WARNING for: respawn sickness (vomit, slight delirium, etc), blood, and graphically described injuries in this chapter.

And—the more you know—Plexiglas has been on the market since 1933, and Kevlar was developed in 1965, but wasn't commercially produced until the 1970s. Again, I'm thinking with the amount of money RED and BLU have to throw at things, they'd have Mann Co building things with that stuff asap.

Man, I'm learning a lot of stuff.

Morning came early, and with it, the relief that you had spent the last month rousing yourself before the sun. Pale, grey light flickered in the window, followed by the scent of a clean uniform—a high-collared jacket that buttoned left over the breast (brilliant, team RED—a damned target if you ever saw one), short, black trousers, and high, black, steel-toed boots. Then, a quiet breakfast, filled with nervous flutters and white knuckles around your steaming mug. Finally, at six-thirty precisely, you fetch your weapons and report to the Spawn Room.

Half the complex faces the gravel pit, which is—as you understand it—the point of fighting this private war. Most days will be spent spawning from the western room: a complex, containing a vaguely capsule-shaped machine (respawn, of course) and personal weapon lockers, followed by a short, steel tunnel leading to the quarry: the war-zone proper. Others, you'll report to the south-facing spawn, an identical room linked to a sealed office, in which—as you understand it (this a common disclaimer for your life now, as most of the reports you were given in briefing had more black marks than a public FBI casefile)—important documents regarding technologies and team tactics are kept. A maze of underground storage areas then leads to the space where the RED and BLU bases connect—a covered bridge, dirt, and a water source that provides the bases' running water and electricity; you've studied the maps extensively.

But, the only thing that matters now is the former: the map that had been labelled "Badlands." You close your eyes and envision the choke points, five in total. Today, you'd be taking them back.

The sniper and spy are both already present when you arrive. The former gives a nod, which you return, and the latter… merely lights his cigarette. No matter; you still haven't finished reviewing your mental image of the terrain.

You stop beside a bench and deposit your weapons. Muscle memory brings the Lancaster's holster to buckle around your thigh as you envision every detail of the Badlands you can recall until, at last, you sigh, and force yourself to focus on preparing properly. On your belt, there is room for a stock, a barrel extension, and your Gyrojet pistol. The latter belongs higher on your waist, not long enough to interfere with the Lancaster. Its accessories, on the other hand, slide across your front, tuck just above your left trouser pocket, secure and out of the way. The ballisic shield, now a little, Kevlar rectangle no larger than the cardboard box your boots had been delivered in, clasps at the small of your back. Perfectly fitted and engineered, indeed.

"You 'bout ready?" Scout asks, tapping the edge of a baseball bat on each of his heels. He's slung a short shotgun over his shoulder, belted a pistol on his hip.

A nod. Your eyes are drawn to his headset—remarkably like the sort of noise-cancelling monstrosities you'd find on someone working with airplanes—but this set keeps one ear free to his surroundings.

"Oh, yeah—" He snaps his fingers. "We gotta get you a thing."

Before you can ask, the engineer presents you with a much smaller device, one that fits right against your ear. "Here we are; this way, we don't have to yell at each other all the time. Press the button on the edge there when you've got a message fer us; you don't have to hold it, but you've gotta press again to stop. Otherwise, we'll hear every nasty thing you've got to say to those BLUs until you hit respawn."

Your fingers find the button. "One click to talk, a second to stop?"

"That's the idea."

Over the loudspeakers: [Mission begins in twenty minutes.] You blink.

"'s just the Announcer—or the Administrator… whatever ya wanna call her. She keeps score and stuff," Scout supplies.

You nod, and take a seat on one of the benches before the boy tries to strike up another conversation; you're quite content to simply watch as the other mercenaries file in and take a moment at their lockers. The heavy carries his minigun with him from the base—presumably because it is far too large to fit in the standard locker. He sets it further down your bench gingerly, never out of his sight, as though it were a child in need of close, constant care. From the locker, he draws a shotgun, looking comically small in his giant palms, like it is no more than an overlarge pistol. He greets you quietly, but pays little mind, checking over every inch of his weapons.

The demoman, despite his heavy drinking last night, seems to suffer no hangover whatsoever this morning as he strides straight and graceful to his locker. "Mornin'!" Two weapons that appear to be different styles of grenade launcher and a third—some sort of club—are drawn from its depths... and then a bottle that he immediately tips to his lips. Perhaps the man is simply never sober; it would certainly explain the mysteriously missing hangover.

Medic is next, medi-gun already strapped to his back, as he had promised yesterday. It seems slightly different from the healing mechanism in the medical suite, but the—you decide to call it a "nozzle", like the bit on the end of a firehose—the nozzle is very much the same, this time portable with the aid of a bulky power supply mounted like a backpack. From his locker, he draws a vicious bone-saw and a gun that… You can't suppress a shiver, creeping along your spine and prickling your arms: it appears to be loaded with hypodermic needles. The German moves more slowly than he did in the lab, but carries himself as though the medi-gun weighs absolutely nothing.

The pyro is last to arrive, toting a flamethrower, each step a rolling bounce on the thick soles of their boots, mask and flame-retardant suit already on. A pistol—or flare gun, perhaps—joins their arsenal, alongside a fireman's axe. Apt? Or ironic? The idea of a fireman wielding a flamethrower takes you back to Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, and you cut that thought as short as possible.

[Mission begins in fifteen minutes.]

"Now, I think we can all agree that if RED's giving a new class system a try," Engineer addresses the whole room, "so is BLU. Better be on our guard."

You frown. "How do we know what they'll be experimenting with?"

"Surely you were briefed," the spy scoffs.

You rise from your place on the bench. "I know both teams have the same classes. But if mine is experimental—"

He blows a puff of smoke in your direction. You refuse to cough. "They already know and seek to match it."

"You'll be seein' a double of yourself on the field," Engie explains. "Be prepared. Color'll tell you everything, but the first time, it might be disconcertin' to shoot something what looks like you—but you've gotta move past it."

You think wryly of every time in your life you've deigned to look in a mirror. "Shouldn't be a problem."

[Mission begins in ten minutes.]

Your brow furrows. Another thought: "Is it psychological warfare? An illusion?"

There's a collective shrug.

"Somethin' like that. For all we know, when they look at us, they see themselves. I don't know if it's about keeping identities secret or trying to cause hullabaloo—just be prepared."

"So, are you ready to take this gravel pit, maggot?" demands the soldier.

You nod firmly—as though there's really a choice. "Ready when you are."

"You only have a week." It's the first you've heard the sniper speak since yesterday afternoon. "Betta make it good."

[Mission begins in sixty seconds.]

Scout bounces on the balls of his feet. "All right! Stick with me, an' you'll do great, Spesh!"

"Could you maybe… not call me 'Spesh'?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, better not to nickname ya when you might just disappear, right?"

Your jaw clenches.

[Mission begins in thirty seconds.]

"Aw, who'm I kiddin'? You stick with me, there's no chance they're sendin' ya home. I'm a freakin' professional! Keep the bullets off me, and we'll have the first point in a jiffy—think ya can handle it?"

[Five.]

"I can handle anything."

[Four.]

"Tch—

[Three.]

"—we'll see, mademoiselle."

[One: go! ]

Nine mercenaries bolt out of the gate like horses at the starting gun, and you, close on Scout's heels, draw the ballistic shield from your back. It fixes tight on your forearm; folded, it's barely enough to cover your torso, but with a firm flick—it cracks into place. A black, fortified wall of Kevlar and Plexiglas—just enough of a window for you to peer through. But there appear to be no enemies in sight just yet, as the sniper and spy peel away from the group.

The little bugger just ahead is fast, you'll give him that, and dry, desert air presses down against the Kevlar, keeping firm pressure upon your arm, dragging your body. Should've left the damn thing closed if you expected to keep up. Scout dances ahead, turns the corner alone, and your heart hammers hard against your chest, almost loud enough to drown out his whoop, and the first, deafening shot.

The rhythm of your blood stutters, hand closes around the grip of the Gyrojet, tugs it free from your hip. At least the seven a.m. air has a cool edge to it. You lead with your shield-arm as the shots continue in earnest, and skid around the corner of the nearest building.

Ahead: hard-packed dirt; a low-roofed wooden structure houses a silver point, showing bright blue—how long has this fight continued, a stalemate, that it can be marked like the corners of a game-board, its mercenaries the pieces, pawns scattered along the open, orange yard?

Scout doubles back. "Too slow, fatty!"

There's a retort on your lips… and then you see the BLU heavy, every bit as large as that of your own team, a spitting image, spinning six barrels of sure death. Your knees meet packed dirt, hard, and you set your shield firmly before you, covered on one side by Kevlar, and on the other by the building's corner at your shoulder. "Scout!"

"I got ya!"

He ducks behind you as the bullets hail, sending tremors along your forearm, Gyrojet in the hand curled at your thigh, useless, but you're braced—alive, alive, oh Almighty—

"Sp—" Saliva on the back of your neck.

"What—"

"Welcome, mon ami."

Vomit. All over the floor. Head spinning. Floor—ceiling—concrete—aluminum—wood—gunpowder. Heave. Your arms tremble; drop to your elbows. Your nerves are on fire. Electricity along your skin. It's bile, on the floor; your stomach—breakfast was—

"Where the hell is the specialist? I left her right out—"

"THAT MAGGOT OUGHT TO BE ON THE FRONT LINE."

"Does it matter? We can win regardless; let her stew."

Your teeth clench against the smooth tones in your earpiece. Mon ami. You strike the floor, weak, blinking water from your eyes—you're a fucking mess. Kneeling in a pool of bile and tears, all trembling limbs and aching head. The last memory is… the voice. The BLU spy—not your own. Of course. It—

"Specialist. Specialist. Spezialist!"

You press the earpiece with trembling fingers. "Yes?"

"How is zhe respawn sickness?"

"It's shit."

He's laughing. "You'll grow accustomed."

"First time's the worst, lass!"

"Now gather yourself and get out here—we've captured the first point. Go right from zhe respawn doors."

"Ok," you croak, and press the button once more. Ass. You spit on the concrete, grimacing, pushing to your knees, then onto shaking legs. You draw a deep breath.

Well, your nerves don't appear to be firing all at once. But you do smell of vomit.

Fuck.

You clamp down on the urge to heave again and carefully, with slowly strengthening steps, move for the double-doors. Your weapons are precisely as you had readied them, on hips and thigh.

Right now, you're beyond wondering exactly how.

When you reach the left hall, you draw the shield from behind—but this time, you leave it compact along your forearm, settled and gliding with the breeze as you begin a steady jog, then heighten the rhythm to a sprint. It's as though the gunfire had not ceased since that first shot: no sound but explosions, whistling rockets, the distinct crack of a pistol.

"Aboot time!"

The demoman backpedals across the field to your side—the next point is up a set of rickety stairs, upon which you can just see the brim of Sniper's hat. With a snap, your shield is at full height, and your ears strain to filter out the noise. Scout scrambles around the building—a shot ricochets off the corner of your Kevlar and you duck behind, flinching. Too much movement through the window—red, blue—an explosion, and the ground trembles.

Demoman crouches with you, and still he has to shout. "Tha's not our Sniper up top! Scout's gonna try tae hit the stairs, draw him and whoever else is up there out and down—I've set up some stickies. If it works, it'll blow 'em sky-high! Then, we rush. Cover my back as we go!"

You nod. But silence in the midst of such a din feels foolish, so—"Yessir!"

He laughs, a raucous sound. "I'm not a sir, lass!" The demo thumps you on the back, and your shield rocks against cracked dirt. "I—"

Three, rapid-fire explosions, and you draw the Gyrojet from your side.

"NOW!" He's already moving.

You scramble up after him, turning a tight arc, scanning the field. Scout, Demo ahead, dashing for the stairs, cackling and whooping like madmen. From the corner of your eye: blue—you draw your shield tight, fire—

The bullet whistles, whizzes, strikes the BLU soldier full in the chest, but not before your shield shudders with the force of a shotgun blast.

Breathe, breathe, fire.

He drops, hissing, and you swear you can hear his faltering curses. Blood blossoms across his coat, blue becomes purple, maroon, red. A gurgle. Dead.

Breath leaves your lips in a gust. Heat presses upon your head from a merciless sun.

"Spesh, get up 'ere!"

Your feet find the stairs, creaking. There are scorch marks, and there are… bits. You try not step on them as you climb in reverse, shield covering each step. Practiced, easy.

You find yourself overlooking the complex, plumes of fire and explosions close, but their causes are not immediately seen; red and blue uniforms scattered about the field. Blood soaking into thirsty, cracked soil.

A hand on your shoulder. "I've got the stairs, lass—cover Scout on th' point!"

Automatic reflex brings you to the hot edge of the silver point, a simple desire to follow orders; you kneel just in front of the scout, standing with his shotgun at the ready. Nimble fingers draw the barrel and folding stock from your side, snap and screw the implements into place—your Gyrojet becomes a rifle in seconds, braced above black Kevlar.

There's an enemy scout rushing the structure, and you fire—miss four times, connect once, and the boy shudders, keeps running, blood streaming down his arm. Fire again, reload, crouching low, clicking the clip into place as your shield shudders, and crack! Through the Plexiglas window, you see the BLU scout fall, unmoving, as you return the barrel of your Gyrojet to its place. Two steps behind the corpse is your team's Soldier, waving cheerfully, rocket launcher tucked under one arm. He takes a position out of sight.

When you look again, there's only a pool of quickly drying blood in the rusty soil where the BLU scout's body had been. It's almost a relief.

The din of your heart is softer now.

"'bout another thirty seconds!"

Until this point is considered won and the team is able to move on to the next, you suppose. The immediate horizon shows no sign of BLUs yet—

"Bloody hell—"

An explosion crashes behind you—too close: the breeze stirs your hair, and you crane your neck around—

"Hold it!" Scout pushes off your shoulder to find Demo on the steps, clutching one arm close to his side, swearing absolutely blue—

"—fuckin'—no—stand on the POINT, ye git!"

CRACK! CRACK!

Demoman tumbles backward off the wall, hands ineffectually clasping blood and skin and tattered cloth—

It's suddenly cold. Very cold, indeed. Your own visage grins at where you crouch, Lancaster Charles between its hands, shield almost ineffectual, commanded only as the two-handed weapon allows, covering the BLU's non-dominant side. "They told me I'd see you."

Her voice—so very like yours; confident, hard syllables from your lips, twisted in a cruel smile. Your mouth goes dry—

BANG.

[The control point is being contested!]

Buckshot throws itself against the BLU specialist's shield with a clatter, scatters all over the point, and Scout pumps the lever on his shotgun. "Don't think just because you're a girl, I'm gonna—"

CRACK!

Your ears are ringing, moisture trickling down your cheeks, bitter scent of iron in your nose.

"Headshot."

The wet on your face is—oh god.

She drops her clip and inserts the next with a flick of her wrist.

You launch forward, bringing your shield over your head, dragging the rifle behind, holsters clacking on the scorching metal of the point beneath you, forearm nearly giving way as you and your double tumble, catching the edge of her riot shield on yours, growling.

"Shit—"

Tangled limbs.

CRACK!

You don't think the shot did anything but prolong the incessant ringing. Roll, find the edge of the building, and—

Snap.

Her heel breaks the skin of your cheek, cracks against bone. You splutter, and respond in kind, slamming your shield down on both her legs, drag yourself upon it, ignore the twinge in your arm under the straps, ready your Gyrojet—

CRACK!

Pain, searing, choking, blood and sweat dripping into your eyes, and you aim, bleary—her body is right there, and she can't move—

You squeeze the trigger. Fire, fire, fire, fire.

[RED has regained control.]

She's stopped struggling, and you let yourself fall, head dropping onto Kevlar. You set your gun aside, press the sweating palm across your eyes until you can make out the corpse under you, face-down, twisted to one side, bleeding scarlet through her coat. Smells of gunpowder and iron. Four holes. Bone shows white.

Your stomach heaves, but you force the bile back.

Your cheek stings, half-numb as your body tingles in heady waves. Shock. Your counter-part's bullet is buried in your shoulder, and there's no way you'll lift the shield without doing further damage. The pain is still keen, blood draining onto the Kevlar and Plexiglas, ruby in the morning sun.

"Medic!" You cough. Spit. More blood.

Fucking hell.

"Medic!"

The ringing in your ears subsides, and you lift your head—and immediately drop it when your shoulder screams a protest, one that might have manifested on your lips. You're beyond caring.

"Specialist, ya'll have the point—what's your status?"

"Medic—" More blood and saliva on your chin and shield.

You take a deep breath, and the edges of your vision darken. "MEDI—" Coughing, spluttering, no good. Your ears tell you there's a battle raging somewhere; of course he can't hear you.

"Specialist?"

The ear-piece. The ear-piece. You raise your dominant hand. It trembles, but you manage. The smallest click at your ear: "Medic," you wheeze.

"Ten-four, ma'am—hold tight."

You let your eyes drift closed against the sun's glare on the point—just for a moment.

"Keep your eyes open, Specialist! This does no good if you are already dead."

You pry them open to a familiar hum, a pair of black jackboots, the blood- and dust-stained tail of a white coat. He kneels, tilts your head up with a gloved hand gently beneath your chin. "Medic!"

"Ja, ja—hold still. This will be quick, but it will not be painless."

"Wh—"

The beam of the medi-gun is hot this time, boiling, your skin tugging, wrenching, screaming—and then—

You breathe, only the lingering traces of copper on your lips.

"Ausgezeichnet."

[RED Team has captured the point.]

"Come!" He offers a hand, and you take it, pulling yourself up on unsteady legs. The corpse of your double, you note, is gone, and you stoop to retrieve your rifle. When you straighten, you're confronted with an infectious, eager grin: "We have another point to capture."

It might be a post-healing boost of serotonin talking, or, perhaps, the adrenaline that comes with a small victory, but you find you're suddenly quite eager to do it all again.

Transl: Ausgezeichnet - Excellent

Please do let me know if the action sequences are clear, since they're going to be a fairly large part of the fic-I want to make sure they're enjoyable. In fact, if there's anything that could be revised (I have looked over previous chapters and tweaked a few things in the meantime), please let me know!