I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this story, and anyone who has reviewed it (especially you annons!) you lot are the reason I write anything ever on this site.
RED Base; Sawmill
Day 4
With a sharp intake of breath, Spy sat up and tried to calm his racing heart. Everything around him was out of focus, and a dull ringing noise dominated his hearing. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.
Soon, his senses cleared and he was met with the sound of Medic's voice.
"Spy, you're alive! Good zhing too, I vas just about to do an autopsy."
Instinctively, Spy's hand flew to the base of his neck to ensure his suit and mask were still on. Much to his relief, Medic hadn't attempted to remove any of his cloths for examination yet.
Medic exchanged his knife for a clipboard, "Alright, since you've been dead for two days, I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding your current state and vhat you experienced up to now."
Spy's eyebrows disappeared beneath his mask, "Two days?"
Medic nodded, "Ja, you came zhrough respawn completely still. Heavy insisted I take you back to zhe infirmary to see if you'd vake. Heh, turns out his hunch vas right. I just assumed you vere dead for good."
Spy stood shakily, "Then return to medical school at once because I am certainly not dead."
"Vell, I'm glad to see you retained your pleasant attitude."
Spy straightened his tie in an attempt to still his trembling hands. Pulling his shoulders back, he strode towards the door.
Medic grabbed his arm, "Vhere do you zhink you're going? You vere just dead, heart stopped and everyzhing. You owe me an examination."
"I owe you nothing," Spy snarled as he pulled his arm free.
Medic grabbed his arm again with an iron grip, "You're not going anyvhere until I'm sure you're alright."
Spy grabbed Medic's wrist in preparation to snap it, "Get your hands off me, doctor"
A giant hand grabbed each man's collar and pulled them apart, "Stop acting like leettle babies."
Medic glared at his captor, "Heavy, put me down, I'm not a child who needs scolding."
Heavy set Spy on the floor and gently nudged him toward the door, "Is time for sandwiches, doctor."
Spy jolted slightly as the door shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, both unsure and grateful for whatever it was Heavy had just done.
As gracefully as he could on unsteady legs, Spy walked to his personal smoking room and collapsed into an armchair. He looked to the side table and couldn't help but attempt a smile when he saw the half used pack of cigarettes sitting on the smooth wood. He snatched up the pack, drew out one of the precious cigarettes and brought it to his lips. Using a lighter from his pocket, he lit the end and inhaled deeply. Instantly, his body relaxed as warm smoke filled his lungs.
Spy exhaled to allow the smoke's gray tendrils to curl toward the ceiling. Two out of seven days completely wasted. Time was ticking down to RED's offer's deadline and all he'd done was taken a few pathetic shots at the BLU Spy. If he was going to succeed, he was going to have to act quickly and professionally. A well placed series of swift back stabs should put the younger spy back in his place.
Spy took another drag of his cigarette. The move with the lethal injection had been cheap and childish. It was something he'd expect from a sniper playing spy, not something he'd expect from an assassin he'd personally trained. Furthermore, where had he acquired a lethal injection? Most likely, he stole it from the lax BLU Medic. That imbecile wouldn't even bat an eye if respawn went off line, let alone if his medical cabinets turned up a few items short. That begged the question, though, of wheather or not the BLU Spy had stolen anything else from the doctor.
Rather suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washed over him that was nearly strong enough to cause his fingers to give out and drop the cigarette. Spy reached over and snuffed the cigarette in an ash tray. He couldn't help it, the few days of death were starting to take their toll on him. With a sigh, he stood and made a move for the door. Before he could get half way to his destination, his legs gave out and sent him falling straight for the coffee table as he blacked out.
Sicily, Italy. Christmas Eve, 1955
Two servants were hastily shoved aside as Benigna Picaro raced to embrace her son in a bone crushing hug.
"Philippe! You finally came home for Christmas!"
Philippe wriggled his arms free and returned the hug with a less deadly intensity, "I'm sorry Mamme, I was busy all the other times."
She gave the side of his head a quick smack, "That's no excuse. It's Christmas, I always need my babies home for Christmas."
She peered over his shoulder, "And who, dare I ask, is this?"
Philippe looked back at his mentor as he stood calmly in a crisp gray suit, "Uh, eh, he-"
Mons. Dufort stepped forward and extended his hand to Benigna, "My name is Antoine. I'm a friend of Philippe's. Since I was staying in Italy, he insisted I not spend Christmas alone, and join him in visiting all of you."
Benigna broke into a smile and shoved aside his hand to pull him into a hug, "The more the merrier! You're always welcome at the Picaro manor."
Philippe watched as Dufort slipped easily from Benigna's hold, "Thank you madame. I'm glad to have as hospitable a host as you."
Benigna blushed before she turned to go down the hall, "Come, come, you two. Everyone just sat down for dinner."
Philippe groaned, "Everyone? Does that mean Serafino and his hoard are here?"
This time it was Dufort's turn to deliver a quick smack to Philippe's head, "Philippe, that's no way to speak of your family."
Benigna chuckled as a group of servants opened the dining room doors.
Sitting around a large rectangular table loaded with fresh platters of food was Philippe's father, Emilio, Serafino, his pregnant wife and their seven children.
Philippe braced himself for the ridicule he'd receive from Serafino and his children over his pale skin and lean frame, but it never came. Instead, a wave of tension swept between his father, his brother, and his mentor.
Philippe shot his mother a confused glance. Benigna replied with a subtle shrug.
The palpable tension hung in the air until it was broken by one of Serafino's sons loudly exclaiming, "Daddy, why is that guy's head on fire?"
Serafino let out a booming laugh as Philippe's face turned as red as his hair, "That's what happens when you make a deal with the devil, Dario"
"Let's just have dinner," Philippe grumbled as he seated himself.
Dufort and Benigna sat on opposite sides of Philippe.
Benigna beamed, "I'm so happy my family is sitting at my dinner table for Christmas Eve."
"Who is he?" Emilio growled, nodding once to Dufort.
He responded coolly, "My name is Antoine. I'm a friend of Philippe's. He invited me here for Christmas."
"Why that's nice, Phil. No one should have to spend Christmas alone," Serafino's wife chirped.
"Even so, darling," Serafino said, "It's unbecoming to have French scum dine at our table."
"Please, he's not doing anything wrong, you're just-"
"We need to say grace," Benigna announced.
Philippe took her hand in his, "Yes, let's."
Throughout grace and serving, Philippe divided his attention between glancing at Serafino, Emilio and Dufort. He couldn't figure out what caused the two Picaros to give the assassin such venomous stares. To Philippe's knowledge, they'd never met before and whatever the problem was, was beyond his comprehension.
Emilio stabbed a cut of steak and loaded it onto his plate, "So, Antoine, what do you do for a living?"
Dufort set his hands gingerly on the edge of the table, "I work as a German-French-Italian translator."
"And how long have you been doing that, exactly?"
Dufort stared down Emilio with a courage Philippe had never had, "Five years come spring. I was a factory worker manufacturing telephone casings before then."
Emilio stared back with a growing sense of suspicion, "Really? And how did you come to meet my son?"
"A meeting in which I happened to be translating for one of his coworkers."
Emilio's voice gained a harsher edge, "Who is?"
Benigna leaned around Philippe, "Antoine, you haven't eaten a thing. Are you feeling alright?"
Emilio shot her a look that warned her against offering help.
Dufort turned to Benigna as she ignored her husband, "Actually, madame, jet lag seems to have stolen my appetite."
Benigna smiled warmly, "That's quite alright. Come, I'll get you a place to stay. We have too many empty rooms in this house."
As soon as the two were out of the dining room, Emilio turned to Serafino, "We'll talk after our meal."
Serafino gave a firm nod.
Meanwhile, Philippe traced a cavatelli through its sauce with his fork, feeling more out of place amongst his family than ever.
BLU Base; Sawmill
1:30 AM, Day 5
Spy woke early the next morning to the click of a revolver pressed against his temple.
"Philippe Picaro?" The rough voice of the gun's owner said.
Spy casually turned his head to the barrel of the revolver, "Yes."
"Prove it."
Spy sighed and slowly eased the mask from his face.
The messenger smirked at the revelation of Spy's bright red hair, "Hah, here you are, runt."
Spy hissed softly at the designation as he caught the red folder tossed to him, "Go to hell, Dario."
Dario chuckled and returned his revolver to its holster, "Good luck Piccolo Picaro."
Spy grumbled under his breath as Dario walked out, "It's Philippe."
With a satisfying pop in his back, Spy stretched and sat up to read the folder in his hand. He reached over to the bedside table and flicked on a small, circular lamp. Stifling a yawn, Spy propped open the folder on his legs. From within, he drew out the strangest assortment of documents he'd ever seen. Everything from building deeds to forged passports lay between the red papers. At first, he didn't really notice any sort of consistency between the documents and human profiles aside from his father's handwriting scribbled across them. Then, he started to connect the dots. Not only was nearly every single person in the folder French, but they were all tied to one specific ring of organized crime known simply as The Guild.
A bubble of hatred formed in Spy's chest. Not only were they all enemies of his family, but he'd had several close encounters with a handful of their hit men. To make matters worse, many of the profiles had a red stamp that spelled out in bold capitals; RESISTANCE. Just the sight of the bastards made his skin crawl. Then, he flicked to a profile that made his blood run cold. Staring back at him were the inexorable gray eyes of Françoir Jean-Antione Dufort.
Minutes passed by in a heavy silence as Spy tried to process the information before him. It was too much to take in. Françoir was his mentor, his superior, and his friend. He'd never done anything to wrong Spy, nor had he ever shown any signs of being against his family.
Spy buried his face in his hands as realization hit him. That was why Christmas had been so awkward.
Spy lowered his hand and ran his thumb over the file's scratched out name. Perhaps there was something in the extended file that would prove Dufort wasn't like the others. Slowly, he turned the page.
The first thing he saw in the extended file was a page of notes from his father. Spy skimmed right past the page of notes. Nothing his father noted would be of much help. Emilio had likely gone on a long rant about a minor pickpocketing affair or something small like that.
Just behind that page was a section of German documents under the label Bauvorhaben Übermensch. Spy glanced at the first page and immediately turned away. What was left of the burned page was a picture of a bloodied hand missing all of its fingernails. With a grimace on his face, Spy slid his hand over the picture so he could read the Italian translations written in above the German notes.
The subject has refused to... excellent testing opportunity... regenerative formula using...result yielded failure shown at left.
Spy brought his father's page of notes back up and covered the lab notes. He bit his lip as he quickly read through to pick out essential information regarding the German report.
Known to be captured late 1943 during investigation for French Resistance.
German reports show usage for test subject in SS labs. Purpose: pain responses and the negation thereof. Possible psychological trauma as result.
Caused the destruction of lab in 1947 also resulted in escape. Current location unknown.
From there, Spy moved on to read the rest of the information in the note. The more he read, the darker his expression became. Every piece of information was brand new to him. Dufort had never bothered to tell him any of this. For every time he'd said he trusted Spy, he'd meant with everything but information. To make matters worse, all the stories Dufort had told him were lies. In fact, Spy would have bet his mentor hadn't grown up in Paris as he'd so often claimed.
Spy let out a soft whine. Dufort had always asked questions about Spy's life and family, and Spy had always answered everything truthfully. He'd always thought they were simply talking as friends, now he realized the questions were intended to gather information for The Guild, and, like an unsuspecting mouse to a trap, he'd taken the bait and unknowingly become the informant for those who'd hurt his family.
Spy took a deep breath. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as his mind made it out to be. Perhaps everything would be just fine if he found some piece of information that proved Dufort hadn't been passing everything Spy had said to The Guild.
Then, he saw it, a singular sentence that left him staring blankly at the page, wishing the words would vanish.
Primary suspect of three considered possible assassins responsible for the murder of Benigna Picaro.
Reading the words again, Spy felt nothing. No pain, no disgust, not even a tinge of rage, simply nothing. Yet, there was one thing there, a drive to enact justice. He'd been lied to, misled, and misinformed. It was time to correct those wrongs, but on his terms, not those he'd been ignorantly led to believe.
Spy turned back to the German reports, and started reading.
I know I promised Christmas in this chapter, but have Christmas Eve instead! Christmas will be later, heh. Anyway, in the next chapter, it's time for this fic to really earn (and maybe exceed) its T rating. See you all in the next chapter!
