The Langelaan Countermeasure
This was his fault. This was all his fault.
The Engineer had only the best of intentions. It was supposed to be a better, faster, and sturdier machine. It had passed all other structural tests with flying colors. Why hadn't he checked it for that last possible problem? Probably because it was so damn rare that it could happen. Even if it did, it usually resulted in instant fatality. With all the other systems in place around here, death wasn't as big a deal. But this. This! His negligence had robbed a man of his humanity, had inflicted maddening pain and sorrow. He could fix this, but the cost—oh, God, the cost—
"What do you zink you are doing, laborer?"
The Engineer shot two feet up, like something had nipped him in the back. He almost dropped the heavy toolbox in his hands. Oh, no. He'd been found out. Worst of all, by the Spy. It wasn't that the Engineer was doing anything wrong at the moment, per say. He was simply loading his truck to—to—He didn't want to think about it. It was bad enough what he'd done. The guilt of what had to be done stuck in his throat.
He tried to cover his tracks. "O-oh. Good evenin', Spy. Never seen ya down here before."
"What can I say? You would never know if I were here at all." The Spy wrinkled his nose. It reeked of motor oil and sweat in the garage. "You still haven't answered my question."
"Just takin' a joy ride. Nice night n' all. Could use the fresh air to clean up my mind." The Engineer's leaden heart kept sliding down his chest, like it was going to fall out of his stomach. He felt nauseous, his knees weak. He just wanted to lie back down, sleep away this nightmare, and wake up refreshed the next morning. With coffee, toast, and jam. No malfunctioning equipment. No horrible accidents. No having to—dammit, why did he have to do this? His diaphragm was going to rip him apart from the inside out if he thought too long about it.
The Spy's eyes narrowed. He knew when he was being lied to. Lying was one of his special skills, and if anyone beneath him attempted to bluff him, he could catch them within seconds. The stocky man was frozen, trying to keep from shrinking away from the interrogating Frenchmen. The Spy smirked, his lips hovering just above his teeth. There was one way to determine what the Engineer was truly doing.
"Zen, you will not mind if I take a ride with you, no?" The Spy slid over to the passenger's side. He opened the door, slithering into the fabric-covered seats. What a tacky automobile. It gave off a strange odor of its own, fried plastic fumes coming off the dashboard. The ride of princes, no doubt.
The Engineer hesitated. No, no. He couldn't let the Spy see what he was going to do. None of his teammates should have to witness what he saw. His skin crawled at the memory of what he'd seen. Oh, he knew something was wrong. He just didn't understand how terrible his mistake was. Even worse, how much pain he was putting that poor bastard through. He chewed on the inside of his jaw. If he hadn't been so rash, he wouldn't have to lower himself to this.
A dark question taunted him. Could he do this? Did he think he could be so cold and cruel as to go perform this act? It never bothered him once to take the lives of the other team. Not one moment's hesitation. It certainly wouldn't be a permanent sin, by any means. The respawn machine would clean up his work, fix his problem. Still, it felt like betrayal, like having to shoot a rabid dog. No, worse. An inflicted human, one he'd infected. He couldn't get over that fact. Even now, he was trembling at the thought like a coward. Maybe he needed another man to steady his gun, hold him at knife-point until he did this deed. Keep him from running away.
His voice was dark, graveled. "If ya come with me, ya must not tell anyone what ya are about to see."
"Mais oui, laborer." The Spy gave the Engineer a slim smile with the second most chilling set of teeth he'd seen this week.
The Engineer stepped into his truck, already worn and defeated. The worst part of his night hadn't even begun yet. He opened the garage door, then turned the keys in the ignition. The truck grumbled, a low murmur filling up the dark night. With a shift of the stick, he set the truck in motion, his speed ponderous as he started down the lane. The sky was void of light, not even the moon rearing its face. Probably a storm coming through.
The Spy leaned back, kicking a leather shoe on the dash. "So. Now you may tell me what you are really going to do."
The Engineer's words fell out of his mouth like hot, heavy coals. "I'm gonna kill the Sniper."
Much like Asimov's famous Laws of Robotics, there are a set of rules that must be upheld when constructing teleporters. All of them focus not so much on the speed or range of the teleporter, but on sparing the rider from a painful death from inappropriate coordinates or environmental hazards. The first rule was that there had to be a designated starting and ending point. If one or the other went missing, any potential subjects being teleported must be scattered to the four winds. The second one was that a teleporter's start and exit must not be placed in such a location as to cause harm to its travelers. The third one—the one that the Engineer had not tested against—stated that if the genetic similarity between a pre-rider and a post-rider is not ninety-eight percent similar, the subject needs immediate medical attention or to be euthanized as to spare it a horrible transformation. Most people didn't survive below the ninety-eight percent consistency anyway, but there was the rare occasion where it could happen.
This last law is known as the Langelaan Countermeasure.
This new model had worked remarkable well, especially for the close-quarter struggles. It kept free of dust, was hardier, and even a touch faster. The Engineer hadn't even had to pay it much attention. The enemy Demoman was making short work of his sentries today, so he had bigger problems than to worry about some prototype that was still functioning. Besides, everybody else had passed just fine through it.
The Engineer always got little thanks as his teammates went through. Frankly, it was no big deal, but he liked the compliments. Perhaps he was a touch vain like that. The Heavy had passed through just fine, giving the Engineer a wide grin and a salutation as he continued his slaughter. So had the Soldier, his Demoman, the Heavy again, the Medic—everybody went through without a stitch of trouble. It was just one that had gone wrong, one that had started with a thankful message and ended with a strange, painful yowl. "Thanks for that, Truck-aagh!"
Well, normally the Engineer didn't pay too much attention to the howling and yelps around him, but this one caught him off guard. He slunk into the rickety building behind him, just to check on what had happened. After all, if an enemy Spy was killing his teammates at the teleporter, he might as well go give him a clunk on the head. It was just the Sniper, standing alone and checking his ankles.
"What's the matter, Stretch?" The Engineer looked at the Sniper's boots. The leather hadn't been torn, so he couldn't have been hurt down there.
The Sniper hissed. "Somethin' bit me. I'm sure it did."
The Engineer had tried to ease his mind. "Doesn't look like anythin' got past yer boots. Maybe ya should see the doc, though?"
"That quack's got better things to do than ta be looken' at every little knick I get." The Sniper had his pride in his self-reliance. It cost him his life on a couple of occasions, but it wasn't anything the Engineer could shake out of his skull. Besides, he was okay on his own. He relied on a little bit of solitary skulking. That still didn't mean that the Engineer would forget about his needs, though. The whole team had to be up and moving as long and as efficiently as possible if they wanted to win.
Still, he let his worries go. The Sniper was a grown man, after all. Better just to leave the Australian to his role than to ignore his own purpose. "All right. But ya get back here if yer feelin' sick, all right? Got a dispenser with yer name on it."
That earned him the Sniper's delayed gratitude. "Thanks, Dell."
With that, he'd just dropped it. Like it meant nothing. He had bigger things to deal with, after all. The enemy Soldier decided to blast his sentry to robot heaven, so there was more work to be done. There had been an odd scent in the air since that incident, though. Sort of like hot electronics and charred flesh. Well, it always smelt like that around the Pyro, but it wasn't burnt human skin. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, though.
Well, it didn't look like it had mattered all that much, anyway. There was only an hour left of their fighting for the day. He had a few accidents, but it wasn't anything the respawn machine couldn't fix. The Sniper must have done all right for himself. Certainly didn't get killed or respawned. Perhaps if he had, this problem wouldn't have festered and manifested. It was hard to say, particularly with how fickle the respawn generator acted.
He didn't realize it, but the Engineer had noticed the symptoms of the Sniper's teleporter accident that evening. It wasn't a grandiose display, either. The Sniper just wasn't hungry. That skinny bastard could go for days without eating if he wanted, but he usually ate supper with the group. He spent the entire meal staring at the peas and potatoes on his plate, confused and weary. Perhaps nobody else had noticed with the Scout's overblown accounts of his day, but it had caught the Engineer's eye.
Of course, there was a time and a place to ask about these things. A man didn't go forcing a diagnostic check on another man. Not unless they were a doctor, anyway. Still, after the meal was over, and the dishes were cleaned and put away, the Engineer went to check up on the Sniper. It was relatively easy, considering he lived in his van, parked the garage where the Texan did his work. Sometimes the Australian would even poke his head out and help him with little tasks. It was an odd arrangement, like having a wild tom living in a farm house. He did make for pleasing company, though.
The Engineer knocked on the Sniper's passenger door. "Mundy? Doin' okay?"
Usually, that would earn him entry into the van. All it got him that time was a muffled response. "'m foine. Tired."
Strange. It was only seven o'clock. Still, that was none of his business. So the Sniper wasn't talkative, wasn't hungry, and was overly tired. Maybe he'd had a taxing day. The Engineer tried to be as considerate as possible. After all, knowing when to leave people alone was a critical characteristic for any genteel Southerner. He gave the door a soft little pat. "All right. I'm gonna be worken' on things, but ya just let me know if I'm botherin' ya."
"G'night," was the last word he heard from the Sniper.
The Engineer worked into the middle of the night, repairing vehicles and redesigning his schematics. If he ever bothered the Sniper, he didn't know. The Australian probably slept through his racket. Again, the Engineer didn't pay it much mind. After all, he was a busy man with a lot of work ahead of him. He couldn't stop and fix every little problem that his teammates had, or he would never get anything done.
Still, he had to wonder about those teleporters he had used today. He gave them a quick glance, but he didn't find anything strange about them. There was a little dirt in the exit, a little smudge on the entrance. He cleaned and brushed debris out, then gave the wiring a good check. Everything seemed to be working. Whatever startled the Sniper must have been a one-time event. In any case, the Engineer tabled the new teleporter design, just in case there was some error he needed to replicate.
The horror didn't make itself clear to the Engineer until the Sniper tried to kill him the next day.
Author's Note:
Is it just me, or is the Engineer's Frontier Flyboy attachment adorable? Not a big fan of the bug feet or the creepy fly mask, but those wings are precious.
One may ask why I keep writing stories where technology keeps screwing things up. I'm not a Luddite, swear to God. I program websites for a living. Still, I live in constant paranoia that I will forget to secure something properly, and then personal information will go flying out the door.
One may also look into why I feel I need to write stories where everybody's Captain Ahab-ing it up, but I think that's because I don't deal well with writing subtle threats.
Anyway. Intrigued? Amused? Let me know. I am to entertain.