. . .
It was Saturday morning when BLU Scout & Co awoke to another search day in Santa Fe. They spent the night at a motel, except for Pyro; the arsonist insisted on sleeping in the car because they feared bedbugs in the sheets. Pyro hated them with a passion and nearly fumigated the entire compound after the team had brought some back from one such outing. This also included burning any bed sheets and pillows they could get their hands on.
The Administrator was not thrilled to be spending more money on replacing the teams' bedding. In the end, a feasible solution was to hot-steam all the beds for several days to make sure the bugs were dead. Pyro was satisfied with the effective results but was still wary of catching them again. Scout and Felicia took a chance, paying for separate rooms next to each other.
After eating breakfast, they stopped by the Swag Club just to see if they could find any salient clues. As always, Bubo grew flighty and loud whenever he detected Cyril's past signature essence. The others didn't know how an owl of all things could sense where their friend had been.
So, they just rolled with it. After scouring the parking lot for over an hour, it was time to move on. Bubo hadn't found anything of interest, either. He only confirmed to them that Cyril had been here four nights ago.
"Alright little guy, lead the way," Felicia announced to Bubo.
Once again, the raptor would point them in the right direction. As they were driving down the desert highway, Felicia caught a familiar sight at a pit stop and a local diner.
"Hey! That looks like Sniper's trailer!" She pointed to a light blue camper van.
Scout squinted at the distinct vehicle. "Yeah, it is! I think we found him!"
As they pulled over and parked along the side of the road, the door to the trailer burst open and out walked a scrawny-looking man with tanned skin, a mop of sandy hair and a long beard. He was dressed only in ragged jeans and some equally worn shoes.
A second later, an older woman wearing a bandana around her head and smoking a cigarette appeared from the doorway.
"You sonofabitch! You motherfucker, get back here!" she yelled in a coarse voice.
"Shut the fuck up, mom, I ain't dealin' with you!" her son shot back.
"You stole my cigarettes and reefer bags, you motherfucking thief! You goddamn sonofabitch!"
"Okay, why're they in Snipe's van?" Scout wondered.
"Yeah and calling her son those cuss words. I mean, isn't she insulting herself too?" Felicia added. "You know, mother fucker? Like, she's inferring that her son…shags her? Unless, he does it to other peoples' moms."
"Ewww," Scout made a face before adding, "Yeah, and the son-of-bitch one. It's like, 'yeah, my son has a mom who's a bitch, which is me.' "
Pyro chimed in, "Mpghhs phhdkm."
"You're right, Py, she is a total hypocrite. Unless she's insulting herself on purpose. You get those kinds who hate on themselves."
"Hmm, maybe they're Sniper's relatives," Felicia guessed, before catching her blunder. "Oops, he doesn't have any. I mean, he's a clone and all…"
"If he's not in there, I bet they know where he is." Scout stepped out of the car.
"Fuck you, Gil!" the woman was still going off in her tirade. "Fuckity fuck fuck—"
"Go to hell, you chain-smokin' ho!" he threw back, still walking away.
He was suddenly met with Scout aiming a scattergun at him.
"Alright, what did ya do to Snipes?" the runner demanded.
The man seemed unfazed by the threat of weapon pointed at him. "Who the hell are you?"
"Gil, is this another one of your drug deals gone bad?" the older lady asked crossly.
"I've never seen this dude in my life."
"Liar!"
"What are ya doin' with Snipes' van?" Scout pushed.
The man was confused. "Who's Snipes?"
"Don't play dumb with me, I know ya did somethin' to him." The runner cocked the gun hammer to show he meant business. "Start talkin' or you could say goodbye to your kneecaps!"
"Eh, go ahead and shoot'em off," the lady called. "Maybe this'll teach him not to be buyin' that powder shit off of thug trash like you."
"Mom!" Gil admonished, before turning back to Scout. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. We're here for the Alien Worshipping Cross-Dressing Mormon Vampire Land Rover Club."
"The what?"
As if on cue, a whole line of camper vans identical to Cyril's appeared down the highway and parked uniformly on the side of the road.
A man with a sharp widow's peak rolled down his window. "Hey, Gil! Edna! You ready to head to Albuquerque?"
The guy noticeably had some sharp canines on him. Great, he probably drank blood, too.
Felicia stepped out of the car, along with Pyro and Bubo, the latter perched on the arsonist's shoulder.
"Say there!" she called to the leader. "You guys don't happen to have a new member that joined? His about six foot two, speaks Australian and wearing a half-folded hat?"
"Hmm, I believe we have about thirty of them."
"Huh?"
The leader stepped out of his vehicle and turned to address the whole entourage. "All Aussies with embarrassingly incorrect styled hats, would you please step out for the young lady?"
A moment later, all the men meeting Felicia's description appeared from their camper vans. They were all tall and wearing slouched hats. Some of them wore dresses, bras and thongs, passionate about their deviant self-expressions.
"G'day, miss! You were wantin' to speak with me?" one of them asked.
"Nah, I think the cute sheila meant me," another man similar looking to Cyril butted in.
Felicia groaned, turning to a baffled Scout. "How long do you think this is gonna take before we find the right one?"
Oddly, Bubo wasn't putting up a ruckus like he normally did when sensing Cyril. Maybe he too was perplexed by all the doppelgangers.
Okay Bubo, can you tell us which one is Cyril?" The assistant asked.
The owl merely blinked a few times, staring at the gathered group that loosely resembled his friend.
Felicia's face dropped. "Uh, you need time to process it?" She waved it off. "Eh, we can wait."
. . .
Mick was dreaming. In it, he was a wolf. Hungry and lusting for blood. He ran through the woods of an evergreen forest, shrouded in a white mist; as if a cloud had partially descended upon the pine, spruce and douglas fir trees. His target of interest was a stag, who was galloping just fifty feet ahead of him.
A predator's instinct burned within the assassin, engulfing his entire mind, soul and body. He was going to kill the stag and eat it.
But just as he caught up to the male deer, it turned around and swung its head in a show of defiance. Its antlers were poised, ready to hurt the wolf if need be. This proud prey was not going down easily.
No matter…the wolf would win, as it always did in nature.
To his surprise, the stag suddenly materialized into the BLU Sniper. So, he was the hunted. It made sense, as Mick always sought him out in battle more times than Cyril did.
He was determined to show the clone who was the best assassin in the war. To put him in his place; to thoroughly dominate and humiliate him. The BLU Spy may have been his main nuisance – but, where there existed a fierce rivalry between them, it was more of a predator-prey dynamic with the BLU Sniper.
As if on cue, Mick's wolf facade also disappeared, revealing his human form.
"Take your best shot, hunter," Cyril calmly challenged, welding his Kukri in one hand.
Mick grinned, anticipating the kill with delight. "With pleasure, me little victim."
He lunged forward with his own Kukri and swung. Cyril backed away, going on the defense. Mick took several strides forward, taking another swing and determined to slash the other sniper in the belly. If not, then cut off an arm or go for the neck.
But with each killing move, Cyril was agile and managed to miss every one within a microsecond. He then pushed back, taking a few swipes at Mick. The RED mercenary easily dodged them, possessing an instinctual sense in determining which way the blade would hit. Though at one point, Cyril came close to slashing his left forearm.
Mick's opponent was dangerous, that was a given; he made a cautious note of this as he took another aim towards Cyril's midriff, who involuntarily lifted his arms up and stepped back. That's when Mick saw a vulnerable opening and drove the machete towards the other's gut area.
To his chagrin, Cyril swiftly parried his blow. He aggressively slapped Mick's blade aside with his own. The latter was growing frustrated. Someone had to draw blood soon.
"Hold still, ya fuckin' pissant!" Mick yelled.
Out of rage, he charged forward, swiping furiously at Cyril. Instead of going on the defense, the BLU mercenary stood his ground and blocked Mick's attack yet again and again. The metallic sound of blades clanged in the air, echoing all over the forest.
Both would not give in. Cyril was fighting for life, while Mick was fighting for death. A sharp contrast, yet somehow, mutually linked together.
Then Mick was jolted awake by a steady knock on the camper's door. Groaning from sleepy stupor, he clambered out of bed and down the ladder.
Having taken a short nap, he wondered why his dream of the BLU Sniper had been so vivid. Maybe it was his subconscious mind reminding him to finish dominating his counterpart in the next fighting match.
Glanced down at his watch, it read 9:30 PM. It was the moment that he would have to acquiesce to a sinister enemy's demands. But he was ready, despite all odds stacked against him.
He opened the door to reveal RED Spy and RED Scout standing outside.
"It is time," the other assassin announced. "ETA to the steel mill will be twenty minutes."
Mick nodded. "Let's do it."
He stepped out of the camper van, leaving his main weapons and machetes behind. The only thing he had was a pistol on him. But even the kidnappers would search him for any weapons before they took him by force. Still, if they went back on their word, he would be ready to get in several good headshots.
As he walked along side his two teammates, he couldn't help feeling a stab of ominous dread – it was one that he hadn't experienced since he was child. What if it was a trap he was walking into? What if they didn't keep their word and had already killed his parents?
He always thought he controlled most of his fears – but apparently not when it came to those that he held dear to his heart – even if it was a maligned heart that led to him to do questionable things all his life.
"Those lousy bastards," Scout bitterly spoke up, as they begin walking towards a red Mercedes. "Usin' your folks as a bargainin' tool to get at you like this. Fuckin' bullshit, man."
"I often wondered if this day would ever come," Mick admitted. "I really didn't think it would. But someone was emboldened enough to try it."
"Just have your guard up at all times," Spy advised. He felt for a small tracking device in his side pockets. His plan was to go invisible and plant it under one of the perpetrator's vehicles. He just hoped it didn't backfire on all of them.
. . .
The Administrator awoken to find herself in a dimly lit chamber. She tried moving her arms, but her hands were bound behind her back by metal shackles. Feeling an irritating hardness to her side, she realized that she was lying on a smooth, concrete floor. She used her upper torso to pull herself upright, trying to get a bearing of her surroundings.
Hearing a sudden noise – a short and menacing laugh – she glanced up to see a familiar young man appear in the light.
"Hello, Administrator," he darkly greeted.
"Mr. Bidwell?" she asked, incredulously.
The man shook his head. "No."
"What the –" she briefly glanced around the room. "What the hell is going on here?"
Why was she tied up while Saxton Hale's assistant was standing over her? If either of them had betrayed her…
"Uncuff me now!" she ordered. "Whatever game you're playing, I assure you that there will be consequences for this!"
The man that was supposedly Bidwell let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, I've already suffered the consequences at your hands. More literally at the hands of that little bitch that hangs on your coattails."
The Administrator glared at him in disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about?"
She was trying to get over the shock of being captured. How these perpetrators managed to pull it off was almost commendable, if not for them being the enemy. It wasn't the first time in her abnormally long life. The question was, would she be able to get out of it alive again?
The young man steadily paced the floor. "You recall those infamous interviews with RED team?"
The older woman tried to discern his motives. "What are you getting at?"
"And that you found out a Hydra agent was amidst your little private war?" The man continued, ignoring her inquiry. "Aside from wanting to keep him quiet from going to the media about its secrets."
"What is this? Revenge for Calder, Mr. Bidwell?"
He walked towards her, suddenly spitting in her face. "I am Calder."
That's when she noticed his eyes eerily flashed a luminous white. "What the—no…"
"No? Never believed in people coming back from the dead? Your mercenaries do it all the time," he viciously spat out. "You even died several times, if not for the Australium pulling you back from the brink of permanent death."
"But this isn't possible," she denied, appalled. "My assistant killed you!"
"You know what they say - you can't keep a good director down." He wore a mock expression of regret. "A pity I never got to finish the interviews with the Medic or the Pyro."
"What have you done to Bidwell?!"
"He's gone forever. His body is now mine." He glared at her, hatred alighted in his eyes. "Did you think you could prevent Hydra from getting to Mick Mundy? Did you think with all your nefarious ways that you could also keep me quiet from knowing the true purpose of your war? What you have done is also not without its consequences, Helen Furias. You denied me my life, now I'm going to do the same to you. And after that, your timid little crony, Pauling."
All the older woman could do was stare back at him with a mixture of shock and disgust, realizing that Calder had the upper hand over her. He could kill her anytime he wanted now – and this time, it would be permanent without her continuous supply of Australium.
. . .