Not sure if this is overall a weaker chapter than the previous ones or if, like Caligula, I am steadily getting worse the longer I am left in charge.


Chapter Ten: Shadows on the Wall

"Purple is a good color on you! Moreso than me, I have to admit."

Pauling glanced up from examining herself in the full-length mirror. She tugged at her new purple shirt, smoothing out the creases. "Ah, thank you! And thanks for the new clothes."

After their plan for breaking into the Gray Industries factory had been outlined, the Brute Squad had retired for the evening in exhaustion. The men were bunking in the bar, but Lizzie had insisted on Pauling accompanying her back to her apartment. Pauling, in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes, hadn't been too hard to convince.

The next morning broke hot and early, and Lizzie had woken Pauling up by dumping a heap of clothes onto the bed. Pauling had instinctively gone for the purples, and was now impeccably dressed in smooth black pants and a billowing purple shirt, with a buckle cinched around her midriff to keep it all together.

"Gotta look good for breaking into secret facilities, y'know?" Lizzie inclined her head. At her feet a young girl played with a doll, mindless of the adults above. Lizzie smiled down at her daughter, eyes soft. "Lauren agrees. Right, kiddo?"

Lauren glanced up from her doll and nodded solemnly. Lizzie grinned down at her. "She's got her uncle's disposition, I'm afraid."

A small click had Lizzie looking up again. Pauling was all business as she moved around the bedroom, tucking her loaded revolver out-of-sight. Lizzie watched her with clear fascination. And then she smiled sadly. "I must admit, I envy you slightly. It must be terribly exciting—all these adventures and mysteries—like all the stories 'Rence and I acted out when we were little." She made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Pauling paused in the middle of getting ready. She'd never thought of her life as glamorous before—exhausting, yes, headache-inducing, certainly, dangerous, constantly—but never enviable. On the surface, perhaps, it did seem exciting: being able to jet-set all over the world at a moment's notice in the company of trained killers, trying to stop the end of the world. It sounded a little like a Bond novel. Of course, that was without considering the danger that allowed her to be an international agent in the first place. Pauling returned Lizzie's sad smile. "And sometimes I envy you. Waking up in the same place at the same time all the time, knowing what you can expect to happen each day…it may be hard to believe, but that sounds wonderful."

"Boring, but practical." Lizzie stooped to pick up Lauren, hushing the young girl as she protested. "Don't worry, it makes perfect sense. Lawrence and I tend to live vivaciously through each other, believe it or not. I get a taste of adventure and he gets a taste of home. That's why he told me so much about what the REDs were doing, and—oh! I hope he doesn't get in too much trouble for not keeping everything a secret." Her eyes widened at the thought.

"No need to worry," Pauling assured her. She was now smoothing out her hair. "It doesn't matter now, really."

She paused in the middle of tying her bun, watching Lizzie in the mirror. Lizzie swayed slightly on the spot, cooing to Lauren in soft undertones and making playful threats about Uncle Lawrence and what they were going to do with him once he got back. Lauren giggled and squirmed in her mother's arms, trying to stay out of reach of tickling fingers.

A sudden rush of homesickness filled Pauling—but it was an odd sort of homesickness, an intense and terrible nostalgia for something she had never known, something that up to this point she had never considered. For a moment grief for what might have been paralyzed her on the spot.

The moment passed, the odd sorrow drained away, and Pauling shook herself. Back to life, she said to herself, back to mercs, back to war. This is no time for silly dreaming. She spun back around, ready to leave, but it was too late. Lizzie, with all the omnipotence only a mother was capable of, had seen the shadow pass across Pauling's face. She now looked straight at Pauling with a puzzled expression, unconsciously barring the door. Pauling took a deep breath. "Yes? Is everything all right, Miss Mundy?"

"Lizzie," Lizzie corrected for what had to have been the twentieth time. She was still staring at Pauling. "I was just wondering…if there was anything you needed to talk about. It has to be stressful, huh?"

Pauling's throat constricted suddenly and painfully, betraying her plan to remain composed. "Yes. It does get stressful, sometimes."

Lizzie moved over to her bed and sat down, patting the quilt beside her. When Pauling hesitated, Lizzie arched her eyebrows. "A little girl talk is necessary now and then, don't you think? Don't worry, Lauren can't spill any secrets." Lauren, on Lizzie's lap, grinned up at Pauling and babbled nonsense.

Slowly, Pauling eased herself down onto the bed beside Lizzie. She didn't look at the other woman—rather, she stared at the opposite wall with a wistful expression. A full minute went by before she started to speak. "I wasn't kidding when I said I envy you. I've thought about it. Settling down, marrying, having kids. I mean…" Pauling sighed. "It's what every little girl thinks about at some point."

Lizzie nodded and then arched her eyebrows. "There's a 'but' in there somewhere, I can feel it."

"But—" Pauling shrugged "—I've put so much time and effort into work that personal things have just sort of…fallen to the side. I just don't have time for romantic attachments anymore. And maybe I'm all right with that. I don't know for certain, yet, but I don't really see myself settling down." The last she said mostly to herself, in a sudden, wondering tone, "I mean, we can't all be housewives."

"Nah. You should leave the housework to us that are good at it." Lizzie grinned toothily. "I'll leave the mercenary-wrangling to you. That's what you're good at."

Pauling chuckled and shook her head. "Someone has to be."

They sat in silence for a while longer, with only the babbling Lauren to break the silence. Then Pauling's shoulders sank "L-Liz…" Pauling stumbled over the name, not used to such intimacy, to calling someone by a fond nickname. "Thank you. It's good to talk, sometimes. I had sort of…forgotten how to."

"Remember!" Soldier barked. "Make eye contact! Show her you're not afraid!"

"Give her gifts like flowers," Heavy suggested. "Women like gifts. Especially flowers."

"Compliment her," Medic advised. "Make her feel like she is the only woman in the world."

"And smile." Demoman jabbed a finger in the pale Bidwell's direction. "Lassies like a bloke what smiles a lot."

Bidwell managed a small, wavering smile, the type someone might sport just before throwing up. Not that anyone could blame him; trying to absorb multiple bits of romantic advice from oversized killing machines was turning out to be much harder than grilling an eagle steak breakfast. They had been at this all morning, for, contrary to popular belief, the mercenaries could be exceedingly shrewd when they put their minds to it, and the way Bidwell lit up every time he so much as mentioned the name Pauling hadn't gone unnoticed by the REDs. Prying the confession out of the lovesick majordomo had been the easy task—giving him proper advice was turning out to be much harder.

Demoman squinted at Bidwell's weak smile. "Well…ye could do worse."

Bidwell sighed and sank forward in his seat. "It's hopeless—AAARGH!"

Soldier had grabbed Bidwell by the collar and pulled him to his feet in order to glare at him properly. He snorted at the squirming Bidwell. "Listen here, you little weevil! Are you a man or are you a mouse?"

"I'm a man, Soldier! Now let me go!"

"No! A real man does not give up hope! A real man would get out there and woo that nice lady with flowers and compliments and smiles and eye contact!" Soldier shook him slightly. "A real man does not give up hope, even when all the odds are against him! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, yes! Lemme go!"

Satisfied with his pep talk, Soldier relinquished his grip on Bidwell's collar. The young man went staggering back into the table, cursing under his breath and smoothing out his rumpled clothes. The REDs exchanged contented nods with each other, pleased with their handiwork.

Christian, who had been regulated to the role of lookout and who had been watching the scene with a mixture of amusement and sympathy, suddenly sat up straight. He glanced over his shoulder out the window. "They're coming!"

The REDs shoved Bidwell towards the entrance, which he automatically wrenched open. He bowed slightly as Pauling and Lizzie (toting a dozing Lauren) walked in, making them giggle. Bidwell stared after Pauling with grin. It took a small cough from Medic to jar him into action. "Pauling!"

Pauling glanced over her shoulder. "Yes?"

Bidwell burned bright red and gestured to her new attire. "You look…casual." He looked away, mumbling something about the hot weather. Behind him Soldier slapped a hand to his forehead and Medic rolled his eyes, exasperated with the hopeless suitor.

Pauling beamed, although she seemed unaware of the true source of Bidwell's discomfort. "You look causal too. We'll blend in much better this way. Is everyone ready?"

"Ma'am yes ma'am!" Soldier and Demoman both saluted her, giving Bidwell enough time to recompose himself.

"Well then—" she clapped her hands to her sides, all business "—let's get this over with."

"Archimedes." Medic snapped his fingers and then pointed to the bar. "Stay."

The dove obeyed, fluttering over the bar and perching himself there nicely. Medic gave him a level look. Archimedes fluffed his feathers in response and settled down. Satisfied, the doctor exited along with the rest.

Christian, meanwhile, had tugged Lizzie into the back. He ruffled Lauren's hair affectionately before he glancing around for intruders. Seeing that the area was clear, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the tip of Lizzie's nose. "Watch the bar."

Lizzie leaned into the kiss. "Watch your back." She stood on tip-toe, enough that he could lean down further and press his forehead to hers. They savored the rare moment together, breathing in time. Christian pulled away first, leaving Lizzie to smile after him sadly.

Christian had composed himself by the time he joined the others, careful to keep his face blank as he climbed into the back of the truck the REDs had borrowed. Unfortunately, Christian's best simply wasn't good enough for the eagle-eyed mercenaries. Medic coughed and nudged Heavy, who exchanged a knowing look with Demoman, who elbowed Soldier gleefully. Soldier just shook his head in exasperation.

Pauling glanced into the rearview mirror at her sullen brood. She lowered her gaze again to grin at Bidwell, who grinned back. She couldn't help but to feel that this was a very odd family vacation.

In two short years the Gray Industries factory had fallen into disrepair and disuse. Nevertheless, it managed to strike an impressive figure against the Australian backdrop, a dark spot against the brilliant scene. It cast a long shadow across the landscape, its pipes jutting into the sky to mar the bright day.

Demoman had to admire the chilling effect the GI factory had. He stepped back a little, titling his head back to get a better view. The rest hovered in front of the sealed employee entrance, watching Christian intently.

Christian studied the palm signature pad with a finger to his chin. "It relies on identification, but I think we can fool it—"

BOOM.

With a weak groan the heavy iron door snapped off its hinges. It collapsed back with an all-mighty crash, making Bidwell and Christian wince. Heavy just grinned down at his handiwork, rubbing at his reddened knuckles as he did so. "Fooling takes too long," he said as way of explanation.

Christian stared down at the door and made a small, guttural noise of what might have been agreement. The mercenaries and Pauling just shared amused looks. Bidwell exchanged a look with Christian before stepping through the doorframe. He took a few steps forward, glancing this way and that for signs of danger. The rest hovered in the doorframe and waiting for Bidwell's assessment.

Bidwell jumped up and down on the spot. "It doesn't seem too—AARGH!"

At his shout the REDs jumped back a pace, scrambling for their weapons. Pauling charged forward, but was grabbed back at the last second by Christian, who held the squirming woman firmly in place. "BIDWELL!"

Soft, nervous laughter echoed from inside the factory. Bidwell stepped back into the light, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry. There was a mouse."

Pauling wrenched herself out of Christian's grasp, uttered a very un-lady-like oath that had Soldier gasping, and strode forward. She paused just long enough to punch Bidwell in the shoulder before continuing on into the heart of the factory.

Bidwell winced and rubbed at his shoulder, staring after Pauling with a dazed expression—one that was promptly wiped from his face when Heavy grabbed him by the collar and hauled him along into the abandoned factory. The men followed Pauling into the empty and dust-choked mezzanine.

"There are six floors," Christian explained as he kicked up a cloud of dust bunnies. "The lower floors are development, the upper floors are all business." He slowed his steps, eyes darkening in memory. He pointed to the stairwell leading to the lower floors. "The robots came from there."

"We'll take that, then," Demoman volunteered, indicating himself and Soldier.

Pauling nodded. "All right. You two take the lower floors. Heavy, Medic, you two take this floor and the next. Bidwell, Christian and I will take the upper floors."

Soldier raised his hand politely. "Miss Pauling, just what are we looking for?"

"Clues," Pauling said firmly. "Clues that will help us figure out how Gray built his robot army, and whether or not they have any weaknesses. Just…hold onto things that might be of value, okay?"

"Don't trip any alarms," Christian warned.

"And watch out for mice." Bidwell grinned.

Pauling rolled her eyes, and with that the company split into three, each heading for their destination, and none noticing the slight movement from behind the stairwell.

"Hush! You are as subtle as a battleship on tip-toe."

Heavy glowered at Medic but didn't say a word. Instead he eased up on his tread as best he could for a man of his girth. Medic, who was casting furious glances this way and that, didn't comment on Heavy's improved gait.

The duo had found nothing remotely of interest on the middling floors thus far, but Medic remained on high alert nonetheless. The sensation of being watched dogged him, and try as he might he could not shake it off. He'd been subject to too many sneak attacks from the BLU Spy not to know when he was being followed. His hand curled around the hilt of his syringe gun.

A huge BANG! sounded out behind them. Medic jumped a foot and swung around, yanking his syringe gun out of its holster and aiming it straight at—

—nothing.

There was no sign of life anywhere, save for their shadows on the wall.

Scattered papers, broken pencils and pens, file drawers stuffed to the brim with formal, text-heavy documents.

It was enough to give any aide flashbacks.

With a heavy sigh Pauling put aside her nostalgia and focused on the task at hand. She grabbed for another thick stack of paperwork, settling down into a saggy office chair. None of the paperwork was of much interest—ledgers and departmental notes, quarterly reports and business cards—but she had to keep trying nonetheless. If she got sloppy, she might overlook something of importance. As she looked over designs for a new toaster, Pauling inwardly cursed herself and her commitment to commitment.

She, Bidwell, and Christian had been at this for the last twenty minutes, with nothing to show for it save the dust coating their clothes. The upper offices had already been stripped of anything of real importance, it seemed. Behind her Christian was rummaging through a desk drawer, tossing a stapler and some tape over his shoulder. Bidwell had disappeared further down the row of offices to cover more ground.

"Huh."

Christian's soft exclamation had Pauling pausing in her vigilant search. "What is it? Did you find something?"

"Yes…but not really." Christian held up a yellowed parchment as Pauling twisted around to look at him. "Apparently Gray was a benefactor for some orphanage in England. Funny…I never considered him to be the charitable type."

"I suppose even evil masterminds have to have a measure of good publicity."

Christian studied the document further. "I wonder…"

"PAULING!"

Bidwell's shout cut Christian's musings short. Both Pauling and Christian dropped whatever they were holding and bolted out of the room, down the corridor towards Bidwell's shout. Pauling had already drawn her handgun by the time they burst into the large, disheveled office. "BIDWELL!"

Bidwell swung around in the swivel office chair. It spun a little too far, forcing Bidwell to catch himself and push the chair backwards again. Once he had himself situated he cocked an eyebrow in Pauling's direction. "There was no need to rush."

Pauling could have hit him, and she might have, if not for Christian's allaying hand on her shoulder. The bartender pushed them both further into the office, which was by far the most impressive out of the ones they'd seen thus far. "What is it, Bidwell?"

"I found something." Bidwell grinned and swung back around to the desk. He snatched a handful of officially-stamped papers off the desk and swung around a third time, extending them to an incised Pauling.

She snatched them away and began to scan them, only half-reading the words as she scolded Bidwell: "Bidwell, while I appreciate your attempts at keeping things light, I would ask for a little more…professionalism…in your…demeanor…"

The words on the page were finally beginning to sink in, and as they did her scowl fell away. Her grip on the papers tightened, mouth moving along to the printed words as if she couldn't quite understand what she was reading.

Mr. Mann—

In regards to your latest correspondence, the Minister of Defense would like a proper demonstration of the developed technology. Should the A.I. units prove sufficient, we will then discuss means and methods of contracting you…

She was aware of Christian reading the missive over her shoulder, but when Pauling looked up again she only had eyes for the suddenly grim Bidwell. Bidwell leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "How many robots," he said softly, "does it take to start World War III?"

The R&D department was the most sorely neglected section of the entire factory, and it showed. A thick layer of dust coated everything, cobwebs and mouse bones littered the path, and the stale smell of blood lingered in the air. Here, the signs of ruin and decay where mixed with the signs of an old struggle. Demoman brushed his fingers against a bullet hole in the wall, expression solemn. He could almost hear Sniper and Spy's furious fight against the malicious artificial intelligence, could almost see phantom shapes fighting in the gloom. "This place is haunted."

Soldier was not so easily rattled. He peered down the empty corridor, fingers drumming against his belt. "So? What are they gonna do? Spook us to death?"

"Possibly." Demoman was dead serious. "Tread light, Sol. This is an evil place."

Soldier snorted in derision, but out of respect for their friendship he did walk slower and more calmly than usual. Demoman fell into place behind him.

"LET'S DO IT!"

At the all-too-similar shout both men stopped dead in their tracks. Demoman's eye widened slightly. It was his own shout echoing down the hallway, but he hadn't said a word. His own maniacal laughter followed after the shout, but Demoman's lips remained sealed shut.

Soldier looked at him, baffled and suddenly unnerved. "Are you a ghost?" the American asked.

"No!"

Soldier gave him a rough shove to be sure, but he wasn't satisfied until Demoman punched him. While Soldier staggered back to regain his composure and his pride, Demoman took another step down the hall. "Hullo?"

"Consider yourself dominated, you Scotch sonuvabitch!"

Soldier rejoined Demoman at once. Eyes wide, he began to pat around his person as if to confirm that he was still solid. Demoman shook his head. "Ye not a ghost either, Sol."

"Hmm. That's what these Australians want you to think—"

A single light flicked in the distance. Soldier and Demoman frozen.

"YA BLOODY FRUIT SHOP OWNER!"

Demoman and Soldier exchanged another look. That was Mundy's voice, all right, but that was impossible. He was a world away…

More familiar sounds followed: gunshots and shouts and beeping sentries, the crackle of an Ubercharge. Together Demoman and Soldier moved towards the source of the sounds, any sense of fear beaten back by curiosity.

The room they stepped into was empty, save for the plethora of screens plastered against one wall. All of these screens were on, flickering from image to image with no rhyme or reason. Demoman approached the largest screen slowly, good eye narrowed as he recognized the landscape onscreen.

It was Teufort—hot, dusty, and whole, although scorched slightly from a firefight between two Pyros. Demoman watched Scout bounce across the battlefield with his bat in hand, howling insults as he did so. Demoman's chest constricted suddenly, making it oddly difficult to breathe. Soldier planted a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a little in a show of support. He glanced down and his grip on Demoman's shoulder tightened. "What's all this about, then?"

The floor around them was littered with old blueprints and photos. Blueprints and photos, Demoman realized with a jolt, of them.

He stooped to pick one blueprint up. It was titled "DOE, JANE". All of Soldier's physical characteristics were cramped into one corner in small, tight handwriting. The rest of the blueprint was an overly-detailed anatomical make-up of Soldier, right down to the treads on his boots. Demoman scanned the blueprint before looking back at the screens, where an on-screen Soldier had just performed a daring rocket jump.

Demoman looked back to the blueprint, and then back to the screen, and then back to the blueprint again. A low groan escaped him. "Oh no."

"He was making contracts with the Americans, with the Soviets, with the Australians!" Pauling exclaimed, half in wonderment and half in admiration. "He was playing them all like fiddles!"

"He's not just arming them all." Bidwell's voice was muffled, for he had buried his head in his hands. "He's arming them all with robots. Replica robots of the most deadly men on earth!"

"I will take zat as a compliment," Medic grumbled. He and Heavy shared a look before Medic collapsed down in an office chair. "What now then, hm?"

The Brute Squad (plus Christian) had regrouped in the largest office on the upper floors to report their findings. None of it was particularly comforting. It seemed Gray Mann was bent not only on the destruction of the world, but using their likenesses to do so. It was defamation of the highest caliber, as Soldier had put it.

Demoman took a swig from his hip flask and wiped his mouth. "So now what? We can't fight these bloody things. The BLUs tried, and they failed. We came here lookin' for weaknesses…but these 'bots don't have any."

Bidwell raised his head out of his hands to share a look with Pauling, who sighed. "The only man who can stop Gray and his robots now is Saxton Hale."

"Da," Heavy rumbled, "you are mentioning this before. But we have no idea where Hale is."

"Darling does," Bidwell muttered, tone venomous.

Pauling swung around to face him fully. They stared at each other for a moment, neither moving at inch. "There's only one way," she said slowly, "to get Hale back."

Bidwell shifted in his spot. He gnawed at his bottom lip in consideration before sighing. "Very well! Ayers bloody Rock it is!"

The rest looked to him at once, but it was Christian who had the most electrified response. The indigenous man set down the snowglobe he'd been tossing from hand-to-hand, going very, very still as Bidwell continued to talk. The expression Christian bore was one that did not suit him in the slightest.

Bidwell was oblivious; he was too focused on spelling out Darling's request to the REDs: "—and now he wants us to break into Ayers Rock to retrieve the last of the unclaimed Australium."

Heavy's frown deepened. "We have heard no news of dwindling Australium."

"Of course not, Pinko!" Soldier said as he stooped to pick up a rat sniffing around his boot. "If your country was running out of sickles and hammers, would you broadcast it to the rest of the world?"

Heavy scowled, ready with a retort, but Bidwell waved him into silence. "It doesn't matter that the Australium is drying up, what matters now is that we get it!"

Christian clenched his fist.

"Honestly," Bidwell continued, "it's amazing that the Australium lasted as long as it has—"

"BECAUSE WE KNEW WELL ENOUGH TO LEAVE IT ALONE!"

Christian barged forward, shoving Pauling and Demoman aside in order to grab Bidwell by the lapels. He swung the spluttering majordomo to his feet and slammed him up against the wall. The Aborigine was heaving, shoulders shaking as he stared Bidwell down. When he spoke his voice was a guttural growl: "We knew well enough to leave it alone. Uluru was sacred ground! Its contents were not to be touched! Uluru was holy ground, and that bloody gold was the curse for disturbing it! We knew it was dangerous. That shit sparkles pretty but it'll fuck your head up sideways! And then you people came along and only saw a profit, never mind what that profit would wind up costing you. Good men DIE when they mess with Australium." His eyes darkened in memory, mouth twisted into a scowl. "We tried to warn you. We tried to tell you. And what did we get for our troubles?" His dark eyes flashed. "Nothing but death and ruin. That's what waits for you in Uluru. Death and ruin."

Christian's mouth pulled into a thin, hard line. He looked over the pale Bidwell in disgust before relinquishing his grasp on him. He wiped his hand on his vest as if he'd touched something disgusting and turned away. Bidwell slipped down to the floor, looking horrified.

Silence enveloped them. It was a long minute before Pauling stepped forward to put her hand on Christian's shoulder. "Christian…" She bit her lip. "I know…that we have no right to ask you for any more help. But…if we don't do this…it won't just be the death and ruin of your people, or—or of us. It'll be the death and ruin of all peoples."

Christian kept his back to the rest as he considered her words. He rubbed at his chin, eyes roving around the room and yet somehow failing to land on anyone present. He thought long and hard in silence. When he did speak, he spat the words: "Fine. I'll help you find the bloody Australium. But after that, you're on your own."

"Thank you. Now then, what do we do about getting into Ayers Rock?" Pauling stooped to help Bidwell to his feet, addressing the REDs as she did so.

"We have to break in." Heavy shrugged and then smiled darkly. "Our guns will be blazing."

Medic nodded in agreement. "Storming an enemy base is nothing new to us."

Demoman snorted and grinned. "As if breakin' inta anything has ever been our problem—"

Christian's soft laughter cut them all short. The bartender had slumped up against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead in disbelief. Then his laughter died, and he lowered his hand to glare at them all. "One does not simply walk into Ayers Rock. It's protected at all times. It's watched at all times. If you think the Aussie government is gonna let you get within a mile of their last source of Australium than you are dumber than you look. You'll be shot dead before you can knock on the front door."

"Then we sneak in."

Christian's guffaw grated on the ears. "And how do we manage that?"

"You're the resident Aussie," Pauling countered. "Tell us what you know."

Christian fell silent. He eased back, pressing his finger to his chin in sudden thought. The rest watched him with breathless anticipation. Finally he spoke: "There's a train. Only one—a supply train from a local station to Uluru…err, Ayers Rock. No one would bat so much as an eyelash if that train were to come rolling through security."

"A train," Bidwell repeated. "You want us to steal a train."

"If you have any other ideas," Christian snapped, "I'd love to hear it!"

"Stealin' things has never been an issue for us, eh, doc?" Demoman jabbed Medic in the ribs playfully, forcing the German to swat him away.

"We could do it," Heavy said. "It would be no trouble. Except…"

"Except what, Heavy?" Pauling asked.

"Except we will call attention to ourselves in station. It is last thing we want to do, yes?"

"Correct," Medic agreed. "We'll have to find inside aid. Someone who can get us to the train station without trouble. An Australian, perhaps?"

"Don't look at me." Christian scowled as they all looked back to him. "They won't let me anywhere near that station, and you know it. You'll have to find someone else."

Demoman shook his head in despair. "And where are we going to find a muscle-bound idiot with a mustache to do that for us?"

Silence ensued as the group pondered this question. It wasn't as though they were about to win any Australians to their cause, especially when that cause was stealing the last of their most coveted resource. Then Bidwell frowned suddenly. He looked over his shoulder at Soldier, who had been playing with the rat he'd found in silence. Pauling followed Bidwell's gaze, Heavy followed Pauling, and soon enough the entire group sat in silence, staring at Soldier.

Soldier finally felt the weight of so many eyes and looked up at them. He stared at each face in turn, utterly confused. "What?" he demanded. "What did I do now?"

"Sol…how fast can you grow a mustache?"

She was learning more than she expected to. She was learning more than she wanted to.

She learned that Scout still read superhero comics and had been caught trading comics with the BLU Scout twice during work hours. She learned that Soldier kept a raccoon for a pet and a magician for a roommate, that Demoman worked three jobs and it still wasn't enough to please his mum. She learned that Heavy held a PhD in Russian Literature and that Medic had stolen a catering van from the Prime Minister's wedding. She learned that Sniper wrote and called his family as often as he was able. She learned that Spy pretended not to care, but in the end cared most of all.

And she learned that people were harder to want dead when you knew them so well.

Still, she didn't stay away.

She couldn't say why, exactly, except that Dell Conagher had to have been the nicest person she'd ever met, and there was a significant shortage of nice people in her life. She loved Giancarlo—truly she did—but he was not exactly Mr. Personality. And never mind her father. Engineer allowed her to talk without interruption, a luxury she was rarely afforded, and in return he regaled her with stories from the battlefield.

Engineer wiped his brow and blew out a breath, easing up from tightening the screws on the life-extender device in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning at the prattling-on Bianca.

"And then he does the stupidest thing I've ever seen—"

Beep!

Bianca fell silent. She and Engineer both looked to the intercom by the door. Bianca huffed, scowled, and hopped off the workbench. She smoothed out her rumpled skirt and made towards the intercom. "Yes?"

Giancarlo's voice was crackled through the system. "You're needed upstairs."

"I'll be there in thirty seconds."

Bianca turned back around and rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said as she collected her clipboard, "sometimes I think I'm just a glorified maid!"

"I hear ya." Engineer's tone was sympathetic.

Bianca stopped by the doorway. "I'll be back later." It must have occurred to her how forward that sounded, for she rolled to the balls of her feet and hastily added: "If you'd like the company, that is."

"My dear, you are always welcome here." Engineer spread his arms wide.

Bianca beamed and exited.

Engineer waited until Bianca had closed the door to let his smile drop off. His expression hardened, eyes icing over. He allowed his shoulders to slump. It was surprisingly exhausting, playing the role of the genial genius. The REDs had known better than to test his darker side, but Bianca had no such inhibitions. He needed her to trust him if he was to make it out of here, and that required him to act nicer than usual.

He flared his nostrils and turned back to the life-extender machine. It was a long, metal tube, with thin, spider-like tendrils curving out from it. Ideally, it could be attached to a human spine, allowing fluids to pump into the body. Less ideally, if inserted incorrectly it could kill whoever was wearing it.

Engineer fiddled with one loose tendril, taking care to keep his face down. He knew Gray had cameras set up around the workshop—it's what he himself would have done, after all, and Engineer gave himself enough credit to believe he was on-par with Gray Mann—but it was impossible to tell where the cameras were, or if they ran twenty-four seven. Best to look busy, best to act busy.

His fingers slipped and one loose nut went flying, bouncing across the room and landing with a clatter near a small black box Engineer had somehow overlooked. Engineer cursed and made to retrieve the nut. Once he was on his knees, however, he found his gaze drifting to the black box that had, until now, escaped his notice. It was easy to see why—it was a small thing, barely bigger than a child's music box, and featureless, with absolutely nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the objects in the workshop.

Save, however, for the lock on the clasp.

Engineer glanced around once, gnawing at his bottom lip in thought. People didn't keep things locked unless for no reason…but then again, Bianca had told him that everything in here was for his use. His mind set, Engineer grabbed the little box and slammed it down on his workbench. One solid THWACK from a wrench broke the fragile lock, and Engineer tossed it aside without further thought. Holding his breath, he flipped the lip of the box open.

Nestled in a bed of black velvet sat five vials of liquid gold, and for a moment Engineer forgot how to breathe.

Australium.

With a trembling hand he scooped two vials up. He shook the contents, a delighted gasp escaping him as the shaves of gold glimmered and flashed. With this, he thought excitedly, he could do anything. With this, he could escape and kill Gray Mann easily. With this, he had power, he had strength, he was holding a miracle in his hand—

"It's cursed stuff, Tex."

Engineer stiffened and spun around, clutching the gleaming gold vials to his chest. He scanned the deserted workshop, searching for the source of Sniper's voice. "Down Under?"

"It's cursed stuff, Tex." Sniper held his prized rifle up to the light, squinted at it, and then resumed the task of polishing it. "Ya don't want to mess with Australium unless yer in dire need."

"I was just askin' about it, Down Under," Engineer replied, his tone amused. He was sitting astride his dispenser, lukewarm beer can in hand.

The pair sat outside of the RED base in the warm glow of the setting sun, enjoying the last, brilliant days of autumn. Not that it made a difference—in a desert like this, seasons were regulated to 'warm', 'hot' and 'death'—but it was the spirit of the thing that mattered. Engineer shifted on his makeshift seat, staring down at the frowning Sniper in amusement. "S'not like I'm gonna catch the next plane to Oz and start minin' up the stuff, y'know."

"Good," Sniper grunted. He peered through the scope experimentally. "Doin' that is a fast way to get yerself killed. Those mines are sealed up tighter than a granny's—"

"I get the point." Engineer waved his hand around, silencing Sniper before he could launch into an overly-descriptive metaphor. "I was jus' wondering, that's all. My pa used to tell me Grandpa Conagher had himself a neat little supply of Australium stashed away. That's where he got all his best ideas."

Sniper shot Engineer a sidelong critical look. "An' where in the hell would yer pop get his hands on Australium?"

"It's just a family tale, Down Under," Engineer replied, his tone placating. "T'ain't no truth to it."

Sniper snorted and went back to cleaning his rifle. Engineer nursed his can of beer for a time, occasionally glancing at Sniper to study the sudden creases around his mouth and between his brow. "Hey…do you mind if I ask?"

The rag in Sniper's hand came to a dead stop halfway across the rifle. He didn't look at Engineer. "Ask wot?"

"Ask why y'all are nursing such a heavy grudge against Australium? The way they tell it on the nightly news, Australium is what makes Australia paradise on earth." Engineer spoke carefully, keeping his tone relaxed and neutral. Sniper was a good man, truly he was, but there was something about his homeland that made him touchy…moreso than usual.

Sniper snorted. "'Course they would. Australium ain't a miracle mineral, mate. Like I said, it's cursed stuff. Oh, sure, it'll give you brains and brawn fer a time, and maybe it makes ya feel invincible at first. But it's a drug, worse than the rest. Ya become dependent on it, and the longer ya expose yerself to it the more it messes with yer head. It wires you up 'til getting more Australium is all you can think about. Some people are willin' to do anything fer an ounce of Australium—and I mean that, Tex. It makes good men bad and bed men worse. Some of the best men I ever met were done in by Australium."

Sniper set his rifle aside suddenly. He grasped at his left arm, massaging his taunt skin slightly with his thumb. It was an automatic, unconscious act, and it didn't escape Engineer's notice. The Texan tilted his head to the side. "You'd think they'd come up with some sorta solution—"

"They tried," Sniper snapped. "And they failed. Faux Australium will screw ya up just as badly as the real stuff, and without any of the pretty benefits. And then when that shit trickles down from the pharmacies into the streets…Australia ain't paradise on earth, mate." His grip on his left arm tightened and he looked to Engineer. "It's just painted that way."

He stood, grabbed his rifle, and left without a goodbye. Engineer didn't mind; he sat back slightly on his dispenser and sipped at his warm beer, too lost in thought to notice the taste.

Sniper's eyes, blazing and furious from behind his aviators, were all Engineer could see. If Sniper knew what he was holding now…if Sniper knew what he had considered doing…

"All right, Down Under," Engineer said to the empty workshop, "I'll let it lie, I swear."

Slowly, jerkily, he set the vials of Australium down. The gold flashed and glimmered prettily under the cool lights of the workshop, and for a moment the odd brown stain on the wall seemed to be illuminated.

Engineer shuddered. He couldn't rightly say why, but it felt as though someone had just walked over his grave.

"They're going after Ayers Rock."

Giancarlo's tone was half-admiring and half-mystified, and it was the former that gave Gray pause. He stilled in the middle of adjusting his tie, staring into the mirror in front of him at Giancarlo behind him. The scrutiny did not go unnoticed by Giancarlo, who glowered back. "They're a brave batch of fools, you have to give them that."

"I never give my enemies anything. If I do, they will only demand more." Gray finished knotting his tie and faced Giancarlo fully. "Besides, I'm fairly certain they had some assistance in reaching that conclusion."

Giancarlo smiled thinly. "Old buildings are full of ghosts."

"Very good. I trust you know what to do from here."

Giancarlo nodded and left without further dismissal. Gray watched the door long after he had left with a darkened expression. That dog grows too bold, he thought as he turned to his reflection once more. His mirror image stared back at him, and for a long moment the two Grays held each other's gaze. Gray's eyes wandered over his own appearance, disquieted by what he saw. Cold, colorless, aging by the minute. It was the last that unnerved him the most, the liver spots and wrinkles that served as constant reminders from his ticking biological clock.

Life-extending machine or no, Gray knew this couldn't last forever. He couldn't last forever. Decades of working and fighting and scheming…one wrong move, one false step could bring his empire crashing down around him. He had to act carefully now. He couldn't afford to make mistakes.

A knock on the door of his office and a small "Sir?" knocked him out of his thoughts. Gray stirred, glancing over his shoulder to see Bianca standing in the doorway. Just looking at her made his stomach clench in frustration. Both his children had their mothers' coloring, and the unfortunate disposition of his late brothers…it seemed not even children, the supposed bastions of the next generation, would keep him immortal.

It was only when Bianca shuffled on the spot that Gray realized he had been staring at her without saying a word. "Yes? What is it?"

"The Americans are here."

Gray collected himself at once, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "Well…it's showtime."

The two Americans were not pleased with being forced to wait so long, but Gray took another minute to study them from the shadows. One was balding with a jovial face, the other more solemn, with sharp eyes and a beak-like nose. Gray adjusted his tie and stepped forward into the light, Bianca on his heels. Gray paid her no mind, instead putting on his best smile for the pair of Americans. "Gentlemen. Welcome! My apologies on the wait…"

The thinner one waved his hand around dismissively, cutting Gray short. "We don't have much time, Mr. Mann. I'd rather we skip to the entire reason we came."

Gray's eyes narrowed to slits. His smile, however, remained genial. "Of course, Mr. Secretary. Of course. Your time is valuable, and I can sympathize with the amount of effort simply entering the country must have entailed."

The second, shorter American snorted. "Your damn invention had best be up to par, Mann."

"Of course. I would not cheat my American compatriots." Gray tipped a finger to his forehead in a faint salute before walking past both men. "If you would follow me. Bianca, you are dismissed."

He didn't have to look back to see Bianca nodding and disappearing, or to see that both American politicians were following him. He could feel their eyes burrowing into back like daggers, could almost see the looks they were shooting once around. Lord, he thought, even the Soviets hadn't been this disagreeable. He didn't say a word, and neither did the Americans, preferring instead to walk through the dim, narrow corridors of Gray's facility in total silence. The longer the silence stretched on the more uncomfortable the Americans grew, but Gray refused to speak a word. He was an actor, after all, and he knew his lines. They hadn't hit the right cue yet.

The cue wasn't struck until they had rounded the final corner. Gray cleared his throat. "My dear Secretary of Defense, have you ever heard of the Analogy of the Cave?"

The Secretary of Defense, the shorter man, jumped and then frowned. "Analogy of the Cave? What's that? Another Bond novel?" He grinned when his companion chuckled.

"Hardly." Patience, Gray reminded himself, patience pays. "Rather, it is the work of one of the world's greatest minds—Plato." Gray pressed his fingers together, making a steeple with his them as they approached the final door. "Plato's Cave suggests that reality is only what we make of it. All this—you, me, James Bond—are nothing more than shadows on the wall, illusions of what is. Only a handful manage to break through this illusion, to discover the world for what it truly is."

"And I'm guessing you're one of the few," The taller American said, his tone dry.

Gray allowed himself a small smile. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Reality is a fickle thing, after all. But I have seen enough to know that the reality we live in currently cannot last much longer."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that a three-legged stool only functions as a stool so long as it has three legs. With two, it becomes useless. What would happen tomorrow if the Australian economy collapsed? Or the USSR? Or the US? The remainders would rush to fill in the gap…and the, hmm, stool, would collapse. You see?"

"We're more than aware of that," The Secretary of Defense exclaimed. "I don't see what this has to do with—"

"We must be at the forefront of the new reality. We can longer afford to be grasping at shadows on the wall while our enemies break free. We must act first."

And with that grand flourish, Gray swung open the doors to his factory floor.

Both Americans froze in place, staring at the sight before them in mingled awe and fear.

Two thousand robots, all of varying shapes and sizes, stood ready at attention. Both Americans took a step forward, studying the intricately designed robots with something a little like excitement. The Secretary of Defense spun to look at the smiling Gray. "What…what are these?"

"Soldiers. The perfect soldiers. Ones whose loss will not be felt at home, ones who have nothing to lose."

The American spun back around, looking over a Scoutbot in clear longing. "Are they lethal?"

"Exceptionally so," Gray replied. "You'll never find a human soldier that is superior to my robots. They are merciless, exacting, reliable—"

A sudden coughing fit overtook Gray and he turned away, doubling over as he hacked into his hands. The Americans paid him no mind, still overwhelmed by the army of robots, and so the blood splattered on Gray's lips and hand went unnoticed.

When the coughing fit passed Gray eased up. Slowly he unclenched his hand and frowned at the blood splatter on his hand. He licked his lips and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Something a little like fear twisted Gray's features. He stared down at the blot of red slowly seeping between his fingers, paralyzed by the sight of his mortality. Then the fear passed and Gray's face hardened. He turned around, folding his bloodied fingers behind his back. "My good sirs, I would like to introduce you to a brave new world. A new reality."

Behind his back his fist tightened, and a blot of blood hit the floor.


No members of the 1971 US Cabinet were hurt in the making of this fic.

Ciao for now!

~Chaos