It was clear that whatever was down here wasn't meant to be found. The further Miss Pauling went, the more she itched to walk right back up that creaky staircase. When she had reached the bottom, a chill crawled up her spine, and although the thought shouldn't have spooked her so much, it had been like feeling a steamy breath on her shoulders. It was a silly thought, there wasn't a breeze let alone another living being down here with her. At least, she hoped.

But this place… Miss Pauling wasn't exactly a, well, a religious person, her actions made that quite clear. But this was different. She'd gone through abandoned buildings, dead places, and was even ambushed in some whenever her mercs got a bit sloppy on missions. So it wasn't the darkness, or the blood, or anything like that. It was something else. Something, for lack of a better word, evil, about this. About all of this. The tight corridors, that smell that seeped through her mask like thick, black smoke, the fact that the only body she'd found was that one with the dislocated jaw and burst stomach. Needless to say, she was taking her time making sure every nook and cranny was swept before descending further into this laboratory.

It was a laboratory. A very destroyed, very industrial laboratory, but a laboratory nonetheless. Air ducts with fans still idly spinning with some unknown power source, pipes, and bulking doors of metal and reimburse glass lined the walls. But there was something else. Those faintly glowing webs, crawling along the spaces left from the downright robotic appearance of the building's interior. When Miss Pauling examined it further, the pale strings appeared more like roots, or fungi, from the patterns they created. And they weren't just white. Getting closer revealed small spiraling colors. Blues, pinks, reds, oranges and greens could be seen at just the right angle, swirling like mist through a person's veins. Gaseous opals, crystalline yet airborne. She tore herself away from the sight. It was downright hypnotizing.

Focus. She had to find out more. She had to uncover what this facility was made for.

Miss Pauling trod on, through the tight corridors of mechanical locks and garish décor. The webs were everywhere, no matter where she turned. And still, there was no one. She stopped at a large blast door. It was nothing of importance, it was identical to the many others leading to other parts of this facility. But there was a reason it caught Miss Pauling's eye. It had broke halfway through either opening or closing, leaving a large enough gap at the bottom for someone to crawl through. And beyond the gap, was a deep red light.

The failsafe lights beyond this door were still intact. Which could mean other devices would still be operational. Hoisting her pistol, Miss Pauling got on her knees and crawled through the door. It would ruin her dress, but she could always purchase a new one. And it was already ruined from before so…

When she stood, red and black filled her vision. It was as if she'd walked right into a submarine. Shadows cut deep, and the blaring vermillion did little to illuminate anything but the pathways. And the balcony she now stood on was witness to the destruction and oddity of the large rooms and pathways below it.

Miss Pauling crept down the stairs. Making any unnecessary noises felt wrong, even with all the evidence pointing to a completely dead place. But the papers, the broken vials and desks, the large window acting as the opposite wall to the balcony. It was bad. A gaping, fractured hole within the window only made things worse. And from that shattered entrance, emerged the webs, crawling up,

Up,

Up.

The sharp intake of sour breath filled the desolate lab. Those… what were, what were those? Pods, gleaming, glowing with a familiar pale aura. They were large, much too big for any moth or butterfly on Earth. No, they were easily big enough to fit a human child, perhaps even a fully grown man. Another chill crept slowly up Miss Pauling's back and neck.

They held things in them. Dark silhouettes, unmoving. Some looked to be worn down, with ripped fibers. Shriveled. They all had that appearance. Like on the cusp of hatching, or crumbling away into dust.

She turned, and pushed towards the closest corridor. She didn't know where it would take her, but anywhere was better than here. It was better than…

A cell. That was what the window was connected to. It acted as a clear through ceiling to the near empty room below. An observation deck. Made to observe an empty room with nothing but a chair, bolted to the middle of the floor. Around the legs were broken and rusting chains. Miss Pauling turned away and continued down her path. Evidence, tapes, files, that was all she needed before she could leave. Oh, where was the Archives? Why were there no signs down here?

She stopped at a door. This had a sign. Or, rather, a name plate on the outside on the wall besides the door. It read Dr. Gaumond. Just that, no title, no department. Just Gaumond. Miss Pauling pushed the door aside, and entered the office.

It was small, and appeared mostly untouched when it came to blood and destruction. There was, however, a toppled filing cabinet spilling its contents like a disemboweled soldier on the battlefield. She scooped some up and flicked through them, searching for any important points of notice. Latin words for animals, some more letters about delayed shipments, nothing new. She scanned and read, getting more and more frustrated, when from the corner of her vision, as she read through a letter addressed to Heron again, Miss Pauling spotted a manila folder.

It was underneath the piles of papers and notes while also pinned beneath the cabinet. She wouldn't have spotted it if it weren't for the corner sticking out from under everything. Dropping the papers in her hands, Miss Pauling shimmied the folder out from the heavy metal, carefully as to not rip anything. And when she brought it out, she read the printed ink on the bottom of the folder.

Heron, F. {Exec: Mann, G.} Proj: Gemini[Spy Class].

Miss Pauling froze, and her grip tightened. What? What!? This, what was this, what did this mean!? Mann!? Did Mann Co. create this, how, when, why!? Or one of the Mann brothers? No, they couldn't have, whenever one got the upper hand, the other was quick to follow so if either Redmond or Blutarch made this lab and whatever the lab was making, that would surely mean there was another lab like this one! And that wasn't possible, this wasn't funded under RED or BLU, this was Gray Industries! So, was it Mann Co.? And Spy, what did he have to do with this!? Unless he was acting as a spy for this institution without the Administrator's knowing, which seemed impossible, but this was- and honestly, she felt a little hurt at the notion. Sure, he was a mercenary, and a spy one at that, but that was at least some level of trust she thought had built between them- okay, slow down, stop jumping to conclusions when the file hadn't even been opened yet. Taking a deep breath, Miss Pauling flipped open the folder.

The data collected from the S Wing was indeed concise with our theories. However theoretical, Heron's hypothesis has shown to hold some merit. All points, all probabilities, point to our inquiries being correct.

It is possible, theoretically, to create this cellular strain. Our executive has already been sent the results and we are currently waiting on a response on how to proceed with this information. Based on previous messages, I have no doubts that he will order the immediate preparation and start of physical trials.

The cusp of a biological breakthrough is within our grasps. If Mr. Mann does indeed want me and my colleagues to further our research, then perhaps nuclear weaponry will become merely a footnote in history compared to this.

-Dr. Gaumond, Assistant Director.

Miss Pauling took the page, and folded it before reading the next.

Failures.

While our theories are correct, the results are flimsy at best, and at worst, actively repel our work. The DNA has proven difficult to keep stable, even under sterile environments. Splicing these genes, so completely opposite in cellular makeup and strains, makes it near impossible to create anything that can achieve Mitosis without outside interference. I can only conclude that, without a foundation for our strain to possess, our research and trials shall remain stagnant.

I have spoken with Heron, and after some deliberation, he has ordered a shipment of mice to test my theory. While I'm hopeful, this still leaves us with the one main issue our backer wants solving.

Cybernetics may work, but I am no expert in any sort of robotics. Orders that can be comprehended and followed with room for fast calculations, needs high cognitive abilities. And although me and my team are well versed in our fields, even I am not so brash as to believe we can simply create a sentient mind.

-Dr. Gaumond, Assistant Director.

Well, obviously whoever these people are were creating something. From context clues Miss Pauling found, it sounded like a bioweapon. A virus, perhaps? Some new form of bacteria? That would make sense with ordering some lab mice to test the disease on. But that last line, did this mysterious "Mann", Blutarch or Redmond, want these virologists to create a new being? She needed more information. And there was more in this heavy folder. In the back pocket, a photo met her gaze. Pulling on the photo led to a thick bundle of identity sheets to be found. Profiles of almost familiar faces.

Anning, Harold. M. 172.72 cm. Age: 47. Eyes: Hazel. Race: Caucasian. Nationality: American. Current Occupation: Retired. Former Team: Valor. Former Class: Spy. Kill Count: 43 INCOMPATIBLE.

Chapdelaine, Delmore. M. 165.89 cm. Age: 34. Eyes: Blue. Race: Caucasian. Nationality: French. Current Occupation: Tailor. Former Team: Tidal. Former Class: Spy. Kill Count: 39. INCOMPATIBLE.

Ortiz, Carmen. F. 154.53 cm. Age: 50. Eyes: Brown. Race: Latina. Nationality: Spanish. Current Occupation: Retired. Former Team: Castle. Former Class: Spy. Kill Count: 54. INCOMPATIBLE.

More and more identities were found in that back pocket. There were so many, and all of them had that stamp in red: incompatible. All except one. She held the small paper to the light, trying to keep her arm steady. The profile image printed on the paper was small, and she did not recognize the person. He was fit, with a sharp jaw and a roman nose. The hair was dark but his eyes were far darker. Pools of black and focused. Miss Pauling ripped her own eyes away from the man's photo and towards the description below it.

Connery, Jacob. M. 173.51 cm. Age. 48. Eyes: Brown. Race: Caucasian. Nationality: English. Current Occupation: Espionage Agent. Former Team: Epsilon. Former Class: Spy. Kill Count: 116. COMPATIBLE.

Compatible. Someone compatible. And the others were all incompatible for… something. And she had an itching feeling she knew what that something was. Sure enough, when sifting through the letters and journalistic entries, she found the next clue to this mystery.

Success!

The Imimia Strain has successfully metastasized with a host. It took several days of routine injections and psychological conditioning, but the results speak for themselves. A fully developed and self sustaining life form.

Observation of our creation shows promise. It has rapid mitosis, creating and killing off cells in such a fashion that its appearance is near mesmerizing. One problem has risen, however, and that is the supposed inability to communicate.

It isn't clear whether Subject 6Y succumbed to brain death during his metamorphosis, but I can only hope that that is not the case. His record is envious, and his espionage experience is a trait we cannot simply grow. To lose the training and, dare I say, his ways of interrogation, though sadistic, would be catastrophic towards our end goal.

Tomorrow I will organize some cognitive tests to see whether parts of Subject 6Y's past memories and mind remain and if they can be salvageable. If they can be, we must proceed with caution. Subject 6Y has been documented to become violently impertinent in order to "settle a score". Add to that fact his history with interrogations, and I have more than enough reason to convene with Heron about hiring some extra protection.

-Dr. Gaumond, Assistant Director.

And that seemed to be the last of the letters signed by this Gaumond. Miss Pauling sat back, and let the heavy load of this new knowledge roll around in her mind. Why were they doing this, why did this new Mann want them to make some kind of viral strain? Or a mind control bacteria? She still didn't know all the facts. And there were no more papers to read through, at least in this folder. There had to be more, she had to know more.

So she searched. The desk, the files, the shelves and the boxes they held. Bits and pieces were added but not enough to understand the bigger picture. Reports of cognitive capabilities, casualties, some more reports full of numbers and medical vocabulary she didn't yet have the experience to uncode. But still, there was nothing else signed off by Gaumond.

Leaning against the wall, Miss Pauling sighed, taking off her glasses to rub her eyes. How in the world would she explain this to the Administrator? There was so much and yet so little. No explanation as to what happened here, what they wanted to make and why, and what those strange cocoons were. Alright, alright, she just needed to clear her head. She pushed herself off the wall and began to pace.

"Alright, well firstly, this lab was made in secret so obviously no one besides the workers and this "Mann" executive would find out about it. And whatever they were working on," Miss Pauling rambled, walking in circles around the small room, "What they were working on relates to spies, and a cellular strain that sounds like a bacteria, or virus, or maybe cancer. A cancer sound more likely due to the mentions of metastasizing. So far the purpose of said cancer isn't clear, and-" She stepped right onto a report and slipped. Flailing back, trying to catch herself, Miss Pauling slammed into a shelf with a painful oof! It wobbled and the force of the collision knocked some books off their pedestal. Along with a small, plastic box.

Its clatter caught Miss Pauling's attention and stole it away from the now painful thumping in her upper back. Gingerly picking up the alien object, her eyebrows raised in recognition. It was a cassette player. A small one, one that could be handheld. There were a few she had purchased last time she'd gone to Australia on some business trips. This specific device appeared to be able to record and playback tapes. And to her luck, there was a tape sitting in the slot when she checked.

A small click of the play button, and a faint whirring of the cassette's tape filled the room.

"...in't puttin' up with their stupid sh***y demands anymore, this is ****in' crazy, what they're doin'," The voice that played was hushed and had an eastern coast accent. Not a Boston one, Miss Pauling had heard that enough to tell instantly. If she had to guess, it would be New York. The voice, a masculine one, seemed to be irritated. And nervous.

"No idea if any a those b****ds' put this down. Doubt it, cause I'm pretty sure all a this is illegal. But there's some serious s**t happenin' and I'm sick of just… watchin' it happen, I guess. First it was all a those people who came in but never left, the ****in' human finger, oh s**t, gave me nightmares for a ****in' week, and just, what they did, to that guy. Sure, he had a look to him but ****in' h*ll. Now he ain't even human anymore, he's a ****in' animal or something! A cannibalistic animal! How can I explain this without sounding insan?. Nah, what's happenin' here is insane! They brought it, him, whatever, a finger. Don't know where they got it, and I don't want to know. Maybe the Japanese mafia or some s**t like that; ain't too far fetched after all I saw down here.

"Well, they started with pictures, back when it, him, wasn't movin'. Sat and, ****in', talked to it like he was still there under all a that skin. Gave him pictures of people, and told him to do something with them. Cept nothing happened I guess, because then they started bringing in people in person, and then they brought in the finger. And Like I said, I don't know animals! But I'm pretty ****in' sure that no animal they put in it has a taste for humans. Or can make humans out of human parts! No, they just look human, it made another it, a weaker one but it still made another from another bit from another dude, and I guess that what it made from the finger was whoever owned the finger. But…

"Look, this ain't normal, none a this is! And I ain't goin' down when all a this comes and bites them in the *ss. Which might be tomorrow, might be months from now, I heard people talkin', down here people talk. And there's been talkin' about our head funder cuttin' our fundin'. Heard that it was to get into hard science, building robos or some s**t. Maybe it was buildin' bombs, who cares? But who can blame the guy, if this is what he's payin' for? Some nuts making a Frankenstein who's gettin' more and more grabby. Seriously, the thing tries to grab you if you get close, and when it does grab you, it won't let go! Luckily the poor sucker only had to lose his pants and not his leg. But we couldn't let the two get close after that, the thing would just… I don't know, wouldn't let things go.

"Anyway, I'm tired of being here. I was hired to mop floors, that's it! Not mop floors that get covered in flesh and white fishing line! And whenever I ask "hey, why the **** is there white s**t everywhere, and why does it just melt when I try moppin'?" nobody answers! But here's the kicker, I know eyes. And whenever I bring up the strings, or the flesh, and the way the thing just… acts? Like it's a ****in' livin' person still, but not, and just shambles and looks at ya? Everyone gets the shifty, twitchy eyes. Always looking away, never givin' a clear answer. Maybe it's cause I'm not high enough in the scientific royalty, makes sense. But I think it's cause they got no ****in' idea what they made. Test after test and nothing gets done and no one is gettin' any answers. So I'm done, **** this, **** Heron and Gaumond, and **** whatever they made. I'm not stayin' down here, I'm not! Bet there's tons of people who'd pay way better than what these ****ers are selling for what I've seen. And I know just where to put this. So whoever's gonna listen to this after I give it to whoever, take it from me.

"What's been happening at this lab shouldn't be forgotten, but shouldn't be remade either. Don't try and steal that thing, just destroy it. For its sake and for ****in' humanity's sake. Do not listen to those "experts", they have no idea what they've created. I do know one thing though," Miss Pauling leaned in, focused on the tonal drop. The seriousness. "They were making it to be used against a lot a people. Don't remember their names or titles, but I do remember their abbreviations. RED and BLU and Mann Co.. And their owners. There was someone else, no one but Heron and the executive knew who, though. But that's who they were makin' that thing for. Maybe I can find them, bet they'd be pretty d*mn grateful to hear all a this."

The tape came to an end, and the play button popped back up with a creaky snap. In its final words, the mysterious man left Miss Pauling alone in the dark. The quiet was large, and loaded with thought. But those thoughts remained unsaid as Miss Pauling tucked the tape recorder into her bag, along with as many papers as she could reasonably stuff into her satchel. She still didn't have all the answers, and she doubted that she ever would. But it was enough to know that whatever this place created, was currently on a warpath against RED and BLU. Perhaps even The Administrator herself.

Miss Pauling had to go and report this immediately.

She got to her feet, and swung the bag over her shoulders before speed walking out the room. The things she learned made everything all the worse as she went further through the tight corridors. Whatever these people made had done this, had escaped and killed those Mann Co. workers, killed its creators,

Killed her men. Her men. A bubbling mixture of anger and misery began to build beneath the surface. It had to be stopped, it had to be destroyed before it found the RED team, before it found the other teams The Administrator had. Before it found the remaining BLU members.

Maybe it already had? She quickened her step, making her way back into the observation room. Glass cracked beneath her step.

What if it was after her too? If the man was right, and whoever was in charge of this whole operation was at war with Helen, Redmond, Blutarch, and Saxton, then no doubt she was also on the list. It had already gone through an entire team of battle-hardened men. Mercenaries, trained and grown for situations normal men would break under. And they had been taken down so easily. Could she fight? Yes. Could she kill? Absolutely. But there was a reason why Miss Pauling worked in the background, taking lives when said lives' backs were turned. Against even one of the mercenaries she contracted, the assistant wouldn't stand a chance.

Against this being, and Miss Pauling would be-

A tearing sound ripped through the silence, and Miss Pauling could only scream in shock as something impossibly weighty dropped on her shoulders. The force sent her slamming to the ground, trapped under the almost papery load. Clawing for escape, to get free, Miss Pauling bucked and thrust her back up. And when she turned, another shriek escaped her lips as she instinctively scrambled away.

It was a corpse. She realized that after another panic filled the second. After calming herself down, Miss Pauling whipped out her pistol and shot the head of the corpse. It kicked back and lay unmoving. It was indeed a corpse and not a biological nightmare. A very dead, very very dead corpse.

Perhaps it was better to call it a husk. Skeletal, dehydrated, and stiff, the body had to have been dead for at least three months. And that smell, the spoiled orange zest wafted off the still pale skin. Looking up, the assistant's eyes were met with a now empty shriveled cocoon, swaying softly from the force that had ripped through it. And unlike its brethren, the pale light it had once emitted had gone out.

Swallowing back the bile building in her throat, Miss Pauling got to her feet and went to grab the bag that had been pushed from her shoulders on impact. When she took it, a small vibration of the fabric met her hand. And there was a faint buzzing, a staticky noise.

Someone was calling her.

Ripping open the bag after putting away her gun, Miss Pauling frantically searched for her phone. Through papers and explosives(thank goodness those didn't explode from the force of the body hitting them) she searched, and finally her hand clasped around the brick-like phone.

"...ayday, this is da BLU Scout, me and da BLU Sniper are trapped in Sawmill's territory with an unknown bogy, I'm requesting backup," Scout? Scout!? It had been nearly a month since she last heard the Bostonian's constant chatter through her phone, and for just a moment, it felt like everything was back to normal. But it wasn't. Miss Pauling jammed her thumb into the "answer" button and brought it up to her head.

"Hel- Scout, Pauling here, can you hear me?"

"I repeat, this is da BLU Scout, me and da BLU Sniper are trapped in Sawmill's territory with an unknown bogy, I'm requesting backup. Does anyone copy? Over." Did he not hear her? She pressed the button again.

"Scout, can you hear me? It's Pauling, I read you loud and clear, is Sniper with you?" Silence. The runner's tone was quiet, strained. Wherever he was, back at Sawmill apparently, he was hurt. And scared. She smacked her phone with her palm before talking again.

"Scout, can you hear me, where are you in Sawmill, is Sniper with you? I need some answers." Nothing, but Scout had heard nothing too. Because when he finally answered again, it was snappish, and he never snapped at her.

"Listen, I don't know if someone's on da other side or not, but I'm sick of this. Basically a month of nothing, nothing from anyone. Why do we hafta be da ones tryin' ta get into contact with you b*****ds? Can ya tell me dat?" Oh if he only knew, but Miss Pauling didn't try to interrupt, even if she knew it would be in vain. Instead, she remained silent, and listened. "Why don't you come down and fix da mess you left!? We are ****in' human beings! More than half of my team were massacred and da only other one is probably dead by now because of this, this monster, huntin' us down." Had Sniper been caught!? Miss Pauling felt her hands go cold.

"Is anyone gettin' all a this?" Yes.

"You listenin', you clipboard and screen watchin' freaks?" Yes, I am.

"It'll go for you next." I know, Scout. "It'll go for you next if it finishes me and Snipes off, so if anyone," Scout's tone got desperate, pleading to her, "anyone, is listenin', you should make dat pretty ****in' obvious right ****in' now!"

A horrible quiet settles down, and Miss Pauling could only listen to Scout's harsh breathing after his rant. There was no point in trying to say something back, she knew that, because for whatever reason Scout couldn't hear her. But she did anyway.

"I'm sorry this had to happen, Jeremy." Was what she managed to say before she heard the runner shout in frustration and anguish as the call ended in sharp electric static. It sounded as though he lobbed whatever he had used to communicate at the closest possible wall as hard as he could. She couldn't exactly blame him, Scout wasn't known to act rationally when in emotionally charged situations.

It still hurt to listen to, even if it wasn't directed at her specifically. There was a degree of truth. She could have sent a team, or just one other person to try and find Sniper and Scout. She had the authority to, but didn't. And now one more member of BLU could have been taken, along with the last soon.

Packing her phone away, Miss Pauling marched through the laboratory and back towards the staircase, towards the elevator, towards the surface. She made a mental note to have some pyros burn this wretched place to the ground after delivering the evidence she gathered to The Administrator.

One mission was nearing completion, and she finally had time to finish her first. As she climbed that staircase crawling with gleaming webs, Miss Pauling had her mind set on one thing and one thing only.

Reaching Sawmill.


A lot of you have questions and theories revolving around my story. And while I like to see the guesses(some readers have gotten really, really close!), it's about time in the tale for some answers. Nothing that's too clear cut, I hope, I have faith that you guys can connect the clues and information I've given. But this chapter was needed to explain some things. Sorry you don't get more Team Quickscope POV this time around, but I'm just mean like that sometimes :). Hope this clears things up and that you enjoy/are enjoying my story!