2000 something words I said.
3000 something words I meant.
God... And not a single dialogue... I don't know how I managed to get this out. Apologize in advance for the heavy chapter.
Just for the record, Medic fangirls. Don't kill me, please. This is just Sniper's impressions.
CHAPTER 8 - The snowstorm
Heavy and Sniper didn't go hunting together the ensuing week.
They both privately decided that it was too soon to repeat the experience. The weather forecast hadn't encouraged it either. The alleged cloudy weekend had turned out to include some feeble snow on Saturday night and intermittent rain on Sunday. The Australian was glad that they hadn't even debated about going. Besides, he already had had plans for those days.
He had driven to the nearest town and gotten ridden of two-thirds of the moose meat. One of the butchers he had visited had refused to take the pieces at noticing his foreign accent. If it had been out of mistrust for the origins or quality of the product, Sniper would have understood but it hadn't. It had just been plainly xenophobia. It wasn't the first time some of the locals drastically changed their attitude the moment he opened his mouth but he opted to not let it bother him. He had long stopped caring about what wankers thought of him, of his image or of his way of living. However, for once, he imagined how these same people would treat Demo or Heavy who visibly didn't fit the American stereotype of their perfect citizen. In his way out, Sniper casually spat at the window door of the ratbag butcher and searched for another one who would be able to see the ripper deal he was bringing to their shop.
In the end, he hadn't been paid totally fair for the meat but he was satisfied enough. He might have gotten a little more by barging with that stern businesswoman but he considered that he had already spent enough time on this quest and didn't feel like it was worth investing more. He was currently earning more money than he knew what to do with it and a dozen bucks felt insignificant next to the seven digits of his bank account. He had only wanted this meat not to go to waste and now, his part was done.
That night, Sniper ate for dinner the unlucky rabbit and used honey as condiment at Heavy's suggestion. He might have added too much but he enjoyed it nevertheless. With his mouth full of a particular sweet bite, he smiled a little and had to concede that the big guy had been right. He should cook with honey more often. It was an easy product to find and literally never expired.
The week that followed was an ugly one. The temperatures dropped drastically and it half-rained, half-snowed most of the days. The sun was only visible for a couple of hours on Friday and with the match at its juncture, the mercenaries weren't able to properly appreciate that precious gift.
When Heavy approached him after the battle, Sniper readied himself to accept an unpromising, most surely awful outdoor plan for the incoming days. However, the bigger man had come to him with a different announcement. He explained that Medic required his assistance with one of his projects and that unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to go hunting with him that weekend. Sniper nodded in secret relief and offered some polite words of understanding.
Although, he didn't let that naïve phrasing and friendly tone deceived him. He knew what 'help Doktor with experiment' really entailed. It was a very well-known fact that the big guy was the favourite guinea pig of the German quack.
At that point in time, Sniper had a better idea of Heavy's intellect and he couldn't begin to comprehend how the gentle giant could let that psycho slit him from top to bottom so willingly. It had made sense while he had believed that the Russian was a brainless mountain of walking muscle but not anymore. Was the man that afraid of what Medic would do to him if he refused? Was he allowing it to buy Medic's favour and in return, get special attention on the battlefield? Or had Sniper misjudged Medic too, as he had initially done with Heavy?
No. It couldn't possibly be the last option. Sniper still vividly remembered his ÜberCharge surgery, primarily, because the whacko hadn't used anaesthesia on him during the procedure. The madman that dared to call himself their doctor had cut open his chest and held out his own beating living heart in front of his eyes while rambling sinisterly cheerful about other non-related medical stuff. There hadn't been any trace of professionalism or patient concern or even humanity in the whole session. Medic had treated him like a simple test subject. Like a kid with aspirations of scientist playing with a nameless replaceable mouse. The Australian hadn't been more terrified of someone in his whole bloody life.
While he trained to move and quickly aim on the snow that weekend, Sniper found himself, on more than one occasion, scoping in the direction of the infirmary. He fruitlessly tried to get a peek of what was going in the lab, what nightmarish experiments was Medic performing on the Russian. He told himself that it wasn't concern for his teammate, only curiosity to understand the bigger picture.
If anyone from the team had gotten even an inkling of what had awaited them for the days preceding Halloween, they would have made up the best excuse of their lives to be as far away as possible from the base. Faking their deaths wouldn't have been an overreaction.
Sniper, like everyone else who had spent more than five minutes in the same room as Soldier, knew who Merasmus was or at least, who Soldier claimed Merasmus to be. However, no one, not even the boisterous American, had expected the wacky wizard to show up the week of Halloween and subjected them to the most bizarre magical fight that could have ever been conceived in the history of battles.
The nutty magician had cursed them with big heads, small heads, bird heads, bomb heads. He had deactivated gravity and turned the air so thick that they could swim in it. He had granted them temporal superspeed, invulnerability and crits. He had forced them to dance at the rhythm of his freakish music and to play hide and seek with him. He had made bombs rain from the sky and opened portals to Hell thanks to the power of a magical talking book.
Worst of all, the mercenaries had had to intermittently join forces with the enemy team to be able to defeat the wizard. One moment the ceasefire was on, the other, it was every man for himself. They had completely lost track of who was friend and foe and the Administrator hadn't intervened at all. Some suspected that she had expressively orchestrated Merasmus's visit just for her twisted personal entertainment.
That Halloween event had changed the team's mindset. Not only regarding the boundaries of reality and magic in general but also about the perception they had of Soldier. Except for Demoman who had met the wizard before, everyone had assumed that the figure of Merasmus was an imaginary character from one of Soldier's delusional tales or in the best of the cases, a quirky roommate who had actually existed. Nobody had been expecting the helmet man to be narrating the accurate truth about the immortal wizard.
It made Sniper reconsider everything he had overheard the crazy American vociferate. Perhaps, he had truly flown to Poland and fought the Nazis as a one-man army. Perhaps, he had truly rediscovered the art of rocket-jumping after the technique had become obsolete due to the invention of the stairs. Perhaps, he had truly killed Hitler and both sides had covered it up because well... recognizing Soldier as the responsible of that deed would have made any self-respecting country look very, very laughable.
If only one-tenth of what he claimed was true, Soldier was quite an impressive man. Only if anything else was true, of course. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. But after such terrible days, the Australian wasn't in the mood of giving him a second chance.
The Halloween week had been particularly horrible for Sniper. Not only because it had turned upside down his usual fighting style but also because the heating system of his van had started malfunctioning. The Australian wasn't sure if it was just that the weather was colder than the previous month or not, but heat was leaking out of the vehicle faster than it could be replaced. The thermostat was turned at its maximum power but it still wasn't able to match the desirable temperature that had been set up for. Sniper began wearing gloves, jacket and double layer of socks inside of his home. It felt so dreary to return to his dear sanctuary after an exhausting day at the battlefield and not be able to get the cold out of his bones.
On an incidental encounter of Friday's match, Sniper told Heavy that his van was having problems and that he would have to bring it to a mechanic as soon as possible, which it translated to postponing their hunting weekend again. Without inquiring about the specific issue, Heavy suggested to let Engineer take a look at it but Sniper refused before the big guy could even finish the sentence.
The last time Sniper had allowed the cordial Texan near his camper, the man had 'upgraded' the vehicle to an extreme point beyond recognition. He had substituted its regular engine for a nuclear fusion one, turned the dashboard into a control panel more complex than a pilot's cabinet, made the walls resistant to bullets, rockets, explosions, floods, chemical clouds, radioactivity and 'hypothetical' disintegration rays. He had installed two mobile sentries on the sides, an intercontinental satellite-guided rocket launcher station in the ceiling, heat lasers in the front and back, a harvester shredder in the bumper and other gadgets Sniper had been too horrified to pay attention to. On top of that, the shorter mercenary had given him a tour through his newly 'renovated' home with a smile from ear to ear, totally failing to understand that this wasn't what Sniper had meant by 'Could ya check for me the engine oil?". That day, the Australian had learnt that, despite being apparently the most normal one, Engineer was as insane as everyone else on the team.
So no, he was definitely not going to ask Engineer for help. The hospitable genius had restored the van to its original self after being politely requested to but the Australian wasn't going to risk it a second time. He would find someone else. He had already made a list of the mechanics around the area and would visit the most promising ones during the weekend.
Everything was under control. He had a solid plan.
When he was allowed to speak again, Heavy also shared with him that the team was throwing a party that same night. He mentioned Halloween decorations and free alcohol and food, although he might have emphasized too much on the food part. He didn't directly invite him but he awaited an inquiry for more information to do so that Sniper didn't award him.
The sharpshooter wasn't particularly feeling very social that day and had other more pressing concerns that monopolized his whole attention. Like his van, the cold weather, where the bloody hell had Merasmus hid this time, that BLU Demoman just some strides away, his van, that puff sound that resembled a Spy's uncloaking, his van, that unidentified Soldier rocket-jumping at the other side of that wall, his van. Had he mentioned his van already?
Sniper knew he had been a little rude with Heavy that day. He shouldn't have used that short downtime for that matter. He should have approached him at the end of the match and talked with him with the cordiality he deserved. But he didn't. He didn't even see Heavy's lips flattening into a thin line and the grunt he contained to his total disinterested because Sniper had already looked away, paranoid of spies being around.
That night, while trying to listen to the radio over the wind clashing against his van, Sniper regretted not taking Heavy's invitation. Or Demo's or Scout's. Because they had also blatantly insisted him to join their common plans. Having to endure his teammates' company in exchange for free drinks and a warm room didn't sound like such a bad deal anymore. If during that moment of indecision, Heavy had knocked on his door and formally invited him, Sniper would have followed him in a heartbeat. But the gentle giant never came for him and he was left to stare at the base, watching the lights of the game room switch through the colours of the rainbow. Thankfully, he was too far away to hear the music.
To bite down the bitterness that he didn't want to admit from where it was seeping, the Australian attempted to convince himself that suffering through the cold was part of the adaptation process to this weather. That going to a party he wouldn't have gone otherwise only to avoid the freezing temperatures meant being weak, giving up on his progress. Sniper wasn't sure if he completely believed himself or not because, in the end, he turned on the engine of his van and drove away from the base.
After parking the night before in front of the closest automobile repair shop of his list, Sniper made sure to be the first client of the day. Unfortunately, his punctuality wasn't rewarded because the chief technician could only give him a vague diagnosis and an unacceptable deadline for the repair. He couldn't just let them take his van for two weeks that could easily extend into more than a month. Unsatisfied with the first mechanic, Sniper thanked the man anyway and headed for the second stop on his tour.
He kept going from one to the following next until he obtained the most thorough, direct and realistic evaluation he thought he could possibly get. The old bloke, who Sniper had more than a little trouble to understand his thick pronunciation, explained to him that his van was simply not designed for this cold weather. The walls didn't have any type of insulation and the heating system was too rudimentary to keep up with any temperatures lower than 'a chilly spring'. In his insistence, the man confirmed him that if he got some parts shipped from the original manufacturer and costume-made the rest, he could acclimatize the vehicle. However, he was also honest with him and admitted that by how much money and time it would cost him, it was almost better to just buy a new one.
Sniper sighed in resignation and offered the man a hundred dollars for his sincere opinion. With a pat in the back and a smile with more than one a hole on it, the rustic mechanic wished him the best and the sharpshooter returned to his van with a tough dilemma between his hands.
He could perfectly afford to buy a new camper but he didn't feel that it was worth it for just a couple of months. He had spent his whole life living with the minimum necessary and owning two vehicles for the same purpose wasn't something he had ever considered doing. He could just get rid of the current one, get a brand-new model, fully equipped, with more space and facilities. He could but at the same time, he couldn't. He felt like it was too soon to replace the van. He felt like it was unfair for his loyal camper that had served him well until now. However, deep down, Sniper knew the real reason for his excuses. He didn't want to lose the last reminder of home that he had left.
Sniper rubbed his forehead, reviewing his options. He couldn't live outdoors in his current van. He couldn't fix the vehicle quickly enough. He wasn't going to buy a new van. He actually could move to his room at the base but only over his dead body, he would really consider doing that so there was only one choice left.
He would have to park the van inside the base's garage.
Engineer had unofficially claimed it for his projects but as far as Sniper remembered, Medic's stolen ambulance was still there. If he cordially asked the Texan, he saw no reason for his teammate to refuse. The garage would probably not be as warm as the rest of the base but it must surely have to offer more shelter than none. It was worth a try.
Alright. He had a plan. A displeasing one but a workable plan.
Sniper should have talked with Engineer on Sunday but he didn't. When he arrived at the base that evening, it was dark, foggy and snowing. He had been driving very carefully for hours due to the bad visibility and had no motivation left to walk the unavoidable distance to the man's workshop so he postponed his mission for the next day.
On Monday, Sniper woke up a little early and caught the tinkerer aside before the match. As expected, Engineer didn't oppose his request but let him know that he was currently using all the space available and that he would clear it out for him during the next weekend. Sniper opted to not press him about the matter. He feared that if he seemed very insistent, the shorter man would inquire about the reason for his particular urge. The last thing he needed was his kind-hearted teammate trying to surprise him by 'upgrading' his van again. He also didn't want to admit to his face that he didn't trust him anymore around any of his technological possessions.
The days went by in an excruciatingly slow pace and Sniper noticed himself becoming more lethargic at each morning. The tips of his fingers and toes achieved permanently frigidness and he missed more shots than he dared to admit. He was turning numb, physically and emotionally and every minute spent on the base, before or after a match, was a pleasure and a torture. A pleasure because of the delightful warmth and sleepiness that arouse on him. A torture because of its alluring power that he had to fight to resist. On top of that, he began drinking before going to bed. He knew it wasn't the best idea but the alcohol mitigated the sensation of cold and helped him sleep better.
He might have made it until the weekend if a nasty snowstorm hadn't set upon the base on Thursday. It started like any mild one they have experienced before but by dinner time, it progressed into an aggressive phenomenon of imposing reverence. Not being able to ignore the screeching sounds and deafening gale, Sniper ended up drinking more than he should have. With no interest to entertain himself for a couple of more hours, he retired early that evening. As he bundled himself up with his lovely blanket, the Australian wished with all of his might for this suffering to be over soon.
He never expected Mother Nature to end it for him ahead of time.
When Sniper woke up in the middle of the night in the most extreme coldness he had ever experienced, he should have known that there was something wrong going. When he tried to stand up to his feet and his body straggled completely out of coordination, he should have realized that it wasn't normal despite any heavy somnolence. However, his mind was as impaired as his body and the warning signs completely eluded him.
With the blanket as a cape, he staggered to the thermostat, leaning against the wall to keep his balance. It took him a couple of seconds to acknowledge that the light of the apparatus was off. He groggily played with it for several minutes. Turning it off and on, increasing and decreasing the temperature, placing his ear against it in an attempt to discern its characteristic working hum. He even slapped it a couple of times not really thinking of what he was going to accomplish with that. All to no avail.
Acting as an automaton, Sniper lurched to the driver's seat and ignited the engine of his van several times, believing that, for some reason, it might help. He had a hard time just by fishing up the keys. He could hardly feel his fingers.
The pinnacle of stupid ideas came to him at catching sight of the base through his windscreen.
Fuck it! He was getting out of here! He will sleep in the living room of the base.
Without remembering to put on his shoes, Sniper turned the knob of his door and it violently slammed open. A freezing blast almost threw him back and snow began invading the entrance of his van. With a sudden change of heart at being faced with such appalling weather, the Australian instinctively reacted by closing the door again. He got his socks wet on the process and took him an exaggerated amount of time for that simple task. His usual strength was of no use if he couldn't keep a stable posture to oppose the wind.
Accepting his awful faith for the rest of the night, Sniper tightly wrapped the blanket around him. He had a plan. A shitty one but a plan and he had no other choice than to stick to it until the weekend.
At least, he had stopped shivering. That had to be positive, right?
He dragged himself again to the back of the vehicle and collapsed on his mattress, giving up on struggling anymore. As he began drifting off again, an intangible companion joined him in bed. Hypothermia curled around his body and with the snowstorm acting as a lullaby, it inexorably swayed him towards a cold silent death.
Ha, ha! Enjoy the nasty cliffhanger.
I want your opinions, ladies and gentlemen!
PS: Some time ago I read on another fic that Soldier was a suspected culprit of Hitler's death. I liked the headcanon so much that I decided to mention it in this story. I'm sorry I don't remember the name of the other fic or I would have given the proper acknowledgments.