The bar was a small thing, a quiet place where sweet jazz was played and conversations were at most a loud chatter. Earthy tones with red the spotlight, glass bottles of alcohol were lined behind the counter, catching the eye. A figure could be seen sitting on one of the red stools at the counter, hidden in a long trench-coat. Feet swaying and fingers tapping on the wooden table-top with the beat of the music.
"Straight whiskey," the voice said, smoky like cigar wisps.
A chuff from the old barkeep was the only indication that they were heard, and the clinking of glass followed. Above the door to the bar, a bell chimed, but the patrons occupying it paid it no mind as they continued drinking.
A small woman carrying a briefcase scurried to the counter, sitting in the empty seat near the lounging figure. Brushing away the dust on her dark purple pencil skirt, the woman sat, fidgeting with the collar of her lighter purple blouse before she opened the worn briefcase and placed a manila folder before the figure. She cleared her throat.
"I've got a job for you, it pays a lot," she said, getting straight to the point.
The figure barely glanced at her, continuing to drink, enjoying the burn of the alcohol.
"It's a wonder how you found me," the statement brought a hint of uneasiness to the woman, before she confidently answered.
"You have all the qualifications we need, especially for this long-term job. If you make it."
The glass made a ringing sound as it hit the bar-top, sharp eyes finally turned to assess the unassuming woman.
'Slim and small, overall could be weak in a hand to hand fight, but I see that bulge of a gun, lady.' The person switched to the brown folder, before reaching for it with scarred hands. Long dark hair, with a single streak of silver was pulled back into a low tail, lips slowly stretched into a smile as they read through the file.
"I was getting a bit lost with travelling lately," the now identified woman declared, and she laughed as the much smaller woman sighed in tired relief and cleaned her black-framed glasses against her shirt.
"I always was good at cooking."
The deep orange sunglasses reflected the sunlight beautifully, the New Mexican desert extended for all the eye could see, a literal sea of sand. The dust blown from the car was covered to the best of her ability, her cream trench-coat obscuring the lower half of her face. The petite woman beside her was driving the car, and the silence of the road was only slightly awkward.
The approaching buildings created great shadows on the ground, the compound at Teufort made of aluminium and wood, red a startling contrast against the barren wasteland. The car stops in front of a chain-link fence, the metal burning hot from the sun, and she thinks she could probably cook an egg on it.
Getting out of her seat, her steel toe boots cracked the dry ground, puffing out a breath, she slipped to the back of the car, hefting the heavy suitcase out of the trunk and carrying it along with her to Miss Pauling.
"We'll need to walk the rest of the way," says Miss Pauling, and the woman nods.
The looming building towers over the two walking women, a clear difference in the two. One petite and professional, while the other tall with broad shoulders and an intimidating aura.
"The others have already been informed of you, so they'll be waiting to introduce themselves," and the older woman grunts just as Miss Pauling continues, "it's a good thing their adjustment period is over, you'd have had a harder time." She says not unkindly.
The double doors open with a creak of metal, and the woman can only glance at Miss Pauling as the varying sounds of rushing feet can be heard, she quickly swipes her sunglasses off, leaving it half hanging from her breast pocket. Eight different men stand before her.
All mercenaries.
"The Administrator has considered the request for better food, and so I give you the experimental class, the Chef." Miss Pauling announced to the group more for her sake than theirs, and from the expressions on their faces, it looked like Christmas came early (although in differing amounts).
"Hello," she said, trying for a smile she knew would only draw attention to the pale scar pulling from her jaw to her cheek.
"Hello!" Varied greetings sounded out from the group, one man in a balaclava looking particularly miffed at her appearance.
"Another American?" He scoffed, murmuring something vaguely French under his breath. She frowned at his blatant rudeness.
"Eh bien, c'est un peu grossier, n'est-ce pas?" If there were two things she was definitely proud of, it was her cooking and the many languages under her belt. The look of mild surprise on his face was certainly satisfying for her, and for the others if their snickers were anything to go by.
"Vous connaissez l'anglais?"
"Bien sûr, la France n'est pas le même si vous ne connaissez pas la langue." Her pronunciation was perfect, and he smirked proudly at her words, billowing smoke from the cigarette perched on his lips.
"Well this should be interesting."
He gracefully left to go deeper inside the compound, "that was Spy, you'll get used to his personality soon enough." Miss Pauling amusedly said.
"From left to right is Scout, Demoman, Soldier, Sniper, Heavy, Pyro and the Engineer," she continued, gesturing towards them. "The Medic isn't here?" She questioned.
"Dunno, maybe he'll come for lunch?" A young man said, dog tags swaying with his movement, baseball cap barely hiding the mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"So will you only be our Chef?" Scout asked, his tone suggesting something else, and the Chef chuckled, "I'm much too old for you, boy."
"The private's got you there, maggot!" The Soldier laughed, patting him on the shoulder at his scrunched up face.
The Chef mused over his words, "I was a platoon leader, discharged now though," and the Soldier immediately snapped to a smart salute, the straps of his helmet swinging back and forth.
"M-my apologies Ma'am!" The Soldier sputtered, and the Chef quickly waved him off, awkwardly scratching at her cheek.
"Welcome aboard, I'm the Engineer, but just call me Engie." A warm Texan accent, overalls and goggles, a yellow hard hat catching her eye. She ignored the way his right hand felt harder and gave away more, regardless if it were covered by a work glove.
"Good to work here." She smiled, it was none of her business.
A hiccup and a swig of a bottle, "nice to work with ya lass!" An ebony Scotsman, sporting a beard and an eyepatch-the Demoman. She eyes his suspiciously unlabelled bottle before nodding at his greeting.
"How good of a chef are you?" The Sniper questions, peering beneath a wide-brimmed hat, his sunglasses similar to the one in her pocket.
Her smile only grew wider at the drained sigh from Miss Pauling, and it wasn't because of Scout's constant chattering in her ear.
"We've been tracking her a few weeks after your request, it was very difficult to get a hold of her." Miss Pauling's shoulders slumped, and the Chef couldn't help but pat her shoulder the same way Soldier did. The mercenaries watched in confusion, and the Chef laughed.
"I've been traveling for a long time, been over the world to learn about cuisine. Name it, and I'll make it."
A giant of a man stepped forward to greet her, and for once she felt dwarfed in size. He outstretched an equally massive hand, and she clasped it, expecting it to be a crushing grip.
"I am Heavy Weapons Guy, but call me Heavy. Look forward to Russian cooking." He said, gently shaking her hand.
"Я бы рад," she quickly replied, showcasing her talent once more, and she grinned at his delighted look.
A sudden blow to her back and she stiffened, "Pyro!" The Engineer huffed. But the only thing they were doing was hugging her, not noticing any harm, she slowly relaxed after a few seconds.
"Mrce mo mreeph muo!" The Pyro shouts, gas mask muffling their voice and filters digging into her shoulder. The smell of rubber made her nose twitch.
"Pyro says it's nice to meet you." The Engineer helpfully supplied. She awkwardly tapped the covered hands around her waist, relaxing fully once they were gone.
"She will have a trial period to see if she can be out in the field for two weeks, if not, then she'll continue to just be your Chef." Miss Pauling butted in, obviously wanting the atmosphere to become slightly serious.
"She'll start tomorrow."
The Chef smirked eagerly, ready to have her hands start moving. As it was currently the end of the weekend, it was a day off and most of the men had the leisure to do whatever they found interesting.
"I best put away my things then." She gestured to her worn down suitcase.
"Just leave it to me!" Scout piped up, already moving past the others to walk down a hallway, obviously expecting her to follow. She shook her head, and the other men only shrugged at her questioning look. The Sniper tipped his hat.
"Sniper," he properly introduced himself.
"...Chef," she hesitantly said.
"You'll get used to it."
Following Scout through the base, they made their way towards the dorms, passing by name plaques, they stopped just at the end of the rooms where the name 'Chef' was carved into the metal plaque.
"So! This is your room, the key should be under the panel," Scout pointed out. Slipping the brass key into the door handle, she stepped into the room with a cursory glance.
It was small, just big enough to fit in a bed, wardrobe and a table with a chair. The walls were bare with colour, and the window had no curtains. "Once you get comfortable, you can decorate it however ya want."
Now that she can see him, she examines him discreetly.
'Thin, but with a name like Scout he should at least be fast. So strong legs, best to take those out first, particularly his Achilles tendon, if I'm lucky.' Placing her suitcase onto the springy bed, she figured she could pack it away later. Right now she had a job to do.
"So..where's the kitchen?"