. . .
1942, Boston.
A red stoned, three story building on the eastern side of downtown.
First floor, room 104. Frosted glass over a wooden entrance door. In large, bold letters, is the name and occupation: Ludot: Private Investigator (BLU Spy).
So there I was, stuck in a slump on a Tuesday morning, browsing through the paper on a local councilman's corrupt outing as a pedophile. Though this wasn't anything new, being as stale as yesterday's left-over bacon and eggs thrown out to the dumpster.
The secretary informs me that my client is here. The door swung open, and in walks her (Scout's mother). She looked like one of those cabaret dancers you see at The Cocoanut Grove on a Friday night. Dark hair swept up in short waves. Her face was as sweet as they come, noticeably that enticing nose.
She already looked something worried.
"Mr. Ludot?" she asked.
I nodded. "Cara Driscoll?"
"Yes, that's me." She sat down. "I heard you had a stellar reputation as the town's second top flatfoot."
I nearly spit out my coffee.
"Second top?"
Her eyes cast down, sheepish. "Well, I heard the top number one was Marc Chenard."
An image of my rival (RED Spy) flashed in my mind, his hideous mug tormenting me.
I gritted my teeth, and reached for a cigar. That filthy rat…of course he would try to mar my business with spreading vile lies to the tabloids and potential clients.
The music continued playing until it didn't. The phonograph's needle caught on one of the record's grooves, repeating over and over. Cara's eyes flew to it, about to ask if I should fix it, but I just waved it off.
I lit my cigar. "So, to what do I owe the service of?"
She heaved out a trepid breath, looking quite concerned…as worried as my mother did when I stuck rocks up my three-year old nose. A dumbass thing to do, but hey, it was also a period where I was finding myself.
"Well Mr. Ludot, it's my son. You see…" she hesitated, reaching into a purse for a handkerchief. Her eyes visibly watered…great, an emotional dame. But I shouldn't be fooled. The last one put on the same act, only to find out she was double-crossing me with the shady owner of a donut shop used as a front for racketeering. But goddamn, those donuts were good.
"My son…" She sniffled, wiping a tear. "He's…He's…missing…"
Oh, another kidnapee or runaway case. Possibly murder…the last two I worked on ended with both boys found dead in a ditch and alley, respectively. A cracked head split open by a blunt force object isn't a pretty thing to look at.
It's even more sad if he suicided by bashing himself with a baseball bat or an ax.
I was about to offer her a drink from the hooch bottle. It's not easy watching a mother cry over the disappearance of her kid.
"He's missing his Duck Journal!" She pulled a photo of a rubber ducky, shoving it in my face.
The toy was adorned with a baby blue shirt, a fitted baseball cap, dog tags and what looked to be a tiny headset with a mic.
"Ohmigod, he just loves that little floater, he sleeps with it and now he's absolutely devastated over it being taken by some heartless asshole!" Cara gushed out. "He's also missing his bubblegum pack, a penny, a Joe DiMaggio stat card, a chewed-up baseball – he takes it everywhere with him, even in the shower and going to the bathroom."
She slapped another photo down on my desk, this time of the young man smiling and holding up the aforementioned items. No…no…this was utter sacrilege! As bad as when the St. Valentine's Day Massacre-wait, forget that. Those murders weren't half as bad as the time Fox Theater misspelled comedian Joe Cook's name on their marquee to "Joe's Cock." Lazy, shit advertising right there; no one noticed the fuck-up for a week.
"Still worse…" she managed out, in between a hiccup sob. "His collection of poser pictures were taken and a vanity mirror."
The next photo showed nothing but a wall full of pictures – probably the kid's room, but holy mole, I've never seen so many of them with her son posing like he was the next quintessential Hollywood actor.
Indeed, he had the impressive physique of a Greek hero statue. Handsome looks…teenybopper material for sure. Yet another photo…with him staring into a small, round mirror; grinning and showing off his pearly whites. Amazing teeth.
"He loves looking in that mirror all day," Cara explained. "He just…has so much self-esteem, ya know? To be able to admire yourself nonstop. But yeah…" *sniffle* "…it was a Christmas gift. I bought it at the thrift store for three cents. Now he won't even get outta bed without waking up seeing it on his dresser."
She blew her nose. "The police won't do anything about it. That's why I came to you."
I carefully pondered this. Yes…yes, it was worth it. No matter how small or large, all items that held a special place in a person's heart was sacred. Wholesome. And now, some demon from Hell disguised as a human bastard had committed the unforgivable and taken this poor boy's treasured collection. His heart had been ripped out of his chest…I may have been an antihero, but I was no monster.
"Madam," I announced, puffing on my cigar with deadly intent. "I will avenge your son…and you. This accursed perpetrator must not go unpunished."
Never had I seen such eyes alight with sunshine than from the lovely doll across from me.
"Oh thank you, Mr. Ludot!" She wiped her tears and snot. Oh God, that nose...
Perhaps, I could comfort her by asking her to dinner. If she wasn't taken already, of course…but then again, why not?
. . .
"No, no, that's not the way ye tell a story!" Demoman cut in, displeased.
"Shut it, wino, I'm tellin' it how I want to," Scout shot back.
Both sat and glared at each other in the patio area, along with Cyril and Engineer. It was a warm Sunday noon and Engie was grilling some hotdogs and burgers for lunch. In the distance, Heavy and Soldier were enjoying a game of cornhole. The rest of the team was inside, occupied with their personal activities. Pyro promised they would join them later after watching a daily cartoon show.
Cyril had invited Bubo to their small gathering; the little owl was now fully healed, and so was spending more time with his family. He was already in search of a mate.
He was perched atop Cyril's shoulder, observing the verbal communication between all the humans. Of course, he couldn't understand what the marksman's friends were saying. As always, he could only interpret what Cyril telepathically relayed to him.
Several of their respective birds were also with them: Scout had invited his Blue Jay friend, who he called "Bruins," after the Boston hockey team. Demoman was accompanied by his parrot, a Cockatoo named "Glasgow," after a major economic city in Scotland and the inspiration for the fictional Avalon in the King Arthur legend.
Their counterparts on the opposite team had similar, but different birds: RED Scout was friends with a Northern Cardinal named "Sox," after the Boston Red Sox baseball team, while RED Demoman owned a green Macaw named "Aberdeen," another nod to a popular Scottish city. Aberdeen was unique in that he was born with a crest – something not typical among his species, so it was possibly a genetic mutation.
BLU Engineer had a little canary named "Farad," after the scientist, Michael Faraday, a pioneer in electronics technology and electrochemistry. RED Engineer also had a canary, but more reddish in color which he affectionately called, "Ein," after the famous physicist, Albert Einstein.
Unfortunately, Farad wasn't feeling well and was recuperating from a respiratory infection in his cage.
Bubo was quite amazed at hearing Glasgow talk like a human. Cyril had explained that parrots were one of the top intelligent birds in the world, the other being the Corvid species (crows, ravens, magpies and Blue Jays), who could also mimic human speech.
At times, Bubo wished he could understand their language. That just wasn't possible, given his less complex development relative to his natural habitats and evolutionary niche as a hunter only. He also learned that Demoman actually had a normal left eye; he only wore the eye patch because he felt real uncomfortable without it. It was a strong habit transferred over from his RED counterpart during the cloning process.
One time, Scout grabbed it off his face in a prank move and the Scotsman went on an angry tirade against the hapless runner - much like in Phantom of the Opera, when Christine snuck up on Erik and yanked his mask off. Of course, Scout argued Demoman didn't really need the damn eye patch, but it was sort of like a 'security blanket' for the latter. Whatever. It wasn't like his eye socket was haunted like the original one's was.
"Who wants tae hear a convoluted 'Whodunit' mess where there isn't even a plot?" Demoman was complaining. "Just prattle prattle, that's all yer doin.' "
"It does so have plot! Detective Ludot's gotta find the valuable merchandise!"
As if in agreement, Bruins let out a few strong chirps.
"Ye call lookin' for bubblegum and rubber duckies valuable? More like junk lying around a dirty-ass room, such as yers!"
"What are they arguing about?" Bubo wondered.
"Oh, just another one of their silly squabbles over how to tell a noir tale," Cyril communicated through his thoughts. "Demoman thinks the private eye's goal is not a good one. Afterall, toys with little or no value wouldn't be something they would be looking for. You can cheaply buy those things at any store."
"Let me tell the story!" Scout insisted.
"What story? Aye, the detective takes the job, screws the bimbo, then says, 'fuck it' and go buys copies of the missin' items for five dollars total. He gives them tae the kid, some lowlifes get shot and everyone is happy. The end!"
"Don't tell how my masterpiece goes!" Scout protested. "Besides, my version is ten times better than yours." A pause. "But yeah, he screws the mother."
"I think it's interesting," Cyril countered, feigning exaggerated interest. He was going along with it just to annoy Demoman. "Do enlighten us, Scout. A sleuth story is sleuth story, no matter what the P.I is looking for."
"Ah reckon yah'll should hear it out," Engineer agreed, while poking at a weenie.
"There, ya see?" Scout sneered. "I bet even Brownie wants to hear it."
He gestured over to Bubo, while Cyril raised his eyebrows. "Brownie?"
"Yeah, that's my nickname for your bird. He looks like one speckled with marshmallow bits."
The marksman turned to the Spotted owl, with slight shake of his head. "Scout's got his own name for you."
"Huh? He doesn't like my name?" Bubo asked.
"It's not that. It's a nickname done in affection. He thinks you look like a brownie, so that's what he's calling you."
The way Bubo's eyes widened slightly in puzzlement drew a small chuckle from Cyril.
Demoman threw his hands up. "A'right, fine. If ye lads want tae lose some IQ points hearin' this whack drivel, go right ahead. I'm goin' for a round of bean bag toss wi'the others."
He got up to leave, his parrot wobbling a bit on his shoulders.
"ARHH! ARGGHHH!" Glasgow squawked loudly, flapping out his wings and startling the others.
"Gahh! What the hell, Glas!" Demoman covered his ear from the piercing screech. The cockatoo flew off of him and landed back on the seat where both had occupied it a second ago.
"Yo, I think he wants to stay to hear it," Scout remarked, looking smug.
"Ye traitor, get ov'r here!"
Glasgow stood his ground, bobbing his head wildly and flaring up his yellow crest, as if to mock the explosives expert. Bruins flew over and landed beside the larger bird, letting out shrill cries in voicing his support.
"Stay! Stay!" Glasgow protested in a gravelly voice. "Want to hear story!"
Demoman lunged to grab at him, but the bird was too quick and flew over on the picnic table. "Go away! Prick!"
"What did ye call me, ye nasty lil' dobber?"
Scout, Cyril and Engineer snickered.
"Looks like it's six against you, all fowl gentlemen included," the hardhat added with a crooked grin.
"Yer lucky yer not an enemy, otherwise ye'd get me fryin' pan upside yer head," Demoman scolded the parrot.
Glasgow only stuck his tongue out, letting out a taunting laugh. Cyril could hear Bubo snorting in amusement; it was most likely at the cockatoo's snarky gestures.
"Fine, stay and get yer pea brain rotted. When I come back, Scout, yer story better be over, 'cause I'm goin' tae tell mine next."
Scout folded his arms, unimpressed. "Oh, what kind? Another tripe about you pinin' away for your girlfriend, the Loch Ness Monster?"
"No, nothin' like that!"
Everyone sighed in relief.
"But it'll still involve Nessie."
There came a few groans in response.
. . .
Two diminutive figures stood, listening to Dr. Norad from TF Industries expressing his concern to them via a plasma monitor.
"As you saw from the previous neuro-imaging scan, the BLU Sniper shows specific areas of his amygdala that has developed," the scientist explained. "If you compare it to the RED Sniper's brain, those same key areas are absent. As you know, his mind is that of a partial sociopath. Not inherently immoral enough to kill anybody – as he can still form genuine bonds with a few people. Namely, his parents. But enough to enjoy the outright act of murdering."
"And this is not the case with the clone?"
The scientist nodded solemnly. "Unfortunately, the BLU Sniper has the mind of a normal person. It's akin to a citizen drafted for a war. He may not enjoy the thrill of killing per se, but for him, it's more of a goal of winning a match. "
"Yet, it appears his objective is the same as the original's."
"Indeed. But it's alarming enough that he suffered a bout of shell shock…hence, why we give him the suppressant drugs every year. If not for them, it would lead to long-term trauma. Most sociopaths and even partial ones don't experience this mental affliction."
One of the figures then stated, "We are still in the arduous process of replicating a brain devoid of most empathy – the perfect killing machine. It is unfortunate your lobotomies were not a success on the very first clones we supplied you."
The scientist acknowledged the debacle. "Yes, I admit we failed with the first Sniper, Engineer and Medic clones. As you know, they ended up in 'vegetable' states after the surgeries and had to be put out of their misery. We simply don't have the advanced knowledge or the technology to remove those parts of a brain that constitutes a morally-balanced, emotionally invested human being."
"Well then, it appears you will have to keep administering the medications until we can perfect a clone with the exact attributes of the RED Sniper. You mentioned before that you had the same problem with subjects designated 'Felicia Pauling, BLU Engineer and BLU Scout.' "
"Yes, though they've been responding well to the drug – except it's not given to Felicia, as she isn't involved in combat or assassinations. With the Scout clone and his original, it's already a given they have some degree of empathy. BLU Scout's amygdala and cortex exhibits active areas when compared to RED Scout's. He has more synaptic connections to evoke emotions that could cripple his logical way of thinking. This could potentially compromise his abilities in battle."
The other figure spoke up. "We will keep that in mind, during the next cloning phase."
"Thank goodness for those drugs. I've said this before, but it would have been easier if Blutarch had hired nine more mercenaries instead of cloning the ones from his brother's."
"His demands can be quite mercurial…and interesting."
The scientist wasn't so thrilled. "He's what you'd call a nutcase in our society. Any reasonable person would have recruited more killers for this war, not creating replicas of a rival sibling's team. It's an unhealthy obsession. But I'll admit this is all for the sake of science. It's what I live for."
He paused, reflective. Perhaps, I'm also a nutcase for dabbling in this ethically challenging area of biotechnology…
"Anyhow, this is all I have to report. I bid you all good night until the next meeting."
"We look forward to it, Dr. Norad."
The screen signed off, as the otherworldly sentient turned to her partner. "You were right. This planet is full of hopeless crazies…what strange forays our research brings to us."
The male being mulled over this. "Still, my colleague, Zathros, may have the solution for manipulating the DNA during the incubation process. I will see what he has to say. I still find it fascinating some of these humans are already born with underdeveloped areas in their brain. It appears it was an evolutionary adaption: It is prevalent in some of their medical surgeons, civil servants and their top leaders in commerce and the military. As I quote one of their justifications: 'who else is going to do the dirty work for the benefit of the whole?' "
The female being was familiar with certain members of interstellar species lacking love, empathy and compassion…just so they could cope with the extremely difficult issues holding back the evolution of their race. Such emotions could, at times, negatively affect their pragmatic, cold and logical ways.
Unfortunately for the human race, one hindering side-effect was that it also produced a lot of bad people. Both beings still considered it an informative project worth undertaking.
Above the monitor on a dark wall glistening with pin pricks of ice-blue light, the triangular symbol showed brightly, a fleeting reminder to all clones of where their origins lied.
"Our vow is still clear," she remarked, looking towards it. "We must never share our replication process with the humans. It is best for now that their crude theories on cloning remain just that – unproven."
. . .
Cyril was running through an endless tunnel, his scope rifle secured in his arms and looking around for any enemies. From afar, he could hear the shots ringing out and screams of murder (or victory) reverberating through the air, disrupting the already tense atmosphere with its bloodthirsty sounds of battle.
But no matter how far he ran, he couldn't make it at the end. As he paused to catch his breath, he closed his eyes for a second. When he lifted his head, the tunnel enclosure was gone; he was now standing in a pale, reddish mist.
The voices of both teams faded out, leaving only an unsettling silence. A terrible feeling of being lost crept over him.
"Guys? Scout? Medic?"
Where the hell am I?
His nerves were jingled when a high-pitched cry whistled out. Whirling around, just twenty or so feet on the ground, stood Bubo.
"Mate…" Cyril breathed.
The little raptor was just standing there, staring at him. The marksman was about to ask his friend what he was doing in the middle of battle with RED, when Bubo then took off into the mist.
"Wait, Bubo!"
The owl didn't even respond back. He decided to follow him and felt a sudden damp coldness, like one would feel walking in a winter fog.
Another loud screech from Bubo, this time from a different direction. Cyril turned to track it, soon feeling his shoes walking on wooden planks. Up ahead, he saw a familiar silhouette of a truss, mounted on two support beams through the opaque blanket of mist. As he came closer, a cluster of red buildings came into view, with a slender tower standing out.
2Fort.
Where it all began. He stopped at the edge of the bridge connecting both bases. There were still no sounds he would expect, like gun shots, warning calls or adrenaline-filled screams from either team.
He heard Bubo's distinct call again over on RED's side. What was the owl doing here anyway? Where was everyone? Eager to reach his friend and knowing he may be walking into a trap, Cyril trudged forward while welding his weapon to shoot. Suddenly, the triangular symbol materialized on the other end of the bridge.
It hung several feet off the ground, illuminated by the same teal hue he'd come to know. Oh. It was another one of those dreams; even he was aware in this warped state.
"What are you?" he asked.
He walked closer to the glowing sign, reaching out a hand to touch it. As he did so, it wavered and faded out, revealing a figure that was not human. It was shorter than him, pale gray in color. Still being shrouded by the crimson mist, he could see its two large dark eyes.
But he didn't feel any terror encountering the apparition-like being. There was a recurring sense that he met it before.
"You must never tell," it warned. "Danger will find it."
"What, the symbol? Tell me so I can understand."
But just as the being was going to disclose who the threat was, it vanished and Cyril found himself being pulled into a vacuum.
He cried out in protest, frustrated over not receiving the answer. He awoke from the ominous dream, feeling just as perplexed as ever. Curling a hand around the blanket sheets, he sighed. He just hoped that these continual visions hounding his sleep time would eventually disappear and that it wouldn't distract him from his job.
He and his team mates were being counted on to win this war.
Maybe I should ask Dr. Norad about it.
Even though the scientists at TF Industries were very hard to reach, he felt he had to make an effort. If he could find out from his former mentor what the symbol represented, it can put any anxieties he had to rest. For all he knew, it could have been a logo for another company – a joint venture that TF Industries was involved in. Maybe it was a sign associated with top-secret information, submitted by a contracted graphic designer.
As he rose to start his day, he wrote the task down on a notepad for the coming week.
. . .