"Alright, first off, thanks for coming to this meeting on such short notice," Miss Pauling began, slightly out of breath from multitasking said meeting with digging an impromptu grave for the body laying five feet from her. Hefting a shovel-full of dirt out, she turned back to her video camera she'd set up on the car's hood she borrowed for the task at hand. Stuffing a corpse into the back of a vehicle is much faster than dragging it three miles from the nearest town on foot. "You can probably tell that I wasn't prepared for this either, but there's good news and bad news for you all to hear."
"Do we get a choice as to which we can hear first?" Demo's staticky voice piped up. Around him were the pixelated mercenaries, seated at the round meeting table they'd set up for the task. All around the men were at different stages of consciousness, with Soldier standing at attention, Engineer, Pyro, and Heavy looking slightly groggy. The Russian was seated with Medic at his right and Demo at his left, both looking like they were just woken up five minutes ago, which was probably the case.
And as for Scout…
"Can someone make sure Scout isn't dead again?" Miss Pauling asked. Her lithe mercenary sat between Pyro and Demo, his entire upper body laying on the table with his head nestled in his arms, asleep once more. The poor guy had stumbled in the room, and although the resolution was horrible on her end, she could see the exhaustion radiating off him. And the second he'd sat down, he'd fallen asleep.
If this were anyone else, she'd understand. Oh, how she understood the feeling of sleep deprivation all too well. But Scout never lost enough energy to lose consciousness this early in the day. And never would he let himself fall asleep during the precious few moments they could talk, before and after their "thing".
Miss Pauling was worried.
Pyro took it upon herself to poke Scout awake again, and when that didn't work, roughly shook his shoulder. Scout groaned and finally sat up, blinking drearily at the world around him, looking about ready to fall asleep again at any moment. Or hurl. She should make this quick.
"Alright, now that he's awake, would you like the good news or bad news first?"
"-Good news.-"
"-Bad news.-"
"-Is there really a difference?-"
"Alright, I'll give the good news first." Miss Pauling dug her shovel in the ground, heaving another shovelful of dirt out the shallow grave. Once that was done, she pulled out a ConTracker, and began flicking through it.
"So, I've gotten word from Spy about the state of his mission, and he's made quick work of the requirements so he should be returning sometime tomorrow or the day after if all goes according to plan."
"I thought we asked for the good news first?" Scout blurted out, his voice coarse and sluggish. A few snickers rose up from the sleepy mercenaries, and Miss Pauling herself felt a grin pulling at her lips.
"Scout, be nice," she chastised. The runner merely shrugged before massaging his temples with an irritable expression. "Now, as for the bad news. I've gotten word that another battalion of robots has been seen scouting out another Mann Co. factory in the rural areas of the Mojave Desert, right within the borders of Nevada. And where there's a scouting group, there's a tank somewhere near waiting to take it over. So, that means you guys will have to be relocated there to fend them off before that happens."
"How long do we have to pack?" Engineer asked. All around the men were murmuring to themselves, some looking hesitant and others looking more excited. Miss Pauling set her shovel down, wiping her forehead before responding.
"I've been told that you will have around four days to pack, and those four days will also be a good waiting period to hear back from Spy and Sniper to know when they'll be finished."
"Sniper has not responded?" Heavy asked, his expression stern, but concerned. Scout, who'd rested his head back down, sat up, looking at her through the screen in worry. She shook her head.
"No, he hasn't. But you shouldn't worry, he only calls back when the mission's complete or there's a hiccup."
"So, you don't know when he's comin' back?" Scout looked desperate, and Miss Pauling chewed on her lip before sighing, and shaking her head.
"No, I have no idea. But like I said, it's almost been a full week, and I've added the new time limit to his contract so whenever he checks it, he'll see the changes. And we've got four days to hear back from him, so I wouldn't worry."
"And what if we don't hear back?"
"...Then he'll have to meet up with you all at Bigrock, the town you'll be arriving at and staying at until the robots are dealt with." At the news, Scout's dejected expression crumpled even more as he rested his head on the table again, hidden behind his arms. Demo patted Scout's shoulder in sympathy. Miss Pauling shifted her stance, grabbing the shovel again.
"Now, with all that out of the way, I'll be making sure you all will be getting some surplus supplies so that you aren't left without food and medical items for the rest of the time you're staying here. There will also be supplies waiting for you once you all arrive at Bigrock. As for transport, unfortunately the town's so rural that the only train station is about seven miles away from it. So, you'll have to drive there." She finished the grave and bent down to grab the body, dragging it into the hole. "Alright," Miss Pauling huffed, "any questions or concerns?"
The mercenaries shook their heads.
"Alright then, keep an ear out for any suspicious machines. Talk to you all later."
"See ya later, Miss Pauling."
"Have a good day, Miss Pauling!"
The feed cut with a bleep, the screen left black.
The team began standing, talking and yawning, stretching and yawning some more. Soon, only one member was left sitting, two of his fellow mercenaries at his sides.
"Laddie, do you need to see Medic?" Demo asked, leaning over the silent runner. Pyro was also mumbling away, poking Scout's shoulder incessantly. Scout merely groaned. Never had his eyelids felt so heavy before. "Scout, mate, I seriously think you should talk with him, you're actin' like the Reaper himself sent you some paper and ink to write your final will."
"I did," Scout mumbled, rubbing his eyes. Hard. "I did talk. I did yesterday, and he said it's just th' stupid flu or somethin'." A flu that was making him feel downright awful. Again, he woke up with spazzing muscles. Again, his skin felt rough and covered in crawling bugs that made him itch. That stupid, irritating itch! And again, his head felt ready to burst like a rotten watermelon.
"Well, talk with him again," Demo stated, patting Scout's shoulder before walking away. "Get a second opinion, or something. Because mate, you're freakin' Pyro out, isn't that right?"
Pyro cocked her head, but then nodded when Demo narrowed his eye. "See?" Demo said, "the wee firebug's worried sick about ya!"
"Okay, fine, I'll go freakin' talk with him again, just leave me alone!" Scout snapped, massaging his temples again. Once he looked back up, he was alone. Didn't hear them leave, didn't hear much of anything. How long had he been sitting here?
Man, he was tired.
Scout gripped the table, forcing himself to stand. His legs shook from the effort. It probably wasn't just the flu, no, he'd had the flu before, it only lasted a few days. This was different, this felt like the tide, pulling back then rushing forwards.
His throat hurt. Could use a drink, or something. Something to help.
Scout shuffled over to the door, shouldering it open. The weight he used caused him to stumble and collide with something solid and white.
"Ah, Scout, are you just now coming out?"
Scout pushed himself up and spotted Medic looking down at him. So he just fell headfirst into the guy's chest. Great, good going Scout, always light on your feet.
"So what if I am?" Scout grumbled, stepping away and brushing his shirt off. He didn't need this level of embarrassment right now. Medic rolled his eyes.
"Well, considering it's been about half an hour since the meeting, one would think you'd find something better to do than sit in an uncomfortable chair in an empty room."
…
"H-Half an hour?" Scout croaked. "It ain't been that long! I was only in there for two!" Medic stared at him, then he took in a breath through clenched teeth, looking ready to make a point.
"No, you weren't, which I supposed that's why it took this long to find you."
"Find me? Why? I mean, Demo told me to talk to you but-"
"Demo pulled me aside and asked about you about ten minutes ago. Mentioned how ill you seemed to be."
"Demo needs to mind his own d*mn business."
"Demo is worried, and he's right to be worried, since I've figured out why you've been feeling so badly!" Medic stated. Scout paused halfway to rubbing his eyes again.
"You did?"
"Yes! I've been looking over all the symptoms, and I've come to the conclusion that you, mein friend, have been experiencing Appendicitis!"
…
"Appen-what now?"
"Appendicitis." Medic repeated. "To put it plainly, it's when your appendix is inflamed and close to bursting."
"And, uh…" Scout felt dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach, "that sounds bad. That's bad, right?"
"If by 'bad' you mean 'requires immediate surgical intervention', then yes!"
Oh boy.
"B-but ain't that- like the appendices explodin', like, deadly? And hurts a lot?" Scout asked, shifting his weight like readying himself to bolt. He sure wanted to. Medic shook his head.
"Not always; everybody is different, mein friend. What is a mild headache to one is a terminal brain tumor for another. And the symptoms you've described to me yesterday fit the qualifications of Appendicitis. So," he clapped his hands and grabbed Scout's shoulder, leading him away from the Meeting Room, "let's have it taken care of before the worst comes to pass, ja?"
Scout felt like he responded, but he didn't hear anything. Or at least, nothing that sounded like him. Maybe it did. Man, he was tired.
Looking up at Medic, the doctor kept his head high and aimed forward. No expression could be seen. But his grip on Scout's shoulder was tight, and dug into his skin to a painful extent. The only way he'd realistically get free would be ripping himself out from Medic's grasp.
Once the Infirmary doors came into view, something switched in Scout's mind. Medic finally turned to meet his gaze in confusion when they suddenly came to a stop as Scout dug his heels into the ground.
"Scou-"
"I ain't goin'," he said quietly. It didn't sound like his voice. "I've done with bein' a lab rat."
"Lab rat?" Medic laughed. Scout glared at him. "Scout, if I wanted to experiment on you, I wouldn't have bothered with discussing with you your ailments. You would already be strapped to mein operation table." If he noticed the way Scout flinched at the word "strapped", he didn't say anything. "I would think I was doing you a favor, considering that you'll die if I don't remove your appendix."
"Well, maybe I don't believe you!"
That got Medic's grin to fall, replaced with a tired and scary snarl.
"It won't matter if you believe me or not in a couple hours when you're writhing in agony from the toxins rushing through your body. Now, are you going to let me help you, or are you going to be stubborn and let yourself die from could have easily been treated."
"...So if I get that stupid apprentice outta me, I'll stop gettin' cramps," Scout began to list off his issues with his fingers, "I'll stop gettin' headaches and itchy skin, and I won't be gettin' these weird false memories?"
"Precisely!" Medic said, a bit too enthusiastically. Scout still held his ground.
"Look, pal, I'm not a freakin' medical genius here, but even I know that the brain does the whole memory schtick, so unless the apricot's in my brain somewhere, I don't see how removin' it is gonna help with that!"
Medic sighed, finally removing his grip from Scout's shoulder.
"Scout, look, you are right about the brain storing our memories. However, as with everything, there's nuance to the issue. Our brains control our bodies, and vice versa. Why do you think you get irritable when you don't eat anything for a substantial amount of time?"
Scout didn't respond. Medic continued. "When something changes physically, our minds respond in kind. And the appendix is an organ that holds quite a lot of bacteria, both good and bad, that can and will affect the mind. Just as carbon monoxide can change our mental state, so can too much of the bacteria held inside the appendix if damaged or ruptured. So yes, mein friend, removing it will help."
Medic's gaze was earnest. As much as Scout wanted to dispute the doctor's supposed cure-all, he was tired of feeling like crap. And if a simple surgery would help, then…
"Fine," Scout muttered, walking past Medic into the Infirmary, "But you better not put any freakin' extra organs in me while I'm out, got it?"
"Don't worry," Medic said, the sharp grin on his face made Scout shiver, "I promise only to heal you."
The steady shrill beeps of a heart rate monitor woke him up. Consciousness slipped to and fro as Scout struggled to find something to grip onto. Blearily, he opened his eyes, the medical world flickered and hitched as he looked around. His brain must have been replaced with helium.
"Ah, you're awake!" A voice, as shrill as the beeping slipping into Scout's ears, rose above the low hanging smog of fatigue and confusion. "How are you feeling?"
He blinked, and looking to his right spotted a doctor with an evil looking grin. So Medic was happy. Scout groaned, raising a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. His wrist was grabbed, and when he tried again, his wrist was pulled back once more.
"Ah, ah," Medic scolded, "focus on answering the question."
"Ug- uh… 'M ti… where…?"
"The Infirmary, and the operation was a success!" Operation? That didn't sound good. Scout blinked again, pulling himself up a bit.
"Operationnn? That's- I- I ain't feelin'- 'm feelin' weird."
"That's the anesthesia wearing off," Medic explained, grabbing Scout's shoulder and helping the runner sit up. The motion made his head spin.
"How longgss it gonna take t' wearrr off?"
"Well, considering it's late in the afternoon-"
"Huh!?" Scout whipped his head around to find a clock, earning some horrid whiplash in return. "How l- how late am I- wasss I out?"
"About seven hours by my estimate."
"I thou- I thought it'd be-"
"Quicker?" Medic finished. Once Scout nodded, the doctor laughed. "Then you have no sense of scale and time!" He spotted the runner's miffed expression and roughly sighed. "Oh, don't be so grumpy, you're not the one who had to be up to his elbows in intestines all day!"
"You llllike that crapp though!"
"Mein point still stands." Medic huffed, then began pulling Scout to his unsteady feet. "Now, normally I would be fine with you staying to recover, but I'm afraid I have some more urgent matters to attend to for which I believe you would rather not be present for."
"I, I uh… guess not," Scout mumbled, looking down at himself. At least he already had his clothes on. Beneath the cloth, he felt the thrumming pain of stitches holding scars on his abdomen in place. A painfully familiar feeling. He snatched his hands away and crossed his arms, turning to Medic who had begun walking away. "...Doc?"
"Yes?"
"How long… long is it gonna be till I'm good?"
"When you're fully healed?"
Scout nodded, still lightheaded.
"I would say two days max. Now, you're free to go," Medic dismissively waved him off, turning back to his messy desk and glistening surgical tools. That didn't seem right, but Scout wasn't a doctor. Maybe Medic used the Medigun before he woke up. Taking one last look at the team's doctor, the runner slipped out the door.
The pounding and intrusive sounds of medical machines faded as the double doors swung shut behind Scout. A thick, knee deep quiet followed, and while it made it easier for a train of thought to form, it sent goosebumps up his arms. He paused, once more brushing his fingers along that hidden scar beneath his shirt. However light he kept his touch, it still stung.
He hated how familiar the feeling was. Honestly he did. At the very least, it proved he wasn't dreaming. No matter how foreign the halls felt, his socks doing little to cull the chill the unknown ground created, Scout was awake. Just lightheaded and still fighting off the effects of the anesthesia.
The longer he walked, the more of his senses he could utilize. His skin started to thrum with itchiness, but not nearly as bad as before. It must be the effects of appe-appennddi- whatever it's called wearing off too. Doc did say bacteria does weird stuff to your brain. That would explain how… fractured he felt the past few days. Like bits of him were cut out like paper, and were replaced with pieces that couldn't fit in right, or were a different color.
For the first time since he left the Meeting Room, Scout smiled. He was going to get better now. He was sick, and now that his stupid, faulty appendisis was removed, he'd be back to tip-top shape in no time. Sighing in relief, he scratched his neck in reflex.
The smile faltered, then fell all together as he traced his fingers up and down the long, thin scar at the back of his neck. No stitches from what he could feel, but then where had it come from. Not a single spike of pain either, the entire area was numb to the touch.
His heartrate grew as he thought back to when he could have gotten it. Yesterday? When Soldier shoved him to the ground? No, he'd gotten healed from all of that. The surgery? Scout was pretty d*mn sure the appendix wasn't below his freakin' brain. But where else-
A strange sound wavered through the halls, stealing his attention. The wind, it would seem, as a musty breeze brushed against cheek. Did someone leave a window open or something? Either way, now more goosebumps littered his arms. As he rubbed them to ease the chill, Scout decided to find where that stupid wind was blowing in from and shut it.
The halls felt longer than they're supposed to. How long had Scout been walking? Five minutes? Ten? Longer? And he had yet to find a freaking door.
"'S freakin' stupid," he grumbled, teeth chattering. As another ten minutes passed with no exit, entrance, or window in sight, Scout loudly sighed, and turned around.
He was met with the base's exit, the double doors standing as if they were meant for only him. It took Scout two steps to reach the oak, and with one small shove, the doors swung wide open. Beyond the threshold, a limitless field of golden grass lay beneath a deep gray sky.
The runner merely blinked at the sight, stepping into the dried out, calf-high foliage. This wasn't right, no, this wasn't right. Where was the old mining town they were protecting? The desert sand? Scout walked further into the grassland, looking around in a daze. The air hung heavy with a dense quiet.
He kept looking around, turning every which way to spot something, and it took him far too long to realize the base he'd walked out from had vanished. All around him stood nothing but the dying wheat and strands of grass.
"...crap…" he mumbled. Now with nowhere left to go, Scout began to walk.
For how long, he had no idea. Keeping track seemed pointless, and the thick overcast refused to let the sun shine through. Time slowed to a crawl, or didn't exist at all. Soft winds were the only company the young man had, though not for long.
He stopped, the dry reeds brushing against his legs as he stared up at silhouette standing at the top of a small, rounded hill.
"H- Hey!," Scout called out, jogging over to meet them, "any idea where this is? Where are we?" As he got closer, the man or woman seemed to flicker. No discernable features or colors, simply a shadow being cut through by the winds. Scout stopped some feet before it, watching how the figure moved and wafted like smoke.
Against his better judgment, he reached out. His fingers broke through the sheen, and the black smog warped around them. Scout pulled his hand back.
Somehow, someway, he knew this thing. He knew who it was, somehow, somehow.
Somehow, he was a part of them. Them.
An inkling of dread began to pool in his gut as Scout turned to look over the field. All around, at every angle and side stood a crowd of smoke-like figures. Some looked like women, some like men, some bigger, some smaller. All stood staring back at him, faces blending into each other the longer Scout looked. Faces he hadn't ever seen but inherently knew.
The wind picked up, tugging at his clothes and hair. All around the faceless crowd began to bleed into each other, sounds of whispers and building wails filling the air. The sky grew darker, the wind roared. Scout stumbled back as the figures were pulled and stretched beyond recognition, their screams and shouts stolen by the cyclone they were forming. Higher, and higher, and higher until they were a single black tunnel of wind and souls.
The sounds and the tremors it caused snapped Scout into action. He ran. Leaping from the hill and breaking his fall with a roll, he shot back up and ran as fast as he could. Behind, he could hear voices, male and female, breaking the sole note of the tornado, cursing his name, telling him to run, or ordering him to join their prison in languages both foreign and familiar.
His lungs burned, and the field began to grow. Grass grew into bushes. Hills became towering pine trees with barbed branches shaped like hands grabbing at him. Faster, faster, deeper into the thicket.
Couldn't breathe.
Run, boy, RUn!
Faster,
Why dO YOu deSERve tHe FREedoM!?-
-HURts!-
-PLEasE-
-doN'T STop, kID, do NOt stOp-
Faster!
-DOn'T dESERve tHiS-
-NO hopE-
-GiVE it UP!-
A hundred hands grabbed him, tearing his shirt, skin, and hair. A spilt second later he was swallowed. He couldn't scream, the weight around pinning him in place. A moment later his ribs were crushed like an empty soda can. Apologizes and laughter both erupted around him as he struggled to breathe in a single breath.
Dying, he was dying, he was dying-
Scout gasped for air, swatting at the limbs and faces he's seen leering down not one second ago. Darkness, cold, couldn't breathe! He tried to stand, legs giving out beneath him. Still being hunted, being followed, had to get out! They had to go, they had to leave, danger!
Turning and gasping, the camper door was missing. No exit, no escape! Where was it!? This wasn't- not the camper, a lab. White walls and dark floors and stale, sterile air! Not again!
No!
Not Gray's-
Something solid slammed into him, or he slammed into it as the familiar feeling of his nose being hit erupted in his face. Scout crumpled to the ground with a muffled thump. As he lay on the cold floor, nose throbbing in pain and vision blurry with the new, instinctive tears, the fear that had a stranglehold on his mind faded was drowned out by his screaming facial nerves.
He lay there, his heart still pounding as logic slowly filtered itself back into his mind. And then, all at once, the walls weren't unrecognizable, and the atmosphere didn't feel so cold and threatening. Scout looked around the medical-themed room, and all at once realized where he was. This wasn't a lab, or a test chamber, but Miss Pauling's apartment. And now a large, bloody stain was smeared on her wall with small rivulets sliding down.
Shakingly, Scout got to his feet, a faint string of trembling curses following after. As the seconds passed, the adrenaline filtered itself out of his system, though the shaking remained. What took its place wasn't just the pain, but a bone-deep exhaustion, and anger.
He stumbled over to the small bathroom, closing the door with his shoulder. Letting his head rest on the wooden frame, a small, hoarse sob escaped him. Instinctively, Scout tried wiping his nose. It felt like a sledgehammer against his face, and he snatched his trembling hand away, instead clutching his arms tightly to help keep his crying at bay.
But it seemed like the dam had broke, and now Scout stood, leaning over the basin that caught both his blood and tears, coating the porcelain in a pink sheen. His mind swam, a thousand dragonfly-like thoughts darting about in confusion and distress.
How did he get!? Why was he here?- why was he getting those kinds of dreams again!? That thought took over everything else as indignation rushed through his veins. Why was he getting them again, he knew he wasn't infected or turning into that thing, he knew that, so then why was his asleep brain so convinced he was!? It made no sense, and he was so tired, and frustrated, and of all places, it had to be Miss Pauling's perfectly tidy apartment he went and bled all over.
Through the tears, Scout watched as the blood dripped down his face, slowly filling the sink. As red as always, and it always would be. He swallowed, reaching over to turn the faucet on. His breath hitched.
Now he'd done it. Small indents littered his arm from where his nails had cut into his skin, little red beads forming along the wounds. Scout turned the faucet on and scrubbed the evidence away, fighting past the stinging. No, no one had to know, he didn't break his promise, this didn't count, he didn't know what he was doing, it wasn't on purpose, it wasn't his fault-
The door creaked open, and after a quiet second, Miss Pauling's head poked into the small bathroom.
"I heard a bang, is something wro- oh my word, what happened!?" She entered, setting the pistol she had on the bloody countertop with a horrified expression.
"I, um, ran into the wall," Scout muttered, wiping his nose and once again cursing from the pain. Miss Pauling stared at the mess with a dumbfounded expression. It was clear he woke her up since her glasses were more askew than normal, she still wore a pair of fuzzy, purple pajamas, and her hair was down. She looked nice with her hair down.
"You ran into the wall?" Miss Pauling repeated. Scout nodded, but stopped when it made his nose bleed more. She blinked, then jumped into action, grabbing a hand towel and soaking it. "Hold still," she said. Scout still stepped back.
"It'll ruin it," he said naisally. She rolled her eyes as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. The feeling of a warm towel on his busted up face made Scout wince, but soon melted into the touch, his shakes subsiding.
"Do you know how cheap hand towels are?" She asked, lightly dabbing away the blood and tear stains, "I don't care about something I can buy in bulk for less than ten dollars."
"Well, still, I…" he closed his mouth to avoid tasting his own watery blood as the towel was wiped across it, "still, you shouldn't have to worry, I'm fine." He tried stepping away again but Miss Pauling's grip was not one to be broken. And the glare he received didn't help.
"Sit down; I need to get some antibacterial spray."
Scout sat, busying himself with the toilet paper and stuffing it up his nose as Miss Pauling trotted out. After a moment he heard her hum.
"Found out which wall you ran into," Miss Pauling said, her voice faint. Scout didn't feel like responding. He felt awful, really. And now that he was fully awake, he realized just how stupid all of this was. Miss Pauling had offered to let him stay at her apartment after that stupid appendiciser surgery, which took stupidly long for something that sure didn't seem to be helping! Maybe his body just decided to give his brain one last big "oorah" before he'd get better. Yeah!
Hopefully.
Grabbing more toilet paper to wrap up the small cuts on his arms and the one bath towel to wear to hide his arms, Scout's thoughts were startled when Miss Pauling once again showed up.
"Alright, I'll need you to come out in the living room to treat you properly; the bathroom's too small to work in." Then she was gone, and Scout forced himself up and shuffled out the washroom.
She'd turned on the lights as Scout had to squint in the harsh overhead lamp's glow. It made their surroundings look even more like a hospital or lab. His skin crawled.
The runner slumped down onto the couch he'd been using as a bed. Once he did, Miss Pauling began disinfecting all the bruises and the places where his skin split on impact. It stung, and his eyes watered reflexively. He couldn't look her in the eye no matter how much she tried to meet his. After some little swabs of cotton and gauze were stuck on his face, the pair were left in an uncomfortable silence.
"So…" Miss Pauling began, leaning back with her legs crossed, hands resting on her knee.
"So…?" Scout repeated.
"So why did you run face first into the wall?"
"It wasn't exactly planned, y'know," he grumbled, fiddling with the paper still in his nose, "kinda just happened."
"But why?" Miss Pauling asked, "I mean, I know the lights were off but it's not like it gets pitch black in here."
She waited for an answer, one Scout didn't know if he could properly explain. He didn't want to lie to her, not after helping him. But if he told her the truth, she'd think he was a wuss, or a wimp who can't take a few bad dreams. And then he'd have to explain the dreams and…
An involuntary shiver went down his spine as he curled in on himself. The only thing keeping him from closing off entirely was the feeling of his nails digging too hard into his arms.
"Scout?"
He took a long, quiet breath and retracted his fingers, forcing himself to relax.
"...I can help you clean that up," he gestured to the still dripping stain on the wall, "you don't gotta stay up any longer, I'll take care of it, made the mess anyway so it's-"
Miss Pauling huffed lightly, a smile pulling at her lips. "That wasn't what I was asking for. And besides, I've got more experience cleaning up bodily fluids than you, you'd probably end up swearing it into an even bigger stain. No offense."
"None taken," Scout replied with a similar grin, though that quickly fell.
He ought to tell her, tell her something, at least. Just enough to explain himself, it didn't have to be the truth. But what kind of person lies to their girlfriend like that, she's obviously worried-
"Look," His thoughts were interrupted by a sigh, "you don't have to explain what happened but," though his peripheral he saw her scoot closer, "I want to understand. It's just us." He resisted the urge to jump out of his seat when she placed her hand on his knee. "No one else is listening, and no one else will know."
Scout really ought to tell her. He really ought to. She told him what was probably her darkest moment just two days ago, doesn't that mean he should be able to trust her with his?
"Give it some thought; I'll be right back," her hand left, leaving him yearning for the small comfort again. She got up, and soon he could hear the sound of her moving things around in the kitchen area. Scout stayed sitting, staring down at his trembling hands. He clenched them. They felt weak. Looking away, the sight of the blanket and pillow he'd been given lying on the ground compelled him to pick it up. As he did, something round and pink tumbled out of the pile.
Not a second later the stuffed pig was pinned in a tight embrace, squished against his chest. Although the soft plush was able to restore some of the strength in his limbs, Scout still felt tired beyond any reasonable amount. Sleep won't come, though, it wasn't that kind of tired. He was tired of this, this same song and dance of falling asleep, having dreams about what happened at Sawmill, and waking with his heart about to explode and wishing he had the ability to change the past.
Scout had too many wishes, too many dreams that he knew wouldn't come true. His deadbeat of a dad coming back before he grew up was proof of that. Joining the big leagues and earning his spot as the world's greatest batter was another after ending up with a criminal record. And yeah, forgetting Sawmill and all the other bullcrap he went through wasn't happening anytime soon. Really, he should be used to disappointment now, because of how often life turns around and spits in his face.
But if he didn't talk to her, or lied, then wouldn't he be doing the exact same thing to her? Just leaving her disappointed, and feeling dejected? He couldn't do that to her. Not her, never her.
The cushions to his left sank down, and looking up revealed Miss Pauling, wordlessly handing him a steaming mug. He took it, the ceramic surface near scalding as a tart, fruity steam wafted up into his face.
"I have no idea if you like apple cider or not," Miss Pauling admitted, "but I've run out of cream for coffee, not that I'd give you any at this hour, and I don't buy hot chocolate so…"
"Thanks," Scout said hoarsely, taking a sip and regretting it as the steaming liquid scalded his tongue. He held said burnt tongue, not wanting to hurt any feelings.
"It's nothing, I just," Miss Pauling sharply inhaled, clasping her hands in front of her face before gesturing towards him. "I'm worried. You've seemed really off lately, I mean really off, and I don't like not knowing why something's changed. And I don't want to be nosy about this, it's just-"
"Things've been weird lately," Scout mumbled, looking at his reflection in the cider, "I didn't know what was happenin' until Doc said my stupid app- appen-"
"Appendix?"
"Yeah, that, he said that it wasn't working right or something, and that's why I kept gettin' all sad and angry really quickly, and why I was seein' things so he took it out earlier. He said it was spreadin' the wrong sorts of bacteria to my brain or something which was why I've been feelin' so freakin' awful."
Miss Pauling had been listening intently, but at the mention of the symptoms, her focused gaze morphed into a confused, questioning stare.
"Medic told you that?" She asked. Scout nodded. "That's… huh."
"Yeah, so, now that it's out, all those stupid whiteouts in my thoughts and crap should go away. And I guess tonight was just one last umph to my brain to make me have a nightmare, I don't know. It's just… it's just been weird, like, a lot, and…" he sighed through his nose, making a small whistling sound, "I guess I got Cabin Fever, or something, cause I'd usually be hangin' out with someone, y'know? Or with Snipes, like, since we both went through the same crap, I don't need to explain anything about what I'm goin' through, and he'd help, cause he gets me, and since he ain't been here I guess I've just been… just been bottling it up, is all."
"I'm. I'm not following," Miss Pauling admitted. Scout shrugged, taking another sip. "But, you said you had a nightmare?"
"Basically, yeah," he muttered, hiding his face in the mug despite the steam making his eyes water.
"What was it about?"
He didn't say a word for the longest time. Finally, he lowered the mug as he turned towards Miss Pauling, meeting her eyes. She wanted to help. He didn't want to lie. Besides, he was terrible at lying anyway. So Scout cleared his throat, thinking of the words to say before saying them.
"If I tell you, you promise not to tell no one?"
"I promise," she said without hesitation, leaning in closer. He chewed on his bottom lip before leaning back into the couch, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
"Aw man, I- look, I ain't talked about this in close to a year now, and you'll be the second person to know the actual details. I just… how the h*ll do I even start here?"
"...Is this about you dying?" Miss Pauling said gently. To her near horror, Scout snorted, shaking his head.
"Nah, you'd think so, but nah. I don't dream about that, I dream… I dream about Sawmill. Like, the first attack, before we were meant to move, the first time that thing showed up. Or a version of it, like my brain just takes the main parts and slaps it into different situations."
"Ah." Miss Pauling said stiffly, rubbing her arm. "Yeah, I guess I can see why you'd still be hung up on losing your team so suddenly. But they're back, safe and sound-"
"That's not what I dream about either," Scout cut her off with a droning, monotone voice. She fell silent, watching as her runner stared into his mug with a strange, twisted sneer. "I kinda wish it was, though. At least a guilt trip would be something new."
"Then what do you dream about?"
"...you know how I lost my hand, yeah?"
Miss Pauling nodded. "You shot it off. Told me yourself in Sniper's camper van. You… didn't go into any details…" she scooted closer, "and that was on purpose, wasn't it?"
It was Scout's turn to nod. "Yeah," he said, taking a sip, "cause the details are what I dream about, and they're all I can think about sometimes when I'm grabbed, or pinned, or…"
"Are you sure you're alright talking about this?" She asked, her words barely over a whisper. Scout hesitated, but nodded.
"Basically, I managed to get that shapeshiftin' freak to hate me so d*mn much that it, it…" the taste came back. He tried washing it down with more cider. "It ran me out into the woods, and once it got me, just- it just- I guess it thought my mouth and gut would make a great nestin' box or something cause. C-Cause it seemed really focused on makin' my jaw pop off or rip my throat open from the inside out… And, y'know, I told this to Mick, because I got him worried after he found the scars and s**t, and he says the thing probably wasn't really plannin' on usin' me as some kinda brood hen. But I sure as h*ll didn't know, still don't know for sure, and I managed to get away by shooting the hand it had trapped since the blood went everywhere, and…"
Scout felt a hand on the small of his back, and Miss Pauling rested her head on his shoulder soon after. He took a breath, willing himself to stop trembling. "So, when I got loose, I bit off the piece it had in my mouth, but that left all the parts in my stomach and I didn't have time to try gettin' it all out. A-And the next thing I know, I'm wakin' up in Mick's van, and don't feel my guts ready to explode outta me, and that meant, y'know, like with food and all that, and I didn't know what it was, and why it only attacked me like that, so I… I thought that meant I was turnin' into it, or something, cause so much of it was in me that I never got out in time.
"It… it got me scared," he had to spit out the words as his macho persona had sprung out from his mind and fought with the admission of weakness, desperate to keep Miss Pauling's approval. But once he said it, he couldn't stop himself as the ball began to roll. "I got real, real scared. Cause I saw what that thing looked like, and I didn't want to turn into something like that, and hurt anyone like what it did to me, and I… I knew that, since blood hurt it, if I still bled red, then I wasn't that thing. And I wasn't thinkin' straight, cause Mick pointed out I coulda just cut the blood off from my finger or something, but I. I…"
"You started cutting?" Miss Pauling gently prodded.
"It wasn't for attention or cause I was a mopey b***h!" Scout was quick to defend, "I just… I wasn't thinkin' straight, and I thought it was the only way to keep us safe, to make sure I was safe… And I stopped after talking to Mick, so nobody has to worry!" He took a swift drink, then sighed. The cider was gone. "So yeah. I get nightmares about bein' caught. That's what it's about. It's hooked in my stupid brain like barbed wire and I can't get it off. It sucks."
On the last syllable Scout's voice cracked, and he wished all the more that he hadn't started talking at all, because it didn't seem all that important when he was laying it all out. It wasn't like he was cut open or saw his family be murdered in front of him(even though it did look like his team was brutally killed but that's besides the point), h*ll, he didn't even die then. Somewhere on this planet there was someone going through way worse like dying of thirst, or being bombed, or trafficked, and here he was all worked up over a stomach ache. Honestly, he wouldn't even blame Miss Pauling if she told him to suck it up.
But she didn't. She didn't say anything for the longest time, simply leaning on his shoulder and lightly rubbing his back. Little by little, his mind cleared, he didn't shake as much.
When Miss Pauling did speak, her voice was soft, and hesitant. "...I was ordered to keep what I found classified," she said, resting her hand on Scout's shoulder blade. "But if it will ease your concerns, I'll tell you."
"Y-Yeah!- I mean, as long as you won't get in trouble with her, y'know?"
"What she won't know won't hurt her," Miss Pauling replied. She took the empty mug from his hands and set it on the floor before pulling herself up on the couch and grabbing Scout's shoulders to turn him towards her.
"You know that I was ordered to uncover the truth behind Connery's existence, right? That's why I took so long to find you two."
"Yeah, I remember," Scout said, "gave us a couple papers to show for it."
"Those were what I could take back. I found quite a few corpses too. Of the ones I found, only one wasn't strung up in those white cocoons. I can't say for certain how he died, though no doubt he'd been killed. But when I found it, well," she hesitated, taking up a fistful of her hair and clinging to it like a security blanket. "Take this with a grain of salt but… how I found him might have been what Connery was planning on doing to you."
"Whaddya mean?" Scout sat up, gripping the towel around his shoulders.
"The corpse's abdomen had been completely ruptured," Miss Pauling began, fiddling with her hair more, "and his jaw had been popped clean off its socket. It was… rather gruesome, to tell you the truth." Scout felt his face pale. "So, I truly do believe what Connery did to you was just to kill you, just… in a very unpleasant way."
"B- bu- I… but why? Why like that!?" Scout blurted out, startling them both with the volume. "I- I-I don't freakin' get it, why me, why didn't it just rip my limbs off or, or bite my freakin' head off or-"
"Listen," Miss Pauling said, placing her hand back on his shoulder, "I can't get into details about what happened in the lab that turned Connery into the thing that attacked you, but I think that what he did to you and that poor guy was some twisted, insane method of torture he remembered the basics of, but couldn't formulate into proper actions. He was a spy, after all, and one known for using all sorts of sadistic measures to get information out of people. Even Spy knew him, and said Connery's favorite method was oxygen deprivation. Waterboarding, strangulation, you name it." Her hand slipped from his shoulder to cup his cheek. "Wouldn't it seem more likely that some malicious part of him would remember his favorite methods of hurting someone and use it on the ones who got away?"
Miss Pauling's words clicked together with his thoughts like puzzle pieces. It made sense. It made a lot of sense, really.
"So… yeah, that makes sense, I… you were both right, I-"
"Both?"
"You and Mick," Scout clarified, looking down at the Truffle laying limp in his loosened arms. "When I told him, he said it probably did it for fun, to mess with me or some crap. So you guys are both right. I just…" he took a shaking breath. It made sense, it made the most sense, not whatever crackpot idea he'd made up all those months ago. But that what if still clung to his mind, grabbing anything and everything in order to double down.
It was vile, he was vile, he felt vile afterwards. Like a play toy, or a used tissue once he got free. Why would he feel that if something deep down wasn't tainted beyond repair? Like he deserved it for what he'd done, by abandoning his entire team like he did. How it was a pre-punishment for abandoning Mick later when if he just listened-
Miss Pauling's thumb was soft as she wiped the tears beginning to fall. That vile part of him beat him down, screaming to pull away. That vile part had too many voices, all telling him to do different things to make them happy. Only one he listened to: the one that sounded like his own.
Scout grabbed Miss Pauling and pulled her into a hug. She'd made an undignified squeak at the sudden movement, but just let it happen, combing a hand through his messy hair. For a reason he couldn't place, it felt like this was the first Scout had ever held her, like his greatest wish came true when it once seemed impossible.
How could one woman be so amazingly perfect? Even after seeing him be a complete wuss and dork, talking about his worst memories, she didn't even care. She still loved him.
"I love you, Miss P," Scout murmured into her shoulder, hugging even tighter.
"...Minerva."
"Huh?"
"My name," Miss Pauling said, her voice stiff and unreadable. "It's Minerva. Minerva Maude Pauling."
Scout's brain short circuited. He leaned away to catch a glimpse of her face. Miss Pau- Minerva's face was flushed, and discomfort showed through her tight features. Minerva. She didn't look at all like a Minerva, much less a Maude! She wasn't even thirty yet! Or, at least he thought so.
"I know," her meek voice interrupted his thoughts, "it's a stupid name-"
"It's not stupid!" Scout snapped. Miss P- Minerva just gave him a tired look. "Like, I mean, sure, maybe it's not, like, Angelique, or something, but if it's your name, it can't be stupid!"
Mis- Minerva started fiddling with her hair again, looking even more uncomfortable. "It sounds so much like 'my nerves, mud!'. I don't know what they were thinking, but-"
"Minerva." He said it to get a feeling of the name in his mouth, how the sounds are shaped. It was foreign, but his girl looked up in response anyway. "Min-ner-va, Minerva. Kinda sounds like 'mineral'." Her face fell even more. Scout mentally punched himself. Smooth moves, pally, you just made her more upset. Right, so clearly she thought the name was ugly, which it kinda was but not to the extent to where she ought to feel ugly! That just won't do!
All remaining fears and doubts were violently shoved aside to make room for the Nickname Factory. Working at light speed as time was of the essence, Scout made a bold decision. The boldest decision made that night.
"Minnie!"
Minerva's flushed face grew darker as it morphed into something akin to horror.
"Minnie!?"
"Yeah! Minnie! Y'know, like Minnie Mouse?"
"No!" She whined, shoving her face in her hands, even though the blush was still clearly visible, "I'm not like Minnie Mouse at all! Don't call me that!"
"Yes you are, cause you're super mousey! You're into books, you don't bring attention to yourself-"
"Don't call me Minnie," Minerva grumbled, the whine still prevalent in her voice. Scout cocked an eyebrow.
"Make me, Dollface! Whatcha gonna do if I don't?"
Minerva peeked out through her fingers, her eyes narrowed. Scout held his head high against her scorn. It wasn't held high for long.
Scout was knocked down as Minerva launched herself at him, and without any hesitation, began a barrage of kisses on his face. Any counterattack was met with only more rapid fire pecks, and soon he could hardly stifle the giggles Minerva was forcing out of him.
Now his own face was flushed as their small battle ended in a truce, the pair completely tuckered out, lightly panting with the occasional snicker rising up. Minerva lay on top of him as there was no space to lay side by side. After a moment of catching their breath, she brought her arms up, resting her chin on her hands as she looked down at her recent opponent.
"Are you going to keep calling me Minnie?" She asked, raising her eyebrow. Scout raised his head with a loopy smirk.
"You gonna do this each time I call ya that?" He asked, earning a playful huff. Minerva looked ready to reply when something else caught her attention.
"Is that a pig?"
"A- uh- y-yeah…"
Minerva reached down and picked up the plush that had fallen to the floor. Mr. Trufflesnuffle looked huge in her hands when really he was only a bit bigger than her head. A row of defensive explanations were lining up in Scout's mind as she sat up, examining the pig.
"...is this spot part of the design or a stain?" Minerva pointed to the brown spot on his back.
"I dunno," Scout admitted. "He's all worn out anyway, he used to be a lot pinker."
"What's its name?"
"...Mr. Trufflesnuffle," he said begrudgingly. Minerva snorted.
"Well, I can see why you thought 'Minnie' was a good name now."
"Hey! I'm great with names!" Scout barked, playfully shoving Minerva's arm as he sat up. She stuck her tongue out at him before looking back at the plush pig.
"Why a pig? I didn't take you as a pig person."
"Oh, uh… it was a gift. My ma got it as, like, a companion gift for the book she got me. Even if I can't read well, it was the first book I got that wasn't a hand me down. It was brand new. Got it on my seventh birthday."
"What was the book?" Minerva looked at him eagerly. Scout scratched his neck, almost expecting the feeling of a scar.
"...Charlotte's Web," he mumbled.
"I've never read it."
"Probably because it's a kid's book. It's about a runt piglet who makes friends with a spider and a lot of farm animals, even a rat."
"What does being a runt have to do with it?"
"Cause he was gonna be killed for it at first," Scout explained. "Like, not to spoil anything, but the whole story is Wilbur, that's the pig's name, trying to prove to the farmers who own him that he's better off alive than dead."
"Sounds morbid," Minerva pointed out. Scout shrugged.
"I mean, yeah. It is. But y'know, I like it. It's my favorite book for a reason. Made me wish I had a Charlotte when I was growin' up, so I wouldn't get picked on so much. Someone who saw how special you are, even when you can't see it, and is willing to stand up to everyone else who can't see you as something worthwhile."
"I'm guessing Charlotte's the spider?"
"Yeah. Y'know, you're kinda like Charlotte."
"How?" Minerva asked.
"You're nice, and classy, and don't take a whole lot of time off, like you're a workaholic, and even though you can sometimes seem stiff and unfriendly on the outside, when people get to know you, you're really dependable. And you've saved me 'n the team's *sses more than once so… Yeah! You're our Charlotte!"
"...Charlotte's a nice name," Minerva murmured, absentmindedly petting Mr. Trufflesnuffle. Then, she stands. "I can wash him if you'd like."
"Wait, really!?" Scout asked. Minerva nodded. "I- well, it's the middle of the night-"
"Not now, you goose," Minerva said, "later. I have a lot of experience getting stains out of fabric. Mainly blood stains but I'm sure this won't be much different. Besides, he's cute, and probably deserves a good bath."
"Oh, yeah, yeah he probably does…" His thoughts were cut off with a deep yawn. Minerva caught the yawn-bug a second later.
"Okay, we need to go back to sleep, it's too late and you know I need to get up early in the mornings."
"Right, yeah, you're right- wait, what about the blood on your wall, I can-"
"That can wait tomorrow," Minerva stated, "right now, I'm going to go to sleep."
"Alright," Scout murmured, picking at the wrappings around his arms as his partner began walking back to her room. "Hey, Minerva?"
She paused, looking back. Scout gave her a warm smile.
"Thanks. For helping me."
Minerva blinked, then smiled back.
"You're welcome, Jeremy."
She walked back into her bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. Before she did, Minerva watched Jeremy lie back down on the couch, wrapping the blanket he'd been given around. Hopefully that meant he'd be able to get some rest.
She sat down on her bed, yawning and grabbing at her glasses when she paused, looking at her nightstand. The leather was cold on her palm as she silently pulled out the small journal. Muscle memory had her skimming through the pages until she reached the latest entry.
The blank right page stare back at her expectedly. Grabbing a pen, she rested the point at the top of the yellowish paper. Her fingers clenched around the pen.
The Administrator required Minerva to write down all information regarding Jeremy, any and all actions, thoughts, and feelings. She'd never failed an assignment, and she never planned to. But… well, technically it wasn't telling anyone, she was writing it down. Right?
Minerva took a breath and began to write.
The RED Scout appears to suffer from some slight Post Traumatic Stress due to the ambush on Sawmill last year, causing night terrors that...
She paused, biting her lip. After a moment of thought, she started again.
-causing night terrors that have no significant details that the RED Scout can remember. No specific events are seemingly tied to the night terrors, so all evidence points to the cause being linked to the supposed team wipe that took place.
Minerva shut the journal and quickly placed it back in its drawer. She felt watched as she wrote the lie, as if The Administrator knew she was creating falsehoods to protect her runner. But that couldn't be the case. The Administrator didn't have any cameras or wiretapped her apartment, she wouldn't do that. She trusted Minerva, and Minerva trusted her.
But that thought, once solid and stronger than steel, didn't hold the weight like it should. Hairline cracks seemed visible in the trust she held for her superior. Doubt built in her mind as she pulled the covers over her, hugging the pig she'd brought into her dim bedroom.
"Where's Papa going with that Ax?"
Charlotte's Web was, indeed, morbid. Miss Pauling, after dropping Scout off at the base, stopped at the library in the closest town and picked up a cassette recording of the book. She had a mere five-minute lunch, and there was no way she'd waste them reading. So, listening to it was the next best thing.
Writing up order forms and organizing the many shipment lists didn't take as long as most of her attention was focused on the story. For a children's book, it wasn't afraid to go into the uncomfortable truths of life. Which, in her opinion, was good for the healthy, well-balanced development of children. Everybody dies at some point, and it's better to learn that in a gentle, but straightforward way like through literature than watching someone be executed.
Probably.
Miss Pauling was so ingrained in her sorting and the story that she didn't hear the ConTracker's connected phone line rigging until thirty seconds had already passed. Once she noticed the black landline blinking red from the waiting call, she sprung to life, scrambling to pick up the phone.
She grabbed it and entered the key to let the call through.
"Pauling here. Spy, what seems to be the issue?" she said hastily, reaching over to stop the cassette tape.
"It's me." The poor quality of the call made it hard to distinguish the voice, but there was only one person Miss Pauling knew who talked so bluntly over the phone.
"Sniper?" She asked, sitting up stunned. Then, she shook herself back to the present. "Right, I'm guessing you've seen that I've changed your time limit," she reached over to grab at the folder of his mission, "Sorry about the cut off, we're gotten intel about-"
"I'm not calling about that."
Miss Pauling paused.
"Alright? Does that mean you've completed the mission?"
"I have," he said. Something about the way he was talking made her antsy. "Finished two days ago."
"Okay, okay that's good! We can organize a flight for you and-"
"I need another day."
"I- huh?"
"Just one more day, is that possible?"
"Well, I don't… Why? You've finished but you haven't entered the completed requirements into your ConTracker yet. Did it break? I can find a way to-"
"Miss Pauling, please, just a day more, that's all I'm asking," Sniper cut her off again, and now Miss Pauling could hear desperation in his voice. "Haven't asked for any help before, and I won't after. Cut the payment in half if that's what it takes. I… can't leave yet."
She tugged at the few strands of hair that undid themselves from her bun. This wasn't normal. Something about this wasn't right. Both ends of the phone line had fizzled into silence.
Miss Pauling took a breath, pulling the receiver up close like someone might be eavesdropping.
"Sniper," she began quietly, "what happened?"
The man on the other side didn't reply. For a long, tense minute, Miss Pauling thought he'd hung up. But then, Sniper spoke, his voice as brittle as sun-scorched bones.
"Something's come up."
I am alive, and I got no excuses :D
At this rate, I've gotta just assume this won't be done till the middle of next year :,D
And if you couldn't tell, I really like Charlotte's Web
