. . .
The party was still in going strong when Cyril arrived at the Builders League United building by the The Dunes hotel. He had swerved in and out of traffic across the city and airport area; he tried quelling his restless body each time he had to stop at a red traffic light. Atleast, he was already here.
Exiting the company vehicle, he ran past several guests outside, where there was some careless mayhem going on. One was dangerously balancing herself atop a tiered marble fountain, looking any minute to fall into the water. Someone was doing donuts in the parking lot, tires squealing and kicking up a cloud of toxic gas fumes.
It looked like an impromptu Bong club started, the unmistakable pungent odor of weed and smoke floating above the partygoer's heads. Another was screaming his head off like he stepped on hot coals mixed in with his laughter.
Cyril was used to death cries in battle, but the ungodly noise that man was making was grating on his eardrums. Thankfully, he hurried away from the agonizing ruckus and inside the lobby area, straight towards a large banquet room. Quite unusual for a company to have built into their corporate headquarters, but he guessed BLU's parent proprietor, TF Industries, could afford an exorbitant expense.
A familiar beat resounded in the air as he stepped inside, desperately looking for his team mates. He was immediately met with a barrier of bodies – wait, more people showed up to the party? On a raised stage, opposite the main entrance, was a band performing. They were playing a Salsa song, its rapid percussion tempo standing out.
In the center, partygoers were tossing a man in the air using a burlap blanket.
"Hey, Snipes!" Scout called out, amid the loud cacophony of voices and music. "Thought you were checkin' out early!"
"Scout!" Cyril made his way through the crowd towards them. He could also see Pyro was with the runner.
"Whatsa matter, compadre? Couldn't resist comin' back for more?"
"Scout, we have to get out of here-"
But his team mate was distracted when Saxton Hale hollered out in a booming voice, "Okay, who wants to take a ride on the blankie?!"
Scout turned to the marksman, excited. "Yo, ya gotta try this! It's SO freakin' cool!"
Pyro gleefully laughed, clapping their hands in agreement.
"Anybody?" Saxton Hale was looking around.
"HEY! HERE'S ONE!" Scout pointed at Cyril.
"What?!"
The young man grabbed Cyril by the shoulder and arm, shoving him towards the center, while Pyro was helping on his right side. He tried squirming out of their grips, as he was then passed over to two tall, burly men.
"No worries, yer gonna love this!" Scout loudly reassured.
"But guys, it's RED!" Cyril cried. "They're at the hotel!"
"What? I didn't hear ya," Scout replied amid the noise.
"RED! They're here! We have to-waahh!" he was yanked hard along, feeling his left arm nearly being torn from its socket. His strength was no match for two men who looked like they just entered a NABBA Mr. Universe pageant.
"RED? Their ears?" Scout frowned. "What about them? They suck anyways, I got da best ears in the whole wide world! Right, Mumbles?"
Pyro gave a thumbs up, doing an excited little hop before turning their attention back to an unhappy Cyril.
"No, I don't want to! Let me go!"
"C'mon Sniper, show'em how Aussies have fun!" Saxton Hale yelled.
He was tossed like a rag doll onto the suspended blanket. A second later, he was thrown upwards, barely able to catch his breath each time he hit the fabric.
"Goddamn it, you guys-nghh!" he protested. "Will you-oomph-listen to me!"
The crowd cheered loudly as he spun and flipped in the air several times.
"SCOOUUTT!"
"Yeah, that's my name, baby!" the runner boasted, pointing to himself and chest puffed out. "Keep it comin', Snipes. Though, I'd rather hear it from the ladies. They'd be checking out this hot piece of ass!"
No matter how many times he yelled for the guests to stop flipping him like pizza dough, they were oblivious to his protests. They were either too drunk or high…whether from some illicit drug or the general excitement vibe, he couldn't tell. The combined deafening noise of jovial hollers, whistles and booming music drowned out most of his frantic words.
Over the madness of the party and his teammates' irritating ignorance, Cyril could make out half the crowd doing the Conga dance. He just knew Scout probably got them rolling with it.
At the ritzy bar, Heavy and Soldier were facing off in a drinking contest. Neither of them had passed out yet from all the alcohol overload.
"Name your next drink, Sputnik!"
Heavy arched his eyebrows in a show of sinister intent. He then signaled the bartender to bring a bottle of Kognac. "Martell, four shots with chaser."
Soldier gave a derisive laugh. "You are going to regret challenging me. I bet I will outdue even Demoman!"
"So you said last time. It will be same again!"
Both ignored a fight breaking out at the end of bar, patrons throwing fists and smashing bottles over heads.
Medic was hanging out with Felicia, Mr. Bidwell and several other employees at one of the dinner tables, probably also drunk and cracking jokes.
"And zho, zhe tourist vas lost. He finally stopped his car, rolled down his window and asked a kid, 'Hey, what's zhe quickest way to get to the hospital?' And zhe kid said, 'Easy! Just close your eyes and walk straight into traffic'!"
Several people laughed and slapped his shoulder, with Felicia wanting to butt in for the next joke. Soon, an unpleasant, queasy feeling erupted within the marksman's core; he could feel the contents of evening's dinner backing up into his esophagus.
Oh fuck, no!
He was going to throw up. He covered his mouth, furiously signaling to everyone. The night just kept getting worse. Now, he was going to embarrass himself by puking in front of hundreds of people.
To Cyril's pure luck, a huge, rotund woman barged her way through the crowd, demanding to Saxton that it was her turn on the burlap toss. The people holding the blanket placed it down, Cyril landing on his left side with an unceremonious 'thump!' More cheers and clapping followed.
He felt disoriented from the wild ride and imagined his face was a sickly shade of green. A few people helped lift him up, steadying him onto his feet and giving him congratulatory pats on the back.
"Whoo-hooo-hooo! Go Snipes!" Scout yelled.
"Hmphr rhmud mmmf!" Pyro added.
The bile was rising more and more – Cyril pushed through the boisterous crowd, running towards the restrooms.
. . .
"Mon ami, are you alright?"
Spy leaned against a stall in the men's restroom, hearing Cyril emptying the last of his stomach contents.
Two stalls down, there were several people also in the same predicament. This company party had turned into a riot indeed, too lowbrow for Spy's taste.
"Y—yeah, just give me a minute—" Cyril managed out, before spewing more vomit into the toilet.
He felt so disgusted. Hearing the other patrons hurling just ten feet away didn't help matters either. After flushing the toilet, he sauntered out, looking like he just survived a hurricane.
"I see you returned to the party," Spy said. "Looking worse for wear."
"Yeah, I was given the salad tossing treatment," Cyril replied bitterly.
"Oui, I just came from outside when I saw you engaged in that ridiculous, juvenile activity."
"Not my choice. Scout and Pyro forced me into it." His let out a disdainful snort. "I swear, I'm gonna skin those two alive and hang'em out to dry like beef jerky."
Spy scoffed. "Why am I not surprised? They were quite inebriated, those compulsive idiots."
He felt a bit ashamed for Scout's erratic antics sometimes, given the bat slugger was genetically his son. But that's as far as family ties went; he really wasn't obligated to be a father, just because they were both clones of RED Spy and RED Scout.
Important matters were at hand, so Cyril said, "Spy, we got trouble. RED's here….at the hotel!"
There was brief flash of surprise in his team mate's eyes, before returning to its calm exterior. "Let's go somewhere private."
They exited the restroom, walking over to an inconspicuous area of a hall.
"RED?" Spy questioned.
"Yes! I ran into their Demoman and Soldier over there. The first one didn't see me, but the Soldier did. Luckily, he mistook me for their Sniper."
Cyril's nerves flared up again, remembering how he came close to being chopped liver if the American maniac had figured him out.
Spy looked a bit relieved. "It's a good thing that brute is too dimwitted to recognize you weren't one of their own." His brows furrowed in a partially distressed thought. "Merde. Just what are they doing over there anyway?"
"Who knows? It's Vegas, after all. Maybe they're on a gambling spree."
"Maybe. Where's Demoman?"
"Still at the hotel. He passed out hard; I couldn't get him to wake up. So, I locked up the room and snuck out of there."
Spy sighed. "It would have been easier for both of you to escape if he'd been conscious. Here's what we'll do. We'll give the others a heads-up not to return to the hotel. You and I can sneak him out of there."
"Right, your disguise kit. But how'll we hide Demo's identity from RED? Put a paper bag over his head?"
"If it must come to that. We want to avoid the slippery chance he runs into his doppelgänger. I can enter the suite with a false visage."
"You might have to spend the night there until he wakes up. Like I said, I tried everything except put a hot poker to his ass. He's in one of those deep sleeps again." Cyril's eyes lit up. "That it! You can just burn him with one of your cigarettes!"
The Frenchman seemed put off by that suggestion, but still carefully considered it. "I suppose I can try that. At this point, whatever it takes to rouse him from his slumber."
"Hey, it might work."
"Of course. Come on, let's go warn the others."
Both mercenaries returned to the party, splitting up to inform their comrades more quickly. Although Cyril decided to let Spy tell Scout and Pyro, on the off chance he'd slug them in the face for getting him involved in his current mess.
Atleast, the guests had stopped with the body tossing, since the giant lady ripped through the burlap and put a huge crack in the tiled floor. The fight at the bar had spilled over into the front lobby; several security guards were finally breaking it up, but now there was a mess of broken liquor bottles, blood stains and damaged stools to clean up.
Saxton Hale was wrestling one of the bodybuilders that threw Cyril into the blanket throw.
"Are those tables on fire?" one of the partygoers asked.
The sharpshooter followed the man's puzzled stare; sure enough, a few diner tables were lit up in flames. Panicked shouts ensued. Pyro was the only one not freaking out, standing back and admiring their handiwork.
It was going to be a long night.
. . .
Bubo was perched atop a large garden rock as he watched Cyril pull back his arrow, estimating the distance he needed to hit a bull's eyes on the archery stand. He had a deadset lock on the target from 20 yards away. Releasing the arrow, it landed in the center of the red circle.
"Another great shot!" Bubo complemented. "If I didn't know any better, your sight range is as good as an owl's."
"Thanks. But I wasn't born with it. I had to work hard at achieving this special skill, especially in this war."
"Yes, practice makes perfect." Bubo then stretched out one of his legs. "So, what happened next when your friend snuck into the hotel?"
"Spy managed to get inside the suite, still disguised as a room service clerk. I had given him the key. He was then able to wake up Demoman with the cigarette." Cyril let out a little chuckle. "It actually worked! Although, he was screaming his head off and nearly punched Spy in the face – he thought the RED Pyro was attacking him. Luckily, Spy ducked in time and missed Demo's fist; otherwise, it could've been a black eye."
"I'd imagine being burned is horrifying."
"Oh, I definitely know. The enemy Pyro just likes to go wild turning us into fried filet mignon."
"What's filay mee-nyon?"
"It's a type of pork meat. Usually cooked well-done."
"So it's pig? Your people sure eat a variety of animals…and plants. I still think it's incredible you make your own food, like cake and noodles."
"When you've got too much intelligence for one muscle in your skull and get bored easily, you're gonna find other ways to eat."
Cyril didn't mean to brag about the "too much intelligence" part. It was evidently fact when compared to the intellect of other animals on Earth. He didn't mention that stupidity and insanity also came in generous quantities with the human race. The Mann brothers and both mercenary teams were proof of that. He pulled out another arrow from his quiver pack, readying it to hit the target once more.
He aligned the Huntsman a little below mouth level and shot off the arrow. It landed squarely again in the center circle.
"Afterwards, Demoman put a towel over his head to hide his face as they left the hotel," Cyril continued. "They spotted a few of our enemies, but none of them paid any attention. They were able to get out and head straight to the car. I then drove us to another hotel, this time in another nearby town called Henderson.
"We wanted to maintain as much distance as we could from RED. The rest of the team was able to meet up with us there. They sent a few employees back to the hotel to collect our belongings, although Spy had to supervise them. It's a good thing we scribbled everything down on a list, including the suite numbers. We had some trouble since Scout got his mixed up, so it took several trials to find the right room. He was sharing it with Pyro."
"I'm glad you were able to avoid them."
Cyril decided to take a break from his practice, and sat down in a nearby lawn chair, taking a swig of his root beer.
"Absolutely. My team didn't travel all the way to Las Vegas just to continue our feud with them. That stays behind on the battlefield."
He briefly thought of Athene. He wondered which facility of Mann Co. she worked in. Was it in the Badlands? The LA office? Memphis?
Wait, why I am even thinking of this?
As lovely as she seemed, he shouldn't let himself get distracted from his job priorities. Still, at times, he wondered about her; she strangely reminded him of the Administrator. Although Cyril wasn't as exceptionally perceptive as Spy, Medic or Engineer was, his gut feeling did the discernment for him…and what it was telling him was maybe, just maybe, there was a tacit affinity with the mysterious older woman.
Besides that, he was still a bit bothered witnessing the enemy Demoman drowning away his sorrows in Scrumpy and gothic music. His more pragmatic side reminded him that he was fighting a war and paid to do his job. It didn't matter who the opposing team were or what went on in their personal lives. As a supposed professional, it was imperative that he fulfilled his objectives and not let anyone or anything – not even the dismal plight of an enemy – get in his way.
For some reason, it still tugged a bit at his heart.
Well, he assured himself, one day this war will be over.
A third, nagging thought came to mind; one that he decided to come clean about. He didn't care if his little friend understood or thought differently of him afterwards.
He just couldn't keep it in anymore.
"Bubo, I have to tell you something."
The owl cocked his head towards him. "Hmm?"
Cyril licked his lips in subtle apprehension. "I…don't have a family."
It took a few seconds for Bubo to process what he just heard. "What happened? Did they die?"
"No. I never had any parents to begin with."
"That doesn't make sense. Everyone has parents."
"True, but not someone like me." He shifted in his chair, looking down in somber thought. "You see, I'm what you call a clone."
"Clone?"
"Yes. I wasn't even…born the natural way. I was created in a laboratory, out in the Badlands."
Atleast, he thought so. Unknown to him, that was not the case.
"I don't understand…"
"I'm a copy of another human," Cyril clarified. "I was born, yes, but not from the womb of a woman. They just took the DNA of another person and infused it with a donor egg with its own DNA removed. I then grew from there."
Bubo blinked, tilting his head. "What's DNA?"
"It's sort of like the instructions for creating a human being. It's encoded into the cells that make up our entire bodies."
"Oh yeah, I remember you mentioning the materials that living organisms are made from. So, you still came from an egg?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Did you hatch?"
"Not exactly. I don't know too much detail on how the process works, but I grew at an accelerated rate – more so than a normal person."
"Whoa, so your kind are able to make babies in other ways."
"Something like that…except, you're not engaged in traditional mating. It's all done by artificial means."
Bubo was now baffled. "That's pretty…amazing. But did you even have a childhood?"
Cyril shook his head. "No, not even that. I was given false memories to think I did – it was done to prevent any impeding setbacks from proper psychological development. All I remember was waking up in a clean, white room with a several people standing over me. At some instinctive level, I knew what I was. I didn't have to go through an entire overhaul of having to learn things from scratch – usually when you're in the toddler and preteen stages. Those scientists were my creators and mentors; I was to learn how to fight in specialized combat."
He tried stifling the unpleasant memories of some painful tests they subjected him too. Still, he did remember a few of the people at TF Industries who were kind to him. One was a grizzled, old captain who had fought in World War II and the Korean War. He taught Cyril how to snipe and use the SMG. Another was a woman who'd won the national championship in archery; she showed him how to effectively use a bow and arrow.
Yet another employee had showed him how to cook, a crucial skill needed to survive with eight other people out in the desert. Interestingly, he already had preknowledge from RED Sniper on making certain entrée dishes stored into his neural memory pathways, such as beef stroganoff and charbroiled chicken legs.
"Did you ever ask them why they created you?"
"I did, several times actually. One of my creators wasn't as elusive about it. His name was Dr. Omar Norad. He told me it was for the sake of science."
Although, Cyril had doubts regarding the biotechologist's validity on tampering with genetics. It was already ethically wrong to manipulate cells and bring a live organism into this world just for a person's unprincipled agenda. He wondered if BLU team were the only clones so far. "And, they were fulfilling an obligation to their employer, Blutarch Mann."
Bubo recalled his friend mentioning the wealthy landowner a couple of times. "That's one of the brothers who started this war."
"Yes. Although, to be honest, I don't care much for the old buzzard."
"Wait, he's a bird?"
"No, I don't mean the scavenger ones around here. It's a slang term used to insult someone – usually an older person."
A frown from Bubo. "Oh…kay. Kinda like how I call my annoying siblings 'little poops.' "
Cyril smiled. "Heh, didn't think I'd here you use bodily waste in your language."
"I think most every living thing is disgusted by what comes out of their bum hole." He then flew over and landed spritely on one of armrests of the chair.
"Cyril, this whole DNA thing? You said it's in all living beings, so where did yours come from?"
He paused for a moment, before admitting, "From the RED Sniper."
Bubo's eyes widened. "What? One of your enemies?"
"Yeah, it's certainly off-putting." Cyril turned towards the open desert with its arid tundra and distant, rolling mountains. "My creators did it at the behest of Blutarch. For some insane reason, he was obsessed with acquiring an army to be just like his brother's - down to the physical appearance and similar abilities. He found out about cloning technology and hired a group of bioscientists to begin the process."
"Then, you're related to RED."
Cyril cringed a bit, finding it reprehensible. But he couldn't deny it when the truth was blatantly staring him right in the face, no matter how much he hated it. "Indeed…I am. The whole team is. Why Blutarch didn't hire his own mercenary group is beyond me. I suppose he figured if he's going to fight a brother over land, so will his mercenaries be kin to the enemy as well."
He took another drink of the root beer. "But that's what I was created for. To do a job and hopefully win this war."
Bubo looked down, feeling bad for his friend. "It must be awful having to fight your own sibling."
"Nah, I don't see RED Sniper as family. He's more like a competitive opponent where we're constantly trying to best the other in battle."
"Still, I can't imagine fighting someone related to me in some way. It's…unsettling. Sad…"
"Unfortunately, it pervades our cultures," Cyril replied with shrug. "We've dealt with it since the beginning of my peoples' existence. Sure, we're capable of handling our disputes peacefully; but other times, we do it through bloodshed - especially if it's competing for resources. Sometimes, it involves relatives. It's just our nature."
It bothered the owl, so he dropped the subject. Instead, he ventured, "So, your team mates are also clones..."
"Yes. I was introduced to them a month after I was born. In a way, we 'grew up' together during our critical learning and training phases. In some sense, I consider them 'family.' They're the only guys I've ever known at a personal level. We even fight like siblings sometimes. We fiercely protect each other, and I trust them more than I do our employer."
But could he ever trust them enough to reveal how he was truly feeling about the war? Would it come off as sheer disloyalty?
Could he trust them to understand his deepest insecurities about being a 'fake' mercenary?
Despite these reservations, BLU was as close to 'kin' as Cyril would ever get. They were in the same predicament as he was – originating in a petri dish, incubated and grown in an artificial womb enclosure, while being fed nutrients through a faux placenta. They all hung out together during the very brief time of their developing stages; some of them even shared rooms at the research facility. They ate together, trained together and participated in recreational activities – all before the first battle in the Gravel Wars.
Of course, the scientists and other employees made sure to foster of strong sense of camaraderie and cooperation among the group, as teamwork was extremely important in fighting a formidable enemy.
They weren't just coworkers or brothers-in-arms, they were a type of familial unit.
"Even if they drive you crazy sometimes?" Bubo inquired.
"Yep. I heard even real families can have those ugly moments."
A pregnant pause of reflecting, before Bubo said, "Cyril, despite how you came into this world, you're still a person. You've proven that with your kindness towards me. I see it when you interact with your team mates…your friends, Jimmy and Felicia. My own family. It's alright to feel awful about it. But that doesn't mean there isn't a way to rid yourself of its misery or what you don't have."
"I knew of an orphan owl whose entire family perished in a forest fire. He had nobody left…a part of his heart died that horrible day. But my uncle found and took him in. He was very depressed and traumatized over what happened. His name was—" Bubo let out series of short, staccato shrieks; though, not loud enough to startle Cyril.
"Mate, I can never get the way you owls name yourselves with all those chirps and squeaks."
Bubo's beak area curled into playful smile. "Ah, the usual language barrier we have. At first, I found your way of pronouncing names to be weird as well. Too lowkey and not enough emotion in your intonations."
"Tch, whatever. Yours sound like noise to me."
The owl snorted, not seeming perturbed. "It's a wonder why the Earth Entity made all living things so different."
The marksman remembered Bubo telling him about his flocks' personal beliefs. He, in turn, shared the many religions and spiritual sects among the human race. It intrigued him that a simpler animal like an owl also believed in some form of a god or that an otherworldly force existed.
"Anyhow, the adopted owl eventually became my cousin. Yes, his family was gone. But he gained a new one through my uncle and aunt. He soon became a big brother to their new children. He came to appreciate his life…to cherish what he had. Sure, his deceased parents and siblings will never be replaced; it's the value of having others who truly care about him that made him realize how lucky he was."
"So, you're saying I should appreciate what I already have," Cyril surmised. "Despite not being a real human."
"Of course you're a human," Bubo insisted. "Just because you weren't born the usual way. Your altruistic actions towards me alone make you one." He stepped a little close, snuggling up against Cyril's upper arm. "Everyone deserves a family…even if they're not related by blood."
He mulled over what his little friend was saying; he also remembered the proverb, 'blood is thicker than water.' But were close bonds as well? The kind where they were impossible to break?
He's too good, too nice, Cyril thought, gazing down at the little raptor. Even though he's also a hunter by nature. It's more out of necessity to survive…he can't really help it, unless owls evolve into vegans in a million years. Why he chooses to hang around someone like me, I don't know.
He was immensely relieved though that he finally told Bubo his origins. He wasn't sure if his team mates felt the same way as he did, since most of them rarely ever brought it up. The exception was Engineer and Scout - he could tell by the way they viewed their RED counterparts, it reflected on their own insecurities of being genetic copies.
Living in their shadows...
Bubo still accepted him, which really meant alot...more than he ever hoped for.
Just then, the inexplicable symbol flashed again in his mind. Like always, it unnerved him to be reminded why it was so persistent now, after being dormant for two years. At the moment, it could wait. Someday, he would get to the bottom of this.
. . .