Epilogue - Denouement +++ And with this, we are undone. And done. +++ It hadn't been really worth the trouble, mused Miss Pauling, as she fumbled the lighter off the bedside table and applied herself to her menthol filter. To be fair, she thought, the sex was every bit as good as she had anticipated. She stretched lazily, relishing the masochistic aches and twinges from the weekend's acrobatics - the bites on the back of her neck were going to bloom into bruises, for sure - secure in the knowledge that she had given just as good as she had gotten. She exhaled, the cloud of smoke glowing faintly in the moonlight streaming through the motel window as she idly admired the long, lean length of the slumbering Australian next to her. He was deeply, bonelessly asleep, and drooling into the pillow with exhaustion. The way the moon picked out the planes and hollows of his delightfully flexible body almost hid the marks she had left; she had carefully placed them to be easily hidden, even the ones he had begged her ever so humbly for. At least this time he hadn't wept in afterglow, not as he had during their first few trysts. She certainly had her work cut out for her to get him back and sniffing on her trail, after the interfering civilian had gotten her hooks into him. Miss Pauling was quite certain that the Sniper had never managed to consummate his infatuation with the girl, not all the way - there was no evidence on the surveillance tapes - but it had taken months of work before she succeeded in his turning to her for comfort. What a mess. The Agent that Marshall, Carter, and Dark had sent was as good as promised, and every bit worth his princely price, vanishing with the lion's share of her Mann Co. skimmed profits for the financial quarter. But he had also done not one whisker more than contracted, leaving her to tidy up the other fallout from the trollop's inadvertent and unfortunate intrusion. The unwelcome surprise had been in how long it had taken her to tie off the loose ends. Her lip lifted unconsciously in a silent snarl. Her in-tray had been filling uncomfortably fast with transfer requests from the mercenaries; the Medic's copperplate-inscribed forms cited irreconcilable differences with his coworkers, and the Soldier's, painstakingly written in near-typeset capitals, simply suggested that the loss of the base's Winged Victory merited investigation. It wasn't surprising, she reflected, that the deeply flawed warrior children of her little hothouse war had projected their own wishes on the whey-faced bint. On her last inspection visit to the base months ago, she had had to invent a story about how the scientists who had spirited the girl's distorted remains away for disposal had given her full burial rites. The Demoman and Scout had seemed to believe it, but the Spy had refused to either speak, or to meet her gaze. The huge Russian however, had glowered wordlessly, even more taciturn than usual, conveying his deep suspicion at her involvement in the events; it only served to confirm her suspicions that he was more astute and thus more dangerous, than she had previously believed. The Engineer had simply tipped his helmet like always, but with an unsettlingly knowing look of acknowledgment. Enough with the self-pity, she decided, stubbing her cigarette out in the tin ashtray. It could have easily gone much, much worse. She was still in a good position, pulling the strings from the shadows behind her figurehead of a boss, playing all three sides against each other, playing God as she wished. More pies than fingers, these days. She picked at a fleck of dried blood under a manicured nail. At least this one doesn't snore, she thought, casting a lazy, proprietary glance at the Sniper's form. She had always preferred to watch the quiet ones.