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There are many words to describe the Red Leader.
Oh, the Red Leader? Terrifying.
Red Leader? Insane .
Him? Vile .
Merciless. Psychopathic. Sadistic. Ruthless. Cruel. So on, so forth
Tord wonders which one of these is running through the young soldier’s head right now. Honestly, it could be all of them—given how much sweat is sliding down his face. No, not sliding. Pouring . He can very well see how damp the turtleneck sweater is on the man’s neck.
It’d be a lie to say he didn’t relish in it. Call it an ego-booster, if you will.
Tom would’ve probably compared it to some kink, and then reprimanded him for it, despite coming to the conclusion entirely by himself. Then he’d smack him.
The smile on Tord’s face becomes just a tad bit more genuine.
It catches the soldier’s notice, and apparently that seemed like an official sign that this exclusive meeting probably wasn’t going as terrible as he thought. His timid posture even straightens up a bit, and he ends whatever he’d been rambling about with his own smile, albeit a nervous one.
“—and the final update, Red Leader sir, is that due to the budget cuts for the compensation of the promotional campaign, the shipment of the materials for the RD677 prototypes will be slightly delayed by—”
“The what.”
Terrifying. Insane. Vile. Cruel.
The young soldier trembles.
There are lights.
There are cameras.
And there is a lot of action.
For a moment, there isn’t anything Tord can do but stand still amidst the round of chaos that fills the room. Technicians by the overhead balconies, spotlights moving to and fro for the best angle, people both pushing and pulling racks of various costumes, someone by the vanity mirrors choosing between a purple or pink wig, and a very prominent bell in the middle that supposedly signifies the start of the shooting.
Unfortunately, not with guns.
Someone approaches him, noticeably not in a Red Army uniform, but with a headset and a clipboard. A clipboard. “There you are!” She speaks into her mic. “Alright, alright. I found the Red Leader stand-in.” Glancing to the side, she waves at whoever with her clipboard. A clipboard. “We’ve been looking all over for you, goddammit. The restrooms couldn’t have been that far—aw, great, you’re looking a bit washed out. Fanny! Freshen him up.” She leaves. Shouting into her mic. With her clipboard.
Someone else approaches him, also not in a Red Army uniform, but also without a headset and a clipboard. Instead, they are wielding a brush. A very fluffy brush. With something white sprinkled onto it.
They look him up. Then down. Then up.
Tord stares at them.
“Huh,” they say. “Your scar is on the wrong side.”
There, he sits, like some regent admiring the offerings before him. Gold bars in the form of flimsy actors settled on the stage. An abundance of crops representing the rubber guns and plastic rubble. Blessings upon thee, for the stoic man in Blue.
Relishing , in his own way.
It takes effort, to not be distracted at the utmost glee in the other’s face once he spots him. Not so much as a smile, but a clearly visible perk up to his lounge. One fist clenches, metal ever so creaking, could’ve been louder if not for the gloves. Judging by the digital flicker of green, this does not go unnoticed. In fact, if the visor were not in the way, there very well could’ve been a certain glint in those sockets for eyes. When the man in Blue raises a challenging brow, digital and green, he finally makes his way towards him.
And decidedly does not stomp.
Only kicks out one of the many wires on the ground as he passes through, not sparing a single glance at how it topples one of the cameras down. Someone shrieks.
Below the visor, chapped lips twitch. Tord refuses to acknowledge it.
He looms, instead, over the seated man. And also refuses to acknowledge the words printed on the cloth of the chair.
DIRECTOR.
“Hei vennen,” comes a sweet simper. His legs are crossed, so he’s swinging one back and forth, casual as a cat sunbathing on the windowsill.
“Kjære,” he returns, distinctly the opposite. It almost throws him off guard, how the spectrum seemed to flip on them. “What is this?”
“Hm? Is it not obvious what we are cultivating in this very environment right now?” Tom digs into the bag next to him, his arm practically engulfed into the void as he rummages. “With how much further this Red-Green war has been going on, we’ve hit an all time low on the morale of our troops and fellow alliances. I figure that one way to boost everyone’s spirits is to make our very own Red Army commercial. Propaganda to rally soldiers up and all that.” Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a large red megaphone is aimed at him: “ JOIN THE RED ARMY TODAY! HIP HIP, HOORAY! Eh. Well. We’re still working on the slogan.”
Tord does not flinch at the volume. How, he wonders, could he ever forget how much of a little shit his Thomas is capable of being.
“Am I correct to assume that the costs of this very…” —Tord isn’t massaging his ear, there is no ringing, it’s just itchy — “ endeavor you speak of… comes from the allocated budget we have for the manufacturing of the RD677?”
“Not at all, I can assure our esteemed Red Leader that every coin and bill founding this comes from my own account.”
“We share an account.”
Tom doesn’t even deign that with a response, for he finally slips out a smile. He can read that look with even his own eyes closed. Tom does not care about the state of the war, the morale of the troops, or the propaganda of the Red Army.
The smile stretches just small enough to reveal a single fang. It glints off the many spotlights.
Tord’s fingers twitch, an urge to reach out. Who knows whether there had been plans to hold or plans to just pommel the other’s face in, because Tord isn’t giving in to either. He thought himself more civil than that.
Civil, he chants in his head, forcibly putting his other hand down. Civil, civil, civil.
“There’s the Red Leader stand-in!”
Before he could turn around and snap at Fanny , he and Tom are met with—
“What the— PAUL!”
“Hello old frrrriends,” the goddamn bastard himself smiles at them—a god-awful mimicry of an accent emphasizing his R’s in the most heinous way possible. But, that’s not what makes Tord want to strangle the life out of one his (former) most trustworthy comrades. Not even the fact that he’s still in his own uniform despite apparently being casted as Tord, not even how his robot arm prosthetic is merely cardboard spray painted red and somehow a bit of pink as well, not even how Paul’s hair isn’t in the right shape as Tord’s. No.
“Paul, why are the scars on the wrong fucking side!”
Paul wrinkles his face, the damn make-up on him caking up at the motion. “That’s odd. Looked right to me in the mirror.”
“You’re an idiot!” Tord bites, then snaps his head towards Tom. There’s an audible crack. “Why is this guy playing as me?!”
“Why is this guy playing as me?!” Paul repeats, and no , Tord is not that nasally!
“Holy leprechaun in lingerie,” Tom whispers, some faux look of amazement scattering his features. “I just got chills. Did you guys get chills? Paul, do it again. Action.”
“Paul, why are the scarrrrrs on the wrong fucking side,” Paul dutifully follows like the traitor he is, eyeing someone over their shoulders…
Pat stares back at them, one unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He says, monotone and tired: “That’s odd. Looked right to me in the mirror.”
“I will have you all shot for treason.”
“Oh!” Another voice pops in from their other side. Matt runs in, holding a stack of papers, stapled. “Is it my scene? Tom says I’m to play as Sexy Tank #2 .”
The bell rings.
“Young man,” the poor excuse of a ‘Red Leader’ calls out. Tord can’t watch, but he has to. As he facepalms, peeking in between the spaces of his fingers. At how Paul points at the camera with the cardboard arm. It’s falling apart. The pinky drops to the ground. “Are you listening to me? I said, young man! What do you want to be?”
“Who wrote this?” He sneers at Tom, voice low, since that woman with the clipboard gave him the stink eye for yelling at their well-respected director earlier. Stink eye. At the terrifying, insane, vicious goddamned Red Leader. The supposed director himself isn’t even watching the scene! He seems perfectly content being an audience to Tord’s cringing. “Thomas, if it is you, then I am sorely disappointed in your belief of becoming a halfway decent scriptwriter. A suffocating fish flopping on a keyboard missing its vowels could’ve written better poetry than this.”
Tom, chin perfectly resting on his knuckles, only smiles. “Edd wrote it.”
Tord’s glare sears Tom.
In the background, Paul continues: “Young man, put your pride on the shelf! And just go there, to the great Red Army! I’m sure they. Can. Help. You. To-DAY…”
Then, a few beats trill out from the speakers, and honestly it’s quite embarrassing that it took Tord this long to recognize—
“It’s fun to stay at the—”
“A-M-R-Y!”
“IT’S FUN TO STAY AT THE—”
“A-M-R-Y!”
“Forbanna hæstkuk.” Tord now uses both hands to smother his own face in. If only the ground would swallow him up. Unfortunately not, he is sentenced to become a victim of the very scene before him.
Paul singing, the soldiers chanting. They dance to the misspelled letters in a battlefield made out of plastic grass and rubber rocks. Someone is playing as Sexy Helicopter #3, next to Matt as Sexy Tank #2. They can’t raise their arms to spell. They just sway. Pat isn’t even dancing. It looks like he’s actually lit the cigarette and is praying for a nicotine overdose.
“You can get yourself clean, you can have a good meal! You can do, whatever you feel! It’s fun to stay at the—”
“A-M-R-Y!”
“IT’S FUN TO STAY AT THE—”
“A-M-R-Y!”
“Is that all they’re going to say?” Tord asks, no small hint of desperation in his tone.
Tom finally looks away from the suffering of Tord, flipping through the papers in his hold. He stops, reads what’s on the script. Flips again. Flips. Flips. He reaches the end. He turns the paper upside down.
“Yes.” Smile .
“IT’S FUN TO STAY AT THE—”
“A-M-R-Y!”
“IT’S FUN TO STAY AT THE—”
“A-M-R-Y!”
“Thank you, thank you.” He shakes her hand. “The production was perfect , I look forward to the final result. Feel free to publish it live, no need for any second opinions from me. I’m sure it’ll look great whatsoever.”
“Oh, Mr. Thompson, you’re too kind!”
“I have full confidence in your discretion. Don’t forget to bill this to the account of Thorfrid Dahll , alright? That’s D-A-H-L-L.”
“Of course, Mr. Thompson. Thank you again! We’ll handle the wrap up from here.”
Ultimately satisfied, Tom takes his leave. He passes by Matt struggling to take his Sexy Tank off and studiously avoids looking Pat in the eye. It’s fine. They’re not really going to end up shot. They should be more like Paul. Completely uncaring of everything, content that his compensation is a few more vacation days, and oblivious to the fact that he may or may not look suspiciously as if he’s getting an allergic reaction from the makeup used for the burn scars.
Be more like Paul.
Tom also avoids looking him in the eye, finally reaching the exit.
It’s been a while since Tord left the studio. Promptly made his own leave around the 40th time they repeated the chorus, perhaps 41 being too much for him and his poor baby pride. That, or the fact that Tom revealed to him that Tord was actually casted to be Sexy Tank #1.
Tord ended up burning the papers in Tom’s hold at that, stomping off afterwards. Knocking down another camera.
Tom, alone in the empty hall, smiles.
The base is relatively barren with most of the army being centered on the area of filming, so it takes Tom quicker to reach the elevators. Inside, he syncs his visor to the interface. He waits a moment for it to register his identity before it pings in confirmation. Then, the elevator moves.
Bit by bit do the numbers indicating the floors rise, until the numbers shift to letters. Then, to colors. Purple, blue, and finally, red.
A ping. The elevators open. A single hallway reveals itself, with one dark wood door at the very end.
He opens it, an empty bedroom greets him. One side of the king-size is unmade, while the other has Tommee tucked in. By the side, the bathroom door is only slightly open, lights on. He can hear running water.
As he enters the room, he hears something. Something that makes him perk up.
He tiptoes. Closer. Closer. And closer to the bathroom. He peeks in between the gap, and…
"Young man, take a walk up the street… It's a place there called the great Red Army… They can start. You. Back. On. Your-Way…"
Tom chokes.
“It’s fun to stay at the— Oh piss off, man.”
There’s a loud bang somewhere. It’s in the back of Tom’s mind. Frankly, he can’t hear anything right now. Or breathe. The door swings back and forth as his whole weight hangs off the doorknob, followed by echoes of gasping and choking. Maybe hiccuping. Oh god. He’s crying . Fingers lose their feeling, letting go as gravity gradually settles lower, and lower, and lower. Full on sobbing, with his hands and knees on the squeaky tiles. Oh god. Here comes the coughs. And one gag. He really has to relearn how to breathe.
“Thomas.” The shower curtains pull back with a slink. The shower continues to run. “Shut the fuck up.”
Tom catapults from the ground, eyes catching the image before him—sneer admittedly not that intimidating with how comparable the other is to a sopping wet kitten. With rabies.
And a blush that blooms not only his cheeks, ears, and neck.
He laughs harder.
Tord grumbles something incomprehensible under his breath, twisting the shower off and wiping excess water from his face. Valiantly, he is resolutely ignoring the finger poking and prodding at him, and the maniacal glee bouncing off the four corners of ceramic. Tom pokes him on a very, very red nose when he growls out, “Pass me the towel.”
“Where? It’s fun to stay where?”
“It’s catchy!”
“Where, Tord?”
“Shut up! My balls are freezing!”
“It’s fun to stay at the—”
“ Towel!”
Strange, Tom finds himself clapping to an unsung beat. Stranger even, how he finds himself not caring, his own cheeks aching from how wide he’s smiling.
And the strangest is when he sings: “A-M-R-Y!”
“SHUT UP!”
“It’s fun to stay at the—” Amidst the giggling, he can’t really continue the song. He settles for spelling it out, still dancing to some imagined instrumentals. Probably doing it wrong too. His R looks like a D, and it faces the opposite way. He doesn’t even remember the rest of the lyrics, just keeps spelling the stupid abbreviation over and over again like some mantra. He’s coughing again, and he thinks he kind of even spelled it correctly a few times. Goddammit.
At some point, he’s closed his eyes.
He sniffs, very lightly as he sobers up. Hand reaching up to rub at his eyes in reflex, only to be met with the visor. The device adjusts as he blinks a few times to reset his gaze, and refocuses on the figure before him.
Tord is smiling at him.
Tom sniffs again. “Whatever.” He forces himself to turn away, ignoring the way his chest seems to thrum out of tune from the dumb song they’ve all been apparently obsessed with, a few beats skipping along every time he glances back and still finds Tord and that stupid smile. So fucking stupid. Wasn’t he pissed off just a moment ago? Dumbass. Must’ve hit his head on the faucet or something. He yanks the towel hanging from the wall and thrusts it over.
Tord reaches back, skips the towel, and grasps his wrist.
Pulls, leans in and—
Yeah.
Okay.
From a bad rendition of Village People, to an embarrassment hot enough to boil the seven seas, to a pack of hyenas having a cocaine-filled meltdown coalesced into one guy to. This.
Yeah. Okay.
Tom. Holds on. And tilts his head.
Tord hums. He can feel it.
He shivers.
…God, the bastard is still naked . And damp. Ew.
Before he’s sent to cardiac arrest, Tom pulls back. He does not think about the distinct pop that comes up. About his breathlessness. About the damn smile still on Tord’s face. He doesn’t. “You’re not really going to shoot the whole production team, aren’t you? At least eighty percent of it is your army.”
Tord leans in again. The other’s nose pecks at his cheek. Tom pretends it’s not at all the same shade as what had been on Tord’s features prior. Goddammit, stop smiling like that . “Mm. I could replace them. New recruits. That’s what your commercial is for, isn’t it? It better be worth the delays of RD677.”
“Sure.” Tom rolls his eyes, holding tighter. Some part of him scoffs at the fact that he even had to ask . Because both of them are well aware of the situation. Both of them, beyond a single doubt, wholeheartedly uncaring .
Nobody’s getting shot.
The RD677’s delays aren’t that important.
Because the Red Leader? Absolutely
smitten
.