Finding the ground comfortable is when someone should start worrying about their mortality. I sit on the moldy and decrepit floor of the basement dungeon cell with one hand handcuffed to a water pipe and the other pressing on my stab wounds. It hurts, and I know I'm not pressing as hard as I can because of it.
BLU Scout sits outside the bars on a folding chair, head hanging off the back with his legs extended fully out to where the back of his shoes touch the ground. He throws his baseball up toward the ceiling and catches it before it hits his face. Over and over again. The sound of the ball hitting his palm is annoying. I exert to throw my head over to the side to look at him. "Hey."
He catches the ball and freezes in his position. "What."
"Where's Neuro?"
"Doc has her," he answers shortly.
"What are you doing to her?"
He's already agitated by our conversation. Probably because he wasn't expecting to have one with me of all people. "You should know."
I carry my eyes to the rusted bars that keep me further caged in. "It's different every time, isn't it?"
"Just for you. It's only different for you." He sighs. "But to shut you up, she's getting patched up."
"And me?" I hoarsely question. "Am I just going to die down here?"
He lifts his head, resentment invading the basement. "Yes. Hopefully, it'll teach you to be a team player. That's time and money and resources you're wasting every time we have to go and look for you, you know that, huh? You are your selfish wants..."
So she's an escape artist. She might not be as into this as the others. Defective, maybe? She's be preprogrammed with loyalty unless someone or something changed her mind. The handcuffs rattle. My arm's been shaking. It's fallen asleep, my hand numb from the lack of circulation, and my arm tingly from being lifted so long. My skin is bloated and blue. Attempting to articulate diverts pain away from my abdomen if only a little.
The basement door creaks open and then slams shut. Two sets of footsteps, one more skittery than the other. I smile when I see that it's Sniper. He's being wrangled by the BLU equivalent of Pyro. The scout rises and twirls the key ring around his finger before opening my cell. He steps in by himself and doesn't move until the gate is completely closed. I lift my hand from my wound to wave. "Yo."
"Crickey," he huffs under his breath and makes his way over to me, lifting my shirt to assess the situation. "Bloody hell happened to you?"
I groan as I try to reposition myself so I'm not hanging by the cuffs and to bend my arm. "An Australian man with a very, very large knife," I muster, wincing. He wraps my other arm over his back and then lift my body to lean me up against the wall. "Not- Not you, though."
"I know, not me, Luv," he quietly draws. His hand touches my forehead. "You're red hot." I smile, woozy.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"You're running a fever," he corrects. "When did this happen?"
When did we get here? Nine... Ten in the morning? I shrug. "What time is it?" He glances at his watch.
"Half-past five."
"At least eight hours ago?"
He shakes his head. "It's been a day since we last saw each other."
So thirty more like it. But I don't remember it being that long. Where did that day go then? I grab his sleeve and run my arm down to his hand, weakly tugging on it to put it on my stomach. "I don't know- Just stop the bleeding."
"There's no bleeding to stop, Freddie, it's all either in ya guts or under ya," he's apologetic. I poke the side of the cut, warmth running down my waist. He swats my hand away and presses into my body. As soon as he does that I exhale, turning my head to the side and feeling the urge to puke. Saliva runs down the roof of my mouth and over my bottom teeth. This is shock, right? Fever, nausea...
"Hey, I'm glad I saved you," I whisper. He doesn't respond and instead takes off his vest and red shirt, ripping my shirt off by splitting the collar buttons. "Then both of us would be dead."
"Don't take this the wrong way," he speaks sotto voce and unhooks my bra, taking out the cups from the fabric and tearing the arm straps off to tie the band lower on my body as tight as he can possibly make it. He then lays his shirt over me and rises from my side, demanding the handcuff keys from the scout. I frown. "No, no, leave him alone. C-Come back over here." Metal jingles as it strikes the cracked foundation. Sniper comes back and brings my arm down, an onslaught of pins and needles shooting through. Then he slides his shirt onto me to the best of his ability. He wipes his hand on his white undershirt, a feathered stain now present. "I ruined your shirt."
"Luv," he snaps. "Shut the fuck up."
"How would you know I'm still alive if I did that?"
"You're wasting yourself on drivel when you don't hafta."
I lift my brows, squinting. "I'm a good listener," I say.
"I ain't got anythin' to tell." He sounds disappointed in himself for saying that. Voice thick and gritty like melted brown sugar. It's calming but distressing. No one talks like that unless they have something bad to tell you or they're mad at you. Would he be mad at me for getting attacked so easily and so early into our mission?
I sniff. "What are... What are your parents like?" He glances at me for a mere second with general concern as the weight on my injuries increases drastically. "Jonathan and Hazel, are they good people?"
"Yea," he confirms. He knows I've read his file, but it doesn't tell me everything. I shiver. It's frigid. And to think I was sweating buckets when we arrived. Now he stops pressing to pick me up, laying me against himself. The back of my head is on his chest, and his arms encase me on either side as he uses all of his arm strength to stop the bleeding. "I get that you're freezing, but don't luck out just yet."
"Do they kiss you when you come home?" Words grit through my teeth as he's legitimately squeezing me now.
"Mum does. Dad's a rough and tough man."
"What's the fondest memory you have of them? Either of them."
He draws his knee up. I'm not given a story. More and more blood pools under us. It's all over his pants and his forearms. The once shiny glass of his watch is now murky crimson. I stare out of the miniature window high on the wall where it meets the ceiling with metal grating so one can't simply climb out. The sky is so clear and blue, free and happy. I let out a ragged breath and lay my hand over Sniper's. "Could you tell--"
"No."
"Please," I weakly plead. He crushes me harder in his embrace. "I'm going to die, Sniper." No response. "Then could I at least look at you while it happens?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm scared." I pat his knee. "Because I died so fast last time, and I don't want to die alone when it's going so slow."
He opens his fingers, and mine slip between the spaces. I shiver even more, and it causes him to clutch me tighter. "I can't do that for ya, Freddie."
"That's alright," I forgive. "It's better than what it was last time."
His arms slip now and again, and he has to pull me back up as I slide further. I think he's delaying the inevitable. They're not going to help me, not even give us any sutures to do it ourselves and hope for the best. "When I was an ankle-biter-" Sniper swallows hard. He pauses as if he changed his mind. "You already know what it is, I'd just be earbashing."
"I wanna hear your side," I insist. "Your version would be different than what my papers say. More-" Writing on paper isn't a story. It was a summary. "It'd be more." I put both of my hands over his.
"Your hands are stiff."
"That's what happens when you lose a lot of blood."
"Are you sure you want to hear it?" I hum positively. "When I was young'uh, both me mum and dad were talking to a bloke from the city late at night. It was a month before my birthday. Mum was cryin', and Dad was angry at 'im for something. My dad's a scoundrel at times, so I didn't want to get into it." His heart speeds up. I feel it. "I was crouched on the floor with my ear to the bottom, trying to catch their whinging from the space underneath.
"Now, I've met this cockroach before he uh- He's from New South Wales. Drives clicks and clicks to lob in until I was eighteen. He was a bit of a lair, dressed to the nines like the Mann Co. lot. I know now he was a social worker, but I just thought he was a whacka. Showin' up to my school and pulling me out of class to ask about Mum and Dad and you can tell he wasn't a bushie at all. All of my mates thought I was a dole bludger."
"Dole bludger?"
"Someone who takes advantage of welfare when they don't need it."
"Ah."
"Maybe I was seven? Eight?"
"You were ten."
"I was ten. There I was on the floor in my room. He asked my parents when they were going to tell me." He pulls me back up. "When I was going to find out I was adopted."
"And your mom said never."
"Dad said that. 'He's my boy,' he reckoned." Sniper's voice gets quieter and lower when imitating his father. "'As good as blood.' Social worker didn't like that one bit. Said I had to know that I wasn't theirs and that I fell out of the sky one day because I'd be left out and wonder why I don't get muscly like Saxton does. But Dad insisted. If ya think about it, Dad isn't even a pint glass with everyone else being a schooner anyway, so what would that have done me?"
"Nothing, really."
"And it certainly didn't. I saw that guy less and less as the years went on until he stopped showing up altogether. Guess we were too far out, or I just got too old."
"Why does that memory matter so much to you? I know why it'd matter to someone like me, but you--"
"We're not too different, Luv. But it matters because Dad's always been distant from me, and I thought he hated me growin' up. Me mum always told me he loved me anyway, and that made it fair dinkum."
"Do they-" I wince when he repositions again. "Do they know you know?"
"Nah," he concludes. I thank him for telling me, closing my eyes. At this point, without divine intervention, I'm a goner. I jump awake when the basement door slams closed. Sniper shifts me closest to the back wall while still compressing. I look over Sniper's shoulder as he's kind of shielding with his body. The BLU Spy makes his way in. He fancifully showcases his skills with the butterfly knife looping over his fingers. I watch intently with lidded eyes. The fluid motions indicate years of practice. It seems less like a party trick and more like second nature as he does it so beautifully while striding over.
"I am here to relieve you, Landon," he says, taking the cell key from the scout. The knife rests in his hands, open, with the sharp end facing the floor. "Be on your way."
"What's with the backpack?" I hadn't noticed it because I was so focused on the knife. That's my bag.
"I plan on studying the weapons they've brought along."
"Mac'll just do that, though." He tosses the ball and looks at the spy as he does, missing his window to catch it. He sits up and gains an accusatory tone toward me. "Unless Miss Winslow over here is gonna sing like a canary. Doubt that."
The spy shrugs, the metal circling his fingers. "These are espionage tools. It would be best if I examined the wares given my disposition, no?"
"Fine, yeah, sure, just quit the fancy talk." The scout rises from his seat and stretches as he reaches behind his chair for the ball he dropped. That's when the knife plunges into Landon's back, right through his spine. He rattles and knocks the chair over as he falls. Spy looks over him. Landon gasps, clawing at the cracked and damp concrete. He's paralyzed from the waist down. "Fuckin-- Fuckin' snake!"
"If you tell me how to stop your little operation, I will let you be the one to live."
Landon's head whips around, desperate. "There's a kill switch, in- in-- In Medic's lab! And another in Mac's. You just need to hit both, that's it! Honest, promise, swear!"
Spy sighs. "Who would be the snake, then?" He aggressively spikes the knife into his skull with a forceful throw. It lodges into his eye, killing him instantly. Spy opens the gate and slips the key into his jacket. His face drops upon realizing we're not in this position to be cute. "Mon Dieu, how could this happen?"
"Please tell me you killed that fuckin' piker that looks like me," Sniper hopes.
I look up at the ceiling, a spider resting above us in its web. It's spinning an egg sac. Spy hasn't killed him yet. "Good," I huff. "I'll kill that son of a bitch again myself."
"Not like this, no." Spy deters me. "We need to focus on escaping. Soldier and Demo are not here. We have been misinformed.
"S'il vous plaît, aidez-moi," I request. "Vous serez mon guide."
"I will not lead you to your death, Madame," Spy returns in English. He kneels, putting his arm between my head and Sniper's chest, the other under my knees. "Sniper, let go."
"She's bleeding out."
"I am aware." I take a deep breath when Sniper lets go, moans turning to yips as Spy stands again and closes my body with my thighs almost touching my chest. "And I am assuming you do not need help standing?" Sniper gets up, putting his vest back on and adjusting his hat. Spy's mildly sarcastic. "Magnifique."
"Where are the two of yous off to?"
"To the boats. She needs help."
Sniper scoffs. "Just don't get sand in your loafers."
We leave the cell, Spy subdued as he takes me up the stairs. He steps over the dead body of the Pyro. "Oh, and Sniper?"
"Mate?"
He keeps his back turned to Sniper, looking at me when he says this: "Your death would be a great travesty. Do put it off for later."
"Don't worry about me, make sure Freddie here makes it back with breath still in 'er."
"That is my top priority, I assure you." He waits for a response- one not coming. We diverge. We left Sniper without a weapon. No gun, no knife. He's an outback survivalist, so he'll think of something, but don't they always have one thing that they never leave the house without? I bobble my eyes over to Spy. He shifts his gaze down when he feels my head turn. He looks back up. "There is something you wish to say."
Isn't this what cowards do? Run away? It's your nature to flee and hide, never to fight unless it's unfair. So we might as well make ourselves useful. He hums. "I suppose not, then." I said none of that out loud. "We must keep the chitchat to a minimum, I have a story for if we get stopped. Though, it is uncertain if it will keep us out of conflict." He's steady, gliding almost. I would expect a cordial man to walk prim and properly the way he does.
"Is my blood on your suit?" I hoarsely ask.
"Worry not if it is, Mademoiselle." I'm inconveniencing everyone with the mess I'm making.
"I know they're expen--" He hushes me gently, as if I'm a baby he's rocking to sleep. That's it, isn't it? I'm useless right now, and I'm forcing two of the tougher members of the team to front some form of sympathy to make me feel better. I forced a story out of Sniper because of the condition of my mortality and not because he trusts me. And even then, if it was Scout or Demo, they wouldn't be this nice to me. They would tell me to shut up and suck it up, that I'm Team Fortress; one of the big dogs that can't afford to be weak. Miss Pauling was right. Chauvinists, the lot of them.
"This is not my suit anyway, and it is a cheap knockoff of my own. You are doing nothing wrong."
I can take it. I'm a big girl, I promise. It'd make me think that I'm strong all the time, and that this is just a minor mishap. I'd believe that I'm not weak at all, that I'm not a baby or someone to babysit on contracts. As much as I love Dell, he's guilty of downplaying.
He coddles- excuses everything. I get that I'm new and that I'm inexperienced... Nevermind. I shouldn't want to be desensitized to these sorts of scenarios. Getting shot is a big deal. Getting stabbed is a big deal. My skin throbs slowly with my heartbeat.
The sun is getting ready to set, the blues of the above softening to orange and yellow. Clouds glow gold. The beach is supposed to be nice, and islands relaxing. Instead, we have existential dread and the looming allegory of always being replaceable.
I see Medic out of the corner of my eye. I know he's not real. If he was, Spy would've acknowledged him. He's my angel.
My angel of death.
I think if I play dead, it'd be easier for Spy to come up with an excuse as to why I'm being moved elsewhere. "Spy," I say. "Is Heavy alright?"
"Yes, Miss Fredrickson."
"Good," I breathe. "That's good." I've never seen Heavy be mortally wounded or affected by being hit. Even when he was shot by Vanguard, he didn't so much as falter or make a big deal out of it. Heavy would be the aspiration, wouldn't he? Big power and big defense. Always the tough guy to fall on. "Can I ask something else?"
"You should rest, Madame."
"I know. But can I?" He agrees. "Did you... Do you know my parents?"
"Yes," he solemnly confirms. "Regretfully, I do. Your mother and father are terrible people, worse than I. But they are not important at the moment. Please, think about the people who are there for you like Salvador and the Laborer. They are the ones that matter."
Salvador. He calls me mom.
I'm a mom. It's strange. Usually, a small woman, older, and almost always certainly incapable of self defense is expected to have the strength of five hundred armies when it comes to her kids. And some do. Recently, there was an article I read about a woman who had her home invaded by two men and she killed one while fatally injuring the other because she had her baby at home and her husband is overseas. The only weapon she had was the average run-of-the-mill hammer for home DIY. That woman was younger than me, and she invoked the savagery of a predator to protect her young.
Why can't I do that?
I've always gotten lucky. Spy bailing me out, my attacker tripping up, environmental luck--
"Me," Medic adds. Yes, even you, Medic.
"How does the saying go?" Spy speaks. I slit my eyes open. "'RED Spy is in the base'?" That's not Spy.
"I was wondering when you would show." The Frenchman holding me takes steps to the side and, as carefully as he can manage, rests me sitting up against a wall. I look around. I think we're in the middle of the island, a walkway and building overhang above while we're down here with a control point in the center. Spy frees himself of my bag and sets it next to me. Then he takes off his coat and rolls up his sleeves, ripping off the blue mask he's wearing and trading it for a red one in his pocket. "Let us be civil."
"Oui, let's," the BLU spy does the same and removes his jacket. "Strip yourself of your PDA and your revolver. We rely on our handling of a knife."
"And if I refuse?"
"They did not train a Fortress spy to take on groups, did they?"
Spy removes his gun from its holster on his belt. "Be quick, I have matters to attend to." I exhale sharply.
"Spy--"
"Attendez encore un instant," he softly interjects. "Cela ne prendra qu'une seconde."
Spy flips his butterfly knife open. Their attack styles are unique, considering they're the same person. Spy's avoidant, the BLU spy very confrontational despite his class. He slashes and lounges at the RED agent, going straight for the heart or neck. A smart spook would aim to mutilate; the arms, legs, and face are all strong places to start. It impairs your opponent, and it makes your job considerably easier if they can't fight back.
Spy gashes his wrist from inner elbow to hand, not a single peep to be had about the ordeal. The BLU operative merely switches hands. "You only have two arms, and about fifteen minutes if I am to be generous," Spy huffs, wiping blood from his blade with his fingers. "Use the last one wisely."
"I contest," his counterpart cheekily notes. He lifts his shirt out of his belt. A vial the size of a pen is implanted on his side. It has a soft yellow glow. I've seen that color before. Everything darkens as I stare at the deep and brilliant gold in this device. My fingers move around in my stomach. As if they were in someone's neck.
"Would be nice if you had that yourself," Medic utters.
"Shut it," I wheeze.
"I promise, Komplizin. I only act in your best interest."
Spy won't last. Not against that. I think he knows, but his confidence might be a detriment to his performance. The machine is mechanical, isn't it? Powered and operated as a mere gadget. So I can take care of it like one. I throw myself to flip over, getting my feet on the ground and letting myself slide onto my side before using both my of my hands to transfer to a pushup. Every three moves leave me winded, but it's worth it. If I stop preparing for what it's going to feel like, this can go by a lot faster.
"Komplizin, what are you doing?" Medic urges.
I'm called Accomplice for a reason, so I have to start fucking acting like one.
I grab my backpack by an adjustment strap under the shoulder strap, yanking it toward me and sliding the entire bag toward me. Never have I used it, Dell never had time to teach me because it wasn't necessary. What if I end up killing myself or, worse, killing Spy? Just one touch and I'd murder him. I'd stop his heart and fry his brain, and there'd be no way to undo it.
It seems simple, though. Just put it on, charge it, and grab the enemy's arm. They're wearing different masks and one has a gaping wound in his arm.
Seems simple enough.
"Komplizin!"
"Hey, gotta give meaning to my name, don't I?" I pant as I catch my breath, looking at the knealing apparition at my side. "Gotta make it worthwhile. Gotta let you know you didn't name me for nothing."
I open the zipper and pull out the glove. It's simple. Sliding it on, I snap the battery in place on the back of my hand and fix the chrome plate back over. It's simple, it's simple. My fingers spark when I draw them together. Right, then. I draw my leg up and push myself onto my forearms and then my hands, grunting as I lift my other leg and plant my toes on the ground. Exhaling, my entire body spasms as I grab onto the wall for support while standing upright. Instinct tells me to hold my side, but I don't think blood is good for this glove, and I wouldn't recommend that when I can get jumped like a car.
Turning, my back rests against the bricks. One shot. I have one shot. Spy's defense is dwindling, his tactics resorting to merely running away with none of the bite he had before. No longer is he trying to slight his opponent with surface wounds or limb stabs. He's getting sloppy with a decrease in stamina. The BLU spy is deft and sharp, just always a millisecond off from getting a good shot at his other half. Spy's visibly upset when he receives a shallow cut to his shoulder.
"Enough," the Frenchman darkly surmises. "Where is your medic?"
"He's not here," the other answers.
"That would be a lie. Your arm suggests otherwise."
"You're misinformed, mon ami." He stands up straight and fixes his glove, cracking his neck. "Can I trouble you for the time?"
"I do not have a watch on me," Spy says, holding onto his shoulder. BLU Spy checks his own wrist.
"It's six in the evening. Convenient." He taps his watch and then vanishes. "Because you should watch yours." We've resorted to cheating on a level higher than the one we were already on. They're so far away, but it's going to stay like that if I don't start moving. One foot in front of the other. Even if blood is flooding out of me with each foot I travel, it's just one foot in front of the other. Trying to straighten my back only translates to my body doubling down on the curvature of my spine. It's hard for me to look forward with the strain on my neck.
"You're wearing yourself out."
"Not helping," I seethe.
"Try a different method. This one is killing you faster than you would want." Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit. I'm sitting here worthless and Spy is fighting against something he likely doesn't know much about. This multi-tool's seen a lot, and I'm afraid it's going to have to see a bit more. I know for a fact I can't stack up. "Miss Fredrickson, what are you planning?" It's slick and hard to get a solid grip on it with all the shaking I'm doing. I can be a distraction at the very least, creating an opening for Spy. "That's death, Komplizin."
"Whatever it is, you can just fix it," I heave with a smile. "That's your entire job, isn't it?"
"You and I both know very well that my abilities are--"
"Save me the fanfare, Doc," I interrupt. "I know. But I can pretend I don't." He protests when I lunge at the blue spy, sticking him in the back and throwing my body weight onto him. I'm exhausted, overexerting as I rip the knife out. He pushes me off of him with general ease as I can't be more than a paperweight. It's what I knew would happen as his butterfly knife drives into my chest. I rattle instead of screaming with warmth gurgling in the back of my throat, digging my nails into his wrist as I prevent him from pulling the knife. Each heartbeat throbs more than the last. I gawk as I grab on with my other hand, mustering with my mouth closed until I have enough blood pooled to spit it in his face. Despite being blinded, the BLU doesn't falter and continues to pull the knife.
Spy eventually throws him off of me, the knife almost being ripped out with the action. I roll over and get onto my hands and knees again to crawl to my bag. Medic stands behind me. "You don't have first aid."
"Fuck!" I cry. I close my eyes and sigh, slouching back against the wall.
"Th-The vial," I pant, holding onto the handle of the knife. "Cut it out, cut out the vi-vial." My teammate shifts the spy's shirt and carefully incises around the shape. When he pulls it out, the body curls like a spider after it's perished. It glows a bright sunflower yellow, bubbling inside like a witch's concoction. As tempting as it is to use on myself, I've seen what it can do. It's better to wait it out.
Spy huffs and kneels next to me, unsure about where to start with the knife. "Miss Fredrickson--"
I swallow hard. "NO! No, d-don't." I push his hand away when he reaches for the knife. Talking damages me more than he could fathom. I accidentally speckled blood on him with my outburst.
" Mona-" he carefully places our things into my bag, looking at me as he assumes his jacket and wipes my mouth.
"Mmm," I hum. We're running out of time. He lids his eyes as he reassembles my bag. Any doctor ever would advise against moving me, but does he have a choice? It feels almost as though someone is scraping the inside of my ribcage like it's the last of a tub of ice cream. We don't talk the rest of the way out. I feel it coming. Should I tell him? Maybe I'm just being dramatic. How would I know that it's my time? If I keep my eyes open, it should ward it off. Seagulls glide in the air, the sky now vibrant hues with pink and purple. I feel warmer than I did before as the remnants of sunlight beam on us and add a soft glow to everything. It's all so bright to look at, but this is bliss, isn't it?
Medic sighs. "I'm sorry, Miss Fredrickson."
I hear Sniper somewhere around us. I open my mouth to inhale more air than my nose could take in, but I choke instead. Spy haphazardly puts me down on the sand. I can't stop coughing, writhing and shrinking as my heart can't handle contracting with the knife planted in it. Sniper arrives. Both of them are yelling at each other and are clueless about what to do. Sniper rolls me onto my side. "Bloody fucking hell, Freddie. C'mon, it's not your time, you can make it." Split second, I pull the knife.
In an instant, all of the pain stops. I can breathe again. Something doesn't feel right.
It's pitch black, and I can't see a thing. A light switch flicks on. It's my house in Georgia. I'd prefer the purgatory apartment over this. My room wasn't really mine. I shared it with Salvador. He was somewhat more of my responsibility earlier on than I care to admit to him. The room is barren. I refuse to remember it and what it looks like. All there is in here is Salvador's old crib, my bed, and the door. It opens, and my mom comes in. I refuse to remember what she looks like either. I hate her. She welcomes herself in, and I cross my arms, moving as far as I possibly can up the bed to get away from her.
"Monita--"
"Don't call me that," I bark.
"Okay," she nods. "That's okay. But it's time to come home now." I glare at her. "You've done a lot, it's okay to give up."
"Just because you did doesn't mean I will." I seethe. "I have things to do. People to kill. You're not even dead, so you don't have a good excuse for not being there. I'm here because of you."
"Mona, you've done enough. You've done all you can."
"I've done all that you would've done. Maybe even more."
"God, where even are you?" She's silent. Coward. "You're horrible, you know that? I've always hated you." She seems hurt by what I said, furrowing her brows and leaning against the door.
"Really, Mona, this is as far as you can go."
"Fuck. You."
Heat fills my lungs, and I force my head up, coughing and raggedly gaining the bearing of my surrounding. It's dark, the moon high in the night sky. Two flashlights lay on either side of me. It's still warm, the summer breeze vagrant and sweet. I close my eyes as a smaller light beams over me. My head is held up, and I'm pulled by my arms to sit up. Sniper wipes the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, out of breath. "It's not your time, Freddie."
Spy sighs relief, lifting my gloved hand from my lap and closing the grandfather watch within it. "I was not sure if that was going to work."
"Be glad it did." Captain sounds perfectly fine, if only a small bit tired. "The chances of her coming back would've been slim to none. And relying on Australium would've screwed us over in the long run."
"Wha id who dyo?" My speech is slurred, and it's hard to get words out. Leaving my mouth open allows the copper-tasting mixture of blood and saliva to vacate the premises.
"To keep your head from exploding, we did a bunch of shit we probably shouldn't have with your stun glove, Spy's Dead Ringer, and my Medi Gun," Captain explains. "If we don't die from radiation, I'll declare this a medical marvel. Also, seven of your ribs are broken from CPR, so don't breathe too heavily until I can get a canister refill to fix that."
"Heavy is sorry he broke ribs," he apologizes. He's here, too, standing off to the side as he pulls a boat into the water.
"Ees alhight." Sniper more or less politely tells me to shut up to save the air he so graciously loaned me.
My phone starts ringing, and Spy answers. "Miss Pauling... Yes, I-- Miss Pauling, calm down, I cannot-- N-- No-- Ma-- Well we-- M-- Yes... Yes... I understand... No, she is alive. We all are. Sniper, Captain, Heavy, Accomplice, and myself... Mmm... I see, yes... I shall relay this information. We will get started once we are out of here... Mercenary Park... Right. We shall talk later. Bye now."
I close my other fist at my side, sand getting my nails and shells rubbing against my fingertips. All of this mom talk. Salvador is my responsibility, yes. But I never asked for him to be. And he never asked either. Maybe... Maybe I resent him as well if only a little. I don't want to, but I can't help but get irritated when I think about having to raise him. Things could've different. He wouldn't have to pretend I birthed him to his friends. It makes it even worse that my parents just so happen to still be alive.
And Spy just knew.