Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    Sniper was sitting on a crate in one of his perches, as he usually is in fanfictions. The New Mexican sun bore down on the wooden structure, and although wood wasn’t the best insulator, it definitely felt like an oven. Sniper, however, was not bothered that much. Years growing up in the barren rural areas of Australia had thinned his blood and taught him a lot about keeping cool. He wondered if the men he followed in his crosshairs all day were used to this weather, too. The thought was pushed away when a shimmer of blue caught his eye.

    Carefully lining up the scope to predict the BLU Spy’s next path, Sniper pulled the trigger.

    BANG! Perfect headshot. The man's figure tumbled to the ground with a small plume of dust. Got the Spook right out of his spawn . The vantage point was just another reason that Sniper loved this particular tower so much. Not that it matters, Sniper grumbled internally.

    Although his kill rate had been good that day, the offense classes had been off their game and were failing to capture any points. Sniper had almost considered brushing up on his melee skills to help them out, but figured that he’d be much more useful actually fulfilling his role. Nonetheless, BLU had won the game without having to fight too hard for it. It was a matter of minutes until the humiliation round started, Sniper supposed, and he’d still be relatively safe up in his tower. He couldn’t stand humiliation rounds, nor did he see a point to them. If he wasn’t getting paid to kill a BLU, it was redundant.

    He gave the field another quick scan, before deciding he could afford a breather (especially without the threat of the spy for a moment). He set his rifle down, propping it against the window, and stretched out his spine, neck, and arms in one go. A disgusting popping noise accompanied relief.

    “Piss,” He muttered.

    Then, suddenly, he heard footsteps sounding from outside the door. He tensed, drawing his kukri and swiftly repositioning himself beside the entryway, back pressed to the wall.  It couldn’t be the Spy— he’d just killed the BLU and he would never be that careless to the aging, creaking wood stairs.

    Instead, in rushed the BLU Scout. The man ran to the center of the room, breathing heavily and scanning his surroundings. Incredibly, he didn’t notice Sniper’s gun leaning against the window in the corner. Against his better judgment, Sniper hesitated on jumping the attack; the latter didn’t even seem to notice him. Besides, what would he be doing here, if not looking for Sniper?

    The perplexed marksman sank into the shadow of a corner to see what the hell the BLU could be up to. The bugger had always caused him grief, of course— such a fast-moving, small target was any marksman’s worst enemy, and it would only take a couple swings to knock Sniper unconscious. Yet he wanted to see how long he’d stay unnoticed, too.

    The Scout now had his back turned away from him, and was focusing on the crates that were stacked in the opposite corner. Sniper picked up the familiar scent of blood and only then noticedthat the younger man was wobbling on his feet. He was prying open the lid of one of the things, leaving blood stains on the wood as a result. He didn’t have his bat on his back, nor was he holding a scattergun of any kind. Just the soda sash. Maybe he just got back from a scrap, and lost his weapon? It would make sense that he came here looking for a health pack.

    “One minute left of the mission!” The announcer blared from above. This didn’t deter the BLU.

    Right, I’ve got to kill him before my weapons dissipate, Sniper thought grumpily. The curiosity of the situation would need to be cut short.

    The BLU was injured and panicked anyways, so it wasn't a hard feat to manage. Sniper almost felt bad. He took a confident step forward, but failed to test the plank before putting his full weight on it, too fixated on his target.. It resulted in a sharp creaking noise that made the Scout spin around. Sniper tried not to cringe.

    “Wrong tower, mate,” He said apologetically, stepping forward again with his kukri ready. Just a few more paces...

    “Woah, hey, c’mon, I’m just here for a medkit,” the Scout explained, throwing up his hands. He had scraped up his right arm profusely, and there was a large dark spot where blood stained his midsection.

    “Yeh, there ain’t one here. Just me." Sniper took another step, feeling that he had already spoken too much.

    The Scout blinked, “Hey, if ya leave me alone, I won’t kill ya during the humiliation round. How’s that sound?”

    Sniper would’ve taken the offer from the BLU Demoman, or maybe the Engineer. But when it came to the Scouts? The pair were both egomanics, and dishonorable if it meant they got to bash an extra skull in.

    But, then again, this Scout was weaponless. If he tried to fist-fight him, Sniper had confidence that he’d win. The occasional grapple with Spy had kept him on his toes. He stared at the scout, an odd wave of emotion washing over his critical thinking briefly.

    He stilled, and lowered his kukri. Respawn was far from a pleasant experience, after all.

    “... Alwrite. I’m trusting ya." he said after a moment.

    Scout visibly brightened at that. “Sure, man, it’s a truce!”

    Sniper shrugged, instinctively making his way back to his window where his rifle lay, maintaining an eye on the enemy. What was he thinking?

    “There’s a Medkit downstairs, and out the door on yer right. By the shrub,” he grumbled, picking up his rifle as though it wouldn’t disappear in— oh . There it goes. The weapon, as well as his kurki, shimmered and slided before evaporating into a mist. He clenched his fist where his kukri had been, and turned to face the Scout fully, wearily. The BLU was fidgeting with his dog tags. Despite the unified uproar of distant screaming, the room felt silent.

    “YOU FAILED!” The Announcer hissed from his communicator.

    “Ah, well, the round's over. We can just hang out now. You can be graced with my awesome presence, ha-ha,” Scout said, puffing out his chest a little bit.

    Why isn’t he heading to get the medkit? Sniper furrowed his brow, eyes glancing at his bloodied arm, “Uh…”

    The Scout looked disappointed at that response, spreading his arms defensively.

    “It was a freakin’ joke, man! You’re lucky I ain’t killin ya!” he huffed, and with that, rushed out of the room. The words hung in the air and the marksman furrowed his eyebrows.

    Sniper stared at the drops of blood he’d left behind. Odd. It suddenly struck him that he’d been correlating the BLU Scout to his own team’s. In reality, he’d never had close-up encounters with him. He waited a few minutes until the distant screaming stopped, before heading down the stairs himself to carefully make his way back to base.

    Sniper found the interaction nagging at his brain that evening by his campfire. He had to set up the wood on the side of his campervan opposite to the RED base; out of view. Too many times had Pyro seen the glow from a window and come to feed the fire gasoline, among other things.

    Tonight Mick was slowly turning the skewered cottontail he’d killed earlier over the low orange flames. It wasn’t every day that he went hunting after a battle, but it took his mind off of things. A new moon blotted out a part of the sky, but the stars were bright enough this far from civilization to shine some light on the desert landscape before him. Sniper habitually kept an eye on moving objects in the desert, always hyper-aware of the horizon. Now that he’d had worn off the adrenaline of today’s battle, Sniper replayed the interaction with the enemy Scout in his head over and over again.

    Come to think of it, he definitely looked a lot different from RED Scout. His hair was a bit more grown than his counterpart’s buzzcut, and blonde. The blue eyes were a similarity, but they were worn with bags and his freckles were much more apparent. The most notable thing, Sniper thought, was the fact that he had been looking through the crates. To Sniper’s knowledge, they either contained useless Mann co. merchandise, nothing, or expired canned goods.

    It was puzzling to him; Mick zoned out momentarily on the starlit wasteland before him. The rabbit meat was overdone that night.

...

    Sniper was back in his nest the next day. This game was currently the opposite of yesterday; his team was pushing via brute force (and a few strategic Übers from Medic), but Sniper was being backstabbed every other minute by that damned BLU Spy.

    Admittedly, it was probably because he was distracted by the Scout.

    Sniper was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t kept as close of an eye on the enemy as he should've. With the last battle’s encounter fresh in his mind, he found himself monitoring the man. Sniper started to notice the peculiar ways Scout would move. Instead of rushing into battle head on, he'd ambush enemies from the side-lines and disappear for a while after every kill. One time, Sniper could've sworn he was dragging the body of the RED Demoman into a nearby building. The BLU Scout's bizarre behavior didn't necessarily affect Sniper personally— it wasn't against the law for him to use alternative methods of combat usually reserved for Pyros or Spies. However, when watching the kill feed (a feature of his communicator that Sniper rarely gave attention to), he discovered something else.

    When the Scout took long pauses out of sight after killing an enemy, the weapon icon of what he used to send Sniper’s team to respawn simply showed up as a question mark. No bat, no pistol graphics, just a line of pixels staring back at the sharpshooter to indicate an unknown.

    And that unknown bothered Sniper, deeply. How was the runner killing his teammates? Fistfighting them? His fellow REDs had never mentioned anything unusual about the BLU Scout. At dinner, stories of the runner had always seemed normal.

    “—THE MAGGOT CRACKED MY HELMET!”

    “—and the BLU ankle-biter stole the pack an’ got me with his scattergun..”

    “—always forget that chucklehead has a better pistol.”

    Sniper huffed and sipped his coffee, recalling nothing of interest. He set the empty mug down. Maybe it's a bug with respawn, or his weapon is broken somehow and not bein’ registered. I'll have to ask Engineer ‘bout that later. The Texan seemed to know everything about the technology that functioned so vitally in their everyday life.

    “Bugger.”

    He shook his head of brain fog and set his rifle in the window again. The marksman did a quick scan through his scope at nearby towers for his BLU counterpart. Nothing. He shifted his vision back towards the field, where Pyro was igniting the enemy Heavy to clear a path to the payload. Beyond it, the BLU team was pushing forward with their Soldier in the lead.

    Sniper focused his crosshairs on the American and took the shot. BANG! A clean headshot.

    “Gonna have to find another use for that neck,” he muttered to himself, cracking a grin and reloading. His team managed to demolish most of the BLUs at the cart, so Sniper focused on the sidelines. On the ground floor of a two-story shack, movement caught his eye through a window.

    Being careful to rest his crosshairs on the wall instead of inside the building, lest someone spot the red dot, he looked through the scope. There was the BLU Scout, crouched inside at a window, peering out carefully. Sniper only saw his eyes. It was hard to tell from the distance, but he looked to be shaking slightly.

    Yet again Sniper hesitated.

    The thing about studying a man’s position on the field was that you noticed what was and wasn’t normal for them; and peering out of a window was the last thing Sniper expected to see him do. I’m not the only one using another class’s tactics, he thought, as noting things like this reminded him of Spy.

    This Scout was no longer a piece on a chess board; a target to strategically take out. Now he had occupied Sniper’s attention for almost the entire match, and in that span of time the sharpshooter had only come up with more questions and findings.

    The BLU looked to be a lot less muscular than the RED Scout (which was saying something), and combined with his eyebags and paler skin, Sniper had to wonder if he was sick. The bloke was just as fast, though.

    His mannerisms were interesting as well. The runner seemed to have tunnel vision at times, and only focused on one task at a time as opposed to the RED Scout, who was always scanning the area and prepared for anything. Sniper saw him shaking often, but assumed it was the copious amounts of caffeine intake to blame.

    The Scout sat up a little more, leaning his head out the window and looking sideways. Sniper could make out the bottom half of his face—which was covered in crimson blood.

    The sight struck Sniper as unusual, but not exactly insane. They were at war, after all. He’d seen worse injuries.

    Then the BLU Scout looked directly up at him.

    Sniper froze, something cold settling in his stomach. He saw the laser lingering. He was leaning out the window to check the wall, he realized.

    He fired the rifle at the same moment he felt a sharp pain ricochet up his spine. The last thing he saw was a cigarette butt hitting the floor before waking up in respawn.

    “Howdy, stretch! Come on in.” Engineer lifted his goggles onto his hat, smiling. Sniper had decided after dinner to visit him in his workshop to ask about the Killfeed. It took him about a minute standing outside the garage door to finally knock and poke his head in.

    “It ain’t like ya to drop by! What happened?” Engineer sat up from his welding station and dusted himself off, pulling up a foldable chair and motioning for Sniper to sit.

    He did, albeit awkwardly. Engineer’s workshop smelled of metal and fire, with the only lightsource of the underground room being a large overhead fluorescent light, like something you’d see in a hospital. Air vents filtered out sawdust and smoke above, and the walls were lined with tools, shelves, machine components, many blueprints and other do-dads that Sniper couldn’t begin to understand. The simplest object in the room was the radio that quietly played an upbeat Mexican station. It stood on Engineer’s desk in the corner, and beside it was Pyro, curled up like a cat with their chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. Needless to say, it wasn’t Sniper’s kind of environment.

    “Er.. I got a question ‘bout the Killfeed,” Sniper responded, scratching his neck, “Saw something weird on it. It got me wondering how it works.”

    “Oh! There’s three main components to that system.” The Texan opened a minifridge and pulled out two beers, looking at Sniper questioningly. “Drink?”

    Sniper nodded, and caught the can that was promptly tossed to him. It was a cheap brand, the same kind he had in his campervan. Engineer cracked his open and started talking enthusiastically.

    “There’s a system for identifying who killed who, who was assisting said kill, and then the means or weapons used to kill em’. Dominations and the like are calculated by the big iron at the Admin’s HQ. I won’t bore you with the jargon, and in fact I’m not allowed to tell ya much, but much of the system relies on Über technology.”

    The American took a sip of his beer. “Now, you said you saw somethin’?”

    Sniper sipped his own drink and nodded, “Yeh. There was a question mark icon where the weapon usually goes." He felt dumb trying to explain it, but Engineer seemed to understand.

    “Ah, that’s… Unusual." The Texan scratched his stubble and furrowed his eyebrows. “We did have that in place in case a weapon couldn’t be identified. You’re sure the kill wasn’t committed with a good-old-fashioned brawl—?” he interrupted himself, “Aw rats, if that were the case you would’ve seen a fist icon. You didn’t see it happen, did ya?”

    “Er, well, that’s the thing,” Sniper said, deciding to spill the beans, “I’ve been seein’ some odd activity from one of the BLUs. Thought I saw him dragging Travish’s body away after he killed him, and I didn’t see Travish respawn fer quite a while after that…”

    Engineer paused. He looked troubled.

    “Now that just ain’t right.”

    Sniper looked at him questioningly.

    “Let me explain something to ya, stretch,” Engineer sighed, throwing back the rest of his beer and grabbing a screwdriver from his workbench. He set the empty can on a crate sideways.

     “Let’s say this is you,” he gestured towards the can, “and this is whatever weapon is bein’ driven into ya. A knife,” he punctured the beer can with the screwdriver. Sniper winced.

    “Now usually, if this were a normal kill, the Killfeed would read that a Spy killed ya with whatever knife he was carrying.”

     Sniper nodded, unsure of where this was going. Engineer took the screwdriver out of the aluminum, “And after your heart stops beatin’, there’s a cooldown of about 7 seconds before your body disappears and gets put into the Respawn Machine, which takes even more time to rebuild ya. Now, that variable depends on how you died. For example, if you were just stabbed, it’d only take a minute or so to reconstruct yer matter. But if you were, say, blown into giblets by a rocket, then it’d be 3 or 4 minutes. You follow?”

    Sniper nodded.

    “But the thing about the cooldown is that it can be interrupted. Restarted,” the Texan impaled the aluminum again, “And if I were to shoot ya dead, but then hit you with a wrench before your body could disappear… Well, the last weapon that touched the body is what shows up on the Killfeed. The wrench.”

    A cold, parasitic feeling wormed its way into Sniper’s gut.

    “So what you’re sayin’,” he started, “is that ya can delay someone from respawning if ya keep messing with their dead body.”

    And, the more mutilated they get, the longer it takes to respawn? He left that part unsaid.

    Sniper was reminded of the BLU Spy’s head in Medic’s refrigerator.

    Engie scratched his neck. “It’s a part of the respawn process that definitely needs ironing out…”

    “And you’re also saying that the BLU Scout used some unregistered, unknown means of doin’ that to Travish?”

    Engineer put his hands on his knees, sighing.

    “Listen legs, I’m sure that that kid must’ve gotten his hands on some kind of weapon that didn’t get registered yet. It's happened before.”

    “No…” Sniper mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper, “because I saw that Scout shoot him with his scattergun first. And that weapon is definitely in the system.”

    Suddenly, the memory of the BLU poking his head out the window with blood covering his mouth made a lot more sense.

Chapter Text

    Sniper spent the rest of that night tossing and turning in his bed, grappling with morality. Now, in reality, whatever that Scout was up to was probably not as inhumane as the procedures that the Medics did regularly. 

    Sniper would like to believe Engineer and assume that maybe Scout hadn't registered a bat. Maybe he'd hit Travish with it to finish him off, and the blood on his chin was some sort of coincidence. Scouts were generally angry, too—maybe he'd used his teammate’s body as a Piñata to relieve stress much like normal people would punch a pillow. (“Normal people..” if there was one label the mercenaries were estranged from, it would be that).

    And yet he couldn't shrug off the other behaviors. Ambushing people in buildings exclusively? Looking through crates minutes before a match ended? The shaking? Something was up.

    Sniper groaned and turned yet again to look at his clock, who'se ticking noise had long since joined the chorus of the subconscious noises his van made (Pyro had pointed out the “annoying” noise of his generator once, and from time to time the sound drifted up from his subconscious).

    22:30

    Sniper sat himself up in bed, understanding that he wouldn't be catching sleep any time soon. So, he shoved his blankets aside and stepped down from his loft bed, opting to carve something instead. The linoleum squeaked under his feet as he drifted across the small space.

    The marksman rummaged through his kitchenette drawers to find a small block of wood, and an even smaller blade.

    He leaned back in the booth, head against the window, and thought of what he should make. Mick turned the basswood over in his hands, focusing on the direction of the grain and the softness of it. He was far better at carving organic things; animals, plants occasionally. He racked his brain for an idea, trying to imagine the slices he’d need to take from the wood.

    Mick settled on a sheep; they always reminded him of home.

    Usually, he would let his mind wander while he silently carved— but as soon as the blade took the first cut from the soft wood, his gut twisted.

    Sniper wondered if taking a piece of flesh out would be just as easy.

    The wood clattered on the table. He set the knife down beside it and buried his head in his hands, elbows on the table.

    “God damnit… ” he muttered aloud, rubbing his eyes. 

    What's wrong with me? he thought. I've carved out a water buffalo for God's sake. I skin half of my meals meself! I kill men all day!

    Yet he couldn't bring himself to imagine doing such a thing to a man with the intent of cannibalization. Even in the adrenaline-rushing heat of battle, slashing a Merc with his kurkri to death a million times over had more humanity than carving a man. Quick and painless, that was one of his philosophies. If he had to interrogate somebody for a job, so be it, but this was different.

    The image of the BLU Scout’s bloodied face haunted him, no matter how much he tried to will it away or distract himself. Mick stopped rubbing his eyes and flung open the curtains, turning his gaze out the window. It was a gibbous moon, and the desert shone in a cold silvery light, reflecting off of the grains of sand like dim snow. The silence made him aware of his own breathing.

    A shadow shifted, somewhere out there.

    Mick made out a pale figure moving slowly against the sand and rocks; he wouldn't have caught it if not for the shadow at its feet. A chill ran down his spine.

    It looked humanoid, but not as tall as Spy (he'd seen that man wandering in the desert before— whether he was coming back from a contract or a smoke break, he never knew). The figure seemed to sway as if in a breeze, gently drifting like a dancer on a ballroom floor. Mick watched in slow motion as it turned to face him fully. His eyes darted to where the moonlight glinted on metal—at the figure’s center— a gun ? A necklace ? Armor ? His hand found the carving knife again, gripping it with apprehension as his heart rate picked up. And then, when Mick blinked, it was gone.

    Suddenly the shadow was casted from a prickly pear patch, and the glint of white skin had only been the distant rock formation; a trick of the eye. A small cottontail rabbit was sniffing around at its base. Other than that, the New Mexican desert was still; no one was there.

    Sniper exhaled a long breath he'd apparently trapped in his chest, and shook his head. I should really stop rubbing my eyes so much.

    Come morning, Mick had managed to get 3 hours of sleep, and by then the question had gnawed at him beyond exasperation. 

    What was that Scout up to?

    Sniper rushed through his morning routine, accidentally nicking his chin with his razor, and headed to resupply for the day's briefing. Last night he resolved to approach the BLU Scout, in hopes of catching him in whatever action he might be doing. Anything to put his mind at ease.

    Soldier announced that today they were capturing and defending intelligence, and although that meant that Sniper didn't have to move around as much, it did mean he'd be stiff by the end of the day. Combined with his current headache, that didn't sound so fun.

    “TODAY WE WILL BE FIGHTING IN THE TREACHEROUS WOODS!”

    There’s one small relief—we’ll teleport to a cooler area, Sniper thought as he filtered into the locker room with his teammates. Given his mostly stationary plans for the day, Sniper opted to bring his backpack on the field, pulling it out of his locker. Multiple carabiners and small leather ropes tied various objects to the exterior, all in the name of convenience. 

    Scout and Pyro were both trying to tackle Soldier, letting out war cries as the latter threw them off patriotically. Heavy and Medic stood in the corner, keeping an eye on the three silently, and Spy was nowhere in sight. A crashing noise made him wince. Gods, Mick was not a morning person.

    Sniper checked his rifle, and was sliding his thermos into the pack when Demo nudged his arm.

    “You alright there, laddie?” The man gestured vaguely and shut his own locker, beside Sniper’s.

    He nodded, “Yeah, mate.”

   Demo took a swig of his scrumpy, hiccuped, then spoke, “Ye look like ye got somethin’ on yer mind.”

    Travish was perhaps the only person that could read him like that.

    Sniper shook his head, “You're drunk.” 

    Demo let out a boisterous laugh that was a little too loud, not pressing the issue.

    “Aye, fair enough. But ye can come by for a drink any time.”

   Sniper watched him call the roughhousing trio (Pyro and Scout hadn't managed to topple Soldier, who was now standing at attention) to follow him out the door. Solly was quick to march out in the lead, monologuing about disgraceful guerrilla strategies and “Knowing the lay of the land, like Sun Tzu”.

    Sniper also gathered his things, apprehension rising in his gut. Across the room, Engineer was heaving his toolbox up onto his shoulder with a grunt. The Texan caught Sniper’s eye as he secured his rifle over his shoulder.

    “If you start investigating what we talked about, keep me updated. But don’t break the rules, y’hear?” he murmured.

    Sniper nodded, unsure of what exactly he meant by that. But the shorter man seemed satisfied with his nod, and hiked out the door. Sniper looked around the empty locker room, cleared his throat, and then followed.

    The thought occurred to him, as he was climbing the decaying stairs of the Lumber Mill, that the Scout would likely be the primary BLU merc trying to capture their intelligence. Maybe he could catch the runner in RED territory…

    Sniper paused on the top step before the doorway, thinking. Behind him were the stairs leading to a dirt road, and on the other side of that sat a shack that served as a hiding place for Spies and an ambush spot for Pyro. The road was a clear side-route that the Scout would have to use at some point, especially given his out-of-the-way tendencies.

    I'll spot him as he's coming in, climb down from me nest to intercept him, and try to disarm him to ask questions. If he managed to wrestle the enemy into the shack, there was less of a chance of somebody witnessing the interrogation. Sniper certainly didn’t want people thinking he’d lost it if his suspicions turned out to be coincidences; he was half-sure Engie might report something to Medic if he publicly stated his conspiracies. The sentiment somewhat reminded him of his UFO-hunting hobby. I ought to start journaling about that again.

    Now, Sniper wasn't normally a confrontational man, but the plan worked out perfectly— he only hoped that his own teammates wouldn't show up, and that he could actually disarm the Scout. Though with his recent observations of the man’s physique, he imagined it would be similar to fighting a shorter Spy with worse reaction time.

    It was worth a shot.

    The Administrator’s voice crackling in his earpiece made him snap back into reality.

    “Five, four, three…”

    Sniper rushed into the room and set his backpack down quickly, aiming his rifle with incredible speed and scanning the opposing buildings through the leaves for the tell-tale glint of a scope.

    But the BLU Sniper pulled the trigger first, and Mick was sent to respawn with a sharp pain in his neck.

    Sniper had a few irritating encounters with the BLU Spy, since he didn’t change his camping position. The nest provided a great view of the path he wanted to watch, but offered little visibility to anything beyond it. He only managed to kill a stray Pyro, the Demoman twice, and popped the head off of the BLU Soldier mid-air. The path was relatively untraveled by his own teammates as well, once again reminding him why he didn’t usually shoot from here. Although that made it all-the-more perfect for his plan.

    After some initial stalemate, Sniper's team stole the briefcase twice, making him wonder if he'd see his target at all before RED steamrolled the other team. The wins took a small chip out of his pride as well, given that he wasn’t doing as much as he normally would.

    Maybe a bit of struggle is feeding their competitive spirit, he mused. It was easy to imagine Soldier blowing up the BLUs out of spite, or for revenge.

    Just as Sniper was getting worried, his target came running down the shady route. The BLU must’ve given up on defending his own intelligence, as most of Sniper’s team was on the other side of the map raiding the base (judging by the noise coming from that direction). It made sense that he took the opportunity to slip into the mostly unguarded RED territory. Sniper inhaled the scent of pine and focused on him, curious to see if the BLU had any blood on him again. On the contrary, the man looked fresh from respawn, carrying his scattergun close to his body. Watching him kick up dirt gave Sniper a sense of déjà vu, taking him back to the outback and waiting on game trails for something to show up. Sniper gave pause for a few more seconds to make sure that no one was following the Scout, before springing into action.

    He swiftly rose, leaving his rifle by the window and drawing his kukri. If he waited at the bottom of the stairs, he could catch the Scout by surprise as he was turning the corner. Sniper trotted down the steps, willing his shoes not to make too much noise, and came to a halt in the dirt at the bottom. The crunching of Scout’s steps grew louder and louder, making Sniper tense. He felt the humidity in the air as he put one foot backward, ready to push off of the ground. Scout would probably run on the center of the trail, right?

   As soon as he saw the contrasting flash of a blue shirt, he lunged forward to knock the runner onto his side. Unfortunately, the Scout was a bit further away than he’d anticipated and he stumbled on his footing for a moment before catching himself.

    Luckily, the surprise caught Scout off-guard, and Sniper had enough time to bring the blunt end of his kurkri upward with such force that it knocked the scattergun right out of the BLU’s hands, landing a few feet away with a clatter.

    This time, the runner was quick to retaliate, jumping backwards to increase distance— but got closer to the entrance of the shack, conveniently — and reached for his bat.

    Crickey, he’s got the nasty thing with nails spiking out of it! The Boston Basher always seemed to have bloodstains on it.

    Sniper adjusted his grip, knowing he had to keep the offensive, and lunged forward again. He ducked to narrowly avoid a swing, which hooked his slouch hat off. Straightening, he slashed the BLU’s arm instead of stabbing a vital organ like he usually would. This change of tactic was not lost on Scout and he let out a yelp of agony as his bat swung around and hit his torso in unison. Sniper reared back up to his full height and pushed the man backwards, through the doorway of the shack. The Scout lost his grip on the bat and opted to put pressure on his arm wound, dazed. Sniper followed the stumbling BLU into the shack, cornering him with a bit of pride.

    That went well, Sniper thought as he noted the far-off noise of explosions.

    In the dimmer lighting, Sniper swore he saw the BLU’s eyes flash up at him. Or was that just anger? He didn’t have time to think about it.

    Sniper raised his kukri, making it clear that Scout had lost. The latter wore a grimace and a confused expression.

    “What are ya?”

    Scout didn’t respond, still seeming dazed. Blood ran down the left side of his body and his chest expanded rapidly.

    Then when the words registered, his eyes snapped into focus and he stiffened.

    “... Whadda ya mean? I’m the BLU Scout,” he huffed.

    “No, what are ya really ?” Sniper insisted. He wasn’t the best at reading people’s emotions, but he knew a lie when he heard one.

    The Scout responded by staggering forward and attempting to parry his kukri with his arm. The Aussie retracted the blade and pushed him against the wall, eliciting a hiss of pain from the other.

    “What the fuck are you, dammit!” Sniper asked with more force, “Ya keep doin’ weird shit, dragging bodies around; what’s wrong with you?”

    Despite their position, Sniper felt a spike of fear at Scout’s silence. The runner looked back at him coldly with those blue eyes, like he could see right through his sunglasses. The air was tense, humid, and if Sniper lit a match he bet it’d catch.

    Then, a shine appeared at the corners of the BLU’s eyes.

    Sniper was taken aback.

    “I’m fuckin’ normal! Human!” Scout’s voice raised, and his tone changed so slightly that the marksman had to wonder if Scout was yelling at him, or reassuring himself.

    Sniper felt an intense urge to run away, or kill him, to do something to get out of this situation. But he’d already gone this far to confront this enemy. He needed more of an answer.

    “Are you?” Sniper barked back, trying to shove down that unexplainable fear again. Maybe it would help if he stopped looking at Scout’s odd eyes, but he couldn’t tear his attention from them.

    His heart rate picked up, spewing out more words, “I think I know what you’re doin’ to my teammates after they die. And it’s sick.”

    “Yeah, I know,” Scout growled between his teeth— why were his teeth so sharp?

    “You just— so you admit it?” Sniper stammered, baffled at the blatant admission.

    “No one’s gonna believe you,” Scout whispered, “But between you and me? I don’t like havin’ ta eat people.”

    Scout was out the door before Sniper could find his bearings. The rising fear in his chest evaporated as the runner’s fading footsteps retreated.

    “We have taken the enemy's intelligence!” The Administrator declared in his ear.

Chapter Text

    Sniper mulled over that last sentence in his head over and over for the rest of the match. It went by quickly, thanks to their Scout’s compounding ego boost each time he capped. (It was days like these that Sniper almost felt bad for the BLU team).

    “I don’t like havin’ ta eat people.”

    The key word there was have . As in, either Scout was being forced to cannibalize his enemies, or it was a requirement of his body. Given the man’s other odd symptoms, Sniper leaned towards the latter option.

    As Sniper was putting his things away, the rest of the team was celebrating their easy victory. The RED Scout was the center of attention, as usual, receiving pats on the back and cheers. Sniper couldn’t spare a word to him, too focused on the churning in his gut. The marksman left the room, and was the first to step foot on the teleporter back to base.

    Sniper would never get used to the dizzying fatigue that washed over him when teleporting long-distance. A flash of red from his feet, the mechanical whirring of a well-oiled motor, and he was back to the dry air of New Mexico. He took a few stumbling steps forward, before righting himself and making his way to Engineer’s workshop. The rest of the team would be behind him soon, no doubt, but Engineer always stopped by his workshop before starting his social routine for the evening. (Although sometimes he would get pulled into a project, and Sniper wouldn’t see him until the next morning, with eyebags that hung past his goggles).

    Sniper’s eyes darted around behind his sunnies subconsciously, taking in every nick in the concrete and scorch mark or bloodstain on the walls. These little details had become a roadmap of the base’s winding corridors and unnecessarily long stretches of hallway that made up the RED base. Sniper muttered under his breath, trying to put into words what had happened. He’d found that talking to himself shifted his thoughts to be more clear, rather than touch-and-go feelings. Maybe that was why Scout talked so much, and why Mick mumbled while sniping. 

    Eventually, Sniper turned a corner and spotted the door with an engraved metal sign bolted to it— Mechanical. The Aussie leaned against the wall beside the door to wait, not intent on invading the Texan’s privacy. He had a feeling Dell would be there soon, anyways.

    Engineer had immediately noticed that something was wrong, and questioned Sniper as soon as he arrived in the hallway.

    One un-locking of a door later, and Sniper was re-telling the story. Engineer had been silent the whole time, humming and nodding along.

    “When I pressed him again, he insisted that no one was going to believe it; then he said something’ that’s been making’ me think. ‘I don’t like havin’ ta eat people’ ,” Sniper finished, inhaling a breath.

    The Marksman’s words hung in the air for a moment. He watched Engineer scratch his stubble and wondered if he believed the story; maybe the BLU Scout had been right, and Dell would suggest that he take a visit to The Doc.

     Finally, “And you’re sure that’s what he said?”

    Sniper nodded, “Clear as.” Please believe me.

    Engie let out a sigh, “Well, as bizarre as this whole thing is, I think the logic adds up. I checked the killfeed systems earlier this morning after you told be about that mystery, and everything was workin’ right, so…”

    He paused, taking off his goggles so they hung from his neck and revealed a very concerned expression, “Sniper, I think we’ve got ourselves a very real problem. And if the kid is sayin’ he has to ingest another human, well, that’s more so The Doc’s field of expertise.”

    The Aussie let out a breath of his own.

    “Yeh… It’s nice to know I’m not losing it. Do you have any ideas on what to do?”

    Engineer’s hand went back to his chin.

    “Well, there ain’t exactly rules on how we kill each other, as long as we do it. What that BLU is doin’ is definitely wrong morally, but we can’t report him to the Administrator. I’m not sure there’s such thing as ‘special circumstances’ when it comes to that lady, but--” Engineer suddenly snapped his fingers, “Oh! But we can get in trouble for purposely delaying respawns.”

    Sniper felt his heart quicken slightly.

    “Maybe we shouldn’t report this to the dragon just yet,” he suggested a little too quickly. Following the words was an urge to sew his own mouth shut. Engineer looked at him questioningly.

    “... Can I ask why?”

    Good question.

    Scout started tearing up, insisting that he was human. Sniper wasn’t sure if he was referring to his biology or his humanity. Scout was staggering on his feet, clawing at a crate and shaking. Scout fought at a distance from his own teammates, isolated during battle. Scout stared at Sniper nervously, suggesting that they hang out. Scout met his eyes through his scope.  A cottontail crouched by a cactus, surrounded by nothing but sand and emptiness.

    “... Well, she probably already knows about him,” he said lamely.

    Engineer regarded him for a moment, expression unchanging, and Sniper felt the need to elaborate.

    “I mean, if what he was doing was a problem to her, surely she would have replaced him by now? The lady’s got eyes everywhere.”

    Sniper found himself believing his own reasoning. It was common sense that the Administrator didn’t care for the mercenary’s opinions or discomforts unless she was in a charitable mood. A report would likely do nothing.

    “If I noticed this, then she certainly has already,” he mumbled, “And hasn’t put a stop to it , if you know what I mean.”

    Engineer nodded, “Ah… That’s a fair point. But wouldn’t it at least be worth mentioning to Miss Pauling? It’s still unfair to be adding minutes to our respawn time.”

    Sniper hesitated.

    “Er… I could talk to him first. Miss Pauling has a lot on her plate already. And it’ll probably scare off that Scout.”

    Sniper mentally kicked himself. He really needed to stop yabbering.

    Engineer wore a look of suspicion now — or was he just thinking? Sniper couldn’t tell.

    “...Alright, slim. You do that.”

    Instead of risking saying more words, Sniper nodded. Engineer stood up from the stool he’d been sitting on with a grunt and made a final suggestion.

    “I would also have a chat with The Doc about him. Maybe there’s some sort of biological reasoning to this that we just ain’t seeing.”

    Medic held his hand of cards close to his chest, staring Spy in the eyes from across the rec room’s table. A few of their teammates gathered around to watch the intense game, and in the German’s other hand was an empty beer can.

    “Vill someone get more drinks?” He murmured, keeping his eyes squinted at Spy, “Zhere are some in my laboratory’s fridge.”

    “I’ll get it,” Sniper volunteered off-handedly, as he was closest to the door.

    He wasn’t expecting to see the BLU Spy’s severed head behind the case of beer when he got there.

    “BLOODY HELL!”

    “Kill me, bushman.”

     Sniper slammed the fridge shut.

    “Yeah, I’ll talk to The Doc.” Sniper lied, also rising from his seat. Not a chance.

    He’d rather confront the BLU Scout himself than alert the crazed German of a new potential test subject. God knew the BLU team was furious until they had their Spy’s missing limb back.

    Not only did Sniper want to avoid dragging even more people into this whole mess, but the way Scout acted gave him pause. Mick told himself that he wasn't feeling pity or compassion for the BLU, because that would be unprofessional and probably broke some rule in his contract. He was definitely thinking logically, and definitely not listening to his gut.

     No, the nervous way Scout acted just didn’t make sense! Sniper simply didn’t have enough information; and it was fine to prolong telling his superiors, because… Well, if he made it their business, he could probably get in trouble himself somehow. Or perhaps outing the BLU would cause him to do something rash?

    The runner’s blatant admission in the shack almost felt like trust. And with the impression that the BLU was going trough a hard time, maybe it wasn’t so bad to lend him a little secrecy.

     Sniper kept affirming this train of thought with all he had.

    Engineer smiled, “Alrighty, that’s settled then. How about some dinner? I’m so hungry I could eat a horse!”

    Sniper let his lip turn upwards and followed the Texan out of his workshop, “Sure.”

    Multiple of his teammates (and his mum) insisted that Sniper join the evening hangouts once in a while. He managed to come by twice a week.

    It was Soldier’s turn to make dinner, which meant chili.

    To the patriot’s credit, Solly did know how to put together a mean soup. The men sat around a rectangular, metal table that Dell had bolted to the ground for good measure, (too many times had the table been flipped over in a card game) and a bucket that was hopefully food-grade was slammed on the center of the table by Soldier; bits of meat, cheese, and beans threatened to spill over the edge of it.

    Scout cheered, and Soldier ladled portions into the Merc’s respective plastic bowls (yet another unfortunate safety measure).

    Sniper nodded gratefully when he got some, the smell of southern spices wafting from the bowl and gracing his nose. He immediately began eating.

    Around him, RED started chatting about hypothetical situations, the day's battle, and food. Heavy sat next to Sniper on one side, not bothering with a spoon and instead using the bowl as a cup to eat from. Not two minutes later, Sniper heard a hiss.

    Spy, from his spot at the head of the table let out several French curses. A dark stain adorned his previously perfect button-up, and Scout took every liberty to laugh at him.

    “Silence, you imbecile!” Spy spat, then looked at his shirt again mournfully.

    “... And I just had this fitted.”

    Spy shot out of his seat with a vengeance, and soon the agent was cursing and muttering his way back to his room to change.

    Sniper couldn't resist snorting at that. The Snake finally got clumsy, eh? He mused internally.

    On his right, Demo was pouring beer into his soup. Pyro saw this the same moment that Sniper did, and slammed their hands on the table.

    “MRRH MURR MRRK??!” They exclaimed, sticking one rubber-clad finger out in accusation. A few conversations were cut off.

    “What? Never heard o’ beer chili?” Demo asked innocently, putting the beer on the table.

    Pyro threw their hands in the air again, letting out a ridiculous noise.

    “I don't wannae hear it, laddie! Ya drink carbonated milk!” The Scotsman cried.

    Pyro bristled, slowly lowering their hands and grumbling. Scout patted their back.

    “Lay off, Py. Demo’s neva tried it anyway, so he can't say shit.”

    Pyro perked up, looked at Scout hopefully, and the latter leaned back a bit. 

    “Uh… No, I still don't wanna try it either.”

    Demo laughed. Sniper found himself smiling as well, and for a moment all thoughts of a cannibalistic, non-human BLU Scout were forgotten.

    The night slowly devolved into drinking. Sniper didn't particularly care for alcohol, as he was already growing his preferred method of relaxation in his camper’s kitchenette. But when it came to late nights with the team, it was hard to refuse a can of beer.

    The mercenaries had slowly migrated to the couches and floor in the rec room, save for Spy who opted to stand in the corner like a creep with his wine. Sniper settled on the floor himself, deflating. It was easier to zone out and quiet his mind with the light buzz he'd gotten.

    “Hey, we should start a bonfire outside and tell ghost stories!” Scout suggested, “I heard this crazy one from a chick at Teufort.”

    Engineer shook his head, much to Pyro’s disappointment.

    “It's wildfire season, son. Besides, we don't exactly have wood sittin’ around.”

    “We could burn one of Spy’s fancy chairs!” Scout suggested, completely ignoring the first point.

    “ No, Scout.” Engineer spoke before Spy could protest, “The desert won't cool down until past midnight anyhow. We'll cook out there.”

    Scout groaned, “Ah, whatevah! I guess it is hot.”

    Demo tilted his head, and slurred, “Ye should still tell that story, lad! What kind of ghost were ye talkin’ about?”

    Scout folded his arms, “Well, it was more of a monster. A freak of nature. But it won't be scary if it's not dark!”

    At this, Soldier ran out of the Rec room and into the kitchen. The remaining Mercs listened to a crashing noise and a loud thud. A raccoon bolted from the doorway, into a hole in the wall next to Spy (who spilled his wine in shock) and Soldier followed moments later, flashlight in-hand.

    “Could that have been any more unnecessary ?” Spy asked, red in the face. Yet another one of his button-ups had been stained.

    Soldier ignored him and hit the lights, enveloping the room in darkness. Sniper could only make out a few general shapes from the sunset outside the window.

    Click.

    As soon as it has been turned on, Soldier tossed the flashlight towards Scout who managed to catch it after some comical juggling.

    The runner’s face was illuminated in a dramatic light, and he grinned.

    “Freakin’ perfect.”

    “DAMN STRAIGHT. NOW, TELL YOUR STORIES OF WAR.” Solly demanded.

    The air in the room seemed to fill with a lazy interest at what Scout had to say, for once.

    “OK, before I start, I don't want none of ya interruptin' me cause I'm just re-telling what this chick said. I don't think it's real, cuz monsters just ain't real, but anyways…

    “I was at Teufort, right? I was grabbing the stuff on the grocery list, but as I'm walkin’ out with the bags I see this smokin’ girl at the ice cream parlor. So, of course, I stop by and start chatting with her, but somethin' was really off with her. I mean, she seemed a little shaken up, ya know?

    “I asked her what the hell was up and she goes, ‘You won't believe what I saw last night'. I'm sitting here thinking she's talking about a movie or something, cuz girls love movies--”

    Scout was cut off by Heavy.

    “Leetle Scout said he would tell monster story. So tell.”

    A few murmurs of agreement sounded.

    Scout rolled his eyes, “Okay, okay. Jeez.”

    “Basically, she was out on a road trip from Nevada to Texas. An’ last night her family was driving past the Arizona and New Mexico border. 

    “They stopped ta sleep in the car for the night, cuz they were in the middle of nowhere. But in the middle of the night, she woke up cuz there was this awful whining noise from outside. They turn on the car’s headlights and they see this Coyote, but it's standin’ on two legs and looks really freakin' disfigured, like it was ‘hit by a car, but got back up’ she said. And it's eyes was pure white, too!

    They all start screamin’, because who wouldn't? And the thing screams back ! Like a person, not a howl or nothin'!”

    Pyro scooted closer to Engie.

    “But it gets crazier,” Scout's voice lowered dramatically, “cuz then the thing runs off, leavin’ this huge trail of blood, and they decide to start driving and get the hell outta there. So they start the engine, get on the road, but then they see it in the rear-view mirror. Keeping pace with the fuckin’ car on its hind legs!”

    Demo whistled, and a few murmurs were heard.

    Scout grinned again, spurred on by the reaction. 

    “Eventually they lost it, and got to a town. But none of em’ could sleep, and they kept getting the feeling that they were bein’ watched. Now this chick’s dad musta been crazy, cause' he gets a shotgun from the trunk and says he's gonna hunt the thing.”

    Spy rolled his eyes.

    “And when he gets out there, he finds the blood trail.. an’ it leads to a human corpse. He got outta there quick, but how freaky is that?”

    When the story was over, the room burst into speculation and doubtful comments. Sniper sat back with his beer, mulling it over.

    3 games of Blackjack and four beers later, the Marksman was rising and calling it a night. Anyone listening bid him farewell, and Sniper left the room just to hear Spy shout.

    “AGAIN?!”

    Sniper snorted as he walked down the hallway. Spook’s sure havin’ a bad day.

    The image of the Frenchman with yet another stained shirt popped into his head. Ah, he could almost hear the string of curses now…

    The back door of the base opened with a groan. The chill that hit Sniper as he exited the base was stronger than usual. The cold air made his skin prickle and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

    Must be overcast, he thought hopefully, some rain would be nice.

    The Marksman glanced up to see the entire cosmos on display, without a cloud in sight.

    Huh…

    He lingered there, staring at the twinkling summer constellations. Sniper distantly wondered if he would ever grow used to the northern hemisphere's sky. 

    A sense of paranoia suddenly sobered him; another chill made its way down his spine. Yet there was no breeze .

    Sniper stilled, ever-so-slightly tilting his head away from the sky to scan his surroundings. The sun was long-past sunk behind the bluffs, and the desert was once again drenched in moonlight. Something flickered in his peripherals.

    Spinning, Sniper was immediately in fight mode with a hand on his kukri. A dark figure stood by the window of the base, where his teammates were gathered.

    The BLU Spy was watching us…?

    Sniper's thoughts felt slow, despite his pounding heart. He clenched his fists and his teeth simultaneously, but before he could yell anything, the figure moved.

    With the immediate speed of a train, the shadow darted along the perimeter of the wall, away from Sniper, and then suddenly shot upwards.

    The shadow fluttered and Sniper dared to blink in confusion. Then, it was gone and over the wall.

    His gaze traveled upward to see a lone bird -- perhaps a hawk or a crow -- circling above. Its feathers blotted out the moon, casting the offending shadow.

    Christ!

    Sniper relaxed and took in a breath, trying to quell his rapid heart rate. One hand flew to his chest, over his heart, to save it from bursting out of his chest.

    “Shadows are scarin’ ya now?” He muttered to himself bitterly. The bird cawed mockingly.

    “Bugger off!” He half-shouted, shaking his head and continuing his walk home in the dark. It was hard to stay on edge with the amount of alcohol in his system.

    By the time he reached his van, Sniper’s heart rate had returned to normal. He fumbled with his key for a solid 30 seconds, and stumbled in groggily.

    There is something to be said about the day’s exhaustion catching up to you when passing the threshold into your home.

    And with all of the stress of Sniper’s recent discoveries weighing on him? Well, you couldn't blame him for having one too many drinks. It took a lot for him to kick off his shoes and climb the ladder before he hit his loft mattress. Hell, he even forgot to lock his door before sleep hit him like a train.

Chapter Text

    Sniper awoke with a start. The first thing he realized was that he was still fully clothed from last night. The next thing he realized was that his van was hotter than usual. And lastly, he glanced at his alarm clock to realize he'd woken up a few minutes before it went off.

    Oh, and his head felt like it was getting split in half by a large hammer and nail

    “Crikey…!” He grumbled, rubbing his eyes only to realize that his sunnies were left askew on his face as well. The sides of his head were sore from where they had pressed into his temples all night. Sniper's hands closed around them and he tossed them to the side.

    The Aussie sat up, hunching so as not to bonk his head against the ceiling, and looked around. His door was wide open, letting in God knows what kinds of insects or animals.

    “There's the temperature problem,” he muttered, pushing himself off of the loft to shut the door and begin inspecting his van. An open door might as well have been a giant neon sign with arrows to both the RED and BLU Spy. Hey, this Drongo left his door open! Come inside and go through his things!

    Sniper moved around the space like a zombie, shutting the door with a click and looking over his drawers and cupboards.

    If one of the spies had gone through his things, he didn't leave a trace. Every object from magazines to his whittling knife was as he left them.

    The only thing out of place was a single black feather sitting on his countertop. He took it in his hands and rubbed it. It was soft. A good feather, Sniper thought. Maybe I should put it in my hat. He was just glad that whatever bird came in here didn't leave shit on the floor, too.

    Sniper felt a tickle on his ankle. Looking down, he registered a sparse line of fire ants trailing across the linoleum and towards the kitchenette. A moment later the alarm clock was blaring, and Sniper noted hysterically that it sounded in time with his pounding headache.

    He had a feeling today was going to be an exhausting one.

    Incredibly, it seemed Sniper wasn't having the worst morning on the base. After finishing his coffee and sweeping out the ants, he headed to the base to have some of the hangover remedies that his teammates were no doubt sharing by now.

    Instead, he walked in on Spy furiously yelling at Medic in what sounded like German. Medic was leaning over a piece of toast at the far counter, and Spy stood in the middle of the kitchen waving his arms about. Both of them were too distracted to notice him entering.

    “Ich habe überall gesucht, du unerträglicher Scheißkerl!”

    What the hell? Sniper thought, freezing in the doorway from the unusual behavior. Spy could be a venomous asshole, but he usually kept his emotions in check and refrained from yelling. He was the type to take calculated steps for a subtle yet stinging revenge, not lose his temper like some hurt teenager. Sniper looked back at the doctor, wondering what the hell he could have done to provoke such a reaction.

    Medic said something Sniper didn't understand, shrugging. It sounded dismissive.
Spy spat something back, spinning on his heel to walk out of the room. The sound of his Italian leather shoes faded down the hallway. The air in the room was similar to that of the outside world after a thunderstorm.

    Sniper closed the door behind him silently and looked at Medic.

    “...Wot happened to him?” The marksman asked cautiously. His voice sounded strange to him, like the words hung in the air, he noted.
    Medic sighed, pinching his eyebrows, “He has been acting insanely since last night! First he accuses me of stealing his cigarettes, und now he’s missing his ties. It's unlike him.”

    The doctor’s annoyed tone gave way to an underlying concern. He opened one eye to squint at Sniper, “You don't know what happened, do you?”

    He shook his head, “Nah mate, I just came here for a hangover remedy.”

    Medic perked up at this, “Ah! Zhat is in the fridge.”

    The Marksman brushed off any concern left and headed straight towards the fridge. Spy had probably drunk too much last night… Well, if there was any wine that didn't spill on his own clothes. Ha.

    Sniper pulled open the fridge. Inside, there was a pitcher of the tea-and-fruit smoothie that Medic had no doubt added anti-inflammatories to. Sniper poured himself a glass and hoped for the best. Maybe today he would manage to find out more about the BLU Scout.

    If you were to ask Pyro who their favorite team member was, the answer would be “Mhhhr!”

    They always chose to spend RED’s grace period with him, while the rest of BLU was getting ready in the locker room.

    Scout always seemed to be ready first, shifting from foot to foot right by the licorice gate eagerly. He would look through the mesh and scan the field, trying to catch glimpses of red fabric. He always seemed worried.

    Which is why Pyro decided to help him out.
Every day, when Scout lingered at the gate, Pyro would join him and talk or otherwise distract him. It was hard work to teach Scout how to actually dance, and he always stopped whenever another teammate came around the corner, but Pyro was happy to have made progress. Maybe one day they would have a full-team conga line!

    When they first started spreading joy together, Scout had been much more outgoing and easy to get along with. But unfortunately, Pyro and him got grouped onto a team with the most gray, rude people ever! The Pyromaniac had watched the BLU team’s negativity and jeers slowly wear on Scout, until he became as boring and rude as the rest of them.

    Well, most of the time, at least. Scout could talk a lot, if you got him going on something. He could draw really well, too, although he didn't let Pyro see what was in his sketchbook.
Today, Pyro scampered from the lockers towards the furthest gate where they knew their friend would be wringing his hands. Sure enough, Scout was there tapping his foot anxiously.

    “Huddah!” Pyro cheered in greeting, raising a glove and they drew closer to the man. Scout looked up, but didnt hi-five them back.
There were purple polka-dots under his eyes and a green tinge to his skin. Pyro slapped their hands on their mask in shock.

    “Huddah hurr huhda!?” They exclaimed.

    “No, m’ not sick, just… not funking feeling it today,” Scout muttered, his rabbit ears twitching.

    “Hurh. Hudda hudda hrr!”

    Scout was silent for a while, then he said, “Nooo… well, there is one meanie head in particular. But I can't, um..”

    He sighed, trailed off, then turned to face Pyro fully. Scout just stared into the dark glass of their optical lenses, and a little string knitted his eyebrows together.

    “Py, have you evah had someone find out a secret about ya? A really serious one that ya didn't want anyone to know about?”

    Pyro scratched their head, thinking.

    Once, the BLU team had encountered an alien life form, and Medic had kept it in the basement for testing. He’d trapped it down there for weeks.

    It was an adorable little thing, that somehow always managed to get into a jam jar that Pyro never located. It had a single eye and a little antenna protruding from its head.

    Pyro remembered their team whispering about it, particularly Medic and Engineer, who thought it could be used as some sort of “bio-weapon”. Clearly, the little guy was in danger.

    After a few midnight tea parties with the alien, Pyro learned how badly it needed to get home, and took the risk of freeing it.

    Pyro would never forget the cold, unmoving gaze of the BLU Medic when he found the empty cage the next morning. They still remembered the horrible things Medic had spat at them, and they couldn't rely on being healed during battles for a few months.

    They nodded solemnly, “Hudda..”

    Then, Pyro looked up at Scout questioningly. What was Scout’s secret? And more importantly, who found out about it?

    “Hrr Hurd uhhd?”

    Two buck teeth poked out of Scouts mouth and bit his lip, “No, none of our guys. It's a stupid RED that's hangin’ it over my head. What's that called? Bad.. letters?”

    “Buhhk murrl!”

    “Yeah! Blackmail! Dats it. He's blackmailing me, I don't really know what ta…”

    Scout cut himself off, glancing up at something behind the Firebug. Pyro turned around and saw Demo entering the gate area. His boots scraped apathetically across the chocolate wafer flooring. The man belched, not seeming to really see his teammates. But, just in case, Pyro decided the conversation could end there.

    Pyro turned back towards the gate and stared at the rock candy beyond it. They would help Scout the best they could, as soon as they found out which RED he was talking about.

    Reload—the empty shell bounced on the wooden floor, then the clink of the next bullet into the chamber, a sharp snap of the bolt handle—and BANG!

    The Medic fell to the ground satisfyingly, but Sniper only sighed. He'd been in his perch for almost the entire round, waiting to catch a glimpse of the BLU Scout, to no avail.

    Sniper considered himself a patient man. His job demanded it, after all, and so did his hobbies—hunting, crocheting, gardening, whittling—it was all about keeping yourself entertained. Whether it be the little jokes he murmured to himself, or the niche rabbit holes he found himself wondering about, Sniper had always been good at waiting.

    However, Sniper could feel his patience waning. The confidence that he would see Scout at some point during today's match was slowly dissolving.

    At one point he had wondered if he was out sick, or fired, or somehow not making it out of Respawn. Yet the killfeed confirmed that the bugger was, in fact, running around batting heads in. Sniper supposed it made sense for the runner to avoid him, after what happened during their last run-in.

    Speaking of the Killfeed, his team’s Spy had been burnt to death yet again. Sniper stared at the flamethrower icon worriedly. Was the BLU Pyro the reason Spy had been on such a mental spiral lately?

    Maybe I've been too caught up with this Scout to notice, Sniper admitted to himself.

    Whatever, Spy was a grown man, and mental health checkups were Medic’s responsibility.

    Sniper’s radio crackled to life, shaking him from the thought.

    “Yo Snipes! I'm gonna make a run for their Intel, can ya cover me?” Scout's voice sounded fuzzy over the mic.

    Sniper pressed down the button, “If you're goin' through the left side, yeh.”

    Scout responded by shooting out from under Sniper's perch and making a beeline across the battlefield. It was comical how much dirt the kid could kick up — like a motorbike tearing through sand and leaving a trail of dust clouds in its wake.

    Sniper fumbled with putting his radio away, and then quickly scoped in to scan where the man was running.

    The tell-tale battle cry of the BLU Soldier caught his attention from across the field, and he positioned his scope in the sky to catch the man mid-rocket jump.

    CRACK!

    “Predictable as always, ya damn Yankee..” he muttered. The BLU maniac always Rocket-Jumped from behind walls, as if cover was something he thought about.

    Sniper took his eye away from the scope and reloaded; but just as he spotted the enemy Heavy rounding the corner on Scout, a dash of blue caught his attention in his peripherals. The BLU Scout was slipping through the same entrance that his own Scout had left from.

    Sniper's brain short-circuited. He leaned out of the window, peering downwards (his sunnies nearly fell off his face) and spotted a black-and-white tennis shoe disappearing underneath him.

    He looked up at the BLU Heavy again, who was revving his machine gun, then at the door behind him. He was torn. Sniper's pulse insisted that he make a decision.

    “Bugger.” He cursed, getting up and running towards the doorway.

    From across the map, RED Scout’s yell echoed in his ears.

    The BLU T-shirt and flash of dog tags were easy to spot against the reddish wood of the base. Sniper cursed his joints (it was scary to be having such problems at age 26) and pushed on in pursuit of the Scout's straightforward path. Occam's Razor.

    He wasn't sure if the Scout would be able to hear his footfalls, and he knew he wouldn't be able to catch up to the runner, but that wasn't the point.

    Sniper lost sight of Scout when the man darted around a corner, and the Marksman slowed it down, puffing. He could afford to walk from here.

    There were only two entrances out of the Intel Room, and he would have a direct line of sight on both of them by the time Scout was on his way out.

    Now reduced to a brisk walk, Sniper tugged on the strap around his body, pulling his SMG off of his back.

    In the back of his mind, Sniper remembered the principles that he'd learned in his time around the Aboriginals in the Outback.
If you were hunting down or tracking something that was faster than you, it was always smarter to save your energy and walk after it. That way, the animal would exert more energy and get tired sooner. Eventually, one was able to trap it and go in for the kill.

    Mick often found himself thinking about this while working for Mann Co. Hell, half of his job was spent waiting for a clumsy BLU to wander into his sight line; or for an offending class to lose patience and brute-force-charge an objective, as the Soldier so often did.

    Although when Sniper came to a halt in between the two exits of the Intel room, he knew that Scout wouldn't have run out of energy. If he had timed it correctly, he would hear Scouts footsteps in three,

    Two,

    One…

    Sniper aimed his SMG downwards, planning to slow the BLU rather than kill him.

    Yet the Announcer’s voice hadn't alerted him of the stolen intelligence… And Sniper definitely wasn't hearing footsteps above the muted noise of warfare outside.

    Sniper inhaled, grip tightening on his SMG as he waited.

    One, two, three, four, five…

    He counted the seconds, remembering to breathe. Did the Scout pass the Intel? Why?

    “No…” He muttered, shifting on his feet.

    Then, the noise of Engineer’s wrench hitting the ground echoed through the hall.

    Sniper took a tentative step forward, towards the left hallway. He couldn't  feel his body, instead pulled by some adrenaline-filled instinct. I'm getting to know that feeling well...

   The hallway didn't have great lighting; Sniper's heart pounded in his chest as he approached the bend in the hall silently.

    The concrete walls leaned in towards him, as if they were an audience at the edge of their seats. Had Engineer’s sentry killed the BLU? He was too afraid to call out to the Texan.

    Sniper was hit with a million sensations when he took a step past the turn.

    First, he heard the noise of chewing.

    Then the smell of iron filled his lungs; he could almost taste it on his tongue.

    Sniper's supercooled bloodstream froze and he stopped in his tracks in the center of the path.

    The BLU Scout was in the center of the Intel room, on his knees and hunched over the body of Dell. Beyond him, a dispenser hummed, and next to that was the bashed-in remains of a mini sentery. Sniper's veiw of his teammate was blocked by the Scouts turned back—which was probably for the better, because Sniper felt like hurling—and a dark crimson pool of blood crept out from beneath the both of them.

    Scratch the earlier plan, there was no way Sniper could talk to this monster. He'd send him to respawn before he was noticed, tell the Administrator, and forget everything in a few months after Scout's contract was terminated.

    Snipers stomach flipped a out three times before he managed to slowly—shakily—raise his SMG to point it at the back of Scouts head.

    The world felt silent and the only thing Sniper could hear was the beating of his own heart, and his breath as he drew it in.

    He braced himself, but before he pulled the trigger, the radio clipped to his vest crackled to life.

    “SNIPES! What da hell, man!? You were supposed ta cover me, not let their heavy turn me inta swiss cheese!” The voice of his teammate sounded ridiculously loud in the room.

    “Bugger!” He hissed under his breath, grabbing the device with his other hand and quickly silencing it.

    But it was too late.

    The BLU Scout had whirrled around, eyes wide, and — Jesus, where were these waves of fear coming from?!

    Sniper shut his eyes and fired.

    Scout yelled as the first few bullets hit him, adding to the blood on the ground.

    When Sniper opened his eyes, he immediately stopped firing. Scout had hauled Engine's corpse up by the straps to use as a shield from the bullets; and as soon as he heard the gunfire stop, he bolted.

    Sniper thought fast and pulled out his kukri. He lifted the blade over his shoulder and focused on where Scout would pass down the hall.

    Honestly, he had been expecting the knife to snag on Scout's shirt, embed in the wall behind him, and effectively pin him.

    Sniper hadn't exactly accounted for the fact that the wall was made of solid concrete, and the chances of catching someone by their clothes was extremely slim, even with an aim as good as his.

    The knife did, however, plant itself into Scout's side, impaling his kidney. The runner made an odd yelping noise, tripping over himself and landing face-first with a thud.
Sniper jogged over, and Scout was curling onto his side and clutching his stomach. It was clear he would bleed out soon.

    Best make the most of that time, Sniper thought, and kneeled beside the dying man.

    Unfortunately, he had no idea what to say.

    Despite Scout being weaponless and immobilized, Sniper couldn't seem to push down the fear that coursed through him. It was like the moment he saw the BLU, his brian reverted back to when humans still bashed rocks together for fun.

    “Listen, mate, uh… If you keep doing this shit to my teammates, I'll have to report you,” Sniper threatened. Scout's eyes hadn't glassed over yet, and he knew he was being heard when those blue irises darted up at his.

    A chill ran down his spine, but he kept talking.

    “I'm not sure what the hell is up with you, but ya gotta find some other outlet fer… Whatever the hell you're doin’.”

    Scout didn't seem to catch the words, instead coughing, glaring, and asking a question back:

    “Why da hell do ya keep showing up in my dreams?”

    He said it in accusation, like Sniper was somehow responsible for that.

    The marksman just blinked in a frustrated confusion.

    “Wot?”

    The Scout coughed again, and this time blood accompanied it.

    “You— you're always there, it's fuckin.. Strange..” He trailed off, squinting. The fire in his eyes was dimming exponentially.

    Shit. Who cares about his dreams?! Sniper needed answers.

    He put a hand on Scout's shoulder and shook him slightly.

    “Don't die yet— how— how long have ya been eating people?”

    Well, there's a sentence he never thought he'd say.

    Scout took a second to process, then another to decide if he wanted to answer.

    Finally, “N-not long.. Eva since.. Medic's fuckin'..”

    He trailed off.

    Scouts' eyes slowly fluttered closed. Sniper shook his shoulder again, to no avail. Scout's arm that had been clutching his wound hit the floor, and it would've made a great shot in a dramatic movie scene, but Sniper just felt frustrated. He thought back to his conversation with Engie, and a countdown sounded in his head. 7, 6, 5, 4...

    “Bloody hell!”

    Sniper stood up and gritted his teeth, watching Scout’s breathing slow.

    3, 2, 1…

    Sure enough, the BLU’s body faded away in 7 seconds. Something that should've happened to Engineer.

    Pyro stood over the crumpled, charred corpse giggling, rolling form of Spy, satisfied with their work. The RED hadn't had a chance to mess with Scout when he was so distracted with popping the bubbles Pyro had provided!

    The Firebug turned away from him, and started skipping back towards the BLU base.

Chapter Text

    When Mick was an ankle-biter in primary school, he had noticed a lot of trends.
Since he grew up in a more rural area of Australia, the kids at his school didn't have a lot of the modern gadgets that he'd sometimes see from the larger cities. In fact, many of his peers took pride in their “country strength,” and played simpler games with simpler tools.
    One thing Mick found entertaining was yo-yos.
    Something about testing the tension of the string and knowing when to pull it back up reminded him of his bow; and the imperfect spiral-shaped paint on the yo-yo was quite frankly mesmerizing.
    He hadn't gone the extra mile to do any fancy tricks with the thing. It was more of an object to entertain him if he couldn't engage in his other childhood hobbies, like reading or cutting up erasers or climbing trees.
    Never before had he considered how the yo-yo might feel. Because it was an object.
    But now, Sniper felt nauseous from the push and pull of his interactions with Scout.

    First, he would become curious—freely unwind downwards—and investigate. Then, he'd make a realization about Scout—a sharp, unpleasant one that sent him reeling upwards again. After that, he'd pull back into his camper to think about it—linger at the palm—only to feel another itch of curiosity before he knew it.
    It was a dizzying cycle, Sniper was aware of this. And if he was being honest, he might have investigated what the BLU Medic had to do with anything, or pondered why the hell he was in Scout's dreams, if it weren't Saturday.

    The weekend ceasefire was technically for work, just not the blood-shedding kind. It was the RED team's chance to check up on maintenance-related issues around the base, or go shopping to stock up on food.
    However, it wasn't out of the ordinary for one of them to drive off, if their chores were done. And since he lived alone, Sniper didn't have many chores.
    Sniper's hands fell into their familiar position on the steering wheel.

    “Don't die out there, laddie!” Tavish called to him.

    “I won't!” Sniper responded back over the sound of the engine.

    Just an hour north and he'd be camping out under the stars where he belonged. Sniper could have some time to think, and no one would bother him.
    The yo-yo could be set down.
    He let out a wistful sigh as his tires crossed from gravel to asphalt.

    Scout rubbed the wraps on his left hand anxiously. Across the table from him, Pyro was telling him about how they had chased RED Spy around for a full 10 minutes.
    He lifted the edges of his lips, but it felt more like cringing than smiling. Hopefully it looked okay. Pyro probably wouldn't notice, anyway.

    “Hah. Thanks, Py, I knew I could count on ya.”

    Pyro clapped their gloved hands gleefully. Boy, was Scout glad that he had one friend in this god forsaken base.
    …Even if they weren't all there, mentally.
    Scout stood up from the undersized chair and stretched out his back a little bit. His vision tunneled for a moment before he gained his bearings.

    “Well, it's getting late. I should, uh, get some sleep.”

    Although it was likely he'd stay up for another 2 or 3 hours..
    Pyro made a noise of agreement, also rising from their chair and skipping over to the door. Scout let a chuckle out through his nose as the fire bug opened the door with a dramatic bow and gesture.

    “Awe, you're da best host evah, Py!” Scout cheered, taking a few steps towards the door.

    Just as he was turning around to wave one last time, Pyro suddenly shot forward and wrapped their arms around Scout.

    His heart rate increased, before he realized Pyro was just hugging him.
    Slowly, Scouts arms lifted and patted their back. It was weird to hug someone wearing a full flame-retardant suit, but he appreciated the action nonetheless. It almost reminded him of hugging a fluffy dog, the bit of heat just barely noticeable.
    Jeez, when was the last time I hugged someone?
    Probably before he started working for BLU. His teammates had made it clear early on that physical contact was taboo. Even Pyro, as affectionate as they were, refrained from any real contact.
    This realization dawned on him, and Scout pulled away.

    “Hey, what was dat for?”

    “Hrrhr.. uhr hurr hud hrr hurrdhur hud,” Pyro explained.

    Scout wanted to retort that it wasn't that bad, but the words died in his tongue.
    He must've been standing there for a while, because Pyro ended up waving a hand in front of his face.

    “Huurrr! Yrr hurr hrk hurrk.”

    “Oh. Sick? Yeah, I probably just need sleep.”

    “Actually, I vas just looking for you.” Said Medic, who was apparently behind him.
    Scout’s soul nearly left his body and he jumped a solid foot in the air. Pyro looked startled too.
    The runner whipped around to face the German. He stood in the hallway with his arms behind his back, looking like the cat that caught the canary. Scout had never related to a bird this much before.

   “Ohh, hey, Doc!” Scout’s voice had completely changed against his will to be higher pitched, “I really do just need sleep, so no checkup need—”

    “I don’t know, Scout, you’ve been showing some rather worrisome symptoms. Even Pyro has taken notice!”

    Pyro, oblivious to the tension in the air, nodded vigorously. Scout bit back a curse.

    “Vhy don’t you follow me to the Medbay, and we can run some tests?”

    Scout’s eyes darted frantically between Pyro and Medic. The firebug noticed his distress and put a hand on his shoulder.

    “Hrrnt hurhy! Mmrdrrc wrrh hurh hur hrruht hud!”

    Medic furrowed an eyebrow at the maniac — a rare display of emotion, but he seemed to understand the gist of what they were saying.

    “Yes, what it said. Come now."

    Medic grabbed Scout’s wrist before he could retract it, and started leading him down the hall like a goddamn dog. Scout wondered if the man could feel his pulse through his rubber gloves, because Jesus, was it racing.

    A ‘checkup’ with Medic was a danger all on its own, but Scout knew with 99% certainty that the doctor had been noticing his strange behaviors, and would no doubt run experiments on him. Scout wanted to hurl.
He threw one last glance at a waving Pyro before they turned a corner to pass through the kitchen. As Medic’s dress shoes clicked on the cold tile, he wrung his brain for any possible solution or excuse. Hell, he was better off coming up with an escape plan now.
    He definitely couldn’t call out for help and rely on any of his teammates to help him, nor could he make a run for it without risking his employment. Medic would catch him sooner or later, even if it had to be on the battlefield.
Maybe he could just minimize whatever was about to happen. A deep, cold feeling settled in his stomach.
    Eager to at least do something, Scout halted to grab an apple from the fruit bowl with his free hand. (That category of food was the only kind that didn’t immediately get snatched up for hoarding, probably because Scout and Pyro were the only Mercs with a sweet tooth on BLU).
    Medic yanked on his arm and glared back at him.

    “Zhose are full of sugar.” He sneered and glared at the fruit like he could telepathically make it dissolve.

    “I’ve gotta run on something, right?” Scout smiled nervously. Medic scoffed and kept walking.

    Scout tried not to focus on the crushing pain in his wrist and looked at the apple instead.
    What the fuck am I going to do with this?

    They hadn’t passed a single soul on the way to the Medbay, Scout realized when the double doors flapped behind him. Pyro was the only one who knew where he was. And the only person who probably cares.

    The Medbay had two sections that were separated by a soundproof wall: the bed area, (which really only served as a passageway), and The Laboratory.
    Scout was all-too-familiar with the stainless steel counters and blaring fluorescent lights that awaited him there. He made no attempt at small talk with Medic, because that usually resulted in harsher, more annoyed movements. He tried not to think about the fact that Medic had approached him for experimentation right before a weekend.
    The pressure around his wrist finally lifted after he sat on the gurney, but it didn’t provide Scout a lot of comfort.

    He fidgeted with his dog tags, eyes darting around the room. Why was there never lighting where it counted? He couldn't see anything on the walls, it was just darkness surrounding him like a void. It made the room seem endless. He couldn’t focus. Scout spoke, voice piercing the uncanny stillness of the room.

    “So, uh, what are we doin?”

    Medic didn’t respond at first. He just clicked his way over to a set of tools that were laid out on a tray. The man stared at them for a moment, and Scout wondered if he even said the words in the first place. Jesus, why weren’t his eyes focusing?

    “I take it you’re malnourished.”

    Scout swallowed. Should he lie? Where was Medic going with this? How much did he know?

    “What, uh, makes you say dat?”

    Suddenly Medic was in front of him, and there was a hand over his clothed stomach. Scout flinched away a moment later, but the point had been made.
    He had lost a lot of weight. It was obvious.
Medic’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled a little bit as he spoke.

    “You are pale. Your heart rate isn’t as high as it usually is vhen you are in here. You can’t focus. Vhy haven’t you been eating, Scout? Does the food make you feel… Sick?”

    The runner nodded stupidly. His leg twitched. The reflection of headlights shone in his eyes.

    “Um. Kinda,” he opted to give another half-answer. The Doc didn’t need to know that Scout lost his sense of taste when it came to food, and every time he ate anything normal, it came back up moments later. He definitely didn’t need to know what Scout had been eating instead.
    Medic didn’t seem bothered.

    “Vell, Scout, I think I have an idea of what sort of… illness you might have. But I’ll need to test your reactions and tolerances of some things to confirm.”

    A chill ran down Scout’s spine. Tolerances? The curiosity to know what the hell was happening with him couldn’t outweigh his fear of whatever that entailed, but he was still itching for a solution. His nails dug into the skin of the apple he was still holding.

    “Maybe you don’t have to do all that work, Doc, really! What- what’s your theory?” His voice wavered. Maybe, just maybe, Medic could tell him what he thought was wrong and Scout could finally solve this problem on his own.
    Although he knew he was an idiot to think it would be that easy. Medic did, however, say something helpful.

   “Do you remember, about a month ago, when it was my turn to make dinner?”

    Scout’s eyebrow furrowed. This seemed incredibly off-topic. Why the hell would he remember that? BLU stopped doing the whole dinner rotation thing weeks ago.

    Medic saw the look on his face, “It was the schwarzsauer.”

    Scout blinked. Medic sighed.

    “The ‘blood soup’?”

    The runner’s eyes lit up at the memory, “Oh, that! Yeah, I remember dat.. What’s that got to do with my, uh, condition?”

    “Well, you were the only one who actually ingested it. And that same night, I noticed one of my blood sample vials was broken.”

    Scout tilted his head slightly. This conversation was going better than he thought it would. Did he just get some kind of insane parasite? Did it nestle into his brain and mind control him?
    For a moment, hope fluttered in his chest. Maybe Medic could actually help him. He seemed to know what was going on.. Scout leaned forward and asked:

    “Blood sample…?”

    That’s when the German became cryptic again.

    “Ja. It was a sample I paid a large sum of money for, from a very rare species.”

    Scout was almost afraid to ask, “Which species?”

    “A very, very, old one,” Medic stated in a tone that suggested the conversation was at an end. Scout's fluttering hope was shot down like a bird. He shifted on the gurney.

    There was silence and Medic turned back from his tools, selecting a simple metal rod. It shined in the fluorescent light and Scout stiffened as it drew near him.

    “What's— Hey, can we do this later?” Scout hopped down from the gurney and took a step towards the door, his vision tunneled momentarily, “I’m real tired, man.”

    The uneaten apple also rolled off the gurney.

    Medic’s eyes flashed. He murmured something to himself about a field, and then took a step forward again.

    “Don’t try to run, now, Scout. You’ll only prolong the process.”

    “What process? How long is this going to take?” Scout cried.

    In lieu of a response, Medic lunged forward and pressed the metal rod to Scout’s arm. A searing hot pain radiated from the spot and he screamed because why the fuck did it burn?
    Multiple things happened in the next moment.
    First, Scout batted away the rod and it clattered to the floor. He took several more steps towards the door. The smell of burnt skin filled his nostrils. Medic, meanwhile, took a hold on Scout’s flailing dog tags and the runner was pulled by the neck backwards.
    He made a choking noise, and thanks to his fatigue, wasn’t able to right himself in time. Scout’s head hit the tile with a loud noise, and as soon as his vision recovered from darkness, Medic was already on top of him.
    Scout’s eyes widened and he flailed his arms for anything to grab onto. There was no way he could push this psycho off of him, a weapon was his best bet. Then, another thought occurred to him and he rocketed a fist towards Medic’s face, hitting him square in the nose. Scout wasn’t sure if the cracking noise that followed came from popping his knuckles, or the man’s nose.
    Medic hissed out a curse and held his face, before blinking the pain away and moving to try and pin Scout’s arms.
    Scout’s left arm was immobile before he knew it, but his right managed to take hold of the apple that had fallen beside him. When Medic started yelling, he saw his opportunity.

    “Stay still, you schweinko—!”

    Scout shoved the apple into the man’s face like it was a stick in the jaws of an alligator.

    This took Medic by surprise and his hands flew to his face in a panic when he realized he couldn’t shut his jaw. Scout took the opportunity to squirm with all of his energy until his leg was free enough to kick the German in the gut. Medic made an “oomph!” noise and curled inward. Scout scrambled away while he was recovering and shot upward — again getting tunnel vision — and then turned to bolt out the door.

    A part of Scout felt a loss going out the door; he might've just lost his only lead on figuring out how to fix this whole mess.
    He can hear Medic push through the swinging doors a few moments later, but focuses on the hallway ahead of him as his feet fly across the concrete. Blood roared in his ears as he pushed off of the ground as fast as he could.

    Okay, think, Scout!
    I’m obviously faster than him, but as soon as he’s able to chomp down on that apple and yell, I might be done for.
    Scout doubted the other mercs would care to help Medic, but he wasn’t taking chances. BLU was unpredictable when it came to whether or not they were in the mood to ignore him, or hurt him.
    A part of Scout figured he deserved it, with all the terrible things he’d been doing lately.
    He shook his head. I gotta get out of there. There's gotta be a — that’s it! Ahead, a blue glowing sign labeled “TRANSIT ROOM” illuminated the doorframe. Engineer often left the teleporters up on the weekends so he wouldn’t have to re-wire them to the same location, if BLU was to fight on the same battlefield the next week. Scout clung to that general memory and he put on a burst of speed.

    He burst through the doorway and shot straight past the team lockers, towards the back of the room. Sure enough, a whirring noise and a soft blue light indicated the teleporter was still up.
    Without a second thought, Scout landed on the platform and turned around.
    The last thing he saw was Medic hustling through the Transit Room’s entrance, before he was enveloped in the nauseating sensation of teleportation.

    Scout was expecting Medic to chase him through the teleporter, or give up and wait for him to come through the other way. What happened instead was worse.
    The runner had made his way to the nearest crate where he knew he’d stored some flesh. (The taste of iron sickened him, but the near instant relief that washed over him made up for it). When he found his bearings and went back to Resupply to check if anyone had followed him, he was met with silence and darkness. And that could only mean one thing:

    They had turned off the teleporters.

    Scout had bashed the exit teleporter with a rock until it was in three separate pieces. The entrance teleporter remained untouched.
    Now, the good news is that he would be left alone.
    The bad news was that he was alone, in the middle of some random woodland, weaponless, without a way back (until BLU decided to re-activate the entrance teleporter, that is), and the sun had already set.
    Awesome.

    At the moment, Scout was currently hyperventilating with his head in his hands, huddled between a crate and the wall of a sniper’s nest. A biting chill entered the air as soon as the sun was gone. His burned arm still hurt like hell, he had a headache, but at least he could form a coherent thought now. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he wondered what the fuck he should do.

    He could wait in resupply until the teleporter turned back on, and then what? Step right into an ambush and be tortured by Medic for the rest of the weekend? The man’s words echoed in his head, “You’ll only prolong the process.”
    He didn't want Medic to be right.
    So, what else?

    Well, he could go over to RED’s side of the battlefield and see if anyone came through their teleporters, if they were even up. Explain the situation, maybe? Ask for directions towards his own base, which was probably miles away?
    That was silly. They’d probably kill him on sight, anyway.
    Which begged the question — what if he died?

    Scout let out a shaky breath. He’d managed to calm down and think critically for a bit. Which was hard, when a cold wind was blowing through your bones. But he sat there in the dark, hugging his knees and absently rubbing his arms for some semblance of warmth.
    If he died… Would he respawn at the last machine he was at? This one? Or did they have a respawn machine on-base that he’d re-materialize in? Scout thought that made sense, but then again, it was just a theory. He couldn’t recall anyone dying off-duty. Medic was usually there to prevent those deaths. And if Medic was actually doing his job, something must be wrong.
    Oh, God, what if he couldn’t respawn?

    “I’m gonna die out here.” Scout whispered. Another shiver shook him.

    After what was probably too much time, Scout found the motivation to uncurl from his semi-warm position and find a better place to sleep.
    Although resting somewhere on the ground floor was probably warmer, Scout didn’t want to run the chance of some animal wandering in and attacking him in his sleep. He ended up choosing a well-sealed corner of the sniper nest to build a little igloo-like structure out of crates (The ones that weren’t filled with human meat in the danger zone, that is).
    It was incredibly hard to move the boxes around between his weak muscles, the cold, and the darkness of the night. A waxing gibbous moon didn’t provide nearly enough light when you were stumbling around in a wooden box with very few openings for light. He stubbed his toes constantly. In the end, the small space could trap his warmth and provide shelter from the wind, although the wood beneath him stole a lot of his body heat.

    Scout barely managed to sleep that night, willing morning to come sooner so he could figure out a plan.

Chapter Text

    Sniper had never been more relaxed in his life. The wilderness was his environment, his home, and honestly? There was nothing he could think of that he enjoyed more than watching a campfire slowly burn out while sipping on coffee.

    It was early morning, Saturday, and he'd just finished eating breakfast (Eggs, quail, and instant coffee). He wore his hiking boots, and a fur-lined coat to ward off the mountain temperature.

    The forest clearing was a bubble he could call his own. Familiar bird calls drifted through the pine trees as the animals of the forest woke up to another chilly fall day.

    Sniper had always loved the mountains, despite his thin blood. It was like his mum always used to say: “You can always throw on another sweater or blanket, but you can't always beat the heat.”

    Sniper smiled to himself at the memory, a familiar sadness tugging at him.

    He let out a grunt and sat up, moving to the remains of the fire and stamping it out. Dark gray clouds of smoke rose into the air from the fire’s deathbed. Once he was sure he wouldn't start a forest fire, he stretched and looked around.

    The plan was to take a hike along the stream a few clicks away, come back by midday, and then spend the rest of his afternoon whittling, napping, or just generally taking it easy. Maybe he'd roll a joint or two.

    The marksman felt around his pockets to make sure everything was in order, then set off towards the steam. He kept his kurki in one hand to hack at any stray sticks or plants that might’ve crept onto his trail.

    Sniper hummed some blues song as he whisked away another dead branch. The noise of running water could be heard over the birdsong, and he smiled to himself again. He’d probably see some wildlife around the water…

…

    Pyro watched the end of their boots click together in front of them. It was like clapping your hands, sort of.

    They sat on the floor of BLU’s Rec Room, since Engie had told them to wait there until their flamethrower could be fixed.

    That was a few hours ago.

    Not many of their teammates passed through the Rec Room, so Pyro was very surprised when Spy came rushing into the room instead of Engie.

    The man locked eyes with Pyro as soon as he made it through the doorway. He nodded in greeting and strode over to the firebug, looking around as if he was in trouble. Upon closer inspection, there were small purple waves radiating from his mask.

    “Ahem.. Pyro. Have you seen Scout recently?”

    His voice sounded oddly loud in the quietness of the room, the sound echoing off the walls a bit.

    Pyro stared at him distrustfully, and Spy stared back.

    “Pyro. Please answer me.”

    “Hur hrph hurrdhur huddah hurph hur,” Pyro crossed their arms. A look of worry flashed across Spy’s expression before he schooled it.

    “What for, exactly?"

   “Hurd huddah huh!”

    Spy pinched his eyebrows.

    “Yes, don't think I haven't taken notice of that. When was this? Is he still with Medic?”

    Pyro made a growling noise, and Spy took the queue to step away. The purple lines wiggled.

   “Fine. I'll find out for myself.”

    He grumbled something else under his breath and activated his cloak watch, which put Pyro on edge even more.

    They hoped that the snake wouldn't disrupt Scout's recovery.

    Recovery…

    Pyro made a mental note to visit the infirmary soon.

    The nose of their flamethrower appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, with a tired Engie at the other end.

…

    The first thing Scout noticed when he woke up was the fact that he was missing his dog tags.

    He'd opened his eyes unwillingly, cursing his cicada rhythm or whatever the hell it was called.

    As soon as he sat up, he groaned at the soreness aching through his body. His hand flew to his chest when he didn't feel the familiar weight of metal there, and was dismayed to see only the fabric of his shirt. (Crusted with blood, of course. Eugh.)

    The small crate igloo structure thing he'd put together still surrounded him. Scout took a few breaths, trying to ease away the tension that was pulling and screaming at his every atom.

    His brain replayed the events of the previous night. Saying goodnight to Pyro, being intercepted by Medic, fighting to run away from the bastard…

    “Oh,” Scout said aloud, dumbly.

    The chain must’a snapped when Medic grabbed it, and I didn't notice ‘cause I was freaking out.

    Scout imagined his dog tags resting on the floor of Medic’s Lab like a wedding ring in the belly of a shark. Would the German even notice they were there?

    He hoped not. The psycho would probably melt them out of spite.

    Then he went rigid when he imagined what Medic was up to now.

    Did he disable the exit teleporter himself last night? Or get Engie ta do it?

    Had Medic told anyone else he was gone?

    Would they notice?

    Scout ducked out of the crates, still shivering his ass off, and stood up straight.

    Teleporters.

    Maybe they were back on.

    Did he want to go back to the base? Absolutely not.

    “But I've gotta,” came his own miserable voice.

    “Gotta come up with a plan, a story, and a good reason ta avoid Medic for the rest of my life.”
    Right. Easy.

    It was that, or run away from this whole thing and hope he wasn't tracked down and killed by Miss Pauling.

    Scout took a step forward, towards the window of the room. Early morning sunlight cut a hole through the still, dark atmosphere of the wooden room. He could see dust particles catching the light, dancing around.

    From the window was a decent view of the map, and Scout spent a few minutes watching for movement. He squatted on the floor until he was eye-level with the sill and peered out. Scout almost felt dizzy trying to squint to see inside the other buildings. How did snipers do this all day?

    Scout's eyes unwillingly drifted to a specific part of the field — there was a corner where chain link fence and wood wall met.

    He vividly remembered that spot.

    “Ah, Scout,” the air greeted him.
The runner immediately put his back to the wall, recognizing the French accent to be that of the RED Spy’s.

    “Chatty today?” He spat, still on edge from his run-in with Sniper in the shack. The hold on his scattergun tightened. Damn spies.

    “Oui, in fact, I would rather you lower your weapon.”

    Scout fired a shot in the direction the voice came from. The bullets fell flat.

    “Uncloak, you freaking coward!”

    “Why? So you can catch another easy meal?”

    Scout's mouth felt dry at the words. His eyes paused their rapid scanning and started straight forward instead.

    “What- What the hell is dat supposed ta mean?”

    “Your little chat with our Sniper a few minutes ago caught my interest,” Spy responded, and Scout could practically hear his smug expression.

    “Oh, you sonnova..”

    “Don't worry, I don't plan to alert our employers about your little infringement problem.”

    Scout wasn't that stupid.

    “What do you want, asshole? What's the catch?”

    Spy decloaked by the fence. There wasn’t a single speck of dirt on his suit. Scout lowered his gun.

    “I have two requests, they are simple.”

    His shit-eating grin said otherwise.

    “First of all, you will no longer kill me in battle, or point out my location to your teammates.”

    Scout's eye twitched as the Frenchman started listing his demands, with such reassured confidence. The urge to bludgeon him to death was growing stronger by the second, but he bit his tongue.

    Spy took another step forward, and Scout recognized amusement in his eyes.

    “Secondly, you are to sabotage your team’s food supply. Do you know where the bread in your base is stored in mass?”

    Scout scrunched up his face, “We.. We don’t got a lotta bread. Just corn.”

    Spy faltered, “Ah. Well, nonetheless-”

    Scout watched a blue dot flicker onto the man’s forehead, and a moment later, he was on the floor.

    The runner followed the trajectory and saw his team’s Sniper scowling at him from the window. Accusation was clear in his expression.

    He needed to get that Spy off his tail somehow.

    Scout dragged his bat along the dirt, cursing the Frenchman under his breath.

    Scout shook his head.

    RED was known to use the battlefield after hours to practice, but there didn't seem to be any sign of them today. Scout realized yet again that it was the weekend, so of course they were off doing better things with their time.

    He was about to pull away and head downstairs to check the teleporter when something further in the distance caught his eye.

    To the East, past the battlefield and trees, a gray cloud of smoke rose into the air. Scout's heart thumped in his chest.

    Someone's camping? This close to a Mann Co. battlefield?

    Scout pushed off of the wall and headed down the stairs.

…

   Pyro gingerly lowered the mattress of a bed back into place. No rabbits hiding there.

    When Pyro entered the infirmary, Medic didn’t call out to ask who was intruding. In fact, both he and Scout were nowhere to be seen.

    That was a good thing, because it meant that Scout must have gotten better quickly! They were both probably going on with their days.

    But that didn’t mean Pyro didn’t want to see their friend.

    The firebug skipped back out of the doors of the infirmary, wandering down the hall. The next place to look would be Scout’s room, which was on the other side of the base.

    They ran a gloved palm along the concrete as they walked through the corridors, paying attention to the divots and cracks in it.

    Once in a while throughout Pyro’s life, they would get sudden feelings of wrongness. It was why they were so good at sensing the RED Spy when he was cloaked, or why evil critters like magpies would stay away from them.

    When Pyro passed by Engineer’s workshop, that cold feeling tugged at them again.

    They stopped at the closed door suddenly, staring at it. Dark wisps of air seeped from the cracks, and they heard voices on the other side. Pyro leaned forward.

    “... -need to be frustrated, Spah. Medic said he’d be fine for a few days. Hell, maybe it’ll teach that kid a lesson about appreciatin’ his team,” Engie’s voice sounded tired.

    A burst of yellow flickered under the door, “Non! You have seen how sick he looks yourself, he is in no state to—”

    “Spah. I’m not fixin’ that teleporter until Monday. End of story. He’s a grown man anyways.”

    “Merde, he is still young, with the survival skills of a city dweller! And what if he is captured by RED?”

    “Then maybe you two will have a little more in common. Ain’t it a little late for ya to be lookin’ out for him?”

    There was a cold pause. Pyro leaned away.

    So… Scout had gone through the magic portals!

…

    Sniper was a popsicle by the time he got back to his clearing. The worst thing about cold weather had to be the fact that you could be cold and sweaty at the same time. Talk about a sensory issue. He could feel his undershirt starting to stick to his body, and at the same time, he felt a cold wind making his ears go numb.

    Now he found himself walking towards his van, eager to push its generator to the limit and recreate the Sahara desert inside. Sniper instinctively reached for his keys before remembering he was in the middle of nowhere, and had left the place unlocked anyways.

    He kicked mud off of his boots on the bumper and opened the door.

    Once inside, an unsettling feeling washed over him. He closed the door and glanced around, shaking his head mentally. Getting paranoid again, and it ain’t even nighttime yet.

    He was definitely having a joint tonight.

    Sniper unwrapped the scarf around his neck and shrugged off his coat, throwing both items on the table booth. He kicked off his boots and made way for the cupboard under his sink. There lay an assortment of mason jars, labeled with tape. Sniper crouched down and stuck his arm to the back, hand closing around a lid and pulling out the jar containing dried greenish clumps. He grunted and stood back up, setting the jar on the counter.

    Sniper’s eyes flicked to the knife holder next to it. A simple little mechanism, originally built for food trucks. It was a black box bolted to the wall with a latch to keep the sharp objects from falling out during transit.

    And it had been unlocked.

    As soon as he tensed in realization, a huge weight fell down on his shoulders from directly above him.

    Sniper was caught completely off guard, knees bending as he stumbled to the ground. His head hit the side of the counter and he reeled, adrenaline spiking throughout his body. The marksman was face-down on the linoleum for a heartbeat, shocked.

    He was quick to flip around and prop himself up halfway, facing his attacker.

    “Don't freakin’ move!”

    Said the BLU Scout, who now had a knife pointed directly at Sniper’s jugular. Fear spiked in him.

    God bloody damnit.

    Sniper did as he was told, mentally recalling the different weapons in his belt compartments and trying to keep calm. He felt like screaming.

    Was he in Respawn radius?

    How the fuck was Scout here?

    He ended up asking that last question out loud, and the BLU didn't respond for a few moments.

    The two of them were frozen in place, Sniper half-laying on the floor and Scout crouched at arm’s distance beside him. Sniper noticed crusted blood on the front of Scout's shirt—a blaring reminder of what Scout was capable of—and his stomach churned.

    His heart was pounding in his chest, and even though he could probably whack the knife to the side and disarm Scout, Sniper found that unexplainable, panicky feeling weighing him down again.

   Eventually, Scout spoke.

    “How about I ask da questions instead?”

    Sniper noted how shaky his voice sounded, and the color in his cheeks. The idiot had to have been warming up in here for less than five minutes, the effects of the weather outside still noticeable. The marksman couldn't believe he hadn't noticed him hiding up on the loft bed.

    “Why are you out here? Tryna find our base?”

    Sniper considered this. Did Scout not know that both RED and BLU’s base locations were already common knowledge?

    “Mate, we're nowhere close to your base. I'm just camping,” he responded before thinking of anything more tactful. Sometimes he wished he had the negotiation skills of Spy.

    Something like embarrassment flashed across the man's face and Sniper had to bite back a laugh.

    “Right,” Scout said slowly, raising a brow slightly, “and where do you think my base is from here, huh?”

   Sniper stared at him.

    “What, did it grow legs and relocate?”

    “Answer da question!” Scout waved the knife a bit.

    “Okay! Crikey, I don't know a bloody route or anything, but its coordinates are still the same, aren't they? Drive a few hours North and you'll end up on the mountainside?”

    The BLU base was, in fact, on a mountain. It was incredibly hard to catch his breath while training up there. Scout seemed to relax a little, and Sniper found he could move his limbs again.

    In a flash, Sniper's hand flew up to grab Scout’s, forcing his wrist to point the knife away from him. The BLU let out a surprised noise and instinctually brought his other hand to pry at Sniper's iron grip, but it was too late.

    The assassin pulled Scout forward by the arms so he landed belly-first on the linoleum, knife clattering on the floor. He was about to restrain his arms, too, but as soon as he caught hold of Scout's other wrist, he froze up again and Scout was rolling away.

    Sniper's head snapped up and he stared at Scout in disbelief. What was happening?

    Every time Scout was in a compromising position, Sniper felt fear wash over him. It was reoccurring, and only happened around the runner. Along with the Marksman's quick breaths came a feeling of dread.

    “How— …How?” he managed.

    Scout was standing now, staring down at him with a heaving chest. Sniper searched his face for an answer, but instead he saw what was probably his reflection.

    Confusion. Amazement.

    And then, realization.

    Sniper could move again, it felt like thawing. But this time, he raised his hands and slowly rose to his feet. Scout didn't stop him. Soon they were both standing across the van from each other, catching their breath.

    “What was dat?” Scout stated the obvious question in the air. It was still tense, yes, but a kind of mutual agreement washed over them. There was no telling if they would respawn; and both men held questions for the other.

    “I don't know,” Sniper muttered honestly, “Every time I've gotten the upper hand, it feels like I can't move.”

    Scout nodded, “It's like the tenth time that's happened.”

    “... You're doing that, aren'tchya? I hardly hesitate.”

    “... I think I am.”

    Scout really didn't seem to understand what was happening either. It made Sniper feel a little bit better, to be honest. At least, if Scout had some kind of supernatural ability, he didn't know how to use it properly.

    Sniper's jaw clenched nonetheless.

    “You think?”

    Scout threw his hands up, “I don't freakin' know, man! A lot of weird shit has been happening!”

    A memory popped into his head, “What? Like your dreams, too?”

    “Yes!” Scout seemed exasperated more than anything, “You have no idea!”

    The words hung in the air and Sniper weighed his options. If he attacked Scout, he would probably freeze up again and Scout would eventually kill him. And this whole situation, no matter how dreadful, was causing that little itch to come back.

    “Tell me, then,” Sniper said aloud, like it was a realization.

    Scout opened his mouth, then shut it. He seemed to consider something.

    “If you tell me why you haven't ratted me out yet, then sure. And if you promise not ta kill me.”

    Sniper lowered his arms.

    “I can agree to that...” he murmured.

    The two had wordlessly unarmed themselves after that. Scout put the knife neatly back into its holder, with an amount of politeness Sniper didn't expect from the runner. He himself cranked up the heating system and took the very obvious knife from his belt. Although he kept the concealed sleep darts in his other compartment on him, just in case.

    Scout was surprisingly quiet the whole time, now sitting in one of the booth seats, hands wrung on the table. Sniper noticed the slight tremor as he slid into the booth across from him.

    Sniper had been mentally preparing himself to explain his actions (or rather, lack of action), but he waited for Scout to speak. Eventually, he did.

    “So. Ya know I've been… taking lunch breaks... But did ya tell the Admin about it? ‘Cause I haven't been fired yet.”

    Sniper almost laughed at his phrasing.

    “Nah, mate, I haven't told anyone but my Engie. And he's not one to go sharing secrets, neither.”

    Scout exhaled some, looking relieved but weary. The bloodstain on his shirt made him look like he just survived a slasher.

    “So whaddya want? Ya haven't ratted me out, so you could hold it over me, right?”

    Sniper jerked his head back some, almost offended.

    “Wot, blackmail you? What could I possibly want from ya?” He shook his head, “I get paid to pop heads, not stress ya to death.”

    Not that the idea hadn't crossed his mind, but Sniper was a professional. Even with these.. special circumstances, it was always fair to try resolving the problem yourself before reporting up, right?

    The poor bloke in front of him didn't seem to know what was going on either. It wasn't worth getting terminated over.

    “... That's really it?” Scout asked.

    Sniper shrugged. He didn't like what the runner was doing, no, but his words from the shack rang in his head:

    “I don't like havin' ta eat people.”

    “Holy crap, so you just aren't an asshole, end-of-story?”

    Sniper couldn't resist snorting this time.

    “‘M sure there are people who'd disagree with that. But nah, I'm no Spook. Not gonna rat on ya if you can figure this out first.”

    He leaned back slightly, “Which leads me to my question. What the hell happened?”

    Sniper was expecting Scout to launch into some story that would make everything make sense. Lots of hand gestures and theatrics.
Instead, Scout just stared at him. His eyes were wide, his hands retracted to fold themselves, his eyebrows furrowed and— oh, shit.

    These were all the signs of someone who was about to break a dam.

    Sniper watched in horror as Scout gritted his teeth and tears swelled up in his eyes. The Marksman had no idea what to do when it came to comforting people, and he really didn't want Scout to start crying.

    “Er.. everything alright there?” He asked stupidly, because of course everything wasn't alright, the man was somehow forced to cannibalism for Christ’s sake.

    Scout blinked angrily and the tears fell. He took a breath, shaking a little more, “I'm, uh, yeah. I dunno why I'm…”

    Sniper could almost hear something break, and Scout was hunched over and sobbing the next moment. The runner viscously wiped his eyes and his breathing was erratic. Sniper just watched it all happen, wondering what the hell just went through Scout’s mind.

    “Sorry, fuck, that's…” Scout kept trying to save his pride and Sniper sighed, getting up from the booth.

    He's never gonna talk if he's all bottled up like this, Sniper figured, making his way over to the loft bed.

    He didn't exactly have a soft blanket lying around, but he figured the thick comforter would do the job. He tugged the fabric down and bunched it up, awkwardly shoving it into the booth with Scout a few moments later.

    As soon as Scout realized what was happening, he lurched even harder with a choked noise and Sniper wondered if he was doing this wrong. His mum would usually do something like this when he was overwhelmed, but maybe Scout was different. Sniper searched his brain. Maybe some tea?

    He wandered over to the kitchenette, filling a pot up with water and rummaging through his cupboards for teabags. Sniper kept an eye on the BLU the whole time, who had wrapped himself in the comforter and buried his head in it as well, the whole heap shaking every now and then.

    Chamomile was all he had. Sniper put the pot over the tiny stove and regarded the jar still left on the counter. Looks like me joint will have to wait. He put the jar back.

    A few minutes later Sniper was pouring the steaming liquid into a mug and plopping the tea bag inside. It would take a few minutes to steep, he knew, and he wondered if he should try talking to Scout.

    The BLU had seemed to calm down significantly, the only noise being a small sniff every now and then. He was staring down at the table looking mortified.

    “Ya ready to talk yet?” Sniper asked.

    “Yeah,” Scout responded in a small voice. God, he looked miserable.

    Sniper brought the still-steeping tea to the table and set it off to the side. Scout was looking anywhere but at him.

    “Just… start from the top,” Sniper suggested.

    Outside, a raindrop hit the roof of the camper.

    He watched the BLU take a deep breath, and then Scout was talking.

    “.. So I guess it all started when Doc was making this weird soup..."

Chapter Text

    Sniper found that once you got Scout going, it was hard to get him to stop talking. It might not have been an issue, if Scout wasn't so terrible at keeping a timeline.

    He explained the whole soup incident, how he'd made a bet with Pyro about how much soup he could “taste test” while Medic was cooking, and that led to being thrown out of the lab.

     When Sniper asked why the BLU Medic was cooking in his laboratory in the first place, Scout shrugged.

     “That's like asking why the guy übers our Spy, or orders cow shit in the mail. He's just..” Scout swirled his pointer finger by his temple, “.. Crazy.”

     Sniper held some skepticism, but knowing his own Medic, that judgment didn't seem too unreasonable.

    “In fact, the whole team kinda freakin' sucks. Soldier is like a damn attack dog that only listens ta…”

    There was another thing about the BLU Scout — he got comfortable fast. Maybe he just needed to get it all off his chest, but the runner held back very little when it came to his team's personal lives. Scout's hands made a lot of gestures as he talked, and Sniper’s eyes caught on their red stains.

    He had to interrupt him. “Mate. The story, remember? Ya ate that soup, and then what?”
Scout returned his hands to his mug and nodded.

    “Then, nothin’. The next day was fine, except I didn't feel like eating. And when I fell asleep after that, dat’s when I started dreamin’..
    “I don't even remember the first ones, but I was always stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It's like I was crawling on da ground for hours, in the desert..
    “and then one time youse was there, in your van, and I was real confused.”

    Sniper's mind fitted back to the nights alone in his camper, when he couldn't shake the feeling of someone watching him.

    “You could see me..?”

    “Well, through the window a little bit, yeah.”

    “Was I doin’ anything?”

    Scout's eyebrows furrowed as he thought back. “Uh. You was holdin’ something, and ya had a knife. I thought ya were peeling veggies.”

    I was holding a block of wood. Whittling.

    “Why'd ya ask?”

    “.. No reason. Why did ya start hiding in the shade more?”

    “Oh god, yeah, dat. So I started getting these weird ass dreams at night, but during the day, I was getting sick.

    “Every time I spent a few minutes in da sun, I would get these wicked sunburns! I'm talking blisters. I just kinda toughed it out and figured I'd hide in the shade because it was usually hot anyways, ya’know? But, uh, I still wasn't eating. I was hungry, but every time I ate something I just threw it up again and…”

    “... And?”

    “Well, uh. I started starving or some shit. I was real close to talking to Medic about it, until I was on da field one day and.. Your Spy got caught by one of our sentries, and I got sprayed with the damn blood and, uh. I guess the smell made something click.” His hands fidgeted, “It was unnatural, man..”

    Sniper's jaw clenched as he imagined the scene. A blood-spattered Scout standing in shock as the smell of iron filled his nostrils. Mick could picture his tongue darting out like some kind of— oh, crikey. Focus.

    So. Scout’s body was rejecting anything that wasn't blood or meat…?

    “Did ya ever try eating animals?”

    Scout shrugged, “I ate pork, and beef, yeah, but it just… wouldn't go down.” His eyes darted up to Sniper's for a moment. “Trust me, I— I tried eveythin’..”

    Sniper could feel a headache coming on with how tightly knit his eyebrows were this whole time. He was no doctor; but the symptoms Scout was describing reminded him of various ‘mythical’ creatures. He nodded and asked another question.

    “So… when ya started eating me team, did ya feel any different? Maybe develop some allergies?”

    “Uh…” Scout trailed off, looking at the table, “I didn't really have time ta think about that I guess. I started feelin’ more cold… The only big thing I noticed was I could smell dat blood smell in the air a lot more. Iron. Heh, sounds like a fuckin’ vampire, huh?”

    Scout's nervous grin faltered when he looked up and saw Sniper's serious face. Realization hit him.

    “You think I'm a vampire.”

    Sniper got up from the booth and headed back towards the kitchenette, floor creaking below him. The sky outside was turning pale pink.

    “You think I'm a vampire!” Scout repeated from behind him.

    Sniper located the small jar inside his mini-fridge. It was minced, but it'd have to do.
The marksman turned around and held out the jar of garlic to show Scout, who had pressed himself into the corner of the booth like a damn animal.

    Sniper remembered briefly the time he'd lazily dressed as a vampire hunter for Halloween.

    “You burn in the sun, can't eat anything ‘cept for blood, what the hell else am I supposed to think?” He pointed out, taking a step forward with the garlic.

    Scout continued pressing himself into the corner before he paused, straightened himself, and then glared at Sniper evenly.

    “You know what? Fine. Gimmie dat.”

    Sniper opened the lid and handed the minced garlic to Scout, who wrinkled his nose at the smell. Carefully, as if it'd burn him, the BLU took the jar and held it. Before Sniper could protest, he stuck his (still blood-crusted) finger into it.

    Sniper bit his tongue, Scout held his breath.

    …. And nothing happened.

    They shared a frown.

    “Get yer filthy hand out of my food,” Sniper grumbled.

    “See? Nothin’ happened!” Scout ignored his comment, handing it back to him. Sniper tossed it into the garbage and sighed.

    “Okay, maybe you're not a vampire.” Sniper admitted. Although, somewhere in the back of his mind, he wanted to press on the fact that Scout’s dream had been very accurate to reality. He filed the thought away for later and slid back into the booth.

    “How about ya continue yer story? What'd ya do after you realized ya had to eat.. people?”

    Scout hunched his shoulders.

    “Well, I fuckin'.. ate them, I dunno. I don't wanna get into that. But— but I did save stuff for later. Like, I’d blast some guy's arm off and put it in one of those crates around da fields. Hide it and stuff.. It was easier.”

    Sniper’s frown deepened. Scout's tone made him think the runner was referring to more than just the difficulty of keeping cover.
Must be easier to eat an arm when it's not attached to a person.

    Their first interaction came back to him. In his nest, when Scout had been prying open the crates.

    “Is that what you were looking for when you were up in me nest that time? Near the end of the round?”

    Scout nodded, “Yeah.”

    The gears in Sniper's head turned. He felt a little sick knowing he'd probably sat on a crate without knowing one of his teammates might've been stored inside. But, wait…

    “How'd that work, though? Their limbs didn't.. respawn?”

    “Ohmygod, dat's what I thought too. And they did keep disappearing, their pieces I mean, unless it was small enough.” Scout spread his hands. “Y'know, how when somebody's body gets taken by respawn, it still leaves their blood behind?”

    Sniper nodded. The stains sure as hell didn't disappear from his clothes, either.

    “Well, I think there's some rule with Respawn where it just doesn't bother to pick up ya flesh if it's only a little bit. So, uh… I just had a bunch of fingers and stuff in da crates. Split up.”

    Which begged the question.
Sniper cringed. “Alwrite… then, why didn't they respawn missin’ their fingers?”

    Scout paused.

    Sniper didn't know the real mechanics of the Respawn machine (at one point he assumed it'd just been magic), other than what Engie had explained. Yet there was one law of matter he'd learned in primary school that made him think: You can't create something from nothing.

    This dawned on Scout as well, and a silence lapsed over them. Sniper's spine tingled.

    Then, Scout murmured in a much quieter tone, “Wasn't there a rule in your contract about not discussing dat kind of thing..?”

    Sniper stiffened. Discussion of Respawn was, in fact, strictly prohibited.

    “Well, I think there's something against talkin’ to the enemy too.” He pointed out.
Sniper watched Scout's cheek move as the runner chewed it.

    “Demo and Soldier still do it.”

    Sniper laughed a bit at that, “I suppose they do.”

    A more comfortable silence hung in the air this time. Sniper noticed the BLU breathing easier. Scout spoke up.

    “I'm not sure if workin’ for BLU was a good choice,” he said, like it was a punchline.

    Sniper stared at the man in front of him. He couldn't help but agree. Years of shooting Scout through the detached lense of his scope had kept Sniper from thinking about the BLU... But to be honest, he didn't have the same bloodlust as his own team's Scout. There were no manic outbursts of glee on the field when it came to BLU, he just did his job.

    “... Alright,” Sniper said eventually, “I've got another theory. It's about yer dreams..”

…

    The Transit room was dark. From the doorframe, a soft glow of florescent lights from the hallway shines in, but is quickly blotted out by the shadow of a figure.

    There is no usual hum of whirring servos, but instead the eerie noise of breath dragging through a respirator.

    The noise of a boot scraping on concrete.
Pyro moves from the doorway to loom over the still teleporter. They tilt their head.

    “You won't be able to use that for the rest of the weekend,” comes a voice. Pyro whips around.

    Spy’s cigarette hangs apathetically from his lips. Pyro bristles silently, and the Frenchman lowers his voice.

    “You are looking for the Scout as well, non?”
Pyro doesn't move.
    Spy is tense, to say the least.

    “We are on the same team, mon Ami. I realize you have some ill feelings towards me, but I believe it's in both of our interests to find him.”

    He pulls a gloved hand from his pocket, revealing car keys. “The exit to those teleporters is an hour's drive down this mountain. I may need help if anything goes wrong.”

    Pyro takes a few steps forward, hunching down to make their eye lenses level with the keys. Spy willed himself not to move.

    The noise of Pyro inhaling deeply could be heard, and then abruptly, a noise of agreement followed by a thumbs-up.

    “Huddah.”

    Spy exhaled and cleared his throat. There was a beat.

    “Very well. I'll meet you in the parking lot in 10 minutes.”

…

    “Do you got some kind of book on these things?”

    “No, mate, and there's no real definition for ‘em either.”

    “Then how the fuck do ya know what you're talking about? Dis is like a- a conspiracy theory.”

    Sniper almost winced. His dad had said something similar about opinions on the supernatural.

    “I'm trying ta find a bloody answer here, alright? And unless Merasmus has cursed ya recently, it's the only explanation I can think of that accounts fer your dream-vision events.” And the fact that I feel deeply afraid around you, Sniper added in his head. Tales of creatures striking fear into the hearts of their victims wasn't uncommon.

    Scout huffed as he'd done many times that night (Sniper could practically predict it by now).

    “Alright. Let me dis this straight. You think that my Medic— the BLU Medic— somehow got a blood sample of a mythical fuckin' creature from some story Indians tell each other? A wendy..”

    “Wendigo,” Sniper muttered, exasperated, “And it ain't just a story. I mean, I dunno too much about them either, but what I have heard matches up. You've gone cannibalistic, ya feel colder, smell blood well, prefer the dark, and maybe been takin’ the form of an animal while ya sleep? It's the best I've got.”

    Scout drummed his fingers against the table rapidly as Sniper listed off the symptoms.

    “Fine, alright. How do I get rid of this then?”
Sniper closed his mouth and considered it. In all honesty, he'd never heard these stories from the Wendigo’s perspective.

    “Uh… I believe their weakness is silver,” Sniper tried, “but that's the sort of bullet ya shoot em’ with if you're trying to kill one.”

    “Silver?” Scout echoed, a look of realization dawning on his face.

    “Yeah.. What's the face for?”

    “I just—” Scout faltered, “Uh. I think that makes sense. Medic was pokin’ me with some metal before I left.”

    Sniper's interest piqued.

    “Right before ya left, eh? Ya never did tell me how you ended up here.”

    Scout’s eyes darted around the room for a moment.

    “Uh..” he repeated.

    “What happened?” Sniper asked again, the shift in Scout's demeanor giving him a bad feeling.

    “My- uh. The Doc did some tests on me. Tried to.”

    So far, this entire situation sounded like Medic's fault. Sniper could only imagine what he'd done after realizing Scout’s condition.

    “Yeah?”

    “Yeah. Uh. I ran away, n’ that's why.. I'm out here..”

    Ran? BLU’s teleporters were still up?

    “Ran away? Why didn't ya holler at yer teammates, if yer Doc is going crazy?”

    Scout shifted again.

    “It's.. it's not like that.” He stated. Sniper leaned forward.

    “Not like wot?”

    “My team isn't some wonderful fuckin' family, y'know, and Medic's trying shit like that all the time!”

    Sniper faltered. “Yer saying your Medic does this regularly? And your team wouldn't help ya?”

    “Of course dey wouldn't. It's not their skin.” Scout affirmed, twisting up his face like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

    Sniper leaned back, dumbfounded.

    “Mate. You're a team. Ya should be able to rely on each other a bit, and that's coming from someone who hardly talks to his own.”

    Scout looked even more confused.

    “Uh, no, that's just on the battlefield..”

    Sniper blinked a few times. Scout really thought this was normal. What kind of past did this kid have that made him think he couldn't rely on his own teammates? Or, rather, what kind of living environment did he experience at BLU base that proved it?

    “Right.” Sniper exhaled, “Tell me then, what's your plan? Gonna take your teleporter back to yer base?”

    “Naw, they turned them off on me.” Scout muttered.

    “They what?!”

    Scout flinched.

    “Is that why ya got into me camper? Were you gonna try and drive back?”

    “I don't fucking know!” Scout snapped, “I was cold and I can't fucking think straight!”

    Sniper gritted his teeth, imagining any one of Scout's teammates knowingly trapping him out here. His own Scout was annoying, sure, but he couldn't imagine doing anything that harsh to him on purpose. He pictured the BLU shivering outside, covered in blood, unsure of where to go. A sense of (probably misplaced) protectiveness nagged at him.

    “Alright. Here's what's gonna happen:” Sniper decided, a plan forming in his head, “I’m gonna take you to my Medic and explain the situation, because I think this warrants a cease- Oi!”

    Sniper cut himself off as the BLU bolted upright out of the booth.

    “No fuckin' way,” Scout gritted, “You ain't takin' me nowhere.”

    “Scout. Listen.” Sniper hissed, getting up as well. It occurred to him that he might want to fall back to plan B. His hand twitched, hovering over the belt compartment that held his tranquilizer darts.

    “You aren't going to get in trouble, alright? My Medic would help ya out—hell, Demo might know about this stuff too—and we'd get ya back to yer team.”

    Something like hope flashed in Scout's eyes, before dissipating, “I can't just go with you. My team— that's like treason! And how do ya know your Medic wouldn't sever my fuckin' head?”

    “I'd scope things out,” Sniper insisted, “The situation with Spy was.. different, alright? He didn't have a RED on his side.”

    “That's another thing!” Scout yelled, “You still ain't telling me what you want! Why are ya ‘on my side’?”

“I don't want anything from ya!” Sniper raised his voice as well, “I want ya to stop eating my bloody teammates, and I want ya to go back to normal! Is that so hard to understand?”

    Scout glated hard at him. His eyes were narrowed, chest rising and falling rapidly. The fierceness in his eyes started to fizzle out when he realized Sniper was being genuine. The runner still looked largely uncomfortable, but Scout eventually relaxed his jaw to let out a breath, muttering.
 

    “S’ still against my contract..”

    Sniper slowly closed the leather flap to the darts. He thought for a second.

    “Alwrite. Then consider yourself kidnapped.”
Scout was still for a few moments. Then, thinking it over, he laughed, “Ya'know, that might work.”

    There was a beat of silence.

    The pair seemed to realize how dark it was at the same time. Sniper glanced out the window, then the clock. 21:48. He looked back at Scout, and his bloodstained shirt. There were twigs in his hair, dirt caked to his pants. This bloke really didn't know how to traverse a forest, did he?

    “I, er, got a shower behind ya if you're wantin’ to freshen up. We'll save the drive fer tomorrow.”

    “Dat sounds great. Uh, gonna need some clothes though.” Scout pointed out.

    “Yeah, yeh. I've got spares. I'll put them out..”

    Sniper turned to start grabbing them, but Scout stood still, lingering. He glanced at the BLU questioningly.

    “You really think your Medic is gonna help?” Came the question, quietly.

    Sniper nodded, “She'll be alright mate. I'm sure he'll be happy ta help.”

    Scout nodded once, swallowing, then moved towards the bathroom.

    It was only when Sniper heard the shower turn on that he began realizing what he'd gotten himself into.

…

    Spy was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the dark road ahead of him.

    The snow-dusted decline gave little away as to where the actual road was, and he found himself unfamiliar with the weighted feeling of driving a truck (as it was the only vehicle that would make the treacherous drive). The cabin made awful groaning noises and shuddered whenever a wheel hit a rock.

    The heater was working, at least, but produced an odd smell of burning metal that filled the air. Pyro was huddled in the passenger seat.

    The front of their mask kept tapping on the glass due to how close their head was to it; they stared outside blankly.

    The creature was strange, and stubborn, but Spy was willing to work with that at this point. The sun had nearly set now, and the thought of Scout going another night out here made Spy grip the steering wheel harder.

    “Pyro.”

    They turned to him.

    “When we reach the bottom of the mountain, I'm going to park a distance from the battlefield. We'll go looking for Scout after verifying that there are no REDs, but we'll have to be quiet, do you understand?”

    Pyro made a noise of acknowledgment. It made Spy feel a little better, at least, that they had the same goal. And Pyro knew how to be sufficiently stealthy when it was important — he'd seen it on the battlefield often.

    Spy ran through the plan in his head again. It wasn't good practice to narrow your actions down to a single course as a professional in espionage, so he tended to use “if, then” statements instead.

    If Scout is at Landfall, take him back to base.

    If Scout isn't at Landfall, look for signs of RED having been there.

    If there are tracks, follow them.

    If he's been captured, negotiate, sneak a jailbreak, or find another solution..

    After a few more minutes, Pyro turned back to their window. Their hand reached out to the window crank. Spy frowned.

    “Pyro, don't open that,” Spy scolded, glancing between the road and his co-worker.

    “Huddah huh hmmph,” Pyro said, beginning to crank the handle.

    A cold gust of wind entered the truck as the window lowered, and Pyro was quick to stick their head outside.

    Spy grumbled. He flicked the heater vents forward to face himself, suppressing a shiver.
“Imbécile.. comme un chien.”

    Pyro faced the wind for an admittedly long time. The rubber of their suit shifted and flattened against the wind, and Spy heard a faint whistle from the air passing through their gas mask. Then, they were lurching back into their seat and closing the window back up, shaking themselves.

    “I told you, you'd get cold. What else did you think would happen?” Spy spoke dryly.

    Pyro stared at him.

    “You're bizarre.”

…

    Scout relished the warm water on his skin. BLU base’s water heater was never working (thanks to their Engineer), so it'd been ages since he'd had a proper, warm shower. Sniper would probably be annoyed that he took 30 minutes to get clean, but Scout couldn't bring himself to care.

    He wanted every single dried flake of blood off of him — all the grit and dust and twigs. It took a while for the water beneath him to run clear.

    The water started getting cold at the 25 minute mark, so Scout stepped out of the cramped shower to dry off.

    There was a small sink and a mirror there, with a stack of clothes (neatly folded) resting in the basin. Scout dried off his hair, which was getting to be past his ears. That's longer than it's ever been, he realized.

    And his eyes were tired, too. Dark bags hung from them and his pupils didn't seem to focus on anything.

    Scout noticed the outline of his own ribs showing, and his arms seemed skinnier as well. He felt cold.

     He tore his gaze away from the mirror, frowning.

    They landed instead on the clothes in the sink. A pair of worn out sweatpants and a red long-sleeved shirt.

    Sniper had decided to busy himself with making a makeshift bed for Scout on the floor.
The heap of extra quilts and a pillow looked more like a nest than it did a bed, but Sniper figured it would do. The bedding took up most of the free floor space in his camper, so he awkwardly shimmied around the edge of it to end up at the ladder.

    He situated himself in his own bed, shedding down to his undershirt & pants, then he waited for Scout to emerge from the tiny bathroom. Sniper’s mental exhaustion was affecting him physically, bones feeling weighed. He leaned his head against the wall with a sigh, then remembered he was still wearing his hat and glasses. He carefully took the former off, running a hand through his hair and setting the slouch hat on top of the cabinet by his bed. Then he brought a hand to his sunnies and lingered.

    The door to the bathroom clicked open from below him.

    “Your work shirt?” Was the first thing the runner said, looking up at him. Said shirt was currently dwarfing his frame, sleeves rolled up and hem almost reaching his kneecap. The sweatpants were only slightly better.

    “Laundry day's tomorrow, mate, sorry. Nothing else was clean,” Sniper explained.
“Fair ‘nuff,” Scout murmured. He looked at the bedding on the ground, leaning down to pick up the knit blanket lying on top, “Dis where I'm sleepin’?”

    “Yeah,” Sniper replied lamley.

    “Cool, cool..” Scout nodded. He wasted no time crawling under the heap and making himself comfortable. Sniper could see his head poking out, which made him feel the slightest bit better.

    “Hope ya don't snore,” Scout piped up jokingly. Sniper scoffed.

    “Hope ya don't sleepwalk,” he said. Then he thought about it. If Scout was taking the form of an animal while he slept, how did that work? The marksman imagined Scout's spirit lifting from his body to travel to the nearest animal, possessing it like a ghost. He brushed that thought off.

    Sniper turned off his lamp, enveloping the van in complete darkness. He could hear Scout shift around a few times, until things were ultimately silent.

    A shiver ran down his back. Sniper lay on his back, staring at the close ceiling. Colorful floaters adorned the edges of his vision in that darkness, giving himself a minor sense of vertigo. The wind was brushing the camper outside with a soft whistle, and the pines made noise as their branches creaked and their needles brushed against one another. Rain pelted the top of the camper.

    He closed his eyes.

    Scout had stopped moving a while ago, yet Sniper stayed awake. He frowned in the darkness. There was too much to think about for his brain to sleep, that much was clear.

    Although tonight he couldn't get up to make a cup of coffee, or whittle, or stare at the sky, or look through a catalogue to distract himself. Instead, he was painfully aware of the BLU sleeping on the floor. Of what Scout had done to his teammates. Of what Scout's own teammates had done to him. Of the way he'd looked wearing- eh, why did that matter at all?

    Sniper opened his eyes again, brows furrowed.

    I should be focusing on how I'll spill this to Medic.

    Sniper figured the doctor would be understanding. The German happened to have a burning distaste for his BLU counterpart—something about his “inferior practices”—which might incline him to cure Scout.

    The only problem, of course, is that it'd likely require tests. Which Scout clearly wasn't fond of..

    If the problem is medical and not supernatural, Sniper thought.

    A dull ache made itself known at the front of his head. He bit back a sigh, accepting that he wouldn't get any sleep tonight.

    He tried to think about everything other than the man snoring loudly below him.

Chapter Text

   Spy had barely made it to the battleground before rain started to fall. It was a lower elevation, but the darkness of the night and the pelting rain made the temperature no better than the snowy mountains surrounding their base.

    Him and Pyro had luckily had the mind to bring flashlights, but the harsh conditions caused the Frenchman to resort to calling out for Scout.

   He walked through the damp wooden buildings, searching for any sign of the runner. Pyro was searching the surrounding area outside, kept warm by their suit. Nothing seemed out of place, but then again, Spy didn't take note of every nook and cranny of this battlefield.

   It was when Spy made his way up some stairs that something smelled off.

   He slowed his pace and clicked his flashlight off , recognizing the sweetish metallic scent almost immediately. Spy turned the dial on his watch to activate his cloak. What died here? He wondered, readying his knife in the other hand.

   Turning the corner to look into the nest, Spy was met with silence and no movement. The darkness made it hard to see, but he could make out the faint outline of something in front of the window. Spy froze, thinking it was a person.

   Yet, when he squinted, it was only the silhouette of a crate stacked upon another. In fact, there seemed to be a whole wall of them built. Spy clicked his flashlight back on, shining it on the small fort. The crates had been scraped together against the wall in a little igloo shape.

   Scout must have hidden here last night. The crates certainly hadn't been like that before.
Peering on the other side of it, Spy found no carcass that would warrant the rotten scent in the air. He huffed with frustration and turned around to leave. That's when he saw it.

   A large bloodstain on the floor boards. Like an animal's killsite. Another crate, this time with its lid laying beside it.

   Spy took a step forward, wrinkling his nose against the sour smell. The light shines over the edge of the crate and— oh, merde.

   Those were human remains. It couldn't be Scout's, could it? No— it looked too old. And the kid would've respawned, surely. But what if he didn't? Respawn could malfunction. What if Engineer had turned it off?

   Spy’s blood boiled. He wouldn't go that far, would he?

   The crate structure was unmistakably man-made. But whose remains were in this box? Perhaps it was a civilian murder.. A couple of hikers had walked for miles to find this battleground? No…

   Spy squinted.

   There were three hands poking out from the gore. This was more than just a single murder. And parts were missing.

   Despite years of experience around dead bodies, Spy felt nauseous. It'd been a long time since something really rotted on the battlefields. Who was this? Did they have a respawn chip? Was it BLU’s Sniper who killed them? (This was one of his nests, after all).

   The Frenchman exhaled and took a few steps back, heading back down the stairs. He just couldn't piece together what this had to do with anything, head reeling with a million theories.

   One fact remained, though: Scout wasn't here.

   Pyro had discovered the shattered teleporter pieces, which reassured Spy. If a RED had captured Scout, surely they would have destroyed both teleporters, yes? It had to have been the runner's doing.

   Maybe he had built that crate fort, and been captured by RED the next morning. Maybe the remains were a completely separate issue.

   Spy clung to that reasoning as he hurried back to the truck with Pyro behind him. The rain needled at his back and the sound of distant, rolling thunder made him groan. But one thought kept echoing in his mind: Where was Scout in all of this?

   The BLUs shut the doors of the van at the same time. Pyro was puffing through it's mask and Spy began taking off his suit jacket, as a drenched layer was no use. He dug through his pocket to find a box of cigarettes, then threw the jacket to the back of the van in frustration.

   Shaking gloved fingers pulled a cigarette from the box. The other hand searched for a lighter, to no avail. Merde. Frustration began boiling inside him.

   Spy didn't care to hide his distress anymore. It wasn't like the freak next to him could articulate his patheticness to anyone. He leaned back against the driver's seat and closed his eyes, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He resorted to deep breaths.

   Perhaps he could've had more tact in this situation. Negotiated or blackmailed Engineer into turning the teleporters back on. Although, lately the Texan had been extra agitated and resentful towards Spy particularly. The Frenchman had caught him muttering phrases like, “Damn Spies, always demanding things..” or “French bastard.”

   That mystery was a project worth looking into on its own.

   But now, the rain was washing away any traces or clues that could lead Spy to his s- to Scout. Maybe it would have been easier to know what Scout would have been thinking if he knew him better.

   Spy cursed himself.

   At the very least, the pair’s body heat had started warming the van to a more tolerable temperature, though it was stuffy. Spy crossed his arms and focused on the sheets of rain hitting the metal.

   Shifftt..
      Shhhptff.
                     Click.

   Spy's eyes snapped open, landing on Pyro's gloved hands holding a flame to the end of his cigarette.

   Once lit, the maniac pulled the flame close to its body and tilted it's head from side to side as if it were listening to music. Spy stared into those soulless lenses and took a drag silently.

   “...Merci."

   Pyro continued staring at the flame.
Spy didn't take the effort to scold him.

…

   Scout didn't wake up for a long, long time.
Sniper hadn't slept at all, so a part of him felt envious staring at the wet spot forming on the pillow by Scout's face. The BLU was completely wrapped up in the quilts and snoring with an open mouth, like he had been all night.

   It was pretty cartoonish.

   On the bright side, Sniper was able to wake up & make coffee without being bothered. He often clung to routine in the morning, so turning on his loud coffee maker without so much as a noise from Scout was assuring.
Sniper had dressed himself in the bathroom and rehearsed his explanation to Medic in his head a million times over before the sun started rising. He decided then that it was time to wake Scout up to begin driving to RED base.

   Sniper stared at the man for a second before saying his name.

   “Scout.. Wake up, ya mongrel.”

   Nothing.

   “Scout,” He repeated louder, crouching down. The sight reminded him of the time Scout had been bleeding out with a knife in his kidney. Except now, his face was completely relaxed, there were no harsh shadows making him look even sicker than he was, and ohshithiseyes were open.

   “AAAEEEEHHH-HEH-HEYY!” Yelled a scrambling, half-awake Scout.

   Sniper put his hands up but they froze halfway through the motion. He winced at the pitch, “Oi, calm down! Wasn't tryna scare ya.”

   Scout put a hand over his heart dramatically, pausing to take a few breaths. Sniper was able to put his hands down again.

   “Jeez, man! Nearly gave me a heart attack!”

   Sniper supposed waking up to the face of an enemy you'd been trying to kill for the past 3 years might have that effect. He stood up with an exhale.

   “Right. Well, I'm gonna hit the road soon,”

   Sniper jingled his keys, “You should probably wash your clothes in the shower so ya can hang em’ to dry.”

   Scout rubbed his eyes and squinted out the window, nodding. His hair was stuck up funny.

   “You got it. Uh, how long is the drive gonna be anyways?”

   “Not long. Just over an hour."

   “Okay, cool,” Scout murmured, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. Sniper looked away.

…

   The BLU Scout was a much better passenger than his RED counterpart. No shoes kicked up on the dash, no contestant changing of the radio station, no rummaging through his glove box, no loud chewing of bubble gum.

   In fact, 10 minutes into the drive neither of them had said a word. Sniper found himself glancing at the man with an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Scout was staring out the window and bouncing his leg.

   Sniper cleared his throat, feeling that he should really say something, “So, er. You're from Boston?”

   Bloody hell.

   Scout snapped out of whatever trance he was in and turned his head. It was a miracle he didn't pick up on Sniper's lack of social skills. Or, if he did, he didn't react to it.

   “Uh, close. New York.”

   That made Sniper raise his eyebrows. American accents were still muddled together in his head, but it made sense. He didn't sound like as RED Scout in a lot of ways. He was more careful with his words, and didn't use upspeak nearly as much.

   “New York? That's where all the good pizza is, I hear.”

   Scout smiled a bit, shaking his head, “Yeah, that's what we're known for. The real deal is the clam chowder though.”

   “Clam.. Chowder?”

   “Yeah. Manhattan clam chowder. It's like a soup with tomatoes and clams. It's real good, especially if ya got crackers.” Scout explained. Sniper couldn't help but make a face. Seafood was weird as it was, but mixing it with tomatoes? It sounded downright awful. He could practically taste the slimy texture..

   “Hey, don't knock it till ya try it!” Scout defended, when he caught his expression.

   “Alright, alright,” Sniper chuckled, “I dunno if I will try it though.”

   “Well ya should. And if ya don't like that, there's always the New England version with cream. But it ain't nearly as good."

   Sniper hummed. There was one thing the Scouts had in common, then — each was prideful of where they came from.

   “God, this is makin' me hungry..” Sniper caught him muttering under his breath. Sniper shifted his leg to check if his kurki was still on his belt; it was. The mumble hung in the air.

   “So… Is Medic gonna tell the rest of your team about me?” Scout spoke up eventually.

   Sniper exhaled. He wasn't exactly sure. The team tended to be very democratic about bigger decisions, but then again, this wasn't your average situation. He took a sidelong glance at Scout, who was messing with the collar of his T-shirt. It really comes down to whether or not Medic is feeling sympathetic.

   “I don't know, to be honest. I don't think so.” He decided to be truthful.

   Scout looked troubled by that answer.

   “You don't know? Is- will he just tell a few people?”

   “Probably,” he nodded. Soldier and Scout were usually left out of the loop on purpose with more sensitive topics. Spy was always told first, if he didn't figure it out himself. Snake.

   “Who would be tell?” Scout asked.

   Sniper glanced at him, tapping the steering wheel. “Why ya askin’? You worried about someone in particular?”

   Scout's mouth snapped shut at that. He glanced away, swallowed, then looked at the marksman again, “Just wanna know what I'm up against, here.”

   Liar.

   “Does someone else on my team know about yer.. condition?” He asked, “Because that's probably something I should know.”

   Scout deflated. There was a long pause, before he spoke, “Do ya remember that time in — in the shack? When I ran away?”

   Sniper nodded.

   “Well, I guess your Spy saw that whole interaction.. Must've been cloaked or somethin’. He found me and started talking about it. Said he was gonna tell the Administrator what I’d been doing,” Scouts voice lowered into a whisper at the mention of the woman. Sniper's eyes widened.

   “Really? The same day?” Sniper asked, surprised. He must not have gone through with it, since Scout was still here. Or, maybe she didn't care, but Sniper found that hard to believe.

   What was more surprising was that Spy would make a move like that so soon after finding out, without asking questions. Sniper's mind raced as he stared at the road ahead. Did Spy have some kind of role in this? Did he not ask questions because he already knew what was happening? Why was he being so forward with Scout, when he could use that information as blackmail?

   “He just gave you a warning that he'd tell her? Didn't try to make demands or anything?”

   “Well.. He did tell me not to kill him in battle anymore. And he was askin' about our food supply,” Scout conceded, “Got sniped before he could finish though.”

   Sniper wanted to comment about that last part, but then a realization hit him.

   Spy spilled wine on his shirt three times that night. And he got killed the most during the next day's match.

   “Hold on a tick. This was the day I cornered ya in the shed, right?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Did ya happen to curse him out or something?”

   Scout paused with a confused look on his face, then slowly nodded, “Uh, yeah, I was complainin’ about it.. Why?”

   “Mate, I think you hexed him. He had the worst luck that whole night and the next morning. It'd also make sense if this Wendigo theory is right.”

   Scout's eyebrows shot up. “Wait, seriously?!”

   Sniper nodded. It had been one of the abilities listed in one of his books, “Maybe. It would explain a few things.”

   Scout looked excited at this information.
“You're sayin’ I can just curse someone out and it'll actually curse them?”

   Sniper’s eyes flicked towards the runner, frowning. “Don't get too excited,” he murmured.

   Scout stared at his hands like they were made of gold. “Y'know, I'm glad there's a few perks to this whole thing.”

   Sniper snorted, “You aren't thinkin’ of staying like this, are ya?”

   “Oh, hell no,” Scout said quickly, “I mean, it's kinda cool and all, but it definitely ain't worth it. I'd go crazy.”

   Sniper nodded. Then, a thought came to mind.

   “Hey, did ya ever curse me?” he asked.

   Scout thought for a moment, then shook his head, “Not out loud, no.”

   Sniper shrugged, the smallest bit of a smile tugging at his face, “If ya did, I probably didn't notice. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.”

   Scout chuckled, looking at him curiously. Sniper took a turn off the main road into a dirt one, towards a bluff. The dirt crunched under his tires and rocks shook the cabin slightly.

   “Almost there. You're gonna stay in the van, while I go talk with Medic, got it?”

   “Alright,” Scout agreed, that anxious look coming back. “Alright..”

   Sniper rolled to a halt a decent distance from the base, shifting into park and turning off the engine.

   I'll explain everything to Medic, then it'll be out of my hands.. And no matter what he decides, Sniper thought, watching Scout climb out of the cabin, I can get back to my life.

…

   Scout paced around the small floor of the van, shaking out his hands. Sniper had been gone for forty minutes now. Forty!

   The BLU didn’t know what to do to relieve stress. He kept instinctively reaching towards his chest to mess with his dog tags, but was reminded each time that they were still at base. Or more specifically, in his Medic’s posession. Scout let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair and forcing himself to sit down on the booth. When he plopped down, however, it shifted.

   Scout looked down, moving again. The noise of wood clacking wood sounded. He got up and crouched by the seat, taking the loose cushion and lifting it up curiously. Sure enough, there was a hidden compartment underneath filled with boxes and spare clothes.

   It was probably the only thing in Sniper's camper that had dust on it -- and the edges of the boxes were worn and tearing in some places. Black ink labeling the cardboard stared back at him.

   Documents
   Emergency food
   Tools
   Then, one in the corner simply labeled Mum & Dad.

   Scout let the cushion fall back down. That was… Personal. Were there urns in there? Or a bunch of heirlooms? Photos? It slowly registered that the RED Sniper had a family of his own, too. Scout sat on the floor and looked around the van. There was an Australian flag hung up by Sniper’s bed. A gun magazine, cigarette tray, and a bag of seeds on a shelf. A hunting bow on another wall. The entire room smelled of coffee, and Scout noticed plants growing in the windowsill.

   He tapped his fingers on his knee contemplatively. Sniper would never know if he looked through his stuff more, right? Scout knew it was wrong to betray his trust when the marksman had already helped him so much, but the curiosity was nagging at him. The guy hardly talked, how the hell else was Scout supposed to know more about him? He slowly stood up to walk towards the window facing the RED base.

   If nobody’s coming, I’ll take a quick peek, Scout decided. He put his face close to the blinds and brought a hand up to lift one of them, light of the outside world hitting his eye. Instead of the desert, he was faced with the sight of two huge yellow eyes staring right back at him.

   “AHH!” Scout screamed, launching himself backwards and putting up his hands in a defensive kung-fu pose. His heart pounded in his chest as he registered what had been staring at him. Outside, the fluttering of wings could be heard.

   Scout stomped back towards the blinds and opened them fully with the string, revealing a great horned owl with its talons embedded in the side of the van. It hooted from the other side and stared at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

   “What the fuck..?” Scout muttered. Then, movement beyond it caught his eye. In the distance the RED Sniper, Medic, and Heavy were heading his way. Scout locked eyes with Sniper awkwardly, who sped up his pace.

   Scout watched as he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The owl, to Scout’s shock, unlatched from the wall and glided towards Sniper, who held out his arm as a perch. Scout watched in awe as the giant bird landed on his forearm, immediately pecking at his mullet like it was preening him.

   “No freakin’ way..” Scout said to himself, This guy trained an owl? The RED scratched the bird’s head. Scout felt a spark of admiration and only snapped out of it when Sniper made the motion to come outside. Scout swallowed and unlocked the door. The sunlight hit him and he could feel a rash coming on already.

   “Hey,” He greeted the trio of REDs when they were within earshot. Medic looked scarily excited, and Heavy distrustful as he stood behind him.

   “Hello, Herr Scout,” the doctor greeted with a warm grin, “I hear you’ve got a condition my counterpart can’t figure out.”

   Scout scratched his arm, eyes flicking to Sniper. He wanted to say, “Actually, he might have some kind of solution, but he just won’t give it to me because he’s evil,” but Sniper subtly shook his head and Scout understood at once.

   “Yeaah! Um, he ran a bunch of tests, but he’s uh…”

   “Incompetent and insane?” Medic finished briskly, “It’s alright, you can say it. Rest assured, you’re in much better hands now.”

   Scout nodded along, the situation clicking in his head. He played along, “Yeah, I’m really hoping you can figure it out. You seem like a much better doc, y’know?”

   Medic put a hand on his chest in faux flattery, “Ach, no need to butter me up. Herr Sniper has explained the situation, and we’ve all agreed it’s best for you to be cured without notifying the Admin. We wouldn’t want an unbalanced fight causing problems, would we?”

   Before Scout could answer, Medic clapped his hands together and continued: “Besides, your symptoms and abilities are quite fascinating. I can’t say I’ve heard of anything like it. We should discuss treatment and a place for you to stay in the Infirmary.”

   Scout glanced up at Heavy, who’s presence made it clear he didn’t have a choice. He was starting to feel like an actual captive now.

   “Um, yeah. Sounds good,” He agreed, and they started walking towards the base. Heavy moved right behind him, and he could feel the brute’s eyes burning the back of his head. Sniper didn’t move. Scout glanced back and gave him a look; aren’t you coming?

   “I’ve got a few things to do,” Sniper explained, gesturing towards the owl on his arm. He looked tired. Scout felt a twinge of guilt, but nodded. He probably doesn't want to look at me again after all of that.

   The runner continued walking away, feeling a renewed sense of vulnerability and unease with each step into enemy territory. He forced himself to imagine the BLU Medic waiting for him to respawn. Sitting on some office chair in dim lighting, ready with a variety of syringes and weapons to make sure he didn’t escape again. Scout folded his arms and walked silently between the REDs. The sun was at its highest, bearing down on the three men. Scout stared at the heat waves rising from the dirt as Medic continued talking.

   “— And if I cannot determine a medicinal cure, we may need to contact Merasmus. Our Soldier apparently knows how to summon him, though we’d need a reason for him to help. But I’m sure the American could find a solution for that, too..”

   They made it to the Infirmary without being spotted by any other REDs. Although Scout could hear loud laughing coming from one of the halls they passed, nobody was walking through the base.

   The walls were concrete, much like that of his own base, but there were infinitely more scorch marks, stickers, and skid marks on them. There were even a few photographs and crayon drawings stuck up with tape at random places. It looked very.. Lived in, to say the least. Scout imagined the REDs spending more time in the common areas than they did their rooms, and felt a twinge of jealousy.

   Inversely, the Infirmary was well-kept. The RED Medic seemed to do much more organizing and cleaning than his counterpart, which was slightly reassuring. The fluorescent lights were warmer, and Scout could hear the soft cooing of doves coming from somewhere in the room. He looked up to spot about a dozen of them perched on the dark wooden ceiling rafters of one corner.

   “Oh, don’t mind them,” Medic chirped, motioning for him to sit down. Scout furrowed his eyebrows.

   He tried not to panic as he sat on the gurney, memories of Friday still fresh in his mind. Heavy stood by the door, eyeing him still.

   Medic must have noticed his nervousness, “Herr Scout.”

   Scout met his eyes, “Yeah?”

   “If this is going to go smoothly, you must not be nervous. We aren’t going to hurt you because it would be pointless. Unless you act out, that is. Take a breath, junge.”

   Scout nodded and exhaled a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding.

   “Gut. Now, I have a theory based on what Herr Sniper has told me. He believes that you’ve consumed Wendigo blood, yes?” Medic asked, putting his hands behind his back and pacing.

   “Yeah. It was in this soup, and I’ve been having problems since,” Scout said. “I didn’t even know what a Wendigo was before all this, so I dunno if I believe it..”

   Medic tilted his head, “Herr Sniper is rather… Conspiratorial, shall we say, but in this case I think he’s somewhat right. Much of the behavior you’ve been displaying — especially when it comes to food — is reminiscent of a parasitic infection.”

   Eugh. Scout crossed his arms tighter, forcing the image of a worm out of his head. He'd heard stories of that kind of thing in animals and bugs. Hell, he'd gotten over lice and tapeworms as a kid. “You think it’s a parasite? What about all the supernatural stuff?”

   “I believe it’s a parasite with supernatural properties,” Medic clarified, “Which is plausible, if you contracted it from a supernatural creature’s blood. Parasites are known to release hormones and chemicals in the host’s brain that can cause all kinds of delusion, sickness, and fatigue.. Mix that with magic and, well, anything’s possible. It explains why you can’t eat anything besides the human flesh you crave, why you are able to defend yourself with a terror field or hex, and why you’re experiencing cognitive delusions and nightmares.”

   Scout’s head was spinning, “What about respawn?” he asked desperately, “Why doesn’t getting shot through the stomach kill the parasite and respawn me good as new?”

   “Ach, that is due to the Respawn system’s overcorrection. It considers every piece of biomatter inside of a subject to be part of it, as well as the clothes we wear. It would be awkward if we had to respawn naked, hoo!” He chuckled.

   Scout took in the words that Medic was explaining so casually, an ill feeling creeping up his digestive track. He didn’t notice Heavy moving towards him until he tasted salt in his mouth and hurled into the trash can that the RED had brought by his face.

   The pair watched in silence as Scout spat out reddish saliva. Not much came out, but there were some noticeable chunks.

   “Well, that will certainly make the solution easier.” Medic spoke up.

   Scout wiped his mouth, face twisted in pain.

   “What's the solution?” He asked, “Are you gonna surgically remove it..?”

   Medic shook his head pitifully. “By now it’s probably reproduced multiple times. That’d be an endless game of cat and mouse. No—the most effective way to kill parasites, mein freund, is to starve them.”

Chapter Text

    Sniper had his head in his hands. His thumbs rubbed the spot where his sunnies made divots in the sides of his head.

   It'd been only an hour since the BLU Scout had left for the Infirmary, and the sun had just begun its descent from noon. Sniper was itching to know what was going on over there.

   When he had talked to Medic, the German was alarmed at first to hear he'd taken a BLU to the base. Granted, Sniper didn't word it in the best way…

   “You mean zhe BLU Scout is in your van now!?”

   “Er, yeah. I want to keep this on the down-low, and he's-”

   “Is he tied? Or did you use zhat tranquilizer of yours?”

   “He.. He ain't restrained, no. He's here by choice.” Sort of, Sniper added in his head.

   “Ach, so we won't have to tourture him. Schade, does he know the price of treason?”

   “It ain't that either!” Sniper sighed, trying to keep his patience, “He's real sick, doc. And his own bloody team isn't helping him, so he came here for help.”

   The fluorescent lights of the Infirmary felt too bright as his words hung in the air. Sniper shoved his hands in his pockets and Medic squinted his eyes at him.

   “Und you think we should help him, Herr Sniper?”

   Shit.

   “I don't know. It's a long story, but… His own Medic has done some kind of paranormal experiment on him, it's real twisted.” Sniper explained slowly, staring at the wall behind Medic. “The kid's been havin’ ta cannibalize us to survive. If ya can help him — without any of yer own experiments — I think it'd be right.”

   Medic's stare held for a long while, processing his words, and Sniper could feel his mouth getting dry.

   After what felt like forever, the older man cocked his head; a flash of understanding in his expression.

   “Vell, I can see this means a lot to you, Herr Sniper. I can't promise anything about the outcome, but you have my word. I'll try to cure whatever my counterpart has done.”

   Before Sniper could ask what he meant by that first part, he continued with a glint in his eye: “Now, you said something about cannibalism?”

   “Hoot,” said Hoots from beside him, snapping Sniper from his thoughts. The owl had one talon gripping the top of the booth, and the other embedded in his vest, staring at him.

   Mick reached a hand up to scratch her.
   “What do ya think, Hootsy? Should I check in?” He murmured. She responded by closing her eyes and leaning into his hand.

   “Real helpful, mate.” He snorted. Maybe I could just stick around base. Make sure nobody goes wandering into the Infirmary. His stomach growled in agreement.

   Right. He needed to eat, too.

   Sniper tapped his shoulder and Hoots climbed on all the way. He stood up, placing his hat on his head, and walked out the door.
This way, I can keep an eye on the situation without getting any more involved. A drink with Demo didn't sound half bad, either.

…

   By the time Spy and Pyro had returned to BLU base, the cargo van was hanging by a thread. Spy shifted it into park and yanked the keys from its ignition, cursing. Pyro was quick to get out and stretch his legs in the snow.

   The pair made their way to the concrete box of an entrance, Pyro opening the metal door with a loud screech and practically galloping down the stairwell that led to the underground hallways. Spy wondered what the maniac was going to do next as he disappeared behind a corner, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

   Scout was missing, likely kidnapped by RED, and Spy knew exactly who was to blame.

   He walked briskly through the corridors, (ignoring Demo, who was passed out in one of them) and checked the respawn room. Nothing.

   Next up was the dormatories. The mercenaries were paired up in rooms, with the exception of Medic who had a bed in the Infirmary. If Scout had respawned, it would've been the first place he'd go, right?

   Spy didn't care to knock as he entered the small room. An unpleasant smell assaulted his nose. The space was littered with cans of BONK and beer, illuminated by a lamp in the corner. Clothes were both hung and piled up in the closet on the far end — and to Spy's left was the bunk bed. Sniper was laying on the bottom mattress with his hands behind his head, having been rudely interrupted by Spy’s entrance.

   “Oi, whaddya want?” He snarled, then paused and raised a brow. “You look like hell.”

   Spy noticed a dart in his poised hand, and across from him were an array of bugs pinned to the wall.

   “Mon dieu, what are you…?” He started, then decided he didn't need an answer. “Nevermind. Has Scout been here?”

   Sniper's expression shifted into a grin and he turned back to his activity, throwing a dart directly into the body of what seemed to be a tarantula.

   “Nah, haven't seen em’. He's probably feeding Intel to RED right now, though.” He scoffed.

   Spy stilled, staring at the back of his head and the long, greasy strands of hair. “What makes you say that?” He gritted.

   Sniper sat up, taking his time to face the doorway with crossed legs. He rested his chin on his hand lazily, tilting it. They stared at each other for a long moment, until the marksman snickered.

   “Saw him talkin’ to their Spy mid-match the other day. Maybe he's seein’ if there's a better father figure over there, eh?”

   Spy's jaw tightened and he forced himself to nod, eyes narrowing. “Very well.” He turned to exit, but then remembered something. Sniper occasionally set up game traps around the base. He looked over his shoulder.

   “Sniper, have you been storing any of your catches on the battlefield recently?” It wasn't what he was really getting at, but Spy wanted to gauge his reaction to the topic.

   The man looked suspicious, scratching his jaw, “I just shoot out the window, I don't use the place as a bloody storage unit. ‘Sides, nothing has shown up in my snares recently… Why?”

   He seemed genuinely confused, and that was all Spy needed to know. “No reason,” he obviously lied, much to the marksman's frustration. Spy shut the door before Sniper could respond.

   That only left one place to visit; the Infirmary.

…

   Scout sat on a recovery bed in the back of RED’s Infirmary. The cotton sheets were a nice change of pace from the gurney, and Scout couldn't remember the last time he'd slept somewhere so clean. He wrapped himself in a blanket when he was sure the REDs had left the room.

   Medic had also closed the curtain to graciously provide him some privacy as he thought about the doctor’s proposition. Scout had a feeling that he and Heavy were discussing it, too.

   Or maybe they're planning on telling their team I'm here. Scout’s stomach churned, but he pushed the thought away.

   RED had given him two options. The first was simple; shoot him in the head, and send him back to BLU base. Medic had assured him that he only needed to be within the respawn radius of one of the respawn machines to register in the system and be sent back. A part of Scout was doubtful, but Heavy had nodded along to this so he figured it was one of those things he didn't read in the employee manual.

   The second option was much more deterring.

   Medic offered to set up a special “room” — though it sounded more like a cell — for him to stay in while he intentionally starved himself. It would be locked so he couldn't escape (something about his parasites going into “survival mode” and making him crazy) but he would otherwise be given a toilet, entertainment, water, stuff like that. When Scout asked where the hell they had a room like that, Medic answered, “Herr Sniper's room has been unused for years.”

   It took a second for Scout to register that the REDs each had their own rooms, instead of having to bunk up. Lucky.

   Medic had also offered in an excited tone to try creating quick, experimental serums or vaccines to solve the problem; but that idea was quickly shot down by Heavy who had put a concerned hand on the German’s shoulder, shaking his head.

   (Scout was starting to like that big guy. He didn't talk much, but he was actually pretty considerate when he wasn't turning you into swiss cheese with bullets. He seemed like a great counterweight to Medic's less-than-ethical ideas.)

   Scout sighed aloud, running a hand through his hair. He paused when his fingers brushed over a sore bump. Must've hit my head at some point..

   Everything has gone better than he expected, sure, but the fact remained: he had to make a decision by early morning before battle started. He shifted his eyes to the clock on the nightstand. 2:30.

   “If I do decide to starve out the parasites, how long is that gonna take?”

   “Given the cravings you've described to me, and since the time you last ate…” Medic put his hands behind his back and made a face, calculating something in his head. “Give it a little over a week.”

   “Over a week in dere? Alone?” Scout repeated, picturing it already. Then he mentally slapped himself. Of course he'd be alone. What sane person would walk into a locked room with a hungry cannibal?

   “Not necessarily,” Medic conceded, “I'm sure we could pay visits during the first few days. Perhaps a radio would help as well…”

   Scout perked up at the mention of that. Music was good.

   A muffled banging noise was heard outside, making the runner jump. He shoved the blankets off his shoulders and leaned forward, listening.

   BANG BANG BANG!

   It wasn't gunfire, but someone pounding on doors. Multiple someone's.

   Scout stood up — a little too fast — and poked his head out from the curtain just in time to see Heavy opening the door to the recovery room. The lights from the infirmary were dramatically blotted out by his head. Heavy’s face looked like it was pinched in the middle with concern. He met Scout’s eyes seriously.

   “Leetle man must make decision now.”

…

   When Sniper had arrived at the Rec room of the base to look for Demo, he was surprised to see nearly the entire team already there. On his way down the hall he had heard shouting, which wasn't entirely unusual, but as soon as he passed the threshold of the doorway the room quieted and he was met with the stares of 6 of his teammates. They were gathered around the metal table in the center of the room.

   A beat passed, before the room erupted into shouting.

   “There you are!” Demo cried, hurrying over to him. He grabbed Sniper's arm firmly and pulled him closer to the discussion, which consisted of multiple people yelling at him.

   “MAGGOT! IS IT TRUE? YOU'VE BROUGHT THE ENEMY TO US!?” Soldier shouted, spittle landing on his glasses. Engineer kept a hand on the patriot’s shoulder, holding him back.

   “Yeah! Where is that motherfuckah? Why's he here?”

   “Huddah hurr!??”

   Snipers' eyes darted around as Demo started talking, furrowing his eyebrows. He didn't listen — instead trying to figure out how the word spread. Nobody saw the BLU Scout as he was heading into the base, did they?

   Sniper's eyes landed on Spy, silently standing at the head of the table. The Frenchman's eyes narrowed and Sniper was sure that he was reading his expression back. I know you blackmailed Scout. And you seem secretive about it, too.

   “Fellas!” Engie’s voice cut through the noise, and Sniper snapped out of his staring contest to look at him. The Texan lowered his goggles to rest around his neck, expression stern.

   “Y'all need to quiet down so we can discuss this like adults. Take a seat, boys.”

   A few grumbles could be heard as the Mercs moved their chairs and settled. Everybody knew that Engie was the voice of reason, and if the Texan shouted? You'd best listen. Sniper kept his chair close to Demo’s, with Pyro sitting on his other side, arms crossed.

   The tension in the air was like methane. Engineer took a breath.

   “Alrighty. Spy, why don't you repeat what you told us,” he nodded at the man, who was lighting a cigarette, “and Slim here can fill in the details.”

   Pyro nodded and Soldier murmured his agreement. Nervousness prodded at Sniper's gut, but he kept his expression neutral.

   Spy's lighter closed with a snap and he took a drag,  almost glaring at Sniper.

   “Well,” he exhaled the smoke, speaking slowly, “I was outside when I saw Sniper, Medic, and Heavy walking towards the bushman's van.”

   “Camper.”

   “And was shocked to see the BLU Scout come out, and walk freely back into our base with Medic and Heavy. So, naturally, I raised alarm.”

   Another chorus of voices broke out at that before Engie clapped his hands, settling the men again. He turned to Sniper.

   “Is this true? Did you bring him back here?”
Sniper exhaled, eyes shifting to look at each of them.

   “Yeah. I was out camping for the weekend when I found him in my camper all scraped up. Tried ta kill him at first, but…” His mouth went dry. How could he explain this in a believable way? Was it better to lie so they didn't do anything rash? Soldier looked ready to burst. “...But he started sayin' he needed help, so I heard him out and took pity.” He finished. It's not a lie.

   “What the fuck!” His own Scout shouted, throwing his arms in the air, “Who cares? Why didn't ya just kill him!?”

   “Because he wouldn't have respawned out there,” Sniper gritted, “We were at the Landfall battleground off-hours.”

   He was met with a lapse of silence. The question of whether or not you should permanently kill wasn't answered in any contract. The REDs seemed conflicted on the matter, exchanging glances and twisting their faces. Not Spy, though.

   “So what if he didn't respawn? That'd be one less BLU to worry about.” He said simply.

   “... Yeah!” Scout nodded. Pyro shrugged in conceded agreement.
   Sniper spoke before he

could stop himself: “Is that what you want, Spy? To poison all the BLUs while their respawn is off?”

   Silence again, as every head turned to the masked man. His gaze remained trained on Sniper's, unmoving.

   “I don't know what you're talking about.”

   “WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT POISON!” Soldier barked, slamming a fist on the table. “ONLY A COWARD USES SUCH TACTICS!”

   Sniper didn't miss the way Spy’s eye twitched.

   “Yeah, what da hell are you talkin’ about, Snipes?” Scout chimed in, tilting his head at him.

   Sniper folded his arms. “That BLU Scout was sayin' Spy was blackmailing him. Said something about him plannin’ to poison BLU’s food storage…” He trailed off, realizing that he was taking the enemy’s word over one of his own.

   “And you believe him?” Spy pointed it out immediately, his lip twitching upwards in satisfaction. Bastard. “It seems to me our Sniper is taking the enemy's side. And what if it was true, bushman? Is that not part of the job?”

   The walls leaned in to listen. Sniper stood up.

   “Our job is to shoot BLUs on-duty. There's no bloody reason to get personal, and there's definitely no reason to take their lives permanently.” He found himself speaking without thinking at this point. “Unless you've got some drama yourself, and want to be petty-”

   “Sniper!” Engie interrupted. But he'd seen the shift in Spy's expression in time. Bullseye.

   As someone who had a great view of the battlefield, Sniper often observed all kinds of shenanigans. It was a hunch as to whether or not Spy was attacking him personally or out of necessity and tact, he and the BLU Engineer’s names were paired on the killfeed very frequently.

   “Hey, I for one think fightin’ is personal!” Scout raised his hand, “I mean, have ya seen the targetin’ and tauntin’ that goes on?”

   “Hurd huh buhhdrr,” Pyro snickered, and Scout whacked them.

   “Aye, lad’s got a point,” Demo murmured, “It's definitely personal, but I dinnae if poisonin’ them all is fair. They haven't tried anythin’ like it.”

   “You're biased,” Spy pointed out, “You don't have the heart to kill the BLU Soldier.”

   Demo folded his arms defensively, opening his mouth to speak. Engineer interrupted again.

   “Now, now, let's not get personal,” he shot a look at Spy, “What's done is done. Right now, we need to figure out what to do about the Scout. Slim, you said he was askin' for help?”

   The table deflated once again, turning to Sniper. His face felt warm.

   “It's… Hard to explain. He's sick — really sick — and it's his Medic's fault. The illness messes up his fighting, but also gives him an unfair advantage. So, er, I thought it'd make sense to just help him so things could go back to normal.” Sniper scratched his arm, hoping the intentional vagueness wouldn't be questioned. He really didn't want to bring up—

   “You forgot to mention the part where he cannibalizes us.”

   Bloody fucking hell, Spook.

   “Wh- HUH?” Demo choked. Scout and Soldier looked confused.

   “That means he eats human meat. Us.” Spy simplified for the pair. Soldier frowned and Scout screamed.

   This time, Engie didn't try to silence the eruption of voices. Scout was demanding to know where his counterpart was, to which Pyro stood up and pointed at the hall. Demo was staring at Sniper in shock and Engineer was leaving for the infirmary, too, shouting something. Spy exhaled more smoke and stood up as well, following the three REDs calmly. Soon, the room emptied save for Demo and Sniper.

   Mick felt like there was a balloon inflating from his chest, pressure building. He shouldn't care what his teammates decided to do; all he ever wanted was for this whole thing to be out of his hands, right?

   “Sniper, laddie,” Demo spoke slowly, putting a hand on his arm. Sniper realized he was breathing quickly, hands pressing against the cold metal table. He shifted his eyes to meet Demo’s singular one.

   “Do ya care about what happens to that BLU?” He asked seriously, like he was gauging something. It was a simple question.

   Sniper's head nodded without him realizing it. Understanding flashed in Demo’s eye and he patted Sniper's shoulder, turning.

   “Then c'mon, let's make sure they don't kill him!”

…

   Somewhere in the back of BLU Spy’s mind, he knew it would be more reasonable, mature, and tactful to wait to talk to Medic. He needed sleep, food, and time to think about the situation.

   But as he glared at the glowing blue sign above the infirmary’s doors, he couldn't give less of a damn. If Scout wasn't here, he was going to strangle the German.

   He pushed the doors open and strode inside, eyes adjusting to the low lighting. Once again, it seemed he'd walked in on something.

   Heavy was sitting on a large hospital chair, reclined slightly with one arm facing upward. Medic sat next to him on a roller chair, an alcohol pad in one hand and a syringe in the other. It seemed he'd been in the middle of finding Heavy’s vein. The German must not have heard Spy walk in, with his back turned to the door. Medic was idly explaining something about horses to the Russian.

   Heavy noticed Spy and tapped the doctor's arm, gesturing. Spy cleared his throat.

   “Ah, Herr Spion?” Medic twisted around, his friendly tone juxtaposing an uninviting expression. “I'm in the middle of something here, you'll have to come back later.”

   “Non.” Spy insisted, stepping closer to the pair. “Unless you've hidden him somewhere in here, Scout is missing and likely kidnapped.” He said bluntly.

   This information didn't surprise Medic, who rolled his eyes and set the syringe down.
   “I haven't seen him since that hase ran away. He vill respawn eventually when RED finds out he doesn't know any useful Intel.” He said dismissively, “It is his own fault for getting caught.”

   Spy stepped forward again and grabbed a fistful of Medic’s shirt, hissing, “Ich weiß, dass du ihm etwas angetan hast.”

   Medic raised both hands in mock surrender with a frown, and Heavy stiffened, sitting up slightly and watching Spy. The Frenchman sent a warning glance at him, noticing bags under his eyes.

   “I was only running tests on him. You know zhe boy hates check-ups,” Medic responded smoothly.

   “You're lying. A check-up wouldn't send him running through the teleporters,” Spy pointed out, “and he's looked incredibly ill lately. Tell me what's really going on, Hanz.”

   Medic held his gaze, a smile forming on his face. Spy slowly released his shirt until the German spoke.

   “All you need to know is that he'll be fine. If he has the ‘illness’ I think he does, it won't be long until he comes back from RED. Be it through respawn, or covered in their blood–” Hanz flashed his teeth, “He'll be back unharmed.”

Chapter Text

  “Wait, what's– what's happening?” Scout asked, alarm sharpening him.

    Heavy didn't respond, just repeated, “What is choice?”

    Scout bit his lip. If I don't do this, I'll be right back at square one. “I'll stay.”

    Heavy nodded. “Stay here. Team knows of you.” He explained, before closing the door again. Scout felt a little lighter having made the decision, but there was still a voice in the back of his head telling him to run.

    How does the rest of RED know about me already?

    Scout stayed there with his feet firmly planted on the tile, listening. The banging had stopped, but there were now multiple voices yelling above one another. Scout could hear his RED counterpart arguing with what was definitely an upset Soldier.

    “STOP!” Heavy's voice boomed, carrying effortlessly through the door. Scout took a couple steps forward to hear better. He got the feeling he shouldn't stand too close to the door, though, lest it burst open.

    “There is no reason to be alarmed!” Medic was saying. He sounded like he was just on the other side of the door. Scout imagined all of the REDs in a semicircle glaring at him and Heavy. Is Sniper out there too?

    “Ja, we have the BLU Scout. But he is here on special conditions— and he has just agreed to be confined to one room.”

    The BLU held his breath.

    “SO WE'RE TAKING HIM PRISONER!” Soldier stated.

    “... Somewhat.” Medic said, “But he won't be used as a bargaining chip, nor will anyone torture or interrogate him.”

    “That's a lot of statements. Where was our say in all of this?” Spy interrupted. Scout felt his blood boil. Of course that snake is here.

    “We are discussing it now,” Medic cut in, “and I was going to call a meeting as soon as he agreed.”

    There was a scoff.

    “So what, are we gonna freakin' vote on this?” The RED Scout countered, “Cause I don't want a fuckin candy ball living with us!”

    “Cannibal, Scout. And I told you he'd be confined.”

    “Okay, whatever! He's still a BLU!”

    “Scout, if you want him to stop bein' a cannibal, maybe ya should hear the Doc out.” Came Sniper's voice. Scout's heart lifted a little more, and there was a beat.

    “WHAT IS THE BLU SCOUT’S CONDITION!” Soldier demanded the question on all of their minds.

    Medic sighed. “He has an illness, likely a parasite, that is paranormal in nature and causing him fatigue. His own team wouldn't help him, so he came here.”

    Not exactly, Scout thought to himself. If you'd asked him last week if he would ever willingly go to RED for help, he would have called you an idiot. But, hey, who cared if the situation was twisted if it meant RED wouldn't be at his throat?

    “NO SOLDIER UNFIT FOR BATTLE SHALL FIGHT! IT'S IN THE U.S. DECLARATION!” Soldier announced.

    “Solly’s got a point,” Engie added, “If the boy is really so sick he's come to us, he must be desperate. I don't think he's a threat.”

    Scout's ego took a hit at that comment, but the Texan had a point.

    “And what if BLU comes looking for him?” Spy pointed out, “You can't expect this to go smoothly. Whether they like him or not, they'll be down one man in battle.”

    “Hurryhu herr hurr uh hurrmphher?”

    “Yeah! Why don't we let the Admin handle it?” Scout translated.

    Multiple people spoke up at that, their voices becoming a jumbled mess from behind the door. Scout clenched his fists at his sides, taking a step back. His pounding headache was back in full force. A string of guilt tugged at his gut and he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear.

    Scout could only catch a few of the discussions happening, slivers of “How long will this be” and “Would this mean we need to start night watch again”.

    It was surprising, though, that there was a discussion in the first place. Had this happened with Scout's own team, he knew the BLUs wouldn't miss a chance to torture a stray RED.
   
    “Тишина!” Heavy eventually shouted again, quieting them. “Team will make vote now.”

     Just like that, Scout was glued to the door again.

    “Alrighty. Everybody in favor o’ lettin' the BLU stay here ta get better, raise your hand an’ say aye,” Demo said.

    A chorus of “Ayes” and “Nays” sounded. Scout held his breath, unsure of the verdict.

    Click.

    Suddenly, the door in front of him started opening and Scout took a step back. There, the entire RED team stood in a semicircle and stared at him. Scout's eyes darted from person to person, reading their expressions. Spy looked livid, Heavy was sotic and Sniper just looked concerned. He realized that most of them had their hands up.

    “Then it's settled.” Engie smiled, “Where are we putting him?”

…

    The REDs had some sweet dorms. Like, it was suspiciously unfair how good they had it. Scout wondered if they were paid as much as BLU was, because the amenities were that awesome.

    Each of the rooms had a small bathroom (though there was no shower), a closet, dresser, table, and their own beds. To top it all off, the front of their doors had these little class emblems so you knew who's dorm was who's.

    Compared to the cramped shared space he'd been sharing with his team's Sniper, Scout was about to live in luxury.

    “Haven't dusted in here for ages,” The RED Sniper was apologizing. For some reason.

    “It's cool. It's nice,” Scout assured him, plopping down on the bed. A small puff of dust came up and Scout realized the sheets weren't fluffy.

    His eyes drifted to the rug thing stretched out in the middle of the room. It was a reddish gray, and was shaped as though somebody had filleted an animal for it's skin.

    “That's a water buffalo,” Sniper explained, walking over to open the bedside drawer. Scout noticed the Aussie wouldn't fully turn his back to him (which honestly was fair) but he also wasn't looking at him anymore (which wasn't fair. What was up with that?)

    Scout bit his tongue, though, and directed his attention to what Sniper was pulling out of the drawer. A small lockbox, some matches, and a bunch of loose papers and envelopes. It reminded Scout of the boxes he'd almost snooped through in the marksman's van.

    “So you've just been using this as extra storage?” Scout asked the obvious, trying to fill the silence. The whole place was really barren, walls untouched and only a couple duffle bags in one corner.

    “Yeah, a bit.” Sniper responded flatly.

    Scout's eyes flickered towards the clock. It was only 4:30pm. Or, wait, maybe that clock was off? Sniper must be tried either way.

    Engineer walked into the room then, carrying a bundle of fresh sheets the same size as his torso. He must've felt tension in the air because he hesitated before looking at Scout and speaking.

    “Got fresh bedding. How are ya feeling?”

    Scout’s head hurt, his stomach was going to start eating itself, and he was resisting the urge to shiver.

    He swallowed, “Alright.”

    Engie started walking towards him and Scout stood, getting the hint to start taking off the dusty sheets. He hooked his hands under the mattress to find the fitted one, and started pulling it only for a loud tearing noise to cut through the room.

    “Oh, shit!” He cussed, bringing it up to look at the damage. His fingernails had cut right through the old cotton.

    Engineer set the bedding on the floor and stood an arms-distance away from the BLU, eyebrows knitted.

    “Damn thing was hanging by a thread anyway.” He muttered. Scout still felt guilty, quickly wrapping up the rest of the sheets into a little bundle and putting it on the floor.

    It felt unnatural to help the RED Engie put on the new sheets, Scout's senses were on alert because where there was an Engineer, there was likely a sentry gun.

    But this wasn't the battlefield, and the pair had smoothed out the top sheet in no time. Scout glanced at Sniper in the corner of the room, who'd been watching while holding the duffle bags. As soon as he did, the marksman turned his head away.

    “Alrighty then.” Engie spoke up, voice measured, “Someone’ll be back to bring ya more things soon. Don't cause any trouble, and if ya need anything…” The Texan produced a radio that Scout realized had been clipped to his belt. He set it on the bed. “... Give a signal.”

   Scout nodded, making no move to grab the radio just yet. His eyes kept darting back to Sniper, wishing he could read him. Engineer hummed in the affirmative, turning to walk out the door. Scout remained still as the REDs left, the door locking loudly behind them. Engineer had installed some kind of steel locking system from the outside of the door, effectively turning the room into a cell. Scout could hear the mechanism slide into place.

    The runner let out a breath, sitting back down and pulling the top sheet around his shoulders. It sounded like the REDs were going to have another meeting for the specifics of how to handle him. Engie had mentioned bringing Scout better blankets and puzzles to keep him busy, which he looked forward to.

    Still, though, that didn't do much to help the realization that he was trapped here now. A part of Scout's gut was telling him he'd made a mistake to agree to this, but he just shook his head. It was probably the parasite talking. Medic had said something about those things manipulating your brain chemicals… Ugh, gross.
    

    He brought his hands up to his knees, palms facing up, and curled his fingers a bit.

    His nails had gotten real long (like his hair, he remembered) and oddly thick. There was some blackish dirt speckled on all of his fingertips, too. Scout furrowed his brow and rubbed his fingertips together. I took a shower earlier in Sniper's van…

    The bedsheets weren't that dusty, were they? He checked the floor to see if this substance was there, but the wood had no discoloration. Scout rubbed his fingers again before realizing with a jolt that it wasn't smudging.

    He brought his hands closer to his face and stared, noticing a tremble through his headache.

    Faint streaks of black could be seen under the skin of his wrists; his eyes followed the veins up to his normally pale fingers, where the skin darkened to look grayish. Scout's gut flipped, getting a primal sense that the flesh wasn't his own. What the hell?

    
…

    Spy paced laps in his dorm.

    The space was terrible for pacing, mind you, but going outside was hardly an option and the closed walls gave him a sense of privacy. God, what he would give for a cigarette. It was a shame he'd burned through them all.

    The Frenchman knew it wouldn't be long before Soldier returned from his weekend fraternization with the enemy, so he had to get his mutterings out now.

    
    It was clear that Scout had been at Landfall, and likely stayed a night. The question now was simple: Had he been found by RED, was he hiding in the surrounding forest, or did he die for good?

    Spy’s heart missed a beat at that last thought and he paused his pacing.

    It's not out of the question, he forced himself to consider it. A step forward again. Who's to say Scout's illness didn't take a bad turn?

    A weight settled in his chest as he pictured how Scout's mother would react to the news. Spy hadn't seen the woman in years, but he was well aware of their eldest son’s death after being drafted for Vietnam. Another, in the same circumstance, was injured.

    A familiar, deep-seated guilt made Spy’s throat tighten and he reached up to loosen his tie.

    So, what if Scout had been kidnapped instead? The option didn't hold much more comfort for Spy — he had witnessed firsthand how cruel REDs could be. He tossed his tie onto his bunk and put two gloved fingers under the hem of his mask. The ring of protruding scar tissue around his neck lay there, nerveless as ever.

    BLU Medic's words rang in his head.

    “He'll be back unharmed.”

    The German had been so sure of himself. And so, so irritatingly vague, Spy spat internally.

    He had pressed the Doctor further for anything — a name for Scout's sickness, the cause, a cure — but Heavy ended up intervening and Spy had no choice but to leave the Infirmary.

    He was sick of this.

    There were a million moving pieces to work with, and every possible bad ending kept popping up in his head. It was almost sickening how unbothered the rest of the team was by Scout's disappearance.

    Spy cursed aloud.

    Was he just crazy? Overthinking? Spending so many years with teammates who held little objective morality (not that Spy was a saint, but he tried) tended to lower one's own standards, didn't it?

    The door opened behind him and Spy spun around at the noise.

    Pyro peeked their head in, spotting Spy and opening the door fully. The usually expressionless wall that BLU called “Soldier” stood behind them, his lip turned down in discomfort.

    “Hello?” Spy greeted with question in his voice, looking between the pair wearily.

    Pyro stepped into the room and pointed at Soldier, saying something muffled. Soldier crossed his arms silently. The American was often stone-faced, holding a weighted posture and troubled eyes, if you ever saw them.

    “He wants me to tell you that the RED Demo was gone today.” Soldier grunted. Spy was confused at first, before he glanced back at Pyro. His eyes widended.

    “He wasn't in your usual meeting spot?” He echoed.

    Soldier shrugged and nodded, seeming disengaged. He started moving towards their bunk bed and Spy moved closer to Pyro, who was bouncing with excitement.

    “We are thinking the same thing.” Spy stated lowly. Pyro nodded and tugged his sleeve, motioning towards the door.

    Spy allowed himself to be pulled into the hallway and followed Pyro to his own room a few doors down.

    Technically, the room was shared with Heavy, but the brute tended to sleep in the infirmary and Pyro was not afraid to take over the decorating job.

    The pyromaniac's drawings were strewn about the place, taped to the walls in seemingly random patterns. Soot discolored sections of the floor and there was a pile of sticks in one corner, presumably for fuel. The air had a similar scent to Spy's own — smokey.

    Pyro motioned towards a crate on one side of the wall, which had charred sticks and paper strewn across it. They say cross-legged on the concrete floor, and Spy settled on the other side too.

    “If the Red Demo couldn't meet our Soldier, something must've happened to warrant him staying at base. You think Scout is being held by RED too, don't you?” Spy said aloud.

    Pyro nodded and gathered some of the papers dutifully, straightening them on the table before selecting one to show Spy.

    A charcoal drawing of Spy stared back at him with large, angry eyebrows and a frown. He assumed it was his RED counterpart. Beside him was a smaller animal with a frown and a hat and — wait, that was Scout. With bunny ears.

    “Hurd hurrdah hur huddah,” Pyro explained, pointing to the RED Spy and then wagging their finger in a “no good” motion.

    “That's the RED Spy, oui?” Pyro nodded.

    “And he… is angry with our Scout. Do you think he kidnapped him?” Pyro shook their head, paused, then gave a shrug. Maybe, but not the point.

    Pyro produced a torn-off drawing of the BLU Engineer (with his signature helmet dent and beard) and placed it over Scout.

    Years of practiced art interpretation for what? Spy struggled to make sense of it.
    He stared at the pictures. “Our Engineer… Defended Scout?” No, that doesn't make sense— “No, the RED Spy is mad at him. They're fighting?”

    Pyro nodded enthusiastically, making a noise that sounded like a “yes!”. They grabbed a burnt twig from the table and revealed Scout again, drawing a cage over him.

    Realization hit him. “You think the RED Spy has motivation to keep our Scout prisoner to get back at our Engineer?” The words tumbled out of Spy.

    Pyro clapped, clearly happy that their artistic practice had paid off.

    Spy wanted to ask how they knew all of this, and also why Scout was drawn with rabbit ears, but he figured he'd be stuck playing charades for a long time. All he could do was trust that the maniac was right.

    “What do you suppose we do about this?” Spy asked, watching Pyro begin drawing on a new sheet of paper. He thought aloud, “If Scout has been captured by RED yet has not respawned, it could mean many things. The obvious motive being, he's going to be kept alive and used as a bargaining chip. Possibly tortured or experimented on.
    “But what for? What could my counterpart possibly want in exchange for him? Unless the goal is simply to cause our team grief. I could see that Enfoiré acting petty…”

    He trailed off as Pyro finished their next drawing.

    A vague landscape with a few crates scattered about told Spy that Pyro was referring to the field. A sketch of Pyro and Spy stood side-by-side, with what seemed to be a unicorn horn sprouting from Pyro's head. Spy, on the other hand, had two black triangles atop his head and… was that a tail? The Frenchman stole a glance at Pyro, wondering what the hell would warrant this. It was clear that the creature's perception of the world was… skewed. Spy couldn't decipher if him being half-cat was an artistic choice, or Pyro actually saw that when looking at him.

    The thought was was cast aside as Pyro moved their charcoal-wielding hand to reveal the final figures on the page. The other team's Pyro, Demoman and Medic (who, Spy noted, didn't have extra features) stood in a line with a big, empty speech bubble above them, as you would see in a newspaper comic. Pyro added a question mark above the BLU pair.

    “You want to ask the REDs questions on the field tomorrow…” Spy murmured. That much was clear. Pyro gave a thumbs-up.

    “These three in particular?” Pyro waved their hand in a ‘so-so’ motion.

    “And what would we ask them? If they have Scout?”

    “Hurd huddah hur hudd hur,” Pyro added. Spy could make out one word.

    “What they want in exchange for him? A hostage negotiation, then…”

    Pyro gave a double thumbs-up. Spy considered it aloud, tossing the idea uneasily back and forth in his head.

    “It doesn't feel right to outright ask RED these things… It would give away our motive so easily. And, what if they don't have Scout? They would realize that our team is weakened. Non, it may be better to stage an investigation; I could breach their—”

    Spy was cut off when Pyro patted his hand repeatedly, snapping him from his thoughts. They gave him a head tilt that eerily reminded Spy of the ‘listen to yourself right now!’ expression his ex-wife would wear.

    “Huddah hur huh hrr. Huddah.” Pyro said, shaking their head. For some reason, Spy could grasp their point without making out words.

    The two of them had effectively been backed into a desperate corner. There was no expert ploy to be had, no RED in particular to manipulate or question. Spy would have to ask about Scout outright and reveal his hand.

    It was a reasonable plan, but he hated it.

    “Very well… I suppose you aren't as tactless as you seem.” Spy murmured. Pyro beamed.

    Having decided a course of action, the exhaustion of the day hit Spy. He let out a sigh and rubbed his temple, caring much less now if Pyro saw his moment of weakness. 

    There was a silence for a moment as the pair relaxed slightly. They certainly weren't out of the woods yet, but at the very least there was something to look forward to: tomorrow's battle.