants—something that could be done, but with consequences.
The unlicensed doctor nodded. "Of course, Herr Engineer." He turned to face the newcomer. "After tomorrow's battle, I vill produce a copy of zhe paper I use for your search. It should be simple enough to find zhe scent alien in any areas ozher zhan zhe infirmary."
The ex-circus performer nodded, then blinked as he peered over to look at the two science-professionals' project. It was taking the recognisable—albeit vague—form of an average Teleporter, with the metal unpainted and wires still exposed. The Medi-Gun was sitting at the other side of the table, alongside several blueprints. One set was noticeably a dusty, aged greyish-yellow colour that had clearly seen better days and depicted several concept arts of a Teleporter. Gibberish described and explained the models. The second set was neater and blue in colour, with the Medi-Gun on the surface and lesser nonsensical words instead.
The Scout was observing it as well. He smirked, somewhat impressed despite technology never really being his interest. From the corner of his vision, there was movement as the Trainer shifted to inspect a list that had yellowed with age. It held information akin to mathematical formulas, but it was nothing like that.
"What's this?" he asked, curious and perplexed.
The Engineer looked at the Scout. "Why don'cha explain Crafting t' th' new boy while Doc an' Ah build this here contraption, young'un?"
The addressed mercenary bit back a sneer of disbelief. Instead he huffed, turned to face the Trainer who was watching him with curious expectation and pointed to the grafts. "Dis is what I call 'Engycrap'."
The newest mercenary raised an eyebrow. His voice was more bemused and uncertain than skeptical. "'Engycrap'?"
The speedster nodded, crossing his lean arms over his chest. "Engycrap." He did not bother checking on whether the Engineer was glaring at him or not.
"…They're blueprints." the handler deadpanned.
"Exactly my point."
"I thought the term 'bullshit' would be more appropriate." Mirroring the Scout's stance, the newcomer folded his arms as well.
If the Scout felt any annoyance, he did not show it. "Now you're gettin' at it." he commented knowingly. "But it ain't all nonsense and no fun, it's Crafting. Basically ya get any two weapons of da same Class, smelt 'em into Scrap, then start mixin' an' matchin'. We more'a less got blueprints to follow, but if ya wanna test ya luck ya can go wit' Tokens."
"So it's like cooking?"
The runner shrugged. "Yeah, but don't let Solly hear ya compare Craftin' ta cookin'. Last thing we need is f'r him ta start yellin' 'bout what broads do an' guys don't." he said. "S'useful ta make stuff outta other stuff ya don't really want."
The older male nodded in understanding. He redrew his right hand from the crook of his elbow to roll it at the wrist as he asked: "So what's the point of it? The boss gives you guys your weapons, so why make more?"
The Bostonian fidgeted for a moment. "Sometimes ya lose yer own weapons,"
"Or owe anozher Class somezhing." the Medic added offhandedly.
"Shut up, Doc, I'm doin' da explainin' here!" retorted the younger man, his voice venomous with annoyance, agitated even further when the taller man chuckled. The emotion mellowed down a tad when he redirected his attention to explaining once more—it was unexplainable, but nevertheless pleasant to be teaching and telling someone what to do rather than being bossed around. He guessed that it was possibly due to the fact he had always been the runt of the litter. Now that someone new was here with lesser knowledge about something than him, he supposed that age did not matter anymore. "I'll give ya a tip, rookie, when it comes to bettin' with or payin' someone here, use Metals—Scrap, Reclaimed, Refined. Money ain't too big of worth since da pay's still good, even if it's a bitch ta get, but we've more'a less grown used ta using Metal as currency here f'r da past few years."
The newcomer gave him a two-finger salute. "I'll be sure to remember that, Scout, even if I probably won't have anything to Craft." he assured, before switching his attention to Whiteface. The dog was waiting patiently, but its stance was rigid and poised to run at any given time. "I think White here has waited long enough. Shall we?"
"Yeah, let's go find Py'."
The Trainer grinned. "Hunt it down, Whiteface."
The sturdy German Shepherd bolted out of the door instantly, sniffing the ground to pick up the firebug's scent once again. With a confident, deep bark, it made its way towards the stairwell, leading the two mercs up the stairs to the second storey where the dorms were. It pawed at the Pyro's door, barking and looking back at its master.
Said person frowned. "Sorry, White, I don't think we can go in." He gestured for the canine to return, and it obediently complied.
The younger of the two walked over and knocked. No answer. "Screw dat crap!" the Scout shouted in response to the taller man. He reared back slightly, ready to kick the door down.
But then something grabbed him from behind, pulling him back and away from the blue door. He shrieked in shock and kicked anyway, hitting nothing. He nearly fell when he lost his balance. "Da Hell man?!"
Whiteface's teeth were clamped firmly on the loose fabric of younger mercenary's blue shirt. However, unlike what the Scout had seen it do to enemies, it did not shake its head, but held him back. The runner glared at its owner, not daring to attack the hound itself.
"Tell it ta lemme go, dammit!"
"Breaking and entering isn't worth it." stated the other, ignoring the Bostonian's indignant demand. The canine tugged him backwards, causing him to stumble if he were to keep his footing. "Chances are it isn't there. Using scent trails wasn't a good idea after all." He looked at the war dog and whistled. "C'mon boy, we're searching the traditional way."
The German Shepherd looked up, grey eyes questioning between the two commands of holding the Scout down and returning to its master. Taking the newer order to be one of higher importance, it released the runner and walked over to its owner. The shorter of the two stared at the spot of slobber left on his shirt in disgust. Dammit, its fangs had pierced through the fabric.
"Damn ya an' yer dog, knucklehead, ya better be fixin' dat after dis."
"For show business' sake, we'll be sent to sleep like kids in a few hours." the older member replied as he popped his head into the large toilet for a brief survey. The shower stalls were all open, and it was completely empty. The fact that no one had a bathroom of their own in their rooms almost made it feel like college again, if any of the mercenaries made it that far in studies—there was the Heavy, and probably the Engineer. "Just dump it the wash and grab a new shirt before then."
The Scout rolled his grey eyes. "I ain't talkin' 'bout da slobber—even though dat's pretty gross—I'm talkin' 'bout da holes ya lapdog bit."
"First you want a dog on the table, now you want one on your lap. They're dogs, not strippers."
The Scout gave a rude hand gesture, but the Trainer was not paying much attention; he was already making his way downstairs. "You know what? Screw off, rookie, an' stay on da subject."
The other did not bother looking back at the younger one. "Okay, fine, I'll change my part of Medic's deal and get him to help, all right?"
The Bostonian's grey eyes widened in bewilderment, astonished. "Da Doc does friggin' needlework?!"
"Didn't you know? It keeps the fingers dexterous and steady." The ex-circus performer nodded in confirmation casually, as if he were talking about how dogs wag their tails to express both joy and sadness. "The boss ought to have the notes checked more often for irrelevant information, huh?" Looking over his shoulder, he continued: "There's even one bit that states that Spies tend to insult you by calling you a virgin."
"Cut dat shit out. I've had my times wit' plenty'a chicks." the speedster snapped sharply in his defence.
The taller man simply grinned like a Cheshire cat, still looking back and miraculously not missing any steps. "I'll be sure to inform Miss Pauling of the errors."
That nearly caused the youngest merc to choke, and he sputtered out incoherent words like a dying fish, trying to think of something to say to defend himself from the sudden indirect threat. The newcomer probably did not even know what he just did, but that self-satisfied smug asshole of a grin plastered onto his face said otherwise. "'Ey, don't go exaggerate too much dere, pal. I still got a chance ta impress her."
The two rounded a corner, heading downstairs into the basement. Maybe the Pyro was at the Medic's for a check-up, especially after the previous day's event. Well, if the doctor was in at all.
The oldest of the dubious duo only turned to look in front when he leaped over the last few stairs, finally breaking the unnerving eye contact. "Want me to tell her that too?"
"Screw you."
"First the dogs, now me? Never knew your parents taught you to be like that."
A new flame within was set alight. How dare the newbie insult his Ma?! "What, ya wanna go now? Is dat it, huh?" The shorter man was unsurprisingly quick when an arm shot out to slam the other against the wall behind whilst the other hand curled into a fist. It was more of muscle-memory and instincts than proper planning when he punched the handler's stomach, hard enough to draw a startled yowl of unexpected pain.
Whiteface began barking madly, but did nothing to interfere as no commands were given. Faintly scarred hands dug their nails into the Scout's still arm and unexpectedly yanked it forward. Without warning, weight shifted and two combat boots roughly kicked out. The painful grip on his arm and the force of the kick nearly dislocated the runner's shoulder.
He landed on the floor with a loud thump, the air successfully knocked out of his lungs. He cursed and propped himself up on his forearms. His chest ached and his left arm hurt to move. The love-hate relationship he had with adrenaline only became stronger. Now he understood what the Sniper was muttering about the day before, during battle, something to do with calling others 'freaks' and the newcomer treading on toes almost as if on purpose.
The attack dog leaped in front of its master, growling in warning at the speedster. Silly dog, it did not even know that it could not harm him. He ignored the dog and glared up at its owner. Said person was hunched over slightly, arms hugging his stomach. And he was fucking laughing.
"Holy Hell do you pack a punch!" the animal-expert remarked. It took him some time to ignore the pain so that he could wear his signature grin. He sighed after a moment, attempting to ease the nauseating, dully sharp pain in his abdomen. "The boss was right about how defensive you get, heh."
"Da Hell does da boss got ta do wit' ya insultin' my Ma?!" The Scout took a threatening step forward, wanting to punch the newcomer in the face, but the fierce German Shepherd suddenly barked gruffly. It bared its fangs and dared to approach the lanky man, forcing him back by a short distance out of uncertainty.
The Trainer just chuckled, voice laced with slight pain. "Quit spewing like an emotional teapot. I sure hope you don't show that side of you to Miss Pauling." He pressed a hand to his stomach, wincing. "Whiteface, heel." The hound promptly joined its handler by his boots.
The runner tried moving his left arm. It still hurt like Hell. He cursed under his breath. He wanted to swear vulgarly, but then he remembered that this story only allowed curses that the game allowed. "Screw off, ya frickin' assclown! Ya dunno crap 'bout Ma or Miss Pauling!" With a growl, he rushed forward. The other noticed, his reflexes forcing him to jump away fast, but the Scout was faster. He rammed into the newcomer, head-butting him with enough force to stun him and throw him onto the ground.
The Trainer was unsurprisingly easier to injure than the Soldier. In fact, he did not have as much strength to fight back. It was almost amusing how pathetic the other looked when he tried to curl up into a defensive ball, but the Bostonian was too occupied with yelling colourful vulgarities and dealing sharp, painful blows with his fists to care.
Something snagged his shirt, and he swore when he registered that it was the godforsaken German Shepherd. A sense of confident rose when the canine could not manage to pull him off his victim, instead only lifting him up slightly. He wanted to laugh, to shove the animal away, but before he could, the newcomer kicked out from under him and threw the younger merc off.
His amusement was gone with his breath, his laughter stolen by the animal trainer. Unhooking his bullhook from his belt, the latter stepped forward, swaying slightly from pain. Yet his steps never truly faltered. Knowing that the lethal portion of authorised weapons would do no damage to teammates, he gripped both ends and lunged forward, slamming the ankus against the Bostonian's throat. Momentum and concentrated weight pressed it down hard. There was a choked, raspy cough, the younger mercenary fighting, hands trying to push the metal weapon off his throat so that he could breathe and punch the living crap out of the newbie for insulting his Ma. He tried kicking, but the other was sitting too far up to actually get hit by anything other than his knees.
Suddenly, Whiteface began barking, and its master instantly looked up, tearing his grey eyes away from the indignant ones of the other merc. Said person took the Trainer's distraction as an opportunity to throw him off.
He did not even manage to twist the ankus away. The agonizing pressure on his throat increased abruptly and suddenly vanished, leaving the pain there like an injection's lingering sting—you would never realise it was over until you looked.
The Trainer launched himself forward, as if performing an incomplete front flip with his hands—and the bullhook against the Scout's throat—to boost himself as he threw his weight forward. He almost resembled a Slinky when he finally stood upright, fluid and agile in one swift motion.
"Good evening, Doc," the handler greeted, cracking a wider grin than the one he was wearing before despite the bruise sporting his left cheek. He casually hooked his ankus back onto his belt, tasting blood from where his lip was damaged by his canine teeth, caused by a punch.
The Medic stared at him, wide-eyed and bewildered. His gaze flickered from the battered newcomer, to the coughing Scout on the floor, and back. He hastily ran to help the wheezing male up, examining him for any wounds—nothing visible except for a short discoloured bar on his neck. The Bostonian did not push away his help like he usually would when he got into a fistfight.
Looking up with non-too-friendly eyes, the surgeon demanded with a low growl: "Vhat happened?"
The Trainer licked up the blood that trickled down to his chin. "A little playtime between lion cubs," he answered with a short chuckle.
The Scout wheezed, trying to catch his breath to speak, insults and swears of every kind flooding his mind. Rage blurred his vision, but his body was too weak from being deprived of oxygen to actually strike, let alone push the Medic away. When he tried to form curses to spit and snap, only wind and incoherent sounds escaped from his lips. Panic seized him, he tried yelling, but that only made the pain in his throat and chest worse.
The German groaned in annoyance and yanked the runner up, resulting in an hollow yelp of pain. "Both of you, infirmary, now. I vant to hear zhe full story." Judging by appearance alone, the injuries were not extremely serious, but the reason seemed interesting—what did the newcomer do that provoked the Scout into a fight? It was already perplexing when he saw that the Trainer had his weapon in-hand, yet had more wounds than the youngest member.
The three headed down the short hallway, one walking unsteadily, one with a death glare. By the time they had reached the medical bay and the Medic had used the Quick-Fix on them, the Scout was shouting and spewing cusses and the Trainer was still grinning and clean of bruises.
The Medic sharply snapped at the youngest mercenary, telling him to remain silent lest the doves were disturbed. "Maybe ve should haff left your larynx partially crushed after all." he muttered. Taking a seat at his desk, he picked up a pen that he had placed nearby and opened a drawer for a fresh piece of paper. He looked up at the two. "Tell me vhat happened so zhat I can vrite zhis report properly."
"He frickin' insulted my Ma!"
"I did not; I indirectly questioned her teaching methods."
"You shut da Hell up, son ova glitch!"
"Scout, both sides of zhe coin."
"Screw you an' ya poetic bullshit."
"It's more of an idiom."
"Shut up, dumbass!"
"Scout."
"What?! Ya want a story? All I frickin' did was beat him up!"
"And I crushed his voice box with the body of my ankus. I'd say we're even."
"Screw you! I'll wipe dat frickin' grin off ya face!"
"Hey, I flung a chair that didn't hit you, kicked you twice and somewhat choked you. You bruised me like a peach and made me walk with a stagger." Pause. "Though thanks for letting me do that handstand-flip of a somersault."
"Why you little—"
"Scout, sit down before I amputate your legs off. I don't vant anyvone bozhering my doves."
The addressed man scowled, but sat back down reluctantly. He grudgingly watched as the Medic scribbled down several notes. "Is zhat all?"
"I need to alter our deal a little, Doc," the newbie informed sheepishly. "I'll get the dogs to search for your papers if you fix the Scout's shirt. White here tore it slightly."
The doctor quirked an eyebrow, but did not question. He looked over at the youngest member. "Bring me your torn shirt vonce you've vashed it, zhen."
The lean man simply looked over his shoulder and tugged at his shirt, trying to see the damaged part of blue fabric. Not completely ruined, but it looked pretty unnatural.
"So, nozhing else, ja?" The pen was placed down.
"Scout punches hard."
The German's grey eyes flickered up from the paper. "So you've noticed."
The Trainer shrugged. "Underestimated him, but hey, experience is a way of learning."
"Dat'll frickin' teach ya ta mess wit' me. Next time, I'll knock out ya friggin' teeth!"
The grin widened even more as a silent agitation. It was softened when he spoke: "So, where'd you learn to punch like that?"
The Scout snorted because he dared not to spit on the infirmary floor. "When ya live wit' seven other bruthas an' ain't getting' ya fair share of da fight, you'll learn ta solve problems wit' ya fists." He fell silent, memories, too short and too incoherent to decipher, filling his mind. He tried to push them away. After a pregnant pause of silence, save for the content cooing of doves, he spoke up again: "Your kicks hurt like a glitch."
The Medic raised a brow and turned to face the Trainer. "Vhere, exactly, did you kick him?"
"His chest and stomach; I had to throw him off somehow." the justification made as much sense as the doctor's unnecessary operations.
"Ya caught me off-guard."
"Twice."
The Scout scoffed. He tested his left arm even though he knew that the Quick-Fix had patched him up nicely. "So ya get in lots'a fights where you come from, kickin' people off like dat?"
The other American lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. "Not people, more of tigers and lions and other big cats." he answered light-heartedly, oblivious to the strange stares he was receiving. "That usually happened when it came to escape acts."
"I thought ya were a clown for a mo'."
Grey eyes narrowed in a glare. "I thought you were a goat with those buckteeth of yours."
The Scout opened his mouth to retort, but before he could form the words, the Medic cleared his throat and stood up. He began ushering them out of the infirmary with urgency. If a fight broke out, he would have to settle it, and the doves might get hurt. It was a risk he would not take. "Since you two are physically able to fight tomorrow, I'm afraid you must leave now." Without waiting for a reply, the oldest man closed the door.
A sour, tense silence filled the air. Whiteface whined, then looked up. Its owner began walking onwards with a half-hidden scowl. After several heartbeats of keeping quiet and letting thoughts run through his head, he spoke: "I'm not a clown, you know. I'm an animal trainer, a slanger, a bull handler. I made big cats dance and elephants perform tricks. I made the crowd tensed and anticipated to see whether I would come out alive from a locked cage of cats. I made them holler and whoop when I did, and made them scream in horror when I didn't. Sometimes, they thought it was part of the act."
The Scout remained unimpressed. He snorted. "So?"
The Trainer looked up, eyes unreadable. "So I'm proud of it. I'm proud that I could make animals obey, that I could pick the lock in time. I'm proud of it like how you're proud of your speed and youth, and how your mother depends on you. Like you, when your mother grows worried, you feel pressure. All you can do is cook up an excuse, train harder and hopefully win the battle. I couldn't do anything. I got wounds and scars and humiliation. You got guilt for lying to your mother."
He sighed, long and low, gaze shifting to stare at the tiles of the floor. A hand was lifted to trace the faded claw scar on his right cheekbone down to his collarbone. It looked incomplete and abrupt, and the Bostonian assumed that whatever predatory cat that inflicted it did not get a good, clean hit. Inhaling slowly, the older of the two looked up and smiled. "Seriously, though, thanks for letting me do that flip. I haven't done stuff like that in ages since I left the Big One."
The runner blinked, confused. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to give comfort? Or compare stories? Say: "No problem, all you did was just crushed my voice box"? Scold him again? Start another fistfight? Okay, admittedly, maybe solving every problem with his fists was not the best solution. He made a mental note to rethink that.
Not knowing exactly what to do, the words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them: "Da heck is da 'Big One'?"
There was an overly dramatic gasp of pure shock and horror. "You've never heard of the Ringing Brothers and Barley and Bainum Circus?!" The newcomer pretended to stumble, grasping his chest where his heart was, and choked on nothing like he was having a heart attack. "Whiteface, catch me."
The German Shepherd yelped, startled, when its master slumped onto the floor like a limp marionette. It padded forward, sniffing cautiously before licking the handler's face. He remained unmoving.
The Scout stared down at the other with a raised brow. "Pfft, drama queen," Nudging him with a foot, he continued: "Geddup, ya weirdo. I've heard of ya circus. I think dey visited Boston once."
An eye peered up, framed by four faded teardrops. The taller of the two pushed himself up with a soft grunt, one hand nudging the hound away. "Good, good, what was your favourite act?"
"Never took da time ta choose one. Some guy jus' came up ta me an' my bros, told us dat if we helped out wit' settin' up da tents, we'd get in free'a charge. Bros thought it was a good idea ta bring Ma along." The runner started up the stairs. They still had a Pyro to find.
The Trainer chuckled and nodded, understanding. "Ah, kid pushers and Annie Oakleys. Were they papering the house that time? Because I think I saw a group of male twins and triplets when I was working as a cage boy for my father."
The younger mercenary made a weird noise of stifled amusement and disbelief from the back of his throat. "Cage boy? An' you call me gay."
"Hey, it's not what you think it is." the handler said in defence. "I had to clean cages, feed and water the animals, and do a whole bunch of other chores. Then there's the arena when I had to watch my father work and prepare to help if something bad happened." There was a pause as memories were recollected. "Sometimes accidents happen even when there's no performance. One of the twins nearly got their hand chomped off by a bear that day."
The Scout shrugged indifferently. "Don't ask me f'r confirmation; I can't remember crap from then." Something bumped his leg, and he looked down to see Whiteface. Furrowing his brows, he looked back up at the dog's owner. "Say, what happened ta ya other pet?"
The other gave him a displeased look. "They're not pets, they're partners." Nevertheless, he glanced around worriedly and swore under his breath. "Damn it, he's gone again. Not much to worry about, but still," he said, eyes flickering up to make contact, "can't have him sticking his snout into trouble. White, you can find him, right?"
The German Shepherd barked gruffly in response, tilting its head in bemusement.
The younger man nodded. "You go find da lil' mutt, I'll keep searchin' for Py'."
"Give it a rest, Scout; it'll probably be back for battle tomorrow."
He shook his head. "Naw, I've had enough'a Pyro sulkin'. Gonna cheer it up."
The Trainer nodded. He began walking upstairs, leading Whiteface along. "Ah, all right. Good night, then."
"Night." the leaner man replied. However, before he could leave, he heard the newcomer calling him:
"Hey Scout?"
He looked up and noticed the ex-circus performer's head poking out from the corner. "Yeah?"
"We're cool, right?"
The Bostonian hesitated for a moment, remembering how badly he had beaten the other mercenary up, before shrugging. "Yeah, I guess so."
A grin was flashed, and then the newbie was gone.
The speedster rolled his eyes. "Crazy jackass," he muttered, stuffing his bandaged hands into his pockets. He made his way outside, figuring that if the Pyro was nowhere to be found indoors, that felt about three places to check. He deliberately walked through the garage just in case the firebug was there, but all that greeted him in the dimly-lit room was the Sniper's camper van. There were extra spaces for Miss Pauling's monthly visits and an occasional supply delivery truck, both of which were currently absent, giving the area a vacant atmosphere.
The Scout paid little to no heed as he stepped outside—the stutters never had a need to be closed, considering the fact that there was a fence surrounding the barracks. Before him, quite a distance away, was one of the few gates that would actually open, and the one that the BLUs exited from when it came to getting to the tracks to wait for the train before missions. It blocked off the road that wound into the base's garage.
It took a moment to register how cooling the December air of Badlands was outside the base. It struck like a dull bell, making him slightly numb and relaxed. A shiver shook him when he was suddenly enveloped by the chilly air, and he huffed. There was a half-moon hanging overhead in the dark veil of the night. The lack of numerous street lights around the large span of land granted the sky to be filled with stars that flickered and twinkled like annoying butt-flashing fireflies.
Looking to the side, the runner was thankful that there was no snow in the particular part of Badlands where the barracks were built. He started running through the training field nearby, glancing left and right in hopes to find the familiar masked maniac in blue, but no luck. He leaped over the balancing beam that no one ever used save for the Soldier, or anyone forced to use it by the Soldier.
The Scout found the burly patriot aimlessly firing at wooden targets in the training room—literally; he was using the Beggar's Bazooka. The younger man ignored the aged metal notice on the fence separating the safe zone from the firing range, warning him not to enter when weapons were being tested and/or practice was in session.
"What's up?" he greeted as he walked up beside the larger man. The latter grunted in response and lowered his Primary weapon, eyes glancing over at the lean mercenary from under his helmet.
"Private," the Soldier acknowledged curtly with an equally curt nod. "Came to train?"
The runner shook his head. "Nah," His grey eyes surveyed the area, attention switching from one charred mark to another, caused by the explosive impacts of the Midwesterner's rockets. Then he froze.
"…Pyro?"
The thing in a blue fire-retardant suit did not look up. It was standing outside the firing range, safe from most harm save for a stray rocket or two, staring at a bunch of staked crates that had always been there for aesthetics and emergencies. Kind of foolish, to be honest, considering the fact that an explosion could set them off, but that had never happened, so nobody paid any heed.
However, as for the Pyro…
The lanky merc launched himself at the Pyro, crying out the fire-wielder's title to catch its attention, but to no avail.
The Soldier grabbed the Scout by the arm, grip firm and strong and somewhat tensed as he yanked the other back. The latter scowled and tried to jerk away, but the older man was stronger.
The Bostonian snapped at his teammate, "Lemme go talk ta it!"
"I told you earlier to give it some time, Scout." the patriot stated sternly.
"But—!"
"Don't start this argument, private."
The leaner mercenary's scowl deepened and he forcefully yanked his arm away. It stung. "Fine." he spat, voice dripping with acidic venom. He turned to walk away. "I'll be back wit' a frickin' gun. Just let me keep an eye on it."
The Soldier nodded. "Affirmative." As he watched his colleague leave, he spoke up: "Scout, tuck your shirt in properly. It looks like an animal was dragging you backwards by the shirt."
The Scout remained silent as he entered the weapon storage in search of the Flying Guillotine.
An annoyed grumble rose from the back of his throat.
The Spy was hoping that there would be more informative files to exploit, a résumé or something useful. However, as plain and simple as the tenth dorm was, he found nothing much. It was as irritating as the lack of proper lighting in the room—better safe than sorry. There was the usual bed, wardrobe, desk and chair, along with two blue dog beds near the main bed and a dust-lined window. He had checked around in places where people would probably hide things, but had to make sure that he left no evidence that he was snooping about.
The less he messed with, the better.
He stared down at the desk's drawer with a hint of disgust and skepticism—the small space was partially filled with toys for the dogs, from rubber chew toys to tough ropes for tug-of-war. Reluctantly, he pulled the drawer out to its fullest, making sure it would not come off, and noticed a bland-looking box no bigger than a shoebox—most likely holding more toys—and a plain postcard. He gave a short, nonchalant hum and picked up the thin piece of cardboard.
Dear Leon,
I certainly hoped that you're reading this once you've settled down with your new job. The family still misses you, and it'd be nice if you could call us up more often. We're using those funny-looking wireless telephones that the wacky Australians invented, you know. Don't tell me you've forgotten our numbers.
Anyway, your father and sister are doing good, and so are the animals with your mother's veterinary skills. Your brother Sylvester has been trying to woo my lovely assistant, but whenever and whatever the radio plays, Maeve keeps going on about how you two danced the night away. She might be heartbroken, but I'm just glad she's not pregnant.
I found your lost LP set, by the way. Don't lose it this time, and take care, little lion.
The postcard was flipped around with much confusion. With furrowing brows and a slight frown, the Spy realised that there was no address of any kind written. Other than the loud words of "YOU KNOW WHEN TO READ THIS" on the front, there was nothing else of interest left. He sighed in annoyance and placed the card back into its original place. More than one toy squeaked when he closed the drawer shut due to momentum. He made a mental note to avoid that lest he gets caught.
There was a soft click from the door, and panic seized the Frenchman for a moment. He swiftly ducked into a corner, pressing himself into the wall behind him and activating his Cloak and Dagger. The side of the wardrobe left him with only one exit, but he was confident that he could slip out afterwards once the Trainer and his animal companions went to sleep.
However long that would take.
The blue door was opened, sealing the Spy in his hiding place for a moment before being shut. The single source of light was switched on. He cautiously watched as the newcomer got the alpha dog to sit down and stay still so that he could fiddle with the hound's collar.
Craning his neck and squinting his eyes, the infiltrator noticed that the room's key was being attached to the collar. He wanted to huff at how absurd the idea was, but stopped himself.
A soft tune filled the air—the Trainer was humming, the Spy mused to himself. There was nothing else to focus on but the soft, lullaby-like sounds and every action that the newbie was doing. Said person stretched and took a deep breath, before proceeding to slump onto the chair.
The disguiser raised an eyebrow when the handler opened the drawer and slipped an arm inside. He could not see what was happening with the younger man's back blocking.
There were soft sounds of paper being moved, and from his corner, the Spy caught a glimpse of the small box, and the Trainer picked up the postcard.
The humming trailed off into silence. He smirked. "Oh, bugger you, M," he murmured. He placed the note back down onto the box, shaking his head fondly. "One day I'll chain you upside-down in an underwater coffin surrounded by sharks." There was a sigh, then the new mercenary grew quiet for a long moment, gazing at the box.
"You'd love that."
The Spy waited, tensed with anticipation. He wanted the animal-expert to open the small parcel, to see what was inside. Part of him was glad that he did not unwrap that parcel himself, because that would mean a troublesome time-consuming moment where he had to open it, investigate, and seal it so that it looked as if nothing touched it in the first place.
Much to the masked man's disappointment, the Trainer placed the box and postcard back. The latter blinked in surprise when Harlequin tried to leap onto his lap, barking like a young, energetic puppy. Its owner stared at it in bewilderment.
"I don't speak dog, Harle'," he told the canine. When it began throwing its head to one side, he simply chuckled and pushed the leaner war dog away so that he could stand up. "Don't be scared of ghosts, boy, if you ignore them, they won't bother you."
The Spy grew rigid as the Trainer approached the wardrobe, but relaxed a little when all he did was open the door. The younger man looked back, the corners of his lips twitching up slightly, and he shook his head.
He looked over at the two dogs, closing the door before hooking his thumbs into his pants pockets. He observed their grey eyes intently. "Though, I was taught that if a spirit kept bothering you, you have to ask it a question—"
Movement too quick to register caught the Spy off-guard. The next thing he knew, he was slammed against the wall and pain shot through his back and up his elbows. He bit back a yowl of shock and grunted instead, instinctively choosing the quieter and more professional-looking alternative to express his feelings on the currently situation. Hands gripped his upper arms, right above the elbow, with painful tightness, restricting his movement to a certain degree. Realisation dawned upon him like a heavy pebble in his stomach.
He was no longer Cloaked.
Grey eyes drilled into grey eyes, one of amusement, one of malice.
Both were equally menacing.
"—can I help you, little snake?" the Trainer asked, grinning like a Cheshire cat, too close for comfort. He ducked his head to press it against the other's cheek and neck, and the latter's head against the wall so that he could not head-butt the younger man.
"Get off of me." hissed the Spy. He shifted to kick out at his attacker, but one of his legs was trapped—the ex-circus performer had a knee planted between the infiltrator's legs. Neither wanted to find out what would happen if the newer merc kicked.
"Can't do," the former said with a shake of his head, the smile still plastered on his face. When he felt the veteran mercenary struggle, he could only laugh and tighten his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, Spy."
"You're ruining my suit." the Frenchman spat venomously.
"You're ruining yourself, suit and reputation. I honestly thought you'd be smarter than to walk into a lion's den like that." the American replied calmly, almost as if mocking. "You could've waited until you learned my schedule, you know."
The Spy scowled. "Would 'ave been easier if you left behind more information, little lion," He spat out the last two words like it were poison.
There was a hum, understanding and indifferent. "…Here's a tip: The dogs can smell you. Not your cologne; you." His grasp around the older man's arms loosened a tad. "Now if you'd like, we could pretend this evening never happened, or I could tell everyone what a bad Spy you are, forgetting about the dogs' keen senses."
There was a grumble, resentful, spiteful, acidic.
A chuckle responded the Frenchman. "I'll take that as a yes." With that, the Trainer released his colleague and stood back, allowing the latter to sooth his sore arms and straighten his jacket. The handler opened the door and glanced outside. Even though the disguiser's room was right opposite the animal handler's, it was best to take precautions. Fortunately, the hallway was empty.
The Spy cleared his throat and turned his glare into a hard, grudging gaze. "I'm surprised zhat you're still in contact with anyone outside, Leon."
The younger man laughed light-heartedly, waving it off. "That's an old package M saved. He found my tenth birthday's lost gift and sent it over with a letter." He took a step back and leaned against the wall behind him, tossing over the forgotten Cloak and Dagger whilst jerking his chin towards the door. His grin was gone. "Now get out."
The Spy did so, bitterly and cautiously. He kept his eyes on the newcomer, narrowed with suspicion and aversion.
The simper crept up the Trainer's face, unnervingly casual. "Good night, Spy."
The farewell was not returned.
Their boots caused soft crunches and rustles from stepping on wet grass. The silence of the night was nothing truly quiet, crickets were chirping, the rain pelting down noisily, thunder was roaring in a distance and a toad was croaking somewhere away from the humans nearby. They tried not to feel unnerved by the cloak of darkness suffocating them in its tight, uncomfortable embrace as they trudged along, their homemade pride and joy heavy in their grasp as they approached the small clock tower.
The door was easy to open, though not all that smoothly. They cared none, feet carrying them into the void of darkness to find the light switch, out of the storm and into shelter. Once they did, they proceeded to the main part of their plan.
Stacked in front of them were plenty of large boxes from the bakery, meant to hold equally large cakes and other pastries. Sometimes, on special occasions like birthdays and celebrations, there would be toys and faeries and maybe even little puppies and kittens and canaries in the boxes.
They smiled in anticipation. It felt like Smissmas morning. All they had to do was decorate the room so that the rest of the family could get a delightful surprise and play some music, just in case there were little baby animals that needed coaxing to come out.
There was the popping of bubbles, then the chirping of little birds.
An eagle screamed overhead, invisible in the dark, and abruptly smashed itself into them, throwing them onto their back on the ground.
They lost a breath they did not know they had.
A/N: This chapter was extremely fun to write, especially the dialogue. The wall pin executed is a real move used if you need to control someone without hurting them, even though it invades their personal space.
Changed the Trainer up and made him take the Mary Sue Litmus Test again. He scored a thirteen and would've gotten a ten if I ignored parts like living with the canon characters (they all have to live together), spending more time with the canon characters than their own friends (all of them have to, can't go all the way back to Germany or Australia everyday) and being noticed by everyone when they make their first appearance (there are only nine people who probably aren't too friendly to intruders).
Coming up next: "Da Hell's goin' on?! We under attack or somethin'?!"
Pleasant days and peaceful nights.
EDIT: Had to change the circus name just in case.