Mundy has always been a creature of warmth. Like an old barn dog stretched out lazily in the sun. It radiated off his suntanned skin, and etched the lines into his seemingly wise face.
When you took him by the scruff, then plopped him into the middle of cold and snow. On an unfamiliar landscape. Well, to say his relaxed and professional as can be demeanor changed was an understatement.
Now, the snow would be fascinating at first. He’d never, if hardly seen any before. But, after it soaked well through his only thin fleece and began to drip it’s way into his socks, he was a good way to see just how glum and grumpy the bushman could be.
"You look like a wet cat," comes an amused voice from behind.
Perhaps it was the faint smell of smoke, or the smug aura radiating off of him; but it was easy to tell that his teammate was approaching even before the telltale 'woosh' of a decloak brings him into view.
Either way, that smirk is enough to know that he won't let you live this one down.
"I presume Miss Pauling failed to warn you about the weather? Or perhaps you've just decided you're too cool for the snow?" He says, holding what looks to be part of Mundy's new uniform just out of reach.
The Sniper was far out of his element. Toned and adapted to the tell tale sounds of desert and sand, to bleed into the backdrop of his environment when he needed to. This may have been far from what he'd learned to live with, but he'd known that barest sound of foot fall in the snow wasn't his. He'd grit his teeth against another shiver that wracked his tall frame. Giving away a displeased scowl that would now be directed towards the cloud of smoke in which his colleague appeared from. Sniper did not share his amusement. "Didn't think it'd be this bloody cold." Mundy relented through his clenched molars. Huddling deeper into his practically useless fleece that hardly helped against the mountain breeze, wordlessly eyeing the bundle of clothing in Spys arm. "Oi reckon that's wot I was supposed to get before trompin' out 'ere?"
Spy looked on with a droll grin, choosing to preface his answer with another question of his own. While doing so, he begins to turn and walk back down the trail Mundy was taking.
“And I presume you also know you were ‘tromping out here’ in the wrong direction, bushman?”
Once pointed out, the path that’d originally been hard to follow thanks to the weather freezing the man to his core became much clearer. Down on each side were steep crags rolling down into the misty air, with the sharp branches of hardy trees poking through the top of the rolling clouds of snow.
“Poor Sniper, what would he have done if Medic hadn’t sent me to stop him from freezing to death?
After allowing himself a faint chuckle, he continued down the path.
“As for these, it is considered a rite of passage. Our poor scout only recently got his… He needed somebody else to sign his contract, see.”
And faintly, beneath his breath, “Chat mouillé.”
Spy snickers.
Mundy contained his growl. It was too much heat from his lips, but, he spared enough to glower at the mans walking back instead of appreciating he’d walked all the way out here to retrieve him. There was a part of him that wanted to tell the spy to piss off. He could find his own way. That one of the businesses best at tracking and hunting would have been just bloody fine, and was not a lost and wandering puppy that needed to be rescued… Sadly, the other part convinced him to keep his yap shut and to stiffly follow his teammate. “A rite of passage?” Sniper repeated with a scoff. "That before or after 'e got hypothermia?"
Lawrence. Be nice. He could practically hear his mums chastising. But, it could've gone in one ear and out the other. Bracing the slouch hat on his head against the cold with a grumble, whatever more Spy had said, if it was even coherent was swept by the wind. He just wanted to get out the cold at this point, his fingers were numb and he felt like ice was beginning to crystallize in his joints. Frankly, Mundy would rather die before falling victim to the snow and have to be carried all the rest of the way. "Got the bloody pinnacle of a welcome party, bloody hell." He seethed under his icy breath.
Spy takes a sharp turn to the left towards a barely visible crack in the rock walls, where a faint glow is the only indicator of an entrance.
“If he’d gotten hypothermia, it would have done our doctor good for his experiments.”
The way he says it betrays more meaning hiding just underneath, but he refuses to brush away the surface and dig deeper in that infuriating way of his.
“And, bushman, a word of advice.”
He finally turns to meet Sniper directly in the eyes.
“This place is not as it seems. Do yourself a favor and don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The warm light is unfortunately too high above against the pipes weaving through the tall fissure to reach Sniper, but it at least gives him some hope that this mess will be over soon.
Hand up against the narrow walls, Spy traces his way along. Eventually coming to a stop at a seemingly random spot. With a swift shove of his elbow into the rock, the entire thing pushes away into a hidden passage. The concrete floor leads down into a dark stairwell, only dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent bulb.
“Nearly there, my apologies for this detour…”
He trails off.
Mundy only coolly exhaled before he had hesitated following the spy into the now evident crevice in the rock face... How had he missed that? He'd only just walked through here.. Mundy knew he had a sharp set of eyes on him..- He's surprised to meet the man eye to eye, mismatched eyes only widening a subtle smidge behand the foggy orange tint of the aviators perched on the bridge of his nose. His lips curling into a disdained frown, blinking to return to the stony detest he had for the cold instead of the uncertainty that sprouted in his gut. "Right... No worries from me, mate." At this point, the Aussie is convinced all spies are trained in the art of sounding as inconclusive as possible at times. Moving to slowly carrying on following his teammate... He does notice the heat promising light above. Taking a second to look up in disappointment when he'd notice the height negated it's reach any lower than keeping the pipe warm... Which is heavily misfortunate for warm-blooded bushman. He swears he'll be losing a finger or two if the freeze continues, even unconsciously bending each digit became a task. "...Where does this go?" Sniper watched as Spy inspected the wall, noting how he'd pushed it to reveal an entrance concealed into the wall. But, when the well dressed man had began his descent the marksman properly paused. Warily he stared into the dim stairway, the evident suspicion and distrust returned as he lingered outside the passage. Why shouldn't he? It takes several seconds, long enough that the spy might need to voice reassurance. When he finally does join him, the buckle that properly secured what looked to be a long, curved knife to the mans thigh was discreetly loosened. There's no missing how he additionally peak over his shoulder, then kept his eyes trained squarely on his colleague waiting for some type of explanation or blow off answer.
No explanation was given. In fact, he doesn’t even look back to see if the bushman is still following, relying on the sound of his footsteps falling against the stairs after a long pause to know if he had descended or not.
He only talks once both are within the confines of what looks to be a back storage room long abandoned by the original teams. Old shelving units that are now emptied save for some cans from the twenties sparsely decorate the room. Otherwise, though, it’s been completely gutted.
“In any other circumstance, I would have been more subtle about this.”
In a swift rolling movement, Spy flicks the revolver out of his pocket and presses the barrel into Mundy’s chest.
A lone wooden door across the room seems miles out of reach right now.
“Alright bushman—if that’s who you really are. I have every file on you. Here is how this will work,” he scowls, “give me one reason to believe your royal screwup making it here was not out of character for someone such as yourself.”
“I will allow you two questions to help your case, and no more.”
Something Mundy didn’t think was possible. That soon, after only a handful of squeaky steps he only felt colder. His gut grew tense and there was a particular spot between his shoulder blades, right on his spine that began to itch. His instinct began to probe the walls of his gut, something wasn’t right. Each next step contorted and only tensed the suspicious Sniper further, that he began to loosen his weapon further.
By the moment they stepped into what was dressed to look like an empty, almost as if cleared out storage space, the hair on the back of his neck was on end. Especially eyeing the wooden door at the end of the stretched room. When Spy spoke his numb fingers were wrapped firmly around the hilt of his blade. When the click quickly registered in his ears his eyes widened in swift realization.
The kukri was skillfully displayed in his palm, unsheathed, ready with that clean sound of metal striking off leather held short only by the press of a crisp muzzle into the mid of his chest. Held so steadily he was sure the other could likely feel the draw and exhale of his breathing.
Never trust a Spy, what were you thinking Mundy. Always trust your instinct.
His teeth bared as he both chastised himself and glared at the man. Holding aloft his weapon and other arm in a placating manner. Now acutely aware that any wrong move could end in a world of unforgiving pain. Piss.
Piss off. “Are all you spies so bloody dramatic?!” He stated for one, before practically biting his tongue with a slow, steady huff. Collecting his ever growing agitation.
“…Is this entirely necessary, mate?“ He asked in a calmer, more pointed tone that was etched with the hint of a growl. “If you thought navigatin’ snow was as easy as leaving footsteps in sand, you’d be wrong. M’ cold, oi’m bloody tired, an’ I weren’t given any other directions aside from it being around here. Is that wot you want from me?”
“It is when I feel that my team may be in jeopardy,” is his curt reply.
Eyeing the kukri in Sniper’s hand, he hums faintly in approval at his reaction time. He takes his time in listening to the man’s side, but that fire of suspicion doesn’t seem to be extinguished from his glare just yet.
Eventually, he cautiously drops his arm to his side, allowing Mundy space to breath.
“Then this was a waste of our time. Apologies,” he brushes off the front of his suit, “I’m afraid there’s no room for benefit of the doubt these days.”
Finally, Spy cracks the slightest hint of a good-natured grin, drawing backwards towards the wooden door and opening it.
Behind it is the holy beam of warmth that he’d been searching for all night, plaster walls and yet another stairwell, this time leading back up into the base. The heater is on, and Mundy has never appreciated it more.
“Oh, and to answer your question, why do you think our job is acting?” He rolls his eyes and tosses Sniper the jacket.
When the revolver is dropped from its fixated point on his sternum he unconsciously took a quiet, long breath of relief. Glad he won’t be digging a bullet out his own chest cavity… Brushing his free thumb over the faint crease on his front while the other continued.
That’s… fair. Which, he conveyed with a wordless and weary nod of understanding. Albeit, the caution still hadn’t relinquished from the sniper gaze either. Which was to be expected between two mercenaries still rather unfamiliar with each other.
He’d think the barest hint of a grin from the Spy is a better step in the right direction.
While, Mundy practically melts with relief as he catches the edges of warmth that wafted out the open door, almost immediately he feels like he can feel his toes again despite not entirely thawing quite yet. As he’d mindfully store away the kukri back into it’s sheath, he caught the tossed jacket with a genuine look of surprise.
Finally, for the first time in their interaction there was a subtle tug of a smile. Followed by a low chuckle as Sniper took a careful look at the coat and motioned forwards.
“Just lead the way to my salvation from the snow, yer lettin’ all the warm air out.”
Spy snorts in response, the subtle crinkle by the corner of his eyes showing just a bit more joy from the mostly expressionless mercenary. As he sweeps through the door, he lets out a high but quiet whistle—followed by a flat “all clear.”
Behind Sniper, something rattles and clatters a bit, seeming to bump into the wall a couple of times before whirring and making its way beside the doorway. He realizes that whatever it is avoided detection by nature of being entirely metal; blending in with the empty shelves by reflecting what little light entered the room. Two dim blue lights flicker to life where it’s eyes should be, and it moves to shut the door behind Sniper—keeping the warm air in.
“I’ve begun taking a liking to that rust bucket of his, even if it’s a frankly offensive image of me,” he softly explains as he makes his way up the stairs, “taken it under my wing as an apprentice of sorts.”
Unlocking the final door into the base, Spy continues, “I wouldn’t waste time worrying about it harming you. It has yet to lay a finger on any of us since being reanimated.”
