Story Notes: This is a story where everyone already knows the end result, but how exactly they came to be is unknown. Here, I attempt to bridge the gap.

This has been a 17 month odyssey, all to answer one fundamental question. It didn't start out that way, but that's what this story ended up being. Originally I saw an amazing piece of art by bielek on deviantart, and wanted to create a story for how such an image would come to be. But one thing led to another in my desire for a watertight plot, and it all resulted in the monstrosity you see before you. You can find the artwork at: ( art/ TF2-Spy-and-Sniper-353913415)

As stated before, the inspiration for this work came from Bielek's work, and from Car Crash by Three Days Grace.

Many thanks are due to penguinlove2506, for helping me get started. Without them, I would not be writing. You can find them at: (shye-bird. deviantart )

Many thanks and cookies are due to my beta, Taylorbeth. They always challenged me to improve and spent long hours debating canon and word choice with me. I am grateful to have met them, and even more so to have such a skilled editor. They can be found at: (TaylorBeth. deviantart ) or ( u/8292273/)

CYA: Valve stuff belongs to Valve. All original characters and places (ie, ones that Valve has not specifically created) belong to me. This story is quite obviously fiction. Any resemblance of characters, places, organizations, and any things to real life beyond historical ground truthing is coincidental. If I forget to cite any references, feel free to leave a comment.

This has been a long time coming. I bring you: Sandstorm.

1970

Badlands of New Mexico

Miss Pauling took her sunglasses off, squinted in the early morning sunlight, and peered into a set of large binoculars. Had someone asked where she got such a large pair, which were of such high quality as to be any CIA agent's dream, she probably would have had to kill them. As it was, most people who got close enough to see them were as good as dead. It was only a matter of time, and a matter of pride for Miss Pauling. She adjusted the straps on her backpack, which contained water, snacks, a hacksaw, and a shovel (because there was always the possibility that one of the many people she dealt with would get funny ideas about whose side they were on) and continued walking.

The desert sun skulked on the eastern horizon. All things considered, it wasn't a badtime to be walking a few miles in the Badlands of New Mexico. But had she been given a choice, a nice cafe with a good selection of coffee and pastries would have been a more comfortable place to collect important intelligence.

This particular intelligence, however, was so secret that she had to meet the courier in the middle of the godforsaken desert at these precise coordinates, and the man didn't even know what was in the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Which was why she had to wake up at stupid-o'clock, she had a tear in another pair of stockings, and there was sand in her shoes. Some days she really had to remind herself that she liked her job.

Miss Pauling stopped and pulled out the heavy GPS device from her bag, extending all of the antennas and waiting patiently for the device to announce her location. A few minutes later, the coordinates appeared on the screen. This was the place, sure enough. But where was the courier? She should have seen him by now. She checked her watch, which was one of those beautiful wind-up watches that came as a job bonus. It was the kind that wound using your own body movement and as a result was always on time. She was a few minutes early, but she should have at least seen the man.

Miss Pauling heaved a sigh. She hated having to track people down. It was so inconvenient, and awkward in public places.

Miss Pauling took a sip of her water and packed up her bag, sitting on it and looking around. Off in the distance she spied a few birds wheeling in the early dawn light, dark silhouettes against a crimson sky. She used her binoculars to get a better look at the circling birds. Vultures. A heavy weight settled in her stomach, and she headed off to see what they were drawn towards.

Had she arrived later in the day, the smell would have been unbearable. As it was, it was definitely the courier. Well, most of him. Part of his head was gone, for one thing. His hand was missing too, which she found after a brief search of the area.

And the briefcase. That was definitely the important part.

Miss Pauling forced a swell of panic down, trying to calm herself. As a last resort she pulled out her GPS again, initiating the tracking device in the briefcase. It could sense the signal from miles away, but as she swung the device around and listened, she didn't hear a single blip.

Her hands dropped, the GPS limp in her hands. Miss Pauling's shoulders slumped, and she drew a shaky breath. That information, a briefcase so important that the unfortunate courier had been killed for it, was so secret nobody should have known that it existed anymore. And it was gone. Nobody should have known it existed, let alone know that a copy of it was going to be here. And now? Who knew where it could be.

Miss Pauling sighed, rubbed her face, and set back out towards her truck. There was nothing more she could do here, except maybe scream and kick the body until she felt better. Removing fingerprints and burying bodies? She was an old pro at that. Finding a thief and murderer in the desert? Not so much.

This was a job for a professional.

Chapter Notes:

Within this story, some of the characters have accents, some thick enough to cut cheese with. I personally appreciate a little accent use, because when I read it's like a movie. With accents, I can 'hear' them a little better in my head and feel more realistic. There will be footnotes for relevant slang. If they're too thick for some people to understand, let me know and I can email them a cleaner version.

My mental theme song for Miss Pauling is Don't Fear the Reaper, by Blue Oyster Cult.