"Excuse me," The lone gas station cashier looked over her magazine at her, "I was wondering if you could help me?"
"Yeah, whadaya want?" The worker droned, arching up an eyebrow on her makeup plastered face.
"Has an RV stopped at your station anytime during the past week? Specifically a Knight's Camper made for Datsun Pickups?" Miss Pauling asked, pulling the gray-ish purple trench coat she was wearing closer. The worker groaned and huffed some smoke from her cigarette.
"Listen, I work the register an' store, and I ain't got a proper view of the cars customers drive with. Only way to check is the security tapes and my boss don't let nobody see them 'cept him."
"Oh," Miss Pauling nearly deflated before perking up and reaching into her pocket, "then perhaps you could tell me if you've seen any of these men enter your store between now and Sunday?"
From her pocket she pulled nine photos and laid them upon the store counter. The worker took a drag and looked over the pictures of the mercenaries. For each, she took it and raised it to face level, staring for so. Very. Long.
The silence filling the store was only fought back by the tapping of Miss Pauling's flats. She checked her watch. 4:17 PM. She turned back to the cashier who was still staring at the pictures. By process of elimination she was holding Spy's. Miss Pauling coughed into her fist, catching the woman's attention.
"Do you recognize any of them?" She repeated. The worker took another drag and set down Spy's portrait before brushing aside the piles of photos and pointing at one in particular.
"This one. He came in here a couple days ago and bought a few things." She tapped her long nails of the 2D face of Sniper. Miss Pauling furrowed her brow.
"I see, do you remember what he bought-"
"Look lady," The worker interrupted, eyes bored and annoyed, "are ya gonna buy somethin' or are you just gonna waste my time askin' me questions about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Slightly Handsome?"
Miss Pauling narrowed her own eyes. Did she need anymore information from this rude clerk? Unfortunately, yes. She still needed to know if Sniper was alone, where he was heading, and what he had bought. Any clue as to where he was now was vital. He had been the hardest to track down and hire, something Miss Pauling thought Spy would take the title for. But the Australian could drop off the face of the Earth in less than a day, she'd seen it happen after a mission she'd assigned him that ended poorly. At least then Sniper still had a radio and knew where to be picked up. She wasn't so naïve as to believe this situation was anything like the last.
"Well? I ain't got all day! I could be helping other folks who'd gladly pay for something and not waste my time playin' 20 questions!" Miss Pauling was almost impressed by the crassness of the woman. She'd killed tens of people for far less than back talking for The Administrator. But taking out the L-22 hoisted on her thigh and killing her would leave a mess that Miss Pauling did not have time to clean. And she didn't replenish her Quicklime she brought for emergency gravedigging. So, that left the more efficient, far quicker but much less satisfying option of Bribery.
"I see it as buying valuable information. Now could you tell me what I want to know?" Miss Pauling replied as a roll of hundreds was placed on the counter. The woman froze and stared with wide eyes at the fat stack of cash the assistant handed. Then, her entire demeanor changed as she took the roll of bills and flashed Miss Pauling a grin.
"Anything for you, Dollface. Whadaya wanna know?"
"I want to know what this man bought here, which direction he left in, and if he was alone." The woman leaned back and took a long drag, looking up in thought. After a moment, she straightened out, defeated.
"I don't remember what he bought, that was days ago." Miss Pauling pushed her glasses up in annoyance. "But the security tapes should show you what you wanna know. Follow me." The woman stood and gestured for Miss Pauling to follow her into the small back room behind the counter.
"I thought you said that only your employer was allowed access to the security footage?"
"Eh, what Frank doesn't know won't hurt him." She replied as she unlocked the room. Miss Pauling entered after her and her eyes immediately watered at the overwhelming smell of beer and nicotine.
The room was small and covered with crumpled paper balls, old pizza boxes, and beer cans. Gnats and flies were everywhere, clinging to the grimy yellow walls or eating off the old food stains and crumbs that littered the cobalt carpet. Against the opposite wall sat a small rickety desk with a single monitor and wooden chair. Only once before did Miss Pauling want to burn down a room like she did right now.
The cashier plucked herself down on the chair and began to type up the security recordings. Miss Pauling watched for a moment before letting her eyes wander around the broom-closet sized room. On the wall sat ripped off pages of calendars and playboy magazines. How nice. Very professional. Even more magazines of that nature sat on the desk besides the crumby keyboard and monitor. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"So, what's this guy to ya, anyway?" Miss Pauling's rowdier companion asked. "Is he ya boyfriend or owes ya money or…"
"Have you gotten the recordings pulled up yet?" She looked over at the computer screen.
"Almost. But since I could get in trouble for this I think I deserve a little info, ya feel me? Ya showed me nine photos of slightly hot guys and someone in a gas mask and expect me not to ask questions back? Yeah, no dice, sister."
"The trouble you could be in is probably worth the amount I gave you, hmm?"
"You got me there, but are ya looking for all a these dudes? Cause, sister, you're into some weird types." Miss Pauling sputtered at that.
"I'm not in a relationship with any of- look, just get the recordings pulled up."
"Alright, alright, don't get your skirt all up in a twist. Though, gotta say, some of those guys are kinda hot. Like the guy who came here. Kinda quiet, real polite, tall. That big guy in the photo was lookin' fine, too. But that scrawny kid? MmMm, no. Buck teeth ain't doin it for me. Looking like a small breeze could snap him in two. Wouldn't be surprised if he weren't seein' nobody-"
"Ah-EM." Miss Pauling coughed and gestured to the screen. She wasn't here to talk about how attractive her mercenaries were to some random woman. The cashier waved away the flustered Pauling aside and finally brought up the tapes.
Miss Pauling watched in silence as the station's indoor cameras played out the events of last Wednesday. The morning showed a group of teenage girls buying some liquorice and soft drinks. The recording was sped up until the mercenary she was looking for walked in.
Even through the grainy black and white screen, Miss Pauling could tell that the tall man that had entered the building was Sniper. His posture was slightly hunched so as to not intimidate anyone from his height alone and on his head sat his loyal slouch hat. The marksman had walked in shaking water off of his hands and looking around the small store.
The cashier began to speed up the footage of Sniper actually picking the items he would buy and stopping the moment he walked over to finalize the purchase. Miss Pauling made quick work of memorizing the items. Some socks, two flashlights, rope, jerky, a toothbrush, and several first aid kits. Before she could question the Australian's purchase, her companion asked a question.
"So do ya wanna look at the outside tapes too? Cause ya said ya wanted ta know where he went."
"Oh, right, yes. Please." She added as the cashier rolled her eyes with eyelids heavy with eyeshadow. A few types and clicks later and Miss Pauling watched the recording get brought up.
From the angle of the feed, Miss Pauling could tell that the camera was the one outside the door, pointed at the actual gas pumps. She watched as, through the heavy rain, Sniper's van rolled up to the station and parked. And out stepped the small shape of the marksman before getting blown back inside his vehicle.
He got out again with a coat on and stepped up to the pump and began refilling his tanks. Then, someone else got out of the van. Miss Pauling's eyes widened.
Scout's slender, grainy form walked out into the rain and stood right next to Sniper. A millisecond passed and Sniper jumped straight into the air at something Scout said, or shouted, and the two mercs began to bicker. The assistant had to keep from giggling as the pair grew more "enthusiastic" in their gestures. Then Sniper began walking to the store with a miffed expression leaving Scout in the parking lot. Scout finally turned to face the camera-
"Huh, the kid's got one hand? First buck teeth, now a deformed arm? Oof, wouldn't wanna be him. Though, with teeth and ears like his, I'd argue he was already deformed-"
"Shush!" Miss Pauling snapped, patience wearing thin. The worker raised her arms in surrender and started to skip forward-
"Wait!" Miss Pauling ordered. The cashier looked at her with annoyance. "Go back a second." Rewinding back and starting again, the ladies watched as Scout stood in the empty lot. He was still for a bit before slipping on the coat Sniper tossed him. As he did, the wind knocked the fabric into his face and the runner tried prying it off with his injured hand. Miss Pauling felt a tinge of sympathy towards Scout as he was forced to use his other hand. That was when he began to unwind the bandages on his left. And Miss Pauling could tell from his reaction and the blurry mess that was his arm that it was infected. So that might be the reason for all of those medkits.
"Alright, you may skip forward." The cashier rolled her eyes again and sped up the footage until Sniper exited the store and into his van with Scout. They sat there for a bit. Doing what? Miss Pauling couldn't tell from the grainy image. But eventually the van started up and drove down the road headed South.
"So, are those guys you're looking for brothers or something? They looked kinda similar from their pictures, and I don't know why someone would drag along a scrawny, handi-capped string bean like that unless they were related." Miss Pauling didn't answer as she pulled her coat together and began buttoning it up.
"Or are they like… you know?..." That caught Miss Pauling's attention. Seeing the assistant's confusion, the cashier explained. "You know, is the smaller one the taller's little boy toy?" She barely had time to finish before another roll of cash landed on her lap. Before Miss Pauling left, she looked back and met the prying woman's eyes.
"Keep the cash. You never saw me. Oh," She looked back one more time, "And I would suggest you stop asking so many questions." On that note, Miss Pauling left the room and store and entered her little purple car.
As she sat down, she shivered. The very notion that Sniper and Scout were, or are, anything other than colleagues was concerning and disturbing to visualize. She did not want those images in her head. She didn't see any of the men without clothes, and, frankly, she hoped she never would. Ugh, the very idea. That woman was so, so lucky Miss Pauling was on a tight schedule. First being rude, then lusting over her mercs, then being rude to her again and insulting Scout. Several times over his looks and injury and not his obnoxious ego or attitude was almost the tipping point. But Miss Pauling couldn't afford to kill her. Yet. The woman was now a loose end in a company's, but mainly The Administrator's, private affairs. Miss Pauling made a mental note to jot down the Gas Station's location so that she could come back and clean up.
But she'd spent too much time here already. With Scout's infection, it could kill him in less than a month if it goes without the proper treatment. And she really didn't want to spend even more time hiring a replacement for him. Arm or no arm, he was still fast and a vital asset. They could always make a new one for him, metal or not. The ignition roared and the plum-colored car sped down the forest highway. Miss Pauling had some mercs to find and a van to catch. Wherever they are.
There wasn't much else to do except take watch. Sniper never brought his belongings outside his van with his weapons being the main exception. So when the others eventually departed the Mess Hall to pack whatever they still needed to, Sniper was left to do whatever he wanted. Within the base and contracts, of course. And what better way to spend the last day at Sawmill than to keep an eye on the base?
Sniper had offered to help Medic with boxing along with Engie, but the German refused. Only one extra pair of hands would be enough, and Medic didn't like it when people had access to his personal items. So it made sense why the truckie was thought to be trustworthy enough for the task. The Texan couldn't lie to save his life, not that he ever wanted to.
So there Sniper was, walking up to his nest to watch the surrounding landscape. The nest itself was alright. It had an expansive open window, perfect for sniping trespassing blokes. The downside being the tin roof. The blasted thing was constantly peppered with rain, making it nearly impossible to hear any ambush or spy that wanted to stick a knife in his back. It didn't matter if it was implausible at the moment, it was best to keep his instincts sharp and mind sharper. The marksman reached the isolated out clove and sat down on the familiar stiff chair.
As uncomfortable as it was, the view made everything better. It really was a beautiful place, despite the ever present rain and clouds. Fit the general theme of the land. The rolling hills covered in pines and firs. Shades of green: dark, graying, light, vibrant, as far as the eyes could see. Gigantic stone cropping sticking out every so often in the distant trees. Lovely place. Shame it had to be so cold.
Sniper shivered. He should have grabbed a coat on his way back to his van to drop off the coffee he'd grabbed from the kitchen. But Sniper was already sitting and he doesn't plan on getting up once that happens. So he tried ignoring the chill as much as possible by looking around the world.
At least he brought his rifle. Slinging the weapon off his back, Sniper brought it up into his arms and searched the far off trees. There was a hint of red that caught his eye.
Bringing the scope up to his line of sight, Sniper zeroed in on the opposing team's color. It was too small to be any actual member of RED. Besides, the other mercenaries had been moved to Harvest, waiting for the BLUs to finally show up in order to start killing each other. A waste really.
It wasn't the fact that he was killing people per se, but just how often he was surrounded by it. The matches, whenever they happened, were chaotic. He could count the amount of times the battles didn't result in casualties on one hand. So many new faces would be hired only to die immediately on the battlefield, either by a clean bullet through the head or his coworkers. Coworkers that he would have to fight in the next match whenever that happened. It was a miracle he trusted them the amount he did, really, what with trying to kill each other so often. Or cared about them the amount he did. That was dangerous. And something that Sniper couldn't afford to build.
He focused back on the vermillion mass in his scope. It was a little bird. The feathered animal had a small crest and an orange beak with black eyes. Pretty little thing. Oh, he should have brought his bird guide, too! What was the small beaut called? It started with a C. Hm.
"Yo, Snipes, howzit goin' up here?" Speaking of teammates that he regularly fought to the death with.
"Well enough." Sniper answered, tone regulated. Out of all the people to come up and find him, it had to be Scout. Figures. Okay, now hold on, the boy hadn't done anything yet, no need for feeling hostile.
"Why do ya have your rifle with ya? There ain't no REDs ta fight." Scout observed as the Bostonian walked over to lean on the adjacent wall.
"Mostly out of habit. You can never be too careful, though." He said, bringing the gun down to look at his new companion. "Whoi are ya up here?"
"What, can't a guy just hang out with his teammate once and a while? I don't need a reason for everythin' I do." Sniper looked at Scout over his shades. The runner stood defiant for a moment but eventually began to squirm under the Australian's cold eyes.
"Whot do you want, Mongrel?" Sniper sighed. There were typically only two reasons why Scout would seek someone out: for a favor or he really wanted to annoy someone.
"I was just bored, man." Scout mumbled, pulling the cap on his head down. "Just wanted ta hang out with someone, y'know? And you're always available. Well, alone, 'm mean. Usually, so I figured dat, y'know, you'd be up for talkin' or whatever."
Sniper sat up straighter. That… was blunt. He didn't think Scout would just lay his cards out on the table like that. But it made things easier for him. Even if he didn't enjoy the implications.
"So there's nobody else for you to bother?" He asked, perhaps a little harshly. Scout pulled his hat down further, eyes growing sharper.
"No. And I ain't botherin' nobody. Overalls' helpin' Doc, Heavy, Demo, and Spy are playin' a borin' old card game, and Soldier and Pyro were havin' some stupid debate last I saw so no, there ain't nobody else." Sniper let the information roll around in his mind. If Scout was telling the truth, and he didn't seem to have any motive not to, then Sniper and Scout really were the only ones left without any major goings on. Unfortunately. Well, at least he had a chance now to get on with his lost bet from earlier.
"Well, if you're going to be up here, can you at least tell me whot that bird is? Sniper pointed towards the speck of red feathers in the distance. Scout walked over to the window and leaned out, trying to get a better look at the small creature.
"Uh, could be a Robin, cause they got those red bellies."
"Nah," Sniper scratched his chin, "Oi've seen robins before, this one's all red."
"Uhhhhhh, lemme see your scope."
"Whot?"
"Well, I'd need ta see da stupid bird ta tell what kind it is!" Scout explained. Seeing the kid's point, Sniper placed his rifle in his lap and unhooked the scope. He handed Scout the telescopic lens.
"Do not drop it." Sniper warned.
"Yeah, yeah," Scout waved away the concern. He brought the scope to his eye and peered at the bird. The runner's face scrunched up in thought.
"Oh! I know this bird. Aw crap, what's its name? I see it all da time back in Massachusetts. Red Blue Jay lookin' things. They're like, da most common bird other than Pigeons and Goldfinches. And Seagulls, those flyin' rat b*****ds. They're da worst; one stole a bag of chips from me when I was nine, nearly biting off my freakin' finger for it! I still have da scar-"
"Scout, focus, whot's the bird?"
"Shuddup I'm tryin' ta think!" Sniper rolled his eyes. He hadn't even said anything till now.
"Oh, it's a Cardinal! Yeah, dat's da bird." Scout grinned as he handed the scope back to Sniper. He took it back while eyeing Scout, who was currently standing with a haughty smirk and looking at the Cardinal.
"How did you know that?" Sniper asked.
"You asked me, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, but Oi didn't actually think you'd know whot it was called. You don't seem like the type who memorizes birds."
"'M not." Scout said, fiddling with his headpiece's mic. "My ma is, though. She liked ta go out bird watchin' with her lady friends when my brothers got old enough ta watch us younger ones. Dat way she didn't have ta spend all her free time in between jobs and shifts babysittin' me and Tommy. Course, Ma would sometimes bring us along for "family outtin's" and stuff, dat's when she'd tell us all about da types of birds. I got stuck listenin' to it cause I was da smallest and she didn't want me roughhousin' with my brothers. Afraid I'd get choked out or killed accidently. But dat didn't always happen and sometimes she'd let me play with them once I annoyed her about it long enough. One a those times Davey, he's my second oldest bro, and Harvey, he's the fifth oldest, kinda the middle kid, always liked hanging out with him da most-"
Sniper could only sit there and pretend to listen. He placed the scope back onto his rifle and began to look around the coniferous forest once again. Soon Scout's ramblings faded into the background like white noise. It was almost relaxing. Sometimes he'd hum or say a quick "really?" to interact with the runner, if only with the bare minimum.
There was another bird, it looked like the Cardinal except blue. A deep, navy blue that seemed to shimmer. What a lovely hue. Slightly iridescent. Close by was a flock of much smaller birds. They looked almost like tennis balls, they were so round. The feathers were a dull olive green with the exception of a bright red spot on the top of their heads. Why were they so round? But more importantly, why did a professional assassin want so badly to hold one in his hands? They were so round!
"-And then he threw me into da pond. I nearly swallowed a freakin' frog in dat thing, it swam into my mouth and all! Tasted awful, I don't get how people down south eat da freakin' things. But I guess they fry them too so it ain't just frog you're eatin'." Sniper blinked. Scout had still been talking this entire time, long after Sniper stopped responding. Shaking himself into the present, Sniper turned to Scout again.
"Whot does eating frogs have to do with birdwatching?" Scout paused, mouth open mid sentence.
"...I dunno, uh, I was talkin' about how my ma took us ta parks and stuff and dat's where I learned about birds." The runner once again leaned out the window and pointed to where the Cardinal used to be. "Weird thing is dat Cardinals live in da Eastern States and Canada, so I dunno why one's all da way out here in da Western parts."
"Well, it's the Pacific Northwest, right next door to Canada so it makes some sense whoi one would be around."
"I guess."
"Do you know whot those are called?" Sniper pointed towards the group of flying tennis balls. Scout squinted.
"Uhhh, where?"
"Here," Sniper handed him the scope again and lined his companion up to see the birds. "Those ones, the small round ones." Scout chewed his cheek in thought.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh… Well dat one's a Cellar Jay." Sniper could only assume he meant the blue bird he spotted.
"Oi think it's "Stellar Jay"."
"Ya sure? Okay, well, those fat ****ers are called "Ruby Crowned Kinglets". They're everywhere, like Chickadees. Hey, did you know dat Chickadees are called Chickadees because dat's what they sound like? Like, they'll open their mouths and out comes- what?"
Scout suddenly straightened out, hand on his headpiece. Sniper watched as Scout's expression went from confused to amused.
"No, this is Scout you're talkin' to."
…
"Well, you're in luck, I'm standin' right next ta him. We were havin' a nice little chat before ya interrupted us."
…
"Look, I dunno why ya couldn't talk ta him through your earpiece. What, is yours broken or somethin'? Cause if not then either ya got stupid or Sniper got stupid."
"Whot?" Sniper said indignantly, gaining a sudden interest in Scout's one-way conversation. "Who are you talking to?
"Shuddup! Anyway- no, I was talkin' ta Snipah, not you, ya don't have ta act so freakin' grumpy."
…
"Well, ya always sound grumpy, iznot my fault ya don't have any other tone besides "I'm annoyed and I'm gonna make sure everyone knows dat.""
…
"Well now you're grumpy. Self fulfillin' prophecy, big man, self fulfillin' prophecy- alright, alright, I'll ask! Geez!" Scout turned over to Sniper with a miffed expression. "Heavy wants ta know whether or not you have your earpiece with ya."
"Oh." So Sniper did forget something else important. Why was he forgetting so much stuff today? Maybe he should check around the base for anything he might have lost before they leave tomorrow. "No, Oi don't have it on me right now." Scout scoffed at that.
"Alright, so it turns out dat Snipah's da one dat's freakin' stupid and not you cause he forgot his earpiece."
"Hey!"
"Shuddup! Yeah, dat was for Snipah again, guy keeps talkin'." Pot calling the bloody kettle black. "Look, whaddya wanna ask him?"
…
"Dat's it? Yeah, okay, I'll ask- hey wait a minute, why didn't ya ask if I wanted to too!?"
…
"Dat don't matter, it's called common freakin' curtesy-"
…
"Well, yeah, I still would've said no but ya still could've asked me! It'd be da nice thing ta do."
…
"Freaking ouch, man, dat's cold, even for you- okay, I'm askin' now shuddup. And yeah, dat one was directed ta you, pal!" Scout snapped before flicking his mic up and dramatically sighing.
"Heavy wants ta know if you want ta play poker with him, Demo, and Spy."
"Y'know," Sniper stood and stretched, feeling a satisfying pop in his lower back, "Oi think Oi do. Got nothing better to do, honestly, besides double-checking moi things."
"Yeah, okay." Scout grumbled, flicking his mic down to give Heavy Sniper's answer. "Mr. Birdwatcher says yes. We'll- he'll probably be down there in a sec." Scout stood there and hummed to something Heavy said before pulling the microphone up again. Sniper swung his rifle over his shoulder and looked over to Scout, who was leaning against the wall and glaring out into the forest.
"Are you planning on staying here or?..." Sniper asked. The runner looked at him like he'd just chugged a can of neon pink paint.
"Uh, in case ya didn't catch da memo, they want you playin', not me."
"Jus' because you aren't playing doesn't mean you can't be around." Sniper pointed out. Scout only shrugged and huffed.
"Nah, what's da point of standin' around if there's nobody ta talk ta. You'll all be focused on your game. Sides, somebody's gotta make sure those pesky birds don't ambush da base!" Scout teased. Sniper rolled his eyes, more lighthearted than the last time, and began to walk back into the base. As he reached the door, Sniper turned back to ask his teammate a question.
"Oi, Scout, did you ever find your base-" A cold blast stole away his breath, leaving him unable to speak. And made it hard to keep a breath in. Any inhale he took was exhaled faster than Sniper could make use of them. But the most concerning thing was the sudden darkness.
He couldn't see the nest. He couldn't see Scout. He couldn't see the pale overcast sky.
His eyelids felt itchy on the inside, it was driving him crazy! There was nothing he could do but squeeze them together until slight stars filled his black vision. Another cold blast, and Sniper opened his eyes.
Where was he? It was so dark. So cold. Only some strange pale glow above him illuminated the slightest of objects, only shapes and sharp corners.
Sniper tried to groan but his parched throat refused to work. He swallowed. And swallowed again after his ears popped painfully. And that wasn't the only pain he felt.
Everything was sore and slightly numb. Everything except his right leg whose nerves were thumping and felt like someone took a blowtorch to them. Sniper rolled his stiff neck and looked down.
Or rather up. He was upside down, hanging from something that glowed. A pale white and semi-translucent substance was wrapped around his ankles and to his knees, gluing him to the ceiling of this place. Almost like a cocoon.
Sniper tried moving his legs. He was still wearing his shoes given that he could move his toes and feel his socks, but his actual legs were stuck and stuck good. The marksman tried hoisting himself up and grabbed his left leg and pulled. Nothing. After a good five seconds of effort, Sniper let himself drop. He could hardly breath through his nose. But his hands were still free so he used them.
Feeling around his face, Sniper could touch a foreign bump on the bridge of his nose. It was definitely broken. What other damage was there besides a broken nose and leg? One quick assessment later and the results stayed the same. There was nothing else besides a couple bruises.
Now the main problem was how he got here. Sniper looked around, breathing a faint mist in the void. There were no discernable features to make out. What happened?
The marksman rifled through his mind's archives. What had he been doing before he woke up here? Having a dream. A dream about actual events. Alright, that was something. There was someone else in it, talking to him about… about what? Some kind of animal? That seemed like the right option. Why though? Sniper shivered and sneezed, making his vision spin from the force. Oh so cold, why was it so cold? Where was his fleece?
His fleece. Sniper had put one on earlier today. Or yesterday, the passage of time was impossible to know down here. He had put one on because the base was freezing cold. It was cold because the generators weren't on and Sniper had gone to turn them on. Turn them on to get light so that Scout and him could-
Scout. Confusion and recalling twisted into a deep anger. A rage that felt like molten lead coursing through his veins and threatening to spew out.
That little, utter, bloody-! Sniper's ire filled thoughts froze into cold action. Sniper swung up and grabbed his legs and pulled with all his might. At first, it seemed to do nothing. Then, a little give. Sniper dropped, regaining his stamina before swinging up and repeating the process. The harder he tugged, the more the white glue stretched and gave. So close.
"No." Sniper blanked and dropped from the sudden noise. Before swinging up and pulling even harder than before, ripping his pant leg from the strain. A soft padding entered the room unbeknownst to the frantic marksman.
"C'mon, c'mon!..." Sniper muttered, feeling the prison stretching to its limits.
"No." Came the voice again as something grabbed his hair and ripped him down to face its owner.
A blank canvas of rippling flesh met his gaze. If Sniper had to describe it, he would say it resembled a mannequin. One that would be found in malls and stores with the most generic body one could have. The Counterfeit stood there with no disguises, no features, no face. Its skin, if that's what it was called, was like an ocean with constant waves of skin washing over itself to replace old colors, old flesh, old features before the replacement was itself washed over. Ever changing its appearance besides the slender form it always kept.
Then, The Counterfeit's "face" began to twist and morph before a pair of full lips had formed.
"Don't touch that." It said, the Texan accent all too familiar. It let go of his hair and looked up at the white substance holding him hostage. It stood so incredibly still, the only motion being its ever shifting skin. Sniper got bold.
"Let me go." He croaked, voice ragged from neglect. It didn't respond. "Did ya hear me, Oi said let me go!"
"Nyet." Heavy's booming voice filled the room as The Counterfeit took a step back. It looked at Sniper with hollow sockets. And then began to tremble.
Even if the white glue holding him hostage wasn't there, Sniper would still be stunned by the squirming veins that slid out from the creature's flesh. They coiled and snaked around, appearing like thin white worms. Into the open air they rose, all growing in length and height. And Sniper, so fixed on their dance, was too late to notice their malicious intention.
His eyes widened at the shortened distance and struggled harder than ever before. He twisted and writhed, pulling at his prison and away from the tendrils. Swatting at the invaders, Sniper reached out to grab something, anything, he could use. Pipe, plank, it didn't matter. Much like his battle. A battle for his freedom, but a losing battle nonetheless.
The moment the back of his hand grazed the tip of one of the strings, it shot into his skin. Sniper made to scream but the pain he should have felt was instead a deep, powerful numbness. His hand dropped like a dead weight and Sniper watched in horror as the faint bump in his skin writhed and lengthened. The tendril dug further and further into his arm, much like a vein. Along with it grew numbness until Sniper could no longer feel his entire left arm. And it was in his hyper fixation that the countless others joined.
The strings shot out and hooked into his skin. Legs, arms, chest, back, and face all went cold with paralysis. Sniper tried to shout but couldn't open his mouth. The pain in his leg and nose faded into nothingness. All he could feel was the cold digging just under his flesh. Pushing further and further into him. They moved as one. Peeling past his muscles. Sifting through everything until Sniper could no longer tell if he was breathing. Mind grew foggy. He couldn't even blink. And after what felt like eons, Sniper was left as only a consciousness in an empty husk of a body, forced to stare at the monster who did it.
It tilted its head when the tendrils fulfilled their purpose, gazing at Sniper who could only look back. It put its head straight. Then, The Counterfeit began to change.
The sound of breaking bones, ruptured tendons and tearing flesh filled Sniper's ears. The height was the first thing to change, as it grew taller and taller. Then, the appearance started to morph.
Slightly tanned flesh flooded its body followed by a sky blue. A face began to form. Deep brown hair grew to look brushed back and curled at the back of the neck. The faint brown of stubble. Cold, grey eyes. Long, boney hands and a faint scar engraved into its left cheek and nose.
A different cold crept into Sniper's chest, one that took whatever feeling was left in his hollow shell and gave it a voice. Survivalist instincts were too ingrained for whatever the creature's strings had done. In him grew a deep, dark dread. Even upside down, Sniper could still tell that the person standing before him, aside from the white tendrils growing from its skin, was the splitting image of himself.
The Not-Sniper finished its transformation. It stepped back, analyzing its new body. Those gray eyes filled with curiosity. Then, Sniper was peeled away from the present.
He had just received his first Machina rifle. Staring at the weapon in his hands, an awestruck smile lit up his face and he opened his mouth to speak-
"Bloody gorgeous!" Not-Sniper rumbled, a similar grin plastered on its face. It turned its hands, Sniper's hands, over to look at the palms. Then it turned to stare at the original. And the white strings disconnected.
They fell away from their creator and snaked up to latch themselves in the white glue holding Sniper up. At that moment, the marksman felt the tendrils begin to vibrate. And the fogginess clouding his mind gave way to another memory.
The darkness around him was replaced with a small desert road in the late afternoon. One with a dusty blue truck off to the side, wearing a crimson smeared stain on its front wheels. And in the lane a ten year old Sniper sat cradling the broken body of his family pet dog with a strange man standing to the side talking to his parents. The stranger hadn't meant to hit Dusty; the old dog had gotten outside and chased a dingo away from the even older chicken coop. Dusty was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing more than a tragic accident. Not that the knowledge helped.
Dusty was his best friend. Sniper's only friend in this horrible country full of rowdy, jerkish children who would push him to the ground and kick sand into his eyes until the teachers had to pull them away from the temporarily blinded kid. Dusty didn't punch him or push him off the steep desert inclines or threaten to kidnap and drop him off in the northern wetlands to get eaten by Saltwater Crocodiles. Dusty would stick around and let Sniper pet him whenever his folks got into one of their rare heated arguments. Dusty would follow him around the property while Sniper did the early morning chores and would join his adventures to hunt for dinosaurs in the Outback.
Now Dusty was dead. He was broken and bleeding out, just like the young Sniper's heart. His parents would get a new dog after the grief subsided, just like they did with the dog before Dusty. And they'll speak fondly about how Black Mouth Cur had been such a loyal, friendly pet. And try to comfort Sniper and not understand why the boy couldn't move on like they could. Because Dusty was all he had in this barren place. Because Dusty was his friend, his best friend in the whole wide world, and now he was gone forever.
The memory dragged Sniper down, making his vision sting and throat tighten into a strangle. And through his watery eyes Sniper could see his double reacting the same way. Not-Sniper was stiff and its face, Sniper's face, was on the brink of crumbling, lacking only tears. The tendrils vibrated again and the present was fading once more…
This was it. No turning back, no talking himself out of this, 17 year old Sniper was going to do it. The roaring of graduating students played in the background as he psyched himself up to talk to the beautiful fellow graduate three rows away. The rest of the class stood and began to mingle as the ceremony ended with a literal bang(Australian fireworks sure are something whenever they aren't burning down everything). Some graduates immediately left to go party and drink the night away. Some went to meet with their parents to take pictures and celebrate their child's achievement. And the rest chatted on with friends, bantering and even saying goodbyes to those moving to study internationally.
Sniper was one of parent kids as he easily found his thinner folks through the crowds of pure muscle and country-shaped chest hair. After chatting a bit and taking a quick photo or two, the young man was off. It wasn't hard to find Betty in the crowd of burly students due to Sniper's height, but it was a challenge to navigate the sturdy bodies just to reach her.
But he did. And she said hello and congrats on graduating! They chatted as friends, and Sniper asked to speak more privately. They left the former students and worked their way out and into a more quiet and grassy place.
That was where he confessed. And nerve wracking couldn't even begin to describe the silence that followed. It had taken Sniper so long just to work up the courage to get to know Betty better, which was a gamble that worked in his favor for once. They grew to be friends, and then Sniper wanted to be more. Because she was wonderful, with soft doe eyes and wavy brown hair with a personality that drew people in like a magnet. She took life by the reins and never looked back. Just brimming with energy and charm, something that was admittedly very attractive to the less lively Australian.
And he told her all of this, because it was the truth, and she just stood there drinking it in. She didn't say anything for the longest time, nearly sending Sniper into damage control and taking back everything he said. But he didn't, and that was the greatest gamble Sniper ever took.
Because she looked at him with those soft brown eyes and grabbed his collar to pull the slim man into a kiss. His very first. And happy couldn't hold a pin to what he felt at that moment. Relief, fear, joy, bliss, all rolled up into a confusing but wonderful ball of emotion that made his legs weak and heart flutter.
Contentment and love. Artificial contentment and love that drowned out the agonizing grief Sniper felt seconds before. Like a horrible cocktail of emotions and hormones all being overblown. Those web-like strings trembled again…
"Scout! Focus!" Sniper gripped the boy's arm tighter, forcing his attention back to the trapped Australian. Fear was etched into Scout's tired face, dark bags highlighting the flash of horror reappearing in his stormy blue eyes. The roar of The Counterfeit growing louder and louder. Scout kept looking back and forth, uncertain and frightened beyond belief. And if Sniper was free, he would take the boy by the shoulders and give them a reassuring squeeze, telling him everything would be alright. He would grab him by the wrist and run out of Landfall's horrid base. He would tell him that they were safe and everything would be alright. But he couldn't. Sniper was trapped.
And the moment Scout turned back to look him in the eyes when Sniper pleaded for Scout to pull just a little more, made Sniper realize he'd remain trapped.
It hurt. It hurt to feel the boy let him go. To grasp the fact that Scout had given up on saving him. To watch the lad shake his head at Sniper like there was no point in trying anymore, that Sniper was a lost cause.
And Scout ran away.
It hurt. Then that hurt became sadness. And that sadness grew into anger. And that twisted and contorted into something much darker. Much more heinous. An emotion that middle aged husbands would use to beat their wives to death with golf trophies.
Sheer, unadulterated hatred. Only this was far stronger than the actual moment. Head filled with toxic, loathing smoke. The itching need to kill was growing by the second. He wanted to strangle someone. Sniper wanted to strangle a certain Bostonian. To wring his thin little neck. To slice him apart with his kukri. To put bullet after bullet in his body until the coward bled out, begging for help. To take the runner by the hair and drag him to the room. To throw him to the ground and leave him as a gift for The Counterfeit. To watch him struggle as the tendrils rip into his skin, leaving him nothing but a husk as an alien lifeform stole away his life, friends, and family. To be forced to watch as everything he held dear be stripped away by The Counterfeit as the real Scout is forgotten in a little room to die alone while no one's the wiser.
The frozen fury never left Sniper's unblinking eyes. Not when the white substance above him was tightened. Not when his counterpart created more of the stuff and wrapped it around the dangling Australian. Not when the dark room was covered by a thin, white, semi-translucent film. Not even when he was entrapped in a pale, glowing cocoon with no means of escape.
The free Sniper stood looking at his handiwork. It was secure, and the real Sniper had been dealt with. In his mind, the repeated images of the human's companion being tortured and killed brought along that familiar required bloodlust. The urge to fight. The urge to hunt and kill. Specifically the small human.
"Thanks, mate." He said to the man-sized pod and the motionless shadow within. The nerves flooding the human's body would keep that predatorial emotion high. High and long enough to find the smaller one.
Giving a salute like the loud, squarish one, The Sniper turned and stalked into the darkness of the underground compound.
The van jerked to a halt. After some trial and error with the stick shift, it was put into park and the ignition was doused. Taking the keys and placing them in his jacket's pocket, Scout opened the door and stepped out into the small campground he stumbled upon on the road.
Small, secluded, and the only other residents being a group of high-outta-their-minds teenagers and what looked to be a couple spending some of their retirement trying to find some peace in nature and failing because of the teens loud, braying laughs. At least the strangers were keeping to themselves. Scout didn't feel like meeting new people.
Entering the RV, the runner collapsed into one of the benches and hid his face in his hands. With a shaky breath, Scout stood and opened the cabinet that stored the paper and pencils he wanted. He grabbed a sheet, and a couple pencils along with a pen, sat back down, and got to work.
The second graphite met paper, Scout grimaced. Sniper's face was easy enough to recall. It was kind of long, had a bit of a resting frown. His eyebrows were long and pretty close to his eyes. Then there was that faint scar.
Forgetting Sniper's features wasn't the problem. The problem was that Scout couldn't forget his face. The expression that Sniper had when Scout had ditched him. It was burned into his memory. Betrayed, that's what it was. The exact same face as-
Scout dropped the pencil and ran his hand through his hair, sighing. It's not like he wanted to leave Sniper behind! He didn't! But the man was trapped, and Scout only had one hand. Besides, better to have one survive than both die. Right?
Groaning, the runner grabbed the pencil again and forced himself to sketch. With loose movements, Scout drew a faint circle with two lines to mark out the face. Two smaller circles mapped out the eyes. The eyes that were filled with fear and heartbreak the last time Scout had seen them.
He crumpled up the paper and grabbed a new one. Scout started over and made it to actually mapping out every facial feature before stopping again. Another waste of paper. Sniper's paper. Scout grimaced again before grabbing another sheet.
Graphite met paper and scratched away. Line after line was laid. Soon, a portrait began to form. And Scout pushed back the urge to look away and throw it aside. He owed Sniper this at the very least.
The face started to take shape. The jawline, ears, hair were all rough but drawn. Scout started on the eyes and winced. He sketched the irises and winced again before standing up and pacing.
Why did he leave Sniper behind!? Why!? Why!? If he had just listened to Sniper, just focused like he'd been told to do. If he had just pulled harder. Dug his feet into the ground a little more. Just trusted Sniper more!
No, no it wasn't totally his fault. That stupid Australian. Maybe if he had listened to Scout and not gone into the base he'd still be alive! Or hadn't stopped Scout when he found Sniper and tried to lead them out of the base. If he had just listened to Scout the first time, none of this would have happened! It's Sniper's own d*mn fault for getting killed! That's what happens when you don't listen. Scout had done everything right! What would Sniper do if they had switched places? The same stupid thing, Scout reckoned.
Would he?
At that, Scout leaned on the RV's wall and slid to the floor. He brought his knees to his chest and sat in silence. After some thought, that horrible embarrassed feeling crept through his system. No. Sniper wouldn't. He chose to take Scout away from Sawmill and stitch him up. Sure, the guy had no idea what was going on but even a blind man could tell staying much longer was dangerous. And what did Scout do to return the favor?
Scout buried his face into his knees. What a lousy piece of s**t he turned out to be. Sniper didn't deserve it. None of them did. Not Demo, not Engie, not Heavy, h*ll, not even Spy or Medic. None of them ever left a teammate to die. Not like him. They weren't cowards like Scout was.
A pathetic whine escaped him. That old stupid feeling was back. When he felt like crap and worthless after getting pushed around at school or teased too much by his brothers or when the fellas jabbed a bit too much on a rare bad day. It was an awful feeling but there was always someone around to reassure Scout that, no, he wasn't as bad as others and himself thought. That he was a good guy deep down, or a good teammate, or a fun wee lad who held the team together. There was always someone like Ma, or Demo, or Engie to tell him those things. The other guys would too sometimes. Even Spy did once or twice.
But now there was nobody to console him. To tell him that he wasn't a coward. To tell him that leaving Sniper was something that had to be done. To tell him that despite everything, he was a good person. Now there was only silence. A silence that Scout knowingly caused. It was all his fault.
He looked back up with a tiredness that clung to his bones and weighed him down. Like someone had stuffed hundreds of stones into his clothes and pockets. Just time and time again, Scout willingly chose the wrong thing. And what would he do to fix it? What could he do? The runner sniffled. What he wouldn't give to have his ma beside him giving him some much needed advice. What would she tell him? He could almost hear her voice in his answer.
"You need ta take responsibility, Jerry bean. Ya can't run from your problems forever…"
She was right. Ma always was. Always knew what to say, when to say it and how. She could give you a real dressing down or make ya feel like a king. But how the heck could he fix this?
Scout stood and caught sight of the unfinished drawing laying on the table. Unfinished. Uncertain. He narrowed his red eyes.
Maybe, just maybe…
There it was. That part of him that just couldn't shut up. The hopeful son of a b***h part of Scout that everyone made fun of. But if there was even a chance that he was alive…
Sniper was alive. The others were too. They had to be. They were! No disgusting, freakish freak of nature could take them down so easily. And if it did?...
With a vile expression, Scout took the drawing and folded it up. He wouldn't need to finish it. What Scout did need was some booze.
And a lighter.
People of the TF2 Fanbase, you have been cheated and lied to! Sniper's Camper Van isn't actually a Camper Van. It is a Truck Camper! One that people install onto the backs of pickup trucks! When will Valve be brought to justice for their crimes and deception!? On a more serious note, Miss Pauling joins the fray! People say how writing accurate characters is hard, well, in her case, they are absolutely correct! Writing her personality is HARD, like, she is able to kick some major butt when she wants or needs to but is also a bit of a happy dork. Like, in the comics when she's making her speech to the dying CHeavy, she's all serious and stuff but the second Spy compliments her growing ability to give grandiose speeches to dying men she's all smiles and is like "Aw, really? Ya think so?"(I'm paraphrasing of course but you catch my drift). Anyway, this one took much shorter to write because I already basically planned out everything in this chapter so I wasn't just stuck thinking of how to make it flow. I do want to make some more art for this story though, which will be added on the AO3 site. Welp, thanks for reading this chapter, review if you want, they're always so nice to read, and see you all for the next chapter.
