Blu Barracks was never dark.
The dark stomach of a panther crawled over the orange stretches of sunset, her black fur swallowing the hot-blooded sunset. In protest, angry marks of an industrial white speckled themselves across the blackening country, fleabites glowing hotly on the dark skin of the land.
Flickering outdoor lights roused themselves outside the barracks. With gaps of ten metres or so in between each, the streetlamps stood to attention along a shabby grey road, brown sand and dirt picking at the gaps in the tarmac. The lumpy paintwork of the exterior wall glowed eerily, a shade somewhere between the off shades of pale mint and teal, accented by blinding white lamps mounted directly onto the urban plaster.
Nothing was happening outside. Occasionally a streetlamp flickered, or a rat hastened its pace across long stretches of wall into the pokey spaces of cramped hidey holes. Some form of wind- quite frankly, too light to even be called a breeze- rustled leaves into a whispering vigour.
Quite contrary, the inside of the building was an awful mess of crushing sound, that almost immediately hushed back into awkward silence, and light flooded every corner of a garage housing one lone car, and a whirling disk with a blue ray.
Nine men stood in a room to the side of a sprawling garage. A table of shoddy quality wobbled under stresses of activity: fists and drinks containers banging onto its surface, the boyish kicks of a young man with his feet dangling from over the edge.
The space in the side room was minimal. There was a stench of rubber and tangy metal, petrol and metal polisher stinging the tongue after every inhaled breath. It was tight and cramped, an odd sort of tension that existed in the stands of sports games; another man's sweat inches away from the nose, and the crushing atmosphere that could turn from gleeful unity to surly shoves in moments.
Thankfully the former situation applied; their clothing mixed bright blues with soft periwinkles and light turquoise, the cold colour like religious clothing, and the huddled figures swaying in unison.
In the slightly chilly air brought on by a croaking air conditioner, swirls of smoke poured out of the end of a cigarette. They turned from a suffocating heat to lukewarm trails, and the cigarette was stubbed under leather gloves.
"We have five minutes before we need to leave." Spy announced, glancing from a wall clock to the other men. "Knowing that a large portion of your talents rely on dumb luck alone, I feel as though it is necessary to emphasise…" He held the corpse of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "There is no window for improvisation here. I will not deny that it would be nice to have some 'luck', but if you intend to rely solely on fickle fortune, then regardless of your actions you will fail."
The voices of the other mercenaries had died down into a sombre silence that was as loud as any of their former whoops and cheers. Everybody's focus was transfixed onto the man in the suit.
Spy slipped another cigarette under a lighter that he obscured under the collar of his jacket. A stocky figure in a rubber suit made unintelligible noises from under its alienating gas mask, and attempted to peer around Spy's hands to find the source of the light. The shadows of Spy's blouse flickered from black against white, moulding themselves back into continuous shades of grey when the lighter was replaced in an inside pocket of the jacket. He took another long drag from the cigarette, staring pensively at the wall to his left. Perhaps in a film he would be looking towards the setting sun, or out of a window.
But his wistful expression was wasted on an undecorated wall.
"This is not an official battle; there will be no respawn. Of course, we plan to use this to our advantage, but…"
"It's a double-edged blade." Demoman finished his sentence for him, the normally brash voice quietened to a calm murmur when not stoked by liquors. His hands were curled into his lap, and his back hunched in the chair.
Medic spoke up next. "We have tossed this plan back and forth for the past week, Spy. Modifications have been made where necessary, and we are all rehearsed in what we intend to do."
"Is no intention of ours. We are ordered to do this."
Medic sighed and glanced gloomily at the Heavy. "We were told what our outcome needed to be. Our employer did not specify how we were to do it, and thus our intentions are to get everything over with as quickly as possible- for the sake of both teams."
"No need to get sentimental, Medic." Spy said.
"But regardless of us succeeding in the mission or not, our priority should be to make sure that everybody stays alive. My Medigun relies on respawn to work, so I've essentially been stripped down to a couple of healing kits."
"Worst does come to worst, I'll be getting a teleporter entrance set up for the really nastily injured."
"Is the Exit built in our base still working?"
"I'll check as we're leaving."
Spy briefly checked his watch: twenty minutes to ten.
"We might as well make that now, then. If we're quick, we can get there by eleven."
It took a couple of moments before people started moving. They exchanged wary glances, and waited anxiously for someone to make the first move. The Scout pushed himself off the table.
"Let's go, then."
Soldier and Demoman awkwardly mumbled to each other, patting one another on the shoulder as they roughly shoved their chairs under the table and left. Spy stood to the side of the door, receiving all of the nervous eye contact as his team shuffled past. Sniper was the last to leave, carefully treading on the cement floor and stopping to nod at Spy.
"You worried about them?"
Spy did not answer, and padded into the garage after Sniper.
The Engineer was crouched down by his teleporter exit, two of his organic fingers brushing the dull metal frame. The blue petals of the light glimmered, slowly twisting in search for something to connect to. The other mercenaries were piling into a knackered truck, the denim blue sides sagging dangerously to the floor as the Heavy shuffled over the seats. Medic had relinquished his usual spot in the passenger seat in favour of sitting next to Heavy, by the window.
Spy and Engineer took their places in the front seats. The blue-suited man shoved the keys roughly into the ignition, and the already cramped atmosphere of the car swelled when stuffy, hot air droned through the central heating. Scout tugged at the collar of his shirt, and the curves of Pyro's suit tensed, as though the body inside it had stiffened.
"Spy, if you catch my meaning, 'who's' driving?" Engineer asked. Spy's gloved fingers drummed at the steering wheel, lost in thought. After a short pause, he gave a weak smile to the Engineer, all of his typical confidence slipping through gaps in the tightly closed lips.
"I am."
He turned to the rest of the team in the back, seven waiting faces looking straight back at him.
"You have all been good teammates. If we succeed, I don't suppose our employer will require our services again. Knowing how nosy some of you tend to get, allow me to satisfy your curiosity before I disappear from you forever."
His hands reached for the edges of his balaclava, the delicate hem feeling like nothing under the thick material of his leather gloves. It was like watching a scab peeling from skin, scars accenting the lines of a pale neck.
Infamous among the team for his complete lack of trust or anything resembling warmth towards his teammates, his confession left them unsure of how to respond. And no sooner after it, they were finally allowed to see the snake shedding his skin.
Over a sharply pointed chin, and angular cheekbones. Over neat ears, and smoky grey shadows of peppered stubble, rough like gravel on a concrete jaw.
The mask slipped over a Roman nose, and peeled from a wide brow and dark grey eyes, and waves of neat black hair, home to crawling flicks of silver over the sideburns.
Spy's closed fist twirled the balaclava into a tightly wound ball, and he settled the navy fabric onto the dashboard. More silence was the response, in vigil for whatever the Spy called his pride.
The strange, somewhat haggard face tried to smile again, before quietly addressing them again.
"To those of you who have their headgear on, I'd advise you to remove it." Buckles and straps from helmets and goggles replaced speech for a couple of moments, and even Sniper obliged and removed his hat.
"Thank you; it is relieving to know that after exposing my face to you all in the name of a disguise, we will not be caught out when somebody sees your...unconventional headwear."
Scout piped up from the back.
"What about Pyro? Are they gonna have to take their mask off too, Spy?" The boy's tone was not malicious; he was not accusing Pyro of being left out, nor was he hoping to catch a glimpse of the firebug's own face.
When you spent so much time away from your team, it was easy to forget that they were friends with each other just as much they were co-workers.
Spy shook his head. "Just make sure Pyro keeps their head down."
Nobody was sure whether or not the arsonist had responded to their kind gestures; they were slumped on Scout's shoulder, the body in the blue suit wriggling in order to get more comfortable.
"Well, men?" Soldier said. Spy looked around sharply, wondering if he was mistaken in hearing the veteran's voice crack slightly. "Time to get moving!"
Giving the teleporter a wide berth, the car moaned itself out of sleep and trundled out of the garage with heaving grunts.
Night air flooded into the dark car, and a mechanical swish and clank indicated that the garage door had just closed behind them. Uneasy chatter marked the bumps in the road, and they swung down the small slope, out of the Blu base, and out of the reaches of safety.