"...Of course, there is a strict schedule. Battles are at six and two, and you are required to show up. Other than that, you're pretty much on your own. Make your own meals, get yourself transportation if you want to leave the enclosure, and don't get killed."
He nodded, barely listening. It was like a dream, everything happening so fast. He'd applied for the draft as soon as he was old enough, just as all his brothers had done, but none of them actually got drafted. He was the first, and had no idea what to expect. Trenches and gangrene? Tear gas and protests? Rockets and Missiles? Camps and bombs?
It was hardly a week after he'd applied that his draft card had come in the mail. After that, it was a month, almost two, and he found himself here, in a sandy no-man's land called Doublecross following a pretty, short, bespectacled woman around as she showed him the living quarters. The place was dusty and cold, and some of the walls looked ready to crumble at any second. It was depressing, really, but better than trenches, he supposed.
The woman led him down yet another hallway. There were so many, he felt certain he would get lost. Of course, 'getting lost' was on his brothers' DON'T list. It was right there, near the top, next to 'being scared'. Which he wasn't, of course. Not of this crumbly old building, not of the weapons he'd been told he would have to use, not of the barren desert all around, visible through sparse, high, barred windows, and not of this job, one so sketchy he'd been transported to it in a train car with no windows, a guard, and a blindfold, in the middle of the night. Nope, not the least bit scared.
The hallway opened up into a large room at the end, one decorated here and there with recruit posters like the ones he'd seen around his hometown, a few machines that looked like they might dispense food or cigarettes or something, a sad pool table, three broken folding chairs, and a few dusty pieces of exercise equipment, off on one corner. In the opposite corner was gathered a small group of men. They looked deep in conversation, but upon his and the woman's entrance, they looked up, eyeing the two. Were they friendly? He had no idea. He gave a short wave, but none of the three men moved. He was glad when the short woman led him out of the room by way of yet another hallway, which led to a staircase. They went up, following a lit sign that read CLASS ROOMS.
Before he could ask, the woman answered his question, saying, "Those men are some of your teammates. You will meet them properly, later. For now, let's get you settled in your class room. I'm afraid it's been left in quite a state, but we have full confidence that you will be able to make it look presentable enough, for inspections."
She stopped before a small metal door, painted the same color as the walls and floors and even his shirt, which was part of the uniform he'd been instructed to wear at all times. She pushed the door open, ignoring the paint-sticking crack at the movement, and stepped back, allowing him to look inside.
It was a very sad room. All four walls, as seemed to be customary in the building, were made of cold, dark grey concrete, barely covered over with a thin layer of that same everywhere color, and the floor was covered by a thick carpet of dust, disrupted here and there by the memory of a past disturbance. The bed-if you could call it a bed; it was more of a cot, really-was metal, as was the dented desk, lockers for clothes, and one crooked folding chair, set up in a corner. The only light sources were a single, free-swinging bulb that hung from the ceiling, and a skinny, smudgy window, with a heavy screen across the glass on the inside and two thick metal bars on the outside. The window let in no light at the moment, however, for it was well past sundown.
"This is mine?" he asked, taking a few steps into the room. It was very ugly, and the ceiling was a little low.
"Yes, this is your class room," the short woman responded, almost mechanically. "During the time between battles, you may come here. Inspections are twice a month. Please see to it that your room is kept clean and relatively vermin-free."
"So... I live here? By myself?" he touched the cold wall carefully, and sat down on the cot with a SHLOOMPH of dust, causing a few cockroaches to scurry from beneath, disappearing into the dark space under the desk. He gazed around at the room, looking as though he were entirely lost. In the corners were some dark and dusty heaps that may have been clothes. The desk was littered with papers, and beside the door the concrete was cracked, a little, and around the damage was a fine spray of what he really hoped wasn't blood. The whole place smelled of mildew and disinfectant.
"Yes, this is your new home-away-from-home, as it were. You are allowed to... uh... spruce it up a bit with posters, but please refrain from painting, redecorating, or... 'renovating'." She said this while adjusting her glasses, which he thought was strange. He'd known plenty of people who wore glasses, but none of them had ever adjusted them while saying vague and slightly suspicious things. It made the whole scene feel almost ridiculous, like it was part of a video game or something.
With no more than just a few parting words-reminders of battle times, instructions for navigation, and a few quick questions (you can read, right? Vision okay? You're not colorblind, are you?)-she left, closing the door behind her. He remained where he was, gazing at the wall, lost in thought.
He had never had his own room. Eighteen years, and he'd always shared with at least two of his brothers at a time. Now, sitting alone in a room that was all his, he hardly knew what to think. It was so... quiet.
He looked around, taking in everything. If he listened very hard, he could hear some sort of piping working away in the floor below him, and the occasional creak or groan as the building practically fell apart around him. Somewhere not too far away, someone was walking with a rather heavy step. But nowhere could he hear the sounds he was used to; the blare of a TV tuned to Gilligan's Island, the thud-thud-thud of a basketball outside, the dull sound of a gangly boy hip-checking the wall by the kitchen for the thousandth time, sneakered feet taking the stairs three at a time. Where were the shouts, the laughs, the sounds?
It was all so strange. How could it be that he had his own room, now, in the middle of a war? It was a terrible room, but a room all the same, and as he sat there, staring at the wall, letting it all sink in, he felt suddenly very cold.
Usually, at home, whenever things got too quiet, he would wander off to find one of his brothers or a neighborhood kid, and it was always easy to start up a game, a fight, a competition, until the whole neighborhood was laughing, shouting, playing, running, bright and happy and loud. Now, however, he was an adult, and one with a job to do, at that.
All the same, he was cold. It wasn't the temperature that bothered him, so much as the near-silence. Somewhere distant, a man sneezed. Something solid thudded against something else. A cough. A muffled mutter. A few scuffling steps, and a few sudden, echoing, distant clangs.
But where was the life? Where was the blasting music from next door, the cheering, giggling girls on the street, the mocking laughtracks and squeal of bikes and splashing of waves at the dock? Slamming doors and dancing feet and friendly banter and busy traffic and clatter of dishes, where was all that? How could a person survive in a place so deathly still, quiet, cold?
He hummed a quiet, catchy showtune, scuffing his shoes in the gritty dust underfoot, just for some sound. Something jingled somewhere, and a single, distant, whistled note rang out. But even these simple, small sounds seemed eclipsed by the utter silence. He was so lost in the strangeness of it all that he jumped violently when a loud knock came at the door.
He opened it warily. It was a man, standing at attention rather severely, wearing army fatigues in a style that he was sure had gone out of style years ago. Certainly the army would be wearing a new sleeve cut, lapel slant, button count, or jacket length by now. Also, he'd never seen any army dressed in that same color that seemed to be on everything.
The man seemed unaware of this, however, and the two stood for a long moment in silence. He stared at the man, and the man... he couldn't tell where the man was looking, hooded as his eyes were by his too-large helmet, which had slipped low over his face.
"Um... hi?"
"Private," the man barked in a husky growl. His voice was strong and sure, much like his posture. His hand, still snapped in a tight salute, did not waver, though his arm muscles were clearly strained. "Welcome to Doublecross. I understand you are our new recruit."
"Yeah," he said, extending a hand, "I'm your new guy. My name's-"
"MAGGOT!" the man roared, causing him to jump. Not in fright, though. Of course not.
"I don't know what you think this is, but we are NOT here for tea and pony rides," the man snapped. "This is a WAR, son, and we DO NOT use names! Here at Doublecross, we follow a very strict SOP. You will be known as your given class title until further notice, which will be when we win this war and not a second before that! You are our new Scout, and as such, Scout is now your name."
He stared at the man, slowly wiping spittle from his face. Had he heard right? No names? No identities? Class titles? None of that had been on the draft registration...
"You may address me as Soldier," the man continued, "and if I ever catch you using a name other than the class title given to me or any of your teammates, you will be RE-PORTED, DE-PORTED, and EX-PORTED until the end of your sorry little life, boy!"
"Okay, cool..." he ran a shaking hand through his hair nervously, hat in hand. This guy looked like he meant business. "So I'm Scout, and you're Soldier. Got it."
"Damn straight," the man, Soldier, snapped, then flicked his wrist, finally dropping his hand and finishing his salute. He glared until Scout hastily returned the gesture, then spun on his heel and marched off down the hallway.
"Keep up, private," he barked, and Scout hastened to follow him, shutting his door behind him and ghosting his footsteps nervously. The guy was a total nutjob, he decided, but a scary one. Judging from the muscles that his fatigues barely concealed, he would have no problem enforcing the rules he had described.
Scout followed Soldier down three or four different hallways, and he tried to remember which way they went when reaching a fork. He was secretly terrified that he would get lost, and if the "teammates" he had been hearing about were anything like Soldier, he was certain it would be best to find his own way around, rather than asking for directions. He was an adult in a war, and he would prove it if it killed him, he thought with determination.
Eventually, they reached a big room that Scout was sure he hadn't seen before. The walls were light grey, and the floor tiled in white. There were metal cabinets here and there on the walls, and large vents in the ceiling. There in the room were three other men, all in varying outfits. Scout was relieved to see this. He was wearing the uniform they had given him, but it was radically different than Soldier's outfit, and he had been a little worried about that, about standing out so much. The others' outfits varied vastly, however, though they all wore that same color. What was it with these people and that color?
"Company... halt," Soldier ordered, only moments before coming to a halt himself, and Scout almost, almost bumped into him.
"Listen up, privates," Soldier said, louder now, gaining the attention of the three other men. "This is our new recruit! We need him to be completely debriefed and in the know by 1800 tomorrow, in time for battle! Engineer, weaponry! Medic, Respawn! Heavy, occupational hazards!"
He turned and faced Scout, staring for a long moment, before marching back the way they had come without another word.
Scout watched him leave, then turned back to face the three other men, who were watching him. The silence was unnerving him again, so Scout hastened to fill it.
"Hey," he said, with a short wave. Not too cocky, not too timid. He didn't want them to hate him right away, after all.
Let them hate me once they get to know me.
"So. This is new Scout." The voice came, deep and rumbling, from a great mountain of a man who was wearing almost the same uniform as Scout, sans the headwear and extra accessories, the point of which Scout did not see. Instead, he wore black leather gloves, which looked far more functional than what Scout had been given.
"Yeah, that's... me," Scout didn't really like the way the mountain man was staring at him, like he was a tiny bug to squish or a single, inconsequential potato chip, to be devoured mercilessly with a handful of others just like him.
Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but Scout couldn't help feeling fidgety under the man's piercing gaze, anyway. The man was staring intensely, a deep frown set into his face as he studied Scout.
"You are scaring him, my friend," a second man, this one in spectacles and a long white coat, said gently.
"What? Who's scared? I ain't," Scout snorted, then mentally kicked himself. So much for the good impression. And, what, had he never heard of grammar? Damn.
"Little Scout should be scared," the mountain said darkly. "Has not seen much to be scared of, maybe. You will."
A zipper of shivers swept up Scout's spine. Suddenly, he found himself wishing Soldier would come back and yell at him again. At least that was better than this quiet dislike, so strong he could almost feel it tightening in his chest. For some reason, none of these men seemed to like him very much.
He supposed that was only fair.
Suddenly he felt like nothing had changed, like he was still a kid on the field at school, the youngest, smallest, weakest, dumbest. He was always, always picked last, because the other kids favored his brothers, and, being youngest of seven, he was always getting picked on. This, somehow, seemed no different.
"Don't mind him," the man in the coat said. "He is just being dramatic. Welcome to Doublecross. I am the field medic, and I do... a lot of things. I will explain later, when you are sitting down. This is our heavy weapons expert, and that is our clever engineer."
"Aw, you flatter me, Doc," the third man said, this one dressed like, well, an engineer. As a person he looked beaten and worn, like a dollar bill that had gone through the wash a few times too many. He stepped forward to give Scout's hand a hearty shake, and Scout was stunned at how short the man was; the top of his battered yellow hard hat barely came up to Scout's shoulder.
"Y'all can call me Engie," he said, "or jus' Engineer. If you ever find yourself in need of a Dispenser, Teleporter, Sentry, or jus' a friendly face, I'm your man."
Scout tried to think of something appreciative to say, but all that came out was, "Uh, Sentry? I..."
In the background, the mountain shook his head slowly as the medic said, "Ah, don't worry about that. Someone... else... will explain about that. Probably. You will get the hang of it."
Scout nodded slowly, for lack of will to say something like "get me the fuck out of here". Instead, he said, "Um, the train... how often does it roll through here?"
Engineer shrugged, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets. "Hard to say. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice a month... One time it didn't show up for two years, but that was a long time ago. When it does come, we usually have our Scout-that'd be you-run up and get the mail, or whatever they've got."
"...Uh huh..." at this, Scout glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on the high, barred windows. "And, uh, what's with the windows? Why'd they gotta be barred like that?"
Engineer shot a glance at the other two men, but Scout didn't notice. He was too busy chastising himself about his bad grammar again.
"Say," Engineer said brightly, clapping Scout on the shoulder bracingly. "Why don't I take y'all on a tour of this place? Won't do anyone too much good if'n our Scout gets lost. This place sure can get mighty confusing. Why, sometimes I still get lost, and I've been here for quite a while! C'mon, we'll start in the workshop..."
With that, he pulled the newcomer deep into the bowels of the base, launching enthusiastically into a long and confusing description of his beloved robots.
As soon as Scout and Engineer were out of earshot, Medic turned on Heavy.
"We wait," he said, his voice stern and urgent. "We wait and see. Until he's been through at least one battle."
Heavy drew a long breath, exhaling impatiently through his nose before replying. "He is ignorant. Will take a long time to get used to the way things are done."
"Yes," Medic breathed, "but we need him. He will learn. You know Scouts. They are always fast learners."
"Yes," Heavy agreed. "I know Scouts."
Medic held his breath. "We wait," he said, half command and half request.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Heavy nodded. "We wait," he said, "but not forever."
Elsewhere, Sniper, Pyro and Demoman were deep in discussion.
[She said this was our last chance,] Pyro said, voice hushed in the vast silence of the base's equivalent of a rec room. The other two glanced around, paranoid the subject of their conversation was still nearby.
The large room was sparsely furnished by a pool table with half its felt and only four balls (cue ball, 8-ball, and the solid and stripe balls corresponding to their team), a couch that was more wood and springs than anything, a handful of posters promoting things like "Colleagues before comrades" and "Find Spies" and "Demoman and Pyro for best base defense". There was a stack of crates that could serve as tables or chairs, a water cooler, contents glowing suspiciously, and a wobbly table covered in everything from bullet casings to stationary.
"Well, maybe we should sit this one out, like," Demoman said, eyeing the room. Everything was brightly and starkly lit by the dim fluorescent lights, their yellow glow fading into dark shadows in every corner.
[And if he's like the others?] Pyro said, voice hard. [I mean, when he's like the others.]
"Might not be," Sniper said. "I mean, we didn't even give that last one hardly a chance."
[He was a liability,] Pyro hissed.
"This one might be different," said a voice from behind them, making all three hearts jump into their respective throats. The men betrayed no surprise, however. They turned as one to face their Spy, who leaned casually on the wall behind them, listening in, one hand on his watch, as though preparing to disappear again.
"And how would you know?" Sniper asked.
"I've been following him since he got off the train," Spy replied. "Well, 'was pushed off' would be more accurate. Anyhow, this one seems to be different. Not like the ones before."
[Different how?] Pyro asked, arms crossed. He was not a patient man.
"The boy is scared-"
"They're always scared," Demoman cut in.
"-And mature. More than usual, anyway." Spy looked around at them, Demoman's open gaze, Sniper's thoughtful peer, Pyro's reluctant consideration. "He seems to be prepared to prove himself worth our while."
"I say we wait," Sniper said. "S'what Medic's been saying since time before last; give him a shot, an actual shot, and then we can decide."
[Medic spends his time with birds,] Pyro pointed out. [And Heavy's not going to like it. Soldier either, if I know him.]
"Let's jus' lay off the voting until we can get everyone together, alright, lads?" Demoman asked, and the others nodded.
"What's he doing now, Spook?" Sniper asked, and Spy shrugged.
"Mr. Fix-It took him on a tour. Miss Pauling is gone, for now, but I daresay she'll be back to collect his body by tomorrow, if I have anything to say about it."
"I thought you said he was different?" Demoman asked, eyebrow quirked.
"I did," Spy said, then melted into nothingness.
The men stood for a moment, staring at each other, before Pyro said, [Get to bed, both of you. We'll have to get up early tomorrow to show the little cadaver around.]
"Don't give up on him just yet," Sniper reminded him, but the masked mystery was already out the door.
"...And that brings us back to the main room," the short man was saying, as he and Scout climbed the steps from the depths of the massive building. "I think we've covered just about everything, so if you get lost just look for a sign, like this one here." He tapped a lit sign as they passed, one that said INTELLIGENCE, with an arrow pointing through a door unlike the others he'd seen.
They had been all over the building, a dark and mildewy place the short engineer man kept referring to as 'the base'. Scout had seen dozens of rooms and hundreds of hallways and thousands of flights of stairs, each looking less memorable than the last. Now they were on their way back to the Class Rooms, and Scout was more than in favor of the idea of sleep. He was exhausted, but he couldn't seem to keep his mouth from asking hundreds of questions.
"Intelligence, is that like a robot? Like in Doctor Who?" he asked.
Engineer laughed, "What's that, a movie? Nah, AIs are still only operative in theory, s'far's I know. Our Intelligence is a briefcase full'a all sorts of secret stuff, and its our job, well, one'a our jobs, to protect it. See, there's different modes of battle that we do, and capture the flag is the one where we try to keep the Intel from being stolen. I won't bore you with the details of the others yet; we're smack dab in the middle'a CTF season just now."
Scout nodded, stifling a yawn. He was too tired to pay much attention. "That lady, with the glasses? She said the battles are at six and two, but..." he paused for another yawn, "how can they expect anything of us with so little sleep?"
Engineer yawned, too. "Oh, we'll have plenty of sleep. Maybe not tonight, but tomorr'a, sure. See, here at Doublecross we fight at night. Plenty 'a time for some shuteye, you see? But, of course, Lady Luck up there would jus' keel over an' die if she had to give us more'n one day off to get you all caught up, so we'll all be gettin' up a mite early tomorrow to show you the ropes properly."
Scout sighed tiredly. They had come to yet another flight of stairs. "No one told me any of this when I signed up," he said, starting to unwind the curious wraps his hands were bound in.
"No, they wouldn't have," Engineer said. "This here's a top secret government operation, see. But..."
He stopped walking, catching Scout by the elbow to bring him to a halt. The base around them was silent, but Engineer seemed wary all the same. When he spoke, it was in a very soft voice.
"Jus' b'tween you and me, boy, there are people in these parts you'll want to avoid, and I'm not just talking about the ones you'll be meeting tomorrow during the battle. I think you'll find our enemies in contract aren't the only dangers you'll have to look out for."
"Engie," Scout said, stomach twisting nervously. The whole situation was suddenly giving him the creeps. "What are you saying?"
"Nothin'," the man said, continuing up the stairs. "Just... Watch your back, alright? I'll always be around to help if you need me, but hear this: y'all can trust some of your teammates some of the time, but you can't trust all of 'em all of the time. Okay? Even me."
Scout climbed after him, head spinning. He said nothing as the shorter man bid him goodnight, and spent the next few minutes trying to remember which room was his. He was hopelessly confused, but was luckily saved by the sheer filthiness of his class room; his exit from hours earlier had tracked the thick dust out into the hallway. He traced his own steps back to his door, then gratefully sank into his bed, exhausted.
He couldn't sleep for a long time, though. The tiny cot was uncomfortable, the dust was thick and gritty under his cheek, the silence was pressing down on him from all sides, his head was overflowing with everything he had learned about his new home, and his memory was stamped with Engineer's warning. Scout realized his teammate was saying there was someone in the base who couldn't be trusted, but he had been so vague Scout was lost when it came to deciphering who it could be. He hadn't even met all of his team yet, from what he'd been told, and the ones he had seen other than Soldier, Engineer, the doctor guy and the troll-man had barely even looked at him, let alone introduced themselves.
For the first time, though certainly not the last, Scout stared at the ceiling and wondered if he was in over his head.