Author's Note: Alright, here goes nothing. I am trying my best to keep everyone in-character and Express as un-Mary-Sue as possible. This is my attempt at integrating a tenth class into a mixture of my headcanon and a loose TF2 canon. Reviews and Comments are always welcome. Tell what you hate and what you like! I'll adapt accordingly.
Be forewarned, though, this chapter is fairly lengthy, and this pattern may continue. Thanks, and hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1
Express slammed herself against the wooden wall, muttering a swear and sliding to her knees. Heavy boots, worn and dirty, clunked down the hallway toward her hiding spot. Express took a deep breath and held it as the footsteps turned the corner, earpiece crackling a bit. Her left hand shot to her ear and quickly shut it off; any sound would expose her position. A rather heavy-set man in a grey helmet that covered his eyes ambled past, sniffing in disgust and adjusting his rocket launcher on his shoulder. He disappeared through the doorway just down the hall at the end.
Deciding that he was long gone, Express exhaled sharply. She leaned on the wall for support as she stood, a few strands of hair loose in and breath ragged. There had never been a time when she needed to run so fast for so long, but she survived because of it. Express couldn't help but feel a little proud of her accomplishment. Bet the boys back home didn't have it in them to beat her. Her smile faded quickly when she remembered her headset, and she swore audibly.
Flicking it back on again, she wasn't surprised to hear a large commotion in the center of Badlands. The battlefront was framed by red sandstone formations, and smaller spires were scattered around the field, creating a maze-like feel. On the huge, raised platform in the middle of the map lay a control point. Her team had been fighting with the other for possession of that point for two hours.
Amongst the garbled and frenzied cries of, "Medic!" and, "Get on the point!", Express immediately picked out her title being yelled as well. Convincing herself that the small rest was enough, she charged further down the hall and onto the platform. The dark, wooden planks creaked angrily under her feet, and the supports groaned slightly from gaining even more weight. Around the point, locked in a deadly bullet-ridden tango, circled a pair of gigantic, burly, and bald men tailed by two smaller, dark-haired men. From the contraptions in their hands, a stream of red or blue light shot from them and continuously enveloped the other men.
Tick tick tick tick.
Express' ear twitched slightly. That was the sound of an empty chain gun. She hated the sound of empty guns. Approaching the large man in a blue shirt, Express whipped out a crate from her navy backpack and extracted a long chain of cartridges. Within seconds, she deftly fed the ammunition into the mammoth-sized gun and sped off down the opposite direction. The satisfying sound of bullets being shot sent a creeping smile onto her face, despite her better judgement. She was really smiling too much today.
Taking care on the steps so to avoid tripping, Express lobbed the now empty crate into an unused corner.
The corner grunted in pain.
Perplexed, Express dug into the grey bag at her hip and pulled out a small mesh bundle, waiting for any sign of movement. A flicker of red-colored light caught the corner of her eye and she whirled around and let the bundle of caltrops soar. It landed with a small clink of metal-on-dirt and exploded into a dozen metal spikes, littering the area. Not the result she was hoping for; she really wanted to find the source of the grunt. Suddenly, while walking towards the caltrops, Express stopped short. Someone else was coming around the corner.
The man in the helmet from earlier, clad in his bright red military jacket straight from the Great War, lumbered right onto the caltrops. A slick red already tinted his boots as he growled with the pain and instinctively launched a rocket toward Express' feet. Express barely had time to react, diving to her left and rolling into the chain link fence that bordered the whole battlefield. The pinprick stinging of shrapnel spread across her back but she ignored it, opting to scramble to her feet and run away from her assailant.
She heard him shout some more in his distinctive American martinet's voice, but the young woman could care less what he was saying. She grabbed her pistol from its concealed holster and put it up at the ready. Alarmingly, the shrapnel began to bleed more furiously and the pain doubled in unison. She needed to seek medical attention. Express ran past a garage door labeled "Resupply", but upon noticing that it was a red, not blue, sign, she continued on.
When she realized that she was supine on the floor and covered in dust, it was too late. The invisible man Express had tripped over had his sleek, black revolver to her head.
"I'll kill you quickly, which is more than a useless gopher like you deserves." His French accent was gravelly and cold, much like his blue eyes. Express couldn't believe it. Just like that, on her first day, she would end up being sent home in a matchbox. Her hefty backpack, chock-full of ammunition, held her back from retaliation. The hammer clicked, a bang rang out from the south end of the map, and Express was enveloped in black.
"A Spy, wasn't it, mate?"
Express blinked. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling shined a garish, hard light onto her bleary eyes. Immediately, her ears began to pound and she reached a trembling hand to cover her face. Running over the last minute of her waking life, Express sighed in confusion. She ran, she fell, she died.
She died.
Ugh. So "Respawn" had taken over. Express blinked from under her hand, letting the light gingerly filter through her fingers. At least that was getting better.
"It's all right, ya know. First time's always difficult."
Who was talking to her, so shamelessly aggravating her pounding head? Express let her hand fall back to her side. Her eyesight had fully recovered, leaving only the ache in her forehead. She recognized the white, glossy ceiling and the smell of bandages and antiseptic solution. This was the infirmary. What she guessed was the source of the deep, Australian-tinted voice began to shift around, and soft boots clunked nearer to the gurney. His long face and brown hat slowly came into focus as he cracked a smile.
"Go away," Express muttered. "I have no bloody patience right now." The man's expression grew affronted, but only for a moment, and the laid-back air returned.
"Was only trying to be civil, mate," he straightened up and gazed at the wall facing him. "The bloke got me the first day too." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the grey stubble scratching sounds out. Express gave him an incredulous look. Really, now, small talk? Mumbling nonsensical words, she slowly sat up straight, supported by her arms. I guess I'll give him a bit more patience, Express thought, and winced as she leaned on a tender spot on her hand.
"Does Respawn take that long?" she said not to anyone in particular. The man gave her a quizzical look.
"I've been out for nearly four hours."
He was taken aback, expression forming into one of surprise. How was she able to calculate that, without clock or watch, and being unconscious the whole time? Express, used to the reaction, took notice immediately.
"You wanted to talk to me so now I'm asking you a question," she grumbled, sitting up straight. "Do I have to bloody repeat myself?" The man shook his head quickly, attempting to compose himself. Testy one, wasn't he?
"It usually takes around one minute or so. Sometimes a bit longer if we're losing." He shuffled his feet a little and added, "Heavy actually carried you here."
Heavy. The large, bullet-eating man from earlier on the capture point. Express stared blankly ahead, eyes boring into nothing. So not only had she died, she had passed out as well. Bloody brilliant. Express muttered a brief thank you to the man and hopped off the gurney, hood up and hands stuffed in her jacket's pockets. She had a lot to think about: dying, time, not to mention her possible discharge from the team. The man watched her leave through the infirmary's pale green doors and sighed.
"Poor bloke," he muttered to himself.
Express wasn't "pretty," but she wasn't repulsive either. Her face was androgynous at best, with green eyes and short brown hair, which she used to her advantage back home in London. She could get into trouble, like fights and races, and get out treated like an equal; it would be different if her competitors knew for certain that she was a girl. She could hit back with the same intensity, be hit with full, non-altered blows, and recover with the same injuries as the other boys. Her life was in the fight. No one treated anyone as if they were delicate or different. Express could belong simply by being there and going for it.
Of course, almost cliché, her mother wouldn't understand. She treated Express differently. Singled her out, the youngest of her three daughters: two of which had attended prestigious schools and were either doctors or professors with husbands. Express was eight years younger than the eldest, at 23, and her grades and attendance were poor. Her delinquency and scorn for proper education were constant subjects of argument.
"You can't hold a job as a bloody shop girl for more than a week! You don't have education to back up any jobs anywhere else!"
You, you, you. It was always Express and Express alone.
"Amanda. Who do you suppose will take care of me when I'm old? You're father's dead and one of your sisters is expecting. How long must I wait for you to grow up?"
Her mother would try using guilt, anger, and even bribery to sway her. Express couldn't stand it. Her mother still wouldn't see her as a daughter, a person that, despite her after-school activities, had feelings for her education and mother's wellbeing. She was compared to her sisters' bright, shining accomplishments, ever-drowning in the deep, murky "failures" that came from her "choices."
Express sent another gloved fist into the small, ragged punching bag that the Engineer had mounted on the rec room's ceiling. The Engineer was a stout, friendly Texan who was incredibly book-smart and knew how to apply his knowledge. He was the only one of the nine other mercenaries on the team that Express could admit to herself as respectable. Now she really was going on a tangent.
She punctuated her chain of thoughts with a flurry of blows to the bag. Left hook, straight right, uppercut, hook, hook, straight. The chains groaned in complaint and the bag swayed violently as Express stepped back, hands relaxed at her sides and a wayward lock of hair hanging in front of her eyes. She would probably be sent home tomorrow. Her performance today was subpar by her standards; who knows how high her employer's standards were. She would have failed to prove her worth to her mother, to show how her "useless roughhousing" after classes had paid off in cold, hard money.
"And did you see him? BAM! Just like that."
Express recognized that voice from down the hall easily. The arrogant tone and Bostonian accent was too simple to place. Judging by the volume, he was walking down the hall, conversing with someone. It was only a matter of seconds before he passed the room.
"It was such a hoot! Pummeled right into that damn spook! I...oh." The young man stopped his sentence and walking short. Express caught herself glaring at him venomously and turned back to the bag, creaking and groaning again, hitting it with a bit more fervor than before. She joined the team for the fight and for the money, yet her supposed teammates had either ignored her presence or determined her incompetent from the start.
"Whatever ya fancy amusing, lad," the taller man beside him remarked, too drunk to notice that the conversation had ended. He hiccuped, swished the bottle in his hand a few times, and continued on in a drunken stupor. He even managed to carry on the conversation with himself. The Scottish-born African man was always bizarre in behavior and temperamental in persona, but still their team's explosives expert: the Demoman. Express was almost tempted to hate him just because he was a Scottish drunk, but he pay no attention to her so in turn, she returned the favor.
Express continued to beat the poor burlap bag senseless; her knuckles cracked and she felt a sting in shoulder, but she kept going. The pain reminded her of her little fight club after school, and that always helped her angry mind. Her victories, her losses, but above all her friends flooded into her head, distracting it. The young man watched from the doorway silently, awestruck by the fierceness of her punches and occasional kicks.
"If you're just bloody standing there, move your blooming arse and shift." Express called behind her, not turning from the bag. Dents, forced and deep, started to form on its fraying brown surface. The young man set his jaw and stepped into the room defiantly. No way was a short guy going to boss him around. It didn't work that way; there was a natural order of bossiness. He learned that first-hand from being the youngest and smallest brother out of eight.
"You're hogging the rec room, dino-brain," he began, cracking his knuckles and neck. "And so you're the one that needs to go. Like, permanently." He spat out the last word with a grin, hoping to have prodded something tender with his words. Express stopped mid-punch. Oh how she wanted to turn and break his stupid nose! Her extended fist trembled, fighting against her rampant feelings and attempting to remain calm. Hurting him wouldn't bring about anything positive.
Suddenly, a woman's voice came onto the PA system. Cold and disinterested, she announced the arrival of the mail and rations train and then cut the feed. Express had taken this time to dart out of the room unnoticed, flexing her painful hands as she made her way down the hall. Her mood lifted almost instantly. Maxine always sent her one or two letters, and sometimes even a sweet or something nice. At least her first and last day fighting could end on a lighter note.
"Dear Amanda, It's great to hear from you, or at least read you, again! The last article you sent me was absolutely hilarious. Who knew a duck would make such an astounding fashion accessory? Yes, but in all fun I must also include a bit of seriousness.
"I found something to serve as a sort of update on Benjamin. He is no longer AWOL. He is dead. He is dead, Amanda. I still have trouble writing those words and actually consciously knowing what they mean. I regret to be the one to inform you of this, but his body was found on your doorstep in a large refrigerator box. Since your mother only sends letters to me, I knew of this last week. I've sadly had more time to cope than you, but time is of essence.
"What is astounding to me is that the refrigerator box was labeled as from 'Builders' League United.' Isn't that who you work for, currently? I'm not suggesting anything beyond being suspicious and keeping watch on your employer's decisions. I don't want you to be next! You're mother is recovering, but you might not want to attempt contact for another month after the dust has settled. She has been complaining to the neighbors and cursing you more vehemently than ever.
"I will have to continue my research as to why Benjamin was murdered, but you can help too. It's been a few days since you've arrived at the workplace in America, so have you made any connections? I know you're bad at making friends and it's a wonder how Benjamin and I became so close to you, but I hope you will try a little, mate. Who knows? Maybe one of those nine, meaty men might carry you off into the sunset, if you know what I mean.
"I'm sorry this letter has been absolutely wonky in regards to mood. I hope you'll understand like you always do. Lots of love (and sweets), Max.
"P.S. Thanks for the gloves! You know the winters in London can be absolutely dreary, so I'm absolutely delighted."
The last bit of a spherical peppermint candy melted away, and Express breathed a sad sigh, folding up the letter and reclining back onto the small bed. She let the paper sit on her stomach as she gazed at the ceiling, still flexing her hands occasionally to keep them from healing back stiff. She wasn't hysterical upon hearing of her best friend's death. It had already been an idea, tugging at the back of her mind. Still, it didn't feel right not to cry. Express resigned herself to blaming it on her all energy being spent that day. She would reply to Maxine's letter tomorrow, when she most likely would be going home.
"So have I made any connections?" Express muttered to herself, but immediately scoffed at the notion. She wasn't sociable, she didn't like to branch out, and she had made no attempt to be civil with anyone. In fact, she had used "bloody" in just about every sentence that day, a feat which horrified her to no end. Since when was her speech that uncouth? Thinking about it more, Express recalled an incident about two months ago where she had been disqualified from an underground parkour match for out-swearing the referee. Express shivered in disgust. She was much too moody, too angry since Benjamin disappeared. It showed how fragile, how short life could be, even for tough, street-smart people like the trio. Amanda, Maxine, and Benjamin.
Benjy and Max. The two people that saved her from going even deeper outside of the law. The two that pulled her back from murder. Now one of them was gone without a reason.
Still, Express groaned in annoyance, she didn't want to make friends with her team. She wasn't a very good team player, to say the least. Sure, she could do tag-battles and relay races, but that was different.
But was it different? Express sat up, head in hands. It was a form of teamwork; one competitor helped another in a group. Burying her face deeper into her raw palms, Express grumbled in frustration. She hated to second-guess the mentality she held for years. Work alone, and there is only one person to blame and care for. Work in a group, and there are more people to care about, more people to blame. And she might be dismissed tomorrow. It becomes too complicated.
"He is dead, Amanda." Express heard Maxine's voice whisper in her head. She looked up and flipped her hood off her head, adjusting her two stubby pigtails. She had to try. It might be worth the effort to at least go beyond acknowledging her team's existence. It was for Benjamin anyhow.
Express couldn't keep down her stomach's complaining, and needed a quick bite to substitute for a proper dinner. Making her way to the kitchen, she met no one in the halls. The emptiness was a relief for her, since she still was reluctant to try branching out.
It was the time of day when everyone was winding down and getting ready for bed, and when she did meet someone, he simply walked past her. Grimacing as Demoman ambled past, she decided the kitchen was a decent place to start her little social experiment. Two birds, one stone as the old adage went.
She stopped thirty seconds before the open doorway, waiting, deciding how to go in. Hood up or down? Happily or detached? Express grumbled slightly. It had been too long since she last forced herself through something like this. After a few minutes of contemplating, she started forward.
Footsteps and metal shuffled across the linoleum flooring and Express fought the quick, primal urge to turn heel and run away. Why the bloody Hell was she even trying so hard? Express caught herself muttering expletives and frowned at the wall. All for you, Benjy. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her hoodie, she set her jaw and finally walked into the light.
It was a rather dismal sight, the kitchen. A pale blue rectangular room with a corner-and-a-half of white counter space and a large off-white table in the center, it was more cramped than cozy. A mediocre little microwave stood next to a gas range set into the countertop at the left end of the corner, and cabinets and a double-sink were centered on the full leg of the counter, straight ahead from the door that Express entered. To her direct right stood a modest white refrigerator, humming along peacefully. One more doorway was to her left by the end of the counter; most of whoever was in the room had left through there.
The Australian man from the medical bay sat on a chair to the left side of the table, fresh decáf steaming from his signature "#1 Sniper" mug. This was the team member known as Sniper. He was reading some sort of yellowed newspaper and sat with his long legs fully outstretched under the plastic table, ankles crossed. Express hesitated, her hand shakily reaching up to the proper height to say hello. When it got there she stepped forward and attempted a timid "hello." The only problem was the first half was empty and the last half came out sounding like a squeak.
"Crikey!" Sniper nearly jumped out of his seat. Express recoiled slightly, hand dropping. Shaking his head to clear it, he realized who it was and relaxed his stance. "Um, hello." Eyeing the the slightly shocked expression plastered to the girl's face, he quickly added, "Sorry about the reaction, mate. A bloke gets a bit jumpy with all the spies, am I right?" Mercenary he might be, but politeness transcended any sort of title. Seeing no reaction, Sniper cleared his throat and nodded a few times, then went back to his paper.
It had been a couple hours since he last saw her, digging through the mail crate with extreme focus, and it was a little odd seeing her stand before him so disturbed. After a full three minutes she still hadn't moved. Looking up from his paper, he gave a sidelong glance to Express. She had a different expression now, glancing about the room with a look of hyperactive boredom. Like Scout sometimes. Warning lights went off in the man's head and he quickly answered them by killing the awkward silence.
"You hungry, mate? There's some leftover macaroni in the fridge." The man motioned toward said fridge with a nod. Express blinked a few times and a shuffled over to its door, mechanically opening it and grabbing a Tupperware bowl. The man eyed her movements curiously, a little disturbed at the forced quality of them. Being an observant man, the hidden feelings of her movements were glaringly obvious. He didn't want to start a conversation again, but the silence was nearly unbearable. He had read the same comic panel at least ten times over. Clearing his throat, he flipped a page in his newspaper and spoke.
"You shouldn't feel clucky about the mission today. First days are always bloody brutal." Express nodded as she wrenched the microwave open and stuffed the macaroni in. She attempted to reply with words, turning to face him, but only a small bit air came out. Damn, the conversation was not going well for either of them. "I think you've taken it better than any other bloke here."
His mouth shut abruptly, cutting of the back of the last word. Sniper regretted the statement the moment it registered in his mind. Soldier, Demoman, and even Scout had done better their first day. Everyone had, in fact. Being trained killers prepared them for anything. Scout was an exception, but he was an oppressed teenage boy from the bad area of town, which made up for it. Seeing as Express didn't notice his pause, he just sighed a little and just moved on.
"I dunno about you, but," the microwave beeped and Express repeated the jerky removal of the now hot macaroni, "I think you just need a few more days on the field."
A few more days. Express scoffed at the thought, grabbed a fork from the wire drainer next to the sink, and sat down across from the man with a thump. She stared at the milky white cap of the bowl and chuckled darkly.
"I wish. I wish I had that much time, mate." Express looked up at the man, who was now staring at her intently over the newspaper, blue eyes surprisingly clear behind his yellow aviators. She pried open the container and shoveled a forkful of the gooey, white-yellow noodles into her mouth. "Do you know what we Expresses are called in for?" He shook his head slightly and placed the newspaper onto the plastic table, intrigued. It was not often that anyone on the team got to hear information on their employer's decisions. After swallowing, Express continued.
"We're hired for a simple reason. Your team was a losing team, and we're supposed to change that. It's been done before, with other people. Just blokes so far." She paused to ingest another bite of the salty stuff and continued. "But what happens if we actually hinder the team? We get the boot!"
She set her fork down with a huff and slammed the table with her fist, causing both the bowl and the man to jump slightly. "With the way things are looking, I'll be back in ol' Blighty by the end of tomorrow!" She grabbed the fork and begin to shovel in the half-decent macaroni with vigor, as if drowning out further outbursts with the foodstuffs. Sniper stared back at her, awkwardly watching as Express wolfed down spoonful after spoonful of noodles.
"I don't think she'll send you back." He finally said after a minute of silence. "We haven't won yet, so there's time for you to improve." Fork halfway between her mouth and the bowl, Express stopped short. A smile tinged the corners of her mouth and she calmly finished the food on her fork. He wasn't such an unpleasant person, Express supposed, and finished off her macaroni. The thought put her into a much better mood.
Piss, Sniper thought, this is getting schizophrenic. Seeing that there was no effort to initiate more conversation, he went back to reading his paper.
A few more panels in, he noticed that Express was washing out the container, singing softly to herself. He glanced up at the sink and noticed all the dishes had been cleaned and stacked neatly in the wire rack, awaiting their return to their proper place. When she finished, she turned towards him with a small smile.
"I don't think I gave a proper introduction on Saturday, to any of you blokes." She shifted slightly to the other foot and raised her hand out to Sniper. "I'm Amanda Burns." The man recoiled slightly, realizing that she was female; it had been a question in the back of his mind for three days now, but the feeling quickly passed and he took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. "The name's Mundy. Lawrence." Sniper returned the smile with a bit of uneasiness. It was only polite to answer her introduction with his, but the action still felt...off. He wasn't used to sharing any sort of personal information with anyone. Yet, Sniper thought as Express gave a small wave excusing herself from the kitchen, he could tell she wasn't either. Two socially dysfunctional people. Definitely good candidates for friends.