Old Mann's Hart

Tavish could smell the specter of death in that old Mann brother's office. It wasn't something he could easily quantify. Something deep, putrid, a little earthy. A scent that could curdle Jarate. There were bits and pieces he could pick out—standing water, perspiration, cabbage. Heavy amounts of cabbage. Perhaps just a touch of blood, too. Something too old and stained to remove.

He didn't want to be there. He had no choice in the matter.

His boss, a shriveled little husk of a man, was turned to the window. He was staring into a verdant forest that sprawled throughout Thunder Mountain. It was a peculiar place. Nowhere else in the state of New Mexico was it this green and wet. It was a thickly wooded oasis in a sea of dust and orange sand. Strange creatures moved in it. There were nights where the Demoman's teammates would disappear into it, then emerge the next day, weary and tattered from some wild attack.

He didn't trust that damned forest, just as much as he didn't trust his boss. Still, money was money. Someone had to take care of his mother, and she had such expensive tastes. That was what brought the Demoman to this death-stinking place, after all. He took a breath, then spoke. "Ya called for me?"

"Ah. Mister DeGroot." The old man didn't bother to face him. "You took your time."

"I was in the middle of cleanin' my equipment when ya rang," the Demoman explained.

There was the slightest acknowledgement from the old man. He bobbed his head, his spine cracking. Another click echoed in the stinking, dark room. The old man turned a knob on his wheelchair, spinning just enough for the Demoman to catch the side of the man's face. There was a horrifying levity to it. Numerous wrinkles bunched up under the man's sunken eyes, teeth bared just slightly. Was it supposed to be a smile? It seemed painful for his employer to do.

"What did ya want?" the Demoman asked.

The man replied with a slithering tone. "Come here."

Tavish nodded, then took two tentative steps forward. The scent got worse as he drew near to his boss. He managed not to gag. A gnarled hand pointed outside, yellowed fingernails tapping on the glass.

"I thought I had seen everything. All sorts of men. Animals. Everything," his employer wheezed. "I'd grown so tired of it all. But today, I saw it. I saw it, and I must have it."

The Demoman raised his left eyebrow, his eyepatch strap lifting with it. "Saw what?"

There was a wheezing gasp from the old man. He snatched the Demoman by his turtleneck. "You aren't that blind! Look! Can't you see it? That white hide. Those large eyes and cloven hooves! There, you fool!"

By all accounts, neither of the remaining Mann brothers were sane. This mad yammering was beyond any sanity that the Demoman could follow. He squinted his one good eye. There were birds, certainly. The Medic's flock of doves was out causing trouble on the edge of the forest. Just past them were small creatures scurrying about. Large, dark shapes rustled further out. Deer, no doubt. Beyond that…

"Sorry, sir. I just cannot see it," the Demoman said.

The old man huffed at him. "So, you can't. It's gone." He released his grasp on the Demoman. "You have to find it. You must. I don't care how you bring it to me—alive, dead, in between. I must have it!"

The Demoman pulled his head back. "Ya want me to go out into some big, bloody dark forest and catch some kinda mutant deer? Sorry, sir. I'm not the man for that kinda work."

The old man coughed. "You will catch me that creature, or so help me…"

There was an awkward pause as the old man died. Tavish sighed, then clicked his tongue. Once every ten minutes or so, this would happen. It used to be once every twenty minutes, but the old man's deaths were coming closer together now. Perhaps something on the other side was winning in a spiritual tug-of-war. It didn't take long until the old man's reviving machine kicked in.

With a shriek and a wheeze, old Mann grabbed the Demoman once more. "Get me that damned animal, or I will have your head!"

/***/

He sat cross-legged on his bed for a long time. The grenade launchers and sticky bombs felt wrong. Something about blasting a deer to smithereens didn't set well with him. A rotten human, sure. The Loch Ness monster, doubly so. But not some hart. He studied his sword, flipping from one blade's face to the other. Decapitation was unnecessarily crass. He could crash into the creature with a shield charge and knock it out like that. Even that seemed ridiculously forceful and cruel.

No. There was only one weapon the Demoman wanted.

Tavish put his sword aside, then flipped over the side of his bed. Dangling by his legs, he dug under his mattress. There, tucked in neat little rows, were sealed scrumpy bottles. He grabbed one, then studied it for cracks. This would have to work.

The Demoman hopped off his bed, then left and locked his room. There was a large ruckus going on downstairs. The sound of laughing and shouting was coming from a nearby recreation room. Knowing his teammates, they were probably drowning out the week's worries and playing cards. As much fun as drunken poker could be, the Demoman would have to end up skipping today's events. He mused to himself as he descended a nearby stairwell. Would this count as overtime work? Perhaps he could charge the old coot extra for this nonsense.

A loud laugh boomed out of the recreation room. The Heavy's, no doubt. He routinely wiped the floor with his teammates. Only the Spy could even hope to compare against his expertise. Perhaps the Pyro could have been a good opponent, if he ever showed interest in the game. The Engineer was strategic enough, but he couldn't keep his disappointment with his hand from being broadcasted to the entire table. The Medic had a similar problem, cracking up whenever he thought he had a good hand. The Scout was too cocky, the Sniper was too easy to read, and the Soldier had such a terrible temper when he lost that nobody dared to play a hand with him.

The Demoman peeked inside. There was his man, losing as always. He took a peek at everyone's hands while he circled the table. The four men sitting at the table gave him a confused smile.

"Well, howdy, stranger!" The Engineer smirked. "We thought you'd gone to see yer mother for the weekend."

The Sniper kicked his right foot onto the table. "Wanna sit in? My hand's crap, as usual."

"Baby man has no one to blame but himself. He dealt it!" the Heavy smirked.

The Spy laid his hand down on the table. He wasn't as amused with the Demoman's prying eyes. "If you've come to watch, zhen take a seat. Your hovering is making me uncomfortable."

The Demoman shook his head. "I won't be here long. Just want ta trade."

"Oh, yeah?" the Sniper asked. "Lookin' to make another hat, mate?"

"No," the Demoman said.

With that, he dropped the full bottle of scrumpy onto the Sniper's stomach. The Australian gave the bottle a confused glance, then looked up. "What's this about?"

"I need your bow," the Demoman explained. "Old man Mann's got me out huntin' some fruity arsed mutant deer. Can't rightly go blowin' it to pieces."

"I suppose that would make it difficult to stuff," the Engineer agreed.

The Sniper pushed the bottle upright. He gave the cork a good glance. Retracting his foot, he placed his cards on the table. "Sure thing."

The Demoman smiled. "That's my man! Knew ya could fix me up." He threw an arm over the Sniper's shoulder as the duo went to fetch his bow. "Gotta warn ya, though. You do not want ta down that in one go. For a light-weight like you? It'll make ya puke rivers."

"I think I can handle it," the Sniper replied, screwing up his long face.

As the duo went to get the Australian's bow, a flash of light through the hallway windows. The Sniper paid it little mind. It startled the Demoman. He paused, watching as a long, black car backed up and out of the barracks. He caught the sickeningly happy smile of his crazy old boss.

"Wonder where he's off to?" the Demoman pondered.

The Sniper shook his head. "Somethin' 'bout his brother. Not my business 'til he tells us otherwise."

The pair entered the garage. It didn't take the Sniper long to fish his bow out of his van. The Australian gave it a good flip, checking its limbs for wear and tear. The string was still good, fibers all gathered and oiled. He hefted a quiver over the Demoman's shoulder, then handed his trusty weapon over.

"Just remember. No dry firin'," the Sniper said.

The Demoman nodded. "Right, mate. Enjoy the booze."

The Sniper tipped his hat, then left the garage. "Good huntin'."

/***/

The forest, bathed in the last fleeting rays of the sun, was eerily green. Not even the yellow light shining on it broke its color. Its color only faded for the gray mist building at the base of Thunder Mountain. Fog floated around the Demoman's ankles, a soft cloud blanketing his feet. He stood there for some time. Entering at dusk was a risky idea. He wouldn't come home until after dark, most likely.

He wanted to get this over with.

Tender saplings rebounded after his steps. Soil gave way ever so slightly below his feet. Rabbits scurried from their homes as the Demoman passed by. He shook his head. In a way, he wished he could talk with animals. At least, to tell them when they were cowards and when to sod off. He'd have a few choice words for the Medic's birds. Several expletives.

The Demoman pressed forward, the barracks behind him little more than a black fortress. He grumbled. "Should've brought tape. Or breadcrumbs. Somethin' ta find my way back."

Then again, the Medic's stupid doves would have just eaten the breadcrumbs.

There was a snap. The Demoman turned his head towards the sound. Something small and dark bounded away. It stood no taller than his knees, at most. Probably another rabbit. Maybe a coyote or a fox. Not his target. He huffed, then pressed further into the forest. The mist grew around his legs, rising up like a cloudy tide. Something cold seeped through his pant legs. He could feel a dampness like dew just beading on the edge of his clothing.

The perpetual greenery started to shift into strange new forms of life. Brush flourished up to his waist. Spanish moss hung down, brushing the top of his cap. It wasn't right. Here, in the darker, deeper part, fewer plants should have been able to get sunlight. The massive trees above his skull should have blocked almost all feeble rays.

"Should've brought someone else," the Demoman muttered.

The impossible forest grew stranger still. Where there should have been fungus were white flowers. The Demoman shook his head. That certainly could not have been. A striking thought pierced him. When was the last time he had even seen flowers? It couldn't have been since he'd received this job. Few flowers could grow in a desert. They—and this forest—were mad and wrong to be here.

Another crunch broke his troubled thoughts. The Demoman lifted his head. Dark blue shadows raced through the woods. They ran for something deeper than the night sky. His skin crawled. What if it were wolves? Or bears? What was he doing out here? Even for an invincible man, this was suicidal. Being in an impossible forest, all greenery now indigo, thousands of little white flowers in his path.

Heavy beating closed onto his position. Something small and timid squeaked. The Demoman felt a velvet-smooth hide rush past his right arm. Deer bounded away in elegant arches, their hides gold for fleeting seconds before going dark as midnight again. He turned to face the oncoming herd. Bucks and does barely parted for him. For all of the shadows in the forest, the Demoman was the least notable of them all.

A man not as tall as a tree, nor so thick. So easily trampled.

The last of the deer came out of the mist like a ghastly specter. When light struck its hide, there was no color. His one good eye couldn't resolve what he was seeing. The beast bounding at him was the same size of the other deer, but there was too much off about it. Trailing hair whipped from behind its head, dragged behind its hooves. Its tail wasn't a puff of cute fur. Rather, it ran long and lean, ending in a lion's tuft of hair. Strangest of all was the broken horn on its head.

It had to be broken. Perhaps a mutation. He had no explanation for the gnarled, spear-sharp horn headed for his throat. It wasn't something of nature. It couldn't be.

The Demoman had just enough sense in his head to move. The creature vaulted over his body as he rolled out of the way. With one quick snap, the Demoman loaded the borrowed bow. Aiming was no problem for him. It arched in the same way his grenades flew, so it was easy enough. The strange deer had gotten just enough out of the way to avoid a fatal injury. All the same, it took an arrow to its left thigh.

The bizarre sound the deer gave off wasn't a grunting or anything guttural. It almost sounded like a high-pitched squeal. The sound pierced the Demoman in his heart. He knew he wasn't a good man, doing all sorts of terrible deeds for money, but that wail drove an icy nail into his soul. What he was doing was wrong.

His conscience cost him his last chance to retreat.

At once, the strange creature leapt on him. Sharp hooves missed his throat, thanks to the protective armor rising around his neck. All the same, he was struck by a creature at least a hundred pounds heavier than he was. That force sent him crashing onto the forest floor. His head cracked against the ground.

A flash of white clouded his good eye, then abruptly, the forest dropped out.

/***/

Tavish expected to revive on a wooden floor in the Thunder Mountains base, perhaps with a few gloating teammates hovering over his head. The long, white face of a mutant deer was the last thing he had expected.

"Sweet mother 'a mercy!" The Demoman crawled backwards on his elbows.

As soon as his nerves calmed down, the Demoman took stock of his situation. The forest had gone from cold, dark colors to a warm, glowing hue. He squinted his eye. The sun wasn't overhead, as far as he could tell. Still, it was up—and in the opposite direction where it had last left him.

The Demoman rubbed the back of his sore head. "Cripes. Was I out here all night?"

The deer didn't answer him. Not that he expected it to, but he would have appreciated some clarification. He withdrew his hand. There was no blood on it. Not a single drop. He pulled his cap off, hair springing wild and free as he studied it. There were a few tears in the fabric from where he had connected to the ground, but it was blood free.

"Should've had the back of my head gouged out," the Demoman murmured. "Or, at least, gotten a scratch. What's up with this?"

The closest thing he earned for conversation was an impatient snort from the deer. Tavish tipped his head. "And you? Why didn't ya run off, ya daft hart?"

There wasn't any blood pooled around the creature. The Demoman frowned. He had shot the damned thing. The arrow was still sticking out of its side. Still, there was no blood congealed around it. The wound hadn't been a fatal blow, but he expected to see a little bit of blood.

"Don't tell me you have some kinda mutant clotting powers," the Demoman said. He tapped his forehead, then readjusted his cap. "What kinda dumb bastard am I, anyway? Talkin' to animals. Losin' my mind."

A solid crunch came from below the Demoman's feet. He squirmed at the sound. Sure enough, there was the Sniper's bow—shattered into five solid pieces. Tavish screwed up his face. The Sniper was sure to be cross with him. Maybe he could bluff the Australian into thinking that scrumpy was worth more than the bow. At the very least, he would have enough skill to make a new one. There wasn't a way that the Demoman could get his scrumpy back.

Well, there was. Just slightly more weaponized and less able to be imbibed.

Tavish sighed as he studied the mess he was in. Stupid old Mann, sending him out here to kill some mutant deer. It was hardly worth the concussion, the shattered bow, and the loss of booze. What was that old bastard going to do with it, anyway? Mount it? Put it in that stinking office of his? That didn't seem fair to the creature. It wasn't its fault that it was so strange. It was just what it was.

Whatever it was.

The Demoman approached the downed animal. "C'mere. Let's get this outta ya."

It certainly wasn't a wise decision to kneel next to the animal that had knocked him out for ten hours straight. The Demoman rubbed his palms together, then set to work on removing the arrow. Its head hadn't pierced that far into the creature's flesh. Perhaps it would have been better if it went straight through. Easier to pull out, at any rate.

The Demoman pinched his thumb and pointer finger together at the base of the arrow's shaft. With one swift pull, he withdrew the arrow, head and all. There was another startled shriek as the strange creature struggled to get onto its legs. Dark blood beaded at the edge of its wound.

Then, the mutant deer became stranger.

A flash of color bubbled out of its wound. It wasn't blood, nor anything internal. The Demoman had seen this unusual effect before. It came from his own body, when the Medic had his healing gun trained on him. The same vapor was hissing from the deer's wound. Within seconds, it had sealed shut.

"I'll be damned," the Demoman babbled. "What are ya?"

He got no answers. Having been relieved of the pain in its side, the white deer leapt away. The Demoman scrambled to his feet, almost prepared to pursue it. He stopped, then sighed. It was pointless. What was he going to do with it, anyway? He couldn't let such an unusual thing like that end up as a forgotten taxidermy project.

Oddities like the Black Scottish Cyclops and the white mutant deer had to stick together.

The forest let him go. That was the best reason Tavish had for why he left the forest so quickly. Heading back into the light and away from the fog made his traveling much easier. It wasn't long before he was standing outside of the Thunder Mountain barracks. It was gentle and quiet, much unlike the men within its walls.

Tavish smiled as he strolled inside the barracks. His men were up and about, doing their usual rituals. Toast was heaped on the kitchen table, men groggily slogging back coffee. He ducked inside, then plopped his usual spot at the table. The Soldier poured him a cup of coffee as he buttered his toast. He took a few bites out of his breakfast before realizing that everyone else was deathly ill.

"What's wrong?" the Demoman asked. "Was I out too late?"

The Sniper sunk into his hands. His face was a pale shade of green. The Engineer spoke on his behalf, patting his teammate on the back. "This one spent most of the night throwin' up yer booze. But, for the rest of us—"

"I warned you!" Tavish exclaimed.

"—well, Tavish. You know how we've talked from time to time about what we'd do after this Gravel Wars business?" the Soldier asked. He then continued with a surprisingly somber frown. "As of this morning, we're out of an employer."

The Demoman dropped his toast.

His jaw hung open for a few seconds. "What do ya mean by that?"

"Mann and brother went to meet. Did not leave," the Heavy explained. "Helen called. She said both men are dead. Killed. So, no boss. No job. No more money."

All things considered, the Demoman should have been morose. This expensive war had earned him over twenty-five million dollars. Granted, most of it had gone to his mother, but it was still his main source of income. To hear that his livelihood was over and done with should have slain his spirits. A weird sort of happiness bubbled inside him. The old bastard was dead, and the mutant with the regenerative powers was alive.

He smiled. "Glad I didn't kill that unicorn, then."

/***/

Author's Note

I…don't know where this came from. Maybe too many viewings of "The Last Unicorn."

I'd like to think that the Medic's chemicals could screw up animals. Who's to say regenerative gels are good to be dumped into the environment? Maybe he could end up making monsters. I don't know. That's the closest logical explanation I have for this silliness. Didn't know how to work it into the story, so here you go. A lazy explanation in a text dump.

So, this was a thing.