All That Was
By NukaCola101
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Team Fortress 2. It is copyrighted by Valve.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I would like to give a quick shout out to author ChaosandMayhem for giving me the inspiration for this story. If you haven't already, go check the story Eight Mercenaries and a Toddler, written by said author; you'll be glad you did. Anyway, this is my first foray into TF2 fan fiction territory, so go easy on me. Also, try not to get too nit-picky about the details; the whole point is to get a perspective on what is must feel like to know someone whose basic job is to kill people 24/7 and how it affects your relationship with them, not dwell on weather I got the time period right and so forth.
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Prologue
Irene just stared at the shoebox she had pulled out from her closet. It was well worn and faded from the numerous times she had taken it out and opened it, but it was surprisingly still sturdy. The logo had long since faded, but the name still lingered in her memory the day she had purchased the shoes she was now wearing on her tired, aching feet.
"Predictions." she said. Irene huffed after muttering the word. I would have never predicted him leaving so soon. I mean, he just got here and now all of a sudden, he has to leave again! Fucking job. But that was normal now, especially since things down at Teufort heated up again. The Brothers Mann that owned the land where just as childish now as they were when Irene was first introduced to them years ago. Fighting over a piece of dirt; dear lord men can be such idiots!
Irene kicked off her shoes, happy to have a little instant relief from her sore feet. Still dressed in her business skirt and button-down shirt, she had been home for a few hours and really should have started dinner a half hour ago. She decided she wasn't hungry and made it a priority to pull out the shoebox full of letters and organize them (a task Irene had herself been putting on the back burner for quite some time). A tiny, if not significant thought came to her: Don't read them, you'll only make yourself miserable. Yes, yes it was true, but Irene found comfort in being in misery, she deduced. So, she pulled out the first letter and skimmed over it quickly, hoping the small, buzzing notion could be proven wrong.
My dearest Irene, how are you...
It sure is hot as hell here in the desert…
I have all the supplies I need to craft anything mechanical…
That Demoman is always drinking…
I saw a beautiful sunset, reminded me of you…
It was then that Irene stopped, feeling melancholy. The annoying truth was right; it was making her feel depressed. No! I must fight it! Irene then started to suppress the uncomfortable emotion with something more pleasant: a memory of when they first met.