Notes: My thanks this time to ScrapThat for taking a look at this chapter for me! Should further revisions be done after my editor takes a look, I'll update accordingly, as always.

WARNING for: graphic violence, death

The icepick screech of the siren drives nails into your skull, intensifying the tension headache that has most certainly not abated since you woke, but—as promised—you're in place, underground, on the edge of BLU's base. Situated dead center between two cinder-block walls, you hold your shield at the ready, not entirely sure what you're waiting for but certain you'll know it when you see it—or don't see it, as the case may be.

It feels like you've been in position for an eternity, headache compounded by every wail of the alarm. Even a single thought feels too large, too complex to hold onto for more than a moment, pain stabbing behind your eye, reaching into your gut to stir your meager breakfast into nausea.

Lights too bright. Body too heavy. Why won't that damn siren just—

CRACK, CRACK!

Knees bend, shield up. Gunshots ring over the alarm now—too close. Furrow your brow as though that might help you see through walls and around corners. Lift your Gyrojet to a ready position at your shoulder.

There!

The flash of red as Spy materializes is the only thing keeping your finger from trigger. He sprints with loping steps, clutching a blue briefcase against his chest.

"Move, move!" he hisses, and you turn just slightly to allow him to brush by. Then, over his shoulder, "Hold them off!"

Zzing! A bullet whistles far too close for comfort as "them" charges into the hall. BLU scout, pyro, and… their sniper?

Yes, there aren't any ideal perches or nooks in these narrow halls, but that beanpole and his rifle aren't going to be useful rushing like-

Rttatatatatat!

You duck back behind your shield. Right. Submachine gun. Shit. You peer through plexiglass, watch the scout and pyro spread out, one one each grey wall.

Between the submac fire and actual flames, you're not going to have any opportunity to get off a shot before they're on top of you. Damn, you wish Medic were here. Things are so much easier when you don't have to worry about getting your hand shot off while returning fire.

And the pounding in your head won't cease.

There's nothing for it—you can't stay behind your shield like this forever; the pyro is only feet away, readying their flamethrower.

You poke the barrel of the Gyrojet out just enough to fire two shots. Shush, shu-hush! Squint through the window... one grazes the suit, draws only a thin line of blood. The second bounces off the rubber like a ball of crumpled aluminum. Shit. Already too close for the bullets to reach velocity.

Rttatatatatatttatatatatattatatatatat!

Shit, shit, shit, shit. You need to think. But there's so much damned noise.

The flamethrower lights up, adds an eerie hiss to the gunfire that ricochets down the hall.

The Scout can't get to you, pressed as you are against this wall, behind your shield, but the pyro will force you to change angles as they come upon your unprotected side; then, it'll just take one shot tho the back of your head-and that's if the scout decides to be kind.

A transparent plan. But how to counteract it?

Noise, noise, so much fucking noise.

The pyro is close, too close, kevlar hot against your arm. You're going to have to change the angle of your shield, expose yourself, or let them press you backward, down the hall. Retreat isn't a bad option. Heavy and Medic are at the next junction, and, provided they haven't met any resistance, they could dispatch these three for you without trouble.

Their sniper has stopped firing now—only the roar of flame fills your ears.

Bum rushing the Pyro is an option. Not a good one, but an option, while the sniper reloads—and if you can get a shot off and into the scout fast enough…

Fuck! If you could get your sluggish fucking brain to work sometime this century…!

Let your feet drop you back a few steps toward the next hall, to Medic, to Heavy. Slow and steady down the hall will buy more time than wasting your life in a foolish attempt to charge forward and just be done with it.

Damn everything—if they'd positioned Medic with you in the first place, this little skirmish would be over already.

March slowly back, stay against the wall, make sure your feet don't get tangled up together.

Chance a glance backward down the hall in your steady, sluggish dance, Pyro unfaltering; they can do this all day, but even the smallest misstep as you creep so slowly back, and you're… well... toast.

That would be a lot funnier if your brain weren't trying to beat its way out of your skull to the rhythm of every bullet.

Your legs protest this steady abuse, crouched, shuffling back, tense from ankle to hip, still moving steadily only because anything less means a long and painful death as flame sears skin, devours flesh, eats and eats until there's only agony, wishing for mercy, for death, for—

Sweat rolls down to sting your eyes. Don't think about it. Just creep back, legs bent like a crab, ignore the way they burn in exertion, resolve to practice this maneuver more off the field. Forward is be such little trouble. But backward...

Now would be the perfect opportunity for a fourth member of their team to rout and finish you from behind-most especially that bastard spy. You can only hope he's focused on theft at this moment, because you can't afford a second glance, lest your shield falter even a fraction.

Deep breaths. One step. Another. An—shock, needles of pain racing through your leg. Your ankle turns—tendon seizing from knee to calf, and you fire off a shot that diverts the gout of flame for half a second. Shit, you're not going to make it. Your legs can't take this.

Something, something, you have to do something. There's no single thought you can scrape together, no plan, but there has to be-you're overlooking a simple solution, you know it. You keep reaching, reaching, but there's nothing in your brain, absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing but all that damned noise—

Flat on your back—pinned—gasping too-dry air under the press of an overheated shield. You had frozen in the middle of the hall. Just stopped moving. How? How could you have done nothing? And now, as though scenting blood in the water, the pyro is on you first-crushing arms and chest beneath kevlar that's burning through your sleeve and into skin. Through charred plexiglass, you can make out only that black, empty visage of a gas mask.

Oh, no no no no no no no, stupid, stupid—

Your Gyrojet is gone from your hand, not that it would have been of any use. The howdah is your only hope now, broken wrist from kickback or no. Black gloves claw the edges of your shield, heavy boots kick and bust your legs and knees and if you can stand after this, you'll be amazed.

One hand closes over the Lancaster, while the other remains pinned, alternating between trying to force the Pyro up and off and pulling the shield tighter to your chest to keep you from exposure as the pyro, in turn, tries to pry your shield from your body, and pins you tighter, trying to reach around and seize your skull, fingers writhing like snakes.

The howdah only draws in degrees. The shield is wrenched up, you pull it down, the gun moves only a fraction before being pinned back under your torso.

The pyro is screaming something under that mask, and though not a single word comes clear, it chills your blood.

Up and down again, howdah sliding closer and closer-then, with a deep breath, shove the barrels out from the edge of your shield, brace the trigger guard on the metal edging—BOOM!

Blood spatters the plexiglass window like rain across a windshield. Half a sigh of relief passes your lips, and you heave the corpse off, raise your miraculously safeguarded hand—

The single, silver barrel of a pistol between your eyes.

"Goodbye," says the scout.

Fuck.

You're not ready when respawn spits you out, and you stumble, catching yourself with forearm, hip, and knee on the concrete floor. Lay there for a moment, head spinning, lower it to the crook of your elbow. Reeling. How could you have let that fall apart so stupendously?

[Victory!]

The nice thing about grabs for intelligence, they're over quickly when done right. And this time, no real consequences for your stupidity. Very, very lucky.

You release a slow breath through your nose, and the fight leaves your limbs in a way it hasn't since your earliest instances of respawn. Oh, wouldn't it be nice to just go to sleep? Just close your eyes and let the pounding in your head slip down into sweet nothing. But you have a pistol digging into your thigh, and the chill of the cement seeps quickly into your uniform.

"Uh… Spesh, you doin' okay?"

You can't even find the energy to be embarrassed. "Yeah."

"Why are you on the floor?"

Slowly, you twist your torso, press both hands to the cold concrete, begin the laborious process of sitting up. "To make you ask questions."

"Ha, ha—your ma teach ya that one?"

A little huff leaves your lips that was probably meant to be a laugh. "Yeah."

Scout smiles wryly, a strange expression for such a youthful face. "Mine, too." He offers a hand, and you take it, grateful, your limbs still impossibly heavy. "Respawn hit ya hard?"

"Yeah. It hasn't done that in a while, but…" You shrug, letting that thought drift into nothing. No explanation, just a nebulous sort of non-answer that always results in gestures of understanding, even when no one knows what was meant to be said.

On cue, Scout nods as though you'd explained and starts down the hall back to base, toward the stairwell you don't feel like tackling. He half-glances over his shoulder to make sure you're still with him. "Well, we got the stuff, so that leaves a whole day! Maybe you should think about restin'... you're looking pretty shit for bein' fresh out of respawn."

That does garner a bark of laughter. "Don't sugar-coat it or anything."

He turns, walking backward to face you, and winks. "Hey, it's just because I care." He turns back just in time to begin the stairs, though you're sure he could have managed based on the way he runs the obstacle course.

Meanwhile, you're schlepping each step like you have lead weights strapped to your boots. Each step drives a shock of pain through your bones and into your skull. "I just haven't been sleeping well, that's all."

"Huh." He rubs the back of his neck, but doesn't look at you. "Is it real bad?"

You frown, not sure whether to tell the truth. It's nobody's business, and you don't need pity. "Just a bad dream or two sometimes."

Scout stops at the top of the stairs and waits with his hand on the steel door. "I, uh… I hate to say this, but you might wanna see Medic if it keeps up like that." He turns the handle, pushing the door open with a shove.

Keeps up like what? He couldn't possibly know how bad it is, not based on what you said. Unless... unless you'd said more. Shit, why is it so difficult to focus? Every time you reach for a thought it writhes away from your grasp like a worm.

Something must show on your face, because before you can form any kind of reply, he starts again. "I've, uh… I've had nightmares before. I mean, who hasn't right?" He catches sight of your expression again and falters. "Look, what I mean is, if it's bad enough that you're not sleepin' and you're lookin' like that, it's worse than you said. And if it's that bad, as much as I don't like the guy, Medic has stuff that can help ya sleep, and he might even share if ya ask. An' you don't have to say anythin', either." He opens his hands in a defensive gesture, shrugs. "S'just all I was gonna say. Can't have ya fallin' down on the job, ya know."

Such a simple thing. And even though he's rambling and trying to play it off, you can feel the prickle of tears at your eyes, so you tilt your head back, draw a deep breath through your nose, swallow. "I appreciate that, Scout." He looks at the floor, at the stained planks and scorch marks as you walk. "Do… do you still have them?"

You're not sure how you passed into this sudden understanding, and you half-expect him to laugh it off, deny that the dreams he's had were anything like yours, that he hasn't dreamed like that since he was a kid. But he just purses his lips, eyes trained, steadfast, on his shoes. "Not much anymore. Not, um…" Scout crosses both arms over his chest, caving in on himself, just a little. "Not usually. I did a couple weeks ago, but, uh-before that was a long time."

A couple weeks ago. It clicks together, suspicions confirmed.

"I'm sorry about that," you find yourself saying.

He inhales sharply, shoulders snapping straight, as though trying to find his bearings, clear his mind. "Nah, it's not your fault." He purses his lips again, nervously itches his nose on the back of his hand. "Nobody's fault, really. I don't like talkin' about it much, but…" You don't even know where the two of you are headed now, and you're not sure he's paying attention, either. Perhaps it doesn't matter; his feet move, no intention of slowing. It reminds you of the itch that led you on your latest midnight jaunt. "See, I um… I had to kill a buddy of mine with that pistol, over in 'Nam."

So casual, the way the words fall into conditioned air. They should be heavy, humid. But as you walk, the words come out dry.

"He was wounded real bad, couldn't do anything for him; he was gonna be dead in a few minutes, or dragged off by some bloodthirsty bastards and me with 'em. But-" Scout swallows. "He said he didn't mind." A crease appears between his brows, and he wipes his nose on the back of his hand again. "Said it was okay." This time, when he tilts his head back to look at the ceiling, it's you pretending not to see. "I was up for weeks."

You don't know what to say. What can you say? What can be said?

His mouth curls at the edge, wry. "I know it sucks." What an understatement; you could have come up with that. "And… sometimes you can't get over it by yourself." He stops walking at last, and you follow suit. He offers a half-smile. "So… get some sleep, Spesh." He punches your shoulder lightly. "You've got people that need ya."