Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Miss Pauling hadn't needed to report in person to the Administrator for two days on the bounce in a very long time. Two days, bringing two separate, unprecedented emergencies. Unprecedented as far as the Administrator had to be concerned for now. 

Not that the second event was premeditated. Not that she would tell the Administrator she had anything to do with it yet. Until she had conclusive proof that what she ordered Soldier to do was for the benefit of the bigger picture - even if that really meant Miss Pauling's bigger picture - even the third degree would get her a death sentence here. So unprecedented both of her meeting topics would stay.

"Tell me exactly where we are now." 

Palms resting on her desk, the Administrator's hands were balled so tightly Miss Pauling feared she may break skin. Her boss had not asked what happened; she knew damn well. She had eyes on every inch of that battlefield. Which meant she had eyes on Soldier when, out of the blue, he bolted away from the conflict to sabotage the enemy team. She saw it all - until she didn't. 

All of the monitors in here were still showing picture, although most of them showed RED's base. The nearest visual she could find on BLU displayed their base as a speck on the screen, maybe an inch tall. The only preferable option to half a wall of static.

Soldier's rocket crippled its target: the electrical substation that routed power from the grid to not just the entirety of BLU's base on Gorge, but a good half of the battleground itself. (RED's side, of course, used a separate substation, for both RED and BLU knew better than trust each other with anything.) The electrics cut instantly. Every remote door or gate in the area, dead. That first point BLU managed to capture died too as the light in its foundations went dull, everyone who fought so hard to protect or claim it suddenly left wondering what the hell to do now. Even the sensor on BLU's spawn shutter doors went cold, slamming shut with the rocket's impact and cleaving the BLU Medic passing under in half. One silver lining was that they had half the sense for the respawn machine to have a backup generator - the dark cloud it outlined being, as BLU became trapped in their own spawn rooms, no one could see inside the walls of any part of the BLU base anymore. Plus the rooms were pitch black and the fridge didn't work and you could throw even the idea of air conditioning out the window, yet those qualms weighed nothing when shadowed by the singular truth that the Administrator didn't have eyes on them. Privacy was not part of their contract.

So when her boss wanted an update Miss Pauling, the diligent worker bee she was, had a full answer prepared. "BLU will successfully relocate to Double Cross before the sun comes up. I've already got the right people working double time on the plumbing," ha: double time, double cross - no, that wasn't a joke to make here, "and I've already triple-checked the wiring in the cameras: you will have full visual on BLU across the base."

Tick. Next item on the agenda. A trickier one. "RED will begin being relocated by noon. I, however, have no plans to bring them to Double Cross too." She waved her pen in the air. "For starters, the sewage is worse on their side, moreover there are still some... kinks we need to work out with RED before I'm comfortable sending them back to face BLU. Especially not to a base comparable to an outhouse. I'd like to suggest that each team have a week's leave while we sort this all out."

Miss Pauling may as well have suggested an all-inclusive complementary vacation. "These men are not babies," the Administrator sneered at the proposal. "The RED Soldier may have brought our attention to a crucial flaw in Gorge's design, and also to his head if he thinks he can get away with blowing up whatever property he feels like instead of his enemies, but he should not get a pat on the back nor a time-out for it. He is our employee. He should get back to work." 

Glow from the monitors settled in the deepest hollows of the Administrator's sombre face, her chair slowly turning to face her assistant. "If we threw up our hands every time something of inconvenience happened then this war would never get fought, Miss Pauling. Keeping things such that there's still a battle to fight each day and weapons to fight it with is why I have you." Her glare threw daggers that pinned her assistant to the wall behind. "Solve this. The last thing we need is them getting lax on us."

Miss Pauling didn't like that answer; which bugged her. She tended to be more tolerant to even the worst of them. Nevertheless the idea of chugging along to the schedule while her work environment crumbled around her made that little voice inside her head scream. She could do it, sure - she could do anything! She didn't blow that substation up for nothing - but the result would be bound with duct tape and prayers, and the idea of putting one step forward towards a solution like that, when her choice of solution really required a delicate hand, brimmed dread within her. 

Arguing with the Administrator would never be something she'd stoop to, she mused, biting her lip, but it was her place to advise. It'd be her negligence not to make a valid point when given the opportunity. 

"They may not be babies," Miss Pauling conceded. "I'm not looking to give them any charity, that's for sure. But, if we choose to work them when they are clearly unfit to perform their jobs in their full capacity - such losing battles they should be winning, or failing to realise when the enemy has rather unsubtly marched behind their enemy lines," she rattled off, "then, I've got to ask: what are we paying them for?" 

To her eternal fortune, the Administrator didn't meet this with a curt remark.

Her fingers flicked over the pages of her to-do list. Over images of water damage, and the RED base's one broken camera, and the smoldering husk that used to be the substation. At no interruption from her boss, her arms fell to her sides. "We're beyond denying that it would be invaluable to have some time to reinforce our facilities without having to worry about an extra variable. And, I'd argue, they would only have the opportunity to become lax when we're busy tripping over our own tail," she offered. Fighting her voice from growing quiet.

"One week; maybe not even that. Unpaid leave. BLU stays on base where you can see them; frame it as compensation for the power cut. While I deal with RED," she asserted. "You employ me to handle these things efficiently, and this is the course of action I suggest. The gravel isn't going anywhere in the meantime."

It was nice to feel valued in her job, Miss Pauling thought, her Vespa dipping into the RED base's deserted parking lot with its driver wearing a big old grin on her face. The Administrator agreed to her plan. The Administrator had motivations and plans beyond Miss Pauling's pay grade, and that was fine; she would never come between her boss and her goals. But it was a pleasure to see some space accommodated for Miss Pauling's guidance amongst the calculated monotony. Leaving her to work with RED took a weight off of everyone else's shoulders (although she suspected the Administrator would immediately find new weight to saddle herself with, given the woman didn't seem to believe in taking it easy). Biting the bullet and factoring in this downtime, plus letting Miss Pauling deal with the issue within RED on her terms made, on paper, everyone happy. Christ, it gave Miss Pauling the opportunity she needed to tend to the RED Heavy and Medic without distraction. All she had wanted. It didn't remove one last problem, though: Miss Pauling still had contracts to get done. Not to issue for the mercs; they existed, but they could catch up later. Miss Pauling worried about contracts she was expected to do. She had people up and down the state that needed to be in a shallow desert grave on time, and while she could delegate some, she couldn't be there digging the crucial ones if she were stuck in the Badlands making notes on these nine. Luckily, there was an easy way to solve this. She was strolling across the lot to him now.

Sniper stood on the port side of his camper with a bucket and sponge, scrubbing away at some mark on the paint. Sunbeams berated the lot, his sponge drying in the hot air after only a few wipes. Constantly leaning down to dunk it back in the soapy water couldn't be doing his back any favours. Not if the cussing under his breath were anything to go by.

Miss Pauling approached with an easy smile, motorbike helmet tucked under her arm. "Need a hand?"

He lurched at the sound of her. Clearly he missed her moped pulling up - his tunnel vision was as strong as ever. Realising she posed no threat, he shook his head, grumbling. "Bloody Pyro," he muttered when she got close. "Made the mistake of taking an interest in something he was drawing in the mess a few weeks back. Now he thinks my van is an alright canvas."

Sniper's sleeves were rolled halfway up his bicep, his hands black. "What has he been drawing?"

"Nothing too dissimilar to this." He took a step back to dunk the sponge.

Her hands jumped to her hips as the two of them stopped. Black, deliberate smears in what smelled like motor oil were scrawled onto the side of the camper, looping over and over and doubling back. Sniper's hard work was unnoticeable: either the makeshift paint wasn't going to budge; or when it did it got lost in the chaos all over again. One particular stroke, she noted, grew from the right corner straight to the roof, as if in bloom. Fluid yet intense. Not that Miss Pauling fancied herself an artist, but it didn't take a scholar to tell these strokes had intent. Shame she didn't have the slightest idea what those intentions were.

They stood without speaking, the only sound between them the occasional sloshing of water. Her eyes flitted to Sniper between glances at Pyro's handiwork. "I could get you a nicer ride, if you'd like," she floated his way. "One that hasn't been someone's art project yet."

"Don't need it," he said. Didn't even look at her while he did. "Nothing wrong with this one."

She tilted her head. "Maybe. But it could be fun to shake things up. You've got a whole Summer ahead of you! Wouldn't it be great to be riding around in something with, I don't know, more leg room?"

"Nice idea. But my legs already fit fine, mate."

She hummed. "What about decent air-con?"

Sniper opened his mouth to respond but paused, his arm suspended. The squeak of the sponge against the metal stopped. "It's sounding a lot like you don't much care one way or another what I really want here, Miss Pauling."

"What, does nobody take over-eager enthusiasm at face value these days?" Her brow raised, as if she could continue to play along like he hadn't realised what she was doing. She wanted something. He knew it.

Her lips pursed.

"Alright. I need a favour," she admitted. Her tone stayed casual, still subtly persuasive, but her words became clipped. "Do it, and I can rent you a top of the line RV for a week. Buy it for you outright, if you're lucky."

"Already said I don't want it."

"The favour comes with the RV," she pressed through her teeth. "I was trying to lead with the good news."

Good or bad, Sniper still didn't care. When he went back to cleaning she leaned against the hood of his camper, helmet placed besides her as she folded her arms. "Look," she started again, staring past him at the heat shimmers on the horizon. "You know I know you've found yourself on an unplanned reprieve from work for the time being. For a week, to be precise. A whole week of... Doing what, exactly? You haven't had the notice to approve any excursions. So it's a week of being stuck in your base, maybe paying a visit to the local town to remind yourself there's nothing to do there. And during this week, it's my job to keep an eye on you all. But that doesn't suddenly mean I don't have other work that needs doing."

Her eyeline panned back to him. "So hear me out. You all come with me. You drive, Sniper, so I can still get some work done on the road, and - between you and me," her gaze shifted from intense to playful for just a moment, "so I can spend my time keeping an eye on the other guys and not the sign for the next exit. We'll need to stop in Sierra County for a hit, but beyond that," Miss Pauling grinned, "think of it as a vacation."

Sniper merely stared at her, deadpan behind his glasses, as he wrung the sponge in his grip. "You need a chauffeur." 

"Your help would certainly be appreciated."

"Would I be getting paid?"

"No," her smile faltered; she wouldn't be telling him that his salary was being docked right now, either, "but you'd have input on the route. Make whatever pit stops you want, within reason. And I can get someone out to industrially clean this old thing too, as a tip."

"It's a nice deal, Miss Pauling. But I'm not interested."

"Come on! It seems pretty interesting to me. You don't get cabin fever; I don't get fired." She punched him on the shoulder. "Do you really want to spend a week cooped up on base with those guys?"

"Better than in a small metal box." He volleyed back. And he had a point. There were better people to spend hours on the road with, nevermind a better eight people. 

The two of them stood in silence, Miss Pauling watching Sniper scrub as she pondered what her next angle could be. As much as she wanted to keep the negotiations of this arrangement just between the two of them, perhaps she wasn't the right person for convincing him. Moreover maybe he wasn't the right person to convince. 

A figure, all the while, had been pacing along the perimeter of the base, and now they turned her direction and began jogging her way. He would do.

Bat and ball swinging by his sides, Scout's face blossomed as he got close enough to confirm the identity of Sniper's companion. Scout's very red face, upon a double take: blistering and shiny with either lotion or something that needed it. The outage yesterday meant the match's timer never ran out, and no member of RED opted to head back when they could stay outside as long as they liked goading BLU - Scout being no exception. 

"Miss Pauling!" He cheered, fist held out for a bump she lazily returned. "I feel like I've been seein' you more and more around here! Whatcha up to?"

Sniper responded for her. "Just talking."

"Yeah?" His attention shifted to the camper. "Just talkin' about what? About Pyro's new masterpiece?" He sniggered. Sniper's face twisted in such a way that told Miss Pauling Sniper probably took his camper out to the edge of the lot to clean for a reason, and that same reason was probably the anchor holding him back from slamming Scout's head right into the camper's side window. Probably for the camper's sake.

Miss Pauling didn't see her head going through any windows anytime soon, so she turned to Scout with a tight expression. "I've been asking Sniper if you guys might be willing to hit the road with me for a job, but he says he doesn't want to drive."

Sniper's mouth pressed itself into a thin line. He didn't outright object to that interpretation of events. Instead he left Scout to his surprise, to then flounder and then be excited, as he outstretched his arms and guffawed, "Miss P, forget about him: I'll drive you!" And from the smile he cracked she knew he thought himself her saving grace.

Sniper just scoffed. "Like you know how to drive an RV."

"Of course know how to drive!"

"A motorbike, maybe," he waved off. "Lot different than a camper, mate."

"Gimme a break." A swagger in his dismissive step, "Drive, schmive: once you can drive one thing, you can drive 'em all."

"Then why the hell do you keep askin' me to drive you to the post office when you want to mail something to your ma? The van's right there."

Scout's cheeks, in some marvel of both nature and the visible light spectrum, flushed an even deeper red. "Because who's supposed to stop for tacos with me on the way back?"

"You can always get tacos by yourself, mate. You're a grown bloody man."

"I know that, dipshit. But what, do you want me to go get tacos without you?"

Sniper hesitated. "Nah. That's fair enough."

Witnessing the exchange was reminiscent of something. The last time Miss Pauling went to the zoo, maybe. The way the animals would completely ignore a busy young lady staring at them without a shred of subtlety to fling their own shit at each other. Tacos and RVs were unlikely to be what the monkeys were chattering to themselves about, mind. But you could never tell.

"So," she clapped, turning to Sniper. Preferably she'd like to be done with this conversation before next week. "Are you willing to put the keys in Scout's hands? Or are you going to reconsider? Because, not be a downer, but you're going to come either way."

"Woah, woah, what keys?" Scout glanced between them. "The keys to his camper?"

"No, mate, she's offering me a new ride if I drive us around for a week," he whispered aside. "Keep up."

"A top of the line RV," she accentuated. "Not the most comfortable experience for ten people, I won't lie, but you won't find a better drive." She felt like she were in a commercial.

"So, so," Scout hurdled over his incoming thoughts like a newborn foal. "A road trip! With Miss P? Oh my god," his eyes narrowed at Sniper, "why the hell haven't you said yes yet?"

"Don't particularly want to," he shrugged. Scout's energy bounced right off. "I'm happy with what I've got, and I'm not in the business of taking on favours without compensation." That last point made sure to shoot its barbs in Miss Pauling's direction. 

"Do you have screws loose up there or something, Captain Kangaroo? Why don't you want a new camper?" He rapped a knuckle on the current one's metal body. "This hunk o' junk's rusty as hell and reeks of piss!"

"There's nothing wrong with it," he insisted, dragging Scout's wrist away. The black graffiti a perfect backdrop to the claim. "It's mine. And it's never let me down before."

"It reeks of piss."

"It smells fine."

"Your nose sure doesn't!" He jabbed the end of his bat into Sniper's chest. "I promise you, pal, you're not gonna pick up any ladies in a van that smells like a urinal," he insisted, shooting Miss Pauling a knowing glance - because of course, she'd know these things. "You're probably why I don't get to come back with any girls."

"Yep, that's gonna be why. It's me, mate."

A lightbulb lit over Miss Pauling's head. Swing the other way. "What if I throw in a year's supply of Jarate supplements to sweeten the deal?" 

Sniper paused, his attention switching back to her. His face contorted into some sister of surprised, baffled, and plain pissed off. "What, are you gonna ask if I'll do it for a Scooby Snack next?"

"Well, what do you want?" Scout shouted at him before Miss Pauling could retort. "She asks a favour, you say you need something back; she gives you something and you say you don't want it! There's the compesh- compensate-" he growled over the word. Then gripped at Sniper's collar. That didn't need enunciation. "Just say yes, man! If you don't, then she'll just go to Engie or something, and if he ends up with the radio then say hello to a week of country music!"

That stopped him dead. To be honest, Miss Pauling hadn't considered Engineer as a candidate for the task - partially because she didn't expect Sniper to say no - but Sniper certainly hadn't. And Engie wasn't a bad guy. One of the most reliable to be found around here, in fact. But while Sniper may not have been thrilled to be bothered in the first place, being out of control in a situation that was meant to be in his domain irked him. 

Scout had his reliable moments too, Miss Pauling noted. She didn't appreciate him interrupting situations she could handle herself, but sometimes she couldn't deny his results. Not someone to trust with calling the shots anytime soon, god no. Yet he always had her back when he knew how. Even, sometimes, she mused as Sniper stood there as if uncomfortable in his own skin, when he didn't. 

"Fine," he relented. "But only because those pills are so bloody expensive."

By early afternoon she had returned with the RV. An eggshell colored twelve seater - closer to ten, given this group - with bronze accents, complete with a table, overhead locker and sleeping space, and the tiniest kitchen she had ever laid eyes on. You could live out of this, provided its interior carpeting didn't drive you insane. She had always held a fondness for recreational vehicles like this; a wonder chirped in the back of her mind of how cool it could be to hit the road for months in one of these, no one knowing where you were going and never being away from home. Not that this was what this was. This was still work. Maybe the next time the government got on the Administrator's case she could - no, of course not, because life wouldn't just stop because the New Mexico Department of Labor said so. Nothing on this planet could tear Miss Pauling from her assignments, even if it meant making an impromptu getaway to get it all done in comfortable time. An impromptu, not-quite-cleared-with-management getaway. With her employees. Did she really need to clear this with management if Miss Pauling herself was management? And these guys were vital equipment in getting her work done. 

She had sent Scout and Sniper back to their team with a brief: to make themselves useful and accompany her for some off-site contracts. To pack light; and though their assistance was not guaranteed to be called upon the chance was never zero, so to pack what they needed to get the job done, too. To her delight she pulled into the lot to find the team clustered outside, overnight bags sat on the dirt besides them. Some faces were more animated than others.

She hopped out to watch the troops begin to set themselves into motion. Sniper approached her, a New Mexico road map unfolded in his hands. 

"US 85 south?"

"That's what I said. We have to get to here," she pulled out a ballpoint and pressed it into the map, marking one rest stop in a long stretch of desert, "as close as you can to nine twenty-five tonight. No later."

"Consider it done, mate," and she tossed him her keys.

Soldier took command of loading the vehicle as Miss Pauling paced the lot; one final sweep before they said goodbye the area. There were men already on their way to clean up the base, to empty the trash cans and wipe soda spills and make sure there wouldn't be anything nefarious rotting in the back of the fridge, and then there were men to make sure the first group wouldn't have the chance to say anything about whatever they found. From a distance she watched Soldier conduct his comrades. With the motions of an air traffic controller, he attempted to perform bag checks on his companion's luggage and narrowly missed a clock in the jaw for it, and her stomach fizzed with something new. A feeling reserved yet excited, swirled with a pinch of dread. This would be strange, she had already accepted. It would be tough, scary work. But watching them bicker, the RV and all its passengers to-be just a feature of the landscape, part of her hoped she wasn't naïve to think it would be worthwhile. All of them, she began to count, bar...

Pyro. Behind her, a few feet back towards the outer wall of the base, they stood stone still. Looking up. Their duffel bag slumped next to them, dejected, sported a stain that appeared as though something had leaked from inside a long time ago and never quite dried.

"Hey buddy!" Miss Pauling had a voice built for kid's entertainment. "What are you up to?"

Pyro did not respond.

She approached, waiting for their reaction. None came. So she found herself shoulder to shoulder with them. The only sound in earshot the gentle rustles of Pyro's suit against the breeze.

Miss Pauling followed Pyro's line of sight to a small gray box on a crooked neck, leaning out over the wall: a camera. From observations in her morning meeting she already knew this camera hadn't been affected yesterday. The Administrator would be watching her right now - after all, what else was there to watch? Yet Miss Pauling couldn't tear her eyes away from that pinprick lens eye. What would the Administrator make of Miss Pauling staring back? Proof Miss Pauling was willing to back her decisions, unflappable as always? Or would it be seen as a conscious admittance of guilt?

"An interesting view indeed," Spy remarked. Appearing between them without even a footprint in the dust behind. "But not interesting enough to be worth missing your ride."

No. Right, of course. Ushering Pyro along with her, she thanked him and began her march towards the vehicle. But Pyro's gaze straggled behind on the camera regardless.

She had left her folders on the RV's main table to claim her a seat around it. She took the one spot facing away from the direction of travel - easier to see everyone else's faces this way - as Sniper, already buckled into the driver's seat, removed his hat from the spot next to him. Pyro climbed in.

"Why does he get to ride shotgun?" Scout complained. After all he did to Sniper's camper, it was a worth a mention. 

"Murr hurr mphruh muphrrph huh nyuh." 

"You tell him," Sniper nodded, and turned the keys in the ignition. 

As much as part of her wanted to lean back and enjoy getting this far, Miss Pauling very much did have piles of work to do. If anyone cared about her claiming that table as a workspace they had the sense not to bring it up - if only because she had her mobile phone glued to her ear and wouldn't listen to them as long as she had business to attend to on the other end of the line. In a roundabout way it worked in her favor: with her attention so captivated by her work, nobody would think she had any spare to spy on them. Between dial tones she caught glances of Engie and Spy on the other side of the table; sometimes they talked and often they didn't. Out of the corner of her eye Scout, Soldier, and Demo had claimed the back of the van, and were discussing the rules of some card game when it was clear not one of them had thought to bring a deck. And on the other side of the aisle, Heavy and Medic sat in a much more comfortable silence. Medic read. Heavy had a book out and every intention of reading it, but Medic had brought Archimedes (she vaguely recalled overhearing some complaints about a bird when she arrived) and he had resigned himself to cradling the dove in his hand, whispering threats not to perch on the dashboard. But Medic read. Not medical documents, she could tell from the shape, but some paperback pulp item she wouldn't have chalked him up as being fond of. He held it too low for her to steal a glance at the cover.

So when night fell, the RV trundling off the highway into a parking lot almost as deserted as where they started, and one by one everyone slipped out into the cool desert air, Miss Pauling made sure she went last. If he didn't miss the book when he left it on the bus, then he wouldn't miss it in her pocket.

Sam's Shine & Dine 24/7 Roadside Diner was not a place Miss Pauling could say she frequented. For one, she didn't know who Sam was, nor did she care to learn what it was they shined, but it was certainly a place where her merry band could dine. It was also where, tonight, one of her marks would be turning up, to eat what Miss Pauling would make their final meal. Until they appeared, she sat tight in one of a string of booths, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, front to back, with the rowdiest crowd the waitstaff would see that night. All in the name of work.

Miss Pauling chose her seat carefully. Flush against the wall, not a window, so she couldn't be seen from the highway. Of the three booths her party occupied she sat herself in the middle one, so if you looked from either end of the restaurant's linear layout she would be blocked by the mercs' larger statures all around her. The polish off the silver bar counter gave her a mirror's view of any movement behind her without needing to turn her neck. Not to mention, any ruckus her company made would detract further attention from her. Now she only needed them to handle themselves well enough so they didn't end up grabbing her attention, too. 

Outlook looked good: she shared her booth with Engie and Pyro, who could keep each other busy. Engie had table manners and knew better than to raise his voice in a place like this, furthermore Pyro trusted him enough to follow suit. Soldier might occasionally scream in her ear from the booth behind, but as long as he stayed out of hers, her concentration would be just fine.

Nine twenty-five was six minutes gone. Miss Pauling didn't fret. In the yellow glow of one of the few streetlamps dotting this stretch of highway she could see her mark's 18-wheeler. It had been parked there when they arrived, right on time. The mark would check over his rig first before wandering in to grab a bite to eat, as he always did. He'd get to enjoy it before paying and leaving: which would generate a receipt. Once there was proof of his presence, she would follow him out into the overcast night, and in the desert darkness no one would notice her kill and bury him barely twenty feet off the road. By ten o'clock another team of hers would be in to pick up his truck - by which point Miss Pauling will have swapped its plates with a decoy - and while the original was driven away back to Teufort, the decoy would continue down its expected route until some twelve and a half miles into Texas, where it would go missing in the desert. And the half-ton of cargo currently sitting in the diner parking lot would land safely in her hands.

But for now, the mark must have still been busy on step one, for Miss Pauling hadn't seen him come anywhere near the diner's door. Giving her ample time to examine the book she... borrowed. Hands strictly below the table to obscure her actions, she snuck the paperback from her skirt pocket to lay on her lap. The fact it fit in her pocket at all was a marvel. It was a light thing, barely a hundred pages and likely slim enough to fit in Medic's inside coat pocket, the perfect travel companion for filling idle moments. Printed on cheap paper with 8-point font; the title read Carmilla. 

She flicked through the pages: 19th century vampire novel by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu written some quarter decade before Dracula, about a fair maiden and the beautiful, antagonistic creature of the night plaguing her - or something to that description. Yeah, Miss Pauling had heard of it, though she had never found the time to get around to it. It pretty much had built a home on her 'to read' list. Nor did she suspect Medic had the time for fiction either (in his perfect world, she supected he would much rather spend every waking minute enacting a horror novel, not reading one), yet the edges of this copy were well-worn. Its pages buckled under gentle force, as if they had been turned many, many times before. Perhaps this copy was bought secondhand, or landed in his possession long ago and festered on a shelf waiting for its chance to be cracked open. 

Paper quite unlike the others poked out from between the pages. A yellow strip of lined notepad paper, in fact. She slipped her thumb in to open to the place it kept.

"Taking things that do not belong to us, I see," Spy hummed besides her, eliciting a shriek. Reflexively she dropped the book, and while the paperback plopped right back into her lap the bookmark fluttered away; it didn't hit the ground, but in the scramble to grab it she crunched it in her fist. Crap.

With her attention torn away she hurried to regain her bearings on the room; she had become too invested in her find. Her coffee had been served, for one. Engie had left for the washroom and Pyro lazily gouged holes into the waffles he left behind. The mark was still yet to make an appearance.

So Miss Pauling sat straight - as if there were nothing of note under the table - and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't," he said, blasé. "You just happened to have chosen reading material written in German."

She cracked the book open again, this time properly looking at the text. So she had. Her German could be stronger, but she did know some. "I felt like reading it in its original language," she defended.

"Carmilla was written by an Irishman."

Shoot. 

Balled in her left hand, Miss Pauling unfurled the bookmark she had so savagely crumpled. It was easier than explaining herself to Spy. Though the bookmark never had much structural integrity to begin with - it looked little more than scrap paper - she couldn't help but feel sorry as she smoothed it out with the edge of her nails. Nevertheless, she took the time to roll her eyes over it. Makeshift bookmark for sure; this paper was a used sheet, she realised. Torn from its pad at the top. Edges of a pencil-written note peeked at her, and tilting it into the light, she focused her eyes to read - only to find she couldn't. The penmanship was respectable, not as neat as it was consistent (nothing like Medic's handwriting), but the words written weren't English. Not even the Latin alphabet, but Cyrillic. From what she recognised, it was in no doubt Russian. Which she knew Medic could not write.

Climax and anticlimax collided in her head with a limp smash. She had no doubt Spy was covertly examining the bookmark himself (nevermind watching her examine the bookmark) yet her skin crawled, and crawled, and crawled, until she finally relented and stuffed the bookmark in her waistband. Where it could be hidden. It likely didn't mean anything, really, what was written. She had already relegated it to scrap, after all! So why did it feel like she had a firecracker lit in her gut?

Spy, who had taken the silence between them as an opportunity to drag on his cigarette, leaned into her once again. "I should say, I didn't come over here only to confront you on your petty theft."

Her own breath had her hitched in her throat. A horrible block she tried hard to dissolve. "What do you want, Spy?"

His eyes were elsewhere. "I can't help but notice we seem to have been tailed here."

Great. Ice shot through her veins. "For how long?"

"On and off for about fifty miles," he said, focused on somewhere out the window. "A black Chevrolet. Which now sits in the second row of the parking lot."

"And you didn't think to mention this before?"

"It's a busy highway," he shrugged. "And you're a busy woman. I'm mentioning it to you now, am I not?"

Her own gaze steeled onto the inky abyss outside. "Stay here."

Oblivious to the drama at his table, Engineer pushed open the door to the men's restroom in the back of the diner to find a compact blue room made of concrete. Not even good concrete, either: the kind that chipped like meringue. The room's sole window barely clung to its frame. The whole place smelled overwhelmingly of industrial cleaner, yet, from the grime around the urinals alone, it sure didn't have anything to show for it. He had been in worse restrooms - RED bases had a penchant for wooden facilities - but this sure wasn't any place to call home about. Although, just like at home, Medic busied himself with something in a full sink at the far end of the room, smiling to himself.

"Whatcha got there, Doc?" An always dangerous question to ask.

At once a white little head popped above the surface of the water, those familiar beady eyes looking at Engineer with a curiosity. "Ah, Herr Engineer! Archimedes is having an impromptu birdbath," he elaborated. "He got into some rather unspeakable mischief earlier!"

"We've barely been outta the RV for twenty minutes. What on earth could he have gotten into already?"

Medic shrugged. "No idea!" He said with a dash too much delight. "But Sniper seemed rather intent on not letting him get clean in the RV sink. So here we are."

Not quite a day spa, Engineer frowned. "Looking at the state of these here sinks," he peeked over into the basin, "I wouldn't bet the lil' guy is gonna end up much cleaner than how he started. Heck, you may as well wash him in the toilet bowl."

"Ach, don't be so crude." Poking his feathered friend, "Archimedes would never stoop so low."

For a moment, Engineer wondered if only he remembered the time Archimedes spent a solid twenty-seven hours trapped inside Scout's chest cavity. Scout panicked like a five year old girl when he realised, but to this day he still claimed he jumped higher with the bird inside him. Gave him lift, he said. Like the Yank understood a lick of physics.

Engineer kicked open the first stall door, and was unimpressed - but not unsurprised - with what he found. Bubblegum in at least three colors had been smeared across the seat. Some of it still fresh. The overwhelming smell of tutti-frutti wouldn't be leaving his memory anytime soon. Although he hoped for the best the next stalls weren't any better: in one the seat had been shattered into little more than ceramic; in another some wicked substance coated the walls. Even the paper sanitary sheets to cover the seat with were infested with something. One by one, Engie kicked the doors in, becoming disillusioned with each prospective choice as he went along, all the while praying for the next one to be the saving grace. At this rate, hell, it was like they wanted him to shit in the urinal.

But on the final stall, when Engie kicked the door it bounced back. It barely opened an inch before slamming right shut again, the metal door rattling against the frame it sat in. The lock read VACANT, clear as day, but the damned door just wouldn't open.

Engineer threw his head over his shoulder. "You been in this one yet, Doc?"

He shook his head in return. "No. No one's come in or out while I've been here."

"Yeah, well, it's not locked. Something must be jamming it from the inside." He scratched the back of his head. "Give me a hand, would ya?"

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Medic made his way over to help Engie apply pressure to the door. If this didn't work Engie may as well take it right off its hinges. Give him five minutes with it and the door would work better than it ever had before. 

Yet, soon enough, that prospect slipped from Engineer's mind as slowly, slowly but surely, the obstruction behind the door began to give way. Until it finally caved open with a meaty slam.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there staring. Engineer's arm still holding the door open.

He tilted his head. "What on earth happened in here?"

"Nothing good, I'm sure." The white dove flapped over to roost on Medic's shoulder. "Yes, Archimedes," he hummed at the presence. "How very unexpected."

Chapter Text

Outside, Miss Pauling's own confusion felt a lot less whimsical and a lot more deadly. Someone was tracking them. Shit, how the hell was someone tracking them? Had Miss Pauling gotten too complacent? Had she made the wrong connections and a mutual acquaintance tipped off the mark? That had to be it. And this guy couldn't be a no-show, no way. The saving grace was that the truck was still right where the mark left it. Going nowhere until her guy showed up, that was for sure. With luck, maybe the mark had gotten lost in the desert and just died out back on his own.

But her gut wasn't comfortable with that. Shadows moved out there among the dust; she could see them. And they couldn't all be lizards or loose weeds. She clutched that copy of Carmilla in her hand like it were packing six live rounds. 

Carefully now. 

She paced - not ran, do not run - over to her camper. Her head swivelled like one of Engie's sentries. Just waiting for the enemy to cross into her sightlines.

On the way out of the diner she snagged the camper's keys off Sniper, and now she slid them gently into the driver's side door. She grit her teeth: the click of the lock sounded more like a gunshot in this silence. Dim light, red and white, cast itself from the diner onto the port side of the vehicle, and it felt as though an audience worth of eyes were on her as she climbed in. Over the driver's seat, into the cabin - slipping the book back where it belonged. She could let that go from her mind, at least. Freeing up space to concentrate and freeing up space in her hands. A million and one weapons sat in this little beige and brown RV, she was sure of it. She could reign terror down on this parking lot. But there would be a lot of witnesses if she went that route. Witnesses whose accounts could spiral this out of control far too quickly. Accounts that, if Miss Pauling got real damn unlucky, could travel up the grapevine back to the Administrator. Then this little jaunt would be over before it began.

Her revolver sat in a leather bag slung around the back of her seat. A reliable ally, but a pop even from that would travel far in the stale air around these parts. Instead, she slunk across the RV's carpet, avoiding being seen from the windows, as she stuck her hand under the shotgun seat - to find, ironically, after a little rooting around, an axe. Pyro's fire axe. She knew she could trust them to come prepared. No gunpowder required to kill a man with this. Just one good swing.

The RV had a large door on its middle on the starboard side, where all the passengers loaded and unloaded from. Scooting across the carpet Miss Pauling found the handle of the door with her free hand and tenderly pushed it open. This door? She liked this door. This door was silent. On the other side of it, distant orange streetlamps buzzed sleepily, but between there and here was pitch darkness. She climbed out into it.

Her back to the RV, hidden in its shadow, Miss Pauling silenced her breathing. In, in, out: thin, gentle breaths to mask her presence against the near-nonexistent breeze out tonight. Barely anything could be heard out here. Occasionally a car would whizz past on the interstate, zooming off into oblivion. It were as though the highway were breathing alongside her.

That black Chevy glared at her from down the lot. Whoever owned it must have seen her get into the camper: it was more likely they did than didn't. From a closer view, especially without having to peer past the reflections on the diner's glass windows, Miss Pauling could see streetlamp light cast onto the Chevy's seats. No one was in there. Which meant its driver - either an actor for the mark, or, knowing little of the man, the mark himself - was out here with her.

Thin breaths. She stood perfectly still, save for fixing the axe in her grip, and listened. They knew she was here. They would be intent on finding her. She could not let them get the drop on her.

Faint scuffs whispered from around the port side of the camper.

Her gaze steeled into nowhere as her ears strained. Her grip around the axe grew more confident. Someone was checking out the camper - and it wasn't the mercs. She knew their footsteps. Call it the boons of being hands on with the men or simply her diligence, but she could sense any of them coming from fifty feet away without a second's hesitation. This? This was a stranger. Who, from the way they moved so slowly around the camper, wasn't here by accident. Likely trying to ascertain if she were still inside.

Huh. The camper sat high on its wheels. Even in this darkness, she would be backlit against the light of the highway, Miss Pauling realised. Just her legs, that is. If you looked from under the vehicle. Not even looking herself for fear of the movement, Miss Pauling inched her leg back onto the step to the side door. Then gradually, slowly, pulled along the rest of her along. Thank whatever god existed: the camper did not shift under her weight.

Pyro's axe was held firm to her chest. Heartbeats pounded against its handle. Her eyes glued themselves to where she had been standing in the dust, as if waiting for something to strike at the now-empty space. Thin breaths.

Miss Pauling pressed together her pale lips. There were further footsteps, she could hear them - but which direction, exactly, were they walking in? What happened now? If they made their way into the diner now, of all times, that put her into a predicament. Sure, it was ultimately in the original plan but... this time the mark would be walking smack dab into nine liabilities Miss Pauling had no way to influence from here. Forget burying bodies: whatever came of it, good or bad, would have her burying her face in her hands. So much collateral she couldn't risk. 

Tentatively, she lowered one foot down back onto the soil, and waited. Waited for some kind of signal, from either the mark or her gut. Their footsteps had disappeared, somehow. Didn't like that. Just a peek, maybe. Her own peek under the camper to check where they had ended up.

She flitted her gaze around her, ensuring the mark hadn't crept around the camper without her noticing. All clear. As gently as her adrenaline-shot limbs could muster, her next foot graced the ground, then her free arm, and finally the arm with the axe. Already she could see the edge's of the diner's cast-off glow. With her cheek to the ground she squinted in search of the mark's silhouette. 

She didn't have to look far: they were lying on the other side of the camper. Looking right at her. A gun, right there in their grasp. A pistol. Pointed right at her chest.

Miss Pauling did the only thing she could think of: she grabbed the muzzle of the gun and yanked. Her elbow clanged against the underside of the camper and stung like a bitch - but it sure beat getting shot! Unprepared for her to make the first move, the mark was now a mess of limbs reaching frantically forward, cursing under their breath while slithering towards her to claw their weapon back. Miss Pauling rolled out of the way - but not before catching a deft strike to the gut. 

Shake it off, Pauling. If they thought that would keep her down, she wheezed to herself, they had another thing coming. They didn't know what she was made of. Served them right for hesitating for even a moment. That moment was all she needed to drag herself onto her feet, onto that step, and wait for them to follow. The handle of the pistol ran slick with sweat in her palm. Warm with the mark's body heat. She flicked the safety on and tossed it back down to the dirt, some five feet away. She didn't need it. More than that: her mark did. 

The man (for it was a man, she confirmed on second sight, just as she predicted) moved with panache, which was unique given the circumstance. As if he had grown up crawling under RVs on his belly. First one hand shot out from under the RV, then the next, his nails digging into the loose soil for grip until he was one good stretch away from his gun. He had noticed its landing, of course. The soft thud it made. Its shape against the faraway streetlamps. Those lights wouldn't be good enough, though. For what Miss Pauling had over him were the crucial few minutes she had spent on this side of the camper, settling into the shadow away from the white beacon of that diner and its matching neon sign, that let her eyes adjust. His eyes - let's be honest, they were probably blinking out dust - may have spotted the gun in the gloom, but they hadn't spotted her. Not until she brought that fire axe down on his extended arm, severing hand from wrist with an almighty chop.

Before her mark could yell she sent two swift kicks: one to spin the gun even farther away, then another straight to his side. This was it! Jobs didn't have to be done exactly according to plan as long as they got done, she reasoned, flipping him onto his back and slinging the axe down on his midsection. Would be a shame about this blouse, though. Initially, she planned to take out the mark with three quick stabs (to the heart, lungs, and kidneys), but the all-over approach would never let a girl down. Another overhead swing assured her of that.

After she opened his neck like a hotdog bun, she removed his other hand, if only for insurance. Unlike the main body these would be sent back with her men; with so many open questions still surrounding this mark, she had to confirm his identity while preventing any pesky third parties from doing the same. Although maybe an axe would pose a challenge for removing his teeth...

Unequivocally, however, the worst kind of identification sprung from anyone seeing her with the body. So, once she slapped him around the face a little to ensure the exsanguination had done its job, she hoisted him under the arms and dragged him to circle back round the edge of the lot. Ideally she'd pick him up in a fireman's carry, but this guy was a little too big for her comfort. She had to become stronger, damn it. She had the stamina to walk New Mexico corner to corner, yet she hadn't put on much muscle filing paperwork. If it weren't for the blood soaking her, well, everything, she'd march into the diner and have one of the mercs carry the body. But bloodied she was, so the body was dragged, away from the cars to the deserted back of the building. The mark's hands tucked neatly in his jacket pocket. 

But as luck would have it, she didn't have to go inside at all to grab one of her hired muscle. Because, fussing with a window lock some ten feet around the corner, Miss Pauling found one of her guys beat her back here.

She raised an eyebrow. "Medic?"

He flinched at her with a start. "Ah, hello!" His eyes fell on her cargo. "You've been busy."

She shrugged between another hoist of the corpse. Something like that. "I'd ask why on earth you're out here when I told you all the stay inside the diner," she grunted, "but given you're here anyway, just give me a hand, would you?"

He looked at the window, then at the corpse. Then back at the window. "Aheh. Funny story, actually - and not too dissimilar to yours, I imagine. If you would give me a second..." Brushing off Miss Pauling he poured his full attention onto that window lock, muttering something under his breath. Bangs came from the other side of the pane.

"Medic, what the hell's going on in there?" Please, not some other mess to clean up. This body leaked enough as it stood.

"Nothing as bad as it sounds, I assure you. If we could just get this damned window open..." He tugged hard on the frame, over and over - until the banging lined up with his pull and the whole unit sprang free. On the other side, a red-faced Engie gave him a thumbs-up.

"Well hey there, Miss Pauling!" He leaned in the window at the sight of her. "That's a mighty bloody body you got there."

Medic tilted his head. "Looks fresh, too."

"You're not salvaging him for parts, Doc," Miss Pauling panted as she dragged him further out behind the diner. "This guy was just another job, and now he gets to disappear. Capiche?"

He frowned. "Surely it would be easiest to make him disappear into other people, no?"

"Are you gonna help me with this body or not?"

While Medic took his cue to lift the corpse's ankles, Engie stood there with a face unconvinced. Rubbing his forefinger and thumb. "Miss Pauling, not to bug you, but: where'd you find that slim jim in a nowhere stop like this?"

"He's a truck driver." She waved him off. Explained why her guy never showed up. "Of the rig in the parking lot."

"You don't say?" He rubbed his neck. "Because I've got a body sitting right here on the can next to me, and this fella's a trucker if I've ever seen one."

Engie strung Miss Pauling through the play-by-play of events, culminating in the realisation that the blockage in the stall that was preventing him from getting rid of the blockage in his gut was, well, not something he could just throw a paper sanitary sheet over. A large fellow, wearing denim and a hat, clearly expired not that long ago. Pristine body save for a single bullet hole in his temple. From his get-up to the ID in his wallet, a terrible feeling crawled up Miss Pauling. It settled in her when she found a pair of keys in the guy's jacket pocket. Built a nest when they fit in the door of the rig in the lot.

So the mark, the real mark, was hauled out the bathroom window and dragged to lay alongside his imposter. Some sixty feet behind the diner, where only faint light illuminated their clammy faces. The big guy was the driver, no doubt about it. The one who had to die tonight. But Miss Pauling hadn't been the one to kill him, nor was he the one she killed, so she had to ask: who the hell was this other guy?

Bloodstained fingers ran themselves through her bangs. The gun he pulled on her matched calibre of the bullet in the true mark's head, and one bullet was missing from the chamber: so unless relations between them took a real ugly turn right at the end, these two were never on the same side. This man wanted her mark dead, and he wanted her dead. Nothing out here in this dust would tell her more than that. For now, she knelt next to the mystery man, a few feet away from the graves she had dug for the pair of them, Pyro's fire axe back in hand. She had sent Engineer back to take care of the other mercs. Medic, meanwhile...

"You have a fair deal of work ahead of you with an axe like that," he approached. He took his own position across from her, next to the real mark. A smile split across his face at the sight of the cadaver. 

"Well, I've never been the type to run from hard work." Though as long as no organs went missing from the scene, she'd take any help she could get.

"Hah, I can tell. Please. You'll get bone shards everywhere if you try to hack them apart with that. Here," he said, and pulled his bonesaw from a case on his hip. 

He must have retrieved it from the RV. The sight of it nearly made her melt. "Thank god."

He simpered. "A good field medic is only worthwhile if he actually brings his tools to the field, ja?" 

Together, the two of them separated the men into many pieces. Her axe ripped joints apart where Medic bisected the longer limbs as though he were slicing through birthday cake. It was cathartic, in a way. Like undoing a jigsaw puzzle piece by piece. Out here, they were truly alone; no one could hear or see them. Plus, even if it were possible to, who was around to have the chance? The faint glow of the diner's back light just barely reached them, not enough to make them out from their surroundings, but enough for Miss Pauling to make out the shape of Medic's face some three feet in front of her. 

She could ask him, she realised. About her urgent mission. About the real reason she instigated this roadtrip, about what she overheard. About Heavy and him. No one would be around to overhear her question, nor his answer: perfectly secret. Nothing to worry about. And if anyone got worried and maybe it got violent then, well, she was holding a weapon, wasn't she? Not that it would come to that. Not that a question of that nature, with the connotations it held to his job, his social standing, his life, would make him angry. Scared.

The axe jittered in her hand. It hadn't when she killed the mysterious man. Stop that.

She let the faint desert air pass over her, through her, with a deep breath. "Crazy world we live in, huh?"

"Yes, where you can go for a bite to eat and end up burying two people before dessert!"

"I was meaning more," she smiled awkwardly, "politics."

His glee faltered. "Ah. I don't pay much attention." He ran the teeth of the bonesaw over the pad of his forefinger. "It's quite easy to stay insulated from the rest of the world at this job. Not that I'm complaining, of course."

Because he got paid too well to care. "Must send you a little stir-crazy though, right?"

"I get by," was all he said. Then, after a beat: "Scout, meanwhile..." And he rocked his hand in a so-so gesture that told her, maybe if she caught Medic another day, he had many an anecdote to share.

Soon enough their saw and axe were swapped for shovels and the menagerie of parts disappeared into a shallow grave. The bodies wouldn't become too putrid, not in these arid conditions, and turning two adult bodies into six dozen football sized pieces meant they would decompose before anyone could raise any suspicion. Bluntly, Miss Pauling had the disposal of a body down to an art. In another life she could lead panels on it. She chatted idly with Medic (about her dreams of public speaking or otherwise) as they secured the gravesite and wandered back to the diner's back lot. This was useful, she decided. Even if she hadn't asked Medic the million dollar question flat out, she was gaining his trust. Sure, she knew the mercs plenty well, and hung out with them where she could, but that wasn't too easy - or always pleasant an experience - to attempt with a man as erratic as him. An opportunity for this was... well, nice.

When the light hit them more strongly, Miss Pauling knew they couldn't hide the copious amount of blood on their clothes. Peeking around the side of the diner, "We'll need to walk along the perimeter of the lot, then cut across to the camper. If we beeline it from here we're sure to be spotted."

Medic's attention was elsewhere. On her waistband, as a matter of fact. "You have my bookmark."

"Huh?"

Oh god, she did. Her hand reflexively jumped to her belt. There it was. Tucked inside. She had meant to look at it when Spy wasn't leering over her shoulder, but before she knew it she was up to her knees in bodies. Even better, the book it belonged sat so wonderfully returned inside the RV.

She grasped at the air around her as if, just maybe, she could pull words out of it. "This is yours? I swear, I, I-" Had nothing worth saying, clearly. Christ, maybe now was the time to fake appendicitis. No, scratch that: Medic would take the opportunity to slice her open. All she could muster in the end was a, "Jeez, sorry! That's so strange!"

"Aheh. Very strange indeed. Now, if you would..." He held a hand out. Her ego lurched at the mere thought of returning the bookmark in its current state. Crumpled. Soaked through with blood. But what choice did Miss Pauling have? 

Medic took it from her. Flicked it several times before folding it into his own pocket. "It's worthless now, of course, but no matter. I remember my place!"

What a wide smile he wore; when he gave her a pat on the shoulder and moved along, as though letting the issue slide. Yet his eyes had drained of their eager joy. It was unmistakable. And there was something in that final comment of his - an unspoken suggestion, perhaps, that if he remembered his place, maybe she should remember hers.

She was still thinking about it; the bookmark, the comment, far past nightfall. The RV travelled another mile or twelve south before slipping off the road and settling down until dawn. But she couldn't sleep. Could barely sit still. Not where she was surrounded by all their faces - sleeping or otherwise. Sleeping upright in their chairs, sleeping sprawled across tables or in the one overhead bed. Must be nice. In the end she scaled the ladder on the RV's rear to perch on the roof. Truth be told she wasn't sure how long she'd been up there. They ditched the clouds a few miles back and now the sky was lit up with stars, arms of the Milky Way a good enough substitute for a spotlight. Good: she could see anyone coming from up here. She needed to. Her clean-up team had arrived at ten on the dot, right when she told them to. Took the hands and teeth and big rig, and threw in a last minute change of clothing for her and Medic to boot. Everything had gone perfectly to plan, save for the extra body.

Who was that? She couldn't crack it. There were a thousand options but none felt right; no one knew where she was going to be today, not about the roadtrip and not about the cargo she was intercepting. Her identification team had already sent a call back to her: those hands and teeth? They belonged to no one. As far as the system was concerned, she killed a ghost. In more feasible terms it meant he was someone who found it easier to operate as an unknown. A contract killer, for example. A contract killer who nonetheless knew where she was going to be.

Leaking intel like that required a mistake. Miss Pauling never made mistakes like those, she knew it. It had to be someone with the resources to get that information. Those people? She could count them on two fingers, and one was her.

Bags sagged under Miss Pauling's eyes. She could practically feel them drooping. Nevertheless she didn't move her eyes from the road. A catastrophic weight had climbed onto her back and she couldn't take it. She could really mess this up. If... if this really all went to shit, and the RED team really could break up over whatever was going on with Heavy and Medic, then... this trip could be the last time all of them they spent together like nothing was wrong. 

Nothing was wrong.

Gah. It bore a hole in her gut. 

Either way, they weren't alone on their journey. Bad faith companions followed. Whether they wanted her or her mission Miss Pauling had no idea, but they wanted it badly enough to kill. She didn't feel like getting slaughtered in her sleep. So she watched the road.

"Having much fun up here?"

Miss Pauling flinched. Out of thin air, Spy had appeared at the top of the ladder. The surprise hit her tired bones like a ton of bricks. Shaking it off, "Christ, have you ever thought about announcing yourself before you sneak up on a lady alone at night?"

He snorted. "Apologies. You could say I've fallen out of practice."

Without a sound, he swung his legs onto the roof and positioned himself next to her. His legs straight, crossed at the ankles, while she sat criss-cross.

"It's fine," she sighed. "Really. I'm just not really feeling like myself right now."

Spy hummed to that. "It's been a strange day for us all. Anyone coming by to take over your shift as night watchman anytime soon?"

"No." Her eyes were glued on the horizon, her hands in her lap. "It's just keeping an eye out. I can do it myself."

"I have no doubt about your abilities," he assured her. "Although I might question them after a full night with no rest."

This time, it was Miss Pauling's turn to respond with a hum. Please. As though she hadn't had longer days. Solid thirty six hour days were practically vacation by this point. In the last leg she tended to get a huge jolt of creativity, and though most of the ideas born then tended to be duds, over the years she had quite a few hits. Sometime soon she would have to get Medic to induce in insomnia in her just to see what she could gain from more and more hours awake. Or better yet, round up some willing test subjects for him so she could have an idea of what she'd be getting into first.

Spy leaned in close. "What are we keeping an eye out for, again?"

"You don't have to help me, you know." As if daydreaming about insomnia would distract her from her post.

"Right, of course. What are you keeping an eye out for?"

She examined his face. To his credit, he wasn't mocking her. He seemed committed. So she gestured out to the highway. "Anyone else interested in tagging along for the ride."

"More shadows," he gathered. "So you don't think your friendly encounter at the diner was a fluke?"

"I don't know. Hard to tell either way; the guy came out of nowhere. But I know treating it like one is a quick way to be caught dead."

"Quite." Clearly he had many encounters along the same pathology. "Cigarette?"

She glanced over quizzically. His silver cigarette case glinted in the starlight; she could almost spot a disguise or two tucked in amongst the smokes. It cracked a smile on her face. Best to be prepared for any occasion. 

She held up a hand. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm a Marlboro girl myself."

"Miss Pauling, these are not typical cigarettes. I have them specially imported, made from a tobacco variety grown solely on a small farm in Angoulême. Only a thousand cigarettes are produced each year." He held one out to her. "Take this, and you will never enjoy a Marlboro again."

The offer lingered. This seemed an awful distraction from her very important duties. But Spy was already lighting up his own cigarette, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't compelled.

She snatched it. "It's dangerous to light a fire when we're so out in the open," she pointed out, eyes on his lighter.

He cupped the flame over the end of her smoke. "Trust me, this will be worth the shot to the head."

Miss Pauling eyed it over. The smoke was a thin, long little thing. To Spy's credit, he didn't disappoint: the taste wasn't half bad. Smooth. As the smoke filled her lungs relaxation permeated her chest, radiating through her. All of a sudden the crick in her neck, and the blister on her heel, and the fresh bruise on her gut... none of them seemed so bad. Warmth seeped in her cheeks; an unpleasant feeling in the New Mexico daytime, but in the dead of night the cool air was like a kiss. For just a minute her eyes were no longer on the highway, but the pale smoke floating off the end of cigarette off into the sky.

Spy exhaled his own. "Indulge me, if you will," he proposed. "Was your little heist worth it in the end, despite being found out?"

"Heist? Oh, you mean the book." Miss Pauling sat on that thought. "Probably not."

"No?"

"I didn't find what I was looking for, I guess." Irrefutable proof for or against Heavy and Medic's relationship, most likely. But what that looked like... "I'm not totally sure what it was I wanted to find."

Spy merely watched her; observing her posture, her expression. Until he finally took another drag. "Hmm. And here I thought you were looking for ideas to start a book club."

"If I did, would you come?" She lit up.

"Almost certainly not."

The surroundings around them seemed to dull now she was chatting with him. Of course, she had no idea what dangers could be on the way to her, but they seemed a lot less pertinent with someone sitting next to her. Almost felt her adrenaline wearing off.

"Between us," Spy's voice lowered, as ash hung dangerously off the end of his cigarette, "the reason you took Medic's novel: would it be farfetched to wager it has something to do with why you've packed us into this mobile sweaty box like tinned sardines?"

Her eyes were big pale pools of stars, staring hard to read his face. "No. Come on." Took too long to answer that. "I'm just bringing you along to help with some contracts!"

"Yes, except you haven't actually given us any work yet, or told us about what you need us to do." 

"And I told you, I can't guarantee I have work for you. I might not even need your help."

"Help with...?"

"It'd ruin the surprise!"

Spy's eyebrows drew themselves in a straight line across his face. "Because the element of surprise is always what we need from the opponents we face."

She huffed. "Listen. I promise I'm not trying to take advantage of you or, or... lead you anywhere nefarious. I'm just trying to work things out." Her eyes softened. "I need the time to do it properly."

There was a silence among that sensitivity. Spy didn't retort it. He flicked the end of his cigarette, and said, "Go to sleep, Miss Pauling. I'll keep watch."

She blinked. "But I said -"

"Go to sleep. If you're going to be of any use to yourself, you'll need to be rested enough to do it." He placed his hand on her shoulder; a subtle push towards the ladder. "I'll wake you at dawn."

She didn't want this. She didn't want anyone doing her jobs, no matter how simple they were. But he had to admit, the promise of bed was music to her ears, even if said bed would be a hard high-backed seat with a tweed cover. "Thanks, Spy."

"De rien."

As she climbed down the ladder - her legs already columns of lead - Spy pulled out a set of binoculars from his coat. She had to chuckle. Prepared as always.

"Oh, one last thing," He piped up. "In case you're curious. The bookmark? Do you remember what was written on it?"

Miss Pauling stopped on the ladder. "Medic's? No. It looked like Russian." She didn't care to mention aloud what that implied. The connotations would be innocuous enough to him, but not if her voice cracked.

"Yes. It read 'Unplug the fridge before lifting.'"

Of course. Of course Spy could speak Russian. He knew a myriad of languages. Yet somehow the message ruined what otherwise may have made Miss Pauling impressed. "That's it? No context or anything?"

"That's it." His eyes returned to the binoculars. "Sleep well, Miss Pauling."

And she did. She dreamt of something, albeit not vivid nor jarring enough to remember, but present enough to convince her she slept deeply. If that didn't do it, then how disoriented she was when Spy rocked her awake was proof enough. Felt like busting out of a cocoon of molasses. Except right when you emerge as a beautiful moth, you bang the back of your head on the window.

Rubbing her eyes, the incandescent pink of late dawn was rolling over the barren hills around them and streaming through the windows. No matter how many long nights she faced Miss Pauling would never get sick of the sight. Unfortunately, the morning was not as pleasant on any of her other senses. Her mouth tasted like an ashtray and her legs tingled from leaning on them unideally in her sleep, and somewhere off the coast of her right shoulder Demo was making a ruckus and a half far too close to her ear. Over cereal or something.

Headcount. First order of business, she nodded inside her groggy mind. She dragged these mercs with her and then had the gall not to watch them. Had to keep things in line. In the cockpit Spy was fussing with the RV radio, Sniper leaning over to smack his hand away. Soldier and Scout were caught in Demo's mess, cackling and shouting respectively. Pyro was curled under the seat in front of her. Engie was lounged across the pair of seats near the side door. Medic and Heavy...

Her eyes darted around. Even when she did a retake with her glasses on, no dice. She tapped the nearby Scout's shoulder. "Hey. Where are Medic and Heavy?"

"How the hell should I know?" He sneered. "What am I, their mom?"

Demo laughed raucously. Like a foghorn in human form. "Til ye grow some hair on your face, laddie, I might mistake you for her!"

"Shut up, asshole!"

Scout leapt at Demo; a manoeuvre neutered by the fact they were barely six inches from each other in a two foot wide kitchen. She couldn't believe it. Scout never took that tone with her. She shook it off; he must have been too heated to process her question. 

Her head spun round to Spy, who had just caught her eye as he climbed back into the camper's living space. "You. Hey. You kept an eye out last night, didn't you? Like you said you would?"

"Relax, Miss Pauling. I have barely blinked since you left me." He gestured to the roof. "A sedan passed by around three-thirty in the morning: a family of four, likely headed on vacation. Nothing else happened."

A pan clattered behind her. Miss Pauling didn't even flinch: she was too absorbed fighting her own thoughts. Their disappearance was bad. Surely this was bad. Nobody said the threats had to go away at sunrise; and with both her and Spy down here, now no one was keeping an eye out. Bile churned in her gut. Think about it: if Miss Pauling were the target, why the hell would her shadow tail her last night, of all nights, when she was surrounded by the mercs? No, the advantage of targeting now was because of their presence. Because of who she had with her. Because someone knew about her mission.

Her fingers clutched at her skirt. "If you're so sure nothing happened, then where are Heavy and Medic?"

Spy was taken aback. "Miss Pauling, they are grown men - not to mention professional killers. They're probably off taking a leak."

"That's not good enough!" She shouted. "You don't get it! You can't take your eyes off them for a moment, do you understand me?"

Spy stared back at her, analysing her outburst - yet before he could offer his response, the side door swung open. 

Heavy stood on the other side of the doorway. Under one arm, a water drum had been tucked, and in his other he held bumper packs of... prepackaged croissants? 

Speak of the devil. Miss Pauling chuckled weakly. Her cheeks burned with the heat of a hot skillet. Heavy did not meet her smile. Not that she expected him to; this was Heavy, after all. Still it stung.

"Got breakfast," Heavy said at last, and elaborated no further. Medic bounced on his heels behind him, clutching a brown paper bag and a six pack of beer. The kitchen cleared for its new occupants to place their haul - silently, save for the shuffling and Scout muttering one last jab under his breath - but as the duo entered the cabin, Miss Pauling couldn't deny that Heavy's gaze lingered on her for a beat too long.

Chapter Text

When Heavy woke, the dawn was not pink as it was for Miss Pauling, but blue. A pale, rich, dusty color, almost reminiscent of the fields of bluebonnets Engineer had pointed out to him on the ride back up to Teufort after a long string of months stationed at Frontier. Texas' state flower, he had declared with a puff of his chest. Now the hue of the little buds permeated every nook of the camper. That pale sort of light which warned you to get back to sleep quickly if you didn't want it to be morning yet. Yes, as far as Heavy was concerned, a dawn this color was barely yet a dawn at all. But days when he could roll back over and sleep through til noon were few and far between. They came around, sure, and anyone who tried to take the luxury from him would end up with their skull crunched between their ribs, but he would not be seeing those mornings on this trip. Even if there hadn't been an attempt on Miss Pauling's life, he knew better than to be caught off guard around this crowd when bored. And they were bored, Heavy knew. He was bored. Uprooted from Gorge with barely a word; he was fine with that. He was not employed to make the decisions. But after that glorious afternoon of stomping BLU, why he and his team weren't still there turning their base into rubble he didn't understand. What he'd do to their BLU Spy...

His hand massaged a crick in his neck: his first movement after waking up. He couldn't stay here in a cramped, hot little box waiting for the others to rouse. Not just to be stuck in it further when it was time to depart. So, with a cautious pace, he stood from his seat in the back of the RV (he had booted Scout from the back row before they settled down for the night; the little man would find ample space in the smaller seats up front), doing his best not to disturb Soldier as he went, who had fallen against him in his sleep. He too would be coming around soon enough, surely. For all his faults the man had an internal clock you could run a train station on. Then he'd try to make them all do drills. 

Precariously, Heavy tiptoed to the front of the cabin - though, he thought on a double take, precarious did not begin to cut it. A man of his stature did not move silently in such a tiny vehicle. It was... unbecoming. Once he was out the door he was grateful for the firm ground beneath his soles. Was less so when he spotted a familiar face on the roof.

"I thought you might be awake," Spy bidded good morning. "That, or another earthquake had flared up."

Heavy didn't respond. He had not come outside for company. Instead he merely stood, arms crossed over his chest, besides the camper, enjoying the last of the cool night air.

Realising in turn he had company in Heavy, Spy began to grimace. "If you've come out here to relieve yourself," he pointed, wrist dangling, "tend to it far enough away such that I don't have to hear, see, or smell it."

"I am not here for relief. Only to stand and watch."

Whether he liked that answer or not, Heavy could not read. He did not particularly care what Spy thought of him. He was too slippery for Heavy's taste; intelligent, and prideful, but not enough of one and too much of the other to be a man of honour. Now Spy set his own gaze on the horizon and harumphed. "By all means, drink it in, in all its wholly unremarkable glory. All the dying brush and lizard carcasses you could dream of."

"It is better view than inside of camper." 

Spy snorted. "Only just."

More and more, arms of golden yellow stretched out to bring the day. Spy did not know what he was talking about: this was beautiful. One of the most pleasant parts of the day, if only because Heavy could enjoy it without being boiled. New Mexico's dry air he could stand, but even after many years in this job he hadn't yet gotten used to the oppressive heat. He did not envy Spy, running around in three digit temperatures with a glorified sack over his head.

Spy lit another cigarette. How he could stand the constant taste in his mouth, either, Heavy had no idea. "A word of advice," he said, "one early riser to another: I would recommend finding yourself some breakfast before the others awaken. I don't think those fools quite realise how much food it takes to feed ten people."

Heavy glanced at him, long and hard. Perhaps this was Spy's attempt to send him away and get his alone time back. But no matter his objective, this was advice Heavy would take. Slipping back into the RV he assessed the pantry: all one and a half cupboards of it. They were stocked on emergency equipment - fire starters, space blankets, and the like, although a concerning lack of water - but their food consisted of four packs of protein bars and a box of cereal Scout had already begun to snack on yesterday. This would not do. As it stood they would rip each other limb from limb in an oat and caramel fueled frenzy, granted the dehydration didn't kill them first.

No. On the dashboard Sniper's road map sat unguarded, and Heavy took this opportunity to skim it. He would sort this out before any unwanted time could be added to Miss Pauling's itinerary. Though if he were to get enough for everyone, he would need an accomplice.

Asleep in the passenger seat with his feet up on the dash, Heavy tapped Medic awake.

"Come," he said before his dazed friend could question. "We are going. Supply run."

A mile down the road would be a gas station. Heavy did not know these roads, and quite frankly the vast squareness of how this part of America was laid out perplexed him, but he did know how to read a map. This gas station would have what he needed to tide them over comfortably for a day or so; come tomorrow, if needed, he would make the trek again. Living back home in Siberia it had always been his responsibility to make the monthly hike to collect necessities for his family. If he could carry them for miles through the snow, year after year, he could walk a mile by the side of the road. Although he was accustomed to making the journey alone.

The Medic was a strange man. He had a resting face that suggested he wanted to kill you; and bizarrely enough, when he did want to kill someone his face twisted into that of manic glee. Be warned that a lot of other things could turn him towards glee, too: an entertaining result to an experiment; a warm drink; theft. The more Heavy knew him the more he became convinced what they called their doctor was secretly a ball of pure curiosity bundled in a lab coat. Moreover, while Heavy would prefer silence as his company every time, Medic was not a bad compromise. He was intelligent in many fields and held interest in countless more, even if his fixations were somewhat... unorthodox. But Medic was always happy to tell Heavy all he had discovered. In stark contrast, in fact, to how cold he could be with some of their other coworkers, especially when his patience ran thin. Perhaps he chatted with him so, if only, because if he kept all his thoughts to himself he would fade some shade deeper into insanity. And Heavy had never been one to interrupt his stories.

Either way, it did not faze him. Medic was a man of many quirks, so loud and energetic and ruthless in all. And perhaps Heavy had never been the sanest man himself. So if he could not have his silence, and needed an extra pair of arms, then Medic's would do.

"So," Medic was laughing, his hands splayed, "we decided that if the man would not fit through the crack in the window, then we would simply have the window removed too!" 

He was recounting his saga from last night with Engineer. There hadn't been much time for talking after the meal: Miss Pauling had wanted them out of the diner with haste, furthermore the energy she exuded once they were off on the road shut down the mood for chitchat. The one thing Heavy got from Medic, before they split off to opposite ends of the RV to sleep, was that he had spent an awfully interesting time with Miss Pauling. 

Withholding any more information became advantageous in the end, Heavy mused. He had no idea for how long they would be on the road today, but if he knew anything about Medic it was that sitting still was not his forte. Not in the way Scout would, as Engineer would say, get ants in his pants; no, Medic could contain himself. But he would be sour about it. A dynamic man through and through, restless without something to engage himself with. Another of Heavy's motivations for bringing him along: if Medic started his day with dawn, with a long walk and a conversation to fill it, maybe it could knock him out for the afternoon. 

"Ahah, Engineer was a whizz even with the most basic tools," he continued, and Heavy nodded along to show he was listening, "but I have to wonder what the cleaning staff thought when they came by later to discover a huge hole in the wall!"

"You did not put frame back?"

"Ach, the place was a pigsty anyway. Hardly a loss." He batted the comment away with a frown - that just as quickly disappeared with his next thought. "Who knows, maybe they'll keep the hole and advertise the room's fresh air!"

What the hatchback zooming by must have thought of the two men cracking up by the side of the road. Probably afraid of them being drunk, or hitchhikers, or both. If Heavy didn't know any better, he would say it picked up speed. Too bad. If the driver laughed half as hard as they did, they'd run themselves off the road.

"It is exhilarating, isn't it?" Medic sighed. His arm outstretched off ahead of them after the car, as if to grab the horizon.

Heavy didn't catch what he was looking at. Outside of maybe this time he spent with him, their travels so far had been anything but exhilarating. "The road?" He guessed.

"All of it! Look around us, Heavy. How close we are to the road, yes, but also to nowhere at all."

He took the cue, though he knew the terrain plenty: it hadn't changed in fifty miles. Broad highway stretched on forever, a dark ribbon across swathes of flat desert brush. No path between them, either; the two of them could either walk on the highway and risk getting hit, or walk on the uneven soil and risk spraining an ankle. And the sky, growing brighter by the minute, was wider than both of them combined. Much of New Mexico looked the same to him. The only thing this skyline was missing was a RED granary. 

Heavy couldn't help but grin. "We are used to nowhere, Doctor." 

"Ah, not like this. At work we have bases to go back to, and supplies littered around. Here? None of that." He raised a pointed finger. "Just around us now: cars that could kill you, or sunstroke, or the wildlife - all of it ruthless, and not a respawn machine in sight!

"You make outdoors sound scarier than it is."

"Scary? No, no." Medic gripped Heavy's arm. "It sounds fun!"

Medic laughed in a way that, cliché as it may be, could only be described as maniacally. That laugh unnerved Heavy, to be honest. He could picture his daydreams now: if given the chance, would Medic fight without the respawn machine? Maybe not full time, but as an experiment, definitely. One time, if only to see how far he could extend the potential of human life. Heavy would inevitably roped into it with him, of course, as he did all of Medic's experiments... he shook his head. A risk too far, even when in the hands of his doctor, when Heavy had a family relying on his income. At least that laugh told Heavy Medic was doing well - too well, even, as Heavy lurched Medic back from stepping on a scorpion in his absentmindedness.

"Careful, Doctor." His arm shot in front of him as if a seatbelt locking in a crash.

Medic watched it, and he watched it with wide eyes. The arachnid was the length of Heavy's hand, index finger to wrist, and the yellow-green of Miss Pauling's highlighters. Heavy had never seen anything like it. But Medic cooed. Whether it was to Heavy or the scorpion, he did not know.

As Medic slipped around his arm's barricade, Heavy repeated his warning. "Would not want to become one of your own anecdotes."

"Don't be a baby. It won't bite!"

Admittedly, he didn't know enough about scorpions to contest that.

"Ooh, you are a nasty fellow, aren't you?" Medic marveled, leaning closer. As he picked it up, its claw snapped onto the end of his finger. All it seemed to achieve was making Medic laugh harder. 

Heavy raised a brow at the writhing little bug. "Is that safe, Doctor?" 

"Almost definitely not. No, I'm sure our friend here is quite venomous, and I'm not wearing my gloves. You could certainly ruin my morning, couldn't you?" The scorpion gave no comment. Medic looked back over his shoulder. "I'm sure you would be quite fine though, Heavy."

"Because of my size?"

"Because you have me, my friend." He grinned, swiftly removing the scorpion and pocketing it. "Though having more body mass does help."

Heavy spent the briefest glance on the scorpion's new home, but just as quickly Medic had pulled his gloves from the opposite pocket. The gas station was nearing, he chattered away, and if that diner had been anything to go by he didn't hold much hope for the rest of the US 85's amenities. Heavy hardly caught the rest; he wasn't really listening. A seed had planted itself in his head. A warm smile had inched its way onto his face.

"Little scorpion is nothing," he stated, head held a titch higher. Nodding to the highway, "I could stop any of these passing cars with only bare hands."

"Oh, I have no doubt." Medic blinked, but indulged him. "You're quite extraordinary."

An 18-wheeler barreled down the highway besides them. "Think I could stop that?"

"You? Please. Dream bigger. After all I've seen you do, you could stop a train."

Hmm. Heavy felt the weight of his arms, his hands, and the strength they harboured. All over again, this little stretch of desert didn't seem so tough.

The gas station, like many others dotted across the country at this time of day, was deserted. For one, three of the four pumps were out of service, and for another the painted sign outside was dented. But as long as the door opened and the shelves were stocked, Heavy would not be deterred. Full drums for water coolers were an easy buy; then cheese, bread, deli meat. Fruit. Croissants for Spy, to repay him for bringing the lack of food to his attention. Cheap ones.

Medic, the next aisle over, was skimming the beer selection. He had never finished recounting what happened at the diner, Heavy realised. "Miss Pauling; last night. You helped her?"

The shelves were short enough - or them both tall enough - that Medic didn't have to go around the aisle to continue the conversation. "Oh, yes. Got to put my saw to good use." He squatted down to examine the lower shelves. "Something interesting occurred, now you have me mentioning it. It's probably best I tell you. It was... funny."

The way Medic held himself, it were as though he talked over his shoulder with no problem. Yet something in his tone colored the conversation as less than casual. Heavy grunted. "Humorous or weird?"

"I haven't quite decided yet."

The cashier, intentionally or not, would overhear this. He did not need to. He was a lanky twenty-something who Heavy did not want eavesdropping on his conversations. With a nod, Heavy indicated they had everything they needed and should head out. This could be finished outside.

Then the kid shouted something about how they needed to pay for their goods. Heavy would like to see him try. But Medic held up a hand - as if "not to worry" - and let the cashier bag their things. And when the manchild demanded payment, he pat down his pockets with an easy grin. "Ach, I must have left my wallet in my other coat. Nevermind! This should cover it." And plopped the scorpion on the counter. 

"As I was saying," Medic continued when they got outside. The cashier's wimpy screaming was still in earshot. "She stole my bookmark."

Heavy stared. Medic's body language revealed little; not solemn, but not quite amused. Waiting for his reaction. 

So Heavy narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Miss Pauling!" He almost did a little jump. "Not the book, just the bookmark! Isn't that bizarre?"

"You confronted her?"

"Hardly." He waved off. "I asked for it back, but nothing further. It didn't seem like the time or place to pry. I suspect she went through more of my belongings and just happened to slip up here."

Medic's voice trailed off at the end. It was clear he hadn't meant to. There had been conviction in the sentence; he had no doubt, no issue, delivering it, until it was already out of his mouth and into the world. "That is not good."

"Oh, don't be such a downer," he chided. "Between you and me, some of the trials I've been running I haven't been including in my monthly reports. She's probably just suspicious of me, nothing more. Silly of me to bring it up, really."

Maybe. But bring it up he did. Medic told him many things; far too many things, almost, things Heavy had no business knowing about him or his fellow mercenaries or the outcomes of various experiments he didn't quite want to know why he ran in the first place. However his doctor had a knack of not sharing his problems, personal problems that couldn't be solved on an operating table, until they were behind him - if he shared them at all. For Medic to bring this up now, over relishing every rich and gory detail of handling corpses with Miss Pauling... its weight spoke for itself. And perhaps he was correct; maybe it was nothing to dwell on. But yesterday this same woman ordered them to travel mile upon mile under the most tissue-thin mission brief, and the night before that still held a gunshot to claim. Medic was not being silly. There were greater things to be suspicious of than his experiments.

So when the dawn was pink, the two of them a few paces away from the camper, and Miss Pauling's agitated voice rang out from inside - about how she couldn't take her eyes off them for a second - Heavy did not miss Medic's face steeling. He was sure Medic did not miss the same of him.

Chapter Text

Their wheels hadn't turned in a good two minutes. 

Lunchtime on a weekday, Miss Pauling had her own bets about how bad the highway traffic would be. She had driven along this road plenty. May have had a penchant for backroads at night more than the interstate in broad daylight, but she was no stranger. 

What she failed to account for was that it was a hell of a lot harder to get through traffic as a twenty foot long RV than it was as a moped. Especially when what was holding you up was a collision fifteen miles down the line. Nobody on this road was making it to their lunch reservations. 

The mercs were taking it well. As well as she could expect them to. Now an hour and a half into this crawl, most of them had the sense to get out early and fall asleep. Spy had been the first to go: he, Engineer, and Soldier were lined up along the back row, and although not a combination without friction, Spy dropping off so soon stopped the momentum from building. Engie tinkered with a pet project, humming to himself, and the lack of action from either of them was enough to sedate Soldier. Which was, in itself, a feat: one she'd have to keep note of for later.

Further up, Medic and Heavy had returned to the seats they took yesterday. It didn't escape Miss Pauling that neither of them had books out today. No, they just sat, speaking infrequently to each other (and sometimes to Archimedes), before Medic slipped off too. Heavy held on a little longer yet soon enough had his head propped against the window by his arm, eyes closed. Sometime between it all, Engie had nodded off too. It were as if a wave of lethargy were hitting the RV from back to front. The folks at Miss Pauling's table were all still lucid - with Demo across from her, in her seat from yesterday, and Scout to her right - though, knowing Demo, she could never be entirely sure. Pyro in shotgun might have fallen asleep, but it was hard to be certain. They were slouched, blubbering something quiet and intelligible without looking for a response. That could be sleep talk or just Pyro. Best not to bug them either way.

As long as Sniper didn't fall asleep. The traffic didn't bug him in the slightest; he was more alert now than some days out in the field. Only sign Miss Pauling could detect of any kind of exasperation hitting him was that he had switched his specialist radio station over to the local one covering the traffic jam, looking for any kind of ETA on when he'd get to hit over fifteen miles per hour again. By the minute he and Demo grew increasingly responsive to the radio host. It became Miss Pauling's entertainment.

"I can't take it anymore," Scout groaned. His leg bounced like he was going through withdrawal. Not going anywhere was driving him insane; settling down was not something Scout did, period, and now he had missed the window of being chill enough to nap through the wait. If the Doc were awake he might be able to give Scout something to knock him out, but whether Scout would take it would be another matter - or whether a rudely awoken Medic would give it to him at all.

Demo sipped at his bottle (something unmarked and dry smelling), his half-lidded eye on Scout. "Get out and run alongside if you're so bothered. Not like you're gonnae lose us."

"While you're out there, go ahead and hitch a ride on a motorbike weaving through the traffic," Miss Pauling tacked on. "I won't blame you for it."

"No." An idea popped into Demo's head. He pointed straight at Scout. "You're gonnae slash their tyres. Serves 'em right for thinking they're above the rest of us."

Scout sagged his shoulders. Hell, his very soul sagged. Nothing he wanted to be a part of had anything to do with this damn highway anymore.

Miss Pauling had her contracts folder out on the table again today. Closed. Never the type her shirk her responsibilities, not in a million years - the Administrator would have her gut like a fish - but... more, and more, it dawned on her absorbing herself in paperwork was counterintuitive. Of that instigating mission that landed them here at all, the first steps of it started with unpacking what was going on with the RED team; and while she could multitask better than anyone, what happened to the delicate hand she swore this situation needed? After fumbling last night she'd be a fool to forget that.

No, the best way to get a feel for the team was to just bask in it. This morning had been spent on the phone, assigning and reassigning her remaining tasks between subordinates she could trust to get the job done without asking why. It left her free to devote her attention where she needed it. Now there were only two tasks left on Miss Pauling's plate: the one inside this vehicle, and the one it was driving towards. As far as she was concerned? She wouldn't pick up the phone for anyone. Her whole world existed inside this RV.

"I was doing some reading on that camp we're headed to, Miss Pauling," Sniper started when the DJ went to a song.

"Camp?" Scout straightened up. "What, like a Summer camp?"

"Yep." Miss Pauling drew a line across the table with her finger, as if tracing a map. "A little set of cabins in Sierra County. It's for kids, but they've just sent the first group home and won't have the next for another two weeks."

"So, what, we staying there?"

"No. But some ex-employees of mine are going to be pitching a tent there while it's unoccupied," she fingergunned at Scout and Demo, "and I need you guys to work your magic. Make sure what they learned under me doesn't leave that camp."

"Oh, I getcha. You're talkin' about a special little magic trick involving my bat and their skull, am I right?"

"Now you're getting it."

Scout lounged back in his seat, a big goofy grin on his face. "Yeah, don't worry, Miss Pauling. That one's a specialty of mine." 

Sniper shook his head. "Gonna be one hell of a scene for those kiddies to find, though."

Miss Pauling frowned. "I don't think -" 

"Aye, but it'll put hair on their chests." Demo had always been more lenient on what sort of hardships he thought a child could handle. Maybe that was why he and Soldier got along.

"Fair enough, mate. That it will."

She pursed her lips. For a moment she considered exchanging a knowing glance with Scout, but he had already retreated too far into his fantasies of killing people for Miss Pauling (or more pertinently, what he would be doing once he got off this goddamn RV) to read the conversation. Funny. You wouldn't know he had just been dying of boredom.

Forget him. Miss Pauling folded her arms on the table. "What did you find out, Sniper?" Get the conversation back on track.

"Well, according to some brochure I nabbed from the diner," he said as he rolled the camper an inch forward, "apparently some girl was drowned in the lake on the campsite some twenty years ago. Legends say she's been haunting the trails around it ever since. Scaring them into jumping into the water or some business."

Like a freight train, Demo roared with laughter. "You can't be serious, mate! Some puny little lassie pushing people into a lake?" He waved the whole thing off. "Sounds like some skinny dippers came up with a quick lie."

He threw his arm over his headrest, twisting to get a good look at Demo. "What, don't tell me you don't believe in ghosts now?"

"Oh, I believe. But, and may she rest in peace," at which he stopped to take a swig in her honour, "I dinnae think some poor young girl is anything to call home about, ghost or no. Tell me when they find a real monster in that lake."

Scout had begun to tune back in, and by his face he wasn't fond of the station. "Hey, slinging crap like that is a good way to get haunted yourself," he pointed out.

"Oh? You're to tell me you're a believer now too?"

"No way! I'm just... it's bad news tempting fate like that, man!" He jabbed his neighbour with his elbow. "You don't think there's anything in that lake, do you Miss P?" She was the one bringing them to it, after all.

Quite frankly, Miss Pauling just found it odd they could still debate the existence of ghosts after all Merasmus put them through each year. What was she to respond with except a shrug? "Fish, probably." Oh, and soon the corpses of her ex-employees.

Scout breathed a sigh of relief. Meanwhile Sniper went back to muttering his own theories to the person who would best appreciate them: himself. These three were as ragtag a group as there came, but they meshed surprisingly well; especially given how little they interacted with each other on the field. But she had them talking now. Chattering away about folk tales, sure, yet if she had them talking at all... she could steer the conversation. Use the others being asleep to her advantage.

"Hey, while I've got you guys, I gotta ask," Miss Pauling pivoted. She leaned back in her seat. "What are your thoughts on your performance these past few weeks?"

Demo clinked his bottle against the tabletop. "Performance?"

"Yeah. Team performance. You know," she rapped her nails on that closed folder, "how well you all work together."

Sniper grunted under his breath. "We work together fine. Bloody BLUs just keep catching us with our trousers down is all."

Miss Pauling tilted her head. "Would you call being caught out so often fine?" She caught three barbed glares for it. She held up her hands. "Come on, guys, you've got to admit it. Fine is winning once and a while. Ideally, fine is winning half the time. But this..."

"Nothing's changed, Miss Pauling." Sniper's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. "We fight day in, day out, like we're paid for, and we do a damn good job. Why we keep getting buggered... I don't know. Bloody Gorge must be cursed."

Demo groaned. "Don't you start again!"

"I'm just saying!" He shook his head. "Never felt myself the whole time we've been there. It'll be a bright day when we get to work somewhere else again."

Wouldn't he be pleased next week, Miss Pauling mused. Despite his adamancy, they were going nowhere with this. Short statements that swept the whole team together; they were sparse on the details. Defending their pride like that gave her jack squat to work with.

She picked up her ballpoint. Tapped it against her chin. "How about this then," and she pointed that pen beside her: "how has Scout been doing?"

After the initial surprise of being nominated Scout crossed his arms, in some kind of feeble attempt to bulk out his chest. A taunt; daring his teammates to do their worst. Knowing his smart mouth he was probably already running through comeback after comeback in his mind, all too ready to hash out opinions of his own. Two months of losses had to have dirty laundry to air.

Sniper shrugged. "He's not too bad."

"Aye." Demo nodded. "For all your talk, ye do a good job of keeping the enemy Medic under wraps." A scowl bloomed on his face. "Any second I don't have to spend worrying about his damn Kritzkrieg jammed up my arse is a good one."

Ah. Miss Pauling faced Scout for his opinion. "Well?"

His fingers laced round the back of his head. "I dunno. Left out some parts, but it's a good start!"

"And a hell of a lot more useful than just calling you 'fine', right? You get to know what your teammates value you for." She clapped her hands. With a smile, and a lean, she cocked her thumb over her shoulder. "Now what about our sleeping beauties back there? Engie? Spy? Surely you've got something."

The group of them looked between each other. Sniper and Demo, they took their job seriously: not their place to go telling other people how to do theirs. But someone had to be the first to spill. They easily had another hour or two in this hell and she wasn't gonna let this opportunity go.

Demo cracked. "If you're gonnae press me, I've got a few things I could say about where that lad places his dispenser..."

Good. This was good. This was the ball rolling. The whole issue within RED, what kept them so constipated in the success department: she could flush it out here. Unearth both fondnesses and grievances and dig her nails right into the roots. It was a masterpiece, really; once they started they couldn't stop, except maybe to keep their voices down so the butt of their joke didn't wake up. The rich tapestry of profanity Scout let rip about Spy alone could decorate a house. God, her pen itched to be uncapped; she should be writing this down! But if she did, they would know what was going on. A reminder that they were, for her, when it boiled down to it, work. Furthermore there was good in what they said about their comrades. A lot of good. Of respect, and gratitude, and relief when they finally stopped doing the one thing that drove them insane. For now she was simply curious about it all. As any good friend would be. 

Somewhere halfway through Demo's monologue on Soldier Miss Pauling had pulled that pack of croissants out from the pantry; now she ripped a hunk off one with her teeth. "And what about Heavy?"

"Guy's good at scaring the crap outta BLU, that's for sure," Scout chimed in first. "Oh, and as a meat shield!"

"And blocking sightlines with that big mug of his," Sniper snorted.

"And flushing out a corridor faster than their BLU Soldier can reload his bazooka," Demo said. (Then quieter, "Poor lad." He sniffed for a moment. Miss Pauling was long past unpacking that one.) "Ach, and keeping Medic alive, which keeps us alive." He narrowed his eyes in Heavy's direction. '"Course it means the bastard gets his über half the time. Nobody told me I had to bring the guy a sandwich."

"And what?" Miss Pauling shrugged. "Does that make you mad?"

He raised his brows. "What are ye, my therapist?"

"I'm just asking. Do you think Medic could be doing a better job handling his Übercharge?"

"Nah." Scout again this time. He had his feet kicked up on the table. "The Doc may be a grade A prick, but he wouldn't be caught slipping." The way he said it, Miss Pauling knew it to be sincere. 

Under his breath, Scout began to say something else, but shook it off. Sounded like an admission. Gently she nodded to him, a nudge to go on. 

"To be honest..." Bingo. "I dunno, maybe I'm being crazy, but sometimes it feels like, like the world is turning faster around me than it used to." Scout sat straighter in his seat, his arms folded across his chest again. This time as if knot holding himself tight. 

He continued. "I've never had issues keeping my head in the game out there, but all of a sudden I'll be running and it's like the ground isn't where it was a second ago," he elaborated. Muscles twitched in his forehead. "And suddenly their Pyro is behind me - like blam! What the hell's up with that?" He threw up his hands. "I should be out there dominating that walking blue garbage bag!

"Wait, what exactly do you mean?" Miss Pauling hadn't moved; she clung to his every word, her eyes locking him down through them all. "What are you experiencing? Are you blacking out?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Think more... more like I just can't get enough sleep." His fingers flexed in the air. He wanted his problems to be a tangible thing, so he could grasp them by the neck and throttle them. "I feel like I'm running on empty with weights strapped to my back and my head all cloudy. Every. Freaking. Day." 

His teeth were grit. A big macho guy like him didn't talk about crap like this; maybe, only, for Miss Pauling. But more pertinently Sniper and Demo didn't look any more comfortable than he did right now. She wasn't gonna speak until they did. 

"I'm not proud admitting it, but you're not alone, mate," Sniper said. He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes on the road if only so he didn't have to look at Scout in the rearview mirror. "Sometimes it feels like my reaction speed is playing chicken with me."

Miss Pauling's eyes narrowed. "You too? Do all of you feel this way?"

Demo grunted asunder, even if he begrudged it. "From what I've seen, the Doc is probably the only one of us who isn't slipping."

"It's not for lack of trying, mate." Sniper rolled his shoulders. "I'm telling you, Gorge is cursed."

"No, no. It's not." At that, her lid was off her pen. A quick note in her folder to get Gorge checked out. "It's probably... mold. Or something." Or a curse. Shit, when was the last time anyone checked what Merasmus was up to? He seemed to hate them pretty bad.

Yet in the back of her mind... Miss Pauling whooped. Just a little. This was a lead! A lead that almost certainly meant something had slipped through the cracks in her site maintenance, which might have been some of her least favorite paperwork to file. But it wasn't with the team. More importantly, it wasn't with Heavy or Medic. It made the next part that baby step easier. Before she could start bracing for any of those next steps though, her thoughts were interrupted by Sniper cutting their roll to a stop. With the unmistakable crunch of metal.

"Aw, hell."

Miss Pauling stood. "Was that us?" 

"No. Wanker a few cars ahead slammed into the guy in front of him. Not paying any bloody attention." He flipped the driver off. "That'll close off this lane."

All at once, Scout deflated again. It was like he lost his bones. "Oh, god. We're never getting out of here."

"We will." She pat his back. "Though now's a good time to reconsider stretching those legs."

"You said it. We're not going anywhere fast." Sniper took the key out of the engine. "I'm going for a piss."

Dragging himself back upright, Scout guffawed. "What, you don't have a spare jar under there?"

"Bugger off," he grumbled as he popped the driver's side door open. "You coming or not?"

Scout grumbled something himself. Then looked at all the cars not moving around them, then all his friends who had managed to succumb to sleep, then the water bottle he had already put a decent dent in. And ran off after Sniper.

Camper was a lot more quiet without the radio or the hum of the engine. My, she could almost hear herself think. With the guys preoccupied now would be the perfect time to start penning her notes about what they spoke about, if not for the self-described black Scottish cyclops sitting across the table. He too leaned into the newfound silence, content. Sipping at his liquor of choice for today. Of course he didn't take the opportunity to go stretch his legs and piss by the side of the road. With all the alcohol he consumed, every drink probably made him more dehydrated. He just kept on sipping, free hand shutting the window curtain on Sniper and Scout outside, until he opened his eye and mets hers. "Wannae taste?"

She shrugged. Couldn't hurt; she let him pass it to her. Just from the smell, she could tell this was unlike his usual scrumpy. 

After a sip of warm fire, she eyed the bottle. Whiskey. "Damn. This is actually good. What's the occasion?"

He indicated around them like she had somehow forgotten they weren't travelling at a steady sixty miles per hour. "Anything to get through a week of this trite." 

Her smile grew sheepish. "Sorry. Think of it as a vacation."

"Aye, with your most batshit family members." He shook his head, but he grinned. "Why were you asking about 'em, anyway?"

Miss Pauling put the bottle down. Of course he had to start getting inquisitive now, when he could just as well blissfully barrel on into being shitfaced. Everyone asleep; nothing around as a distraction to change the topic. But Demo wasn't sly, not like Spy. He'd take an answer if she delivered it genuinely enough.

"I mean, I do work with you. Kinda." Her head cocked. "It's nice to be kept in the loop."

"Like you don't have documents on us as long as your arm," he retorted, and drowned the chuckle that came with it under another swig of whiskey. "What's your real reason? Sneaking around without a word at the diner..."

"C'mon, Demo. You know that was work."

"That you did alone when you had all nine of us beggin' for something to do."

"You wouldn't send me to go blow stuff up for you, would you? My work is personal to me."

"You know damn well you'd make a fine demolitions expert, lass. But aye, I get you." The warmth in his voice eased a smile back into her cheeks. Demo was an easygoing guy. Knew her well, after what went down with the BLU Soldier. They should go drinking together again some time they weren't stuck on the highway.

He stroked his chin. "And next you're gonnae tell me your little outburst with Spy this morning was a personal matter too, ey?"

Her back locked like her spine were a lead pole. 

"I didn't get very good sleep," she whispered. 

"Yeah, and when I wake up after a bad night the first thing I do is start screamin' my lungs out about how much nerve the Doc has to go on a walk."

Her hands were in her lap. Twitching. "You must have some really bad nights," was all she joked. Her smile was in shreds: it hung on her lips for dear life.

He tucked himself that little bit closer. "C'mon, Miss Pauling. I respect ye, I really do, but you look like a hamster five seconds off a heart attack." His own voice barely above a whisper too. "What's the issue with those two?"

Miss Pauling's mouth didn't want to move. She could glance in every corner of this camper once, twice over, and still not know what to say. This morning? It had been a bad judgment call on her part. Panic, plain and simple. He had every right to call her out on it. But she really wished he wouldn't. In truth she had been scared. For them. But she couldn't unpack that all on Demo, could she?

"Why do you think I asked you?" She sighed. She could really do with that bottle back. "Listen to me, Demo. Man to not-man. Would you say they're close?"

"Lass, they're best mates. Of course they're close."

"How close?"

Demo leaned in across the table, arms folded under his chest. Below the soft reverberations of the engines of the cars surrounding, she could barely catch his voice. "Be frank with me for a second. D'yae think they're a couple of queers?"

Blood pumped in her ears like a cymbal crash. He caught on fast. This: the first time someone had come out and said it, in the open, outside of the security of the Administrator's office, the sanctity of Miss Pauling's manila folders. It were as though he had vacuum sealed a plastic bag around her head. She couldn't break eye contact or he'd really know; Demo may have been far from sober, but he was also far from incompetent. All she could be thankful for was that eyepatch of his. Half the number of eyes pinning her down. A step closer to putting her hands over her face to avoid his gaze.

"Maybe," and her breath hitched in her throat for a beat too long. "Not really my place to ask."

"Aye, mine neither," he shrugged.

Silence sounded so loud in here. Any second, she visualised Sniper and Scout busting through the RV doors again, running their mouths about something as if what Demo and her were talking about never happened. Scout would bounce into the seat next to her and ask her opinion on whatever insane debate he had cooked up, and under the tonal whiplash she would melt like Jell-O on a lit stove. But with each breath, the doors didn't open. Nobody woke up behind them, either. It was just the buzzing heat, Pyro's muttering, and the words they had said to each other still thick in the air.

She examined Demo's face carefully. Reran the exact exchange she had with him in her mind. This far in, she had to know. "If... if they were, would that change anything between you and them?"

Demo glared at her. Something in that stare was conflicted, beating over itself, but ultimately offended at her. "No! Why is it my problem if they're shaggin' each other?" He nodded, resolute, as his hands clenched around the neck of the whiskey bottle. "As long as they keep covering my arse out on the field, I'll keep covering theirs."

Oh, of all the things he could have said, Miss Pauling reflected, she was glad it was that one. The smile it restored in her was tentative, but the truth every second she wore it. "That's kind of you, Demo."

He sized her reaction up. "It's bloody human decency."

The adrenaline was wearing off, inch by mile. All of a sudden she needed to stretch her legs - but like hell was she going out there while Sniper and Scout weren't expecting her.

"Christ, I need a drink," Miss Pauling sagged. He didn't deny her.

Somehow, when the brave little camper finally busted free of that traffic, it wasn't sundown. Past their exit the desert brush had swapped itself for oaks and aspens, afternoon glow filtering through the dry, verdant leaves. Those same leaves that provided the camp heavy cover from the outside world. Convenient for her ex-employees, who could use the space in relative secrecy while the park staff wouldn't be returning for another week. Convenient for the mercs, who had ample cover to sneak up on them. Parking the RV and letting them go to work was like, Miss Pauling mused, releasing a horde of small children outside for recess. Eight marks to go after, found one by one within ten minutes and silenced in an arc of blood; would've been all eight in five minutes if that last one hadn't been rowing out to the centre of the lake when they arrived. Pyro got him in the end.

And you know what? The place was nice. Alive with the buzz of birds and insects and the wind through the trees. Probably the muggiest place in New Mexico right now, mind, but nice. Secluded and spacious, with plenty of places to rest or explore. The only person to bother them out here would be the rare hiker. Moreover where exactly was Miss Pauling going after this? With her contracts handled or postponed then, if she were a woman of her word, the itinerary would be up to Sniper. But he wasn't bursting with ideas, nor did she see any of the others looking to hit the road again so soon. 

Stay the night, she declared. They'd earned it. The cabins were stocked, after all; a few bloodstains left over from their carnage wouldn't stop them from having a good time. In one of those cabins Soldier found a tackle box, and soon enough he had Engineer and Pyro dragged along under his arms to, quote, help him send those scaly sons of bitches in the lake to meet their creator. Engie had sent Heavy and Medic off to go see if they could find a grill anywhere on the complex for him to fire up later, while Miss Pauling's conversation pals from the traffic had circled back around to checking the hiking trails for the supposed ghost on the grounds. They were all off seizing the day, while Miss Pauling stood in the shade with her back against the camper. Smoking. Observing them move like puppets on the stage of the horizon. Come to think of it, she hadn't wandered away to simply enjoy the sunshine and a smoke in a long time.

Spy popped out of the RV's side door. Briefcase in hand; grabbing what he needed for the night. He barely acknowledged her as he made his way to go find a cabin.

"You were right, you know," Miss Pauling said. It stopped him. "Marlboros taste like crap now."

He raised a brow and smirked. "They always have."

She took a long drag of her truly average cigarette, as Spy stared at her throughout the breath. Reminded her of how she would stand in the Administrator's office: heels together, polite expression, and just waiting for her to say something. Unlike when Miss Pauling was with the Administrator, Spy had the nerve to enter her personal space. He reapproached and stood next to her, leaning against the door he had come from without a word. Funny, if Miss Pauling dared to get that close to her boss unprompted she would probably shoot her in the knee. She offered him a cigarette instead of a bullet; he turned it down.

"I'm sorry, by the way. For snapping at you this morning." Apologizing: another thing the Administrator would never do. "I've just been a little stressed lately."

"I'm aware." There was no resentment on his tone. He understood. Spy had many facets to his treatment towards others, ranging from uncalled-for snark to being downright cruel, but he always met Miss Pauling with generosity. She appreciated that.

The unoccupied fingers on the hand holding the cigarette wrapped over her mouth and chin as she stood deep in thought. "I can't stop thinking about that man at the diner last night," she broke. Smoke wafted between the two of them, the fresh scent of the trees interlaced with the musk of the cigarette. A contrast of calm to the urgency in her words. "Of who the hell had any idea of where I would be to know to send him. There are only so many options, y'know?" Every second she thought about it, that became increasingly more apparent. Only her and one other. "And I... I wonder if I'm not being careful enough."

Spy watched his colleagues at the lake wade up to their hips in reeds. "You told me you needed time, didn't you?" He reminded. She had. Sunlight speckled across his suit.

"There will always be people in the world who want to sabotage you, Miss Pauling. I'm sure of it," he continued. "And as someone who spends a lot of time behind enemy lines evading those kinds of people, your time is much better spent getting the job done in the first place than worrying about being caught."

With that he nodded, and vanished in a plume of smoke of his own. His words were worth remembering. Why he cloaked away however, she had no idea. Nobody here wanted them dead or needed deceiving. Maybe it was to avoid being pestered any more on the way to his cabin? She could understand that; she had chanced herself into plenty of social situations over the years where she wished she could use his watch and slink away. Though she never knew him to be able to cloak while carrying a briefcase.

One thing she knew for certain? Engie could grill a damn good corn on the cob. The camp pantry had few perishables - no raw meat, no dairy, few vegetables - but with some buns, presealed hotdogs, and an apocalypse-level horde of mega marshmallows, they set themselves up for a half decent cookout. Pyro had started a campfire going alongside (with a careful eye on them to make sure nothing else went up in flames) and soon enough everyone had been wrangled around the firepit, whether they liked it or not. She liked it. It had been a long time since she had gotten to do something like this. She could start a campfire from scratch in record time, but that tended to be for burning evidence; or that one time her moped ran out of juice halfway through the Sonoran. So she'd take Spy's advice: instead of letting her guts play jump rope with themselves, she'd pay close attention and engage with the night. Being here to watch the logs spit, surrounded by folks she could enjoy the company of while keeping an eye on them, was a luxury. She was glad she dragged them along.

Somewhere in one of the activity halls someone had found Engineer a guitar. Once the grill had died down, he sat with the others and played a soothing backing track to the spirited conversation around the fire. She could still hear his strums as she strolled around the back of the main cabin. They also found an outdoor cooler back there, and to their luck it was stocked with ice. As soon as she closed the lid, however, she realised she hadn't gone alone. A huge silhouette lingered to her left.

"Heavy?" It was nigh pitch black back here, but there was no mistaking it. "Hey there, big guy. Did you need some ice?"

But he wasn't concerned with the cooler or its contents. "You and I. We must talk."

Her hand tightened around the cooler's lid. 

They did need to talk, that was for certain; even if Heavy's demand had sent her stomach into a spiral. No better place than here: no one around to eavesdrop, not even a trail camera. Just her and him. On the edge of the woods. She just... didn't know what it was that he needed to say to her.

"Heavy, if this is about this morning..."

He shushed her. "I must speak." 

He approached. Gradually. In the weak light she made more and more of him out. His gaze was intense, but not angry. No: solemn. "I have been watching you, Miss Pauling. Enough to know you have been watching me." 

She didn't answer fast enough for a convincing retort. In part, Heavy seemed to appreciate that. "I do not know why you do it. I do not know all you've seen. But you have seen enough that I cannot stay silent any longer."

She held up a hand. "Heavy, I don't -"

"You went through Medic's things," he asserted. Her spine stiffened. So Medic hadn't believed her excuses. "At the time, I could not work out why. If you are curious, you can ask. But I understand now."

She went to speak, but a hockey puck of a lump had lodged itself in her throat. His eyes narrowed at her for it. 

"I overheard you talking with Demo this afternoon." He spoke deftly. Not unlike the swing of a wrecking ball. "Do not deny it. And all you said to Spy. How Medic and I cannot be left alone."

The farthest recesses of her stomach opened up and, with teeth like knives, chewed up and swallowed her plummeting heart. That wasn't what she meant! It had been a horrible freak-out of a morning, not a heartfelt judgement of his character! But he didn't wish to be interrupted right now - and she couldn't find a grip on the first step how to. 

His shoulders squared, as if bracing himself. "If you wish to fire me, I will go. Do not need to dig any dirt to make your case against me. Would not be fair to Medic." With those words, his eyes softened slightly. But not once did he avert them from her. "We have deceived you to nature of our relationship. Betrayed your trust as our employer. With me gone, he at least should keep his job - that is all I ask."

"Wait." Miss Pauling couldn't believe what she was hearing. It snapped her out of her reverie. "Wait, Heavy, I'm not going to fire you! That's the last thing I want to do!"

Heavy's brow tightened. "I do not understand. You already spoke with Demoman about this."

"About what? You maybe being queer?" She guffawed. The anxiety slipped out of her voice as she took a step forward. "I never said it was a bad thing, did I? I even called Demo kind for not caring."

He absorbed these words. Thought on them for a moment. "It will not reflect well on company to have me around."

She shook her head. "No, Heavy, trust me: nobody upstairs cares. Words straight out of the Administrator's mouth, I swear it." Minus some edits for courtesy. "RED only cares about how hard you kick BLU's ass. Not whatever you get up to in your free time."

Cogs grinded in his brain. He studied her intently. "But you were watching us."

"Yes," she sighed assurance. Both hands cradled her solo cup. Cold, with all the fresh ice in it. "Yes, I was." She gestured to the back porch of the cabin. "Want to sit down and talk about it?"

He nodded.

She came clean. About her overhearing the wrong thing by chance; about being given this task of assessing their relationship amid everything else going on with RED; about how she found it best to complete it aboard a twenty foot vehicle. How this all could have been over in an afternoon if she just cornered them on base and asked. But... she didn't want to do that. How cruel that'd be, to force them to out themselves to her. Nevermind being a recipe for lying straight to her face and digging the pit even deeper. No, it was much better to progressively make them think she was stalking them. Clearly. But to his credit, for all her hiccups, Heavy laughed it off. No one enjoyed having their personal life pried into. Hell, what she was doing? One wrong slip and it would be pretty much wrenched open. Yet...

"Really, when I was talking with Demo..." Ooh, the cheap beer in her cup was beginning to go to her head. "I really wanted to be discreet about this, y'know? I thought a little conversation was a good idea. Test the waters before I asked you or Medic to do anything. But what's the plan from there? To ask seven people one after another, 'hey, do you think your coworker is gay?' and hope they don't talk to one another? Christ," she put her forehead to her fist, "I may as well have just stood up in the mess and polled them all."

He pat her back. "We will come up with new plan."

"Yeah." She nodded, sitting up straight again. Let the sounds of the campfire far away wash over them. Until she turned to him. "So, is it true then?"

He raised a brow at her. "What is true?"

"You and Medic. You just said, we will come up with a new plan. It implies we need one. And a minute ago, you were willing to give up your job for him." She teased a nearby twig between her fingers. "Is he your boyfriend?"

Heavy stared out across the deck, wordless. His confrontation with her had been resolute, and he certainly couldn't take back what he said. But his face twisted. "That is... juvenile term."

She couldn't suppress a grin. "Is it wrong?"

Heavy stared her expression down. Had it been anyone else wearing it, he would smack it clean off their face. But Miss Pauling was Miss Pauling. And for how much of a mess she had made of things for him, he could not bring himself to resent her.

He picked up her solo cup and took a long, hard drink. "Miss Pauling, I spend years, fighting same war every day... I pick up patterns. You learn what works and what does not. It makes you good mercenary."

This she knew. Heavy was thoughtful and reliable. His free hand gripped the porch beneath him. "Sasha and I, we are strong. No one dares face us one on one; they know they would be torn into pulp." He tilted his head. "So they do not come alone. Their Soldier and their Demoman will fire bombs together from their hiding spots, like cowards. Or BLU Spy will creep up on me while I am busy. I cannot roam the field alone, or I will be found by them and slaughtered. Is stupid tactic."

"But neither can Medic," he continued. "He is weak. Do not let him hear me say that, but it is true. No new saw or needle gun will stop him from being easy pickings. He is already targeted plenty by the BLUs that fear his healing prowess. If he goes off alone, he too will die."

"But together..." his fist thunked against his chest. "He has made me much stronger. I do not have to worry about little bombs when their wounds can be patched in seconds, or BLU Spy when I have Doctor watching my back. And he does not have to worry about their Scout or Spy or Pyro coming for him when I am beside him." Suddenly, a grin spread across his face. "The horror in their Engineer's face when healing I am faster than his little gun can rip into me! Or when he and his toy are gone and we march over his body, and his skull pops under my boot!" He roared with laughter - loud enough the BLU Engineer could probably hear it and shiver. "Ah, I will never tire of it."

Somewhere in it all Miss Pauling settled into his speech, her cheek cradled in her hand. She was enamoured. She didn't know him to ever speak so much. It were as though she had taken her little twig and pressed all the right buttons. "That's what makes you like him?" She smiled.

Coming down from his joy Heavy peered at her. As if, for a moment, he forgot he had been ranting to someone with a consciousness. "Yes. No." He frowned. "There is more than that."

"Medic is... competent." He furrowed his brow deeper, finding the right words. "He commands well. Cannot support us fully if he does not stay on top of things. Is impressive, what he does. And his healing gun..." Heavy's back straightened. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the campfire glow, as if a sister to the ethereal red of the Medigun's healing beam. "When it is on me, it is a pact. He will keep me alive, so long as I do the same for him. And it does not fill me with only newfound strength, but this burning desire. To impress him. Protect him. And when I fail, the shame... it is almost too much."

If not for the darkness, Miss Pauling may have seen Heavy grow red himself at the memories. But he shook it off. "There is nothing like it," he swore. "Thrill of BLU Soldier's rocket splashing across my chest, and knowing my doctor is safe behind my back. Ha!" With a burst of pride he crushed Miss Pauling's cup in his hand, ice scattering everywhere. "Soldier could not get through me if he tried!"

In a beat, Heavy realised what he had done. He returned the remains of her drink. "Sorry about cup."

"No big deal, big guy. Solo cups bounce right back," she said, getting up to get more ice. "Like memory foam. Or babies."

He nodded. He had three little sisters and knew this to be true. 

As she wandered those few paces away, Heavy's hands withdrew to rest on his lap. The wind through the trees sounded almost like rain.

"Snowycoast," he broke.

"Huh?" She barely caught him over the kerchunk of the ice.

"To answer your question," he elaborated. "Was where I told Medic what I tell you now."

"Oh. Oh!" She had posted them there for a month last January, while Hydro recovered from the last of the damage the mutant bread incident caused the preceding Summer. A wide open payload map by the bay, where they fought at night in the snow. So... Heavy and Medic had successfully kept their secret for six months.

"What was so special about there of all places?" She had to ask. Sauntering back to her place next to him, she expected tales of how the constant snow reminded Heavy of home, or gruesome recollections of the blood upon the ground under Snowycoast's white spotlights.

"It was cold." Heavy shrugged. Then closed his eyes. "We will discuss this no further."

Noted. Even if him saying that had her devastatingly curious. "But he reciprocated them? Your feelings?"

"Yes."

Alright. She chewed on an ice chip. So she really did have work to do. 

The gravity of their conversation began to thicken the air. On a positive note, finally she knew she hadn't made a fool out of herself entirely. Imagine, she cringed, if she had staggered through this trip for her to realise she had misheard them. A huge waste of time. Ugh. No, she had heard right... yet now she knew it, it felt as though the road ahead had only now opened up to her. And damn, she had a ways to drive. Heavy didn't seem as concerned, thankfully, but his demeanour had never been the type to exude anxiety. 

When the pause between them didn't let up, he side eyed her. "So. What now?"

"Now?" She pushed her glasses up. "Unless you want to go make my life easy and break up," which, given his prior soliloquy, was not an option either of them wished to pursue, "I've got to ascertain that nothing will go wrong with the team if the guys found out about you."

Of course, therein itself lied an uncomfortable problem. Waltzing around unprompted, asking these men a personal question unrelated to their work; it would be sure to drum up suspicion. And if it all went south, the fallout would land on Heavy and Medic's shoulders, not hers.

Heavy's mouth drew itself into a tight line. "Even if we do not plan to share our relationship, you would do this?"

She sighed. "You can't account for that it won't come out on its own. I've got to. It's my job." Even if it sounded cruel. Because when push came to shove, her job came first. Despite it, she shuffled closer to him, and with a tone of totality, "Trust me. I'm not gonna leave you high and dry if things don't turn out how we want them to. I'm always gonna be in your corner."

Whether that successfully came as a comfort, Miss Pauling could only hope. He did not need her poking around in his matters; that must have been his thinking - but he could not run from this, and he knew it. 

"If someone does not agree, do not worry," he said at last. "I will handle them."

"Are you sure?" Panic flashed through her; images with potentially violent outcomes. Wasn't that exactly what she was avoiding?

But Heavy wouldn't have it any other way. "It is my problem. I will settle it."

Her lips pursed. But if she were to force this situation, this danger, upon him, the least she could do was grant him the dignity to solve it on his own terms. She may not have... what, the will? Or the guts? To deny the Administrator's mission. But she did have room for courtesy.

"Then I guess I'll keep you updated." She stood; she couldn't make headway if she lingered back here. Furthermore the others might start asking questions if they were gone for too long. "Thanks for having this conversation with me, by the way. It... means a lot."

"Is nothing." 

Right. She began to pace back to the campfire - until something popped into her head and she retraced her steps. "Hey, I've got to ask: what did you mean by 'unplug the fridge before lifting'?"

Heavy stared at her. "It was written on Medic's bookmark," she rolled her wrist as she elaborated. "Written in Russian, so it had to be you who wrote it, right?"

The pieces clicked in his mind. "Ah. Bookmark you stole."

"That's the one."

Heavy pondered this for a second. "Medic was rearranging infirmary. Needed me to move appliances when he wasn't around. I left note for myself so I wouldn't destroy precious things by mistake." Connecting the dots, he smirked. "So, Doctor uses my scraps for his bookmarks?"

Miss Pauling bounced on her heels. "Would have to ask him to be sure."

Heavy hummed. "And while I am asking," he rose from his seat on the porch, still wearing that prideful expression, "I will ask you why you took bookmark first."

Her face shriveled. "I took the book too," she blurted. For some reason those were the foremost words to present themselves in her mind.

Heavy blinked at her. "Honest," she continued. "I just put that back before he noticed."

"Why? To spy on him?" 

"I wish I could tell you! It was a spur of the moment decision." She ran her fingers along the new creases in the solo cup. "It's like I was hoping for it to be, I don't know, a journal or something. I could open it up and get all my answers without having to step on any toes."

"Eh. You would not want to see Medic's journal," Heavy grimaced.

At that she laughed. Hands behind her back, she combed through all Heavy had told her tonight. "So that was you bluffing, then?" She turned back to him and pointed. "When you said I went through Medic's things? You got everything else right, but I didn't do that." Save his book.

"Would not get anywhere if I did not try," he reasoned. And Miss Pauling wondered why on earth he still had a reputation for being a big dumb lug.

The night was still young, but Miss Pauling wasn't feeling it. Nice clean sheets in a rustic little cabin sounded more like music to her tired ears. The mercs would still stay up for a while longer (some longer than others), however there was only so much mischief they could get into, being fifteen miles of woodland from the nearest town. What would they do, light something on fire? Drown each other in the lake? They were big boys: they didn't need her to fix little messes like those. And even if they did, as a wise man once said, if she were going to be of any use to them, she needed to be rested enough to do it. Beyond her window, she could hear a splash in the lake and a guffaw from Scout, and took solace in how much not her problem it was. Too much had been her problem lately, she thought, as she closed her eyes. Her fingernail traced the seams in her pillowcase, bouncing with each stitch like they were little speed bumps. Too much.

It was a clear, starless night tonight, just as it had been two days ago. When her troubles began. It had started on base. She had been doing routine checks in the dead of night; she liked to do them when she wouldn't be bothered by the team. Nice enough conversation as the guys could be, chatter was not economical for her schedule. A quick in and out. Monitoring locks, mail, bugs in the walls: the works. She had been strolling to the warehouse on the east edge of the perimeter to take inventory on select items when she realised she had bumped into company.

"And as I get closer, I realise their Sniper has his attention so far down his scope he hasn't yet seen me at all!"

Quickly her eyes scanned the area: the narrow roof over her head, an overhang from the building besides her; the wooden support pillars it was held up by; and the crates of apples piled up next to the pillar closest. The fact someone had clearly dumped them here instead of driving them over to the warehouse irked her, but she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She ducked behind them. Getting caught would put her another two, three, maybe even five minutes behind, and she already had lost time to recoup because a listless Scout spotted her in the common area. Those who can't sleep should stick to their rooms and wallow in their beds, like normal people. Same went for these guys.

"So I pull out my saw, and aim its tip at his neck... but as soon as I move to strike, their Soldier jumps right between us and catches it in the mouth!"

Medic. And from the deep rolling laughter amongst his, Heavy. Tentatively, she snuck a glance over the top of the crate. Together, they were idly strolling across the parking lot between here and the warehouse, entrenched in loud conversation. They were far too caught up in their own levity to lay eyes on her here. And not moving fast enough for her to make a safe exit.

"Sniper?" Heavy crossed his arms. He was engrossed in this.

"He notices none of it!"

"So what did you do?"

He lunged like he still had the ubersaw there in his grasp. "I let the Soldier fall and went for take two!"

Miss Pauling rolled her eyes. Humorous or not, they needed to move on. Maybe she could throw a rock to draw their attention away, or hide under some ambient noise, but... such a clear night. No wind. You could barely hide the sound of her pumps against the asphalt, just like Miss Pauling couldn't drown out the sound of their laughter. There was nothing to drown it out with. Furthermore if she moved now, after already hiding, they'd know she had eavesdropped, no matter for how short a time. So she plopped her hands in her lap and waited.

Coming down from their chuckles, Heavy shook his head. "You should not move ahead so far you meet enemy Sniper, Doctor."

He groaned, like he had heard this before - and was becoming rather sick of it. "Nonsense. I know what I am doing." He waved him off with a face of annoyance. "What, would you rather I have no new exciting stories for you?"

"You should focus less on your stories and more on staying with team," he muttered.

"Ach, you and your desire to stay alive," he jabbed. Heavy was right, and if they were any good at their jobs they both knew it well, but just tonight he would berate him for not letting him indulge in his fun. "You're just tired, Heavy."

"Not so," He insisted. With a step he neared to Medic; his tone still jovial, but his volume dropped. "Do not need more nightmares of you dying and not getting up."

Medic blinked - and so did Miss Pauling. His face screwed up. "Ah, do not tell me you're having bad dreams again over me?"

Medic wasn't the type to run more than cursory psych evaluations on the team. Nevertheless, she had never noticed him to mention any kind of reoccurring nightmare in Heavy's file. That kind of mental toll would be ample reason for RED's performance decline... yet from Medic's tone, he didn't think the second thing of it.

"You do not do best to discourage them." Heavy poked him in the ribs with a fresh grin. "Must keep close eye on you, Doctor. Make sure you do not get hurt."

"Ha! You are transparent, Heavy. You are just happiest when you think I need your help."

He shifted his hands to his hips, straightening his stance. "Oh? You do not?"

"Look at all I've done for you, my friend!" A finger, bright red rubber contrasted against the outside lights and pitch black sky, found a place pointed right against Heavy's chest. At his heart. "All you can do now you've had my aid. Not to mention I performed that same surgery on myself. I am quite a capable man," he bragged.

"I know, Doctor."

Medic's finger lingered on Heavy. The doctor hummed, eyes distant yet fixated on where Heavy's heart laid beating. This was weird. Heavy was not a man who was ever too big being touched. If anyone ever tried to act this familiar with him, he would not hesitate to bite their hand clean off; she had seen Scout narrowly avoid such a fate at least a dozen times. So to watch him let Medic lay his hand upon him without even a flinch... it wasn't what she expected. Especially when Medic wasn't exactly the intimate type himself. Virtues of being awake through surgery so many times, she supposed: he was used to having his hands on him.

"Still, if it would settle your mind, you can always sleep in my room again to keep an eye on me. If you're really that scared," he offered, humming. 

Again. Again?

Heavy hummed himself, his tune less content. "Have to make sure you do not go anywhere," he reasoned. Early on, there had been made a spate of incidents where Medic worked through the night just to flatline on the field the next day, and the team didn't let him forget it. His manic demeanour be damned, he simply didn't have the knack for the true all-nighters Miss Pauling and Engineer did. Though that little quirk was the last thing on Miss Pauling's mind right now.

"Of course, you know you're welcome to sleep with me any time you like, Heavy," he said, his eyes lit up without a hint of shyness. "Your company is always appreciated."

Despite Medic's sincerity, Heavy grinded his teeth. "Easier when Soldier is not patrolling halls in early morning."

"Forget about him. Half of what he says is nonsense anyway."

Right. Right. These two were speaking a little too quickly for Miss Pauling to keep up, frankly, though they rarely said a sentence within the same fifteen seconds of one another. They always had a close relationship; it was what made them such a dangerous duo. And a bizarre relationship at that, if the times she'd overseen Medic's operating theatre were anything to go by, or times they filled the gaps in matches with rock-paper-scissors games as they stood over their allies' and enemies' corpses. They were downright crazy on harmonious wavelengths. Fate couldn't find a better pair since the RED Demoman and the BLU Soldier.

But Medic's hand began to move, dragging his finger down Heavy's chest, so clearly lost in thought over what lied under the skin. It were as though it mesmerized him - and Heavy didn't seem to dislike the compliment. What Miss Pauling would be quick to write off as simply Medic's pride in his handiwork became harder to do in light of the conversation; and in light of Medic's line stopping an inch or two lower than two strictly professional men having a strictly platonic conversation would deem appropriate to go. Somewhere in it all Miss Pauling's brows had furrowed into one anxious caterpillar. Her cheeks blistered deep crimson. Sorry, had Medic really invited him to sleep with him? Again?

Inching that hand off his torso, Medic moved to grab Heavy's wrist. Tilting his head, "Perhaps..."

"Perhaps?" Heavy's brow raised. Their walking pace picked up again; no more than a gentle stroll, but movement nonetheless. 

"Perhaps, you may not tell all fibs," Medic admitted, averting his eyes to the side with a lopsided frown. "I may need you. Sometimes."

Tease or not, his words put a beam on Heavy's face. The grip on his wrist twisted until his hand fully interlaced with Medic's. "Only sometimes?"

Medic pinched the air, with a squint and a grin. "Just a little bit."

Medic went on to tell him not to let this get to his head, but he was a beat too late with that one. Heavy was far too happy. They both were happy. They were holding hands. They were alone together in the dead of night. And Miss Pauling couldn't shake the feeling she had been privy to something she really shouldn't have. Of course she got to know everything about these guys, no morals about it, but this... this, this wasn't something you just up and tattled about to other people. This wasn't Scout's open crush on Miss Pauling, or those pinup posters they put in the spawn rooms. Heavy and Medic were sweet on each other. She knew well enough to know that came with consequences. 

They had further closed the gap between them now, standing together in the cool yellow light out in the open. But as Miss Pauling's eyes wavered over them, a pit in her belly opened up.

The way they had walked; they were further into the lot between the warehouse and the main complex now. They had wandered away from the walls... and into the purview of the lot's camera sight. The Administrator could see them. She could see this right now. She would know.

No, no, the Administrator knew everything. Privacy was not part of the contract. Privacy was not in their job description.

No. No, no, no. Not tonight. Not like this. Screw this. She couldn't just sit by. If it had been Miss Pauling in their position, her arm moving up to wrap her around partner's neck...

Without thinking, she moved. Like a clockwork contraption primed for this very moment, yet jittering as though her nuts and bolts hadn't been tightened in years. Whipped her revolver from her satchel and trained it on that little camera perched on the wall. Fired.

As soon as it shattered, she bolted.

Chapter Text

Squinting, Miss Pauling woke from a deep sleep to find two hands shaking her shoulders. Two gloved hands. Black with yellow fingers, and a big old gas mask to match. Faint firelight cast a glow over Pyro's face as it streamed in through the window; hopefully the dying embers of the campfire and not something new Pyro started. Her muscles were lead and her joints radiated ache and her whole body complained loudly about being ripped away from slumber, but Pyro's hands clutched her shoulders nonetheless. They would shake her until she stayed awake.

"Alright, alright, I'm up!" Her hand skimmed the nightstand until she found her glasses. "What's the matter, buddy?"

Pyro pointed urgently out the cabin door. They needed her for something. Hopefully not a task that required specific step-by-step information they needed to relay to her (unless those steps were "mmph-mm-mmph!"). So Miss Pauling let Pyro lead her by the hand, rushing out back to the main firepit. Around it Demo and Sniper were pacing - no, stumbling, agitated and inconsolable. Reeking of liquor, too.

Medic, Engineer, and Pyro were the first on the scene, with their other teammates beginning to trickle out of their respective cabins, either to check on these two or beat the crap out of them for making such a racket. Now she was outdoors Miss Pauling regretted not glancing at the clock on her way out. The sky was still pitch black, so it must have still been a ways off dawn, but she had no idea how deep into the night they really were.

At the sight of her, Engie filled her in. "They just burst out of the woods screaming," he explained, hand on the back of his helmet. "Scared the bejeezus out of me."

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "Couldn't get much of a word outta them edgeways. Pyro thought you might get the job done. They've calmed down a mite since they bumped into me, mind..."

"But they're still inebriated," Medic finished, arms behind his back. Didn't seem as concerned for them as he was pissed to have been bothered. "They're yelling some nonsense about the woods being haunted."

Of course. Miss Pauling shook her head - a gesture not to worry about these boozers. She'd work the details out of them. Though Demo might be a lost cause; she didn't have to take two looks to know he must have drained the last of his whiskey and the cheap beer Medic had picked up, plus whatever else he could get his hands on. All of his words had become one long string of syllables.

Sniper, however, pulled himself together long enough to recognise her. "Miss Pauling, thank god." He darted over to her like was still getting used to having legs. "You've got to listen to me: that pamphlet wasn't lying."

"Slow down." Sniper had latched his hands onto her arms, and she gingerly plucked them off. Drinking was supposed to loosen you up, but he seemed tight as a bow's drawstring. "What happened?"

"We went looking for it, the girl," he started, pacing in place. The little drowning victim he brought up in the camper. "Demo, Scout, and I. Just for a laugh. I didn't actually think we'd find anything."

"Was this before or after you started drinking?"

"Does it matter?" He swung his arm back at the lake, then off towards the trails behind it. "There's an honest to god ghost - or, or monster or something up there!" His hands were slick with sweat. He dragged them down his face. "We all picked up and booked it as soon as -"

"'We?'" She peeked around him. "I see you and Demo. Where is Scout?"

"Where is -" His face slacked for a moment. Spun around to count his entourage, who, sure enough, only consisted of Demo stumbling back and forth arguing with himself. "Aw, piss."

In hindsight, perhaps expecting a quiet night had been naïve of Miss Pauling. She hadn't been wrong: these men were big boys, and perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Just as they were capable of drinking until their livers cried and ditching Scout in the woods. The fact she couldn't see him yet either meant he had gotten lost out there in the dark, or something was preventing him from coming back. As for why she hadn't heard him yet... well, it was a big camp.

With luck he had passed out on the trail. He'd be dehydrated but unharmed, albeit needing to finesse his pride back into shape. That's what Medic assured her of; that these schweinhunds were far past being sober enough to notice their hand at the end of their arm, nevermind a ghost. They didn't exactly have any hard proof of what they saw, after all. Barely any coherent details. They probably saw a weird branch. Though for all his complaints, he didn't hesitate to join the others to go looking for Scout. The camp was dotted with half a dozen hiking trails, but between Sniper and Demo's slurred accounts, in the little sobriety they had left, the group were able to narrow down their options.

You were always meant to go hiking in groups of three: if one got hurt, the second could stay with the injured party while the third found help. These nine were far past needing precautions like that, but given what got them into this mess - not to mention they were all some level of tipsy or sleepy - Miss Pauling didn't feel like tempting fate. Nevermind that if Sniper wasn't lying, and they really did bump into something, it must know these woods a lot better than they did. More than that, how that someone or something knew they were there or how to find them... hmm. These questions were becoming familiar. 

But this was all conjecture. What she knew for certain was that she didn't need any more of her men being caught off guard. She needed at least one of them to lift Scout if they found him unconscious; these trails were uneven, and she didn't need a broken arm if she tripped pressing her luck dragging him along herself.

Heavy would cover it. Her eyes flitted between her two hiking buddies. Medic could also easily do in a pinch. Spy, Pyro, and Soldier had taken a separate trail, a less steep one than this, while Engineer stayed behind to make sure the two drunkards didn't go losing anything else. Soldier could carry Scout easily, although not necessarily comfortably. And it always shocked Miss Pauling how strong Pyro really was. As for Spy... maybe he planned to demoralise him into walking it off.

Did Medic know? About the conversation she and Heavy had? A non-negligible reason she made certain the groups were split this way was in case they had anything to say to her. If Medic had told Heavy about what happened between her and him behind the diner, then it made sense for Heavy to clue him in to the explanation. Yet if he did know, he didn't care to mention it now. What he cared to mention pertained more to the matter at hand. Sort of.

"You know, if anyone were to haunt us, it wouldn't be some unrelated young girl," Medic wagered, raising a finger. "It would be the men we just killed, ja?"

They walked in front, side by side, with Miss Pauling taking up the rear. For as seriously as they claimed to take their orders, from the way their flashlight beams swept off into nowhere she could tell their attention wasn't as much on looking for Scout as it was on the conversation. 

Heavy hummed in discontent at Medic's proposal. "No. They died fair deaths. Had chance to fight back." He crossed his arms. "Little girl does not have chance against grown man. Has every right to be angry."

"And we know for sure this girl was murdered?" 

"Is what Sniper said." That was how the folktale went. 

Medic tapped his chin. "Okay. Of course, if you really think that she's who they saw, then we should be checking for Scout in the lake, not up here," he poked.

Miss Pauling shivered. At the least Engie and Pyro had been awake; they would've heard a splash, right? Best not to joke about it.

"Even so," Medic resumed, "we did kill them rather brutally. I would say that's fair grounds for a haunting." In his professional opinion, of course. Stepping over roots in the dirt, she rolled her eyes at the clinical nature of it all.

Still, and she couldn't believe she was chiming in here, she hit a snag. "Surely it would take more time for them to become ghosts though, right?" She flagged up. "They only died this afternoon. Not a huge amount of time to build a grudge."

"Eh, souls are finicky like that," he shrugged. The degree of confidence he laid in that statement was not something she wished to pry into. "We did surprise them enough to leave a stark impression, I'm sure!" 

For all ten seconds they got to live with that impression, maybe. Whereas with each step she spent scanning the side of the trail, she couldn't say it left much of an impression on her. Just a bunch of leaves, trees, and long grass.

"Shame we did not find cooler sooner," Heavy noted to Medic. "You could have made use of them yet." 

His eyes lit up. "Ah, could you imagine! Fresh organs, completely free of charge!" 

"Souls would not have grudge if we made something productive of their bodies," he affirmed. Somehow Miss Pauling didn't see being used as part of Medic's experiments as something that would put her soul to rest.

"Yes, what a shame." He sighed wistfully. "If the bodies hadn't yet been dumped, I could have salvaged them quite nicely. Though there is still time to row back out and retrieve what we can..."

Miss Pauling glared knives into the back of his head. "No."

"Worth a try!"

Medic didn't get much chance to circle back and argue his case however, not when another few hundred feet ahead a frantic voice popped into earshot. Distinctly, gratingly, east coast US. Scout must have spotted them coming, and pinpointing his voice, their flashlights eventually found him sitting off the trail. Some two feet down the slope and tangled around the trees and brush. Scowling to get the damn light out of his eyes.

"Scout, are you okay?" Miss Pauling knelt down above him, tossing stray foliage out of the way. He had scrapes and bruises, but no signs of blood. Good: the last thing she needed was for him to roll down the hill and get impaled on a branch.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Took you losers long enough," he chided. He shifted around to scooch an inch higher up the slope. "Oh, but not you, Miss P. You take all the time you need." Always a sight for sore eyes to him. 

He grabbed her hand, then Heavy's, and she couldn't help but wonder why a guy who was assuredly so fine needed two people's help to climb up a ditch barely as tall as his legs. When he got to the top it became apparent: from how he kept putting his weight on Miss Pauling's hand when it was time to stand. 

"Is it broken, Doc?" Even if Scout played it cool, he couldn't hide his limp from anyone. The issue was in his ankle. 

Medic shone his light over it. Then poked it. When Scout yelped, he poked again. "Just a sprain. You'll be fine." 

While Miss Pauling was thankful it wasn't anything more serious, Scout's pride couldn't say the same. "I swear to god, I'm gonna kill those guys..." He muttered, letting Miss Pauling hoist his arm around her shoulder; though if this went south, she would still make Heavy carry him.

"Scout, what happened?"

"We were taking a walk, shooting the breeze; you get it." Her and him started walking in step back the way they came. While he may have been tentative on his one leg, the pain seemed to have sobered him enough to not be weak on both. "Demo wanted to go see the damn ghost himself. I didn't see anything - except those assholes turning round and ditching me! 'Course Sniper had the only flashlight."

"Well, I'm grateful you didn't hurt yourself more," she said. "It's dark out here. Could have been a lot worse than falling in a bush." 

"Yeah, well, I'm no wimp. I woulda been fine even if you didn't find me 'til morning," he said. Couldn't let Miss Pauling become sick with worry over him, now. "Honest, I'm never gonna let those two live this down. What's so scary about a little - oh my god!"

Scout jumped, knocking her flashlight beam off balance, but she could see into the gloom where he pointed - and the silhouette he pointed to. Medium height, broad build, oddly familiar: nothing like a little girl, and holding something too weapon shaped for her liking in its hand. Instantly she dropped her flashlight and swapped it for the revolver in her satchel. Medic and Heavy's flashlights would give her enough light to lock down their uninvited guest. 

Yet as the beams focused, her shoulders dropped. "Soldier?"

He stood shovel in hand, grinning. "Good evening, Miss Pauling. I see the rescue mission for Scout has been a success!"

Her mouth gaped. Too many words wanted to come out, foremost of which being god, damn, and it. "Soldier, what are you doing here?" She waved her gun barrel off him. "You're supposed to be with Spy and Pyro!"

"Do not fear, Miss Pauling. I am not a deserter," he announced, marching closer. "I merely felt those two did not have the drive needed for a mission of this calibre, so I forged on ahead without them. Frankly, those boys couldn't cover ground if you gave them a quilt."

The rule of three had truly been spat on and burned. "You abandoned them."

"No. I began on a slightly different path at a faster pace without telling them." He held up a hand. "I can see the confusion."

Scout was scoffing some non-words of his own, both in disbelief and in the painful aftermath of lurching his bad foot back. Either way, they provided a backing track to her pinching the bridge of her nose. "Christ, Soldier, you nearly gave me a heart attack," she said with a shake of her head.

"Gave Scout heart attack, too," Heavy tacked on, the slyest of smirks under his breath. If it weren't for Miss Pauling's grip on him Scout would jump over there, sprained ankle be damned, and tell him to shut up in a language only his hands could speak.

"Still," Miss Pauling reholstered her gun. "You can't go sneaking up unannounced. We don't know if Sniper or Demo really did see anything out here; what if you had been someone stalking us? I could have shot you!"

Soldier broke out into a wheezing laugh. "There's no one out here stalking you, Miss Pauling!" He promised. Presenting his shovel, "I killed them already!"

The edge of the shovel was sullied with still-fresh blood. There were no marks on him to indicate it was his own. She... she hadn't heard anything. While Soldier cackled at Medic and Heavy for their inability to notice a Spy tailing them, all Miss Pauling could feel was the weight of the mockery upon her own shoulders. Immediately she passed Scout off to the pair of them. Soldier needed to lead her to this corpse. There was no way.

But there was. A woman, dressed for the woods, laid prone on the trail where they had passed barely two minutes earlier. Light supplies on her back and a long hunting knife on her belt. No ID. No flashlight. Wearing black. Oh, and with a considerable dent in her head. Soldier spun a tale of spotting her through the trees while on his noble quest alone; how she didn't hear him coming until his shovel had her skull caving like paper bag. He couldn't be certain she was a communist spy, but being safe was a damn length better than being sorry. Besides, she was wearing a red undershirt! That had to be worth something!

She commended him, even if she couldn't bring her voice to do it with any kind of enthusiasm. Her shadows were meant to have been left behind at the diner. But this woman being here... it meant they weren't done. Someone had caught up with her.

"Soldier, you didn't see anyone else around here, did you? Anyone with her?" 

"No, ma'am."

"Alright." She scanned her light over her one last time: no concealed items, no tattoos of any known organisations, no otherwise helpful identifying features. If she sent her hands back to her forensics team, would they come up similarly blank again? "Help me push her off the trail."

Heading back down to camp, she took one step like it were four. Tripping on rocks or exposed roots was not a risk worth dawdling over. In the darkness and expanse of trees, she couldn't know if Soldier were right. She did know at least one other person knew where she was. And people tended to talk to each other. People tended to give orders to one another.

She had to make more progress. Wrap things up before one of her shadows did something permanent. Once she was back in Teufort she could get her hands on the resources she needed to get to the bottom of this. For now... she had to worry about getting the job done. Not being caught. 

Suddenly, she stopped and spun round to Soldier. "We're friends, right?"

"You are my commanding officer. We are not friends," he barked. "But you are very nice, Miss Pauling."

"Thank you." She put her hands behind her back, puffed out her chest; a gesture Soldier would understand. "As your commanding officer, may I ask you a personal question?"

He placed his hands arrow straight by his sides. "Miss Pauling, you maintain the right to ask me any question you please. It is my sworn duty both to this country and as a soldier under you to answer. You can ask me anything. Even the grisly stuff. You," his hands balled into tight, dedicated fists, "you can ask my birthday."

She... she knew his birthday. She knew all their birthdays. They were provided on the application form for his job. Regardless, he was giving her an opening. He was amped.

She cleared her throat. "What's your opinion on," she fought off filler words, "uh," and failed, "homosexuals? Working with them, specifically." His country needed him to answer this one honestly.

Soldier stood very still for a moment. Hard to tell what was going on in that head of his when that helmet blocked his eyes.

"Miss Pauling, I have thought about this hard. And I do not take shirking responsibility lightly." His tone was deadly serious. "But I do not think I could do it."

Her heart dropped. "Oh." 

"Love a man, that is," he clarified. 

It bounced back up. And then hung there. Unsure of itself. Her face twisted. "Soldier, I meant -"

"I understand where you're coming from," he assured her. Not quite sure he did. "You're not the first to come up with it: throughout history, military men have theorised the potential of a battalion comprised of lovers."

Ah. She had done it now. He was pacing with his hands behind his back. "If you were in love with your fellow soldier, then you would fight harder! You would not desert!" He declared. "The Thebans of ancient Greece had an army like that, and they thrashed the Spartans 'til they went home sobbing like little girls!"

"Impressive knowledge," she muttered.

He glanced around, looking for any more spies. "Miss Pauling. I know my men haven't had the greatest track record lately. I commend you for bringing up a tactic like this: it would be one hell of a convenience." Except for that if the Administrator had to monitor eighteen lovey-dovey men all day, she'd sooner blow her brains out.

"But I have tried in the past. Very hard," Soldier promised. "And I am disappointed to report: I am very heterosexual." His hand found a firm grip on her shoulder. One of boundless respect. "I don't know how you ladies do it. There is nothing remotely attractive about other men. There is plenty to admire, to strive for, but the only ugly mug I wanna kiss is that of a woman."

Miss Pauling blinked. It was her only defense from giggling. "I... didn't know you had thought about it so much already."

"I'm sorry I can't help you more," he said. Somewhere in it all he had lured her into a handshake. "The moment RED ever starts hiring female mercenaries, I will be first in line for trial!"

"It's... it's always a pleasure working with you, Soldier," she said, returning the gesture. Because in the face of his... unique answer, she didn't know what to say. Except, in the grand scheme of this mission, to be thankful? Indicating down the trail, "Shall we get going?"

"Hoorah!"

In light of Scout's return, the mood had calmed down again. In their absence Demo bounced back to full working order, while Sniper fully passed out. She wanted to pass out. The second shadow... the first, she could write off any number of ways. It was impossible to pin the answer down without more clues - and a brain like Hercule Poirot to go with them. But being tailed as far out as here? It didn't not sit right; no, it found a seat just fine. It sunk like a stone in her gut and stayed there. 

Passing out was not an option, not when her hypothesis on this ordeal still needed to be proven. Once she got back to camp she rooted through her satchel to find her revolver a friend: another piece of equipment she took everywhere. With it in hand, and the mercs tucked back in their cabins, she marched to the camper. This time to flip it; strip it; any way to Sunday to say she was going to root through every last one of its contents. She needed no light to do it - she knew the camper well enough to navigate it in the ambience - save for the blinks of her little device.

All alone in the dark, the catch on the side door creaked. Half an hour into searching, barely two hours since her last unexpected encounter, and someone was trying to get the drop on her again. She cocked her revolver at the door.

The moment it opened, her intruder stuck their hands up at the sight of her. "Hello!" 

"Medic?" Her brow raised. No mistaking his voice - nor his silhouette, even this light. "Why are you here?"

He chuckled down the end of the barrel. "Well, anyone would be curious upon seeing you walking off alone carrying a gun," he volleyed. "Which, if you could point that anywhere else..."

Just him. Oh, and Archimedes on his shoulder. With a passive apology she tucked the gun away. "You can come in. Just..." she threw her arms by her sides. "Don't touch anything."

Frowning, more in intrigue than discontent, he accepted her invitation. Not that there was much place to put himself without getting in her way. Standing at the top of the carriage, he waited with his hands clasped, watching her peer under the seats.

"Can't sleep?" He guessed.

"Too much work to get done to be sleeping right now," she half chided, half laughed. "That woman tailing us didn't just come out of nowhere."

"Hmm, yes. Always a nuisance, people turning up when you don't expect them." His eyebrows raised as he pulled on the hem of his gloves; recalling some plan gone hilariously wrong, no doubt. If he could reminisce right now, then he couldn't have been too wound up in the face of their current issues.

Pushing off the ground Miss Pauling rocked to her feet, moving from the seats to the kitchen cabinets without pause. But she stole a glance at Medic and his companion as she stood. "You should get some rest right now, you know," she advised. "We had a big day today." 

They would only get bigger, it went unsaid. Especially for him, they would get bigger.

Despite it, he frowned. 

"No," he said. "I've slept plenty." 

There would be no debate, then. Not one to relax until he had a grip on the situation; she could empathise. Even as they continued in the dark, Miss Pauling scouring every cranny and ledge and Medic watching her, neither of them showed sign of breaking the current arrangement. He didn't even ask for the lights on. For as off-putting as Medic could be, and the soft spot for her some other mercs possessed that he didn't, she didn't shy from his company when she had it. Sure, what mood she'd catch him in would be a coin toss: he was both loud and quiet, messy yet exacting, composed while impulsive... plus an ass and a half to manage, if the sheer budget he blew on animal guts meant anything. But he was a man who knew better than to let her down. No matter what crap she dragged him through. So if he didn't wish to sleep yet, instead leaning against the back of the driver's seat headrest, fingers tapping the tacky covers in a muffled rhythm, she would trust his decision. And if it became a liability again down the line she wouldn't hesitate to conk him out with a fire extinguisher. 

"What are you up to, may I ask?" He inquired. Unconsciously trying to move her thoughts away from bludgeoning him.

"Sweeping for bugs." She waved the little device in her hands for him to see. If they had been compromised by some unknown third party, this would tell her. "Girl's best friend."

"Ah!" His eyes bounced around the room. "Found any yet?"

Her lips pursed. "Nope."

"Hmm. And that doesn't come as a comfort?"

Miss Pauling's chest tightened. Only for a second; barely a response, but enough to matter. No: it didn't comfort her. 

The green light on her bugsweeper blinked dutifully away. Medic hadn't asked anything out of line. Yet between the two of them, she felt a little unknowable something inside her fracture. On a slight, wire-thin break but broken all the same, enough for her to feel the weight it bore double. She closed the door of the empty cupboard and faced him.

"Doc, can I be honest with you for a sec?"

"It would be a nice change of pace." His answer immediate. He smiled sheepishly when she glared at him for it, but nevertheless he deserved to make at least one jab.

The bugsweeper swinging by her side, she came over and placed her free hand on the row she sat in this afternoon. Indicating the spot across the table for him, Medic took his own seat, the single chair behind the driver's. His expression had blanked, his hands in his lap; his eyes the picture of clarity as he looked up at where she stood. He would listen to what she had to say.

She began. "I think the Administrator is mad at me."

His fingers were in Archimedes' plummage while he studied her face. "And now why would that be?"

"Well, I... didn't exactly get clearance for this little trip," she admitted, a little red. She slid herself into the row across from him. "I think she's who sent the guy who tried to kill me at the diner. And just now, in the woods..."

"You think she wants to kill you for this?" He guessed, gesturing around them, halfway between a genuine question and a mockery. "Seems counterproductive. Unless she has your replacement lined up."

"Oh, she doesn't strictly want me dead," she chuckled. Like hell she has a replacement. "It's... a game we play sometimes! She'll send assassins to kill me every once in a while, and if I live I get to keep my job. It's her way of doing quarterly review." She bounced in her seat. It was a fine arrangement: the last thing Miss Pauling wanted was to become complacent! Nor did she want Medic getting the wrong idea.

Yet the enthusiasm drained from her face. "Though, sometimes, I've noticed she does an extra review if I've... screwed up recently."

Her arms were folded on the table, her eyes glued to the little white patch of tabletop between them and her body. But she shifted in her seat, forcing herself to sit upright as all the observations and theories she had about the trip thus far rushed to exit her mouth. "At first, I figured that mystery guy we buried was a loose end from one of my other hits, or maybe someone disgruntled with RED. Heck, maybe even with you guys."

She sat up straighter. "But nobody tailed us from the diner. There's no way they'd know we were out here! I was so careful," she exasperated. Her nails rapped the table's underside. "If the RV had been bugged, however, then I could trace its make; find out where it came from, who planted it. But I've already sweeped this place twice over. Nothing."

Flipping the bugsweeper over in her hand, she frowned. "See, the only person who doesn't need to bug me is the Administrator," she said. It went without saying. "She knows my schedule. Where I was, and am, going to be and when."

Medic had leaned in to put his chin on his fist. She leaned in herself, elbows propped up on the table. "Then with the woman on the trail... whether or not Sniper and company bumped into her or something else, Scout was all alone out there for what, half an hour?" She threw her hands up. "Why didn't she kill him?"

Screw Medic replying. Immediately, she rocked back, hand over her chin as she shook her head. "That's how I know it's the Administrator. She wouldn't waste resources killing you guys. She only wants me."

Medic pondered this for a second. With a start he sat up too, fingers laced. "So, what?"

"Huh?"

"What does that change?"

She blinked. "Well, if she's sent two assassins in two days, I don't think she's going to give up until I'm back." A heat welled up in her throat. "But I'm not done here! I'm doing what she asked!"

"And what is that, exactly?" He pressed. Looking at her harshly through the small lenses of his glasses.

Ah.

"Listen," she began. She started this by saying she'd be honest. "I set up this whole trip because, well, she asked me to look into you and Heavy. Whether you're..." Not an inch of surprise coursed through him. "Heavy... Heavy's told you already."

"He has." He just wanted to hear her say it.

She nodded. "I'm just following orders, I swear. But I... didn't really consult her on the specifics." Her hand held her cheek. "Now I'm worried she thinks I lied to her or something."

A weight fell over the two feet between them; Medic with his arms crossed and eyes shut, and Miss Pauling all out of words. The moment was slightly ruined by Archimedes hopping around the backrest of Medic's seat.

When his eyes reopened, there was a flippancy in them again. "You know," he offered, "I've always found it more effective to ask for forgiveness than permission."

"And what if she doesn't forgive me?" She bounced back. Miss Pauling... she dragged their employees off without a word. Not to mention it had been her pressing, her meddling, that stopped the matches for a week in the first place.

But Medic just scowled at her. "She would be foolish to not to. What would she do, fire you? She wouldn't get anything done without you." He began to stand as he gesticulated. With a faint smile peeking through, "You have a better chance of being forgiven by her than you do me."

Her cheeks rushed red. Like a piston, she shot to her feet herself; stumbled, really, because her damn thighs had to bang against the table edge. "Look. I'm sorry about how things have turned out." For the bookmark; for her general indiscretion; for the fact he couldn't stop her from finishing the task the Administrator gave her even if he got on his knees and cried. But more pertinently than those, she felt so painfully aware of the words she said, more than her actions. 

"When I said that crap about you and Heavy this morning, I didn't mean to badmouth you," she promised. "I was scared. I was worried you were the target, not me. Funnily enough, when you're in enough danger because of me already," she sighed.

Medic... laughed at her. His hands clasped behind his back. "You don't have to apologise to me, Miss Pauling! You have much bigger problems than what I think of you." He waved off. "Ach, if you think you're bad, you should hear what I have to put up with daily. 'Medic, why are you using that Medigun over this one?' 'Medic, why didn't you follow me to walk straight into the enemy's sentry?' 'Medic, stop spiking my food!'"

"You're spiking their food?"

He froze. Archimedes hopped onto his raised hand. "With nothing bad, of course," he chuckled. "Just running some trials here and there. The results are more trustworthy if they don't expect the change." He grinned with all his teeth.

She was less amused. "You haven't told me about any trials."

Slightly fewer teeth. "Aheh. Haven't I? Nothing to worry about, I promise -"

"Medic, what are you putting in who's food?"

"Nothing!" He jumped. "Not anymore, at least. Just some blood thinners. I've stopped the trial now anyway." He put a finger to his chin and frowned. "I wanted to see if it would increase the rate the Medigun built charge, but all it did was make everyone dizzy. Oh, and bleed out faster."

She stared at him. Stared at him a little longer. "How long," she enunciated, slowly, her pale blue eyes not even blinking, "were you running this trial?"

"Well! It's hard to say!" To her. He scratched the back of his head. "About two months?

He ducked her throwing the bugsweeper right at his head.

The irony, of course, was not lost her. She had stood tall and confident among all the uncertainties this mission brought with her and told the Administrator, to her face, that Medic had nothing to do with RED's ongoing performance issues. She did it without missing a beat. Now as tears streamed down her face, she didn't know whether she was happy, sad, relieved, or merely aware of another thing she misled her boss about. Medic, at least, was smiling.

"See? You're laughing." He pointed. "Always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission!"

"Doc," she wheezed between laughs, "I'm going to kill you."

"Are you now?" With a short swagger he sidled up to her and stuck out his hand. "From my perspective, I suppose this makes us even, no?"

With puffy eyes she looked at his gloved hand before her, her levity floating down. He was cutting her a deal. 

"Only this time," she answered. "You run any more trials without telling me and the only fresh organs you'll get your hands on are the ones you can pull from corpses on the battlefield." 

"Ach, that's hardly fair. It's not like you can out me a second time," he complained. But they shook on it.

The weight of one nagging question answered dissolved from her shoulders. It felt like ground she never thought she'd reach. Yet it wasn't the million dollar question. She had Demo and Soldier down; with five more mercs to go, there were still enough loose cannons out there to blow them all out of the water. Medic made a good point, but he was very much wrong: she still had plenty chance to out him. It could be messy. No matter how invasive this mission seemed, to either him or Heavy or her, that was exactly what she was trying to avoid.

She peeked outside the camper's curtained window. The campfire by the lake had finally died. And with vigilance, neither would she.

With her hands on her hips, she turned back to Medic, who had taken a seat on the edge of the table. "So, Doc: what do I do now?"

"Now? I have no idea." Nevertheless, he pushed up his glasses and gave her one anyway. "I suggest if you don't want to sleep with one eye open, we all go back to base before we end up with any more company."

Her brow tightened. "What about your teammates I haven't spoken to yet?" She couldn't let any of the mercs go until she could stand before the Administrator and say she completed her assignment. 

"Oh, you'll work something out, I'm sure." Jumping to his feet, "It can only go so wrong, ja?"

Chapter Text

Call it an abundance of caution - or maybe just call her a liar - but they weren't staying the night. She wanted as large a headstart as possible on whoever the Administrator had coming for her next. Within the hour she had everyone rounded up and packed, then kissed the campground goodbye, covered their tracks, and hit the highway once more at a cozy three in the morning. Sniper was in no condition to drive, so Engineer took up the mantle. She could've sworn he wore a smug old grin when she passed him the keys. All too happy to take them out into the pitch black night.

He was less happy when the engine light came on thirty miles in. 

Everything Miss Pauling could say about how new the RV was, or how good a condition she checked and double checked it was in, meant a whole lot of nothing when she and Engineer were standing by the side of the road, hood popped, looking down disapprovingly at the engine. The fella who Miss Pauling picked this up from must've been a stingy son of gun (as Engie so eloquently worded it), because they gave her the bare minimum amount of engine oil they could get away with - and now some five hundred total miles into this journey, they were reaping what that bastard sowed. Engineer hadn't thought to bring spare oil; and for as gleeful as Pyro was to be asked, the best they could offer was kerosene. The RV could probably get another thirty, forty miles down the road like this before tanking itself for good. Not one of those miles were guaranteed, however. Nevermind Teufort was an easy two hundred.

According to the map, the nearest truck stop was only eight. Only eight; a four hour round trip to walk. Never one to shy away from honest work, Engie volunteered to do it. "I'll take Demo with me, 'case I run into trouble along the way."

Ideally he'd take a third person too, but good luck finding someone conscious enough to not be dead weight. They were all sick enough of walking for one night. "Shame we can't send Scout to do it," Miss Pauling sighed. With his dud ankle, he'd maybe, only marginally, be faster than Engie's little legs.

"Nah, it's better I go," he insisted. "Last thing we need is to be waiting 'til dawn just for him to pick up the wrong kind of oil."

So the pair of them disappeared into the night. Somehow, meanwhile, Miss Pauling didn't feel like sleeping. The folks she was left with were their own shades of sedate: Sniper, for starters, couldn't be woken if you hit him with a frying pan. Scout was in and out of it, lying where Medic could keep an eye on his swelling, while a bag of ice they nabbed from the camp cooler was melting on his ankle. Of course, the lights in the camper had all gone out with the engine (they could run them from the battery, but if Engineer had to come back all that way to find the camper in need to a jumpstart he reserved the right to kill them) - the only light to see with belonged to the flashlights, in the various colors and strengths their beams came in. 

While everyone else showed lethargy in some form or another, Pyro was electric. All she could guess was Engie's inquiry into their gas supply had set something off within them. And what the hell: the ground off the road here seemed comfortable enough for sitting. So with a tinderbox in one hand and Pyro's in her other, she led her arsonist outside. Building another campfire together would kill time. Between some foraged rocks, branches, brush, and the firestarters they brought, the pile lit with enthusiasm and grace. From here, looking into the yellows and oranges and reds, Miss Pauling got a hint of where Pyro's passion came from. The little fire even attracted some friends.

An unconvinced expression danced across Spy's face as he approached from the camper. "This is a fun way to let any potential assassins know we're here."

Miss Pauling stuck her hands out, palms towards the flames. "We're sitting ducks either way," she argued. "I'd rather make a night out of it than twiddle my thumbs in the dark."

At that, Pyro piped up. They asked what she could clearly identify as a question, but the contents were fully lost in the mask. There must have been a disconnect behind those goggles, given Pyro had to interact with a society that couldn't fully understand and respond to them. Sure, Miss Pauling herself scraped by on best guesses, but specifics were never something she was going to get from Pyro. Which was a shame. They were otherwise perfectly good company.

At least, she assumed all this, until Spy rolled his eyes. "He asked if you are worried."

Her head snapped to him. "You can understand Pyro?"

"Of course I can," he said as though she asked if he could add, or perhaps breathe. "If I worked around a man for three years straight and still could not decipher her words, I would be truly egregious at reconnaissance."

If anything, he was egregious at informing her of important matters without needing prompted. Think: with him, she... she could finally fill out the gaps in Pyro's file! Although that then came with the caveat of needing Spy to forget what he then learned about the sort of information she held on them. Ideally with a solution not requiring a shallow grave. No matter; she'd smooth the fine details out later. For now, she wanted to test him.

Hastily, she scooched along the dirt around the campfire to make a space for him. "Sit!" She ordered, an eager smile blooming. "You're going to be my translator tonight."

He grimaced. "Miss Pauling, I am not going to mar the seat of my trousers -"

"Should have thought about that before you opened your mouth. Now sit!"

So he sat. With the same elegance as someone lowering themselves into bathwater a few degrees too hot. He didn't find the situation nearly as funny as Pyro or Miss Pauling did, evidently, but he joined them with a dignified few complaints. 

When they had settled down she returned her warm palms to her lap. She and Pyro sat criss-cross; she could only describe Spy as huddled. "What makes you think I'm worried, buddy?" She finally answered Pyro. She may not have been the most chipper lately, but she thought the weight of her job usually got across to them.

"Perhaps it has to do with why you dragged us out of bed without any warning," Spy guessed before Pyro spoke, brushing dust from the elbow of his jacket. "Or how we are now stranded by the side of the road. Again, as you say, sitting ducks."

"We'll be fine," Miss Pauling said. "I promise." Furthermore to her surprise, she realised how much she meant it. Somehow, despite each turn in the road thus far, she suddenly wasn't in a rush to go anywhere. She was content being with them around the fire. As though safer out here than at their destination.

With a quick glance back at the camper, she didn't sense any activity inside. Nobody in there was either awake or unoccupied enough to become another surprise guest at Pyro's fire. The three of them were alone out here.

A little bubble of a thought formed in Miss Pauling's head. Would it be too risky? To ask the two of them about homosexuality together, here, instead of one on one? Plainly, how much time did she have left to be picky about it? Spy likely wouldn't be affected enough by Pyro's presence to answer dishonestly, but she couldn't place a good bet on Pyro's answer. Although she couldn't place any bets on Pyro's answer if she spoke to them alone, because it would be no more than mumbles to her. Here, she at least had someone to clarify. Just as long as they didn't dodge the question behind each other: Spy had spent this whole trip aware Miss Pauling was planning something, needed the time to do something, and he encouraged her to complete it. He had no right to run from her line of questioning.

"Can I ask you both something personal?" She looked them both in the eye as best she could while keeping a gentle composure. She had met everyone before with some kind of sudden discomfort or panic; if she wanted to deal with this one starting on the right foot, she had to kick that habit.

Pyro replied first this time, and whatever they said shut Spy right up. His face... it wasn't horrified. Or that confused. At most, he seemed moderately surprised. The sort of face you'd make if an older family friend told you they were getting into burlesque. But the way he held his expression without any real response of his own poked at her.

"Everything okay?" She chuckled to Spy; next best thing to waving her hand in front of his face. "Your eyebrow's so high, your balaclava's going to slip off."

"Everything is fine," he assured. Sliding back to composure, "You may ask your question."

"And what did Pyro say?"

His lips drew themselves in a very thin line for a moment. Debating in his brain, he stole a long stare at Pyro for a second, as if asking himself whether they really wanted the message relayed. To the look, Pyro taunted more. So with a sigh he turned back to Miss Pauling. "He suggested," he enunciated, and briefly flitted his eyes back to his comrade, "that you are going to ask if we believe Heavy and Medic are... involved with one another."

Miss Pauling's face turned to stone. At it, Pyro erupted into a fit of giggles. "How do you -" she began with a gasp and a point and - oh, crap. 

Remind her. Who was it who didn't leave with Scout and Sniper when they were stuck in traffic? Who was sitting barely two feet from Demo when Miss Pauling finally worked up the nerve to ask him about Heavy and Medic? Who was it she couldn't tell whether or not was sleeping?

Time to save face. It was, in more targeted terms, the question she needed to ask; now she knew Pyro had no issue discussing it. Sitting back, she forced a calm expression. "Do you think they're involved?"

Spy, for how unamused he already was at having been forced to join this merry band, looked at her with a modicum of humour. His eyes wouldn't stop passing over Pyro. If he spent any more time hiding whatever elephant in this room was so obvious to the two of them, she'd start shooting holes in his precious suit.

"Miss Pauling," he put delicately. As if her name were fragile. Tilting his head ever so slightly towards Pyro, "we already know they're together. We have known for quite some time."

A mysterious cocktail of emotions gurgled in Miss Pauling's gut. Dread was an ingredient, of course; that and anxiety tended be these last few days. It were as though the parameters of her mission had just been lit on fire, and stomped on, and thrown out the window. If they already knew, then, hell, wasn't her hard work potentially all worthless in the first place? Yet even as those facts landed in her lap, she couldn't help noticing the other notes mixed through her. What these two knew...

"How?" She stage-whispered, because if she dared her volume any higher she'd yell.

Spy pulled his cigarette case from his jacket pocket without so much as a look at her. "Sometimes I feel you forget what you hired me for."

"Alright, alright." She held up her hands. "For how long have you known?"

"Some time; more than a few weeks, fewer than a few months." He cast his eye over. "I regret to admit that one found out long before me, however." To which Pyro mumbled gleefully: no doubt pouring salt in the wound.

Pyro rubbed their hands together while Spy lit the end of a fresh smoke. The very picture of deduction between them. "You both worked it out before I did," she said. Immortalising it aloud. "I can't believe it."

"Do not lose sleep over it," Spy consoled. "You are a very busy woman; we spend every day with these men."

"And does anyone else know?" Because they weren't the only 'we' to speak of.

"No. Their skulls are all too thick to pick up on cues right in front of them." He didn't have a shred of doubt in his body. "If not for their general hygiene, I'd wager it's why they're all single."

Okay. Halfway through a breath she found herself releasing her nails from digging into deeper into her thighs. She hadn't remembered gripping. "And you two... you're both fine with Heavy and Medic doing what they like?"

"Letting Medic 'do what he likes' is not usually a good idea for anyone except himself," Spy sneered, flicking the ash of his cigarette off toward the fire, "but if you are asking if I approve of them courting each other, my answer is: I don't care. It is the twentieth century, and I have far, far more important things to do with my life than find a reason to take offense to those two lovebirds."

Everything in Spy's demeanour bristled, a thousand and one little barbs to tell her he found the whole topic a waste of time. Yet it was in itself a valuable charade. Their secret was safe with him. It had been for weeks, after all.

She nodded across the firepit. "And Pyro?"

He shrugged. "He finds the whole thing inexplicably funny."

Branches in the campfire spat hot embers, crackling in the silent night air. If she had gotten to have this conversation the night when she shot out the camera, maybe her heart wouldn't have beat so hard on the way into the Administrator's office the next morning. Ah, well. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst: and preparation was always her strong suit. It was pleasant, though. To sit here and talk about it, without that nagging, lingering, eating feeling that she was a syllable away from letting it all slip. This? This may as well have been gossip.

A gooeyness settled in her cheeks as she watched Spy drag on his cigarette. "How did you find out?" She asked. She may have ultimately been here for work, but that didn't mean she wasn't a little curious about the secret drama that passed by right under her nose since Snowycoast.

"It wasn't any one event," he said. Blew cigarette smoke into the fire. "They're quite obvious if you know where to look."

"That so?" Because she hadn't been walking around with her eyes shut.

"I promise you. For one, the two of them will happily spent the night chattering like schoolgirls, through surgery or otherwise. And when Heavy writes home, he writes more about his dear doctor than the rest of us." He touched his temple. "Merde, they have matching Halloween costumes."

Miss Pauling raised a brow. "When did you get the chance to read Heavy's mail?"

"That is none of your concern," he insisted, returning to his point. "On more than one occasion I have caught Medic singing Say That We're Sweethearts Again to his doves while preparing his operating theatre for Heavy. A man like Medic could conceive of nothing more romantic."

Humming, she found it amusing Spy spoke with such a passion for these signs of love. Signs that, strictly, didn't prove anything on their own. He'd chalk it up to close quarters or his observational skills, no doubt, but she wasn't convinced such a strong radar for chemistry came with the job. He must make Scout's mom a very happy lady.

She dropped her head to rest on her hands, propped up on her elbows. "And how did you find out?" She asked across the fire to Pyro. If Spy's discovery were so good, Pyro's had to be better.

On cue they began a grand spiel about it, their words muffled and so fast Miss Pauling was impressed Spy could keep up. "He came across them together in the infirmary one night in February. Discussing incriminating subject matter and whatnot." Something told her he was paraphrasing.

Pyro continued on, but Spy ceased translating. "No. That's disgusting." His face twisted. "Not to mention purely conjecture. I'm not telling her that."

Miss Pauling perked up. "What did she say?"

"Trust me, you do not want to know."

"Come on, it can't be that -"

"You don't want to know," he insisted. Pyro continued talking, clearly relishing the uncomfortable position they had landed Spy into. All he could do was sit there and be thankful he was already a smoker, so he didn't have to waste time picking the habit up to cope.

Sometime into their monologue, Pyro pointed at Miss Pauling, and whatever they said along with it pricked Spy's ears back up again. She looked at him eagerly for an explanation. 

"He's asking how you found out," Spy said.

Suddenly she was keenly aware of the expectant eyes on her. "I don't think it'd be right of me to share that," she countered, waving it off. "It's not my business telling it!"

Spy looked unimpressed. "I see. And it was your business when you had us tell you?"

Miss Pauling's smile tightened. She couldn't use the work defense when neither of these two knew of her assignment in the first place - not to mention, well, the Administrator hadn't asked for any of this gossip. If she included any of this in her final report her boss might puke from how little she cared. But Pyro and Spy were staring at her, and she... no, she'd feel like a scumbag if she went around sharing sensitive moments she wasn't supposed to have seen, especially now Medic and Heavy had put their trust in her. Maybe she could satiate these two without too many details.

She rubbed her shoulders. "It was a few nights ago, that's all. I was doing some routine checks on base when I saw them walking together." At the thought of that moment, how short it lasted yet how unbearably long, and what it kickstarted, her heart began to beat a drum solo. "Medic and Heavy held hands for a bit. Leaned in to one another. And... the way they talked, I could tell they were in love. I dunno. It was sweet."

"You've gotta be pulling my leg, Miss P." That was very much not Spy. "There's no way that happened!"

Out of the corner of her eye, it became unmistakably apparent: she had company. 

Scout. 

Instead of the side door, he had popped out of the driver's side and rounded the hood; she couldn't have seen him exit. He was in earshot before she had the chance to spot him. Spy was already on his feet.

"Scout, you shouldn't be up unaided," he urged. Scout was still limping, but he bounced on his good leg. "Let me take you back inside."

"No, no, no, you're not brushing me off that easy," he ragged on him, grinning ear to ear. He was very, very much awake. "What were you sayin', Miss Pauling? What, what am I missing? Why are you guys out here joking about Heavy and the Doc being fags?"

Truly, he was astounded, caught between confusion and thinking this was the funniest shit he had ever stumbled across. Miss Pauling didn't think it was funny. Miss Pauling, frankly, was two steps away from shattering into thin shards of fibreglass. He couldn't have heard that. Scout wasn't allowed to hear what she said. She hadn't cleared him yet; this was messy. She hadn't found the perfect time to ask him wide, gentle hypotheticals about his opinions! This certainly wasn't her perfect time. This wasn't any kind of time at all. All she could do was stare at Scout, her eyebrows arched and eyes wide, trying to remember how to stand so she could run over and make things right. But she hadn't said anything yet. Neither had Spy. Or Pyro, for that matter. And with each extra tick of silence she watched Scout's giddiness melt right off his face as the truth she tried so hard to keep hidden dawned on him. This wasn't a joke.

Spy put a hand on Scout's shoulder and Scout ripped it off. "No, no. No, you're all screwing with me!" He pointed at whoever he could accuse. "There's no way on God's green earth that those two are homos!"

"Scout -" she pleaded.

"And there's no goddamn way I'm sharing a camper with any faggots!" The word was sour in his mouth. Rancid against Miss Pauling's ears. "Why, I've gotta -"

"You do not have to do anything."

"Shut your trap, Spy!" He staggered backwards, eyes on the RV side door with a fire. "What? Are, are you - you're telling me I've been working with fags this whole time? Like it's nothing? Nah." He shook his head. Stumbled back some more. "Nah, I'm not going out like that. I gotta... I gotta give 'em a piece of my mind!"

"Scout, do not go in there!" She breached the yell this time.

"Not gonna happen, Miss P." He smacked his hand against the side door. "You're not gonna catch me dead working with any goddamn fags."

As Scout slammed open the side door, everything began to blur. Spy was sprinting after him, that she knew. Pyro had gone... somewhere. Voices echoed from the camper, much of it Scout. And something inside Miss Pauling began to well. Fizz, but not with the bubbles of elation or excitement. This hissed like a ramping chemical reaction about to blow its vessel; the metal rending under the immense pressure sealed inside. She couldn't bear it, she didn't know how to bear it - she just couldn't be here. She needed to be here, to clean up her mess, but her cheeks were so hot and her breathing so shallow she couldn't acknowledge it for a second. She couldn't think about it. She couldn't think! Like the world tilted backwards Miss Pauling's pumps took a step, and took it away from the camper. Another. Another. Until she twisted and ran. Out into the barren desert night. It was stupid, really: she had no form of light on her. She'd plant her ankle in a snake burrow and have to crawl her way back in pain. But she couldn't slow down, even as she couldn't see a damn thing through her watery eyes. Couldn't do anything to stop the tears.

It hurt. It hurt like a hole in her gut. Ripped, and red, and raw, like she were a slab of meat on a hook. Big, wet tears streamed down her face, soaking into her collar. She didn't expect this to hurt so much. It didn't hurt this much when she put bullets in innocent men. She had put up all the right walls, prepared for all the wrong outcomes. Now as reality screened the worst case scenarios she devised, she still just. Hurt. Her knees buckled into the ground and she sobbed louder. Her breathing had splintered into away into sharp hiccups and gasps. Blubbering away all alone in the dust. 

So alone, out here. Cool and dry and just for her. To cry in. It felt silly: the version of her that lived to enact the Administrator's will didn't have the time to keel over and weep. She barely had time to feel sad at all; she had to get that in during bathroom breaks or during the next American hero's memorial. Sometimes you didn't get to choose your moments, though. Sometimes you ended up on the tail end of a stupid impromptu roadtrip, focusing on your breathing as each exhale ripped through your body with another judder. 

Stupid, stupid. Three days of vigilance, all down the drain.

Soon enough, footsteps began to crop up behind her. Not that she wanted to be bugged. Though it was this or the walk of shame back to the RV. Presented with the two options, she'd rather keep going on into the night until she found a payphone, where she could call a cab to take her back to Teufort, then never interact with the RED team directly for the rest of their employment. That seemed feasible. 

Unfortunately, her guest was already taking a seat besides her. In this lumpy, uncomfortable nowhere. She knew who he was. She didn't want to face him. Not with tears still spilling over without signs of stopping. She... she wouldn't have anything to say. Most days, neither did he.

But he watched her. Close, but keeping fair distance, perhaps a shoulder or two apart. And to his credit she didn't feel uncomfortable under his gaze. She didn't feel great, but she didn't squirm; her guts didn't begin to tie themselves in hot, painful knots. She just wanted to cry. He would let her.

After some grace, he leaned closer. Holding something. 

"You are upset," Heavy said. "You will feel better after sandvich." 

Miss Pauling's eyes refocused. Just poking into her personal space off to the right, he offered half a sandwich. His sandvich; the kind he made for lunch every day. Wrapped neatly in saran wrap and slightly squished. The sight of it, even though the movement brought more tears, made her chuckle.

Hesitant, she accepted his gift. She never liked to eat while unhappy. It made the food taste bad. But he was urging her to, because he was doing his best to help. Even after everything she'd done. Wobbly hands peeled back the plastic wrap and she took its contents tiny bite by bite. It tasted like... ham. Warm ham and cheese. Gradually she started laughing. Heavy had broken the BLU Soldier's spine over this sandwich once. A sandwich.

Heavy crossed his arms, content. "See? You feel little better."

Yeah. She chewed on another small bite until it was gum in her mouth. Gulped when the lump in her throat wasn't looking. "I'm sorry, Heavy -"

"Do not apologise. Eat." He was firm. Under his breath, "Did not come searching for pity."

She nodded okay. She would eat. Chew, and chew, and bite, and chew, and think. Stew over the past a little, but mainly linger on the present. She was here with Heavy now. He did not seem mad at her. He was just... here.

"I'm gay," she blurted. One strong rush of words, like a lever being thrown. She needed to throw it. "I'm a lesbian. I like women. I think they're pretty. In grade school, at the start of each year I'd pick a random boy in my class to say I had a crush on in case anyone ever asked. I thought everyone did it that way."

She paused to look at him. He was watching her. Listening. So she continued. "And I don't know, it's never really mattered to me. It's not a huge part of my life. Working for the Administrator: that is my life," she accentuated. Everything else stopped mattering in comparison a long time ago.  

The way guilt nested in chest told a different story, though. "But when she told me to go out there and find out what you and Medic were to each other, and if the team would be fine with that, I... I told you before: I couldn't do that! I mean, she worded it like she thought I could get it done in an afternoon. Round everybody up and take a poll, or something; I don't know what she was thinking. I'd pay good money to watch her try." She crammed a big bite of sandwich in her mouth.

"The point is," she grew soft. "If someone came up and just... asked me that; suddenly tossed aside everything I had worked for in my life in favour of what kind of person I found myself attracted to, I... it would wreck me. I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't do that to me."

She rolled a wrist. "But you don't just say no to the Administrator. And, I sorta understood where she was coming from, even if I wasn't gonna do it how she wanted, so... two days and a broken down camper later... ta-dah." What a brilliant endpoint for the resolution. She chanced eye contact with him again, but it was too painful all of a sudden. "This is me trying to be delicate, in case you missed it."

Her head sunk between her folded arms. "I just wanted to... you deserve your dignity, Heavy, is what I'm trying to say. Screw what anybody else thinks."

Heavy sat on this. On words she still insisted on saying, unprompted, even as she settled down from her outburst. 

"You are good woman, Miss Pauling," he said, nodding. Like he gave his teammates before they rushed a sentry nest. "You deserve your dignity as well."

"Don't I just," she sighed. Had a whole wallop of dignified tasks still to get done - a headache blistered at the thought. "God, now I have to go deal with Scout..."

"He will be handled. Do not worry." As he promised. He wouldn't budge.

"Thanks." She squeezed the ball of saran wrap in her hand. Squeezed harder. "Man, what the fuck's his problem?" 

If you checked the distance with a caliper, you might be able to discover Heavy's eyes widened. Miss Pauling's voice began to crack all over again. "That's the part that hurts, y'know? He likes me! I mean, I know he likes me likes me, but he likes me as a friend, too! I like him as a friend! He's my friend!" She cried. "What would he think of me, if he knew?" 

She clutched her knees closer, squeezing them like that little ball of plastic. Squeezing out her anger. "Why is it so easy to toss away someone that adores me just by being myself?"

Heavy's fists tightened. He would let Miss Pauling prattle on about many things, but he would not let her dig a pit for herself. "Scout is stupid. But not enough stupid to let himself hurt you," he said. He was sure of it. "He will come around."

"I hope so." Only a whisper.

Cars howled by far behind them, their zooms barely above the wind. Forward was however many miles of nothing until you hit civilization. The final frontier - in many ways tonight, it seemed. The point of no return.

Despite it, Miss Pauling managed a smile. "You wanna know something?" She elbowed him. "You're the second person I've ever come out to. In my whole life." Her grin weakened. "Isn't that sad?"

Heavy didn't say either way. "Who was first person?"

"An old friend of mine." Miss Pauling tilted her head back. "Met her at a gun show a few years back. Only get to see her for like, two hours each year now. But we write!"

"Writing is good." Writing was what made his penmanship so consistent, she smirked faintly, still remembering his print on the bookmark. He breathed deeply as the breeze shook through the two of them. "You are... fourth."

Her lips formed around a question, but she answered it herself as soon as the words arrived. "Fourth that you've told?"

"Yes." He propped an arm up on his knee; as if supporting his body as he leaned into his story. "I like women as well as men. It is... easier to get by for me than you, without questions." Simpler to hide some of the truth than it is to maintain an outright lie, she supposed. Still, it was a humble statement and a half.

"There was a man in university I tell. Did not work out," he told her, and grimaced at the memory. "Did not tell my family, but my sister, Yana... she is sensitive. She is like you, in that way. She could tell. So I tell her alone." Heavy glanced over at Miss Pauling. "Then, year or so ago, I tell Medic. Then I tell you."

"You came out to Medic last summer?"

"Medic is my close friend." Heavy blinked. "I was told I would die in three days. Did not want to die not knowing if," he paused, and briefly pondered his next choice of words, "as you put, he would 'toss me away'."

Evidently, he hadn't. She had no right to pry anymore, but part of her really wanted to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Must have been a nice day for the two of them. Finding out someone you already trusted shared a vulnerable side of you.

Her fingers did pry, however: at the holes in her tights. "I know it's not over yet, but, uh, Scout's reaction," she asked; she had to ask, if only so she could have a plan moving forward, "this... this isn't going to hurt your relationship with the Doc, is it?"

Heavy laughed at the very idea. "Scout's puny skull would already be crushed under my fist if he could hurt us."

Good. She chuckled herself: good. He was a paragon of confidence in the face of this adversity. In the face of one eavesdropped conversation (about another eavesdropped conversation) tearing back the curtain between his personal and professional lives. A scandal like this ruined people's careers. And he was laughing.

"You make me jealous, Heavy," she admitted. Shook her head. She was content in her job, she knew. Never wanting for something more, like love, to feel fulfilled. Nevertheless... "You get the best of both worlds."

"You are young, Miss Pauling. Have no need for worry." He pat her back; his reassurance strong enough to knock the wind right out of her. A teasing smile on his face, "Maybe someday, I introduce you to my sisters."

Chapter Text

Scout nearly ripped that side door off its hinges. "You."

Inside the camper, there was an air of general calm. At least until Scout stomped back in and crushed it. The firelight pooled into the cabin, illuminating him as he squinted in the dark. Sniper slept on his belly across one row of seats; Soldier had sprawled himself out across the table in another. They could keep sleeping: he didn't have any gripe with them. He did with the bastard at the end of the trailer. Sitting in the middle of the back row, flashlight pointed at the roof so it cast enough diffuse light to read by. Wearing an innocuous expression. Tootling away like Scout didn't know what he was hiding. 

Between Scout and his target, Heavy stood in the kitchen; silently surprised at the dramatic entrance, then concerned, as Spy burst in the doorway after him with a face dripping with exasperation. Over his shoulder, Scout could see Miss Pauling turning to flee in the opposite direction. No need to worry, Miss P. He would take care of the hard work for her. 

Medic raised his eyes from his book.

"Yeah, you." Scout pointed with a chuckle. He was the only one laughing. "When were you gonna tell the class you're batting for the opposite team, Doc?"

It were as though a ghost were passing through, the way the temperature dropped. Scout made another lunge closer to the back row. This time, Heavy blocked his way. "Scout."

"No - no, I'm not talking to you!" God, from what Miss Pauling said the big guy was a fag too! Not a chance! That was so stupid, Scout couldn't even look at him. He just tore right past with a few thumps to his chest and stopped a good few paces from who he really had beef with. 

His fingers curled, caught between wanting to punch Medic and loathing to touch him. "Do you get off on it, huh, faggot?" His lips twisted over the word. He wanted to say it in a way that would make Medic flinch. "Stitching whatever you want into us?"

Heavy's expression bristled. "Scout. Do not do this."

"Heavy," Medic interrupted before Scout could retort. His expression had not changed. He sat still and upright, book open, ankles crossed, Archimedes roosting in his folded coattails. Speaking plainly and surely. "Get out."

The air thickened. His brow twitched. "No. Doctor, I will handle this -"

"I said leave, Heavy. Take Spy with you." His eyes still had not budged from his aggressor's own. "You want to talk, Scout? Let's talk."

Heavy's feet didn't move. It were as though they refused to. At any second, he was waiting for Scout to lunge once more at Medic, to do something Heavy could catch and overpower. But Scout didn't. He just stood there, trying hard to look threatening through his limp as he stared down the lenses of Medic's glasses. Neither was going to do anything until they were left alone. So Heavy collected the last of what he was preparing and, intently watching the stand-off until the very last second, did as Medic requested of him. Shut the door behind him. Left them in the pale light of the few lit flashlights. Spy would have some explaining to do to him outside.

"Well?" If Scout had a bat, he would be bouncing it in his hand right around now.

"Well, what?"

"Weren't you ever gonna tell anybody about being a fag?"

Medic didn't understand the question. "I didn't think it was relevant."

"Like hell it's not relevant, knucklehead!" He kicked the seat next to him with a boom. That seat was where he had been laying not even five minutes ago, before he wandered off to check on the party outside and had such an enlightening experience. He had been sleeping next to this asshole. He had his feet propped up next to his lap.

"Look at me!" Scout's voice curdled. Forget all that; Medic had been tricking him then. He had been tricking all of them for a long, long while. "I never woulda gone under your knife for one second if I knew you were a homo! I wouldn't take a band-aid from a faggot like you!"

He began pacing around the cabin. The tough guy routine didn't account for all his pent up energy. "God, I let you put your stupid fag hands all inside my guts and move 'em around and shit," he groaned, clawing at his stomach. He had done surgery on his heart! What kind of sadistic gay symbolism was that supposed to be?

No, no, Scout had to get off this train of thought or he'd upchuck in the sink. He couldn't believe the news racing through his brain. "I mean, I can't believe RED hired you!" He snorted. "Did you tell 'em in your application? You had to have told 'em; Miss Pauling knows. Or is she not supposed to?" 

Medic had closed his book now, and moved to stand. Ooh, he was getting serious! Yet he still wouldn't say a damn thing. Still wouldn't shift his stupid face from that grumpy blank expression. He looked like somebody's grandpa in the home when he did that. Real scary.

Which was why when Medic took a step forward Scout took one back. Slipped a little on his bad foot but he caught himself. Held himself tall with a nasty grin. "Oh my god, that's what it is, ain't it?"

"There are people sleeping," he reminded Scout. "Lower your voice."

"Or what?" It bolstered itself at the mere suggestion. "You gonna get down on your knees and beg me to be quiet? Yeah, I'm sure you already got loads of experience doing the first part for other guys!"

He howled with laughter. What was Medic gonna do here, really? He had already sent away anyone who may want to help him. Nah, big mistake. Scout was in control now; and peeking into his peripheral, a beautiful thought jumped into his head. Just wait and see, Doc. See how loud he could get.

In a flash Scout twisted and slammed his palm into the top of the table behind him, barely an inch from Soldier's head. He lowered his mouth as close as he could to Soldier's ear without putting his whole face inside that metal dome he wore. "Wakey-wakey, private! Fun fact: your doctor's a goddamn -"

Medic's left fist connected with Scout's cheekbone. One lunge and a swift hook to shut him up. Knocked his head clean away from Soldier's table, and, with luck, his earshot. There was copper in Scout's mouth - he must have bitten his tongue - and waves of red over his vision. But Medic's expression had changed.

"Do you even believe the drivel you're spouting, or are you saying it because you think it's funny?" Medic hissed. His breath was heavy. His teeth were grit. He really was serious. Hell, more than that, he was angry, too.

Scout scrounged for his next comeback, but it was a little hard when his cheek throbbed so close to his brain. It didn't matter. Next to them, Soldier began to stir, and Medic wasn't going to continue this conversation with anybody else part of it. "Go. We are taking this outside." He urged Scout back towards the driver's side door.

"What, so you can push me into traffic before these chuckleheads wake up?"

Medic gripped at Scout's collar. "Outside. Go."

Scrambling, if only because Medic was going to drag him otherwise, Scout climbed over the seat and popped open the door. And the moment Medic showed his face after him, he cracked him in the nose with his elbow. 

Screw this asshole! Who did he think he was, socking Scout like that and not expecting a world of hurt right back? As Medic stumbled back Scout hobbled forward desperately, going... well, where, exactly, he didn't know yet. If he turned back around to the campfire he'd bump right into Heavy, who opened up the same can of worms in a whole new flavour. Nevermind Spy would be there too, surely with his own piece of his mind Scout didn't wanna hear. But he couldn't get back inside the camper with the Doc right there blocking it. Besides, Sniper would be too hungover to listen to him, and Soldier too much himself. What was Scout gonna do? Catch up with Demo an hour down the road?

Ow. His leg was really acting up now. He hauled it and himself some ten, fifteen, twenty feet down the hard shoulder in front of the camper, putting distance between him and the Doc, before he just couldn't take it anymore. He wasn't gonna run from that crazy German fag. He wasn't some kind of a coward. But... the man didn't exactly fill Scout with hope. 

Medic rubbed his nose as he followed after, his glove coming back blotted a deeper shade of red. "I cannot believe I have to say this, but you are not going to make me grovel, Scout." He spat. "You cannot seriously believe I would stoop so low."

An 18-wheeler droned by barely five feet from them. Its headlamps lit up Medic's coat a brilliant white; in strong contrast against his dark expression. Scout narrowed his eyes. "So are you denying being a fag or not?"

He stopped. Maybe eight feet from Scout. "I don't know, are you going to continue being a bitch about it?"

Another truck zoomed by, this time with the horn blaring. "Hey, hey!" He flipped out. "Don't call me that!"

"I can call you whatever I like. You seem to be under the same assumption about me."

Scout's brow raised at that statement. Didn't seem like Medic was looking to throw another punch yet, even if he was mega pissed. Not that Scout understood why. Couldn't have been because of his nose; Medic brushed that off pretty quick. Must have been his provocations finally getting under the Doc's skin. Scout had never been the type to beat around the bush: if he were on the case, he'd dive straight in and beat that leafy freak in all its tender roots and branches. He went straight for that bush's jugular. So if Medic were gonna go around having midnight rendezvous where he held hands and sucked face with other guys, he was gonna call him what that made him. A faggot.

His whole skin felt itchy. "You are a fag, right? Miss P wasn't lying?"

Medic stared at him long and hard. Christ, not this shit again. Before Scout could audition him for the next Kubrick flick, he did sigh, though. 

"Would that be so bad?" He asked.

Scout's skin crawled in a whole different way now. Kinda like how it did when he first suspected maybe he and his brothers didn't all have the same old man. "I mean, you're... you're still... I have to live around you, y'know?" Suddenly the communal washroom at each base popped into his head. "I've showered with you!" He accused.

"Yes, it's a miracle I haven't raped you yet," he deadpanned.

"That's not what I meant!" Well, maybe a little - ugh, no, that wasn't a thought he wanted in his head. Pangs of searing pain were shooting up through his ankle like needles through his flesh. All this activity wasn't being very forgiving anymore.

Scout felt small. "Listen, Doc. This whole deal you've got going on where you stitch us back together and all that crap... that's not your fetish, is it?"

He scrunched his brow. "Are you asking if I do my work as a medic because I'm gay?"

"I - I don't know!" His hands sprung to his chest. "I don't know what you gay guys get up to!"

"I've gathered."

Begrudged, Medic pushed his glasses up the sore remains of his nose and approached Scout. "You don't work for RED because of all the opportunities fighting over gravel gives you at pulling girls, do you?" He chided. 

"Well, I mean, it's a perk..."

"You work for RED because you're the best at what you do." He jabbed a finger at him. Ah. Yeah, right, of course. "I am no different. And, because I am so competent, you'll listen to my professional opinion when I say: you need to get off that leg."

Medic's stern gaze had shifted from Scout's face to lower down; and while the Doc still didn't look pleased by any meaning of the word, he seemed a lot less personally offended by Scout's ankle than his mouth. Damn it, he was right. Standing was beginning to take too big of a toll to bear. Plopping himself in the dirt off the road, he did as the doctor ordered. Medic knelt down next to his outstretched leg.

He peeled back the sock for a closer look. "Oof. So much for the good the ice did. The swelling alone -"

"Hey, don't - don't touch me!" Scout recoiled. Realisation slammed into him like one of the trucks passing by. Kicking Medic's hand away, "I don't need your..." His what? His stupid fag hands all over him? His help?

For either reason, Medic wasn't impressed. His face fell slack again. "What is it you think I am going to do to you? Give you my cooties? Don't be a baby. In our three year tenure working together, I have never hurt you, Scout."

"Say that to all the freakin' painful experiments you've pulled," he grumbled.

"Well... yes, but that was for science," He pouted. Nothing wrong with playing around with mortal lives if you made some progress at the end of the day. Nevertheless, his trials were hardly personal. Pointing at Scout, "I've never, and would not, take advantage of you... in whatever way you're so worried about right now."

Medic sighed. Not that saying that would make everything so suddenly alright again. He backed off from Scout, as he wished, standing a yard or so away. Hands behind his back. Close enough to talk, but not so close he encroached on Scout's personal space.

A sour look appeared on Medic's face. "I don't get why you flatter yourself. Even if I did do my work only for kicks, you're about as far from Heavy as there comes."

Scout's brain turned to banana pudding for a second. The tension shattered like cheap glass. Punching the Doc's leg accusatorily, "About that! There is no way the big guy is a queer!"

Medic raised a brow. "No? And what makes you say that?"

"He's a strong, macho kinda guy! Guys like that only dig chicks." He knew that from firsthand experience. "Fags are all flowery and whatnot."

"Aheh. Like me?" Most hirsute guy on the team and capable of lifting Soldier with ease?

"Well, you're..." he tilted his head, forming his mouth around some words and then backing out on them. "You heal people. And you keep birds."

Of course. How doctors and aviarists up and down the country could keep both their jobs and social standings, they may never know.

Gently, Medic sat in the soil where he stood, still an arm's length from Scout, the two of them watching the mostly empty highway occasionally burst with activity. "I'm guessing you've never met anyone gay before."

"'Course not," he said. "Do I look like the kinda guy who goes around meeting fags? No offense."

He wouldn't mention it. He simply hummed. "But you have seven brothers, yes?"

"Yeah. What about 'em?"

Medic put his hand to his chin. "Well, statistically speaking, it is likely at least one of your brothers is gay."

Medic may as well have pulled out a gun and shot Scout. Would've been less personal. He crawled up the soil behind him, disgust pulling at his face. "What? No, no - you get my family outta your mouth! I know my brothers, and they ain't queer!"

"Oh? You think they'd tell you?" Medic snapped with a grin. "Why? So they can watch you turn around and call them a faggot?"

Scout's jaw tightened. What right did he have, finding this funny? Made him damn near ready to teach Medic a lesson. 

Nearly. Because every part of Scout that wasn't pumping to deck the asshole into two lanes of traffic was stinging for some reason. Stinging so bad, so bad it hurt.

Scout averted his eyes. Think, stupid. If his big brother ever came to him with something that personal... well, crap, he was having trouble imagining that part at all. He and his siblings hadn't had a heart-to-heart over something more important than baseball or Ma since freaking ever. And yeah, they weren't the mushy types, but Christ, if they had something to say, they knew they could come to their brother Jeremy with it, right? Even if it were... were something like this. It'd take some getting used to, but he wouldn't turn them away. Sure, he may flip out once they told him - who was ready to receive that kind of news? - but they'd have to know no matter what he said, they wouldn't be like those other fags to him. Know he didn't... he wasn't gonna...

Shit, was the Doc right? Prick had been on the defensive this entire time, then goes right for the throat like a viper. Like he had seen this a hundred times before. And Scout stung more. His tightened jaw began to feel less like a choice and more like lockjaw. 

"Maybe I, uh," his hand rubbed the side of his neck, "shouldn't have called you fag so many times."

He turned further back to Scout with a raised finger. "A word of advice: it packs a punch the first use, but afterwards it just makes you look boring."

"Yeah, yeah, right." He clutched at his rolled up sleeves as another gust of wind whistled off the highway. Felt real lonely looking out at all that black horizon.

Squaring up his shoulders, Scout pulled his hat down as his other arm tightened around his knees. "This isn't gonna change stuff between us, right, Doc? You're still going to heal me and all that?"

"If you don't find it too emasculating." Medic shrugged. Putting a finger to his chin, "Oh, and if you could learn to sit still for five seconds so I could actually get the beam on you, that'd help too."

"And you're not mad at me?"

"Of course I'm mad at you. You marched up to me like I owed you something. You called me a faggot - which, by the way, is also a great way to not get yourself healed. But I'm not surprised by you." His demeanour hardened. "You're opinionated and quite ignorant. It's a very frustrating combo to navigate! But for every person like you, there are a dozen moreso who would do a lot worse than give me a nosebleed." 

Yeah, that didn't exactly make Scout feel oodles better. But Medic pat him on the shoulder with a smile. "Think on the bright side: you didn't go so far such that I'd have to knock you out and scoop out the part of your brain that remembers what you heard!"

He recoiled. "You do that to people?"

"Ach, nothing. Forget I said anything." He waved it off. With a stretch, he rocked back to his feet, shaking out his tired limbs. "It's getting cold, anywho. Shall we head back?"

Medic held his hand out to Scout. Part of him didn't wanna take it. He wasn't about to start going around accepting pity from guys he just put through the wringer. But Medic was offering it anyway. After all, with Scout's ankle throbbing like it was angry about something, he definitely needed the help getting up.

"Let's go." Scout grabbed his hand. "Freakin' dust from the highway is getting in my eyes."

Miss Pauling didn't reenter the RV that night. She didn't have the strength. She slept on the far side of the campfire under the stars with Pyro, who kept her warm enough. Not that she was looking for heat, exactly. She wanted to be cold. Being cold kept her lucid enough to not wallow under the debacle she had unleashed. Heavy braved the camper again; she wished him all the goodwill in the world. Then let herself drift away from all the ruckus breaking inside and tuned into Pyro's ragged breathing. Just this once, she didn't want to listen in on the conversation.

By the time the sky was orange, Engineer and Demo had reappeared. Victorious. Engine oil in one hand and lukewarm coffee in another - not be confused for each other - Engie had the RV starting up like a flash. Said it wasn't nothing, of course: he wasn't gonna let himself be thanked for the most simple car maintenance. He just wanted to kick his legs up for a minute and enjoy his coffee before he had to slide back behind the wheel. Somehow his four hour trek still didn't outweigh Sniper's hangover.

The clouds were red this morning. Scarlet red. She'd marvel at it if it didn't look quite so much like the sky were bleeding. Pyro had disappeared off somewhere so she stood alone, a space blanket over her shoulders, the metallic texture covered in creases and shards of sunlight. She'd never been the biggest fan of them, frankly; for how useful they were at heat retention, you became a beacon to anyone who happened to chance a light in your general direction, and the slightest breeze made it sound not unlike an orchestra composed of crunching glass. Yet after having spent the whole night by a fire, willfully ignoring the others' shouting, those drawbacks didn't seem so present.

Behind her, there was a knock on the side camper door. She turned to spot Engie with two cups in his hand, nodding towards her. Asking for permission to join her by the remains of the fire. 

"Got you coffee," he greeted when she beckoned him over. "Couldn't remember what you took at the diner, but you look like the type to want it strong."

Correct as always. The man had clearly learned something useful between those eleven doctorates. She snaked an arm out from under the blanket to accept her breakfast. Four hour old gas station espresso didn't exactly inspire much joy, but she would take any she could get her hands on.

They cradled their drinks. He must have either waited all that time to have his own coffee with her, or bought more than he came back with. Either way, she sipped her cup of tar gratefully. This would either dull her headache or double it down.

His task done, dusted, and tied with a bow, Miss Pauling threw her head over her shoulder again. "You've caught up with everyone in there?"

"Ooh, yeah." A knowing smile settled on his face. "Seems like you folks had one hell of a night. Sorry I missed it."

"Don't be," she scoffed. What she'd give to have sent more people with him on his adventure. "You know what happened, then?"

A question that would require some unfortunate backtracking if the answer were a no, but she didn't bank on it. Not as Engie looked into his coffee for a while. "Medic pulled me to the side once we got back. Spilled his guts about everything," he said. "Didn't want me to have to hear it from Soldier."

From the bits and pieces she overheard, everything fell apart after Scout and Medic's little argument. Whatever they said, Soldier had been awake enough to register, and when he began to grill them on it Scout hit back with his own, louder retort that only served to dig an even deeper pit. By the time their argument was done and through, the cat was out of the bag. No coming back from what Soldier could string from Scout's defense. And well, once both Soldier and Scout knew a secret... Good luck keeping that under wraps. Meant no coming back for Heavy or for Medic. She could finally kiss the idea of preventing outing them a proper goodbye.

With all that commotion and distress, the idea of willingly telling another soul so soon, when she chose to take a step back... "That was brave of him."

"Heck yeah, it was. Not what I expected to hear this morning, mind, but I respect the hell out of him for coming clean." He shot her a glance after a long swig of coffee. "He told you too?"

Long shake of the head from her. The space blanket excited with the movement. "I found out on my own a few days ago."

"Well, shoot. There I was, thinking I was the observant type," Engie sulked. "Why am I always the last to hear about these things?"

He muttered something to himself, but ultimately kept his pride in check. Continued to take little sips of his coffee alongside her, his free hand dug in his pocket. Turkey vultures glided by silently overhead. Foraging for meat to strip from a carrion, no doubt. Felt a little like what she had to do now.

"So you're still cool with Medic and Heavy?" She checked.

"'Course I am. It's..." Engie paused, his bright mind rooting for the right words. "I'm not used to it," he settled on. "But I respect the hell outta the two of them either way; they know that. Heavy's covered my sentry from fire how many times now when he could be off saving his own skin? And the Doc's got a head on his shoulders like nothing I've ever seen."

He began gesticulating his words at the end there, his foot tapping. Almost as though she had accused him of not being cool. But she hadn't; he knew that. She knew that. "It sounds a little like you're trying to convince yourself, not me," she guessed.

Engie frowned, but didn't refute. "Maybe I am. Like I said, I'm just not used to it. But that's not their problem," he promised. "You know what they say: close-mindedness is the enemy of progress."

Engineer had such an easy way about him. Straightforward and honest, like any reputable man should be. So when dwelling on his possible opinion on homosexuality, Miss Pauling knew one thing: he wouldn't lie to her. But beyond that... Despite being born into a lineage of forward thinking individuals, that didn't change he came from a tiny town in the heart of Texas; and with small towns came strict beliefs. Cruel beliefs. For all Engie's strengths, one thing he certainly could be was cruel. What this boiled down to was that she had held justifiable fear for his response to this all. So to watch him heave the responsibility of change onto his own back... Ha. He would hate the idea that even for a moment, her mind reduced him to some backwards hick. Not a Conagher.

So she kept her trap shut, willed her eyes to stay dry, and took a gulp of her watery, gritty coffee.

Engie stewed as the sun crept higher, swishing his own drink in his grasp. "You know what, Miss Pauling? Can't say it surprised me much when the Doc told me," he admitted. "Surprised me how little it surprised me."

Her finger traced the rim of her cup. "You had your suspicions, then?"

"Nope. Not one bit. But we worked pretty closely last Summer. Hell, we're fighting the clock, trying not to die, and the guy doesn't have one thing to say about loved ones, past or present... But he did step away to speak to Heavy." He pawed at the back of his head. "'Course, then I've also seen the two of them round the Inventory a few times, keeping to themselves..."

"The Inventory?"

"A bar I introduced Heavy to a while back. Just figured they thought I was too busy to invite along." He trailed off into chuckles, almost blushing at the memories. "Guess they didn't want a third wheel, more like."

"Good thing you let them be," she hummed. In another life, it could have been him sat with her, Pyro, and Spy around the campfire last night. Sharing his story of what he shouldn't have seen down at his favorite bar. "You'll have to take me sometime."

"Now ain't that an idea." Engie stuck a hand on his hip with a grin. "You any good at poker?"

While Engineer clued her in on the ins and outs of Texas Hold 'Em - without revealing too much of his personal strategy - Miss Pauling felt a familiar crawl on her neck. Someone was watching them. Her eyes flitted right and sure enough, there he was. Right where he had been last night. Scout. Popping out around the front of the RV's hood to catch the conversation. As soon as he met her eyes, he looked away.

Miss Pauling's brow settled deeper. "Can I help you?" She called. She wanted to lure him over before he could consider going back. 

At mention of him he jumped, flinching into his usual cool demeanour. From his gait, he was definitely more tentative on his feet today; but he ventured outside anyway. "Just lookin' to see how my favorite person is doing," he played off, inching forward. Engie raised his cup in thanks; Scout scowled.

As he stumbled closer to the fire to stand besides them, Miss Pauling noted his ankle again. This time it had been properly dressed: wrapped up with bandages and propped straight with a splint. The way Scout moved, purposefully avoiding placing weight on it (even as it messed with his swagger), he may have actually cared about reinjury. With them barely half a day from where Medic left his equipment on base, to her, caution almost didn't seem worth the effort.

Furthermore, when he finally caught up with them, Miss Pauling's brow raised at a familiar smell. "Are you wearing sunscreen?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Sure enough, his skin had a faint white and oily tint - notably, smeared over one shiner of a bruise under his eye. Scout brushed her remark off, just like she chose to ignore his new injury. "Guy on the radio says it's gonna be a scorcher today, and the Doc brought some with him, so... y'know. I'm not stupid."

"Well, I'll be. Never thought I'd see the day," Engie grinned. "I'm almost proud of you."

"Aw, give it a rest, hardhat! I'm just sick of my skin peeling all over, alright?"

While he bickered and badgered Engie to get off his back, she couldn't help but wonder if he didn't really come out here to socialise. Not that he wouldn't crawl outside with a lot worse than a swollen ankle and black eye just to say hi to her. But he was rarely this guarded about it.

"Scout," she reiterated, a pleasant smile with it. "Did you need something?"

He stopped, and Engie took the cue right after. When Scout still didn't speak Engineer held up his hands. "I can back off if you want some privacy, son. Just say the word."

"Nah, it's cool. I just, uh," Scout chewed the inside of his cheek. "I wanted to apologise for wrecking your conversation last night, Miss P."

He crossed his arms and stared straight down, like his shoes were the most interesting things in the world. "I mean, it's still really freakin' weird Heavy and the Doc are queer like that," he asserted, "but, well, you weren't making it a big deal, so I... it wasn't cool of me to. You get me?" He toyed with the bandages over his knuckles. "I really, really didn't mean to hurt your feelings or nothing."

She clutched the inside of her blanket while Scout picked at himself. She nodded. All of his anxiety seemed to disperse. "I get you, loud and clear."

Then she elbowed him. "I take it you've apologised to Heavy and Medic, too?"

And just like that, he went rigid again. "Yeah, I'm... working my way up to that one."

"If you don't want that ankle to heal in real time, I'd suggest you get a move on."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do it, I promise."

The sky was fading to blue now, those scarlet clouds remembering they were white. Her coffee was just the dredges now, and Engie had already crushed his own cup. No reason not to get a move on. The last leg of her mission had careened by so rapidly and now all of a sudden it was over. Both her assignments had their answers: nothing was left for her to uncover, intentionally or not. Now? Now she got to fold up her space blanket, kick the ashes of the fire away, and climb back aboard the wretched little RV for the ride home. 

Oh, and then write all this up as a report.

Chapter Text

Miss Pauling reckoned the chances of the Administrator shooting her point blank in the head the second she stepped into her office were probably around one in ten. Granted, she wasn't certain she kept a piece in her office (where would it be? Under the chair?) yet a woman as industrious as her boss wouldn't not have a plan for if an intruder got that far into the complex, and a loaded gun was as good a plan as any. Perhaps Miss Pauling just had a crude train of thought. Either way, when she found herself standing before the Administrator once more without her brain leaking down her neck, she took it as a good sign.

"So." The Administrator flicked a speck of dust off her desk. "You're back."

The tiny office she kept herself was masked under a haze of cigarette smoke. You could smell it before the door slid open. Magazines and classified dossiers mingled together on the corners of her desk, beginning to get shuffled into the same pile - a sight that nearly made Miss Pauling burst a blood vessel. This was the Administrator after a week without her, huh? Having to keep relevant paperwork on her all the time because she didn't have a little helper to fetch and store it as she pleased? Selfish though it may have been, the thought did put a spring in Miss Pauling's step. There really was no replacement for her.

"Always planned to come home," she grinned in reply. Hopefully the document-stuffed manila folder she clutched against her chest was proof enough of that. It was fuller than the last time the Administrator saw it; did she notice? If she did, she didn't care to mention. 

No, the Administrator's chin propped itself on her laced fingers. "So you weren't going to live a life on the road with the employees you stole. Color me shocked."

Miss Pauling's expression dropped. Traded itself for one that better matched the Administrator's tone. "Look, I know. I went AWOL." She held up her hand. No point dancing around it. "And it was presumptuous, and callous, and notably out of character for me. But I made the decision I deemed best, and I stand by it."

She eyed Miss Pauling over from her chair. Watched her stand there with her back straight, feet together, and her eyes full of confidence. She meant every word she said. For how messy the trip had been, she covered valuable ground - both in a professional capacity and a personal. She forced herself to put her priorities to the test. This would always be the preferable outcome over the orthodox method.

"Save me your excuses," the Administrator brushed off, curt. "You've returned, which means you survived, which means you're still fit for work."

Miss Pauling could breathe again.

No need to dawdle now. "I see Powerhouse cameras are broadcasting loud and clear," she noted, leaning in towards the Administrator's wall of screens. On the tail end of little roadtrip, Miss Pauling had Engie drive straight to Powerhouse, where RED had spent the final days of their week's leave getting settled in. BLU transferred over from Double Cross last night, and the two teams were more than ready to face off again after the abrupt conclusion to their last match.

"Your assessment, Miss Pauling."

"Right." She pushed up her glasses. "Not much to say, really: a dense symmetrical map, prone to long matches and stalemates. A perfect stomping ground to come back to after a break, the more I think about it." Because you were just off the back of the chance to recharge before a streak of stalemates wore you down to the bone. "No more massacres like we saw at Gorge."

"I trust you've at last gotten to the bottom of RED's disappointment, then."

"Absolutely. Everything's in here," she tapped her folder, "and fully smoothed over." Medic's trial ended over a week ago; any side effects of the blood thinners, or the withdrawal, were gone. Should they crop up again without warning... Well, he knew to expect a visit from her.

"And the interpersonal assignment I gave you?" Her nails rapped the edge of her desk.

"I can assure you, it's not going to be a problem." She cleared her throat, focusing on the back of the Administrator's chair as to not accidentally look her in the eyes. "It would've been easier to not have to sort it out under the threat of death, but, y'know!"

The Administrator's lack of a reaction told her all it needed to. Miss Pauling's deduction was correct. "But you got the job finished more promptly, did you not?" She floated as if it were common sense. "This is why you send an assassin, Miss Pauling: to provide an incentive."

A typical Administrator response if there ever were one. But one word didn't sit right with Miss Pauling. "'An' assassin? Only one?"

"Yes. A shame. Lost contact with him around ten on the night you left." She fixed the ashtray on her desk as though it were the most important thing in the world. "I suspect that's around when he bumped into you."

The knot of a headache tightened behind Miss Pauling's eye. "But if you didn't send anyone else, then... then who did Soldier kill at the campground?"

"Who knows?" She spun towards Miss Pauling with a shrug. "That man will kill anything with two legs and a fighting chance. I suspect the first clause is optional."

With a finely tapered nail tapping against her cheek, the Administrator turned back to stare at her wall of screens once more. Each little television showcasing the return to business as usual - just as the Administrator liked it. It must have driven her insane, those days of watching only BLU. She had to have cameras elsewhere; they were littered across the entire Badlands for all she knew. The woman knew too much to not have more eyes than even Miss Pauling knew of. But that didn't mean the Administrator cared to directly concern herself with any feed other than this war's. And deprived of said feed, by her subordinate no less? It was well within her scope to rain a hellish barrage down on Miss Pauling for having the gall.

But she hadn't. She sent a single guy. Who, frankly, acted unpredictable at best and sloppy at worst. Even if he had fooled her to his identity for a spell. 

Miss Pauling fixed her glasses. "Thank you, then. For only sending one assassin."

"As I said, you survived." The Administrator thought nothing of it." You proved your commitment to your task, which was all I needed. Sending any more would be a waste of good men."

She had won the space she wanted, the Administrator meant. Tilting her head, "Still, it -"

"Miss Pauling, I think it would better suit us both if you skipped the part where you thanked me for letting you do your job and simply passed me your report."

Of course. Never the type for small talk or feelings; no room for it in a business like this. Maybe someday down the road Miss Pauling would get a hint of purposeful sincerity out of her, but hey, that was a pipe dream as far as today was concerned.

She flipped through Miss Pauling's notes and outlines, her face as impossible to read as always. "I take it your suspicions were well-founded?"

Heavy and Medic's relationship? "Yep. Spent most of my time doing damage control before it could be needed, so to speak," she tittered, scratching her scalp with her pen.

She hummed. Almost like she gave a damn. "Anybody to watch going forward?"

"My gut says no - but I'll keep tabs on it, don't worry." Her mind flitted over the points of importance. Recounting each assessment on her fingers, "Scout posed a problem for a sec, but he's since had a change of heart. Soldier and Demoman were fine with the concept; Engineer, too. Spy and Pyro even more so. And Sniper..."

Sniper...

Son of a bitch.

"So you two are buggering each other, then?"

The RED Powerhouse resupply was abuzz with energy. After a gruelling early Summer followed up by a spontaneous roadtrip (where tensions and boredom ran high in equal measure), being back on their own turf, feeling like themselves, felt excellent. Like potential was brimming at their fingertips. Sniper was rooting through the overhead lockers, sorting his equipment so he wouldn't be caught off guard when the room's shutters rattled open. Medic stood beside him, expression bright. 

If the Medic had been a more sensitive man, he may have blushed at the question. "Aheh, well, I suppose that's not an inaccurate way of putting it!"

Sniper fixed his hat on his head, indifferent. "That's alright then. Look on your face, I thought you were going to tell me we were dying again," he joked, tightening the lid on a suspiciously warm jar. "So you're not worried about what all those crazed folk say about going to hell for it?"

"Worried? No, not at all." Medic chuckled at the very thought. "I am far past that being a factor anymore, believe me."

As Sniper shut the locker and wandered off, Medic could feel Heavy's curious eyes on him from behind. His brow was cocked in suspicion. "You are?"

"A slip of the tongue, my friend." He pat his shoulder as paced by. "Nothing for you to worry your head over."

Unplugging her headset from Medic's jack on the switchboard, Miss Pauling breathed a sigh of relief. Last merc cleared. Better late than never, though she couldn't imagine a reality where she'd still be saying that if Sniper took the news worse. Nevertheless, a nightcap on a mission brimming with loose threads.

A new battleground meant a new office for Miss Pauling. Same walls; same desk; same switchboard and monitors. Though the linoleum in here was lilac. Exciting. Criss-crossed with tiny scuffs from moving equipment in, just how they all were. For everything that changed, more things stayed the same.

As the time left until kickoff whittled down, she listened in, skimming the list of today's fresh contracts as she matched them to recipients. Her to-do list was only getting higher, but it hardly mattered. Gorge matches were part-time work compared to Powerhouse games. Plenty of time on hand to complete the contracts she set - and luckily for her watching, she brought snacks.

"Heavy, Pauling here," she fired off amongst others as she worked down the list. "Keep this job between you and me."

And with her feet up, she watched the game unfold.

The gates opened, and both RED and BLU flushed from their supply rooms and over their home capture points with war cries ringing on their voices. It was funny how both teams always booked it like their legs could never get to the midpoint fast enough, always so desperate to make it before the opposing team, when they were so well matched they always arrived roughly together. Never failed to put a smile on her face to watch grown men compete to jump into a drainage ditch first and bomb out the opposite embankment.

Only consisting of three control points, Powerhouse was a game of ground brutally claimed and so easily lost. Over, and over. And over. Being way tighter spacially than Gorge gave her an excellent overview of the game despite her few monitors, meaning flawless visual confirmation of when she got to knock a contract off her list. There was nothing like it: one team would get far enough to paint the other base's atrium with blood as they marched on their warpath to the final point, just for the lone living enemy Scout to recapture the middle point and add another half hour to the timer. If Miss Pauling managed to wipe out this whole list before the final round started, she'd celebrate by hitting up Engie for details about that bar.

Three and a half hours later, it was safe to say all parties had lost much more than just blood, sweat, and tears. Between a win for both teams, then a stalemate preventing the mandatory best of three culminating in the prior round, some sanity had gone missing too. For now, RED had their foot in the door of BLU's atrium; with Engie locking down the wide open space Spy began to cut off the balcony room above, forcing the opponent back down to the final capture point. No matter who Miss Pauling listened in on, the same shouting and gunfire could be heard down the line: a testament to how closely they were packed. Moreover the BLU Medic, hiding behind the barrels near his spawn around the corner, had just reached full charge on his Kritzkrieg. All it took was good timing to turn those blue baseboards red.

Not that RED were entirely comfortable in their position, either. The atrium had several adjoining routes, and the most important - the direct path to the point - was watched by BLU's own sentry. BLU may not be breaking out of there at any steady pace, but they sure turned the little space they had into a bona fide fortress. All either side needed was a small push. A stalemate breaker.

Among the cacophony, Soldier shouted something to Medic Miss Pauling didn't catch, but it had Medic ordering Pyro to watch the flank down to the enemy's spawn room. With a tight grip on the Medigun's handle he and Heavy barrelled down the main route, Demo in tow as Soldier dashed into the balcony flank after Spy. The BLU Scout spotted this. Like a snap, the BLU Sniper was rocking his rifle in position over the main route's doorway, the BLU Medic scooping up his Demo pocket. So that the moment the RED Heavy and Medic peeked through the doorway, the Kritzkrieg's über triggered. But so did the Medigun's.

Ultimate firepower meant a whole load of nothing in the face of invulnerability. Miss Pauling was sure the BLU Medic felt the sentiment nearly as much as he felt Heavy's minigun ripping him into confetti. Neutered, the BLU Demo did his damnedest to blast Heavy back, but the RED Demo's own grenades popped him square in the chest before he could reach for his sword - all while Heavy focused his fire around on the offending sentry, sending shrapnel flying until it exploded under its own instability. The Übercharge flickered out, but not before Soldier sent a rocket from the top of the room to blow the enemy Sniper out of the picture. Nobody was ruining their perfect advance. And frankly, BLU couldn't now if they tried. Pyro had taken the hint and rushed forward when the BLU Medic left cover, free to spray hot flames against the spawn shutter doors until the metal blistered red. Heavy marched forward, pinning down the BLU Engineer as he swatted his wrench in one last desperate attempt to save his dispenser from Spy; as Scout zipped forward to plant his feet firmly on the point; as Engie hauled his sentry right behind Pyro to add another layer of cover. As Spy, Heavy, Demo, and Medic all gathered to join Scout as the capture time dropped from twenty seconds to under ten. As Pyro laughed their ass off, clear even under that ventilator. Up until the light over the point phased from blue to a familiar red. 

The roar. Down the line, it peaked the Contracker's microphone worse than the gunfire, and it took Miss Pauling a moment of recovery to realise it was laughter. RED's laughter, raw and unbridled - because who gave a shit if they wrecked their vocal chords? They won! After fighting and losing, and losing, and losing, they knocked it out of the park for the first time in a long time. Fair and square. Vengeance didn't only taste sweet: it tasted like this.

Pyro flooded the BLU spawn room as the doors opened for the victors, and many of their teammates were not far behind. Scout just tore around the control point, screaming glorious obscenities at the top of his lungs. Heavy, all the while, slung his arm around Medic's shoulders, his booming voice ripping all his leftover rage out through his laughter as he nigh whipped the doctor off his feet. Not that Medic minded. The corners of his own mouth were as high as his eyes as his hands snatched at Heavy's collar, his own cackling mixing with Heavy's victory cries. Viscera dripped down both their faces. Heavy couldn't find greater glee if he tried. Except, of course, in leaning in and planting a smooch on Medic's cheek. After the initial surprise, Medic's hands messily yanked his mouth over the correct position. Vengeance... probably also tasted like this.

And... and nobody cared. Nobody commented on the kiss. Nobody remotely stopped to shoot a look at two of them. No disgust, no horror; well, Demo threw a wolf whistle, with positive enough intentions behind it to put a smile on her face. With BLU pulverised into little more than cooked ground beef he and Soldier had begun roughhousing with Scout nearby, far too busy smacking each other around to care about Medic and Heavy's business. The others dancing in joy. All of the team refusing to come down from this high. Miss Pauling's two people of interest still shouting giddily between each other's lips, before they finally tore apart to join their comrades in festivities.

This was what celebration by the victorious team looked like. Business as usual after every match. Just as the Administrator wanted. Just as Miss Pauling wanted. 

And maybe, she mused, leaning back in her rolling chair, she had been right. Nothing was wrong with the RED team. Nothing was wrong with the RED Heavy and RED Medic. And nothing was wrong with her, either.