The hours in that hall had passed in a strange and empty daze - the kind where days feel like minutes and minutes feel like decades and anything and everything creates a numbing contact high that smudges reality like a heavy slather of fingerprints across a pane of glass. Scout drifted in and out of sleep, the exhaustion of his own sorrow tugging his bones into the kind of slumber that you don't even know that you've entered, and he would wake with a start every once in a while only to check his fluorescent-glazed surroundings dizzily before slipping back into a somber daze.
Sniper was the one to finally find him, still slouched against the concrete with his head wedged into the crook of his arm, and when he drifted back into a misty form of consciousness for the umpteenth time that night the Australian's familiar silhouette entered his field of vision, nothing more than a blurry phantom lingering eerily in the peripheral. With a startled trip his mind spun to put two and two together, still slippery from the greased dizziness of a desperate sleep, and he wondered with a sudden, electric jolt how long he had been sitting here for - how many others had seen him slouched over like this and wondered. The institutional blaze of the base's fluorescent lighting gave no hints, hazing any and all sense of time that he may have held onto despite the anger and the sadness and the desperation that ripped him from reality. Morning, he thought, willing away the initial haze of disorientation. It must be morning. He slowly eyed the Sniper's cup of coffee and rifle, straining to make each of them out against the weak blur of his tired eyes. Time for shooting practice.
It was a tried and true ritual - one of the few sincerely constant things in the explosive chaos of the mercenaries' tiny little world. Every morning at the first sign of light he rose, before anyone else had even considered pulling themselves from bed, brewing an unclean mug full of the blackest coffee on God's earth and heading to one of the most intimately private places on the battlefield. From the safety of the roof's open parapet he would sit, watching the sun rise in a slow and steady glory of first light, and in between sips of coffee and Taoists musings about the glory of this silly little planet he would fire off calculated rounds to clear his head until the motion of morning began to stir around him. Teammates awoke, stirring up the first signs of tiny rumbles into the landscape, and it was then that he returned back inside, knowing that the true beauty of the morning was now gone until tomorrow. Morning, Sniper found, was the most intimate hour - the only time where you ever truly got a spare moment to think, which was the strangest and yet most appreciated folly against the loneliness of the base's isolation.
Scout pulled his head from his hands with only a half-hearted start, gazing up at the Sniper carefully. He couldn't muster up enough energy for excuses or faked smiles or any of the other charades that had become a part of his disposition as of late - instead he let the awkward moment pass, trying his best to appear tired, drunk, half-buzzed and fumbling from one too many flat beers and tequila shots – not an entirely unlikely ruse knowing Scout.
Sniper said nothing, instead simply staring down at the disheveled boy with a stoic gaze, and with no clever excuse or silly explanation Scout too remained silent, eyes drawn down towards the scuffed tile in silent shame. When the moment finally seemed to become almost comfortable - the kind of hazy quiet that tends to fall when you know someone familiar is near but neither of you can think of any reason to speak - a weathered hand entered his field of vision, offered palm-up.
"Come on, mate." Sniper hummed, filling the hall with a mellow sweep of baritone. "It's time for practice." Scout simply stared, dazed from a lack of definite sleep and that numbing indifference that tends to fall over people after strange tragedies, finally dragging his own limp hand into Sniper's for a forceful boost to his feet. Teamwork at it's finest, he thought, giving his back a slow crack. A night spent against a concrete wall suddenly seemed like a pretty piss poor idea, but he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it. As he followed Sniper down the hall, he couldn't quite bring himself to come to any solid conclusions on last night. It was one of those strange moments in life where things become so bad that they almost seem comforting in their confused horror - as though they weren't real at all, but instead some strange and sad movie that bites you so deep that you can never completely shake it. As his exhaustion faded just enough to let the world come into focus he realized that he had no idea where Penny was at this very moment - whether she too felt this slow buzz of lingering pain in her own sweetened way - and, despite the fact that she probably wanted nothing to do with him, that only made his stomach cramp even more.
They climbed the stairs to the roof in silence, and for a moment Scout felt like a child following his dad to That Talk that no kid ever wants to have. Sniper wasn't one to intrude, that much he knew, but his years here had proven that he was a strange guy – irrational at times, the hollow voice of reason at others, always unpredictable and gruff yet exceedingly compassionate. Sometimes he said things that would linger in the air for days and days, like prophetic terrors that shook Scout with questions that he couldn't quite bring himself to ask. In the blur of the morning, nothing about his impassive teammate seemed to come into full focus – the way he sauntered up the wooden steps gave no hints as to his intentions, and the quiet that settled over them both calmed Scout's nerves and terrified him deep into the marrow of his bones.
Both bases resonated with their footstep's hollow echoes, the fields empty for once which, for a strange and somber moment, almost made them a little bit beautiful. Despite the bloodshed and danger and sadism that took place on their soil at least once a week, in the golden morning light those pits took on a holy disposition, and for a passing moment Scout felt almost relieved to be stuck in a place so strangely majestic. Anywhere else, he realized, and by now he probably would have clocked himself out for good.
Sniper motioned for him to have a seat, gesturing noiselessly towards an overturned crate a few feet away from where he stood. Scout obeyed without question, brushing the dust from the empty box before setting himself down atop its splintered wood, head resting on his hand in a mild attempt to keep himself upright. With a steady meticulousness that had the grace of a ballet he watched as Sniper loaded his rifle, placing each shell into the magazine with a delicate click that was all too gentle for someone who was about to fire a .30 caliber weapon, and as he snapped the bolt handle back the soft shudder of an echo rumbled out across both bases. It felt strange to be up here, watching him take aim at what Scout always thought to be such a private and uninterruptible time. The beauty of morning was indescribable, showering the bases in hazy oranges and pinks that it seemed both brightened and lulled the landscape into a silent peace, but something deep in his bones still left him on an unsettled tilt. Something told him that being here, present for his teammates singular moment of solidarity, was a red flag in itself. He could feel the count to three that all riflemen took – the palpable internal countdown before each shot. Sniper exhaled slowly. One, two…
"You're in love with her, aren't you?"
Scout's heart stopped dead in his chest.
The crack of the gunshot shook every part of him that hadn't already been jarred by his words, the echo ricocheting through the parapet with a deafening, hollow crash that shrieked a sonic pulse straight through his head. It seemed as though that bullet's death rattle lasted forever, rolling out through the bases, past the desert, down the horizon line and all the way to the nearest ocean and beyond, and even when the shattering rip of the bullet subsided to nothing more than a low hum his ears still buzzed until they felt ready to bleed. Scout gulped to satiate his suddenly bone-dry palate, and when he finally garnished the courage to speak he found himself struggling to will his voice into apathy.
"Man, you must be out of your fuckin'-"
"Don't." Sniper interrupted, cocking the bolt back with another calculated crack. His voice gained a sharper tone, not necessarily malicious but terrifyingly serious nonetheless - the way a principal approaches a delinquent child. It was a father-son time alright, Scout mused from beneath his drained haze. A regular family moment. "If you don't want to talk about it that's fine, but I'm not one for playin' games, mate." Sniper turned to face him, expression blurred behind his jaundiced glasses. Still, he could feel the heat of his gaze. "So grant me an honest answer and I'll be sure to treat ya with the same respect."
His chest burned and he could feel his skin fluster with a blistering fever that he couldn't quite calculate the severity of. With a heavy gulp he willed his heart to pull back to a trot and lowered his gaze, taking a new interest in picking at the wefts of his pants. "I…I don't know. Maybe." He stuttered, still keeping his eyes locked on the floor. "How did you…?"
"I heard what happened last night - after you two left the poker game. We've known each other for years, kid. We're the ones who've been on this base the longest." Sniper placed the butt of his rifle on the splintered floor with the utmost of care, leaning its barrel against the open window frame. "I know you well enough to pick out what you're really trying to say." With an exaggerated lean, palms braced on his thighs, he took a seat on a crate labeled "Mann Co." in bleeding red paint. "Plus, you've never been one to disrespect the ladyfolk."
Scout fumbled for words all at once, stumbling to find the right expression, the right term, the perfect brew of sentences to pass on the love letter of how he felt, to send out his cry for help and pray that someone else would write back with the recipe for how to fix this shiny new mess. "She doesn't understand. I just… I want to protect her." He began, his head working overtime to filter out just the right word.
Sniper turned to him, expression a blackout behind his sunglasses, the perfectly flat curl of his lips giving no indication. "How badly?" He shot quickly. Eyes wide, already weakened from his confusion, Scout recoiled.
"W…what?"
"How badly do you want to protect her? What does she mean to you?" He leaned in close, the smell of Marlboros still dusted evenly on his skin, and gained the fierce edge that always lingered beneath the surface of his calm demeanor. This mercenary, this horrifyingly cold-blooded killer, he only ever came out on the battlefield, sending bullets shredding through fellow men with an entirely regretless edge. Sniper was right – they had known each other for years – and in those years he had come to learn that in all of his charming calmness, he was never, ever one to cross. On the field, Scout had watched as he had not merely killed, but decisively murdered those who stood in his way, ripping into opponents with a glassy-eyed execution that showed his true fury. The worst of it all had been on a brisk November morning when an enemy Medic had made the mistake of taking out a rookie Pyro, new to the team and consistently doe-eyed. He had been shipped in by RED no more than three days before - a nice young kid no older than Scout himself – and was terrified out of his wits of being on that field, jumping at shadows, checking every corner for the ghosts of BLU's. He had been jittery and shaken since the moment he arrived, chewing his nails until they bled and then chewing some more, and when the battle call finally did ring out he had wept quietly in the armory, repeating a muffled prayer over and over again begging for the chance to see his newlywed wife again, if nothing else. When Sniper watched him die, impaled on the bayonet of that enemy Medic's syringe gun, something deep and visceral shifted in him, his gaze darkening and movements slipping into a crisp, mechanical form, as though an inhuman beast chained deep inside had finally been unhooked.
He had paralyzed that Medic, firing off one perfectly executed bull's-eye shot into his back, and slipped downstairs without a moment's hesitation as the Medic crumpled into a broken doll of a human being. He already had his knife at the ready when he entered the Medic's view, eyes darting up in the horror of his sudden and complete numbness, and without a single word he gutted the poor, helpless soul with two gory slashes, splaying him open with a well-practiced T-shaped incision. The screams were unbearable. Insufferable. The entire team watched on in slow, numb horror, knowing this man, broken and helpless, felt nothing, but regardless had to watch on as his insides spilled out, ripped piece by piece from his belly. That kind of intimidating madness was rare to fully come out in Sniper, but pieces of it still managed to slip through in his most serious of times, and it was then that any teammate could tell you that something was amiss.
"What would you do to keep her off that battlefield?" He hissed, further rattling the still dizzy-nerves of the Scout. He fumbled for an answer, any answer, that could possibly express how he felt about her – for a word that would convey how his entire body reflexively shuddered to protect her anytime the slightest hint of trouble stirred, how he could feel where she was in a room and how, at any given time, he had at least three ways to get her out were anything to go awry. Finally he exhaled, his voice lowering into a steady hum, and all at once he found that word, that lexeme, that slip of the tongue that brought his voice to an even growl of conviction.
"Anything."
Sniper smiled, the intimidating power slipping from his face. Suddenly he was back to that oddly calm gentleman, gentle and passive, and he leaned back on his palms, breaking the tension of the scene. There was a pause, pregnant and uncomfortable, and Scout held his breath as he tried to decipher his teammate's next move.
"Did you know that I'm married?"
Scout froze. "You're wha?" He stuttered meekly. Sniper smiled, pulling a thin piece of paper from his back pocket, and with a delicate motion he passed it over neatly.
It was a photograph, worn almost beyond recognition and creased every which way, but regardless its image stared back at him with a radiating warmth otherwise unfamiliar. A man that only vaguely resembled the grizzled vapor he knew stared up at him, looking clean and pressed and at least ten years younger, and perched in his lap was a pretty young thing in a party dress, arms swung around his neck with undiluted affection. They were caught in the middle of a laugh – both smiling wildly with attention drawn off in the distance, but even from the monochrome tints of that well-worn photo their love was still completely palpable – maybe from the way their hands were settled on each other, hung around shoulders and hips in a necessary need to be near, or maybe it was just the way their eyes shone, a visible gleam of happiness and warmth that only love can give. It was a kind of shine that Scout had never seen in his teammates eyes – not once since he had arrived – but at the time he was never looking. Everyone on the base gave off this cold hollowness, even in their happiest times, and the loneliness of the base suddenly became kinetic. In that moment Scout wondered how many others had girls back home – lovers and friends and families of their own – and for a brief second he wondered why he himself even decided to come to this place instead of settling down. In his teenaged bloodlust, why had he never seen this for what it was - a shredding rip from the real world, from the hopes of a normal life - instead of signing away his still-fresh soul? He could have stayed in the city, found his pretty girl in a party dress, gotten married, had a few kids of his own by now. All the boys he knew from military school had either gone on to firing off rounds in the US Army or gone on to quiet farm lives in the country with a couple of their own little sluggers - hell, even his youngest brothers each had their own slice of Americana by the time they were twenty. Now, twenty two and world weary, he had locked himself away for four years and god knows how many more all for the greedy glory of a promised $20k.
"That's really you?" He chuckled, turning the photo with both hands to face his teammate. "You're shitting me. That bastard there's too hygienic to be you!" Sniper laughed, returning a light smile, and with a contemplative coo he ran a calloused thumb over his chin.
"We're not all born like this, mate." Scout chilled visibly, handing the photo back.
"So why'd you leave?"
"We needed the money." He replied, a grim haze coming over him. "She was sick and we lived in the outback. There was no medical help for miles 'round those parts – had to send her all the way to Brisbane. The bills piled up. RED came in with an offer, so I took it." He leaned back onto his palms, turning somberly to look out towards the desert. "Didn't even think twice about it. Turns out she wasn't sick at all. She was pregnant."
"Did she…?" He smiled.
"Yep. Little doll was born right before I shipped out. Named her Abigail, after her grandmum." Scout gave a weak smile to his teammate, eyes focused outwards as he lost himself in a dusk of forgotten memories.
"Why didn't you tell anyone before?" Sniper's eyes finally came into a soft focus, yet his attention still remained elsewhere.
"We're different people out here, mate. I don't like bein' just a 'Sniper', but I am. It's easier to leave your life outside at the door 'cause I'm sure if we all knew each other's stories and tales and families back home we'd be rotting far more than we already are. We would get ourselves killed, then we'd never see 'em ever again." He paused, picked up his hand with a faint tremble, then quickly placed it back down on an instant second thought. With a gulp, he continued. "It's better to bide our time out here with some little speck of hope to hold on to then to drive ourselves to the grave."
The thought of each man holding something deeper, some secret lady and love clutched white-knuckled against their heart during fiercely dirty battles, made Scout involuntarily twinge with a weak wheeze. This was never just a battle between boys, he realized – it was never just about the players and the pawns and the intelligence in between. Every time they stepped onto the playing field, so did their children, their girls, their families and their friends – no one was lost on this tiny war, and the battle for everyone here may have just been in staying alive long enough to go home and fall in love all over again. Everyone here, whether they shared memories at five am or whispered names in their sleep, had someone worth fighting for. But could some warm shudder of desire begin here?
"The point that I'm trying to get to is that you've got your own hope now." He hummed, strumming his hands across his pants in an attempt to shake the blues. "'S an unconventional way to find it, but Pen's a sweet girl and you need lookin' after anyway. Our lives out here are unstable – who knows what tomorrow brings. Go after the girl. Tell her how you feel. Take care of her, and for the love of god get out of here. Go live your own life with your own girl because I guarantee you that as soon as you can hold your own child in your arms, everything else, all of this madness and murder and this prison that we've all been locked in, all of it won't matter."
Everything suddenly fell quiet, and Scout could feel something small deep inside spark to life. The idea of him as a father, as a father with Penny, made his stomach swell with an uncontrollable ache that was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He could picture himself holding her close, cradling her tiny frame in a bed of their own, caressing her skin against his calloused fingers. She would put on jazz records at half past midnight – the slow, dreamy kind that she always sang when she was alone and thought no one could hear – and he would take her by the hand and kiss every inch he could find, exploring, mapping, making love without knowing how, but simply knowing. He could practically see her sitting next to him, her short mess of chocolate hair falling across her face as she gazes down at a baby girl in her lap. He imagined himself with Sniper's quiet life, sleeping in the sweltering heat of a perpetual summer with the windows thrown open, his girl by his side and a baby between them, and suddenly what was left of his façade shattered. In an instant, he couldn't help but warm, lighting up with a newfound glow, and for the first time since thinking about her he let himself visibly crack a smile.
Sniper stood, picking up his rifle from its abandoned spot against the sill and the now-chilled mug of coffee with his other hand. He said nothing, simply standing in loose attention, as Scout stood up to meet him. Both men shared a glance, a calmly content stare that was ripe with secrecy, with words that had never been shared, tales that had never been told, and emotions that, to Scout, were entirely new. Sniper extended the mug to him and Scout gave it a once over before meeting the sleek smile of his teammate, then took it and downed the bitter contents in one swift gulp. He handed it back with a hot chuckle, wiping his mouth off on the shoulder of his sleeve, then gave a nod. A nod about answers and thank you's goodbye's till tomorrow. More than anything, though, a nod about hello's - to the man who he had met but never really known.
He then turned to go, and took the stairs two at a time to catch a date with the girl who he was going tell he loved.