In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Seventy-Seven: Coyote in RED Clothing

        A sense of déjà vu washes over me as we sit here in the waiting room before Saxton Hale's office. It's barely a Tuesday morning, only two days after the incident. One way to start my February. And both days were spent either on an airplane or sleeping in an airport. Despite having a travel companion, it was still lonely. We didn't talk, all he did was read the entire time. And I didn't him as a reader, more of a... Sit-there-and-do-nothing-but-stare-creepily type. Speaking of, Lawrence sits across from me, his slouch hat laid over his face and legs extended to where they almost touch mine. Hands are frozen over his chest that occasionally rises and falls. His rifle leans against the wall next to him, and my shotgun slants on my backpack on the right of my legs. Alpha sits next to him, thumbing through a Mann Co. magazine with a large and familiar Aussie on the front. I haven't spoken a word to her since she met up with us in the lobby.

I'm not sure if she expects what's coming to her.

This time around is different. I'm not accepting a contract, I don't think, as I'm here to be reprimanded more likely. Months of unfulfilled duties and double employment can get me into some deep shit. Not to mention I'm here as a mercenary rather than a handler.

According to Bidwell and the contract I signed, I've always been a mercenary. The assumption he made was that since there were no more spaces at the time for jobs like his and Miss Pauling's, she had to get me in the door somehow. And I guess that results in me making a color change. Red doesn't feel right on me. The patches on my shoulders feel itchy, and I'm absolutely lost on how I would fit into the dynamics of Team Fortress the way I am right now.

"Accomplice, Sniper," Bidwell says as he opens the door. I stand up and take my backpack and gun with me, stepping over and bumping Lawrence awake before I go in. He follows me, Bidwell closing the door behind us. It smells of blood and raw meat, but that could just be the smell of raw masculinity that an Australian man excretes. There are a couple of new photos in the entrance, both of Saxton Hale punching a nondescript blurry animal that's midway through exploding.

Hell of a photographer.

"Crikey!" Saxton cries at his desk, one fist on his hip. He stands with a spatula in his free hand. "Both of ya look like hell."

I glance over at Lawrence, a much more tame beard on his face that he jokingly called a "five-month shadow" before laughing uncharacteristically hard. Then again, I don't know much about the guy. Maybe that is normal for him. Lawrence picks at a scab on the underside of his head. "I've been through it, dipshit, so don't expect different."

"Right," Saxton holds his chin between his index finger and his thumb. "So, Accomplice, what's this furphy I'm hearing about doubles?" I hear sizzling, diverting my eyes around the room to find out where it's coming from. The smell of meat is stronger now that we're closer. We stand behind the two chairs set in front of his desk, weapons slung over our bodies in a similar fashion.

"Uh," I start, still not looking properly at him. "Uhm, so, BLU--"

"All I need to 'ear," he reckons. I jolt my head back to him, bird-beaked.

"Huh?" Lawrence and I glance at each other. My hand grips my backpack strap firmly as I shift my weight to one leg. "Saxton, it's more than that." He scoffs, facing his attention to his desk and pressing the spatula to it. The sizzling grows louder, and Lawrence apprehensively points.

"That meat?"

"My brekkie, yea," he answers. "Nothing like a rare slab of emu to start the day after a ten-mile run to catch it."

My eye darts to my side again, and he's giving me the same look. I clear my throat and turn to Saxton. "Listen, this Sniper here isn't the same one you talked to when you sent us to go kill Dick Seylor. That was a clone, a copy-- Whatever you want to call them. He was a spy from the BLU team, and now they're attacking from within."