Lawrence tries to twist away from the end of the cigarette the woman traps between the ends of her fingers, the very same ends tipped with painted blades of nails that curl with growing length, the young man twisting his head violently as she nears it slowly. The few inches the loosened restraints spare him still do not suffice in assisting Scout's escape from the smoldering tobacco, the dirty burn suggesting the brand she typically enjoys must be of surprisingly cheaper quality. The budget smoke still does much to flare up his own addiction despite its choking, low grade burn. He clenches his mouth tightly as the woman presses the thin white cigarette gently into the skin just below his left eye.
The smell of his own flesh was sweet, salty, yet almost eerily familiar, like the scent of his mother labouring over the rarity that was a marinated lamb baking in the dusty kitchen he had safeguarded in the oldest corners of his memory. It is with rising horror he notes that the crackling pops and the drying of his own dying skin should remind him of meals once consumed, the rising smoke settling permanently in his nose, catching onto the back of his throat. He bellows another unnerving roar as he watches the skin flake in the form of dead scabs, the excruciating pain wells a nausea within him that doubles with each second he suppresses his screams, small hisses slipping through his teeth in the shouting's place. His incisors puncture his bottom lip, the stinging of the opened flesh nothing compared to the sensation of being burnt alive.
A myriad of incoherent curses and whimpers escape his throat in violent bursts as he finds the sensation of the embers burning to his very cheekbones causes him to lose all control of the volume and intensity of his screams. His back arches into a perfect curve as he uses the contortion of his body to soak up the pain like a morbid sponge. She pulls the flame yellowed cigarette back, Scout's vision blurring the image of the woman who stands above him, scowling at him from an antipathy that fuels her silent torture.
His hissing of "bitch" is hardly audible, weakened as he presses his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, the insult leading the woman to extend a cold, lifeless hand to clench against his cheek bones, the mound of the palm of her hand casting a shadow just above his eyes. He hisses the word again, stinging tears slipping over the many blistering burns that plague his face, catching under her thumb. Summoning all his energy, he blinks the remaining moistness from the corners of his eyes, narrowing them to show that she had not cracked him yet; she could never crack him.
Slamming the young man's head back against the table, stunning Scout momentarily, she takes the time bought by her to tighten the leather restraints assembled against his chest and legs. Crushing the ruined cigarette, she allows her eyes to brush over the young man before tossing it aside in favour of a small scalpel, whose silver blade is unblemished of smudges, sleek and perfectly reflective, the edge of the weapon not visibly sharp though causing Scout's breathing to quicken as she brings it to drag harmlessly across his cheek. She traces the pulsing veins in his throat lightly with the side, waiting until he becomes more conscious to continue. When his tongue quests out between his bloody lips, she angles the surgical weapon to remind him that the knife was not as harmless as the scrambling endorphins in his mind tried lulling him to believe.
The first sensation was real fear, as his eyes snap open to a gleaming metal tool traversing his neckline like a reptile seeking warmth, biding its time. The second was pain, as the still-warm burns on his face send reminders of their existence back to his brain via pain receptors. And the third was a sense of being alone. As if she could read his mind, the Administrator snaps, "Your precious Jack isn't able to save you again, not this time."
She grimaces as Scout flinches, the edge of the blade inflicting a thin slash along a tendon jutting from his neck, blood seeping lazily through the newly opened tremour in his skin, droplets pooling and staining it a healthy red in its wake.
"Too many times have you undeservingly escaped death; though where before I knew not whether it was divine intervention or incompetence of the other side, I know now it was Mundy assuming the role of your guardian angel."
The terrible woman slathers the blood with the tip of her index finger, the liquid settling in the grooves of her fingerprint and in the basin of her curling nails.
"I am very disappointed in you, Lawrence," she spits, rubbing her fingers together, the dried blood causing the tips to stick together. "You're my best, most loyal little fighter, it would be such a shame to let you die so…"
A rattling of a chain and the feel of tiny metallic balls pressing urgently against his stinging neck indicates to the young man that the woman had broken off his dog tags, freeing the whole of his collarbone for the scalpel's exploration.
"Where, I wonder, is your other one?" she asks softly of the Scout who flicks his tongue across his burning, raw lips, too preoccupied with the action to answer. "Let me guess—Mundy wears the second one…" she tisks mockingly, casting the thin metal aside, the balls of the chain bouncing about the floor in high pitched clinks.
"Heartwarming."
She brings the tip of the knife so it swivels in slow, soft circulatory motions around Scout's nervously bobbing Adam's apple, breaking the flesh softly.
"I really do not want to have to kill you, boy…" she sighs, cupping his cheek and patting it carelessly, and Scout closes his eyes again, muttering yet another unintelligible insult under his breath. "It would be such a waste; you've done so well, Scout…" the woman frowns, making a sharp swipe at Scout's cheek, blood seeping rapidly from the deep gash.
"And I have only treated you like a prince up until now, no? I pay you well, feed you, clothe you, supply you with weapons and a heated base, loving comrades, I am even granting you freedom and a clean record—all I ask is five years of service..." the Administrator sighs, holding Scout down as she stabs the scalpel straight through the palm of his left hand, the limb shriveling so his fingers arch around the blade. The aggressive scream he releases is the only means he has to express his pain, for he can no longer thrash away, the restraints too tight against his body.
"…and you can't even give me that."
She slowly draws the knife from Scout's palm, smeared with thin, shallow, irregular streaks of blood clinging to the tempered steel.
"But either your allegiance lies with me or the Sniper, and I have given you the opportunity to prove it to me once already—though because I value you so, I will give you a few moments' longer to make your choice…"
Scout groans, his left hand twitching, the recess in the center of it producing blood along with the rest of his cuts, his bandages staining quickly. The woman takes no pity on him however as she brings her hands to clench down on his temples. She wrenches his head upward, glaring at his liquefied expression, the reflection of herself haloed in the iris of his dark blue eye.
"Make your choice, Scout; Me, BLU, and you, or the Sniper and your death."
-
"I can only reiterate it, Mr. Mundy—"
"Uhuh—"
"If anyone asks, I have nothing to do with letting you out—"
"I'll keep it in mind, Miss, just please take me t'where that bastard's got Luc!"
"Promise me you will not disclose my involvement in letting you out!"
"I won't, I won't, I won't, now unlock the damn door before 's too late—!" the man doesn't finish his sentence, but instead he rattles the golden handle, his moist hands sliding in lubricous fumbles against the frored metal. Sniper presses his right shoulder forcefully into the door to which Miss Pauling fumbles with a set of keys conjoined on a moderately sized brass keyring, her shaking hands twisting them back and forth in the hole tremulously, as if the muscles of her hands were composed solely of rickety fault lines.
"HURRY—UP—YOU—!"
"Mr. Mundy, stand back, I don't want Mr. Marino to think you are breaking it!" she squeaks, her heart giving an exceptional thump as the soft click of the key conquers the security of the lock, the metal door swinging open quickly, though not so quick to suggest aggressive intentions (perhaps not from Pauling, in any case).
The sight that awaits them both stuns the two figures, Luc himself completely unaware of his onlookers for at least twenty seconds. The killing must have been only minutes ago, Sniper concludes, for Luc still bends over Dmitri's body, his butterfly knife abandoned next to the messy crime scene. Blood stagnates underneath the Italian's not yet rigid body, which lies facedown, suffocating in the liquid of his own insides. Luc, who stood now bedecked in a violet suit as opposed to the red one he originally adorned, involuntarily dyed with the clotting liquid of his victim, swipes a hand through his thick blonde hair. The moisture collected in the lines of his fanned palm causes the disheveled strands to adhere to themselves and retain the sloppy, handswept style, the bloodshed now the gel of the Frenchman.
"Luc, Holy Shit—" Sniper gasps, the Frenchman standing to his full height smoothly where others would have been quick to jump to their natural stature. Miss Pauling stands beside the Australian, weeping behind the hands covering her mouth, her eyes glittering behind the black, square framed glasses that rest upon her soft nose. Luc clears his throat, brushing what Sniper assumes must only be drying blood off his suit.
"Oh! I was 'oping I could come out and find you, Jack, zhough I suppose zhis…works…" Luc attempts to chuckle, smiling at the disbelieving gape Sniper sports, as well as Miss Pauling's weeping coupled with flailing hand gestures at Dmitri's body maimed with nasty gashes and puncture wounds.
"Remember when I said I 'ad zhat plan, Jack?" Luc clears his throat, Sniper surveying the dirtied room and stepping over Dmitri's stationary corpse, bending his knees to level himself with what he can only label a massacre.
"…I can assure you zhis was not part of it…"
"Fuck, Luc…" Sniper sighs heavily, bringing his hands to rake wearily through his hair. "I'm gettin' too bloody old for this—close the door, would y'Pauling?" Sniper asks kindly of the woman, who obeys with a slight cry preempting the slamming of the door.
"What…" is all the Australian can utter, albeit incredulously, looking around the floor and gesturing to the dead Spy. "Have you done." The question was more of a statement, Sniper's grey eyes teeming with a need for a sufficient answer to address it as if it were a question regardless.
"I can assure you I 'ave a good explanation for zhe dead Dmitri, Jack! Zhe man was trying to press details of Scout's attempted escape out of me as well as trying to get me to admit zhat 'Einrich was involved wizh zhe plan—zhen 'e went on to bad talk Lawrence and 'is mozher—" Luc sighs apologetically, watching the man take stressed strides in a pattern throughout the room, his feet catching in the plashes of carnage no matter where his body leads him to step. Every time the Australian attempts to speak words fail him, the two certainly ignoring Miss Pauling's light shivering near the door. "It was out of self defense, as it is—'e was saying all zhese zhings, and zhen zhe man decides 'e was tired of zhe speech giving and zhatmy time was up—"
"'Lright, great; you two spend all this time tellin' me about how irrational I am, then you turn around 'nd kill a bitch—"
"'Ave you not been listening?! 'E was trying to kill me Jack, and I know for a fact zhe Administrator did not want eizher of us killed during our interrogations, but I did what 'ad to be done, I did it out of protection!"
"Pr'tection?!" Sniper sighs with a weighted resignation, his cheeks puffed as he periodically emits heaves just in time for when the two others had assumed maybe he'd gotten over the initial shock. His lips point downward, his trademark scowl taking full expressive effect as he extends a bare hand to grab onto the mop of curls, sopped with blood. His fingers settling into the thick ringlets summons within him a sensation not too far off from the tingling of lying naked in the Australian beaches, the ends of the hair tickling at his skin, their harmless stroke chilled as if he were digging his feet into sand as in those days…
Sniper hesitates in lifting the man's face from his own puddle of claret only because the image of blood droplets swiveling the spiraled course of the curls, dripping in a traceable pattern from the locks and joining the mass of wetness on the floor, sickens him to a brief point of paralysation. The man's profile surfaces from the gore, Sniper groaning out loud at the sight of Dmitri's mangled and stabbed out left eye, his neck wobbling loosely, the slit of the severed jugular gaping open and closed biliously like the mouth of a wordless puppet.
"Good Lord…" Sniper retches, releasing his grip in the dead Italian's hair, his head falling unceremoniously back to the quagmire of body fluid, which the Australian notices, almost ripples in sick, asymmetrical splatters, and is not at all stagnant as he assumed.
"'E came at me, over zhe table," Luc clears his throat, pointing at the now overturned table, blood staining it, too.
"Bloke must not've been much of a diver, seein' as there's blood…everywhere…" Sniper notes, flicking his hands of the sweet blood that stains his large hand. "Either that or your assassination skills're a bit rusty,"
"I sliced zhe man's jugular, Jack—"
"You'd think you'd know not t'slice it if it makes a mess like that then!"
"A skilled Spy knows to never turn 'is back to 'is adversary—"
"Skilled alright, considerin' he looks like he walked head on into a sawblade,"
"You're not too far from zhe truzh, acutally—'E dived right into my knife, took 'is eye out, zhe man flailed about until I incapacitated 'im by stabbing 'is stomach—"
"Y'mean stabbin' his eye out didn't do the trick?! Jesus—guess you were right, Miss, you were hearin' screams back there!" Sniper calls at the sobbing woman with mock cheerfulness.
"I—I did not want to 'ave to kill 'im, but 'e left me no choice!"
"Funny how y'get blood everywhere, whether y'had to or not, can hardly call it a clean kill; looks like a goddamnslaughterhouse in here, Luc—smells like you've been minin' pennies for the last hundred years…" Sniper kicks the man, the tip of his leather shoe now stained like Luc's.
"Bloody pizza fucker—serves him right for everythin' he's done t'my Lawrence…."
"Now what?!" Luc asks incredulously, Jack shrugging before scoffing at his colleague.
"I dunno, burgers ?! You're the spy, not me—you've killed enough people t'know what t'do—"
"Dmitri burgers?"
"Yeah, fire up a grill 'nd dig in, mate!"
"Oh Jack, please! I am not willing to risk zhe indigestion one bite of zhis greasebag would cause!" the Frenchman smirks, Sniper sneering down at the Italian next to him.
"Get some ketchup, some cheese, freeze whatever else y'don't grind up for the winter—"
"You're both mad—absolutely mad—!" Miss Pauling shrieks from the corner in between tears, Luc adjusting his tie.
"It—it wasn't as if you actually liked 'im anyway—"
"He's dead!" She wails again. "I knew I should have never helped you—!"
"Oi! I didn't kill 'im! All I'm tryin' t'do is get me, him, 'nd Lawrence outta here in one piece! I don't give a toss about the bloody wog's long as it doesn't interfere with gettin' lost from this hellhole—!"
"While I agree, you cannot just ignore zhat we would be leaving a bloodied room and a corpse in our wake!"
"Wanna watch me?! 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can ignore it pretty easily, mate—"
"We 'ave to at zhe very least dispose of zhe body!"
"D'YOU NOT GET IT?! I DON'T CARE IF SOME OLD MAN JANITOR BARELY MAKIN' MINIMUM WAGE HAS T'CLEAN THIS SHIT UP, WE DON'T HAVE TIME!" Sniper roars, though the two men turn their glares onto the weeping Miss Pauling still huddled in her corner, her hand fanned over her mouth, the woman shaking her head quickly.
"Please, Miss Pauling, 'e was a chauvinistic, cruel imbecile! 'Ave you not forgotten zhe way 'e treated you?! 'E sexually 'arrassed you on a daily basis, non?!"
"He—he didn't deserve to die!"
"What else was I supposed to do, 'e tried killing me!"
"And how did you have that knife on you?! You smuggled a weapon in, and—Oh God, oh God, oh God!"
"Please, Madame, I only 'ad zhe knife just in case I needed to defend myself—!"
"Great, now there's no way she's gonna help me get Lawrence now—!"
"In zhat case we do not need to 'ide zhe body, I can just leave it 'ere," Luc sighs, taking a deep breath and giving Dmitri and then Sniper a look over.
"We storm zhe Administrator's room, I am disguised as you Jack, using my Dead Ringer—"
"Thought you said it didn't do disguises—"
"Not as thoroughly, for example it does not conceal voice, 'owever I can imitate an Australian accent well enough—zhen I will tell Scout to "kill" me, which will zhen produce a fake of your body. I shall zhen, while cloaked, run back to where you are 'iding, Lawrence walks away free, zhen we pick a direction and run in it!"
"That was your plan?"
"Y—Yes, and you do not sound impressed…"
"Well, 's kinda hard t'just go on about business as usual when we've got a dead guy in the basement…"
"You said yourself no one 'as to know until we are long gone…" Luc nods, the two men turning slowly to face Miss Pauling, who visibly swallows before shaking her head.
"I—I have to tell her…"
"Y'don't have to tell anyone anythin', Pauling—"
"No, Mr. Mundy, I cannot just stand by and watch as you murder and kill—!"
"Oh, but it's A okay when Miss Ingram kills my Larry for kissin' another bloke—"
"Miss Pauling, as much as I 'ate to vicitimise you 'ere in such a delicate situation—"
"I sure as Hell don't," Sniper snaps, snatching up the loaded revolver lying next to its deceased owner, the woman screaming as Sniper brings it to her height.
"JACK—"
"Here's how it's gonna work, Miss," Sniper snarls, Miss Pauling flattening her back against the metal door as Sniper nears her with the weapon.
"You're either gonna take us upstairs, 'nd not say a goddamned word while we finish up our business, or else y'can take a nice bullet t'the brain,"
"You are only digging our graves deeper, Jack—"
"Clearly we're abandonin' all pretenses t'give a shit at this point, Luc," Sniper rolls his eyes, giving Dmitri's body a slight kick with his heel. "By time anyone finds the time t'care the tosser's gone we'll be long outta here—now I promise you this ain't nothin' personal, Miss, 'nd I really do mean it, but right now I know the only thing standin' between me goin' about my way 'nd not shootin' your brains out is you yourself, Miss…"
Miss Pauling nods silently, her bottom lip still trembling.
"Okay, just please, please don't hurt me…" she whimpers as she silently leads the men back upstairs, Sniper pocketing the revolver inside of his vest.
"Don't tip 'er off with any sort o'funny expressions, I'll kill you both if you try," Sniper growls, Miss Pauling weeping as they pass a guard in the atrium.
"Keep walkin', darlin'…" Sniper reminds her, Luc striding quickly on the other side of her. "Y'got the ringer ready?"
"I—I—MERDE!" Luc curses as he pats his breast, the golden pocket watch clearly no longer on his person. "I—I cannot find it—!"
"Fuck, Luc, y'kiddin' me?! Don't you go anywhere—" Sniper growls at the obedient Miss Pauling, who shakes still as the two men stand outside of the door, debating on what to do next.
"We don't have time t'look, Luc, either Scout'll be done for or someone'll find the body before we even have the chance t'remember where you left it—"
"I did not leave it somewhere, it was dropped! It must 'ave slipped from my pocket when I fought wizh Marino—!"
"So what do we do, then, mate?!" Sniper growls, and Luc shakes his head wildly, silently shrugging and leaning against the wall.
"If we're gonna go in there with a fightin' chance, then I'd say the next best thing t'do would be t'take down one o'them guards 'nd try takin' that rifle,"
"Zhe rifle…?"
"Yeah. You sneak me in 'nd I get up t'that balcony. I take a snipe at 'er 'nd boom, we take Lawrence 'nd hightail it outta here. She won't be movin', so it won't be hard, there's no way I'll miss,"
"Mr. Mundy I will not let you attempt to assassinate the—" Miss Pauling quits speaking as the man puts the revolver to her temple, not even turning his gaze away from Luc as he does so.
"Jack, if we shoot and kill 'er zhe whole base will immediately be on lockdown, we will be killed on sight—!"
"'Nd what other ideas 've we got here, Luc?!"
"Certainly we 'ave ones better zhan killing zhe CEO of RED, BLU, and TF Industries!"
All three heads turn to the door as a faint scream emanates from the other side, Sniper instantly snarling and turning to face the door outright.
"Oh God, Lawrence… Jack whimpers, his hands curling along the surface of the cool metal, sleek in their descension like water dribbling against glass.
"I don't need a plan, Luc, not when she's hurtin'im in there; I got a gun 'nd that'll get us loads o'places—I'm real sorry, Miss, I really am, I promise I won't hurt you if y'jus'help us out, jus' please get me in there!" Sniper mutters in the woman's ear, giving her time to collect herself before bringing her small hands to fumble with the keyring.
"Jack, I—I am going to go back downstairs and find zhe Ringer, it cannot 'urt to 'ave it—"
"Don't take too long, y'hear me?! Jus' ditch it if y'can't find it after too long, 'cause once I kill 'er I'm takin' 'im and I ain't lookin' back—HURRY UP, PAULING!" Sniper screams down the woman's neck as more of Scout's groaning suggests he is once again a victim of excruciating methods of interrogation. Sniper stumbles in, the weight of the door flying open with such intensity it dents the concrete wall. He stalks upon his long legs cautiously but quickly, each step nearing him to the center of the room, revolver drawn and pointed acutely at the black and silver head of the frowning Administrator.
Scout shakes violently in his restraints, his face scarred with pocks representing all shades of puce the spectrum had to offer, welts of various sizes left behind by the burns of the woman's cigarette. Where his skin was not literally burned off, his flesh flushes to match the bluish green scars that plague it. Still bleeding gashes emit cascading blood in a thick, sludge like manner, dripping into his open mouth. His right arm dangles lifelessly at a painfully unorthodox angle over the edge of the table, suggesting the limb to have been broken. Still, Scout summons just enough energy to sit up as much as the straps allow him to at the sight of the Australian, his voice cracking as he desperately calls his name—
"Pauling what is this?!" the woman shrieks in a rage filled rasp, though not flinching as Sniper roars, striding ever closer and cocking the revolver.
"JACK, STOP!" Scout calls, hoisting himself in time to see the older woman pull a pistol from a holster around her thigh. The loud pop of the firearm and the slim bullet's slicing of the air deafens Scout temporarily, as does the ferocious scream of pain that follows thereafter; Sniper sinks to his knees, curling his hand over his newly wounded left shoulder, the arm it belongs to tensing as the muscles lock.
"Good Lord, you are all such failures…" She spits, striding her way over to the moaning man whose hunch causes the composure of his body to congeal so powerfully his nose nearly touches the frigid ground. The woman wrenches the man so he faces her directly in the eye, though his unable to match hers in contempt and strength, for they are squinted under the influence of agony. She doesn't seem bothered that his blood too now stains her cold, bony hands, the flesh nearly blue from a lack of circulation, paling when compared to the deep red of her thickly coated nails. The woman shows no signs of either hearing Scout's whimpers nor Jack's grunts and hissing, and she swings her forearm back so her wrist aligns with her ear, bringing the hand wielding the pistol to slap sharply across the Australian's jaw.
"Enough of this; I have had enough of this," the woman barks, fishing the revolver Jack had armed himself with just a minute ago and tossing that too, Scout gulping as the cool metal skids smoothly, its velocity dissipating right as it reaches the edge of the brown table he rests upon.
"PAULING!" the woman stands to her feet, pushing Sniper so he falls against his back, his hand still clutching the shot shoulder. "Where is the Frenchman and Marino?" she spits coolly, lighting a cigarette and glaring distastefully at her young assistant.
"M—Marino is dead, Miss Ingram—"
"Nonsense, I will hear no more of it; I have allowed the six of you to take turns raping my patience as is and I refuse to bend over backwards and say nothing as my time is wasted further—I will ask you again, Pauling: where is Marino—"
"Miss Pauling would be zhe last person to spread lies, Miss Ingram," Luc calls coolly from the doorway, the seething, rage filled glare narrowing the Administrator's eyes so intensely it is a wonder she can see the man at all.
The Frenchman does, however, take immediate notice to the writhing Australian and his own contribution of bloodshed, yet another of her floors sullied by their physical injuries.
'Jack, you imbecile…' the man thinks nervously, his teeth grinding, the whole of him on edge as he tried his best to maintain a deadpan demeanour as the woman's scathing, repugnant frown means to scare him down. Though the attention of the silent room turns to Scout, who still lies strained against the table, his repetitive whining of the Australian's name not going unheard by anyone other than the one he calls after.
"Pauling, silence him, I am trying to hold a conversation with this gentleman and the shouts of his stepson begging for the Sniper are distracting me," The Administrator commands of her assistant, stepping over the Australian and making her way to Luc himself.
"What are you waiting for—?!" Miss Pauling hisses as the young woman still stands with her back against the wall, hands pressed against her chest.
"W—what…?"
"Do not what me, Pauling, hush him up, I cannot hear his stepfather over his crying—"
"With—with what—?"
"For God's sake, Pauling, there is a gag on the table, there is even a pistol next to him! I don't care how you get him to shut up, God help me if you do not!" she snarls, and Pauling rushes behind her boss, Scout's cries and shouts of the man's name now muffled presumably behind the wad of fabric the young woman forces into his mouth.
"Learn to control your stepson, Rousseau," the Administrator spits, her eyes glaring him up and down. He simply gapes, his eyes travelling to the bound and gagged figure of the one he would go as far to call a biological son. "He has a tendency to talk back as well as out of turn. I am familiar with your history and I know he may have grated you to the point of being unfit to actually parent him in the past, but that still is no excuse for not attempting to hammer manners into him now as an adult; as a matter of fact, I would encourage it,"
Sniper groans dully again in the silence provided by the Administrator's cursory glance over at the stifled Scout, the man's moans of pain falling quieter as the gunshot wound almost dulls the flesh around it.
"Not that he'd be able to put his new skills to practice after today."
Luc says nothing, but instead watches as his youngest child succumbs to exhaustion, the restraints not letting up no matter how he alternates between harsh and soft movements.
"You watch him as if you pity him; well I can tell you he deserves anything but your pity. The Scout earned every beating he got, be it due to his disloyalty or his recurring desire to backtalk one with little patience; regardless we are wasting time discussing the condition of the ridiculous trainwreck of a victim of your parenting skills. I am not concerned with Lawrence for now, but rather this rumour that Mr. Dmitri Marino is dead; Turn around."
The Frenchman complies with her demands, her head twisting upon her extended neck in order to scrutinize him thoroughly from all angles.
"Rousseau, why are you covered in blood?" she croaks in a tired rasp she calls a voice, Luc clearing his throat as he pats his moist front, the fabric of his suit gritty, the stitching a brittle dry as the liquid forever seeps into the fibers of the pinstripes. His lips tremble, the enervated Scout uncertain as to whether or not the Frenchman was simply playing the part of subdued coyness for the sake of making an impression or because he had truly been cornered to speechless cluelessness.
"Whose blood is it, or else why are you soaked in your own," the Administrator spits, Luc clearing his throat and nodding curtly.
"I fear I must admit it is zhe blood of Marino…"
"Luc, you bloody idiot-!" Jack hisses shrilly, weakly, rapid blood loss deteriorating the strength with which he would prefer to project the exclamation. Miss Ingram shows no sign of having heard the man, Luc's diagonal cast of his eyes conveying that he, however, had.
"Why?" she asks softly, templing the tips of her talons, a soft clack resonating as the tips of the slashing nails peak together. "Why must you all give me so much trouble, why must Fitzpatrick and Mundy betray me so, when I give them freedom, I provide their lives with purpose and security, I pay them, I guarantee them a place in this changing world! Why must they defy me so, Rousseau?"
Luc shakes his head thoughtlessly, allowing his eyes to fall shut, droplets of Dmitri's blood galloping noiselessly against the checkered linoleum floor.
"Why must they betray my trust and their comrades without any good reason for rebellion?! Do you take me for a fool?!" she roars, catlike, her voice echoing off the walls, cracking the barrier of silence. "Do you take me as someone so easily manipulated?!"
"N-no ma'am-"
"I am not speaking to you, Pauling!" she growls, bending to her knees and bringing Jack's face so it's only inches away from her own. "Who are you without me, Mundy?!"
The man does not even respond, completely drained of any healthy shade that should otherwise tint his skin, the whole of his red shirt and vest sopping too in blood. "Your medals, your record, your title, your salary, your citizenship, you would have not even met Fitzpatrick had you not become an employee of my own. Even that which you are so ready to abandon my trust for, you only have because of me!"
She picks up the pistol, narrowing her eyes and shooting the man in his other arm, Jack howling again in agony.
"And you, Rousseau, had I not stationed you in Boston all those years ago you would have never met Fitzpatrick's mother! You all owe me everything!" she explains coldly, placing the revolver into Miss Pauling's trembling hands. "I give, and give and give, and yet you all seem so easily to forget that I can take it all away! I of course do not want to have to terminate my loyal mercenaries; I do want to give you all the benefit of a doubt, administer second chances-yet I find I am the one looking a bullet between the eyes, and I shall have no more of it. Speaking of, Pauling, fetch form I-37C,"
"The death notice?"
"Well unless I am being pulled along even still, I believe we do have a deceased Marino somewhere within the building," she snarls, bringing her cold, grueling eyes to Luc's. Miss Pauling slips through the door quietly, returning seconds later with a packet in her hands, the woman producing a fountain pen and giving the woman a curt, fearful nod.
"Why, Rousseau?" she asks tiredly, the Frenchman clearing his throat and exchanging a short glance with Pauling, who beckons him to hurry with her eyes, pen scrawling facts already known in the appropriate spaces.
"…'e was interrogating me-"
"As if I do not already know this!"
"'e was trying to press details of zhe plan out of me…"
"So then you admit there was a plan centered around Fitzpatrick and his escape?!"
"I do not," Luc responds hushedly. "I 'eard from Lawrence zhat Dmitri was after 'im and was attempting to kill 'im, zhreatening 'im wizh zhe photos 'e took of 'imself cloaked as Jack wizh Lawrence 'imself-"
"Rousseau you maybe be a most cunning and talented Spy-much more so than Marino-though I highly advise you do not lose sight of whom it was who trained you, and how transparent your acting could appear to those also inclined to recognize a two faced liar for what he is," she snaps, the Frenchman falling silent abashedly.
"I can understand you fear, Mr. Rousseau; I am not so heartless of a person that I do not understand that there are lengths you are willing to travel if it means protecting your stepson, even though he disrespects you and would, were I to guess, never do the same for you. Because you are so valuable to me I can assure you you will not be losing your life today, though your willingness to deceive me shall not go unpunished.
Marino was interrogating you, and I am certain you held your tongue, as I had trained you to do when caught in such scenarios. I am most pleased to see I have taught you well. How then, did it lead to fruitless chitchat to a dead Italian I will need replaced in a week's time?!"
"'E pulled 'is knife on me, and I only react from instinct!"
"Why in the world would he pull his knife on you?! Pauling, are you getting this-?!"
"'E simply did, Miss Ingram, I am afraid I cannot tell you much else about 'is zhought process,"
"I see-Pauling, document the death as being a casualty of war. Label Rousseau as his killer and post it on the killfeed. File the paper accordingly and scan a copy to send to his mother," she commands heartlessly.
"You do not seem troubled…"
"I could hardly stand the idiot; he served his purpose and served it well enough. He was expendable and moronic, and I can assure you his death is only trouble insofar I will have to pay Octavio over time to clean the room you gutted him in,"
"That's so harsh, Miss Ingram…"
"Only because you all bring me so far, Miss Pauling," she snaps, lifting her heel over Jack's freezing body, rendered cold and pale due to blood loss.
"Mr. Mundy is losing blood quickly, Miss Ingram; should he not get patched up and taken care of, he will certainly die,"
"Nonsense, the man has suffered much more fatal injuries," she spits, Lawrence, who still lies strapped upon the table, the saliva drenched gag tumbling from his lips like frothing yeast, narrowing his eyes nervously as the Administrator approaches him, unstrapping the leather around his chest and discarding the cloth in his mouth indignantly.
"Jack-!"
"Pauling, restrain him," she commands, Miss Pauling hesitating, for his front is stained too with blood, the woman jumping as Lawrence swears violently, for the whole of his body is completely sore.
"Lawrence Fitzpatrick I have attempted to gather the whole of the truth on the matter. Your defiance however has earned you all the maiming you are currently suffering, and even still you refuse to say anything on the matter. Your selfishness has caused the death of Marino, punishment upon your doctor and stepfather, and, should you refuse to comply with the following commands, death for your Sniper," Lawrence whimpers, his one, non swollen eye fixed on the still Australian, his frame shaking violently, his lips trembling. "Pauling, check Mundy's pulse,"
"…he's still alive, Miss Ingram, though his breathing is heavy,"
"Then I do not have much longer," she snaps, pushing Lawrence so he slams against the ground, the young man colliding against the concrete like earth, groaning and coiling rigidly, unable to make any other motions in his condition. "Mister Rousseau I suggest you give each of these men a succinct goodbye; though, depending on the young man's decision, only one of them would have been in vain," she explains, bringing Lawrence to suffer on his knees, the tip of the revolver pressed lightly to his temple. "Since you two are so desperate to shatter that which I give you, I shall see to it you two are the ones to shatter it yourselves,"
"Lawrence-"
"Pauling, escort Rousseau out of the room-"
"Lawrence!"
"Miss Pauling, he will not budge!"
"Then if he wants to witness the execution of his own stepson, who am I to stop him?!" she shouts, shoving the barrel of the rifle into Lawrence's mouth, the young man choking at the taste of iron and gunpowder trickling down the back of his throat. Her hands snarl around the back of Scout's head, lodging the firearm deeper into his mouth. "Certainly you have sucked his cock enough to be able to take something so small," she sneers, Pauling shifting and shielding her eyes with the palm of her tiny hands. "Make your choice, Lawrence-" she hisses in his ear, his cries muffled by the metal pointed down his esophagus. "Do you love him?!" she shouts, and she slides the revolver from between his lips again. Scout whimpers as he steals a glance at the barely conscious Jack, who lies submerged in pooling blood, hardly able to shake his own head no, hoping the young man catches the gesture.
"Deny him, Scout, and I shall spare your own life-by shooting him I would take him out of his misery. Look at him, he's suffering, Lawrence! I'll ask a final time; do you love him?!" she snaps again, Luc white faced as he watches his stepson in horror as he nods as best he can with what little strength he has.
"I do-"
"Larry, no!" Jack roars, the woman shooting the man a third time, bringing the revolver to slip into his mouth a final time, dragging the front sight of the revolver to swish along the inside of the shaking Scout's cheeks.
"Rousseau, tell him now how much you love him, tell his mother he died a lovestruck boy-" a soft click echoes as the woman pulls the trigger, her forehead scrunching as she clicks it yet a few more times, the whimpering Lawrence opening his eyes as he finds himself still alive.
"Good Lord…" she spits, cracking the grip of the gun against Lawrence's skull, dazing him instantly. "PAULING!"
"Yes ma'am?"
"Fetch me Marino's pistol under the table," she spits, tossing her own exasperatedly, Lawrence spitting blood onto his knees and crawling his way slowly toward Jack's frozen form, burying his face into the man's neck, thanking God the man still miraculously lives-
"Lawrence…" Luc whispers, falling to his knees next to their figures, keeping his eyes on the nagging women. "Jack said-Jack told me zhat I was not to let you claim you loved 'im…"
"That ain't gonna happen, Luc…" the young man croaks, resting his head against Jack's bleeding chest, which heaves slowly with his heavy, slow breath.
"Lawrence, it would save your life-"
"And you both are fuckin' stupid for ever thinkin' I'd take Jack's to save my own…"
"'E said 'e was willing to die for you, we agreed to zhis!"
"And I'm willin' to die for us," the young man whispers, the last few blows to the head having clearly disoriented his mental state, his speech slurred, the young man drooling blood, dripping onto the Australian's cheek, Lawrence bringing his mangled, shriveled hand to rub the liquid in an attempt to smear it clean, the mire simply mingling with the icy cheek, painting it a subtle pink instead.
"'E would kill you if 'e were conscious…"
"I think Ingram wants to beat him to it…"
"-Pauling, I will not stand for this insubordination!"
The mousey woman still holds her ground, folders tucked under her arms and pressed tightly against her breast, her soft eyes closed solemnly.
"I cannot assist you in the execution, Miss Pauling-"
And so the Administrator pushes the weightless woman aside, drawing Dmitri's pistol and craning it at Lawrence, who allows himself a few seconds to lean across Jack affectionately, careful to maintain his defiant gaze with the woman.
"I hope he was worth it until the end, Fitzpatrick."