OK so my link to the original fic didn't work, but it's honestly not THAT hard to just look up "CatBountry, cold Russian winter".

DISCLAIMER: IF I OWNED TF2 DO YOU REALLY THINK THIS WOULD BE FANFICTION AND NOT CANON?

The journey to 2fort had been a fairly long one. Not that anyone minded – they still barely knew eachother and had so much to talk about. Scout was yammering on animatedly about his seven brothers and how they all reminded him a little of these guys, which was cool because it would be more like back home. Engineer, Pyro and Soldier seemed interested in what he was saying, but there were plenty of other conversations going on aswell. Sniper had tucked himself neatly in the two back seats of the coach, hat over his eyes. Demo had remained somewhat apprehensive of Medic after everyone else had dismissed their suspicions. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to flatten, however, when it became apparent the Doctor was far more interested in how he lost his left eye than the colour of his skin. Medic himself kept stealing glances at Heavy between sentences, who was talking to Spy in French. He seemed a lot more fluent in that language than in English. Did he know other languages? Maybe he knew German? He realised Demo hadn't said anything for a while and looked over to find him asleep, face pressed against the window. Medic watched for a little while as his breath fogged up the glass and faded again, only to be fogged up once more by his increasingly deep respirations as he slumbered deeper and deeper. The Doctor couldn't complain – he was content whether he was being spoken to or not. Seeing as how the current case was "not", he sat back and thought about where his Doves might live once they arrived.

Of course, he didn't dwell on this for long. He thought about the protocol examinations he'd have to perform on everyone once they arrived, and how he could remain calm while he was examining the resident giant. He had been so terrified under Nazi rule that the slightest exression of interest in another man would have him thrown in a camp that he instead moulded himself into a metaphorical eunuch, not daring to interact with anyone on anything more than a social level. To his utmost shame, the result of this was that he had reached 48 years of age and still had yet to experience the pleasures of the flesh. But now – now that he was past the Reich, now that he was far from civilization – might he be able to allow himself to…give in? Medic tried not to shudder – out of dread or relief, he didn't know – and glanced over at the Heavy and back. Agh, one look wasn't enough! He turned his head back again and surveyed his new kamerad's rippling muscles, his impressive stature, his soft belly, his defined features and strong jaw…the sheer improbability of his presence sent a shiver down the physician's spine, and this time he knew it's trigger. If anything did happen, anything at all, please let it be with this biological wonder of science.

The team stepped out of the coach, one by one, and looked up at the lofty, redwood structure they'd be calling home. There was a small cluster of smaller buildings leading towards what they were informed would be the part of the base accessible for combat. Upon further exploration they discovered it was more like a fortress than a base; the Spy had advised they familiarise themselves with the various signs and maps up around the walls so that they could navigate the twisting corridors and byways without a second thought (And with any luck, the BLU base would have a similar geographic layout, despite it's vastly differing architecture). Everyone went their separate ways, each class finding the quickest route to the spots they'd be most useful. For some classes, like Sniper or Engineer this would generally be one or two places and vantage points, and for others like Spy and Scout they'd need to know shortcuts and passages all over the map. Pyro was left standing on its' lonesome, twiddling its' fingers and feverishly turning its' head from sign to sign, small, panicked sounding peeps escaping through the filter of its' mask.

Soldier was returning from his errand for Engineer, bringing some gear and blueprints into the Intelligence room, when he heard these signals of distress. What was the creature making them? Could it be a wild animal, maybe a small, unassuming robot animal BLU to spy on them? Anything was possible on a battlefield. At this thought he hugged the wall, bolt upright, as he thought out a reasonable plan of attack. He didn't know what angle the animal was facing, so he couldn't risk peering around the corner in case it spotted him. It sounded rather small and harmless – but if it was a robot it could have GIANT ROCKETS ATTATCHED TO IT'S KNEES OR SOMETHING! Soldier apologised to Shovel and equipped his rocket launcher. This cretin would stand no chance…

"AHAH! DON'T YOU MOVE AN IN—Oh. Pyro." At the sight of his startled little teammate Soldier lowered his weapon and stood up straight. "Um, I offer my most humble apologies for any cause of distress on my part."

"Huddahmmphuahham."

"You know, you'll have to take off that mask of yours sooner or later, if you want anyone to understand a word you're saying, Private. That is highly unorthodox and impractical uniform."

Pyro shifted its' weight from one foot to another and wrung its' hands. Soldier could see he'd have to adopt a friendlier tone if he wanted to help his comrade.

"Hey, what's got you down, Private?"

Pyro looked up at him and stayed that way for just a fraction of a second too long. It then jumped into motion and gestured wildly at the signs all around the corridors, shaking its' head and shrugging its' shoulders.

"Don't you…You don't understand the signs! That's it!"

"Huddah!" Pyro nodded enthusiastically.

"Private, can't you read?"

Pyro crossed its' hands behind its' back and looked down, its' boots pointing inward.

"Hey, that's OK. I'm not much of a reader myself, but I can get around. Maybe I can teach you? The you won't need help anymore! Improving on your comrades' efficiency is the first step to an unstoppable team."

Pyro jumped up and down and clapped its' hands in glee.

""Excellent! Let's start with…erm…" He looked around for an easy one, "THERE! 'FRONT LINE' – F,R,O,N,T spells front. These are all upper case letters though, let me show you how that word looks in lower case…" The two went off into resupply in search of paper and a pen. Pyro took Soldier's hand in the same way a small child would hold hands with their Daddy and skipped along beside him, whistling the tune of 'Do you believe in magic?'

Scout almost immediately climbed up onto the bridge roof and took running jumps onto the second floor of the RED base, much to the annoyance of the Sniper, who was trying to practise quickscoping to any doorway or entrance point he could see – since they'd met the youngster seemed to be on his own little mission to try and get him to say a sentence longer than five words, which was his current record. Now every time he zoomed in on something it was only a few seconds before a stray Bostonian appendage started flailing about in his vision as the Scout made yet another successful flight from roof to ledge.

"Oi." 1 word.

"What, man? There ain't nowhere else I can get a hang o' this, so ya betta put up with it, already! I mean, seriously! This ain't YOUR map, y'know. Ya can't jus' start hoggin' it wheneva ya feel like!"

"S'not a map." 4 and a half words.

"Well, what is it then, chucklenuts?!"

"…I 'unno. Not a map though." 6 words, but not in the same sentence. So close.

"You ain't much of a talker, are ya?"

Scout earned himself a languid shrug as confirmation. "Depends."

"On wut?"

"Interesting conversation's another story." Long words, but still only 4 nonetheless. Darn.

"Oh, so you're sayin' I'm borin' ya now, are ya? You're fuckin' rude, man. You don't even fuckin' know me!"

"Dun'ave to."

"Well, why the fuck not, man? We're gonna be livin' together, eatin' together, fightin' together…Hell, even fuckin' showerin' together! We'll all end up relyin' on eachother one way or another, so ya betta get used to other people now, while ya still got a clean fuckin' slate!"

If it weren't for his grating accent and need to punctuate every other sentence with obscenities, he that little speech probably would've even impressed Soldier. Scout had been unconsciously jogging up and down for the duration of the verbal tennis match, his dogtags duplicating his motions and making little chink-chink sounds. Without warning, Sniper leaned back on his left leg and held up the rifle in his fully-extended right arm in one swift movement. Before Scout could react he heard a crack loud enough to leave a faint ringing in his ears, and felt a slight tug on his neck which disappeared as soon as it came, followed by a small 'plop' in the water behind him. He grabbed his chest out of reflex, only to find that - to his horror – His brother's dogtags were gone.

"You listen here, boy - I used to track some proppa dangerous game in the Aussie outback, kid. I used to spend months on end by meself. If I got hurt or sick, I had to fucking suck it up an' sort it out on me own, coz there wos no bloody one to do it for me. And all that prolonged isolation and adrenaline rush and life-or-death, fight-or-flight living an' wot'ave you taught me a bloody valuable lesson, too: You don't have to rely on other people if you. Never. MISS." There, Sniper glared at the roof's current occupant, You got a bloody reaction outta me, now fuckin' leave me in peace.

"YOU FUCKING CUNT! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU FOR THAT!" Blinking away the threat of tears, Scout dove straight into the water, fully clothed, headset, satchel and all. The second he hit the water he started splashing and flailing about frantically in an attempt to recover his tags. He couldn't care less about the fact Sniper had finally responded like an actual human being, with actual sentences; How dare that bushie-bastard mess with those dogtags! He didn't fucking know where they came from or who they'd belonged to! For all he knew, they could've been family heirlooms or something. And that wasn't far off.

Scout had been born in 1946, the year after the war ended. His eldest brother, David, had given his life for Peace and Liberty. Scout had never met him, but on the morning of his 15th birthday his ma had presented him with a box of letters and photographs David had sent the family. The young boy had been filled with pride to learn that his brother had been a fighter pilot, pictured sitting on the bonnet of an F4U-Corsair, grinning for all he was worth. Scout couldn't remember how many times he'd read over every letter, studying every photograph in minute detail, and before long he felt like he'd known David all his life and he was still in the room with him, looking over his shoulder with a soft smile and a gentle hand on his youngest sibling's back. He remembered the shot of energy that ran down his spine when he first glimpsed the dogtags, and putting them on was another kettle of fish altogether - it made him feel ten feet tall, like he could do anything. Like his dead brother's spirit was holding him just above the ground wherever he went. Subsequently, he never took them off. Not ever, not to sleep, not to shower, never.

And now they were gone, just like that.
-Sniper didn't even bother to watch that annoying brat jump in. He'd just lap up the attention like a hungry dog, most likely. He lifted his rifle up over his shoulder and made his way over to a place called "Respawn/Resupply" Where – apparently - they'd be magically teleported after the grievous misfortune of their deaths, with no injuries or trauma to speak of. When he'd first heard about this he'd scoffed and figured this was just some stupid ploy to lull them into some false sense of security. Nobody could cheat death, no matter how rich or powerful these ponsey tossers seemed to think they were. He was jerked from his thoughts as he rounded a corner only to be met with a very stern looking Spy, who was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, as if he were expecting him. This was only confirmed when Sniper noticed the three cigarette butts clustered around his designer shoes.

"I waz watching zhat, you know. Every second. While - I assure you - I find your marksman skillz to be razher extraordinary, I feel your time viz only your right hand for company 'az left you somewhat socially inept. Did you not see zhat boy'z face when you destroyed 'iz plaques d'identité?"

"'Is wot?"

"Back to our minimal sentencez, are we? Did zhat dramatic monologue wear you out? I waz talking about 'iz dogtagz, Monsieur."

"Why'djou care?" (There's a line here I couldn't get rid of, just imagine it isn't there. Sorry guys)

"Because you 'ave wronged 'im. Gravely. If you understood what I am talking about, you wouldn't 'ave done what you did in zhe first place, but I can see you are in great need of some little factz."

"Piss off wiv yer facts."

"Non. While you were sleeping at ze back of zat coach ze entire journey, ze rest of us were making an effort to get to know eachozher, myself especially. Why? Becauze whatever you tell yourself, you will be relying on zhese men to look out for you, az zhey will expect you to look out for zhem."

"I've 'eard enuff o' this already."

"Au contraire."

"So what 'facts'?"

"Of course, I waz getting off subject, wazn't I?" A ring of smoke followed a leisurely path from Spy's face to Sniper's. He tried not to blink. "Out of interest, I asked him about zhose tagz of 'iz and 'e told me zhey had belonged to 'iz dead brozher."

Sniper visibly deflated. His shoulders sagged and his gaze shifted uncomfortably from side to side behind his aviators. He couldn't say anything.

"'E 'ad never met 'im, but 'e told me 'ow 'iz mozher 'ad given 'im a box on 'iz 15th birthday, full of all zhe letterz and photographz zhat young man 'ad sent to 'iz famiille while 'e waz fighting in zhe war. 'E clearly 'olds 'iz brozher close to 'iz 'eart. Il dit, which 'e iz wearing zhose dogtagz…'e feels az zhough 'iz brozher iz carrying 'im just above zhe ground, and 'e feels ten feet tall. Like 'e can do anyzhing. Anyway, I shan't bore you anymore wiz sentimental little detailz, no, you don't care for zhose; zhe plane 'ad been shot down by zhe gull-wings, apparently. 'E even won some medals."

Spy cloaked. In the silence of the corridor, Sniper could hear the slightest hint of the masked man's soft soles before he parted earshot. He felt rooted to the spot; he still couldn't say anything. He looked back out towards the front line – There was no sign of Scout, but he could hear him splashing about and coming up for air every so often. The young man's relentlessness, his desperation to find his lost treasure, made it even worse.

You're an awful, awful person, were the only words echoing through his mind.

Scout looked up briefly to see no sign of any tall, lanky men in the aviator glasses. Good. He didn't want anyone here. He didn't want to see or hear talk to anyone until his prized possessions were recovered. Losing them would be like losing his brother, like losing a part of himself! They bestowed a kind of confidence and strength upon him that nothing else could, he felt naked and vulnerable without them. He couldn't lose them. It just wasn't a possibility.

An hour passed before he saw a small glinting on the reservoir floor. He dived down as soon as he saw it and pounced like a soggy, red cat. His fingers were shrivelled and his eyes stung, he smelled of something he'd rather not place, the contents of his satchel (spare batteries, trainer spikes, laces, ammo, his handgun, etc.) were waterlogged to oblivion, his headset (which was designed to be somewhat waterproof) was positively destroyed by the prolonged marine conditions and he'd almost definitely need a new uniform, but he'd found them! He'd found his precious tags, he and his brother were together again and they'd never part from eachother, never, never, never! He tried to hold off his delirious euphoria but he just couldn't help the sudden rush of serotonin flowing through his veins. It felt like his brother's spirit had come home, and was filling his blood with all the rage and bravery he'd fought with in life!

He hurriedly climbed the wooden scaffolding and hoisted himself back up onto the bridge, falling a few times out of exhaustion (bearing in mind he's been keeping himself stationary in deep water for about an hour), but he made it in the end. The sudden shift from water to dry land made the sheer effort to pull his suddenly heavy body over the barrier and onto the warm, dry wood astounding. All he could do for god knows how long was kneel, leaning against the barrier, and gasp for air. It was all worth it, though. He'd got David back, and that was all that mattered.

He opened his palm to fins a twisted, rusting piece of metal with a giant bullet hole in it, framed witch an ugly, glaring burn mark all around the rim. He couldn't make out a thing.

When Scout came back in, he insisted his face was all blotchy because he'd taken a long swim, and nothing more. Spy gave him a sympathetic look.

His eyes only just caught Sniper's back leaving the room.