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Chapter Text

   "God fuckin'-" you shriek. When you took your microwave Mac n' cheese out you grabbed the side of the superheated container like an idiot. Now the left side of your mouse hand is a soft red, throbbing to the beat of your angry heart. Nursing your burned finger, you snatch up your cheesy lunch (this time with a dish rag) and head back over to the computer where the best thing awaits you.

   Team fortress 2. The richly detailed game holds a special, almost sacred place in your heart; it's characters have become irreplaceable faces in your life, each unique. Your enjoy the background music from "Meet the spy" for a few seconds before selecting your game.

   'Game mode: Control Points'. Perfect. The computer revs up as the map begins to load, as you take this opportunity to settle down into your comfy gamer chair (soft and plush, molded from years of gaming.)

   It's wonderful, this day. No one home to bother you, wifi running smoothly, cheesy goodness piping hot in a bowl beside your hand, and rain falling endlessly onto the roof about you. You're off 'very ill' with the cold today. Truthfully, it had been weeks since you had any down time, and just needed a day to yourself. So, you've allotted 10 whole hours today to do whatever you please: In this instance, game. Life, for the time being, was balanced and zen. Until the first Control Point Round started, of course.

   RED team. Class: Soldier. Weaponry Main; Beggar's Bazooka. The siren goes off, and you charge into CP_Dustbowl without a second thought. Within 50 seconds the map is alive with the sounds of gunfire and shouting, and you're pretty sure you just knocked all of that BLU scout's teeth out of his skull. Hah.

   It's so immersive. This game in particular. The surround sound speakers you were gifted fill your body with 360 degrees of Audio information, the high graphics monitor making it seem like the hot desert sun is shining on your shoulders. You can practically smell the dusty, singed wind whipping across your pajama shirt, almost feel the crunch of the gravel underfoot as you put up a last stand for the first point. But it's too late. A BLU spy steps on at the last second, capturing the control point. He grins at you, staring into your eyes before disappearing in a shimmering vapor. It didn't strike you as odd at that moment, but you found it strange. Spies don't usually make you uneasy. But this one managed to.

 The Announcer coldly proclaims the capture of your first control point, and you beat a hasty retreat up the wooden walkway, into the rocky corridor near the last point. You're running fast now, you can feel your chest heaving. You're sweating. Everything seems so real. This game is simply amazing, you feel like you're really there. A strong shiver runs up your spine, making you curl your toes and squeeze your eyes shut, but you don't think anything of it. Until you round the corner and trip over a rock.

   "What the-AUGH!" Face, meet dirt. Dirt, meet face. Hmm. Appears they don't care for each other. You groan, lifting your body up from the dusty floor, completely disoriented. Your head is thumping, and upon you touching your temple, you discover is bleeding. But that's not the worst thing.

   "Oh god. Oh my god. What the ever loving fuck". You breathe to yourself. You're here. You are actually FUCKING here, in your PJ pants and ratty and faded shirt. The wooden beam support next to you feels real; you reach out to touch it. Gritty, splintered and weathered edges greet the burned part of your hand and you jerk it away. Your heart is going a million miles an hour. You're here. You're here. Oh my god you're actually here. What the fuck do you do? Who would you ask for help? Oh god you don't want to get shot. You can die here. Actually die. A cold pit of fear settles on your stomach like a pound of arctic ice. You are helpless.

   Heavy jingling footsteps rounding the corner jerk you out of your spiral of fear. Suddenly all the fight of flight of ancient humans kicks in.

   Where to hide, oh god where to hide. You have maybe 6 seconds. THE MINE CART! The rusting old junk that was usually so useless on the virtual map may come in handy in saving your actual life. In 2 great strides you hurl your body behind it, squeezing as far back into the boarded-up mine shaft as physics would permit. Your heartbeat rings hot in your ears, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. Never in your life have you been so afraid of these people. You know them. They don't know you. And worst of all; you don't respawn. Clutching your knees up to your chest and biting down choking sobs, you realize all you have left to do is wait.

   And hope some trigger happy mercenary doesn't find you first.

Chapter Text

It's been...hours. Your knees feel like they are made of old wax, curled up against your chest and unable to move out of sheer fear. There is blood on your thigh: 5 minutes ago someone exploded on the other side of the cart, the sound of flesh hitting stone almost making you vomit, blood raining over and spattering your body. This didn't feel like the game. Not at all. You make a silent promise never to play videogames again if you could just. Wake. Up.

Time blur into screams, into hot dust and deafening explosions, and you're like 99% sure that some stray bomb is going to end your small life relatively soon. Killed by your favorite video game. What a way to go out.

"Victory." An ancient voice cackles from the speakers, and your blood runs cold. To you, it didn't matter who won. You knew the winner's tactic well enough; search the whole map for hiders, shoot first and ask questions later. You start to shudder violently. If someone finds you behind this cart you'll be dead before you can even say 'wait!'. Your only chance to not be shot by the people you thought you knew is to go out into the open, hoping they can hear your voice and see your pajamas. To see that you're harmless, a civilian, a damsel in distress. The very thought of that terrifies you; you're betting your life right now. You shouldn't have to go through this.

Screams and wails break you out of your panic. Ending up on the round kills list was not on today's to-do list. Body visibly shuddering, you squeeze yourself out from behind the rusty old cart, and with shaking knees and sweaty palms, make your way down to directly in front of the last control point. You notice it's still red; at least you know what team is coming to kill you now.

It's time to make your move. You stare to to the sun coming over the rocky structures in front of you. Maybe it's the last light you'll see. You take a step back as you listen to distant booms by the BLU spawn...and step directly back into a puddle of was blood. As shivers creep up your spine like centipeds you make up your mind.

"No. This is not how I die. This. Is. Not. How. I. Die." You mutter to yourself, still shivering. Thankfully an epiphany hits you square in the forhead. MAKE them notice you. It was just crazy enought to work; you might live, and those odds are good enough.

Deep breathe.

Hands away from your sides.

"HELLO!" You scream from the bottom of your chest, voice cracking a bit in fear. "IS ANYONE THERE?! PL-PLEASE HELP ME." You can't help is as tears form in the corners of your eyes. You're shaking, tired, terrified to the very core of your being. Your throat is tight.

You don't want to die right now.

"I d-d...I don't exactly know where I am", you continue to shout in a choked voice, "BUT I AM NOT A THREAT." You hold you hands over your head, suddenly painfully aware of your pitifull pajamas.

"I have no weapon! Please, is anyone there?" You continue. Tears are thick now, starting to slide down your cheek as you anticipate the burn of bullets in your side at any second. You've never felt a pain like that before, and you're really not keep on learning what it's like.

"I just don't want to die." The words trail out in a desperate whisper. The only response to your plea is the hot wind whipping over the tunnel entrances around you, quiet, but overwhelmingly tense. Waiting.

Everything is too still. You pray for anything to happen, you're going insane with visible fear.

Apparently there is a god to answer prayers in this world too. You feel a limber arm wrap around your neck, and barely get a frightened shreik out of your mouth when the heavy end of a pistol strikes your on the back of your skull.

And then nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Nine mercs sat around a white table. One was smoking a cigarette, balaclava bunched up by his eyebrows in concentration. Another was tiredly looking through a gigantic binder, construction helmet glinting in the white fluorescent light. The rest solemn, brows knitted together. Except for a gas mask clad person, who was sitting under the table and playing with a lighter.

All of them were quiet.

All of them were concerned.

The Spy pushed something into the center of the table. A gun. A pistol with a thick and heavy metal end, to be exact. Spy steepled his fingers under his chin as silence fell across the room once more.

"Who is she." The Sniper broke the silence, his Australian accent shattering the tentative peace in the room. His sunglasses flashed, golden in the light.

"Vell, ve do not know, exactly." A German voice replied in a tired manner. The medic stood up from beside the engineer, closing the binder. "Ve haff searched through all are archives on spies from different world organizations." He rubbed his eyes from beneath his glasses with gloved hands, "She's certainly good enough to remain undocumented. It's very improbably that a civilian just happened to wander 30 miles out in the desert."

"She's just a kid," a higher voice interjected, "It's not like she's some BLU spy." Scout popped his gum to punctuate his statement, earning an angry mutter from the soldier about 'only children chew gum'. Scout sneered.

"She could be." Engineer stood up next to Medic, dents around his tired eyes where his goggles usually sat. "Ah don' mean to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but I wouldn't but anything past those dirty backstabbers. As for usin' a child.." He trailed off, looking at the binder. "Ya gotta have some mighty messed up morals to do thats."

"We are making assumptions again." The spy sighed, blowing out smoke through his nose. "We do not know who she actually is, or who she is working for, or her intent here." Standing up, he put both hands on the table, looking at the rest of his team. "We know that she arrived sometime around our noon battle."

"Hey, I checked the base perimeter," scout piped up, "and there wasn't any car tracks or nothin."

"I would have 'eard a plane, no matter how secret." Sniper muttered.

" 's like she jusssst decided tae...Pop outae thin air..." The slurring Scotsman raised his head, then, upon discovering that the light was much to bright, dropped it back down into his arms.

Spy huffed, taking a final drag from his cigarette before squashing the burning end into the table. The stark light of the overhead lamp cut severe shadows under his cheekbones. "I think we all know there there is one way, and one way only to get the information we need. We've done it before."

Medic raised one eyebrow, quietly questioning spy's human morals. "You cannot be serious. She can't be older than eighteen." The doctor interrupted.

"When I was that age I was beaten for information by Americans within an inch of my life." Spy retorted coldly, picking another cigarette out of his pack. He stuck it under the table, and moments later he took it back out, it having been lit by Pyro.

"I don't know about you guys but I ain't beaten' up a girl just four years younger than me." The Bostonian said loudly, looking at spy. "But I know you're sick enough to volunteer."

The spy grinned in a macabre fashion, no light reaching his eyes. "Well?" He said in a faux light tone, gesturing to his coworkers, "anyone have any other suggestions? Are you going to let me continue with my plan?" A long moment of silence and avoiding stares ensured. The spy grimaced. "It seems I am not the only 'sick' person here, scout."

They had all agreed. It was the only way.

"This will not take longer than an hour." Spy said, pushing in his chair as he walked towards the door. "Medic, I'll have your equipment returned to you. It will need to be sanitized."

The medic nodded, staring down at the tabletop.

Smoked faded from the deadly silent room, as footsteps of dress shoes echoed down the stairs that led toward the basement door.

It was going to be a rough night.

Chapter Text

Throbbing pain. Pain and dampness, creeping and crawling up your shirt, across your face and rising from the damp cement below. With a jump, you awake, promptly hitting your tired head against the back of what seems to be a metal chair. Oh, right. Shit. Your heart picks up the pace, hammering into your ribs with a frenzied rhythm. You're inside the Dustbowl compound. The place with guns, dead bodies, and a whole lot of fear. All the memories of...however long ago, come flooding into your mind as tears prickle your eyes. These people, these men. You know them, hell, you care about them, but they don't have any clue who you are. oh god, you don't want to die. Not like this.

A clank pulls you way from your thoughts; it's coming from your hands. Oh, huh. Upon further inspection by feeling, your conclude you are handcuffed to a metal chair, blindfold wrapped thickly around your messy hair, a searing headache chewing up the back of your skull. Panic rises in your throat as you come to grips with your situation, and you shove it back down with sheer iron will. Panic will not solve this, tears won't solve this, and as far as you know, NOTHING can fucking solve this. You could have been left down here to rot, for all you know. But what lingers most strongly in the back of your mind is a single thought; if the mercs tied you up, who did they think you were? You look into your mind, remembering the TF2 comics. They weren't too kind to The Administrator's messenger, or the Director. So, you're still alive. But they were alive too; for a while. Oh god.

In moments like these, when the protagonist is in a situation when all seems lost, they always manage to come up with a brilliantly brave plan and walk out unharmed. It shouldn't be too hard, right?

Oh who are you kidding, you're fucked.

The positive and negative fight it out in your head, pushed back and forth between waves of panic and moments of desperately coming up with some realistic story so you wouldn't die. The room is cold, but sweat drips down your forehead to soak into your blindfold.

You are scared.

You're eve more scared when you hear a loud metal door open in front of you and you have absolutely nothing to convince these murderers to not kill you right now. Gentle taps on the floor, crossing the room. Dress shoes? They get closer, and you shrink your panicked frame down against the metal chair. Camouflage at it's finest.

"Hiding in plain sight never actually works; it's a myth." Your muscles lock into place, filled with undiluted fear and adrenaline. The voice is right next you your ear; French, low and terrifying, and smelling of smoke. "I would know," the voice continues, "I do it for a living."

It's the fucking spy. The man who disguises, dresses up as a friend, makes people trust him. Love him. And then sinks a blade between their shoulders without any regret. He is the ultimate manipulator; and he's here to interrogate you. You swallow audibly, beginning to tremble.

A thick laugh rolls out of the Frenchman, and you feel gloved hands working on the knot of your blindfold. "That scared little girl act, very convincing, I must say. You made my imbecile associate almost clobber me with his stupid bat when i brought you in." The blindfold is suddenly yanked away, pain shooting through your neck as your muscles are snapped forward. Blinding white light fills your vision, and without warning the searing in your head surround your brain, wrapping hot tentacles of stabbing agony around your skull. Fuck if that didn't hurt.

The first thing you look at is Spy. He's real, he looks so real. it can't be, but that bastard is standing right in front of you, looking down his nose in disgust. He's looking at you like you're something nasty stuck to the bottom of his expensive footwear. Yep, he's real alright. The cigarette clenched between his tight lips trails thin grey smoke into the room, leaving the stench of it to cover up the damp cement and metallic scent of plumbing. Sharply pressed, his suit looks rigid; a grey-red, a sophisticated red. It's very mind-clearing, seeing the man you though less than a day ago to be a work of fiction from an artist's brain, standing right in front of you. It's then, as you take in this man with wide eyes, that you notice the butterfly knife held loosely in his right hand. And you remember why he's here. Fear makes a comeback, washing your spine in waves of ice and fire at once. The spy grins.

"Smoking will kill you, you know." You say. Any attempt at bravado or bravery is lost at the roughness of your voice, and the cracking in your tone. Your fear is evident to him, you know it, and there is nothing you can do to hide it. At least you got a small grin, even if it didn't reach his eyes at all. You cough, the talking starting up a fire in your lungs of dryness and pain. You hack loudly, straining against the handcuffs to get the dust out of your lungs. This earns an actual small grin for Spy, which genuinely concerns you. Gripping the cigarette with black gloved hands, he takes a final inhale. In one fluid motion you're not sure even happened, it's out of your mouth and held a centimeter away from your eye.

Oh fuck no. You panic, shaking in your seat and you try and move away from the red-hot tip of the object, but Spy's other hand catches you, locking your jaw into place with an iron (and very painful) grip. You see the hot tip of the cigarette in a reddish blur as your left eye waters uncontrollably. The heat is almost unbearable next to your sensitive organ. 

"Who are you." Spy says, deep, angry but hidden. His sharp eyes burrow into yours from beneath his arched brow. You can feel the heat from the cigarette, reading and willing to cause great amounts of pain, and figure you should save your lie for later.

" (Y/N)" You rasp out, your name harsh on your tongue. A few tense seconds pass, and when you feel the heat of the fire move away you breathe a sigh of relief. Sweat drips down the warm crease of your eyelid, cooling and soothing your overheated skin.

"I'm glad you answered truthfully. It would be a pity to waste a cigarette on you". the spy conceded, tucking the smoke back into his mouth as he turned away from the white light, fiddling with his butterfly knife.

"Who do you even think i am?" You reply, voice vibrating. Even if you were at the disadvantage here, you figure you could at least figure out what he's thinking.

"Why don't you tell me?" The Spy said over his shoulder; cold, uncaring. He takes his time walking behind you, letting you count every single sharp step, before placing one hand around your throat, butterfly blade a few centimeters above it. You freeze. Any movement he makes, any tiny twitch of the wrist, and your two major arteries could be sliced clean open. The room is deadly silent except for the heartbeat pounding in your ears, a drumming song of animalistic fear.

"I've seen your kind before." A rough voice says in your ear. You can feel the heat of his breath, but his tone chills you to the core. "I know what you're capable of. Don't think you've got me fooled because of what you look like. I was one of you, a child serving his masters." His last words came out in a sharp hiss, as the blade bit into your skin. You breathe sharply out of your nose; it's beginning to hurt. "I know what you came here for, I know who sent you. I know you're here for me; I can't run from my past. But I can kill the hunters." His grip on the knife tightens perceptibly. What is he talking about? You were sure he though you were a spy for BLU or something, but what he said, 'me'. What was happening right now? Was there something about this masked man that you didn't know, that the comics and the message boards hadn't told you yet? What had he done in his life to act like this?

Of course, more pressing matters were present. Like this man with a knife, completely in control, in a locked basement with you. A man who was convinced you were sent here to do something to him, a man who was going to kill you with no remorse and no second thought. A man slowly pressing a knife into your soft skin.

You were going to die.

Chapter Text

"Dell Conagher." The name slinks from between your teeth. The only full name of these mercenaries you knew. And, just maybe, your chance at keeping all your blood inside your body.

The knife shifts against your windpipe and you feel your heartbeat reverberates in the blade. After a terse second, it pulls away. You release a breath you didn't know you had been holding. Suddenly it's gone altogether, the cold metal object retreating from its threat, leaving only a stinging line. You feel a single bead of blood slip down your neck. But it's better than death. Your attention is drawn away but the sounds of dress shoes taking up their circling again, and you see spy pulling another cigarette out of a lean, red box, lighting it as it's placed delicately in between his lips. His gaze is level with you, watching and waiting like a cat hunting a mouse, and you know this is your chance to speak.

"Dell Conagher, uh..." You repeat, voice dry and high pitched. Swallowing what little saliva you have, you press on under his cold gaze. "Um...I don't know who you are, I swear, I don't even know what I'm doing here but I kind of know you and i know you don't know me at all but oh god just let me talk to someone please-" You cut yourself off abruptly, your increasingly panicked tone not making a very good case for yourself. Spy lifts an eyebrow at you, a single movement holding all the judgment he could ever express, and you feel your cheeks grow rosy. Stupid. Idiot. Dumbass chatterbox. You had once change to talk and you blew it.

"Please." You continue after a moment, stomach twisting, "Please just let me talk to Dell. Or Scout. Or Medic."

Spy turns away, outline tall and dangerous, just out of the stark beam of light. Thinking. You strain your eyes, your neck, trying to see him. You reopen your wound slightly, feeling the burn. Then you hear a click. Several clicks actually. And a flash of silver.

The clicking, you find, is a barrel of a gun. Oh god, please, no.

"No, no, spy please, " you say, straining not to cry. Tears of deep and thrashing fear prick your eyes. "Oh spy no please, No, i don't want to die oh please don't kill me i'll do anything i just-"

"Mon Dieu, shut up." Spy snaps, turning around, fingers on his temple. A silver gun is held loosely in his hand, and he gestures with it slightly as he speaks. "I'm not going to shoot you you blubbering simpleton! Now, for god's sake SILENCE your pathetic ranting. I'll provide you with one opportunity to another person, and that is all I will allow." He points the gun in your general direction. You recognize it. it's the Ambassador. On your loadout.

"Now," He continues, turning slightly towards the door with the gun still aimed at you, "Medic and the Engineer will be here shortly." Turning the steel handle, he opens it just a bit, revealing a set of steep, old looking stairs. "Anything suspicious, and i do quite mean anything," He turns back, staring at you, "And you SHALL be rewarded with a bullet in the skull and a shallow grave. So i wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you." Leaning into the doorway, he presses a green button on a panel you didn't notice, speaking into a mesh square. "Engineer, Medic, i require your assistance down in Boiler 3." You hear the muffled relay message far above, reverberating through the base with what must be an intercom. The panel crackles, a response coming through.

"Vill be right down." A terse voice says, tinged with German. Medic. So strange to hear him speak outside of voice command lines. The speaker crackles a second time, a rough texan-toned voice saying he's be down too. Then a burst of static and the com goes quiet.

You sit there, in that chair, contemplating what words to use to save your live. The cold room is silent. Spy, smoking in the corner while polishing his gun with the hem of his suit. You, bleeding slightly and stomach in intricate knots, predicting your death. You can't say a single thing wrong. No respawn. No respawn. You'll die.

"So," You say uncomfortably, trying to snap the air of tension, "The Ambassador. Nice choice."

Spy says nothing. His eyes glow sharply in the semidarkness. Watching. Observing.

The room is very cold.

What seems like an eternity later (an eternity part of you hoped would never come), you hear footsteps coming from the stairs in from of you. Distance. Getting closer. One set is heavy, accompanied by soft clanking. Another is swift and balanced. You have no trouble guessing who is who.

And then they're here.

Taller, bigger. Realer than you every imagined. You can see engineer's whiskers, medic's wrinkles in his pants. So real. They look...human. Tired, unapproachable, but human. They regard you silently and what slight feelings of warmth you go from seeing then bled away swiftly. Three pairs of eyes now study you; icy blue under circular glasses, tinted lenses shrouded in helmet shadows, and narrow grey eyes under a balaclava.

"The little nuisance sneakin' around our perimeters." Dell observed in a casual tone. Talking about you like an pest, a roach. Spy nodded once, clicking the the gun barrel slowly.

"Dell?" You say, almost a whisper, "Dell Conagher?" Goggled eyes whip back around, staring at you, a slight grimace of confusion and... what looked to be fear.
'How d'ya know my name." He responded roughly, hand moving almost imperceptibly closer to his pistol. You gulp under his withering stare, throat suddenly dry and very itchy.

"I know you're Dell, an engineer for the RED team. I know you work on the side of Redmond Mann, under the supervision of The Administrator and Mrs. Pauling. I know your father worked in this same line before you." You respond as quickly as you can, mind working furiously.

Dell's hand lands on his pistol's handle.

"Dell." Medic says, not quite a warning, but close enough. Dell looks over at him, talking through their eyes. Turning back, he hitches his lip up in a half-snarl, body tense. Hand tighter on the gun.
"Who in sam hell do you work for, and you better tell me now, little girl." Medic nods imperceptibly over to him, and dell nods back.

"I don't work for anybody, Mr. conagher, i don't, please don't shoot me. Please," You plead, as fear rushes back to you in great tidal waves. "I'm not a threat, i don't work for anyone, i'm, im-"
What were you? A scared introverted woman who fell through the rules of space-time and landed in a fictional universe?

Lie.

"I'm a... Psychic." You finish. You room is silent. Three pairs of eyes stare at you.

Of all the stupid excuses, you went ahead and chose the stupidest.

"A what now?" Dell says after a few minutes of silence. In the back of the room you see Spy roll his eyes perceptibly. Don't encourage her, his expression reads. Medic frowns, unreadable.

'I'm...A psychic. I have flashes of visions, every since i was a little girl, I've seen you guys." You continue, words rolling out. Spy could read lies. So you would tell the truth, sort of. "I don't know that much, but, i kept seeing you, bits and pieces. It got stronger a couple months back, and it led me here." 

In the dark corner of the room you could just see spy's face shift into a frown. He could tell nothing you said specifically was a plain lie. It wasn't. You DID get more involved in the TF2 universe the last couple months, reading and watching videos. You had been seeing TF2 stuff here and there a lot of your life. And it DID lead you here. Kind of. While it may not be a lie, you can still tell he smells bullshit.

"I can't really understand why i see you guys so much. But i can prove it, please." Medic's eyes dart over his shoulder to spy. Spy shrugs, nods slightly. Medic turns back slowly, making anxiety creep up your spine. You could have just signed your death warrant. Or escaped it for a while.

"You obviously know we have a human lie detector in this room." Medic says, and you jump a little. His voice is more powerful than you expected, with a slight purr to it. You nod in response to his question; of course you know that. 

"You didn't lie. Which, of course, from a scientific perspective is very interesting. I would LOVE to inspect your electrical passageways of your brain, maybe run some brain slab imagery tests." He was looking at you like a frog strapped to a dissection table, blue eyes cold, visibly deconstructing you piece by piece. 

The terrifying thing is that no one would move to stop him in he acted on it. You could be writhing in pain in 10 minutes, screaming from a headlock as he took a scalpel to your innermost thoughts. He was crazy.

You start to shake perceptibly, fear of pain you had been suppressing all day shooting to the surface. Medic blinked, coming out of his thoughts.

"But i won't do that unless you're killed, don't worry!" He laughed, noticing your trembling. That didn't help. Dell sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as Medic pushed up his glasses. Spy huffed a cloud of smoke in the back, grinding his second cigarette against the wall and approaching.

"Have you contacted Mrs. Pauling." He stated to medic as he walked into the light. Medic nodded.

"Ja, i did. She told me to wait until she got here to do anything drastic." Rubbing his glasses he looked regretfully at me like a cat looks when a mouse escapes from its paw. 'She should be here by tomorrow night, and i see no reason to dispose of her right now." He looks back at you, cogs working in his mind. Probably thinking about the best way to cut your brain into pieces for science.

The room, yet again, goes silent.

Until footsteps, fast and light, come dashing down the stairs. Spy's eyes widen.

"Engineer, the door!" He says loudly, running towards it. You watch in confusion as the Texan and the Frenchman slam and lean all their weigh against the door right before a loud slam of a body echos behind it and a voice groans, huffing. You understand when a whiny voices picks up.

Scout's here.

"Hey ASSHOLES, lemme in!" A high voice demands, "You cant' just lock me out i'm parta this team too, ya know!" Spy and Engineer are silent, listening.
After a second of calm a loud yet muffled BANG fills the room, and you jump in your seat, wincing. Scout had fired his gun at the handle, bumps appearing in the metal around it from cluster-shot.

'Next time I do that one of ya's gonna get a damn bullet in them, you know dat right?" More pounding on the door, angry and fast. The door held fast under the two mercenaries combined weight.

'Let him in." Medic said, still staring at you.

"Are you insane, you imbecilic german?" Spy said through gritted teeth as the door underwent a barrage of dulled fist slams, "If we let him in here he'll want to throw her a party, try to woo her, and then make her a part of the team! He's a blithering idiot!"

An extremely strong wham of the door hit spy, knocking his head against the steel. "I can hear you, you stupid frenchie!" Scout caterwauled through the battered door. The angry knocking stopped. "Just let me in, Spy. I ain't gonna do nothing I promise." You heard a muffled sigh through the door. 'Look, i just brought some water an' some food, pyro made some sorta buttercream cake with really nice frosting an' I thought you know, ladies love cake, right? Sue me."

Medic interjected again, gesturing vaguely, 'He's not going to be able to do much anyway! If you leave him out there he'll burst a blood vessel and i don't want him in my office right now. Just let him in, bitte." Spy snorted through is nose in a distinctly 'have it your way sound', gliding back to the corner. As soon as Engineer released the handle, Scout flew into the room.

He's real too. Everyone's favorite. His skin is glowing in the interrogation lights, sandy hair messy without his cap on, normally slicked down. buck teeth and all, he stood in the doorway with traces of yellow frosting on his lips, taking everything.

"We havin' a party or something down here?" He said with a crooked smile, trying to break the tense ice that had filled this room from the beginning.

"Scout?" You breathe. Maybe, just maybe, this one doesn't want to kill you. He turns to you, visibly processing.

"So you're the girlie that his asshole found, " He gestured at spy who made a point of polishing his gun again, "Who are you anyway?" "Her name is (Y/N), and she's..." Dell paused, talking a breathe. "She's apparently a psychic."

Scout turned back to you, eyes wide, quizzical. 'So you're telling me you can see th' future an' stuff?" He said, coming closer to you. You can smell his (unsurprising) lack of deodorant. Medic makes a warning noise, and you and him both remember at the same time; They consider you a threat.

"O-ho-oh, c'mon fellas, you don't seriously believe she's dangerous." He said after a second, meeting the serious eyes of the mercenaries. They stared back, cold. In a job like this no one was to be trusted. Scout flung his arms out, almost laughing. "Look at her, i mean, LOOK AT HER! I know I'm the best guy on the team but cmon, the rest of ya can't be that stupid!" He turned, gesturing at you with one finger, "She ain't got no muscles or nothi-" He reaches for your arm and you flinch, coiling back out of instinct and fear. He freezes, looking at you, really looking, for the first time. Your hair is messy, cheeks flushed and tears threatening to spill over. You're tired, scared, sunburned, scuffed-up, oh god. So scared. You clench your jaw out of anxiety as he reaches for your chin, tilting it up. Looking at the thick lines of dried blood, the cut along the front of your neck.

"What the fuck is this." He says, quietly. "What the fuck is this, spy, hmm?" He turns, angrily. In a flash he's got spy's coat collar in his fists, yelling. "You KNEW we wasn't supposed to touch her 'till mrs. Pauling came, and you almost killed her, didn't you?" He said, louder and engie hurried over. "DIDN'T YOU, SPY?" He's shaking spy, who dropped his cigarette and is standing, frozen, livid at the young man for carelessly yanking his suit. Engineer's fighting to come between them, waving a small pistol, Medic's still staring at you, dissecting you. Everything is so loud. You're going to cry. Too much. Too much. You just want to go home. You taste blood, feeling your nose bleed. Everything is too much. You're dizzy. And then everything's dark and you blessedly feel nothing at all.

Chapter Text

It’s so warm in your room. It feels like eons since you were snuggled up in these thick blankets, safe and curled up against a squishy pillow. You sigh, your mind blissfully fuzzy from a long sleep, and in a soft daze you roll onto your stomach.

Pain.

Your throat is burning, a thick slash of heat cutting into your skin and you sit up in a flurry of blankets, desperately trying to claw at your neck, to stop that horrible pain. It digs into your skin in tiny pricks, in a long line. You actually have to yank your right hand a few dozen times before you come to the realization that you cannot actually move it. It’s handcuffed to your bed.

Oh shit. Not your bed.

The whole disaster came flooding back into your mind and yoru heart picks up pace; Teleportation, capture, torture. Fear and anger. Your throat, cut. Your left hand instinctively flies to your neck, only to find a layer of gauze securely wrapped around it. Underneath, you can feel small lumps that sting to the touch. Stitches. Were stitches suppose to hurt this bad?

It only takes 20 seconds for morning breath to find your taste buds (old potatoes and sour milk) as your survey the room you’re locked in. Small, with crème walls and a polished cement floor. A single square window on your left shines dusty beams of light onto the door opposite, illuminating a faded emblem of the red mercenaries. Cold dread creeps up your spine as you remember how little kindness you received on your first visit. The scab on your head still throbs a bit from that blunt trauma you received. These people who you thought you knew so well had no issue with killing you. Tears prick your eyes and you don’t even notice, the heat swelling and wavering your vision. God you’ve been so stupid. These are killers, trained adult men hired to kill. A sick feeling churns your stomach as you realize how you would have been horrified to meet someone who wasn’t from a game who was like this; what made them any different?

“Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.” You say to the wall across from you, angrily wiping tears from your eyelashes in frustration. The wall says nothing. Fuck you too, wall. Nausea churns your stomach as it folds in on itself and you remember you haven’t eaten in at least a day. You’re starving and have no idea how long you’ve been out. Despite the warmth of the room and the whiteness of the bed sheets, any comfort you got from sleep has long since departed. You note with a small bit of relief that you’re wearing the same pajamas you were yesterday, even if they were dingy and scraped. At least you’re pretty sure nothing happened to you after you passed out.

The scrape of a key being fitted into the metal door across from you is startling and surrounds you with dread as you silently pray to all and any gods that it’s not spy again. Shrinking into the corner of the bed as much as your handcuffs would allow, you pray for a less painful interrogation this time.

The door creaks open slowly and at a steady rate, grating on your nerves with every squeak. You see fingers wrapped around the edges and you try to swallow your fear.

A man you have not seem yet slowly steps into the room, eyes unrevealing yet curious. A hulking figure made of mostly broad shoulders and a barrel abdomen, with surprisingly small legs. This can only be heavy weapons guy. Seeing him hits you like a slap in the face as your realize for the millionth time; This is real, you’re not home anymore, and you’re not safe anymore. He’s there, 15 feet away from you, breathe rising and falling under a massive ribcage. He reminds you of some ancient beast of lore, or a giant bear; wild, strong, and intelligent. You are absolutely silent as he coming into the room. He has a plate of food in one hand, and a small metal chair tucked under his arm. You shrink rapidly as he grows closer; He is so real, so dangerous. His bands of muscle ripple under fat: their sheer power is apparent.

Suddenly he’s right next to you, and you can’t move away, the handcuff won’t let you, his hand is descending, you can’t move, you’re going to be hurt, you’re gonna-

A metal plate gently lands in your lap, piled with breakfast foods. Heavy unfolds the small chair and sits, no further than 4 feet away from your bed. Arms crossed, he sits silent, staring.

Slightly uncomfortable, you observe what you were given. Thank god, you needed some food. There is a square of scrambled eggs (obviously from a carton), a small heap of soggy waffles, a tiny milk carton that for some reason reads Mann’s Man-up Milk on the label, and lastly a bruised banana. All thought processing suddenly allocated itself to filling the void in your stomach, and you take up your aluminum fork and attack that breakfast dish like it’s trying to escape. Though in reality it probably tastes worse than middle school cafeteria food, right now nothing tastes more heavenly. You’re halfway through the plate when you finally lift your head from the feast below you, and freeze mid-chew.

Heavy is still there, watching in silence from just a few feet away. He hasn’t moved an inch, eyes fixed on you like you were a bomb that needed diffusing. The air suddenly turned to molasses under this newfound tension. If this went on there was no way you would be able to eat, him staring at you like that. You cough heavily, bits of egg flying into your lungs and sending you into a fit as your eyes water.

“Hi.” You say, in a voice cracked from stress and egg. You look at him, hesitantly meeting his eyes for a second. The burn of his cold stare dissuaded you from trying that again. He said nothing. As more moments passes and your food grew cold, there was nothing left to do but try again. A hawk called off in the distance, faint in the desert heat.

“So ugh,” You continued, rapidly losing your appetite, “Why- why,uh, are you in here?” It was a question you would actually like answered.

“Protocol.” The giant man answered, and his baritone and accented voice jolted you into this new reality once again. Heavy weapons guy. Killer. Here, in a room with you. What would your mother think?

“Uhm,” You continue shakily as you try to relieve stress, “what, uh, what protocol? Are you um, following exactly?” The same bit of egg you’re been twiddling for 10 minutes shakes on your fork and you put the utensil down in silent frustration. You have officially given up on eating.

“Armed trespasser. Top level security observation. Is not hard because you are tiny.” He finally said, settling back into his seat.

“Oh. Uhm. Okay.” Comes your quiet response. You decide to pop one last question. “Do you think I’m dangerous?”

Silence ensues as the giant’s arms rearranged themselves. You can hear your own anxious heartbeat. Maybe he can too, it’s so damn loud. This answer should be easy; no. You’re a weak person with no fighting training. A piece of cake for a big guy.

Heavy exhales heavily through his nose. “Da. I know that you are.”

That was unexpected.

“Ugh, I’m sorry, did- did I hear that wrong?” You clarify, tripping over your words.

Heavy sighed, and you recognized the expression on his face; the same patronized look of an adult explaining affairs to a child. Heavy rubbed his face with one massive hand before speaking. “Leetle girl must listen.” He looks straight at you, broad and intimidating. “If you are what you say you are, and if you can learn what you say you can learn, you are very dangerous. Make other people want you, fight for you. That is dangerous too.” He leaned back a bit, face thoughtful. “Is why doktor wants you. To study.” Suddenly his eyes are locked with yours and you can’t look away from them, won’t look away. “Leetle girl is not in places she should be, understand? There is many things in this part of human affairs girl should not see until girl is much older, a world-wise woman.”

His words struck you. Before you could think, you spoke. “A lot of people think you’re stupid, but you’re not. I see that now. You’re actually really smart.” And it was true. He may not have mastered the English language but he must be scholarly in Russian. Heavy looks back at you, eyes narrowed in not an entirely unpleasant way. Behind the mask of disinterest and cold you see a very intuitive man, a very detailed man. A human being, not a killer. Suddenly you realize this is the perfect moment to further insure that you are not killed by talking to him. With a deep breathe you begin your charade.

“Are you finished with food?” The giant asks. You nod, and the plate moves away as softly as it appeared. You have to time your verbal attack just right so he won’t know you are bluffing. He’s half-way to the door when you start.

”Heavy?” You say, and he stops to look over his shoulder from the doorway. “Look I know this is going to sound stupid, but uhm… uh, can- can I read your palm?” Oh god that sounded awful. Heavy looks at a wall, weighing outcomes. His strong face is unreadable but somewhere, deep in the back of his eyes, you think you see a little softness. Maybe it's because you remind him of his sisters when they were young.

“If you touch even one pressure point you will not be alive to apologize.” He rumbles as he walks over. Your stomach drops a little because you know he means it. But you can do this. You have the information, all it needs to do is be displayed right. You reply quietly. “I understand. I’ll just touch your palm.”
The hulking man stands over your bed, and offered his giant hand to you. You have to sit on your knees to even be able to look in it or touch it. It’s calloused, worn. Stressed from wear but still strong. A warrior’s hand and a scholar’s hand. You take it quietly and hope you can make this look real. After a few minutes of pretending to measure lines on his hand, drawing shapes on his finger pads and muttering to yourself, you start talking, making sure not to look him in the face.

“Your family, they are from far away. Where snow falls in great drifts and wild things roam. You have a mother, kind and caring. Two sisters, younger but stronger than two bears each. You…you left to go make money from an American agency? I see a man with a mustache,” You slow, piecing a story together from what you know, “with a contract in his hand. I see the word Siberia. Oh, I was right! A degree in literature, of course. A very smart man. Why, then, did you join a group of killers?” You stop, looking at him as you unwrap your mind from the world of comics. His deadly stare shakes you, and you are shot back to reality; you shouldn’t have pried.
Heavy, turns wordlessly, crossing the bright room in a few quick steps. Before the door slams, you interject one final thing,
“and your name is MISHA!”.

Misha falters for just long enough to notice, the iron clacks shut and you are struck with the realization of your actions. You just told a killer that you knew where his family was, and what his name was. Information that could get you killed, not rescued. Your lower lip trembles, as you feel panic bubble up.

This was not a good start to a day.

Chapter Text

Egg and regret linger in your mouth, bitter and rapidly souring. A brand new day on what is essentially a completely different planet and you already messed it up less than an hour in. You passively wonder if Misha will come back as your aching fingers pick balls of lint off your PJ sleeve, tossing them onto the frayed sheets. You did technically tell him you knew his name, origin, history, family location, and family member’s names. Information that you temporarily forgot could end people’s lives in the wrong hands. Heavy was a killer, and you harshly reprimand yourself for making assumptions of this world. Obviously only one facet of this reality was shown in the published comics.

Outside, insects pick up their lazy tune in a chorus of wings under the hot desert sun. You’d get up and look outside, if you could; handcuffs are not so easy to escape from. Maybe if you were a trained assassin? But no. you’re just a girl, CAPTURED by a bunch of trained assassins. Great.

By now it’s been at least an hour since Heavy left the room, and it feels almost empty. That giant man holds presence, that’s for sure. In your attempt to shift around a bit and sit upright you are startled to an unfortunate realization.

Holy shit do you have to pee.

Your throat may be dry, and you maybe be suffering from dehydration, but nature calls at one time or another. Shifting uncomfortably to relieve the pressure, you look for a way to contact anybody. There’s not much to work with, honestly; a lumpy pillow, two cotton sheets, a steel bed frame, and a metal foldout chair much too far away from you to reach.

“Shit.” You mutter under your breathe as the pressure in your gut wobbles with every move. There is no way in hell you’re going to wet the bed, not after all the stupid things you’ve done as of late: this would just be icing on the cake. Hopefully, there is someone in earshot and the door isn’t too thick. You can scream, probably. Or wet the bed. Hmm, better choose option A. You sit upright as far as you can manage and inflate your lungs in preparation.

“HEY!” You screech. You voice is scratchy and your throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper, but there’s really no remedy for that. “I NEED SOME HELP IN HERE, PLEASE!” You finish with a voice crack; smooth. The room swallows up your voice, and all that’s left is bitter defeat with no throat capacity to do it again. You’re just summoning up the courage to accept your bed-wetting fate when you hear heavy footsteps coming from what’s probably a hall behind that door. The Engineer enters, and boom. Another slap to the face about how real this all is. He’s missing his helmet, with welding goggles pulled up onto his forehead and a crease of discontentment between his eyebrows. A scowl frames his face and all happiness you found in someone answering your plea is gone, like water on a hot day. Vaporized.
“What the hell d’ya want.” He replies, voice a southern growl. Clearly he’s not in a charitable mood, and that makes quick work of any confidence you tried to conjure up. You note the fact that he’s taken off the glove and is sporting the gunslinger; that thing could crush steel pipes and a solid blow would bash your brains out. Yeah, really not helping the whole lack-of-confidence situation?

“Hello Mr. Conagher,” You reply. He scowls deeper at his name. “I uh, mean Engineer,” You quickly correct, remembering that he’s not too fond of you knowing things you probably shouldn’t, “uh…I kind of, well I kind of need to use the restroom.” You flush slightly, then feel a slight sputter of anger that you’re embarrassed in front of this unfriendly killer. “And, uh, well,” You add, “I can’t exactly get anywhere with, um, this.” You finish, tugging on the handcuff restraint for emphasis. Looking back at him apprehensively, you thankfully notice he’s sighing. He may not like it, but he probably has to let you go to the bathroom.

“Alright now missy,” He states, walking over to your bed, “I’m gonna take that there thing off. Then I’m gonna cuff you when you stand up, you hear me?” After you nod, he leans onto one knee next to the cuff and continues talking. “If I see anything suspicious, you’ll be in a world a hurt quicker than you can explain.” That is the second time this morning you’re been filled with nervous apprehensiveness. What is up with these guys and their ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ motto? After a few seconds of listening to the Texan grumbling, the lock clicks and you feel the heavenly sensation of the tight handcuff falling off. Before engie can do anything you take your hand away and bring it close, rubbing your red and welted wrist with delicate fingers. Your skin is angry, inflamed, and painful; maybe engie would let you run it under the bathroom sink for a minute? You don’t have much time to nurse your hand before the other half of the cuff slides of the bed.

“Stand up, now. Hands behind your back.” The Texan said gruffly. You get up and try to ignore the shock of the cold concrete, the sudden dizziness from being down for so long. Engineer gives you no time to adjust and clicks the handcuffs back on over your blisters. A little looser, but still awful. For once you can survey your surroundings correctly; you can see out the window! It drives a little breathe out of you to see that you’re actually on the second story: the ground below is dotted with reddish rocks and covered in endless sand. Cacti appear here and there. There seems to be a small dirt road passing through the fenced in compound you’re in, leading to a building complex in the distance that shivers with heat. That must be the arena.

A jingle focuses you to the present and you take immediate notice of the small pistol engie has produced. Anxiety starts it’s march through your chemical system again, and you feel your clammy. Guns, why always guns? Besides the obvious hired killer thing.

“Git goin. I’ve got a gun to yeh so I wouldn’t advise makin’ a break for it.” Comes the voice behind you, and you instantly pick up your heels and make your way into the unknown. You’re finally going to see the base; and honestly you’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

It’s a warmer in here than you expected it to be. Isn't there air conditioning? You round the corner of the short hall and pass through another corridor, filled with 9 metal doors. As you pass them you slow, eyes widening. So this is where the mercenaries slept! On each door is a hand written name tag; medic’s is scrawled in shorthand, heavy’s is written in tiny and compact font. Scout’s, you realize, is stuck to the door with chewing gum. The door next to it is ajar, and you, lost in a new world and forgetting the threat behind you, lean to peek in. You barely get a glimpse of a beer bottle-lined shelf and a work desk covered in wires and bomb casings before an iron hand grabbed the back of your head and roughly turned it forward, hurting your neck muscles.

“I ain’t too keen on spyin, girl,” Engineer said, and nudged you with the front of the gun. You practically leap forward at the touch, fearfully picking up the pace. “You best keep your eyes in front of you.”

“Right. Sorry, sir.” you bluster. You had been caught snooping. As you pass a medical waiting room (the entrance to medic’s lab?) and clumsily head down a flight of stairs you want to slap yourself. No wonder this man seems to hold a particular grudge against you; he thinks you are a spy! He’s spent his whole life fighting off espionage artists who destroy his stuff, no wonder you’re not a favorite. You drift off into the intricacies of what you know and don’t know about dell and are rewarded with a brutally stubbed toe against the corner of a hall. Yeah, more pain was definitely what you wanted right now.

“Just around this corner, now. There ain’t any girl’s room, so ya know. Just a common bathroom.” Engineer says as you round the corner. Great, you think. A messy men’s bathroom. But as you round the corner you also hear noise; dishes, loud talking and the occasional laugh. Wait- that’s gotta be the mess hall.

You were right. Your eyes are greeted by two iron doors, one slightly ajar just enough to let the sound of breakfast out. And the smell too. You were inches away from looking in when you were redirected again. To the opposite wall. Deep in it was a dingy door with a frosted glass pane that read Communal Restroom. Roughly taking your hands and making you jump, engie uncuffed you while reciting some monotone rules.

“There ain’t no windows that don’ have bars on them, so don’t even try. You have ten minutes to shower and use the facilities. Towels to your right, showers to the left, sinks in the front and toilets in the back. If you go over your time limit I will be forced to enter and retrieve you. You may not bring anything out of the bathroom except for one towel. Now git.” With a double clack you were free, and a gloved hand pushed you at the door. As silly as it was, you grinned. You got to take a shower! Wash your hair, scrub down, maybe even find a little bit of toothpaste to get that horrible taste out of your mouth. Ugh. Eggs.

The tile is slippery and the florescent buzz in a constant pattern in this old bathroom, but you can finally breathe. And pee, which was amazing. For the first time in 48 hours you’re alone and not in handcuffs. You find towels and a bottle of yellowish body wash. The hot water in the creaking stall is heavenly, but you can’t stay long. If you want to get dried off and actually try to look decent you need to hurry. Still you can’t help but release a moan as you wash away the dirt and grime. You even carefully peel off the gauze and let warm water wash over your neck; it stings but gets the crusted blood away. Wrapped up in a scratchy towel you practically play hopscotch to avoid the mildew on the ground, and it takes you only a few minutes to dry off and wrap up in a towel. You even found some toothpaste and cleaned your teeth with your fingernails as best you could. Despite being fresh and clean you couldn’t shake that uncomfortable and anxious feeling. You were not at home. You were alone-

Nope. That wasn’t a train of thought you should go down right now. Be strong and handle today, you scold yourself, at least wait until it’s the evening to think about all that. Pushing that matter away, you claw and rake your fingers through your hair while looking at the spotted mirror. This would have to be good enough. Unfortunately the only clothing you have is a dingy old, not to mention bloodstained, onesie. But apparently fate is kind to you every one in a while; you spot a cabinet you didn’t see before next to the towel shelves. It’s full of clothing spares: plain red t-shirts, cargo pants, socks, and thick black belts. Your skin tingles and you itch to put some clean clothing on, but you doubt engie worth let you.

You shake your head. “Dammit.”. Screw being tactical, you’re just going to ask engie. You creep up to the door in nothing but a towel and call through the lock. “Engie? You there? I have a question.”

You hear shuffling outside, the cock of a gun. You gulp and await a response.

“What is it?” Dell says gruffly from outside. You sigh in relief. No sudden bullets to the face.
“Well, ugh,” you reply nervously, “There are some spare clothes in here, and, well my are kinda super dirty, and also covered in blood, and I was wondering if-“

“Are there any clothes in the left cabinet?” he interrupts. You jog over to the clothing drawers and pull the far left one open. “Nope!” you call back loudly.

“Well then none a those clothes are mine, so go on ahead.” He says, and you hear footsteps retreat from the door. A grin splits across your face; clean clothes!

It took you a while to sort through all the cabinets. The smallest shirt was still pretty big on you, and the pants were huge. You had to roll the pant legs up to your knees and silently thanked god for the belt you found. In the end you looked like a wet stork shoved into a seamstress’s scrap bag but it was better than dingy kid PJs. It wasn’t until you reached the door that you realized the muted voices weren’t coming from the mess hall anymore; they were a few feet outside the bathroom door. They argued in a low mutter, and one was definitely dell.

Just what you needed.

Deep breathing, that’s what your mom taught you to do in a tense situation. Deep breathing. Relax. You’d have to come out of the bathroom sooner or later, and it was probably better to do it of your own free will. Grabbing the handle of the door, you slowly pulled it open. “Dell?” you called, shutting the door before you turned around.

And suddenly you were eye to eye with glasses. But they weren’t medic’s glasses.

“Hello.” A female voice said, professional yet subtly curious. The person you nearly slammed into was clad in purple. Suddenly all air is gone from your lungs and you can’t seem to find it anywhere. You have seen this woman before. She shot a man while holding a casual conversation, chopped up multiple bodies, and rigged a time bomb in all under an hour. She was just as dangerous, if not more, than any man in this complex.

“Nice to meet you,” She said, adjusting a clipboard to hold out a small hand, “You can call my Mrs. Pauling.”

Oh Shit.

Chapter Text

This cannot, absolutely CANNOT, be happening.

You stare at Mrs. Pauling with your mouth comically open. Her hand is still out, but you’ve forgotten how to shake it. She looks even more interesting in real life. Her hair is tucked and tidy, fresh purple blouse pressed and cleaned (minus a minuscule dot of blood near her hip), and glasses polished and smudged. She looks at you for a few more seconds, looks to engineer in confusion, then back to you. This is incredibly awkward. But you’re paralyzed. She’s real. She’s real.

“Uh, helllllo?” She says, speaking very slowly, waving a manicured hand inches from your face. “Do you understand me?”
You jolt, suddenly breaking away from that horrible feeling of being split into two dimensions that you have been getting lately. “You-“ you choke for a second before continuing, “You are uh, Mrs. Pauling.”

“Yes. I am Pauling. I am a friend here.” She’s still speaking slowly, and gesturing with her hand. Oh. She’s under the impression that you’re stupid. Blood flushes your cheeks, humiliated that you gave that impression.

“No, uh, sorry,” you interject in a shamed tone, “I’m not slow, you just. You just really surprised me.” Self-consciously you adjust the overly-large uniform in an attempt to not look like a street urchin. You attempt fails dismally.

“Oh. OH.” She says, brightening up visibly before adjusting her glasses, “That’s going to make things much easier.” She sighs, and corrects something on the clipboard. “I need to talk to you, …” she pauses, waiting for your name.

“Oh. Y/N.” you quickly respond. Every second you spend around this woman makes you feel dumber and dumber, and you have to fight the desire to take two steps backwards and hide in the bathroom in shame. It’s at that moment that Dell steps forward, cuffs in hand, and you remember; you’re a prisoner. Before he can go further Pauling stops him with her clipboard.

“Don’t need those.” she replies curtly to Engineer, who scowls. "Oh, however" she adds, "I need you to make sure the whole team gathers in the Rec. Room in exactly four hours." She finishes her directions without looking at him, then turns and beckons you to follow her through the double doors of the mess hall. As you trail behind you hear a snatch of southern grumbling and the heavy stomp of boots. Then the doors close and you’re in a whole new place.

“Whoa.” You breathe. The rest of the base may be small and a little run down, but the mess hall makes up for it. Warm reddish-grey walls wind their way up to a domed ceiling, illuminated by an even placing of yellow bulbs. A large wooden table dominates a lot of the room, littered with tin mugs, napkins, and chairs pushed haphazardly around it. Off to the left is a wide double swing door; you can see the kitchen inside. But by far the most noticeable feature of the room was the immense circular skylight above the table. It was bigger that a car, letting a huge splash of intense desert light into the room. You looked up in silence at the cerulean sky and wispy clouds as Mrs. Pauling’s heels echoed in front of you.

“Yeah, I know,” came Mrs. Pauling’s reply, and you turned to see her setting out papers and forms in piles on the table, “I would love to have it in my house. If I didn’t like underground in a bunker, I mean.” She clears her throat and roots around in her bag for a pen as you sit down to join her, heart fluttering.

You knew this was coming. This is the end of your being here; and probably the end of your life. She’s come to find what information she can learn from you, the quietly put a bullet in the back of your head and toss you into a ravine. You lick your lips, sweat making your hands and feet slick and hot. You’ve been through so much through the 48 hours that this doesn’t scare you nearly as much as It should have; you’re still in shock. Pauling hands you a pen, and you immediately start twiddling it, unable to sit still. You know you’re going to die soon. It’s not a nice thing to know. Eventually all the papers are sorted into piles and Pauling sits, taking a sleek pen out of her blouse pocket and uncapping it. You gulp, audibly. This can’t be good.
“Name?” Pauling asks, pen poised to write.
“Y/N”
“Age and gender?”
“17, and female.”
“Credentials?”
You stop to think. Credentials? You haven’t had a job yet; you just turned seventeen. “Uh,” You splutter out, “I can cook really well?”
“Mhm.” Mrs. Pauling takes note and you wince; you shouldn’t have said anything. That was a dumb response. Pauling flips the sheet over, and continues to question.

These questions take up the better percent of two hours, paper upon paper of personal inquiries piling up. She asks about your favorite color, preferred sleeping position, teachers from all years of school, and personal opinion on wild animals. By the time the last question is finished you are more than sure Pauling knows more about you than you do. In that small stack of papers is everything you could think of to say; it is, essentially, you. You watch with tired eyes as Pauling staples it, signs it, puts it off to the side. Finished, you think. Thank god.

Relief turns to internal outcry as she immediately pushes another stack of papers in front of you, and one in front of herself. More questions. You put your head in your hands, noting your hair is completely dried. You should have known this was going to take the better half of the day.

“We’re more than halfway done,” Pauling said as you picked up your pen with a tired expression. “It’s just this and one more thing.”

You knew what that one more thing was. And you dread it with your whole being. No, focus, you tell yourself. Be strong. With a deep breath of the cool cement air, you see Mrs. Pauling working on her papers, occasionally looking up to study you with narrowed eyes. Pulling up your huge belt, you do the same. And are stopped short. The paper is titled Mann Co. Personnel Form in big grey letters, Level 5 Security Unit typed below it in smaller print. So Mann co really does exist here. That thought nearly sends you into another existential crisis of dimensions and questioning your existence, but you’re already too drained by today’s severity to actually care much. Shoving everything else out, you fill your mind with one thought; just think about the papers. Moving your pen to the first line you begin to read.

What the hell?

You can’t even get through the first line. It’s so monotone, so term-rich and dull; like the dictionary and an economics book had a love child and you were forced to read it. You furrow your brow, and start at the beginning to read it again. And again. You can’t make heads of tails of it! What even is ‘Activity Based Costing Methodology’?! Was this even relevant? You check both sides of the first page, and are filled with dismay to discover that they were covered in tiny and confusing print, with a small signature bar at the bottom.

Distracted by your frantic paper-flapping, Mrs. Pauling looks up to see your furrowed face. “Just check the agreement boxes and sign the lines. That’s all lawyer speak.” She points to each of your papers in turn with her pen, “That’s ensuring you don’t murder employees or employers, this one is a settling agreement between you and Mann Co, this other one is basically a testimony paper to your existence, and this one-“ She stops short, eyes flicking to you and back to the paper. “Well, It’s not important. Just sign it.”

Your stomach tightens with uneasiness. You forgot about this side of Pauling; she lies, kills, and steals for Mann Co. whatever this paper is cleverly saying or neglecting to say, can’t be something you want to sign. You bite your cheek until you taste blood, watching dust motes dance through the summer sunlight beams, then focus on Mrs. Pauling. She looks so delicate, filing away papers, like she could be an unassuming secretary. In fact you’re sure that she’s played that role before, somewhere in life. Probably undercover; she’s too smart to be in an office somewhere. Well that IS why she is a field agent. She’s dangerous. The copper taste In your mouth is bitter, bringing back the fresh memory of a split lip in a dark boiler room. Somehow, deep in your stomach, you know if you don’t sign this paper she’ll just forge it anyway. Gripping the pen with fear-fueled strength, you sign here, check there, circle this and that, initial here and there. You finish the same time Ms. Pauling does.

“I’m, uh” you start, only to be cut off by your throat’s own dryness, “I’m-“

“Excellent, you’re all done.” Pauling says. She neatly deposits both pens back in a case, and gathers up all the papers with a wide sweep of her arm. You watch, hands balled beneath the table as she flips through and checks all the signatures, eventually clipping the documents together and slipping them into a black briefcase. Nausea licks the insides of your throat. The papers are done. You’re going to be killed now. Should you run? Should you go quietly then try to escape? Your heart rate picks up as adrenaline races through your system.

You don’t want to die.

With an exhale, Pauling rises, briefcase in hand, and gives you a small smile. “Well, we just have one thing left on our checklist.” To your horror she reaches behind her back. She’s going to get a gun out of her belt. You can’t run it’s too late she’ll shoot you. You’re going to die this is the end oh please got let it be quick-

You feel a soft snap next to your collar. Pauling has leaned over and attached…. A name tag? To your shirt? With shaking fingers and ringing ears you look up at her. She wasn’t going to shoot you. You weren’t going to die. At this realization you release a stifled breathe you didn’t know you’d been holding, greedily gasping for cool air. Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Congratulations! You’re now a company asset. Here’s your introductions packet. Your monthly salary is exactly zero dollars, with bed and food provided.” Pauling read off of the front of a Manila folder before handing it to you.

What?

“Wait. I don’t understand.” Changes are coming thick and fast; you’re a prisoner then nearly dead then a threat then an employee at Mann Co?

“Well it’s actually really simple,” Pauling replied as she locked up the briefcase, “By technical law Mann Co’s military division legally owns you.” She smile professionally, brushing off her blouse.

You laugh, shakily. Disbelieving. You search for another answer. “So, Like…I owe them hours? I signed a service waver without knowing?” You say incredulously. You had been duped!

Pauling shakes her head. “Oh no, Mrs. Y/N. You’re not employed by Mann Co. We quite literally own you.” Adjusting her glasses, Pauling turns on heel and walks away from you and all the questions you have.

Your stomach drops. That’s not possible. It can’t be possible, you think, as the ringing in your ears gets louder. It can’t be. No.

“But, wait-“ Words come spluttering from your mouth, frantic and slowly more terrified, “That’s illegal! You can’t do this! You can’t own a human being!” you shout after Mrs. Pauling as she nears the door.

“Not by technicality.” She responds, and in a flash she is out the door. After a few tense seconds her head pops back in. “Welcome to the team!” she calls, then pulls the door shut. You stand silent, illuminated in the sun of your new desert workplace. Heels clack In the corridor, fainter. Fainter. Gone.

Leaving you, a Manilla contract, and nothing to your name but pajamas in a silent room. You fall down to the bench in complete shock, eyes glazed and mind stuttering to process. A buzzard calls outside. A fly drifts by in the desert heat.

And then you are all alone.

Chapter Text

So apparently you and passing out have a very special relationship[; you can’t seem to leave each other alone. So when you wake up for what seems to be the billionth time today in a strange place, covered in something warm and scratchy, it doesn’t really surprise you.

Sitting up your come to realize you’re on a couch, albeit worn and slightly smelly. You try to ignore the sheer exhaustion you still feel, bone-tired from a very traumatic day. Bringing hands to your face reveals puffy and tender eyes, still swollen from tears, and your brow twists in a vain attempt to forget the recent events. As you move to get up you realized you’re impeded by…a kiddy blanket? Wrapped around you with care is a soft fleece cover, slightly pilled up but covered in patterns of sleeping kittens nonetheless. As you move it, a paper falls out in a neat square onto your lap. What now?

“Little Girl,” the note reads in long, scribbly writing, “Pyro said he found you quite sound asleep in the mess hall. I told him to bring you to the rec room, and give you this note. Your papers are all in your room, don’t worry. Now I need you to report to the infirmary as soon as you awake; up the stairs at the end of the hall and to your left. There is much we must get done. –Medic.”

Ah. So that’s how you got to this place, this ‘rec’ room. Admittedly it does brighten your mood a bit to know that the cheerful little firebug tucked you in; especially since you’ve seen inside their head and know the true workings of their brain, unlike the rest of the mercenaries. You sigh a little as you get up, bones creaking from the awkward position you slept in. The room seems to be strangely dark, despite the yellowish fluorescent bulb above you. As you shuffle to the door, note in hand and a sense of foreboding beginning to bloom in your chest, you pass a clock on the sloppily-painted wall; It’s 7:00 at night.

“Jesus. How long was I out for?” You wonder aloud as you enter the cool cement hallway. Silence answers your question with a long sigh of wind, dancing its way over the barren desert night outside the nearby window. As you slowly follow Medic’s instructions, it takes almost all of your willpower to not let everything get to you, to keep your mind shut against the intrusive fear, loneliness, sadness, and confusion this day has brought on you. One thing at a time, you remind yourself; you can have your massive breakdown/crisis when you get back to your room.

Finally you arrive in a small white room, furnished with just 4 chairs and a massive set of steel double-doors taking up the opposing wall. ‘Infirmary’ is unhelpfully stamped above them in bright red letters. This is obviously your stop.

Deep breathes do very little to still your violently beating heart. The last time you saw what was within this place, it was only ok because it was not real. A man with his chest ripped open, organs on display. Blood everywhere. Birds accidentally sown into chests.

Oh man, you REALLY don’t wanna go in there. Sweat makes your palms tacky as you hear metallic clanging, and a muffled strain of what seem to be German curse words from behind the door. Oh god, he’s actually in there. The sicko who tears people open for fun. A killer. And he’s waiting for you. For EXPERIMENTS. You consider for a long and very tense moment whether or not to go bolting back to your room; it could buy you some time. Maybe you could even climb out of that window and run away. But nevertheless you sigh, shaking your head as you step forward; it could never work. And it’s better to walk in of your own free will then be dragged in and handcuffed to the operation table. That thought sends fear straight down your spine and is just enough incentive to send you, almost unseeing and blinded by apprehension and fear, straight through the double doors.

The first things you notice are the acrid combination of blood and disinfectant, and the sheer amount of STUFF. You stop, mouth agape as you survey the medium-sized room. It’s almost how you remember it; operation gurney and surgery lights in the middle, surrounded by machinery. But there is also stuff moved around; humming devices, movable light fixtures. A bunch of expensive-looking medical equipment all crowded into one room. It’s-

Well, it’s terrifying. And it scares you even more when the paper-covered desk to your right emits a loud thunk, and more angry German words. Then, rising up from behind it, papers in hand, is a very grumpy German doctor, rubbing his head.

It’s the Medic. Tall, dressed down in a vest and crisp white shirt, and more than a little bit terrifying.

“Sie dumm fuhrt- Oh, hello,” He locks his eyes on you for just a moment before going back to his papers, yet you freeze under his blue gaze. “Glad to see you haff found the infirmary already.” Rummaging through a box on his desk, he yanks out a large piece of fabric patterned in faint little blue flowers, the kind of thing your grandmother would wear. He chucks it in your general direction and you catch it with stunned hands, still not quite sure what’s going on. He turns back to gathering papers and pulling out files, leaving you standing there, unsure. After about thirty seconds he turns back around, frowning.

”Well, what are you doing?” He commands, waving a hand over at a dressing screen that shelters a corner of the lab, “Go put it on, Bitte!”

“O-oh, ok, sorry-“ You squeak out turning on heel and quickly undressing behind the screen. After you put the cloth on you realized what it is; a hospital gown. Thankfully it hangs down to your knees and has clasps running down the back of it; at least you won’t be baring your bottom while you walk around. Emerging with old clothing in hand you see the German pulling out three new machines on wheels to surround the operating table in a half arc. He adjusts his glasses with a sigh, gesturing offhandedly for you to sit on the metal table while he clips papers to a clipboard. You do, and the white lights of the operating area make it hard to see, not to mention how cold the steel is against your backside. The organ you rely on so much is going crazy in your chest, making valiant attempts to escape its cage before medic goes and does something awful to it. You fiddle with your hands, feeling the heat radiating off of your shaking skin. Mental preparation is key for everything, you remind yourself as medic pulls up a wheeled stool. So you go ahead and prepare yourself for the hours of pain, of carved flesh and spilled blood, of medical malpractice and everything else you dreaded. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.

So of course it surprises you when a cold and ungloved hand grabs your wrist. Shivers race down you, prickling your skin and your feel that strange tearing feeling; a feeling of being in two dimensions at once. It makes your head spin, and makes you take a moment to realize medic is talking again.

“Irregular heartbeat, slight murmur,” He mutters to himself, jotting down information with his left hand while his right is wrapped carefully around your wrist, two fingers feeling out your pulse. You stop short when be checks your other wrist with his left hand, switching his pen to his right and continues to jot notes. He’s ambidextrous, of course; what did you really expect from the doctor/mercenary? A cold hand moves to your neck and over your vein, just above your fading cut line. It takes all the self-control you have to not slap that hand away, to keep your neck safe from everyone. Sweat starts to form on your brow for the third time today.

Next is the stethoscope, placed quickly on your back, shaky breath in, shaky breath out. The doctor seems to be completely oblivious to your fear until he speaks, eyes never leaving the clipboard.

“Why are you so afraid?” He asks as he sorts through a tray of tools. You choke down a little gasp of air, throat dry and itchy all of the sudden. Hands curling up against the cold metal, you hazard a response.

”I guess, it’s uh, the fact that a lot of people have been, um. Cut open on this- this table. … by you.” The sentence was anything but smooth, falling from chapped lips. After a moment of cold silence, the doctor laughs, short and deep. You can’t tell if it’s genuine or not, but it relieves some of the tension in the room.

”Ja, well, I’m a doctor,” he responds, sitting back down with another tray of medical tools, “It’s what I’m good for.”

That and murder, you think to yourself. But don’t say it out loud. Best not to anger the person who’s holding the syringe.

The tests continue, seeming to roll on endlessly. Stand over here, touch your toes, take your weight, reflex check. It was a little awkward to use the side bathroom and give a urine sample, but you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. After an hour of questioning and medical checks you are more than ready to go to your room and sack out for the night, forget this ever happened. You think it’s over when the doctor tucks all his instruments away and begins rolling the machinery back against the wall. With a heavy sigh you grab your clothing from the desk. You’re free. Until a strong hand grabs you by the back of your gown and sits your right back on top of the table.

“We’re not done, stop trying to run away. I’ve sedated patients before.” Medic said, cloaking his threat in a light tone of voice as he turned on various lights around you. You swallow thickly, embarrassment and fear stirring in your chest in equal amounts. In the darkness behind the operation lights you can just make out medic snapping on disposable gloves, and grabbing some very scary instruments. The doctor comes over and swabs your wrist’s underside, and the skin of your scalp behind your ear as he continues talking. “Now, I want you to take some deep breathes, fraulin. I vill not lie, the next few minutes will be uncomfortable. I will make an attempt to minimize pain due to you being new here.”

The sentence hits you in the gut, radiating cold fear and hot apprehension through you. Pain? You watch with open, nervous eyes as a large machine drops down from the ceiling about with the click of a button. It’s the mounted medigun that you saw. It rotates towards you, heavy round opening pointed at your chest a few feet above you. Medic gestures for you to lay flat as you can on the propped-up table, and you do so.

“I’m sure I don’t have you explain this to you,” Medic asks as he fiddles with a few dials. When you shake your head no, he nods, and flips the switch. Light, red and glowing, yet with form and mass, coils out and dives straight under your skin. It’s one of the strangest feelings you have ever felt, and you gasp softly in wonder. It’s similar to that feeling of drinking hot tea. It fills and warms your chest comfortably, starting to spread to your thighs. You heart slows to a steady, strong beat, and your toes and fingers tingle strangely.
You see the doctor smile out of the corner of your eye, a small one, but the first real on you have seen. It’s obvious he’s proud of his work. With a sigh, he straightens his short and holds up something small in one hand, a scalpel in the other.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?” He says cheerfully, rounding the table to sit next to your head. Your heart, finally soothed by the healing on the beam, starts to race again and your whole being tenses up. He’s going to cut you. With a scalpel. Gloved hands pull your hair away from your ear, and you feel the cold tip of the blade on your skin. You can’t help it, a wobbly gasp escapes your lungs as you tighten your grip on the hem of your gown.

“Take a deep breathe und count to three.” The doctor says by your ear, and you make an affirmative noise. You follow his instructions, taking in a mighty lungful of sterile air, and beginning to count. 1, 2-

HOLY FUCK!

You feel the horrific sting of a blade cutting into your thin flesh of your scalp, but it quickly dies away under the medigun. Sweating bullets now, you feel the scalpel digging under your flesh as a sick pressure, the deep wound nothing more than a dull ache. Frozen in a statue of animalistic fear, you can only wait as you feel the pressure of your skin being lifted away from your bone from the inside, the lack of intense pain allowing you to focus on the sound of flesh squishing. Medic picks up his talking again and you cling to his voice, a spider’s thread of distraction in this unnatural situation.

“Vell, now,” He pauses to slide the tool out from under your skin, only to reopen the wound with what feel like (oh god) tongs, “I am inserting a chip that records the state of your body, thought waves, and immune system.” You feel a small rectangle, smaller than a pea, nestle under your skin. “It vill only bruise for a day or two, and your body will grow used to it.” Gentle, icey fingers thread up your wound, the painless tugging of skin extremely off-putting. The doctor sighs, and you see in the reflection of the equipment him slide back on his stool.

Does this mean cutting into me with knives is done? You wonder. You also really, really hope that’s the case; feeling cold steel writhe next to your bones was not something you want to experience. Again.

“Vell, the good news is that we are almost done, no more incisions!” The accented voice chimed, and you sit up in relief to find medic shucking his gloves into the garbage. However, before you could breathe a sigh of relief two paper cups were handed to you; one containing a red pill and a white pill, and the other lukewarm water. You turn to the doctor in confusion to find him tapping his foot.

“I really wish we could sit here all day but I have many NEW papers to file.” He emphasizes. Oh, they’re probably all your papers. In a moment of shame you quickly take the pills on your tongue and swallow them both in a mighty gulp. Then resisting the urge to retch as you felt something scratching at your insides, like thousands of ant sin your stomach. It felt like a million little legs inside of you; that image makes you lean over the gurney in nausea.

“Oh don’t be such a baby. They’re just nanobots!” Medic said while putting on his coat, and you look up at him in shock, confusion, and a large amount of anger.

“You poisoned me!” You hurl at him bitterly, doubling over in pain as you feel the inward scratching turning you arms and legs numb. You can even feel that maddening itching inside your head.

“Poisoned you?” The doctor let out in an exasperated guffaw, “Nanobots aren’t poison! Together with that chip, they are taking a precise and exact scan of your body’s every measurement, inside and out, to send to the database! They should self-destruct as soon as they are done.” As he snaps on his official rubber gloves, you fall to the table, unable to support yourself. How is it he can’t see what’s happening to you? You feel like you’re DYING!

From your rapidly blurring and horizontal view you see the doctor’s face freeze for a moment before he adds, “Now the OTHER pill, the red one? THAT was poison! Dextropalin, my very own creation! Hopefully it will send you through respawn in record time.” His smile he gave you said ‘professional’, but his eyes gave away ‘science experiment’ as he stood a few feet from your sluggish body.
Wait. Respawn?

This time you were actually dying. And you were dying alone without anyone you loved.

What little panic bubbled to the surface of your hazy brain released itself in a weak groan of pain, as you slipped further and further to, what could only be assumed to be, death’s door. You couldn’t move, and everything was so cold. As your vision faded into dark, the world in its entirety crumbled around you, leaving you bodiless, weightless in the darkness. Your hearing was the last thing to fade to smoke, and you could just make something out around the general idea of medic muttering to himself that he should have probably told you this would happen. Then even that blew away like ashes in the wind, leaving you, only you. Not here nor there, not anywhere at all. Just in the dark.

Just waiting.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
The doctor stared down at the limp, small form on the metal table, rapidly cooling and pale. Lifeless. The body wasn’t the problem, he thought to himself as he moved to use the intercom; The girl, now she was. And in his moment of non-professionalism, in the one second he let himself slip and be human for a moment, Medic made a decision.

“Pyro? This is Medic from the North end lab,” Medic listened for the muffled click of the intercom and the affirmative huff of the fire-person before he continued, “Listen, ah…I need you to go to the red respawn. And bring a bucket. The girl will be returning shortly.” And I don’t want to be there. Medic’s unspoken words echoed through the com system, and Pyro huffed again, hanging up.

Medic ran a gloved hand over his furrowed brow. This was all so much. A young girl involved in this war; she was practically a child. He needed to talk to the administrator, but something told him not to. Chances were she was the one running THAT show, too. Medic sighed again, deeply and tiredly. He was getting older, despite respawn slowing aging by half. Deep in his battle scarred heart the old German knew he could never really leave this place, as much as he talked of travel, of settling down somewhere far from everything. And as the lights shut off in the lab he tried not to think about if he really even wanted to anymore.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It might have been a minute, or two, existing in this emptiness. It might have been two or three years. All you know is that the first force you felt in eternity was a pull, and a hard one. You don’t know how or why but it felt suddenly like the core of your being, every sinew and strand of anything that was you was hooked by a million invisible hands, and yanked. Suddenly you were traveling unbelievably fast through the blackness, faster that sounds or light, not up or down or left or right, just PULLED, and it felt like years but just a second and everything was speeding up into suddenly you were falling.

Falling, falling, falling.

From the quiet darkness, void of all sensation, can an explosion so catastrophic if felt like you as a being were wiped away by it. Noise, light, touch, taste, gravity, all came rushing towards you and suddenly the ethereal and dreamlike falling you experienced was very real indeed.

You fell, no, slammed, hands and knees first into the white tiles of the respawn you had only seen before on a screen, your skin stinging with what felt like the strength of one million stars. Lights, bright as the sun and hot white, burned into your eyes. You had eyes. Your body felt born again, shaking and sweating harder than a fever, dampening the default clothing you were dressed in. Everything felt so real, your stomach heaving, intestines coiling, lungs shredding themselves with every ragged gasp of air in time with your racing heart. Tears, born from fresh ducts and rolling down your face in hot tracks, left shining marks from the overstimulating you were experiencing. You rock shakily back on your heals, grinning through tears and unable to contain the sadness, the joy, the fear and utter awe that filled you, relief washing over your overheated brain.

You were alive again. And it was a beautiful thing.

Chapter Text

   Pyro wandered slowly across the desert night, kicking up cool dust and dry sand. It was very pretty out here, they thought. So much calmer and softer than the repressive heat that normally beat down on their arena. It was peaceful, stars glimmering in the navy sky. But there would be no true peace until Pyro's friends were relaxed; and that wouldn't happen until their little problem was solved.

   Pushing aside a heavy gate, the firebug continued to ponder. Who was that strange person? Why were they here? And, most importantly; what did they want? Distracted by their abnormally pensive thoughts, Pyro hardly noticed the sound of distant retching growing louder and louder, until it was almost in front of them. They turned, searching for the source of the sound, and found themselves right outside of the after-hours respawn. The firebug heaved a compulsory shudder. The in-round respawn was fast, clean, and left you only slightly dizzy. The after hours respawn was cheap and a horrific experience, probably to discourage any unnecessary risk-taking after work hours. Heaving a filtered sigh, pyro opened the glass door, and jumped, startled.

   Huddled in the corner was the girl, completely bare except for the coat she had dragged over her shaking form. Pyro whipped around, smacking their forehead. Of course medic would be stupid enough not to pre-program a respawn outfit for the girl; her embarrassment was all his fault.

   Underneath the heavy suit, the mercenary shifted uncomfortably. What could they do? Another bout of dry retching interrupted their thoughts, making them cringe slightly. The poor kid was shaking in a corner, nausea, and worse of all, completely exposed. It was also her first time dying.

Pyro's stomach dropped. Oh, that poor thing. She'd never died before, and medic was too pig-headed to even realize. The firebug's gloved tightened into a fist. It may be painfully awkward, and a little weird, but that kid needed somebody right now.

   You pull the coat closer to your sweaty body as the respawn doors open a second time. This time, the masked man enters fully, wringing his hands, but you hardly notice. Your whole form is shaking, vibrating with adrenaline, sickness, and dizziness. And your inside state is much worse, panic and shock flooding your system. The best word to describe it is numb. You're numb. You died. And that thought terrifies you.

   You watch with glassy eyes as the rubber-clad mercenary unlocks and rifles through the wooden closet next to you, pulling out an oil stained t-shirt and baggy brown pants. Well, it's better than a smelly soldier jacket. You accept the clothing with shaking hands, and immediately proceed to drop them. Great, you think; i can't even hold a piece of clothing. Shit. But after a few minutes of fumbling and nearly falling over, you're standing on knocking knees and draped in musty clothing. Pyro is still, however, sitting on a bench opposite of you, face buried into gloves in an attempt to preserve your dignity, sitting like a small child. That strikes you as funny; over the past 24 hours, you pretty much lost all the dignity you ever had here. With a shaking tap to their shoulder, the firebug sneaks a look up. You imagine the sight they sees is not very nice. A girl, facing shining with sweat and bile, shaking herself apart in baggy clothes. You're probably right, as they stand up, flustered, and gesture to the door.

   The walk back to the base does wonders to calm your trembling form, but not your shaking mind. Medic, you remember. That German asshole! He killed you, he KILLED you, and he never said sorry, he never informed you, he- he didn't act like you were a human! He was robotic, cold lack of caring concealed under professional kindness. The chill winds of the desert night cut clean through your shirt and you shiver, trudging after pyro across the wood and metal arena. You don't know if you'll ever be able to fully trust that doctor. You don't know if that would even matter to him, the freakin' robot. But your muscles hurt and your head is spinning under the pale light of the full moon. You wish you could just stop thinking.

   It takes a few moments to register the fact that pyro is walking beside you, staring at your troubled face with their impassive expression. What was their deal, anyway? First with keeping you tucked in when you passed out, now this concerned hovering? As you both walk in awkward silence it dawns on you that even you, a person who has been very involved in these (once fictional) character's lives, don't know a single true fact about the pyro. This strikes you as very strange and more than a little concerning: at least you had a general grasp on the other mercenaries. Pyro? That was an enigma. You quickly learned that contemplating identity issues and dusky twilight terrain do not mix well together, as your bare foot catches on a plank of wood. You're falling towards the cold stone until suddenly you're not. Two strong arms have fastened themselves to your wrist, keeping you from knocking yourself out.

   Shaken, you turn to thank your savoir only to stop short, sensing the tangible concern coming from the fire starter. A 6 foot tall killer mercenary pats you gently on the shoulder like a parent placating a child, catching you off guard. Even under inches of rubber, the pyro radiates heat. And practically breaks your collarbone with abnormal strength.

   Uncomfortable and starting to get dizzy under the intensity of the firebug's slowly-getting-creepy concern, you speak your first words of the night. "Hey, uh," You cough at your strangely scratchy voice, "Thanks." There's really not much else you can think of to say. A wheeze of air through a filter acknowledges this, and pyro withdraws, hands still up like they were guarding a soccer goal. Like they were waiting for you to fall over again. You wave it off, still reeling from what just happened. Your first sign of affection from any of these people, and of course it would be the pyro. With a muffled and long breath, Pyro starts to round a corner up the hill, and you're quick to follow. How far can the base be?

   Not very far; as soon as that thought finished forming you were walking up concrete stairs to an iron door. You stand behind pyro as they pulls out an ID card from a small black pouch and flashes it against a scanner on the wall. The door slides open, light flooding the narrow canyon that housed the base. With a gentle sweep of their arm, pyro nudges you into the base corridor, locking the many bolts in the entry behind you. Muffled chatter and the smell of barbecue sauce hit your exhausted body and you heave a sigh; You're way too tired to interact with anyone, and too sick to even consider food. Thankfully, after being guided around a few corners, you recognize where you are and spot the staircase to the bedrooms. "I'm going to bed, okay?" You tell Pyro. They flash you a thumbs up, and make their way towards mess hall. You watch them go with a sickness in your stomach, though you cant figure out why as of now. Your drag your tired muscles up the stairs, down the cool hallway, to the last room. You figure it's as good as yours, since you woke up handcuffed to the bed. You shed clothing like it's water as you cross over to the bed, flopping into the scratchy sheets in the t-shirt. Lead-like tiredness snakes through your veins, and the last thought you had was how beautiful the starlight was coming through the window.

    Pyro bursts into the dinner hall, following the heavenly odors wafting from the table. It's engie's turn to cook tonight, and he always makes a mean slow-roast. Pyro prays it hasn't all been devoured yet as the table draws nearer. Thankfully, there's just enough for one more. However, the silence in the mess is strange. Normally all the other mercenaries are still jammed in here, talking in rowdy voices and trying to out-eat one another. But tonight it's oddly quiet. Medic and Heavy sit at the end of the table, conversing in terse murmurs over cups of coffee. The only other person present is Engineer, who looks up from his cherry pie and splits a grin.

   "Well hey, firebug. I was wonderin' if you planned just to skip dinner altogether!!" The Texan drawls, patting the bench beside him. Pyro makes a happy muffled squeak and scurries over with a plate, intent on grabbing the engineer's fantastic western cuisine while it was still hot. Engie smiles and shakes his head as the firebug enthusiastically heaps up potatoes, hot gravy, two dinner rolls with butter, and as much pulled pork as their plate can hold. The Texan knows that the firestarter is especially susceptible to his rich and buttery foods, and it's a great source of pride for him. "Where's the girl?" Engineer asks, sipping his coffee. Pyro freezes for a second before simply signing 'bed' at engineer. Engie nods knowingly. "Is she alright?"

   'She's afraid' Pyro signs, picking up their food and hustling out to avoid more questions. Engineer frowns. It wasn't like the firebug to want to get out of a conversation. He couldn't help but notice the glance Pyro threw at medic before he left. And how medic studiously avoided it.

How very, very strange.

Chapter Text

You remember when you were little, it was impossible to get out of bed. Your mother would sneak into your room, gently shaking you to awareness underneath the blankets. But even that, despite all her coaxing and laughing, it was damn near impossible to remove yourself from such a comfortable and secure place.

It's even harder to get up here knowing you'll never see your mother again.

After around an hour and a half of laying groggily in your scratchy new bed sheets, trying to ignore your surroundings, you don't really have any choice but to get up. Your dad always said it was best to be up and facing the day earlier rather than later. You never listened to him, but. Now following his advice felt like a safety blanket, like maybe he was just around the corner.

That fragile illusion shatters into a thousand sharp pieces as you struggle out of your cot. The cement floor is cool, rough against your tired feet. As you shake away the dredges of slumber you gaze out the single window in your small room. The desert that makes up your new world is still dark, stained with purple and soft pink as the sun begins to creep up into the sky. Somewhere far off, a bird cries.

You leave you room, sneaking past the other doors with caution as to not wake the men inside. Thankfully the halls are already light by sickly yellow bulbs, so you're not completely fumbling around in the dark. You also remember the basic layout of this base, and you head down the stairs towards the mess hall. It's pretty far away from everybody else, and it's not likely anyone else will be up at this hour, Hell, YOU don't want to be up at this hour, But if you stewed in that bed for a moment longer you'd probably go insane. At least then you'd fit in with the rest of the team, huh.

The mess doors are ridiculously creaky, shrieking when you open them. There doesn't seem to be anyone here, however, so you make your way into the small kitchen, intent on some water or tea; anything to quench the dryness in your throat. However, there's not much in the tiled little room. A fridge, a stove and oven, and two cabinets, But that's not really important right now, you decide, A moment later you find a cup and fill it with cold water, washing the grit of sleep from your mouth.

Suddenly it's obvious to you that you need to be a little more observant.

Someone clears their throat behind you, and you whip around, startled. A ridiculously tall and gangly man stands behind you, shades propped up atop his head. It's the sniper. You swallow nervously, freezing, as he grunts impatiently. What-what does he want? And then it strikes you; you're standing in front of the cabinets. Heat flushes your cheeks and you jump out of the way, embarrassed to be seen in bagging clothes and as unresponsive as a slug. As the bushman raids the cabinets, pulling out some instant coffee, you hazard an apology.

"I didn't mean to wake you up."

Sniper grunts, and a few moments later turns to face you, Now you notice how groggy he is; He's probably used to being the first one up and getting some coffee.

"Y'didn't wake me up," Sniper says, rubbing his stubble face. "I don' sleep inside the base."

Oh, of course, the camper van.

"Oh yeah, I remember." You respond, even more mortified. As you hustle to the table with a death grip on your cup, you don't notice the strange and calculative look sniper gives you out of the corner of his eye.

After sipping your water and trying not to drum your feet against the table's benches, sniper emerges with a mug of coffee and a single slice of buttered bread. You expected him to sit down (probably at the end of the table), but he walks right past you and out the door. Typical. Freakin' recluse, leaving you here all alone in an unfamiliar place.

The hours pass with the hollow ticks of the old clock on the wall, and you wind up spending most of it staring blankly at your glass, not noticing the rays of light that slowly creep in through the skylight.

You do, of course, notice the trumpet.

The undignified squawking of a brass instrument upstairs nearly made you knock your water over, heart bearing furiously. Overhead you hear feet stomping that accompany the early morning symphony. Things just got interesting. You hear muffled shouting, and you can just make out what's being said.

"UP AND AT 'EM LADIES!" A ridiculously loud man shouts. It sounds like your theory of soldier proved to be true; he wakes up the team every day with some motivational 'American pep'. The soldier rants on, and you hear the sound of doors being kicked open, and screeching complaints in various tones, punctuated by the occasional toot of the trumpet.

Over the next ten minutes the footsteps increase in number as the men upstairs wake up. You nervously adjust your clothes in a last ditch effort to look somewhat presentable as a set of footsteps meander down the stairs.

The first person to wake up is engineer, goggles hanging around his neck as he scratches his cheek. You turn and raise your hand slightly, giving a nervous and very fake smile. He just looks at you impassively and continues towards the kitchen and you soon hear the sound of food being prepared. Each mercenary files into the room one by one, none of them smiling and none of them making a gesture towards you. Except for pyro who waves cheerfully at you then promptly waves at something invisible; which makes you consider that the firebug wasn't really waving at you at all.

The men spread across the roon, some sitting down to stare at their hands (or anything that wasn't you), others to crowd into the kitchen. Soldier stood against a wall near spy, both smoking a heavy cigar.

The early morning air in the mess hall is still cool, but hangs full of unspoken words and tension. All because of me, you think. All because of me.

After what seems like a stoic eternity, breakfast is ready, the smell of hot waffles and egg floating from the kitchen. Your stomach gurgles loudly as the mercenaries made their way to the table. You notice immediately that the closest person to you, soldier, was sitting three feet away from you. Again, nobody said much to you, and just exchanged the occasional word with each other. Eventually engineer emerged from the kitchen, pyro bouncing behind him with a stack of plates and forks, You didn't expect what happened next, you truly didn't. You expected the mellowness of the room was pretty regular.

So it surprised you very much that, as soon as the plates and food touched the table, there was a mad grab for everything. Scout had to reach under heavy's arm to snag a fistful of waffles, and somehow spy had managed to avoid the breakfast centered conflict, and already had a neatly organized breakfast platter which he tucked into promptly. After getting over your initial shock you realized with dismay there was almost no food left, and a few arms still fought their way to get the rest of it. You grabbed the last plate, holding it close to your chest and scanning for any food left behind. But as demoman pulled away from the platters, two waffles in hand, your empty stomach dropped. There was no food left; none whatsoever. Your empty plate glinted at you as you watched the hulking men tuck into steaming eggs amidst the scrape of forks and scattered chatter. Ashamed, you fold your hands in your lap and slump a bit. You should have been a little more forceful in getting something to eat; and there was no way in hell you were going to ask anyone for food. They all disliked you to start with.

Your stomach twists and cramps as you watch all the delicious food disappear into the stomachs of the mercenaries, the delicious smell of crispy sausage and fried eggs dissipating into the warm air. Demoman and heavy were still eating, but the rest of the men got up one by one to toss their plates into the sink, filing out the door. Soon it gets very quiet as the two remaining men eat the remaining food. You try not to look, you really do. But you're so hungry you can't help but be envious of the giant portions the guys are still devouring. You guess it can't be helped, with all the staring, that the heavy weapons guy across from you looks up and catches you.

You freeze, mortified. The giant's icy blue eyes flick down to your plate, and back up to your face. Then, silently, he picks up two waffles of the remaining three on his plate, and drops them onto your clean on. You're stunned; the man you practically threated with personal information has taken pity on you.

'Thank you.' You say, more than a little touched by the small gesture of kindness. He just nods and grunts, finishing his breakfast in one more bite before leaving the mess. You notice demoman has been watching you this whole time as you tore into a waffle. You must look like some underfed urchin, practically inhaling the food. Wow, embarrassing.

But you don't argue when he gruffly deposits a big chunk of untouched scrambled eggs onto your plate. He's gone before you can say thanks, but that's alright with you.

It takes you all of 20 seconds to finish what's on your plate, definitely more sated than a few moments before. You follow the steps of the other mercenaries, depositing your dish onto the ridiculously tall pile already in the sink. You head towards the door, pushing the massive things out of the way and intent on going up to your room and never ever coming out again. Or, you would have, if not for an orange-gloved hand that just out in front of you. Engineer is leaning on the wall outside of the hall, blocking your way. Before you can even ask what this is about, he thrusts your contract folder into your chest.

"Y'didn't think you were just gonna get to stay around here without a job, did'ya?" He says, sliding the goggles over his head. You open the folder as he continues to talk. "Congratulations, you work for us now. Get to it." He departs, work boots clicking into the distance. You squint at the text.

"Mann. Co Municipal Worker; Janitorial Services" You read aloud, stunned. Below in many paragraphs details the extent of your workload. You read the whole thing, eyes wide; your new duties include laundry, house maintenance, meals, meal cleanup, scrubbing, washing, and pretty much all other forms of service. And all for absolutely no money. Great. You heave a sigh and read the last few sentences; 'Your work-mandated uniform will arrive in a few days'. Work-mandated uniform, huh. Well at least you'll own some clothes. But in the meantime, you suppose that you better get to work. No wonder the mercs left their dishes in the sink; That wasn't their job anymore.

"I work for Mann. Co now. Never saw this coming." You mutter to yourself, doubling back to the mess hall.

The kitchen, it turns out on closer inspection, is a complete mess. Dishes are scattered everywhere, the counter is covered in bits of egg and ketchup, and the sink is grimy and disgusting. You exhale slowly, blowing your hair away from your eyes as you roll up your sleeves.

This was going to be a bad day, wasn't it?

Chapter Text

Miss Pauling limped out into the dusty back lot of the granary just as the sun was rising, missing one shoe and wiping a smear of blood off her cheek with her right hand (which happened to be holding a gun). In her other hand was a giant brick of a cell phone that she shook slightly to get a lump of flesh off of. The purple-clad woman stumbled over to a water barrel on its side, and sat down, turning on the phone and winced as she felt the ankle of her bare foot. It was turning a violent shade of purple and yellow, and was turned at an odd ankle. The phone crackled for a brief moment, then connected.

“Did she sign it?” An ancient and smoky voice murmured over the line. Pauling tucked the phone between her shoulder and her cheek and made an affirmative noise before grasping her foot and leg with both hands and snapping her foot back into position with an audible crack. The smoky voice sighed in relief before continuing. “Excellent. I trust you cleaned up after yourself?”

Pauling jammed her other shoe back on her foot as she spoke. “Of course, Administrator. Anyone that saw me drive into Dustbowl Valley got put in a granary outside of town. Want me to ping you the coordinates?”

“No need. I trust you’ll follow protocol appropriately.” The administrator responded. “What i’m more interested in now is the girl. Have the next RED base outfitted with six extra cameras and a mobile mic, will you? I’ll also need you to do monthly check-ins. I need eyes and ears on her, especially.”

Pauling’s eyebrows creased. “She won’t have anything to say. She’s just a girl. I’m not going to waste any more time on her. We need to make her disappear like we usually do.”

“That’s what I thought about you , Miss Pauling. You were just a girl. Many of my co-workers wanted to make you disappear.”

“You know it’s different!”

The static of the phone crackled so strongly that pauling had to pull it away from her head. “It’s no different .” The administrator said coldly, “You and her showed up just the same, with no record of existence and claims of living in another time. Don’t act like you’re above this. I am growing her tired of your belligerent attitude towards my orders.” A rasping cough interrupted the Administrator's tirade before she continued, “You work for me. You’re not a free mercenary, do you understand?”

Pauling swallowed hard as she limped towards a moped hidden under a tarp. The first beams of morning sun swirled in the dust motes above it. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

The administrator sighed. “Good. When you get back, I need you to do a forced team relocation, then shut down the dust bowl arena and sweep it with a radiation and rift detection team. When you appeared we didn’t have the chance to study it. Now we do, and I want to know why this happened again.”

Pauling ripped the tarp away and straddled her bike. Out of one of the side bags she produced a glass bottle marked ‘Refined Kerosene’ and proceeded to remove the top and stuff a rag partially into it. All the while, she talked into the phone. “...Can’t we just ask Conagher?” Pauling heard the Administrator inhale to shut her down, so she started quickly justifying it. “It’s just that he has a history of specialization in teleportation of 3 dimensional matter through space and time and I think he could be really beneficial to-”

“Miss Pauling, no.” The response came in a clipped tone that indicated this was the end of the discussion. “This cannot go any level of public. Not even with Conagher. As far as he knows, time travel is a fairy tale reserved for children. And I intend to keep him thinking that way until my engineers fully finalize their research on the subject. Are we clear?”

Pauling gripped the kerosene bottle tightly, her knuckles white. “Yes, Administrator.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you, Pauling.” There was no warmth in the administrator’s voice when she spoke. It’s wasn’t an endearment. It was a concealed threat. There was a short buzz of static as the line disconnected, and Pauling quickly thrust the device back into her pack with a snort. Out of all the people to be opinionated on this subject, I have the most right , she thought to herself. It’s not like anybody else got shoved face-first through a wormhole like me. But then Pauling thought of pyro. Out of everybody in the world, they were the only one Pauling didn’t doubt had come from some other time, or dimension.

After picking a flake of dried blood off her glasses Pauling revved the moped engine, kicking up dust as she sped away around the granary corner. Without looking back, she lit the rag in the kerosene and chucked it over her shoulder where it smashed against the wooden barn side, instantly catching fire. She didn’t look back as she pulled out her short-distance radio to call the team.

She didn’t look back as the 20 bodies inside the crumbling building burned.

Engineer was the only one around to answer the faculty radio after breakfast. Scout usually had it with him at all times, ‘just in case miss pauling calls y’know?’, but today it was abandoned in the sitting room on the threadbare couch. The wiry bostonian was probably off somewhere antagonizing soldier or giving stuff to pyro to light on fire, so it fell on Dell’s shoulder’s to pick up the beeping device and answer.

“The Engineer is Engi-here.” Engie said into the speaker, idly fiddling with an overall clasp. He knew Pauling loved to hate puns, and he could practically hear her anger-smiling on the other end of the line.

“Oh man, you have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now, Engie.” Came the fuzzy reply. Dell heard the tell-tale sound of a moped in the background.

“So, what’ll ya be needin’ from your very own RED mechanic today, Miss?” Engie asked.

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“Try me.”

Pauling paused, sighed. “I’m moving RED to project nightfall.”

Engie let out a short and exasperated groan and ran a hand down his face. They had just taken the long-distance teleporter back into Dustbowl a week ago, and were supposed to stay here for another month and a half. To top that, they were being taken out of the warm sun to be shoved into a base in the cold and rainy mountains. “But we just - Ah.” He paused, eyebrows visibly lowering over his goggles, “This is about the kid, ain’t it.”

“...No.”

“Miss Pauling,” Engie said gruffly, “You’re a strong and terrifying woman, but the one thing you cannot do is tell a lie convincingly. Now,” He continued, with repressed frustration, “ Please tell me that when we teleport out, we’re droppin’ the kid off. In a grave or at a shelter, I don’t care.”

There was a crackle of static, and a pause. “Sorry, Engie.” Pauling replied. Engineer tilted his head back in frustration as Pauling continued to talk. “Listen, I need everyone to grab their gear and be ready in an hour, ok?”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.”

“Thanks, Dell. I owe you one.”

“Yes, yes you do.”

After the radio turned off, Engineer took a deliberate moment to breathe deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. To remind himself that he was a professional, and an adult, and the intruder in his workplace was just a temporary inconvenience; everyone could see how quickly she would be killed in this environment. She would be gone soon, and then everything could go back to the way it was. Comforted by this notion, the Texan man strapped the radio to his tool-belt and swiftly walked out of the room.

It was time to go.

Chapter Text

I’ve really gone and done it, now. Really fucked it up. 20 minutes into scrubbing greasy plates in elbow-deep soapy water, I noticed I was finally starting to make a dent in the piles next to the sink. If I were at home cleaning, this would have cheered me up. But all I could think of was how I was going to have to do this 3 times a day on top of hours of other tasks.

Holding a large plate in one hand, I reached over to the soap dispenser to get another pump onto sponge I was using. I didn’t notice how far I was leaning, or how much water had splashed onto the floor, until my bare foot stuttered across the kitchen tile, then slipped. And I was falling sideways, still holding the sponge and the plate, watching in shock as the sink slipped from my view. My head met with the hard countertop corner with a sharp crack, then everything was black and still.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, again?!”

The voice sounded fuzzy and distant, almost overpowered by the ringing in my ears. As my senses flooded back, my head started to pound and I was acutely aware of several cuts on my hands.

“How many times is it now that we’ve found her passed out? 2? 12? I’m losin’ track.” A Southern voice deadpanned behind you, joined with a dismissive snort of air. Blinking with bleary eyes, I groaned. Probably Engineer. A work boot prodded me in the small of my back a few times. Ok, definitely Engineer. As I struggled to get to my feet, I heard him mutter, “And she didn’t even finish the damn dishes.” What a prick.

“Yeah, I get it, I’m sorry.” I start apologizing even before I finish standing up. From a quick hand and surroundings check I can tell I smashed the plate as I fell and it sliced up my hands. There were glittering bits of china all over the floor.

The Engineer huffed, and I unwillingly turned to face him. Behind the stocky Texan was Scout, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a bat resting casually on the other one. He blew a bubblegum bubble and popped it noisily, expression unreadable.

“We’re leavin’. Now.” The mechanic says to you, goggles flashing in the morning light before he turns and starts walking away with Scout in tow.

“Wait, what?” You call loudly back to him, “Leaving like, you’re uh, going to town? Or-”

“Just get yer shit and come back to the main hall.” Engineer’s voice is cold and tinged with venom in his response, echoing down the hall to your left.

“Is it true we got a clean-up crew comin’ just because she’s here, hardha-” You hear scout echo in the distance before he’s loudly shushed by the mechanic. A sour taste immediately pooled in my mouth, but I was quick to swallow it as I washed my bloodstained hands in the sink. I couldn’t help but feel guilty over leaving these stacks of dishes here on the counter, but it was made pretty clear that I needed to hustle. As I fast-walked down the hall I wiped my bleeding hands on my shirt, grabbing my disgustingly dirty pajamas and the manilla folder on my bed before making a quick u-turn and walking back. But something made me pause. Maybe it was the echo of my feet in the warm hallway, the way the motes swirled in the hot sun that was coming in through the dirty windows. Maybe it was color of the scratched and faded red stripe on the wall. Or maybe, it was the sound of the wind blowing over dusty ground and the shrill screech of buzzards outside. But that something froze me in my tracks, made my stomach lurch. I was feeling that feeling again, of being in two places at once. The slight ringing in my ears was getting louder, like a singing bowl. I couldn’t move. My vision starting to double, and I was frozen, and everything was getting brighter and brighter, and-

Then there was a cough behind me. A loud and irritated, yet still polite, cough. The delicate feeling of being split in two shattered, and I jumped in alarm. The manilla folder lept from my arms, scattering across the hall. I whipped around, an apology already on my lips. I was getting so used to saying sorry.

Fortunately I came face to face with Heavy, who looked rather taken aback by my spastic actions. Unlike the majority of the men here, he seemed to just be neutral with me instead of actively hating my existence. Under one of his arms was a plastic crate filled with books, socks, and a few photos. Under the other was a massive and hulking gun. He cleared his throat again, and I scrambled to the side to let him through. As he continued down the hall I crouched to pick up my papers and flushed. How long had he watched me just stand there like an idiot? Why was I acting so stupid? I shook my head as I stood up and scurried down the hall: I didn’t have time for this right now. We were ‘moving’, whatever that means. But any type of moving means change and distance, and I’d be damned if I let myself get behind.

I rounded the corner to see nearly everyone in the dining hall, their back to me. What were they all looking at? As I timidly walked into the room I was nearly bowled over by Soldier walking past me, giving no indication that he saw me or cared. His mouth was creased into the frown I had recently learned was his default expression, and he shoved his way between Sniper and Demoman. As I crept to go stand behind Pyro at the edge of the semicircle, I heard Engineer talking.

“Alright fellas, are we all here?” He said, counting off heads and never turning to count him. “Alrighty then. You know the drill.” He kicked something metallic by his feet, and I had to get up on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of what it was. When I did, I almost choked. It was a teleporter unlike one I had ever seen before. Instead of 2 spinning arms revving up, it had 4, each one the length of one of my legs. When it booted up and started to hum, it made a circular disk of purple-magenta light as wide as I was tall. Why the hell would anyone need a teleporter this big? Or this… purple?

Before I could voice my concern, I saw Medic and Heavy step up on the platform together and disappear moments later with a loud echoing sound, like a small sonic boom. Engineer leaned against the table a few feet away, waiting. The teleporter started to recharge, and Demoman and Soldier stepped up to be next, each holding large suitcases. Motion in front of me caught my eye. It was Pyro, slowly reaching out from their side to try and hold sniper’s hand, who slapped the glove away with blinking an eye. I watched again incredulously as Pyro paused, then reached out with their other hand towards scout’s hand. The Bostonian took a few steps away from the firestarter, who seemed unphased. How could the masked mystery not clearly see that nobody on this team liked him? That, to be quite frank, they were almost afraid of him?

I didn’t notice Pyro turn around before it was too late. A giant gloved hand intertwined its fingers around mine and pulled me up to the firebug’s side, where they swayed side to side a few times like a happy penguin. I clenched my jaw nervously at how tight their grip was, their hand practically swallowing mine. They smelled like plastic, smoke, and burnt sugar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sniper raise a single eyebrow above his tinted glasses.

A few moments later, Pyro and I were the last ones left besides Engineer, and I was yanked onto the spinning platform. Just before we disappeared, the suited enigma mimed putting a hand over its eyes, then pointed to me. I tried to use my non-folder-holding-hand to do so, but even with a hard yank Pyro had a steely grip on my fingers. I gulped, and resigned myself to covering my eyes with the folder, just in time.

The feeling of teleporting is very odd. A bone-chilling cold creeps through you starting from your feet, in just under a half second. Then you’re surrounded by icy wind buffeting you from every angle and a feeling in your stomach like you’re on the world’s shittiest tilt-a-whirl, completed with blinding light shining through your eyelids. Just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of this hellish concoction of sensation, my feet met solid ground. I felt my hair sticking up at every angle but I made no move to fix it, instead standing dazed and blinking on the teleporter exit pad. I didn’t notice I was falling over until Pyro steadied me as we walked off the pad. No wonder I almost pitched over; the room was spinning. An after effect of teleporting, I supposed. I heard Scout muffle a laugh in the corner of the mystery room we were in when pyro let me brace myself on their arm. Unscrewing my eyes, I pushed myself off the support just to spite Scout. Finally, Engineer arrived. As he appeared in a final flash of purple light, I realized almost all the other mercenaries had already trickled out of the poorly-lit wooden room.

“Where are-” I began.

“Mission nightfall. Roughly 1,500 miles from last outpost,” Engineer grunted, power-lifting 2 metal boxes and a suitcase, “Pyro, be a darlin’ take her to a room please.” Before I knew it he was out the door too, having never once looked my way. I knew, deep in my heart, there was no reason for him to see me as anything other than a nuisance, but. It still cut, it still stung. Pyro clicked their heels together and gave an awkward salute, adjusting their bright pink backpack decorated with iron-on patches of rainbows, unicorns, and smiling barbies. The masked humanoid turned to me, bending over a bit to sink to my height, and cocked their head. I drew my head back a little bit in confusion as they silently regarded me with their concealed gaze. After a few moments of nothing but the sound of filtered breathing and rain beating on the metal roof ahead, I hesitantly tucked the folder under my arm and lifted my hand up, wiggling my fingers in the universal language of “...Hello?”. My face was apprehensive and a bit concerned, yet, I smiled. I didn't know exactly why. Maybe it's because I knew that somewhere, deep in that suit, was a misunderstood person that believed in magic.

“Mph. Mph hmm Gphhd.” Came the sudden muffled words from the Pyro as they stood back up. I withdrew my hand close to my chest in alarm. I didn’t have a damn idea what they were talking about, but the tone sounded like...they were making a decision. Before there was a chance to ask, however, a large hand closed around my wrist, and I was running. More accurately, I was made to run.

Cold rain pattered on my head as we left the tiny wooden building we were in, and I openly gasped. Pyro was pulling me down a muddy road in the middle of a pine forest, the sky boiling with grey clouds overhead. The air smelled crisp, like water and lightning. We quickly left the tiny shack behind and approached the open gate of a 20 foot high chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. Pyro only stopped pulling me to close the gate and click the lock into place. Then we were on the run again, my bare feet sinking into the icy mud as we neared a 4 story building made of aging wood and metal roofing. It sat on the edge of a cliff of a mountain; down below, in the valley, I saw two identical buildings facing each other, one red, one blue. Then it hit me.

“Payload race, ” I whispered to myself as the building got closer, “It’s a payload race map.”

If Pyro heard me, they didn’t say anything. And they didn’t stop running. We tore up the steps to a door under a metal eave, at which pyro scanned their tiny ID card and elbowed their way in. After 2 sets of small winding (and very creaky) stairs, and a lot of heavy breathing, we were finally on the main floor of the living quarters. I thought I would have a chance to catch my breath but we just started fast walking down the hall to my left, slamming past Scout who dropped his bat with a surprised yelp. After 2 more turns down squeaky wooden halls, we came to a stop outside a door with an unnerving amount of black scorch marks on it. Pyro gently pushed it open, tugging on my wrist for me to come inside. A flare of panic lit up my chest, licking my ribs with flaming tongues of panic. Don’t let crazed killers corner you in a room where no-one can hear you scream, a tiny voice whispered in my ear. I planted my feet firmly on the floorboards, pulling backwards. “Pyro, stop, you're- you’re SCARING me!” I blurted out, still breathless.

Pyro paused, let go of my wrist, and tilted their head again, slowly. I felt a cold sweat bead form on my forehead as they gazed at me. Then, in a much gentler motion than yanking, they opened the door and gestured in with their other hand. I paused in silence for a moment, weighing my options as heavy rain fell on the roof above me. On one hand, I could accidentally lock myself in a room with someone who was actually intent on slowly killing me. On the other hand, if I left now I might be severing ties with the only tentative alley I have here in this wretched place. Overall, it seemed like there wasn’t much choice. Besides, I reasoned with myself as I walked into the tiny bedroom, If I die I’ll just come back through the nearest respawn. Though i would really rather it didn't come to that.

The room was surprisingly small. Just big enough for a tiny cot, a closet door, a lamp, and a small desk. The edges of the desk were burned, and there were soot and smoke stains covering the ceiling. Long streaks of wallpaper with singed edges were missing. The total effect was, to be honest, really really unsettling.

“Mmhp, fmph.” Pyro said once they closed the door. They gestured for me to sit down at the tiny chair by the desk, which I did quickly, holding my manilla file and my bundle of clothes to my chest. I noticed, with tangible fear coating my mouth, that the firebug locked the door behind them. The dusty yellow light bulb from the lamp next to me flickered with a particularly bright flash of thunder outside. Pyro turned towards me, and the room was quiet. I shrank back in my seat.

“Why...did you bring me here?” I asked, and my voice broke.

“Mph. Mph hmm Gphhd.” They repeated the sentence from the teleporter room. A hand went to the collar of their suit.

I paled. What did that mean?! “What are you trying to say?” I replied. I was starting to think they worst; this was all just a trap that I fell for with open arms.

Out of all things, I did not expect Pyro to sigh, stick a few fingers under their mask, and tug it off.

“I said,” Said Pyro in a soft and and gravelly voice, “ You. You are good.”

My jaw fell open. Pyro...pyro was adorable. Pyro was a man. He had soft, dark curly hair that fell over his eyes and a round cherub-like face spattered with freckles. He had remarkably soft skin; almost more of a baby-face than scout. His eyes were an almost-black brown, big and framed by enormous lashes. His lips were large and slightly chapped, with two vertical scars running down them on the left side. His face and neck was smattered with shiny scar tissue, splitting one of his dark eyebrows in two; burn scars. Noticing my open-mouthed staring, he turned his head to the side and looked away.

“You’re the only one who would hold my hand.” He finished quietly. His words were tinged with a slight accent. I was still shaken. Never, not in my entire time of speculation, had I expected the firebug to look like this under his suit. I was shaken out of my internal dialog when I saw Pyro shift nervously from foot to foot, then moved to put his mask back on.

“Wait!” I interjected, and he paused. “Are… are you South American?” The accent sounded familiar. Almost Spanish.

After a moment he smiled, his teeth bright white. “I am. Did the accent give it away?”

The rapid and nervous heartbeat I had developed over the past few minutes was starting to calm down. “Yeah, a bit.” After a brief pause, I tacked on, “Tu hablas espanol?”

Pyro’s face lit up. “Claro, CLARO!, Dios mio, yo-” He said excitedly, before starting to speak rapidly in spanish. I got lost two sentences in and held my hands up quickly to stop him.

“Alright alright, I took like, one year of Spanish in seventh grade.” I cut him off quickly, “I’m a little rusty.”

He nodded understandingly before crossing his legs and dropping into a sitting position on the cold floor. Without the mask, this 6 foot tall mercenary looked more like a child than I did. Especially when he started rocking side to side. I bit the inside of my cheek, still reeling. Something felt...very off.

“If you uh, don’t mind me asking. You don’t take your mask off a lot. Why… why would you take it off for me?” I asked softly. Pyro fixed the full force of his wide-eyed gaze on me.

“I value kindness a lot. My papa always said it was the most valuable trait of them all. And you,” He pointed straight at me, “Gave me some. So,” Pyro tilted his head down slightly, “Thank you. We don’t… I don’t get a lot of that.”

"So... nobody sees you with your mask off?"

He huffed softly. "Almost no one cares enough to ask to."

I nodded quietly. It made sense. Pyro scratched his cheek with his gloved fingertips before abruptly speaking again. “I see things, you know.” He stared around the room, gesturing vaguely around with his hands. “All sorts of things. Colors, people, animals. Sometimes when it get really bad, I do not so nice things,” He said this factually while still avoiding my gaze, “I hurt people a lot.” He took a deep breath, making the shape of goggles around his eyes with his fingers. “ And I see light different. Medic says so. Like that lamp light,” He points to the small lamp lighting the room by the window, “I don’t see yellow, I see pink. Rings of pink. And turquoise. Some dragonflies too.” His goggle hands fall into his lap, the soft yellow lamplight casting long shadows across his eyes. I don’t dare say anything. The way he’s speaking, it sounds almost like he’s never really talked about it before. Like he’s confessing. “I just…” He hesitates as he stares at his hands, “I don’t think I’m...bad. Or evil, like Mr. Spy says. Because, you know, they do the same bad stuff, and they never call themselves evil. I know I don't...think like other people. But I don’t really like to hurt people. So, I must not be bad either.” He falls quiet and picks at the hem of his suit.

After making it clear he’s not going to talk again, I pipe back up. “...I don’t think you’re evil.” I say, seeing pyro lift his head and gaze up at me from under his lashes. “I think anyone that feels bad about doing bad things can’t be evil. Just...struggling. So no, I don’t think you’re bad. I think you’re... nice.”

It takes a few seconds for my brain to register that I’m being hugged. Pyro has leapt up from the floor and wrapped two strong arms around me, hosting me up in the air. Underneath the suit, he’s all hard muscle. His face presses into my shoulder, and I can smell his hair from here. Cedar and ash, and… for some reason, tropical watermelon.

“I knew it.” His voice is muffled in my shirt sleeve before he puts me down, resting both hands on my shoulders, “I knew I would like you!” I blink rapidly, eyes wide. This past hour has been a very unpredictable roller coaster ride of what people feel about me. Pyro continues to talk, all sunbeams and shiny white teeth. “He said I wouldn’t like you, but he was wrong!”

I furrowed my brow. “Who said that?”

Pyro grinned. “My best friend! I think you’ve already met him. He’s so nice! He’s not as quick to judge as the other guys. He helps me with a lot of stuff, you know? He should be here any minute.”

Just as Pyro says that, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. My stomach suddenly feels cold. I’ve met every single person on this team. They all hate me. So then who-

“Alright, Firebug,” Engineer says cheerfully as he backs in through the door, eyes fixed downwards on a large tray covered in sandwiches and a stack of playing cards he’s holding, “You can take your mask off now and i’ll help you unpack your-” Engineer freezes the moment he lifts his head from the tray, and fixes his goggle-less blue eyes on me. His expression hardens, then turns to panic as he sees Pyro unmasked, holding my shoulders and grinning.

“Hey Engie! You know that girl you keep talking about? Well, guess who made a new friend?” Pyro said excitedly, smoke-worn voice cracking in excitement.

“Son of a bitch.” Engineer replied, aghast.

I gulped.

Engineer is Pyro's best friend. 

Chapter Text

“Nope.” Engineer said immediately after seeing me, “Nope, no, git out.” I could hear his molars grinding.

“Wait, but I-” I started to protest, but cut myself off at the sharp look the Texan gave me with his piercing blue eyes. A prickling sensation rippled across my skin, and I ashamedly moved to walk through the doorway. Pyro wrapped a hot ungloved hand around mine before I could leave the room. I could feel his callouses and his ragged fingernails, but it was still nice. Still comforting, still safe. 

"No." Pyro responded, hunching his shoulders like a child standing up to an adult when they know they shouldn't. Engineer raised his eyebrows. 

"Pyro, she ain't a friend." Engineer said quietly, leveling his gaze with the curly-haired man. 

"...Well. She is now." Firebug retorted, fingers wrapping tighter around mine. Warmth blossomed in my heart. I knew that, deep down, Pyro was just latching on to the small sliver of kindness and humanity I had shown him, but still. It felt nice to have some level of value to someone. 

"Pyro." Engineer said in a warning tone, eyebrows going down. 

"She stays." Pyro snapped back. 

"She can't be trusted."  Engie replied, voice raised. 

"At least she doesn't think I'm evil!" Pyro half-yelled back in a raised voice. Engie snapped back like he had been slapped, mouth immediately drawing into a grimace.  

Engineer set the tray down on a side table with a heavy clatter that made me jump in alarm. The room was still and silent save for the rain on the window and the rough sound of Engie running a hand down his face. He sighed, blinking for a few moments and staring at the floor with a hand rubbing his chin, thinking. Finally, he exhaled roughly, pointed at me, then violently pointed out into the hall. I gulped. He wanted to talk to me. Slipping my hand from Pyro's, I moved into the corridor and was soon followed by the Texan who shut the door behind him. In this smaller, darker hallway he looked much taller and much more muscular than he did in the room. Taking a step backwards, I felt my shoulders hit the concrete back wall. 

"Alright, you listen here girl, and you listen well." The Texan growled, taking a step closer to me. Under the flickering hallway light, I couldn't see his shadowed eyes, and my heart kicked up in response. 

"If I had my way, missy, hand to god, you would be dead on your feet in ten seconds flat. Unfortunately, I ain't cleared to do that. But in all honestly, If you kept your mouth shut, and your head down, ah could have learned to tolerate you." He hung his head, shaking it back and forth. "But ya just couldn't shut up, could ya? And now ya got yerself in deep trouble. Because now you got firebug to trust you, to care about you. And that is a dangerous game." 

He took a step even closer to me, and without thinking I tried to flatten myself against the cold concrete behind me. 

"Yer playin' with fire. And not because of firebug." There was a gentle whir, and a gloved mechanical hand grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and brought me closer to Engineer's face. "Because if you ever, ever, do anything to manipulate, hurt, betray, or scare that man... I will personally burn the heart and soul outta you." His low, growling voice held real intent, real animosity. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it. His other hand raised itself up behind his head, ready to strike my face. I screwed up my eyes and let out a panicked squeak. 

But the blow never came. After a few seconds of cringing, I hesitantly opened one eye gain. Engineer had released my shirt, and brought his hand down, but his eyes were cold and hard like diamonds, and deeply satisfied. This it clicked for me. He could have hit me, god knows he probably wanted to hit me. But he didn't, because it was a warning. A note. A message that I wasn't safe, that I would never be safe from him. That he would strike me down if I made even one little mistake. That in the end, he was the one in charge. My hands and feet were ice cold as I held myself up against the wall. A few moments passed before Engineer spoke again, turning away from me. 

"Now git." He growled. I didn't need to be told twice. Sticking close to the wall, I stumble-bolted down the tiny hallway, ignoring the muffled sound behind me of Pyro asking where I had gone. Retracing my steps with blurrier and blurrier vision I ran back down the stairs, taking them two at a time, until I burst back out of the tiny door in the front. I have to get away, I have to get away, I have to hide. My internal voice was screaming in childlike panic, tearing itself to pieces inside of my head as I shielded my eyes from the rain and scanned the plateau area. Around the bend past an outcropping of rocks and pines, was what looked like an mine entry about 100 meters away. Tears flowed hot and fast as I ran toward it, ignoring my feet sinking ankle-deep into the icy mud. Tracks of saltwater blurred into tiny channels as my head was quickly drenched in the downpour, heart hammering in my throat. My stomach was hot with panic. I had never, in all my life, experienced such real hate. I'd seen people get bullied in TV shows, seen super-villains trap superheros, but to really experience that level of animalistic hate, to know that someone would actually be happy to have you dead- god, it was something I hoped with all my heart I could un-feel. Everybody in their life has had to deal with self worth issues. But this. This was being treated like a subhuman. 

As I neared the mine entrance, my breathing got shorter and shorter as it turned to high sobbing gasps. As soon as I crossed the wooden-beamed threshold into the darker cave mouth, I fell to my knees to get off of my painfully-cold feet, wiping my eyes with my rain-spattered hands and trying to collect myself. It turns out being out of the rain and far away from Engineer was rapidly improving my state of mind. After a few moments of tucking my wet hair back, trying to regulate my breathing, and staring outwards at the rain-beaten map below the cliff, I suddenly became aware of something. 

I wasn't alone in the mine.

The hair on my arms lifted into goosebumps as I froze looking outside, listening to the two separate tracks of breathing a few feet behind me, almost concealed by the heavy rainfall. Stomach in my throat, I slowly turned around on my knees to face the dark cave. 

There, flattened against the stone wall, hat and glasses off and shirt half-unbuttoned, was our RED sniper. And in front of him, frozen in shock, hands under Sniper's shirt...was the BLU spy. Sniper's face was rapidly paling despite its obvious flush.

"...Merd." Spy said quietly, but I almost didn't hear him. All my previous thought and emotions had fled, all fear and anger and worry gone. And replacing them, taking up all my brain space, where three very big neon words. What. The. Fuck. 

"Nope." I said matter-of-factly, standing up and walking right back out into the rain. I didn't have the emotional or mental bandwidth to deal with this right now. To the casual observer I probably looked calm and neutral: in reality, I had just short circuited. Alarm bells were sounding at full alert as I walked back towards the house door, my mind running in circles and screaming WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT. I knocked three times on the metal door, brain still hugging its own knees and rocking back and forth. A large Russian man opened the door and glared down at me through the rain, but when he witnessed my absolutely blank and emotionless expression (and soaked-to-the-bone state), he let me in with knitted eyebrows. 

I barely registered scraping the mud off my raw and tender feet on the shoe mat, barely registered drifting into the new common room much to the disapproving glances of the team members, barely registered flopping down on the couch and staring blankly at a wall. I hadn't quite...understood what I had just seen. What...?

It took me a few minutes. Three and a half, to be precise. 

Medic was just sitting down with his tea and a large book by a nearby window when It finally clicked. 

"OH MY GOD." I yelled, promptly clasping two hands over my mouth. Medic jumped, splashing tea town his vest with an angry hiss. 

RED Sniper and BLU Spy were having a cross-team love affair. 

Some of the TF2 fans weren't wrong. Holy shit. Holy shit. What did this mean? Who was right? This was a whole other side of this universe that I had never even considered before. Where they dating? Where they in a dedicated relationship? Was anyone else in a dedicated relationship? Who-

"Mmph mph mmd! Hmm mpph hm!" I heard in a relieved tone behind me as Pyro bolted into the common room. Not wasting a second, the firebug snatched up both my hands from my stunned lap and hauled me back down the private room hall, much to the taken-aback expressions of the other teammates. Moments later I was shut back in the scorched room with Pyro (and to my dismay, Engineer, who was leaning back in a desk chair). Firebug wasted no time popping his mask off, curls bouncing now that they were finally free. 

 "Where did you go? I couldn't find you!" He said in his scratchy voice, "Did I do something?"

"What? I..." I said distractedly, coming out of my fog. "Wh-No, of course not. You didn't do anything." 

Pyro visibly exhaled in relief, then shot a squinty glare at Engineer. "Waiiiit a second. What did he say to you?" He narrowed his eyes at Engineer. "What did you say to her."

Engineer locked his gaze with mine over Pyro's head, neutral and cool. I gulped. "No, he didn't say anything to me. Sorry. I'm just a little bit distracted right now."

Pyro tilted his head to one side like a puppy, hair falling over his mouth that he impatiently blew away. "Why?"

I let out a shaky breath, one that I've been holding for what seemed an eternity. "...Have you ever... found out something about someone that's...really private, and after that you just- don't know what to do?"

Behind Pyro, Engineer sits up a little straighter in his chair. Not enough to attract attention, but enough for me to know that he's alert and listening. Pyro nods sagely and holds my hand in-between both of his. 

"Yes, I do," Firebug replies, "It's like that time when I accidentally found out Medic is-" 

Engineer loudly clears his throat and Pyro stops abruptly, pursing his lips and widening his eyes. It's scrawled all over his face, clear as day, that he nearly gave away something very important. He glances back at Engineer who raises his eyebrows in a 'watch yourself' manner before turning back towards the desk and reshuffling a deck of cards. Pyro sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

"Anyways." He continues, "What I was gonna say is that it sucks, but you can't unhear or unfeel something, even if you wish you could. Sometimes, stuff just happens. I think, really, it's what you do with the information you have as you move forward that makes the most difference, not just the knowing."

"Wow. That was...actually really good advice." I admit. The Firebug beams before patting my hand and returning to the desk to help Engineer shuffle and pass out cards for their next game. 

Pyro's cot creaks in protest as I sit down on the edge of it. He's got a point. He's got a really good point. All the stuff that's happened to me, it's already happened. All the uncomfortable truths I've learned, I already know them. And most of the time, knowing is better than not knowing. There is no changing the past. I wish there was, but I can't. But I'm armed and dangerous with information, with wits. And I can't let this world boss me around. After all, it's not about what happened in the past, but what I do with that information moving forward. 

And I've got to move forward.