Break In
He'd fallen asleep on the couch again.
The Sniper batted the brim of his hat away from his face. He rubbed at his eyes. There was warmth in his cheeks, color and embarrassment. That hadn't been planned. Not that the Sniper didn't sleep where he felt like, but he preferred to tuck himself into his van. There were locks to protect him. More importantly, there were no prying eyes and no awkward questions to answer.
He flung his long legs over the side of the couch, catching in a ratty quilt. He grumbled. Apparently, the Engineer thought he was staying the night in his workshop. Just like the man. See a problem, fix it. Find a man sleeping on his couch, throw him a quilt. It was a strange arrangement, to be sure. The Sniper was sensitive to most other sounds. In the workroom? His ears would turn off. Hell, lately he hadn't slept with his back to the sofa cushions.
There were assassins and killers all around him, with guns pressed on his temples and knives at his back, and he felt safe. This place was making him soft.
The Sniper glanced at the slumped form at the work bench. A desk lamp was pointed at the back of his head, fuzz prickling up and breaking the smooth sheen of the sleeping man's scalp. Apparently, sleep had gotten the better of the Engineer as well. A rectangular clock sat above his head, red digits blinking in the otherwise dark room. Three thirty-three AM. The Sniper scrunched up his face. The next battle was just a few hours away.
Nudging his teammate in the shoulder, the Sniper spoke quietly. "Truckie. C'mon. You should get to bed."
The Engineer didn't react. A sigh slipped out of the Sniper. He must have really been under. He tugged at the Engineer's goggles, slipping them off his head. The Sniper placed them next to the bald man's discarded helmet. The goggles' strap caught on a nearby coffee mug. It went rolling off the desk. The Sniper's hand shot out, fingers catching the ceramic handle before it could collide with the ground. Dark liquid spilled onto the cement floor.
He grimaced. That would have to be cleaned up before he went to sleep. He turned his attention back to the Engineer. "Dell? Mate, ya can't be that comfy here."
There wasn't so much as a low grumble. The Sniper put the coffee mug back on the desk, then crouched down. He wrapped calloused fingers around rough denim straps. He gave the Engineer a shake by his overalls. Nothing. The Sniper pushed the Engineer upright, now pushing on his shoulders more vigorously. His head tipped back, heavy and thick.
The Sniper's spine went cold.
He'd seen the Engineer dead before. Shot, stabbed, burned, blown to smithereens—everything. He'd been hit in the eye by the man's liver, kidney, and several other internal organs he didn't want to identify. There was promise of revival in the machines on RED and BLU properties, keeping both teams alive long enough to satisfy the sadistic tastes of two elderly men for all known time. Given most circumstances, he knew the Engineer would be okay.
That did little to console him when his friend flopped about like a concussed fish in his hands.
The Sniper took the back of his hand to the Engineer's forehead. His skin was warm and slick with sweat. The corners of his lips were irritated, bright red and sore. There was a strange crusty film on his chin. Dried coffee and saliva. An awful scent was coming out of his mouth. It had a strange pungency, not quite like bile.
"C'mon, Dell. Get up. I think yer sick," the Sniper pleaded.
His begging didn't earn him as much as a grunt. The Sniper growled, then pulled the Engineer onto his feet by his straps. The Engineer wasn't that much heavier than him, but when he was nothing but deadweight, he was like dragging around a large iron ball. The Sniper turned him around, walking backwards as he pulled the Engineer out of his office. He huffed as he searched for a dispenser.
Not one was in sight.
"Guh—gonna have ta talk about a diet—oof—after this, Dell," the Sniper groaned. He backed up the stairs, carrying the Engineer up one step at a time. A sharp pain lanced in his back as he pulled the Engineer to the top. He hissed, his arms and back burning. There was no way he was going to be able to haul the Engineer on his own all the way to the medical bay.
The Sniper slumped against the doorframe to the main hallway. He placed a hand on his forehead. He was so foolish. He should have just called for the Medic's help. Fear chewed at his nerves. There was nothing he could do. He'd have to wake up the entire damn base. He dropped on his rear end. He was so foolish and helpless. The Engineer had carried him off the front lines, intact and broken, saved his life more times than he could recall. Now, when his friend and guardian was out for the count, he couldn't help him.
He propped the Engineer up. "I'll get the doc. Don't—"
He didn't have the courage to finish his thoughts before he bolted to the Medic's bedroom.
/***/
"Anozher one," the Medic murmured.
The Sniper fumbled for his hat. Once was a fluke. Twice wasn't coincidence. His teammates shifted nervously as the Medic addressed their concerns. It wasn't any sickness that got the team fretting. People came down with fevers and chills all the time. They rode it out like any man. This was an intentional illness. Poisoning.
No doubt, the work of the opposing team.
The Soldier grumbled. "I knew it. We should have been having shifts! You lazy slackers can't keep your damn eyes open, and look what happens!"
"Hey, don't look at me! I need my beauty sleep!" the Scout sassed back.
The Spy crossed his arms. "Zhis is no time to start playing ze blame game, Soldier. We will have to accept responsibility for zhis misfortune and deal appropriately with it."
"Fine," the Soldier agreed. "Then we torch the place. That should flush out any intruders! Pyro? You up for it?"
"Don't be irrational!" the Medic cut into the conversation. The Pyro slumped his shoulders, his fun cut short.
"We've gotta do somethin', though," the Demoman said. He placed a hand on his beanie, scratching through the fabric to reach an itch on his head. "Doc, you of all people should agree to that. I mean, losin' the Heavy 'n all—"
"I did not—Scheiße!" The Medic slammed his hand on the Engineer's cot. Doves flew off it in a panic. They knew when to avoid the wrath of their master's hand. They scattered out of the skylights above the operating tables. The glass slammed as they flew out in mass. The entire team winced at the cacophony.
The Sniper spared a glance at the Heavy. He'd been the first to come down with this illness. It was so strange. He had been up one hour, jolly and raucous, and the next he was no livelier than the carcass of a beached whale. His skin was grey, eyes sagging in his slumber. He had the same redness and sweating that the Engineer had. His fingers tightened around his Akubra. Fear? Anger? He wasn't sure which emotion had them all by the throat.
"Yesterday, Truckie was talkin' 'bout resettin' the Heavy. Usin' respawn 'n old tapes ta get him back to health." The Sniper paused, trying to still his tone. "I suppose we can't do that now. I mean, out of us, Truckie was the only one who could—"
The Soldier huffed. "Don't be a coward, Sniper. I'm certain that if we file an appeal with the Administrator, we can get some assistance for this circumstance."
"Please," the Spy shook his head. "If anyzhing, she enjoys watching us struggle. I doubt she nor anyone under her employ would assist us in zhis situation."
The Pyro lifted his head. "Ai fing Ai smurr smurrk."
The Scout ignored whatever contributions the Pyro tried to make to the conversation. "Yo, guys, seriously? I'm cool with beatin' other people's heads in, long as I can keep doin' dat. Know what I mean? I ain't goin' out dere with Pudgy down for da count."
"Traitor," the Soldier hissed.
"I vould have to agree wizh ze Scout," the Medic nodded. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them onto the Engineer's bed. "Ve are down zhree men. Ze Heavy, ze Engineer, und myself. I cannot go out and fight wizh my patients zhis bad."
"Ai drrfrrnerrdry smurr smurrk," the Pyro repeated.
The Soldier put his hands on his hips. "That had better not be a surrender coming from you too, Smokey Joe."
"Jane, maybe they're right. At least, I don't wanta put my neck on the line 'till we get this poisonin' business sorted out good 'n proper," the Demoman interrupted. "I mean, what if it's a bloody Spy runnin' 'bout the place while we're out fightin'? I need ta have my bed be safe before I can very well defend any other hole in the ground."
"I can't believe what I'm hearing! Is the Frenchman seriously the last ally I have?" the Soldier stormed.
The medical bay erupted with shouting and cursing. Hats were tossed in disgust. The Pyro rushed out, his words all but forgotten in the fighting. The Soldier and Scout were the loudest by far. They were nearly down each other's throats. The Demoman and Spy would butt in with a sharp jab, the Medic with a flash of his teeth. The Sniper stood back. There was anger flaring his in veins, certainly, but he choked on the bile of his own thoughts. He sniffed once, ready to dive into the argument. It was then that an acrid smell floated into his nostrils.
"Smoke?" the Sniper murmured.
His words were caught by the astute ears of the Spy. He paused mid-blurt, then snorted. His face went sheet-white. He was well-acquainted with that smell. He created that scent, more often than not. It was the stink of burning electronics. He burst out the front of the medical bay, his nose leading him to the source. The Sniper bolted after him, the rest of this team following him in turn.
They crashed around a corner, running towards a billowing white cloud. The Pyro was extinguishing a fireball rolling from the base's server room. Their jaws dropped when the Pyro stopped his firefight. Foam had smothered the flames, but coated delicate electronics in the process. Wheeling tapes had stopped spinning. Bits of broken gadgets were attached to each server. The Spy tore one free.
"Merde," the Spy hissed. "We've been sapped."
/***/
Lockdown.
The term made the Sniper shudder. He was a man who had to move. He could sit in the same spot for hours on end, granted, but he had to have the freedom to leave. It was why he had no home outside of his trusty van. He had to follow his target, to run and hide and reload when he could. To be trapped inside when the crisp desert night was calling him made him irritable.
To think that damned enemy Spy was trapped inside with him was frightening.
That blasted Soldier was condemning them to die, as he saw it. None of them could be trusted, not in the gloom of the night. They all had to report in, to stick together in a miserable little room and play cards all evening. No one had the heart for it. When curfew came—much too early for everyone but the Soldier's tastes—everyone was pinned in their room. Including the Sniper. Given that he had done little more than occasionally dust out his complimentary room in the barracks, he was stuck doing nothing but staring at the speckling on the ceiling.
He couldn't fall asleep.
His door was locked. He was most likely safe. That didn't keep him up. There was so much he wasn't used to hearing. At least half of the team was snoring. There were creaks as people tried to sneak off to the restroom. Occasionally, the Soldier would catch them and chew them out. The American was dulling as the night pressed on, too tired to live up to his nature. Pipes would rattle with flowing water. The air conditioner rumbled, kicking on and off every few minutes. A faint hiss preoccupied his mind. It was coming from the infirmary, from the Medic's mediguns held precariously over his patients.
He had to follow his target. He couldn't lie on this bed and pretend that all was safe.
The Sniper pulled himself off the bed. He forewent his boots. Rolling his socked feet was much quieter. He pressed an ear to the door, listening for the Soldier's snoring. It was rhythmic and slow. Deep sleep, no doubt. He twisted the knob, then stepped out of his room. No disturbances. Good. He walked quietly to the stairwell, careful to avoid squeaking floorboards.
It was much easier to move once he made it to the first floor. The Sniper jogged to the infirmary. He leaned around its doors, careful to peer inside. All was still. Not so much as a dove was roosting inside. Just the two patients. He squeezed the lock for the infirmary door.
It wasn't locked.
The Sniper stood up straight. Surely, the Medic couldn't have been so careless. He was a bit bird-brained, but even he had the slightest bit of a protective nature about his patients. Had the enemy Spy broken in? That gave him a good reason to run, but a better reason to enter. They were victims once. He couldn't let them be harmed again.
He shivered when he entered the infirmary. The Sniper shot the AC unit a glare. He turned it off, letting the natural flow of the building warm the room up. Both patients had a blanket draped over them. The Medic was up to form, at least. It didn't help the two patients all that much. Both had goosebumps and fine hair raised. Maybe they'd rest easier now that the AC was off.
He slunk next to the occupied beds. Grabbing a stool, he plunked down at the Engineer's side. The shadow of the Heavy's body hanged over him. His posture slumped as he settled in. What else could he do? The most complex medical task he'd ever had to do was dig a bullet out of his own torso. He put a hand on his shirt, just above where his scar laid. That had been so many years ago.
When he'd been alone.
"Glad you didn't see that," the Sniper murmured. "Ya would've pitched a fit. Mad bugger, probably would've pulled it out for me."
The Engineer didn't respond. The Sniper lowered his head. Of course, he wouldn't. He was sick. There was this nutty Australian yammering away in the night at him, and he didn't care. Or couldn't. Leave it to him to make this whole debacle about his own pain. The Sniper kicked his chair with his heel, frustrated and mad at himself. There really wasn't anything he could do, and he was throwing a pity party. That wasn't going to bring the Engineer back.
What did he expect to happen? That he'd sit there, and he'd wake up? The Medic's doting had done no good. Not for the Heavy at his back, not for the Engineer at his front. What was a good sentiment worth to dying men? The Sniper's chest tightened. Dying? What if they did die? Would they be back to full health, or caught in a coma by bad respawn data?
Did he have the guts to test that?
His fists curled. He'd gone from making his friend comfortable to trying to kill him. Damned brain, always making plans. Always looking for a way to weasel out. He was a simpleton and a coward. He had no right to be here. All he'd killed before were fellow cowards and beasts. Would that be it? Would he be swallowed whole by the deserts of the GAFA again? Trapped in the jungles? Abandoned in the bush? And wouldn't it be fit? He lived and fought and pissed like a wild animal. He should have been condemned to die amongst them.
Torn apart.
Hunted.
Alone.
His eyes burned. The Sniper reached for the Engineer's left arm. It was rubbery and lifeless. There was an IV drip running from his hand. It was rare that the Medic would use something so archaic in comparison to his healing beams. Perhaps it was an antidote. The Sniper wanted to tear the plastic sack apart with his teeth and pour its contents down the Engineer's throat. Anything to make him wake up faster.
"'M sorry, Dell," the Sniper apologized. "Can't fix ya."
His face was hot and wet. The Sniper pulled back his right hand, then touched his cheek. He sank into the large shadow surrounding him. How embarrassing. It was just a little illness, wasn't it? The Medic could put them back together, couldn't he? What was he doing? Damned fool. Miserable man. Some rugged individualist. His back was twisted and broken. If all of this became so much wind and ash, he couldn't go back to what he was. Endless years in the baking sun and the freezing moon, his only luxuries his gun and his van. He couldn't return to his mother's sad face, his father's stern glare.
He'd go over the horizon to where the monsters lived and never be seen again.
The Sniper squeezed the Engineer's hand, then forced a smile. No. He wouldn't lie down and let the world and its shadows consume him. He was a moron, but he was also a professional. He had a job to do. He had to protect the camp. No one better than the camper, he saw. His feelings—however strong, however inappropriately attached they were—had to be put aside. His pitying and self-loathing wasn't going to fix anything. Only medical knowledge could spare the two poisoned men. He had to put a wall between the world and the Medic. The doctor would do his job, and the marksmen his.
Protect the Medic, save the Engineer. Revive him, repair respawn. Everyone would move in tandem once again. The machine would turn. He had to do his part to restart it. That meant not only keeping his team alive, but keeping himself in one piece. To make plans, to work with others, to bath and eat properly and sleep. The weight of the evening now settled on him. He had to get rest.
The Sniper put his forehead on the Engineer's bald scalp. "Get well soon, Dell. 'N don't say a damn thin' 'bout this, yeah? Got a reputation to keep."
He stood up.
The shadow behind him rose and snatched his neck.
There was a sting in his back. Cold metal spilled a rolling fever into his neck. The Sniper reached for the viperous weapon that struck him. A leather glove caught his right wrist. With a sharp yank, he was spun about and tossed onto the cold floor. An empty syringe shattered as it fell from his wound. He got onto his knees, head spinning. He was pulled up by his hair, then thrown down once again. He caught only the faintest of white eyes as his head connected with the ground.
He'd broken into a trap.
His enemy leaned elbow-first on the Sniper's neck. The Australian coughed and kicked, trying to do anything to raise a ruckus. The enemy at his throat—his rival, that blasted Spy—watched him asphyxiate with a slim grin. The victory was already his. The Spy knew this, and yet, he drew out the Sniper's waning flails. His enemy valued efficient killing. What sort of mockery was this?
The enemy Spy hissed. "Bleed. Choke. Weep for me."
The Sniper responded with a sharp punch to his attacker's nose. The Spy reeled backwards, hacking a wad of blood onto the floor. He pushed the Sniper onto the floor again, knees burrowing into a soft pit in the Sniper's stomach. The Sniper gagged. He couldn't do so much as whisper for help. He reached up with his right hand. His fingers clawed at the Spy's face, pads catching the brim of his balaclava. The fabric tore as he pulled back. The Spy hissed, then retaliated. A sharp, familiar pain lanced through the Sniper's forearm as the Spy's knife found his skin.
A bitter taste built in the back of the Sniper's mouth. Fire burst through his nerves. His head was swimming from the lack of air. His throat felt as if it were about to swell shut, his diaphragm creeping into his lungs. He kept stamping and clawing, his fingers reaching further into a black void. Everything he had was disappearing from his grasp. The world outside his reach fizzled out, then the implements around him. The Heavy was overcome by a black shadow. He couldn't let the Engineer go, too. He reached out one last time, fingers touching the cold frame of the cot. It fell through his body.
His limbs grew heavy. His head went flat. What little vision he had left was clouded by a face, snarling with glee and amusement. His attacker's skin went. His balaclava went flesh with the void. All he saw as he collapsed were sharp eyes and teeth, gnashing with delight.
His attacker sneered as he fainted, brushing blood from his grinning mouth with a handkerchief.
/***/
There was a certain kind of nothing that overcame the Sniper as he laid still. The abuse his body underwent burned, but in a disconnected way. Like he was standing too close to a campfire, but not close enough to be set alight. His skin felt wet and sticky, like he'd stepped out of a gunky river. He was hot and cold, shivering and feverish. There was no taste on his tongue, and no food in his stomach, but they rolled all the same.
Respawn didn't hurt like this. It left him feeling detached and floaty, but not in nebulous waves of pain.
It was an aching he accepted. Perhaps this was hell. Maybe it was just a respawn malfunction. Whatever it was, he deserved it. He'd forgotten his senses and creeds. Now he knew what the Heavy and the Engineer felt as he was watching over them. He felt like a jackass. They hurt like this, and there was nothing he could have said to take that away.
Had he felt sorry for them, or sorry for himself?
His brain was doing its best to resolve the strange sensations around him. It conjured up suppressed memories of dark nights in faraway lands. Sinking into mudslides in a rainforest. Baking and peeling in a desert. Freezing under the brisk, buffeting winds of a snowstorm. Times when he'd been alone. Days when he had to survive on his own. No doctors, no second eyes. Just the weather to beat him and monsters to bite him.
He reached for an image just at the corner of his mind. Pulling himself out of an endless pit, he flopped onto the object at hand. It was cold, but comforting. Its upholstery was torn and patched with duct tape. Aged leather and worn springs gave way to his weight. Soft cloth and cotton fell on him like a layer of warm snow. He sighed, his arms wrapping around the end of the couch. He was floating in mud and water and sheer nothingness, but he had something to hold onto.
Maybe if he just held on long enough…
Sound rippled in his ears. It sounded like he was underwater. He clenched tighter, listening with whatever strength he had left in him. The voice was unfamiliar. He couldn't resolve the words. Still, someone was talking. He just had to focus.
There was light on his face. He could feel his eyelids pinch. That was something he could work on. His trusty eyes, trying to get him out of this weird recess. He focused on the simplest of tasks. His eyes were gummy and crusted, but the lids were moving. He could feel his pupils slide beneath them. Coordination was all it took.
He breathed in, then woke up to the face of a strange woman.
"—the hell?" the Sniper wheezed.
The middle-aged woman grumped. "Same to you, pal."
She had a plump, strict face, like a private school's teacher or a prison warden. Her hair was pulled back, eyes cold as steel. Her bosom was large, but not in an attractive way. More like she was packing two cannonballs in her dress. She had a pin on her left side, gold with a red cross. The Sniper focused enough to catch her title. She was a relief doctor.
But why would they need another doctor if—"The Doc—"
The large doctor bobbed her head towards another gurney. The Sniper propped himself onto his elbows. His jaw dropped onto his chest as she explained the situation. "Found that one in his room. Sounds like several of you contracted oleander poisoning. Very peculiar case."
"Ya don't say," the Sniper muttered. He frowned, watching the Medic shuffle in his sleep. When had the enemy Spy got him? Had he been the first? "He's gonna be okay, yeah?"
The replacement doctor shrugged. "I've got some work to do on him."
The Sniper laid back down. He was exhausted. His extremities didn't burn, but they did ache. His stomach wasn't quite right yet, either. His head was spinning. What had all happened while he was out? He'd have to gab with someone when he was out of the doctor's sight. It was best not to mention the whole war business to outsiders as much as possible.
His new doctor was not pleased with him relaxing. With one quick tug, she pulled an IV out from his hand. "You're costing your employers a pretty penny to lie there. I'd recommend you get up. You wouldn't want me having to charge extra for you."
"Don't think I can walk," the Sniper grumbled.
"One foot, then the other. Give it a shot," she grunted back.
The Sniper sighed, then sat up. His legs felt as heavy and rigid as redwood trees. Never-the-less, they did move. It was strange to move like this, with concrete below him and motion going through his legs. He was glad to take up his doctor's suggestion. By no means was he leaving, though. He stumbled past her, using the remaining cots to support his bodyweight. His knees hit bed frames and each other. He thought they were going to collapse beneath him as he reached his destination. With two shaking hands, he pulled himself onto a stool and sat down next to the Engineer's beside once again.
"This suit you?" the Sniper asked.
The surrogate doctor shrugged. "Fine by me. Let me know if you need a bucket."
A peculiar feeling coursed through him. It wasn't nausea or pain. Far from it. He felt calm, relaxed. His body's pain came and went, but the ebbing and flowing went slower. His spine fell into its natural arch, poor as it was. His mind went clear, his fingers warm. He was the Sniper, and he had his target. He could wait a long time to get it.
Hours came and went. Teammates came to check on their comrades. The Scout had been quick to regale the entire story to the Sniper. Something about the Demoman and a handkerchief. He buzzed by too quickly for him to soak the entire tale up. The Demoman later came and patched in the holes, though he was embarrassed by the Scout's embellishments. At any rate, he'd caught the enemy Spy and put him in his place, but not before being poisoned himself. He was lucky to have recovered so quickly. The Soldier called him all sorts of names and berated him for breaking curfew. That didn't stop him from taking up the Sniper's guard while he went to relieve himself, nor from sneaking drinks to him. The Pyro didn't say much—he rarely did—but his overpowering squeeze around the shoulders said more than enough. All he saw of the Spy was a quick glance outside the infirmary. He didn't want to draw attention, certainly not from the strange doctor ordering everyone around. Still, his quiet observations and small nod were support enough.
Meals went by. The sun dipped below the horizon. The Sniper kept his watch, even when the cold gaze of the substitute doctor started piercing into his throbbing head. She left once to break for supper, but not without throwing the Sniper a questioning eyebrow. He said nothing in return. That must have given her what she wanted. She left with a thin smirk.
In quiet and solitude, with no one but the sleeping Heavy and Medic present, the Sniper reached once more for the Engineer's hands. He held both. They were fine, solid and meaningful. Steel warmed by body heat. Flesh with a rising pulse. They were both the Engineer's, and both had helped him. He couldn't let them go.
Sleep would have caught him once more, had he not been rescued by a voice. "H-howdy."
The Sniper lifted his head. Round, tired eyes caught his gaze. A goofy grin spread across the Sniper's face. There he was. His receding hair was taller than usual, and he needed a good shave, but he was back. The Sniper's arms felt weak, but his hands were strong. He tightened them around metal and skin. A gentle squeeze returned his gesture.
"How're you feelin', mate?" the Sniper asked.
The Engineer sighed. "Could use some coffee."