. . .
It was only a few days later, upon their return to New Mexico, that Medic realized the profound effect Cyril's owl friend had on him. He was no psychologist, though he knew enough that the presence of an animal could temporarily reduce somebody's stress or depression.
In Cyril's case, it had been a psychological breakdown. There were moments when the team had the old Sniper back – as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He even joined in their game and movie nights and had no issues cooking on his designated days.
Though there were other times when he'd have that tense, trepid look in his eyes and start violently shaking. That's when Heavy or another team member would have to hold him down while Medic shot him up with a strong sedative.
Cyril was usually strapped to the bed to prevent any harm to others or himself. Medic didn't trust that he wouldn't flip out and start killing everyone on the base; especially when he was under the disturbing delusions that they were the RED team. Interestingly, the doctor noticed when Bubo came around, Cyril's behavior changed dramatically.
It was like the bird's presence kept him from plunging over the abyss.
One day after dinner, the doctor stood outside with Engineer and Heavy on the practice fields. Heavy's little robin friend, Kiev, joined the group and was perched on the big man's left shoulder. RED Heavy also had a robin, whom he called Pootis.
From just over fifty feet away, Cyril was watching Scout practice his archery at a bull's eye target comprised of hay and a wooden tripod. Bubo was resting nearby, a content little puffball of feathers.
"Yep, once again, you deduced right," Engineer marveled. It's the seventh time he's seen Cyril acting normal when the Spotted owl was around. "Hell, I haven't seen Slim lose it in over five hours now."
Medic's brows furrowed. "Somezhing about zhat bird…"
"Sniper understand owl very well," Heavy repeated what they already knew. "Is mysterious. But is good. Bubo seems like keeper of his sanity."
"While zhat's good here at home, it doesn't bode well on zhe battlefield," Medic remarked, sounding a bit resigned. "We can't bring zhe owl vis us on zhe chance it'll get killed during a match. Zhen vhat's zhe use? Sniper vould go even more insane over losing his friend."
"The only thing I could think of is if we were to keep Bubo at a safe distance," Engineer opined. "Though, there's no guarantee Slim'll still be okay once the combat starts." He turned to Medic. "The double dose of Radatine didn't help?"
"Nein, it's no longer effective. Zhis is quite disturbing because it may no longer work on…" the doctor's voice trailed off, grim and worried.
"On Scout and me," Engineer finished.
Medic didn't want to believe it. It was horrifying to know that one day both his teammates would end up like Cyril.
"Indeed," he admitted. "Vee don't know for certain, of course. Sniper's problem may be unique only to him."
"Well, we're just gonna have to deal with it when we cross that bridge." Engineer's solemn mood disappeared as he then grinned excitedly. "In the meantime, I'm looking to test my para-sentry on a few targets. A nice present for RED in our next battle."
Heavy smiled at his hardy optimism, before turning back to observing Cyril and Scout. "Heavy will continue watching Sniper and little ankle biter."
"I appreciate it," Medic replied, grateful.
Kiev flew off the big man's shoulder, flying over to where a sleepy Bubo was. The robin perched on the owl's soft, plushy head, curled up and closed its eyes. Bubo didn't seem to mind though.
Later that evening, Cyril couldn't sleep. He felt that he needed to get away from the base for a bit. He certainly didn't want to bother Bubo, having spent a considerable amount of time with the owl, even on nights in his crystal cave home.
He was also receiving letters from Jimmy at his 'fake' home by the side of the road, inviting him to The Swag Club 10 miles away in Sante Fe. Jimmy was a night owl himself, going there on Friday and Saturday nights from around 9 PM until it closed at 2 AM. So, Cyril donned some casual clothes and headed over to the camper van. It was close to midnight.
Everyone assumed that since Bubo was spending the nights in Cyril's room, he was more stable and wasn't an immediate danger to them (even though they could respawn, being killed by a fellow teammate wasn't something they wanted to deal with. It was bad enough that happened in their battles with team-kills). But on this night, the owl had an emergency with his family.
Everyone was in bed preparing for some morning battle practice, courtesy of BLU company sending over a few military professionals. RED team didn't have this option, as it was usually led by the RED Soldier who was an absolute control freak when it came to their training.
Cyril didn't leave behind a note for the team, even though it didn't match his usual behavior. Not that they would have let him go off on his own anyway.
. . .
The air was still and chilly, the luminescence of a waxing moon's rays was shining over the gravel parking lot when Cyril pulled up to the bar. As he opened the door, he was met with the familiar aroma of liquors, citrus peels, and the colognes of various patrons.
A local jazz quintet, that was fairly popular around New Mexico and Arizona, was playing up on the stage. In the center of the room, people were dancing to a slow, romantic song. Cyril took a seat at the bar and patiently waited for the bartender. He only drank occasionally, so his normal options were cranberry juice or non-alcoholic beer.
"Hey, Cyril, how are you?"
The marksman turned his head to see Jimmy and his girlfriend, Doris, strolling up.
"Hey guys," he greeted, barely able to smile.
"Where's your posse at?" Doris inquired.
"Don't tell me they ditched you again for Mally's Pub," Jimmy said.
Doris made a face. "Why do they like going to that cheap pithole anyway?"
"Certain places have their charms," Cyril replied. "But no, they didn't come tonight. Just me."
"Come sit with us," Jimmy offered. "A drink on me."
Cyril felt warmed by the gesture but didn't want to necessarily put his friend at an additional expense when he had his own money. "No, mate. I can buy my own."
"Looking a gift horse in the mouth? C'mon, try again." Jimmy grinned, before waving the bartender down.
A couple of minutes later, he sat with the young couple at one of the diner tables.
"Anyways, I got another baseball card from the local flea market," Jimmy was explaining. "A genuine autographed Rick Ferell one from 1936! Let Scout know, I'm willing to trade it for one of his Rico Petrocelli ones…"
Cyril was barely listening to him talk, the faint tendrils of trauma and apathy always at the surface of his emotions.
"Cyril? You alright?" Jimmy had never seen his friend this distracted.
His thoughts broken, he glanced up at the young man. "Sorry, just a little preoccupied."
"From what?"
Sighing, Cyril asked, "Do you ever feel like…you just want to run away from it all?"
Jimmy frowned. "Why? Is something bothering you?"
"Has been for a while."
"What? Bad news from your doctor? A relative died?"
"Nah…it's just, sometimes, I feel like I should escape it all. I'm so…tempted right now."
Indeed, images flashed through his mind of fleeing the war, with only his camper van and money in tow. Driving somewhere far, far away and hiding out, living in peace. Of course, he knew what the consequences would be if he did that.
Having the audacity to abandon his teammates – his family – when they all needed each other in their fight against the enemy amounted to combat desertion. But what good was he when he wasn't fully capable of his duties? He might as well be replaced at this point. Even if he had signed a contract, it really wasn't of his own volition.
Unlike RED team, BLU was expected to sign it. Their future was already planned out the moment they were manufactured in a petri dish. But if he were to run off, his teammates might not forgive him for what they would perceive as a cowardly, traitorous act.
He couldn't care less about what Blutarch or the Administrator thought, even though they'd be out for his head at that point.
"You're not making sense, Cyril," Jimmy stated. "What are you wanting to get away from?"
"The war."
"The war? You mean Vietnam?"
"Don't tell me you got drafted," Doris scoffed. "Aren't you too old?"
Jimmy shot her a disapproving look, while she just shrugged. "Hey, I thought the army was only taking in young whipper snappers, not middle-aged geezers now."
"Doris!"
"Sorry, sorry…"
Cyril stared into his drink, downtrodden. "Nah, I mean a different kind of war. One I have no choice in whatsoever."
Come on, Cyril, pull yourself together…
Finishing the rest of the drink, he managed to smile warmly at his friends – the same ones he'd give Bubo – although he found it more and more hard to do so.
Jimmy nodded, sympathetic. He knew it was something related to his friend's job, but he wasn't about to push him further to elaborate. He could only comfort the mercenary and be a good friend to him. Cyril envied the couple – actually, everyone in this club – they had normal, and free lives, unlike him.
. . .
"NO PRISONERS! NO PRISONERRRS!" Jimmy yelled in an English accent, pretending an empty beer bottle was his weapon.
Cyril and Doris were both impressed by his impersonation of 'Lawrence of Arabia.' They had drank a little too much, even Cyril. He was already starting to act a bit silly. Jimmy had another Mojito while Doris had downed two more Piña Coladas.
"You sound exactly like O'Toole, right down to the wild-eyed look," the marksman complimented.
Wonder if he'd be a beast of a mercenary, Cyril thought.
"I tried convincing him to go into acting, but he wants to deliver rats, bugs, and pigs all over here instead!" Doris said, gesturing around the small town and open fields to their right.
"We need an income, babe," Jimmy explained. "You want us starving on a bench somewhere in Hollywood? Breaking into films and TV isn't easy."
Doris shrugged. "One could still dream big. Okay, how about one from me?"
She straightened herself up, resting her hands on her hips and looking exaggeratedly tough.
"I suppose you'd beat me up too," she challenged, gesturing upward with her chin. "Just let me see you try. Just let me see any man try."
Jimmy was trying to figure out the phrase and which character it belonged to.
"Just try it, you'll find out," Doris taunted, now hooking her thumbs in her front pockets.
She shot both men a menacing look, with a devious twinkle in her eye before throwing several fist shots at Jimmy. Surprised, he stepped back and dodged her oncoming blows.
"Whoa, whoa, babe!" he admonished, but couldn't help grin at her pseudo-masculine actions.
"Okay, I know that's a man you're playing," Cyril chuckled.
"Let me guess…Marlon Brando?" Jimmy inquired.
"Steve McQueen?"
Doris snorted, amused. "It's Marilyn Monroe!"
Both simply gave her a blank stare.
"You know, from the movie, 'Clash By Night'?' She plays a tomboy in that one."
"I don't think I've ever seen it," Jimmy said.
Cyril nodded with awareness at the mention of the obscure film. Doris was more of a cinephile than any of them.
"I admit, I exaggerated on the punches. And she was more on the defensive side than the offensive." Turning to Cyril, she asked, "How about you? You wanna impersonate a character?"
Feeling most of his inhibitions melted away, the sharpshooter shrugged. "Eh, why not? It's not like we're gonna remember all of this in the morning."
So, he pushed his shoulders back and squinted his eyes, drawling out in a calm, American accent, "Sergeant, this bank's not gonna fall in the hands of the American army. It's gonna fall in our hands. See, we're just a private enterprise operation."
Right off the bat, Jimmy knew which film he was referencing.
"You do a very good Clint Eastwood impersonation," he complimented. "Kelly's Heroes. That one was easy."
"Have you ever thought of going into voice acting? You sound so American," Doris complimented.
Well, Cyril was American, despite having an Australian twang; this was primarily due to the unusual replication trait derived from his RED counterpart. After all, BLU team was born in the Badlands.
And he was good at imitating accents…
None of them noticed trouble lurking from behind the front fender of Jimmy's truck, too caught up in their little bubble of entertainment. Suddenly, Cyril felt a sharp blow to his head from behind. It was so hard that he saw stars for a moment; he collapsed to the ground in front of a stunned Jimmy and Doris.
"That's uh, my impersonation of Bela Lugosi," the attacker blurted out. "Bride of The Monster."
"Huh." Jimmy rubbed his chin, contemplating. "I don't recall Bela using a fire extinguisher. It was probably too dark during that lake scene—"
THWACK!
The same object met Jimmy's face. Losing consciousness, he plummeted backward and fell right into a startled Doris. She let out a short scream and instinctively caught him, gravity pulling her downwards. She hit her head on the side-view mirror of their car, knocking her out as well.
Cyril was stirring from being disoriented, so the man struck him over the head again for good measure. This time, he stayed flat on the ground.
A second man appeared from the shadows of the building. "Not so hard now, the boss wants his skull intact."
"Why couldn't we just use a tranquilizer dart?" the first man asked.
"Too risky. We don't know how the drug will react with the alcohol in his system. He could go from being a live body to a cold stiff before we even get to the facility."
He searched the mercenary's pockets for his vehicle keys. "Leave no evidence behind."
Finding the item, he got up and scurried over to the camper van. Unlocking the back door, he called, "Let's hurry up and get him inside!"
The first attacker trotted over to a brown sedan, opening the trunk, and taking out a cut of rope and a bandana. They both worked quickly in tying up and gagging Cyril.
Afterward, the man with the fire extinguisher walked over to the unconscious couple.
With a leery gaze, he bent down. "Such a beauty…"
He reached out to grab and squeeze a-
"Jorgis! Quit fondling that man's ass!"
"But Stan, he has…touchable cheeks."
"We're not here to molest some backcountry hick, we're here to do a kidnapping. Now come here and help me!"
Jorgis pouted, reluctantly rising to his feet. "I just wanted to knead'em a little…"
He assisted in lifting Cyril's legs, while Stan held his torso. Managing to get the sharpshooter inside, they shut the back door and locked it.
Stan whirled around, jabbing a finger in his crime partner's face. "And don't let me catch you feeling up on that mercenary's ass either."
"Nah, Aussies aren't my type."
"Whatever, you pervert. An ass is an ass, makes no difference to me."
"It does if you're a selectionist."
"More like a racist."
"I am not!"
"Of course, you are. Australian is a race. So is French, Canadian, and British." Before Jorgis could spit out a retort, Stan ordered, "Let's go back to the hideout and collect our cash. Waiting all these nights has finally paid off."
Jorgis was sullen. "Being a certain nationality isn't the same thing as race—"
But his partner ignored his correction, getting into the camper van and slamming the door shut. Jorgis vowed he'd get back at him later for that snub. So, he got inside the brown sedan, and both vehicles took off down the adjacent road and into the wintery night.
. . .