I should have mentioned that they're OCs, at least in the sense that they have names. I hope that's okay? I know a lot of people don't like them to have names. Sorry if that bothers you. -----Chapter 5----- He couldn't feel anything the next morning. What had happened yesterday? He couldn't remember…something about Gavin, and—oh. He fervently hoped that those swirling images of smoke and angry eyes were remnants of a dream as he blinked and rubbed the crust out of his eyes. His trigger finger was sore, suggesting that he had spent the rest of yesterday at the shooting range, after—after—fils de pute. There was a box of Cuban cigars on his table. It hadn't been a dream. He had indeed been that stupid, that open, that emotional, that incredibly foolish. He dragged himself upright and looked at himself in the mirror, groaning at the unmasked face that greeted him. He was starting to hate that face. He hated the lines under his eyes that showed he was having trouble sleeping, hated the roots of his hair that were starting to show their natural colour after a week in this place, hated the lines on his forehead that made him feel old, the specks on his cheeks that made him feel young, the little mole to the right of his nose that was too distinctive, that rough place on the left of his chin that always itched and reminded him of weakness… So this was Renaud Corbet, he mused. This pathetic lump of numbed feeling was what had become of the once mighty Spy. Or perhaps, he thought, looking back at his life, this is what he had always been, and he had fooled himself into thinking otherwise. Distant memories of crying over bodies and screaming at a tall man drifted through his mind and he shook his head in disgust. And now, what? He was beating himself up over some ridiculous Australian ruffian he'd met not seven days earlier? As much as he told himself he was slick, cool, unruffled, and professional, he knew none of those things were true. Not of Renaud Corbet. God, he hated Renaud Corbet. He struggled out of his rumpled silk pajamas and kept an eye on himself in the mirror as he changed. He was skinny, too—weak, pathetic, what else was new. Actually, he realized when he stepped on the small scale he kept under his desk, being this underweight was new. He had been eating less and less since he got here, not wanting to deal with the cafeteria slop. Just another thing to hate himself for; he wasn't even brave enough to eat food he didn't like, and depended on gifts and scraps from another man's meal. As he pulled on his shoes he felt four sizes too small for everything. He wasn't going to make it, he thought glumly as he pulled his tie around his neck. He was too frail, to fragile, he berated himself while pulling on his jacket. And this job—he stared at the pile of weapons that suddenly seemed like they would pull him down to the floor with their weight if he put them on his person—this job was going to kill him. People like him, he realized as he picked up his gun, never survived wars. Before this job, he had lived on private, stand-alone commissions that required no long-term commitment, no personal involvement, and no rules other than his own, and he had been able to allow himself massive personal vacations to deal with the issues he could not allow to bleed into his work—he could have a fling, visit his mother's grave, or pull off a major bank robbery simply for his own amusement. There was no space here. Even during breaks, no real off time—not off from the fellow trainees who would be his teammates or the enclosing halls or the intimidating woman watching him. There was no room in this job for Renaud Corbet. Renaud Corbet was not cut out for it, he decided as he slipped his knife into his pocket and reached across the desk for his cloaking device. Renaud Corbet couldn't do it. Suddenly, he stopped short. What the hell was he doing? He shifted his hand to the right and grabbed his cigarette case, flipping it open almost carelessly. Stored in this tiny box were nine other identities—Scout, Soldier, Pyro, Demoman, Heavy, Engineer, Medic, Gav—no—Sniper, and the other Spy. Nine possible lives at his fingertips, nine different people he could become. If he could slip into other people's skins at a moment's notice, why not slip out of his own? Yes, he thought, what really was Renaud Corbet, aside from a flawed, skinny body and a fading set of recollections? What did that slight skeleton and its carefully stored collection of past experiences have to do with his life in the here and now? He snatched for his mask and pulled it on with a fierceness he'd almost forgotten. It was cool and smooth—the way he would have to be, the way he could be, as soon as he stopped being Renaud Corbet. He straightened the mask impatiently and looked in the mirror again. Much better. The lines under his eyes flowed with the contours of the mask, his hair had been engulfed, and the marks on his forehead were hidden, as was the tint of his cheeks, that mole near his nose, and all the distinguishing marks that made him anything other than the Spy. The Spy backed up, surveyed his entire reflection, and suddenly began to smile. Slenderness? That would simply give him the ability to sneak more effectively. Memories of the past? Feelings for a certain Australian fool? He shed them like a snake sheds its old skin, emerging stronger, newer, shining. And that pesky, weak-minded personality? He wouldn't have to worry about that anymore, because he was done with being a person. Being a person was bad for business. He grabbed his cloaking device and slapped it on his wrist, another implement that would help him in his ascension to superiority. He swept up his favourite handkerchief, considered throwing it away, but decided against it—why get rid of something useful just because it belonged to the man he used to be? Tucking it in his pocket, he let his eyes fall on the box of cigars. His first instinct was to throw them away, but he managed to stop himself. That would be the emotional, foolish thing to do. These were valuable items. Why not keep them? Not, he reminded himself sternly, for any sentimental purpose, but simply because he had them and saw no need to waste them. He slid a finger thoughtfully over the wooden lid, and the roughness against his skin made him shiver. No, that wouldn't do, he reprimanded himself, grabbing his gloves and pulling them on. He grabbed the box in a single unfeeling hand and shoved it to a corner of his desk where it would not distract or bother him. In the center of the desk he placed the weighty ream of papers that was his contract. Systematically, he yanked out every piece of paper that had that name written on it—"Renaud Corbet." He flipped open his knife and cut carefully around the each instance of the name, leaving the rest of the contract intact and returning each punctured sheaf to its proper place. Out came the lighter, out came the flame, and in a moment, eleven tiny burning rolls of ash were sitting in the Spy's leather-sheathed palm. He looked at them for a disinterested moment before violently closing his fist and dropping the burnt black scraps in the trash bin. The Spy was ready. He strode through the halls with new power, brushing past other trainees without caring whether he bumped into them or not, smoking a cigarette in the cramped hallways even when he heard one of the Medics erupt into a coughing fit, and deliberately stepping on the toe of the other Spy's expensive shoe as he stepped into the Administrator's office. "The real Spy is here," he announced, causing his older counterpart to spit French swears as he examined his scuffed shoe. "You'd better be ready to back that statement up, petit con." His older counterpart growled. He was. Renaud Corbet had been a good shot. Renaud Corbet had been skilled in slinking around unnoticed. Renaud Corbet had been able to successfully imitate the actions and speech patterns of other trainees when disguised as them. Renaud Corbet had been a master backstabber. But the Spy alone was better. His shooting and stabbing skills, which had previously fallen a bit behind his competitor's, were better that day than they had ever been before, unclouded by background thoughts or unwanted emotion. He poured all his concentration into aiming and pulling the trigger, letting none of his brainpower go to anything else. A single wild notion meandered through his head—he understood now where the Sniper's smile had gone to while he was at work. He flinched for the first time that day since putting on his mask. No, no, he didn't need to think about that man. A Sniper-shaped target appeared and without so much as blinking he fired right between the eyes. "Boom," he drawled as the shattered targets all receded and the latest shooting contest ended, "Headshot." Even through his gloves, the Spy could feel the warmth of the gun. He returned it reluctantly to its holster, giving it a last affectionate stroke with one thumb, and stalked off in the direction of the mess, not even bothering to stay to hear who had done better today. He was well aware that he had won. By the end of the next day, he no longer had to reprimand himself for any stray sentimental thoughts; no concentration was necessary for him to be simply the Spy. He wasn't the only one, he remarked, being changed by this place—of course, he never watched Gavin on purpose, but being observant of everyone was part of his job. The grinning Australian had stopped showing up in the mess hall and was rarely seen at all, even near his assigned sleeping quarters. He no longer smiled at or talked to any of the other trainees, though he was known to softly smirk to himself as he walked through the halls. The Spy kept out of his way. He didn't want to know what Gavin's reaction to seeing him would be—or rather, he was sure he didn't care what the Sniper thought. The only thing he cared about was being the best Spy he could be. He was going to win, regardless of the rest of his team. He was going to play their little game and make it out alive and affluent. Each minute he spent at the range with his knife in his hand or the trigger beneath his finger increased his confidence that he was the most cunning, capable, and merciless mercenary around. By the end of his ninth day of employment, his third day as the Spy alone, he longed to try his hand at something real, to release a stream of blood with the touch of his blade and feel a life extinguished with a twitch of his hand. He was done with these children's games, and ready to be certain he could truly accomplish the task at hand. Impatient, bloodlusty thoughts ran through his brain at lightning speed as he waited in the cafeteria for fresh slop to be served—if he wanted to keep his mind clear of unwanted sentiments, he had to keep it full of other things. An aproned man entered the room with a pot full of something foul-smelling, and it suddenly occurred to the Spy that he could kill, as the English colloquialism went, two birds with one stone. He sprang to his feet, cloaked, and slipped quickly out of the cafeteria, out of the building, and onto the road he had taken once before in search of a phone. Soft shoes slapped soundlessly against asphalt as he sped towards the sand across from the stream. Past the phone, past derelict buildings, past—what was a camper van doing out here? He didn't feel like stopping to investigate. Finally he came, panting, to the place where the road ended, where it simply faded into desert. He uncloaked and scoured the surrounding dunes with his eyes, trying to keep his breath as quiet as possible. Surely this desert wasn't totally deserted, he told himself as he clambered up a sandy slope and sat himself down next to a lone cactus. He waited for his device to charge, then cloaked again, sitting perfectly still and breathing only through his nose. He didn't have to wait long before he heard movement over to his left, and soon a big, healthy jackrabbit hopped into view, all wiry muscles and long legs. The Spy's knife was open in his hand almost before he realized it, and a second later he was on top of the creature, aiming for that perfect, instant-death point on the spine. Unsurprisingly, however, years of spying had failed to properly teach him leproid biology, and his first swift stab left the creature still struggling in his grasp, making strange, woeful noises and spattering blood everywhere. The Spy automatically recoiled, and the rabbit dropped pitifully on the sand for a minute, trying to struggle to its feet. Composing himself, he stabbed again, and again, and again, but the little animal kept writhing and squirming until the sixth slash went through its jugular, at which point it gave one last, tremendous spasm before suddenly falling limp in the sticky red dust. Shakily, the Spy closed his knife and put it in his pocket, forgetting to wipe it down. "Bugger," breathed an unexpected voice behind him. The Spy whirled around to see Gavin standing behind him, ten paces off, with a stunned, slightly disgusted sort of look on his face. "What the bloody hell was that?" "What I do in my spare time is none of your concern, convict," snarled the Spy as he tried to figure out what the Sniper was doing there and how he had managed to come so close without being heard. "It is when you're having a go at my food supply," the Sniper growled in return. "What ya planning on doing with that rabbit, anyway? Bit squished to be good for much at all by this point." "If you must know, you pestering bushman, I fully intend to cook and eat it." The truth was that his desire to eat anything made from the bloody pulp at his feet was waning by the second, but Spies had no need to truck in the truth, especially not when dealing with filthy outdoorsmen with annoyingly superior hunting experience. Especially when said outdoorsmen laughed at him the way the Sniper was laughing now. "Oh, come off it," he chuckled, "You're gonna eat that? Like hell you are. You'd have to be some kind of miracle worker to get anything remotely edible out of that mess. That was probably the worst rabbit kill I've ever seen. I'm almost impressed." The Spy really hated that grin. "You would do well to watch your tongue, you filthy, hapless ruffian," he hissed, suddenly rushing forward to press his knife to Gavin's throat, "before I decide to kill you next." The Sniper stared him down. The Spy could see those brown eyes again, but refused to let himself think about them. "You wouldn't dare," breathed Gavin. "Wouldn't I?" They Spy let his own little smile curl up on his face. Having the Sniper at his mercy gave him a strange sense of justice. "Tell me, among that immense packet of rules that you received, do you remember a single one telling you not to kill another trainee?" The Sniper's eyes widened, and the Spy could practically see him running through his memories of the contract, wildly hoping to recall some no-murder policy. It was useless. After a moment the Sniper simply ducked away from the Spy's knife and took a few paces back, shaking his head. He looked on wordlessly as the Spy turned his back to the other man, returned his knife to his pocket, dusted the sand off of his pants and shoes, and reached one hand towards his cloaking device. "Reno," Gavin finally croaked, "What happened to you?" The Spy remained still and silent. "C'mon, Reno. Just tell me. Even if we weren't mates, Reno, I knew a thing or two about you. And this is…Reno? Hey, are you even listening? Reno?" Finally, the Sniper got the other man to turn his head. "Who's that?" The Spy asked and disappeared.