The compound at Teufort rises-sprawling, rectangular, aluminum, red-out of the desert as Miss Pauling's car kicks up sand in the dry wind that already clogs your lungs. Heat-haze swims in the air, distorting lonely buildings that look more suited for barns and silos than a base of operations of any kind. You narrow your eyes against the gleam of tin roofs. All you've seen for miles is dust and orange sands, desolate stretches of dirt and withered islands of brown grass, terrain so dry and ashen you half-expected to see the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg* before anything resembling civilization. No amount of sunscreen can save you from the pale, golden glare overhead; the only thing that eases your eyes is the brim of your homburg, and barely that. You're still squinting as your escort stops the car outside the chain-link fence.

"We'll walk," she says with a polite smile, lightly slapping the steering wheel with her driving gloves.

"Miss Pauling." You frown through the windshield and fence at the silent, wood-and-aluminum complex.

She stops, hand on the latch of her door. "Nervous?" She peers over her glasses, and you nod. Her green eyes are kind.

"A little," you correct before she speaks.

"I'm sure you'll settle in just fine! The boys are used to one another, so you've missed their adjustment, fortunately," Miss Pauling assured, stepping out of the convertible. You do the same as she efficiently brushes the wrinkles from her purple skirt and blouse. "That'll keep the fist-fights and explosions to a minimum." Before you can so much as blink, let alone demand and explanation, she simply barrels on. "And, as you know, your personal items have already arrived, so you'll have nothing to worry about this evening. Of course, that does mean someone might have had time to… snoop. But they've been warned already about getting into your crate to satisfy their curiosity."

Sure. You resist the urge to press a hand over your eyes. Curious mercenaries would certainly be polite enough to stay out of your things.

Well, this is why you agreed to carry your weapons and unmentionables in with you this afternoon.

You don't bother brushing travel-wrinkles out of your dark jeans or the red, collared button-down you had selected. The wrinkles will be there no matter what. You take your messenger bag from the backseat instead as Miss Pauling reaches for a clip-board alongside the console, and sling it over your shoulder. "Work starts tomorrow, at seven-hundred hours," she continues, opening the gate, "so even if things seem awkward, they'll straighten themselves out on the field." She smiles again, reassuring, and you almost forget she shot a man in cold blood not an hour ago, mumbling something that sounded a lot like "loose-end." You respect that. Of course—you have to, you suppose. Part of the career, and all that.

You fall into step beside her, your boots padding quietly on cracked soil and sand. You glance sidelong at Miss Pauling, stomach twisting anxiously—you're a head taller, even while she stands in black pumps… and damned if she didn't dispose of the body that way, too, insisting that she needed no assistance! But no, it isn't her enviable ease that makes you self-conscious: it's your size. Not simply height, nor the fact that she has a thinner figure. It's sheer mass—broad shoulders, filled to fit the frame. Wide hips, large hands. Just… bigger than many of the women you've been around in your life.

Now, you have a job where it might help, and for that you are thankful, even if you do feel rather overlarge standing next to Miss Pauling.

You try your best to swallow the ingrained embarrassment, metal double-doors set into a garishly painted wall becoming your primary focus. The portal to your new home, if all goes well. Fingers tighten over the messenger bag, as though having the gun it conceals close to your hands will make you more secure.

A creak.

You must have missed some signal, for out of the double-doors file nine mercenaries. Your eyes snap to Miss Pauling, but she offers no glance. The air seems thicker now, and you very much wish you had your weapon pressed coldly against your palm, cooling the heat that threatened to color your cheeks. Nine scrutinizing glares: you're not what they expected. Of course you're not.

What the hell are you doing here?

Money. Steady job. Money. Self-sufficiency. Money—isn't everything.

You'd forgotten how much you hate being stared at.

"Gentlemen." The two of you have stopped just short of the step, and Miss Pauling addresses them easily. The classes are already familiar from briefing—the spy, easily recognizable, stands toward the back, feigning disinterest, smoking a cigarette. Or perhaps he is disinterested; the mask does its work.

He raises a brow at you beneath the balaclava and you quickly find another face. The demoman (one eye, as Miss Pauling had said) is drinking, but his singular gaze is far too clear for your liking—perceptive. You move on. The youngest is—ugh—clearly checking both of you out… and damn it you'd stopped listening—

"…new team-mate. She'll be staying for two weeks as part of the evaluation, and if things work out well for the new class system, she'll be joining your contract permanently. Gentlemen," Miss Pauling tucks the clip-board beneath her arm. "Meet the Specialist."

With that sweeping gesture, you think you really ought to say something.

"Hello."

Smooth.

You try a small smile, fingers curling over the top strap of your bag.

"Hello!"

"How d'you do?"

"A girl, huh?"

"Ach, another American." The Spy takes a long drag on his cigarette, and immediately turns away.

You frown before any of his teammates can speak. "Excusez-moi, monsieur." He stops. You know your pronunciation is excellent; that's the only praise you can give yourself. The spy turns, and lowers the cigarette, smoke curling around his balaclava. "I'll admit I failed my French course," you add. "But you're in the United States, are you not? It seems American coworkers would be an occupational hazard."

But the spy does not miss a beat: "I was told this team would be comprised only of the best. On a day such as this, it seems I was misled."

Miss Pauling frowns. "Spy—"

He draws upon his cigarette again. "But we shall see tomorrow, non? Until then, I have other business." He turns on his heel and reenters the compound.

"Don't let the Frenchie bother ya." The boy shrugs, offering a cocksure grin, dog tags jingling when he folds his arms. "So—a girl."

You sigh. "It would appear so."

"Cool. Been just guys around here for waaay too long—except for you, 'a course, Miss Pauling, but you don't come 'round often enough. Maybe you'd like to—"

"I have work that I need to get back to today," the woman replies coolly, hardly sparing him a glance from behind her spectacles. You rather admire that. Again. "So, if we could move things along—Specialist."

You reflexively straighten as soon as the code-name registers. "Ma'am," you manage after a moment.

She waves a hand. "Just Miss Pauling." Her attention turns to the eight mercenaries left on the steps. "This is Pyro, Soldier, Engineer, Medic, Heavy, Demoman, Sniper, and I'm sure you've gathered this is Scout."

"Only heard good things about me, I know! Pretty obvious. Hard to miss me. Right, Miss Pauling? Y'know…"

You do recall some mention of the Scout being rather young, and, put more politely during that briefing than you were thinking now, a loudmouth. You resign yourself to filtering out the useless chatter.

Your next thought is that, all-in-all, they don't make an unattractive lineup (not that the pyro has removed their mask, but even so-). "Mercenary" made you think of grizzled, battle-scared ruffians but that might be an unkind stereotype, especially considering you're one of them for now. Still, if all goes well, and you have to look at them almost exclusively for the next five years, well... you can live with that.

Of course, they could turn out to be a bunch of assholes.

That would be unfortunate.

"Exactly what sort of specialist are you?" The sniper peers from beneath a wide-brimmed hat and amber shades. Australian, from the sound of it.

Your hands tighten around your bag again. You look to Miss Pauling, still in a long-suffering conversation with the scout. No help. "It's... a bit difficult to explain. I'm sort of—"

"One-part vanguard, two-parts surprise," Miss Pauling answered.

You try to telepathically send your gratitude through the rippling heat-waves.

"The best explanation is to see the new class in action. You'll learn best how to take advantage of her tactics during warm-up and on the field." She gives you a nod, sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

"It might be a wee bit easier if we knew something about the lass!" The demoman—sporting a thick, Scottish accent—makes a broad gesture with the bottle in his hand. A brown bottle, rather mysteriously unlabeled.

"My crate didn't reveal much?" You snap your mouth shut.

You really hadn't meant to say that; you would have done the same in their place. Did it matter? At least the group had the decency to look a little embarrassed, if not ashamed.

Miss Pauling sighs. "You were expressly told not to."

More averted eyes and awkward shuffling.

"I'd, uh, like to apologize, ma'am." One of the men—with dark goggles pushed up on his forehead; the engineer, you recall—steps off the platform, removing a thick work-glove. He dusts the hand off on a pant-leg before offering it. "Name's Engineer—Engie, if y'like." There's a comforting drawl to his voice, and you find yourself relaxing somewhat... it's familiar. You take his rough hand and shake it firmly.

"No harm done." You offer a smile. "I'd have been tempted."

"Let me also say that I am sorry!" The soldier—immediately and easily recognizable in a helmet and uniform coat—marches off the platform to crowd the engineer out of your space. He gives a short salute. "It is a violation of company personnel code to rifle through a fellow's belongings. My apologies, private!"

Gods, he has a voice like a damn drill sergeant. You force a half-smile. "More like an ensign, I think, but apology accepted—"

"Oh-ho, a Squid, eh?" He grins conspiratorially.

Shit. Your knuckles whiten against the dark, canvas strap. "Not… exactly, no…"

"No personal questions, Soldier." Miss Pauling frowns.

"Of course!" He gave her a hasty salute. "I will be running the obstacles course. I expect you need a stretch to warm up before the battle, ensign. Come find me after you've been briefed."

"Thanks." You have absolutely no intention of running anything today, but the man marches off, apparently satisfied.

You turn back to the group to find the largest positively looming over you. He had seemed huge, of course, standing near the door, but now—you feel utterly dwarfed. It's… new. Unusual. Intimidating, yes, but also something of a relief after feeling so clunky beside Miss Pauling all day. "Wish to apologize also," he says, extending a massive hand. Russian, no mistake. You brace yourself for a crushing grip, but it never comes; his calloused hand is gentle—deceptively so, beneath scarred knuckles. "I am Heavy. If you have questions about weapons, I can answer them."

"Thank you." Your head is tilted rather further than you're used to, but at least he blocks the sun. "I appreciate it."

"You are welcome." He returns your smile. "Also, you have good books. Selection is… big."

You chuckle. "I pride myself on them. Perhaps you can borrow a couple sometime?"

He nods. "Might enjoy it. But… English vocabulary is not always good." He shrugs. "But perhaps."

Then, Scout is hot on Heavy's heels. "Guess I'm sorry, too. Not good manners to look through a lady's things an' all."

You can't quite smother a cheeky grin. "It isn't as though I left anything in that crate of an especially personal nature. It's fine, all of you."

The boy folded his arms. "Heh—I did wonder after I saw ya why we didn't find any kind of—"

"Mrmp mry. Mrk mrr." You find yourself in a bone-crushing hug that smells of rubber, kerosene, and smoke.

"Uh—" Gut reaction is to return the embrace, even though you can feel the filters of a gas mask poking into your shoulder.

"Pyro says they're sorry, and thanks," Engie provided.

"Oh—you're welcome—hrk." The hug threatens to break ribs at this rate.

"All right, let's not try to send the poor girl through respawn before she's been calibrated into the system."

Oh. Yes. Respawn. It sounded much too good to be true, though you desperately want to see it in action. Of course, you'd rather not experience it to gain the information—no, you'll be doing your damnedest tomorrow to make sure you don't actually test the miraculous technology.

With your luck, you'd end up actually dead.

"Speaking of," says Miss Pauling as Engie gently pries Pyro away from you, "Medic can take you inside and get everything set: calibration, exam, and system compatibility."

"But you may wish to get settled first." German. He steps down to offer his hand. Tall, lean, in a fitted white coat—you could have guessed without introduction. His gaze is appraising behind little, round spectacles as he offers a bare hand, gloves tucked into his belt. "Medic, of course." His handshake is firm, hands smooth—callouses centered mostly at the bottom of the palm, and on the first and fourth fingers (trigger and pencil?). His grip, however, is just a touch too tight. You hold his icy gaze, and attempt not to squirm like an insect, his eyes crinkled just a little at the edges, hard, scrutinizing. Your hand tightens before you let go. His brows arch.

Involuntarily, you clear your throat. "I'd just like to take my bag to my room."

"Be glad to show you the way," says Engineer. But you notice his eyes rest on Medic—not you—and the doctor pretends not to see.

But then, the moment is gone.

"We can give ya the tour!" adds Scout.

"Before you do..." The Sniper finally removes himself from his perch reclined against the wall. He offers a firm, wry handshake, fingerless glove and all; the trigger callouses on his forefinger apparent on the back of your hand. "Sniper."

It takes you a moment to find the right name. "Specialist."

He releases your hand, mouth giving a knowing twitch. "You'll get used to it."


*A self-amusing reference on your part to F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby : "This is a valley of ashes[...] above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg[...] blue and gigantic-their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice[...] His eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood over the solemn dumping ground."


Revised: 2/18/19 ; this fic is also available on AO3