PART XXXII “Is it done?†“Ja.†The medics speak in tandem, hating each other for it. Spy bends at the waist, dipping one glove to brush a rivulet of blood from the cold mouth. It soaks into the leather. A red corona stains the snow around the recapitant, and the spy goes to his knees in the slush, leaning in so close that his breath melts the flakes on the blue balaclava. The strange glow of the mediguns engulfs him, playing over both spies in a violet borealis. “Why is he not breathing?†When he looks up at the doctors, his face is contorted with fear. Sniper cannot recognize him; he has never seen this man before. Spy snatches at the nearest medic, smearing blood on the white coat. “You have botched it somehow. You have killed him!†Both physicians retreat. “No.†“No. He is just cold, dummkopf. Hypothermia. Listen to his heartbeat.†“Yes, listen.†The medics nod contemptuously. “Be patient.†He presses his ear to the cold chest, and Sniper watches his anguish stretch thin, waiting. He must hear it, then--the Spy’s face melts into a muddle of expressions, none of which Sniper has seen before. It is with difficulty that he identifies the agent’s authentic relief, then his joy, and finally, finally--yes, there is no mistaking that--his love. He bites the inside of his cheek, and tastes blood. “Dieu merci...†When the RED Spy is on his feet again, he is his old self. He fixes his beatific smile, looking waxy in the cold. “Docteur.†The RED Medic steps over the patient and joins his teammate, who murmurs something. The physician nods and turns, and Sniper sees the flash of a red laser on the doctor’s upraised glove as he makes a signal in the direction of the RED base. There is a pause, and the distant screech of a door. Sniper catches a pale leer in the interior, and then a tiny figure is thrust out. It staggers upright, like a fawn, and begins to run towards them. The door slams behind. When Medic snatches the boy from the snow, they are sobbing. Medic pulls the ugly alpine sweater from his pocket and bundles the boy into it. It reaches his bare knees, and Medic lifts him off his feet and turns back towards Sniper. As the doctor draws near, Sniper hears him whispering in German, and sees the child nod once into his neck. Medic sets him on his feet, dwarfing the little hand in one huge glove. “We are finished here, Herr Spion,†he calls out. “You do not need me here, nor the boy, nor my teammate. We are leaving.†“Just a moment.†The RED medic lifts his patient, his Spy lending an arm. They totter to the wooden fence and sit, the BLU spy beginning to shiver and blink, the bluish flesh of his head still jarring painfully with the bruised border of his neck. RED clutches him, chafing his arms to warm him up, speaking in low tones as color returns to his skin. His medic stands beside, keeping his medigun on his patient, his eyes on his opposite. There is hatred in the gaze between the doctors. “What do you want, spook?†Sniper finally calls. He’s exhausted from this ordeal, and anxious to return to base, to get past the nuisance of repairing the respawn, of explaining to Engineer why it needs to be repaired at all. The spy looks up from ministering to his double, who parts his lips to accept one of two freshly-lit cigarettes. Sniper feels a vague nausea as the two share a vaporous kiss. The sight is eerie, and dully frightening. “I want to give you a choice,†the agent calls out. “Something like the choice we all made, at the beginning. I will not insult your intelligence by asking if you understand what will happen to you if you refuse my offer; I think I have already insulted you enough to last us both a lifetime.†There is no trace of an apology, just a simple statement of fact. He pauses to slip his coat over the BLU spy’s shaking shoulders, and saunters towards the huddled group on the other side of the control point, stopping just short of harm’s way. “I was not lying to you, when I said you were valuable to me--in fact, I have lied to you very little. I did not have to. You were a good time. And a good friend. And a decent fuck. You got me everything I wanted--easy kills, a certain devotion, even a poem or two. New friends--the little scout; sweet little Scout and his eager mouth; I will miss him.†Spy smiles cordially at the doctor, who grimaces and put his hands over the child’s ears. “Your good physician and his fascinating method of psychoanalysis. I hope you will have me on your couch again soon, Docteur.†Spy’s little bow is sickening. “Schwein.†“...Your hearty Engineer, who was a study in brutish obstinacy until the very end, as good strong peasant stock tends to be. Marvellous man. Reliable. Do you know, I think he would have been able to repair your respawn, after all? One sapper has never presented him with much of a challenge, before. It would have worked--shut it down just long enough to get us here, then let ‘Truckie’ pull you out of the fire. I confess that I almost let him live,†Spy squints, pinching the air with one glove, “because, I think, a part of me will miss this.†He spreads his arms gracefully. “All of this. Our ‘War’.†Long seconds drag by. “This it, then?†Sniper replies, mouth drooping. “This your big monologue? Where y’tell everyone how you did it, how y’had a lend of us for a few months, then you stand there looking a smug bastard while everyone gets up and claps? You expect me to believe any of this? It’s horseshit.†He jerks his chin at the BLU Spy, soaking up the medigun on the point. “And all for that? So you could go fuck yourself?†In a half dozen strides, the Spy is upon him, leathery talons bunched in his vest. Sniper blinks impassively at the agent, arms loose at his sides. “You absolute idiot. Is that all you can see?†He tears the aviators off his captive’s face; hurls them away. Everything is blazing blue, painful in the snowglare. Spy shakes him viciously, and mad flecks of slaver chill on Sniper’s face. “I have done so much more than that--I have ended this fucking war. And what’s more--my side has won. I have fulfilled my mission to the most exacting degree, with only the tools provided.†Spy releases him, and Sniper stumbles backwards, Medic catching his shoulder. “Oui, I used you to reunite my lover with his head--but I have also performed the most perfect act of espionage of the modern era, and it is, by the way, very much the modern era.†“What?†“How long do you think you’ve been here, you lanky halfwit? Eh? How long? Can you count it in days? Weeks? Years?†“I don’t--†“Shut up.†Something is thrust into his face. “Look. Use those perfect eyes for something useful.†Sniper takes the scrap. It is the torn corner of a magazine, and shows a date: June, 1992. The date is shocking; science-fictional. Sniper looks up; the spy is scanning him for a response. He flicks at the paper with one finger. “I found this myself, long ago. I do not know how long, because it is plain to me now that this farcical immortality of ours plays hell with our sense of time. Perhaps they gas us in our sleep, or keep us locked up in the machine for months or years at a time--we have no way of knowing!†He steps back, breathing hard, and lights a new cigarette. His hands shake. “But it is over now. We have stopped it. And I am offering you a choice.†He squints from Sniper to Medic. “Both of you.†Spy holds up one hand. “Before you say anything, know this: as I speak, I will signal my comrade--your match, actually--and he will start his stopwatch. BLU will have exactly twenty minutes to prepare in whatever way they see fit--†Spy ticks off on his fingers, “You may barricade yourselves inside, you may leave the mountain, you may even form up and charge at us, if you wish--but after your time is up, you are fair game. Any one of my teammates who wishes to settle old scores will do so; you will be his thing.†He lifts two fingers and then inclines them, as if in benediction. A bright red spot plays briefly over Sniper’s chest, signaling. Medic speaks up, “And the others?†“The offer does not extend to them. You do not know how hard I fought, just for you and the bushman. Never let it be said that we do not reward loyalty.†The spy is tense as he sucks his cigarette. The other three do not move. Finally, he lifts one hand to Sniper’s face, and his fingers quiver as they settle themselves on the long jaw. Through the damp, filthy gloves, Sniper can feel that old burn begin to worm its way to his skin. He is sure the spy can feel his muscles creak and twang as he grits his teeth; he knows that calculations are being performed, likelihoods weighed; he knows that the agent will not be surprised at his answer, whatever it is. The Spy softens, and inclines his head, speaking low. “Think of it, mon ami. There is no RED, no BLU anymore. No war. No ‘missions’, no empty orders. Your opposite; he is patient, intelligent--he is exactly like you, in every detail. He is a wonderful man.†The spy’s thumb travels his cheekbone, skating that old scar. There is a bit of the old tenderness, in the snow falling between them. “You could find happiness, there. As I have.†Sniper smiles. “If he’s anything like me, he won’t be able to look himself in the face after this.†Spy laughs softly. “Ah, well. What do you say?†Sniper drops the magazine scrap. “I say you’re the Father of Lies.†The spy’s gaze lingers on the gunman. He pockets his free hand quickly, as if it has been scalded. “It is better to be a slave in Heaven, mon petit canardeur.†His eyes glint, reflecting the snow. Sniper stands very still, waiting it out. Spy’s expression collapses, becoming dully inscrutable, and the gunman watches him turn and step away. He is graceful, over the snow. "Good luck, Herr Scharfschutze." "Leaving?" "Ja. They will not spare us, as you know." Medic glances down at the boy, who stares at the figures on the point. Medic gives the pale little fist a quick shake, affectionately, and the child looks up at him. "We'll need you in there, doc." Medic nods at his boots, mouth tightening. "Good luck," he says again, and picks up the tired child. Little wooly arms wrap tightly around his neck, dark eyes shining over his shoulder. Sniper watches them trudge towards the train tracks. The snow thickens, and blots them out. "Fourteen minutes, perroquet!" The spies share an ugly laugh. Sniper’s hands clench in his pockets, clawing at phantom weapons. This would be the perfect time for it, he knows--one last idiotic tantrum, spraying bullets, kicking up clotted snow. And then being put down like a sick animal, falling on his face in dirty slush, and dying there, his lover breezing away, arm in arm with a doppelganger. It is exactly the right thing to do--and is, of course, impossible. He takes a deep breath, and the icy wind makes his teeth ache. Dawn seeps into the gully, so diffuse in the snowfall that his shadow is erased. He bends to retrieve his glasses, and walks back towards his buildings, alone. FIN