It was a long walk for tired feet.
The Pyro was starting to see the folly of his on-foot trek to Teufort. He was out of shape, and his legs were quick to burn. Even his cheerful disassociation from the world outside his mask didn't take the pain away. At least he didn't have much to carry. He could stop in Brahms for a while, rest his feet, and start again.
There were small signs all along the backwoods roads. Directions to other cities. Mile markers. Crude warnings. Even one sign that confused the Pyro. He studied it for a moment, mimicking the shadow's movements. A thumb in the air. Why wasn't he supposed to have a thumb in the air? What was wrong with that? He'd seen other people with thumbs in the air as he walked on by. Young women with backpacks, usually. They would run away screaming from him before he could ask what was wrong with that action. Even the cars would swerve away from him.
That probably had less to do with him being a traffic obstruction, and more to do with the axe strapped to his back. He didn't know why other people would panic about that. It wasn't like he was going to use it on them.
The Pyro continued his happy little voyage, humming to himself and swinging his luggage. It was hard to stay down with a song in his heart. Gray mists gave way to rainy roads. Brahms grew closer as trees faded away. Soon, he was on a dull road, nothing but crops to his left and right. Still, the numbers were ticking down to his destination. He took that as a good sign.
A funny sound came from behind him. The Pyro stopped, wondering if that was a bird call. A white, sharp car was slowing down. A light on its top was flashing blue and red. On its side was golden text. This vehicle clearly belonged to a state trooper. The Pyro tipped his head as the vehicle came to a stop just behind him. What did he do wrong now?
He waited as its driver stepped out of the car. A broad-shouldered man in a brown uniform approached him. "Stand still, citizen!"
The Pyro complied. He tipped his head, wondering what was up with this person. He started speaking, but all that came out of his mask was confused buzzing. "Dur yur knr Offrrcrr Drrta?"
"Sir, I can't understand you. Take off the mask," the officer said.
The Pyro shrugged, then did as he asked.
The trooper made a series of gasps and shrieks. "No! I was wrong! Put the mask back on!"
"Okay," the Pyro replied. He pulled his helmet on with a slick, squelching sound.
"I can see why you always have it on," the trooper grunted. "Anyway. Put your stuff down. Easy with the axe, buster. Nobody wants to have any trouble."
"R'm nrt gunrr hrt nerrbrdy," the Pyro protested.
The state trooper nodded. Despite his gesture, the Pyro wasn't sure that the officer understood him. He stayed stiff as a board as the officer approached him. A peculiar feeling prickled in the Pyro's head. He scrunched his face behind his mask, wondering why he suddenly felt nostalgic. The officer's face was a little familiar. Typical Midwestern features—thick, wide jaw, hair that wasn't quite blonde or brunette, irritated default expression. Nothing to get excited about, except for his magnificent golden moustache.
"What are you doing out here?" the state trooper asked.
The Pyro answered as best as he could. "Grng tr Nrr Mephmico. Trrfrt. Knr thr plz?"
The officer paused. He took a few seconds to work out what the strange man in the asbestos suit was saying. "New Mexico? Why in the hell would you want to go down there? Don't you know how torn up it is? Blasted to smithereens!"
An icy sliver of terror went through the Pyro's head. "Mr frrndz! Rrr thr rrkay?"
"Your friends?" the trooper responded with a new speed. "I don't know. Listen, pal. Don't you realize how long of a walk it is to New Mexico? It'll take you weeks to get there! Not that I'm encouraging hitch-hiking, but you're not going to get help from anyone else with that axe on your back."
The tiniest bit of sobriety got to the Pyro. He sighed, then put his hand on his chin, leaning onto his right hip. The trooper was right. A week was a long time. And how long had he already been gone? A year? There might not be anything left for him in Teufort.
"R nrrd tr fnd mr frrnds," the Pyro replied. "R thnk thr rrr n trrbrrl."
The state trooper puffed out his chest. He scratched at his thick moustache. "Don't worry about that. There are still men of the law in New Mexico! If anyone's going to save your friends, it's them! C'mon. Let's get you back home. Where were you coming from?"
"Trrfrt," the Pyro said. He tipped his head, realizing that wasn't what the officer meant. "R lvvd n Srrnt Hurr."
Another panicked expression froze the state trooper's face. "Sweet Lincoln's ghost! There's no way I can—" He collected himself, then offered the Pyro a hand. "C'mon. I've got to make it to the capital before sundown. You can come with me. Free meal! You can't go wrong. We'll see what to do with you in the morning."
The Pyro clapped his hands twice, then shook the officer's hand. He would take any help he could get. "Thnk yrr, Offrrcrr—" He tilted his head, then read the trooper's badge. "Drr."
He stopped, then made a holler that sounded like someone had kicked a goose. He lifted a gloved hand, then put his finger across the trooper's moustache. Suddenly, the face became familiar. That intense gaze could only belong to one crazed, enthusiastic, bossy American. He gave another whoop, then squeezed the trooper around his shoulders.
"What the hell kind of man do you think I am?" the officer barked. "Hands down! You are not a contestant on The Dating Game! I am just taking you to my hometown and giving you a free meal. Do you understand?"
More so than ever. He threw his arms around the officer, then gave another hug. The trooper had no idea why this stranger was being so affectionate. Frankly, all the gesture did was irritate him. He pushed the Pyro back, then forced him towards his car. "Don't get frisky, buster. I will cuff you and throw you in the trunk if you get too personal!"
The Pyro shook his head. "Drn't yrr knrr mr?"
"No, I do not know you, weird space man," the trooper responded. "I doubt I could ever forget a face like yours."
A long, frustrated sigh rattled in the Pyro's mask. The state trooper sure was dense. A year hadn't changed that. He gave another grunt, then lifted his mask again. Not enough to expose the entirety of his face, but enough to get his message across. "If you don't know me, then how do you understand me?"
This puzzled the state trooper. He didn't put too much thought into it before responding. "Because I am perceptive! I am an agent of the law, after all. I must be inquisitive and deductive! That means I must be fluent in all things, even weird space man mumbling!"
The Pyro couldn't believe this. How dense could the trooper be? He sighed, then gave up. He slipped his mask back on, then went to the passenger's side of the car. The state trooper opened the door and threw his guest's items into the back seat. The two settled into position, closed the doors, and buckled up.
The Pyro gave one last unguarded grin. The duo would be on the road for at least two hours. He could prove the officer's identity to himself before then. And, if not, then he could always show him the magic trick he could do with a car's cigarette lighter. That tended to spark a few things.
Until then, at least he had a free ride and a meal.
A cold draft awoke the sleeping giant. It brushed across large feet—one covered in a white and gray sock, the other exposed to the morning air. The large man grunted, then tucked his bare foot beneath a ratty, knitted blanket. He rolled onto his back, then grunted. This wasn't his bed. Hell, it wasn't anyone's bed. It was a tiny couch. He opened one glossy eye, then scanned the ceiling. Not his apartment. Nor the hotel. Not anywhere.
The massive man sat up. He immediately regretted that decision. Last night's liquor, meals, and his thick belly squashed against his internal organs. His drunkenness sloughed off his brain, burning in the back of his head. Bad move. Very bad.
He put a hand over his grimacing mouth. It was about to get worse.
There was no time to find a restroom. He couldn't make it even if he knew where it was. The big man flopped off the couch, then stumbled towards the kitchen. Feathers leapt into the air as he crashed through the compact living room. Damned birds were in the way again! He just reached the trashcan when his fortitude finally gave out. With a deep, trembling moan, his body rejected last night's party.
After he was done, he spat into the trashcan. "Never again."
He sank onto his rear end, trying to piece together what he had done. There had been these birds everywhere. He remembered them following him and his party companion the entire night. One sat on the kitchen counter, judging him with black, beady eyes. Like the bird would do any better as a human. The man scratched his chin, then wondered about what had happened to the cheerful fellow. Hopefully he wasn't feeling as awful as the big guy was.
A retching sound came from behind a closed door. The large man lifted his head, then stood up. Who was that? The happy bartender? He approached the cheap, plywood door. He raised his fist, then gave two gentle knocks. "Hello? You okay?"
There was the sound of running water, and then a flush. Strange order. The big man waited patiently, wondering what was going on. Clearly, the other person was well enough to blunder around. The birds that had crashed in the living room and kitchen were curious about this man's behavior as well. They fluttered around the big man. One was bold enough to sit on his shoulder. The thought of shooing them away did cross his mind, but he let them be.
The doorknob twisted. "One minute, bitte. I am not feeling—"
There was an awkward drop as the big man on the town made eye contact with the German bartender from last night. It became stranger still as both men realized who the other was.
"Oh, nyet," the Heavy groaned.
His German companion was unable to form words. What started as soft laughter escalated into wild cackling. Precisely the kind of laughter that was accompanied with a clap of thunder and monsters rising from the dead. The companion grabbed his guest by his large arms, then his belly and face.
"It's you!" the Medic exclaimed.
"Doctor. I have many questions," the Heavy sighed. "What is this? How are we here? Where is—"
The Medic kept grinning like a madman. He patted the bird sitting on the Heavy's shoulder. "Hello, Archimedes. You never left me, did you?" He nuzzled the bird's face, quickly violating the Heavy's personal space. The Russian tolerated it for as long as possible, knowing that it was hard to snap the Medic out of his doting. It was when they started cooing at each other that the big man had to break it up.
The Heavy rumbled. "Doctor. Think. What happened?"
A vacant glaze came over the Medic's eyes. He went deep inside himself, to some place that was dark and reflective. He moved his face slowly from a smile to a frown, and then back again. He gave an eerily happy smile. "I have no idea. But, I zhink it has to do vizh vhat I threw up!"
The Heavy blinked twice before responding. "I do not understand."
"Vait here! I will show you!" the Medic replied.
A repulsed shudder went through the massive Russian. He didn't know what the Medic was getting at, but he knew it would be disgusting. The man was a scholar of medicine. He had a steel stomach and a penchant for digging in piles of gore for fun. It was a rare day when anything made him sick. Come to think of it—why had either of them been throwing up? Both were tempered, well-seasoned drinkers. Responsible and slow. Neither of them would have made themselves this sick over alcohol.
The Medic returned with a small, round device clamped in between a pair of tweezers. It had been recently washed. He presented the ball to the Heavy, making sure to point out the numbers stamped on its side. "07-18-01-25. Remember?"
The Heavy lowered his brow. "Numbers. Actually letters. Encrypted, da? G-R-A-oh…"
"No, Y," the Medic misunderstood. It took him a moment to catch up. "Oh!"
"This was in you?" the Heavy asked.
The Medic nodded. "Ja. Threw it up. I can't quite recall what it is but—" He crinkled his nose, then turned to the kitchen. "Did you get sick, too?"
The Heavy grimaced, then gave a slow bob of his head. "Da. Sorry. Could not find bathroom. Used trash can."
That was hardly an offense to the Medic. He tapped the Heavy's shoulder, then stepped around the large man. He made his way towards his small kitchen. The stench led him straight to the Heavy's vomit. He scrunched up his face, then gave a delighted "Ah ha!" Without a second's hesitation, he reached straight into the fouled garbage can and pulled out a shiny piece of metal. With his clean hand, he turned on the hot water tap, then washed it in the sink. Sure enough, there was a second sphere with the same letters on them.
"Just as I zhought," the Medic smiled.
The Heavy raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Doctor?"
"Do you remember, Heavy?" the Medic asked. "It must have been—ah, it feels so long ago. Ve vere leading an attack vhen ve vere overwhelmed. Ve vere locked in a small room, and—"
"—Scout was taken first. Screamed like devil," the Heavy interrupted.
The sobering memory took the smile from the Medic's face. "Ah, yes. But he screamed about everyzhing."
Both men lowered their heads and closed their eyes. Memories wavered in the center of their minds. One by one, their teammates had been taken away. When the screaming and crying had subsided, there was little left. A pain in their sinuses. The flash of a scalpel. Something hot and sharp. Then, their little new lives started, as abruptly shifted as ending one film's reel and switching to an entirely different movie. No longer their world—hardly their dimension of reality. Just slaves to domesticity.
"Why did he do this?" the Heavy asked.
"Couldn't quite kill us," the Medic gave a dry, weak chuckle. "Ve always come back. So, he had to take zhe killer out of us." He rotated the strange device, then began wondering out loud. "Not quite a memory eraser. Perhaps a suppresser? How strange. But, maybe ve had information he vould vant again one day."
This brought a new question from the Heavy. "Why did it fail?"
The Medic shrugged. "Now, zhat is a question for the Engineer!" He sighed again. "Zhat is, if we ever find him and if he remembers us. Scheiße, this is irritating!"
"We need plan, Doctor." The Heavy tried to steer the Medic back on track. "We may be in trouble, I think. What if weak old man knows of device failure? Could he come after us?"
"Ve may already be monitored. Not very vell, zhough, since ve found each other. Still, I zhink you have a point," the Medic chuckled.
"We go, then," the Heavy said. "We leave town together. Take items, get ready to fight. Find others, maybe?"
The Medic shook his head. "I don't know how ve'd go about finding them. Ve just got lucky!"
The Heavy frowned, then crossed his arms. "Set up camp, then. Sit outside New Mexico. Wait."
"Is zhat all ve can do?" the Medic huffed. "Just sit and vish on stars?"
That was a problem. With no ways to communicate with the others, they were stuck. The Heavy tipped his head to the side, bumping into Archimedes. The dove gave a flustered coo, then hopped onto the Medic's right shoulder. As the dove set about preening the Medic's hair, the Heavy lifted his head.
"Archimedes knew you," the Heavy said. "All birds? They knew you. That is how I found you, Doctor."
The Medic's eyes widened. "So, zhat vas vhy my car was always a filthy mess! How did I not see zhem?"
"Too many birds in New York City," the Heavy huffed. He smiled, then got the Medic back on track. "Simple plan, then. We head south and west. Make base. Send birds out. They hunt, we wait."
"Zhat could still take a long time," the Medic sighed.
The Heavy raised his shoulders. "Could do many things. Hire guns. Stay here. Would be shame, though. No more killing cowards. No more medical experiments. Not without license. I do not want to stay, but I cannot leave without Medic. So, choose."
A hot frustration seared in the Medic's tender head. The Heavy was provoking him, and damned if it wasn't working. What was left for two middle-aged men like them? They wouldn't be able to afford a house. They couldn't have families. Hell, even decent jobs were out of their reach. They would live the rest of their lives as poor cowards in a foreign land.
The Medic snarled. "I have money in Teufort. Lots of money. And I vant it back!"
It wasn't two hours later that the duo was rocketing out of Manhattan in the Medic's crappy car, doves in hot pursuit.
Author's Note
Here's another one, fresh off the presses!
I was having way too much fun proofing this chapter. In order to try and catch typos, I read out loud. Needless-to-say, I was cracking up a little bit this time. Maybe it's vain to laugh at my own jokes, but sometimes, I can't help it.
Thank you all for your support on this!