Chapter Text
The rhythmic hum of a van’s engine slowly filters through the vehicle’s metal frame. The vehicle itself kicked up dust as it roved through the desert of New Mexico.
Bump—
Your vision is blurry when you slowly begin blinking the “sleep” away from your eyes, a subtle taste of Pennie’s and copper resting on the back of your tongue as you slowly wake. You let out a groan as the memories of that awful— …weird? Awfully-weird dream slowly began to filter into your brain as dreams always had after a long rest.
A sudden glare from the rising Sun hit your eyes and you sucked on your teeth, quickly shutting them again and tossing the other way on the stranger’s couch. His house smelled more of cigarettes than it normally did. You cringed at the acrid smell of tobacco, grumbling as you finally opened your eyes to yell at him once more to “stop smoking” only to be met with the sight of a metal ceiling. You began looking around again, this time more frantic as you try to figure out where you are. I don’t remember picking up a bed in a mobile home—camper van?
The panic really sets in when you try to get up and find yourself hog-tied.
“HELP— HELP! I'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED! HELP—“
The van swerved slightly when you started yelling, and it wasn’t long before someone started yelling over you.
“Shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” A masculine voice yelled from the front seat. “Awake for less than five minutes and I already have a headache…”
“Oh my god, it’s you!” You shouted, eyes widening once more as you made the realization. “It’s you! From— from that horrible… horrible dream…”
The man seemed to recognize the tone in your voice and you recognized that laugh more than anything else from what was apparently last night.
“Why the hell am I here!?”
“I told you last night,” a feminine voice you recognized as “Miss Pauling” piped up, “You are going to become a mercenary for Mann Co. for the Gravel Wars because the RED CEO decided he needed an extra man on his team, and your records just so happened to catch his eye. Realistically, this is the only way we could’ve reached you because you don’t have a mailing address, P.O. box, telephone, or otherwise any other way to contact you remotely. If you had one of those things I would’ve at least offered the illusion of choice before we hauled you back to base. But I doubt you would turn down a chance for free housing, food, and family. Would you?”
You paused to process her words. You didn’t know being kidnapped would come with free room and board. “Family” (whatever that meant) you could do without, sure, but if you could at least get a bed and a few hot meals before they figured out your lack of skill that would be great. Actually, more than great. Amazing even.
“Oh. Well you aren’t wrong.” You mumbled, your panic beginning to dissipate.
The van was otherwise quite now, save for the van itself and a relieved sigh from the man in the passenger. The silence between you and them wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, if not a little bit awkward. So, you decide to break it.
“If you’re Miss Pauling, what’s your name…?”
You heard him scoff when he figured out he couldn’t sit in silence anymore. “Spy.”
Your voice was slowly shifting from cautious to curious as you continued asking questions. “That’s an odd name to have, Mr. Spy.”
“No, no Mr., you will know me simply as Spy. That is the name of my “class,” which is a special grouping you are sorted into based on your skill. All of your teammates will go by these names, not just me, everyone else. Including you.”
You paused to think of what skill you could possibly have that would make you worthy enough to join a specialized team. If he’s spy, what are the others? Also special personnel in the military or in the government? Would it be something like Spy, Captain…probably a Sniper (mostly because of the pictures through the scope lense), Barbarian…? If that’s what a team may look like, what do they need a worthless thief for? You are a smooth talker, great at manipulation, building, and art, and hell— maybe just a little handy with a gun— but half those things have no advantage on a battlefield.
“So if everyone is in a class, what class am I?” You finally ask.
“You have been chosen as the first of a new class, the Con Artist.” Pauling answered. “The abilities you can use on the battlefield are, obviously, a gun of your choice, a melee weapon (something like a baseball bat), and your kit.”
You arched your eyebrow. You had one too many questions, but the hard part was deciding which to ask first, and which to keep to yourself.
“What is my “kit”?” You ask.
“A series of non-weapon related abilities you can utilize during battle. Actually, this was taken directly from one of your high school concepts. Your kit will allow you to produce illusions of yourself and other teammates, such as cardboard dummies, hologram clones, and sound machines.”
“How am I supposed to make cutouts that fast?”
“You don’t, the kit does.”
“But how does that fool anyone?”
“You’ll see.”
“So, you said I’m the first, does that mean there will be more of…me? Or other Con Artists?”
Pauling shrugs. “Possibly. There will be at least two to start.”
“Oh. Who’s the other then?”
“Your clone is on the opposite team.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t hear me, Con Artist.” You were surprised you were already being called by your designation. “We cloned you, he’ll be on the other team.”
…
“Yes,” Pauling started again, “everyone has a clone on the opposite team, not just you, so it isn’t that weird.”
“Did you just read my mind? How do you know that’s what I was going to ask? If you have clones how do I know you don’t have telepathy?” You ask accusingly, starting to fall back into panic.
“You ask predictable questions.”
Oh. Well. That explains it.
“No, he is not you exactly, mostly your features and body. He doesn’t have your memories either, and only has parts of your personality. You know. Just enough to make him Con Artist not Cuckoo.”
You nod in acknowledgment before realizing they probably can’t see it. “…Alright.”
***
After some time in the van, once they realized you weren’t going to run anymore, Pauling untied the ropes binding your arms and legs. It wasn’t long after the van came up to a valley. The entrance point between the rocks was covered with a crappily painted cloth and cardboard plants. You would think it wasn’t fooling anyone, but the fact that it hasn’t been replaced by a better security system tells you otherwise.
The curtain is pulled aside and the van drives through. Inside of the valley is a large concrete structure just over a bridge with a giant “RED” logo over the garage door.
“Has anyone ever made it past that security system?” You question absently, again, just trying to fill the silence.
“Yes, but the sentries normally get them before anyone can actually get inside.” Pauling answered, and you nodded along.
This is insane. Pauling is insane. Spy is insane. I'm insane.
Why did I ever agree to this? I can’t kill people. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Francis. I have to get out I have to get out I have to get out—
The garage door was closing behind the van (which was slowly coming to a stop) and you lunged for the door as soon as it was at full stop, silently sneaking from the vehicle.
“Alright, Con Artist. Once we get out of the van I can give you a tour of the place, show you to your room,” Miss Pauling started, turning to face you in the back of the van to finish the conversation, “and tomorrow we can start train— …where did he go?”
***
It had been at least five minutes now. You had stalked through the only door you could see before bolting down the empty hall behind it, trying to find a door that had “EXIT” above it, or possibly some indication that it led to the outside. Eventually you came to a door that had windows in it. Normally a good indication it had access to the outdoors, right? It has a glowing sign above it that says something that’s probably exit.
When you plow through the doors a bird flies past your head. This has to be a way out. When you think you finally have the relief of fresh air you realize that there is a lingering stench of blood. You stop sprinting before you run into the operation table you just realized was in front of you. Or the man standing over the table with fogged glasses and a blood stained apron.
You hold your breath, muscles locking as you froze just behind him. He was almost as still as you were, but not quite as quiet.
“Scout…is that you…?” He slowly asked. This man, unlike Spy, had a heavy German accent as well as a much more nasally voice. “I swear if you have less than 30 points taken off your HP meter I’ll never give you the—“
He turns around and you promptly jump back to move out of his way. Act like you’re meant to be here.
“Oh, hallo! Are you the new recruit Miss Pauling was talking about?”
He didn’t seem quite as scary when he turned around, but just as equally unsettling. You were able to get a better look at his face when he turned. He had black greying hair and a clean shaven face.
“Oh— no, sir. I'm just a new janitor.”
“Ooh.” He nodded understandingly. “Well, I’ll see you later then!”
You nodded as if that statement was true. Was it really that easy? Specialized team my ass, that was the easiest time I’ve had fooling anybody! Or he’s not on the team. You walked out the way you came, still a bit unsettled by the odd man, but your unease was smothered by your adrenaline as you continued down the hall as fast as you could, eventually reaching the last door in the hall.
Before you could push the door open yourself, it had been pushed open for you from the other side. You didn’t have a chance to move before something heavy was launched at you and it didn’t take you long before you realized it was a person. A very loud person.
“INTRUDER! INTRUDER! State your name and business, MAGGOT!” Unlike others, this man had an American accent and a very gravely voice. Not in the way Spy’s was from smoking, but in the way of a dry throat that children often had from constantly yelling.
Before you could answer (not that you could anyways because the air was being crushed from your lungs) the nurse you had played off earlier appeared in the corner of your vision.
“Oh, calm down, Soldier. It’s just the new recruit.”
You felt a sharp pain hit the side of your neck before the person on top of you finally let up. When you try to follow suit and sit up you find that your limbs have entirely turned to jelly. The nurse walks to your side, plucking what looks to be a tranquilizer dart from your neck.
“Howww…did youww know…?” You ask with slurred words, hoping he understands what you’re asking.
The man pushed his glasses up. “We don’t have a janitor, nor have we ever had a janitor,” he chuckled. “Good try though! You almost had me fooled.”
“NAME AND BUSINESS.” “Soldier” reiterated.
“Soldier, he doesn’t have to explain himself, he’s the new recruit. The one Miss Pauling mentioned before leaving?” The nurse sounded much more exhausted with Soldier than he had with you. You had the feeling he had to explain stuff to him a lot.
After a moment Soldier finally nodded in understanding before passing back through the door.
The nurse leaned over you. “Though a name would be nice. The tranquilizer I hit you with was very diluted so you should be able to try talking again.”
“Cu—“ you cleared your throat. “Con- Con Artist.”
He hummed in acknowledgment.
“Medic.” He introduced. “At your service. I apologize for my friend, Soldier. He can be quite brash.”
You nod.
“I also apologize for the tranquilizers.”
You nod again before trying to sit up.
He reaches a hand toward you in assistance, and despite your better judgement, you take it and allow Medic to help you up. The people on your team seem so much different from what you pictured in your mind just hours ago. Neither of these new people seem professional like Spy at all. You were tackled like a football player for Christ’s sake. And then tranquilized like a rampaging animal. You were right.
Everyone here is insane.
It wasn’t long before Spy and Pauling caught up to you.
“Thank you, Medic!” Pauling called from about half way down the hall.
***
Because of your antics, instead of the tour you were supposed to get today, you were tasked with introducing yourself to everyone instead. The reason, you assume, is so if you try to make a run for it it’s easy for the others to catch/find you. Medic had decided that the best way to do this whole introduction was over a meal at the long table in the mess hall.
It was quiet for all of about two minutes until everyone slowly began filing in. An uncoordinated man and a Scottish accent had sat next to you on your left, Soldier on your right, next to Soldier was a short bald man with goggles on, next to him was Medic, next to Medic was a large empty chair (likely saved for the very large man who was now cooking over the stove). Next to the empty chair was a very skinny man who seemed to be the youngest out of everyone, he was also wearing a grey baseball cap. Next to him was another skinny man, but older than the first and wearing sunglasses and a hat with a wide brim, beside him was Spy, and next to Spy was a figure clad in fire retardant clothes and a gas mask. Then the Scott, and you again.
You again find yourself with way too many questions.
You lean towards Soldier, poking a thumb towards the Scott on your other side.
“Is he drunk?” You ask in a low tone, hoping the other man wouldn’t hear and take offense if he
somehow wasn’t drunk.
“AFFIRMATIVE. DEMOMAN IS IN A CONSTANT STATE OF DRUNKEN RAGE!” He shouts back, causing you to flinch as well as causing “Demoman” to overhear.
“What…? Drunk…? Im not…Im not dr–” He then proceeds to gag and puke into a nearby (conveniently placed) trashcan. You flinch away from him, a horrified expression on your face while the table around you begins to laugh at your reaction.
“You’ll get used to it.” Soldier says with a smile in his voice, clapping a hand on your shoulder.
The fire-proof figure pat Demoman on his back while he puked. You moved as far back in your chair as you could from the now hunched over man. You were struggling to hold on to your appetite now, just trying to avert your eyes from the scene beside you while you heard some of the others jeer around you, about you.
The youngest man was the harshest. Others seemed a bit more subtle about their jabs but he was obviously over doing for some reason.
“Oh man, if he can’t take that are we sure he can take the battlefield?” He laughed. “Seriously, what did Pauling see in this guy? He even looks homeless.”
You shot him a death glare from across the table. It took him a moment to realize you were staring before he stopped talking.
This is the family Pauling was talking about? If this is a family I don't think I want one.
Your thoughts had slowly begun to sweep you away as you waited for dinner, everyone else around you making banter while you were stuck in your head. You didn’t know these people, nor how to talk to them. The only way you really interacted with strangers was by digging in their pockets.
You were thinking about your first time in jail. Actually, digging in pockets was how you landed yourself in a cell.
The shadow of bars projected onto the concrete by light of the moon. You were so young then. You remember the cold face of your mother when she came to retrieve you in the morning. Her gaze was almost as chilled as the cement cell you had slept in. The endless scolding on the walk home, the finality in her words, the hate for you in what she was saying— a plate was set in front of you by the large man who was previously over the stove. Despite you not saying anything, and him not saying anything, he had a face of pity. Pity. Pity.
I wish I had a home so I could wish to go home. But if my new permanent bed and residence is, here is my home, and I share my home with nine crazy assholes, so my home is hell.
***
You were becoming incredibly bored at dinner. The man who introduced himself as “Heavy” was a great cook, you had to admit. At least the food is good. You hadn’t had a home cooked hot meal in ages. What was on your plate hadn’t even been that much, just a few dumplings, but it felt like you were going to cry. You knew everyone was staring but this time you just hadn’t cared. Who cares if you looked like an animal, starved? Not you, that’s for certain.
When you were finished everyone was staring at you again. But Heavy’s smile had caught your eye. When you noticed his expression, he let out a booming laugh before speaking.
“Little man must enjoy Heavy’s cooking. I like this little man.”
You can’t say you were surprised by his accent considering everyone here basically had their own. Heavy’s voice was about what you expected it to sound like. Deep and gravely with a heavy Slavic accent.
You were glad at least one person here had taken a liking to you. No one was really outwardly mean (aside from the youngest man) but it was nice to see someone also wasn't indifferent.
Indifference isn’t a bad thing per se, but it leaves too many opportunities open for shifting how a person feels about you. You learned quickly that you only really have one chance to sway a person’s judgment of yourself, and if it’s shifted to a bad light, it becomes very difficult to get someone to see you in a good light.
You also figured if at least one person here liked you, a few others would too. And you’d consider yourself pretty happy if you could make at least two new allies.
***
By the end of the night you had learned everyone’s names. Well, class names, but here it was the same difference.
Soldier had volunteered to show you to your room when dinner was excused.
You placed your hand on the doorknob of your room while the other man walked down the hall to his own quarters, and you couldn't help but watch to make sure he got to his door alright. You figured he had also seen you in a good light, and anyone who saw you in a good light was a friend, and you supposed it was just instinct to make sure your friends made it home safe.
Once he closed his door behind him you finally pushed yours open.
The room itself was very bland. The walls were painted an off white and the floor was the same concrete as everywhere else. There were no windows in your room. There was a bed in the middle of the room and a dresser to its left with no noticeable closet. Your bedsheets and bedframe matched the color of the walls. The only splashes of color had been the bag of few belongings you had and a set of folded clothes with a small bag and a piece of paper folded on top.
You gingerly picked the paper up, unfolding it to find a note.
“Hey, Con Artist
This will be your uniform from now on. I burned the rest of your clothes because they still smelled awful after three washes and you won’t be needing them more anyways. You have at least six others folded in the dresser next to your bed. There is soap, a razor, deodorant, a toothbrush, and toothpaste and basically every toiletry essential I could find.
Sincerely,
Miss Pauling”
You sighed, letting the note float down to the floor from your hand before throwing everything off the of the bed and falling face first into the comforter.