Chapter Text
Anselm stares at the Ghost; the Ghost boredly watches.
The man isn't all that surprised that this Ghost knew his name. Plenty of Ghosts can do what this one just did. Whether or not he was watching Anselm since he arrived or read his mind, Anselm can at least skip his own introductions.
The Ghost seems to take amusement from Anselm's shock. A little smile forms on his face.
"Are you impressed or stupid?" the Ghost asks. Anselm swallows, carefully picking his words.
"I am quite familiar with Ghosts' abilities, sir," Anselm replies. He quickly adds, "but yes, I am impressed with your entrance."
The Ghost, not at all affected by the compliment, continues on. "You do not need to explain anything to me, I already know."
Anselm nods. Everyone has seen a Ghost at least once in their lives; they all know how these kinds of things work, as tragic as that is. An economy must continue, no matter the tragedy, to all's despair.
"Yes, I expected that," Anselm sighs, straight-faced. "Though the gentleman who assigned me this job never gave me any details in the application. I know nothing about you or your comrades."
The Ghost grins. "The one who employed you doesn't have access to our files. He doesn't know much about us regardless. The person you're looking for information from passed a long time ago."
Anselm stares at his own boots, confusion written all over his face. His eyes are wide, filled with questions he knows won't get answered. Still, a gentle smile curls up on his face as he looks the Ghost in the eyes. He has a job to do. He must stay in control.
If that's the case, would you like to tell me your name?" Anselm asks. Whatever is beyond the door has gone silent, but there's still a feeling that it could be waiting. He has a long as he needs in here.
The Ghost looks at the door and back at Anselm. A cigarette suddenly appears in his left hand and a lighter in his right. The lighter is flicked open, a click ignites a ghostly flame, and the cigarette's end is lit. The lighter is gone, having done its job. The Ghost takes a long drag from his newly lit cigarette before he answers. "Spy."
Anselm gives him a questioning look. The Ghost stares seriously back.
"I would much prefer it if you addressed me as Spy," the Ghost reiterates.
Anselm slowly nods, deciding to stare at the door. "So, Spy, do you know who, or what, chased me into this room?"
Spy walks towards the door. "That was Soldier. He usually bothers Sniper. I don't see what is so special about you, to make him act like this."
Anselm immediately clocks that something isn't right with Spy.
"The Angered desire human life," Anselm mumbles, trying to remember. Spy gives him a weird look.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks. It's been a long time since Anselm has been in a similar predicament. What did he ask? What did he do?
Then he remembers.
"Has Soldier tried fighting anyone?"
"Normally, yes?"
"Do you pass through him?"
Spy watches, confused. "He is not particularly fond with physical or emotional contact, Anselm. Where are you going with this?"
Anselm grabs a chair and stands by the door. The Ghost, Soldier, starts slamming the door again. Eventually, the door flies onto the wall beside Anselm, and a Ghost in a military uniform runs in. Anselm slams the chair into Soldier; it goes through him, and into the wall. The top of the chair splits off, splinters and wood chips on the floor. Soldier looks confused, barely able to process it. He turns his head slowly, his eyes are hidden behind his helmet, but he still sees Anselm. Soldier smiles, despite the stranger having tried to hit him with a chair. He turns to a bewildered Spy.
"Hello, Spy!" Soldier says. He looks at Anselm, still smiling. "Hello, Anselm!"
Spy stares at Soldier. Anselm tries to pick out the splinters from his hands, all the while staring confusedly at the new Ghost. Spy clears his throat. He moves over to Anselm's side, taking care to avoid Soldier. The helmeted Ghost watches Anselm pick the last splinter out as if the man is doing something he's never seen before.
"Soldier," Spy starts, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Yes?" Soldier replies, obviously unaware of his coworker's tone.
"Why were you screaming and chasing our guest?" Spy asks.
"I was trying to welcome him!" Soldier says. "And I was yelling at him, not screaming! Because Pyro told me he was trying to get in the Infirmary!"
"Is that so?" Spy looks at Anselm and back at Soldier. "Yes, well, he knows not to do it again now. You may leave."
Soldier salutes and marches out the room. Spy turns back to Anselm. Anselm looks at Spy, rubbing the specks of blood off his hands.
"It is too dangerous to go in there," Spy says, "and it would be in your best interests to not try."
The man gazes out the door. Real anxiety, real uncertainty, every drop of his emotions has his legs turn to stone. It isn't until Spy is watching him from the door when his heart starts to beat again.
"MY colleagues would not mind a new face, we—they—have spent quite some time wondering when someone would show up," Spy says. All this time, he has a straight face. His eyes still halfway from shut. Like his interaction with Soldier has aged him five more years. "For the remainder, I would like you speaking to them. Company nourishes the spirit, but bad company starves it."
Anselm nods. "All right."
Spy raises an eyebrow. Anselm sheepishly walks over to the door. Spy closes it behind him. They both take a right and venture down the hall.
"May I ask you some questions?" Anselm asks. "If you don't mind?"
Spy looks up at the ceiling and breathes out some smoke. He nods at Anselm to go ahead.
"How did you die?" Anselm asks. Spy tenses up and coughs on his cigarette smoke. Anselm is about to help when the Ghost raises his hand at his face. Spy regains his composure, fist on his chest.
"I, much like the others, was locked in this place," Spy says. "I was one of the last, and I couldn't stand it like they did."
Anselm nods, frowning. Spy doesn't say anything else.
"I'm sorry," Anselm says.
"No, I'm sure it is standard to ask."
"Yes, it is. You wouldn't believe how many I've come across who has been in a similar predicament."
He doesn't know why he said that. This is a Ghost. He's not a coworker or a friend. He knows it's unnaturally unprofessional, talking to a Ghost about his line of work on the job. Trying his hardest to help guide that same Ghost to Acceptance. It only makes it hurt more.
Nevertheless, Spy nods. Looking forward. Back straight. Aware. Precise. Down to the very core, a put-together man. To the very end. Now without a heartbeat, skin no more. Though it is obvious he's nowhere near ready for his end. He never seemed ready for Ghosthood.
Anselm realizes the two are going down the stairs. His left foot hits the back of his right. He falls the rest of the way, seeing a glimpse of Spy trying to catch him and his hand passing through. His side hits the ground, a sting in his left arm buzzing through. Anselm lets out a yelp. Spy rushes down the stairs and kneels down. A door nearby slams open. Anselm sits up and rubs his arm. The tingling persists, even when he rubs his hand to get rid of it. Spy opens his mouth, concerns about to pour out, before Anselm stops him.
"It's okay, I'm fine," Anselm says. Though he's still rubbing his elbow when more steps come by. He stands up, making sure his legs are pointed the right way.
"It's okay, I'm fine," Anselm says. Though he's still rubbing his elbow when more steps come by. He stands up, making sure his legs are pointed the right way.
"What in tarnation—" a Southern voice starts. He stops at the sight of Spy, who's glaring daggers back at a Ghost just out of Anselm's sight. The welcomeness the man felt when he entered the base is felt tenfold. Only balanced by the anxiety.
Anselm eventually sets his eyes on the third Ghost he's seen today. A much shorter Ghost than Spy, with overalls and goggles and boots. A hardhat is on the head, worn backwards. Questions bubble into his mind. Soldier with his bucket helmet and army jacket, Anselm can find excuses for. Spy is definitely hard to find a reason for—Anselm immediately assumed Spy had an anonymous conference that day when he died. This Ghost looks like a repairman, but he seems more ready for the battlements than tightening a pipe.
"What in Sam Hill is going on here?" the Ghost turns to Spy. His confusion on him, from his face to even his tensed shoulders, is quite warranted.
"Anselm tripped, that's all," Spy replies.
"Down the stairs?" he asks. He leans in, looking up at the stairs beside his coworker. He turns back to Anselm. "I've been meaning to fix that, sorry."
"No, no, I," Anselm can feel that twinge of embarrassment past the adrenaline and fear, "I tripped over myself."
The Ghost's mouth twists into an unusual smile. He looks over at Spy, almost like he's about to ask him, "Is that true?"
Spy looks at Anselm in disbelief but nods anyway. "Yes, he did. But I was trying to save him from the embarrassment, laborer."
The Ghost rests his hands on his belt, thumbs behind the leather. He extends his gloved right hand out. "Well, it's nice to meet ya, Anselm! I'm Engineer, and this is my buddy Pyro."
Engineer points to the faceless person who has been peeking over his shoulder. A gas mask, with dark goggles and a breathing valve, hides their face. Anselm immediately thinks of the Rec Room. The mirror. Engineer steps out of the way, letting Pyro be seen. Pyro has a full suit on; from the way it looks, it seems to be a fire resistant one from the last decade, most likely made in Australia. Pyro runs up to Anselm, black, yellow-tipped rubber gloves outstretched. Arms wrap around Anselm, and Pyro stomps their, also rubber, boots. Anselm raises his arms, the mask buried in his chest. A closer look, soot and ashes can be spotted all over the suit. It looks well taken care of, just unwashed.
Pyro mumbles something, though Anselm can't make it out with the mask. Whispers and mutterings, Anselm finds easy to hear. But this, this feels like a language he doesn't understand.
"They said they're happy to see ya," Engineer translates, after a couple minutes. He smiles normally, mouth curved, not twisted. "They don't bite. Usually."
Pyro giggles. Anselm smiles uncomfortably in response. He pats Pyro's back, the patches of ectoplasm long stained allowing him to feel the ash and rubber. Pyro lets him go, though it's more like their arms were slightly passing through Anselm's' torso.
"You'll understand 'em eventually," Engineer says. He puts his arm around Pyro's neck, resting on their shoulders. Spy watches on boredly. "How 'bout we go stay for a bit at my workshop? It ain't pretty, but there's plenty of space."
Even with the goggles on, Anselm can tell Engineer is looking at the device on his back. Spy signals for him to follow when everyone else has started walking. Anselm catches up, until the group reaches a metal door that leads to the workshop. While the Ghosts pass through, Anselm forces the rusted hinges to turn the door and let him in. The Ghosts have already settled, with Engineer and Pyro by a cluttered workbench while Spy stands in a corner away from the other two. Anselm walks over to Engineer. A heartbeat starts in his head, sounding like the entire room is pounding.
"Now, what's this on your back, son?" Engineer asks. Anselm simply maintains his smile; the same one he's kept on this entire visit.
"It is something I use to keep Ghosts calm, or to transport them when they're outside," Anselm explains. Engineer lifts up his goggles, revealing nostalgic eyes.
"It looks like one of Doc's..." Engineer mutters. "Our doctor didn't believe all that much in Ghosts when we were, well, alive, but that machine right there looks like one of his."
Engineer looks up at Anselm. "Where'd ya get it?"
Anselm stares at the floor. "It was years ago. I don't know."
Spy walks up to Anselm, standing between the man and the slightly aggravated Ghost. "Many of our team's machines were sold. Most were broken, laborer. Perhaps the Medi Gun was bought by Anselm's agency?"
"If a buncha Ghost Hunters went and reverse engineered Doc's technology, I'd love to see 'em explain it," Engineer says. "Our doctor never made sense. Heck, trying to fix any of it myself was hard without him."
"It just puts the Ghost in the pack to give them space to calm down," Anselm says. "It's more so a vacuum than anything special."
Engineer's hands tighten into fists. "So they take our Medic's broken tech and don't' even fix it right?"
"He was the only one who knew, Engineer," Spy butts in. "And his way of things were quite outlandish to start with."
"Y'don't think I know that?" Engineer raises his voice. His face turns red. "He was one of the most powerful people here! Hell, he could raise the dead on a whim! If he knew what was comin', why hasn't he came back to revive us, ya snake?"
Spy stares, offended. Pyro shouts, his mask muffling it all, and stomps out the workshop. Engineer turns to the door.
"Pyro!" he shouts. He briefly looks back at Spy and Anselm before he runs out the door. "Pyro!"
Anselm looks at Spy, curious. "Someone can revive Ghosts?"
"He used it all the time, during the war. The war after that one, actually. He felt as though he had more use, even if he stayed up, recreating the formula, over and over."
Spy snaps out of it. "But he is a lifeline the team lost years ago. We only have ourselves to blame for having our guard down."
Spy walks out the workshop. Anselm follows, realizing they're going the opposite direction from Pyro and Engineer, having taken a right instead of a left. They go up the stairs, Spy having taken Anselm's hand. Rather than a regular hold, it's a tight grip that could cut off Anselm's circulation if Spy tries enough.
"What else do you do, Mr. Anselm?" Spy asks. "Beyond forcing Ghosts to die?"
Ignoring the insult, Anselm clears his throat. "I experiment with ectoplasm. It comes with the job. I usually clean it up, but I find it such a waste to dispose of it."
"Ectoplasm?"
"The Angered usually secretes it. Ectoplasm is that substance that allows Ghosts to take shape," Anselm explains. "I happen to be around it so much that my hands are in the physical realm, but I can feel things in your realm as well."
"What about seeing us?"
"It is tradition to put a couple drops in a new Hunter's eyes. But a Hunter needs to know what a Ghost looks like before their job to properly console one," Anselm says.
Spy hums, having lost interest relatively fast. "And yet you saw each of us almost immediately."
Anselm chuckles. "Yes. This condition of mine raises a few eyebrows among the living as well."
Spy relaxes after a few minutes of silence. He stops at a door. Anselm's hand is freed, nearly a light blue. The Ghost knocks on the wooden door, quite loudly, Anselm must add.
"Sniper! Bushman! Open the door!" Spy shouts. A scream can be heard from the other side, followed by several objects falling and crashing. The door opens eventually, Soldier lookign back. The scene behind him is a smidge below chaotic; a Ghost has fallen face first on the floor, surrounded by fallen used cans and several watering cans, for some reason. Another Ghost is trying to lift up the fallen Ghost.
"Hello!" Soldier says with a lopsided smile on his face like there's nothing wrong. "Sniper is on the floor!"
The Ghost, called Sniper, eventually stands up. He silently nods at Spy and Anselm before returning to an open window at the back of the room.
"Demoman!" Soldier yells at the other Ghost, who's already leaning back in an old lounge. He tries to wrap an arm over Anselm's shoulder, but it phases through Anselm slightly. The Ghost looks up at Soldier. "Have you met Anselm?"
Demoman take a glance at Anselm with his one eye. He looks at Soldier and smiles. "No, is he that Hunter ye were talkin' about?"
"Yes!" Soldier shouts. A ring runs through Anselm's ears, making the man flinch. He tries to push Anselm, but, like before, his arms phase through him. Anselm walks over to Demoman and forces his hand out to the Ghost.
"It's nice to meet you, Demoman," Anselm says. Demoman analyzes Anselm before he stands up with a big smile on his face. By some semi-human instinct, he grabs Anselm's hand tightly and shakes it vigorously. Though he doesn't seem to be all that disturbed by that fact or even notice it.
"Ay, nice to meet ye too," Demoman replies. He places his hands on his hips. "I heard all about ye. Almost everyone's been interested in ye for months now."
"Really?" Anselm questions. He looks back at Spy, who nods. He is jolted back into the conversation by Demoman's roar of a laugh.
"Yeah!" he says. He blinks, looking ahead. Anselm just now realizes he has one eye. "Sniper! Do ye want to talk with the lad?"
The Ghost named Sniper, the one at the window, loos back at Demoman and Anselm. His stare burrows into Anselm. Regardless, Anselm waves at Sniper.
"Hello, Anselm," Sniper mumbles as he turns back to the window.
"Scout?" Demoman calls out. A figure in the corner makes itself known to Anselm. A face turns to look at the man and the Ghost. The figure stands up, revealing itself to be much shorter than Anselm. The figure leaves the shadows in the corner, revealing himself to be another Ghost.
"Heya," Scout says. How he says it sounds depressing. Anselm never met the guy, but he knows immediately that this is not how he acts normally.
Scout shuffles to a corner closer to Spy. Anselm counts five Ghosts, Engineer and Pyro making seven.
Spy and Scout watch Anselm, both with a similar hesitating face each. Anselm just keeps his smile on his face and tries his best to be attentive to everyone. Although, the room is silent.
Scout clears his throat. "So, uh, Anselm."
The man looks at the young Ghost. "Yes?"
"Have ya met everyone yet?" he asks.
Anselm glances at Spy, before answering Scout's question. "I don't really know, honestly."
"No," Spy says. He has his hands in his pockets, looking dismissively at nothing. "I doubt he'd be quite so welcoming to any visitors like we are. He'd probably be like the brute he is and kill you, Anselm."
Scout's about to protest, his mouth open until he has a second thought and closes it.
"Where is he?" Anselm asks, earnestness and unintentional innocence in his tone.
Spy quietly walks out the room. The man, bewildered, speedily opens the door after struggling with the handle for a couple seconds. He sees Spy turn a corner and chases after him. Down the stairs, three steps at a time, and down to the very end of the hall. Spy stops in front of the white double doors.
Anselm halts right next to the Ghost He turns his attention to the doors, as if they'll open on their own.
"A dear friend of ours, our doctor, disappeared a week before we died. He was especially close to the Ghost that lies beyond this door," Spy explains. He turns his entire body to Anselm without skipping a beat. "He doesn't like interacting with anyone anymore, so don't expect any charm you think you have to win him over."
Anselm steps closer to the door, his hand hesitantly reaching for the silver handle. He turns his head back to Spy.
"Make it out alive at least, Mr. Anselm."
The man smiles and opens the door. He walks in; his hand, disconnected from the door, still feels cold. He hears the dusty old click of the door behind him, and Anselm finds it's just him and the door, and the long, dark waiting room between them.