The dull grey sheets are grainily reminiscent of sandpaper yet strangely smooth like chilled porcelain. Careful to avoid the faded yellow blotches permanently dyed into the scratchy fabric, the origins of the sickly, ominous stains unknown, the pads of Scout's thumb and forefinger prickle as he slides the linens in between them, savoring the sensation and the arousal of the hair on the back of his neck. He tries yet again to lie on top of the box spring mattress, the stiff bed however refusing to bend into any sort of groove despite the weight of his back and the shifting of his shoulder blades that attempt to dig indentations into it.
The blanket, a pastel orange that clashes horribly with the concrete walls and hueless décor of his sleeping quarters, (since when did he care about faggy stuff like that, he notes begrudgingly), isn't so bad, if maybe a bit thin; the cotton he can tell was woven with hands a bit more compassionate than the other pieces of the bedspread set, dark orange strips of faux silk aligning the edges. Small fuzzes cling to its surface as if polyester and wool were magnatised feats of science. It was clean, at the very least, the scent of detergent traceable yet perfume free all the same.
Regardless of the tiny miracles, the cotton square was still a good six inches too short for the young man's body, leaving his ankles and feet completely exposed to the Fall air that slips in completely uninvited through the panes of the glass window that, Scout realized after ten minutes of fumbling with the damn thing, didn't actually close all the way. The one pillow he'd been issued was passable; the case matching the grey sheet in both colour and texture, the pillow itself reasonably comfortable though unremarkable in either pleasance or mediocrity.
His mind races and he finds himself unable to settle, as if the linens were made of eternally scuttling ants instead of the cheapest cotton the young man had ever had the displeasure of encountering. Yet still, Scout concludes with a weary sigh as his hands hook around the cool underside of the cushion, cradling it against his day worn head and sighing as it absorbs its weight—it was no more or less comfortable than the bedroom he'd left behind in Boston.
What did that say about how Scout had come to know the world, about the quality of life as he'd always known it; the military barrack was on par with his childhood bed—or rather his childhood bed was on par with it. Both however were a million leagues beyond the metal cage of a cot he'd been forced to come to terms with in jail.
'Jail…' Scout's mind echoes internally in a loud, verbal ring, the musing loud against the thought filled yet cavernously hollow conscious of his late night mind. It wouldn't have mattered if Jane Doe, who, if Scout could recall correctly, had introduced himself earlier that afternoon as resident Soldier and battalion leader, had assigned him to a pile of muddied, damp earth in a musty corner; Scout would still have to claim it was a thousand leagues beyond his sleeping arrangements from Suffolk CountyJail. Even still; despite the upgrade, Scout figured, as he signed the contract with BLU, that even if the barrack was a step up from prison, comfort would have to serve as collateral in exchange for his (technical) freedom; so it went.
Yet was he truly free? The recruiting officer, a stump of a man who had entered the young man's cell at the time, despite not having the okay of its inhabitant, had made sure to lay heavy emphasis on the words that implied the affirmative. From the corner of Scout's eye he could see the man's beady brown ones and their narrowed following of his sprint across the track. He didn't like the way he nodded and talked to the guard, pointing a gloved finger in his direction. He didn't like the way the way the man clasped his hands behind his back or the way he sauntered the edge of the fitness court, scrutinizing the young man's stretches and warm ups with a delirious pleasure in his eyes.
Scout hadn't even bothered to shower after the exercise; he'd slung the towel over his sweating, shirtless frame and walked in violated secrecy back to his cell, hoping to have shaken off the trail of his watcher. The man, however, was relentless. Anything to get Lawrence's signature on that dotted line, the consensual ink's engraving on the five year service contract the mustached man was so keen to brandish repeatedly under the young man's nose.
"I saw you out there, you're a real runner, boy," the man claiming to be Blutarch Mann III had whispered at the time, so only the two of them could hear his hushed excitement. "For most of those men out there track is just another remedial exercise—they do it because a guard yells at them to, because it's the only twenty minutes of the day they can spend outside of thishellhole, but for you, boy, I could tell it was a way of life,"
Scout, who didn't want to seem rude, could only settle with a skeptically raised eyebrow as a response to the man's yellowed smile and cunning eyes, for had Scout spoken he certainly would have said something uncouth.
Running was alright, he supposed; in his youth it had been the only thing separating him from the brotherly torture his six older siblings always had the pleasure of bestowing upon him, in addition to being the best way of dealing with his domestic issues with Luc. It really wasn't a way of life at all, but rather a mean to avoid it.
Blutarch, who could tell by Scout's stony glare and silent irritation, allowed his smile and encouraging words to falter, melting off his face in a literal slide. If he wanted this boy recruited, then it was time to abandon the tactic of friendly persuasion.
"Look boy, you and I both know that nothing awaits you on the other side of these walls; you're barely twenty one and yet here you are, rotting away with a soiled record, and no reasonable employer in this God forsaken city will want a convicted hooligan with a history of violence working under them if they have any standards on business and how they run theirs. I see that look in your eyes and I already know what you're going to say, Mr. Fitzpatrick—why then, am I so desperate to have you?
Because it wasn't a business my grandfather founded, son; it was war. A war against the norm, against the regulations and boundaries society is strangling you with right now as we speak. A war a man of your talent may actually have a chance in altering, in winning. As of now, you're just another inmate filling up another cell, squandering the average Bostonian's taxes, kid, another casualty of society.
You're going to be unarmed and helpless against the onslaught that awaits you there when you walk out of this penitentiary a "free man"—if you can even stay on your best behaviour long enough to avoid adding another ten or twenty years to your sentence—now I'm not going to pry and it certainly isn't my place to, but if you were living a life worth living before your conviction, Mr. Fitzpatrick, then certainly you wouldn't be sitting here in that orange jumpsuit marking tallies on the wall in pencil, or am I wrong?
All I'm asking, young man, is for you to realize a dream crafted through generations—a dream whose legacy and fulfillment I am responsible for prolonging—that world out there that has you beaten to the point of crime and punishment. I have the means to change it, BLU has the means to change it—you have the means to change it—all it takes is your name on this line, son, and with that flick of your wrist you'll not only have your freedom and a clean record, but the means to change theworld, the world you live in."
The words seemed heroic at the time. They still seemed heroic as he lied in bed that same night (much like now), pondering their meaning and their meaning in relation to him. And as the portly man in his bowler hat returned the next day, the mustache groomed this time into a pencil thin ghost of its predecessor, the words had not diminished in valiance.
What about life was he out to change? By fighting in this war, adopting the side of this BLU, what about the lives of common man was he fighting to change? 'Who cared', Scout snapped mentally as he exited the prison with Blutarch leading the way, his suitcase in hand, shoulders adorned with civilian clothing for the first time in sixth months. And as Scout breathed in air unweighted of condemnation, and took in the sights of liberation, he found his compliance and willful entry of the military vehicle that awaited him (BLU's logo on the driver door) that much easier to reconcile.
Blutarch had spent the duration of the car ride chatting excitedly about the beliefs of BLU and its feud with RED, an opposing monopoly that sought to oppress and control the world and its nations through the manipulation of social politics and the exploitation of the laissez faire economy. Presidents had no power, he explained, but rather the financial giants fueling them, and RED was one of them. RED was a global player and corrupt, Blutarch had explained gravely, and the only way to save the world was through a series of underground proxy wars (though Blutarch had been careful to avoid the term) and force.
"This is where you come in, lad; I am relying on you to capture depots and safehouses; control those, and you control the territory. Control the territory, and you control the land. Control the land and you control the nation. Control the nation, you control its people. Control the people, and you control the world."
It sounded far from peaceful, Scout had noted silently. The man who had just seconds ago preached salvation from the imperialistic REDs now sat next to him frothing at the mouth over the thought of world domination. But who cared; shoot a gun, run a bit, capture a point, and it meant Scout was thousands of miles away from Luc and out of prison. He only had five years to his name with these freaks and in exchange he had a clean record, and by what Blutarch had hinted, a well paying salary. It seemed dream like.
'Dream like…' he scoffs as he kicks the blankets from his stomach. It was awfully hard to imagine himself a victor of the free world and mankind in an itchy, nonmalleable bed and a gaseous stomach grumbling due to the dinner rations not quite settling in his digestive system.
'What happened to the days when I just wanted to be a fuckin' baseball player…'
His deportation to this "2Fort" had been swift and unspeakably efficient; only a mere five days ago had Blutarch instilled within him the images of heroism and here he was in BLU sanctioned pajamas. He hadn't even called home, informed his mother…he rather feared that discussion, the young man contemplating how he'd explain to the assuredly frantic woman how he'd gone from a felon to a soldier fighting for the world eating fiber rations in the Badlands of Nevada in less than seven days; well, he wasn't a soldier the title was apparently Scout, if memory served him correctly.
According to Mr. Doe, he was the only one BLU had in the Teufort base, which made his worth and cruciality to the missions rise exponentially higher; only he was truly swift enough to undermine the enemy faction in order to steal and commandeer their territory.
"Our last one gave his life to secure this base; bit on the runty side like you, but I still maintain that kid had the fastest damn legs in all of America," Jane had grunted, blowing smoke through the corner of his twisted mouth, the rich scent of the cigar choking Scout silently. "He was a real brave kid, he was—never gave a RED a beating he didn't deserve, never let a RED run away from one, either. Teufort was always RED land, but not a word could sway his resolve; he wanted to advance and surround the maggots and who was I to say no? We had the manpower—boy wasn't gonna go down without a fight—so he scouted it out and took out the REDs tryin' to hold it down in their last efforts. He didn't see that son of a bitch Tavish had lined it with those explosives—gave his last breath for this fort—can't believe it's been five years, now…"
Scout, who didn't want to be rude, simply settled with a careful nod and obliged the man by lifting his glass along with the gruff American to take a sip in honour of the previous Scout's memory, a barely inaudible "to Jeremy," slipping through Jane's dry lips. He resented his selfish thoughts, especially in wake of the story of bravery and sacrifice he'd just been treated to by his commanding officer, but he couldn't help dwell on them.
Jane may not have said it outright, but Scout could tell by the man's even toned, critical yet strangely hopeful utterances of'like you's' that Jane had seen Scout not as Lawrence but as yet another honourable young man a bit on the runty side ready to fight and die for BLU's prosperity. It was a name to live up to, Scout grimaced, a name Scout hadn't agreed to and wasn't all too certain he could do justice; he couldn't say he felt so strongly about his sudden allegiance to this BLU that he would give his life for a damn fort.
"'Cause of his sacrifice BLU's managed to get RED to a nice standstill; all across America and even the world there are small fronts like this, and it's because of Jeremy I have the honour to say I am commanding officer of BLU's most successful strategic location,"
"Don't fuck this up, boy," is all Scout could decipher from the man's underlying tones.
"It's been a rough fight, but our fight can only lead to victory and our victory is a victory for BLU," Jane sighs, taking his empty plate and rising from the metallic table in the small messhall. "For freedom."
Scout could rally behind that. For freedom.
If only Scout had known that it had nothing to do with freedom but rather he was merely a means of settling a brotherly dispute and quarrel of land and the domination of the already free world.
"You aren't going to eat your peas, kid? They're good—about the only you're going to find around here with butter on it," Jane grumbled as he left the boy to pick at his mashed potatoes in his silence.
-
Scout couldn't say he had any desire to stay up much longer past "dinner". It was only eight o'clock, sure, but after a failed attempt of going around and getting to know his comrades and their names ("Names have no place on the battlefield, son, from now on you will address each of us by class and rank followed by 'sir' as they will you," Soldier had snapped) the need for socialization had dissipated as did his desire.
The buttered peas and rolls scorched to a rock hard stasis Scout had barely managed to swallow prove their consumption to be glaring mistake in the form of turbulent indigestion, Scout rolling over with a groan. Trying to ignore the rising bilge and its ascending excursion tearing at his esophagus, the only thing Scout can do is breathe his nausea away with even intakes of stuffy barrack air, willing himself not to get sick all over his bed his very first night sleeping in it.
Shadows streak their way across the walls in distorted veins, an ultimate embodiment of time and how early it still was. Early enough to still warrant visitors, apparently; it wasn't until the third sharp rap on the door that Scout finally concluded he wasn't imagining the sounds among the delusional lull of slumber. As the bright lights flicker on and the door swings open, Scout sits up to meet his intruder.
"There you are! What are you doing in bed, it is not yet time for sleep, hup hup!" Jane barks at the groaning Scout, brow furrowing at his long winded sneer.
"Do not gape your mouth at me, boy, you will rise out of that bed and have it made like it has never been slept in in three seconds or less so help me God!" Jane spits loudly into the groggy young man's ear, Scout flinging the covers off his person and rising to fold it into meticulous quarters.
"How dare you sleep before the designated lights out period and then proceed to stand before me rolling your eyes like you make the rules around here!" Jane barks as Scout drops the blanket, scrambling to his knees to pick it up once again.
"You think you're funny, funny man?! Huh?! Listen up, son, this is not your house, this is not Boston, this is notLawrenceburg, you cannot just drop into bed whenever you feel like it! And mommy sure will not be here to tuck you in, no sir! Now wipe off those butter fingers and fold that blanket like a real man! Get to it!"
Scout's breathing quickens as his fingers fumble to match it, the young man trying desperately to match up the corners evenly and efficiently while being swift all the while.
"You will never lay your head on another pillow in this base again until you have my consent, do you understand that?!" Jane snatches Scout's front, glaring into his eyes.
"Y—yeah—"
"YES SIR—"
"Y—yes sir—"
"Get down into the Medibay, son, Engineer will be cutting your hair to an appropriate length in approximately three and a half minutes! I will not have any juvenile hippies running around in my base, no sir!" Jane shouts as he marches from Scout's room, not even dignifying the newest recruit with a scowl back.
Scout, who stands completely shocked for a good twenty seconds after the disgruntled American's departure, sighs heavily before swiping a tired hand through his admittedly thick hair, realizing all the while he had no idea where the medibay actuallywas; BLU's Sniper, a middle aged man whom Scout presumed to have been hired from Mexico, was the one who had met him at the gate of the base when the young man had arrived in Blutarch's private vehicle.
Other than the brief, half hearted words of forced and short lived introduction neither man had said anything, the silent sharpshooter leaving Scout to struggle with his own horde of luggage whilst scaling the completely new terrain. He certainly hadn't offered to show Lawrence around. Thus it is no mystery to the young man why he stands in the sleeping wing of the base completely dumbfounded and overwhelmed as to which staircase or corridor would best lead him to the basement in time for his haircut.
Going down seemed like the best course of action, Scout's unbandaged hands sliding against the cool, metal banister. His steps echo in unsettling undulations off the silent hall, as if the empty silence meant to mock his new inexperience by augmenting his heavy clash against the marble floor.
Still, like an entranced lamb tricked out of its mind he simply continues to descend the staircase, his feet making labourious lurches to the ground with each step he takes.
'This must be as far down as it goes…' Scout notes mentally as even within the reinforced walls an earthy undertone wafts in the Medibay's air. It was more of a rectangular basement comprised of a series of twisting hallways; doors littered either side of the mazing pathways, many of them bolted and locked with the words, Restricted or To be entered by medical persons only printed in different languages on signs adhering to the woodwork.
Persons seemed like an awfully strange term to use, considering they only had one doctor, according to Jane. A damn good one, by the sound of it—apparently an older German who'd served in the Second World War in his day, though for what sideScout can't say he wasn't all too interested in figuring out.
Scout is careful to make sure his steps are quiet and his figure is hunched as he treks his way down the silent, dark hallway, as if terrified his presence would lure the potentially venomous doctor from his operations like a gargantua drawn from his lair. The hum and buzzes of angry machinery is muffled through the walls, Scout somewhat certain a maintenance room must be in one of the adjoining cupboards or closets by which he walks past. Hopefully their whines were loud enough to mask the sounds of the living.
Though no amount of caution is enough to deter the young man's curiosity as he saunters past a door whose blinds are notdrawn in the window. Cupping his hands around his eyes and peering in, Scout gulps as his eyes adjust to the darkness, an operation table sitting square in the middle of a moderately sized room, completely grey with otherwise nothing in it. The metal glimmers despite the lack of an illuminating light source, the dark grey piercing, clear, and unsmudged, perfectly reflective. A surgical table sits next to it, various tools of assuredly ominous purposes littered across its width.
His eyes widen worriedly, and he feels as if the floor had been wrenched from underneath his feet completely; dark, chipped blood absolutely drenches the floor of the mystery room, splattered about messily in thick heavy coats, sloppy like a forboding child's painting. Different hues of the liquid shade the otherwise unscuffed floor, as if some torrents were spilled more recently than others.
The creeping sense of dread that fills Scout only doubles itself as he audibly gasps, it only just now becoming apparent to the young man that the walls too are just as dirtied. It wasn't an infirmary, it was a massacre.
"Hey, now, you the new guy?"
Scout jumps and screams so violently he staggers back away from the door, crashing heavily into a neatly situated pile of janitorial supplies resting against the wall opposite of the room he'd just peeked into.
"Heh heh—about as skittish as they come, ain't ya? I guess it ain't such a bad thing, though, you Scouts wouldn't be worth the name if you weren't quick to startle and take off at a firecracker—then again I sure do hope you know to run away for the real deal,"
Scout, who hated when people spied, hated when people spooked him, and hated being ridiculed when slipping up like he had just now, still takes the moist, pudgy hand of the rather stocky man who extends it, thankful that it didn't belong to the butcher whose responsibility it was that the room was painted red.
"Light as a feather—I swear the boys they bring in here get younger and younger and even smaller—you're a tiny little thing…"
Scout would love to respond with the sharp 'I ain't no fuckin' rabbit' that lies on the tip of his tongue, though his distaste at the man's endearing tone lightens, for Scout doesn't want to silence the first person who'd spoken to him without harsh intentions for the first time that day. It was a nice change, and he found that he certainly welcomed it, exceptionally complacent with the belittling though he was.
"So're you the one Soldier said needed a haircut?"
Scout nods in response to the man's jovially posed question, raising an eyebrow as he catches sight of the thick rubber gloves adorning the man's hand as he pushes open a door with the palm of it. What for did he need industrial grade gloves forhaircutting?
"Alright, alright, take a seat,"
Scout is pleased to see this operation room is brightly lit and free of blood as opposed to its neighbour. A sink with a spotless mirror resting atop it sits in the corner, a chair facing it, presumably a place to sit for the one getting barbered.
"Well what're you waitin' for, kiddo? That seat don't bite, now…" he chuckles, and Scout jumps slightly, jarred from his thoughts, apologizing quietly and taking his place in the chair. Scout eyes his reflection gravely, the young man who stares back at him silently suggesting that he sends any parting thoughts to his hair now while the stocky man with the easy grin and accent washes a pair of hair shears accordingly.
"You look about as cool as a robber on death row, son, who stuck the burr under your saddle?" the man chuckles down at his client, drying the blades with a small white handtowel. "Then again I know we've howdied but not exactly shook—well, unless you count me liftin' you outta them buckets—I'm Rick,"
Scout takes Rick's hand, gripping it starkly in his own and flashing the man a small smile.
"Lawrence,"
"Pleasure, Lawrence—It sure doesn't take a genius to see you're the new Scout Jane said'd be arrivin' about now; you've all got that same build, like you could fit in my pocket!"
Scout can't help but smile along with Rick, whose round faces flushes, his body overcome with the intensity and sound of his own raspy laughter, his stunning blue eyes narrowed in gentle mirth.
"Now how old're you, son?"
"Twenty one—just turned twenty one in August,"
"Well shucks, kiddo, you're even younger than I thought!" Rick sighs rather heavily, Scout rather reproachful himself as the man takes the razor to his head, the mechanical whirl loud in his ear as a sea of strands flutter to the ground like weightless strings of yarn, noiseless in their proceeding thump to the ground.
"So what was it then, partner—ya get drafted? I hear things are gettin' worse for you young folk out there, that the government can barely wait until you boys are fresh outta learnin' before puttin' a gun in your hands; so did you have to pick between either BLU or 'Nam? Guess the choice was obvious," Rick questions him heavily, Scout shaking his head quickly.
"N—nah—my brothers have all managed to avoid the draft out to 'Nam, now you mention it…"
"How many you got?"
"Six,"
"Woo wee, if that ain't a number—your Ma must be a real strong little lady, son, and thankful her boys ain't over there meddlin' with the Viet Kong,"
"She definitely ain't no one to push around,"
"Still, now if that ain't a wonder you boys have all escaped the draft—slap me on the wrist if I get too nosy, boy, but what in the world would lead ya to fightin' for a little place like this? Don't get me wrong, a patriot's a patriot and he's gonna be no matter what, God bless 'em—but I'd think a young man like yourself would get away from the storm after avoidin' it!"
"It—it's like fulfillin' a favour," Scout explains slowly, scratching at his neck, jumping as he can nearly feel the flesh of his scalp—
"Careful now, boy, I don't need ya jumpin' 'nd wonkin' up the cut! Now what do you mean a favour?! You related to the Mann's? No offense, string bean, but those Mann's can really be quirky ones, the way they're always shippin' their boys to war, then they're always squabblin' about heirs—then again the fewer boys they've got hangin' around, the fewer ways they gotta split the spoils of the legacy. Hopin' they get killed in action, I suppose—I'm sorry, son, I guess it ain't my place to talk about your family like that…"
"Nah, I ain't related to no one named Mann—who're they?!"
"You mean to say you weren't drafted to BLU and you ain't got a clue as to who the Manns are?! Guess crazy ole Jane ain't shown you the video yet…"
"The video?"
"I won't spoil it—all new recruits see it their first week…it always gets a laugh outta 'em when you first see it—it's silly, but informative, I guess…"
"Well how did you get involved with BLU?" Scout asks curiously, Rick chuckling again, his chest heaving like the bread rising in a sweltering oven.
"Now you still ain't answered my question, son!"
"Oh—sorry—"
"I'm just givin' ya grief, kid—I started off weldin' for a small little company back in Montana—went to college and got a few degrees, so I can prove I ain't all rock headed if I gotta. 'Course I'd been workin' doin' things of the mechanical sort with this nice little company, called Little Rock Industrial—I'd been there for twenty years, son,"
"Been?"
"Yeah, sadly 'been's the way it's gotta be put. I came to work, one day. It was Spring of 1963 and even though the snow was meltin' I couldn't put a thing past them shivers of mine; somethin' just didn't seem right, you know? 'Course here comes little Blutarch Mann in that suit of his, slitherin' about like a snake in a sugar cane field,"
"That short guy with the yellow teeth and that weird mustache?!"
"Heh, he's still got that little mustache, huh? Yup, that's the one. Walked around real calm and neat, takin' his time and watchin' everyone about the workshop do their thing. Maybe I was quick to judge, but he just didn't settle right with me; somethin' about that sneer o'his—he tried hidin' it, son, but I tell you, dirt shines on the cleanest of cotton.
I could tell he really thought he was somethin', in that suit of his. He assumed just 'cause most of us were sportin' dirty overalls with oil in our fingernails he was amongst a bunch of disposable greasers who probably couldn't even write their own names if he asked us to! Well I'd reckon me and them boys had more schoolin' than Blutarch or any of his brothers or cousins combined. You can buy them suits and you can marry into wealth, but there ain't no amount of money that can buy a mind," Rick explains, tapping at his temple.
"But he wasn't after our minds, string bean—least not at first, he wasn't. I reckon he was scoutin' about lookin' for knuckleheads big enough to take a few shots to the stomach; someone to soak up firepower and take some hits so BLU wouldn't have as many casualties, you feel me?"
"Y—yeah,"
"He thinks welders 'nd landscapers, well, he thinks we only learned a trade and can barely tell our left from our right, and that his whole hodge podge speech about worth would inspire us to sign more contracts he's probably ever gotten at one time. That Blutarch'll tell you anything he thinks'll spark morale. But the key to sparkin' it is sparkin' it in people easily swayedanyway. You know what that means? Dummies," Rick spits.
"Sit up, boy, I can't reach your head when you slouch like that," he scolds, Scout embarrassed that he had been one of the very dummies so captivated by Blutarch's spiel.
"He and his men look around for potential recruits in the places he thinks are most likelyto find real impressionable people who aren't"accomplishing" anything—correctional institutions, jails, students graduating from trade schools, what have you,"
"Where the Hell do you think he got Jane?" Scout gulps, attempting to shake off his nervousness.
"Heh—funny story, apparently Mr. Mann was moved by the article in the newspaper a few years ago. Apparently Doe caused quite a scene at World War Two Veterans reunion some time ago. Blew up the banquet table when they wouldn't let him in for not having been enlisted durin' the war,"
"What?! He's got all those medals—!"
"He made 'em himself. That crackpot was never a real Soldier, he paid his own airfare and brought his own grenades; he was a volunteer, except insane,"
"So dude just like, put himself on the Western Front, a literal one man Army?"
"Blutarch musta liked his fire, figured he'd fight for any war that offered him a uniform and claimed to be on the side ofAmerica. Played to his patriotism I imagine, 'course that high nosed sleaze never stopped to think that maybe he ain't got everybody in the world all figured out and predicted. Maybe we ain't bathin' in oils and sleepin' in cold hard cash like he may be, but we're not stupid,"
"So how did you end up here, then?"
"Well, Blutarch wasn't interesting in recruitin' that day, he had his eyes on the business, not the little guys,"
"He bought the company out?"
"Yup—Little Rock Industrial just became another finger on the hand Builders League United—BLU, if you will. Turns out maybe I'd underestimated just how smart we are, string bean—but it wasn't the workers, it was the higher ups who sold the company—blew over quicker than a shack of sticks when they saw the price that old coo was offerin',"
"Dude, that sucks—but you said you had all those degrees, how come you didn't just go somewhere else when you got bought out?"
"No man is without his temptations, Scout. Blutarch didn't come at me with the slow speech and words of betterin' myself like he might with the other kids he tries to recruit. He saw I had things goin' on upstairs, and so he manipulated his whole spiel just for that. He wasn't content with me workin' in the factories—he wanted me on the field buildin'.
Came and sat me down, said I was one of the best engineers he'd ever seen, my turret designs and welding techniques were top knotch. Though it would take more than that to win me over—my colleagues were all master welders. If I were just an exception he wouldn't have made the risk of buyin' us all, right? He'd gotten word of the groundbreaking research I'd managed to make in the field of teleportation,"
"Teleportation?!"
"Tha's right; I was the first in all the world to make a successful teleporter,"
"DUDE, THAT'S—THAT'S HUGE! WHY—WHY—WHY AREN'T YOU FAMOUS?! ON TV?! WRITIN' BOOKS—?!"
"It was all just a quirky side project I'd been developin' at the time. I'd shown my schematics to one of my bosses and I imagine he told Mr. Mann about my research durin' one of the discussions finalizing the purchase of Little Rock. When little ole Blu' heard the news of course he instantly thought of what the capabilities of teleportation meant for his armies' victories—and what it could mean if RED or the rest of the world got a hold of the blueprints. Lucky for him I was already an employee of his, eh?"
"Jesus, dude—!"
"He cut right to the chase—said my designs and technology were revolutionary, that I should be honoured that my inventions would be put into practice, and namely on the battlefield in the name of justice. Now I was always raised by my Ma not to get involved in no fights if they don't come to me first. I knew the 'League was United alright, but by warmongers, not builders—"
"Warmongers?"
"This war we're fightin'? It's just two cousins carryin' on the fight of two brothers who sought control over the entire world…"
"What—?!"
"You heard me. And the only reason we haven't desecrated each other to complete shreds is because we're constantly bein' watched—her name is Helen Ingram, a real wench of a woman, but we just call 'er the Watcher, or the Administrator,"
"What do you mean she watches?!"
"Well, she watches the tides of battle—I reckon her grandma was friends with Zephenian Mann back in the 1850's. She takes care of the Mann family's affairs, and she's supplyin' 'em the weapons at that,"
"What kinda friend is that?! She just watches these dudes kill each other and other people?! And gives 'em the shit to do it?!"
"I won't spoil it, I'll let you watch the video—though it's gonna try to tell you you're fightin' for justice—'nd you bet your britches there was no way I was goin' to allow my works to be used to fuel a war machine built so two little rich snots could control the world and all its nations and governments,"
"So then what?! What happened, Rick—?!"
"I gave that slack jawed monkey a piece of my mind! I told him I didn't have no business with murders and no words for tyrants! I said I was cleanin' out my cupboard and that he could take me off the payroll! Now Mr. Mann didn't like that at all, string bean. He said I had one more chance to accept deployment—"
"Or else what—?!"
"I'm getting' to that son, hold your britches! He said he didn't have no qualms about snatchin' up my schematics and patenting them as a design of BLU and implementing them without my consent. As it was, I'd developed the technology in what was now BLU labratories, so they were, legally speakin', his property as I didn't have the patent. A man of his wealth, status and power would have won the battle even if he wasn't legally in the right. The way I saw it, they were gonna take my inventions and use them for their own gain, but at least by acceptin' deployment I could build them personally and my own discretion, and my name was credited to the science behind them—now let me tell ya, the video they show the Soldiersand the video they show the ones on the factory lines are way, way different,"
"Shit, man," Scout sighs. "Dude was kinda a sleazeball and all, but he wasn't extortin' me…"
"Now how'd you wind up in all this mess?"
"I—I was in—in jail—I signed a five year contract as a Scout so I could get out with a clean record…"
"Now what was a right nice young man like yourself doin' locked up in jail? You look about as harmless as a fruit fly,"
"I—I kinda got into it with my stepdad, put him in the hospital for a month…"
"Gosh—well woo wee, son, I guess there's more to ya than your little arms would hint, 'eh? Look in the mirror, how'd I do?"
Scout blinks; it was actually a rather dapper, fitting cut. Short and proper, perhaps, but it brought out his jaw and complimented his angled face.
"Naw, you did alright, hard hat," Scout grins, hoisting himself from the chair and brushing his front of loose hair. "Thanks,"
"No problem, kiddo," Rick smiles, clasping a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be alright—we're all here for different reasons, maybe one or two of us the only ones without reasons that aren't questionable, but we're a pretty close group,"
"Really? No one said a word to me all day—you're the first one,"
"Jane don't even want us usin' names let alone sparkin' up smalltalk, string bean,"
"Yeah, what's up with that?!"
"It's best just not to ask, kid, this is a man that flew himself out to Germany and supplied his own grenades we're talkin' about…"
"I—I mean, yeah…"
"And I suggest you hop on over to the room over where Jane has the projector set up for ya—I think you'll get a kick out of the video."
-
"Founded in 1850 by Zephenian Mann and his two sons, Blutarch and Redmond Mann, Mann & Sons Munitions Concerns, otherwise known as Mann Co, has always been an integral part of society,"
Scout yawns, placing his head down against the desk, the glare of the projector causing the young man to develop a throbbing headache. BLU and You was nowhere near as entertaining to Scout as Engineer hinted it would be.
"…the death of Zephenian Mann left behind his land, wealth, and power to his two sons. Though Redmond was greedy, and wanted his brother's share all to his own, he wanted the world,"
Scout scoffs, Blutarch the I taking a great resemblance to his grandson, his brother Redmond however portrayed as a sniveling gremlin with hunched features and green, lecherous skin. It seemed like something from a badly written fairy tale.
"Times have changed, and under the innovative business practices of Blutarch and his sons, Builders League United has expanded beyond railroad development into an international conglomerate that contributes to a variety of things—household products, automobiles, steel and iron, produce and vegetation, space travel, politics—"
The video goes onto list a whole five minutes worth of things BLU influences, each bullet point accompanied by cheery cartoon Blutarchs interacting with equally complacent and jovial civilians accordingly.
'This is bad, dude wasn't jokin'…'
"Sit up, son you will not fall asleep during this film, do you know how hard it is to pull this projector down?!" Jane growls, Scout sitting up though huffing defiantly.
"...RED, or Reliable Exacavation Demolition, is Redmond Mann's own response to the League, and seeks to undermine the peace of the entire world by funding, backing, and supplying weaponry to the Communist menace!"
'Why haven't we heard of them before, then…?' Scout snaps internally. An "evil" corporation supplying Communists with ammunition would simply get some coverage in the news—then again he wasn't one to watch it. Perhaps he was simply uninformed…
"…Otherwise known simply as the Administrator and head of TF Industries is the supplier of the highest and latest weaponry of military technology. Washington based, the company was founded first by Elizabeth Ingram, a loyal servant of Zephenian to whom the former's estate was left behind. It can be presumed her involvement with arms dealership stems from her own involvement in the Mann Co parent company…"
'So then some woman just watches us kill with the weapons she gives us?!'
"…That is why we call upon you, brave soldier! Only with you can RED be vanquished and the world saved!"
Scout rushes to cover his mouth as an audible laugh actually escapes it, Jane shrieking loudly; a knight upon a white steed lifts the trap of his helm, the viewer treated to a yellow, wobbly smile of Blutarch the III, striking down a carboard cutout of his cousin, Redmond the III, the saber however not piercing as it should. After a cluster of highly lazy editing, the cutout sits on the ground with a large hole through the forehead, Blutarch attempting to pose valiantly, though he is seen falling off the horse a split second before the video cuts out.
"Well, that's it, kid. You will be tested on the contents of the video tomorrow by Medic. Failure to pass this test shall result in a rewatching of the video eight times followed by four hundred push ups. Now you may sleep as you are no longer an uninformed hippie. Dismissed!"
-
The blankets haven't eased in their unorthodox comfort even after an hour of running around.
'Maybe I should just get up and take a walk…' Scout grunts, for he certainly wasn't growing any closer to sleep staring at the low ceiling, lost in thought about that what it is he'd managed to drag himself into. It wouldn't hurt to get to know the battlefield a bit in a state of calm, free of calamity; especially if he was meant to die for it, as Soldier had hinted. He could at the very least become acquainted with that he was expected to die for if necessary. Either he was faced with the potential of dying fighting communists and preventing a nuclear fallout or simply helping the blue shaded of the two quarrelers unlawfully steal the half of the world and its workings belonging to the other. Either way he still had his mother to call to even inform her he was fighting for any reason at that…
Thinking about it made his head hurt. Scout buttons the slacks back up to his waist, lifting his jutted, terribly painted window and looking downward to find chuckling voices belonging to his comrades creeping from below, their backs leaned lazily against the wall.
Exiting the base itself was simple; the metallic door was propped open slightly, Rick and Jane, and their Sniper enjoying a lazy smoking break, faces cast in shadows and light reflecting the position of the sun in its quiet descension. None of them speak, Scout notes. None of them seem to have eyes for anything that wasn't smokeable. And it is because of this Scout slips through the confines of the door with ease.
The exterior of the building had a highly industrious feel to it, the perimeter of BLU's sector aligned with reinforced steel fences, the cool grey of the iron fortress behind them ominously unscalable. In a not too far off distance the structure of what Scout presumed to be RED territory lies across the way, a large sewer and many meters of field separating the two bases from what would otherwise be instant death for both parties if the feet between them did not exist.
The Scout before him really did manage to capture and fortify a base in conveniently close proximity to RED, Scout notes, careful not to make too much noise across the bridge overlying the sewer he'd presume was built by BLU at the time of occupation.
"The only thing stoppin' us from descecratin' each other is the fact that she's always watchin'; if it weren't for Miss Ingram—the Administrator—we would have killed the REDs long ago—or they us. 'Cause of her, we don't attempt any acts outside of her call. And it's why you always have to be prepared. She could call for a mission in sixty seconds, or a mission in two days. It all depends on when she gets a new shipment of weapons to pawn on us, or when a dispute between Blutarch and Redmond can't be solved with words. It's a dirty business you've gotten yourself into, boy,"
Was she watching now, Scout wonders as he climbs the top of the fence, yelping as his hand gets caught in the barbwire, rolling against the dried grass and taking his first breath of RED air on the other side.
It wasn't any different, albeit where cool and grey set the tone of the BLU sector, a dark and rich redwood furnished the fortress instead. Though where fields and dust settled itself as the anchored earth upon which BLU stood, trees and floral rise and twist their way in healthy roots instead. It's a wonder the nature wasn't destroyed by war.
"You oughta take a look at Teufort City proper if you wanna see what all our feudin's done to the wildlife 'round here, son—them badlands don't even deserve the name, they've been blown by rockets and bullets and shells to be 'bout as bad as a goody two shoes in Sunday School."
Rick had a saying for everything, Scout was quickly coming to notice. Already his voice was echoing the advice loudly in his head. Perhaps it was best to discard them; the man had clearly had his bad experiences with BLU and that Scout couldn't deny, but that the Mann family were orchestrating a large ploy to take over the world seemed downright preposterous the most he thought about it, really.
Like the tellings of a bittered old man.
'I guess he ain't that old…'
Scout walks with his eyes rooted on the ground, memorizing the location of every rock and pebble and indent in the earth, anything that could possibly trip him up during a mission. Already mapping out which deposits and entrances would be best to blockade or commandeer in his head, a haughty smirk slides across his lips.
It was all he could do to not imagine it BLU, captured under his influence.
Perhaps it was the rush of being in the territory of his newly sworn enemy that instilled within him such assured glimpses of victory in his name. Where Lawrence would be the word to bring tears to Jane's eyes, where he would transcend the protocol of class and rank and his breast would be bedecked in medals and honours like precious buttons—and he wouldn't be making them for himself.
He would come back home, scarred and bruised but refined and perfected from combat, browned with sun and darkened with sweat and spilled blood, his eyes would command those of all whom he would tell his stories of bravery and sacrifice, his brothers hooked onto his every word whenever he'd come home and visit during leave…
They'd remark about little Larry and how he'd grown, asking again for the third retelling of how he'd simultaneously saved his comrades from BLU's burning base while chasing and swindling the REDs out of their own.
Scout, so caught up in his boyish dreams of untainted heroism to not even notice his calm walk had led him to the front of RED's base. He has to stop himself from uttering a loud "YES!" as a large apple tree still ripe with decently sized fruit to bear presents itself now Scout allows his fantasies to draw to a close, though clearly pleased with the reality of the fruit tree before him.
"Fuck yeah!" Scout beams, the cleats catching against the bark, the leaves swaying loudly, a few birds taking off into the evening as Scout treks up higher into it. Plucking the completely red ones and inspecting it, Scout lets the adequate apples fall to the dusty, shaded ground below with a light "plop". Careful not to bruise them, he lets up a bit on his wrist, Scout thinking nothing of it until a loud "OI!" sounds from below, Scout screaming and nearly tumbling down.
"Bloody squirrels—think I won't kill ya up there?! Why don't ya try droppin' another one o'them on my head 'nd see how you like a bullet in your skull—"
Scout freezes at the raging, accented rant down below, careful not to shake the tree, sending more fruit to plop onto the head of the infuriated man who curses the nonexistent squirrels down below. Hopefully he would not be so quick to shoot a human as well—
'A BLU human…' Scout gulps, yelping as his ankle slips, sending flakes of bark and leaves to the ground, the man screaming again as Scout nearly falls ontop of him, though he saves himself with a quick latch onto a branch, hoisting himself up into their depth quickly.
"WHO THE BLOODY HELL'RE YOU?!" the tall, accented man shouts aggressively, Scout's chest heaving so heavily and his heart pounding so raucously in his ears, exploding against his throat; he can say nothing.
"ANSWER ME!" He shouts, Scout watching the man for silent seconds as sweat trails down his neck and below the collar of his wife beater, his long, lanky legs steeled defensively, establishing his ground upon the earth. "Y'got three seconds t'get your arse down from that tree 'nd explain yourself b'fore I pump ya full o'lead,"
"You—you can't hurt me—!" Scout nearly pleads, pressing himself closer against the branch of the tree he rests against
"Y'wanna bet, mate?!" the man asks darkly, pulling back the slide of his shotgun, leering murderously up at the young man over the edge of his sunglared sunglasses. "'Cause I ain't had a problem hurtin' people in the past…"
"I—I—I didn't mean to start nothin', I swear—!"
"Uhuh—so then I'm s'posed t'believe some bloke I've never even seen around, let alone on this base, doesn't mean nothin' 'nd I'm supposed t'jus let'im waltz outta my apple tree like he wasn't creepin'—?!"
"You—you ain't gotta shoot me—?!"
"What are ya, a BLU?!" the man snarls, lifting the brim of his slouch hat over his eyes and smirking condescendingly at the defensive though no longer cowering Scout. "'Cause I'm afraid that I gotta if y'are,"
"Dude, please, I—I ain't even armed!"
"So then what the Hell's a BLU doin' in my little RED tree, eh? Jus' takin' in the scenery?!"
"I—"
"Prolly spyin'—"
"I ain't though!"
"Y'get a glimpse o'me in the shower, mate?!" Sniper asks smugly, and Scout can see that it isn't sweat but water that courses in small droplets along his body.
"N—NO—!"
"Yeah right, you're a spyin' perv, ya random, BLU little—"
"I ain't fuckin' little dude, I said I wasn't spyin' on your fuckin' grody ass, now leave me alone—!"
"Leave you alone?!"
"Yeah leave me alone! I'll kick your sorry ass back to England—!"
"I ain't one o'those bloody crumpet tossers, I'm a dinkum Aussie!"
"A what—?!"
"A dinkum Aussie!"
"Is that British for a dick?!"
"I TOLD YA I AIN'T ONE O'THEM! I AIN'T BRITISH 'ND I NEVER WILL BE! YOU CAN SHOVE YOUR QUEEN 'ND 'ER KINGDOM UP YOUR BLOODY ARSE!"
"Yeah, yeah, go back to England you fuckin' prick—"
"CALL ME A BRIT AGAIN, I DARE YA—!"
"Bri—HEY, HEY, STOP, YOU'RE SHAKIN' THE TREE, STOP! I'M GONNA FUCKIN' FALL—!"
"I'm an Australian givin' ya two seconds b'fore I shoot that head off your neck—"
"You can't do that, she's watchin'—!"
"Who's watchin'?!"
"Helen Ingram, the—the Administrator!"
"What about 'er?!"
"She'll know if you kill me, 'cause you ain't supposed to kill me, 'cause we ain't battlin'!"
"Wait—what—?!"
"We ain't allowed to kill durin' peace times!"
"Oi, I'm allowed t'defend my fuckin' base! Forget the base, actually—my apple tree!"
"Look, dude, mate, bloke, dinkum Aussie, whatever the fuck—I—I'm new, alright?! Seriously, I just got shipped out here today, I was just walkin' around, I—I don't even know where I am—!"
"You colourblind or jus' stupid, kid?! Couldn't ya see the lack o'blue 'round here?!"
"I didn't have no fuckin' idea!" Scout fibs nervously, even at the risk of it making him sound stupid. He'd trade intelligence for the worth of his life this man's eyes easily.
"So then y're new on base 'nd then y'just climb about in my tree in enemy territory, shocked when maybe I've got a gun aimed at ya?!"
"Dude, don't talk to me like that, I'll fuck you up—!"
"Yeah, roight—ah'll fawk ya awp," Sniper repeats mockingly in the best Bostonian accent he can muster.
"Hey, don't fuck with me, I've been to jail!"
"Ooo, Jail! Wot'd ya do, steal a pack o'gum from a candy store?! 'M I s'pposed t'give ya respect or whatever the lingo is?!"
Scout says nothing, glaring down at the man, who long since dropped the shotgun, much too heated by Scout's words to properly hold the firearm, much less pay attention to doing so.
"'M I s'pposed t'be intimidated by a fourteen year old unarmed stick who prolly spent his whole time playin' jailhouse cum dumpster 'nd gettin' plowed by inmates twice his size?!" Sniper sneers, hands on his hips, scowling up at the pouting young man who still sits tangled in the tree's branches, picking moodily at the fruit.
"I NEVER EVEN GOT FUCKED IN PRISON—!"
"Hmph, likely story, y'look like y've taken more cocks than medicine through that mouth o'yours, kid—"
"You lookin' to get your fuckin' ass kicked?! 'Cause I'll kick your ass—"
"Ah'll kick yowr ayus!" Sniper mimicks him, laughing heartily. "Y'ever shot'nd killed a man in cold blood, kid?!" Sniper spits darkly in a low growl.
"Y'ever even held a gun?!"
"What does it matter to you, you fuckin' windbag…"
"It—it doesn't, really, 's jus' that some random little shit head with the world's mos' annoyin' accent I've ever heard in my life is sittin' in the tree I planted, stealin' my fruit in threatenin' t'beat me up—I bet y'can't even come down here t'do it!"
"You wanna see me kick your ass?! 'Cause I will—"
"Go for it," Sniper smiles devilishly, a few silent seconds passing by.
"Why don't ya jus' get down from there?! Come'nd kick my arse!"
"It's ass—and—Icangtdrn…."
"Wotwasat?" Sniper asks, fanning a hand against his ear.
"I'm—I'm stuck…" Scout snaps in a quiet whisper, wincing as he goes to place his ankle against the branch to support his slide down. "I can't get down..."
"Y—y'need help…?" the Australian asks awkwardly, not sure where exactly the fundamental issue of helping a potentially hostile enemy found snooping the perimeters of RED down from a tree so he could kick his ass lied exactly.
"Fuck off man, I got it,"
"Whoa, 'lright then; I try t'be nice'nd I get 'tude, I can't wait t'kill your arse next mission—if you can even make it outta the tree t'begin with,"
"Fuck off, I got it I said!" Scout snaps again, grunting as placing weight on his sprained ankle sends waves of pain throughout his body.
"Musta sprained it comin' down tryin' t'beat me up…"
"Okay, I get it," Scout hisses, inching his way down slowly, surprised as a pair of hands actually assist him back to the ground, Scout catching sight of the man's incredibly hairy forearms.
"Y'know what, forget it—I helped ya outta the tree like a little kittten—y'can't ever claim t'be able t'kick my anythin' again, mate,"
Scout ignores him, picking up the fruit he'd dropped to the ground before, tucking them against his chest, moving about gingerly.
"The nerve o'you, mate. The absolute nerve o'ya,"
Scout shakes his head, saying nothing.
"Climbin' the fence into enemy territory, threatenin' t'beat me up, tellin' me t'piss off even when I don't kill ya like I should, 'nd then you steal my fruit without a word,"
The man actually goes back inside the base, much to Scout's surprise, the young man standing silently for a few seconds before continuing his picking.
"'Ere." The man shoves a plastic bag under his nose, holding it open as the weight of the apples tumbling inside stretch the material.
"You owe me," the Australian tosses the bag which Scout catches loosely, pressing it tightly against his chest.
"I'm gonna give you five minutes t'get the fuck outta here'nd never come back, ya hear me?!" Sniper growls, his grip on Scout's front aggressive though not immediately threatening. "If I catch ya anywhere on this base or near my tree again, I'm shootin' your bloody head off, mate. You're lucky I don't shoot newsies on their first day when we're not even on a mission—even luckier for ya my ego isn't so damaged that I'd take any pleasure or worth outta your frag," he spits, Scout gripping onto the white plastic so harsly holes tear in the fabric.
"Now get the fuck outta here; scram."