. . .
Cyril had made several calls to directly to TF Industries; much to his chagrin, he was always met with the same excuse that their scientists were too busy and would later contact him. Or the receptionist simply asked to take a message – which he did provide but it was never followed through. Felicia volunteered to go to the office and submit an inquiry to talk to Dr. Norad. Miss Pauling hardly ever came around anymore, so her clone was the next best line of contact.
Medic even joined in contacting Dr. Norad, even though he himself rarely dreamed about the symbol. Still, Cyril hoped that the biotechnologist receiving a request from a fellow scientist would compel him more into quickly addressing their concerns. These unsettling dreams had been plaguing the team for months now, so something had to be done.
A week past and still, no response. Finally, a few days later, Cyril received a letter from the research facility. The letter read:
Dear BLU Sniper,
I have received your inquiry regarding the vision in your dreams that you've been experiencing. Your descriptions and drawing that you submitted of a triangular symbol, somewhat resembling the Lambda one with twin flames and a teal X in its center has been identified. It's a logo of an undisclosed project that was instrumental in your teams' early testing of neurological activity.
I apologize, but this is the only succinct explanation I can give you. As noted, I have forwarded pertinent information to your Medic for record purposes. He has been appointed the primary contact for us concerning any developing medical and mental problems of an unusual nature. This could possibly be a side-effect of the cloning stages since retaining long-term memories is possible in the first few days a subject awakens. Don't be put off by it.
"Continue with your mission as best as you can," Cyril read the rest of the letter. "I'll see to it that my colleagues and I choose the proper treatment for you and your teammates. One successful treatment is hypnosis. It has been used before in other patients that have experienced a similar affliction, with a success rate of 95%. In the next two weeks, our research department will contact you to arrange an appointment at our headquarters. Best wishes on your teams' endeavors towards the war effort. Signed, Dr. Omar Norad."
He swallowed hard, only feeling an ounce of comfort. Scout, Felicia and Pyro were all gathered around the patio table, taking it all in in their own coping ways.
Felicia was the first to speak up. "So, the doctor's solution is to put us under a trance."
"Apparently," Cyril replied, setting the letter down.
"If it involves staring into some moving spiral, I'm out," Scout huffed with annoyance.
On the one hand, the marksman was relieved to have heard back from the scientist and that they were taking action to help reduce the frequency of these aberrant dreams. But there was still a sliver of doubt there – why would a BLU member, out of all the earliest memories at their birth place, strongly retain this one image only?
Why would it continually be present in every other dream?
Scout looked a bit relaxed. "Well, it hasn't been affecting my performance. I don't think it has either with the others. Engie never brings it up much."
"Mmmm ruahth humphhf," Pyro chimed in.
Felicia sighed, resigned to accepting whatever plan one of their "creators" devised to curb the troublesome issue. "I suppose we'll have to wait, since the ball is now in their court. I just hope this hypnosis stuff they're proposing really works. I'm trying to ignore the dreams."
"Too bad the symbol's copyrighted," Scout replied, restlessly drumming his fingers on the table. "It would've made a great emblem for some comic super hero."
"Must you always obsess over comics?" Cyril grumbled.
"It's my hobby, what do ya expect?"
Felicia put a reassuring hand on the marksman's shoulder. "Don't worry, Sniper. At least this is being nipped in the bud. Dr. Norad knows how important it is for us to maintain a sound mind during this war. We can't be distracted from our critical duties by some weird symbol you'd only find in a physics or occult book."
"Or a secret society," Scout added. "I heard that shit is real, like the Freemasons are." He rose from his seat. "Anyhow, I'm gonna go catch Little Caesar on TV. You wanna come along, guys?"
"Nah, I'll pass," Cyril replied, somewhat morose.
"Mhmp harumphh," Pyro agreed.
Felicia smiled, a tad apologetic. "I have to get back to work. Thanks anyway."
Scout shrugged. "Suit yourself. Pyro, I better not catch you using Engie's barbecue grill for fryin' more toy soldiers. That plastic shit is hard to take off."
He went back inside through the kitchen backdoor. Still, Cyril wondered if what the scientist had disclosed to him was indeed the irrefutable truth. A part of him still felt a kernel of suspicion. Why would his former mentor lie to him, except to safeguard the company's hush-hush activities?
He could only hope that Dr. Norad kept his word and they would be treated accordingly for this mystifying phenomena.
. . .
It was 3:30 AM and Cyril was tossing around in a restless sleep. The disquieting visions of the symbol and the alien-like being who warned him of danger persisted in his dreams as before, but now it was different this time; a disembodied voice called out to him.
[Come...follow…]
His eyes snapped open, unfocused. He slowly rose out of bed and took steady, deliberate steps across the room. He grabbed the keys to the camper van that was hanging on a wall hook and exited his room, quietly padding down the hallway.
The rest of the team was asleep; Engineer had gone to bed at around 1 AM working over editing some schematics for the prototype Reviver. He usually stayed up late engrossed in his projects, but by now, he had hit the hay like the others.
Cyril exited the base, walking over to the vehicle, his unconscious mind held in a trance-like state. Several nearby burrowing and Spotted owls on their late-night hunts noticed when their human friend appeared.
"Hey, what's he doing out here?" one of the owls wondered.
"Beats me," another one answered, baffled.
"Maybe he's going to one of those box houses that serve their food," another one squeaked. "He's probably hungry."
"If he is around this time, he's getting more like us."
Some of them amiably greeted him, but he simply ignored their calls. Growing more confused, the raptors watched as he entered the vehicle, and started up the engine. He then backed out of the gravel lot, driving through a gap at one end of the disguise backdrop. Although the building's alarm system and cameras were synced with each other, it didn't sound off; it was primarily designed to detect any intruders infiltrating the base rather than anyone leaving it by opening a door or a window from inside.
Two of the guard dogs were sleeping, but one – a German Shepherd named Gears - was awake to keep watch over the building premises.
He was especially good at sensing when an enemy Spy was attempting to breach their security perimeters. His talent for picking up scents was so strong that he could keenly tell a fake BLU from a real one, having retained the memory of RED Spy's scent in his olfactory 'database.'
Gears recognized the camper van and Cyril in the driver's seat, a bit puzzled as to why one of them would be driving off in the wee hours of the morning. Letting out a low whine, he decided to continue looking out for any trespassers to the area. Perhaps the human would return later.
[Come…you must]
The verbal beckoning echoed in Cyril's transfixed state. He was now on the main road, driving past the base, with the stars glistening brightly in the indigo sky. A full moon was out, casting additional light over the highway, though he took no notice of it. For over 10 miles he drove down westward, passing the occasional gas station or roadside diner.
[There…]
He slowed down the camper van, driving it off the concrete lane and along a dirt path where a chain of low-lying buttes and small mesas lied just thousand feet away. The 'off the air' static noise from the radio tuner faded away, as a daily morning show which discussed various topics was beginning its 4 AM slot run.
"Good morning all you hicks, wherever you are, this is 'Insanity Truths And Sensible Hallucinating.' I'm your host, Terrence Weir. On today's episode…boy, do I have a doozy for you. It's even more incredible than the giant hotdog sightings around Las Cruces – Bigfoot sure has competition right now. Sinister beings that go clank in the night! Glimpses of two-legged creatures covered in metal. Add in creepy glowing eyes and gas tail pipes, and what kind of a freak show do you have?"
"It isn't the Tin Man from 'The Wizard of Oz,' that's for sure. One witness even stated they were carrying a Winchester scoped rifle and another a GE minigun. Could it be rabid and overzealous troglodytes who're into the 2nd Amendment? The military testing their latest weapon in the war that gave birth to the Hippie subspecies of human? Or an alien's play toys running amok on our planet?"
But Cyril didn't acknowledge the broadcast at all. The precursor to a deadly threat that would befall both teams went blissfully ignored. He stopped the vehicle, staring straight ahead at an indistinguishable point. Turning off the engine, he calmly stepped out of the van and walked towards a wide open area of the desert.
At about five hundred feet away from the van, he stopped, a shiver running down his body. As he glanced up at the sky, still unaware of these actions in his somnambulistic state, a flash of teal-green light appeared.
. . .
Lustrous rays from the morning sunlight siphoned through the cracks of the crystal cave. Bubo was jolted from his slumber, a disturbed feeling coming over him. What was wrong? He glanced over at a few of his family members, still sound asleep. The only ones he knew that awoke real early were his father, little brother and several cousins.
Bubo…
The familiar voice, but with a sense of urgency. It cut sharply into his groggy thoughts.
"Cyril?"
Was his friend in trouble? Shaking and stretching out his wings to ward off the sleep lethargy, he then flew towards the entrance of the cave. One of his cousins was outside, collecting a plethora of insects for breakfast and placing them in a little pile.
"Good morning, Bubo!" she squawked.
"Good morning, cousin," Bubo greeted back, staring worriedly towards BLU base in the distance. "I'm going to go check up on Cyril. I have a feeling he might not be well."
The other Spotted owl tilted her head. "Oh? Well, take some beetles along for a snack."
"Thanks. Tell the others I'll be back in a while."
"Okay, well, be safe over there."
Nodding and picking up several bugs from the insect mound, he then took off. His heart was pounding a little louder than normal, a disquieting feeling taking root. As the grayish-blue concrete buildings appeared closer, he could see that the camper van was gone.
In the area of cacti and garden rocks where the other owls usually congregated, he recognized several of them. He flew downwards, landing near a group of Screech owls, one of whom Cyril tenderly called, "Olive."
"Good morning, Olive," he greeted her, as the smaller owl turned away from what looked to be a solemn get-together between her fellow brethren.
"Oh, hi Bubo," she replied, a bit uncertain.
She had long ago accepted the human name given to her, not minding if a few others addressed her by the unusual designation. Her real name was a couple of distinct low-octave 'purrs' that only other Screech owls could vocalize.
And despite being two different species of owl, Olive understood Bubo's language well enough to succinctly exchange information. They were more allies rather than competitors.
"I don't mean to interrupt your meeting, but have you seen Cyril?"
"No, not for several hours now. Some others here saw him leave in the middle of the night – dinner time for some of us. We don't know where he went."
Another Screech owl hopped beside her. "He didn't even respond back to our calls. I think he went deaf from all those scary loud noises his kind makes during their fights."
"No, I think he's mad at us," another one piped up. "He was saying bad words the other day when he found the turds on top of his camper-monster."
"Reeree!" Olive yelled at a nearby Spotted owl. "I told you he was going to get really pissed if you kept going to the bathroom there!"
"Uh, it wasn't me this time," Reeree dumbly denied. "Honestly, I go on that log over there."
"What kind of an ass do you take me for? Chickie saw you the other day! Now Cyril's not talking to us! You owe him an apology, you poop terrorist!"
While Olive was accusing the unhygienic perpetrator, Bubo glanced towards the West where he discerned his friend's telepathic calls' point of origin. Concentrating inwardly, he tried projecting his thoughts out to the human's psyche. He couldn't be that far away. "Cyril? Can you hear me?"
Bubo…I'm here. Can't wake up…
Alarmed, he turned to others. "I think I know where he is. I can't explain it right now, but I must go to him. He sounds like he may be in trouble!"
With that, he took off towards the road adjacent to BLU base.
"Wait! I'm coming too!" Olive followed after him. Now she was a tad worried, though how Bubo had a vague assumption of what was going on was somewhat confusing. She decided to go with her gut instinct and throw all practical reason out the window.
A few of the other owls called to her, asking where she was off too. When she responded back to them about locating their human companion, Barney the Saw-whet owl volunteered to go along with the duo.
"Where do you think he is?" Olive asked, catching up to fly right beside Bubo.
"Somewhere in the distance, that way towards the ice mountains."
Olive decided not to doubt him about it; the enigmatic link they all shared with Cyril was enough evidence to know even more strange phenomena was possible. Several times, the owls stopped to rest as the sun rose a bit higher in the late September sky. Soon, a rock formation of sandstone buttes and carbonite karsts appeared on the horizon; down below, Bubo could make out a small, distinct image of a light blue trailer.
"Isn't that Cyril's monster?" Barney asked.
"It's a car," Bubo corrected. "Remember how he told us they aren't alive?"
"No..."
"Ugh, nevermind. I'll reiterate later."
"There he is!" Olive pointed out.
Their acute vision caught a full and detailed sight of the lanky man, sprawled out all over the dusty ground. Even from a considerable distance away, Bubo could hear his heart beat – thank goodness, he was alive!
Flapping their wings faster, all three birds swooped down and landed right beside the unconscious sharpshooter. Bubo nudged at his face to wake him up.
"Cyril?"
Barney was momentarily distracted by another noise from far away. Breathing? A strange click? Two heart pulses? One of them was exactly in tempo like Cyril's, beating at around 70 beats per minute. The other one was twice as fast, which he definitely could tell was a different animal altogether.
Before he could discern its source, Cyril began stirring from his sleep.
"B—Bubo?" he turned his head, blurry vision clearing and taking in all three friends.
"Yes, it's me! What happened?"
Cyril groaned and turned over on his right side – wait, why was the bed suddenly hard and gravelly?
"What do you mean?" He caught his bearings, looking around in surprise. He quickly lifted himself up in a sitting position. "What the – how did I get here?"
"That's what we want to know," Olive replied, concerned.
"Are you alright?" Bubo asked. "Did you black out or something?"
Cyril squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace, feeling his forehead. "I can't remember…"
He felt okay for the most part; just another morning routine of waking up…except, he wasn't in his bed. Had he sleepwalked? That hadn't happened in a while now.
"You were calling to me," Bubo explained. "I could hear you in my head, all the way from my home."
Now this got the mercenary's attention. "You could hear me, little guy?"
"Absolutely. I think we…have some sort of bond."
Cyril contemplated this for a moment. His unique connection with Bubo was growing. Now he could hear him in a moment of distress, this first time being at the unconscious level. There was no reason to doubt the raptor's words.
"I think we better go inside the monste—I mean, whatever you called it, Bubo," Barney suggested, glancing warily in the direction where he had picked up the sounds of someone lurking about.
"I could hear it too," Olive chimed in, apprehensive. "It could be danger."
Cyril managed to get himself off, focusing on the camper van in the distance. Indeed, something inside told him immediately to seek refuge there. He started walking forward, with the other owls hopping along the ground by his sides.
"Why did I come out here?" he murmured.
"You don't remember anything at all?" Bubo asked.
Cyril glanced down, beguiled. "No mate, nothing. All I recall last night was going to bed, I was out like a log-GYAHH!"
He hissed sharply, nearly stumbling to the ground. In the process, Barney couldn't get out of the way and Cyril ended up stepping on his tail feathers.
"Eeep!"
"Oh, sorry there…Christ!" Cyril kneeled down on the ground, examining his foot. A piece of branch with long, pointy thorns was embedded in the front sole, near the toes. "Shit, I stepped on a damn bramble."
He gingerly pulled it out, gritting his teeth from the needle-sharp pain. Several dots of blood pooled into the white fabric of his sock. How he had managed to not step on one during the night out here was baffling. Sighing, he then turned to Barney. "Your feathers okay?"
The owl wiggled his tail stub around. "I think so. It hurts a little."
"Easy there, Cyril," Bubo soothed. "Let's just get inside the camper and sort this whole mess out."
. . .
From afar behind a cluster of rocks, a scoped target was zoomed in on Cyril. A breath hitched in when the birds arrived to wake him up. There came a distinct shrill from just ten feet away or so, near another similar camper van.
The RED Sniper glanced over at a Great-horned owl, who was perched on a small boulder five feet away and swallowing a dead gopher whole.
"Still taking time with breakfast, Hootsalot?" he queried, smirking.
The owl ignored him for the moment, too focused on sating his hunger. The RED turned back to focusing on a potential shot.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" he muttered, as he observed the owls waking up his clone.
It puzzled him when he discovered the BLU just over five minutes ago, after staking out a night here for bagging some canine critters. There was a bounty on several coyotes that were attacking three ranches' livestock around the area and he was itching to practice his hunting skills.
Cyril was still passed out at that point, dressed in his sleepwear of lounge pants and a shirt. Even from a distance, Mick noted their difference in clothing tastes. He preferred to sleep in his boxers only, an acquired taste spending many years in the scorching Australian outback.
Yet, what was his mockery of a copy doing out here? Was he camping too? Did he pass out after a late night of getting wasted?
As he continued observing, Cyril seemed to be concentrating on the owls…almost like he was listening to them. Then he got up off the ground, walking a bit before letting out a yelp; he appeared to have injured his right foot. He stepped on one of the owls, the bird squeaking in pain.
Mick laughed lightly. "Clumsy wanker, aint'cha this mornin.' " It was tempting to cast the red laser dot against the camper van, just to put his counterpart on edge that he was here and could easily put a bullet through his brain. "I'm the predator and you're the prey."
From afar, Cyril was limping along with both arms wrapped around his torso, as if to stave off a cold chill. He looked eager to get back to his vehicle, all the while the owls hopped and flew about him, like they served as a guide towards comforting safety.
"I see your friends came along…" Mick noted the different owl species. "What are you, formin' your own cult now?"
The RED was momentarily distracted by Sir Hootsaloot flying above a higher rock ledge several feet away; the large raptor was observing the clone and the smaller owls with his intimidating yellow eyes.
"Still hungry? I reckon BLU won't be happy if you snag one of his pals."
Indeed, Bubo, Olive and Barney were the less aggressive species that Great-horned owls went after and ate. The clone eventually arrived at the van, opening the back door to clamber inside, sourly grumbling as he did so. Bubo and the others flew in before the door closed.
Mick took that moment to sip his coffee, always in his favorite cup with the letters, "#1 Sniper" engraved across the gleaming ceramic. He decided Cyril wasn't an outright threat, as it appeared he was leaving the area when the engine started.
"We'll continue this in our next match," he vowed. "I'm gonna get'cha real good."
. . .
THE END
* I was wanting follow this up in a sequel - I haven't decided on a vignette or multiple chapters. This would all happen prior to the Mann vs. Machine events. I don't know when it will post, given life outside of amateur writing. I'm hoping to write it though. Once again, thanks for sticking through reading this awkward foray into the crazy world of TF2 :)
. . .