A/N: Oh, God. The Sniper chapter. Well, it had to be done. Here it is.

Adelaide, Australia, Christmas Eve, 1966

Boom. Headshot.

Satisfied with the immaculate shot, Victor Mundy grabbed his heated sniper rifle in his hand and slid his leg off a tree branch. The acacia was a surprisingly good camping spot, better than he first gave it credit for. He jumped swiftly from the crown of the tree and onto the ground. He huffed as he did so. It was an extremely hot night, and the marksman could feel the line of sweat that formed on his back as he waited for his victim to stand still for a second. Mundy cracked his shoulders back into place and looked at what he had just done. This was a clear shot, and Victor found it a tad too easy.

Larry's first mistake was leaving the window wide open. Having it closed wouldn't have been a problem for the marksman either, but shooting through glass does leave more evidence behind. Larry's second mistake would be the fact that he was too busy brutally bludgeoning his wife with an old golf trophy. Larry came to a quick halt as his wife Caroline fell on the floor like a ragdoll. Larry stood there, looking at her bloodied scalp for one second before he dropped his prize on the floor just as he lost all feeling in his body.

One second was more than enough for Mundy. He walked up to the open window and looked at what he had just done. The bullet went right through Larry's head, he noticed; the only thing left was a small hole in the centre of his temple that lead straight through his brain and shot out right in the framed picture of the happy couple on their wedding day. The bloodied, brownish bullet fell right in the bride's bouquet. The crimson liquid ricocheted off the glass frame and fell on the mahogany desk it was placed upon. Victor smiled. He placed his gloved palm against the wooden frame of the opened window. He gingerly stepped through the gaping hole on the side of Larry's house. He had already killed the man, he thought to himself. What bad could a bit of breaking and entering do?

He walked onto the carpet, knowing that he couldn't dirty it if he tried. The hot, dry Australian soil was particularly solid, albeit a bit dusty, at this time of year. Nothing came off the surface, no soot and no mud. The only thing Victor had to worry about was the dust that could have slipped off the soles of his shoes, but that could have been brought in by some stronger wind. All in all, he couldn't leave any traceable evidence behind. He slowly squatted over Larry and looked around his home. It was much more decorated than it usually was back when he would visit. Before he began committing white-collar crimes, before he started working for some dull corrupted business firm, and before he stole his Sheila, Larry and Mundy were considered to be best friends.

Of course, Mundy understood now that he wasn't a man prone to making friends. He wasn't accustomed to any kind of normal social interaction, as this case plainly showed. He ogled his former friend's glassy gray eyes that seemed to be staring into nothingness. Mundy sniffed and reached deep into his back pocket. He pulled out a small rectangular object, along with a pen. The object was a folded photograph. He unfolded it and smoothened out the creases that weren't set too deep into the old photo. Mundy watched the image it displayed; a trio of hunters; adventurers proudly posing with their latest catch. It was quite a large crocodile, and the three people all held its limp body. The hunters seemed really close; the tall, oddly scrawny man in the middle had his arm wrapped around a woman standing extremely close to him, barely holding up the croc with both of her hands. The man seemed to be saying something to another hunter, laughing at something whole-heartedly as he propped the croc's head up for the camera. Mundy had watched this tattered, cigarette burnt photograph many times before. He could have described it to the last possible detail; the van tucked between the two male hunters in the background, the crocodile's coppery eyeball popping out of its rough, grayish skin, all the way down to the crocodile tooth necklace on the redheaded woman's neck. Victor took the pen and clicked it on, and soon found himself marking a small X on two of the faces. Soon the woman's nervous expression and the other man's laughter were wiped off completely with four swift movements of the pen. And just like that, the man in the middle was left alone.

Mundy did this with all of his victims. Though the woman was not his victim this time, he found himself obligated to mark her untimely death. He folded the photograph back in its messy, folded state and returned it deep into his trouser pocket. Once more, he gazed upon Larry's face. His jaw was hanging, as if he were caught mid-yawn. With a swift, determined motion Mundy snatched out one of his front teeth. It came out of the pink gums, complete with the root. There was an unusually small amount of blood on it.

When his victims were killed out of their homes, Mundy would pull out their teeth to keep them from being identified from their dental records. This made his job somewhat easier, since more time would pass until anybody would notice that they were dead. Though Larry was murdered inside his own home, Mundy still couldn't give up this golden opportunity. The mere motion of pulling out a small, yellowish tooth from his victim's mouth was quite pleasant. Actually gripping the tooth, knowing that he had taken something away from the victim besides its life was remarkable. It took every ounce of his will power not to continue pulling out more teeth. He stood up and looked at the body laying close by.

The redhead in the picture was so much more vibrant than this lovely corpse. She stared at Mundy with her small, green eyes. She was still warm; maybe she even had a heartbeat. Victor didn't care. He fingered the crocodile tooth necklace hanging from her neck.

"Caroline," he muttered as he lifted up the teeth, bringing her head up with them. He slid it across her face, flattening her small, bleeding nose. As he finally managed to remove the ornament, her head dropped to the floor. Some blood flew out of the wound on her scalp and onto the thick white carpet.

"You fucking bitch."

With the necklace hanging from his rearview-mirror, and the photo secured by his black ashtray sitting on the command board, Mundy set off. It was an extremely hot night, perfectly typical for an Australian winter. Victor opened the window next to him, and soon felt the cold, refreshing gush of air against his sweaty scalp. He looked straight at the void road, trying to figure out where he was going to go now.

A white-collar crime. He honestly expected Larry to be above that sort of foolishness. If he had managed his money a little bit better, he wouldn't have been lying down now with a bullet hole extending through his head. It was almost funny, seeing all the reasons people would get killed for. Victor had the privilege to see every one of these reasons. At this point, he almost looked forward to killing another human being, just to see what someone had to do to get himself killed. Sometimes, their crimes and actions were meaningless, and that just made their death more hilarious.

Mundy looked out of the window and onto the festive billboard advertisements for Coca Cola. He looked at the Santa Clause drinking the beverage and had the strongest urge to spit upon the image. Victor did not hate Christmas in any way, but that year, he really did not have to be reminded of it. A few more adverts whooshed by him, and he was forced to close the window. The musty air spread across his van once more. Victor panted and blinked heavily. The blink must have been a long one, because he soon found himself driving across a bridge. He stopped the van in slight bemusement. Leaning back on his seat, he tapped the tips of his fingers against the steering wheel. He had absolutely no idea where he was going to go next. He opened the glove compartment with a sigh, from where a box of cigarettes called out to him, like an enchanting mistress. The box was grabbed hastily, greedily. It soon left the van, carried in the Australians sweaty palm.

Mundy barely stepped out of the van before he lit up his cancer stick. The tangy aroma spread across his body after the first exhale. Crickets chirped in the distance in perfect harmony with the trickling of the river beneath the bridge. There was a lot of yellowing grass and tall bushes around the river, but Mundy could only make out basic shapes because of the darkness. He did manage to recognize another shape; a shape of a man leaning over the bridge. He seemed to be looking at the clear water with great interest. Mundy scratched his head before making a turn to the right. Another puff of smoke left his lips. A raspy cough left his throat as the smoke whooshed up into the air, creating a thick, almost milky line across the starry sky. The man leaning over the bridge turned over briefly, to see where the noise was coming from. He quickly averted his eyes as the slim Australian walked up to the wooden fence, a barrier between the men and the murky water. Victor leaned over the fence as far as the young man, flicking the ashes into the river.

"Interestin', eh?" He asked, sarcastically.

The younger man didn't respond. His facial expression, though, did show slight nervousness. Mundy threw the last unsmokable bit of the cancer stick into the river, and soon saw it float away from them. He clicked his tongue.

"So," he looked around, seeing that his van was the only vehicle on the bridge, and the only vehicle likely to drive that hot Christmas evening. "Wot are you doin' 'ere at this hour?"

The young man stared at the river, his hands clutching the fence tightly.

"I'm… I'm going to jump." The brown haired man turned to the marksman. "You?"

"Smokin'. Now, mate," he said through a croaky laugh; "Wot are you doin' 'ere, really?"

"I told you already."

"Pffft. Yeah roight. As if someone would just come up 'ere on Christmas, get on a bridge and-." Mundy's eyes finally widened as the man stepped over the fence with his right leg. He was still clutching it and breathing heavily, but he did make his way on the other side, the side a step closer to certain death. Victor blinked once.

The bloke was not kidding.

"Well Oi'll be fucked!" Mundy stepped away from the man, a huge grin on his face.

"A bleedin' jumper! Oi've heard 'bout those, but Oi've never seen one, ever! Ha! A jumper! Of all people Oi run into a jumper! Wot luck!"

"Sir," the young man said, his chest expanding rapidly as he tried to breathe; "Don't joke about this. I am really doing it."

"No, you ain't," he said with a shit-eating grin. "Alroight, bloke. Who is she?"

The man turned to the marksman with a bewildered frown.

"It's about a girl, isn't it? Come off it now. The Sheila isn't worth it. Go home, have a pint, wank off and forget about her!"

"Sir, it isn't about a girl." The young man placed his left leg over the fence, and was now one strong grip away from a watery grave. He sighed. "There never was a girl."

"Hm… Oi see. Wot is it then? Unemployed? Livin in yer parent's basement? Got some kind of disgusting disease?"

"No…" the man admitted. "Please, Sir, I… I really can't go on like this…"

"Oh, please, don't moind me, bloke!" The marksman said, lifting his arms up. "Just let me watch."

The man raised his eyebrow at the unknown stranger that he was speaking with.

"Oi've always wanted to see a jumper," Mundy said.

The suicidal man looked at Mundy skeptically before looking back at the rapid water streaming under him. Though the night was hot, he knew that the water would be cold. He knew how it would feel against his pale skin, if he lived long enough to feel it. His muscles tightened. His heart was racing at a million miles a second. He took one final breath, one last inhale of the oxygen that fed him during his miserable life. His stomach turned, and he closed his eyes. The iron grip loosened itself more and more. The man's hand came off the fence.

"One thing, though, bloke…"

Upon hearing Mundy's raspy voice, the man panicked and clutched the fence once again. He looked at the stranger, pure rage coming out of his eyes.

"Yer loife doesn't seem all that bad, bloke. Oi mean, if it ain't a Sheila, and if yer quite well off, woi bother doing this?" He asked, leaning on the fence, about a foot away from the frightened man.

"Please, Sir," he responded, but was soon interrupted.

"Wot is it, bloke?"

Realizing that the man wasn't going to leave anytime soon, the man admitted. He looked up at the stars that twinkled like a painful reminder of the world that he was going to leave.

"Nobody… nobody ever took me seriously. I work as an English professor in a high school. My students think I'm a joke. My parents think I'm a disappointment," he choked on a syllable he tried to pronounce, a tear flowing from his eye. "I…I can't go on, living like a joke. It's like… nobody cares about me. Nobody cares about my pain. Can you imagine that, Sir?" He turned to Mundy, his eyes red with sorrow and despair; "Can you imagine living your life as the butt of the joke?" His body made a series of rhythmic spasms.

Mundy blinked.

"Do a flip."

"…what?"

"Oi said, 'Do a flip', mate. It's not always that you get a golden opportunity loike this."

The man watched Mundy with narrowed eyes, not being sure whether to scream or cry.

"…after all that… you tell me to do a flip? Have you no heart, Sir? Have you no understanding for other people's pain?"

"You're right," Mundy said, looking down at his feet. "Oi'm sorry."

"Thank you," said the man, turning to the river.

"Do a backflip, that's much more impressive."

"Sir!"

"Oi'm just saying, you-."

"No! You know what? Shut up! I'm going to do it! I'm going to jump, and you're going to shut up and watch!" He snapped at the complete stranger. Mundy shrugged.

"Tell me how it went," he said, tugging at the fabric of his fingerless gloves. The man sighed and prepared to jump.

His nostrils flared, his muscles tightened. The man bent his knees as he felt the strong, pulsating fear protruding his skull. His heart was beating wildly. He was one second away from sweet liberation, one second from leaving this wretched planet for good. The river looked brighter and cleaner than ever. A chorus of angels was heard in the distance. The best Christmas present for him was death, and its sweet embrace. The man's fingers slowly loosened their grip from the long rail. His saliva was rushing to his mouth hastily, and it tasted sweet, like his departure. He took a deep breath, leaning forward and forward until-

He chickened out and crawled to the other side in tears.

"I can't!" He said through a long sob. "I can't…I can't even do this right! My-my parents… they were right!" He buried his face into the dusty, concrete street. "I can't… I'm a loser! I'm a failure! Why must I suffer so?!"

He looked up to the heavens and let out a yell.

"WHY, GOD? WHY ME?!"

His raised fist fell to his side, and he curled himself up into a ball. He sobbed all the way down to the concrete, which was being wetted by his salty, cruel tears. The marksman approached him, slowly. Bending his knees, he came down to the curled up suicidal man. He smirked.

"So… how'd it go?"

The man did not respond.

"Listen, mate, if you need a roide back home, Oi can give you a lift in the old banger," he said, ticking his head to the rusty old van. "If ye wont… I norm'ly don't let people drive wif me, but you did make me laugh, so…"

The man still did not respond.

"Bloke, ye can lay down loike that all noight, or ye can hop in and get a lift. Whaddya say? Where you from, anyway?"

"…hmmrssa hmmley."

"Sorry?" Mundy asked, getting closer to him. The man lifted his head up slightly.

"Ba- Barossa Valley. I… took a cab to here and overpaid the driver, thinking that I won't be returning."

"Huh. Just along the way, then." Mundy stood up, grunting. "Come on, bloke!"

He walked to the van slowly. The man remained in his fetal position for three seconds before standing up, covered in dust and shame.

They were sitting in the van, Christmas songs playing through their ears. Mundy switched the stations, every change resulting in a loud ringing noise just before another Christmas song came on, that was even more unbearable than the last one. The silent suicidal man was sitting on the passenger seat, staring out of the window. There was nothing to be stared that, but he didn't care about this.

"Bleedin' Christmas tunes," Mundy said through his teeth, finally switching off the radio. He sighed with relief as the Jingle Bells tune vanished from the van's interior. His ears were soon filled with a strange, foul noise coming from his companion's mouth.

"O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die," the man mumbled into his seat while looking out into the fields, glassy-eyed.

"…you wot, mate?"

The man gingerly turned his head back to him, expression no emotion whatsoever.

"Why didn't you just leave me, Sir? Why didn't you leave me on the road?"

"And leave you to be roadkill? Ha!" He mocked; "Come on mate. You don't wont a death like the one of a common wombat. Croikey! Oi thought that you jumpers were pickier about your death."

The man said nothing. He just stared into the command board. As Mundy looked at the man's eye, he knew exactly what he was looking at. And he simply knew that he was going to ask him something about the photograph, in the man's plain sight.

"What are you doing here on Christmas?" He asked.

"Business," Mundy responded.

"I always thought that only chefs, waiters and whores worked on Christmas."

"You thought wrong," Mundy responded, steering a bit into the right. The van swerved slightly, and they were driving through the straight highway again. They stared at the lights guiding their way. They did nothing to help Mundy orientate, but by now, he knew every inch of Australia like the back of his hand. The two were sitting in silence, until the man ran his index finger across the photograph, across Caroline's crossed off face.

"That Sheila?" Mundy guessed the man's impending question. "That's jus' an old friend. Lost touch with her a while ago…"

"Are you sure she was your friend, Sir?" the man asked. He looked at Mundy's puzzled expression and smiled slightly. "You're holding your arm around her. You must've been close." The man then looked at the crocodile tooth necklace, hanging on the rearview mirror. It matched the necklace the girl wore around her neck.

"We, uh… we were relatively close," Mundy shrugged; "But… we weren't… we couldn't…" He suddenly looked back at the younger man. "Listen, bloke, woi are you askin' me all this? Mind yer own business!"

The man couldn't help but to smile at Mundy. He picked up the soiled ashtray and carefully slid the picture from under it. He cleared his throat, examining the evidence.

"Here's how I see it, if I may," he began, not caring about Mundy ignoring him. "Whoever this girl was, you loved her. You loved her dearly. But something happened. She did something. Or you did something, I'm not exactly sure… but I'm pretty sure your splitting of the ways was caused by this man." He pointed at the laughing man in the photograph, whose face was slightly smudged with ink. "He was a better fit for her… or so she thought," he quickly corrected himself, seeing the angry expression on Mundy's face.

"Something along those lines?"

Mundy didn't speak. He stared into the road, occasionally flicking his bobblehead. He watched it shake and bounce before looking back at the road again. The boy slid the picture under the ashtray. He intertwined his fingers, staring at them in complete silence until…

"Her name wos Caroline," Mundy finally said. "She wos a hunter. Me and moi mate Larry were goin' 'round on hunting trips all 'round Straya. After Oi met her one day, Oi asked her to join us. Larry protested, but in the end, she made a good addition to the team."

The man nodded, looking closer at the crocodile in the picture. Mundy licked his dry lips, trying to figure out what to say next.

"Larry… he, uh… he enjoyed her company more than Oi did, as it turned out. One day, the bloke goes off, buys some stock from Aperture Science. Apparently, he thought it would be lucky, since he knew a Sheila that worked there whose noime was also Caroline. It turned out they were lucky. The bloke made a bleedin' fortune."

Mundy sighed, dropping his shoulders.

"'Course, after that, he wasn't interested in hunting game anymore. He left me. Caroline went wif him. She called me a disappointment before she left. The bitch…" he muttered through his teeth. The suicidal man looked at the necklace, hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Aperture Science? When did he invest in them, exactly?"

"Ten years ago."

"I'm surprised that he isn't a millionaire by now."

"He is."

"Oh."

"Or should Oi say, wos."

The man fidgeted in his seat, suddenly becoming aware of the sniper rifle hanging on a gun rack behind him. He gulped.

"Yeah," Mundy continued; "But Oi think they had a falling out. The bloke got all clingy about his money, started makin' irrational decisions. Oi actually think he lost some cash. He, uh… Didn't take it well. He started embezzling money from other companies. The Sheila took that worse than he did, so Oi've heard."

The young man looked at the pearly white tooth hanging from the necklace. There was a spot of blood on it, but he didn't want to say a thing.

"So… they had a parting of the ways?"

Mundy clicked his tongue against his pallet and looked up into the sky.

"Eeeh… you could say that." He looked over the ornament the young man was ogling at. "You see that necklace?"

The younger man blinked, and then stared in silent disgust as the marksman slid his thumb over the speck of blood and briefly placed it in his mouth.

"I gave that to the Sheila two weeks into meeting her. It wos supposed to be a token of me undying love. She left me but kept the necklace. Oi foinally got it back from her recently."

He looked at the small red stain, vaguely visible on the fang.

"…very recently." Mundy tilted his panama downwards before looking at the unknown bloke with a smile.

"Gold-diggers, eh? Here one minute, gone the next. Oi should've seen the signs. Deep down, Oi knew that she'd leave me, deep down Oi knew it wos stupid to get involved wif her, but…"

The young man awaited a response. Once he heard it, he was slightly puzzled at its simplicity.

"Redheads. Bleedin' redheads, mate. Can't get enough of 'em." Mundy shrugged. "But the next toime Oi give that necklace away, it won't be because of love. Love is dead ta me now. No, the next toime Oi give it, it'll be to the first Sheila who can hold a rifle properly. Honestly! Oi don't even have to loike her! Oi don't even need her to loike me. No, the first Sheila, who can hold a rifle, possibly shoot something wif it. There. That's it. That's the closest thing to love Oi'll ever experience again. Approval. Approval and respect. Next toime Oi see a Sheila that Oi don't wont to punch in the face, Oi'll just toss that silly thing away loike a call fer jury duty."

The van suddenly came to a screeching halt. Mundy stopped talking almost instantly. He was looking at a diner. This was an odd diner, shaped like an egg. It was orange and decorated with many twinkling Christmas lights, and even an extremely tacky Santa Clause standing on top of it. Mundy looked back at the confused man he was giving a lift to.

"You know wot, mate? Oi could go for a cup of coffee roight now."

The man raised his eyebrow.

"Coffee? On the hottest night this year? At four in the morning? Coffee? Really?" It was so utterly ridiculous that he didn't even know which word to emphasize. "You're a loon."

"A loon? A loon he says! Well if Oi'm a loon, wot's the guy who wonted to jump off a bleedin' bridge twenty minutes ago?"

"…touché."

Mundy then stood up from his seat and made his way to the door, not even bothering to park the van anywhere. He grasped the knob firmly and soon felt a rush of hot air from outside. He huffed and turned to the stranger.

"Coming?"

"Is the coffee going to make me feel again?" He asked melancholically. Mundy shrugged.

"It moight."

"…yeah, okay."

To this day, there was nothing more magical or wonderful to Mundy than a plain coffee bean. When crushed just right and brewed to perfection, it could make all of his worries flicker away. He finished the cup of coffee he ordered in record time and looked at his companion, sitting next to him and ogling his brown nectar. Mundy clicked his tongue, irritated by the fact that the man was still not finished with his cup of heavenly caffeinated brew.

"If you keep up mopin' around loike that, you're paying fer yer coffee," Mundy said sternly.

"I'm already paying for my coffee," the man responded, spewing venom.

"Well then you're payin fer mine." Mundy slouched over the table, lighting a slim cigarette. He frowned at the cheery Christmas music booming through the colorful jukebox in the corner. The entire diner was festively decorated, all the way down to the ridiculous looking antlers worn by sleep-deprived waitresses. The mismatched decorations on the skinny tree that looked more dead than alive made Victor's eyes burn.

"The music here is awful," said the man, taking a small sip. Mundy forced away a grin.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day, bloke."

"So, why are you here?"

Mundy turned his head to the man in a confused manner. He put out his cigarette on the table, not caring about the charred circle that appeared on the light wood. The man was currently looking at a waitress, misty-eyed.

"Wot do you mean, woi am Oi 'ere?"

"Well," the man looked away from the vision in an apron; "I'm out here on Christmas because some crazy guy gave me a lift home after I failed to off myself. What's your story? Don't you have a family to go to or something?"

Mundy scoffed. Of course he had a family. Of course he had loving parents that always made a big deal about Christmas. Of course he would always bring a lady friend over, mostly just to shut his parents up about settling down. He always did those silly things just to please them. However, this year, he failed to do so. This year, he didn't make a common waitress come over and pretend to be his girlfriend for the night. Deep down, he knew that his mum never really believed a complete stranger, who couldn't even keep her story straight on how and where she and Mundy met. This year, he came clean. He told them about his love life, or lack thereof. It wasn't going to be a big deal. It wasn't supposed to come out as a big fight between his parents and him. The small white admitted lie turned into something much more horrible. All cats were out of the bag, and the argument soon turned to the subject of Victor's occupation. No parent deserved to know that their son was a hired gunman. They deserved to live in a blissful lie, no matter how horrible that must've sounded. Victor stormed out of their house in anger, mostly to get out of the argument, in fear of accidentally coming clean about his line of business.

No matter how much his mum begged, and no matter how much his dad protested and ordered him to stay, Victor still got into his van and headed north. Not too far north, though. He still wanted to return after a while, just not on Christmas day. He went off into the richer part of Adelaide, where his next victim, his former best friend, lived with his wife.

He was here because of a fib. A fib that always kept him stretched out between his loving family and his work.

Of course, he wasn't going to tell this bloke all of that.

"Bloke, ever heard what happened to the curious cat?" He asked menacingly. The man failed to answer the question, as his eyes turned misty once again.

"Cooo-eeee!" Shrieked the unnecessarily peppy waitress, sporting a pair of plushy antlers and a red nose. She turned to the marksman, and her already high-pitched voice raised itself up by at least two octaves, making the entire diner shake.

"MUNDEH! Good to see ya, love, what'll it be?"

"'Ello, Lucy," he said to her, casually; "Olivia already took our order."

"Oh! Well Oi'm sorry, love." She placed her hands on her unusually wide hips and shook her head. "That woman is always taking me best customers! Say," she pointed at Mundy; "Aren't you spendin' Christmas wif your family this year?"

"Nah. Had a foight wif them," he said, shrugging. The voice coming from the waitress resembled a siren.

"AAAAAAAW… Well, if it's a foight about a lady friend, Oi can always come wif you and pretend ta be yer significant other, love."

"No thanks, Lucy. Oi don't think they bought it last toime."

"Well," she shrugged; "the offer stands. Who's yer companion?" She asked, pointing at the man looking at her in awe.

"HORATIO!" He cried as he hastily got up from his seat. He coughed loudly, and his voice immediately dropped down to a brooding baritone. "My name is Horatio, madam."

He extended his arm out to greet her, which she grasped and shook vigorously.

"Horace! Noice to meet you, Horace! Oi'll be roight ova' there if ye need me, love." She slid her hand out of the younger man's sweaty palm and headed towards the kitchen.

"Toodles!"

The double-sided door flapped as she entered, and Horatio stared at them, his arm still extended into a handshake and his eyes still misty. Mundy took Horatio's coffee cup and began drinking, seeing that Horatio was done with it.

"That Lucy Sheila is a real character, ain't she?" He asked, fingering the smooth handle of the slightly cracked cup.

"She's a vision," said Horatio, plummeting back into his seat. "A face that launched a thousand ships… a goddess among women… life's true essence and the purest vision of beauty grasped my hand in her delicate palm and called me 'love'."

Mundy crooked his mouth to the side in reluctant agreement.

"Yea. Oi guess she ain't too bad." His eye suddenly widened as he nudged his oblivious companion. "You wanna take a shot at 'er?"

The man's eyed closed as he blinked, suddenly becoming aware of where he was. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Nah. A woman of such class would never be with an unworthy plebeian like myself."

"…ye know the Sheila's wearin' antlers, roight?"

"Antlers that look ever so lovely."

"Oh, come off it, bloke! If yer that smitten, talk to her! There ain't no hope fer me anymore, but yer still young!"

The younger man looked at Mundy.

"Well, you're not that old. What are you? Fourty? Fourty-five?"

"Thirty-three," Mundy said with a frown, tipping down his panama over his exhausted face. The man looked at him in disgust.

"Thirty… wow. You must've been out in the sun a lot."

"A-yup. Oi get out in the sun more than you could ever imagine." Mundy raised his hand up and waved to Lucy, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of small fruitcakes. She rushed over with a smile. This made Horatio squirm.

"What…what're you doing?" He asked, tugging at Mundy's sleeve. He began to sweat quite a bit.

"Look, mate, if you wont people to take you seriously, ye have to take yerself seriously. You can start by talking to this Sheila."

"I can't talk to women, I freeze up like an icicle!" He said, panicking. Mundy gave him a slight grin.

"Not me problem, mate. 'Soides, this is wot ya get fer callin' me old."

"You need something, loves?" asked Lucy as she reappeared before them. The young man's eyes turned misty once again, but he was still shaking.

"Horace 'ere would loike to tell you something," Mundy said. Lucy stared at the man with a smile on her face. Not knowing what he was supposed to be doing, Horatio slowly rose up from his chair and looked around the room. Jingle Bells were still playing annoyingly in the background, and he noticed that only the three of them were in the room at that time. The rest of the waitresses were outside, smoking. He bit the inside of his mouth and crossed his fingers.

"Come on, bloke! Spit it out!" Mundy ordered, a shit-eating grin fixed up on his face. Lucy widened her large, curious eyes.

"Uh…"

The younger man closed his eyes, but the chaos inside his brain only made his feel worse. At that moment, he spat out something completely senseless.

"She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is woman, and therefore to be won."

"…what."

The young man ignored the stated question, which could've been posed by either the stranger or the lady of his heart, and he continued to speak quickly. He mixed all of the quotes he could possibly think of together, not finding a single quote worthy of his Beauty.

"The course of true love never did run smooth, love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind, love is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs, who ever loved that loved not at first sight?"

Mundy and Lucy exchanged a brief look as they pondered whether or whether not to send the young man to the mental asylum. Lucy soon let out a sound resembling a cackling of a hyena. She dropped the tray down to the table, just as the frightened man opened his eyes. He stared at Lucy, laughing like a madwoman.

"I can't… Horace… I… Oh, Horace, ye bleedin' jokester!" she said through a sigh as her laughter stopped piercing Mundy's ears. She grabbed Horatio's face and brought it closer to her.

"You…" she gulped after a cackle; "You are my new favorite person in the whole woide world! That wos charming, and don't let old Mundy tell you otherwise!" She came closer to the young man and whispered something to him, hoping that Mundy wouldn't hear her.

"Mundy's a grumpy-grumpy." She winked. "Now then," she stood up, releasing the young man's face; "Anything you want, love?"

"Actually," said Horatio after swallowing some saliva; "Can…can you change the record?"

"To what, love?"

"Well…" he shrugged gingerly; "You wouldn't happen to have anything by The Kinks by any chance?"

Lucy widened her eyes and held out her index finger, instructing him to wait. She ran up to the colorful jukebox and left Mundy and Horatio to stare at each other in awkwardness.

"So…" Horatio began.

"Shut up," Mundy ended.

A soft, yet ringy sound of the electric guitar echoed through the room. Lucy danced in front of the jukebox, as a song played, which, in Mundy's opinion, was even more terrible than every Christmas song combined.

Im so tired
Tired of waiting
Tired of waiting for you...

She stretched out her finger at Horatio, crooking it slightly. The confused young man looked at her, then at Mundy, then at his empty cup of coffee, then back at Mundy again. The marksman slapped his own forehead in disbelief.

"Well don't just sit here, ya bleedin' wankah!"

With that, the young man ran over to the woman, who then continued to dance with him happily. Mundy couldn't help but notice that the man now had a glowing smile on his face. The two danced as Mundy fingered the rim of the coffee cup, his index finger bouncing every time he went across a small crack. He watched them, but wished that he could be somewhere else. The two looked incredibly happy, almost as happy as he was with his Caroline. Those days were over now. He despised many things in life, other people's happiness being quite high up on that list. But this bloke, this incredibly depressed bloke, deserved another shot. Mundy knew that, deep down. He looked at Lucy as she pulled out her lipstick from her cleavage and wrote something with it on a small white napkin. She handed it to Horatio and whispered something in his ear. The boy was completely flabbergasted. His eyes were open wide, and his jaw dropped down to the floor. The man was almost flaccid. He still managed to walk up to Mundy, making short steps, as the music echoed behind him.

I was a lonely soul
I had nobody till I met you
But you keep-a me waiting
All of the time
What can I do?

The man stood close to Mundy, clutching the napkin in his hands like a precious keepsake.

"She… gave me her number," he slurred.

"Alroight…"

The man stared at the swirly five and the smiley face on the zero. It was written quickly, oddly neatly, and after she was done, the napkin smelt of her coconut perfume. It didn't really, but try explaining that to a man smitten with the woman.

"It was so…easy." The man narrowed his eyes as Mundy shrugged. "Sir, I… About an hour ago, I was ready to end it all, and now…" he grabbed Mundy's forearm and squatted down to his eye-level.

"Sir, I… I can't thank you enough. This," he held up the napkin, "is proof that life is actually worth living. I… I'm not saying life's perfect, but it's… enjoyable. For such a long time, I was terrified of the world, but now…"

He moved his hand from Mundy's forearm, seeing that this made the older man uncomfortable.

"Thank you. If I died now, right now, I would have someone that cared. And as long as I have someone that cares, I won't want to die. Seeing you up on that bridge… smoking and telling me to do a flip… it was a Christmas mir-."

"Lemme stop you roight there, bloke;" said Mundy, "There ain't not thing as a Christmas miracle. There ain't no guardian angel, there ain't no magical force, this ain't no selfless act of koindness. Oi jus' gave you a lift back home and ordered coffee. You made it happen."

"Yes, but-!"

"No buts! Bloke, this is all you." He looked at the younger man, folding the napkin in his back pocket. "Hell, moi loife is crap, but Oi pull through! And you know woi?"

"Why?"

At that point Mundy froze up. Why? The question nagged him.

"Woi…" he muttered into his curled up fists. "Woi," he repeated. The young man was waiting for a response that never came. Mundy coughed loudly and looked back at Horatio once more.

"It doesn't matter woi, Oi jus' do! To recap, Oi ain't a miracle, Oi ain't a guardian pixie, and Oi most certainly ain't yer friend!"

"I…I never called you my friend, Sir," the man said, looking around the deserted diner.

"Well, don't! Friends are overrated."

"Well," the younger man shrugged as he let out a short laugh.

"Even Hamlet had Horatio."

With that, the man went outside, possibly to puke out his own intestines after surviving talking to a member of the opposite sex.

"And that wos the last toime Oi ever saw the bloke. Maybe he did jump. Maybe he's still alive, maybe he married Lucy. Hell, Oi don't even care that much about him. It's weird. It's weird how a stranger can make yer loife worth livin'. Now, Oi know that the Christmas Oi told you about ain't the worst one Oi've had, but it did get me thinkin'."

Mundy wrung his palms as he began to slowly conclude his story.

"The man was an utter failure, and he still managed to find someone that cared fer him. Oi… Oi've lived on this Earth fer thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years, and Oi don't have anything to show fer it. Me folks practically hate me because of me occupation, Oi had no normal social interaction in the past two years, moi job ain't exactly popular among the crowds… Imagine the Respawn breaks down. Imagine Oi get backstabbed by some random BLU. Imagine that Oi die tomorrow."

He placed his palms on his knees as he concluded.

"If Oi die tomorrow, in that battle… who'd care?"

The marksman stared at his feet as the other mercenaries nervously switched their gaze from person to person, waiting for somebody to say anything. The Spy smoked up an entire cigarette during that silence, but he didn't want to interrupt it. They soon heard a Texan cleat his throat. They all looked at the Engineer as he gave the marksman a reassuring smile.

"Ah can name eight people off the top of mah head."

The Sniper lifted his head up to the toymaker.

"Thanks, mate."

Quite soon, everyone's gaze turned to a single person. This person was slouching in his armchair, smoking his thin cigarette. He dreaded this moment. He could notice that all the mercenaries were dying to hear his terrible Christmas tale. He sighed.

"There ees no possible way to get out of zhis, ees there?" he asked.

"Not a fuckin' chance, knucklehead," said the Scout. The Spy rubbed his forehead, trying to think of a bad Christmas that might interest the eight nosy mercenaries.

He thought of it in one sixteenth of a picosecond.