Mortality Machines

The truth was, most understood Radigan’s relationship with Fred when he’d described the boy as his apprentice, not his son. Few could understand why he’d chosen to raise the boy alone or otherwise scorned him for doing so.

He’d been told that a real family needed a woman’s touch.

Radigan didn’t know why it had to be all that complicated, it seemed simple to him. If he could make a replacement arm, he could be a wire mother.

Besides that, he couldn’t force Fred’s mother to stay. He’d heard all the spiels about what a woman’s duty was, but he wouldn’t have it if it made her unhappy. She had time to start over.

They parted on good terms, sending letters from time to time. Radigan let his son know that his mother was proud of him, too.

Maybe things would be different one day, if not for him then for Fred. It wasn’t romance he wanted, so much as family – somewhere he knew his son could go back to, with or without his father. Maybe one day he’d reconnect.

Maybe one day, Radigan’s occupation would stop chasing him long enough for that.

The truth was that she had been scared. The old engineer’s work was grisly and she hadn’t been prepared for it. War, mercenaries, blood money – she wanted no part. She couldn’t look at the man the same way anymore, let alone be his wife.

Radigan hadn’t really thought of it that way. No doubt, it was dirty work, but it paid and at the end of the day, whatever those men did with the weapons he’d designed wasn’t any of his business. Radigan had thought that one day, he would simply step back and wash his hands of it – then he’d finally give his son the family he deserved.

The biggest perk of the job was that he’d be able to watch his son grow up to become a man, despite Radigan already being on in years when Fred had been born. He didn’t want to live forever, just long enough for that, and he had more than enough Australium to do it.

Over time, Radigan lost contact with Fred’s mother – he and Fred moved around frequently for his work, so it was understandable that keeping in touch would be hard, but in the back of his mind he took comfort in the thought that she was still out there.

That was up until the very last letter arrived.

The old engineer hadn’t been back at his workshop for some time – the original one he’d had, long before taking employment under the Mann brothers. The Administrator had made it clear he wasn’t safe there by showing up unannounced.

Not that it mattered, she had the uncanny ability to turn up just about anywhere if she wanted to speak with him. It made his skin crawl in a way that it hadn’t at first, before it really sunk in that he was cornered, that they would always be able to track him down.

Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the dusty windows as he cracked open the door, breaking the seal of grime from long disuse. The far wall was still bleached in uneven patches, though faded now, from where Radigan’s blueprints had once hung.

Much of that was packed away and hidden, with the rest of his work. What remained were a few old tools scattered around, beginning to rust, a few loose parts that hadn't found homes and likely never would, doomed to scrap, and a handful of wooden scale models that he’d let Fred play with as a boy while waiting for his father to finish working.

And finally, at his feet, he noticed a crinkled, yellowed envelope that must have been slid under the door a long time ago.

Radigan hung up his hat and his keys. He fumbled with his coat, removing it with difficulty – after the effects of the Australium had kicked in, it had gotten much tighter where his frame had become notably more muscular. It no longer slipped easily from his shoulders, he had to take care not to put excess strain on the seams.

Setting that aside, he gingerly picked up the letter, bringing it to his desk. The bronze letter opener he’d always had was just where he’d always left it.

Double checking the seal had become habitual. The weathered envelope didn’t take much effort to pry open, but it was much harder to tell if there were signs of tampering or just signs of decay. Radigan would swear he’d noticed it sometimes.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, too.

Fred’s aunt had written to him. She’d found the letters he’d sent to her sister while sorting through her belongings, and felt it was only right to contact him.

Fred’s mother had passed away a few years back. She apologised deeply for taking so long to discover the letters and contact him, she truly hadn’t known, otherwise he would have been invited to the funeral.

Radigan drew in a long, steady breath, and let go. He kept idly running his thumb over the page.

He let his gaze drift to the window, a brilliant shaft of light. The ambience of the country town bled through the wood and glass, the bustle of foot traffic and the clop of hooves.

He briefly checked again. His eyes darted to the phrase “passed away”. The word “funeral”.

He couldn’t quite believe it. She was gone, there was no going back.

The certainty that their lives would one day intersect once more was a thread long severed, that Radigan was merely clutching. He wasn’t prepared to let go of it.

The window of her life had been all too brief. She still seemed too young.

And here was Radigan, within arm’s reach of a hundred years on this earth, revitalised, while a woman like her was gone.

And here there were men decades older than any man ought to be, thanks to Radigan’s work, who would never honour the time they were given. Who would scrape and claw for every worthless piece of gravel, who would spill a gallon of blood for every square inch of land.

Something was wrong in the world. Radigan was part of the problem.

Fred received a letter, too – a very different kind. The kind on crisp, eggshell blue paper, stamped with a company emblem. Not a future lost, but one he was heading towards.

Opportunity had fallen right into his lap. He'd been sought out for his skills in engineering.

As much as he adored his father, he didn’t want to ride Radigan’s coattails forever. He wanted to be his own man, too, make his own way in the world.

"Builder’s League, Pa! They offered me a job!" Fred would've kicked his heels – practically had already.

Radigan fixed him with a hard stare. "Don't take it."

This threw him off kilter. "What – what d'ya mean?"

The older man stayed stern. "Nothin' good ever came outta those Mann brothers. Keep your nose clean, look elsewhere."

"Now you're gonna tell me." Fred scoffed. "I can handle it Pa, trust me."

Radigan didn't budge, treating him to a cold, silent stare. Fred's frown deepened.

"This is just rich comin' from you." Fred grumbled. "You've been building guns bigger than my whole body since I was a little boy, and now you're gonna preach to me?"

Radigan stayed quiet, but his hard expression seemed to crumble at this.

"Seemed awful proud of yourself too. I used to… ha, I used to think you were so tough." he laughed bitterly. "But you're just a tired old husk now, ain't'cha?"

Radigan sighed through his nose. "I can't stop you, son. Just hoped you'd have more sense than your old man did."

"You did what you did to provide. It's my turn now."

He'd tried to hide his work, but he'd been too late. He knew it, the moment Fred had uttered the words "Builder's League".

After that, Radigan had no reason to keep running anymore.

Fred grew up lonely.

You wouldn’t know as much if you asked him. If Fred had to describe himself as a boy, the words he’d use were “fussy” and “moody”. He was grateful to have a father who’d been so patient with him.

There was no point recounting the times where Fred had to leave his friends again, as he and Radigan moved across the country - when he’d cried for hours on end. Or whenever his father ran out of convenient places to dump the boy and Fred was left on his own for days at a time.

For the most part, Fred reflected fondly on his childhood.

Dell was raised on his father’s stories of Radigan’s awe-inspiring machines. Fred painted a picture of the old workshop like something out of a fairytale, a marvel of engineering. The pride the engineer had in the work he and his father did was unrestrained and his enthusiasm was infectious. It became the stuff of Dell’s wildest fantasies.

Fred would weave these tales of all the adventures his father would take him on, about how strong and capable he’d been.

Dell spent plenty of time with his grandfather, too. Fred could be away working for months – in the meantime, Radigan mentored him as he had done with Dell's father before. 

Radigan was the polar opposite, reserved, but no less caring. When Dell asked him about his exploits, his grandfather shook his head or mumbled about Fred blowing things out of proportion again.

Dell grew to think of Radigan as someone who was as genius as he was modest. If anything, it made him admire the elder engineer even more.

It made it just a bit easier when it was time for Fred to leave again, with Radigan and Dell left to their own devices.

The Heavy called everyone to attention with a long, loud whistle that echoed across the field.

“We got ‘em boys, that’s a wrap!” he bellowed. “This is our turf now!”

He was answered with scattered celebratory whoops and hollers from the rest of the team. The engineer on the other hand, heaved a sigh of relief, preparing to lug his kit back to the base, rolling his shoulders. A stab of pain stopped him with a hiss.

Right, that was his bad shoulder. An enemy sniper clipped him earlier. He didn't need another warning, Fred spent every moment after with his guard up, cowering from open spaces.

While recovering from the pain, Fred looked out over the ground they’d won.

It was mostly barren rock out here, bits of dry bush, with some makeshift posts here and there – he wouldn’t be surprised if some of this junk was left over from when the Gravel Wars had started in the 1800’s. It was in the limbo of development, the area cleared of most natural features that might have given it some charm, while sporting no worthwhile construction either.

Great swathes of the land were completely devoid of electricity too, or any proper communications. You needed an oil lamp to see anything, some places, and God help you if you got lost in the dark without one.

Didn’t seem too promising to him, but, well, he wasn’t being paid to think about that.

Fred prepared to start taking apart his machines for the journey home, but he was interrupted by the Heavy effortlessly sweeping in to throw his sentry over one shoulder, like it was nothing. Fred gawked at the huge man.

“Don’t get used to it – this is just so ya don’t pop any stitches on the way back.” even saying this, the larger mercenary was grinning ear to ear, clearly enjoying the engineer’s reaction to his casual show of strength.

“Yessir, thank you.” Fred tipped his helmet while the Heavy strutted off, chuckling to himself.

Fred wasn’t exactly a small man. He was a hair taller than Radigan, he’d never been as built as his father was in his prime (in his Australium induced prime, he supposed) but he had the kind of arms that would make most men a little envious, thick with muscles.

The Heavy, on the other hand, was an absolute beast of a man. He was downright abnormal.

Although, most of the team had their quirks. None of them were people he could easily imagine as civilians. In a way, it was endearing.

“Psst, hey Engie.” before he’d noticed, their team’s sniper had come right up beside him, nudging him playfully. “I got somethin’ I wanna show you – got a minute?”

Fred’s grin mirrored his colleague’s. “Lead the way, partner.” Visiting whatever dismal sleeping arrangements were in store for them could wait.

The sniper was a man he couldn’t deny that he’d warmed to. He had the kind of calm confidence and quiet wisdom that reminded him a little of his father, but he was still feisty and adventurous.

Fred was one of the younger mercenaries on the team, but he wasn’t too far behind Virgil in age - especially not compared to some of the others. The sniper felt the most like a peer to him.

It helped that both of them tended to take up posts away from the action, thus spending more time together. They’d made the most of whatever cigarettes they could smuggle in and smoked together, after a long day.

In battle, the sniper was unflinchingly ruthless too, merciless. He might not be as physically intimidating, but there was nobody who could torment the enemy at a distance like their team’s sniper could.

He led the engineer all the way across the field, to a crudely constructed sniper’s roost on the far side. Despite the cracks in the patchwork of wood and metal, the inside was pitch black. Virgil lit his lamp, bathing the inside of the room in orange.

There were a few odd crates scattered here and there, but what struck Fred first was the figure in the room. He hadn’t even heard the other man in there, they’d been breathing so quietly. They were bound by the wrists and ankles, tied to a wooden chair. 

The man was draped in a camo patterned uniform similar to Virgil’s, but bearing the enemy colours instead – no matter which side you were on, all teams were supplied with equipment from Mann Co., meaning this could only be the enemy sniper. Fred couldn’t make out much in the gloom, but could tell the man must have been a bit older than them by how the deep shadows traced the bones of his face.

Fred could already see some bruises and a few slashes here and there from the scuffle that must have preceded this scene.

Virgil gestured towards Fred. “You see this man?”

The other sniper wheezed, tilting up their head.

“This here is our engineer. The one you went and knicked in the shoulder. You’d best apologise.” he sniffed.

It took them a moment to get their voice back, but they answered. “Sorry… should’ve been a better shot.” the sniper gave their captors a toothy grin, snickering.

“Don’t sound too sorry t’ me.” Virgil remarked. “What do you think, Engie?”

“I’m thinkin’ he’s gonna be real sorry in a minute.” the engineer was beginning to take the hint, a sadistic little snarl playing at his lips.

The sniper nodded. “Was just thinkin’ the same thing.”

What followed was a red blur. Fred would only remember parts of that night in fragments – gruesome fragments, both things he and the sniper had done to their captive.

It seemed to go on for hours. The pure release of unrestricted violence dwindled after a while. Fred had caved.

At some point he’d just stood back and watched as Virgil kept going and going, the cacophony of disturbing sounds and metallic smells finally pushing him to stagger out of the post, into the bush, emptying the contents of his stomach.

Outside, it was dead quiet. The chill of the night barely registered, the darkness swam around and beneath him. His hands were tacky with dried blood, more than had been there to start with. That itself made him heave again.

The cold, vast universe spreading out around him was indifferent.

Fred was no stranger to violence of course. There had always been an exchange of violence between both teams. There were times before where things had gone further than they needed to, realistically.

Why was it too much now? At that moment, Fred just wanted to run back home.

Instead, the engineer sat on his knees and stared out into the dark.

He couldn’t, he’d have to explain himself. He wouldn’t be able to.

The sniper had followed him out a while after. Fred flinched, expecting scorn for being so squeamish at a time like this, but instead Virgil rubbed his back while Fred shook.

“Easy now.” he soothed quietly. “Don’t push yourself.”

Fred didn’t answer, trying to catch his breath, reeling from nausea.

“Want me to put him out of his misery?”

The engineer nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

There was another stretch of silence as Virgil’s footsteps momentarily disappeared back into the construction.

A pause.

A shot fired.

Virgil slung his kit over his shoulder and the men walked home through the pitch black.

The sound of their feet trudging through the dry growth beneath them was all too loud in Fred’s ears.

Fred was still shaking, Virgil supporting his back with his free arm around him. He couldn’t tell if the touch was comforting or disturbing. He barely felt like he was inside his own body.

The exhaustion of the day settled over anew, but the engineer was not about to sleep that night.

After a while, the sniper broke the rhythm of their feet with a hushed voice.

“I saw it.” Virgil confessed.

“I saw him hit you. Saw you get spooked, bad. Saw him laugh." He swallowed, before he continued. "I went after him… Dunno what came over me, I just hate seeing you hurt like that.”

“It’s… okay.” Fred croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… it'll be fine.”

Dell had tried to shove aside a toolbox to make more space, not realising it had gone over the bench’s edge.

It fell with a BANG .

Fred screamed and ducked.

When he remembered himself, there were two wide, bewildered pairs of eyes on him.

“Be more careful!” Fred snapped, heart pounding. “What’re you teaching this kid, Radigan? You gotta respect your tools.”

“Sorry, Pa.” Dell mumbled.

Seeing his grandchild wilt, Radigan rubbed Dell’s shoulder. “S’alright.” he then turned his attention to Fred. “No need to shout.”

Fred growled and stormed off, still buzzing with adrenaline from the shock.

Fred was jumpy now, Radigan was seeing it more and more. His son’s head would snap towards any odd creak in the floorboards. Sudden noises made him flip.

Sometimes Fred would just stare into space, glassy-eyed, until Radigan tried to bring back his attention.

He didn’t know the details, Fred wasn’t one to share them, but it seemed like the more he was away, the worse he got. Radigan could put it together.

The tales Fred brought back from his job were much like the ones he’d spun about his childhood. They were tales of heroism and camaraderie, tales of showing the bad guys what’s what. The men on his team were brave and righteous. The men on the other team were wicked and cunning.

He tried to ignore the sceptical silence Radigan fixed him with as he recounted these stories to Dell.

It had only taken about two swings from his wrench for the man to lose consciousness.

About a half dozen more to ensure he never regained it.

From there on out Fred started losing track. He kept going. His wounds were burning from the initial attack. The fight was practically won the moment Fred had landed that first blow, but he didn’t stop until he was well and truly out of breath.

The former mercenary beneath him was nigh unrecognisable. A thinner man, not truly equipped for melee combat. The engineer was huge compared to him.

Fred knelt over the body and waited for his breath to steady and the onslaught of anger and fear to subside.

He wondered when he’d stopped feeling like a hero. He’d enjoyed that thought for a while. Fred Conagher: a one man army, a warrior, a military genius, a valuable ally.

Fred Conagher: a big bastard bashing in a man’s skull to fuel his ego.

Yeah, that wasn’t a story he was about to share.

He lingered on the gore that had once been a person’s head a moment longer. It should have horrified him. There were twinges of horror, when he really drank in the parts he could make any sense of. The bits of teeth. The burst eyes.

More often now, when the adrenaline wore off, he just felt heavy and distant.

“Either him or me.”

Fred knew that. It didn’t make a difference, even so.

The mercenary heaved his leaden body up. He packed his tools. He methodically disassembled his machines, salvaging what he could for the next fight. He lugged it all back to base.

Fred had nightmares, that was normal. Everyone had nightmares and being a mercenary was a stressful job.

Over time, the nightmares changed.

At first, they were about a huge, abstract “other” pursuing him. An unknown enemy, often not even one he could see but one he knew he couldn’t fight, had to run from.

The stuff that tended to evaporate in the light of day, the stuff you could shrug off.

Then they started being about the men in his team. They would kill and torture civilians in these dreams, Fred not realising until it was too late, or not able to get his colleagues to listen.

Disturbing, but a fear he could still rationalise.

The worst ones involved his son.

The Sniper and the Pyrotechnician, talking to Dell in that faux polite way they did when they were about to start brutalising their target. Dell, only returning it sincerely, not knowing. When it all clicked, Fred cried out and shocked himself awake.

In another, he’d been chasing Dell with a wrench, the boy terrified. He’d chased him all across the field, finally cornering him in one of those run-down posts. He pinned the boy down.

There was something terrible squirming around inside him, whether he was conscious or not.

"No wonder the kid's all mixed up - I say one thing, then you just go right on ahead and say another."

…

"That's my own damn kid, Radigan. What am I supposed to do if y’ain’t gonna respect that?"

…

"You're really gonna be like this?"

…

"FORGET IT."

Dell winced at the muffled clatter of a chair being kicked over as Fred fumed.

He’d overheard arguments like this one a dozen times, when his father thought he was out of earshot. It could be more accurate to say that Fred argued at Radigan, who more often than not just stared him down.

Fred’s problems were numerous and erratic. He was quick to criticise. There was ever more tension now, when Fred came home. There were ever more explosive outbursts. There were fewer stories.

Dell still lit up when it was time for his father to come back, but it broke Radigan’s heart to see him so sullen after being chewed out by the man.

The weight of the metal prosthetic comforted him.

“Yer Pa means well, he’s just…” Radigan's gaze flitted away as he searched for words, trailing off with a pained, helpless look and a concerned hum.

The elder was getting tired, too tired to fight it - Dell could see as much. If Fred was just angry at Radigan for being there, well… at this rate, he wouldn’t have to wait long before he wasn’t.

Fred knew there was at least one place he could go back to where he’d be understood. Where he could talk about all the terrible, unspeakable things eating at him. Where he’d be welcomed, like a family, instead of ignored and undermined.

Virgil was easily the closest friend he’d ever had, but every day, he risked losing one of his team.

The sniper had been gone for days by the time they rescued him. From the looks of things, the captors hadn’t stuck around for the whole period, rather, they’d fled when they’d caught a whiff of the rescue operation in progress. The man was left, putrefying on his own, for at least a day or two – too weak and wounded to get anywhere.

It seemed like there was barely anything left of him, at that point. Barely cognisant.

Fred would spend the better part of Virgil’s recovery by the medic’s side, as an extra pair of hands. Or if not actively helping, then watching over his friend.

Most of his face was obscured by bandages, the worst of the damage being done to the sniper’s eyes.

It took him a while, but Virgil came back to his senses, bit by bit.

“Fred… they know what we did.”

Fred was about to ask what he meant, until it clicked. There was really only one thing he could be talking about. Fred stopped cold.

“How did they know?” he managed to utter.

“One ‘a those spies…” the sniper croaked. “He got me to talk by disguising as you. By the time I figured out, it was already too late.”

“Shit.” seeing his friend like this was hard enough, knowing it was because someone else had used his face… that was just salt in the wound. “Shit, Virgil. I’m sorry.”

“Weren’t your fault, Fred.”

“Least the doc says it’s lookin’ like you’ll mostly recover, just… your eyes ain’t gonna be the same, he says it’ll be a small miracle if you get partial vision back.”

“That… no, that can’t be right.” the man jolted upright.

“Steady-” Fred reached out, Virgil grasping him when he felt Fred’s hands.

“How- what about my job? How can I…” his breath was coming in short and fast,

The engineer didn’t answer. They both knew what it meant.

The sniper swallowed. “You gotta do somethin’ Fred. I can’t lose this.”

“What can I do?”

“You’re smart with machines, you, you can make me a new pair ‘a eyes.”

Fred gaped, letting out a long whine of breath that ended in a bewildered whimper.

What could he say to that? What Virgil was suggesting wasn’t even within the ballpark of his skill set, he wouldn’t remotely know where to start. 

You’d need working knowledge of prosthetics – what materials would be safe for prolonged body contact. A fair amount of medical knowledge too, to even begin to replicate an eye – which would be a remarkable feat, all on its own. You would need to be some kind of genius, really.

You would need to be… You would need to be…

“I might know someone who can help. You just sit tight, I’ll… I’ll figure out something.” Fred sounded certain now, drawing up a plan in his head.

Fred knew this was crazy, but right now he would do anything to help his friend. BLU wasn’t going to take it lightly if the company realised the extent of the sniper’s injuries before he could intervene. He would have to make a miraculous recovery.

He only had the foggiest idea of where they were geographically. All transport was provided by their employer, not required by the mercenaries themselves (discouraged, even) so Fred would have to wait until nightfall to steal a truck, travelling in the absolute dark, hoping they’d be able to orient themselves before they got caught.

Virgil was still weak, too. When he was sure the medic had retired for the evening, Fred tried to help the man to his feet, only to realise he was struggling to stand. It would take a small eternity for him to hobble all the way out to the truck, so instead Fred bundled the man up into his arms and took the fastest pace he could without fear of falling over and injuring them both.

He was sure they were goners. He didn’t know how he’d explain himself if worse came to worst. Every moment was a moment in which something could go terribly wrong.

It was only when they’d finally put some distance between themselves and the military base did Fred’s heart begin to settle and he let himself breathe. He could see the bundle of blankets in the passenger seat shiver every so often, but at least he’d had the foresight to have taken them with, and that way he knew the man was still alive in there.

He’d try to let Virgil sleep as much as he could – the ground they were driving over wasn’t forgiving in the slightest, jittering the men uncomfortably, the tires grinding from all the gravel. They had a long way to go, he knew it could be days before they’d get there.

“We’re two men short.” the Heavy barked. “Does anyone want to explain why our engineer and our sniper – who was supposed to be recovering in med-bay – have gone AWOL?”

The 6 remaining mercenaries were silent, a few unsure glances shared amongst themselves, a few muttered questions, but no clear answers. 

When it became apparent that nobody was going to speak up, the Medic gently cleared his throat. “Our sniper’s condition was getting dire and since the engineer was already there… I sent them off to seek more specialised treatment.”

Sceptical, the larger mercenary loomed over the field doctor, scrutinising him through dark lenses. 

“Were you authorised to do that? You didn’t think to inform the team? Pretty damn suspicious for the man we just rescued from an enemy kidnapping to, what, vanish without speaking a word to anyone else.” he was practically breathing down the Medic’s neck, but even as his hair stood on end the doctor held his ground, not budging an inch.

“With all due respect sir, I answer to our employer, not you personally. I was under the impression the team would be informed, in due time. I will reiterate: the sniper was in critical condition.” his tone stayed even and professional.

Unsatisfied, the Heavy growled, furrowed brow twitching as he stared the medic down, studying him for any sign of a flinch. 

Of course the medic was lying through his teeth, he had absolutely no idea where the engineer and the sniper had gone, but he knew the signs of desperation. He’d seen Fred worrying for days on end while Virgil’s life hung in the balance, he’d caught snippets of the frantic whispers.

There was no doubt the two had left of their own accord. To what ends, the medic did not know, but Fred had covered for him before too. Similarly, it had been unprompted - Fred explained later he’d never liked seeing the man get pushed around and being given a hard time. The medic trusted his judgement.

Fed up with humouring his defiance, the Heavy grunted and turned on his heel, stalking away. “Fine – but if they don’t show anytime soon, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

Fred kept going through the night, until the sun rose. It didn’t seem like anyone was coming after them, somehow. He had to give in eventually, the headache of rattling through the desert for hours on end was making it impossible to go on without rest.

He scanned the horizon one last time, bringing the truck to a slow stop. He only disturbed the sniper enough to make sure he stayed hydrated, pressing his canteen to the other man’s lips, before letting him relax again. Fred double and triple checked the compass he’d brought with them to make sure this really was the right direction.

If he tipped his helmet over his face he could at least somewhat blot out the glare of the sun. He’d just close his eyes long enough for his head to stop pounding.

This was going to be a long, long trip.

It was a relief when they made it to something you could vaguely describe as a road, a stretch of ground eroded enough not to shake the vehicle uncontrollably and make Fred’s skull clatter in his helmet.

For the better part of the journey, conversation had been absent. The palpable mutual exhaustion hadn’t helped, Virgil had always been more for comfortable silences anyway – Fred not so much, but driving for as long as possible was taking up his focus for now. That and trying to think of how he’d explain the situation to the man at the other end of this journey, his employer and the team he’d left behind.

In his peripherals, he could see the sniper was more propped up. He couldn’t tell most of the time whether Virgil was asleep or awake – the bandages didn’t help. Fred would have to change those, too. Hopefully he’d brought enough gauze to last them until they made it to civilization.

He was fairly sure the man was conscious now, though. He was sitting straight, with his head tilted towards the window – as if he were listening to the landscape going past, in lieu of watching it.

“...hey Fred?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna know how I figured that spy weren’t really you?”

Come to think of it...“How’s that?”

“When things were gettin’ suspect, I was wracking my brains for somethin’ only you would know.” Virgil explained. “You remember way back when we first started working together, you were bellyaching about the rations – so I asked what you were pining for, and you said…”

The engineer wracked his brains. “Something fresh, uh, fruit… apricots?”

“That’s it, apricots.”

“...Heck, I’m surprised you remembered that.”

“Dunno, guess I didn’t expect that answer." he flashed a grin, reminiscing. "Most mercenaries are pretty vocal about the lack of beer or coffee, but apricots? I was sittin’ there thinkin’… damn, I gotta get this man some apricots.”

Fred laughed. “Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t argue with a beer neither.”

“That’s just it, ain’t it. That’s the obvious answer. I hear the same few complaints all the time: no alcohol out here, no women - that’s something most fellas would agree with. But you thought about it long enough to give a genuine answer. That’s why I like you, Fred. You’re genuine.”

“Huh.” The engineer was caught off guard by the compliment.

He’d never thought of himself quite like that.

Fred had lived most of his life feeling like a pale imitation of his father, and years still thinking he wasn’t half the man he made himself out to be in his occupation.

Genuine… over something as silly as that.

Another evening was falling on the road. Virgil couldn’t see, but he could hear the truck squeak and roll to a stop.

“If you’re taking a break, I’d kill for a smoke right about now.” the sniper piped up.

“Not a bad idea, that. I just got business to take care of…”

“Light me up first, before you get your hands covered in piss.” he interjected.

Fred snorted and rolled his eyes. His companion at least had the sense not to try fumbling around with a lighter for himself, in his condition.

Fred briefly clamped both cigarettes between his teeth to light them. He cupped Virgil’s cheek in one hand and put the filter to his lips with the other, the same way he’d gotten the man to drink earlier.

“Thanks.” 

They were beyond the point of feeling too reserved over these little touches now. Virgil couldn’t argue with any help he could get, Fred was practical first and foremost.

Virgil didn’t have to wait long for the engineer to return. The door clunked open on Fred’s side, the truck shook slightly when he sat himself down with a grunt. He could hear his hands slap the denim of his overalls to wipe off any residue.

They settled down, smoking out the window on either side. While they did, something he’d been mulling over came back into Fred’s mind.

“Why go to all the trouble to keep this job? Reckon by now you wouldn’t need the pay.”

“We risk our lives for it every day – trying to fix my eyes don’t seem like much in that respect.” Virgil reasoned.

“...That’s true, but we’re expected to risk our lives. This is above and beyond.”

Virgil clicked his teeth together, facing forward rather than towards the engineer as he thought. “I really don’t know what else I’d do, Fred. Swear I’d shoot my own father between the eyes before I’d hang up my hat for good.” Virgil admitted, solemn – the engineer would believe it too. “I don’t think there’s any kind of life for me outside of this.”

Fred respected Virgil’s dedication to the job well enough, but this confession made his heart sink like lead.

“What about you?” Virgil broke the silence this time. “You got a kid at home don’t’cha? What makes you keep coming back?”

Fred sucked in a breath. Good question, one he’d asked himself often, too.

“Don’t think it’d be fair to the team, for starters. Some of ‘em might be a lil rough around the edges – that Heavy’s always givin’ some poor soul an earful -” 

Virgil chuckled at this. 

“- but, we gotta look out for each other in the end. Don’t think I ever had that before, folks relying on me as much as I rely on them. Makes it all worth it.”

Fred soured a little as he dwelt on it. “I love my Pa, but he makes me feel dumb as dirt. He acts like he don’t owe me the time ‘a day, won’t even talk to me if he don’t feel like it.” 

“Thought if I tried real hard, I’d grow up to be just like him. Then I got older, and I stayed dumb. He makes it all look so easy, it all just clicks for him.” The engineer took in a long drag of his cigarette and sighed. “This job is one ‘a the few things I ever tried to do without his help and of course he don’t approve of that neither. I can’t be like him even when I try, but I can’t be my own man.”

Fred stared out into the lavenders of the falling night. “Even now, I’m running back to him for help. Getting him to fix my shit when I break it. I wanna live on my own terms. I wanna be someone worth looking up to.”

After the incident with the letter, Radigan took more care to return to the old workshop regularly. It wasn’t far.

When he’d arrived to see lights on inside, he knew it meant a visit from the Administrator.

The thought still made his stomach turn, but he didn’t have it in him to steel himself anymore. He was trudging towards impending doom anyway. He would do as he was told, ask no questions, then go about his evening as planned.

Something was off about this scene, though. The military jeep parked outside stuck out like a sore thumb. He could actually hear movement inside the workshop as he got closer.

The Administrator would usually appear like a ghost and vanish just as easily. This didn’t seem right.

The door swung open, and instead of the collected, perfectly preened and spotlessly elegant older woman, he was greeted with two dirtied figures huddled around his workstation.

One was Fred, no mistaking it. Although he was still in uniform, matted with blood, sweat and grease, caked in desert dust. His face unshaven and his eyes desperate.

He didn’t recognise the other but they had the same colours adorning their own uniform. Fred had done a better job of cleaning up Virgil than himself but the man was still dishevelled and clearly very injured.

“Virgil- he, he’s- he needs eyes.” The engineer blurted. “Can you make that?”

Radigan glanced between the two men. “...Alright.”

Radigan had the sniper sit directly under the lamp above his work bench, trying to get the clearest view possible. Fred watched anxiously over his shoulder while the man carefully unwrapped the bandages from his friend’s face.

The engineer tried not to inhale too sharply at the sight.

Seeing a body in a state of desperately trying to heal itself could be worse than seeing a dead one, sometimes. The way living flesh could redden, swell and ooze.

Radigan had no reaction, continuing the examination calmly. He held Virgil’s face in both hands to tilt his head gently, thick fingers easing down the muscle of his cheeks to pry open the Sniper’s eyelids one at a time. Virgil swallowed a whimper.

“I’d reckon you’d better let these heal up first before getting drastic, see what’s salvageable, but you boys look like you’re in a hurry.”

“Yes, sir.” the Sniper replied as steady as he could.

“In that case, quicker to pull ‘em out.”

Fred could have gagged, his stomach rolled so fast.

“Sounds like a plan.”

The scene unfolded both too fast and too slowly. Radigan rose to feel around in the coat he’d left hanging by the door, producing a flask. He swished its contents back and forth to check how much was left. Satisfied, he returned to place it in Virgil’s hands, making sure the man was holding it before letting go.

“Don’t think you’ll want to be sober for this.”

Virgil nodded a silent thanks and swigged dutifully, swallowed painfully, unable to hold back a splutter at the alcohol’s strength.

Fred sat stiff, gaze flicking from one man to the other while Virgil worked at emptying the flask and Radigan started preparing his tools.

“Fred.” Radigan clapped his shoulder, he jolted to attention.“I’ll need an extra pair of hands. Think you can do that, son?”

Fred braced himself and nodded. He’d already come this far.

Radigan knew the drill. Men showed up on his doorstep injured before.

If living for over a hundred years was good for anything, it was experience. After long enough, you can prepare yourself for almost anything.

The night was long and the procedure messy, but by the end of it they’d pulled through. Fred and Virgil had collapsed into a heap, tangled up together. Fresh gauze replaced the old bandages once covering the sniper’s eyes, fresh blood seeping through. He had been a shaking, exhausted wreck after the grisly procedure and not much better off, the engineer hadn’t wanted to let go of him.

With little else to offer for the time, Radigan draped his coat over them.

This version of Fred was one he hadn’t seen for a while. Despite how obviously uncomfortable the medical side of things made him, he’d persevered. He’d been attentive and kind to his companion.

Radigan knew a lot, but he had never known how to nurture his son's compassion. The least he could do was start planning for the Herculean task ahead of him.

It’d been a while.

Alone, in his workshop, staring at decades worth of scratches in the wood of his bench, he wondered if he could still do it.

Radigan had helped design and insert partial ocular prosthetics, not fully operable eyes. When he gave the order to have Virgil’s removed he assumed it would be merely a matter of filling in the blanks.

But, Radigan was also thinking of a version of himself with the same faculties he’d had in his prime. Now that the Australium was waning, his mind getting foggier, his body getting weaker, did he still have it in him?

Because if not, he may have stripped the sniper of any chance he could have had to see again, with that abrupt decision. Fred would never forgive him.

Alarmingly, Virgil was first to rise. Radigan heard him stumbling around as the sun was just starting to pour in. By all means, he should have been resting.

“Sorry, sir.” Virgil mumbled, speech slurred from the alcohol that hadn’t quite left his system as Radigan steadied him. “Wanted to know how the new eyes were goin’…”

Sighing, Radigan managed to get him to sit by the bench. “Still drafting ‘em. Should have a prototype of sorts in the next couple days.”

“No kidding? Fred was right, you are some kinda genius…”

“Can’t promise it’ll be flawless.” Radigan tempered.

“Jus’ needa hit m’ targets, that’s all. I’d kill to see them spies comin’ too, if I’m honest.”

Radigan paused. Now, there was an idea. 

“I could do that.”

“You… you could make ‘em so I can see spies?” Virgil repeated, disbelieving.

“With some compromises. It’s possible.”

Really, he shouldn’t be offering. The Administrator gave him specific instructions about not tipping the balance either way, and offering tech to one team that could give them the upper hand was a good way of doing just that.

But if verbal agreements with shady business people were going to stop him, he wouldn’t be Radigan Conagher.

“If y’ don’t mind me sayin’ sir... You’re no engineer, you’re a goddamn magician.”

In the light of day, Radigan made some calls to make sure Dell wasn’t being left on his lonesome, before he really got to work. 

Fred had been out like a light for most of it – clearly the journey there had taken a lot out of him. As uncomfortable and awkward as it had been, he’d gotten some rest. Fred painfully stretched and groaned at the knots in his shoulders and the stiffness in his legs. He was still in his filthy work duds. He felt like the grime was sticking to his brain and clogging his senses.

He’d at least try to clean himself up a bit.

By the time Fred returned to the workshop, he noticed the stairs to the attic had been pulled down. He cocked his head to peer up just as Radigan emerged on his way down. He had some sort of dusty old console in his hands.

Furthermore, his father was smiling.

Fred was so caught off guard by the sight that he didn’t stop staring until Radigan was right in front, handing the device to him.

“Here, see if this works.”

It took him a moment to register what he was holding. The layout of buttons and dials was reminiscent of a device he’d seen being used by one of his colleagues at BLU.

“A disguise kit?”

“Sure is. You boys ain’t the only ones havin’ to deal with unwanted guests.”

This kit almost resembled a typewriter more than the one his team’s spy used - it was chunkier, with a bronzed appearance. The biggest hint had been the disguises themselves. It was fitted with a dial like a padlock, but instead with a single digit that corresponded to a different mercenary class, zero being a civilian.

Seemed straightforward enough.

He could hear the gears whirring as he inputted confirmation, the device clicking to life.

“That there’s an older model, but spy tech is all the same.” Radigan would know, he’d been consulted on it many a time.

His involvement was highly classified, of course, but while newer models had gotten gradually more intuitive, they operated on the same principles to manipulate the appearance of the user. Disguise tech was designed with the intent to be as visually convincing as possible, leaving it up to the acting skills of the user to maintain the illusion.

However, there was only so much one could do to disguise, for instance… a heat signature.

There was a faint ‘ping’ from the contraption and suddenly Fred was no longer himself.

He hadn’t changed into their team’s Heavy, but he recognised the uniform sure enough, looking down at the body he was inhabiting.

And the form of this man was still huge, absolutely huge. His hands were huge, His arms were huge. His body felt huge. Fred was getting light-headed.

“Good. Let’s see then…” Not one to labour the point, Radigan returned to his bench, picking up some kind of scope – a thick, mechanical cylinder of a thing – and peered through it.

Even more miraculously, as Radigan twisted the cylinder to adjust it and studied what used to be Fred through it, his smile spread into a grin. Radigan barked a short laugh of triumph.

“What is it?” Fred asked from the Heavy’s body.

“I’ll swap ya, see for yourself.”

Fred didn’t have time to fidget with the console when Radigan approached – his father reached over to snap one of the mechanisms and in a puff of smoke, Fred was himself again. He took the console from his hands and replaced it with the scope, already adjusting the controls as he stepped back from Fred again.

By the time Fred had stopped reeling, he wasn’t staring at his father anymore, but rather another man in uniform – similar to his own, this time. The strange engineer grinning at him waited as Fred fiddled with the mysterious scope.

At first, it was hard to know what he was looking at. Even when he adjusted the focus, most of what he saw were strange, coloured shapes, taking a moment for his brain to decipher the images. 

Much detail seemed scrubbed out from the world, leaving various coloured objects floating in a strange void. The bench was one flat shape, as was each separate tool resting on it. However, the figure in front of him was a different story.

Clear as day, he could make out Radigan’s silhouette.

He removed the scope, and it was the stranger again. He put it back, and it was Radigan.

A grin of his own started to spread across Fred’s face as he realised what he was seeing.

“Your friend there won’t be worrying about spies no more, I shouldn’t think.”

Working with Radigan in his old workshop, sparse as it currently  was, felt like being home to Fred. Although, he hoped he was more useful now than he had been in his childhood.

The elder engineer explained what he was doing as he assembled the parts for the mechanical eye, giving smaller tasks for his son to help with. Watching him work, Fred had new admiration for his father’s steady hand, the fine motor skills from decades of experience in spite of the small tremors from age.

Fred still didn’t fully grasp the workings of the device even as Radigan laid them out for him.

“You’ll get the hang of it.” his father assured. “You boys oughta come back for maintenance anyhow. We’ll go over it as much as you need.”

“Thank you, Pa… don’t know what I woulda done if it weren’t for you. Didn’t mean to drop all ‘a this in your lap.” he smiled apologetically.

“No trouble.”

A comfortable quiet settled over them. Despite how hectic the last few days had been, Radigan thought this must be the calmest he’d seen his son in a long time.

Fred’s dark hair was a mess from where it had stuck to the inside of his helmet, but his eyes were soft, immersed in the work he was doing.

“I’m proud of you.”

Fred blinked, startled. “...What for?”

“Can’t say I know many men who’d go to all that trouble for a friend of theirs. I’m proud one of them is my son.”

“Easy, Virgil. Don’t overdo it.” Fred fretted.

Virgil grunted.

Radigan stood watching, arms crossed.

Even the sniper had his limits. He’d been thrilled to witness how his bionic eyes could pierce through spy disguises, but they still threw him off balance. Most flat surfaces looked more or less uniform, he couldn’t read words off a page anymore – he’d need to learn braille for that. He couldn’t see through glass – Radigan would have to modify the scope of his rifle to accommodate that. He was absolutely colourblind now.

Not to mention, the last two weeks had been miserable, maybe the most painful in his life.

He supposed he’d just imagined they’d slip out, get him fixed and then slip back in again – before even a shadow of a doubt could be cast on his abilities as a sniper. In retrospect, it was fantastical, but then again how reality had played out was nothing short of fantastical either.

The real moment of truth would be if he could still hit a target.

Although, he’d rather have his rifle for this than Fred’s pistol, but Virgil figured he couldn’t have everything.

Ideally, they could’ve waited longer for him to heal before the implants were set in place, too. Already he’d had too much trauma inflicted to that part of his face, he’d seldom had any relief from the pain unless he was unconscious. This didn’t help.

Flexing the muscles just to move his eyes stabbed, looking back and forth too quickly or too far was a small agony. His sockets were still tender and the mechanisms shifting around inside didn’t help his discomfort. He feared his eyes may gush blood like the statue of Mary herself.

The sheer exhaustion caused the occasional spasm in his face too, the twitches of his eyelids at intervals wasn’t helping his aim.

There was an earsplitting CRACK.

The wood post splintered.

Fred hissed.

Virgil groaned.

“...Why don’t we call it a day-”

“Can it, Fred.” the sniper snapped, not daring to break his focus on the empty bottle, lining up to aim another shot.

He loved the man, really he did, but God DAMN he could be overbearing. In his waning patience he had half a mind to aim the next shot at the engineer’s kneecap.

Having gotten his bearings, the next didn’t take long at all. This one ended in an explosion of glass.

Finally.

Virgil grinned. Fred laughed in relief.

“That’ll do it.” Radigan grunted in satisfaction. “One last thing: tell me how it looks with your eyes shut.”

Virgil hadn’t been paying close attention to that. He shut his eyes.

“It’s… bright.”

His lids didn’t offer a restful darkness like they had before. A lot of infrared light was bouncing off them and back into his eyes.

Radigan hummed, suspecting as much. “Suggest you get some unmodified prosthetics for the evenings, otherwise you’re gonna have a rough time getting any shut-eye. You can switch out the mechanical lenses for glass ones.”

“Got it. Thank you again, sir.”

Virgil could just make out the creases at the elder’s lips turning up slightly. “No trouble.”

Watching the two men get along made Fred all the lighter. A weight lifted in his chest.

He’d been terrorised by the thought of his work and his family mixing for years now, but seeing how it played out in reality couldn’t have made him happier.

The ride back was much easier – there were points in the journey where the passing scenery was fast enough to flicker and irritate Virgil’s eyes, but on the open road with a clearer landscape he had plenty of time to start adjusting to the new world he would be living in. 

They’d had time to eat, sleep and bathe before their return journey and the trip ahead was nowhere near as daunting as it had been on the way there.

There was a lot he couldn’t see now, but what he could amazed him. As night fell and the nocturnal wildlife emerged, Virgil could see it, plain as day.

Fred couldn’t stay anxious about the inevitable chewing out they were going to receive on their arrival, he was just relieved it had worked out so well. 

Their luck would hold out – their return went far smoother than Fred had expected – he had the Medic to thank for that, in no small part.

Their self-designated leader was sated too by the idea that this new development could make their team’s sniper more lethal.

Technically, any new tech was supposed to be approved by the higher-ups to deliberate whether to allow it, but with assent from the team to accommodate and approval from the Heavy, they’d decided to let that slide.

Besides, this small advantage may not stay that way if word got around about it. Worse still, Virgil’s blind spots could be used against him. It wasn’t too hard to modify their uniforms with patches of heat reflecting material signalling to their sniper not to fire – something that would be visible to Virgil alone.

The journey had made Fred and Virgil inseparable now. Fred was eager to help his comrade find practical workarounds for whatever he now struggled with – the engineer had initiated it, so he was set on making the change with him.

In their time off, they had planned outings back to Radigan’s workshop, too. Fred’s father did regular maintenance and the occasional upgrade to the bionics. He used the time to teach Fred the drill – which parts did what, how to replace them, what to look out for. Fred was slow to catch on, but took it all to heart.

Radigan and Virgil were comfortable enough together. The sniper had his own… quirks… that could make Radigan’s eyebrows raise, in a way that made Fred bristle - but all in all, the two most important men in his life had made easy company of one another.

He had Virgil’s eyes to thank for it all… which was just as well, because they were destined to be Radigan’s last invention.

Fred didn’t think his father could ever die. The man seemed to defy death, he’d managed to stay so lively even as he surpassed a century on earth.

Age caught up to him slowly, then all at once. It had only taken about a year or two for him to recede into himself.

He could fit into his coat properly again, then it became even looser where he lost even more muscle mass than he’d had before. The piercing focus in his gaze turned into a hazy, wandering one. His silence wasn’t calculating as much as it was confused.

In this phase of his life, Dell was becoming as much Radigan’s caretaker as Radigan had once been his.

Then he was gone.

It had to happen sometime, logically, but love isn’t dictated by logic. However much time Fred had with his father would never be enough. Even as the man deteriorated, he’d never thought it would take him so quickly. Dell felt much the same.

Fred was home with his son again. He didn’t think he would be able to take on anymore work even if it came his way, as much as the engineer missed his colleagues – right now he couldn’t handle it. He wanted to hunker down until it all stopped hurting so much, until Dell stopped crying, until his heart and his head could mend.

Fred received another letter.

Another eggshell blue letter, on crisp paper, stamped with a familiar emblem.

Maybe he should’ve burned it right then and there. He left it sitting around for a while, tired, but unable to ignore the anxious thrumming that its presence brought him. The mere thought of the letter in the other room that he’d left on the counter was enough to keep him unsettled.

He had to rip the band-aid off sooner or later.

BLU had decided to disband his team, they would not be expecting Fred to show up for any more mercenary work. He wasn’t sure if the news made him more sad or relieved.

Though the details were vague and no one was named, Builder’s League had found the behaviour of their number to be too insubordinate, hostile and unpredictable. Which, frankly, was laughable. Fred knew their employer had been eager to turn a blind eye to no small number of incidents.

Whatever this disband was about, someone must have really pushed their luck. That, or there was an ulterior motive.

But Fred’s heart rate wasn’t allowed to slow down just yet. BLU had one more job – for him alone. No details were included, he was expected to show up later that week at the personal office of Blutarch Mann, a place he’d never needed to go before.

If his palpitations got any worse, Fred might have died on the spot.

The great, sterile hall of Blutarch’s mansion was the gaping maw of an unfathomably large monster, towering up around Fred. Surrounded on all sides, the tap of his boots echoed throughout the lavish room.

Fred was polite while being ushered through, but couldn’t shake the thought of how cornered he was in here. This wasn’t soothed by the sight waiting for him at the other side of the rich, wooden doors to Blutarch’s office. It had completely muffled the ticking and whirring of the ungodly machine inside, the gullet opening into the bowels.

“Do you see this machine behind me, Mister Conagher?”

“...I certainly do, sir.” It was hard to stop noticing it, the contraption dominated the room and appeared to continue down beneath the floor, where he could almost swear he felt tremors through the carpet and the soles of his shoes.

There were countless gauges and dials, microcosms of intermingled wire, huge towers of electronics, sewn together into one monstrous machine.

Fred couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

“This machine is my ticket to winning the Gravel Wars. I need a man who can provide maintenance for it, a man who can secure my immortality. Are you up to the task?”

“I…” Fred swallowed. “I don’t rightly know, sir. Think I’d need a fair bit of uh, documentation, for any hope of that.”

“And that is precisely the problem. It was your father’s design, but all his notes and blueprints on it are not in my possession.” the Englishman narrowed his eyes.

Fred blinked. “Radigan worked for y’all?”

“For over fifty years, as a matter of fact.”

“Fifty…” longer than Fred had been alive.

“In light of your father’s demise, the position for ensuring its continued operation has opened.” Blutarch went on, while Fred struggled to process everything he’d told him. “If I am to outlive my brother, I cannot afford any more vulnerability to the ravages of age. As Radigan’s successor, I assume you must have access to his notes.”

Fred slowly shook his head. “No, sir. He would’ve had those buried with him-”

“Then I’ll have them retrieved, posthaste.”

“Huh?”

“When I have the documents secured, I will contact you again. I expect you to make good on it, Mister Conagher.”

Fred opened and closed his mouth. “...Yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

The engineer wandered back in a daze. Radigan had worked for Builder’s League… and never thought to tell him. Radigan had scorned him for working for the exact same people.

From what Blutarch said, it sounded like he was still working with them while Fred was under their employ. Fred hadn’t been sought out for his personal capabilities, just for his father’s name. They’d had him waiting in the wings as his replacement this entire time.

God fucking damn it.

That old man hadn’t been in the ground any longer than 3 months before they saw fit to swoop in. They weren’t even gonna leave him there to rest. All the work he’d spent decades hiding away, not even letting Fred know about it, he’d told them where it was without even thinking.

Fred felt dirty, like he’d given the order to have his father dug up. He just hadn’t known.

He sat on the wooden steps of the porch, having gotten that far, and sobbed.

If Fred could understand this cursed machine, then at least his father’s grave and his dying wish for confidentiality wouldn’t have been violated for nothing.

If only it were that simple.

This wasn’t engineering, this was some kind of personal hell his deceased father had dragged him into. This was an abominable amalgamation of different fields. This was a kind of evil magic.

It could take a man decades to decipher Radigan’s notes.

Fred gave up in a week. He’d had enough. He was out of his depth.

He was well off enough for it not to matter anymore if he never returned to engineering, but nothing could buy back what he’d lost.

Fred didn’t have much to do with his days anymore. He had little else to distract him from himself. On the field, as much stress as it caused, there was a means of release too.

Now it was just him and Dell.

Dell had already decided who his father was, and it hadn’t been Fred.

Radigan had raised him as his son, the way he hadn’t with Fred.

Fred wasn’t anything. He just was.

There hardly seemed like a point, trying to become a man that Dell could respect. It was clear that he didn’t. He didn’t want Fred to be his father, he just wanted Radigan back.

The worst part, as Fred got more and more frustrated with the boy, for any given reason – over what he did, how he looked, who he was friends with – anything for the man to feel like he had a sliver of control, if he wasn’t met with outright defiance Dell would fix him with that stony, silent glare he’d seen from his own father a million times. 

Dell thought he was too good for him, too.

“You live in my house, you do as you’re told. If you don’t like it, you can take your shit and leave. You’re old enough for it.”

Dell didn’t answer that. He went red in the face, jaw clenched. He stormed to his room and pulled out his suitcase, dutifully packing his things, letting the white hot rage blot out his thoughts. If he couldn’t stay angry, was going to start crying, and there was no way in hell that he’d let Fred see that.

Truth be told, leaving to study was very much on the cards, but this had spurred him to storm off prematurely – and ensured he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. He wouldn’t be sending letters home.

As he emptied another drawer, Dell caught sight of an object stuffed into the bottom, long forgotten: Fred’s old work goggles.

His first instinct was to slam the drawer shut and press on, but the aspiring engineer lingered on it a moment. It brought back a memory from a better time.

While he reminisced, the pulsing heat behind his eyes subsided, he steadied himself. The bubbling, churning humiliation simmered down and cooled into something harder, more resolute.

The older he’d gotten, the less Fred was able to see eye to eye with him. Fred barely treated him like a person, let alone a real man, let alone a son.

So, he would simply beat the retired engineer at his own game. He would outsmart him. He would outgun him. He would make himself into the man he wanted to be.

Dell would be twice the man… no, ten times the man that Fred had been. He would be someone that could honour Radigan’s legacy in the way his grandfather deserved.

He let that cold pit of spite anchor him as he set about leaving, taking the goggles with him.

He would be all too happy to try his hand at his predecessor’s job when it was offered to him, decades later.

Fred had scoffed as he watched Dell march himself out the door and into the night, but hadn’t realised then that this would be the last he’d see of him for years.

For a while, he was bitterly waiting for the kid to show up at his door again, or rediscover him sulking around town. He imagined a Dell full of regret for daring to defy him. He wouldn’t be gone that long, Fred wouldn’t believe it.

Months ticked over, one after the other. A cold, heavy weight sat in the man’s chest as it dawned on him how alone he was now.

Outside of Builder’s League, his old team had unofficial reunions from time to time. He never would have known where Virgil had been, otherwise.

It had taken a moment to recognise him at all – the sniper was sporting a long moustache and goatee, starting to grey, a large floppy hat and clothes that looked far too big for his slim frame.

The biggest clue was his eyes. They’d always been piercing, but especially because of the mechanical lenses they’d been fitted with – that Fred had fitted them with.

Similarly, it took a moment for recognition to dawn in the sniper’s eyes, too.

“That Fred Conagher, or didja eat him?” he teased.

No mistaking it, Fred had gotten bigger in his age. His frame had padded out, the gut he was sporting hard to miss. But under that familiar hard hat was an even more familiar smile on his pudgy face.

“Least I ain’t an old bag ‘o bones.” Fred shot back, laughing as Virgil slung an arm over his shoulder.

The Sniper’s chuckles relaxed into a warm smile and a sigh. “Good to see you again, Engie.”

The two of them sat side by side at the bar, along with the handful of colleagues that had shown up. It wasn’t a particularly nice little joint but it was central enough for them to meet there without too much trouble.

When they untangled themselves, they’d fallen back into light, casual conversation.

“How’s the family?”

Fred grimaced, then tried to force his smile back. “Family’s… good, it’s fine.” the half mumble of his voice was hard not to notice from what it’d been a moment before.

“Don’t hafta talk about it.” Virgil commented. “I wouldn’t know much about all that.”

“What’re you doing with yourself, then?” Fred cautiously relaxed again.

“Not a whole lot.” his nails clacked at the wooden bar. “...I got a dog. Mh, well, had a dog, s’pose. She was an old girl.”

The engineer couldn’t help a small scoff of disbelief. “That all?”

Virgil shrugged. “What else would I need?”

It was hard to stay tense around the man, Fred was grateful for it. Virgil hadn’t changed much at all, from what he could tell. It got easier as talk turned to gossip about what the other mercenaries from their team had gotten up to. To no surprise, some had taken up military positions during the war, others went into comfortable retirement.

“Recruiters didn’t want a blind old man.” Virgil muttered with disdain.

“...You’re pulling my leg.”

The sniper heaved a sigh. “I tried to tell ‘em, I’m as sharp as I was back in the day, but they heard ‘false eyes’, saw how I struggled to read… tried to tell ‘em about the heat signatures ‘n such… they thought I were senile.”

“That’s their loss.” Fred grumbled. “The eyes still work, don’t they?”

“Clear as the last time your old man gave ‘em an upgrade, work like a charm.” Virgil confirmed.

The engineer clicked his tongue. “I oughta take a look, just in case – they’re overdue for some maintenance anyhow. I brought my tools along for it.”

The sniper hesitated. “...You gonna fuss around with my eyes right here in this pub?”

“Not when you put it like that.” Fred conceded. “You got a better idea?”

The old sniper lived on a large plot of land that could have been mistaken for untouched wilderness, navigating the place was a journey in and of itself – especially in the oncoming dark of evening. If you went deep enough into the dry bushland, you could just see the outline of Virgil’s cottage amongst the trees.

“Let’s see here…” the retired mercenary muttered.

Fred could hear the rattle of keys and the clank of the wire door opening, but was following the sound of Virgil’s footsteps more than seeing where he was going.

“Alright.” there was a snapping sound in the dark, the click of a switch. “Here we are.”

Fred paused, standing in the doorway. “...Was that s’posed to be a lightswitch?”

“Ah shit. Has it blown out?”

“From the looks.”

Virgil sucked through his teeth. “Might be a lamp or a candle I could use somewhere… come in first, just be careful.”

Fred didn’t make it very far, although he tried to step towards where he’d heard the sniper speaking. The man yelped when his foot caught on something – Virgil caught his hands to steady him just in time, otherwise he would’ve toppled.

“Uh, on second thoughts, I’ll lead ya in, then I’ll find something to brighten up the place.” Virgil suggested apologetically.

The other man’s guidance helped, but the floor was so uneven in places and so cluttered that Fred stumbled a few more times anyway.

“Keep to your left here – there’s a big hole on the right.” Virgil warned. “Floor broke clean through.”

“Virgil…”

“We’re almost there, don’t you worry.”

Finally, the man guided him to sit on the end of his bed - it seemed like the safest option. Fred winced at the horrible creak of protest the metal frame made under his weight.

“Always sounds that way.” Virgil reassured.

In the end he found some candles, but it barely cut into the gloom.

“It’ll hafta wait ‘til tomorrow – I’ll end up losing your eye through the floorboards if I try to work like this.” At least Fred could see the other man a little better now, Virgil sitting beside him.

Although, what he could make out of the place wasn’t very promising. “You really live out here? On your own?”

“Don’t know what you expected. It’s peaceful.” the sniper bit, “If either of us were gonna get hitched it was always gonna be you – you’re the personable one.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…” Fred scratched his cheek. “Y’think so?”

“Hell, I’m surprised you ain’t already.”

“I dunno… Don’t think I have it in me t’ start over.”

“Your Pa was an older fella when he had you, weren’t he?”

The old engineer lay back with a sigh. “S’pose. He woulda been… 70 I think. Lived to be over a hundred.”

“Goddamn, that old?” the sniper grunted and laid beside him. “You imagine living that long?”

“I got too much time on my hands already, don’t know what I’d do with more of it.” Fred stared at the ceiling, flickering faintly with candlelight, the marred edges of peeling paint casting jagged shadows. “Just don’t think it’d be fair to try again. I messed up so bad… maybe I just ain’t cut out for it.”

“If it makes y’ feel any better, I ain’t cut out for it neither.”

“What’s that make us, then?”

“...couple ‘a old dogs, that’s what.”

In the light of day, it wasn’t much better. Virgil’s cottage didn’t look like it belonged to a wealthy retired mercenary, it didn’t look like it belonged to a particularly well-off man either. There were stacks of boxes full of miscellanea, piled in corners and about the floor. A disorganised sitting area, a disused kitchen, broken drawers and doors.

The land surrounding it was beautiful, but that too had its own clutter. Virgil seemed to have set up what looked like a makeshift shooting range out of old junk. There was a rusted out car that appeared to be punctured with random holes, like he’d gotten bored and opened fire.

The engineer had his tools set up on what he assumed was the living room table, with the old sniper in a chair turned towards him while he carefully removed and inspected his eyes, one at a time.

“Don’t get why you can’t hire some folks to fix this place up.” he remarked.

“Too much hassle.” the sniper waved off.

“Too much hassle? You don’t think having t’ step around a hole in your floor whenever you come and go ain’t a hassle?” Fred retorted, incredulous.

Virgil shifted uncomfortably. “I’m just… afraid of someone being here who ain’t supposed to be.”

Fred paused, frowning. “What d’ya mean?”

The sniper wet his lips, mulling over his next words. “You ever worry that one day, they’ll come back to finish us off?”

Fred kept studying him for a moment.

Virgil glared. “I ain’t crazy. It could happen.”

“Didn’t say you were.” Dropping the subject, Fred let his attention fall back to the ocular prosthetic. “I can help ya patch the place up, if you don’t mind havin’ me.”

“You don’t hafta do all that…”

“What’ll you do if you trip up and break an ankle, because your floor is all broken? All the way out here?” he reprimanded.

“I’ll figure it out.” Virgil shrugged.

“That ain’t gonna cut it. I don’t need to be no genius engineer to fix it neither.”

This was a job, a project. One Fred was confident he could do.

Fred missed the ache of a hard day’s work, but you wouldn’t have known he’d been working at all from the state of the house. The list of problems he’d found with it seemed to get longer as sunlight wasted away yet again, all too quickly.

He didn’t know what the timescale for this project would be like, but truth be told, with only the two of them, it could take years. Truth be told, it would be easier to start from scratch or live elsewhere, but he doubted he’d get Virgil to budge on that.

It wasn’t as if either of them had much else to do with their days, that was apparent.

Yet, seeing what had been left to the wayside, what the old sniper had struggled with and neglected made something gnaw the inside of Fred’s stomach.

The two of them were ending the day by sorting through one of the old boxes that had rotted out, to see if anything was salvageable. The contents mostly consisted of old clothes, some of which fell apart in Fred’s hands the moment he removed them, some of which he’d laid out and set aside. The dank smell of mold hit him all over as he coaxed out what appeared to be part of Virgil’s old uniform, camouflage print – discoloured with age, blotched with sickly white.

“You think if you could go back, you woulda kept your eyes?”

“Nope.” Virgil replied without missing a beat. “It ain’t always easy, but I’m thinkin’ it’d be a lot harder without. Not if I never slept another night.”

“You sleeping with them in?” when Virgil quieted, Fred had his answer.

Instead of probing, he kept busy with the contents of the box. He’d had enough reasons to scold his companion.

“Radigan said you don’t have to.” he reminded gently.

“I remember.” the sniper admitted. “Don’t get much sleep either way. Nothin’ like startin’ awake, completely blind, not knowing what’s out there…”

“If it’d do any good, I could keep watch.” Fred suggested.

Virgil turned away. “You do too much for me. Don’t know what I ever did to deserve it.”

“Wouldn’t offer if I minded.”

The sniper gradually returned his gaze to Fred, who offered a reassuring smile. “...Alright.”

“It’s a deal then. I’ll stay by your side so that nobody can getcha.” Fred returned to rummaging around the bottom of the box.

He stopped for a moment when his fingers brushed a small, round object, that felt like raw wood. He held it in his palm to examine, chuckling as he realised what it was.

The seed of a stone fruit.

Fred set aside the mechanical eyes in a small wooden box on the bedside table. The moment they were out and the blanks were in, Virgil gripped his arm like a lifeline and didn’t let go.

The last time Fred had held him like this, they were younger. Unavoidably close, it was hard not to notice how brittle the man seemed in his age, how small and withered.

He was careful to move slowly to wrap Virgil in his arms, feeling how he shuddered with uneven breaths. He could feel Virgil’s fingers dig into the backs of his shoulders as he curled into him.

Fred thumbed the ridges of his back idly. Although he calmed after a while, Virgil never relaxed completely, little anxious hitches shook him every so often. Fred could just make out his eyelids fluttering in the dark, straining to see.

The night was long, Virgil stayed tense for most of it, he twitched, jolted and writhed at intervals all throughout.

Fred couldn’t sleep either, but instead spent the night alternating between soothing the other with soft touches – rubbing his back and shoulders, tangling his fingers with his hair – and just holding him.

He wondered how many nights Virgil spent like this. He went over it in his mind, the unspeakable acts they’d committed in their youth that the sniper had seemed unfazed by. The vigilance that Fred once admired in him on the field, how it seeped into everything even here in the man’s own home, how it swarmed out the pleasantries of his life.

If there had been a point of no return, it may very well have been surpassed even before Fred had entered his life. Virgil had been younger than the engineer when he’d gotten his start as a hired gun.

Even so, Fred wondered.

“He won’t be building no sentries with his goddamn feet. This Grey Mann fella is ultra wealthy, right? He can make some adjustments for a set of wheels.”

“If he can fix your eyes, he can fix his legs.” the Heavy dismissed.

The sniper didn’t raise his voice, but growled with a gruff authority. “That ain’t fair, you know that ain’t fair. We’re already one man short -” Virgil jabbed his thumb back at the new Medic, who was watching the scene unfold attentively. “- and you’re gonna give Fred the boot over this? We’re supposed to be a team, it should be all of us or none ‘a us.” he challenged, not afraid to step into the much larger man’s space.

Their de facto leader kept his arms crossed and didn’t budge an inch.

They’d been gathered at the office for a short debriefing, not a debate. The Heavy was put in charge of informing the old team about the new opportunity they’d been offered – and introducing the new addition to their number. Neither the sniper nor the engineer had realised the man was going to take issue with Fred’s physical condition.

Greg cleared his throat. “It’s a bit harsh… but maybe it’s for the better? He had a good run…”

“You say that like y’all are gonna take him behind the shed.” Virgil spat, turning on him.

Fred kept his head down, helmet tipped over his face, hunched back in his chair. Every moment the pit in his chest grew heavier. He didn’t really know what he’d expected, he guessed he’d also thought that his old team would understand.

Apart from Virgil defending him bitterly, the Heavy once more acting as the commanding authority, and Greg’s apologism, none of the others seemed willing to do anything. He could see Beatrice in his peripherals, leaning back against the wall with bemused indifference.

The more the sniper fought for him, the guiltier he felt.

“That’s enough. He’ll engineer himself a solution or get lost, we have bigger priorities right now." The Heavy put his foot down.

Virgil had half a mind to spit on the ground at his feet in contempt before storming off, but he knew that wouldn’t help Fred’s case.

“‘Bigger priorities’…” he seethed, hunching his own shoulders as he left alongside Fred. “Like that man’s ego, I’ll bet. Gotten too big for his britches.”

“I’ll figure something... it’ll be fine.” Fred eased, to which Virgil sighed tiredly.

“Just ain’t right, Fred. Can’t stand to see them do that to ya.”

“Seems you gentlemen have quite the dilemma.” a bright voice interjected, catching the attention of the older mercenaries.

The medic had tailed them out of the building, keen eyes peering from round frames. Virgil didn’t know what to make of the new recruit, he had an energy that the elder found abrasive and unsettling.

“Guess that’s one way to put it.” Fred mumbled.

He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t normally be one to disclose such things, but in all honesty I do agree – this situation does not strike me as fair. I know someone who may be of some assistance, although he is quite hard to track down as of late and with his… circumstances… he might feel somewhat reluctant to help you.”

Fred and Virgil shared a look.

“Worth a shot.” the engineer decided.

“I should warn you first.” the medic beamed. “If you break your son’s heart again, Herr Conagher, I will kill you.”

The thought of what it would be like to meet his father again had occurred to the engineer from time to time. Certainly, the medic’s offer to help hide the body if things went awry sweetened the pot considerably.

Knocking the man’s head clean from his shoulders was an image he liked to entertain every now and again.

The more intellectual part of him enjoyed the thought of Fred squirming in humiliation at Dell’s sheer prowess. He liked thinking of him truly belittled, in need and helpless, how he had once made his successor feel.

Of course, the version of Fred he was imagining was the bitter, controlling one he had known before his departure, not the one in Dell’s workshop at present. This Fred was not the adoring, heroic one of his childhood, either, who he once admired.

“From what I hear you’re awful busy, so it means a lot you could spare me some time.” Fred rubbed the back of his neck, smiling apologetically.

Dell hesitated to study him for a moment. “...’S fine. Don’t worry about it.” He kept it short, dark lenses revealing nothing.

This Fred was awkward and fumbling. There was a glint of genuine gratitude in his eyes, but he erred on the side of caution. His gaze flitted from Dell’s impassive goggles to his own fidgeting hands, then rested on the work his son was doing.

Truthfully, the younger engineer was excited by the prospect of trying his hand at designing a working pair of legs. This was one of his passions, after all, nothing motivated him like a challenge.

He didn’t know all the details of why it had to be now, but he didn’t need to. He supposed that was why he and the medic saw eye to eye - both of them had a strong desire to pursue their own interests, regardless of the specifics.

The medic had even offered to provide the casts of Fred’s residual legs, leaving it up to the engineer to focus on the technical functionality of the prosthesis and assemble them accordingly. With the man in his presence, it would be much easier to test and tweak the fit of his latest experiment.

Fred seemed at ease just watching him.

When Dell rose, Fred held him up. “Didja need something? I can get it – ain’t doing much else.” he offered.

It occurred to Dell that he could’ve used the man’s help a couple odd decades ago.

“Just that spanner there, on the back wall.” he pointed out, resigning himself to watch Fred wheel over.

“This one here?”

“Yup.”

He wanted to stay angry with the man, but the way it was unfolding made his anger feel more petulant than justified.

Dell conceded to swallowing his frustrations and pressing onwards. The least he could do was make this easier for himself to just get over with.

“...It’s funny, really.” Fred piped up, after a long enough stretch of silence. “Lotta folks think it must’a been something more exciting what took ‘em, seeing how dangerous my job was, but it weren’t that interesting. We just weren’t prepared, is all - nowhere close to no doctors.” he chuckled.

“That right?” The statement made Dell’s brow pinch. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Oh, just been living with an old friend for a spell. Helping him fix things here ‘n there.” Fred prattled.

Dell felt the tension in his chest and shoulders release as Fred rambled on about his former colleague. He tried not to think about the knot of fear that formed the moment he’d thought Fred might have a new family.

“So… let me get this straight: you’re this Virgil fella’s live-in handyman now?” the younger engineer couldn’t help a snicker of disbelief.

“That ain’t quite it, but… it’s...” Fred trailed off as he fumbled for words.

Dell just shook his head, still snickering.

The self-taught prosthetist stood back to look over his work, satisfied. “This’ll do it.”

Maybe not the most graceful, but certainly fit for battle. The mechanical, digitigrade legs fitted to a base, equipped with a myriad of small motors to pick up the smallest shifts and flexes of Fred’s muscles. The base would fit around the man’s lower body and residual legs.

It wasn’t exactly light either, and getting him into the prosthesis took a fair bit of squirming and fidgeting on Fred’s part, but eventually the two of them managed to get it secured properly.

“Let’s see how you take to these.”

Fred steadied himself against the work bench and used Dell as support, rising to stand carefully. He wobbled on the metal feet, not quite managing to stabilise himself.

“Uh, I dunno about this…” Fred whimpered.

“Hold on a minute.” Dell helped lower him back into his chair. “Looks like the joints need a pressure adjustment.”

This time, Dell knelt down to tweak the prosthetics.

“Now I know how a sentry feels.” Fred murmured, earning a small snort from the other.

His amusement faded into something colder. Even these little moments where they seemed to get along were a sore reminder of everything Dell had been starved for.

It was childish to mope like this, he knew it was, but the weight of it was palpable to him.

“...Everything alright, sweetheart?” Fred chimed, after a big enough chasm had formed in the conversation.

That term of endearment was especially grating. Something about the patronising sincerity of it made Dell’s teeth grind. He was grateful that the goggles over his eyes were obscuring the glare he was fixing Fred’s leg.

“Just peachy.” He couldn't bite back the bitterness of the sentiment.

Another deafening pause. 

Fred chewed his lip as he thought it over. He knew there were some subjects that once broached, would be hard to come back from, but he could hear it in his successor’s voice how much it was eating him up anyway.

“Never thought it’d take this long before I saw you again, didn’t think you’d really be gone for good…”

“What did you think was gonna happen?” Dell shot back. “You thought I’d give up? Or I’d change my mind about letting you push me around?” The engineer stopped to look up at him.

“I hoped you’d call, at least.” Fred raised his shoulders, defensive.

“Maybe you shoulda thought about that before you sent me packing.”

“I… I’m sorry.” the older engineer yielded.

Dell huffed through his nose. “Well… what’s done is done.”

It was just a matter of getting through this, then it could be over. Then he could put any fleeting thoughts or desires to reconnect to rest. He kept his focus on the joints he was adjusting.

“Alright.” Dell grunted, pushing himself up from one knee to stand once more. “Hopefully that’ll take your weight a lil better.”

The second time Dell helped him up, Fred seemed to adjust more smoothly – there was no wobbling to speak of. He gave the man space to let him shift his weight, testing how the articulation had a little less give but remained responsive. He used the bench like an ice skater used the edge of the rink, taking an experimental step, then another.

The younger engineer pulled back his goggles to really drink in his success as Fred steadily gained confidence. He let go, trotting out a circle around the workshop, mesmerised by the contraption and how it worked in tandem with him.

“Wouldja look at that…” the older engineer admired, Dell brightening at the praise.

He wouldn’t get too much further. Fred grunted, clutching his back where the muscle spasmed painfully in protest.

“Alright, I’m done. Get this thing off me.” he winced.

“What’s the trouble?” Dell worried, hurrying to help guide the other back to his chair.

“Just puts a real strain on my back - it’s been a while… please, please get them off.”

The younger engineer’s expression twisted into a more disgruntled one but he obliged the retiree, undoing the mechanisms keeping the legs in place..

No doubt, Dell had rushed the process somewhat - it wouldn’t be the first time he’d caused problems in his haste to try something out, but it was still work he was proud of.

Fred let out a long groan of relief when he was finally freed of the mechanical legs. “That’ll take some getting used to.” he sighed.

The older slumped back, catching his breath. Dismayed, Dell set aside the prosthesis again, waiting to see if the man had anything else to say that wasn’t a complaint about the efforts he’d gone to.

“You’re welcome.” Dell mumbled.

“Oh, thank you, sweetheart.”

There it was again. “I have a name, y’know. I’d appreciate it if you used it sometime, instead ‘a talking to me like a confused little girl.”

“Right.”

“It’s ‘Dell’, by the way.” he sniped.

“Didn’t know it bothered you so much… I’m really trying, honey-”

“Ain’t that hard.” Dell smashed his fist against the workbench, snarling.

A dull, heavy thud of metal on wood. The bench splintered and the windows rattled from the force.

Despite himself he momentarily enjoyed the flinch of fear he’d managed to inflict on his father, before it melted into confusion, fixed specifically at the gloved fist that’d caused that sound and put a significant crack in the work bench.

“Shit.” Dell whispered and withdrew, holding the concealed Gunslinger close, but it was too late.

“Dell… would you show me your hand?” The worry dancing in his eyes made Dell’s chest feel like it was being crushed.

The Gunslinger was a thing of pride to him. Normally, the engineer was eager to show it off. In this moment, he realised it was too personal, a part of his life he didn’t know that he could trust with this man.

He couldn’t take it back now.

Defeated, he peeled off the glove and offered the limb to Fred. Undoubtedly, the weapon was fine, but his pride would be another story.

It was hard to watch, a sympathetic grimace etched onto Fred’s face as he examined the amputation site. “You didn’t think to tell me you’d lost it? Must’ve been painful...”

“It weren’t lost- how was I gonna tell ya? You told me to beat it.” Dell spluttered in exasperation.

“That was over a decade ago now – you shoulda said somethin’ about an injury this bad...”

“It ain’t an injury-”

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of, mistakes happen-”

“No you- why haven’t you noticed yet?”

Fred’s gaze flitted from the metal hand to his son’s glare. “...Y’ had it covered before-”

“Not that- look!” Dell snapped. “Look closer.”

If there was anyone who could possibly recognise it, it would have to be Fred.

Fred paused, still cradling the false appendage in both of his soft hands. Every passing moment made Dell’s heart sink a little further as the man puzzled over the weapon.

“It’s grandpa’s. It’s based on grandpa’s hand.” he relented.

“Oh. I see it now.” Fred remarked, before turning his attention back to the exasperated Dell. “Well… I’m sorry you had to endure this on your own, but it weren’t your fault.”

“ Listen to me. ” Dell begged.

He rubbed his brow with his free hand and took a deep breath, making sure Fred wasn’t going to interrupt again before he explained himself.

“It was my fault.” he swallowed. “I… I got to see grandpa’s blueprints for myself, and I had to make everything I could - including this lil number here.” Dell wiggled the Gunslinger’s fingers and chuckled nervously.

“But… just building the thing weren’t enough. I didn’t need it, but I couldn’t know if it worked - really worked - if I couldn’t try it for myself.”

Fred’s brow knitted together at the implications, unsure that he was understanding correctly. Dell smiled weakly.

“Hadn’t planned for it, just… happened that way. If I’m honest, I still wonder what got into me sometimes. I remember holding it for the first time… and I just knew then that I had to go through with it.” He went quiet. “It’s like I had a little piece of him with me… almost like he’s still here. I miss him so bad.”

“You’re tellin’ me you… chopped your hand off on purpose?”

Dell nodded. He hung his head, ashamed at how easily his misery had spilled out, exhausted by the confession.

Fred slowly released the Gunslinger, opting to reach out to Dell instead. “Son, come here.” He soothed, wrapping him in his arms.

Dell didn’t resist.

The way his father held him was just as warm and loving and encompassing as he’d remembered it being as a small child. He fell limp against the man’s shoulder, his face burning, Fred’s shirt getting damp with tears and snot.

Fred hushed him and rocked gently. Of course, he couldn’t take back the soul-crushing loneliness that had driven his son to this. He couldn’t undo what had been done. Holding him now, as he wept with grief, was the least he could do.

“Hey, you don’t hafta keep that on if it’s getting sore.” Fred prompted him gently.

He’d recognised how Dell rubbed his residual arm where it met the prosthetic. Radigan had been the same, wearing the Gunslinger all day took a toll on the user.

“Right.” he breathed, conscious of it now.

Dell was used to having to hide that pain, both from his employers and his colleagues. He didn’t want to seem weaker or inhibited for it. He would force himself to keep going even as it wore on him, even through the strain of it. He tried to make his movements with the prosthetic seem natural and tried to conceal when the articulation jammed or malfunctioned.

Even when it came to asking advice from the medic, his pride would not allow him to disclose any more than necessary about the pains the amputation caused him.

Going without the prosthetic seemed entirely out of the question, but now that the air had cleared, it seemed silly to be afraid of being judged by Fred.

“Guess it’s just easy to think folks might see me as broken or something.”

“Y’ain’t broken – just a little too smart for your own good, I reckon.”

Dell laughed. He couldn’t argue with that.

The room was softer on the eyes, tinted with the deep blue of afternoon shadow. The scene itself was a fight long since over, smears and splatters of blood left to cool and congeal, discarded arms and ammunition – much unspent.

Virgil’s body had been left there, too, with his well loved rifle, as if both had been tossed haphazardly to the floor. He lay still, snow white hair splattered red.

The smell of smoke and gunpowder wafted on the warm air through the open window as Fred stood in the doorway. He’d barely just picked up the sounds of the Sniper’s rifle firing under the din of the battle, but hadn’t seen a body to go with it – until now.

The metal of Fred’s prosthetic legs clacked on the concrete. The hinges squealed as he knelt to scoop the old sniper into his arms one last time.

Virgil was cold, long gone.

Fred very carefully brushed the long strands of white hair from his face, the parts not stuck with dried blood, fingers grazing his cheekbones.

The engineer might have fantasised about truly healing together, about a life beyond the work they did as mercenaries, but reality would never have been so kind.

Even so, Fred couldn’t be angry. It broke his heart, surely. He would have wanted more time on earth with his old friend, his comrade, his confidante. But they had lost, fair and square. 

The battle was over, finally over.

If Virgil had spent his last day confidently behind the scope of a sniper rifle instead of tossing and turning, in a house in the middle of nowhere, that is the death he would have wanted. The one he’d been waiting for, really.

Fred sat in the wooden chair by the window where Virgil had set up his roost, cradling him in his arms.

The landscape outside was truly striking. Heavy clouds remained from the short bursts of rain, but vivid cracks of golden light split them and cast them in pinks and oranges. 

Sunset danced on the ocean surrounding Grey Mann’s fortress. The jagged, erratic rock formations cast pleasing shadows. The overgrowth on the outskirts appeared all the more lush in contrast to the concrete buildings. The visceral carnage of machines created strange, intricate forms that glinted gold.

It would have looked different in Virgil’s eyes, but it must have been beautiful, all the same.

“Goodnight, Virgil. Rest easy.”