“Right then, perhaps that’ll help you with finding clarity.”
He gives an amused grin, waving the BLU Scout off. She takes a seat on a cushion by the shelves, sitting cross legged and watching the two.
Once Mundy’s been able to take a few sips of coffee and take it all in, the man continues.
“You asked before why somebody like me is working with a Scout from BLU,” his smile eases a little bit, and he sends a fond glance the Scout’s way. “That is because the Administrator works independently of the Mann brothers. And in a way, so do we. Allow me to explain.”
Pulling out a piece of paper, the Medic picks up a red and a blue pencil from his desk, and neatly draws out a line between two figures of opposite teams.
“Traditionally, teams have all donned uniforms signaling their allegiance to Redmond or Blutarch Mann. Stationed in various territories, the war quickly expanded to being over more than just gravel. Namely those of the fronting businesses that most bases are in.”
He scribbles out a landscape. A mountaintop with swirling clouds and roaring thunder. Isolated. Tapping it with a pen, he continues.
“But the Administrator was not impressed with the monotony of war. She cares little for the brothers’ petty spats, and more for the bloodshed they cause. With that in mind, it was only natural that attempts to break through barriers were made.”
As the RED member speaks, Mundy feels a chill down his spine. Memories of long gone eras creeping up from the past and locking onto him with freezing whispers.
At first, what he describes doesn’t sound like anything new for the Mann co. Mercenaries. But the way he tells this story alludes to so much more than the surface level. Like something trapped beneath the ice, scratching at the surface to be let out.
It’s overwhelming. An urge to break through the ice and plunge into the frigid waters. To be caught up and overwhelmed in the voices that have gone unheard of for years. To breathe the same air, feel the same lost feelings, to get caught up in their excitement of the unknown, to remember the adrenaline that coursed through them when things changed for better or for worse.
Sniper feels the ground beneath him walked by a hundred different footsteps, far beyond the room he sits in. A map in the back catches his gaze, and a small key unreadable from a distance lists the names of more of those people. Dates, times, locations blocked out on a massive scale.
Singing, dancing, laughter. Secrets shared between loose lips. Dramatic fallouts. Fresh documents exchanging hands. The shadows flicker in the corner of his eyes, begging to be seen. Begging to be heard. Pleading to be allowed to tell their stories. Of which there are many, too many to cover in a single lifetime.
“We are remnants of the past.” He gives Mundy a tragic sort of smile, but one that radiates determination all the same. “But we’re the one mission she failed. To forget.”
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