Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A man sat alone on a splintered bench beneath the flickering blue awning of a bus stop stained by weather and years of neglect. His posture carried the quiet weight of someone often mistaken for ruined, shoulders curved inward like the world pressed too hard, and eyes hollowed by time and regret. Strangers might glance his way and assume failure, misfortune, maybe addiction. Few would guess precision had once defined his hands.

Across the cracked asphalt, a group of teenagers huddled near a concrete wall, a sterile, gray façade of some faceless corporation now lit with vibrant defiance. Spray cans hissed in bursts, painting tangled shapes and expressive loops only the eccentric or artistic would admire. The city air echoed with their laughter, sharp and chaotic, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. It sounded less like rebellion and more like childhood refusing to die.

Jonas watched, his pale blue gaze drifting, not with judgment, but longing. His attention shifted to another figure slumped by the roadside. Wrapped in a filthy blanket too thin to resist the cold, the man’s silver hair poked out in wild tufts, and his face was blotched with bruises that told stories no one had asked to hear.

Their eyes never met, but the mirrored weariness was deafening.

The doctor tilted his head upward. The night sky loomed in velvet black, void of stars—as it had been for weeks. The moon hung large and icy, unmarred by cloud cover, bathing the street in sterile blue light. It was the only celestial body that hadn’t forsaken him. For a moment, he wondered if the stars had been illusions all along.

The breeze cut through the alleyway, lifting the wisps of his aging hair. It whispered calm but carried the sting of truth. Pain pulsed behind his temples, a dull throb like a slow heartbeat reminding him of everything he'd failed to fix. He pressed his fingers gently against his skull as if touch could negotiate peace.

His hand found the plastic edge of a card deep in his coat pocket. He pulled out his laminated ID, scuffed and worn, and examined it beneath the glow of the streetlamp. The image stared back, himself, years ago, clean-shaven, eyes bright with the fervor of someone who believed in healing more than cynicism. A smile curved his lips in that photo, naïve and full. That was before protocols became routines, and routines became burdens.

He thought back to his first day as a doctor, white walls stretching endlessly, accented only by playful decals in the pediatric wing. The antiseptic sting of cleaning agents hit his memory like a jolt. He remembered the scrubs, always stained, always destined to be ruined, and the way the hallway lights reflected off polished floors as gurneys rolled past. The cries of grief, the beep of monitors flatlining. The bitter scent of decay beneath the sterility.

His lips parted in a sigh, chest heavy. The dreams that led him to this country had come from a place of desperation, not hope. He had escaped a cage only to enter another. The United States: marketed as a sanctuary, now felt like an endless waiting room with no doctor, no diagnosis.

He had stopped using the Müller name, distancing himself from his father’s legacy. It felt wrong. So when a vague offer came, no interview, no clarity, just a need for a medic, he took it. Desperation disguised as opportunity.

The air brakes of the approaching bus wheezed, shaking him from his thoughts. Pale headlights bathed the bench, and a baby-blue vehicle rumbled forward. “Builder’s League United” was etched boldly on its side, surrounded by symbols of labor, hammers, wrenches, and gears.

The doors hissed open, and a shadowed figure inside spoke without turning:

“Doctor Jonas Müller, correct?”

“Ja. Builder’s League?”

“Welcome to BLU.”

Jonas rose slowly, leaning on the railing as he climbed the metal steps. The interior greeted him with worn fabric seats and dull lighting. The driver’s expression remained fixed on the road ahead, and Jonas noted the severe darkness under his eyes, worse than his own. A shared exhaustion passed between them unspoken.

He settled mid-row, the seat creaking under his weight. The bus sighed and pulled forward, its rhythm lulling. Through the window, the city unspooled, buildings marked by graffiti, each mural a scream or a whisper. Rubber scars crisscrossed the road from years of reckless speed. A broken stop sign stood drunkenly against its post, he’d seen it get hit, long ago. No one had cared enough to fix it.

They passed his old apartment, a cramped box of peeling paint and broken faucets. He stared at it for a long second and then closed his eyes, surrendering to whatever was next.

 

Jonas didn’t remember falling asleep. When his eyes snapped open, confusion pulsed in him like a siren. He bolted upright, heartbeat racing—until recognition settled and regret returned like a migraine.
The ache began again—left side only, consistent yet maddening. He massaged the spot with his fingers, but relief came only in traces. He stretched, twisted, walked in place. Restlessness gripped him like a fever.

Then came a memory.

 

“Doctor, are you okay?”

Harley’s voice echoed in that tiny break room, where the air was always sterile and stale. No distractions,just two medical professionals and fluorescent lights.

“It’s just a small headache,” Jonas replied.

“Stress?”

“Maybe.”

Harley, the blonde in pink scrubs dotted with flowers, looked at him with a mix of pity and concern. He returned a half-smile, though his eyes betrayed him. The room was too bright, the world too loud.

She rummaged through her corporate-issued lunch bag, torn at the seams, barely holding together, and pulled out a small orange bottle.

“Demerol,” she announced quietly.

She placed a pill on her palm and offered it. The sight made Jonas recoil. He raised his hands instinctively, shaking his head.

“Meperidine? Nein. Haven’t you heard the warnings? It’s dangerous.”

“It’s better than suffering, Doctor.”

 

Years passed. Jonas had resisted medication, clung to his principles. But the headache had outlived his defiance. In his bag, he found a bottle and stared at its label. He popped a pill dry, throat convulsing. He doubled over, coughing as his lungs clawed for breath.

Moments later, the pain eased. In its place was dizziness, starbursts in the dark, a fog across his vision.

His breathing grew erratic as he slumped in the seat.

Through the frosted window, he caught a glimpse of his reflection: hollow cheeks, trembling hands, a face lost in transit.

“Uh, you alright, man?”

Jonas didn’t look up.

“Ja.”

Chapter Text

Jonas’ thoughts unraveled into silence, an empty static in his mind. He couldn’t feel, couldn’t process, not even conjure a flicker of sensation. All that existed was the rhythmic hum of the bus and the white expanse outside the window. The snow drifted down in languid spirals, soft and uninvited, coating everything in a thin veil of sleep. Its purity mocked him.

Somewhere in the unoccupied corners of his memory, he realized how long it had been since he'd last seen snow. Years, maybe. The sight tugged gently at a frayed edge of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, retreating into a distant warmth, the kind found on Christmas mornings, huddled under a blanket too small for his growing limbs, watching cheesy holiday specials on a flickering CRT television.

One memory bloomed brighter than the rest: the red-nosed reindeer. Rudolph, naive and glowing. Back then, Jonas believed the creature's nose was magical. Now, older and bitterly practical, he’d joke about infection. Poor beast probably had severe inflammation.

It’s strange, he thought, how time rusts even our innocence.

His mind wandered deeper, and the snow outside gave way to an imagined world. Twisted Christmas trees sprung up in jagged rows, their bare limbs reaching like skeletal fingers. The ground became glittered with icy slush and scattered fragments of ornament shards. And there he was—seated on that old plaid couch from his childhood, stuffing beginning to spill from its armrest. The dull hum of the TV across from him played static between commercials. He felt it, the fraying fabric under his fingers, the scratchy wool of his socks, the buttery scent of something baking in the distance.

Then, a presence. Gentle, weightless pressure pressed into his shoulders, as though someone familiar had placed their hands upon him. He turned, the motion sluggish, but what greeted him was only a blurred silhouette, a face without features. Comforting, yet impossible to grasp.

 

Jonas snapped awake, disoriented but not surprised. The bus had become quiet, a capsule drifting through the white haze outside. He blinked slowly. The landscape was no longer gentle, it was a sheet of white chaos, fogged with snowfall and wind. Visibility was near gone. Snow didn’t fall; it clawed.
A violent shiver rippled through his frame, making him curse under his breath. Arms wrapped tightly around his torso, teeth clenched. He hated the cold. It crawled under his skin like a parasite. With a shaky breath, he peeled his arms away and bent to wrestle his luggage open. The zipper caught twice.

His belongings, once neatly folded, were a mess of wrinkled shirts and medical documents, creased and frayed. He grabbed his coat, woolen and dull, bearing the weight of years gone by. It still smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee. Wrapping it around himself, he found little solace. The cold pierced through the threads as if mocking his effort.

Five minutes ticked by, silent and torturous, before the bus lurched and hissed to a stop.
His heart thudded with sudden intensity. Fear bloomed quietly under his ribs, cold and slow. He hurried to gather his scattered belongings, hands fumbling as he tried to restore some order. The driver spoke, his voice dry with fatigue:

“Alright man, here’s where you were assigned.”

“I—”

“Good luck.”

The doors creaked open. A gust of wind slammed into Jonas, dragging a gasp from his lips. Snow spilled inside like it owned the place. He stepped out, boots sinking slightly, the crunch beneath them oddly satisfying.

He turned and looked back.

The driver hadn’t moved. His eyes remained locked ahead, as if he had seen this scene too many times to care. Jonas watched the bus vanish into the mist, swallowed in white silence.

And then he was alone.

Truly alone.

His whole body shook violently now. Hands red, fingers stiff, chest tightening with each breath. Snowflakes dusted his eyebrows and clung to his lashes. He stared at the ground as flakes gathered around his boots like ghosts.

He wondered if he’d be left to freeze. Whether this was truly part of the plan. Whether anyone even knew he’d arrived.

He closed his eyes tightly, each breath visible, vapor curling up like smoke.

“Doctor?”

The voice slithered through the blizzard, thin, barely audible. Jonas didn’t react. It couldn’t be real. He’d hallucinated voices before.

“Ehem, excuse—”

“Auh?”

Jonas opened his eyes sluggishly, snow crusting the edges. A figure loomed before him—tall, precise. Clad in navy with an aristocratic sharpness. A mask obscured much of the man’s face, leaving only his mouth visible, the goggles tinting whatever expression might lie beneath. His ushanka sat perfectly atop his head, clearly chosen for function and flair.

But Jonas’ eyes caught on something else entirely: a garishly knitted sweater peeking from beneath the coat. Blue and white threads forming various shapes and snowflakes.

Jonas let out a weak chuckle, his voice hoarse. “Quite fitting.”

“Quickly now—come, you must be freezing.”

Jonas started to reply, but words wouldn’t come. Warm gloved hands gripped his arm, steady and unrelenting, guiding him forward.

“Move,” the man snapped, more insistence than impatience.

Jonas obeyed without thought. Each step was agony, snow biting into his legs, cold splintering across his cheeks. He wiped at his face absently.

The figure didn’t speak again, leading him in eerie silence until, abruptly, the grip vanished.
Jonas blinked as the man fumbled with a ring of keys. Each turn of metal brought a sharper gust. The wind howled like a beast denied entry.

The man muttered, twisted, grunted with growing irritation. Jonas swayed slightly, head heavy, until finally—

“Ah-hah, YES!”

The door creaked open like it hadn’t done so in years.
Jonas tilted his head, regarding the building before him. Gray, angular, devoid of comfort. A bunker. Or a tomb.

The man gripped his arm again and tugged him inside. Jonas stumbled in, boots scraping against old concrete. The door slammed behind them with force.

“Ah—excuse me, Doctor. I normally prefer proper introductions.”

The man brushed his coat with exaggerated grace, scattering flecks of melted snow. He straightened and extended a gloved hand.

“I am the Spy. Naturally, that is a codename. And remember…” His voice darkened ever so slightly. “Never reveal your name, monsieur.”

Jonas nodded slowly. “Ja… Thank you for the advice, uh… Spy.”

Spy turned and strode forward, heels clicking elegantly on stone. Jonas followed, the sound of their steps echoing down the corridor, each one slightly delayed like an old song played back wrong.

“How many others are there?” Jonas asked finally.

“Seven,” Spy replied. “Quite the characters, I should warn you.”

Jonas hesitated. Something tugged at him. A childlike curiosity.

“Well… May I ask you something?”

Spy glanced sideways. “Go ahead.”

“Are any of them afraid of Doctors?”

Spy stopped dead. He turned slowly, eyes behind goggles unreadable.

“Very.”

He didn’t elaborate.

The silence resumed, heavier now. They passed into a room where the flooring shifted, marble tile, pristine but lifeless. The air carried an odd mix of industrial sterilization and old food.

An unremarkable couch hunched against the wall, sagging. In front, a low table scattered with empty "BONK" energy drink cans. Across the room, a bulky television blinked silently, a crumpled note taped to its screen: Remind Engineer to fix soon.

Spy didn’t slow. “Please forgive the mess, Doctor.”

They moved on.

Into another space—more lived-in but still skeletal. Then Spy paused and gestured toward a figure.

“Ah—look. Ehem. Heavy.”

Jonas followed his gaze. The man before him was massive. Built like a vault, arms thicker than Jonas’ torso, demeanor unreadable. He stood at a counter washing dishes, movements deliberate.

“You brought guests?” Heavy asked flatly.

Spy responded without looking. “I have with me the new Medic.”

Heavy’s head snapped toward Jonas, posture tensing. Panic flickered in the depths of his eyes.

Jonas shifted, uncomfortable. Spy gave him a subtle nod.

 

Jonas cleared his throat. “Hallo, komrade?”

Heavy stared a moment too long.

Then, finally, he nodded.

Jonas exhaled, his breath visible once more in the cold echo of the room.

Chapter Text

The three men stood in tense silence, each carrying a different weight of emotion. Spy maintained his usual composed stance, hands clasped behind his back, his piercing gaze locked onto Heavy with an unreadable expression. Whatever message his look carried, the other two couldn’t decipher it.

On the other hand, Heavy stared deeply at Jonas. His face twisted with echoing despair that spread along his whole being. If one looked closely, they'd notice his trembling fingers, the barely perceptible twitch of his hands—almost as if he were bracing for a fight.

 

Then there was the new Medic, standing awkwardly to the side. A forced smile clung to his lips, but it was slipping fast. He wiped his damp palms against his coat.

 

‘Must be the heater’, he reasoned.

 

Spy, ever the man of efficiency, exhaled in quiet impatience. One hand finally left its place behind his back and gestured toward his mouth.

 

“Ehem, gentlemen?”

 

Jonas snapped to attention, his frown deepening as the atmosphere tenses.

Heavy didn’t react immediately—he kept his gaze fixed on Jonas a moment longer, then abruptly shook his head, forcing himself to speak.

His plain sweater shifted with his movements. Wait, is that also a Christmas sweater?

 

“Здра-”, Heavy muttered something under his breath, cutting himself off before clearing his throat.

“Hello, new… Doctor. Am Heavy Weapons Guy,” Jonas notes his accent.

Spy nodded curtly. “Indeed you are, Heavy. If there’s nothing more, the Medic and I will go meet the others.”

Heavy hesitated. Then, as if remembering something, he turned sharply toward the fridge and yanked it open.

Jonas tilted his head, peering past Heavy’s broad shoulders. A quick glance revealed bottles—likely alcohol—but before he could examine further, Heavy straightened and faced him, a thoughtful look crossing his features.

 

“Does Doctor like sandvich? Must be hungry from trip, yes?”

 

Jonas studied the sandwich he was being offered. He was prepared to decline until his stomach voiced its own protest. He pressed his lips together, then gave a small nod.

Heavy handed the plate to Medic with careful precision, as though he were passing food to a wary animal. Jonas reached out, noting the tension in Heavy’s grip.

Letting his bags drop momentarily, Jonas took hold of the well-made sandwich, examining its contents with a practiced eye.

Cooled ham, fresh lettuce, tomato, slices of Swiss cheese, and thick white bread, topped with an olive—a surprisingly elegant touch.

He took a bite, registering the flavors. His lips shoot upwards with his opinion.

Jonas glanced up, meeting Heavy’s gaze. Behind that signature stoicism, the man wore a quiet grin—small, but sincere. More than anything, Jonas saw the hope behind it.

 

“Das Essen ist ausgezeichnet! Quite good!”

Heavy’s face broke into a broad smile. “Ha! I am glad little Medic enjoyed it.”

 

Spy tapped Jonas on the shoulder. “Come,” he said, a subtle note of impatience in his tone.

Jonas swallowed another bite and nodded, though he didn’t look away from Heavy.

 

“Danke Heavy”

 

Heavy dipped his head in acknowledgment before returning to the dishes.

The two supports moved toward the adjacent room. Jonas continued to chew his sandwich, seemingly unfazed by the crumbs landing on his own old coat.

Spy quickly spared him a look of disgust.

As they walked, muffled grumbling reached their ears, followed by an abrupt clap and celebratory cheering.

 

Spy sighed. “Do not mind Scout. He is an idiot.”

Jonas blinked. “Who—”

 

His eyes landed on the two figures seated at the modest table. The first immediately caught his attention—the man in a black mask and some sort of heavy duty suit. Something about the gleaming goggles unsettled Jonas; they were lifeless, unreadable. His shoulders tensed.

The masked figure stirred, then stood and pointed directly at Jonas.

 

“Huh. What’s up, Pyro?” came a voice.

 

Jonas turned toward the second figure—a younger man, animated in both speech and movement.

 

“Is the RED Spy here or something?” the boy asked, eyes flicking between Jonas and Spy before settling on Jonas entirely.

 

His bright blue gaze sharpened as it landed on him, the overhead light giving his irises an eerie gloss. Pyro’s goggles, on the other hand, remained dull. The contrast made Jonas uneasy.

Scout suddenly shot up from his chair at an unnatural speed, shoving it aside with a loud screech. Both Spy and Jonas winced at the sound.

 

Scout grinned broadly. “Hey there, Doc! Name’s Scout.” He jabbed a finger at his chest.

“And let me say—wow, look at you! Must be some sorta…” He squinted at Jonas, seemingly searching for the right words. Then, he snapped his fingers.

“A freakin’ angel, man! You have no idea how long we’ve been waiting for someone like you!”

Scout gestured wildly as he spoke, while Pyro remained completely still.

Jonas blinked at the enthusiasm. “Thank you, I appreciate the welcome… Scout, yes?”

Scout pointed finger guns at him. “You got it.”

Spy sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“Mhm,” Pyro mumbled. Jonas flinched at the sound.

 

Scout jogged forward, practically bouncing with energy. Jonas tried not to let his gaze wander back toward Pyro.

 

“Hey, man, mind if I hug ya?” Scout asked suddenly.

“I ain't gay or nothin’, I’m just really happy to see a Medic around here.”

 

Jonas hesitated for a brief moment, then nodded. Scout grinned and wrapped him in a quick hug. Something about his exuberance almost made Jonas smile. Almost.

Scout released him just as quickly and turned back to Pyro, gesturing toward the cards.

Spy had seen enough. He pivoted on his heel. Jonas followed without hesitation.

As they walked past the kitchen again, Jonas caught snippets of Heavy’s humming. A deep, soothing sound, now fading into the background.

The further they walked, the more the halls seemed to stretch before them. Jonas cleared his throat.

“Who am I meeting next? I—”

Spy cut in smoothly. “No worries, Doctor. I understand.”

Jonas adjusted the strap of his bag.

“We are now meeting the brains of the team—Engineer.”
“Oh!”

Spy smirked. “He is the only man I truly trust with my life.”

 

Jonas eyed him with mild offense.

 

Spy chuckled. “I believe you’ll be added to the list soon, Doctor.”

Chapter Text

The two walked the empty hallway, their shoes tapped against the floor with rhythm and efficacy. Medic’s feet screeched from the pain of standing for so long. Within his head, a thought surfaced- He’s a doctor, how could he not stand for an hour or two straight. Hell, he could count the amount of times he stood while performing surgery. He never needed a break back then, what changed? Then a loud clunk echoed into the halls the two classes were in. They were precise and strong with each hit.

Medic looked up from his complaining feet and immediately focused on the garage looking room. It was clearly open for anyone to walk into. Medic prepared a mental image of what the room would look like. Maybe oil stains streaking the floor, discarded metal pieces strewn about, the air thick with the scent of machinery and warmed by the hum of electrical tools. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if scrap covered every available surface.

Spy was the first to enter the room with grace as Medic followed closely behind. He flinched every time he heard the metal against metal clank and echoed throughout the whole base. Then, the light hit him, blinding, all-encompassing, like staring directly into the sun. He groaned, his head pounding, one hand shielding his eyes while the other hovered near his temple. If only the storm outside would cut the power, granting him the relief of darkness. Maybe then he wouldn’t need another one of those damn pills.

One hand dropped to his side while the other futilely tried to block the overhead lights. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open with a hiss, only to be assaulted by brightness once more. The relentless noise drummed in his ears until Spy’s smooth voice cut through the chaos.

“Engineer, I hope I am not intruding on something important. Ah, your bushman is here as well?”

“Bugger off Spy-”

“Just tinkering my little gadgets here. Hopin’ I ain't makin’ too much of a ruckus.”

The engineer didn’t bother looking up from his machinery to look at the Spy in front of him or the other presence right next to the blue suited gentleman. The ‘Bushman,’ however, noticed Jonas immediately. His head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing, calculating, skeptical. The aggressive posture made Jonas instinctively step back. His gaze settled on the man’s cardigan; it looked hand-sewn, the stitches uneven yet sturdy.

“And who’s this Spook? Another one of your stupid Colleagues?”

“Come on lil camper, they ain't all bad, remember-”

“No it is not Sniper, in fact this man will save your life one day.”

Sniper’s face relaxes as he leans back on the metal chair he’s on. His eyes still focus on Jonas with distrust. At least he didn’t look like he was going to kill Jonas. His head slowly turned to the Engineer who paused his hammering. The Engineer, sporting a worn construction hat and dark goggles, looked up briefly. Wrinkles lined his face from stress, age, or both. His posture sagged, curled slightly like a cooked shrimp. A Christmas sweater, like many others on this team, adorned his frame, though he had small grease stains on the sleeves, evidence of long hours spent working.

“Well, howdy howdy, I’m the Engineer, you could call me Engie if you wish.”

The Engineer reaches his hand out, weirdly, it was his only hand that had an orange glove on it. While confusing, Jonas reaches his hand out as well. Engie takes the lead as he shakes both of their hands firmly. As they both let go, in the corner of Medic notices the Sniper’s face tighten while Engineer has a small content smile that seemed to reach his eyes. Even despite the dark goggles.

Jonas glanced back to find Spy glaring at Sniper. The moment Medic noticed, Spy rolled his eyes and redirected his attention to Engineer.

“Control votre époux, Laborer.”

“Are ya talkin’ about Snipes? You already know he hates ya Spook”

“I’ll be happier if ya got out, Traitor-”

“Oh please, are you still mad over-”

The tension begins to build quickly, like a pot of water beginning to reach its boiling point. At this moment the Doctor’s steps forward, his boot makes a loud enough sound to distract the two aggressors. Jonas straightens his back as they turn to look at him, some turn faster than others, “Spy, is there anyone else I need to meet?”

“Oh right, heh don’t let me and Sniper waste your time partner”

Engineer waved a casual farewell, Medic mirrored the gesture, and Sniper merely raised his hand before dropping it back onto his lap. Engie stretched, mumbling, “Now, where was I?” while Sniper slumped, scratching at his sweater and crossing his arms with a grunt, staring at the floor like it had personally wronged him.

Spy quickly turns around his body, his heeled shoes tap on the floor. catching a fleeting sneer on Spy’s face before the man walked out. Jonas quickly follows Spy back into the empty halls. With a swift and practiced motion, Spy reaches into his suit’s pocket and whips out a cigarette and a lighter, as he tries to light the cigarette, Jonas rubs his eyes in an attempt to make his eyes used to the dimmer lighting in the halls. He breathes a sigh of relief as the small pounding in his head almost entirely ceases. He blinks a few times to rid his vision of the blurriness from rubbing his eyes haphazardly.

He questions how people can work in such bright lights for long periods of time, even as a doctor, he needed his long breaks from such harsh lights.

“Pisser dans un violon…”

His thoughts are disrupted as he hears Spy mumble words that Jonas does not recognize what so ever. He watches as Spy’s cig refuses to light, Spy’s eyebrows tighten and his mouth turns into a sharp frown. Finally, the flame caught, and Spy inhaled deeply, tension melting from his shoulders. Smoke curled from his lips as he exhaled. Without looking at the Doctor, he speaks,

“Shall we?”

-

Thunder growled outside the BLU base, a deep, rolling menace that somehow cut through the thick walls. Medic found it strange that the storm’s fury could be heard indoors. Then, another strike, closer this time. The building trembled under its force. Spy, unfazed, took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, the heat curling into his lungs before dissipating in a ghostly swirl. Medic coughed sharply, his much healthier lungs protesting against the unwelcome intrusion of smoke.

A dull ache gnawed at his legs, forcing him to double over as his coughing turned ragged. Jonas tried to draw in air, but the cigarette haze found its way into his lungs once again. Spy, eyes flickering toward the struggling Doctor, sighed. With a reluctant flick, he dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. Then, after a beat of hesitation, he reached out, pressing a hand against Jonas’ back. An oddly careful gesture.

Once the smoke from their area disappears into the ventilation, Jonas reaches towards his chest as he finally takes a clearier breath in, with small more controlled coughs, Medic recovers. Spy removes his hand and places it on his back.

“I see you’ve haven’t smoke before”

“Ugh, Ja, never saw the appeal”

“Hm”

They resumed their walk, though the ache in Jonas’ legs slowly returned, gnawing at him once more. He clenched his jaw, pressing forward despite the discomfort. As he inhaled again, another scent mingled with the remnants of smoke, gunpowder and whiskey.

"Who am I going to meet next?" Medic asked warily.

"A drunk and his idiotic friend."

"I thought drinking on the job was against protocol?"

Spy chuckled, "So did I—until I met the Demoman."

As they neared their destination, the pungent smell grew stronger. Even Spy, who had long acclimated to the base’s questionable hygiene, found the stench unbearable. There was no doubt about it, the source was coming from a testing room.

Spy sighed. “I already regret this.”

Medic grinned, amused at Spy’s attitude, “I’m sure they are fine”

“Ah, if only they could act like adults”

Spy pushed the heavy steel door open with a deliberate force. What lay beyond was nothing short of a battlefield—empty bottles, scattered ammunition, overturned tables stacked like makeshift barricades. A torn American flag hung haphazardly across one of the tables, as if someone had made a half-hearted attempt at decorating.

In the heart of the chaos stood a man, his helmet tilted, barking orders into the void. Opposite him, another lounged lazily, a bottle in hand, watching with detached amusement and mild concern.

“DEMO, YA HEAR THAT?” the helmeted man shouted.

“Ay, the storm’s getting worse Solly-”

"NO, THE ENEMY HAS BREACHED OUR DEFENSES! WE MUST ATTACK IMMEDIATELY!"

"I believe there's no need for such idiotic decision-making, Soldier," Spy interjected.

At that, Soldier pulled a pocket knife from his uniform, pointing it at Spy with trembling hands, clenched teeth, wide-eyed. Demo scrambled to get up, reaching toward his erratic comrade.

“OH HOHOH, AN ENEMY SPY ONCE AGAIN ATTEMPTING TO TAKE ME AND MY FELLOW SOLDIER’S LIFE? I DO NOT THINK SO RED SCUM.”

Jonas instinctively took a deep breath—an innocent act that drew Soldier’s attention like a hawk, or in this case eagle, spotting prey.

“Sol-”

“AH, YOU BROUGHT SALLY? AS IF A HEALING ADVANTAGE WILL GET YOU ANYWHERE COWARD!”

“I believe this is some sort of mistake, I am-”

Spy sighed, unimpressed. "This is our Doctor, Soldier. Get a grip and stop acting like a child."

Demo waved apologetically toward Medic. "It ain't his fault, Spy. Ye should know that. Ah, sorry Medic, such bloody bad timing.”

At this point the only thing Jonas was thankful for was the surprisingly dim lights in this current room that calmed his headache and the level-headedness of the two personalities known as Spy and Demoman.

Then, as if fate wished to push the absurdity further, Demo suddenly tripped over nothing. In a frantic attempt to steady himself, he grabbed onto Soldier, the force causes Solder to tip over and land onto a half empty bottle of alcohol. Soldier lands on the bottle and it basically explodes with the weight of the two men. Demo grunts and Soldier screams. The noise causes Medic to take a step back and Spy to roll his eyes at the pathetic display.

Soldier sprang upright with ridiculous speed—unfortunately, the force sent Demo tumbling back toward his former chair, completing the cycle of pure chaos. Demo just hangs his head, promptly giving up as Soldier once again yells once more.

“SPY! MEDIC!” He stormed over, boots thudding against the concrete floor.

“IT IS TIME FOR WAR PREPARATIONS!”

“War preparations?” Both Spy and Medic ask with varying amounts of confusion. Medic becomes more worried as he tightly grips his gloved hands.

The storm raged on, and with another thunderous crack, Soldier jolted, his instincts overriding reason as he dove beneath the nearest table. Demo exhaled through his nose, watching as Soldier curled in on himself, trembling in place for a long, silent moment.

Medic steps forward, concern flickering across his face, but before he could take another step, Spy’s gloved hand shot out, halting him with a firm grip and a slight shake of his head.

“Imbeciles,” Spy muttered under his breath, barely concealing his irritation. Medic’s expression twisted into something more cautious.

“Does he always do this?” “Yes—”

“Nah, he—” Spy and Demo exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken conversation passing between them before Demo shifted his attention back to Jonas.

“Solly doesn’t handle loud noises well. Somethin’ about the war,” he explained, tilting his head toward the man still mumbling under his breath.

“He doesn’t like talkin’ about it.”

Medic observed Soldier for a moment longer, the tension in his posture, the distant look in his eyes. “A case of shell-shock?”

Demo nodded slightly. “It seems so.”

Despite Spy’s silent but unmistakable disapproval, Medic nudged his arm aside and stepped forward. His movements were deliberate—slow, calculated. Spy lingered near the edge of the room, watching with narrowed eyes, unwilling to interfere but unwilling to ignore, either. Demoman, half-reclined against a wooden crate, observed Medic’s approach through the haze of liquor and concern.

Under the table, Soldier was folded into himself, knees drawn up, helmet gripped tight against his head as though trying to block out the world. His breath came in erratic bursts, too fast, too shallow. Sweat pooled along his temples, his body trembling violently.

Medic lowered himself into a crouch, easing into Soldier’s line of sight without making sudden movements. His voice came low, careful, gentle in a way the other two wouldn’t expect from a Medic.

“Soldier?” A strangled noise—a growl of resistance, of denial.

“Nrrh, no—” His fingers dug into the sides of his helmet.

Medic inhaled slowly, exhaling just as deliberately, a controlled rhythm designed to coax steadiness into the suffocating panic around them.

“You are safe, Soldier,” Medic said, watching him carefully, tone unwavering.

“I promise you.”

Cautiously, Medic reached for Soldier’s helmet, lifting it only slightly, revealing the raw fear buried behind dulled blue eyes.

“You are in BLU’s base,” Medic continued, grounding him in reality, giving him something firm to latch onto.

“Look around.” Soldier’s gaze darted wildly, erratic, unable to settle, but then, slowly, Medic gestured.

“Look, Demoman is here too.” Demo, whose expression had shifted from amusement to deep concern, gave a small nod, lowering himself slightly to be eye level.

“Aye,” he rumbled, uncharacteristically soft. “I’m here, Solly. See?”

Soldier’s rapid breathing hitched, his unfocused gaze bouncing between Medic and Demo. He flinched at nothing, or maybe at everything. At memories Medic couldn’t see but recognized all too well

Medic’s voice remained gentle, unfaltering. “What do you see around you?”

Soldier hesitated, his muscles tensing like he expected something to leap at him from the shadows. But then, his gaze settled on a particular spot on the wall. His breathing remained uneven, but his lips parted.

“I see blood-”

Demo cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting. “Aye…that was me. Sorry.”

Soldier blinked as if startled back into the present, as if realizing, really realizing, where he was.

“I see…tables.”

“Good.” Medic nodded, reaffirming. “Now, what do you hear?”

Soldier swallowed hard, the tremors in his hands refusing to cease. “Grrh—your voice.”

“And how do you feel?”

Soldier’s breath hitched. He stiffened. His pupils contracted.

“I—”

Suddenly, movement, way too fast for anyone else to react. Soldier lurched upright, knocking his helmet askew as Medic’s fingers slipped from it. Without a word, without even the semblance of composure, he turned and bolted from the room, his boots striking the concrete floor with sharp, echoing steps until they faded entirely.

The three left behind stood in stunned silence, the ghost of Soldier’s presence hanging in the air like residual static.

Medic slowly straightened, rubbing his gloved hands together, deep in thought. He stared at the spot where Soldier had sat moments before.

Demo exhaled a slow breath, running a hand over his face before looking toward Medic.

“How’d ya manage to snap him outta it?” he asked, disbelief laced in his voice. “I feel like I tried everythin’.”

Medic flexed his fingers absently, his voice quiet but firm. “I have helped a handful of veterans while I was working.”

The weight of that statement was not lost on Spy nor Demo.

Demo’s eye widened slightly, as did Spy’s. But neither pressed further. Some things weren’t meant to be picked apart.

Spy cleared his throat sharply, pressing his fist against his lips. Jonas immediately noted the wheezing behind it.

“I do believe it is time we move onto your infirmary, Medic,” Spy muttered.

Medic exhaled, adjusting his coat. “Ah, right.”

Demo gave a quick nod, shifting his bottle in hand. “Nice seein’ ya…and thanks.”

Jonas nodded in return before stepping away, his thoughts still lingering on the retreating footsteps of the man they had just tried to pull back to reality.

-

Spy stopped abruptly in front of Jonas’ new infirmary, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp with assessment. The door stood slightly ajar, its thick glass reflecting the dim overhead lights of the hallway. Despite its proximity to the mercenaries’ quarters, the kitchen, and Engie’s workspace, something about this section of the base felt…wrong. Isolated. Forgotten.

The lights inside were off, leaving the space steeped in shadow, giving it the unsettling stillness of a haunted house, abandoned yet waiting. Spy exhaled, nodding toward the doorway with an indifferent glance.

“This is your new room,” he murmured, adjusting his cufflinks. His tone was clipped, mildly irritated, though not directed at Jonas himself. “Do try not to make a mess of this one.”

Medic let out a short chuckle, though fatigue weighed it down. “Danke, Spy. Is that all?”

Spy hummed in response, already stepping away. “Mhm. If you need me, I will be in my smoking room.”

There was a sharp whooshing sound, and before Medic could ask, “Wait—where is the—” Spy was gone.

Medic blinked at the empty hallway, sighing. “Smoking room…”

He turned back to the infirmary door, gripping the handle and easing it open. The hinges protested with a drawn-out squeak, the sound cutting through the stillness like nails on a chalkboard. Medic made a mental note to ask Engie to fix that.

The darkness inside was thick, pressing against him as he stepped forward. He reached out, palms trailing along the cold walls, searching for the light switch. The door slipped from his grasp, swinging shut behind him with a sudden, deafening slam.

He flinched.

But he didn’t stop searching.

His fingers brushed against two switches, and without hesitation, he flicked them both on.

Blinding white light flooded the room.

A sharp hiss slipped through Medic’s teeth as he instinctively shielded his eyes, his head throbbing for what felt like the tenth time that day. He groaned, peeling one hand away from his face to fumble for the switches again, forcing one off. The intensity softened, leaving a manageable glow.

Finally, he exhaled, lowering his hands, taking in his surroundings.

The infirmary was…functional, though eerily untouched. Two lightboxes hung on the walls, dim with age. A heart monitor sat coated in dust, unused for far too long. In the center of the room stood a surgical table, its metal surface reflecting the overhead lights like a ghost of past procedures.

His gaze drifted to the cabinets, likely empty, hopefully empty.

Then, something caught his eye.

A stand.

Something rested upon it, something unfamiliar, something that looked more like a child’s science project than medical equipment. A massive needle-like device with a nozzle at its tip and a handle beneath it.

He squinted at the faint lettering scratched into the metal.

‘The Quick-Fix’

Medic furrowed his brow, scratching his head in confusion.

Next to it sat a container filled with vibrant blue liquid, hoses connecting it to the device, an unknown substance, strangely bright, almost candy-colored.

He exhaled, filing the curiosity away for later.

Moving past the stand, he found another door. Upon opening it, he was greeted by a smaller space. His room.

Plain. Shades of blue and gray.

A simple closet stood in the corner, empty except for a few hangers swaying slightly from the disturbance. The bed, a modest twin bed, it looked…strangely inviting. As he pressed his palm against it, the mattress yielded gently beneath his touch.

He blinked, exhaustion seeping into his limbs, clouding his thoughts.

Without another second wasted, he removed his boots and all but collapsed onto the bed.

He didn’t bother pulling the blanket over himself. His body was already sinking into the quiet, his mind slipping past the edge of consciousness.

Sleep took him swiftly.

-

Outside the infirmary, near the entrance to his room, silent footsteps echoed against the concrete floor.

A figure approached, careful, deliberate.

They eased the door open, without a sound this time, placing a set of luggage and a bag at the threshold.

Then, with a quiet chuckle, they left behind a note, resting it where Medic would find it upon waking.

Chapter Text

Jonas stirred awake, greeted not by morning light but by a smothering darkness that seemed heavier than usual. He blinked slowly, unwilling to face the day, letting his gaze drift lazily across the shadows of his room. Before long, his eyelids gave up the fight and fluttered shut again.

Something felt... off.

Thuds echoed above him—booming stomps. Shouts. Angry voices. What the hell were his neighbors doing? He rolled onto his side, seeking comfort, exhaled deeply, and began to drift.
The noise only intensified. Closer. More erratic. His mind began to dull, melting into the chaos like it were background noise in a fever dream. A door squeaked somewhere. Something heavy dropped. He could hear it all—muffled, garbled, like a distant storm.

Then, BANG. His bedroom door slammed open, slicing through the haze like a flash grenade.

Jonas shot upright.

Blinding light stabbed his eyes, forcing his hand to shield his face as if fending off the sun itself. A towering figure barged in, voice already at full volume.

“GET UP, MAGGOT! YOU’RE LATE FOR TRAINING!”

Jonas flinched. “Soldier—?”

The man stormed closer, a storm wrapped in a fur-lined ushanka, gripping his hat like it were a weapon. He halted at the bed’s edge and pointed directly at Jonas.

“Listen up, Sally, and listen good!” he barked. “War doesn’t wait for weaklings. Get moving before I turn you into a REAL man!”

Jonas clenched his light blue sheets, chest pounding. He wasn’t ready. Not for war. Not to be a battle medic. Just the thought made him shiver.

He scrambled out of bed, earning a rare approving nod from Soldier. Then he darted to the closet, tearing it open to reveal his new uniform: thick pale-blue lab coat, a turtleneck base layer, heavy-duty pants, and boots lined with fur. Functional. Stark. Cold.

“You’ve got five minutes, Sally!” Soldier thundered. “Unless you fancy trash duty for a week!”

With that, Soldier vanished, slamming the door with enough force to rattle Jonas’ nerves even more.
Jonas stared at the empty space, then down at the uniform. His lips curled into a reluctant frown.

He dressed slowly, each item forming a protective shell. The coat hugged him like quiet reassurance, but the dread clung tighter. By the time he reached the doors, he spotted his luggage toppled carelessly on the floor. He snorted, setting it upright.

Step by step, the hallway loomed ahead like a tunnel into another life. His pulse quickened, fingers tingling despite the gloves. Eyes locked to the ground, he marched forward.

In the distance, Soldier's voice rang out again—wild, erratic, unintelligible.

 

Jonas turns the corner and lifts his head, the conversations beginning to become more clear. He covers his eyes for a second to process the bright lights that were now all on.

“It just ain’t right, hell, I can’t say if it's edible.”

“IT'S AN AMERICAN BREAKFAST”

“It’s bloody charcoal”

On the pan sat a blackened lump that might have once been eggs, accompanied by a charred mystery rectangle—was that bacon? Toast? A gravestone for flavor? His nose wrinkled instinctively as the stench of burnt food clawed at his nostrils.

With a woosh, Spy appears at an unfortunate timing.

“What is that revolting stench?” he hissed.

“Solly tried makin’ breakfast,” Demo muttered from the table, not even glancing up.

“AN AMERICAN BREAKFAST!” Soldier repeated, chest puffed.

“Oh hey, moring Doc, what's for—” Scout paused mid-greeting as he entered, flanked by Pyro. His eyes locked on the crime scene in the pan. His face twisted.

“What the—wasn’t it Engie’s turn to cook?” he barked.

Engineer shrugged from the table, gesturing with exaggerated finger quotes. “Soldier wanted to give the doc a ‘welcoming gift’.”

Footsteps heavy as guilt echoed in from the hallway. Jonas turned and saw Heavy approaching, stone-faced, scanning the room with sleepy detachment before locking eyes with Medic. He gave a small, lazy wave. Jonas returned it with an uncertain smile, eyebrows pulled together.

Spy, ever disgusted, cleared his throat. “Well. This monstrosity clearly isn’t fit for consumption. Engineer.”

Engie perked up at the nickname, slightly startling the half-awake Sniper next to him. After a pause, he sighed, adjusted his goggles and ushanka, and trudged to the fridge, muttering under his breath.

“What’s happening now?” Jonas asked.

Scout folded his arms, pouting like a rejected toddler. “Frickin’ Soldier burned everything and now we gotta wait.”

“Quit your whining,” Spy snapped as he turned away.

“Yeah yeah, screw off, Spy.” Scout stomped past Jonas, collapsing on the living room couch.

Spy seemingly vanishes in thin air. Soldier was officially banned from the stove, retreating in fury to the dining room, mumbling curses about “ingrates” and “culinary disrespect.” Jonas took one last glance at the mess and retreated to the one place that made sense, his infirmary.

“Let me know when breakfast is edible,” he said, half-chuckling. “I am very much starving.”

“No prob, Doc,” Scout waved lazily from the couch.

Back in his room, Jonas dropped his luggage with a thud. His room was in chaos. His first thought was to begin to clean.

Domestic chores.

Things he hadn’t thought about in ages.

He places his luggage on its side, then in the corner of his eye, he finds something white falling onto his floor. It looks like a crumpled sheet of paper. He looks around, dread builds in the pit of his stomach. He holds the paper in his hands for a moment. Then a second longer. He stares at the crumbled paper before he opens it quickly.

Jonas’ eyes closed in relief, it was a note from the Heavy. He sighs and places the note into his pocket. He goes to his room with a smile on his face.

 

He dropped into the squeaky desk chair and glanced at a pile of outdated medical checkups. Some dated back four years. Spy had warned him, no one came to the Medic’s care willingly. He tore off a corner of one old chart. Rubbed his face. Just sat there for a moment, hand draped across his cheek.

With loud and quick steps, Scout appears in front of the infirmary doors, out of breath. Scout takes a moment to recover with a hand on his chest then his head perks up towards the confused Jonas.

“Come quick! Before Soldier and Sniper eats it all!” Scout yells.

Jonas bolted to his feet, adrenaline kicking in.

‘How long has it been?’, he thinks for a second.

He sprinted behind Scout, rounding the hallway corner just in time to see Scout snatching his portion with practiced speed. Jonas scanned the stove, there wasn’t much left... A sliver of scrambled eggs and a glistening piece of ham.

He finds himself sitting next to Heavy who has a decent portion of breakfast. He takes a bite of scrambled eggs. His mouth forces him to smile, the taste was heavenly. He looks around the room to find the Engineer to thank him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t find the texan anywhere.

Heavy glanced over at Jonas, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. The medic’s plate was practically spotless. For someone so cautious, he’d devoured his meal with quiet urgency.

Heavy turned back to his own plate, but he could feel Jonas’ gaze lingering. Just at the edge of his vision, he saw the medic eyeing the remaining eggs.

With a soft chuckle, Heavy scooped his eggs and said gently, his voice more tender than usual, “If Doctor wishes for more, he only has to ask. There is no need to starve in silence.”

Jonas blinks. “I... I would appreciate that,” he said, sheepish but sincere. “Scout wasn’t exaggerating about everyone swiping food.”

Heavy nodded with a knowing smirk. “Soldier treats breakfast like battlefield. And Sniper? He only crawls out if Engineer cooks.”

Jonas smiled faintly, watching the eggs transfer to his plate.

“They’re all a bit eccentric, aren’t they?”

Heavy pauses, the serving spoon hovering. “They are... close, those two. Almost makes Heavy jealous.” His tone laced with something quiet.

Heavy gently scooped another helping of eggs onto Jonas’ plate, then tucked a thick slice of ham beside it with careful precision—like someone who’d prepared meals for a younger sibling more times than he’d admit.

“Eat slower this time, Doctor,” he said with a soft smirk. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick on the battlefield.”

Jonas paused mid-bite, blinking. The words hung heavier than expected, laced with the kind of concern rarely spoken aloud.

“I... won’t have to worry about that for a while,” Jonas replied, managing a smile as he swallowed. “I only got here yesterday.”

Heavy didn’t respond right away. He stared at Jonas for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Time moves quickly,” he said at last, quietly, almost to himself.

And then, with the grace of a man used to swallowing memories whole, he returned to his breakfast as if the moment had never passed.

The warmth of breakfast still lingered in Jonas’ stomach, anchoring him in a rare moment of contentment. Around him, the buzz of conversation had settled into quiet chewing and the occasional clink of silverware—signs that, for now, even the loudest of personalities were satisfied.

 

Back in the infirmary, he let the silence wash over him before turning his gaze to the desk, where a cluttered pile of papers sat at his desk. Just like how he left it.

He brushed his thumb along the ink-streaked surface, tracing over discolored text and smudged notes written in erratic, almost desperate handwriting.

It was barely legible. Slashes of ink crisscrossed the margins. Phrases like “success” and “failure” stood out, scattered like cryptic confessions among the chaos. Jonas narrowed his eyes. The handwriting wasn't just messy—it was unstable, emotionally charged. Unprofessional.

Jonas let out a quiet breath through his nose, brow furrowing. What had the previous Medic done? What kind of damage had been left behind—emotional, physical, maybe both? He half-joked to himself that the team’s fear resembled the panic of children facing booster shots, but it didn’t sit right. Children feared the unknown.

These men feared something they remembered.

He thought of Spy flinching when asked about how the team felt about Doctors, fingers curling instinctively around his own throat. Of Pyro’s steady, unreadable gaze, eyes too focused, too alert. Of Sniper, practically bristling with hostility at the first announcement of him. Of Heavy—who bore sorrow in silence until it cracked, just briefly, into unexpected trust.

He shakes his head, clearing the train of thoughts.

The outdated documents were almost useless. No way to tell if the stats were accurate or even if they belonged to this team anymore. He’d have to start fresh.

He grabbed a blank sheet of paper and began to sketch out a format. Nothing invasive. Just the basics. Weight, height, dietary habits, allergies. Small checkboxes. Then, at the bottom, a space for heart rate, lung capacity. A simple exam. Something honest.

Something human.

He nodded slowly in approval. This could work. It was clean, readable, and professional. He flicks the middle of the page with his pointer finger out of habit.

But then the quiet in the room settled into something heavier.

His small smile faltered.

Who, in their right mind, would willingly walk into a doctor’s visit here?

He turned his head slowly toward the hallway, the shadows stretching toward the mess hall. He could picture Soldier pacing in circles, wrestling ghosts only he could see. Spy, retreating into shadows, vanishing before questions got too close. Sniper, jaw set, fists clenched, ready to fight off medical care like an enemy combatant. Heavy, silent again.

Always silent.

His gaze lingered on the stack of outdated documents he’d begun to set aside, those fragments of data and history that pointed to something deeper than normal medical statistics.

These thoughts unsettled him.

Or rather, the weight of them, the fragile psychological aftermath left behind by whoever had filled this role before him, pressed down on his chest with quiet urgency. He wasn’t just afraid of making mistakes. He was terrified that his very presence might unearth something that was better left buried. That somehow, in trying to help, he might make their memories darker.

Jonas reached for a fresh sheet of paper, blank and crisp, untouched by the past. He clicked his pen and paused before scribbling down the names as they came:

Scout

Engineer

Heavy?

Demoman?

From the top of his head, these were the people who seemingly trusted him the most.

He stared at the list for a moment, tapping the side of his pen against the wood. Scout was the obvious one—talkative, energetic, almost too eager. It was as though Jonas’ arrival had solved a problem Scout hadn't bothered to explain. Gratitude, yes, but almost suspiciously enthusiastic.

Engineer, on the other hand, was harder to read. Polite. Calculated. Observant. Jonas couldn't tell if Engie genuinely appreciated his presence, or if he was simply trying to stay on the medic’s good side for psychological advantage. Still, out of everyone, Engineer seemed rational. Someone who understood the importance of preventative care.

Heavy… Jonas hesitated. Heavy offering trust too quickly, almost like a reflex more than a choice. Jonas knew he'd have to approach Heavy with patience, respect, and humility. Trust wouldn't come cheap. It shouldn't come cheap.

Demoman remained a mystery. They'd spoken only one or twice, mostly around Soldier when Jonas had helped settle one of his PTSD episodes. Demoman was friendly, even jovial, but fleeting—like a firework at dusk. Jonas couldn't forget the way he slumped into his seat, eyes glazed from liquor and weariness. Talking to him would require timing. Clarity. Maybe even sobriety.

He studied the names again. Scout and Engineer. Those would be the first. The most approachable. The ones most likely to set the tone. From there, momentum might carry the rest.

Scout chattering about the check-up, casual and light, Pyro listening from the corner with cautious curiosity. Engineer recounting the results to Sniper, whose irritation might mask a quiet interest. From there, Sniper might wander into the infirmary on his own or with Engineer for silent encouragement.

One perfectly normal check. One conversation could ripple across the team. Not fast. Not perfect. But possible.

Chapter Text

Jonas lingered in his seat, a tension settling deep in his chest that made it impossible to commit to the plan he had reluctantly crafted. His body remained still, though his mind spun restlessly, searching for distraction in the scattered paperwork on the nearby desk, some half-filled medical charts, faded memos, and inventory lists that seemed suddenly more absorbing than they had any right to be.

Eventually, his gaze drifted across the infirmary, scanning shelves and corners with a distant hope of identifying something useful. His fingers moved on their own, tugging open cabinet doors and rifling through drawers, though the contents were far from reassuring. Tucked away were sterilized instruments, vials of morphine, and unsettlingly enough, weapons clearly not designed for a man of medicine, tools of violence meant for emergencies far worse than anything he dared imagine.

The bonesaw sat heavy in one drawer, its gleaming surface immaculate and ready. Intellectually chipped on one of its teeth. Unprofessional. Jonas silently prayed that it would stay unused for a while longer, preferably forever.

Unable to shake his unease, he began pacing the infirmary in slow, uneven steps, his thoughts circling like vultures. There was no clarity, no decisive next move, just mounting anxiety and a gnawing feeling that he was wasting precious time. He caught himself biting his lip, a nervous habit he hadn't noticed until the metallic taste crept onto his tongue.

The only course left, he decided, was to seek out Engie or Scout, whichever of them were in his path first. Squaring his shoulders, Jonas drew in a breath and forced a semblance of confidence into his posture, puffing out his chest with rehearsed determination. With one final glance at the cluttered infirmary, he stepped through the squeaky doors that always closed a beat too slowly, announcing his exit with their usual creaky protest.

The hallway greeted him in shadows and silence, the distant hum of machinery barely audible over the sharp, deliberate clomp of his battle boots against the metal flooring. Each step echoed like a warning signal, no doubt alerting anyone nearby to his approach.

As Jonas walked, his thoughts veered toward the base’s layout. He'd memorized its structure long ago, but now the knowledge felt both comforting and suffocating.
He knew the Engineer’s garage was located just around the corner from the infirmary, tucked near the generator rooms. Engie was reliable, always tinkering with something, constantly consumed by new projects that kept the base functional. That would be his first stop.

Arriving at the garage, Jonas noticed the lights were off and the door closed tight. The absence of activity was almost eerie. He paused, letting the silence settle for a moment before lifting his arm, forming a tight fist, and rapping it against the metal panel—two firm, echoing knocks that broke the stillness like thunder.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Jonas lingered by the closed shutter, his posture tense with quiet expectancy. He half-hoped to hear the telltale clank of mechanisms and catch a glimpse of Engineer’s weary silhouette lifting the panel. But the silence remained stubborn, broken only by the faint hum of the base. He sighed, the corner of his mouth dipping into a frown, and turned away, his boots thudding softly against the floor as he made his way toward the living room.

As he crossed the threshold, warm light flickered across the walls—an unexpected sight. The television crackled faintly with life. Jonas let out a short, amused huff. So Engie had gotten around to fixing it after breakfast. That meant he had to be nearby, right?

He approached quietly, peering over the back of the couch. There sat Scout, slouched like a discarded rag doll, his eyes glazed with apathy as they flicked toward the aging screen. Jonas followed the boy’s gaze. A grainy advertisement. Saxton Hale, unmistakable and absurd, was preaching the virtues of a soap bar allegedly infused with slivers of Australium for “extra strength.” The footage wobbled and flickered like an old war reel. Jonas couldn't help the snort that escaped him.

“Ridiculous,” he murmured under his breath, lips curled in a smile.

He leaned over again, more curious than before. Scout’s lashes fluttered like leaves on the verge of falling, his eyelids drifting open and closed with languid resistance. Jonas rolled his eyes and gave a deliberately audible cough.

“Ehem.”

Scout jerked slightly, his eyes slow to register the intrusion. Then, recognition sparked. His features shifted with rapid clarity, from dull confusion to wild alertness.

“What?” he croaked, blinking at Jonas like he’d just woken from a dream. Then, in a flurry of limbs, he launched himself upright.

Jonas blinked at the display, bemused by the sheer drama of it. He gave a soft chuckle, the kind born from shared absurdity, and shook his head. Scout’s tension visibly melted at the sound. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, the movement awkward yet familiar.

“Ah, sorry doc,” Scout said with a sheepish grin. “Was startin’ to nod off. You need somethin’?”

Scout’s gaze dipped momentarily toward the floor, lashes fluttering as if trying to will away his drowsiness. When his eyes lifted again, they were wide and alert, brows raised, not just attentive, but actively fighting the pull of sleep. His posture straightened slightly, the effort almost tangible.

Jonas cleared his throat, gentler this time. “Ah, yes, forgive me for interrupting your nap,” he began with a sheepish tilt of his head. His eyes strayed to the flickering television for a brief second, almost as though stalling. “But, could I ask you for a favor? I swear it’ll only take ten minutes.”

Scout cocked his head, curiosity sparking behind the lingering haze of exhaustion. “A favor, huh?” he murmured, lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Sure… what is it?”
Jonas parted his lips to answer, but hesitated. The words hovered at the edge of his throat, tangled in a net of uncertainty. He shut his mouth again, brows pinching as he gathered himself. One breath. Then another. Finally, with a soft voice that carried both resolve and reluctance, he asked, “Would you mind… if I did a quick medical check-up?”

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Scout’s smile faltered, replaced by a slackness in his face. His shoulders sagged, not dramatically, but enough to feel the weight of something unspoken between them. Jonas noticed the reaction, and instinctively looked away, the confidence in his request folding inward like a paper crane collapsing. He offered a nervous smile to the floorboards instead, fingers brushing against his coat pocket.

The hum of the TV seemed louder now, filling the silence with static noise that didn’t quite drown the discomfort. Jonas didn’t dare meet Scout’s eyes.

After a moment, Scout spoke, voice thin, uncertain. “Uh… okay?” The words hung in the air, hesitant but not resistant.

“Follow me to the infirmary then,” Jonas said, his voice steady yet tinged with weariness.A sense of relief swept over him. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, his back now to Scout, and began walking down the dim corridor.

Scout didn’t move right away.

His legs felt slow to obey, instead he lingered, just long enough for the silence to feel abnormal. His fist tightened until his knuckles blanched, trembling slightly as beads of sweat seeped from his palm. His eyes bore into Medic’s retreating figure.

The hallway swallowed them. Long stretches of sterile tile and flickering lights offered no sense of time. Each echo of their footsteps sounded wrong. Too loud, too hollow. Scout kept his eyes forward, posture stiff, as if forcing himself to mimic normality. His chest tightened, not with panic, just tension with nowhere to go. He didn’t look at Jonas.

There was no need.

The absence between them felt deliberate.

Scout’s heartbeat thudded wildly against his ribs, faster than during any sprint. It’s erratic, clawing at his chest.

His gaze stayed pinned to the scuffed floor, his mind a cacophony of alarms. Run. Now. Anywhere.

But his legs moved forward.

Medic slowed his pace and glanced over his shoulder, catching Scout in a trance-like walk.

“Everything alright?” he asked softly.

Scout gave a small nod, forcing a tight smile that barely curled the corners of his mouth, though it felt like muscle memory more than feeling.

Medic mirrored the expression, strained and hesitant, no doubt for a different reason.

A soft, almost playful hum rose in the silence between their footsteps. Scout froze mid-step. The tune drifted down the corridor like smoke, whimsical and familiar, notes laced with innocence.

Scout didn’t react outwardly, but he registered it. Deeply.

The melody pulled at something loose in his memory, something shelved long ago. Childlike. Unsettling in context. His steps faltered just slightly.

Then, the melody vanished abruptly. Scout’s breath caught. Something hollow opened up in his chest.

“Eh… whatcha humming there?” His voice cracked mid-question.

Medic glanced over. “Hm? Just something I’ve heard the nurses hum occasionally.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To calm infants, I believe,” Medic replied, fiddling nervously with his hands clasped behind his back. His fingers tapped and fidgeted, unable to settle.

Scout stopped walking entirely.

The melody had pierced through a fog he didn’t realize had been gathering. Vague images clawed their way up, childhood remnants barely stitched together. A woman’s face, soft but obscured, as if seen through fogged glass. Her voice was clearer, floating to him with lullaby-like precision.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”

The words weren’t said aloud, but they resonated like distant chimes. His lips parted but no sound escaped. The words echoed inside him like distant bells through heavy mist. His vision blurred, not with tears, but with clarity too sharp to bear.

Jonas stopped abruptly, sensing the absence of footsteps behind him. Scout standing motionless, his gaze fixed on the floor with eyes that didn’t blink. He seemed frozen, yet oddly composed.

“Scout?” Jonas said.

No response. Just stillness.

Jonas stood still, unease creeping under his skin. The scene before him was too familiar in shape but distorted in tone. Normally, when someone slipped into that vacant, glassy-eyed state, unresponsive and adrift, protocol was simple. You called the nurses. They came quickly, calm and practiced, with routines designed to coax the lost ones back. But this wasn’t quite that.

Shell-shock was a different beast. He’d seen it before. He’s seen the hollowed stare, the sudden flinch at nothing, the way the past dug claws into the present. This wasn’t that either. Scout’s expression didn’t scream trauma. It was quieter. Submerged. A calm that felt wrong.

Jonas felt a question settle heavily on his shoulders. When someone drifts too far to reach, what anchors them? It echoed in his mind, looping without answer.

He tilted his head back, gaze sliding toward the ceiling like it might offer some divine suggestion. Instead, he found himself fixated on the overhead lights, dull, faintly flickering, casting sterile halos on the walls. He stared too long. The strain bloomed behind his eyes, subtle and persistent, a warning throb in his temples.

Now he had a headache. And a teammate locked in some silent episode triggered by...what?

The humming? A memory? Something deeper?

Jonas drew in a breath and tried to recall the nurses he’d worked alongside. The seasoned ones, gentle yet firm, who knew how to step into silence and guide someone out. They had methods. Tactile prompts. Whispered reassurances. Familiar sensations that reconnected floating minds to their bodies.

He shifted his weight, hands brushing together absently. The uncertainty lingered, coiled tight in his stomach. What they were trained to do was simple. But this moment felt like something else entirely.

Jonas doesn’t rely on instinct. He relies on routine, but routine fails him here.

He watches Scout for a moment longer, still, unfocused, almost forgotten by the present. The corridor presses in with sterile quiet, and time seems to stretch unnaturally. Jonas feels the ache behind his eyes tighten, but he pushes past it. The nurses had told him once:

Ground through gentle senses, not force.

So he steps forward slowly, not toward Scout’s face, but near his shoulder, close enough to be felt, not startled. He kneels slightly to soften his height and says nothing at first.

Just presence. No urgency.

Then he reaches into his coat pocket to find something and he feels a small square packet. He pulls out a small wrapped antiseptic wipe, crinkly plastic, familiar texture. He tears the corner gently, letting the sound slice through the silence. Deliberate. Contained. The sharp smell of alcohol lifts in the air, subtle but unmistakable.

He doesn’t press it against Scout. Instead, he lets it hover in his own hand between them, where the sterile sting might drift into Scout’s awareness.

“Hey,” Jonas murmurs, voice low. “You’re still here, Scout”

Something flickers.

No question, no demand. Just a statement to be heard.

Scout’s eyes twitch slightly. Not quite blinking, not yet aware, but the recognition of sensation begins, the faint scent, the crisp sound, the cadence of Jonas’ tone. His fingers twitch just once by his side.

Jonas doesn’t push. He stays there, kneeling at eye-level, a quiet anchor in a hallway that suddenly feels less hollow.

Scout doesn’t move at first. The scent hits him faintly, sterile, crisp, like old memories. It crawls into the edges of his awareness, subtle but insistent.

His eyes don’t lift, but something shifts behind them. The stillness isn’t vacant anymore.

It’s holding its breath.

The antiseptic cuts through the fog in his head like a blade tracing glass. Familiar. Not comforting, but present.

Medic’s words echo softly.

You’re still here.

Scout’s fingers twitch by his side. A small gesture, easy to miss. His lips part slightly, not to speak, but as if they’d forgotten how to shape sound. His gaze flickers, once, toward the antiseptic wipe, then away again. Not with fear. Not recognition either. Just... process.

His shoulders lower a fraction, the stiffness bleeding out of them as if the moment itself exhaled.

Then he blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Slowly, he lifts his head, not all the way, and glances toward Medic. His expression is muted, restrained. Not confusion. Not clarity. Something between. He opens his mouth.

“I—uh…”

The voice is hoarse. Underused. He clears his throat gently, as though the act might reconnect him to the present. Still detached, still floating, but no longer untethered.

Jonas doesn’t rush him.

Scout’s eyes settle on the crinkled packet in Medic’s hand.

“That smell,” Scout murmured, voice barely above a whisper, his nose crinkling as the sharp sting of antiseptic rose to meet him.

“Smells awful,” Scout replied with a dry chuckle, the kind meant to fill empty space more than express amusement.

Jonas tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Scout?”

“Yeah?” came the response, casually tossed back without eye contact.

Jonas straightened to his full height, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he gave himself quiet credit for thinking ahead, though the harsh odor of the wipe made the headache pulsing at his temples throb just a little harder. He briskly slipped the offending cloth into his coat pocket and shook off the discomfort.

“We still have that exam to get through,” he said, tone firm but not unfriendly.

“Oh—right. Sorry about that.” Scout glanced down, fingers absently tugging at the loose edge of the bandages wrapped around his knuckles, the fabric already starting to fray.

They fell into step without another word, heading toward the infirmary. Their pace was brisk, but the silence between them dragged like heavy fabric. Jonas had expected Scout to be louder, more brash or talkative, maybe even distractingly so, but instead, the quiet pressed in around them. He stole a glance at his companion, concern flickering in his eyes. If Scout noticed, he gave no reaction.

When Jonas pushed open the doors to the infirmary, the hinges let out a loud, jarring creak that echoed through the dim space. He winced instinctively, muttering a curse under his breath out of pure habit. Scout snorted with amusement, the sudden burst of sound feeling oddly out of place.

Jonas gestured toward the lone medical chair beneath the muted ceiling lights. “Sit while I grab my list.”

Scout nodded and sank into the seat, no complaints, no protest. The room was darker than he'd expected, nothing like Medic’s usual place, where every surface gleamed and the fluorescent lighting felt clinical enough to sterilize your thoughts. Maybe this Medic wasn’t fond of brightness either.

Jonas walked over to the cluttered desk, papers stacked haphazardly like a crumbling monument to bureaucracy. He sifted through the mess methodically until his fingers landed on the checklist he'd prepared. Glancing back toward Scout, he asked conversationally,

“Where did Engineer run off to?”

Scout blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? Oh! Engie? Yeah, he went to the store nearby, with Sniper and Heavy, I think.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“Not sure. Maybe just restocking for dinner. Could be.”

Jonas nodded slowly, accepting the vague reply, then refocused. “Switching topics, do you have any questions before we begin the exam?”

Scout considered it for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. “What exactly are you checking for?”

Jonas flipped the page and scanned it quickly. “Nothing invasive. I’ll ask about your diet, any known allergies, your height and weight. After that, we’ll do some basic tests, lung capacity and heart rate.”

He paused, mentally running through the steps one more time.

“Hopefully, it won’t take long,” he added with a reassuring tone.

“Alright,” Scout replied, his voice neutral, agreeable, but still guarded.

Jonas reached across the cluttered desk and plucked the nearest stethoscope from a tangled pile, the tubing cool against his fingers. He looped it smoothly around his neck with practiced ease, letting the metal chestpiece rest gently against his collarbone. He tapped the edge of his pen against his checklist, the rhythmic click breaking the ambient quiet of the infirmary.

“Any known allergies?” he asked, his tone even, eyes flicking briefly up from the paper.

Scout sat reclined in the faded medical chair, his posture casual but alert. “Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘p’ with a little grin.

“Typical diet?”

“Bonk, sandwiches… whatever’s around for dinner or breakfast.” Scout paused, then smirked. “Oh, and chips. If Engie’s feeling generous.”

Jonas winced subtly, nose wrinkling as he scribbled the response down. The diet was a mess of carbs and sugar, not the worst he'd ever seen, but it still earned a mental note of concern. He’d patched up patients living on worse, but it always gnawed at him.

“Any history of smoking?”

Scout scoffed, shaking his head. “Not really. I gotta run all day. Wouldn’t let cigarettes mess up my perfect lungs.”

Jonas gave a soft chuckle, appreciating the pride laced into the answer. He jotted it down without pause, the pen carving quick strokes across the clipboard. Then he leaned in, the stethoscope lifted from his chest and pressed lightly against Scout’s back.

“Big breath in,” he instructed, voice quiet but steady.

Scout obeyed, pulling in air through his nose, holding it for a beat, and exhaling slowly. Jonas moved the diaphragm to the front and repeated the process, listening intently for any hitch or irregularity. Scout began chatting idly,his voice slightly muffled as he described his favorite Bonk flavor (grape, apparently) and speculated aloud about what the drink was even made of.

Jonas smiled faintly at the distraction, thankful for the light conversation. Everything sounded normal, heart rhythmic, lungs clear. He clicked his pen shut, satisfied.

“Alright then,” he said, gesturing toward the old scale tucked near the wall. It looked like it had seen better days, the platform slightly tilted, the numbers dulled with age.

“Hop on. Let’s see if this relic still works.”

Jonas motioned toward the battered scale resting crookedly against the infirmary wall. The faded numbers barely peeked through the clouded glass display, and one of the metal corners looked like it had lost a fight with someone's boot.

Scout approached slowly, giving the contraption a wary side-eye. “This thing still works?” he asked, his voice dripping with doubt. He nudged the edge with his toe, half-expecting it to collapse or spark to life.

Jonas didn’t look up. “Just stand on it.”

Scout sighed and stepped on, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the wall as the scale groaned under his weight. He leaned back slightly, as if testing its limits. “Feels like I’m about to be launched,” he muttered. “We sure this ain’t some secret teleportation pad Medic rigged up for emergencies?”

Jonas smirked faintly but didn't take the bait.

Scout glanced at him. “What’s the verdict? Am I still in lightweight champ territory?”

Jonas gave a neutral shrug. “Still scrawny, but stable.”

Scout hopped off with mock pride. “Scrawny means athletic, anyway.”

Jonas scribbled down the measurement with barely a glance and led him a few steps further to a makeshift height chart, a ruler taped vertically along the edge of a dusty cabinet, improvised but effective.

“Stand straight. Chin up a little,” Jonas said, holding the clipboard level with Scout’s scalp to get a rough read. Scout tilted his gaze upward with an incredulous half-smile.

“Really?” he muttered, eyes flicking between Jonas and the taped ruler. “This is how we’re doin’ it?”

Jonas didn’t look up, voice calm and clinical. “It's accurate enough. Just stand still.”

Scout rolled his eyes playfully but stayed put, chin lifted and back straight, though the corners of his mouth twitched with barely contained laughter.

“I feel like I’m gettin’ measured by my Ma before the first day of school,” he joked. “You gonna write this down in crayon?”

Jonas gave a dry exhale, almost a laugh, but didn’t break focus. “Not unless your height’s changed since last semester.”

“Only upwards,” Scout said with mock confidence. “I’m definitely taller. Probably from all the Bonk.”

Jonas didn’t dignify that with a reply, scribbling the number down with precise strokes.

Scout stepped back, grinning. “Cool. Glad we’re keepin’ things professional around here.”

Jonas skimmed over his notes with one final glance, the scratch of his pen now silent, satisfied with the neat row of checkmarks scattered across the clipboard. He pulled the stethoscope from around his neck with a fluid motion, the rubber tubing momentarily catching on his collar before sliding free. With that familiar weight gone, he felt the subtle shift of closure.

The examination had gone well.

He turned back toward Scout, the corners of his mouth lifting into a quiet grin. But when his gaze landed on the younger man, he paused. Scout wasn’t watching him, his eyes were locked on a strange, towering piece of equipment in the corner of the infirmary : The Quick-Fix.

The room’s dim lighting cast long shadows behind it, making the machine look more imposing than it probably was. Scout tilted his head slightly, brow furrowed, one hand drifting up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Are you gonna use this, doc?” he asked, and there was a wariness in his voice that hadn't been there during the rest of the check-up. Like the machine was more ghost story than medical device.

Jonas blinked at the machine, then laughed softly through his nose. “No,” he said with a shake of his head, “we are not. Honestly, I don’t even know how you use that thing.”

Scout visibly loosened, shoulders slumping as if someone had let the air out of a balloon. He exhaled sharply, almost dramatically, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Oh thank god,” he muttered. “Thing gives me the creeps. Feels like it’s staring at me.”

They stood there for a moment in companionable silence, the looming machine quietly humming in the background like it was listening in. Jonas glanced down at his checklist again, flipping to the last page with practiced fingers.

“Well,” he said, voice lighter now, “that wraps up the basics. You passed with flying colors, minus the diet, but I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the part about chips and Bonk.”

“Don’t hate the fuel,” Scout said with a grin. “It keeps me fast.”

Jonas gestured for him to follow. “Come on, let’s get you signed off. You’re good to go.”

Scout then hopped off the chair and ran to who knows where.

Chapter Text

Scout’s footsteps echoed sharp and fleeting through the narrow, metallic hallway, each one fading like a vanishing pulse. Jonas lingered at the intersection between wings, the fluorescent lights above flickering in tired intervals. He watched Scout disappear around the bend, then let out a long, low breath that fogged briefly against the chill.

He didn’t follow.

The engineer’s check-up loomed next, blinking on his mental to-do list like a neglected alert. But Jonas hesitated. It felt premature. Something in his gut coiled—the kind of unease that usually preceded systems failure, or worse.

Besides, Engie hadn’t returned to the base yet. Scout’s exam had gone surprisingly smooth, almost... pleasant. The kid’s relentless chatter had filled every silence, leaving little room for tension. Maybe that charm would grease the gears of trust before the actual fight began.

Jonas absently rubbed his face with gloved hands, the fabric tugging against his stubble. His breath hitched. How long was he supposed to wait? Maybe track down Demoman? Or take a risk with Heavy? He shook his head, clearing the fog creeping into the edges of his thoughts, fatigue, dull and crawling.

He needed coffee.

That thought alone made him chuckle, a quick, surprised sound that broke the quiet. It tugged him back to memories of cramped counters, steam-blurred windows, and frantic energy spikes during his last job. Morning rushes, cold brews, caffeine on tap just to survive the blur.

Jonas pushed open the doorway and stepped into the hallway beyond. It stretched out in front of him, dim and deserted, sterile in its silence.

He moved forward anyway.

 

Scout had claimed the common room couch like a fallen king, boots kicked up, arms sprawled. The TV droned on with that tired Saxton Hale ad looping for what felt like the hundredth time. Without flinching, Scout grabbed the remote, clicked through a dozen channels, then circled back to the original one in defeat.

He sunk deeper into the cushions, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a dissatisfied pout. If he were back home, he’d be out sprinting through the city, wind against his face, shoes slapping pavement like drums. He’d win races just to kill boredom. Maybe even break another record while everyone else was catching their breath.
But here? This base was nothing but snow-packed misery.

Snow in the morning. Snow at midnight. Fresh powder, stale frost, variations on the same white blanket that muffled everything.

The recent storm hadn’t buried them, but it had draped a silence over the base that Scout couldn’t stand. Grocery runs were still possible, but wandering off? Too easy to vanish into that quiet.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

Then,

A familiar rhythm of footsteps. Slow, unsure. A muted hum—singed with static but unmistakable.

Scout lifted his head lazily from the armrest.

Pyro.

They stood half-shadowed in the doorway, mask gleaming under the low light, fingers twitching slightly at their sides.

Scout’s expression shifted from boredom to cautious curiosity.

“Hey,” he called out. “You gonna just hover there?”

Pyro tilted their head. The gesture wasn’t threatening, it never was with them, oddly enough. Just unreadable.

Pyro stepped inside, a soft crunch accompanying each step, their boots still dusted with snow from the outer corridors. The air shifted, just slightly, as if the sterile chill of the base hesitated in their presence. Something warm ghosted through the room, not heat exactly, but familiarity.

They didn’t speak. They rarely did.

Instead, Pyro reached into the folds of their suit and withdrew a small object with slow, deliberate care. A paper crane, its wings scorched at the tips, one edge of its folded beak singed into a curl. The soot traced across the delicate creases like warpaint, half-smoked, half-survived.

Scout leaned forward, curiosity narrowing his eyes. “Wait…” He blinked. “Is that supposed to be me?”

Pyro nodded with quick enthusiasm, the motion almost childlike. They raised the crane and began flapping its fragile wings, fast and light, the tips fluttering like the beat of an urgent heart. It didn’t look graceful. It looked determined.

Scout burst out laughing. “That little guy’s got speed, I’ll give him that. But c’mon—” He jabbed a thumb toward his chest. “No way he’s faster than me.”

Pyro mumbled something, half-syllables muffled behind their mask. Scout cocked his head, catching just enough to interpret the tone. Teasing. Competitive. Familiar.

“I hear ya,” Scout said, still chuckling. “You really think paper-me could outpace the real deal, huh?”

Pyro flapped the crane’s wings once more with exaggerated effort, the motion sending a faint puff of soot into the air. Dust scattered like snowflakes, brief and weightless, before the crane slipped from Pyro’s fingers and landed softly on the concrete floor.

Both of them froze.

Scout leaned over, eyes flicking to the fragile figure below. Its wings were still open, crooked and defiant, lying in a halo of fine ash.

Pyro lowered themselves beside him, hands still hovering midair as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

Scout exhaled slowly and picked up the crane with two fingers, cradling it gently.

“Guess we both crash sometimes,” he said, voice softer now. “Even the fast ones.”

Pyro didn’t respond with words. They simply sat beside Scout, the quiet between them not empty, but full, of battles won, of jokes traded in firelight, of paper cranes and cracked cement.

And for once, the blizzard outside didn’t seem so cold.

 

Jonas moved swiftly down the corridor, his steps brisk and deliberate, the cold hum of the overhead vents echoing in the silence. The pale light from the ceiling strips flickered faintly, painting his features in staccato shadows as he passed the common room without even a glance. He was focused, distracted—his thoughts about the battle coming soon, on how long Engie and the others had been gone.

Inside the room, tucked deep into the corner of a couch that had seen far too many campaigns and coffee spills, Scout and Pyro remained oblivious to Jonas’s passing.

Then—

Scout's voice drifted through the air, cracked open by wonder and coated in the soft dust of nostalgia.

“Hey, Py…”

Pyro turned, mask gleaming dully in the light, the dark lenses catching the flicker of the television as they tilted their head—curious, alert.

“Remember that time we were losin’? I mean really losin’. Soldier was so ticked he stopped yelling. That’s how bad it was.”

A quick nod from Pyro, followed by a series of garbled syllables that crackled through the filters of their mask. It was half-speech, half-audio fog, but Scout understood.

“Yeah!” Scout laughed, eyes wide, arms lifting as he mimed being caught, his body twisting in a dramatic reenactment. “That RED Soldier grabbed me by the collar, I thought I was done, man. I was halfway to respawn in my head.”

He paused, pointing at Pyro with an incredulous grin.

“Then you came flying in like a damn flamethrower comet and lit up everything. Boom—entire base practically on fire.”

Pyro chuckled. A quiet, rhythmic giggle, shoulders bouncing with joy. It was a laugh only Scout ever seemed to understand, not just the sound, but the meaning behind it.
Scout smirked, his voice softening.

“You gave me just enough time to cap the last point. Everything was burnin’ and the sky was snowin’, but you made it look easy.”

Pyro leaned back, arms resting loosely on their knees, head cocked just enough to signal pride, or perhaps something quieter.

 

From down the hall, Jonas slowed, just for a breath, his ears catching Scout’s words through the door’s thin frame. The warmth in that voice pulled at something dormant in him. He didn’t stop, but his steps faltered, his pace faltering into thought.

How long had they been like that—Pyro and Scout? Not just teammates, but something more soldered. Two misfits cinched together by flame and fury, moving through warzones like a two-part storm system. “Brothers in arms” felt too formal, too sterile for whatever they were. It was camaraderie built in rubble, tested in blood. Something resilient. Something intimate.

But then his mind snagged on a single word.

Respawn.

Scout had said it offhandedly, like it was normal—routine even. But the word itched at the logic centers of Jonas’s brain. It sounded like something pulled from a cartoon simulation, or some game kids played when they were too young to understand finality. Not science. Not medicine. Not the kind of reality Jonas had spent years stitching back together in field hospitals and burnt-out labs. Respawn meant they died. And came back.

But how?

Jonas frowned, his thoughts tangling in themselves like frayed cables. He turned from the door and drifted toward the mess area, rubbing absently at a spot between his shoulder blades as if the question had formed there physically.

The coffee pot was cold, of course. Everything was cold in this place unless Pyro had wandered by. Jonas filled it with water from the spout, lukewarm, stake-tasting, and shoved it onto the hot plate, the hum of electricity twitching to life beneath his fingers.

Maybe he’d drink the whole thing himself. Bring it back to the infirmary.

As he reached for a chipped glass mug, his grip faltered, distracted by a sudden drift of thought or maybe the wrong angle of light through the window. The glass hit the metal countertop with a sharp clack, not shattering, but loud enough to make every wall in the base feel thinner.

In the other room, Scout’s voice cut off mid-sentence. Silence pooled like oil.

Jonas froze.

Then—

“Yo, that you, Doc?” Scout called out, light-hearted but cautious, like laughter backed by one foot hovering over the brake.

Jonas winced. There was no point in pretending it wasn’t him.

“Yeah,” he replied, forcing calm into his voice. “Just dropped a mug.”

Pyro said nothing, but Jonas could almost feel the way they tilted their head, as if deciding whether the sound warranted flame or forgiveness.

Scout’s voice came again, less loud now. “You okay?”

Jonas nodded, then remembered that wasn’t helpful. “I’m just confused?”

A beat. Then the sound of someone getting up from the couch, the soft thump of boots, one foot heavier than the other. Scout peeked through, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of the overhead light.

“Have you ever heard of 'respawn'?” Jonas asked, the question escaping like steam.

Scout blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

Jonas hesitated. “What... is it?”

Scout chewed the inside of his cheek, as though the answer wasn’t something you explained, it was something you survived.

“You ever been shot in the chest at close range? Like, real close?” Scout asked, voice suddenly level. “'Cause I have. You don’t stay dead long in this place. Not like you’re supposed to.”

Pyro emerged behind him, silent as heat, their mask reflecting a sliver of light from the ceiling.

Jonas swallowed.

Suddenly, the coffee pot beeped. The sound was mechanical, clinical. Familiar. It pulled him back just long enough to wonder if maybe, in this twisted facility, science had learned to cheat death. Or if something stranger was at play.

Pyro tapped the doorframe with two fingers, then pointed at Jonas, then the mug.

Coffee?

Jonas blinked, then nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges.

The quiet weighed heavy after Scout's laughter faded, leaving only the low hum of the base and the occasional distant clang echoing through the metallic halls. For Jonas, the shift in atmosphere was a cold plunge—like stepping from sunlight into subterranean shade. His brow drew tight, the lines between them deepening as his left hand began to fidget against his coat seam, fingers twitching in an unconscious rhythm.

Jonas shook the thought off as best he could. He poured himself a mug, the steam rising in lazy spirals that ghosted past his face. He turned toward the couch again, voice lower than usual—less clinical, more human.

“Uh, do either of you have an idea on when exactly Engie and the others are getting back?”

Scout blinked out of his reverie, lifting a finger to tap his forehead in mock concentration. “Hmm… wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already en route. Snipes gets twitchy if he’s outside too long, says the cold makes his aim shaky or whatever.” He laughed faintly, then gestured vaguely toward the base doors. “They’ll show.”

Jonas nodded, his hand trembling slightly as a sudden gust leaked through one of the older vents. The air hit him like ice, goosebumps prickled his skin, and the mug nearly slipped from his grip. “When you see Engineer,” he added, “send him to the infirmary. I still need to complete his physical.”

Scout waved a hand lazily, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Yeah, yeah, sure thing, doc. No sweat.”

“Danke,” Jonas replied softly, already turning toward the hallway. He didn’t notice Pyro watching him, didn’t catch the stillness behind their mask as he walked away.

But Pyro lingered. Head tilted. One gloved hand slowly rose to gesture at both Scout and the departing Medic—fingers twitching through a strange and unreadable motion.

Scout turned, half distracted. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, Medic's did a check up on me too.” He puffed out his chest dramatically, grinning. “Which is a little silly, 'cause I’m perfectly fine.”

Pyro’s mask remained motionless, but the way they shifted, barely, felt wrong. Their shoulders slumped slightly. The air around them thickened.

Scout squinted. “What? No, c’mon. He’s not like the last Medic. I swear.”

Pyro didn't move.

Scout leaned forward, voice dipping into uncertainty. “Seriously. This guy, he wouldn't hurt a fly. Hell, he probably sterilizes his gloves twice a minute. He's got a real license and everything. No revoked credentials. No shady stashes of bones or blood.”

Still, Pyro didn’t react. But the silence was loaded now, less ignorance, more mistrust.

Scout sat back onto the couch, his smile fading just a hair.

The van’s engine sputtered to silence, exhaling one last puff of exhaust into the air before the icy wind claimed it. The vehicle's frame was coated in a thin glaze of frost, rims crusted with slush from the jagged mountain roads that twisted up to the Coldfront base.

Engineer was the first to hop out, boots crunching onto the frozen gravel with a satisfied thud. His breath fogged the lenses of his goggles, which were already kissed by a delicate layer of frost. He tugged his ushanka tighter onto his head, then rubbed his palms together, stiff from the drive.

“Woo, man, it’s cold fellas,” he muttered, Southern twang muffled slightly by his scarf. He stamped his feet, trying to coax warmth back into his legs.

Heavy followed, stepping out with slow, deliberate movements, arms cradling a half-dozen grocery bags as if they weighed nothing. Snowflakes clung to his sleeves but melted quickly against the heat radiating from his frame. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shiver, his expression was stone.

Sniper came last, slamming the door shut behind him with more force than necessary. His shoulders hunched as he wrapped his arms around himself, scarf crooked beneath the collar of a wool sweater. The wind cut straight through it, gnawing at the edges of his jacket like hungry wolves.

“Remind me to never go grocery shoppin’ again,” he grumbled, jaw clenched.

Engineer chuckled, sidling up beside him and attempting a comforting gesture, a side-hug that ended up as more of an awkward shoulder press, his shorter stature leaving his arm stretched like a child reaching a shelf.

“Aw come on, Snipes,” Engie said, his voice warm despite the cold. “Gotta get used to this weather again. Don't want another accident out there on the ridge.” He winked through foggy goggles, nudging Sniper playfully.

Sniper offered a tired smirk but didn’t argue, adjusting his own ushanka just in time to keep the wind from whipping it off his head.

Heavy stood silently, gazing toward the compound’s concrete entrance where lights bled faintly into the snowy dusk. The biting cold tore at his exposed hands and face, but he didn’t react. His thoughts lingered elsewhere.

“Come,” he said finally, voice deep and certain. “Team is waiting. Food too.”

Sniper huffed, taking one last look at the snow-drenched horizon. “Yeah, can’t wait to collapse onto my bed.”

The trio trudged forward, boots slipping and scraping against the snow-slicked incline that sloped toward the Coldfront base. Wind howled like some mournful chorus overhead, lifting flecks of snow into slow, hypnotic spirals before letting them tumble back to the earth. Their silhouettes were hunched against the cold, each step a deliberate push against nature's resistance.

Engineer fumbled momentarily with the base's frosted lock before retrieving the ring of keys from his coat. His fingers, stiff from the chill, worked the mechanism until the door clicked open with a reluctant groan. A rush of warmer air greeted them, not exactly cozy, but welcoming enough after the unforgiving wind.

They stepped into the dim hallway, shedding the weight of the weather with each stride. The faint hum of electronics pulsed somewhere ahead, and a flickering light danced across the tile. Down the corridor, the television cast flickers of blue and amber against the wall.

“Fantastic,” Engineer said, a glimmer of optimism threading through his drawl. “TV’s still workin’, fellas. Might be able to catch ourselves a movie tonight.”

He nudged Sniper lightly in the ribs, a gesture more familiar than teasing. Sniper’s lips twitched into a brief smile, though he kept his eyes low.

“Nah mate,” Sniper muttered, rubbing his thumb across his brow. “Gotta get my rest in. These legs ain't got much left after hauling groceries through an ice storm.”

“I have plans to rest as well,” Heavy chimed in. His voice had a tired resonance, the weight of the day stretching across his shoulders.

Engineer just shrugged, understanding etched into the gesture. Some nights belonged to silence and restoration, not banter and popcorn.

The sound of the television grew more pronounced with each step as they approached the common room. Laughter from the show spilled into the hallway, a stark contrast to the solemn hush they’d carried in with them.

Scout lay curled at one end of the couch, his hoodie zipped up to his chin. One arm hung limply over the side, fingers twitching now and then in his half-sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily, though his eyelids flickered open just as Pyro turned their head toward the newcomers.

Pyro sat bolt upright on the opposite end, mask angled toward the screen with eerie focus. Their gloved hands were still, resting on their knees like a child trying to behave for company.

“Heya there Py,” Engineer called out softly, not wanting to startle either of them. “Scout’s fallin’ asleep on the couch again?”

Pyro nodded quickly, with such enthusiasm it looked like they'd been waiting for someone to notice.

Scout’s gaze drifted like ash on a breeze, unfocused and glazed with sleep, until it fell on Engineer’s stocky frame silhouetted against the room’s low lighting. His lips curled into a loose half-smile, barely conscious, before his head sagged sideways into the creased cushion.

But then, suddenly, violently, he shot upright.

His eyes snapped open, wide and wild like he’d jolted out of a nightmare. The blanket of fatigue peeled away as adrenaline surged. The room reacted in degrees: Sniper turned first, eyes narrowing, concern etched into the crease of his brow. Engineer looked over next, more curious than alarmed.

“What’s goin’ on, sport?” Engie asked, adjusting his belt absently. “You look like somebody pitched your favorite bat into a furnace.”

Sniper smirked beside him, half a laugh caught between concern and amusement.

Heavy, halfway into the kitchen, paused as the scent of fresh coffee met him. He sniffed the air thoughtfully, then resumed his lumbering steps toward the pot, already envisioning the warmth soaking through his frozen fingers.

Scout leaned forward, hands planted on his knees, breath visible in the cold air. “Hard-hat,” he barked, “Medic needs you in the infirmary.”

The room stilled. Pyro turned their masked head toward Scout with a flick of interest, then pivoted toward Engineer, nodding in agreement.

Heavy’s head poked around the corner, drawn by the urgency in Scout’s voice. His dark eyes were alert now, scanning for trouble.

“Oh?” Engie cocked his head, tone a little too casual. “What’s the Doc need with me, anyhow?”

Scout twisted his fingers into exaggerated air quotes, still catching his breath. “Says he needs to run a ‘physical’ on you.”

Engie’s grin wavered. His hands stilled at his sides, goggles catching a reflection from the TV’s static glow. “A physical?”

Sniper stood straighter, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Physical?” he echoed, tone laced with suspicion. “Or experimentation?”

He waved his hands vaguely, like swatting at ghosts. “Don't like this, mate. You seen the way he catalogs things? Like we’re specimens on ice.”

Heavy, momentarily stilled, retreated deeper into the kitchen, his broad shoulders stiff with unease. The coffee maker let out a low sputter, its quiet whirr breaking the sudden hush.

“Nah,” Scout interjected quickly, leaning toward them with open palms. “I swear, Medic’s not like the last guy. Didn’t even break out the needles on me.”

Engie scratched beneath his chin, still unconvinced, but his voice softened a touch. “Well… guess if he needs me, I shouldn’t dawdle.”

Pyro stepped forward slightly, one hand raised, not threatening, but searching. Their muffled voice rose briefly, unintelligible but almost reassuring in cadence.

Scout gave a sideways nod toward Pyro. “See? Py even agrees. You're just overdue for Doc to check your vitals, not your brain.”

Sniper grunted, still unconvinced, as Engie sighed and began walking toward the infirmary hallway with reluctant boots dragging against tile.

Engineer’s boots scuffed softly along the cold tile floor as he headed down the hallway toward the infirmary, each step dragging behind the other with reluctant weight. The fluorescent ceiling lights buzzed overhead, casting pale rectangles of light across the faded linoleum, a hallway built for routine but haunted by memory.
“I’m going with ya,” Sniper’s voice cut through the quiet, low but firm.

Engie glanced sideways, surprised to find the taller man matching his pace with practiced ease. Sniper’s shoulders were tense, his fingers tapping against his folded sleeves like a warning signal, restless, but determined.

“Well, ain’t that sweet of ya,” Engie muttered, half-sincere. “You plannin’ to hold my hand too?”

Sniper smirked without humor. “Only if Doc starts pullin' out bone saws.”

Engie snorted but didn’t laugh. His brow furrowed deeply as they passed a row of old lockers, their doors slightly ajar. Memories flickered behind his eyes, clinical steel, bitter antiseptic, the sound of forced calm in a room too white.

“I don’t even remember the last proper physical I had,” he admitted. “Not with someone who wasn’t half mad and runnin’ experiments for the thrill of it.”

Sniper’s face darkened. “Yeah. That guy…”

They fell into a heavy silence. Neither needed to name the last Medic. It was a mutual unspoken rule, like not poking a sleeping dog or revisiting the scar beneath a bandage.

No good ever came from speaking about him.

Engie glanced over, his voice softer. “Y’ever talk to anyone about it?”

Sniper shook his head. “No point. I figure if I don’t give the memories oxygen, they can’t breathe.”

Engineer nodded slowly. “Fair.”

The new Medic had settled in quietly, punctual, tidy, unnervingly polite. Compared to the chaos they’d both known before, he was a welcome change. But that lingering doubt clung to the corners of their minds like mildew. Too clean. Too rehearsed.

“I dunno,” Engie muttered. “He seems alright. Talks normal. Doesn’t whistle in Latin. But sometimes I wonder if the quiet ones are just waiting for the right scream.”

Sniper gave him a sidelong glance. “You play nice. I play careful.”

“You mean paranoid.”

They reached the infirmary door, its surface gleaming beneath a fresh coat of paint. Sniper’s hand hovered near the handle.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

Engie shrugged. “Ain’t sure about much, but I figure if he tries any funny business, I’ve got backup.”

Sniper cracked his neck and muttered, “I’ve got perfect aim in a confined space.”

“You know,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “you don’t have to come in.”

Sniper’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something restrained and old.

“I do.”

Engie pushed open the door.

Inside, Medic stood at the far counter, carefully aligning instruments with surgeon-like precision. The room was warm and sterile, a faint hum of machinery underscoring the quiet.

He turned with a pleasant smile. “Ah, Engineer. And… unexpected company?”

Sniper stepped in without a word and leaned against the wall, eyes never leaving Medic’s hands.

Sniper stayed silent.

Watching. Waiting.

 

Jonas had anticipated Engie’s arrival, it was a box already ticked on his mental schedule, but seeing Sniper stride in beside him, cold-eyed and wordless, threw the whole rhythm off. The marksman's presence wasn’t hostile, not outright, but it hung in the air like fog above a firing range.

Jonas glanced down at his list, the paper still warm from where his hand had lingered. Scout’s name sat near the top that session had gone well, better than he’d dared hope. The check-up had been more than a routine sweep. In small doses of banter and casual honesty, Scout had offered trust. Laughed, even. Jonas had walked away feeling... connected.

This was different.

Sniper’s stare dug into his peripheral like a sharpened pin. Jonas didn’t dare meet it. He skimmed the next name, Engineer, and tried not to flinch as he reached for his pen.

His hand was still.

Too still.

The pause dragged long enough that Engie tilted his head, brow raised. “Uh, doc?”

Jonas blinked. His heart did an uncomfortable hop in his chest, and he almost dropped the list. “Ah, sorry. I don’t want to—”

He cut himself off, clamping his jaw shut. This wasn’t the time to fumble. His voice returned quieter, polished from the inside out. “Right. Let’s begin.”

Engie sat upright on the padded table, the blue vinyl crinkling under him. He rubbed his palms along his pants again, a compulsive gesture that made Jonas suspect he was more aware of Sniper’s looming presence than he let on. The Engineer's gaze remained steady, though, a man who’d read enough schematics to know that anything mechanical—including a man’s thoughts, could unravel under the wrong pressure.

Sniper leaned silently against the far wall, a statue carved in suspicion. Arms crossed, hat pulled low, pointed, unreadable, deliberate.

Jonas began with the basics, his voice light but firm. “Diet? Caffeine intake? When was the last time you smoked?”

Engie answered like clockwork. “Bacon or sausage with toast. Coffee, black, three mugs minimum. No dairy—makes me sluggish. No medications. Haven’t smoked since I welded myself a scare with a busted lung valve. Got tired of waking up feeling like my chest was full of rust flakes.”

Jonas nodded, mentally filing away each word, each inflection. But the deeper the routine went, the less routine it felt. There was a tickle of tension behind his ribs, a quiet reminder that not every tool in the room was friendly.

Sniper hadn’t blinked.

Jonas forced his focus to the stethoscope, placing the chilled disc against Engie’s back with a practiced calm. “Deep breath in. Hold. Let it out.”

The lungs sounded pristine. Rhythmic. Jonas noted it.

He guided Engie over to the old scale next. The metal base wobbled slightly on uneven linoleum. The glass pane was clouded, a quiet indictment of too many years and not enough funding. Jonas gestured toward it, apologetically.

Engie stepped up, unfazed. Numbers bounced before settling.

Jonas corrected instinctively, pen scratching a truer weight into the margins.

“Still accurate?” Engie asked, as if testing Jonas more than the scale.

“Close enough for my purposes,” Jonas replied, giving the clipboard a soft pat.

That earned a dry chuckle. “Purpose-built truth. I like that.”

Next came the height measurement, an old meter stick taped to a plywood panel. Jonas aligned the clipboard edge, steadying it against Engie’s scalp.

“Straighten up just a touch.”

Engie complied. No resistance, no sarcasm. Just quiet cooperation. Jonas made a final note, breath easing just slightly.

“That about wraps it—”

The words were snatched midair.

Sniper stepped forward, his boots thudding like punctuation. His voice was low, edged.

“What game are you playing, ‘Doc’? No needles. Not for Scout. Not for him.” He gestured sharply at Engie, eyes narrowed.

Jonas tensed. “Only if necessary,” he said, keeping his tone even. “Scout’s tests didn’t require bloodwork. He was cooperative.”

Sniper leaned in slightly, shadow stretching between them. “Then how about now? A sample. For your files. Or maybe for whatever it is you’re really doing.”

Before Jonas could respond, Engie rose from the scale and stepped between them, movements calm but firm.

“Snipes. That’s enough.”

There was a flicker, a crease in Sniper’s expression that wasn’t rage but restraint. He didn’t back down, not fully, but he didn’t advance either.

Jonas didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The silence felt layered. One thread tense. One protective. One quietly questioning.

Engie turned slightly, addressing Sniper without looking directly at him. “You trust me, yeah?”

Sniper nodded once.

“Then trust that if something were wrong, I’d say so. Medic here runs a tight ship.”

Sniper’s jaw flexed, but he stepped back, arms still folded. He walks out of the infirmary.

Engie lingered just a second longer, glancing back with something like regret etched across his face. Not pity exactly, more like resignation, the kind carried by someone who’s had to smooth the edges of too many tempers. He gave a nod. Tight. Respectful. Then followed Sniper into the hallway.

Jonas watched the door close behind him, feeling the words settle like a wrench clicking into place.

Chapter Text

The memories of the previous Medic lingered in the corridors of BLU like an oil stain, permanent, slick, and repellent. He had been a presence carved from menace, clinical in violence, fascinated by breaking before mending. Even Spy, whose nerves rarely flinched at bloodied secrets, had spoken of the man with quiet dread. That alone was enough to mark him as monstrous.

When Jonas arrived, the shift was jarring.

He carried no blaring authority, no sharpened scalpels like promises. Just a satchel, clean gloves, and eyes that watched carefully, not like a hunter, but like someone listening to silence. He was younger than expected, refined but not cold. There was something gently unassuming about him, a professional exactness softened by his near-apologetic presence.

The team didn’t trust it.

They waited for the moment his mask would slip. That first scream. That first unnecessary wound. That flash of the old regime.

But it never came.

Soldiers received kindness first, not commands. Pain was acknowledged, not dissected.
Demo spoke often about it. About the way Jonas had approached Soldier during one of his spiraling flashbacks. No orders. No grabbing. Just quiet proximity, slow words, and patience. He’d steadied Soldier’s breathing by matching his own. No one had done that before.

Sniper hadn’t believed it, not at first. He didn’t deal in sentiment, he dealt in proof. But he remembered his first interaction with Jonas in chilling detail. That uncomfortable posture and strange speaking patterns.

What unsettled Sniper more was what Spy once whispered.

“Heavy… had a history. With the old one.”

Whatever that meant was unclear. Spy’s truths came dressed in riddles and half-sarcasm. But the implication was enough to make Sniper glance more often at Heavy when Jonas passed by, to study the way Heavy softened, ever so slightly, near him. To see how the giant smiled when handed simple food. To notice how he tensed whenever the old operating room was mentioned.

Spy may have been unreliable. But Sniper had instincts, honed beyond emotion. He knew poison when he saw it. And Jonas, despite the team's suspicions, wasn’t poison.
He was the antidote. Quiet. Methodical. And, perhaps more importantly, kind.

The warmth of the base had never reached Sniper’s corner of it, not fully. His room was spartan: bare concrete, clean gunmetal, a cot that looked slept on but not rested in. Trust wasn’t a currency he exchanged lightly anymore.

So when he heard Scout raving over breakfast about the new Medic, his kindness, his professionalism, how he actually listened, Sniper's teeth clenched instinctively. The words dripped too easy, too sweet. Scout trusted like his bones didn’t remember being broken.

Sniper’s gut twisted.

Later, he watched Engineer’s check-up from the corner of the infirmary, tucked behind shadow and habit. Jonas moved through the process with crisp efficiency, gentle hands, clinical calm, no needles unless needed. The whole exam was over in minutes.

Sniper’s mind hissed.

Too quick. Too clean. Manipulative.

He didn’t analyze the instinct. It roared louder than reason. Memories surged, of false assurances, polished lies, and a former Medic who wielded kindness like bait.

By the time he stormed into the Medic’s, his chest was tight with fury, and his voice came out like rifle fire.

“What game are you playing, ‘Doc’? No needles. Not for Scout. Not for him.” He gestured sharply at Engie, eyes narrowed.

Jonas had stood motionless, his features unreadable. Not defensive. Not smug. Just listening, an infuriating neutrality.

It was Engineer who stepped in.

“Snipes. That’s enough.”

The argument dragged out of the infirmary and into the hallway, between crates and old bullet holes. Engie and Sniper traded words like nails: about trust, and the right to suspicion. About justice earned, and judgment that sometimes comes too fast. Neither shouted, but the strain bled through every sentence.

“Ease up,” Engie said, voice like a gear locking into place. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

Sniper turned on him immediately. “Yet. Doesn’t mean he won’t.”

Engie’s face didn’t flinch. “We’ve lived through monsters. We know how they act. This one isn’t paintin’ in the same colors.”

It drained them.

Eventually, Sniper retreated to his room, fingers twitching from held tension, throat dry from words he didn’t mean to say aloud.

Down the hall, the light in the garage flicked off. Engie had probably decided to sleep there, tools within reach. Their usual rooms shared a wall, but tonight it felt a mile wide.

The room felt colder than usual.

Sniper sat on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled just beneath his nose. The shadows on the concrete walls crept in slowly, stretching with the evening, but he didn’t move to turn on the light. Silence pressed against him like a weighted blanket, thick, unrelenting, familiar. His rifle rested against the wall in its usual place, untouched. It had no comfort to offer tonight.

His thoughts spun slowly, simmering until they thickened into something heavy. Regret. Shame. Frustration laced through them like barbed wire. He was a professional, he prided himself on that. Outmatched Spy on discipline alone. Clean shots, clean files, clean exits.

Emotion? That was someone else's hazard.

So why did he feel like this?

Something inside him tangled. He hadn’t cried, not in years. Not since before BLU. And yet, as he sat there, stomach tight and throat sore from words hurled at someone who hadn’t deserved them, he felt like his bones had soaked in guilt.

Had professionalism cost him something? Relationships? Camaraderie? Humanity?

He ran a hand down his face, then stood abruptly, boots scuffing softly against the floor. Moving helped. Not solving. But moving.

He walked.

The hallway was quiet, mercifully dim. At the far end glowed a soft, amber light, the kind only one person would craft. The garage door was partially ajar, and inside, sure enough, sat Engineer.

Engie’s back was to the door, hunched slightly over his cluttered workbench. A lamp flickered beside him, not electric, but something handmade from copper pipe, soldering wire, and what looked like a repurposed coffee pot base. It gave the room a warmth Sniper didn’t expect. Next to the lamp sat a curled piece of paper, where Engie’s hand moved gently, sketching blue lines through the grain.

Another invention. Another distraction.

Engie always retreated here when things got rough, after losses, tension, or those strange moments when the team felt more like fragmented personalities than fellow soldiers. He built as others coped. Crafted order out of chaos. It was a better ritual than Sniper had.

Sniper stepped inside quietly, his presence announced only by the light shift across the floorboards. Engie looked up after a moment, eyes tired but not surprised.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice low.

Sniper nodded, then gestured vaguely at the paper. “New gadget or just therapy?”

Engie gave a soft chuckle, wiped graphite off his thumb. “A little of both, partner. You comin’ to sit or just here to hover like guilt on legs?”

Sniper sighed through his nose and pulled up a crate.

He didn’t speak right away.

But sitting there, shoulder to shoulder with someone who didn’t demand words, he started to feel the knot inside him shift. Just slightly.

The workshop hummed softly with the sound of overhead lights and the occasional clink of metal on metal. Engineer sat at a cluttered workbench, the surface littered with half-sketched blueprints, scattered tools, and smudged graphite fingerprints.

Engie’s fingers moved with a kind of mechanical elegance, until he suddenly paused, brow furrowing. Sniper watched as Engineer sketched some sort of new Sentry then out of frustration scratched it out. What followed was something entirely different, something Sniper hadn’t seen before. Sleeker. A bit less defensive. More escape.

Sniper lingered nearby, silent at first, watching the design unfold. The schematic was unlike the rigid, turreted Sentry that Engineer had been obsessing over hours before. This was different, fluid, almost like it was built for motion rather than resistance.

“What are you drawing now?” Sniper asked, his voice low, cutting through the quiet with a dry edge of curiosity.

Engineer paused, eyes narrowing at the page before him. He added one more notation near the corner, then pulled his hand back to study it all. Eventually, he sighed, tapping the pencil twice on the corner of the desk.

“Thinking about a new teleporter,” he said, gesturing toward a looped schematic.

“Something faster. More reactive. I’ve been wondering if Medic’d be willing to spare some of his Über juice, we could rig the system to push back harder, so we could hop without getting camped. But… not now. Not with everything like this.” His voice trailed off, weary. He glanced at Sniper, and there was a flicker, barely noticeable, but the tension in his shoulders shifted.

Sniper didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the half-sketched machine, then at Engineer, who looked weathered down to the creases in his gloves.

After a moment, Sniper exhaled.

“I’m sorry, mate,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at him.”

The admission hung in the air, not heavy, but vulnerable. A crack in the usual steel-jawed restraint Sniper wore like armor.

Engineer didn’t speak right away. He set his pencil down deliberately, the click against the bench echoing too loudly in the stillness. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed a firm, steady hand on Sniper’s shoulder. The lamplight flickered a little softer, casting quiet shapes across scattered toolboxes.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it was grounding.

The weight of Engineer’s hand lingered on Sniper’s shoulder long after it had lifted.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, just sat in silence, the sharp edge of his usual detachment dulled by the moment that had passed between them.

Engineer’s had come without expectation, without any kind of plea attached. But it had been enough to stir something in Sniper, something unsettled and unspoken.

He shifted on the crate, elbow now resting on one knee, fingers absently tugging at the edge of his glove. The workshop was quiet again. In the space where words had just hung, now only the faint buzz of a loose overhead light kept time.

Engineer resumed sketching, slower now, almost deliberately giving Sniper the room to sit with it.

The faint scent of soldering flux lingered, mixing with graphite shavings and old leather. It was quiet, insulated by concrete walls and a kind of understanding that didn’t need words.

Engineer’s pencil skimmed across the blueprint, sketching loops and arcs that hinted at the workings of a faster, smarter teleporter. He toyed with the idea of one that could blink out of chokeholds and avoid ambushes. The lines were elegant but coiled with tension, clearly the product of a mind pacing itself through pressure.

Then, without ceremony, Engie paused. His hand stilled over the page, eyes lingering on the half-formed mechanism before he looked up.

“Ya know,” he said, voice low and contemplative, “Doc’s a good man. Probably the kindest we’ve had. Just… caught in the middle of somethin’ he doesn’t understand yet.”

Sniper didn’t respond, not with words. His jaw tightened, a barely perceptible twitch, but he didn’t interrupt. His silence wasn’t dismissive, just guarded.

Engineer kept talking, voice steady, eyes still focused on the blueprint as if the truth needed to be spoken somewhere tangible.

“You think pullin’ back means you lost your edge. Your advantage. But that’s not how Jonas plays. He ain’t countin’ wins. He’s just tryin’ to do right, especially when it ain’t clean or easy.”

Sniper’s breath slipped out in a slow exhale through his nose, an unconscious gesture that softened the iron band around his chest. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“Medic types talk more than they listen,” he muttered. “Figured he’d learn that eventually.”

Engineer finally turned toward him, shifting in his seat, the lamp casting deeper lines across his face.

“He does listen, Snipes. You just ain’t given him the space to hear you yet.” His voice grew quieter. “He listened to Scout, hell, even that sugar-fueled tornado. If Scout can be heard, you sure as hell can be.”

Sniper blinked once. The thought landed harder than it should have. He rubbed his thumb across his temple, expression caught somewhere between doubt and something heavier, regret, maybe.

Engineer let out a dry chuckle. “And Pyro? Even Pyro likes him. That’s gotta count for somethin’, right?”

Silence settled again.

“I wasn’t trying to break him,” Sniper admitted quietly, words dragging behind shame.

“I know,” Engineer said simply, setting the pencil aside. “But the question is, does he?”
Sniper didn’t answer right away.

His eyes drifted toward the blueprint again. The design had shifted: no longer a brute-force jump pad, but something leaner, built for recovery and precision. Emergency exit loops. Fast but controlled.

Sniper traced the curve of the schematic with his gaze, then looked back at Engineer, his profile illuminated in the low light, chin set firm but kind.

“Apologizing doesn’t feel natural,” he said at last. His voice was hoarse, not from the garage air, but from the effort of admitting something real.

Engineer leaned back, folding his arms as if closing the sketchbook for a moment.
“Neither does trusting people who hurt you,” he replied. “But sometimes... giving what you needed first is what pulls the rest back together.”

Outside, the base creaked and breathed with its usual rhythms. But inside this garage, between two men who rarely dealt in vulnerability, the air was thick with something softer.

 

The scent hit Jonas before he even entered the kitchen, a rich wave of steam, salt, and slow-roasted spices curling through the air like a warm blanket. Scout’s voice had echoed down the hall moments before, his usual enthusiastic yell about dinner being served. It was becoming a ritual now, loud and comforting, grounding Jonas in a base that still felt half-unfamiliar.

He takes off his gloves and sets them aside, setting a mental reminder to sanitize them.

But tonight, his steps were slower. The day had drained him dry, emotions tangled with the precision of his work, trust earned in fragments, tension smoothed only partially. Still, hunger overruled fatigue, nudging him forward.

As he entered the kitchen, the warmth engulfed him. The overhead lights glowed softly against the pale tile, and at the far counter, Heavy stood proudly behind a spread of food Jonas had never encountered in either of the countries he called home.

Platters stretched across the table, each one arranged with meticulous care. In the center rested a cast-iron pot brimming with Pelmeni, small, hand-folded dumplings bobbing gently in a spiced broth flecked with bay leaf and cracked peppercorns. Next to it sat a wide dish of roasted root vegetables, carrots, beets, and parsnips gleaming beneath melted butter and smoked paprika.

There was a loaf of dense black bread nestled in a cloth-lined basket, its crust dusted with flour and still steaming from the oven. A thick mushroom gravy simmered off to the side, ladled into a ceramic bowl carved with faint Cyrillic text. And for color, a plate of cold pickled cabbage glistened, sharp and bright against the heavier fare.

Heavy turned his head at the sound of Jonas’s footsteps, his face lighting up like a stove coil. “Hello, Doktor,” he said, voice deep and hopeful. “I made dinner. Please, try.”
There was something in his tone, not quite pleading but sincere. An offering, perhaps, of comfort through tradition.

Jonas paused to take it all in. This was no battlefield ration, no sterile meal packet. It was warmth made tangible.

He grabbed a plate and began serving himself, guided by instinct and the tug of curiosity. Heavy watched from his seat, arms resting on the table, eyes glinting with pride. Jonas sits down next to him, exactly like breakfast.

Jonas sat, lifting the first bite of dumpling to his mouth.

The spoon halted midair for only a second before Jonas let it carry on its mission, dipping back into the thick, aromatic broth as if compelled. He didn’t even try to mask his reaction, the wideness of his eyes, the quick inhale through his nose, the way his shoulders relaxed like a breath he’d been holding for weeks.

The flavors hit in layers. Warm, savory dumplings released tender meat and spice beneath the bite. The broth carried notes of dill and pepper, balancing richness with herbal sharpness. Each root vegetable brought its own harmony, earthy, sweet, faintly smoky from open-flame roasting. He could taste the care in every element. There was history in this food. Devotion. Muscle memory.

He blinked. When was the last time he had a meal like this? Not eaten out of necessity or packed into foil trays, but crafted, slowly, skillfully, generously?

Across the table, Heavy chewed deliberately, savoring each bite like it was a ritual. A faint smile curved his lips as he looked up from his plate, catching Jonas mid-chew, mid-awe.

Jonas felt it then, a warmth in his stomach not tied to the meal, but something more tender. Something like belonging. He nudged Heavy’s arm gently with his elbow, voice quiet.

“Heavy.”

Heavy turned, the smile fading slightly into concern. “What’s wrong, Doktor? You do not like dinner?”

“No, nein!” Jonas wiped at his mouth, barely containing his grin. “This is absolutely amazing. It is better than anything I’ve ever seen. Or tasted.”

Heavy’s smile returned with full force, like sunrise over snow. “Doktor, I do not know what to say.”

“Say you’ll make it every day,” Jonas said, half-chuckling as he reached for another dumpling, eyes gleaming, mouth already watering in anticipation. He stuffed the bite in without ceremony, overwhelmed by the flavor yet again.

He chewed slowly, savoring the textures, the pull of dough, the snap of roasted root, the punch of brine from the pickled cabbage, and let out a breathy laugh, mouth still full.

Heavy leaned forward, arms crossed atop the table, eyes warm. “I make what I can, when I can. Food is not just… fuel. Is how I take care of team. Keep stomach quiet, keep soul loud.”

Jonas nodded, the warmth expanding in his chest now, curling upward into his throat. He wasn’t sure what to say in return, so he didn’t. He reached for the bread instead, breaking off a thick piece and dipping it into the mushroom gravy with reverence.

Outside the kitchen, the base groaned with nightfall. Wind swept against the outer walls in icy waves, but inside, all was still. The light above flickered once, as if signaling something, an evening worth remembering.

Jonas leaned back, finally full, both in body and in spirit.

Heavy, still eating, looked over and said quietly, “Tomorrow, maybe I try something from your country. You teach me dish?”

Jonas smiled. “I’d like that very much.”

The clatter of utensils gradually faded into a dull hum as the team’s voices thinned one by one. Plates stacked, chairs scraped back, and the gentle footfalls of Scout, Engineer, and even Soldier echoed into their quiet corners of the base. Dinner had run its course, heavy stomachs, tired bones, warm silences. Only Jonas and Heavy remained, standing in the glow of the kitchen’s faint yellow light, like lingering embers after a fire.

Jonas rolled up his sleeves and sank his hands into a sinkful of water that had long lost its warmth. The soap frothed lazily across the edge of a chipped ceramic bowl, bubbles rising and popping in tired intervals. Heavy moved behind him with slow, deliberate steps, scooping up empty BONK! cans and dented bottles with a rhythm Jonas had come to recognize, steady, quiet, without complaint.

It was the kind of stillness that lets thoughts roam.

Jonas paused, fingers submerged in semi-warm waters. The overhead lights flickered, not dramatically, just a subtle dip, as if the base itself was winding down. Dimmer than yesterday. Or was that just the exhaustion speaking?

A part of him wanted to look up, inspect the fixture, analyze the output pattern like he would a faulty monitor. But not tonight. He’d had enough tension in his skull already.
Heavy hummed something low and tuneful as he wiped down the counter, a melody unfamiliar, perhaps Russian, perhaps older. Jonas watched the curve of his shoulders, the contentment that glowed there, and felt a strange tug in his chest. The man was smiling. Genuinely.

Jonas felt it rise, a nagging memory, something half-forgotten.

He reached inside his coat, fingers brushing against his penlight, then halted.

Check-ups due.

Of course. He has already finished three today, perhaps another to end the day.

He glanced at Heavy, still humming, still smiling. That tune carried warmth, not joy, but peace. Jonas felt it, and the idea of interrupting that felt wrong.

“I believe it is time for us to rest now,” he said gently. “Multiple sources suggest that rest is the most effective repair protocol.”

Heavy looked up, brow lifting in mock-seriousness. “Yes. Doktor is wise. Sleep is best medicine.” He waved cheerfully and lumbered off toward the barracks, his boots thudding with steady finality.

Jonas remained at the threshold, one foot in the kitchen, one in the living room. He stayed there a moment too long. Just breathing.

Suddenly,

Whoosh.

“Correct you are, Doctor…”

Jonas turned sharply, body stiffening.

Spy stood precisely where air had just been, shoulders back, hands clasped behind him, dressed in that impeccable coat minus his trademark goggles. His face was unreadable, polished as ever, but there was something colder in the way he smiled.

Jonas instinctively mirrored the posture, trying to match that surgical precision.

“What question would that be, Spy?” he asked calmly.

Then he flinched. Wet hands. Damn.

Spy sniffed once, distaste flickering in his expression before receding behind cool restraint.

“I’ve been observing,” Spy said. “You seem to be... integrating well. Half the team, maybe more. That is admirable.”

Jonas tilted his head, unsure. “But you said it as if it were a warning.”

“It is,” Spy replied without blinking. “There are truths here, Doctor. Layers you have not peeled back yet. And when you do, I advise you to have your check-ups complete.”

Jonas dropped his arms to his sides, pulse quickening. “What do you mean?”

Spy didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he offered a final look, something sharp and fleeting in his eyes, calculating, maybe protective. Then he stepped backward into the shadows and vanished without a trace.

Jonas stood there, uncertain, drying his hands on his coat sleeve.

The hallway behind him stretched silent and dim. The warmth of Heavy’s dinner had faded from his stomach, replaced with something hollow. Something bracing.

“Tomorrow would bring answers,” Spy had said.

 

The infirmary was unusually bright, too harsh, too clinical. As Jonas stepped through the doorway, the white fluorescence stabbed into his eyes like a needle through cloth. He recoiled instinctively, one hand coming up to shield his vision, the other fumbling along the wall for the light switches. The glare wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was wrong. He hadn't left those lights on.

The soft click of rubber soles on linoleum barely registered before a voice, dry, taut with restraint, echoed from deeper inside the room.

“I’ve been waiting here for a while, Doc.”

Jonas blinked rapidly, fingers finally finding one of the switches. The overhead hum died down as the nearest fixture snapped off, leaving pools of gentler light from the fixtures farther back. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Sniper sitting rigidly in the far corner, half-shadowed, one leg drawn up with his elbow resting on the knee, hand loosely hanging.

Jonas’s brows lifted, surprise flickering across his features. “Ah yes, Sniper, ”

“Wait,” Sniper interrupted, the words spilling out, raw and unfiltered. “I’m sorry, doc.”

Jonas stilled, not out of offense, but because Sniper’s voice carried something unusual, hesitation laced with intent. He stepped further into the room, the cabinet door still ajar from earlier, supplies stacked in sterile precision behind it.

Sniper stood slowly, posture less combative than usual, less guarded. “I’ve been… thinkin’,” he said, gaze fixed on a stain near Jonas’s boot rather than his face. “And I owe you better than what I gave.”

Jonas tilted his head slightly, brows knitting. “Better?”

Sniper finally met his gaze, jaw set but his eyes uncertain. “I pushed back too hard. Treated you like you were just another voice in the room. One I didn’t want to hear.”

Jonas didn’t respond right away. Instead, he closed the cabinet gently and leaned against the counter, arms folding loosely. His expression wasn’t blank, it was quietly analytical, the kind he used when studying a laceration too deep to stitch hastily.

Sniper continued, slower now, each word measured like he was navigating unfamiliar terrain. “You came in trying to do the job right. You didn’t ask for the mess. I made it harder. Maybe 'cause I figured it was safer to keep you out than let you in.”

“And now?” Jonas asked, voice calm, unobtrusive.

Sniper hesitated. “Now I’m thinkin’ maybe I was wrong. And you didn’t deserve to carry all that with no warning.”

There was a silence that stretched, not uncomfortable, but dense with the weight of things rarely said aloud.

Jonas stepped forward, just slightly, enough for the light to catch the edge of his jaw. “People don’t usually apologize in here,” he said. “They explain. Or deflect. But you… you’re owning something.”

Sniper shrugged faintly. “Doesn’t feel natural. But you’ve earned it. Hell, you listened to Scout, and that kid never shuts up.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted across Jonas’s lips. “Listening is the easy part. Hearing, that takes effort. And patience.”

Sniper nodded, his own lips tightening with the start of a smile that didn’t quite form. “Then maybe I’ll try letting myself be heard.”

Jonas didn’t offer forgiveness outright, not because he held a grudge, but because he believed in trust earned gradually. “Then start here,” he said, motioning to one of the chairs with a subtle tilt of his head. “I’ve got time. And the lights can stay low.”

The infirmary was quieter than usual, no distant shouting from Demo, no overhead clatter from Soldier’s patrol. Just the steady hum of cooled air and the faint shuffle of Jonas organizing his station. Light filtered through blackout curtains, leaving the room in a soft amber wash that turned the sterile space into something closer to calm.

Sniper stood near the far counter, posture rigid but less confrontational than usual. His arms were crossed loosely, not clenched, and his gaze hovered somewhere between the equipment shelves and Jonas’s hands. He hadn’t sat yet, but he’d shown up, already more than Jonas had expected.

Jonas placed his stethoscope onto his neck and glanced up with a quiet professionalism that never felt forced. “How about we start with a basic physical,” he offered, voice calm and even. “Same one I did with Engineer. Just a routine run-through.”

Sniper’s jaw tensed, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t respond immediately. Seconds passed, long enough for Jonas to shift a few files on his clipboard, not rushing him.

Finally, Sniper spoke, voice low but audible. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “No experiments, I hope.”

Jonas looked up, meeting his gaze without flinching. “No experiments,” he said firmly. “And you have a say in what I can and can’t do. I’m not here to override anything, you set the pace.”

Sniper’s stance loosened just slightly. Not quite trust, but something close to willingness.

Jonas gestured toward the exam chair, its surface freshly wiped and untouched by chaos for once. “You’d be surprised how often people forget they can say no.”
Sniper stepped forward, his boots making quiet contact with the floor. He didn’t sit right away, just hovered beside the chair and studied Jonas with a guarded intensity.

Sniper glanced toward the edge of the examination table, fingers drumming lightly against his thigh. His voice came out low, almost like he regretted speaking. “You said Engineer went through this.”

Jonas nodded without hesitation, sensing the need for transparency. “Yes,” he said, his tone even but warm, “I asked him some basic questions, diet, smoking habits, things that can affect long-term health.” He gestured gently to the stethoscope on the tray, letting the motion carry calm. “Then I listened to his heartbeat and lungs. Checked for any irregularities, nothing invasive.”

He moved to stand beside the scale and height chart, motioning toward them. “After that, I logged his weight and height. Routine measurements. Just a baseline so I know what’s normal for you.”

Sniper shifted slightly. His shoulders loosened, and he tilted his head with a hint of skepticism, though no longer guarded. “That sounds easy.”

“It is,” Jonas replied, offering a small, earnest smile. “And it won’t take long. I know you prefer not lingering in places like this.” He paused, softening his voice. “Once we’re done, you’re free to rest. No fuss.”

There was a flicker of thought behind Sniper’s eyes, something hesitant but inching toward trust. He let out a quiet breath and nodded once, the motion small but deliberate.

Jonas gently looped the stethoscope over his neck and approached. “I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs now,” he said, his voice calm and easy, like it belonged in a room softer than this one.

Sniper nodded but didn’t look up, jaw tight. As Jonas placed the cool diaphragm against his chest, there was the faintest twitch, barely perceptible, but there. Not pain, not surprise, just a reminder that even the smallest touch carried memory.

“Deep breath in… hold… now out.”

Jonas listened carefully to the rhythmic beat. Strong. A bit fast. Not unusual for someone who lives perpetually on high alert.

“You've got a very steady heart rate for someone who probably lives off adrenaline,” Jonas noted casually.

Sniper gave a quiet grunt. “Adrenaline’s cheaper than coffee.”

Jonas’s mouth lifted into a smile. “Less addictive, too. Allegedly.”

He stepped back and jotted the readings on his clipboard. “Let’s go through a few routine questions. I know they feel irrelevant, but they help paint the picture.”

Sniper gestured vaguely. “Fire away.”

“Smoking?”

“Used to.” His tone suggested more than habit, something sharp, maybe tied to stress, or someone he used to be.

“Drinking?”

“When the situation calls for it.”

Jonas looked up at that. “And when does it call for it?”

Sniper’s eyes flicked toward the window. “Usually after thinking too hard.”

Jonas noted the deflection, but didn’t press. “Diet?”

“Whatever’s in the fridge or for dinner.”

Jonas nodded. “And sleep?”

A pause.

“Enough to function.”

Jonas scribbled a note, but also tilted his head. “Functioning isn’t thriving.”

Sniper looked at him then, really looked. “This isn't about thriving. It’s about staying useful.”

There it was. A truth, neatly packed in practicality, but heavy beneath the surface.

Jonas directed him toward the scale and wall chart, his movements deliberate but never forceful. Sniper stepped up without comment, posture straight as always.

“You’re lean for your height,” Jonas said as he noted the numbers. “Efficient build. Typical for sharpshooters.”

Sniper nodded. “Hard to hit what you can’t see.”

Jonas closed the chart gently and turned back. “You know, you’re the only one who’s answered every question without deflection, except sleep.”

Sniper’s expression didn’t change, but the silence that followed felt like acknowledgment.

Jonas let it be.

“Alright. You're cleared. No strange results. Nothing unexpected.”

The stiffness in Sniper's shoulders eased as he rotated one arm behind him, the movement subtle but telling, like he was shrugging off something more than muscle tension. The atmosphere had changed. He stood, steady but less guarded, his usual silence no longer so brittle.

He turned halfway toward the door, then paused, casting a brief glance over his shoulder. The amber light caught the edge of his expression, no grin, no warmth exactly, but something softened. Respect, perhaps. Maybe even relief.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, voice rough but genuine. “They weren’t wrong about ya.”

It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t much. But coming from him, the words held weight.
Jonas didn’t respond immediately. He simply nodded once, measured and calm, offering a look that carried more assurance than gratitude.

Sniper stepped out of the room with a gait that had dropped its edge, boots thudding softly against linoleum instead of marching over it. The door shut behind him with a muted click.

And somewhere between the cold touch of the stethoscope and that final glance, something in him had loosened, a thread of tension that had held too tightly for too long. Not gone, but quieter.

Jonas exhaled slowly, setting his clipboard aside.

 

Jonas lay sprawled beneath a tangled mess of sheets, his limbs heavy yet unwilling to settle. The pillow cradled his head, but comfort felt theoretical, too cold without the blanket, then stiflingly hot the moment he pulled it up. His room was cloaked in quiet shadows.

He couldn't remember when the restless loop began, when the shift from trying to sleep turned into watching the clock flicker its digits like slow Morse code. The blanket slipped off his shoulder again. He tugged it back, then immediately regretted it when a sharp warmth crawled up his spine, coaxing sweat across the nape of his neck.

The base was silent. A silence Jonas typically found peaceful. Tonight, it felt too still, like the calm before an overdue disruption.

His mind wouldn't quiet. Spy’s parting words lingered at the forefront like frost clinging to glass.

Jonas tried to rationalize, to separate the man from his riddles. But the warning had rooted deep, tangling with his clinical instincts. Spy was a puzzle, calculated, cryptic, rarely idle without reason. If he spoke of change, something was stirring.

Jonas shifted again, flipping the pillow for the cool side. The sensation was brief, soothing only until his thoughts resumed their spiral. Fear of the unknown loomed, distant but constant. He hated that feeling. It reminded him of the nights before field deployment, when lives depended on what he didn’t yet know.

He pressed a palm to his chest, slow breaths counting in seconds. It helped for a few heartbeats. Then the mental noise resumed, scattered worries about the next round of evaluations, the team’s trust, the strange flicker in the lights, and whatever Spy believed Jonas wasn’t seeing yet.

He hoped sleep would eventually take pity. Just a lick of rest, enough to function. Enough to think clearly.

From beyond the wall, he heard the distant clink of glass, Demo, probably, nursing midnight thoughts in the halls. Soldier’s room, silent, though he suspected the man slept in boots and battle-readiness.

Jonas stared at the ceiling. The air felt thicker.

He reached for the bedside lamp, decided against it, and closed his eyes once more.

Chapter Text

Jonas opened his eyes to a blur of the ceiling and the heavy weight of exhaustion clinging to his limbs. He blinked slowly, waiting for clarity to kick in, but it never did. His mind was awake, calculating, diagnosing, already dissecting the problem, yet his body lagged behind, stubbornly fatigued.

I didn’t reach REM, he reasoned, irritation creeping into the thought. A shallow night. Inefficient. Suboptimal. The kind of rest that left residue behind, foggy thoughts, twitchy muscles, and that gnawing sense of being off-schedule.

Without even sitting up, Jonas began running self-assessments like a checklist:
Hydration level, moderate.
Caffeine withdrawal, possible.
Sleep quality, poor.
Cortisol spike, likely.

He prescribed himself fixes like a machine adjusting settings.
500 ml of water.
Stretching for 10 minutes.
A strong cup of coffee.
Avoid direct light exposure for 6 hours.

But despite the rational approach, irritation simmered beneath the surface. His internal systems were calibrated to precision, yet chaos still found a way in. It was like fighting entropy with a scalpel, methodical, but never quite enough. The fatigue felt like a betrayal, a breach in protocol.

The air felt stale, unmoving, as Jonas pried open his eyes. His skull pulsed faintly, like something inside was swaying in a boat far out at sea. A thin blanket of ache settled at the base of his neck, and despite every instinct urging him back into the pillow’s embrace, he growled and forced himself upright.

The movement sent a rush of dizziness spiraling through him. His vision blurred, black around the edges, and he clutched at his forehead as if pressing down on his own fatigue might dispel it.

“Verdammter Mist,” he muttered under his breath, the German falling from his lips with groggy venom. More curses followed in a low stream as he shuffled toward the closet, each breath weighed down by irritation and sleep’s persistent grip.

His coat was the first mercy of the day. The fabric folded around his shoulders like a steadying arm, soft and familiar. It grounded him, reminded him he had work to do, even if half of his body seemed to disagree. His boots, however, felt like concrete blocks strapped to his feet. Each step was a slow, reluctant drag, his heels scraping the floor with zombie-like heaviness.

He flicks one switch, his eyes burn for a moment before passing.

The hallway outside his room stretched like a marathon. As he trudged past the desk in the corner, his eyes landed on the sheet of paper, his morning list. His job. His responsibilities. His ritual attempt at order.

Heavy

Demoman

He stared at the names, blinking hard. The list looked thinner than it should. With a resigned sigh, he snatched a pen and scribbled the rest across the page.

Soldier

Pyro

Spy

The moment he wrote the last name, his brow furrowed. Spy. The man had said something odd the day before, something shrouded in threat and cryptic unease. Jonas hadn’t yet decided whether it was warning or manipulation. Either way, it lingered in his head like a splinter beneath the skin.

He tapped the pen against the desk, staring at the name. His stomach knotted slightly. What was Spy hinting at? And why now?

Then a sound broke through the early quiet: loud, boisterous laughter echoing down the corridor, followed by an unmistakable bark of command. Soldier. And Demoman, no doubt egging him on. Their chaos was already bleeding into the day.

Jonas closed his eyes briefly and exhaled through his nose. So much for easing into the morning.

With a deafening crash, the infirmary door flew open so violently that it smacked against the wall and rebounded slightly. Jonas instinctively flinched, the tip of his pen jerking across the paper. Before he could process the intrusion, Soldier stormed in like a hurricane in boots, eyes blazing and voice at full volume.

“MEDIC! DEMOMAN HAS CONSUMED A LAKE OF ALCOHOL!”

Behind him stumbled Demo, swaying with the elegance of a ship listing in high tide. His goggles were perched sideways across his brow, and his coat hung from one shoulder like it had tried to escape halfway through the night. He rubbed at his forehead with the enthusiasm of a man trying to erase the memory of his own choices.

“Solly, I’m fine...” he slurred, voice coated with sluggish cheer. “Just a wee bit hungover, nothin’ special, lad.”

“YOU CANNOT EVEN WALK!” Soldier barked, spinning toward him dramatically.

Demo gave a chuckle, raising a finger as though making a noble point. “Me legs feel like jelly. Tasty jelly.”

Jonas exhaled, setting his pen down before it accidentally became a weapon. He leaned forward, hands resting on the edge of the desk, eyes narrowing in exhausted composure.

“Demo,” he said carefully, “how much did you drink last night?”

The Scotsman paused. His eyes drifted to the corner of the room as if the ceiling tiles might hold the answer. His lips parted, slack and contemplative. Finally:

“Mm… maybe ten bottles?”

Jonas didn’t blink.

Soldier roared from behind, finger jabbing the air like he was delivering a battlefield report. “IT WAS FIFTEEN. I COUNTED.”

The infirmary echoed with a rhythmic creak as Jonas opened the supply cabinet, scanning the neatly arranged rows for the hydration kit he’d prepped weeks ago, just in case someone decided to chemically pickle their bloodstream. He grumbled under his breath, mentally tallying how many times Demo had stumbled in reeking of victory and fermented regret.

Across the room, Demo was slouched against the wall, arms draped around his knees like they were the only things holding him upright. His cheeks had the blotchy hue of a man who'd lost a battle with a whiskey barrel, and his grin flickered between amusement and nausea.

Jonas called out without turning. “Soldier, can you place Demoman into the chair for me?”
Before the sentence had fully left Jonas’s lips, Soldier lunged forward with the urgency of a field medic in a war zone. In one swoop, he hoisted Demo like a sandbag and launched him, not placed, into the medical chair with startling commitment. The metal frame groaned beneath the sudden weight and impact.

“ARRUGH!” Demo yelped, lurching sideways with the force. “AYE! YA COULD’VE BEEN GENTLER, SOLLY!”

Soldier stood tall, chin high, saluting the back of the room. “I HAVE COMPLETED THE EXTRACTION AND DEPOSIT MISSION AS ORDERED BY SALLY.”
Jonas returned moments later, arms full, an IV line coiled like cautious hope, a medical bag filled with electrolyte solution sloshing gently, and a sterile butterfly needle glinting under the ceiling light.

He paused mid-step as Demo’s entire expression changed.

The Scotsman's swagger faded in an instant. His eyes locked onto the needle with the focus of someone who remembered childhood vaccinations through whiskey-tinted trauma. He recoiled instinctively, shoulders tightening, one hand gripping the armrest.

Jonas recognized it instantly and felt his own pulse spike.

“Demo,” he said, voice steady but softer. “This is just a hydration IV. Nothing invasive beyond a quick poke. Alcohol dehydrates the body. You know that.”

Demo nodded slowly, throat working around nothing. “Aye, just a wee bit unexpected. Usually the sting comes before the regret, not after.”

Jonas offered a reassuring smile, keeping the needle shielded for now. “You’re in control. I’ll walk you through it. If it helps, you can look away.”

As Demo turned his gaze toward the opposite wall, muttering something about ‘never trusting beverages older than his boots,’ Jonas began prepping the site.

Then he felt it, the temperature in the room shifting.

He looked up.

Soldier was standing stiffly at Demo’s side, eyes fixed on the needle, posture growing rigid with each passing second. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked into place. Something in the gleam of metal had triggered him. Jonas’s stomach dropped.

He didn’t need another outburst. Not now. Not while he was holding sharp objects.

“Soldier?” Jonas asked carefully, voice dropping into its most diplomatic register.

“YES!” Soldier snapped to attention like he’d been waiting for the call to arms.

Jonas pivoted his strategy. “Would you be so kind as to grab me a cup of coffee? Black. Field-grade.”

Soldier paused, clearly not expecting to be reassigned from needle vigilance to beverage retrieval. Then, with a swift salute, he turned on his heel and marched toward the mess.

“MEDICAL CAFFEINE ACQUISITION: COMMENCING!”

As the door clattered shut behind him, Jonas let out a slow, measured breath.
Demo peeked from the corner of his eye. “That was smart.”

Jonas nodded, unwrapping the needle and gently easing the IV line into position. “I’d rather not rehydrate you during a flashback-induced battle simulation.”

Jonas stood beside Demo, butterfly needle poised between his fingers, the IV bag hanging like a silent promise from the hook above. Despite his calm exterior, Jonas felt a flicker of tension tighten in his chest, not for himself, but for Demo. The Scotsman's aversion to needles was no secret, and the sight of the glinting metal had drained color from his already pale features.

Jonas inhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. He turned to Demo with a smile, not the clinical mask of reassurance, but something warmer. Something human.

“I’m about to insert the needle,” Jonas said gently, his voice deliberate and slow, like coaxing someone back from the edge of a cliff. “I can go on your count, or mine. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

Demo’s eyes didn’t leave the needle. His bravado had receded, tucked away behind clenched teeth and furrowed brows. He swallowed, throat bobbing visibly, and gave a terse nod.

“Alright,” he said. His grimace deepened, lips pressing into a thin line as he tried to steel himself.

The moment hung suspended, one breath, two.

Jonas knelt beside him, eye level now, the needle angled with precision. “You ready to count, or shall I?”

Demo hesitated, then muttered, “You count. Just, get it done.”

Jonas nodded. “On three, then. One…”

Demo shut his eyes tight.

“Two…”

His knuckles turned white around the armrest.

“Three.”

Swift and practiced, Jonas inserted the needle with surgical grace. The sharpness of it was brief, almost anticlimactic, and the IV line was secure before Demo could brace for pain. His shoulders flinched slightly, but Jonas saw no resistance, only relief as the discomfort passed.

Demo let out a breath that had clearly been held far too long. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Jonas confirmed, clicking the tubing into place. “And not a single explosion. I’m proud of you.”

Demo cracked one eye open, then the other. “I feel betrayed. I prepared meself for torture.”

Jonas chuckled softly, standing again. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to recalibrate your expectations for medical care.”

 

His mind was focused, fixated, even, on the task at hand. With squared shoulders and unrelenting determination, he launched into the hallway like a missile with boots, stomping to a rhythm only he could hear, one that pulsed in time with every imagined drum of liberty ringing in his head.

This wasn’t a caffeine errand. It was a righteous crusade. Freedom was the goal. Medic had asked for coffee, but Soldier didn’t deal in beverages. He delivered liberty in liquid form.

The hallway stretched long before him, dimly lit by the hushed glow of overhead fixtures. It was early morning, so early even the mess hall lights hadn’t flickered on. The base slumbered beneath layers of industrial quiet, thick with dust and the residue of last night’s exhaustion. Normally, Soldier would be unconscious in his bunker, tangled in patriotic sheets and dreams of bayonet formations.

But today was different.

Demo had stumbled into the infirmary in a fog of whiskey fumes and regret, clutching his skull like it might split in half. Medic, half-awake and battle-weary, had treated him with quiet precision, fingers pressed to Demo's pulse, muttering something about liver abuse and stupidity. Soldier, witnessing this act of early-morning mercy, had declared a personal mission in Medic’s honor.

Friendship came before sleep.

Before rest.

Soldier marched on, a force of nature. The metal walkways beneath him groaned as though in protest, and somewhere down the hall, a bunk creaked. It was entirely possible that teammates stirred beneath their covers as their dreams were drowned out by thunderous bootsteps. Scout muttered something unintelligible. Sniper cursed quietly. Soldier didn’t care.

The mission had begun.

He passed Engineer’s garage, quiet, but still humming faintly with the glow of machinery left half-finished overnight. Wrenches lay abandoned beside blueprints, and the air smelled faintly of oil and ambition. Soldier saluted it as he passed, honoring its wartime contributions.

Then came the testing room.

His and Demo’s testing grounds.

The place had once been an all-purpose facility, aiming range, spatial diagnostics, even controlled explosive zones, but now it resembled something out of a wartime scrapbook drawn by lunatics with access to industrial tools. Targets lined the walls, some missing entirely, others skewered by homemade arrows and stray swords. The scorched floor bore boot prints of twenty failed launch experiments. A mounted refrigerator had been converted into a makeshift armor testing unit.

Soldier slowed, gaze drifting.

There was a dent in the wall from the time Demo tried to “shoot gravity.” A scorch mark on the ceiling from when Soldier built the first coffee-powered rocket thruster. The air smelled faintly of charred rubber and stale whiskey.

His fingers twitched in memory. But he did not step inside.

It was a hazardous monument to improvisation and insanity. And yet... tempting.

He shook his head with dramatic flair. “Not today,” he growled. “Freedom waits.”

The mess hall loomed ahead like a fortress of promise. Inside lay the coffee machine, or rather, the altar of victory, waiting to dispense hot, unfiltered liberty into one of BLU’s chipped ceramic mugs.

Soldier pressed onward, undeterred.

Medic needed him.

And even if the base rattled beneath his steps, even if sleep-deprived teammates cursed his name from beneath their blankets, this sacrifice was necessary.
Because freedom... was best served black.

Soldier strode into the kitchen with the dignity of a war general entering enemy territory. The morning lights overhead flickered weakly, struggling to wake up. The rest of the base remained cloaked in silence, half-buried beneath blankets and fatigue. But Soldier had no time for rest, he was fueled by duty and a deeply held belief that coffee equaled freedom.

His eyes locked onto the coffee pot sitting on the counter near the sink. Gleaming. Empty. Ready. It gleamed like a beacon in the fog, a perfect stainless steel sentinel just waiting for command.

“The moment is now,” Soldier murmured gravely to himself, hand on hip, eyes narrowed. “Freedom waits for no man!”

He turned on his heel and began rifling through the overhead cabinets. One by one, doors flew open with the force of battlefield breaches, revealing layers of cereal, mismatched mugs, expired protein bars, and… finally, a bag of coffee grounds, sealed with patriotic stickers.

Of course, he hadn’t gathered these beans alone. That would have been selfish. That would have been un-American. No, he had gone with Demo, Pyro, and, strangely enough, that other Medic, during a rare grocery trip. Soldier had sprinted down the coffee aisle like it was sacred ground, scooping up only the bags that had flags printed on them, saluting each row as he passed. The clerk had asked no questions. The clerk had understood.

Soldier poured grounds with exacting care, mimicking the ritual Sniper performed every breakfast, clean scoop, unshaken hand, no spills. He’d studied Sniper’s technique like it was a survival manual: strong but not scorched, bold but not bitter. Soldier believed in proper brewing. One cannot wage war on tired limbs. Even a Medic deserved elite-grade caffeination.

With practiced reverence, Soldier selected a mug from the rack: ceramic, thick-walled, the BLU logo printed prominently across the side. Scratched and faded by time, but unmistakable in its identity. He ran a gloved thumb along the rim as if checking its soul for cracks. Approved.

Then he grabbed a second. For Demo. Or himself. Or perhaps for the ghost of liberty, should it choose to drink.

As he turned back, his elbow nudged the first cup, sending it tumbling sideways with a hollow, ceramic crack! Soldier froze. The mug hadn’t shattered. It hadn’t fallen. It had merely rolled on its side, and for a heartbeat, the air held still.

Soldier bent down, scooping it up with utmost care. He inspected every inch of the mug, rim, handle, base, as if evaluating battle damage. One minor chip on the underside. Superficial. Nothing structural.

It was still a mug fit for a hero.

He placed it back on the tray, chest puffed out like a parade float. With coffee brewing behind him in perfect alignment and mugs at attention, he stood tall and proud.
“I am American,” he declared to no one. “And this is how coffee is forged in honor.”

Just as Soldier straightened his back and admired the brewing coffee machine like a statue of liberty mid-sip, the heavy footsteps of a titan echoed down the hallway, slow, deliberate, like distant drumbeats before battle.

Soldier turned sharply. “Someone approaches,” he whispered to himself. “Friend or foe…”

Heavy turns the corner.

Clad in his morning light blue pajamas, sleep still clinging to his eyes like stubborn shadows, Heavy lumbered into the kitchen with the calm power of an icebreaker splitting through dawn. His brow furrowed at the sight before him: mugs meticulously arranged, coffee bubbling with vigor, and Soldier standing like he’d just raised the flag on a distant hilltop.

Heavy blinked. “...You make coffee?”

Soldier saluted instantly. “Not just coffee, comrade. I am engineering liberty in liquid form! Brewed with precision, patriotism, and a pinch of Sniper’s sacred technique!”

Heavy shuffled closer, eyeing the scratched BLU mugs with unexpected tenderness. One had a chip; the other bore fading fingerprints of past missions. He picked up the second cup, meant for Demo or liberty’s ghost, and turned it slowly in his hand.

“This one is mine?” he asked, quiet.

Soldier hesitated, caught off guard by the softness of the moment. He cleared his throat. “It can be yours. It is forged for comrades who appreciate proper caffeinated tactics.”
Heavy nodded once, slowly. “Coffee is good. But...this, this is more like ritual.”

Something in Heavy’s voice gave Soldier pause. The kind of pause you take at a memorial, a photograph, or a name carved into stone. Soldier gestured to the pot. “Would you like to pour it, comrade? You’ve earned the honor.”

Heavy reached forward, hands steady, and poured two cups with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred relics. No sloshes. No spills. A perfect pour.

They stood side-by-side for a moment.

Heavy took his own, murmured gently, “Is good.”

He spun on his heel and zeroed in on a lone mug tucked behind the rest, partially obscured by chipped saucers and half-cleaned mess hall silverware. This one wasn’t regulation. It wasn’t stamped with the BLU insignia or any dignified military crest. Instead, it bore the image of a random wrench, bold, clunky, almost cartoonish, printed slightly off-center in a grayish-blue.

Soldier stared at it with reverence.

“A tool of repair,” he whispered. “A symbol of precision, invention... healing. Medic shall receive this.”

He held the mug aloft like a trophy before slotting it beside the other, then carefully poured the dark roast coffee, the Liberty Brew, into each one. Steam curled upward in elegant swirls, carrying the scent of rebellion and robust mornings. To Soldier, this wasn’t just coffee. It was an act of service. An offering brewed with pride and purpose.
Across the counter, Heavy watched quietly. His large hands cradled his BLU mug as though it were something fragile. He took another slow sip, letting Soldier’s voice echo around the room before responding.

“Medic is awake?” Heavy finally asked, voice low, eyes still locked on his mug as if consulting it for answers.

“Affirmative!” Soldier barked, saluting with one hand while the other balanced two freshly poured cups. “Medic assigned me the mission while he tends to Demo.”

Heavy’s brow lifted slightly. Perhaps he imagined Medic mid-sigh, attempting to extract a wrench Demo had declared his new toothpick. Maybe he pictured the look of practiced patience on Medic’s face as Demo insisted he was fine, while bleeding onto his socks.

Heavy gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment, almost amused, but didn’t smile. He stared at his mug for a beat longer, then said “Tell Doktor to come to kitchen when he can,” Heavy murmured. His voice carried an unusual softness, the kind that wasn’t quite a request, more like an invitation steeped in quiet camaraderie.

Soldier nodded solemnly, understanding the quiet weight of the request. “Can do, comrade. I’ll deliver this brew and extend your summons. Good night, Heavy!”

He turned and marched from the room with both mugs secure in hand, posture rigid with purpose.

Heavy blinked slowly. “...Wait,” he muttered. “But it is morning?”

Soldier was already halfway out the door, boots clomping rhythmically, coffee in hand, full of purpose. Heavy shook his head and chuckled, sipping his coffee.

 

The infirmary had fallen into a rare quiet, no thudding boots, no clattering trays, no frantic yelling from Soldier outside. Just the soft, rhythmic drip of the IV bag and the faint hum of medical equipment idling. Demo lay back in the exam chair, half-sunk into the cushions, his posture loose but not collapsed. Whatever storm had passed through his system earlier had mostly faded, leaving behind a gentle buzz of residual fatigue and sluggish contentment.

His breathing had steadied. His thoughts, while still scattered, now looped in lazy arcs rather than chaotic zigzags. The hangover, like a stubborn fog, had finally retreated. Jonas took mental note of Demo’s clarity, no slurred speech, no bizarre metaphors about whisky pirates. Just casual conversation, sharp enough to be coherent, dull enough to reveal the lingering haze.

Jonas glanced up from his chart and eyed Demo’s IV. The bag was nearly empty, and Demo hadn’t winced once in the last ten minutes. He seemed... manageable. Cooperative, even. Maybe not alert, but far from his earlier jelly-legged chaos.

Jonas leaned slightly forward, hands relaxed at his sides. “Demo?” he asked, voice soft, measured, like he was testing the waters more than giving instructions.

Demo turned his head, slow and syrupy. His eyes met Jonas’s for half a second before drifting toward the ceiling tiles. “Hm?”

Jonas offered a polite, professional smile. “Do you mind if I do a quick check-up? Just basics. I know I said you could leave once you were hydrated, but since you’re still here…”

He trailed off deliberately. Gave space for Demo’s gears to turn.

Demo’s expression flattened. His brows furrowed faintly, lips pursing as his eyes flicked toward the IV stand and back to Jonas. He didn’t speak right away, but the sour shift in his demeanor was clear. Not aggressive. Not entirely resistant. But doubtful. Suspicious, even. That vague, familiar look of someone who’d been poked and prodded too often by people who forgot he had a say in things.

His gaze wandered again, past Jonas’s shoulder, toward the desk, the IV in his arm, the closed door. Anywhere but the man asking questions.

Jonas didn’t push. He waited.

Demoman shifted slightly, shoulders softening into the backrest as a rare stillness settled around him. But when Jonas gently offered the idea of a check-up, Demo’s body responded with a subtle flinch, barely visible, but unmistakable.

His gaze didn’t meet Jonas’s.

Instead, it wandered to a crack in the ceiling plaster, then drifted toward the wall where the old cabinets stood. His voice, when it came, was low and uneven.

“Last time someone called it a ‘quick check-up,’ I woke up with stitches on my tongue, lad.”

Jonas blinked.

Demo’s eyes flicked over, reluctant and tired. “He said it was to keep me from drinkin’. To correct me.” His tone dropped into something bitter. “Didn’t ask. Just did it. Thought it was a good idea, just a medical intervention, he called it.”

Jonas stepped back slightly, setting down the clipboard he hadn’t even written on yet. There was a pause, a clean, respectful silence that allowed Demo's words to land and settle without being rushed past.

“I’m not him,” Jonas said carefully. “If you want to walk out right now, no pressure. I promise.”

Demo hesitated. He rubbed the side of his nose, sighing like something ancient was peeling off inside his chest.

“You’re softer, I’ll give ya that.” Then, after a pause, “But soft doesn’t always mean safe.”

Jonas smiled at that. A dry, tired sort of smile. “It also doesn’t mean weak. Besides, my goal today is just to prove that your liver hasn’t begun writing apology letters to the rest of your organs.”

Demo snorted, a real one, not half-baked. “She’s probably too hungover herself.”

Jonas pulled up a stool and sat at Demo’s side, the stethoscope still untouched beside him. “If you let me check your reflexes and ask a few dumb questions, I’ll promise not to ask anything like, ‘when was your last drink.’ Deal?”

Demo’s brows lifted slightly. “Not even one guilt-riddled stare?”

“Nope,” Jonas said. “Just the classic nonjudgmental ‘blink and scribble’ routine.”

Demo chuckled. “Alright, Doc. But if you touch me tongue, we’re throwin’ hands.”

“Fair,” Jonas replied, reaching for the stethoscope on his desk.

Papers were scattered in methodical disorder, clinical forms half-filled, pens tossed aside mid-thought, and somewhere within that chaos, the elusive checklist Jonas swore he’d duplicated this morning. His fingers skimmed over folders and a discarded thermometer wrapper with increasing urgency.

Behind him, Demo perched stiffly on the exam table like a reluctant statue. His complexion teetered between flushed and pale, jaw set tight as his eyes locked onto Jonas with a strange combination of distrust and impending nausea. One knee bounced out of rhythm, tapping the edge of the table like a warning drum.

Jonas’s hand paused on a thick clipboard wedged between his bag and a stethoscope. Ah, there it was. The list. Thank God.

He turned, catching Demo’s expression at just the wrong angle, cheeks puffed slightly, brows knitted, pupils a touch too wide. Jonas had seen that look before. That was the face of a man debating whether to swallow it down or decorate the room.

With clinical calm, Jonas shifted into gear. “Could you sit up for me?” he asked, voice soft but purposeful. “I’m going to check your heart and lungs.”

Demo blinked slowly, either in agreement or resignation, then straightened with effort. His shoulders rose like old hinges creaking into place. “If my heart skips,” he muttered, “it's not love. It's fear.”

Jonas offered a dry smile. “Let’s hope it’s neither arrhythmia nor heartbreak, then.”
He stepped forward, stethoscope in hand, the cold metal looping between his fingers. Demo flinched, not dramatically, just a slight recoil, like he expected the instrument to bite.

Jonas noticed.

“Tell me,” Jonas said casually, though the question was pointed, “When was your last exam? I noticed you’re missing from a few of the older files.”

Demo snorted, head tipping back lazily. “Don’t know. Never had one, not proper at least. Argued with that fake bastard, y’know, the last Medic, to leave me outta his ‘check-ups.’”

Jonas paused. The tone wasn’t just flippant. There was grit in it. Resentment baked deep into every syllable.

“That’s fair,” Jonas replied quietly, eyes steady. “I’d have done the same if someone touched my tongue without consent and called it a procedure.”

Demo’s brow lifted at that, surprised that Jonas listened.

Jonas stepped forward, speaking softly as he reached for his stethoscope. “I take pride in the fact that I don’t weaponize medicine.”

Demo’s shoulders rose and fell in a tired shrug.

Jonas motioned gently. “Let’s check your lungs.”

Demo let out a breath through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close, and shifted upright. His movements were slow, deliberate. Tired but cooperative.

Jonas placed the stethoscope’s diaphragm against Demo’s chest, carefully avoiding any abrupt gestures. The metal was cool against flushed skin, and Demo twitched slightly, then stilled.

“Deep breath in,” Jonas instructed, watching carefully. “Steady. Hold it… now out.”
Demo’s chest rose, expanded, then deflated. The rhythm was solid, bruised from the night prior, but reliable. Jonas listened intently.

“Y’know,” Demo murmured between breaths, “I used to hate doctors. After that bastard... it wasn’t medicine.”

Jonas nodded, moving the stethoscope to his back. “And now?”

Demo hesitated, then shrugged again. “Still don’t love it. But you’ve got good hands.”

Jonas blinked at that. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received in this room.”

Demo chuckled, voice hoarse. “Don’t get used to it.”

As Demo complied, reluctantly but sincerely, the tension in the room shifted. The lines around his eyes softened, the suspicion ebbed like low tide.

Jonas lifted the stethoscope from Demo’s chest, the motion smooth and precise. Demo exhaled as if he’d been holding that breath for more than just lung function, somewhere between relief and wariness, it released the tension knotted between his shoulders.

Jonas didn't comment on it, but he noticed. He always did.

He stepped back to his rolling stool and jotted a few notes on his clipboard, the pen tapping lightly against the paper while Demo idly rubbed at the spot where cold metal had touched skin.

Then, with a glance over the rim of his glasses, Jonas asked in a tone that sounded more clinical than accusatory, “What is your daily diet?”

Demo paused, then chuckled. It was a guilty sort of laugh, low and uneven. “Uh… you mean before or after I've had too much to drink?”

Jonas raised a brow but kept his expression neutral. “Let’s start with before.”

“Well…” Demo scratched his neck, eyes trailing off as he pieced together an answer. “Usually some fried stuff from the kitchen, whatever's leftover. Heavy makes this stew sometimes, says it puts weight on your soul or somethin’. That and toast. If there’s jam. Not the fake stuff either.”

“And after?”

Demo smirked. “Crackers. If I can keep 'em down.”

Jonas scribbled silently for a moment more, then stood, walking to the corner where a patched-up weighing scale sat like a relic from the Cold War. One leg wobbled slightly, held steady by a folded magazine wedged beneath it.

“Let’s get your weight,” Jonas murmured, gesturing for Demo to step forward.
Demo eyed it warily. “That thing looks like it saw battle.”

“It did.,” Jonas replied dryly. “Don’t sneeze near it or we’ll lose calibration entirely.”

Demo stepped on. The metal creaked, a long, reluctant groan. Jonas adjusted the sliding weights at the top, eyes narrowed in focus. The needle danced a little too dramatically before settling.

“Still alive,” Demo muttered.

“Barely,” Jonas replied. “You’ve lost a few pounds since the last record I could find.”

He guided Demo over to the nearby wall, where a ruler had been duct-taped with surgical precision at head level. At the top, there were faded markings: a poorly scribbled “DO NOT REMOVE” note from someone with a clear vendetta against vertical growth.

Jonas stood beside him, leveling a clipboard flat atop Demo’s head and marking the edge on the ruler. “Still the same height.”

“I try not to grow without warning,” Demo quipped.

Jonas cracked an amused grin. “Very considerate of you.”

With the routine measurements complete, Jonas returned to his desk, thumbing through the forms. Demo sat back down, this time less guarded, tapping his fingers idly against his knee.

“I’m not a fan of this room,” Demo admitted, “But you make it tolerable.”

Jonas looked up. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said in here”

His pen tapped once against the margin as he looked up, tone slipping into brisk efficiency.

“Now,” he asked, glancing between Demo’s eyes and the chart, “any known allergies? Have you smoked recently?”

Demo leaned back with a lazy grin, eyes gleaming. “Nah, don’t have any known allergies. If I did, I wouldn’t be a good Demoman now, would I?”

He delivered the line with a wink, cheeky, practiced, and laced with that same brand of mischief that always hovered around him like gunpowder mist. Jonas barked a laugh that echoed slightly off the tiled walls, one hand briefly clutching his chest.

“Fair point,” Jonas replied, shaking his head. “I’d hate to imagine you sneezing mid-detonation.”

Demo chuckled at that, then tilted his head in genuine thought. “Smokin’, though? Hm. Does blowing up bombs count? Breathing in the aftermath, that black puff of regret and glory?”

Jonas scribbled something down, half jest, half notation. “I’ll file that under ‘occupational hazards.’”

Demo nodded solemnly, then added with surprising sincerity, “I do know Solly smokes a cigar sometimes. Big chunky ones. Says it clears the sinuses and ‘fortifies the lungs.’ I’m not convinced.”

Jonas had barely drawn breath to dismiss Demo when the infirmary doors exploded open, not metaphorically, but with the full force of a steel-plated boot connecting with brittle hinges. The frame clanged against the wall with a sharp metal echo, reverberating through cabinets and clipboard stacks like a shockwave.

Demo flinched hard, his body practically leaving the chair. Jonas snapped his head toward the door, reflexes taut, the list he’d just reviewed now fluttering to the floor like startled paper birds.

“OPEN THE DOOR, MAGGOTS!” Soldier bellowed from the threshold, standing like a deity of caffeine and discipline, his silhouette rigid in the light.

Jonas pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing as he calmly retrieved the fallen list. “You... already opened it,” he muttered, stepping toward the door with strained patience.

Demo slid off the exam bench with a low chuckle, muscles loose now that his check-up was complete. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

He stood perfectly stiff, back straight as a plank, chin lifted to heroic angles. “Doctor,” Soldier proclaimed, stepping into the room with the reverence of a general presenting battlefield spoils, “I did not spill the coffee.”

Jonas peered around him, half-expecting a scorched trail or a trail of rogue droplets, but the floor remained blessedly clean. He took the steaming mug with cautious hands. “Impressive,” he admitted, raising the drink to his lips. “Hm. Quite nice. Danke, Soldier. At ease.”

Soldier pivoted with precision and marched over to Demo, who was casually adjusting the collar of his coat, still not fully sober but miles better than earlier.

“Demo! I brought you coffee as well!” Soldier declared proudly, extending the mug like it was a medal of honor.

Demo’s brows lifted as he glanced at Jonas for silent approval. The Medic gave a small wave, lifting his own mug in mock toast.

Demo grinned and accepted the drink, the warmth rolling up his fingers like secondhand fire. “Oh, this is very nice,” he said, sniffing the brew theatrically. “Thanks, Solly.”

Then, with zero warning, he threw a heavy arm around Soldier’s shoulders and pulled him in, nearly sloshing coffee down the front of his coat. “Teamwork, lad. You bring the fuel, I bring the boom.”

The room had begun to mellow, the charged atmosphere dissolving into warmth as the trio exchanged laughter over steaming mugs. Demo’s chuckle was still rumbling in his chest, and Jonas allowed himself a quiet smile, moments of levity like these were rare luxuries in the chaotic rhythm of team life.

With the mood light and Soldier already inside the infirmary, Jonas saw an opening. He set his coffee aside with measured precision and stepped forward, professional curiosity stirring beneath his composed exterior.

“Soldier?” he asked, voice calm yet deliberate.

Soldier turned his head halfway, his iconic ushanka slightly drooped over his brow. Only one steely eye peeked out beneath the brim, blinking slowly as if woken from deep thought. Demo tilted his mug, watching with vague curiosity.

Jonas continued, “Do you have time to do a check-up?”
For a beat, Soldier didn’t respond.

The usual bombastic energy in his posture dimmed just slightly. His spine straightened even more, as if bracing for combat, but his feet remained planted. His fingers tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening beneath the strain.

Jonas caught the shift immediately. Years of parsing micro-expressions made him keen to discomfort even beneath ironclad bravado. Soldier was quiet now.

“I... suppose,” Soldier said slowly, as though the words themselves resisted formation. “It is a matter of physical readiness, correct?”

“Correct,” Jonas affirmed. “Routine check-up. Just to ensure you’re at optimal efficiency.”

Demo stifled a snicker. “Bet you’re afraid the doc’s gonna tell you you’ve got too much patriotism clogging your arteries.”

Soldier stiffened, glaring at Demo with indignant silence before returning his attention to Jonas. “Very well. I am ready.”

But Jonas knew better than to take the statement at face value. Soldier’s tone carried tension, not fear, but resistance. Somewhere beneath the shouting and squared shoulders was vulnerability, neatly buried under duty and pride.

He gestured gently toward the exam bench. “We’ll take it slow. No battle required.”
Soldier nodded once and moved, not with his usual stomp, but a measured, rehearsed precision, as if each step had been debated beforehand.

Jonas readied his instruments with quiet efficiency, the subtle clinks and clicks of his stethoscope.He could sense the tension radiating from Soldier like static: the man was ready to fight.

Demo leaned against the far wall, sipping his coffee with an amused glint in his eye. "Oi, Solly," he said, voice light but pointed, "Yer actin' like the doc’s got needles the size of shovels."

"I am prepared for anything," Soldier replied, not quite blinking. "Including medical intrusion."

Jonas approached slowly, adjusting his tone for reassurance. “It’s just a standard check-up. Nothing invasive. I’ll start with simple questions.”

Soldier nods sharply.

Demo watched for another moment before wandering closer, cradling his mug like it was a sacred relic. “Y'know, mate,” he drawled, “I used to dread this bit too. Thought he'd find bits o’ shrapnel where shrapnel oughtn’t be.”

Soldier’s eye twitched.

“But he’s good,” Demo added, softer now. “Knows what he’s doin’. Doesn’t poke for the sake of pokin’. Just wants to make sure you're... still built like a tank.”

Jonas flicked his gaze from the paperwork to the man in front of him. Time to get into the finer details.

“What is your typical diet?” he asked, knowing full well he was about to hear something dramatic.

Soldier’s chest expanded like a balloon inflating on command. “American food that feeds the soul!” he declared.

Jonas paused mid-note, one brow raised. “Could you elaborate?”

“Steaks grilled on the flames of liberty,” Soldier recited. “Mashed potatoes shaped like warships. Bacon arranged in the form of our glorious flag. I eat with honor, Doctor!”

Behind him, Demo nearly choked on his coffee. “You forget the canned chili you tried fermentin’ last week,” he muttered. “That nearly took out half the barracks.”

“That was training fuel. Not part of the daily rations,” Soldier retorted.
Jonas chuckled under his breath and continued. “Alright then... any known allergies?”

Soldier’s eyes narrowed. “My only allergy is communism and non-American food!”

The declaration echoed through the infirmary. Jonas didn’t flinch, just gave a very slow nod, scribbling “none confirmed” beneath the allergy box. He was used to this by now.

“Smoking habits?” he asked casually, already recalling Demo’s earlier mention of cigars.

Soldier hesitated, as if unsure whether this counted as a tactical confession. “Uh… at least once. After battle. For morale.”

Jonas scribbled slowly. “Cigars?”

Demo leaned in, still smirking. “Like a government reward, as Solly says. Lights one up like he’s just won a congressional medal.”

Soldier nodded solemnly. “It is tradition.”

“Not a great one,” Jonas replied, “but noted.”

“Now it’s time to check your heart and lungs,” Jonas said, voice crisp but calm.

Soldier shifted slightly, squaring his shoulders further, as if proper posture could fend off any bad news. Jonas placed the stethoscope gently against his chest, listening in silence. A rhythmic thud marked Soldier’s heartbeat, strong, unwavering. But the moment he instructed, “Take a deep breath,” things changed.

A small wheeze whispered through each inhale, faint but unmistakable.

Jonas furrowed his brow, leaning in slightly. “Again,” he instructed.

The wheeze returned with each breath. Demo, who had been lounging nearby with an amused smirk, suddenly went still. His eyebrow lifted, not in mockery, but subtle concern.

“Hmm,” Jonas said, pulling the stethoscope away and jotting something down. “I’m hearing a small wheeze when you breathe. I recommend you lay off the smoke for a while.”

“WHAT!” Soldier exploded, voice bouncing off the walls. He shot up from the bench like he’d been insulted by treason itself. “How could you ask an American hero to stop smoking?”

Jonas didn’t flinch, though he watched Soldier’s face begin to flush, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, fists flexing at his sides. Demo instinctively stepped in, one hand on Soldier’s arm, murmuring something unintelligible but soothing.

“It’s not your heart,” Jonas clarified gently, returning to the clipboard. “Your heart sounds perfect. But your lungs? They’re struggling a bit. The smoking’s taking a toll on your lungs.”

But Soldier wasn’t listening.

His eyes drifted, not away, but inward.

The sterile white of the infirmary blurred in his vision, replaced by gray skies and muddy terrain. Jonas’s words dissolved into the hum of engines and static-filled radio chatter. In his mind’s eye, he saw the smoldering wreckage of a transport, embers dancing across the bodies of friends, blackened boots beside scattered helmets.

One breath. Wheeze.

Another breath. Gunpowder in the throat.

Cigar smoke once masked the stench of loss.

He’d lit one every night during that campaign, not for victory, but for the stress.

Now, the very act was under scrutiny.

Soldier didn’t move. Not yet. His knuckles had gone white around the edge of the bench. Demo noticed the change but said nothing, standing quietly beside him.

Jonas glanced between them. “Just think about it,” he said, softer this time.

Soldier’s gaze flicked toward him, but he wasn’t really seeing Jonas. Not fully.

He was still in the field.

 

It was the fifth deployment. He couldn’t recall the date, only that it was always raining, cold, biting rain that soaked through regulation wool and made the ground feel like quicksand. The squad was lean then. No Snipers, no Demomen. Just rookies and veterans who didn’t speak much anymore.

The mission was a blur of fog and faulty intel. What was supposed to be a tactical sweep turned into a nightmare of miscommunication and ambushes. They’d dug in around a ruined farmhouse, mud up to their knees, with nothing but sandbags and sheer will holding the perimeter.

▇▇▇ was the last one to light a cigar that night. He wasn’t celebrating, he was mourning. He inhaled slowly, hoping the tobacco would chase away the scent of blood, the sulfur from explosions, the raw metallic smell of fear. It didn’t work. But it masked enough to keep him functional.

One cigar per loss.
One puff to say, I remember.
One flame to feel something other than guilt.

He remembered her voice first. Sergeant Vick. She had barked orders with clarity that cut through chaos like bayonets through brush. Her laugh used to echo in the mess hall, rough but real.

She was the one who passed him his first cigar after their survival drill, grinning beneath smeared camouflage paint. “Victory tastes better wrapped in tobacco,” she’d said.

That night, ▇▇▇ managed to take control of an area.

Vick wasn’t too far away, and damn does ▇▇▇ wish he was there

Then came the explosion.

The shockwave threw him backward, ears ringing. Smoke clouded everything, no direction, no sound. He staggered up, coughing as he clawed through shattered crates and debris. The radio crackled. So did his breath.

He found her under a collapsed section of wall, half-buried. Her helmet lay ten feet away.

Blood pooled like ink around her side.

She looked at him, not with fear, but clarity.

“Fall back. Mission’s compromised.”

He wanted to drag her out. She pressed her pistol into his hand instead.

Before he could speak, her breath stopped and he was left alone.

He lit a cigar in her name first.

He lit one after every operation. Even ones that went smoothly. He carried her words like medals tucked under skin, unseen, but weighty. The smoke wasn’t just smoke; it was ceremony. His lungs carried the memory. The wheeze? A tribute.

 

Soldier’s chest rose once, not with pride, but with restraint. His voice cracked like a boot through wet ash.

“She… used to say smoke gave shape to what was lost.”

Medic didn’t speak. Demo didn’t move.

The weight of the words filled the space where medicine couldn’t reach.

Soldier turned slightly, just enough to meet Jonas’s gaze. The bravado was gone. Behind the layers of barked orders and bluster was a plea, raw and fragile.

“Please don’t take this from me,” he whispered.

No, it was more than a whisper. It was begging.

Medic felt something flicker in his gut.

He stepped closer, gently setting the clipboard down without a word. His hands were open, not a doctor, not an interrogator, just someone willing to hold the weight.

“I won’t take anything,” Medic said quietly. “But I can help you breathe a little easier. So when you do remember… it’s not pain you taste first.”

Soldier’s eyes shimmered with a ghost of light, reflections that weren’t born from the overhead fluorescents, but from something reaching up from the deep. His jaw clenched tight, trying to anchor him to the present, but it was no use. No one else in the room saw it.

What Medic saw was a man on the edge of remembrance.

But Soldier…

 

▇▇▇ saw Clover.

Clover hadn’t been much to look at, barely taller than a rifle stock and always smelled faintly of antiseptic and peppermint. His uniform was perpetually wrinkled, his posture unimpressive. But his heart? It had the tenacity of an oak tree in a hurricane.

His nickname came from the absurd fortune that followed him: shots missed by inches, bombs that fizzled, patients revived against impossible odds. “Stupid luck,” ▇▇▇ used to say, but he said it with reverence.

In the haze of grief, ▇▇▇ saw Clover again as he had during the worst day of his life, kneeling beside Vick’s fallen body, one hand reaching for Soldier, the other shielding her from the choking smoke. Clover’s eyes had brimmed with grief, but his voice was steady as a metronome,

“Don’t be too scared to cry, ▇▇▇. You are not only a Soldier, but a man as well.”

▇▇▇ hadn’t cried. He couldn’t. The tears were trapped behind the walls of his discipline, buried under grit and scars. But Clover’s hand on his back was warm. Gentle. It shook with its own heartbreak, but it never faltered.

“I should’ve been there,” ▇▇▇ had hissed, fists trembling, jaw grinding so hard his teeth ached.

Clover had never looked away.

“You can’t change the past,” he’d whispered. “So how about you make yourself a future you can look back on. For Vick?”

 

Soldier exhaled, barely a breath, more a tremor.

“For Vick,” he muttered. The words tasted like firewood and frost.

 

Demo shifted uneasily, watching the rigid posture of Soldier across the room. The man’s eyes were locked on something invisible, some far-off battlefield no one else could see. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles pale, breath shallow. It wasn’t focus; it was absence.

Demo rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Aye... I haven’t seen a stare like that in a long time.” His voice, usually booming and brash, came out low and laced with concern.

Jonas, having already moved into physician mode, didn’t respond with words, only swift action. He crossed the infirmary with practiced efficiency, his coat trailing behind him like a ghost of precision. Reaching the steel cabinets, Jonas swept them open, scanning shelves lined with antiseptics, medical tools, and assorted vials filled with unknown liquid. His hand found the dark green bottle nestled in the back corner: industrial-strength rubbing alcohol. Not the tame kind he’d used on Scout’s daze the day before. This was potent, intended to bite.

He tugged a cotton rag from a drawer nearby and soaked it liberally. The liquid hissed as it absorbed into the fibers, releasing a biting, chemical sting into the air. The scent spread quickly, sharp and unforgiving, nothing subtle about it.

Demo’s nose wrinkled at the strength of the fumes. He stepped forward, eyebrows raised. “Uh, lad?” he asked, voice almost urgent. “What are ye doin’ with that?”

Jonas folded the rag carefully, his face calm and composed. “I’m going to snap him out of his daze,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “This will be enough to jolt his senses. Nothing invasive.”

He approached Soldier slowly, positioning himself with precision. The cotton was held at the perfect distance, not aggressive, but close enough to command attention. Demo hovered near the doorframe, arms crossed tightly, gaze bouncing between Soldier’s frozen expression and Jonas’s steady movements.

As the vapor reached Soldier’s nose, there was no gradual reaction.

It hit all at once.

Soldier blinked rapidly, nostrils flaring. A cough escaped his lips, rough and unsteady, as though the fog in his mind had been forced to scatter. His grip relaxed. Shoulders dropped from their unnatural height. And slowly, deliberately, his eyes shifted to meet Jonas’s.

Jonas nodded once, placing a hand gently on Soldier’s arm. “That’s it. You’re alright.”

Soldier’s voice came seconds later, cracked like old leather. “I was back in... I saw...”

Jonas’ voice came measured, soft but clear. “You’re in BLU’s base, Soldier. My infirmary. You’re nowhere near that place”

The words settled gently, placed with purpose, meant to anchor rather than confront.
Demo, who had remained close like a sentry, stepped forward and placed his hands on Soldier’s shoulders with an unspoken steadiness.

“Solly,” he said quietly, coaxing comfort through the nickname. “Come on, lad. Let’s rest, yeah?”

Soldier’s eyes swept the room, flicking from Jonas’s face to the overhead lights and white-tiled walls. His confusion surfaced in waves.

“No, ugh… What were we doing?” His voice cracked as if searching for something.

Jonas’s reply was immediate, his tone calm yet clinical. “I was performing your check-up.” He didn’t push. If Soldier wanted to postpone, he would understand. There were ways to work around late data, he’d done it before.

But Soldier clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and nodded curtly. “Get it over with,” he muttered, grit resurfacing..

Demo loosened his grip, taking a step back as Jonas gestured toward the scale. Soldier stepped onto it with practiced discipline, still lost in thought. Just like Demo, his weight had dropped, an unsettling trend Jonas filed silently away.

Next came the height station. Jonas moved with efficiency, clipboard in hand, but hesitated for a beat before speaking. “Stand tall, please.”

Soldier straightened, posture rigid with habit. No change. Still the same height, Jonas thought. Still the same shell, if not the same man inside.

He made a few quick notes and stepped back. “That’s all,” Jonas said, voice a touch softer now. “You both may leave.”

Demo offered a casual, “Aye, thanks, doc,” already turning toward the exit.

But Soldier didn’t follow.

His voice came low, robotic, his eyes not on Jonas or Demo, but somewhere behind them. “Heavy needs you in the kitchen.”

Jonas blinked once. Demo paused mid-step, then turned slowly toward Soldier, brows knit with confusion. The way Soldier spoke… It was as if the words were placed in his mouth rather than chosen.

Soldier didn’t wait for a response. He left the infirmary in clean, rigid steps, heading not for the mess hall, but undoubtedly to his quarters. Demo, with a last glance toward Jonas, followed silently.

The room was quiet again.

Chapter Text

Jonas moved through the corridor with a quiet persistence, his steps steady but lacking their usual precision. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting pale light on his coat as he passed closed doors and empty rooms. Mentally, he felt worn thin, his thoughts still tangled in the morning's encounter with Soldier. But the day hadn’t paused for him, and so he didn’t pause for it.

He drifted into the base’s kitchen, a space that smelled faintly of steel, coffee grounds, and yesterday's bacon. The hum of the fridge provided a soft backdrop to the clink of metal utensils, and there, in his usual spot, sat Heavy, curled comfortably on a reinforced chair designed to handle his bulk.

Heavy’s eyes met Jonas’s the moment he entered. At first, his expression brightened into a grin, but it quickly shifted into something puzzled, like he’d caught a note off in a familiar tune.

“Why Doktor look so tired?” Heavy asked, voice low and rumbling like distant thunder.

Jonas blinked once, his hand brushing the doorframe as he leaned into the room. “Woke up too early. Couldn’t sleep again.”

It wasn’t a lie, but Heavy’s gaze lingered, searching. The bags beneath Jonas’s eyes, the tight pull at his shoulders, the silence tucked in his tone, none of it quite matched the answer. Especially not when Soldier had, inexplicably, sought out coffee for Jonas earlier. That gesture carried weight, intention… emotion. And Heavy knew Soldier didn’t fetch coffee unless a mission had been declared, or someone mattered deeply.

Still, Heavy didn’t push. Instead, he let his doubt rest quietly behind his smile. He turned back toward the stovetop, reaching for a pan.

 

“What idea do you have for breakfast, Doktor?” he asked, gentle as ever. The question wasn’t just about food, it was an offering. A small nudge toward normalcy.

Jonas stood frozen for a moment. He glanced at the pantry shelves, past the cans and boxes, eyes distant. His mind flipped between calorie counts, flavor, and comfort, and then, as if his brain finally caught up to his body, he landed on something.

His stomach chimed in as his mouth began to water.

“French toast,” Jonas murmured. “Thick slices. Cinnamon. Vanilla. With fresh fruit and, if we still have it.”

Heavy let out a soft “Hah,” both amused and delighted. “Doktor has sweet tooth,” he declared, already reaching for eggs and bread with surprising grace.

Jonas chuckled under his breath, the sound barely escaping his lips. “Today, maybe.”
Heavy began cracking eggs with skilled hands, and the kitchen came alive in subtle ways, the sizzle of butter in the pan, the scrape of whisk against bowl, and the faint flicker of warmth Jonas hadn’t realized he needed.

The aroma of eggs and cinnamon had begun to fill the kitchen, rising into the air like warmth being stitched back into the bones of the base. Jonas crossed toward the corner table quietly, the soles of his shoes not quite masking the tired drag in his step. He pulled out a chair, wooden, scratched from years of meal-time scraping, and lowered himself into it with deliberate care.

As he settled in, the ambient light overhead pressed harder against his eyes. The headache was subtle at first, a pulse behind his temples, but as he tilted his head back ever so slightly, it throbbed like an unwelcome second heartbeat. He blinked up at the fluorescent tubes, mentally willing them to dim just a little, to hush their sterile glow.

But the base was built for visibility, not comfort.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced as he stared at the grain in the wood, letting the rhythm of Heavy’s cooking blend with the hum of machines.

 

Heavy glanced over his shoulder mid-whisk, eyes narrowing not in suspicion, but in recognition. Jonas's posture wasn't just tired, it was the slump of someone burdened, someone pacing behind a wall others didn’t notice.

“Doktor looks more than tired,” Heavy said calmly, voice low and careful, as if he didn’t want to step too loudly into the silence.

Jonas didn’t respond right away. He pressed a thumb against the edge of his brow and gave a slow exhale.

Heavy flipped a slice of toast with almost surgical grace. “Team is loud,” he continued, almost to himself. “But this morning... was quiet. Strange quiet.”

Jonas’s eyes lifted, their corners darkened by strain. “It was Soldier,” he admitted quietly.

Heavy turned down the stove’s heat, attention drifting toward the conversation. “He woke up early and made coffee for you. What happened?”

“He had a moment,” Jonas said. “Not just fatigue, or mood. A memory. Something deep. I think he dissociated.”

Heavy nodded slowly. “Flashback?”

“Yes. Vick. And someone named Clover.”

The name drew a pause from Heavy. He set the spatula aside, walking toward Jonas with deliberate steps. “I know of Vick,” he said. “But Clover? New name.”

Jonas shook his head. “Not from BLU. From before. A medic he trusted, maybe the only one. It’s buried deep in him.”

Heavy stood beside the table now, large hands resting on the back of a chair. “He hides wounds well. But you saw them.”

“I did,” Jonas said. “And I wasn’t ready for the weight of it.”

The hum of the fluorescent lights softened into the background, no longer oppressive but simply part of the air itself, like a high-pitched note in a song that neither starts nor ends. Jonas sat still, shoulders slowly loosening from the tension they’d clung to since dawn. There was no need for words now. Heavy had picked up the unspoken, and that was enough.

The skillet sizzled.

Heavy worked with reverence, flipping toast, sliding eggs onto plates, stirring something slow and spiced in a cast-iron pot. The rhythm of cooking wasn’t just preparation, it was comfort made audible. Every clink of metal, every puff of steam, was a reassurance: You’re here. You’re safe. You’re seen.

Jonas rubbed a hand down his face, grounding himself in the moment. Letting go, just a bit, of everything outside this room. Outside this quiet choreography of care.

Heavy plated the food carefully and slid one across the table. “Eat slow,” he said, voice still low and warm, like the steam that rose from the french toast. “No rush now.”

Jonas picked up a fork and offered a soft “Thank you.” Not because it was expected, but because gratitude had found room to stretch.

 

Jonas swirled the steam rising from his mug, watching it twist and fade into the fluorescent haze above. The calm in the kitchen hadn’t quite dulled the ache behind his eyes, but it helped. Heavy’s cooking, his silence, the deliberate weight of this peace, it made Jonas brave enough to ask what had long pressed against the corners of his thoughts.

“Was there ever a time,” Jonas began, voice low, careful, “when the BLU team trusted another Medic?”

Heavy paused in his motions, ladle hovering above a pan. “You mean before you.”

Jonas gave a quiet nod.

Heavy set the ladle down with a soft clink, the sound sharper than his reply. “Yes. There was.”

Jonas waited.

Heavy’s eyes stayed fixed on the pot. “He did not earn trust. He took it.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

“What happened?” Jonas asked, a whisper that needed no echo.

Heavy turned, resting his weight against the counter. “He treated bodies like tools. Like puzzles. No regard for pain. Sniper was… quiet for weeks. Demo stopped laughing. Soldier, he never left his room.”

Jonas’s brow furrowed. “They were afraid of him.”

Heavy nodded slowly. “He broke things that do not bleed.”

Jonas looked down at his own hands. “And now I’m here. Following that shadow.”

“You are not him,” Heavy said, with a calm certainty. “Team knows. They feel difference.”

Jonas swallowed thickly, letting that settle before quietly shifting gears. “Speaking of broken things,” he said, managing a faint smile, “I think it’s your turn to get examined.”

Heavy raised a brow. “You wish to check Heavy?”

“I’ve done everyone else but you,” Jonas replied, a quiet determination returning. “You carry more than most. It’s overdue.”

Heavy considered it, then gave a low hum of agreement. “Tomorrow morning. You poke, I do not flinch.”

Jonas chuckled. “You say that now.”

“Only fair,” Heavy said, turning back to the stove, “You care for others. Let someone care for you too.”

Jonas lowered his fork, eyes drifting toward the worn tabletop. He let a few more seconds stretch between them, soft, intentional.

Then, without looking up, he said, “Would you mind if we did the check-up later today instead?”

Heavy glanced over with calm eyes, considering him.

“You feel up to it later?”

Jonas nods.

Heavy gave the faintest smile, almost proud. “Later, then. After dinner. I will be ready.”

Jonas exhaled, something unspoken loosening inside him. “Thank you.”

 

The base was slowly waking up.

Distant footsteps thudded against the concrete halls, muffled voices drifted like fog from the mess quarters, and the distinct metallic clank of the supply room door signaled that Engineer had returned to tinkering. Somewhere deeper in the compound, Scout was arguing with someone over toast. It was the usual symphony of chaos, but mellow, spaced out, like the team itself was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

And in the quiet pocket of this waking world sat Jonas.

He had retreated to his infirmary, shoulders drooping just slightly as he sank into the faded cushion of his desk chair. The clinic lights hummed above him with mechanical constancy, but their cold clarity only intensified the fatigue wrapping around his head like gauze. His eyelids fluttered, heavy and insistent. His thoughts looped like lazy smoke, flickering between duty and rest.

He wasn’t done, not really. His mental checklist still had three names etched onto it.

Heavy was already arranged, willing, cooperative, calm. Jonas appreciated that about him. There would be no resistance, only quiet acknowledgement and an easy examination when the hour arrived.

Pyro, however, was less straightforward. A coin toss of a person. Some mornings, they wandered in curiously, palms open and mask tilted. Jonas had thought that the trick was offering something, not demands, not protocol. A promise. A treat. A trinket. Maybe a new lighter or a small flower in a jar.

And then there was Spy.

Jonas’s gaze wandered toward the filing cabinet across the room. Metal drawers stacked like tombstones, each labeled, each filled with medical data. But not Spy’s. His folder didn’t exist. No blood type. No emergency contact. No dental records.

A ghost in a suit.

Jonas chuckled weakly, the sound barely escaping his chest. “Of course,” he whispered. “Of course he wouldn’t leave a trail.”

He rubbed his temples gently, trying to push away the pressure forming behind his eyes. The fatigue wasn’t just mental, it was bone-deep. His head throbbed, not sharply, but like waves lapping against a weary shoreline. The clinic lights seemed brighter than usual, too clinical for this kind of hour.

He leaned back. His body felt too heavy for upright posture. The soft whir of the air vent tickled his ears, the scent of rubbing alcohol lingering faintly in the sterile corners.

Sleep, he realized, sounded wonderful. It curled around him like a sedative, whispering through the edges of paper and quiet.

 

Scout had rolled out of bed with his room lights in his eyes and skepticism in his stomach. He could already smell the breakfast from down the hall, Heavy’s handiwork, no doubt. The man was talented, sure, but his ideas oscillated between barely-seasoned slabs of meat and spices that could strip paint off a tank. Heavy cooked like he was either feeding a hospital ward or preparing troops for a final march.

But last night’s dinner? That was something else. Savory, balanced, layered with care. Scout had even gone for seconds, which he never did. Maybe Heavy had a soft spot for evening meals. Still, mornings were another story.

Today’s breakfast had been a quiet miracle: French toast, just like his Ma used to make in bursts of affection between double shifts and weather complaints. Eggs, not Engie’s perfect, textbook-style, but scrambled with a little too much butter, just enough to make them feel homey. Scout had grabbed a plate before anyone else could ruin the vibe with hot sauce or unsolicited gravy.

He stepped into the rec room, plate in hand, gaze sweeping over the clustered tables and mismatched chairs. It wasn’t exactly bustling yet, early risers had scattered, a few voices drifted from the far end, but one figure stood out. Or rather, sat quietly alone.

Pyro.

They were seated at the corner table, hunched slightly, mask tilted in that odd, unreadable way. A half-eaten plate of the same breakfast sat in front of them, fork curled in one hand. There was a kind of distance to them, not abandonment, just a strange orbit. People didn’t always know how to approach Pyro unless it was about battle plans or fire safety.

Scout hesitated for a beat, then moved. Not because he was told to. Because Pyro deserved more than isolation and awkward glances.

He slid into the seat beside them, the metal chair scraping faintly against the floor.

Pyro turned, just slightly, enough to acknowledge him. Their head tilted in a soft arc, the mask’s glass glinting faintly in the light. A low hum, warped and gentle. Scout couldn’t make out the exact words, but it sounded like a greeting.

He gave a half-grin, fork clinking against his plate. “Mornin’, Py. How’s the French toast?”

Pyro paused, then wiggled a gloved finger in a loose thumbs-up.

Scout chuckled. “Heh, yeah. Ain’t half-bad. Still not how Ma used to make it, but it’s damn close.”

Pyro let out a low, muffled chuckle at Scout’s comment. The sound crackled through their voice modulator, like static dancing across a radio signal. Their gloved hand moved to the edge of their mask, lifting it just enough to expose their mouth for a bite of buttery scrambled eggs. It was a private, quiet motion and Scout, respecting the gesture, instinctively turned his gaze elsewhere, giving them a pocket of privacy.

Just as he resumed picking at his French toast, Scout felt a sudden tap on his shoulder, gentle, not urgent. He turned slightly. “Huh?” he muttered, brows raised.

Pyro had pulled out a small, battered notebook from one of the many pouches stitched into their suit. The cover was scuffed, the pages curled with time. As they flipped through it, Scout caught glimpses of carefully drawn emblems, at least three of them were unmistakably the Medic’s red cross, sketched in sketchy bold ink, shaded with an emotion Scout couldn’t decipher. He’s glad Pyro is drawing more often now.

On a fresh page, Pyro began to write, their handwriting quick but surprisingly neat. When they finished, they turned the notebook toward Scout, letting him read.

The message was simple: “New Medic. Do you trust him?”

Scout tilted his head. “Do I, Pyro, this Medic’s legit. He’ll get you a check-up in less than five. Real clean work, not like those weird battlefield patch-ups.”

Pyro didn’t reply, but their shoulders seemed to tense, just a touch. Not in fear, more in unease. Their posture shrank in on itself, arms curling inward. Scout noticed, the way they always noticed things that didn’t get said aloud.

“How about I bring you to him?” Scout offered, voice softer now.

Pyro gave a small nod, mask tilted downward.

“Want me to stay there with you?”

Another nod. Firmer this time.

Scout leaned back, his breakfast momentarily forgotten. “Cool, cool. We finish our plates, and then we go meet the new guy. Sound good?”

Pyro tapped the notebook lightly with one finger, an improvised thumbs-up. A gesture of thanks.

Scout grinned. “You ever draw me in there?”

Pyro flicked to a sketch: Scout mid-run, baseball bat resting on his shoulder. His hair was exaggeratedly messy, his smirk just a touch too confident.

Scout laughed. “That’s terrifying. But damn, I kinda love it.”

 

The walk to the infirmary was quiet.

Scout led the way with his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, half whistling, half talking about new battle plans he created. Pyro followed just behind, steps light but unsteady, arms folded protectively around their notebook. Their mask tilted ever so slightly downward, catching the light like a mirror, reflecting more than revealing.

The hall stretched ahead, sterile tiles, soft fluorescent hum overhead. The closer they came to Jonas’s door, the more Scout noticed Pyro’s pace faltering, just a beat behind, hesitation seeping into each movement.

As they reached the door, Scout paused and gestured with a nod.

Inside, the infirmary was in a familiar state of semi-chaos, charts stacked in uneven piles, antiseptic hanging in the air, and in the far corner behind his desk, Jonas sat slumped over a half-filled medical report, forehead resting against his forearm. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, one sleeve halfway off, as if he’d tried to stay awake and failed mid-reach for his pen.

Pyro froze.

Their body turned halfway back toward the hall, the mask lowering as if hoping not to disturb.

Scout sighed through his teeth. “Nah, c’mon,” he whispered, pushing open the door with a gentle nudge. The hinge creaked, just enough to betray their presence.

Medic flinched.

He sat bolt upright, blinking furiously into the artificial light, eyes momentarily scanning for threat.

“Was, was ist das für ein Lärm…?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “Schon wieder... bitte…”

He rubbed at his temples, then caught sight of Scout and Pyro standing awkwardly in the doorway.

His entire posture softened.

The Doctor exhaled sharply and sank back down into his seat. “Ach... nur ihr zwei.”

Scout stepped in, pointing a thumb toward Pyro. “Hey doc. Pyro here’s askin’ for a quick check-up. Figured we’d bother you while you’re still semi-coherent.”

Medic tugged his coat back into place with practiced ease. Though his hair was mussed and a faint red crease lined his cheek from the desk edge, he was already adopting the steady professionalism he was known for.

“Gib mir einen Moment… I will be ready.” His voice cleared as he stood and carefully placed the paperwork aside.

Pyro took a cautious step forward, then another, notebook held like armor. Every sound, a pen clicking, a drawer sliding open, made them flinch subtly. Jonas noticed this immediately, and rather than approaching, he turned slowly to the sink and began washing his hands methodically.

Scout, now perched on a rolling stool, spun in slow circles, offering a half-baked grin. “They’re a little jumpy today. Not like you bite or anything.”

Medic dried his hands on a linen cloth, then addressed Pyro gently. “You are safe here. I reassure you”.

Pyro nodded once, quick.

Medic retrieved his stethoscope. Pyro flinched as he turned, gaze locking onto the metal instrument like it was alive.

The doctor paused. “Just holding it.” His voice was low, patient, his accent more pronounced when tired.

Across the room, Scout leaned toward Pyro, whispering something too low for Jonas to catch. He didn’t mind. The quiet conspiracies between teammates were usually harmless. Besides, he had enough paperwork to make sense of without decoding half-muttered conversations.

After a moment, he found what he was looking for, an empty form, untouched. He held it up like a small victory, and a quiet laugh puffed from his chest. Not just any laugh, a pigeon-like coo, the same breathy note he'd let slip when Demo passed out mid-exam two days ago. It escaped before he could help it.

Jonas glanced over his shoulder. Hopefully neither of them heard that.

He turned fully now, posture straighter, a bit more alive after the fog of fatigue. The clipboard tucked beneath his arm, pen in hand. “Are you ready for the check-up?” he asked, voice steady.

Scout grinned as he sat back in the chair beside Pyro. “Wait, wait, Py, show him your drawing,” he said, nudging Pyro’s elbow with that mischievous glint in his eye.

Pyro froze for a beat, shoulders curling inward like fabric folding in on itself. Then, with tentative hands, they turned their notebook outward and flipped it open to reveal a page near the middle, a sketch of Jonas hunched over his desk in sleep. It wasn’t elaborate: simple pencil lines shaped his coat, stray curls of hair pressed against the desk, the faint suggestion of a clipboard dropped at his side.

Medic blinked.

Then he smiled. Wide.

“That is quite wunderbar, Pyro,” he said, voice lighter now, touched by something warm and sincere. “May I keep it after the check-up?”

Pyro nodded quickly, mask tilted at an angle that felt bashful.

The slight creak of leather from his gloves punctuated the moment as he folded his hands in front of him, taking in Pyro’s posture, mask tilted, hands resting lightly on the sketchbook now closed and tucked between their elbow and ribs.

“Great,” Medic said, his voice steady but warm, “Now, what is your daily diet?”

Pyro shifted slightly, mumbling something low and throaty, his voice muffled further by the mask’s filtration mesh. It had the texture of speech, but no discernible words. Pyro’s fingers twitched, as if unsure whether to mime it or shrug.

Scout didn’t skip a beat. “Yeah, I got this,” he piped in, one leg swung over the edge of the examination bench like he was waiting for a bus. “Pyro says protein bars, leftover sandwich halves, maybe a banana if it’s not lookin’ funky. Oh, and jerky. Always jerky. Pretty simple.”

Medic raised an eyebrow, noting the sporadic nutrition, and jotted a few things down. “Hmm, functional, but not ideal.” He glanced up again, his tone softening.” Now, a more serious question. Pyro, during combat, do you notice how much smoke you inhale? Particularly from your own flame-throwing equipment.”

Pyro tilted his head, then shrugged again, hands making a circular motion toward his mask.

“He’s sayin’ it filters most stuff out,” Scout interpreted, “but sometimes if the wind’s bad or he’s near explosions, he gets a whiff. Never chokes or nothin’, but it’s… not great.”

Medic nodded slowly, his face drawn into quiet focus. “And have you ever had any reactions, shortness of breath, dizziness, irritation?”

Pyro shook his head firmly.

“Good,” Medic replied. “Last one for now, any known allergies?”

Pyro held up a finger, then tapped his knee twice. Scout paused.

“Latex. Uh, and sometimes strong soaps make his skin itchy.”

Medic made a final note, lips pressed in a thin line of concentration. Then he looked up with a gentler expression.

“You’ve both been very helpful. Pyro, thank you for being honest. Scout, your translations are appreciated. We’re almost done here.”

Medic looped the stethoscope around his neck with a quiet deliberateness, the cold metal settling against the collar of his coat. He turned back to face Pyro, who sat with arms loosely folded, fingers still smudged with graphite from earlier sketching. The examination room was calm now, insulated by an unspoken understanding between the three of them, Medic , Pyro, and Scout. Still, Jonas kept his tone measured, careful not to startle.

“Pyro,” he said gently, adjusting his spectacles with a subtle touch. “Are you able to remove the suit so I can check your heart and lungs?”

The words hung for a moment like steam in winter air.

Pyro jolted slightly, not dramatically, but enough to send a twitch through the folds of his flame-retardant suit. His posture tightened, the gloved hands curling in a half-reflexive clench, mask tilting ever so slightly downward as though shrinking inward.

Scout immediately chimed in, sensing the shift. “Nah, Pyro doesn’t like takin’ it off,” he said, voice breezy but protective. He waved his arms in an exaggerated ‘nope’ motion. “Makes him feel weird. Like... vulnerable, I guess. It’s sorta a whole thing.”

Medic paused, brows gently knitting with the weight of understanding. He didn’t press or prod, just let the moment sit before he nodded once, slowly.

“That’s fine,” he said quietly, the trace of respect woven into every syllable. He jotted down a quick note in the margin of the chart, then stood and motioned toward the scale tucked neatly into the far corner of the room.

“Pyro,” he continued, voice softer now, “would you mind stepping onto the scale for me?”

Pyro glanced at Scout, then the scale, then back to Medic. There was no rush in the motion, just the caution of someone perpetually mindful. Then, with a small nod and an adjusting of his straps, Pyro slid off the exam table and padded across the room.

The scale creaked faintly under the weight of the suit as Pyro stepped on, body rigid with caution. Scout leaned back in the chair, smirking faintly, watching Pyro balance himself like it was some delicate operation.

Medic adjusted the dial, noting the figure with clinical precision, though his expression remained soft, more curiosity than judgment.

“Noted,” he said, jotting the weight down. “I’ll factor in the gear when reviewing your cardio markers.”

He then turned slightly, considering his next step.

“Since we can’t use the stethoscope directly, I’ll have to work around it. Pyro, do you notice any unusual fatigue during missions? Any chest tightness or shortness of breath after using the flamethrower?”

Pyro tapped his chest twice, then made a swirling motion near his mask.

“He says it depends,” Scout translated, sitting up straighter now. “If the battle’s long or real smoky, sometimes he feels off, like light-headed. But it goes away when he cools down. Oh, and he drinks lots of water afterward.”

Medic nodded again, writing in quiet bursts. “That’s helpful. I’ll add that to your respiratory notes.”

Medic points to the ruler taped on the wall.

“Height now,” he said plainly, gesturing for Pyro to stand beneath it.

Scout, still perched half sideways on the examination table, let out a laugh that cracked through the quiet like static. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the grin on his face practically contagious.

“Still have that thing taped up, huh?” he said, snorting with a shake of his head. “Didn’t think it’d survive 3 days.

Medic didn’t flinch. He simply glanced over his shoulder, raising one brow. “It works for its purpose,” he replied, voice even but amused.

Medic turned back to Pyro, who had obediently stepped next to the wall, standing tall, well, as tall as one could in combat boots and a flame-retardant suit stitched like a cocoon.

“Feet together, Pyro,” Medic murmured, stepping closer. He adjusted his clipboard above Pyro’s head with a soft tap, careful not to graze the helmet’s edge.

“Just under five-foot-eight,” he said aloud, scribbling down the number. “Reasonable, considering the gear.”

Pyro gave a small thumbs-up, the motion curt and earnest.

He looked up from the clipboard, a slight upward curl in his brow. “Well,” he said, voice steady but softened by fatigue, “congratulations, Pyro. You’ve completed your check-up.”

Pyro paused mid-fidget, then threw their gloved hands together in an enthusiastic clap, short, precise, almost childlike in its earnestness. The motion echoed faintly against the cold walls, sharp against the usual hush of medical procedure. Their mask bobbed slightly with the gesture, catching the light like a nod of pride.

Medic blinked once, amused, watching the celebration bloom in slow motion.

Meanwhile, Scout stared, brows raised like he’d just been robbed.

“HEY!” he burst out, gesturing with both arms like a referee calling foul. “You didn’t celebrate when mine was finished!”

The medic didn’t even glance at him. He picked up a small cloth to wipe his glasses, his smirk already growing beneath the surface.

“That was because you bolted off to who knows where the moment I said you were done,” he replied smoothly, slipping the glasses back into place. “I barely had time to exhale before you vanished.”

Scout huffed dramatically. “Yeah, well, I had stuff to do! I’m a busy guy. Schedules, uh... cardio! Lots of running.”

Pyro reached into a pouch and produced their notebook again, flipping to a fresh page. Scout peered over with curiosity, already grinning in anticipation.

A quick sketch appeared in blunt pencil strokes: Scout sprinting out of the infirmary at cartoon speed, Jonas left blinking by his desk. The proportions were exaggerated, the motion lines comically wild.

Jonas leaned forward slightly, inspecting the impromptu art.

“You captured the panic well,” he said with mild sarcasm. “He looks like he was fleeing a fire.”

“I was!” Scout retorted. “I was fleeing boredom.”

Pyro gently tapped the edge of the notebook, a quiet offering of humor to diffuse any tension. Jonas chuckled under his breath, then gave Pyro a small, genuine nod.

“You did well today.”

 

Jonas stood quietly in his quarters, the room dimly lit by a soft amber lamp perched on the corner of his desk. The walls, mostly lined with anatomical charts and med-briefs, had begun collecting little fragments of humanity, tokens that made the sterile space feel lived-in. Near the door, above his coat hook, he pressed a small drawing onto the wall with a silver thumbtack.

Jonas regarded it for a moment, lips pressing into something close to a smile. Pyro's quirky offering, simple as it was, meant something deeper. It suggested trust, an organic thing growing from within the team, slowly branching out from chaotic exchanges and into sincere connection.

He turned back to his desk, the surface cluttered with scattered papers from a long day of examinations. With practiced ease, Jonas began to sort them into methodical stacks. His hands moved automatically, but his mind lingered on the unspoken threads between teammates. The way humor softened tension. The way care took root in odd gestures.

Suddenly, an unmistakable sound sliced through the room. That soft, signature whoosh of displaced air just behind his left ear.

Jonas didn’t flinch. “Hello, Spy. Are you here for your check-up too?”

A pause. The figure behind him didn’t move.

“Non,” Spy replied, smooth as velvet laced with smoke. “I am here to inform you. Pauling is coming. They will explain more about your... position.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow, flipping a paper closed.

“Oh. Well, tell her, ”

Spy cut in with subtle precision. “A Pauling is a position, Doctor.”

Jonas stilled. He said nothing.

Spy glanced at the floor, his usual sly composure slipping just for a beat. “They will not come alone,” he continued quietly. “A BLU Medic will accompany them. Consider it... preparation. For battle.”

The room settled into an eerie stillness. Jonas turned slowly, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Please,” Spy added, voice low, almost tremulous beneath its refined exterior. “Be careful around the Medic. I worry... he will harm you.”

Jonas studied him for a long moment. He saw no sarcasm, no masks. Just concern tucked behind a veil of formality.

Chapter Text

Jonas sat hunched in his desk chair, the stiff leather creaking beneath him as he shifted his weight. His hair was still tousled from sleep, flattened in odd directions like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He hadn’t bothered to fix it. He was expecting company, someone unfamiliar, and the uncertainty gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.

The infirmary felt colder than usual, a sterile chill that clung to the air and made the metal surfaces gleam too sharply. Despite being alone, the room felt crowded, as if the walls themselves were pressing inward, filled with the weight of anticipation. Every corner seemed to hum with invisible tension.

He had already busied himself with the usual rituals: sorting and aligning the scattered papers on his desk until they formed perfect stacks, sweeping the floor with mechanical precision, scrubbing down the examination tables, the chair, even the door handles until they gleamed.

It wasn’t about cleanliness, it was about control. His thoughts were scattered, darting from one worry to the next like moths around a flame. Today had been relentless, a blur of tasks and interruptions. Probably the busiest day he’d had since joining the team.

He longed for a shower. To rinse off the sweat clinging to his skin, to feel the hot water wash away the static buzzing in his head. When was the last time he’d taken care of himself like that? Properly, intentionally?

His gaze drifted toward the hallway. Where were the showers again? His mind refused to settle, thoughts looping and tangling. He felt clammy, his palms damp, his shirt sticking to his back. The overhead lights glared down at him, too bright. He imagined snapping his fingers and plunging the room into darkness, just for a moment of peace.

He inhaled deeply, drawing the breath in slow and steady. A rhythm. In, hold, out. The kind of breathing they taught in those college stress management classes he’d once scoffed at. Funny how those techniques stuck with him, quietly useful in moments like this.

Rising from his chair, he moved to the cabinet and pulled out a fresh set of clothes, simple, clean, comforting. Something to wear after the shower.

 

Jonas stepped out of the infirmary, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft metallic finality. In his arms, he cradled a neatly folded set of clean clothes, his uniform, pressed and ready, smelling faintly of antiseptic and laundry soap. The fabric was still warm from the dryer, a small comfort against the chill that lingered in the hallway.

He walked slowly, his boots echoing against the concrete floor, each step deliberate but uncertain. He still had no idea where the showers were. It was absurd, really, he’d been stationed here for weeks, maybe longer, and yet the layout of the base still felt like a maze stitched together by someone with a fondness for confusion. He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

The faint hum of machinery led him toward the garage, where Engineer was hunched over a workbench, surrounded by scattered tools and the comforting scent of oil and metal. Sparks danced briefly from a welding torch before Engie lifted his goggles and looked up.

Jonas cleared his throat. “Do you know where the showers are?”

Engineer blinked, then chuckled softly. “Y’mean you don’t know you’ve got one in your own quarters?”

Jonas stared at him, momentarily stunned. “I, what?”

“Yeah,” Engie said, wiping his hands on a rag. “You and I both got private bathrooms. Perks of bein’ the ones who support the team, I guess.”

Jonas frowned, mentally retracing the layout of his room. Had he missed a door? A hallway? He’d been so focused on organizing the infirmary, on keeping everything sterile and structured, that he hadn’t even considered exploring his own space fully.

Before he could turn to leave, Engineer added, “Though I wouldn’t recommend usin’ yours right now. Pretty sure it hasn’t been cleaned since the last guy left.”

Jonas grimaced. That explained the faint mildew smell he’d noticed once or twice.

Engie gestured toward the back of the garage. “Mine’s clean. You’re welcome to use it.”

Jonas hesitated, then nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Engie said, already turning back to his work. “Just don’t steal my shampoo. It’s the good stuff.”

Jonas allowed himself a small smile as he made his way toward the offered bathroom. The gesture was simple, but it carried weight. In a place where trust was earned slowly and privacy was rare, this was a quiet sign of camaraderie.

 

The bathroom was surprisingly cozy. A small window let in slanted afternoon light, casting soft shadows across the tiled floor. The scent of pine-scented cleaner lingered in the air, and a towel, freshly laundered, hung neatly on a rack. Jonas set his clothes down and peeled off his sweat-dampened uniform, the fabric clinging to his skin.

The shower hissed to life, steam curling upward like smoke from a campfire. He stepped in, letting the hot water cascade over him, washing away the grime and tension of the day. His muscles relaxed, the tightness in his shoulders slowly unraveling. For the first time in hours, his mind quieted.

He thought about Pyro’s drawing, still pinned to the wall of his room. About Spy’s cryptic warning. About the visitor he was supposed to meet soon. The BLU Medic. The idea of another version of himself, same role, different man, felt surreal. What would he be like? Cold? Arrogant? Friendly?

Jonas scrubbed at his skin, trying to wash away the unease. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew he had to be ready. Not just clean, but composed. Grounded.

As he stepped out and dried off, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes. Damp hair. A quiet resolve.

 

Jonas stepped out of Engineer’s garage, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft clunk. The air outside was warmer, tinged with the scent of oil and sunbaked concrete. He adjusted the collar of his freshly laundered uniform, the fabric still crisp against his skin. Steam from the shower had cleared his head, but the quiet tension in his chest remained, coiled like a spring.

He didn’t get far before he spotted Scout striding down the hallway toward him, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor. The younger man’s posture was restless, shoulders tight, hands twitching at his sides. His face wore a familiar scowl, but when his eyes landed on Jonas, the irritation softened into something closer to relief.

“Hey, Doc,” Scout called out, voice clipped but urgent. “Two dudes are asking for ya.”

Jonas stopped mid-step. His stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in his gut. They’re here.

“Oh?” he managed, keeping his tone neutral.

“Yeah,” Scout said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “There’s a Scout and a Medic. The Scout looks pretty cool, kinda like me but, y’know, not as awesome.” He paused, then grimaced. “But that Medic? Gives me the heebie-jeebies. Real weird vibe.”

Jonas didn’t respond right away. He stared past Scout, as if he could see the visitors through the walls. His mind raced, trying to piece together what kind of people they were, what they wanted. Spy’s warning echoed faintly in his memory.

The two stood in silence for a moment, the hallway unusually quiet. Then Scout spoke again, voice lower this time. “Freaking Spy said everyone needs to go to their rooms until the visitors leave. So I came to tell you and Engie before I hang out in mine.”

Jonas nodded slowly. “Well then, I can’t keep them waiting.”

He offered Scout a small smile, a gesture of reassurance. Scout returned it with a crooked grin of his own, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

As Jonas turned to head toward the meeting, the weight in his stomach lightened, not gone, but bearable.

Jonas walked with measured steps, each footfall echoing faintly in the corridor. The base felt different now, quieter, more alert. Doors were closed, blinds drawn. It was as if the entire building was holding its breath.

He reached the main entrance of the base and paused, He could hear voices in the room low, indistinct. One was sharp and fast-paced, likely the Scout. The other was slower, deliberate. That must be the Medic.

Jonas noticed the differences immediately.

The Scout’s uniform was striking, he wore a deep purple shirt layered beneath a lavender coat that hung loosely from his shoulders, the fabric catching the light with a subtle sheen. On his deltoid, stitched with precision, was the unmistakable Scout emblem, though its colors had been altered to match the rest of his outfit. It was a bold look, almost theatrical, and it clashed with the utilitarian design of the base around him.

The Medic beside him was another story entirely. His uniform mirrored Jonas’s in cut and function, but the similarities ended there. The coat was stained, faint, irregular blotches of something dark and rust-colored marred the fabric. Not fresh, but not old enough to be forgotten. Jonas couldn’t tell if it was blood, chemical residue, or something worse. The Medic stood unnaturally still, his posture too perfect, too rehearsed.

Then came the “vibes” Scout had warned him about.

The two were speaking in hushed tones, their conversation peppered with jargon and references Jonas couldn’t follow. It was technical, maybe strategic, but layered with something else, something performative. The Medic’s voice was low and smooth, while the Scout’s was animated, bouncing between topics with practiced ease.

Then the Medic glanced over.

His grin spread slowly across his face, wide and unnatural, like a mask stretching too far. His teeth were too white, too even, and his eyes didn’t match the smile, they were cold, calculating. A chill ran down Jonas’s spine, his breath catching for a moment.

The Scout turned, his face lighting up with recognition. “Oh hey! It’s you, we’ve been waiting for ya. Did ya just shower?” His tone was casual, almost cheerful, as if they were old friends meeting for lunch.

Jonas opened his mouth. “Ja, ”

“Great!” the Scout interrupted, stepping forward with a flourish. “You may call me Lav, and this here is another Medic from one of BLU’s other bases.”

Lav gestured dramatically toward the other Medic, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“Navy will do,” the Medic said, his voice smooth as silk, still staring directly at Jonas.

Lav clapped his hands together. “So! First, I’ll talk to you about your overall job, then uh, ” He glanced at Navy, who gave a subtle nod.

“Navy here will continue the lesson,” Lav continued, “and then it’s off to surgery!”
Jonas stiffened. Surgery? His fists clenched instinctively, the tension crawling up his arms. He tried to mask the reaction, but his body betrayed him. His pulse quickened. His breath shortened.

Navy’s smile widened, impossibly so. “Wunderbar,” he purred. “Shall we, hündchen?”
Jonas flinched at the nickname. Little dog. It was condescending, dehumanizing. His eye twitched, a subtle but involuntary response.

Jonas forced himself to breathe slowly, grounding his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to show discomfort, not yet. Lav was still talking, gesturing toward the infirmary equipment with exaggerated enthusiasm, but Jonas barely heard him. His focus was locked on Navy, who had begun to circle the room like a predator sizing up its prey.

The way Navy moved was deliberate, almost theatrical. He paused at the surgical table, ran a gloved finger along its edge, then turned to inspect the cabinets. It wasn’t curiosity, it was dominance. He was staking out territory.

Jonas stepped forward, subtly placing himself between Navy and the more sensitive equipment. “What exactly is this lesson supposed to entail?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

Lav grinned. “Oh, nothing too crazy! Just a little refresher. Procedures, expectations, how BLU likes things done. Navy’s got some advanced techniques to show you. You’ll love it.”

Jonas didn’t respond. He could feel the weight of Spy’s warning pressing against his thoughts. Be careful. This wasn’t just a visit.

Navy finally stopped pacing and turned to face Jonas fully. “I am here to ensure you are… efficient,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “BLU has high standards. We cannot afford sentimentality.”

Jonas’s jaw tightened. “Efficiency doesn’t mean cruelty.”

Navy’s smile didn’t falter. “No. But it does require clarity. And obedience.”

Lav clapped his hands again, breaking the tension. “Alright, alright! Let’s not get too intense. We’re all friends here, right?”

Jonas didn’t answer. He glanced at the drawing Pyro had given him, still pinned to the wall. A reminder of what mattered.

“Do you have any chairs in here?” Lav asked, his voice light but expectant, as if he were requesting a drink at a café rather than preparing for a medical briefing.

Jonas exhaled quietly through his nose and turned toward the storage closet. He hadn’t planned for guests, let alone ones who demanded seating arrangements. To his mild surprise, he found two rolling chairs tucked behind a stack of supply crates. One was relatively clean, the vinyl seat intact and the wheels smooth. The other was older, dust clung to the armrests, and one wheel squeaked faintly when moved.

He rolled them both out into the center of the infirmary. Lav immediately claimed the cleaner chair, spinning it once before sitting down with a satisfied sigh. Navy approached the second chair with visible disdain, his lips curling as he brushed a speck of dust from the seat. He sat stiffly, as if the chair itself offended him.

Jonas nearly smirked at Navy’s discomfort. Good, he thought. Let him be unsettled. But he kept his expression neutral and positioned his own chair directly across from them, posture straight, hands folded.

Lav leaned back and began with a theatrical sigh, as if launching into a well-rehearsed monologue. “Your main concern as a Medic is to keep your teammates healthy.”
Jonas nodded, though his eyes flicked toward Navy, who almost imperceptibly shook his head at Lav’s phrasing.

“You’re not the only one responsible,” Lav continued. “Your Engineer will assist with dispensers, while you use the Medi-Gun stored in your supply locker.”

“Don’t worry,” Lav added, gesturing with a flourish. “You’ve got tools to keep yourself safe, your bonesaw, syringe guns, and in some cases, the übercharge.”

At the mention of the übercharge, Navy rolled his eyes and let out a low grunt of displeasure. Without a word, he reached to the side of his pack and unhooked a sleek, metallic device. It looked like a modified Medi-Gun, but the nozzle was narrower, more precise.

He pointed it toward Lav.

A faint hiss escaped the device, and a shimmering mist erupted from the nozzle, enveloping Lav in a translucent glow. The air shimmered around him, and Jonas instinctively recoiled, his heart skipping. The glow intensified, wrapping Lav in a protective aura. His muscles tensed, and he gritted his teeth against the pressure.

Jonas’s breath caught. His brain screamed unnatural. The glow was wrong, too perfect, too absolute. It didn’t feel like medicine. It felt like power.

“This,” Navy said, his voice low and clinical, “is the übercharge. It renders the patient invincible to all damage for a limited time.”

Lav exhaled sharply as the glow faded, his body relaxing. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and gave Jonas a crooked smile. “Any questions?”

He swallowed hard. “How long does it last?”

“Eight seconds,” Navy replied, already reattaching the device to his pack. “Enough to breach a choke point. Enough to save a life. Or take one.”

Jonas didn’t like the way he said that.

Lav leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ll get used to it. First time’s always a little freaky. But once you learn how to time it, it’s a game-changer.”

Jonas nodded slowly, absorbing the information. His fingers twitched slightly in his lap. He could feel the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. This wasn’t just about healing. It was about strategy. Timing. Control.

And trust.

He glanced at Navy again. The Medic was watching him closely, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jonas felt like a specimen under a microscope.

Lav stood and stretched, his arms arching overhead with a casual groan. “Alright,” he said, voice breezy, “now we prep for surgery. After that, I’ll introduce you to the respawn system, and then, you’ll be ready for battle.”

Jonas’s stomach twisted at the word surgery. It wasn’t the sterile, clinical kind he was trained for. Not with Navy involved. The way Navy’s smile curled at the edges, too wide and too deliberate, made the word sound less like a procedure and more like a ritual.

Lav moved toward the door, already halfway out. “Please inform me when you’re finished,” he called over his shoulder. “Personally, I don’t want to watch.”

Jonas watched him disappear down the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. Silence settled over the room like a weighted blanket.

Then Navy turned.

His smile returned, slow and deliberate, stretching across his face like a blade unsheathing. “Now,” he said, voice low and syrupy, “please take off your coat while I prepare you for heart surgery.”

Jonas blinked. “What, ”

Navy raised a gloved finger and pressed it gently to Jonas’s lips. “Now, now,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “I will explain.”

Jonas sat down slowly in the surgical chair, the vinyl cold against his back. His breath was shallow, his pulse quickening. Navy moved with eerie grace, gathering instruments from a steel tray, scalpels, tubing, a small vial of glowing fluid. The air smelled faintly of alcohol and something metallic.

“The übercharge you witnessed earlier,” Navy began, “is made possible by a device implanted directly onto the heart. With precise calibration, it stimulates the organ to produce übercharge fluid, an engineered compound that grants temporary invincibility and suppresses pain.”

Jonas’s eyes widened. Navy glanced at him and smirked, clearly entertained by the reaction.

“The fluid,” Navy continued, “is synthesized from various bodily components, plasma, lymph, and most importantly, blood. You can harvest it manually with a specialized saw, or extract it during emergency procedures.” He rolled his eyes at the word emergency, as if the concept bored him.

“Now,” he said, turning back to Jonas, “remove your coat and shirt. We wouldn’t want fabric contaminating your arteries, would we?”

Jonas hesitated, his fingers trembling as he unfastened his coat. The air bit at his skin, despite the hum of the heater. He peeled off his shirt, exposing his chest to the sterile chill of the room. Goosebumps rose across his skin.

“Will I be asleep for this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Navy laughed, a sharp, barking sound that echoed off the walls. “HAH, no. Why would you be? This quick-fix unit should handle the pain. Hopefully, you’re not too sensitive, hündchen.”

He gestured toward the Quick-Fix device hanging beside the chair, its tubing coiled like a serpent.

Jonas began to shake. Not from cold, but from dread.

Navy moved with clinical precision as he fliped the Quick-fix on. The device hissed softly, releasing a faint blue mist as it calibrated. Jonas felt a strange cold spread through his veins, dulling the edges of his nerves but not erasing the fear.

“Now,” Navy said, donning a pair of magnifying goggles, “hold still. This will be quick. Relatively.”

Jonas lay back in the surgical chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles above, each one identical, sterile, and lifeless. He focused on their symmetry, trying to ignore the glint of steel in Navy’s hands. The instruments gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, each one designed for precision, each one capable of reshaping the body in ways Jonas wasn’t ready to accept.

The first incision came swiftly, a clean, practiced slice just beneath the collarbone. Jonas flinched, his breath catching, but the Quick-Fix unit dulled the pain to a muted pressure, like a distant memory of discomfort.

He began to count the layers in his mind, a desperate attempt to stay grounded: Epidermis… Dermis… Hypodermis… Muscle…

Navy’s voice cut through the silence, clinical and cold. “Your heart’s beating fast. Strong, healthy. Too bad we don’t need it.”

Jonas’s eyes widened just as Navy severed the major arteries with a swift, deliberate motion. A sudden wave of cold surged through his body, followed by nothing.

 

Then, light.

Blinding, sterile light flooded his vision as his eyes cracked open. He winced, the brightness stabbing into his retinas like needles. The infirmary ceiling loomed above him again, but something was different. The air felt heavier. His chest ached, not with pain, but with pressure, like something foreign had taken root inside him.

He turned his head slowly. Navy stood beside him, eyes wide with delight, his grin stretched unnaturally across his face.

“You died quickly!” he said, almost cheerfully. “No worries. I simply installed the device into a stronger heart and now, just stitching you up.”

Jonas blinked, the words struggling to register. Died? Stronger heart?

Navy worked with swift, practiced movements, threading the needle through flesh with mechanical precision. “You’ll feel a slight tug,” he said, and pulled deliberately on the thread. Jonas gasped, his fingers clenching the armrests, knuckles white.

“Good,” Navy murmured, not looking up. “You’re tolerating it well. Better than most.”
Jonas didn’t speak. His mind was a storm, memories, questions, fear. Was this necessary?

Was this what being a Medic meant now?

He had trained to heal, to preserve life. But this, this was something else. Something unnatural.

Navy tied off the final stitch and stepped back, admiring his work. “You are now a god,” he said, voice reverent. “Able to prevent death with the flip of a lever.”

Jonas sat up slowly, his chest tight, the device pulsing faintly beneath his skin. He could feel it, a rhythm similar to his own, a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

Jonas’s skin felt cold, not the chill of the infirmary air, nor the lingering touch of the Quick-Fix’s numbing mist. It was deeper than that. It was the cold of death, the kind that clings to the bones and settles behind the eyes. He had awakened from something unnatural, and now his body felt foreign, like a borrowed vessel stitched together with precision but lacking soul.

He wanted to cry.

His throat tightened, but no tears came. Only the ache remained.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Navy said, voice laced with mockery as he gave Jonas a firm pat on the back. “You’re better than before!”

Jonas flinched at the touch. His skin didn’t feel like his own, it was too smooth, too taut, as if it had been stretched over someone else’s frame. The sensation made his stomach churn.

Navy turned toward the door, already moving on. “Let me introduce you to respawn,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Though it’s a shame you won’t get to experience it just yet.”

He left the doors wide open, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Faint voices drifted in from the corridor, casual, distant, indifferent.

Jonas remained in the chair, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want to move. It felt like he couldn’t. His limbs were heavy, unresponsive, as if gravity had doubled its grip on him.

He tried to rise.

His legs buckled instantly, collapsing beneath him. He let out a sharp yelp, the sound raw and involuntary. His knees hit the floor hard, sending a jolt of pressure through his body. His eyes welled with tears, but he knew, no one was coming to help.

He reached out, trembling, fingers grasping for the edge of his desk. The surface was cool and solid beneath his palm, a lifeline in the sterile void of the infirmary. He pulled himself up inch by inch, muscles straining, breath ragged.

His reflection in the metal tray caught his eye, pale skin, sunken eyes, a stitched line across his chest. He looked like a ghost wearing his own face.

Jonas stepped away from the metal tray. The Quick-Fix hissed softly as it disconnected, its tubing slackening like a lifeline cut. He reached for his coat and shirt, fingers fumbling with the fabric. His chest ached, not just from the procedure, but from something deeper, something unmoored. The world around him felt distant, like he was watching it through frosted glass.

As he passed through the infirmary doors, Navy clapped with theatrical enthusiasm. Lav joined in, his grin wide and unbothered.

“Welcome to the BLU side,” Lav laughed, voice echoing down the corridor.

“Don’t be such a party pooper,” Navy added, mockery laced in every syllable.

Jonas stood, not saying anything.

“Quickly now,” Lav said, gesturing down the hall. “Respawn should be this way.”

They led him toward the Engineer’s workshop. The door was ajar, lights still humming overhead. A machine sat abandoned on the desk, half-assembled, wires spilling like entrails. Scout pulled aside a curtain Jonas hadn’t even noticed. Behind it was a room, plain, utilitarian, and lifeless. A storage closet dressed up as something more.

“This is typically what respawn looks like,” Lav explained, as if discussing office supplies. “It holds the materials and tools the team might need in a pinch. Or after they die.”

Navy nodded, like this was all perfectly normal.

“I’ve noticed the first death feels like a hangover,” Navy added. “You might feel nauseous. Light-headed. It’ll pass.”

Lav let the curtain fall. A puff of dust rose from the cloth, catching the light like ash. He placed his hands on his hips.

“That should be all. If you have questions, use the phone in the infirmary. Or Spy’s room.” He waved Jonas off like a teacher dismissing a student.

Navy stepped closer, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Have fun out there,” he said with a wink.

Jonas’s heart sank. His stomach turned. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but Navy was already walking away.

Jonas stood alone.

A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. And another.

Suddenly, he couldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

Time doesn’t wait for anyone, not for soldiers, not for medics, and certainly not for Jonas.

His eyes burned, swollen from tears that had long since dried. His head throbbed with a dull ache, and his chest pulsed with a deeper pain, one that no mist or machine could truly erase.

He left the workshop once his thoughts had settled into something resembling order. Not clarity, but resignation.

Back in the infirmary, he quietly returned the chairs to their corners, the wheels squeaking faintly against the floor. Then he sank into the central chair, the one he’d sat in during briefings, check-ups, and quiet moments of reflection. The one others had occupied before him, each with their own burdens.

He reached for the Quick-Fix unit and switched it on. The device hissed softly, releasing its familiar mist. It enveloped him in a sterile numbness, dulling the pain in his chest and the weight in his limbs. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

But the relief felt wrong.

He hated how detached he felt from his own body. The pain wasn’t his anymore, it had been dissected, repackaged, and anesthetized. Even his suffering felt borrowed.
He lay there for what felt like hours. Time blurred, slipping through his fingers like sand. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply existed in the haze.

Then came the knock.

A heavy, deliberate thud against the infirmary door.

“Doktor, are you there?” Heavy’s voice rumbled through the room, deep and concerned.
Jonas didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to move. But duty had a way of dragging him forward, even when his soul lagged behind.

With a groan, he lifted himself from the chair, the mist dissipating as he switched off the Quick-Fix. The cold sensation ebbed from his skin, leaving behind a hollow ache.

He cleared his throat, voice hoarse. “Yes, Heavy. I am here.”

The door creaked open slowly, and Heavy stepped inside, his massive frame filling the doorway. His eyes scanned the room, landing on Jonas with quiet intensity.

“You look tired,” Heavy said, stepping closer. “Are you… alright?”

Jonas hesitated. The truth clawed at his throat, but he swallowed it down. “I’m managing.”

Heavy nodded slowly, but didn’t look convinced. He glanced at the Quick-Fix unit, then at the surgical tray still resting on the counter. “You had surgery?”

Jonas nodded. “A procedure. For the übercharge system.”

Heavy’s brow furrowed. “Did it hurt?”

Jonas looked away. “Yes. But not in the way you’d expect.”

There was a long pause. Heavy stepped forward and placed a hand on Jonas’s shoulder, gentle, grounding.

“You are still you,” he said quietly. “Even if you feel different.”

Jonas’s breath caught. The words were simple, but they struck deep.
He nodded, eyes stinging again. “Thank you.”

The two stood close, the silence between them fragile, like glass neither dared to tap.

Jonas cleared his throat, the sound brittle. “The check-up.”

Heavy looked up, eyes steady.

“You came here for the check-up,” Jonas repeated, voice flat.

Heavy nodded once.

“Then please, go sit. I need to get my stethoscope,” Jonas said, already turning away.

Heavy moved to the examination chair without protest. Behind Jonas’s back, his gaze lingered, soft, troubled. He’d seen this look before. Scout wore it after the last Medic stitched his mouth shut. That Medic had offered flimsy justifications, but everyone knew the truth: he wanted to hurt them.

 

“Scout talks too much. He wastes oxygen.”

“Pain builds character.” he said after a quick botched surgery with no pain management.

“They’re not patients. They’re assets.” Heavy heard him say on the phone.

“I’m the only one keeping them alive.”

 

Heavy’s jaw tightened.

Medic returned, stethoscope in hand, his movements mechanical.

“Breathe in… hold… then out. Good,” he murmured, placing the diaphragm against Heavy’s chest.

The rhythm of the check-up continued, clinical and quiet. Medic scribbled something on his clipboard. Heavy assumed it wasn’t anything serious.

Then came the next question, delivered with the same detached tone.

“Can you explain your daily diet? What allergies you may or may not have?”

Heavy hesitated, watching Jonas’s face for any flicker of emotion. There was none.

“I eat meat. Mostly beef. Bread. Potatoes. Sometimes cabbage. No allergies.”

Medic nodded, jotting it down.

Heavy leaned forward slightly. “You are not like him.”

Jonas paused, pen hovering above the paper. “Who?”

“The last Medic,” Heavy said. “He hurt Scout. Hurt all of us.”

Medic’s hand lowered. He didn’t look up. “I know.”

Heavy’s voice softened. “You care. Even when you are tired.”

Medic finally met his eyes. There was something raw behind the exhaustion, something still fighting.

“I try,” he said.

Heavy nodded. “That is enough.”

Jonas waved Heavy toward the scale, its metal frame still bent from years of misuse. The dial swayed uncertainly, but it worked well enough.

Heavy stepped on, the familiar creak echoing through the infirmary. He remembered this scale vividly, how often he’d been told to “watch his intake,” how the old Medic used it as a tool of shame rather than care.

Jonas scribbled the number down without comment. His lips moved, murmuring something under his breath, too quiet to catch. Heavy tilted his head, but didn’t ask.

Then Jonas gestured toward the wall, where a ruler had been haphazardly taped beside a filing cabinet. The tape was now curling at the edges.

Heavy chuckled, stepping over. “This is very professional, Doktor.”

Jonas didn’t smile. “It’s functional.”

Heavy stood straight against the wall, his broad shoulders brushing the cabinet. “You should get proper equipment. Maybe one of those fancy laser ones.”

Jonas marked the height with a pencil, then stepped back. “I’ll put it on the requisition list. Right after the new spine I need.”

Heavy laughed softly, but Jonas didn’t join him. He was already writing again, eyes distant.

Heavy watched him for a moment. “You always work like this?”

Jonas paused. “Like what?”

“Like you are somewhere else.”

Jonas’s pen stopped moving. He looked up, and for a moment, the mask slipped.

“I’m trying to stay here,” he said quietly. “It’s harder than it looks.”

Heavy nodded, solemn. “Then I will help.”

Jonas blinked, surprised. “Help?”

Heavy smiled. “By being here. So you don’t have to be alone.”

 

Jonas stared at Heavy, the words hanging in the air like a lifeline he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“By being here. So you don’t have to be alone.”

It was simple. Gentle. Uncomplicated. And yet, it struck harder than any scalpel.

Jonas looked down at his clipboard, suddenly aware of how tightly he was gripping it. His knuckles were white. He loosened his hold, setting it aside with deliberate care.

“I appreciate that,” he said, voice measured. “But I’m fine.”

It was a reflex, automatic, practiced. The kind of answer he gave when he didn’t want to be asked again.

Heavy didn’t push. He just nodded, the way someone does when they’ve heard that line before.

Jonas turned away, pretending to organize the tray of instruments. But his hands moved slower now, distracted.

Why did that offer shake him so much?

“So you don’t have to be alone.”

Jonas found himself crying again.

It came without warning, just a sudden collapse of breath, a tremble in his chest, and then the tears. He was seated on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands clenched in his lap, shoulders shaking. The weight of everything, the surgery, the silence, the memories, pressed down until he couldn’t hold it anymore.

But this time, someone was there.

Heavy rushed in, drawn by the sound, but paused at the threshold. He wasn’t used to this. He was the shield, the wall, the one who stood tall when others fell. Comfort wasn’t something he’d ever been taught. But instinct took over.

He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside Jonas.

Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around him.

Not too tight, just firm enough to say I’m here. Jonas didn’t resist. He leaned into the embrace, his body trembling, his breath hitching as another sob escaped. Heavy felt the wetness on his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.

He just held him.

Heavy’s voice was low, steady. “You are not broken, Doktor.”

Jonas shook his head, his voice muffled. “I don’t feel like me.”

Heavy rested his chin lightly atop Jonas’s head. “Then we find you again. Together.”

Jonas clung to him, the sobs coming softer now, slower. The storm was passing, but the wreckage remained. Heavy didn’t try to fix it. He simply stayed.

“You are strong,” Heavy said. “Not because you do not cry. But because you keep going.”
Jonas’s fingers curled into Heavy’s coat. “I don’t know how.”

Heavy pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “One step. One breath. One day.”

Jonas nodded, tears still streaking his face. But his grip loosened. His shoulders eased.

 

The two walked to the kitchen, the quiet between them no longer heavy, just companionable.

Heavy didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Jonas’s steps were slow, but steadier now. His eyes were red, but open. And Heavy knew: Medic needed food. Something warm. Something grounding. After a day like this, even soup could be salvation.

The scent hit them before they reached the doorway, rich, layered, unmistakably indulgent. Heavy squinted. Could’ve been Demo’s stew. Or Engineer’s chili. Maybe even Scout’s chaotic attempt at pasta. But once they turned the corner, the mystery unraveled.
Spy stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a copper pot with the kind of precision that made it clear: this wasn’t just dinner. It was therapy.

Heavy blinked. “You are cooking?”

Spy didn’t look up. “I am rescuing, mon ami.”

Jonas hesitated at the threshold, unsure whether to step in or retreat. Spy glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“You look like hell,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “Sit. Before you fall.”

Jonas obeyed, sinking into a chair at the long table. Heavy took the seat beside him, arms crossed, watching Spy with a quiet sort of reverence.

Spy plated the food with care, seared duck breast, roasted vegetables, a drizzle of something aromatic. He set it down in front of Jonas without flourish.

“No need to speak,” Spy said. “Just eat.”

Jonas stared at the plate. Then at Spy. Then at Heavy.

Jonas smiled. Barely. But it was there.

Heavy grunted approvingly. “Fancy food heals soul. Is known fact.”

Spy smirked. “Only if it’s French.”

Jonas picked up his fork, hands still trembling slightly. But he took a bite. Then another.

Scout was first. Loud, as always. “Yo, is that duck? Who the hell made, ” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Jonas at the table, hunched slightly, pale, eyes still rimmed red.

Scout blinked. “Oh.”

Heavy gave him a look that said choose your next words wisely. Scout scratched the back of his neck, then slid into a seat at the far end of the table, unusually quiet.

Next came Demo, carrying a bottle of something strong. He took one look at Jonas, then wordlessly set the bottle down near him. “For later,” he said, voice low. “If you need it.”

Jonas gave a faint nod. Demo didn’t sit, just clapped Heavy on the shoulder and wandered off to the fridge, pretending to look for something.

Engineer followed, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He paused in the doorway, eyes scanning the room. “He alright?” he asked, not to Jonas, but to Heavy.

Heavy nodded once. “Getting there.”

Engie gave a small smile, then walked over and placed a hand briefly on Jonas’s back. “Glad you’re here, Doc.” He didn’t linger. Just enough contact to say I care, then he moved on.

Pyro entered next, bouncing slightly, a crayon tucked behind one ear. They stopped when they saw Jonas, tilting their head. Then, without a word, they pulled something from their pocket, a folded piece of paper, and placed it beside his plate.

Jonas opened it slowly. Another drawing. This one showed him sitting at the table, surrounded by vague, colorful shapes, clearly the team. A little heart floated above his head.

Jonas swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Pyro gave a thumbs-up and sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, humming softly.
Soldier marched in last, boots loud against the tile. He took one look at Jonas and froze. His posture stiffened, like he was bracing for something. Then, awkwardly, he saluted.

“You are a warrior, Medic,” he declared. “Even warriors must eat.”

Jonas blinked. “I… appreciate that.”

Soldier nodded solemnly and sat down, pulling out a ration bar and gnawing on it like it was steak.

Spy, still at the stove, raised an eyebrow. “Well. This is new.”

Heavy leaned back, arms crossed, watching the room settle into a quiet rhythm. Jonas kept eating, slower now, but steadier. The food was helping. But more than that, it was the presence. The silent support. The way no one pushed too hard, but no one left him alone either.

He slipped in through the back door, as he often did, avoiding the main hallway and the noise. His boots barely made a sound on the tile. No one noticed him at first, not even Heavy. But Spy’s eyes flicked toward the shadow in the corner, and that was enough.
Sniper lingered near the doorway, arms crossed, ushanka low over his eyes. He didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Jonas was halfway through his meal now, the color returning to his face bit by bit. The others had settled into their own rhythms, Pyro humming, Scout poking at his food, Soldier muttering about battlefield nutrition. But Sniper stayed apart.

Jonas glanced up and caught his eye.

There was a pause.

Sniper didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But his gaze held steady, sharp, assessing, and something else. Something quieter. Concern, maybe. Or respect.

Jonas offered a small nod.

Sniper returned it.

Then, slowly, he walked over, not to sit, but to place something on the table beside Jonas’s plate. A thermos. Old, dented, but clean.

“Tea,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “Good for the gut.”

Jonas stared at it. “You made this?”

Sniper shrugged. “Been carryin’ it all day. Figured you’d need it more than me.”

Jonas reached for it, hands still trembling slightly. He unscrewed the lid and took a sip. It was earthy, strong, and oddly comforting.

“Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Sniper nodded once, then stepped back. He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like he always did, watching, waiting, guarding.

Spy glanced at him and smirked. “You’re getting sentimental.”

Sniper didn’t respond. But his gaze lingered on Jonas a moment longer before drifting to the floor and walking to sit next to Engineer.

 

The kitchen was warm with chatter and clinking cutlery. Scout was halfway through a story about outrunning a tank on foot, complete nonsense, but delivered with such conviction that even Demo paused mid-drink to listen. Soldier, meanwhile, was passionately explaining the nutritional value of battlefield flora, gesturing wildly with a forkful of mashed parsnips.

Jonas sat quietly among them, slowly working through his meal. His posture was still guarded, but his eyes had softened. Pyro sat nearby, humming and doodling on the back of a napkin. The team was loud, chaotic, and imperfect, but they were present. And for Jonas, that was enough.

Heavy glanced across the table to Spy, who was delicately slicing into his duck breast with the precision of a surgeon. Their eyes met. Heavy gave a subtle nod toward the living room.

Spy sighed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He stood without a word, leaving his plate untouched. Heavy followed, his boots heavy against the tile.

They stepped into the dimly lit living room, the hum of conversation still audible behind them. The room smelled faintly of old cigars and gun oil. A single lamp cast long shadows across the worn furniture. Spy pulled out a cigarette with practiced ease.

Heavy remained standing, arms folded, his silhouette broad and unmoving.

Spy lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face. He took a slow drag, then exhaled toward the ceiling. “You’re wondering how I knew.”

“I wasn’t spying on you, mon ours,” he said, voice calm. “I was watching him. Because someone had to.”

Heavy’s voice was low, but firm. “How did you know about Doktor’s situation?”

Spy didn’t turn around. “I’m a Spy,” he said simply. “I listen. I hide. I observe.”

Heavy’s brow furrowed. “Never do that again.”

Spy finally turned, smoke curling around his face like a mask. “You think I enjoy it? Lurking in vents, behind doors, pretending I’m not part of this mess?”

Heavy stepped forward, his presence filling the room. “You watched him suffer.”

“I watched him hide it,” Spy corrected. “From you. From everyone.”

Heavy’s fists clenched at his sides. “He is my friend.”

Spy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you should have seen it.”

Heavy’s voice dropped to a growl. “I did. I saw the signs. I just… didn’t know how bad.”

“I was too late,” Heavy admitted.

Spy’s expression softened, just slightly. “We both were.”

There was a long silence. The kind that stretched between men who had fought beside each other, bled beside each other, but rarely talked.

 

Spy leaned back against the wall, smoke trailing from his lips. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

Heavy looked toward the kitchen, where Jonas now sat with Pyro, Scout laughing at his own joke, and Demo pouring something questionable into Soldier’s cup.

“He is healing,” Heavy said.

Spy took another drag, then extinguished the cigarette. “I’ll stop hiding,” he said. “But I won’t stop watching.”

Heavy stepped closer, his voice quiet but commanding. “Then watch with care. Not with silence.”

Spy studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Understood.”

He turned to leave, but Heavy spoke again.

“You care about him.”

Spy paused. “More than I should.”

Heavy nodded slowly. “Then protect him. Like I do.”

Spy didn’t smile. But something in his posture softened. “I will.”

 

Spy and Heavy returned to the kitchen, slipping back into their seats with quiet ease. The room hadn’t changed, Scout was still mid-story, now claiming he once outran a helicopter, while Soldier nodded solemnly as if it were gospel. Pyro had taken to drawing on the tablecloth with a crayon, and Demo was laughing at something unintelligible.

No one noticed their return.

Except Sniper.

He glanced up from beneath his hat, eyes sharp. But when Heavy met his gaze, Sniper looked away, redirecting his attention to Engineer, who was passionately ranting about machines and their “personal vendettas” against him.

Jonas, meanwhile, had finished most of his meal. The duck was half-eaten, the vegetables untouched, but the plate bore the quiet marks of appreciation. He stood slowly, gathering the bottle Demo had left and the thermos Sniper had offered. His movements were careful, deliberate, like someone trying not to wake a sleeping memory.

No one stopped him. No one asked where he was going.

He slipped out of the kitchen and made his way back to the infirmary, the hallway dim and quiet. The bottle clinked softly against the thermos in his hands, a strange pairing of comfort and edge.

Inside the infirmary, the air was cooler. Still. He placed the thermos gently in his mini fridge, the metal shelf rattling faintly beneath it. Then he uncorked Demo’s bottle and took a swing.

It stung.

But in a good way.

The burn curled down his throat, warming his chest, dulling the ache that lingered beneath the stitches. He sat down at his desk, the bottle resting beside him, and stared at the wall.

The food had helped. The company had helped.

But something was still missing.

Not a person. Not a thing.

Something inside.

He leaned back in his chair, he gently posted the drawing above his desk.

The little heart floated above his head, surrounded by vague shapes, his team. His people.

He took another sip.

The sting was sharp. But it reminded him he was still here.

 

Spy sat alone in his smoking room, a dimly lit sanctuary tucked away in the BLU base. It was no larger than the standard mercenary quarters, but it bore the unmistakable mark of someone who had claimed it as his own. The walls were lined with dark mahogany panels, the air thick with the scent of aged tobacco and expensive cologne. A velvet chaise lounge sat beneath a low-hanging chandelier, its crystals casting fractured light across the room like scattered diamonds.

This was Spy’s domain, his retreat from the chaos of war and the idiocy of his colleagues. He had been with BLU longer than anyone else, and the room reflected that tenure. Every inch was curated to evoke the elegance of his homeland: French art deco prints, a vintage phonograph playing soft jazz, and cabinets, dozens of them, stocked with liquors from every corner of the globe. Scotch from Islay, sake from Kyoto, rum from Havana. But Spy’s preference was more niche: fruit meads, sweet and deceptively potent, a nod to indulgence wrapped in sophistication.

Tonight, however, the alcohol did little to soothe him.

Half a bottle of cherry mead sat abandoned on the side table, its contents already warming his blood. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the ashtray overflowing with spent butts, a rare sign of carelessness from a man known for precision. His gaze was fixed on nothing, yet his mind raced.

Why the excess? Why the uncharacteristic lack of restraint?

The answer was simple. And troubling.

The team’s Medic.

A man of gentle hands and gentler intentions. Brilliant in the clinic, hopeless in combat. Spy had watched him, observed the way Medic flinched at lights glowing bright.He was kind. Too kind. And kindness, in war, was a liability.

Spy took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly as if trying to purge the thought.

This Medic was not like the other Medic. That man, cold, efficient, ruthless, had kept BLU afloat through sheer brutality. Spy despised him, but he respected the results. Doctor Genuine, on the other hand, was a question mark. A soft-hearted fool in a world that demanded steel.

What would happen when Jonas was cornered? When no one was there to shield him?

Spy shuddered. He knew the answer. He had lived it.

Once blood is spilled for the first time, it changes you. It stains you. And the worst part?

You learn to like it.

Spy had seen it before. In Scout’s twitchy bravado, in Pyro’s eerie silence from then on, and most damningly, in himself.

He remembered the beginning. A fresh recruit with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, trained in the art of observation, not assassination. Back then, he was a student of shadows, not a dealer of death. His first kill had shaken him to his core. A RED Engineer, caught off guard. Spy had whispered an apology to the corpse, then another to himself. He wasn’t supposed to become this.

But war doesn’t care about intentions.

The second kill came faster. The RED Pyro, slumped against a wall, smoke still curling from the barrel of Spy’s revolver. He had muttered a shaky “sorry” to God, hoping forgiveness could be bartered with guilt.

The third? The RED Sniper. That one bled out slowly, clutching his side, eyes wide with disbelief. Spy had laughed. Not out of cruelty, but because something inside him had snapped. And when he realized he wasn’t sorry anymore, he stopped praying.

From then on, he did what was asked. He slit throats and vanished into snowstorms like a ghost. Each kill earned him praise, bonuses, respect. The blood no longer made him flinch. It was just part of the job. He suspected the others had made their peace with it too, or buried it deep enough not to care.

Now, sitting alone in his smoking room, he drained the last of his cherry mead. The warmth spread through his chest, dulling the edges of memory. His thoughts quieted, but one remained.

The Medic.

Too gentle. Too human. Too much like Spy used to be.

Spy stared at the empty bottle, his jaw tight. He couldn’t let Medic become what he now is. Not yet.

In fact, not ever.

Chapter Text

The morning started early for Sniper and Engineer, earlier for Engie, as usual. He was already elbow-deep in gears and wires by the time Sniper wandered in, quiet as ever, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and gunpowder. Most of the team rose with the clang of the mess hall bell, but Sniper had his own rhythm, one that didn’t answer to alarms or schedules.

They didn’t talk much, but they didn’t need to. The silence between them was comfortable, like an old pair of boots. Occasionally, Sniper would glance over and murmur something about the contraption Engineer was working on, and Engie would reply with a few words, just enough to explain, never enough to bore.

This morning, Sniper had settled into his usual corner with a ball of yarn in hand, the color a crisp blue with streaks of white, BLU’s colors, through and through. Knitting wasn’t something he advertised, but it had its uses. It kept his fingers nimble, his mind steady, and gave him something to do while waiting for a RED to make the mistake of stepping into his scope.

He wasn’t aiming for anything in particular. Maybe a scarf. Maybe a sweater. Maybe just a square of fabric to toss aside later. His eyes drifted from the yarn to Engineer, who was hunched over a half-built sentry, sleeves stained with oil, grease, and something darker, blood, maybe. Probably from that RED Spy who’d gotten too close last match.

“Heya, Truckie,” Sniper said, voice low but warm.

Engineer didn’t look up. “What’s goin’ on, Happy Camper?” he replied, chuckling under his breath.

Sniper smirked, tugging the yarn a little tighter. “Looks like I oughta knit you a new sweater. That one’s seen better days.”

Engineer finally paused, lifting his arm to inspect the mess. “Sure has,” he said, half amused, half resigned. “Did make a mess of myself, didn’t I?”

Sniper nodded, then hesitated. “You got a preference? Design-wise, I mean.”

Engineer blinked, surprised by the question. “Design?”

“Yeah. Somethin’ simple, maybe. Blue and white, like this.” Sniper held up the yarn, letting the colors catch the light. “Could do stripes. Or somethin’ with gears. You like gears.”

Engineer smiled, a little softer than usual. “Stripes’d be nice. Gears too, if you’re feelin’ fancy.”

Sniper gave a quiet grunt of approval and returned to his knitting, the rhythm steady, the silence companionable. Engineer went back to his work, but every so often, his eyes flicked toward the yarn in Sniper’s hands.

Engineer had abandoned his project entirely now, the half-assembled sentry sitting idle on the workbench like a forgotten thought. His hands, still smudged with oil and soot, rested on his knees as he watched Sniper’s fingers move with quiet precision, looping yarn over needle in a rhythm that felt almost meditative.

“Say,” Engineer began, voice low and curious, “when did ya pick up knittin’?”

Sniper didn’t look up right away. He finished a row, tugged the yarn taut, then leaned back slightly in his chair. “Picked it up during school,” he said, eyes still on the fabric. “Had some club for it. Parents couldn’t pick me up most days, so I stuck around. Figured I’d do somethin’ with my hands instead of sittin’ like a lump.”

Engineer blinked, surprised by the answer. He’d expected something more rugged, maybe a story involving survival or necessity. Not school clubs and waiting rooms.

“Honestly,” Engineer said, rubbing the back of his neck, “when I first met ya, I thought you were some crooked squatter. All that quiet, the way you skulk around, sleepin’ in odd places…”

Sniper snorted softly, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Then what changed?”
Engineer paused, glancing down at the stained sweater he wore, frayed at the cuffs, patched at the elbows, and now marked with the aftermath of battle. He ran a thumb over a smear of dried blood, then looked back up.

“I ain’t too sure,” he admitted. “Somethin’ about ya is… charmin.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow, just slightly. “Charmin?”

Engineer shrugged, a little sheepish. “Not in the usual way. You’re like a stray cat. Mean lookin’, but you keep showin’ up. And you bring things. Tea. Yarn. Company.”

They both looked at each other then, a moment suspended in the hum of the base’s generators and the distant clatter of someone, probably Scout, dropping something in the mess hall.

“And we both hate that backstabber,” Sniper added, dry as dust.

Engineer laughed, a full-bodied chuckle that shook his shoulders. “Damn right we do.”

Engineer looked down again, then back up with a grin. “How about somethin’ with pockets? Big ones. For tools.”

Sniper nodded and picked the yarn back up, fingers resuming their quiet dance. Engineer leaned back, watching the motion, the way the yarn twisted and looped into something tangible. Something made with care.

 

Spy woke not with his usual elegance, nor with the practiced grace that made his every movement seem deliberate and refined. Instead, he stirred like a man dragged from the depths of a nightmare, slow, reluctant, and aching in places he didn’t know could ache.

The headache was monstrous. Not the dull throb of a sleepless night. This was worse. Worse than a RED Sniper’s bullet grazing his temple, worse than the searing agony of being caught in RED Pyro’s flames. It was a splitting, pulsing pain that seemed to echo through the chambers of his skull like a cruel symphony.

His gloved hands rose shakily to cradle his head, fingers pressing into his temples with desperate force, as if he could squeeze the pain out through sheer will. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, numb, unresponsive, heavy. His eyes refused to focus, the room swimming in a haze of cigarette smoke and dim light.

The scent of stale tobacco clung to everything: the curtains, the upholstery, even his own skin. Shame lingered in the air too, thick and sour, like the aftermath of a bad decision made in the dead of night. He didn’t remember what he’d done to deserve this state. That, he supposed, was the point.

Then it came back. Not all at once, but in fragments, like shards of glass piercing through the fog. A conversation. A memory. A feeling he’d tried to drown in smoke and silence. A wave of hot pain surged through his head, and he winced, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

He was supposed to prepare breakfast today.

Of all the tasks, this one felt particularly cruel. Not because he couldn’t cook, he could, and quite well when he chose to, but because it required presence. It required standing, moving, engaging. And right now, he could barely breathe without wincing.

He dragged himself upright, spine stiff and reluctant, and shuffled toward the small kitchenette tucked into the corner of his quarters. The floor creaked under his weight, the sound unusually loud in the quiet room. An empty bottle of mead sat on the counter, mocking him. He turned it away.

The cabinets opened with a soft click, and he began pulling out ingredients with mechanical precision: eggs, bread, a block of cheese. His hands moved on autopilot, slicing, cracking, stirring. The motions were familiar, almost comforting. But his mind was elsewhere, still trapped in whatever had driven him to this state.

As the pan sizzled and the scent of melting butter filled the air, Spy leaned against the counter, eyes closed, breathing slow. He hated mornings like this. Hated feeling mortal.

Vulnerable. Human.

But he also knew the others would be waking soon. And he would not let them see him like this.

He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair with a practiced hand.

Spy worked in silence, the only sounds in the room the soft hiss of the stovetop and the occasional clink of metal against ceramic. Despite the pounding in his skull, his hands moved with their usual finesse, slicing and folding with the precision of a surgeon. Breakfast, at least, would be immaculate.

He started with a classic French omelette, three eggs whisked until frothy, poured into a buttered pan and swirled until just set. He filled it with finely chopped herbs, a touch of Gruyère, and a whisper of black pepper. No browning. No cracks. Just a smooth, golden envelope of warmth.

Next came toast, but not the dry, thoughtless kind. He sliced a fresh baguette at an angle, brushed each piece with olive oil, and grilled them until the edges turned crisp and golden. A smear of tomato confit and a few slivers of cured ham adorned each slice, arranged like art on a platter.

For the side, he prepared a small bowl of fruit, thin slices of pear, blood orange, and fig, drizzled with honey and garnished with mint. It was indulgent, but restrained. A meal meant to impress without drawing attention.

Engineer was first. His boots thudded softly against the floor, and he rubbed sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Mornin’, Spy,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. He paused, sniffed the air, then gave a low whistle. “Well I’ll be. You went all out.”

Spy didn’t turn. “It’s breakfast,” he said simply, his voice smooth but subdued. “I do not ‘go out.’ I prepare.”

Engineer chuckled, settling into a chair at the long table. “Whatever you call it, smells damn good.”

Moments later, Sniper arrived, quieter than usual. He moved like a shadow, his presence more felt than seen. He nodded once at Spy, then sat beside Engineer without a word. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on Spy for a moment longer than necessary.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Spy didn’t answer immediately. He plated the omelette, set it in front of Sniper with a folded napkin, then turned back to the stove. “I am awake,” he said. “That is enough.”

Sniper didn’t press. But he exchanged a glance with Engineer, brief, unreadable, but weighted.

The three sat in silence for a moment, the clink of cutlery and the soft hum of morning filling the space. Spy remained standing, arms folded, watching the pan as if it might betray him.

Demo stepped in first, his gait steady, less stumbling, more deliberate. His eye was clear, his grin easy. No bottle in hand, no slurred greeting. Just a quiet hum under his breath and the faint scent of gunpowder clinging to his coat.

Soldier followed close behind, posture rigid as always, but his expression was… relaxed. Not barking orders or reciting battle plans. Instead, he was mid-sentence, speaking to Demo with a strange sort of enthusiasm.

“-and I told him, ‘You cannot simply invade a breakfast buffet without proper reconnaissance!’” Soldier declared, gesturing with one gloved hand. “The man had no strategy. No honor. No toast!”

Demo snorted. “Aye, and then you threw a sausage at him, didn’t you?”

“It was tactical sausage deployment,” Soldier corrected, with a firm nod. “Highly effective.”

Spy blinked. That was new.

Engineer looked up from his plate, eyebrows raised. “Well, look who’s in a good mood.”
Sniper didn’t speak, but he leaned back slightly, watching the duo with quiet curiosity.

Demo clapped his hands together, eyeing the spread. “Bloody hell, Spy, you’ve outdone yourself. This looks like something you’d serve to royalty, or at least someone with all their limbs intact.”

Spy gave a small nod, still standing, still untouched by the food. “It is edible. That is sufficient.”

Soldier marched to the table and sat down with a dramatic flourish. “I shall consume this omelette with the dignity of a general and the hunger of a patriot!”

Demo took a seat beside him, already reaching for the fruit bowl. “You know,” he said, glancing around, “it’s nice. Just a nice breakfast eh?”

Spy’s eyes flicked toward him, unreadable. Demo’s tone was softer than usual, almost nostalgic.

Soldier, surprisingly, nodded. “Even warriors must rest. The battlefield is not always external.”

That earned a glance from Sniper, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Engineer paused mid-bite, then gave a quiet “Huh.”

Spy didn’t respond. But something in his posture shifted, less rigid, more contemplative. The headache still pulsed behind his eyes, but the room felt… warmer. Not from the stove, but from the strange, unexpected calm that had settled over the team.

With a quick shuffle of sneakers and the unmistakable rhythm of someone who couldn’t sit still for long. Scout stepped in, hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped, eyes scanning the room like he was expecting something, or someone.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood in the doorway, gaze flicking from Soldier to Demo, then to Sniper and Engineer. His brows furrowed slightly, then relaxed. Still no sign of Pyro.

Spy watched him from the corner, noting the tension in Scout’s shoulders, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh. Restless, but not agitated. Searching.

“Yo,” Scout finally said, voice casual but a little too loud for the quiet room. “Smells good. You make this, Spook?”

Spy didn’t dignify the nickname with a response, but gestured toward the remaining plates with a flick of his wrist.

Scout shrugged and made his way to the counter, grabbing a slice of toast and a bit of fruit. He hovered near the table, not quite sitting, chewing thoughtfully as his eyes kept darting toward the door.

Then, as if summoned by thought alone, Pyro appeared.

Pyro stepped in with a soft bounce to their gait. Their mask gleamed faintly in the morning light, and tucked under one arm was a folded piece of paper, another drawing, perhaps. They paused in the doorway, head tilting slightly as they took in the scene.

Scout’s face lit up, just a little. “Hey, there ya are.”

Pyro gave a muffled hum of greeting and moved toward the table, placing the drawing carefully beside Jonas’s usual seat, though Jonas hadn’t arrived yet. Then, without fuss, they took a seat beside Scout, who finally settled into his chair properly.

The room remained calm. No shouting. No clattering. Just the quiet sounds of forks against plates, the occasional chuckle from Demo, and Soldier muttering something about “fruit-based diplomacy.”

Pyro reached for a piece of toast, then paused, nudging the plate toward Scout in a silent offer. Scout blinked, then smiled. “Thanks, dude.”

The morning held. Peaceful. Unusual. But welcome. Especially with Spy’s condition.

The last to arrive was Heavy.

His footsteps were unmistakable, slow, deliberate, and solid enough to make the floorboards acknowledge him. The door opened wider than it had for anyone else, and Heavy stepped in with a quiet hum under his breath, something melodic and low, like a lullaby remembered from long ago.

He looked well-rested. His shoulders weren’t hunched with tension, and his usual scowl had softened into something almost resembling contentment. There was even a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he surveyed the room.

“Good morning,” he rumbled, voice deep but gentle.

Demo raised his mug in greeting. Pyro gave a cheerful wave. Scout offered a “Yo, big guy,” through a mouthful of toast.

Heavy nodded to each of them, then made his way to the counter, selecting his breakfast with care, omelet , toast, and a generous helping of fruit. He sat down beside Pyro, who scooted slightly to make room, and gave a pleased grunt at the gesture.

For a while, he simply ate. Quietly. Peacefully. Occasionally, he chuckled at Demo’s stories or offered a low comment to Spy, who responded with a rare smirk. The morning had a rhythm now, soft, steady, shared.

But then, as Heavy reached for his mug, his brow furrowed.
He looked around the table once. Then again.

His smile faded slightly.

“Where is Medic?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

The question hung in the air. Not alarming, but noticeable.

Spy glanced toward the hallway, then back at Heavy. “Not here yet.”

Pyro tapped the table near Jonas’s usual seat, where the folded drawing still sat untouched.

Heavy’s eyes landed on it. His expression shifted, concern flickering behind his calm. He reached out, gently turning the paper to face him, but didn’t unfold it. Just rested his hand beside it, as if guarding it.

“He is late,” Heavy murmured. “He didn’t sleep well.”

Scout looked up, chewing slower now. “You think he’s okay?”

Heavy didn’t answer right away. He simply stared at the empty chair, the drawing, the quiet space Jonas usually filled with quiet precision and watchful eyes.

“I will check,” he said finally, rising with a quiet resolve.

 

Heavy moved through the hallway with careful steps, the plate balanced in his large hands like something sacred. Spy’s omelette, still warm, sat beside two slices of golden toast and a small bowl of fruit, pear, fig, and blood orange, arranged with quiet elegance. It was the kind of breakfast Jonas would appreciate. Not for its extravagance, but for its thoughtfulness.

The base was quiet, the hum of machinery distant, the morning still holding its rare calm. Heavy’s eyes scanned the corridor, pausing at each door, until he reached the infirmary.
The lights were on, but dim. Not the bright, clinical glow of check-ups and procedures. This was softer, almost hesitant. A quiet signal.

Heavy knocked gently, the sound muffled against the metal.

“Doktor?” he called, voice low and warm. “Breakfast is ready.”

No response.

He waited a moment longer, listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No rustling. Just silence.
Heavy’s brow furrowed. He hesitated, then reached for the handle. The hinges gave a soft squeak as the door opened, and he stepped inside.

The infirmary was still. Not sterile, not cold, just quiet. The scent of antiseptic lingered faintly, mingling with something more personal: eucalyptus, paper, and the faintest trace of smoke from the night before.

Heavy’s eyes moved slowly across the room. Instruments were neatly arranged. The counters were clean. But something felt… paused. As if the space was holding its breath.

Then he saw it.

The door to Jonas’s private room was ajar, just enough to catch the edge of the light. Heavy paused, considering. He didn’t want to intrude. But something tugged at him, gentle, insistent.

He stepped closer, careful not to let the plate tilt, and leaned just enough to peer through the opening.

Jonas lay half on the bed, half on the floor, one arm draped awkwardly across the mattress. His coat was rumpled, his hair tousled, and a bottle sat on the desk nearby, half-empty, its label turned away. But his face was calm. No tension in the brow. No grimace. Just peace.

Heavy’s breath caught for a moment. Not in alarm, but in quiet relief.
He stepped back, gently pushed the door open a little wider, and entered the room. He set the plate down on the desk, beside the bottle, careful not to disturb anything. Then he crouched beside Jonas, one massive hand resting lightly on the edge of the bed.

“Is okay,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You rest.”

He stayed there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Jonas’s breath. Then he reached up, took the blanket from the bed, and draped it gently over Jonas’s shoulders.

The lights stayed dim. The room stayed quiet.

Heavy stood, gave one last glance to the peaceful figure on the floor, and turned to leave, slowly, silently, letting the door close behind him with a soft click.

 

Jonas stirred from sleep far later than usual, his body heavy with exhaustion and the lingering ache of recovery. The usual clatter of breakfast, boots on tile, laughter, the hiss of the stove, had long passed. He blinked slowly, disoriented, his internal clock dulled by fatigue and pain.

Then he noticed it: a scent, warm and savory, curling through the air like a gentle invitation. His gaze drifted to the small bedside table, where a plate had been carefully placed beside the dark glass bottle Demoman had gifted him days ago. The bottle remained from last night, but the plate was new. On it sat a folded omelet, golden, two slices of toast browned to perfection, and a small cup brimming with fresh fruit.

Jonas’ stomach gave a low, plaintive growl, and his mouth flooded with warmth. The sight was almost overwhelming in its tenderness. Someone had made this for him. Someone had noticed he hadn’t come to breakfast.

With a sudden burst of hunger, he reached for the fork, his fingers trembling slightly from the effort. He tore into the omelet, the first bite melting on his tongue, soft eggs, a hint of cheese, maybe a touch of onion. He didn’t pause to savor it at first, just ate, fast and grateful, like a man who hadn’t realized how empty he was until the food touched his lips.

As he chewed, the flavors grounded him. The toast was buttered lightly, crisp at the edges, and the fruit was cool and sweet, a contrast to the warmth of the eggs. He slowed down after a few bites, the initial desperation giving way to something gentler, appreciation, maybe even comfort.

He glanced again at the arrangement. The plate wasn’t just dropped off. The toast was stacked neatly, the fruit arranged with care. Someone had taken time. Someone had thought about him.

His eyes drifted to the door. No note. No sign of who had brought it. But he had a few guesses. Heavy, perhaps, he’d been quietly attentive lately, always watching, always near. Or Pyro, who had started expressing trust through small, wordless gestures. Maybe even Sniper.

He took another bite, slower this time, letting the moment stretch. The infirmary was still silent, but it no longer felt empty. It felt like someone had been here. Like someone might come back.

Like Jonas might come back.

Jonas let out a low, dissatisfied grunt as he stared down at the now-empty plate, the last smear of yolk clinging to the porcelain like a taunt. He smacked his lips together, hoping for lingering flavor, but all he tasted was dryness. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his throat tight and parched. The meal had stirred his appetite, but it had also reminded him of everything his body still lacked, hydration, strength, rest.

He blinked slowly, then perked up as a memory surfaced: the tea. Sniper had handed it to him the night before, wordlessly, with that usual quiet precision. Jonas hadn’t touched it then, too tired to lift the mug, but now the thought of it, warm, earthy, soothing, felt like salvation. He offered a silent thanks to Sniper, and another to whoever had brought him breakfast. Gratitude wasn’t something he voiced often, but it bloomed quietly in his chest, a soft warmth beneath the lingering ache.

With effort, he pushes himself upright.

Too fast.

The world tilted violently. His brain felt like it had turned to sludge, sloshing against the inside of his skull. The edges of his vision darkened, curling inward like smoke, and for a moment he thought he might collapse back into the mattress. The void beckoned, silent, heavy, familiar.

He gritted his teeth and steadied himself, planting his feet firmly on the cold floor. His knees wobbled, but he held. He was upright. Barely.

Each step toward his desk was deliberate, his body protesting with every shift of weight. The infirmary lights, bright, clinical, unforgiving, loomed ahead. He winced at the memory of leaving them on, and instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, bracing for the glare.

The lights hit him like a slap, sharp and sterile, slicing through the haze in his head. He squinted, his hand still half-raised, and shuffled the last few steps to the desk. The tea sat there, untouched, the mug still warm from the insulated base Sniper had insisted on using. Jonas reached for it with trembling fingers, wrapping both hands around the ceramic like it might anchor him.

He took a sip. The warmth spread through his chest, slow and steady, like a balm. The taste was earthy, slightly bitter, but comforting. It reminded him of Sniper’s presence, quiet, observant, always a few steps behind but never out of reach.

The infirmary had begun to feel like a cage, clean, quiet, and suffocating. Jonas stood at the threshold, the cup of tea still warm in his hands, and stared at the door as if it were a challenge. He needed air. He needed movement. He needed to feel like more than a patient.

With a soft exhale, he pushed the doors open. The hallway greeted him with a hush, the kind that made every footstep echo. The base was in a lull, between meals, between missions, between chaos. Jonas walked slowly, the tea grounding him, his body still sore but willing.

He turned the corner toward Engineer’s workshop, drawn by the familiar hum of machinery and the scent of oil and metal. But before he could reach the entrance, a sudden burst of movement caught his attention.

Engineer came barreling down the hallway, boots thudding against the tile, his face a mix of urgency and apology.

“Hey, wait!” he called out, waving one hand while clutching a clipboard in the other.

Jonas stopped mid-step, blinking at the unexpected energy. The hallway, moments ago so still, now felt charged.

Engineer skidded to a halt in front of him, panting slightly. “I was just informed by our paulin’, he told me to register ya for respawn,” he said, words tumbling out fast.

Jonas tilted his head. “Respawn?” The word felt foreign in his mouth, clinical and cold.

“Yeah,” Engineer nodded, adjusting his goggles. “For some darn reason, our match got moved to tomorrow. They want everyone tagged and ready.”

Jonas processed the information slowly. The idea of being “registered” for death and rebirth made his stomach twist. He’d already died once. He wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

The two stood in silence for a moment, the hum of distant machinery filling the gap.

Engineer scratched the back of his neck. “Say, how about ya follow me? The weather outside’s supposed to be nice, and it shouldn’t take too long. Just a quick setup.”

Jonas hesitated, then nodded. “That’s… fine, I suppose.”

“Great! Just meet me at the entrance, I’ll grab a few supplies before we’re off.” Engineer didn’t wait for a reply, already turning on his heel and disappearing back into the workshop with a clatter of tools and muttered curses.

Jonas stood alone again, the hallway returning to its quiet state. He looked down at the cup in his hands, the tea now lukewarm. He took a few final gulps, savoring the last bit of comfort it offered, then turned toward the kitchen to deposit it in the sink.

Jonas’s boots echoed softly against the tile as he made his way to the kitchen, the hallway dim and still. He glanced down at his clothes, his standard work uniform, thick and utilitarian, designed for cold weather. He had several copies of it, all identical, all impersonal. It was the kind of uniform that made you forget you had a body underneath.

He hadn’t changed out of it since morning. The fabric clung to him with the weight of routine, but it offered little comfort. He knew the cold would find its way in soon enough.

The kitchen greeted him with silence, save for the lingering scent of breakfast. A ghost of warmth. He rinsed the cup slowly, methodically, as if the act itself could anchor him. The ceramic clicked gently against the sink, and he watched the water bead and slide off, disappearing like breath on glass.

Then he turned and headed toward the entrance.

The same entrance he’d used when he first arrived at BLU. Back then, the door had felt like a gateway, ominous, yes, but full of possibility. Now it loomed like a threshold between comfort and exposure.

As he stepped into the hallway, the cold met him like an old adversary. It bled through the seams of the locked door, pure and biting. Jonas clenched his jaw and shoved his hands into his pockets, only to realize his gloves were missing. He cursed softly under his breath, the sound swallowed by the empty corridor.

Now, it was the waiting game.

He stood near the entrance, the metal door looming ahead, its surface faintly frosted. Engineer would be back soon, he said. Supplies, he said. It wouldn’t take long.

Jonas leaned against the wall, eyes half-lidded, listening to the hum of the base and the distant creak of pipes. The cold pressed in, but he didn’t move. He let it settle into his bones.

Jonas closed his eyes, letting the cold settle like dust. It was quiet, until the familiar sound of clanking metal broke through the stillness. Engineer was mumbling to himself, his voice low and rhythmic, punctuated by the occasional grunt as he adjusted his grip.

Jonas opened his eyes.

Engineer was approaching, arms full of gear, his toolbox swinging slightly at his side. But what caught Jonas’s attention wasn’t the tools, it was the object cradled in Engineer’s hands.

The Medi-gun.

Jonas’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, recognition blooming like a bruise. It was the same one from yesterday, the one he’d been taught to use, the one that had felt foreign and intimate all at once.

“Here, can ya hold this?” Engineer asked, already extending it toward him.

Jonas reached out instinctively, his arms steady despite the sudden rush of emotion. Engineer handed him the Medi-gun and a backpack of sorts, nodding with a grin.

“Much obliged, doc. Woo, I already got a lot to carry in here,” he said, giving his toolbox a light punch.

Jonas looked down at the device in his hands. “Why did you get this?” he asked, voice careful, almost wary.

“Oh, see, Ima need ya to hold that while I get a scan and register ya,” Engineer explained, adjusting his goggles. “Just hook it up to your back thing.”

Jonas hesitated, then turned slightly and connected the nozzle to the side of the Übercharge port embedded in his back. The click was soft, but it echoed in his mind like a gunshot. The weight settled onto his shoulders, familiar and unwelcome. It wasn’t just the physical heft, it was the implication. The role. The responsibility.

He mentally braced himself. He would be holding this during the mission. He would be expected to use it.

“Now come, follow me,” Engineer said, waving him over as he reached for the door.

Jonas stepped forward, the Medi-gun tugging slightly at his posture. He looked outside.

Snow.

Not as bad as when he first arrived, but still enough to blanket the ground in white and silence. The cold reached out like a memory, brushing against his face and neck. He clenched his jaw and stepped through the threshold.

The wind nipped at Jonas’s cheeks as he followed Engineer across the snowy yard, the Medi-gun heavy against his back. Each step left a crisp imprint in the powder, quickly softened by the breeze. Engineer walked ahead, his boots crunching steadily, his breath visible in short bursts. He spoke in fragments, about scan frequencies, respawn protocols, and the quirks of the registration terminal, but Jonas only caught pieces.

His mind was elsewhere.

The Medi-gun’s weight wasn’t just physical. It was symbolic. It marked him, again, as the Medic. Not just the man who stitched wounds and sanitized surfaces, but the one who would stand behind the line, tethered to the lives of others. The one who would be expected to save, to sacrifice, to endure.

He hadn’t asked for this.

He hadn’t asked to be resurrected with a device on his heart, hadn’t asked to be handed the same weapon the old Medic wielded with cruelty. And yet, here he was, walking through snow, carrying the same burden, being registered for death and rebirth like it was routine.

Engineer slowed as they reached a small outpost near the perimeter fence, a squat, metal structure half-buried in snow. He kicked the door open with a grunt and gestured Jonas inside.

“C’mon in, doc. It’s warmer in here.”

Inside the outpost, tucked beside the humming respawn terminal, sat the resupply locker, its metal frame worn, its hinges creaking faintly as Jonas opened it. The interior was dim, lit only by the flickering light of the terminal, but he could make out the familiar shapes: folded uniforms, spare medkits, rolls of bandages, and tucked in the corner, a small stack of gloves.

Blue. Standard issue. The same kind they kept back at base.

Jonas reached in and pulled out two pairs. The fabric was stiff with disuse, slightly dusty from sitting untouched. He held them up to the light, inspecting the seams, the faint creases where fingers had never filled them. They were clean enough, but he still wiped them down, first with his sleeve, then with a nearby cloth. It was a quiet ritual, methodical and grounding.

The gloves weren’t just for warmth. They were a barrier. A layer between him and the world. Between his hands and the blood, the bone, the trembling skin of teammates who would look to him for salvation.

He slipped one pair into his coat pocket and began pulling the other onto his hands. The fabric resisted slightly, then gave way, molding to his fingers. The fit was snug, familiar. He flexed his hands, testing the grip, feeling the way the gloves dulled sensation but offered control.

Behind him, Engineer was still working, tapping through menus and muttering about grid alignment and respawn latency. The terminal pulsed softly, casting pale light across the room.

Jonas stared at his gloved hands.

They looked like the old Medic’s hands now. Blue, precise, clinical.

But they weren’t the same.

These hands had held Pyro’s drawings. Had accepted tea from Sniper. Had trembled under Heavy’s quiet comfort. Had stitched wounds not just to survive, but to heal.

He clenched them gently, then relaxed.

“Alright, let’s get ya scanned,” he said, pulling out a small handheld device. “Just stand still for a sec.”

Jonas obeyed, the Medi-gun still strapped to his back, the nozzle connected to his port. The scanner beeped softly as Engineer moved it across his chest, shoulders, and spine.

“Vitals look good. Device is stable. Übercharge port’s active,” Engineer muttered, tapping through menus. “Now we just need to sync your profile to the respawn grid.”

Jonas stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.

Resupply it said, but it contained Respawn.

The word felt clinical, detached. But he knew what it meant. It meant dying. It meant waking up again, gasping, disoriented, with the taste of blood and metal in his mouth. It meant pain. It meant forgetting how long you’d been gone.

It meant being useful.

The terminal beeped. A soft chime signaled completion.

“Done,” Engineer said, smiling. “You’re officially in the system. If anything happens tomorrow, you’ll be back in no time.”

Jonas nodded, but the words felt hollow. If anything happens. It wasn’t a question of if. It was when.

 

By the time Jonas and Engineer arrived in the mess hall, the scent of roasted meat and spices had already filled the space, curling through the air like a warm invitation. The lights were low, casting a golden hue across the long table where the rest of the crew had begun to gather. Sniper stood at the far end, sleeves rolled up, a carving knife in hand, slicing through a slab of meat with practiced ease.

The dish was unmistakably hearty, thick cuts of grilled kangaroo and beef layered with smoky bacon, charred onions, and a rich glaze that shimmered under the lights. A side of roasted root vegetables, seasoned with cracked pepper and eucalyptus salt, completed the plate. It was rustic, unapologetically carnivorous, and, according to Sniper, an “Australian classic.”

Engineer let out a low whistle as he approached. “Well damn, Snipes. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Sniper glanced up, his usual stoic expression softened by the pride of a job well done. “It’s good you’re maintainin’ your focus, mate,” he said, handing off a plate.

“And keepin’ ya lean, Snipes,” Engineer replied with a wink, nudging him lightly with an elbow.

Sniper shook his head, a wide grin breaking across his face. “You’re lucky I don’t knit you a scarf to choke ya with.”

Jonas stepped up beside them, peering over Sniper’s shoulder at the spread. His eyes lingered on the careful arrangement, the way each piece was placed with intention. “It’s quite the combination, Sniper,” he said softly, voice tinged with genuine admiration.

Sniper gave a small nod, his tone quieter now. “It’s a family recipe, doc. A classic one. My mum used to make it after long hunts. Said meat keeps the soul grounded.”

Jonas smiled faintly, accepting a plate. “Then I suppose we’re all grounded tonight.”

The crew settled in, the table filling with quiet conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Pyro hummed through their mask, arranging vegetables into patterns. Demo raised a toast with a mug of something strong, and Soldier declared the meal “a tactical triumph.”

Jonas sat between Heavy and Sniper, his posture relaxed, his plate untouched for a moment as he simply observed. The warmth of the food, the closeness of the team, the quiet care in Sniper’s cooking, it all settled into him like a balm.

Heavy leaned over, voice low. “You are eating tonight, yes?”

Jonas nodded, finally lifting his fork. “Yes. I think I will.”

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t fully risen, but Soldier had. His alarm blared at 05:00 am sharp, and he was already halfway through his morning routine before the rest of the base had even stirred. He threw on his issued uniform with the precision of a man preparing for a parade, the fabric stiff and warm against his skin. The sensation was pleasant, but irrelevant. Today was not for comfort. Today was for glory.

He slammed open his door with the force of a cannon blast and bellowed down the hallway:

“RISE AND SHINE, SWEETHEARTS! IT’S TIME FOR WAR!”

The echo bounced off the walls like a drill sergeant’s call, waking the base with a jolt.

The door beside him opened instantly, as if Demoman had been waiting for the inevitable. He stood there, uniform already on, one hand rubbing sleep from his eye, the other resting on the doorframe. He squinted at Soldier with mock irritation.

“Solly, don’t ya think it’s a bit early?”

Soldier turned, eyes blazing with patriotic fervor.

“NEGATORY! EARLY IS ON TIME, AND ON TIME IS LATE! WE MUST BE PREPARED TODAY!”

Demoman chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped out and began smoothing his jacket. “Aye, you’re a bloody sunrise yourself.”

Further down the hall, Sniper’s door creaked open like a reluctant eyelid. He emerged slowly, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded, already calculating the optimal breakfast to survive the day. He didn’t speak, just grunted and shuffled toward the kitchen, sparing Engineer the wake-up call. Sniper knew better than to disturb the man who kept the base running.

Soldier, undeterred, continued his march down the hallway, shouting names and rallying spirits like a one-man brass band.

 

In the infirmary, Jonas had already been awake.

He hadn’t slept much, his body still sore, his mind still restless. The gloves he’d cleaned last night sat folded neatly on the counter, beside a fresh roll of bandages and a half-finished checklist. He moved slowly, deliberately, dressing in silence while the base stirred around him.

Soldier’s voice reached him through the walls, and he paused, listening.

“RISE AND SHINE SWEETHEARTS! IT’S TIME FOR WAR!”

Jonas closed his eyes for a moment. The words were familiar, almost comforting in their absurdity. He didn’t feel ready for war. But he felt ready to try.

He picked up the gloves, slipped them on, and adjusted the strap of the Medi-gun across his back. The weight was familiar now. Not welcome, but accepted.

He stepped out into the hallway just as Demo passed by, nodding to him with a grin.

“Morning, doc. Soldier’s got the whole base marching already.”

Jonas offered a faint smile. “I heard.”

Demo chuckled as he stepped in. “Let’s have some breakfast. Snipes makes good ones, nice and hearty.”

Jonas smiled faintly and followed, his boots soft against the floor.
The kitchen smelled of sizzling eggs and toasted bread, a comforting haze of warmth and grease hanging in the air. Sniper stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, flipping something hearty in a pan, probably hash, judging by the smell. His movements were slow but practiced, the kind of quiet competence that made mornings bearable.

Most of the team had already gathered, slouched in chairs or hunched over mugs. Soldier sat upright like a statue, eyes locked forward, probably imagining battle formations in his scrambled eggs. Scout was mid-story, gesturing wildly. Pyro sat beside him, nodding along, mask tilted in a way that suggested amusement.

Spy’s seat was empty.

Jonas noticed, but didn’t comment. Spy had his rituals. Cigarettes, silence, solitude. He’d show up when he was ready.

Jonas slid into the seat beside Heavy, who was nursing a mug of tea, his brow furrowed in thought. As Jonas settled in, Heavy looked down at him, his expression softening into a grin.

“Hello, doktor. Are you ready for mission?”

Jonas hesitated, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the table. “I’m a bit nervous.”

Heavy nodded, his voice low and reassuring. “Is normal. You are not alone.”

Across the table, Scout leaned in, eager to help. “No worries, doc! You should’ve seen my first day, I was shaking so bad I couldn’t even shoot my gun!”

Pyro gave a thumbs-up, the gesture oddly gentle.

Jonas chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. The warmth of the room, the smell of food, the quiet presence of teammates, it all helped. Not enough to erase the nerves, but enough to make them bearable.

Sniper turned from the stove, setting down a plate in front of Jonas with a quiet nod. Eggs, toast, and something that looked like potatoes, crispy and golden.

Jonas looked up. “Thank you.”

Sniper shrugged. “Eat up. You’ll need it.”

Spy stepped into the kitchen, his coat draped over one shoulder, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His eyes swept the room with practiced detachment, but they lingered, just briefly, on Jonas.

Jonas didn’t look away.

Spy moved with his usual grace, setting his coat over the back of his chair and flicking ash into a tray with surgical precision. He didn’t speak as he sat, but the silence around him shifted, less absence, more presence.

Jonas leaned slightly toward him, voice low. “Morning.”

Spy glanced sideways, his expression unreadable. Then, after a pause, he replied, “You slept?”

Jonas nodded. “Enough.”

Spy exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl toward the ceiling. “You look steadier.”

Jonas gave a faint smile. “I’m trying.”

Spy tapped his cigarette once, then looked at him fully. “Good. Just remember, nerves mean you still care. That’s not weakness.”

Jonas absorbed the words quietly. Spy rarely offered comfort directly, but when he did, it came like a scalpel, precise, cutting, and necessary.

 

Jonas hadn’t known this room existed.

It was tucked behind the mess hall, past a door labeled “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” in faded stenciling. The walls were lined with mismatched filing cabinets and peeling maps, and the overhead light flickered like it was trying to quit. A long metal table dominated the center, surrounded by nine chairs that looked like they’d been salvaged from a dentist’s office and a bus stop.

Jonas hesitated at the threshold, but Heavy’s hand on his shoulder guided him in.

The others filed in with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Scout immediately began rifling through a box of stale donuts. Pyro settled in with their crayons and a coloring book that had somehow survived three deployments. Engineer groaned as he sat, rubbing his lower back.

“These chairs are a war crime.”

Jonas took the last seat, stiff and cold beneath him. He folded his hands in his lap, trying not to fidget.

Then Soldier stood.

Not sat, stood. At the head of the table, where his chair remained untouched, like a throne too humble for its king.

“ATTENTION!” he barked, startling Scout mid-bite and causing Pyro to drop their crayon.

Everyone turned.

Soldier unfurled his battle plan with the reverence of a priest revealing sacred scripture. The paper was chaotic, arrows pointing in every direction, stick figures labeled with initials, and a tank with wings that had “FREEDOM ENGINE” scrawled beneath it.

Jonas leaned forward, trying to make sense of it. He couldn’t.

But Soldier’s voice filled the room like a marching band.

“TODAY, BLU SHALL TRIUMPH!” he declared. “I HAVE DEVISED A PLAN SO BRILLIANT, SO STRATEGICALLY UNSTOPPABLE, THAT EVEN RED WILL WEEP AT OUR GENIUS!”

Demo leaned back, amused. “Here we go…”

Soldier unfurled the paper onto the table, pointing dramatically at various sections.

“Phase One: Medic shall deploy behind Heavy and Pyro. He will maintain Übercharge readiness at all times. NO EXCEPTIONS.”

Jonas blinked. “I, yes, alright.”

“Phase Two: Scout will flank from the left, distracting RED’s Sniper. Sniper, our Sniper, will take the high ground and eliminate threats with precision. Engineer will deploy a dispenser near him”

“My usual routine,” Engineer muttered.

Sniper raised an eyebrow. “You mean the roof?”

Soldier nodded solemnly. “The roof.”

“Phase Three: Demoman and Engineer will coordinate explosive entry and turret suppression. Spy will infiltrate and sabotage RED’s communications.”

Spy took a drag from his cigarette. “As always.”

“AND FINALLY, PHASE FOUR!” Soldier’s voice rose to a crescendo. “I shall lead the final charge, bayonet in hand, justice in my heart!”

The room was silent for a beat.

Then Demo clapped slowly. “Well, it’s certainly… enthusiastic.”

Scout grinned. “I’m in!”

Pyro gave a thumbs-up.

Jonas looked around the table. Despite the absurdity, despite the nerves, there was unity. A strange, chaotic, comforting unity.

He looked at Spy, who gave him the faintest nod.

He looked at Heavy, who smiled.

And he looked at Soldier, who was already drawing a second tank with wings.

 

The nine of them trudged through a snowfield that stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast expanse of white broken only by the jagged silhouettes of pine trees and the distant outline of a crumbling outpost. The snow reached past their ankles, powdery and deceptively soft, but beneath it lay uneven terrain, rocks, frozen roots, and patches of ice that made every step a gamble.

The wind howled low and constant, threading through the trees like a warning. It carried flecks of snow that stung the skin, and the sky above was a dull, oppressive gray, heavy with more to come. Visibility was poor; a thick fog clung to the ground, curling around their boots and rising like breath from the earth itself.

Jonas lagged behind, his steps labored. Each time he lifted a leg, it felt like dragging a sandbag through molasses. His boots gripped well, thankfully, he didn’t fear slipping, but the effort of walking was exhausting. His back ached, a dull throb that pulsed with every movement, and his ears burned with frostbite despite being tucked into the high collar of his coat. He had pulled his turtleneck up as far as it would go, burying his chin and mouth, but the cold still found him.

He glanced up at the others ahead, Scout bounding lightly, Demo laughing through the wind, Pyro leaving strange patterns in the snow with their erratic steps. They moved with ease, as if the cold were just another part of the mission. Jonas sighed, his breath fogging instantly.

Then Scout turned, surprisingly perceptive despite the haze.

“Ya need some help, doc?” he called out, voice muffled by the wind.

Jonas nodded, slow and reluctant. Somehow, Scout saw it.

“Ay, Heavy! Doc’s having a bit of trouble!” Scout shouted, loud enough to cut through the storm.

Heavy turned immediately, his massive frame pivoting with purpose. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way back, his coat flapping slightly in the wind.

“Come here, doktor,” he said, voice low and steady.

Before Jonas could protest, Heavy bent down and lifted him effortlessly into his arms. Jonas gasped, eyes wide, startled by the sudden warmth and weightlessness. His legs dangled, the medigun shifting on his back, and he instinctively clutched Heavy’s coat for balance.

Heavy’s arms were solid, his grip secure but gentle. Jonas could feel the heat radiating from him, his coat, his chest, even the breath that puffed from his mouth in steady clouds. The cold was still there, biting at his ears and fingers, but it no longer felt like it was winning.

“You are light,” Heavy said, almost teasing. “Like feather.”

Jonas managed a weak smile. “I feel like a sack of bricks.”

Heavy chuckled. “Bricks are tough.”

Ahead, the team had slowed, waiting. Pyro turned and waved, their mittened hand flapping enthusiastically. Sniper offered a quiet nod, and Spy, ever composed, gave a glance that lingered just a moment longer than usual. Engineer adjusted his goggles and stepped aside to clear the path.

The back entrance to the respawn chamber loomed like a bunker half-swallowed by snow and time. Frost clung to the edges of the steel door, its surface pitted and dulled by years of exposure. The surrounding terrain was bleak, patches of ice glinting beneath the snow, skeletal trees clawing at the sky, and the distant hum of wind pressing against the walls like a warning.

Jonas recognized the door immediately. It was the same one Engineer had led him through the day before, when everything had felt surreal and clinical. Now, it felt real. Heavy.

Engineer fumbled with a ring of mismatched keys, muttering under his breath as he tried each one. The cold made his fingers clumsy, and the metal clinked like distant bells. One by one, the team entered as the door creaked open, Sniper first, silent and sharp-eyed; Pyro bouncing slightly with anticipation; Demo whistling a tune that didn’t match the mood.

Heavy carried Jonas to the threshold, then gently set him down on a crate just inside the room. His bashful smile was a quiet reassurance, and Jonas mumbled a soft “thank you” in return.

The room was dimly lit, the walls lined with exposed wiring and flickering panels. A chill ran down Jonas’s spine, not just from the cold, but from the weight of what this room represented. Respawn. Death. Return.

He glanced around at the others. Most looked focused, their expressions carved from habit and resolve. But a few, Engineer, Spy, wore the subtle fatigue of men who’d rather be anywhere else.

Then his eyes landed on Soldier.

With theatrical flair, Soldier pulled out a rocket launcher the size of a small coffin, swinging it over his shoulder with zero regard for proximity or safety. Jonas instinctively took a step back, eyes wide with concern.

Soldier caught the look and responded with a proud thumbs-up, his grin wide and unshaken. Demoman, ever the enabler, followed with his own thumbs-up and a wink.

Jonas sighed and shook his head, then turned to his own gear. He unhooked the nozzle of the medigun and held it the way he’d been taught, angled slightly forward, elbows tucked, fingers wrapped tight. The weight was familiar now, but it still felt foreign. Like holding someone else’s legacy.

In the corner, Spy lit a fresh cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he exhaled a plume of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. His eyes were unreadable, but they flicked toward Jonas for a moment, just long enough to say stay sharp.

Engineer was pacing, mumbling about the lack of metal. “No dispenser, no sentry, no miracles,” he grumbled, kicking a loose bolt across the floor.

Pyro was crouched beside their flamethrower, carefully applying stickers, smiling suns, cartoon skulls, a glittery rabbit. Scout hovered nearby, pointing at each one. “That one’s good. No, not the bunny, go with the skull. It’s intimidating.”

Demoman took a long swig from his flask, then offered it to Soldier. To Jonas’s surprise, and mild horror, Soldier accepted it with gusto, raising the flask like a toast to impending victory.

Jonas watched them all, heart thudding.

This was his team.

Chaotic. Flawed. Brilliant.

And he was their Medic.

“When do we start?” Jonas asked, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the low hum of preparation.

The room stilled for a moment. A few teammates opened their mouths to answer, but Spy beat them to it. He stood near the wall, half-shrouded in shadow, the ember of his cigarette glowing faintly.

“We will start once the announcer tells us to go,” he said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curled toward the ceiling like a ghost. His tone was calm, but there was a sharpness beneath it, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Jonas nodded, absorbing the weight of that truth. The announcer’s voice would be the signal. The moment the world shifted from waiting to war.

“That reminds me of somethin’,” Engineer piped up, suddenly animated. He rummaged through his satchel, muttering to himself as he pulled out a handful of small, rounded devices, matte black, no bigger than a coin, with a faint blue light pulsing at their center.

They looked like earplugs, but Jonas could tell they were something more.

Engineer moved quickly, handing one to each teammate with practiced efficiency. When he reached Jonas, he paused, meeting his eyes.

“This here’s a comms device,” he explained. “Lets us call out anything important, enemy positions, incoming Spys, sentry locations. In your case, doc, it’d be best if you call out your Übercharge percentage. That way we know when to push.”

Jonas blinked, surprised by the sudden flood of responsibility. He took the device slowly, cradling it in his palm like it might bite. “Thank you,” he said, voice soft, his smile uncertain.

Engineer gave him a reassuring nod. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

Heavy stepped forward, his presence grounding. He placed a massive hand on Jonas’s shoulder, warm even through the layers of fabric.

“You will do good, Doktor,” he said, voice low and steady.

Jonas looked up at him, and for a moment, the cold faded. The ache in his back, the weight of the medigun, the fear of failure, all softened beneath that simple truth.

The room fell into a hush. The flickering lights overhead buzzed faintly. Outside, the wind howled against the metal walls, and snow continued to fall in slow, deliberate sheets.

Jonas inserted the comms device into his ear. It clicked softly, and a faint hum confirmed it was active. He adjusted the medigun’s straps, he began to pull on it’s lever, aiming it towards Heavy who gave me a proud smirk.

Spy flicked his cigarette into a nearby tray and pulled his mask tighter. Sniper adjusted his scope, eyes narrowing. Pyro giggled softly, admiring their freshly stickered flamethrower. Scout bounced on his heels, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Then, without warning, a voice crackled through the intercom overhead.

“Mission begins in sixty seconds.”

Jonas’s heart skipped.

The room shifted. Boots scraped against the floor. Weapons were lifted. Eyes sharpened.

Heavy turned to him once more. “Stay close.”

Jonas nodded, gripping the medigun tighter.

He wasn’t ready.

Jonas’s breath hitched.

Ten seconds.

His fingers trembled around the medigun’s grip, knuckles pale. The comms device buzzed faintly in his ear, but the world felt distant, like he was underwater, watching everything move in slow motion.

He didn’t want to die.

Not again.

Spy adjusted his tie with surgical precision. Sniper muttered something under his breath, eyes locked on the door. Pyro bounced on their heels, humming through the mask. Engineer gave Jonas a quiet nod, the kind that said I’ve got you.

Heavy didn’t speak this time. He just stood beside Jonas, solid and immovable, like a mountain that had chosen to shield him.

Five seconds.

Jonas’s heart pounded against his ribs. He could feel the Übercharge building, 42%. Not enough. Not yet.

Soldier was already halfway to the door, barking orders like a general possessed. Demo grinned, explosives strapped to his chest like medals.

Three seconds.

Jonas swallowed hard. He wasn’t ready. But readiness was a luxury. What mattered now was movement. Was trust.

Was survival.

Two seconds.

Heavy leaned in, voice low and steady.

“Stay behind me.”

“One.”

The doors slammed open.

The world roared.

And Jonas ran.

The battlefield was a blur of motion and noise.

Scout darted ahead, shouting something Jonas couldn’t catch over the roar of gunfire. Pyro’s flamethrower hissed to life, casting flickering orange light against the pale snow. Demo launched a barrage of grenades that exploded in bursts of heat and color, briefly illuminating the chaos.

Jonas turned, trying to find Heavy. A flash of blue caught his eye, Sniper, perched high on a ledge, scanning the horizon. Spy vanished into smoke. Engineer was already setting up a sentry, his movements precise and practiced.

Jonas’s breath fogged the air as he tried to orient himself. The medigun hummed in his hands, its charge climbing, 50%. He needed to stay close. He needed to,

“Medic!” someone shouted.

He spun toward the voice, heart hammering. Soldier was charging forward, rockets trailing smoke behind him. Jonas ducked instinctively as one exploded nearby, sending shards of ice and debris flying.

He couldn’t see the enemy clearly, just flashes of red through the snow, silhouettes darting between cover. His boots slipped slightly on a patch of ice, and he nearly fell before Heavy’s arm caught him.

“You are safe,” Heavy said, voice like a boulder rolling through the storm. “Stay close.”

Jonas nodded, throat tight. He clung to the medigun like a lifeline, eyes scanning for teammates, for threats, for anything familiar in the blizzard of violence.

The comms device crackled in his ear.

“Sniper on the ridge, left side!”

“Spy cloaked near cart!”

“What's the Übercharge doc?”

“60-” Jonas croaks out.

“KEEP MOVING”

He obeyed, legs moving before his mind could catch up. The snow blurred everything, but he focused on the shapes he knew: Heavy’s broad back, Engineer’s sentry light, Pyro’s flickering flame and the pain growing in head.

Gunfire tore through the frozen air, each shot a jagged scream against the howling wind. The battlefield was a cacophony of agony, bullets, shouts, the metallic clang of boots on steel. Jonas’s stomach churned as he watched crimson bloom across Heavy’s chest, only to vanish seconds later beneath the glow of his medigun. The healing was fast. Efficient. But the sight of blood, his blood, still made Jonas flinch.

Heavy didn’t falter. He pressed forward like a glacier, slow and unstoppable, his minigun roaring as if daring the world to try harder. Bullets ricocheted off his armor, some grazing skin, others embedding deep before Jonas’s beam stitched him back together. The cold was relentless, gnawing at Jonas’s fingers through the gloves, his breath fogging in the air like ghosts escaping his lungs.

Pyro danced nearby, a blur of flame and fury. With a hiss of compressed gas, he cast a protective ring of fire around Jonas, shielding him from the encroaching RED flank. Somewhere in the blaze, a RED Spy shrieked, his cry cut short as he collapsed into a heap of ash and scorched cloth.

Jonas wanted to heal them all. Even the enemy. Even the ones who screamed. But,

“RED Sniper’s dead!” someone shouted.

The medigun pulsed in his grip, its hum rising to a fever pitch. The charge was ready.

100%.

Jonas didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t afford to.

“I am fully charged!” he called out, voice sharp and clear.

“HEAVY, MEDIC! NOW IT’S TIME!” Soldier bellowed, his helmet gleaming with frost and fury.

Jonas slammed his thumb onto the activation switch.

The world didn’t explode.

It froze.

A surge of energy erupted from the medigun, racing through the cable into Heavy’s body. Then, like a backlash, it slammed into Jonas. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming, like being plunged into a vat of sterile ice, every inch of his skin seized by a clinical chill. His breath hitched. His spine arched. Nerves flared like emergency sirens.

His muscles locked, posture rigid and unnatural. His fingers clenched around the medigun, white-knuckled. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. The Übercharge wasn’t just protection, it was pressure. It embalmed him in frost and adrenaline, a living statue of resolve.

Heavy roared forward, his body glowing with invincibility. Bullets bounced off him like rain on steel. Jonas followed, legs stiff, vision sharpened to a surreal clarity. The snow seemed to slow around them, the chaos parting like curtains before gods of war.

RED team scattered.

But then, another glow. Another surge.

A second Heavy and Medic emerged from the smoke, their own Übercharge flaring to life.

“They countered usin’ their own!” Engineer shouted, voice cracking with urgency.

Jonas’s heart plummeted. This was it. This was where he died.

“Get Medic out of here!” Heavy roared, voice raw and commanding.

“I got ‘em!” Scout detached from the cart, boots skidding as he sprinted toward Jonas.

The BLU Übercharge flickered, its glow dimming, its power waning.

Jonas made a split-second decision. He detached the vapor from Heavy and latched it onto Scout, transferring the last of the charge. Heavy kept firing, unflinching, even as the glow faded from his body.

Scout turned and ran. Jonas ran with him, faster than he’d ever moved before. Each breath they took expelled white vapor, like steam engines fleeing the wreckage.

They reached cover.

Then, static.

Heavy’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Medic-”

Cut off.

Jonas froze.

Heavy was gone.

Jonas crouched behind the shattered barricade, the medigun’s beam still tethered to Scout like a lifeline. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, fogging the air with each exhale. His hands trembled violently, the recoil of grief more brutal than any weapon.

He had failed.

Heavy was gone.

Scout knelt beside him, chest heaving, eyes darting across the battlefield. He glanced at Jonas, panic flickering behind his usual bravado.

“Hey, come on,” Scout said, voice cracking as he reached out and patted Jonas’s back. “The big guy’ll be back soon. Respawn’s active. He’s fine.”

Jonas didn’t respond. The comms buzzed with orders, warnings, cries, but they were distant, muffled, like echoes underwater. His gaze was fixed on the snow, stained with blood and ash. He wanted to sink into it. To disappear beneath the frost and forget the weight of his failure.

Then, movement.

Demoman rolled into view, swaggering toward the nearby dispenser with a grin and a bottle in hand. His silhouette was familiar, his voice casual.

“What’s this now, lads?” he called out.

Jonas blinked, confused. Pyro was nowhere in sight. Something felt wrong.

Scout didn’t hesitate.

He raised his scattergun and fired.

The blast shattered the quiet, jolting Jonas from his daze. Demoman staggered, then collapsed into the snow with a grunt.

Jonas’s heart dropped again.

“What, ” he gasped.

But the body shimmered, flickered, and dissolved into the red-suited form of a Spy.

“Stupid Spys,” Scout muttered, kicking the corpse away just as a bullet tore through the air, striking the already dead body.

Jonas flinched.

“Sniper’s got sight on the Medic,” Scout said into his comms, voice low and urgent.

Jonas felt exposed. Vulnerable. The medigun’s charge ticked upward, 20%. But it wouldn’t be fast enough.

Then a voice, calm and cold.

“I got him,” Spy said.

And the comms went silent.

 

Spy reached the ridge overlooking the battlefield, crouching low behind a crumbling wall. His eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and calculating. There, perched atop a distant tower, RED Sniper. Still. Focused. The scope glinted in the pale light, trained directly on Medic behind the cover.

Spy’s breath slowed.

He watched the rhythm of Sniper’s movements, the subtle shift of weight, the twitch of a gloved finger near the trigger. A man preparing to kill.

Spy didn’t blink.

He uncloaked silently, the shimmer of his disguise fading like mist. One hand reached into his coat, fingers curling around the hilt of his knife. The other adjusted his revolver, but he didn’t raise it. Not yet.

This kill wasn’t about noise.

It was about precision.

He moved.

A blur of blue and black, slipping through shadow and snow. Up the tower. Past the blind spots. Behind the target.

Sniper never saw him.

Spy stood inches away, close enough to hear the man’s breath fog against the scope. Close enough to see the faint tremor of anticipation in his hands.

Crosshair right where Medic would come out of.

Spy’s blade whispered from its sheath.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t hesitate.

The knife slid between ribs, angled perfectly. A single, practiced motion. Sniper gasped, a wet, startled sound, and collapsed forward, his rifle clattering against the ledge.

Spy caught the body before it fell.

He laid it down gently.

Like a man tucking in a child.

The comms crackled.

“Sniper down,” Spy said, voice low and final.

Then silence.

He turned, cloak shimmering once more, and vanished into the snow.

 

The voice in Jonas’s earpiece was unmistakable, deep, warm, grounding.

“Me and Pyro are back.”

Heavy.

Jonas’s heart surged. The weight in his chest lifted just slightly, and his eyes lit up with something close to hope. Scout noticed the change instantly, his own shoulders relaxing as he gave Jonas a quick, relieved grin.

But the moment didn’t last.

“INCOMING!”

The warning crackled through the comms like a lightning strike. A split second later, Soldier vaulted over the barricade and landed hard beside Jonas, his boots skidding in the snow. He looked like he’d clawed his way out of a trench, his uniform torn, face streaked with soot, and a jagged wound gaping in his leg.

Jonas’s breath caught.

The bone was visible. Pale and raw against the blood-slicked skin.

Soldier didn’t cry out. He gritted his teeth, eyes blazing with the same manic determination that had carried him through countless battles. But the pain was there, etched into every line of his face.

Jonas didn’t hesitate.

He raised the medigun, the beam locking onto Soldier’s leg with a soft hum. The healing was slower than usual, bone took longer, deeper tissue even more so, but Jonas could see the tension in Soldier’s body begin to ease. The muscles around the wound relaxed. The bleeding slowed. The color returned to his skin.

Soldier exhaled, a low grunt of relief. “Good work, Medic. Patch me up and I’ll patch them out.”

Jonas nodded, his hands steady now, the medigun pulsing with quiet resolve.

Behind them, the battlefield still roared, gunfire, explosions, the hiss of Pyro’s flames in the distance. But Jonas focused only on the beam, on the slow, deliberate act of restoration.

“What happened to that Medic and Heavy?”

Jonas didn’t look up. He was still watching Soldier, who leaned against the wall like a man who’d been carved out of the battlefield itself, grimy, bloodied, and grinning like he’d just won a prize.

“Sniper took out the Medic and I finished off the Heavy,” Soldier said, saluting with a kind of pride that made Jonas flinch internally. The words landed like stones in his chest. Another Medic. Another Heavy. Gone. And the way Soldier said it, so casual, so final, made Jonas feel like he was standing on the edge of something sharp.

He swallowed.

“And Demo?” he asked, voice low, almost reluctant. The question wasn’t just tactical, it was personal. Demo had a way of laughing through the chaos, of making the battlefield feel less like a graveyard. Jonas needed to know.

Soldier scratched his face, indifferent. “Hm, not sure.”

Jonas barely had time to react before Soldier aimed his launcher at the ground and fired, rocketing himself into the air with a whoop. The blast left a scorch mark where Jonas had been standing, and the sudden absence of Soldier felt like a vacuum, loud, then eerily quiet.

Jonas didn’t move. He just stared at the smoke curling upward, the space where Soldier had stood now empty. That space had once belonged to him and Heavy. It had felt safe. Now it was just another scar on the terrain.

Heavy arrived moments later, his boots crunching against gravel, his presence like a wall Jonas could lean against if he dared.

“Cart is moving back. Not good.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. Jonas turned to him, and for a moment, the tension in his chest eased. Heavy was here. That mattered.

Scout nodded and sprinted off toward the cart, his silhouette disappearing into the haze.

Heavy looked at Jonas, eyes steady. “Ready, doktor? Another try?”

Jonas didn’t answer right away. His face soured, lips pressed into a thin line. The word try echoed in his mind like a cruel joke. Another try. Another chance to be torn apart. Another moment where healing meant watching someone die slower.

But he nodded.

Because Heavy was asking. Because the team was still fighting. Because if he didn’t, someone else would bleed out alone.

Engineer passed by, muttering curses under his breath as he gathered metal from his dispenser. His movements were sharp, frustrated.

“That darn Red Soldier took out my sentry up ahead.”

Jonas barely registered the words. His medigun buzzed in his hands, syncing with Heavy’s rhythm as they prepared to move. The sound was familiar, almost comforting. But Jonas felt anything but comforted.

He was tired. Not just physically, but in the marrow of his bones. Tired of stitching flesh that would tear again. Tired of watching teammates vanish into smoke. Tired of pretending that healing was enough.

But he stepped forward anyway.

The medigun buzzed louder, the Übercharge building like a storm behind his ribs. Jonas could feel the pressure rising, the energy coiling in the device embedded in his chest, the one that had killed him. But this time, he didn’t flinch.

“GO!” Jonas yelled.

The beam surged, bathing Heavy in a shimmering shield of invulnerability. The world seemed to slow for a heartbeat, the chaos muffled by the roar of power. Jonas moved with precision now, not panic, his steps matched Heavy’s, his beam locked tight, his focus razor-sharp.

They advanced together.

The cart was slipping back, wheels grinding against the dirt as RED forces pressed in. Scout had darted ahead, drawing fire and clearing the path, while Engineer scrambled to rebuild his sentry behind them. Pyro’s flames flickered in the distance, a warning and a promise.

Heavy tore through the enemy line like a battering ram, his minigun which held a nametag, Sasha, roaring in his arms. Bullets bounced harmlessly off his Übercharged frame, and Jonas stayed close, weaving through debris and bodies, his beam never faltering.

Jonas wasn’t just healing, he was leading. Quietly. Steadily. With every step, he reclaimed a piece of himself.

They reached the cart.

Jonas felt the vibration of its engine, the resistance as it began to move forward again. Scout rejoined them, shouting encouragement, while Engineer’s rebuilt sentry locked onto targets with mechanical precision. The RED team scrambled to regroup, but the momentum had shifted.

Jonas and Heavy pushed through the final stretch, the Übercharge fading just as the cart rolled over the first checkpoint with a triumphant clang.

“Time has been added”, the announcer stated.

The air was thick with the scent of scorched earth and gunpowder, the battlefield momentarily quiet in the lull between skirmishes. Scout turned to Jonas with a cocky grin and raised his hand high, fingers splayed in invitation. Jonas, still catching his breath, returned the gesture with a grin of his own, smaller, but genuine. Their palms slapped together with a satisfying smack, a brief moment of camaraderie in the chaos.

Heavy stood nearby, arms crossed over his chest like a fortress of muscle and resolve. He gave a slow, approving nod, his eyes lingering on Jonas with something close to pride. Behind him, Sniper melted into the shadows of a nearby ridge, Demo adjusted his gear with practiced ease, and Pyro bounced forward, flamethrower already sputtering with anticipation.

Then came the roar of a rocket engine.

Soldier landed in a plume of dust and gravel, his boots slamming into the ground with theatrical force. “Demo, Heavy!” he barked, voice booming like a war drum. “We will drive the enemy scum back to their miserable spawn! Scout!” He jabbed a gloved finger toward the younger mercenary. “You and Medic will continue pushing the cart. Whatever you do, DO. NOT. DIE.”

Scout rolled his eyes, but the smirk never left his face. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Don’t die. Real inspirational.”

With a final nod, Soldier turned and charged forward, Demo and Heavy flanking him like battering rams. The trio vanished into the smoke, leaving Scout, Jonas, and Pyro to their task.

The cart loomed ahead, its metal frame rattling as it settled into motion. Jonas stepped closer, eyes narrowing. Now that he was really looking at it, the payload was unmistakable, a bomb, sleek and ominous, its casing pulsing with a faint blue glow. Scout gave him a nudge with his elbow, and Jonas instinctively moved to help, placing his hands on the cart’s edge. The medigun at his side hummed softly, its charge slowly climbing.

Pyro trailed behind them, flames licking the air in erratic bursts. The heat was welcome, but the unpredictability wasn’t.

“Careful where you fire that, Py,” Scout quipped, glancing back with a grin. “Wouldn’t want Medic to erupt in flames.”

Jonas gave a dry laugh, eyes scanning the horizon. “I’d prefer not to be flambéed today.”

They pushed forward, the cart inching toward the next checkpoint. For a moment, everything seemed to be going according to plan.

Then it unraveled.

A sudden crack echoed through the canyon, Sniper’s rifle. But instead of the usual rhythm of cover fire, there was silence. A second later, a garbled transmission came through the comms: “Sniper down. Engie’s nest compromised.”

Jonas froze. Scout’s grip tightened on the cart.

From the ridge above, a hail of rockets and sticky bombs rained down. The enemy RED team had regrouped faster than expected, flanking from the high ground with brutal precision. Soldier’s voice barked orders in the distance, but it was drowned out by the explosion that sent Demo flying backward, his body skidding across the dirt.

Heavy roared, his minigun spinning to life, but he was caught in a crossfire, RED’s Spy had slipped through the chaos, landing a backstab that dropped him instantly.

Jonas’s heart pounded. The cart was exposed. Pyro turned to defend, flames sweeping wide, but a well-placed flare knocked the flamethrower from his hands. Scout cursed and ducked behind the cart, bullets whizzing past his head.

Jonas dove for cover, dragging Scout with him. The medigun flared, Übercharge nearly ready, but not yet. Not yet.

The battlefield had erupted into chaos.

Scout ducked low, his scattergun barking in short, sharp bursts as he strafed across the dirt path. Pyro spun beside him, a whirlwind of flame and fury, the flamethrower painting the air with searing arcs of fire. The enemy was closing in fast, RED’s counterattack had been brutal, precise, and unexpected. Smoke curled around the cart like grasping fingers, obscuring vision and choking the air.

Jonas remained crouched behind the payload, the bomb’s casing thrumming with energy just inches from his shoulder. His breath came in shallow gasps, heart pounding against his ribs. The medigun’s beam still tethered him to Scout, glowing a steady blue as it fed healing into the runner’s battered frame. Jonas’s fingers tightened around the grip, knuckles white, eyes locked on Scout’s movements.

Scout was fast, too fast for the enemy to pin down easily, but he was also reckless. He darted forward, firing into the smoke, then rolled back behind the cart, shouting over the roar of Pyro’s flames. “Yo, doc! You still got me?”

Jonas nodded, voice lost in the din. The beam held firm.

Pyro let out a muffled giggle, then surged forward again, flames licking at the edges of a RED Engineer’s hastily built sentry. The sentry exploded in a shower of sparks, but not before it clipped Scout’s shoulder. Jonas flinched, the medigun flaring as it compensated for the damage.

Scout cursed and fired blindly into the fog. “We’re losing ground, man! You got Über yet?”

Jonas glanced at the charge meter, 92%. Not enough. Not yet.

Pyro screamed something unintelligible and threw themselves between the cart and an incoming RED Pyro, their flames clashing in a violent dance. Jonas felt the heat wash over him, the medigun whining under the strain.

Jonas lunged from behind the cart, boots skidding across the dirt as he sprinted toward Pyro. The beam trailing from his medigun flickered, then snapped, its connection to Scout severed in an instant. Pyro was cornered, flames sputtering as a RED Heavy bore down on him with a roar and a spinning minigun. Jonas didn’t hesitate. He dove into the open, medigun raised, the charge climbing, 98%, 99%,

100%.

Just as the Übercharge surged to full, a sharp crack split the air. It wasn’t the thunder of explosives or the hiss of fire, it was clean, cold, and final.

Jonas turned instinctively.

Scout lay sprawled on the ground, one arm flung wide, scattergun still clutched in his hand. A single, perfect shot had dropped him, RED’s Sniper, hidden in the haze, had waited for the moment Jonas broke the beam.

Jonas froze.

The glow of the medigun pulsed at his side, begging to be unleashed, but his breath caught in his throat. Scout’s body didn’t move. No twitch. No groan. Just stillness.
Pyro screamed something unintelligible, dragging Jonas’s attention back to the present.

The RED Heavy was closing in, bullets chewing through the earth. Jonas clenched his jaw, slammed his palm against the medigun’s trigger, and the world erupted in blue.

The Übercharge surged through Pyro, cloaking them in invincibility. Flames roared to life, engulfing the enemy in a wall of heat. Jonas moved with them, steps heavy, heart heavier.

Scout was downed.

The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, blanketing the battlefield in a deceptive calm. Beneath the white hush, chaos reigned. Scout was down, his body sprawled in the slush, a crimson bloom spreading across his jacket where the RED Sniper’s bullet had struck true.

The crack of the shot still echoed through the snow, sharp and final.

Jonas stood frozen, boots sinking into the snow, breath fogging in the frigid air. The medigun pulsed at his side.

Pyro, flames sputtering in the cold, turned sharply toward Jonas. Their mask glistened with frost, the lenses catching the pale light like twin moons. The flamethrower hissed, nearly empty, and the RED Heavy was closing in fast, his boots crunching through the snow, minigun spinning with a low, hungry growl.

Jonas raised the medigun again, but Pyro stepped in front of him, arm outstretched. A firm block. A silent command.

They pointed toward the canyon’s edge, where the snow thinned and jagged rocks marked a narrow escape route. Then, with a gloved hand pressed to their own chest, Pyro gave a slow nod.

‘Go. Without me.’

Jonas’s breath caught in his throat. The snow swirled around them, muffling the distant screams and gunfire. Pyro turned back toward the enemy, shoulders squared, flames reigniting in a final blaze of defiance. Their silhouette shimmered against the snow, a flickering guardian in a world gone cold.

Jonas hesitated, just for a heartbeat.

Then he ran.

The snow crunched beneath his boots as he fled into cover, the medigun still humming, heart heavier than the gear on his back. Behind him, the battlefield lit up in a final, brilliant inferno, Pyro’s last stand.

Jonas didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

So, he continued to run.

Jonas didn’t remember entering the building.

One moment he was sprinting through snow, Pyro’s final blaze burning behind him like a funeral pyre. The next, he was inside, walls closing in, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to the air like guilt.

His breath hitched.

The cold was gone, replaced by a suffocating warmth. His coat felt too tight, his gloves too heavy. The medigun buzzed faintly at his side, but the sound was warped, slowed, stretched, like it was underwater.

His heart pounded, erratic and loud.

A flatline echoed from somewhere nearby. The shrill, unrelenting tone of a heart monitor failing to find rhythm. Jonas staggered forward, hand clutching his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if trying to hold himself together.

The walls blurred.

Voices rose around him, panicked, pleading, distorted by memory.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DOCTOR? HELP US!”

He turned, but the hallway was endless. Beds lined the walls, each one occupied by a patient he couldn’t save. Their faces were blank, eyes open but lifeless, skin pale against white sheets. No movement. No breath. No room for life.

Jonas felt his knees buckle.

He had failed. Again. And again. And again.

A sharp slap cracked across his cheek.

Jonas gasped, stumbling backward, the vision shattering like glass.

Spy stood in front of him, coat dusted with snow, cigarette clenched between his teeth. His eyes were narrowed, jaw tight, and his gloved hand was still raised from the strike.

“Snap out of it,” Spy growled, voice low and furious. “You’re in a war.”

Jonas blinked, breath ragged, the sterile walls replaced once more by crumbling stone and frostbitten air. The snow howled outside. The medigun buzzed at his side, real again. Heavy. Cold.

Spy stepped closer, grabbing Jonas by the collar and shaking him once, not violently, but enough to ground him.

“You want to mourn? Do it later. Right now, we survive.”

Jonas nodded, barely.

Spy released him, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Good. Now move.”

Before Jonas could respond, Spy shoved something into his hands, a silver watch, deceptively ordinary. Jonas blinked at it, confusion rising like static. It gleamed under the flickering hallway light, cold and unfamiliar.

Spy didn’t wait. He grabbed Jonas’s wrist and pressed a hidden button beneath the casing.

Jonas gasped.

His skin shimmered, then vanished. His coat, his gloves, even the medigun, gone. He looked down and saw nothing but air. Spy was already fading beside him, his outline dissolving like mist.

“This way, doctor,” Spy’s voice echoed, disembodied but urgent.

Jonas followed, heart hammering. The world felt surreal, like a game, but with death breathing down his neck. They slipped past RED patrols, through broken corridors and blood-slick snow, invisible shadows in a battlefield that had no mercy.

The respawn door hissed open.

Jonas stumbled inside, the invisibility fading from his limbs like melting frost. The cold hit him instantly, sharp, biting, real. His knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed.

Spy reappeared beside him, calm as ever, lighting another cigarette with practiced ease.

“The rest should be back in a few more seconds,” he said, voice low. “But I doubt we’ll have enough time to get back on the cart before time runs out.”

Jonas stared at him, eyes wide.

“They all died?”

Spy nodded, smoke trailing from his lips. “Indeed. RED pushed hard. Anyone near the payload was executed without hesitation.”

Jonas’s breath caught. The room was silent, save for the hum of the respawn chamber powering up. Lights flickered overhead, dimming as the machine drew energy like a starving beast. The air buzzed with tension.

Jonas closed his eyes. His head felt like it was being shocked like the room.

Spy stood watch.

The respawn chamber buzzed like a hive waking from slumber. The lights overhead flickered erratically, first plunging the room into darkness, then stuttering back to life in bursts of sterile white. The air was cold, unnaturally so, as if the room itself had been drained of warmth to fuel the machine that now pulsed at its center.

Jonas stood frozen, breath fogging in the chill, eyes locked on the platform as the first figure began to form.

It started as a shimmer, bulky, indistinct. Then the shape solidified, muscle and mass knitting together with mechanical precision. A minigun materialized in thick hands. A clean uniform wrapped itself around broad shoulders. The final touch: a familiar hat perched atop a square head.

Heavy blinked.

With each blink, life returned, first to his eyes, then to his posture. He inhaled, slow and deep, as if relearning how to breathe.

Jonas didn’t wait.

He surged forward, arms wrapping around Heavy in a desperate embrace. The medigun clattered against his back as he pressed into the warmth of the man who had shielded him, comforted him, and died for him.

Heavy dropped his weapon without hesitation and returned the hug, arms enveloping Jonas like a fortress rebuilt.

Spy scoffed from the corner, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Touching,” he muttered, voice dry.

Jonas didn’t care.

As they parted, the chamber buzzed again. Another figure began to form, this one slouched, casual, as if death had been a nap. The outline sharpened into Demo, his sticky bomb launcher appearing in his hands like a memory restored. His coat wrapped around him, his hat settled into place.

He blinked, then looked around, dazed.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “That was a mess.”

His gaze landed on Jonas. “You okay, lad?”

Jonas nodded, a smile creeping across his face. “Better now.”

The machine pulsed again.

A third figure rose, tall, proud, rigid. A rocket launcher gripped in gloved hands. Soldier’s coat reformed around him, his fingerless gloves snug, his ushanka casting shadow over his eyes. But his grin was unmistakable.

“NO ONE CAN TAKE OUT MY AMERICAN SPIRIT! NOT EVEN THE RED BASTARDS!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the steel walls.

Jonas flinched, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

Then two more figures emerged, one tall and lean, the other compact and sturdy. Sniper’s rifle appeared first, cradled gently in long arms. His sweater and hat followed, settling into place like old friends. Engineer’s pistol and wrench materialized next, his stained sweater and glowing goggles completing the picture.

They moved slowly, like men waking from deep sleep. Sniper glanced around, then leaned toward Engineer and whispered something. Engineer shook his head, replying in kind. Their exchange was quiet, but their presence was grounding.

The chamber buzzed again.

A blur of motion, long legs, a scattergun, a hoodie pulled tight. Scout. His form snapped into place with a jolt, his hat crooked, his grin wide.

“Yo, Doc,” he rasped, voice rough. “You look like hell.”

Jonas laughed again, the sound raw but real.

Then came the last.

The one who had told him to run. The one who had stood in fire so Jonas could live.

Pyro.

Their form built slowly, mask first, then suit, then the flamethrower, now bare of stickers. They stepped forward, movements quick, almost frantic. Their head turned, searching, then locked onto Jonas.

They rushed him.

Hands gripped his shoulders, then pulled him into a tight hug. Jonas stiffened, then melted into it.

Pyro mumbled something, voice muffled but clear enough.

“You survived.”

Jonas nodded, voice barely a whisper. “I did.”

Spy coughed, stepping forward. “Heart-warming. But we still have a mission to complete, ”

Before he could finish, the announcer’s voice cut through the room, cold and mechanical.

“Mission ends in 10 seconds.”

The lights dimmed.

Jonas, voice low and uncertain, asked, “What happens after the time ends?”

Engineer didn’t look up right away. He was fiddling with a busted dispenser coil, hands moving out of habit more than purpose. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but there was a tightness in it, like a man trying not to flinch.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag, “we call it humiliation hour. Ain’t official, but it’s what it feels like. Soon as the clock hits zero, our gear, guns, gadgets, all of it, just quits. Like someone flipped a switch. RED gets free rein. They win, they get to rub our noses in it.”

He paused, jaw clenched. “And we can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Jonas felt the chill of that truth settle in his bones.

Sniper, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, didn’t sugarcoat it.

“Best thing you can do is off yourself before it starts,” he said flatly. “Respawn here shuts down. You’ll pop back at base, safe. Otherwise, you hide. Deep. Quiet. And pray they don’t find you.”

Jonas blinked. “They… hunt us?”

Sniper shrugged. “Some do. Some just want to dance on your corpse. Others get creative. RED Medic’s got a flair for theatrics. Last time, he made Demo sing while he stitched him up with a syringe full of acid.”

Engineer grimaced. “It’s not just about winnin’. It’s about breakin’ you. They want you to feel small.”

Jonas looked down at his medigun. The hum was steady now, but he could already imagine it going silent. Useless. He’d be a sitting duck.

“Why doesn’t anyone stop it?” he asked.

“Because the system don’t care,” Engineer said. “It’s built into the match. You lose, you suffer. That’s the rule.”

Sniper pushed off the wall, walking past Jonas with a glance. “You’re new to this part. You’ll learn. Just don’t let it change you.”

Jonas nodded slowly, the weight of it all pressing down. The idea of being hunted, mocked, powerless, it clawed at the edges of his composure.

Engineer stepped closer, voice softer now. “We’ll show you a few hideouts. Places RED don’t check often. If it comes to that, you go there. You wait it out.”

Jonas swallowed hard. “And if they find me?”

Sniper didn’t stop walking. “Then you grit your teeth and survive it. That’s all you can do.”

 

The moment the announcer declared the match lost, Jonas bolted.

He knew where to go, Engineer had shown him the maintenance shaft tucked behind the southern resupply room. Narrow, rusted, half-collapsed. Forgotten. Safe.

But just as he reached the hallway, a voice called out behind him.

“Wait up.”

Jonas turned. Sniper was walking toward him, rifle slung across his back, expression unreadable.

“You’re not going alone,” Sniper said simply.

Jonas blinked. “You’ll get caught.”

Sniper shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not letting you sit in a hole by yourself while RED plays dress-up with the rest of us.”

Jonas hesitated, then nodded. The two slipped into the shaft together, crawling through the tight space until they reached the bend where the metal widened just enough to sit shoulder to shoulder.

The air was stale. Oil-slicked. The walls pressed in like a tomb.

Jonas sat with his knees pulled to his chest, medigun useless at his side. Sniper leaned back against the wall, arms folded, eyes half-closed.

Outside, the humiliation began.

They could hear it, RED Scout’s taunts echoing through the corridors, Soldier’s voice booming with mockery, the occasional burst of cruel laughter. The sound of pride being stripped away.

Jonas flinched at every scream.

Sniper didn’t speak. He just sat there, steady as stone.

After a while, Jonas whispered, “I hate this.”

Sniper opened one eye. “Good. Means you’re still human.”

Jonas looked down at his hands. “They’re out there. Demo. Pyro. Heavy. I should be doing something.”

“You are,” Sniper said. “You’re surviving. That’s enough.”

The silence stretched. Jonas could feel the weight of it pressing into his chest, the guilt of hiding, the fear of being found, the ache of helplessness.

Outside, the hour dragged on.

But inside the shaft, two men sat in silence. Not broken yet.

 

Just waiting.

 

The lights flickered once, then held steady. The laughter outside had faded into silence, leaving only the low hum of the base’s systems and the distant echo of retreating boots.

Jonas crawled out first, limbs stiff, eyes hollow. Sniper followed, slower, his rifle slung across his back like a weight he’d forgotten how to carry. The maintenance shaft behind them felt colder now, like it had absorbed the fear they’d left inside.

They stepped into the corridor, and the smell hit them instantly.

Blood. Burnt flesh. Gunpowder. It clung to the air like smoke in a sealed room, thick enough to taste. Jonas’s hands trembled, his breath shallow. Sniper didn’t speak, he just walked beside him, silent, steady.

Then his boot caught something soft.

He looked down.

A severed arm. Engineer’s glove still clinging to the hand, fingers curled like they’d been reaching for help.

Sniper froze.

He didn’t make it.

His throat tightened. His stomach lurched. He felt the bile rise, sharp and bitter, and for a moment he thought he might lose it right there on the floor. The image burned into him, Engie’s arm, cleanly torn, the sleeve still stained with oil and ash.

He’d seen worse. He’d seen bodies mangled beyond recognition, teammates strung up like trophies. But this, this was Engie. The man who fixed things. The man who helped Sniper through thick and thin.

Sniper swallowed hard.

He refused to stare for any longer.

He straightened, stepped over the arm, and kept walking. His face was stone, his eyes forward.

Chapter Text

Some members of the BLU team weathered the humiliation better than others. The lucky few who had managed to slip away unnoticed during the chaos, those who ducked behind crates or vanished into smoke, retreated quietly to their bunks or scavenged the kitchen for comfort food. They coped in silence, nursing their pride with warm drinks and cold leftovers.

But for those caught in the open, the sting of defeat clung like frostbite. Engineer, usually the first to return to his workshop and tinker away his frustrations, bypassed his tools entirely. He trudged straight to his room, boots heavy with shame, and locked the door behind him. The hum of machinery was replaced by silence, his way of preserving what little sanity he had left.

Soldier, however, refused to slink away. He had stood tall in the face of RED’s assault, shouting orders and charging forward with blind patriotism. To hide would have been cowardice. To retreat, treason. And yet, despite his bravado, the battle had ended in another crushing loss. RED had outmaneuvered them again, proving once more that they were faster, smarter, and crueler. Soldier’s grand plan, meticulously drawn on paper with a crayon he borrowed, trampled and forgotten. He couldn’t even remember what it had been. But admitting fault was out of the question. Pride held his tongue, even as guilt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

Now, in the dim light of his quarters, Soldier sat hunched beside Demoman. The room was cluttered with discarded gear, empty bottles, and a faint smell of gunpowder. Neither man seemed bothered by the mess. Demoman, who had successfully evaded RED’s wrath by hiding in a supply closet, was in good spirits. He leaned back against the wall, taking slow, hearty swigs of scrumpy, his laughter low and rumbling.

Soldier, on the other hand, had seized the bottle the moment it was offered and drained it in minutes. His grip on the glass was white-knuckled, his jaw clenched. The bottle creaked under the pressure, one twitch away from shattering in his hands.

Demoman watched him quietly, the mirth in his eyes dimming. “Yer gonna break that thing,” he muttered, gesturing to the bottle. “And maybe your hand with it.”

Soldier didn’t respond. He sat rigidly on the edge of the cot, his posture unnaturally straight, as if held together by sheer discipline rather than comfort. His eyes were locked on the far wall, unblinking, where a tattered poster of BLU’s glory days sagged under its own weight. The paper had yellowed with age, its corners curled like dried leaves. The once-vibrant blues and whites had faded into a ghostly wash of gray, and the triumphant slogan, Victory Through Valor, was barely legible beneath a smear of dust and time. It looked less like a tribute and more like a tombstone for a dream that had never truly lived.

Demo followed Soldier’s gaze, then glanced back at him with quiet pity. Soldier’s silence wasn’t new, but tonight it felt heavier, less like stoicism and more like surrender. Demo shifted in his seat, the creak of his armor breaking the stillness, and reached out with a rough, calloused hand to give Soldier a gentle punch on the shoulder.

“Tomorrow, we’ll beat ’em,” he said, voice low but warm. “Ya always have a trick up your sleeve, Sol. Don’t tell me you’re fresh out.”

It was meant to be lighthearted, a nudge toward hope, but Soldier didn’t flinch or smile. He simply nodded once, barely perceptible, and reached for his bottle. This time, he didn’t slam it back like a challenge to the gods. He sipped slowly, thoughtfully, as if the burn of the alcohol was something to be earned.

Demo mirrored him, taking a swig from his own bottle, then leaned back against the wall with a sigh. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, it was familiar, like the hush after a long battle when words felt too small for the weight they carried. The room, dimly lit by a flickering overhead bulb, seemed to exhale with them. The tension that had clung to the air like smoke began to loosen its grip.

 

By the time the base had finally quieted, the air hung heavy with exhaustion. The corridors were dim, lit only by the occasional flicker of overhead bulbs, and the silence was punctuated by the distant clink of discarded gear and the low hum of the infirmary’s machines. No one had spoken of dinner. No one had volunteered. And Jonas didn’t blame them.

The day had left a bruise on everyone’s spirit, another match lost, another round of injuries patched up with too little time and too much weariness. The atmosphere felt hollow, like the base itself had slumped in defeat. But Jonas’ stomach growled, and he suspected the others were just as hungry, even if they were too tired to say so.

He stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, surveying the mess of unopened cans, half-used spices, and a fridge that looked like it had survived a war of its own. Cooking had never been part of his routine. He was the Medic, the one who stitched wounds, not meals. But tonight, he needed to do something that didn’t involve blood or bandages. Something human.

He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the ingredients he remembered from home. His fingers hesitated over each item, recalling recipes scribbled in the margins of old notebooks, meals shared in quiet kitchens before war had become his world. He wasn’t sure he’d get it right. But he was sure it mattered.

Jonas chose to make Käsespätzle, a comforting Swabian dish of soft egg noodles layered with caramelized onions and melted cheese. It was simple, hearty, and warm. He cracked eggs into flour, whisking with practiced precision, the rhythm of the motion grounding him. The dough was sticky, stubborn, but he pressed on, shaping the noodles by hand and dropping them into boiling water.

As the spätzle cooked, he sliced onions thin and slow, letting them sizzle in butter until they turned golden and sweet. The scent began to drift through the base, rich, savory, nostalgic. It curled around corners and seeped under doors, coaxing teammates from their rooms like a quiet invitation.

He layered the noodles in a battered baking dish, scattering Emmental cheese between each fold, then topped it all with the onions and slid it into the oven. While it baked, he set the table, not formally, but thoughtfully. Mismatched plates, clean forks, a few folded napkins. He even lit a stubby candle he found in the supply closet, placing it in the center like a beacon.

As Jonas stirred the final layer of bubbling cheese into the Käsespätzle, the scent of caramelized onions and warm noodles filled the kitchen like a soft blanket. The dish was nearly done, golden and fragrant, and the small candle flickered gently beside the mismatched plates he’d set out. But now came the part he hadn’t planned for, getting the team to actually show up.

He stared at the doorway, unsure. He didn’t want to shout across the base like Soldier did, nor did he want to knock on every door like Engineer might. He just wanted to eat, maybe exchange a few quiet words, and then retreat to his room to rest. His body still ached from the day’s strain, and the emotional weight of trying to hold everyone together was beginning to press on his ribs like a vice.

Then it hit him, Scout.

Scout had a knack for popping up at mealtimes, often uninvited, always loud. Back when Jonas had first joined the team, Scout had taken it upon himself to be the unofficial dinner bell, sprinting through the halls yelling “FOOD’S UP!” like it was a battle cry. It was chaotic, but effective. And oddly endearing.

The real question was: where was Scout now?

Jonas considered his options, mentally mapping the base.

Option one: The living room. Scout had a habit of flopping onto the couch at times, remote in hand, flipping through channels with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel. If Jonas was lucky, he’d be there now, half-watching some grainy rerun and ready to leap up at the mention of food.

Option two: His room. That was trickier. Scout’s quarters were a mystery, sometimes music blasted from behind the door, sometimes silence. Jonas imagined him sprawled across his bed.

Option three: With Pyro. That was the most unpredictable. Pyro’s room was a sanctuary of strange art and soft light, and Scout occasionally wandered in to “hang out,” which usually meant watching Pyro draw or somehow talking to Pyro. If Scout was there, Jonas would have to tread carefully, not interrupt, just gently knock and hope.

He sighed, wiped his hands on a towel, and made his decision.

He chose the living room first. If Scout wasn’t there, he’d try the others. But something told him that if he followed the scent of melted cheese and butter, Scout wouldn’t be far behind. He turned the corner into the living room, expecting noise, movement, maybe the flicker of a television screen.

Instead, he found stillness.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV’s standby light. The couch sat empty, a blanket half-draped over one armrest like someone had started to settle in and then changed their mind. A few empty soda cans littered the coffee table, and a pair of Scout’s sneakers lay abandoned near the door, one tipped on its side like it had been kicked off mid-run.

Jonas stepped further in, scanning the space. No Scout. No voices. Just the quiet hum of electronics and the faint creak of the base settling into night. He stood there for a moment, unsure whether to call out or retreat. The silence wasn’t hostile, it was just... tired. Like the room itself had exhaled and decided not to bother with anything more tonight.

He glanced at the sneakers again. Scout had been here recently. Maybe he’d wandered off to Pyro’s room after all, or retreated to his own space to sulk or sleep. Jonas didn’t blame him. Everyone had their own way of coping.

Still, the emptiness tugged at him. He’d made dinner not just to feed them, but to remind them they weren’t alone. That even in defeat, someone still cared enough to cook.

He turned back toward the hallway, the scent of Käsespätzle still warm in the air. If Scout wasn’t here, he’d try Pyro next. And if that didn’t work, maybe he’d just leave a plate out, Scout always found food eventually.

The corridor held the heart of the base: his own infirmary, still faintly sterile with the scent of antiseptic; Engineer’s workshop, humming faintly with dormant machinery; and Demoman’s testing room, which always smelled faintly of gunpowder and burnt rubber.

But Jonas’ room wasn’t here. His quarters were tucked away near the medical wing, isolated by design, a place for quiet recovery, not camaraderie. This hallway belonged to the others. It was where the team lived, laughed, sulked, and slept. And now, Jonas stood before one particular door.

Scout’s emblem was plastered across it in bold, cartoonish style, a leg with a wing, surrounded by stickers that were unmistakably Pyro’s handiwork. Glittery stars, smiling fruit, and a crooked sticker of a unicorn. It was chaotic, loud, and oddly endearing. Just like Scout.

Jonas raised his arm, curling his fingers into a fist. He hesitated. The gesture felt too forceful, too formal. He didn’t want to intrude, didn’t want to be the Medic barging in with expectations. He just wanted to share a meal. To offer something warm on a cold night.

He shook his head gently, exhaled, and knocked.

Three soft knocks.

“Scout,” he said, voice low but clear. “Are you there?”

Silence.

Jonas waited, listening for movement, shuffling feet, a groan, the telltale sound of Scout’s voice cracking through the door with some half-joked complaint. But nothing came. The room remained quiet, sealed off from the world.

He leaned in slightly, resting his hand on the doorframe. “I made dinner,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “There’s enough for everyone.”

Still no answer.

Jonas lingered a moment longer, then stepped back. Maybe Scout was asleep. Maybe he was sulking. Maybe he was with Pyro after all.

Good thing Pyro’s room was close by.

Jonas turned to face the door, its surface painted in soft, swirling hues, charcoal smudges and pastel streaks that looked like fire rendered in dream logic. A crooked sticker of a smiling sun peeked from the corner, and a paper star hung from the doorknob by a fraying ribbon. It was unmistakably Pyro’s space: whimsical, quiet, and strangely comforting.

He paused, listening.

If he focused past the hum of the base’s old ventilation system, he could hear it, small, rhythmic shuffling. Not frantic, not panicked. Just movement. The kind of sound that suggested Pyro was rearranging something, maybe sketching, maybe dancing in that slow, floating way they sometimes did when no one was watching.

Jonas raised his hand, hesitated, then knocked gently. Not loud enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.

“Pyro,” he said softly, leaning toward the door. “Is Scout with you?”

The shuffling paused.

There was a moment of silence, then a soft tap-tap from inside, Pyro’s way of answering. Two taps meant yes. Jonas had learned that over time, through observation and quiet patience at the hospital.

He exhaled, relieved. “I made dinner,” he added. “There’s enough for both of you.”

Another pause. Then three taps, Pyro’s version of we’ll come.

Jonas smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He didn’t linger. He turned and began walking back toward the kitchen, the candle still flickering, the plates still warm. Behind him, he heard the door creak open and the soft patter of footsteps, two sets.

Scout had been there all along. Just quiet for once.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft crackle of bubbling cheese and the faint flicker of the stubby candle Jonas had lit earlier. The Käsespätzle sat proudly on the table, golden and steaming, its scent curling through the air like a gentle invitation. Jonas stood nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the doorway with a quiet sort of anticipation.

Then came the sound, footsteps. Light, quick, unmistakably Scout’s. Pyro’s were softer, more deliberate, like a whisper trailing behind.

Scout appeared first, hoodie half-zipped, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of a nap or a daydream. He paused in the doorway, sniffed the air, and blinked at the sight of the meal laid out before him.

“Yo,” he said, voice cracking slightly from disuse. “Is that... cheese noodles?”

Jonas gave a small nod. “Käsespätzle. It’s German. I thought it might help.”

Scout didn’t answer right away. He stepped into the room, eyes scanning the table, then the candle, then Jonas. Something in his expression softened, not quite gratitude, but something close. He grabbed a plate without waiting for permission and began piling on noodles with the kind of hunger that didn’t need words.

Pyro followed silently, their mask tilting slightly as they took in the scene. They didn’t rush. Instead, they moved to the far end of the table and sat down, hands folded neatly in their lap, waiting.

Jonas watched them both for a moment. Scout was already halfway through his first bite, eyes wide at the taste, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction.

“Dude,” he mumbled through a mouthful, “this is, like, stupid good.”

Jonas allowed himself a small smile. “I’m glad.”

He didn’t move to alert the others just yet. Let Scout eat. Let Pyro settle. The rest of the team could wait a few more minutes. For now, this was enough, a quiet moment, a warm meal, and the beginning of something that felt like healing.

Jonas turned back to the stove, quietly preparing a few more plates. One for Heavy. One for Sniper. One for everyone.

He let the silence stretch, not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then he said, “I wanted to do something that didn’t involve pain. Something that reminded us we’re still people. Not just fighters.”

Scout looked at him for a long moment, then set his fork down. “You ain’t gotta make up for anything, y’know. You patch us up. You keep us goin’. That’s not failure.”

Jonas’ lips pressed into a thin line. “I know. But sometimes… I feel like I’m only ever reacting. Never preventing.”

Scout leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You made dinner. That’s preventin’ us from bein’ hungry and miserable. That counts.”

Jonas let out a soft breath, half laugh, half sigh. “Thank you.”

Scout grinned, then picked up his fork again. “You should cook more often. Maybe next time you make somethin’ with meat. Or dessert. Pyro likes sweet stuff.”

Jonas smiled faintly. “I’ll consider it.”

“I was thinking,” he said gently, “you used to be the one to announce dinner.”

Scout blinked, then smirked. “You mean when I’d yell like a lunatic and Demo would nearly fall off his chair?”

Jonas gave a small nod, lips twitching into the faintest smile. “Exactly that.”

Scout leaned forward, elbows on the table, considering. “You want me to do it now?”

“If you’re willing,” Jonas said. “I’d rather not knock on every door. And I think they’d come faster if it was you.”

Scout looked around the kitchen, the candle, the plates, the quiet warmth of it all. Then he stood up, stretched his arms overhead, and cracked his neck with theatrical flair.

“Alright, Doc,” he said, grinning. “I’ll rally the troops.”

He turned toward the hallway, then paused and looked back. “You did good tonight. Like, real good.”

Jonas nodded once, quietly grateful.

And then Scout was gone, his voice already echoing down the corridor, loud and unmistakable.

“YO! DINNER’S READY! GET YOUR BUTTS IN HERE BEFORE I EAT YOUR SHARE!”

Pyro giggled softly behind their mask.

Jonas hadn’t expected Heavy to be the first through the door. The man usually lingered in the background, letting others speak first, move first, eat first. But tonight, something had shifted. Heavy stepped into the kitchen with quiet purpose, his broad frame filling the doorway like a protective wall against the gloom that had settled over the base.

Jonas instinctively held up a plate, the steam rising in soft curls between them. Heavy’s eyes scanned the room, the candlelight, the mismatched plates, the bubbling dish at the center of the table. He seemed to be searching for the source of comfort, the one who had turned a battlefield kitchen into something resembling home.

“Look wonderful, Doktor,” Heavy said, his voice low and warm as he accepted the plate with both hands. “German dish?”

Jonas nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My personal favorite.”

Heavy gave a small grunt of approval and moved to sit, his presence grounding the room like a stone in a riverbed. Jonas watched him settle in, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he took his first bite.

Then came Sniper.

He slipped in quietly, almost unnoticed, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. His posture was upright, but his face told another story, drawn, distant, like someone carrying invisible bruises. There were no bandages, no cuts, no blood. But Jonas could see it: the weight behind his eyes, the way his gaze flicked toward the empty seat beside his own before dropping to the floor.

Engineer wasn’t with him. That absence hung in the air like a missing note in a familiar song.

Sniper approached the table without a word, took a plate from Jonas with a nod, and sat down at the far end. He didn’t speak, didn’t make eye contact.

Then boots scuffing against the floor, the unmistakable clink of a bottle being jostled in a loose grip. Demo stepped in first, his gait uneven but energetic, as if he were trying to drag some joy into the room by sheer force of will. Behind him came Soldier, slower, heavier, his posture slumped in a way Jonas rarely saw.

Soldier’s uniform was rumpled, his ushanka slightly askew. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and the faint scent of cheap alcohol clung to him like smoke. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even look up. He just stood there, swaying slightly, as if unsure whether to sit or retreat.

Demo glanced back, his expression shifting from his usual grin to something more grounded. “C’mon, mate,” he said gently, placing a steadying hand on Soldier’s shoulder. “Food’s hot. You’ll feel better with somethin’ in your stomach.”

Soldier didn’t respond, but he let Demo guide him forward. Jonas watched quietly as Demo led him to the table, pulling out a chair and helping him ease into it like one might settle a wounded comrade. Soldier sat stiffly, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the candlelight as if it held answers he couldn’t reach.

Demo grabbed a plate from Jonas with a nod of thanks and placed it in front of Soldier before taking one for himself. “Smells bloody fantastic,” he said, trying to inject some cheer. “You’ve outdone yourself, Doc.”

Jonas offered a quiet smile, but his eyes lingered on Soldier. The man looked hollowed out, less like a warrior and more like a monument worn down by weather and time. Still, he picked up his fork, slowly, and took a bite. He didn’t react, didn’t speak, but he kept eating.

Scout’s voice rang out again, this time with even more flair than before:

“DINNER’S STILL HOT, PEOPLE! LAST CALL BEFORE I START LICKIN’ THE PLATES!”

The shout echoed down the hallway, bouncing off concrete and metal, stirring the last pockets of silence that clung to the base. Jonas, still quietly tending to the final servings, glanced toward the doorway with a faint smile. Scout’s enthusiasm was loud enough to wake the dead, or at least coax the emotionally exhausted into motion.

A few moments later, the sound of deliberate footsteps approached. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just precise.

Spy appeared in the doorway like a shadow slipping into candlelight. His coat was immaculate, his gloves still on, and his expression unreadable as ever. He paused, eyes scanning the room, the flickering candle, the half-filled plates, the quiet hum of conversation between Demo and Heavy, Pyro’s soft sketching, and Sniper’s distant silence.

Then his gaze settled on Jonas.

“You cooked,” Spy said, not as a question, but as a quiet observation.

Jonas nodded, meeting his eyes. “Käsespätzle. There’s plenty.”

Spy stepped inside, his movements fluid and quiet. He didn’t rush to the table. Instead, he approached the dish, examined it with the faintest tilt of his head, then took a plate with the kind of care one might reserve for handling a rare artifact.

He didn’t sit with the others. He chose a spot near the edge of the room, leaning against the counter, plate in hand. But he stayed. That, in itself, was a gesture.

The kitchen had grown warm, not just from the oven’s lingering heat, but from the quiet hum of voices, the clink of forks against plates, and the soft presence of teammates gathered around a shared meal. Jonas stood near the stove, his tea cooling in his hands, watching the scene unfold with a quiet ache in his chest.

Heavy was eating slowly, methodically, occasionally nodding at Demo’s wild retelling of a rocket mishap. Pyro had passed Scout another napkin drawing, this one of a smiling noodle with arms, and Scout had laughed, mouth full, waving it like a flag. Sniper remained at the far end of the table, silent but present, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the empty seat beside him.

Jonas felt a flicker of unease.

Engineer hadn’t come.

He scanned the room again, just to be sure. No sign of him. No clink of boots, no soft drawl, no quiet smile. It wasn’t like Engineer to miss a meal, especially one cooked by someone else. And after everything that had happened during Humiliation Hour… Jonas’ stomach tightened.

He set his cup down and quietly slipped out of the kitchen, unnoticed by most. The hallway was dim, the laughter behind him muffled by distance. He walked with purpose, passing the infirmary, the workshop, the testing room. Engineer’s door was closed, as expected. Jonas paused outside it, listening.

No noise. No tools. Just silence.

He knocked gently. “Engie?” he called, voice low. “Dinner’s ready.”

No answer.

Jonas hesitated, then slowly opened the door.

Engineer lay on his side, facing the wall, one arm tucked under his head. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of a desk lamp left on. His hat was off, his shirt rumpled, and his breathing steady, but heavy. Jonas stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him.

“Engineer,” he said again, softer now.

Engineer stirred but didn’t turn. “I’m alright,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Just tired.”

Jonas moved closer, crouching beside the bed. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

Engineer gave a small shrug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Jonas studied him. There was something in the way he lay, too still, too guarded. He remembered the way Engineer had looked after Humiliation Hour: pale, quiet, eyes darting away from Sniper like he couldn’t bear to be seen. He hadn’t spoken about it. No one had.The way he’d smiled too quickly when asked if he was okay.

“You don’t have to talk,” Jonas said gently. “But I made Käsespätzle. There’s a plate waiting. And no one’s asking questions.”

Engineer finally turned his head, just enough to meet Jonas' eyes. There was pain there, not fresh, but lingering. And something else. Shame.

“I don’t want him to know,” Engineer whispered. “Snipes. He’ll look at me different.”

Jonas shook his head. “He won’t. But even if he did… you’re allowed to hurt, Engineer. You’re allowed to rest.”

Engineer didn’t respond. But after a moment, he sat up slowly, wincing as he moved. Jonas didn’t offer help, just stayed close, steady, present.

“I’ll come,” Engie said quietly. “Just… give me a minute.”

Jonas nodded and stood.

 

The kitchen was quiet now, steeped in the kind of stillness that only comes after warmth and fullness. The candle Jonas had lit earlier had burned low, its wax pooled and hardened in a soft spiral. Plates were stacked, crumbs scattered, and the air still carried the faint scent of cheese and caramelized onion. The team had eaten, laughed a little, and retreated to their corners of the base with slightly lighter hearts than they’d had an hour ago.

Engineer stepped into the room like a ghost returning to a place that had already moved on. His boots made no sound against the floor, and his posture was careful, controlled. He scanned the space, eyes landing on the plate left out for him. It was still warm, miraculously.

Then he saw Sniper.

The marksman was seated at the far end of the table, head resting in his hands, elbows planted on the metal table. His hat was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face, and his body was still, too still. Engineer couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply listening to the quiet. But the sight made him smile, just faintly. He’d always told Snipes he looked like an owl when he sat like that, watchful, solemn, a little too wise for his own good.

Engineer picked up his plate, unsure what the dish was but trusting it was good, there hadn’t been a scrap left behind. He walked slowly to the seat beside Sniper, the one that had remained empty all evening. He lifted a hand, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to tap Sniper’s shoulder.

But before he could touch him, Sniper spoke.

“You finally came,” he said, voice low and flat, but not cold. Just worn.

Engineer froze. The tone wasn’t accusatory, but it wasn’t relieved either. It was the kind of voice that had been waiting too long, sitting with too many thoughts.

“Yeah,” Engineer said quietly, lowering his hand. “I guess I did.”

Sniper lifted his head slowly, eyes blinking open. They were red-rimmed, slightly watery, and filled with a quiet storm. He looked at Engineer like he wasn’t sure if he was real.

“I was worried about ya, Smarts,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. He pulled his hands away from his face, resting them on the table. “I thought you didn’t make it to base.”

Engineer’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected that. Not the vulnerability. Not the fear.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sniper looked away, jaw tight. “You didn’t answer your comm. I checked your workshop twice.”

Engineer swallowed hard. “I was in my room. I just… I couldn’t.”

Sniper nodded slowly, but his fingers curled into fists. “I thought maybe they kept you. Or worse. I kept thinkin’ about what they did to you during Humiliation Hour. How you didn’t say a word after.”

Engineer looked down at his plate, the food suddenly feeling distant. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Sniper turned back to him, eyes sharp but soft. “I already have. And I still want to.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with everything they hadn’t said. Engineer reached out slowly, placing his hand over Sniper’s. It was a quiet gesture, but it held weight. Sniper didn’t pull away.

“I’m here,” Engineer said. “I’m hurt, but I’m here.”

Sniper nodded, his thumb brushing gently against Engineer's knuckles. “Next time, just let me in. I don’t care how broken you feel. I just need to know you’re breathing.”

Engineer smiled faintly, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. “You always know how to say the right thing.”

Sniper huffed a quiet laugh. “Not always. But I know how to mean it.”

They sat there in the dim kitchen, hands entwined, the candle flickering its last light beside them. No one else knew. No one else needed to.

Engineer sat beside Sniper, finally eating, finally present. The Käsespätzle was still warm, and he chewed slowly, savoring the comfort more than the flavor. His shoulders had relaxed, his posture less guarded, and for a moment, Sniper allowed himself to believe that maybe Engineer was okay.

But the question bloomed anyway.

It had been festering in Sniper’s mind since the match ended. Since Engineer hadn’t shown up. Since he’d checked the workshop twice and stared at an empty cot with a pit in his stomach. He’d told himself not to ask. Told himself to wait. But now, with Engineer beside him, calm and quiet and close, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“What happened?”

Sniper winced the moment he said it, mentally cursing himself. Too blunt. Too soon. Too selfish.

Engineer froze mid-chew. His jaw stopped moving, and he stared down at his plate like the noodles had suddenly turned to ash. He didn’t look at Sniper right away. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, toward the dark hallway, then back at the food. He grunted softly, a low sound that carried more weight than words. It wasn’t annoyance. It was indecision.

Sniper watched him, heart thudding. He didn’t push. He just waited.

Engineer finally set his fork down, the clink against the plate louder than it should’ve been. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers trembling slightly.

“They knew I couldn’t fight ’em,” he said. “Not without my sentries. No dispensers. No tools. Just me.”

He paused, jaw tightening, and Sniper could see the tremor in his shoulders. The memories were clawing their way back in.

“Then they, ” Engineer's voice faltered, caught in his throat like a splinter. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the candlelight, then away again. “It’s like they were hungry for violence.”

Sniper didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He wanted to reach out, to pull Engineer into his arms, to erase every bruise and every cruel word. But he knew better.

Engineer’s voice was barely audible now. “They didn’t just want to humiliate me. They wanted to break me. They laughed when I flinched. Called me soft. Weak. Said I was only useful when I was hiding behind machines.”

Sniper’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. He wanted names. He wanted to find every one of them and make them regret it. But more than that, he wanted Engineer to know he wasn’t alone.

“You’re not weak,” Sniper said, voice low and firm. “You’re the strongest man I know.”

Engineer finally looked at him, eyes glassy but steady. “I don’t feel strong.”

“You were,” Sniper said. “You are. You survived. You’re here.”

Engineer's breath hitched, and he nodded slowly. “I just… I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want you to look at me different.”

Sniper reached across the table, his hand finding Engineer’s and holding it gently. “I look at you the same way I always have. Like someone I trust. Like someone I, ”

He stopped himself, the words hovering on the edge of something deeper.

Engineer squeezed his hand, just once. “I know.”

“I love ya, Snipes.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was raw. Honest. The kind of confession that didn’t need fanfare to matter.

Sniper swallowed hard, his voice low and steady. “I love you too, Smarts.”

Engineer’s eyes softened, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away.

 

Jonas collapsed onto his bed, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the hallway light bleeding through the crack beneath the door. He didn’t bother changing out of his uniform. The fabric still smelled faintly of onions and steam, but it was comforting, proof that he’d done something good today, even if it hadn’t felt like enough.

His limbs felt heavy, like they were filled with sand. His chest ached, not from injury, but from the weight of everything he’d carried. The quiet hum of the base was distant now, muffled by the walls and the exhaustion pressing against his ears. He lay flat, arms splayed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it might offer answers. It didn’t.

Jonas doubted he’d wake up tomorrow. Not because he was dying, but because the thought of facing another day felt impossible. The idea of stitching wounds, of watching his teammates break and rebuild again and again, it hollowed him out. In the back of his mind, he wished he wouldn’t wake up. Not dramatically. Not violently. Just… quietly. Like slipping beneath the surface of a still lake.

But he knew better. That was wishful thinking.

He’d wake up. He always did. Because someone would need him. Because someone would knock on his door with a bruised rib or a broken spirit. Because someone would ask for tea, or a bandage, or just a moment of quiet company. And Jonas would give it. Because that’s what he did.

Still, tonight, he allowed himself to sink into the mattress, eyes burning, throat tight. He didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He just lay there, letting the silence wrap around him like a blanket stitched from fatigue and fading hope.

Chapter Text

Jonas stirred awake to the unmistakable sound of Soldier’s voice echoing through the hallway, loud, impassioned, and already mid-rant about tactical breakfast formations. He groaned softly, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple. The room was dim, lit only by the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. His coat lay crumpled on the floor where he’d dropped it the night before, and he was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, creased slacks, a rumpled shirt, and socks that had seen better days.

He sat up slowly, spine protesting with a quiet ache. The air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of gun oil. Jonas ran a hand through his disheveled hair and stood, gathering his coat and folding it neatly before setting it on the back of a chair. He made a mental note to shower after breakfast, but first: food. The team would need it. He would need it.

As he padded down the hallway, the barracks gradually came to life, Scout’s music thumped faintly from his room, Demo’s laughter echoed from the living room, and somewhere in the distance, Heavy was humming a Russian lullaby. The kitchen, however, was quiet. Peaceful.

Sniper stood at the counter, back turned, his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the stove light. He was methodically preparing the coffee pot, movements slow and deliberate. The scent of fresh grounds filled the air, earthy and grounding.

“Good morning, Sniper,” Jonas murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Sniper glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Mornin’, Doc,” he replied, his tone low and warm. “What’re ya thinkin’ for breakfast?”

Jonas rubbed his eyes and leaned against the doorway, considering. “Something warm. Maybe Kartoffelpuffer. I have potatoes left over, and we brought apples. I could make compote.”

Sniper gave a small nod of approval. “Sounds good. The lads’ll appreciate it.”

Jonas smiled faintly and stepped into the kitchen, already reaching for the grater.

As Jonas peeled the potatoes, Sniper silently handed him a mug of coffee, black, just how he liked it. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Jonas gave a quiet nod of thanks. No words were needed. The silence between them was companionable, filled with the soft clinks of utensils and the bubbling of the coffee pot.

Soon, the scent of frying potatoes and simmering apples filled the air, drawing curious noses from down the hall. Pyro was the first to arrive, drifting in with a sketchpad tucked under one arm. He offered Jonas a drawing, two hands holding a steaming plate, and Jonas smiled, touched by the gesture.

Scout burst in next, hair tousled and hoodie half-zipped. “Yo, that smells awesome!”

“Kartoffelpuffer,” Jonas corrected gently, flipping a pancake. “Yes. With apple sauce.”

“Hell yeah,” Scout grinned, already grabbing plates and handing one to Pyro.

Engineer stepped into the kitchen earlier than usual, his boots quiet against the tile floor. The difference in him was immediately noticeable, his posture more upright, his face freshly shaven, and the usual tension in his shoulders replaced by a calm ease. The weariness that had clung to him yesterday seemed to have lifted, replaced by something lighter. Rested. Recovered.

Sniper, already leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, glanced up and caught sight of him. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Without a word, he reached for the second mug he’d prepared, coffee with a generous splash of creamer, just how Engineer liked it, and handed it over.

Engineer accepted it with a quiet chuckle and a grateful nod. “Appreciate it,” he murmured, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. The gesture was simple, but it carried weight, an unspoken acknowledgment of care.

“Good mornin’, everyone,” Engineer said, his voice warm and steady as he stepped further into the room.

Jonas, still at the stove flipping Kartoffelpuffer, turned with a soft smile. “Good morning,” he replied, handing Sniper a plate with two golden-brown pancakes and a scoop of apple compote.

Sniper gave a quiet grunt of thanks and moved to the table, settling into his usual seat by the window.

Scout bounded in next, hoodie half-zipped and hair tousled from sleep. He grabbed a fork from the drawer and leaned against the counter, eyeing Engineer with a grin. “Heya, hardhat. Didn’t see ya at dinner yesterday.”

Engineer took a sip of his coffee, the warmth grounding him. “Ate a bit later than usual, Sport,” he replied with a shrug. “Needed some quiet.”

Jonas turned and handed Engineer a plate, the Kartoffelpuffer steaming and fragrant. “Here you go,” he said gently.

Engineer chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “You spoil us, Doc. Smells incredible.”

Jonas gave a modest smile, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “Just glad you’re here.”

Before the moment could settle too deeply, Demo and Soldier burst into the room like twin storms. Demo’s laughter echoed off the walls, and Soldier was already mid-speech about the tactical advantages of syrup deployment.

“BREAKFAST FORMATION, MEN!” Soldier bellowed, pointing dramatically at the table.

Demo clapped Engineer on the back, nearly spilling his coffee. “Mornin’, mate! You’re lookin’ less like a haunted wrench today!”

Engineer laughed, steadying his cup. “Feels like it too.”

“Say, what did Medic make today?” he called out, already halfway to the table.

“IT BETTER BE AMERICAN!” Soldier roared from behind, marching in with the intensity of a man preparing for culinary war. His boots struck the tile like drumbeats, and his eyes scanned the room for signs of betrayal.

Scout, already halfway through his first Kartoffelpuffer, snorted. “It’s better than American, Soldier. Trust me.”

Soldier spun dramatically, saluting the air as if addressing an invisible general. “NOTHING IS BETTER THAN AN AMERICAN BREAKFAST. NOTHING!”

Jonas, unfazed by the chaos, stepped forward with quiet grace and handed each of them a plate. The Kartoffelpuffer were golden and crisp, nestled beside a scoop of warm apple sauce that glistened under the kitchen lights.

Demo whistled low, eyes wide. “Looks good, Doc. Smells like comfort and rebellion.”

Soldier narrowed his eyes at the plate, inspecting the foreign delicacy like a suspicious artifact. He poked one of the pancakes with his fork, then sniffed the compote. “This… is not bacon.”

“No,” Jonas replied calmly, “but it’s made with care. And apples.”

Soldier grunted, still unconvinced. “Apples are acceptable. They were present at Valley Forge.”

Demo had already taken a bite and was nodding enthusiastically. “Crispy on the outside, soft in the middle. You’ve outdone yourself, mate.”

Jonas gave a modest smile, his gaze drifting to Sniper and Engineer, who were quietly watching the scene unfold with amusement. Pyro sketched in the corner, capturing Soldier mid-salute with a Kartoffelpuffer balanced on his fork.

Scout leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “See, Soldier? You don’t need bacon when you’ve got German pancakes and apple magic.”

Soldier took a cautious bite. His eyes widened slightly, just enough to betray that he was impressed. But he quickly masked it with a grunt. “Medic… this is acceptable. For a non-American dish.”

Jonas chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you, Soldier.”

Soldier gave a firm nod, already halfway through his Kartoffelpuffer, muttering something about “acceptable foreign sustenance.”

Jonas turned back to the stove, the heat from the pan warming his face as he plated the last of the golden-brown pancakes. His stomach gave a quiet protest, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet. He smiled to himself. Even the Medic needs healing sometimes, and finally prepared his own plate, layering the crisp potato cakes with a generous spoonful of apple sauce. The scent alone was enough to make him pause and savor the moment.

Just as he turned to find a seat, a familiar presence entered the room.

Spy rounded the corner with his usual grace, posture impeccable, movements fluid. He wore his suit with effortless elegance, not a wrinkle in sight, and his mask seemed to gleam faintly in the ceiling light. There was something different about him today, his stride more assured, his gaze less guarded. Confidence, yes, but not the kind that masked pain. This was quieter. Earned.

Jonas met his eyes and offered a gentle smile. “Good morning, Spy,” he said, extending a plate with practiced care.

Spy accepted it with a nod, fingers brushing Jonas’s briefly. “And good morning to you too,” he replied, voice smooth as silk.

Jonas finally settled into his seat, the warmth of the Kartoffelpuffer rising gently from his plate. For once, no one interrupted him, no clattering boots, no shouted orders, no urgent calls for bandages or breakfast. The chair beside him remained conspicuously empty, and that absence tugged at him. Heavy’s presence was usually impossible to miss, solid, grounding, like a mountain in the room. But now, the space felt off-balance.

Jonas opened his mouth to ask where he was when the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Heavy entered the kitchen in a rush, his massive frame filling the doorway. His usual calm was replaced by a subtle weariness, his eyes rimmed with darker shadows, his movements slightly slower, like the weight he carried had grown heavier overnight.

“Good morning, Heavy,” Jonas called out, his voice gentle but bright. “I made breakfast.”

Pyro, seated nearby, nodded enthusiastically, tapping their fork against the table in approval. Scout gave a thumbs-up with a grin, already halfway through his second helping.

Heavy chuckled, the sound low and familiar. “I hope Doktor rested well,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words like a blanket.

“I did,” Jonas replied, then paused, studying Heavy’s face. “You don’t look so well.”

Heavy moved toward the counter, reaching for a plate. “I stayed up cleaning Sasha,” he said quickly, almost dismissively. “She needed attention.”

Jonas watched Heavy with quiet precision, his fork paused mid-air. The subtle cues were unmistakable, Heavy’s shoulders, usually squared and immovable, sagged just slightly. His hands lingered on the edge of the counter longer than necessary, fingers flexing as if reluctant to let go. When he finally reached for the Kartoffelpuffer, it was with a mechanical sort of focus, not hunger.

Jonas had seen this before. The same quiet unraveling in Engineer’s posture the night before, the same attempt to mask exhaustion with routine. It wasn’t just about Sasha. It was about something deeper. Something that hadn’t been spoken aloud.

“Heavy?” Jonas asked gently, nudging his side with the softest touch of elbow against arm.

Heavy looked down, his expression shifting as he tried to summon a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. The effort was there, but the warmth was missing, replaced by something guarded.

Jonas straightened slightly, his voice shifting into something more clinical. “Can you come by my infirmary later? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

The words were calm, but the tone was unmistakable, precise, formal, edged with authority. It wasn’t a request. It was the voice of a Medic who had seen too much and couldn’t afford to ignore the signs.

Heavy froze. His brow furrowed, and a thin sheen of sweat began to form at his temple. That tone, it echoed something old, something buried. A memory of orders given not with care, but control. His grip tightened around the plate.

“Okay, Doktor,” he said at last, voice flat and distant. Robotic. The word “Doktor” landed with a weight that made Jonas flinch internally.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Across the room, Sniper’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for his mug. He shuddered in his seat, eyes flicking toward Jonas with quiet alarm.

Spy, who had been silently observing from the corner, vanished in a shimmer of light, his invisibility cloaking not just his body, but the tension he didn’t want to show.

Engineer, seated beside Sniper, instinctively reached under the table and took Sniper’s hand. His fingers curled around it tightly, grounding them both. No words were exchanged, but the gesture spoke volumes.

Scout, Demo, and Pyro paused mid-bite, their chatter fading as they sensed the shift. The room hadn’t gone silent, but something had changed. The warmth had thinned, replaced by a fragile stillness.

Jonas felt it too.

Spy reappeared in the center of the kitchen with a shimmer of distortion, his figure materializing like smoke condensing into form. His posture was impeccable, his voice crisp and commanding.

“Gentlemen,” he said, sweeping the room with a glance that lingered on Jonas, “I urgently need every single one of you to please come to the meeting room. I believe I have a new plan for winning today’s match.”

His tone was calm, but it carried weight, an anchor dropped into turbulent waters. The room stilled. Spy’s gaze met Jonas’s for a fraction longer than necessary, and in that moment, Jonas felt a silent thank-you rise in his chest. Spy had sensed the fracture and stepped in, not to fix it, but to redirect it.

Then, just as quickly, Spy vanished again, leaving behind a faint shimmer in the air and a subtle shift in atmosphere.

Scout broke the silence first, launching into a spirited debate about his favorite BONK! flavors, “Cherry’s good, but have you tried Atomic Grape?”, his voice rising like a buoy. Pyro resumed sketching, their pencil dancing across the page with renewed focus. Heavy continued eating, though slower now, more deliberate.

Jonas, however, couldn’t move. His plate sat untouched before him, steam curling upward like a ghost. The food he’d made with care now felt foreign, heavy. He stared at it, his stomach twisting.

He clenched his fists beneath the table, knuckles whitening. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, but it wasn’t the pain that made him wince, it was the guilt. The realization that his tone, his slip into clinical command, had cracked something fragile in the room. He hadn’t meant to sound like him. The old Medic. The one who left scars.

Jonas stood abruptly, grabbed his plate, and scraped the food into the bin with quiet finality. He rinsed the dish, placed it gently in the sink, and walked out without a word. His face was tight, anger and sorrow braided together, unreadable to most.

 

Sniper exhaled slowly, the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding escaping like steam from a pressure valve. His eyes followed Jonas’s retreat, jaw clenched.

Engineer, seated beside him, leaned in and whispered, voice low and steady. “He ain’t a bad guy, Snipes. He used that tone on me too. He means well.”

Sniper’s reply was quiet, almost reluctant. “A crack’s showin’. And I don’t trust it.”

Engineer’s grip on Sniper’s hand tightened, then loosened. His voice sharpened. “Look at Heavy.”

Both men turned their gaze toward the counter, where Heavy sat hunched over his plate. His fork rested idle, and his eyes were distant, focused on nothing, lost in thought. The weariness in his face was deeper now, etched into the lines around his mouth and the slump of his shoulders.

“He don’t look so good now, does he?” Engineer murmured.

Sniper shook his head. “No…”

“Medic’s just gonna talk to him,” Engineer said, voice softening. “Make him feel a bit better.”

“That voice,” Sniper murmured, barely above a whisper. His fingers remained curled around Engineer’s hand beneath the table, the contact grounding him like a lifeline. His eyes didn’t leave the doorway Jonas had just disappeared through, as if watching it long enough might bring him back in a different mood.

“Sounded just like him,” he added, brows furrowing, jaw tight. The words hung heavy in the air, him, the previous Medic. The one whose presence still lingered like smoke in the corners of their minds.

Engineer turned to look at Sniper, his expression soft but steady. A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips, more defiance than amusement. “The old bastard’s never coming back,” he said, voice low and sure. “Hell, I’ll reprogram my sentries to shoot him on sight if he even tries.”

Sniper let out a dry chuckle, the sound brittle but real. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ that.”

Engineer squeezed his hand gently. “You’re not wrong to be wary, Snipes. But doc ain’t him. He’s tryin’. Hell, he’s hurting.”

Sniper nodded slowly, eyes still distant. “I know. It’s just… when that tone slips out, it’s like the walls close in again.”

Engineer leaned closer, voice barely audible. “Then we keep the walls open. For him. For Heavy. For us.”

“EVERYONE, START MOVING TO THE MEETING TABLE AT ONCE!” Soldier bellowed, rising from his seat with the force of a cannon blast. His voice ricocheted off the kitchen walls, rattling utensils and nerves alike. Demo trailed behind him with a lazy swagger, hands tucked into his pockets, clearly in no rush to obey.

As they passed Sniper and Engineer’s table, Soldier turned on his heel and pointed dramatically. “EVEN YOU TWO LOVEBIRDS!” he barked, voice booming with theatrical accusation.

Sniper stiffened instantly, his shoulders locking into place like a drawn bowstring. His grip on his coffee mug tightened, and his gaze dropped to the table, jaw clenched.

Demo grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Aww, you two love each other?” he teased, voice lilting with mock innocence.

Engineer didn’t flinch. He remained grounded, calm, even as he leaned back in his chair with a slow, deliberate smirk. “How about you and Solly?” he drawled. “I swear I heard, ”

Demo’s grin faltered. “Aright, I’ll stop,” he said quickly, chuckling as if brushing off the jab. But then he leaned in, voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Ya didn’t hear anythin’, lad.”

Engineer’s smile sharpened. “Then you didn’t see anythin’, partner.”

The two locked eyes for a beat, one eye behind a monocle, the other behind tinted goggles. Then, as they parted, they both laughed and attempted a wink. Demo’s was more of a blink, given his single eye, and Engineer’s was obscured entirely by his lenses. The result was a mutual squint that looked more like synchronized confusion than subtle camaraderie.

Still, they chuckled as they walked away, the tension diffused into something playful in nature.

As Demo, Soldier, and Heavy exited the kitchen, their footsteps echoing down the hallway, Scout suddenly sprang up from his seat like a firecracker.

“WAIT- You…- ? Really?” he blurted, eyes wide, voice cracking with disbelief and curiosity.

The words hung in the air like a spark waiting to catch.

Sniper didn’t dignify the question with a reply. He simply rolled his eyes, the gesture slow and deliberate, and reached for Engineer’s wrist. With a quiet tug, he pulled him toward the hallway, boots thudding softly against the tile. Engineer followed without resistance, his expression unreadable behind the tinted lenses of his goggles.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t look back. But the silence they left behind was louder than any answer.

Scout stood frozen, mouth slightly open, watching them disappear around the corner. His mind raced, trying to piece together what he’d just seen, what he’d missed. He turned to Pyro, who was still seated at the table, calmly sketching the remnants of breakfast.

Scout’s face twisted in confusion. “Did you know?”

Pyro glanced up, shrugged once, then returned to their drawing. Scout blinked, then slowly followed Pyro toward the meeting room, his BONK! can, forgotten on the table.

 

Spy stood at the head of the meeting table, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture straight as a blade. He occupied the same spot Soldier had claimed with bombastic pride days before, a symbolic position, one that carried the weight of command and scrutiny. But Spy’s presence was quieter, colder, more deliberate. His gaze swept the room like a scalpel, calculating, observant.

Jonas was the first to arrive.

He stepped into the room with a kind of haunted grace, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow. His eyes were rimmed with red, not from tears shed, but from the effort of holding them back. His brows were drawn tight, his expression carved from guilt and frustration. He looked like a man who had spent the morning wrestling ghosts, and lost.

Spy didn’t speak as Jonas took his seat, the one marked with the Medic’s emblem. Jonas didn’t look up. He simply sat, hands folded in his lap, shoulders tense.

One by one, the rest of the team filtered in.

Soldier entered with his usual thunder, immediately pointing at Spy. “I AM THE LEADER! ONLY I STAND AT THE FRONT!”

Demo, trailing behind, waved a dismissive hand. “You gave Spy permission, remember? Said he could ‘lead with espionage and flair,’ or somethin’ like that.”

Soldier blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “I DID NOT SAY IT WITH THAT ACCENT.”

He took his seat with a huff, arms crossed. Demo plopped down beside him, grinning.

Heavy entered next, slower than usual, his face still drawn from the morning’s weight. He nodded once at Jonas, who didn’t return the gesture and only tightened his eyebrows in response. Pyro followed, clutching their sketchpad, and Scout bounced in behind them, still glancing at Sniper and Engineer with lingering curiosity.

Sniper and Engineer were the last to sit, side by side, their hands brushing briefly beneath the table. Sniper’s eyes flicked toward Jonas, then away. Engineer’s jaw was set.

The room settled into a tense silence.

Spy stepped forward, his voice smooth and sharp.

“Gentlemen,” Spy began, his tone crisp, “and Pyro.” He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to command attention.

“Today’s match is not merely another skirmish. It is an opportunity. An opportunity to reclaim control, to reassert our strength, and to remind RED why they fear us.”

His eyes swept across the table, lingering on Jonas for a beat longer than the others.

“But we cannot do that fractured. We cannot do that distracted. And we certainly cannot do that if we are dragging the ghosts of yesterday into the battlefield.”

Jonas flinched slightly, but didn’t look up.

Spy continued. “I have devised a plan. One that requires precision, trust, and unity. It will not work if we hesitate. It will not work if we doubt each other.”

He turned, activating the projector with a flick of his wrist. A map of the arena flickered to life on the wall behind him.

“But before I explain, I need to know, are we ready to fight as one?”

The question hung in the air.

Soldier grunted. “I was born ready.”

Demo raised a brow. “Depends. Are we blowin’ up the building again?”

Scout leaned forward. “I’m in. Just tell me where to run.”

Pyro nodded, sketching a flame beside a heart.

Heavy said nothing, but his hand curled into a fist.

Sniper glanced at Jonas, then back at Spy. “We’ll follow.”

Engineer added quietly, “Just don’t forget who you’re leading.”

Spy nodded once, the gesture crisp and calculated. Without a word, he turned and retrieved a compact projector from beneath the table. The device clicked to life with a soft mechanical hum, casting a pale glow across the room as the battlefield map flickered onto the wall. The image revealed an industrial compound, tight corridors, elevated catwalks, blind corners, and a central control room perched like a crown above the chaos. It was a place designed for confusion, for vertical dominance, and for those who knew how to vanish in plain sight.

Spy stepped aside, letting the map speak for itself. His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.

“Today’s arena favors deception and vertical control,” he began, smooth and deliberate. “RED will expect brute force. We will give them misdirection.”

He turned to face the team, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Each of you has a role. Not just in combat, but in the illusion.”

Spy’s eyes landed on Soldier first. “You will lead the frontal assault. Loud. Aggressive. Predictable.”

Soldier stood tall, puffing out his chest with pride. “I excel at predictability!”

“Indeed,” Spy replied dryly. “You will draw their fire, make them believe you are the center of our strategy. You are not.”

Soldier saluted the projector with theatrical gusto, already envisioning his glorious charge.

“Demoman,” Spy continued, “you will flank from the west tunnel. Lay traps. Force them to split their forces. Your explosions will mask our true movements.”

Demo leaned back in his chair, one eye gleaming with mischief. “Aye, I’ll make sure they never regroup again. I’ll paint the walls with confusion.”

Spy’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer. “Excellent. But keep your powder dry until then.”

“Engineer,” Spy said, turning to the quiet man already scribbling calculations on a napkin. “You’ll set up a forward teleporter behind the central silo. Hidden. Quiet. Your sentry will not be for defense, it will be bait.”

Engineer nodded, his mind already racing through build orders. “They never ignore an easy sentry. Or a loud one at that.”

Spy raised a brow. “Just don’t waste too many resources. We need the illusion, not a fortress.”

Spy stepped briefly into the light, his silhouette sharp against the map. “Their Medic is cautious. I will remove him. Quietly. There will be no Ubercharges to counter our push. No second wind.”

No one questioned him. They knew what Spy’s silence meant.

“Pyro,” Spy said, his voice softening. “You will follow Soldier, but break off once the chaos begins. You are our ghost in the vents. Burn only when necessary.”

Pyro gave a thumbs-up, their mask tilting slightly. They were already sketching something in the corner of their notebook, flames curling around a silhouette.

“Scout,” Spy said, “you will run the perimeter. Relay positions. Disrupt their Sniper. You are our heartbeat, fast, erratic, impossible to pin.”

Scout leaned forward, grinning. “I can finally get my revenge.”

Spy nodded. “When their Sniper is down, report the rest of the team’s positions. We do not need surprises.”

“Sniper,” Spy said, “you will take the northeast tower. You will not fire until I give the signal. When you do, eliminate their Engineer. No sentry. No fallback.”

Sniper’s eyes narrowed, his voice low. “Understood.”

Finally, Spy turned to Jonas. The Medic looked up, his eyes still shadowed from the morning’s weight.

“You will stay with Heavy. You are not to engage unless necessary. Your role is to keep him and the others standing. Heavy will be our final push.”

Jonas gave a faint smile, weary but resolute. “I will do whatever it takes.”

Spy nodded once. “Good. Then we begin.”

 

As the rest of the team spilled out of the meeting room with varying degrees of energy, Soldier barking orders to no one in particular, Scout bouncing with anticipation, Pyro humming softly, Jonas and Heavy drifted in the opposite direction, their steps slower, more deliberate. The hallway was quieter here, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant machinery the only accompaniment to their silence.

Heavy walked beside Jonas with his usual imposing presence, but something in his gait was off, less grounded, more weighed down. His hands fidgeted at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp something invisible.

Jonas glanced up at him, then down again, the silence stretching too long. Finally, he spoke, voice low and tinged with regret.

“Heavy… I’m sorry for the tone I used earlier,” he said, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I tend to slip into it when things feel urgent. It’s not meant to hurt. It’s just… concern.”

Heavy’s expression softened. He gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried warmth nonetheless. “I know, Doktor. You are not mean.”

He paused, his gaze drifting to the floor. “It just… brings a lot of memories.”

Jonas nodded, understanding more than he let on. The previous Medic’s legacy still lingered in the corners of their minds, a shadow they all tried to outrun.

By the time they reached the infirmary, the tension had loosened. Jonas opened the door and gestured Heavy inside. The room was clean, quiet, and bathed in soft light, his sanctuary, where healing happened in more ways than one.

Heavy sat down on the check-up chair without being asked, his body moving on instinct. Jonas watched him for a moment, then moved to the storage cabinet, retrieving the medi-gun with practiced ease.

“I noticed you haven’t slept well,” Jonas said gently, adjusting the settings on the device. “Your eyes… they’re darker than usual.”

Heavy shifted in the chair, his brow furrowing. “I stayed up. Cleaning Sasha.”

Jonas turned, his voice even softer now. “I figured. That’s why I want you to rest here until we deploy. You’ve done enough for now.”

Heavy sat up straighter, alarm flickering in his eyes. “But my mini-gun, !”

Jonas raised a hand, waving off the concern. “I’ll have it prepared. I promise. You trust me, don’t you?”

Heavy hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yes, Doktor.”

Jonas smiled faintly. “Then trust me when I say sleep is the best medicine.”

Heavy leaned back in the chair, his massive frame finally relaxing. Jonas adjusted the pillow behind his head, then dimmed the lights slightly. The medi-gun rested nearby, but for now, its healing beam wasn’t needed.

With Heavy resting in the infirmary, his breathing finally steady and his massive frame relaxed in the chair, Jonas stepped out into the hallway with purpose. The match was approaching fast.

He made his way to the Heavy’s room. He opens the door to find Sasha sat on the workbench, her frame gleaming under the overhead lights, but Jonas could see the signs of wear, scratches along the barrel, a slight misalignment in the feed mechanism. Heavy had cleaned her, yes, but not with rested hands.

Jonas hesitated. He was no weapons expert. He could mend flesh and bone, but Sasha required a different kind of precision.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

“You lookin’ at her like she’s gonna bite,” Engineer said, stepping into the room with a quiet smile.

Jonas turned, relieved. “I was hoping you’d come by. Heavy’s resting. I want Sasha ready for him.”

Engineer walked over, placing a hand on the mini-gun’s casing with a kind of reverence. “She’s a stubborn girl, but she listens if you treat her right.”

Jonas nodded. “He trusts her. I want her to be flawless.”

Engineer rolled up his sleeves. “Then let’s make her sing.”

“I’ll take the front,” Jonas said, already reaching for the grip near the barrel.

Engineer raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He watched as Jonas bent forward, wrapped his hands around the frame, and lifted.

Jonas grunted immediately. Sasha was heavier than she looked, her weight dense and uneven, the kind that pulled at the spine and tested the arms. His stance wobbled slightly, knees locked, back straining.

“Whoa there, Doc,” Engineer said, stepping in quickly. “You’re gonna throw your back out like that.”

Jonas blinked, breath catching. “She’s… heavier than I expected.”

Engineer chuckled, already crouching beside him. “She’s built like a tank and balanced like a stubborn mule. You gotta lift with your legs, not your pride.”

He placed his hands on the underside of Sasha’s frame, motioning for Jonas to mirror him. “Here, feet shoulder-width apart, bend your knees, keep your back straight. Let your legs do the work.”

Jonas adjusted his stance, following Engineer’s guidance. They lifted together this time, slow, steady, controlled. Sasha rose from the bench with a satisfying click of metal against gloves.

“There we go,” Engineer said, nodding. “Now she won’t break you before the match.”

Jonas gave a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to see why Heavy treats her like a living thing.”

Engineer laughs alongside Jonas, “If I didn’t know any better, I would be she is.”

 

“That should do it,” Engineer places his hands on his hips in pride, meanwhile, Jonas looks confused.

“Danke Engineer! Without you I’m not too sure what I would’ve done.” Jonas says.

“Anytime partner, just have Heavy come around and pick her up” Engineer gives a thumbs up.

 

The infirmary was bathed in soft amber light, the kind that made everything feel slower, gentler. The hum of distant machinery and muffled voices from the barracks signaled that time was running short. The match was near.

Jonas stepped inside, his boots quiet against the tile. Heavy lay reclined in the check-up chair, his massive frame relaxed, arms folded loosely across his chest. For a moment, Jonas hesitated, watching the rise and fall of Heavy’s breath, the rare vulnerability in his posture. Then, gently, he reached out and placed a hand on Heavy’s shoulder.

“Time to wake up,” Jonas said softly.

Heavy’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first. He blinked, scanning the room with a hint of confusion until his gaze landed on Jonas. Recognition bloomed, and this time, the smile that formed wasn’t just polite, it reached his eyes, warm and real.

“Heavy?” Jonas asked, voice still gentle. “Did you rest well?”

Heavy stretched slightly, his joints cracking like distant thunder. “I feel much better,” he rumbled, voice thick with sleep but steadier than before.

Jonas exhaled, relieved. “Good. It’s about time we leave.”

He glanced down, hesitating for a beat before continuing. “Er… Sasha’s in Engineer’s workshop. Good as new.” He placed his hands on his hips, a quiet pride in his stance.

Heavy’s head tilted, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Sasha behaved well?” he asked, angling his neck to peer past Jonas as if expecting the mini-gun to roll in on its own.

Jonas chuckled under his breath. “No fuss.”

Heavy didn’t respond. He simply smiled again, softer this time. Heavy swung his legs off the chair, wobbling slightly as he adjusted to standing again. Jonas instinctively offered a hand, but Heavy waved it off with a grunt of determination.

Jonas didn’t press. He simply nodded and turned to retrieve his medi-gun from the counter, hooking it to the side of his pack with practiced ease.

The hallway outside was quiet, the kind of silence that came before battle, not fearful, but focused. Jonas and Heavy walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly. Heavy glanced around occasionally, eyes scanning the walls, the corners, the shadows. Jonas didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Their shared presence was enough.

There was something grounding in the silence between them, like two tectonic plates moving in tandem, steady and unshaken.

When they reached Engineer’s workshop, the door was already ajar. The scent of oil and metal drifted out, familiar and comforting. Inside, Sasha sat on the workbench, polished and gleaming, her barrel aligned perfectly, her casing spotless.

Heavy’s eyes lit up.

Without a word, he stepped forward, his pace quickening. He reached Sasha like a father reunited with a lost child, hands brushing over her frame with reverence. He checked her feed, her barrel, her grip, every inch with practiced care.

“She is perfect,” Heavy murmured, voice low and full of emotion.

Jonas lingered in the doorway of Engineer’s workshop, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The warm light from overhead cast a soft glow across the room, illuminating the quiet reverence unfolding before him.

Heavy stood at the workbench, cradling Sasha in his arms like something sacred. His massive hands moved with surprising gentleness, fingers brushing along the polished casing, checking every bolt and groove with the care of someone reuniting with a lost part of himself. It wasn’t just a weapon, it was a promise. A companion. A piece of his soul.

Engineer leaned against the nearby tool rack, arms folded, goggles pushed up onto his forehead. He didn’t speak, just watched with a quiet pride, the kind that came from knowing he’d helped restore something important.

Jonas broke the silence, his voice low and thoughtful. “This reminds me of fathers running toward their kids,” he said, glancing sideways at Engineer. “When they’re finally cured of a disease. It’s nice to see.”

His eyes drifted back to Heavy, who now hugged Sasha close, forehead resting briefly against the barrel.

Engineer smiled, the lines around his eyes softening. “It is quite the sight, Doc.”

Then, with a quiet breath, he reached up and pulled his goggles down into place. The gesture was subtle, but it marked a shift, preparation, readiness, the calm before the storm.

“Well,” Engineer said, pushing off the rack, “time for us to head out.”

Heavy turned at the sound, lifting Sasha with practiced ease. The weight didn’t seem to burden him now, it was familiar, grounding.

He stepped forward, joining Jonas and Engineer with a quiet strength in his stride. His eyes were clear, his posture firm.

“Sasha is ready,” Heavy said, voice steady and resolute.

Jonas nodded, his smile deepening. “Then so are we.”

 

Just like the day before, the team moved through the cold with practiced ease. The snow crunched beneath their boots, but it was thinner now, less of a burden, more of a backdrop. Jonas found the walk easier this time, his steps more confident, his breath less labored. The air was crisp, but clear. No fog clung to the ground, no mist veiled their path. Visibility stretched far across the compound, and Jonas knew Sniper was quietly pleased, his sharp eyes unhindered, his aim unclouded.

The team walked in loose formation, each member carrying their own rhythm. Soldier marched with exaggerated precision, barking half-formed motivational slogans to no one in particular. Demo ambled beside him, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a drinking song. Scout bounced ahead, kicking at patches of ice and narrating his own imagined highlight reel. Pyro drifted near the rear, sketchpad tucked under one arm, boots leaving soft prints in the snow.

Jonas walked beside Heavy, medi-gun secured at his side, eyes scanning the horizon. Engineer trailed just ahead, his toolkit clinking softly with each step. When they reached the base entrance, Engineer stepped forward and opened the heavy steel door with a hiss of hydraulics.

Inside, the staging room was warmer, lit by overhead fluorescents and humming with quiet tension. The walls were lined with lockers, gear racks, and a large digital screen that remained blank for now. The countdown hadn’t begun, but the air was already thick with anticipation.

Spy stood in the corner, arms folded behind his back, posture immaculate. His coat caught the light just so, casting a faint shadow across the floor. He didn’t raise his voice, but his words cut through the room like a blade.

“Everyone does remember their roles, correct?”

Soldier snapped to attention, saluting with theatrical force. “AFFIRMATIVE!”

Demo raised a brow. “Aye, I remember mine. Blow things up and look good doin’ it.”

Scout grinned. “I’m gonna run circles around their Snipes.”

Pyro gave a thumbs-up, already flipping to a new page in their sketchbook.

Sniper remained silent, adjusting the scope on his rifle with quiet precision. Engineer checked the alignment on his teleporter remote, nodding to himself.

Jonas glanced around the room, watching each teammate settle into their rhythm. The plan was in place. The roles were clear. But beneath the surface, he felt the pulse of something deeper, trust, tension, and the quiet hope that today would be different.

Heavy stood beside him, Sasha resting against his shoulder like a loyal sentinel.

Engineer crouched beside the metal frame, hands moving with practiced precision as he assembled the sentry. Sparks flickered briefly, and with a mechanical whir, the turret came to life. Its barrel rotated once, sensors blinking, and the familiar beeping tone echoed through the staging room, louder than usual, sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat made of steel.

Jonas flinched slightly at the sound. It was meant to reassure, to signal proximity and readiness. But in this moment, it felt like a countdown.

Engineer stood, swiping imaginary sweat from his brow with a grin. “That there’s a fine piece of machinery, partners.”

Spy, standing near the wall with his arms folded, gave a curt nod. “Indeed. A great distraction.”

Sniper, perched near the window, adjusted his scope and nodded once in agreement. His silence was his approval.

The room buzzed with tension. Not chaos, just pressure. The kind that settled in the chest and refused to leave. Jonas felt it acutely. His heart thudded against his ribs, fast and uneven. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, dull but persistent. The anticipation was suffocating.

He glanced around. Soldier was pacing like a caged animal. Demo was humming again, but the tune was off-key. Scout had gone quiet. Pyro was sketching flames with tighter lines than usual.

Jonas’s fingers twitched at his side. He needed something, anything, to ground himself.

Then the idea came.

He reached for the medi-gun, unhooking it from his pack with a smooth motion. The grip was familiar, the weight comforting. He powered it on, the hum of energy rising quickly as the Ubercharge began to build. The blue vapor hissed softly, curling around the nozzle like frost.

Jonas turned the beam on himself.

The vapor surged forward, enveloping him in a cool, electric mist. It clung to his coat, seeped into his skin, and filled his lungs with a chill that was almost soothing. He inhaled deeply, the vapor trailing from his lips like cigarette smoke, curling upward in lazy spirals.

His headache dulled. His heartbeat slowed. The room didn’t feel so loud anymore.

From across the room, Scout’s voice broke through. “Whatcha doin’ there, Doc?” he called, leaning against a locker with a raised brow.

Jonas didn’t look up. “Headache,” he replied bluntly, the word clipped and honest.

Scout grinned. “Aye, give me some of that,” he said, half-joking, half-curious. “Looks like you’re takin’ a hit of somethin’ fancy.”

Soldier, who had been pacing like a general awaiting his cue, turned sharply. “If Scout gets some, then I want some too!” he declared, marching toward Jonas with dramatic flair.

Demo, seated nearby and casually inspecting a grenade, snorted. “You don’t even know what they’re talkin’ about, lad.”

Scout stood up, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I bet it’s like BONK! A little pick-me-up before battle.”

He rummaged through his storage crate, tossing aside wrappers and spare cleats until he pulled out a blue-colored BONK! can. He held it up like a prize. “I’ll trade ya this can for a drag of the vapor.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow, amused but silent.

Soldier, not to be outdone, looked around wildly for something to offer. His eyes landed on Spy’s gear bag. “AND I WILL TRADE YOU, uh…” He reached in and snatched Spy’s spare revolver. “THIS GUN!” he announced, holding it aloft like a sacred relic.

Soldier, unfazed, held the revolver aloft like a ceremonial offering. “This is a worthy trade, Spy,” he declared matter-of-factly, gesturing toward Jonas and the medi-gun vapor still curling in the air.

Demo, lounging nearby with one leg draped over the arm of a bench, nodded along. “I think it’s good protection for the lad,” he said with a grin, raising his flask in mock salute.

Spy grunted, clearly unimpressed but not entirely opposed. “I suppose that is a good enough reason,” he muttered, returning to his blade with a flick of the cloth.

“GREAT! NOW COME HERE, SALLY!” Soldier bellowed, bounding toward Jonas with the enthusiasm of a child chasing an ice cream truck.

Jonas sighed, already regretting the moment of generosity. He adjusted the nozzle of the medi-gun and pointed it toward Soldier, who stood with arms wide, ready to receive whatever miracle he believed was about to happen.

The vapor hissed softly, enveloping Soldier in a swirl of cool blue mist. He inhaled quickly, then exhaled with a long, slow breath. For a moment, his face softened, his brow relaxed, his eyes half-lidded, his posture less rigid. He looked almost… peaceful.

He took another inhale, this time holding it for a second longer. As he exhaled, his voice dropped to a murmur.

“Feels like I’m back at home.”

Jonas froze.

The words were quiet, almost lost in the hum of the room. He glanced around, wondering if anyone else had caught them. But Scout was busy fiddling with his BONK! can, Demo was chuckling at something unseen, and Spy hadn’t looked up. Their faces were amused, distracted.

Scout leaned toward Jonas, whispering with a hint of envy, “All I need is my BONK! anyways…”

Soldier stepped back from the vapor, blinking slowly as if waking from a dream. He returned to his seat beside Demo, who gave him a thumbs-up and a light pat on the shoulder.

The voice of the announcer crackled through the speakers overhead, sharp and theatrical:

“Mission begins in 30 seconds.”

The room shifted instantly. The tension returned like a tide, tightening shoulders, quickening breath, sharpening gazes. Jonas glanced down at his medi-gun. Ubercharge: 50%. Not bad. Enough to make a difference if timed right.

Spy stepped forward from the shadows, his coat catching the light, his voice calm but commanding. “Does everyone remember their role?”

Around the room, heads nodded, some with crisp certainty, others with distracted half-awareness. Soldier saluted lazily, Demo gave a lazy thumbs-up, Pyro twirled their flamethrower like a baton. Scout bounced on his heels, Sniper remained still, and Engineer adjusted the strap on his toolkit.

Spy’s gaze swept across them like a blade. “Good. Because this may be our last chance to show RED what we can do.”

Jonas felt the words settle in his chest. Not as threat. As truth.

“Mission begins in 10 seconds.”

Scout raised his BONK! can high like a toast. “LET’S WASTE THEM!” he shouted, voice cracking with adrenaline.

Jonas tightened his grip on the medi-gun. Heavy stood beside him, Sasha already humming with anticipation. The payload waited just beyond the doors, silent and still, for now.

“5…4…3…2…1…”

The doors slammed open.

The team surged forward with a chorus of war cries, Demo’s laughter, Pyro’s muffled cheer and Scout’s whooping. Engineer trailed behind, his prebuilt sentry clanking along, dragging him like a stubborn mule.

Jonas ran after Heavy, eyes locked on the payload, heart pounding in rhythm with his boots. His focus narrowed: keep Heavy standing, keep the team alive, push forward.

 

But behind them, Soldier slowed.

His head turned slightly, watching the others charge ahead. The fog from the vapor still clung to his coat, curling around his shoulders like smoke. It began to fade, revealing not the usual fire-eyed warrior, but something quieter. Something cracked.

His posture sagged just slightly. His eyes didn’t burn, they wandered. The war cry never came.

But Soldier stood there, just for a moment, watching the team disappear into the chaos.

And for that breath of time, he wasn’t a leader.

He was a man left behind.

 

The battlefield erupted in motion.

Pyro surged ahead of the group, their flamethrower blazing with erratic bursts of flare shots that arced through the air like comets. The flares lit up the snow-dusted terrain, casting flickering shadows across the RED team’s defensive line. Pyro’s movements were unpredictable, darting between cover, firing into corners, sowing confusion before the real assault began.

Then Spy’s voice crackled through the comms, crisp and urgent: “Their Sniper is on high ground. Northeast tower.”

Scout didn’t hesitate. He veered off from the main group, boots skidding across ice as he vaulted over crates and ducked under pipes. Within seconds, he had eyes on the RED Sniper, perched like a hawk, scope glinting. Scout’s BONK!-fueled speed turned him into a blur, and with a well-timed scattershot, the RED Sniper was down.

Another comm from Spy: “Their Medic dropped Uber. Window’s open.”

Demo grinned, already moving. “Time to split the bastards,” he muttered, lobbing stickies into the RED formation. Explosions rang out, scattering their front line like startled birds.

Engineer, trailing behind with his distraction sentry, found the perfect perch behind a rusted generator. The sentry flickered to life, its beeping loud and deliberate, drawing RED’s attention just long enough for Jonas and Heavy to push forward.

Then came the takedowns. RED’s Spy, neutralized. RED’s Engineer, down with his gear.

The momentum was theirs.

But something was wrong.

Jonas felt it before he understood it. The rhythm of the team was off. The battlefield was loud, chaotic, but missing something vital. A voice. A presence. A roar of patriotism and reckless courage.

He spoke before his thoughts caught up.

“Where is Soldier?” Jonas asked, his voice cutting through the comms. His medi-gun buzzed at his side, Ubercharge climbing steadily toward full.

Pyro mumbled something unintelligible, their mask muffling the words. Scout, still catching his breath, leaned toward the wall he hid on and whispered, “Py doesn’t know.”

Sniper’s voice came next, calm and clipped. “I don’t see him in my scope.”

Jonas’s stomach tightened.

Demo’s comm device crackled with static before his voice boomed through, louder than necessary. “WAIT, SOLLY AIN’T WITH YE?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Jonas scanned the battlefield. No red-white-blue blur. No rocket trails. No shouting about freedom or glory.

Just silence.

 

Back at base, Soldier sat alone in the cold, the comms crackling with distant cheers and tactical updates. Each voice, Spy’s sharp commands, Scout’s triumphant yells, Demo’s explosive laughter, echoed like distant thunder. BLU was winning. The plan was working.

But Soldier wasn’t there.

He heard every word. Every victory. And yet, none of it reached him.

Clarity struck harder than any rocket blast. He didn’t want to live in constant panic anymore. Not like this. Not with the weight of duty pressing into his spine, not with the fear that he was dragging his team down with every misstep, every outburst. He wanted to fight beside them. But when was the last time he’d slept without flinching? When was the last time he’d laughed without guilt?

What was his life before the wars? Before the flashbacks?

He couldn’t remember.

His rocket launcher lay beside him, untouched. His pride, once louder than his voice, was nowhere to be found. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, breath fogging in the cold air.

Then came the whisper of footsteps. A chuckle. A glint of metal.

A RED Spy.

The knife slid between his ribs with surgical precision. Soldier gasped, not in pain, but in release. The Spy’s laughter echoed as he slipped into Soldier’s form, stealing his voice, his posture, his place.

And Soldier faded into Respawn.

For once, in peace.

 

Behind Jonas, the sound of boots crunching through snow broke the rhythm of battle. Heavy turned first, then Jonas, his medi-gun still humming with charge.

Soldier was running toward them, his coat flapping wildly, rocket launcher in one hand, shotgun in the other. His face was flushed, eyes wide, not with panic, but with purpose.

Jonas aimed the medi-gun toward him and smirked. “Where were you? I thought you slipped in the snow!”

Heavy chuckled, the sound deep and warm.

“WELL, I DID!” Soldier bellowed, voice booming once more. “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU LEFT AN IMPORTANT FIGURE BEHIND!”

Jonas laughed, relieved. “Pyro’s waiting for you up front.”

Heavy nodded, already turning toward the payload.

Soldier saluted with dramatic flair, his war cry erupting from his chest like a cannon blast. He charged forward, boots pounding, weapons ready. Jonas watched him go, the vapor from the medi-gun trailing behind like a banner.

The battlefield had been theirs. For a fleeting moment, BLU surged forward like a tide, unstoppable, coordinated, precise. But then, one by one, the tide receded.

Demo was the first to fall, his laughter cut short by a well-placed rocket. Then Scout, taken out mid-sprint by the RED Sniper, who had reclaimed his perch. Pyro vanished in a burst of flame and shrapnel. Engineer and his sentry were torn apart by a coordinated push. Spy and Sniper, gone, silent, no comms.

Only Jonas and Heavy remained.

The payload sat a couple feet from the final point, humming with potential. Jonas’s medi-gun buzzed at full charge, its blue glow wrapping around them like armor. Heavy’s grip on Sasha was firm, his eyes locked forward.

Then came the last word from Sniper before silence: “RED Spy.”

Jonas’s stomach dropped. Soldier, who had just arrived, wasn’t Soldier. He was the enemy. The betrayal stung deeper than any bullet.

Heavy turned, voice low but resolute. “Let’s try to push this, Doktor. Team is respawning, but this is our only chance.”

Jonas nodded, jaw clenched. They surged forward, Ubercharge activated. Blue light surged through their bodies, bullets tore through the air. RED’s Soldier and Scout went down in the chaos. But the rest of RED regrouped fast, too fast. Jonas’s charge faded. The glow dimmed.

They were exposed.

Heavy ducked behind cover, breathing hard. “Doktor…” he said, voice heavy with finality. “Run.”

Jonas hesitated. “No, ”

But Heavy was already moving, stepping out into the open, unleashing the last of Sasha’s fury. RED’s Demoman responded with a blast that shook the ground. Jonas was thrown back, ears ringing, vision blurred, head pounding like a second explosion.

Jonas scrambled behind a crate, heart pounding. The comms were silent. The battlefield was quiet, except for RED’s voices. One celebrating. Another calling out his position.

He reached for the revolver real Soldier had traded earlier. It was clean. Unfired. Cold in his hand.

Footsteps approached. RED Pyro. RED Medic. They weren’t rushing. They were savoring it.

Jonas’s breath hitched. He tasted blood, his own, from biting down too hard. His hands trembled.

He thought of Engineer’s face yesterday. The horror. The shame. He thought of Sniper’s words: “Best thing you can do is off yourself before it starts.”

It wasn’t cowardice. It was strategy. BLU needed to regroup. Fast. If he was captured, tortured, humiliated, it would fracture him again.

He raised the revolver to his temple. His eyes watered. His grip tightened.

I’m sorry, he thought.

He pulled the trigger.

 

Jonas drifted.

There was no pain. No sound. No weight. Just the soft hum of nothingness, like a lullaby sung by the stars. He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t see his hands, but he felt warm, wrapped in something familiar. Like the old blanket he used to curl into as a child, the one that smelled faintly of lavender and safety.

He smiled.

This isn’t too bad, he thought.

He hovered in the dark, embraced it like a long-lost friend. The void didn’t demand anything of him. No wounds to stitch. No orders to follow. No guilt. Just peace. He wondered if his patients had ever felt this, this gentle detachment, this euphoric stillness. It was a high unlike anything he’d known. No adrenaline. No fear. Just release.

He wanted to stay.

No, he would stay.

He was dead now. And it was okay.

In the distance, a figure floated. Familiar. Silent. But Jonas didn’t call out. He didn’t want to break the silence. He wanted to forget. To dissolve.

 

Then, without warning, the void shattered.

Light slammed into him like a flood. Blinding. Harsh. The warmth was gone, replaced by sterile brightness and the sting of reality. His head pounded. His stomach twisted. His heart felt like it had been crushed and reassembled wrong.

Voices. Too loud. Too fast. Too alive.

He gasped, body convulsing, and collapsed to the floor of the respawn room. His vision blurred, the world spinning around him like a carousel of chaos. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Then, quiet.

A hand reached down.

Jonas blinked, eyes struggling to focus. The hand was large, steady, familiar. He reached back instinctively, fingers trembling.

It was Heavy.

His grip was firm, grounding. Not just pulling Jonas up, but anchoring him to the present. To the team. To life.

Jonas clung to it, breath ragged, heart still aching. But he was here. He was back.

Heavy didn’t speak.

He simply stood beside Jonas, a quiet sentinel, his presence steady but unreadable. The respawn room buzzed with low voices and flickering lights, but the warmth that usually followed a reunion was absent. Something was off. Everyone felt it.

“Doc’s back,” Scout said, voice thin and uncertain. “That’s good, right?”

Jonas didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He remembered what he did. The cold metal. The taste of blood. The silence of the void. The peace he’d chosen, and the violence that had brought him back.

“We don’t have Uber to push with yet,” Demo muttered, checking his launcher. His tone was practical, but his eyes flicked toward Jonas with concern. Soldier sat beside him, brows furrowed, clearly confused by the tension in the room.

Jonas looked down.

His hands were empty.

But he still felt the gun.

The revolver. Clean. New. Heavy with memory.

“I’ve got a teleporter still up,” Engineer offered, voice gentle, trying to anchor the team. “We can regroup fast.”

Jonas’s stomach twisted. The room tilted slightly. His breath came shallow.

“I can bring my bow and arrow,” Sniper said from the corner, his voice low. “Stay closer to the fight. Keep eyes on RED.”

Jonas blinked.

The lights were too bright. The voices too loud. The weight of his return too heavy.

He turned away, stumbled a step, and vomited onto the floor.

The room fell silent.

Scout froze mid-step. Demo lowered his launcher. Engineer stopped mid-sentence. Sniper’s hand paused on his quiver.

Heavy stepped forward, placing a hand on Jonas’s back, not forceful, just present.

Jonas wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, eyes glassy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

“We must quickly reach the final point, gentlemen!” Spy’s voice rang out across the respawn room, sharp and clipped with frustration. His coat flared as he turned, pacing like a general watching the clock tick toward disaster.

Spy turned sharply, his coat swaying with the motion. “Medic, you still have your Ubersaw, correct?”

Jonas swallowed hard, the motion painful. He patted his side, fingers brushing empty fabric. No steel. No weight. He shook his head.

Spy’s lips thinned, but before he could speak, something clattered to the floor beside Jonas, a familiar glint of metal. The Ubersaw. Not his. But the same model Navy had used. The same grip. The same edge.

Jonas looked up.

Pyro stood nearby, mask tilted slightly, one hand raised in a quiet offering. No words.
Jonas nodded, a silent thank-you. But the nausea returned. His stomach turned again.

Spy didn’t pause. “Excellent. We must bring one RED member here. That will give us Uber. Until then, we continue the pressure.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes scanning the team like a commander before a final charge.

Scout bounced slightly on his heels, BONK! can still in hand. “Got it. Still want me to flank the Sniper?”

Spy nodded. “Yes. He’s back on the tower. Remove him, and their vision collapses.”

Sniper, already stringing his bow, gave a quiet grunt. “I’ll cover the west flank. If Scout misses, I won’t.”

Engineer adjusted his toolkit. “Teleporter’s still stable. I’ll reinforce a sentry once we push.”

Demo cracked his knuckles. “I’ll split their line again. Make ‘em scatter.”

Soldier stood tall, rocket launcher in hand, eyes burning with renewed fire. “I SHALL BRING FREEDOM TO THE FINAL POINT!”

Jonas looked down at the Ubersaw in his hand. It felt heavier than it should. He closes his eyes.

Spy’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. “Let’s not waste more time then. Move.”

Then he vanished, cloaking into the shadows.

One by one, the team stepped onto the teleporter pad, disappearing in flashes of blue light. Jonas hesitated. His boots hovered at the edge. The pad hummed beneath him, waiting.

He stepped on.

The world blinked.

From the sterile chill of Respawn to the grit and smoke of the battlefield, Jonas arrived in a relatively safe pocket behind the front line. The air was thick with gunfire and shouted commands. Scout’s voice crackled through the comms, complaining about a sentry covering the flank route, then silence. His death was quick, but not wasted. Sniper’s arrow followed, clean and precise, taking out RED’s Sniper from his perch.

Jonas was impressed. Briefly.

Then Spy’s voice returned, sharp and urgent. “Heavy, to me.”

Heavy turned without hesitation, leaving Jonas and Engineer in the backline. Jonas watched as Engineer knelt beside a rusted pipe, assembling a compact sentry. It was small, but its bark was loud, enough to keep RED cautious.

Then they returned.

Spy and Heavy. And a body.

A RED Scout. No blood. No wounds. Just stillness. He looked like he’d been resting. Sleeping. Not fighting.

Jonas’s breath caught.

Spy waved off the concern with a flick of his wrist. “He was alone. Unarmed. But useful.”

Heavy didn’t speak. He looked away, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed.

 

The RED Scout lay still before him, young, wiry, face slack with unconsciousness. No blood. No resistance. Just a body. Just a tool.

Jonas knelt.

He steadied his breath, fingers tightening around the Ubersaw’s grip. The metal was cold, clinical, and far too familiar. Jonas drove the blade in. Quick. Precise.

The Scout’s chest rose sharply with a hiss of breath. His eyes snapped open, wide and glassy with pain. Jonas recoiled instinctively, stumbling backward and landing hard against Engineer’s half-built dispenser. The metal groaned behind him.

Spy’s revolver was already drawn. Engineer raised his shotgun. Heavy stepped forward, fists clenched.

But the Scout didn’t move.

His eyes fluttered once, then closed with a soft wince. His body slumped again, still breathing, but fading.

Jonas stared, heart hammering.

Ubercharge: 25%.

Engineer lowered his weapon, voice quiet but edged with disbelief. “Well look at that.”

He holstered the shotgun.

Jonas didn’t move. The Ubersaw hung in his hand like a weight he couldn’t drop. Just three more times, he thought. But the words felt like a curse.

The dispenser beside him hissed to life, releasing a stream of blue vapor that curled around his coat. It was the same mist as his medi-gun, cool, sterile, meant to soothe.

But it didn’t.

Jonas felt numb.

Spy stepped forward, eyes unreadable. “Excellent. We will have Uber in no time.”

There was no pride in his voice. No satisfaction. Just calculation.

Then he cloaked, vanishing into the snowy air like a ghost.

Spy’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere in the snow-covered ruins. “Heavy, place the body away somewhere, please.”

And Heavy had obeyed. Not with violence. Not with ceremony. Just a quiet toss, like discarding a tool that had served its purpose. The RED Scout’s body landed with a thud beyond the safe zone, limbs limp, face turned toward the sky.

But the blood remained.

A single crimson stain bloomed in the snow, stark against the pale ground. It didn’t soak in. It sat there, bright, defiant, permanent.

Jonas stared at it.

The vapor curled around him again, but this time it felt suffocating. The Ubersaw pulsed in his grip. His stomach churned.

He had done what was necessary.

But he felt like a monster.

Jonas unhooked his medi-gun with slow, deliberate hands. The grip was worn smooth in places, familiar to the point of muscle memory. He didn’t aim at anyone, just let the nozzle drift, the blue vapor curling into the cold air like breath in winter.

It hissed softly, a sound that once brought comfort. Now, it felt hollow.

The Ubercharge began to build, slow and steady. A quiet pulse. A countdown.

Not again, he thought.

His thumbs moved on their own, scratching at the handle, etching invisible lines into the metal. Not to damage it. Just to feel something. To remind himself he was still here.

Then, a hand settled gently on his shoulder.

Jonas looked up.

Heavy stood beside him, eyes soft beneath the furrow of his brow. The blue vapor from Jonas’s medi-gun wrapped around him like a halo, catching in the folds of his coat, rising from his breath.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Jonas’s eyes searched Heavy’s face, not for answers, but for reassurance. And Heavy gave it, silently, just by being there. His presence was grounding. Solid. A quiet wall against the storm.

Then, a cough.

Engineer cleared his throat from nearby, adjusting a wire on his sentry. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to break the moment.

Heavy gave a small nod, then patted Jonas’s shoulder once, firm, steady, warm.

Jonas exhaled.

The vapor continued to flow. The Ubercharge ticked upward.

 

The battlefield was chaos.

Snow churned under boots and explosions. The payload creaked forward, inching toward the final control point like a dying heartbeat. RED had regrouped, barricades rebuilt, sentries rearmed, their Medic’s Ubercharge climbing fast.

Jonas ran beside Heavy, medi-gun locked to his back, the beam pulsing with blue light. Ubercharge: 98%. The vapor curled around them both, rising like steam from a forge. Jonas’s heart pounded, not just from exertion, but from everything that had led to this moment. The blood in the snow. The Scout’s eyes. The silence of the void.

Not again.

Not this time.

Heavy turned slightly, eyes meeting Jonas’s. No words. Just trust.

Jonas slammed his thumb against the trigger.

The world lit up.

Blue surged through their bodies, wrapping them in a shimmering shield of invincibility. Bullets ricocheted off their forms like rain against steel. Flames curled and vanished. Rockets exploded in harmless bursts of light.

Heavy roared, Sasha spinning with a deafening growl. RED’s front line faltered. Their Soldier went down first, then their Scout. Jonas kept the beam steady, feet pounding the ground, eyes locked on the payload.

They were unstoppable.

For ten seconds, they were gods.

Spy emerged from the shadows, striking down a RED Engineer mid-repair. Demo lobbed stickies into the barricade, blowing open a path. Sniper’s arrow whistled past Jonas’s ear, striking the RED Medic in the shoulder.

Jonas and Heavy pushed forward, the payload groaning beneath their momentum.

Then the glow began to fade.

The shield flickered. The vapor thinned. Jonas felt the weight return to his limbs.

They were mortal again.

Heavy ducked behind cover, reloading. Jonas scanned the field, RED Pyro advancing, flames licking the air. The final point was close. So close.

It was up to him.

Jonas gritted his teeth, unhooked the medi-gun, and slung it behind him. He pulled the Ubersaw from his side, the blade still stained from the RED Scout’s blood. His boots crunched against the snow as he stepped forward, eyes locked on the payload.

RED’s Pyro turned toward him, flame already igniting.

Jonas ran.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He just moved, weaving between debris, ducking under gunfire, the Ubersaw clenched in his fist like a lifeline. The payload loomed ahead, untouched, waiting.

The RED Scout lunged from the side, scattergun raised.

Jonas didn’t stop.

He slammed into the Scout, blade flashing. The two collided in a blur of motion, Jonas’s saw slicing through fabric, the Scout’s weapon firing wide. They hit the ground hard, snow exploding around them.

Jonas rolled, scrambled to his feet, and lunged toward the payload.

He reached it.

His hand slammed against the control panel, and the payload surged forward with a mechanical roar.

Captured.

The sirens blared. The announcer’s voice rang out across the battlefield.

“BLU Team Wins.”

Jonas collapsed beside the payload, chest heaving, blood on his gloves. The snow around him was stained red. The battlefield fell into silence, then erupted in cheers from the respawn room.

Heavy rushed forward, pulling Jonas up with both arms. “You did it, Doktor.”

Jonas didn’t speak.

He just nodded, eyes glassy, heart pounding.

He had made the final move.

And it had cost him everything.

It cost Medic, everything.

 

The screams echoed through the halls of RED’s base, taunts, laughter, the cruel rhythm of victory turned ritual. BLU had won. And now, they were repeating the same brutality they had endured just the day before. The cycle had turned. The roles reversed.

Medic didn’t join them.

Heavy had wrapped him in a hug moments earlier, arms firm and warm, voice booming with pride. But Medic hadn’t moved. His eyes were fixed on the corridor where RED’s Pyro had fled, shaking, scorched, barely able to stand. Heavy had already rushed off, joining the others in the respawn chambers. The celebration was loud. Euphoric. Unforgiving.

Medic walked the other way.

His boots echoed softly against the concrete, the distant sounds of chaos growing fainter with each step. In his pocket, the pill bottle rattled, a quiet weight, a reminder of the infirmary shelves lined with identical ones. Painkillers. Sedatives. Relief in plastic.

He found them in a corner of the base, tucked behind a stack of crates and broken equipment last night before rest.

RED’s Pyro sat curled in on themselves, mask tilted downward, body trembling. Beside them, Sniper crouched protectively, one arm wrapped around Pyro’s shoulders, the other clutching a bloodied kukri. His eyes were sharp, but tired. Defensive.

The medic stopped a few feet away.

The two stared at him. Not with defiance. Not with hope. Just fear.

Sniper’s voice cracked through the silence, raw and venomous. “WHAT ARE YOU STINKIN’ BLU GOIN’ TO DO? BETTER WATCH OUT NEXT TIME YA PIKER!”

Medic didn’t flinch.

He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the pill bottle. The cap was still sealed. Untouched. He knelt slowly, placing the bottle on the ground, then rolled it toward them.

It stopped just short of Pyro’s boots.

Medic swallowed hard. His throat burned. His chest ached.

He looked at them, really looked. Not as enemies. Not as targets. Just people. Broken. Afraid.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly. “Please tell Scout I’m sorry.”

Sniper didn’t respond. Pyro didn’t move.

Jonas stood, turned, and walked away. A small bit of mercy helped his denial fade.

Chapter Text

The BLU base pulsed with celebration.

Demo’s laughter echoed down the halls, sloshing drinks into mismatched mugs and offering toasts with explosive flair. Scout darted between rooms, retelling the final push with exaggerated gestures. Soldier gave impromptu speeches about honor and victory, while Engineer tuned his guitar for a song no one had requested but everyone welcomed.

But Jonas wasn’t there.

He remained in the infirmary, the door half-closed, the lights dimmed. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and steam, the hum of the medbay machines the only sound. He sat on the edge of a cot, coat still on, gloves still stained. The Ubersaw lay on the counter, cleaned but not put away. It felt wrong to shelve it. Like pretending nothing had happened.

Shock came in waves.

Not from the battle. Not from the blood. But from the realization that he had crossed a line he swore never to approach. He had disobeyed his oath, not in the heat of war, but in the silence after. He had offered mercy to the enemy. He had knelt before RED Pyro and Sniper, not with vengeance, but with care.

And they had flinched.

Jonas closed his eyes, the image burned into his memory: Pyro trembling, Sniper snarling, both recoiling from his presence. Not because he was a threat, but because he was a Medic. Because they didn’t believe kindness could come from someone like him.

He had rolled the pill bottle toward them anyway.

A gesture. A hope.

Now, he could only wonder if they understood. If they saw past the uniform. Past the war. Past the rituals of humiliation and victory.

He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing another pill bottle. Identical. Unopened. He didn’t need it. Not yet. But it reminded him of the choice he made. The one that still echoed in his chest.

Outside, the cheers grew louder.

Inside, Jonas remained still.

 

Demo stood on a table, sloshing his drink as he reenacted the final explosion with dramatic flair. “And then BOOM! RED’s Demoman went flyin’ like a bottle rocket!” Laughter erupted around him, mugs clinking, boots stomping.

Scout zipped past with a plate of half-eaten snacks, talking fast to anyone who’d listen. “Did you see me flank that Sniper? Cleanest shot I ever made, Snipes owes me a drink for that one!” Sniper groans in response.

Soldier was mid-speech, standing atop a crate with one boot raised. “VICTORY IS OURS! THE ENEMY HAS BEEN VANQUISHED! OUR GLORY SHALL BE WRITTEN IN THE STARS!”

Engineer chuckled from his corner, tuning his guitar. “You’re gonna wake the dead with all that hollerin’, Solly.”

Amid the noise, Pyro danced in slow circles, their flamethrower left behind for once, mask tilted in rhythm to the music in their head.

Then Sniper, quieter than the rest, leaned against the wall and scanned the room. His brow furrowed.

“Where’s the Doc?” he asked, voice low but cutting through the din.

Demo paused mid-toast, looked around, then shrugged. “Probably just knackered after the match. Let the man rest.”

Scout chimed in, mouth full. “Yeah, he took a beating out there. He’s probably passed out in the infirmary or somethin’. He’ll be fine.”

Sniper didn’t respond.

Engineer leaned against the wall, his shotgun slung casually over his shoulder, the glow of the party flickering across his goggles. He watched Demo and Soldier spiral into another round of slurred patriotism and explosive metaphors, their voices rising like a storm in a bottle.

“C’mon, happy camper,” he said, voice rich with Southern warmth. “It’s a time to celebrate. Ain’t often we beat RED this clean, and with Medic still finding his footing? That’s somethin’.”

Sniper took a slow sip from his bottle, the alcohol burning just enough to remind him he was still awake. He glanced toward the doorway, where Heavy sat quietly, sipping from a mug and watching the chaos with a protective eye.

“Just feels a bit odd, ya know?” Sniper murmured, voice low. “Heavy’s here. But not Medic.”

Engineer followed his gaze, the smile fading slightly. “Yeah,” he said, softer now. “He’s probably still in the infirmary. That match… it rattled him.”

Sniper nodded, eyes distant. “He’s not like the last one. Doesn’t bounce back with blood on his hands.”

Engineer took a slow breath, the warmth of the mug in his hand doing little to ease the weight in his chest. The party roared around them, Demo’s booming laughter, Soldier’s slurred declarations of glory, Scout reenacting his flank with exaggerated leaps, but here in the corner, the air felt still.

He looked down at the drink, watching the amber liquid swirl. “You saw him after the push, right?” he asked, voice low, almost drowned out by the chaos. “Didn’t even flinch when we won. Just stared off like he was somewhere else.”

Sniper didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the room, then fixed on the hallway that led to the infirmary. His voice came out rough, almost a whisper. “I didn’t even see him during Humiliation.”

Engineer’s brow furrowed. “He’s a kind fella,” he said, trying to soften the moment. “Hell, I remember when I first killed a RED Spy. Thought I’d done something noble. Something necessary.” He chuckled, but it was hollow.

Sniper didn’t laugh.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks,” he said, venom lacing his words. “Not because I regretted it. Because I saw his face every time I closed my eyes. And I knew I’d see it again.”

Engineer’s smile faded. He set his guitar down gently, the strings giving a soft, unfinished hum as they settled. The noise of the party blurred behind them, distant and meaningless.

“He’s not like us,” Sniper continued. “Doc still believes in healing. In mercy. Even after everything.”

Engineer nodded slowly, eyes distant. “And that makes him the bravest of us.”

Sniper leaned back against the wall, the rim of his mug brushing his lip as he took a slow sip. The alcohol burned just enough to remind him he was still in his body, still present, even as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. His eyes lingered on the hallway that led to the infirmary, dark, quiet, untouched by the celebration.

“He’s a lot better than RED’s Medic,” Sniper muttered, almost to himself. “And better than our old one too.”

Engineer, seated beside him on a chair, gave a soft chuckle and raised his own mug. “Heh, cheers to that, partner.”

They clinked their drinks together with a quiet thunk, the gesture more solemn than celebratory. Then they both drank, letting the silence settle between them like dust on old wood.

Around them, the party swelled, Demo’s voice booming as he reenacted the final explosion with wild gestures, Soldier shouting about honor and conquest, Pyro spinning in slow circles to the rhythm of a song only they could hear. The base was alive with victory, but here in the corner, Sniper and Engineer let the noise wash over them without pulling them in.

Then, with a sudden stumble and a grin too wide for his face, Scout crashed into their quiet.

“Ay, Engie!” he called out, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Play us a couple tunes, yeah?”

Engineer chuckled, catching Scout by the elbow before he could fully topple into the crate beside them. “Easy there, speedster. You’re gonna knock over my strings before I even get a chance to tune ’em.”

Scout grinned, flushed and breathless, clearly riding the high of victory and alcohol. “C’mon, man! We earned it! Play somethin’ good, none of that slow porch-sittin’ stuff.”

Sniper smirked behind his mug. “You mean the kind with actual melody?”

Scout pointed at him with exaggerated offense. “Oi! I got rhythm, mate. Just not the boring kind.”

Engineer shook his head, amused, and picked up the guitar again. His fingers moved with practiced ease, plucking out a few warm, rolling chords that cut through the noise like a hearth fire in winter. The tune was simple, familiar, something folksy, something that felt like home.

Sniper’s boots echoed softly down the corridor, the laughter and music of the party fading behind him like a distant memory. The warmth of celebration didn’t reach this far. The hallway was colder, quieter, lit only by the flicker of a single overhead bulb that buzzed faintly, like it too was tired of the noise.

He sighed, shaking his head. The party had soured in his gut. Too much noise. Too much forgetting. Medic hadn’t been seen since the match ended, and Sniper couldn’t shake the image of him walking away from the battlefield, shoulders heavy, eyes hollow.

As he neared the infirmary, the sound of footsteps behind him broke the silence, slow, deliberate, heavy. Not the kind that tried to hide. The kind that announced themselves.

Sniper’s instincts flared.

He reached into his coat pocket, fingers curling around the familiar weight of his pocket knife. In one swift motion, he turned, blade drawn, eyes sharp.

Then he froze.

Heavy stood there, broad and still, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Sniper’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then he lowered the blade and slipped it back into his pocket.

“You know better than to sneak up behind a Sniper,” he muttered, voice low and edged. His glare lingered, but it wasn’t hostile, just tired.

Heavy didn’t flinch. “I did not sneak,” he said simply. “I walked.”

Sniper exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it with two fingers. “Fair enough.”

Heavy stepped forward, his boots thudding softly against the tile. “You are going to see Medic?”

Sniper nodded. “Someone ought to.”

Heavy looked toward the infirmary door, then back at Sniper. “He is not well.”

Sniper’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

The hallway stretched ahead, dim and quiet, a stark contrast to the raucous celebration echoing behind them. The hum of the overhead light buzzed like a tired insect, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Sniper stood still for a moment, the weight of the silence pressing against his shoulders.

“Come on,” he said, motioning with a tilt of his head. “You and I need to talk with him.”

Heavy nodded and fell into step beside him, his massive frame shifting with each uneven stride. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, tugging at his gloves, brushing against the seams of his coat. Every few steps, he stumbled slightly, catching himself before fully losing balance. The alcohol hadn’t hit him hard, but it had softened his usual steadiness.

Sniper glanced sideways, a dry chuckle escaping his throat. “Ya don’t hold your alcohol that well, do you?”

Heavy grunted, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do not drink often. Only when we win.”

Sniper smirked, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning the corridor ahead. “Well, tonight’s a win. But not for everyone.”

Heavy’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He didn’t speak, but his steps grew more deliberate, more careful. The closer they got to the infirmary, the heavier the air became, like the walls themselves remembered the weight of pain.

They reached the door.

Sniper paused, hand hovering near the handle. He could hear the faint whir of medbay equipment inside, the sterile rhythm of machines that never celebrated, never mourned. Just worked.

He looked at Heavy. “Let me do the talking.”

Heavy nodded once, solemn.

Sniper pushed the door open.

The door creaked open with a soft groan, the kind that felt louder in the hush of the infirmary. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors and the sterile hum of medbay equipment. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and steam, clean, but not comforting.

Jonas sat hunched on a stool beside the counter, still in his coat, gloves on, head bowed. The Ubersaw lay nearby, cleaned but untouched, like a relic too sacred to shelve. His posture was rigid, but his eyes were distant, fixed on nothing, lost in everything.

Sniper stepped in quietly, Heavy trailing behind with slow, uncertain steps. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the three of them in a pocket of silence.

Jonas didn’t look up.

Sniper cleared his throat, not loudly, just enough to announce his presence. “You missed the party.”

Jonas didn’t respond.

Sniper stepped closer, his boots soft against the tile. “Demo’s already drunk. Scout’s halfway there. Soldier’s singing about liberty and explosives again.”

Still nothing.

Heavy shifted beside him, fingers twitching at his sides. Sniper glanced at Jonas’s face, pale, drawn, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something deeper.

“You did good out there,” Sniper said, voice low. “You got us through. We wouldn’t’ve made that final push without you.”

Jonas’s fingers twitched, just slightly.

Sniper took another step. “I know it doesn’t feel like a win. Not to you. But it was.”

Jonas finally spoke, voice hoarse and quiet. “I broke my oath.”

Sniper didn’t flinch. “You kept your heart.”

Jonas looked up, eyes glassy. “I hurt someone. I saw him wake up. I saw the fear.”

“You did what was necessary.” Heavy chimes in.

“You all hurt them during Humiliation,” Jonas hisses, “It isn’t right.”

The silence that followed Jonas’s words was suffocating.

Not even the muffled thump of music or Scout’s drunken laughter seeped through the infirmary walls. It was as if the room had sealed itself off from the rest of the base, no celebration, no victory, just the weight of truth hanging in the air like smoke.

Jonas’s voice had cracked with something raw. Not anger. Not accusation. Grief.

Heavy stood still, his massive frame rigid, eyes lowered. The usual warmth in his presence had dimmed, replaced by quiet discomfort. Sniper didn’t speak. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze was fixed on Jonas.

Jonas stood slowly, the stool creaking beneath him. His gloves were still on, his coat still buttoned. He looked like he hadn’t moved since they all arrived back at the base.

Jonas sat rigid on the edge of the infirmary cot, his gloved hands resting on his knees, fingers curled tight. The soft hum of medbay equipment filled the room, sterile and indifferent. Shadows clung to the corners, and the faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air like a memory that refused to fade.

“I didn’t become a Doctor to watch people suffer,” Jonas said, his voice low but unwavering. “Not ours. Not theirs.”

Heavy shifted beside him, the floor creaking under his weight. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless. “They would not have spared us,” he said, his voice deep, almost apologetic.

Jonas turned toward him, eyes sharp and glassy. “That doesn’t mean we become them.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, bitter, lingering.

Sniper stood near the counter, arms crossed, gaze angled toward the floor. He didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, but edged with realism. “You’re right,” he said, “but this ain’t some fantasy. We’re hired to kill. That’s the job. What you do during Humiliation, that’s on you.”

He looked up, meeting Jonas’s eyes. “I don’t waste my energy torturing them. But don’t pretend RED and BLU haven’t both hurt people.”

Jonas’s jaw tightened. “But if we answer cruelty with cruelty,” he said, voice rising just slightly, “we don’t heal, we rot.”

Sniper didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his boots soft against the tile. “You’ve only seen the beginning,” he said. “These matches, they’ll wear you down. Every kill, every scream, every time you patch someone up just to send them back out there. It numbs you. Slowly. Quietly.”

Heavy looked between them, his brow furrowed. The silence stretched, thick with tension and unspoken truths.

Then Sniper and Heavy exchanged a glance, brief, but heavy. A conversation passed between them without words. A shared understanding. A shared guilt.

Heavy stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Jonas’s shoulder. “Don’t let this all hurt you,” he said, voice softer than before.

Jonas looked up, eyes flickering with something fragile. “I’m trying.”

Sniper’s grin was subtle, the kind that barely tugged at the corner of his mouth but carried weight all the same. He leaned against the infirmary counter, the dim light casting soft shadows across his face. His voice was quiet, but firm with conviction.

“Then you’re better than all the blokes here,” he said.

Jonas blinked, startled by the words. They weren’t said with fanfare or ceremony, just truth. Plain and unvarnished. It landed heavier than any medal.

The room fell into silence again, but this time it wasn’t tense. It was thoughtful. A shared pause. The kind that lets words settle into the bones.

Heavy stood nearby, his massive hands still fidgeting at his sides. He looked at Jonas for a long moment, then took a slow breath and stepped forward. His voice, when it came, was soft, gentle in a way that didn’t match his size.

“Medic,” he said, “please join us. We all wish to have fun together.”

Jonas looked up.

The request wasn’t loud. It wasn’t forced. It was an invitation, simple, sincere, and wrapped in warmth. Heavy’s eyes held no expectation, only hope.

Jonas hesitated.

His gaze drifted to the Ubersaw on the counter, then to his gloves, still stained from the match. The weight of the day clung to him like a second skin. The screams, the pill bottle, the flinch of RED Pyro, all of it still echoed in his chest.

But then he looked at Heavy.

At Sniper.

At the two men who had come not to celebrate, but to find him. To listen. To remind him that he wasn’t alone.

Jonas stood slowly, the stool creaking beneath him. He peeled off his gloves, setting them gently beside the saw. His hands trembled slightly, but he didn’t hide them.

“I don’t know if I can celebrate,” he said quietly. “But I can sit with you.”

Heavy smiled, wide and genuine. “That is enough.”

Sniper nodded, already turning toward the door. “Scout’s probably passed out on the table by now. You’ll want to see that.”

Jonas gave a faint smile. “I’ll bring the ice pack.”

The three of them stepped out of the infirmary together, the hallway no longer feeling so cold. The party still roared in the distance, but now it felt less like noise, and more like home.

The hallway stretched behind them, dim and quiet, but as Jonas stepped forward with Sniper and Heavy at his side, the distant sounds of celebration grew louder, music, laughter, the clatter of mugs and boots. The infirmary door clicked shut behind them, sealing away the silence that had held them like a cocoon.

Jonas walked slowly, his coat still buttoned, hands bare now, the gloves left behind like a shed skin. The scent of antiseptic still clung to him, but the warmth of the base began to seep in, steam from the kitchen, the tang of alcohol, the faint burn of Pyro’s sparklers.

As they turned the corner, the party came into full view.

Scout was dancing on a table, shirt half-untucked, waving a fork like a baton. Demo was mid-song, slurring the lyrics to a tune no one recognized, while Soldier stood beside him, harmonizing with a battle cry. Pyro twirled in slow circles, their mask bobbing to the rhythm, and Engineer strummed his guitar with a lazy smile, the chords rolling like a lullaby beneath the chaos.

The moment Jonas stepped into the room, the energy shifted.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Scout paused mid-spin, blinking. “Medic?”

Engineer looked up from his guitar, his smile softening. “Well I’ll be damned”

Demo lowered his mug, squinting. “Hey there, Doc.”

Jonas didn’t speak at first. He just stood in the doorway, unsure if he belonged in this moment of joy. But then Heavy placed a hand on his back, guiding him forward. Sniper gave a subtle nod, stepping aside to let Jonas choose his place.

Jonas walked in.

Pyro approached first, silent as always, and gently handed Jonas a small paper drawing, crude, colorful, but unmistakably a picture of the BLU team gathered around a dinner table. Jonas stared at it, then looked up at Pyro, who tilted their head in quiet encouragement.

“Thank you,” Jonas whispered.

Scout hopped off the table, wobbling slightly. “We saved you a seat, ya know. Right next to Engie. He’s been playin’ sad cowboy songs without you.”

Engineer chuckled. “They’re not sad. They’re reflective.”

Jonas gave a faint smile. “I could use a little reflection.”

He sat down.

The music resumed, not with the wild, chaotic energy from earlier, but with a gentler rhythm. Engineer’s fingers danced across the strings of his guitar, coaxing out a tune that felt like dusk on a quiet porch, the kind of melody that wrapped around the room like a blanket. Laughter still echoed, but it was softer now. Warmer. The kind of celebration that didn’t erase pain, but welcomed it, gave it a seat at the table, and let it rest.

Sniper drifted through the crowd, his usual sharp presence softened by the glow of the moment. He didn’t speak as he approached Engineer, he didn’t need to. He simply lowered himself to the floor beside him, one knee bent, elbow resting casually on it. The closeness wasn’t dramatic, but it was deliberate. A quiet claim.

Engineer glanced down mid-chord, his eyes catching Sniper’s. Sniper gave him a wink, subtle, teasing, but full of affection. Engineer’s lips curled into a chuckle, and the tune shifted. The chords grew lighter, more playful. A private joke woven into the music, just for the two of them.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t speak. But the space between them was filled with something unmistakable, trust, comfort, and a love that didn’t need to be declared to be known.

Across the room, Heavy reappeared like a mountain returning to its place. He moved with quiet purpose, a steaming mug cradled in his hands. Without a word, he offered it to Jonas, who blinked in surprise, he hadn’t even noticed Heavy had left.

Jonas took the cup, fingers curling around the warmth. The scent of coffee rose, grounding him. He looked up at Heavy, who simply nodded once, then returned to his seat. Jonas smiled, not the kind that masked pain, but the kind that acknowledged it and chose to keep going anyway.

Scout, meanwhile, had taken command of the room with the chaotic energy of a storm in sneakers. “Alright, alright, listen up!” he shouted, standing on a chair with a bottle in hand. “Drinking games! Medic’s back, and that means we’re doin’ this right!”

Demo whooped in agreement, already halfway through a mug. Soldier saluted the bottle like it was a flag. Pyro clapped their gloved hands together, bouncing in place.

Jonas didn’t protest. He sipped his coffee, watching the team with quiet amusement. The warmth in his chest wasn’t just from the drink, it was from the sight of his teammates, bruised but laughing, broken but still whole.

Sniper leaned back against Engineer’s leg, eyes half-lidded, content. Engineer reached down and brushed his fingers lightly through Sniper’s hair, just once, just enough.

 

The room buzzed with anticipation as Scout stood atop a chair, bottle in hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. His voice cut through the hum of conversation like a firecracker.

“Medic!” he called out, pointing dramatically at Jonas. “C’mon, you’re in, yeah?”

Jonas, seated quietly with his coffee still warm in his hands, looked up with a faint smile. The party’s glow reflected in his eyes, but his posture remained reserved. “I’ll stay sober,” he said gently. “If anyone passes out or starts seeing double, I’d rather be the one who can still walk straight.”

Scout groaned, flopping back into his seat with theatrical defeat. “You’re no fun, Doc!”

Jonas chuckled softly. “I’m plenty fun. Just not when someone’s about to mistake Pyro’s flamethrower for a saxophone.”

Pyro, seated nearby, tilted their head and gave a delighted clap at the idea.

With a grunt and a shrug, Scout raised his bottle high. “Alright then! Who’s in?”

Demo slammed his mug onto the table. “I was born in a distillery, lad! Count me in!”

Soldier saluted with his drink. “I shall drink for liberty and tactical supremacy!”

Engineer gave a quiet nod, setting his guitar aside. “I’ll join. But if Scout starts singing, I’m out.”

Sniper, still seated beside Engineer, raised his glass lazily. “Only if you promise not to let Demo mix the drinks.”

Pyro raised a gloved hand with a cheerful bounce.

Heavy looked at Jonas, then at the others. “I will join. But I drink slow.”

Jonas watched them all with quiet amusement, sipping his coffee like a sentinel. Though he didn’t join the game, his presence was grounding, like a lighthouse watching over a fleet of drunken ships.

The first round began with Scout shouting out a challenge: “Alright! First one to name every BLU class without stuttering gets to pick who drinks!”

Soldier immediately shouted, “Scout, Soldier, Pyro, Demoman, Heavy, Engineer, Medic, Sniper, Spy!”, then took a triumphant swig before anyone could argue.

Jonas leaned back, the warmth of the coffee and the laughter around him settling into his bones.

“Show-off,” Demo muttered, before hiccuping so hard he knocked over his mug.

“Next round!” Scout shouted, pointing at Pyro. “You! Truth or drink!”

Pyro tilted their head, then pulled out a crumpled drawing from their coat and handed it to Scout. It was a crude sketch of Scout tripping over his own feet while trying to flirt with a snowman. The room erupted in laughter.

“Okay, okay, I’ll drink!” Scout groaned, face red. “You little menace.”

Engineer leaned over to Sniper, whispering, “I think Pyro’s keeping a whole comic strip of our worst moments.”

Sniper smirked. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re selling copies to RED.”

Jonas sat nearby, sipping his coffee like a lifeguard watching a pool full of toddlers with pool noodles and tequila. He didn’t join the game, but his eyes sparkled with quiet amusement.

Demo stood up for the next challenge, swaying slightly. “Alright! Whoever can balance a mug on their head the longest gets to make someone else drink!”

Soldier immediately placed his mug on his helmet. “This is a tactical advantage!”

Scout tried to balance his mug, only to sneeze mid-attempt and send it flying into Engineer’s lap. “Medic!” Engineer yelped, half-laughing, half-soaked.

Jonas raised an eyebrow. “You’re not bleeding. You’re just wet.”

“Emotionally hurt,” Engineer muttered, wringing out his shirt.

Heavy, meanwhile, had placed his mug on his head and was standing perfectly still, eyes closed in serene concentration. Pyro tried to mimic him, but their mug slid off and bonked Demo on the nose.

“Medic!” Demo cried, dramatically clutching his face.

Jonas didn’t move. “You’ll live.”

Sniper leaned back, watching the chaos unfold, then glanced at Jonas. “You sure you don’t want in?”

Jonas smiled, warm and tired. “I’m here to keep you all alive. Not to join your descent into madness.”

Scout raised his bottle. “To madness!”

The team cheered, mugs clinked, and Pyro lit a sparkler in celebration, indoors. Spy stepped in, coat draped over one shoulder, tie slightly loosened, and an expression that could curdle milk. He paused at the threshold, eyes scanning the room with the disdain of someone who had just walked into a clown convention held in a munitions depot.

Scout spotted him first. “Oi! Look who finally decided to crawl outta his crypt!”

Spy raised an eyebrow. “I was enjoying silence. Clearly, that luxury has expired.”

Demo waved a mug at him. “Come join us, ya slippery bastard! We’re playin’ truth or drink!”

Spy sighed, but didn’t leave. Instead, he stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace, plucking a half-full glass from the table and inspecting it like it might explode. “If I must endure this circus, I will do so with alcohol.”

Jonas chuckled softly. “I’ll keep the antidotes ready.”

Spy gave him a glance, sharp, but not unkind. “You are the only one here I trust not to poison me.”

Scout clapped his hands. “Alright, Spy’s in! Truth or drink, your turn!”

Spy sat down with theatrical elegance, crossing one leg over the other. “Very well. Ask.”

Demo leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Have you ever kissed a RED?”

The room went silent.

Spy took a slow sip, then set the glass down. “Twice. Once for information. Once for pleasure.”

Scout nearly fell off his chair. “WHAT?!”

Sniper snorted into his drink. Engineer choked on his sip. Pyro clapped enthusiastically.

Spy leaned back, smug. “Your move, Scout.”

Scout, now fully committed to his role as party commander, stood on the table again, this time with one sock missing and a spoon tucked behind his ear like a badge of honor.

“Alright, alright! New challenge!” he shouted, voice cracking with excitement. “Whoever can impersonate a RED teammate the best gets to pick who drinks!”

Demo immediately launched into a dramatic impression of RED Demoman, complete with exaggerated Scottish accent and wild gesturing. “I’m RED Demo and I blow up me own team for fun!” He spun in a circle and fell onto the couch, laughing.

Pyro stepped up next, mimicking RED Pyro with a series of expressive hand gestures and a perfect imitation of their muffled giggle. They even held up a drawing of RED Pyro holding a balloon labeled “Boom.”

Soldier tried to impersonate RED Spy by dramatically sneaking behind Scout and whispering, “I never liked any of you,” before tripping over a chair and knocking over a bottle.

Engineer chuckled, strumming a few sneaky chords to underscore the performance. “That’s the most honest impression I’ve seen all night.”

Spy, seated with his usual elegance, raised an eyebrow. “I am insulted. That was not even close to my level of disdain.”

Sniper leaned toward him. “You want to show ’em how it’s done?”

Spy took a slow sip of his drink. “I do not perform. I critique.”

Scout pointed dramatically. “Demo wins! Snipes, you drink!”

Sniper groaned and took a swig, muttering, “Should’ve known better than to let Scout be judge and jury.”

Jonas, still seated with his coffee, watched the impersonations with quiet amusement. He didn’t laugh loudly, but his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth. Every exaggerated accent, every pratfall, every ridiculous challenge, it was healing in its own way.

Then Scout clapped his hands again. “Next round! Medic trivia! If you get it wrong, you drink!”

Demo groaned. “I didn’t study!”

“First question!” Scout shouted. “What’s the name of the machine Medic uses to heal us?”

Soldier stood up proudly. “The Uberinator!”

Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Incorrect. Drink.”

Soldier saluted and downed his mug.

“Next!” Scout grinned. “What’s Medic’s favorite food?”

Engineer answered without hesitation. “Käsespätzle.”

Jonas blinked, surprised. “Correct.”

Engineer winked. “He made it for us last week. I remember the taste.”

Sniper leaned in. “I remember the way he watched us eat it. Like it meant something.”

Jonas looked down at his coffee, then back at the team. “It did.”

The room quieted for a moment, not solemn, just reflective. Then Scout broke the silence with a loud hiccup and shouted, “Next round! Pyro’s challenge!”

Pyro stood up, raised a sparkler, and handed out paper and crayons to everyone.

“Draw your favorite BLU teammate!” Scout translated.

Spy groaned. “This is barbaric.”

Demo was already drawing a stick figure with a flag and a grenade. “SOLLY!!”

Sniper quietly sketched a figure with goggles and a guitar.

Engineer glanced at it and smiled. “You’re terrible at hands.”

The table was littered with crayon drawings, Demo’s stick figure with a flag and a grenade, Pyro’s abstract masterpiece of everyone hugging a fire, Sniper’s minimalist sketch of Engineer with a guitar and a quiet smile. Scout had drawn himself three times. Spy refused to participate, but Heavy had doodled him anyway, lounging in a wine glass.

The laughter was still rolling when Scout, now flushed and wild-eyed, slammed his hand on the table. “Alright, alright, listen up! One last game. Final round. Winner takes bragging rights for the rest of the week.”

Demo raised his mug. “What’s the game, lad?”

Scout grinned like a goblin with a secret. “It’s called Truth Bomb.”

The room quieted.

“Rules are simple,” Scout continued. “You pull a name from the hat, and you gotta say the one thing you admire most about that person. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just truth. If you refuse, you drink. If you lie, Medic decides.”

Jonas blinked. “I’m the lie detector now?”

“You’re the only sober one,” Scout said, tossing a crumpled paper hat onto the table. “You’re basically the judge.”

Spy groaned. “This is emotional extortion.”

Sniper smirked. “Sounds like therapy with alcohol.”

Engineer chuckled. “I’m in.”

One by one, names were drawn.

Demo pulled Pyro. He paused, then said, “I admire how you make chaos feel safe. Like a fire that warms instead of burns.”

Pyro clapped and handed Demo a drawing of a smiling fire with sunglasses.

Soldier pulled Jonas. He stood tall. “I admire your refusal to surrender to weakness. You patch us up even when we don’t deserve it.”

Jonas nodded, quietly moved.

Spy pulled Engineer. He sighed. “I admire your ability to fix what others break. Even when it’s not machines.”

Engineer blinked, surprised. “Thanks… I think.”

Sniper pulled Scout. He stared at the name, then looked up. “I admire your ability to bounce back. You get knocked down, humiliated, ignored, and you still show up swinging.”

Scout looked stunned. “Dude…”

Heavy pulled Jonas. He looked at him with quiet reverence. “I admire your heart. You carry pain, but you do not let it poison you. You heal even when you are hurting.”

Jonas’s hand trembled around his coffee mug.

The room was silent.

No one laughed. No one jeered.

It was the kind of silence that held everything, the battles, the bruises, the mercy, the meals, the quiet glances and the loud grief.

Just as the laughter began to settle and mugs clinked in a lull, Scout shot up from his seat like a firework misfiring sideways.

“Hold up, hold up!” he shouted, wobbling slightly as he climbed back onto the chair. “We ain’t done yet! One more round of Truth Bomb!”

Groans and cheers erupted in equal measure.

Spy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mon dieu…”

Sniper leaned back against Engineer’s leg, smirking. “You just want more dirt.”

“Damn right I do!” Scout grinned. “This time, no repeats. If you get someone you already talked about, you gotta share a secret instead. And Medic still decides if it’s real.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee like a judge presiding over a trial of clowns. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You didn’t say no either,” Scout shot back, tossing the crumpled paper hat into the center of the table.

Pyro clapped excitedly, already reaching for a slip of paper.

Pyro pulled Heavy. They held up a drawing of Heavy cradling a kitten, then pointed to it and gave a thumbs-up.

Heavy blinked. “You admire my… kitten skills?”

Pyro nodded vigorously.

Heavy smiled. “I accept.”

Engineer pulled Spy. He hesitated, then said, “I admire how you always know when someone’s lying, even when they’re lying to themselves.”

Spy looked at him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “That is… accurate.”

Demo pulled Jonas. He hiccuped, then grinned. “I admire how you make pain feel less lonely.”

Jonas blinked, stunned. “Thank you.”

Sniper pulled Engineer. He glanced at the paper, then at the man beside him. “I admire the way you solve any situation.

Engineer didn’t speak. He just reached over and squeezed Sniper’s hand.

Scout pulled Sniper. He paused, then said, “I admire how you always know when someone needs space… and when they don’t.”

Sniper looked up, surprised. “That’s… not bad, mate.”

Scout shrugged. “I pay attention. Sometimes.”

The team erupted in cheers, mugs clinking, Pyro lighting a sparkler that immediately set off the fire alarm.

Jonas sighed, already reaching for the extinguisher.

 

The final round of Truth Bomb had left the room glowing, not just from Pyro’s sparklers, which had mercifully been extinguished before setting off another alarm, but from something deeper. The kind of warmth that only comes when people speak plainly, without armor.

Not a single truth had been dodged, twisted, or drowned in drink. And because of that, the base felt different. Softer. Like the walls themselves had exhaled.

Jonas remained seated, his coffee long gone cold, but he didn’t mind. He watched his teammates with quiet affection as the night began to fold in on itself.

Scout was the first to crash, curled up on the couch with one leg dangling off the edge, a crayon still tucked behind his ear. He mumbled something about “winning the emotional Olympics” before snoring mid-sentence.

Demo had passed out beside him, one arm draped over a half-finished drawing of a rocket-powered beer mug. His other hand clutched a bottle like it was a teddy bear.

Soldier had fallen asleep standing up, saluting the wall, his drink still balanced on his helmet. No one dared move it.

Pyro lay curled up like a cat near the fireplace, surrounded by a nest of paper drawings. One showed the whole team asleep together under a giant blanket labeled “Safe.”

Engineer had slumped back in his chair, guitar resting across his lap, fingers still curled around the neck like he’d been playing in his dreams. Sniper sat beside him, head tilted back against the wall, one arm draped loosely over Engineer’s shoulder. Their breathing had synced, slow and steady.

Heavy had settled on the floor, legs crossed, back against the wall. He looked like a mountain at rest, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips. His hand rested near Jonas’s chair, not touching, just close enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Jonas stood slowly, stretching. He moved quietly, checking pulses, adjusting blankets, nudging mugs out of reach. Not as a Medic. As a friend.

He paused beside Sniper and Engineer, watching the way their bodies leaned into each other even in sleep. There was no performance there. Just trust.

Jonas smiled.

He dimmed the lights, one by one, until the base was bathed in soft amber. The hum of machines faded into the background. The only sounds were breathing, the occasional snore, and the gentle creak of the building settling around them.

Jonas sat back down, finally letting himself rest.

Chapter Text

The sun rose reluctantly over the BLU base, casting a pale, unforgiving light on the aftermath of the previous night’s chaos. The corridors reeked of stale alcohol, sweat, and regret, a cocktail of misery that clung to every surface like a fog. For most of the mercenaries, waking up felt like crawling out of a battlefield, heads pounding and stomachs churning. Groans echoed from bunks and behind closed doors, curses mumbled into pillows as the weight of hangovers settled like lead in their bones.

But not everyone had been swallowed by the storm.

Spy, ever the enigma, emerged from his quarters with only a faint headache and a ruined suit. The fabric was stained with something unidentifiable, possibly wine, possibly Demo’s experimental punch, but he didn’t flinch. That particular suit had been a thrift store acquisition, chosen more for its anonymity than elegance. He had dozens more tucked away, pristine and pressed. With a cigarette dangling from his lips and a dismissive flick of ash, Spy moved through the wreckage like a ghost, untouched and unimpressed.

Jonas, on the other hand, had no such luxury.

He had risen early, as always, drawn by the promise of coffee and the quiet before the storm. But the moment he stepped into the mess hall, mug in hand, the silence shattered. One by one, the mercenaries began to stir, Scout stumbling in with bedhead and a bruised ego, Demo clutching his head and muttering about “the cursed spirits,” Soldier shouting nonsense about drilling in his skull. Pyro padded in silently, eyes bleary behind the mask, and Heavy followed soon after, his usual stoicism dulled by a pounding skull.

Jonas sighed, setting his mug down with a quiet clink that echoed faintly in the mess hall’s stale air. The scent of burnt toast and lingering alcohol hung heavy, and the medic moved with quiet urgency, slipping down the corridor to his infirmary. He bypassed the more potent supplies, opting instead for safe, over-the-counter painkillers, gentle enough for hangovers, strong enough to dull the worst of the morning’s regrets.

When he returned, the scene had shifted.

Scout was standing near the table, shirt half-buttoned, hair a chaotic mess, and seemingly locked in a heated argument with himself. His gestures were wild, his voice rising and falling in a slurry of half-formed complaints and dramatic reenactments of last night’s antics. It might’ve been amusing if not for the groans of the other mercs, Demo clutching his head like it might split in two, Soldier was surprisingly quiet, and Pyro curled up silently in the corner, rocking gently.

Jonas paused, noting with quiet relief that Engineer and Sniper were still asleep, undisturbed by the chaos. Engineer’s soft snoring could be heard from the hallway, and Sniper hadn’t moved from his, hat tipped low over his eyes. Their peace was a small mercy.

Jonas began distributing the painkillers, his movements calm and methodical. A pill here, a glass of water there. No lectures, no judgment, just care. But when he reached Scout, the younger merc hesitated, his hand hovering over the offered tablet like it might bite him.

Jonas tilted his head, concern flickering across his face. “Something wrong?”

Scout’s eyes narrowed, and his voice came out thick and bitter. “Why aren’t you using the medi-gun?” he slurred, the words sharp despite their lack of precision.

Jonas blinked, caught off guard. The question wasn’t new, but the tone was. There was anger in it, resentment, maybe. A demand for something more than aspirin and empathy.

He knelt slightly, keeping his voice low. “The medi-gun’s not meant for this. It’s for battlefield trauma, not hangovers.”

Scout scoffed, his voice thick with irritation and the remnants of last night’s liquor. He swayed on his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the table for balance, the other gesturing wildly as if trying to swat away the ache in his skull.

“So what?” he snapped, eyes glassy and unfocused. “You can fix bullet holes but not a headache? What kinda medic are you?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Jonas flinched, not visibly, but inwardly, a subtle tightening in his chest. He knew Scout didn’t mean it. Pain had a way of distorting thought, turning frustration into venom. Logic didn’t stand a chance against the rawness of suffering. Still, the sting lingered, and with it came an unwelcome image: the RED Scout, crumpled in the snow, his body twisted unnaturally, blood blooming across white drifts like spilled ink. He remembered the cold, the silence, the way his gloves had trembled.

He blinked the memory away, forcing a breath through his nose. The mess hall was warm, alive with groans and muttered curses. This Scout, his Scout, was here, angry and hurting, but alive.

Jonas offered a small, wobbly smile, the kind that tried to bridge the gap between care and exhaustion. He held out the painkiller again, palm steady despite the tremor in his heart.

“Perhaps if you take the pill now,” he said gently, “then the quicker the pain will go away.”

Scout stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the pill and Jonas’s face. For a moment, it looked like he might lash out again. Just as the silence threatened to crack, Demo’s voice broke through like a cannonball through fog.

“Aye,” he said, rubbing his temples and forcing his face into something resembling a grin. “I fancy breakfast right about now.”

Scout blinked, the anger in his eyes flickering like a dying flame.

“Me too,” Soldier mumbled, his voice muffled by the hand cradling his head. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he sat up straighter. “How about we go to that diner? The one with the greasy bacon and the waitress who calls everyone ‘darlin’.”

It was as if someone had flipped a switch.

Scout’s mood shifted instantly. He stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor, snatched the pill from Jonas’s hand, and swallowed it dry. “Yeah, that sounds good!” he said, voice brighter, almost boyish.

Jonas watched the transformation with quiet relief. The storm had passed, for now.

Heavy, seated nearby, took his pill without a word, his massive hand dwarfing the glass of water Jonas had set down. “Hmm. Good idea,” he rumbled, nodding once.

The living room began to stir with new energy. Groggy mercenaries stretched, groaned, and began gathering themselves with the clumsy coordination of a half-drunk parade. Jonas moved among them like a conductor, offering quiet reassurances and the occasional pat on the shoulder.

Then Demo, now standing and adjusting his eyepatch, pointed toward the hallway with a mischievous grin. “Who’s gonna wake the lads?” he asked, nodding toward the closed doors where Sniper and Engineer still slept.

Jonas glanced toward the hallway, his brow furrowing slightly. He knew how deeply both men had sunk into sleep, especially after the emotional toll of the previous night. Sniper had stayed up late, watching over the team in silence, and Engineer had finally collapsed after hours of quiet repair work and whispered comfort.

“I’ll go,” Jonas said softly, already moving toward the hallway. “They deserve a gentle wake-up.”

Demo chuckled. “You’re the only one they won’t punch for it.”

But in the center of it all, Sniper and Engineer remained untouched by the chaos, sleeping like children in a world that had momentarily forgotten its violence.

Jonas approached them with the reverence of someone entering a chapel. Jonas knelt beside him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder, giving it a soft shake.

Sniper’s eyes snapped open, sharp, alert, like a switch had been flipped. But the tension melted the moment he saw Jonas. His gaze softened, and he let out a low, gravelly breath, the kind that carried both relief and exhaustion.

“We’re heading out to a diner,” Jonas said, his voice quiet but warm. He glanced over his shoulder, where Pyro was still curled up in a blanket, rocking gently. “You or Engineer may have to drive. The others are... not in peak condition.”

Sniper groaned softly, stretching his arms above his head with a crack of joints and a muttered curse. Jonas handed him a pair of painkillers, which he accepted without a word. He swallowed them dry, then gave Jonas a faint nod, his way of saying I’m coming.

Jonas moved on to Engineer, his face was peaceful, younger somehow, the lines of worry smoothed by sleep.

Jonas knelt again, brushing a few crumbs from the blanket before gently shaking Engineer’s shoulder. No response. He tried again, a little firmer this time.

Engineer stirred with a groggy mumble, his voice muffled by sleep. “Five more minutes,” he grumbled, shifting under the blanket. “I got a headache worse than the kick of a horse.”

Jonas chuckled softly, the sound barely audible over the din of the waking team. “Then you’ll want to take these,” he said, placing the painkillers in Engineer’s hand. “And maybe let Sniper drive.”

Engineer cracked one eye open, squinting at Jonas like he was trying to remember where he was. Then he sighed, sat up slowly, and took the pills with a wince. “Tell em I’ll be ready in ten.”

 

Back in the mess hall, the team was gathering like a parade of half-functioning machines. Scout had found his shoes, mismatched, but functional. Soldier was barking orders about seating arrangements. Demo was already halfway through a story about the last time he got kicked out of a diner for “creative use of condiments.”

Sniper emerged first, coat slung over one shoulder, eyes still half-lidded but alert. He gave Jonas a nod and moved toward the garage without a word. Engineer followed soon after, rubbing his temples and muttering about needing coffee strong enough to “strip paint.”

Jonas watched them go, then turned to Pyro, who was still curled up quietly. He knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on Pyro’s arm. “We’re going out,” he said softly. “You coming?”

Pyro nodded slowly, then stood, blanket still wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

The van groaned under the weight of bodies and noise, its interior quickly becoming a patchwork of mismatched energy. Scout had launched into a dramatic protest over shotgun rights, arms flailing as he tried to oust Engineer, who was already buckled in and sipping coffee like he’d earned the seat through divine providence. Engineer didn’t budge, he simply gave Scout a look that said not today, kid.

Demo, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to provide musical ambiance. His off-key rendition of a sea shanty echoed through the van, punctuated by Soldier’s enthusiastic harmonizing, if one could call it that. Soldier sang with the conviction of a man leading troops into battle, voice booming and fists occasionally pounding the dashboard in rhythm. Spy sat beside them, arms crossed, eyes closed, enduring the performance with the stoicism of someone who had long since accepted the absurdity of his surroundings.

Jonas settled into the back seat, the quietest corner of the chaos. Pyro was curled beside him, blanket still wrapped around their shoulders, head gently resting against Jonas’s arm. The warmth of Pyro’s presence was grounding, silent comfort in a storm of noise. On Jonas’s other side, Heavy sat like a mountain, arms folded, eyes half-lidded but alert. He didn’t speak, but his presence was reassuring, a silent sentinel in the cramped space.

The engine rumbled to life, and Sniper, ever the quiet driver, pulled out of the base with practiced ease. His eyes were steady on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. He didn’t speak, didn’t react to the chaos behind him. He simply drove, the hum of the tires on gravel a steady rhythm beneath the din.

Jonas glanced around the van, taking in the scene: Scout now sulking but humming along with Demo, Soldier pointing out imaginary landmarks, Spy silently judging them all, Pyro breathing softly, Heavy unmoving, and Sniper focused ahead.

The van pulled into the gravel lot of a roadside diner that looked like it hadn’t changed since the 1950s. Neon signs flickered above the windows, promising bottomless coffee and world-famous pancakes. A plastic cow stood near the entrance, sun-faded and slightly cracked, wearing a paper hat that read Moo Moo Breakfast Special.

Sniper parked with a quiet sigh, and the team spilled out like clowns from a tiny car. Scout was first, stretching dramatically and declaring, “I’m gonna eat everything that doesn’t run away.” Demo followed, still humming, while Soldier marched toward the door like he was storming Normandy.

Spy adjusted his cuffs and muttered something about civilized dining, and Heavy held the door open for Pyro, who gave a slow nod of thanks. Jonas lingered for a moment.

The diner welcomed them like a worn blanket, threadbare but familiar. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling bacon, syrup-soaked pancakes, and coffee that had been sitting on the burner just a little too long. Vinyl booths lined the walls, their cushions cracked and patched with duct tape. A jukebox in the corner played a warbling country tune, and the overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a yellow glow over the linoleum floor.

As the mercenaries stumbled in, their presence filled the space with a kind of chaotic charm. Demo was still humming his sea shanty, Soldier marched in like he was leading a battalion, and Scout immediately began scanning the diner for seats. Pyro shuffled in quietly, blanket still wrapped around their shoulders, while Spy adjusted his coat with the air of someone deeply offended by the decor. Heavy held the door open for Jonas, who stepped in last, his eyes sweeping the room with quiet curiosity.

Behind the counter stood a woman who looked like she’d seen every kind of customer imaginable. Her name tag read Marge, and her towering beehive hairdo defied gravity and fashion trends alike. She wore a faded pink uniform and held a coffee pot like it was an extension of her arm. Her tired smile widened as she took in the group.

“Y’all look like you’ve been through a war,” she said, voice raspy but warm.

Jonas offered a polite smile, but before he could respond, Marge’s gaze settled on him with a flicker of recognition, or maybe curiosity.

“Heya,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I haven’t seen ya before. Ya new?”

Jonas glanced toward the booth where, somehow, the entire team had managed to squeeze in. Scout was already arguing with Demo over syrup etiquette, Sniper had claimed the corner seat with a view of the door, and Engineer was fiddling with the sugar dispenser like it was a puzzle box. Pyro sat beside Heavy, who was scanning the menu with surprising intensity.

Jonas turned back to Marge, his expression softening. “Yeah,” he said, voice low but warm. “I haven’t seen this diner before.”

He ended the sentence with a small chuckle, the kind that carried more weariness than humor. It wasn’t just the diner that was new, it was the moment. The quiet. The fragile peace.

Marge nodded, pouring a fresh cup of coffee and sliding it toward him. “Well, sugar, welcome to the best bad coffee in town. You sit wherever you like. I’ll be right over.”

Jonas took the cup with a quiet “thank you” and made his way to the booth, slipping into the seat beside Pyro. The warmth of the coffee seeped into his hands, grounding him. Across the table, Sniper gave him a subtle nod, and Engineer offered a tired smile.

Marge came over with a pad and pen, her presence oddly comforting. “So, what’ll it be?” she asked, eyes scanning the group. “And don’t all shout at once, I ain’t got the reflexes I used to.”

Scout was already vibrating with anticipation, practically bouncing in his seat like a kid on a sugar high before the sugar. “I want pancakes,” he declared, eyes wide. “Like, a stack so big it’s disrespectful. Whipped cream. Chocolate chips. Syrup. And maybe a milkshake. No, definitely a milkshake.”

Marge raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but amused. “You want water with that?”

Scout flashed a grin that could power a small city. “If it ain’t trying to kill me, it ain’t breakfast.”

She snorted and scribbled Sugar Rush Special onto her pad, underlining it twice.

Next came Soldier, who sat up straight like he was reporting to a general. “I demand eggs, scrambled with military precision. Bacon. Sausage. Toast. Hash browns. And a side of liberty.”

Marge didn’t blink. “You want ketchup?”

“Only if it’s American.”

She wrote Liberty Platter with a flourish.

Demo leaned back in his seat, one eye squinting at the menu like it was a treasure map. “Give me somethin’ explosive,” he said. “Black pudding, fried eggs, baked beans, grilled tomato, and toast. Oh, and a Bloody Mary if you’re brave.”

Marge chuckled, tapping her pen against the pad. “You want a fire extinguisher with that?”

Demo winked. “Only if it’s flammable.”

She jotted down Cannon Breakfast and added a small Bloody Mary with a devilish grin.

Spy folded his hands like he was preparing to deliver a eulogy. “Tea. Earl Grey. Hot. And a croissant. If you must.”

Marge gave him a long, slow look. “You know where you are, right?”

“I am painfully aware.”

She wrote Special Toast with a smirk and moved on.

Pyro, wrapped in their blanket like a soot-streaked burrito, pointed silently at the menu. His finger landed on oatmeal with brown sugar, toast with jam, and hot cocoa with whipped cream. Marge nodded, her tone softening.

“Soft and sweet. Got it.”

She scribbled Cozy Platter and gave Pyro a wink, which he returned with a slow nod.

Heavy rumbled from his corner, voice deep and steady. “Four eggs. Meat. All kinds. Pancakes. No fruit. Coffee. Black.”

Marge blinked. “You want a shovel or a fork?”

Heavy smiled. “Both.”

She wrote Meaty Stack in bold letters.

Engineer adjusted his glasses, scanning the menu with the precision of a man inspecting blueprints. “Bacon and egg sandwich, hash browns, grits if you got ‘em, and a mug of coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”

Marge nodded. “You want oil with that?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

She added Grease Combo to the list and tapped her pen twice.

Sniper didn’t look up from his seat by the window, eyes fixed on the horizon like he was watching for ghosts. “Just toast. Eggs over easy. Black coffee.”

Marge smiled. “You want a side of jelly?”

Sniper gave a slow nod, the kind that said I’ll allow it.

She wrote Classic in her list.

Finally, Jonas hesitated, his voice soft and steady. “Scrambled eggs. Rye toast. A little fruit. And coffee. Just... coffee.”

Marge paused, looking at him a moment longer than the others. There was something in his tone, gentleness wrapped in weariness.

“You want peace with that?” she asked, voice quieter.

Jonas smiled faintly. “If it’s on the menu.”

She wrote Gentle Starter with a small heart beside it, then tucked her pad away and turned toward the kitchen.

As Marge walked off, the team settled into the booth like puzzle pieces in a box too small. Elbows bumped, knees knocked, and voices rose in a chorus of laughter and teasing. Scout was already planning syrup strategies. Demo tried to convince Pyro to trade toast for beans. Soldier began outlining a tactical omelet maneuver. Spy sighed and stared at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

Jonas leaned back, coffee warming his hands, and watched the scene unfold. The diner buzzed with life, jukebox playing soft jazz, plates clattering, Marge shouting orders through the pass window.

And for once, the battlefield felt a thousand miles away.

The kitchen door swung open with a creak and a hiss of steam, and Marge emerged like a seasoned general leading a supply drop. Her arms balanced two trays stacked high with plates, mugs, and silverware, each dish radiating heat and the unmistakable scent of comfort food. Behind her, a younger server followed nervously, eyes wide as he tried to keep pace with the chaos.

“Alright, breakfast brigade,” Marge called out, voice cutting through the din. “Incoming!”

She began setting plates down with practiced precision, each one landing in front of its rightful owner like a medal of honor.

Scout’s Sugar Rush Special hit the table with a dramatic thud. A tower of pancakes leaned precariously under the weight of whipped cream, chocolate chips, and syrup that pooled like molten sugar. A milkshake followed, topped with a cherry and enough whipped cream to qualify as a second dessert. “Oh man,” Scout breathed, eyes wide. “This is art.”

Soldier’s Liberty Platter was arranged like a battlefield map, eggs scrambled into tight formations, bacon crisscrossed like sabers, sausage links lined up in formation, and hash browns stacked like sandbags. “This is breakfast victory,” Soldier declared, saluting his plate before diving in.

Demo’s Cannon Breakfast was a glorious mess of black pudding, fried eggs with runny yolks, baked beans threatening to spill over, and grilled tomato glistening with oil. A Bloody Mary arrived with a celery stalk like a flagpole. Demo raised his glass. “To breakfast!"

Spy’s Special Toast was minimalist: a single croissant, golden and flaky, and a cup of tea that looked suspiciously like hot water with a teabag floating in it. Spy stared at it with quiet disdain. “This is culinary exile,” he muttered.

Pyro’s Cozy Platter was placed with care, oatmeal dusted with brown sugar, toast with strawberry jam glistening under the lights, and hot cocoa crowned with a mountain of whipped cream. Pyro tilted their head, then gave Marge a slow, approving nod.

Heavy’s Meaty Stack was a feast fit for a titan, four eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, pancakes stacked like bricks, and a mug of coffee so dark it looked like it could power a tank. Heavy picked up his fork and knife. “Perfect.”

Engineer’s Grease Combo arrived wrapped in wax paper, the bacon-and-egg sandwich steaming, hash browns crisped to perfection, and a mug of coffee that smelled like it could wake the dead. “Bless your hands,” he said to Marge, already halfway through the sandwich.

Sniper’s Classic was simple and clean, toast, eggs over easy, and black coffee. He gave a quiet nod of approval and began eating with slow, deliberate movements, eyes still scanning the room like he was on watch.

Jonas’s Gentle Starter was last: scrambled eggs soft and buttery, rye toast with a pat of melting butter, a small bowl of fruit glistening with dew, and a steaming mug of coffee. Marge placed it in front of him with a wink. “Peace, served hot.”

Jonas blinked at the comment and murmured a soft “thank you,” wrapping his hands around the mug as the warmth seeped into his fingers.

The table came alive.

Forks clinked against plates. Syrup dripped. Soldier launched into a monologue about the strategic importance of breakfast proteins. Demo tried to convince Pyro to trade toast for beans. Spy quietly slid his tea toward Jonas, who accepted it with a nod and a faint smile.

Scout was halfway through his pancake tower and already planning dessert. “We should come here every week,” he said, mouth full. “Like a team ritual.”

Engineer chuckled. “Only if someone else drives next time.”

Sniper glanced up from his plate. “I’ll drive. Just don’t let Demo navigate.”

Demo raised his glass. “Oi! I got us here, didn’t I?”

“You took three wrong turns,” Soldier said, pointing a sausage at him.

Jonas leaned back, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. The food, the laughter, the bickering, it was messy, loud, and utterly human

Spy, sipping his tea with the air of a man enduring a peasant uprising, didn’t look up. “You are all animals.”

Pyro, nestled beside Jonas, quietly dipped their toast into cocoa, the whipped cream leaving a soft trail on his mask. He didn’t speak, but the slow, contented movements said everything. Jonas glanced at him and offered a quiet smile, then returned to his own plate, scrambled eggs soft and warm, rye toast crisp, fruit glistening like tiny jewels.

Heavy sat like a fortress at the corner of the booth, shoulders hunched over his plate as he worked through his Meaty Stack with the precision of a seasoned craftsman. His fork moved deliberately, slicing through eggs and sausage with the care of someone who respected the ritual of eating. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush. But every few bites, he let out a low, satisfied hum, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the vinyl cushions and settled into the bones of the booth like distant thunder. It wasn’t approval so much as contentment, the kind that came from food that filled more than just the stomach.

Beside him, Engineer was halfway through his Grease Combo, fingers slick with bacon fat and a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His sandwich was already devoured, hash browns crunched between bites, and his coffee, dark, strong, and steaming, sat in his hand like a lifeline. He raised the mug and gave it a reverent sniff before taking a long sip.

“This coffee’s got bite,” he said, voice gravelly but amused. He leaned back slightly, letting the warmth settle into his chest. “Might fix my headache and my wiring.”

Heavy gave a quiet grunt of agreement, not looking up from his plate.

Across from them, Sniper sat at the far end of the booth, angled just enough to keep the diner’s entrance in view. His plate was simple, toast, eggs over easy, and black coffee, but he treated it with the same quiet respect he gave his rifle. Each bite was slow, deliberate, as if he were measuring the weight of the morning in every chew.

He didn’t speak. He rarely did. But every so often, his eyes would flick toward Engineer, not with suspicion, but with something softer. A glance that lingered just a moment too long. There was no smile, no comment, just a quiet watchfulness. A kind of silent tether.

Engineer didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and chose not to acknowledge it. He was too busy licking grease from his fingers and muttering about the brilliance of hash browns when they’re “done right.”

Sniper’s gaze dropped back to his plate, but the corner of his mouth twitched, barely perceptible, but there.

Jonas, seated just off-center in the booth, watched the exchange unfold with quiet attentiveness. He didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. But he felt it, the subtle tether between Sniper and Engineer. The way Sniper’s gaze lingered, not possessive, not overt, just steady. Grounding. And how Engineer, even in his grease-smudged ease, seemed to lean into that invisible thread, comforted by its presence without needing to name it.

Jonas’s eyes drifted down to his plate. The scrambled eggs were soft, buttery, flecked with pepper. The rye toast had just the right crunch, and the fruit, simple slices of apple and orange, glistened under the diner’s buzzing lights. He took a bite, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth settle on his tongue.

It tasted strangely like home.

Not the Germany of his birth, with its sharp seasons and stern kitchens, but something gentler. Something imagined. A place where breakfast was quiet and safe, where the clatter of forks didn’t signal urgency but belonging. Where care was served in small gestures, a refill of coffee, a shared glance, a plate placed gently in front of you.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the flavor melt into memory. The hum of the diner faded into the background, replaced by the soft rhythm of breathing, the occasional chuckle, Pyro’s gentle tapping on their mug.

For that brief, golden moment, Jonas felt the world soften.

The war, the wounds, the weight of mercy, it all receded. And in its place was warmth. Connection. The fragile, beautiful illusion that everything might be okay.

He opened his eyes again, and the booth was still full, Scout licking syrup off his fingers, Demo raising his glass, Soldier drawing tactical diagrams in ketchup. Heavy met his gaze, just for a second, and nodded.

Jonas returned the gesture, quiet and grateful.

 

The booth had quieted. Plates were half-cleared, mugs refilled, and the team’s energy had shifted from chaotic to contented. Scout was slumped against Demo, mumbling about syrup-induced visions. Soldier was sketching tactical nap formations on a napkin. Pyro had curled into his blanket again, cocoa in hand, while Spy stared into his tea like it had personally offended him.

Jonas sat back, his plate nearly empty, the last bite of rye toast resting untouched. He wasn’t hungry anymore, he was full in a different way. The laughter, the warmth, the way Heavy had nodded at him earlier, it had settled something inside him.

Beside him, Heavy was still working through his Meaty Stack, slow and steady. He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. But Jonas could feel the quiet presence of him like a mountain at his side, solid, unmoving, safe.

Jonas glanced over, watching the way Heavy cut his pancakes with surgical precision, how he paused between bites to sip his coffee and hum softly, a sound that rumbled more than it sang.

“You always eat like this?” Jonas asked, voice low, not wanting to disturb the peace.

Heavy looked up, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Yes,” he said simply. “Food is important. You treat it with respect.”

Jonas nodded. “I think I needed this more than I realized.”

Heavy studied him for a moment, then set down his fork. “You give much,” he said. “To team. To pain. To silence.”

Jonas blinked, surprised by the clarity in Heavy’s words.

Heavy continued, voice quiet but firm. “You hold others when they break. But you must be held too.”

Jonas looked down at his coffee, fingers tightening around the mug. “I don’t know how to ask.”

Heavy reached out, not with words, but with action. His massive hand rested gently on Jonas’s shoulder, warm and grounding. It wasn’t a squeeze. It wasn’t a grip. It was presence.

“You do not need to ask,” Heavy said. “We are here.”

Jonas swallowed hard, the lump in his throat unexpected. He nodded, unable to speak, and let the moment settle between them like snow.

Outside, the sun had begun to rise higher, casting golden light through the diner windows. The jukebox played something soft and old. And for a few precious minutes, Jonas let himself lean, not just physically, but emotionally, into the quiet strength beside him.

 

The team shuffled out of the diner in a loose, satisfied formation, Scout still buzzing from syrup overload, Demo humming a tune that didn’t quite match the jukebox, and Soldier barking. Pyro trailed behind, blanket wrapped around their shoulders like a cape, while Spy muttered something about needing a palate cleanse. Engineer and Heavy walked side by side, their steps slow and full, and Sniper had already reached the van, unlocking it with a quiet click.

Jonas lingered near the counter, his mug now empty, his plate cleared. He moved to follow the others, but just as he reached the door, a gentle tap on his shoulder stopped him.

He turned to find Marge standing there, holding a tall to-go cup with a swirl of whipped cream and a cherry perched on top. The milkshake was frosty, thick, and unapologetically sweet.

“It’s on the house, sugar,” she said with a wink, her voice softer now, almost maternal. “You looked like you needed a little extra today.”

Jonas blinked, surprised. His fingers curled around the cup, the chill biting into his skin. “Thank you,” he said, voice quiet, touched.

Marge gave a nod, already turning back toward the counter. “Come back anytime. You bring that crew in again, I’ll start charging double.”

Jonas chuckled, stepping out into the morning light. The sun had risen higher now, casting long shadows across the gravel lot. The van waited, engine idling, Sniper in the driver’s seat with one arm resting on the window frame.

Jonas climbed in, settling into the back beside Pyro, who leaned gently against him once more. He took a sip of the milkshake, vanilla, rich, nostalgic. It tasted like something from a simpler time. Like kindness in a paper cup.

As the van pulled away, laughter still echoing from the booth behind them, Jonas looked out the window and let the sweetness linger.

Jonas felt a gentle tap on his arm, soft, deliberate. He turned to see Pyro beside him, blanket still wrapped around their shoulders like a cocoon, mask tilted slightly in his direction. Pyro didn’t speak, but the gesture was unmistakable: a small, upward motion of their gloved hand, followed by a subtle tilt of the head toward the milkshake in Jonas’s hand.

Jonas blinked, then smiled.

The milkshake was still cold, the whipped cream slightly melted now, the cherry bobbing in the swirl like a buoy. It had been a gift, a quiet kindness from Marge, but Jonas had never thought of it as his alone. Not in a van full of people who had shared laughter, food, and the fragile peace of a morning without gunfire.

He offered the cup without hesitation, holding it out gently.

Pyro took it with both hands, cradling it like something precious. They stared at it for a moment, then dipped their head and pulled their mask up, then took a slow sip through the straw. The sound was faint, almost reverent. When they pulled back, Pyro gave a small, satisfied nod and handed it back with care.

Jonas accepted it, fingers brushing Pyro’s glove in the exchange. “Good?” he asked softly.

Pyro responded with a slow thumbs-up, then leaned against Jonas again, their weight light but grounding.

The van hummed steadily along the cracked asphalt, tires crunching over loose gravel as the morning sun cast long shadows across the roadside. Inside, the team had settled into a comfortable lull, Scout was dozing with his head against the window, Demo quietly humming, and Pyro gently tapping their fingers against Jonas’s arm in rhythm with the music leaking from the van’s old radio.

Jonas took another sip of his milkshake, the sweetness grounding him, then glanced out the window. Something tugged at the edge of his thoughts, a detail, a schedule, a responsibility. His brow furrowed.

“Wait,” he said aloud, voice cutting gently through the quiet. “Weren’t we supposed to have a match today?”

The van stirred slightly. Engineer blinked awake, Sniper’s eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror, and Soldier grunted from the middle row.

Spy, seated beside Demo, didn’t look up but answered with a dry tone. “Canceled.”

Jonas turned toward him. “Canceled?”

Spy finally glanced over, adjusting his cuff. “RED team requested it. Something about internal injuries and ‘strategic recalibration.’ Likely just something idiotic.”

Demo snorted. “Strategic recalibration my arse. They probably drank themselves into a coma last night.”

Soldier perked up. “Cowards!”

Sniper didn’t speak, but his grip on the wheel relaxed slightly, as if the confirmation had lifted a weight. Jonas leaned back, letting the news settle.

No match. No bloodshed. No need to brace for screams and triage.

Just a quiet drive, a milkshake, and the soft hum of a team.

Jonas exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Good,” he murmured. “They can recalibrate. We’ll recover.”

Heavy gave a low, approving grunt. “Rest is good. Team needs it.”

Chapter Text

After an eventful breakfast shared at the diner, plates scraped clean, coffee cooling in half-finished mugs, the BLU team had come to a silent agreement: today would be for rest. No drills. No repairs. No missions. Outside, the sky hung low and gray, mirroring the heaviness in their limbs. Just the base, and the fragile peace it could offer.

Heavy had been the first to voice it, his deep rumble cutting through the lingering tension. “We rest,” he said simply, and no one argued. Rest was not weakness. It was survival.

For Heavy, rest was more than routine, it was ritual. After the chaos of battle, the adrenaline, the blood, the noise, he needed stillness. It was the only way he knew to cope. Not through words, not through distraction. Just silence, and the weight of his own body reminding him he was still here.

Back at the base, Heavy retreated to his quarters. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the muted light filtering through the blinds. He moved with deliberate slowness, shedding his gear piece by piece like armor. His boots thudded softly against the floor. The room was sparse but familiar: a steel-framed bed, a shelf of worn books in Russian, and a box full of fur Sniper had given him.

Heavy lowered himself onto the mattress with practiced care. The pillow beneath his head was cool, its fabric faded but miraculously intact after years of use. He pulled the weighted blanket over his broad frame, its pressure grounding him like a hug from someone long gone. His muscles, always tense, began to loosen. His breathing slowed.

The conditions were perfect. The room was dim, the hum of the base distant and comforting. But sleep would not come.

Heavy clenched his eyes shut, harder this time, as if he could block out the image that haunted him most: Medic’s face at the moment of respawn. Pale, stunned, eyes wide with something between horror and disbelief. The battlefield had been merciless, and Medic had seen it all, every brutal death, every scream, every torn body Heavy couldn’t protect.

Heavy couldn’t remember if he’d apologized. He doubted he had. Words were never his strength, especially when guilt sat heavy in his chest like wet stone. But he cared, deeply, fiercely, from the first wary handshake in the briefing room to the quiet moment they’d shared in the back of the van, shoulder to shoulder, neither speaking.

He owed the doktor something. Something more than silence.

Heavy opened his eyes slowly. The room was steeped in darkness, the kind that clung to the corners and made everything feel heavier. He sat up, joints creaking, and shuffled toward the industrial light switch mounted on the wall. The bulb flickered once before flooding the room with harsh white light, casting long shadows across the floor.

His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to a memory etched in frost: Medic trudging through deep snow, his coat soaked, his breath visible in the frigid air. He’d stumbled, legs trembling, and Heavy had lifted him without a word, cradling him against his chest like something fragile. Medic hadn’t protested. He’d simply leaned into the warmth.

Heavy smiled faintly.

Then came another memory, Medic stepping outside the base, the cold biting through his coat like teeth. He’d shivered violently, hands tucked into his sleeves, face drawn tight. The others had noticed, too. But it was Heavy who’d felt the ache of it most.

An idea bloomed, quiet and certain.

A gift. Not grand. Not loud. Just something warm.

Heavy turned toward the corner of his room, where a wooden crate sat beneath the shelf. Inside, nestled among scraps of cloth and old gear, was a box of fur, soft, thick, and untouched. Beside it lay a sewing kit, its needle glinting under the light.

He knelt beside it, large hands surprisingly gentle as he sorted through the materials. He chose a dark sable fur, rich and warm, and began to sketch the shape of an ushanka in his mind. One with ear flaps, lined with fleece. Something that would shield Medic from the cold.

Heavy worked slowly, methodically. Each stitch was deliberate, his fingers moving with surprising precision for a man built for war. The room was quiet except for the soft sound of thread pulling through fabric and the occasional creak of his chair.

He didn’t rush. This wasn’t just a hat, it was an apology. A gesture. A memory stitched into warmth.

As he sewed, he thought of Medic’s laugh, sharp and sudden, like a spark. He thought of the way Medic’s hands trembled after a particularly brutal match, and how he always tried to hide it.

The hat was beginning to take shape beneath Heavy’s careful hands. Each stitch was deliberate, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble as they guided the needle through layers of fur and fleece. The outer shell, made from dark sable fur, was soft yet durable, chosen not just for warmth, but for the quiet dignity it carried. Inside, he lined it with thick fleece, the kind that held heat even in the bitterest cold. It would cradle Medic’s head like a cocoon, shielding him from the biting wind that had so often made him shiver.

The ear flaps were stitched with reinforced seams, designed to be tied securely beneath the chin. Heavy tested the ties gently, ensuring they wouldn’t fray or snap under strain. He wanted this hat to last, not just through winter, but through the wear and tear of war, through long nights and longer recoveries.

On the left side, he added a small patch of blue, BLU team’s color, subtle and respectful. It wasn’t loud or boastful, just a quiet nod to the family they’d built through fire and fracture.

But it was the final touch that mattered most.

Heavy reached for a separate piece of cloth, dyed a deep, solemn blue. He cut it into the shape of a cross, not the stark, clinical symbol worn by Medics of old, but something more thoughtful. The edges were softened, the lines slightly curved, almost like a gesture of mercy. It was stitched with silver thread, catching the light just enough to be seen but not flaunted.

This cross was meant to honor Medic’s role, not just as a healer, but as a man who had chosen kindness in a profession often twisted by cruelty. It was a symbol shared by RED and BLU alike, but Heavy had altered it deliberately. It was designed to separate Jonas from the legacy of immoral medics who had treated pain as currency and patients as tools.

Heavy sat back, the finished ushanka resting in his lap. He ran a hand over the fur, then over the cross, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t just a hat. It was an apology. A shield. A quiet declaration of respect.

And it was ready.

Heavy stood outside Medic’s quarters, the ushanka cradled in his hands like something sacred. The hallway was dim, lit only by the flickering overhead bulb and the soft hum of the base’s heating system. He raised his hand and knocked once. The sound was firm, but gentle, intentional. Not the kind of knock that demanded attention, but one that asked for it.

Inside, Jonas stirred from his quiet haze. He’d been hunched over his desk, surrounded by a scatter of medical notes, half-read journals, and a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. The steam still curled upward, thin and ghostly, like a breath held too long. The knock startled him, not because it was loud, but because it was rarely something good. No one would knock unless something mattered. And knocks at this hour usually meant chaos.

Jonas straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of his shirt and adjusting his posture to appear alert, professional. Not like someone who had just been drifting in the quiet void of exhaustion and memory.

“Who is it?” he asked, voice soft but steady.

“It’s Heavy,” came the reply, low and unmistakable.

Jonas exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Heavy stepped inside. His silhouette filled the frame, broad and imposing, but his movements were slow, deliberate, almost reverent. He didn’t speak. He simply crossed the room, each footfall muffled against the concrete floor, and placed the ushanka gently on the desk beside Jonas’s untouched tea.

The soft fur caught the light, rich and dark, the stitching precise. The blue cross on the side shimmered faintly, its silver thread catching the glow of the desk lamp. It wasn’t just a symbol, it was a statement. A quiet one, but unmistakable.

Jonas blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process what he was seeing. His hand moved instinctively, fingertips brushing the fur, then trailing along the edge of the cross. The texture was warm, the stitching deliberate. His breath caught in his throat.

“You made this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Heavy nodded once. “For you.”

Jonas lifted the hat with both hands, as if afraid it might vanish. The fleece lining was soft against his palms, the stitching precise. He turned it slowly, taking in every detail, the ear flaps, the blue patch, the cross that looked familiar but… different. It wasn’t the cold, clinical symbol he started wearing not that long ago. It was warmer. Gentler.

Jonas swallowed hard. “It’s beautiful.”

Heavy shifted slightly, unsure what to say. “You were cold,” he murmured. “And… you saw too much.”

Jonas looked up, eyes glassy but steady. “So did you.”

They stood in silence, the weight of shared memory pressing gently between them. Then Jonas did something unexpected, he put the hat on. It fit perfectly, the flaps resting against his cheeks, the warmth immediate.

He smiled. Not the tight, polite smile he gave during briefings. A real one. Soft. Grateful.

“Danke,” he said, voice thick. “This… this means more than you know.”

Heavy gave a small nod, then turned to leave. But before he reached the door, Jonas spoke again.

“I’ll wear it tomorrow,” he said. “Even if the sun’s out.”

Heavy paused, then smiled to himself. “Good.”

 

Evening crept in faster than anyone expected, the sun dipping behind the horizon and casting long shadows across the base. The air had a celebratory hum to it, subtle, but present. Dinner time arrived, but just like breakfast, no one had the energy, or the will, to cook. The mess hall remained untouched, its counters clean, pans stacked, and the stove cold. It wasn’t laziness. It was something else. A collective agreement that tonight should be different. Tonight should feel like a reward.

Even Spy had emerged from his smoke-filled sanctuary, trading his usual solitude for the company of the team. He leaned against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers, watching the others with his usual air of detachment. Heavy, too, had left the comfort of his quiet room, his expression unreadable but present. That alone said enough.

They gathered in the common room, scattered across couches and chairs, the mood light but indecisive. The question hung in the air like steam from a forgotten kettle: Where should we eat?

It wasn’t simple.

Spy, ever the connoisseur, suggested a French bistro in town, linen tablecloths, candlelight, a wine list longer than the mission logs. “Something with dignity,” he said, exhaling smoke. “We are not savages.”

Soldier, seated stiffly on the arm of a couch, barked his counterpoint. “Savages? I say we go where the meat is grilled over fire and served with patriotism! American barbecue! Ribs! Brisket! Freedom!”

Demo laughed, already halfway through a bottle of something strong. “I’ll eat anywhere that doesn’t serve food in test tubes.”

Scout chimed in from the floor, tossing a baseball between his hands. “What about that burger joint by the highway? Greasy, loud, perfect.”

Engineer rubbed his temples. “We need somewhere that won’t get us kicked out in ten minutes.”

Heavy finally spoke, his voice low and steady. “We go somewhere warm. Somewhere with table big enough for all of us.”

Spy raised an eyebrow. “And where would that be, mon ours?”

Heavy gave a slow shrug, his massive shoulders rising and falling like tectonic plates. “We find it,” he said simply, his voice a low rumble that carried quiet certainty. He wasn’t one for long speeches, just action. If the team needed a place to eat, they’d find one. Together.

Sniper, who had been leaning against the wall with arms crossed and hat tipped low, finally spoke up. His voice was dry, edged with fatigue. “I’d rather not drive hours away,” he muttered, the words clipped and practical. He hated long drives. The idea of sitting in a cramped van with Scout’s chatter and Soldier’s patriotic playlists made his eye twitch. Hell, Sniper was lucky Soldier didn’t bring his cassette with him this morning.

Engineer, seated nearby with water in hand, nodded in agreement. “Same here. We’ve got good places within twenty minutes. No need to cross state lines for a steak.”

Scout, sprawled across the arm of the couch and bouncing a rubber ball against the floor, groaned dramatically. “But Snipes! The good stuff’s in the city! Burgers the size of your head, milkshakes with bacon in ‘em, neon signs, music, vibe!”

Spy, who had been quietly polishing his cufflinks and pretending not to listen, let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Mon dieu… I cannot believe I am about to say this, but I agree with the loud one.” He glanced at Scout with visible disdain. “Though I detest his taste in volume and footwear, he is correct. The city offers refinement. Ambiance. Wine that doesn’t come in a plastic jug.”

Scout grinned. “See? Even fancy pants agrees!”

Spy raised a gloved hand, silencing him. “I will drive. But I will choose the restaurant. I refuse to dine anywhere that serves food wrapped in paper.”

Soldier, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly stood tall. “If there is no barbecue, I will riot.”

Demo chuckled from his seat, swirling a glass of something that smelled strong. “Let’s just hope Spy’s idea of refinement includes meat.”

Jonas, seated quietly with a book half-open in his lap, looked up. “As long as it’s warm and we’re together, I don’t mind.”

Heavy nodded slowly. “Then we go.”

 

The evening air was crisp, tinged with the scent of motor oil and the distant hum of city life that Scout remembers. Sniper’s van sat idling in the lot near the base, its paint faded and windshield smudged with the fingerprints of a dozen of solo missions and camping trips. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was reliable, and tonight, it was their chariot to dinner.

One by one, the team piled in. The mood was a patchwork of anticipation and reluctant compromise. Most were eager to eat, their stomachs growling after a long day of rest and recovery. But not everyone shared the enthusiasm.

Soldier climbed into the back with a theatrical huff, arms crossed and jaw clenched. “This is a betrayal of barbecue,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Scout followed, flopping into the seat beside him with exaggerated groaning. “We’re gonna end up at some place with tiny portions and no ketchup,” he complained, kicking the seat in front of him.

Jonas, quiet and observant, was invited to take the front passenger seat by Spy before he left, a gesture of respect more than convenience. He hesitated for only a moment before nodding politely. “Thank you,” he said, settling in with his satchel tucked neatly between his feet. He didn’t want to be rude, and truthfully, he preferred the calm of the front seat to the chaos brewing in the back.

Then came Spy.

He approached the van with his usual air of elegance, a folded bed cloth draped over one arm like a waiter presenting fine linen. Without a word, he opened the driver’s side door and unfurled the cloth, laying it carefully over Sniper’s seat. The gesture was deliberate, almost ceremonial, an effort to shield himself from the “unclean” surfaces of a vehicle he deemed beneath him.

Sniper, already seated in the passenger-side rear, narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious?” he muttered, voice low and unimpressed.

Engineer, seated beside him, gave a slow shake of his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s just disrespectful,” he murmured.

Spy didn’t respond. He adjusted the cloth with a final flourish, then slid into the driver’s seat with the poise of a man entering a ballroom. “If I must drive,” he said coolly, “I will do so with dignity.”

The rest of the team found their places, pairing off with friends or simply choosing seats that wouldn’t spark arguments. Demo squeezed in beside Soldier and Pyro, who was already sketching something in a small notebook. Heavy took the rear corner, arms folded, content to observe. The van was full, the air thick with clashing personalities and unspoken alliances.

As Spy pulled out of the lot, the van lurched slightly, prompting Soldier to grumble about “foreign handling.” Scout leaned over and fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that wasn’t classical or talk radio. Spy slapped his hand away without taking his eyes off the road.

Jonas glanced out the window, watching the city lights blur past. He could feel the tension in the van, not hostile, but layered. Spy’s choice of restaurant was still a mystery, and the uncertainty gnawed at the more vocal members of the team.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Engineer asked, leaning forward slightly.

Spy smirked. “Somewhere with cloth napkins and food that doesn’t come in buckets.”

Soldier groaned. “This is treason.”

Heavy chuckled softly from the back. “Is just dinner.”

Jonas turned slightly toward Spy. “You chose it for all of us?”

Spy nodded. “I chose it for the occasion. We won. We deserve more than grease and noise.”

Jonas didn’t argue. He simply nodded, appreciating the sentiment even if the delivery was... theatrical.

As the van rolled deeper into the city, the team settled into a rhythm, grumbling, joking, teasing. Despite the complaints, no one asked to turn back.

Jonas sat quietly in the front passenger seat, his gaze drifting out the frost-laced window as Spy drove with calculated precision. The snow outside stretched endlessly across the landscape, blanketing the world in a soft, shimmering white. It reminded Jonas of the Christmas scenes he’d seen in old films, glowing storefronts, quiet streets, and the kind of peace that felt almost fictional. Here, though, it was real. The snow muffled the world, turning the drive into something dreamlike.

The radio played softly, an instrumental jazz piece with gentle piano and brushed drums. It filled the van with a warmth that contrasted the cold outside. Jonas closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music settle into his chest like a balm. For once, there was no shouting, no alarms, no gunfire. Just snow, music, and the quiet hum of the van.

Behind him, the team was a patchwork of personalities and moods.

Demo and Pyro were deep in conversation, voices low but animated. Pyro had pulled out a sketchpad and was scribbling furiously, their gloved hand moving with chaotic energy. The drawing, held up for Demo’s approval, looked like a cartoonish monstrosity, an oversized cannon with googly eyes and a flag that read Boom! Demo laughed heartily, slapping his knee. “Aye, it’s ridiculous, but I love it!”

Soldier sat beside them, arms still crossed in protest, leaning slightly toward Demo as if trying to inject discipline into the chaos. “That weapon lacks tactical integrity,” he grumbled, though his eyes lingered on the sketch longer than he’d admit.

Scout and Heavy sat in the middle row, unusually quiet. Scout had his hood pulled up, earbuds in, tapping his foot to a beat only he could hear. Heavy stared out the opposite window, his expression unreadable, hands resting on his knees. He wasn’t sulking, just thinking. Always thinking.

At the very back, Engineer and Sniper shared a seat, their heads tilted toward each other. Their voices were too soft to catch, but every so often, Jonas heard a chuckle, low, genuine, and warm. Sniper’s hat was tipped forward, shadowing his eyes, while Engineer leaned in with a quiet smile. Whatever they were saying, it was theirs alone.

Jonas opened his eyes again, glancing at Spy. The man was focused, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the radio dial with surgical precision. His posture was straight, his expression unreadable. But Jonas noticed the way Spy had chosen the music carefully, the way he drove smoothly over icy roads, the way he hadn’t rushed.

Spy was trying. In his own way.

Jonas turned slightly in his seat, his voice soft. “You chose the music?”

Spy didn’t look away from the road. “Of course. I refuse to let our victory be celebrated with static and shouting.”

Jonas smiled faintly. “It’s nice.”

Spy glanced at him, just briefly. “You are welcome, docteur.”

The van continued through the snowy landscape, headlights carving a path through the white. The city lights began to appear in the distance, warm, golden, and inviting.

 

The van pulled into the restaurant’s gravel lot, headlights cutting through the snow-dusted air. The building stood modestly at the edge of town, brick walls, a sloped roof, and warm amber light glowing through frosted windows. A carved wooden sign above the door read The Hearth & Oak, its lettering elegant but inviting.

Spy parked with precision, turning off the engine as if concluding a symphony. The team sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the heater fading, breath fogging slightly in the chill. Then doors opened, boots crunched against snow, and the team filed out, some stretching, others shivering, all curious.

Inside, the restaurant was a world apart from the cold. The air was warm, scented with roasted garlic, smoked meats, and fresh bread. A fireplace crackled near the far wall, casting flickering shadows across rustic wooden beams. The lighting was soft, golden, and forgiving. It made even the most battle-worn faces look gentler.

A hostess greeted them with wide eyes, nine men, one masked figure, and a Medic who looked like he’d stepped out of a war memoir. But she recovered quickly, ushering them to a long table near the fire. It had been set with care: cloth napkins, polished cutlery, and a centerpiece of pinecones and candles.

As they settled in, something shifted.

The tension from the van dissolved. Soldier, still grumbling, found himself distracted by the scent of smoked brisket wafting from the kitchen. Scout leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the menu with genuine interest. Demo and Pyro resumed their sketching, now with napkins and crayons borrowed from a nearby child’s table. Engineer and Sniper sat close, their quiet conversation continuing, now punctuated by the occasional smile.

Jonas took his seat beside Heavy, who passed him a warm roll without a word. Across the table, Spy adjusted his napkin with surgical precision, then raised a glass of water like it was champagne.

“This,” he said, “will do.”

Scout leaned forward across the long wooden table, the menu flapping slightly in his hand as he pointed to a particularly indulgent item, some towering burger stacked with smoked gouda, caramelized onions, and a fried egg. His eyes sparkled with excitement, the kind that only came from discovering something greasy and glorious in a place that smelled like rosemary and refinement.

“I can’t lie, Spy,” he said, grinning wide. “This place, yeah, it’s fancy, but it’s got amazing options. Like this one!” He spun the menu around and held it up for inspection, practically bouncing in his seat.

Spy, seated with perfect posture and a glass of red wine in hand, glanced at the menu with a raised brow. His gaze lingered on the burger for a moment longer than expected. Then, with a subtle nod, he replied, “Acceptable. Though I will not be partaking in anything that drips.”

Scout smirked. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

Jonas sat with the menu unfolded in his hands, the soft candlelight casting a warm glow across the pages. The paper was thick, textured, clearly printed with care. He ran his thumb along the edge, appreciating the small details: the embossed logo at the top, the elegant serif font, the faint scent of rosemary and ink.

He scanned the options slowly, savoring the quiet. The restaurant offered a blend of rustic comfort and refined indulgence. There were dishes he recognized, roasted chicken with thyme jus, potato gratin, warm rye with whipped butter, and others that felt like distant memories from a life before war: duck à l’orange, mushroom risotto, a winter salad with poached pear and candied walnuts.

His eyes lingered on the soup section. Carrot ginger bisque with crème fraîche. That sounded gentle. Warm. Something that wouldn’t weigh him down but would settle the nerves still humming beneath his skin.

He glanced toward the dessert list, not expecting much, but paused at one entry: Black Forest cake with kirsch-soaked cherries. His breath caught slightly. A German classic. Familiar. Comforting. He hadn’t tasted one in years.

Jonas folded the menu slightly, resting it against the edge of the table. Around him, the team was still immersed in their own selections, Spy scanning the wine list like a general reviewing battle plans, Scout pointing excitedly at the burger section, Soldier muttering about portion sizes, and Pyro drawing a flaming steak on the back of a napkin.

Sniper and Engineer were still talking in low tones, their menus forgotten between them. Heavy sat quietly, watching Jonas with a calm, unreadable expression.

Jonas looked up and met his gaze. “They have Black Forest cake,” he said softly.

Heavy nodded once. “You should get it.”

Jonas smiled faintly. “I think I will.”

Just then, the waitress approached, pen poised and smile practiced. The team quieted, menus lifted, orders ready. But Jonas kept his folded, already decided.

The waitress stood poised with her notepad, her smile warm but slightly wary as she glanced across the long table of mismatched men. She’d likely never served a group quite like this, soldiers, mercenaries, a masked figure. But she handled it with practiced grace.

Spy gestured to her first, ever the gentleman. “I’ll begin,” he said, folding his menu with precision. “The duck à l’orange, medium rare. And a glass of your Bordeaux, 2018 if available.” He handed the menu over like a contract.

Scout leaned forward next, grinning. “I’ll take the double-stacked burger with gouda, fried egg, extra bacon. And fries. And a milkshake. Chocolate. No, vanilla. Wait, can I get both?”

The waitress chuckled. “Swirl it is.”

Soldier barked his order like a command. “Brisket platter. Double portion. No vegetables. And a root beer. The real kind. None of that diet nonsense.”

Demo raised his glass in salute. “I’ll have the lamb shank with garlic mash. And whatever stout you’ve got on tap. Surprise me.”

Pyro tapped the menu with a gloved finger, pointing to the flaming steak special. The waitress nodded, clearly used to nonverbal orders. “Medium rare?” she asked. Pyro gave a thumbs-up and a happy wiggle.

Engineer glanced at Sniper, then spoke calmly. “I’ll take the smoked pork chop with apple glaze. And a sweet tea, please.”

Sniper didn’t look up from his mug. “Same,” he said quietly, earning a small smile from Engineer.

Heavy, seated at the far end, spoke last among the group. “Stew. The beef one. With bread.” His voice was low, but firm. “And tea.”

Finally, Jonas folded his menu and placed it gently on the table. “Carrot ginger bisque. And the Black Forest cake for dessert.” He paused, then added, “And a cup of chamomile tea.”

The waitress scribbled quickly, nodding as she confirmed the last few details. “I’ll get these started. Shouldn’t be long.”

As she walked away, the table settled into a hum of conversation. Spy leaned back, satisfied. Scout bounced in his seat. Soldier muttered about the strength of American meats. Demo and Pyro resumed their sketching. Sniper and Engineer shared a quiet glance. Heavy closed his eyes briefly, as if already tasting the stew.

The Hearth & Oak’s dining room had settled into a gentle hum, clinking glasses, soft laughter, the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Then came the moment the team had been waiting for: the arrival of the food.

The waitress returned with a small entourage of servers, each carrying steaming plates and bowls that filled the air with the scent of roasted meats, herbs, and fresh bread. The table, once scattered with menus and napkins, transformed into a feast.

Spy’s duck à l’orange was plated like a painting, slices fanned out with a drizzle of citrus glaze, garnished with microgreens. He gave a satisfied nod, lifting his wine glass with quiet approval. “Finally,” he murmured, “a meal worthy of our victory.”

Scout’s burger landed with a satisfying thud, stacked high and glistening with melted cheese and crispy bacon. His eyes lit up. “Oh man, look at this beast!” he said, already reaching for the fries. “This is gonna be messy and perfect.”

Soldier’s brisket platter was a mountain of meat, flanked by cornbread and a side of baked beans. He saluted the plate before digging in. “This is what freedom tastes like!”

Demo’s lamb shank arrived with a rich garlic mash, the bone jutting out like a trophy. Pyro’s flaming steak was served with a dramatic flourish, still sizzling, with a carved pepper shaped like a flame. Pyro clapped softly, delighted, and began sketching the plate before eating.

Engineer and Sniper received their matching pork chops, glazed with apple and served with roasted root vegetables. Sniper gave a quiet grunt of approval, slicing into the meat with practiced ease. Engineer leaned in, murmuring something that made Sniper smirk and shake his head.

Heavy’s stew came in a deep ceramic bowl, thick and hearty, with a side of warm rye. He dipped the bread slowly, savoring the first bite with closed eyes. “Is good,” he said simply.

Jonas’s carrot ginger bisque was placed before him with a swirl of crème fraîche and a sprig of dill. He inhaled the steam, letting the warmth settle into his chest. It was gentle, comforting, exactly what he’d hoped for. He glanced down the table, watching his teammates laugh, eat, and relax.

As the last plate was set down and the steam from the food curled into the warm air, Demo pushed back his chair slightly and stood, glass in hand. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes held a rare clarity, less wild, more grounded. The team quieted instinctively, forks paused midair, conversations trailing off.

Demo raised his glass, the amber liquid catching the firelight. “Alright, lads, and Pyro,” he began, earning a muffled giggle from Pyro and a few chuckles around the table. “Before we dig in and turn this table into a battlefield of bones and crumbs, I want to say something.”

He looked around the table, his gaze lingering on each face, Spy’s poised elegance, Soldier’s rigid pride, Scout’s restless grin, Heavy’s quiet strength, Jonas’s soft attentiveness, Sniper and Engineer’s closeness, Pyro’s gentle creativity.

“We’ve had our share of hell,” Demo continued, voice steady. “Blood, bruises, humiliation hour, and more than a few nights where I thought we’d never see the next sunrise. But tonight, tonight we eat like kings. Not because we won, but because we’re still here. Together.”

He raised his glass a little higher. “To surviving. To laughing. To finding warmth in the cold. And to the people who make this mess of a life worth living.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Heavy nodded solemnly. Spy lifted his glass with quiet approval. Soldier saluted with his fork. Scout clinked his milkshake against Demo’s glass with a grin. Jonas smiled softly, eyes glinting with emotion. Sniper and Engineer exchanged a glance, then raised their glasses in unison. Pyro held up their crayon sketch of a flaming steak like a banner.

“To us,” Demo finished.

And with that, the team dug in, forks clattering, laughter rising, the warmth of the moment settling deep into their bones.

Jonas sat with his spoon poised over the last few swirls of carrot ginger bisque, the bowl still warm against the chill that lingered in his fingers. He took another slow sip, letting the flavors settle on his tongue before swallowing.

The bisque was velvety, smooth as silk, with a gentle heat that bloomed at the back of his throat. The ginger wasn’t overpowering; it was subtle, like a whisper of warmth beneath the sweetness of roasted carrot. There was a faint note of citrus, maybe orange zest, that lifted the earthiness just enough to make it feel bright. The crème fraîche added a cool contrast, softening the spice and giving each spoonful a delicate finish.

It was comfort food, but refined. Not heavy. Not loud. Just quiet warmth in a bowl.

Jonas dipped a piece of rye into the remnants, soaking up the last of the bisque. The bread was dense, slightly sour, with a crust that cracked just enough to be satisfying. It reminded him of home, not the battlefield, not the base, but the quiet kitchens of his childhood, where food was a language of care.

He glanced around the table. The others were deep into their meals, Scout licking his fingers, Soldier carving through brisket like it was a mission, Pyro sketching their steak mid-bite. Spy was savoring each forkful like a critic, and Heavy was methodically working through his stew, eyes half-closed in contentment.

Then, as if on cue, the waitress returned with a small plate in hand. A slice of Black Forest cake, layered with rich chocolate sponge, whipped cream, and glistening kirsch-soaked cherries. The scent of cocoa and cherry liqueur rose gently into the air.

Jonas smiled.

Jonas dipped the last piece of rye into the remnants of his bisque, savoring the warmth and subtle spice that lingered on his tongue. The bowl was nearly empty now, but he didn’t rush. His gaze kept drifting toward the dessert plate just beyond his reach, the Black Forest cake, rich and dark, its layers of whipped cream and kirsch-soaked cherries glistening under the soft candlelight.

He didn’t touch it yet. He just looked.

Heavy, seated beside him, had been quietly working through his stew, methodical and calm. He noticed Jonas’s lingering stare and set his spoon down with a soft clink.

“You are waiting,” Heavy said gently, his voice low and steady.

Jonas blinked, then gave a small smile. “I suppose I am.”

Heavy leaned slightly toward him, his presence grounding. “You like this cake?”

Jonas nodded. “It’s familiar. My mother used to make it for holidays. Not often. Just when things felt... worth celebrating.”

Heavy looked at the dessert, then back at Jonas. “Tonight is worth.”

Jonas hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the plate. “I didn’t expect to feel like celebrating. Not after everything.”

Heavy didn’t press. He simply picked up his spoon again, stirring the stew slowly. “You gave mercy. You stayed kind. That is reason.”

Jonas finally picked up his fork, slicing into the cake with care. The chocolate sponge was soft, the cream light, the cherries tart and soaked in memory. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and let it settle. As Jonas took another slow bite of the Black Forest cake, the flavors unfolded gently, rich chocolate sponge softened by whipped cream, the cherries sharp and soaked in kirsch, their sweetness edged with something deeper. It was indulgent, yes, but also familiar. A taste that tugged at memory, at warmth, at something long buried beneath duty and silence.

He glanced to his side, where Heavy was finishing the last spoonful of his stew, wiping the bowl clean with a piece of rye. Jonas hesitated for a moment, then turned slightly and slid the dessert plate toward the center of the table, the fork resting gently atop the half-eaten slice.

“You should try it,” he said softly, voice barely rising above the hum of the restaurant. “It’s... good. Familiar.”

Heavy reached out, his fingers surprisingly gentle for their size, and took the fork. He sliced off a modest piece, lifting it carefully to his mouth. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. Then he nodded once, a deep, approving gesture.

“Is good,” he said. “Warm. Like memory.”

Jonas smiled, the kind that didn’t need to be wide to be real. “Exactly.”

 

Jonas sat quietly at the end of the long table. The others were still eating, still laughing, still immersed in the warmth of the evening. Scout was on his third milkshake. Demo was retelling a story with dramatic hand gestures. Pyro had turned their napkin sketches into a miniature paper sculpture. Sniper and Engineer were still quietly talking, heads close, smiles soft.

Jonas didn’t speak. He just watched.

And thought.

The bisque had warmed him. The cake had comforted him. But now, with the meal behind him and the candlelight flickering low, the quiet returned. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that echoed.

He thought about the last few weeks. The humiliation hour. The way RED had cornered them, broken them, made them feel like animals. He remembered the look in Engineer’s eyes after the torture, the shame, the silence. He remembered Sniper shielding him, standing between him and the worst of it, saying nothing but staying close.

He remembered the moment of mercy, when he’d broken his oath and spared RED Pyro and Sniper. The way his hands had trembled. The way his heart had clenched. The way he’d wondered if kindness had made him weak.

He remembered the silence after victory. The guilt. The shock. The way the others had looked at him, not with judgment, but with something heavier. Understanding.

Jonas stared at the empty plate, fingers resting lightly on the edge. He felt tired. Not just in his body, but in his spirit. The kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. The kind that came from holding too much for too long.

He thought about the previous Medic, the cruelty, the legacy of pain. He feared becoming that. He feared that war would wear him down until mercy felt like a mistake. His plate was clean, his tea cooling beside his hand, but his thoughts had turned inward, drawn not to the warmth of the restaurant, but to the cold corners of memory.

Before the war. Before the uniform. Before the title of Medic had hardened into something functional and feared.

He had been a doctor. A civilian. A healer in a quiet clinic tucked between apartment blocks and bakeries. The walls had smelled of antiseptic and chamomile tea. The patients had come with coughs, sprains, broken hearts. He had known their names. Their stories.

And he had failed some of them.

One memory rose unbidden, sharp as glass. A man, middle-aged, tired, uninsured. He’d come in with chest pain, eyes wide with fear. Jonas had checked his vitals, run what tests he could. But the man had no coverage. No money. The hospital refused transfer. Jonas had argued, pleaded, but policy was policy.

The man died two days later. Alone.

Jonas had written the report himself. Cause of death: myocardial infarction. Preventable. If only.

Another memory followed, quieter, but no less cruel. A young woman, barely twenty, with a rare autoimmune disorder. She’d needed a specialist, a treatment Jonas couldn’t provide. He’d referred her, followed up, even called the hospital himself. But the system was slow. She deteriorated faster than the paperwork moved.

She died in hospice. Her mother had thanked Jonas for trying.

He hadn’t felt worthy of the thanks.

There were others. Names he couldn’t forget. Faces that surfaced in dreams. Patients he couldn’t save. Patients he wasn’t allowed to save. The weight of bureaucracy. The cruelty of delay. The helplessness of watching someone slip away while you held the tools but not the permission.

That was before the battlefield. Before blood became routine. Before mercy became rebellion.

Now, as a Medic, he broke rules daily. He stitched wounds without clearance. He spared enemies when he saw humanity in their eyes. He gave care freely, recklessly, because he knew what it meant to be denied.

But the guilt lingered. Not just from the war, but from the quiet deaths that came before it.

Jonas stared into his tea, the steam rising like ghosts. Around him, the team laughed and ate and lived. And he was grateful. But he was also haunted.

Because healing had never been simple.

Jonas felt it rising before he could name it, a tightness in his throat, sharp and sudden, like grief catching him mid-breath. The warmth of the restaurant, the laughter of his teammates, the flicker of candlelight, it all blurred for a moment, drowned beneath the weight of memory and regret.

He pushed back his chair gently, careful not to draw attention. “Just stepping out for a moment,” he murmured to no one in particular, voice steady but thin. Heavy glanced up, eyes quietly tracking him, but didn’t speak.

Jonas slipped through the front door and into the night.

Outside, the cold hit him like a balm, crisp, clean, and quiet. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked a few steps away from the entrance, the restaurant’s golden glow casting long shadows behind him. The sky above was a deep velvet, stars scattered like distant promises. His breath fogged in the air, visible proof that he was still here, still breathing.

He leaned against the railing near the parking lot, hands tucked into his coat, and let the silence settle.

The cold air did little to clear Jonas’s mind. If anything, it sharpened the edges of his thoughts, made them clearer, more vivid. He stood alone beneath the soft snowfall, breath fogging in the dark, and let the memory of the previous Medic settle in his chest like a stone.

He hadn’t meant to think about him. Not tonight. Not after warmth and laughter and cake. But the silence had opened a door, and the past walked through uninvited.

The previous Medic had been brilliant. Efficient. Respected, in a way. But he had also been cruel. Detached. He treated wounds like puzzles, patients like test subjects. Jonas had heard the stories, how he’d let pain linger just to study its effects, how he’d withheld anesthesia to “observe resilience,” how he’d stitched with precision but no care.

Jonas had inherited his tools. His station. His title.

And sometimes, when the battlefield grew too loud, when the blood came too fast, Jonas feared he’d inherited more than that.

The moment he chose mercy. When he spared RED Pyro and Sniper. The previous Medic wouldn’t have hesitated. Wouldn’t have flinched. Wouldn’t have cared. Hell, he wouldn’t be thinking about it right now.

Jonas did.

And that terrified him.

He didn’t want to be that. He didn’t want to be cold.

But he was tired.

So tired.

The snow fell softly around him, muffling the world. And for a moment, Jonas let himself feel it all, the guilt, the grief, the exhaustion. He didn’t push it away. He didn’t bury it. He just stood there, letting the cold hold him while the warmth inside waited.

Jonas stayed outside longer than he meant to. The cold had numbed his fingers, but he welcomed it, it gave him something tangible to feel, something simpler than guilt or memory. Snowflakes clung to his coat and lashes, melting slowly, quietly. The silence out here was different from the one inside. It didn’t ask anything of him. It just let him be.

He closed his eyes and let the air fill his lungs. Deep. Slow. The kind of breath he used to take between surgeries, when the weight of someone else’s life sat in his hands. He remembered that feeling. The pressure. The responsibility. The helplessness.

But he also remembered the moments that followed. The ones where someone lived. Where someone walked out of his clinic with a second chance. Where a mother cried with relief. Where a child smiled through stitches.

He wasn’t that doctor anymore. The battlefield had changed him. But not completely.

He opened his eyes and looked back at the restaurant. Through the frosted windows, he could see the team, Scout gesturing wildly with a fry, Demo laughing with his whole body, Pyro showing off a napkin sculpture, Sniper and Engineer still close, still quiet. Heavy was watching the door, waiting.

Jonas straightened his coat, brushed the snow from his shoulders, and stepped away from the railing. His boots crunched softly as he walked back toward the entrance. The lump in his throat had eased, not vanished, but softened. The ache in his chest was still there, but it no longer felt like it would break him.

He wasn’t ready to forget. But he was ready to return.

As Jonas stepped back into the restaurant, the warmth wrapped around him like a blanket, soft, fragrant, alive with laughter and the fading clatter of plates. The team was beginning to stir from their seats, the meal winding down, conversations shifting from food to fatigue. Coats were being shrugged on, napkins folded, Scout already trying to pocket leftover fries.

Jonas moved quietly toward the table, not expecting anyone to notice. He didn’t want to interrupt. He just wanted to rejoin.

But Heavy noticed.

He was still seated, his coat draped over one arm, watching the door as if keeping vigil. When Jonas returned, Heavy didn’t speak right away. He simply reached out and gently tugged Jonas’s chair back into place, a silent invitation to sit again, even if only for a moment.

Jonas hesitated, then nodded and sat. His hands were cold, but his chest felt steadier.

Heavy leaned in slightly, voice low and steady. “You are alright?”

Jonas didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the empty dessert plate, then at the team, Demo still laughing, Pyro showing Spy a napkin sculpture, Sniper and Engineer standing close, Scout trying to convince Soldier to steal a centerpiece.

Then he looked at Heavy.

“I will be,” Jonas said quietly.

Heavy nodded once, the kind of nod that didn’t ask for more. “Good,” he said. “We go soon.”

Jonas folded his hands in his lap, letting the warmth of the room settle around him again. The lump in his throat had faded. The ache in his chest hadn’t vanished, but it no longer felt like it would swallow him whole.

The drive back to base was quiet, but not empty. The van hummed along the dark road, its headlights cutting through the mist that had begun to settle over the hills. Inside, the team was subdued, not from exhaustion, but from contentment. The soft crackle of the radio filled the space between them, playing old rock ballads and gentle jazz, the kind of music that didn’t demand attention but offered comfort.

Jonas sat near the back, watching the snowfall blur into streaks against the glass. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The warmth of the meal lingered in his chest, but the cold of memory still clung to his ribs. He let it be.

When they arrived, the van rolled to a gentle stop in the gravel lot. One by one, the team disembarked, boots crunching against frost. No orders. No chatter. Just quiet nods and parting gestures. They scattered like embers, each to their own corner of the base.

Jonas didn’t care where they went. Not tonight.

He walked slowly toward the infirmary, the snow whispering beneath his steps. The hallway lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows against the concrete walls. The door to his space creaked open with familiar resistance, and the warmth inside greeted him like an old friend.

There, on the table near the cot, sat the ushanka.

Heavy’s gift.

Jonas paused, letting the sight of it settle. The hat was exactly as he’d left it, carefully placed, fur brushed smooth, the shape preserved with reverence. He stepped closer, reaching out with quiet hands, and ran his thumb along the edge.

The fur was soft. Real. Not synthetic. Not standard issue. It held warmth even in the cold room, as if it remembered the hands that stitched it. Heavy’s hands. Rough, deliberate, kind.

Jonas lifted the hat gently, turning it in his palms. That’s when he saw it again.

A new emblem.

A new beginning.

Jonas sat down slowly, the hat resting in his lap. He stared at the emblem, thumb tracing its edges, and felt something shift inside him. Not a dramatic revelation. Not a sudden healing. Just a quiet acknowledgment:

He was still here.

Still choosing kindness.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. Inside, Jonas breathed deeply, the warmth of the fur grounding him. The ghosts of the past lingered, but they no longer spoke so loudly.

And tomorrow, he would keep going.

Chapter Text

The morning began askew, like a record skipping just slightly off rhythm. Demo stirred from sleep far earlier than usual, earlier even than Soldier, whose internal clock was usually set to some ungodly hour dictated by patriotism and caffeine. The barracks were still cloaked in a soft hush, broken only by the distant hum of the base’s generators and the occasional creak of old pipes.

Demo sat up slowly, blinking against the pale light filtering through the blinds. His head, surprisingly, didn’t throb. No pounding drums, no swirling nausea. Just... clarity. It was unnerving. His mind felt too quiet, too clean. Like someone had swept away the usual clutter of regrets and half-remembered revelry. He rubbed his temples, suspicious of the stillness. Good things didn’t last. Not for him.

Still, he pushed the thought aside with a grunt and shuffled into the kitchen, bare feet against cold tile. The fridge greeted him with its usual groan, and he stood there for a moment, staring into its dim interior like it might offer answers. A half-eaten loaf of rye, a few eggs, leftover sausage from last night’s dinner, and a jar of pickled onions stared back at him.

He made a few trips, fridge, pantry, counter, muttering to himself in a low Glaswegian drawl. Finally, inspiration struck. He set to work with a kind of quiet determination, slicing, sizzling, layering. The result: a hearty breakfast sandwich stacked with toasted rye, fried egg, sausage, and a sharp bite of pickled onion. It was messy, savory, and, he had to admit, perfect.

As he took the first bite, Demo leaned against the counter and let the warmth settle in his chest. The silence of the morning wrapped around him like a blanket, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill it with noise.

Just as Demo was finishing his sandwich, the door creaked open behind him. He turned, expecting Soldier’s usual barked greeting, but instead found Pyro standing there, mask tilted slightly, holding a crumpled drawing in one hand and a half-melted crayon in the other.

Demo blinked. “You’re up early.”

Pyro nodded, stepping forward and placing the drawing on the table. It was a chaotic swirl of color, reds, oranges, and a splash of blue. In the center, Demo could just make out a figure with a bottle in one hand and a spark in the other. It was him. Or at least, Pyro’s version of him.

Demo stared at it for a moment, then looked up. “Is this... me?”

Pyro nodded again, then pointed to the spark. Demo squinted. It wasn’t fire. It was a star.

Something in his chest tightened. He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure what to say. “Thanks, mate. That’s... that’s real nice.”

Pyro didn’t speak, just leaned against the counter beside him, close but not crowding. They stood there in silence, Demo chewing slowly, Pyro humming faintly through the mask. The morning stretched on, soft and strange.

The door to his quarters burst open with the force of a battlefield charge, boots stomping down the hallway like mortar fire. Demo, halfway through flipping another sausage, didn’t flinch, he’d long since learned that Soldier’s mornings were less “rise and shine” and more “launch and conquer.”

“WHO DARES USURP THE SACRED RITUAL OF BREAKFAST PREPARATION?” Soldier bellowed, voice echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Demo didn’t turn. He simply pointed his spatula toward the stove, where the sizzling pan offered its own rebuttal. “Relax, mate. I woke up early. Thought I’d give the eggs a chance to survive for once.”

Soldier halted mid-stride, eyes narrowing. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “Sausage. Rye. Pickled onion. Tactical layering. You’ve weaponized breakfast.”

Demo smirked. “Aye. And it’s bloody delicious.”

Soldier approached the counter like he was inspecting a foreign device. He leaned in, scrutinizing the sandwich with the intensity of a general reviewing battle plans. “This is... unorthodox. Yet effective.”

Then, in a rare moment of quiet, Soldier sat down. Not barked. Not marched. Just sat. Demo slid a plate toward him without a word.

The kitchen held a rare kind of peace, fragile, like morning dew on steel. Demo and Soldier sat in companionable silence, the kind forged not by comfort but by exhaustion and routine. The only sounds were the occasional crunch of toasted rye beneath Soldier’s deliberate chewing and the low mechanical hum of the base stirring to life. Pipes groaned somewhere in the walls, and the distant clatter of a ventilation fan added a rhythmic undertone to the quiet.

Demo watched Soldier out of the corner of his eye. The man chewed with the solemnity of a battlefield general reviewing war plans, eyes fixed on the sandwich as if it might reveal tactical secrets. Then, without ceremony, Soldier gave a single nod, sharp, decisive.

Demo smiled faintly, the gesture more reflex than joy, and turned back to the stove. The skillet hissed as he added another sausage, the scent of sizzling fat curling into the air. Behind him, Pyro sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a fresh sheet of paper. The soft scratch of pencil against parchment was rhythmic, almost meditative. Pyro didn’t speak, didn’t hum, just drew, lost in a world of color and shape.

Still. Everything seemed fine. Too fine.

Demo’s brow furrowed as he stirred the pan. The quiet gnawed at him, not the peaceful kind, but the kind that felt like the calm before a storm. His mind, unusually clear this morning, refused to settle. Something was off. He couldn’t name it, but it clung to him like smoke.

He turned, spatula still in hand, and addressed Soldier. “Aye,” he said, voice low but firm, “are ya going to wake up everyone else?”

Soldier looked up mid-chew, jaw frozen in motion. His eyes locked onto Demo’s, and for a moment, the kitchen held its breath.

Then Soldier slowly set his sandwich down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood. “The troops must rise,” he declared, voice quieter than usual but no less resolute. “The sun has breached the horizon. Sloth is the enemy. I shall rouse them.”

He turned on his heel and marched out, boots thudding against the floor like distant artillery.

Demo watched him go, then glanced at Pyro, who had paused in their drawing to look up. Their head tilted slightly, mask unreadable, but the gesture felt like a question.

Demo shrugged. “Guess it’s time.”

Pyro nodded once and returned to their sketch, the pencil dancing again.

Outside the kitchen, Soldier’s voice began to echo down the hallway, booming commands, declarations of duty, and the unmistakable sound of doors being flung open. The base was waking up, one shout at a time.

Demo sighed, plating the next sandwich. The quiet was gone, replaced by the familiar chaos of morning routine. But for a few minutes, it had been still. And in that stillness, something had shifted, something small.

 

Soldier’s boots struck the hallway like thunderclaps, each step a declaration of war against slumber. His voice, already warmed up from breakfast, erupted with full force:

“WAKE UP, MAGGOTS! THE SUN IS UP AND SO SHALL YOU BE!”

He flung open the first door with the precision of a breaching charge. Inside, Scout was tangled in sheets, one leg hanging off the bed, mouth agape in a snore that could rival a chainsaw. Soldier marched in, grabbed the edge of the mattress, and flipped it with military efficiency.

Scout hit the floor with a yelp. “What the hell?!”

“NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS! THE ENEMY DOESN’T WAIT FOR YOU TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH!”

Scout scrambled upright, hair sticking out in every direction. “Dude, it’s not even six, ”

“EXACTLY! PRIME TIME FOR VICTORY!”

Soldier was already moving, storming into the next room.

The door creaked open with less force, Soldier knew better than to barge in on Spy without some caution. Still, he didn’t knock.

Spy was already awake, sitting in a robe, sipping espresso with the disdain of a man who’d seen too many mornings ruined by shouting.

“Must you?” Spy asked, not looking up.

“YES!” Soldier barked. “THE FRENCH SHALL NOT ESCAPE THE CALL OF DUTY!”

Spy sighed, set down his cup, and reached for his suit jacket. “You are a barbarian.”

“AND YOU ARE A SOLDIER NOW. GET DRESSED.”

Soldier entered to find Engineer slumped over a workbench, goggles askew, surrounded by half-assembled gadgets and a cold cup of coffee. He tapped the metal table with a wrench.

Engineer groaned. “Five more minutes…”

“NEGATIVE. THE ENEMY WILL NOT WAIT FOR YOUR CIRCUITS TO BOOT.”

Engineer blinked blearily, then nodded. “Alright, alright. I’m up.”

Soldier approached Sniper’s door with caution. He knew better than to wake a man who slept with a loaded rifle within reach. He knocked once, then twice.

No answer.

He opened the door slowly.

Sniper was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, boots laced, hat in hand. He looked up, eyes tired but alert.

“Already up,” Sniper said quietly.

Soldier nodded. “Good. You’re the only one who understands discipline.”

Sniper didn’t respond, just stood and followed him out.

Soldier’s next stop was Heavy’s quarters, a room that felt more like a bunker than a bedroom. The door was thick, reinforced. Inside, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of gun oil and tea. A massive blanket covered Heavy like a mountain of wool, and his deep, rhythmic breathing echoed like distant drums.

Soldier didn’t knock. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused.

“COMRADE,” he said, voice steady. “RISE.”

Heavy didn’t stir.

Soldier tried again, louder. “THE ENEMY WILL NOT WAIT FOR YOUR SLUMBER TO END.”

Still nothing.

Then Soldier marched to the foot of the bed and did something unexpected, he placed a hand on Heavy’s shoulder. Not to shake, not to jolt. Just a firm, respectful touch.

Heavy’s eyes opened slowly. He blinked once, then twice, and turned his head.

“Morning,” he rumbled, voice like gravel.

Soldier nodded. “The team is gathering. Demo has cooked an amazing meal!”

Heavy sat up, blanket falling away like a curtain. He stretched, joints cracking, then stood with the grace of a bear rising from hibernation.

“I come,” he said simply.

Soldier stepped back, saluted, and left the room.

Soldier approached Jonas’s door with a rare flicker of restraint. He knew the Medic was not one to sleep deeply, especially after the few times he woke him up, his rest was often light, haunted by the weight of duty and late night coffee. Still, Soldier was a man of principle, and principles demanded consistency.

He knocked once. Loud, but not explosive.

Inside, Jonas stirred. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight. A half-finished book lay on the nightstand beside a small desk lamp. Soldier opened the door slowly, stepping into the quiet like a man entering a chapel.

“MEDIC,” he said, not shouted, but firm. “THE DAY AWAITS. YOUR HEALING HANDS ARE NEEDED.”

Jonas blinked awake, sitting up with a soft groan. His hair was tousled, his expression groggy but calm. “Already?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Soldier nodded. “The team stirs. Breakfast is underway. Pyro has drawn a motivational sun.”

Jonas rubbed his eyes, then gave a small smile. “Alright. I’ll be there shortly.”

Soldier lingered a moment longer, then added, more gently, “Your presence is vital. The troops are steadier when you’re among them.”

Jonas looked up, surprised by the softness in Soldier’s tone. He nodded once. “Thank you?”

Soldier turned and left, boots quieter now, as if honoring the sanctity of the Medic’s space.

By the time Jonas and Heavy arrived, the kitchen was alive with motion. Scout was arguing with Pyro over fridge magnets. Spy sipped espresso with theatrical disdain. Engineer was fiddling with a toaster that didn’t need fixing. Sniper leaned against the wall, eyes half-lidded but alert.

Jonas entered quietly, greeted by Demo with a warm plate and a nod. Heavy followed, taking his usual seat with a grunt of approval.

Soldier stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, surveying his assembled unit.

“All present,” he declared. “The morning has been conquered.”

“Thank you, Soldier, but I shall take it from here,” Spy said, sipping his coffee with theatrical grace before rising to his full height.

Soldier narrowed his eyes but said nothing, folding his arms like a general yielding the floor to a diplomat.

“Gentlemen,” Spy began, his tone crisp and commanding.

Around the table, heads turned. Scout looked up with a mouthful of egg, brow furrowed. Engineer paused mid-toast-butter. Pyro tilted their head, pencil hovering over a half-finished doodle. Demo leaned back, arms crossed, while Sniper raised an eyebrow from his usual shadowed corner. Jonas, still quiet, set down his tea and gave Spy his full attention.

“I understand how this sudden announcement is quite unprofessional of me, ”

“Just spit it out, Spy,” Scout interrupted, glaring. “I’ve got breakfast to eat and zero patience for your Bond villain monologue.”

Spy’s eye twitched, but he smiled thinly. “Very well. I’ll be brief.”

He stepped closer to the center of the room, the morning light catching the edge of his lapel. “We must have a plan ready for today’s match. We must be prepared for anything that may occur. Victory alone is not enough. We’ve learned that the hard way.”

The room shifted. The air grew heavier.

Spy continued, pacing slowly. “We cannot afford another lapse. Not today. The Administrator is watching. RED is watching. And if we falter again, it won’t just be another round of mockery, it’ll be a message. That we are weak. That we are fractured.”

Soldier stepped forward, voice booming. “WE ARE NOT FRACTURED. WE ARE A WALL OF IRON.”

Spy turned to him, eyes cold. “Then let us act like it.”

Sniper finally spoke, voice low. “What’s the plan?”

Spy looked around the room, meeting each gaze. “Five minutes. We meet in the war room. I’ll present the strategy. Everyone attends. No exceptions.”

Scout groaned. “Can I at least finish my damn toast first?”

Demo chuckled, the tension easing just slightly. “Let the lad eat, Spy. We’ll plan. Just not on an empty stomach.”

Spy sighed, relenting. “Fine. Ten minutes. Then we convene.”

 

Breakfast continued, but the air in the kitchen remained taut, like a wire stretched too tight, humming with tension no one wanted to name. Jonas sat quietly at the edge of the table, his rye toast nearly gone, the tea beside him untouched and growing cold. He tried to blame the unease on the looming match, the pressure of performance, the memory of last time’s aftermath. But something else was wrong. Something deeper.

He glanced at Demo across the table. At first glance, Demo looked relaxed, elbow propped on the table, posture loose, a half-smile playing on his lips as he listened to Scout and Pyro bicker over fridge magnets. But Jonas had spent too many hours watching people hide pain behind casual gestures. Demo’s eyes were moving too much. Flicking from face to face, corner to corner, like he was tracking shadows no one else could see.

Jonas took his final bite of toast, chewing slowly, then stood with deliberate calm. His hands trembled slightly as he gathered his plate, and his heart thudded against his ribs like a warning drum. He left the tea behind, it tasted like ash now, and walked to the sink, depositing his dishes with quiet precision.

He hesitated. The feeling in his chest was too familiar: the creeping dread, the sense that something was about to break. He felt foolish for even thinking it. But Demo must’ve felt it too. Jonas could see it in the way his fingers tapped against the table, in the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jonas turned and motioned subtly for Demo to follow him. Demo didn’t notice. Or maybe he was pretending not to.

Jonas straightened his back, inhaled slowly, and summoned the voice he used on patients who refused to admit they were bleeding. Calm. Professional. Unshakable.

“Demo,” he said, with a practiced smile that didn’t touch the worry in his eyes, “may I have a word with you?”

Demo’s expression shifted instantly. The smile faltered. His eyes sharpened. Jonas felt a pang of regret, like he’d just opened a door he wasn’t ready to walk through. But Demo stood, rubbing the back of his neck, and followed Jonas into the living room without a word.

The hallway was quiet. The hum of the base faded behind them. Jonas stopped near the couch, arms folded, trying to steady his breath.

Demo leaned against the wall, one boot scuffing the floor. “What do ya need, lad?” he asked, voice low, casual, but not dismissive.

Jonas dropped the professional tone. “Is it just me,” he said, voice soft, “or is something… off?”

Demo blinked, then chuckled. It wasn’t mocking, it was relief. “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “I thought I was goin’ crazy!”

Jonas let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tension eased, just a little.

“I woke up clear,” Demo continued, eyes distant. “Too clear. Like someone scrubbed my brain with bleach. No headache. No fog. Just… quiet. And it scared me.”

Jonas nodded. “Same. I felt it the moment I stepped into the kitchen. Like something’s watching. Or waiting.”

Demo rubbed his arms, suddenly cold. “You think it’s RED?”

Jonas hesitated. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just us. Still shaken from last time.”

Demo looked at him, really looked. “You still think about it?”

Jonas nodded. “Every day.”

They stood in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but full, of memory, of fear, of unspoken truths.

Then Demo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. “Pyro gave me this earlier,” he said, handing it to Jonas.

Jonas unfolded it. A crayon drawing, two stick figures standing side by side, one with a bottle, the other with a red cross. Above them, a sun with a smiling face. Below, the words: “Together is safe.”

Jonas stared at it, throat tight. “They knew.”

Demo nodded. “They always do.”

Silence settled between them, thick and humming. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but pressed down like fog. Jonas felt it coil around his ribs, a quiet panic that refused to name itself. The concept of mass hysteria flickered through his thoughts, shared delusion, collective dread. Was it possible they were all unraveling together?

Beside him, Demo shifted his weight, eyes scanning the corners of the room. His thoughts were darker, more familiar. The image of a bottle before battle nestled into his mind like an old friend. Comforting. Dangerous. He could almost taste the burn of whiskey, the way it dulled the edges of fear.

Jonas tried to smile, but it wobbled. “Maybe we’re just being paranoid?”

Demo didn’t laugh. He rubbed his thumb against his palm, a grounding gesture. “My father always told me to listen to my gut. Said it saved him more than once. And right now?” He glanced around the room again. “Somethin’s off.”

Jonas swallowed hard, his hands growing clammy. He wiped them discreetly on his coat. “Do you think anyone else feels it too? Other than Pyro?”

Demo hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Sniper’s been quiet. More than usual. And Engineer, he didn’t touch his coffee. That man drinks it like it’s oxygen.”

Jonas’s brow furrowed. “Spy’s tense. Even for him. And Soldier… he’s loud, but it felt forced today. Like he was trying to drown something out.”

Demo leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We’re all feelin’ it. Just in different ways.”

Jonas looked down at the drawing again. The smiling sun. The bottle. The cross. “Together is safe,” he whispered.

Demo stepped closer, voice low. “Then we stay close. No wandering off. No solo heroics.”

Jonas nodded.

The living room began to fill, slowly, like water seeping through cracks. One by one, the team trickled in, Scout bounding in with chaotic energy, Pyro trailing behind with a fresh drawing clutched in their hands, Engineer rubbing sleep from his eyes, and Sniper slipping in quietly, already scanning the room with that hawk-like gaze.

Jonas stood near the edge of the room, watching the shift from stillness to motion. Demo had already peeled away, his boots thudding against tile as he jogged to Soldier’s side. His voice joined the rising chatter, loud and animated, as if the quiet conversation he’d just had with Jonas had evaporated from his memory. It stung a little. Not because Jonas expected Demo to linger in worry, but because it confirmed the feeling gnawing at him: something was being buried.

Heavy entered last, his presence like a slow-moving avalanche, solid, grounding. He caught Jonas’s eye and gave a subtle nod, then motioned with a tilt of his head for Jonas to follow. Without hesitation, Jonas stepped to his side, grateful for the anchor.

“Heavy,” Jonas said softly, keeping his voice low beneath the hum of conversation, “does anything feel… off to you?”

Heavy turned, his brow furrowing slightly. His expression was calm, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Nothing seems off,” he rumbled, voice deep and steady. “Are you okay, Medic?”

Jonas hesitated. The question lingered in the air like smoke. Was he okay? He didn’t feel panicked, not exactly. But his chest was tight, his hands clammy, and the room felt louder than it should. He glanced at Demo, now laughing with Soldier, and then at Pyro, who was quietly pinning their drawing to the wall, a picture of the entire team standing together beneath a storm cloud, all holding umbrellas.

“Perhaps I’m overreacting,” Jonas said finally, forcing a small smile. “It’s just nerves. The match. The memory of last time.”

Heavy studied him for a moment longer, then placed a massive hand gently on Jonas’s shoulder. “You are not weak for feeling. You are strong for asking.”

Jonas blinked, surprised by the softness in Heavy’s voice.

Heavy continued, “If something is wrong, we will face it. Together.”

Jonas nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

They stood side by side as Spy entered the room with his usual flair, gesturing for attention. The war room meeting was about to begin. Plans would be drawn. Roles assigned.

The war room was dimly lit, its walls lined with maps, mission logs, and grainy surveillance photos of RED’s last deployment. A single overhead light cast long shadows across the table where the BLU team had gathered, each member seated with varying degrees of alertness and unease.

Spy stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate. His coat was freshly pressed, his tie perfectly knotted, and his expression unreadable. A steaming cup of coffee rested beside a stack of dossiers, untouched since the meeting began.

“Gentlemen,” he began, voice smooth and deliberate, “today’s match will not be won by brute force alone. RED is adapting. They’ve studied our patterns. They anticipate our chaos.”

He tapped the table once, and a blueprint of the battlefield flickered to life on the projector. “This time, we do not give them chaos. We give them precision.”

Scout leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “So what, we play it boring?”

Spy didn’t flinch. “We play it surgical.”

He pointed to the map. “RED’s Sniper has shifted position in the last three matches, he now favors the northeast ridge. Their Heavy is slower to deploy, but their Medic compensates with aggressive Über timing. Their Pyro has begun flanking through the lower tunnels. We exploit these patterns.”

Jonas silently wonders how Spy knows all of these things.

Spy turned to Soldier. “You will lead the initial push, but not with brute force. You will draw their attention, loud, visible, predictable.”

Soldier saluted. “I shall be the decoy of liberty!”

Spy nodded. “Precisely.”

He turned to Demo. “You will not follow Soldier. You will take the lower tunnel and intercept RED’s Pyro. Quietly. No explosives unless necessary.”

Demo raised an eyebrow. “You want me sneakin’?”

“I want you unseen until it matters.”

Spy moved on. “Engineer, you will set up a false nest near the central bridge. Make it look fortified. RED will waste time trying to breach it.”

Engineer nodded slowly. “And the real nest?”

“Behind the southern ridge. Sniper will cover it.”

Sniper gave a subtle nod, already calculating angles.

“Pyro,” Spy said, turning to them gently, “you will stay close to Medic. Your job is not just defense, it is disruption. If RED breaches our line, you scatter them.”

Pyro gave a thumbs-up, mask tilting slightly.

Finally, Spy turned to Jonas. “Medic, you are the spine of this operation. No heroics. No wandering. You stay with Heavy and Pyro. Your job is survival. If RED tries to isolate you, you fall back. No exceptions.”

Jonas nodded, throat tight.

Spy stepped back, surveying the room. “We do not chase glory today. We chase control. We win by denying RED their rhythm. We win by staying together.”

He paused, letting the silence settle.

“Together is safe,” he added, glancing at Pyro’s drawing pinned to the wall behind him.

The team looked at one another. Something shifted. Not just resolve, but alignment.

Heavy stood first. “We fight smart. We fight together.”

Soldier slammed his fist on the table. “FOR STRATEGIC VICTORY!”

Demo grinned. “Let’s give ‘em a match they won’t forget.”

Spy allowed himself a small smile. “Then let us begin.”

 

As the team began to gather their gear and head toward the deployment zone, the hum of anticipation filled the air, boots thudding against tile, weapons being checked, voices rising in bursts of strategy and banter. Jonas lingered at the edge of the group, eyes scanning the room once more before slipping away unnoticed.

He moved quickly down the corridor, past the war room and into the quiet sanctuary of his infirmary. The lights were dim, the air sterile and still. Cabinets lined the walls, filled with bandages, vials, and instruments that had seen too much pain. But Jonas wasn’t here for medicine.

He crossed to the far corner, where a small wooden shelf held personal items, tokens of comfort in a place built for recovery. There, folded neatly atop a stack of clean towels, was the ushanka.

Handmade, stitched with thick black thread and lined with soft fleece. A quiet apology. A gesture of protection.

He picked it up now, fingers brushing the worn fabric. The weight of it was grounding. He placed it gently on his head, adjusting the ear flaps with care. It was slightly too big, but it didn’t matter. It was his.

As he turned to leave, he caught his reflection in the glass cabinet door. The ushanka sat atop his head like a crown of resilience. He didn’t feel brave. But he looked ready.

Back in the hallway, Heavy was waiting. He stood like a statue, arms crossed, eyes soft beneath his furrowed brow.

Jonas approached, heart still fluttering with doubt.

Heavy looked him over, then nodded once. “You wear it well.”

Jonas offered a small smile. “I needed it.”

Heavy stepped beside him, walking in stride. “You are strong, Jonas. Even when you worry.”

Jonas hesitated. “I just… I keep thinking something’s wrong. Like we’re walking into something we can’t see.”

Heavy’s voice was low, steady. “Then we walk together. And if something comes, we face it. You are not alone.”

Jonas swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Thank you.”

They reached the others just as Spy finished his final briefing. Demo glanced over, eyes catching the ushanka, and gave a subtle grin. Pyro clapped softly, approving. Soldier barked something about “battle-ready headwear.” Scout whistled. Engineer gave a thumbs-up. Sniper said nothing, but his gaze lingered with quiet respect.

Jonas took his place beside Heavy and Pyro, fingers brushing the edge of the ushanka once more.

BLU’s team stood at the threshold of the battlefield, the metal doors groaning open to reveal the dusty expanse beyond, sunlight bleeding through clouds, casting long shadows across the cracked terrain. The air smelled of rust, gunpowder, and something older. Something waiting.

Jonas adjusted the ushanka on his head, the fleece brushing his ears like a whispered promise. Heavy stood beside him, minigun cradled like a sleeping beast. Pyro bounced lightly on their heels, humming through the mask, a fresh drawing tucked into their satchel, today’s emotional armor.

Spy led the formation, coat billowing behind him like a banner of control. “Remember,” he said, voice low but clear, “we do not chase. We hold. We deny.”

Soldier stomped forward, rocket launcher slung across his back, shouting affirmations to the sky. “VICTORY SHALL BE OURS! THE ENEMY SHALL TASTE THE BOOT OF FREEDOM!”

Demo followed close behind, eyes sharper than usual, bottle holstered but untouched. His steps were quieter now, more deliberate. The conversation with Jonas lingered in his chest like a warning bell.

Engineer moved with quiet focus, wrench in hand, a small toolkit strapped to his belt. He glanced at Sniper, who nodded once before vanishing into the shadows of the southern ridge.

Jonas felt the rhythm of the team settle into place, like gears locking into motion. He checked his medigun, fingers steady now, the earlier tremble replaced by resolve. He wasn’t alone. Not this time.

The battlefield stretched before them, trenches, ridges, tunnels, and the distant glint of RED’s base. The silence before the clash was deafening.

Spy raised a hand. “Positions.”

They scattered like threads weaving into a tapestry. Soldier charged forward, Demo peeled off toward the lower tunnels, Engineer veered toward the bridge. Jonas stayed close to Heavy and Pyro, their pace slow but deliberate.

As they moved, Jonas scanned the terrain. No signs of RED yet. But the air felt wrong, too still, too quiet. He glanced at Heavy, who gave a reassuring nod.

“Stay close,” Heavy murmured. “I protect.”

Jonas nodded, heart steadying.

Then, a crack, Sniper’s rifle fired from the ridge. A signal.

Spy’s voice crackled through the comms. “Contact. RED is moving. Stay sharp.”

 

The tunnel swallowed Demo whole, its damp walls pressing in like a throat. The air was thick with the scent of rust and old oil, and each flickering bulb overhead cast long, twitching shadows. He moved quietly, boots brushing against gravel, breath held tight in his chest.

Spy’s orders echoed in his mind, no explosives unless necessary, but Demo had come prepared. Not with grenades. Not with a blade. But with the jagged remains of a bottle, tucked into his belt like a secret. The glass was dulled at the base but wickedly sharp at the neck, its edges glinting faintly in the low light.

He paused near a bend in the tunnel, crouching behind a stack of rusted crates. The sound of breathing reached him, filtered, mechanical, steady. RED’s Pyro. They were close. Too close.

Demo’s fingers curled around the bottle’s neck, the glass biting into his palm. He didn’t flinch. He waited.

The pilot light flickered ahead, casting a soft orange glow against the wall. Pyro stepped into view, weapon raised, mask tilted slightly as if listening.

Demo moved.

He surged forward with the speed of a coiled spring, bottle raised. Pyro turned just in time to catch the glint of glass before Demo slammed into them, driving the jagged edge toward their side. Pyro twisted, flame bursting from the nozzle, but Demo ducked low, the heat licking past his shoulder.

They grappled, bodies colliding in the narrow space. Demo’s bottle slashed through the air, catching Pyro’s arm with a hiss of torn fabric and a grunt of pain. Pyro shoved him back, flame roaring again, but Demo rolled to the side, coming up fast and driving the bottle into the wall beside Pyro’s head, missing, but close enough to make them stumble.

The fight was brutal, close, and silent save for the hiss of fire and the scrape of boots. Demo didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His breath came in sharp bursts, his movements fueled by instinct and memory.

Finally, Pyro faltered, weapon knocked aside, stance broken. Demo didn’t press the attack. He stood, bottle still raised, chest heaving.

Pyro stared at him for a moment, then backed away, retreating into the upper tunnels with a flicker of flame and a low, distorted hum.

Demo lowered the bottle, blood dripping from a shallow cut on his forearm. He looked down at the glass, cracked further now, but still sharp. Still useful.

He tapped his comm. “Tunnel’s clear. Pyro’s scattered.”

Spy’s voice crackled back. “Good. Return to position.”

Demo took one last breath of the tunnel’s stale air, then turned toward the light, the broken bottle still clutched in his hand like a promise.

 

Engineer moved with quiet purpose, boots crunching softly against the gravel as he approached the central bridge. The battlefield was already stirring, Soldier’s voice thundered in the distance, rockets arcing through the sky like declarations of war. RED was watching him. That was the plan.

Engineer didn’t need to shout. His war was silent, built from metal and foresight.

He reached the designated spot, a half-collapsed structure near the bridge, exposed enough to be seen, fortified just enough to look real. Spy’s orders had been clear: Make it convincing. Make it vulnerable. Make them waste time.

He set down his toolbox and began to work. The sentry came together quickly, bolts clicking into place, wires humming with life. He added a dispenser, then a teleporter pad, nonfunctional, but glowing just enough to suggest activity. It was a performance, and Engineer was the stagehand.

He glanced toward the southern ridge, where the real nest waited, hidden, quiet, deadly. Sniper was already in position, watching through the scope, waiting for RED to take the bait.

Engineer wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted his goggles. The decoy was perfect. It looked like a lifeline. It looked like a weakness.

He tapped his comm. “Decoy nest’s up. They’ll bite.”

Spy’s voice came through, crisp. “Good. Hold position. Be ready to fall back.”

Engineer nodded, fingers brushing the wrench at his hip. He didn’t like this part, the waiting. The pretending. It reminded him too much of the last match, when RED had turned their victory into a spectacle. When humiliation had come not from defeat, but from exposure.

He scanned the horizon. RED’s Scout was circling wide. Their Pyro was flaring near the ridge. Their Heavy hadn’t moved yet. But their Sniper, he was missing.

Engineer’s stomach tightened.

Then Soldier’s voice rang out again, louder this time. “I AM THE STORM!”

Engineer looked up just in time to see the rocket trail vanish into the sky.

 

Soldier stood at the edge of the battlefield like a monument carved from war itself, helmet gleaming, posture rigid, rocket launcher slung across his back like a banner of defiance. Spy’s orders had been clear: draw attention, be loud, be predictable. And Soldier had never been more ready to serve.

He marched forward with theatrical purpose, voice booming across the terrain.

“THE ENEMY SHALL KNOW THE NAME OF FREEDOM!” “TO VICTORY, TO GLORY, TO BREAKFAST!”

RED’s eyes snapped toward him. That was the point. Soldier fired a rocket high, not to hit, but to announce. Dust kicked up in a plume, and RED’s formation began to shift. Their Scout darted forward, their Pyro flared to life, their Sniper repositioned. Soldier grinned. The plan was working.

He charged toward the bridge, leaping over debris with the grace of a cannonball. A RED Scout fired wildly, Soldier laughed, spun, and launched a rocket that exploded just behind the Scout’s feet.

“YOU CANNOT OUTRUN THE SPIRIT OF DEMOCRACY!”

But then, something shifted.

From the far ridge, RED’s Sniper had gone quiet. Too quiet. Soldier paused mid-stride, boots skidding against gravel. He turned, scanning the horizon.

A glint.

A crack.

The shot rang out like a thunderclap.

Soldier staggered.

The rocket launcher slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground. He dropped to one knee, hand pressed to his side. Blood bloomed across his uniform, dark and sudden.

“NOT… YET…” he growled, trying to rise, “I AM THE STORM!”

Another shot.

Soldier collapsed.

The battlefield froze.

From the ridge, Sniper’s voice crackled through BLU’s comms. “He’s down. Soldier’s down.”

Jonas felt it like a punch to the chest. Demo stopped mid-tunnel. Heavy’s grip tightened around Sasha. Pyro’s flame flickered, then roared.

Spy’s voice came through, sharp and controlled. “Maintain formation. Do not break.”

But the damage was done.

RED had taken the bait, and the cost was real.

Soldier lay still, his helmet had rolled a few feet away, resting upright, as if still watching the sky.

 

The battlefield was a frozen canvas of chaos, snow churned to slush beneath boots and blood, smoke curling through the air like breath from a dying beast. Jonas stood just behind Heavy and Pyro, the medi-gun clenched in his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The cold bit at his cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

Through the haze, he saw it, Soldier, mid-charge, a blur of red-white-blue and righteous fury. Then the crack of a rifle. A flash. Soldier’s body hit the snow with a sickening finality, limbs twisted, helmet rolling to a stop beside him.

Jonas’s breath caught. “I should’ve done something,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Heavy didn’t look back. “There is nothing you could’ve done,” he said, low and firm. Pyro nodded beside him, their muffled hum solemn, the usual bounce in their step gone.

Sniper’s voice buzzed through the comms, tight and clipped. “Careful. RED’s Medic is off-grid. I think they’re prepping an Über. No clear sight.”

Heavy cursed in Russian, the words sharp and guttural. He turned to Jonas, eyes burning. “How much Über?”

Jonas checked the gauge. “One hundred percent.”

Heavy nodded once. “Then we surprise them.”

Pyro gave a loud, unintelligible mumble, their pilot light flaring in agreement.

Jonas hesitated. “What about Spy’s plan? We’re supposed to hold, ”

Heavy turned, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the snow. “We will fall before Spy’s plan concludes. We must not fall now. We are at an advantage.”

Jonas wanted to argue. Wanted to believe in patience. But Heavy’s conviction was a wall, and Pyro’s flame was already licking at the wind.

They moved.

The trio surged forward, snow crunching beneath their boots, smoke trailing behind them like ghosts. Jonas activated the Übercharge, a blue light flooding Heavy in a radiant shield. They were unstoppable, for a moment.

RED met them head-on.

Pyro’s flame carved through the first wave, scattering RED’s flank. Heavy’s minigun roared, bullets tearing through the air like thunder. Jonas stayed close, medi-gun locked, heart pounding.

Then the light flickered.

RED’s Medic emerged from the smoke, eyes cold, Übercharge already active. Their Heavy stepped forward, shielded, weapon spinning.

The clash was brutal.

Pyro lunged, flame meeting steel. Heavy roared, pushing forward. Jonas tried to keep up, but the snow was slick, the light fading.

Then Pyro fell.

A burst of flame. A scream. Their body hit the ground, mask cracked, pilot light extinguished.

Jonas cried out. “Pyro!”

Heavy turned, rage in his eyes. “Stay behind me!”

But RED’s Heavy was already on him. The miniguns clashed, metal shrieking. Jonas tried to heal, tried to reach, but the Über was gone. The shield had faded.

Heavy staggered. Took one step. Then another.

Then fell.

Jonas dropped to his knees beside him, hands trembling, trying to revive, trying to undo the impossible.

Heavy looked up at him, blood pooling beneath his coat. “Run,” he whispered. “Live.”

Jonas couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Then a shadow fell over him.

The RED Medic.

They stood tall, coat immaculate, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “So gentle,” they said. “So fragile.”

Jonas scrambled back, grabbing his bonesaw. “Stay away.”

The RED Medic laughed. “You mourn. You hesitate. That’s why they die.”

They lunged.

Jonas blocked the first strike, bonesaw meeting bonesaw. The fight was close, desperate. Jonas moved on instinct, slashing, dodging, heart screaming.

The RED Medic stepped from the smoke like a phantom, coat immaculate, bonesaw gleaming, eyes sharp with clinical malice. Jonas froze, heart hammering, fingers tightening around his own weapon.

“You think kindness will save you?” the RED Medic hissed, voice low and venomous. “It won’t. It never does.”

Jonas lunged, desperation fueling his swing. The bonesaw sliced across the RED Medic’s arm, blood splattering onto the snow in a vivid arc. But the wound only seemed to sharpen the predator’s smile.

They retaliated with brutal precision, blow after blow, each one driving Jonas backward. Steel clashed, boots scraped, breath hissed through clenched teeth. Jonas’s grip faltered. His bonesaw slipped from his hand, skidding across the ice.

The RED Medic seized the moment.

They grabbed Jonas by the collar, yanking him forward and slamming him against a crumbling wall. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs. Snow fell from the ledge above, dusting his shoulders like ash.

“You are weak,” the RED Medic whispered, breath hot against Jonas’s ear. “And weakness is death.”

Jonas struggled, hands clawing at the coat, but the RED Medic was already raising their own bonesaw, the blade catching the light like a scalpel poised for dissection.

“One day,” they murmured, eyes gleaming, “you’ll be just like me.”

They smiled, cold, clinical, certain.

“I will be there to watch.”

The blade slashed across Jonas’s side, deep and fast. He cried out, collapsing to his knees, blood pouring through his fingers as he clutched the wound. His mind spun, training kicking in, instincts flaring. Sanitize. Clamp. Stitch. Pressure. But he had no tools. No time. No help.

He looked up.

The RED Medic hadn’t finished. They were watching him bleed, watching him suffer. Purposefully. Methodically.

“How does it feel,” they asked, tilting their head, “being helpless?”

Jonas’s vision blurred. He tasted iron. But his voice was steady.

“I will never become someone like you,” he snarled, eyes burning.

The RED Medic crouched beside him, voice soft. “It’s already too late.”

They stood.

“Goodbye, Medic.”

The final blow came swift and silent.

Jonas’s world tilted. The snow turned black. The battlefield faded.

And the void welcomed him home.

 

Spy emerged from the smoke like a shadow given form, coat billowing, footsteps silent, eyes locked on the scene before him. Jonas lay crumpled in the snow, blood pooling beneath him in a slow, dark bloom. The RED Medic stood over him, bonesaw raised for the final stroke, a cruel smile etched across his face.

Spy didn’t hesitate.

“Et bonsoir à toi aussi,” he murmured, voice like silk laced with venom.

The blade slid between ribs with practiced ease. The RED Medic gasped, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat. His body went limp instantly, collapsing atop Jonas in a grotesque embrace, white coat stained red, face frozen in surprise.

Spy stepped back, breath steady, gaze unreadable.

Jonas didn’t move.

The snow around them was quiet now, save for the soft hiss of wind and the distant crackle of gunfire. Spy crouched beside the bodies, reaching down to retrieve something small and familiar, the ushanka. Its gentle fur was soaked in blood, the once-soft lining now matted and dark.

He held it for a moment, thumb brushing the edge, then tucked it carefully into his coat.

“Both Medics are down,” he said into the comms, voice flat.

The channel erupted.

“Are ya tellin’ me we already lost almost half of our team?” Engineer barked, voice rising with disbelief.

“Seems like it, lads,” Demo replied, breath ragged. “And I’m stuck in their backlines. If Engineer had placed a sentry near the ridge, ”

“Enough,” Spy snapped. “We regroup. Now.”

“I agree,” Sniper added, voice low. “I can’t even find their Sniper, ”

A gunshot cracked through the comms, sharp and final.

Silence.

“Snipes?” Engineer asked, voice suddenly small.

No response.

Spy’s jaw tightened. “Engineer, I recommend you get to respawn. Immediately.”

“I’ll try,” Engineer muttered, already moving, boots pounding against metal as he sprinted through the wreckage.

Spy stood alone in the snow, the bodies at his feet, the battlefield shifting around him like a living thing. The plan had unraveled. The rhythm was broken. And the cost was mounting.

He looked down at Jonas’ body one last time.

“You were too good for this place,” he whispered.

Then he turned, vanishing into the smoke, the ushanka tucked close to his heart.

The backlines of RED’s territory were a graveyard of metal and silence. Demo crouched behind a scorched crate, breath fogging in the cold air, heart pounding like a war drum. The crate was splintered, stained with soot and blood, someone had died here recently. He didn’t want to think about who.

Ahead, perched like a predator, was a sentry. Its barrel swiveled with mechanical precision, scanning the snowfield with cold intent. Demo cursed under his breath. He didn’t have enough stickies to take it out, not without drawing fire, not without dying.

He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing. He’d seen Soldier do it, launch himself with reckless abandon, trusting the blast to carry him. It was madness. It was stupid. It was exactly what he needed.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

He stepped out from behind the crate, the wind biting at his face. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he placed two sticky bombs in front of him, their soft beeping a countdown to chaos. He took a few steps back, inhaled sharply, and looked up at the sky, clouds heavy and gray, like bruises waiting to burst.

Then he ran.

Boots pounding. Breath sharp. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his sprint.

He detonated the bombs.

For a moment, there was no pain. Just air. Just flight.

He soared upward, limbs flailing, the wind roaring past his ears. The battlefield shrank beneath him. He could almost touch the clouds. It felt like freedom. Like escape.

Then gravity returned.

He plummeted, fast and hard, the BLU symbol coming into view like a beacon. He was close. So close.

The impact was thunderous.

Snow exploded around him. His leg twisted beneath him with a sickening crack. Pain shot through his body like lightning. He gasped, breath stolen, heart racing.

He couldn’t move. Could barely think.

But he was alive.

He dragged himself forward, fingers clawing at the snow, blood trailing behind him. The resupply door loomed ahead, silent and still.

He tapped his comm, voice shaking. “Are ya there, lad?”

Engineer’s voice came through, tight with worry. “Yeah. Are ya safe now?”

“I’m in front of resupply,” Demo rasped. “And I broke my bloody leg.”

“I’m comin’,” Engineer said, already moving.

Demo lay back, eyes fluttering. The pain was sharp, constant, but not unfamiliar. He’d felt worse. But this, this was different. This was earned.

He closed his eyes, breath shallow, and waited.

Then he felt it, hands gripping his shoulders, lifting him gently.

Engineer knelt beside him, face pale, eyes wide. “You’re a damn fool,” he muttered, voice thick.

Demo chuckled weakly. “Aye. But I made it.”

Engineer didn’t reply. He just helped him up, one arm around Demo’s back, the other steadying his weight.

The doors to BLU’s respawn chamber hissed open, releasing a faint gust of sterile air. Demo and Engineer stumbled inside, Demo half-dragged, half-limping, his leg a mangled mess of torn fabric and blood. Engineer’s grip was firm but faltering, his own exhaustion etched into every movement.

The room was quiet, too quiet. The hum of the respawn system pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat waiting to restart.

Then the lights flickered.

One by one, the bodies began to form.

First, Soldier, his frame rigid, arms twitching as if still mid-charge. Then Pyro, curled slightly, mask fogged with condensation. Heavy followed, his massive form slumped, chest rising slowly. Jonas appeared next, limp, pale, eyes closed. And finally, Sniper, his body materializing with a faint shimmer, rifle still slung across his back.

The silence broke as consciousness returned.

Soldier gasped, eyes wide, looking around in confusion. Pyro stirred, a soft hum escaping their mask. Heavy groaned, hand twitching toward his side. Sniper blinked once, then twice, before sitting up slowly.

Jonas’s eyes snapped open, and he collapsed.

His body hit the floor with a dull thud, breath ragged, eyes wide and unfocused. The medi-gun clattered beside him, its soft whine echoing in the chamber.

Spy appeared beside Demo and Engineer, stepping from the shadows like a ghost. His coat was dusted with snow, and in his gloved hand, he still held Jonas’s bloodied ushanka.

“Solly!” Demo cried, eyes locking onto Soldier. He tried to lunge forward, but his broken leg gave way beneath him. Engineer lost his grip, and Demo hit the floor hard, a cry of pain tearing from his throat.

“MEDIC!” Demo shouted, voice raw and instinctive.

Jonas heard it.

But he wasn’t fully back yet.

In the void, time had stretched into something unrecognizable. Jonas had floated in silence, thoughts echoing louder than they ever had in life. The RED Medic’s words haunted him, You’ll be just like me. Jonas hated the thought. Hated that it lingered. Hated that part of him wondered if it was true.

The void didn’t comfort him this time. It dissected him.

He felt too aware. Too exposed. His emotions muted, his memories sharp. He wondered if this was always what death felt like. If every time he came back, a piece of him stayed behind.

It felt like eternity.

Then the light came, blinding, sudden, violent.

Jonas gasped as sensation flooded back. His legs gave out, nerves screaming. Pain bloomed in his chest, his side, his head. He was alive. And it hurt.

Then he heard it.

“MEDIC!”

His eyes snapped open, breath catching.

Demo lay on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, leg torn and twisted. His face was pale, eyes wide, hand reaching out, not for help, but for Jonas.

Jonas crawled forward, fingers fumbling for the medi-gun. The familiar hum steadied him. He activated it, the beam locking onto Demo’s chest, stabilizing his vitals.

“Hold on,” Jonas whispered, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you.”

Spy knelt beside him, silent, watching. He placed the ushanka gently beside Jonas, the bloodied fur a quiet reminder.

Jonas didn’t look at it.

He focused on Demo.

Jonas’s medi-gun hummed steadily, its soft glow bathing Demo in cool vapor as the bleeding slowed and the torn muscle began to knit itself back together. Jonas’s hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the lingering echo of the void, its silence still clawing at the edges of his mind. But Demo’s voice had pulled him back. That desperate, instinctive call: MEDIC! It had anchored him.

Demo winced, breath hitching as the pain dulled into a throb. “You’re a bloody miracle, doc,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Before Jonas could respond, a blur of blue barreled toward them.

“Demo!” Soldier shouted, boots skidding across the tile. His eyes were wide, face flushed with urgency. He dropped to one knee beside Demo, arms already reaching.

“Easy, lad,” Demo grunted, trying to sit up.

Soldier didn’t wait. He hooked an arm under Demo’s shoulder, lifting him with surprising gentleness. “You are not falling again, not while I stand!” he declared, voice booming with conviction.

Jonas stepped back, letting Soldier take the weight. The medi-gun powered down with a soft sigh.

Across the room, Engineer stood near the resupply lockers, watching the scene unfold. His shoulders were tense, jaw set. He hadn’t spoken since helping Demo inside.

Sniper approached quietly, rifle slung across his back, boots barely making a sound on the tile. He stopped beside Engineer, gaze flicking toward Jonas, then Demo, then the bloodied ushanka still resting on the bench.

“You saw it?” Engineer asked, voice low.

Sniper nodded once. “All of it.”

Engineer exhaled through his nose. “I should’ve placed the sentry. Could’ve covered Demo’s retreat.”

Sniper didn’t answer immediately. He pulled off his glove, fingers stained with powder and sweat. “Wouldn’t have mattered. RED was ready. They wanted blood.”

Engineer looked down at his wrench, knuckles white. “We lost too many.”

Sniper’s voice was quiet, but firm. “We’re not done yet.”

Engineer turned to face him, eyes tired. “You think Jonas is alright?”

Sniper’s gaze lingered on Jonas, his pale face, the way he stood just a little too still, like someone trying not to shake. “No,” he said.

 

Jonas sat on the edge of the medbay cot, the medi-gun resting beside him like a relic. His hands trembled faintly, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper, something colder. The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the respawn system and the distant murmur of Soldier rallying Demo to his feet.

Jonas stared at the floor.

His ushanka lay nearby, blood still soaked into the fur. Spy had placed it there gently, but Jonas hadn’t touched it. He couldn’t. Not yet.

The void had followed him back.

It wasn’t like the first time. That time had been numb, distant, like floating in warm water. But this time… this time had teeth. His thoughts had echoed too loud, too sharp. The RED Medic’s voice still rang in his ears, You’ll be just like me. Jonas hated that it lingered. Hated that part of him had believed it.

He didn’t feel like himself.

He felt hollow.

Then the floor creaked.

Heavy approached slowly, boots heavy but careful, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the tile. He didn’t speak at first. He simply sat beside Jonas, the cot groaning under the weight.

Jonas didn’t look up.

Heavy reached out, placing a hand on Jonas’s shoulder, warm, steady, grounding.

Jonas swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t want to come back. Not like that.”

Heavy nodded, gaze fixed ahead. “I know.”

Jonas’s voice cracked. “He said I was weak. That mercy is death. That I’ll become him.”

Heavy turned, eyes gentle but firm. “You are not him.”

Jonas finally looked up, eyes glassy. “But what if I am? What if I already, ”

Heavy shook his head. “No. You heal. You care. You mourn. That is strength.”

Jonas blinked, tears threatening. “I couldn’t save you.”

Heavy smiled faintly. “You tried. That is enough.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of grief and survival settling between them like snow. Then Heavy reached down, picked up the ushanka, and placed it gently in Jonas’s lap.

The quiet hum of BLU’s respawn chamber was suddenly shattered by a burst of frantic noise.

Pyro erupted into motion, arms flailing wildly, muffled yells pouring from behind his soot-stained mask. His boots slapped against the tile as he sprinted across the room, trailing the scent of scorched cloth and adrenaline. His gestures were erratic, pointing, waving, slapping his own helmet, his frustration palpable even through the distortion of his voice.

Engineer turned just in time to catch Pyro barreling toward him. “Whoa there, Py!” he said, steadying himself as Pyro grabbed his sleeve and tugged with urgency. “Slow down, I can’t understand ya like Scout can, ”

He paused.

His brow furrowed.

“Wait… where’s Scout?”

The question hung in the air like a dropped wrench.

The room fell silent.

Soldier stopped mid-rant. Demo froze, halfway through a groan. Jonas looked up from his medi-gun, eyes narrowing. Even Sniper, who had been quietly cleaning his rifle, glanced up with a flicker of concern.

Spy stepped forward from the shadows, his coat still dusted with snow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He raised one gloved hand, fingers poised like a magician about to reveal his final trick.

“Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I gave him a secret mission.”

He began to count down, voice barely a whisper, each number like a drumbeat in the team’s chest.

“Five…”

Pyro tilted his head, still jittering with nervous energy.

“Four…”

Engineer’s eyes widened, gears turning behind his gaze.

“Three…”

Heavy leaned forward, brow furrowed.

“Two…”

Jonas stood, breath held.

“One…”

Spy’s smile deepened.

Then the announcer’s voice rang out across the battlefield, sharp and triumphant:

“BLU WINS.”

The room erupted.

Pyro jumped, spinning in place with a delighted squeal. Demo let out a loud, incredulous laugh. Soldier raised his fists to the ceiling, shouting, “VICTORY THROUGH UNSEEN TACTICS!” Heavy grinned, arms crossed, nodding with pride.

Engineer blinked, stunned. “He actually did it?”

Spy simply adjusted his cufflinks. “Of course he did.”

Jonas exhaled, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Scout…”

Outside, the battlefield fell quiet. The snow continued to fall. Somewhere in RED’s base, alarms were still blaring, and a single figure, fast, clever, and grinning, was already halfway back to BLU’s side, dog tags jingling in his pocket.

 

Dinner was Scout’s favorite. Not just because the food was good, though tonight’s spread was downright heavenly, but because it was made by his team. Demo stirred a pot of stew with one hand, the other gesturing wildly as he argued with Soldier about seasoning ratios. Engineer had baked cornbread, golden and crisp, while Pyro had somehow managed to caramelize onions without setting anything on fire. Jonas had quietly prepared a tray of roasted vegetables, garnished with herbs.

Scout sat in the center, legs kicked up on a stool, a plate piled high in front of him. But he wasn’t eating. Not yet.

He was performing.

“So there I was,” he began, gesturing with a fork like it was a baton, “dodging bullets, rockets, and this freakin’ sentry that was locked on me like I owed it money. I swear, I did a full backflip over it, like whoosh!, landed clean, and kept pushin’ the cart like it was nothin’.”

Demo snorted from the stove. “You did not backflip, lad and I temporarily lost my leg BECAUSE of that Sentry,” Demo added, lifting his pant leg to show the fresh bandages that he did not need.

Scout waved him off. “Details.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping for dramatic effect. “Then I saw it. Jonas and the RED Medic. Locked in this brutal, cinematic duel. Like, bam! Bonesaw! Blood! Jonas was holdin’ his own, but it was intense.”

The room quieted.

Jonas, seated near the end of the table, stared down at his plate. His fork hadn’t moved. The shadows under his eyes deepened, and his shoulders curled inward. He didn’t speak.

Scout faltered for a moment, then softened. “Anyway… I saw where Heavy and Pyro had left the cart. They’d pushed it so far, man. I mean, I just had to finish what they started. I couldn’t let it stall.”

He smiled, sheepish now. “I just ran. Fast as I could. And boom, payload delivered.”

Engineer leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. “I can’t lie, speedster. I still don’t understand how you did it… but wow.”

“YOU ARE A TRUE AMERICAN HERO!” Soldier bellowed, raising his fork like a saber.

Spy, seated with his usual elegance, gave a subtle nod. “Indeed. I am impressed.”

Pyro, who had been bouncing in their seat, suddenly launched forward and wrapped Scout in a tight hug, muffled giggles escaping their mask.

Scout laughed, patting Pyro’s back. “Aww man, if it weren’t for you guys, I don’t think I would’ve made it.”

Heavy raised his glass. “To team.”

“To team,” the others echoed, voices overlapping.

 

The warmth of the mess hall faded behind him as Jonas stepped into the corridor, the laughter and clatter of dishes muffled by distance. He walked slowly, the ushanka cradled in his hands like something fragile, sacred. The blood had dried into the fur, dark, rust-colored patches that caught the light in unsettling ways. It was Heavy’s gift. It had once meant comfort. Now it felt like a question.

The infirmary was quiet.

He entered alone.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting pale reflections on the steel cabinets and glass vials. The cot where he’d collapsed earlier was still rumpled, the medi-gun resting on the counter beside it. Jonas sat down, the ushanka in his lap, fingers tracing the seams.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak.

He thought.

“You’ll be just like me.”

The RED Medic’s voice echoed in his skull, sharp and clinical. Jonas had tried to forget it, tried to drown it in the noise of dinner, in Scout’s laughter, in Pyro’s hug. But now, in the silence, it returned. Not as a threat. As a possibility.

Jonas hated that.

He hated that part of him had believed it.

He stared at the blood on the fur. It wasn’t his. It wasn’t Heavy’s. It was the RED Medic’s. A man who had carved cruelty into precision. Who had wielded mercy like a scalpel, only to cut deeper.

Jonas had fought him. Had survived him.

But what had he brought back?

The void hadn’t comforted him this time. It had dissected him. His thoughts had been too loud, too specific. He’d remembered every failure. Every patient he couldn’t save. Every moment he hesitated. Every time he chose kindness and watched someone fall.

He wondered if the RED Medic had once felt the same.

He wondered when he stopped.

Jonas gripped the ushanka tighter.

He wasn’t like him.

He couldn’t be.

But the line was thin. And the battlefield didn’t care.

He stood, walked to the sink, and began to clean the blood from the fur. Slowly. Carefully. Like a ritual. Like penance.

He tried to believe he was still himself. He stares at the overhead lights as his head begins its usual waves of pain.

He deserves it.