Archive of Our Own ^beta

The midday sun pierced into the window of the RED Base. Everything has been rather quiet ever since the end of the Gravel Wars. The death of the entire Mann family has set a shock in the status quo of life in the badlands. The screams and taunts of what was once the Sawmill now occupy the simple hums of saws chewing through lumber. The forts of Teufort now lay in blissful ignorance, freed from the shackles of the intelligence. The steelworks lay abandoned. The granary sold to the DeGroots in their rising liquor empire.

And the hidden headquarters lays with ennui, an aura of fatigue. Men who were forced to kill, who have laughed at death in the face, who have seen the other side, now instead kill time. Waiting for their contracts to expire in a few months, now relegated to a few odd jobs at the request of their new administrator, Miss Pauling. The pay was good, but each of them knew that this era of their lives was ending. Hell, to some it might as well have ended. But that’s a problem most of them delegated to the final month of their contracts. As it stands, they still have their team, their guns and their hats.

In the second-floor hallway, near the Spy’s smoking room, was a balcony. Metal railings aligned the sides. Not very comfortable to lean on, but sturdy. Boxes leaned onto them, piled in a way that allowed for a nice seat. The mesa walls offered shade to the building, yet the sky was still visible, allowing for perfect stargazing at night. The door to the balcony began to rustle, as a giant hulking man slouched to sit down, his ennui turning into melancholy.

He took a big breath, sighed and exclaimed:
“I am depressed!”

Mikhail. The Heavy Weapons Expert. A gargantuan wall of muscle, unmoving, cold and a man of few words. He is not the type to complain, usually talking when there is something to say, and never anything too embellished. After all, growing up and having to fight against the KGB itself in the cold Russian winters truly shapes a man. His emotions were usually reserved for family. The only time anyone else truly got to see any glimpse of this cold, calm and collected giant is when he was gleefully singing while ripping his enemies asunder with his beloved Sasha (or any other of his beloved girls. Svetlana has been particularly good!). Being the anchor of the team requires collectiveness and calmness. No time for the bad mental health.

But with time, even the mightiest walls begin to crack. Heavy is no exception to this rule. As much as most people in the world would view him as anything but (should they know the true story of the Mann family), he is still human. And no human is perfect. Putting all of it aside, Heavy finally began to feel the repercussions of all the stress piling up in his life. Not choosing to deal with them in a healthy manner has caused the Soviet Snorlax his melancholic mood. A mood in which he loathed. A mood in which annoyed him more than the tiny baby man he calls a colleague. A mood in which… began to unknowingly scare him.

After a bit of wallowing, he began to ponder.

“How could I fix?”

He was a man of solutions. Being one of the smartest people in the team, there has yet to be a problem that can’t solve! And so, he began trying to remember good times. Mowing down the bad people with his beloved guns, coordinating with his team and watching bullets fly. For a moment, it seemed to work. And by a moment, it was moreso 3 seconds before the sorrow quickly flooded his body once more. His stomach was uncomfortable, his back began to ache, his mind began to hurt. He became more upset than he was those 3 seconds ago.

Once more, he pondered.
“What if I ask?”

He was not above teamwork. I mean, that’s his whole job. When he died, his team suffered for it. This was all too unfamiliar to him, so maybe someone here knew how to deal with it! As such, his mind began to wander. An image appeared before him; it was Scout. As annoying, boisterous, cocky, egocentric, flamboyant, gaudy, hard-headed, immature, jealous, knuckleheaded, lousy, meager, narcissistic, obtrusive, petty, querulous, rude, small, talkative, unpleasant, vain, whiny, xerographic, young and zealous (for ladies and himself) as he was, Scout still was pretty much the most emotional of the team. Letting his emotions control his life over logic, perhaps he could show Heavy what he sought. Heavy began to imagine the confrontation…

Heavy approached Scout and stated his predicament:

“I am depressed!”

As he began to imagine his response, his mood began to warp his mind. His fear begun to take a hold of him. Scout wasn’t going to help! Scout would only make fun of him, as he usually does!

Scout stops fiddling with his baseball and told him that maybe he’s sad because he’s fat.

“Next time, eat a salad!” the imaginary Scout replied. A taunt Heavy heard a lot.

It never bugged him before, but now that the fighting’s over, why is he feeling so… distraught over it? Is it because there’s no killing to distract him? Is it because now that respawning has been put offline after the war, his mortality and health matter more? Or perhaps… did he feel like his colleagues didn’t respect him despite his best efforts to put his emotions to the side as the anchor of his team? Sure, at times he was loud and proud, but he usually kept himself to a methodical and quiet point of view.

His melancholic fear took hold of him, as almost he felt himself shrink as Scout’s voice began to boom, louder than he had ever heard before

“You fat, bald bastard! You piece of subhuman trash! 2000 years of constant human evolution to create a hairless fucking coconut! What is wrong with you?” As his obnoxious schadenfreude filled Heavy’s mind, snapping him back to reality.

As this scenario faded and the laughs echoed, all he could muster was a meek mutter.

“No…”

But he can’t feel this way! Scout was just a bad pick; they were never compatible to have conversations. Too different. And Scout’s just immature too! Heavy felt it was just a fluke. Maybe talking to Soldier, insane as he is, could help bring him purpose and drive him out of this rut.

Once more his mind began to wander, as he envisions Soldier standing atop of boxes as if he just finished a speech. Heavy once more vocalizes his woes:

“I am depressed!”

This time, Soldier simply turned around, unmoving. His cold, war torn eyes staring daggers into Heavy’s very soul. Normally he was never scared of Soldier, dismissing him as nothing but a crazy American who just so happened to be his brother-in-law*. Heavy felt paralyzed, as if Soldier didn’t feel it necessary to even say it. He was pathetic, worthless. No purpose, a shameful anchor for one of the single best mercenary teams on the planet. As crazy and mentally unstable as Soldier is, he is still surprisingly one of the team members with the most heart, the most drive. His speeches and ethics, as morally dubious as some may seem, are fundamentally profound. As much as he didn’t want to admit, Heavy respected his colleague. He only wished he was saner. But as it stood, he was terrified, and begun to feel like he was shrinking once more. And how could he not, the judgement and the lack of purpose he felt… He was nothing more than an itty bitty tiny speck of nothing.

Heavy snapped back to reality. Soldier was too war torn to care, that’s all, right? Heavy let out a nervous laughter, as two of the eight options were now singled out. Surely, they can’t all miss, right? Heavy grasped the railing. He wanted to deny it so badly, but his mood did not improve. As a matter of fact, he felt more gloomy than ever.

Without prompt, he began weighing more of his options.

Maybe Pyro? But why would they care? They probably view Heavy as nothing more than a piece of charcoal to burn. Pyro probably lacked care, joy, or any emotion to understand how Heavy felt. Pyro was an enigma, mysterious and ironically colder than most. Then again, Heavy never bothered to talk to them out of fear for his safety

Demo? He was well adjusted, kind and a very in touch family man. On the accounts that he isn’t drunk, which is arguably very rare due to his alcoholism. All he would tell Heavy is to drown it in a bottle. He would be too wasted, too negligent, too selfish to even care about his colleague. As long as he’s boozed up, why would he bother?

Heavy began wondering more and more, his fear taking grasp more and warping his mind into a hopeless scenario. Half of his options he believed were off the table as he imagined his coworkers wouldn’t even give a rat’s ass about him or perhaps even berate him for his newly found weakness. His hands began shaking on their own, his breath beginning to shorten. His team did not care, or so the seed of doubt firmly planted inside his ever growing manic mind began to sprout.

He shook his head violently, almost as if trying to fully rid himself of these thoughts and clear his head. Maybe it was time for the Not So Gentle Giant to consider some of the more well-spoken members.

For another time, Heavy’s mind began to build a new scenario, this time confronting the Engineer. The friendliest of the mercenaries by far, even to the enemy, and Heavy’s second closest coworker. If Engie couldn’t help him, that would be a surprise. Despite coming from different backgrounds, they understood one another. Two great minds meeting on the battleground. Sure, they’re paid killers, but there is so much more to them than bullets. Engineer had PhDs, a family business and legacy. He strived to cater his scientific mind by always inventing, always moving forward. But he could be a little… unpredictable. For instance, that time he cut off his hand to pursue his grandfather’s studies. Well, as long as he was performing it on himself. This time, Heavy can see Engineer helping.

However, just as he approached him to tell him he was depressed, the Engineer looked down upon him.

“I am depressed!” cried Heavy, in desperation.

“Look buddy” replied Engie in his usual southern drawl. “I solve NO problems.”

“I-“

“No. Problems.”

Heavy solemnly lowered his head, as the scenario faded. Of course, why would Engineer care? As a man of science, his pursuits are only in knowledge of the future. He doesn’t care about Heavy, only on his machinery. He is not built for emotions, the man cut off his own limb for god’s sake. And it wasn’t even part of a love song! How could he bother for Heavy’s emotional state? Heavy is not machine! Heavy is made of 100% meat! A big, sad, pathetic lump of meat. Heavy let out a yell and hit a nearby box, as it began to crack open. He could feel his mind straining more and more, this mental anguish becoming unbearable with each thought passing. Why him? Why is he feeling this? In a world where the horrors were usually met with his joyous laughter as he didn’t think, he began to feel a searing, dense pain in his head. His eyes began to hurt, his breathing becoming even shorter. His heart began beating faster than an Übercharge as he began to have short fits of laughter.

For the last time, Heavy’s mind began to wander once more. This time without even wanting to, he saw himself having tea with the Medic. Ah… The Medic. Heavy’s closest ally. The (mostly) good doctor and him always had their fair share of good times, be it mowing down the opposition, experiments or even sharing tea. Medic was the closest thing Heavy had to a best friend. Every night, he would visit his beloved doctor and spend some time together just chatting about the day they had. Heavy wouldn’t deny he begun to have a sort of infatuation with the Medic. Love was human, and he knew he loved his Doctor, and felt loved back.

“Hmmm…” Heavy’s vision about Medic began to ponder before sipping, and then he approached him. Having considered Heavy’s mental anguish, he had reached a verdict.

With anticipation and fear, Heavy received his diagnosis and recommendations:

“Just die.” The imaginary doctor said, showcasing a grimace.

Heavy was given an air of disgust but realized that… perhaps it was true. Medic would only care about using his cadaver for experiments. If anything, Heavy was no different than a cadaver salvaged from the morgue. A canvas for his twisted experiments. Using his connection with heavy simply to make it easier on the big guy to get him dead. No one was true to Heavy. No one could be! Even Heavy’s most trusted friend didn’t care. That quack was a maniac by day one. Why did Heavy even trust him if he was just gonna hurt him? He was just his science experiment, a pet, easily replaceable.

Heavy’s body temperature began to rise as his grip on the railing tightened. The strain on his mind began to take hold of him. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt joy. His body was shaking, his back and spine were sore. Sweat came from out of the back of his head. He couldn’t even be bothered to care about the rest of his team, he felt like Sniper would just chase him off, that piss throwing lunatic!

Heavy began thinking of the words his mind had told him… He was nothing but vermin, a pathetic fat bastard whose only use was to be a meat shield and nothing else. He was no anchor, no team captain, nothing. He was just someone to be used by other members of his team. A guinea pig, a rag. And after this, society would treat him no better. What would his sisters think? Big Brother Misha, Heavy of his team. A failure. Someone not worthy to come home to Mama and protect family.

Medic’s words began to linger… Just die. All of this could be over quickly, and everything could stop soon. He wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore. His sins nor any judgement would matter. He could see papa again too. He would no longer have to succumb to the weakness his mind is treating him in.

For the last time, a scenario appeared before him. But he was already set. He saw Spy. That snide, conniving snake. He exclaimed

“I am going to kill myself.”

“Yourself?” Spy replied. Before he could perform any judgement on how Spy would react, he responded in the way Scout would, his anger at the current situation and the world on full display.

“That’s right, fancy-pants.”

Heavy exploded in rage, angry at his weakness and the pain he was feeling. He erupted in a melancholic fury, tears beginning to stream from his eyes. He never felt this way but all he wanted was for it to end. In his explosion, the box he hit before fell and out came one of spy’s revolvers… Fully loaded.

Heavy stopped and looked down. An Ambassador. He picked up the weapon, and inspected it very carefully. A precision-made revolver with bullets akin to that of a sniper. Perfect for headshots.

Headshots…

Heavy’s arms began to tremble. As if life itself had given him a sign to do it. He was given an option right here, right now, to end this terrible curse. Who would miss him? Who would care? These people kill for a living, it’s not like they’d see it any differently. Or maybe they would since they can no longer respawn… Heavy knew this. He had faced death numerous times. This time, he knew there was no going back.

Heavy trembled more and more as his eyes began to water a bit more. He checked to see if the gun was loaded…

It was.

Slowly, he grabbed the gun by the handle and lifted it up to his head. His breath became heavier as tears began streaming down his face. Just one shot. That’s all it’s going to take. It would be swift. He wouldn’t have to endure the rest of his existence, and this new fear taking hold of him. This fear felt like his entire world. Nothing made sense anymore, the world began to spin, to feel dark, to feel like it was closing in on him. He couldn’t hear anything anymore; the silence was deafening. The pain of all his sins on his back.

He softly began applying pressure on the trigger. His finger trembling with every fiber of his being.

Heavy closed his eyes.

Expecting a bang, Heavy instead had the deafening silence broken by footsteps and a familiar humming.

The humming was… soothing. A brisk melody entered his manic ears and suddenly Heavy began to calm down. It sounded like… a lullaby? Well, it was lullaby adjacent at least. The melody was soothing and that was the main point. Heavy slowly put the revolver down, having calmed down. In what felt like minutes, realization began melting all over him like hot butter as he looked down at the weapon. The humming was getting closer, with footsteps following. Someone was walking through the hall.

Feeling fear, Heavy remembered his imaginary scenarios. But having enough of this feeling and the wave of shame he felt for almost being defeated by his demons, Heavy placed the gun down and got up.

Heavy headed to the door, fear causing him to take his steps very slowly. As he gradually took the handle, he thought to himself maybe it wasn’t a good idea… If it goes wrong, he’d only be proving his thoughts right. It wasn’t worth it. But he grabbed the door handle and twisted it.

Heavy entered the Hallway in search of the humming.