. . .
It was a crisp Sunday night and several RED team members were heading to a local bar in Tuefort. Mick decided to tag along with Scout, Demoman and Engineer. As they approached the establishment, Scout held up a finger.
"Juuust a sec…" he grinned mischievously.
He went over to the side of the building's wall and started spray painting a sign in crimson:
BLU TEAM SUCKS!
Mick snorted. "Ya gotta act like a dog pissin' on his territory ever'time we come here?"
"Hey, that's the name of the game." Scout stepped back, admiring his handiwork.
"I doubt BLU will see it. They hardly ever come to Tuefort anymore."
"And they best stay outta our town too."
"C'mon, you. Let's get inside before some snitch sees you and goes tellin' the bartender."
Inside the bar, all four mercenaries settled at a table. It was an ordinary weekend, with no mandatory trainings tomorrow. Soldier could be a real pain when he got in one of his bootcamp drilling moods and roused the team awake at 6 AM. It could be rough sometimes for Mick because he barely had time to drink his coffee after waking up to aggressive pounding at his trailer door along with a loud, demanding Soldier behind it.
It still amazed him how he managed to put up with the nutcase for two and a half years. He was more resilient than he thought, but he was glad for it.
It was only a few minutes after they arrived, and Scout was getting antsy. A few beers would relax him. Engineer was talking about some innovative breakthrough with a portable machine meant to serve as a back-up to respawn.
"And so, I heard news from TF Industries that they're in the final testing stage for the Reanimator," Engineer was saying, while nursing a beer. "Still need to work out a few kinks here and there. It's small enough to fit inside one of your pockets. Those Australians…they could give the world a run for their money with all the amazing inventions coming out of there."
"Imagine that, a travel-size respawn," Demoman marveled.
"There's still a drawback, though," Engineer pointed out. "It requires the use of a Medigun on full charge to render it completely effective. Otherwise, there's just a shadow of your form hovering over the device."
"That sucks," Scout chimed in. "I guess the Dead Ringer is still slightly better."
Just then, the bartender beckoned for Mick to come up to the bar. A bit perplexed, he turned to the other mercenaries.
"Chino wants to see me." He shrugged. "Don't know what about…"
"Eh, tell'em ya don't swing that way," Scout remarked, already buzzed from his drink.
Mick snorted, rising from his seat. "He's married and last time I checked, loves his sheila to death."
"Git me another triple shot of Campari, will ya?" Demoman requested, cheeky.
"Yeah, yeah, fork over some cash." After the Scotsman pressed a few dollar bills into his outstretched hand, the assassin walked over to the bar.
"You wanted to see me, mate?"
Chino looked a bit concerned, pulling out an envelope. "Yeah, some guys came by and dropped this letter off. Said it was for you."
Suspicion immediately hit Mick like an unpleasant prick to a finger. So now some mongrels were spying on where he was hanging out?
"Did they say who they were?"
Chino shook his head. "They wouldn't tell me. They were two guys, dressed nicely. Looked like a buncha poker players."
"Thanks." Mick then remembered to order Demo's liquor request. "Oh, and one triple shot of Campari."
He returned to the table and handed the small glass over to Demoman. Scout had gone over to the billiards tables to try his hand at pool playing. As Mick sat down, that nagging suspicion wouldn't go away. Still, it could be anything. Maybe it was some secret admirer that watched him from afar? Maybe it was some talent agent?
Demoman noticed it first. "Hey, what's that? Got some secret dealing yer not telling us aboot?"
"I dunno, but I'm gonna find out." Mick tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
After a moment, he growled out, "Is someone playin' a prank on me?"
"What is it?" Engineer asked.
"This letter says me parents are bein' held hostage and if I want to see them alive, I have to follow these specific instructions."
Mick was now incensed; if it was a prank, it wasn't a funny one at all. Still, a part of him was dreading that this was a genuine threat. Even more so, who was tracking his destinations whenever he exited the base? He felt a sudden paranoia, wondering if some dangerous miscreants were even watching them in the bar.
Could BLU even be behind this?
"No shit," Demoman remarked with a distasteful burp.
"Specific instructions? What, like a ransom?" Engineer queried.
"Nah, it says I must turn myself over at the old Wyson Steel warehouse, tomorrow night at 8 PM. It also states that if I bring along 'me buddies' that they'll send word and kill me mum and dad. What kind of bullshit is this?"
He was momentarily distracted when Scout somehow got one of the balls stuck in his throat and was choking on it. A distraught woman was panicking, apologizing profusely about shooting it right into his mouth.
Everyone at the pool table didn't seem to know what to do, except one of the other players who was whacking Scout hard on the back to try to dislodge the ball.
"Not again," Engineer groaned. "I'll be right back."
He got up and rushed over to the group to do the Heimlich Maneuver on the runner, since none of the players were administering it.
"Do you believe it?" Demoman asked, incredulous.
Mick contemplated this for a moment. "Only one way to find out."
He stood up and went over to use the pay phone. It was around 2:00 PM in Australia, so his parents would still be awake. Hopefully, they hadn't gone out to town to do some errands.
"I can't believe I'm doin' this…" he thought crossly.
A sense of dread came out of nowhere, one that he hardly ever felt, except for a few times in battle. He hoped that this was just some sick joke that one of the patrons decided to play on him; though, he had an inkling that it wasn't the case.
He dialed the special number for long distance calls that routed him to Para Hills, where his parent's farm resided near the biggest city, Adelaide. No one picked up. Well, he could try again later, when they hopefully arrived home.
Still, his gut feeling was doggedly telling him to at least call their nearest neighbor, Mortimer; he sometimes went over to his parents' house to play bridge and poker.
Pulling out a folded card that listed his contacts back home, he dialed the neighbor's residence. After a few rings, someone picked up.
"G'day stranger! You've called the right place where blow-up dolls are the ultimate companion to lonely pissants like yourselves! Are you lookin' for companionship? Evil plottin'? Sex slave fantasies? Murder in the 9th degree?"
"What?"
"Oh, pardon me, too many options for you?"
"Uhh, no, this is Mick Mundy. Ya know, Jonathan and Martha's son."
Since when did Mortimer get into selling kinky stuff? Last he heard, he was running a shroom farm.
There was a momentary pause. "Ah, the ol' ragamuff that went native in the Outback! I see you're not dead yet from the cancer! How ya been, Mick?"
The assassin grew confused. "Cancer?"
"Yeah, ol' Johnny boy and Marth said you were dyin' out in some desert hellhole in the States. I guess this is good news. Or bad news? Called up to say your final goodbyes?"
"Wait, hold on! Who told ya guys I was dyin' from cancer?"
Now it was Mortimer's turn to sound confused. "Did ya hit your head or somethin,' Mick? Your employer sent word to your parents, and they flew out to see ya."
The gnawing dread was growing more. He had no reason to believe that Mortimer was lying – he wasn't that type of idiot who got thrills out of embellishing stories.
Growing apprehensive, Mick then inquired, "When did they leave for the U.S?"
"It was over five days ago. They drove all the way to Sydney and told me to watch over Tick. I nearly got me ass bitten off until I put on the boater hat. Then the ol' bag o' teeth recognized me. I'm tellin' ya, takin' care of that dog's like walkin' into a death trap sometimes…"
Mortimer was referring to their Belgian Malinois, who guarded their home with an unrelenting vigilance against not only human intruders, but dingos, Kangaroos or other wild animals foraging the area for food.
"So, you're sayin' it was me employer who contacted them? Was it through a letter or phone?"
"Mmm, it was through the mail and contact number. They said it was urgent and that you might not live to see the end of the month! How tragic is that? Are ya really gonna croak soon, son?"
"No, no!" Mick corrected, now irate. "I'm not dyin' anytime soon! Well, not for a while anyway. Listen Mortimer, someone tricked me parents into comin' over to the States."
His neighbor was aghast. "Nooo, for real? I think ya better sack your employer, Mickey, 'cause that's a lame way to be treatin' their workers. At least if you're gonna prank'em, make sure to call up and lie to their neighbors and family too."
The sharpshooter sighed, not believing how out of touch with reality his neighbor was.
He must've done a bad 'shroom recently, Mick thought.
"Nah, I don't believe it was the company either. They've treated me well so far. If what you're sayin' is right, then someone else lured them to New Mexico. They made up this whole bullshit story on me dyin' of cancer too."
"Really, now? But…who would do such a sloppy work of it?"
"I dunno, but I'm gonna find out," Mick growled. "And when I do, they're gonna wish they never met me or me family."
"Well, that's a relief! I can stop praying about the cancer not spreadin' to your nose and twin nutters then! Can't lose that Mundy nose now, that's in your family will."
Mick snorted. "Yeah, I know. Anyhow, thanks for the info, Morty. Just make sure Tick is bein' fed and you got your shotgun handy. If you see any lurkers around me parents' house, blow their heads off if you have to."
"Okie dokie! So glad this is all a sick and twisted ruse! Nice talkin' to ya!" A pause. "You sure you won't change your mind about the Bondage Fantasy Doll Special? It's on sale for $10 dollars—"
"Mortimer!"
"Fine, fine. But I'll keep a few in stock just in case ya want to explore that little avenue."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bye now."
After Mick hung up on the other side, Mortimer sighed. "Great, now I won't inherit those alligator feet he has hangin' in his room. Ah well, one day though…"
If he didn't die first.
Meanwhile, Mick walked back to the table, his stance now carrying a palpable tension. Engineer had returned to the table with Scout, looking a little worse for wear.
"Everything alright, Slim?" he asked.
"Did ye speak with yer parents?" Demoman added.
Mick shook his head, stone-faced. "It's real, alright."
His teammates were silent, not believing for one minute it was still true. Even Scout was left tongue-tied. Engineer must have filled him in on the letter.
"So, they're here? In the U.S?" Engineer spoke up.
"Yeah…accordin' to me parents' neighbor, somebody tricked them into flyin' over here to New Mexico; it was under the guise that I had terminal cancer."
"Well, that's dumb," Scout remarked. "They could've just lied and invited them to your birthday or somethin.' "
"Me birthday's not until June, ya bloody doofus."
The runner shrugged. "Oh. Then, whoever's birthday it is this month."
"Ya'll should look more at the birthday calendars around the base, son," Engineer suggested.
"Who would try to fuck ye over like this? Someone out for revenge?" Demoman wondered.
"Is there anything else?" Mick answered, terse.
His mind briefly went to the Administrator; yet, she had only stated she would issue threats to his family if he ever violated the rules of the war. So far, he had kept up his end of the bargain. Unless, he had unintentionally done something to incur her wrath. But even so, he knew the Administrator could be brutally direct at times; she would have brought it up with him before resorting to such a petty, despicable act.
He glanced down at the letter again. Just over half an hour ago, he was going out with his friends to relax from the war and have a good time. Now, he found himself in a really ugly situation. He was being forced to gamble his life for those of his parents – if whoever was behind this sinister threat even kept their word that they would be released.
"Ey, whatever piss poppycock this is, we got yer back," Demoman reassured. "They should know better than to mess with a bunch of ruthless killers."
"You're damn right I'm a ruthless killer," Scout boasted.
"Suuure, Scout."
"Hey, at least give me credit for my kill count in the last matches."
"Heavy's still at the top, while ye're at the bottom," Demoman stated the cold, hard facts. He patted the runner's shoulder. "But don't worry, ye still got time to improve. Also, make your kills bloodier and gory. Might want to use the Flying Guillotine to take off some heads."
Scout wasn't sure he liked the sight of heads flying all over the place as much as the Scotsman or Soldier did. He still couldn't forget that one time BLU Scout's head rolled up to his feet after a nasty swing from the Eyelander. The look of horror on the dying mercenary's face – identical to his own – was surreal and unsettling.
"Uhh, I'll think about it."
"That's me boyo." Demoman was happy that he would consider trying.
. . .
Mick was sitting outside his camper van, smoking a cigarette, his left leg idly fidgeting. Sir Hootsalot was perched on another patio chair, occasionally looking out for intruders. Every now and then, the Great-horned owl would glance at the sniper, as if innately sensing the human's distress.
Mick rarely ever smoked, but the times he did, were during extremely dire situations. There was that one-time Medic announced that he was going to give everyone baboon hearts for the Ubercharge Project; which had Mick wondering if it would lead to his permanent death. He could've outright refused the operation, though he had signed a contract which included any surgeries considered a vital enhancement to battle. In the end, Scout and Spy convinced him to go through with it after their own heart replacements.
Anxious days lead to cigarette butts strewn all over the ground and in the camper van. But it had turned out alright. He wondered if BLU underwent the same procedure. Unknown to him, they still had their original hearts: their operations involved an alternative method using a closed-circuit device implanted in the right side of their chest. It diverted most of the copious amounts of electric current from BLU Medic's ubercharge away from their hearts and redistributed it all over their bodies.
However, there was a drawback to an electronic implant vs. a baboon heart. If the device ever malfunctioned on a BLU member, then they would certainly get electrocuted to death. Just then, Spy approached him from the nearby base.
"Bushman." The other assassin greeted. He minded the lazy glare from Sir Hootsalot, as if he was intruding upon the quiet time with Mick.
"Come to join the pity party?"
"I'd consider it if your parents actually did die," Spy half-quipped.
"Tchh."
Spy took out his own cigarette and lit it up. "The team has agreed on not letting the Administrator know about this. However, we cannot hold out on keeping it from her nor Redmond before the next battle."
Mick let out a whiff of smoke. "I know. They're gonna find out eventually."
Still, his parents were the few people in the world that he cared about. If something were to happen to them at the hands of an enemy, he may never forgive himself. At the same time, his unrelenting wrath would be unleashed; forget professional standards, he'd see to it that they suffered horribly to their very last breath.
"I have no choice. I'm goin' to the steel plant tonight."
"If zey take you hostage, it's going to zhrow a wrench in our current strife with BLU," Spy warned.
"Then replace me if you have to," the assassin suggested, irritable. "Redmond has a contingency plan if the team's ever one man out."
Hootsalot emitted a few hoots, as if throwing his two cents into the conversation.
Spy reached over from his side pocket, producing a Dead Ringer watch. "Take zis. If it's an ambush and zey gun you down, at least you have a chance at escaping death."
Mick studied it for a moment before accepting the object. "Thanks, Spook."
He turned back to the late afternoon sky, not wanting to think about the trap he was walking into. Spy could somewhat empathize with what his coworker was going through. This unknown enemy knew one of his 'weaknesses' and was now weaponizing it against him – family. If anything similar ever happened to Jeremy, Spy would do the same thing.
"I've been thinkin' about who may be behind it," Mick spoke up. "Could be someone back in Australia."
"Not surprising zen." Spy shifted over to fold his leg, taking another puff. "It just goes to show even a private war where our identities are sealed isn't a safe barrier anymore. But zat's the inherent danger of being a mercenary."
"Why would they go through all the trouble bringin' me parents here? They could've just…took care of them back in Para Hills."
"Sounds like your classic psychopath. Zey want to draw it out just to make you suffer more. Killing your parents back home would have been too easy for zem; it takes ze fun out of hurting you at a more personal level."
A few moments of silence, before Mick growled, "Well, they're soon gonna learn that they messed with the wrong guy. No fuckin' way I'm lettin' them get away with this."
Spy smiled wanly. "Good luck, mon ami. You know zat you have our support."
The assassin nodded, turning back to watch a steady wind blow across the expanse of the desert. If the threat was true, then the elder Mundys were counting on him to rescue them. Right then, the call of bloodlust sang through his veins and psyche – the delicious thrill of putting an end to lives. Something perverse that the BLU Sniper lacked, who only did it because he was trained to - like an ordinary soldier in battle.
But Mick loved it. If he succeeded, those kidnappers would meet quite a nasty end.
. . .