. . .
The RED Sniper was brushing his teeth in front of a bathroom mirror, getting ready for the morning and breakfast. Occasionally, he ventured out into the desert and hunted for food to cook over a fire, such as jack rabbit or pheasant.
Today, he decided to go in the base since Engineer was making his special omelets again; one of the few Southern cuisines he couldn't pass up. His eyes came to rest on a small photo of the BLU Sniper. It was taken a couple of years ago at TF Industries.
Mick had gotten over the strange disconnection at seeing an image of "himself" that was his clone. But there was the same smile, the same expression of mild enthusiasm on his face. Like the other pictures of his enemies, it was crossed out.
Smirking, Mick formed a gun with his right hand and pretended to shoot at Cyril's photograph.
"Boom! One headshot, gonna make it four next time. Then you're dominated, ya knock-off drongo."
He then exited the camper van, walking over to the compound with a cup of coffee. Meanwhile, the RED Scout was meeting with an activist on the eastern side of the building.
"And so, we deserve to be a free and egalitarian republic, split from the oppression that is the American tyrannical system." A man with a Boston accent was showing a pamphlet to Scout and a roster of signatures. "The Boston Tea Party failed to liberate us, as they were sadly manipulated and chained down by this country's corrupt ideologies for 200 years. Will you fight for our right to make Boston an independent country?"
"Ya got it, my brotha!" Scout was bubbling with enthusiasm. "I was born a Bostonian, and I will die a Bostonian—" a pause. "Wait, I already did that a lotta times. Anyhow, those pot-bellied, dumbass scumbags ain't gonna keep us down!"
"That's the spirit! Where Texas failed, we won't go screaming and crying like little bitches into the night. Boston is more brutal and dirty than that! Why, if it wasn't for our brothas donning their uniform and goin' to war with Hitler, America would've lost. With ample public support, we just need 300 more signatures, then arm ourselves and march to Congress!"
Scout let out an excited little chuckle, and was about to sign the roster, when he heard an engine approaching. An army jeep appeared and with it, a grumbling, sullen RED Soldier.
"Shit! Uhhh, hide!" Scout grabbed the activist's hand and darted into the laundry room.
If Soldier caught him betraying the U.S, the runner was sure to get sent to Respawn in various horrific ways, then probably thrown out in the desert as a corpse for the vultures to eat. It was bad enough the military man barely gave RED Demoman any respect after his own betrayal. Going behind the team's back with BLU Soldier was still a point against him.
In the mess hall, most of the team were gathered around and enjoying Engineer's omelets – even Spy joined in, and he was known for being a picky eater. A perturbed Soldier then stormed into the room.
"Atten-tion!" he barked.
Some of the mercenaries rose from their seats and stood rigid just to humor him. Spy and Heavy were the only ones who stayed seated, defiant in his presence. Pyro didn't seem to mind, giggling as they saluted.
"I have news on the enemy! They are now hiding weapons in their bodies! Particularly up the anus!"
It took a moment for all of them to process what he'd just announced.
"And where did you extract this information?" Spy inquired.
"I trapped two of the BLUs, and their little hoodlum rat admitted it to me! He was about to detonate it out his ass when I moved to knock him out! Then I blacked out and woke up with a huge headache. They had cut through the trap net and escaped. I almost had those little bastards! We could have interrogated them on the weapon. Medic could have removed it and allowed Engineer study it!"
This piqued Medic's curiosity. "Harboring some type of bomb in zhere bowels now, hmmm? Interesting. I vonder how zhey managed to insert it inside vithout affectin' zhe other organs."
"Sounds ridiculous. Are you sure you heard BLU correctly?" Heavy was skeptical.
"I heard what I heard!" Soldier insisted, before sniffing the air. "Fried eggs?"
"Yeah, Truckie's special omelets," Sniper replied. "Ya might want to grab some before we eat 'em all, mate."
"Affirmative! Dismissed, men!" Soldier then stomped into the kitchen where Engineer was busy over the stove.
Spy sighed, needing to go out for a cigarette. He was still ruminating over the mysterious triangular symbol associated with BLU. Even during his confrontation with the BLU Sniper, his adversary had admitted that he didn't know what it was.
"Something on your mind?" Sniper asked.
"Your perception is impeccable as always."
"Comes with the profession."
"Of course." Spy figured it was no use keeping it from his teammate. "Have you noticed ze way ze BLU Sniper has been acting these past several months?"
Mick took a sip of his coffee. "Yeah, it's weird. He's been fightin' poorly in the matches…can't seem to get his shit together. In the last one at Pier, I saw him turn his rifle on his teammates."
This was news to Spy. First the symbol, now erratic behavior among the BLUs.
"Is zat so? You don't zink it was some disagreement zey were having?"
"Nah, I've never seen him act like that. I dunno. They must've done something to really piss him off if he was gonna shoot'em. But then, I intervened and took him out. I needed to keep their long-range strategist from nearing the bomb."
Spy was a tad amused. "You might have just ended zeir dispute quite sooner. Or were you after another domination?"
Mick smirked. "Might as well have been both."
A few moments passed, before Spy queried, "Remember I told you about ze symbol zhey've been drawing?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"It's odd zat zey would engage in somezing like zat."
"Nothing wrong with a little creativity."
"It goes beyond zem having an artsy revelation, bushman." Spy furrowed his brows. "I came across an unsettling scene at Pier…ze BLU Demoman was blown apart by one of our Soldier's projectile missiles. As he was dying, he dragged his torso across ze ground, towards ze sawmill. Ze strange part was zat he started drawing ze symbol on ze wall; it was in his own blood. It was almost as if he was…entranced by ze image. His face showed no pain. No fear."
"Hmmm. He probably got delirious towards the end."
"Even so, why would he engage in ze same activity as his ozer comrades?"
The assassin shrugged. "No idea. Those BLUs sometimes…they're a pain in the ass, but strange wankers, the lot of 'em. I doubt they're fully us, even in an artificial sense. None of them act exactly like we do all the time."
"Zey're not meant to," Spy countered. "Just like twin siblings, zere's going to be differences between us and zem."
He knew that the enemy team was an extension of their DNA; that doesn't mean they were exact replicas. They were quite different at times. Spy took every opportunity to notice their quirks and nuances that were absent in his teammates.
"Well, TF Industries got the whole cloning process fucked up. No way would I fight close range with a Huntsman or use a pathetic oversized water gun to douse the fire out on my teammates."
"Ah, and while I see the practical uses of ze Tranquilizer Gun, it's not something I would utilize either. My clone seems to go ze easy route with zat weapon; it doesn't provide a challenge for me."
Still, Spy was determined to get to the bottom of this. He just needed to pool his resources and find out what the hell was going on with BLU.
. . .
Night had fallen and Cyril lay awake, watching over Athene as she drifted in and out of sleep. It was getting cold in the cell, so he placed an old, burlap cover that was lying on the floor over her body.
Despite his crippling injuries, he managed to stand for a few short periods at a time on his intact leg. Soon, he felt a psychic tug on his mind. Glancing towards the window, it was growing stronger. Right away, he knew what it was…someone was calling him.
He propped himself on the pile of hay to peer out the small, barred window. Doing so caused a burning pain through his shattered patella, so he gritted his teeth, enduring the unpleasant sensation. It would have been nice to have something to bite into, like a pillow or an apple. From the desert, a lone Screech Owl was making its way toward him.
It was one that he befriended last year, as it migrated to different homes all over the state. He reached out an arm through the bars, providing his hand for the bird to land on.
"Cyril…friend…" she communicated.
"Friend," Cyril repeated. "I know you. Traveler, is it?"
The owl acknowledged the human name he's christened it with. He felt so relieved to have one of his owl companions here – a comforting presence in a very bleak, horrible situation.
"Please, get help," he urged. "There are bad humans here. They kidnapped me and other humans as well. They have seriously harmed us and will continue doing so if they're not stopped."
Traveler was taken aback hearing this. But she was determined to help him.
"I will go alert the others around here and at your home," she offered.
"Thank you," Cyril replied. "These criminals can't get away with what they're doing. I don't know what they want from me, but it doesn't look good. They're even keeping children here. I don't believe they belong to the kidnappers, but if they do, they're committing parental child abuse."
"That's awful!" Traveler squeaked. "I will do as you say."
"Find Bubo. He should be able to warn my human friends."
"You got it! Hang in there, Cyril!"
She then flew off, back from the direction from whence she came. He closed his eyes, a gratifying warmth settling in his chest. For the first time since being imprisoned here, he felt a stirring sense of hope. He, Athene, and the rest had to get out of this alive.
At that moment, the three henchmen that participated in his torture appeared. Athene was startled awake when one of them unlocked the door. Immediately, Cyril limped towards her in a protective stance.
"Relax, we're not here to have more fun with your new toy whore," Tarjack sneered.
Cyril resisted the urge to go after them, fists smashing into their smarmy faces. Yet, what the criminal said disturbed him. What did they mean by 'more fun'? Surely, they hadn't outright raped Athene…
"You sick bastards," he growled. "If you touch her in any way…"
"Too late, you slow fuck," Mal taunted. "We already had a turn at her hole."
Athene winced at those vicious words, letting a distressed whimper.
Cyril couldn't take it anymore and lunged toward them despite his broken leg. A burst of adrenaline was spurring him on and temporarily numbed the paralyzing pain from his injuries. He managed to punch the taunting henchman in the jaw before Tarjack kicked him in his injured leg.
He let out a scream, stumbling to the floor.
"Sniper!" Athene cried.
"Goddamn skinny little prick!" Mal shouted, covering his bruising face. He kicked Cyril several times in the ribs.
"Stop hurting him!" Athene begged.
"Shut up, cunt!" Tarjack shot back. He then turned his attention to Cyril. "Grab him by the arms and drag him out of the cell."
As they haphazardly picked up the mercenary and moved him across the floor, two other henchmen appeared down the corridor with another prisoner.
"Hey Tarjack, you want this little snooper in here, right?"
"Yeah, throw him in. If we're lucky, the boss'll let us play around with him for a while."
As they half-dragged Cyril down the hall, they tossed their new quarry into the cell. Athene was alarmed, backing further into the corner of the room. But the compassionate side of her couldn't help but ask, "You alright there?"
The young man glanced up, worn out from being roughed up. Athene could see part of his face swollen and sporting a black eye.
Despite this, he smiled and weakly gave her a thumbs up. "I am right now, at least."
She noticed he had an East Coast accent, although she couldn't put her finger as to which state he hailed from. It reminded her of the ones spoken by tough wiseguys or gangsters.
. . .
On the second floor of a control room, a man and a woman were making out. A young boy was sitting in a corner, face turned away. The woman broke the kiss and grinned knowingly at the boy.
"Whatsa matter? Never seen your parents kiss before?"
"My sister would never do that to my dad! You're gross and sick!" the boy spat.
Her eyes flashed angrily, and she was about to go over and slap the kid real hard when the older man held her arm.
"Don't let him upset you," he cooed, pulling her closer and trailing kisses down her neck. "He's trying to ruin the moment for us."
"You disarm quite well that mouth of yours," she breathed huskily, throwing her neck back and giggling as he pressed more kisses to her throat.
"If there's one good thing that came from your mother and I, it's you."
"Mmmm, she was a bitch," the woman scoffed. "Thought she could break us apart by turning you into the police numerous times."
"I'm gonna give you a nice present, good and hard tonight, my little vixen. My daughter…"
"Father…"
The door opened and in walked a young man dressed in a formal, indigo suit. His dark hair was slickly combed back, parting down to one side. He grew disgusted when he saw the scene but suppressed his outward reaction. If one didn't know any better, they would think they were looking at Saxton Hale's main assistant.
"Ah yes, is he here, Calder?"
"I wouldn't be here if he wasn't," the young man snidely replied.
"Annoyed, aren't we?"
"Gital, when are you going to capture that old bitch and her stupid lapdog?" Calder demanded.
The older man waved him off. "In due time. Don't worry, you'll get your revenge. As will I."
"I must say, you did pick such an upper stiff for a new body," the woman remarked, smirking at Calder.
"He was the closest one outside of Mann Co. when I returned to this world."
"Are you sure he's not complaining about your abrasive attitude?" she haughtily challenged.
"Pshh! I don't care what that idiot Bidwell has to say," the young man replied, eyes flashing a luminescent bright for a moment. "I've shut him up, locked away forever."
Gital quickly lost interest, so he cut in, "Let us see the prisoner."
He gave his daughter a long, sensuous kiss, before exiting the room and down a flight of stairs. He arrived at the chamber where the three henchmen had tortured Cyril. Before him was the mercenary, once again strapped to the chair.
He looked up when an older man stood, appraising him. Then, Gital started circling him. Why he was scrutinizing Cyril, the marksman didn't know. All it did was make him uncomfortable.
"My, my, TF Industries did a stellar job in replicating the assassin," he marveled. "Right down to the hair, gangly gait, and even the accent I hear…"
"Who are you?" Cyril asked, eyes steady on his captor.
"I'm the one who rose from the ashes again. The Valor 12 tried to kill me ten years back. A Jonathan Mundy was the leader of that unit."
"Who?"
Gital was amused at Cyril's apparent lack of knowledge. "Surely the last name rings a bell?"
There was a pause, before he replied, "It does. One of my counterpart's relatives?"
Cyril figured that since this man knew all about the clones that made up BLU team, he probably had classified information on all their identities. It was no use pretending he didn't have a clue as to what this bastard was inferring.
"Indeed. His father. His vigilante group put a snag in my operations and nearly wiped them out. Now, I demand a debt."
Cyril scowled. "Revenge."
Gital smiled, his steel eyes cold and impassive…just like Tarjack and his other cronies' eyes were. "You're catching on."
The marksmen's strong emotions of righteous justice boiled to the surface, and he couldn't contain them any longer.
"So, this is nothing more than a vendetta?" Cyril angrily demanded. "And you just happen to drag not only me into this but innocent people as well? Children? Women?"
"I run the Hydra Ring," Gital stated nonchalantly. "The prisoners are merely part of my operations."
Cyril eyes narrowed, not familiar with the organization.
"Hedonism without restraints; where no man-made laws govern who we really are."
Great, a criminal nutjob who was probably into bondage involving carrots or orgies of thirty people. Well, as long as those kinds of deviant activities weren't being forced on anyone. It certainly wasn't Cyril's cup of tea.
"Those children…let's just say they're at a ripe age to reap the rewards of the seven deadly sins. They are in high demand for my clients."
Horror and shock filled Cyril at his sickening implication.
"Y—you monster!" he spat out.
"That's subjective," Gital answered, unmoved by his captive's revulsion. "What you see as downright criminal, I see as oppression by so-called social norms. You are part of that slavery, Cyril."
"No, this is your way of justifying the evil, twisted shit you're doing! You have no right hurting these people, ya hear me? How could you live with yourself?!"
"It's simple, really. I'm what society labels a psychopath. Deviant from the norm. It's quite easy to live with actions that I don't regret. This world exists only for me to manipulate and use. I'm part of what Machiavelli called The Dark Triad."
He suddenly lashed out, grabbing Cyril's neck and squeezing hard. The sharpshooter gasped for air, feeling his windpipe partially crushed.
"And you're just an additional tool in getting my revenge on Jonathan Mundy. I'm going to destroy him by killing his wife, his son…" he grinned toothily… "and maybe you. Though I doubt he'd have a genuine connection to a clone he's never met, just the idea of watching his 'son' get killed a second time is too arousing of a prospect that I just cannot pass up."
Despite nearly choking from lack of oxygen, Cyril was livid, feeling the familiar urge to snuff out this creature's life as he did with RED on the battlefield. This man wasn't a human…he was a demon.
Oddly enough, a new and emerging part of Cyril opposed it. No, he deserved to be brought to justice. He deserved to be put on trial, humiliated in front of his victims just to show that he had been utterly defeated. Then, rot away in prison…completely powerless and miserable with what he couldn't attain for the rest of his life.
Though the RED Sniper would think differently. He'd be all too happy to kill this vile bastard.
"Gentlemen?" Gital called.
The entrance door opened, and the three henchmen stepped into the room.
"Continue your fun with him." The older man turned to leave but paused to add, "But no pulling out any ribs or castrating him just yet. It'd be a pity if my old nemesis couldn't witness it."
"You got it, boss," Tarjack replied.
As Gital exited the room, Sakim grinned down at Cyril. "I think I'll help you break that tibia, Tarjack."
Cyril's body tensed up, feeling the fear coming back. The next few minutes in here weren't going to be pleasant indeed…
. . .