WARNING again for: some respawn sickness, needles, blood, and injury in this chapter

The thirty minutes set aside for lunch are the shortest of your life. At the sound of the bell signaling the end of the first round, the mercenaries each headed for their lockers and produced all manner of sandwiches, canned soups, and bottled water. You immediately realize two things: first, that you have not been assigned a locker, and likely will not unless your contract is extended, and second, that you have no food.

Your stomach protests this fact with a muffled gurgle, and you sink, resigned, onto the nearest bench, then proceed to unbuckle your shield and set it aside. You stretch your legs and twist your hips in an attempt to stave off cramps, blood still thrumming hard through legs that do not yet realize that it's time for rest.
Nearby, Scout slurps some kind of soup directly out of its aluminum can, and you press your head between your hands, deciding to study the distinctly inedible concrete instead as your stomach calls for something—anything. You frown. There's no way in hell you're asking if you have time to run upstairs; hopefully they just won't notice you were too stupid to think about packing a damn lunch. And after Medic had suggested it yesterday, too.

Yes, you can swallow your hunger before your pride; it goes down easier.

And there's a sandwich dangling just under your nose, between your gaze and the concrete floor. You blink. …Still there. You follow the arm offering the tasty morsel to find the engineer, smiling gently. "Take the sandwich, darlin'."

You do. "Thanks." You bite your tongue. 'Thanks' isn't exactly enough. "I—um. Forgot. I was nervous, and—I—well—I didn't think about it." It smells like turkey. Your stomach gargles again. "I appreciate this."

He chuckles, waving you off. "I figured. So I made a couple, just in case." He produces another and joins you on the bench. "Well, go on! We ain't got much time."

You both start in. It's turkey. Maybe chicken. Truly, the sandwich tastes all the better for being shot at and healed and exhausted and half-starved after respawn this morning.

"Now, for tomorrow," the engineer says between bites, "I suggest you make somethin' tonight, and bring it down with ya in the mornin'. It'll keep 'till lunchtime—you can use my locker if y'like, 'til the week is up."

"Thank you." Now you really don't know what to say. You—well—you're touched. He doesn't have to go out of his way for you. Hell, nobody in this room even knows your name!

"I'm—I—thank you. I mean it."

" 'S no trouble," he assures in that steady drawl.

There's a silence, interrupted only by the others' conversations, hushed in this moderate space. You're not sure you want to strain to hear them—after all, the biggest point of conversation must be you. Namely, the embarrassing amount of time you've spent in respawn this morning. Eight times you've awoken here, each more tiresome than the last.

"So—" you say, to occupy the hush "—your turret. It's… nice."

Oh, boy, you're on your A-game today, aren't you?

But the engineer just nods, gaze distant. "Sure is. Designed 'er myself."

You inwardly heave a relieved sigh. Either he isn't much for conversation, or he's the most polite person you've met in your life. "That's pretty impressive—how long did it take?"

He finishes his sandwich, considering. "Oh, the first one… I reckon the prototype took roundabout three weeks to finish—it had some problems, but another week or so took care of those." He passes a fresh bottle of water, and you give a grateful smile.

"Seems like a short amount of time."

He shrugs. "I try to be practical—"

[Take places to begin the next round.]

Engineer nods, tips his hardhat. "We best get to it."

In minutes, things become precisely as chaotic as they'd been earlier. Scout runs circles around the first point, dodging a BLU soldier's rockets, stumbling, already bloody from shrapnel. Your demoman has been sent to respawn, and Spy is nowhere to be seen. Medic is busy somewhere to your left with Heavy and your own team's soldier—no help there. And the damned sun is absolutely merciless, sweat beading on every exposed inch of skin, wicked away only where your clothes cling close.

Nothing for it but to rush the soldier, you suppose, and bring your shield to the ready, prepared to tackle the rocket-happy blue bastard to the cracked dirt—

Thup.

A bullet severs the soldier's spine, and your eyes follow the angle to Sniper's silhouette nearly twenty feet back, in a second-story window. You nearly wave a signal of appreciation, but a voice in your ear shuffles you forward—"Get t'Scout!" You make the push, free from any pursuit of rockets, and duck into the low shelter beside the boy.

"Nice 'a you to show!" he grunts, pumping his shotgun, and the din from Heavy's whirring weapon nearly drowns out the click.

Both the Russian giant and Medic guard a by-way ahead, beating unseen adversaries back with cover fire, the doctor healing every injury as it occurs. Heavy stands, unflinching, bellowing a great, joyous war-cry to the heavens, and Medic holds just behind, white coat stained with scarlet flecks of blood, its tail whipping gracefully around his legs, each movement deliberate, every step deceptively light across soil and sand. It's… well… it's bloody well fantastic.

BANG.

"You gonna watch the meat-shield all day or what? Enemy Pyro and a Demo comin' up left—nine o'clock!"

The Gyrojet is in hand before he even finishes speaking. You crouch, spot the BLUs—coming up fast, indeed—and hold position.

"How much heat can that thing take?" Scout draws his pistol and fires three times at the demoman. His flak jacket soaks up most of the damage—but a bloodstain shows on the blue fabric at his shoulder, not that it slows snarling the man at all. You block a grenade with your shield, send it bouncing away, but the blast rings in your ears.

"It'll take enough!" you shout over the incessant ringing.

Scout's mouth is moving. You're not very good at reading lips between trying to hold your ground and keeping an eye on the enemies almost at the point, but you think you've gotten the gist—"Pyro's yours!"—just as he dives from the shelter with his scattergun.

Somewhere, a voice—The Voice—echoes: [The control point is being contested!]

And the pyro closes in. Expressionless black holes form a dead gaze in a mask too like some great, black skull, an uncanny contrast with the cheerful sky-blue rubber of their suit. The pyro pumps their trigger, no touch of emotion in that empty black. You crouch as the flames rush, flaring and flickering, to wash over your shield in a stomach-turning inferno.

"Going in hot" has never meant half so much to you as it does in this moment, nothing behind your Plexiglas but white-hot plumes of certain doom.

The Kevlar heats, but holds.

It's only a moment before the pyro moves, left and right, attempting to flank you with that steady blaze, but you're ready, twisting on your heels, tilting the riot shield just so, holding steady, refusing to be pushed even as the air is sucked drier than you thought possible, fogged with kerosene and biting heat. There's no room, no way to see around the column of flame and Kevlar to find Scout—successful or dead, you have no way of knowing.

The crackle and rush of flames can't drown out the muffled frustrations behind that mask, a stream of distant growls and hissing curses beneath twin filters. By the time you realize this signals a wrathful new tactic, it's too late.

Flames curl around your shield's black edges as the pyro rushes with the force of an angered hound, all blunt, forward trauma and gnashing teeth in tongues of flame. Knocked flat on your ass, the only thing to do with the weight of a mercenary and flamethrower baring on your body is to brace both boots as high under the shield as you can and kick, tucked into a ball, all the force your prone body can muster.

You're screaming again. But your arm tugs free of the shield's straps, and all goes tumbling away—pyro, flamethrower, Kevlar—and you throw yourself to the right, roll desperately down, off scorching metal onto hot sand and soil, smoke in your lungs, arms burning, the lingering traces of singed hair offending your nose. Up, up legs firm on the cracked ground—you've lost the Gyrojet, but you yank the Lancaster from its holster. Orient, find the target—

CRACK. CRACK.

The suited figure slumps, ceases stirring. You can hear the hiss of the gas tank. You cough, blink lingering tears and dust from your eyes. Adrenaline sets your limbs trembling as your feet take your place on the point, fingers of one hand caressing the barrel of your pistol.

"Nice job." Scout jogs to your side just as the Administrator announces the point reclaimed.

The acrid scent of burned hair won't leave your nose. "And what the hell were you doing all that time?" You bend to retrieve the shield—quite charred, but structurally sound—and Gyrojet. Both find their places on your belt, as the weight of the howdah in your hand is the only thing keeping your fingers remotely steady.

The boy scowls. "Oh, high 'n mighty already, huh?"

You open your mouth to apologize—you'd just had a near-death experience, after all (one that would have been horrendously slow and painful at that), and it had sharpened your tongue—but he barrels on. "The demo gave me trouble, alright? Now let's move before more show up. There's a back way they might not use; we can get ahead."

A quick nod, and he starts off, taking care that you are close behind. You dodge around the now-captured structure and double back near a concrete wall, close alongside some long, wooden storage shed. The shadowed enclave is a relief, but the inside of your mouth still seems caked with dust, each breath a hot, choking irritation. Scout slows near the building's far edge, and steps back against the concrete bricks as you approach in his wake.

"Check the corner—I'll cover our rear. If things are clear, we'll make the push."

"Can do." You creep ahead, hands wrapped around the howdah, sidling carefully along the aging wood's edge—it's hot on your back, even in shadow. You take a breath, and peer around.

The BLU sniper covers a corner across the way, but appears not to notice your slight movement, focused down his sights on a skirmish between your team's heavy, who has abandoned his mini-gun for his mighty fists, and the enemy scout, wildly swinging his bat, dodging this way and that. The path to the point, should no one else arrive, appears clear.

"Scout—"

Click.

The barrel of a revolver, pressed cold on your forehead.

"Any words before I send you back to respawn, mademoiselle?"

You jaw clenches. "Spy." Fingers twist, useless, around the handle of your pistol, wanting nothing more than to drop it and put your fist straight through that blue balaclava.

You're sure the intent shows on your face.

But he only grins. "Ah, yes—I'm afraid I did not properly introduce myself before. Spy for the Builder's League, at your service—of a sort."

Every bone in your body screams to fling yourself forward, to crack this bastard's head on the concrete wall behind him in payment for that first meeting. The metal pressed between your eyes says otherwise. Instead, you think back… where had things gone wrong this time? "It was never Scout."

"Non, I'm afraid not. He took care of our Demo well enough, but I took care of 'im."

You know you cannot raise your Lancaster to a suitable angle of injury before he can pull the trigger. This piece of shit's just playing. Extending your life as long as he can for the sake of proving his superiority. "Fucker," you hiss. "I'll be back with a bullet just for you."

He laughs outright. "Bold, but I think not, chèrie. I have business besides a game of cat-and-mouse with a second-rate hireling." The spy presses the revolver so hard that you can feel the imprint of the barrel on your skin, its steel edge digging a ring between your eyes. "Now, you are ready, non?"

Your teeth creak, blood racing hard beneath your skin. "Yes."

You close your eyes.

You're kneeling on the floor, heaving, every nerve sparking, on fire. You curl your fingers against the concrete, nails scratching and catching, and try to focus as your stomach seizes again. There's no trace of any earlier mess, but you waste no time in replacing it. You shiver, trying with everything you have to keep the rest of your stomach's contents down.

"Your brain is testing your nerves. It's very like waking up to learn you were sleeping on your arm, ja?"

You spit, and blink blearily around the room—Medic stands only a few feet away, tall and composed as ever. Had he just come through respawn like that? "To an extreme," you agree, and spit again. Shit. Needles crawling from head to toe, each beat of your heart pressing them tight beneath your skin. "Yeah. I… hadn't considered." Your nails dig into your palms as you try to force your stomach still, pressing a hissing breath between your teeth. Out of the watery corner of your eye, you see the doctor nodding, observing your misfortune. Exactly how long has he been there? You squeeze your eyes shut against the next wave of nausea.

"It won't stop, no matter how many times you've gone through respawn, but, eventually, you'll know what to expect, and it will not be as troublesome as once it was. Zhe vomiting, on the other hand, will cease at some point—let me know when it does." A ring of genuine interest in his tone. Never pity. "I'm trying to determine whether it is a reaction to overstimulation and pain, that, once you've become used to the sensation, is no longer triggered, or if it is a mechanism not unlike the electric sensations—or something else entirely. Perhaps psychological."

"Mmhm." You push yourself upright, on your knees, and open your eyes to find Medic peering down at you.

"Shall we?"

You draw a deep breath, nod, and stand, trying not to let him see the last tremors as they leave your body. Medic nods, slight, and draws a canteen from his belt. "Drink."

Water. Lukewarm, but you feel worlds better without the grit and acid sticking to your teeth. "Thank you."

He nods, replaces the canteen, and draws the wicked weapon you had eyed this morning. "Syringe Gun," he supplies, his grin baring straight, white teeth. The fluorescents glare on his spectacles.

Your mouth goes a bit dry.

"Due to your… particular feelings about medicine, you may want to take care to avoid my BLU counterpart—for this reason." The Syringe Gun clicks as a hypodermic needle slides into place, golden liquid catching the artificial light. "It is quite painful, and, should the plunger depress, you'll find your limbs quite useless. Among other things."

You have no idea how to reply to that, but you're quite sure you don't want to know about other things. "Ok. Yeah."

Medic chuckles, and leads the way toward the field. "How did you die zhis time?" he asks over the distant din of battle.

Your blood runs hot, lips parting in a sneer. "Spy," you grumble. The smug curl of his mouth is fixed in your memory. "Damn bastard cornered me and put a bullet between my eyes."

"Ah." The doctor considers you over his spectacles. "And he was the first this morning to kill you, ja?"

There's a thrumming in your skull, one dangerously close to fury. "Yes."

"Don't waste your time now." You want to protest, but Medic raises a gloved hand. "But—hold on to that anger; remind me tomorrow, and we will hunt your spy. For now, Soldier and Scout will need your help on the point."

Sensible. Frustrating. But… you can't help your curiosity. How, exactly, would he aid you in your vendetta, and why? You simply nod. "All right."

"Excellent. Lead the way, Spezialist."

The day rushes in a swift flow beneath the bright, Arizona sun after that. By the time the final round is declared won—by your team, much to your relief—you're stiff and sore, half-dragging your own sorry ass to the Spawn Room.

Scout stretches his back until it gives an audible pop. "Well, ya don't suck," he declares.

It certainly doesn't feel so, after losing track of the number of times you've been sent through respawn this afternoon. "Thanks. I'll try to not suck even better tomorrow."

The engineer chuckles. "Y' weren't all that bad, fer day one."

"Yes, you managed not to drag us down—congratulations." The spy was already halfway through his cigarette, a lingering fog settling around the suit-jacket slung over his shoulder.

You decide to just keep walking as Engie frowns. "Give the kid a break. She did fine."

"More time off ze field than on? Barely acceptable."

You can feel your cheeks heat as you shuck off your coat, nearly to the door. Engineer catches your elbow. "You remember where the showers are?"

Oh. Showers. "Yeah." You're covered in sweat and a fine layer of that orange dirt. There had been time for a shower last night, but—

"Good." He turns to corner his (rather rude, but not incorrect) teammate.

—the showers were in one long, tiled room, each one barely separated by short partitions (not unlike those that divided urinals), and if the entire team was…

Actually, perhaps you aren't quite as filthy as you thought. You had just come through respawn not twenty minutes ago.

HAD NO ONE CONSIDERED THIS?

You're standing awkwardly in the hall, making for no destination whatsoever now. Scout, Demo, Soldier and the sniper are already gone. Yes—yes, you're absolutely sure you can wait an hour or two. You can just… shuffle back to your room with your equipment. Surely no one will say anything? Then, you can shower when the rest—

"Mmmrmph."

Pyro stands at your shoulder, head cocked, flamethrower in tow.

"Hey." You smile weakly. After today, those black, empty lenses are more terrifying than simply disconcerting. "Are—"

They hold up a gloved hand. "Mr mrr muhrmph mrmr."

You strain to hear, try to decipher the syllables, run the memory of the sound through your head. "Um—I'm sorry. I didn't quite—"

"Mrrph." Pyro sets the flamethrower carefully on the concrete and displays both overlarge hands, and then flashes them in a rapid series of movements that—sign language. It must be sign language.

"Oh—I'm sorry. I can spell ok, but I'm not—"

They start over, forming letters with one hand. Y-O-U—C-A-N—S-H-O-W-E-R—L-A-T-E-R. Stop. I—D-O.

"Oh!" You start to spell a clumsy 'thank you,' but Pyro seizes your fingers. It's your turn to tilt your head. The mercenary takes your hand, presses the tips of your fingers to your chin, then tilts it perpendicular from the wrist until your palm sits parallel to the ceiling. They let go, expecting. You repeat the movement, and pyro claps their hands with a pleased hum. Thank you.

Well, now you know one phrase.

"I'll do that, I think. I'm not sure I… how do they manage to shower in the army, do you think?"

Pyro shrugs.

You nod. "I guess it doesn't matter. Do you—er—" Maybe you shouldn't ask. "Do you always wear that?"

A vigorous nod. "Mrmuph."

"Ok." You know you definitely shouldn't ask why. Pyro moves to continue down the hall, but you touch the shoulder of the thick suit—caked with a fine film of dust. "When will they all be done?"

A-B-O-U-T—A-N—H-O-U-R.

You give the sign for 'thank you,' with a grateful smile, and Pyro returns a thumbs-up, and disappears down the hall with their flamethrower.

"Mighty Defender speaks Pyro's language?" Heavy takes up the entire doorframe to the Spawn Room. Exactly how long he's been standing there is unclear.

You bark a short laugh. "I certainly don't feel mighty, but yes—well—I can spell."

He thumps your shoulder, and it doesn't jostle your aching muscles nearly as much as you expect. "Ah, is not so bad! You have never seen war before, da?" You shake your head, and he nods. "This—this is all very different. I would say I am sorry you must be here, but you chose it."

You open your mouth to reply, but the man hurries on: "I do not ask why. For your family, for yourself, to run away—does not matter. You have skill—will become a great credit to team!" He shrugs massive shoulders. "Not there yet. But you will, if you decide to stay."

You're halfway to tears before you bite your tongue. "I—I really—"

"Not for thanks." Heavy's brow forms a serious line. "Just work hard, and be sure to make dinner for yourself. No one cooks today, and you need to eat. Easy thing to forget."

"Thank you—I will," you promise, not sure if you mean you'll continue to work hard (because he's very right, you want to be here, even after the respawn sickness, the backstabbing asshole, the bullets, the smoke, the frustrations and the heat) or if you mean you'll be sure to remember supper, or both. You're just… grateful, and again left with no way to convey even a fraction.

Notes: There's been interest in expanding this fic to include other romances, and it's definitely something I want to include, but for now, I think I will continue with just Medic, so that further planning will continue to be straightforward; I'll work others in when I've finished this one, I think, so that nothing gets mixed up, and updates can continue to be fairly timely.