Dantès passed through all the stages of misery endured by prisoners forgotten in a dungeon. He began with pride, which is the result of hope and a consciousness of innocence; then, he began to doubt even his innocence; finally, his pride collapsed, and he began to pray, not yet to God, but to men…

Evening. You've read those sentences at least three times. You know well what will befall Dantès now, even if you don't make it through the paragraph: a friend, the only one he will have for the next fourteen years, and then, a means of escape.

You put the book aside on your night-stand, gently. Orange sunbeams streak through the bars on your window, play upon the ceiling as you roll onto your back, tuck the pillow behind your head. The sunset's fingers stretch, slowly, toward your door. You're clean, you're fed, the memory of your headache long gone, today's events pushed as far from your mind as you had been able to force them.

You sigh, close your eyes. Heavy was as good as his word: when you went to make a sandwich (there wasn't any of Demo's pea soup left from last night), no one spoke to you any differently; you returned Engineer's handkerchief (it had been among Medic's tools on the floor) with thanks and without incident.

Incident. There'd been only the two today, and… perhaps now, you can make something of them. Releasing a long, slow breath, you try to separate the true events of the infirmary from those of your mind. There is little to find—a blur of shapes and words, your absolute resolution, the memory of blinding sunlight and mocking syllables; you dearly hope you hadn't caused your Medic any real harm…

Sniper. Sniper had been there. You bring your hands to your face. Oh, hell. You've spoken to the man—what—twice? And he saw that? Shit.

Bloody hell. You have to talk to him.

Fuck.

Fine, fine. This is fine. You're an adult. You're currently killing people for a living. You'll march out of here, find a teammate that knows where the sniper might be, seek him out, thank him, and apologize. And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you can hear your mother agreeing with you.

Mom.

You yank the pillow from behind your head and drop it over your face.

Nope.
Tears of frustration prick at your eyes. Apologies to Sniper be damned! Without this job, there's no insurance. Without this job, the medical bills… your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek.

Even if Heavy (in his kindness you're not sure you understand) overlooks today's episode on your performance review, Sniper and Medic certainly won't. And why should they?

You bloody well attacked two of your own teammates. You're a damned hazard!

You swallow the lump in your throat.

Maybe—perhaps they'll be kind? As though you deserve any more consideration. They've been kinder than anyone has a right to expect already.

How are you going to explain to your mother why you've come back home so soon? Why you have no job, no future, no insurance that could help, and why, why the hell do you have this innate ability to fuck up so brilliantly every fucking time—

Knock. Knock.

Your heart leaps to your throat. You consider pretending you're not in.

"Specialist? Is Heavy. Do not have to answer—just came by to make sure you are ok."

You bury your face further in the pillow as your tears spill over. You're… not. You're not all right. Your arms wrap around the pillow, press so hard you almost can't catch a breath.

Silence.

You can lie here and pretend you're off exploring the base. You can pretend you're running the course outside. But there's a nagging prickle in the back of your mind: if he cares enough to ask, you ought to trust him with the truth at least. After all, in three days' time, you'll likely never see one another again—and what will it matter what he knows then? You uncover your face.

You swallow the tears trying to catch your voice. "Heavy? You still there?"

"Da. Still here."

"Ok…" You press the heels of your hands over your eyes and draw a deep breath. "…just a second."

You rise slowly, and pad to the door in your socks, a pair of khaki shorts (borrowed from your brother's drawer before you left home), and your bra; you pull on another of the red button-downs before unlocking the latch. You're going to have to do laundry tomorrow at the latest. You swallow the lump in your throat.

You open the door to find that Heavy takes up most of its frame, and he bows his head to look at you. "You are ok?"

You open your mouth, close it. Shake your head as tears well up again, but you will them back. You can't—you won't . He shouldn't see you cry; he's seen enough for today.

"You want company, or no?"

"I'm really…" Nails dig into palms. "Not sure."

Heavy nods, slowly. "Can stay for a while. If this works, good; if not, I will go. Does this sound good?"

Yes. Yes, that could… It requires no firm decision. Just… good. You nod. "Thank you. You can—um—come in?"

Heavy shakes his head once. "Should not intrude. There is little library upstairs—usually quiet. But no need to leave if you do not want to."

You consider it. "A… the library sounds nice. Just a minute—I'll put some shoes on." Never know what's going to be on the floors of these halls, after all. Nails and bolts… among other things. You have three pairs here: the steel-toed boots for your uniform, an old pair of Keds, and some Mary-Janes for… reasons unknown. Maybe one day you'll go into town. Maybe you knew you'd not be staying long. You tug the boots on and enter the hall behind Heavy. "Lead the way." Your attempt at a smile is a poor one.

If he notices—and how could he not?—he draws no attention to it; only offers conversation: "Is probable Engineer did not think of it when he showed you the base. Is pretty new, and mostly only me and Demoman using it."

You nod. "Where did the books come from?"

"We all have our own books, but if there are some we do not mind others borrowing, they go there. Others we buy on trips to town. We will be here some time." He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Should have library."

You couldn't agree more with the sentiment. "I do love books."

He rumbles a chuckle. "Me, too! Not many in library yet, and is very hard to find books in Russian here. I read books here to help with English. But so many words! Always using dictionary."

"I can't even read your alphabet," you confess. "You're one up on me."

"Is not competition."

"It would be useful, though!" If you stay. It would be good to know him better. You fall silent, and follow the mercenary up the rough-cut wooden steps. Some of the stairs don't match the others, as though recently replaced after some accident. The days here have been so busy—you haven't actually seen any unsafe practices yet (Demo, constantly drinking and working with explosives, or Medic, with his seemingly distracted nature, come to mind as likely perpetrators), but the evidence seems to be everywhere, from cracks in the tiled bathroom walls to the dented refrigerator, to scorch marks on the main hall's floor, to these half-repaired stairs.

You almost run straight into Heavy on the top step. "Here." He opens the door on the left for you.

It seems the room was little more than a supply closet before two overstuffed armchairs, a table, and two low bookcases, stacked atop one another, moved in. Three shelves bolted to the back wall (they likely held some boxes or cleaning supplies for the base originally) are packed with books. You step into the space, and pull the chain that lights the fluorescent fixture above. There's a lamp on the table that might be more ambient, but even with the flickering, white lights… the room is serviceable—cozy, even. You head immediately for the stacks of books on the back wall as Heavy ducks through the low doorway, angling himself to one side to get through the narrow opening.

Two dictionaries—one brand-new and another at least a decade old—some dime-store mystery novellas, and a couple of Mark Twain's works cover the first shelf. The second is packed on one side with comic books, on the other with classics: Bronte, Dickens, Tolstoy, Hawthorne, and Shakespeare.

"Am always trying to make Scout read The Death of Ivan Ilyich. Is not working."

You chuckle. "Does he read anything at all?"

He nods. "Yes. Comic books, but also likes Twain novels. Is too difficult for me to understand the Mississippi English, and no translation to Russian in my collection yet." He shrugs. "So I have not read them. But I did try."

"Well…" Your eyes roam the shelf, warmly studying the spines both brand-new and—er—well-loved. "Ivan Ilyich is one I haven't read… if Scout won't read it, I can."

But Heavy shakes his head. "Maybe you can convince him. Chose it for Scout. You—I have to think first on book for you." You can feel your face fall—confusion, annoyance (does he think it would be too difficult for you to grasp?)—and the man offers a smile. "I like to give books with meaning," he explains. "You could read Ilyich… but would rather give you book that means more."

"Oh."

"For example, gave Doktor Crime and Punishment—Dostoyevsky."

You can feel your jaw tighten at the mention of Medic. You combat the stirring guilt by running your fingers along the loose binding of the first book you can see: a weathered, coffee-stained copy of Wuthering Heights. You hear the big man settle into one of the armchairs with a creak.

"Did he like it?" You ask, after a moment, feeling the concave contour of the spine beneath your fingers, tracing along the pages' edges at the top, soft, smelling faintly of must.

Heavy chuckles. "Did not give it to him to like. You have read it?"

"Yes, a couple years ago." For college, you almost add, but you bite your tongue and gently tug the next book—a tiny volume of Shakespeare's tragedies—from the shelf.

"Well, Doktor liked to disagree with it."

You consider the story's end, Raskolnikov's romance and rationalism, a greatness eventually traded for humility, truth, and religion—and juxtapose it with your memory of the medic's pride, his boundless exuberance, the careless air when discussing your momentary death during surgery the very first day you met. "I bet he did."

"But he did enjoy reading. Liked many of the ideas; this is how I choose a book to share. Scout is good Catholic boy, but also fighting war without thinking about what it means—would benefit from Ilyich. Is about life, from view of death."

Catholic? You wonder how Heavy knows, and what it has to do with this particular novel.

"But you…" He muses, before you can ask. "Will take time."

You nod, replace the book on the shelf, and move to explore the smaller shelves braced on the adjacent wall, behind Heavy's chair. The top one is filled with myths and legends, worn tomes that look suspiciously like they chronicle some kind of black magic. It's… peculiar.

"So—only you and Demo and sometimes Scout come up here?"

"Sometimes Sniper borrows books, but I do not think he reads here. Spends most days in van."

At the mention of Sniper, you abandon your attempt to find out more about this strange collection of tomes. "Van?"

Heavy nods. "Sniper has big… van with house. Er—camper, da?"

"Oh—yeah." Your brow furrows. Now or never, right? The opportunity to take care of this… bit of business has fallen right in your lap. "He doesn't stay in his room?"

"Not often, no."

You bite your lip. "Would he be there now?"

Heavy tips his head to look at you. "Why?"

"Sniper was…" You sigh. "He tried to help me before you arrived, and I want to thank him."

The man nods. "Probably in van. Is almost ten o'clock? Will likely be there. Would you like me to go with you?"

You hesitate. It would be good to have his company, some support, but… "No, thank you. I appreciate it, but I should probably… I need to do it myself."

"I will be here. You know where to go? Just to left of front door, in main yard." He lays a gentle hand on your shoulder as you pass; he didn't even have to rise from his chair to reach. You tilt your head, questioning. "Should not be alone on field tomorrow. Will stay with someone, yes? Maybe Scout. You work well together."

You nod, slowly. Yes, that—it's an excellent point. You don't want to talk about it, not now, but… you'll make sure you're not alone again. "Yes. I'll… I can do that." Heavy returns your nod, and releases your shoulder. You take a breath, and start out before you lose your courage. You stop, there in the doorway. "Heavy… thank you."

"Was nothing." His eyes are sincere—and sad.

With the best smile you can muster, you hurry out into the night.

The camper's beige walls seem almost blue beneath the midnight of the desert sky, and the moon's silvery beams play upon the cracked soil, no sound in the air but your breath, and the faint hum of a radio crooning from a mercenary's open window. You hesitate under the moonlight, shivering in the rapidly cooling night, at the door to Sniper's lonely vehicle.

Now, looking up at a door peppered with more than a few haphazardly repaired bullet holes, your stomach turns. What will you say?

"Are you gonna stand there for anotha ten minutes, or are you gonna knock?"

You jump back from the muffled voice. "Sorry—I—if you're going to bed, I can—"

The camper's door swings open to reveal the sniper, leaning in the frame. "Might as well come in." He shrugs. "You have somethin' to say, right?"

You nod dumbly as he waves you in, and you climb the aluminum steps.

Inside, it seems almost too small for the lanky Australian—not to mention for you and your ample shoulders, your long legs, the heavy boots you insisted upon wearing out here when really you could have just—

"Sit." Sniper nods to a bench wrapped halfway around a little table in the style of a discreet breakfast nook. You scoot in hurriedly, fold your hands, bite the inside of your cheek. Shit. The hell are you doing here after ten o'clock at night?

The man looks at you expectantly, mouth a fine, grim line. His Akubra is tipped jauntily to one side as though he had donned it as an afterthought before letting you in. He folds his arms.

Right, right. What the hell are you doing here—that's exactly what he wants to know.

"I—uh—" You sigh. "I'm not sure how to…" You avert your gaze to the tabletop, the linoleum cracked in more than one place, hairline fractures sparking across its surface. "I want to thank you for… earlier. And apologize." You raise your head. "I'm sorry for… all that. You shouldn't have had to see that or…" You swallow. "I'm sorry."

But the sniper only shrugs his lanky shoulders. "No 'arm done."

Your mouth drops open. No. No, there was most definitely harm. "I'm—I'm pretty sure I—"

"Yeah, you hit me; it happens."

What? "Uh—I—"

You think you hear him chuckle, but it ceases so quickly that you're not entirely sure. "Look, sheila—Specialist—I know wot happened. Happens to everybody." He shrugs. "'cept maybe the medic, but he's a bit crackers, innit he? Well—'im and Pyro—but not a soul on earth knows about Pyro, anyway."

"You—"

Sniper nods. "It's normal. Well—normal for our job. And our job's not exactly—" He clears his throat. "Well. You know."

"Oh." You fold your hands, worry one of the buttons on the bottom of your shirt. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

The sniper works a kink out of the back of his neck. You flick the button until you're sure it's in danger of coming loose. Silence stretches into the camper's stuffy air.

"So…"

"Well…"

"Good talk," you offer, with what you hope looks like a passable, if sheepish, smile.

"Yeah." He nods.

You scoot out of the seat. "I'll—er—see you tomorrow, then?"

He opens the door. "Yeah."

You try not to hurry down the steps. You really do. "I appreciate… thanks. Good night!"

"'Night."

Well—you decide, hurrying across the moonlit yard—that didn't go horribly.