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Aaand one more for the day. An energetic bundle of joy, Mortimer Mundy is quite the footballer. His above-average speed, when mixed with his superhuman legs, make him a demon in the front and center. However, despite this, he is often assigned to the rear, blocking shots he could be making. Despite this oddity, he still enjoys the game, no matter where they put him.
Alan doodle because idk why.
[Snipes 'n' Shells] Chapter Thirty-Eight: Secret Wrapped in an Enigma
Author's Note: I shouldn't be apologizing so much, but I'm afraid I'll have to yet again. Due to work and other projects taking up my time and energy, SnS has been more draining than enjoyable. So I'm gonna put SnS on hiatus (yet again) to get myself together.
Summary: Slowly, the pieces are coming together. Who else might be afflicted with Lifeblood? What is Dante's purpose? Who is Alan, truly? All this and more in this month's installment of Snipes 'n' Shells!
Back at home in Teufort, Joey is struggling to pick off the onslaught of blue-shirted men one by one. Even without their more competent veterans, BLU is still a force to be reckoned with. He barely dodges a bullet from the opposing Sniper, signaling his need to change strategies. Moving downstairs, he puts his bow away and takes out his knife, prepped for any surprise attacks.
“The enemy has the intelligence,” the announcement blares through RED's speakers. Running out of the intelligence room is a pale Scout in a striped blue baseball uniform, recklessly bashing every person in sight—including some of his own teammates. Joey takes out his “Jarate”—little more than a jar of piss—and throws it at him. Blinded and humiliated, the Scout sets his sights on him, only to be cut down at the last second.
But Joey hardly had a chance to lift his arm, let alone cause damage. Behind the slain Scout stands a tall figure, their blood-stained blade reflecting the surrounding light. With a sigh of relief, the Sniper says, “Thanks, Ceci. You saved my ass back there.”
Ceci sheathes her sword. “No need to thank me,” she replies with a smile. “Just doing my job.”
Together, they slay the competition and bring home the gold, er, intelligence. As they head for the lockers, Ceci speaks up. “'Ey, Joey, mind if I come to your place? I can help you with that novel.”
Joey's cheeks turn bright red. “M-my place? But Zhen-y—”
“—is out o' town, I know. That's why I'm asking now. It'd be nice t' get some alone time, just between us two adults, right?” She winks.
Eventually, he agrees, and drives her over to his apartment. Contrary to her casual demeanor before, she immediately becomes timid, awestruck by her surroundings. “Wow. You really clean up nicely.”
“Th-thanks. Zhen-y helps out a lot, 'specially with cooking. Anyway, what did you find?”
Ceci digs through the backpack she brought over and pulls out an aged hardcover tome. “I've been hearing rumors about vampires or something roaming around these parts, so I thought of looking into that. The lore of this city is... very interesting.” She opens the book and flips the pages, reaching the bookmarked section. “This story here tells of a string of vampire attacks that lead to the creation of 'mythological science'.”
“I've heard that name before. The local university teaches that as a major. 'Course, none of it applies outside of school.” Not 'til now, at least. “Any other details?”
She flips to the next page and resumes. “Well, it goes on to explain some other types of vampires, like jiang-shi and the like. There's no statistics, but it says that certain strains of the vampire virus can mutate, making a whole new type of vampire. Some of these strains are more common in certain cultures than others and most feature the usual traits, like weakness to sunlight and thirst for blood or life energy. But the rarest are rumored to be capable of powerful actions, like eating dreams and manipulating emotions. Though they're using a rather loose definition of 'vampire' at this point.”
“Loose or not, that sounds important.” He thinks back to the night when he confronted Valdo, and the unexpected return. As far as he's aware, there are no safety features installed within the barracks, as far as ReSyst is concerned. So how could Val walk away from being beheaded, acting like nothing happened? Could it be that he was right, that he was some sort of superhuman? There's no other possibility. “Oi, Ceci. What if, hypothetically, there was a vampire working for RED? What would you do?”
“Hmm. I'd try to narrow down the suspects first, starting with the easiest targets. Like Milly and José.”
“Why those two?”
She shrugs. “Call it instinct, but something smells funny about those two. Probably nothing, but everyone smells pretty fishy at that base. That's why I asked to drop by here.”
“To leave 'em alone?”
“So they wouldn't eavesdrop.”
He swallows his throat, then says, “Personally, my money's on Dante and Valdo. Not the easiest of targets, but I have strong evidence for it. Witnesses, too.”
“That's what I figured,” Cecilia mutters with a sense of remorse as she stares at the nearby window. “Dante's the ringleader of our group; he has access to everything about us. If he truly is a monster, then we're all on a one-way trip straight to Hell.”
Meanwhile, somewhere over the clouds, a plane is making a return trip from Sydney. Dante sits peacefully, scribbling down notes in a little black journal. Let's see... Last time, Huntsley was eaten by a ferocious terror from the deep. He shall spend the introduction cold, empty, and on the verge of despair. But through sheer tenacity, he fights his way out of the beast and frees himself, finding himself stranded on an island. On the island is a village full of strange and beautiful people. But all is not as it seems: there lurks a creature within, one capable of blending in amongst mankind. Our hero's trial is to find this monster among men and destroy it, lest he suffer a fate far worse than death.
“Oh, what a hoot,” he exclaims with a chuckle. “Zhis vill make zhe perfect climax to our epic tale.” Tapping the pencil against his chin, he mumbles to himself, “Zhe only question is: vhat shall be his fate? Hmm...”
Evening sets, and the moon is shining bright and full, looming over the towering pines. Under the moonlit darkness, Mort feels oddly vigorous, more so than in the daytime. Jogging in step beside him is Vincent, clad in a tracksuit. Their conversation starts with them complimenting each other on their efforts, despite losing the match. Bittersweet, but easily forgiven. After a chuckle and pause, Mort changes the subject.
“You an' Sammy seem to be getting' along,” he says with a smirk.
Trying to work up an answer, Vince stutters, “We have a lot more in common than I first thought. Guess it was just the thought of him replacing Doc that bothered me.”
“You sure? Cuz he told me 'bout Al.”
The Scout slows to a stop. “What about Alan?”
“Oh, a few things here an' there. But one thing's been bugging me.” Mort steps in front of him. “Why are you so into Al all of a sudden?”
Vince bites his tongue. His eyes shift back and forth, as if searching for an answer in the surrounding brush. “I dunno. I guess I...” He shakes his head. “No, I know I've seen him before. Somewhere. I dunno.”
Mort blinks, surprised by his forwardness. “You've seen him?” he snaps his fingers. “That's it! Vinci, we gotta find Elly!”
“Elly? Elly who—WOAH!” Before he can say any more, he's suddenly dragged back to the barracks, towards the infirmary. The bushman knocks on the door, begging for attention until he finally gets it. By the time he's let free, he stares at Ellen, dumbfounded, then stumbles onto the nearest seat. “Um, hey, uh, Ellen. Listen, I—”
“Give me a second. Mort, can you, um...?” She gestures him toward the door, which he complies to. “Sorry about that. Carry on.”
“Well, one minute, Mort and I were in the woods, just chatting, and then he asked me about Al, and then, well, here we are.”
“He asked you about Alan? And how did you answer?”
“I, um, well, it's kind of embarrassing, but... Well, I like Alan. He feels familiar to me somehow. Like I've seen him before.”
“Maybe you have,” she replies, her tone lighthearted. “If there's something I've learned in my line of work, anything can happen, and the world's a lot smaller than most people think.”
“Hey, Al's a Spy, right? Maybe you can find something about him.”
Ellen's demeanor falters, and she speaks with more hesitance. “I don't think that's a good idea. Spies aren't allowed to interfere with each other's work—”
“But if that's the case, then how do you explain Luca and him? He treats Al like crap, yet he waits on him hand and foot.”
“Vince, that's completely different—”
“And a little bat told me about Mort's ties to Dante, and he seems intent on pointing to you. Care to explain?”
Right then and there, her facade breaks completely, revealing her darker nature. “Vincent, when you're a Spy, you learn to distrust everyone, even your own, but we're forced to work with each other, through whatever means. Yes, sometimes I pull a few strings to get my way, but it's for the greater good.” Her sharp stare digs into Vince's core. “Do you really want to know the truth? The whole truth?”
A gulp. “Yes.”
“Boy, you're in for quite a story.” With dramatic pause, she begins. “It began twenty-six years ago. I recently graduated from SPAI and was working towards my medical degree. I fell in love, and had a child. That's when all the trouble began.” She turns away, a sad look in her eyes. “My child was, shall we say, different from the rest? The academy doctors didn't know what to do, but I knew it wasn't anything good. So I left them on the footsteps of a random orphanage I encountered. I thought all my problems were over, until thirteen years later. Somehow, they found the child and took them under their wing. That child became known as Alan Ian Astor.”
“Alan was your kid? Why didn't you want me to know about this? This is amazing news!”
“It's not. Luca was intent on keeping Alan—neé Anonyme—a secret, so he brought me in for 'special cases'. That was around the time I became your doctor.”
A lump forms in Vince's throat. I don't like where this is going.
“But one day, when I was finishing with your appointment, you wandered off and met Anonyme. There was an unfortunate overlap in schedules; that encounter wasn't supposed to happen. Once I found you two playing together...” She pauses, her face worn with guilt. “I used my hypnotic powers to make you both forget.”
Vince's shoulders slump, weighed down by regret. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”
A tiny smile forms on Ellen's thin lips. “No worries; it would've got out, anyway.”
“But I don't understand. What does Mort have to do with all this?”
“Not much, but enough to matter. That part of the story is Mort's business, not yours. Besides, I promised your godfather I wouldn't tell.” Her eyes sparkle, digging deep into Vincent's psyche. A sharp pain strikes various regions of his brain, but when it stops, he feels relieved, if a bit lightheaded. “Run along now. You're free to go.” Still out of it, he stumbles out the door. Mort catches him as he nearly loses his footing, and sends him off to bed.
Blinking awake, Vince finds himself in a room with sterile green walls and plain-but-practical furniture. Sitting on the desk in front of him is a name label that reads “Dr. Etranger”. The room feels familiar, yet somehow off-putting—probably because he's looking up at every other thing. Next to the desk is the exit, wide open and flashing blindingly white. Drawn to the light, he heads towards it.
When he steps out of the room, he lands in a hallway with lots of doors. He walks down the hall, until he starts hearing a voice. The voice sounds young, like a child's, but the airiness and slight accent is unmistakable. Following the echoes, Vince runs until he finds an open door leading into a similar-looking room, this one painted red. Sitting on a couch in the room is a child of indeterminate gender, with blond hair and freckles. On instinct, Vince's mouth opens, uttering, “Alan?”
The blond child blinks. “I'm sorry; you must be confusing me with someone else.”
“You sure? Cuz I'm pretty sure you're Alan.”
“I'm not Alan. At least, I don't think it is. My name's Ally. What's your name?”
“Vincent. But you can call me Vince.”
The one who calls themselves 'Ally' giggles. “Okay, Vinci. My daddy's at a meeting. Wanna play with me?”
He smiles, his cheeks turning warm. “Okay.”
For an undetermined amount of time, the two of them play. Pattycake, sharing jokes, using what little is within reach. After having a good laugh, Ally embraces Vincent. “Thanks, Vinci. You're the first friend I've had since, like, forever.”
“First friend? Don't you know other kids?”
“I did, but then they went away. Now it's just me and daddy and all his friends.”
Shocked and saddened by this revelation, Vince blurts out, “Then I'll be your friend. Yours and yours alone.”
Hearing his kind words brings Ally to tears—which stop short when a shadow falls over them. “Vinci, watch out!”
Vince wakes up in a cold sweat. What the heck just happened? Was that a dream, or perhaps a memory? Considering what Ellen told him, it most likely is. Strange how easily the pieces fall together with just that bit of information. But there's a whole lot of holes that need to be filled. Like why Alan kept referring to himself as “Ally”, or how Luca found Ellen, or what role Mort plays in all this.
“Vincent?” Standing beside his bed is Alan, his brows wrinkles with worry. “Are you feeling well?”
“What? Of course I am. I mean,” he stammers, “Al, there's something you should know.”
“That's okay. I know already.” Al flashes an innocent smile. “I don't like-you-like-you, but we can still be friends, if that's alright.”
“That's actually not what I wanted to say.” He grabs hold of Alan's hands and cups them. “Ally, I remember. You and I, we knew each other for a long time. Thirteen years, in fact. We first met in the office, remember?”
Alan blinks. “Vinci, what are you talking about?”
“I—we were just kids, so I understand if you don't remember my face. But you've gotta believe me! W-we played Pattycake and laughed and had fun together.” He lets go of Alan and claps a couple of times. “Pattycake, Pattycake, Baker's man.”
With Vincent's open hand in full display, Alan slowly presses his against it and plays along. “Bake me a cake as fast as you can.”
“Roll it...”
“... and pat it...”
“... and mark it with a 'B'.”
They both harmonize for the last line: “And put it in the oven for Baby and me!” They clap their hands against each other, sending a sudden wave of warmth and emotions inside Alan. Memories start flooding through his mind to the point of suffocation. And then, darkness.
“... Al? Al, wake up...!”
[Snipes 'n' Shells] Chapter Thirty-Seven: What You Are in the Dark
Author's Note: I cannot apologize enough for making you wait. But I'm ending my hiatus a little bit earlier than planned to bring you a brand new chapter! I have mixed feelings about these recent chapters (pacing and characterization tends to suffer whenever I bring the team out of Teufort), but they're filled with the much-needed answers to questions that have been left unanswered for far too long.
Summary: Having discovered the connection between Mort and Dante, Ellen sets out to learn more about him. Later, Vince has questions of his own, when a casual errand leads to a run-in with a vampire!
Up on the rooftop, Mort looks up at the stars looming over the horizon, reflecting the forest's seemingly endless nature. Between Thunder Mountain and Badlands, the former definitely wins out. Part of him even wishes he can stay here. But there's a lot of unfinished business back at Teufort, he's aware of that.
A whooshing sound, followed by that of cracking bones, tickles his ears, but he does not turn around. “Oi, Vally,” he greets casually. “Had a good run?”
“You could say that,” Valdo's voice answers. “Without a steady supply of blood, I'm pretty weak in the daytime. But the trees provide much cover, so I can stay in my bat form long enough to rest. It's a slight advantage I have over purebloods.”
“You said there's a monster in Teufort. Is he also a vampire?”
“Yes, but you shouldn't worry; they're not around these parts. And while I was on the bus, I smelled another presence. It smelled familiar somehow, but I couldn't pin it down. Until then, I would be wary of your pals.”
“You can sniff out monsters? Cool!”
“Anyone with magic in their blood can sense the supernatural. The more aware you are, the more sensitive you are to its presence. But you're just a mundane, so you wouldn't know of it if it hit you in the face.”
“Hmm. Well, that would explain why I didn't know 'bout you 'til you transformed. Still, I bet it would be cool if I could.”
“Trust me, it isn't. It becomes harder to put your faith in people, knowing they could turn into some horrifying monster the next minute.”
“Yeah, but then you can learn to deal with it, help them out with their problems—”
“Or you can put yourself right in the face of danger.”
That shuts Mort up. No point in arguing against the truth. He doesn’t know how vampires and zombies work, and it’s unlikely the books and movies that made them famous would prove useful.
He doesn’t have much time to ruminate on the subject, as a familiar voice calls out his name. “Mort, there you are!” Down below, Alan waves at Mort, who waves back. “Come on down, I wanna show you something!”
Al leads Mort to the garage, with its four walls decorated with signs and maps of local spots, and tables and desks stacked high with books and gun parts. The Sniper is vaguely reminded of the garage back in Teufort; both rooms are more fit for storing junk than cars. Hunched over one of the desks is Mara, tinkering away at something. “Hey, Mara! I'm just here to pick up the Sapper, if that's alright with you.” No reaction. “Mara?”
After a moment, he mutters, “In the back, on the second shelf.”
“Oh, I see it. Merci!” He retrieves a teddy bear-like object and a box with some switches and levers from one of the shelves and shows it off. “It's a project I've been working on the past few days. I'm gonna bring it to the Steam Workshop and maybe get rich and famous. I'm a revolutionary in the making!”
Mort blinks and scratches his chin. “Uh, that's nice. But, uh, what is it?”
“This? It's a remote-controlled Sapper. I can move it around and have it sap a Sentry from a distance. Watch.” He sets down the teddy bear and toggles the switches on the box, bringing it to life.
Mort watches the bear in amazement. “That's so cute! Yer gonna be a shoo-in fer best invention.” Kneeling down, he grabs hold of the bear's paws and pretends to lead it in a dance.
His freckled cheeks burn a bright pink. “Y-you think so? I mean, I know I will!”
“Not if I get there first.” Al and Mort turn to Mara, holding a half-finished revolver-like gun. “I'm thinking about submitting to the Workshop myself. At Rami's suggestion, of course.”
“Then I guess that makes you two rivals. Or would that be friends? Friendly rivals?”
Al giggles and picks up the bear. “Well, we are on the same team, so it probably doesn't matter. May the best inventor win.” The bear holds out a paw, which Mara shakes with two fingers. To Mort, seeing the two of them get along is definitely worth smiling about.
What's not worth smiling about, however, is bumping into Vincent right after. The look on his face could murder someone. “Hello, Mort. Enjoying yourself?”
“Yeah. How 'bout you?” He knows that's a stupid question to ask, but he says it, anyway.
He pauses before replying, “I suppose so. We did win, after all.” Mort blinks, astonished. “You were pretty stupid out there, running in the middle of a fight... but good job.” In an even more surprising turn of events, he smiles.
The Sniper, unsure how to react, mimics the expression. “Uh, thanks. You were great, too.”
“Nah. If you didn't jump right in, nothing would've been done.”
“Aw, it's nothin'. Hey, what started that fight, anyway? I know yer on opposite ends, but that seemed awfully random.”
The Scout's expression falters instantly. “It's... Just me doing my job.” He turns his gaze elsewhere, and doesn't speak further.
The rest of the night passes without event. With Valdo away and everyone else in bed, there's not much for a restless bloke to do. After spending a couple of hours tossing and turning, Mort gathers the motivation to leave the cabin to pursue whatever piques his curiosity. He wanders around the area, waving at the occasional merc on night shift, until he spots a light coming from the infirmary window. What's Ellen doing up this late? The thought crosses his mind as he approaches the door.
Inside, Ellen is sorting out the documents and photos, when a knock on the door startles her into dropping them. “Just a second,” she calls out while hastily picking them up and shoving them in the desk drawer. She opens the door, and lets out a soft, “Oh. It's you. What are you up to this time?”
“Bored an' restless. How 'bout you?”
“Just getting some paperwork done, like usual. Come on in!” She offers him some coffee as he finds a chair to sit on. “Good thing you came here now. I wanted to have a talk with you.”
“With me? About what?”
“Nothing much. Just getting to know you. Think of this place as a home to secrets. Anything you say in here will be safe with me.”
He hesitates before replying. “Well, my name's Mortimer Mundy, I just turned thirty in April, an' I like animals and cute men.”
Cute men? Ellen is not unfamiliar with men and women confessing their admiration for people of the same sex, but to hear it said so bluntly is nothing short of brow-raising. “Interesting. Tell me, is there anyone you're interested in? A 'special someone', perhaps?”
“W-well, there's this one guy... He's an old friend of mine, since we were really small. He's strong, smart, and great with kids. An' he's real handsome, too!” His cheeks turn bright red. “If only he wasn't on playin' the other team.”
“You mean he's straight?” That certainly would be tragic, she sighs, reminiscing her past relationships.
“No, I mean literally on the other team. He works for RED.”
Ellen almost spits out her drink. “RED? I mean, what an unusual predicament. Has this affected your relationship?”
“Yeah, but not really. I went over to his house recently. His bed's really soft!”
“I see. You two seem to be doing well. How's work faring for you, by the way?”
He shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Vince seems okay with me. Though things're getting more complicated with Al an' Shiro. Shiro likes Al, an' Al likes me, an' they both got split personalities, an'—”
“Hold on. What was that last bit?”
“Nothing, nothing! Just me running my mouth off.”
“Hmm. Let me tell you something, Mortimer.” She slams her hand on a stack of folders on her desk. “In these folders lie information on every single person working for BLU, and then some. Every last fact I've scrapped together is in here; if not, I look for it. It might seem a bit much to you, but as a doctor, I need to know as much as possible about my patients, for their well-being.”
“So this chat...”
“Is my way of gathering information. No different than what we do every day at work. Call me nosy, even manipulative, but this is my full-time job.”
A lump forms in Mort's throat, and he spills everything. “I'm scared for them. All of 'em. Is there anything I can do?”
“You came to the right person. Unfortunately, I cannot do it alone. You'll have to convince them to trust me—which might not be an easy task. But they clearly trust you enough to tell you their secrets, so maybe it will. Now, knowing my secret, I have to ask: do you trust me?” Ellen stares long and hard, hoping to dig into Mortimer's mind for whatever she can find. But what should normally come easy to her is becoming a chore, creating a migraine and a searing sensation in her eyes. She breaks eye contact and rubs her temples.
“Elly, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she croaks. “I probably shouldn't have asked so many questions. How are you feeling?”
“Better than ever. Thanks, mate.” He embraces her and runs off. As the door closes shut, she cannot help but smile, all her physical and emotional pain suddenly washed away.
Early the next morning, Alan sets out to shower when he finds himself in a predicament. “W-what's the meaning of this?” He points at the signs on the bathroom doors. Instead of the usual man and woman, the signs depict two similar-looking figures, one with a hat and one without.
“It's exactly as it looks,” Ellen answers. “Status in this business is determined by hats; the bigger and flashier your collection, the better. Call it local tradition.”
“Some 'tradition',” Al mutters under his breath. He enters the “no hat” bathroom to wash himself, then changes into a sky blue blouse and navy blue pants. After tying the blue ribbon in his hair, he steps out of the stall and bumps into something. “Hey, watch where you're going; this is a brand-new shirt!”
Right away, a timid voice stutters, “Sorry.”
Al's eyes meet the blue eyes of another, familiar face—Vincent's. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in the other room?”
“Well, I sort of lost my old cap during the last fight. But it made my head itch, so it's probably for the best.” Scratching his head, he laughs nervously. “Uh, nice outfit. You look really cute today. Bow's a nice touch.”
“Thanks. Um, I should go. Bye!” He steps out and makes way for the bunk room. On the bottom bunk is Mortimer, sleeping like a baby. Watching him makes Al's eyes droop. Such a shame he has to interrupt this lovely moment. “Wakey-wakey, artichokey,” he sings as he rips the covers off the Sniper. There's a bit of movement, but no signs of waking up. “Mort?” He grabs one of Mort's hands and pulls him up, feeling a slight chill in his skin. “Mort, please, wake up!”
Slowly, his eyes blink open. Mort stretches and lets out a loud yawn. “Al? What're you doin' up? It's, like, three A.M..”
“Mort, it's a quarter 'til seven. How long were you sleeping?”
“Mm. I dunno. A while, I guess. Can you turn out the light?”
Al, not wanting to bother him further, adjusts the window shades to block out the sunlight. “You don't look so good. Maybe you should sleep a bit more.”
Mort hesitates, then nods and flops back onto his pillow. Alan leaves the room, rubbing his hands for warmth. Was he always that cold? He seemed alright yesterday, but now... He huffs a breath of warm air into his hands and rubs them some more. A little bit of rest should do the trick. I hope.
Shortly after, Vincent enters the room, in search of the bandages he left in his sports bag. The wraps on his arms are already losing their adhesive, becoming itchier by the minute. But that will have to wait a bit. He tears the covers off Mort and drags him out of bed. The Sniper mumbles something about “five more minutes” and dozes off, turning into dead weight. Vince grumbles and carries on, only to be blocked by a significant obstacle.
“Hello, Wimpcent.” Valdo approaches Vince, who recoils with every step. “Didn't expect to see me, did you?”
“How did you get in here?”
“I have my ways,” he answers with a crooked smile. “I've been hanging around this area for a short while, but I found some dirt that I think you'll like.”
“I doubt that.”
“You've changed since I last saw you. You always were a bit uptight, but lately, you're absolutely reckless. Either you're losing your touch, or something's triggered you.”
Vince sets Mort on the floor and puts up his dukes. “There's nothing wrong with me!” He throws a punch.
Valdo, unfazed, avoids it. “So you are triggered. Not by something, but somebody. I wonder...” He dodges another hit, then grabs hold of the Vince's collar and lifts him. “What if I told you who Mundy really is?” The BLU Scout struggles in vain to free himself, and the RED tightens his grip. “I knew it: Mundy's the magic word. And I'm more than willing to bet on who gave you that order.”
“If you think of hurting Ellen...”
“Don't you worry one bit about her. It's Mortimer I want. He's got connections to the Alterheim name, and he doesn't even know it.” His gaze turns briefly to the unconscious man on the floor. “For that, I am willing to risk my life to protect him.”
Valdo drops Vince, who scowls in return. “You're willing to throw your life away for the man who ruined it?”
“Oh, don't be melodramatic. Dante saved me when I needed it most—unlike some people.” He turns away. “Take good care of Mort; he may be your only chance. Kaninchen.” In front of Vince's very eyes, he transforms into a bat and flies through a small crack in the open window.
The second Valdo is gone, Mortimer wakes up with a yawn. “What a weird dream. Vally was in it, an' he was talkin' funny.” Blink. “Vinci, yer arm!” He grabs hold of Vince's arm, its wrappings falling off, revealing numerous scars. Had he not pulled away right after, Mort would likely have noticed the scars are far from recent.
“Don't worry about it,” Vince says while covering up his scars. “It's nothing important.” He gives a confident, buck-toothed smile. “The mission's already underway, but we can still spectate. Wanna come?” He helps him up and they head out to find a good view. Vince's memories of the recent past is a bit fuzzy, but he finally remembers why he looks up to Mort. Jealousy aside, he can't imagine ever hating him. Mort is Mort, right?
Since its birth, Snipes 'n' Shells has had its art and earliest writings featured in my DeviantArt gallery. Well, now the time has come for DA to truly shine: the first five chapters of SnS are now available for hardcore Deviants to enjoy!
[Snipes 'n' Shells] Chapter Thirty-Six: The Blood of Our Fathers
Archive
Author’s Note: I've been meaning to upload a new chapter, but a combination between work, pre-and post-con stress/fatigue, and a general inability to keep track of time, I completely forgot to pay my due. So take this last-minute entry as compensation. I can't guarantee I'll be on-schedule next month, but I've been looking forward to releasing this chapter, so enjoy!
Summary: The fight at Thunder Mountain continues as Vince and the new Heavy, Anastasia, duke it out. Later, Ellen looks into Mortimer's past, and discovers a possible connection between him and the mastermind behind the Lifeblood Project.
No sound, no light, nothing. All around her, darkness. Her body feels neither warm nor cold; it's a strange, numbing sensation. Without any sense of time, it goes on for what seems like forever. Then suddenly, a light. Everything fades to white, then she opens her eyes.
She's back in the Resupply room, a barren space decorated with a locker, a scale, and a uniform rack. Oh, and that pin-up calendar, tacky as it is. The circled cross painted on the supply locker is colored bright red, ensuring her that she has landed in the right spot. Her instincts tell her to rush towards the locker, but her weapons have already been properly loaded, so there's no sense to it. Lugging her Brass Beast—a gorgeous giant of a weapon, if she ever saw one—with no effort, she storms into battle.
“Hola, Roja,” says the red toreador with a smile. “You don't look so good. Bitter about that blow to the head?”
“No. Well, maybe. I never expected to be so... incompetent on my first mission.”
He laughs. “Relax, Ana! Everyone sucks on their first day. When you don't know anybody or anything, it's easy to get in trouble on the field. Just give it some time—you'll be muy bueno, I'm sure of it!” He gives a quick wave goodbye and runs off, leaving her in the dust.
Ana blasts her foes in cold blood as she runs ahead towards the sawmill. Between her and the Control Point is the rotating saw blade, large enough to slice her in half. A lump builds up in her throat, but she moves onward. As soon as the blade retreats, she runs on, shooting down the blue turret hiding behind it. In little time, she makes it. Standing on the Point, all she has to do is wait for the light to turn red; protecting her territory is an easy task with the saws doing half of the work. She glances down at the light. Just a few more seconds...
BAM!
Instinctively, she jerks her head back, a bullet barely missing her nose as it zooms by. Her eyes shift to the direction the bullet came from. A Scout in blue zigzags towards her, managing to evade the blade in the process. His scattergun—a common, two-barreled shotgun of little note—is aimed squarely at her face. However, her expression remains stoic. “I've heard much about you, Vincent,” she greets. “You're the Scout that can't jump, aren't you?”
He cocks his pitiful excuse of a shotgun. “Trash talk won't keep me from claiming that Point.”
“A pathetic Scout like you won't stop me from protecting it.”
“Who are you, anyway? I would recognize a change in enemy ranks. Especially one as notable as you.”
She smirks warmly, in contrast to her cold stare. “You have a good eye, I'll give you that. But then again, you would notice, knowing your godfather's gone turncoat.”
His hands tremble as they grip the gun tighter. “He is not a traitor! He was forced onto your side.”
“Oh, was he? He could have declined the offer if he wanted to. Of course, that would require dropping out of the game for a while, as a penalty. Possibly forever.”
“He would never quit his job!” He thrusts his gun towards her. “And you can't decline an Auto-Balance order, anyway.”
“And why not? Rules are being broken all the time, and from what I've heard, your godfather is quite the rebel. So if he was more willing to obey orders than quit entirely, whatever could that mean, hmm?” Her smile grows, stretching to uncanny proportions. “I can see it in your heart—even you feel Mallory's betrayed you.”
“ENOUGH!” Vince charges towards her, intending to knock her out with the butt of the gun. Instead, he ends up on the ground, his head inches away from the buzz saw. Staring down is the young girl, her brass weapon held against his chest. He hardly has a second to utter a single word as his torso fills with lead.
He wakes up in BLU's Resupply locker, cursing under his breath as he rushes back onto the field. With a pistol on hand, he blasts every foe that happens to be in his way, then aims the short barrel at the girl, who has moved away from the point to guard the perimeter. But an odd detail—an arrow stuck to her shoulder—causes him to lower his gun. Judging by the faded red aura it's emitting, it appears to be healing her, in a manner similar to the Dispensers that Engineers build. Another arrow is shot, this one landing on her head. It might look silly, having an arrow on their head, but being able to shrug off so many blows—even blows that heal—is a remarkable display of the mercenaries' endurance. Those arrows...! Only one weapon is capable of such properties: the Crusader's Crossbow. Only one man I know uses that weapon...
He runs straight into the RED team's line of fire, wielding a pistol half-filled with ammo, and points it at the one standing on the point. A large, bespectacled man in a lab coat, armed with a crossbow much too small and delicate for one of his stature. Hartmann! Without hesitation, Vince fires shots at the Medic, aiming to capture his attention. It works—perhaps a little too well. Contrary to appearances, Hartmann is amazingly agile, and combined with his strength and aggression, he is one doctor no one wants to mess with.
Hartmann switches out his crossbow for a bloodied saw and swings it wildly at Vince. Though related in spirit, both of them know that on the field, they are enemies out for each other's blood, and so fight like it. The Medic, for all his advantages, makes wide movements that are easy for a smaller, swifter opponent to avoid. But the Scout, fast as he may be, makes hits that can barely penetrate a tougher foe's defenses. On top of that, they have often dueled like this in their former days of training together, so they know each other well enough to nullify the other's moves.
Their fight continues, avoiding the destruction all around them as they run, dodge, and sidestep about the area. A few mercs, like Mara, have stopped fighting altogether, preferring to watch from the sidelines. Others, like Ana, have taken extreme measures to end the fight early, contributing to the surrounding hazards. But only one has been stupid enough to run into the crossfire.
Out of nowhere, a figure—seeming to float in mid-air—collides with the big doctor, knocking him out with one brown boot. Once he's confirmed dead, the figure approaches Vincent and gives him a swift blow to the face. “There's a time an' place fer everything, even for fightin' yer ol' pappy, but that time ain't now!”
Vince looks up, perplexed. “M-Mort?”
The figure—Mort—grins like the idiot he usually is. “The one and only. And it's about time you got back to work.” He pats Vince on the head. “I know you don't trust me much, but we're on the same team. Don't forget that, mate.”
Vince, reluctant to act on Mort's orders, nods anyway. In his feud with Hartmann, he had forgotten his main mission. But now he's determined as hell to finish it. As if on cue, the girl tosses her gun aside and cracks her knuckles. As soon as they are within arm's length of each other, the dance of fists begins. Unlike with Hartmann, the two of them are on equal footing in terms of speed and agility. However, the redhead—capable of carrying heavy artillery—hits much harder than the Scout ever will, putting him in a similar situation nonetheless.
A distant voice announces the one-minute mark, and the battle picks up in pace. Back and forth, the light on the point shifts from red to blue as they step all over it. When one of the giant saw blades rise up, Vince's mind races, and finds an opportunity. As soon as she raises her leg to deliver a roundhouse kick, he ducks, leaving her open. Then, with a swift leg motion, he throws her off-balance, sending her to a quick and painful demise.
With BLU taking the victory, the RED team is forced to flee to their base, lest their enemies send them back there through less pleasant means. In most cases, failure means very little—for them, at least—but after losing both their resources and part of their base, suddenly the big picture is laid out for them. Having worked there for years, Hartmann often wonders if there is even a point to all this. He scans the lunchroom for an isolated spot and sits there, picking apart his lunch.
“Excuse me, Mister Hartmann,” a meek voice asks. “Mind if I sit here?”
Hartmann hesitates, but shrugs and complies. He doesn't even need to peek to know who they are. “Lovely weather zhis evening. Vouldn't you agree, Ana?”
She bites down on a bread bun. “He's okay, I guess. Vincent, I mean.”
He bursts out laughing. “Got a little crush now, don't you?”
“Eh, not really. Too uptight. And too quick to anger.”
“Just like you.” She glares at him, and he clears his throat. “But seriously, a nice Frau like you, you deserve zhe best. Let's see... Zhere's Valdo...”
“Too creepy.”
“José...”
“Too showy.”
“Mara...”
“Too fat.”
He scratches his head. “Er, vell, zhere's still zhat Soldier kid.”
Ana stops to glance at Zhen, embarrassing his neighbor with his loud boasts and extravagant gestures. “He seems bold enough.”
“So you do have a type!”
“I do not! I just happen to admire certain traits. What's the point of this conversation, anyway?”
“Aw, nothing, really. Just an old man being nosy.” He sips on the water near him. “I've been trying to find Vincent a good voman for years now. But I guess he wouldn't like zhat.”
“You really care about him, don't you? Even though you're not even related...” She stares sadly at the food on her plate.
“If zhis is about your father, you can forget about him. Pasha's a jackass, anyvay.” He wraps an arm around her tiny body. “Vell, I've got old-man business to attend to. How 'bout you spend some time vith that Janey kid or vhatever?”
She lets out an uncharacteristic giggle and hugs him back. “Okay. Da svidanya, Papa!”
He waves at her while they part ways. Outside, the sky is a dark canvas dotted with stars and a moon shining over the forest. The earthy musk of dirt and pine passes through his nose as he takes a deep breath. The past few weeks have taken a heavy toll on Hartmann, but his short time here has lifted much of the burden. With Dante working overseas and Luca out of sight, he can finally relax and be himself. As he's learned from his time at RED, the other workers are pretty good folks when they aren't being manipulated. Regardless, he thinks often about his friends on the other side—Vincent, Duncan, heck, even Pasha. Perhaps he can ask Ellen when she arrives.
“Good evening, Doctor.” Speak of the devil. For a woman in her fifties, she looks nothing short of ravishing. Her wrinkles, few as they were, give her an air of wisdom, adding to her beauty. And her raven black hair, with loose strands floating like stocks of wheat, is let down, an unusual change in her style. And her rectangle glasses, well, they're a bit of a weakness for him; especially during the rare moments when she takes them off. The fact that she's one of the few that refers to him as “Doctor” without any hint of irony...
But he's letting himself get distracted. “Evening, Doctor. Vhat brings you here?” He's sweating beneath his collar. All alone, with just the two of them, anything could happen.
“It's about Mortimer.” Oh. Well, he's not sweating as much anymore. “Something's not adding up.”
“Not adding up? Vhat could be missing?” Besides a brain, maybe.
“Well, everything. No birth certificates, no social security, not even medical records. It's like he doesn't even exist!”
“So zhe boy's been living in zhe rough. Vhat about it?”
“Well, there's his father...” She slips out a photo and hands it to Hartmann. A clean-shaven man with platinum blonde hair and steel blue eyes shoot daggers into his soul. Looking closely, the man appears to be holding a black-and-white sign with his name: ALTERHEIM, F. “Faustus Alterheim was a doctor who was convicted of distributing illegal drugs to his patients, including opium. He was bailed out of jail by a relative, then disappeared without a trace. Until now, that is.” She hands him another photo, one of a family of three: a cleaned-up Faustus, a brunette woman, and a young child that looks unmistakably like Mort.
Alterheim... The name brings a lot of memories, very few of them good. “You're not telling me zhat Mort... and Dante... are related?”
“There's nothing to connect them besides this, but it's possible.” RIP! She turns to the sight of Hartmann tearing up the mugshot. “What are you thinking? That's—”
“A secret no one needs to know. As far as ve are avare, Mr. Mundy is just a simple farmer, vith no connection to zhe Alterheim name.” He confirms this statement with a smile.
Ellen opens her mouth to protest, but nods instead, resigned to his optimism. “Yes. Just a simple farmer. Nothing else.”
Halfway across the world, south of the Equator, the air is chilly and dry, and the skies are sunny and crystal clear. The landscape, an unending horizon of brown grass and desert sands, has its own unique sense of beauty. Having lived here for three decades, Felix has adapted to Australia's dangerous and “backwards” environment, even going so far as to say it strengthened him as a person. Isolating and rough as those thirty years had been, he cannot imagine living anywhere else.
Which is why he finds it shocking when he finds an unsuspecting visitor in his house. Sitting on his chair. Drinking coffee brewed by his wife. “Felix, this is Dr. Alterheim,” his wife, Miriam, introduces the stranger in her chipper voice, as if they'd been friends forever. “Dante came all the way from America just to see you. Isn't that simply amazing? Well, I'll be off to town; I'll be borrowing your car. Play nice, boys!”
The door shuts behind him, and he steps over and plops over on the chair across from the other man. He gives a cold, steely look at Dr. Alterheim, playing with his hair in a carefree manner. “Faustus, it's so good to see you! It's been a while, hasn't it, brother,” says the doctor, immediately slipping into his native tongue. “How are you these days?”
“I'm doing just fine,” Felix—or rather, Faustus—replies with a growl. “What's your business, Dante? I've sold you all the stuff I had last month. It'll be a while before I can make more.”
“Oh, no need for that. I have perfected the formula, so I will no longer be needing your services. I came to discuss something else.”
He raises a brow. “What?”
“I came in to report about Mortimer Mundy. You haven't heard from him since he ran off, have you?”
He stammers, gobsmacked. “No. I haven't. He's still alive?”
“Yes, alive and well. He's a spitting image of his mother, that boy. Always optimistic and full of energy—like ein Welpe!”
“Sounds like he's doing well.”
“Yes, he's turning into a fine young man. But we both know adulthood comes with its sacrifices. In time, his heart will harden, and he'll either close himself off or go completely mad. Though the latter seems more likely, especially after that early exposure to the prototype...”
Faustus reaches out and grabs Dante by the collar. “I will not let you turn Mort into one of his guinea pigs!”
“It's much too late for that, dear brother. From the moment I put my seed into your wife-to-be, he was destined to go down the same downward path I have. It's written in our blood.” Not a moment too soon, Faustus punches his lights out. Stumbling, with blood on his face, Dante still manages to pull a smile across his face. “Hm. Perhaps Mort has more in common with you than I thought. Well, I'll be off now. Lebewohl!”
In an instant, Dante disappears from sight, leaving Faustus—once again Felix—to dwell in his sorrow.
Internet's been going down a lot the past couple of evenings, so I killed some time working on this, among other things. It feels like forever since I've worked on anything with an unusual perspective, so I'm proud of myself for making the effort.
Cute puppy!Mort bust because reasons. Mort's changed in a lot of ways, but the bandana's one of the more major additions to his overall look.
