The song played on the record in the second section of this chapter is What's New? by Clifford Brown. I highly recommend listening to it when it comes up in the scene for ambiance.


RED Base; Sawmill

Day 5

Heavy watched as Medic made a series of small stitches to close a gash on the wing of one of his beloved doves.

"Heavy," Medic said without looking up from his work, "vould you please go to zhe respawn room and see if Herr Spy has respawned yet? I zhink zhe process is still glitched for him."

Heavy nodded, "Yes doktor."

He rose from his chair and exited Medic's lab. He hoped Spy hadn't respawned still again. It had been difficult to be without a spy for two days. In fact, Heavy hadn't realized it before, but Spy was just as important to the team's success as Medic or Soldier. He'd always thought Spy's job was simply to backstab snipers and occasionally sap a sentry. Slowly, but steadily, Heavy was allowing himself to see the value of his teammate and his jobs.

Heavy pushed open the door to the resupply room, "Spy?"

When no reply came back to him, he moved to the back of the room, where the respawn area was housed. He removed a small wall panel to access the exterior door button. He pushed the green release lever and the door opened with a soft clang.

Heavy replaced the panel and looked inside with his breath held.

Spy's pinstriped jacket lay beside the door with a trail of blood leading from it. Heavy's eyes followed the crimson streak to the back of the room. There, Spy was pressed against the wall with a gory knife clutched in his right hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Blood soaked the once pristine white sleeve of his left arm. His chest rose and fell rapidly and his eyes darted wildly about the room.

Heavy adjusted his position so his body blocked the door, "Spy?"

Spy's body tensed as he tried to backup further into the wall.

"Is ok Spy, Heavy is here to help," Heavy said as he took several steps toward Spy.

Spy raised his knife defensively.

Heavy continued closer, confused. Before him, Spy tensed like a coiled spring until his pupils dilated drastically.

Instantly, Heavy stopped moving. He'd seen that look before on the faces of some of the children he'd met during his time in the gulag.

Steadily, he took a step back and lowered himself into a kneeling position. He pressed his arms to his sides to make himself appear smaller.

"Spy, is me, Heavy. Your teammate. What happened on battlefield is over. Is safe now."

Spy's eyes flicked between Heavy and the door in a frantic attempt to plot an escape route.

Heavy sighed and slipped into his native tongue, "My name is Mikhail. I'm a friend."

Spy didn't seem to relax, but his brow furrowed ever so slightly.

Heavy tried again, "My name is Mikhail, I am your friend."

Spy's eyes refocused halfway, "Who?"

"Mikhail, I am your friend. We work together, here, at the RED base in the United States."

Spy sat still for several minutes as he processed the information. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the wall and his shoulders relaxed.

Heavy smiled, "See, there's nothing to fear here."

Spy lowered himself to the floor as his breathing settled. On his face, the fear that had once been so prominent began to fade back to the assassin's usual indifference.

Heavy let himself switch back into English, "There, is all OK now."

He reached out and put a reassuring hand on Spy's shoulder.

Instantly, the tension returned to Spy's body and he slashed upward with his knife. The result was a deep gash traveling from Heavy's wrist to his elbow.

Heavy recoiled quickly with a cry of pain, "Ok," he said as he cradled his bleeding arm, "no touching. Heavy will keep hands right here whole time. Is promise."

Spy backed against the wall again, the words clearly not getting through to the rational part of his mind.

Heavy sat down in a cross-legged position and pressed his arm to his chest in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, "When I was little, I was afraid of thunder. Each time I heard thunder, bad pictures of bombs dropping on house came into head and made me scared," he closed his eyes, "When I heard thunder, I would run and hide in place that was safe. A place where thunder could not get me. Then, I covered ears and hummed because then I could not hear the scary noises of the thunder. But, I always had friend when there was thunder. My father would always come find me, and say 'is ok Misha, I am here now, you are safe.' For long time, I did not believe him. But, every time he came, thunder did not get me, so he must be telling truth. Soon, I did not fear thunder anymore."

In front of him, he heard a rustling sound as Spy stood to retrieve his coat. Heavy opened his eyes a crack to catch a glimpse of his teammate. Spy watched the ground and held himself in a light hug to try and keep himself from shaking.

Heavy waited until Spy had collected his coat to stand and follow him. In complete silence, they made their way from the respawn room to the personal smoking room Spy'd had installed when he'd first come to the RED team. Spy bee-lined to the counter, where he grabbed a pack of cigarettes in one hand, and a bottle of brandy in the other hand.

As Spy made his way to the chair by the fire, Heavy snatched the two items from his hands.

Spy turned on his heel and adopted a fighting stance.

"Choose one," Heavy said.

Spy raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"Is not good to drink and smoke together. Choose one."

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realize I entered a conversation with a public service announcement."

Heavy frowned, "Choose one."

Spy sighed and snatched the cigarettes from Heavy's grasp, "You may let yourself out."

Still clutching the brandy, Heavy turned and left the room.


Once the door clicked shut, Spy drew a cigarette, lit it, and brought it to his lips.

In his mind, memories played over and over again like a scratched record. Every memory of pain, of torture, of mal treatment, of him, rushed back to him to make his skin crawl, his scars burn, and his mind believe that somehow he'd been dragged back to-

No, he had to stop. His thoughts were practically falling over each other to get to the forefront of his conscious.

"Kill me"

The Frenchman looked up from the bleeding stitches on his stomach to look at his British cell mate, "What?"

"I said kill me, please."

"Why?"

The Brit crawled into the meager light of the cell, earning him a gag from the Frenchman. On the pilot's back, two bones covered in half developed sinew protruded from his spine like white tumors. Across his body, bubbles of pus holding what appeared to be small down feathers pulsed and oozed in a combination of yellow slime and blood.

"Kill me," he whispered.

The Frenchman watched in horror, or disbelief. Which was more true, he would never really know.

The Brit lurched forward, causing blood to flow from rough black stitches, "I said kill me dammit!"

"I-"

"Kill me! Kill me, please, just kill me," a strangled gurgling noise mixed with his words, "Kill me!" he dragged himself closer to the Frenchman, "Kill me, kill me, kill me."

With each passing syllable, blood bubbled up and dribbled from the edges of his mouth until a steady stream flowed down his chin.

He grabbed onto the worn rag passing for cloths on the Frenchman, "For the love of God man, kill me."

The Frenchman looked down into the hopeless eyes of the Brit. He was met only with a despair that knew death was the only escape from pain.

Delicately, the Frenchman laid his hands on the sticky flesh of the Brit's neck. In one quick motion, he…

Spy jumped away from the lit fireplace as flames licked at the fabric of his gloves. In his episode, he'd ended up on the floor with his hands in the fire, thinking of him. It shouldn't have been possible, he'd erased nearly every memory from there. Erased every memory of G…no, he wasn't going to think that name again. That wasn't who he was, at least, not anymore.

Spy looked down at the packet of cigarettes. They weren't going to cut it. He needed something stronger, something that would make the memories fade away faster. Something that would stop him from reverting to him.

Wearily, Spy moved to the hidden panel in the floor. Inside was an assortment, of revolvers, ammunition, knives, passports, and a six pack of hard cider he'd let Demoman store in case Medic decided to host his own little prohibition. With steady hands, Spy pulled up the case and set it on the floor beside him. The first bottle he grabbed was unlabeled and stopped with a cork. He popped off the top, and brought the bottle to his lips.

Am I really going to do this? He thought, Am I really going to lose myself in drink like every other pathetic survivor?

Of course not, he reassured himself, you won't become lost as they were. You're a professional, you would never allow yourself to stoop to such lows. Besides, it's only one drink.


BLU Base; Sawmill

Day 5

Spy carefully ran his thumb along the labels of the cigars in his collection, "Tell me doctor, do you enjoy your work?"

Medic leaned over a large sheet of linen like paper where he was filling in the details of a drawing of the human muscular structure, "I rather do, yes."

"Do you ever enjoy seeing people in pain?"

Medic's pen slowed to a stop against the paper, "Why are you asking this?"

Spy selected a Cuban cigar from its Italian brethren and rolled it between his fingers, "I'm merely attempting to deduce the number of sadistic mental cases on this team."

"Oh really? Then let me ask you this, Spy," he stood and produced a pen knife from his pocket, "What sort of a man laughs as he delivers a blow? Or takes pride in the trauma he's caused to another? Or who smiles at the sight of the blood his blade drew?"

Spy lit the end of his cigar and watched as the doctor pricked the end of his finger with the knife.

Medic strode to Spy, "I saw your little episode today during the humiliation round, so I suggest you reconsider exactly who you tag as a sadistic mental case."

Medic touched the edge of Spy's suit, leaving behind a bead of blood. The doctor then turned on his heel, collected his supplies, and left the lounge.

Spy looked down at his suit, all the while keeping his cigar clenched firmly between his teeth to prevent it from falling. The bead on the blue fabric had already lost its perfection and spread out to form a shapeless splotch of dark purple.

Spy puffed on his cigar. He'd been wrong about Medic. The doctor only came across with an air of indolence and disregard. Beneath that, he was ultimately a man of science. He liked to do and say thing that would cause reactions he could use to learn not only about his teammates, but about human nature in general. He was certainly someone Spy would have to keep an eye on.

Spy made his way lazily to the record player. From a neatly kept storage shelf, he chose a record and set it on the turntable. It was one of Demoman's old records labeled Clifford Brown with Strings. Spy grabbed the needle and lighted it on the edge of the record. After a moment of silence, a slow, wordless tune began to play.

"You certainly have an interesting taste in music."

Spy looked to the door.

Standing in the entryway was a slightly swaying Françoir. His jacket and vest were missing, exposing his rumpled and untucked shirt to the world. On his left, arm, a large patch of damp blood spread across the left arm of his white under shirt.

Philippe took the cigar from his mouth to allow a ring of smoke to float to the ceiling, "The record isn't mine."

Françoir stumbled forward, nearly missing the back of the chair he grabbed for support, "A likely alibi."

Philippe's eyes slowly scanned the other man, "I know you're not simply here to discuss music. Have you come back for another taste of revenge?"

Françoir fell forward again, "I wish you'd stop bringing that up. I already told you I wasn't involved."

Philippe leaned against the table supporting the record player, "I was a fool to believe your lies the first time. Since then, I've been shown better."

The words seemed to roll carelessly over Françoir's tongue as he mumbled, "I don't understand why you care so much."

Philippe lowered his head and chuckled, "You know, not everyone has mommy issues."

Françoir's face settled into the first recognizable expression of the night, anger, "At least I knew my mother."

"I'm not sure if you're aware how entertaining you are when you're drunk."

"You never have been good at asking the right questions, have you?" Françoir said as he made his way over to lean on Philippe's shoulder, "I doubt you even understand what I'm talking about."

Philippe tilted his head to face Françoir, "It's impossible to understand you when you don't articulate."

"I'm speaking of your Irish whore of a mother."

Philippe delivered a powerful backhand slap that sent the other man sprawling into an undignified heap, "How dare speak of my mother like that."

A spasm of laughter racked Françoir's body until he was left curled up and panting on the floor. He took a series of deep breaths, "You really don't know, do you? Your mother was a maid in the Picaro manor. After poor Benigna lost her second child, your father-"

"Get out."

Françoir flopped onto his back, "Hear me out. It's no coincidence Serafino is so much older than you-"

"I said get out," Philippe yelled with his finger jabbed at the door.

"Didn't you ever question why you were the only ginger Italian?"

Philippe drew his revolver and pointed it at Françoir, "Get out before I decide to do so for you."

Françoir pried himself from the floor and made his way back to the door frame, "If you don't believe me, you should ask Serafino about-"

"Out!"

Finally, Françoir stumbled from the room.

Philippe collapsed into an armchair as the slow music from the record player spread through the lounge to fill the silence. From there, he simply sat and listened to the record until the needle hit the interior cover and stalled. At that point, he picked up the phone from the table and dialed the number of his American bound family.

The line picked up to silence.

"Have a jet ready in an hour," Philippe said, "I need to reach Sicily as quickly as possible."

"Yes sir."

Without so much as a goodbye, both ends hung up their lines.


Hey! You all want to see some amazing art for this fic? Then head on over to my tumble (mythical1nk) and look under the tag Lost Acquaintance!