. . .
January 13th, 1971
The thundering sounds of rocket blasts and gunshots reverberated through the air, amidst the more natural sounds of ocean waves and calling seagulls. It was the third day in which RED was fighting to hang on to what their boss had recently purchased, which was an amusement park called Pier from a local, affluent family. It just so happened to be located in the cozy, coastal town of Carmel, CA.
It was a knock-off of Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, except with imported coconut trees which gave it more of a tropical flare. No boardwalk though. Only cheap wood and low-grade steel – it still had a bit of a local charm: there were the usual favorite staples of popcorn, rock candy, cotton candy, cocktail bars, and surf shops – at least the ones that hadn't been riddled with bullets or blown apart by a projectile rocket.
Who knows how much of it would be left standing after this battle was over? RED was successfully pushing back an ever-persistent invader. For them, it was going to be like clockwork again.
At this point, they were confident another victory was evident. But for BLU, it was a bleaker picture. Over the past two months, a weak link had formed in the team – one that was threatening to snap the chain that encompassed all their primary strengths, prowess, and cooperation. It was only a matter of time.
By now, most of them knew what was going to happen. Cyril would start off his normal self, adjusting accordingly to what strategy they planned for that day. But that's when things went sharply downhill. He was soon faltering a lot: missing headshots, utilizing the wrong weapon in a specific setting, and standing still for too long when he fought close-range. This just made him an easy target for the enemy team.
Things finally erupted when he completely froze and was unable to move. The pupils in his eyes dilated, and his breathing reduced to rapid inhalation. BLU Scout was making his way towards the docks, where the bomb was nearing the third checkpoint, and wondering why his pants felt odd.
He shot past Cyril, noticing his evident paralysis.
"Hey, Snipes, the party's over here!" Scout slowed down, realizing what was going on. "Ah jeez, ya gotta spaz out on us again? You ain't no malfunction' machine!"
He bounded over to Cyril and lightly slapped his face. "Snap out of it!"
The marksman kept opening and closing his mouth as if struggling to reply.
"Now ya just look like a fish doin' that."
BLU Pyro had arrived. "Mphhsh?"
"He's havin' one of those flakedowns again," Scout answered worriedly.
"Itsh brieahdwoth," Pyro corrected.
"Yeah, yeah, breakdowns. Thanks, teacher."
Cyril abruptly backed away from them. "GET AWAY FROM ME, YA GODDAMN BASTARDS!"
Scout grew confused over his hostile behavior. "Yo, what the hell, man?"
He got another unpleasant surprise when Cyril aimed his scoped rifle at them.
"Whoa, whoa, Snipes!" Scout protested, as he and Pyro backed up a bit.
The young man noticed that the marksman's hands were shaking so badly that he was clearly having trouble balancing the gun. He glared at his comrades, baring his teeth like some wild animal backed into a corner.
"Uhhh, you're pointin' that at the wrong people," Scout interjected nervously. "You're suppooose to be shootin' at REDs…"
A sudden, loud shot rang out and Cyril crumpled to the ground. A bullet to the head had instantly taken him out.
"Shit!" Scout ducked, quickly glancing around before he and Pyro took refuge in the Red Carpet Building.
The RED Sniper had brazenly announced his presence by picking off his clone. As both remaining BLUs ran inside the building, they barely missed a few more bullets that embedded themselves into the wooden planks of the walls.
"Sneaky asshole," Scout seethed.
"Mohhsgph mohghsp," Pyro agreed.
Ironically, their enemy just might have saved them from Cyril possibly pulling the trigger.
"I think we better go out the other side door and past the Ferris wheel. He can't get us there."
Both watched their teammate's body disappear, taken back to the second spawn point.
"Hmphh smhehgh!"
"Yeah, it looks like Snipes was about to shoot us! Jeez, he's really headin' to the wackadoodle farm, isn't he?"
"Mhphhs hdusg mphhhh."
"No kiddin.' I'd check up on him at BLU spawn, but Demo and Soldier need some extra muscle around the bomb. Let's finish that up."
Pyro did an excited little hop. "Hmohg mohgh hhhgfedd?"
"What, now? Wait 'till this round's over, then we can go on the Ferris wheel. That is, uh, if we win."
The arsonist grumbled, slouching against the wall.
"Don't worry, pally, it'll be over soon. I'm wanna ride the rollercoaster – uh, the kiddie one, since we gotta blow up the bigger one. The bumper cars too."
Pyro then looked down, pointing at Scout's pants. "Mhohg pahht mmohphh."
Scout looked down as well. "Ah crap, put these on backwards again. Thanks, Mumbles. That's what happens when you're rushin' and gettin' ready for battle. Taste makes paste."
As he went to a storage room to change his pants, the firebug scratched their head.
"I thought it was 'haste makes waste,' " Pyro mused.
Meanwhile, over in the BLU spawn room, Cyril had just rematerialized. Engineer and Medic were also revived just a few seconds before he came though; both turned around, seeing Cyril appear, curled up on the floor and visibly trembling.
"Hey uh, Slim, you okay there?" Engineer asked.
He and Medic walked over, with the latter kneeling down to check on him.
"Mein freund, vhat iz zhe matter-"
Cyril then snapped out of it, eyes widening in fear. "Stay away, you monster!"
He swatted the doctor's hand away, backing up against the wall.
"Whoa there, pardner, calm down," Engineer tried placating.
"I won't let you experiment on me again," Cyril growled at Medic, picking himself off the ground. "You're not gonna gut me like the spineless pig you think I am."
The doctor was stunned at this baseless accusation. He had never violated the marksman in any way, as he preferred to work solely on animals and insects. Though, a part of him wasn't surprised. During a humiliation round, the RED Medic kidnapped Cyril and performed cruel, unethical experiments on him. It was no different than what he had done to BLU Spy's head or cutting BLU Soldier in half while he was still alive. Or attaching a baboon's head onto BLU Demoman's shoulders.
Still, Medic could see that Cyril wasn't in his right mind, judging by how he'd been acting the past few weeks. It just kept getting worse and worse. Cyril was glaring at him with the same hatred he held for his RED counterpart.
"Have you lost your mind?" Engineer demanded.
"He zhinks I'm zhe RED Medic," the doctor observed.
"Ah hell, he has."
"Vee have to approach him carefully," Medic cautiously explained. "Try to convince him vee mean no harm."
Cyril suddenly pulled out his SMG when the doctor took another step. Engineer's heart caught in his throat, not knowing whether their teammate was about to turn them into human Swiss cheese.
At that moment, BLU Soldier respawned and knocked right into Cyril from behind. He stumbled forwards, as Medic and Engineer quickly moved out of his oncoming path. Landing on his left side, Cyril released the weapon. It merely slid about two feet away, but this was enough for him to regain his momentum; he immediately snatched it up before they could disarm him.
Turning around while propped up on his torso, he recognized Soldier with a vehemence.
"And you're not taking my head again!" he yelled, pointing the gun at the military man.
"Sniper, no!" Medic cried.
"Now Slim, he's not the enemy Soldier," Engineer insisted. "Put the gun down."
"Yeah, Sniper, it's me," Soldier agreed, raising his hands to show he wasn't a threat. "Uhh, remember that time I called you a dumb horse's ass when we were fighting over my baguette?"
"Zhat was Heavy's baguette," Medic corrected. "Und he vas keeping you from stealing it."
"Or how about when I screwed up at Junction and team-killed you four times?"
"Goddamn it, Soldier, now he's really gonna shoot yah!" Engineer squawked.
And yet, why wasn't the marksman pulling the trigger? It's as if he couldn't tell whether they were the opposite team or not. Hesitancy.
Still, Cyril felt a riveting mix of terror and disdain, an ice-cold sweat breaking out all over his entire body. His heart was racing twice as fast as it normally would. He never really got over the traumatic experience of being a "captive audience" to the RED Soldier when he collected BLU team's heads, during one of respawn's breakdowns.
It was like being imprisoned inside one's own body, not able to move the eyes or mouth. Only see and hear, utterly helpless in a twisted nightmare as the enemy soldier ranted on and on about nonsensical drivel. And so, his hand began pressing down on the trigger, ready to kill who he thought was the RED Soldier.
So, he took a calculated risk – he was the furthest away from Cyril's peripheral vision. He also knew the sharpshooter's mental acuity was compromised; he had shown poor judgment and delayed thought processes during the last few rounds of battle.
Using this to his advantage, he dove straight towards Cyril and managed to grab his forearms with a swift reflex that rivaled Scout's. Cyril let out a surprised cry, shooting off the SMG. Soldier crouched to the ground as bullets sprayed the wall, supply cabinets, and ceiling when Medic forced the weapon upward.
Engineer rushed over to help the doctor in subduing their unhinged teammate.
"Zhat's it, hold him down vhile I get zhe needle-" Medic instructed, reaching for a syringe kit attached to his belt.
"LET GO OF ME, YA FUCKING REDS!" Cyril wildly thrashed about, his hands still tightly gripping the weapon.
Engineer placed one knee over the marksman's midriff to secure him down, while he took over holding his forearms. Now Cyril was kicking his legs out, trying frantically to wrest free as they grappled with him. That's when a frying pan whacked him over the head.
He was out cold. Engineer and Medic glanced up to see Soldier welding the cookware, grinning down at them.
"Never underestimate the raw violence of Sergeant Pan!"
"Ah yes, zhe crude way of putting a patient to sleep," Medic remarked dryly.
. . .
Cyril lay strapped down to a hospital bed, bearing the expression of a thousand-yard stare. Medic recognized it was typical of someone showing signs of PTSD.
Scout and Pyro had just arrived, glancing over his shoulder as he tended to Cyril.
"How is he, Doc?"
"His condition hasn't changed in zhe past hour," Medic replied, examining the marksman's eyes with an ophthalmoscope. Well, at least the pupils were normally contracting.
The doctor suspected he would have to check the blood pressure in another hour. It had been quite high following the last round, although this was usually normal for the team after an adrenaline-filled fight; it eventually came down after about an hour. But for Cyril, his pressure had been elevated for three hours now; it only lowered a few numbers after the doctor had administered a shot of Hydralazine.
Medic sighed. "Vee are going to have to inform Darryl zhat Sniper is unfit for duty again."
Darryl Simmons was the stand-in for Miss Pauling, as she was currently on vacation – a shocking first for the assistant this year since she only got one day off annually. Medic wondered how she hadn't collapsed from being overworked to the bone or practically dropped dead from sheer exhaustion.
But another thing was bothering Medic. The 'tranquil' drugs no longer worked on Cyril. After two years of numbing his mind to the horrors of war, something went wrong.
Does that mean he had built up a high tolerance? Did he now require twice the amount of dosage? Would the same thing happen to Scout and Engineer if their systems reacted in a similar manner?
"Mhphh huudh mohphhih?" Pyro asked, concerned.
"Yeah, looks like our Head Popper is outta the fight for awhile," Scout glumly replied.
"Mohggs huhghg wwhghgh!"
"Hey, don't worry 'bout it," Scout assured. "He'll still owe ya the 15 cents from Saturday's game."
"Dummkopfs," Medic chided. "Is zhat all you're worried about, a couple of stupid coins? Zhis is serious. Vee don't even know if he'll be able to continue zhe rest of zhis month."
Scout shamefully looked down, while Pyro was still fuming, arms crossed. Sighing, Medic turned back to the invalid Cyril and softly replied, "I'll be back within zhe hour to check up on you."
The sharpshooter didn't respond, not even acknowledging his teammates' presence. The doctor then rose to leave, beckoning the others to follow him. "He needs rest."
Scout didn't like the glazed look in Cyril's normally vibrant green eyes. It creeped him out seeing his friend like this. So, he did the only thing he could do to fight it...a hopeful outlook. "Get better, ya hear me, pally? We still gotta show those REDs whose da boss in this war. We'll get Pier from them, just ya wait. Tell ya what, I'll take ya out for a drink when ya get better. We'll have a go at the pool table or the pinball machines. Oh, and as long as the drink isn't over $0.50."
"Scout," Medic urged, stern.
" 'Kay, I'm comin.' " Scout trailed after the others out the door, Medic shutting it close. Cyril lay there, lost in his disturbing thoughts. He felt like he was going to lose it again until a warm, gentle feeling touched his psyche.
It was like a lifeline thrown to him in a malevolent maelstrom of panic, anxiety, hopelessness, and fear.
"Cyril…"
Bubo. His little owl friend was reaching out again – despite it being a tenuous link from such a great distance away, it's what barely kept him tethered to reality. It was stronger in the past, but now it seems their duplex communication had weakened since last month.
Puzzling enough, he no longer saw the strange symbol that lurked within his dreams nor the mysterious bipedal creature that warned him of evil forces. The visions had disappeared a month ago, just around the time, Bubo discovered him unconscious in the desert.
Cyril was still figuring out why he drove out there late at night; the only thing he could surmise was that he had sleepwalked. It wouldn't be the first time, having experienced several episodes during his development stages at TF Industries Laboratory. It happened several more times during the last two and a half years of the Gravel Wars.
When he returned to the base in the camper van, he nearly ran over Scout while he was out for his morning run. Scout had backpedaled up to the driver's side, inquiring where he had gone off so early.
All Cyril could answer was that he had no idea. About a week later, the same weird incident happened to Scout. He disappeared in the night, only to show up the next morning from the desert in a haze of confusion. This was followed next by Engineer, Pyro, and Medic's eerie experiences.
Like with Cyril, the triangular, twin-flamed symbol stopped appearing in their dreams. Baffling, indeed. Sure, they still recalled the image from memory, but whatever happened, it remained an inexplicable mystery.
This meant that BLU team wouldn't need the special treatment that Dr. Norad mentioned in the letter. What was the point? The symbol was gone.
Bubo's telepathic call nudged Cyril's mind once more. This always brought him out of his catatonic state…if only temporarily.
Yeah, the pinball machine sounds nice…
. . .
NOTES: The cost of drinks around 1971 was much lower than modern day prices as a result of inflation. A cocktail drink around that time would have cost about $1.00 - $3.00, so I estimated a cheaper drink (like beer) would be under $1.00, if the vintage cocktail menus online are anything to go by. Thus, why Scout stated the $0.50 pricing...he can be a cheapskate in that area (headcanon) 😋
. . .