Chapter Text
The monotony of fighting in the Badlands was bound to set in sooner or later. For the past nine years, a team that consisted of nine of the strangest individuals sought off to fight against another set of nine strange individuals on behalf on a shady overseer (who was quite obviously using the both teams for her own universal motive. Nine years of intelligence theft, Australium deliveries, Payload detonations and sometimes even the occasional Christmas party. Eventually with the stench of war and fresh-printed hats around constantly, something would have to give.
Thankfully, with enough grievances from the combined opinions of the sensible members of RED Team (Mikhail, Dell, Mr. Mundy, Spy, and Tavish -- the rest were NOT stable enough to ask for toothbrushes.) their dispatcher Ms. Pauling finally agreed to the team having at least the weekends off to return to their usual, non-mercenary involved lives. One whole weekend to take the teleporters Dell had set up back to their homes and ...do whatever it is RED Mercenaries do outside of the badlands.
Do remember: They Are Criminals.
With his 'Ma now in the know of how his scheduling works, RED Scout for every weekend had been back home with his family. Finally, with the surplus of funds he accumulated for nine or so years he had been able to give his mother the life she's always wanted to live. Meaning she herself had been spending, spending, spending. Long nights out, seeing the world and sometimes never even calling back. Not with Scout, of course. So usually he sat in his home, alone, catching up with the nine or so years of Baseball that he's missed.
Our Soldier, Jane Doe, had remained in the Badlands tasked with the tireless job of managing stock for the month. Excessive counting of boxes, excessive sorting of rations and Mann Co. crates, pre-loading all of the assorted weapons that the team uses and much much more. All in the same weekend, with little rest for the Soldier. Some people would call this inhumane, but our RED Soldier's humanity may as well have to take the backburner to serving his god-dammed country.
No one knows where the RED Pyro goes, and that's for the better.
Dell Conhager, the RED Engineer, rarely goes home, even with the new rules in place. Instead, Dell sometimes either stays with Jane Doe to manage his own equipment -- mainly the teleporters he had erected for the rest of the gang to get home in the first place. Other times, he was managing TOP SECRET assistance work with Ms. Pauling (playing Cards and or buying provisions for the team when the appropriate seasons came in.) or even other, HIGHLY TOP SECRET work for the ever illusive Administrator.
The RED Heavy Weapons Guy and actually a pretty level headed individual, Mikhail, returned home to his family on the weekends, tending to his family's needs in the Siberian Wilderness. Simple enough for someone like him.
The RED Spy preferred staying at the Viaduct in the Badlands also, unless there was need for another job back in his country. There he remained in the gallery to enjoy his wine and even occasionally play a small game of Poker with Dell and Ms. Pauling. (to which he always won. By cheating, of course.) The time away from the morons gave him more than enough reason to stay back here.
Come to think of it, that was the case as well for the RED Medic as well. More provisional and preparation work for the Medic. These times of rest, he could actually get orders in for /human/ blood and organs. No more vile transfusion of desert wildlife blood to put in the team, no sir.
Lastly with Mr. Mundy, we see him return to the Outback in his home. More game there to practice his shot instead of wasting time back in the Badlands. The RED Sniper always kept a close arm to his home back in Australia, and made sure that his folks above would always have a decent enough resting place . If he even believed in that spooky shit in the first place.
Ah, then there is Tavish DeGroot to round up last. Our RED Demoman, and the star of this story.
--
As our despairing heroine stared wide-eyed at the sight of the gaping chasm that led to Nostromo's nether-rift, her nerves had finally caught up to her. Wee hands buckling against the grip of her shotgun and the flush of fatigue finally catching up to her once-pristine face. No pain, no gain she figured and with one final look to the now corrupt sky, she delved down into the Nether-Rift with her weapon aimed forward! The beasts under bared their claws, and if they weren't met with buckshot why they were caught face first with the heroine's cleated boot--
"Is this what you do all weekend?" Came a voice from behind the typing man. Snarky and aged, as if it had an excuse to be upset with the man in front of him. "You get halfway drunk, sit on the fucking couch and write 'Nether-Wench' fanfiction?"
"OI!" The man in front of him spoke in protest. His natural scottish drawl accenting whenever he spoke, not to mention the obvious drunken slur. "'s fer FUN, ya bloody but'ta knife!"
"FUN!?" The first 'person' spoke again. "I'm fucking surprised you even know what fun means, let alone you attempting to write something is considered as such. Look: I'm gettin' you outta your mom's shithole of a baseme--"
"DON' YAE SAY ANUTHA WORD OF ME MUM, EYELANDER." The Scottish male retorted. The Eyelander gave a snort in response -- odd, considering that a talking Claymore shouldn't be able to give any sort of nasal passage sounds in the first place.
"You know she's asleep watching Columbo, now come on! You're young!"
"'m nearly 40--" our Scottish individual was interrupted by a slap to the head by Eyelander's blunt side.
"Shut up. Tavish, You're YOUNG. You have MONEY. Go out and woo a girl with your ah...your..." At a loss for words, The Eyelander tapped the tip of it's blade against the basement floor to ponder what it is that made Tavish DeGroot...well, Tavish DeGroot.
Tavish, meanwhile, ignored the sword this time to neatly take the paper from his typewriter and neatly folded it into one of his pants pouches. He felt pretty confident about his work so far and despite him never intending to show it to anyone significant in the future, the simple satisfaction of finding a hobby that WASN'T crafting high quality exposives or acquiring blades of the orient was more than enough. While the rest of the Demoman's RED teammates became desensitized to the endless cavalcade of nonsensical violence, Tavish was more than concerned about what he was doing with himself to the past nine years. Sure, the money is GREAT and the friends were fine enough. Friends being Mikhail and Scout -- the latter of which he befriended out of pity than mutual understandings -- were a pair hard to find as a mercenary.
Nine years. Nine whoooole years. The longest contract work that Tavish had ever done, and as long as Mann. Co kept sending provisions and Pauling still gave missions, it looked as if Tavish was suckered into a full-time career like a complete sucker. Hell, it's as if they were all suckers that fell under a shitty contract. Still, Tavish couldn't complain. He has his health. (A new liver put in just yesterday!) He's got money. (Most goes to paying for his mum's rent.) He has friends. That should be more than enough for a wanted man.
"Eh....dunnae about alluvat, Eyelander." Tavish spoke, scratching the flakes of paper away from his beard. "s'not a big deal really."
"Ugh. You're BORING." The sword was upset, at least as upset as a haunted sword could be. "What a waste of a weekend." Tavish picked the blade up and forced it back into the scabbard, effectively muting it from speaking anymore. With a finger poitned to the sword, Tavish scolded: "Keep tha' up and yae go in th' inventory, Eyelander. I brought yae out fer a good time m'self. We watched TV! Played Catan! What mor' could yae want anywae?"
Obviously, he couldn't get a proper response as The Eyelander was locked shut in it's scabbard. Smirking, the Demoman slid the blade to his side and began a walk to the back of the basement room, where Dell's Teleporter to the Viaduct remained. Tavish had Scrumpy on the mind, and the bottles Mann. Co provided were more than enough for the Demoman to be satisfied with. Just a quick stop to the company fridge and return home to get back to writin--
Damn. Tavish remembered: the teleporter itself has been having issues. Dell had explained to the team before they left, but...Tavish was drunk so the majority of Dell's words came off slurred and unorthodox. Something about probabilities? Or missing limbs? Well, it shouldn't have been much to worry about right? The issue regarding the tumors and teleporting bread had long been fixed. Dell can fix anything!
"Pfft, anythin' 'cept his bald head aye." Tavish said aloud, making his trek to step on the teleporter. As he began to glow the typical flourescent red, which clearly overshadowed the odd crackles of blue coming from the bottom of the teleporter, he yelled out before disappearing. "MA! I'LL BE BACK INNABIT, NOW."
Then, suddenly, he was gone.
---
It had took extreme patience and high creativity for Hard-Light Architects to even get a handle of the skill at a beginner's understanding. What normally took years, even decades of intensive studying and countless trial-and error operations for some of the highest in the field, it took 28 year old Satya Vaswani merely months to conquer the technique in the academy, even at an intermmediate stage. To say the woman was gifted was an understatement, as Satya was quite obviously one of the brightest minds in the world.
So, here she was doing contractual work for an Ape in a space-suit, and a German doctor. Satya's prestige was far above doing simple installation work but considering the clients who asked for the work -- former Overwatch operatives -- her curious mind wandered at the idea that's been eating intellectuals for sometime now.
It's been five, up to six or so years since Overwatch -- the international peacekeeping force -- had been disbanded and still today questions had rose as to why. With scandalous rumors of ulterior motives with the executives at risk, it was best to put the possibility of risking even more lives than the ones lost in the Onmic Crisis away with the disbanding. The masses were shocked, of course as these people were installed in the minds of young and old as the 'protectors'. The 'heroes!' Surely, the heroes can't go away because a CEO requested it, right?
Satya had lived in that atmosphere since she graduated. You could get away with a lot with just the right amount of prestige, and a whole lot of money.
So there she was - with an Ape, and a Doctor. Not just any ape and doctor, of course -- this particular ape and doctor were some of the highest regarded scientists in the world: Dr. Winston and Dr. Angela Ziegler. The former being an advocate for the potential of humanity and the latter being a brilliant medical physicist was more than enough for Satya to get something out of the two -- be it questions of their research, work habits or the biggest question of them all -- what the hell happened with Overwatch?
---
"This....should do it, yes. Your teleporters in and out of your respective Watchpoints should be all set to go. Do mind the recharge rates on these machines, and the bi-annually replacement scheduling." Satya chimed, dismissing her light-tuner for now. "Otherwise? I am satisfied to be of service to you two, of all people!"
Winston didn't speak up for now, as his mind wandered on something else outside of the conversation. Taking note, Satya's face sightly faltered but was soon picked back up by Angela returning her thanks. "Danke. I'm perplexed that Vishkar sent their top architect to settle something so trivial."
Satya's smile had gone sly, raising a finger at Angela noting the curious situation. "Well, I offered some of my own personal time to do it. Now I expect no compensation as Vishkar does well in paying me, but..if I could perhaps get a few questions--"
Winston picked up on the 'questions' thing, and interrupted his colleague by blurting out. "Sorry, we don't know anything about the Peanut Butter jars scattered around here. Obviously NOT mine, alright." His eyes drifted to a perplexed Angela, who soon caught the message of what he was trying to come across. She then rolled her eyes before continuing to speak with her colleague.
"Winston, you aren't fooling me. Unless you can convince me that our speedy friend has developed an addiction as well."
"...She's pretty uh, reactionary you know." Winston retorted, which got the faint cry of a young British woman from 'very' afar screaming in retort. That actually managed to loosen up the tension in the room, getting chuckles out of Satya.
"Actually no, that is not it." She said whilst trying to regain her composure. "I merely have questions regarding ...Overwatch. With you two together as the senior members, does this mean that we could be seeing a resurgence?"
Angela and Winston looked to one another. While the Ape had a confident smile to suggest so, Angela's worried grin said otherwise. Simultaneously, they only rose a finger to their mouths in response.
"Keep it...quiet, for now Ms. Vaswani." Angela suggested. "We want to get settled in before we--"
Angela's voice was interrupted by the whir of the teleporter going off.. Satya turned around with her eyes slightly widened in curiosity, while Winston merely shrugged the anomaly off with his usual cheery demeanor.
"Must be Lena trying out the teleporters. ...AND, eating Peanut Butter. Wily one she is, yes."
"No...." Satya responded. "That couldn't be, as they're still charging. They aren't even at at least 50%--" Satya immediately checked her light-tuner to see the numbers running for the teleporter, and curiously enough the blue color of the tuner soon began to distort and alter, even flashing to a bit of red now and then. "Malfunctioning, now?!"
Angela could hear the worry in Satya's voice, moving to rest a hand on her shoulder. "You can fix this, no?"
"I could, yes...but with the way the tuner is marked before distorting...it's like someone's coming through a different channel."
"Wait." Winston had moved up to the two women. "You mean, someone's using the teleporter /now?/ Who? Couldn't be Talon, we were communicating through a private channe--"
Winston's words were interrupted as the figure from the teleporter slowly began to emerge, the bizarre red light nearly overshadowing the trio's vision briefly. With their sights back in check, the three looked over to see who it was actually coming through the teleporter.
To their disbelief...all they got was a bearded, black male with a sword and an eyepatch.
With /slippers./