The courtroom hardly even deserved the name. The various screens, buzzers, alerts and notice signs that intersperse the grey mortar of the unpainted concrete walls give it all the feel of not a room in which justice was discussed, but more of a diabolically bedecked control room. The rectangular placards stack in winding, symmetrical webs that connect all the way up to the towering ceiling, the lights themselves shut off, thus shadowing the alert board, Scout unable to read the white letters printed boldly across their surfaces.

A singular leather chair rests in front of the machine, control panels and tables surrounding it strategically, particularly within arms' reach of a place to stash an ashtray or flip a switch if necessary. What stuns Scout however, is the vast distance between the single iron door through which they were quietly led, and the Administrator's perch, and the nothing in between, save a brown wooden table identical to the one in the conference room from the basement. The floor, checkered in hypnotizing parallelograms of black and white, seems to expand in sensually deceiving undulations of its physical mass, Scout swallowing and closing his eyes as he falls into the step Miss Pauling sets.

"I've got ya, love…" Sniper whispers in his ear, the low rumbling, though unintelligible, echoing cavernously throughout the Administrator's domain. She was a lot smaller than the woman had appeared in her press releases; Even with her trademark red stilettos whose heels taper to a red point against the cold floor, and the purple pencil skirt that always served to give her calves a slenderness as well as an added visual of height, she couldn't have been much taller than him, if at all.

Her poofed and peppered hair was as vibrant as Scout had always known it to be, however; though these things he remarked when brought to her the first time a week ago. Where his first visit had brought about the calmer, sympathetic side of the aging woman however, Scout finds that a calm fury rests in the faults and creases of her time worn flesh, her legs crossed primly, thin, bony hands pointed expectantly as she faces her persons of intrigue.

She remains silent as Miss Pauling awkwardly extends a hand toward the brown table, gesturing for the men to take their seats in ebbish insecurity.

"'S this your first time witnessin' an execution?" Sniper asks in mock inquisition, Miss Pauling ignoring him outright. His smile falters however as he studies Luc next to him, his blonde hair falling in front of his flushed face, his white teeth chewing contemplatively on his pink lips, head bowed.

'Mus' still be tryin' t'think of a way t'get outta here…' Sniper notes, swiveling his head to quickly observe Scout next to him, his breath catching in his throat when he sees the young man stares back at him feverishly, reaching to grab his hand under the table.

"…Shall I begin?" Miss Pauling asks smally of the woman after a long silence, taking a few steps forward, tightening her grip around the thick folders she holds in her arm. The older woman answers her question with a disgruntled wave of her hand, her eyes sweeping about the room briskly.

"Lawrence Broderick William Fitzpatrick…" Miss Pauling clears her throat, Scout lifting his head instantly at the sound of his name. "…born August 3rd, 1943 to Julie Marie Fitzpatrick, maiden name Mathers and Arnold Broderick Fitzpatrick—You have been summoned here on the afternoon of July 31st, 1968—" she makes a pause to press her glasses so they rest comfortably against the bridge of her nose, bringing the paper off which she reads closer to her eyes. The Administrator watches them all coldly and silently, her furrowed brow crease like thin slopes, unnerving Scout deeply—

"Under the accusation of indulging in the unlawful acts of fraternization, fornication, romantization, and seduction on behalf of Jack Sweetwater Mundy, born April 17th, 1931 to Reginald Arthur Mu—"

"Good Lord, Miss, do you not know a thing about proper trial etiquette?!" the unmistakable voice of Dmitri gasps from the entrance of the room, hands in his trouser pockets as he brings his legs to swing in a haughty swagger to the center with the others.

"Forget the etiquette even—it's all about delivery! Leave it to a woman to bore down what could be the final moments of these mens' lives into something only slightly less interesting as my Grandmother reading from her Bible—ah now, Bushman, do not rise," Dmitri chuckles as he produces the same silver revolver from his breast pocket.

"It would be a shame if I had to silence you before you had the chance to plead your case,"

"Marino, what do you mean with thisnonsense?!" The Administrator snaps in a rasp of a voice, resting her head in her hands, her finger tips clawing down her cheeks tediously as if the Italian's presence was a chore. "And put the gun away, you have no authority here," she spits, the man tucking the revolver back into his dresscoat.

"Nothing you don't, Miss Ingram, simply that Pauling here is repeating what we already know—I seem to recall we have already discussed Larry's infidelity just last week, and that I had provided irrefutable evidence along with this claim—"

"THOSE PICTURES WERE FAKED, YOU BLOODY WOG—!"

"And that you proposed Larry with the ultimatum of taking either Mundy's life or else having his own taken from him—we're allgathered here today to discuss what shall come to pass now he has refused to do the man in—"

"Y'DISGUISED AS ME 'ND RAPED HIM, YOU RAT—"

"Can we not have this Bushman silenced? Honestly?!" Dmitri rolls his eyes, gesturing wildly at the murderous Australian. "Honestly, he's tried killing me twice today, and all he does is interrupt me when I try to speak…" the Italian tisks softly by suckling his tongue against his teeth.

"Besides, Mr. Mundy, it wasn't rape if the boy wanted it," Dmitri smirks at the man whom Scout restrains, Miss Pauling bringing her hands to cover her gasping mouth.

"I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU—!"

"You lay a finger on me and Larry gets it, and I don't need a verdict to pull the trigger…" Dmitri threatens, aiming his revolver at Scout's temple, turning his head quickly to make sure the Administrator does not object to his actions.

"Now as I was saying, Miss Pauling, the way you're leading us you're implying that we have not already discussed Little Larry's perversions and how to best punish him; though honestly—"

"If you are done, Marino, I must make it quite clear that your pathetic attempt at monologuing is a bigger waste of time than Pauling recapping last week's trial," The Administrator spits. "Enough with the flamboyant theatrics."

"Funny you should mention it, Miss Ingram, I too planned on moving onto a new topic entirely—if I may," he asks kindly of Miss Pauling, who jumps as he turns his head in her direction. "We have already interrogated Lawrence in an attempt to divulge the details of his treacherous relationship with the Bushman, only for him to stretch things out and deny it outright! Hard evidence however proved nothing but his case was built on a conglomerate of half assed lies. That said, I feel that today's session should not start with the young man—we know what his crimes are, and we know he's guilty—his doctor, on the other hand, is a person of interest and we could easily get to the bottom of things if we press as we did Larry," Dmitri smiles wickedly, leaning an arm against the table.

"Look at how he shivers when you mention him, would a guilty man shiver, Miss Ingram?" Dmitri asks sweetly, clearing his throat at the woman's expression.

"Ahem—Dmitri Del Piero Marino, born November 9th, 1936 to Alessandro Franciso Marino and Bettina Adalina Marino, maiden name Di'Giantonio—that's me—humbly requests permission to question a mister—oh pardon me, Herr Heinrich Berthold Schmelzer, born December 22nd, 1921 to a—you know what forget it these German names are ridiculous—"

"Get on with it, Marino—!"

"At once, Miss Ingram, of course!" Dmitri chuckles nervously, snatching Miss Pauling's meticulously organized folder and slamming it in front of Medic, who jumps and wails at the thwack of the envelope and its subsequent reverberation off the walls.

"And namely in the company of the others, I want to see this man crack…"

"Do not waste my time with this…" the Administrator snaps, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand.

"Ahem—born in Stuttgart, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany—a Southern German through and through I see—now let's take a look at your history, shall we? According to your file here we see you studied at Schloss Hoheinheim under the discipline ofErnährungsmedizin until being drafted into the Wehrmacht to serve as a field medic on the Eastern Front in 1943. Funny, the Reich must have been desperate for soldiers if a nutritional medicine studies major would get drafted to treat wounds for the ones actually fighting," Dmitri sighs, Heinrich's face steeled though the man clearly appears perturbed.

"I see nothing out of the ordinary for a boy of your time—an excellent student, an exceptional young little member of theHitler Jugend—"

"It vas required of all of us! All ze boys of my class joined, it vas mandatory, my mozer vould have been put under vatch of ze Gestapo had ve protested my indoctrination—!"

"No, Doctor, I do not mean to question your morals by citing your allegiance to the Fuehrer at such a young age—actually I mean to comment that what truly interests me is this apparent gap in service here, in Winter 1943,"

"I—I vas missing in action. It is zat simple—"

"Do not lie to me, Doctor, I am a Spy, your colleague of many years, and thus know more about you than you know about yourself—let us see if my concept of history is worth the praise I often boast in its behalf! October 15th, 1943, German forces invaded the village of Trevoshka, am I correct? And not just the German forces, but the very company under which you served, no?"

Heinrich nods, Dmitri's smile only growing in size.

"Interesting—now if what I've gathered from you serves to memory, you spent the three weeks of occupation rounding up the Jews in the aforementioned village and hid them, claiming to your commanding officer that no Jews could be accounted for in the village? And that you burned down the municipal building, destroying any social record of there being Jews living there also? Do not fear telling the truth, Herr Doctor, this trial is not the same as Nuremberg—your actions were not arson, they saved hundreds and for that I do not censure you, Herr Doctor, not in the slightest,"

Heinrich nods.

"I—I saved as many as I could in Trevoshka—"

"Your actions saved every Jew in the village if I recall correctly? Your company simply burned the fields, though otherwise they found it uninteresting as there were no Juden to purge and thus you pushed onward? Your unit was simply Wehrmacht, not one of the Einstatzgruppen—the slaughtering of Russian soldiers was more up to your tastes than a few illiterate country pesants. Now how about we turn our sights to…ah yes," Dmitri sighs calmly, flipping through a few pages in his file.

"The gap in your service; official German military records have you listed as MIA, as you have not returned to Germany since your deployment in 1943. Apparently on the afternoon of November 2nd, 1943 your company was ambushed by the Red Army and completely obliterated save you, for whom they simply have listed as missing in action; seeing as you are sitting here in front of us now, I know that is not the case—now again, Herr Schmelzer, there is nothing to fear with telling the truth. Your past is heroic and most honourable, there is no need to deny the truth if the answer to my question lies in the affirmative,"

Heinrich swallows.

"Is it not true that a mister Mikhail Sergeevich Klimov, born February 1st, 1919, former Red Army tank specialist, found and aided you the same night of the ambush?"

Heinrich nods.

"And that he comes from the village of occupied Trevoshka, and that his mother was among the very Jews whom you saved from the camps?"

Heinrich nods again.

"Funny, did you know this, Miss Ingram? That Mikhail Klimov is a Jew? Shame, the curse of the nose with none of the money! Speaking of Klimov, certainly the man wanted to repay you despite your being Aryan, so you, alone with a dead company, and him having parted from his own in order to make sure you survived so that he could properly thank you for saving his village, went back to him to now unoccupied Trevoshka and enjoyed scraps of moldy bread in an unheated shack of a home with Klimov and his mother?"

"Zat is correct."

"Interesting. Now from here you two became very good friends. According to the rest of your file you defected to the USSR and sought fake identification along with Klimov and operated voluntarily at a local Red Army hospital in the city of Steshinka, tending to injured Soviet Soldiers while praying for an Allied victory all the while? I also gathered whilst studying your profile that you and Klimov assisted in hiding Jews once more, saving hundreds from death, while facing your own every second you hid them! Again, most valiant of you both.

Or at least this was the case until your actions were discovered by the SS June 30th, 1944, whilst caught in the middle of smuggling some twenty odd members of the Jewish community out of the city,"

Scout's stomach drops as the man next to him begins to tear up; he'd never known Heinrich had been a part of the resistance…

"I know this next part may be hard for you, Herr Schmelzer—you were deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau under the name ofGregori Chudinov, according to your faked papers, along with the Jews you attempted to sneak out of town! Mikhail Klimov had been back in Trevoshka visiting his mother and thus narrowly escaped deportation himself, no?"

Heinrich doesn't even respond with a curt nod. The man simply sits, rigid in his chair, his eyes stony behind his glasses and his Germanic face sterned stoically.

"It was a three day train ride from Steshinka to Auschwitz, Poland, was it not? Cramped, without food or water—boiling hot. The air was musty and you couldn't breathe, there was no light in those boxcars, were there?! I once read in an auto biographical account of yours that passengers shat and pissed in a single metallic bucket that was often overturned—"

Dmitri stops sharply, a hiccup sounding emotionally from the doctor, though he says nothing outright.

"You were also very familiar with the fate that could have awaited you, that as you step out onto the platform you could either be sorted into the line of labour or death. Now I understand the horrors and fears you must have endured, Herr Schmelzer. You arrived at the camp at night, no? Greeted by your brothers and countrymen shouting you down with their dogs biting and drooling at your heels, lights bright as SS men and women corralled you into lines you only hoped would lead you to the labour camps.

As if that wasn't enough, the very group of Steshinka Jews you were so close to rescuing was sorted to the gas chambers—yet it's a wonder you were not shot on sight back in the city itself! Then again the soldiers were weakened by 1944, they probably hadn't the will to do it themselves. You however were sorted to the line of labour—and assigned the number of14824 of the "B" series, to indicate you were the 14,824th prisoner to be registered in the "B" series at the time, no?"

Scout watches as the German sobs silently into his own hands, glimpses of his tear streaked face visible from in between his thick fingers.

"Observe, Miss Ingram," Dmitri sighs solemnly, wrenching the German's sleeve back, the numbered sequence tattooed in faded ink on the underside of his forearm. The Italian lets it drop carelessly onto the hardened table, Scout willing himself not to be sick as he follows the blotches of ink and their seep into his age blemished skin, Heinrich's heaves and sobs louder now despite his efforts to conceal them.

"Clearly memories of the camp haunt you, Mr. Schmelzer. But what about the bittersweet day of your liberation? The line to the gas chambers was hours long—you literally stood in line for death in the rain, 78 pounds and six foot one—you could hardly stand at that—when Soviet forces liberated the camp the very same day and all actions were halted.

Just days before, the SS emptied the camp and made the majority of the prisoners march west to their deaths in an attempt to escape the oncoming Soviets, yet you were not among them! You would have died, out there. You were among the few to survive,"

"WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!" Scout shouts hysterically, glaring at the smirking Italian. He wanted to say his outburst was meant to defend one of his dearest friends, that he couldn't stand to see the doctor face the memories that he was certain haunted him on their own as it was. Still, Scout realizes as his fists shake, his face twisted with a rage filled disgust, it was him who couldn't stomach the details of Heinrich's gruesome path. He was not alone in this, for Luc's eyes were pressed shut tightly, his face blank but Scout knew the words washed over him too—Sniper's face solemn, his lips sealed as if he too would be sick should he part them. "HOW DARE YOU LAUGH?! HOW DARE YOU FUCKIN' LAUGH?!"

"The day of his liberation is a great thing! If you would give me the chance to explain, Lawrence—Herr Schmelzer, I do not bring up these memories to haunt you as Scout would like to imply, but to remind you that history appears to be repeating itself in your case. You sympathized with the Jew from the very beginning; you denounced the ascension of your own people and instead suffered unspeakable horrors in the name of the ones your people believed to be their undoing—of Russian Jews, Bolsheviks and Marxists, Social Democrats. You allowed yourself to be tortured by your own brothers because you fell in love with your enemy—and I mean for the Slavs as much as I mean Mikhail himself! Do not look at me so, I have been your colleague for years, it was beyond obvious you two are together!

Apart from the parallels with Lawrence's that can be drawn from this story, Miss Ingram, we see that Herr Schmelzer has a tendency to abandon his allegiance in favour of the opposition, even if it should mean his identity is reduced to a number, his mass to nothing! Yet he does it again! He conspires to assist his enemy, the Bushman and the criminal Scout, to assist them from escaping their fate! Yet regardless of how you felt, you still had a copy of Mein Kampf with your name dabbed forever in the cover, you still have passages and quotes memorized!"

"'ND WHAT ABOUT YOU, YOU FILTHY TOSSER?! YOU'RE PROLLY NOT SO INNOCENT EITHER, YOU WERE PROLLY ONE O'THOSE FASCISTS TOO—!"

"Now Bushman, do realize that Mr. Benito's regime began much before my time and drew to a close in the earliest years I can claim consciousness; despite my country's allegiance with Nazi Germany, I personally cannot say I was ever a Black Shirt or an Italian Fascist—Aha! I see Lawrence takes onto his Bushman, rising when things become too much for him to handle…" Dmitri tisks, rolling his eyes at the crying doctor.

"It's been over twenty years, Doc, dry the tears, now…"

Pauling stands against the wall, hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horror. The Administrator sits with the same thin lipped glare of unamusement at her clients, clearly untouched by the story of BLU's Medic whether she'd heard it before or not.

"Hm, would you look at that—we even have photocopies of your fake identification in here—isn't that something…" Dmitri tucks the paper under Heinrich's arm, Scout running an arm down the man's back sympathetically.

"Though even still you had a happy ending—you having been cared for and treated of malnurishment and injuries sustained by your forced labour by the Allies and you were released in 1946. Though Mikhail was recovered by the Red Army and detained in a Russian camp for having been inexplicably AWOL for a year and a half, you were both reunited in 1949 through search efforts many civilians utilized to find lost loved ones through the Red Cross, and have been inseparable since," Dmitri sighs. "The Heavy and his Medic, as you two are now known…"

The German doesn't even appear to be listening anymore at this point.

"Now let us talk about your eventual recruitment to BLU—"

"I don't need to hear it, Marino, the man has been with us long enough for me to know his employment history,"

"Alright, let us not; let us instead move onto your role in this whole Fitzpatrick conspiracy…"

"I have no role…" Heinrich croaks, looking down at his fists. "I have no part in zis. I vas simply a vitness to zeir deazs,"

"Now now, doctor—certainly the methods of interrogation used at Auschwitz-Birkenau taught you it's no good to lie—do you not remember what happen to little Danka, who you befriended in the camp? In your memoirs you stated you grew attached to a little girl while in Auschwitz, and that you tried your best, along with her barely surviving mother, to make the days easier for her! She tried running away, and the overseer had you interrogated, for he was certain you knew where she was hiding…" Heinrich's lip trembles again, the man shaking his head.

"You lied for her sake, as you're doing for Little Larry now. But they found her! They found her and made you watch as they sawed off her feet, telling her it was punishment for running away—"

"…I knew nozing; Scout is my comrade and my friend. I saw his body on ze field and zen proceeded to take it to ze infirmary to compose an autopsy report. It vas zen the men came into ze Medibay claiming ze bodies to be fake and zat I vould be taken into custody…" Heinrich interrupts loudly, his whole body shaking as he wills himself to stay calm.

"LIES! ALL LIES! Why do you insist on lying to me, Schmelzer? You have been an enemy of Luc's for years, no? You have fought against him and seen his tricks! How could you not tell the difference between one of his fakes and the real deal?!"

"I—I vas in distress—I saw it vas Scout's body and panicked."

The delivery of the man who proclaimed himself to be an extraordinary actor was dull and neutral, Scout notes dreadingly; as if the doctor himself couldn't even assume the role to pretend this was the truth. Scout could not exactly say he blamed him; it was all coming down so hard—all the man had done was confronted Heinrich with his past and already Scout could see the will drain from those around him.

"You honestly expect me to believe this? You went on to immigrate to the United States, graduate from medical school years before the projected date of completion, earned your status as a hero of the war, pardoned of all identity fraud—and yet you were fooled by such a simple decoy,"

"I will 'ave you know Dead Ringer technology is among zhe best in zhe world," Luc snaps, Dmitri's face upturned again in his favourite scowl.

"So he admits to having used it—"

"I admit to nozhing, I am simply making sure zhat zhe ozhers in zhis court room are not fooled by your misinformation,"

"I will say Marino has a point, Schmelzer—that you were so easily fooled by a cheap trick is both disheartening and pathetic. Should you ever slip up so obviously again I will have your contract terminated and see to it you are deported back to Germany, regardless of any bravery you may have shown,"

"You believe him?! You really believe his claim that he had no involvement in the conspiracy to hide these two?!"

"I do not have time to sit here and decipher slivers of evidence from wailing Medics, Marino, especially not when I have all the evidence I need already."

"This man is impeding justice!"

"I am not as unforgiving as many like to make me appear; I give everyone second chances," the woman smiles sickeningly, looking the fearful doctor in the eye.

"Despite what Lawrence may have told you I am not so quick to kill my mercenaries; you are moderately indispensable—or at least not dispensable enough that I can punish you too severely upon your first offense. Mr. Schmelzer you have been a most crucial asset to the success of BLU, that I recognise. Whether it was sheer idiocy or disobedience that caused you to overlook the authenticity the bodies, I can assure you that if you were to know that a second offense will cost you deportation and separation from Klimov—as well as a personal reminder of your treason, you would be less hesitant to make such silly mistakes,"

"So then that's it? I bring you an elaborate conspiracy and you dismiss him—"

"It was hardly elaborate, and it is not him I am concerned with," the Administrator coughs, her eyes on Lawrence all the same. "Miss Pauling, take him to the atrium and see to it a car escorts him personally back to Teufort. Mr. Schmelzer, should I see you here again in person you best remember to have your bags packed," the woman spits, a tense silence settling between the four men, Scout watching anxiously as the German rises from his chair.

The man fans a gentle, wide palmed hand along his shoulder, his eyes glassy behind his compact, circular spectacles. The Bostonian shudders as the angle of his arm causes the sleeve of his coat to fall against his bare skin, Heinrich's wrist visible, the faded tattoo flashing itself quickly before the German brings the hand it belongs to to pat him gently on the cheek.

"Get your last look at him, doctor, the next time you'll see him he really will be dead—" the smack of the man's head cracking against the checkered floor, a sickening crunch of skull against the cold, smooth stone, causes Scout to shudder as Sniper actually dives across the table, choking the man violently.

The Administrator simply places her head in her hands, mentally attempting to block out the muffled mesh of Jack's quick and muffled insults, thickened behind his accent, and Dmitri's yelps and screams to get the man off him. Neither Scout nor Luc, though they stand, make an effort to pull the men apart, for the the Administrator simply sits in disgusted silence, otherwise showing no signs of noticing the scrap taking place on her very floor.

He wouldn't stop or reprimand Sniper, not this time; and as the memories of his wide toothed grins pointed at the sobbing doctor resurface themselves, the memory of his bobbing ringlets and the way his skin seemed to glow in the wake of the man's misery, Scout finds himself resisting the powerful urge to pummel him as well. Miss Pauling, hovering over them awkwardly, hands outspread over the squabbling figures rolling about on the floor, hunches her kness so they bend just slightly, her small fingers outstretched as if she waits patiently for a moment to best pull them apart.

The ferocity of their swings and the weight of their bodies sliding carelessly about freezes her from making any motions outright, the small framed woman stepping back as Heinrich pulls the men apart.

Scout instantly pulls the Australian toward him, taking the shattered sunglasses into his hands, the chipped frames and cracked orange lenses digging incisions into his hands the more he toys with the shards. Scout shakes his head slightly, not knowing himself what he means to convey with the gesture, though it's quickly forgotten as Heinrich draws his own fist back so it cracks against the Italian's already bleeding mouth, the German shaking his bloody knuckles as he allows himself to be escorted through the door with Miss Pauling without another word.

"…Miss! How could you—how could you let those monsters hit me so—?!"

"You forget I watch you all attempt to murder each other on a regular basis," the woman spits, producing a cigarette and lighter from the side table next to her, the Administrator blowing smoke through her flaring nostrils, her cool, pale skin giving her the look of a furious corpse, contrasting starkly against the rich black of the leather.

"I warned you not to provoke the men, and yet your dramatic display has nearly cost you your teeth," she rises, all four silent as she makes her way to them, save Dmitri's quiet though winded heaves. Like an industrial clamp the woman allows her claws to grip into the nest of Dmitri's curls, talon like in its vice. The cigarette dangles from the corner of her mouth, causing her to scowl in a way Scout can say is neither feminine nor masculine—or human for that matter. Dmitri hisses as she pulls his hair, each tug an immediate result of her surverying his bloodied profile and swollen lips, the blood trickling down his nose and spilling onto his front.

She releases him without a word, the man taking a step back and flattening his shirt. Jack grunts in a similar matter as the woman brings her hand to clench in Sniper's hair as well, though the Australian receives an acute smack at the end of her inspection, his hand going to cup his stinging cheek.

"I don't understand why you don't have these monsters cuffed—"

"Act out of line again Mundy and it's the showers with you,"

"Oo, a cruel joke, miss—it's a good thing you waited until Schmelzer—"

"If you do not quit wasting my time Marino I shall see to it you are the first—I told you I had enough with your dramatic display—"

"Your time?! Miss Ingram, with all due respect, the only reason you have time set aside for these men and their crimes to begin with is all thanks to my insight and knowledge; had I not tipped you off that Scout was in a promiscuous, cross factioned relationship with a dirty Bushman nearly old enough to be his father , as well as their attempted escape, you would truly be sitting there, wronged in that chair of yours,"

"…I ain't a kiddie diddler, mate," Sniper snaps calmly, the man sneering mockingly up at the cold woman who stares back at him with equal amounts of animosity. "I'm eleven 'nd a half years older than 'im—when was the last time y'saw a twelve year old walkin' around with a tot?"

"I don't care, it doesn't make your betrayal or eloping any less filthy,"

"Besides, Miss, I am not here for you—I am not here for the Frenchman, Larry, or his perverted kangaroo humper—I'm here for the money owed to me,"

"Excuse me?" the Administrator asks calmly, her eyebrows raising as if to silently remind him he is treading on very thin ice.

"The little faggot owes me money, that's all I'll say—and I want it in my hand today before he bites it—I don't care whose pocket it comes out of, just as long as the eight hundred is in my hand by time the blade used to slice his neck is wiped completely clean,"

"I am neither a banker nor a lawyer, Marino, nor am I someone who cares at all for your financial instability; you are here because you have provided me with the perpetrators of one of the greatest crimes committed against me, BLU, RED, and TF Industries to date. In so far you complete your purpose, your affairs matter not at all—you'll be lucky you leave this building today with all your teeth in tact at this rate," the woman snaps, gesturing for Miss Pauling to slip through the door, who stands peeking behind it, waiting for permission.

"Miss Pauling, were you aware of any unpaid debts between the Scout and his Spy?"

"N—n ma'am—but Mr. Schmelzer is on the way back to the base now,"

"Wonderful—in your absence the Spy and Sniper put on a display of brutish oafishness and decided to wrestle around on the floor,"

"I see, there's blood on the floor—I'll get the mop—"

"No, I will have no further interruptions, this process has already gone astray as is; Lawrence Fitzpatrick, I want answers. I want to know how you met this man, how you grew to love him, the extent of the relationship, how long you have been together—and rest assured I will get them, no matter what you or Mundy have to say otherwise. However I see the way I have been running this process has been the wrong way indeed. Clearly if I want the answers, I shall get them myself—"

"Like Hell y'old bitch!"

"And namely without interruptions—whether it be from Marino or Mundy,"

"What do you propose, Miss Ingram?"

"I shall have the three interrogated separately. Miss Pauling, you take the Sniper. I sha—"

"I call dibs on the Frenchman, Miss Pauling, for your see, only a Spy could get another Spy to crack,"

"Yes, fine—I shall interrogate the Scout myself—"

"I AIN'T LEAVIN' 'IM YA—"

"I will not kill him yet, you have nothing to fear,"

"Y'AREN'T KILLIN' 'IM AT ALL, YA WRINKLED OLD CUNT!"

"Jack, please…" Luc reminds him, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "Zhis is perfect—"

"Perfect?! She's gonna kill 'im, mate—!"

"Trust me please when I say to follow Miss Pauling—I 'ave a plan, I 'ave been zhinking zhis whole time, and zhe isolated questioning is perfect," Luc nods watching the two women chat in hushed voices in the front of the room, Dmitri leaning against the wall next to them, though ultimately going ignored.

"It seems as if Miss Pauling and 'er boss can 'ardly stand zhe man zhemselves,"

"If they kill 'im, I won't fault 'em—bloody tosser…" Jack whispers, Luc shaking his head as the man goes to wrap his arms affectionately around Scout.

"I would not display any sort of romantic act in front of 'er,"

"Does it look like I give a toss what the bitch thinks? It ain't like she hasn't already convicted us t'death for it—Hell, I'll fuck Lawrence right here on 'er little floor, right at her feet, if it's the last thing I do…" he growls, though he checks to make sure the women are still preoccupied before bringing him into a quick, soft kiss.

"Please do not mention your plans to Pauling during questioning. It is a delicate situation, and zhis is our last chance to come out of 'ere alive,"

"'S funny," Sniper snaps, running a soft hand through Scout's hair even as Miss Pauling approaches them, hand cuffs at the ready. "You're talkin' like I plan on tellin' 'er anything."