Early-morning clouds rolled across the sky, hiding the sun from view. Pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks, umbrellas at the ready for the rain that looked like it could start at any minute. Cars waited in bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns blaring and lights flaring as everyone hurried to get where they were going before the storm began.
But Conagher didn't notice any of that. Instead, he kicked his feet up in his threadbare recliner and took a deep, content breath.
For the first time in days, the apartment was empty.
Fischer had been happy enough to let the other mercenaries stay at his home. As far as they knew, Conagher spent the night scrubbing carpets and scouring walls so the landlord wouldn't keep his damage department.
Surprisingly, they'd bought it, filing out the door with a few halfhearted offers to help and promising to cover the Texan's latrine duties once they made it back to Teufort. Conagher had smiled and nodded and slammed the door none-to-gently as soon as the last one crossed the threshold. Then, he had parked himself in the recliner, ordered a pizza, and spent the night watching his favorite John Wayne movies.
Now, though, there were other things to attend to.
He stood, stretching through the series of pops and cracks that made their way through his knees and spine. The sounds from the street below – the horns, the steady thrum of engines, the distant thunder – drifted through the apartment's thin walls as he made his way down the hallway and toward the bedroom. He nudged the door open and surveyed its sparse contents.
In Teufort, the Texan had learned to live out of a suitcase and whatever could fit in a two-by-five alcove. More than once, he'd wished he could go back to that kind of controlled environment. Especially when he stopped and really stared at the awful mess his bedroom tended to be.
With a sigh, Conagher stooped and scooped up an armload of clothes. If he hurried, he might be able to grab an open washer and manage a couple of loads before the crowds came in. Then it would be back to storage for all but a couple pairs of clothes. He absently wondered if his name was still in the storage unit's system.
Once Conagher finished the laundry, it took him less than an hour to gather everything into one corner of the living room. From there, he divided his toiletries into a small mesh bag and folded enough clean clothes to last him a few days. The new sentry, a disassembled pile of metal rods and wires, was stuffed into a duffel bag. He had a feeling Helen wouldn't approve of any new technology, but that wouldn't stop him from trying to bring it in.
Finally, he shoved his remaining clothes into two trash bags and slung one over each shoulder. He couldn't help but feel a sense of finality as he pulled the apartment door shut behind him, even though he knew he'd be back to get the rest of his stuff. A sense of deja vu washed over him.
At least this time he knew what to expect when he stepped off the train.
(-)
"Ahahaha! Ivan never melted car before!" Flames illuminated the Russian's enormous smile. He stood, hands on hips, and stared at the white-hot wreckage in front of him.
Grinning, Fischer took the flamethrower from Ivan. "Fun, innit? I have a bus in the back, if you want to give that one a try, too."
Ivan squealed, bouncing on his heels and clapping his hands. His laugh was almost drowned out by the sound of metal collapsing on itself. "Take me to bus, Pyro!"
The two disappeared around the charred remains of what might have been a railroad car, leaving the remaining mercenaries lounging on the concrete patio. A few moments later, Ivan's hearty laughter echoed through the wreckage, sending the few birds who dared to perch in Fischer's backyard scrambling for the safety of trees across the street.
Lawrence leaned against the metal railing that circled the patio, adjusting the sunglasses perched on top of his head. In the distance, a grayish haze enveloped Conagher's side of town, and the dark-bellied clouds overhead promised rain would hit them any minute.
"I should have come here weeks ago!" Doe dropped next to him, a mountain of bacon and eggs – courtesy of the cook – piled onto a plastic plate. His next words were muffled by a fist-sized bite of eggs. "This is real food. Man's food, not that namby-pamby microwave crap Conagher lives off of. That sorry excuse for a cowboy might as well be some teenage girl, living off... what do girls eat? Salads? Kittens?"
All Lawrence could manage in reply was a grunt. Truth be told, after spending nearly a week at Conagher's side, he felt like half his brain was missing. The half that took the Australian's half-baked ideas and turned them into something brilliant. Or at the very least, workable.
And there was plenty that needed turning. They were twenty-four hours from their deadline, and they were still missing their Spy. Lawrence had spent half the night brainstorming ways to approach the Frenchman, ranging from reasoning to outright begging to hitting him on the head with a brick and dragging him to the van.
Absently, he wondered if Fischer had access to chloroform. That could work.
"Hey, Doc." When Niklas looked up from his perch on the doorstep, Lawrence waved him over. With a grunt, the doctor stood, stowing the copy of Miss Middy Magazine he'd been reading under one arm.
"Ja, Herr Mundy?"
A muffled explosion came from behind the rail car. A moment later, Ivan's laughter was joined by a manic chuckle that could only belong to Fischer.
"Y'think you remember the way to Antoine's place? If I drove you?"
For a moment, Niklas's mind shot back to earlier in the week, when he'd spent an hour wandering the streets in a floral-print dress. After the Frenchman had rescued him, he'd spent the entire car ride staring out the window, his face set in an embarrassed scowl.
"Ja. I remember ze vay."
Lawrence straightened, stretching his arms over his head. Spending four nights curled into a tight ball on thin carpet was better than nearly freezing to death at night in his van, sure, but it wasn't doing any favors on his back. "Good."
"Are ve going to get him?"
"Mmhmm." Lawrence risked a glance at Billy, who was crouched against the house, chin on his knees and eyes locked on a point somewhere high above the fence. The Bostonian had barely said a word the entire night, and what little conversation he did manage had been forced. "Runner. Want to come?"
No answer.
Lawrence tried again, this time raising his voice over the distant thunder. "C'mon, Walsch. You gotta talk to us sometime, mate."
"No, I don't." Billy's voice was muffled against his jeans. "I don't have to do anything with you. Far as I'm concerned, you can all go screw yourselves."
Lawrence sighed. "Fine. Fischer!"
A moment later the redhead appeared from behind the rail car. "Yeah?"
"Doc and I are gonna run and see if we can, er, change Antoine's mind. You alright with some of the guys staying here a bit longer?"
"Not at all." Yawning, Fischer climbed onto the patio, his sneakers squeaking on the concrete floor. His skin was flushed from being so close to the fire, making the scar stand out like a stark silhouette. "But d'you mind if I come with you?"
"Why?"
A smirk flitted across Fischer's face, almost too fast for Lawrence to notice. "We have unfinished business, the Frenchman and I. I suppose now is as good a time as any to... remind him, of it."
Lawrence's stomach tightened. At Teufort, the Pyro and the Spy had a complicated relationship, and he wasn't sure how that transferred into the civilian world. He could certainly think of some worst-case scenarios. But Fischer had been nice enough to let them stay overnight, and the way Lawrence's luck had been running in the last day or two, he was liable to lose the man's cooperation if he told him no.
"Stephen will keep an eye on the others. Make them comfortable," Fischer supplied helpfully.
Finally, the intense desire to keep Fischer on his good side won. "Sure, fine, come on then."
The chuckle that came from Fischer was enough to send a chill down the Australian's spine.
"Perfect."
Author's note: Not much plot this week, folks. Changing jobs and all that jazz. And just so you know, this has not been beta read. My usual betas are just as busy as I am, so if you find any mistakes or outright weirdness please let me know.
Fischer!Pyro is an interesting character to write, and I'm still kind of getting used to him. In-game, Pyro strikes me as mildly sinister, since some of the best strategies for playing the class involve ambushing, and he's quick enough on his feet to come out of nowhere. (Granted, some of the funnest strategies involve blowing people up with their own rockets/grenades or killing Snipers with their own arrows, but whatever.) And I imagine anyone would go a bit crazy if no one could understand a word they said, ever.
To the people who have recently reviewed, favorited and added this story to your alerts, thank you thank you thank you! I just haven't had time to go through and thank all of you individually, but I promise that's on my to-do list. I can't stress enough how much your feedback helps and encourages me with this story.
To those of you in the northern hemisphere, happy spring! I don't know about you guys, but I always get crazy-productive this time of year.
See you next week!