. . .
About a week later, Bubo was exploring the dirt area and testing out his wings outside among a group of burrowing owls. He saw a few of them lining various objects at the entrance of their underground homes – small rocks, pieces of paper, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, etc.
Glancing at one of the bottle caps to a Coca-cola drink, he hopped over and picked it up with his beak. Yes, this one would do. He then flew over to the patio area where Cyril was sitting and, writing several tasks down on a list.
Noticing the little raptor, he greeted, "Hiya fella, what have you been up to?"
The owl hopped over to the round table, and dropped the item down. "For you."
Cyril blinked, picked up the object and examined it.
"It's for helping me get better through these many sun cycles."
The marksman smiled warmly. "You're so cute, ya know that?"
Bubo titled his head. "A compliment?"
"Yep. Everything you do is." He gave Bubo a few head pats. "Thanks. It means a lot."
He was too polite to let the owl know that a bottle cap was practically worthless. But since it was sentimental to his friend and he was clueless about the value of objects from a human's perspective, Cyril accepted the sweet gesture.
"This is a soda cap. I'll be sure to keep it safe."
"I see them lying around sometimes. The burrowing owls like to line up their entrance tunnels with them."
"They certainly have this thing with letting other animals know, 'Hey, someone lives in this hole. Keep your ass out!' "
Cyril then looked at his watch. "Well, I better start packing for tomorrow. We're heading out northeast, to Las Vegas."
The team had been invited to the annual Labor Day party, being hosted by Builders League United. They would be staying at luxury hotel, all expenses paid by the company. It was certainly a stark contrast from last year, where they stayed at a dingy motel in a seedy part of town.
It was also an opportunity to celebrate their recent victories over RED at Mountain Lab and Junction territories in Utah. It was Mr. Bidwell's idea to celebrate every September at corporate headquarters. Saxton Hale's assistant was more than he looked: he might have been serious and reserved, but boy, did he sure show a different side when it came to parties. It seemed he looked for any excuse to plan one just to drink and engage with people like a super social butterfly. Bidwell was even an accomplished dancer, well-versed in tango, ballroom and urban disco.
"How long will you be gone?" Bubo asked.
"A few days. Four at the most."
While the owl's wing was close to healing at its full capacity and he could now use his right ankle, Cyril still made sure to leave a supply of mice with the owl's family. Bubo was still a bit too weak to look for food on his own without overexerting himself.
His family promised they would look after him while Cyril was away. Bubo was nearly ready to return home. He was going to miss his raptor friend; perhaps, the latter would come around to visit sometime. Bubo loved to be around him, and even made friends with some of BLU Team - Scout and Pyro in particular.
Just then, there was some shouts of alarm, followed by a loud crash of metal. Startled, both turned towards Engineer's workshop, where a billow of smoke was wafting out of the entrance.
"Dagnabbit, Scout, I told yah not to touch that handle!" Engie yelled.
"I didn't know *cough* that thing was gonna go berserk and *cough* try to crush us like a pancake!"
"Shut up *cough* and go get the fire extinguisher!"
Cyril sighed. "Damn Butterfingers, can't keep his hands to himself."
Bubo was now hyper alert, brown eyes wide. "Is a monster attacking them?"
"Nah, Scout's just being a dumbass and messed around with one of Truckie's contraptions."
Cyril just hoped the younger mercenary didn't botch up their plane trip like last time - somehow, he got himself stuck in the luggage on the conveyor belt and took a ride throughout the airport. Some of the team members thought for sure he got crushed under all those suitcases and backpacks. They would have to make sure to keep an extra eye on him this time.
. . .
Cyril was tugging on a passed-out Demoman, trying to get him up the last case of stairs to their hotel suites. It was an open-type structure and elegant in its alabaster design, not too different from a high-end resort like the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Earlier, both mercenaries had left the party since Cyril was getting tired and Demoman was sleepy due to not getting proper rest the night before. Afterwards, they returned to the hotel sometime after 10:30 PM. Unfortunately, all the elevators were out; maintenance was working on repairing the circuitry feedback, so they took the stairs.
That's when the marksman heard a loud thump from behind him. Demoman was out cold. For the last ten minutes or so, Cyril was struggling to drag the bomb expert up the carpeted steps. His teammate was heavier than he looked; it felt like he had swallowed several bomb pills himself, adding to the cumbersome weight.
Cyril thought of calling security in helping him carry Demoman to their room; except a frail old desk clerk, who looked like she could only pick up a plastic bag, told him they were all on strike. How the hell was the building supposed to be guarded from criminals and unruly guests?
He tried slapping the Scotsman awake, using smelling salts and yelling in his ear, but to no avail. Demoman might as well have been in a coma. As he succeeded in at least moving him up a few steps, two men walked past them.
"Obviously that man had too much to drink," the first one said in a hushed tone. "See, this is why I broke up with Jared. He couldn't handle his liquor, and soon couldn't tell his face from his ass."
The second man glanced back at Demoman. "He's sure lucky to have a boyfriend that cares about him. I would have left him there on the steps."
"Who knows, he'll probably reach his breaking limit and call it off with the drunkard."
"Should we help them?"
The first man grimaced. "I really have to drain the lizard right now; been having a bladder issue all night. I'll tell you what, if they're still there after ten minutes, we'll go help them."
"Don't hog up the bathroom, my kidneys are about to explode too!"
"Well, go downstairs to a public one."
"No, then I really won't make it and it'll be all over my pants."
They hurried on towards their suite quarters. In another two minutes, Cyril was already worn out from lifting and dragging. He reminded himself that he needed to hit the base's gym more.
"Hey, you alright there?" an amiable feminine voice called.
The marksman noticed a young woman standing below, on the platform from the third flight of stairs. She had striking gray eyes, dark hair and a somewhat sharp, angular face. It was only softened by the genuine concern she showed.
Cyril recognized her from the party, but couldn't place her name. Oddly enough, she reminded him of someone vaguely familiar.
"Nah, this bloke has had one too many."
The woman trotted up the stairs, glancing over Demoman. "Yeah, I saw him at the Labor Day Event. We all took a group picture when the photographer passed out in the middle of taking it."
Cyril remembered the incident. The photographer was also plastered as hell, but still insisted on taking the company picture. He enthusiastically yelled out a 'Smile!' to all the party guests posing, then collapsed on the floor before his camera could snap the photo. In the end, another employee took the picture.
"Yeah, wonder if there was something in the Bourbon," Cyril said.
"Glad I didn't drink too much then," she chuckled a bit. "I recognize you both, but I don't believe we were formally introduced. My name's Athene. I'm one of the procurement specialists at Mann Co."
"Nice meetin' ya," Cyril acknowledged, reaching out a hand to shake. "I…would tell you mine, but it's classified. Call me Sniper."
Athene took his hand. "Oh yeah, I remember Mr. Bidwell announcing your names at the party. By the way, congratulations on your victories in the war!"
"Thanks, it was no easy picnic, that's for sure."
As he gazed more into her eyes, he felt a flutter in his chest. She was quite an attractive woman. Her eyes were sharply arched, like that of a sultry vixen.
"Well, how about I lift his legs, while you take the arms and torso?" she suggested.
"Sounds like a plan. But I have to warn you, this bugger's as heavy as a couple of anvils. If you need to stop and rest, let me know."
Athene nodded. "Listen to your body, as they say. Either way, we'll get to your suite."
So heaving a breath, she gripped each of Demoman's calves and used her own toned leg muscles to help hoist about one-fourth of his weight off the steps. Cyril hooked his arms around his friend's arm pits, proceeding to lift as well. He grunted from the tedious feeling that put a strain on his own quadriceps and upper back; ignoring the aching sensation, he carefully walked backwards up the stairway.
Athene kept up a steady pace, mindful not to force him to increase his momentum. A few times, both of them had to set the sleeping man down to give their muscles a rest. Demoman was snoring at this point. At least it wasn't as loud as Soldier's or Scout's.
"So, are you from Britain? Or Australia?" she asked.
Cyril was a bit taken aback by the question. He'd never been to any of those countries. Curious about his heritage, he had bought a book about Australia and its island territories. He especially was attracted to Tasmania.
Swallowing nervously, he had to lie. "Eh…Australia."
"How awesome, I always wanted to go see Melbourne," Athene admired. "Have you been there?"
Again, he fished around for an appropriate answer. "No, not really. Never had the time to visit."
"What area are you from?"
Another gulp. "Tasmania. Specifically…Hobart."
"Is it on the coast?"
"Yes, it's a tourist town and the island's capital. Really beautiful."
He inwardly thanked his budding interest and time he spent reading up on it. It would have been very awkward socializing with guests at the party, not knowing a damn thing about the country that he was "supposedly" from.
"I bet you soak up the sun all day on the beaches."
"It's very mild during January and February, in the low to mid 70s," Cyril supplemented. "We tend to have warmer weather than up there in the winter when the lower hemisphere is pointing towards the sun. Though, it does get hot a few summers every decade or so."
"Fascinating," Athene smiled, and Cyril couldn't help but fixate on it. "I just might add it to my places to visit if I ever go to Australia."
They finally arrived at the suite, panting from carrying 175 pounds of dead weight. Using his key to unlock the double doors, both managed to carry Demo in and plop him down on one of the queen beds.
"Thanks a lot," Cyril said, heaving out an exhausted breath.
"No problem." She said, glancing down at her watch. "I better be getting back to my own suite. One of my coworkers wasn't feeling well from the party, so I brought up some lemon tea packets and Pepto Bismol for her."
"Hope she feels better."
"Thanks…" Athene then paused, suddenly looking bashful. "Um, at the risk of sounding flirtatious, you…have beautiful eyes."
Cyril felt himself blush all over.
Athene quickly put up a hand. "Sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm sure others have complimented you on them." She let out a little nervous laugh.
He tried to shrug it off. "No, it's fine. I've gotten a few of'em."
"Green is a pretty color," Athene gushed out. "It's one of my favorites." She then perked up. "Anyhow, I'll be on my way. Hope your friend doesn't have too much of a hang-over tomorrow."
Cyril glanced down at Demoman. "Believe me, he hasn't learned his lesson yet."
Athene stood up, heading for the room's exit. "Well, it was good finally meeting some of BLU team. Hopefully next time, I'll properly be able to meet your friend without him being in Alcohol La-La Land."
A little amused snort from Cyril. "Yeah, hopefully so."
"Have a good evening, Sniper."
"Likewise, Miss."
She threw him one last charming smile, before leaving. Again, her mannerisms and facial features eerily reminded him of someone he'd seen before. He couldn't pinpoint it, and started running images of women he knew in his mind. It finally came to stop on a stern-faced one with a terse, cold demeanor. The Administrator. No, it can't be.
It was just a coincidence, right?
Shaking off the disturbing thought, he decided to dress in his sleepwear and get some rest. It was nearly close to 11:00 PM, and the team still hadn't returned from corporate headquarters. Usually, Demoman could stay up past midnight, but for some reason, one of the alcoholic beverages didn't sit well with him. It was the third time that Cyril had ever witnessed him passed out this early.
Cyril felt a sudden craving for some trail mix. There was a vending machine upstairs on the fourth floor. So, he headed out and locked the door behind him.
He arrived at the upper level and was walking down the hallway, when he heard music. The tune was that of a piano playing, coming from a lounge/resting room that he'd passed several times before to get snacks.
He stopped in his steps, listening to it. It was a somber, haunting melody, nearly something akin to "Moonlight Sonata." He'd never heard it before. It completely caught his attention, nearly pulling him into a trance-like state. Every once in awhile, the music would shift to a high peak crescendo of dramatic emotion before returning to a steady, adagio rhythm in an unknown minor note.
Gradually approaching the room, Cyril peered inside. Its smoking balcony and luxury furniture was absent of any guests. Only one sole person was seated at a parlor grand piano near the left corner; his back was turned to the marksman.
He continued playing, slightly turning his face when reaching for the keys to his left. That's when Cyril caught a good glimpse of him.
Wait. Demoman?
He blinked a few times, making sure he wasn't imagining it. Or, if it was another person who happened to look similar to the bomb expert. But no, even from a distance, the resemblance was uncanny. Now Cyril grew overwhelmingly confused - wasn't Demoman asleep in their suite?
He just left there three minutes ago. The Scotsman was also dressed differently; not in the formal, short-sleeved dress shirt and tweeds he wore to the party. No, this one was more casual, in a crimson T-shirt and dark jeans.
That's when cold realization hit him. It was the RED Demoman.
Naturally, Cyril's body went into fight-or-flight mode, sweat seeping from his palms. He quickly looked away, backing against the wall and feeling his heart pounding. He had to get out here. Now.
Still, his ears refused to listen to practical reason, continuing to absorb the darkly beautiful music wafting through the tense atmosphere. Letting out a slow breath in an effort to calm himself, he slowly peeked in again.
The RED Demoman's face was contorted in pained emotion; and yet, his fingers danced on each piano key in perfect unison. The song was expressing his tormented state.
After a minute, he stopped and dejectedly lowered his head. Cyril watched, careful not make even one peep.
"Ah John, today's our anniversary of one helluva friendship," he proclaimed, taking a swig from his Scrumpy bottle. "Cannae say I ever regret meeting ye."
John?
The only one Cyril knew with that name was his teammate, BLU Soldier. All their names were supposed to be classified. Still, it had slipped out one of those times the military man was drunk at the base's canteen. Half of BLU knew each other's names; being clones, they also christened themselves with their own special designation.
"Oh, ye were so much fun to hang out with, ye crazy sonofabitch," RED Demoman continued with a bittersweet chuckle. "A part of me still refuses to believe ye betrayed me. It's something that doesnae sit right, ye know?"
Now Cyril recalled their secret friendship; it went against company rules – even conventional wartime regulations, if one wanted to get technical. For a few months, most of BLU Team didn't trust Soldier after finding out about it. Particularly Spy, Heavy and their own Demoman.
After all, he had betrayed them by fraternizing with the enemy. Even Cyril purposely avoided him for awhile, feeling ambivalent towards the whole distasteful matter. On the one hand, he recognized his patriotic teammate was a valuable asset to the team. But who's to say he wasn't trading secrets with RED behind their backs?
Instead of charging both mercenaries for treason or firing them, their respective employers kept them onboard with a new cache of weapons. At first, it didn't make any sense to Cyril, until Spy had disclosed that they were given an option to either accept the weapons deal or be executed.
Going forward though, BLU Soldier agreed to stay away from RED Demoman and carried on as usual in their bloody matches. He even apologized for committing such an egregious act against the team. Gradually, he had to earn their trust back, since Blutarch and the Administrator refused to get rid of him.
RED Demoman let a sob. "God fucking dammit, Solly, how could ye have gone off the deep end, believing I called ye a 'civilian'? Ah well, guess I shouldnae be judging ye too harshly since I did accept the Administrator's offer. I never would have gotten to know Eyelander. But even he suspects some bullshit's goin' on."
Cyril was aware RED had their own Administrator; however, he didn't know who it was. Also, a visceral shiver ran down his spine at the mentioning of Eyelander. The sword was haunted and gave him the absolute creeps.
That seemed to snap Cyril back to reality – the alarm bells were ringing off in his head, urging him leave. What if the rest of RED was on this very floor? He had to warn his own team. If both rival groups encountered each other, there would be all out bloodshed.
Holding in his breath, he silently hurried away, eager to get back to his suite. Just what the hell was RED doing here anyway?
"Jeez, as if I don't have enough on my hands already."
He felt a sudden paranoia, hoping the enemy Spy wasn't following him in cloaked form. Luckily, he made it back to the suite, locking the door. BLU Demoman was still sound asleep, sprawled out all over the bed.
Since trying to wake up the Scotsman was useless, Cyril had to resort to taking drastic measures. He couldn't place a phone call to Builders League United headquarters, since the offices were closed and he'd only get their after-hours voice message.
He decided he would have to leave his Demoman here while he went back to the party to alert the others. They would have to check into another hotel for the night. Reaching for a pen, Cyril scribbled down a note to Demoman in case he woke up on his own.
It was a message strongly advising him to stay locked in the room since RED was in the hotel. The marksman also added he was going to let BLU know and that they would sneak him out here, being inconspicuous as possible.
He took another deep breath to soothe his anxiety. "At times like these, wish you were with me, little guy."
Somehow, thinking of Bubo distracted him from his worries. He had grown fond of their unique friendship, finding a kindred spirit in the bird. Now, to sneak out of here. Cyril exited the room and locked the door once more. He bent the folded part of his slouch hat to make it look like a normal one, then pulled it lower to hide his face. He then made his way downstairs towards the lobby, hoping and praying that he wouldn't run into the rest of RED team.
As he made it to the first floor and rounded a corner of the hall, he ran smack into someone. Cyril's head bumped against a hard object adorned on the other person's head. He covered his own head in a reaction to the sudden pain.
"Ah, sorry, didn't see you—" he paused, realizing he was staring at another familiar person. "S—Soldier! Oh, thank God!"
But Soldier gritted his teeth, looking displeased. "Stand straight, Lieutenant! A soldier does not conduct himself in a hasty manner without watching where he is going!"
"What?" At first, Cyril thought his teammate was piss drunk. It seemed a bit uncharacteristic for Soldier to be addressing him by a military rank.
Then he noticed the red band with the rocket launcher insignia around the man's buff bicep – oh no. RED Soldier.
Shit, shit, shit!
"I thought you went to bed early," RED Soldier continued. "What are you doing up late at this hour? Cannot sleep?"
Could this day get any worse?
"I…" Cyril stuttered, desperately thinking up something to say. His first instinct was to lash out at RED Soldier with his Kukri or drive it through his gut. After two years of fighting the man, it was almost like second nature. But it would be an unprovoked attack at this point.
If he actually killed the Soldier, RED team would be very suspicious. Their Sniper would easily tell how he'd died, judging by the deep knife wounds. Then they'd seek revenge not only on Cyril, but the rest of BLU team.
If RED Soldier managed to overpower him, he'd be in just as much trouble. The vicious, self-proclaimed General would leave him permanently dead.
"I…yeah, I got really bad insomnia!"
"I got some sleeping pills in my suite. Come upstairs and I will give you some."
"No!" Cyril cried, gulping down a nervous breath. "I mean…I don't take sleeping pills." Come on, lad, think! "Walking around will help put me to sleep."
The enemy Soldier peered closer at him. "You look pale. Are you coming down with something?"
Before he could react, RED Soldier grabbed him by his shirt collar and put a hand to his forehead. "Hmm, you do not have a fever."
He was way too close to Cyril and invading his personal space. The terrifying memories of getting his neck snapped like a twig came to mind. Panicking, the marksman pushed him back.
"It's alright, there's nothing wrong! I'm fine!"
He stiffly walked past RED Soldier, managing to quickly add, "I'll be back in awhile, good night, Soldier!"
Please, please hurry up, legs!
Puzzled a bit, the other mercenary watched him briskly walk towards the lobby. "Hold your gut in while you're at it, Lieutenant!"
Cyril was relieved when the night's cool air struck him. He was nearly running from the building, straight to a Mann Co. company car rented out to them. His body and psyche were in full combat mode, a learned response after dealing with his enemies up close. To assuage his nerves, he started humming a tune.
It was bad enough that he nearly walked in on RED Demoman lamenting about his lost friendship with BLU Soldier. To his discomfort, he had witnessed a side of RED – one he wasn't sure that he was supposed to see. Strangely enough, his brain was presenting it as a challenge to him. RED could also have their human sides...as unbelievable as it sounded. It's almost like a stone mask representing a faceless enemy to destroy had been broken away.
He felt a stirring pity for RED Demoman; he'd never seen one of them in such a vulnerable moment. And the music had been hypnotic indeed.
"Gah! Just focus on what you have to do!" Cyril scolded himself. "Go back to the party and let the others know we got unwanted company!"
. . .
NOTE:
* Athene is named after Athena, the Greek goddess of war and wisdom, and was usually associated with owls :)
Athene too is a clone, a younger version of Helen the Administrator. She's the last one created and was given to Mann Co for experimental purposes.
. . .