As Miss Pauling watched, the Cook threw great gouts of silver at the wall, following the hardy forks, spoons and knives with cups, plates, glass—anything that made a concussive explosion, incongruously nude beneath an oversized thermal shirt. The skin of her thighs and ass shook with the force she applied to throwing, pitching over-handed as if attempting to knock out an invisible batter. The kitchen floor rapidly became dangerous, and she cut her feet without appearing to notice the red smears she had left on the floor, focused on keeping the torrent of breakable and unbreakable objects in the kitchen flowing. Miss Pauling sighed wryly. They were too much of a size for her to tackle the Cook, and wrestling with her would, unfortunately, be a bit too tempting for the mercenaries to see as prurient. The woman was, while not classically pretty, certainly attractive and Miss Pauling was not so work-focused that she did not notice her own frustration.

For not the first time, she bemoaned signing a contract that gave her a single day off a year. There hadn't been much in the way of alternatives to signing, so she had. Despite herself, Miss Pauling had spent the last century watching and helping the company arrange these sorts of scenarios—manipulating individuals and situations to their advantage—with the respect of someone witnessing a multidimensional chess game played by masters. The mind-boggling stress of the job, thanks to regular trips through respawn, never had time to drag her into chronic exhaustion. However, at times like these she found herself wishing to be able to spend more time not waiting for the phone to ring and yet another trip to some corner of the world to threaten or simply get rid of strangers. Stolen moments in the form of a nice dinner or a cappuccino on the Piazza Navona, Miss Pauling thought, are not a substitute for a vacation. While she'd never have to worry about disease or pregnancy, thanks to respawn, she often didn't bother to find company for her day off—too much trouble to bother and far too many questions she couldn't answer about herself. It was the pleasure of silence she missed most.

The Engineer returned with the Heavy, their boots thudding in the hall, a few minutes later. Both stood in the doorway watching the Cook wreck the kitchen, still snarling and flushed with rage, feet leaving red smears on the glass-scattered floor. Miss Pauling stepped daintily over a snarled pile of silverware. "Grab her," she said, jerking her head, "before she runs out of things to throw."

The Heavy waded into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around the Cook, who started screaming at the top of her lungs, breaking her snarled, spitting rant. He sighed, then turned them both around. Clearing an area with his foot, he slid down to the floor on the least wrecked side of the room, holding her to his chest with an arm and rubbing her head gently with his free hand.

When she finally stopped screaming, then crying, then swearing, the base was dead silent. Miss Pauling stuck her head out of the door, noticing the lingering crowd.

"She didn't take the news well, did she," the Soldier said, amusement making a comic mask of his features. "I told her, but she didn't believe me."

Miss Pauling looked at him, the skin beside her eyes tight with hate and the urge to simply get rid of the man. "I can't imagine why."

"Oh," he said, lightly, "we're good company when we want to be. She certainly appeared to like some of it."

Miss Pauling stared him, an eyebrow crooking and the edges of her lips turning down. "That," she said sharply, "I doubt. Tell me something. Are you even capable of toning your psychopathy down enough to consider someone else's pleasure or comfort?"

The Soldier put his hand to his chest, scratching absently. "I could, but why would I? That's sort of the point of psychopathy, as I'm sure you know. We're the last man"—he nodded at her guns—"or woman standing, by any means necessary. How many have you clean up over the years?"

Miss Pauling looked at him, expression draining from her face and leaving it flat, with her voice. "Enough."

"So, hundreds? Thousands?"

"As many as the company asks me to."

"Forever and ever, killing. Sounds like our job, only you get to travel while we stay chained here like bad dogs." He laughed, pleased with his own analogy, and barked at her. "Why should any of us be good little puppies?"

"I could," said Miss Pauling, "fix your problem permanently."

He smiled sweetly. "And where would you find a replacement soldier who wasn't on someone's watch list? Where would you find someone in this snoopy age who could disappear to the middle of nowhere?"

She shrugged. "Plenty of homeless vets hanging about."

The Soldier smiled at her nastily. "Would they survive this? People cry and crack so easily these days. Our television is full of people crying over this small thing or that, a nation of children looking for daddy."

Miss Pauling took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I am going to find your replacement, she thought, and I'm going to kill you myself, if I get to you before your teammates or that poor woman does. "You are not irreplaceable. And your teammates have some scores to settle with you."

The Soldier turned, looking at the men around him. "Well? Anyone upset and want to talk about it up close and personal?"

The Heavy cleared his throat from the kitchen floor. "Take the conversation somewhere else for a little while."

Miss Pauling held up a finger. "I'm not done with the girl talk," she said, over her shoulder.

Looking around the hall, she said, "Well, gentlemen, if you have scores to settle, get it over with. However, and I'll repeat myself, respawn is not off for all of you."

The Soldier spread his hands. "It'll come back on at some point. Anyone who feels like getting even can try. They'll fail, but they can try."

The Spy snorted and shimmered out of sight.

The Medic looked around. "You can, of course, try, but if I am no longer here, I cannot patch up the results of you trying." With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back toward the surgery.

The Soldier waited a few more seconds. "That's what I thought." He looked over at Miss Pauling, pointing a long finger at her and coming within inches of her chest. "Don't both of you wander off on me, now."

Miss Pauling smiled mirthlessly and reached for her gun butts. The Soldier shrugged and backed away, finally turning and stalking off in irritation, muttering under his breath.

The Engineer hovered, uncertain. Behind him, the Sniper leaned against the wall, eyes shaded by his hat, watching intently.

The Demo sighed. "I'd best go rig my door to blow if that lot is desperate for firepower." Muttering to himself, he stalked down the hall.

The Sniper pushed off the wall. "Some of this could have been avoided if you had designated some sort of command structure to deal with that asshole, instead of letting him decide he was the boss." He pulled his hands from his pockets and tipped his hat back slightly. "If the brothers had any military experience at all, they'd have known not to do that shit. Hell, if they had any management experience, they'd have known better."

"Why," said Miss Pauling drily. "Are you volunteering?"

The Sniper snorted. "Hell, no. He's your worry, not mine."

Miss Pauling rubbed her forehead. "Tell me about it."

He shrugged. "I'm going to go lock myself in my camper until respawn is back on just in case one of those assholes gets bored or needs to take it out on someone." The Sniper turned and walked down the hall surprisingly quietly, his boots making a faint click as they hit the floor and his head turning slightly as he scanned for threats.

The Scout and Engineer looked at the Pyro, who stared into the kitchen. "I'm dying," he said quietly, to see what happens next."

"What happens next," said Miss Pauling, "is that I have to have a chat with our little friend here."

The Cook looked up. "No, I have to have a chat with them." She tilted her head up, looking at the Heavy. "Do you trust them?"

The Heavy blinked. "They have the most to lose if things continue on the way they have been." He looked at the Engineer, Scout, and Pyro. "The Pyro defends himself best, but they have weathered the worst of those three. So, if this has to do with those fucks, I'd trust this group."

The Pyro looked at him, cocking his head. "Are we a conspiracy? How do we keep those three from finding out?"

Miss Pauling smiled grimly and pulled a small, slim remote from her pocket. Looking down, she typed a combination into it. "Somewhere," she said, "both Spies just discovered that their cloak no longer works." She tucked the remote back into a pocket in her skirt. "We wouldn't give them a tool like that without a leash."

She looked over at the Cook. "I'll give you a moment of privacy for this, but that conversation we had is none of their business." Miss Pauling jerked her thumb over her shoulder, looking at the men in the hallway. "Go have a very short conversation. I'll watch the door."

After they had filed in, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, waiting.

The Cook took a breath. "Let go, Heavy." When he did, she sighed, resting her elbows on her knees. "I've been here all of 24 hours and I have to say, I don't know how you've all managed."

The Pyro shifted, then ran a hand across his stubble. "You do what you have to."

"It…" She paused, selecting her words carefully. "I need to ask some questions about things, and I need you to answer me as honestly as possible. I need to know what those three are afraid of, or at least what they don't want to do."

In the resulting silence, she said, "I know the Soldier is afraid of Miss Pauling. How about the Medic and the Spy?"

The Scout looked down at his feet and mumbled, then cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. "He's afraid she's a better killer than he is. It's why he keeps trying to intimidate her. He's got a… thing about women." He looked around at the men in the kitchen, flinching.

Hysterical laughter burbled up in the Cook's throat and she swallowed heavily. "I can see that," she finally said.

Behind her, the Heavy rumbled. "Men such as he have problems with anything they think soft or weak." His fingers squeezed his thighs for a moment and she put her hands on his, patting them gently. The Heavy froze, then wrapped his fingers around hers and held them.

The Engineer spoke quietly, watching their hands with an expression that vacillated between pain and hunger. "He's not alone. The Spy hates her because she knows some of his secrets." He followed her arms up to her face. "She knows most of our secrets."

She looked over at the Pyro, leaning against the counter—we'll settle things later, she thought. He shrugged, watching the coolness on her face when she looked at him. "I don't spend that much time with any of them, but I don't think the Medic cares. I don't think the Medic cares about anything but those birds he has and getting to play with something. The company is there, as far as he's concerned, to keep him out of trouble. And we're here to relieve his anxiety."

The Heavy shifted behind the Cook. "He's a coward. He inflicts pain but hides from it behind me. He is afraid of her now that she's hurt him."

She couldn't stop herself from shuddering at the word play. The Pyro watched, eyes narrowed. "So he's spent a little time with you."

The Cook looked up at him, face blank for a moment before responding. "Yes. He has."

The whole room, Heavy included, grew silent—memories, separate and united by the common figure in them. She shook herself and looked up, eyes haunted. "How are you all planning on dealing with respawn being off?"

The Engineer summed the situation up for everyone with one word: hiding.

She looked at him, considering. "Could you rig turrets to identify only a few people on this team?"

He blinked, straightening. "I'm using color recognition."

"Can you use anything else?"

The Engineer scratched his head. "Actually, it wouldn't be that hard to set up some sort of RFID transmitter and receiver. I haven't before because they're… they retaliate. But if respawn is off and one of them dies because of a turret, they can't retaliate." For a moment, in his sunken eyes, she saw hope flare. Miss Pauling asked me to remind them that it doesn't have to be like this, she thought. At least I actually want to do that.

"It'll keep them out of your workshop," she said, smiling at him. "Can you help anyone else?"

He tapped his chin with a finger, his eyes unfocusing. "Yeah. I mean, I could give a few other people tags that would let them go in there."

"Lady," the Pyro said, hostility clear in his voice, "don't get me wrong, it's nice that you're trying to plan and better if you're around to be fucked, but why the fuck do you care? Miss Pauling is going to take you back, isn't she?"

The Cook looked at him for a second, face bleak. "No, she probably isn't. They can't find anyone to stay here, and she seems to think that…" She trailed off and looked through the Pyro.

He stared at her, hostility becoming a faint sadness. "Jesus, lady. I mean, I'm happy you're here distracting them, but that is some harsh shit."

The Pyro watched her shoulders slump. "I know," she murmured.

"At some point," he said, "I want to know where they dug you up that you haven't gone fully psychotic by now. They've been hard enough on me. If I had to deal with the shit you and these fucks had, I'd have gone the full 'here's Johnny,' axe and all, on the base."

The Cook took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and reaching up absently to play with the bristle on her head. "How do they feel about each other?"

The Scout scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor. "The Soldier hates the Medic, but the Spy can work with both of them and sometimes get them to work together."

"Why," the Cook said slowly, "does the Soldier hate the Medic?"

"Because the Medic was told to drug him when he first came and played with him a bit. Did he ever tell you what they found him doing when he was arrested?" The Scout wrapped his arms around himself, his expression pinched and pale.

"No," the Cook said, paling as her imagination fed her the likely reasons.

"He'd been collecting people at this cabin he had in the woods. He played with them for awhile. He didn't kill them, he just… broke their heads. And then he'd drive them into town and just let them go. He kept collecting more and more important people, like he was daring someone to catch him. When they bought him here, he was quiet at first, because they needed to transport him and they doped him up. But the Medic started to play with him while he was doped up."

The Cook's skin crawled, standing in high bumps all over her body, the hairs raised.

The Scout continued. "The Medic was lazy with him, and he got loose. The Soldier carved holes all over the Medic's body, just kept hacking and hacking. When he figured out where respawn was, he ambushed the Medic for a week, cutting him to ribbons even when they were supposed to be on the field. They had to send Miss Pauling in to break it up. Since then, they've been real careful around each other."

"Then how," she swallowed heavily, "how does the Spy get them to get along?"

"The Spy cleans up nice, and he's real good at getting people to do stuff. He's pretty charming when he wants to be, and he comes up with ideas that the Soldier likes. And he's good at getting people to come with him, so he helps the Medic find someone to play with." The Scout's fingers dug into his sides. "He lies real easy, like he cares about you, and then you can't get away."

She looked at the expression on his face, now familiar rage rising again and shoving away her fear. "What if they didn't trust the Spy anymore?"

The Scout rocked back on his heels, thinking. "They'd get worse, maybe? Or better? The Spy is good at managing them, at giving them something to do. If they didn't have him, they'd get really tense. I don't think the Soldier is very good at controlling himself, and the Medic gets spacey and irritable."

"He would probably," said the Pyro quietly, "stop healing us altogether. He doesn't like to heal people. It's like he can't resist hurting someone, and if he doesn't have someone to hurt, he hurts everybody."

The Cook pulled her knees up, putting her chin on them. "That would upset Blutarch, wouldn't it? 'Cause it would bring your kill counts down. I mean, once you're all back on the field."

After a moment, the Heavy cleared his throat. "How do we get them to distrust the Spy?"

The Cook sat quietly. "I think I can do that one myself. But you should probably all spend this time in the Engineer's lab, with your tags. I'm a new toy, and no matter what else they do, they probably won't kill me. And if they do, I don't have to put up with any of this anymore." She reached up, cradling her face in both hands. "I win either way," she said, voice muffled.

The Pyro looked down at her, fine lines around his faded green eyes becoming more pronounced. "Be careful. They're not easy to fool. And try not to die."

"I don't think they will be," she said slowly, shoulders hunching. "I'm not sure I care if they kill me, but I'll try not to antagonize them too much."

"I don't understand," the Engineer said. "Why you? What can you do?"

She looked up at him, clutching her knees, a bitter smile on her face. "I'm no threat at all. I can do anything."