You all have been incredibly patient in waiting for more-so please, have three chapters, just for you! Thank you so very much for your support and patience, and I do hope you enjoy this long-awaited update.

Warning for: blood, graphically described injuries, and death

In the locker room, you find Heavy and stand in his silent shadow, simultaneously trying not to stare and not to blatantly avoid looking as Medic flits in, a darkness upon his brow, glasses perched so far down the bridge of his nose that you can see sleepless circles under his eyes. Perhaps he had been wandering the halls last night.

You can't decide if that's better or worse than a hallucination.

He fixes his gaze upon you and your eyes drop immediately to your feet. Shit. But, beneath the murmuring of your teammates, the click of Medic's boots comes no closer, straying instead to the long line of lockers.

In your tangle of nerves, you look up at Heavy, and the man seems invincible. He has to be seven feet tall! How on earth can you defend this man? Anyone else, sure, but Heavy… a veritable walking fortress, if you've ever seen one. You're fairly certain he could perch you on one shoulder and carry Scout under the other without trouble. Not to mention that you can't take point the way you might with anyone else, on pain of about a dozen bullets in your back. Heavy is the very definition of defense, capable of cover fire over a wide area, and fists like hammers should anyone get too close. How on earth can you defend something so… self-defensible?

[Five.]

Your eyes wander from the top of his shaven head to his unarmored legs. You'll cover his six, you decide, make sure no one flanks your Russian giant. Yes. You almost nod to yourself, right there in the middle of spawn. Not a soul will get close. Two layers of Kevlar? Those BLUs will be lucky if he even feels a tickle.

[Three.]

You look up to find Heavy staring down at you, and can't help but grin. "Ready to make some assholes regret getting up this morning?"

He laughs. "Will make them run for cover!"

[One. Go!]

Medic is suddenly on your partner's other side, and you barely catch yourself before recoiling into the Russian's shadow. "Heavy," he says. "Danke." But the man only nods, and before you can wonder at the exchange, the doctor is off, through the doors, and out of sight, rivaling Scout for speed.

"Ready?" Heavy asks.

You nod, readjusting your grip on the folded shield. Now is not the time to wonder. "Ready."

"GO!" He lumbers forward, Sascha lovingly clasped in his burly arms—the gun almost seems not to weigh a thing as his shoulders shift and flex in fine planes beneath Kevlar and cotton. You follow, and as you leave the gate, the bullets in Heavy's bandolier gleam bronze in the morning light of the sun.

The first, dry breath of desert air reaches your lungs, prickles your throat, and the first shots of the day ring out over soil and sand. The Gyrojet is cold in your fingers, gunmetal gleaming. Breathe. Focus—and the barrels of Heavy's mini-gun spin to life as you round the first corner behind him.

Your doppelganger sitting comfortably on the point was not the first challenge you wanted to see today, but you'll take it. The lead rain of Heavy's bullets keeps the BLU specialist behind her shield, unmoving. It would be the perfect opportunity to get around behind for—

A wisp of red. A flash of silver. And you can almost hear the BLU's gurgle as she chokes on her own blood and collapses upon the point. There's a sympathy pang of pain below your shoulder-blade, but you shrug it off and shake your head as Spy fades again in to thin air.

Huh. So he doesn't just fuck off to God-knows-where every day.

Heavy takes the opportunity to make the push before any reinforcements arrive—and you follow, close on his heels, snapping your shield to full height, eyes on each flank.

Scout has already made it to the unoccupied point, as Soldier takes down the Demo and Pyro coming up on his nine with a pair of rockets. Things seem clear, clear, entirely too clear. Just where is the medic? The BLU heavy? Their soldier? Hanging back until your team makes the next push, pooling their strength to regain what's shortly to be taken?

Or—

You spin in a tight arc, check your six. Nothing. Pyro has taken a position in the corridor, watching your back. They give you a thumbs-up. You return the gesture with a nod and a grin.

[RED has taken control of the point.]

A fine start to the day. The only thing that would make it better is a nice, cold glass of tea.

Engineer appears behind you. "I'm settin' up a sentry; y'all keep goin'."

You nod.

"Da. We continue push."

"Right behind you, Heavy."

"You, too, Pyro—git goin'."

And you see Heavy's shoulders tense.

And then, voice at your ear: ["Y'all, that engineer's a spy!"]

You blanch. Oh, shit. But even as you turn, Pyro is there, and the acrid scent of burned flesh assaults your nose, the spy's wails echoing off the nearby sheds and low walls.

You barely keep your meager breakfast down (and that whiskey you accepted from Demo definitely isn't helping). The worst in the scent is burned hair. Acid and smoke, a smell that reaches into your throat and clutches at it until you choke. You manage a "Thanks, Pyro" before hurrying behind Heavy as fast as your legs can carry you. Burning is a death you have no desire to witness, even if it is that BLU asshole of a spy… flesh melting off bone and simmering sinew, the slow cease of thrashing limbs… No. You keep your eyes fixed on Heavy's broad back. Best not to think about it.

"Hurry up, slowpokes!" Scout doubles back around the alley you and Heavy are crossing. "They've got a shit-ton set up over there; gonna need the firepower ta clean 'em out."

Heavy grins. "We will kill them all!"

His excitement is infectious. You don't doubt his ability—or yours. "What're we looking at?"

"Heavy, Engineer and sentry, the demo respawned and I almost got blown ta Hell by a sticky trap, so watch that—and the soldier."

Three on four? Five if you count the sentry. If… Your brow furrows. Should you? Do you have the authority? It didn't hurt to ask. It isn't as though there's a hierarchy—no captain to defer to. Your fingers find the button on your earpiece. "Spy. What's your position?"

["You do realize this channel is not the most secure."]

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "Can you make it to the second point when we push?"

A pause. ["We'll see if I can make time for it."]

You click the button again, closing the channel. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He will be there," Heavy assures. "How long can you withstand sentry fire?"

"As long as it takes," you respond.

He shakes his head as Scout shifts nervously from foot to foot, watching both entrances to the alley. "Do not need hero. We need you alive to capture point. How long?"

You shake out your shield-arm, feel the Kevlar and steel drag upon your shoulder. "At least ten minutes, maybe more. It'll take a while to punch through even the window."

He nods. "Good."

Scout whistles. "Good shit, there. Now can we get a move on? We don't need that spy sneakin' up on us while we make a decision!"

"Specialist will draw sentry fire; Scout can get behind, hit Engineer first. I will flank other side, keep them down until Spy takes care of sentry. We are ready?"

You nod. "Can do."

"Great! See ya on the other side; I'll wait about five seconds for Spesh to get into position. Soon s I hear the sentry, I'm in."

"Good. Go!"

Scout doubles back and Heavy hurries ahead, out of sight; you position yourself at the mouth of the alley, grip your shield, take a breath. You know well that the point is just beyond, to the right. Perhaps six steps will bring you even. Another breath—and you launch yourself into the dust, crouched low, shield wall before you, already absorbing the first hail of bullets, vibrating along your arm. The Plexiglas cracks and complains, but holds steady, quickly pounded into a white film, capturing the copper shells. Six steps exactly.

Perhaps you'd underestimated the power and velocity of a full sentry, but you dig your heels into the soil, sneak a peek to the right—hear Scout whoop and the discharge of a shotgun beneath the din that shakes your shield. The whir of a mini-gun. Damn. The shudder of the shield reverberates down to bone, rattles your joints. If Spy doesn't take the damn thing down soon…

You cast a glance over your shoulder. That's the other thing you don't need at this moment: a flanking maneuver. But there is nothing—not even a waver in the air that might signal the BLU spy's approach.

You fire of a couple shots in the direction of the point, no idea if you've hit anything—there's nothing to be seen, and if you try to snatch another glimpse, the odds of falling are great, to say the least, as bullets whistle and kick up sand around you. Gods, how much longer can you crouch here? It seems the BLUs are busy with Heavy and Scout, but where the hell is Spy? How long have you been here, the disturbing crack and rattle and clatter jostling you to your core? You bring the Gyrojet close to your torso and hit the switch on your earpiece.

"What's everybody's status? I can't hold here much longer." Another long crack appears in the window of your ballistic; you can see nothing now but mock cobwebs tangled up with bullet shells.

One breath, two. Three, four, five.

You grit your teeth. Shit.

Try to bail or hold out? If you move, and Heavy and Scout still live, they won't stand a chance.

Really, there's no choice. So you buckle in. Fire three more rounds around your shield—

The pistol clatters to the ground. You look—

The flesh of your hand is shredded, glove in ragged tatters, muscle torn, bone showing white through a crimson flood that drips and gushes onto the orange soil. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The pain—almost doesn't register as such; a distant burn, an ache that rivals your memory of that first day on the field with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, mind whirling; damn fucking moron! Tears refuse to fall from your eyes to kill the pain that is now forefront, so you scream, you yell—starting with curses and finishing on a frustrated, wordless syllable.

Finally, the shudder of your shield stops, and so you take the instant to strip the glove from your non-dominant hand and wrap it in a makeshift, shoddy leather tourniquet around the ruined flesh. You hiss as it closes over your useless fingers. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Damn—fuck. Your fucking trigger finger is missing and your thumb is useless. You decide not to look for the severed mess; that's a sight you don't need. But your Gyrojet—

Oh, hell. There it is, disembodied and still on the trigger. Fine. Fucking fine. You grit your teeth and shake the flesh off the pistol, scooping the weapon up against your shield, into your non-dominant hand.

This is going to go well, you just know it. Blood races, hot anger and embarrassment fueling every motion as you spring to your feet and charge the point. You're down one hand; it doesn't fucking matter now how many BLUs are up there. And you're definitely not calling for Medic. This situation is already embarrassing enough as it is. Best to capture the damn point and let respawn take care of it; that's as good a plan as any right now, when you're as good as dead sitting here with one hand waiting for aid. You can feel the blood run down your arm, between leather and ruined skin, onto the ground. You might be a little light-headed already. It might be blood loss. It could be shock.

In any case, you unleash a roar as you throw yourself upon the point, and fire the last of your clip into the injured soldier, who drops immediately, spilling his own blood all over the steel; it gleams in the sun.

"What the holy fuck, Spesh? Sweet mother of—"

"I'M FINE." You drive the shield with the full force of your shoulder into the slack-jawed BLU engineer before that asshole can get his wrench in range, and grunt with satisfaction as Scout finishes him off with a pistol round. Ugh. Nothing but pain, pain, and more pain. Why the fuck couldn't it have been anything but your fucking hand?

Stupid. Stupid shit. You have half a mind to stomp that engineer's corpse into the ground for the mess his sentry made.

"Specialist!"

You turn to face Heavy, trying not to jostle your dominant hand—what's left of it—any more than necessary. "Good to see you," you manage.

[RED team has taken control of the point!]

"Now, I think I'll—"

"Have you called for Medic?" The man hefts his mini-gun in one, mighty arm to turn you gently to get a better look at your hand. You stare at your boots and the bloodstained point instead of meeting his eye under the concerned furrow of his brow. "You need Medic now!"

Scout is still gaping. "Yeah, holy shit. DOC!"

"No, no—I'm fine." You hiss as your instinct was to grab the boy with your decidedly non-functional hand. You drop it immediately, smearing blood across Scout's shirt, and your vision wavers. "No—look. I'll bleed out. Catch up with you on the next point. Until then, let's keep moving, and I'll—"

But Scout wipes the disgusted look off his face and hits the switch on his headset. "Hey, Doc, we need—"

"Even my shield looks like shit! No—" Heavy lays a hand on top of your head.

["Ach—shut up! I am busy. Find a health pack. Wrap it up. Move on."]

"Nah, that's not gonna work, see—Spesh's hand—"

Heavy's massive palm leaves your crown and clicks the switch on his earpiece. "Specialist has no trigger finger. Will take long time to bleed out. She cannot use her hand."

Silence. "Heavy… please." You grit your teeth, and your hand, your one functioning hand, is full of both shield and pistol—you can't hit the radio yourself to apologize or—

"Insists she is fine," he adds grimly.

And then, across the sand and soil, echoing between stone and wood and steel, a drawn-out wail reaches your ears, amplified through the mic; it grates across your skin, the chilling sound reaching down to bone. Scout shivers visibly. It sets your teeth on edge. Heavy's eyes, serious as ever, don't even give a lingering blink.

["Fine,"] Medic hisses. ["I will continue zhis later. You know where to find me."]

"Da." Heavy closes the line and fixes you under his stony gaze. "You see? Is not so bad."

Yeah, ok. You swallow, wishing you had a free hand to rub the goosebumps from your skin. You're under no illusions about that sound. Your cheeks, to top it all off, still burn with embarrassment. "Heavy. I'm fine. I can fight until I fall; it wouldn't have been a problem. I—"

He shakes his head firmly. "No. Part of team. Could not have point without you. There is no need to die; Doktor has no one else to heal."

"Yeah, I mean—I get not wantin' to bother Medic, I guess, since he seems pretty pissed today, but damn, Spesh! Let somebody give ya a hand! The doc won't hold it against ya later. Promise! I mean—if he did, you'da never met me."

"But I'm—" You snap your mouth closed, grind your teeth. You're what? Nobody? Unstable? Not worth the time? "Let's just go."

Heavy nods. "This way."

"Where I think it is?" Scout asks.

"Yes."

Heavy lays a massive hand on your shoulder as the boy skips ahead. He keeps his voice low as you stride after Scout, biting your tongue against the pain (for you'll be damned if you start complaining now). "Will be fine. Doktor is not angry with you. Will heal you. Has part of what he wants today, anyway; he should be more focused on team."

You're no fool. That ungodly scream had to do with whatever Medic's personal mission was today, and as much as you're sure you don't want to know… you need to. Especially after he'd told you to hold off on your own vengeance until the opportune moment.

But really, you're well aware there's only one thing it could have been.

The destination, as it happened, was a shed—one you'd previously assumed locked. Inside... Scout's hands are raised in a placating gesture, but Medic's glower still has you biting your cheek.

"See, Doc, I told ya—"

"I said I was fine."

Medic rolls his eyes behind his spectacles. "You are not fine, Specialist," he replies sharply. "Now—where is the finger?"

Your brow furrows. "Er… the finger? Back on the ground where I got shot."

"Ach, for—" He bares his teeth. "No. I can't fix it without… the medi-gun doesn't just regrow limbs or digits or anything else!"

" 'Cept teeth," mutters Scout, but that only earns him a wicked leer.

"Doktor—"

"Heavy, please." Medic rubs his temples, then fixes you in an icy gaze. "It has nothing to do with you." He shoots the Russian a look that clearly says 'there—toned it down; happy?' and sighs. "You didn't know, of course. These two, however, should know better!" His jaw tightens as your gaze flicks to your boots. "You expected respawn to catch you, ja? That is your definition of 'fine'? It will be several minutes before you bleed out, I wager."

As you'd realized originally, this was stupid. The whole thing. Why are you even here? The four of you are wasting time.

"I can stop zhe bleeding, but without your trigger finger…" Another short, lingering sigh; the sound curls in the air, sharp and cold. "Turn around, bitte."

You're no fool.

But you do.