. . .

Over the next three weeks, Cyril helped Bubo recover from his ailments. Each day, the owl got stronger and soon, he only had to wear a partial splint for his wing. There came a day where it was nearly healed, so the marksman decided to give it a bit of exercise. Bubo could carefully test out his flight as well.

On that day, Cyril awoke to find himself asleep on his belly. Turning over, he stretched out his arms with a long yawn. Leaning over to glance at his clock, it read 10:15 AM. Great, he'd overslept again. Oh well, at least no one came to bother him for something when he was still dead to the world.

He was grateful Soldier left them all alone and didn't kick them out of bed at 6 AM like a drill sergeant would. He heard rumors that the RED Soldier was notorious for doing this with his teammates. Thankfully the cloning process didn't capture that part of the military man's overbearing traits and transfer them to his copy.

He suddenly heard Scout let out a loud yelp in the hallway.

"What is it now?" Demoman's voice demanded, walking up from behind Scout.

"There's a wolf spider on the floor!"

"Well, dammit, Scout, step on it."

"Hell nah, I ain't messin' up my new Adidas with that shit!"

"Ye wouldnae step on it even if the entire world was depending on ye," Demoman admonished with an irate tsk. "Here."

Cyril heard a loud stomp, then oddly enough, the crickly sounds of electricity sparks.

"What the Bejesus?!" Demoman exclaimed.

More footsteps bounded around a corner of the hall.

"Ah hell, I knew I shouldn't have tested it around the dormitory," Engineer's voice then piped up.

"Engie, what the hell is this?!" Scout demanded.

"Uh yeah, my surveillance project. I constructed a radio camera in this broken lil' fella here…or what's left of it."

"That ain't funny, disguisin' it as some creepy crawler shit and lettin' it loose around here!"

Cyril then heard Engineer walk over and gather up the remains of the mechanical spider. "Sorry boys, didn't mean to scare ya'll."

"Me? It's Scout who freaked out," Demoman quipped. "I dinnae need a second alarm to wake me up with yer pixie screams."

"I don't scream like a pig!"

"I said pixie, not pig."

The runner tended to have a problem with scrambling words up. It was almost like a hearing version of dyslexia.

"What the hell's a pixie?" Scout then inquired.

"Sorta like a feminine elf."

A momentary pause, before Scout retorted, "Screw you, Cyclops! Ya oughtta hear yourself screamin' like a little bitch when the RED Heavy's blowin' you away!"

"At least my screams have the right amount of testosterone."

"You drunk bastard, I'll show ya testa...testi..."

"Testosterone," Demoman condescendingly replied.

"Now, now, let's not get worked up into a tizzy," Engineer spoke over the Scotsman's chuckles. "He's just teasing yah, Scooter."

Cyril rolled out of bed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Bugger, it's too early in the day for that scrapper's loudness," he muttered.

Scout usually wasn't this testy when it came to play-insult bantering, so something was probably bothering him. Engie usually had to be the referee between fights or arguments. Cyril had a feeling the RED Engineer was as well. It must have been exhausting acting as babysitter to a bunch of rowdy mercenaries, while also under pressure to win battles and focusing on technological projects.

Cyril padded across the floor to check on Bubo. The owl was finishing off swallowing another whole mouse.

"G'morning, cobber," Cyril greeted. "How's breakfast?"

Bubo bobbed his head in a way that made him look like was grooving. "Good morning! It's delicious!"

"I'll just wash up and get me own downstairs, then we'll practice flying a bit today."

"You got it."

Cyril then stepped outside to the communal bathroom which also housed the shower stalls. He washed his face, then dried it off with a hanging towel. As he glanced in the mirror, a familiar, unsettling feeling nestled within his core. Like a troublesome guest who had overstayed their welcome again.

A pair of green eyes stared back at him. Yet technically, those eyes belonged to someone else. To a real person, with a real life and born the natural way.

Mick Mundy.

A twinge of jealousy invaded Cyril's mind. He didn't know exactly why. What did the RED Sniper have that he didn't? Was it because he was considered the authentic one out of the two? Not some test tube baby? Was it because he had a family and the keen experience in surviving better in this tough, cold world? Was it because he always bragged in battle that he was "Number #1 Sniper" while proclaiming Cyril to be "Number #2?"

The logical side of Cyril argued that he was created to serve one purpose for a pompous, greedy tycoon - fight in a private war and that was all. The irony was that his DNA was replicated from his enemy's. No matter. TF Industries programmed him to obey and kill RED on sight. War had no relatives, if that was what he could call his twin.

Being a clone, he was only two years old. Though, he had the appearance of a man in his late 30s or early 40s. He barely knew about life experiences, except for what he instinctively inherited as a human. Amazingly, he also retained his counterpart's Australian accent, mannerisms, and education. He pretty much knew what civilization was and the purpose of the Earth. He was also cognitive enough to read people's emotions or when they were lying to him.

So, Cyril's mind wasn't exactly a 'spring chicken.' The only things he didn't have of the RED Sniper was his uber predatory instinct and perverse interest in piss-filled weapons. Nor his memories…at least, not at the conscious level. In vividly dreaming, he sometimes saw a fleeting image of a happy couple. They were probably Mick's parents.

In other dreams, Cyril saw a flashing bang of a scoped rifle and an unfamiliar person - a politician, a gangster, a businessperson - falling dead from a good distance away. Sometimes, it was butchering a rabbit and cooking it over a fire…which he had never done before. These all could be chalked up to RED Sniper's memories.

He looked down, sighing. "I'm no owl whisperer. Nor a wildlife enthusiast. I'm an assassin."

Like him.

Indeed, that was a given. But why? He hadn't killed any innocent people. All of his victims were mercenaries with questionable pasts, including his teammates during those unfortunate incidents of friendly fire. So, in all, he had killed a total of seventeen people.

Of course, none of his teammates took it personal for long, since they were all accidents. It was still embarrassing though, especially when witnessed by the enemy. It showed that BLU was sorely incompetent and couldn't aim straight without taking one of their own down in the process.

This only spurred RED on to taunt and laugh at them more. His thoughts circled back to the RED Sniper.

Do you look yourself in the mirror, gloating over your kills? Craving more of the thrill each one brings? How many others have you put out besides mercenaries?

An unexpected feeling of discomfort came over him. He didn't want to think about how his counterpart satisfied his bloodlust prior to the Gravel Wars. He knew he shouldn't be feeling this way; it never bothered him before. Maybe he was stressed out over their recent losses at Badwater Basin. Yes, that had to be it…

. . .

Bubo flew over the desert while Cyril monitored his condition. He made sure that the owl was only covering short distances for now. Later in the week, he'd go back to Medic to take X-rays again.

It was a calm, clear Sunday morning with a slight breeze, and a warm temperature of 80 degrees. Cyril took a sip from his third cup of coffee, a definite habit he inherited from the RED Sniper. If both didn't have their morning cuppa, there was hell to pay.

Several owls perched nearby watching them, including the ones who had alerted Cyril to Bubo's injury.

He turned to one of the burrowing owls, smirking. "What are ya looking at?"

The owl just snickered. As always, Cyril could only pick up parts of the telepathic conversation. "You're…a dope…"

"I'm not the one with long-ass chicken legs and hanging out in a filthy rat's hole," he shot back.

"I made…home…!"

"Yeah, you took over it when the rodents abandoned it, ya freeloadin' bum."

"Monkey freak!"

Bubo made a few high-pitched squeals, signaling he was returning to Cyril. Holding out an arm fitted with a falconer glove, the owl effortlessly landed on it.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"I'm feeling much better! I'll be able to return to my flock soon."

Bubo glanced towards a parliament of owls nearby. They consisted of his parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. They hooted happily when he was testing out his healing wing.

"Yeah, I met some of them," Cyril recalled. "You guys live in one of the trees around here?"

"No, actually we live over there."

Bubo turned his head toward a small butte, several thousand feet away from the compound. The marksman had never heard of such a habitat for a spotted owl.

"I wanted to show you something there."

"Yeah, but you don't want to overwork your wing."

"You can carry me half the way! I can keep flying a bit."

"Okay, but if it gets too rough for you, let me know."

With that said, he began trekking towards the rock boulder in the distance. Bubo's family followed, flying in circles above them and occasionally landing on trees for a rest. They soon got distracted by a jack rabbit running across the ground, and decided to chase after it.

Eventually, they were at the foot of the butte; Cyril noticed a network of little caverns embedded all over its burnish red walls. That's probably where the owls resided.

"So, this is your home?"

"You got it. But here's what you should see!"

Bubo flew straight towards a lower area on the left side of the butte. Cyril followed him, all the while picking up parts of conversations from the owl's relatives. He was able to discern that they were relieved Bubo was getting better and even thanked him for caring for the little critter.

He turned to smile at them, waving it off as usual. Over the course of befriending the owls, he discovered it came naturally to him. Soon, he was stepping down a lower elevation, where a wide path snaked along the rock's wall; the trail was lined by smaller rocks, desert shrubs and cacti. That's when he saw a slim opening about 8 feet tall and 3 feet wide gouged into its rugged surface.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"Yes! But that's not the best part. C'mon!"

Bubo flew into the entrance, disappearing down to who knows where.

"Wait! You don't want to re-injure your wing!"

There was no response, so taking a nervous gulp, Cyril stepped inside. He removed his aviators and fastened them to his shirt cuff. There was a low, droning noise, like the kind one would hear holding a Cowrie shell to their ear. Somewhere, there was also water dripping. Some kind of underground stream? From a distance up in the cave's high ceiling, the sun poured through several fissures and holes about the size of a car. It provided enough light for him to see in the semi-darkness.

Where had Bubo gone? Cyril was worried the owl may have flew too long, and put a strain on his ligaments. He hoped his friend was smart enough to know when to stop and rest. Behind him, he turned to see several of Bubo's family members on the floor.

He trudged onwards, carefully watching out for sudden steep drops or protruding rocks in his path.

The owls flew ahead of him. He barely made out a segment of their words. "This way!"

Cyril hadn't been inside a cave since fighting RED at Zinkenite Valley; this was one seemed much larger with unfamiliar scents invading his nostrils. As the pathway grew wider, he saw it led to a bigger chamber. Thousands of colorful light prisms reflected off its sandstone walls.

"Oh my-"

Rounding a large partition to his right, he came face to face with another room full of illuminating crystals. Some were huge, jutting out from the ceilings, the walls and the ground. Others were quite small, about the size of a pencil. There were six-sided long ones, cubed ones and sharply angled multi-faceted ones. Their colors varied in greens, red, pinks, blues, purples and yellows. Each hue seemed to segue into the next crystal. A small cluster of waterfalls adorned several quartz boulders, pouring into a creek that ran deeper inside the cave.

It was a breathtaking sight indeed.

"Holy Dooley, this is beautiful!" he exclaimed.

He spotted Bubo perched on an indigo crystal. "Sooo, this is where we live."

Cyril glanced all around him, taking in the awe of such dazzling scenery.

"And we keep warm when the sun heats up the sparkling rocks," Bubo added.

Cyril noticed the temperature was a bit warm and humid, but otherwise it wasn't as cold as he expected it would be.

"You guys certainly outdid yourself in the home buying department."

"You think so?"

He gave the owl a thumbs up. "Aces."

An owlet then hopped over, nudging his ankle. He looked down and it squawked at him expectantly. Except, Cyril couldn't interpret what it was saying.

"What?"

"Oh, my little cousin likes your hat," Bubo explained. "He's asking if he could live in it."

Cyril chuckled a bit, bending down to hold the juvenile owl in his palms. "And what's your name, lad?"

It responded, but again, he couldn't decipher its eager answer. He didn't always have a clear channel with every owl.

Then Bubo's aunt intervened. "Pree…"

Cyril acknowledged her before giving the owlet a few head scratches. "Well, Pree, sorry, but me hat's not for sale. Maybe one day, when you grow up some more, you'll get your very own."

Pree looked disappointed, emitting low chirps. At his age, the mother was still responsible for his welfare. But it would be a matter of time before he'd finally leave the nest.

"You'll get there one day, cabby."

He decided to explore the cave more, with the owl family being his occasional guides. At least here, he found comfort in being surrounded by one of nature's incredible gifts and languidly soaking in its aesthetic pleasure. Chilling a bit with his feathery friends would also help him forget the pressure of winning the next fight against their rivals.

Alright, so maybe I'm not always an assassin per say…

. . .