Chapter Text
"Did we have to invite Mack?" Ginny kept her voice down as she and Pip trailed behind the other two BLU team. "I mean, she's certainly enthusiastic enough, bless her heart, but she's not exactly the first person I think of when it comes to a night on the town."
"Yeah, we did have to invite her, and I'll tell you why." Pip nodded to Molly, now walking arm-in-arm with the soldier and singing something about gravel. "You don't know about this, 'coz you're always off somewhere else by the end of the night."
"That's not true," Ginny said. Pip gave her a look. "Okay, it is true. But you gotta admit, some of those gentlemen had fine biceps. Good hands, too," she added with a smile.
"Yeah, well, the thing is that every time the three of us go out, you're the one who's off erectin' a dispenser while I'm the one who has to carry Molly home while she cries over Mack."
Ginny's eyebrows rose, pushing her everpresent goggles further up her forehead. "Won't admit to it sober, huh?"
"You ever see Molly sober? No, the problem is she won't admit to it till she's near-unconscious, and I'm tired of lugging her back to the base. I don't know what she eats, she's skinnier than I am but she's heavier than the Russkie." Pip grinned. "I figure if Mack comes along with us, that'll solve the problem."
Ginny was silent a moment. "You thought that through, didn't you?"
"Put my whole brainbox into it, Tex." "Well, bless your heart, I can't see any way this could go wrong." Ginny ran a hand through her curls, down from their braid for once, and shook her head. "Hold up a minute, girls. We're here."
Mack and Molly didn't hear her. "-- oh, a pit's not a pit with no gravel in it, so --" Pip scooped up a pair of empty beer cans from the sidewalk and tossed them squarely at her teammates' heads. The resulting thud (and clang in Mack's case) stopped the song, and Molly turned so that her good eye faced the scout. "The fook was that, Pip?"
"We're here already." She pointed to the sign above the door: Velvet Fog Karaoke Bar, and below it on a hand-lettered sign, Ladies' Night!
Mack leaned back far enough that she could see past her helmet. "This is a den of objectification and a haven for the male gaze," she announced.
"Yeah, but they got great cocktails," Pip said.
"All the more reason for us to take it over," Ginny cut in smoothly.
An evil smile crossed Mack's face. "You have a point there, my Hephaestian friend. Lead on."
The bar was cramped, dark, and this early in the evening, pretty much empty. A few scattered tables stood at this end of the floor, but at the far end was the important thing: a little stage with a machine and speakers, as well as a sign reading Karaoke! Hosted by your favorite crooner!
Molly gave the racks of bottles over the bar a measuring look."Why'd we come here? Why not O'Neill's?"
"Because you blew up O'Neill's," Pip said. "And their doorman keeps making puppy eyes at Ginny whenever we go back there. Besides, I got the name of this place from Sparky. She says it's fantastic."
"If a member of my team asserts the superiority of this oasis, then I will support her assessment!" Mack stomped to the bar and glared at the taps.
The bartender, a gangly young man who'd only been on the job about a month, smiled at her. "What can I get for you?"
"A beer!"
The bartender's smile slowly wilted. "Any, uh, particular kind of beer?"
Mack's helmet slid down a little, the equivalent of a furrowed brow. "An American beer!" He nodded slowly, then moved to the taps.
"It is bad enough," a clipped voice cut through Pip's excited announcement of the drinks menu, "that I have to listen to all of you calling for me all day, but must I see you in the evening as well?"
The girls turned to see a familiar pair of silhouettes at the end of the bar. Dr. Eisenbrust regarded them frostily through her spectacles. This, of course, didn't stop Pip. "Hiya, doc!" she said, waving. "How come you're out here and not cutting up some kittens?"
"Kittens are passé," Eisenbrust said dismissively.
"Pyro recommended vodka selection," the hulking figure by the doctor said. "Is adequate. Besides, is time to celebrate!"
A thin smile crept to Eisenbrust's lips. "I have just received word that my grant proposal was accepted."
"Oh?" Ginny leaned over the bar, dropping a bill in front of the bartender and pointing to the Jake's Hard Sweet Tea tap. "Which one? They give you everything you ask for?"
"Everything and then some. Research money, travel funds, reconstructive and deconstructive surgery . . ." The doctor sighed happily. "But truly, now is not the time to relax. Now we should soberly consider how best to use these funds --"
"Is not a time for being sober." Medvedovna clapped the doctor on the shoulder, knocking her half a step into the bar. "I tell doctor this, she does not believe me, I convince her. Find babysitter for Ilya -- Miss Pauling who works for angry woman. And we go out." She put an arm around Eisenbrust's shoulders and squeezed, then nudged the tumblerfull of vodka closer. "Come, drink. We celebrate."
Eisenbrust grimaced, adjusted her glasses, and fixed the bartender with a look that gave him horrible flashbacks to second grade. "Ein Berliner weisse mit schuss, please."
The bartender -- -- stared at her. "Sorry?"
"Oh, just give her a Foster's Light. It works out to the same thing." The girls turned just in time to see Bunny bound up next to Eisenbrust and give her a quick, engulfing hug. "Hiya, doc! You out on the town too?"
Medvodovna answered for her, slamming another empty glass on the bar. "Doktor has received funding," she announced. "We celebrate." She punctuated the latter with a reproachful glare at Eisenbrust, who sighed.
"Oh, peachy! Hugs all around, then!"
The doctor put up both hands. "Please, no. I do not think your outfit could take the strain," she added, raising an eyebrow.
"What, this old thing?" Bunny looked down at the -- well, it could have been a dress, for a midget maybe, but on her it was mostly blue sparkles and hope. "Oh, it's a special occasion, isn't it, Amelie?"
"Indeed it is." The remaining members of the BLU team spun around. The slender Frenchwoman, who'd materialized just behind them, only smiled and stalked to the bar.
"You know I hate it when you do that," Eisenbrust snapped.
Amelie shrugged, the gesture rendered exquisitely eloquent in her understated sheath dress. "You heal, I sneak. It is our nature, and as such does not exist only on the battlefield." She slid onto the stool next to Bunny, selecting a drink menu from its little stand. "Nevertheless, congratulations on your breakthrough. I trust it will prove fruitful to our employers."
"Employers, ja, but science first."
"Can't argue with that," Ginny said, and winked as the bartender set a frosty mug of Sweet Tea before her.
Amelie's lip curled as if she would disagree, but she let it stand. "Myself and petite lapin, we are here for a more frivolous reason. Today is, or more accurately cannot be disproven to be, my birthday, and Bunny --"
"It's the sixth anniversary of the Great Wallaby Fight! You'd have liked it, Heavy; boxing everywhere. Only they don't like it when you put gloves on their feet. Believe me, I tried! So we're out on the town so I can score with some hot young men!"
Eisenbrust pushed up her glasses. "And how is that working out for you?"
"Oh, it's been fun!" She turned and engulfed Amelie in another abundant hug. "Ammi's my wingman! Only we don't seem to be having much luck so far."
"They were not good enough for you, cherie." Amelie smirked at Medvedovna and Eisenbrust, daring them to say something. Her smile turned frosty as she took in the bartender, who hadn't moved or even blinked since Bunny's arrival. "Were you not told to fetch a weak beer for the doctor?"
The bartender snapped back to attention. "Uh. Yes. Right away."
"Oh, hold on, I want to order, let's see . . ." Bunny scanned the menu in Amelie's hand. "I'll have a Pinkie Pop-Tart, please. Oh, oh, and can you put one of those little umbrellas in it?"
"Sure. Anything. And for you, um, ma'am?"
Amelie glanced again at the menu, her brows drawing together. Finally she sighed and set it down. "I want a brandy alexander. You can approximate that, certainly?"
"I -- sure. Yeah. Hang on, I gotta start up the machinery for the stage show first."
Amelie shook her head. "I am beginning to think our inflammatory friend's assessment of this place was too complimentary by half."
"Hang on." Molly leaned over Mack's shoulder. "If you heard about this place from Sparky, and you did, and we did -- then how'd she hear about it?"
The lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared on stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," a recorded voice announced, "please welcome the golden tones of your karaoke host!"
The BLU team stared in mutual shock as a familiar, dumpy shape shuffled onto stage, picked up the microphone, and drew a deep breath. "Hrrda . . . hrrda hrr hr . . . hrrrda . . ."
As the next few bars of "Feelings" continued, Eisenbrust turned to her companion. "I think I have changed my mind about that vodka."
The next couple of hours passed with more inexplicably popular songs from Sparky (including a version of "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen" that had Bunny sniffling), a startlingly good Slim Whitman impersonation from Ginny (the finer points of which were, alas, lost on Pip, who tried to stuff a bar stool in her ears), a version of "Shipping up to Boston" that was quickly cut off when it became clear Pip intended to replace most of the lyrics with obscenities, and Mack's continuing incomprehension regarding the lack of either "Star-Spangled Banner" or "I Am Woman" on the list of songs. The bar began to fill up, but it soon became clear that the stage had been claimed by the BLU team. Since most of the clientele were there to watch rather than sing, it worked out all right.
After a while, the bartender gave up on serving Medvedovna quickly enough and settled for plonking a fresh bottle of vodka in front of her (and the now-wobbling doctor) every so often. This may have been a miscalculation, as it now gave him more time to get Amelie's drink order wrong. The brandy alexander was deemed more of a brandy ptolemy, the dry Manhattan came out as a sweet Manhattan, the layers of Frangelico and Kahlua somehow got jostled in her next drink, and his lemon-twisting technique apparently would make Dionysus cry bitter tears of disappointment, according to Amelie. The last straw appeared to be a peach Bellini, apparently to complement Bunny's Fuzzy Navel.
"This is undrinkable." Amelie did not raise her voice, but somehow it still cut through the noise of the crowd. "I would not use this to clean windows."
The bartender stared at her with an expression that any Pyro would recognize: the look of someone who has been set on fire five times already and has just stepped around a corner to see another happy gas-mask. "I'm very sorry, ma'am," he said mechanically. "Maybe a glass of wine, or something straight up --"
"No. No, I think I will go easy on you." She set down her glass, folded her hands, and regarded him like a diplomat at the negotiating table. "I will just have a simple dry martini."
The bartender's shoulders drooped, and he made a small, almost inaudible whimper. Any possible response he could have made, though, was drowned in a screech of feedback and sparks. All eyes turned to the stage, where Medvedovna, who had been beating out time for "Rah Rah Rasputin" on the karaoke machine, raised her hand from the crumpled console. "Cardboard," she said disgustedly. "All little machines made of cardboard. Like men today."
"Sorryma'amtechnicaldifficulties." The bartender practically leaped out from behind the bar and hurried up to the stage. Ginny leaned over his shoulder as he inspected the wreckage.
"Ah, it don't look bad. You got any tools in the back?"
"A couple," he said faintly, staring at the shattered machine.
"Come on, then. We'll have this up and running quicker than a gingered nag." She tucked the mess of parts under one arm, took the microphone from Medvedovna, and patted the bartender on the back as she escorted him past the stage.
"How are we gonna sing now?" Bunny asked. "I was gonna do ABBA again!"
"Bah!" A skinny arm thrust between her and Amelie. "You frilly little pansy southerners need music to sing? You don't know the first thing about drinking or singing!" Molly shoved her way to the front, glared at Medvedovna till she stepped back, and after a couple of tries, climbed up onto the stage. She squinted through the spotlight, took a long swig of her drink (a Lowlander's Revenge, according to the bartender, consisting mostly of whisky and other whisky), and wiped her mouth. "A real drinking song," she said, "only needs a few things: a drink, a singer, and some fookin' regret. You! In the front! Can you keep a beat?"
Sparky nodded, rapping her fingers against the table with a solid clonk.
Molly closed her eyes, then began to sing in a startlingly sweet alto that almost made up for the content of the song -- something about cutting off heads and boiling them in oil. A voice in the back of the bar laughed, though, and Mack joined in, with enthusiasm if no actual tunefulness. Medvedovna chuckled and thumped the Scot on the shoulder. "You understand drinking." "'Course I fookin' do!"
Soon the whole bar was joining in on other songs from the traditional Scottish genre of "Songs About Fighting Those Other Bastards." Finally Molly drained the last of her drink, elbowed Medvedovna off the stage, and started in on "The Minstrel Boy."
Bunny burst into tears and sobbed against Amelie, whose expression of disdain faded slightly. Pip emerged from the ladies' room and stared. "Did I go into the wrong bar?" she asked Medvedovna, who stood watching with an expression of approval.
"Nyet. Is same." She glanced down at Pip. "Where is engineer?"
"In the back." Pip snorted. "So we won't be seeing her for a bit. Where's the doc?"
"In bathroom. I think. Turns out doktor does like vodka."
Molly finished the song and stumbled off the stage. "And that's, that's for you," she announced, pointing at Mack, "the best fookin' soldier in the whole fookin' world -- do you know, I --"
The microphone dropped, and so did Molly, pitching over headfirst with a gentle snore. Mack caught her and put her over one shoulder. "You done good, kid. You've done all your foremothers proud."
Awkward pauses were not usually something the team was sensitive to, but this time they looked away. "So what now?" Pip said. "I sure as hell ain't going in the back to see if Ginny's done yet."
"Now?" A giant beer stein crashed onto the table in front of her, slopping foam everywhere. "Now is the time for polka!" Eisenbrust vaulted behind the bar and knocked the taps open. "Beer for everyone, ja? On the haus! Nein, on the country!" She laughed in much the same way as she laughed after disemboweling an enemy spy. "After all -- I have funding!" The resulting roar more than made up for the lack of music.
Pip stared, mouth agape, and barely noticed when Ginny nudged her arm. "Where'd the doc get the beer steins?" the engineer asked mildly.
"Never mind that, where'd she get the dirndl?" Pip shook her head, then did a double-take. "You're done already?"
"Yep." Ginny grinned. "And here we go: one karaoke machine, fixed. With some improvements." Without bothering to look, she swatted Pip's hand away from the new red button on the side. "That's the turbo-sonic overdrive. You should probably leave that alone for now."
"So why the hell'd you add it?"
The engineer shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Yeah, I'm betting the polka music did too." The scout glanced back at the bar, where Medvedovna had procured a concertina and was doing her best to play "Roll Out the Barrel" with some form of help from both Sparky and Eisenbrust. The bartender, ousted by the German doctor, sat a little ways away with the remainder of Amelie's drink in front of him and a rather dazed expression. "You got any ideas?"
"Might." She lugged the machine to the stage, set it up, and picked up the microphone. "Sister Sledge has a couple ideas too. Ladies? BLU team? I think it's time for an ensemble song."
It took a couple of tries -- Mack, in particular, was still unclear on the concept, and Eisenbrust refused to sing without a stein in her hand -- but about halfway through "We Are Family" the whole team caught on. The other denizens of the bar (except for the bartender, who'd toppled over with a big smile on his face) cheered and clapped, possibly out of the subconscious realization that if they didn't there might be dire consequences.
"-- telling you, it's Ladies' Night, so that means there's tons of dames just waiting for a couple of good men to say hi." The nasal Boston accent cut through the last note of the song. Everyone on stage looked up to see the bar door opening. "I'll flex a few times, you do -- whatever it is you do, and voyla, instant chicks --"
The red-shirted scout -- and the similarly dressed men behind him -- stopped before they'd made it more than a few feet into the bar. They might be a little cleaner than their usual state on the battlefield, but those silhouettes were recognizable instantly. As were those of the team on stage.
Molly raised her head from Mack's shoulder, blinked a few times, and focused on the intruders. "RED team," she mumbled, then seemingly without ill effects from her unconsciousness, reached down and smashed one of the chairs against the stage. "Let's get them, girls!" she yelled, brandishing a chair-leg.
Pip leaned past her and hit the "turbo-sonic overdrive" switch.
Administrator: I've been trying to patch together the rest of the evening's events in order to determine which team we should charge with the public damages, etc. Records are a bit spotty, though. As far as I can figure:
- the city-block-wide swath of destruction appears to have been the result of a six-person melee through downtown, based on the fire damage and noise complaints of competing versions of "Scotland the Brave," not to mention the . . . unique . . . vandalism of the obelisk in the center of town,
- the RED scout was found dangling from a flagpole by his undergarments with "CURSE OF THE BAMBINA, BITCH" scrawled on the ground,
- according to the official records, both Amelie and Bunny returned to the base early and spent the rest of the evening watching Disney movies. However, the RED sniper continually complains of phantom spiders, while we have received six extradition requests from different countries for the RED spy, whose location was apparently leaked,
- the RED medic and heavy were in a gutter behind the bar; the heavy's head had been jammed into a hole in the wall and "NOT PART OF THE CONTROL GROUP" written on his backside, while the medic was mumbling something about not having much fun in Stalingrad,
- and though there are no reports of either team's engineer that evening following their departure from the bar, the invention rate for both has seen a significant uptick. I refuse to speculate on why.
A detailed expense listing and breakdown is attached.
Pauling: Charge all damages to the RED team; it's what they get for losing. And give a hefty raise to everyone on Team 18B. They've performed quite adequately, for now.