As always, thanks to Bel for her beta work :)
Chapter Thirty-Five: Adieu to the Dead
Gray Mann was not as clever as he liked to think he was.
Oh, he was a smart man, to be sure. He understood machines and engineering and business and finance. He understood the economy and politics. He understood the big things, the concrete things, the things that made the world turn. But that didn't make him clever.
Because a clever man knew about the things that could not be seen, but could be felt all the same. Things like loyalty, and honor, and friendship—Gray Mann had failed to account for things like that in his scheme. And, perhaps most importantly, he did not account for love.
Not the frilly, dainty love that showed up in love songs with flowers and doves; this was a mercenary's love, the sort of love that had teeth. The sort of love that traveled the world over to avenge a fallen friend. The sort of love that allowed parents to go extreme lengths for their children, and wives for their husbands. The sort of love that helped one man to die gladly, so that others could live. The sort of love that propelled people forward even when it seemed all was lost. The sort of love that urged a weak, exhausted man up onto shaking legs and down a dimly-lit hallway. The sort of love that kept his hand steady as he aimed and fired.
Machines couldn't bleed. Humans could. That was what Gray Mann had not accounted for.
That was why he lost.
Sniper bolted forward and caught Spy as he collapsed. Sniper went to his knees, still holding Spy. He stared down at Spy's healed torso, baffled and amazed and relieved all at once. Slowly he looked up at Spy, who grinned.
"Hey, spook," Sniper said, unsure of what else to say.
"Hullo, bushman," Spy said lightly. He eased up a little in Sniper's arms, taking slow, steadying breaths. He caught Sniper's incredulous look. "It's me. It's me, I swear."
"I know it's you, that ugly mug couldn't belong to anyone else. But what about…" Sniper leaned in and lowered his voice. "What about Antoine and Henri?"
"Ah. Well—they've waited this long." Spy cleared his throat. He was suddenly desperate for a cigarette. "They can wait a little longer. Besides…someone told me you needed my 'elp." He nodded over Sniper's shoulder towards Blake.
Sniper looked over his shoulder. Blake had moved over to the monitors against the wall. With a few taps of the keyboard, the robots on the monitors whirred to a halt. Kata Tjuta went quiet as the robots were deactivated. Once that was done, Blake staggered back over towards Gray Mann's body. He crouched down beside it with an expression that didn't have a proper name.
Sensing that Blake needed a moment, Sniper turned back to Spy with a playful scowl. "I didn't need help! I was handling things just fine on my own."
"Oh? So that wasn't you I 'eard monologuing from outside the door?"
"I never monologue!"
"Of course, Lawrence, of course." Spy patted his cheek fondly. "Now, if you don't mind, this suit is ruined, my head is spinning, and I'm all out of cigarettes. I would very much like to leave this place and never look back."
"You and me both, Phil." With that Sniper stood and helped Spy to his feet. Spy leaned into Sniper for support, and together they made for the door.
"MISTER LAWRENCE!"
As one Sniper and Spy looked back at Blake, who was getting to his feet.
"I—" Blake stopped short. He stared at Sniper for a second without really seeing him. His Adam's apple bobbed wildly in his throat as he swallowed back all remaining inhibitions. "I'm sorry. You don't have to forgive me, I'll understand if you don't—but I just—I want you to know—I am sorry. For everything. About everything." No tears, no pleading. Just a simple, direct apology.
Sniper appraised the resolute Blake before looking to Spy. The Frenchman just shrugged. Sniper nodded before turning back to Blake. His bright blue eyes flicked over Blake's pale face. Finally his eyes landed on his bloody hands. "Ya bleedin', Porter?"
Blake flexed his fingers and winced. "Yeah—yeah I am, a little bit."
A corner of Sniper's mouth twitched upwards. "Good. Let's go, then."
Still supporting Spy, he turned and walked out of the room. Blake let out a single shuddering breath, and then he followed after.
…
The storm had passed, the fighting had ended, and now they began to pick up the pieces.
Soldiers of all nationalities dragged deactivated robots into unceremonious piles, tossing them down without rhyme or reason. Others stood around tanks and grounded planes, talking and complimenting each other on a job well done. Commanders were shaking hands tentatively. Civilians had begun to appear among the wounded, lending a hand where they could, passing out water and bandages and gentle reassurances. Lizzie and Christian were among them. Every once in a while Lizzie would look up towards Kata Tjuta. When nothing on the mountainside stirred she would withhold a sigh and go back to work. Every once in a while Christian pressed a hand to her shoulder, and when he did she had to work to suppress a sob.
An engine's roar cut through the exhausted silence surrounding the battlefield. Soldiers, commanders, and civilians collectively turned to watch a military van trundle down the mountainside. It drove to a stop as it approached the makeshift infirmary camp. Soldiers tensed, hands drifting towards their firearms.
The van door was kicked open. A group of older people emerged from the van. They grinned and waved at the crowd, who eased back when they realized it wasn't some last group of robots. In silence, a second group of people clambered out of the truck: a bald man in a bloodied pinstripe suit, supporting a young man in a baseball cap who limped as he walked; a black man and a blond, working together to hold a huge man upright; two women also supporting a smaller man, who held one leg off the ground. And lastly, a lean, lanky man in a battered hat.
Lizzie's breath caught in her throat. Heart pounding, she began to push her way through the curious crowd. She moved slowly at first, daring to hope, but as the lanky man came into full view she began to run, shoving aside armed soldiers in a desperate bid to reach the van. "Lawrence? LAWRENCE!"
Sniper spun on his heel, searching through the crowd for the source of the call. "Liz?" he whispered. "Lizzie?"
"LAWRENCE!" Lizzie burst through the line of soldiers and sprinted straight for her brother.
Sniper gaped at his sister before opening his arms. "LIZZIE!"
"LAWRENCE!"
He caught her as she flung herself into his arms. With a sob he sank to the ground and folded Lizzie into his chest. She held him hard as he sobbed, tears streaming down her own face. The Mundy siblings remained on the muddy ground, completely oblivious to the world around them. All that mattered was each other.
As for the rest, a dull roar from the crowd of civilians and soldiers had them looking up. It took the collected crowd of mercenaries and old folks a moment, but then it became clear: the crowd was cheering. The crowd was cheering for them.
Scout looked up at the smiling Heavy. "Heavy?"
"Hmm?"
"Why are they cheerin' for us?" Scout asked. His heart was hammering in his chest, but for once it wasn't from fear or the rush of adrenaline. It was from something else. Something different. Something…good. He looked at Blake, who grinned.
Heavy, meanwhile, leaned off of Demoman and patted Scout on the shoulder. "Because we are heroes, Scout. Because we are heroes."
…
Of course, even heroes had to be carted off to the hospital. Spy went into the back of an ambulance fuming and complaining loudly about his lack of cigarettes. Sniper and Scout followed soon after, the former accompanied by Lizzie and the latter asking after a payphone to call his ma and let her know he was a hero.
The rest were waiting their turn in the makeshift infirmary camp. Blake and Bianca sat together with a blanket wrapped around their shoulders. Neither said much of anything, but when Blake rested his head against Bianca's shoulder she smiled. A bandaged Heavy and Christian sat together, laughing as Heavy recounted some tale of daring-do. Maggie sat alone, head bowed and hands collapsed together, mourning silently.
Demoman found himself up and wandering among the wounded. A few times he paused to ask the medics present about the person he was looking for, but no one seemed to have any clue about his whereabouts. He tried to convince himself it was simply the confusion of battle that caused the disappearance, and was about to rejoin his team when a flash of red hair caught his attention.
"RED!"
Dexter Simmons was strapped into a gurney that was being wheeled towards an ambulance. Demoman caught up with it in a few quick strides. He stared down at the stirring Simmons, his eye sweeping around the thick bandages that swathed his entire right side. Demoman grinned down at Simmons as he opened his eyes. "Dexter!"
"Tavish?" Simmons murmured.
"Ye look like death warmed over," Demoman said fondly. He hopped up into the back of the ambulance without thinking.
Simmons lifted his head a little and grinned. "You should've seen it. You would've loved it. I destroyed a bomb carrier all by myself! BOOM—like that." Simmons waved a vague hand around, the look in his eye faraway.
"Aye," Demoman said. He sat down in the ambulance and nodded at the medics. "I'd've like ta see it."
"But—you're here!" Simmons said. "That means—it's done? It's all over?"
"Aye, lad. It's all over."
…
It wasn't over, of course, not really. First they had to be released from the hospital, a process that perhaps took a lot longer than it should have thanks to uncooperative parties like Spy (who, Sniper half-joking mused, would go down in hospital history as their worst patient) and Demoman (who doctors seemed to marvel as a medical miracle for the amount of damage his liver could take). But in the end the REDs checked out just fine, if slightly more infamous than when they went it.
Afterwards came the politics of it all. The United States, the USSR, and Australia were all rightfully embarrassed for being exposed in their role in the Gray Mann debacle. The UN had launched an official investigation into the means and manners of nations and their nuclear armaments, which, Christian mused, essentially amounted to pots studying the kettles for blackness. That wasn't the worst of it, though, at least as far as the REDs were concerned: they were heroes now, and they were being honored like them. The REDs had sit through a number of awards and accolades, fidgeting and bored and pretending like they cared about the words being slung around in their honor: terms like 'brave' and 'righteous' and 'strength of spirit' and the only way they got through any of the ceremonials was Scout's running commentary under his breath. The only one who showed any amount of enthusiasm for the ceremony, in fact, was Blake Porter—who told anyone who would listen that the only other person who'd ever earned honorary US citizenship was Winston Churchill.
At any rate, it was a few weeks before it felt like the REDs had any time to themselves again, and they celebrated it as best they knew how: with alcohol.
It was a small party inside Christian Byron-Read's bar, but what they lacked in quantity they more than made up for in quality. The small building seemed to shake with the force of their laughter. Music blasted from the jukebox and the alcohol flowed freely. The REDs were sprawled around the bar, swapping their favorite stories from Teufort and their lives before Teufort, laughing at each other's ridiculous exploits. They drank to each other. They drank to Medic and Soldier. They drank to David Bidwell and Saxton Hale. They drank to Castillo Elcano. They drank because they could. And little by little, in the warmth and the laughter, the grief ebbed.
Engineer had the wherewithal to take Christian aside and into the kitchen before he got too hammered. Once there, he produced a small black box from his pocket and showed it to the puzzled Christian. Without a word he opened it. Instantly the last two vials of Delmond Conagher's Australium bathed the kitchen in golden light.
Christian's breath caught in his throat. "Australium."
"Yep. And if the rumors in the news are anythin' go by, this'll likely be the last bit of real Australium you'll ever see." Engineer handed the box to Christian. "I'm givin' to y'all to do as you see fit."
Christian took it, momentarily overwhelmed. Then he shook his head and snapped the box shut. The eerie golden light snuffed out. Christian rested his hand on top of the box. "They say it made the land sing, once." For a moment he looked much older than he really was, the weight of years and years pressing in against him. "And on the day they started digging the land screamed."
Engineer was uncertain of what to make of that. "Maybe it can sing again someday."
"No." Christian's smile was sad. "The time for singing lands has come and gone. Uluru has been desecrated, and the Australium with it. I—thank you, for giving this to me. Lesser men would have stolen it away for themselves."
"It's been the Conagher family's boogeyman for long enough," Engineer assured him. "You're doing me a favor by getting rid of it."
Christian gave him a crooked smile, and without further ado dumped the contents of the vials down the kitchen sink.
It was nearing one in the morning by the time the REDs' party had died down. Now they sat around a table, quiet and contemplative. The moment was coming when they would all have to say goodbye, when the REDs would cease to be and it would be all over for good. No one wanted to be the one who started the end.
It was Scout who took the first step. "I'm gonna go home. To see my ma. And then—I dunno, I owe Danny a visit too. And some of my other bros, like Charlie and Mack, I ain't seen them in years either."
Demoman nodded. "Me mam's waitin' at home for me as well. The old biddy hasn't let me forget that I'm supposed to be holdin' down three jobs, international hero or no." He rolled his eye good-naturedly.
"Da," Heavy said. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his burly chest. "My family waits for me as well. It will be good to see them."
Pyro shared a look with Engineer. "Dell and I want to go back home to the farm, get it in working order again."
Only Sniper and Spy did not divulge their plans to the rest. No one questioned it. It only seemed natural, somehow, that they would stick together. And it wasn't until later, when everyone else had dragged themselves up to bed, that Spy turned to Sniper.
"I know," Sniper said, before Spy could even speak.
Instantly Spy scowled. "You don't know anything."
"I know some things, spook." Sniper gave him a sidelong glance. "And I know ya already booked a flight to Paris. Next time, don't do it while my mum is one room over."
"I always knew I could count on your mother to be soul of discretion," Spy muttered. He looked away before sighing. "It's true. I'm going back to France. There are…things that I left unfinished. I mean to make my peace completely. I want to…remember what it is to be Philippe again. And then, to Boston." He pulled out the BLU Scout's dog-tags and examined them. "I made a promise, after all."
Sniper was quiet for a time. He made a few 'harrumph's before finally scooting forward. "I could come with ya."
"Not this time, Lawrence," Spy said softly. "This…this is something I must do alone. I trust you understand."
"Yeah. I do." He understood completely. But he still couldn't help the little twinge of disappointment he felt when he looked Spy's way again.
Spy grinned. "Such a hang-dog look! Rest assured, there'll be plenty 'ere to keep you busy—Blake first and foremost, I would imagine. And, for what it's worth—I'll be back. I promise. I'll find you again."
Sniper managed a faint smile. "I know ya will, mate."
They sat in silence for a time, enjoying the last few snatches of each other's company. The clock ticked near three in the morning when Spy finally stood and stretched. "Bonne nuit, Lawrence."
"G'night, Phil." Sniper said. He watched Spy stagger upstairs to catch a few hours' sleep before standing and meandering over to the bar.
Christian was waiting for him there with a bottle of bourbon in hand. He popped the top off and poured out two shots. He pushed one towards Sniper, who sat down heavily on one barstool.
Sniper took it and lifted the glass. "To us, mate."
Christian tapped his glass against Sniper's. "To us."
…
Blake had never seen anyone die from old age before. He almost preferred the guns-and-explosions method.
Helen glared at him as though sensing his thoughts. "Something wrong, boy?"
"I—no. No, ma'am, nope. Nuh-uh."
"Good. Then as I was saying—"
He, Bianca, Maggie, and Pauling stood around a hospital bed in a remote location. Helen was propped up in bed by a number of pillows. In one hand she had a lit cigarette. In the other she had the last will and testament of Gray Mann. She scanned it over once before looking back up to Blake. "He bequeathed Mann Co. to you, in the event of his untimely death." A corner of her mouth twitched upwards.
Blake had been expecting this. He shook his head. "I don't want it. It's been never what I wanted—not really." He looked to his sister. "You should have it, Bia. You're the Mann. Not me."
"Very well, then." Helen struck something from the will and wrote in something else. "Bianca Mann, you hereby have controlling shares of Mann Co, as well as position of chief execution officer."
Bianca smiled and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I'll try to be worthy of the position."
"Given the last few CEOs, you shouldn't have too much of a problem meeting a standard." Helen shrugged and set the will aside. She folded her shriveled and liver-spotted hands in front of her. "Now, if you would excuse me, I have some business to discuss with Miss Pauling and Miss Margret."
Blake instantly made for the door, but Bianca seemed startled—and more than a little hurt—by the sudden dismissal. She inclined her head and slowly backed away. She had just crossed over the threshold when Helen's voice stopped her short:
"I would not have ensured that Mann Co. went to you if I did not have the upmost faith in your capabilities, Bianca."
Bianca turned to see Helen smiling at her. Helen nodded before continuing: "You come from a very long line of very stubborn and conniving women. You will do just fine as CEO."
Bianca blinked rapidly and nodded. "Mother—thank you."
She closed the door behind her, and in the hallway turned to see Blake grinning at her. "So…now what?"
"I don't know." She was suddenly dizzy. "Now what?"
Blake shrugged and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm—I'm staying with Mister Lawrence, for the time being. If you'd like to come with me…? Or Engie, you seem to like Engie—erm, Dell, that is."
She would share the good news with Dell Conagher in time. But for now…Bianca shook her head. "I'm staying with Alice—ah, Pauling. We want to get our business affairs in order. Mann Co. and Team Fortress Industries…one can't really exist without the other, can it?"
"No, I guess they can't," Blake mused. He looked Bianca over again before grinning. "Bia…you're going to make a fantastic CEO. I'm happy for you, really."
"Thank you. And, for what it's worth…I could use a head Engineer, you know," Bianca said. She arched an eyebrow as Blake reddened. "A completely mad and brilliant head Engineer, one who's just energetic enough to keep me on my toes."
Blake looked to his boots to hide his blush. "Aha. Well. I don't…I dunno. Maybe. I sort've want to…separate myself from the Mann brand name for a while. It wasn't really a good fit for me, was it? I think I want to…figure out who the heck Blake Porter is first. Before anything else." He owed it to the BLUs, to be a better man than the one he'd been before.
"Oh." If Bianca was disappointed by his gentle refusal, she didn't let it show. "I suppose this is good-bye, then." She stuck out a hand for Blake to shake.
He took it and gave it a firm squeeze. "Goodbye, Bia."
"Goodbye, Blakey." She watched him start down the hallway. "Oh, and Blake—"
He stopped, puzzled, and looked back at her.
"—good luck. With whatever it is you decide to do." And then, for good measure, she gave him a thumbs-up.
Blake's grin widened and he returned the thumbs-up. "Bia—Gian would be very proud of you."
And then he hurried away, down the corridor to decide his life. Bianca leaned up against the wall, playing with the ring on her finger and smiling sadly.
…
Pauling, meanwhile, was getting the last of the details from Helen. "What did you promise Darling to get him to cooperate in this whole scheme to stop Gray Mann?"
Helen gave her a look, as if the answer should have been obvious. "What do I promise any idiot to get him to follow along with my plans?"
Pauling thought for a moment before grinning "How long before he realizes the Australium you supplied him with is fake?"
"Not too long, I should think." Helen shrugged. "But by that time I'll be dead and he'll be your headache to deal with." She was silent for a moment before her gaze slid over to Maggie. "I'm sorry about Hale, Margret."
"It's all right, Helen. The man couldn't have chosen a better way to go out that," Maggie said. She would miss the brave, stupid bastard for the rest of her life. But she would continue on. She always had. "I imagine he's already got Bidwell chasin' after him in the afterlife somewhere." She turned to Pauling when the younger woman chuckled. "I won't pretend that I don't prefer a life of adventure to a life of, well, deskwork. But…for Sax's sake…if you need any help getting the company in order, you know who to call."
And with that, she slipped out the door after Bianca.
Pauling and Helen looked at each other. Years' worth of bloody business and scheming were about to end in this quiet, dimly-lit room. For Pauling it felt almost surreal—the idea that tomorrow she would wake up and the Administrator would not be there. The idea that starting tomorrow, she was the Administrator. For a moment she was unable to breathe.
And then Helen was speaking briskly:
"Getting Team Fortress Industries on track again…you have quite the workload ahead of you. I trust you're ready for the task."
Helen trusted her to be her successor. And if Helen trusted her to do it—then it could be done. That's how it always had been. So to Helen's comment, Pauling nodded. Then she smiled. "I'd like to take a vacation first, though. A real one, for a few weeks at least."
"Oh?" Helen arched an eyebrow.
"Yes. I'm thinking someplace sunny, like Tijuana."
"Really?" Helen said, more amused than anything else.
"Really." Pauling paused before adding: "I promised a friend, you see." She owed it to Bidwell to honor his teasing request.
"Well. It would be a bad start for a CEO to break her promises, wouldn't it?" With that, Helen settled back and crushed her last, spent cigarette in the ashtray beside her bed. "Now go, Pauling. I want to rest in peace."
"One last thing," Pauling said as Helen made to close her eyes. "How could you be certain…?"
"That the nations of the world could work together?" Helen finished for her. Her grim smile widened. "Never underestimate the power of basic human decency, Pauling. And speaking of decency, be sure to close the door on your way out. I don't want a bunch of gawkers standing around staring at me while I die."
Pauling nodded. She knew Helen wouldn't want tears or embraces or tender farewells. That had never really been her style either. So she simply said: "Goodbye, Helen."
"Until we see each other again, Pauling," Helen said.
Bianca and Maggie were waiting for her outside the door. Neither said a word. Pauling leaned against the closed door and took a steadying breath. She could do this. And—perhaps more importantly—she didn't have to do it alone. With a nod towards Bianca and Maggie, Pauling started down the hallway towards her future.
…
The Louisiana bayou was a beautiful place, if you could stand the mosquitoes.
Hideo Kurosawa swatted aside one buzzing mosquito with a scowl. He stood outside a ramshackle old house, built on stilts over the murky, lazily-moving water. It was surrounded on all sides by lush, tangled greenery, and the road that had led Kurosawa was overgrown with weeds and rocks. The house was a long way from any town, to the point that the locals in the nearest town had ogled him before pointing him in the vague direction he needed to go.
Before his courage could fail him, Kurosawa stepped up to the door and knocked. From inside the old house came a shout of acknowledgment and the banging over various pots. Footsteps stomped over to the door, and Edwin Delacroix swung it wide open.
For a long minute Kurosawa and Edwin looked at each other. Then Edwin grinned. "If ya came to sell Bibles, Priest, jus' know ya came to de wrong door."
"I've always known you were a lost cause," Kurosawa said with a shake of his head. He reached into his belt and unsheathed an ornate knife. "I came to return this."
At once Edwin's face fell. He took Castillo's knife with two hands, holding it by the hilt and the tip. Grief flitted across his aged face for the briefest of moments.
Kurosawa cleared his throat. "Their Sniper gave it to me. Told me Castillo wanted to give it back to the giver."
"Aye." Edwin's voice cracked a little. "Castillo was always one ta pay his debts. The damn couyon…I knew he was gone, Hideo." His expression darkened. "I knew de moment he was gone."
"I'm certain he's in a better place," Kurosawa said solemnly.
Edwin glanced up at him with bushy eyebrows furrowed.
Birds exploded out of nearby treetops as Edwin's laugh echoed around the surrounding bayou. It rang out, loud and oddly joyous, and Kurosawa himself couldn't help but manage a smile as Edwin shook his head. Edwin chuckled and lowered the knife in his hands. "You sure we knew de same Castillo, Priest? Knowin' him, he's already swindled Satan outta his pitchfork, and he's eyein' the throne-a Hell as we speak."
"Ah," said Kurosawa, uncertain of what else to say to that.
Edwin gave him a look of supreme fondness before stepping back in the doorway a little. "Y'all like a bite to eat, Priest? I got some jambalaya left over from last night, if ya like."
Kurosawa considered the offer before nodding. "Aye. I could use a bite to eat."
"Well, come along in! Don't be standin' on my front porch lookin' like I jus' kicked ya out! Ya gonna give me a reputation as an un-neighborly neighbor…"
Still grumbling, Edwin stepped back to allow Hideo in. Hideo smiled, nodded, and stepped through the threshold. Edwin closed the door behind him, and the world was quiet again.
Only one update left! I plan uploading the final chapter and the epilogue at the same time. This is it, guys-the end is almost upon us.
*strums guitar*
Oh, home, let me come home/Home is wherever I'm with you...