Chapter Text
1967, Fall
There were only so many times a man could run laps around a dust-blasted battlefield before it all started to blur.
Jeremy—though no one called him that—stood near the edge of the RED base’s battlements, bouncing a baseball off the side of a wooden crate with rhythmic, almost meditative thwacks. He didn't notice how the wood had started to splinter under the force, or how his breath came a little shallower today. It was just noise. Just movement. Just something to keep his hands busy.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The desert stretched flat and rust-colored in every direction, nothing but warped fences, twisted metal, and crumbling buildings baking in the dry sun. And him—Scout—cloaked in the same old monotony. This was the fifth time this week they’d rotated out to the Dustbowl sector, and not a damn thing had changed. Wake up. Suit up. Shoot up. Rinse and repeat.
He knew the others felt it too. They just had different ways of showing it.
ENGINEER
Dell Conagher was already elbow-deep in one of his teleporters, wrench moving with calm precision. He hummed low under his breath, some old country tune from a forgotten radio. He didn’t seem bored—Dell never looked bored—but Scout could tell. There was a difference in how the man worked when he was building for purpose versus just killing time. Right now, it was the latter.
“Little squeak in the left buffer,” he muttered, not really to anyone. “Can’t have that. Squeaks turn to snaps if y’ain’t careful.”
“Right, wouldn’t want your murder machine to have a squeak in it,” Scout quipped, voice bright but not biting.
Engineer just smiled around the screwdriver in his teeth. “Squeak’s the part I mind. The murderin’ works just fine.”
Scout snorted. He liked Dell. The guy was steady. Always building. Always fixing. Always ready with some Southern metaphor that only made sense if you were born within fifty miles of a cornfield. He was quiet, but dependable. Kind in a way no one expected on a mercenary team.
SOLDIER
Across the yard, Soldier was conducting a morning drill with no recruits—just himself and a row of sandbags he’d lined up and labeled "COWARDS."
“YOU MAGGOTS WILL STAND STRAIGHT AND DIE WITH HONOR!” he barked, jabbing a bayonet into one bag with so much force it burst open, spilling pale sand like guts.
He paused, then saluted it.
“REST WELL, PRIVATE.”
Scout blinked. “He’s definitely gotten weirder, right?” He whispered to himself.
“He’s always been that weird,” came a voice to his left.
SNIPER
Mundy leaned against a support post, sunglasses reflecting the dust haze like gold. He was peeling an orange with his thumbnail, each strip of rind falling with surgical precision.
“You just finally noticed,” he added, popping a slice into his mouth.
Scout squinted. “You ever smile, or is it just that grim, lethal cowboy thing twenty-four-seven?”
Sniper chewed, shrugged. “Smiling attracts attention.”
“Dude, you wear a bright yellow shirt. You are attention.”
“Oi, but I shoot em' before they can say anything.”
Scout muttered something under his breath again, but his grin came easier around Snipes. Mundy wasn’t friendly, exactly, but he liked Scout—in his own, quiet, don’t-make-me-say-it way. He let Scout talk. That was enough.
DEMOMAN & PYRO
At the far end of the base, Demo and Pyro were in the middle of what could only be described as a “controlled explosion picnic.”
“Three, two, ONE—oh, now that’s a proper boom!”
Demo whooped as a sticky bomb sent an old outhouse flying into splinters. Pyro clapped with muffled glee, flames dancing harmlessly inside their suit as they spun in a little circle.
Scout watched them with an odd twist in his chest. There was something childlike about Pyro’s joy—even if it came with fire. And Demo? Loud, unpredictable, chaotic—but warm. Like an uncle who let you stay up past curfew and taught you how to hold your liquor.
Even they were leaning into the loop. The laugh after the blast. The pattern of play.
Scout wished it rubbed off.
MEDIC & HEAVY
Inside the infirmary, Medic was humming to himself, sharpening bonesaw blades with a disturbingly serene expression. Occasionally, he’d glance at Heavy, who stood sentinel near the door, arms folded across his chest like a statue.
“You don’t talk much, do ya, big guy?” Scout asked, hopping up on the counter.
Heavy turned. His voice rumbled low. “Talk is not needed.”
“Damn, man. That was deep. Medic feeding you poetry now?”
“Nein,” Medic said, smiling thin. “He simply listens when I speak. Unlike some others.”
Scout stuck out his tongue.
But inside, that twist came again. This tightness behind the ribs. Everyone had their roles. Everyone fit. Even in this strange puzzle of fire and metal and grit, they found their corners. Locked in.
Scout didn’t know where the hell he was supposed to go anymore. Run around for a while? But then what?
SCOUT
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the job. Hell, no—he loved the speed, the adrenaline, the fact that he could dart between enemies like a ghost, empty a clip, reload, and still have time to flip someone off before they hit the ground. He liked being loud. He liked being seen.
But lately? Every time the mission started, it just felt like...noise.
Even now, as the alarm blared and their headsets clicked on—Miss Pauling’s voice filtering in with orders—Scout felt the haze settle over him like a veil.
“Enemy encroaching from the west ridge. Standard incursion. Maintain perimeter integrity.”
“Same song, second verse,” Engineer said, packing up his gear.
The team moved like clockwork. Everyone knew their place.
Scout ran.
His feet hit the ground with a familiar rhythm. His scattergun loaded with muscle memory. His voice loud and fast and confident, cracking over the comms like gunfire. He hit the ridge with a grin plastered on that sharp, boyish face and kicked a BLU Pyro straight off the ledge, laughing.
But it didn’t stop the memory.
"You think you're hot shit just 'cause you can run fast? Baby, you're a joke. All mouth, no spine."
He’d been younger then. Dumber. Too eager to be loved to see the red flags. Every time she cut him down, he swallowed it. Changed himself. Made excuses. Tried harder.
And when she was gone, she left him hollow. Like he was only worth something if someone was telling him so. Like all his noise, all his speed, all his himness —was only bearable if it served someone else.
So he got louder. Faster. More.
But some days, when the sun hit just wrong and the silence stretched too long, that doubt crept in like smoke.
What if she was right?
What if they all think I’m a joke too?
What if this whole damn mask cracks and there’s nothing underneath but that kid who begged someone to love him right?
The mission blurred by.
Blood, dirt, shouting, bullets. Scout cracked wise. Took down a Spy with a well-timed bat swing. Made Sniper laugh. Got a muttered “nice shot” from Soldier. It should have meant something.
But when they returned to base, when the sun sank behind the hills and the sky bruised purple, Scout found himself in the locker room alone.
He sat on the bench, chest heaving, face slick with sweat, scattergun resting across his knees.
His leg bounced. He told himself it was adrenaline. Not nerves.
He didn’t cry —God, no. He wasn’t that guy.
But he sat there for a long time. Long after the noise had faded. Long after even Demo’s drunken hollering quieted.
And in the back of his mind, like a drumbeat:
She was wrong. She was wrong. She was wrong.
He just wished he could believe it.
Dust rose in sheets behind them as the payload cart finally stopped ticking.
Another day, another burn in the lungs, another win that felt like a half-sigh. The RED team returned to base like a train easing back into the station: rattled, streaked with grit, but still running on schedule. Nobody cheered. Nobody needed to.
“Demoman’s snorin’ already,” Scout muttered, watching Tavish slump sideways on the gravel with his mouth open. Pyro tucked a stick of dynamite next to him like a stuffed animal.
“Let him rest,” Heavy grunted, walking past with Sasha balanced on one shoulder. “He fight well.”
Engineer wiped down his goggles with the corner of a handkerchief, gaze scanning the perimeter. “Same approach pattern as yesterday. BLUs are gettin’ predictable.”
“They’re not the only ones,” Sniper added, tossing a spent shell into the sand. “Two weeks straight of the same map. Same sun. Same bloody dust in my boots.”
“Pauling’s runnin’ outta ideas,” Scout said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I mean, what’s next? We get rotated into babysittin’ duty for the gravel pits?”
“Would give you something to excel at, mon enfant terrible ,” came Spy’s voice like smoke behind him.
Scout jumped. “Jesus—you gotta stop doin’ that, man!”
Spy didn’t answer. His eyes were on a flat, weathered envelope in his hand, the kind stamped with government ink and sealed like it might catch fire. He flicked it open with a small knife from his vest pocket, slit the flap with effortless precision, and drew out a manila folder, thin and clean despite the chaos around them.
Scout tilted his head. “What’s that?”
Spy didn’t reply. He was reading.
The team began dispersing. Engineer returned to the garage to fuss with sentry oil. Heavy moved toward the kitchen, possibly on a mission for sandwiches. Pyro started humming and twirling, likely bound for their “art studio,” which everyone knew to be the burnt-out remains of a supply closet.
But Scout lingered.
Something about Spy’s stance—alert, still—held him there. The older man wasn’t flicking the file closed or tucking it away. He stood in the courtyard beneath the rusted beams and corroded catwalks, flipping silently through the pages.
Then came the sound. The tiniest rustle of a photograph.
And something in Scout’s chest jumped.
“Class: Blade.”
That was the first thing he saw when he leaned in, casually, trying not to look too interested.
Miss Pauling’s crisp handwriting was clipped to the first page. A short memo, all business:
Gentlemen, per the Administrator’s directive, please expect the arrival of a new hire within the week. The mercenary designated “Red” will be joining your team in a rotational capacity. Consider her under evaluation for full deployment.
Class: Blade.
Specialty: dual-wield combat, recon-ambush hybrid. Knives, sidearm proficiency, advanced field survival. Pending compatibility assessment.
Do not antagonize her.
Regards,
Miss Pauling
Spy exhaled smoke from a cigarette he hadn't lit ten seconds ago.
Scout blinked. “Wait—what do you mean ‘Blade’? That ain’t a class.”
“Apparently it is now,” Spy murmured.
He turned a page. And Scout saw her .
The first photo hit like a sucker punch.
She was mid-sprint in the image, caught between motion and stillness by a military-grade lens. Her hair—long and black—was flying loose in chaotic strands, torn halfway from a braid as she ran with a blade clenched between her teeth . One hand held a pistol, the other was mid-reach for another knife. Her body was taut with motion, like a spring just loosened.
Her uniform was lean, practical—tight in the places that mattered, holsters strapped with clean lines across her back and thighs. One scar carved up her thigh in a pale slash that rode her side up until her torso, half hidden by combat shorts. Her boots were scuffed, her skin sun-warmed, marked by dust and motion and time.
Scout’s mouth went dry.
“W-whoa.”
Spy glanced at him, unimpressed. “Control yourself.”
“I am controlled,” Scout muttered, though his face was red. “I’m just—y’know—curious.”
Spy turned to the second photo.
If the first was kinetic, this one was quiet .
She sat still, facing the camera. Hair down. Thick, dark strands fell past her shoulders in sharp contrast to the pale stretch of her collarbone, beauty marks littering her skin like meteorites falling from the sky. The lighting was low, intimate. Her posture was relaxed—but not loose . Like a knife laid flat on a table, still sharp, still waiting.
Her eyes were the problem.
They weren’t smirking. They weren’t soft. They weren’t seductive, not exactly.
But they were hungry . Bright. Focused. Like she was looking through the camera. Through you .
And just—barely—at the corners, a smile hovered in her eyes. Not on her lips. Just in her gaze. Something that said I’ve already sized you up. I’ve already decided what I’d do if you came at me.
And something in Scout’s chest kicked.
Hard.
He pretended not to care.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and backed off like the photo didn’t just print itself behind his eyes. He walked fast. Mumbled something about lunch. But his brain didn’t move on. It kept replaying that damn look—like she already had his number and was waiting for him to figure it out.
He didn’t know her.
He didn’t know anything about her.
But suddenly, Scout couldn’t stop thinking about—
The braid falling apart as she ran.
The tension in her arms.
The blade in her teeth.
That impossible stillness in the second photo.
And just below the noise, a little whisper:
She’s not like anyone else here.