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Sniper doesn't like Pyro, as far as coworkers go.
Some of them are okay. Spy and Heavy have decently to-the-point attitudes. Don't like messing around.
Others, Medic and Demo, he likes less.
They relish too much in what they do. Their careers coalesce with their personal interests in a way that makes his skin crawl. Sniper doesn't find immense joy in what he does. That isn't to say he hates it - he just does it. He does it because he's good at it, and he certainly doesn’t get sweaty thinking about things like ammonium nitrate, or clotting abnormalities.
But he respects them, too, when it comes down to it. They can take things seriously, when they need to. They’re educated. They’re hardworking. They behave like adults.
He does not respect the Pyro.
They’re okay at what they do, sure. But anyone can light something on fire, as long as they have the means. Sniper doesn't see why they need a dedicated member of the team to do it. Especially not one with their screws so loose.
It isn’t helpful or efficient to have someone on the payroll who spends half of their time on the field with their head in the clouds. It got on his nerves to watch them work, sparing glances as he sat up in his tower. It was motivating, to see someone so easily side-tracked.
He wasn't sure why Ms. Pauling had assigned them an off-site mission together. He had previously considered her a fairly rational woman, and assumed that she would understand why his work ethic would likely be impeded by as big a nuisance as this. Her method of deliverance had been sly, like she was hiding something with her slightly playful tone.
Regardless of his thoughts, she was his boss, in a way. Or, at least, his actual boss's messenger. He’d never heard of someone denying a mission, and didn’t want to draw attention to himself by being the first to toe that line.
Sometimes, members of the team were known to debate the stipulations of a mission, (Scout being particularly guilty of this,) but that behaviour annoyed the Sniper to no end. He didn’t want to be that person, either.
Besides, missions aren’t given out willy-nilly - they’re assigned based on the recipient’s skillset. He presumed that whatever the job was, it had to involve the two of them to get it done. So, he did his job, and hoped Pyro would do theirs when the time for it came.
-
They had been driving for several awkward, sweaty hours. It wasn’t awkward for lack of small-talk - it definitely would have been more awkward if he’d attempted any. The silence wasn’t a problem, but the presence of another person was. While Pyro was sprawled out rather comfortably, Sniper was stiff, back unnaturally straight, arms tense and hands tight on the wheel. His eyes kept veering over to the passenger’s seat.
Pyro looked as carefree as ever, legs spread with one knee up and a foot on the seat, their bare arm on the windowsill, fist cradling a masked face. They’d undone the top part of their suit, tying the arms around their waist, revealing a plain white shirt and decidedly human arms, albeit with a suitable accumulation of pink and white scar tissue.
They had a few small black tattoos, symbols that Sniper didn’t recognize. He had to watch the road, anyway.
The windows were unrolled, his van not having any AC. It was a little outdated, being from the early 60s, but it was his, and he kept it in good shape.
Well. good enough shape. It ran, but that didn’t mean the radio worked. Or that it had a tape deck.
Generally he didn’t mind the silence, but it seemed louder now. No distractions from the heat, or from the unwanted passenger-turned-houseguest.
Pyro started tapping their fingers on the windowsill and humming to the silence.
Sniper’s eye started twitching.
When Pyro’s foot joined in with the rhythm, Sniper snapped a little bit. “Will you cut that out, for Christ’s sake? I’m driving.”
Pyro paused, seeming to comply - then in one swift motion, reclined their seat all the way back and propped their boots up on the dashboard, hands folded on their abdomen.
Mundy shoved their feet off of the dash with a single hand. “Have some manners,” he sputtered. “I live here, you know.”
Pyro let out a muffled laugh, one that the Sniper was going to ignore, until his annoyance was replaced with genuine shock.
“Spy says, that a car, is not a house,” Pyro rasped from the seat next to him.
Mundy had never heard the other speak that clearly before. His eyes were wide, but he kept them on the road as he spoke. “Yeah, well, Spy is a dickhead.”
Pyro laughed again, louder this time. His seat shot up, making the Sniper flinch and swerve a little.
They looked out the window, tapping their fingers on their leg. This time, the sound was too soft to be heard.
-
A little after dark, they drove off the road, into the flat nothingness of the desert to set up camp. Pyro lit a fire. Mundy had an electric stove, but didn’t mention it. They had dinner, and neither of them spoke.
Afterwards, Pyro began hauling blankets en-masse from the camper and to the fireside. They folded and stacked them, creating a makeshift mattress.
“I have a cot in the van, you know,” Mundy supplied. “Would probably be more comfortable.”
Pyro shook their head. “I think, when you’re outside, you should sleep on the ground.”
Sniper grunted in acceptance. It didn't affect him, and honestly, he agreed.
They went their separate ways. As Mundy was starting to drift off, he heard a bit of noise outside his open window, rising only slightly above the hum of the bugs and the crackle of the dying fire. He shifted to get a look, and saw, in the shadows cast by the low light, a mask placed next to the blanket-bed, and the silhouette of an exposed face.
Pyro was lying on their back, arms above their head, mumbling to themself. Mundy stilled in his bed as much as possible, honing in on the noise.
“...And then, she got so mad, that Jupiter turned them all into bears and put them into space, just to be safe. That’s silly, right? A bear in space. But smart, too. Because nobody can hurt a bear. Except a gun, probably, but they didn’t have guns, just rocks and sticks. I think I’d like to be a bear, maybe. Only sometimes. Just to go to space.”
They were talking to nobody - but Mundy knew what they were talking about. Constellations. Assides aside, he recognized the story.
He wasn’t sure when, but he drifted off, listening.
-
The next morning, Sniper was up with the sun, stretching and making coffee. He walked outside to get Pyro, but hesitated before doing so. Their face was obscured by the blankets that had been pulled up around it, leaving their lower legs exposed. More scars. More tattoos. Their mask was placed gently next to their boots, and Mundy picked it up.
He looked through one of the lenses, and it distorted his vision. Prescription. He read the label on the canister. Ammonia, chlorine, iodine, tar, turpentine, camphor. He recognized some of them - his mum had had asthma, and he’d picked up her inhalers from the pharmacy on more than one occasion. But there were more names he didn’t recognize. Supposed his mum hadn’t needed to tolerate constant exposure to open flames and gunpowder.
The mass of blankets shifted, a hand emerging from the depths, making a grabbing-motion. “Need that.”
Mundy jumped a little, hopefully not noticeably. “Right. Sorry, mate.” he placed the mask into Pyro’s waiting hand, turned modestly as they put it into place. His curiosity didn’t outweigh his common courtesy for a teammate getting situated.
Sniper went back inside to drink his coffee, and to read the mission statement for the third time this morning. Big day.
The blankets were loaded into the van, and they got going. He’d asked if Pyro wanted coffee, but after revealing that he wasn’t in possession of any milk or sugar, the answer was a decided and definite no.
It wasn’t as awkward as it had been the day before. It was cloudier, not as hot. Windows only cracked. Suit on normally, no bare arms. Pyro watched the clouds, and Mundy watched the road.
It was almost nice. Formal, nearly comfortable.
It worked.
Or, it did work, until Pyro broke the silence, surprisingly enough. Mundy had almost forgotten he was there, had gotten back into the regular groove of driving. It was easier to ignore something when you weren’t thinking about ignoring it.
“You don’t like me very much.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yup,” the Sniper agreed. Wasn't sure how else to reply. Wasn't going to lie.
Pyro continued. “You don’t like me, but you don't hate me. If you hated me, you wouldn't watch me.”
“I don't know what you mean, mate.”
“Yeah, you do. I can feel it, on my neck. Tells me there’s someone behind me. Thought it was Spy, but it happens even when I can see Spy. So, who else can’t I see?”
That was… surprisingly concise.
“Gotta make sure you’re staying on track. Never know, with you.”
Pyro shifted in their seat uncomfortably. “Ms. Pauling always says I do a good job.”
Mundy had nothing to say to that.
It started raining. Rare, but not unwelcome.
He rolled his window up, and Pyro rolled theirs down, letting the rain hit them. They pulled their mask up, exposing a chin and jaw, lips, the bottom half of a nose. Unremarkable, but tense.
Sniper didn’t mean to hurt their feelings. Hadn’t gone into the conversation considering Pyro had feelings to hurt. Was that really his fault? They seemed so far removed from anything corporeal. He thought back, farther back than he tended to, than he liked to. Considered that he didn’t like the feeling either.
He felt bad. He didn’t say anything. Pyro hummed, and it was a tolerable substitute to the radio.
-
They got to the mission location. Some outbound site belonging to a newly-formed rival company, but not one Sniper had ever heard of. Nipping it in the bud, he supposed.
There weren’t meant to be any witnesses, or survivors. He started to understand the Administrator's choice in manpower now.
He was meant to set up post in the water tower, while Pyro cleared the building out from the inside. His job was to get the stragglers. Simple enough.
He parked his van behind a cliff about half a mile away. The sun was setting.
One thing he could credit Pyro with - the bugger could be quiet when they needed to be. He wasn’t worried about either of their abilities to get in close before lighting things up.
He gave Pyro a nod, which the other returned in kind, and they went their separate ways.
He had his gun strapped to his back, his knife in hand, and began circling, in like a vulture closing in. The guards below the tower went down easily, and the climb upwards went unnoticed. He took his spot and waited.
About ten minutes later, he saw a bright orange light emanate from one of the warehouse windows. Heard screaming. A glass panel broke, and a figure, still on fire, was taken down by him as they tried to make their escape. More emerged as the innards of the building were engulfed, the metal blackening and warping, reflected in the rapidly-disappearing dusk.
He had taken down a rather large handful, before a shot nearly clipped his ear. He expected it, but it wasn’t a bad shot. Someone must have escaped his sight - that or it was incidental. Those on fire don’t tend to have such close near-misses.
It was the only shot in his direction. The only shot that escaped the building at all, in fact.
People stopped streaming out of the building, after a while. It had started to become seriously structurally compromised. Pyro was meant to get out and flash their flamethrower a few times, to signal to him that their job was done.
He waited a while longer, but the signal never came.
Mundy started to feel the worry itch in the back of his mind, but fought it off. This was Pyro’s job. They got paid to do it because they were good at it. They would be just fine.
It was when the worry got to his gut that he couldn’t ignore it any more. He descended the tower after strapping his gun back into place, knife still at the ready in case someone was hiding in the shadows, waiting to get theirs.
He made his way towards the building, coughing as the smoke started to hit him, eyes stinging. Christ, this was awful. No wonder Pyro needed the suit, all the chemicals in the mask vents.
The entrance of the building, where the fire had first hit, had been reduced to a smoulder, running out of kindling as it crumbled. He was still careful, stepping through the ash and avoiding the embers drifting through the air. The warehouse was seemingly desolate, so he called out for Pyro. No response.
He stood at the edge of where the flames continued to roar, not yet having run out of fuel. He felt the heat on his face, how it felt like his clothes would melt into his skin, that every part of him would crumble until he was nothing again. Until he was dry dirt on the desert floor, and nobody could recognize him. For a while, he lost his voice, as he watched the building, and everything in it, cease to exist.
“Pyro,” he tried to call again, weaker this time. His throat hurt.
He heard footsteps nearing him at the front, from within the heat. He wasn’t on the defensive anymore - it could only be one person.
Pyro’s silhouette appeared, backlit and confident.
They removed their mask.
Their smile was brighter than the sun.