Archive of Our Own

Clear skies of deep cornelian color.

Beneath them - blindingly white mountain tops.

Sniper buttoned up his coat. Though it was formally spring, there was plenty of snow. And it didn’t look like it was going to melt any time soon.

The RED team was brought here only forty minutes ago; Sniper had just moved his van into the base's territory. It took mercenaries two days by truck and one by ferry to get here. So far, this was one of the longest transfers in the rifleman's experience.

He felt quite fine now, in spite of his mild headache. The overly bright light, thin air, and different atmospheric pressure were affecting him after all.

It was a normal occurrence for such height. But even breathing here felt odd.

The man took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to describe the faint scent in the air.

It must have smelled like perfect cleanliness.

Someone behind him stepped on the snow, making it creak. When Sniper turned around, he saw Scout, stumbling in hesitation on the threshold of the base. The man nodded at him, being too lazy to take his hands out of his pockets, but the runner didn't seem to mind. He walked over anyway and stood beside the gunman, hiding his shaved head in his hood.

They stayed silent for a while, peering into the blue mountains on the horizon and squinting against the bright light.

Scout was the first to speak.

– What’cha gonna do? - He asked, sniffling.

– Nothing, - Sniper answered, - There's no work for today. And you?

– Probably same, - the runner shrugged, - or I could check the surroundings later.

He was trying to act nonchalant, but it was hard for him to even stand still.

– The team's getting all set up in there, - Scout went on.

Sniper nodded.

The young man had nothing to add yet, so he just swayed from heel to toe. He didn't last long though, and after a few seconds blurted something just for the sake of not being silent:

– Engie found a buncha’ skis, you know?

Skis?

– Skis, you say?

– Yea, not jus’ skis, clothes too. And masks. And goggles or some stuff, saw ‘em hanging somewhere in there, - the runner confirmed with enthusiasm, delighted with the gunman’s interest.

Sniper was indeed intrigued.

– What could we possibly need it for? - The rifleman wondered melancholically, roaming his eyes around until they caught something curious in the distance.

Above the treetops, there peeked out some poles. With wires and booths on them.

– Ah, that should've been obvious… Skis, mountains… - the man muttered, pleased with his hunch.

– What are you talking about? - Scout momentarily lost all of his toughness, looking around in question.

– Over there, on the right. On the right. No, dumbass, - Sniper put his palm on the top of Scout's head and turned it to the proper side, - See?

– Where... Wait, what is it?

– A funicular.

– A what?

– This base, most likely, was rebuilt from the ski resort, - the man explained patiently, - But for some reason they did nothing with the equipment and the tracks.

Scout let out a hum and proposed after a short pause:

– Why don't we go and check it out?

– Or maybe we could go skiing? - Sniper raised the stakes, suddenly feeling such an urge himself.

– What, you mean, like, full-on skiing? – for a brief moment Scout seemed puzzled with the idea.

– Why not? The weather’s fine, and we have nothing else to do, - the man nodded at the clear sky.

Scout hesitated for a bit. Then, he was nodding vigorously.

After getting the runner’s approval, Sniper turned to the exit:

– Shall we?

– Hell yeah, dude! – the young man grinned.

And then, they were off.

Scout didn’t lie, there really was a supply room. And it was full of things necessary for skiing.

After a while, when they came out into the mess hall all dressed and ready, it drew a lot of attention from their teammates. The most of it came from Soldier, who decided to give Scout a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

The runner was hunching over, frowning and turning redder with each slap of the stiff palm, but didn’t snap back, enduring it instead. He feared the formidable man, and the latter, using his authority, kept Scout in an iron grip. Dared him to the utmost, watched for discipline. And, every so often, even gave him a military cut, just like he had himself - Scout had just grown the tiniest bit of hair.

As soon as Soldier stopped cheerfully beating him, Scout hurried to get away, but Sniper grabbed him by the sleeve.

– Not so fast. Don't forget the mask, - he handed the runner a knitted balaclava of bright orange color, that the young man refused to put on earlier.

– What, are you my mom? - Scout hissed, still pink in the cheeks, -  Can I go without putting this shit on?

– Well, you can, of course, - the man obediently withdrew his hand with the mask, and then added: - Unless you want to be running around with snot to your chin tomorrow. They won't be turning on the Medigun today just for your smug ass.

– Alright, gimme that ugly rag, - the runner demanded angrily, and was immediately given a balaclava.

Having put it on, he slouched down and whined:

– I look fucking stupid!

– At least you’re gonna be warm, - Sniper retorted, adjusting his own hat.

– Got yourself a better one, didn't you? - Scout grumbled.

–  And I've got more hair than you, so be quiet, - the gunman held the door open, shoving the runner towards the exit, - Hurry up, Engie is waiting.

When the two got to the right place, said man was near the funicular tower. A little earlier, Engineer, lured with the unfamiliar machinery, had agreed to check out the cable car. At the sight of his teammates he waved his hand in a thick work glove.

– Works all fine there, just went up and back myself, - reported the gunsmith, - Controls are easy. S’all marked, just in case. In big letters.

The taunt was directed at Scout, but he just snorted and looked away.

– Thanks, man, - Sniper gratefully clapped Engineer’s palm.

– Anytime, - the man chuckled, - Don’t mind helping. Have a good trip, fellas!

And, after hearing two short "thank yous," he left toward the base.

There were only three buttons: "up", "down", and the mysterious "emergency exit". With one hand on the handrail, Sniper pushed "up", hoping to himself that he would never have to find out what the last button did.

The cable car jerked and gently came into motion up the cable. Its speed was slow, allowing to get a good look at the view below. And that's exactly what Scout did.

For a while Sniper, too, watched the pines and the snow leisurely passing beneath them, but involuntarily his focus shifted to Scout. Because of his balaclava he was the brightest spot in the sight of the man, strongly contrasting with the sky.

Scout could rarely be caught that concentrated, Sniper personally was seeing him like this for the first time. And so, he began to study this phenomenon with curiosity.

The runner’s face, lacking any sign of stubble, lived its own life. He was one of the kind that opens their mouth when seeing something new or wipes their nose with a whole palm; his every motion seemed too big for his body, involving every muscle possible. This way, Scout always looked like he was in a rush to live, or making faces at someone. Which was not far from the truth.

Sometimes it was hard for Sniper to believe that him and Scout were almost of the same age. At twenty-three the runner showed behaviours, worth of a hormone-raging teenager. He was obnoxious, loud, impenetrably ignorant and impossibly full of himself. Some of the other mercs often wondered how Scout was even given a job in the first place, as on the top of everything else he was borderline illiterate.

But when it came to work, the runner’s flaws turned into virtues. In some mysterious way, at the ring of the match alarm Scout morphed into a perfect war machine, working his butt off to earn a win every round. This was a trait that drew the most of Sniper's tacit acknowledgement. It spoke of professionalism.

As a professional himself, Sniper worked clean, kept the work matters on the range, and treated his colleagues with respect (or tried at least). Some could call that a great business etiquette, but in reality it was a tactic to minimise contact with other people, for that’s simply how he, Sniper, was as a person.

So the gunman rightfully found it surprising, when Scout had started hanging around him. The runner didn't always try to talk to Sniper; sometimes he just was there. However, if he did start a conversation, Sniper would be even more surprised to be running with it. In fact, though many deemed Scout's babbling unbearable, Sniper often found it weirdly amusing. 

Did that mean that he and the runner could be called friends? Sniper didn't know for sure. 

But the man still let that happen.

Meanwhile, having spotted something, Scout turned to Sniper:

– Hey, I can see the BLU base from here!

That got the rifleman out of his thoughts. He turned his head slightly, looking down.

– Right, - Sniper agreed, - Just like ours. Only they have no funicular.

Scout, mocking, showed the clump of buildings with the blue logo his middle finger.

Sniper let out a quiet chuckle.

Yeah, that was... Something.

A couple minutes later, the booth jolted again, and finally came to a stop.

Sniper jumped out of it first, immediately dropping his skis on the snow. He handled the leather straps in no time, quickly securing them to his feet. After taking a couple test steps and making sure that everything was holding tight, the rifleman turned his feet sideways and steadily climbed higher, to the beginning of the slope.

– Snipes, - came a muffled voice from behind.

– Huh? - Sniper looked over his shoulder, surprised to find the runner still sitting in the funicular.

– I have something to confess to you, - the young man hesitated, but still jumped onto the snow, holding the skis under his arm.

– What now? - The gunman squinted, stopping halfway.

– I've never actually... ever gone skiing in my life, - Scout admitted, pulling himself together.

Sniper raised an eyebrow in surprise:

– Why'd you agree to it, then?

– Well, I am a quick learner, aren't I? I'll get the hang of it, don't worry, - Scout bragged, as he grabbed a hold of his skis.

– Does it mean I have to teach you? - the gunman asked ironically, watching the runner fumble with the straps.

– I guess so, - Scout confirmed with the cheekiest look, as he straightened up and pulled his ski goggles from his forehead to the bridge of his nose.

And then inquired, as if nothing had happened:

– So… What’d ya do with your feet exactly?

Sniper spent the next hour supervising Scout’s struggle. He took the runner’s words at face value and didn’t bother at all, especially since the latter was perfectly occupied by himself. Yes, Scout was in tune with his body and instinctively knew when to lean and when to bend his legs, but he lacked patience. And skis didn't appreciate that. That's why at the most unexpected times they would move apart in different directions or turn the wrong way, repeatedly putting the insolent skier into the snow. Scout just couldn’t learn to ski in one second, but he persisted. And that was quite amusing to witness.

In his humble way, Sniper believed that he was an okay skier himself. It wasn’t hard for him to do a little trick or two, since the slope allowed him to do so. The snow was, however, a little rough, but it didn't stop the man much. Except that each time he braked, a high wave of snow dust rose, flying in all directions.

It must have looked impressive from the side, because Scout, once again slumped on his ass, was staring at the gunman with wide eyes.

Some could say that Sniper was showing off. Maybe he was. But on the other hand, why not demonstrate what you're pretty okay at? Especially when there was such an appreciative audience.

So the rifleman did a couple more ollies. And then, simply for variety, he slid backwards, making a U-turn at the end without the help of the sticks.

– Where'd you learn that, huh? Don't tell me it’s your another aussie thing, - exhaled Scout enthusiastically, still seated.

– I won't. We don't have that much snow, - Sniper grinned smugly, - Let's just say it's a hidden talent of mine.

– How much’d you train? – the runner asked with greed in his eyes.

– Well... About two days, tops, - the gunman answered frankly, taking unimaginable pleasure in seeing Scout's puzzled face.

– You're shitting me, - He shook his head with a dumb grin.

– Say what you want, pal, -  Sniper said, and poked Scout’s side with his ski stick, - Get up, it’s time for the big slide. We can go faster now.

Scout immediately sprang up, but Sniper slowed him down right away, knowing the runner’s passion for high speeds:

– But not too fast, you can’t brake properly yet. If you get carried away, who's gonna pick up your bones in the woods?

Scout replied with an abominable chuckle.

He didn't listen to the rifleman - at first he rushed like crazy, then braked, using his feet and sticks. He just couldn't give up the risk. Scout was luckier on the big slope than he had been at first; the young man never once flopped again. Maybe he really was a fast learner.

Anyway, the descent went smoothly. Towards the end, Sniper allowed himself to speed up and enjoyed the sensation of being fast, leaving a trail of disturbed fresh snow behind him. When he reached the end, he made a gorgeous turn, probably the best of the day.

Close behind the gunman, Scout fell out into the snow. The slope ran out, and so did his luck, so the runner got his ski caught on some dry bush and rolled over into the nearest snowdrift. It did not upset him, on the contrary, Scout climbed out excited and immediately tried to get up. And once up, he turned not to the base, as Sniper expected, but back to the funicular.

– Did ya really like it that much? - The man chuckled.

Scout, happy and red-faced from the wind, nodded joyfully.

– Then I'll be off, you ski, - Sniper took off his skis and put them on his shoulder, - Don't brake with your sticks. And, you know… Just be careful.

That last bit seemed to take Scout by surprise, but after a second he was already waving his hands at the rifleman, insisting that he understood everything.

And, after mirroring the gesture, the man walked to the base building, already anticipating a hot shower and a cup of tea.

The plan got only half-executed.

After the shower, Sniper, feeling a bit woozy, laid down on the couch in the mess hall, and accidentally overslept the entire lunch hour. But when the man awoke, he was met with silence and the delicious smell of freshly cooked food. It meant that he could finally have his tea in peace.

As soon as the rifleman stood up from the couch, it became clear that he wasn't alone there.

Spy was sitting at the table, sipping coffee and leafing through a newspaper. When he noticed Sniper, he tore his gaze away from his reading for a second, and then nodded slightly. The rifleman nodded back, not risking to start a conversation. His stomach insisted on getting some food, so the man walked over to the stove. What he saw there smelled much better than it looked, but Sniper wasn’t picky. Each of the mercenaries was on kitchen duty in turn, and willy-nilly everyone had to learn how to cook. And since all of them considered taste and smell to be the most important thing in food, the appearance had been neglected long since.

So the man ate his portion of dubious stew with pleasure. And then he was just as pleased to drink scalding hot tea from his large mug, stretching his legs on a nearby chair and chugging loudly. Partly it was his habit, partly he did it in spite of the frenchman. At the beginning of their service, Spy tried to make remarks to his colleagues, but soon realized that it was useless around these brutes, and resigned himself to showing his disdain through expressive pantomimes.

For some reason Spy was very patient today. He neither grimaced nor twisted his nose as usual, and instead, at one point, put aside his newspaper and kindly inquired in his purring accent:

– Well, how is the weather in the mountains?..

And Sniper, feeling lukewarm from the hot food and drinking, answered him just as kindly. Today, he decided, would be the day when he would tolerate the frenchman's company. Then, at any moment, they could return to their usual polite ignoring of each other, but for now the rifleman allowed himself to be dragged into a long conversation.

One had to hand it to this creep, he knew how to talk beautifully. He spoke so smoothly, that Sniper didn’t notice the passage of time. The discussion revolved mostly around food, art, and women, and Sniper didn't really understand how it had come to this, since he wasn't knowledgeable enough about any of it. At these points the gunman realised that Spy was probably just bragging, but he didn't stop him. It was Spy, he had always been like that. 

In an absolutely incredible way, the conversation came full circle and returned to the starting point: the mountains.

– You know, I like this place, - the frenchman said dreamily, propping his chin up, - It reminds me of home.

A little earlier he had gone to his room and returned with a bottle of semi-sweet red wine. Sniper barely sipped his portion, since he didn't like wine much, and Spy took something about a glass. The coherence of his speech wasn’t affected, but instead a slight blush was beginning to show on his sharp cheekbones, no longer hidden by his mask.

– Of the Alps? - Sniper suggested.

– Oui. Have you ever been there?

– No.

– Be sure to visit, - advised Spy with a confident look, and then muttered, looking somewhere in the distance, - I would not refuse a trip there.

The gunman answered in mute agreement, while the frenchman continued, stroking his perfectly shaved jaw with his knuckles:

– I confess, many years ago I thought of taking the boy with me on the L'Orient-Express, to show him this beautiful route... But, you see, - the man let out a bitter chuckle, - Our young sir lacks intelligence. He wouldn't have appreciated it. Well, if he'd even put up with me at all.

– Oh, a lot of folks have to put up with you, - the rifleman couldn't resist a little pinch.

– How very kind of you, - Spy smiled sarcastically, - But alas... It's true.

He went silent, and then added:

– I think I understand now why my son clings to you.

– Does he? - Sniper frowned confusedly.

– Absolutely.

– And why’s that? - asked the rifleman, still not understanding exactly what the frenchman meant.

– You really are a good listener, - Spy said with an incomprehensible emotion in his voice, confusing Sniper even more.

He didn’t react to this response, deciding that the wine had hit the frenchman in the head after all. Otherwise it was difficult to explain this stream of revelations.

Spy was immersed in his thoughts for a while, and then suddenly turned back to the gunman, remembering something:

– By the way, when was the last time you have seen our petit sauteur?

Sniper was going to say "not long ago", but he decided to check his watch, and stopped himself.

Four hours had passed already since they parted at the funicular.

That was weird.

Seeing the tense expression on the man's face, Spy answered his mute question:

– No, he didn't come here while you were asleep. I would have noticed.

All Sniper's levity instantly vanished.

– I'll go find him, - Sniper, frowning, rose from his seat.

– Go ahead, - the frenchman agreed a little absent-mindedly, once again concentrating on his own thoughts.

At the threshold, just as Sniper was about to leave, Spy suddenly called out to him:

– Before you go... It was nice to see you in something other than a dirty shirt, mister Mundy.

And then, the gunman could’ve sworn it, the frenchman checked him out.

That last bit threw the man completely off balance, and he hurried to get out of here as quickly as possible, confusedly lifting the collar of the sweater he'd taken from the supply room that afternoon.

Had he just been hit on?

Sniper didn't want to deal with that at all, especially since the other problem was far more relevant.

Where the hell did Scout go?

It was much colder outside than he had expected. His sweater and ski suit were thin, but the man hoped he'd be back before he would freeze.

The base area was completely desolate. Sniper had little faith that he would find Scout so easily, but he yelled his name a couple times anyway, though no one responded.

It was strange that Scout didn't come down. Four hours was more than enough to starve out and get tired, especially since he was physically active.

The next point was the cable car tower. There was something wrong with the man’s perception of time as he made his way up, for it seemed to him that the cable car was moving at a truly snail's pace. When the funicular finally crawled to the beginning of the slope, the man was already a little freaked out.

Mountains greeted him with silence and freezing temperatures. The snow was covered with ski tracks, but Scout was nowhere to be seen. Trying to remain calm, Sniper shouted for the runner again, but he heard nothing but the echo of his own voice.

Shit.

Meanwhile, it was starting to get dark. Slowly but surely it was getting dimmer and dimmer around him, getting on Sniper's nerves. He didn’t have a flashlight, and now, if he didn't find Scout, he had a decent chance of not returning himself.

Shit!

He had to be quick and methodical. Look at the ground. Check all the trails.

Most of them were right here, on the hollow part of the hill, but they overlapped each other and it was difficult to understand anything. The rifleman was glad that the snow around him was clean and untouched, because it made it easier to see where Scout certainly didn't go.

But there was still one other option of where the runner might have gone. And Sniper really, really didn't like that option.

Some of the trails led to a big slope. The gunman counted - there were five of them. That meant Scout went down on his own three more times.

Not knowing what to expect, Sniper decided to walk down the slide, tracing the undulating lines with his eyes. By then he was freezing thoroughly, no longer able to feel his fingers and toes. He kept screaming, tearing up his throat, and looked through the sparse woods on the sides of the track, hoping to spot something.

And finally he did. About halfway down, one of the trails abruptly turned to the side, snaking between the trees.

– Mother of…, - the gunman cursed, feeling a chill in his guts.

Now he was following that particular trail, playing every possible scenario in his head. The fact that the the slope on this side of the mountain was steeper, meant only one thing: Scout was going too fast, one way or another. With his skiing skills that meant no good.

And so it turned out to be.

Despite all the legitimate expectations, Sniper wasn’t prepared to see what things really looked like. He had witnessed thousands of ugly scenes and had been the direct cause of at least half of them, but this time it wasn’t the same. It was wrong. Out of place.

Perhaps he should’ve thanked his past self for making Scout wear the balaclava. Without it he would have simply blended in with his surroundings.

The runnerwas lying half-buried in the snow. His goggles were still on, but there was a dark bruise under one of the lenses. Both skis had been broken, covering the area with wood chips, and the ski sticks were a few feet away from his body.

All in all, he looked almost normal, except for his unnaturally crooked left leg.

– I fucking warned you, - Sniper muttered bitterly, as he felt his chest tighten. The man knelt beside the body instinctively, taking off his glove to check for a pulse.

For how long had he lain like that? Half an hour? An hour? Two hours?

Was he even alive?

What would have happened if Spy hadn't remembered Scout?

What would have happened if Spy didn't want to start the conversation?

For how long they might have sat at the base, having parlor chats, while Scout was there, getting closer to death by hypothermia by each passing minute?

Sniper didn't know the answers, but the flood of questions in his head just wouldn't stop.

He wanted to laugh from the absurdity of the situation.

He wanted to get back to the comfort and warmth of the base.

He wanted to swear out loud.

He was disgusted at himself for not being able to find Scout's jugular vein.

Finally, after a few minutes of futile attempts, his numb fingers felt a slow, faint, but yet a pulse, and the gunman let out a shaky sigh, relieved.

Alive. He was alive.

It was time to do what should’ve been done from the start: to get Scout out of here. Carefully, trying to avoid disturbing his broken leg, Sniper removed the ski fragments and threw the unconscious body onto his shoulder. He had a long way through the thick snow and dark woods ahead of him.

But the worst part was already over.

When Sniper stormed into the base with Scout on his shoulder, Spy was still sitting at the table. He jumped out of his seat as they arrived, staring at them. He was a little wobbly, but he immediately guessed that something wasn’t right. And when he finally saw the runner's state, his face dropped.

The frenchman rushed to the gunman, helping him to move the body to the couch. Scout wasn't heavy, but no one wanted to add to his injuries. Trying to do it as gently as possible, Sniper unlaced and removed Scout's ski boots, which was difficult due to the severe swelling of his broken leg. The mask and jacket followed right after.

Scout's goggles were the last to go. Seeing the huge bruise on Scout's face, Spy whispered something, but all Sniper could make out was "Merde".

 It took him a few seconds to calm down. The man turned to the rifleman in a quiet, serious voice:

– I'm going to wake up the Medic now.

The rifleman nodded.

Spy rushed to the infirmary, and Sniper tiredly sank to the floor next to the couch. He had a headache and, apparently, a sore throat.

He remembered the following events in bits and pieces.

Spy returned and brought a worried Medic with him.

Medic grabbed both Scout and Sniper and dragged them to the infirmary, despite the latter's objections.

As it turned out, he was right. Both had varying degrees of frostbite, and the runner had a concussion on top of all his other injuries.

The Quick-Fix was a great tool, but still not perfect, so the exhaustion and aftereffects of Sniper's worries remained with him. When Medic strictly ordered him to stay in the infirmary until tomorrow, he obeyed without question.

He had no energy left, the gunman just wanted to end this day. And as soon as the door slammed behind the doctor, the man closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.

...At first Sniper didn't recognize what had awakened him.

The rising sun was shining directly into his eyes, filling the room with pink light. Without lifting his eyelids, he turned to the other side, and the problem solved itself. He was about to fall asleep again, but then he heard the blanket rustling and cries from somewhere close.

They just wouldn't stop, and the man opened his eyes. He propped himself up on his elbow and then saw the source of the noise.

Scout was writhing in the next bed. He was heaving, sighing, even saying something inaudible, as if he was begging someone. It was clear that he wasn’t having a good dream.

Sniper was already thinking of waking the runner up, but he suddenly did it himself, abruptly sitting up in bed.

Scout panted, staring at the wall in front of him. He was trembling so hard that even the rifleman could see it. And when the runner turned his face to the man, the beads of sweat on his forehead glistened under the light.

Sniper stared at him, remembering all the things he'd been thinking as he dragged Scout's body back to the base, choking and struggling to move his frozen legs. In fact, he had a lot to say.

Scout stared back. For a long while. With each second, he slouched down more and more, as in an attempt to hide.

Sniper opened his mouth...

And closed it.

Scout looked so guilty, so miserable, that all intention to yell at him has vanished. So the gunman stood up, took a couple steps to the Scout’s bed and sat down on its edge.

And then shifted to the runner, awkwardly half-hugging him by the shoulders.

Scout meekly nuzzled into the gunman's chest. The older man put his other hand on the top of the shaved head and began to gently rock from side to side, comforting him. Scout was silently crying now, clinging to the man's sweater, and Sniper's hand on the runner’s skinny back felt his every sob.

Sniper waited. Didn't say anything, just waited.

It took a decent amount of time for Scout’s breathing to even out and for him to stop trembling. All this time Sniper didn't see his face, and the runner didn't show it until he wiped his wet cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt.

He really didn't want the man to see his tears.

– Am I… Am I in trouble? - Scout asked hoarsely, pulling away. He still wasn't looking at Sniper.

– No. You'll be here today, and tomorrow you'll get back to work, - the rifleman answered calmly, taking his hand off the runner’s back.

– Sh… Shouldn’t Medic be writing a report for the company? - He was frowning, and his eyes were wandering around the room.

– I think he already did. But it was an accident out of hours, so no, you won't be in trouble for that, - Sniper kept his voice neutral. He leaned back against the cold wall, staring at Scout.

– Did you... Were you the one who...? - Scout didn't finish the sentence, but the rifleman caught it.

 He nodded, confirming.

– Jesus fucking Christ, - the runner groaned, hiding his face in his hands, - Don't tell me anything, I get it, it was a dumb idea, and I'm dumb, and you warned me, and...

Hearing this, Sniper felt a certain amount of satisfaction in the back of his mind. In fact, he was going to say something like that at first, though in a slightly different form. But he still stepped into this stream of self-deprecation, not letting Scout finish:

– Yeah, I’ve warned you. You're a lad with his own head on his shoulders, you know best, but in the ordinary world, we're ordinary people. With only one life.

He wasn't swearing. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't lecturing. He was just talking.

And it seemed that this time the runner would take his advise.

Scout sniffed noisily and nodded in agreement. The initial tension was slowly fading from him, and he was beginning to sound more and more like his normal self.

– Thank you, Snipes. For everything.

A lot went into that last word.

Sniper heard it.

– Just… Just don't tell anyone about this. Please.

Sniper knew what he meant. It was important.

– Okay. I won't.

In return he received a shy, hesitant smile, that appeared just for a fraction of a second.

Then the runner, already cheerful, decided to brag:

– Yunno, for a while on that mountain I was as good as you... Or even cooler!

– I don't doubt it, - the gunman grinned, - but let's talk about that later. I'd rather get some sleep.

He got up and went back to his bed.

– Oh, right, - Scout rustled in his sheets, tossing and turning, – Hey man, I've only just realized, we'll have the whole base to ourselves! What are we gonna do?

But Sniper, already wrapped up in his blanket, didn't answer.

– We’re going back to the top now, because here he comes – Jimmy Moose Barrows of the United States, Moose, who’s been injured two or three times last year. But gee, he heals quick, doesn’t he? Here he comes! A big fella, six feet tall and one hundred and ninety pounds, from Steamboat Springs, Colorado. You can see him just passing his injured teammate, Rod Hebron…

 – Sheesh, they’ve got such a steep slope! Where is that, exactly?

– Grenoble. France.

– Ugh, France...

– Into the gully… And coming now into the hairpin turn… He’s really trying to carry a lot of speed; Moose wants to have a good race here…

– What the… Why does he need such long skis?

– They're cross-country.

– Okay, I guess...

– You can see the skis just moving all over the place, and when this happens, you know it’s rough. Here he… O-o-o-o-h! Oh no, no! - The narrators' voices merge in a single shriek, - Oh, a terrible fall! It looks like he landed right on his head and shoulder there. That looks like a bad one for Jim… 

– Why the hell are you looking at me like that?!

– Why do I, really?

An angry snort.

– I got it already, geez...

And then, almost without a pause:

– Hey, you think you could be like these, u-h-h, Biath... Biathletes, yeah! Like biathletes, ski and shoot?

– Dunno. Never tried.

–What, never? Try at least once!

A moment of silence. After that, thoughtfully:

– Well... One time wouldn’t hurt, would it?