It all happened one year ago, 1969.
Even through the drunken ramblings of a splintering mind, she could still conjure the moment she set on course, the clear ring of the phone as the offer came in, the chill in the parlor as she listened to the stipulations, and taste of cognac on her lips as she muttered her acceptance.
It was supposed to be a simple job, and in the beginning it was.
…
She did not remember much from her journey, and nor did she care to. The heat, however; she remembered that dreadful heat.
Her stop was in the town of Teufort, a single spot of humanity in a vast ocean of rocky soil and mesas. As it was explained to her, the hamlet was "a quaint and rustic slice of the American Southwest." She had found herself scoffing at the remark, as Teufort made her wash room look like Versailles; she hardly even considered it a "town." An oversized gas station, yes, but anything more was being far too generous. From what she observed, she guessed that population couldn't possibly exceed five hundred given the size, well, lack thereof.
She strode briskly through town, no more than thirty minutes, and she'd reached her new place of employment, the RED base.
Once inside, she was greeted by a spectacled woman in purple who introduced herself as Pauling; she was of a slighter stature than average, which was becoming increasingly apparent to both women. The newcomer, suited, austere, and statuesque, stood taller than most men; Pauling had to keep her head shifted 45 degrees to even make eye-contact. The woman in purple had a warm, forthcoming tone matched the near cherub-like hue in her cheeks. It was at this meeting that the newcomer was first called by her company title, "Spy."
Only after suffering through the obligatory pleasantries, she was escorted to what would be her new room, the old Spy's. The two walked side by side, Pauling with a gentle, staccato prance, and the Spy with a self-assured stride, as though every smug footfall should speak for itself.
After a few voiceless minutes, Pauling came to a very plain-looking door and with gusto, swung it wide; she cheerily motioned for the other woman to come inside. The Spy let out an audible moan of distaste. If it had had a toilet in the corner it would have been a prison cell, suffice it to say, the "decorating" was rather sparse and it was apparent to her that RED's expenses didn't go to frivolous things like proper lighting or bed sheets that weren't likely covered in smallpox and mysterious stains.
The hovel hadn't even been properly cleaned. Most of the previous owner's things were no longer there, but the room had a smell. Tobacco, spicy, reminiscent of cinnamon, and quite unlike her own brand; the scent clung to everything. The Spy found herself recalling when she'd been looking to buy housing. One of the places she'd been looking at was this gorgeous mansion built in the art-noveau style. The only issue was the last occupant, a man who'd built the home from the ground up and had consolidated his dominion there with a most frenzied obsession, had died there, and no one knew about it until 3 years after the fact. No matter how many times the mansion was cleaned, scrubbed, bleached, or pressure-washed, the stink of death never left.
Pauling, before taking leave, handed the Spy the room key and bayed good night. Then, for a glorious few minutes the woman was alone with just her suitcase and silence.
The woman set her suitcase on the bed, and fiddled with the lock…the case opened. She removed an ornately crystalline bottle, tear-drop shaped and leveled at the bottom, and half-full with an almost iridescent, amber-colored liquid; the Spy gazed at the bottle fondly, and then she set it on her bedside table. Returning to her suit case, she took out a pristine, glass ashtray, a delicate-looking shot glass, a pill box, a plain bottle of clear liquid, and a small carton of Gold Flake cigarettes, all of which she placed at her bedside. Her suits where neatly folded at the bottom.
Still reveling in the silence, she took a metal flask from her breast pocket inside her suit jacket. She refilled it with the fluid from the extravagant bottle. Not satisfied yet, she filled the shot glass too, and gulped it down hastily.
She could use another, it was a long day…
Refilling the glass again, she took another shot. Feeling heat rush to her cheeks and the tip of her nose, she adjusted the balaclava she wore over her face.
She wasn't feeling better…
One more then.
One more…
But just as she went to fill her glass for the third time, there was an enormous slew of noise from the hall outside, and at the same time, there came a rapping at her door.
Almost dropping her shot in surprise, the Spy glared at the door, as though it had rambled some lewd slur about her mother. She wanted nothing more than to keep her door firmly shut, as it sounded like her teammates were all being murdered in unison, and she wasn't nearly drunk enough to be in her "entertaining" mood. Despite all that, friendly acquaintances are more useful than enemies, and lowering herself as to play nicely with the other children was the least she could do. Her most beneficial recourse was to see who was introducing themselves.
Grumbling something under her breath in French, the woman cracked the door open just enough to see exactly who was knocking.
Two men, both covered in dirt and grime and garbed in red. Teammates, she assumed.
The man on the left had a boyish face and looked to be hardly into his twenties. His hair was a sandy-brown and his top, front teeth were prominent like a rabbit's. He was shorter than she was by several centimeters and was practically bouncing in place.
At first she couldn't get a clear look of the man on the right, considering he was knocking back a whole bottle of scotch. He was broad shouldered and tall with a dark complexion.
"Yes?" She spoke curtly and eyed both men.
There was a brief moment of silence as eye-contact, recognition on some level was made.
Immediately, the boyish one's posture completely changed from a jittery mess to something he must have thought to be manly and impressive. He stood up far too straight with his chest all puffed out. Instead of inspiring awe, the woman was reminded of the mating rituals of birds-of-paradise, minus the wild flailing wings and awkward dancing, at least for now. She did know that squawking would surely follow.
And no sooner than when the thought has made itself known, the boy opened his mouth.
"Hey lady, do you have a quarter cuz my ma told me to call her when I fell in love." And then he did— something with his face that made him look constipated.
She shut the door.
Then she heard two voices, muffled only slightly, from beyond her doorstep.
"Great job lad, yae scared another one off," The voice was Scottish and had a resonant quality, but was being kept low for the moment.
"Who ya kiddin' Cyclops, she got one look at yer mythological ass and hightailed it. Can't blame her," The other voice spat quickly back in an American dialect, Bostonian she guessed. "If a big, drunk guy came to my door—"
"Yae'd tell yer mum that her date showed up."
There was some shifting, then a heavy thud and a wheezy grunt followed by intermittent gasping.
"Quit bein' such a baby, lad" There came the sound of a throat clearing. "Excuse me, lass, I have to apologize for the wee, pre-pubescent here. He's almost tolerable when he shuts up."
On her side of the barrier, the woman's lips pressed into a hard line briefly. Then, after setting her expression neutral again, she opened the door.
The boy was hunched over and looking bitterly up at the larger man, who was smiling quite genuinely at the woman.
"Very well, I shall grace you with my presence, gentlemen; make it quick." Hers was a voice that seemed to creep out as a purr rolling in the back of her throat, and while it was both soothing and flat, her infliction held a controlled edge like the sharp boll of a cotton bloom.
"We'd like to greet yae and introduce our—."
The young man exhaled loudly.
Turning to the offender, "Yae are just bein' rude," the larger man scolded.
"Blow me, ya one-eyed, punches like a handicapped dolphin, sack a shit," The youth stood upright. "I'm just protecting yer ego." Focusing his attention on the woman before him and putting on his "sexy" face he said, "I'm the Scout, and Magilla Gorilla over here is the Demoman."
The Spy was quiet and then said "Who the hell—"
The young one opened his mouth.
Holding a hand up, she stated bluntly, "Stop." Shifting her gaze to the Demoman, "You there, what did you want as I would much rather to return to my brooding."
"Did I offend or do yae always have a pole lodged up yer arse?"
She laughed, but the Demoman couldn't tell if it was because she was legitimately amused or if he'd just given her a reason to plot his demise.
"You could not possibly offend me, and you are fortuitous that I have thick skin."
The man was not convinced, but he found his words again. "Tomorrow is goin' to be yer first day, and the boyos on the other team won't hold yer hand and ask nice for the briefcase."
"Do you mean to tell me that they will not 'wine and dine' me too?" She scoffed and flicked her wrist in a mocking gesture. "Whatever form of garbage pile has this other team been raised in?"
Leaning against the doorframe in a James Dean sort of way, as he made an attempt to shrug off the Spy's verbal stab, the Scout then blurted, "We wanna help ya out, Toots." At which point the Spy lost what little faith she had in the boy.
"Help?" Her brow was noticeably raised, even from behind her balaclava.
"The lad means 'offer support if yer willin.'" The Demoman quickly added while giving the Scout a brief, sharp look with his good eye.
She pressed her lips into a line and then spoke methodically, "I suppose I could use someone to aid me in hiding bodies…You two appear as though you can handle grunt work."
"Lady, we're offerin' to help ya out and yer just bein' so—" The boy's words had actually failed him.
"Proper!" The Demoman interjected, smiling toothily.
"Wha-? No, I was gonna say—"
"Great!" The Demoman was now bent over laughing.
"Darling, it all builds character," The Spy crooned deftly to the Scout.
"Ya know what, screw both a you's, I'm outta here," and the Scout stomped away huffily like an unhappy two-year old.
The two watched him leave in his bitter state, the Spy smirking and the Demoman trying to stifle another bout of guffaws.
Wiping away a tear from his uncovered eye, "I think I've added another few years to make up for me Scrumpy here," He rose his Scotch. "I didn't think yae'd play along."
"I live for the suffering of others."
"That worries me, but I think this will work," The man said, still chuckling a little.
"Fantastic, and before you ask, show me how things are run tomorrow."
"Alright lass, the match starts at 5 and wear comfortable shoes, yae'll thank me later."
"Then I will see you in the morning," The Spy gave an acknowledging nod.
"Sleep well, lassie, and wish me luck, the Heavy said he'd drink me under the table tonight." He motioned for her to lean in, which she did half-heartedly. "He doesn't know that I'm only a little drunk."
With that, the Demoman smiled at her a final time, and stumbled off down the hall.
At least he is a friendly drunk. The Spy mused to herself as she closed, and made absolutely sure, to lock the door.
She undressed herself to her undergarments and set her alarm, not out of necessity but for habit, and stretched her arms.
Bonier than she remembered…probably nothing to be concerned about.
The women reached for the cigarette carton and had her ritualistic, "before bed" smoke. She perched herself on the brick-like in every way possible bed, and if those sheets weren't scratchier than a lumberjack's beard…
She smothered the final embers of her Gold Flake, and laid herself deliberately atop the sheets. On her back, with her arms and legs straight to her sides, the Spy drifted sleeplessly into night.
AN: Here's a nice big chapter to make up for the months of nothing. College can put a dampener on stuff like this. I really hope you all enjoy it^^