The Spy was slumped on the stairs near the top, his gun near his hand. A small pool of blood underneath him had dried to a dull brown at the edges, leaving a candy-bright center. The outhouse smell of fresh death suddenly, irrationally reminded her of garlic and the dumpsters outside restaurants—sweet decay and filth. Brown splotches in small sprays near his mouth attested to his last breaths, coughing up blood. His chest was misshapen, and his eyes starting to cloud. The Cook reached down, nudging his coat aside, to see that he had several broken ribs. His ribcage bent in at an odd angle on the exposed side, inward, as if caved in along a line. She realized he'd dragged himself, bloody handprints on the wall attesting to his difficulty walking, down to the door, to wait for her to come out, for revenge. He'd dressed himself to hide the injury and dragged himself there to waste his dying moments waiting to kill her.
She shivered and walked past him, seeking the Soldier's room. When she reached the familiar door, she paused. Miss Pauling, the Pyro, and the Scout caught up with her, her hand hovering over the door knob. They waited quietly, watching, for a moment.
"Go on, boys," Miss Pauling said. "Grab the Spy and take him outside the base. We'll be here."
When both men had walked off, Miss Pauling stepped forward. "You don't have to go in there," she said.
"I do," the Cook said softly. "I have to see."
"I promise he's dead. I double-checked with a gun."
"I have to see," the Cook repeated. "I can't … I can't imagine him dead, and I have to know when he haunts my nightmares that he's gone."
Miss Pauling looked at her, face softening. "I understand," she said. "He didn't even touch me, but he played a starring role in some of my nightmares."
The Cook looked at her, surprised.
"Oh, I still have nightmares," Miss Pauling said. "Everyone's brain finds a way to torture them." She reached past the Cook for the door and turned the handle. "Go in when you think you're ready."
The Cook took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The room was trashed—the desk chair broken and a leg lay near the Soldier's hand. The mattress was half off the bed, and several tools had been taken from the Soldier's rack. The awl, crusted with blood, stuck out of the Soldier's chest. His head was scattered chunks across the edge of the mattress and floor, bits of brain and scalp in a spray pattern behind his body. Bits of bone were embedded in the mattress behind him. The bottom of his face was still intact. The Cook followed his bare feet up to his lips and stayed here. Her memory fed her his lips moving, the water falling around them both, the feel of his kiss burning her forehead. Her memory fed her the sound of his voice, mockingly calling her a poor baby, his lips on her ear, whispering, as she suffocated underneath him.
Miss Pauling watched the Cook's face grow vacant. The Cook's lips formed words, sibilant with her breath, and Miss Pauling wondered what she was saying.
After a few minutes, the Cook shook herself and looked away. Her jaw clenched, and then she leaned down and took his bloody dog tags, unsnapping them to avoid dragging them through the viscera above his head.
"I'll keep my own trophies," she told his body softly. Her voice rose. "I wasn't too weak after all, you stupid fuck."
"No, you weren't," Miss Pauling said. "But that's a thing men like him do. They get so fucking impressed by the fact that they're male that they forget they're human." She walked over and kicked his corpse. "And they make stupid fucking mistakes."
Miss Pauling turned to the Cook, watching her look at the dog tags before putting them into a pocket on the overalls.
"His name was John," the Cook said, meeting Miss Pauling's eyes. "And he's dead now."
"That's usually the best thing you can say about that kind of enemy." Miss Pauling took several steps back and turned toward the door.
"I don't know how I feel about this." The Cook found herself staring at his bare feet. His body seemed smaller, pathetic without the glory of fear and the force of his malice.
Miss Pauling smiled wryly at her over a shoulder. "Give it a few weeks. You'll have feelings."
"I have them now," the Cook said, staring at the body again. "I just … they're like a flood. I can't figure out what they are, just that they're washing through me."
"Give it awhile," Miss Pauling repeated. "Come on. If you want to help, you should probably make food. I can't imagine anyone here has eaten much for the last few days, and this deserves a little celebration. I'd count it as a favor to be able to eat something that wasn't in a McDonald's wrapper—I've been searching for candidates and driving around the US for days. It can't be good for me, even with respawn."
The Cook laughed once, weakly. "Back to work?"
Miss Pauling looked at her, expression sharpening. "It's better than sitting around."
The Cook put her hands up. "You're probably right. I'll enlist the Engineer. He shouldn't be sitting around by himself."
By the time the bodies had been buried, the whole BLU team had emerged from their various hidey-holes. They dragged tables and chairs, even the living room sofa out of the base, and the Sniper and Demo both piled a huge mass of sun-baked wood inside the loose circle of furniture. The Pyro smiled before he doused it in kerosene and set it alight—like his RED counterpart, fire seemed to relax him. The Cook watched him step back from the roaring flame with a sigh that bordered on obscene from her position on the couch. The BLU Demo produced several crates of liquor, and the Cook, not bothering with food, snagged a bottle and collapsed on the couch. No one sat next to her, leaving her the space to stretch out with her head turned, watching the flames and polishing off the bottle in her hand. The flames were hypnotic, and she was content to let her brain empty of everything but the flame and her body flattened against the cushions. After a moment, she realized she was hearing a noise and turned her head. Above her, leaning over the edge of the couch, was the RED Spy.
"Hello Vipere," he said softly. "Are we still speaking?"
She stared at him, stunned, and looked around. The RED mercenaries stood near the edge of the light, and their BLU counterparts stared at them, openly hostile.
"You did not think," the RED Spy said quietly, "that we would not come as soon as we could, did you?"
She sat up, falling back and propping herself up carefully. "I solved a few problems," she slurred at the RED Spy.
"So I have been told." His expression was carefully neutral. "I hear it has been much calmer at the BLU base."
"We buried them today," she said, blinking sleepily at the RED Spy. She raised an arm and pointed at the fire. "And now we're celebrating." The Cook fell back. "I think I'm happy."
"I think, Vipere, that you're drunk. But it is not so bad to be." He sighed. "Look at your hair, your pretty hair." The Spy reached down, slowly, and touched her face. She flinched, and he closed his eyes. "It did not go well," he murmured. "Your time here."
She cackled at him, knocking her bottle over on the sand. "It went fantastic. Can't you tell? I'm fantastic. We're all fantastic. Everything is fantastic." In the back of her throat, the laughter sounded, just a moment, like a sob.
"Ahh, Vipere. I'm so sorry." The RED Spy gripped the back of the couch, digging his fingers into the tweed. "I'm so very sorry."
"I didn't break," she said. "I won."
"No, Vipere, you did not break, despite what they did to you." The RED Spy looked around the fire, ire heating his voice. "I don't know exactly what happened, but we will see you lot on the field."
"No one invited you," growled the BLU Heavy.
"Just … don't," the Cook slurred. "Let it go for a night."
"We brought our own party," the RED Demo said, bottles clinking in the box in front of him.
She could see the RED Pyro torn between looking at the BLU team and the flames dancing in front of him.
"Please," she said, trying to pronounce the words carefully. "Just for one night."
Miss Pauling emerged from the darkness, wearing a t shirt and jeans. She cleared her throat.
"Gentlemen," she said. "Pax for a night. I need some time off."
The RED Scout blushed up to his ears. "Yeah," he said. "I can do that."
The RED Spy sighed, tension flowing out of him. "Did you want company," he said to the Cook. "I do not want to make things worse."
She frowned at him as he slid in and out of focus. "I hate you, but you helped. What you did."
The Spy flinched, his head ducking. "It is how operatives are made. They must break you before you can learn how to resist. I did not know if they would capture you again. I wanted to armor you."
"You're an asshole for not telling me what you were up to." The Cook lifted her legs. "But you can sit on the couch."
He came over the back of the couch and sat down, her legs on his lap. "Whose overalls are those? And what happened to your hair?"
"The Engineer. And it made a convenient handle so I hacked it off."
She could feel him flinch again under her calves, but he said nothing. The RED Sniper approached the couch and, wordlessly, reached down and ran his fingers over the top of her head. He took a sharp breath, then let it out slowly and stayed there, hand on her stubbled head. She tilted her chin up. "Siddown."
He came back with a chair and a bottle, pulling the chair to the edge of the couch. He didn't touch her again, but she could feel him sitting there, drinking quietly. She closed her eyes, the stars above her spinning gently.
Some undetermined time later, she was poked on the arm. Miss Pauling crouched beside her on the sand. "Eat something."
"Not hungry," the Cook murmured, realizing that she was alone on the couch, but someone had pulled a blanket over her. Conversations eddied around her, laughter and speech becoming babble—a murmuring tide that she couldn't pick individual voices from.
"Don't care," Miss Pauling said, leaning in to balance with one hand on the couch.
The Cook realized hazily that Miss Pauling was swaying gently, and that her hair was down, a mane of black tendrils that moved gently in the breeze. "You're drunk," she said.
"You're drunk. Stick this in your face." Miss Pauling poked the Cook's face with a bun full of meat.
The Cook obediently took a bite, then the bun, and while Miss Pauling watched, devoured it hungrily.
"Sit up," Miss Pauling said. "I wanna sit down."
The Cook carefully sat up, looking around. The mercenaries sat in bunches and pairs by the fire, cross factions, talking. Miss Pauling flopped down on the couch next to her and poked her with an elbow. "Thank you," she said. "I've been trying to fix this shit forever."
"You're welcome," the Cook said, the food starting to sober her up slightly. "Did you ever find anyone for me to work with?"
"Not yet," Miss Pauling said. "It's not easy to find the right mix." She sighed and tilted her head back on the couch. The Cook looked over at the line of Miss Pauling's neck, watching her breathe, before tilting her own head back and scooting closer.
"What're you up to," Miss Pauling asked, softly.
"Nothing in particular," the Cook said. "Sometimes, it's just nice to touch."
Miss Pauling paused, as if unsure what to say. After a moment, she said, "Don't get too close. I'm pretty lonely myself. This job never stops, and it's been awhile."
The Cook put her head on Miss Pauling's shoulder and a few seconds later, Miss Pauling put an arm around her. They sat, watching the mercenaries talk.
"The RED Soldier covered you up," Miss Pauling said. "I think he doesn't know what to say right now."
"What is there to say," the Cook said. "We all went to war in our own ways."
Miss Pauling chuckled dryly. "A kind of war, anyway. Except it won't end until the brothers die or get bored." Her arm tightened, momentarily. "I didn't know it would last this long."
"When did you take the job?" The Cook shifted, working her head into the hollow of Miss Pauling's shoulder.
"Don't you know it isn't polite to ask how old I am?" Miss Pauling paused. "Oh hell, I'll answer. I'm about 100 years old."
"Jesus," the Cook said, and they sat quietly for awhile, watching the men sneak glances over at the couch. The RED Medic and Heavy slowly drifted together, sitting closer and closer until their thighs were pressed together. After a tense moment, the RED Heavy reached for his Medic and the Medic leaned over slightly, until his head rested on the Heavy's shoulder. The Heavy looked around, as if daring anyone to comment, but no one did. A few minutes later, the RED Sniper and Spy wandered off into the darkness together.
The BLU Heavy snorted. "Well shit, I should have known from the way the Sniper covers his ass on the field."
The RED Soldier glanced over at the Cook and Miss Pauling, then back into the flames. The two Scouts had apparently run back into the base for baseballs and bats, and were drunkenly playing a game of two-man baseball that involved entirely too much arguing. The Pyros appeared to be throwing small objects into the flame, causing gouts of colored sparks.
"I didn't think those two would get along, honestly," the Cook said.
"They have fire," Miss Pauling said, and shrugged. "You know what they say about first loves, and there's not a damn thing both of those men love more than fire."
The BLU Heavy stood up and stretched. "I think," he said, "that I'm going to go have the best night of sleep I've had in awhile." He pointed at the two women on the couch. "You two have fun. And if you want company, you know where I am."
Miss Pauling made a shooing motion with her free hand. "Believe it or not," she said, "it's possible to just cuddle."
"Not if I were in the middle," the Heavy said with a smirk, and walked back in the base.
The Cook and Miss Pauling looked at each other. "Straight men," Miss Pauling said, and the Cook laughed.
The RED Soldier finally stood up and walked over, standing just out of reach, fingers knotted around the neck of a bottle. "I … are you okay?"
"Yeah, Solly," the Cook said. "I'm good for now."
"I'm sorry about all this," he said, quietly. "I don't know what else to say."
"I'm sure," the Cook said, "that I'll have nightmares. But right now, I just want to be drunk and careless."
He smiled faintly. "I understand that one."
"Oh siddown," the Cook said. "You don't mind, do you," she asked Miss Pauling.
"Nah," Miss Pauling said. "I'm trying to get to drunk and careless, myself."
The RED Soldier sat at the very edge of the couch. "I don't want to intrude."
"Oh for fuck's sake," the Cook said.
"It's all right," Miss Pauling said, tension in her voice. "Just don't assume you can do anything without asking."
"I won't," he said quietly. "I just wanted to check and see if everything was all right."
"Is it just me," the Cook said to Miss Pauling, "or does everyone need reassurance tonight?"
Miss Pauling was silent for a moment. "One of the things you learn," she finally said, "about managing people is that they need a lot of reassurance. If you coop a bunch of people up and set them to killing each other for eternity, they get a little fragile."
The RED Soldier cleared his throat. "We're not entirely fragile."
"No," Miss Pauling said, "but you guys have been in a pressure cooker for the last fifty years. It'd make anyone weird."
"How about you," the Cook said.
Miss Pauling said nothing.
"Sorry," the Cook said.
"Don't worry about it," Miss Pauling said. "I think we're working on drunk and careless."
The RED Soldier cleared his throat again. "I think I'm going to go back to the base. I just needed to see that you were okay."
The Cook sat up and threw herself into his lap, hugging him. After a stiff moment, he hugged her back, lowering his nose to her hair. He whispered something she couldn't hear into her scalp, then let her go.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
When the Cook sat up, he smiled at them both and wandered off into the darkness.
"Still want to cuddle," Miss Pauling asked.
"Yeah," the Cook said, and settled back into Miss Pauling's arm. As the fire started to die, the party broke up, people wandering off and leaving the two women sitting on the couch, watching the embers slowly gray.