In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Seventy-Seven: Coyote in RED Clothing

"Smart of the drongos," he observes. "Getting your feathers riled and causing who ya thought to be your cobber to be at ya throat." He flips the meat, staying silent for a few odd seconds. Then he waggles his spatula at me. "Oi, you get a haircut?"

"New uniform," I sigh.

"Bidwell!" Saxton yells, the young man with eyes lidded as he's been standing next to him the entire time. The skinner man doesn't even give a response or acknowledgment before Saxton continues. "Go down to inventory. Get a ready-made and an MKB."

"Righto," he complies and promptly begins his journey.

"Good onya for not being a dill, but you're a bit quick to trust," Lawrence says, skepticism in his voice. The door opens and closes as Bidwell leaves.

"Sounds believable enough. Unless you're lying to me ya bastard."

"Almost found myself fuckin' cactus, but I couldn't just yet because I had to come and tell your swank arse about it." The two of them talk like they're old friends, a difference from Mick who was hostile toward Saxton to an unreasonable degree. I interrupt with a gentle nudge to Lawrence's arm. "We're shooting off target. Bidwell said there's yakka."

"Mercenary Park," he suddenly announces. "These BLU you yabber on about occupied my damn island. Need ya to clear house. I'll have my pilot take ya to the coast, and then you're on ya own to boat to Whitsunday."

I furrow my brows. "With just the two of us?"

"You've got the coyote sheila, dontcha?"

"Yeah," I quickly agree. "Wait, so... Just three of us then? How many are on the island?"

"Maybe a baker's dozen of dipsticks, but you've dealt with worse."

Lawrence crosses his arms. "Bit of a rusty shot, but mate's right. No point in white-anting yourself outta work." I exhale slowly. I'm worried about Lawrence and how fine he really is. Despite him constantly telling me he's okay, I can't help but doubt what he's really saying. Five months is a long time, and it doesn't take someone two days to get over it. Bidwell returns.

"The things you asked for, sir," he reports. He has an altered Mossberg 500 shotgun on his shoulder and a SINGER sewing kit of all things in his hands.

Saxton pokes his emu as he speaks. "Considering your career change, I'd be crook to not give you the tools you need."

Lawerence cracks a smirk. "Gettin' a late Smissmas."

I grimace at the thought of having to tell him what happened during this Smissmas. Bidwell comes to me and hands me the aqua oval first. He turns to Saxton to explain to me, the larger man taking a large bite out of what might as well be a live animal with how minimally that was cooked. When he said 'rare', he meant it.

It's not even a sewing kit, it's a button holder. And it's pretty old at that by at least a few years. "This is the Ready-Made," Bidwell explains. I click the clasp open to the box, Lawrence looking over my shoulder with me. The top of the lid has a compass, leveler, and gauge- closely resembling a speedometer in a car- that's currently pointing at fifty. The bottom half doesn't have the six slots I'm used to seeing and rather a large glass circle with white lines forming more circles that get smaller as it gets closer to the center. "It's a multipurpose tool that is completely supportive with no offensive capabilities. I'm sure you already know what a compass and leveler is, but that twenty there is your altitude. Right now, you're fifty customary feet off ground level. You can recallibrate that to sea level if you want, but you have to be on that elevation to tare it to zero."