here is a fic. its not much but this is just the first chapter. idk how many chapters it will be cuz im bad like that but hopefully posting the first chapter will motivate me to write the rest. its an eventual heavy/medic fic and will in all likelihood have sex in it just. sayin. ill up the rating if/when that happens.
anyway, i saw a pic by humon of heavy looking at a clone of himself in a glass tube and in the description she wrote about how some people think the teams in tf2 are just clones and the real versions are elsewhere or something and my mind took off. if someone else has written something similar IM SORRY ;o; im not trying to copy anyone it is completely unintentional!
uh ah um anyway heres the fic…..
"Fascinatin'."
"Intriguing."
"Ye can say that, but I'll just say what it is: Fuckin' disturbin'."
"He's got a bit of a point, mate."
"Ach, it is not as though you vill be seeing them again after this. Unless, of course, you vant to."
Nine men stand in front of 18 glass tubes, the green phosphorescence of the liquid inside casting a sickly glow upon the observers and lending a sinister edge to the figures contained within. There are three of each face in the room; one without and two within the tubes. A few of the men outside stand close to their copies, tracing contours with their eyes and feeling their own faces to discern accuracy. There are no discrepancies.
"I might come back once or twice, just to see how they're getting' along. You said they're almost ready, right Doc?" A man with a drawl and overalls who will be known as the Engineer asks, tapping the glass of one of his copies with a knuckle. The man he is addressing cringes slightly at the gesture.
"That is correct, Herr Engineer. In two veeks time they vill be ready to walk the battlefield und perform ze duties zat Mann Co. vill require of them," the man who will be the Medic replies, pushing his glasses up over his broad nose; a gloved hand resting on the small of his back.
"Still don't see why we can't be the ones out there busting in heads," the one who will be the Soldier huffs, crossing his arms over his puffed-out chest, "Hell, part of why I signed up was so I could get back out there and dish out some pain!"
"Only part?" the one who will be the Spy inquires sardonically, fiddling with his cigarette case. The Medic has asked them all to refrain from smoking in the room, but requests do not quell desires. "You should be flattered, Monsieur. If ze company did not care about you dying, zey would send you out yourself. Ze fact zat zey are making zeese clones in ze first place is proof zey want you around," he flicks a speck of dust from the arm of his suit, "zhough I cannot see why."
"Why you sneaky French basta-"
"Holy shit, they even got the scar on my shouldah from when I got bit by that dog when I was three!"
The room directs its attention to the one who will be the Scout, nose pressed firmly against the glass of one of his copies, tapping insistently at its left shoulder.
"Of course they did," the Medic says, sounding a little insulted, "They are clones, Herr Scout, zey have every mark zat you have on your own body."
"Every mark?" The Scout doesn't turn away from his clone, instead searching it with renewed curiosity. "Even all my little freckles? Ma told me those would go away when I got older but they're still-"
"All of them, Herr Scout. Now get your face off of ze glass, you are smudging it," the Medic growls, marching over and wiping the places the young man's skin touched with the sleeve of his lab coat.
"Well that just unnerves me further," the man who will be the Sniper declares softly, scratching the side of his head, "thinkin' there's someone out there with all me intimate bits."
"T'be fair, we knew what was gonna happen when we signed our contracts," the Engineer replies, eyes shifting from one tube to the next now. ""Once employed by Mann Co., your DNA becomes the property of all companies herewith, to do with as each subsidiary sees fit," yadda yadda, I think that was the gist of it."
"Indeed it is. At ze moment, subdivisions RED und BLU require an unlimited number of mercenaries. Zat is vhat these clones are for. You all know zat," the Medic sighs, rubbing a temple with an index finger.
"Is that wha' that said? Our DNA? Hell, I knew I shouldn'a had that fifth bottle before goin' over the fine print," the man who will be the Demoman cries before taking a swig out of a bottle he's been holding, "but there's no use cryin' over it now. Still bloody freaky, though, if I'm honest with ye. Even if it does seem a mite comforting that there'll be another oot there like me."
"It vill be a vonder if your clone can survive the damage to your liver, let alone gunfire and explosives," the Medic mumbles, rubbing both temples now.
"You didn't make any improvements, then?" a man near the back asks, voice muffled slightly by a respirator. He is shorter than most of the men, a little thicker, with dark hair and hollow cheeks, but not ill-looking. He will be the Pyro.
The Medic looks impressed that the man credited him with a hand in the creation of the clones, and not just a faceless "them". He removes his hands from his head and smoothes out his coat. "Nein, zey are exactly as we are, down to their memories, though we did have to tamper with those a bit, so they would not question why they are fighting exact copies of themselves. But memories of home, loved ones, their education; they are all there. But considering we all passed rigorous physical tests to be chosen for zis project, there vas no need to make any improvements to the physical bodies. Although, Herr Pyro, a special mask und suit has been created for you."
It is hard to tell behind the mask that covers half his face, but the Medic thinks he sees the Pyro smile.
"Vell," the Medic announces to the room at large, "I think that has been all the time ve vere allotted for this show und tell. I am sure you are all very busy vith your own projects, so I must bid you auf Wiedersehen."
The men begin to file out when the Medic starts to shoo them with his hands, and soon the room is empty, save for himself and the only man who had not spoken yet. The medic recognizes him as the one who will be the Heavy Weapons Guy. The Heavy is paying the older man no mind, however, staring raptly at one of his copies. The Medic lets out a frustrated little growl and strides purposefully up to him.
"Herr Heavy, perhaps you did not hear me. You have vork to be doing, yes?"
"Nyet-ah, no, I finished vork for day. Is okay if I stay here for a while? Dis thing…" he gestures to the massive tube that holds his equally massive clone, "I need to study him. To… make peace vit him." He scratches the back of his neck. "Sorry, must not make sense."
The Medic regards him standoffishly, looking at him over the rims of his glasses. "No, it does not," he folds his arms behind his back, "but I will permit you to stay here a vhile longer if you are absolutely silent. You may not have vork, but I do, and I need quiet to accomplish it. Do you understand, Herr?"
"Da-yes. I understand. Will not be long, promise," the Heavy nods, giving the doctor a friendly smile. The Medic does not return it, instead heading to his desk, where he dives headlong into stacks of papers. The Heavy looks at him only moments longer before returning his studious gaze to the green reflection of himself, staying until the Medic begins to pack up for the day.
When the Heavy leaves-with a sheepish wave-the Medic lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, relieved to have the lab to himself once more.