. . .
NOTE: This was inspired by Riddle_of_the_sphinx's story, "Birds of a Feather." I recommend reading it ^_^
August 6, 1970
Cyril (the BLU Sniper) slowly sauntered into his room, heaving with a sigh of disgust and disappointment. He plopped down on his bed, the plush mattress topper gave him a temporary sense of comfort from the latest disappointment to have befallen BLU team.
It started with RED taking over Swiftwater, a forested area of Colorado.
Blutarch had set up a small company there to bottle water for some extra profit. The enemy team had sabotaged the water supply by dumping toxic chemicals into the surrounding running creeks and reservoirs, which directly connected to the underground septic system.
Tasked with taking their employer's territory back from RED, Cyril and his team didn't expect a series of embarrassing disasters that would mar their battle rounds. It's like Lady Luck, God, orhell, even the universe, decided to abandon them that day.
First, there was a series of bumbling mishaps that gave the opposing team even more victories. Half of Engineer's sentries malfunctioned and wouldn't even fire at the incoming RED Scout or a grenade pill from the RED Demoman, thus leaving them a smashed-up pile of metal scrap.
Then BLU kept accidentally killing each other, leaving the RED team either baffled or laughing their asses off at them. Cyril wasn't spared the humiliating screw-ups; he shot his own Heavy twice, Demoman three times, and poor Pyro in the groin and butt. To top it off, BLU Soldier's rocket aim was off, and one projectile landed in Cyril's nesting tower, blowing him to bloody gibs.
Today wasn't any better. Cyril was helping his Demoman push the bomb forward, after their Scout complained too many times of being the default guy just because his payload strength was twice that of the others. Demoman was using his own Pain Train weapon in increasing the speed forward to the cart.
The RED Soldier seemed to be in gleeful melee mood. He was using less of his his rocket launcher and ran around beating any BLUs to death with his own Pain Train or snapping their necks. The RED Sniper kept constantly throwing piss jars all over the place, hitting Cyril five times; each time was followed up with RED Sniper or another of his cohorts going in for the kill.
For some daft reason, the RED Scout was in a really cocky mood and kept insulting BLU Scout as he was defending the bomb. At first, BLU Scout, who had a better grip on his temper than his RED counterpart, ignored it. Then RED Scout started bashing on a Boston Red Sox player and he finally lost it.
"Don't ya dare talk shit about Yaz!" BLU Scout yelled. "Your asshat Rico crashed this season alone with lower put-outs at short stop!"
"Oh no, no, you are NOT going there," RED Scout warned, getting up in his twin adversary's face.
"Yaz is loads better than him!" BLU Scout continued. "He hit more homeruns and had more first base steals this year alone! Rico got a pass on his RBIs because he bribed the umpire!"
"That ain't true! His batting average this season was 0.261 compared to Yaz's sorry 0.254!"
"And that little punk Rico could do better? Yaz hit 40 homeruns this year and won MVP in the All-Stars Game!"
"So what? Rico hit 40 of'em last year too!" RED Scout retorted. "That don't mean he ain't got potential to win the title next year, ya dumbass!"
"Scout, what are you—" Demoman begin, before being stabbed dead by the RED Spy.
Luckily, the BLU Pyro chased the Spy away before he could go after Cyril; the arsonist followed the sneaky backstabber into one of the tunnels, bent on burning him to a crisp. That left Cyril on defense alone, until Demoman respawned to return in aiding him with the cart…if the Scotsman didn't get caught up in fighting other REDs first.
Both Scouts continued arguing amidst the explosions and flying bullets.
"SCOUT!" Cyril shouted. "What the hell are you are doing? Kill him already and help me out here!"
The bat sluggers were too caught up in their own battle of words. When it came to defending their baseball nationalism, no one could really shut either one up.
Cyril risked leaving the bomb alone for a moment, mindful of the 20 seconds he had until it rolled backwards. He missed a few flying needles by the skin of his teeth from the enemy Medic's gun as he ran towards the Scouts, stopping a few feet away.
"Scout, ya bloody fool, stop bullshitting around with RED and-"
"SHUT UP!" both Scouts yelled at him.
Cyril stepped back in shock, while they returned to their petty squabbling. That's when he felt a pair of hands grab his head in a vice-like grip.
The RED Soldier grinned. "Peek-a-boo, maggot!"
Ah, piss-
CRIKK!
Cyril's head was nearly twisted off his neck. Unsurprisingly, he found himself back in BLU team's Respawn room. He had no idea what had happened to his Scout, except both runners were gone by the time he returned to the front line near the Sawmill.
In the end, Cyril and Demoman barely held up on the offense. He used his back to push the bomb while keeping a look out for incoming attacks, wielding his Huntsman bow in hand, and utilizing his SMG for good measure.
He sure as hell wasn't going to get his neck broken again. BLU Heavy managed to come around to mow down any remaining enemies or sentries, which gave them a significant boost past the second checkpoint.
But for all their effort, his team still lost the battle. Afterwards, BLU Soldier had chewed out BLU Scout over screwing up his duties. It seemed to go through one ear and out the other, because the next day, RED Scout was baiting him into another personal argument, continuing the whole gung-ho baseball mess.
Cyril thought it was some bizarre tactic on RED's part in distracting BLU long enough from moving the bomb forward. Either way, if they didn't get their act together, the Administrator would be quite upset. Blutarch would hear of their dismal losses and his rage was the last thing any of them wanted.
He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of nature outside. He shuddered at having been wet for half the battle, soaked in disgusting enemy urine. Cyril loathed using such revolting weapons; he preferred dousing out his burning teammates with the Tasmania Soaker, a jet gun that shot out water as strong as a pressure washer. For the enemies, he cranked up the water PSI to the highest setting, so that the shooting spray was enough to knock them 15 feet backwards. It was nearly as powerful as Pyro's air blast attack.
He rarely ever used the Sydney Sleeper weapon unless the team pestered him day and night about the advantages it could have in the next battle, blah, blah; leading him to reluctantly giving in. Other times, he got so frustrated with their incessant hounding that he usually snapped at them to use the bloody damn weapon themselves.
He did suggest alternatives that were just as effective in slowing down the REDs. In this case, the BLU Spy used more of his Tranquilizer Gun to temporarily incapacitate the enemy and making them colorblind.
. . .
The next day was Saturday, so Cyril made his way over to the camper van to check on it. It wasn't really his, as TF Industries had obtained it for him. They assumed he would take after the RED Sniper aka Mick Mundy – the human template he was modeled after.
Except, he hardly ever stayed in it. Really, where did they get the absurd idea that a clone would turn out to be exactly like the original?
The only times he used the camper was when he drove to Tuefort or another nearby small town for shopping; occasionally, the others came along just to hang out at a bar for drinks, dancing, or go to a movie theater. Sometimes, he drove the team to their battle destination if the Mann Co. bus wasn't available that day. Other than that, he preferred to stay in his room at the base.
As he walked toward it, a few Burrowing Owls were perched atop a cypress tree. They happily hooted at him.
"Heya fellas," he greeted with wave.
For several years now, he'd taken a liking to the little raptors. To a point that, at times, he understood their verbal and telepathic communication. This really unsettled him at first – he thought he was going mad from the hot sun or battle fatigue.
Gradually, he was less creeped out by it. Understanding a bunch of feathery critters and making friends with them wasn't beginning to be so bad. Cyril wondered if his attraction to them carried over from RED Sniper's DNA, who also liked owls.
But could he understand them as deeply?
They weren't afraid of him, despite their wild disposition. They would often sit down and watch him or even land on his lap while he relaxed outside on a lawn chair with a drink. Some of them liked when he petted them on their heads.
Pigmy owls, Spotted owls and Northern Saw-Whet owls came around the most. Every once and awhile, a Barn owl or the fearsome Great-horned owl dropped by for a visit. Even though they hunted for their own food, he would sometimes retrieve the dead mice from the traps around the base and feed them; or he gave them raw chicken or dead bugs.
On this morning, a Saw-whet owl that he called Barney was squeaking in a distressed manner. He kept tugging at one of Cyril's pant legs.
"What, googly eyes? You can't come in here. I'm checking for black widows and beetles."
But the bird kept pulling hard, as if wanting the sharpshooter to step back out. Then a second one landed beside him, this time a Screech Owl he called Olive. She emitted her own little shrieks of alarm. With this particular owl, he could faintly tell what she wanted.
"You want me to follow you where?" he asked.
"Please help…hurt…!"
They kept up their shrill cries until he finally relented. Was one of their family members in trouble?
"Oh fine, but after this, I'm going back inside," he grumbled.
Still, he got an uneasy feeling in his stomach. If an owl was hurt, it could be on the verge of dying. Maybe a cougar or a hawk got the jump on it. Or it got hit by a car and it was bleeding out.
So, he followed them toward the nearby road outside BLU's hidden base. After crossing over from the disguise drapery setup, his little friends led him to a brown object lying on the side of the road.
"Oh."
On the ground laid a dazed Mexican Spotted Owl. It was in a supine position, with one of its wings spread out. There was a bit of blood on its nostril area.
It slightly turned its head when Cyril approached it, bending down. "What happened to you?"
Barney and Olive insistently told him to help it. Which he did, carefully picking it up. Then another faint mixture of words:
"Broken…wing…"
Again, from Olive. Her verbal translation seemed to come in stronger than Barney's.
"I see," he muttered, cradling the injured owl, and heading back towards the base.
It wasn't the first owl he rescued. He had cared for several injured species, occasionally getting input from Medic, who knew a little bit of ornithology from looking after his doves of information. It was during that time when he started picking up bits and pieces of their esoteric 'language' – some of them were good-natured, while others were unfriendly. Then there were the skittish ones who were eager to fly home, away from any human.
If Cyril couldn't completely care for them, he would drop them off at a bird rehabilitation center on the outskirts of Tuefort. When he arrived at the trailer, the other owls eagerly gathered around to see the newcomer.
"Yeah mates, looks like we've got another injured fella," he told them with a wan smile. "But no worries, I'll see it's taken care of." Before stepping inside, he sternly warned them, "And no pooping or pellets around the camper, got it?"
He knew the owls usually obliged, except for the occasional unruly one that left droppings all over the place. Worse was when he found them on top of the van. This was a serious matter though; atleast two owls had died on him. He didn't want to repeat the same tragedy with this one, so he got to checking its vital signs right away.
He reached over, grabbing a towel hanging from the hook inside the bathroom stall and placed it over the small dining table at the back. Gently placing the owl on it, he checked its pulse for any irregular heartbeat. Then he examined its wings, feet, and facial area for signs of fractured bones or contusions.
"Yep, you're left wing's broken alright."
Barney and Olive appeared at the awning window over the kitchenette. They curiously watched him secure the injured owl's wing with gauze tape. He turned on the radio to help himself relax to some music. It was tuned to a Top 40 station that played songs from the last decade up to now.
A rumble of thunder reverberated outside from an incoming monsoon. Soon, a sprinkling of rain turned into a steady downpour. Coincidentally, at that moment, "Rain Drops" by Dee Clark came on the radio. He liked the song more for the tune and the singer's cadence, rather than the despondent lyrics of heart break.
He often tried practicing the song's violin solo on his saxophone - though, in its current iteration, it sounded better on a string instrument than a reed one.
"Oooh…whoo…" the owl wailed.
"Shh, don't worry, we'll get you all patched up," he comforted.
Aside from the wing and a twisted ankle, there seemed to be no other wounds or broken bones. Its dark brown eyes stared at Cyril but were half-lidded as if wanting to go to sleep. Picking up a few sentences from its telepathic communication, he could make out a few phrases.
"So tired…please, don't hurt me…"
So, it was a male. He suspected, given the bird's slightly smaller size than a female.
"Nah mate, never. Owls aren't part of my diet. Lucky for you."
This didn't comfort the owl in the least. So, Cyril gently stroked his head in a preening manner, like a mother would do to her owlets to foster a familial bond. Affection even. He heard that other species, like Great-Horned owls and Eagle owls didn't do this as much. They tended to be somewhat cold towards their children. Part of this was because they lead very independent lives, starting at an early age. They absolutely relied on no one, save for their mates during breeding season.
But more docile owl species? They needed warmth and approval from empathetic parents.
Barn owls, Burrowing owls and Spotted owls were this way. They were less likely to attack a human as well. He knew his RED counterpart owned a Great-horned owl named Sir Hootsalot. They were regarded as a top predator that outdid other owl species when it came to hunting and protecting their territory.
If a Spotted owl was a foot soldier, then a Great-Horned owl was a five-star general. Although impressed by the latter's prowess, Cyril didn't care much for them. He was fond of all kinds of owls, not just the bigger ones that could tear a small dog limb from limb.
"Water…thirsty…"
"Coming up, hold on now."
Opening a small cupboard beside the sink, he took out a small liquid syringe and filled it with water. The rain continued pattering outside, while the two owls at the window huddled close together.
Cradling the spotted owl's backside in his arms, he carefully propped it up and encouraged him to drink from a few drops from the syringe.
His feathered patient seemed grateful, but the marksman couldn't pick up any more his 'thoughts.' It was still afternoon, so he decided to do a clean sweep of the van to make sure there were no unwanted 'squatters.' The last thing he needed was a desert cockroach party scurrying out upon opening the door.
He changed his mind about the owls entering the van, and invited his two friends to help by looking for insects. Afterwards, he sprayed a mixture of eucalyptus oil to act as a bug repellent. All the while, the invalid owl was quietly watched him with large, curious eyes. It soon let out a tired yawn.
"Here, let's get you comfortable," he muttered, placing a plush blanket on the dining table. Always the cautious handler, he placed the owl on the blanket and wrapped him up for warmth.
Ideally, he would do better perched on a tree branch or a stick. Their feet weren't designed to stand on flat terrain for too long. Cyril thought of the cage enclosure in his quarters. The owl would do better recovering back at base.
There came a sudden rapping on the door. Great, he hoped Scout hadn't come to pester him again about borrowing more socks or dumping some extra Bonk off. Cyril wasn't too fond of the stuff.
As he opened the door, there stood Felicia – who was the clone of Miss Pauling. She'd been aiding BLU in their supply orders and contracts for about three months now. Like her original counterpart, she wore glasses, except her dark hair was styled into a side braid with a purple ribbon. Her neck seams and cuffs were also an off-white color.
"Hi!" she greeted. "I just came by to give you the mail from two days ago. There was a delay at the post office after some rabid Flower Children stormed the place. They blocked the entire building off."
"Those hippies are sure getting aggressive."
"Yeah, who'd have thought? Soon they're actually gonna be a challenge for Saxton Hale!" She then held out a couple of magazines. "Here!"
"Uh…"
In front of him were two issues of Playpen. On the covers were women posing half naked. One of them was using a cucumber in a very 'suggestive' way. Doing a double take, Felicia turned red with embarrassment.
"Oops! Those are Scout's!" She shuffled through the mail pile, giving him the correct magazines. One was a monthly gun catalog and the other was National Geographic.
"Thanks, Felicia." He peered closer in a conspiratorial manner. "Don't worry, I won't tell Scout if you don't."
The assistant let out a nervous chuckle. "It's completely off the record."
Giving her a reassuring smile, Cyril then asked, "So how do you like it here so far?"
At that, Felicia's face fell. "Well…if I'm being really honest, it's…okay."
She used her right hand to gesture it back and forth in a 'so-so' manner.
"You don't feel comfortable working with a bunch of killers," Cyril surmised.
"What are you, some kind of mind reader?"
The marksmen smiled wanly. "Nah, just a hunch. Listen, if you feel out of place here, rest assured, I sometimes get that feeling too."
Felicia frowned. "Really?"
He nodded. "Believe me, even some of my own teammates drive me up the wall. If this isn't your cup of tea, just ask the Administrator for other duties. Maybe a transfer even."
"I don't think she'd be that willing to listen," Felicia replied, morose. "She's quite grumpy, to be honest. But I can try appealing anyway." She tapped her chin in thought. "You know, she sort of reminds me of Scrooge from 'A Christmas Carol.' Maybe she needs a few ghosts to rattle her up a bit into being nicer to her subordinates."
Cyril balked at that. The Administrator being nice? She reminded him more of the Wicked Stepmother from 'Cinderella.' Still, he imagined the icy woman getting spooked out of her wits by a supernatural entity in chains.
"Who knows? Maybe that would humble her bit, hehe."
"Though Miss Pauling says she's not so bad once you get to know her. So, I'll bite."
"Eh, tell me how it goes."
"You got it, the good and the bad. Anyhow, I do kind of…like it here. Some of you guys are pretty cool. It's just that…" She hesitated. "I'm not a killer."
She cringed, awaiting him to pass a cruel judgment for being seen as 'weak' or 'sissy against the sight of blood.'
But Cyril only nodded, trying to understand. "Not everyone is. I don't expect people who serve us to be the same in that department."
"Yeah, I tried burying Mafia corpses with my sister and I just, um…threw up."
Felicia was referring to Miss Pauling, who she often viewed as her older sibling. Well, they were related, just as BLU and RED were. The difference was that actual twins were naturally occurring clones, while Felicia and BLU team were created in a laboratory through artificial means.
"If it's affecting your health, you shouldn't be forced into doing it," Cyril agreed.
"I'm glad to have someone who understands." Felicia smiled brightly, gently tapping his arm. "Thanks, Sniper. You're like that chill uncle who gives out nuggets of advice every now and then."
He was bit flattered. "Ah, it's just common sense. To be honest, if I wasn't a mercenary, I'd probably be sniping on the police force."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I always wondered what it be like to nail city baddies. You know, the crazies who take people hostage, robbers, high-risk arrests. That or go into wildlife conservation."
"Those are admirable endeavors," Felicia opined. "You want to be a hero or something?"
Cyril looked thoughtful. "Maybe I do…"
The young woman's face perked up. "Well, after the war ends, you could join the Tuefort SWAT team. I guess you're not so cold-blooded after all! Maybe your brother is, but not you."
"For the last time Felicia, the RED Sniper is not my brother. I'm just a genetic copy of him and that's all."
"Ah, too bad. You both could've entered the Doublemint Twins contest!"
The marksmen grimaced. "Don't push your luck. We're enemies as long as this war goes on."
Felicia shrugged. "If you say so. Anyways, I've gotta distribute the mail to the other blokes." She paused. "Did I speak Australian right?"
He smiled. "You did. It's what I call'em too—"
"Hey, I'm getting good at this! Well, see you around then! Cheers, wanker!"
The assistant gave him a wave and quickly scurried off, unaware that she just insulted him.
"Actually, it's 'Cheers, mate'!" He called, but it was drowned out by her sudden breaking out into a corny Sound of Music song. Some drivel about 'my favorite things.' He just shook his head and went back into the van.
. . .
NOTE:
* The Tasmania Soaker is a completely fictional weapon, partly inspired by the Super Soaker watergun.
* The Tranquilizer Gun is from the Team Fortress 2 Classic mod game, and was an original weapon in the first game. I thought it be interesting if the teams also used these weapons.
* The injured owl's wails were inspired by an actual rescue from Two Hearts Wildlife Rescue. Though it was a Barred Owl, they are closely related to the Spotted Owls, and look alike. The video can be viewed on Youtube titled, "Very talkative Owl found injured in the woods," if anyone is interested!
. . .