AN: Hey there, this is just a drabble I was particularly proud of. Chances are its not that good but I wanted to post a good idea when I saw it.
Set between the MvM arc and 'A Fate worse than Chess', we find our cast struggling to push back the waves. What follows is only natural, I guess..
Enjoy x
After escaping Gray laboratories with the use of a rocket launcher and a wheelbarrow, the undercover crack team have returned to base. Heavy and Soldier have left to join the others in the mess, and as the assistant walks to her office, she can hear them squabbling over the dangers of putting little ladies in harm's way.
Ignoring the evolving fist fight, she sets the door to, and Ms. Pauling sets to work on what they've learned. And works. Grabs a coffee. Keeps writing. And planning. And doesn't notice the creases beginning to form on her forehead. She doesn't even stop when her glasses get misty from the tears that leak down her face.
Its been four hours before she realises the light from the blinds has gone und er the neon blare of the desk lamp. She knows she should take a break.
Her hair is mussed from idly scratching her hair, and though the paperwork and plans she has drawn up are scattered across the desk, the partial hints and sparks her overstressed brain has scribbled down may hold some clue to what she writes next. Or thinks..or drinks..or twinks…..
Twinkies! Soldier had bought some of those All-American snacks he likes last supply shop..she can still remember Medic's exasperation after being greeted by a barrage of them falling out of the food cupboard..
Pauling moves to rise out of her chair, then stops, and picks back up the pen that fell from her fingers. No. This is more important. We need this done now. Otherwise..
Images of metal, cold and cruel fill her head. She's no stranger to violence. She's works with Mann Co. after all, but day after day she's seen the destruction through the camera lens. Here, in the darkened, silent study, the neon glow of the lamp her only company, she can see shapes in the darkness. All sharp edges and glistening shrapnel as it tears her men limb from limb.
She can barely hear muffled chatter coming from the mess hall at the other end of the sawmill, but what stands out are the voices she hears.
Voices that only recently were torn shrieking, screaming, and howling in pain from gunfire. There's a sound of raucous laughter as Demo shares a joke. Probably one she didn't want to hear..hmm.
They're good men. Going out everyday, and suffering..no, that's what they're paid for. There's no reason to feel bad, this is their job- what they signed up for.
And yet she can still hear the screams. Alone in the dark of the office, thoughts of the barren landscape outside strewn with metal and broken bodies flood her mind. In the distance, she can still remember with a pang of shame and regret, the plots they've had to flee..to get a better position. It's not a retreat. Technically, they haven't even lost one plot yet! It doesn't count as a loss if you've retreated.
She notices the desk seems closer than before and jumps with a start.
Groaning, she shifts in her chair, trying not to notice her fingers shaking. It takes her a full minute to realise that the reason the words make no sense is that she's not wearing her glasses. But by then, she's fighting to hold her lip from quivering. A trembling left hand reaches out to set her pen down on the desk.
From behind the door, quiet sobbing can be heard echoing gently down the empty corridor..
This will most likely not be updated, but if anyone would like this written properly PM me. It's a fun idea, no?