Prompt – (1) Introduction – 1/100
Characters – all.
Word count – 811
Disclaimer - Not mine. Gaben, I wish you all the sandviches.
Author's Note - Prompts from - community/projects/913493. I apologize in advance, but the ETF2L Highlander tournament has done this to me, along with the Polycount update. Also, some of this is total fluff, and I'm a sap for Pyro and Engie.
Introduction
Nine men clad in blue boarded a train to a place they knew only as Dustbowl. They met on the train for the first time, each man shuffling onto the chartered coach with their single allowed suitcase in tow. A radio played in the background, and the car was austere in its décor. Some of the men were already in their new uniforms, some of which had been already modified to suit its owner's preferences, tied together only by the common coloration. They sat in their seats, trying to avoid eye contact, all possessing at least a measure of trepidation.
At least until the rail-thin young man with a wide open face and big green eyes began shouting at the innocent radio. "Sox and the Yankees, man!" he pumped his fist, the twang of Boston's south side coloring his words. The ice now broken, the rest of the men began introductions, by job description, as required per contract.
Heavy was a giant of a man with a thick Russian accent, yet carefully modulated his behavior around some of the more skittish members of the team. His shaved skull was the enormous, and his legs were as big around as Demo's waist, yet when he smiled he was reminiscent of a giant (teddy) bear.
Demo was rambunctious; pulling swigs of some dark alcohol he called "Scrumpy" from a flask, regaling the others with takes of some monster in Loch Ness and of how he lost his eye. His other eye remained clear though, regardless of the amount of liquor he imbibed.
Sniper was a novelty, being from Australia, as with his kukri. Scout was especially impressed with the blade, given it was nearly the same size as himself. He, too, had stories to tell, and promised a night of ghost stories around a campfire in the not-too-distant future. He indicated that he didn't often associate with groups in general, but that this group had caught his fancy.
Medic was in his mid-twenties at most, far younger than most others of his class. He had dark circles under his eyes, and came across as relatively timid. Soldier had given him a hard look after discovering the German's origins, but the younger man was forthcoming. "I don't remember zhe war," he confessed, his German accent faint and seemed to only come out when he was distressed. "My mother was German, but my father was a Polish Jew. We defected while I was still a babe-in-arms, and made it to England." Soldier had still looked skeptical, but had relaxed visibly after the revelation.
Other than his intense dislike of Nazis, Soldier was certifiably mad. He held his shovel for the entire ride, occasionally pausing his conversation with it to interject comments to his teammates. He would look up, look around (with his helmet covering his eyes), then go back to his mutterings.
Spy looked downright spiffy in his blue pinstriped suit, impeccably pressed. Without his mask on, he looked benignly unremarkable, like any person on the street. With the mask on, it was the difference between night and day – his entire aura became darker, more sinister. He grinned widely at his team, and began navigating conversations in Russian, German, and technophile.
Engineer (or Engie, as Scout immediately dubbed him) appreciated the gesture that Spy made, since most of his technical knowledge went clear over the heads of the others. After a while, he pulled out a blueprint sheet and began scribbling notes, occasionally reaching up to push his goggles farther up his helmet.
Scout spent the entire ride chattering to random people, being just short of annoying. He was the youngest of the group by a few years, but by the time the train pulled into the next station, everyone felt as if they had grown up with the young man. His exuberance for life in general amused the older men, bringing secret smiles to their faces.
The final member of the group began the trip with what looked like a hazmat suit pulled up to his waist and a pullover sweatshirt, face buried in the shadow of the hood. "So what's your job, mate?" Sniper asked, polishing the stock of his sniper rifle. "Pyro," the shorter man (a few hairs shorter than Engie) replied, hesitantly pushing his hood back. A thick, ropey scar, white with age, ran down the left side of his face, starting just below his eye, tracing his jaw line, and then plunging down his neck and beneath his shirt. He did his best not to look nervous, but his young face, red hair and freckles did anything but discourage that.
Scout succeeded in interrupting the situation by nearly jumping into him. "Hey man, how do you feel about the Sox this season?"
Folding his arms across his chest, Pyro's simple reply of "Dodgers" set off a new round of discussion.